I arrive on court wearing my pristine tennis shirt and skirt. He's slouched on the bench outside the saggy chain-link fence in some tattered denim shorts and a vest which accentuates his hairy chest. I slide back the rusty bar to the gate and come on court, stand at the net, waiting for him to join me, eager to play.
'You look stunning, Maud,' he says casually strolling up to the net.
'I know,' I bounce my ball on my racket. He brushes my soft cheeks with the back of his hand and holds me tight, pressing his crotch against mine, stirring for me. Love it when he does that!
'How does that feel Maud, good?' he asks.
'Mmmn, you're really hard!' I smile naughtily.
He puts both his hands on my shoulders, gazing into my almond eyes, and gives me his sexiest smile, 'Come on, I think we should play tennis, don't you?'
I give him my sauciest look, 'Mmmn, maybe, for a little while. Before we fuck?'
He spins his wooden racket. It clatters to the court's hard surface. He calls, 'Rough or smooth?'
He made me laugh! 'Smooth!'
He feels the cat-gut strings. 'It's rough. I serve first.'
I pad to the baseline, hitch up my skirt and scratch the itchy, red, rash on my thigh. His heart goes out to me. I'm always in the wars! Sniffing, I lean forward, twirl my racket, bite my bottom lip, and concentrate. I nearly do the splits trying to reach his first serve, a blinding ace that lands out of my reach in the far right-hand corner.
'Oh, good shot, Simon!'
'15-0!'
He hops to his left before I can settle, throws the ball high in the air, slams it out of reach.
'30-0!'
'Oh, well done, Simon!'
Another brutal ace follows, this time to my weak backhand, then a hard shot which narrowly misses hitting me in the tummy.
'Sorry, Maud. Did I hit you?'
I shake my head and grin, his horny little vixen, 'I wish!'
'My game, I think!' he calls, grinning at me, 'Like to change ends?'
'No, thanks. Me to serve!'
I bounce the ball, one, two, three times, glance at him and smile to myself. He always lets me win! The court is covered in moss and detritus. As I go to serve, I slip and fall over. He gasps in disbelief. I know, he wants to wrap me up in a shroud of cotton wool by the caring look on his face.
'Maud, you're bleeding!' My hero hurls down his racket, leaps the net, rushes to my side, and kneels to inspect my wound.
'I'll live,' I sigh happily, 'It's only a graze.'
I lean back on my elbows holding my tanned legs wide apart. My panties are saturated. He can clearly see the splayed folds of my cleft protruding through the sodden cotton, delicate brown ringlets of pubic hair sprouting from my gusset.
He runs the palms of his hands up and down the soft insides of my thighs, avoiding the rash, stroking my soft down, his fingertips lingering in my groin, kissing a trail of saliva down my thigh. I watch him pick the sharp, embedded grit out of my sore knee.
Neither of us feel like playing tennis anymore. Yearning intensely for one another, we leave the court and walk hand-in-hand across the playing field, along a red earth path, until we reach our hidey-hole-in-the-hedge.
We scramble through a gap into a leafy glade. A lonely, secret, place where sunbeams dance on our faces, lying in the lush, long grass watching a skylark beat its way across the cloudless sky. The sun is at its zenith, its hot rays sear my skin. He takes off his vest. I gently stroke his hairy chest.