AmericasDarlings

by Gail Bridges

  How ironic to die of embarrassment in the dining hall when in a few hours the whole world would watch me have sex and I felt no embarrassment about that at all.

  But this wasn’t the same. I hadn’t chosen this.

  Blinking back tears, I rose shakily to my feet, leaving my breakfast almost untouched. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry anymore. Coach Bob kept hold of my arm, steering me around tables and more tables, maneuvering us toward the unisex bathroom at the back of the dining hall. I couldn’t see Benson, but I knew he was following. The rowing team turned their heads to watch our progress, whispering among themselves. I couldn’t bear to meet their questioning eyes.

  We neared the bathroom. Coach Bob let me go and grabbed a chair. He hauled it into the bathroom and slammed it to the ground. He pointed.

  I sat, not looking at him.

  “Let me see the bruise.”

  I turned my back. From somewhere behind me I heard the plink-plink of a dripping faucet.

  Coach Bob lifted my shirt. “What’s this shit smeared all over your back?”

  “Concealer,” said Coach Debbie. She’d come silently into the bathroom behind us.

  My body trembled at the sound of her voice. I couldn’t help it. Oh to climb into her lap right now! To hide behind her! I wanted nothing more than to roll into a tight ball at her side and let her and Benson protect me from Coach Bob’s wrath.

  “I gave it to her,” Coach Debbie said calmly, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I put it on her. It’s mine.”

  “Rub it off! I need to see the bruise.”

  Coach Debbie ran water onto a paper towel.

  “Take off your shirt,” Coach Bob ordered.

  I did.

  “Debbie, give me the napkin.”

  A cold wetness touched me. Coach Bob began scrubbing at my back, making me rock in my seat.

  It hurt. It hadn’t bothered me before when Coach Debbie had put the concealer on me, but now it did. I bit my lip. How bad was the bruise anyway?

  I heard a gasp. Benson.

  “Goddamn,” Coach Bob said. He poked at me with a finger.

  I flinched.

  “Who did this to you? I’ll kill him.”

  “Dmitri,” I whispered. “On the Russian team. But he didn’t hit me for real! We were playing.”

  “Playing? That’s stupid!” Coach Bob sputtered with indignation. “Leah. Listen to me. You don’t hit someone while playing and leave a bruise like this. This was intentional.” “Do you understand?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to understand.

  “Listen to me. Dmitri hurt you on purpose.” His tone was calmer, quieter. Intense. It made me shiver. He turned my chair around to face him. “Show me your nipple.”

  Slowly I straightened my shoulders. My breasts were revealed in all their glory.

  Coach Bob leaned toward me. He touched my left breast. Lifted it in his cold, damp fingers. Palpated it. Examined the nipple and areola. Squeezed the skin. Watched the nipple pucker.

  My traitorous insides quivered. His touch sent an intense zap straight from my nipple to my clit, as always. Could he tell?

  “The other one,” I whispered.

  “I know. I just want to see if it’s swollen in comparison.” He took the napkin, dunked it in water again and gently dabbed at my nipple, the injured one. He revealed four angry tooth marks and a hickey. “Shit, Leah!”

  I gazed down at my breast, barely breathing, trying not to squirm as he prodded and poked and manipulated me.

  “Looks worse than it is,” he said finally, “your nipple is swollen but the skin isn’t broken. You’d be out of contention if it were.” He flicked it with his thumb. “You’re lucky.”

  My loins moved with desire for him. I hated myself for it.

  “You’re fucking my mother,” I said, staring at him.

  “Who bit you? Dmitri?”

  “You and my mother. Screwing.”

  “Who cares? Tell me who bit you.”

  I gazed levelly at him, my lips a thin line, refusing to answer.

  “Leah. That’s not important! We’re supposed to be talking about you.”

  “You are fucking my mother! You’re my coach! You’re supposed to be here for me!”

  He sighed, giving in. “I am here for you, Leah! But yes. Your mother and I are coupling. Dammit, we weren’t careful enough! That woman saw us! You weren’t meant to know—we weren’t going to tell you until later. We knew you’d get too worked up about it.”

  “I’m not too worked up!”

  He stared at me, his fingers still gripping my breast, squeezing now. “Yes. You are.”

  I looked away.

  Where was Benson? Why couldn’t I see him? I needed Benson! Then I saw him, hunched over the sink, his shoulders shaking, splashing cold water onto his face. Poor thing. He’d seen my injuries. He was worried about me. I bit my lip.

  Maybe I was too worked up?

  Remembering my late-night talk with Soraya and how she’d told me the same thing, I sank low in the chair, hunched over, pulling Coach Bob’s hand on my breast down with me. In my lap, my hands picked dejectedly at my shirt then balled it up.

  The bathroom door opened. Someone started in.

  “Go away!” commanded Coach Bob. “This bathroom is closed.”

  The door clicked shut.

  He flicked my nipple again. “Who was it, Leah? Who hurt you? Was it Dmitri?”

  I looked down at my pale breast, still cradled in his large, tanned hand.

  “Yes. Dmitri bit me,” I whispered, “and Alexi. And Nina. All of them used their teeth on me.”

  “Damn them!” He began to pace, fury wafting from his every pore. “They know better. They’d never do that to one of their Russian teammates. Never!”

  It was true.

  I knew it was true.

  But they’d done it to me.

  I was a sexual expert! How could I have missed this? When Dmitri had sucked on my neck a little too hard. When my back had ached too much when he and Alexi were going at me. When I’d felt fingernails rake my leg in the darkness. Why hadn’t I figured it out? The knowledge hit me full force. The Russians had marked my body—bruises, tooth marks, slaps, hickeys, scratch marks and who knew what else—the day before competition, and they’d known what they were doing.

  And I’d had fun while they were doing it.

  They’d used me.

  I put my face in my hands. How could I have been so stupid? I had refused to see what was happening and it was so obvious in retrospect! There’d been warnings, but I had hadn’t heeded them. I’d been desperate, convinced I couldn’t survive without the fun, the sex, the comfort I craved. Why hadn’t I figure out what they were doing after that very first bite? Damn it! The Russians had probably planned the whole thing right in front of me! They’d probably laid their plans from the very beginning, when all that incomprehensible Russian had been floating over my head and I’d just been sitting there in Dmitri’s lap smiling at everybody.

  Willful oblivion. That’s what it was.

  I should have seen it.

  I cried out, anguished.

  Coach Bob pulled up another chair and sat down next to me. “Come here,” he said, “Let me hug you.”

  I collapsed into his warm lap, my face a mess, tears flowing, and my coach enfolded me in his strong arms. Coach Debbie and Benson crouched at my side, touching me on the shoulders, caressing my neck, patting my back, rubbing my thighs, their attention anchoring me as the world threatened to slip away. There was no way to deny it. I’d enjoyed every single moment with the Russians as they’d marked me and tried to disqualify me from competition.

  Maybe I was as screwed up as Vincent van Gogh.

  Coach Bob shifted. He worked something from his pocket—I recognized the rule book by its blue cover—and flipped pages. He held the book at arm’s length and began to read. “An athlete shall have no broken skin, lacerations, eruptions, or infections. An athlete shall have n
o actively bleeding injuries that will compromise his or her performance or be dangerous to others in competition. An athlete shall make known all potential disqualifying injuries to his or her coach, who shall then make said injuries known to Olympic personnel for further review.” He snapped the book shut. “There you go. I’ve looked at you and decided you’re fit.”

  I stifled a sob.

  I didn’t feel fit. Not at all.

  Maybe the Russians had achieved their objective after all.

  Maybe they had forced me out. If my body wasn’t bleeding, my self-confidence certainly was.

  “I didn’t mean to!” I wailed, my voice muffled by Coach Bob’s trousers. “We were playing—I swear! I thought they were nice! They didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want them to! I thought Dmitri liked me! I really did…”

  Coach Bob slid the rule book back into his pocket then held me again. He let out a long sigh, a whistle almost, through his front teeth. “They do, Leah. They like you fine. They just don’t want you to win.” He patted me on the back, gentle now.

  I was a pathetic excuse of a gymnast.

  Not only had I been willfully oblivious, I was an abysmal judge of character.

  Coach Debbie, still crouching beside me, drew out a slim beige bottle and started to reapply concealer.

  “Debbie’s got it right,” Coach Bob said. “According to the rules you can cover unbroken skin and blemishes with this stuff. Thank God you’re not bleeding! If you were I would’ve had to call in Dr. Chung. She would have scratched you from competition. I had to see you first! You understand, don’t you? I had to be sure you weren’t hurt too badly.”

  I smelled his aftershave.

  “Look at me, Leah.”

  I peered up at him, feeling broken.

  He took my chin in his hand, leaned over, kissed me. “I still love you, Leah. We all still love you.”

  Was he managing me? Well, let him.

  The hands—Coach Debbie’s and Benson’s and Coach Bob’s too—redoubled their efforts, patting me and fondling me, proving the truth of his words. Someone’s hand slid between my legs and rested warmly on my inner thigh. Someone else cupped my breast. Someone kissed my neck. A finger lingered on my pussy, trying to gain entry. I spread my legs, just a little—helpful as always. They did love me. I sucked in a long breath. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t expire right there, right then, right in front of them. Maybe, just maybe, I’d be all right.

  “You’re still my little darling,” Coach Bob said softly, for my ears only. “Your mother won’t change that.” He kissed me again. The finger in my pussy made itself known.

  Him.

  I blinked. My insides lurched. Since when had his kisses been so…sweet?

  It all came back.

  Meeting him for the first time when I’d entered his sexual gymnastics program at the age of eighteen. Being drawn in by his magnetism, his powerful character, his commanding voice. How wonderful, how transforming, to couple with him! How thrilling to practice with one of the world’s best lovers! I’d lived for our daily practices, when I’d take his cock into me like it was made of pure gold. I’d basked in his praise. I’d hung on his every word. Those first years, I’d been on fire. In his care I’d blossomed.

  And in his care I’d begun to fall apart.

  They’d told me I was acting…bizarrely.

  I hadn’t believed it. I’d found my passion, my art! I hadn’t believed anything was wrong with me—how could there be? My friends and coaches and my mother were seeing things that weren’t there! They were making things up! They were being mean and unfair when they said I was acting peculiar. I hadn’t believed any of it. I believed in one thing only, the joy of creating and performing acts of beautiful sex.

  And I was good at it.

  For four years—until he’d paired me with Benson two years ago—Coach Bob had been my mentor, my guide, my muse. He’d even had a pet name for me. He’d called me his “little darling”. I remembered something else too. It had been Coach Bobwho’d helped Ryan Markham to coin the name “America’s Darlings”.

  How had I forgotten that?

  Now here I was, Coach Bob’s one-time favorite, his former little darling, lying with my face so close to his cock that I could feel its hard length under me, my body quivering with need, wondering if he enjoyed coupling with my mother as much as he had once enjoyed it with me.

  What did he call her?

  Oh my God.

  I was jealous, just like she’d said.

  “Leah?”

  “Damn you,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to drag me away from breakfast in front of an audience.”

  He rested his head on my shoulder. I felt his warm breath on my cheek. “You’re right. I could have been more discreet. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No, Bob,” echoed Coach Debbie, “you shouldn’t have.”

  Even I understood that he’d forgotten the “Leah rules”.

  “I was frantic!” said Coach Bob, and he certainly did sound frantic. “You’re Leah Collins! You’re my best gymnast! I created you! You’re probably the best gymnast in the world. And for all I knew you were terribly injured!”

  I reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m okay.”

  “I thought maybe you’d screwed yourself out of the Olympics.”

  “I’m going to compete. A few bruises aren’t going to stop me.”

  “You understand why I had to take a look, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I did understand.

  I understood that my night out had cost me a lot more than I’d ever dreamed possible—it had almost cost me the Olympics themselves.

  But I was still there!

  I’d been cleared by my coaches to compete. They still loved me. Benson still loved me. All was not lost. I took a long, shuddering breath and sat up. The caressing hands withdrew. Coach Debbie was done doctoring me. I moved to pull my shirt over my head but Coach Bob stopped me. He held out his hands. “Not yet. You can’t go yet. There’s something you and Benson need to do first.”

  Benson and I looked at each other.

  “Damage control,” said Coach Bob, sounding more like himself. “Undress, both of you.”

  We got naked.

  Coach Bob frowned then motioned for us to stand in front of him. “You’ll have to do this without your uniforms. Wood Nymph. Seventh position—transition to eighth. I foresee a problem. Debbie, keep your eyes peeled. Leah, you’ll be doing Courtesan Treat, right? And Benson—you’ll be moving into Raging Volcano.”

  We nodded.

  “Do it. Let me see.”

  It took us a moment to get ourselves arranged just so, to get Benson’s cock into me just right, to get ourselves into position. Any gymnast can tell you it’s no easy thing to start a routine in the middle and we were no exception. We finally got it together—and then—and then—Benson put his entire weight on me as he grabbed my back right in the middle of my bruise.

  “Ow!” I shrieked, crumpling, folding into myself.

  Benson lost his balance and his left shoulder crashed to the floor. Or rather it would havecrashed to the floor but for Coach Bob’s quick move to save him.

  Benson gasped. “Leah! I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I said and it was almost the truth. Kind of. “Just took me by surprise is all.”

  Coach Bob scowled at me. “Goddamn. That’s exactly what I thought would happen! We cannot allow this to happen during competition.” He turned to Coach Debbie. “You have to re-choreograph this part for them.”

  She frowned. “Dreadful idea, right before a competition…but, yes. I agree. No way around it. We can’t switch routines.” She stood back, regarding us. “Are you okay, Leah?”

  I nodded, rubbing my back. There was concealer on my hand.

  “Good. Then get back into position.”

  Coach Debbie waited until we were coupled again, Benson carefully not resting his weight on my back this time. His thighs tre
mbled with the effort of maintaining this awkward position without me to support him. His cock moved in me, withdrawing just a little.

  I frowned.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Coach Debbie said, “we’ll fix it.”

  She paced around us once, twice, three times. She ran her hands lightly over our cool skin, over my flanks and down the curve of my butt, across Benson’s muscular back and around to his belly and down, down, down to where he and I were joined. She peered closely at us, studying our bodies and how they were connected, studying our current position and envisioning the position we were about to move into, working out how best to achieve the transition between them.

  Then she went to work rearranging us. She pulled Benson’s knee up three inches. She rotated my hips to the left, which also shifted my feet just a little. She placed my arm in a slightly different position on Benson’s chest then pulled Benson’s legs farther apart so that his pelvis came into tighter contact with me. His cock stirred inside me again, nestling further back inside my pussy, feeling quite a bit more secure.

  “That looks good,” said Coach Bob.

  Coach Debbie nodded then placed her hands around Benson’s hips. “Okay. Let’s do this. Benson, your hands must land on Leah’s butt—right here”—she touched me—“instead of on the small of her back. Do you see? At my mark, I want you to transition to your eighth position. I’ll spot you.”

  We did as Coach Debbie instructed, shifting our bodies, trying to remember her exact instructions. Ours was an art where mere inches—fractions of inches, even—made all the difference, where the smallest mistake could send us toppling to the ground. Benson’s face was white with concentration as we finally settled into the eighth position. I’m sure mine was too.

  “It works, but damn you two look awkward!” said Coach Bob, “Do it again.”

  Coach Debbie turned to him. “They’ll get it. They’re pros. This is where all those hours of practicing come in. If anyone can do it, they can.” Then she touched my arm. “Leah. Your elbow dropped. It ruins the lines of your body if you don’t hold it in the correct place.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her!” said Coach Bob with a grunt. “She doesn’t listen.”