Beware the Coach

"Is one of those male figure skaters down there your son?"

She knew damn well that one was my son—and which one; the other one was her son. Gail Culbertson didn't know me from Adam, I'm sure, because she was East Coast U.S. and I was homed in Japan. And my son had left the circuit with an injury before hers appeared at Nationals and then went out with injuries for a year too.

That's what our sons had in common. Both now healthy, they were trying to make a comeback from foot injuries.

"Yes. The smaller, shorter one doing the backspin." I pointed to Ken, who, I was happy to say, was doing a brilliant backspin. It was perhaps unfortunate that her son, Chad, was doing a nearly equally brilliant flying camel. He could have jumped higher into it, though, and with his long, elegant body he should be able to learn that. It would impress judges and audience alike. I could teach him that. Until now I had coached my son. Gail Culbertson, who coached her own son, had missed that chance. Her son could be quite the figure skater with a better coach.

"I thought he was Japanese."

By that she was saying I clearly wasn't Japanese, which I wasn't, and this undoubtedly was part of her ruse in trying to convince me that she didn't know I was Ken's father and coach.

"His mother is Japanese," I answered, keeping my voice friendly. "We live and train in Tokyo."

"You weren't thinking of asking Sergey Tsarevich to coach him, were you?"

Yes, of course I was. That's what Ken and I were doing in Colorado Springs. Tsarevich always kept an older skater trying to rejoin the hunt in his stable and he'd brought three of them back to national and international placings. Ken and I were here precisely for the same reason that Gail Culbertson and her son were here—Sergey was down there by the boards watching our sons going through practice routines, trying to work themselves around the three women also practicing on the ice, and trying to get chosen by Tsarevich over the other one.

The question was why was Gail Culbertson trying to hide that she was Chad's mother and coach?

"Yes. My son was out for more than a year following foot surgery. Tsarevich has made medal winners out of returning skaters. Ken is trying to get in his stable."

"But aren't you worried?"

"Worried about what?" I asked.

"Well, Tsarevich has a reputation, I've heard. If I were a male skater's parent, I think I'd be worried."

"Are you saying—?"

"I wouldn't want to say anything. But it's no secret that he dominates his male skaters—beyond the training aspects. Look at Miles Stinson and Avery Adams, for instance. Both skaters he coached. I'm just saying . . . well, beware the coach, I guess I'm saying."

"And both of them were coached to international medals," I said. So, that was her angle. Scare my son off with rumors of homosexual domination to give her son free sailing with Tsarevich.

"Yes, but at what cost down the road, one wonders," she said, and then immediately moved on. "Look at that other skater. Wasn't that the most elegant triple axel you've seen? He's such a stylish skater."

"Yes he is," I answered. And indeed her son's skating was elegant. But the jump was slightly underrotated. If his current coach couldn't see that and get it corrected, he never would be able to come back. It wouldn't bother Tsarevich at this point, of course. If he chose Chad, it's exactly the sort of shortfall he'd believe he could correct. The situation with Chad screamed of needing someone other than his mother to coach him. Someone other than Tsarevich, though, if I could do anything about it. Beware the coach was right. I was savvy enough to beware of Coach Culbertson, and she needed to beware of coach Wilton too—of me, Ken's coach, Jim Wilton.

"Well, just keep what I said in mind—and what's best in the long run of life for your son," Gail said, as she heaved a big sigh and started to move away, heading for the exit. What she had intended to do, she probably thought she had done—to lay uncertainties and concern.

Except that I wasn't buying. Ken and I already had our strategies in hand.

"Yes, thanks. You've been very helpful," I said to her as I watched to ensure that she was headed for the exit of the ice skating arena and didn't appear to have any more arrows in her quiver to release on this visit.

* * * *

"Mr. Wilton," Chad said, in surprise, when he came out of the showers.

I had waited for this moment on purpose—to get him in an awkward position, with just a towel around his waist. And I was amused to see that it was tented. The sound of men having sex in a room off the male figure skaters' locker room was unmistakable to me. I trusted that Chad could hear it too as he was taking his shower and that it had had an effect on him. He might even have jacked to the sound—or at least fantasized to it—while he was in the shower. His eyes were flashing like he was turned on.

Or maybe they just flashed when they saw me. I don't know any reason why they wouldn't. I was known as a handsome—even a sexy Mediterranean aspect—man and I kept in top shape. Forty-five had proven to be a good age to appeal to these younger male figure skaters: men of maturity and solid bodies and sexual experience. I had almost laughed in Gail Culbertson's face for her innuendo about Sergey Tsarevich's demands on his male skaters. I fuck all of the male skaters I coach too, except for my son, Ken. Tokyo is just too far away from the States for a reputation like that to take hold.

"You know me?" I asked. So, his mother, Gail, hadn't clued him in on her strategy of pretending not to know me. I invaded his space more than one normally would do for a young man wearing only a towel and maneuvered him up against a massage table. I didn't want him uncomfortable as much as aroused.

"Yes, you're Ken's father," he said. "And a skating coach in Tokyo. I saw you sitting by Takio Koneshi this year when he took silver at the Grand Prix of Japan—and then the silver again in China."

"I watched you out there practicing just now," I said. "You've become quite an elegant skater. Too bad you came here for nothing."

"What do you mean?" Chad asked.

"You're not going to be taken on by Sergey Tsarevich."

"I'm not? How do you know that?"

"You can hear it yourself. I'm sure you knew what Tsarevich would want from you—would take from you—if he took you on. But you've come too late. He takes only one 'come back' skater a year. Come, let's take a peek in the room next door."

When we had, Chad was downcast. It was easy for me to maneuver him back to the massage table.

"You are good, though, far better than before your injury time out."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes. You deserve to be back on the circuit. You're that good. Well, with a few minor corrections of your technique."

"What do you mean, minor corrections?"

"Your jumps. Most of them aren't completely rotated. You have the ability to be in the air long enough to do it; you just won't be receiving full credit. You come down sooner than you should. And you don't get your ass down nearly enough in the sit spin." I had used that example on purpose, as it gave me a chance to touch his ass—and to leave my fingers there, on top of the towel. He either didn't notice or didn't object, because he didn't pull away. The shudder I sensed in his body suggested that he knew I was touching him there.

"Your current coach hasn't noticed those minor flaws?" I asked.

"No, she hasn't," he said, the concern clear in his voice. He was following me.

"You do deserve a higher-level coach. I think I might be able to help you."

"You can? Maybe you could coach me to work out these flaws?"

"Better than that, you know who Sandra Elerby is, don't you?"

"Oh, shit, yes. She's coached dance teams to the worlds."

"She does singles as well. And she's top notch at dance moves. You already have elegant lines and the start of really good presentation skills. That's my specialty too, but she would be great with it."

"Well . . . but—"

"And she's here, in Colorado Springs. She's up at the Broadmoor Hotel, at the Ice Skating Hall of Fame, for a meeting. I know her. I could take you up there."

"You could. You say I have elegant lines."

"Yes, certainly. You have become a hard-bodied man since your injury. You had some body fat before and you've grown taller. Here, let me show you. Your shoulders and biceps are well defined now. Your chest is filled out—not overdeveloped—but distinct, sensual, sexy, even, to the audiences when your nipples are taut like they are now. It will earn you presentation points with the judges and applause from the audience that they won't even understand what they find so appealing. And your belly is flat, a sexy plate of hard muscle now."

He was panting slightly and trembling as, while I was pointing out this feature and that, I was running my hands over his body. And intent on learning and flattered and encouraged by what I was telling him, he was letting me feel him up.

"And your legs . . . here, let me hop you up on the table." I lifted him and set him down on the edge of the table. I returned my hand to his belly and used it to untie the knot in his towel so that the towel fell away from his body. He was in full erection—but, then, so was I—but I said nothing at that point.

I continued with the foreplay that he was at least pretending was a professional assessment of the strong points of his body in terms of winning him points on the ice.

"Firm and strong thighs," I said, running my hands up the inner surface of both, gently coaxing them apart. He spread his thighs at my touch, and I fancied I could hear him sigh—which came in stereo as fucking was continuing in the adjacent room. "But not so muscled that they would come across as thick. You must do exercises to keep them perfect, just like this." I was taking and raising his legs, one after the other and gliding my hands up the calves and the thighs, back down and then up again. I let the legs come down, still spread, with my hands high up in the crease where the inner thigh met the groin. I let my thumbs move under his ball sack.

"Yes, you have elegant lines. With the right dance coaching and improved techniques, you will be a sexy bombshell on the ice. You're a sexy bombshell off the ice." I leaned into him and touched his forehead with mine.

"Coach," murmured. Not explaining, but not having to. His voice was full of need.

"And you'll nicely fill out a large cup," I said, grasping his cock, and feeling him tremble under me. "Despite your grace, you'll be seen as a manly skater. You'll have women spectators openly biased toward you—and some men secretly, as well."

"What . . . what . . .?" he gulped. "What will you want for helping me?"

"I think you know what I want, Chad. I want the same thing I know you were prepared to do for Sergey to convince him to take you on. It's a question of how badly you want it. We both know you want it. We both know what else you want."

We held there for a good fifteen seconds, and when I moved my face down to kiss him, he closed his eyes and raised his face to mine. When I extended the kiss and enclosed his cock in both of my hands, he shuddered, but his half of the kiss became more intense.

Pulling out of the kiss, I murmured, "Your cock is hard, Chad. You are saying you'll give me what Sergey would have gotten, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said in a low, slurred voice.

"I am hard for you too. Unzip me, take it out, and stroke it to full hard."

As he did that, I fondled his balls with one hand and then instructed him, "Put your ankles on my shoulders and roll your hips up to me." I wetted the fingers on the hand I wasn't stroking his cock with and, as he rolled his hips up, moved my hand up under and beyond his taint and penetrated and worked his asshole with, at first one, and then two and three fingers.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck me, coach," he murmured. He was moving his ass on my fingers. "Put it in me. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me deep."

I took his mouth back in a kiss. His hands left my cock and he was gripping my sides hard and trying to pull me into his body. I handed my cock and moved it into position, rubbing it up and down his crease and across his hole, as he panted and his fingers opened and closed on my flesh.

"Fuck me. Stick it in me. Split me," he pleaded.

I moved the cock to where the bulb was at his entrance and pressed in, just enough to bury the glans.

"Yes," he cried out, arching his head back. I would have been worried they'd hear us in the other room, if Chad's voice wasn't overridden with declarations from the other room of "Yes, yes, yes. Like that. But deeper, harder. Fuck me harder! I'm gonna cum! Shit, you're gonna fuckin' split me in two!"

Once I had the bulb inside Chad, though, I stopped and held him in position. He was panting hard and whimpering. He would have let me bareback him—right here in a locker room where anyone could have walked in on us. If I had any question he would let me do whatever I wanted with him, that question was answered.

I pulled out of him and stepped back. "Not here. Not for what I want to do to you. My van's outside. We'll fuck with more privacy in my van. And we need a condom—or two."

He shuddered at the "or two."

"Then I'll take you to meet Elerby."

* * * *

Ken walked out of the shower, with only a towel around his middle, to find the coach, Sergey Tsarevich, standing there, arms folded across heavily muscled chest. He was wearing only skin-hugging tights and his bulge was one that confirmed legends, the tubing of the cock and the curve of the balls clearly discernible. The man was half hard.

So far, so good, Ken thought. The Russian had been right behind him coming into the locker room and had stood there, scrutinizing Ken's body as he undressed to go to the shower. And here he was, still in the locker room, after Ken had showered.

"I wish to speak to you," Tsarevich said. "Are you really Ken Wilton, the skater who started on the circuit five years ago and left for over a year after foot surgery?"

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" Ken said. He knew why the man asked.

"You don't look old enough to be on the senior circuit. If I didn't remember you from before I wouldn't believe it. What nationality are you?"

"You remember me from before? I'm interracial. My mother is Japanese; my father Spanish-American." Ken was encouraged. The man had known of him from before.

"Yes, I had my eye on you from your first skating at the lower ranks of the seniors. You had promise, but you needed work. I wanted you then. I may want you now."

Ken hoped that the want was for more than his skating. His father had told him in no uncertain terms what he'd have to do to get Tsarevich as his coach. He'd have to let Tsarevich seduce him. Tsarevich would have to want to seduce him. And then, Ken would have to keep the Russian interested to maintain his position in the man's stable and to get the training attention Ken would need to become a gold medalist.

"You have an androgynous look about you that we can exploit if I take you on. You must float in air, though, and you must have specialties that other men aren't doing—some that come over from the women skaters and some, perhaps that go back in time."

He was already planning how to package Ken. That was a good sign. It was time to grasp the man's sexual interest as well. As if it was an accident, Ken's towel dropped. He remained in position long enough for the man to get a good look at his fully naked body from the front—Ken had given the Russian more tease looks at him while he was stripping for the shower. Then, in fumbling for the towel, he turned to give Tsarevich a butt shot. He even managed as he pretended to struggle to pick up the towel to pull a butt cheek aside. The intake of breath from across the room assured Ken that Tsarevich had taken in the hard work Ken had been coached by his father to put into opening his hole with a thick dildo.

"Come into my office," Tsarevich said when the towel was back into place. "If you are to work with me, you will have to put yourself completely in my hands. I will assess your attributes and skills from the ground up, starting now. And I will only make my decision after a detailed assessment and after I'm completely satisfied that you are fully mine to form and use. Do you understand?"

"Yes . . . master."

Tsarevich, who had been preceding Ken into the room off of the men's locker room stopped, looked around, gave Ken a piercing look, and smiled. Score a point for Ken. The man had appreciated being called "master" rather than "coach."

"Give me that towel and go stand in the middle of the room. I am going to closely examine your body. There are strengths and weaknesses in a man's body that serve or hinder a skating style. If you come with me, I will give you a new style—one that goes with your ethereal beauty. You were technically not bad out on the practice ice, but your style is all wrong. It's too masculine and heavy. We will make you into a thing of beauty on the ice. A male Michele Kwan. Da?"

"Whatever you want." Ken said, standing, naked, in the center of the room, legs and arms spread a bit as Tsarevich glided over his skin and tested and prodded his curves and creases and his musculature. The man was lost in mutterings of what he liked and what he intended to correct and improve.

Ken got the distinct impression that Sergey liked more than he disapproved of. He was breathing heavily and his tights were seriously tented. Toward the end of the examination, Tsarevich peeled the tights off and threw them to the side. He ended his examination standing close to and in front of Ken. He was grasping Ken's cock with his hand. Ken was erect.

"If I take you on, your body will have to be sculpted in a perfect balance of visual perfection and function. As I said, you will float over the ice. Your jumps will be higher than any other man's in relation to height and you will rise into them effortlessly. Thus, your thighs will have to be perfectly formed to give you power without making them look fat. And flexibility. You will have to have flexibility approaching a woman skater's. I want you to do split jumps—not just full splits—to the four sides of the arena in one pass—which will be your signature move—but stag splits too—leaping toward the front like a stag with legs high off the ice and bent back and your arms raised in the air. No one does those two split moves anymore. You will make them gasp by doing them.

"And spins. Your sit spin will be lower to the ice than any other man's and you will do an ankle hold, leg straight up from your side, as Sasha Cohen did it, and at least a half Beallmann, catching your blade with your leg raised behind, if you can, or at least your calf. Do you understand? This conditioning will be very hard, but you will do it if I take you. And you will be a winner. Do you understand and accept?"

"Yes, master."

"And you understand that I will take you. I will fuck you. I will fuck you daily. Fucking in demanding positions will be part of your flexibility training."

"Yes, master."

"And I am going to fuck you now, before I decide whether to take you on."

"Yes, master."

"Let me check your flexibility" Perching Ken on the side of a massage table, Tsarevich grasped the young skater's ankles and manipulated his legs—first high above his head, pulling the young man's butt to the edge of the table, then folded up into his stomach. Lastly, he spread and raised the legs wide, moved in between them, thrust his cock inside Ken's hole, as the young man jerked and gasped, and started to pump him. His mouth went to Ken's and they kissed deeply, as Ken threw his arms around the Russian's neck. Tsarevich creamed Ken's inside and Ken only then realized he'd been barebacked. His father had warned him of this, though, telling him that it was what the Russian would demand.