I hate my fiancée's clocks. I can appreciate her sense of humor, but it's just so damned hard to figure out what time it is in her house. You see, all of her clocks run backwards. She's got three stooges clocks, Bill Clinton clocks, Goofy Clocks, and every other kind of gag clock that runs backwards.
I'm not real fond of her mirrors either. The closest thing to an intact mirror in her house is the center section of her makeup vanity. She doesn't let her sense of humor get in the way of practicality after all. The other mirrors in her house are all mosaics. Artful creations by expensive artists and designers that all look like a child's attempt to hide the damage from his parents.
Her sense of humor may be part of the reason I love her so much, but sometimes it's a little overboard. Take her ornamental garden for example.
It's got the neatest G-Gauge model railroad layout you've ever seen, complete with a dirt road for her prize freight train to run on. I still haven't figured out how she keeps the damn thing on the road without rails to guide it. Come to think Of it, I haven't figured out how she lets it know where she is in the garden. It only takes the dirt road when it's headed in her direction. It just speeds up when it's headed away from her.
Oh, well. If I could figure out things like that, I probably wouldn't be a tennis pro. I'd be a rich computer geek and would never have met Maggie.
You might have guessed two things about my fiancée by now. First, she's not what you might call a pretty lady. She proudly claims she's 'Coyote Ugly,' but I obviously disagree with that description. I've never even considered chewing my arm off to keep from waking her. I told her she's only a 'two bagger.' She took me semi-seriously and we now have matching velvet bags that she insists we wear to bed. She had them custom made.
The second thing that should be apparent by now is that she's rich. Not just well off, but filthy stinking rich. She's in that class of people who can't spend money as fast as it earns interest.
Aha, you say. You're just marrying her for her money.
Well you're wrong, absolutely dead wrong. If I wanted to marry her money, I'd marry her sister.
Abigail has more money than my girl Maggie does. She also is mad as a wet hen at me because I prefer her ugly sister to her. She can't understand why, after dating her for six months, I dumped her for Maggie.
None of my 'friends' can understand why I dumped a gorgeous blonde like Abigail for the horse-faced younger sister with calico hair either.
Maybe I should start at the beginning.
*****
"Damn, Gordi, I'd sure like to teach that babe a few things, and don't mean about tennis!"
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"Your new student just walked in, and she's one hot number. You watch your step, boy. Don't stumble when you turn around to look at her, or you'll pole vault over the net by accident."
I turned around to see what had my fellow tennis pro so excited. I scanned the court casually to see if I could pick the one he meant from all of the rich hard-bodies playing at being athletic. It wasn't hard. Well, it got hard quickly, but that's not what I meant.
It was obvious which girl he meant. The most perfect ass money could buy from a plastic surgeon was pointed right at my face. It was attached to a body that was sculpted by a genius. Probably literally sculpted, as were most of the babes around the country club.
The face that greeted me when she stood and turned was as beautifully sculpted as the rest of her. So were the large tits stretching her demure white tennis dress.
"Which one of you is Gordon Jones?"
I was stunned by the dulcet tones of her voice. That wasn't sculpted. Trained maybe, but a voice that sexy couldn't have required much training.
"He is."
My buddy Harry saved me from sounding stupid. I couldn't have talked coherently when I first heard her voice to save my soul. I recovered fairly quickly. I am a professional after all.
"That's correct. You must be Ms. Walker, my two o'clock lesson. I'm pleased to meet you."
"Please call me Abigail. I shall call you Gordon, if you don't mind."
"Actually I go by Gordi, but you're paying the bills, so you can call me anything you want."
"OK. Gordi it is. Since I am paying the bills, shall we get started?"
"Certainly. I understand you're a B-Class player, and just want some talented competition. Correct?"
"Yes, that's correct. I just need someone to challenge me, and maybe give me some pointers so I can move up to A-Class. I'm sure that you'll have me sweaty in no time."
Her laugh was even better than her speaking voice. I heard it often during her hour-long tennis lesson. She did indeed work up a sweat too. It did nice things to the bodice of her tennis dress.
About halfway through her lesson, Harry interrupted with a note from the club's athletic director. I took a quick look and saw it was a revision of my scheduled lessons for the day, and tucked in my racket bag without paying much attention to it.
Abigail thanked me for a very good lesson as she pulled a sports bottle from her bag. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when she soaked her chest and stomach with the contents instead of drinking it. Where the sweat from her workout had made the white cotton translucent, the cold water made it transparent. It also made her nipples stand up to attention.
"Looks like there's only one thing you've got left to do, Gordi."
"What's that, Abigail?"
"Why, seduce me, of course. Isn't that what Tennis Pros at posh country clubs do to single rich girls?"
