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