Nisan 7, 2021

Love All, 0-15, 0-30, … Love-69

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Anal

This is a complete story under this title.

It has been pleasing to see that a few people have chosen to post a “favorite story” or “favorite author” to a couple of my submissions.

Thank you!

I value that more than five stars (that get lost in the average). But all of us here tend to read stories with an H (average 4.5 or better). If you really like a story, giving a high rating lets others know that someone thought it was good, a recommendation for them. I am sure other authors feel the same.

Comments are also appreciated. Let authors know what you think.

leBonhomme

*

I can’t remember when I first noticed Mrs. O, a member of my tennis club. I know it was several years ago, back when tennis was more popular. Back then, one had to be at the club by 8:15 to reserve a court for 9:00. And then one had to watch to see that someone didn’t cheat by moving your magnetic name tag to another court, or worse, removing it.

Probably that was when I first noticed her, an avid player, avid protector of her own reservation, but not above cheating. Did we first speak to each other when I caught her moving my name tag on the tableau of courts and times? Of course, I wouldn’t have. Doesn’t matter, and it couldn’t have been a serious argument, since we greeted each other by name after that, just a little more personally than one greets other members, whose faces are only familiar.

However we met, after that I did watch her play, with younger, good players. She was younger than I, and looked even younger, her sportswoman’s figure. I enjoyed watching her for a few years, wondering if I would have a chance playing against her, could be a fair match for her – just on the courts, of course.

She played so often that early in the summer her legs were soon tanned the color of the reddish clay courts, her arms too, of course, but I found it more interesting to look at her legs. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I had the impression that she placed her feet so that her thighs opened more than other players’ did. Maybe she didn’t, but I was recalling having read that traditionally Japanese women walked pigeon-toed to modestly keep their knees together. Frau O didn’t when she took the last step before hitting the ball.

I liked my impression that she was completely unconsciously demonstrating a slight lack of the modesty the Japanese women had consciously shown – keeping their knees together, and she wasn’t. Why should women keep their knees together? She didn’t, and that always made it a little enticing to watch her, wondering if her male partners on the court had the same thought.

There was no excuse to ask them, and I certainly didn’t know them well enough to even mention my impression. Eventually, indirectly, I learned that she was married with two children and that her husband worked for a firm in city so far away that he stayed in a flat there during the week.

I should explain that I was lucky enough to take early retirement, able to play tennis on weekdays, when Frau O did. I played with three different groups of partners, some of them also playing in the other groups with me. Each group included five or six persons, requiring a plan to rotate partners. I wasn’t pleased when I ended up having to prepare the rotation lists: an odious task, trying to incorporate others’ planned vacations, minimize dates when two, who didn’t like each other, had to play together. And then there were times when only three of us turned up; the fourth person not having found a substitute. When we were lucky, we could recruit someone – anyone – waiting to play. When not, we had to play two against one.

Once, Frau O joined us. I don’t know if it was good or bad for my game: wanting to impress her with my play, but being distracted by my thoughts about her legs, observing her open thighs at closer range, even when she was my partner returning the ball from the base line, when I should have been facing the net. We won that set, maybe more from her skill, but I did pretty well.

I have always noticed that men – even much older men – demonstrate surprising ambition when playing with a female partner. I probably also did – tried to – but playing with a strong partner usually inspires one to play better. Whatever, over coffee afterwards, as we were finishing, she asked if I was interesting in playing singles one day, before my usual doubles match an hour later. Of course, I was, and we agreed to meet on Tuesday the following week.

On the way home, I realized that I would have to have an explanation for my wife about having to go an hour earlier to play tennis. Luckily, a couple of times I had played singles with another man before my doubles match. No problem, she accepted my saying that I would meet him again. She also didn’t know him or his wife well enough to happen to check.

Tuesday morning, I left the house with a slightly guilty conscience, not that I really should have had one; we were just going to play tennis. Did I play better than I had hoped – despite my looking too much at kartal escort her legs? Did she let me win a couple of important points? Whatever, apparently we both enjoyed it, shaking hands at the net, her smile better than it had to be.

As we packed our bags, seeing my partners on the other court, she asked if I wanted to play again the next day. Apparently, she knew that I would be playing with my other group. Of course, I did.

At home, I told something believable to justify playing again with that man. Either he or I wanted a rematch. She didn’t question my story. I was getting better at lying.

Wednesday morning, I just hoped that my game would make her suggest that we meet again the next week. She won, but that let me say that I wanted a rematch. She smiled and agreed, saying that we could play again the next Tuesday, but not on Wednesday. I liked, of course, her implication that she assumed that we would continue to play more often.

Tuesday, I wasn’t on my list to play with my group, but my wife was accustomed to my playing most days and assumed that I would be. My other players would, however, notice that I was there playing with Mrs. O. Before we started playing, I mentioned that. She nodded with a smile and suggested that we just play for an hour as usual and then depart.

It doesn’t matter how that match ended. We packed our bags, both waving to my friends, and left the court. Out of their sight, around the corner of the clubhouse, she beat me to the suggestion that we have a cappuccino. I insisted on paying, which she accepted, and we went in the clubhouse.

Since we both had wanted to talk, it was a pleasant conversation, telling each other how we started playing tennis. I had always played a little, never had lessons, just hitting the ball with other boys, then more regularly when I joined the club to play with new acquaintances after I moved to the city. She told that she had started playing to meet people when she and her husband and their two children moved here, telling that she had taken lessons at first. I complimented her ambition and obvious success. She said something about thinking that I was good enough to play on the club’s team for my age group.

Since I knew that she played with several different persons, usually playing singles, I also mentioned something about her success at having made new friends and then asked how she found so much time to play. She smiled and explained that the previous year her husband had taken a better position in a city too far away to commute, staying in a small flat Monday to Thursday nights.

Without thinking that she was suggesting anything, I commiserated about her weekend marriage. She smiled lightly with a nod and then asked if I wanted to play with her the following week. She could have expressed it differently, but she had said: “play with me.”

Maybe that was when I started getting ideas about not just playing tennis. Of course, I agreed. That was when she asked how I explained at home that I was playing tennis an hour earlier than usual. I chuckled and told that I had explained that my wife assumed I was playing with man whom she knew, but not well enough to call. She also chuckled and asked what day I wanted to play with him again. I checked my lists, seeing that I was playing both days, and we agreed to meet the following Tuesday. I paid for our coffee, and we shook hands, holding them a moment longer than before. Before we got in our cars, she waved to me with a smile, something she hadn’t done before. Needless to say, I returned her wave and smile.

Driving home, I had more of guilty conscience, not that I really had reason to, except for my recalling her “play with me.” It also seemed likely that I would be questioned about my supposed friend’s wanting to play with me so often. I also expected that my usual tennis partners would remark about my playing with Mrs. O so often.

My wife didn’t ask, but I did have to survive a couple of comment from my partners the next Tuesday when I joined them.

As she and I had been shaking hands at the net, I had mentioned to her my anticipation of their comments. She had smiled with a nod and said that she didn’t want to cause me difficulties – “at home either.” Then she had suggested that maybe “we could play with each other” on a day when they didn’t play. I had agreed, of course, that that was a good idea, but also not without complications. She had nodded with an understanding smile and suggested we just meet a week later “either to play or just talk.”

Thinking about her last remark was distracting during my doubles match, a mixed doubles. The two women certainly didn’t open their thighs the way she did, and their thighs weren’t as tanned or well-formed as hers.

The following Tuesday, I wasn’t scheduled to play, but I still went to the club an hour earlier than I would have if my list showed that I were playing. She and I met in the parking lot. When I mentioned that I wouldn’t be playing, she suggested that we could play until the before the maltepe escort bayan others would arrive. I pointed out that one of them would have to arrive earlier to reserve a court, and that it would be even more obvious, if we suddenly left, perhaps meeting others then arriving. She nodded and then smiled slightly and replied:

“I said: ‘either to play or just talk.’ Then just talk, … if you want, … since we are both here.”

I agreed, of course. On the way to the clubhouse, we realized that it was too early to get coffee. She immediately suggested that we could go to her place – she said “my place” not “our place.”

As we turned back towards our cars, she remarked:

“It won’t be cappuccino, just normal coffee.”

“Fine,” I agreed, adding: “With milk and sugar.”

“Of course, even with fresh cream; I like that better.”

“Me too, just seldom take the trouble and spoon milk from my glass at breakfast.”

We exchanged smiles. During the last steps towards our cars, I suddenly wonder where she lived, whether neighbors would notice her returning home, followed by another car, and a man following her to her house door. As she unlocked her car, I asked hesitantly:

“Both cars?” raising my eyebrows.”

She must have read my thoughts, smirking just very slightly and replying:

“We have a penthouse apartment. You probably know the building; no problem.”

As I followed her in my car, I appreciated that she had understood my question and hoped that she appreciated the reason for my asking it. But had she already been thinking about what possible neighbors could think if they saw us both going to “her place,” knowing that her husband was away all week? I had, just that they could, not that they should, would have a reason to.

She had been right; I did recognize the building, now pleased that I didn’t know anyone living there. We both parked on the street. While we were still on the sidewalk, she murmured:

“People are still going to work. Top floor, of course. Ring.”

I nodded and continued up the sidewalk when she turned to the door. Yes, she was definitely thinking about the neighbors, as she should, even if I was just visiting for a cup of coffee. During the minute or two, while I waited, it occurred to me that my tennis clothes could suggest a connection to her. Was I already thinking that this could happen again?

She had been right, again. Several people left the building, I observed from around the corner. Hoping no one else would, I went back with what I hoped looked like a purposeful stride. When I rang, the buzz to unlock the door sounded immediately. No one saw me get in the waiting elevator, and, of course, it wasn’t stopped by anyone wanting to go down – safe!

She met me with a smile at the already open door. As she closed the door, I took off my tennis shoes, telling her that she had been right about people leaving the building and that I had misgivings about my tennis clothes. She nodded, remarking that that had occurred to her too. I followed her to the kitchen, where she filled the water boiler and then suggested that she could show me the apartment while we waited for it to boil.

Living room, dining room, a den with the TV and also a desk with in and out baskets, not my taste, but still tasteful, if one liked modern Italian furnishing. I was pleased that she didn’t say anything about it, that I didn’t have to comment. “The rest, too,” she remarked and led me to the hall that had to lead to the bedrooms. She waved at the two doors on one side, remarking:

“The boys’ rooms, can show you them; we just try to keep their stuff out of the rest of the place.”

“Very well. I know the problem, knew it.”

“Your children are out of the house?”

“Twenty-five plus and minus. Makes me sound old.”

“Don’t look like it.”

I grinned and reply: “Please say that again.”

She grinned and said: “You don’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

“Now you’re just being flattering.”

She nodded with smile and gestured at the open door on the other side of the hall, apparently suggesting that I step closer and look in. A large double bed, made up, but with her clothes for after tennis laid out on it: neatly, bra and panties, blouse and skirt. She looked in and remarked:

“Oh, I forgot about that; thought I might have to hurry after tennis. Hmm! I forgot that I was supposed to play after we did.”

“You still can, if we drink our coffee fast.”

“No hurry; I’ll find an excuse for why I forgot or suddenly had to do something else.”

As we turned away from the room, she murmured:

“Most nights, the bed is too big.”

As we returned to the kitchen, I didn’t reply, of course, but had my thoughts about why she mentioned that, also wondering if she really hadn’t remembered that her clothes were on the bed, wondering if she had wanted me to see her underwear. Her panties weren’t anything my wife had, not a string, but they seemed – what’s the word, diaphanous? escort pendik – somewhat see-through. Did she shave there?

“Cups or mugs,” she asked in the kitchen, saving me from thoughts about her bra – and breasts.

“Whichever is larger; the first cup tastes best.”

“Mugs, no then bowls for milk-coffee.”

“Fine. Someone told me that the Harvard Club in New York has extra large coffee cups because Teddy Roosevelt said that the first cup tastes best.”

“He was right. I’ll remember that.”

She started making coffee, asking without turning to me:

“You know someone who went to Harvard?”

“A few.”

“Did you?!”

” ‘fraid so.”

She turned and replied: “Don’t be so modest!”

“Better than bragging about it.”

She smiled, nodding, and turned back to refilling the coffee filter. We were silent until she had filled two small bowls and offered to pour cream in mine. I surprised myself by taking her hand to stop her adding more, but got a nice smile for it. She poured cream in her bowl, and then held out the sugar bowl, saying:

“I won’t try that again. Help yourself.”

I did, replying:

“But it was nice, but too much sugar would just be too much.”

“Was that too much cream?”

“No, just right, thank you. Sugar for you?”

“No thanks.”

“Most women don’t. Guess they are sweet enough without.”

She smiled slightly, apparently understanding my veiled compliment. We stirred our coffee and then drank, holding our bowls up with both hands. We smiled over them, and I remarked softly:

“Just right, the cream.”

“Because you stopped me in time.”

“You wanted me to?” I asked, more than a little surprised at myself, that I was asking if she had wanted me to touch her hand.

She smiled, slightly wryly, nodding as she replied softly:

“Just like that, … like you did.”

We took another drink from our bowls, possibly to avoid having to look at each other for a moment. I felt that way, at least, wondering if she was really suggesting – intentionally or subconsciously – that this all was more than just about having coffee. I had had a couple of affairs: one discovered, one only suspected. Is that what she was suggesting? I would risk it again – those tanned thighs, the rest of her athletic figure too.

We smiled slightly when we lowered our bowls, and our eyes met, more directly than I could remember that they had before. We had another sip. Her eyes found mine again, and she asked:

“Would you mind if I changed?”

“Of course not. Funny, I have never seen you in anything but your tennis clothes.”

“Um-hmm, funny. Once saw a tennis partner in street clothes and hardly recognized him.”

“And he had the same problem?”

“I think so, didn’t immediately greet me by name.”

“Happened to me once, too: Mrs. S on the street.

“Um-hmm, funny.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Oh, come along, bring your coffee; you must have seen more than one half naked woman.”

” ‘fraid so.”

“Hm-hmm! You said that before; too modest. One more won’t upset you.”

“If you want me too.”

She just nodded with grin. I followed her to her bedroom. She wanted me too! How much “half naked”? I knew she wore sports bras, and she had laid out a normal one on her bed. It had looked like one that would let her nipples be seen through it, not just if they were aroused. She was wrong; this was going to upset me, especially if she did anything – absolutely anything! – to suggest that this wasn’t just about her changing clothes with me watching. I knew people more or less discretely changed on beaches in Europe. That was all right, there, but not in the privacy of her bedroom, and not after she had said that the bed was too big most nights.

She set down her coffee bowl. I held mine, still with both hands, but thinking that I would need one free to help my cock find be more comfortable – difficult in tennis shorts. Did she want to see my problem?

With her back to me, she peeled off her closely fitting top, revealing her sports bra with its crossed straps, also revealing the first of her untanned skin that I had ever seen. If she wanted me to watch her? I remarked:

“You know that you have a great tan, what I’ve seen, but it looks even better, seeing a little of the rest in contrast.”

She tossed her top on the bed, turning her face back to give me a grin and nod. Thus encouraged – maybe this wasn’t going to be upsetting, just entirely unanticipated – I remarked more boldly than I knew myself to be:

“For years, I have wondered if your tanned legs were the same color as the courts.”

She was about to slip down her matching tennis skirt. She always wore matching tops and skirts that did good things for her figure. She glanced back again and murmured:

“Too many years.”

Her skirt slipped down, and she stepped out of it, revealing her matching short tights. I knew about them too, having seen her push her second ball under them before she served, sometimes seeing the hem of them under her short skirt when she was playing. Did girls and women ever consider that males found that arousing? Oh, she had said: “too many years”! As though she wished that I – who me! – had said something like that sooner?

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