“Yo, Dex. Ain’t no time to be drowning in misery, man. So you couldn’t pull it out. You’re what, eighteen? Barely outta high school and on the biggest sporting stage in the world. Shit. It took me longer than that to finally make it here.”

I look over at Jamal, proudly displaying three bronze medals. He’s giving me a confused look, as if I should be happy just making it to Rio. I’m not. It’s not in my DNA to settle.

“Two goals in the game. Five overall. I don’t know soccer, but that shit sounds good to me.”

Personal scoring never mattered much to me though. Personal records either. Well, a hat trick did, I suppose. There was something special in that. Elusive.

“You gotta nickname already, bro,” Jamal continues. “The DexMan. Kinda like the AxeMan if you think about it. Better than mine. Never thought I’d get a nickname just for liking jam so much. Shit.”

I rub my temples. Jamal was good people, but he was infatuated with his voice.

“Lay off.”

He stops. Shrugs.

Smiles.

Puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You know what you need to forget, little man? Pussy.”

I don’t think I hear him right. “What?”

“P-U-S-S-Y. You need to stop being a baby-back bitch and get your dick wet.”

“What?” I sputter, dumbfounded by the transition.

Jamal grins like mad, as if he’s discovered the greatest truth to man that’s ever been thought up.

“The Olympics? Temporary glory, I say, unless you’re Phelps. Ain’t none of us like that freak, man, unless you’re popping drugs like candy. Shit fades unless you’re setting records, racking up gold, and getting your face plastered on billboards selling Subway and Speedo. Us? Just memories stuffed in boxes. Usually forgotten.”

Pussy to philosophizing, just like that. I don’t think I’ll ever understand him.

When I don’t respond, he tries another tactic.

“I hear the entire team is gonna be there, man. Even her.”

He elbows me in the side.

“What?” My tongue ties into knots. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He raises an eyebrow, calling me out on my bullshit. I’ve talked about her. A lot.

“Whatever you say, but between you and me, I prefer that goalie. She’s crazy. Mean too.” Jamal whistles. “I bet she fucks angry. Shit, I wonder if she’s ever had a real taste of special dark chocolate.” He chuckles at his joke.

I’ve tuned him out by now though, an image of her popping into my brain. I’d never admit it to anyone, but she’s fueled at least a dozen fantasies since I landed in Rio and a few dozen more in the last year alone. She’s had that effect on men and women since bursting onto the scene with the national team eight years ago.

“Suit yourself, Dexman”, Jamal says as he gets up from the bar. “As Lil Boosie would say, I’ma gonna beat some pussy up till they holla that’s enough. But just in case,” he slides two cards across the bar, “these will get you in.”

There’s a large maple leaf emblazoned in the center of the Olympic Rings on the front.

“Who knew right? Canadian sponsored. Fuck that’s funny.”

* * *

I look up, not knowing what the fuck I’m doing here. I have no idea what to expect. I didn’t even know a thing about women or sex. For years I’d had a one-track mind. Soccer. Nothing else mattered.

The bouncer, a balding Canadian rugby player, gives me a look as I walk up to the entrance of the penthouse. I flash the card as he sizes me up. I get the feeling he’s about to throw me out when he breaks into a shit-eating grin and lifts me up off the ground.

“Great game, DexMan! Extra time? Penalty kicks? Yellow cards? Red cards? Nasty injuries? Playing one down? Best match of the Olympics. Easily.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling the familiar tightness in my pit of my stomach.

“I remember my first Olympics,” he says wistfully as he puts me down. “Go have fun.”

* * *

Loud techno music pulses, the heavy bass shaking the walls. The hallway is pitch black, lit only by a series of dim black lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Another bouncer gestures me deeper into the house, down several flight of stairs and back out into the starry Rio night.

I’m hit with a powerful wave of heat and catchy Brazilian-style house music when my feet hit the sand of the penthouse’s private strip of beach.

My heart crashes hard against my ribs as I take the scene in.

Bodies wiggle, twist, and sway under the symphonic hypnotism of a DJ perched up high on a thrown-like stage. His shirtless form is painted a glowing electrical green, like the pathways of a circuit.

My mind doesn’t register everything right away, but my dick sure as hell does. I can feel an uncontrolled erection straining against my shorts as I try to process.

What happens when you bring together a horde of athletes at peak fitness, bodies humming with competitive energy, desperate to release the pent up stress of competing on the biggest intentional sporting stage in the world?

Even at eighteen I knew the answer.

The sand in front of me is filled with nubile athletes wearing skimpy bikinis, their skin flushed and shiny with sweat. I recognize many, but a majority are strangers, reveling in the crackling energy.

I feel absurdly out of place.

My eyes swing right and I swear I recognize the small, compact form of the women’s gymnastics captain dancing inside a gazebo. She’s sucking on the finger of someone obscured by shadows, her drum tight ass pressed against his groin as they sway erratically to the beat. A large hand slides down her toned belly, fingers teasing the top of her red bikini bottoms. She catches my eyes and smirks, grabbing the shadow’s hand and pushing it under the thin material. Her body shudders and convulses, hips pulling forward. My dick stiffens even more and I turn away, embarrassed.

My eyes swing back to the DJ. A square platform sparks to life, alternating between a glowing cobalt blue and rich amber. On it, a lithe figure in the skimpiest swimwear I’ve ever seen puts on a show that catches the attention of everyone present.

Her body flows from one erotic movement to the next more gracefully than the gentle ocean tide beyond the DJ. It’s bewitching. 

She pauses with arms raised high, fingers twined in the bunched mass of her sleek blonde curls. Then she smiles, a wide grin that makes my heartbeat skip. A streak of white arcs into the night and cheers go up, followed by more streaks of varying colors.

I swallow thickly.

“Quite the trend setter, isn’t she,” a smoky voice purrs in my ear as I look up at the statuesque woman who’s pale naked breasts burn their place into my memories.

I nod stiffly, looking around. Once her top came off, everyone else’s did as well in a sort of weird, mutual graduation into a higher level of burning eroticism.

“It’s your first time at one of these, isn’t it,” the voice continues, soft breasts pressing against my back, slim arms circling my waist.

My body stiffens in shock.

“Shh. I don’t bite. Much.” Her breath smells of cherry Kool-Aid and vodka.

I swallow again, unsure of what to do, my brain freezing up like a virus-ridden computer.

Something warm and wet teases my neck, sending sparks of electricity to my extremities. Teeth sink softly into my shoulder as a cool hand slides up my chest.

“Who,” I whisper, trying to find my voice through the haze.

Her mouth moves up, traces my ear, tongue worming inside.

“Let’s not ruin a good thing with names,” the mystery woman says, turning me around before pushing me gently into the sand. She falls with me, straddles my waist.

Her hand grasps my suddenly naked erection. “All that matters is this,” the shadow says. “And this.” She squats down, hips surging slowly forward. My eyes bug out. Virgin or not, I didn’t need to be an expert to figure out the source of the wet volcanic heat now sliding across my shuddering cock.

My balls compress as my first real taste of pussy slides back across my shaft. The sensation that follows is sudden and powerful, like a canon blast.

The woman releases a squeal of surprise that gives way to giggles as I shoot off. Her cool hand curls back around me, pointing my cock straight up as the heavy spurts continue.

I look up drunkenly as the blasts of hot semen give way to weak, bubbling pulses of heat. She’s covered with a shiny layer of spunk, from flat belly to perky breasts.

“Fucking hell, Tiger,” she laughs. “Impressive!”

I flush and look around nervously, but no one’s paying any attention. The party has devolved into varying levels of uninhibited debauchery. The woman from the platform has her arms and legs coiled like a scorpion around the lean muscular frame of a familiar swimmer as he machine fucks her into the sand.

My distractingly familiar mystery woman pulls me to my feet. Tells me to follow her back into the penthouse. I do, mind on autopilot, my dick swinging back and forth, still twitching from her steamy pussy.

She tells me to wait a second. Needs to find a few condoms. Makes a joke about the heat I’m packing between my legs. Tells me that my “little swimmers” might not care about her being on the pill, that she isn’t quite ready for baby making.

A sound draws my attention to a cracked door while I wait dumbfounded. I walk towards it like a zombie. I push it open.

I’m long gone by the time my mystery woman, wearing a pack of condoms like a sash, returns with a frustrated frown.

* * *

The one place I could always retreat when I needed it wasn’t a place or even a state of mind really. It wasn’t soccer either, as strange as that seems. No. It was lock picking. There’d always been something therapeutic about it. Calming. It’d been that way since I picked my step-mom’s jewelry box as a kid. My father would always say it was just my way of acting out; that I was pissed off at the world for stealing ma. Maybe. Whatever helped him ignore the truth, I guess. And the truth was, I hated the gold-digging bitch and it felt good to send her into anxiety attacks each time her favorite pearls disappeared.

A sharp click pierces the silence and I finally feel a grin work it’s way out. Five minutes. I was getting rusty. But then, my particular hobby wasn’t exactly one you had time to practice when you were fighting like hell just to qualify for the Olympics for the first time since Beijing.

A sourness forms in my stomach at the thought and at what had happened… no, ended here just a few hours ago. I stow my tools and palm the neon green ball I’ve had almost as long as I’ve been alive.

I go to push the gate open and pause.

Consider.

I turn around and look back. The lights of Athlete’s Village flicker. And a bit beyond that, the penthouse, crackling with sexual energy.

‘You need to get your dick wet,’ Jamal had said. ‘The whole team will be there. Even her.’

I flash back to the beach and the woman who’d had me spurting like a canon shot all over her. I flash back to the dark belly of the penthouse, the glow-in-the-dark necklaces and the flicking black lamps. To the deep grunts and wet slaps echoing behind a cracked door.

To the glimpse of a sleek feminine form wedged between two muscular bodies, one of them Jamal, surrounded by a semi-circle of paired couples rutting furiously to the spinning beat of the DJ.

To a bright pink hair band, a feral smile, and predatory eyes.

A twisted image of her crouched between Jamal’s legs forms in my mind. He mouths ‘your loss, man,’ as she slurps his erection into her mouth. It makes me nauseous, doubling down on the queasy sourness in my stomach.

Fuck it.

Fuck Jamal. Fuck his settle for anything but a win mentality. Always content with second and third best. And fuck his sole desire in being here to drown in as much pussy as humanly possible.

Fuck her. It was a mistake going there, one part of me thinks, even with what did happen.

I’d say Jamal was winning that time though, another part chuckles. His got his dick buried up your ladylove’s ass. Fuck not staying and taking part in that shit.

I banish both voices and push the gate to Maracana Stadium open and enter the one nightmare I think I can conquer tonight.

* * *

CLANG!

Reset.

Five steps back.

Stutter step.

Stride forward.

Foot. Ball.

CLANG!

The next shot sails over the post and I have to go hunting in the stands to recover it.

After thirty minutes I’m winded, tired, and pissed off. But at least the events from the penthouse are wiped clean.

The pile of missed shots took care of that. However, those misses were nothing compared to the still echoing miss from the day’s bronze medal match against Germany. They were nothing compared to fucking up the one opportunity to deliver something the U.S. Men’s Team had never delivered in its history… a medal of any color.

It was…

A voice rings out.

I scramble around, ready to make a run for it.

And trip over my feet.

Ass to grass.

Eyes to stars.

What was the penalty for breaking and entering in Brazil? I didn’t know and I didn’t really want to find out. I close my eyes and wait.

An amused, melodious laugh fills the night instead of flashlights and accusatory Portuguese.

“You’re thinking way too much, Salazar. And it’s fucking your head up.”

Eyes pop open.

And there she is.

Sasha Blake. Star striker. And star of the dirtiest fantasies an eighteen-year-old can formulate.

Squatting over me with a megawatt smile.

“Fuck me,” I stutter out.

“The forward type, aren’t you, ‘DexMan’? I think I need to at least see you net a PK first, rather than sail it ten rows up. No telling where your dick might wind up.”

She winks, her grin growing wider as she lowers a hand.

I just stare. Stupidly.

“Come on, Salazar, you should be beyond shyness by now, right?”

My thoughts are muddled enough I don’t fully process the meaning behind that statement.

“I’m not… you’re just.”

“Yes?”

I take a stab in the dark. “Not what I expected?”

She nods, cobalt streaked ponytail bouncing over a shoulder. “Damn straight. Predictability is boring. And usually a losing effort. Now, are you going to sit your ass there all night or we gonna play?”

I think I’ve concussed myself into hallucination, but I give her my hand anyway and she yanks me up hard.

The bright glow of the moon captures her sharp features in perfect silver frame and I can’t help another flash back to the dimly lit room in the penthouse.

“What?” she asks, an eyebrow quirking up.

“Nothing. It’s just…” I fumble for words, fail, and settle for awkward silence. You don’t exactly tell a girl you caught her stuffed with dick, do you? There was etiquette for these things, right, even if it was a full-blown orgy?

Sasha gives me a look. “You’re a strange one aren’t you, Salazar?” She pulls something from the waistband of her shorts and wraps it around my neck, pulling me close.

“I told you I’d be right back, didn’t I?” she purrs into my ear.

“Back? Why are? How? But?”

“A little advice, Tiger. Never disappear on a girl when she wants to fuck. Especially after you’ve already gone teased her with a gallon of hot spunk. She might find it insulting. Lucky for you,” she pinches my nose, “I’m unpredictable… and determined to get what I want.”

Realization finally dawns. Then who the fuck was?

“Although… I think you’re gonna have to earn it this time,” she says. “But first…” She looks over my shoulder to the one thing that’s most certainly been denying me since the sun was shining and Maracana was packed with screaming fans.

“We need to fix that problem of yours or we’ll be here all night. And not in the way I’d prefer.” She pulls the spool of condoms from around my neck and tosses them behind her.

Eh, who gives a fuck?

* * *

The ball bounces from thigh to thigh, then foot to foot, then back to her thighs.

“Ready?”

Not in the fucking slightest. My eyes are glued to her hardened abs, the glittering gem at her bellybutton and her perky globes hidden beneath a tight pink sports bra. And I’m suck on the fact I’d had Sasha Blake’s cunt sliding along my cock an hour ago and didn’t even realize it.

Sure.

‘Ready.’

I don’t say that though.

“I don’t get how this is supposed to…”

A deep sigh escapes lush lips. “That’s your problem, Salazar. You think too much. Fuck, when was the last time you had any real fun with soccer? You’re tight as hell! Like a spring all coiled up and left alone without release.”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.

“Like I said.”

She catches the ball with her right foot and flicks it over. I catch it off my chest and mirror the series of juggles she just completed.

I feel the tension begin to melt.

I can’t remember the last time I did a simple juggling routine and enjoyed it.

“Is that a smile I see creeping it’s way along that cute stoic face of yours? I don’t believe it.”

I pop the ball back over with a header, trying to catch her off guard.

“Tricky.” She heads it back.

We trade juggling duties over the next five minutes. I do my best to trip her up, get the ball to fall at her feet. It’s a hopeless endeavor. Sasha Blake, lean and angular, was built for speed as much as flexibility and she moves over the grass like a dancer, flicking the ball up before it hits, flipping it behind her, and passing it back over with her heel.

A sort of electric energy crackles to life inside me and it’s not just a result of her, and the memory of her nude body atop mine.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this loose and free. I feel laughter bubble in my chest. I let it out. Sasha’s musical tilt joins soon after and Maracana Stadium is filled with sound of joy instead of crushing defeat.

Until she asks the question I’ve been trying to avoid all day.

“You’ve been stuck on all the what-ifs, haven’t you?” she asks casually.

The ball hits the ground and my smile disappears. She has hands on hips, a thoughtful expression forming across sharp, elf-like features.

“What if I had gotten the shot off before the foul? What if I hadn’t stutter-stepped it? Gone the other way? Ask all you want. There’d be a lot moments in 120 minutes to choose from. Each one will make you mad as hell. Believe me.”

Frustration builds. “I know that.”

“Do you? You’re angry. Good. I’ll enjoy handling that later. But, you need to get past that one miss.”

“How?”

“Mmhmm.” She grows thoughtful again, and then breaks into another megawatt smile. “Well, it’s been years, but…”

* * *

I stare the ball down for the fifteenth time as Sasha backs her heels up against the goal line.

The swoops on the ball are nasty little grins. Mocking. When the yips come on strong, they come on damned strong. I’ve missed fourteen in a row and I can tell she’s getting exasperated.

“You’re still thinking,” Sasha calls out. “Stop.”

“Easier said,” I fire back.

“Then how about a wager?”

“Wager?”

“You’re like me,” she explains. “You need something to win to bring that focused fire out. And there’s no winning in practice. So..." She struts along the goal line. “Maybe dinner. Maybe an autograph. Or maybe…" A devilish grin splits her lips. "We'll tempt fate."

"Tempt fate?"
Sasha waggles her eyebrows suggestively, nods to the abandoned chain of condoms.

A different bundle of energy sparks to life, raising hairs on the back of my neck.

“Rrraw?” The word comes out scratchy and hoarse.

“You would be so lucky. Net the ball and maybe I’ll tell you. Or maybe I’ll show you instead,” she leers, licking her lips.

She’s fucking with me.

“You’re fucking with me.”

She has to be.

“Won’t know till you stop pussy footing, Salazar. Now take your shot.”

* * *

Five steps back.

Sasha bounces on the balls of her feet, waiting. Her dirty-blonde ponytail with its patented streak of cobalt blue swishes back and forth like a hypnotist’s pendulum. If her goal is distraction, she’s doing a damned fine job of it. Though, being who she is, she doesn’t exactly need help.

“Remember what I said,” she barks.

“I remember.” Left corner post. The same location I’ve missed since the clocks hit zeros in this very stadium, on this exact side of the field.

One shot for a different sort of dream fulfillment.

Feet dancing.

Stutter step.

Sasha grins, and starts to lean.

The devious little shit is going for the block. Should have expected that. She hated losing as much as me.

I toe the ball with as much controlled power as I can and it takes off in slow motion, bending as it leaves my foot.

Time stops.

Jamal was right in his own weird way.

Memories in boxes.

Forgotten.

But maybe not all memories.

Sasha leans right and leaps, sleek legs launching her into the air, hands outstretched for the ball as it curves.

I swear she winks.

Her fingers curl into a fist and she punches the ball into the corner and it skips into the corner netting.

Time speeds back up.

Sasha hits the ground hard and slides across the grass while I stand frozen, my eyes glued to the ball as it comes to a rest, not sure if I should Tebow and fist pump the Brazilian night.

* * *

Sweat slick arms circle my waist and teeth nip at my ear.

“That’s my loss, right?” Sasha whispers, hands sliding under my shirt.

“But.”

She turns me around to face her. Her cheeks are flushed red and beads of sweat dot her copper skin like silver freckles in the moonlight.

“No buts,” she grins, pressing close, hands cupping my ass. “Unless we’re talking about this butt.” She gives it a squeeze before pressing into me. I trip over a leg she’s snaked behind my ankle and we’re falling together, again, only this time into unforgiving grass instead of soft, yielding sand.

I look up at the silver dollar moon, then into the sea foam eyes of the considerably more experienced and predatory Sasha Blake. Her iconic pink hair band is gone and her cobalt streaked locks, damp and tangled, tickle my neck. She leans in, mouth hovering just inches from mine. I suddenly wish I’d given in to Kayla Jones’ vengeful seduction in the back of her truck after prom. I might have some earth-shattering move to bust out. Drive the world’s top scoring threat mad with lust.

But I don’t.

Sasha’s taffy pink tongue snakes out and runs along the bridge of my nose.

“Salty sweet,” she hums.

My hands move awkwardly up her slick sides to the edges of her sports bra, inducing a string of giggles that tighten her hardened abs.

“You’re still thinking too much. You don’t need your brain to fuck,” she explains as she pulls the pink constricting material off before reaching down to tear my tank top away. “Just raw fucking instinct. Now let me show you how I go about scoring.”

As soon as her mouth presses against mine, my brain powers down. My hands find her perfectly sculpted ass and hold on for dear life as she does just that.

Her tongue worms between my lips to initiate an oral dance she’s had years to perfect. Even if I wanted to think at this point, I’m not sure I could. So I give myself over to desperate need as my cock lurches to life.

I squeeze her ass and pull her down against my throbbing erection while our tongues battle for dominance. She responds in kind, hips grinding and rotating, sparking a deliciously suffocating rise in shared body heat.

The sweat bleeds from our bodies like an open wound, causing my fingers to slide beneath the silky wetness of her shorts and into the tight crevice of her ass. She bucks wildly, teeth clicking against mine as a keening cry resonates from her throat.

Goal.

My fingers drift lower and find a tight crinkled opening. I tease a digit inside.

Sasha tears her mouth away and her back arches, hips squeezing mine with vice-like intensity. She screams herself horse and even with the pooling sweat and cloth barriers separating our sex, I can feel the rush of liquid fire between her legs.

“Virgin my ass,” she gasps, face buried in the crook of my neck. I pull my hands from her shorts and lazily stroke the backs of her legs, pleased with myself.

Sleek body still shuddering, Sasha pushes herself up onto her haunches, breasts heaving as she sucks in big gulps of air.

I greet her with a smile.

“How’s that for not thinking,” I smirk.

“I hate,” she rasps, “smartasses. Gonna—punish—you.”

Sasha hooks unsteady thumbs under my shorts and tugs them off, flinging them into the night sky. Then she struggles unsteadily to her feet to slide her own soaked pair slowly over her hips. And damn if her shaky, post-orgasmic struggle isn’t the single most erotic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

When the material drops, I stare stupidly and it’s her turn to smirk. She has a thin strip of sweat slick fur above a set of flared pink lips leaking a steady stream of clear fluid. And nestled in the crease of her right hip is an intricate tattoo of a lit chain of firecrackers.

I bet there was more meaning to her nickname than she’d let on in public.

I’d find out later.

Because now?

The ‘Firecracker’ herself is crouched between my legs, her cherry Kool-Aid breath causing my dick to dance instep with my skittering heartbeat.

* * *

I’d like to say I lasted at least a good five minutes. That she really had to work for it. But, well…

I knew a loss when I felt it. And fuck if this wasn’t the greatest loss I’d experienced in my life.

Her hot velvet tongue works its magic from zero to sixty. I claw at the grass, trying to stave off her talented mouth, but no dice. Sasha senses the impending explosion and works her mouth even faster, then adds a swiveling hand around my shaft.

“Fuck” I grunt, tightening my gluts. Her hand disappears and she sheathes me down her throat, nose tickling the sparse patch of hair on my groin.

My hips shoot up off the ground as my balls compress, semen boiling and churning, racing up my throbbing shaft.

It feels like I’m pissing pure semen and the sensations threaten to leave me catatonic. I can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t feel anything but my cock jumping over and over again, sending blast after blast of volcanic spunk on a one-way ticket to her stomach.

* * *

An eternity seems to have passed when Sasha pulls back, lips tight around the crown of my spent erection, vacuuming out every last drop of my load.

My cock slaps wetly against my belly when she finally pulls off, mouth sealed tightly shut. She swallows once, and then crawls up my spent body, her naked cunt leaving a trail of warm honey along my abs.

Her fingers thread into my hair and she tilts my head up. There’s a devilish glint to her eyes as she leans in and presses her sticky mouth to mine. I resist, not at all interested in tasting myself, but she doesn’t give up. Sasha pries my mouth open, tongue slipping in to share my warm spunk.

The raw filthiness of it sparks a dark desire in me I didn’t know existed. I crush her nubile body to mine and the kiss takes on a fevered ferocity.

* * *

“It’s stoppage time,” Sasha whispers playfully above me.

“Huh?”

“It’s 2-1, in my favor,” she continues, using a finger to collect the thimble-sized amount of her arousal that filled up my bellybutton during our torrid kiss. 

“How—you—figure---that?” I gasp, slowly catching on.

Sasha ignores the question and uses her sticky fluids to sketch Xs and Os across my chest. Moments later she finishes with an elaborate flourish of movement, lips quirking up.

“Game,” she hums, finger tapping the head of my reenergized erection.

“Huh?”

She shifts.

My naked cock catches in the folds of her creamy cunt.

“Only one goal left for a hat trick,” she grunts, pushing her hips back to completely envelop me.

My hands instinctively cup her perfectly rounded ass.

“One goal?” I grunt, mind foggy.

Sasha’s hips swivel and my fingers slip into the crack of her ass, skim over her tight, crinkled ring of flesh.

Goal…

My eyes roll hard when my brain finally processes.

“Fuck me,” I hiss.

“Like I said,” Sasha purrs. “Game.”