Chapter 5 - siestas of strawberries & cream

Ryan stirred, by slow degrees, to the vague echoes of a loudspeaker - close enough for him to hear the voice, too distant to make out the words. It didn't help that there was the whir of a fan above his head, and the buzz of a cheering crowd somewhere nearby.

Still in a foggy half-snooze, the young stockbroker pushed himself upright and blinked his eyes back into focus, getting a handle on his surroundings.

He was sitting in a locker room of some sort - a pretty exclusive one by all appearances. As Ryan's still-adjusting eyes scanned the room - thickly carpeted floors, a line of pristine green lockers with gleaming polished gold locks - the semi-audible loudspeaker reached its muffled climax, and the cheering ascended into a roar.

"That's us baby."

This voice was much closer and instantly recognisable. Yawning and blinking, Ryan turned to see Katie smiling at him from the doorway to the locker room. Propped casually against the doorframe she had her head half cocked and was clad in her finest and tiniest white tennis skirt - the one that revealed the smooth and lengthy extent of her legs right up to the higher reaches of her scrumptuously tender thighs. Ryan licked his lips. It was the sort of outfit that reminded him why he'd married her.

Clasped across Katie's modest but perky chest was the three-hundred dollar white and black Wilson tennis racket he'd bought her earlier that year - one of the cheaper presents he'd given her for her 29th birthday.

"Huh?" Ryan blinked. Still dumb with sleep he looked up at the fan above his head, and then back down at his knees, and found that he too was wearing Nike tennis whites.

Lowering her racket, his beautiful wife rolled her eyes. "The crowd, silly." She sauntered her slim, limber frame across the carpet and sat down next to him.

"Can't you hear them?"

When he stopped to listen carefully, Ryan found that he could. And what he heard made his eyebrows arch in confusion.

Amidst general cheers, his name and Katie's were being chanted, rhythmically nad enthusiastically.

"What's going on?" he yawned sluggishly.

Now it was Katie's turn to to lift her own brows in disbelief.

"Um, hello...Wimbledon final?" she pinned him with a quizzical green eye. "Are you making fun of me hun?"

"But...they're chanting for me. Us. Why are we dressed-"

He stopped and stared at her.

"We're playing?"

Katie frowned. "I knew those crab cakes were a bad idea. Next time I'll tell the chef you need something more wholesome, game or no. It's all well and good having an empty belly pre-match, but not if you're too faint to even know where you are you'll miss everything!"

Despite his sleepiness and confusion, Ryan bristled at the criticism. "Hey, I got game!"

Katie's beautiful features brightened instantly. "That's the spirit tiger!" she grinned, tapping his belly with the strings of her racket. "And don't worry. Lunch'll be served before you can say -" she cleared her throat theatrically - "Game, Set, Match Rhodes!"

Reaching the doorway, she turned and tilted her head with a smile. "C'mon!"

***

The cheering became a roar as Ryan followed his wife out through the player's entrance, though he barely noticed, mesmerised as he was by the crease just under her firm buttcheeks, which became visible with each step just below her ultra-short frilly skirt.

Before he knew it they'd emerged onto a sunlit Centre Court. As Katie waved happily and blew kisses to the spectators, Ryan looked around in heady disbelief - though thankfully he remembered to bow to the royal box.

The huge, enrobed figure of Henry VIII tipped his feathered hat in response, before opening his mouth to engulf an enchilada held up by one of his wives. Ryan couldn't say which one; there were at least ten of them huddled around the King, all wearing serious expressions and holding platters of Mexican food.

Duties attended to, he followed Katie around to the far side of the court.

Only to find her frowning at him in annoyance.

"Seriously Ryan," she hissed, "this is no time to play the fool! Get back over there!"

In a daze he let his steps follow the pointed direction of her racket, right round to the other side of the court. So he was playing against Katie? Well, that'd shouldn't be too tough, he thought with a smirk. Except that...

Dumbfounded, Ryan looked down at his empty hands. Where the hell was his racket? Well that was embarrassing. Why hadn't Katie told him? Was she trying to get a psychological upper hand?

Before he even had time to fire her a competitive glare - let alone find a racket - another great cheer went up from the crowd, and two more figures emerged from the tunnel.

When Ryan saw them, his eyes nearly left their sockets.

Zach and Beth? They were playing Zach and Beth in the Wimbeldon final? Or wait... no... Ryan glanced at Katie, who was going through some practice air shots over the other side of the net. He and Beth must be playing Zach and Katie. It'd have to be mixed doubles.

Ryan brightened instantly. This was gonna be a walkover! His own wife played to a decent standard, for a girl, but Beth, apart from being hot as hell and a wizz with a whisk, was a sportsgirl extaordinaire, not to mention a lean gym vixen with limbs firmed by a hundred daily squats and deadlifts, and the balance of a former head cheerleader. As she approached the royal box, Ryan drank deep of Beth's melon-like boobs, quivering heavily in a low-cut white sports bra that also showed off her toned, narrow waist. Lean, bronzed thighs, slightly thicker and more muscular than Katie's, emerged from a tiny, frilly sports skirt to shine with delicious athleticism in the sunlight.

As for Zach...well, he might've made a good lineman, once, *way* back whenever. And no doubt he had an eye for the ball and enough height and strength to launch a hefty serve. But the man was so fat he made Santa Claus look like a champion sprinter. Preceding Zach onto the court was a mammoth gut that humped forward like a huge barrel, stretching the sides of his bright white polo and matching his wife's boobs bounce for bounce. Zach's belly was so big he could barely nod at the king, and he was already puffing with the exertion of walking a short distance.

"Way too many double whoppers and homemade desserts," thought Ryan, feeling at once sorry for and envious of his obese buddy. "And not enough exercise by half." How did a guy let himself go like that? "Still," he reflected, confidence rising, "It surely means an easy win: no way can he last more than one set in this heat - two at the absolute most."

But there was a further shock in store for the cocky stockbroker. For having saluted his majesty and received a friendly tap on the belly from Beth's racket, the near-circular Zach came to join Ryan, while his athetic wife hurdled the net and exchanged a hug with Katie.

As the girls broke their embrace there was another deep cheer, and to Ryan's bewilderment a troop of ball girls rushed out onto the court, pushing.... were those serving trollies? Yes, and the girls were wheeling them onto the court with all the professional precision that Wimbledon demanded. Ryan counted ten trollies in total, packed with all manner of delicious looking desserts: cakes, cream pies, soufflees, cupcakes, donuts. Five trollies were deposited behind each of the men's wives, the ball girls hurrying off efficiently.

Ryan breathed in the scent of fresh bakin. It smelled delicious, but what the hell was all that food doing on court? Squinting at the trollies, he noticed that each one was labled from "Set 1" to "Set 5". Mid-game nutrition? he wondered hopefully, mouth watering.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the voice of the loudspeaker. "Our finalists today... well, they need no introduction." The crowd cheered and applauded in confirmation. "All that remains to be said is that we have five sets of tennis ahead. And the ladies, I believe, are ready to serve. With his royal hungriness's permission, let play commence!"

A huge spoonful of lemon souffle paused a few inches beneath King Henry's sauce-smeared lips. He belched enormously, and the crowd went wild.

And Ryan felt an explosion of cream and strawberry hit him square on the side of his cheek.

Indignant, he turned in the direction whence it had flown, and opened his mouth to protest.

Only for it to be filled with a caramel donut.

"Mmmph?!"

"Woo hoo, great job honey!" called Katie from over the side of the net.

Gulping down the treat Ryan opened his mouth with the intention of yelling "What the hell's going on?", but after loosing the first word he was struck momentarily dumb by the sight of Katie seizing a pink cupcake from the dessert cart behind her, tossing it into the air and thwacking it directly at his gaping mouth.

As Ryan chewed in confusion, the commentators' microphone-enhanced voices rose over the cheering crowd.

"Another awesome shot there from Katie," said an approving female voice. "She's really been working on her forehand, John."

"Absolutely Stephie," came the American accented reply. "But if Ryan doesn't work on his swallowing this first set's gonna be over without a deuce. Zach looks in great shape!"

Still dazed, Ryan turned to his right. Sure enough Beth was thwacking a pie after pie over the net in quickfire succession, alternating between back and forehand strokes. Such was her accuracy that her huge husband was having no trouble devouring them. Barely needing to tilt his head he gulped each serving down after the slightest chew, rubbing the sides of his big belly in enjoyment.

Ryan gulped, turning just in time for a slab of chocolate fudge cake to hit him square on the nose.

"Fault!" yelled the chair umpire, raising his hand.

"C'mon sweetie!" called Katie, a little irritably. "We're losing!"