Trade in the garden, fisting by the pool, bondage in the locker room, and a blowjob in the gym. Who says that tennis is dull?
Lewis McLair, Wimbledon champion at the age of twenty-one, is trapped by his success and his sexuality. Openly gay in the straight world of tennis, Lewis is struggling and ready to quit. But perhaps salvation is on its way. The perfect man is what he's looking for to make everything okay, and in Sydney a candidate appears. Lee Porter is his name, and he certainly looks the part, but will he prove true and lay all Lewis's ghosts to rest, or will he inflict yet another wound on the battle weary hero of this tale?
As he lay on the couch looking at the television; Lewis thought about the draw for the Open, and what he'd like to do to Serge Livyenko; his likely opponent in the semi-final.
A wee side bet on the match might be in order: to be settled in the locker room immediately afterwards. That would give Lewis a bit of added motivation, because Serge Livyenko had a very nice arse. He also had a penchant for blondes with big tits, so a forfeit was the only way Lewis was ever likely to get a piece of it.
He could visualise the scene; shaking hands at the net with a huge grin on his face, and Serge Livyenko looking distinctly disgruntled, and just a wee bit on edge.
"Unlucky, me old ex-comrade; it was a heck of a good match."
"I am not happy."
"No. I suppose not. But there we go - a bet's a bet."
Then as they took their leave from the court, the normal pattern coming into play: loser first, then the winner two paces behind - eyes fixed firmly on his prize.
Lewis chuckled merrily away to himself as he visualised the scene: visualised that arse as it walked tentatively away, clenching at the prospect of what might be in store - the ill defined price of defeat.
"Are you alright over there?" shouted Jim. "Sounds to me like you've had a bit too much of the sun. I reckon it's gone to your head, sending you a bit gaga."
"Oh, I'm fine Jim; don't you worry. I'm planning out a match. In fact I'm well focused on it: very well focused indeed."
Lewis moved the scene forwards a bit, having revelled enough in the vision of Serge Livyenko's retreating arse: those big round wobbly mounds, loosely covered by baggy white shorts, but still clearly defined - a very nice sight indeed!
As they entered the locked room, two officials greeted them and gave them their respective congrats and commiserations.
"Everything has been laid out, gentlemen, as proscribed by the winner. If you would wait here for a few moments, Mr. McLair, whilst Mr. Livyenko comes with us."
They led the now very nervous Russian away, whilst Lewis hung around by the door, fiddling with his stiffening cock. Then five minutes later the officials reappeared.
"Mr. Livyenko is ready now, sir. We will be back after the agreed time of one hour. I trust you will make the most of it."
"You trust correctly. Thank you."
The officials locked the door behind them once they had left; then Lewis stripped off and went in search of Serge: he wasn't difficult to find.
Close to the shower cubicles where the space afforded it, they had brought in a horse of the gymnastic variety. Serge Livyenko was draped over it side on, still wearing his tennis gear and raising more of a sweat than he had managed to do on court, despite the blistering conditions outside, and the relative cool of the locker room. His legs were spread wide apart, tied to the horse at the ankles and his arms were spread equally wide and tied by the wrists on the other side. The horse, and consequently Serge Livyenko's tightly clenched arse, had been set to the perfect height; directly in line with the raging cock that Lewis now held in his hand. Our young hero was conjuring himself a very pleasant sight, because Serge Livyenko had a cracker of an arse, and he was also a nasty homophobic shit.
About Fergie Boy
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Published January 21, 2011
by Firm Hand Books.
Erotica, Gay & Lesbian, Literature & Fiction.