Match Point

by Arthur Saxon
arthursaxon@zombieworld.com

The score was thirty forty. Tina Hathaway shivered despite the blazing July sunshine that uncharacteristically graced Wimbledon's well-watered centre court. She had won the first set but lost the second, and was down five games to four in the third. Now she was on the brink of losing her service game against a woman she had soundly beaten every time they had faced each other in a Grand Slam tournament. Fighting down her nerves, she bounced her ball in front of her, trying to put out of her mind the little problem that had been dogging her throughout the match. Yet she could not help reflecting briefly on the rather unusual set of circumstances that had led to her playing so badly in this semi-final.

She had had an easy ride so far. The first few rounds had been against unseeded players, and they had dropped like flies before her world-renowned, devastating forehand. The press, however, had barely mentioned her strength or the accuracy of her placement of long passes, concerning themselves more with her looks and figure. "Stunning Teen Tennis Sensation Hathaway Trounces Williams!" proclaimed one tabloid. "Tennis Star Hathaway Beach Pics - See Inside!" boasted another.

And she loved it. She was now the darling of tennis society, even eclipsing Kournikova and Hingis. She had done photo shoots for several magazines, and a recent browse of the world wide web had unearthed no less than seventeen fan sites. The favourable attention flattered her, made her feel beautiful and sexy, and she played up to the cameras on account of it. Aware that much of the attention was focused on her legs, she wore the shortest tennis skirts she could buy, and gleefully noted the reaction in the press and on her fan sites, many of which included a separate section for 'Upskirt Photos', where she could see herself frozen in mid-stroke, her skirt flying up to reveal her sports panties. She did not mind this in the slightest - in fact, she made a mental note of which skirts provided the best results for her voyeuristic fan community, and resolved to wear those more often in future.

And then she had had what she considered to be a brainwave. She had been watching some old footage of Venus Williams playing at Wimbledon in the late 90's, and had been fascinated by the woman's hemline, which crept steadily upward during the course of each point. Her dress was obviously made of lycra or some such figure-hugging material, and although Williams' panties were never quite revealed, the latent promise of such an event was, Tina thought to herself, rather erotic.

Straightaway she ordered a lycra tennis skirt, and, upon being told that no such garment existed, sought elsewhere for the item. She eventually found one in a mail-order catalogue for Secret Fantasies, a company that sold sexy clothes, lingerie, sex toys and bondage equipment. They advertised a white, stretchy microskirt, and Tina's loins tingled as she imagined wearing it in front of the crowds at Wimbledon.

And so, this morning, she had put it on for the first time, spending several minutes admiring herself in front of the mirror while her manager and coach were voicing their concerns over whether the umpire would allow her to play in a skirt so obviously designed for clubbing and not for tennis. But Tina was not to be swayed. An hour or so later, as she prepared to leave the hotel, she opened her bag to check her equipment and saw that another, more conservative skirt had been placed in there alongside the stretchy microskirt. Annoyed, she threw it into the bin before zipping up the bag and walking out of the room. Nothing was going to deprive her of the media attention she so craved - with any luck she would make headline news with this skirt.

Later, in the centre court changing rooms, she had a nasty shock. Rummaging frantically through her bag, she was unable to find her sports panties. Where were they? With a sinking feeling she realised she had been so distracted by the discovery of her other skirt in her bag that she had failed to do a proper inventory check. A nervous sweat broke out on her brow. She summoned her manager.

"Martin," she whispered, "I've left my sports panties at the hotel. Can you go back and get them for me?"

He looked at his watch and frowned. "Your match starts in half an hour," he said. "There's no way I'll be back in time."

"You can bring them to me on the court," she replied. "I'll ask to be excused for a minute, or at the worst I'll put them on over the top of what I'm wearing now."

"Well at least if the umpire allows you to wear that awful microskirt, it won't fly up like a normal tennis skirt. You might just get away with it."

"Um." Tina decided not mention the fact that she had planned for the skirt to ride up until it showed her panties. Maybe it would not ride up too much. "Good point," she said.

"But if you have to change skirts, then you'll be in trouble. You may have to ask for a postponement until I get back. You'll notice that I put a regular skirt in your bag, just in case."

Tina flushed slightly. "Yes, I noticed," she said.

"Still, you might get away with it even so," he added. "What colour are the panties you're wearing at the moment?"

"Um, white," she said, "but…"

"Splendid. Perhaps nobody will notice they're not regulation. Well, I'd better run. I'll be back as soon as I can." He dashed out of the room.

"But I'm wearing a thong!" Tina said rather belatedly.

She changed into her tennis shirt and the microskirt and, when the time came, walked out on to the court to rapturous applause. She waved at the crowd and gave them a big smile, though internally she was panicking.

The warm-up went fine - the umpire did not call her on the skirt, though she could hear the crowd murmuring and wondered if they were talking about her attire. She smiled to herself as she noticed the press cameras trained almost exclusively on her.

The match began, and right away the skirt began to betray her. With every lunge, every large step she took, the skirt skidded up her thighs and refused to slide back down. She was quite alarmed at the speed with which her hemline raced up to meet her crotch. She forced herself to take smaller steps, to allow balls to pass that she would otherwise have thrown herself at with some chance of returning them.

After one particularly long rally, she looked down and her heart leapt into her mouth as she realised that about half an inch of her thong was exposed at the front. She did not dare think about what proportion of her buttocks had been revealed at the back.

At the end of that game, as she sat in her chair drinking orange squash, the umpire leaned over for a private word.

"Miss Hathaway," he said, "your skirt is most unsuitable. Please change it."

"I don't have another one with me!" she whispered back desperately. "I'm sorry - I had no idea it was going to climb up so much!"

The umpire sighed. "Then please ensure that it does not again expose as much as we saw just now - this is a family event."

"I'll try," promised Tina. "My game will suffer, but I suppose it's my own fault."

"Thank you," said the umpire.

Tina managed to win the first set by a hair's breadth - her opponent, Sandra Whitman, was having a bad day and turned out unforced errors at most opportune moments. At the beginning of the second set, Tina had relaxed somewhat and was beginning to enjoy herself. The cameras were following her every movement, and she felt sure that her thong, or at least part of it, would be on the covers of nearly all the tabloids the following day.

The second set, however, did not go nearly so well. In an effort to keep her skirt under control, Tina was obliged to let many of her opponent's shots fly past her unchallenged. She managed to keep her thong hidden for the entire set, but she lost it 3-6. Still Martin had not arrived - what on Earth was keeping him?

In the final set, she played harder, and was cautioned by the umpire twice for allowing her skirt to ride up too high. But it was difficult to maintain a happy medium between playing well and keeping her bottom covered. Still, she tried to obey the umpire, and consequently lost game after game.

So now it was match point. If she lost this point, she would be out of the tournament, a tournament she had promised herself she would win this year at all costs. So far Wimbledon had eluded her, but she was better this year and had trained herself hard on grass. The championship was hers, if only she could stay in this match.

This point was all-important. She absolutely had to win it. Hopefully she could pull off an ace, but it was unlikely. If she could place it well, a serve-and-volley tactic might prove successful, but she feared an attempted passing shot that would cause her to take large strides. Perhaps she should stay on the baseline - after all it was her baseline play that she was famous for. Then again, grass tended to favour the serve-and-volley method.

She threw the ball high into the air, crouched, and sprang. The ball flew off her racquet and her heart leapt as she saw it was good. Sandra Whitman had difficulty returning it well and sent it high, but by sheer luck its trajectory took it to within a foot of the baseline. Tina hammered it back down the left-hand side of the court, and frowned with envy as Sandra ran full-stretched with giant steps to intercept it.

The ball came back short and Tina raced to take advantage, feeling her skirt riding up as she ran. She forced herself to ignore it as she whipped it low over the net. Too low. It caught the net cord and bounced high, giving Sandra ample time to reach it. Tina's heart jumped into her mouth, wondering on which side Sandra would attempt to pass it. She hovered at the middle of the net, prepared to jump either way, trying to read her opponent's movements.

But Sandra merely scooped it from beneath. She was going for a lob! Tina could see it was sailing over too high for her to smash it, so she leapt back from the net and sprinted for the back of the court, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that told her the microskirt was now at crotch level.

The ball reached the baseline before Tina did, but the young girl tore past it and took a swing at it before skidding to a halt just before she hit the back wall. She spun around and ran back to the baseline just in time to Sandra attempt a drop-volley.

But it was not a good one. Sandra pitched it long, and Tina just had time to reach it before it touched ground again. Since Sandra was still close to the net, the only decent shot Tina could pull off was a lob. She scooped it up, then cursed inwardly as she realised it was lower than she had intended. She had just set her opponent up for a smash. She hastily retreated to the back of the court.

Smashing, however, was not Sandra's strong point, and she hammered it down the right-hand side of the court too close to Tina, who easily managed to get her racquet in front of it. She battered it low over the net, forcing Sandra into a badly-controlled volley.

Uncontrolled though it was, it nevertheless landed far away from Tina, well over on the left-hand side. Her heart and head pounding, she sprinted for the ball, noticing as she ran that Sandra was still hovering near the net at the centre of the court. If she could get to the ball in time, the shot was obvious.

She made it. The ball was still a few inches above the grass when Tina reached it, and she sent it in a low arc over the net and right to the back of the court, easily passing Sandra. Tina planted her feet and came to a halt, anxiously watching the ball as it approached the ground. Then relief swept through her as she saw it was in.

"Yes!" she screamed, throwing her racquet high above her head and punching the air with both fists. She was still in the match!

But the expected applause did not come. Surprised and rather disappointed, Tina turned towards the crowd. Their open-mouthed, shocked expressions stared back at her. Press cameras clicked and whirred in a frenzy, and a couple of wolf-whistles sounded from behind her. But otherwise a stunned silence reigned over centre court, and she suddenly realised why.

The stares were directed, she could not help noticing, at her crotch. And when she looked down, she was herself shocked at the sight that greeted her eyes. Her microskirt was now a thin strip of bunched-up material gathered around her upper hips. Her thong was on full display, and an inch of bare flesh was visible between its top and the belt that her skirt had become. At the back, she could tell from the breeze, her buttocks were completely uncovered, to the extent that there too the top of her thong was visible beneath a considerable expanse of bare skin. Tina felt faint. Paralysed for a moment, she stood rooted to the spot as tabloid photographers excitedly took the pictures that would grace the back pages and front pages of their papers the following morning.

The silence was broken, several seconds later, by the umpire who, given the circumstances, spoke with a remarkably controlled voice.

"Deuce," he announced.

THE END
Please email any feedback to arthursaxon@zombieworld.com

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