The Legend of SW19
She’d bought them in Victoria’s Secret on a business trip to New York. They were midnight blue satin with large cream polka dots, almost like something you’d see back in the 80s or early 90s, except these were the tiniest, flimsiest and most expensive pair of knickers I’d ever come across – quite literally.


We’d met at Sankey’s – the one in Royal Tunbridge Wells, I think it was 1997. It had a cellar bar I remember very well; all bare brickwork, candles and expensive wine. Tim was an old mate from Uni, he’d moved down to the posh countryside to marry a farmer’s daughter, have chocolate brown Labradors, excessively large 4x4s and an alcohol dependency problem brought on by gin and port. Sankey’s had been his suggestion, I was out of work at the time and would have preferred the simpler attractions of the local pub or even a few cans in front of the TV, but Tim wanted to impress me and show me the highlights of posh totty that the Wells could provide.

“Sal! Sal! Come on you old trollop! Show me the fucking ‘phone!” a crowd of over-made-up women were squawking at each other by the bar.

“But darling, your shoes cost less than this ‘phone, do you honestly think I’m going to let you, with your reputation for losing fucking millions, get your sweaty little mitts on this? I mean, for fucks sake – you’ve shagged bloody Nick Leeson!“ This one was the pack leader; expensive clothes, incredibly high heels that would do real damage if she wore them naked while walking across a man’s back, I mused as I looked closely for a knicker line on her tight short skirt.

“Commando?” Tim asked – all through Uni he’d been my wingman, he knew my moves, hell, once on a particular drunken night out in Leeds he’d even been on the receiving end of my moves but apart from some uncomfortable glances – not to mention uncomfortable body parts – we’ve resolved to never mention it again.

“Yeah, I think so. How much to find out?” I replied. Tim had many weaknesses: large girls called Polly, alcohol, Mexican marching powder, me, fast cars and gambling. He bet me a small sum to discover whether the ‘phone princess was more giving with her body than her possessions.

Having watched too much American film and television I decided to be classy – I paid for a glass of pinot griot and asked the barman to give it to her while I leaned nonchalantly against the bare brickwork in the corner, bottle of sol in one hand and arrogance worn like an aftershave.

She took my wine, handed it to one of her squawk of friends and then stalked towards me holding a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. “Rather poor I think. This stuff is better.”

She was right.

Sally was a couple of years older than me; she worked in the City and liked her men a tad on the rough side – my (then) lack of job was a turn on for her. We chatted a little about French movies, she poured me another glass. Tim had been taken a willing hostage by her pack of girlfriends. Sal turned her back on them and gently forced me further against the wall. I remember the cold roughness of the soft red Kentish bricks and the sharp bubbles of the expensive fizzy wine. Her breath was slightly sour – wine and a hint of Marlboro lights.

She didn’t kiss me. There was never any suggestion that she might. Not even when her fingers ran up my thigh and across my hardening cock.

She gave me her card and told me she would be at Wimbledon on the Friday of the first week – corporate thing – be there.

Ticket touts made me cough up £85 for the pleasure of standing around in the pouring rain while dickheads decked out entirely by Hackett wandered past eating overpriced watery strawberries and braying at the poor people who didn’t have a second holiday home in Antigua. Not my type of place. I don’t play tennis and aside from watching some of the ladies matches just to get a flash of thigh this wasn’t my thing at all. I was beginning to wonder why I’d turned up, then I caught sight of Sally, my cock twitched in anticipation and I knew why I’d turned up.

She was wearing a dark red dress, sleeveless and strappy, full skirt and of course a pair of killer heels. She stopped the conversation she was having with a large rugger bugger type and strode over to me.

“Follow me”

The look in her eye told me how this was going to end.

I followed.

I’m not sure who she paid or who she knew but within a couple of minutes we were camped out under canvas in the corner of Centre Court.

“I’ve always wanted to do it here. Maybe it’ll improve my service.” She said as she expertly unzipped my trousers, unbuckled my belt, unfastened my clothes and freed my swollen cock into the stale grassy trapped air for a brief moment before she took it deeply into her mouth.

I kept quiet, hands slowly easing her skirt up her slender thighs then fingers gently edging their way towards the damp warmth of her silken pussy. She moaned and sucked harder. My fingers probed and slipped inside her, gliding on her wetness.

She stopped, pushed me back, slid her midnight blue satin knickers down, wiped them across my face, “So you’ll smell me all day”, then shoved them into my jacket pocket. Lifting the green canvas up a little above her head she straddled me, my cock now throbbing inside one of the tightest and wettest clefts I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck.

Years of Pony Club practice paid off as she rode me and the rain pounded down on the green canvas over our heads. Voices from the spectator stands only served to make her wetter and to fuck with more frenzy until we both couldn’t stand it – I gripped her perfect tight arse and exploded into her like the cork being pulled from a bottle of her beloved Bollinger.

The rain had begun to ease, she rolled off me, ran a finger up her thigh, dipped into herself and then sucked, “Mmm, you and I taste good – better than those fucking strawberries. Oh, and keep the knickers. A keepsake.”

She led me out to one of the staff entrances and there finally she kissed me gently on the lips.

I never saw her or the knickers again.

When Wimbledon is on and it’s raining, I sometimes think about her.

That was until I saw this article in the Times Online.
(Stiff Richard, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 18:01, 8 replies)

Nice!
Well told. Have a click.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 18:06, closed)

Very nicely written
There's a future in Mills & Boon for you, sir. And I mean that as a compliment.

Have a click.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 18:07, closed)

Knowing what I know...

I probably shouldn't have the horn quite so much for this post...

But I sooo do...for it is simply fucking brilliant in every.single.way

*horns*

*apologises*

*Clicks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 27 Apr 2009, 20:46, closed)

Fucking hell Richard...
...you're one heck of a chap.

And make no mistake.

*clicks*
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 27 Apr 2009, 23:08, closed)

Good grief
*spluffs*


Have a click, my good man
(SoneMe, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 23:12, closed)

Wonderful
I'll be back in 5 minutes... I just need to... erm... *waddles off to toilets*

*click*
( chart cat has an itch, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 5:30, closed)

Beautifully written
Quite poetic arent you Sir?
(Burt Burt, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 13:11, closed)

A classic Sir
Keeping the crowds entertained while the rain pours down on SW19...oh yes.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 14:30, closed)