Introduction by the Author
Our story arc focuses on a four-year period with Andy Reilly. He becomes successful at BMX only to get a humiliating and disfiguring injury to, of all things, his cock while competing at the Olympics. Andy tells no one, but the injury heals badly. To avoid the taunts from his friends and shame of what happened he switches to Triathlons / Iron Man competitions which keeps him away from everyone for hours at a time. He wins his first competition, and picks up sponsorship with a local company.
Andy becomes sexually active during this time, having anal sex with Esher 'Ezy' Bartlett (An gold-medal winning Olympian) after his first competitive race. It's this encounter that shapes and defines his sexual development over the next period of his life. During his second race he has an incestuous relationship with his mom, and then becomes sexually involved with his employer, specifically Alexandra, who organised his sponsorship. Andy gains sexual experience with two girls from his local pool (known as 'The Lido'); his employer becomes infatuated with Andy and seduces him, then he becomes sexually intimate with his mother - Heather. The relationship between Andy, Heather and Alexandra (or Alex) develops throughout our story arc from Andy's first race to his return to the Olympics.
During this time Heather and Andy leave their home to live with Alexandra after Andy's father gets into a serious car accident. It's here that Heather falls in love with Alexandra and they nurture a lesbian relationship. Andy continues to compete, hiding his disfigured cock as best he can while still having by any reckoning a pretty crazy sex life. As he continues to win races, the stakes ramp up for him.
Can Andy keep winning his races? How will success change him? Will he continue to keep his broken cock hidden from everyone or will he get caught and humiliated? Will he win at the Olympics where he previously suffered a humiliating defeat? Can Alexandra keep her lesbian relationship with Heather keep a relationship secret? Will Heather come to terms with having sex with her son and can they keep it secret?
My writing tries to go deeper into relationships and motivations, trying to find a convincing emotional 'pull' that draws people into doing the things they do. If you're after a short story of a sexual tryst then this isn't the place for you. Instead, I present a longer form series of stories with character development, a story arc, darker themes and emotional conflicted people.
Footnote: You have no idea how childishly hilarious I've found titling the stories and bringing them into the narrative.
During my school years, I had a passion for BMX. While tricks never truly captivated me, I found my groove in racing. My local park, blessed with an all-weather track courtesy from a generous local company, beckoned from just across the street where I lived; in fact, I could see the track from my bedroom window. Rain or shine, day after day, week after week, I raced tirelessly. The local bike shop hosted sponsored races in the arena, and I developed a winning mentality. Even against older competitors, I continued to triumph. The bike shop elevated my racing by involving their sales rep who gifted me an awesome bike, including a custom shirt bearing my name. Recognition reached new heights when a national BMX magazine featured me, and as I reached my 18th birthday and left school to start at the local college, an unexpected chapter unfolded: the Olympics!
The experience was both amazing and shattering. Anyone under the age of 21 had a chaperone and because I was a 'BMX rider' I was followed around everywhere. The only place I could get away from the pressure was on my bike. I used to ride to and from the stadium which was next to the gymnastics hall. Our warm-up area was in front of the preparation area for the gymnasts, so I used to show off in front of the hot girls. Remember I didn't do a lot of stunts as I was a racer, so after my heats I'm 'practicing' in front of the gymnastics girls and got chatting to someone called Nadia. She's flirting, I'm flirting. She has an accent. I get goosebumps when she speaks.
One thing leads to another and I end up doing a bunny hop over her as she's doing the splits from a handstand and overnight the photo goes global. East meets West, boy meets girl, world peace ensues. Anyway, I came fifth in the final and Nadia picked up a bronze.
The press wanted us to recreate the photo, and from there we were asked to produce a few photos of us holding hands, arm-in-arm, etc. etc. My testosterone gets the better of me and as I'm holding her she's wrapping her bendy body all over me, I get a massive boner. Her eyes go wide and I realize I need to do something, and decide to perform a Switzerland squeaker - basically a wheelie on your front wheel. The press shouts to her to do a handstand while I'm circling her on the front wheel still with a massive boner that I'm desperate to hide.
I slip. Bike meets boner. Boner meets its demise. I claim I rolled my ankle, but I crushed my erection into the bars, landing with all my weight onto the bike via my crotch. Everyone can see where the point of impact is, but I lie like I've never lied before and say I'd rolled my ankle. Everyone is laughing. Worse, Nadia is laughing and pointing. No one believes me, and I'm utterly humiliated.
If only that was the worst of it.
I get back home and everyone is duckwalking like someone who's been punched in the nuts. The entire college including teachers, close circle of friends, mates from BMX, everyone, and I mean everyone, is laughing at me.
If only that was the worst of it.
I broke my cock.
It's hard to describe the pain of those first few erections, but it was intense. Sadly, all that testosterone means I'm getting an erection whether I want one or not. I was disfigured. The end had gone from a smooth bell shape to a hexagonal, cube-like shape about half as big again as it originally was. The shaft went from square, to oval, then round. It started thick at the end and went gradually thinner to the base. That's not the worst of it. It had two new bends, one directly down, and one directly up. It meant my dick made a weird U-shape. I tried to tell myself that it was thicker than before, but because of the bends it looked half the length. I was horrified. My parents asked if I was okay and I strongly suggested that nothing was wrong and never to ask again. Except there was. Everyone was humiliating me; particularly girls who had gone from suggesting that I'd broken my balls to claiming they'd seen it and it had dropped off. Male friends said I was a girl, girls said I was a eunuch.
To get away from it all, I took up running. Ironic, isn't it? In the summer I started swimming at the local outdoor pool. The water was freezing, which was exactly what I needed. No chance of an uncontrolled erection, and I could swim in peace because the water was so cold. My parents realized I'd not been on a bike since 'the incident' and bought me a road bike for Christmas. I'd never ridden a road bike in my life. They were too uncool. Too grown up. However, it had something I'd not seen on a bike before. Gears.
So in my college life I was either running, swimming or cycling rather than being focused on my education. Both my parents assumed I was withdrawn but happy enough.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I raged. I hated. I burned with anger like the core of the sun. I had been utterly, completely, totally crushed by endless, awful comments from everyone and anyone and so I channeled my rage inward, and then forced my body to accept the pain to deflect the humiliation I felt deep inside me. I wanted to burn. Every time I exercised I wanted to physically die from it.
So I ran past the threshold of pain. I swam angry. Worst of all, I cycled to die. I took risks everywhere. I descended hills without brakes, I raced cars, and climbed out of the seat, grinding the biggest gears, willing my body to explode. I feasted on lactic acid.
My exertion didn't stop my frankencock from getting erect. Ha! Even saying erect is laughable. It was so disfigured I couldn't even stroke it well enough to masturbate. Every once in a while I'd cum during my sleep, but the pent-up frustration only found an outlet when I exercised, which was now approaching eight hours a day.
As my college attendance dropped along with my marks, my parents were beside themselves. Mum would cry. Dad would try and talk to me. I wasn't having any of it. I wanted to rage, and that manifested in cycling, swimming or running. When I wasn't doing any of those things I was eating or sleeping. Mum found solace in feeding me, and began reading up on what elite athletes ate and told me that I was going to be an amazing athlete.
I hated athletes. I wanted them to burn in hell. I wanted them destroyed. I figured athletes caused this humiliation to me.
One of my routes went past the sports hall because who doesn't need a regular reminder of their abject humiliation? They were advertising an Iron Man competition. Iron Man to me was a Marvel character. Iron Man was cool.
I mentioned it during second dinner (not to be confused with supper) to my parents who sparked up a conversation about it. Apparently it does all the things I enjoy. Enjoy? I didn't run, ride and swim for enjoyment. I did those things because I needed pain. I wanted to hurt. I enjoyed destroying myself. Anything but the systematic and institutional humiliation I'd taken from anyone and everyone. In the intense pain of ultimate exertion I almost found release. Almost.
My Dad entered me into the competition, and Mum bought me a wetsuit based on my sizing and that, as they say, is that.
Except it isn't. I turned up not knowing anything but equally demanded that neither parent attended the race. This meant I had no idea what I was doing and no one to help me. As a young novice in the junior category (18-24), I was given instructions on race day but prior to that all I'd done was watch some YouTube's on it. I even practiced a transition or two in the garden to my parents glee.
An Iron Man race starts with a 2.4 mile swim in a wetsuit. You then strip off the wetsuit and cycle in a one piece race suit for 112 miles and then hop off and run in a singlet and shorts for a marathon. At all times you do your best to eat gels and drink water or hydralite or whatever you need to fuel a hungry body. I mention this because until the race I'd never worn a wetsuit. I'm at the start line with all the other open-category competitors and we all jump in. Except the moment I hit the water, I can't breathe. The wetsuit is so tight that when I try to expand my lungs, the elasticity crushes my chest. That same sense of humiliation returns. Those feelings of embarrassment. Failure. The crushing despair. I can't even undo the thing, because the zip is at the back and I snapped the tail off putting it on. It must have looked like I'm drowning because a canoeing marshal came over to help me out of the water.
I want to get out, run away and cry, the next group is closing behind me. The marshal paddling on a canoe beside me thinks I can't even swim and the only way to end it is either to drown or to swim to the other side.
In the end I grab the chest and rip it apart. Alternating from front crawl to backstroke I get the thing off me, and kick it free from my legs. The marshal tries to help me out of the water, and just scream at him. No words - just pure anger.
I'm incandescent with rage. The red mist is everywhere and off I go, arms and legs kicking into the dumb water that doesn't offer enough resistance. I'm past alternating breathing too. I just have my head down until my lungs are on the limit of exploding and I breathe, trying not to scream, and plough into the water.
I'm almost at the tail end of another group of swimmers with the bike sector to come. They're out of the water, changing out of their wetsuits and riding away. I come out of the water at a run, jump into my padded one piece tri-suit, shoes on and clipped in - I'm away.
Nothing exists for me. I know only pain. I put my bike into its biggest gear, and turn up the pain. We head out for a long stretch before turning into the first hill. As people around me downshift, I'm gearing up. Maximum pain. My legs are boiling, searing, agonizing pain. My lungs are white hot. Everything hurts. My body is screaming at my mind to tell it to stop it but my brain goes, "You think this is pain? No, no. This is pain."
Up we go on the first climb. There's a 12 metre rule in Iron Man to stop people from drafting. I'm not just passing people, I'm going past them like they're not moving. When I pass, I do so inches from them. Fuckers. I want them to know I fucking took them. Chris from second period English. Fuck you. Amanda from history. Fuck you. Mr George in science. Fuck you. Fuck you all. Nadia. Fuck you too.
And then I crest the first hill and I'm in blissful isolation. My body absorbed the pain and onward I go. Faster now. Ever bigger gears. And more victims. More riders to bring to the slaughter. They start to descend back down and disappear. Maximum attack. I'm hunched over the bars, going flat out. They're still ahead but the descent now switches back and across the hill, then back again in a lazy S. Fucking useless all of them. They're on the brakes, squealing away. Morons. Speed is everything. Pussy. I don't even bother passing wide as they turn into the corner. I bisect them. Two on the left, two on the right. They don't even see me until I'm hitting the next corner and by the time they round it, I'm gone. Fucking losers, all of them.
