Winter Games
In those pre-pandemic days life was so much easier, especially if you were lucky enough to be an international sportsman. No masks, no endless Covid testing, no bubbles, no isolation, no quarantine. Mixing allowed with other teams and athletes, opportunities to watch events live not just from the room in the village. Yep, the Pyeongchang Winter Olympics were very different from Beijing. We even had natural snow!
It sounds glamorous, “international athlete” but believe me there was nothing glamorous about being the sole British representative in Men’s Luge. Men’s luge you ask? It’s the crazy thing where you lay down on a thing that looks like a tea tray with runners attached to whiz down an icy bobsleigh track feet first at speeds of 90mph. It’s equally as exhilarating as it is terrifying and an incredible adrenaline rush.
But being your nation’s only representative, self funded and mostly self coached is hard work and often lonely. Few winter sports have a high profile in the UK, only getting air time every four years at the Games and hardly ever making the back pages, especially in my case when I was very rarely making the top 10 at World Cups, let alone winning medals.
I didn’t really care about that, all I cared about was getting better and testing myself against the well funded Germans and Austrians. I’d progressed over the 5 years I’d been on the circuit from 87th in the world to top 20 and with that came a bit of funding that I’d used on a better sled, regular coaching and slightly improved accommodation. To give you an idea of that I’d moved from the youth hostel bunk house to cheapest room at the Bates Motel; it wasn’t glamorous.
It was a friendly sport though, all my rivals used to marvel at my lack of money and often passed me spare bits of kit. We’d talk after events and they were brilliant at giving advice. I guess we all shared the knowledge that what we were doing was exceedingly dangerous, so there was a lot of respect between rivals no matter how fast you went. We’d all seen some horrific crashes with guys coming off sleds at top speeds and helmets banging along ice walls for hundreds of meters. At any given time a third of competitors would be out with injuries, so we looked out for each other.
The Swedes and the Norwegians were particularly cool, happy to have a beer after events and I’d made some good friends. But friendship didn’t count when it was time to sit at the top of the run, adrenaline pumping and game face on, then it was all about trying to go as fast as possible and beat as many of them as possible.
I was therefore incredibly happy to be at the Games. Not only did I have a great room in a shared apartment with other athletes from the sliding squad, I had a lot of shiny new team kit and I’d convinced myself a chance of making top 5 maybe even the podium. Best of all I didn’t have to pay for food, (and there was a lot of food), I had access to physio’s and massages and even a laundry, (when you’re travelling constantly being able to wash your stinking kit feels amazing!) In fact it was better than my tiny flat at home.
I said best of all, but actually the real best thing was being in the village surrounded by hundreds of other athletes. Especially female athletes. Dutch speed skaters, Italian skiers, American snowboarders, Chinese figure skaters, Swedish cross-country skiers, German bobsledders, all kinds of amazing talented and very fit women.
And for once I was in the press, somehow I’d become a bit of a cause celebre, it seems that the tabloids back home were making me out to be the new “Eddie the Eagle.” If you’re unfamiliar with Eddie let me explain; he was the sole GB representative in the very dangerous sport of ski jumping at the 1988 Calgary Games and was a bit of a joke. Clearly out of his depth, though incredibly brave he was taken up by the tabloid press and became a proper British anti-hero. He came last in the “small” and “big” hill events by a distance but you know what, he competed and made his dreams come true. Though I admired him, and even though they made a feature film about him, I didn’t feel the comparison was fair, especially from a bunch of ignorant hacks looking for a cheap story.
However, the story had been taken up by the TV stations and suddenly my profile had gone from zero to hero. Not that I was being portrayed that way, it was a load of bullshit about the plucky Brit trying to beat the world, coming from nowhere with just a homemade sled and second hand kit, which may have been true a few years previously but certainly wasn’t now.
“Billy the Bullet” they dubbed me, though no one had ever called me Bill let alone Billy. I was always Will, or if you were my mother William! In a typical red top fashion, they ignored my history forgetting I was now in the top 20 and completely downplaying any chance I had. I hated it but put on a brave face, gave some interviews, smiled when I had to and just tried to concentrate on my performance.
Which interestingly is what the Latvian ice dancer also seemed to be interested in. My face had become familiar, I’d seen it on the big screens in the village occasionally, members of other teams had started shouting and smiling at me, “Hey Billy” and waving or giving me a thumbs up. The other GB Team members had started taking the piss. I was getting used to the fact that I wasn’t going to be Will for a while, and I even enjoyed my micro celebrity status with the other athletes, especially the smiles I was getting from the women.
I was sitting in the communal dining room after training, two days before my event started, refuelling on some pasta and watching the men’s downhill on a big screen. Those guys are crazy, I was thinking as a lowly ranked Estonian failed to land a jump and crashed into the safety netting, when I felt a presence beside me.
“Hello, you are Billy?” it was a question to which she seemed to know the answer.
“I am Stasya.” She held out a delicate hand, fingernails painted in glowing pink.
Suddenly she was sat beside me and smiling, lighting up a delightful face of high cheekbones, large blue eyes, a plump red mouth and a blonde mane held in a ponytail. She spoke good English with a strong Slavic accent.
“I have seen you on the television. You are famous. Correct?” she seemed to like to talk in statements and was still holding my hand.
“Well, no…” I stuttered a reply, being taken totally unaware by this beautiful girl suddenly beside me, but I wasn’t being allowed to speak.
“Yes, I have seen you on the TV, many interviews.” She smiled again and put a hand on my leg. “You are handsome, I am bored. Olympics are over for me, I hurt my leg. I can’t do it.” She swung round to face me and placed a shapely dancer’s leg across my lap, her ankle was bandaged. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed.
Though her top half was encased in a white and burgundy team tracksuit her bottom half was in a small glittering skating skirt and what I assumed was a pink leotard. Though she was wearing tights under the outfit the contours of her pussy were clearly visible as she waggled her foot at me.
I was still dumbstruck as she spoke again.
“I fell, it happens. I cannot skate, I cannot land the jumps, so I am bored. Sport does not interest me.” She removed her leg and leaned across, “But Mister Billy you interest me.” It was a whisper in my ear.
I was about to put her right, tell her that actually my name is Will, when her far hand reached across, landing at the top of my thigh. My heart suddenly beat faster, I could feel my cock thicken.
“Mister Billy the Bullet, when I’m bored,” she squeezed my inner thigh, then whispered very slowly directly into my ear “when I’m bored, I like to fuck.” As she said this last word her tongue darted out to slowly lick my earlobe.
“Fuck!” I exhaled, though I didn’t realise I had been holding my breath.
“Yes fuck” she giggled, “you are handsome, you are famous, I am bored. We will fuck.” Clearly this was a woman who knew what she wanted.
Her hand was still on my thigh and I could feel her warm breath against my neck as I tried to gather my thoughts. I began to stammer out a response.
“Now, um Stasya,” the name sounded strange in my mouth “that’s a very kind offer,” I was thinking hard as the words croaked out “I’m flattered, yes, um yes I really am.” I looked her in the eye as she squeezed my thigh once more while provocatively biting her pretty bottom lip, looking up through her eyelashes at me.
“But you see, the thing is…the thing is ah, Stasya, um, I have to rest, recover you see, before my event.”
I was tempted of course; she was quite stunning and clearly knew exactly what she wanted. But I had a chance and didn’t want to blow it just for a quicky with a stranger, albeit a very lovely stranger.
She looked at me, straight in the eye.
“You don’t like me?” she pouted, making her seem even more sultry.
“Or you don’t like girls?” As she asked that question the hand on my thigh slid across and very firmly gripped my swollen cock. She looked at me again and laughed.
“Oh yes, you like girls I think!” She gripped me a little harder and a little more blood rushed into my growing member. “I think Mister Billy the Bullet you have, how you say it in English…a stiffy!!” and she laughed, flashing a truly delightful smile as my cock grew to a throbbing erection in her hand.
“I think Mister Billy, this stiffy would fit very nicely in my tight pussy.” She was still squeezing. “If you are worried about rest, I will do the work. You like that?” She asked as she traced the head of my aching cock with her thumb. “You think they give us all those condoms as souvenir? No, they have to be used!”
It was true at every Games the organisers handed out thousands of boxes of condoms, they knew exactly what hundreds of young fit athletes were liable to get up to.