Author's note: This is a multi-chapter story, currently planned at 5 chapters, about a spoiled brat tennis star's training under a controlling new coach. The first chapter is a little light on sex, as a warning, but the story will have a lot of non-consent/reluctance, light bondage/domination, spanking/humiliation, adultery, lesbianism and other kinks as her "training" progresses. Hope you enjoy!
Marbella was already hot despite Spring having arrived only weeks ago.
I was overdressed as I'd flown in from London and found myself sweating from just the short walk to the limo. My hulking Russian escort looked more like a bodyguard than a driver and didn't bother to talk, although he gladly shouldered all my gear.
The ride to the Villa took longer than I expected, and near the end we climbed away from the busy coast and up into the surrounding hills. The normal world receded as we ascended, and the trip took on a further dreamlike quality. The fact that I was actually here, despite my abundant misgivings, seemed so improbable that I half-considered pinching myself.
Once through the gates, we circled around a large fountain in the courtyard until the stucco-walled and Spanish-tiled monstrosity of the main house came into full view. Anatoly was standing at the steps already, waving warmly. Overweight, grey haired, and wearing an unflatteringly tight track suit, he looked more like an accountant dressed in costume than her manager.
Standoffish on the phone, Anatoly proved to be uncomfortably obsequious in person as he escorted me inside. He only broke character to bark rudely in Russian at my lounging driver, who promptly disappeared with my bags. A tour commenced, unasked for by me, and my gaze kept drifting to the courts, which I could make out in the distance through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Anatoly's small talk lengthened as my patience thinned. I finally asked about seeing her.
"She is hitting, but finishes soon. You want to see her now?" he replied. His English was poor and heavily accented, but his hesitation wasn't some cultural misunderstanding. He wiped perspiration from his brow, using his already damp sleeve like a sweat rag, and dithered more. "But, you must be tired! Why not have a drink first, yes?"
I was forced to insist. I couldn't tell whether his reluctance came from the prospect of leaving the air conditioned house, or from a fear of disturbing her practice, but he had a stone face resoluteness when he finally led me out the back.
The Villa was perched on a high hill, and the Mediterranean sparkled below, painfully bright in the early afternoon sun. The congestion of the sprawling Costa del Sol was an orange and white blur at this distance, fringing the coastline like a hard rind, while around us, high above the masses, only scattered villas could be seen poking up in the verdant hills. It was a breathtaking view, or in her father's way of reckoning, a multi-million dollar view.
Anatoly led me on an indirect route through the gardens, bragging about how they'd flown in the garish marble statues, all faux classical, from Bulgaria. The plants were in full bloom, but the patterned design, which looked so manicured and beautiful from afar, was wild and unkempt up close. Weeds were sprouting unchecked, and I couldn't help but frown at young bushes that had been haphazardly pruned. The Spanish gardeners were lazy, it seemed, and the Russians who lived here too uncouth to hold them to task.
An ornate pool, over-marbled of course, was the true centerpiece of the grounds and was girded with hand crafted tile mosaics. One end boasted a half-dozen freestanding Corinthian pillars arranged in a half-circle, with yet more statues clustered around them. Her father's taste were lavish, as could be expected with his wealth, but the decór style he displayed went well beyond tacky and into the realm of eccentricity.
Billionaires, I mused with a shake of my head.
The courts were next to the pool, and I picked out from a distance the distinctive sound of her stroke, a percussive, powerful blow that dwarfed her partner's sharp, but muted, answer. It sounded like a one-sided fight, with the victor clear as many of her loud shots rang out with no reply. I felt my pulse quicken at the familiar noises, and a strange anticipation built in me to see the beast that made such a roar.
She didn't turn as we entered, but surely knew I'd arrived as her partner paused to look at us between serves. Her impatient nod goaded the other woman to continue, and I lingered at the gate to watch her return. Perhaps she was showing off a bit, but she pounced on a respectable first serve and ripped a heavy forehand recklessly cross-court. Her opponent stretched in vain, but couldn't run it down.
Her body was lithe, but tightly muscled, and her broad shoulders were its only noticeable concession to her years of playing Tennis. She stalked like a swaggering cat back to the service line, her long limbs moving with a supple grace. Calloused fingers tested her strings, but she she spared not a glance for us. Muttering under her breath, she flicked her long, blonde ponytail behind her back and turned to ready herself for the next serve.
"Her training partner, Yelena," said Anatoly. He nodded towards the other girl, who was noticeably smaller and clearly outmatched.
Anatoly appeared ready to interrupt the game and make introductions, but I shook my head and instead settled on a bench, marble of course, to watch her play. She wore only a white sports bra and a pair of matching, quite small, stretch shorts, the outfit making her already tanned skin appear even darker. She was distractingly attractive, and with some difficulty I forced my coach's eye to carefully study the movement of her body, instead of the body itself.
"Very powerful, no?" Anatoly asked into my silence.
I nodded, but ignored him.
She was strong for her build, but not nearly muscled enough to generate the power she displayed. Instead, she used her length like a whip to maximize every bit of energy she generated, her racket head exploding from her backswing to deliver heavy and pounding topspin strikes that seemed improbable coming from her slender frame. When they were on mark, they were devastating.
"Her Papa, he thinks she needs more structure," whispered Anatoly, clearly uncomfortable with my continued silence.
A backhand rally developed, and I ignored him again, leaning forward instead for a better view.
She was a single hander, rare in the women's game these days, and the beauty of that sweeping stroke was riveting. I'd seen her play it on video, but witnessing it in person made me almost tremble on the bench.
Her long body coiled like a snake on the take-back, her shoulder turn exaggerated, and I held my breath in anticipation as the unsuspecting ball approached. First came the step forward, purposeful and strong, then her body uncoiled in a sinuous strike, her racket head a blur. The ball was struck cleanly on the rise and redirected away with stunning pace and spin. Her body and arm rose together in a sumptuous extension, finishing above her head, with her racket held high at the end like a victory baton.
It wasn't a stroke so much as a statement, a backhanded and disdainful dismissal of her opponent's shot that was so graceful it looked effortless.
I watched the point conclude before I spoke.
"Can she be coached?"
Anatoly looked pained and shrugged, gesticulating with his hands at first and then waving dismissively.
"She wants to win. She told her Papa that she approved of you... your track record is very good," he said at last.
He didn't answer my question, which was answer enough. She'd had five coaches in the three years since she'd turned pro, the longest lasting six months, and the rumor was that she was a spoiled brat. Her billionaire father had spent lavishly on her development, but the analysts quipped that she lacked the hunger to maximize her abundant natural talent and take the next step to potential greatness.
"Everyone wants to win," I replied, looking at Anatoly sharply. "Does she want to work hard, though.. to truly improve?"
"Yes," said Anatoly nodding. "She practices all day and works out every morning. She wants to win a Major, many Majors. That is her goal."
