Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

“Do you want to play for favors?” she asked, taking the balls from his hand.

“Sure,” he replied tentatively, unsure what she meant by this offer, but feeling sure that it must be good. Love showing in his grin, he watched her walking away. A friendly breeze blew as she reached the service line, immodestly lifting her pleated blue skirt. “Oh, yes.” Mesmerized, he backed away slowly. Her blonde hair danced in the gusts of wind. His gaze drank her beauty, keen on her lean legs and freckled shoulders. She bounced a ball rhythmically. He stopped at the baseline and crouched slightly, both hands firm on his racket.

“First set,” she said. “Love, love.”

He stared intently as she tossed the ball high in the air. He knew her game well enough to know that he had to be on his toes. Her skirt floated slightly as she reached up to strike her serve, affording him a brief glimpse of her pale blue panties. His eyes opened wide in hungry amazement. The ball sailed past him.

“Good serve,” he called out to her as he sent the ball back to her.

As he walked to the other end of the baseline, he began to wonder again what she meant, exactly, by “favors.” Assuming he won, he’d get to indulge in her favors. That seemed a reasonable conclusion. What was less certain was what did it mean if he lost? If she indulged in his favors, wouldn’t he be indulging in hers as well?

“Fifteen, love.” she called out as she again lifted the ball high in the air. A hearty gust afforded him a longer glimpse of her panties, but he fought the natural impulse to linger on the vision for a tense moment, trying desperately to keep his mind on the ball that had begun to fly toward him. He cocked his racket and sent the ball back with a flick of his wrist. She reacted quickly, dashing to her left and swatting a sharp backhand. Her left boob lifted slightly in the motion, revealing a crescent of her dark aureola over the top edge of her spaghetti-strap black shirt. He swung at the ball whizzing past him and buried it in the net.

Shaking his head, he walked, wondering if she meant that she would deny him favors if she won. Hardly a prize for her, but maybe she just wanted to torment him. Only way to be certain of getting favors was to win the match.

“Thirty, love,” she said. A bit of the pretty nipple still showed slightly as she tossed the ball, but when her racket rose to strike the ball, the breast rose and her entire nipple popped free. The ball roared past him as he stood, drop jawed, staring at her naked boob.

Looking down at her chest, she laughed and tugged cotton shirt up to cover her tit. “Am I distracting you?” she called out.

“Yes,” he replied, “I would say so.” He hit the ball gently, sending it back to her.

“Sorry,” she said, catching it in her left hand and lifting her skirt to push the second ball under the elastic of her panties.

“I don’t mind,” he said, walking to the ad side. He crouched, twirling his racket in his hands. “Not at all.”

“Forty, love.” He smiled to watch her skirt rise and fall. Pale blue panties, lean thighs, wisps of blonde hair. Her breasts bounced gently, stiff nipples bulging beneath her black shirt. Sweet, loving smile. The ball skipped past him.

She kissed him as they changed ends. He liked the fire in her eyes.

“Zero, one,” he said, still smiling. “Love, all.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, tennis, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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