Anyone for Tennis, Dennis? Ch. 01

Author's Note: A quiet, shy, country girl meets the charming, wealthy, French, host at the villages annual Tennis competition. He introduces her to herself: The pain-slut submissive she always has been. What follows are their adventures.

Codes: MF, MD, BDSM, FF, Exh, Humour

Story was originally started in 2008. But I misplaced it. I only found it and fleshed it out in 2022, so it stays in that original era.

The story contains much confusion over the differences in British and French sentence structure. There are some local Derbyshire dialect words and sayings.

The speech patterns and sayings are all based on people I know.

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Anyone for Tennis, Menace, Dennis?

By Nikki Kernovii

Chapter 1 - Game on.

I stood no chance. I was never that good, even though I played quite often, and by sheer luck, had made it through to the semi-finals. I mean, I enjoyed it. I turned up. I supported the club. But now I was up against Angela. Angela frigging 'I'm better than everyone else' Fordisworthy.

Angela's husband earned more than all the other players and their partners. Probably put together.

Angela never did a day's work in her molly-coddled life. Angela paid for a personal coach. Angela had the best kit in the known universe: Carbon-fibre bloody racket and all. Angela had the best legs in the county. Angela! F*****g Angela.

As I bent to pick up yet another ball I had missed, I noticed him.

Our host.

Mr Big.

Dennis something or other unpronounceable Frenchy.

He was sitting on the grass right behind the centre line, staring.

At me.

The rest of our audience was sitting on folding chairs all along the long side of the court. Either ours or the next court where the men were playing their semi-final.

He wasn't.

I gave a brief, nervous, smile and returned to serve.

It was a forlorn hope. 'verloren hoop?' Lost troop? Well lost ball anyway.

It was lost only a moment later as Angela lobbed it back at me. Only it wasn't at me, it was in the corner, miles from where I had expected it. No way was I going to return that shot. I was pretty fit. But not THAT fit.

"40 Love." Our half-asleep umpire muttered.

' 40 No love at all' I muttered back. Quietly.

Stretching my legs to reach that shot had given me a wedgie. Bloody cheap sports knickers. I bet Angela didn't buy the cheapest sports knickers from ClothingDirect, the 'Sub-Prime'-Clothing Store in town.

I had too much of an audience to fiddle around adjusting myself. Best just to brazen it out eh?

Ha ha. Yeah. Right.

On my next serve I did actually manage to get a shot passed Angela.

It surprised me as much as it probably surprised her.

As I turned to find another discarded ball, I noticed him again. Sitting. Staring.

He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. There was a twinkle in his eyes. He had a gorgeous smile.

I was smiling at my scoring shot. I wondered if he thought I was smiling at him.

It put me off my next shot. I didn't have the aggression to lob as hard as I needed to. Angela, bloody Angela, lobbed it back.

Even though I was certain the ball was out, when the umpire mumbled "Game to Mrs Fordisworthy." I did not argue.

The next game was barely any better. I tried. I really tried. I managed to get to 40-30 for a brief moment. I actually managed to return a couple of Angela's thousand-mile an hour serves.

But then it was "Advantage Mrs FordModelT"

But as I prepared myself for another million mile-an-hour serve, I noticed him again.

He had swapped ends as well.

Our meagre audience still sat close to the net line to watch.

He wasn't.

He wasn't over there staring at Angela's bony, granite, arse. Oh No!

Bloody hell he did look good in that red polo shirt. Obviously, Ralph Lauren original or some such. No Knock-offs for him. His aviator sunglasses perched fetchingly on his neatly trimmed head. His chinos pressed so sharp you could cut paper with the creases. He gave the merest, tiniest, nod of his head. I was looking straight into his gorgeous baby-blue eyes. He looked straight into my eyes. My muddy-grey eyes. Into my soul. Into my knickers.

It was in that very moment that I realised that I knew his secret.

I knew, because I knew that he knew mine. He could see. He knew I knew. I knew he knew. Or something Mobius and twisted like that.

Fuck!

Or was that just me being hopeful.

Fuck?

I shouldn't have thought that.

I didn't even see Angela serve.

As I bent, I could feel his eyes on my arse. I could feeeeel the heat of his stare.

The ball sailed passed me.

Caught like a rabbit in the headlights.

I turned to throw a few balls back to the other end of the court.

We were just a village. We didn't have balls boys -- or girls. We had to do our own ball collecting.

I walked to the back fence, near the centre of the court, right in front of Him. Two meters from his burning eyes. Then I bent. I didn't have to. There was no real reason. It was a moment of mischief. I bent to collect the balls and slowly toss them back to the other end where Angela was waiting impatiently. My bottom, complete with twisted knickers was right there for him.

Maybe I remained bent a bit longer than I needed to, but it was fun teasing.

I slowly walked forward a couple of steps to my receiving point. Bent ready to receive another of Angela's serves. I just caught it, but my return ball went wide.

"Game. Set. Match to Mrs FordFiesta." The Umpire muttered.

She was a seasoned Tennis Player, but was new to our club, so she had opted not to play today. Maybe she knew Angela already and had intended to take the piss. I must buy her a drink.

It took me a moment to realise that I was now free. Out of the game. Out of the competition. Out of this world.

I straightened.

I gave Angela a bit of a half-hearted "Well done. Thanks." As I shook her hand.

There was some vague clapping from the village members watching.

I left the court as quickly as I could, passing the old biddies of the ladies doubles teams as they took to the now empty court.

In the corner of the garden some of the village volunteers had set up a table where they were serving drinks. Players were allowed a free one after each match. (All others by donation to club funds) I took mine with gratitude.

I was bent forward slightly to put my beaker down on the table for a moment.

I froze as I felt a big, cool hand on my rear.

I still had a naked butt cheek from the wedgie I had still not adjusted.

"Au fond. Triste mais beau. N'est pas?"

At least that is something like what I thought I heard, whispered from behind me.

But as I turned there was no-one there.

Mr Dennis LongJohnsSilver - or something like that - was right in front of me, asking for a drink and handing over a wodge of cash. The volunteer manning (Womaning?) the stall handed him a tumbler of fruit punch, while politely declining his money. Good job I reckon, as it was probably Francs or Euros anyway.

How had he got over there?

I HAD felt his hand on my arse. I had heard his whisper in my ear. Hadn't I?

I had felt the cool hand against the stripes left there the evening before by my boyfriend. Ex-Boyfriend. Nearly ex-boyfriend.

Behind me the competition continued. The ladies doubles final in progress, before Angela 'Oh I've got one of those' returned to play in the Ladies final. I had not stopped to ask what stage the men's tournament was at.

A hubbub. A few cheers here and there. They sounded miles away.

We were not a big club. We were not a big village.

Yet somehow there was a sense of community and involvement.

Especially as Mr Frenchy chap had offered the gardens of his estate as a venue.

He had two tennis courts. With decent surfaces. They were in better state than the community courts provided by the council, which stood alongside the village park. Every winter when the river overflowed, the courts got flooded. Every spring a few hardy volunteers swept the stinky mud off the ragged courts and attempted to play a few games. As the weather improved, more of us braved the rough surfaces to bang a ball or two at each other. Mostly so that we could end up at the Market Inn afterwards for a bevy or three and gossip. Some how, I had walloped my way through the spring and early summer to the semi-final.

Now I stood blushing as I stared at him. He was beautiful. Cut from marble. Dressed like a catwalk model. Casual and confident.

"Est-ce que tu vas bien?" It was a question from the end of a long tunnel.

I jerked back to the present. To the table I was holding to stop myself from falling.

"Err? Sorry what?" I babbled.

"Are you alright?" He asked. His voice like golden honey. His accent had my knees wobbling. He Towered over me. Staring with a sardonic smile. Bloody hell he was gorgeous.

"Yes I'mmm... errr." I searched my memory for my schoolgirl French. (3rd year Failure. Just my luck.)

"Errm... Oui. Je Suis Chaude." I tried, fanning the heat from my face. (Was that right? Bloody French and their genders and stuff.)

He raised an eyebrow. He tilted his head as he looked at me. Then chuckled at me.

"J'ai chaud" he said smoothly. "In French we say 'I have hot'." He chuckled again. It tingled and tumbled like a fresh mountain stream. "You want to know what you just say?"

"Do I?" I was babbling.

"I think perhaps you are right, anyway." He said softly. With a smile I felt right down my legs and back up again.

What did that mean?

"Vous avez fini?" He said.

Was that a question? I think that was a question.

Had I finished? Oh of course I had finished the competition.

"Oui." I replied. At least I knew that word.

"Angela. Elle est bonne." I tried. Did that mean Angela 'She is good.'? I hoped so.

He raised an eyebrow again. His blue eyes twinkled.

"Elle est douée" He said, then translated for me. "She is talented."

Was that what I meant to say? What Did I say?

"You said that 'She is good'. In France this would mean 'Good in bed'. Is this true?" He asked raising BOTH eyebrows.

Fuck! I said that?

Could I blush any harder?

She was certainly shagging that young coach of hers. She shagged the day away, while her dear, little husband was out making more money for her to spend. It was Angela. She would be good at anything.

I hated, hated, hated her. But I still thought she looked damned hot in the changing rooms.

Her strong muscular thighs. Her neatly trimmed blonde pussy. Her broad curvy hips. Her tight waist. Her surgically, too-pert, boobies. Her smart, dental-modified smile.

I bet she was. I bet she took training courses in it.

Fuck!

He took my hand in his and raised it to his lips.

"Dennis Longechambon." He said. "And you are?" His lips grazed the palm of my hand. God that was the sexiest thing I had ever felt.

If he had wanted to shag me over the table in front of the whole village, right there, I would have done it.

"Julie. Julie Trimer." I stuttered.

"Ah? But of course."

What did that mean? I felt like a ten year old. 'Burble, blabber.'

"You have a lovely house and ermm garden." I said, to try to hide my blushes.

"Oui. I have been lucky." He sounded almost whimsical. "I had one good idea in my life. At a good time. It made me a lot of money."

Only, the way he said it, it sounded more like moonayy

"I sold that good idea at a time that was right to make more money. Plus d'Argent. It is good." He said.

'Plooo d'Arjohn'? What?

Or was it Argent?

Weren't they a 70's Rock band with a one hit wonder?

Oh Argent! As in silver. My slow brain gradually clicked the gears to catch up.

Right! Lots of silver or lots of money or something. Lucky Bastard.

"You see the jardin." He spread his left hand towards the beautifully manicured terraces.

I nodded.

"You wish to look?"

"Err. Yes. Thanks." I babbled.

"Come." He placed his big hand across my butt to turn me up the hill.

He was still groping my arse as he steered me to the left.

"This is a Sensory Jardin." He said, indicating an area surrounded by a chest high wall.

"A family who live here forty years before, have a daughter who is blind. They make this for her.

To fill the senses. You look. You feel. You smell."

I could feel his breath on my ear as he breathed in. "I look. I feel. I smell. Non?"

What? What was he looking at? What was he feeling apart from my arse cheek.

"This for touch." He pointed to an area full of interesting plants with soft leaves, ferny leaves, slightly spiky leaves, waxy leaves and the like. I bent to touch.

His hand slipped onto my bare butt.

Ok. Ok. I had encouraged that. I was being a tart.

When I stood again, his hand did not move, but ushered me forward.

The next area of the garden smelled richly of perfume.

"In the morning this smell. Formidable. Delicious. Wonderful." He said.

A little further on, near the centre of the garden, was a small, walled, pond. It was perhaps twelve feet long and maybe six feet wide at the middle. It was oval-shaped and the top about at waist height. At one end was a marble statue of a chubby, cherubic, little boy, constantly widdling into the water. At the other end, a life-size, naked, woman, bent to pour water in an endless stream from a large pot at her feet.

I have always found the sound of tumbling water to be peaceful. I often sat in the park by the river listening to the water tumbling over the rocks. It made me think. Right now, I was thinking that the woman's statue must have been modelled on a cold day, because her stone nipples were huge. Way larger than mine.

The stone was grey with darker, mottled, patches of moss and lichen except...

Except that her naked, round, butt, which was at eye height, was polished smooth.

Ok! It was right next to the gravel path. It was the most accessible part.

I could just imagine all the people walking past rubbing their hands over it.

Even I wanted to.

I bet... I just bet Mr Dennis Longechambon did it. Often. Oh yes. Yes HE would.

"Perfait." He said, as he did indeed rub his hand slowly over the smooth globes, before giving one a gentle pat.

Of course!

As we reached the end of the circuit, he pointed to the larger walled area next to the sensory garden. "This is the food jardin." He said. "But it is not so special. Before I live here, a family have much food from the jardin." He turned us away from that.

"But now you have not seen inside the 'ouse? No?"

"Err no. But it looks very nice."

"You would like to?"

But of course I would.

"Of course I would." I said. Too fast. Damn!

"Cum." He said. I think I nearly did.

He still had my left hand in his left hand. He still had his right hand holding on my butt.

He guided me towards the slabbed steps that led to the small, open, lawn at the back of the house.

There, caterers were preparing the 'post-competition' meal on the patio.

Cucumber sandwiches on the lawn or some such. Again, donated by Dennis.

The village usually clubbed together and managed to roll out a reasonable affair, each year. But this was going to surpass all that.

He led me to a side door. There was a dark corridor. The caterers were just visible at the far end rushing back and forth from the kitchens to the tables on the lawn.

Dennis moved like a cat, leaving no sound. Even on the thick, blue, carpet I could hear my own footsteps. Not his.

He led me passed the main stairs that swept wide and curving up to the next floor. That was my second surprise. Or third. I was lost already.

As we neared the kitchen, he turned to a dark opening. There were narrow, steep, steps leading upwards.

Servant's stairwell?

Probably.

Me? But of course I would get the servants stairs. I was not the lar-dee-dah lady. Not me.

Angela would have been affronted at such a move.

Dennis gestured for me to go first. The stairs were too narrow for us to go up together. I ascended to the first turn. As I looked back, I could see that Dennis was five steps behind and below me.

But of course he was.

And I knew why. Oh yes I knew.

At the landing of the first floor I hesitated. In a moment Dennis was at my side, his hand on my bottom guiding me.

"À gauche"

We turned left down the corridor. Again carpeted in a rich, deep-blue carpet. The walls a light blue with cornice and coving and lots of decoration. It was all quite elegant.

We passed several closed doors. At the last door he leaned forward to turn the sparkling, crystal, door handle. He pushed the door open.

The room was bare.

Well nearly bare.

This was not what I expected.

I expected a grand, four-poster bed with purple, silk, sheets and a mountain of soft, pillows and cushions.

Not this.

This bare room.

The polished oak floor sparkled. The walls were plain white. The huge sash-windows had no curtains or blinds.

The bottom panes of the windows were painted as white as the walls.

It was a very plain room.

Except...

Except for one elegant, wood and leather feature standing on the floor in the middle.

I walked over to the window first. By standing on tip-toe I could see through the upper pane, to look down at the garden and the games still going on at the far side. Just in sight.

Then I walked over to the single piece of furniture.

The black, polished, leather invited touch. It called out.

It was soft to the touch yet firm. It curved all over the place.

I couldn't guess at its purpose.

Oh yes I could.

No! No. Not that? Really? My mind screamed at me.

I was still running my hands over the flowing curves, when I felt Dennis's hands round my right ankle, guiding my foot to a dark, polished-wood step, a few inches off the floor.

I complied, adjusting my weight, as I felt him gesture for me to lift my other foot.

I was only a few inches off the floor but I felt taller. My head was now at the same height as his, as he stood back up.

He moved round to the front of the device. His hands gripped my wrists.

For a moment he held them, looking into my eyes. He raised his eyebrows as if in question.

What was he looking for?

What was he asking for?

Did he really need to ask?

He should have asked.

Politeness and decorum dictated that he really should have asked.

But then politeness and decorum would also have dictated that I should say 'No'.

But he could read my soul.

I couldn't say 'No'. Not now. I needed to know.

We remained staring at each other, reading each other.

I really, really, did not want him to ask.

He pulled my hands towards him, guiding them to the handles. The movement had pulled me off-balance. I collapsed forward, laying onto the device.

The two handles were like the handles of a rocking horse I had once had as a child.

But as I gripped the handles, so they gripped me.

Brass and Leather cuffs, snapped shut and locked around my wrists. I heard and felt another click as my ankles were similarly locked in place.

I felt the mounds and curves of leather mirroring my own. It was a negative of my own positive. Everywhere I curved out, it curved in, and vice - very much a vice -- versa, gripping me.

It was made for laying on. But only in this one specific pose.

Why was I not screaming to be released?

Because I was dying to know what was going to happen. And hoping. Hoping. Dreaming.

I felt strong hands gently pulling my Tennis shirt upwards, to wrap loosely, round my neck.

My sports bra was doing a sterling job of keeping my nipples from poking holes in the leather.

But not for long.

It joined my shirt, bunched up around my neck.

The cool, soft, leather turned the heat up again. I had never felt leather against my breasts. Never against my nipples.