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.
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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 B, happens to be cruel to Grace and John. (In Universe A, on the other hand, they meet a kinder fate.)
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CHAPTER 4
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Sheila had insisted that the floor be wiped carefully before play resumed. While that was going on, Prakesh Singh sidled over to me. When he addressed me, his voice was low and stiff. "Mr. Wilson, I find this new game you have all agreed to very disturbing. I do hope that that fortune will continue to smile on you and Mrs. Wilson. However, I think it only fair to caution you that that with such stakes involved, honor will not allow me to show any further partiality in my rulings."
Then, before I'd even had a chance to process Pra's ominous remark, it was time to begin. The butterflies in my stomach had multiplied. I thanked God that it was not my serve, at least. 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 managed to hold up my end of things, avoiding any major missteps.
So we matched 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 ruddy face, and he was breathing raspily through his mouth. I knew Sheila's extravagant rack must be in pain from the bouncing it was taking, although she took care not to reveal it. Even so, she still would not have looked out of place on a Paris runway (that is, if she'd had couture on, instead of nothing). 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 swayed and 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. Prakesh hesitated for a fraction of a second, apparently torn between conflicting imperatives. At last he made the call, a note of fatalism audible in his voice. "Out! Advantage Schwetzers!" Fuck!
Sheila was too tired to celebrate. Mark knew he'd really been beaten on the play and only gotten lucky, so he wasn't gloating either. As for Grace, she didn't seem to let it phase her—she gave one sideways shake of disappointment with her head, and then set her jaw again and walked steadily back to her mark.
The thing filling my mind, as it had every time the Schwetzers had gained the advantage, was that Grace's body was now on the line. If we made just one mistake, then my lovely Gracie would get fucked by this brute. If Grace was having similar thoughts, however, she gave no sign of it. Just as she had for the entire match, she gave every indication that she was keeping her emotions under control and channeling them into trying to win. Moreover, 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, Grace didn't return my gaze, and we didn't share any words or special glances. She just set her feet shoulder-width apart, flexed her knees, took a quick breath, and set herself for Sheila's serve.
The serve was assertive, 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 had handed Grace over to be violated by these monsters. In that fleeting instant, time seemed to slow, and I prayed that by some miracle the ball would find a way over. And it almost did. It ticked hard on the top of the net, in fact, and teetered for a moment, before falling back, with a plop, onto our side. There was silence on the court for a long minute. Finally, unwillingly, Prakesh gave voice to what had just happened. "I regret to say... Mr. and Mrs. Wilson... that the Schwetzers have won the game."
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