When Taen at the Flood

Note: This is a nonconsent story, and "harsher" than some readers will likely prefer. 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.

* * * * *

Recap: Following a heated argument, longtime frenemy couples, John and Grace Wilson, and Mark and Sheila Schwetzer, held a strip-tennis match to see which pair could assert their dominance and get the opposing woman naked. Aided by the secret bias of umpire Prakesh Singh, the Wilsons defeated the more athletic Schwetzers. Even stripped bare, however, Sheila remained undaunted, and soon reignited and escalated the argument. The end-result was mutual agreement to play for new and disturbing stakes: the winning husband would fuck the losing wife.

At that pivotal moment, events diverged within two parallel universes. This one, Universe A, happens to be kind to Grace and John. (In Universe B, on the other hand, a different fate awaits them.)

* * * * *

CHAPTER 4

* * * * *

Sheila had insisted that the floor be wiped carefully before play resumed. While that was going on, Prakesh Singh sidled over to me. He addressed me in a voice that was very low, and a little stiff. "John, I must tell you, I find this new game you have all agreed to very disturbing. I am deeply troubled at the idea of showing partiality with such stakes involved." He sighed anxiously. "Despite my misgivings, however," he went on, "I will do what I can to ensure that fortune continues to smile on you and Mrs. Wilson." At least he still had our back.

Then, it was time to begin. The butterflies in my stomach had multiplied. Thank God it was not my serve, that's all I can say. It was Sheila's however, and she was darn good. This was the hardest-fought and closest game of the day. Which I guess makes sense, given what was at stake. Sheila mostly stayed on the baseline; and, with the surface conditions improved, she was able to avoid any slips and tumbles, and usually get to where she needed to be. Her every movement tended to expose another pleasant perspective on her oh-so-bare pussy—so much so, that I expected it would throw her off. However, she seemed to have tamped down her self-consciousness in that regard, and brought herself under strict control. Mark handled the net, and appeared to have regained his cool competence. Grace was still executing at her flawless best, finding seams and dumping it in the corners. I felt helplessly outclassed, and yet fortunately did not make any major missteps and managed to hold up my end of things.

So we kept pace with each other, point for point. We reached deuce, and then deuce again, and then again. First we, and then the Schwetzers, would get an advantage, and yet neither couple was able to convert.

Fatigue was starting to be a factor. Mark was a strong, virile guy, but not in especially good condition, and he was beginning to show it. His normally pristine head of jet-black hair was a tangled, sweaty mop now, moisture was beading and dripping down his florid face, and he was breathing raspily through his mouth. Sheila still would not have looked out of place on a Paris runway (that is, if she'd had couture on, instead of nothing). Although she took care not to reveal it, however, I knew her extravagant rack must be in pain from the bouncing it was taking. Grace, I have to say, did not seem to have lost a step, though her hair, too, clumped into damp locks now, her bra was soaked, and her mostly-bare skin glowed and shimmered with a sheen of perspiration. As for me, I feared I was about spent. If I'd been in NBA shorts, instead of tennis tighties, I'd have been grabbing the hem, let's put it that way.

It was yet another deuce, and Sheila cued up her serve. Just as I had done for the last 12 or so, I admired the way her entire body was extended and opened by the maneuver—the way her tits rose as she stretched her racket arm back and up to strike the ball, the way her ample areolae and hard, bumpy nipples tilted skyward, and the way the delicate folds of pink visible at her crotch ruffled when she split her legs to stride forward...

Grace returned the serve cleanly, and we began another volley. After shots back and forth, Mark had an opening; but his tired muscles were a fraction of a second off, and he left the ball where Grace had an easy return. She countered with a soft drop-shot to the right, which wrong-footed Mark and looked to fall in just over the net. I raced forward, anticipating Mark might still have a play on it and preparing to respond, but he only waved disgustedly at the yellow blur as it started its descent, and then bent over his knees, huffing. I came screeching to a halt, directly before the net, and watched as the ball fell and landed... two inches outside the lines. Damn! It had been such a pretty shot!

Mr. Singh was even closer to the ball when it dropped than I was. In fact, it was practically at the foot of his chair. Sheila, on the other hand, was all the way across the court, and Mark wasn't even looking. Prakesh hesitated just a fraction of a second (calculating, no doubt, how much favoritism he was comfortable showing, or else how much he could get away with), and then called out "Line! Advantage Wilsons!" Whew, that was close!

Sheila was too tired to do any more than sputter some curses under her breath. Whether they were directed at Grace, Mark, Prakesh, or the universe in general wasn't clear. I also couldn't tell if she was conscious of the fact that—with us possessing the advantage again—her body was on the line. She seemed withdrawn, like she was inside her own head. But we'd been at this stage several times already by now, and I think we are all starting to believe that this game would just go on forever. At any rate, she and Mark didn't share any words or special glances. She simply set herself, took a quick breath, and served again.

It was an assertive serve, but not one I couldn't handle, and I flicked it back down the line. The drive got past Mark, but Sheila was there, and she thwacked a two-handed backhand in my direction. I know she had intended to force me deep to the baseline, but she left it too short, too high, and too much in front of me. Although she had been working hard not to show it, it seems that all this exertion must finally have begun to expose mistakes in her game, too. I saw my chance instantly. I leaped forward, eyes wide, reached far back with my racket, and then windmilled it over my head for a smash shot.

I knew the moment the ball struck the racket that I'd been over-eager, hitting it just a little too hard, and just a little too much on the down-stroke. I cringed mentally, fearing immediately that through an unforced error, through my own incompetence, I'd squandered our best chance to beat these assholes. In that fleeting instant, time seemed to slow, and I prayed that by some miracle the ball would find a way over. It ticked hard on the top of the net, in fact, and teetered for a moment, before finally dumping over onto the other side. Oh sweet relief! There was silence on the court for a long minute. Finally, with a hint of disbelief in his voice, Prakesh called it. "That would be... the game to the Wilsons, I believe."

* * * * *

Of the four players on the court, Grace was the first to respond. I guess I don't need to say that by this point, the woman had no interest in being magnanimous. Forearms raised before her, hands balled into fists (still clutching her racket), she signaled victory with a quick downward thrust of the elbows. Then she released a long, high-pitched, joyous, and very uncharacteristic whoop, suffused with a feeling of primal triumph.

In that moment, I have to say I felt I hardly knew Grace at all. That image of her is still burned into my mind—there was something distinctly feral about the way she stood there: head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in mid-howl: feet planted wide, knees flexed, and her damp snatch thrust forward, naked, and exposed for all to see. Who was this woman?

At last, she opened her eyes again, to take in her vanquished foes. Even as her roar continued to reverberate through the arena, our opponents remained motionless. Mark was near the net, soggy, disheveled and still breathing hard. At the moment he appeared to be studying his shoelaces intently. Sheila still stood on the baseline, gazing out at us steadily, a mix of apprehension and defiance visible in her face.

"All right, Sheila," Grace called at last, her voice filling the entire arena, and ringing with a new assertiveness, "you were spewing a lot of crap before about how we couldn't beat you. Do you remember that?" Sheila stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the question. "Well, I wanted to share a little something with you," Grace continued. "Do you know how people knew they were beaten—I mean really

knew

they were beaten—back in the old days? Way back before rules and laws and civilization? I'll tell you how. Back then, the way people knew they were beaten, was when their women got raped." I winced.

Leaving that thought hanging pregnant in the air, Grace sauntered over to the chairs behind the court, dropped her racket, and leaned down casually to pick up her pink satin panties. Without ceremony, she threaded one shoe and then the other through, and pulled them up to cover her crotch. She retrieved her white dress next, and began bunching it as if to pull it over her head, but then muttered "Fuck it," and discarded it on the floor. I supposed she was still so hot and sweaty she didn't feel like trying to wriggle back inside it. She did pick up her phone, however, before turning back toward us.

As Grace's words continued to sink in, they seem to have made an impact on Mark. "Look, freaks, you can't just rape my wife. For one thing, you know, uh, rape is illegal!..." Grace fixed him with an implacable stare, and he decided to switch to bargaining. "L-look, we'll give it to you—you won the game. Nice job. Hell, John, I'll buy you a Lexus... Come on, Shelia," and he held out his hand as if beckoning her to leave with him. She swayed on her toes, unable to decide what to do.

Mr. Singh seemed to feel the need to speak up. "I do not believe we should use this word, rape. Now, I must admit that I am not at all comfortable with this game you four have devised. I would not allow my wife or daughter to take part in such a wager. In fact, I would even say it is wicked. But, each of you did agree to the terms of this contest before it began, in full knowledge of what that would entail. Thus, I must conclude that, ethically if not legally, you all consented to its inevitable outcome."

"Aw c'mon Pra,... Gracie...," Mark's tone was wheedling now, "you know we wouldn't really have done it if we'd won."

"Hah!," Grace snorted, "that bitch over there," casting a disdainful finger toward Sheila, "she just couldn't wait to watch you fuck me. You think she would have let it go? No way. And I know you too, Mark. You're a brute who would take any chance you got to fuck someone who had to lie there and take it. Call it rape, not-rape, whatever you want. But we're not leaving this court until that woman has had my husband in her cunt. Not until his cum is inside her. That's the only way I can be sure that you two have finally learned your lesson!"

"Fuck you, Grace," Mark said weakly. "Come on Sheila, they can't do this. We're leaving."

But she didn't move. She didn't even look at him, just kept staring straight ahead with a fixed expression, breathing shallow breaths. There's no doubt that Mark and Sheila could have fled, safely enough. No one present would actually have held her down for what was coming next. So why didn't she run? I've often pondered that.

Part of it, I suspect, was her habitual disdain for me, which made it hard for her to imagine that I could be anything other than pathetic and harmless. But I think the bigger reason came right back to her ego and self-image and personality. The possibility of being fucked by me was, in fact, starting to become real for her; and, to the extent that it did, the prospect was humiliating, disturbing, perhaps horrifying. Yet, even faced with that threat, somehow, I think it felt more natural—more 'like her'—to meet it with strength and defiance. Although it was increasingly difficult for her to deny that she was defeated, there were still different levels and degrees of defeat for her to navigate. In that moment, it must have seemed better to stay and battle through the situation, than to advertise her own weakness and fear by running. In that sense, you have to concede that for all her faults, Sheila was a tough lady.

Grace waited silently for a minute or two, then nodded decisively and turned to me. "OK, you're up, babe. Shorts off."

Honestly, I hadn't fully processed the things that had happened in the last half hour or so. It was all moving too quickly. I almost felt like I was merely observing the events occurring on the court that morning, rather than taking part in them—like they were being projected on a movie screen. In particular, it hadn't really sunk in that if we won, I'd actually be expected to, uh, act on it. "Gracie," I said quietly, "I... y-you... you really want me to do this?... I mean, I haven't ever cheated on you before, and this is so..."

She sensed I needed a push, and modulated deftly to a warmer and more confidential tone of voice, pitched so only I could hear. "This isn't cheating, John—you didn't seek any of this out. I'm right here, and we'll be doing it together. But we do need to show these arrogant, destructive people what we're made of. There's no backing down now"

"Yeah, Grace, but... rape?... it's not right. I don't know if I can..."

"It's

not

rape, John," she murmured, firmly and confidently. "Every step of this sick path has been by their choice, not ours. They

chose

this. And, you know them: if we don't follow through now, they'll think we're impotent, and go right on abusing us. But, if Mark knows that you fucked his wife, and he couldn't stop it—and if she knows that you fucked her and Mark didn't stop it—that will stick with them. If not in their heads, then in their guts. They'll understand we're better than them. More dominant. It's gotta be you, babe. This is how their twisted lizard minds operate."

I had to admit that I couldn't see any flaw in her argument. The Schwetzers were simply not the type you could give an inch to. Having made this bet and won, it would be very risky to then give them a pass. As Grace said, they would undoubtedly interpret it as a sign of supreme weakness, and try to capitalize on it. I didn't think they really grasped the concept of mercy. Ugh.

I reached down to untie my tennis shoes, and used each foot to pry off the opposite shoe. With reluctance, I peeled off my white short-shorts and the grey boxer-briefs I had on underneath.

I hadn't paid much heed to Sheila's jibes about my virility earlier, but now I began to have serious doubt about whether this was going to work. It's not that I lacked basic confidence. I am reasonably well endowed, so I felt I felt no particular shame at the idea of flaunting my package. Nor had I ever had any 'performance anxiety,' either with Grace, or the girlfriends that preceded her. Yet, when my dick popped free from the underwear, I had to acknowledge that, although not entirely flaccid, it was still on the small and floppy side. As it was, there was no way it would be able to penetrate even a wet and welcoming vagina.

In point of fact, the state of my dick reflected the war of sensations and emotions raging within me. On the plus side: seeing Sheila naked for the past half-hour—heck, seeing my wife with her panties off in public—had certainly bumped up my arousal level. The exertion of the game itself had contributed an additional surge of testosterone. My anger and frustration toward the Schwetzers, while not as pure and fierce as Grace's, did fuel uncomfortable animal desires in me: to possess this raven-haired beauty, and to humiliate her husband. And then too, the foreknowledge that this woman would open herself to me, even reluctantly, and that Grace would cheer me on as I fucked her, well it did have a compelling perversity to it.

Yet, on the negative side: in truth, I remained uncomfortable about the non-consensuality of the situation. Sheila's openly acknowledged lack of desire for me was a decided turnoff. Then, too, all this was happening in front of a crowd of a hundred or more spectators. I wasn't particularly shy, but still, who wouldn't have found it distracting to try to perform under such circumstances?

If Grace was disappointed by my less than intimidating display, she didn't show it. She took my hand and led me around the net. "Lie down, Sheila," she said, with quiet force.

The other woman hesitated a moment, and then began to kneel, as if to lie prone, face-down.

"No, Sheil," Mark pleaded, "come on, you don't have to do this, we can still leave." She ignored him.

"Not on your front, Sheila, on your back," Grace ordered. Sheila obeyed, wordlessly, pivoting from knees to ass and then lying back on the cold hardcourt surface, legs pressed tightly together, arms dropped at her sides. Her black hair splayed out around her in a halo, and her bulging tits flattened out across her chest.

Grace drew me around to stand at Sheila's feet. "All right, Sheila, now, open your legs. Wide... Imagine you're in stirrups at the doctor's office... Wider..."

Sheila complied, to the point that she was straining her thigh muscles. I could feel parts of the crowd shifting behind us, trying to get a view past Grace and me, and down Sheila's twat.

As I mentioned, although her pussy was waxed, it did not take the form of a neat and tidy package. Now, when she spread her legs, it blossomed into full view, her lips gaping open easily and loosely. She was a ruddy-brownish color down there; her clit poked out prominently, and below it a lacework of fleshy ribbons and folds cradled her vaginal opening. My dick was still not where it needed to be; but it did rise at least a fraction of an inch at the sight of the entrance to Sheila's cunt, and began to tingle at the thought of finding its way inside. I'm sure that's exactly what Grace had planned. "Come on, Sheila, you're more limber than that. Wider." She snapped a picture with her phone.

"God, Grace, I'm all laid out for him," Sheila hissed, speaking for the first time since the ball had dropped on her side of the court. She lifted one hand and gestured toward her own wide-open crotch. "What more could he want than

this

? I said he wouldn't be able get it up."

"Tell him you want it, hon," Grace directed the other woman, her voice calm and cold.

"Hah, fuck you, Grace," Sheila retorted, raising up now on her elbows, appraising my sagging dick, and then looking Grace in the eye. "I said I'd open my legs to him, not that I'd beg for it. It's not my fault if his plumbing doesn't function!... Look, if he can't even get hard, then I think we're done here."

"Think again, bitch," the note of determined fury had returned to Grace's voice. She gritted her teeth. "You're gonna take Johnnie up the cunt, and he's going to come inside you"