Chapter 1 – Chapter 1

"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."