Breakpoint Pt. 01

Author's note: This is a multi-chapter story, currently planned at 5 chapters, about a spoiled brat tennis star's training under a controlling new coach. The first chapter is a little light on sex, as a warning, but the story will have a lot of non-consent/reluctance, light bondage/domination, spanking/humiliation, adultery, lesbianism and other kinks as her "training" progresses. Hope you enjoy!

Marbella was already hot despite Spring having arrived only weeks ago.

I was overdressed as I'd flown in from London and found myself sweating from just the short walk to the limo. My hulking Russian escort looked more like a bodyguard than a driver and didn't bother to talk, although he gladly shouldered all my gear.

The ride to the Villa took longer than I expected, and near the end we climbed away from the busy coast and up into the surrounding hills. The normal world receded as we ascended, and the trip took on a further dreamlike quality. The fact that I was actually here, despite my abundant misgivings, seemed so improbable that I half-considered pinching myself.

Once through the gates, we circled around a large fountain in the courtyard until the stucco-walled and Spanish-tiled monstrosity of the main house came into full view. Anatoly was standing at the steps already, waving warmly. Overweight, grey haired, and wearing an unflatteringly tight track suit, he looked more like an accountant dressed in costume than her manager.

Standoffish on the phone, Anatoly proved to be uncomfortably obsequious in person as he escorted me inside. He only broke character to bark rudely in Russian at my lounging driver, who promptly disappeared with my bags. A tour commenced, unasked for by me, and my gaze kept drifting to the courts, which I could make out in the distance through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Anatoly's small talk lengthened as my patience thinned. I finally asked about seeing her.

"She is hitting, but finishes soon. You want to see her now?" he replied. His English was poor and heavily accented, but his hesitation wasn't some cultural misunderstanding. He wiped perspiration from his brow, using his already damp sleeve like a sweat rag, and dithered more. "But, you must be tired! Why not have a drink first, yes?"

I was forced to insist. I couldn't tell whether his reluctance came from the prospect of leaving the air conditioned house, or from a fear of disturbing her practice, but he had a stone face resoluteness when he finally led me out the back.

The Villa was perched on a high hill, and the Mediterranean sparkled below, painfully bright in the early afternoon sun. The congestion of the sprawling Costa del Sol was an orange and white blur at this distance, fringing the coastline like a hard rind, while around us, high above the masses, only scattered villas could be seen poking up in the verdant hills. It was a breathtaking view, or in her father's way of reckoning, a multi-million dollar view.

Anatoly led me on an indirect route through the gardens, bragging about how they'd flown in the garish marble statues, all faux classical, from Bulgaria. The plants were in full bloom, but the patterned design, which looked so manicured and beautiful from afar, was wild and unkempt up close. Weeds were sprouting unchecked, and I couldn't help but frown at young bushes that had been haphazardly pruned. The Spanish gardeners were lazy, it seemed, and the Russians who lived here too uncouth to hold them to task.

An ornate pool, over-marbled of course, was the true centerpiece of the grounds and was girded with hand crafted tile mosaics. One end boasted a half-dozen freestanding Corinthian pillars arranged in a half-circle, with yet more statues clustered around them. Her father's taste were lavish, as could be expected with his wealth, but the decór style he displayed went well beyond tacky and into the realm of eccentricity.

Billionaires, I mused with a shake of my head.

The courts were next to the pool, and I picked out from a distance the distinctive sound of her stroke, a percussive, powerful blow that dwarfed her partner's sharp, but muted, answer. It sounded like a one-sided fight, with the victor clear as many of her loud shots rang out with no reply. I felt my pulse quicken at the familiar noises, and a strange anticipation built in me to see the beast that made such a roar.

She didn't turn as we entered, but surely knew I'd arrived as her partner paused to look at us between serves. Her impatient nod goaded the other woman to continue, and I lingered at the gate to watch her return. Perhaps she was showing off a bit, but she pounced on a respectable first serve and ripped a heavy forehand recklessly cross-court. Her opponent stretched in vain, but couldn't run it down.

Her body was lithe, but tightly muscled, and her broad shoulders were its only noticeable concession to her years of playing Tennis. She stalked like a swaggering cat back to the service line, her long limbs moving with a supple grace. Calloused fingers tested her strings, but she she spared not a glance for us. Muttering under her breath, she flicked her long, blonde ponytail behind her back and turned to ready herself for the next serve.

"Her training partner, Yelena," said Anatoly. He nodded towards the other girl, who was noticeably smaller and clearly outmatched.

Anatoly appeared ready to interrupt the game and make introductions, but I shook my head and instead settled on a bench, marble of course, to watch her play. She wore only a white sports bra and a pair of matching, quite small, stretch shorts, the outfit making her already tanned skin appear even darker. She was distractingly attractive, and with some difficulty I forced my coach's eye to carefully study the movement of her body, instead of the body itself.

"Very powerful, no?" Anatoly asked into my silence.

I nodded, but ignored him.

She was strong for her build, but not nearly muscled enough to generate the power she displayed. Instead, she used her length like a whip to maximize every bit of energy she generated, her racket head exploding from her backswing to deliver heavy and pounding topspin strikes that seemed improbable coming from her slender frame. When they were on mark, they were devastating.

"Her Papa, he thinks she needs more structure," whispered Anatoly, clearly uncomfortable with my continued silence.

A backhand rally developed, and I ignored him again, leaning forward instead for a better view.

She was a single hander, rare in the women's game these days, and the beauty of that sweeping stroke was riveting. I'd seen her play it on video, but witnessing it in person made me almost tremble on the bench.

Her long body coiled like a snake on the take-back, her shoulder turn exaggerated, and I held my breath in anticipation as the unsuspecting ball approached. First came the step forward, purposeful and strong, then her body uncoiled in a sinuous strike, her racket head a blur. The ball was struck cleanly on the rise and redirected away with stunning pace and spin. Her body and arm rose together in a sumptuous extension, finishing above her head, with her racket held high at the end like a victory baton.

It wasn't a stroke so much as a statement, a backhanded and disdainful dismissal of her opponent's shot that was so graceful it looked effortless.

I watched the point conclude before I spoke.

"Can she be coached?"

Anatoly looked pained and shrugged, gesticulating with his hands at first and then waving dismissively.

"She wants to win. She told her Papa that she approved of you... your track record is very good," he said at last.

He didn't answer my question, which was answer enough. She'd had five coaches in the three years since she'd turned pro, the longest lasting six months, and the rumor was that she was a spoiled brat. Her billionaire father had spent lavishly on her development, but the analysts quipped that she lacked the hunger to maximize her abundant natural talent and take the next step to potential greatness.

"Everyone wants to win," I replied, looking at Anatoly sharply. "Does she want to work hard, though.. to truly improve?"

"Yes," said Anatoly nodding. "She practices all day and works out every morning. She wants to win a Major, many Majors. That is her goal."

Hitting balls with Yelena wasn't practice, it was akin to a prize fighter sparring with an amateur. It fed her ego and gave her lazy habits, I could see already. Her sweat was due to the heat I decided, as Yelena was hardly making her move.

"Her other coaches?"

Anatoly didn't meet my eyes and waved his hands again.

"They didn't get along. Sasha has a temper, yes, and is impatient," he said at last, scowling slightly. He lifted his stained sleeve and wiped his forehead. "It is from her passion, yes. With the others, she saw no improvement, and they quarreled over techniques. Some were weak and she despises weakness. They were not good for her."

"You think I'll be different?"

"Her Papa knows she is stubborn and hot headed, and they say you are calm and reasonable, but firm as well," said Anatoly, giving me a pleading look. "He's told her that if you can't coach her, that he's not going to fund her tour expenses anymore, that she's hopeless."

I wondered how many times that threat had been levied, and if it was even a useful bluff at this point. I knew her other coaches slightly, as only one was top tier. He was Russian, very old, and known as a strict disciplinarian. I'd allow that his personality might not work with everyone, but her failures with the others made me wary.

"You agreed to coach her, no?" Anatoly asked, sensing my trepidation.

"I only told her father I'd meet with her," I said. It was true, although the billionaire had likely assumed that I'd take the job, as his type usually did. "I haven't made up my mind."

"She knows that she won't get a better coach," Anatoly said, a look of concern on his face at the idea I might turn her down. She was his meal ticket as well, I guessed, and he had as much invested in her father continuing to fund her lifestyle as she did herself.

A shadow passed over my face, and I glanced up.

"Anatoly, I told you I didn't want to be disturbed," Sasha said with some venom, glaring at the sweating man. "Idiot. I gave you explicit instructions."

He replied in Russian, his tone unrepentant and angry. To emphasize whatever he said, he gestured towards me with both his hands. She turned at last, twirling her racket idly, and looked down at me appraisingly.

"And you are Greg, I presume?"

I stood up by reflex and extended my hand.

"Yes, a pleasure to meet you," I answered, giving her a friendly smile.

She was dripping with sweat, her bra and shorts stained with it, and her modest chest rose and fell quickly as she panted. Her high cheekboned face I knew well from countless photos, but I was surprised at her height now that I measured her up in person. I was over six feet tall and she was only an inch or two shorter, at best.

She studied my hand, but made no move to shake it.

"And you are the one my papochka thinks will help me win?"

Her English was perfect, with a posh British accent from a childhood spent mostly in London. Only on the word papochka did she sound Russian, the almost musical shift in voice a bit jarring.

"Yes," I replied. Her blue eyes were skeptical, as if she scoffed at the very idea that I could offer her anything of value. I lowered my ignored hand and tightened my jaw. "But, only if you actually want to win."

"I have won."

"I'm talking about Majors," I replied.

She was only nineteen, so still had vast potential, but by tennis standards she was already underperforming. The great champions, especially the women, were often dominating by her age, not scratching out one small tournament win a year.

In fact, the press had already seized upon comparisons with Anna Kournikova, the attractive but pedestrian pro that had made a name for herself by modeling instead of winning matches. While it was unfair, and Sasha had already amassed a better career than Anna's, her beauty made everyone question whether her inconsistent play deserved the abundant attention she seemed to receive.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't think you had relevant experience in winning Majors?" she answered. Her eyes flashed, and a cruel smile teased the corner of her mouth.

Anatoly groaned at her, spitting out a rebuke in Russian.

I should be used to such jibes by now, but felt a fresh sting as she ripped the old scab off and poured her own salt into the unhealed wound. I could point to my success as a coach, but I knew she was digging at my record as a player.

"I've at least played in multiple finals at Majors," I said, utterly calm and my face impassive. "I've no shame about who I lost to, or how I played. You can mock me, if you still like to, once you've made it there yourself."

The truth was that when I was a player I had been very good, but never great. My career spanned a period when legends of the game, such as Sampras and Agassi, were being replaced by a new set of legends, namely Federer and Nadal. I'd unfortunately been the punching bag in Majors many times to two generations of sublime talent, first as the foil to aging crowd favorites that were cementing their legacy, and then as the sacrificial lamb to the new lions that assumed the throne.

"I will win a Major," she said defiantly, but seemed pleased with me for some reason. Her expression softened. "Don't worry, if you can help me, like you claim, I won't need to mock you ever again."

"To do it, you just need to play to your potential, which is vast," I said. It wasn't my style to make such confident declarations, but I sensed her ego was used to stroking so I acquiesced. I nodded and flashed her a smile again. "That's why I'm here."

I honestly wasn't sure if I could make a difference with her. I knew already that it was her attitude and mental makeup that needed to be fixed, as her physical skills were elite. I could help a little on her technique, but her real challenges were in her head. All coach's were amateur psychologists by necessity, but her willfulness might be insurmountable for even a trained therapist.

"I'm not a babushka," she said, lifting her chin. "I won't play like an old woman."

It was another jab at me. My transition to coaching after retirement had been smooth, but my reputation had been made by helping a former woman's champion win her fifth and final Major at the ripe age of thirty five, and after having had a child. I was lauded wildly as the genius behind her comeback, which had including reworking the athletic and aggressive game she had won with during her twenties into something more cerebral and refined. Hardly an "old woman" style, but certainly a bit less aggressive than before.

It also didn't help that as a player I was viewed as someone who punched above my weight by having perfect technique and clever strategy. Smart, consistent, and hard working were the adjectives the analysts used to describe my play, and I'd be the first to admit I wasn't the most exciting player to watch. Still, I'd had a wonderful career, with twenty five singles wins and notably four finals appearances in Majors.

I was proud that I played my best when the pressure was the greatest, going five sets in the finals with the greatest players of our time, but how I wished that I'd been born with that extra bit of natural talent that I had lacked to have won just one of the big ones.

The kind of talent Sasha had. The kind of talent she was wasting.

I realized then that I did want to coach her despite the challenge her personality would present. She could be great, one of the best ever in fact, but what really motivated me was the compulsion I felt to make sure she didn't waste the gifts she'd been born with, gifts I would have done anything to have had.

I just couldn't watch her piss it all away.

"If you are willing to listen, I'll teach you how to win, how to use your talents and your brain," I said simply, knowing I was still interviewing for her approval. "But, your strengths will always dictate your game."

Hey eyes were keen, and she measured me silently, tapping her racket strings against her finger tips slowly. At last, she gave me a slight nod.

"He'll do," she said to Anatoly, while staring at me. She sounded like a spoiled child approving a new nanny. "Hire him for me."

She turned and readied herself for another serve, bouncing in place outside the baseline to warm up in a fashion that set her ass to jiggling. After a final hop, she spread her feet and crouched down in preparation for a return, jutting her bum at me with an insolent indifference. As I studied her, ostensibly watching her form, she shifted on the balls of her feet and waved that tempting rear back and forth slowly.

My eyes were drawn to that ass helplessly. The white fabric of her tight shorts appeared painted onto those firm and round globes. One hem rode up on the right cheek, exposing a slice of a noticeably whiter skin. Her stance stretched the thin fabric to near translucency in the bright sun, hinting at more pale flesh beneath.

A blemish caught my eye, a darker stain of sweat that formed a vee at the base of her back and trickled down her crack. My eyes followed that tantalizing trail of dampness, down through the valley between her full cheeks, until it drained at last into the shadowed bulge of her pudendum that hung below.

It was inappropriate, but the thought of spanking her appeared in my mind unbidden. If any grown woman deserved such a measure, surely this spoiled girl with her perfect ass did.

"There, is it done, then?" asked Anatoly, hopefully, but also nervously as she'd done nothing but reinforce her reputation as a brat.

"Double my rate," I said, loud enough for her to hear.

She smacked her return with extra power, but it went straight into the net and made her erupt into a string of Russian curses.

Anatoly looked anguished, but nodded miserably at my request.

----------

I left the courts shortly afterwards to settle into my room.

Anatoly had to get me a contract, and I wanted to do some preparation before beginning to coach her the next day. My suite on the second floor was well appointed, lacking nothing, and the excess marble from the pool had evidently been used on every surface of my large ensuite bathroom. I took a brief shower to rinse off my sweat and clear my mind.

Sasha should be a coach's dream, her talent was undeniable, and I'd already watched enough of her matches to know that winning a Major, or multiple, was well within her capabilities. Yet I'd seen on video, and now in person, that she was lazy, immature, and spoiled.

When things didn't go her way, she threw tantrums and had melt-downs on the court that earned millions of views on YouTube. "Stunning Sasha Snaps!" or "Beauty Turns into the Beast!" were some of the choice titles of her top clips. I watched them again, marveling at her petulance and indifference as whole arenas erupted in whistles at her outrageous behavior. She'd even started screaming at the crowd in one tournament!

Most troubling, on the biggest stages, the Majors, she'd had embarrassing early exits almost every tournament, usually losing to players ranked well below her. I started reviewing her matches in detail, focusing on her most painful losses first. What I saw maddened me, inconsistency, of course, but also mental failures and an apparent disinterest in the game entirely at times.

After a long while, my mind straining to glimpse an actionable pattern in her play, I needed a break. I changed into fresh shorts and a linen shirt, before heading out onto the balcony to take the air. My West facing room had a nice view of the quiet hills around the compound and a side view of the main grounds and ocean. A refreshing breeze had finally arrived that made the sun bearable, and I leaned against the railing while lost in thought.