Forty-love

Silvia hit the ball clean. Still, I took the last point—forty-love—and the match. She didn’t pout. When I walked over to offer my hand, she caught my wrist, pulled me close, and kissed me hard, tongue and teeth. Her mouth tasted like sweat and strawberries. She drew back just far enough to speak. “Ready for my rules?” she asked. Before I could answer, the brunette tugged at my waistband, slid my shorts down, and dropped to her knees on the clay. Her tongue traced the inside of my thigh while the blonde from the next court stepped in, dropped her racket, and peeled off her tank top. Two pairs of hands, warm skin, soft breasts brushing my sides. Silvia kept her grip on my wrist, guiding me backward until my shoulders met the net post. She rose, spun me around, pressed her front to my back. Her fingers slipped between my legs, found me slick, and stroked in slow circles. The blonde knelt in front now, took one nipple into her mouth, then the other, while Silvia slid two fingers inside me and curled them. Every stroke matched the rhythm of my pulse. I came with my fingers tangled in blonde hair and Silvia’s teeth at my neck. The match was over, but the real game had just begun.