Colleen pulled her Mustang into a parking spot at the tennis club. In the rearview mirror she touched up her shoulder-length dark red hair with her matching dark red fingernails, put on some matching lipstick, clicked the cap back on, and swung her lovely tennis legs out of the car. She had been the ladies champion now for 3 years running. She was made for tennis, made for belonging to this club, for being champion of this club. In her late thirties, her 5'6 body was trim and fit. On the court, she wore tops that were tight, and skirts that were stretchy, almost never shorts: provocative, but controlled. In a way her tennis outfit was like a uniform, an invisible shield. The men liked to watch her play; she heard that in their locker room they waxed eloquent about her body, about the beauty of her breasts, about fucking her. They called her "creampuss".
Among the women she had a few social friends - she was basically very nice - but her tennis skill and her sexiness got under the skin of the catty women, the women who "did lunch". They would lower their voices as she passed them in the dining room, their Gucci and Versace handbags on the floor beside their chairs, their hair perfect. Even though Colleen didn't have Anna Kournikova's gorgeous flaxen tresses, these women still called her "bitchikova". For her part, she called them the "dry cunts", equally vicious, but more accurate. It didn't bother her much; catty girls had been saying things like that since she was sixteen. The only thing that bothered her, completely privately, was the word "cunt", a word she never felt comfortable uttering aloud. All the more appropriate then, for these witches.
She liked to play on Friday afternoons; the place was usually deserted. She smiled at her reflection in the front door of the club: slim, muscular legs, black leather skirt, and a tight black stretch top. In this reflection she couldn't make out her nipples, but she knew they were just visible; her bra was almost sheer, a C-cup, and allowed her breasts to bounce as she walked. She felt good.
Inside she smiled and waved at homely Kelly, the receptionist, a sweet girl in her early twenties, who liked Colleen because Colleen always asked about her family in Saskatchewan. On the opposite side of the desk, talking to Kelly, was a tall woman, blonde, strikingly dressed in a shimmering electric blue suit, with red nails. Another one of the "dry cunts", Colleen thought to herself, but she hadn't seen this one before.
Colleen walked swiftly past the pro's office. Ted, a bronzed mid-40s athletic guy, was always checking out Colleen's legs and ass and tits, trying to get into Colleen's pants, even though he had a wife. He was "a player", as the girls called him in their locker room - not a tennis player, that is, but one who "played around". She waved at him and flashed a sexy smile. Even though she always spurned him, she liked the effect she had. "Bitchikova": in a few small ways, she did earn the title.
The reality was that sex - and men - interested her only from time to time. Even her fantasy life came and went. She did keep a couple of movies in her bottom drawer, mainly of men stroking their cocks and cumming; her favorite thing was to see cum shooting from the end of a hard, thick cock; she had a thing about men masturbating. And she had a couple of toys - vibes, special panties with beads that rubbed her clit, but she hadn't touched them in about a month. The best way to describe her life right now was "contained": contained within the tennis club, some volunteering, her son and daughter away for the winter at ski school - they were both incredible skiers - and her ex-husband sending cheques from California where he lived alone now, too. She shivered away the memory, and smiled at her luck: she had been losing interest in him anyway. Men were lusting after her all the time. She caught them looking. She made them look. But that was as much of a thrill as she had the motivation for these days.
Once in the locker room, she quickly changed. Tight cotton top, sports bra, and tight wraparound skirt that sometimes flipped up when she moved from side to side on the court, showing glimpses of lace panties instead of the functional cotton panties people expected. Naughty, but contained. She knew that when she played her nipples got hard, just like Venus Williams. But Venus and Serena were both such big girls. Amazons. She shuddered at the thought, and walked into the winter bubble they used in the bad weather.
"Colleen!" Ted's voice came across the bubble.
"Fuck," she thought, not bothering to turn around.
"Debbie can't come today. She just called."
Double fuck. She just waved at Ted, took her balls and went over to the backboard. She was in a pissy mood. She drove the ball, over and over, the THWACK of the backboard echoing in the bubble.
"Sorry."
Colleen heard the voice and stopped, realizing someone had been talking to her for a while as she had been thumping the ball into the backboard. It was Ted again, and the woman she had seen talking to Kelly when she arrived. The tall blonde "dry cunt." Now decked out in tennis gear. Not just tennis gear: Ralph Lauren tennis gear. Colleen smiled politely.
"Colleen, let me introduce you to Katrina Matthews. A new member at the club. She's quite a good player. Used to be a state champion, back east."
The tall blonde woman looked down at Colleen slowly, with a slight smile that Colleen thought was probably friendly, then looked down over at Ted. Colleen could tell he was sizing the new woman up. In her Ralph Lauren tennis jumper, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and her tanned, muscular legs, she would fuel Ted's fantasies for hours. Another conquest. Katrina gave him a withering look. "Please Ted, don't say things like that. That was a long time ago."
Ted smiled back, aware of embarrassing the woman. "Colleen is the ladies' champion," he said to Katrina.
Katrina raised her eyebrows - her well-plucked eyebrows - above incredibly blue eyes, so blue Colleen thought she must be wearing tinted contacts. "Oh really? Well you're probably too good for me."
"No, let's hit. My match bailed." Colleen extended her hand, much smaller than the other woman's. She noticed the bright red nail polish again. Harsh. "Welcome to the club." In a spirit of conspiracy, Colleen and Katrina turned to their respective ends of the court, both ignoring Ted. This woman, like Colleen, obviously was used to keeping assholes like Ted at bay.
They hit for a while. Then they played. The other woman actually was good. Competent, understated, and confident. Intense. Only real competitors possessed that kind of intensity. But obviously out of practice. Or some other problem, maybe an old injury. Colleen broke her four times, easily enough to win 6-2, 6-2.
Afterward, standing beside the net, Colleen tried to assess whether she wanted to play this woman again.
"The ladies champion, huh?" The tall woman's voice was lower than her own. "I can see why. Did you ever play in the east? I would probably know you if you did. I just moved here." The tall woman gave a shiver. "So good to be out of that world."
Colleen looked up at her, angling her head. This was one of her looks she used on men, practiced so many times that it was unconscious: the angled, slightly puzzled, slightly modest look, used for responding to a compliment. She scratched her thigh with her nails, dark red nails, vividly contrasting her pale skin - another unconscious act. The tall woman just stood there looking down at her, saying nothing, then Colleen realized she was awaiting a response. She broke out of her daze. "Thanks! I'm just lucky to be in a club that doesn't have too many competitive players, I guess."
The tall woman raised her eyebrows quickly, then slipped her racquet in its cover. "Oh really? I consider myself pretty competitive. We'll have to play again." She pushed a wisp of her blonde hair behind her ear and picked her watch out of her bag. "Fuck. I have to run. I have a bit of a date. Sorry about that." In ten seconds she was gone.
Colleen gathered her racquets and balls and walked to the locker room. She threw her stuff in the bottom of the wooden locker, not bothering to lock it, wrapped a towel around herself and walked to the shower. She hung the towel on the outer privacy door. Soaped herself up, around her breasts, lifting them, pinching them slightly, feeling a little something but not pursuing it. Soaped her mound of wispy dark hair, her fingers along her slit, washing away the sweat. Again, feeling a twinge of distant pleasure, but not pursuing it. She turned off the shower, and towelled herself dry.
Then she heard it. A barrage of the foulest language she had ever heard from a woman's mouth. With pauses, like the woman was on the telephone. She must be on the telephone. A cell phone. Cell phones weren't allowed in the club, it was that snooty. Colleen tiptoed along the rows of lockers toward her own, listening.
"You fucking bitch. You lazy, cunt-licking inconsiderate bitch. What do you mean you're sorry? We were supposed to meet at 6 and you tell me you have to work? This date has been in the book for a week! I bet he's fucking you, isn't he?" [pause] "oh yeah right, he has a big case and just has to have you stay behind. On a Friday night? And I bet you're wearing those clothes I told you to wear? Right?" [pause] "yeah right, no wonder he wants you to stay and fuck. Dressed like that. A fucking slut. That's all you are. Filthy whore."
