Breakpoint Pt. 01

Movement below caught my eye, and I found myself peering down at a private patio for the room beneath me. A topless woman was laying out on a lounger directly below my balcony, sunning herself in the late afternoon rays. Although a wide brimmed hat covered her face, I knew it was Sasha instantly from her lean body alone.

With a regretful sigh, I decided that I should return to my room. It was improper for me to ogle her, particularly since she was half-naked. Although, as I lingered, I remembered that the beaches in Spain were typically topless so this sight wasn't as big of a deal as it would be in the UK or America. I vacillated when she stirred, one of her fingers tracing up her stomach lightly. The little thrill I got at her motion flared my guilt, and I reminded myself that peeping at her like this, my presence unknown, was definitely inappropriate regardless of what she wore.

I resolved to shout a hello to her, in case she didn't know I'd been installed upstairs. That would alert her to be more careful in the likely case that she minded being seen topless by her new coach. I admit, I liked the idea of causing her some embarrassment if she was indeed more prude than her liberal sunning habits hinted. I imagined her beating a hasty exit, her towel clutched to her chest, with her face red from shame at the view she'd given me.

The greeting died on my lips when she reached over and grabbed a bottle of sun lotion from the end table and squirted a dollop onto her belly. I froze, suddenly mesmerized, as that milky liquid splashed onto her taut stomach then pooled in the valley between the twin peaks of her prominent hipbones. My mind, already in a dirty place, naturally imagined another white substance spurting on her belly. She worked the fluid into her skin slowly, starting below the waistband of her bikini, and left a glimmering trail behind her hand that made the distinct lines of her abdominal muscles shimmer.

I found myself holding my breath as her fingers continued higher.

Her breasts were modest, and further flattened as she lay reclined, but they jiggled temptingly with her movements. Despite this after-practice tanning routine, her mounds were strikingly pale and shone in the strong sunlight. Hard, ruler-straight lines of darker skin demarcated the borders of the sports bras she wore every day. Soon enough, she was rubbing lotion directly onto her breasts, again with that same thorough and languid technique that built a strange sense of anticipation in my mind.

I felt my prick stirring in my shorts, like a sleeping dog stretching awake and now nosing for attention. I glanced around guiltily, but fortunately our wing was nearly private and stuck out from the side of the Villa like a pier. While I might be seen from the grounds as I stood on a balcony, she was fully hidden from view by tall hedges at both sides of her patio. The pool and courts were down a steep landscaped slope, making her invisible from below as well.

Her fingers had been circling her dark pink nipples and I exhaled sharply when she finally seized them both. Still unhurried, she began to roll them slowly, in unison, with her thumbs and fingers. My sense of impropriety only sharpened as she crossed the line and entered into a decidedly more private act, all while I spied on her unseen. Still, I stayed at the balcony and watched. I had no excuses anymore, my carnal desire controlled me utterly by now.

After teasing her teats to prominent hardness, her hands slid down her stomach. My hopes were answered as she seized the waistband of her bikini bottom and lifted it, as if inspecting the gusset. In the shadowed tent her fingers created, I spied a small patch of blonde hair on her mound, then one hand slid under the bikini and it snapped back over her wrist. The steady pulsing of the stretched fabric made it clear what her fingers were doing, although sadly out of sight.

I realized my cock was fully hard, bulging down my shorts as it strained against them. I glanced around one more time, wary of being seen, but no one was walking the grounds. As much as I was tempted to pull it out, I settled for discreetly rubbing myself through my shorts as my attention returned to Sasha. I figured that since I had crossed the line of decency, I might as well go the whole hog.

Her free hand moved back to her breasts and she teased her nipples. Meanwhile, down below, she continued to rub herself between her thighs. As before, she was unhurried and seemed to move both sets of fingers at a slow, but steady pace that quickly became frustrating to watch. I craved to see her intensify, to build visibly towards something, as if projecting my own growing desire for release onto her.

For many long minutes she continued like that, her wrist flexing and her bikini bottom bulging deliberately, while her fingers tugged or rolled her nipples almost idly. Birds chirped and the distant roar of a car engine was carried up the hill by a trick of the wind. The sun beat down on me, the wind no longer refreshing enough to cool the fever that now consumed my body.

I found myself breathing faster as I touched myself, my own arousal stoked by the thrilling combination of deviant voyeurism and fear of discovery. I'm not this sort of man, really, but the shame at what I was doing seemed to only arouse me more. She had already driven me to madness, it seemed, as what I was doing was clearly insane.

I marveled at her restraint initially, but grew to resent it as my own stamina quickly proved inferior. Stymied, I found myself slowing my own touches down to proceed at her rhythm, trying to time my peak with whatever unhurried schedule she was working towards. I reached down, into my shorts, and rubbed my cock directly, my need for extra stimulation at her glacial pace overcoming my instinct for discretion. I gambled that the wide marble pillars of the balcony's railing still hid enough of my act from an observer that my full perversion would be obscured.

I still scanned the grounds occasionally, but saw no motion anywhere.

Her lazy masturbation frustrated me even more now, and my annoyance grew with every stroke of my cock. I couldn't conceive of enjoying such an act so indulgently, with no regard to time, and apparently no desire to reach the ultimate goal. I began to fume in anger, and her actions became obscenely decadent in my mind, a kind of purposeless self-pleasure that appeared almost as if done out of idleness. I'm not an emotional type, but I found myself cursing her in my head, fighting back the urge to shout to her to finally just cum!

At last, near my own boiling point, I noticed a shift in her behavior as some urgency finally entered her motions. There was a subtle increase in body tension at first, her stomach muscles tightening into squares under the bright sun, that was paired with a sensual, rhythmic undulation that started at her hips. I began to hope that she was indeed building towards her own release, despite the tortoiselike pace with which she still teased herself.

I increased my own rhythm, now rubbing faster than her as I decided that my orgasm should precede hers, just to prevent the unlikely scenario that I couldn't finish in time with her. She shocked me, however, by squirming into a visible climax out of the blue while her fingers still moved with deceptive slowness. Her hips arched slightly, then her thighs clasped around her hidden hand, before her body began twitching as if shocked. As if to reward herself for her patience, only then did she begin to rapidly rub inside her bikini bottoms, her wrist moving in a blur as her tempo suddenly became frenetic.

I heard moans escape her lips, loud and high pitched without any regard for discretion, and she bucked against her hand forcefully. She pinched a nipple hard, then gave it a long pull that stretched her small mound upwards like an inverted funnel. Her oiled muscles gleamed and ridged visibly as she alternately tensed and relaxed her long body against the pleasure that swept through her.

I realized in agony that I couldn't catch up to her!

It was a frustrating recognition and caused me to jerk my cock more vigorously within my shorts in a vain attempt to get to my own resolution faster. Sasha was trembling and bucking still, but the crest had already passed. Her head thrashed to either side, and then with a sudden jerk, turned upwards and looked at me. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, so I couldn't tell if they were open, but seeing her face forced me to retreat backwards into my room as if scalded.

I sat on my bed and trembled with adrenaline, the guilt of having been caught making my head spin. My cock was still throbbingly hard, demanding attention, but I couldn't touch myself now out of remorse and disgust at what I'd done. She was only nineteen... and I was her coach!

Had she seen me? And if so, had she seen what I was doing?

Trying to clear my mind, I rinsed my face off in the sink with cold water and carefully returned to the balcony to peek over the edge. Sasha was gone, and I felt a stab of fear.

Well, there was nothing to do about it now.

I turned, mechanically, and sat at the desk to resume the work I'd begun. A finals match in Italy that she'd lost last year was on my screen and I began watching it, seeking a distraction. She'd played a brilliant first set, lost the second in a tie break, and then was soundly beaten in the third. Something had bothered me about her play during that match, and I tried to regain my train of thought from earlier.

The knock at my door was strong and insistent, and I knew it was Sasha immediately.

"May I come in?" she asked as she walked right past me.

She'd thrown on a short, silk robe that was loosely belted. A vertical strip of her tanned skin was exposed on her the front, revealing that she was still topless and wearing just her bikini bottoms.

"I do believe I forgot to shake your hand earlier," she said, a saccharine smile on her face. "How rude of me!"

Her hand extended like a peace offering. It was the same one that had just been buried in her bikini and rubbing her sex.

"No need to apologize, I wasn't offended," I answered, giving her a conciliatory smile in return. I shook her hand firmly, feeling a sheen of moisture. She held my grip to the point of awkwardness, the slick skin of our palms slipping slightly as we squeezed them tight.

"Good, because I didn't apologize," she said, her smile fading as she released my hand. She glanced around the room, eyes lingering on my neatly stacked bags of gear. "You packed with presumption, I see."

"Your father suggested I stay the weekend, regardless of my decision."

"You mean my decision?"

"Our decision, then."

"Mine," she snapped, then looked at the balcony. "I've never been up to this suite before. How's the view?"

She spun, not waiting for my answer, and went directly to the railing. Leaning out, she glanced down briefly, and then turned and walked back inside to face me.

"Did you like what you saw?" Her tone was icy.

My face was calm, but I felt my stomach roil as her eyes boiled with anger. My right palm felt cool as her arousal evaporated in the air-conditioned room. I badly wanted to smell her, I realized, but forced my mind back to her question, and how best to spin a return.

"It is a lovely view," I said at last, slicing an oblique reply designed to thwart her direct anger. "Quite relaxing, thank you."

"I mean what you bloody saw just now!" Her voice rose in anger, my attempt at playing coy had only tipped her into outright rage.

"Oh, that?" I feigned surprise. "If you don't want to be seen fingering yourself, don't do it outside my—"

Her lightning fast slap caught me by surprise,. She had connected a stinging blow on the side of my mouth that turned my head slightly. It hurt, but I was more shocked at her violence than from the pain.

I raised my hand to touch my face and was aware now of her fragrance, rising from both my palm and my lips to fill my nostrils. She had a a rich, musky and undeniably feminine odor, with a hint of tanginess. My pulse quickened as my already badly teased loins caught the scent of fresh arousal.

"You pervert," she said, a smug grin on her face. "I should sack you right now."

"You'd tell your papochka that I caught you masturbating on your patio?" I asked, chuckling at her.

Her threat was hollow, I knew instantly. If she was going to do it, she'd have rung Anatoly or her Papa to handle the dirty work, and she'd need a better reason than her own indiscretion.

I wasn't going to let her scare me, and certainly not let her think I minded the juices she'd tried to taint me with as part of some immature revenge ploy, like a vulgar schoolboy might prank his friends. I pointedly ran my tongue around my lips, now pairing her flavor to her scent. She was tangy and sharp, with a touch of sweetness.

I smiled at her.

Her eyes had narrowed at my words, but widened as she realized what I was tasting. Her hand flew up at my smile to give me another slap, but I was expecting it this time and seized her wrist. She struggled against me, her lips curling in outrage, before she tried to slap me with her other hand. I caught that one as well.

"Steady, get a grip on yourself, the other sort of grip that is," I said, as her face went red with rage. Her muscles strained against me, but I held her fast with ease. I was teasing her a bit, but she deserved it. "I didn't see much. Although, if you weren't so slow about it, I might have seen nothing at all."

"You PRICK!" Sasha shouted. She stepped closer and pushed hard, forcing me back a step. Her arms tried to twist away from me and we swayed back and forth as I held on tightly. The struggle had loosened her belt, and the front of her robe hung open, her breasts swinging into view at times from behind the lapels. She screamed at me, her muscles flexing as she fought me with her full strength. "You should resign! My papochka will have you killed for this!"

"Don't you want to win?" I said calmly, steering her around me and trying to defuse her explosive rage. She wouldn't stop fighting me and I was growing worried she might hurt herself in her mad attempts to hurt me! The bed seemed to be a safe place to deposit her until this tantrum ended., well as safe as place as any to place a half-naked and very attractive blonde teenager. "You hired me, remember?"

"Win? What about you..." she snapped at me, then stumbled backwards from my sudden push. She gritted her teeth and tried to shove harder, but was forced to backpedal even more as I maintained steady pressure. "FUCK you!" She spat it out when she realized I was too strong. Her leg felt the bed behind her and she braced herself, attempting to hold her ground in a last stand. "Don't YOU..." Her words were spat out between grunts, "want..." She struggled anew with a sudden burst of fury, "...to FUCK me?!"

I was stunned at her question and she flopped backward at my distraction, pulling me with her. Caught leaning forward, I lost my balance and tumbled on top of her as she sprawled onto the bed. I was acutely aware of her bare breasts pressed against my chest as I lay on her warm body. Her wrists were now pulled high over her head, forcing me to lie flat on her unless I let her go.

"No!" I shouted, releasing her as if burned, and rolled to one side. I was breathing hard, and not all my excitement was from our struggles. I slid away from her on the bed, as if she was a poisonous snake.

"Why not?" she asked, a teasing smile on her face as she sensed that she had the advantage again.

The robe had slid off one of her shoulders and she propped herself up on an elbow to study me. The rage was gone, like a hot flash of gasoline that had consumed all its fuel in one brilliant burst, but I found her suddenly calm gaze to have a hint of predatory hunger that made her seem more sinister. She looked now like a cat peering at a fat mouse that had finally been cornered, delightfully considering all the various ways that she might torture me before delivering a fatal bite.

"I'm married."

Her dismissive laugh chilled me and she seemed almost giddy, like she'd discovered the mouse didn't like being held by it's tail.

"That didn't stop you before, did it?," she replied, her hand reaching out to grab the collar of my shirt, and her manner suddenly seductive.

I seized her wrist to try to pry it off me, and realized that the tables truly were turned. I felt a sudden stab of worry, as this new assault would be harder to deflect with muscles alone. She rose up and reached for me with her other hand, "tsk"-ing at me as if I were a skittish colt. Her bare breasts swung before my face as she advanced on her knees toward my supine body.

Sasha was laughing now, confident and enjoying my discomfort. She loomed above me, dodging my attempts to grab her free hand as she tried to sneak past my guard and latch it onto my body. Any location she might place those fingers seemed dangerous and, at last, I made a desperate lunge and seized her wrist to hold both her hands firm again.

My sense of safety was short-lived as I discovered that I couldn't keep both her body and her hands away from me at the same time. I tried to eel away, but she lifted her knee and straddled me triumphantly.

"I can't, not again," I shouted at her.

"You pathetic loser," she snarled. "Now you've sunk to fucking your clients. You think you have the spine to turn me down, especially after you fucked HER?! That hairy pig."

"Her" was clearly my former client, a Spanish pro that now had a top ten ranking. We'd parted ways, out of the blue, six months ago, with her game on an upswing. While no official report or news story hinted that anything improper had happened, clearly word of what I'd done had spread in the pro circuit.

"I've promised my wife—"

"Oh, so faithful of you. Does she permit you to wank off to your players, then?" Sasha interrupted, still writhing as she attempted to seat herself on my crotch while I frantically held her at bay by tugging at her arms. It was a delicate balance, too tight and her face filled my vision and her lips threatened to kiss me, but too slack and her bottom threatened to grind on my lap and reveal my body's willingness. "Cheat on her like a real man at least, like the sad bitch deserves."

Her last words struck a nerve and I grimaced, my hands tightening on her wrists to the point that she squeaked in pain. Insulting me was one thing, I probably deserved it, but insulting Charlotte was a different matter entirely. She'd pressed her advantage too far, and a surge of indignation made me shift back to the offensive.

She was trying to twist me to her will to get her way, like she did everyone else. Even her offer of sex, if it was indeed real, I suspected was done out of spite to get leverage over me through guilt. Had she even done her little performance on the patio in the hopes that she would catch me watching? I felt my face flush with anger as I imagined her plotting my downfall with her hand in her snatch.

I despised her suddenly, or more precisely, her entitled brattiness. She'd finally pushed me beyond my limit and, in what was a very rare loss of control for me, I snapped. Even the way she masturbated, like she had nothing better to do, pissed me off as I decided that she'd wasted my time with her lazy indulgence.

Rage flared in me, an alien emotion that I seldom gave into. It was hot, delicious, and filled me with new strength and conviction. I admit that I lost my reason at that moment, and in my insanity crossed a line that I'd never even approached before in my professional or personal life.

"You little brat," I said, my tone icy and calm. As a father myself, her behavior was so clearly childish that I had an uncontrollable urge to teach her a lesson, make her change her attitude, and most of all, put her in her place. "It's time you learned some manners."