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Even though my parents forced a tennis racket into my tiny hands as a child in a fruitless effort to find the sport that would suddenly and magically lift me into a lofty scholarship at a fancy college someday, I could never force my uncoordinated, gangly body into any proficiency in the game. That unfortunate experience did not preclude me from learning the rules and developing a love for watching those blessed enough to be truly gifted and trained play the game at its highest levels. I watched as Roger Federer, the Master, quietly and gracefully took home prize after prize until Rafa Nadal came along with his volcanic charisma, his blazing slides, and his vicious left-handed forehand. These two developed a wonderful rivalry at their best, elevating one another to heights of the sport no other had reached in decades.
Every July, as a true summer bellwether, I would religiously follow the English major, Wimbledon, where Federer truly held court year in and year out. Which is how I found myself excitedly flipping the channels to ESPN for coverage of the men’s final as I sunk into my partner’s luxurious couch on our lazy Sunday morning. As I watched the two titans take to the gorgeous setting in Centre Court, I let out a happy squeal. A good-natured, if gruff, sigh greeted me as John Price walked in and settled onto the couch next to me. I beamed at my poor, tired captain. He truly tried to keep a positive demeanor as much as humanly possible when he was home on leave, but after I had hardly let him sleep the night before on our reunion, he was jet lagged and struggling now.
“I’m just so excited for this match, John!” I exclaimed as I practically bounced in place on the couch. John tiredly smiled and reached up to gently tug at my disheveled brunette curls comically floating with the motion.
“You know that I’m happy if you are, love,” he replied. There was a twinkle in his beautiful, crystal blue eyes that always made my stomach clench in anticipation. I couldn’t help the smile I returned as I nestled into his side, under his arm, and we watched the world’s two best tennis players warm up with each other. “It amazes me that they warm each other up prior to the match,” John mused as the players knocked the ball back and forth across the court as though they were not preparing to systematically (metaphorically) eviscerate each other for the enjoyment of millions of fans across the globe.
“They know basically everything about each other’s games already,” I hummed in return. “Their coaches and teams have had to work really hard with them to adapt to the other’s games. Rafa’s forehand has been giving Roger tons of trouble. Really forcing him out of his comfort zone and allowing Rafa to take control of the match,” I explained as John gently stroked my hair and the coverage cut to a commercial break. I closed my eyes, just enjoying his warm presence. The solid feel of him next to me. The strength of his heart beating in his wide chest. The steady breath he drew that reassured me he’d returned to me this time and I wouldn’t wake up to a somber phone call from a stranger tonight. I shivered as I softly shook off that line of thought. It happened just once every time he came home after the initial relief and shock wore off. As though he could sense my morbid thoughts, John leaned down and kissed the top of my head. I brought his hand down and kissed his knuckles before settling his palm on my thigh.
As the commercials ended and the commentators resumed their spiels, and the gentlemen in white took to their sides of the court to start their match, John spoke. “I should probably know this,” he huffed. “But why do they wear all white?” Federer’s opening serve went blazing down center line, unreturnable even by his great opponent. “Wow,” John breathed. I pumped my fist into the air as the scoreboard flipped to 15-love.
“The white uniforms are supposedly to keep the players from showing sweat,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the performative snobbery. “Stiff upper lip and all. You British lot,” I teased, grinning up at him. He narrowed his eyes in a mock glare back at me, as Nadal took the second point to even the score at 15-15. The umpire hushed the raucous crowd, and I laughed softly. “The crowd is always electric at Wimbledon – well, all the slams, really, but especially Wimbledon for some reason. It’s like the snobbiest, best tennis fans are all just distilled into that crowd each year,” I explained as he pinched my thigh and I yelped. “I said the BEST fans!” I laughed as I swatted his hand away from my sensitive skin. Federer took the next three points with immaculately placed serves and forehand shots out of Nadal’s reach, and the umpire called “Game, Federer.” Nadal then held serve as Federer dumped returns of service into the net, neither man wanting to fully extend themselves quite yet, and I settled in for a long, relaxing afternoon with my man and my favorite sporting event. I sighed happily and smiled up at John. “This day couldn’t get any better,” I whispered, and he leaned in and kissed my forehead.
“I agree,” he murmured as the sounds of the match carried on, and I melted in utter peace and calm.
As the players settled in and found their stride, John and I dozed through the first set until it ended in a sublime tiebreak in favor of Federer, 7-3. I hopped to my feet and clapped loudly, much to John’s amusement. As I caught his look, I couldn’t help but bristle slightly, “What are you laughing at, mister?”
“Just appreciating the exuberance of my favorite tennis fan,” he said as he threw his hands up in surrender. My stomach growled loudly, and we both halted abruptly at the sound. Just staring at each other for a beat, quiet stretching between us, until his gut rumbled in answer and we both broke down in gleeful laughter.
“Oops,” I said sheepishly, wiping away a tear from my eye as I stood back up. “I guess we would have normally had brunch by now!” I pushed him toward the bathroom, knowing that’s where he was heading. “You go ahead, and I’m going to get our breakfast ready. I have the perfect thing! I think I’ve been more excited for this than the match!” At that John’s eyebrows shot up before he waggled them comically, and I giggled again. “No not that. Go pee, you old geezer, and I’ll bring our treats to the couch,” I insisted as he relented and made his way to the bathroom in our bedroom.
I genuinely had been as excited for this Wimbledon tradition as I had been for the actual tournament itself, and I skipped into the kitchen, skidding to a stop in front of the refrigerator. I pulled out the flat of strawberries and the heavy cream I’d prepared the day before. John tried to peek at my surprise on his way back to the couch, but I handed him our waters and shooed him away. I set the trimmed strawberries in two bowls before I topped them with generous portions of the cream and set up the vanilla wafers around the edges. I set a spoon in each bowl, and excitedly hustled back to the couch, presenting the bowls to John with a flourish. “Ta-daaaa!” I sang, beaming at him.
“Well, look at this, eh!” he said, approvingly, as he took one of the bowls and popped a strawberry into his mouth. A precursor of an idea tingled at the edges of my mind at the sight, and I smiled innocently as I sat back down next to him. “You’ll have to explain this choice in brunch to me,” he teased lowly, as we both looked at the TV to see a closeup of the famous Wimbledon strawberries and cream in the hands of some smiling patrons. I triumphantly pointed at the screen and grinned at him.
“See? It’s another Wimbledon tradition! Honestly, probably as famous as the white uniforms and grass courts,” I said as I looked back at my bowl. I took a strawberry between my thumb and forefinger, coated it in cream and placed it delicately between my lips. John had looked over just in time to see the red bulb covered in cream disappear into my mouth, and I blushed furiously under his curious stare, though I refused to give him the satisfaction of staring back at him. I licked my fingertips to clean the sticky cream off before I picked up my water bottle and gulped down two massive swallows. I would have sworn I could feel the physical heat his intense gaze was surely generating as his stare bore into my blushing cheeks, my lips, my neck...
“Well, one thing’s for sure, it’s my new favorite tradition,” he whispered softly as he reached over to my bowl and picked up another cream-covered berry and held it up to my lips. I looked, wide-eyed, up to his heated gaze, and I let my mouth fall open for him to slide the berry in. As the cream touched my tongue, I wrapped my lips around the fruit and sucked at the cream, twisting my head slightly as I licked up to his fingertips and nipped at him to get him to release the fruit into my mouth. My hand darted up as if of its own accord and held his wrist in place while I sucked the cream from his fingertips. His answering moan was the most delicious thing I’d heard in months. The match on the television faded into background noise, forgotten now as this moment with John took over. Last night had been hurried, relieved, almost frantic at times, as our reunions always were. I always enjoyed our second days together more.
I set my bowl on the coffee table and held John’s gaze as I climbed into his lap, facing him as molten desire pooled in my core. I leaned in and kissed him gently, mindful of the bowl of cream between us. He returned my kiss sweetly. I loved that contrast about him. Out there, in the far flung reaches of the world, he was something inhuman, calculating and vicious, with an utterly indomitable will that forced the universe to bend to his wishes. But here, in the quiet with me, between my legs, under me, or over me, he was kind. Sweet. Gentle. Attentive. He allowed me to flourish, and we both reaped the rewards. I sighed as I pulled back from him, and my gaze flitted down to the bright red berries in his hands. My lips curved into a knowing smile as I reached down and plucked a piece of fruit from the bowl and held it up to his lips. John’s eyes gleamed as his tongue flitted around the end of the berry, licking the cream off, caressing the tip carefully, the way I’d felt him do to me so many times before. A shiver ricocheted down my spine as he finally, blessedly took the berry from me and happily ate it as I sucked the cream from my fingers. He hummed appreciatively, and I laughed.
“I’m so glad you’re here to enjoy my favorite British tradition with me,” I purred, as I leaned in and cupped his cheeks over his beard. I kept my eyes locked on his as I steadied myself. “Sir.”
“Fuck,” he growled lowly in response. He tried to sit up, but I pinned his shoulders to the couch.
“Stay,” I commanded. “Hold the bowl steady. I'm not done with you and your traditional dish.” I smiled down at him as he settled beneath me expectantly. I reached down grabbed the hem of my shirt to peel it off, revealing my breasts to my lover. I saw the recognition flash across his expression as he eagerly lifted the bowl back up to me.
“Yes ma’am,” he said huskily. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I selected a berry and swirled it around the cream to ensure it was completely covered. I raised it to my lips and then tipped my head back, exposing my throat and letting the cream drip down from the fruit onto my neck, drizziling it down my chest, touching the berry lightly to my nipple. I gasped as I lifted my head when John gave a slow roll of his hips under me, tipping me back towards him. His expression was ravenous. He set the bowl aside and brought his hands to my waist, holding me steady. I brought the strawberry to his lips, and he took a bite before he began to lick the cream off my nipple, sucking lightly, nipping me gently before he licked up my breast towards my neck. As his tongue followed the trail of sweet cream along my skin, my nerves felt as if they were being set on fire. His breath warmed the chilled liquid as he sipped up the delectable sweetness and brought goosebumps to my arms and legs.
I shivered as he worked his way up my neck, lapping at my pulse point. I moaned low in my throat as he sucked on a blooming bruise he’d left last night. The pleasure – the pain – had me heaving in a ragged breath as the myriad of sensations he wrought collided all at once on my skin. I reached up and put the rest of the strawberry in between my teeth, then threaded a hand into the hair on the back of his scalp and pulled. He released the bruised skin on my neck with an unhappy growl before his lust-filled gaze landed on the berry in my teeth. He reached up and licked the fruit but left it in my mouth, and I whimpered in answer. I held his head steady with my hand in his hair as I leaned in and brought my lips to his. His eyes glittered darkly as he petulantly refused to open his mouth and accept the berry.
“I think you need a bit more cream to go with that bite there, love,” he murmured. I started to reach for the bowl, but he spoke authoritatively. “No.” I went limp in his grasp as he picked up the bowl and moved us so that I lay on the couch and he knelt between my legs. He dipped two fingers into the cream and drizzled it over my abdomen. I moaned as the cool liquid splashed onto my overheated skin, and John finally brought his lips to mine and licked into my mouth to snatch the fruit from me. He moved with purpose as he trailed his beautiful beard over my chest to where the fresh cream splattered over me. My hands trembled as I brought them up again to his hair while he lapped up the sweet cream to chase the strawberry in his mouth. As he finished and began to chew the concoction, my gaze caught his, and I moaned again at the naked desire there. No man had ever wanted me as completely and utterly as he did. If I allowed it, he would spend all day in supplication, offering worship and lavishing praise over every part of my body, flaws real or perceived, exulting in everything I had to give.
My eyes fluttered closed, and I relaxed into the couch as he took off his own shirt. I’d lost track of the bowl of cream, but I did not care anymore. The desire in my core threatened to drown me, and my lover knew I was beyond the capacity for words. He bent over me and slanted his mouth over mine in a breathtakingly deep kiss. I was surrounded by him, comforted by his presence again, as I widened my hold on the back of his head, squeezing gently as he kissed me as though this would be our last and he wanted to memorize the feel of my tongue against his, the sounds he drew from me, the taste of the cream in my mouth. When he finally pulled away, his pupils were blown wide with lust, and I whimpered, “Please.”
John shushed me softly. “I know love. I’m here, I’ve got you,” he reassured me as I shook with need. I let my hands fall from his hair to his chest, raking my fingernails softly along his nipples. He moaned at my soft touch as he gathered my hands in his and kissed my fingers. “Play with your breasts for me, love,” he whispered deeply. I groaned as my pussy clenched desperately at the sound of his wrecked voice. Still, I did as he asked and trailed my fingers lightly over the delicate skin of my chest, tugging lightly on my nipples as he watched lecherously. My gaze wandered down his beautiful, lean abdomen to his tented sleep shorts, and I moaned openly as he cursed hotly. “Fucking hell, you don’t know what you do to me, darling,” he hissed as he reached for my waistline first. He dragged my pants and underwear off in one fell swoop, standing as he went, before discarding his own shorts, leaving himself on display for me. He looked as though he ached for me just as badly as I did for him now in this moment. I could not help but trail a hand lower to my slick clit as he moaned and palmed his cock in answer. I loved watching him and he loved watching me – entire days had been spent watching as the other pleasured themselves for cameras while we were parted – but right now I needed him more than I needed the air in my lungs.
“John,” I begged in a broken whimper.
“I’m here, my love,” he whispered in reply as he knelt between my legs again and reached to my wet folds. He trailed his fingers down my slit, sending electricity up my back which arched involuntarily, eliciting another moan from him. “Fuck you’re so pretty for me.”
I couldn’t hold back the tear that rolled down my cheek in answer. I was wound so tightly with need, already so close to a climax and he hadn’t even properly touched me yet. There were times my need, my love for him terrified me in its depth – as though I stood on the floor of the ocean looking into the abyss of the Challenger Deep and I would never breathe without him again. I watched as he gathered my slick on his fingertips before he spread it on his cock, stroking his crown lightly as he prepared himself for me. His own slit wept in anticipation and the thought of his slick mixing with mine had rendered me senseless as he moved to position his tip at my entrance. His gaze burned into mine, watching my expression and greedily devouring every detail as I twisted in pleasure when he gently pushed into me. He rocked back and forth, gradually working his way deeper into my core with every thrust until he was fully seated within me. He paused for a moment while he took measured, deep breaths as he steadied himself, his bright blue eyes desperately straining as he needed to both move and still. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and brought my hands to his back, trying to ground him. I needed him to last - I wanted to come on his cock and nowhere else right now. I tried to relax my fluttering walls but thinking about how hot and full he had me set me alight again. We both moaned, and as he moved, I brought one hand to my clit again, touching myself in time with the leisurely, sensual rhythm he set for us.
“Love, you take me so well, so perfectly,” he groaned, his breath hot against my ear as he lowered himself to his elbows. The angle of his cock changed within me as he thrust and I felt like I was being split open, my entire world rearranging around him inside me. I whimpered again in answer, and he moaned against my ear. A shiver wracked through my entire body at the feeling of his mouth against my neck. He knew how to undo me like no other ever had. “I want to feel you come on my cock, darling,” he grunted. I cried out as my core started to clench around him as he thrust. “Please, I need you. Need you to come, love,” he begged me as his thrusts became irregular. I bore down on him as I stroked my clit one final time, and my whole fucking world realigned around John Price. He was home. He was mine. I was his. The guttural moan I gave as I came was swallowed up by John’s mouth against mine as my cunt drew out his own orgasm and he fucked me through both our climaxes.
Slowly, ever so slowly, our pleasures eased, and John’s efforts ceased as he rested his forehead against mine. We basked in the afterglow of our orgasms as he murmured soft and sweet praise to me. I ran my fingertips gently over his muscular back soothing him in return. “I love you,” I whispered as I reached up and kissed him chastely. John kissed me back tenderly before he withdrew from me slowly. I moaned, hating the feeling of being empty, but I loved the way he couldn’t take his eyes off my pussy as his cum dripped out. He hummed appreciatively.
“I love you too, darling,” he replied. He paused for a beat, looking over my wrecked body. He chuckled. “I’d normally go and get you a warm towel, but you’re covered in cream. I think we’d better shower, instead.”
I laughed lightly. “I think you’re probably right,” I agreed amiably. As John extended a hand to help me stand on my shaking legs, I heard the crowd on the television start cheering as the announcer called, “Game, Set, Nadal 6-1.” I squeaked and John looked between me and the screen, amused, if a bit lost. A giggle escaped me at his adorable expression. “I promise to explain breaks of service to you, once we’ve washed off all your creamy British traditions,” I said as I smiled radiantly. John’s gaze darkened again as he shook his head and laughed.
“You keep that up and we’ll never get back out here to watch your match,” he huffed at me.
“Well, there’s always the U.S. Open,” I said easily as I took his hand and sauntered towards the shower. He chuckled lowly as he followed me.
“Can’t wait to learn about those American traditions.”