Panty Trap Pt. 05

What am I doing?

Sherry should be putting an end to whatever it was she'd started with Rob. She enjoyed teasing him — enjoyed the hell out of it, and she'd never had more fun choosing which panties to wear each morning — but she didn't need someone in her life who wouldn't appreciate her for all she was.

She needed someone who wanted more than to have his fetish indulged.

Yet somehow she'd looked into his eyes and something there had prompted her to suggest she watch him play tennis, to see if he was the hotshot that others had made him out to be (though, in fairness, he'd never bragged).

So she'd hurried home and changed, hating herself just a little for thinking of him when she picked out her new outfit and stepped into a fresh pair of panties. Fuck it. Teasing him was entirely too delicious.

***

"He's on the last court," the guy at the front desk told her. The indoor tennis center was as bizarre to her as any circus. Four courts laid side to side, with a floor-to-ceiling net stretching along the entire right side so people could walk to any court without interrupting play.

Her chest vibrated with the thwock of tennis balls exploding off racquets and the grunts of men and women dripping with sweat. As she walked toward the last court, a ball struck the netting and a short guy with muscular legs retrieved it, seeming to see nothing but the ball and the next point before him. His legs looked as though they could propel him into the rafters. Intense.

The last court appeared to be empty, but then she saw Rob talking to a man who appeared to be in his fifties, at least by the silver streaks in his hair. His coach?

Rob broke into a smile when he saw her, and the other man looked in her direction.

Sherry could almost feel him taking in her outfit, a shortish white dress with a faux red belt, the closest she had to her image of a tennis outfit. She'd even completed the look with white sneakers.

"Where's your racquet?" Rob asked as she stepped around the net and walked onto the court.

Sherry laughed. "Trust me, you don't want to see me play."

"I would love to see you play," Rob countered. "This is my coach, Tim."

"Hi, Tim," Sherry said, and shook his hand.

"Former coach," Tim corrected. "Rob said his coworker wanted to see him hit, and I was already here. You're in for a treat."

"Yeah, I heard he won Wimbledon or something," Sherry said, catching Rob's eye.

Rob looked down, and Tim said, "You can't win a Slam if you walk away."

"Yeah, yeah," Rob said. "I know you only have a few minutes, so let's hit." Addressing Sherry, he said, "You can sit there, if you like." Rob indicated bleachers snugged up to the court on the farthest wall of the center.

"Happily," she said, walking over and climbing to the second row, not failing to notice Rob eyeing her legs as she sat. Her skirt rode up to the middle of her plump thighs, but she kept her knees together, giving him nothing.

Rob struck a ball across the court and when Tim stroked it back Rob pivoted, bent his knees, described an arc with his racquet and whipped the head of it around so the ball fired across the court like a bullet. Tim directed it back across the court — to Rob's backhand, she thought it was called — and he described an even bigger arc with his racquet, this time the head of it almost touching his back on the backswing.

Thwock.

She'd never seen anything like it.

Thwock.

Poetry in motion. The look of concentration on his face beyond intense as his feet shifted beneath him to take another strike.

Thwock.

Almost sexual. The sound of the ball coming off his racquet vibrated not just in her chest but between her thighs. His eyes narrowed, and he struck the ball harder than she could have imagined.

THWOCK.

Tim didn't even move as the ball whipped past him. "That's what he does," Tim called across the court.

Sherry clapped and let her knees part the slightest bit.

"Let's show her your serve," Tim said.

"All right," Rob agreed, his eyes catching on the space between her knees for just a moment.

He stepped to the line and bounced the ball, seeming to struggle to regain his intensity. Sherry could see him regain his focus, and she wondered if he were envisioning his serve before he struck it. The ball lifted into the air, well over his head, and he arched his back, coiled.

The ball hung in the air, seemingly suspended. Sherry held her breath, everything in the world pausing — the players on the other courts frozen, the world itself seeming on edge.

Rob uncoiled, his racquet snapping forward. Again, Tim couldn't even move for the ball. Sherry had barely even seen the ball until it appeared behind Tim.

"Oh God," she let out.

Rob turned to her.

"That's his money shot!" Tim shouted, sounding both proud and triumphant.

"Unreturnable!"

Sherry didn't even think. "Come here," she said, motioning him to her.

Rob cocked his head and walked to her, spinning the racquet in his hand, something she imagined he'd done a million times.

Her feet had been flat on the row of seats in front of her, but she moved one foot so that leg stretched straight out, bringing her thighs apart. She knew he could see the dampening triangle of satin between her thighs, the red and white stripes that mirrored her white dress with its red belt.

He almost froze, fixated on her panties, but he came to her, almost drooling.

Sherry grabbed his shirt and pulled his ear to her mouth. She whispered her address and said, "Got it?"

"Yes," he said, and nodded.

"Repeat it," she said, and when he did, a tremble in his voice, she told him. "I need you to fuck me."

With that, she slid past him, brushing her hand over his shorts and feeling the cock that had gone rock hard. He'll have to explain that to Tim, she thought.

***

Their Ubers might as well have raced to her apartment building, because Rob was calling up almost as soon as Sherry walked in her door. She didn't hesitate to buzz him in.

Her hand hit the doorknob at almost the same instant he knocked, and the door flew open. She pulled him to her and kissed him, her tongue and his tangling, and then she was leading him to the closest suitable place, which happened to be the couch.

She placed her knees on the couch cushion and gripped the back of the couch. She looked over her shoulder, past her ink-black hair. "You can look," she said, and watched him as he took a deep breath and slowly pushed her dress up around her waist, revealing the striped satin stretched across her ass. His helpless stare was adorable.

"You can touch," she said.

His hands went to her ass and moved slowly over the satin. By the glazed look in his eyes he was experiencing untold pleasure just from touching her, but she'd have to admit she was in a state herself.

"Take it out," she said, and if he hadn't immediately complied she might have wondered if he'd heard, because his gaze remained fixated on her big round panty-clad ass. His prick stuck out straight and hard, and she needed it inside her. "You can rub it against me," she said, guessing that was what he wanted.

"Yes," he moaned. Holding his cock at its base as one would a club, he rubbed the head of it over the satin, causing him to moan more deeply.

"Pull them down," she said. "I need you in me."

Sherry felt the material slowly drawing down her cheeks, and she imagined he'd never been with someone with such a round ass, with such wide hips. Would he feel small behind her, even with a cock that was large by any standards?

He pulled a condom from his pocket and rolled it over his cock, and she thanked god he had one, the thought somehow escaping her.

"Slowly," she said, as the head of his cock found her pussy lips. "Just a little."

She was wet, had been since watching him on the courts, and when the head of his cock was inside her she closed her eyes and squeezed against it, then said, "Now in, all the way, slowly."

Rob placed his hands on her hips and his cock slid in and in and in. Yes, she thought, his hands gripping the flesh at her hips and pressing every inch of himself inside her until the head was deep within.

"Now out," she said, then, when he'd nearly withdrawn, "Hold." She imagined him about to serve, coiled, all that potential energy, the ball hanging in the air. "When I tell you, drive it in, hard," she said.

"Anything," he answered.

"Now," she said, and as he thrust into her she was both there on the couch and in the tennis center, watching him serve his perfect serve, that pure, clean stroke.

"Again," she commanded, and he thrust in again.

"Again," she told him, and he pulled on her hips, thrusting again and again and again.

Sherry lost it then, lost track of time and her surroundings and everything except the imagine of him serving and the feeling of him pounding into her. He might have been fucking her for an hour or for only a minute, She couldn't have told.

"Fuck. Yes!" she screamed, cumming hard on his cock moments before he exploded inside her.

Oh God, she thought. I've done it now.