Solo Serve by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2005, 2009 This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note must remain attached. Abstract: A tennis game results in an unusual prize for the victor. "Hah! You pay for lunch this week!" Her voice ripples in good-humor over the tennis court, and he picks up his bag for their trek to the gender-separate locker rooms. He watches her backside as they walk; tennis shorts glued to her bottom, legs both shapely and well-muscled. She tosses her towel at him as she opens the women's door, saying, "Catch you on the other side!" Inside the men's area, he sits on a bench and kicks off his shoes. His nose wrinkles as his feet announce their need for a shower. He picks up the towel, but on impulse draws it across his forehead first. The towel smells of sweat, but also of something sweeter. He pulls it down over his face, breathing in her scents -- sweat, body lotion, musk. Tennis forgotten, he's back in her bed with her thighs tight around his ears while she plays a different game with his balls. Memory brings need to his groin, drawing his attention back to reality. He strips off his sports clothing, cock bounding upward, and rubs the rough cloth between his legs before heading to the showers. For a change he's the only occupant, and he takes full advantage. His mind drifts back to the feel of her against him, and his soap-slick hand mimics her attentions until he explodes against the tile wall. Finishing his shower, he dries off with a club towel and puts on his business clothes. Outside the door she waits, elegant as usual. He snaps the towel from behind his back, tossing it through the air, but she lifts her hand smoothly to catch it as if she anticipated him. She draws the towel past her nose on its way to her gym bag, and her eyes twinkle promising a rematch. /END/ Endnote: Composed for the 2005 Fragrant Flash Story Competition at FishTank; see the winning entries at http://www.Desdmona.com/ContestWinners.asp