This story is entirely fictional.
*****
Now the problems begin.
Fiona Cassavettes lay in the bath, water up to her chin, with the bubbles gradually subsiding. The bathroom was stocked with all manner of exotic expensive bath oils but she still obstinately preferred the Badedas which she had used since she was a teenager. She pulled herself up and let more hot water trickle in before subsiding back with her head against the inflatable cushion. She had been lost in a very salacious memory and was anxious to return to the powerful day dream.
Fiona and her husband Tom Cassavettes had spent the previous week in Paris. Knowing her passion for tennis he had accepted an invitation for them to stay with a Parisian couple and attend the French Open at Roland Garros.
She was lying there in her bath feeling warm and sexy and recalling the Ball held at the French Foreign Office immediately after the finals. There she had been thoroughly kissed and expertly felt up by a rather dishy Davis Cup professional. The memory was so vivid that she could recall every sensation as if it were burned into her consciousness. The overwhelming desire to repeat his caresses there and then was building not helped by her neglected libido.
She hadn't particularly looked forward to staying with a couple whom she had never met but since her marriage to Tom it was becoming a regular occurrence. In the event she found their hostess rather patronizing.
Okay so they had an amazing Parisian apartment and Chantelle loved shopping, but she could speak two or three languages and Fiona knew she looked down on her guest for being so poorly educated. Well maybe her brain was not as powerful as Chantelle's but that was no reason for her to act so superior.
Perhaps it was a good thing that she was unaware of Chantelle's description of her. In a moment of jealousy the Frenchwoman had described Fiona to her husband as an 'uptight English beauty with nothing at all between her ears' but although the man agreed it didn't stop him behaving gallantly to their knockout looking guest. But Fiona would have put up with a lot worse than a snotty hostess just to see the tennis and anyway it would mean she had Tom in her bed each night for nearly a whole week.
They had tickets for the last four days of the tournament and Fiona used hers for every session. Tom was not nearly so keen on the game although she had noticed that he enjoyed the women's matches. So apart from making sure she got there and back safely he sometimes disappeared off to who knows where.
"You only like ogling those women in their sports bras," she kidded him.
"And why not, I bet they're amazing in bed. Who wouldn't turn down that opportunity."
She hoped that Tom would, but could she ever be sure?
Fiona found in the end that she preferred sitting there without him, a fidgeting husband was a distraction she could do without. The Centre Court was like a gladiatorial amphitheatre, steeply raked with its rows of green plastic seating reaching up to the sky from the hot roasted chilli colour of the playing surface. Even the noise of the crowd was like a Roman mob baying for blood interspersed with the despairing grunts of the combatants and the screech of their non-slip soles on the clay surface.
Their seats were in the VIP enclosure and she found that she was in general surrounded by other players. Her classic beauty had not gone without notice and the men's locker room had summed her up as a bored rich girl ripe for mischief.
Sometimes that was just how she thought of herself as the daily parade of strong muscular men began to work insidiously on her imagination. Being surrounded for hours on end by waves of testosterone was proving to be an intense aphrodisiac which it seemed dishonest to use her husband to relieve. So despite looking forward to having Tom in her bed for a week she perversely found excuses for denying him sex and was forced into nightly masturbation, once he was asleep, just to relieve her stoked up desire.
Tom joined her for the men's final and found himself taking a back seat to his wife's single minded enthusiasm. He was already feeling guilty having clandestinely spent much of the preceding day on the phone to his office but Fiona seemed happy enough and he tried to square his conscience by remembering that he was taking her to the French Foreign Office ball later that night.
But he was strangely put out to find that Fiona had made so many friends in the enclosure and surprised at his reaction. She casually acknowledged the greetings which her arrival provoked and made high fives with what seemed a never ending stream of players and their coaches who were watching nearby or finding an excuse to pass by her seat.
At one point she was shouting "Rafa, Rafa, Rafa" in unison with a large section of the crowd, and bouncing up and down on her seat with shining eyes. Tom hadn't seen Fiona so animated for some time and was pleased that she was so wrapped up in the action and obviously so enjoying the occasion. But she gripped his hand as the Spanish player lost the second set.
"He's just lost concentration," she was sure she was right. "But he'll get it right next set you'll see."
But Tom's mind had slipped far away into current business matters when he was recalled to the present by a sustained roar of applause.
"He's won, didn't I tell you."
Fiona was on her feet as were all the crowd and cheering the new champion. At least Tom recognised Federer who was presented with the runner's up award but he had no idea who was giving the prizes.
That evening Fiona knew for sure that on just this one occasion she had scored a resounding victory over her hostess. Chantelle had appeared wearing a fussy over complicated outfit and it was clear that her native French sense of style had badly let her down. Normally so chic, tonight she merely looked frumpy. Maybe it was the thought of visiting the Quai d'Orsay and not wanting to let her husband down but whatever the reason she had got her wardrobe badly wrong on this occasion.
Her guest in contrast was wearing a simple low cut boned cream silk bustier, a long shimmering midnight blue skirt split up to her thigh, and five inch heels. Fiona's thick blond hair was coiled up on her head exposing the slender vulnerable neck that so frequently turned men's knees to water teamed with the simplest of her honeymoon jewels and she looked sensational.
Chantelle's husband quickly made the obvious comparison and became short tempered with his wife who had unaccountably not come up to the same high standards.
The knowledge of this triumph over such a patronising woman kept Fiona's head high and her courage up as they entered the glitzy ball room where they were formally presented to the French Foreign Minister. He lingered appreciatively over Fiona's hand as the press photographed them together resulting in one of those pictures making the lead in all the following day's papers and much to the chagrin of Chantelle.
To Fiona's initial disappointment Tom was almost immediately intercepted by a senior member of the French Ministry staff leaving Fiona alone. But not for long as she was soon surrounded by a group of the players she had met at the stadium.
So despite the absence of Tom from her side she had a magical night. She was made welcome by the tennis glitterati both male and female. Passed from one athlete to another she danced every number and lost count of the nationalities, only remembering a South American, a Spaniard, and a moody Russian. But in the early hours she found herself within the capable arms of a dashingly handsome Serbo Croat.
Champagne had flowed freely and her days of watching these men in shorts and tight shirts combined with the close contact of so many super fit bodies had made her careless of propriety. She was steered without protest into a concealed corner of an outlying Orangery and kissed by an expert. Her mouth opened involuntarily and their tongues played tennis. His hand later found the long slit in her skirt and then the soft inside of her thighs. Her legs parted and he bought her to the juddering orgasm that despite her own efforts had been building in her body and mind all that day.
