*This is an introduction of a story I am working on. I would like to know if it’s interesting and whether anyone would be interested in a second part. Thanks in advance for reading and feedback!*
If anyone had asked my dad what I was like, he’d say “Nicole’s spoiled – it’s just a phase…I hope”. He wouldn’t be all too wrong. I was the rebellious 18-year-old that lived up to almost every cliché there was about teenagers. I thought I knew everything and that my father – or any other adult for that matter – could never understand me. I felt the victim since my sister and I had grown up without a mother, and my father didn’t seem to fathom that I wanted a life of my own. He just wouldn’t shut up about taking responsibility, learning the value of money, taking my education seriously, blah, blah, blah! My sister defended him saying he was just trying to protect us so we are ready to take life on when it comes, whatever that means.
All three of us lived in a typical small English suburb. It was a pretty boring life, where being a senior in high-school wasn’t all that exciting. I guess that’s why my grades weren’t that bad, and for the last 3 years I had been playing tennis – and I was pretty good if I may say so myself. Despite topping the lists in my district, tennis was yet another source of arguments with my father. Every term I had to justify to him buying new equipment, uniforms and paying for my lessons, and he never said no. I was quite excited about the coming months, as it would be the first time I’d play in the regional 18+ League!
Despite arguing a lot with my father, I did end up bending my will and -in addition to my great performance in tennis – the one aspect of my life that he could not reproach was that I did not fool around with boys, and I’d never had a boyfriend. Not that they didn’t try. I didn’t think I was the best-looking girl in school. I had long straight blonde hair, large blue eyes and a slim, narrow hipped body. I was just on the right side of skinny. There was just one aspect of my appearance that I was unhappy about: my 32DD breasts that in the last years had grown too large for my small frame. It wasn’t just the weight and the backpain, but also the increasingly uncomfortable situations that kept happening to me. Older men stared hungrily at me as I walked to school, as if I were prey they could hunt. Though this was almost nothing compared to what boys my age did. At least twice a week one or other would “accidentally” bump or rub against my breasts. While this pestering made me incredibly uncomfortable, I couldn’t talk to girls about it. They were even worse. My friends would say that they were so jealous of my chest and that I was ungrateful for complaining about such a blessing. More unfriendly girls would call me a slut for even talking about these self-made problems just to get attention. Funny that they said that, how could I be a slut if I was a virgin? Ridiculous.
I tried not to think about the almost constant harassment that I was being subjected to. I couldn’t wait to finish this year, climb up the ranks in the League, get a scholarship, and play tennis professionally. During the next weeks, my life was either spent in the court or in my room studying to keep my grades up. It was a huge effort, but I knew it would all pay off and be worth all the hours spent practicing and preparing, if it made my dream come true.
The big day finally arrived. I stood up feeling extremely confident. I put my heair up in a pony tail and donned my uniform: a sleeveless one-piece white dress with a skirt was just the right length, making my legs and overall the outfit was pretty comfortable. Under it, I wore a pair of white panties and a white sports bra that I had to embarrassingly beg my dad to buy for me because he did not believe me when I told him how much it costed. And on my feet, of course, tennis shoes.
I could hardly hold my excitement as my father drove us to the court. There were a lot of people in the crowd watching, and a long que of excellent players at the registration desk. I knew I was going to be among them, the elite, by the end of the day. I walked passed a group of girls that must have been 3 years older than me. One of them said something I couldn’t here, but it elicited laughter from the others. I paid them no further attention and after registering, went to the waiting room until it was my turn. There, when I walked past a mirror, I suddenly realized what they had been laughing about. My dress was tighter around my chest than I thought it – no, that was an understatement – my breasts were almost bursting out from my dress. I saw my own face reddening as I was overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame. How could I’ve been so stupid to think that I could use this one-year-old uniform again? I had been too weary to ask my father to buy yet a new one, when he made it very clear that my tennis budget for this year had already been more than used up. It was too late now to do anything else than clearing my mind and focusing on the game.
I was telling myself to be confident and just go out and play, when my name was called on the loudspeaker “Nicole Summers”. I got up from the bench at once and walked out to the court trying to appear calm, and grabbing my racket tightly.
“You can do this!” I told myself.
Out in the court I heard a guy wolf-whistling, an my heart sank from embarrassment. Unconsciously, I tried to cover my breast with the racket. How pathetic I must have looked. I recognized it was one of the girls who had laughed at me earlier. She was tall and athletic, and devoid of curves altogether. She sneered at me as she could probably see how nervous and self-conscious I felt.
I served first. Not as strong as I would have liked but the trajectory was good. I had aimed at the side of the court and it seemed it was too far for her to reach it. But in a fraction of a second she was there, receiving with a backswing.
“Damn. She’s FAST!” I thought to myself.
I tracked the ball and instinctively placed myself to return with a smash. I lifted my racket and…I missed. I couldn’t believe it. My mind was betraying my body. My balance was incorrect as my shoulders slouched slightly forward, instinctively trying to cover my front, so openly exposed to all these strangers.
“Focus, focus!” I said to myself, angrily. I was starting to get scared.
She served fiercely. I missed again. I could not react quickly enough. Not with this outfit. Not today. I was too low. I lost the set. That only demotivated me further. I lost the match. I was crushed. My eyes were teary as the crowd cheered my opponent. I hadn’t gotten a single point. It was humiliating. Not only having everyone get a good look at my dress-hugged breasts, but losing because of that. I was so angry at myself for failing. My dream seemed so far away now that cruel reality hit me.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/6eoc8u/nicoles_downfall_pt_1_humiliationsoftfeedback