The Prodigal
Thirty-Six
THE WORLD GAMES. It was the Olympics for sports that didn’t get an Olympic berth. The International Olympic Committee (IOC) sanctioned sports for international competition. They had to certify that there was an organizing body that kept an international rule book and had agreement from all member countries. But not every IOC sanctioned sport was played at the Olympics. Many were deemed too small or specialized to merit that level of competition. So, while the Olympics were held in even years, the World Games were played in odd years. Since people didn’t stay up late to watch the World Games on TV, there was a smaller audience and several third world countries got to play host.
Racquetball players were allowed to arrive on the 23rd, practice on the 24th, compete the 25th–27th, and leave the 28th. We weren’t expected to stay through the whole games. I’d only miss one week of Doc’s class and I could catch up anything I was behind in my online classes.
We checked into the hotel on Tuesday and I went to bed. I think Wendy, Melody, and Lissa all went out. I didn’t see them until morning.
I hit the practice court at nine o’clock in the morning and faced off against Randy Lewis in my first practice game. Shit! Randy was in a rare mood and started baiting me. He sent a couple of rockets over my left shoulder and then nailed me with a return that hit me in the chest.
“Geez, Tony. After Nationals, I thought you were going to be competition. This is single elimination, you know? Once out always out. Don’t you have anything left?”
I know I shouldn’t have, but I got mad and the anger and frustration that I’d been suppressing since my blowout a couple of weeks ago started to surface. I nailed him in the back of the head with my next return. He shook it off and looked at me a little surprised.
“I think that’s interference,” I said. “My serve.”
I kept letting it build. I was sending shots at Randy that were moving close to a hundred miles an hour. And he was returning them. We stop trying to keep track of score. Every rally was a match. We were both attacking the ball and while Randy was playing racquetball, I was trying to kill the ball. Randy ceased to exist. It was just me and where the ball would be. And how hard I could hit it.
We rallied for an hour and were both dripping with sweat when our hour was up and there was new respect between the two of us.
“You sure as hell better make it to semi-finals,” Randy growled at me as we left the court. “That’s where we’ll meet next.” I didn’t care about brackets. I only cared about destroying opponents.
The entire tournament would last three days. That meant that if you were in the hunt, you were playing two matches a day. Except Randy. He and other top seeds drew byes in the round of sixty-four. I stepped onto the court at ten on Thursday morning to meet my first opponent. He was from somewhere in Asia. I just ruined him. I won 15/2 and 15/5. I went into the afternoon match in the round of thirty-two and struck again. Some South American. By ten and by nine.
Thursday night my lovers tried to tease, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d eaten some kind of fish for dinner and it didn’t set well. Should have known better than to eat fish at 3,000 feet above sea-level. I went to bed and between the farts and the belches, my lovers could hardly stand to be in the same room with me. I wrapped a towel around my waist to contain the stink, crawled into bed and went into a fitful sleep.
I had the runs when I woke up. It was going to be a good trick to be able to play in the round of sixteen. My match was late in the morning at eleven so there was some chance that there wouldn’t be anything left in my system when I finally got to the court. I drank water—Lissa insisted—but I didn’t eat anything.
I felt like The Hulk against a little Japanese guy who played racquetball like it was karate. When I served, I didn’t fall back. I commanded the service box and returned everything he sent my way. I could feel my bowels seething and went crazy with bombs the guy could scarcely see, let alone return. I’d won six straight games in three matches headed into the quarter finals. After I took this Canadian dude this afternoon, I’d meet Randy in the semis tomorrow.
I spent half my break in the john.
Lissa wanted me to eat something, but the best I could do was drink a protein shake. I don’t even want to know what the protein was they put in it. I heard they eat guinea pigs down here.
The Canadian dude wasn’t Len Lauerman. That’s all I knew about him. I didn’t know his name and I didn’t care. I walked on the court and sent my first serve along the left wall right at his feet.
“Short!” the ref called.
“What?” That was a perfect serve and was well over the short line. He took my second serve off the back wall and it landed in the crotch.
“Side out!”
“Wait! That was on the floor! The crotch is on the floor!”
“Serve Canada.”
The god damned referee was calling things in favor of the Canadian. That ball should never have been given to him. We rallied a couple more times, each scoring before the ref made a call of interference against me. I’d served and hit the deck. There was no way I was interfering with his ability to return. I was getting pissed off.
The next time the whistle blew, I’d just powered a ball into the front wall that flew almost to the back wall. The judge ruled it a touch and I lost the serve again.
“Jesus Christ!”
The whistle blew again.
“Technical! Loss of one point.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I pulled into myself and just played to keep from getting a foul called on me. I lost the game by six.
“They’ve chosen the winner,” Lissa said. “I’m sorry, Tony. It doesn’t make any difference how you play. Someone has tipped the judge.”
“That’s illegal! What the fuck is all this talk about fair play?”
“Tony! Look at me!” Lissa barked. They’d already called players back to the court. I snapped my eyes to her. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to say this. Cut loose and let him have it. Scare him like you scared me.”
“Technical. Delay of game,” the ref called before I walked onto the court. So that was how they wanted to play.
I took the first serve and it hit the Canadian square in the chest with the return. There was nothing they could do about it. He just screwed up. I served a long slow lob hitting the floor a good two feet before the back wall. I faded back and when the Canadian returned the serve, I nailed him in the back of the head with the return. He was sort of in front of me.
“Interference!” I yelled. I’d gotten the word out before the ref could make the call. He told me to serve again. This time I nailed the guy in the back of the calf. He hit the floor and turned on me. I raised my hand in the air and said, “Sorry.” I got the call again. The third serve we started to rally and I cut loose with a ball that burned off his racquet onto the floor. He couldn’t do anything with my returns or serves. I started to heat up the game. He wasn’t important anymore. I was going to take this match.
“Short!” came the call again.
“No way!” I yelled back. Anybody watching a video would be able to tell that serve was right where it was supposed to be.
“Short,” the ref repeated. “Side out.”
“Shit.” I muttered.
“Technical foul. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Loss of one point.”
“What the…?”
“Technical foul. Loss of another point.”
I raised my racquet in the air and turned to face the judge. We stared at each other and the serve hit me in the back.
“Point to Canada,” the ref said.
The god damned fucker.
The Canadian served again and I just kept powering them back at him. No matter what happened, or where the ball landed, the point went to the Canadian.
“God damn it! That was clean and you know it!” I shouted.
“First warning,” the ref shouted back.
“Fuck you!”
“Player ejected from game. Win to Canada. USA disqualified from further competition.”
I stared in disbelief. I raised a finger and pointed at the ref. Two security guards entered the court and escorted me from the arena. I saw Lissa and Melody trying to catch up with me. I didn’t see Wendy anywhere. The fuckers threw me out.
I dropped my racquet on the sidewalk and walked away. I walked hard for a couple of hours. I was unsportsmanlike. I shouldn’t have sworn or pointed at the ref. I’d never recognize him again anyway. I was leaving fucking Colombia in the morning. I was probably banned from the IRF by now. My career in racquetball was over.
I finally found myself back at my hotel. I don’t know how I got there. It was hot as blazes and I was thirsty. I’d been walking around Cali with no money and no ID other than the competitor’s badge sewn to my shorts. I didn’t know how I was even going to get into my room.
I walked up the stairs and faced the door. I pushed on it and it opened. I glanced around and thought I saw the door close at the end of the hall where the second stairway was. I was worried about what I’d find in the room—my mind filled with images from spy movies of ransacked rooms and missing people. I went in slowly, looking around.
There were candles. Hotels don’t like candles, but this was Colombia and maybe there weren’t fire laws like in the US. There were lots of candles. The drapes were drawn. The air conditioner was running so the room was cool. As my eyes adjusted to the candlelight, I saw her. Wendy was kneeling beside the bed, her hands clasped behind her back, staring straight ahead. She was naked.
I saw a bottle of water on the bureau and grabbed it, drinking it down. It felt so good.
“How long have you been here like this, Tiger?” I asked.
“Since your first game this afternoon, Master,” she replied.
“Why? I’m a disgrace. I’m disqualified from international competition. Why would you want to serve me?”
“You need me, Master.”
“Where are Melody and Lissa?”
“In the restaurant downstairs. They can’t give you what you need.”
“And what is that, Tiger?” I knelt in front of her. My eyes stung, but I wasn’t crying. Not anymore. Not ever again. I’d fucked this up so royally it was unbelievable. There were a hundred ways I could have handled it better if I hadn’t been so intense. The fuckers ruined everything.
“Use me, Tony. Any way you want. I’m not afraid.”
I screamed. I stood up, but Wendy was fast and jerked my shorts and jock down, burying her face in my sweaty crotch and sucking me into her mouth. Her hands gripped my butt and she worked up and down my rapidly growing cock. I screamed again and grabbed her head, thrusting into her mouth. Fucking her face. Doing something I’d sworn I would never do to anyone, I jammed my cock down her throat and kept fucking until I came.
I fell back on the bed and Wendy was on top of me in an instant, never letting my cock soften, she planted herself on me with force that made us both wince. I looked up at her and saw something feral in her eyes. She had gone as wild as I was. I rolled her over and began pounding into her as hard as I could. Her nails raked down my skin, upping the intensity another notch. Our mouths came together. This wasn’t kissing. We were eating each other. Our teeth scraped together. She bit me and I came again.
I started to collapse and she hit me. She slapped me across the face. I jumped back and stared at her in shock. She grabbed my cock, tender after two comes in such a short time. She rolled her hips back by raising her legs toward her shoulders and pointed my cock at her anus.
“Not yet, Tony. You have one more to go.”
I wasn’t soft enough to prevent me from pushing through her sphincter muscles into her ass. Once there, I hardened quickly and Wendy moaned as I thrust against her—into her. Her eyes never left mine and that wild animal I’d been fucking came out again.
“Fuck me, master! Make me your slave. I’m yours. Use me. Use me!” she cried.
And I did. I fucked into Wendy’s ass, blind with rage. How dared they cheat me? How dared they fuck with me? The God-damned fucking bastards! I’d come twice rapidly, but the third time wasn’t far behind and Wendy was right with me. The whole hotel must have heard.
Sometime during the night, Melody and Lissa came in and lovingly cleaned us both up. I held my Tiger tightly all night long and by nine in the morning, we were on a plane back to Seattle.
Coach Elliot and the US Olympic Committee protested the match. The IOC intervened and dismissed the ref. The Canadian was disqualified from further competition. Randy sat at the court with a WBF—Win by Fault-No Show—in semi-finals. I was on a plane somewhere over Mexico. That afternoon, while I was in the air over California, Randy got his first World Championship against Len Lauerman.
So fast. I was back in Seattle Saturday night. There were six girls in my bed that night. Bree, Whitney, and Allison had all been waiting for us. I still felt like a zombie. I was bathed, massaged, and placed in the bed. I held Wendy in a bruising grip all night long while the others relieved their tensions around me. Wendy was sore and could hardly talk for a couple of days after we got back. She left my side only when I was in class. She gripped my hand as hard as I’d gripped her. I looked into her eyes once to apologize and saw something dangerous. Wendy wasn’t just my sub; she was my guardian—my Tiger.
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