The net result is pure pleasure when a beautiful American amateur tennis player and her Russian counterpart match strokes in a game of love

The first thing that impressed me about Tatiana was her backhand. I watched her playing in a quarterfinal match of a tournament between U.S. and Soviet amateur tennis players. I was in the stands, rooting for my teammate but nonetheless marveling at Tatiana’s graceful, powerful, flawless play. Her serve positively smoked, and her backhand snapped like a whip. Her footwork was impeccable and her shot selection indicated that she thought like a chess master. My teammate didn’t stand a chance.

In recent years the Russians have placed a priority on developing topflight tennis players, and Tatiana is a good example of their efforts. I, on the other hand, am a college player of medium talent who retains a small hope of someday being a pro on the circuit. I play tennis for the love of the game, and when I’m out on the court, no matter who or where I’m playing, I feel like I’m on center court at Wimbledon.

And so, while I watched Tatiana breeze through her match, my awareness was focused only on her athletic ability. I didn’t fully register how beautiful she was. That discovery came the next day, after I had been whipped by one of Tatiana’s teammates. I retreated numbly to the locker room, stripped down to my underwear and sat on the bench, my head in my hands, reliving in painful detail the drubbing I had just experienced.

I must have been brooding for about half an hour before I realized that everyone else had left and that I was alone in the locker room. I dragged myself to the shower and turned on the spray, taking comfort in the stinging heat of the water. It wasn’t until I heard another shower being turned on that I realized that my solitude had been interrupted.

Across the shower from me was Tatiana, looking at me and smiling. As I studied her naked figure and her healthy, beaming face, I felt one of those thunderbolts I thought occurred only in novels. Our eye contact seemed to crackle with an electric connection.

“You had a rough day,” she said to me with a slight accent. Her smile was sympathetic.

“It’s enough to make me think about never picking up a racquet again,” I said.

“Oh, please,” she replied. “You have much potential. You lack some mechanical fundamentals. Good coaching is what you need.”

As she spoke to me, I decided that Tatiana was the sexiest woman I had ever seen. Her body was amazing. She wasn’t very tall, five-three at most, unusual for a tennis player (I’m five-nine). But her figure was lean and very firmly packed. Her stomach was absurdly flat, sloping down beautifully from her rib cage. Her breasts were not large, but they were round, two peaches capped with dark-red nipples.

“Do you really think I can improve?” I said, not quite sure how I was forming the words.

“Oh, yes. Would you like me to give you a few pointers? I hope I’m not being too presumptuous.”

She smiled at me, and I felt my heart dissolve into a fine mist. Her short red hair was matted to her head and her bewitching green eyes sparkled like polished emeralds. I had to make love to this woman.

“That would be very generous of you,” I said. “But you have a match tomorrow.”

“Not until two. Perhaps tomorrow morning, early. I’m supposed to be developing my stamina. In fact, I’m here now only because I was out this evening practicing my serve.”

“What?” I said, astonished. “Your serve was magnificent.”

She smiled and playfully wagged her finger at me. “I hit only fifty-five percent of my first services. They want me above sixty. If I ever reach the point where my game resists improvement, I might as well be finished.”

Of course, she was right. I looked down, a little embarrassed by my unabashed hero worship. Then came the moment I replay in my mind like a cherished home movie. Tatiana turned off her shower and walked over to me. She stood right beside me, brazenly surveying my naked body. “By the way,” she said. “My name is Tatiana.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And your name is Noelle?” she asked, wiping a tendril of my wet blonde hair away from my face.

“Yes,” I managed to whisper.

“It is a charming name.” She stroked the side of my face. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Even though the water was hot, I began to shiver. Tatiana’s hand slipped from my cheek to the curve of my neck, and she rose on her toes and kissed me, ever so gently, right on the lips. Her hands cupped my breasts and I nearly swooned as she held me.

She broke our kiss and held my head in her hands. “You are so lovely,” she told me. I felt as if I were floating away in a cloud of fantasy. “We will not be disturbed now, will we?”

“I don’t care who sees us,” I said, quite honestly.

Tatiana’s hand found my aching pussy, which she stroked and fondled, teasing me. I pressed her head to my breasts as her rubbing of my pussy increased in speed and intensity. My clitoris was throbbing. She traced around it with her index finger, not touching it, then plunged her fingers into my cunt. I gasped and gripped her tight. She finger-fucked me slowly and deliberately. As I kissed her wet hair I came in a powerful release, my vagina clutching at her hand, my chest rising and falling with each heaving breath I took.

Tatiana slowly stroked me, the water still pelting our bodies. She kissed me one last time, and then we stood steadying each other. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock. I will help you with your game. You will be there?”

“I will,” I said. She left.

That night I tossed and turned in anticipation. Each time I looked at the cock, I fretted, counting down the hours until I saw her. I had explored relationships of varying degrees of fulfillment, but no one had made me feel the way Tatiana did. Part of me argued that the happiness I felt was unwarranted; one late-night tryst in the shower did not a love affair make.

But my heart debated the opposite side: that I had always been too overanalytical in my love life, never allowing my emotions to just flow free. Now I would.

When my alarm rang, I jumped out of bed and hurried to get ready. I couldn’t remember being more nervous—certainly not for a tennis lesson. When I arrived at the court, she was already there, returning serves from a machine. Her training had certainly given her boundless energy.

Her lesson was purely professional. But giddy as I was, she might as well have been explaining the Pythagorean theorem to me in Russian—that’s how much I was paying attention to what she was saying. Instead I was concentrating on her body language, hoping to get some signal as to whether or not we would once again be lovers.

At one point she was showing me how to correct my forehand. She stood behind me, holding my arm, her breasts pressed against my back. She explained the correct angle at which I should hit the ball, and then, without missing a beat, whispered in my ear, “Tonight I will come to your room. Would you like that?”

I almost fell to my knees in gratitude. We hurried through the rest of the lesson, and then I ran back to the showers. None of the other players had arrived yet, so I indulged my need to masturbate, my slippery fingers rubbing against my burning cunt until I came in a wave of relief.

I watched courtside as Tatiana played her match later that afternoon. Our player was very good and took Tatiana to a third-set tiebreaker. Tatiana had to reach deep into her reserve to pull the match through in thrilling fashion. When she won her final point, she looked for me in the audience. We made eye contact, and she broke into a big smile. I had truly lost my heart to her.

That evening I readied myself for a glorious night with Tatiana. I took a long, hot bubble bath, washed my hair and perfumed my body. l put on my sexiest underwear, high heels and a burgundy silk chemise. I looked in the mirror and thought l looked quite nice. I got out a bottle of wine and waited. And waited. I eyed the clock nervously, imagining all sorts of problems Tatiana might have run into trying to get to my apartment.

Finally, at about nine, there came a gentle rapping at my door. I hopped to my feet to answer it. There she stood, in a black dress which complimented her red hair dramatically. She was wearing a rakish smile on her face. I stood there like a statue, overwhelmed by her presence. “May I come in?” she asked.

“Of course, please come in.” I led her into the living room. We sipped wine, talked about everything and eyed each other hungrily. She told me what life was like in the Ukraine, where she’d grown up. I found it wasn’t unlike my childhood in Portland, Oregon. As our conversation continued, we found that we shared much in common.

At one point while we were talking, Tatiana slipped off one of her shoes and ran her stockinged foot down my bare calf. I sighed happily and set my wineglass down. I crawled into her lap and began to kiss her passionately. “I haven’t had the proper chance to thank you for last night in the shower,” I said. “Let me do that now.”

I took her by the hand and led her to my bed. She sat down and began unbuttoning her dress. “No,” I said. “Let me do all the work.” I undressed her, covering each new part of her body with kisses as I exposed it. The first to get discarded were her dress and bra. I kissed and massaged her breasts for a long time, giving special attention to each nipple, each round swell, each delicate curve. Tatiana’s breasts were very sensitive, and she came merely from my touching them.

I stood and took off my dress, rubbing my nipples before I resumed my tour of Tatiana’s body. I peeled off her stockings and went to work massaging her feet and legs. She began rubbing her panty-covered mound, and I swatted her hand away. “Let me, please,” I said and then quickly worked her panties down her legs, around and off her feet. Then I shimmied out of my panties. Tatiana ran her hand along the length of my back, pressing her palm firmly into my cheeks, pulling my pussy toward her lips. I knew she wanted to lick me between my legs, and I moistened suddenly. I wanted to do the same to her. I let her taste me, then moved away from her and eased myself lengthwise alongside her so that I could press my pussy against her lips as I began to explore Tatiana’s cunt with my own mouth.

Her pubic hair was as fiery as the hair on her head, and I spent a good while just nuzzling its luxuriance. Tatiana was drawing little circles around my clit and asshole, her tongue making tentative gestures along the inner surface of my thighs. I lowered my mouth to her opening and began licking softly, reaching around her leg to slide my finger into her puckered asshole. As my oral loving of her cunt began in earnest, Tatiana stopped fingering me and grabbed my asscheeks with a firm grip, moaning into my pussy.

She tasted so good. With my finger in her ass and my tongue on her clit, it didn’t take long for Tatiana to begin bucking and squirming against my mouth. She lifted her legs and squeezed them around my head. When she came, she muffled her screams by softly biting my thigh. I continued to lick away her juices until she gestured for me to lie alongside her.

Tatiana rolled me over and lay on top of me. “You are one excellent pussy-licker,” she told me. Then she kissed me, her tongue delving into my mouth. My tongue entangled itself with hers, and we frenched that way for a deliriously long moment. As we did this, Tatiana shifted her body so that her cunt was against mine. She began to rub up and down, our pussies grinding against each other. I grabbed her by the back of her neck and held on tight as we fucked. I was building to a climax fast.

Supercharged, we both came quickly and forcefully, our cries rending the air. I crawled up beside her and laid my head against her shoulder, softly kissing and biting her neck. She wrapped her arms around me and we drifted into a blissful rest. I have never felt so secure.

This feeling was short-lived, however, as Tatiana looked at the clock and jumped out of bed. “My goodness, bed check is at midnight and it is ten minutes to twelve!”

She dressed in a hurry as I sat on the bed and watched, my knees tucked under my chin, idly stroking my wet pussy. As she sat in a chair, pulling her stockings back on, I felt an acute pang. I realized that her stay was almost over. Would I ever see her again?

She finished dressing and kissed me goodbye, slipping her tongue delicately into my mouth. Before she left, she stood in the doorway and blew me a kiss, then disappeared into the night.

The next day Tatiana won the tournament in masterly fashion. That evening there was a big celebratory dinner for all the players. I managed to get a seat next to her, and we made eyes at each other all night, holding hands under the table.

We managed to sneak off to the ladies’ room together for one last kiss.

The next day, the Russians were off to another school and another exhibition tournament. Tatiana and I have remained in contact through letters and infrequent phone calls. She is excited about the possibility of joining the pro circuit soon, and who knows? She may be back in this country soon, maybe at the U.S. Open. In the meantime, I can only continue to save my money for a trip to Russia to visit her, and continue to dream the dream that makes me happy: Tatiana and I have reached the finals of Wimbledon, slugging it out against each other at center court in a close, exciting match. We are both playing the best tennis of our lives. When we look across the net at each other, we acknowledge our admiration and lust. There is no victor in my fantasy. It doesn’t matter who wins. We both know that after the match, we will be together in each other’s arms.