Chapter 2: Set Point
The third set was a tense, grinding affair. The U.S. had found their rhythm, their blocks a wall of flying limbs and determined scowls. Every point was a battle, each rally stretching longer than the last. The noise from the main bar was a constant, oppressive roar, but at their table, the focus had shifted inward, a tight circle of heat and anticipation.
Kelly’s knotted tank top was a magnet for every glance. When she leaned forward to grab a peanut, the fabric strained, the deep vee of her cleavage a shadowy promise. When she laughed, her breasts shook with a heavy, mesmerizing weight. Christopher’s hand was almost permanently attached to his thigh as his cock was a solid length weighing against his leg. His other hand flitted between his beer and her bare thigh, his fingers squeezing her occasionally to both support and let her know how hot he was.
A young server, maybe twenty-two with a nervous energy and eyes that kept darting to Kelly's breasts, approached to clear empty glasses. His name tag read ‘Aidan’. He’d been their server for an hour, and each time he came near, his gaze had snagged on Kelly, lingering on the curve of her ass in those shorts, the outline of her bra earlier. Now, with the bra gone and her nipples standing out thickly against the thin, taut cotton, he was practically malfunctioning.
He reached for Jason’s empty bottle, his eyes sliding sideways and locking onto the side of Kelly’s chest where the knotted fabric dug in, squeezing a generous swell of smooth, tanned side-boob out into the open air. He tripped over his own feet, catching himself on the edge of the table with a clumsy thump, his face flushing deep red.
Christopher watched it happen, a slow smile spreading. He saw the kid’s Adam’s apple bob as he finally managed to tear his eyes away, only to have them land directly on the two prominent, rigid points jutting against Kelly’s top.
“Enjoying the show my guy?” Christopher asked, his voice friendly, laced with amusement.
“Y-yeah, sorry,” Aidan stammered, finally grabbing the bottle. “Just… uh… distracted.”
“It is that,” Christopher agreed, leaning back. He let his gaze travel meaningfully from the flustered server to Kelly, who was watching the exchange with a playful, knowing smirk. “Listen, Aidan. We’re gonna be here for the long haul. At least three, maybe four more sets. We’re running up a hell of a tab out here in the trenches. You guys have a VIP lounge, right? Something a little more… private?”
Aidan’s eyes widened. “The Olympus Lounge? Yeah, but it’s usually for bottle service, corporate events… it’s pretty pricey.”
Christopher nodded, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. He gestured casually towards Kelly. “See my girlfriend? She’s our good luck charm. Where she goes, the party follows. And the tab follows the party.” He let that sink in. “Now, I’m thinking you could do us a solid. Get us into that lounge. Exclusive service, just you. No fighting through this mob.” He lowered his voice, a man-to-man conspirator. “And maybe, given our… substantial and ongoing patronage… you could talk to your manager about a friends-and-family discount on the bottles. I’d make it worth your while.”
As he spoke, Kelly shifted, stretching her arms behind her back with a deliberate, languid grace. The movement pulled her tank top even tighter, exaggerating every curve. Her nipple was visibly textured against the fabric, the pink circle of her areola creeping out of the side of her tank. Aidan’s gaze snapped back to it, mesmerized. He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking from Christopher’s confident smile to Kelly’s chest and back.
“I… I can ask,” Aidan blurted out, his voice tight. “I think… yeah. Let me go talk to Marco. I’ll be right back.”
He fled, almost knocking into a patron. Five minutes later, he returned, breathless. “Okay. Okay, you’re set. Marco says if you commit to two premium bottles minimum, you get the lounge and twenty percent off the tab for the rest of the night. It’s all yours. Follow me.”
A collective grin spread around the table. They gathered their things—phones, half-finished beers, Kelly’s discarded red bra which Jason put over his head like a rally cap, with a wink—and followed Aidan through a discreet door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’, down a short hallway lined with soundproofing, and into another world.
The Olympus Lounge was a plush, dimly lit cave. The cacophony of the main bar was reduced to a muted, distant throb. Velvet banquettes in deep burgundy formed a U-shape around a central space; the air was cool, smelling of lemon polish and expensive leather.
“Holy shit,” Jason whistled, spinning around. “We got our own room.”
“This is incredible,” Isaiah said, sinking into the butter-soft leather of a massive chair.
Aidan appeared with a bottle of premium bourbon and another of top-shelf vodka on a tray, along with crystal glasses and mixers. He set them up on a low table in the center of the booth, his movements stiff, his eyes glued to Kelly as she scooched into the booth, her movements causing her breasts to heave and jiggle, the knotted shirt barely covering her nipples as she slid further into the booth.
“Anything else, just… press the button,” Aidan said, pointing to a discreet panel on the table before practically running out.
Christopher poured hefty measures of bourbon into glasses, passing them around. “Alright. New environment. New rules. Third set’s halfway done. Canada’s down by three. Not ideal.” He took a sip, the liquor warming his throat. “First wager of the lounge. Simple. Next three points. Which team scores them? Get it right, you give an order. Get it wrong, you take an order. From anyone at this table.”
“I’m in,” Ken said immediately, his eyes on Kelly who was now doing lunges, stretching her powerful quads.
“Same,” said Isaiah.
“Let’s go,” Jason agreed.
Kelly bounced back to the booth, sliding in next to Christopher. “Loser does ten push-ups, winner gets to sit on their back,” she declared, scribbling ‘USA, USA, Canada’ on a fresh cocktail napkin.
The others wrote their predictions. The game on the massive screen mounted on the far wall resumed. The first point was a brutal U.S. block. The second, a Canadian service error. The third, a long, agonizing rally that ended with a U.S. spike just catching the line.
“Fuck,” Kelly muttered, looking at her napkin. She’d only guessed one of the three.
“Looks like you’re taking orders, Red,” Ken said, his voice smooth. He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t hesitate. “My order. Ten push-ups. Here.” He gestured to the open floor of plush carpet between the booth and the giant screen. “But everyone gets to watch. No hiding in a corner.”
A slow, competitive smile spread across Kelly’s face. “You think that’s punishment? I do these in my sleep, Kenny.” She slid out of the booth, the tight knot of her shirt riding up another inch, exposing the subtle, muscled ridges of her stomach. She dropped to the floor, placing her hands shoulder-width apart. Her body formed a perfect, taut line from her heels to her head, the powerful muscles in her arms and shoulders instantly defined.
She began. Down, up. Smooth, athletic, powerful. The first three were textbook. On the fourth descent, as her chest neared the carpet, the stretched neckline of her knotted tank top gaped open. For a full second, the entire dark pink circle of her left areola was visible, a stark contrast against her tanned skin, before she pushed back up.
“Whoa, hey! Did you see that?” Jason blurted out, leaning forward, his eyes wide. “I saw a titty! Part of it, anyway.”
Kelly completed the push-up and paused at the top, not breaking her plank. She turned her head towards Jason, a playful, unbothered shrug lifting her shoulders. The motion made her breasts sway heavily within their thin confines. “Seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all, Jay. They’re just along for the ride.” She finished her set, the final three push-ups executed with the same ruthless efficiency, each descent offering another fleeting, tantalizing glimpse of soft, pink flesh.
She popped up to her feet, not even winded. She looked directly at the men, her gaze challenging. Then, with deliberate slowness, she brought her hands up to her chest. She palmed her breasts through the damp cotton, her thumbs finding her nipples. She rubbed them in slow, firm circles, the friction audible against the fabric, the two points under her shirt were impossibly hard points against blue cotton.
“There,” she breathed, a smirk playing on her lips. “All that tapping on the floor was making them ... itchy. But you guys might wanna watch the actual game if you want to win anything else tonight.” She sauntered back to the booth, reclaiming her seat beside Christopher, who simply handed her a fresh glass of bourbon, his fingers brushing hers.
The door hissed open and Aidan entered, carrying a large basket of glistening chicken wings, three ramekins of sauce, and a stack of napkins. He was flushed. “Wings as requested, extra napkins,” he said, his voice slightly strained.
His eyes darted around the room as he placed the basket on the table, refusing to look at anyone directly. But then Kelly leaned forward to inspect the sauces—blue cheese, ranch, a fiery buffalo—and Aidan’s gaze broke. It locked onto the pronounced outline of her nipple, still rock-hard from her attention, clearly visible through the tight, thin material. He blinked, his mouth going dry. He lingered just a second too long, his hand hovering near his phone in his apron pocket.
“You good, Aidan?” Christopher asked, his tone implying he saw everything.
“Yes! Absolutely. Enjoy.” Aidan scurried off to the side, his phone, angled down, captured a few seconds of video: Kelly laughing, her chest bouncing, the hard peaks of her nipples unmistakably rigid. He was going to cum so hard tonight.
“Alright,” Isaiah said, digging into the wings. “Next wager before the set ends.One point. Team and how they score it. Ace, block, kill, error. Be specific.” He licked hot sauce from his thumb, eyeing the screen where the players huddled.
Everyone scribbled again. The tension from Kelly’s push-up demonstration still hung in the air, a tangible, electric current that made the wings taste spicier, the bourbon burn hotter.
“Reveal,” Christopher said, as the server returned to court.
Jason had written ‘Canada, Kill’. Ken had ‘USA, Block’. Isaiah had ‘USA, Ace’. Christopher had ‘Canada, Ace’.
Kelly held up her napkin: ‘USA, Kill’.
The serve was a rocket. The U.S. passer shanked it, sending the ball wildly towards the antenna. A Canadian defender dove, a spectacular, floor-burning effort, but his desperate one-armed pancake shot the ball straight up into the rafters. It was a chaotic, ugly error.
“Fucking hell,” Ken muttered.
“Error,” Christopher said, checking the napkins. “No one got that. But closest call… one team right, but wrong method. That’s Jason. One team right, but wrong method… that’s Kelly. You both got the scoring team.”
He set two napkins side-by-side. Jason’s said Canada, Kill. Kelly’s said USA, Kill. The actual point was a U.S. error, meaning the U.S. won the point.
“Kelly wins by half a point,” Christopher announced. “She called USA. She wins this round.”
Kelly raised her glass with a victorious clink. “Better luck next time, gentlemen.”
“What’s the prize?” Jason asked, wiping his hands on a napkin, his eyes already alight.
Kelly leaned back, swirling her bourbon. “Winner gets to eat a wing… but like a caveman. Mouth only. No hands. You have to get it from the basket, dip it in the sauce of your choice, and eat it clean.” She paused, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “The sauce, though… first, you have to spread it. On the loser’s body. You choose the loser, and you choose the spot. You spread it. Then you dip your wing in it. Then you eat.”
The room went utterly still. The only sound was the faint commentary from the screen and the crinkle of Jason’s napkin as he crushed it in his hand.
Jason licked his lips slowly. He scanned the men, then his eyes settled on Ken. He grinned. “Kenny. Tough break. You’re up. Time to saucify.”
Ken’s expression was unreadable for a moment, then he exhaled a sharp laugh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Alright, Mr. Winner. Where? Don’t be boring.”
Jason stood, reached into the basket, and pulled out a plump, saucy wing. He held it between his teeth briefly, then dropped it onto a plate. He picked up the ramekin of buffalo sauce, its crimson surface gleaming. “You saw how good Kelly got her nipples ready earlier, for all of us. Seems only fair.”
He dipped two fingers into the thick, red sauce. He held them up, dripping. “Take the shirt off, bro.”
Ken didn’t argue. He pulled his fitted tee over his head, revealing a sculpted, athletic torso. He leaned back against the booth, crossing his arms.
Jason moved closer, his fingers hovering over Ken’s left pec. Then he applied the sauce, painting a thick, glistening stripe directly over Ken’s nipple. The dark areola and nub were quickly coated in sticky, orange-red sauce. Jason worked it in, his fingers rubbing the sauce into the sensitive bud with a deliberate, circular motion.
“Nice and coated,” Jason murmured, his own breath coming faster.
He pulled his fingers back, then picked up the wing with his mouth. He leaned in, his eyes locked with Kelly’s. He nudged the wing against the sauced nipple, coating one side in the mixture. He pulled back, the meat now glistening with sauce from Ken’s skin, and took a deliberate, messy bite. Sauce smeared across his lips and chin.
“Fucking delicious,” he mumbled around the mouthful, winking.
A low chuckle rumbled through the booth. The air was thick with spice and sex.
“Next wager,” Isaiah said, his voice gravelly. He pointed to the screen. The set was at match point for the U.S. “This is the last point of the set. Same rules. If you lose…” He let the implication hang.
Napkins were scribbled, torn, tossed down.
Napkins were scribbled, torn, tossed down.
The final point unfolded in a blur of desperation. A long rally, bodies flying, a miraculous pancake dig from Canada that sent the ball arcing high towards the backline. The U.S. libero lunged, his fingertips just brushing the leather before it hit the floor.
A shrill whistle. Point, set, United States.
The lounge was silent except for the tinny celebration from the screen. Christopher collected the napkins, his face a mask of concentration as he compared the scribbles to the result. He held one up.
“No one called a defensive error,” he said, his voice cutting the quiet. “But the winning guess… closest on team and method… was Isaiah. He called a U.S.kill. Wrong, but he had the right team scoring.” He set that napkin aside. “The loser, by a mile… that’s you, Kelly. You called a Canadian kill. Wrong on everything, Red.”
Kelly’s bright eyes didn’t dim. She licked her lips slowly, a deliberate, hungry motion. “Guess I’m covered in sauce then, Isaiah. Do your worst.”
Isaiah didn’t move. He just looked at her, his dark eyes calculating. “The tank top stays on,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But it’s getting saucy.”
“Oh thank fucking god,” she breathed, a genuine laugh bubbling out as she leaned back against the velvet booth. She cupped her own breasts through the thin fabric, giving them a possessive squeeze. “These girls have been begging for attention since we walked in here. Saucy is good.”
Isaiah stood. He didn’t rush. He selected a wing from the basket, one glistening with fat and crispy skin. He then picked up the ramekin of Buffalo sauce, the violent red hue promising heat. He dipped his index and middle fingers deep, pulling them out coated in a thick, dripping layer.
“Arch your back for me, Red. Let’s get these tits presented proper.”
Kelly obeyed, pushing her chest forward. The knotted cotton pulled taut. Isaiah reached out, pulling her tank top aside just enough for the nipple to slide free, he then coated his fingers in sauce and went to work on her left breast. He didn’t just dab. He painted. He spread the sauce in a deliberate, messy circle directly over her nipple, working it in with circular strokes against her areola and rigid peak, the red staining her nipple with a violent orange. He pressed his thumb against it, grinding the hot sauce into the sensitive nub.
Kelly hissed, her breath catching. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, a sharp, pleasurable jolt shooting straight to her core. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“That’s the point,” Isaiah murmured.
He then took the wing. He dragged the plump, meaty side of it slowly, thoroughly, over her soaked skin. Sauce smeared across the crispy skin of the wing, which he brought to his mouth and took a huge, messy bite, chewing with exaggerated pleasure, his eyes locked on hers. Sauce dripped down his chin.
But he wasn’t done. After swallowing, he went back. He leaned in, his mouth now just inches from her breast. He used his teeth to grab the edge of her nipple, pulling it gently to get the tip thoroughly extended, her sauced breast, skin gleaming. Then, he dragged the half-eaten wing across her bare skin, through the slick trail of sauce, before taking another bite.
“Gotta finish the job,” he grunted, his mouth full. He licked his fingers clean, then leaned in again. This time, he used his tongue. He flattened it against the wet, spicy patch on her nipple and licked a long, slow stripe over it, sucking the sauce with a wet, obscene sound.
Kelly gasped, her back arching further off the booth. A low moan vibrated in her throat. Her hands clenched the leather seat beneath her., her hips involuntarily thrusting “Oh, god… fuck.” Her hips gave another involuntary roll.
Isaiah pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thorough.”
“Again,” Kelly demanded, her voice husky and raw. Her pupils were blown wide, her breathing shallow. “Do the other one. Now.”
Isaiah raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading. He re-sauced his fingers, this time dipping them deep into the ramekin. He reached for her right breast. He repeated the process: the deliberate painting, the grinding pressure over her nipple, creating another soaked, dark circle. He coated a fresh wing in the mess, took a bite, and then fed that same wing to Kelly.
He held it to her lips. “Open.”
She did, taking the wing from his fingers. As she bit into the meat, her teeth tearing into the saucy skin, Isaiah’s other hand moved. He hooked his fingers into the deep vee of her knotted neckline. With a sharp, practiced tug, he pulled the fabric down and to the side, completely freeing her right breast. It spilled out, heavy and full, the nipple a deep, hard pink bud, covered in sauce.
“Even Steven,” he said.
Before anyone could move, Jason was there. He had his own fingers in the sauce. “My turn.” He smeared a thick layer directly onto Kelly’s bare nipple, painting the tight, pink flesh crimson. He grabbed a wing, dragged it through the fresh sauce on her skin, and took a bite.
Ken was next. He didn’t use a wing. He simply bent his head and licked the sauce directly from her bare tit, his broad tongue lapping up the spice from her areola before sucking her entire nipple into his hot mouth, cleaning it with a deep, hungry pull.
Kelly cried out, her head falling back. “Yes… fuck, yes…”
Christopher watched, one hand stroking the back of her neck, the other wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, which strained against his zipper.
It became a chaotic, messy rotation. Jason would dip a wing, feed a bite to Kelly, then Ken would lick the residue from her skin. Isaiah would re-apply sauce directly to her left nipple through the shirt, then drag a wing across it before offering it to Christopher, who ate it without breaking eye contact with Kelly’s blissed-out face. Sauce was everywhere—on her chest, her bare stomach, their hands, their chins. The spicy, tangy smell filled the plush lounge, mixing with sweat and arousal.
After several rounds, Kelly was panting. Her chest was a glistening, red-streaked mess, breasts bare and slick. She looked at the nearly empty basket.
“I’m still hungry,” she whispered, her voice a throaty promise.
Jason had just taken a bite of a wing. He leaned towards her, offering the remainder from his mouth, the meat protruding.
Kelly didn't take the wing with her hands. She surged forward, closing her lips around the end protruding from his mouth. She pulled it from between his teeth, her eyes locked on his. Then, still chewing, she kissed him. It was a deep, saucy, open-mouthed kiss, tasting of spice and beer and want.
As she kissed him, her right hand—slick with sauce—slid down his stomach. Her fingers found the button of his jeans, then the zipper he’d lowered earlier after losing his boxers. She tugged it down the rest of the way.
She broke the kiss, her lips hovering over his. “Nothing behind here, right Jay?” she breathed, her fingers sliding inside the open fly, brushing through his coarse pubic hair.
“Fuck, Red…” Jason gasped, his hips jerking forward.
Her hand closed around him, finding his cock already thick and straining, the skin hot and smooth. She stroked him once, twice, her grip firm. Then she pushed him gently back into the booth and slid down, off her seat, onto her knees between his legs.
She didn't hesitate. She leaned forward, her red hair falling around her face, and took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep glide. Her lips stretched around his girth, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft as she swallowed him down to the root.
A guttural groan tore from Jason’s throat. His hands flew to her head, his fingers tangling in her thick hair. “Holy shit… Kelly…”
She began to move, setting a relentless, hungry rhythm. Her head bobbed, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deep. One hand worked the base of his cock in tight, twisting strokes, her fingers sticky with drying hot sauce, which smeared over his skin. The other hand fondled his balls, rolling the heavy sac in her palm.
The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the room, syncopated with Jason’s ragged breathing and the distant hum of the bar. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, mixing with traces of red sauce. She looked up at him, her blue eyes bright and wicked over the stretch of her lips around his shaft.
She pulled off with a slick pop. “You taste like victory, Jason,” she husked, before diving back down, taking him even deeper, her nose pressing into the rough hair at his base.
Jason’s thighs tensed. His back arched off the velvet. “I’m… fuck, I’m gonna come…”
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through his cock. She quickened her pace, her fist and mouth working in perfect, filthy unison. Her free hand reached up, groping her own bare, sauced breast, pinching and pulling at her own nipple as she sucked him off.
“Do it,” she mumbled around him, the words muffled but clear. “Feed me.”
That was all it took. Jason’s body locked. A raw, torn shout escaped him as he erupted into her hot, waiting mouth. She took it all, swallowing eagerly, her throat working around each pulse. She sucked him through it, milking him dry, until he was spent and shuddering.
She finally released him, sitting back on her heels. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a satisfied, saucy smile on her swollen lips. She looked around at the other men, their faces frozen in various states of shock and intense arousal.
“Anyone else still hungry?” she asked, her voice hoarse.