Stroking the front of my shorts
Written on August 2, 2008
“You’re getting too good at this” she complained after missing a
particularly lucky corner shot of mine. “It’s no fun to loose outright to
you and it’s just not the same when I win if you’ve spotted me 5 points to
begin with. There’s just not as much meaning or sense of victory.”
“Do you want to quit?” I asked a little hesitantly.
“Well… not really. It just gets frustrating sometimes” she
replied. Then she got a devilish look on her face and came close and
reached down to stroke the front of my shorts. “You understand
frustration?” she taunted in a sultry voice, stopping just as I started to
get hard underneath her hand.
“Hmmm. Maybe we could add a little extra meaning to winning” I
said.
“How?” she said, the seduction gone from her voice.
“Well, how about a game of ’strip racquetball’?”
“Are you kidding? What if someone sees us?”
“Nobody’s going to see us, there’s only that little eye-slit in the
doorway. Besides, you saw how deserted this place was when we came in.”
“We can’t take off shoes or socks, this game would be impossible
without them.” she said.
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