Dolly's tennis score is always love-all

I was engaged to be married in the fall, so for what I thought would be one of my last “boys’ weekends” I went to a Mets baseball game in New York with a high school buddy toward the end of a season, just before Labor Day...  We'd been to so many Mets games through the years, even skipped high schools many years ago to do so.  He was already married, and a father and I was the last one of our group to take the walk down the aisle, so it felt like a reunion and a chance to revisit our youth before saying so long to freedom.  Well, my freedom, anyway, and wasn’t getting engage farewell to freedom, anyway?  As in the old days, we headed down from Connecticut early, trying to beat traffic through the maze of tolls, bridges and highways known by their names first, and the numbers of the routes were secondary.  Basically, we took the Merritt to the Hutchinson to the Cross Bronx to the Whitestone to the Van Wyck.  And on this final bachelor ballgame occasion, ended up hideously early, so early the gates weren't open, and this was my non-drinking friend, so I hadn't brought a cooler full of beer to enjoy in that glory or being a legal drinker at age eighteen, before the age went up and eventually my tolerance went down.  So with a sober hour to kill before the gates even opened, I suggested we wander next door to the National Tennis Center, where the US Open would begin the next day.  I had gone to the Open many times, but never been on the grounds when it wasn't a ticketed tournament session.  And sure enough the gates were wide open.   Technically, it was a public facility, I’d been going to the U.S. Open since I was in middle school.  Since I had been on the high school tennis team and played some regional tournaments, dreaming, but never succeeding, in achieving a higher level of competition and success.  I’d had a few matches with players who went on to some modest success.  Can you say 6-0, 6-0?


We seemed to be the only ones on the grounds who weren't players, coaches, media types, sponsors, vendors, or the various personal assistants and hangers on who formed the entourages sitting in the family box and were seen on camera when the guy or gal they were coaching, supporting, fucking, or just living off of played a televised match.  We wandered by Arthur Ashe Stadium, and the former main stadium, now the secondary venue, named for Louis Armstrong, and the entire complex was named for Billie Jean King.   I know, Arthur Ashe and Billie Jean King, sure, but what does Louis Armstrong have to do with tennis?  Long story.  After getting to see at long last just how good the view was from the close-in box seats where the celebrities sat, we left the stadium, intending to make our way back through the grounds to the ballpark next door.


A pair of iron and wood benches offered seating under some shade trees just outside the stadium, and as we left a pair of bronzed goddess toned legs caught my attention. Long, athletic legs.  Sculpted calves.  Sexy. Adidas on the feet, and a white short tennis skirt at the top, and as my eyes continued upward there was a sleeveless cotton t-shirt advertising a Florida tennis resort where I'd once attended a tennis prospect camp, just before I admitted to myself the truth that I'd never be a tennis champion, that I'd had the chance to be on the court with those  who had a chance to be a champion and caught a hard hit ball in the cheekbone as proof that my hand speed was not up to the level needed.  A tennis ball hit by a girl.  A girl who had grown up to be a top ranked player with a few big tournament titles, many magazine articles, a now-legendary guest photo in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. .  A top ranked champion player with model looks who had bronzed goddess toned legs, and who was sitting right in front of me.  Toned arms were the same matching bronze, hours in the sun, and the wide arm holes of the t-shirt showed a teal sports bra.  Well defined triceps muscles, my interest in athletic women, nurtured by the years hanging around tennis courts waiting for my court time and checking out every girl in the club when I wasn't on the court, had taught me what I liked.  I liked this look. And having long ago converted the humiliation of being smacked in the face by a shot hit by a girl into the time I was on the court with that smoking hot champion, I had long been a fan of hers.   The blonde hair and Caribbean Sea blue eyes and model pretty face made her an advertiser's dream and she had many major endorsements.  The bulge in my shorts just from seeing her up close now, after all these years was all the endorsement I had to offer.


I guess I was still feeling young enough even though I was in my 30’s already, not to know to leave public figures alone when encountering them.  That they were people too.  And here was a sexy tennis star, source of many a sex fantasy of mine and I’m sure thousands of other guys, and she looked bored, and I didn't need to rush over to the Mets game just yet.  So I struck up a conversation as I decided to sit on the adjacent bench, catty corner, allowing for an easy conversation on a day when the facility was not overrun by fans.


"You're Dolly, right?"


A smile.  A sweet smile.  There was that gleaming smile.  Only saw that in the ads for luxury watches, racquets, spa-quality sun screen and moisturizer, and every other product she endorsed.  Was I really just striking up a conversation with her?  But she answered, "Uh huh, yes."  Didn't seem too stuck up for me to approach her. The suddenly “couldn’t remember I was engaged version” of me continued.


"There's no way you'd remember me, but years ago I attended a tennis prospect camp held at the club where you trained, and I was just good enough to get pulled onto a court for a drill with the top players like you and you smashed a volley into my cheekbone about two points in.  We never got introduced, but I'm Logan, and I've been a fan ever since because I personally knew how good you were."


Dolly's eye widened, "No, oh my God, no, I DO remember, oh my God, that was you?"  Her face told me she wasn't bullshitting, she really did remember.  "I never knew what happened to you, I used to look for you at tournaments years back when the men’s qualifiers would be going on, so I could apologize, I never found you."  Looking back, I realize I was still living the life of a guy in my twenties although I was in my thirties, had spent the summer at the beach or exercising in anticipation of a set of wedding pictures, and at a quick glance still had close to the tennis body from my days as a ranked eighteen year old who played one year of college tennis and never made even a satellite pro debut.  But she thought I had been some level of player she'd have seen at real tournaments, and who was I to tell her any different.  Dolly actually remembered me!  Who cared she remembered such a bad moment for me—she’d looked for me!  At this point, I hadn’t even begun to formulate the new sex fantasy involving me and Dolly.  Though, when I was going to implement that fantasy I didn’t know—I was getting married in a couple weeks...


"No no no, that's sweet of you to say you remember, but you never would have seen me, I wasn't playing USTA nationals or anything at your level, I was barely good enough to be a part of that camp, so you never would have seen me at a tournament."


Nodding her head, and rising to walk over to sit down next to me. Sit down next to me!!  "Well okay, but oh my God (there it was again) I do remember that volley, I'm so sorry I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, I was just trying to look good for the agents and media types to get the attention of the best sponsors, that's how it was when we were starting out on the circuit.  I remember asking about you.  I thought you were cute."


She thought I was cute?  WTF?  Um, have you seen the woody your sexy world class athlete body is giving me now, toots?  And I was not bad to look at, but no one was hiring me for thousands, millions maybe, to take my photo in a swim suit or for a calendar or on a red carpet like they do for you, Dolly.  "Well no apology needed, or accepted if you insist, but you've got the cute part wrong, that would be you, then and now.  I remember you wore a cap when you played back then, so I guess it must have been your eyes and smile that made me think you were cute but then not long after that camp when I started seeing your matches on TV and seeing you in ads I bragged on how I caught your volley with my eye and seeing all your gorgeous blonde hair since you stopped wearing that cap, you're even more gorgeous."  Did I just call her gorgeous?  And somewhere around the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, she probably picked up on the fact that most men would love to schtup her.


She then reached out and put her hand on my wrist, "well thank you, but you're a lot cuter now, too, and I'm so glad you said hello and told me who you were.  I saw you coming out of the stadium and just figured you must be some doubles player in the men’s draw who I hadn't met.  Well, I guess you know my name, but I'm Dolly" and she shook my hand, and I took her hand, and let it linger in mine after the shake, "I'm Logan," I replied, and gripped her fingers for a split second before releasing, noticing a short well trimmed French manicure.  "So do you still play?" she asked, "Just recreationally, I'm a lawyer now, represent commercial real estate developers, doing deals".  "So what are you doing here on the grounds?"  "Had tickets to the Mets game, got here early, thought I'd take a stroll.  I was at that match you won to make the semis last year over on the grandstand court last year, the three setter."  I could swear she blushed.


"You were there?  Wow, you really must be a fan, thank you.  I used to get big court matches the year I won the title, the couple years right after, but it’s been a little while now, so nowadays I usually only have big crowds when I play someone higher ranked and younger than I am."  So, sexy, tall, tanned, fit, world ranked athlete, had been at the top in her sport, and surprisingly not stuck up at all.  Cool.  "Hey, do you have tickets to the Open this year, too?"  "Yeah, I'm coming next Saturday, third round."  She paused, thinking about that for a minute.  "So, if you're such a fan I better make the third round so you can come see me.   “Better make the third round, when’s the last time you didn’t make it that far?”  Now we’re talking like we’re old friends, my eyes all over my old friend’s legs, arms, neck, body, eyes, hair…damn, I was imagining her thighs on either side of my face as I tasted her.  And I’m hard thinking about it, and fairly sure she’s aware of all this, every part of her my eyes have glimpsed, and she …likes it?  Wow, Dolly’s into me!


Dolly reached over and took my hand again.  Glimpse of cleavage as she leaned forward. Her calves flex and tighten as she shifts her weight.  She’s so fucking hot.  Okay, confession time.  I have a rule that I stop watching the tournament on television when Dolly loses.  But she was still talking to me like she was receptive to my hitting on her, so I didn’t feel bad about the jack fantasies at that moment. “I’m really glad you told me who you were, I mean who you are, you know that we met in Florida and you're the guy I hit with the volley.  I'm really glad you said hello and told me."  She was babbling.  And shockingly, not surrounded by an entourage to keep me away.  "Hey, wait, do you have a camera, I would love to have a picture of the guy I hit with the volley."  Starting to raise my level of disbelief, of all the tennis balls she ever hit, I was the only one she'd ever nailed?"  So I asked, "You make it sound like I'm the only one you ever nailed."  That line floated out there, about as soon as I said it I realized that a horny college aged kid could read a sexual meaning into what I'd asked.  She smirked.  I knew she hadn’t gone to college and like me, had passed her thirtieth birthday, but apparently she knew the many uses of the word “nailed”, too.  Perhaps she was a horny kid back in the day, too, and really had thought I was cute—would I have had a chance back then to have lived out the fantasy?  "Well, I guess I've nailed a few guys in my travels, but Logan (hey, she remembered my name!) A girl never forgets her first!"  If I'd been drinking a Coke I'd have sprayed it out the way she said that.  "Well as it happens I do have a camera."  Suddenly remembering my buddy, who had just stood back and taken this all in.  "Uh, Jeff, would you mind?" And Dolly and I stood next to each other in a pose, and she put her arm around my waist, which really made me feel like about a third of my blood was between my legs at that moment.  First time I'd ever felt a professional athlete's touch.  (And so nice now to look back at the photo and remember how her touch felt on my waist when she wrapped her arm around.)  Jeff snapped off the picture, and a driver showed up for her.  We both had places to be. Dolly gestured at the camera, "Oh wait, um, I should give you my...." I cut her off "I'll get it to you."  And in case the arm around me hadn't been enough, the hug, the feel of her body next to mine, her breasts pressed into me, and the feel of the muscles in her lower back when I returned a bit of the hug and tried like hell not to let my hard-on bump into her, again, furthering and cementing my fetish for fitness chicks. A smile, a gleam of her eyes, and then "I'll look for you Saturday".


So as Jeff and I walked back across the wooden elevated walkway connecting the tennis center to the number seven subway station on the way to the Mets new Stadium ( I still want to call it Shea, like the old place), all he said was "she seemed pretty interested, you know.  Your fiancé know about your crush on her?”  I made it a point to copy the photo onto a flash drive for her before Saturday.


Dolly won her first two matches, but damn the luck, she was not scheduled to play her third rounder until Sunday, and I didn't have tickets for Sunday.  Well, I always got a thrill out of going to the US Open, so its not like I wasn't going to go.  The matches, I confess, were not memorable, or maybe they just seemed lackluster since I now felt like I had more of a personal connection to the players, and not just an old embarrassing story about getting smacked in the face by a Wilson tennis ball.  I was leaving the last match of the afternoon scheduled for the grandstand court, located in the shadows of the old main stadium, a place where shadows were long and crowds were usually short, as most of the feature matches took place in the stadium.  Maybe because the crowd was so small I wasn't shocked when I walked out onto the concourse and there stood Dolly, this time in sunglasses and a cap (like the old days!) signing an autograph, and then, as she looked at me, breaking into a smile.  Was she looking for me?  "Logan!"  (She WAS!)  And she handed back the program and pen, and waived and walked toward me.  Was this really happening?


"So how did you like today's matches?" And she hugged me, again, and this time held it longer, then didn't release as she then backed away to look at me face to face.  Which was really the first time I realized she was almost my same height.  I'd always thought of her as being around 5'7", but how was I not aware that this girl was 5'11" or six foot.  I glanced down.  No sneakers, instead, sexy heels, making her already killer legs look positively Victoria’s Secret worthy.  If a VS model went to the gym for a year, that is.


"Dolly, holy sh..." I held off cussing, "wow, you just saw me in the crowd? Your match isn't until tomorrow, were you practicing?" "No, I was hoping I'd see you, you said you had tickets for today and you said you went to matches in the grandstand, so I took a shot you might be here again."  Nice shot. "And right before I hit with my coach I found out I have a walkover tomorrow, I've got the day off".  As a player and fan I knew that a walkover was a default, when a player advanced without having to play a match.  Usually injury related.  I had a puzzled look on my face, I guess.  "Stephanie turned an ankle in the doubles today, so she's out.  Bet she never plays doubles again.  But when I realized I had tomorrow off and you said you were coming, well, did you have plans for tonight?"  I was now at about two-thirds of my blood supply going to the little head.  Fiancé, what fiancé?


I had just been asked out on a date by one of the top tennis players in the world, a sexy model type fitness bodied glamour girl, standing here in a pair of fuck me stiletto heeled sandals, which I began to suspect (or at least dream) were for my benefit..  I'd fantasized about Dolly, imagining her flat tummy against mine, her sexy ass, her eyes, those lips, while rubbing one out many times.  "Um, plans?"  Brilliant response.  Wow, was I lacking in game or what?  Where had I found the stones to talk to her at all the day before the tournament started? I heard myself, and knew I had to recover quickly. "No plans,  why, did you want to practice hitting your volleys off my face again?"  I knew she had some lingering connection to that shot, and mentioning it had worked damn well earlier in the week.


Dolly pulled me close (really?  Was this shit happening, in the middle of the national tennis center?  It was) and she buried her face in my shoulder like she was embarrassed.  "Oh, I'm so sorry about that!" she said again, really ridiculous, I was thinking.  About fifteen years ago or so, and she’s won the US Open and Wimbledon and been around the world twenty times.  And it’s not like there was any reason for her to have any guilt.  Truth be told, you get hit on a tennis court, its your fault.  You've got a racquet, if you're a sitting duck, just defend yourself.  "Well maybe you've got time to make it up to me, with the walkover and all.  No, I don't have plans, Dolly.  Is there someplace quiet hot tennis stars go in the middle of a tournament to get away?"  I was pretty proud of that one even as I heard myself saying it.  "Yeah, that's what I meant; I just want to chill out, can you?"  I'd taken the train in, I was with three friends, my groomsmen, all of whom were standing a few feet away, slack jawed, astounded, and I just played it cool and turned to them, "Uh, guys, this is Dolly, I met her at a tennis training session back when I played, we're going to catch up, I'll call you guys, okay" hoping they'd take the hint. And hoping that none of them would tell their wives, any one of whom would be calling my fiancé in a New York minute.  And here I was, in New York….  Thank goodness they nodded their heads in a way that indicated the guy code was alive and well.  "Sure buddy, hey nice to see you Dolly, good luck the rest of the way, catch you later Logan."  They were gone.  And I was apparently about to embark on a date with Dolly.  She leaned in, and as she whispered into my ear, so I could hear as a plane on approach to LaGuardia roared overhead, her lip brushed my ear lobe as she said "let's get out of here."


I didn’t have to be asked twice.  Except, I noticed, she hadn’t asked.  I felt her slip her hand into mine, interlock fingers, and felt for a second like the last third of my blood had started to flow to my manhood as the strength of her hand, her arm, leading me, the feel of a physically fit pro tennis player’s hand against my hand, and the anticipation of, well, I didn’t know quite what I was anticipating other than I expected it was good and better than anything else I dreamed I might do that night.  Through a player’s only passage she led me, smiling over her shoulder as she led, a step ahead, and I found myself having to consciously pick up my normal walking speed.  She wasn’t running, she was simply moving with a speed I was not used to.  She slowed as we got past the rest of the non-players who nevertheless had access to the players-only spaces, through a couple passage-ways and air conditioned buildings and she simply said, “this is so cool”, which thrilled me, since it was pretty much what I was thinking, as she then told me to “wait here” and ducked inside a solid door marked “Ladies Lockers” and returned within three minutes – three looooong, self-conscious minutes as I got a few looks but thankfully no questions about who I was or what I was doing there—with an oversized bag, presumably clothes and racquets, slung over her left, non-playing shoulder.  “We’ve got courtesy cars to the City” she said, and again, she started leading me toward the exit marked “Player Transportation”.


Now I was starting to realize what a pussy I’d call myself if I’d been watching this scene.  A lucky pussy, but really, she may as well have been leading me around by the dick, which metaphorically I guess she was.  When I was twenty years old, those were the terms in which I thought.  “Pussy, or not a pussy”. I felt like I was right back in college, the excitement of this sexy bodied babe.  Time to not be such a pussy.  “Dolly, let me carry the bag, anyway, you know, my father would expect me to be a gentleman and I don’t want to disappoint him,” was my excuse.  It sounded corny but okay to my ears, invoking dad even though I was a grown man and Dolly was among the few players in the draw in her thirties.  But still the hottest, and the nineteen year olds knew it. 


Dolly smiled and passed the bag over, “you know they only call them ‘Gentlemen’ at Wimbledon, here they’re just ‘Men.’”  “Dad would definitely expect me to be a man, too.”  I took the bag, and Dolly leaned in and adjusted the padded part of the strap on my shoulder, then gave me a peck on the cheek.  A line of Buick sedans, all painted to say Buick, official sponsor of the U.S. Open, on the side door, awaited us at the curb, and a staffer in a polo shirt that said, not surprisingly, “U.S. Open Staff” was at the curb, with a checklist, and Dolly said something to him, and a trunk was popped, a driver took her bag off my shoulder, and we were in the back, on our way to Manhattan via the Triborough Bridge.


We hadn’t said much. Once we cleared the grounds of the National Tennis Center, carved out of the World’s Fair Grounds, I realized she did the same thing I’d always done:  check out the World’s Fair remnants, the Globe, the towers with observation decks, the skeletons of exhibit pavilions long since dismantled, a couple early NASA rockets. This time I took her hand, and since I was sitting on the left and held her left hand in my right, she wasn’t very callused. Again, we interlocked our fingers.  This had been the boyfriend and girlfriend way to hold hands since I’d been in junior high.  WTF was I doing back here with her, I do remember asking myself, just before I answered myself in my head, “who cares”.  I broke the silence, “I’ve always loved looking at the World’s Fair Stuff, whenever I came to Shea, or to the Open, and now the new stadium there.”  Dolly asked if I came to the area much, and I told her usually twice a year for the Open, most years, and on average about five or six Mets games. “We’ve got Mets tickets available, I’ve never gotten any.”  I asked if she had any time to be a baseball fan, and she told me not really, and she definitely didn’t have time for that, but she did like to watch other sports sometimes, it was just hard to get a chance.  I asked if she came to New York at all other than for the Open.  Agent and sponsor meetings, some photo shoots, fashion week.  Sure, I thought.  Rock star stuff.  And she was taking me with this time!  She released my hand and put hers on my thigh.  Now I definitely responded.  I was thankful there hadn’t been hand to dick-bulge contact. She told me that she “never got a day off in the Open like this.  I’ll end up hitting tomorrow and doing my strategy session with my coach, but tonight’s a night off, and I can sleep in. Do you live in New York?”


I explained I lived in Connecticut, but commuted into the city by train. Midtown office.  This weekend I was crashing at a college friend’s place on the Upper East Side, we’d lived together undergrad and he was an investment banker.  I had a key so it was cool for me to get back there anytime.  “Were you staying the whole weekend?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.  “I’m pretty much on my own same as you”.  She dug her nails into my thigh, and more of those fingers were on skin than on khaki.  She had to know I was so hard at that point. We locked eyes, leaned forward, hesitated, and after a false move or two, kissed, lightly, briefly, on the lips, a trace of saliva, no tongue.  A cleared throat from our driver broke the spell and generated smiles and giggles from both of us.  “Hey its all good,” said our driver, also wearing a U.S.Open Staff Polo like the man with the clipboard. “You’ve got a gentleman with you Miss Dolly,” he said, “some of the Europeans really don’t care that there’s someone else in the car.” And we laughed.  She whispered to me, “that was nice, and another peck followed, and then she slid over so we were totally sitting like a couple, and my hand found the inside of her thigh.  Neither one of us made any moves in the car, but we did make small talk about where she liked to shop, when came in for sponsor meetings and some photo shoots and interviews.  “You should do the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue again, you’re as hot as the models they have doing that and you’re a real athlete” I blurted out.  I swear that suntanned cheek blushed. “They had me once when I’d won the title, and was younger, but they don’t want muscles in that issue, they want runway models.  And I’m not doing that wear the bottom, hold the top, and cover my boobs with my hands pose that half the photos use nowadays, anyway.  At least, not if there’s a camera around I’m not taking my top off…”  Wow, did she really say that?


So you’re a topless beach gal, are you?. She smile, and said she did like topless beaches, one of her favorite things she’d learned in Europe during her career.  “Good.  I like really sexy women but no tan lines, please”  “So I’m sexy?” she asked.  “Have you looked in a mirror lately?  Yah-ah” I answered, adding an extra syllable to “yeah”.  We were in Manhattan, pulling up to her many star hotel.  I wasn’t used to doormen opening the door, grabbing the bags without me having to do so, and as I started fumbling in my pockets for some singles to tip someone for something, Dolly told me “don’t worry about anyone’s tip, I take care of everyone when I leave,” and once again I was being led by the hand.  This time I didn’t feel like a pussy, she’d kissed me and I’d called her sexy, and a bellman carried the bag for everyone.  When we got to the room, she opened the door ,and it wasn’t a room, it was a suite, with a sitting room with a park view, a separate bedroom through a door, and there were tennis racquets, a drying rack with a few items of clothing, shoes and sneakers, and a bunch of food items, all healthy looking, on a counter.  Bottled water some with flavors.  Then Dolly slipped him a couple bucks just before the door closed.  “Pussy” I silently called myself.


Dolly turned to face me.  It was six thirty. She stretched  her toned arms, defined triceps, fit forearms, firm but not body builder biceps, resting her forearms onto my shoulders.  I stepped into the embrace and put my hands at her waist, then wrapped them around and pulled her close.  We were about the same height with her in these heels, a new kissing sensation for me.  It was the softest French kiss I’d ever experienced up to that time. We seemed to have the same gentle but enthusiastic searching quality to how our tongues met each other’s, got used to each other’s mouths. We tightened our embrace.  I don’t know how long that kiss lasted, but I was completely aroused, and she felt it press forward into her.  “hmmm, somebody else is looking for fun tonight, I see”, and a second kiss followed, with hands and arms moving about each others body, romantically though, not sexually.


I needed a shower, truth be told, after a day at the Open, and I said as much.  “You look great but I’m a mess, maybe I should jump in a cab to my buddy’s place, get a shower and a change and meet you for dinner?”  Dumbass Logan.  Forgetting I was basically with a rock star again.  “Don’t be silly, there’s a great shop downstairs, what size are you, a men’s large  Without really processing the implications of the question, I sort of mentioned my sizes, and then Dolly said, “good then, go grab a shower and I’ll have some things sent up.”  Again, WTF?  Dolly grabbed a handful of shirt, pulled me close, and the softness was gone from this next French kiss, replaced by a lustful hunger.  If she had any doubt that I was all-in, the twitch from my cock up against her body in our firm embrace erased the last shreds of that doubt.  “Go get clean” And she pushed me toward the most luxurious hotel bathroom I’d seen since I proposed to my fiancé at the Windsor Court in New Orleans during Mardi Gras many months earlier.  Oh, right, my fiancé, I remember her….


I found an over-supply of towels, soaps, shampoos.  “You’re fully stocked in here,” I called out, but no answer. She was probably on the phone with the shop.  She was going to dress me?  Really?  I was still thinking “pussy” as I got into the shower, but not the twenty year old college student use of the word.  Not “I’m a pussy”.  This time it was “I’m going to get pussy!”


I stepped out, and called “Dolly, everything okay?” and still no answer.  There was a pair of robes.  Like I said, this was a many star hotel.  So I put one on, stepped out, and Dolly called to me from the bedroom.  I poked my head in and there was Dolly.  On the bed.  In a white thong, white lace bra, bronze tan everywhere else, long blonde hair all brushed out and down to the middle of her back, on the bed, one knee bent, and her red pedicured toes were playing with the sheet.  I guess the turn down service had prepped the bed for sleep, or rollicking sex, or whatever I’d stumbled into here on the luckiest day of my life, before we’d gotten back.


“Wow, look at you!  Did they send that up from the shop, too?” That got a laugh and Dolly patted the bed next to her, summoning me.  I was starting to just feel like her lover, not such a pussy, when she gave directions and I followed.  The instinct to do as she said hadn’t steered me wrong yet.  “No, turns out the shop closed at six, can you believe it?”  “So that leaves me clean, but with sweaty clothes.  I appreciate you stripping down so I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious, but…”


Dolly placed a finger to my lips, leaned forward, kissed me again, and my hands on her skin felt like an absolute dream come true, my hands on a sexy fitness model type from a magazine, with an S.I. Swimsuit issue appearance no less.  She reached into my robe, and found my cock, stiff, erect, ready for action, and her touch caused it to twitch and ooze a precum droplet from the top. She was sensuously sucking on my bottom lip when my hands reached her bra, and Dolly reached up, took my hands, moved them to the middle between her breasts, where I detected she was wearing a front snap bra.  Maybe my first pro sexy athlete, but not my first front snapping bra, and soon we were both topless as she pushed my robe off my shoulders and I dropped her pretty bra on the floor.  “The pro shop at the Open has sales until the end of the night session, though, so I called back through my agent, and I’ve got a couple shirt and shorts coming for you/”  A couple?  Was this a weekend duration date?  “They’ll get it delivered to the concierge downstairs, they’ll hold it until we call for it to be brought up.”  I wasn’t her first seduction.  Girl had logistics skills in buying a boyfriend for the night.  And I’d apparently been selected for that role—somewhere in my head some quick math revealed I’d been imagining sex with Dolly for about fifteen years.  Since she made her first quarterfinals and had been barely legal at the time.


“Um, don’t suppose they sell boxers at the open, do they?”


"You suppose wrong, well, sort of.  I’m an Adidas endorser, Logan, Couple of pair of Adidas logo boxer briefs in the package coming to the hotel.  But that’ll be a while.  You don’t mind ordering room service, do you, is dinner in okay?”  Ever get a sense of unreality?  Where you can’t distinguish if you’re awake or dreaming?  I’d have asked Dolly to pinch me so I could tell if I was dreaming, but she started stroking my cock again so that a pinch would just have fallen way short.  “Room service sounds great, but I think we’ve got enough to eat right here for now.” 


I pushed the now topless Dolly onto her back, and admired her flat tummy, the navel piercing having been removed but the hole apparent, her nipples erect, breasts firm, no tan lines as advertised, and my robe having fallen to the floor as I positioned myself over her, soon I was feeling her body against mine, her legs around me, and her strong arms pulling me close, nails digging into my flesh as I was grinding my cock into her clit through her thong.  She pushed her thong to the side and pulled one of my hands to her, “you’ve got me so fucking wet Logan”, she was positively soaked, like I hadn’t felt since I didn’t know when. She slid her own fingers into herself, and brought those fingers to my lips.  I sucked, she tasted fresh, sexy, and my cock was aching to feel this wet reception. Our kisses were now pure animal hunger, blood lust in intensity, and we worked together to slide her thong off.  My mouth was on her breast, first one, then the other, sucking her nipples, drawing gasps and sexy little verbal responses like “yes,” “harder” “suck them, yes, suck me Logan”, “God yes, like that” and “mmm, yeah, I like your tongue”.


I was teasing her slick soaked clit, between some large, sensuous labia, directly with the underside of the head of my circumcised cock, feeling her wetness, realizing how close to unprotected penetration we were. I rubbed my cock head back and forth across her clit, loving the feel of her nub on my cock, but knowing that we shouldn’t….but oh my God it felt so good.


Dolly whispered, ‘just keep doing that, yes, side to side, fuck that’s good, don’t stop…” and moved her own skilled hand to her sex, and inserted two fingers inside herself, knowing just where to touch and how hard and started talking like a soft core porn star, not nasty, just slutty, “you’ve got such a good cock, baby, I can’t wait until it’s in me, you’re doing me so fucking good Logan”.  I’m no expert of female sexuality.  I can only claim a sincere desire to help a woman cum if I’m her lover.  So I’m not going to say I made her cum.  But I did have her grand slam champion love leakings on my cock and my mouth on her nipple when I felt her body stiffen and tremor, and a growl came from her that was intense.  Her teeth were gritted, and then she was limp.  I felt a rush of warm fluids onto my cock, still at the door but not inside, and I took that to mean she’d cum.


Dolly removed her fingers from herself, slathered them with even more of her slick juices, and began a hand job with me already close to the breaking point from the skin to skin simulation and masturbation against her clit.  I moved my mouth to hers, and sucked her tongue and she finished the hand job by pressing my cock against though not inside, her soaked leaking pussy.  This grinding in the old days was known as dry humping but this was wet, so wonderfully wet. 


I was almost shocked when Dolly suddenly stopped and broke our kiss, then looked at me silently for a moment and got up and ran, athletic body on full display, to the bureau where she opened the top drawer and came back to the bed with a couple condoms.  She tore one open and took the opportunity to give me a sample of how good her mouth felt on my cock before covering me up and then leaning over the foot of the bed, feet flat on the floor, and positioned her cock against her post orgasmic pussy from behind.  Again, she wasn’t asking.  And I was fully balls deep in one push.  Dolly was warm, firm and pushing back against my cock as I fucked her.  Talking slutty again, imploring me to give it to her, and I gave her everything I had.  Between my cock slamming hard and often, her own fingers frigging her clit, and me bending my knees to get lower and have some upward thrust into Dolly’s body with my fuck thrusts, I didn’t last long groaning out

As my balls emptied into the condom, and I felt her use her pussy muscles in a voluntary contraction as I did.  We were both sweaty now.


We kissed, breathlessly, not hungry but instead a sensual, familiar lovers kiss of post orgasmic lovers who had at least share an appetizer even if there was more sex to come.  We drank bottled waters.  We lay down, me taking longer than this world class athlete of a tanned sexy woman to catch my breath. Arms and legs entwined. “I knew it,” Dolly finally exhaled.  What did she know?  She repeated that line.


I had to ask.  “What did you know?”


“When I hit you with that volley, all those years ago?? Dolly began…


“Right, yes … what?”


“Well the guys who were full time training there, like I was, and they all tried to fuck me, well when I said I felt bad and thought you were cute they all said “Oh that guy?  He’s probably used to have taking balls in his face.  I didn’t think so, but they thought they were so clever.  So they always referred to you as the balls in the face guy.”


Not what I expected, or would have hoped to hear.  Perhaps some final victory for me, now, here, naked with her, having just fucked her?


“I told them no way you were gay.  I just never thought I’d get to prove it.  You just did.”


So, I was some sort of a bet?  And even if I was, did I care?


So our appetizer had been awesome.  For our second course, we sixty-nined and I found out Dolly could suck a cock as well as she played tennis.  World championship caliber.  I did my best with my mouth, and we both came again.  She swallowed my seed, after showing it to me on her tongue.  Hot.


Our main course was actually ordered from room service.  She had the concierge bring up my clothes, saying we should shower and get dressed for dinner, but then after the package got up to the suite we ended up just wearing the robes for dinner.  She had grilled chicken, fruit, some tabouleh, and mixed greens with lemon sesame dressing.  I had grilled salmon on a Caesar salad.


We then said we’d go out for dessert, find some frozen yogurt soft serve somewhere.  We jumped in the shower, soaped each other up, and then got so worked up that we emerged from the shower, Dolly put another condom on me, and retrieved some lube (I was amazed she felt she needed some, at least for a while, until she made it clear that she was lubing her ass, and commanded me to take her ass, so that I’d have been everywhere inside her that night.  The tightness, the excitement of fucking my secret sex crush Dolly all night, I came while deep in her tight, ass, my balls hitting her shaved pussy, my hands all over her tennis sex queen body. Another shower, another bottled water.  And we collapsed into bed together, drained, spent, sexed out.


The next morning, Dolly rode me, both facing me and also facing the same way as me, a position she told me was called reverse cow girl.  Who was I to argue?  We had egg white omelets  with spinach, mushroom broccoli and peppers with ultra-grain toast.  And then we fucked one last time, missionary, very intimately, deeply passionately kissing each other the entire time we fucked.  I wanted to cum inside her again, but Dolly wanted me to pull out, take the condom off and let her suck me off.  She swallowed that load, too, and then she showered, alone at her request, and then she left to go have a massage for her muscles and a hitting/training session at the Open.  I put my dirty clothes in the U.S, Open bag the new clothes were delivered in, and wore some new U.S. Open insignia clothes from Adidas as I took a walk of shame through the lobby to a cab back to my buddy’s place.  I finally glanced at my iPhone.  Three messages from the three friends I’d gone to the Open with.  They were all variations on “So, does she fuck as good as she plays tennis?”  And three more texts, from my fiancé, saying she hoped I was having a good time, then wishing me a fun time in NY City with my friends, and then finally wishing me a good night and that she loved me.


I remembered the flash drive, and left it in an envelope with the concierge.  So she would have the jpeg of the photo from when I saw her the day before the open started.


Dolly’s run at that US Open ended in the quarterfinals, a straight set loss to a younger, quicker player.  I sent a note, handwritten, that was totally not explicit, but which said how much I enjoyed our chance meeting at the US Open, and how wonderful it was that she remembered her volley that struck me so many years earlier, and how much I’d enjoyed feeling connected to her through the years of her tennis career.  I wished her well and promised to go see her at future US Opens.  There didn’t turn out to be any future US Opens, as Dolly announced her retirement just prior to the Australian Open the following January. 


I got married as scheduled a few weeks after that US Open.  When my groomsmen took me out to dinner a few days before the ceremony, they told me that they all figured I’d had my bachelor party and that they figured it was better that there no witnesses to say anything other than we’d all gone to dinner, and had a couple drinks, gone to the US Open together, and they never mentioned anything else.  Well, they did say one other thing, which was they took credit for the mystery gift at our wedding of a gift certificate for a weekend stay for two at the tennis resort in Florida where Dolly had volleyed that ball into my face so many years ago, with a printed, anonymous note that said, “To keep your tennis memories alive forever”.  My bride read the card, heard the guys’ impromptu explanation, and said ‘oh yeah, you told me you went to that evaluation thing there, hey, maybe we might see that famous player who’d plunked me with the tennis ball all those years ago.”


I kissed my bride, so pretty in her wedding dress, and told her I was sure that a US Open champion wouldn’t remember some stray volley from one of thousands and thousands of practices she’d had over the years,  we ended up having a fun trip to that resort the following Presidents Day weekend.  Thanks Dolly.  For everything.


 A purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure.

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