When Taken at the Flood Pt. 01

But that was not what Grace did. Instead, she paused a minute, and took another deep breath. "Quit stalling!," Mark called. Ignoring him, still facing toward us all, Grace reached down, and jerked her pink satin panties to just above her knees.

I blinked disbelievingly. My chest got tight, my face clammy. One moment my wife had still had a shred of modesty left. The next moment—there was her pussy, bared in the country club, exposed for all to see. How had this happened?

Grace allowed the panties to drop to her feet, and tried to step out of them, but they hung up on her tennis shoes. Sighing again, she sat on the nearest chair, and carefully pulled the panties over her shoes, first one and then the other. That done, she dropped them on the ground, stood, and started walking back to her position.

My wife's face was even redder than before, but otherwise she appeared stoic—jaw set, unblinking eyes directed straight ahead. Mark let out a big whoop. "Now that's what I'm talking about! It turns out your bitch is in a hurry to show off her hairy cunt, John! I guess she has lots of experience introducing it to strange men!"

In truth there wasn't too much to see. Grace's thighs clung together fairly closely. Her pubes sported a thick, dark thatch of hair—trimmed, but not aggressively—which hid most of what lay beneath. As she began walking forward, it caused her legs to part slightly, just enough to backlight her snatch. I was momentarily taken aback to see that she was visibly wet down there. After a second, however, I realized that this wasn't arousal, but a sheen of sweat: the droplets I saw glinting at her crotch simply reflected all the effort she had been expending.

For the onlookers, I think it was not the actual sight of Grace's pussy that was electrifying, so much as the idea that some woman was showing off her pussy on the tennis court. I could almost hear Prakesh gulp from up on his chair. The corner of my eye caught movement, as the growing crowd of people at the windows leaned closer, almost in unison, drawn unconsciously, irresistibly to try to get a better look at Grace's bare crotch. By now, the entire aerobics class, including the instructor, had cut their session short to enjoy the spectacle, and a number of cellphones were busily recording our exhibition.

At least one person, however, was not at all transfixed by the sight of Grace's pussy. "Ha, that's some jungle you got there, Gracie!," Sheila jeered, "why don't you take a lawnmower to it? Look, Mark, didn't I always tell you? She's no blonde—she dyes her hair!" In point of fact, it was not a big secret. I'm sure Grace would have told Sheila what brand of hair color she bought at the drugstore, if Sheila had ever asked. But to learn this mundane fact by way of Grace's pubic hair carried entirely different connotations.

Yet, somehow, Grace seemed able to wall all this out of her mind. She still appeared to believe that we could win this perverted contest, and was going to give it everything she had. And after my initial shock and shame, I thought I was finally starting to understand her strategy. When it came down to it, in a game of tennis, what gear did you really need? A racket, of course. But what next? Good shoes—traction was everything when trying to react quickly and effectively to the unexpected. And, if you were a well-endowed woman, then after that would come a sports bra, which would allow you the greatest possible range of nimble, unencumbered movement. Panties, on the other hand, were entirely optional, when viewed from a purely functional perspective.

So what Grace had done, in effect, was to take one for the team—putting her pussy on display, willingly, so that we might have the best chance of eking out a win. I had to hand it to her—it was a brave, logical, and confident move.

Still, the upshot was that my wife was now standing on the country club tennis court, before a crowd of people, with her pussy exposed. It was hard to feel good about the way this was going.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 3

* * * * *

It was hard to believe that we could beat the Schwetzers; all the moreso given that I was presented with my wife's bare crotch every time I looked at her. However, as we prepared for the next game, and I continued to ponder Grace's daring gambit, I began to grasp a potential weakness in the Schwetzers' game—one that I assumed Grace had thought of too and hoped to exploit. Sheila, of course, had not even considered dropping her panties when the same choice confronted her. She was barefoot, therefore, and the hardcourt was starting to get sweaty, what with our dives and stumbles and general exertion. Under such conditions, the woman's mobility would necessarily suffer; and if we could exploit this opening, we might still be able to turn the match to our advantage.

However, we would have to break Mark's serve first. which was a steep mountain to climb. Looking back at it now, I'm pretty sure we had one other thing working in our favor. I think having Grace's pussy laid out for him must have dulled Mark's edge just a bit. After all, to humiliate her by baring her crotch—to 'see if she shaved down there'—had been his ultimate goal. Achieving it so soon and a bit anti-climactically must have made him feel like victory was inevitable, almost like he had already won. At any rate, his serves were not quite so hard, and not quite so laser-focused this time. He was still playing well, but with just enough hint of complacency to give me a chance.

I didn't need to hit winners, I only needed to muscle his serves back over the net in such a way that the Schwetzers didn't have an easy kill. Once we got a volley going, then the upper hand was ours. All we had to do was bang it in Sheila's direction until her diminished range and agility led to some miscue. I have to admit, this was Grace's game. Three or four times she made the perfect shot, sending Sheila sprawling in her underwear, not even close to the mark she had needed to reach. Nor did it hurt that dear Mr. Singh, bless his heart, was deciding anything close our way.

We reached deuce, and then Grace and I took the advantage point. "Jeez, Mark, don't be a pussy—put them away." There was a faint overtone of whining desperation in Sheila's voice now. "Are you just going to keep serving up losers while they strip me? Three aces and we're out of here. What the hell is wrong with you?" His pride injured, Mark wound up for a monster serve. I cringed involuntarily when it flew off his racket, and watched, unable to even try for it... as the ball landed 6 inches out of bounds. Sweet!

Sheila rolled her eyes. Mark cursed and spat. He coiled up for his second serve.

And just at that moment, I heard a tumult up in the observation lounge, and a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from Mr. Singh. Mark took an unnatural stutter step, tried to serve anyway, and the ball ticked off the edge of his racket, falling with a plop to the ground just a few yards away. I followed the line from his eyes, and it ran straight to my wife's crotch. It seems that as he had been preparing to serve, she had tucked her racket under her arm, spread her feet, pulled her pussy lips up and open with both hands, and begun teasing the clit thus exposed.

"Double-fault—game to the Wilsons!" Prakesh sang out at last, a slightly hoarse note in his voice. Her mission accomplished, and a hint of satisfaction on her face, Grace daintily closed up her pussy lips again, brought her legs together, and ambled over to grab a sip of water.

"What!? Fuck! That was cheating! Do-over!" Mark yelled, his face turned a bright beet hue with anger and embarrassment.

"I know nothing in the rules of tennis to say that, um, what Mrs. Wilson just did is illegal," Prakesh said with breezy formality. "Players are generally allowed to move freely. She did not make a loud noise, nor wave her limbs, nor her racket. The ruling stands" In point of fact, I'm sure there must be some general distraction rule that Grace violated, but hey, Mr. Singh was the authority on the spot. I wasn't arguing.

"This is fucking bullshit! We are out of here!," Mark yelled, grabbing Sheila's arm and starting toward the door of the arena.

"Now, Mr. Schwetzer," Prakesh called after him, "I am afraid I cannot countenance that. If you wish to conclude the game before it is completed, then it seems only fair that your lovely wife attain the same level of undress as Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson has removed her, uh, lower undergarments. If Mrs. Schwetzer wishes to remove her lower undergarments as well, then I believe we can all agree to conclude the match early."

Even from across the court I could sense the hair standing up on the back of Sheila's neck, probably more in anger, umbrage, and disbelief than anything else. Mark's face went, if possible, an even stormier shade of purple. I was pretty sure he was about to go after Mr. Singh with his racket. Mark is a big, well-built guy and I had no doubt he could have laid both me and Prakesh out cold.

Before he could make his move, however, the glass doors to the arena swung open slightly. I saw that several of the personal trainers had joined the growing throng, and a couple of the beefier ones were now poking their heads in at the door. "Excuse me, Mr. Singh," one of the bruisers broke in, respect audible in his booming baritone. "We just wanted to make sure everything is OK in here."

"Yes, Clay, we are simply having a friendly—albeit somewhat unusual—tennis match here. Mr. Schwetzer got a little bit over-heated from his exertions, but I trust that he is capable of calming himself."

"That's goddamned bullshit!," Mark yelled again. "This is some sick game that Singh and Wilson dreamed up! My wife and I are leaving! We want nothing more to do with it!"

"Now, all due respect, Mr. Schwetzer," Clay replied in the soothing tones of someone talking to a raging toddler, "but Mr. Singh here is a senior director of the club. You are a member in good standing, but to be honest, there have been some complaints about the way you and Mrs. Schwetzer have conducted yourselves in the past. So, if Mr. Singh says this game is authorized, then that's good enough for me. I'm afraid you and your wife will need to play it according to the rules."

"Thank you, Clay," Prakesh hummed complacently, "I'm sure Mr. Schwetzer will be able to handle himself with more decorum now."

Would those muscle-men have actually tried to stop Mark and Sheila if they'd walked out that door with her panties still on? I assume not—it would have been unlawful restraint, right? But, of course, if the Schwetzers had defied Mr. Singh and left, then he might have arranged for them to be expelled from the club, forfeit their hefty buy-in, or face social opprobrium. So, really, at this point, the trade-offs they faced were pretty complicated, and I'm sure they weren't able to fully analyze them in realtime. What was clear, however, was that Mark had been cowed, at least for the moment. "Goddamn cheating... fucking..." he grumbled.

"Mark, what the fuck?" Sheila shot at him across the court, her screech echoing through the arena. "Seriously, you want to keep going? You really want me to take something else off?"

He couldn't look at her. Eyes downcast, still facing away, he spoke in a low voice. "Just do it babe."

Sheila snorted and hung her head for a moment, almost as if exasperated. There is no doubt that she felt the sting of shame and frustration at the idea that someone like her would have to bare her tits to people like us. Her frozen mask hid the humiliation well, but you could sense it in the disgusted downturn at the corners of her lips, and the slight twitch of her eyelids. Yet it was in Sheila's nature that when she met a defeat, she responded not by despairing, but by seeking revenge. Like a feral animal that only gets meaner the more you strike it. And she was certainly not about to show any weakness.

Given all that, the only path forward for her was to brazen it out. Raising her head haughtily, she walked over to the center of the court, reached in front to unclasp the bra, and parted it, with a theatrical flourish, before pulling her arms from the straps and tossing it to the side. "There!," she yelled, "this is what you guys have been waiting to see. Feast your eyes on that. Then, soon, when Gracie's buck naked, we'll see how pathetic her flat chest looks next to these babies."

What can I say? Sheila's tits were indeed luscious. Spilling forth from the constraints of her sports-bra, they dangled as large, rounded orbs, which swayed pendulously at her slightest movement. Her large, ruddy-brown nipples seemed hard in the chilly air-conditioned arena—certainly the nubs poked forth provocatively. I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the sight. Being, you know, a man, I had wondered what Sheila's tits looked like ever since we first met the Schwetzers, and it felt like a kind of closure to finally have that question answered. I wondered what Grace thought of them, but when I turned, I was a little surprised to see that she'd already taken her phone out and was busy snapping pictures of Sheila. I guess two could play the social-media shame game.

Even though I was enjoying the view, the thought also occurred to me that Sheila had, once again, made a tactical error. In her mind, clearly, her pussy was still the ultimate prize, and she was determined to keep it from us as long as possible. But if she'd just gone ahead and given it up, as Grace already had, then she and Mark would have been able to take Prakesh up on his offer to bring the competition to a close. And, as it was, with that pair of D+ beauties bouncing and swaying on her chest, it was only going to be that much harder for her to play the game effectively.

* * * * *

Again we took a minute for some water. "You should never have messed with us Gracie girl!," Sheila's voice rang out across the court. The longer she stood in that arena, tits out, the madder Sheila seemed to get. Her frigid composure was starting to crack—this had gotten personal now, and she was itching for vengeance. "Hey Johnnie," she heckled, "how'd you like it when your little whore opened up her cunt to everyone? Did that make you feel gooooooood?... Oh and Gracie, when the school board gets pictures of your hairy cunt from a 'concerned citizen,' how long do you think you'll be keeping your sad little job?"

I glanced at Grace and saw she remained impassive, chin jutted out, indifferent to her own tousled hair, sweaty face, damp crotch. Clearly she had been seething inside throughout the match, but possessed the discipline necessary to channel all those churning emotions into the game. I struggled to do the same.

Now that I thought about it, I figured Sheila was right: we could kiss Grace's paycheck goodbye. I'd heard of schools firing people just for posting bikini pics on Instagram. Once they got video of Grace running around the country-club tennis court, naked from navel to knees, there's no way she'd keep that gig. Probably only a strip-club would hire her. Jeez, maybe in a year, Mark would be shoving bills into her waistband at JustGirlz.

I shook my head to try to clear that image from it. No, we weren't done yet. For one thing, being intimidated by the bulked up personal trainers seemed to have taken some of the wind out of Mark's sails. Sheila sensed this too, and she redirected herself now toward rekindling his anger and drive. "What's it going to be, babe," she asked, plenty loud enough for all of us to hear her. "Are you a man, or a pussy? Are you going to let these nobodies strip me? You know you want see that bitch get what's coming to her. You know you want see that cow's teats hanging, her sad little body laid out for you, that disgusting smirk wiped off her face. You want it—now, are you going to make it happen?"

The pep talk seemed to have worked. Mark stood up straighter, head held higher. He strolled over to Sheila, and gave her a high five. "Yeah, fuck that bitch," he said smoothly, "let's get her naked."

Fortunately for us, Grace was serving again, and she had lost none of her edge. I marveled at how my lovely wife could stand there, apparently unselfconscious, in front of what now seemed to be a crowd of eighty or more, wearing nothing but a teal bra and tennis shoes, and hit her mark every time. Watching her glistening skin shimmer and her dew-covered pussy work as she strode forward for each serve made it difficult for me to concentrate on the game.

This was not a problem for Mark and Sheila, however, who put their all into this round, determined to win. And really, it soon became clear, they were trying too hard, pressing too unnaturally, trying to control events rather than letting events come to them. Moreover, they were also wearing their emotions on their sleeves. In this one magic moment, Grace simply had their number—she knew just what they were thinking, how they would react, and she had sufficient skill to do something about it.

For all her determination to get revenge, Sheila was hampered now not only by her bare feet and the slick surface, but also by her free-ranging tits, which bounced in big, uncoordinated arcs that spoiled her usual disciplined body-control. Mark made exaggerated efforts to cover for her—desperate lunges, reckless overplays, grunting, theatrical swings of the racket—but these usually ended up working to his disadvantage. On the first point, we volleyed briefly, before Grace split the seam between Mark and Sheila perfectly. In their eagerness not to let it drop, they collided with each other, ending up in a hopeless tangle of arms, legs, and rackets. "15-love Wilsons," Prakesh called out over the commotion.

"You ass, why didn't you just let me get it...?" Sheila snarled at Mark as they scrambled to their feet.

The next point. I hit a high lob to the backcourt, in Sheila's corner. It wasn't a great shot, and I was pretty sure she was going to smash it back down my throat. Fortunately, her bare feet hit a slick patch as she backpedaled, and her legs skidded out from under her. She came down hard on her perfectly-toned spandex-upholstered ass, legs splayed out in front, while the ball dropped in, untouched. "30-love Wilsons."

The breath was knocked out of Sheila for a moment, and Mark came over to give her a hand up. "You OK babe?" he asked?

"I'm going to kill them," she spat ominously. "Just win this game Mark and I'll be fine."

He was trying, he really was. Grace took all this in, and then dropped a wide, slicing serve to Mark's forehand. He lunged for it with extravagant effort, as if demonstrating to himself and everyone present how hard he was working to win this match. In fact, he lunged so hard that he almost overran the serve altogether, and had to correct, before firing back a nice hard crossing return. It was a good shot, but Grace had anticipated it perfectly, and positioned herself close to the net. She slammed the oncoming ball hard and straight, exactly to the place that Mark would have been, had he not overplayed the serve and taken himself off the court. "40-love Wilsons."

"Jeez, Mark, do I have to do everything myself?," Sheila growled in disgust.

We set ourselves again, and Grace hit another beautiful serve, but this time Mark returned it cleanly. The play quickly devolved into an extended baseline volley. We traded 6, 8, 10 shots, and it began to seem as if no one would ever get the upper hand. Then, suddenly, Grace sensed her opening, and darted toward the net. Sheila saw the movement and tried to lob it over her, but didn't quite get enough elevation on the ball. Grace leaped in mid- run, naked thighs split wide, torso and racket-arm extended high, and slammed the yellow orb back for a likely kill shot.