I still get letters from him. Who writes letters nowdays? I guess he feels our previous intimacy warrants it. I know them as soon as they come. The awkward handwriting, the cheap stationery that’s made to look expensive. But they’re charming. I love receiving them. He is, after all the boy I used to make myself a woman.
My father disapproved of sport, and as a result, I was a solemn girl. To compete was to make something of myself, to prove myself to a disapproving world and parent. When I won, and I won often, I was good enough. I always made sure that we had a comfortable lead before the end of the first quarter, leaving me three quarters to feel good enough.
Except on that day. Timothy, as he was known then (Tim now, I know from his letters) was on the opposing team. I saw myself in him; he disliked himself too. Though unlike me, he was less able to do anything about it. My body was my project, my hobby. I turned my height, a flaw, into a strength, and made my body into a perfect piece of athletic equipment. But Timothy only had his height him equipping him for basketball. He had a large waist that needed to be dragged around the court; he often lost control of his movements, as his weight added momentum to them.
I carried that team, and without me, the team did not have a chance. We had that comfortable lead when Timothy came at me like a missile lobbed by an angry fan. I had the ball, and he saw an opportunity to take it, even though I doubted he could make good on any posession he had. I sneered at him as felt his elbow collide with my nose, and heard a sickening crack. Blood flowed from my nostrils, and my white uniform turned red. He was sinbinned, I was bloodbinned, and we lost our first game of the season.
My winning streak was my father’s consolation to his disapproval of me. If I was to take on such a dangerous and masculine hobby, at least I was good at it. But what was I now? I showered in a fug of self-loathing, careful not to wet the bandages on my face. My face ached, and I did not relish needing to dry it if it got wet. This was a shower that would leave my face and hair greasy and sweaty. Thanks to Timothy.
As I mentioned, I loved my body, it always took my mind off my troubles. With only a shower curtain separating me from a co-ed changing room, I stepped out of the stream of water, and squeezed my breast. The action was not immediately erotic, but revelling in my body caused a shot of delight to pulse through my body.
Next I tried my clitoris, as I listened to the voices outside the shower stall. The arousal from touching my breasts made my pussy sensitive. I widened my stance, and inserted two fingers into myself, as my thumb rubbed my clit. I suppressed a moan, and continued until I heard the voices recede.
When all I heard was the sound of the water running, I stepped out of the stall. Dripping wet, hot, and slick, I sat on a bench and sighed. This was a place for nakedness, but sexualising that nakedness was verboten. I needed to break a rule, however. I needed to destroy something sacred to reclaim my pride.
That’s when Timothy walked in…
I lost weight, and I remember that before I did, I waited until the others had left the changing rooms to get changed, as he did. He was still in his uniform, and was as wet as I was – sweat for him. His face was red from exertion. We were both panting, almost in sync, but his pants were accompanied by a pained wheeze.
I stood up, and punched him in the face before he had a chance to register my presence. He went down in one hit, his nose bleeding like mine. He lay on his back, and began to roll over to one side. I straddled him, pressing a palm into his hip to force him flat. I pulled down his shorts (they ripped a little), and stroked his sweaty cock. I had never touched one before, and I was amazed at how quickly it hardened under my touch. I held it, in one hand, the other pinning his chest down, and I lowered myself onto him. Despite his size, he entered me with ease.
As I gyrated on his cock, I kept my body upright. I was using him, he did not get the benefit of eye contact. He looked at me, blood spreading over his chin and neck, and I looked ahead, focussing on a sticker on a locker in the middle-distance. He made a sound like I imagine a death rattle does when he came, and I began vigorously rubbing my clit, so that I would come before he softened. I came quicker than I thought, and I could still feel his ejaculating dick pulsating inside me, as my pussy clamped down on it. I moaned, and my body shot forward, almost coming down on his. My thigh muscles tightened, as I pressed two fingers into my clit.
It was then, as the waves of pleasure subsided, that I realised my knees hurt. As I was straddling him, they had been pressed against the hard tile. My tight aching muscles groanedas I stood up. I My pussy dripped onto him; his cock, covered in cum, looked like a melted candle, covered in drips of wax. As I took a moment to enjoy the sensation, a drip ran down my inner thigh and over a criss-crossed pressure mark on my knee.
His letters are so sweet.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/63aq5l/haleys_game_fdom
Very good. Terrifying but good.