Iran in USA

Apparently there weren’t that many men at the Olympics who would take doubles because my dance card quickly filled up with requests for this specialty.

And then there were the hours in which it rained and all of the outdoor competitions were suspended. I would lay on my bed, on my back, with my legs bent and spread, and a succession of hung, cut athletes would come and go from our room, going between my legs and coming in my channel—and then arcing those condoms emblazoned with the Olympic rings expertly into the waste bin. Everyone was keyed up at the Olympics. Everyone wanted to release tension. Many were virile and oversexed. Many of the men athletes were narcissists and worshipped not only their own bodies but also those of other men. Most men were tops. Not that many were willing, seeking bottoms. When it rained in Rio, I could count on spending a lot of time on my back, with my legs open, and my channel filled with a thrusting cock sheathed in a condom with the Olympic rings emblazoned along the shaft. I wouldn’t be surprised if I left Rio with the shape of the rings transferred to my inner passage walls.

These rainy-day events—and I don’t want to claim that it rained all that often during the day at the Rio Olympics—led to a challenge game between Pedro and me. We didn’t have room maid service in the Olympic Village. Fresh sheets and towels would be left by our door every third day, there were cleaning implements and a sweeper in a hall closet if we needed them, and we were responsible for emptying our own trash cans down a chute at the end of the hall. Pedro and I designated one of our trash cans for condom discarding and nothing else and we didn’t empty that can until the end of our stay. I bet Pedro I could fill the trash can just from condoms used with me and he bet I couldn’t. Even though he did what he could to fill it, he won the bet—but not by much. I didn’t quite get the trash can filled. Granted, it was a pretty big can.

Even with all those men, though, I wasn’t being overtaxed. My goal was to find one who stretched me to the point of splitting, who held me, panting heavily completely in his filling possession, and who I’d remember for a week as I hobbled around bowlegged. Surely among all these hunky Olympians I could find the god of the cock.