Chapter 9: Match Point
The ball slammed into the far corner of the ad court, a streak of yellow against the crisp blue sky. Josh grunted, lunging, his racket whiffing through empty air. The ace whistled past his ear.
“Too slow, old man,” Mark called across the net, a grin spreading beneath his sunglasses. Sweat trickled down his temple, soaking into the collar of his polo. The private court was silent save for the dry rustle of pines and their labored breathing.
Josh straightened up, wiping his forehead with his wristband. A slow, knowing smile replaced his look of frustration. “Lucky shot. Your serve’s gotten meaner.” He walked to the net, his gaze dropping pointedly. “Everything else still nice and gentle?”
Mark chuckled, bouncing the ball. The taunt was part of their routine, the comfortable, straight-forward shit-talking of friends. He served again, hard and flat. Josh returned it deep, and the rally began—a series of punishing drives that had them both sprinting, sliding, scrambling across the baseline.
After a long exchange, Mark sliced a drop shot just over the net. Josh charged, scooping it back with a desperate lob. Mark moved under it, set himself, and unleashed an overhead smash that bounced and rocketed into the fence with a violent rattle.
Game.
They met at the net, leaning on their knees, chests heaving. The smell of hot rubber and crushed grass hung in the air.
“Water break,” Josh panted. He walked to the bench, grabbed his bottle, and took a long pull, his throat working. He poured the rest over his head, shaking his dark hair like a dog. Water dripped down his neck, tracing the lines of his chest through his soaked shirt. He caught Mark watching.
“See something you like?” Josh’s voice was low, playful, but with an edge that hadn’t been there before.
Mark shrugged, taking a drink from his own bottle. The water was lukewarm. “Just admiring your form. It’s shit, by the way.”
Josh laughed, but he didn’t look away. He stepped closer. The space between them, usually filled with casual jostling, suddenly felt charged, like the air before a storm. Josh’s eyes flicked down to Mark’s shorts, damp with sweat and clinging.
“My form’s just fine,” Josh murmured. “You’re the one who’s all wound up.” He reached out, not for the bottle, but his fingertips brushed the front of Mark’s shorts, a ghost of a touch over the fabric. “Tense.”
Mark froze. The contact was accidental. It had to be. But Josh’s fingers didn’t move. They rested there, a warm, deliberate pressure. Mark felt a jolt, a rush of blood that had nothing to do with the match. He should swat the hand away, laugh it off.
He didn’t.
Josh’s smirk returned, sharper now. His fingers curled, his palm settling fully over the growing firmness beneath the damp nylon. He squeezed, once, firmly.
A choked sound escaped Mark’s lips. His mind flashed to Clara, to her smile over breakfast, to the familiar, comforting scent of her shampoo on his pillow. The image was a brittle pane of glass, and this—Josh’s confident, invasive grip—was a stone thrown right through it.
“What the fuck, Josh?” Mark breathed, but it lacked conviction. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust into the pressure.
“What?” Josh’s other hand came up, pinning Mark’s wrist to the net post behind him. “No one can see. The hedge is eight feet high.” His thumb stroked over the head of Mark’s cock, now fully hard and straining against his shorts. “Been thinking about this since you took your shirt off. All those blueprints you draw…you ever use those hands for anything dirty?”
Mark’s head thudded back against the post. He was rigid, caught between the cold metal and Josh’s scorching touch. A part of him screamed betrayal. Another part, a raw, hungry part he’d kept padlocked in the basement of himself, was shredding the blueprints of his life.
Josh didn’t wait for an answer. He tugged the waistband of Mark’s shorts and briefs down just enough to free his cock. The sun was shockingly warm on his exposed flesh. Josh spat into his own hand, the sound crude and final, and took Mark in a slick, tight fist.
“Fuck,” Mark gasped. The obscenity was ripped from him.
Josh’s stroke was rough, efficient, his thumb smearing pre-come over the tip. “Yeah, that’s it. Knew you were pent up. Clara keeping you on a leash?”
The name was a slap. Shame flooded Mark, hot and immediate, followed by a darker, more potent surge of anger. At himself. At Clara, for being so fucking innocent and far away. At Josh, for being here, for knowing.
He grabbed the front of Josh’s shirt, twisting the fabric in his fist. “Don’t,” he snarled.
Josh just grinned, speeding his hand. “Don’t what? Don’t make you come on a fucking tennis court? Too late.” He dropped to his knees on the hard court surface.
The sight was unthinkable. Josh, on his knees, his tanned face level with Mark’s cock. He didn’t hesitate. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the crown, then sank down, taking him deep in one smooth, practiced motion.
Mark cried out, a raw, animal sound. His fingers tangled in Josh’s damp hair, not pushing him away, but holding on, anchoring himself against a wave of sensation that threatened to buckle his knees. Josh’s mouth was hot, wet, perfect. He worked with a hungry rhythm, his throat relaxing to take him deeper, his hands gripping Mark’s hips, pulling him forward.
It was nothing like with Clara. It was competitive, aggressive. A power play. Josh hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his eyes open and watching Mark’s face shatter. The distant sound of a lawnmower, the call of a bird—they were from another planet.
“I’m gonna…” Mark warned, his voice strangled.
Josh pulled off with a wet pop, his lips swollen. “Yeah. Come on my face. Do it.” He stroked him fast, his grip punishing. “Mark. Do it.”
The command, the use of his name, broke the last restraint. His orgasm seized him, a violent, convulsive release that had nothing to do with love or tenderness. He came over Josh’s cheek, his chin, stripes of white against sun-warmed skin. Josh kept stroking him, milking every last pulse until Mark shuddered and pushed his hand away, oversensitive and spent.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing. Josh stayed on his knees, wiping his face with the back of his hand, then licking it clean. He looked up, his expression unreadable.
Mark fumbled with his shorts, tucking himself away, his hands trembling. The shame returned, cold and heavy. He had just cheated on his wife. With a man. On a tennis court.
Josh stood, brushing the grit from his knees. He picked up his racket. “Same time next week?” he asked, his voice casual, as if they’d just finished a beer.
Mark stared at him, unable to speak. The sun beat down on the pristine white lines of the court. Everything looked the same. Nothing was. He thought of Clara, of her likely quiet day, of the trust in her eyes. A trust he had just obliterated in under five minutes.
He nodded, a stiff, mechanical jerk of his head.
“Good,” Josh said, walking toward the clubhouse. He didn’t look back.
Mark stood alone in the center of the court, the taste of copper and betrayal sharp in his mouth. The image of Clara in their quiet kitchen was gone, replaced by the searing, undeniable memory of Josh’s mouth. The chaos wasn’t just hers anymore. He had built his own door to it, and now he was standing right in the fucking middle of it, with no idea how to get back.
Mark stood there until the sweat cooled on his skin, until the shame crystallized into a hard, cold weight in his gut. The image of Josh wiping his face, that casual lick of his hand, played on a loop behind his eyes. He walked off the court, his legs unsteady, the silence of the pines feeling accusatory. He shoved through the gate toward the clubhouse, his racket bag a dead weight on his shoulder.
The chilled air inside was a shock. Polished wood and the faint smell of chlorine from the pool. He headed for the men’s locker room, needing the shower’s white noise to scour the afternoon from his mind. The click of his shoes on the tile echoed in the sterile hallway.
He pushed the door open. Josh was already there, leaning against a row of lockers, showered and changed into dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was texting, a faint smirk on his face. He looked up as Mark entered. The door hissed shut behind him, sealing them in the empty, tiled room.
“Took you long enough,” Josh said, not looking up from his phone. “Thought you’d fled the country.”
Mark dumped his bag on a bench. The sound was too loud. “What do you want, Josh?”
“What do I want?” Josh pocketed his phone and straightened up. He took two steps, closing the distance. He was taller, his posture loose and predatory. “You came in my mouth twenty minutes ago. Don’t ‘what do I want’ me.”
Mark’s face burned. He turned toward his locker, fumbling with the combination. “It was a mistake.”
Josh’s laugh was short, humorless. He crowded behind Mark, his body heat palpable. “Bullshit. You fucking shoved your dick down my throat. That wasn’t a mistake. That was a request.” His hand settled on Mark’s hip, fingers digging in. “And I’m here to deliver.”
Mark’s hands stilled on the lock. He could feel the hard line of Josh’s cock against his ass, even through the layers of fabric. The hunger he’d felt on the court, the one that had overridden every married thought, roared back to life, ugly and insistent. He leaned back, just an inch, his head tilting against Josh’s shoulder.
“See?” Josh’s voice was a low growl in his ear. His other hand came around, palm flat on Mark’s stomach, pulling him flush. “You don’t want to go home to your little wife. Not yet. You want this cleaned up.”
He spun Mark around, pinning him against the cold metal lockers. The impact jarred his teeth. Josh kissed him, hard and demanding, his tongue forcing Mark’s mouth open. It was nothing like kissing Clara. It tasted like confrontation, like mint and aggression. Mark groaned into it, his hands coming up to fist in Josh’s shirt.
Josh broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Locker. Now.”
He guided Mark backward, shoving him into a nearby shower stall. It was a spacious, tiled cubicle with a bench. Josh pushed him down onto it. The cold ceramic bit through his shorts. Josh undid his own jeans, shoving them and his briefs down just enough to free his erection. It was thick, already leaking.
“Suck it,” Josh ordered, his hand tangling in Mark’s hair.
Mark stared at the cock in front of him, the reality of it immense and terrifying. He’d never done this. He leaned forward, taking the head tentatively into his mouth. The taste was musky, salty, utterly male.
“Don’t fucking nurse it,” Josh snarled, tightening his grip. “Take it. All of it.”
Mark opened his throat, letting Josh guide him deeper. It was a stretch, a fullness that made his eyes water. Josh fucked his mouth in a rough, shallow rhythm, his hips pistoning. “Yeah, just like that,” he grunted. “Architect mouth. Should put it to better use.”
The degradation, the sheer filth of it, sent a jolt of electric shame straight to Mark’s groin. He was painfully hard again, straining against his zipper. He reached for himself, but Josh slapped his hand away.
“No. You don’t touch yourself. This is about me.”
After a minute, Josh pulled his cock from Mark’s mouth with a slick sound. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
Mark obeyed, his body moving on a current of sick, thrilling obedience. He braced his palms against the cool tiles, presenting his ass. He heard the tear of a foil packet, the sound absurdly loud. Josh spit into his own hand, the wet crackle making Mark flinch.
He felt the blunt, slick head of Josh’s cock press against him. There was no gentleness, no preparation beyond the spit. Josh pushed, and a white-hot lance of pain tore through Mark. He cried out, his forehead dropping to the tiles.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Josh gritted out, not stopping. He shoved in deeper, a brutal, invading stretch that burned. “Relax. It’ll feel good in a second.”
It didn’t feel good. It felt like being split open. But as Josh began to move, a slow, grinding withdrawal followed by a punishing thrust, the pain began to mutate. It blurred into a intense, full ache, a sensation of being utterly claimed. Josh set a relentless pace, his balls slapping against Mark’s skin with each drive.
“You think about this?” Josh panted, his hands gripping Mark’s hips hard enough to bruise. “When you’re drawing your little houses? You think about a real man fucking you like this?”
Mark couldn’t answer. Each thrust knocked a choked sound from him. He was a instrument being played, roughly and without care. The shame was still there, a cold stone in his chest, but his body was betraying him, responding to the raw, animal brutality of it. His own cock hung heavy and neglected, dripping onto the tiled floor.
Josh’s rhythm grew more erratic, his breaths coming in sharp gasps. He leaned over, his chest plastered to Mark’s sweat-slick back, his mouth next to Mark’s ear. “Your wife ever make you feel this full? Huh? She ever own you like this?”
The mention of Clara’s name, here, in this act, was the final twist. It broke something open in Mark. A strangled sob escaped him, but his hips pushed back, meeting Josh’s thrusts, hungry for more. He was complicit. He was ruined.
“Gonna come,” Josh grunted, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic. “Take it. You fucking take it.”
He buried himself to the hilt, his body locking rigid. Mark felt the hot, pulsing release inside him, a violating intimacy that completed the wreckage. Josh stayed there for a long moment, spent, his weight heavy.
He pulled out with a soft, wet sound. Mark stayed against the wall, his legs trembling, feeling the warm trickle down his thigh. The physical evidence of it.
Josh zipped his jeans. He slapped Mark’s ass, a casual, proprietary smack. “There. All cleaned up.” He turned on the shower faucet with his elbow, a cold spray hitting the tiles. “Wash up. You smell like me.”
He left the stall. Mark listened to his footsteps recede across the locker room floor, the door opening and closing. Silence rushed back in, broken only by the hiss of the shower.
He sank to his knees under the cold water, clothes and all. It soaked him, but couldn’t penetrate the icy numbness settling in his bones. He thought of Clara in that hotel bed, her skin glowing in the sunset. He had imagined her lonely, naive. He was the one who was lost. He had gone back. He had let Josh fuck him. The door to the chaos was wide open now, and they were both on the wrong side of it.