textfiles/sex/EROTICA/W/without.txt

It had been a good game.  A spectacularly good game, even though we
lost.  All 8 of us had seemed so close, shouting and laughing and
bouncing off the walls and each other.  Walleyball is a good game
for exercise if you play 2 on 2, but very sociable 4 on 4.  The rules
are vaguely like volleyball (vaguely interpreted, among us at least),
but the big blue ball has the spring of a racquetball.  It stings
pretty fiercely, too.  We looked down on the cowards who played in 
long sleeves, showing off our reddened forearms.
 
I rubbed my bruises pensively, leaning against the wall in the shower.
I had probably overdone it with that new serve, the one where the
sensitive skin inside the wrist hits hard for backspin, but there
was a woman on the other team I was trying to impress.  Her legs were
so long and graceful, stretching lean and strong between her shorts 
and knee pads.  I savored the memory of one play, leaping to block
her spike, nearly touching her body through the net, feeling her
warm and resilient and alive as we fought for the ball.  Seeing her
blush as she came back down, looking away as I noticed her nipples
erect under her damp shirt.  I wanted her.
 
Later, she dove for a low ball, ending up huddled on her knees, almost
cringing at my feet as her teammate reached over her towards the ball.
I reached under the net to help her up, congratulating her quickness
even as my fingers dug cruelly into her red, puffy, forearms.  She
smiled at me.  I wanted to see that smile again. 
 
By the time the game ended, we were all glowing and sore.  I lingered
in the shower, expecting her to take a long time in the women's locker
room.  She always did, simply because it took so long for her to 
brush out her long hair.  Gorgeous hair, but it always seemed to get
tangled up, even though she tied it back.  I hoped to meet her in
the waiting room, walk with her to the restaurant where we were to 
meet the others.  Besides, the hot water felt good, and I was in a 
mood for sensual luxuries. 
 
When I finally left, she was waiting for me, tousled and beautiful.
Our friends were gone.  "Hi, Will.  I forgot my hairbrush."  She
tossed her head ruefully.  "Could I borrow yours?  I hate to go to
dinner looking like this."  My hair was cropped so short I had little
use for a brush, but I kept one at home.  Wanting to spend a few
minutes alone with her, I didn't mention that she looked magnificent
already.  I just invited her to my apartment, which was conveniently
between the gym and the restaurant.
 
We chatted lightly, easily, as we walked across campus.  She was as
exhilerated as I was by the game, the teamwork, the solid smack of
rubber against flesh.  She was wearing a leather jacket that took
my breath - it looked supple as brushed silk, softer than the delicate
skin inside her wrist, warm and alive.  I had never much liked 
leather, but this was different.  I contrived to brush her sleeve
casually, and my fingertip felt rough and crude on that magical
surface.  I wanted to touch it with my lips.
 
I left her in my living room while I hunted down the hairbrush.
She admired the heavy, old-fashioned wood, noticing that the painted
design on the back was nearly worn away.  She ran her fingers through
my short hair.  "How do you get so much use out of this?  Or did it
belong to someone else?"  I blushed, but she was smiling.  Could she
know I got more use out of the back of the brush than the front?
Or did she just think it used to belong to my grandmother?  "I 
mostly use it in the dark, and the back gets banged against things."
There.  Honest, but ambiguous.
 
She started tugging the brush through her hair, wincing when she
got to a snarl.  She handed it to me, turning her back.  "Would you
care to help?  It goes faster if you can see what you're doing."
She leaned into the strokes as I brushed, stretching like a cat
against the slight pull on her scalp.  Her hair was very dark, fine
and soft.  I held my hand between the hair and that jacket,
revelling in the raw sensation.  She was bending slightly forward
over the back of my couch.  Her bottom brushed my thigh.  Accidental,
or flirtation?  I swatted her with the back of the brush, not very
hard.  "Hold still, and let me finish."  My voice cracked.
 
Gods, she was beautiful!  She moaned softly, bending further down so
her head rested on the couch, her bottom offered up to my hand.
I stepped back and spanked her, experimentally, not sure how much
she could take.  She seemed to enjoy the first few blows, squirming
towards me, arching her back as her hair fell forwards.  I pulled
down her sweatpants.  I wasn't really surprised that she wasn't 
wearing underwear, but I hadn't expected her to be so very wet already.
I spanked her long and hard, holding her down with one hand firm
in the middle of her back, fingertips stroking that extraordinary
leather. 
 
(Words fail me.  I don't know how to describe the next 5 minutes
so they don't sound dull and banal.  Suffice it to say, a good
time was had by all.  And I'm sure the couch can be cleaned.)
 
We finally arrived at the restaurant, not so very late that our
friends suspected the details of our detour.  We talked about the
game, and compared the red marks on our arms, boasting of our
courage and skill.  Red marks elsewhere, and other skills, were
never explicitly mentioned, though I noticed my new friend 
fidgeting on the edge of her seat, and my fingers wandered to 
the leather draped over the back of her chair.