“You cannot be serious. Dean Bradley wants me to partner him? But he’s the world number 6.”

“Yes, but he was number 1, remember. He’s slowing down now, he’s started playing more doubles, and he’s looking for a new partner. Apparently, he’s seen you in action and his coach thinks you two might just work well together.”

Jennifer still couldn’t quite believe what her coach was telling her. Okay, so she’d been doing better on the circuit during the past 18 months, reaching the finals of a couple of smaller tournaments and getting through to the second round at Wimbledon, but she hadn’t played much doubles during this time.

“But I thought you wanted me to concentrate on my singles?” she said.

Her coach nodded. “And you’ve been doing well, and you can get even better, believe me. But think of it. The chance to play alongside Dean Bradley. Your styles aren’t that different, and you can learn a hell of a lot from him. Look, his team and me have talked a lot about this: I know, I’m sorry I haven’t mentioned it before, but I needed to make sure they were serious. But they are.”

Jennifer sat back and took a swig of water, trying to get her head round the bombshell that her coach had just dropped.

He looked at her.

“You’re not going to say no, are you?” he said, sounding worried for a moment.

Jennifer smiled. “No, of course not, I just can’t quite believe it,” she admitted. “Do you really think it could work?”

“Yes, I do, really I do. We’ve got a plan too. We’re going to start slow, enter you both in a couple of smaller tournaments first, but Dean’s team want to aim for the US Open in August.”

Jennifer bit her lip.

“You’re not kidding me, are you?” she said, suddenly afraid that it was all just another stupid dream. She felt a few tears starting to well up. This could be just the break she needed, the chance to go beyond being the perennially under-performing British women’s number 2: liked by the home crowds but really only because she was just another not-quite-good-enough British underdog, who’d never really achieve anything very much.

As the reality of it hit her, she burst into tears. Her coach hugged her.

“No, it’s for real,” he said, laughing. “But now we need to start being serious. I’ve got a new training plan sketched out, and we’re meeting Dean and his coach next week, just to give you a chance to get to know each other. He’s in Brazil for the Rio Open, so we’ll fly down and meet up there.”

Jennifer gulped and wiped her eyes. Flying down to Rio just for a meeting? That wasn’t what she was used to, not on the money she was making.

But then there was a pause. There was a large elephant in the room that one of them was going to have to mention. Her coach gave a wry smile.

“Yes, there are the stories of course. He has got a bit of a reputation for making passes at his partners – well, any other players, really, as long as they’re female.”

“Is it really true that he and Nadja Nebtrenko got caught together after the Wimbledon party that year?” asked Jennifer.

“The handcuffed-to-the-bed story?” Her coach shrugged. “All true, and the rest. Does that bother you?”

Jennifer blushed. “I guess not. I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it if it happens.”

“That’s the spirit. Come on then, Miss Holmes, on court in five. I’ve got Greg and Sue to come over, and we’ll see if we can’t take a set or two off them.”

……

That night in bed, Jennifer took quite a while getting to sleep. When she was a junior player in the 16-18 age group, Dean Bradley had been her idol, the superstar she’d watch over and over again, trying to work out how he managed to make those impossible backhand returns. And even then she’d sometimes masturbated while thinking of being seduced by her hero, imagining it was Dean’s erect penis, not her fingers, that was buried deep in her vagina, or ejaculating over her breasts. Her first ever orgasm had been achieved in this way, and she knew that if Dean ever made a pass at her, she wouldn’t resist.

All these thoughts revived her old fantasies. She slipped off her nightie, took her favourite vibrator out of her drawer, lay back, and parted her legs. Her firm thigh muscles contracted as she began to rub her vibrator to and fro over the hard little bud of her clitoris. She stroked her round pink nipples, feeling them harden under her fingers. Sliding her vibrator down to her slit, she slid it between her labia and into her hole, sighing as she felt it fill her. Pressing the button until it was on maximum vibrate, she began to pump it in and out, imagining once again it was Dean’s cock.

“Oh yes, Dean, fuck me, yes, fuck my cunt,” she gasped as she came, her juices squirting out over the clean sheets.

……

The next few weeks and months passed in a whirl. First the meeting with Dean and his team, which went really well; then the press conferences, and the first couple of tournaments. Jennifer had been forced to bury all her sexual fantasies and concentrate on her game. Her coach worked her even harder, and the sessions she spent with Dean forced her to really step-up her game: she was determined not to blow this opportunity.

At first she found it tough. Off the court, Dean was friendly and supportive, and they found they shared a similar sense of humour as well as tastes in music and films. But on court, he was totally dedicated and unforgiving, not letting Jennifer get away with any little slip, any missed return or botched serve. Determined not to let him down, every week Jennifer genuinely felt herself improving, pushing herself further than she’d thought possible. And slowly she felt Dean starting to treat her as more of an equal partner; leaving tricky returns to her; trusting her to be in the right place at the back of the court when he was at the net. She remembered one glorious moment when she saved a shot that Dean had missed, and the high-five they shared was one of equal partners.

During their first tournament, at which they reached the quarter-finals, the press commented that Dean seemed to be making all the running. But soon Jennifer’s contribution started to be noticed, and articles began to suggest that playing with someone younger than himself seemed to be rejuvenating the older player, and maybe he wasn’t past it after all.

But through all this time, Dean never once made any sort of sexual pass at Jennifer. He would often compliment her on her hair or her dress, but it was always totally gentlemanly and above board. At first, she’d been expecting some sort of move on his part, but as time went on and nothing happened, she forgot even to think about it.

……

Despite their successes, Jennifer was surprised when her coach announced that things were going so well that they had decided to bring forward plans for the pair’s first Grand Slam tournament.

“There’s no point waiting for the US at the end of August when you’re already playing so well together,” he announced. “We’re going to make it Wimbledon in June. You’ll have the home crowd on your side, which should help. Dean’s still going to do the singles, but we’ll rest you up this year. But I think the two of you can make the quarter-finals of the doubles easily, and after that, who knows?”

All too soon, the last week in June arrived, although the mixed doubles didn’t get under way until the end of the week. For Jennifer, it felt odd even to be still around on Middle Saturday: as an adult player, she’d previously never made it beyond the first Thursday. Dean had a third-round match in the singles that morning, so it would be a tough day for him.

In the event, he lost that match in a very tight five-set marathon against an unseeded Chinese player. Jennifer was worried that this would put him off his stride for their match, but he turned up at the warm-up court looking fairly relaxed, announcing with a wry smile that it was now time for the important part of the Tournament.

The first match went to three sets, and Dean was flagging slightly by the end, giving Jennifer the chance to make several game-winning shots. But they made it through, and the next two matches on Tuesday and Thursday were over in two sets. Suddenly it was the quarter-finals, and they faced a couple of Scandinavians who had won a few years previously: and on No1 Court too. That one went to three sets as well, but in a third set tie-break Dean broke their opponents’ serve, and suddenly they were in the semis. The atmosphere behind the scenes became tense, with no-one quite wanting to think about what the next day would bring.

On Saturday, back on No1 Court, they were on fire, and after a tight first set that went to another tie-break, they won the second 6-3. As they left the court to the sound of tumultuous applause, Jennifer felt surprisingly calm. She was playing well, tomorrow was just another match, and Centre Court at Wimbledon was just another patch of grass, not so different from the lawn at home where she hit her first tennis ball at the age of four.

Dean hugged her, smiling that self-deprecating grin that made him so popular with British tennis fans. “Great game, Jenny,” he said. “Let’s show them tomorrow, okay?”

……

Sunday afternoon. Centre Court, Wimbledon. The British Number One had just demolished his opponent in three sets to carry off the Men’s Singles trophy, and suddenly it was their turn. The crowd, already fired up by a home victory, was in the mood for more. And they got it. Their opponents, the French pair Rigaud and Giradon, never really got their game together, and the Holmes/Bradley duo saw them off in two sets 6-4, 6-2. As Jennifer saw her final backhand return bounce neatly the right side of the line, the crowd rose to its feet, and Dean ran over and hugged her.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “We weren’t too bad, were we?”

The trophy ceremony, the BBC on-court interview, the congratulations from the team, the autographs for the young fans: all of these passed in a whirl. Jennifer was pleased at last to be able to close the changing room door behind her and take a deep breath. Her head was still spinning as she sat on the bench. She’d asked to be left alone, and had arranged to meet her family and friends in a couple of hours. She always liked to have some time by herself after a match, successful or not, and more than ever today she needed that personal time to relax, collect her thoughts, and prepare for the attention she’d no doubt be getting over the next few days.

Her first feeling therefore when she felt a tap on the door was one of annoyance. She’d locked it, so no-one could get in, but she didn’t want to have to tell anyone to go away. But then she heard Dean’s voice.

“Hey, Jennifer, just one minute, okay?”

She jumped up, opened the door, and let him in. Like her, he hadn’t even changed out of his kit, and was still holding his racquet.

He came in, smiling, and straight away hugged her.

“I just had to see you again,” he said. “It was you and me together, we did it. I always thought we could, and when you hit that return from the baseline in the very first game, I knew we were in with a real chance, even against those two.”

Jennifer hugged him back, the scent of his masculine sweat almost overwhelming, but somehow thrilling. Then the hug seemed to go on; at some indeterminate point it stopped being a hug between friends, and became something deeper. She raised her head and looked at Dean. Dean looked at her. It was like an invitation, unspoken but obvious. Jennifer closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and leaned forward. She felt Dean’s lips touch hers, and then they were kissing, really kissing. His lips rubbed against hers, and she felt their tongues touch, and then entwine. Dean’s hand was on her head, in her hair, holding their mouths together.

Then he broke away and the words spilled out.

“Oh fuck it Jennifer, I’ve wanted you for so long. Ever since we first met, that day in Rio, I fancied you, but I’d promised my coach I wouldn’t get involved, not this time. He lectured me, told me to act like an adult. He said you’d be good for me, good for my game, but I mustn’t ruin it by making passes, trying to seduce you, scaring you off and spoiling everything. So I didn’t, though I wanted to. And now, when we’ve actually done it, I thought `Fuck you, coach, maybe she wants me too. If I don’t try now, it could fuck us both up`.  Do you want me, Jenny?”

Jennifer nodded. “Of course I do,” she whispered. There was so much more she could have said, but there didn’t seem much point. What did words matter when she was going to give herself to him?

They kissed again. Jennifer felt her breasts pressing against Dean’s chest, and his arms around her, squeezing her tightly. Then one hand slipped down and began to caress her bottom, first through her white skirt, then pushing it up and slipping down inside her tight pants, making contact with the bare skin of her cheeks.

She fumbled for the hem of Dean’s top, and began to drag it up, exposing the perfect six-pack of his stomach. He put his arms up and let her pull it off, then began to do the same to her. Helping him, she unclipped and slipped off her snug-fitting sports bra. She stood there topless in front of him, her small firm breasts heaving.

Dean reached out and stroked her right breast, which was hot and damp with perspiration. The nipple hardened as he touched it, rising up as he circled his finger round the little bud. Jennifer sighed, and then whimpered as Dean leant over and kissed the little bud, then licked round it, tasting the saltiness of the sweat. He put his hand on the other breast and kneaded it gently. She had always had sensitive breasts, and Dean’s tender attentions were arousing her own desires.

She reached down to his waist and put her hand on his shorts. She could feel the firm swelling of his penis, already growing hard with excitement. Rubbing it gently, she felt it stir. Wanting to see it, she pulled down his shorts, and as he kicked them away she could see the outline of his prick in his tight briefs. As she touched the bulge, it twitched against her fingers and she saw a small drop of liquid emerge from the tip, soaking into his briefs.

Unable to wait any longer, she pulled down the front of his briefs, and the full hard organ sprang out. It bounced in front of her.

Dean’s cock.

Dean’s big, hard, throbbing, veiny cock.

And all of its big, hard, throbbing, veininess was hers.

Sighing with pleasure, she gripped the shaft and pulled down the foreskin, exposing the smooth purple head, already glistening with his secretions. She bent over and kissed the tip, circling with her tongue round the little slit in the end, then licking down the shaft, salty with his sweat.

“Mmm, you taste delicious,” she murmured. “But I know how to make you taste even better.”

She jumped up and went to the fridge in the corner of the room that usually held water and ice-packs.

“Ta-dah!” she exclaimed, producing a tub of double cream.

Dean looked puzzled.

“It’s from my mum,” explained Jennifer, giggling. “She always sends me strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. It started as a joke when I was a junior, but now she always does it, for luck. Now come here.”

She popped off the plastic lid and pulled back the foil top. Then with a giggle she took Dean’s cock and dipped it in the cream: not easy, since it was so erect.

“Oh my,” she giggled, as Dean stood there, his cock looking so white, thick cream dripping off the end onto the floor. “I don’t want to waste any.”

She knelt down and put the tip of his knob in her mouth, licking off the sweet cold white cream, slurping her tongue around the sensitive edge of his helmet. Then she slowly took the whole of his length into her mouth, feeling the swollen end going further and further back until it poked against the back of her throat, almost making her gag. She sucked on it as if it was an ice lolly, while drips of cream ran down her chin and onto her little breasts.

Eventually she slowly let it slide out of her mouth, now sticky with her saliva instead.

“You do taste delicious,” she said. “But I bet you’ve got some other cream you’d like to give me.”

“Not so fast, sweetie, your little strawberries look as if they need a bit of cream too.”

He took the pot and carefully poured more of the contents over the firm pink buds of her nipples. Jennifer grinned as the rivulets of cream ran down her tits and dripped off her nipples onto the floor. She quickly pulled off her skirt and knickers, allowing the cream to run down her tummy and into the dark brown patch of her little bush.

Dean didn’t hesitate any longer. He grabbed Jennifer round the waist and began to lick the cream off her breasts, sucking on her nipples and flicking them with his tongue. He began to follow the trickle of cream down her tummy and into her bush, beginning to suck on the creamy hairs, pulling them into his mouth.

“Your bush is so sticky,” he murmured. “And there’s more stickiness down here,” as his tongue slid down over her engorged clitoris and found her vulva.

“No, wait,” gasped Jennifer. She jumped up, went back to the fridge and brought out the punnet of strawberries. She sat down, opened her legs and found the biggest, plumpest strawberry she could. Twisting off the leaves, she eased it between her labia and let it sit just at the entrance to her vaginal passage. Then she took the cream and poured more of it over her bush, her labia, and the strawberry.

“Now eat it,” she whispered, “Eat it out of my cunt.”

Dean knelt down and licked teasingly round Jennifer’s labia, tickling the soft fleshy folds. Then he carefully put his mouth over the strawberry and sucked it out with a slurp.

“Mmm, tasty,” he murmured. He picked another strawberry out of the punnet, choosing one with a stalk, and pushed it into Jennifer’s vagina. Then he pulled it out, coated in her vaginal juices, and held it out for her to eat.

“Taste yourself,” he said. “Strawberry and Jennifer’s cunt. My favourite flavours.”

Then he took the whole of the rest of the pot of cream and poured it over Jennifer’s body, coating her tits and tummy.

“My creamy lover,” he smiled. Then he buried his face in Jennifer’s cream-coated breasts, getting it all over his own face, before clasping her in his arms and kissing her passionately. Their sticky, creamy bodies rolled around on the floor as they rubbed against each other, smearing cream everywhere.

Dean’s throbbing cock was rubbing against her thigh, and Jennifer settled onto her back and parted her legs, giving him a full view of her hole. She grabbed his cock and pulled him towards her. He knelt over her, took his erection in his hands and positioned it at her entrance. Teasing, he rubbed the knob up and down her slit, letting the head sink between her labia without quite penetrating her dripping wet hole.

“Oh stop it, just fuck me, fuck me,” she gasped.

Relenting, he eased his cock forward, and it slid slowly into her. She sighed as she felt it fill her, her vagina stretching naturally to accommodate it. She wrapped her legs around his body, her strong thighs holding him in place as he steadily pumped his cock into her hungry cunt, his balls slapping against her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined a day like this. Winning a Grand Slam tournament was amazing enough: being naked on the floor while her equally naked childhood hero stuck his cock into her cunt was simply unbelievable.

But it really was happening. She reached down and began to rub at her clitoris, still hard and aroused, feeling that familiar tingle starting to build within her body. Dean was starting to thrust harder, deeper, faster: then he cried out as he ejaculated into her, squirt after squirt of his sticky semen filling her vagina. A final frantic rub at her clit, and she came too, shaking and squealing.

Dean collapsed on top of her, his chest against her breasts, and kissed her. She let her tongue twine with his, and they lay there for what seemed like hours, coated in sweat and cream, while his cock gently softened, still resting in her vagina. Eventually he let it slide out, and she looked at it as it swung gently, glistening with a mixture of his spunk and her cunt juices.

He laughed. “Come on, I think we need to shower,” he said, looking at Jennifer’s sweaty, creamy body. Together, they let the cleansing water flow over them as they tenderly soaped each other clean. As Dean washed her breasts, she did the same to his cock, feeling it swell again in her hands, then throb as she began to pump at the shaft. At the same time, she felt his fingers slip inside her vagina, curving up and pressing against her soft vaginal walls, seeming to know exactly where to press to make her whimper with delight. They came together, her body trembling, his semen splashing against her body before being washed down her legs and spiralling away down the plughole.

As they kissed again, they both knew that theirs wasn’t just going to be a sporting partnership.