When Taken at the Flood Pt. 01

This was insane. I didn't know what to do. There was a heavy silence, as Grace just breathed heavily, audibly, for a minute. Then, she spoke, in a cold, assertive voice: "Deal."

* * * * *

CHAPTER 2

* * * * *

There was a long, awkward pause. The two ladies eyed each other suspiciously, while I tried desperately to think of some exit plan. Then, abruptly, Mark clapped his hands together. "All right, this is going to be good! I can't wait to find out whether you shave down there Grace..." He gestured pointedly towards the spot where my wife's bare legs disappeared under her skirt. If he was trying to rattle Grace, it didn't work—he looked up from a long, obvious leer in the direction of Grace's crotch to find her staring him full in the face, defiant.

He skipped a beat, and then resumed babbling. "... Anyway... before we start, let's make sure we've agreed on the rules." Mark seemed to be reliving his frat-boy days now. "First off, no covering up. I don't want Grace doing this 'ooh, I'm covering my tits, oooh I'm covering my pussy' stuff. When you're naked, you're naked, OK?" We three nodded dumbly. "Second, I don't want little Grace here dragging this game out with each sock and shoelace. So, everything on the feet, altogether, counts as one piece of clothing. Right?" We nodded again. "Third, we gotta make sure it's fair—I don't want you losers saying we cheated. Do you girls have on the same amount of clothing?"

There was another moment of silence, before Grace broke the impasse. "This is a one-piece outfit, so: dress, panties, and bra. Plus shoes. That's four."

Sheila grimaced ever so slightly, as if this was beneath her. "Same," she said, eyeing the floorboards in distaste.

"Great," Mark blustered on. "Lastly, we gotta have an umpire if we're going to play for these kinds of stakes. Let's see if we can round someone up." I followed Mark down the hall, mute, as he strode toward the aerobic room. The only person there was a portly gentleman in his late-fifties, a man I'd been introduced to once, named Prakesh Singh. I think I had heard he was an EVP at MidlandsBank. At the moment, however, Mr Singh was working the elliptical machine diligently, while watching CNBC on the monitor with the sound muted.

"Hey Pra, buddy!" Mark called out, all phony joviality. "John and I here, and our wives, have a funny little wager going on, and we were wondering if you could help us out. I've seen you playing tennis here, before—you know the rules, right?" Mr. Singh nodded. "We were wondering if you'd be willing to take a break from the elliptical and umpire our game?"

Mr. Singh stopped the machine and got off. Prakesh's hair was white and close-cropped, matching his ample white mustache, but his round face had a boyish quality, and his eyes glinted. "I would surely be happy to help," he spoke in a lightly accented tenor. "Just let me get a towel, and I shall meet you at the court."

"Oh, one other thing you should know Pra. And, this might seem a little weird to you. But, the girls thought it would be a hoot to play 'strip tennis.' You know, like strip poker. Kind of a... sorority-type thing. Are you down with that?" I was surprised Mark misrepresented, if not the central facts, then at least the context and emotional overtones of our wager so outrageously. I suppose he thought the upstanding Indian gentleman would not take part if he knew the whole story. And anyway, it was very much in the nature of both Mark and Sheila to say whatever seemed most likely to elicit the desired response in the moment.

I thought I caught an extra twinkle in Prakesh's eye. "Well, that is most irregular. Especially in a stuffy place like this club. But sometimes the women-folk do get in high spirits, and who would I be to stand in their way?"

* * * * *

When Mr. Singh rejoined us, he took his place on the elevated chair next to the net. Silence dominated the court. My knees felt watery, but Grace was going through her pregame stretching ritual just as she had done hundreds of times before, as if nothing had changed. Mark was practicing vicious cuts and backhands, his racket whistling through the air with each stroke. Sheila simply stood there like a haughty statue, weight back on one shapely leg, arms crossed over her breasts, racket wedged under one of them, staring icy daggers towards us.

The Schwetzers won first serve, of course, and I must admit I was back on my heels from the get-go. Mark smashed two aces past me and we were down 30-love before I'd even caught my breath. On the next serve, I was blessed with dumb luck. I was late to my mark and stuck my racket out wildly. I think maybe my eyes were closed. Anyway, the ball caromed off its rim with some kind of funky spin, and I watched (eyes open now), mesmerized, as it just cleared the net, pocked on the court immediately beyond, and then flew off at a crazy angle. Shelia made a last-minute dive to try to intercept, but the ball eluded her outstretched racket by several inches. We were on the board!

Grace won a tremendous volley against Sheila on the next serve, and then Mark, red-faced and obviously frustrated that things hadn't quite followed his script, double-faulted. It was 40-30, and game point for us! I saw Mark's face contort in a snarl, and my momentary elation gave way to feelings of anxiety and futility. This might be our best chance to steal a game, and yet I just knew in my heart that the Schwetzers would find a way to score the next three points. And then, when they did, not only would my wife have to begin stripping, but those smug fuckers would only rub it in harder because we had failed to convert this golden opportunity.

Mark wound up for one of his almost-unreturnable serves. Somehow my legs and arms obeyed me, for a change, and I managed to get my racket on the ball squarely, for a credible return to the baseline. Shelia was no slouch, however, and she had extra motivation to be at the top of her game. She returned with a beautiful passing shot, right down the line. I knew instantly that I had positioned myself too far toward the middle of the court. I reversed my momentum, and tried to get my forehand on the ball, but it was too late—I watched with despair as it landed, just out of my reach, directly on the line. The Schwetzers had tied this game, and from here, I knew they would go on to win it, and eventually the match. My mood was black.

"Out!!... Game to the Wilsons!" Mr. Singh proclaimed loudly.

My mouth hung open. Fool that I was, I almost said something. Prakesh winked at me, though, and I zipped my lip. Grace had been blocked by my body from seeing where the ball landed, so she was able to celebrate without any qualms. She ran over to me with a bounce in her step; and as she embraced me, she whispered in my ear, "See, hon, I knew we could take these bastards."

"WHAT?!," Mark roared. He raced over to Mr. Singh. "What the hell was that, Prakesh? Are you blind? That was in by a foot!"

Sheila, too, had moved over toward the umpire's chair, red-faced and spluttering. "I hit that shot fair, Pra. You know I did."

Now, the truth was, I'm sure they would have said the exact same things if the ball really had been out of bounds. I don't think either one of them had a great angle on it, and they were used to saying whatever they needed to in order to win.

Anyway, Mr. Singh was unflustered. I got the sense he was used to dealing with over-inflated egos and dubious assertions. "Now, Mark. You asked me to be the umpire for this match, and I am doing so to the best of my ability. If you want to find a different umpire, or to put an end to this silly game, then that is your right."

"Yeah," Grace chimed in from across the net, caught up in the moment. "If you're too chicken to go on, then why don't you just fix our car and we can call it off. We don't need to see your sad old body anyway, Sheila!" If Mr. Singh wondered what all this meant, he didn't indicate it. He just continued to stare down at the Schwetzers through heavy eyelids, placid unconcern on his face.

Mark and Sheila seemed taken aback by running into someone willing and able to stand up to them. "Fucking ball was in...," Mark muttered under his breath as he turned away, temples pulsing a bit, jaw working. He and Sheila withdrew to their side of the court to confer.

"Yeah, chew on that, cowards!" Grace jeered.

"Baby, maybe we should tone it down," I murmured. I thought putting an end to this perverse competition right now, especially on a winning note, sounded like a tremendous idea. But Grace was still far too revved up to look at the situation in logical or rational terms.

Anyway, after their little confab, Mark and Sheila seemed to have reached a decision. And, really, the outcome was no surprise. Having put their self-image and sense of superiority on the line the way they had, it would be far too humiliating for them to back down now.

"Go ahead, Grace Wilson! Keep running your mouth!," Mark yelled, making no effort to hide his mean-spiritedness anymore. "Anyone can get lucky once, but we'll just see whose laughing when I'm snapping pictures of your tits and cunt on my iPhone!"

As he blustered, Shelia, with no ceremony and only a moment's hesitation, turned and sauntered over to the chairs beside the court, leaning her racket up against one of them. She pulled her arms inside her dress, and wrestled it awkwardly over her head. She stopped to drape the dress over the back of one of the chairs, then picked up her racket and began walking toward the court.

I figured there was no harm in ogling her openly. Like all of us, Sheila was somewhere in her early-30s. She'd never had any kids, and obviously invested a lot of time and money in keeping her body in top condition. Her face was elegant, but severe—her high forehead, hawk nose, and sharp, determined jawline gave her the distinct look of a predator. Her skin was a pale porcelain—although, with her recent exertion and now this unusual level of exposure, she had pinked up a bit. Her build was tall and leggy, with taut abs and pleasing inward curves at her midriff, and arms and legs that were toned and muscular. She had straight, jet-black hair which was layered, and hung well down her back. It had been scattered and mussed by removing the dress, and she tried to smooth it back into shape as she strolled on the court. She was now clad in a high-end set of bright white spandex athletic underwear. Her panties were high-cut and attractive. Her rack was, well, even larger than I'd thought. I'd always known she was well-endowed, but even within the elastic squeeze of a supportive bra, I was surprised at how far they projected over her flat abdomen. Not to say that she was top-heavy, but an undeniable D-cup, if not more.

Sheila knew well enough that I had been eyeing her from head to toe. "Try to keep your drool in your mouth, John," she spat at me venomously. "Enjoy the view because this is the most you're ever going to get to see of me! In fact, I almost feel sorry for you. When you go home tonight, you'll have to settle for that dumpy broad instead of all this. And the rest of America will be sharing every inch of her with you, right on the internet!" I glanced over at Grace, and saw her eyes blazing, her jaw set in determination.

We had a minute to prep before the next game. I ambled over to the edge of the net to grab my water bottle and take a gulp. As I did so, still looking out over the court, I heard Prakesh speak, quietly, with a voice that reached only my ears. "You know, it is a funny thing. More than thirty years ago, when I first came to this country, it was Sheila's father who turned me down for a job. He said I was not 'articulate' enough. He said my credentials from IIT Bombay had no value. And then, just last year, Mark moved your company's business away from my bank, because, as I later heard, he 'did not trust that monkey with his money.' Now what is that thing my kids often say to me? 'Karma is a bitch?' I think perhaps they are right."

I didn't dare look at Prakesh as I walked back to my place, but I was pretty sure the edges of his mouth were curled up in a satisfied smile.

* * * * *

Resuming my spot, I noticed that Sheila's state of undress had made an impression on the staff. The young woman who had been pushing the broom earlier was now standing idly in the observation deck, watching our match. Even as I glanced up, I saw her beckon urgently to another club attendant, a lanky, pimply twenty-something with frizzy hair whom I recognized—Billy, I think was his name. He came over and started watching too, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

I wondered if Sheila could sense the additional eyes on her back. Really, she had nothing to be embarrassed about. What she had on now was just about the same as the bikini she would wear to the beach next summer. Still, context is everything. Knowing that she had stripped off her dress and bared her undies in the middle of the country-club put a slightly different spin on things. And clearly, however much she might be gritting her teeth and willing herself not to care, it did have a subtle effect on her. Put her just off her stride.

I let Grace serve. I had no doubt that she was in a more effective state of mind than I was. Grace does not have a powerful serve, but she is reliable and accurate. Now, with her mind and will bent entirely on securing victory, and fueled by an icy fury, she was at the top of her game. She pounded the ball at Sheila mercilessly, and although the speed of her shots was modest, their placement was perfect. She had Sheila diving, back-pedaling, dodging all over her side of the court. Before long, the other woman's ample chest was heaving deliciously within its spandex confines from all the exertion.

And, although she was putting in the effort, Sheila's normal hyper-confident style was slightly off-kilter—unsettled, apparently, by the knowledge that she was running around the court in her underwear. One by one, shots dropped in front of her outstretched racket, or fell in behind her, that I guessed she normally would have reached. At last, with a 40-15 score in our favor, Sheila flailed wildly at a perfect split-the-seam serve from Grace, and the errant return caromed far off into the wings. "Game to the Wilsons!" Prakesh beamed.

"FUCK!" Mark bellowed. "Sheila, you've got to make that shot!!"

She glared at him for a beat, nostrils flared, saying nothing. Then she walked over to the chairs. Sitting down on one, she untied her shoes and took them off. Then she peeled off first one sock, and then the other, stuffing them inside her shoes. The task completed, she got up again, and padded back to the court, her bare toes sporting turquoise-colored nail polish. The decision to remove her shoes had been the obvious and natural one, and, as far as I knew then, no one gave it a second thought. It would be her turn to serve next.

As she got ready, I looked up and saw that the morning exercise crowd had finally started filtering into the building. Mr. Jackson, a nice old 70-something who did laps every day in the pool, had stopped at the window to see what the staffers were so fascinated by. A couple of moms that I knew Grace and Sheila socialized with had paused too, blowing off their aerobics class for the possibility of some juicy gossip. Even as the game resumed, I saw one of the women had pulled out her phone and was texting on it frantically.

Sheila seemed to have gathered herself somewhat. She, too, had a wicked serve, and put it to good use now. For the first time today, I sensed, uncomfortably, that a little of the normal Schwetzer magic had settled over the court. It was a hard-fought game, and we battled bravely. I had one beautiful moment where I parried a hot shot right back at Mark, tying him up so badly that he looked like a fool.

Still, they wore us down, and while we did manage to scratch our way back to deuce several times, they finally broke through our defenses. When Prakesh called the game for them, the Schwetzers grinned and gibbered and high-fived like high-schoolers who had just won the state championship. The only positive I could find in the situation is that they seemed to be far too ecstatic about just winning one game from us.

Even so, it meant that my darling Grace would have to strip something off. Still breathing hard, she gave a sigh of disappointment at the loss, shoulders slumping slightly in a resigned expression. Then she shuffled off to our side, set down her racket, and shimmied out of her dress. My Gracie was no runway model, but she was undeniably attractive, despite all the Schwetzers' barbs. She had a circular face, high cheekbones, big eyes, slender lips, a frank, open expression, and the slightest olive cast to her skin. Her dirty-blonde hair was cut in a medium-length, rounded bob which dove in at the neck to frame her face.

Now, with her dress cast over a chair, her figure was as much on display as Sheila's. On top Grace also had a sports-bra, teal colored, while down below she had on modest pale-pink satin panties with a bit of lace trim. She was shorter and more solidly built than Sheila. Her limbs were thicker, though still shapely, and her muscles were not so cut and defined. She was also more solid around the middle, which had never bothered me at all, but did present more of a squared-off effect. Her chest was slightly less well-endowed—she wore a C-size bra, I knew, and while her girls still filled out their cups nicely, they were definitely not as prominent and attention-grabbing as Sheila's.

Looking up at the window I saw that a couple of corpulent businessmen in sweats had now joined the little crowd of gawkers. I guessed they had scheduled a match at the squash courts, and then, hearing that a doubles game was underway which involved women playing in their underwear, decided to forego the exercise. Who could blame them? At least the girls had undoubtedly managed to elevate the men's heartrates.

The next game I had the serve, and I must admit I made a hash of it. I was so nervous of faulting that I ended up just lobbing in easy prey. Mark took full advantage of my hesitancy, returning smash after smash at us, with a velocity and placement that neither I nor Grace could handle. We didn't even take a point—no, it was just four straight exchanges to Mark, and the game was over. Each team had now won two games apiece, and the match was tied up. "That's the way babe," Sheila purred at Mark, as they traded a casual, low five, "way to fuck 'em when they're down."

Doubts crowded in on me now. I felt I was drowning in a sea of foreboding and futility. I wondered if there was any way we could recapture that magic of the first game, and find our rhythm. At least, I told myself, Grace still hadn't lost anything really important yet. Maybe we could still gut this thing out. Yet, even as I said it to myself, I didn't believe it. I looked over and saw Grace breathing heavily, hands on her knees. "Come on, sexy, take something else off for us!," Mark yelled derisively.

Grace heaved a sigh and stood upright again. She walked with a deliberate step in my direction. "Don't think you can weasel out of this, now, Gracie!," Sheila taunted her. "Your loser husband can't save you. We won't stop until we get you naked. My Markie deserves to see that—and so does the world!"

"Honey," Grace said to me, in a low voice, leaning close to my ear, "I don't know if you're going to agree with what I do next, or not. But I think it's for the best. Win or lose we've got to give this our best shot." I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. Slowly, unhurriedly, Grace paced over to the chairs. We all waited for her to sit and remove her shoes and socks. Then, we all thought, this game would really begin in earnest.