Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I won my first-round match over the Spaniard Emilio, but it wasn't easy and it wasn't pretty. Not only wasn't I rested enough for match play, but Gene, the oldest ball kid, worked my match. It kept running through my mind what Kurt had said the previous day on the practice court—that the luscious young man took cock, gave great blow jobs, and wanted my cock. More than that, Kurt had said the young guy was willing to take double penetration, which, with Kurt, made me feel all hot and bothered. It certainly drained my concentration on the tennis match I should have been concentrating on.

That he had a crush on me was obvious from the start. When he gave me balls for my serve, he didn't toss them to me like the other ball kids did; he brought them to me, put them in my hand, let his hand linger there a second or two longer than needed, and showed me puppy-dog eyes.

The first time he brought me my towel to towel off my sweat between points, he murmured, "Here's your towel, Mr. Samuel. You're doing great. Here, let me give you my balls." Beyond the fact that ball kids shouldn't be voicing favorites, they really shouldn't be speaking to the players at all. And he did it with fluttering eyelashes and with his hand brushing his crotch. I could see it because I was standing right next to him. But I had to assume that those in the stands—there weren't many in the stands; it was early rounds yet—couldn't see that he was giving me extra attention.

I growled at him just the once, saying "Mr. Samuel didn't come to the tournament. I'm Cliff."

He answered back, "I'm Gene. And I'm a big fan." Socializing and exchanges of given names just isn't done between players an ball kids. Well, normally.

It took three sets to take Emilio. I was much the better player—that was obvious. But he was much the fresher player. That was equally obvious. I let my guard down for just a couple of points in the second set, but those points made all the difference in losing the second set.

After the match, I opted to shower there at the venue. No other players seemed to be taking that option, though, so I had the locker room and the separated shower stalls area all to myself—or so I thought. Coming out of the shower, soap still in my eyes, I groped for the towel I'd hung on a hook. But it wasn't there.

"Here's your towel, Mr. . . . Cliff," I heard a voice say.

It was Gene, the oldest ball kid, of course, and he'd come in to shower as well. He just had a towel around his waist, and his body was beautiful. Nineteen-year-old fuck candy beautiful.

His eyes probably went bigger than mine in seeing the other's body—mine fully naked.

"God, you're big," Gene said. "Mr. Steiner said you were big."

"Gene," I said. "You're a ball kid. I . . . we . . . I can't be doing this."

"You're going hard," he said with a smile. "Look, I'm hard too." He whipped the towel off his body to show that he, indeed, was in full erection. "You like my balls? Would you like to play with my balls?"

"You're just a ball kid, Gene. I can't mess with one of the ball kids. I know you're old for it, but why do you go on with it?" The question didn't fit the context, but it had been working on my mind since the previous day.

"I like to be dominated," he answered, without hesitation. "When I'm on the court and some stud like you is snapping his fingers for the balls or a towel, it turns me on. And if it looks like I turn the stud athlete on, I let him fuck me. I beg him to fuck me. I'm begging you to fuck me. You won't be fucking a ball kid. I'm a man. I've been fucked before. Dominate me and use me hard. I'm not a child. I've been balling men for a couple of years. You must know I want you to fuck me. I told Mr. Steiner that's what I wanted—even more than wanting him to fuck me. I told him he could tell you. I know you fuck other men. I've locked the locker room door from the inside. We have time."

"Gene. I came here to play tennis. You saw me out on the court today. I almost lost. And part of that was because of you—because of you moving around the court and looking oh so sexy."

"So, you do want to fuck me."

"Of course I want to fuck you. But I'm going back into the shower, and when I come out I want to be alone and the locker room door to be unlocked."

I went back under the water—cold water this time. I couldn't hide the raging hard on I had. I heard the moaning and turned to see Gene, on the floor like a snake, slithering toward me.

"Fuck me, daddy. Dominate me. Use me hard."

When he reached me, he grabbed both of my ankles in his hands and started licking my feet and toes. I lifted him up onto his knees, mounted his hips, pressed his check into the soapy water on the floor of the shower room, thrust hard inside him, managed—just—to pull out before I ejaculated—but not before he had by jacking his own cock, and in time for him to turn and take the wad on his face and then to clean my cock with his tongue and mouth.

"Take me home, daddy. Take me back to your hotel. Fuck me all night."

That's exactly what I did.

* * * *

Up to this tournament I'd never checked ahead on who I might have to face in subsequent rounds if I kept on winning, which I rarely did yet in my career past the third round. But I did almost always make the third round. It was just a superstition with me, as it is with some other players.

I should have checked, though.

Of course the young Gene exhausted me Monday night. He was only five years younger than I was, but, in athletic sexual fuck positions—like the crab, with him on all fours suspended over my body, facing the ceiling; or the standing fuck, with me walking the room with him suspended in front of me and me bouncing him up and down on my cock, or just the strain of crouching high over him in a doggy fuck for a half hour or more at a time, or the sixty-nine full mutual blow job—five years of conditioning and the flexibility of youth can make a whole lot of difference.

He was insatiable and inventive and had all sorts of pretzel positions that challenged my muscles.

In my second-round match the next day, I lost miserably, grunting and groaning on the exhaustion and overuse of my muscles the night before. The player I lost to was Kurt Steiner.

He had the audacity to grin as we were shaking hands over the net at the end of a loss that made him look like a real tennis stud—on TV—and me like an unprepared dud and to say, "No hard feelings, I hope. Gene was worth it, wasn't he?"

Dolt that I was—having gone straight to the pro circuit rather than college—I didn't "get it" until that very minute. Kurt had used Gene—and the lay sessions before—as a distraction and as exhaustive activity for me going into the tournament. Kurt had looked ahead and seen that we might meet in the second round, and my ranking was nearly ten slots above his.

I could do no more than smile wanly and walk off the court while he was still acknowledging the applause of the tennis fans.

Gene hadn't worked as a ball kid that day. Checking with the office, I learned that he had only been brought in to cover more sicknesses in the ranks of the ball kids. "He's really too old to be a ball kid anymore," the supervisor confided in me. "And he called in sick today too—said he'd strained a couple of muscles and was hobbling around. There's really a limit to the age where a ball kid's duties are manageable. Do you not agree?" She looked at me as if I was going to stand up for Gene's right to be the oldest ball kid alive.

But I didn't.

If I'd had any sense I would have written off using Kurt's procurer services during future tennis tournaments. But I didn't do that either. I didn't rise much further in the rankings, and I'm happy to say that Kurt didn't either, but I made a living at it.

And the sex on tour was great.