Your Tennis Coach

I can tell you're in the house the instant I open the door. There are only a few lamps on and a lit candle adorns the coffee table.

Your purse and satchel sit in their regular place. The muffled sound of soft jazz drifts down the staircase.

The first thing that catches my eye is today's mail strewn haphazardly across the floor. It was like it's been dropped. Or kicked. Or dropped and then kicked.

The lazy trail of bills, direct-mail pieces and some kind of magazine end just this side of one of your tall-heeled shoes. The shoe is turned on its side with the open toe pointed toward me, kind of like it's drunk. Its partner is a few feet away, also drunk, at an opposite angle.

At the base of the stairs -- in a small pile of expensive designer silk -- is the blouse and camisole you had on this morning when I last kissed you and, up a couple of steps, your bra.

This bra is different than ones you usually wear; it's lacy and green... not one of your usual textures or colors. It seems familiar but I can't remember the last time I saw you wear it.

I can't help but wonder what surprise might await me. My cock begins to wonder as well.

Intrigued, I begin to climb the stairs. On the landing I discover the panties that match the bra.

They're also lacy and green, low-waisted with a high-cut leg. They're lying askew and nearly inside out, not like they were laid out as a prize in some sexual scavenger hunt.

They're definitely different than the more brief-style, full-coverage panties you wear on the regular. My cock stirs a little. Maybe more than a little...

Near the top of the stairs I begin to hear more than just the soft jazz. There's a sound of a soft rhythmic motion coming out of our bedroom to the left.

The door is ajar a few inches and, after a few creeping steps toward it, I'm able to get just the right angle so I can peek at what's behind.

The rhythmic motion I hear is you. You're on your knees, moving determinedly up and down... on the cock... of a man lying in our bed.

I can tell right away that he's taller than I am. His tanned legs are bent at the knees and he's using his feet and legs to push into you with your every downstroke. I can't see his arms or his hands; I assume they're massaging your gorgeous tits or rubbing your clit. Or maybe both.

I can also tell that his cock is bigger than mine, or at least longer. The distance you travel on your upstroke seems languorous and yet he stays solidly within your love hole. He probably doesn't have the dad bod paunch of a stomach that I've been carrying around the last few years either... the main reason this position hasn't worked that well for us of late.

You, even from the back, are ravishing.

Your soft brown hair is falling perfectly down your back and bouncing a bit in rhythm with your movements. Your arms are stretched forward and down, probably pushing against his chest for leverage. Your back muscles ripple at your shoulders and the sexy lines of your ribs trace downward and inward to meet your hips, now roiling greedily on top of him. Your waist, as I love to tell you, is beautifully slim and perfectly flat at the front.

Next is your peach-perfect ass. It's also flexing with your movements and I can guess that you're squeezing your cunt muscles as you move downward with him inside you. It's always been one of my favorite tricks you play on me when we're fucking.

Another clue to his size is the trail of white, creamy grool that's coating and sliding down his dick when your pussy glides up to its apex. There's also a slight ring of it collected around the edge of your pussy where it stretches tightly and surrounds his cock.

As I watch, your breath begins to race and your pace begins to quicken. He's doing his best to keep matching your movements but he soon gives up and stretches his legs straight out in front. He realizes you're in charge at the moment. His hands move from wherever they were to your hips, maybe because he senses that you're tiring out a bit.

I hear your sexy moans building into a higher-pitched whimper... always a sign of your climax coming in for a landing. And then, finally, you pause at the bottom of a downstroke and your taut calves begin to shudder on each side of his hips. Your toes curl and your head goes still and your shoulders arch downward ever so slightly once... twice... three times.

There's a pause for a beat or three, and then you exhale with a throaty groan and you collapse down onto his chest. Your ass quivers a few times as your orgasm continues to throb and then begins to wane.

His arms are now around your back and he's softly stroking your hair. You stir to put your face against his and I hear a soft and lingering kiss from your incredible lips. Then another. And another.

And I hear you softly whisper: "Now it's your turn."

In a flash he tightens his arms around you and does a half-sit, half-roll until you are on your back and he's above you.

"Oooh, that was fun!," you coo up at him.

He rocks back on his knees and I see you reach forward, undoubtedly to fondle his cock to keep him ready for you once again.

I see your right hand move to your mouth and I know what you're about to do. You slather your tongue over your palm and your fingers and you use your saliva on his dick as an intimate lubricant.

It works, and his head falls backwards a little... just like mine has done on previous... numerous... similar occasions.

I hear him whisper "Do you want me to lick you?"

Your low and throaty whisper back is electrifying: "No... I want you to fuck me. Just. Fuck. Me..."

His dick must be stiff enough to do just that because he shifts forward on his knees an inch or so and I hear, rather than see, the soft "smlack, smlack, smlack" as he taps his cock against your clit and your still-wet pussy lips.

When you've had all of that you can stand you reach forward, and I'm quite sure you lightly grasp his cock with your still-wet fingertips and hold it against your pussy.

I can see that one of your legs has crooked behind him and is just below his ass. As you push his dick downward with your fingers you pull your leg inward toward you. He can't help but pivot forward and his cock then slip-and-slides neatly just inside your love tunnel. Another nice trick.

He's complimentary: "Oohhh, that was nice," he rumbles. Because it was.

"Thank you," you whisper through a giggle in reply. "Now... YOU show ME something."

He leans forward and places his hands on each side of your rib cage. His long arms are locked at the elbows. Your arms move up aside each of his and your hands are softly stroking his pectoral muscles as you stare into him above you.

He pauses with the head of his cock where you've put it... just inside your luscious pussy... and I'm not sure the reason for his delay.

It's almost like he's listening for a countdown or a starter's gun or something. Then, he must have heard it in his head because he finally starts to move.

His first push into your cunt definitely gets your attention. Your hands stop moving and I hear a sharp inhale coming from you. He pauses, retreats back a little, then pushes again.

"Oh!," you cry. "Oh, god..." Your arms drop down to the bed. You might even be gripping the sheets.

He pulls back and pauses. "Mmmm?," he hums, looking into your eyes to make sure you're okay... and for assurance.

You whisper-purr your reply: "Keep going. Nice and slow."

His third push IS slow, and his cock is long enough that it seems to take forever to get further inside you. He wriggles his hips right and left to ease the process. From your vocalizations it's apparent that he's doing something more than just that.

And now he's all the way in... deeper inside you than I've ever been, even when we were much, much younger. You're in a carnal territory that's new to you. You react in a way I've never heard from you before.

"Oh, shit!... Shit!!... SHIT!!!," you exclaim softly. "Oh my god... you're so... so BIG!!"

I can image he's smiling at your compliment. Surely he knows he's gifted, and is pleased... proud even... that now you know it too.

And now he starts his rhythm.

I see him slowly draw out of you until his cock is just inside the entrance to your glory hole, then he pushes -- slowly, as you requested -- back into you.

Your mouth opens and I hear a long, breathy "aahhhh" and you somewhat naturally raise your legs and bend your knees to a 90-ish-degree angle on either side of him.

This traverse of his deep into you also has coated his cock on all sides with your incredible love juices, which I'm pretty sure are beginning to run much more freely -- and less creamy -- than before.

Still slowly, he pushes in even further and then pulls -- now more quickly -- most of the way back out again.

You react to his next, even slower, full cycle into what must surely be to the very back of your love tunnel: "Oh, god... oh my god... ohhhh... ohhhhh..."

Your moans encourage him. His thrusts begin to go just a little faster, and in a pattern that's probably dizzying for you: A quick retreat then three quicker in-and-outs, then two long and slow thrust-and-parries. Three more quick outs-and-ins-and-outs, then a l-o-o-n-g thrust in which he buries himself inside you to the hilt of his massive cock and then rotates his hips in small, quick circles.

I know you. And as far as I know, you've never been fucked like this... never. His size and his movements together are like nothing else you've known. Your moans give that away, and fall into a pattern that matches his motions:

"Oh... goddamit," you whisper. "Oh, oh, oh, oh!!" Then, "Ohhhhh, fu-u-u-ck!" Followed by, "Oh, oh, shit!, shit!"

At the end of another three-and-two cycle he uses his left arm to loop behind your right knee and he elevates that leg to point at the ceiling. This changes the angle of his cock within you as it continues to piston faster and faster in and out of you.

It sends an immediate rush of different sensations into your new, now near-spastic sexual reality.

Your cries reflect the change and they intensify as you approach the edge of your next orgasm:

"Oh, shit!" you whisper. "Ohh... jesus! Oh that feels s--... uhnnnn... oh, yes! Yes!! Oh, right there!! Stay right... stay... Oh, I'm gonna cu--... Oh, I'm... I'm cumm..."

I hear your breath catch like it always does right before you explode. Then, a long "Aaahhhh" and the pitch of your voice sinks in a downward glissando until it's barely a rumble.

Next -- and finally -- the release. And it's glorious.

Your orgasms have always been -- like everything about you -- exceptional. I count it as one on the greatest experiences I could ever have to be buried to the hilt in your spectacular pussy when you cum.

And now this lucky guy is experiencing that as well.

The still-elevated leg is quaking... shivering... as your cumming subsides. Realizing this, he gently allows it to lower. He follows it and lowers himself down on top of you.

Your breathing paces downward into an ultra-long sigh, followed by one of your throaty giggles. You punctuate it with "Whooo! Jesus!!"

I'll give him credit: This man clearly knows how to fuck... REALLY FUCK... a sexy, voluptuous woman like you.

He clearly has skills, but he also has tools:

1) His height gives him incomparable leverage to use on almost anyone he's with at a particular moment as this;

2) The length of his cock gives him amazing reach, incredibly deep into his partner, that most of the rest of us only read about or maybe only imagine;

3) He's obviously athletic... so he has the stamina and vigor to last as long as he needs to... or as long as you need him to.

4) He's using his imagination, right in the midst of fucking you like you've never been fucked before. He's attentive. He's reactive. It doesn't appear that he's following any regular pattern of his own.

He's fully engaged with you... for you... only you... in this incredible 2-person orgy.

This fuck is not just for him... oh, god no! He's clearly enjoying it... how could he not. But it is, by his determined intention, just and only... for you. Only you.

Only. You.

I hear some long kisses and he moves to roll off, I assume to lay beside you. (On my side of our bed, I might add.) I obviously don't want to be discovered so I pull back beyond the opening in the door. Now I'm out of sight but I'm still close enough to hear.

Yours is the first voice. Another low giggle, a long one in which he joins in. Then this: "Oh my god! Patrick, that was aMAZE-ing!"

I don't know about you, but I have a little voice inside my head that talks to me on the regular. If you do too, it could be your conscience or your internal muse or some relative speaking from beyond the grave. I have kind of an adversarial relationship with my little voice. He thinks I'm an idiot. I think he's an asshole.

But my little voice immediately pipes up:

"Patrick," the voice says.

"That's what I heard," I silently answer back.

"Hmm. Isn't her tennis coach named Patrick?"

"Yeah. He's one of the few Patricks we know."

"Hmm." And them "Uhhhhh..."

Then the voice's volume knob goes to scream level... all the way to 11. I scream silently along with the voice:

"Holy shit!" we silently scream together. "She's fucking her tennis coach! She's in there, right now, fucking PATRICK!!!"

I'm standing on the landing at the top of our second floor, just outside our bedroom. The whole space suddenly seems to be spinning.

I'm fighting every urge I have to NOT crash through the door that's ajar and interrupting your reverie with this Adonis that you brought into our house... our bedroom... even into our bed.

The shock is real, but my inherent and instinctual wish to react to it, right now, pauses.

Patrick Millun was actually my tennis coach before he was hers.

In this case, "coach" is an over-statement of fact. He was the patient teacher from whom I was unsuccessfully trying to take tennis lessons.

She had played tennis in college, even earning a place on the D1 team at our school. It was a passion of hers while we were dating. I had played recreationally and, after we had been married a while, I thought it might be a benefit to our relationship if we could find some kind of physical activity that we could do together... that didn't involve being in bed.

We chose tennis because it had been her prior passion, but I had to get much better at it to stay on the court with her. Enter Patrick Millun. He came recommended by some people at work and I purchased a 10-lesson package from the club we belonged to, and where he worked.

I'm realizing just now, dear reader, that you don't yet know her name. She is Caitlin. And I'm Kevin. (Virtual handshake.) Nice to meet you.

Now back to Patrick Millun. I lasted about four lessons with him before I realized that I wasn't going to ever get to a level in tennis where I could play with my wife. And I was fine with that... we still had our bed.

On that visit, I think, Caitlin came to pick me up at the end of the lesson. And there she met Patrick.

One thing about Caitlin... she never meets a stranger. She has the remarkable ability to create what feels like an intensely personal connection with virtually anyone she meets. It's part of her remarkable magnetism.

It was the same with her initial meeting with Patrick. Obviously, they connected over tennis. They talked about her history. He shared his history. They admired each other's accomplishments and their love for the game.

Patrick knew I didn't feel the same way about tennis that she did. So when I wondered aloud if I could transfer my remaining lessons to my wife he quickly said, "Absolutely." Then he took my wife's hand. He didn't shake it... he took it softly in his. "Call me, Caitlin," he said with a dazzling smile, "and let's get you on the schedule."

The two of them have been working together on her tennis, at least weekly, for four or five years. Her tennis is the reason her body is in the incredible shape it's in.

Except for her amazing tits, most every other improvement for a woman her age has come from the physical exertion that her tennis has given her. It wasn't all on the court; at the club she utilized the weight room, the elliptical equipment, and lots of other gear to bring her body and physical core to a place where she could compete with other, even younger, women.

And Patrick was the navigator on that journey.

She even gave him credit, and sometimes in ways that were a little awkward. We would be going out and I would compliment her outfit and how it fit her body in such a sexy way. She would sometimes say, "Well, you can thank Patrick Millun for that. He's working my ass off!" We would laugh... me, kinda sorta.

Our sex might have been a little different on those nights... like her mind was somewhere else.

There might also be something of a written history of it all, right in our own kitchen.

Our kitchen calendar is magnetized to the refrigerator. She's the only one who writes on it. It's littered with her notations, always in pencil in case schedules change.

After she committed to again working on her game, there, on a particular date, in her delightful script-print handwriting, were the words "Tennis" and the time. Then those words shifted to "Coach Millun." Then they shifted to "Coach." Then they shifted to "Patrick." And then they shifted to "Patrick" and they were always written with a pen.

I could justify it because her tennis was just that important to her. Patrick was inextricably connected to her game, reigniting her passion. I just thought that passion was all about tennis.

Back on the landing, my initial shock has minimized... and I'm able to tune back in to where I am, and what's happening just beyond the door. I realize that the after-sex murmurs from the bedroom have pulled me back to reality.

All of this history has taken mere moments and I tune my hearing to what's being said now between the two of you.

"No, really..." I hear you whisper. "That was... just amazing. It's crazy to say 'thank you'... but, oh my god... thank you. It was better than I ever thought it would be." There was a perfectly-timed pause. "Not that I've really ever thought about it." Next was your perfect throaty giggle.

He whispers back: "Caitlin, YOU'RE amazing."

You: "Well, thank you. I also find it hard to believe that it was like that... that it was that good... our very first time. I just think that's kind of... incredible."

Him: "Caitlin, YOU'RE incredible."

Great conversation, you shallow bastard!

I was relieved to hear that the sex hadn't been going on under my nose for who knows how long. But there were gaps and questions that needed to be filled in.

I heard somebody shifting in the bed -- most likely you, rolling onto your side and propping your head on your hand, like you do.

"What prompted you to come to the house tonight?" you quizzed.

"I saw you at the club," he began. "... you had a meeting or something?... and there was news I wanted to tell you because I just found out about it. By the time I found you, you were pulling out of the parking lot. I thought it would be okay to follow you home."

"But you didn't park in the drive," you continued. "You were walking up from the street when I collected the mail."

"I didn't want Kevin to block me in," he replied, "so I parked a ways down the hill."

Ah. That explains the mail in the floor downstairs.

"We've been flirting with each other a lot these past few weeks," he continued.

That wouldn't surprise anybody. Caitlin is a world-champion flirt. It's hilarious to watch the other women our age at the club when Caitlin gets rolling. They can't keep up with her.

Patrick continues: "You looked particularly gorgeous tonight. When you hugged me in the driveway, I suddenly had an urge to do something I've wanted to do for a long time. So I kissed you. I was really surprised at everything that happened after that. Pleased... but surprised."