Matchpoint

Hayat Ali

“Sexy Confessions to Venus”

MATCHPOINT

BY HAYAT ALI www.VenusPress.com

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Sexy Confessions to Venus: MATCHPOINT

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MATCHPOINT Copyright © 2006 by Hayat Ali Cover Art © 2006 by Dan Skinner All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America. For information, you can find us on the web at www.VenusPress.com

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Hayat Ali

Dear Venus;

For five years, I had been fantasizing about Kirill Dantovich, ever since the moment he won his first major tennis tournament. I knew that I had to meet him. More than that, I wanted to have my way with that tall, luscious male. Kirill is Russian, six feet tall, and has dark green eyes and brown, curly hair. Not only does he have a wicked backhand, he has the sexiest smile on the tour. His confidence was obvious in that walk—he had a stride and a set of shoulders that would make anyone sit up and take notice. At the same time, there was a graciousness about him that made me believe that he would be a considerate lover. If only… I’d watched him in pure fascination of his physical being. I imagined him over me, his strong arms wrapped around me, his strokes sending sensations through me that left me senseless. My heart raced just at the thought. I had to meet him. Just as sure as I was breathing, I knew it. The only problem was that he never came anywhere near where I was. He competed in tournaments all over the globe, but hardly any of them were close to me. My chances of meeting him were slim to none, between the distance and the hoards of screaming women crowded around him at all times. Then there was a tournament in my town that I was burning for him to enter. It was smaller than the most of the others, and he hadn’t entered it since early in his career, but it seemed like it might be my best chance at having a fantasy come true. And then it happened. One look on his fan site told me that he was a last minute entrant. For a moment, I sat there dazed. I knew that I had to do something, but what? There were only two weeks to prepare. Since the dawn of my obsession with him, I’d been trying to learn Russian. I had mastered the alphabet and a few simple words, but nothing that would really get his attention. I needed to say something that would make him really look at me. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I knew exactly what I had to say to make my desire clear. I got back on the web until I found a translation for the words I needed to say.

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Sexy Confessions to Venus: MATCHPOINT

Morning, noon, and night, I repeated the phrase until I thought I had it right. Still, I needed to do more, like make sure my accent was right. I found a translator service in the phone book. After two full days, I worked up the nerve to blurt out the statement. The person on the other end was dead silent. I waited, wondering if the guy was going to report me to the police. But after clearing his throat, he pronounced the words for me. He even helped me practice it a couple of times until I felt comfortable, then thanked me for calling. I could just about picture his face, red from embarrassment, but I was grateful. I had even taped it so that I could continue to practice. When the tournament finally rolled around, I was having a hellish week at work. The idea of missing my opportunity had me in a frenzy. My only hope was that he wouldn’t be eliminated before the weekend. I kept constant watch on the scores each day, praying that he’d advance. Each day, he made it further, taking my fantasy one step closer to reality. Until that Friday. The results came in from the quarterfinal match. He’d won, advancing to the semi-final match on a Saturday afternoon. That same hour, I bought a ticket for a great seat on the south end of the court. My pocket was forty-five dollars lighter, but it was a small price to pay for a chance to meet him. That Saturday morning, I was a nervous wreck. I tossed clothes this way and that, trying to find the outfit that would be hot but cool, and sexy but not slutty. At last, I found the perfect look. The perfect look was a khaki skort that stopped mid-thigh. On top, I wore a lightblue tank top with spaghetti strings. I pulled my dark-brown braids into a high ponytail, riding high and off my neck and stepped into three-inch high heel sandals. Standing in front of my mirror, I liked what I saw. Just a touch of lipstick completed my look before I grabbed my bag and walked out, practicing my little phrase. I parked the car and went to the booth to claim my ticket. Sweat started to form on my chest during the twenty-minute wait. I fanned myself steadily, mumbling the phrase. At one point, a man turned around and stared at me in wild-eyed horror. I glared until he turned away and mumbled something in Russian to a companion. They both turned to look at me. Instantly embarrassed, I moved to a new line. Finally, I got the ticket and rushed inside the stadium, stopping only to buy a playbook. I climbed the stairs to find my seat. Only after I was sitting did I started to feel tense. What if I couldn’t get to him after the match? What if there were too many other people there? What if someone overheard what I said? What if…? 5

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I stopped that train of thought right away. I would cross that bridge if I came to it. For the time being, I settled back and waited for the match to start. Minutes later, the players came onto the court. My hands slapped together furiously at the sound of his name, while my heart pounded at the sight of him. He looked even better in the flesh. White shorts complemented a red and white shirt. His curly hair, free for the moment, bounced with each powerful stroke of the ball. The match finally started, and I was mesmerized. Every serve, backhand, forehand, was like watching an artist at work. His movements were fluid, smooth and elegant. I loved how deep his voice was when he growled in frustration over an error, and the smoothness of his gait every time he took his place. I admired the tattoo on his arm when he changed his shirt. And though the sun was relentless, I didn’t feel it. I heard nothing, saw nothing but him and his power. I knew at that moment that if he turned and came up to me, I would do anything he asked. This thought fueled my determination to speak to him, to take the chance and hope that he wouldn’t look at me like I was crazy. Two sets later, it was over. He had lost a tight match, but as always, he remained gracious. I waited until he disappeared off the court before rising to execute my plan. It was easy to get to the right place. And just as I had suspected, a huge crowd was waiting for autographs. Still determined, I tried to think of the best way to say what I had come to say. Though I was in the front of the pack, I knew there was a chance that he would skip over me. I pushed the negative thoughts away and waited patiently, willing luck to be on my side. Kirill’s opponent came out first. The squeals he elicited made me roll my eyes. I just smiled and offered my book when he came near. He signed it with a kind smile before moving on to the next person. I forgot him a moment later, looking back down the tunnel for Kirill, but he never came. My heart pounded as time passed, but there was no sign of him. I was beginning to think I had somehow missed him when a man came and announced that Kirill was in an interview and wouldn’t be out for at least thirty minutes. Relief washed over me until the message registered. Thirty minutes in the hot, blazing sun. I turned, wondering if I might go elsewhere to find relief, but two guards stood behind me, barring anyone from re-entering the stadium. Rather than take a chance on being shut out, I decided to sit tight until Kirill came out. I sighed, wanting to be irritated, but how could I when the bright side was so bright. The crowd had thinned considerably, most of them having been fans of Kirill’s

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opponent. That would only make it easier to execute my plan. I glanced to my right and spotted a small tree, then went under it to wait. By the time Kirill came out, only five people remained: three kids, an older woman, and me. I was waiting as eagerly as a schoolgirl at a rock concert. I watched him smile at the kids and talk to them about tennis, ruffling one kid’s hair. He turned on that kind, sexy smile for the older woman, who was sorry that he had lost. I overheard him say it was okay, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. His voice sounded so good. Even though his English was unpolished, it still had a sweet flow. By the time he got to me, I didn’t think I would be able to speak. My bravery came back when I watched him eye me up and down. Sweat was slowly running down my chest over the arc of my breasts. One hand rested on my hip. I had my best “haughty” stance going, my book dangling in my hand like a dare. He took it from me, smiling slyly. At close proximity, his smell nearly overrode my senses. It was lightly musky and very male. His hair was still wet, probably from the shower. He leaned forward to thank me for coming to watch his match, and I knew it was now or never. I tilted forward and said the phrase I had been practicing for so long. Speaking in Russian, I said, “It would be my pleasure to suck your dick.” His hand paused, then he cut his eyes towards me. I swallowed and took a step back. He held my eyes, studying me a long time before writing again. He finished and handed back my book, then walked away without looking back. I called out “good-bye” in his language, and he turned to wave at me with a strange smile. Disappointed, I went to my car. I couldn’t believe it. I had just made a total ass out of myself and he said nothing. Feeling the fool, I ripped open my car door and tossed in the book. I flopped into the seat, slamming the door shut. Just as I was about to put the key into the ignition, I saw something odd about my book cover. His signature was a big, messy swirl. But the words beneath it were printed perfectly. Maiden Hotel, 835, 9:30 pm. A slow smile formed before I let out a whoop of jubilation. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to live out one of my biggest fantasies ever. Taking a deep breath, I started the car, humming all the way home. I left my home at nine p.m., dressed in a skirt with a thong underneath, the first one I had ever worn. I changed into another tank top, but not as tight as the one I had worn earlier. I let my hair loose and changed into flatter shoes.

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The whole drive there, I kept wondering if I had lost my mind. Could I really go through with it? I was a nervous wreck. The “what if” chant starting in my head. I had to click on the radio to distract myself, but quickly turned it off again. Meeting Kirill was what I had wanted for over five years. The fact that he had given me his hotel room and number meant that he had liked what he saw and wanted to know more. With that in mind, I drove on, more excited than ever. I parked in the hotel’s underground garage, walked to the elevator, and pushed the button for the eighth floor. As I got closer to my goal, my breath quickened. I found myself pacing in the elevator, trying to build up my confidence again. Mirrors lined the top half, so it gave me a chance to take a good look at myself. I had a deer-caught-in-theheadlights thing going. “Stop it. You’re about to live out one of your biggest fantasies. Don’t blow it.” Nodding to myself, then praying that he wouldn’t turn out to be the lamest lay in life, I faced the doors just as the elevator arrived. I stepped out with a confident stride and turned left. My pace was determined, slowly locking me into my destiny. All thoughts of turning back disappeared when I arrived at his door. Shifting my breasts to stand up more, I knocked at the door. After a short wait, the door opened. There, before me, was the man of my dreams. He held a towel loosely tucked around his waist. His curly hair was dripping onto his strong chest. I watched a droplet roll over it, down the six-pack, to a trail of dark hair that led to what I wanted most. I slowly raised my eyes to find his green ones staring at me intently. He moved aside, allowing me to enter. I stepped in to find just a room, not a suite, but that was okay. There was a big window that provided great view of the north side of the city. A king-sized bed was covered with a warm-colored comforter. His open tennis bag rested in a chair, while a broken racket lay on the floor beside it. His clothes from the game were in another chair, along with a pair of jeans. I turned to face him. He was leaning against the wall, watching me. We continued to inspect each other. His arms were crossed, the muscles standing out, and he still wore that sly smile, even as a torrent of thoughts passed over his eyes. At that moment, I wondered what he was thinking. Heck, I wondered what he was waiting for. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer to me. He stopped short, then said something rapidly in Russian. All I could do was stand there, blinking. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not that good with your language.”

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A quizzical look formed that changed into mild surprise, like something had suddenly dawned on him. Smiling brightly and shaking his head, he stepped closer to me, leaving only a foot between us. I swallowed in anticipation. My fingers were itching to touch his beautiful chest, to drag them down to that towel and rip it off. His tongue came out slowly, licking his upper lip. I was so excited at that moment that I almost jumped him then and there, but I kept myself under control. “I said, do you still desire what you asked?” His voice was soft, deep, and gentle. His eyes were asking me a deeper question. He wanted to know if I was sure. Before I could nod, he let go of the towel, letting it fall to his feet. I gasped in pleasure. His penis was beautiful. It was thick, long and already semi-erect. I looked back into his eyes as I reached down to take him into my hand. I began to stroke his penis, enjoying the feel and the weight of it. His eyes closed until they were mere slits, barely watching me. I slowly licked the tip of his chin before moving down his neck, swirling it along his Adam’s apple. Going lower, I met his chest, taking in his left nipple, licking and tugging as my hand continued to service him. I heard his slow pants in rhythm with every stroke of his penis. I moved from that spot, bending my knees. My tongue found the ridges on his stomach, gliding up and down. When I reached his navel, I let my tongue swirl and swivel before planting a kiss there. I finally reached his penis. I was on my knees staring at this magnificent man’s penis with nothing but carnal desire flowing through me. I wanted him to pant for me. I wanted him to mewl helplessly. With that in mind, I let my tongue slowly lick the tip, starting at the underside and dragging it up, circling the tip before turning my head to lick the length of it. I moved back and forth, licking it up and down as my hand kept pumping him. Then I returned to the tip and kissed it before opening my mouth and taking him. I relaxed my throat as I took as much of him in my mouth as I could. Slowly, I began bobbing my head. I felt his strength in my mouth, the heat coming off of him as I accelerated my pace. I kept using my hand to enhance the effect, and I must have been doing something right because I heard him panting heavily. His hands were in my hair, gripping it tightly, but not stopping my rhythm. I tasted his pre-cum a moment later and the salty, sweet nectar enticed me further. He was putting more volume behind his voice, which sounded almost like whimper as I sucked and licked at his penis. The sounds were getting me wet, every

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grunt and purr sent me squirming in bliss. But I kept going, giving him all I could to let him know how much I wanted him. He was about to climax. His body grew taut, his grip was getting tighter in my hair and he was speaking in unintelligible Russian. I prepared myself for his climax when he pulled me away from his penis. Looking up at his impassioned green eyes, he shook his head. He was breathing heavily, his face and body flushed with need. He bent, lifting me up. As I stood, he grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it off. He stared at my breasts, his fingers dragging over the tops of them until he found the front clasp. The half-bra fell a second later, freeing my breasts. He cupped them in his hands, squeezing and massaging before moving down to my skirt, which slipped off easily, leaving me standing only in my thong. He inspected me hotly before picking me up, taking me to the bed. Laying me down, his hands grabbed my underwear and pulled it off, along with my sandals. He stood over me staring, his tongue coming out to lick his lips. He reached over to the table by his bed. He took out a condom and slipped it on before leaning over me. He dipped his head to kiss and suck my breast. Taking the nipple into his teeth, he tugged gently before taking my breast into his mouth again. I squirmed under him, wanting more. He continued his ministrations as one hand went between my legs, pushing firmly against my wet vagina. His thumb rubbed against my clitoris in a circular motion. He moved his mouth to my other breast, just as his long fingers dipped into my vagina, curling to stroke the inner walls. My head rolled back and I grabbed his hair. I cried out as he used two fingers in my inner walls, a stroke that nearly took me over the edge. I was seeing stars at that moment, my back arching off the bed. He used his other hand to hold me down as his stroke became faster, pumping in and out, sometimes dragging against my vaginal walls, sometimes expanding, until I exploded in ecstasy. I cried out his name as he took my head into his hand and pushed into me. My legs rose around his waist as he ground into me. I moved in sync with him, my waist gyrating and grinding with his as I continued riding out the pleasure from my orgasm. He lifted my leg higher, pushing harder, rocking against me with strong powerful thrusts that made me slide nearly off the bed. My leg was hooked over his arm, while his mouth covered my breast and sucked harshly, adding to my excitement. Every thrust was even deeper than the last. He filled me up, sometimes tapping me at my very core. I felt myself growing taut as the tightening in my stomach increased. 10

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We cried out in unison as he moved faster, his thrusts coming with more force. His eyes were squeezed closed and though I wanted to do the same, I kept them open so I could watch the pleasure cross his face. When it happened again, I couldn’t keep the guttural sound from my throat. It was such a sweet sensation, feeling him come while my vagina undulated with pleasure. We both were gasping as were rode the tide of delight, absolutely satisfied. As our breathing calmed, he again held my eyes. We stared at each other as if we were waiting for something. “What is you name?” he asked softly “Nikki.” He smiled. Then he kissed me with a fierce passion, our tongues dueling. The kiss seared, leaving an impression that lasted for many nights to come. I woke later that night knowing that I had to leave. There was no point trying to make this encounter more than what it was. And I wasn’t about to get kicked out in the morning, though somehow I knew it wouldn’t be like that. Shaking my head, I finished dressing. I had just stepped into my shoes when I heard his voice. He said something to me in Russian. I turned to him, shaking my head. He rose to his elbows and repeated himself, slower, but still in Russian. I noted the challenge in his voice, like he was daring me. I nodded slowly, grabbing my keys. Then I went to the door and opened it. I turned slightly and said goodbye. “Bye, Nikki.” he said in English. I spent all day Sunday in the glow of having fulfilled my wildest dream. In fact, it was better than any dream. But what he said nagged me half the day. It wasn’t until Monday that I finally called that same translator number. As luck would have it, I got the same guy as before. He remembered me, too. He was hesitant to talk to me. “Look, I know what I asked you the last time was somewhat crass, but please, I need this translation.” He sighed and told me to go on. I repeated as best I could remember what Kirill had said. I waited and waited, hoping that I didn’t butcher his words too much for the translator to make sense of it. He chuckled. I asked, “What’s so funny?” “I guess things went well for you. He said the pleasure was all his. He’ll see you next year, same time, same place.” 11

Hayat Ali

I hung up the phone, grinning to myself. Glancing at my playbook, I was already counting the days until next year.

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About the Author

Hayat Ali is a Midwestern author with an East Coast attitude. She loves the supernatural, science fiction/fantasy and Tarot Cards. She is a single female who likes experiencing everything as she makes her walk through life.

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