City games m/f

[calebtras]

City games
Colleen and I checked each handball court for a good match-up. Brooklyn handball was the best in the city but there were too many cracks in the courts, gangbangers betting on games, so we'd taken the subway to the Lower East Side in the City. Colleen pointed to the fourth court, a couple high school age black kids, bigger and stronger than us, but they took the center and hit the ball as hard as they could. Colleen was quicker and I had more shots. We stood at the fence behind them.
When we took the court, the guys sized us up smirking and staring at Colleen's butt in tight pink shorts and small breasts you could see poking her Judas Priest t-shirt when she stretched out. Colleen served first, putting a bullet into the corner, making the taller guy lunge off court to hit a looper right back to me. I killed it in the corner so it dribbled off the wall. They gave each other get-serious looks.
Colleen played front, on the balls of her feet, spinning as soon as the ball passed her to the right, left, or back-stepping, moving around their stocky front man like he was a bowling pin. We took an early lead and kept it, giving me moments to watch Colleen, her calves and thighs rippling, ponytail flying, left-handed soft shot, between the legs shot. I took to watching her dancing body on her shots, and on impulse, hit a ball smack into her butt.
“Whoa, I heard that!” the stocky guy said with a laugh. “Hey, Baby, lift those shorts and show us the big red one on yer ass.”
Colleen glared at me, “Tha fuck!” She stalked past, out the door.
“Hey, we're winning!” I shouted at her back. There was nothing she hated more than for boys to make fun of her. Saying sorry would make her madder, so I ran after her.
She headed not toward the subway but the river. She stopped at the rock wall at the edge of the East River. She threw a rock at a gull, sending it squawking. I stood several feet away and tossed a rock into the murky water. It sent out two or three ripples until they disappeared in the waves. I tossed a another rock with my left hand then threw a rock hard at the circle of ripples.
“What ya' doin'?” Her curiosity overcame her anger.
“Hittin' the bulls-eye.” Next time I tossed a rock Colleen hit the circle of ripples just before I did and closer to the center.
“Best to 11,” she said.
I played to win to force her to call two out of three to give her time to get in a better mood, but she beat me. I pointed a block south to an empty construction lot with a row of concrete sewer pipes piled two high. “Let's check those out.”
She followed me, and I climbed into a pipe. It was just high enough for me to squat in. I was about to tell her to follow me when she ran to the far end, climbed in, and slapped the handball to me. It ricocheted up, down, sideways, and when I punched it back she had moved forward to return it. We kept moving forward and slapping the ball hard until she made me miss.
“Wait,” I said. I found a brick and set it in the middle of the pipe. “Whoever touches this brick without missing the ball gets a point. 11 wins the game, two out of three wins the match.”
We played hard, scrambling on all fours into the pipe, hitting crazy ricochet shots. I scraped my knuckles and banged my head, but I won the first game. Colleen got pissed, and first point of the second game she smacked the ball hard into my forehead.
“Okay, that's too easy,” I complained. “New rule—ball's gotta bounce once.”
We each developed strategies, like hitting soft dribblers that couldn't be returned or high bouncies that you could keep up with and reach the brick same time as the ball. We argued new rules, worked up a sweat by the time she won the third game.
“Fuckin' beat your silly ass!” Colleen was shoulder dancing, in a good mood. I grabbed her wrists, pushed her down, and climbed on top. I kissed each bead of sweat on her forehead and cheeks, but just as I kissed the tip of her nose, sliding toward her lips, she twisted her head to the side. When I craned around to kiss her mouth, she turned the other way.
“How 'bout I win this once,” I said.
“You couldn't beat me in anything with both my hands tied behind my back,” she said.
“You're on.” I got off her and unlaced my sneaker. She turned and put her hands behind her. Crossing her wrists, I wrapped the lace top to bottom and side to side, tying a square knot. I'd tied her hands and kissed her several times that summer but this was the first time she'd dared me to. I lay her back on the pipe floor and kissed her lips, neck, ears.
I sat up pulled her onto my lap. The August sun was beating on the concrete and I was dripping sweat. I took off my t-shirt and wiped myself down until it was soaked. I stretched up to kiss her.
“What about me?” Colleen demanded.
I reached around her to untie her wrists, but she said, “You do it.”
In competitions she wanted to be in charge and to win, but when we were alone she turned passive. I lifted her t-shirt and wiped her face and neck, exposing her shiny, white bra. I slid her shirt over her head so it hung loose on her bound hands. I ran my palms down her arms then dried my hands on my shorts; over her thighs, calves, belly, back, and finally her bra. Her half-smile seemed to show curiosity, a challenge, but not the excitement I felt. I reached around and untied her hands and she immediately gripped my head and kissed me.
Back in pre-internet times Catholic kids like me and Colleen learned by doing. Snug in our concrete cave, we explored almost everywhere, hands, lips, and bellies gliding on saliva and sweat, without a pause to eat or drink, until by dusk our mouths were too dry to kiss.

[Tights tights tights]

This sounds like an exciting story, I enjoyed it!

The way you described the events that day was good reading.. sorry to know Colleen had to put up with those guys harassing her, but I'm glad it turned out well for you guys in the end!

Thank you for posting!