Chinese Meat Buns

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings
Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Original Work
Additional Tags: Verbal Abuse, Blackmail, Competition, Gymnast, huge ass, rimjob, huge
cock, Twerking, Humiliation, Raceplay, Hotdogging, Anal Sex,
Squirting, fitness, Muscle, Sweat, Degradation
Language: English
Collections: :)
Stats: Published: 2021-01-04 Completed: 2021-05-27 Words: 12,384 Chapters:
2/2
 Chinese Meat Buns
by SlutWriter

Summary

This commissioned story tells the tale of Orson, a gifted American gymnast at the
rescheduled Tokyo Olympics who becomes totally enamored with a member of the Chinese
gymnastics team... specifically, her short height, her hair buns... and especially her enormous
bubble butt!

Notes

This story is a commission.

 Chapter 1

“That’s her.”

Orson was talking only to himself, his low voice was detectable only by his own ears in the
busting indoor stadium. Everywhere around him, gymnasts and athletes of every nationality
and creed were going through their warmups for the first day of competition at the 2020
Olympic games, which, because of COVID-19, were being held in late 2021 in Tokyo, Japan.

Orson’s eyes, shielded by the bangs from his mop of brown hair, were focused on one
gymnast in particular - a female member of the Chinese delegation who was presently
tumbling across the mats with vigor, her face granite-hard with concentration. Much as it was
difficult to recognize anyone in the throng of athletes, trainers, coaches, and representatives,
there was no way he could miss the Chinese gymnast. Not because of her notably short
height - she only came up to his chest - and not because of her prowess, though that was
considerable. Not even because of her pretty face.

No, Orson was totally focused on her thighs and ass. Which were absolutely huge . He
couldn’t help but imagine the Chinese team having to design a special leotard to contain such
a donk. The red fabric clinging to her bulging buttocks coated her flesh like a second skin,
doing very little to hide the curvature of her hips and rear. In the places where her thighs
emerged from the leg holes, the suit cut into her flesh deliciously, showing how bouncy and
grabbable it was.

Orson was very used to seeing tight, athletic behinds - in gymnastics, it came with the
territory. The men’s team had physiques carved out of wood, and the women had thighs of
steel. Most were of the more muscular variety. This Chinese gymnast blew them all away. He
was both powerful and thicc as a bowl of oatmeal. Orson watched, smitten, as she bounced
across the square, warming up for her floor routine. She dropped into a front-and-back split
and her buttocks actually provided enough recoil and bounce to allow her to rebound
effortlessly back up to her feet.

“Hnnnngh,” Orson groaned, biting his lower lip. He had seen her around and knew her name
was Ling, but that was all. Orson was known among all the members of USA Gymnastics for
being the biggest horndog around; he had already regaled his fellows with all the ass he was
going to crush while staying at Olympic village, social distancing or not. The other guys had
smiled and egged him on, asking him how many scalps he was going to come home with.
Hell, to Orson, they were more prestigious than medals!

The Scandanavians. The Brazilians. The Russians! Every women’s team had a smorgasbord
of gorgeous asses to ogle, and Orson spent much of every international competition getting
an eyeful. Of course he had his own events to worry about - the rings, the pommel horse, the
parallel bars - but when all was said and done, it was the flirting and fucking that excited him
most. And the most prized of these conquests?
The Asians, no question. There was just something about them. Their cultures, along with
their languages being so inscrutable to him, made them seem more exotic. The way their
coaches and handlers tended to herd them around and watch them carefully reminded him of
pimps and prostitutes (not that he would ever voice this shameful thought out loud), and in
the case of the Chinese in particular, their communist government and often adversarial
relationship with the good ol’ US of A filled with him patriotic plowing intent, wanting to
take some scalps back to the land of the free and the home of the brave.

But, it was impossible for the most part. The Communist Party officials held on to their
gymnasts like their balls, in his experience, and he would be lucky to pass two unlikely-to-
be-understood words of greeting before the uniformly shy athletes were pulled away.
Nonetheless, he continued to lust after them. Besides, this one didn’t seem shy. She seemed
like a killer out there. He watched as she effortlessly completed a tumble and front flip with a
half-twist, landing on dainty feet and graceful calves that were pipe-stems compared to her
thunder thighs and amazing, tank-like bubble ass.

“How much fucking talc are you going to use?” someone asked, and Orson was jolted back
to reality. It was his teammate Neil - handsome, friendly, an amazing physique, and queer as
a roll of three cent coins. Orson had been daydreaming about Ling’s huge badonk and
sprinkling talc on his hands for the better part of two minutes. A pile of the white stuff had
accumulated near his feet, and the bottle was nearly empty. As it was, he could barely
respond to his friend, as he watched the Chinese gymnast mount the balance beam for a
warmup, and immediately drop into a straddle of the beam, causing her bulbous, half-moon
ass-cheeks to tense and jiggle.

Neil saw where Orson was looking and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, dude. No chance,” he
assessed. “You should be thinking about your routine, not staring at asses!”

“Man, come on,” Orson objected, looking desperate. “That ass, those thighs, that figure… her
height… she’s even got Chun-Li hair buns!” He gestured helplessly, and Neil couldn’t help
but laugh.

“You need help, Orson,” his friend chuckled. “You really do. You’re lucky I won’t tell the
coach about this. I swear, if you’re up all night in the common area flirting, instead of getting
rest for tomorrow, he’s going to be really pissed.”

“I won’t be, I promise,” Orson said, and tipped Neil a wink. And that was his intent. It
honestly, honestly was. When he arrived back at the Olympic Village (actually the Olympic
Bubble), he was tired from his warmups, and decided to skip the common area altogether. He
decided to go to the bar and restaurant, with no plan more sneaky than to grab a hamburger
and a drink before heading up to his room. Good boy Orson, not making any trouble for
Team USA.

But, when he turned the corner and saw the line of stools in front of the bar, there she was,
sitting with the same resting bitch-face he’d seen the previous day, and looking astoundingly
good in spite of it. Instead of her gymnast’s leotard she was wearing a red button-up jacket
and tights with the Chinese Olympic logo on the hip. Her hair, done up in adorable ox-horns,
was the same.
He walked over to sit down beside her, chastising himself even as he did so. Don’t cause an
international incident, Orson, he thought. Just because you don’t see her handlers doesn’t
mean they’re not here somewhere. Still, he approached, and before she noticed him he paused
to take one long, glorious look at the way her amazing butt-cheeks sat round and plump on
the barstool, so meaty they seemed to be in danger of sliding off in either direction. The tights
she was wearing hugged close to her skin and gave him an amazing view of the depth and
potential dick-hugging qualities of her ass-crack.

He felt his cock jump in his warmups and quickly slid onto the stool. “Where are your
friends?” he asked, conversationally, leaning over and smiling. She turned immediately and
raised an eyebrow at him, and for the first time he saw her eye color, a startling silver-grey
that shone like polished coins. She looked annoyed and confused, but Orson plowed on,
gesticulating and speaking clearly in case she spoke poor English. “Your friends. The CCP
folks. On vacation today?”

She made a haughty ‘hmmph!’ sound and turned back to her drink, which appeared to be
some sort of gaudy cocktail with more umbrellas than substance. “You Americans, always so
nosy,” she said, and he was pleased to discover that her accent was just thick enough to be
very cute, and not so thick that he couldn’t understand her. “Go back to New York, mind own
business.”

“I’m from Michigan,” Orson said, bemused.

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand, before taking a sip of her drink. “New York, Texas,
Hawaii, all Americans have big mouth!” She looked at him fiercely. “But China beat you
every competition, men’s gymnastics, all the time.”

Orson was actually taken aback by her aggressive, nationalistic verve. It was true that the
American men’s team hadn’t taken any big competitions in a decade or more. He found,
almost to his amusement, that he felt his own homeland pride surging in defense. “Did your
communist bosses tell you to say that?” Orson half-joked. “Have you got a playbook they
give you for talking to American guys?”

“I not puppet!” she barked, looking at him fiercely. “You see any China team here? No?” She
lifted her chin with pride. “I sneak out.”

Orson took a more relaxed stance on his stool and look at her. She was headstrong,
opinionated, competitive, daring, and amazingly beautiful. He opened his mouth and had to
physically restrain himself from saying something stupid like ‘I want to slide my dick in
between your hair buns’. “Bad girl, huh?” he joked. “I guess I don’t like rules much, either.”

“That is because you American. Unruly, always ‘me-me-me’, never, ‘good of the team’,” she
sniped, stirring her drink and smirking. “American work habits, fitness, training all very bad.
I train very hard, very good. Chinese team training.”

This time, Orson did feel a pang of patriotism actually come to the surface. All the American
gymnasts he knew worked very hard and sacrificed a lot . “That’s not true. You’re just
repeating what you’re told,” he objected. “Do your commie bosses have to stick a key in your
back and wind you up in the morning, or what?” He smirked as her eyes narrowed with
anger. “The way you guys get treated, I wouldn’t compete for the Chinese team in a million
years!”

Ling slammed her cute and tiny fist on the bar, rattling her drink and nearly toppling it. “You
one to talk! U.S. gymnastics doctor molesting women’s team non-stop! I never compete for
capitalist pig and perverts!”

“That was one guy!” Orson barked. “And we threw him in jail!”

“You probably want molest me right now!” Ling went on, crossing her arms.

“We’re lucky we’re even having the Olympics after you guys let loose the coronavirus!”
Orson blurted. “And, your leader looks like Winnie the Pooh!” Their faces were coming
closer together as they seethed at each other, causing Ling to clench her teeth.

“Oh, that it!” she growled. “You lazy American and rude! Make bet with me, coward! When
I get better score tomorrow on vault, you kiss my feet in front of whole team, say sorry, and
you love China!” She put her finger in his face. “If you don’t, you coward like every other
American slob sitting home with dick in hand while Chinese people work for better nation!”

Orson considered what she was saying. The vault was one of the events shared by both male
and female gymnasts, consisting of a padded runway leading up to a springboard. After a
sprint, the gymnast would fly over the vaulting horse, completing various flips, tucks and
spins in midair before landing on a landing pad. Orson himself was pretty good at the vault.
He had no idea if Ling was good or not, but if she was a Chinese Olympian, the chances were
high that she was very good.

“Alright,” he said, his ego and nationalism getting the better of him. “You’re on. But if I get a
better score, you have to do something for me, too.”

Ling looked positively pleased at his acceptance, exuding an aura of confidence that was
frightening. It was clear that she thought there was absolutely no way she could lose in
overall score. “It not matter,” she boasted. “I never lose to dumb lazy American.”

Orson leaned in closer and started to speak in a low voice. As he did, Ling’s eyes went wide
and her face pulled into a disgusted grimace. She gasped with indignity as he spoke… but her
cheeks also flushed red, and she tugged down at the sides of her jacket, as if attempting to
obscure her amazingly thicc thighs and round butt-mounds. It was a futile effort, as she had
legs that looked like they could feed a family of eight. “You American pig!” she objected,
looking down and away as she blushed.

If I score better, you come up to my room and do whatever I want with that thick ass . No
exceptions. That had been Orson’s offer. He expected her to call the whole thing off and
maybe throw her drink in his face, but her reaction was a strange mixture of indignity and
embarrassment, as her outward confidence clashed with self-consciousness about her large
hips and bubbly, bulging butt!

“Well… if you’re afraid you’ll lose,” Orson taunted, shrugging with a smile. “I guess there’s
no bet.” That was all it took to lure her in. He could almost see her reservations get pushed to
the side as pure pride and hubris filled her cute face.

“You not get off that easy!” she sneered, and rose from her stool, hopping down to the floor.
He couldn’t help but watch as her booty bounced and actually made a clapping noise when
her feet hit the tile. God, her legs were like something out of science-fiction. Big and thick,
the perfect mix of muscled and shapely, and topping off with those hips and those big,
bootyful Asian donk-mounds! Her tights, clinging like yoga pants, spared no detail. He bit
his bottom lip and simped uncontrollably for a moment, drawing in breath.

She saw where he was looking and rolled her eyes at him. “You really are pig!” she
squawked, tugging down on the sides of her CCP jacket again, her silver eyes burning a hole
in him. “And tomorrow, after perfect score, I make you crawl and oink like pig!”

She turned to walk away, and Orson snapped out of his reverie long enough to shout ‘get that
ass ready!’ over the noise of the bar, before becoming mesmerized again as she walked
gracefully across the bar and out the opposite exit, ass jiggling all the way. Each step was a
pleasure to behold. Her calves and thighs were carved out of wood. But above those… that
monster ass… god !

He took a deep breath. It occurred to him that he had just bet his dignity on beating a world-
class Chinese gymnast in the vault, when he himself would have been ecstatic with as little as
a top five placing. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m going to end up crawling around like a pig and
praising the Chinese Communist Party.”

He did not sleep well that night.

Later the next day, he was cursing his stupidity even harder. The distraction of watching Ling
perform had made him lose focus in a few of his own events. After dismounting the rings and
walking over to his coach to say ‘fuck, that was dogshit’, he saw out of the corner of his eye
that Ling was about to start her vault, and was immediately transfixed, with every other noise
and distraction seem to fade away.

He watched as she sprinted down the runway, cheeks wiggling amazingly, and launched her
petite body into a beautiful full layout flip with dizzying rotations and twists.

I’m fucked , he thought. The landing was nearly perfect, with only a tiny tilt to adjust balance,
and his heart sank as she was shortly rewarded sky high marks in both difficulty and artistic
execution. Orson’s shoulders slumped, and then, as he was watching Ling walk around and
be congratulated by her teammates (none of whom had anything close to her sidewalk-
cracking bubble butt), the tiny Chinese gymnast turned to him and made intentional eye-
contact. She then pointed to him and pulled up her nostrils into the shape of a pig.

Orson felt both his manly pride and his patriotic zeal become inflamed once again. That little
Chinese bitch had a lot of nerve! He hoped she would crash and burn in her second and final
vault, and was again disappointed when she received high marks, good enough for a silver or
gold medal depending on how things shook out.

If he didn’t want to humiliate himself, or welsh on the bet (which would kind of be the same
thing), he would have to give the vaulting performance of his life. It would be his turn to hit
the runway in only a few moments, and the wait dug a fiery pit of nerves into his stomach.
Orson set about psyching himself up. He told himself he could do it. He roared along with his
teammates, exchanged high fives, and prepared his body to peak at just the right moment. But
behind it all, he saw that ass . If he was somehow able to pull off a miracle, he would have
that thick, slappable, spankable, grabbable, cock-swallowing, face-sitting, perfect piece of
Grade A Chinese ass meat all to himself!

“Let’s fucking do this!” he breathed, as his name was called. He slapped his face and looked
over to the Chinese delegation. Ling was still smirking at him, and made the pignose gesture
again. He responded by mimicking giving her a spanking, which made her face blush red
with indignation once again… and made her cutely and self-consciously drop her hands to try
to obscure her wide hips.

He took off down the ramp. Planted. Propelled himself. He spun and twisted in the air and
came down with what he thought was a perfect landing, his lean and muscled body standing
stone still after the impact. The crowd cheered.

I did it , he thought. I actually did it! His heart swelled with the knowledge that maybe it was
possible after all. But then his heart sank when he saw the scores. His vault was not as
difficult as Ling’s had been, and the judges also thought he had landed off center. His score,
which was nearly a competition best for him, was still lower than hers by a full point. Now
his task was essentially impossible. To beat Ling’s aggregate score, he would have to perform
a more difficult vault than she had… and score a perfect ten on it.

He had never scored a perfect ten in competition in his life. He looked over at Ling. She was
beaming at him with her silver eyes, arms crossed, looking confident. He knew that when he
had to pay off the bet, he would have to endure her crowing and taunts, which would be
caustic and emasculating.

“You big-butt Chinese bitch,” he muttered, dusting off his hands. He had only one option - to
raise the difficulty of his final vault. He would have to try the Rise Gwang II - a triple front
flip with a half-twist. He had completed it before… in practice. Once. And nearly broke his
ankle doing so. A sort of fatalism overtook him as he awaited his turn. If he under-rotated and
broke his neck, at least he wouldn’t be licking Chinese shoe leather. He zoned everything else
out and just thought of ass. Buns. Jiggling, bitchy, Chinese meat buns. Ling, squatting in
front of him and shaking her thick ass-cheeks for his amusement, her expression smoldering,
as he forced her to apologize to superior American gymnasts.

The announcer called his name. “Fuck it,” he said, taking a breath. He could go balls to the
wall. His feet, pounding on the runway, the inhale of baited breath from the audience as he
launched himself. One front flip. Two front flips.

Get ready for my big American cock, you Chinese slut , he thought, viciously. He did his half
turn and landed. For a moment there was no sound. Then… a roar. A roar so loud, he could
barely hear himself think. He had absolutely nailed the vault - which was so difficult, only a
handful of gymnasts in the world could do it - and the landing had been perfect. On center, no
tilting. The crowd was going crazy, and his teammates, who had no idea he’d been planning
to up the difficulty of his vault, were going apeshit as he walked toward them.

The scores were read out. The highest score for difficulty. And perfect tens for execution! He
waved to the crowd, and turned immediately to his Chinese arch-nemesis, smirking. Her face
was wide-eyed with astonishment… and rosy-cheeked from nervousness and embarrassment.
Orson couldn’t help but smile as he thought about her defiant face changing to obedience as
she bent over in front of him. The fact that his two-vault total was a personal best and likely
to medal barely registered, even as his teammates gathered around his tall and muscled frame
in droves, cheering and rubbing his head.

His mind was already on what would happen that evening.

Orson’s total performance was indeed good enough for a bronze medal in the vault. His
coach asked him as they left the venue what possessed him to perform above and beyond his
former level, and Orson lied and told him that it must have been patriotism for the good ol’
U-S-and-A.

He did not admit to the coach he’d been thinking completely about the A-S-and-S.

Once the euphoria of a great performance had died down and he was alone in his room, he
suddenly became sure that Ling wouldn’t show up. She would make some sort of excuse, tell
him it had been a joke. Or perhaps, he thought, she would show up to congratulate him and
admit she was wrong, but make it clear that no hanky-panky would be occurring. Or maybe
the whole thing was just a little motivational device he had used, almost subconsciously, to
improve his performance. Not serious in the first place.

He pored over these possibilities as he sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers and undershirt,
half-unpacked Team USA luggage piled pyramidally nearby. Stop getting your hopes up for
nothing , he told himself. You made that counter-proposal as a joke, anyway. To tease her. To
shock her. She was taunting you. You didn’t really expect her to follow through with it, did
you?

Orson supposed not. He stretched, flexing his athletic rack of lean muscles, and exhaled,
ready to move on with his life. But just as he braced his feet to rise from the bed, there was a
hesitant, almost stealthy knock at his door.

His heart began to pound, even as his mind warned him against it. It was probably just Neil,
wanting to go out and celebrate with the team, or his coach, though the hour was a little late
for such things.
He approached the door and opened it… and immediately, a very short figure, wearing a red
hoodie, leggings and sunglasses, bustled through, traveling under his arm. Orson burst out
laughing even as his stomach twisted in nervous knots of anticipation. “Oh my god, what’s
with that getup?” he asked, shutting the door and making a show of locking it securely so
they wouldn’t be disturbed. “Are you some sort of spy?”

“I not want to be seen going into room of American pig!” Ling squawked, tossing away her
sunglasses onto a table and pulling her hoodie down, revealing her adorable, tightly-wound
ox horns. But her hairstyle wasn’t the pair of buns Orson was most interested in. “You lucky,
Chinese are honorable people!”

“Is that so?”

She crossed her arms and raised her nose up at him. “Hmmph! I should not pay bet! Judges
always biased for Americans!”

“Take your hoodie off,” Orson said, experimenting. Her response to his firm command would
be telling. He wasn’t going to do anything she wouldn’t allow - that wasn’t part of his plan.
But he had a sense that on some level, she was willing. If she told him to fuck himself and
didn’t undress, he would have to settle for some quick gloating and a nice view of her ass as
it went out the door. On the other hand, if she took her hoodie off, who knew where that
might lead?

His mouth turned up into a smirk as she reached down to the waistline and grabbed the plush,
red-colored CCP hoodie and peeled it up and over her sculpted midsection and shapely
breasts. She was wearing a tight workout tanktop underneath, something like the Chinese
version of Under Armour.

“There? Happy now, American pig?” she pouted.

Orson scoffed. “Happy? Not by a long shot! If I lost that bet, you’d have me on a leash,
crawling around in front of your team, praising the government of China right now! So come
on.” He walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down. “Stand in front of me.”

Ling’s eyes flared brilliantly. “I not doing that!” she barked, but he gestured again.

“Come on. I won’t touch you. You just have to give a bit of a performance and we’ll call it
even.”

She grimaced and walked over in front of him. He watched her tiny feet - they had to be size
zero - moving in their cute running shoes. She had such an amazing ass and hips, just
watching her pixie-sized form flutter from place to place was a treat. He became aware that
he was quickly getting an erection - which, given his rather blessed size, would soon be a
problem.

She stood in front of him and crossed her arms over her breasts, refusing to make eye contact.
“What now?” she said, rudely.
“Turn around,” he prompted, and she hissed air out her nose haughtily and did so. Orson was
thus granted his first unobstructed, unashamed view of her back and rear end. It was
everything he hoped it would be. Her skin-hugging tights almost looked painted on. That big,
thick, powerful bubble butt was right in his face! He just knew that if he reached out and
grabbed with his large hands, his fingers would sink into that ass meat deliciously! It took
every ounce of willpower he had not to just start grabbing.

He had something else he wanted - needed - to see.

“I want you to twerk for me,” he prompted, and Ling blinked, annoyed and embarrassed as
one might be when one hears something they can’t understand.

“What?” she spat.

“Twerk. You know - throw that ass!” Orson prompted, almost giggling at her annoyed look.
“Bounce that booty!”

“I don’t know this,” she objected. “Must be stupid American thing!”

“On the contrary,” Orson said, leaning over to grab his laptop near the bend. Many tabs on
his browser were actually still open to images of Ling in competition that he’d been using for
‘research’. “It may be the greatest American invention ever!”

With a few clicks and keystrokes he brought up a montage of women lewdly and vigorously
throwing ass to Cardi B’s “WAP”. The constant background verbals - there’s some whores in
this house, there’s some whores in this house - filled the room. Ling watched and her eyes
went wide again. She blushed and could barely look at the screen since the women on it were
acting like such unabashed sexuality!

“I world class athlete! Not stripper!” she whined.

Orson firmed up his voice. “Do it,” he ordered, his voice gaining momentum as his words
grew more lurid. “I’ve had it with your stalling. Shake that ass. Bounce that big fat bubble-
butt ! Drop that huge, Chinese shitter of yours low and let me hear it clap! In fact - get on the
bed and do it, right over my face!” He reached out for her waist. He knew it risked the whole
deal, but he needed to make things happen.

“Wha- ah!” Ling wailed, as his hands closed around her lower ribs. Unlike her hips, this area
of her was very slender, and her short height allowed him to hoist her up to stand on the edge
of the mattress. “Get your hands off! And stop saying crude things!”

“I’ll say whatever I want!” Orson shot back. “You’re not a world-class athlete… you’re a
thicc, bubble butt Chinese bitch with a pair of big, fat ass-globes! Now, spread your legs and
shake that shit!”

Ling whined, but she obeyed, widening her stance. Orson laid back on the bed as she
straddled him and started to toss her ass around. “I get you for this!” she pouted, arching her
back and thrusting her bottom out in an imitation of what was playing on the laptop.
“American pig!”
“Ha, you’re a natural!” Orson said, and of course, this comment annoyed her to no end,
despite it being true. Perhaps due to the natural grace and body coordination that came with
her Olympian pedigree, Ling was shaking and bouncing her buttocks with uncanny rhythm.
Her ass-cheeks were of such size and roundness, she was able to produce a clapping sound
even while wearing the tights. He lay under her in a sort of bliss as she dropped lower,
jiggling her buttocks in his face, sometimes squatting low enough that they nearly brushed
his nose. She grabbed her ankles and shook her cheeks, arched her back and bounced her ass
until it looked like her wiggling, clapping ass mounds would tear a hole in them.

Orson realized something amazing when he saw the mix of determination and embarrassment
on Ling’s face. She’s giving a performance , he thought. She’s putting her all into it! He
smiled and nearly burst out laughing. She was a competitor through and through, and had in
her life probably been told a hundred or a thousand times to practice and perfect a routine.
The ass-twerking PornHub video he’d queued up was no different. She was imitating the
moves of the thick PAWGs and ebony beauties on screen with absolute precision… yet she
had an ass that was better than any of them, full and round but also powerful.

His erection was quickly growing enormous. Orson, known as the resident pussy-hound, was
also known for having a cock to match, a serious piece of smooth and aesthetically-pleasing
meat that hung down nearly to his knee when half-hard. Now, full erect, it was poking out
past the waistband of his warmups, the head hovering over his belly-button.

He could take no more. “Okay, now, on your hands and knees!” he said, scooting out from
under her. “Give me a close up look at that huge ass!”

He heard her give one of her curt exhalations of breath, which he now considered a Ling
trademark. “It normal sized!” she complained. “Not big!” She dropped down to her knees and
looked over her shoulder at him, brow furrowed. His cock, tucked beneath the hanging lower
edge of his undershirt, was mostly concealed.

“Who the fuck are you kidding?” he laughed. “Come on. Face down, ass up. Knees together.
Really stick out that dump truck!” She growled with frustration and lowered her chest flat
against the bedspread, putting her knees and thighs tightly together, bracing on her knees and
sticking her booty in the air. Orson scrambled to his knees, looking like a treasure hunter who
had just stumbled on a chest filled with gold. He stuck out his hands and made greedy
squeezing motions in the air.

“That enough!” Ling objected. “You stop now!”

But Orson wasn’t done. He couldn’t come this close to perfection and not hold it in his hands.
And before him, propped up on two shapely, muscled gymnast thighs, as the ultimate booty.
So soft, so round, so big! His mind warned him that he was about to cross a dangerous
precipice. He could be sanctioned. He could see ‘USA Gymnastics Hit With Another
Scandal’ in the newspapers the next day. The safe play was to take his amazing view, bid
Ling goodnight, and then jerk his big dick off while the masturbation fuel was still fresh in
mind.

But he had never been one to play it safe.

His greedy, big hands moved forward and his fingers hooked into the waist of her tights.
“Ah!” Ling chirped. Orson ignored her objection and pulled. It was the greatest thing he’d
ever seen. The tight waistband moved over her wide hips and bulging bubble-booty only with
difficulty. And as it travelled, her pale, perfectly complexioned ass flesh poured out from
beneath, like the soft and delicious top of a just-baked muffin overflowing its paper holder.
Her cheeks emerged and actually recoiled with bounce as he peeled the tights down to mid-
thigh, leaving her totally bottomless.

“Of course you don’t wear panties,” Orson breathed. “Your huge ass would probably tear
them in half!” A waft of deliciously-scented air, warm and pungent, hit him right in the face.
Ling’s rear, which had been twerking hard, was coated with a sheen of sweat! And between
the enormous hemispherical Chinese cheeks, he could see the slightly darker and rosier
pucker of her asshole, which was every bit as perfect and inviting as he’d hoped. It didn’t
look too tight or like his cock wouldn’t fit, it didn’t look too loose, it was aesthetically
perfect. He inhaled and let his nostrils flare around the scent of her sweat.

“You are true American pig!” Ling gasped, her tights now bunched around her knees. “And
sexual degenerate!”

Orson knew only one way to respond to that. The moment he had been waiting for. He reared
back with one muscled, well-coordinated arm, chiseled and cut from so many days
suspending himself in mid-air or bouncing off vaulting horses and padded floors. With a
short wind-up, he brought it down hard - slapping Ling’s right ass-cheek so loudly that it
actually startled the both of them. The sound resonated in the small room and Orson saw a
sheen of clean sweat spritz into the air. Ling’s rear actually bounced and jiggled for a while
before coming to a stop.

“Ah!” Ling moaned, and threw back her head, exhaling, her breath quickening. Orson looked
down - her ass was imprinted with the exact outline of his palm in a hot pink color. He could
clearly see all four fingers and his thumb. “You stop now!” she cried back at him, though she
sounded flushed and breathless and more vulnerable than before.

“You like this, don’t you?” Orson ventured, gazing in between Ling’s legs, where her well-
trimmed pussy was visible in the familiar pudenda shape, the outer labia seeming to glisten.
“You’re getting wet!”

“Shut up!” Ling wailed, sounding more Western than she had at any other time. “I not like it
ever!”

Orson clapped his hands down on Ling’s rear, one hand on each cheek, and spread her as
wide as she could, drawing another eyes-wide gasp. He thought of the patriots who had gone
before him at the Olympic games and brought glory to America. Jesse Owens. Carl Lewis.
Michael Phelps. Now, it was his turn.

He buried his face in between those buns . His upper lip and nose smooshed instantly into
Ling’s winking, trembling anus as he pressed her cheeks inward around his face as hard as he
could, mashing his cheeks with thick mounds of sweat-moistened muscle. He inhaled and felt
molecules of hot, Chinese girl booty sweat aerosolized and zip up his nostrils.
Ling cried out and pressed her palms and chest flat against the bedspread, squinting her eyes
tight. She seemed to barely be able to get any words out. “Ah! You… American… I…
uwaaagh!”

The final exclamation came as Orson passed into the final frontier, sticking out his tongue
and sliding it as deep as he could into her warm, accepting, and sweat dappled, delicious dark
cherry. Immediately his appendage was enveloped in warmth and tightness and he explored
as deep as he could, completely surrounded in oriental thickness both front and sides. She
sank down, knees weakening, and his face followed her, her cheeks mounding up in his hands
and on either side of his face.

She was making objections, half-spoken and clipped by her harsh breaths, but she was also
responding to his tongue as it probed her inner walls and danced around her ass rim. He could
feel her twitching and knew that she was feeling something intense, in spite of her
complaints. The best part (well, not the very best part - that was having his face buried
between those two meaty ass-globes!) was feeling her well-muscled body tense and flex and
respond to his every movement and he loudly and lewdly ate her ass out. Like most
Olympians, her petite and compact frame was a well-oiled machine!

“Asshole!” she wailed, exhausting what he assumed was the extent of her English swearing.

“You can say that again!” Orson gasped out, removing his mouth from her ring for just a
moment, before diving back in even deeper. She struggled back to her knees and struggled
away from him, her chest reaching the foot of the bed… but he simply followed, munching
away like the human centipede and squeezing her buns around his face like a man shielding
himself from a blizzard. He savored the scent and taste of her athletic body, inhaling and
slurping enthusiastically.

“ Chi sin gweilo! ” she cried, and her tiny hands gripped the bedspread as her back arched
majestically, thrusting her ass up into the air and harder against his mouth. He felt her
muscles tense, and then it happened - a spray of liquid erupted from her pussy, so copious it
was like a nozzle had been opened, hosing directly backward into his chest and neck. She
accompanied this with a helpless wail. Chinese or American, Orson knew an orgasm when he
saw one, and this one had been big enough to shake her body to the core and leave her
slumping on the bedspread.

He stepped back and wiped his mouth with satisfaction. “Well, well!” he crowed. “I guess
you like that quite a bit after all!”

Ling only groaned, cheek pressed to the mattress, body flattered, her buttocks the highest
point of her stretched-out form, like two rolling hills of flesh. But of course, Orson wasn’t
done yet. He may have managed to coax a climax out of the most tsundere gymnast girl in
the orient, but his cock was still raring to go… especially with the sight of those two butt
mounds resting just inches away.

“I think I found what really ran over that guy in Tiananmen Square!” he quipped, and
kneewalked to straddle her thighs. Never before had a valley between two buns looked like
such a perfect fit for a piece of meat.
“Nnngh… go fuck to you!” Ling rasped, still trying to catch her breath. Orson reached down
and took two beautiful, heavy handfuls of ass-flesh and let them spill through the gaps
between his digits before spreading her wide. It was like trying to part the sea - her heavy
cheeks kept trying to fall back together through and around his hands. But he took a tight grip
and slid his long, girthy, and cum-leaking cock into position. He couldn’t remember ever
having such a huge erection. Ling’s ass, it seemed, was once again encouraging him to
greater heights of performance.

With his veiny, fleshy log laid in her asscrack, the tip just above the top of her dimpled
buttocks, the base emerging from below, with his balls laying between her heavy thighs, her
pressed those buns back together… and immediately his face fell into a state of euphoria. It
was the best feeling he’d ever experienced! It was better than pussy. He began to thrust his
hips, sliding his cock forward and back with small strokes, letting his shaft glide through the
passage via the lubrication of his pre-cum and her sweat.

It felt so good that he knew he wouldn’t last long, and her squeaking moans of post-orgasm
arousal, triggered by his fat piss-pipe rubbing against her sensitive anus, only accelerated his
finish. “Mmm, fuck… take my cock, you Chinese butt-bitch!” he seethed to himself, under
his breath, reveling in the conquering feeling of christening her ass with his shaft. Even
though he hadn’t meant for her to hear it, she choked out an objection.

“I am… world-class athlete! Not… butt-bitch!” Ling gasped.

Orson’s face drew into a tooth-clenched fury. “Yes you are!” he seethed at her. “You have the
most massive, slutty ass I’ve ever seen! Your whole career, every coach and trainer and
handler you ever had was probably busting a nut in his room the second you walked out the
door, because of your huge bubble-butt and thighs!”

“Shut up!” Ling wailed.

“And you know when Chairman Mao or whoever came to watch you compete, they always
took a seat directly behind so they could see this fucking badonkadonk!” Orson went on,
getting on a rant. “I’m sick of you denying it! Your cute little body is like 50% ass! You’re
not some innocent gymnast; I have the biggest dick on Team USA… and you’re making my
whole shaft disappear with this big, fat szechuan shitter !”

He reached down as he continued to hotdog her buns, grinding a palm into her bare pussy and
finding it absolutely soaked. Ling made a warbling moan and her eyes rolled back a little into
her head as her simultaneously mashed her labia into her clit and sawed his bone across the
twitching tissue of her anal ring. His leaking cocktip spat droplets of pre-cum onto her lower
back each time it emerged from between her cheeks.

“Say it! You’re not an athlete, you’re just a bitch with a pair of huge Chinese meat buns!”
Orson taunted. “You only got where you are by waving this dim sum dumper around in front
of men!” Of course he believed no such thing - Ling would probably score better than him 99
times out of 100 - but his feelings of dominance were in overdrive, and her body was
responding even more. He sank two digits into her pussy and started to fingerblast quickly,
filling the room with an obscene, liquid sound. She was to hot and tight!
“I… I…”

“Say it! Spread your fucking ass for me!”

Her whole body tensed again and Orson’s fingers were nearly snapped by the spasming grip
of her pussy, while more lubrication squirted out all over his fingers and hand, creating a
sprinkler that dappled the mattress again. She arched her back, spread her knees wide enough
to tear her pulled-down tights, and then reached behind herself, taking a hold of her own
booty… and spreading the thick ass-mounds wide, exposing her glistening, twitching asshole.

“I… am Chinese butt biiiiiitch!” she wailed, and her voice was so ragged that Orson knew
she was rolling her eyes back without even seeing them. His muscled arm moved rapidly
forward and back as he jerked and milked his long and turgid penis, fisting it aggressively
over the spread twin platforms of her ass, the head seeming to swell and twitch as he got
closer.

“Take my cum you fat ass Chinese sluuuuuut!” he cried, and then became subject to the facial
contortions and spasms that every male encounters when the orgasm is really good, looking
ridiculous but not caring, gasping out as a thick, unbroken stream of semen flew from his
pisshole and splattered the length of her crack as if he was adding condiments to a hotdog.
His thick, virile seed piled on itself, trickling into the small depression of her anal ring as
spurt after spurt compounded there. He aimed left, deposited three thick streams on her
bubbly butt cheek, then aimed to the right, repeating the deep, wanting to leave every inch of
her mounds totally covered and saturated. But mostly, he unloaded in between - grunting out
splatter after splatter of his thick load until her asshole was completely covered.

When it was finally done, and his cock was spent, he slumped back onto the bed. Ling let her
grip go and her bubble-ass collapsed back together, jiggling as the cheeks collided. There was
a squelching noise as the huge deposit of cum was caught between, and when those round
ass-mounds finally lay still, Orson saw that thick strands of his cum were connecting them
together like milky rope bridges. He had totally creamed her big, thick ass! Orson guessed
that not even the astronauts who planted the American flag on the moon had ever felt such a
surge after marking territory as their own.

Ling groaned, face-down, silver eyes dazed, cheek pressed against the bedspread. Orson was
struck by a sudden burst of inspiration. Leaning over the side of the bed to where he’d placed
his Olympic swag and luggage, he found a packet of Team USA stickers that ostensibly were
to be used to mark his bags, water bottles and other sundries. He gleefully peeled one of these
away, and then crawled across the bed.

WHAP!

It was the biggest jiggle yet. Using his palm, he slapped down the Team USA sticker,
emblazoned with the stars and bars, and the red white and blue. Directly onto the cum-
streaked right cheek of Ling’s amazing bubble butt. It stuck fast, and as Orson watched her
flesh undulate under the symbol of his nation, a tear came to his eye. He reached up and gave
a military-style salute, humming the star-spangled banner as he watched that amazing eastern
ass-mound wobble.
“God bless the United States of America,” Orson whispered, and then slumped back onto his
pillows, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment. The intensity of the
encounter had left him a little drained, and he lay with his eyes closed for several minutes,
expecting that Ling might struggle to her feet, collect her tights, and take her leave. Yet it was
five minutes or more before he felt her stirring at the foot of the bed, and a petite and impish
hand clutching at his ankle.

“You must do more!” came her voice, and Orson’s eyes went wide. Had he heard her
correctly? More? He had just busted the biggest nut of his life! It seemed unlikely, but he
looked over and there she was, sitting between his ankles, staring at him intently, her eyes
shining like dull silver. In the wake of her orgasms and their rutting, with a few strands of her
silky black hair out of place from her tight hair buns and a sheen of sweat on her body, she
looked more beautiful than ever. Not only that, but her expression was very much changed.
She looked plaintive. Submissive, even.

“Uh…” Orson stammered, drawing himself up to his elbows.

“Don’t start being lazy American now,” Ling said, crossing her arms. “You hit my switch!
And your gweilo cock really big!” Her voice was almost whiny, like a petulant child who
wanted more desert. As Orson watched, she stood up on the mattress, walked to straddle his
waist, and then turned around… before squatting directly over his half-hard cock. Showing
much more agency and interest than she’d had only moments before, she reached down and
took hold of his white, girthy hose, stroking it hard enough to make him wince, and
positioning it so she could drop her thick booty straight down and take the length straight up
her cum-soaked asshole!

“I uh… look, I don’t think I - you’re pretty small, and-” Orson stammered, but she showed no
hesitation at all. Even though she was tiny - perhaps four-foot-nine, all told - she was fearless
when it came to the knee-length size of his cum-leaking dickmeat. Just watching her squat
over it, ass-cheeks bulging out like half-moons, he estimated it would go all the way up into
the center of her chest if he went balls deep. In other words… it seemed impossible. “Plus,”
he added, suddenly feeling a bit nervous at her lustful expression, “I just came, so-”

“I get you hard again,” Ling said, determined. She said it in the same tone of voice that she
might have used to say ‘I win gold medal’ - the icy confidence of a life-long competitor. She
reached down, grabbed her ankles… and then squatted in the lewdest, jiggliest, ass-
clappingest twerksex pose imaginable. Her bubble-butt cheeks wobbled and bounced against
each other, the flesh compressing and expanding, her asshole peeking out and then hiding
again, strands of cum stretching and breaking.

“Nnnngh,” Orson moaned, biting his lip.

“Give me,” she breathed. “Give me fat Chinese ass pumped full of American cum !”

Orson wheezed through his lips like a horse as his cock rocketed to hardness, hearing her
refer to herself in such a way. As his towering prick bobbed in midair, she again used one
hand to steady it and slowly dropped her hips down… taking inch after inch inside her
asshole with the meaty sound of sliding, stretching, moist flesh being parted! They gasped
together at the mutual pleasure it brought. Orson found the grip so hot and tight, and the
visual of his pipe spearing between her thick cheeks so amazing, he nearly came again on the
spot.

She began to raise and lower, raise and lower. Orson quickly gained an appreciation for the
determination and athleticism of Chinese gymnasts as her compact body somehow accepted
every inch of his mammoth meat; he was sure that if he could see her front, the shape of his
long and girthy Caucasian cock would be visible poking up the skin of her trim belly. On the
downstrokes, she planted her palms on his upper thighs and her buttocks dropped all the way
down to slap wetly on his abs.

Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap. Plap.

Orson lost track of time. It was at least the length of a floor routine, probably more than
double, and he could tell from her undulating and groaning that Ling came multiple times.
She called him big-dick American, American donkey cock , and gweilo , and several times
lapsed into unintelligible Chinese. Much to his amazement, she used the terms he had used
before to describe her own ass, begging him to fill up her big, fat fucking ass , wreck her
bubble butt , and other combinations of lewd English terms endearing in their out-of-order
syntax.

Finally, though he would have testified just fifteen minutes before that he couldn’t cum
another drop, she sank down onto his abdomen with her third or fourth anal orgasm, bracing
her hands behind her and raising her crotch so that half his cock had emerged, and squirted
like crazy all over the room, even splattering his walls. At the same time, Orson gritted his
teeth, called her a fat-ass, bubble-butt Chinese bitch, and uncorked what held like a gallon of
thick semen deep into her ass-pipe, feeling immense satisfaction from filling her up.

When it was done, their sweaty bodies lay tangled in a heap, his on top of hers, and neither
one of them said anything. His hand brushed against her waist and, hesitantly, he gave her a
loose embrace. A moment later, her small hand gripped his bicep in a reciprocal gesture.

“You… come to World Championships,” Ling breathed, her chin pressed up against his chest,
staring up at him. Her eyes shone, and she planted a short kiss on one of his pecs. “I need
more American cum. So you come to Beijing.” She closed her eyes cutely and smiled.

Orson was suddenly both excited and afraid. Which, he realized, was at least better than
being bored. He had actually been planning to retire from gymnastics following the Olympic
games, but now?

He had a very good reason to make the World Championships.

“Fat ass, bubble butt Chinese girl,” he muttered, not unkindly.

“Lazy American donkey dick,” she sighed back.

It was sun-up before she left his room.

 American Dreams

Ling felt guilty about using a VPN.

She’d had a friend tell her how to install one, using the flimsy justification that she needed to
study the techniques of foreign athletes like Simone Biles, in order to surpass and defeat her
during the next Olympiad and World Championships. But her newly-masked internet
searches weren’t focused on Simone Biles or any other female gymnast.

Rather, her first search term was “Orson MacIntyre”, typed painstakingly in English
characters on her dual-language keyboard setup.

She expected an array of full-color photos, a wealth of information about the man with whom
she’d had a contentious and unforgettable encounter at the Tokyo Olympics - a professional
rivalry that had quickly turned personal, and ended with the two of them fooling around on
the Americans bed for hours.

It was the last time she’d seen him. Sitting rigidly straight with her wide, shapely thighs
bulging over the sides of her narrow chair, Ling pressed the “Enter” with one finger.

There were… barely any results. A few low-quality photos, a sparse W ikipedia entry.
Immediately her grey, almond-shaped eyes narrowed with frustration. “Nǐ zài gēn wǒ
kāiwánxiào ma?! ” she barked, balling up her tiny fists and bringing them down on the desk.
You’ve got to be kidding me.

What had she expected? Well, something more than this. Handsome images of Orson
standing patriotically in front of American flags! Propaganda posters encouraging other
American youths to join the Olympic gymnastics team in order to bring glory to the stars and
stripes! If nothing else, maybe some photos of Orson in action, tumbling and flipping, his
muscled body tensed. She even thought - but of course would never admit - that perhaps his
rather large ‘package’ would be visible in some of the photography.

It seemed, unfortunately, that men’s gymnastics wasn’t very popular in America, and Orson
hadn’t been a particularly successful gymnast. In fact, his bronze placing in Tokyo had been
his career-best finish. Most of the articles were about that, and used the same stock photo of
him standing on the podium. Even in these he had a mischievous smile on his face that
seemed to say ‘You think this medal is good? You should see what I did in my hotel room
with that Chinese girl!”

As she scanned line after line, looking for some absolution about the importance of her fling,
Ling’s face gradually downturned into a scowl. “He not celebrity!” she complained. “I have
sex with lazy American nobody!” She closed the laptop in a huff.

“ Zhè shì rúcǐ lìng rén jǔsàng. Nǐ yǐwéi nǐ shì shuí? ” she complained, to a not-present Orson.
This is so frustrating. Who do you think you are? To make her do such lewd things and then
disappear, leaving her to cope with the aftermath! Ling - her long hair tied up in ox-horn buns
and wearing a cute pink pajama top and pajama shorts that despite their roomy fit couldn’t
hide the size and volume of her amazingly round ass, lingered by the table. Even so many
months after the fact she couldn’t help but blush with embarrassment at what had happened!

After a moment she opened the laptop again and returned to the search field, typing in:
“American twerking”. As she did so she looked guiltily around the room, as if someone
might be watching her at that very moment. Ridiculous… but just entering the search term
made her feel soiled. Again she mentally cursed Orson, even as she seeked a way to connect
with him, in a roundabout way. A year ago, she had been a carefree Chinese girl, who knew
nothing of… of…

Ling clicked on the first video. A pair of thick, augmented American women, one white, one
black, were clapping their ass-cheeks together for the camera in ultra slow motion. Paper
money was flying around in the air and champagne bottles were overturned above, splashing
down on their wet, oiled, bouncing asses. Their scant thongs barely covered anything, and as
their huge buttocks separated and then closed in time to the thumping hip-hop music, over
and over again, it was impossible to see the ‘performance’ as anything other than an
enticement towards degenerate, doggy-style sex! The slightly darker skin of their asshole
rims made it clear that the cock-hungry orifices were ready and waiting beneath the thongs!

The nightclub setting of the video spoke of capitalist degeneracy, with rich men surrounding
the performing women, groping then, spraying champagne on their tongues and faces in what
seemed to be an allegory for ejaculation. Ling felt a tingling between her legs and nibbled her
plump lower lip. Her toes curled a little as she blushed even deeper. Was that what Orson’s
big, American penis had looked like, spraying all that got, gooey stuff onto her ass?
Absurdly, she felt a surge of her famous competitive drive - that her ass was better than these
American women, and Orson, given the choice between them and her, would choose her!

Immediately she scolded herself for even entertaining the thought, and her face took on a
look of close-eyed defiance. She would never be in such sordid competition, she was a
world-class athlete, not some sexual plaything! “ Bak gweilo ,” she muttered. This was all
Orson’s fault, for introducing her to such American degeneracy. Why had she even wanted to
look up information on that jerk? Simply to find a way to contact him? Yes. Contact him -
and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was an American pig and there would be no more
contact between them!

Ling smiled with satisfaction, then looked at the screen, where the two twerking women were
clapping their cheeks around the necks of champagne bottles. “Ugh! Americans all sex
perverts!” she decreed, pulling the screen down and shut for the second and final time.

It was late, and she rose from her chair and gracefully moved over to her bed, her small feet
pattering. She knew no way to move that was not graceful; poise had been drilled into her
since she was five years old, with eight-hour practice sessions that left her hands and feet
bleeding. Still, no amount of balance could keep her round, bouncing ass-cheeks from
wobbling under the high-cut pajama shorts. The fabric, soft and a little sheer, had a teddy
bear decal every few centimeters. The bears seemed to leer at the way her bottom 20% of her
buttocks emerged from the leg holes. There was simply too much meat to cover!

Ling slid under her covers and stared at the ceiling. No more thoughts of Americans, no more
thought of Orson, or whether he would be at the world championships. She had the Asian
games to prepare for. She turned onto one shapely hip, reached out a hand and closed the
lights, vowing to be mentally shut of the rude American and his big cock.

Her dream started as it had the past several nights. The thumping of club music, deep and
bass-filled and in a cadence that seemed distinctly western in cultural style. Flashing lights
emanating from the ceiling and falls, illuminating her, dancing, not in any socially acceptable
way but in the sexualized, spread-thighed, ass-throwing style of American music videos.

Her hair was in her trademark ox-horns, her body wrapped in a dazzling red cheongsam with
a high slit on both sides, a sexualized version of the traditional Chinese dress seeming to
mark her with its tawdry Orientalism. And when she dropped low and bounced her ample
bottom, it was clear she was wearing nothing modest underneath - a thong, identified not by
what it covered but what it didn’t. As the slit sides of her dress rode up on her thighs it
revealed the pale half-moons of her buttocks in all of their glorious, perfectly complexioned
volume. Bouncing. Wobbling. Clapping in time with the music. And in the background,
innumerable people danced in a shadowed, debauched orgy of light and sound.

The only other recognizable figure was him . Orson. Tall - for a gymnast - and wearing jeans
and a crew-neck designer tee with an American flag on the front, one that showed off his
biceps. The costume of any American male, according to her subconscious. Casual, arrogant,
rugged. Because of his height, her head only came up to his pectorals as she backed up
against him. In her mind’s dreaming eye she saw her buttocks compress against the hardness
of his thighs, and she felt it - that big, thick log of flesh pressing the fabric of her cheongsam
into the crack of her ass. She knew what that shape was, had been haunted by it in her dreams
for weeks, ever since the Olympics.

Big, fat, American donkey dick!

Yet in the dream, she showed none of her prior disdain. She pressed back against him eagerly
as they undulated together in the strobe-lit semi-darkness, letting him put his large and
calloused hands on her hips and pull her tight against him. She knew how it would proceed.
He would slide his hand down and tuck it into the slit of her dress until he was touching her
bare flesh. His palm would grip her ass-cheek, lifting it, groping it, spreading it, letting it
drop and rebound into place. The ghostly memory of his voice: Damn, look at that big, fat,
Chinese bubble butt! Her blushing, admonishing him, but enjoying it all the same - her petite
body against his larger, more powerful one, in a dark place with no judgments or
consequences.

Ling burned in her bed as her mind went back to a now-familiar place - she knew that his
American nature would not permit him to stop, he was greedy that way, much to her disgust
and her delight, she expected and then felt his powerful head reaching around to her front.
That monster tube of flesh pressing against her most intimate places while his hand found the
delta between her thighs, drawing a moan as they continued to dance. In her dream and in
reality, she bit her lower lip, looking cute and vulnerable even if she didn’t want to; her
coaches and friends would scarcely have recognized her as the formidable, iron-willed
presence from their practice sessions.

His hand rubbed her pussy for a moment, then moved back up. Taking a firm grip on her
dress, pulling it, stripping it. The tearing of fabric, the feel of the silky garment dropping to
the floor. Without even realizing, the club music was muted and became ambiance rather than
a roar, as if heard through two or three walls, now in a private place. It was just the two of
them. Ling’s dress was pooled around her feet, revealing her modest breasts in red lace
lingerie, and sculpted, powerful thighs and legs in a deliciously scant thong - the front
triangle barely covering the puffy mound of her pussy, the back covering absolutely nothing.
Orson was shirtless, with all of the muscle definition she had come to begrudgingly admire.
This was a bedroom, or a hotel room - a hideaway, where they could do their secret business,
now that the dancing was done.

His hands moved to her waist and lifted her hip. She was easy to lift - just a doll, barely forty-
two kilograms (and most of that was ass, Orson would no doubt say, in his crass American
way) and being handled that way always excited her. Her back pressed against his chest and
she could feel the heat and sizzle of his sweat. Down below, protruding between her slightly
spread legs, was Orson’s cock, rising up at forty-five degree angle. It was so huge! She’d
never imagined that her tiny body could handle something like that… but Ling had never
backed down from a challenge in her life. His arms wrapped around her waist and he just
held her there, letting her drop a little so the top of his turgid shaft pressed against the soft
mound of her pussy, letting her plump outer labia press and mold around it, letting the nub of
her clit throb against it, and feel his throb in turn.

Orson began to move, sawing his cock back and forth against her slit, keeping her suspended.
She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck and their hot exhalations of breath
mingled together, picking up speed. Her underwear, displaced by the friction, bared her pussy
and let her wetness between to coat his shaft. The sturdy veins of his shaft were rubbing
against her, torturing her clit deliciously. She reached her arms back and up, plunging her
hands into medium-length hair with its sweaty tangle of curls. Soon, she was craning her
neck back to move her mouth closer to the underside of his jawline, and if he just tilted his
head forward and down…

...which he did . Their lips mashed together and Ling moaned out. At first taken aback by the
exploration of his tongue, but then eagerly pressing and entwining hers with him; not wanting
to come in second even in this competition of mouth exploration and hungry kisses. But she
liked being invaded by him in this way, too, in the same way she liked being lifted and
supported by him. His taste was the product of her imagination - exotic and male and Western
. They had not kissed at all during their first and only real life encounter.

They pulled apart, panting, and then his arms flexed and the room went tilt-o-whirl, Orson
was turning her upside down! Her shapely feet in the air, knees near his shoulders, her breasts
near his navel… and her mouth and face staring down that colossal, throbbing prick! His
strong arms clutched her in a standing sixty-nine; their natural talents made this form of
tandem gymnastics second nature to them both. Ling, far from being disoriented, moaned out
at the arm-thick meat staff that was curving up in a gentle parabola, extending out in front of
her face. She reached down to grip it, her cute and tiny hand barely able to encircle it halfway
- what a piece of meat! “Your American donkey dick even bigger than before!” her dream-
self admonished, and though it carried the headstrong tone that was her armor against him,
her silver eyes were transfixed and eager!

There was a fat pearl of semen in his pisshole, which she loved - it was like his cock was
overflowing like a volcano, it was so eager to ravish her - and she extended her agile tongue
to polish it away… but fell short when Orson pulled her up slightly so her quivering pussy
was right against his lips. Her thong had long since shifted to the side, exposing her
completely… leaving the glistening bud of her clit to be mashed by the flat of his tongue!
Ling cried out, and in her dream she could see all angles at once; not just his curving, heavy
cock in front of her face but the way her heart-shaped ass framed his face as he licked her
slit! He did so in his unrestrained, conquering, American way - not pausing to consider her
preference, simply taking for granted that she would enjoy it, in all his pigheaded arrogance!

And she did! She even wrapped her nimble legs around his head, trapping him in a cage of
thick thighs and letting him do as he wished. Soon, his twisting tongue was sliding deep into
her pussy, reaching impressive depths; she had the sense of being an exotic dish for him to
sample! It had been this way with her ass as well - she should have scolded and slapped him
for his brashness, the way he fetishized her figure… but his American cock was just so big,
she couldn’t help but be turned on by the way he manhandled her and took what he wanted!

“Ah! American pig!” she moaned, and at once both scornful and thankful of his degeneracy,
biting her lip cutely as he breath sprayed over the fat knob of that big, long penis. She felt a
shameful urge that she would never admit to him in a million years, despite any begrudging
attraction - she wanted it in her mouth! Her mouth was small and his shaft amazingly large,
but surely this act of sexual acrobatics would be no more difficult a challenge than the flips,
twirls and tucks that she’d practiced to perfection.

She used one hand to guide him up toward her mouth - still upside down, still suspended by
his grip around her waist, her buttocks heavy and jiggling just above his crossed forearms.
She saw the way that heavy pearl of his sperm wasn’t thin but thick, not a bit translucent -
and found herself hungry for it, and what it represented… pure, Western big-cock breeding
power! Americans may be lazy and arrogant but even the dumbest horse knew what to do
with a meadow full of mares! Orson was no exception. She thought back to how hot and
heavy his sperm had felt, spraying all over her ass in thick ropes. If he were to shoot like that
in her mouth… could she really swallow it all? What would it taste like? What would it feel
like, sliding down her throat?

Ling moaned out again as Orson’s tongue found a new angle of attack. She lifted his shaft to
her mouth and planted the softest, most obedient kiss on his pisshole, her pretty, shapely lips
mashing against it, pulling away only after several seconds with a strand of cum and spit
connecting her mouth and his cock. She gasped and licked around her lips, savoring the taste.
She was absolutely electric for him, inside her own mind, and in this dream place if no other,
she was fine with the implicit submission of being devoured by him, and of servicing his
cock with her mouth! Oh, how she planned to suck him, and suck him, and not stop until-

Loud knocking. Harsh, and not ephemeral. Real.

Orson first became grey and featureless, then faded away entirely. The scene dissipated into a
confused haze, and Ling felt frustration and dismay. She became aware of some of the same
physical sensations - an increased heart rate, sweating, a throbbing arousal between her legs -
but in a different context. Early morning light pressing like an unwanted guest at her shut
eyelids. Tangled bedsheets. And a stupid harpy voice along with the banging:

“ Kuai dian chuan qi fu !”

Among other things. The message, from one of her coaches, was one she’d heard a million
times. Wake up, get out of bed. It’s time for practice. Get out of your pajamas and into your
uniform. Usually, Ling was the first one out of bed and ready for practice - it had been years
since someone had even had to knock! She opened her eyes and threw back her covers. Her
pussy was absolutely soaked and still tingling with the excitement of her vivid dream.

Another harsh knock at her door. Her coach was asking if she was sick, because she was
never late. She yelled back that she was fine, and would be ready in a moment. She rose and
quickly stripped, swearing under her breath, stepping into the shower. Even from a remote
and unknowable distance, the stupid American Orson was causing her trouble. She could
imagine his smug and carefree grin, telling her it was no big deal to be late to practice - he
was a lazy and slacker foreigner, after all, and they probably were late to practice all the time.

“That not way it done in China, stupid lazy gweilo, ” she grumbled, turning on the shower
and letting the hot water pour down over her gorgeous body. She moaned a little as she
rubbed her hands over her pussy - she was throbbing and soaked down there - and as she
moved them back to soap up her rear, she couldn’t help but lift and grope and drop her
buttocks in an imitation of what Orson might do if he were there. She could imagine his
voice:

“Damn that’s some ass-meat!”

“Fuckin’ Chinese dump truck!”

“That ass was made for American cock!”

He had never precisely said these things but they sounded like things he would say. She was
frustrated with herself for wanting to hear him say them again. For oversleeping as she
dreamed about his strong, powerful body lifting her up and eating her pussy. For making her
go through the indignity of using a VPN to look up information about stupid Americans and
stupid American twerking.

Angrily, and very satisfyingly, Ling nibbled her bottom lip and rubbed her pussy toward a
climax, right there in the steamy shower. It rose in her effortlessly - she was primed and ready
to go, after that dream - but her thoughts weren’t without their vengeful side. She had her
pride, after all. She imagined Orson and his graceful, muscled body, naked and kneeling at
her hip… a collar around his neck, attached to a leash that was in her hand! That big, jutting
cock was at her disposal, to be used as she wished… and when next they met, it would be he
who was overwhelmed by her.
Her chest heaved in the shower spray as her fingers picked up speed along with the depraved
images in her mind. When would she see him next? The World Championships? Some other
event? Oh, the things she would do! She cried out through clenched teeth, toes curling on the
wet floor, a stream of her wetness spraying through her fingers and joining the downpour.

With her luxurious black hair plastered to her face and steam rising to the ceiling, she leaned
against the glass and let her breathing slow. Maybe, she thought, if nothing else could be
arranged… they would find a way to get into contact, outside of competition.

She would see to it.

“You better be there, big American donkey dick,” Ling breathed, the tingling in her pussy
settling down. She reached out and turned off the water, and stood in wet silence, head down,
breathing steadily, thinking. She raised her head, looked down over her own shoulder at the
cheeks of her booty. Using two hands, she lifted them and let them drop.

Whop . Water droplets sprayed out far enough to speckle the glass of the shower door. It was
her weapon against him. For the next time, Ling decided, she would make sure that her ass
was even bigger and rounder… and totally up to the challenge.
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