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Mixed Pairs


[Webster's definition of April fool: The butt of a joke or trick played on April Fools' Day. also: such a joke or trick]

Boston, Massachusetts, 1 April, 2016, Faneuil Hall Marketplace

"Is Victor still pouting at his room over at the Millennium Hotel?"

Serge Agapov slouched back in his chair at J. J. Donovan's Tavern in Boston's Faneuil Hall Marketplace and looked all pleased with himself as he threw this question out. Indeed, he had a right to be pleased with himself, as he and his partner, Heather Hoyt, had come in sixth in the pairs in the just-completed ISU World Figure Skating competitions. They had been slated to come in somewhere lower than tenth and had achieved an astonishing second in the free skate. They, and, in particular, Serge, were the buzz of the skating world, and they had secured a third spot for the Americans in the next Worlds. This was what had been expected instead from the team of Victor Mukhin and Missy Carter before Victor had pulled up lame just before the Boston Worlds.

"Don't be an ass," Heather said. And then in more of a hiss than a spoken tone, "Maybe we should go to the buffet line, Serge."

Serge got the point, sniffed in the air to show that only hunger pulled him away from the table, rose along with Heather, and strutted off to the buffet, with many of the women in the restaurant—and a few of the men too—watching his nicely molded butt shimmer as he moved. Left behind were their hosts, the international skating coaches and not, incidentally, billionaires, Hayden Carter and his wife, Cheryl. Also there, sitting by the empty chair of her skating pairs partner, Victor Mukhin, was their daughter, Missy. Immediately after Victor and Heather had departed, though, Missy rose from the table, and in a shaky voice, said, "I'm going to the ladies room. And I think I'll call Victor and see if he's OK."

In the buffet line Heather berated Serge, "Will you stop gloating? We're here because we need the Carters, and they must be on edge from their daughter having to scratch. We won't be at the next Worlds if we don't land a sponsor, and they have a better training center here in Boston than we have at Colorado Springs. We agreed that we wanted to change coaches to the Carters because they can carry the financial load too."

"They obviously need us too," Serge shot back, "or they wouldn't have asked us to dinner. I just don't know what their angle is. They already have their daughter and Mukhin."

"Having Victor hasn't done them much good this year. Just be cool until we land them," Heather said, taking up a plate and concentrating now on the spread J. J. Donovan's had laid out for them. She could go off training for at least a few days now and eat as much as she wanted to.

Back at the table, Hayden and Cheryl Carter watched their daughter walk—no, flounce—off toward the ladies room, her cell phone jammed up to her ear.

"Are you sure this is what we should be doing?" Cheryl said, crossing her shapely legs and pulling them to the side of her chair where Serge couldn't avoid seeing them when he returned. She was a trophy wife—not really Missy's mother and not that much older than Missy herself. But she was a functional trophy in the world of figure skating. Cheryl, a former figure skating singles star herself, had gone on to be a Rockette at Rockefeller Center in New York, where she was retrieved by Hayden Carter, over twice her age, to help him establish his figure skating center near Boston.

"Yes, I'm sure," Hayden said. "Serge is just the pairs partner Missy needs to be on the podium next year."

"This isn't what Missy wants, Hayden. You know that she wants to try it as a singles skater . . . and I could—"

"Her chance is as a pairs skater. We've discussed this. Nothing should get in the way of getting Serge as her partner. He has a weakness. We've discussed that too. You know what you're to do."

"Yes, Hayden," Cheryl said, lowering her eyes. "Tell me. Victor's injury . . . did you—?"

"That doesn't matter. What's important is that Missy's chance for a skating gold is as Serge's partner."

"The gold? Is the gold at Worlds that important to you, Hayden? If Victor had been well, Missy could have been standing on the podium this year. You know they were that good. You know they were trained to be on the podium if Victor hadn't sprained his ankle."

"On the podium, maybe. But not gold, Cheryl. I want Missy to have gold—and not just at the Worlds. The Olympics are coming up too. This is what is wanted—what has to be."

"For Missy or for you?"

Hayden was about to retort to that, but Heather and Serge were returning with their plates, both loaded down now that the two could go off training for a couple of weeks before it all started again. As they came back and settled, Serge beside Cheryl and Heather on the other side of Hayden, Serge's eyes went to Cheryl's crossed legs, which he openly ogled with delight. Seeing that, Cheryl parted her legs slightly and, with how short her skirt was, there for a few seconds, Serge caught a pussy glance of the very quick of her. He almost dropped his plate of food, but he didn't.

As he and Heather sat down at the table, Cheryl moved her legs so that the toe of her foot, taken out of her shoe, brush up the side of his calf. He couldn't take his eyes off the beautiful blonde and his body tingled all over with the knowledge that she was coming on to him. He was not one to squander his opportunities with any acceptable woman—which was just about any woman with a pussy, given the right lighting in the room—and Cheryl was a choice plum of a woman. Besides, he wasn't betraying Heather if he got it on with Mrs. Carter. Heather wanted to entwine the Carters enough to take them on in their Boston training center—and it had been Heather who suggested that this could be done in bed—by either or both of them.

Cheryl turned and placed a hand on Serge's knee under the surface of the table. She could feel him shudder at her touch. "Umm, that food looks good," she said, "capturing Serge's eyes with hers and giving him a saucy smile. It's Hayden's and my turn to go to the buffet, I think. Hayden says that after dinner he has to go back to the rink to finish up the paperwork there. Perhaps you could drive me home."

"Me?" Serge asked, it coming out as a croak. His eyes went from his plate to the beautiful blonde who was so openly signaling to him—with her husband sitting right there. He looked over at Heather, who he partnered in bed as well as on the ice, and she gave him an encouraging look. She was the ambitious one of the pair. He did it mainly to get tail. And here he was having an offer not only of delightful sex but also of achieving what Heather wanted—rich sponsors.

"Yes, please," Cheryl said, looking amused. She was still stroking up his leg with her toeless foot. "The food on your plate isn't the only thing at this table that looks good enough to eat," she said in sotto voce, apparently not loud enough to convey to Hayden Carter, as he didn't so much as flinch. His attention was riveted to Heather, sitting on the other side of him.

"I can walk you back to the hotel before I go over to the rink," Hayden said to Heather.

"That would be very nice of you," she said, giving Hayden a coy look. The look wasn't lost on him. He'd bedded enough young women, thanks to his money and to the movie-star looks he'd retained into his early fifties, to know that look. He was aware that Heather wanted to get at his money, connections in the figure skating world, and sponsorship. Heather didn't know all of what he was planning, but he wouldn't mind fucking her until she found out. He wanted Serge for Missy, but he'd be happy to plow this luscious redhead, and he was willing to dredge up another partner for Heather to keep her close to him at the Boston training center.

"But what about Missy?" Cheryl said, turning to Hayden, the first part of her assignment well in hand.

"I don't think she's coming back from the ladies room," Hayden said. "With the mood she's in, I assume she's gone back to the rink to sulk. She always likes to skate alone when she's in a bad mood. I'll pick her up there. We'll come home later—several hours from now, though," he added, looking meaningfully at Cheryl, with the intent of Serge to hear, though. There was no time like the present to start driving a wedge between Serge and Heather, Hayden thought. And hear Serge indeed did that he had plenty of time to have fun in the sack with Cheryl.

Yes, she goes to the rink and skates—alone—when she's in a mood, Cheryl was thinking. Hayden should get a clue about that. But Hayden just wouldn't get it that Missy wanted to skate alone.

* * * *

In the taxi for the short drive to the Carters' Beacon Hill townhouse, Serge sat close to Cheryl, his hand on her leg, above her knee, far enough up her thigh that his hand had brushed her silky skirt up onto her leg enough to establish that he had done so. And to establish that she would let him do so.

She was under instructions from Hayden to let Serge cop a feel of whatever he wanted—and to do far more than that. Hayden wanted Serge for Missy's pairs figure skating partner. Russian men were the best and most easily bought in the stable of men available for American women as pairs or dance partners. As a race, they tended to be tall and lean when young and strong as oxen, while moving like dancers and having great flexibility. Victor had also been a Russian buy, but Hayden had decided that he wasn't as good as Serge. Hayden wanted Serge for Missy. And he stubbornly wanted Serge enough that, knowing Serge's weakness for young blondes, he was throwing his young blonde wife into mix.

Cheryl wanted to be the loving wife for her husband. He was a good conversationalist, if dogged and a bit arrogant in his views; he didn't smoke in bed; and he didn't throw his dirty underwear on the floor and leave it there. He was good in bed; he was better at the bank. Thus, he was worth hanging onto if she could. She didn't necessarily agree that Serge would be a better partner for Missy than Victor was—she didn't even agree with Hayden that Missy's best chances were as a pairs partner rather than a singles skater—but she had to acknowledge that Serge was sexy as hell.

And this was what Hayden said he wanted.

Emboldened, Serge put an arm around Cheryl's shoulders and she leaned into him, giving his arm enough stretch that he managed to cup one of her breasts. She sighed, which was a lot more inviting that a flinch away from him. He used her lack of resistance as welcoming his one hand to move from covering her breast over her bodice to being inserted inside her bodice to cup her breast, flesh to flesh, and thumb her taut nipple. His other hand moved high up her thigh under her skirt and his arousal soared when her response to him was to widen the stance of her legs and to turn her face to his for a kiss.

Serge already knew Cheryl wasn't wearing any panties. She'd given him a snatch shot in the restaurant. Did he dare? Here in the taxi? How far was it from here to the Carters' townhouse?

He let his index finger part her labia. She sighed for him and opened her mouth wider, welcoming in his tongue inside her mouth cavity. He pushed his fingers farther into her folds and felt her legs collapse and part wider. He found her clit with his thumb—while continuing to work her nipple with the other thumb—and he let his middle finger invade her vagina. She moaned and started to suck on his tongue. He pressed the heel of his hand into her clit, entered her canal with three fingers and began to pump her slowly with them, putting pressure on her mound.

If the cab ride had been longer, he would have fucked her right there in the backseat of the cab—and she would have let him. God, he was a cunt-magnet stud, Serge was thinking. She was a luscious blonde, and she'd opened right up for him. She couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three; not much older than Missy, who was a babe as well. Hayden Carter was old enough to be Cheryl's father. No wonder she wanted it so bad from a stud like Serge. Hayden Carter must be a dude. For a second, well, for a nanosecond, Serge felt sorry for Heather in her attempt to snare the old man.

Cheryl offered him a drink when they reached the townhouse, and he said, "Sure." But when she returned with two scotches, she'd stripped off her skirt, blouse, and bra and was only wearing her heels, her pearls, and two scotch glasses. The drinks were left on an end table for the ice to melt, as Serge fucked Cheryl over the arm of a sofa, taking her from behind and barely able to hold off long enough to crown himself with a condom. Cheryl had done nothing to hold him off. In fact, when he initially took her into the clutches of an embrace, she'd wrapped a hand around his dick and stroked him and egged him on with dirty words to the point where he came close to ejaculating before he could get inside her.

He did manage to get inside her—three separate times—and to ejaculate three times and still be gone before Hayden returned home. Figure skaters have to be in tiptop physical condition to be successful, and Serge definitely was in tiptop condition. He also was a cocky, handsome devil, who was actually a year older than Cheryl. He was divinely endowed and fully experienced. He knew how to manipulate and work a woman for maximum mutual satisfaction, and Cheryl, also in tiptop shape as she had continued to skate in exhibitions as well as coaching other skaters, went right with him.

He was young, vigorous, long-lasting, fast recovering—more of everything than Hayden was, as good as the older man was—and Cheryl clung to him and gave him whatever he wanted. After he'd fucked her on the sofa downstairs, he carried her upstairs and fucked her in a guestroom, doing her missionary style when she begged him to face her while doing it, saying "I want to see your face; I want to see your expression while you are inside me." She was so good in her own right, that she outlasted him. He had fucked her twice vigorously and at length, and the third time, he lay on his back, panting, while Cheryl rode his shaft for a third release, each getting them closer and closer to a mutual, simultaneous explosion, each one of them knowing that's what they were working to achieve.

Between the second and third fucks, they'd lain in each other's arms, panting, cooling down, and letting their hands do the exploring of each other's toned, athletic bodies—knowing they would fuck again.

"I want us to come together," she whispered.

"We were closer that time than the first," he answered.

"I know, but I want us to come together. And I don't want it to end tonight."

"Heather and I go back to Colorado Springs the day after tomorrow," he said. "Maybe tomorrow—"

"I know, but I want it to go on longer than that. You don't have to go back to Colorado. You could move to our training center right here. We could cover all of your costs. I want your skating to be right here. I want your cock to be right here too—inside me."

She waited for the reaction. He didn't say no. His breathing was becoming more belabored. She was stroking his dick and he was coming alive again—the benefit of youth and being in magnificent physical condition. She almost had him.

"And I want you to fuck me again now."

"I don't know."

"I do," she whispered, rising up over his body, swinging a shapely, well-muscled leg over his belly, positioning herself on his hard phallus, holding it in place, and descending on him as he groaned his pleasure.

An hour later, as Serge was leaving the house, he paused on the walk in front of a bank of boxwood bushes to have a cigarette and contemplate the offer Cheryl Carter had made—actually there were two offers, both very attractive. Cheryl Carter had just shown how pleasurable her offer could be. And Missy Carter was one sweet piece too.

And speaking of Missy Carter . . .

"You know you shouldn't be smoking." The voice emerged from the darkness and floated up the short walk to the front door of the house from the street before Missy Carter materialized. She was carrying her heels in her hand by the straps and was walking barefooted.

"The season's over, and we're out of training for several weeks now. I've been dying for a smoke since before Nationals. I bet you have too."


"I bet if I offered you a drag on this smoke, you'd jump at the chance."

"Maybe. Should I be wary of such temptation, though?" Wary or not, when Serge offered her the cigarette she took it and inhaled deeply on it. Serge had a hand on the small of her back, he pulled her close to him, took her lips in his, and took the smoke when she exhaled it.

"I'll bet you would share more than smoke with me if I asked you nicely."

"Maybe," she answered coyly. Serge was one sexy Russian. Victor was sexy too—both of them had great bodies, as male figure skaters had to have. But Serge exuded his sexiness, while Victor held his in check. It had been a problem between them as pair skaters. Missy believed it took total commitment between the two parts of a pair—which she thought had to include the sexual as well. She knew that Serge fucked like a bunny and would spike anything that had a vagina. She was beginning to suspect that Victor's interests were in another direction altogether. She'd mentioned that a couple of times to Heather and hadn't gotten disagreement on the point. And if any women could gauge and take advantage of a man's sex drive, it was Heather Hoyt.

"I'll bet if I pulled you behind these bushes, you'd let me feel you up—and you would enjoy finding out how I feel about you."

"Maybe," she repeated and found herself pulled between the bushes and the brick wall of the house, her back against the wall and Serge pressed into her. She gave a low, throaty laugh, signaling that she was game, and inclined her head to the left, as his lips buried themselves in her throat. He'd flicked the cigarette out onto the brick walk and she watched it flare up and then glow at the tip while he pressed a fist of each hand on the wall on either side of her to keep her there in place.

"Your parents want me to take over as your pairs partner," he whispered in her ear.

"That would be a nasty trick on Victor, wouldn't it?" she asked. She already had a pairs partner—Victor Mukhin.

"Yes, it would be," Serge said, and then he laughed to show how much playing a trick on Victor would worry him.

"And on Heather. You already have a partner too. And you're fucking Heather, I think." Their hands were busy as they whispered to each other, fondling and inflaming each other over the material of their clothes.

"Yes, I fuck Heather." Another laugh. "There's one problem with pulling that switch," he followed up.

"What problem?" she murmured.

"I can't partner with anyone I don't possess fully. The skating is a sexual act for me. I can't give a gold-winning performance with a partner I'm not fucking. I fuck Heather now; if I partnered with you, I'd be fucking you too."

"Did my parents tell you I want to be a singles skater more than I want to skate pairs?" she asked. His hands had gone now to the sides of her thighs and he was sliding the material of her skirt up to her waist. She wasn't resisting. In fact, she was undoing his belt and lowering his zipper.

"Does that mean I'm not going to fuck you?"

"No, the kind of skater I'd prefer to be has nothing to do with whether or not I want you to fuck me."

"Good," was all he then said for a while, while the fingers of one of his hands worked their way through the leg hole of her panties and then into the folds of her labia. She, in turn, had his staff in hand and was stroking it.

"Slip your panties off and climb my hips with your knees," he commanded at length in a hoarse voice.

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