Epilogue
Imani
FOUR YEARS LATER
Erykah Badu spits her final bars in the edited-for-time version of “Q.U.E.E.N.” as I strike the final pose in my exhibition skate.
Speaking of “electric ladies,” I feel Janelle Monáe’s words viscerally; my blood thrums in my veins, and I feel as though the sparks emanating from me are infecting the whole arena.
I have definitely felt “the price of fame” since winning my first gold medal four years ago, but for the first time in my skating history, I have never felt so liberated.
After winning my second gold medal, I stand before the public in the bright orange costume with beading harkening toward my Caribbean heritage—the one I wear to perform for Mummy.
I chose a song that reflects who I am, and danced with a body that is at its peak performance due to intense nourishment.
Smiling broadly, I shake out my twists that belie four years of natural growth.
I do, of course, usually have my hair up in a professional bun for my performances, but this is the exhibition skate—a dance that’s meant to showcase artistic expression.
This year, it was as personal as it could possibly be, and I wanted my hair to be gracefully flying around me with every jump and spin.
Picking up several bouquets, I kiss and wave to all the folks in the audience giving me standing ovations.
My actions aren’t exactly broadly popular these days, but enough people have come around to the way I do business now.
My brand is honest, sincere, and expressive, and a lot of my audience finds that no matter what struggles divide us, my message is relevant to all.
Also, there’s a lot to be said for sheer talent and dedicated practice that lubricates my way forward. It turns out that life as a gold medalist comes with its own set of privileges, something I never let myself forget.
At the gate, Blake stands, eager to pull me into their arms, resplendent in a revealing emerald suit that sets off the golden strands of their hair, which is falling around their face loosely.
Dropping the bouquets at our feet, I spring up into Blake’s arms, throwing my legs around their waist, and slipping my hands into their hair.
They catch me easily, laughing at my enthusiasm. “What happens when my reflexes slow down, Cupcake?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my beefcake machine. But I’ll stop jumping into your arms when you get old and retire,” I retort. This insult is especially pointed because as soon as they turned 30, I started teasing them about getting old, and the jokes haven’t stopped since.
“Any chance you have to knock my ego down a peg you take, my bratty little thing,” Blake sighs melodramatically.
“I’ve actually been conspiring with Charlie for the last four years. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” I shake my head in mock sympathy.
“I have got to stop leaving you and my best friend in a room together. The two of you will be my downfall,” Blake grins.
“No, your downfall will be that decrepit body of yours. How do you even do your job anymore?” I tease without shame, because they are still one of the best defensemen in the league, thirty-two or not.
“I think my downfall will be the annoying ass wife I have, don’t you?” Blake raises an eyebrow, digging their fingers into my hips just enough to elicit the beginnings of painful pleasure.
“Better than my downfall that will be carrying around this huge rock that is a liability when I skate,” I pout, slipping an arm away from their neck to gaze at the wedding bands on my hand.
“Yeah, it’s so terrible. You hate it so much you didn’t take 5011 pictures of it to post the perfect one on your socials when I proposed,” Blake reminds me with false sincerity.
“It was right after I got out of residential treatment; my head wasn’t right. It probably still isn’t, now that I think about it. Should I fire my therapist? She should be checking me on this shit,” I deadpan, slipping the beringed hand back into Blake’s hair to play with the silken strands.
“Oh, definitely. She hasn’t held up her end of the bargain.
Four years of supporting you in recovery, through all your relapses, constantly reminding you that recovery isn’t linear when you slip, working as hard as you do to assure yourself that perfectionism is the enemy, yeah, no, I see it.
She’s crazy, can’t be trusted, obviously,” Blake mocks me mercilessly.
“Don’t you fucking reverse psychology me, Sir. This isn’t a scene. You’re in my house now,” I assert, gesturing to the figure-skating arena.
Blake nuzzles into my neck, moving so they can whisper lowly into my ear, “I love it when you need a reminder that you’re my collared submissive and that we’re in a total power exchange.
” A hand is removed from my hip to finger the torque at my throat.
“You wanna brat your way to a celebratory spanking? By all means, Cupcake. What a fun idea.”
“No, I don’t want anything from you,” I huff, raring to go. I love to test them about our TPE. It folds out into CNC scenes nicely, I’ve come to find.
Blake unfolds my legs at their back and sets me on my skates.
“Behave for two seconds, will you? It’s not that kind of exhibition gala.
And you need to refuel after that performance.
I have a surprise for you. Your mummy couldn’t be here, but, through powers that will be unknown to you, I may or may not have her patties for you,” they reveal.
“Mummy’s patties? My favorite Jamaican pastry?” I eagerly ask, slipping the guards on my blades.
“The very ones. Come on, Cupcake. Follow me,” Blake holds out their hand.
I accept, but make sure I give a grumbled, “If I must.”
“That’s my naughty little brat,” Blake laughs, pulling my arm lovingly.
BLAKE
One Month Later
March 2030
Standing in the middle of my team’s practice arena, I fold my hands together and patiently wait under the glaring spotlight placed upon me.
One of my most ardent fantasies is about to become reality…
well, sort of. It’s becoming in the most delicate of ways in order to preserve our professional identities.
And I am simply vibrating with intensity with the excitement of carrying this scene out.
I hear the door bang open and then watch as Imani comes into view.
She’s outfitted in her usual practice attire: her ballerina motif of black leotard, pink legwarmers, and delicate wrap sweater.
Her face cants in confusion at my lack of skates and besuited body as she begins to glide across the ice to me.
“No. Crawl to me,” I demand, interrupting her strides.
Face dropping, she blusters, “What the fuck? On the goddamn ice, Sir?”
Giving her nothing, I simply nod, a smile twitching at the corners of my lips.
Imani huffs, but immediately drops down onto the cold. She begins slowly, moving on her hands and knees jerkily, but as expected, her eyes turn as glassy as the surface, her limbs finding the easy rhythm she’s known for possessing.
When she arrives at my feet, I walk her perimeter, assessing. “Unexpected, isn’t it? How you enjoy the bite of pain as your joints meet the ice?”
“How are we doing this here right now, Sir?” Imani questions me instead of answering.
“Tsk, tsk. You know better to ask questions once we’re in a scene,” I evade, wanting to heighten her experience with a jolt of fear in the back of her mind.
She doesn’t need to know that I arranged for the two of us to be the only people in the arena at this hour.
Instead, I hope she doesn’t know. I’m going to mold that fear into something to taunt her with.
I press a loafer into her back with enough force that she collapses onto the ice, turning her head to press a cheek into the floor.
“Cold, isn’t it? But I bet you’re nice and hot in other places,” I muse aloud before I kick her legs apart and lower myself to a kneeling position to situate myself behind her.
Sure, I don’t enjoy the icy bite through my clothes the way she does, but this is my scene too, and pretending to give in to my exhibitionist sentiments is satisfying enough that I can ignore the pain for as long as it takes.
Pushing the gusset of her leotard aside, I push two fingers into Imani’s center with no warning. This, too, is planned. I knew how wet she’d be this far into the scene; it’s enough foreplay for us both.
Imani groans under me, arching her back and trying to fuck back onto my hand. “What if someone sees us, Sir?”
“Always my naughty girl. Do you know you keep racking up torture?” I croon to her, fucking my fingers in and out of her pussy until the melody of lust plays for us both on stereo.
“Do you like that—knowing anyone could walk in at any time? We could be caught; we would be punished; oh, what a scandal we would make.”
Imani whimpers and gushes around my digits.
“Oh, yes; she likes that. What a delicious idea, isn’t it? To think, someone could walk in at any moment and find Blake Floquet on their knees in an arena, our bodies showcased by the perfect lighting as I worship this cunt,” I purr, enunciating every word for maximum effect.
“Sir, please, Sir!” Imani cries as she spasms around me and comes around my flesh.
Placing her taste on my tongue, I savor her. “Mm, delicious. You, my wife, are my favorite flavor.” Then I tear that leotard open, destroying another piece of Imani’s wardrobe.
“Sir!” Imani squeaks, perpetually annoyed that I make it my mission to wreck her clothing.
I regret nothing.
Pulling her hips up while I lower my face, I suction my mouth onto her cunt, beginning to eat her from behind on all of this ice.
I fuck my tongue in and out of her hole as she squirms feebly, trained enough by now to know that she needs to still herself as much as she’s able when such intense pleasure overtakes her.
I drink her juices over and over, lapping her up like it’s my own Olympic event. I’m moaning into her core, delightedly eating at my favorite gourmet restaurant—three Michelin stars for Imani Gray.
She screams out into the room as she comes for a second time, and I lick her through the aftershocks, my own eyes nearly rolling back into my head at feeling her orgasm.
Flipping her over, I quickly land a hard blow onto her thigh, my hand feeling the sting of good impact, before I insert my fingers back into her. This time, I use my palm to grind against what I’m sure is a highly sensitive clit at this point.
“No, no, no. Please, Sir, no more,” Imani pants.
“No? Why not? No one has even discovered us yet,” I laugh, delighting in both her resistance and her fear.
“Shitshitshit. Can’t—take—any—more,” Imani barely gets out, her back arching beautifully as I move in and out of her.
“I don’t know, Cupcake. Time to find out how many times you can come before you hit your limit. Doesn’t that seem fun?” I accent my words by curling my fingers into the crook of her G-spot, immediately making her screech and shake in response.
“No, Sir,” Imani weakly responds, while her body vibrates with the need for release.
“Good thing you’re not in charge,” I explain, fucking her through the squirting I’ve just dragged out of her. Then I stuff my sopping fingers into her mouth. “Suck,” I order, and I don’t wait for her to obey before I use my spare hand to lift her body to mine so I can taste the fruits of my labor.
Imani is a glorious puddle, having made one of herself and the freshly slick surface she lies upon.
Good thing I thought ahead and paid off everyone who helped me act this roleplay out—it’s trade knowledge what a deviant I am, so no one batted an eye.
Instead, they simply agreed and pocketed their money. It’s nice when everything works out.
Focusing on painting into Imani’s clit with intense oral pressure this time, my bratty girl is rewarded (but really, who is rewarding whom?) with another intense explosion.
After eating her cum, I swap my fingers and mouth so that I’m fucking her with my hand while feeding her the taste of her with my lips on hers.
Imani moves swiftly to wrap her whole body around mine like an octopus, pressing our bodies so close I feel her rapid heartbeat against mine.
When I feel like I’ve worshiped her mouth adequately, I pull back to look her deeply in her spaced-out eyes. “I love you, Imani Gray,” I breathe with ardor.
I watch dewy drops emerge and drift slowly down her rich brown skin. “Forever?” She pleads.
“Forever, and then some,” I agree easily, slowing my fingers to move into her reverently, my thumb sweeping across her button.
Imani shudders. “Not—slow,” she protests.
“Mhm. Yes, slow. You’ve been very bad lately,” I remind her. “It’s not enough that someone might catch us, or that I want to fuck you so hard you’re absolutely wrung out with pleasure. I’m going to make love to you, too, oh wife of mine.”
“Worst—spouse—ever,” Imani glares at me, but she’s obstructed by her pants and moans that are interspersed throughout.
“Too late to annul. You’ll have to settle for filing for divorce. You can tell the judge I loved you too hard,” I grin, leaning down to bite a crescent into her shoulder.
“I’ll—say—too—hard—too—painful,” Imani cries, attempting the pretense of refusing my love even four years after we became a couple.
I smile lovingly down at her as I insert another finger into her sex. “Objection, your honor. Plaintiff is a masochist.”
Fresh tears flow into her twisted locs. “Prove it.”
“I think I’m proving it right now, Cupcake. Also, the plaintiff loves the defendant,” I point out while her cum streams onto my wrist.
Smiling and sated, Imani searches my eyes, then nods. “True. Love you—forever,” she agrees.
“There’s my good girl,” I praise her, leaning down to lick her tears away. “What about one more?” I ask, referring to the ongoing fucking between the sentiment.
“Okay,” Imani agrees dreamily.
If all the fight has gone out of her, it’s not nearly as fun. But I meant what I said—I’ll worship her until she safes out or is too gone to do so.
For today.
For forever.
THE END
Thank you for reading A Gold Medal in Love. For more adventures at the gayest games ever, check out Cross-Country Love, the next book in Love on the Podium.