I could tell that Kurt had shot his load, because the towel attendant jerked and sucked hard on the tongue I had in his mouth and the two of them groaned in unison. The German tennis pro and I were holding the towel guy between us on the bed in Kurt’s hotel room. The towel attendant’s butt was plastered to Kurt’s lap, Kurt’s sheathed cock up his channel. Kurt was on his back, the towel guy’s right arm trapped under him, and Kurt had been holding the young man’s right leg bent up into his chest. I was on my right side on the other side of the towel attendant, his left leg trapped under my legs, my right arm under his neck, pulling his face into mine for the deep kiss, while the towel attendant fucked himself on Kurt’s cock by raising and lowering his pelvis. The young man’s cock was encased in my left hand, and I let him do the sliding with the same movement he was fucking himself on Kurt’s cock.

Kurt having gotten off in him, I curled my right arm up under the towel attendant, palmed his belly, pulled him off Kurt’s dick, and turned his buttocks toward my crotch. Understanding what I was doing, Kurt grabbed the young man’s left leg and pulled it up to Kurt’s shoulder. The attendant was incredibly flexible. He also wasn’t completely prepared for the girth of my cock--Kurt was better looking than I was, but I had much the bigger cock--because when I slid my cock into the channel Kurt had just been in, the towel attendant lurched, gave a little cry that was stifled because I was still French kissing him, arched his back, bringing his buttocks farther up in an angle that gave me a deeper slide; and kissed me back with a vengeance. Kurt’s hand on the young man’s cock covered mine, and we jacked him off together. This didn’t take long, and I was still fucking him in long, deep strokes when he spouted off.

I always liked playing tennis tournaments with Kurt Steiner, Germany’s number three men’s player, because he had no trouble picking up tricks like this willing and flexible young towel attendant--we never asked him his name--and was happy to share the young men with me.

I was in Washington, D.C., for the annual August Citi Bank tennis tournament, a 500-series lead up to the U.S. Open, and found myself booked in the same hotel as Kurt was. Most of the tennis players were booked in the Washington, D.C., Marriott Marquis. We’d both arrived the Saturday before the tournament started, both coming in time for the qualifying rounds that weekend if we weren’t seeded. But we’d both been seeded, me above Kurt. I was the number three American men’s player.

Kurt had magic seduction techniques, which is why I liked to hook up with him when we were at the same tournament. He had nasty tastes, including threesomes and the occasional double penetration, and, for some reason the young men rushed to him to sign up for that treatment. I came along for the easy fuck that someone else set up. Kurt pulled me into his trysts as often as he did because he liked my cock inside him for a finisher too. He was a perfectly built Nordic blond with movie star looks, so I enjoyed fucking him as much as I did the young men he procured to share with me.

I hadn’t known we were both booked in the Marriott Marquis until we both found ourselves in the hotel’s gym on Saturday evening. As we exercised we talked about the possibility of going out and finding a little guy to share, when the willowy red-headed hotel pool towel attendant just, almost literally, dropped in our laps.

In no time Kurt was fondling him in the shower. When I entered, proposed to the attendant that he come up to the hotel room of one of us and be shared, he seemed a bit hesitant, but his hesitancy started melting away when I came up behind him, pulled him into my body, while Kurt was kissing him and pulling on his cock and balls, and we had him in a sandwich.

When Kurt told him to go down on his knees in the shower, he went right down and gave us both an expert blow job. Kurt’s offer of $500, which I knew I’d have to cover half of, for a trip upstairs was enough to seal the deal.

After I’d come, I slid down the bed to share the young man’s cock with Kurt, who was already down there. The towel guy just moaned and jerked when he came with two tongues working the sides of his cock. He lay there panting and moaning as Kurt went off the bed, grabbed the young man’s ankles, and pulled his butt to the foot of the bed. I turned off to the side to see what Kurt had in mind. The missionary position was what he had in mind for the young man, crouching close over his torso, with the towel attendant’s legs running up Kurt’s muscular chest and his ankles hooked on Kurt’s shoulders. He was pounding inside the towel guy hard and chewing on the young man’s nipples, to the cries of passion and grunting from the towel attendant, when I decided it was time to add a doggy position.

I came in behind Kurt, worked my cock inside his channel, and to the tune of groans and grunts, I pounded Kurt’s ass while Kurt pounded the towel boy’s ass.

Later, when it was just the two of us, lying side by side on Kurt’s bed, his left hand pulling on my cock and my right hand pulling on his, he told me about a waiter down in the main restaurant who he knew he could snatch for us the next night.

“Probably not a good idea, Kurt,” I said. “I’ve got to practice hard tomorrow. My opening round match on Monday is with the Spaniard, Emilio. This isn’t the best exercise for toning up for a match.”

“But this is the exercise I know you love, Cliff,” Kurt said with a smile on his face. He moved over me, straddling my hips. I didn’t fight him as he positioned my cock at his hole and started sliding down the shaft. For the next twenty minutes of Kurt bouncing on my cock until I had filled out the bulb of a condom, I didn’t think about the tennis tournament we were about to enter at all.

* * * *

I didn’t get back to my room until after 3:00 a.m. the next morning, and I wasn’t sleeping before that time. I dragged up exhausted and inhaled everything on the buffet table in the breakfast room that I thought would bring me back to life. Although I’d arrived in Washington early for the tournament, I’d made it further into the rounds in Atlanta the week before, so I didn’t really have recovery time between tournaments.

I was disgusted to watch Kurt bounce out of the hotel in tennis togs and a stack of rackets on his back while I was still waiting for a cup of coffee and assessing the aches and pains in my body. Now that I’d thought about it, though, he’d made me do the heavy lifting last night--take the brunt of muscle use. Before leaving the hotel he’d come to the door of the dining room and talked with a cute, young waiter who handed him a thermos jug. I wondered if that was the waiter he’d suggested we spike together tonight. If so, I would be missing a good time, I could tell. Had to do what I could to avoid that, though. I couldn’t burn the candle at both ends and still do well in the tournament. I was here for the tournament, not to fuck with Kurt and friends.

Well, mostly for the tournament; a bit to fuck with Kurt and friends.

It was Sunday and my trainer and I had a practice court at the Fitzgerald tennis center between two and four. I got there twenty minutes early to find that Kurt Steiner had that court for the hour before me. The courts were separated by a line of trees, with benches between them, and I sat and watched, waiting for my trainer, Wally, to show up.

I’d never seen the guy Kurt was hitting with before. For a minute I thought it was the waiter I’d most recently seen him with, but that was nonsense. Just anyone couldn’t waltz in here and practice hit with one of the guys in the tournament. The guy was young, dark haired, and deeply tanned, a real looker. Very young. He was also very good, especially for a guy who wasn’t more than five foot eight. Height--and wing span--had become strategically important in tennis. He was meeting Kurt shot for shot, but I had the feeling that Kurt was holding back.

Kurt didn’t usually hold back for anyone, which led me to speculate that he was cultivating the young man across the net from him. This led me to scrutinize the guy closer, as the young men Kurt cultivated often ended up riding my cock.

Wally hadn’t shown up when Kurt and the young guy called it quits ten minutes before their time was up. Kurt said his good-byes to his hitting partner at the gate to the fence surrounding the court with a “See ya later, Gene. Owe you a drink . . . and more.” I saw the good-looking young guy flash Kurt a smile, turn and see me, give me a brilliant smile too, and then saunter off toward the main stadium.

Kurt walked over to where I was sitting on the bench. “I don’t know how you do it, Kurt,” I said in greeting. “You were up and out before me and you still look fresh after a two-hour hitting session.”

“I’m German--and good genes, I guess,” Kurt answered. “Speaking of which, I assume you saw Gene hitting with me. A real nice piece, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he looks like something you’d go after--and get,” I answered. “A little young to be on your team, though.”

“Oh, he’s on my team all right. And he’s older than he looks--free game. He’d like to be on your team too. He knew who you were. He pointed you out sitting over here and said you were one of his favorite players. He’s good, as you can see. But he’ll never make it to pro. Not tall enough and he doesn’t move fast enough. He can fix the latter but not the former. I think he knows he won’t make it, which is why he stays around doing what he does.”

“Doing what he does?”

“Yeah, didn’t you catch what he was wearing? Possibly not. You haven’t been in the stadium yet this year, have you?--and they’ve changed the uniform.”

“Changed the uniform?”

“Yes. He’s one of the ball kids. Probably the oldest of the ball kids.”

“Ball kid? He looks too old to be a ball kid--and too big, too muscular.”

“Nevertheless, that’s what he is. There’s no limit on age, although they usually take them no later than high school age. We had a forty-year-old woman doing it last year, though. Writing an article about it or something. But she’s gone now. That would make Gene the oldest one this year.”

“Are you sure he’s beyond high school? Could be still in high school from the size of him.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I made very sure he was eighteen last year. You didn’t make the tournament last year, did you? I made certain he was eighteen then, which makes him nineteen this year.”

“You made sure, because--?”

“Yes, I fucked him. He’s a wildcat in bed. Gives about the best blow job I’ve had. And he fancies you. He fancies you big. He told me so just now. He wants--”

Kurt had a foot up on the bench beside me and a forearm resting on his thigh, his hand dropped down to his crotch. He was leaning in toward me. “There’s room over behind the fenced in dumpster area, Cliff,” he said with a hoarse voice.

“Uh, I gotta practice, Kurt. This is my practice time and I see Wally coming from over there. I think you got enough last night.”

“I blew you; you didn’t blow me. I don’t think Gene has to be in the stadium chasing balls for a while. I could rustle him up. We could DP him over behind the dumpster. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t flinch when I mentioned that you and I might do him together. He has a hole that opens right up. Room for two.”

“You got a one-track mind, Kurt. I’m surprised you’re such a good tennis player,” I said, standing and motioning to Wally. “It’s time to get serious with this tournament.”

“You’ll have dinner with me in the hotel, though, won’t you?” he asked. “Nothing too taxing about that, is there?”

Dinner wasn’t taxing. It was what came afterward. We, of course, ate in the hotel dining room because that was where the small, more pretty than handsome, dark-haired waiter was working.

Just as I should have known, a couple of hours later on Sunday night, Kurt and I were in Kurt’s hotel room working the waiter. I was on my back on the bed, with the waiter facing me and riding my cock when Kurt got up on the bed below us; crouched in behind the waiter and over my legs; pushed the waiter’s chest down onto mine; and told me to grab the young man’s wrists and hold his arms over my head, which I did.

I knew when Kurt’s cock penetrated the waiter’s channel, both because the waiter began to groan and pant hard and because I could feel Kurt’s cock press in over mine in the channel. As we’d done before, we began a counter stroking, with me thrusting up as Kurt pulled his cock out and then me pulling back as he thrust. Then in a position I’d never doubled in before, I went on my back; the waiter sat on my cock, faced away from me; I pulled his back into my chest; Kurt came in facing the waiter, the waiter’s thighs draped over Kurt’s thighs; Kurt speared him, sliding in on top of my cock; and we all went bouncing to town. That waiter was such a willowy little thing, almost lost when sandwiched between two muscular athletes like Kurt and me, but, boy could he take cock, and he had one wide hole--at least Kurt and I made it wide for him.

Kurt stayed with us on the bed for just that one ejaculation that night, but he watched as the waiter reversed on my cock, his chest pressed into my raised thighs, and rode me solo to another ejaculation.

Just like with the towel attendant, the waiter was never given a name. After he left the room, Kurt wanted me to stay longer and play, but, I hadn’t intended to be doing this at all the night before my opening match. The Spaniard, Emilio, wasn’t going to be a pushover. After several unsuccessful attempts at good night, topped by that blow job Kurt complained I hadn’t given him the night before, I returned to my room for a fitful night of sleep.

This wasn’t my regular routine going into paid match play.

* * * *

I won my first-round match over the Spaniard Emilio, but it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t pretty. Not only wasn’t I rested enough for match play, but Gene, the oldest ball kid, worked my match. It kept running through my mind what Kurt had said the previous day on the practice court--that the luscious young man took cock, gave great blow jobs, and wanted my cock. More than that, Kurt had said the young guy was willing to take double penetration, which, with Kurt, made me feel all hot and bothered. It certainly drained my concentration on the tennis match I should have been concentrating on.

That he had a crush on me was obvious from the start. When he gave me balls for my serve, he didn’t toss them to me like the other ball kids did; he brought them to me, put them in my hand, let his hand linger there a second or two longer than needed, and showed me puppy-dog eyes.

The first time he brought me my towel to towel off my sweat between points, he murmured, “Here’s your towel, Mr. Samuel. You’re doing great. Here, let me give you my balls.” Beyond the fact that ball kids shouldn’t be voicing favorites, they really shouldn’t be speaking to the players at all. And he did it with fluttering eyelashes and with his hand brushing his crotch. I could see it because I was standing right next to him. But I had to assume that those in the stands--there weren’t many in the stands; it was early rounds yet--couldn’t see that he was giving me extra attention.

I growled at him just the once, saying “Mr. Samuel didn’t come to the tournament. I’m Cliff.”

He answered back, “I’m Gene. And I’m a big fan.” Socializing and exchanges of given names just isn’t done between players an ball kids. Well, normally.

It took three sets to take Emilio. I was much the better player--that was obvious. But he was much the fresher player. That was equally obvious. I let my guard down for just a couple of points in the second set, but those points made all the difference in losing the second set.

After the match, I opted to shower there at the venue. No other players seemed to be taking that option, though, so I had the locker room and the separated shower stalls area all to myself--or so I thought. Coming out of the shower, soap still in my eyes, I groped for the towel I’d hung on a hook. But it wasn’t there.

“Here’s your towel, Mr. . . . Cliff,” I heard a voice say.

It was Gene, the oldest ball kid, of course, and he’d come in to shower as well. He just had a towel around his waist, and his body was beautiful. Nineteen-year-old fuck candy beautiful.

His eyes probably went bigger than mine in seeing the other’s body--mine fully naked.

“God, you’re big,” Gene said. “Mr. Steiner said you were big.”

“Gene,” I said. “You’re a ball kid. I . . . we . . . I can’t be doing this.”

“You’re going hard,” he said with a smile. “Look, I’m hard too.” He whipped the towel off his body to show that he, indeed, was in full erection. “You like my balls? Would you like to play with my balls?”

“You’re just a ball kid, Gene. I can’t mess with one of the ball kids. I know you’re old for it, but why do you go on with it?” The question didn’t fit the context, but it had been working on my mind since the previous day.

“I like to be dominated,” he answered, without hesitation. “When I’m on the court and some stud like you is snapping his fingers for the balls or a towel, it turns me on. And if it looks like I turn the stud athlete on, I let him fuck me. I beg him to fuck me. I’m begging you to fuck me. You won’t be fucking a ball kid. I’m a man. I’ve been fucked before. Dominate me and use me hard. I’m not a child. I’ve been balling men for a couple of years. You must know I want you to fuck me. I told Mr. Steiner that’s what I wanted--even more than wanting him to fuck me. I told him he could tell you. I know you fuck other men. I’ve locked the locker room door from the inside. We have time.”

“Gene. I came here to play tennis. You saw me out on the court today. I almost lost. And part of that was because of you--because of you moving around the court and looking oh so sexy.”

“So, you do want to fuck me.”

“Of course I want to fuck you. But I’m going back into the shower, and when I come out I want to be alone and the locker room door to be unlocked.”

I went back under the water--cold water this time. I couldn’t hide the raging hard on I had. I heard the moaning and turned to see Gene, on the floor like a snake, slithering toward me.

“Fuck me, daddy. Dominate me. Use me hard.”

When he reached me, he grabbed both of my ankles in his hands and started licking my feet and toes. I lifted him up onto his knees, mounted his hips, pressed his check into the soapy water on the floor of the shower room, thrust hard inside him, managed--just--to pull out before I ejaculated--but not before he had by jacking his own cock, and in time for him to turn and take the wad on his face and then to clean my cock with his tongue and mouth.

“Take me home, daddy. Take me back to your hotel. Fuck me all night.”

That’s exactly what I did.

* * * *

Up to this tournament I’d never checked ahead on who I might have to face in subsequent rounds if I kept on winning, which I rarely did yet in my career past the third round. But I did almost always make the third round. It was just a superstition with me, as it is with some other players.

I should have checked, though.

Of course the young Gene exhausted me Monday night. He was only five years younger than I was, but, in athletic sexual fuck positions--like the crab, with him on all fours suspended over my body, facing the ceiling; or the standing fuck, with me walking the room with him suspended in front of me and me bouncing him up and down on my cock, or just the strain of crouching high over him in a doggy fuck for a half hour or more at a time, or the sixty-nine full mutual blow job--five years of conditioning and the flexibility of youth can make a whole lot of difference.

He was insatiable and inventive and had all sorts of pretzel positions that challenged my muscles.

In my second-round match the next day, I lost miserably, grunting and groaning on the exhaustion and overuse of my muscles the night before. The player I lost to was Kurt Steiner.

He had the audacity to grin as we were shaking hands over the net at the end of a loss that made him look like a real tennis stud--on TV--and me like an unprepared dud and to say, “No hard feelings, I hope. Gene was worth it, wasn’t he?”

Dolt that I was--having gone straight to the pro circuit rather than college--I didn’t “get it” until that very minute. Kurt had used Gene--and the lay sessions before--as a distraction and as exhaustive activity for me going into the tournament. Kurt had looked ahead and seen that we might meet in the second round, and my ranking was nearly ten slots above his.

I could do no more than smile wanly and walk off the court while he was still acknowledging the applause of the tennis fans.

Gene hadn’t worked as a ball kid that day. Checking with the office, I learned that he had only been brought in to cover more sicknesses in the ranks of the ball kids. “He’s really too old to be a ball kid anymore,” the supervisor confided in me. “And he called in sick today too--said he’d strained a couple of muscles and was hobbling around. There’s really a limit to the age where a ball kid’s duties are manageable. Do you not agree?” She looked at me as if I was going to stand up for Gene’s right to be the oldest ball kid alive.

But I didn’t.

If I’d had any sense I would have written off using Kurt’s procurer services during future tennis tournaments. But I didn’t do that either. I didn’t rise much further in the rankings, and I’m happy to say that Kurt didn’t either, but I made a living at it.

And the sex on tour was great.





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