Confessions. Various

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      Come In Handy

      Heather Towne

      I lusted after Carrie from the moment I set eyes on her. She was playing tennis by herself – smacking a fuzzy yellow ball against the side of the school building – dressed in a pair of white short-shorts and a white tank-top. Her limbs gleamed long and lean and smooth, sunbrowned, her yellow-blonde hair braided back in a ponytail, a white sun visor on her head. She had green eyes and a pretty oval face, with plush lips.

      I was just walking past the school and the tennis courts on my way to the convenience store, when I saw the vision of loveliness, and I stopped in my tracks and stared. I’d just come off my first full-out lesbian experience with a cousin of mine, and I was hooked on girls, anxious to hook up again with a member of my own sexy sex. So I stood and watched Carrie whack the ball off the wall, marveling at the way the long muscles on her arms and legs rippled, the way her breasts bounced up and down.

      ‘Hey, do you play?’ she suddenly called out, catching the ball and looking my way.

      I went on gaping.

      ‘Um, I was wondering if you –’

      ‘Sure! I play!’ I yelped, giving my head a shake. She wanted me to ‘play’ with her. I ran over as fast as my shapely little legs could carry me.

      ‘I’m Carrie,’ she said in a voice of milk and honey, sticking out a hand. ‘I guess my friend’s not showing up, so I have no one to play with. I have an extra racquet if you wouldn’t mind …’

      I grabbed on to her slender brown hand and squeezed it. ‘I’d love to play with you!’ I gushed. Her hand was warm and soft. ‘I’m Tina!’

      She bent down and plucked out the other tennis racquet from her bag. I was enthralled by the long sleek lines of the girl, the breathtaking glimpse of cleavage. She straightened up and handed me the racquet.

      ‘Shall we?’ she said, indicating with a sweep of her arm the tennis courts behind her.

      ‘We shall indeed,’ I breathed.

      Tennis isn’t really my game. But I did my best, chasing down balls and swatting them back into the net, sometimes over. Carrie had me running all over the place, ducking her spikes and serves. By the end of the first set I was sweating with more than exertion under the hot sun. The sight of Carrie stretching and straining, running, leaping up and leaning into a serve, the sound of her high-pitched grunting and groaning, had me bathed in perspiration more than just weather-related. I took a few balls off the body and head, when I didn’t keep my eyes on the fuzzy sphere, too busy ogling its mistress.

      She jogged up to the net, racquet and towel and water bottle in hand. She tossed the towel at me, then tilted her long neck back and squirted water down her silken throat. I wiped off my sweating face, keeping my eyes free to see.

      ‘Wanna drink?’ she asked after swallowing beautifully.

      I swallowed dry. ‘Sure.’

      She squirted me right in the face.

      ‘Hey!’

      ‘Sorry, just couldn’t resist,’ she said, laughing. She handed me the water bottle, then plucked the towel out of my hand and proceeded to dry off my moistened face.

      My body burned even hotter, the girl crowding closer to me, pushing against the net. She patted down my flushed face, moved the towel lower, on to my flushed chest.

      I was wearing just a tank-top and shorts like she was. And as she rubbed over the top of my chest, the long nipples on my little boobs sproinged out even longer, almost piercing my top with desire. I squirted water on my chin, missing my mouth, maybe accidentally, maybe deliberately. Forcing Carrie to keep toweling, caressing.

      When the fluffy white cloth brushed over my stiffened buds, propelled by the girl’s graceful hands, I couldn’t help but gasp. My nipples are as sensitive as my feelings, as easily aroused.

      ‘Whoops, sorry!’ Carrie said. ‘Shall we get back to the game?’

      My legs would barely carry me back to the baseline, they were so weak.

      It took the tennis goddess only about another half-hour to polish me off three sets to love.

      ‘Why don’t we go back to my place?’ she suggested, after nailing down the last spike to put my game out of its misery. ‘You can have a cold drink, or grab a shower, if you want. My parents are away for the weekend.’

      I bobbed my head, then trailed after Carrie’s lithesome legs to her car, keeping an eye on her sweet twitching butt cheeks. Her car was an old beater as befitted an eighteen-year-old. I gratefully climbed in and she cranked up the gusty a/c. We shared some of our life stories as she drove us to her parents’ neat little white bungalow ten blocks over.

      ‘I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.’ She threw her racquet on to the living-room couch and skipped off down the hall, peeling off her tank-top.

      I had a glimpse of bare bronzed, supple-muscled back, before Carrie jumped into the bathroom and closed the door. I staggered into the kitchen, poured myself an ice-cold glass of water that did nothing to cool me down as I chugged.

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