Fourteen-year-old Matthew Barden stood at center ice in Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena several seconds longer than necessary, basking in the applause from having skated a clean—not flawless, but clean—free skate in the U.S. nationals of the ISU Juniors Grand Prix competitions. His only half-way serious miscue was that the quad salchow jump he’d only started to perfect and considered trying to put in his program was delivered as a triple. But he’d stood up on it; he hadn’t fallen, and there had been less than a 50 percent chance he was going to try to put it into this performance. No one else in the juniors was attempting quads yet. He’d been in eighth place out of seventeen after the short program, which was a miracle in itself in his first outing in the thirteen-to-nineteen Juniors category of the annual national figure skating competitions.

He looked over to the boards before one last bow and gliding in that direction to see how his coach, Clifford Collins, always glowering, dominating, and critical, was reacting and was happy to see that the man was visibly pleased. Collins, once a promising skater himself before a freak accident that had cut a leg badly and left him walking unsteadily, lived in the junior skaters he coached. But beyond Collins, Matthew could see that Christine Drexile had come to the boards and watch his skate as well. She coached on the seniors singles circuit and had been contacting Matthew’s single mother, in Cleveland. Matthew’s mom had not been following him directly as she needed to hold down the job that covered all of these expenses. Drexile wanted Matthew to switch to her and was mustering all sorts of financial support. Matthew’s mother was being won over.

But Matthew was early in his juniors’ phase, and Clifford Collins didn’t give up his strong competitors easily, especially ones he held as closely as he did Matthew.

Christine Drexile clearly had been impressed with Matthew’s free skate, and well she should have been. Matthew moved up into the sixth slot out of seventeen when the competitions were over, which was phenomenal for his age and for his debut skate at ISU nationals. He was beaming as he came off the kiss-and-cry bench where skaters received their scores in the glare of television cameras.

“I done good, didn’t I?” he asked his coach, imploring Collins’s approval and a bigger smile than he was getting from the hunky, still quite good-looking and fit black man of thirty-five.

“Yes, you did fine,” Collins answered, one hand on the small of the five foot five, but perfectly formed, ginger boy’s back and the other gripping one of the boy’s biceps, as they moved to the tunnel leading away from the ice and the glare of the cameras. Matthew could feel the possessiveness of the older man and surge of arousal that a good performance on the ice by one of his boys brought out in him.

“A trip to the hotel to clean up and then to a party at the Renaissance Nashville,” Collins said, as he ushered the boy into the bowels of the arena. “I want you to meet someone and consider a proposal he has. It would mean more financial support for you.” Their hotel, the Hilton Nashville Downtown, was just one block away from the arena, on 4th Avenue. The Renaissance Nashville was a block up from Broadway, on Commerce, from the Bridgeton Arena. Luckily, all was nearby the arena, as it was the first week of January and it was snowing outside.

Matthew tensed, as, although Collins generally guarded him closely for himself, Matthew’s absent mother having to leave the boy’s care almost completely to his coach, on a few occasions before when Collins said there was someone he wanted Matthew to meet who could help them financially, it had led to a man bedding Matthew. The boy was a beautiful, very fit young man. Collins fucked him and wasn’t averse to selling his body to another man if there was financial or position advantage to be had. Figure skating was a cutthroat business. Many of the male skaters, by the very nature of the art form they were pursuing, were gay.

Their room at the Hilton Nashville had two beds in it, but they only used one and Collins was careful to tangle the sheets in the other each morning to make the room maids think everything was on the up and up. Matthew was in the shower when Collins came into the bathroom, naked, his body still in fine shape, chocolate brown, muscular, big cocked, walking with only a slight limp. The only blemish on his body was the puckered slice across his leg, where he’d been cut by another skater’s blade nearly two decades previously when they’d collided in a competition warmup and both had gone down on the ice.

Collins saddled up to the toilet and, holding his long and thick cock lovingly in a hand, pissed into the bowl. After flushing, rather than leaving the bathroom, he opened the door to the shower and stepped in. He was holding his half erection in a hand and was stroking it. His voice had been low and hoarse as they had walked back from the arena to the hotel in the snow. He was as keyed up as Matthew was by how well the boy’s skate had gone. And when he was keyed up, he was sexually aroused, and in need. Each year he picked out one of his boys to concentrate on and to groom to his need. This year it was Matthew. Collins’s sexual fetish centered on the late-entering-puberty fourteen-year-old.

“You know the stance,” he growled as he entered the shower behind Matthew. “Raise them to the tiles and jut your ass back for me.” His free hand snaked around the naked boy’s hip, he palmed Matthew’s belly, and he helped pull the boy’s hips back from the wall as Matthew reached his arms up along the wall tiles on either side of the shower head. The boy whimpered as the water cascaded over his body and Collins knelt behind him and pressed his face into the crease of the boy’s buttocks. The man stroked himself with one hand and Matthew’s cock with the other, as he feasted on and opened up the boy’s ass.

When he was satisfied that Matthew could take the thickness of him, Collins rose up, put himself in position, with one hand continuing to stroke the boy off and the other cupping Matthew’s throat, and pulling the boy’s head back into his chest. He mounted and penetrated and established the rhythm of a deep, stretching, bareback fuck.

Moving with the deep, rhythmic thrusts, Matthew gave himself fully to his coach, panting and moaning softly, his hands grasping and gliding over the bulging muscularity of the older, mastering, man. There was little pain left in their coupling, Matthew’s channel having adjusted to the possessing need of his master’s shaft from months of fucking. All of his concentration went to the thick, black shaft deep inside him, possessing and mastering him. Still, he had just announced his arrival in men’s figure skating in the United States. He was as much, if not more, lost in the glow of skating successfully on the ice under the lights in front of a large audience as he was with being mastered and owned by a magnificent black man. Having his coach covering him had become routine practice.

Although he was only fourteen, there was no angst in Matthew’s life in taking Cliff Collins’s shaft, or of going under a black man like Collins, or, indeed, of lying down for any man Collins told him too. Collins was more than a figure-skating coach to Matthew. He was his father figure and master. He was Matthew’s god. He had trained Matthew in being a sexual submissive.

Matthew hadn’t been raised like most other boys; he hadn’t had barriers defined for him. He had been ripe for the plucking. He knew of no father, his mother simply saying his father hadn’t come back from war and had never known he had a son. She’d raised him for his initial years as a dental hygienist in Cleveland with a passion for ice skating, which she shared with her son from the time he could stand on skates. He was raised by women—his mother and his early skating coaches, until, at thirteen he received the big break to be taken into Cliff Collins’s skating academy in Colorado Springs, near the Skating Hall of Fame. The Collins academy was a deep-immersion academy, where the young skaters were given over completely to Collins for their training, their education, and their daily lives. Most of their fare was covered, so Matthew’s mother was relieved of much of the financial burden for him. She was encouraged to remain in Cleveland, and she did so. She gave her son up into the hands of Cliff Collins.

Collins became Matthew’s “everything” in influence. Turning fourteen, Matthew was beginning to mature in body and his thoughts turned to the nature of sexuality. A sixteen-year-old skater living, as Matthew did, in Collins’s house, started the process with Matthew, the two boys together slowly becoming experienced in same-gender sex through touching and fondling, mutual masturbation, and, eventually, with the sixteen-year-old discovering he was a top and Matthew submitting. By the time Collins had seduced Matthew into his own bed, Matthew was no long a virgin. It all happened so smoothly and naturally, without guilt or social scrutiny, that it wasn’t even much of an issue when the landing of a major sponsor for Collins’s academy entailed Matthew lying under a man other than Collins and opening his legs.

Thus, it was no big deal when at the post-competitions party at Nashville’s Renaissance Hotel, Matthew’s heady day of highly successful skating ended in a hotel room bed with Dan Lee, a meaty, middle-aged man of Chinese extraction who had been introduced to Matthew as a movie producer, pinning the boy’s back to the bed, slapping his face and choking his throat, as he knelt between the boy’s spread legs and barebacked him in vigorous thrustings.

The first thing that had taken Matthew’s attention when they entered a party suite at the hotel the evening of the ISU competitions finals was how similar to him was a boy near his age who was standing across the room, speaking with a tall and heavy Asian-looking man and a younger, muscular hunk, who turned out to be a Brazilian actor in his mid-twenties. Seeing where Matthew’s gaze had gone, Collins said to Matthew, “He looks like you, doesn’t he? He’s an actor. He’s sixteen, but he looks like he could be your age. He’s Brian Douglas. The older man with him is Dan Lee. He’s a specialty movie producer in Denver. I know him from some clubs we both go to. He’s the reason we’re here. Be nice to him. He’s got a proposition. We need the money.”

Matthew wondered what “specialty movie” meant. He was soon to learn what the “movie” part of that meant. As soon as the milling of the small crowd in the even smaller space permitted, Collins was introducing Matthew to Lee.

“You look just like him. This will work out fine,” Lee said, and then when Matthew looked at him quizzically, he continued. “Oh, Cliff hasn’t told you? I’m making a movie with Brian Douglas. He’s a figure skater in the movie. We’re looking for someone who can do the skating clips as his standi-in double. Brian doesn’t skate. Cliff told me about you.”

Matthew was immediately interested. Being in a movie, even if only as someone’s double. That sounded kicky. He was even more interested when Lee mentioned how much he’d pay, which, even with two-thirds of that going to Collins’s academy, and most of the other third going to support Matthew’s skating expenses, left more money for the boy to spend as he liked than he’d ever had before.

“Of course, you have to audition for the part.”

“You want us to find a rink where I can show you my skating skills, or will videos we already have do? The Junior’s Grand Prix was filmed today.” Matthew had every reason to be proud of showing anyone the video of his free skate earlier in the day.