Note: This is a nonconsent story, and "harsher" than some readers will likely prefer (especially in Part 2). Though not intended to be sadistic, it emphasizes themes of dominance and humiliation, and shies away from the common pattern of all participants secretly or unwillingly enjoying it. That is just how my fantasy life runs sometimes. Therefore, if it is not your cup of tea, I apologize and encourage you to find something more to your liking.
It is, of course, a tale of sheer fantasy in all respects, intended only for the purposes of erotic entertainment. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
* * * * *
I don't know why Grace and I had a standing tennis date with the Schwetzers. The truth was, they were assholes.
Well, I take it back. Not about them being assholes, I mean. But I do know why we had begun playing tennis together, originally.
Do you know how it is, when you first enter into a committed long-term partnership? Sure, each of you has your own friends, and you probably have some shared friends too. Still, at that stage in life it often seems important to start attracting
couples
into your social orbit: other committed twosomes who can mirror and reinforce your own pairing. The kinds of couples that you expect you will enjoy inviting over—to your holiday get-together, or to try that new sushi place, or to watch the big game—for decades to come.
At any rate, that was very much our state of mind when we moved into town as newlyweds, knowing nobody at all. One of the first 'prospects' I identified was Mark Schwetzer, who worked in the division of PhytoCorp that I had just joined. I learned that he was married and lived in a nearby subdivision—much more swank than we could afford, but only a short drive away. In no time Grace and I had invited the Schwetzers to dinner, and we were soon getting together with them regularly.
They were conspicuously affluent. Up-and-comers. At the time, I think it felt like the obvious move to attach ourselves to them—as if we could ride their social and professional coattails. But the attraction was not entirely one-sided. They didn't seem to have many close friends, so having us ready to jump at their invitations was a plus for them. More to the point, I think they liked how they looked beside a less-glamorous and slightly threadbare pair like Grace and me.
For the first year or two, it seemed like we had fun together. At least that's what we told ourselves. Really, though, it was always somewhat awkward being around them. We didn't love their taste in movies or cuisine. Nor, to be honest, did we really like them. Mark was full of himself, a little crude, and harbored a mean streak that he didn't work hard to hide. His wife Sheila was certainly not someone you could call crude, but she was cold, pushy, calculating. I had thought of her, at first, as Mark's trophy wife, but that wasn't right at all. She was gorgeous, to be sure, albeit in an icy, emotionless sort of way. But she certainly hadn't married Mark for his family money, since we were soon given to know that her clan's inherited wealth ran to just as many zeroes as his. Moreover, she evidently took her 'woman behind the man' role very seriously. It didn't take us long to see that it was her drive, ambition, and social connections which had already set Mark on the path toward becoming a captain of industry.
Early on, Mark and Sheila had sponsored us to join the local country club, and we had been grateful. Scraping together the money for the membership had been precarious, but we'd managed it. And that's when we started our weekly doubles-tennis date with the Schwetzers, every Thursday morning on one of the club's indoor tennis courts.
Gradually, as the years dragged on, our other activities together with them slowly withered away. We got tired of being shown off like their poor relations, and used as the butt of their inuendo and sarcasm. They got irritated by our limited ambitions and social horizons. We all just got bored, and slightly disgusted, by each other. Oh, we'd still act like the best of friends at parties, church events, work gatherings. But we didn't really seek out each-other's company anymore.
From there things only went downhill. Within a few years it became clear that Sheila was gossiping about Grace behind her back, tearing her down with friends and neighbors at every opportunity. Meanwhile at the office, Mark's career bloomed while mine stumbled. I could never actually
prove
he had sabotaged me; but each time I suffered a blow or he won another accolade, I knew in my heart that the couple had devised some new way to profit at my expense. With his cruelty and Sheila's boundless ambition they made a formidable team.
Yet, still, we kept playing tennis with them. At first it had seemed like a lark. After a while, a way to stay active. Finally it devolved into a necessary chore; something that had to be accomplished each week, like taking out the trash. The fact was that Mark and Sheila were much better than us at tennis, as at everything else, and they delighted in rubbing our noses in it. If we won even one out of twenty times it would infuriate them, and set them to arguing bitterly about which of them had 'dropped the ball' and allowed us to beat them. But usually they whipped us handily, and their evident sense of physical and mental superiority—the air of condescension that dripped off them until it seemed to pool on the court—was hard to bear, even once a week.
Despite all that, we could never summon the courage to cancel our standing tennis date. For one thing, to break with Mark and Sheila, obviously, openly, permanently, felt a little risky. But it was more than just that. Tennis still reminded us of the optimism we had felt as a younger couple—the enjoyment we had taken from having these upscale friends, the pride we'd had in being accepted to the club, the expectations we had had for social and career success. To drop our weekly tennis game would be to finally admit that those feelings had been nothing more than phantoms, and that we were firmly set on the road to banal mediocrity. Those were difficult things to face. And so we kept playing tennis.
* * * * *
That fateful Thursday, we arrived at the club early, and changed into our 'proper' tennis whites, as we always did. The Schwetzers arrived late, making us cool our heels a little in order to show us our place, as they always did.
Grace and I had driven to the club in separate cars, so that we could go our different ways afterwards. The game was scheduled for an early dawn hour, and both the parking lot and the club itself were virtually empty. Most of the members were rolling in dough—executives or pampered housewives—and I imagined they were all still in bed, sleeping off yesterday's cocktails.
We weren't so lucky, however. In a line-manager position like mine, I had to be on the job promptly, even before the workers started arriving. Grace was teaching, now, to make some extra money, and needed to be at school just as early to prep the classroom. Mark, on the other hand, in his new position as executive director of our division, could basically show up to work whenever he wanted; while Sheila was a woman of leisure. The Schwetzers knew all these things, of course, and I'm sure took pleasure in making us sweat the clock.
So, we stood in the observation lobby, above the courts, waiting for them to arrive. Grace watched idly at the interior windows, which overlooked the courts themselves. Glancing over, I saw that one of the staff members was down there, swishing a broom, aimlessly, over the already-immaculate hard surface. Then, impatiently, I returned my gaze to the exterior windows, facing the parking lot—folding my arms around my racket, tapping my foot, waiting for the Schwetzers to make their grand entrance.
At last, with a screech of tires, I saw their giant black Escalade corner aggressively into the parking lot. Engine roaring, it sped toward the club building, racing across the nearly-empty expanse of paving, before juking suddenly into the empty parking spot which lay nearest to the front door. This was a 'compact-car' space, far too small for such a monstrosity. It was also the space right next to my Toyota.
There was a smash, audible through the observation windows up where I was, and a tinkling of broken class. The Escalade jerked and halted, partway into the space. I saw Sheila stick her head out the passenger window briefly, before retreating again behind the tinted glass. Then the Escalade backed out, and went to park at the other corner of the lot.
From where I stood, it looked like the giant black SUV, with its height advantage, had had much the better of the encounter. Its only visible damage was a nasty scrape on the bumper, with maybe some light denting. My little Corolla, on the other hand, was a mess—taillights shattered, bumper hanging off, fender bashed in, rear-door misaligned, and some kind of damage to the back wheel that made me doubt whether it could even drive. Silently I cursed myself for dropping my collision insurance—a few months ago, that had seemed like a smart way to economize.
Grace hadn't been watching, but the sound of the crash had gotten her attention. She wandered over next to me and looked down casually, before tensing slightly. Eyes wide, she turned to me with a low but heated voice: "John, was that...?"
