The following is true; only the name of northern European country has been changed. Don't read it if you are under eighteen or don't like stories about guys fucking.
All the recent coverage of the Olympic swimming trials reminds me of the1984 Olympic Games when I met the most beautiful man I have ever seen even to this day.
I was 21, visiting LA for the summer between junior and senior years in college, and staying in the large house of some family friends. Their next door neighbor was the Norwegian consulate, and one evening we had a barbecue for the Norwegian National Swim Team. And yes, they were very good looking. Perfect graceful bodies and faces shining with the excitement of the upcoming races, even the ugly ones were beautiful.
One guy, in particular, stood out because he had the same Nordic features as everyone else, except with rich coffee colored skin and deep hazel eyes. When my girlfriend and I were making out later, all she could talk about was how striking that guy was, and how when he smiled at her and said hello, she could hardly even say hello back. As a skinny white guy with a dorky afro, I pretended not to mind how long she went on about him, and just enjoyed her increased ardor.
After the olympics were over, the lady of the house told me that one of the swimmers was going to stay with us for a few weeks while trying to look for modeling work. When the day arrived and I answered the door, of course it was that guy. He was so unnervingly handsome, it took every shred of self-respect I had to shake his hand and return a big friendly smile without looking away. Luckily he hardly spoke English, so small talk was not required. His name was Christian.
Although we shared a bathroom that connected our bedrooms, I didn't see Christian once in the first few days. I heard him brushing his teeth after coming in from very late parties, and then again early in the morning when someone took him to work out at the USC pool. Apparently swimming every single day, even when burning the candle at both ends, is the key to becoming an Olympic athlete. Our schedules were so different that with my summer job, a new girlfriend and an exciting new city, Christian wasn't a factor in my life at all. That would soon change.
One night, around eleven, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my boxers, getting ready for bed and examining a new zit when Christian came in wearing a towel. He said hello, pointed at the shower and asked if I minded. I shrugged no. The towel fell. I politely turned back to the mirror and my zit. The bathtub/shower alcove was directly behind the sink,however, and how could I not catch the occasional glimpse as he opened the shower curtain and turned on the water? Body shaved completely hairless; yards of unblemished skin the color of café au lait; classical curve from muscular back, to tight small buns, to enormous long thigh. There was a flash of cock and a lifetime of swimming workouts culminated in one perfect step into the tub. Humming tunelessly, he closed the curtain.
And uncharacteristically like a schoolgirl waiting for an autograph, I hung around. I took a leak. Examined my zit a little bit. Flexed my nerd arms. Not from the same planet as Christian, but at least I was tall and had beautiful eyes. I brushed my teeth. Flossed them one by one. Finally the shower turned off and Christian opened the curtain. He asked me for a towel. I passed it to him. This time self-respect eluded me and I averted my eyes at his smile. I turned back to the mirror and started flossing again. I didn't have anything specific on my mind. It certainly didn't occur to me that anything could happen. But I couldn't help noticing that Christian's cock, nested so beautifully on his balls when he got in the shower, had woken up some in the washing.
He got out of the tub, let the towel fall on the floor and stood right up next to me, looking at me in the mirror. It was too intense and I leaned away a little. His hand brushed my boxers, so lightly I wondered if it was on purpose. Then he leaned over and gave me an innocent peck on the cheek. I froze. What was that? I literally had no idea what this could possibly mean. My father was the only man who had ever kissed me, and it sure as hell didn't feel like this. I looked at him. I'm sure I looked shocked. He looked right back. He kissed me on the lips. As he pulled his face back, hooded eyes and half smile, I suddenly knew exactly what to do.
I grabbed him around the small of his back and kissed him, practically climbing up his leg. I kissed him so explosively he staggered back and sat down hard on the toilet seat. I climbed on top of him with my head over him and tried simultaneously to jam my tongue all the say into his body and suck his tongue deeply into mine. Minutes flew by. We clawed at each other's bodies. His now hard cock ground up against my boxers and my own cock strained to escape. I wrapped my arms all the way around his head, pulling his mouth even deeper and closer to mine. We grunted like pigs after truffles. I had never felt a hunger as consuming as this, and knew that if our lips were to part I would surely die.
More to come. Comments welcome. studcitnooner@yahoo.com