Since he first laid eyes on Michael Phelps as a teenager, young Beau has longed to be an Olympian; the better to sleep with as many other Olympians as possible. Too bad he's a flop at every sport he tries.<br><br>An offhand reference by his European mother reveals a family connection to the world of competitive shooting, and a quick -- if not wholly truthful -- email nets Beau an invitation to Luxembourg to train with Marcel, a dashing rifle champion. He jumps at the chance, and, when he learns they aren't actually related, at the champ.<br><br>Sparks fly, but Beau’s never exactly been what you’d call a one-man man. Will Beau’s smoldering desire for Marcel burn hot enough to keep the torch of his Olympic dreams aflame?

Hot Shots

Not that I put up much of a fight, and once I was astride him, his grunts spurred me on. Big as I am, I couldn’t go deep enough; frenzied as I was, I couldn’t hit it hard enough—he yowled for more, more, more! until I lost track of how many loads I put inside him. It was surely no wonder to anyone who had had the pleasure of fucking this insatiable tiger that he had set European and World Records in his distance events—the kid had stamina like I’d never seen, and I bounced on him like he was a pogo stick until I collapsed in a heap, spent. I didn’t so much pass out as offer myself up as a human sacrifice tothe gods of sleep. And a poor one, at that, as I doubt I had much life force left in me, all of my insides having been sucked into Peder’s glorious, gluttonous hole.


Whether I was fast asleep or still dead was something of a grey area when there came two quick raps at the door. “Café au lit,” sang Marcel, turning the handle of my bedroom door.


Chapter 8