I gripped the squash racket tighter than I needed to, knuckles white, trying not to curse as Rachel stole another point from me. Four in a row. My coach had promised me a solid opponent but when she walked onto the court, ponytail swaying and a casual little smile playing at her lips, I’d been caught off guard.
I’d expected someone tall, broad-shouldered, built like a machine. Instead, she was small, trim, effortlessly pretty. The kind of girl you picture laughing at a café table, not dismantling the number one player in the club. Yet here I was, chasing shadows while this deceptively sweet brunette dictated every rally.
She bounced lightly on her toes, her skirt lifting just enough to reveal the outline of snug shorts beneath, her tightly bound breasts rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. I told myself to focus, but my eyes kept straying, betraying me.
The ball cracked off her racket and I lunged, digging out the return. We traded sharp volleys, the echo of rubber on plaster bouncing around the court until I disguised a drop shot and finally caught her. A single point. Mine. Relief shot through me but so did something else. Watching her pivot, muscles in her legs taut and smooth, ponytail flicking against the sheen of her neck, I felt an entirely different kind of heat stir low in my body.
I bounced the ball hard under my racket, trying to shake it off. Normally the rhythm of squash centered me, but not today. She was already serving again, punishing and precise. Within minutes, she had stolen back control, running me ragged from corner to corner. My breathing turned ragged too, though I wasn’t sure how much of it was from the pace of the game, and how much from the way her top clung damply to her chest, every sharp inhale pulling the Lycra tight across her breasts.
Eight–one. I was crumbling. And the smaller court — solid walls, no glass, no audience — felt suddenly more intimate than suffocating. Just her and me. No one watching the way her ponytail whipped across her shoulders, the way her lips curled when she landed another clean winner, the way my eyes kept drifting where they shouldn’t.
She slammed the final point past me and claimed the set, eleven–four. My frustration finally broke, a yell bouncing off the sealed white walls before I dropped my head and walked off court to get some water.
“Hey, Tim. You ok?” Her voice was light, teasing, but when I glanced up, her eyebrow was arched, questioning, maybe even daring me to admit what she already sensed.
“I seem to have forgotten how to play squash, what the fuck?” I muttered, dragging my hands down my face. Then, softer: “Sorry. You came here for a good match, and I’m not giving you one so far.”
“It’s only one set,” she said with a shrug that somehow made her ponytail sway just so. “You’ll warm up. Besides, I need three to win.”
I tried to smile back, but the knot in my chest tightened. This morning’s argument came flooding back, uninvited. My ex, standing in my doorway with that same manipulative pout, begging to move back in now that the guy she dumped me for had tossed her out. I’d told her to get lost, slammed the door, but the truth was uglier. I still missed her. I still ached for her mouth, her body, all the ways she knew how to take the edge off me. A part of me was painfully tempted to let her in and hate-fuck her silly. Two months without a fuck and I was wound up tight, desperate, and angry at myself for even thinking about her.
And now here I was running in circles, getting outplayed by a gorgeous little brunette whose top hugged every curve, whose skirt swished in a way I couldn’t unsee. My body was betraying me, dragging me out of the game.
Rachel’s lips quirked into a grin, as though she could read the mess of thoughts I was hiding. That sparkle in her eyes said one thing clearly: she wasn’t done toying with me.
By the time we stepped back on court, I knew exactly what was happening. She wasn’t just outplaying me, she was inside my head. Every sway of her hips, every brush of her arm across mine, every flash of those bright, taunting eyes. And the truth hit me like a gut punch: I wanted her. Badly. The intense, anger fuelled sex images of my ex that I’d been fighting out of my mind were back, but with a new star actress.
Fine. Time to have my own fun now then.
She tossed the ball for her serve, but it came too central, too casual. I pounced, slamming my return deep and pinning her in the back corner. This time, when she tried to cut across my space, her shoulder grazing mine, I didn’t flinch. I held the line, forcing her to twist awkwardly, late on the ball. Point to me.
She spun around, grin sharp, handing me the ball. “Nice shot,” she said, eyes glinting.
I winked as I smashed my serve past her. “Nice try.”
The next rally was even closer. A serve down the centre surprised her, and as I sprinted past, her chest brushed my bicep — hot, damp through the fabric. For half a heartbeat, my focus wavered, but I forced it down, snapping a drop shot she couldn’t reach. Another point.
Now it was her turn to flush, lips pressed together as though holding back a curse. I could feel the shift — she was still dangerous, still fast, but her tricks weren’t enough to rattle me anymore. And the more she pressed, the more I leaned into it.
At eight–three, she “accidentally” dropped her racket, bending low in front of me to pick it up. My body burned with the temptation to stare, but I fixed my eyes on the front wall, tightened my jaw, and cracked my next serve. Two rallies later, the set was mine.
At the break, Rachel tipped her water bottle, spilling a line down the front of her top. The droplets slid over the swell of her breasts, clinging before vanishing into the damp Lycra. I swallowed hard, my cock stiffening against my shorts, but I forced myself to smirk instead of stare.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I told her.
Her lips curved into something darker. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I intend to.”
The air between us had shifted. She knew her tricks weren’t breaking me anymore but she wasn’t done trying. If anything, Rachel doubled down.
I served first, hammering the ball deep, and she fought hard to chase it down. We traded long, blistering rallies, her grunts sharp, her breath ragged, sweat dampening the fine hairs along her neck. Every time she darted past me, her skin seemed to spark against mine.
At five–all, she pulled a stunt. As she bent to scoop up the ball, the strap of her top slipped loose, sliding down her arm. She didn’t fix it right away. Instead, she straightened slowly, letting the curve of her breast tilt into view — not bare, but close enough to set my pulse hammering. Her eyes flicked up to mine, daring me to look.
I did. For half a second too long.
“Focus, Tim,” I muttered, forcing the words out under my breath.
Her eyebrow arched, amused. “Having trouble?”
I bit back a laugh and rolled my eyes before I cracked my serve, driving her deep into the back corner. We collided as she tried to retake the center, her chest brushing hard against me. I held firm, refusing to step aside, the heat of her body searing through the thin layer of fabric between us. She gasped — whether in effort or surprise, I couldn’t tell — and I finished the point with a tight drop shot she had no chance of reaching.
Seven–five. My lead.
She played faster after that, desperate to claw back, but it only exposed her. Her skirt clung damply to her thighs, her ponytail whipping, every line of her body taut and alive. And though my cock strained against my shorts with every accidental brush and sway, I kept my head locked on the ball.
Point by point, I pulled away, shutting down her rhythm until I slammed home the final rally. Eleven–seven. The set was mine, sealed with her panting sigh at the final point. It may have been one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard.
At the break, she leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, sweat glistening over the swell of her breasts. She tilted the bottle to her lips, and water spilled deliberately down her throat, tracing her collarbone before soaking into her top. Her mouth curved into a grin when she saw me watching.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked, playful, but with a dangerous edge.
I squared up to face her straight on and looked her over, my eyes strolling indulgently over every part of her unquestionably exquisite form. I forced a smirk and refused to back down. “Not enough to lose.”
Her laugh was low, throaty, and it vibrated through me. “We’ll see about that.”
Final set. Winner takes all.
I served high and slow, hoping to catch her flat-footed, but Rachel read it instantly. Her return snapped down the wall, and we were locked in again — fast, brutal rallies, the ball exploding off the plaster, both of us grunting, gasping. Sweat stung my eyes, but I refused to blink.
Six–all. My pulse thundered in my ears. She was flushed, ponytail flying, chest heaving as she fought to hold me at bay. And fuck, the harder she played, the sexier she looked — raw, alive, her body shining with effort.
I went short, dropping the ball tight to the front corner. She chased it, but instead of stepping aside to give me space, she held her ground. Backed right into me.
The collision was hot and sudden. Her ass pressed into my crotch, firm and deliberate. My chest caught her back, and she braced herself against the wall, palms flat. For a moment, neither of us moved. The point was dead and both our rackets fell to the floor, my hands grabbing willingly at her waist to avoid shoving her into the corner. The air between us was electric, humming with something far beyond squash.
Then she shifted — the tiniest roll of her hips, just enough to feel the hardness straining in my shorts. My breath caught. She knew. She fucking knew.
“That’s my point, you know,” I murmured, voice rough in her ear.
She tilted her head, just enough for me to see the grin at the corner of her mouth. “Fair play. You can have it.” A beat. Then, lower: “Seemed worth it.”
My hand betrayed me, sliding around her hip, my large palm and fingers spreading across the exposed flesh of her middle as if claiming it, subtly willing her to press back into me harder. “You do know squash is a non-contact sport, right?”
Rachel turned her face just enough to look at me over her shoulder, eyes blazing, lips parted. “You might want to remember that yourself, stud.” Her one hand reached back, grabbing the fabric of my shorts, locking me in place. The other slid over my hand, the first time our fingers had touched. “Your serve, Tim,” she purred, feline and yielding. My mouth opened in a gape of pure joy as she slid my palm downwards, down her curved abdomen and hungrily clamping it over her pussy, its heat burning through the tight Lycra shorts.
My cock throbbed hard against her, and for the first time all night, I didn’t think about points, or games, or wins. Just her. Just us.
*****
God, the way he pressed into me. I’d felt him hard against me a dozen times during those rallies, each accidental brush, every time I’d “accidentally” forced too close — but this… this was different. He wasn’t backing away anymore. He was holding me there, fingers firm on my hip, breath hot against my ear.
Exactly where I wanted him.
I’d been teasing him from the first serve, watching his eyes betray him, watching his body fight between focus and desire. But now his restraint was breaking, and the thought of finally pushing him over the edge had heat pooling low in my belly.
The match didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the way his cock was pressed tight against my ass, the way my body clenched with need every time he ground into me.
I licked my lips, smiled to myself, and whispered, “Your serve, Tim.”
His grip tightened on my hip, and for a heartbeat I thought he might pull back — that he’d let me go, retreat into the safe little box of “focus on the game.” But he didn’t. He stayed pressed against me, hard and solid, every rapid breath making me more aware of just how much he wanted this.
Finally.
And I knew what I wanted. I slid my hand over his and guided it down, my eyes never leaving his as I clamped his strong digits over my shorts. I made no effort to conceal the fireworks that his touch ignites within me.
I’d felt his eyes on me since the warm-up — every sway of my hips, every flick of my ponytail, every accidental brush of skin. Men were predictable like that. But what I hadn’t expected was how much I liked it. The way he tensed every time I touched him, the way his jaw clenched when I bent just a little too low, the way his voice broke when he muttered at himself to focus.
I’d been playing with him, yes. Teasing. Testing. But the truth was, I was playing with myself too. And now, with his hand spread over my pussy, his cock straining hot and heavy against me, I was done pretending this was just squash.
I pressed back into him, grinding just enough to hear the low groan slip from his throat. God, that sound. It sent a jolt straight through me, tightening my nipples against my damp sports bra, making my thighs ache for more friction.
He didn’t move for a moment, as if frozen. His breath was ragged against my neck, his chest hot at my back. And for the first time all match, I felt like maybe I’d pushed him past the point of no return. The thought thrilled me — that I’d undone him with nothing more than a skirt, a grin, and a few stolen touches.
I wanted to see how far I could push.
So I bent just a fraction lower, palms still against the wall, letting my ass grind tighter into him. “Ready to serve then, Tim?” I asked, tilting my head back toward his, lips almost brushing his jaw.
For a heartbeat, the world held still. His chest rose and fell against my back, ragged. And suddenly, it was as if he snapped. “Fuck the game!” he growled, low and animal enough to feel it right down to my centre.
His lips crushed onto mine, fierce and hungry, swallowing my breath, stealing the smirk right off my face. I was clasped to him, my body sparking alive as his thumbs dug into my shorts, and yanked them down. Every ounce of playful control I’d been dangling between us all match melted in an instant under the raw heat of that kiss, and the searing fire of his touch as he glid a finger back between my sticky, wet pussy lips.
And I knew, without question — the game was over.
I was melted against him, fingers searching for his hardness behind me, ready to be taken by him right here. His tongue tangled with mine, his teeth catching my lip, and I moaned into him, the sound raw and needy. I’d teased him for two sets, maybe three, but this? This was him finally breaking. And God, I loved it.
His one hand settled flat on my lower back, guiding me to bend just a little more and suddenly, there he was. My heart leapt and a deep groan rose from my lungs as he pushed inside me. Holy fuck. I’d wanted it, and I’d pushed for it, but its power still shocked me. He shoved and owned me like a respected opponent, and I felt his hips press into my butt as he ground out, plunging everything he had inside my sopping cunt.
My whole world became clouded, my whole body quivering like a harp-string as pleasure rocked through me. “Oh fuck, yes, Tim. Yes!” His hand barged into my top and clasped wildly at my tit as he pounded hard, intent strokes into me. No one had ever fucked me with quite such raw passion before and I was already hooked. I clamped the fingers of his other hand back to my clit and it was only moments before the first wave of orgasm crashed over me and pulled me under. I gasped, grunted and cried my way into climax as Tim clutched and pounded me like a man clinging to sanity.
And then somehow, by some miracle, he calmed. As he let me descend from orgasm, my feet touching back down to the ground, but figuratively and literally, he slowed, and pulled gently out.
“Not here, not like this,” he growled, voice shredded with restraint. “I want you so fucking bad, Rachel. But I’m taking my time.”
A shiver rippled through me. His eyes were different now — darker, hungrier, no trace of the distracted boy I’d toyed with. Just a man who’d decided, as he slowly tucked his still rock hard cock back into his shorts.
Before I could speak, his hand caught mine, tugging me out of the court at a run. My heart thudded as we slipped into the hallway, the smell of sweat and polish giving way to the cooler hush of the back rooms. He didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate — just pulled me straight into the coach’s office and kicked the door shut behind us.
The room was dim, cluttered with rackets, paperwork, and the faint hum of a fan. None of it mattered. His hands were already on me, pushing me back against the desk, sliding under my damp sports bra. He shoved it upwards, freeing my breasts and pushed me slowly to my back on the desk, following and leaning over me.
I gasped, my nipples hard against his fingers. “God, Tim…” I whispered, but it came out half a moan.
He kissed me again, harder, his hips grinding into mine. I wrapped my legs around him instinctively, pulling him closer, feeling the thick press of his cock straining against me. The friction shot sparks through me, sharp and desperate.
Every point, every rally, every tease — it had all been foreplay. And now, finally, we weren’t pretending anymore.
The desk was solid and hard but nothing else registered as his mouth travelled down me, practically biting and devouring my breasts before kissing a hasty trail down my solid abs. I cried out again, as I readied myself for what I hoped was to come, my legs raised and parted for him.
“Rachel…” he rasped, voice ragged. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”
“Good,” I whispered back. “Then don’t hold back.”
He didn’t. His mouth sank to me, and his tongue gave a deep lick of my folds before he dove in like a man possessed. I cried out, gasping and thanking the heavens for Tim.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing harder, stroking me. “You’re already—”
“Don’t stop,” I cut him off, desperate. I grabbed a handful of his head and pressed him back to me. His lips puckered around my clit, his tongue hitting just the right spot as I gave a deep breathy sigh, “Oh fuuuck yes, Tim!” Two months of his frustration, and weeks of mine, boiled together in that moment.
But I wanted more. Needed more. I couldn’t take a second orgasm before feeling him back inside me.
“Tim,” I panted, clutching his shoulders, “Ok, stop. Fuck me. Now. Please.”
He rose and looked at me with a comprehending smile. He met my eyes, dark and burning as he rose up. He ripped his shirt up over his head and I beamed to myself at the toned masterpiece of his torso. His shorts were shoved down next and I rose up on my elbows to catch a glimpse of his cock. Meaty and gorgeous and pointing straight at my opening.
His hands stroked my legs, enjoying them, “Tell me you want this.”
I raised myself up to him, wanting to feel him against me again and kissed him deeply. “I want it. All of it.”
He thrust in deep, and I cried out, the stretch fierce and perfect. My nails dug into his back as he filled me, every inch sliding into a place I hadn’t known I was aching for until this moment. He groaned, low and guttural, burying himself fully before pulling back and slamming in again.
The desk creaked beneath us as he drove into me, relentless, our bodies colliding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with squash anymore. His hips pounded, his breath hot in my ear, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me wide for him.
I wrapped my legs around him, dragging him deeper, every stroke hitting the spot that sent fire shooting through me. My moans spilled unchecked, mixing with his curses, the room thick with the sound of flesh and need.
It built fast — too fast. One game of teasing, one match of stolen touches and glances, and I was wound so tight that now it all came undone at once.
“Tim—” I gasped, arching against him, nails raking down his back. “I’m… I’m going to—”
“Cum for me,” he growled, slamming harder, faster. “Cum all over my cock, let me feel it.”
His words tore me apart. I shattered with a cry, my body clenching around him, wave after wave ripping through me as I shook beneath him.
“Oh fuck, me too! I’m gonna—” He groaned into my neck, his thrusts turning frantic, then stilled. I clutched at his butt, legs wrapped tight to his middle, not letting him pulling away, desperate to feel him fill me. He spilled inside me with a guttural moan, holding me down against the desk as he pulsed deep, knocking the life out of me for an exquisite moment as we both thrashed and then crashed down together.
For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing, the hum of the fan, and the faint creak of the desk under our weight.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, sweat dripping from his hairline, lips swollen from kissing me raw.
“Still want to finish the game?” he asked, voice hoarse, teasing but soft now.
I laughed, breathless, tugging him down for another kiss. “Pretty sure we just did.”
The fan hummed lazily above us as I lay back against the desk, my chest still rising and falling hard. My thighs trembled, my skin damp with sweat — from the match, from him, from everything.
Tim was still inside me, his weight pressed warmly over mine, his breath hot against my neck. For once, neither of us rushed. We just stayed tangled, letting the silence soak up what had just happened.
Finally, he eased back, slipping free with a groan. He pulled me upright and steadied me as I found my feet, his hands lingering on my waist, as though afraid I might collapse without them. I smirked, catching his eyes.
“Guess I distracted you after all,” I teased, my voice still rough from moaning.
He chuckled, shaking his head, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. “Distracted? Rachel, you damn near destroyed me.”
I laughed, softer this time, and reached for his towel on the chair, handing it to him before wiping the sweat from my own chest. The smell of him clung to me — salt, heat, leather grip, desire — and I shivered.
“So,” I said, tugging my skirt back into place, “does this count as a win for you… or me?”
His grin was wicked. “I think you’ll clearly do anything to not let me beat you.”
I pretended to pout, leaning close enough that my lips brushed his ear. “Careful, Tim. That kind of talk might just earn you a rematch.”
His hand squeezed my hip, firm and certain. “How about my place, now? We’ll see if we can’t settle this whole thing.”
And for the first time all night, I realized the fire sparking between us wasn’t going to burn out with the end of a match. It was just the beginning.
