The D-league
Copyright© 2026 by HungTalesFL
Chapter 6
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6 - Amy and Alex were high school sweethearts. Florida was supposed to be the upgrade: a gate, a country club, and a zip code that wasn't Boise. When she takes up tennis, the brochure promises courts and cocktails. Nobody mentioned the real game.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Age Gap Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Masturbation Oral Sex Size Slow
I took a breath and turned.
Tommy came across the patio the same way he had a few nights before. Club polo, white, a size too sure of itself, clinging where Florida had already put sweat through it. Same ridiculous shorts. Tighter than they needed to be, and still doing their job.
He had the face that got hired off a lifeguard stand. Just enough acne to put the nineteen back on him, in case the rest had made you forget. Built like the club had ordered him from a catalog and forgotten to ask if he could coach.
I looked away like that might save something. No drink in my hand this time. Nothing to sand the edges down. He stopped in front of me.
“Hey, Amy.”
Same grin. The one that had been living in my head.
“Hello, Tommy.”
I said it to his crotch. My voice came out thin.
“You ready for that lesson?”
No compliment. Not on the outfit. Not on anything. Just the hour he had already started charging.
I stood up on legs that weren’t ready. The racquet stayed in my hand. A desperate crutch. If anyone asked, this could still be a lesson.
From behind, he was all youth. White polo stuck between his shoulders. An ass like a bubble, the kind you only get before a body learns what sitting at a desk does to it. Calves cut and browned from a thousand hours on hot courts.
He smelled like the day he’d already had. Sunblock. Sweat. Whatever cheap body spray boys that age wear when they think it’s cologne.
The door screamed when he pulled it, the same ugly sound as before. He didn’t look back. I followed with the racquet still in my fist until the door shut on the empty veranda behind us.
The pro shop didn’t look like the pro shop.
By daylight it was price tags, folded shirts, and the smell of new grip tape. Tonight it was a dark room with a little light leaking from the courts through the front glass. Shadows where the stringing machine should have been. Everything familiar and slightly wrong.
My eyes found the rack first. Women’s tennis. The one I had stood at with Gloria when I pulled the teal skirt.
He didn’t wait. He tipped his chin toward the hallway left of the counter, the one I had always assumed was storage.
I stayed close enough to his back that I could have touched it. The hallway was narrow. Too quiet. Longer than the distance.
We passed the real doors first. Six-panel. Nameplates. Metal the club had paid to have engraved. Head pro. Assistants who had been there long enough to matter. Each one a quiet reminder of where he stood.
When the hallway ran out, I almost laughed. Last door on the right. No plate. Not paneled like the others. Just a yellow Post-it at eye level, his name written in ink that had already started to fade.
Eight feet by eight. A storage closet they had decided was an office.
Standing desk. A beige chair with metal arms, the kind a college student would have thrown out. Carpet that had given up years ago. A clock. A tennis certificate in a cheap frame, the kind they hand out just for showing up.
Then the air. Musty. Sweat baked into the walls. Sunblock on top of that, thick enough to taste. All of it doing its best to mask the other smell.
And the whiteboard.
A calendar with the days across the top and first names down the squares. Gloria. Beth. Jill. Names from B and C I knew from the veranda. Written in blue marker like it was just tennis.
Then my name. Same blue. Same hour. Same lie.
Still time to turn around.
I didn’t.
The wall said 8:00.
He glanced at it like a man punching in, then came toward me and scanned me head to toe. Racquet in hand.
His fingers closed over the grip, over mine, the same way he’d stood behind me at a clinic once and pretended to fix my serve. It came out of my hands. My fingers stayed curled around nothing.
Then the polo. He took his time on purpose. Arms up. The shirt peeling, stuck for a second at the back of his neck. Deodorant first. White streaks in both pits while his arms were still in the air, the day’s work not even wiped off.
Then the rest of him. Wiry. Built for tennis, not for a desk. A farmer’s tan so clean it looked drawn on: arms dark from the court, chest still Florida-pale.
His fingers found my shoulders. Thumbs first, almost careful, like he was settling a student. Then the squeeze went hard.
He pushed.
I fought it. Shoulders up. Legs locked. A sound in my throat that never became a word. Then the fight went. My knees hit the carpet. Grit and old clay pressed into the skin like the floor wanted a piece of me too.
I looked up into that arrogant little smirk. A man on the verge of ticking off the last box. The entire D-League.
His shoes first. White Nikes, the leather gone orange at the toes and stained along the sides. Clay packed into the treads and caked at the sole, still damp, a sour court smell rising off them.
The shorts were doing all the talking. Thin white fabric pulled tight across a bulge that had no business in a staff uniform, a wet heat an inch from my face.
I had sat in judgment like it was a talent. Sure I was the last decent woman in that Lexus.
I understood it now.
My hands went up on their own. The back of my fingers first. Cotton only. The last honest layer.
The shorts came down. Then the briefs. Tight. Already wet at the front.
He fell out of the underwear and hung there. Thick enough that my hand looked small against it. The flaccid one from the photo, seven inches and still dropping, three inches past Alex on the best night of our marriage. Under it, a pair of balls built to the same scale.
The pictures Gloria had dropped in the chat. The ones I had gotten myself off to in the dark and called my first real orgasm in years. They hadn’t even been close. Heavier than a photo. Already wet at the slit. The rim too wide for a mouth that had never been asked to try.
When I looked up, he already had himself in his hand. He laid the head against my mouth like I was the fourth woman this week, not the second man to ever touch my lips.
I tried to keep my teeth shut. Church. Twenty years of marriage. Alex five minutes away, locked in his office. The green button I had clicked.
My lips parted because my body had already decided. The head first. It wouldn’t fit. The rim caught on my teeth. I backed off, opened wider, and worked it past, jaw already aching before he was in. Other orgasms still dried on it, if you looked close enough.
It grew in my mouth. Fast. Not just long. Thick as the handle of the racquet he had taken out of my hand, filling the hinge of my jaw until there was no place left to put my teeth.
Both hands found what my mouth couldn’t and worked the rest of him. No rhythm. A blowjob I had no idea how to give.
He pulled back before I was ready.
Spit followed, broke, and hit my chin. He looked at it the way a coach looks at a warm-up he has already finished. Next drill. Clock still his.
The same hands that had put me on my knees lifted me off them. I came up clumsy, lips numb, knees late, clay still printed on the skin.
He stepped in. I tried to give ground.
The back of my legs found it first. A beige club chair gone gray at the edges, vinyl cracked along the seat, dark stains in the sag. Metal arms tacky with sunblock and sweat. A pungent scent akin to Gloria’s Lexus after a match.
He didn’t ask if I was ready. Two fingers to my sternum. A push.
I sat hard. The chair took me the way it had taken the rest of them.
He dropped to his knees. The sag put me exactly where his hips wanted me. A fucking station.
He left me in the uniform. Adidas tank. Sports bra. The teal skirt he had called fire. He didn’t look at any of it now. Not my face. Not the bun. Not the stomach I was already sucking in.