GrandSlam (22 page)

As suddenly as he started he stopped. I was barely standing,
my weight was hanging on the wrist supports.

“Come here,” he said, slotting in behind my burning back,
his now-naked chest cool on my skin. “That’s enough for a first time with Cat.”

I released a sob. I so wanted to come. The dreamy state I
was in demanded it. Endorphins raged through me and I needed pleasure, extreme
pleasure to mix with my pain and take me to that special place only Travis took
me.

“Don’t worry, I know what you need.” I was in his arms now,
he was lifting me across the room.

The plug shifted in my bum. I groaned and tried to fret my
clit.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said.

“Please, Sir.” The whine in my voice was pathetic. I didn’t
care.

He set me on the table and lifted my feet into the stirrups.

I opened my eyes, blinked a few times even though the light
was dim, and studied his face. He had a layer of sweat on his forehead, the
same as when he was on the court. His jaw was set, his teeth gritted and he was
fisting his cock—his thick, hard, sheathed cock.

I bowed my back, shut my eyes again. He was going to fuck me
while my arse was already so full.

Could I do this?

“Just relax,” he said, though he sounded far from relaxed.
“This is going to be so good for us both, Marie. Just let it go, let the
tension go.” He shunted in the first inch, one short, sharp jab.

My legs were fastened so I didn’t shift up the table, and he
gained the entry he wanted.

“Oh yeah,” he groaned. “Talk to me, tell me how you feel.”

“Floaty,” I gasped, “Turned-on… Full.”

“I’m going to fill you a bit more now.” He eased in ’til he
was balls-deep. A long, determined plunge that held no mercy.

The sensation was exquisite. Stuffed but still wanting more.
I tensed my pussy around him, arching for clitoral stimulation.

“Oh yeah, you’re going to get it, here we go.” He pulled
out, gripped my hips and slammed back in.

I grabbed his wrists, hanging on tight as he fucked me with
animalistic vigor. This wasn’t a controlled fuck, this was all about
satisfaction and reaching that goal with maximum efficiency.

Ten fast strokes and an orgasm was there for me to claim. It
had been hovering the entire time he’d been flogging me and now I reached that
blissful plateau and hung, suspended in ecstasy, for several long seconds.
Feeling as though I’d been flung out of my own body and existed in a place
where pleasure was a bubble about to pop in the most spectacular of ways.

And it did. As Travis fucked me harder and harder I tugged
the clamps hanging on my nipples, mixed that delicious new agony with the other
tidal wave of sensations I was experiencing and came.

It was swift but explosive, the convulsions of release
claiming me totally, the overwhelming pressure erupting from the very center of
my core. My arse contracted around the plug, my pussy clamped around Travis’
pumping cock and my clit thumped against his body as he rode into me.

I tried to yell but my breath had been stolen. I wasn’t sure
but I thought my heart had stopped beating. My world was black, white, red and
silver. I was rising off the table, falling onto it. I was high, higher.
Another orgasm rolled over me, mixing with the first, and this time I cried
out.

“Travis, stay with me, with me.”

“Ah, yes, yes…I’m here, I’ve got you…” Travis joined me,
pulsing out his load as I spasmed around his shaft. “Jesus Christ, Marie.” He
was holding me in a pincer-like grip. I knew there’d be bruises tomorrow.
Bruises I’d be proud of.

“That’s fucking awesome.” He forged into me, stilled at the
hilt then dropped forward and claimed my mouth with his.

But I knew it was more. He hadn’t just claimed my mouth,
he’d claimed me mind, body and soul.

I woke up on the day of the US Open men’s final with a
stonking hard-on. It was a nod to the resilience of that part of the male
anatomy, given Marie and I had fucked at every opportunity we could since we’d
been in New York. Since we’d been together, really. And yet my cock was still
ready and raring to go. It seemed I was insatiable.

I thought about the way we’d gone for it yesterday in the
playroom at Catfish. Damn, it had probably been a bit excessive the day before
a Grand Slam final but hell, it had been worth it, and I was sure the extra
shots of adrenaline a good, hard fucking session gave me was one of the things
that would help me win.

Marie was curled up facing my back and had her arm around
me. I turned over and started pressing gentle kisses on her face until she woke
up. Then I made love to my beautiful woman, who also happened to be my good
luck charm. Today was going to be a brilliant day. The best.

* * * * *

I exited the changing room and headed out onto the court.
I’d just left Marie—who had worked her magic to help me get into the headspace
I needed before a game, where I blocked everything out—and as I stepped into
the sunshine, the crowd began to roar. They were so loud that they permeated my
mental barrier, but only a little. I managed to dull it down so it was nothing
more than background noise. I was up against Mathew Hyde, world’s number three
seed. He was good, younger than me, and had an excellent support team. But I
wasn’t worried. I had experience and the best team a man could ask for.

After a few minutes of warm-up I took my seat by the side of
the umpire’s chair and buried my face in a towel. I went through the routine
Marie and I had worked on. I was at optimum fitness, the best of the best. The
core strength was building in my abdomen, surging into my chest and then racing
down my arms and legs. I held the power right there. It was mine, all mine. I’d
worked hard for it, no one could take it away, no one was a match for it. I was
unbeatable.

Over and over I ran the thoughts through my head, again and
again, until the umpire called for quiet from the crowd. The dull roar
disappeared to nothing. I pulled myself out of the zone enough to shake the
umpire’s hand and then Hyde’s, then took my place on my side of the net. I
swung my racquet from side to side, bouncing my weight from one foot to the other.
It was the final ritual that plummeted me so far into myself that I wouldn’t be
aware of anything else, absolutely nothing except for my opponent and the ball.
This was it. The US Open men’s final—my chance to prove to the world that I’d
walked away from that car wreck still totally worthy of my title as the world’s
number one.

The umpire spoke into his microphone. “Quiet please.”

The match began. Hyde slammed a serve over the net that had
me running to get to it. I sent it back, but only just. Scolded myself for
being complacent and resolved not to underestimate my opponent. Arrogance would
get me nowhere.

Almost immediately, the ball zoomed back over the net. It
was nearer this time and I had the opportunity to make it more difficult for
Hyde to get it. So I did just that, aiming to hit the ball as far away from him
as possible without getting it out of the box.

The kid was faster than I expected and he returned it,
though not without stumbling a little on the asphalt. He was good but not
perfect.

One backhand later and he was running again. This time, much
to my delight, he missed.

“Love, fifteen,” the umpire called.

I resisted the temptation to punch the air. There was no way
I was going to celebrate until this match was in the bag.

I took advantage of the short break to shove my sweatband a
little higher up my forehead and swiped some of the dampness from my face with
my wristband. I hadn’t yet broken into a full sweat but I would before long.
Tennis was as much about holding nerves as it was physical exertion. I wanted
to win this, needed to win this. Losing was not an option.

With another ball in hand, Hyde was ready to start. He
served and I reached it without too much trouble and sent it back. Back it came
again—a little more difficult this time. I volleyed it.

The repetition lulled me into a kind of trance. Hit, back,
hit, back, hit, back. God, this kid really was good. But he wouldn’t beat me,
he
wouldn’t
.I pulled out all my reserves, everything I had to
ensure my victory.

“Fifteen, all.”

Fuck!
Hyde had smashed the ball back over the net so
fast I hadn’t quite gotten there and it had bounced out.
Shit, shit, shit!
I forced myself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to fluff now, just because we had
an equal score. There were still many more points, more games to go before the
set was finished. I had ages to beat my opponent into the ground. I was
invincible. I was Travis Connolly, and the US Open was
mine
.

After a few more volleys, I noticed a weakness in my
opponent. He didn’t pace himself. He leapt after every single ball, whether he
needed to or not, and as a result, he’d tire more quickly. A triumphant feeling
burst through my body. I had him. I bloody well had him.

“Fifteen, thirty,” the umpire said as Hyde missed and the
ball boys scurried about.

As he got ready to serve again, I shifted back into
position, weight bobbing from foot to foot, rolling my shoulders, keeping my
arms loose, ready to send the ball sailing back over the net.

The unrivaled
thwack
Hyde’s racquet made as it hit
the ball shoved me out of my stance and into its path as it reached my side of
the court and bounced. I fired it back with no trouble at all, well-angled and
with a spin to make it harder for Hyde to reach, to make him run. It turned out
it was impossible for him to get.

“Fifteen, forty.”

“Yes!”

The yells and screams from the crowd filtered into my
consciousness, but only a little. I couldn’t afford to get distracted now, not
for anything. The only thing that would turn my head would be Marie streaking
across the asphalt, and I knew there was no way that would happen.

Marie.
I shoved the thought out of my head quickly.
Come
on, Travis, the game, the game. Do what you do best, play tennis. Win, and then
you can think about whatever you damn well want. But right now the only thing
you should be thinking about is Hyde and what he’s doing.

My temporary distraction very nearly cost me a point. I
returned the ball, but only just. It was then I really told myself off and
firmly forced myself back into the zone. I wouldn’t make anyone—or myself, for
that matter—proud if I lost.

Several hits later I lost a point. But I tried not to berate
myself—it had been a bloody good shot.

“Thirty, forty.”

I pulled in a deep breath through my nostrils as I waited
for Hyde to serve again. Relaxed and forgot how much was riding on this set. I
soon lost the luxury of calmness as the ball was smacked to my side of the net,
but it didn’t seem to matter. I returned it quickly, easily, starting a torrent
of hits between the two of that seemed to go on forever. At some point, one of
us would have to fuck up, in the meantime I was flying.

Fortunately it was Hyde who lost the point. I tipped it over
the net when he was on the back line and he didn’t stand any chance of reaching
it. Even trying was a no-brainer.

The umpire spoke the sweetest of words. “Game, Connolly.”

I couldn’t help myself, I whooped my delight, resulting in a
bunch of whoops in reply from the crowd, mixed in with cheers, screams and
more.

Okay, calm down now. You haven’t won just yet, Travis.
You’ve just gotta thrash the kid in the next few games, win this set, then two
more, then beautiful victory is yours.

I recalled my chants, my exercises, and started running them
through my head again as Hyde and I took our break before the next game. As
much as I wanted to look, to see how happy Marie was for me, I didn’t so much
as glance in her direction. I couldn’t, wouldn’t. It could cost me the set. I
could stare at her as much as I wanted when this was over, but I’d just have to
wait.

* * * * *

My racquet flew out of my hand as I jumped, fists clenching
and punching the air in celebration. I’d fucking done it! I’d recovered from
injury, clawed my way back to top form and won the US Open. Next stop the
Australian Open. I wouldn’t stop until I’d got myself a Grand Slam next
year—all four majors in one calendar year. That was my aim. Well, that and
ensuring Marie was by my side throughout it all, both as my psychologist and my
girlfriend.

My wife.

Christ, where the hell had that sentiment come from? But I
knew, really, as soon as it entered my head. It wasn’t the adulation talking,
it was love, pure and simple. I wanted Marie Sherratt by my side next year and
the year after that and every year for the rest of our lives.

I shook off my mental shield and allowed the roar of the
crowd to fill my ears, my head, my very being. I wanted it now. I wanted to
hear the cheers now I’d earned them, now I was joining in with them.

I’d won!

I decided to go and cheer with the people who knew me, my
team that had helped me get to this moment. I jogged over to the edge of the
court, where I could see Austin, Peter, Marie and the others waving their arms
around crazily, smiling, laughing, hugging. Vaulting over the barrier, I shoved
upward into the group and received hugs, claps on the back and kisses. I
realized with a huge sigh of relief that the kisses had come from Marie.

She was standing right in front of me, the prettiest smile
on her face and her cheeks flushed with excitement. I picked her up, high,
higher and spun her ’round again and again, barely hearing the catcalls and
wolf whistles of everyone watching us.

She gripped my shoulders, laughing, her hair tumbling around
her face. There was such happiness in her eyes that I thought my heart would
burst.

The TV cameras were on us, capturing our joy and love, but I
really couldn’t give a shit. Someone could have thrown a rotten tomato or an
egg at my head in that moment and it wouldn’t have bothered me. All I could
think about now was ensuring that Marie was sitting in the sidelines for every
single tennis match I played for the rest of my career.

Finally I stopped spinning and put her down. I cupped her
face and kissed her hard, possessively.

The yells of the crowd were deafening. I was giving my fans
a treat by showing them a little of the man I was off the court. And why
shouldn’t I? Marie was part of me now, she’d become ingrained in my soul, in my
life. I was happy to share my fortune in finding her.

She was returning my kiss with equal ardor. After not nearly
long enough, I had to stop, because although I was used to crowds and cameras
staring at me, tennis shorts did absolutely nothing to hold an erection in
check and I didn’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure or something.
That would dampen the mood somewhat.

Pulling away, I murmured, “We did it, Marie. Thank you.”

“No,
you
did it. You already had the tools, Peter and
I just reminded you how to use them to full efficiency.”

“Oh don’t give me all that psychobabble now, woman. I’m
celebrating, remember?”

She laughed and it was in that moment, as the flashbulbs
reflected off her dark eyes and her beautiful face lit up with unadulterated
joy that I decided. I was going to do it now. Fuck thinking about it, planning
it. I wouldn’t run the risk of nerves getting the better of me. Right now was
perfect, in front of thousands of people—millions if you included those
watching us on the television—declaring my love the best way I knew how. In a
place that really meant something to our relationship, that had brought us together
even.

I took Marie’s hand and dropped to one knee before I
chickened out. Not of asking her—that was definitely going to happen—but of
doing it now. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. My team stepped back, giving
us space. Cameras were clicking like popping corn all around us. I heard a few
whispers of, “Oh, my God…”, “Is he going to…”

Yes, I was.

“Marie Sherratt.” I cleared my throat, spoke louder. At this
stage I wanted everyone to hear me, wanted everyone to know. “Marie Sherratt, I
know we didn’t have the most auspicious of starts, what with me not being into
psychobabble and all, but now, months down the line, I don’t care about that.
All I care about is that the most giving, intelligent, beautiful and sexy woman
on the planet loves me and I love her. And I want to make it official, more
than anything. So I have a question to ask.” I carried on, not wanting to give
anyone the chance to interrupt. “Marie, will you marry me?”
Oh fuck, please
let her say yes.

The screams, whistles and cheers of the crowd—they’d
obviously seen everything on the big screen—drowned out Marie’s words, but
luckily for me, her huge smile, the tears in her eyes and her enthusiastic
nodding told me the answer.

I lifted her up and swung her around once more, suddenly
very glad I’d proposed while in New York. I was about to spend a lump of my
winnings in the iconic Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue and I couldn’t think
of anything better to spend it on than my beautiful fiancée and an engagement
ring of her choosing.

Except maybe a house for us to live in together. Anywhere
she wanted. I’d go anywhere, live anywhere, as long as I was with her. And
given the words she was murmuring into my ear, I was pretty certain she felt
exactly the same.