Allison Stokke, Michelle Jenneke, and Ivet Lalova must obey a voice and lose their events willingly or do so in sexually humiliating ways

"Put your hands behind your head."

Whoever was fucking with her, pole vaulter Allison Stokke quickly realized, he had ensnared more women than just her. She scanned the track and field. Beyond some hurdles, Michelle Jenneke did a sexy shimmy dance that bounced her ponytail. At the starting line, sprinter Ivet Lalova twerked her big ass. Female athletes throughout the stadium appeared to have come down with a bad case of the sexies as they posed and performed suggestively for the cameras.

She would tell the man off if she had a microphone to go with the earpiece. Under his direction, she took a whiff of her armpit and flinched at its potent musk.

"You smell that?" the voice said. "Doesn't smell like a winner, does it? That's why you're going to lose."

How bad could refusing be? She thought. She got her answer seconds later, when the starting gun for the 200 metre dash went off. Ivet soared to leader of the pack in keeping with her past gold medals. Her competition fell behind as Ivet neared the finish line as its clear winner... until she doubled over. To the layperson, she must've fallen from a stomach cramp, or a pulled muscle in her glutes.

Allison knew better. From afar, she saw Ivet's hands dart to her crotch, the woman moaning through an unwanted ride while the other runners kicked up dirt in her face. Ivet coughed and moaned on the ground, writhing while two medics rolled her onto a gurney and carted her off the track.

Michelle likewise disobeyed. It became obvious as she sailed over hurdle after hurdle, only to drop suddenly onto one of them cunt-first. Only that's not where it stopped. Instead of toppling, Michelle ground her pussy against the wood for the whole stadium to see. With cameras snapping and recording, the athlete soaked up her fifteen seconds of fame with a clearly scripted bit of self-debasement.

"Hey, check me out! Losing makes me horny! I love losing, it gets me off so bad."

"Like my handiwork?" the man in Allison's ear said with a chuckle. "If you want a taste of it yourself, all you have to do is try to win. I imagine clearing the bar's going to be a little difficult while you're cumming your short shorts."

Allison knew what she had to do. She gripped the pole, ran, rammed it down into the pit, climbed, and tangled her legs in the bar. As she landed and sat up, the man in her headset clapped.

"Very good, Allison. Keep this up and you'll get out of here fine. Now, whenever you're not vaulting, I want you to keep your elbows out and hands behind your head. Take it all in."

By it, he meant the smell of defeat coming from her armpits. And though she would never admit it, she did feel a certain pleasant tingling down below... oblivious to the fact that the vibes the man laced into her shorts had lower settings, and that this was merely the start of some truly Pavlovian training he had in store for her.