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From: Lane Boyd <Lane_member@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Waiting to Receive (MF) <*>
Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2000 10:10:06 -0400
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Waiting to Receive (MF)
By Lane Boyd
laneboyd@newsguy.com
27 September 2000
"There's your Dream Girl," Jonathon MacArthur's wife said dryly, pointing to the
sports magazines. His eyes followed her pointing finger to the cover on one of
the more salacious Sports-cum-Men's mags. It was a typical shot of Anna
Kournikova, taken head-on as she leant forward to meet the serve, showing
tantalising glimpses of her swelling, muscular breasts and the fine, long legs
running up to a skirt which was so short that it didn't deserve to be
categorised as clothing. Even more tantalising was her golden skin and the
long, long plait of golden hair. He dreamt sometimes of seeing that hair
unbound and tumbling down over her naked body. He changed his train of thought
immediately - it inevitably gave him an erection and the newsagency definitely
wasn't the time or the place.
"Waiting to Receive!" screamed the magazine's head-line. God, yes! thought
Macca desperately, but she's receiving someone else. Why not me, Lord, why not
me? He groaned theatrically, put his hands over his heart and pretended to
stagger past the magazine rack. The teenage girl behind the counter of the
resort's newspaper giggled, then blushed as they both looked at her. The
name-badge on the resort uniform identified her as Annette.
`Don't worry, my dear," Marjory added in a long-suffering voice. `One day
you'll be married, too, and you'll have the rewarding experience of being a
full-time carer to an adolescent male for the rest of your life. Men never grow
up."
Marjory was tall, large-breasted and wide-hipped. But not really fat, Annette
decided, just large all over. And her hair was sensational; long, dark and
lustrous, it hung almost the full length of her back in a loose pony-tail. Her
eyes were a deep, lustrous brown and the effect against her fair skin was
striking. Gee, I hope I look as good as that when I'm that old, Annette
thought, unthinkingly consigning the forty-five-year-old Marjory into
nearly-nursing-home status.
Marjory looked at Annette. She had been born with thin, fair hair and clearly
didn't know how to manage it to her own advantage. Part of it hung limply down
the sides of her face, although there was clearly more under the baseball cap
which proudly proclaimed Emerald Resort as "the jewel of the north". How
original marketing people were, Marjory mused. Annette had also been afflicted
with acne at the same time as braces, and the combined affect was unfortunate -
although on closer scrutiny the girl was pretty enough, Marjory decided.
Marjory put her cross-word books on the counter and looked around the
newsagency. A sea of supermodels' faces stared back at her - the make-up
flawless, the images perfect. She sighed mentally. No wonder young girls have
no self-image, she thought sadly, surrounded as they are by this manufactured
rubbish. None of those women looked like that in real life, but you won't get
on the cover of Vogue if you're having a bad hair day!
Macca bounced up to the counter and put his daily newspapers down. Marjory knew
there were no point in asking why he had to read the same news in three
different papers. He called it keeping across the news, she called in wasteful.
It seemed to be a boy thing. A number of her friends had husbands with the same
irritating habit.
She looked at him thoughtfully. He was still a good-looking man, even in his
mid-forties. Tall with black hair and moustache which were becoming
increasingly grey. But he was tanned and had kept himself fit, even as he'd
climbed the corporate ladder. I just wish he wasn't so damned energetic, she
thought a little desperately. My idea of relaxing is reading a book by the
pool, he wants to have sex on every beach in northern Queensland! Marvellous,
he gets to feel like primitive man and I feel like I've been sand-blasted. And
he seems so surprised every time I say no.
`Where's your magazine?' Marjory asked him in mock astonishment. Macca laughed
ruefully. `You know me, dear, I don't need a magazine to have day-dreams.' He
went on in mock grandiloquence, `The image will live in my memory until I die!'
`Well, if you keep lusting after young sports goddesses, your death won't be
very far away," his wife said acerbically. `Honestly, Jonathon, you're over
forty. I thought you'd grow out of your crush on Anna Kournikova when she
turned eighteen.' `Oh no,' he assured her sincerely, `that just means I don't
have to worry about being called a paedophile any more.'
Marjory sighed loudly. The girl behind the counter laughed again. She folded
the newspapers into a plastic bag and handed it to Jonathon. `Thank you, sir.
Have you been at the resort long?' `No, no,' he replied, `we just got in last
night. Decided to get out of the city for a couple of weeks. What I really
need is a couple of hours out on the tennis court. Marjory won't play with me
at all these days.'
`If you think I'm going to get all sweaty and tired while you tell me all the
things I'm doing wrong, you are sadly mistaken,' Marjory said sweetly. `Why
don't you ask if the resort has a tennis pro, or whatever you call them? Maybe
there's a competition of some kind?'
`There's no pro here, but I'd be happy to give you a hit this afternoon,' said
Annette. She blushed again as both of them turned to look at her. God, the
innocence of youth, thought Marjory. She smiled at the girl to reassure her.
`You play tennis, my dear? Jonathon rather fancies himself - especially with a
racquet in his hand.' Ignoring her husband's muttered squawk of protest,
Marjory continued, `And I wouldn't want you getting all hot and bothered just to
satisfy his male ego.'
Annette smiled back at her. `Thanks, but it's okay. Really, I'm ... quite a
reasonable player, really. I'd love to have a game ... if you don't want to.'
`My dear, my idea of exercise is watching a good British comedy on television,"
Marjory replied. `Jonathon, on the other hand, likes to run around like a
maniac. Something to do with testosterone, I believe. I should be delighted if
you would knock some of the energy out of him.'
Annette turned to Macca. "I finish my shift here at four o'clock. How about
then, or would that be a bit hot for you?'
That's right girl, give him a challenge, thought Marjory happily. How do women
learn to manipulate men from such a young age? Now he'll run himself to
exhaustion in this humidity while I have some peace and quiet. She watched,
smiling, as her husband's chest visibly inflated and he rose up on the balls of
his feet.
`Too hot? Never!' Macca said stoutly. `I'll be ready to roll at four at the
tennis courts. And the name's Macca. Only Marj - Marjory - calls me Jonathon.'
They wandered back to their room along a paved walkway surrounded by tropical
plants - red-flowering hibiscus with variegated white and green leaves, lush
gingers and helliconias, golden cane and sealing wax palms, and glorious crotons
in swirls of red, yellow and green. The rooms were built in Spanish style
clusters of two or three around the central hub of the resort. The
white-painted rendered walls were almost too bright to look at in the brilliant
light and the hum of split-system air-conditioning was pervasive. Marjory
realised with some alarm that it really was very warm in the early afternoon sun
and the humidity was well above anything they had experienced lately, especially
in Sydney or, as Jonathon liked call it, "Sleet City". "Sleet" was
interchangeable with "Shit" if he was having a bad day.
Having manoeuvred her husband into this situation, Marjory wondered if she
should try to talk him out of it. But she knew it would be an affront to his
maleness - he had every expectation of being able to show his superiority on the
tennis court - and to force him to cancel the game would ruin their next week at
the resort. And they were supposed to be relaxing, `getting back together' as
Jonathon put it - by which, she knew very well, he meant having a lot more sex
than they managed while they were both working. She wondered why were men so
incapable of dealing with the onset of age. Oh well, I just hope the girl
really can play.
Marjory's misgivings returned as he left their suite later that afternoon. In
his white, Nike tennis clothing and shoes, she had to admit he looked like a
well-preserved John Newcombe. But when he slid open the glass door, the influx
of heat and moisture felt almost like a physical blow. `Are you sure you want
to play tennis in this weather?' Marjory asked.
Macca chuckled and ran his hand through her hair and down the side of her neck.
`Not only am I ready to give young Annette a lesson on how to play competitive
tennis, but I'm going to come back afterwards and make passionate love to you,
my sweet.'
She flushed a little; her body always roused to his bravado. `Well don't take
too long, or you'll have to wake me up. At least I know you're not going to
meet Anna Kournikova.' She heard him chuckle deeply, the sound abruptly cut off
as the sliding door closed between them. He's just a big kid, really, even
after all these years, she mused as she stretched out in bed with a crossword
puzzle. After about twenty minutes, her eyes began to close and she drifted off
to sleep.
Macca scanned the tennis courts as he approached, looking for Annette. There
was noone around except a young woman hitting a ball against a concrete wall at
the back of one of the courts. His lips pursed in a silent whistle. Not bad,
he thought, not bad at all. Tall and slim - very slim - with blonde hair in a
plait mid-way down her back. Her short tennis dress left little of her legs to
the imagination. All that and she can play, too, he noted as she crisply
returned the ball to the same point on the wall - forehand to backhand, then
back again and again. Hell, he thought, I think I drew the short straw with the
Newsagency Girl - wherever the hell she is. He hated people who weren't on
time. Maybe she'd stood him up; Marjory would love that.
His thoughts abruptly came back to the present as he realised that the woman he
was admiring was in fact the Newsagency Girl, who had stopped hitting the ball
and was now gazing levelly at him. He panicked slightly until her name came
back to him. `Uh hi Annette, I...'
He paused, feeling off-balance and foolish. She completed the sentence `Didn't
recognise me? I thought you liked the Anna Kournikova look?' She smiled a
little, to let him know she was letting him off the hook.
Oh hell, he thought, go with it. `I do. Very, very much. I'm just sorry I'm
too old to carry off the Pat Rafter image. Maybe John Newcombe - on a really
bad day. Now, what other surprises do you have in store for me?'
Her laugh was surprisingly mature and Macca looked at her again, even more
closely. `Just how old are you?' he demanded suddenly.
Her smile back at him was impish. `Eighteen. You have to be to work in the
resort,' she said. `I can look about 15 when I want, so I generally do.
Otherwise you get harassed by every bloke passing through.'
I'll bet, Macca thought, damn shame about the pimples and the braces.
`So why make an exception for me?' `Well you're the only guy whose wife asked
me to play tennis with him. And I haven't had a real game for weeks - ever
since I came up here to work during the Uni holidays.'
The reference to Marjory broke through his fantasy. He marched across to the
far side of the court and unzipped his racquet. `Let's see how rusty you are,'
he called, hitting the ball across the net. It came back to him almost before
he was ready, and the avuncular advice he had prepared for her died in his
throat. She didn't miss a shot during the warm-up. Not an overhead smash, a
volley at the net, a first serve, nothing. By the end of the warm-up, he was
perspiring freely. From where he was, she looked cool as a cucumber. More than
that, the shyness of the Newsagency had been replaced by a steely-eyed gaze that
reminded him of Jelena Dokic at full intensity. He could see her cleaning out a
nest of Muslims with a machine gun, then sitting down to a three-course meal
with her family.
`Let's get this show on the road,' he called abruptly, `best of five okay by
you?'
Annette looked quietly at him across the net. Bloody men! Why do they always
have to be so fucking superior? She had liked his cheerful, outgoing approach
at first, his man-of-the-world persona, but at the first hint of things not
going to plan, he had turned into a mirror image of her dad. Very well. Time
to put him out of his misery. `You're talking to last year's Australian Junior
Champion. Five sets are fine. I'll serve.'
Macca didn't argue. But he took a good pace inside the baseline to receive.
Women can't hit as hard as men, he told himself, knowing he was behaving like a
juvenile. On the other side of net, Annette's eyes narrowed. Right, you
bastard, no mercy.
Afterwards, Macca realised that he hadn't seen that first serve leave the
racquet. The ball didn't reappear in his sight until it curved brutally back
towards him and clipped the hair above his right ear. He'd barely got the
racquet out to the side, never mind trying to hit anything. When he looked
across the net, Annette was already waiting to serve for the next point. `I
guess that's fifteen-love,' he called cheerfully, moving across. What he
thought was, Oh shit! He desperately wanted to touch the side of his head where
the ball had brushed past, but masculine pride wouldn't allow it.
Annette smiled inwardly as she saw him move two paces behind the baseline to
receive. That's better, she thought, now how well can an old guy like you run?
The serve was wide to his backhand side, but he managed to get it back to centre
court. Annette casually returned it to the opposite side of his court and
watched as he scrambled across to hit it back. In desperation, Macca went for
the drop shot, but it carried a little to far and she was already there waiting,
almost casually putting back over the net - to the opposite side and watching
him put it into the net after it had bounced twice already. Macca looked down
at the trail of sweat on the Rebound Ace surface and realised it was going to be
a long, long afternoon.
The sun was almost down as the game came to a close. Macca was drenched and
panting. His left knee was scraped and bleeding from an attempted dive volley
back in the second set. But it wasn't his knee that hurt most, it was the
knowledge that he'd made almost no progress towards the ball. He'd managed to
get himself horizontal, true, but the damn ball had zipped past the end of the
racquet like it had eyes and he'd flattened himself onto the court with a thud
that had jarred the breath out of his body.
She'd won that one to love, too. Well, most of the set to love really. It
wasn't until the third set that the humidity and heat had taken some toll of her
lithe body. He'd used all the cunning and gamesmanship he remembered from his
youth to take the third set and salvage some pride. But as the fourth set
started, he knew he'd reached the end of the line. He castigated himself for
not being able to give up. Jesus, Macca, just let her win. It won't hurt you.
But even though he couldn't give up, Macca recognised the game had changed as it
went on. The animosity had ebbed away to become a contest between friends.
They'd congratulated each other on good shots, commiserated on the close misses
and he realised, exhausted as he was, that he admired her not just for her long
legs and fair hair, but for her skills and fitness. She was about to serve for
the match when he called to her across the net, `What do your friends call you,
Annette?'
The question left her nonplussed, she stood back from her serving position and
looked at him. He could see she was examining him as a person, not an opponent.
She considered her answer and then said, `It used to be Annie, but it became
Anna because of the whole tennis thing, you know? Better than Venus, anyway.'
Macca laughed. He felt light-headed, as though his physical exhaustion had
taken away his emotional constraints. `Thank God you weren't Venus - you might
have killed me! Anna, it's a pleasure to have been beaten by a superstar. Take
me now, I'm ready to receive!'
The phrase from the magazine made her laugh. Well, well, she thought, not such
a macho bastard after all. She gave the serve everything; his attempt down the
line hit the tape and went wide. `Game, set and match,' Macca said. `Thank God
for that!'
When they shook hands at the net, Annette felt a shock at his touch - like a
small trickle of electricity through her body. It was unlike anything she'd
felt since she parted with her boyfriend when she went to university - her
body's acknowledgement of attraction to a man. `What are you going to do now,'
she asked abruptly.
Macca considered her carefully. She had gone from complete confidence to
totally defensive - her body stiff, arms folded in front as if to protect
herself, eyes looking downwards. Now is not the time to tell her you're going
home to fuck your wife in six different positions, he thought. `Well, since
you've given me such a terrible flogging, and I'm totally drenched in sweat, I
thought I might go and throw myself in the ocean. There's no one else around
anyway.'
`There's hardly anyone here at this time of year,' she agreed, `it's too hot
with the Wet Season coming in. And those that are here, usually head over for
the barbecue around now.'
They stood there quietly for a moment, the strengthening sea breeze rippling
their hair and clothing. Annette realised that he was leaving the decision on
what happened next to her. She'd sometimes wondered about having a fling with
one of the men who passed through the resort, but she'd never expected to find
herself attracted to a man old enough to be her father. It's because he looks
like John Newcombe, she realised. She'd idolised him since he'd taken a tennis
clinic in her home town at the age of ten. Oh well, she thought, I was never
going to score Pat Rafter anyway.
She smiled suddenly. `Listen, I don't think I can see you as Rafter, but I
think you might make it as Newcombe. What say I show you where we can jump in
the ocean together?'
The implications of her statement took his breath away. He thought briefly of
Marjory, but clamped down savagely on the thought. It was her bloody idea,
anyway, he thought. For once in your life, just go with it. He took a deep
breath and let it out slowly. `Lead on Anna,' he replied.
Annette put their racquets on a bench beside the court, then led him out of the
court and across the lush grass towards the beach. They walked in silence and
Macca noticed she was leading him diagonally towards the edge of the resort
property. A small jetty ran out from the beach almost opposite the fenceline.
The scrubby bushes and spear-grass on the other side of the fence were radically
different to the manicured lawns and introduced vegetation of the resort.
Annette quickly walked him across the sand and down behind the far side of the
jetty. `This is where the staff go swimming when they want to skinny dip,' she
told him. `Once you're in the water, no one can see a thing through the shadows
under the jetty.'
Annette sat down and slipped off her shoes and socks, then lifted her dress over
head, folded it and placed it on her shoes. She was wearing a sports halter and
stretch pants underneath and Macca realised she meant to go into the water in
them. Fair enough, he thought and followed suit. As he reached the water's
edge, she was already up to her thighs. The water was warm, but he could see
the goosebumps up her body and through the halter top her nipples looked as hard
as cherry stones. Christ, you can see every muscle in her stomach, he thought,
bad luck about mine! Macca could feel himself hardening and knew she could see
it as he approached her.
Annette looked him over clinically. Not bad, she thought, he's looked after
himself, pretty well hung by the looks of things. We'll see about that in
moment, she thought, and realised she was in complete control of the situation.
Deliberately, she took ties out of her hair and released the plait. With a
fluid movement, she lifted the sports halter off and tossed it onto the jetty.
Then she bent down and removed her stretch pants.
Macca stood motionless in the water. When she straightened up again, his breath
caught in his throat and he was instantly, massively erect. She was
magnificent. The fine, fair hair which had looked so straggly in the newsagency
now blew lightly around her shoulders and down to her small, firm breasts. Her
stomach was ridged with muscle and her pubic hair was blonde, wispy - almost
non-existent, he thought - and her vagina was beautifully neat.
Standing up to her thighs in the colourless tropical sea, Annette's body
inflamed him. The effect was more like Venus the Goddess rather than Anna the
dream - he knew he had to have her and nothing would stop him. Paedophile
indeed, he thought helplessly, he couldn't stop now whether she was fifteen or
eighteen or any other age.
His breath escaped with a choking gasp, and Annette chuckled. `Bewdy Newk, take
those off and come here. We haven't got all night - and I'm waiting to
receive.'
The reminder of reality had absolutely no impact on his erection and his
jockettes came off with difficulty, getting him soaked in the process. He
walked to her slowly and she reached out to take him into her arms, sliding his
penis between her legs and closing her legs around him so he felt the head
resting between her buttocks. They stood together for a minute, feeling the
taughtness and strength of each other's bodies, skin alive with intensity from
wind, water and desire.
It was Annette who took control. Holding the embrace, she drew him towards the
jetty, reaching up to catch a cross-bar with one hand. With the other she took
his penis, rubbing the head on the lips of her vagina to lubricate it, then
guiding him into her. She crossed a leg behind his back and lifted the other
hand to support her weight on the cross-bar. He started slowly, trying to match
the rhythm of the waves, but as she began to moan he reached around with both
hands to feel her buttocks and run his fingers along the lips of her vagina as
he penetrated her faster and faster. She lifted herself then drove her weight
back against him, feeling him sink deeper inside her, while he licked her
nipples and gently nibbled her breasts with his teeth.
He was closer than her, Annette realised, but when he orgasmed inside her,
gasping with the intensity, she refused to let him go. She tightened her leg
around him and drove down against him, bringing guttural moans from him as his
penis became over-stimulated. He lent forward and bit her breasts hard, and
again, and she screamed as she reached her own climax. She shuddered again and
again as he stayed inside her, feeling the weight of her arms grow like lead
until she released her hold on the bar and draped them over his shoulders.
They stood still for a moment. Annette realised her senses were at heightened
intensity - she could hear her heart, his breathing and the water lapping
against their bodies as though it were at maximum volume. The wind and water
against her skin felt like giant hands on her body. The effect when Macca
suddenly sat down in the water was shattering and she squealed before she could
help herself.
`Newk, why did you do that? You ruined a beautiful moment.' Macca didn't
answer immediately and she suddenly saw he was having difficulty speaking. She
had a sudden flash of perception. `What's the matter. Did I just stop being
Anna K to you?'
Macca sighed. `Why is it that women of all ages have the kind of perception
which lets them see through men at a glance? It must be in the DNA, or
something.' There was no answer, but he had not been seeking one. `Yes, that's
it. I just came back to reality with a thud and realised I was a forty-five
year-old man in the process of having sex with an eighteen year-old girl in the
ocean a few hundred metres away from his wife of twenty years. And I felt as
guilty as sin - excuse the pun.'
They stayed in unmoving silence for a long moment. Then Annette sighed and
lifted herself off him. He saw the glint of tears on her cheek and would have
spoken, but she put a hand on his mouth to stop him. She ducked under water and
swam a couple of strokes away from him. When she stood up again, the water
cascaded down her body in the silvery light of the dusk and he could feel
himself becoming aroused again.
`You are magnificent, Anna,' he said quietly.
`Yes,' she said firmly, `that's who I was and you were John Newcombe. Annette
and Macca didn't exist just then. They have to come back now ... I know that.
But let's have no guilt. Never.'
He nodded his acquiescence. `Anna, you were wonderful. I want you to know that
this was the most sensational experience of my life, no matter who I am.'
She laughed a little shakily and moved towards the jetty to reclaim her
underwear. `Thank you, Mr Newcombe, now it's time for Macca to go back to his
wife and Anna to become little Annette from the newsagency again.'
They dressed in silence apart from Macca's curses about wet, sandy jocks, then
walked back towards the tennis courts to reclaim their racquets. It was almost
dark and the lights of the resort seemed to grow brighter as they approached.
Suddenly, in an almost accusatory tone, she asked, `What's it like to be married
for that long. How do you stay ... interested ... in each other after all that
time?'
Macca gathered his racquets and covers while he collected his thoughts. `It's
not easy to explain. Many marriages don't survive, certainly not for twenty
years. I guess with us, and those of our friends who are still together, it's
because the marriage evolves into a strong friendship. Marjory is an academic,
I'm in business - a glorified computer salesman, really. But we both still love
each other, we like to go out together, we share similar senses of humour, the
same interests in arts and entertainment. The sex isn't the same of course,
nothing like ... Anna and Newk enjoyed. But it's still good. I've only strayed
once before and I got over that quickly. I don't know if Marjory knows or
suspects, or even if she's strayed herself. I like to think the relationship
would survive anyway. To put it simply, I guess we both get comfort and support
from the marriage.'
Annette was very still as he spoke. When he finished, she turned and picked up
her tennis gear. Then she quickly turned back to him and kissed him lightly on
the lips. `Goodbye, Mr Newcombe, I've enjoyed the experience.' Then she was
gone, walking swiftly away from him towards the far side of the resort where he
guessed the staff quarters were.
`And goodbye to you, Anna. I'll never forget you.' He laughed ruefully at
himself, `Especially, when it comes to tennis lessons. I know who was `ready to
receive' - it was me and I copped it!'
Marjory was still asleep as he let himself into their suite. She yawned and
rolled over to look at the clock. `Goodness, Jonathon, you've been away for
hours, it's nearly seven o'clock. Don't tell me she could play tennis that
well?' Then, as her eyes focussed, `Jonathon, why are your clothes wet? What
have you been up to this time?'
As Macca pulled his shirt over his head, he thanked God that Annette hadn't been
a biter or a scratcher. `I'll tell you what I've been up to, my love, I just
went and jumped into the Pacific after being flogged off the court by an
eighteen-year-old girl who turned out to be last year's Australian Junior
Champion. She made me look like an old man, Marjory, nearly bloody killed me.'
Well that's true enough, he thought ruefully.
Marjory looked at him intently and it moved him to realised she was concerned,
not suspicious, about him. `Are you alright, darling?' she asked quietly.
Macca sat down on the bed beside her. He smiled at her and let the tension
drain out of his body in one long breath. `You know, I actually feel great.
Maybe I've needed a work-out like that for months, instead of building up stress
about productivity figures?'
He felt her dark, lustrous eyes examining, measuring his mood. `Well, I hope
you're not feeling too much like an old man. You're on a promise, remember?'
When he looked puzzled, she reached out and ran her fingernails firmly down his
chest, scratching over his left nipple and down his side to his shorts, then
tucked her fingers into his waistband. Macca's sensitised body responded
immediately - his nipples hardened and he felt himself hardening. As he
watched, Marjory's eyes began to dilate and a red flush climbed up her neck from
the neckband of her t-shirt style nightie which he belatedly realised she must
have changed into for him. Almost reflexively, Macca cupped her breast and
lightly rubbed the material across her large, firm breast. The nipple came
erect immediately and she gasped slightly.
As Macca leaned over to run his other hand through her hair and bite the side of
her neck, Marjory whispered into his ear, `I'm waiting to receive, darling.'
ends
--
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