Tennis Teasers

By NAMB

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and/or sexual activity of preteen and young teen children. This is fantasy, and the author in no way endorses or practices these things on real life. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.
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Tennis Teasers

I really like attending my after-school club on Modern Feminism. Needless to say, the class is 100% girls. In the history of the club, there might have been a boy or two who have stopped by, but none had ever retuned.

The club discusses many serious issues such as sexual harassment, discrimination, legal issues and even rape as well as historical events such as women’s roles in various cultures through the ages.

Of particular interest to me was the 20^th century that started out with women demonstrating for the right to vote and culminated with the sexual revolution of the 1960s. It’s difficult to think of our grandmothers burning their bras, but some did!

Of particular interest to Betty and me was an event that happened on May 13^th 1973 in the Houston Astrodome. It was a tennis match between the male tennis star, Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King. As members of the Girl’s Tennis team it resonated with us. It was true that King was in her prime and Riggs was “over the hill,” but her victory over him was a landmark in women’s liberation.

It strikes home for another reason. OK I admit football and basketball are the biggest sports on campus. But even at that, the boys’ basketball team gets more attendance than the girls’ even though the girls’ team has a better record.

Likewise, for swimming and tennis. There’s some turnout for the boy’s meets and matches, and almost no attendance at all for the girls’ events in the same sports.

Then there’s the attitude of the would-be jocks in these sports. Most of the boys are OK, a few are nice even, but there are a couple of assholes out there that really need a lesson in humility.

Two of these A-holes are Jason and Arnold. Both of them are seniors and both of them are 18. In one instance they showed up and threw us off the court, telling us that practice should be reserved for real tennis players and not for little girls and that maybe we should go home and play with our dollies.

We complained to our coach the following day and she tried her best to defend us, but the boys claimed “senior privilege” and we are only Sophomores. Betty just turned 15 and I’m still 14.

The boys’ coach said he’d talk to them, but I don’t think that happened.

They tried it again last Thursday and we got into it.

“Hey, little girls. Beat it. Jason and I need to use the court.”

“We were here first.” I replied.

“No, we were here first – in the school that is. We’re seniors and you’re not. So vamoose.”

I wasn’t going to stand for it. “Betty and I were here. We started practice. You boys can just wait your turn.”

“Waste of a tennis court,” Jason said. “Now if you girls could actually play tennis, you might have a claim.”

“We’ve seen you boys play. My grandmother could beat you guys.” Betty responded.

“Ha, we’re better than you can even dream of,” Arnold put in.

We were challenging their male egos and as we learned in the feminist club, when a male’s ego is challenged, he will often make bad decisions.

“You can’t prove it by us.”

“We could beat you with one hand tied behind our backs.”

“Is that a challenge?” I asked.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You boys can’t be afraid of a couple of ‘little girls.’ Could you?”

“Any time, any place, little girl!”

“Here, Monday, 3:15. You and your ape-like friend against me and Betty.”

“What’s the stakes?”

“If we boys win, you have to take off your tops and show us your boobs.”

“And WHEN we girls win?”

“We’ll take off our tops,” Jason laughed.

“Not good enough.” I thought for a while of having them expose themselves but I had something better in mind.”

“When we girls win, you boys will have to kiss our asses.”

“You’re on!”

“What’s more, you’ll have to do it in front of whatever crowd gathers to watch the match.”

“Never happen.”

“I’ll make sure to powder my ass so it smells nice for you boys.”

“Dream on. I’m looking forward to seeing a couple of little-girl titties.”

“It’s more like seeing a couple of little girl asses.”

“Ohhh!” the boys said mockingly

“You want to up the stakes,” Betty said.

“What do you have in mind?”

“A side bet on the size of the crowd. If more girls show up than boys, then we don’t have to expose ourselves even if we lose.

But if you lose, you have to take off everything.”

“And if more boys show up?”

“You’re off the hook if you lose and we have to take off everything if you win.”

“Deal!”

-=o=-

As we walked back from the courts, I turned to Betty, “Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to get naked in front of half the school.”

She explained it to me. “First of all, look at what is being risked We get naked. For the boys, it’s get naked AND kiss our asses.

Let’s go. We have a lot of girls to talk to and convince them to show up at the match. If we win the crowd, then the worst that happens is the boys win and nothing happens; but I don’t intend on losing.”

Over the next couple of days, Betty and I discussed strategy. The boys were bigger and stronger, but both of us girls were nimble and quick also we both did a lot of jogging and had a lot of endurance. If we could keep the ball in play, we could exhaust the boys and wait for them to make mistakes: just like King did to Riggs.

-=o=-

Monday arrived and so did the crowd. Our word-of-mouth campaign through the feminist club paid off. There was no need for a head count: nearly every face in the crowd was female. Many of them carried signs or banners proclaiming, “Girl Power,” “Girls Rule,” “Beat the Pants Off the Boys,” and one that had two big B’s – the top one for “Barbara and Betty” and the bottom one for “Ball Beaters.” I didn’t think they were talking about tennis balls.

We got quite it ovation when we took the court. Betty and I wore our “Good Whites” even though this was technically only a practice. I even wore my “lucky sneakers” – the ones I only wear for competition.

The first set was hotly contested with the game going back and forth, but Betty and I stuck to our game plan. It was close, but we managed to win.

By the second set, it was obvious that our strategy was paying off. The boys, although more powerful, were beginning to look like lumbering giants on the court. They returned some smashes for score, but most were out and they were getting increasingly frustrated with the results of their play. We won again.

The third set wasn’t even a contest. By this time, the boys were arguing with each other over who missed the shot. Betty and I played as if we were carefully choreographed with one of us girls always being in position to return the shot. It did not matter to us which girl scored the point.

All the while on every point we scored, cheers went up from the crowd. It felt good just hearing them.

It was over. As we did on previous games when we won playing doubles, Betty and I threw our racquets in the air sending them spinning and as they came down each of us caught the other girl’s racquet. Football players may have their end-zone dances, but this was our way of celebrating. It was symbolic of teamwork and not individual achievement – something else the feminist club taught us.

The boys begrudgingly walked to the net to shake our hands. By this time, the crowd was dwindling. The boys among them were departing. I don’t know whether it was because they knew that there would be no girl flesh for them to see or if they were embarrassed on behalf of their gender. I don’t think that there was a boy left by the time to pay the bet came due.

“Let’s adjourn to the parking lot next to the courts. Everyone can gather around a lot better that way.”

“No way,” Jason said.

“We’re not going through with this silly bet.”

“I think you will,” Betty responded.

“Why should we?”

“Do you know Tommy Barrow?”

“Yes...” Jason said uncertainly.

“Well, he certainly knows you and doesn’t like the way you bully him around.”

“We don’t mean nothing by it,” Arnold said. “And besides, what’s it to you?”

“He’s my cousin.”

“So what?”

“You know that big beer bash you boys attended last Saturday?

He was there and he’s willing to tell the school authorities that you were there too.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Betty was undaunted and talked right through it, “Think of it boys. Expulsion or at least suspension and kiss those tennis scholarships goodbye.”

“You got to tell him not to tell.” Arnold pleaded.

“Go through with the debt and we have a deal. He’ll stay silent, but ...,” she added, “You have to be nice to him from now on too. No bullying.”

Both boys hung their heads, “We promise.”

I clapped my hands and cheerfully said, “Good, now that us girls have kicked your asses, it’s time for you boys to kiss ours!”

The crowd gathered in a semicircle around us. The boys just stood there facing us.

“Let’s get started, boys,” Betty commanded.

Reluctantly the boys got down on their knees.

“Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Like you being naked when you do this. Clothes off boys! Even your shoes and socks. Totally starkers, birthday suit only.”

They stood there, proverbial deer in the headlights, so I said, “Either you take your clothes off or we’ll take them off for you.”

They still didn’t move so we enlisted a couple of girls from the crowd to help us undress the boys. They didn’t fight us, but they passively resisted not aiding us at all in the process. It took nearly a minute just to get their shirts and undershirt off.

Not surprisingly, the shorts were easier. Less “sleeve” on the garment and legs are straighter than arms. Once we undid the buttons, they slid down easily to the cheers of the spectators.

This left them pooled around their legs, but we could live with that for the moment. There was more unwrapping of the prize we won to be done.

Next came the underwear which, as two girls each held them from behind, Betty and I pulled down with tantalizing slowness. The roar of the crowd was reaching a crescendo. A chant broke out: “Pull them down! Pull them down!” The voices of dozens of girls as one, “Pull them down.”

We did, and as their penises popped out, half the crowd applauded while the other half took pictures. As the “do-ers” in the event, Betty and I did not have the opportunity to take pictures. We’d have to ask the other girls to send theirs to us.

Technically speaking, the boys were not naked, They were still wearing their shoes and socks and even their pants and underwear: all below ankle-level.

The time came for the main event, and the boys turned away from the main crowd, in the process they kicked their shorts and underwear away from their feet so they wouldn’t trip. I decided not to press the issue of total nudity and that stripped down to their sneakers was good enough. Somehow, that made them seem even more naked.

We also turned our backs on the crowd and bent down at the waist, presenting our butts to the boys. I looked at Betty and winked. Simultaneously, we lifted our skirts to our backs exposing our white-pantied asses.

Then we lowered the panties. Cheers, cat-calls and whistles came from behind.

I turned my head to look at Arnold who was positioned behind me. I stepped back until my butt touched his nose.

“Do it!” I commanded sternly. This seemed to be the time to be tough. I had to break through the shock they were still in and bring them to reality.

Arnold closed his eyes, and gently gave my right cheek a peck.

“You can do better than that! Kiss it like you love it.”

He gave a more plausible kiss and then went to the other cheek.

Girls were buzzing around chattering, giggling, taking pictures from all angles. Some of them focused close-up on the kissing; others backed off to catch the nudity of the boys as the committed the act.

“What do you think, Barbara,” Betty asked, “How many kisses should they give each cheek?”

“Oh, I think 100 on each cheek should be enough for them to learn their lesson.”

I really didn’t keep count. It felt wonderful. Physically, it actually sort of tickled, but in a nice way. Psychologically, it put me over the top. I was wetting my panties, high on domination and I didn’t care. Putting boys in their place was really turning me on.

This incident will probably not be repeated again, but maybe Betty and I and some of the girls in the club can arrange other incidents like it in the future.

(End of File)