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A few years ago, I was a graduate student in English at a big public university in the Midwest. One of the undergrads during my time there was a girl named Madison. She was absolutely stunning in a very middle-America sort of way: Long, blonde hair, with perfectly-toned slender legs that she liked to show off in short skirts.
Her breasts were fairly large, given her otherwise athletic physique, and I noticed her walking around the department right away. My previous relationship was in the process of dying, so I chatted her up right away and quickly realized that she had a personality to match her outward beauty.
But Madison was engaged to a lawyer living in Atlanta, so I never bothered to ask her out.
The fall of my second year, when she was a senior, we took an advanced course on Latin American literature together that met two times a week.
One warm afternoon in September, she sat down a few seats away from me in class, wearing a sporty sleeveless mustard-colored dress that ended mid-thigh. “Hey, Alex,” she said, and I studied how tanned her perfect legs were until the professor, an Ecuadorian who spoke in a dull monotone that was hard to stay awake to, began his lecture.
After class, as she closed up her laptop, Madison pointed to the floor beneath my chair. “Is that a tennis racket?” she asked.
I looked at her blankly, lost in thoughts about Ruben Dario’s verses. I looked down and saw the long handle sticking out of my bag. “No,” I said after a moment. “Squash.”
It was a game that I picked up during my year abroad in Argentina, I told her. I tried to play two or three times a week, but it wasn’t particularly easy to find partners. That might have had something to do with the university’s only squash court being in the basement of the gym, literally next to the boiler room. There were no glass walls, like you see in courts of more modern construction.
The place just sweltered, especially in hot weather like today.
I asked, hopefully, “Do you?”
She shook her head. “I used to play a lot of tennis. Is it very different?”
I started gathering my stuff and half-shrugged. “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m sure you could pick it up easily.”
We both stood, and she gave me a critical once-over. I was in my late 20s, had a full, dark beard and the bare beginnings of a paunch. “I bet I could beat you,” she said.
I said, “You’re obviously in great shape, but squash is about technique not fitness.”
“Sounds like a cop-out,” she answered with a crooked little smile.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” I asked. “I reserved the court for 9 p.m. and have no one to play with.”
My most frequent playing partners were Brad, a third year in law school, and Tom, a junior professor in sociology, but my schedule didn’t jibe with theirs very well.
“Great,” she said, “but I don’t have a racket.”
“You can use my old one,” I said, lying. We exchanged cell numbers and parted ways. I hadn’t gotten more than five feet from the classroom before I texted Brad, telling him I needed to borrow his racket.
* * *
“Jesus, it’s hot in here,” Madison said as we stepped into the court, and I couldn’t have agreed with her more.
She was wearing a little white tennis skirt that set off her tan spectacularly. On top, she had a loose-fitting, sleeveless white mesh shirt with a deep neck scoop that was cropped and showed her flat midriff. Under that was a dark-colored sports bra that strained to contain her breasts. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
I, on the other hand, wore my ratty old red gym shorts and a faded Chicago Cubs t-shirt. I handed her Brad’s squash racket and saw how ridiculous it must look in her eyes. More like a badminton racket than a tennis one.
“Can you go over the rules with me?” she asked.
I ran through them quickly, waving the long racket around to point out the various out of bounds lines. She kept her eyes on me as I spoke, her top teeth overbiting her lower lip in concentration. She was ridiculously beautiful, I thought as I wrapped it up. “We play to seven, but you don’t get a point unless you’re serving. Got that?”
“I think so,” she said, adding, “now what about a handicap?”
I tried to push back the brown locks that tended to cascade down my forehead annoyingly. “I’ll spot you two points,” I said.
“Oh, please!” she squealed with a little smile on her face. “We’ve got to make this interesting. Five points.”
“No way!” I shot back. “Any chump can get two points — and clearly you are not just any chump. I’ll give you three.”
We settled on four.
As we warmed up, I could see that Madison was coordinated and fit, but she didn’t understand how to swing a squash racket. A tennis swing generates power but sacrifices placement — the key to squash. Ideally, you want to hit the ball along the walls into the rear corners, or “bost” it, bouncing it off three walls, so that it dies into one of the front corners.
When I asked, “Are you ready?” she keçiören escort nodded, a shiny trace of moisture on her forehead and upper arms.
I stepped into the serving box and struck the ball toward the front wall. It bounced in a lazy, high arc toward the rear corner. As I moved to her side of the court, I watched Madison take an unfortunate path toward the ball, coming too close to the wall. Realizing that she wasn’t going to be able to hit the ball any other way, she jumped and tried to backhand it four feet over her head. She missed and collapsed in a beautiful heap.
My momentum carried me nearly to her, and, glancing at the pink underpants that peeked out from beneath the jumbled hem of her skirt, I offered her my hand.
She was laughing at herself as she placed her small, warm hand in mine. “So that was…”
“My point,” I said, pulling her up. As she came up onto her feet, the front of her breasts pushed into my ribs.
“Shit,” she said. “I thought so.”
“One-four,” I announced, before serving to her forehand side. This time, it wasn’t as high or as perfectly placed, and, as I drifted across the court, I watcher her take a big cut at the ball and strike it crisply along the wall.
I hurried to get myself into position to hit the ball, but Madison, instead of backing away, froze directly in my path, and I crashed into her back.
The momentum carried the two of us into the side wall, my torso pushing up against hers along a variety of fronts, from our entangled legs to my left hand — whichh came to rest on the ridges of her rib cage in the gap between her skirt and top — to my mouth, which was aligned with the top of her ear.
Even my penis twitched because of sudden contact with the upper slope of her ass.
I breathed out an, “Are you all right?” before pulling myself off of her.
“I’m fine,” she said, pushing off the wall. She looked at me sideways, with a curious expression on her face: Her lips were parted and her eyes a bit wide. “Is that a do-over?” she asked.
“No, that’s my point,” I said, bending down to pick up the ball. “You got in my way.”
“Is that what happened?” she asked, not seeming particularly put out.
I served, and she responded with a cross-court shot that I played deep into the corner. An experienced squash player would not have come close to me in getting to the ball, but when I turned around, she was running at me full tilt.
The impact sent me backward two steps. I threw my left arm around her to keep myself from falling. We finished up entangled again, with our faces separated by mere inches.
She smiled. “You got in my way. My serve!”
Before I let her go, I could feel every hair on my arm acutely as it caressed the bare skin of her midsection. “You wouldn’t have gotten to the ball,” I argued.
“No fair!” she yelled. “I see how it is: When I get in your way, it’s your point; when you get in mine, it’s still your point.”
“Oh, fine,” I relented. “We’ll call it a do-over.”
So we started replaying all points in which we blocked each other — which is to say, we started blocking each other on every point. Her favorite move was to put her ass in my path; mine was to pinion her against a wall.
And while I was very much enjoying our full-contact version of the game, the heat was becoming unbearable.
“It’s hot as Hades in here,” she said after I tied the score at 4. I was drenched in sweat, and her forehead was beading up.
“Let’s get some water,” I suggested. The hallway was empty. The gym would be closing in half an hour, and there wasn’t a lot of noise in the place. When we got to the fountain, the water was tepid.
As we returned to the court, I asked, “Do you mind if I take off my shirt?”
She shook her head, and I pulled it off over my head. She had grabbed the collar of her mesh top and was trying to fan herself with it, when I caught her looking at me surreptitiously. “I wish I could do that, too,” she said.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Who’s going to see?”
“The shirt isn’t the problem,” she said. “The material that they make these sports bras out of is heavy fucking duty.”
I couldn’t think of what to say, so I just looked at her. After a moment’s hesitation, she narrowed her eyes and gestured to me. “Turn around.”
I faced the front wall and threw my wet t-shirt to the foot of the tin. A moment later, she said, “Okay.”
I was delighted to see that she had taken off the sports bra while leaving the mesh shirt in place. The material of the shirt was clingy, revealing the outline of her nipples.
What’s more, with her breasts unleashed, the cropped shirt didn’t quite cover them, and I got a good view of their delicate undersides as she bent down to place her bra on top of my tee.
“That might be a bit distracting,” I said.
“Maybe that’s the point,” she said, smiling impishly.
On the next point, I was preparing to hit the ball along the side wall when I sensed her physical presence keçiören escort bayan approaching from behind. She slipped her hand around my body and began stroking my chest and pulling at some of the hair she found there.
I hit the ball straight back and got my left arm in front of her to block her from getting to the ball. My bicep settled between her breasts, and I unintentionally pinned her nipple between my elbow and chest.
“Ow!” she squealed, bending over.
Painful though the pinch might have been, I could see that she was smiling. I could also see through the armhole of her shirt and take in the entirety of her right breast.
On the next serve, she drilled a cross-court shot that caused me to spin around in my tracks. I felt my waistline tighten, and I staggered, not understanding what was happening. I nearly fell on my face but managed to keep myself on one knee.
Madison had hooked her hand into the waistband of my shorts.
I laughed quietly and called her a bitch. She smiled back and let go. “No way you were getting to that,” she said.
I got up, but my shorts wouldn’t stay up. She had stretched out the elastic so far that they were useless. “Look at what you did,” I said, holding them up with one hand.
“What?” she asked.
I let go of the waistband, and my shorts dropped to the ground, exposing my blue boxer briefs, and, possibly, the incipient stiffy within.
She looked at me with lust in her eyes. “Much better,” she said.
“Fine,” I said, throwing my shorts into the growing pile of clothes near the front wall. On the way back to receive her serve, I walked close to her. As I went past, I looped my racket around, smacking her broadly on the ass.
“Aah!” she yelped, hopping a few inches in the air, her breasts nearly jiggling out of her shirt.
From that point on, we played full-bore, dirty squash: tickling, scratching, pinching, full-body slamming, and it became harder and harder for me to pretend to care about hitting the ball or what the score was. The contact — creating it, enjoying it, prolonging it — became the entire point.
I have a hard time keeping the sequence straight, but here are a few favorite moments, in more or less sequential order:
I served to her forehand side and ran over to where she waited for the ball to come down. I reached under her skirt and rubbed her panties. They slipped a bit to one side, and I slid a finger into her pussy. She hit the ball and dropped her racket. As I moved toward where the ball was headed, she reached into my briefs through the pee-hole and gripped my erect penis.
I froze in place with our faces inches away from each other.
“Is that …? Oh, sorry,” she breathed out huskily as her index finger stroked the shaft. “I thought it was the handle of my racket. But I guess I was wrong.”
During the next rally, I came up behind her, pulled down her panties and gave her a quick finger fuck. She hooked her arm around my neck and turned to kiss me as I did.
Her underpants wound up on the discard pile, too.
On the next point, she threw herself onto my back as I waited to hit the ball, hooking her arms over my shoulder and pressing her boobs into my bare skin. I hit the ball, but it clanked against the tin.
I backed into the side wall and pressed her into it. She exhaled hard as I did, and while I rubbed my sweaty back side-to-side and up-and-down over her shirt and boobs. After a few seconds, she put her feet down, and I took the opportunity to place the butt of my racket’s handle against her clit and pussy — which was dripping with a mix of sweat and juices — moving it in a circular motion that made her eyes close and her tongue peek out between her lips.
I turned my racket around and backed away, letting the side of the long handle slide up along her vagina. When the circular head, with the hard ridges produced by the protruding strings, began rubbing in the region of her clit, Madison let out a little gasp.
While she straightened her skirt, I took a few steps to the other side of the court. But as I brought the head of my racket up, I saw something on its face.
“Wait!” I shouted, and walked up to her.
Without warning, I rubbed the face of my racket slowly across her clinging top, causing her nipples to bend and pop into the squares between the strings.
I pulled it away and examined the strings, I smiled. “That’s better.”
During the next rally, she distracted me by shoving a hand down my underpants and sticking a delicious finger in my asshole.
On the next point, I retaliated by sneaking up behind her as she got ready to serve. “You can’t do that!” she called out.
“Says who?” I asked, dropping my racket and grabbing her breasts. She managed to serve as I was pushing into the back of her right knee with mine, making her lose her balance and sit on my boner. We toppled together to the floor and writhed around for a minute.
The next time I stepped into the box to serve, escort keçiören she took my cock in her mouth. It was such a great feeling that I kept putting off actually serve. But eventually I did, and it made the score 6-5. Or, at least, I claimed it did, which put us at game point. I felt that the culmination to our love match had to occur soon or I would suffer permanent damage to my cock and balls.
On my serve, I lofted a ball that she was able to return down the rail. Turned toward the wall, she backed her butt toward me but miscalculated where she had to place herself to prevent me from hitting the ball cleanly.
I was able to play a return that hit the front wall and landed on the heap our discarded clothes just before I crashed into her backside, slamming her into the side wall. This time, instead of disentangling myself, I growled, “That’s game, bitch!”
My penis had poked its way through the opening in my boxer briefs, so all I had to do was grab Madison by the waist with both hands and slam home, which I did. She yowled like a cat in heat and started grinding against me.
The palms of her hands were up against the wall above her head, and the side of her face pulled away and pressed into the wall with the rhythm of my thrusts.
I pumped and pumped without finesse or pacing, relying on feral savagery to carry us toward orgasm. I took my right hand off her hip and grabbed her by the ponytail. I pulled back on it, and she let loose a couple of “Ahh, ahh”s whose tone sounded like both a warning to be careful as well as mounting excitement. Her breasts had slipped out of the mesh top and were pendulating from her midriff to the wall and back, slapping lightly on the white surface, discoloring it slightly with her sweat like so many other marks on the wall that had been left previously by squash balls.
She started to climax — at least I think she did, the line between simmering and boiling isn’t always obvious to me — and, to be honest, it was a minor miracle that I hadn’t already cum. I kept plowing, and it drove her vocalizations higher and higher.
I needed a change, though, or I would start to fall out of the frenzy I was feeling. I pulled out of her and spun her to face me. At first she sounded disappointed, but as soon as she realized what I was up to, she hooked her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips.
I coiled my hands around her backside and held her up by the area between ass and upper thighs. I pushed her back into the wall and penetrated her again.
“Unhh,” she uttered, and leaned into my thrusts. As we settled into a good groove in the new position, Madison closed her eyes and let her wet lips fall open. Her body went almost completely limp, which I found odd, but strangely erotic. Her legs — bent at the knee as if she were sitting in an office chair — rose and fell with my passion; her hands were resting on my shoulders without an ounce of tension in them; her breasts bounced around, sometimes in unison with each other, but at times in opposite vectors.
Even the flesh of her face rose and fell with our hips.
I was enjoying the position and the way it allowed me to press into her and feel the wall through the sides of pussy — like I was splitting her to her core — but I could tell I wasn’t going to be able to keep her pinned like that for long. She couldn’t have weighed much more than 100 pounds, even sopping wet with sweat and vaginal juice as she was, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain it for long.
The only real question was, which would come first: my climax or my collapse?
As I pistoned on, I felt her body begin to clench, imperceptibly at first. She flexed the toes on her feet and began to make a soft keening sound that only got louder and more urgent. She coiled her arms around my head and buried her face into the side of my neck.
In a few seconds, I varied to deeper-than-usual thrusts that made her orgasm again in great, ululating exclamations. I couldn’t possibly hold it any longer — in both senses — and I exploded into her, cumming in a long series of gushing spurts that seemed to last forever.
Almost simultaneously, I collapsed on the floor with her on top of me, but I stayed hard enough to keep her inside me. “Oh, my God; oh, my God; oh, my God,” I said, holding her hips in place on my boner.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she answered, panting.
I continued to shove into her while nibbling on her nipples through the mesh top. The flesh of her breast was fluttering as she continued to climax.
I didn’t want to break the animal connection between us, but she had had enough.
“Please stop,” she said, pulling her breast out of my mouth. “It’s too much.”
She rolled off me and collapsed on the floor. As my penis fell out of her, there was a plop, as when a cork is pulled out of a wine bottle. After a moment, a pond’s-worth of cum leaked out of her and settled on the floor.
I was hopelessly out of breath and couldn’t do anything for a while except lay on the floor by her side.
Maybe a minute, maybe five later, I was still breathing heavily when she said, “I want a rematch.”
I laughed. I was going to say something about wanting to retire undefeated — yeah, right — when the lights winked off. The staff must be closing the gym for the night.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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