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Introduction:

This story is fiction, and any resemblance to real persons or places is purely coincidental. In particular, there is no connection between these invented characters and any past or present members of any league or national team.

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2012


I know that Americans don’t ‘get’ the English sport of cricket – but then, a lot of English people don’t really understand the game either, or at least they don’t understand its interest and pleasure. That goes especially for women, because – like football – it always used to be seen as a man’s sport. But that has been changing for a while now, and, as with golf and football, the women’s game is slowly developing a following.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I have enjoyed playing cricket ever since as a kid I insisted that my three older brothers let me join in their games, and then proved that I was better at it than they were! I have always been a tall and well-built girl (oh yes, in every way – I know what you’re thinking!), and I’m strong, with fast reflexes and good judgement of pace and distance, so I do very well at the game. In fact, I play for one of the top women’s league teams in England – although not professionally, there isn’t the money in the game for that yet, but I can fit it around my paying job, as I work on a freelance basis.

My team plays one-day matches almost every Saturday during the season, from the spring to the early autumn, against other teams all over the country. I have been in the side for four years now (I’m just over twenty-two years old), and was recently made Vice-Captain – oh yes, when that was announced, it caused plenty of sniggers in the locker room, from those who know about my personal life: I am strictly a one-hundred-per-cent pussy-loving girl-fucking lesbian bitch! However, I don’t look at all like the stereotypical image of a sporty ‘dyke’, not even with my height (exactly six feet), my broad shoulders (which give my swing of the bat that extra lash of power) and my generally athletically fit and toned body. There are several reasons for that: in particular, I have conventionally ‘pretty’ features, with pale green eyes, snub nose, rosebud lips and smooth pink complexion, all framed by a rich mane of ginger curls – they are always a struggle to fit in under my helmet (though very good extra padding!), but I would never cut them short. Most of all, the reason is my curvy shape – I have always had big tits, taking an E cup bra, and I have a jutting rounded ass, flaring out from my hips and with a wide gap at the crotch where my powerful thighs meet. With my height and length of stride, my strutting stalk of a walk makes the swaying goodies of my chest and butt really catch the eye – even in flat trainers, never mind high heels! I don’t have any trouble pulling the prettiest young chicks in the lesbian bars and nightclubs, or attracting the cream of the smart and experienced women in their thirties and forties, and I love fucking as many different women as possible – for now, all I want are lust-powered casual encounters and one-night stands of wild uninhibited sapphic sexual thrills.

On this particular Saturday in early August, we were playing a team down in the south-west of England who were amongst the top three or four rivalling us for the League championship. We had heard rumours that they had a new demon bowler, a whizz-kid just turned eighteen who had learned the game as a pupil at one of those fancy girls-only private boarding schools – I had heard of it, an elite and expensive place called Hirstmere Hall. Apparently, this girl was living at home during the summer before starting at university in October, and she had been eagerly snapped up to play for her local team, who were our opponents today. They won the toss, and elected to bat first, so I didn’t get to see their wunderkind in action for a while. Like many bowlers, she wasn’t particularly good with the bat, and was down as the tenth in their order, out of the eleven players.

As it turned out, the pitch and the weather favoured batting, and our bowlers were maybe not quite on their best form. Anyhow, their opening batters (I know, I know – the teams are all females, but saying ‘batswomen’ is not only an awkward mouthful, it makes you feel like you should be putting on a cape and mask for a superhero movie, not white shorts or skirt and knee-pads!) piled on the runs fast, and their score rapidly mounted to a challenging total. They declared before losing their seventh wicket, so their new girl didn’t even have to come out of the pavilion during our innings. In fact, I think they were deliberately psyching us up, by keeping their ‘secret weapon’ out of sight.

So it came to our innings, with a tough score to chase. Our two opening batters did OK, but too slowly, and then one of them was bowled out after only scoring eleven runs. However, this was by one of our opponents’ usual bowlers – so, where is the prodigy? I mused, as I sat on the pavilion veranda, padded up and ready to go in next. I didn’t get much more chance to wonder, for Miranda, our No. 3 batter, who can be brilliant but is always a bit vulnerable until she settles in, made a silly mistake – going for a ball she should have left well alone – and was caught by their wicket-keeper. All too soon, it was my turn to go in – I’m No. 4 in the order, which is the lynchpin position in the batting. Your role is either to pile on the heat and press for victory, or, as in this case, grimly dig in and try to stave off a collapse.

I took Miranda’s place, and carefully played away the last three balls of that over (for you non-cricketers, there are six bowls in an ‘over’, which must all be bowled by the same player, and then it can change to another player to bowl the next ‘over’ of six balls). On the final delivery, I managed to get my score started – breaking your ‘duck’ always makes you feel better – with a single run. However, this put me at the other wicket, and, because the overs are bowled from alternating ends, that meant that I was now due to face the next bowler.

The captain of the other team was a clever tactician, an experienced woman of nearly 30, and of course she had kept their new girl fresh and ready for just such a psychological moment as this, when our team was already stressed and under pressure. I saw her give a tight wolfish grin, and then wave in one of their outfielders, who had been stationed near to the boundary and had had almost nothing to do so far, as we had hit hardly any long shots. I realised at once what this meant, and watched the girl as she trotted up (girl was the word – she was too young-looking to be a woman). She didn’t look anything special, but then the best players often don’t. She was around the average height for a player – which is a little above the female average, so maybe five feet six or seven inches – and quite thin and wiry in build. Her most noticeable feature was a thick mop of jet-black hair, cut above the collar and shaped stylishly around her face – it was quite a feminine cut, yet also brisk and purposeful. She took the ball from her captain, who gave her a slight encouraging slap on the ass, and I heard the woman say:

‘Go, Carla, go – we’ve got the bitches on the ropes, go get ’em, babe!’

I wondered for a second if the girl’s name signified something Italian in her ancestry – her features and especially her hair hinted at that – but then it was time to concentrate. Carla had finished her walk out and turned, waiting for a moment before beginning her sprint up to the other wicket to bowl. Our gazes locked, and I guess almost unconsciously I stood taller for a second, bracing my shoulders, which has the effect of thrusting my breasts out even further. I saw Carla’s eyes widen and she bit her lip in concentration, before tossing her head and starting her run.

My God, she was fast! Before I knew it, she had flung the ball, and it bounced once before flashing past my helmet, only a few inches away. I had barely got my bat up to block the stumps, and if this had been a low one on target she might have bowled me out with her first delivery. As it was, the cocky little cunt stood at the other wicket, with her hands on her hips, as if to say ‘yeah, you didn’t expect THAT, did you, bitch!’ I did notice that she had a slim waist and maybe a little more curves than I had previously thought, especially when she turned her back and strutted away in preparation for her second bowl. Now there was a spring and confidence in her step, which manifested itself in a jiggle of her tight teenage tush that in other circumstances would have got me very interested – but here and now, it was a distraction to be put out of mind.

I managed to last through the other five balls of her over, blocking a couple of sneaky low ones (one of them, I’ll admit, only just), and ignoring some others which, if attempted, would probably become edged shots that would offer the fielders an easy catch. I scored nothing from Carla in that over, and had a respite during the next one as my playing partner, our No. 1 opener who was still grimly holding on, faced the deliveries of their spin-bowler. She managed to score two runs, but that left us back in the same position, and I got ready to face Carla for the second time.

I had more of a sense of her pace and style now, and I’ve never been someone to be intimidated or stay on the defensive – and I knew that I had to attack, if we were to have any chance of winning. This time the battle honours were more even: she nearly got me with the last ball of the six, but before then I had scored two runs from one ball and hit another right to the boundary (our first boundary in the match) for four – making a total of six runs, which was nearly what we had to get from each over if we were to beat them.

The game see-sawed back and forth like this for a while – all very exciting for the small number of spectators, but gruellingly intense for those engaged in it. When I was at the other end for a change, Carla took her first wicket – our No. 1 batter – with an amazing, really unplayable delivery; it wasn’t Suzie’s fault at all. This put the black-haired teen on a roll, and she took two more of our wickets quite soon afterwards. I gritted my teeth, ground down, took my opportunities wherever I could, and slowly my score mounted – past twenty, then forty, and then, almost to my own surprise, getting the half-century with a slightly wide swing at one of Carla’s balls that sent it high and far in the air: thankfully, far enough that it sailed over the boundary for a six, rather than falling into an eager fielder’s hands.

Whilst I acknowledged the applause for my 50 from the crowd – there were maybe a hundred people watching! – I stretched my shoulders and eased my back, without consciously meaning to waggle my tits in Carla’s direction. She was standing only a few yards away, looking rather frustrated, with her eyes fixed on my bust and her lips pursed.

She almost stalked away, but when she turned to start her run-up, her eyes still seemed to be focused on my chest. Perhaps that should have given me warning, but I was beaten by the sizzling pace of her delivery – which neither went past me, or swung in for the wicket, but instead thudded into the side of my left breast. Even though women players wear chest protectors for exactly this reason, it was both unexpected and quite sharply painful. I gave a kind of ‘ooof!’ noise, dropped my bat, and stood rubbing the stricken part of my anatomy. I glared at the bowling bitch, who made no enquiry as whether I was OK, and no apology.

Two balls later, the cunt did it again, this time scoring a hit right on the nipple of my right breast – once more, nearly all of the impact was absorbed by the plastic boob-protector, but still it was unpleasant. I shook my head, refusing to be intimidated and, more importantly, refusing to get angry and be goaded into responding by hitting balls that should be let alone – which is the easiest way of all to get out. When Carla’s next spell resulted in two more hits on my breasts (and it would have been four without some good defensive parrying on my part), I began to realise that this ‘bodyline’ bowling was a deliberate tactic on her part.

Now, it isn’t against the rules – at least, not unless it really is dangerous play. However, as in the original and famous ‘bodyline’ bowling controversy, when an England (male, of course) team used it against Australia in the 1930s, it is against the ethos and the spirit of the game, and arouses a lot of resentment. So I was pretty cross about it, as well as feeling a bit sore and tender – though most of all from one impact when I managed to get my arm in front of my tits and it got hit instead – even whilst acknowledging that the tactic was working. The cunt had me – our strongest batter – almost pinned down, surviving but scoring too slowly, whilst she and their other bowlers steadily dismissed the other players in my team. When it got down to our last four – our bowlers – I knew the writing was on the wall. They looked quite intimidated by Carla’s ultra-fast, highly accurate deliveries, even without having already seen them thud into my upper body, and knowing that I was much better at defending myself than they were. Sure enough, they crumpled quite quickly, and it was all over – but not before two more of Carla’s deliveries had slammed into my now thoroughly tenderised breasts. Although I had done quite well myself, remaining in play and finishing with 78 ‘not out’, which was good for my personal batting statistics, my team had lost the match by a wide margin and with over a hour still remaining before the official close of play.

Naturally enough, our rivals were in a merry mood, slapping each other on the back, and especially congratulating Carla – in fact, I saw from the corner of my eye that five or six of them had hoisted her onto their shoulders for a triumphal parade to the pavilion. Before I started the lonely walk back of the defeated (the pavilion is always about a mile further away for the losers), their captain had the grace to come over and congratulate me on ‘a fine innings, and in difficult circumstances too’, and she shook my hand. Her eyes were on my bust, as she followed up by asking, slightly apologetically, ‘are you OK? … umm … not too sore, I hope?’, and it looked as if she would almost have liked to touch my breasts. At another time, I would have been more than glad to let her do so – although about eight or nine years older than me, she was a lithe and sexy blonde, and I like being taken by (or taking) an older and experienced woman just as much as one my own age or younger. There was a glint in her eye that made me think she would have gone a lot further – indeed, all the way – but in truth I was more cross than anything else, and didn’t give her any signal of encouragement.

Instead, with a fairly curtly mumbled ‘I’m OK, thanks … congratulations on your win, and your new bowler’, I turned and trudged back to the locker room. The mood in our changing room was the opposite of theirs, but was not too downcast for long – you can’t win every match, and we had always known that this would be a tough one. There were plenty more games ahead for another eight weeks, and we still had every chance of winning the League title – which we had done two years previously, though we had only finished in fourth place last year. The others began to revive, chattering and departing in twos and threes to share cars for the 200 mile drive back to our homes in and around a city in the midlands. I waved them goodbye: unlike my team-mates, on this occasion I was not returning to the small one-bedroom apartment where I now lived, but would be heading further north to my childhood home town, as the next day was my mother’s birthday. I had quite a long drive ahead of me, and was in no hurry to get started – it didn’t matter what time I got there this evening, and anyway the match had finished early.

I was also tired after my long and difficult innings, and it took me a while to shower, dry myself – carefully around the breasts, where there were a couple of tender spots and some darkening bruises despite the protective shield – and get dressed. I put on one of my usual outfits – for the foundations, my burgundy red half-cup 34E bra that keeps my firm but swaying breasts in some sort of confinement, and gives me an impressive crevasse of a cleavage, together with the matching lacy thong panties and a pair of black hold-up stockings (I hate panty-hose and never wear it, it makes me too sweaty around my cunt). I put on my black leather boots, and had just pulled up the zip and fastened the buttons of my scarlet leather mini-skirt and was reaching for my black roll-neck tight lambswool sweater, when the door of the changing room swung open – without even a knock or a call to warn me – and in walked Carla!

She stopped dead at the sight of me, her mouth slightly gaping. Then, almost embarrassed, her gaze darted away from the display of my prominent breasts, and focused instead on the floor in front of her. With her face flushed, she began a flustered explanation: it transpired that she had been waiting in the corridor all of this time just to speak to me, that all of her team had now gone, and she had thought she must have missed me when my comrades left as well. I said nothing, and raised an eyebrow at her. Carla hesitantly took half a step nearer, and then stammered:

‘I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you so often, I mean – not there! ... not on your ... ummm, really, I’m so sorry … I don’t normally bowl like that, really … it just seemed to happen … I don’t know why, somehow ...’

Her face lifted again, and her eyes widened at the out-thrust swelling prominence of my E-cups.

‘Umm … well, I saw the photos … you know, those ones … umm …’ she tailed off.

Ahh! Oh yes, indeed, I did know! The year before, right at the start of the season, I had been featured in an article in a women’s magazine, on the pretext of being ‘a rising star of the rising women’s game’. It was flattering, plus we all try to promote women’s cricket any way we can. The journalist who came to do the interview was a very handsome and striking black woman in her late twenties, and she turned me on so much that I would have done anything to get her into bed. Fortunately, she was gay too, and soon showed her interest in an unmistakeable way (I think it was when, as I was half-way through an answer to one of her questions, she thrust her hand up under my mini-skirt and pulled my panties down to my ankles!). We fucked like rabbits for most of the afternoon, then took a shower together (yum, that was a nice pussy-munching time, too), and then finally finished the interview over coffee. She needed to take some pictures to go with it, and I guess I felt pretty uninhibited by then; at any rate, when I changed into my cricket whites so that she could take the pictures in the garden, I did it in front of her as a kind of jokey – but definitely sexy – strip-tease, and she had laughed and clapped, and taken a series of snaps with her high-powered digital camera ‘as a personal souvenir, just for my own collection’. So I struck saucy poses for her, some in my lingerie, some in various stages of its removal, and some completely in the nude – including a few very explicit ones for her private pleasure – before I donned my cricket gear and we took the actual pictures for the magazine outside on the lawn.

The article was published in the following month’s issue, causing some interest and, as always, a little jealousy; I looked quite hot even in the ‘official’ pictures, which consciously or unconsciously were taken at angles that emphasised the size and thrust of my breasts. However, that was far from the end of the matter: two weeks later, the journalist telephoned me in tearful agitation, to say that her partner had found the ‘private’ pictures still in her camera’s memory, had realised that she had been cheated on, and in a fury had not only ended the relationship and thrown the journalist out, but had also posted some of the pictures of me on the internet under the label of ‘cheating dyke bitch’. I was appalled, but fortunately the aggrieved woman had only posted a few of the less outrageous ones – in a couple of the pictures, I was wearing a bra, panties, stockings and boots, but in three others my large breasts were bared, and in one of them I was cupping them in my hands and thrusting them out at the camera with a real ‘fuck-me’ expression on my face, in a stance with my legs apart and my tiny triangular thong barely covering my pussy. At once, I contacted the woman and demanded that she remove them, threatening legal action – which I didn’t pursue, as that would only have drawn more attention to the affair, and in fact she was quite contrite, especially when I explained that I had had no idea that the journalist had been in a relationship. However, the trouble with the internet is, once something has been put out there, like the genie it won’t go back in the bottle.

It didn’t quite go viral, except of course in my own small world of women’s cricket. This mainly happened due to the pictures being featured for a while on a ‘hot sports babes’ porno site operating from some unknown place in Russia; some other women players had seen them there (which did make you wonder why they were visiting that site!), and then they told others and passed around downloaded copies. It wasn’t entirely a bad thing: I had to put up with getting a few passes from male cricketers and cricket fans, which I am quite practised at turning aside without confrontation or offence (or giving away the real reason for my refusals), but I also got several approaches from women – other players, match officials and even (which turned into a very hot weekend, and a very useful contact to make) a member of the England international women’s cricket team!

Nevertheless, I was startled that Carla had seen them. This had been more than a year ago, and was now old news – and she would not even have been seventeen then, and surely still at her exclusive boarding school. As I reappraised her, she mumbled, almost as if she had read my thoughts:

‘Umm … the sports teacher at school, the – ahhh, mmm – the one who taught me ... err, cricket … well ... she, umm, she showed them to me ...’

‘Aaah’, I breathed in understanding, as it dawned on me that the teacher would hardly have done this unless she was a lesbian, and had done so either in the course of seduction or its aftermath, and so the woman had almost certainly been fucking the little bitch as well as coaching her – and of course the school, Hirstmere Hall, did have a certain reputation in sapphic sporting circles! However, before I could say or do anything more in response, Carla summoned up more of her courage, and rushed on with remarks that put her sexual orientation beyond any doubt:

‘Yeah, so, I got her to make me copies from her ones – I thought you were stunning, so hot and so fit’, and then she blushed prettily as she admitted: ‘I’ve made myself come so many times, looking at those pictures, and thinking that one day I might actually meet you. And, today, I so wanted to impress you, to make a good impression ...’

‘Well’, I said wryly, rubbing my bra at the side of my left breast, which had received the most impacts, ‘you certainly did that!’

Carla’s eyes were riveted on where I was massaging my ample bust, but there was an almost tearful note in her voice, as she continued:

‘... but I never dreamed it might turn out like this, that I would hurt you and make you angry with me! Oh, I’m so sorry, really – I just couldn’t get those pictures of your tits out of my mind when I saw you today ... I never meant to aim at them, I was just so turned on by them ... and somehow ... well, it just kept happening ...’

She trailed off, looking at the floor again with a miserable expression. It was too convincing to be an act – her words had a ring of truth, and I believed her. Even more, it was actually very flattering, that my pictures would have had such an impact on an impressionable young lesbian just emerging from her chrysalis, and that seeing me for real would both arouse and unsettle her so much. My face lost its hard angry frown, and I warmed to her ... she seemed to be really quite a nice person after all, open and straightforward. Really, it had taken a lot of guts to seek me out after such events, to wait so long in the lonely corridor and then to brave entering the locker room – in fact, I found myself actually admiring her.

It also helped that, seen close up, she was more attractive than I had realised when I had been tightly-focused upon coping with her bowling. She was slender, with boyish hips but a slim waist that emphasised the curve of her taut ass, and she had more on her chest than had been apparent from a distance – maybe she only filled a B-cup, just possibly a C, but her breasts looked nice and perky. Now that I saw her face at close quarters, and her eyes and mouth were not narrowed in fierce concentration as she bowled, I could see that she had quite pretty features, and that her expression was normally a charming and cheerful one (rather than her present apologetic apprehension), with deep dark brown eyes below her shock of thick jet black hair – I was more than ever sure that there was some hot Mediterranean blood not very far back in her ancestry.

Carla obviously had not risked taking the time to shower and change, in case I should leave quickly and she missed me, and so she was still wearing her cricket whites, just as she had left the playing field: a fairly tight cotton short-sleeve polo shirt, underneath which the shape of her white sports bra was outlined, a pleated white skirt which came to about three inches above her knees, and was no impediment to her sprinting run-up to bowl, and white ankle socks – the one thing she had done was to replace her spiked cricket shoes, which damage indoor floors, with a pair of canvass slip-ons instead. In fact, she looked just how I like a babe – sporty, lithe, fit, energetic, slightly sweaty from exertion of one kind, and up and ready for exertion of another.

With calm certainty, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I reached slowly behind my back, unclasped my bra, and let it fall to the ground, revealing my large ripe pear-shaped breasts in all their full swaying (and rather bruised) naked glory. Clara gaped at the sight and then gasped, as I cupped my mammaries in both hands and thrust them out towards the younger woman – unconsciously imitating the most salacious pose in the notorious photographs.

‘Well’, I said with husky purr in my voice, ‘now that you’re here, I think you can apologise to them in person ... yeah, why don’t you kiss them better, hmm?’

Clara swallowed and looked at me with saucer-eyes, but there was no mistaking the flush of excitement in her face and the warmth of desire in her eyes. I took a step towards her, just as she did the same towards me, and the gap between us vanished in a second. With a gasp, Clara reached for my breasts, and I removed my hands so as not to impede her in any way. She began to fondle my right breast, whilst her mouth went unerringly to my left breast, licking around my aureole and then plunging onto my tit and sucking my nipple in between her teeth like a female vacuum cleaner. It felt good, so good and so right, as her mop of black hair bobbed up and down at my chest and her lips paid reverence to my bountiful bust.

Well, there is only one thing to do when a hot babe is bent over and slurping at your tits – and that is to go for her cunt and rub her up into a dripping frenzy, so that there is no way that she’ll want to stop, not until you have both come and come and come yet again! I gripped Carla’s shoulder firmly in my left hand to hold her in place, whilst simultaneously I snaked my right hand under her cricket skirt – which was so cute with its fresh white pleats, marked only by the red stain at her left hip where (like all bowlers) she had repeatedly rubbed the ball so as to vary its shine on one side, and thus its flight through the air.

My hand delved upwards between Carla’s legs and seized her pussy; as I firmly squeezed the soft swell of her Venus mound in my powerful batter’s grip, she broke her lips away from my erect nipple for just a second in order to give a mewling whimper of satisfaction. After I had given a couple of forceful rubs along Carla’s groove, she automatically shifted her stance, arching her hips open and shuffling her feet wider apart. From that one subtle motion, I could tell that this was a well-fucked lesbian bitch, and certainly no shy virgin or hesitant novice in the sapphic arts. Well, that was good, because I wasn’t going to cut her any slack – I had been mollified to some extent by her apology and explanation, but there was still a good deal of residual anger burning through my system.

My next move was to grasp the crotch of Carla’s panties, bunch it together, and then haul upwards, so that the gusset cut into her slit and abraded along the walls of her vagina. Carla gave a shuddering moan and rose up onto the balls of her feet, as I used my greater height and the strength in my shoulders and arms to lift her almost off the floor. I jerked the sweat-soaked band of cloth even further into her pussy, as she gazed at me in wide-eyed arousal, her mouth hanging half-open as she panted for the breath which the sudden incision of the panties into her gash had driven out of her. I locked my eyes onto hers, and said with the quiet absolute certainty that is far more erotic than any shouting or snarling:

‘You want it, you bitch? Well, you’re gonna get it, yeah – I’m gonna do you real good, bitch, I’m gonna have your pussy, so hard!’

It’s a fantastic moment when you say something like that to a woman, when you’re so full of surging lust, and she looks back at you like a kid given free run in a candy store, like you are making all her wishes come true. That’s how Carla stared at me now, almost trembling with desire and anticipation. Keeping my iron grip on the crotch of her panties, I swung the smaller girl round in a half-circle, and then pushed back her against the dull blue metal lockers that lined the wall.

‘No more need for these, you slut!’ I grunted, and with a single powerful jerk I yanked her panties down her legs almost to her ankles, as she gave a high-pitched squeal of mingled shock and excitement. Carla lifted each foot, and I swiftly removed her panties the rest of the way and cast them aside. Immediately, the sexy young lesbian spread her thighs apart, and from my kneeling position I speared a hand straight back upwards under her skirt, and sank two long fingers deep into her pussy-hole, right up to their knuckles, and then I began to pump them slowly in and out.

‘Aah! Aaahh! Yes! Yes – fuck me! Oh, yes, do – fuck me, fuck me!’ gasped the sexy young bowler, her pelvis gyrating in syncopation with my thrusts, as she pushed back against me in order to maximise their power and penetrative depth – in fact, the little hottie was more or less humping herself on my fingers. Well, I had no intention of letting her waste an orgasm so easily, and I withdrew my sticky pussy-juiced digits. It was the work of only a few seconds to pull her polo-shirt over her head, and then to remove her sports bra as well, leaving her naked apart from the cricket skirt and her socks and shoes. Next, I used both my hands to maul roughly at her breasts – which were just as I had expected, a perky and pointy pair, not that large in themselves but with surprisingly prominent aureole’s and nipples, which made them look bigger than they were. Carla shuddered and writhed under my onslaught, but there was no doubt of her arousal and lust, as almost instinctively she groped for my mounds again – understandably, they seemed to draw her like a magnet – and for a happy moment we were both engaged in the wonderful pleasures of boob-massage and titty-tweaking.

However, I had plenty of other activities in mind as well, and so I took hold of both of Carla’s upper arms and manoeuvred her away from the side of the room and towards one of the two long changing benches that ran down its middle. She understood at once what I had in mind (oh yes, I thought, this chick has been fucked in locker-rooms many a time before this, that’s for sure), and she lay down along the bench on her back, with the lower half of her legs dangling over the edge on each side. Gazing hungrily up at me, she pulled the pleated white skirt up to her waist, baring her pelvis and exposing her pussy, and then spread her thighs invitingly open.

For a second, I looked down at her cunt, admiring the swell of her mound, the puffy projections of her outer labia, the slight gap of slick pink flesh visible between their lips, and the surrounding small patch of closely trimmed jet-black pubic hair. Relishing my appraisal of her body, the young lesbian slut squirmed slightly as she lay on her back, and lifted her hips a few inches off the wooden bench in mute offering and supplication. Shit, but did this pretty tousled-headed teen look fuckable!

Gazing down at her from my dominant position, I slowly drew down the zip fastening at the side of my scarlet leather mini-skirt, and then with a flourish I let the garment fall to the floor, and with a single graceful motion I stepped out of it and kicked it aside. Then I swung one long leg over Carla’s supine form and planted my foot on the other side of the bench, straddling across her chest. The teenager licked her lips in anticipation as I took hold of the crotch of my skimpy burgundy-red thong panties and jerked it aside, exposing my smooth-shaven pussy.

‘Do you want it?’ I hissed; ‘do you want it, bitch, yeah? Do ya, huh?’

I must have looked an impressive sight, even if she was well used to being fucked by older sporty dykes. My height was accentuated by my shiny black leather boots and the sheer black hold-up stockings that rose above them, whilst her perspective encased a stunning view of my gaping vagina and then the undersides of my huge breasts, as I gazed down at her between them. Carla whimpered with desire, and one of her hands reached for her own pussy and rubbed at it for a second, until I firmly knocked it aside – her cunt was mine now, all mine to be made use of.

‘Oh, OH!’ she gasped, almost breathless; ‘oooh, yes! Please, yes, yes – oh! PLEASE, YES, YES – YES!!!

‘Eat me!’ I snapped, and without further delay I dropped my pussy smack down onto her face, even as her mouth opened and her tongue quested eagerly outwards. Within a second, I felt it squirming into my vaginal slit, sliding up and down, and then delving inwards – oh, yes, this pretty babe had definitely been tutored in the art of cunnilingus, even if at the moment her lust-fuelled desire was making her application more vigorous than subtle. Carla’s slurping at my cunt was a real turn-on, and I reached behind to steady myself. In the process, I found her pussy with my right hand, and began at once to tease and rub at her clitoris. Carla jerked convulsively when I first touched her nub, and then she settled back into devouring my pussy, but with greater vigour and harder, more penetrative thrusts of her tongue. Surprisingly quickly, she took me to orgasm – and in my moment of climax, my pelvis jerked upwards from her face, and I baptised her with a spray of pussy-juice that ejaculated from my hole.

‘Fuckit, bitch, you ain’t bad – you ain’t half bad at all’, I gasped in slightly grudging admiration.

Swinging my leg back across her for a moment, I took the opportunity to strip away my sodden panties, so that I was now naked apart from my boots and hold-ups. Then I spun around 180 degrees and straddled her again, but this time – to her delighted squeal of anticipation – in the classic 69 position. My mouth descended like a swooping vulture onto her cunt, just a second after I had lowered my still dribbling pussy onto Carla’s face, with the order to ‘Do it again, you slut!’

And she did – this time, reaching up with her hands to grasp my hips and hold me in place over her mouth, as she lapped and licked and probed and sucked as if there was no tomorrow. One part of my mind was relishing her sapphic eagerness, whilst the majority of my concentration was on her girlish pussy. I used my fingers to tease her labia more widely apart, and then delved inwards with the longest fingers of both hands, alternating between one pumping in to her as the other pulled out. Then, with careful gentleness – not because I felt gentle, far from it, but because in this instance it is ten times more effective than rough or forceful treatment – I slid my tongue into her vaginal furrow, and began to plough it. At the same time, I pushed the thumb of my right hand into the top of her slit and found the nub of her clitoris, which I then rubbed across from side to side, in contrast with the up and down motions of my tongue.

The combination had an effect like plugging Carla into the mains. She convulsed underneath me, her legs jerked spasmodically on either side of the locker-room bench, and the palms of her hands slapped and pounded on my back. I felt an extra hardness in her titties, where my lower stomach was resting on them, and my mouth was sprayed with squiring pussy-juice as she orgasmed – but through all of this, although she moaned and gasped in her own passion, her mouth never left my cunt and its task of devouring my sex. So erotic was the scene that it took only a few more seconds of cunnilingus from Carla to set me off as well, as her oral efforts also earned her a mouthful of cunt-come.

I lay there on top of her for a moment, both of us gasping for air like fish freshly landed on the deck. Then, suddenly, I knew what to do – there was one final thing to do, to make my sexual conquest of Carla complete – and it was something very fitting, and something that I suspected she might not have experienced before. I urged her to her feet, and then told her to stand with her back leaning against the lockers and her legs well apart. She did not question this at all (confirming yet again my deduction that lesbian sex in a locker room was as natural to her as a duck taking to water), although her eyes did widen slightly when I picked up my cricket bat before approaching her. Leaving it within reach, I first tasted her pussy and nibbled along her jutting labia, which had a satisfyingly wetting effect. Then I probed into her pussy again with my fingers, and her breathing quickened from the stimulation.

Now was the moment, for she was as wet and loose as she was going to get. Using the fingers of my left hand to keep her hole fully open for as long as possible, I lifted my cricket bat with my right hand, positioned the thick circular rod of its handle underneath her cunt, and then pushed it upwards, forcing it slowly but inexorably into her vagina. Carla whimpered and gasped as its ribbing ground against her sensitive pink inner flesh, whilst its solid wooden weight filled her up and stretched her wider than she had ever thought physically possible. The symbolic eroticism for her as a bowler of being fucked by my bat was intensely powerful, and she shook and juddered as the thick rubber-gripped wooden pole sank into her ... three inches, four inches ... ‘oh! Christ’, she moaned ... five inches, six inches ... ‘aaaahhh! fuck me, FUCK ME! AAAHH!!’ she almost screamed, and still I worked it further into her, rotating it slightly in her sopping lubricated hole, as sweet pussy juice dripped from the base of her cunt and dribbled down her inner thighs ... seven inches, eight inches ... her eyes bugged out, she reached out shakily for my shoulders and hung onto me as if I was her lifebelt, as her lips parted but no coherent words emerged, just deep grunting gasps between broken syllables. Amazingly, she began to slide herself up and down the cricket bat’s handle – only for a short distance at first, maybe only two or three inches, but it is always getting started that is the difficult part – and she was clearly getting off on it.

Carla’s head went back and she gazed vacantly at the ceiling, saliva trickling from the corner of her lips as I shafted the cricket bat in and out of her vagina, beginning to develop some pace and rhythm in my insertions. I’ll give the chick full credit – even whilst I was giving her this mind-blowing ramrod of a fuck, she still had enough presence of mind – or, even better, enough red hot lesbian lust – to reach for my heavy breasts and grope them, which of course only stimulated me more, and I drilled the cricket bat’s handle into her even deeper – she had already taken eight inches, and I worked another one into her hole just as her hips bucked and thrust, and she exploded in a vivid bursting climax. She looked at me with wordless fixed intensity, sweat glistening on her face and shoulders in the fluorescent locker-room lights, and I rewarded her by sliding the cricket bat’s handle nearly all of the way out of her pussy – before delivering my favourite coup de grace, and slamming it back in like a massive wooden phallus (they don’t call male porn stars names like ‘wood’ and ‘woody’ for nothing!). The demon bowler gave a satisfying throaty scream, and her whole frame vibrated as she was overwhelmed by a second volcanic orgasm, hard on the heels of the first. The combined effects were so powerful and profound that Carla actually blacked out.

It was only for a few seconds, and I withdrew the fucking-bat and eased her over to the bench, and laid her out along it on her back. Her eyelids were already starting to flutter when I revived her in my favourite way – with a quick sharp pinch of one of her nipples. She lay there inertly, gazing up at me with the open-mouthed and blank-faced expression that says louder than words: ‘I’ve just been truly, utterly, mind-blowingly fucked’.

I picked up my discarded panties, but decided they were too damp and sticky to put back on. After a quick rub around my crotch and breasts, I put back on my skirt, bra and sweater, in that order. Carla still had not said anything, but her eyes had been glued to my every movement, and I thought I heard a soft sigh of regret when I scooped my breasts back into the bra cups and then fastened the clasp behind my back. I would like to have stayed longer, but two things prevented me – first, the likelihood that quite soon the pavilion caretaker would come along wanting us to clear out so that it could be locked up, and that I really needed to get started soon on my drive north to my parents’ house.

However, I couldn’t resist one last treat – although I was now otherwise fully dressed, I was panty-less, and the warm air around my legs was making my pussy tingle with excitement. I walked over to Carla and once again straddled her prone body – but this time I lowered my cunt onto her chest, directly placing my slit on top of the stiff erect nipple of her left-hand breast. I briefly ground down against this, feeling her pointy firm mound under my vulva, and her tit slipping between my vaginal lips. Carla moaned and arched her back, and slipped her own hand between her legs, frotting her fingers up and down against her clitoris. This time, I did not smack her hand away, but let her masturbate herself while I helped myself to a nice little titty-fuck. Sure enough, I climaxed quite quickly – and as soon as I came, I shifted forwards and dropped my pussy onto her mouth once more, and rapped out an instruction to ‘lick me clean, cunt!’ Carla did so at once, although I could tell that she was half-exhausted from the number of times that I had made her come, most especially with the symbolic bat-fuck. Then, and not without much regret, I had to go on my way. As I exited the locker-room door, I turned to admire her lithe teenage body once more, as she lay sprawled on the bench, naked and well-fucked, and I walked out of that pavilion with a very satisfied smile on my face.

Our two teams had another match scheduled a month later: the return fixture, at our home ground. I had not seen Carla in the interval, and when I strode out to bat on this occasion I did so with breezy assertive confidence. I took my stance in front of my wicket, rolling my shoulders to loosen them, and of course swinging my breasts around in the process – very eye-catchingly, as I had deliberately put on a really tight short-sleeve cotton top. Carla was standing at the other wicket, and her eyes were glued to my every movement, with a sheen of sweat on her face. I looked her boldly in the face, and then slowly rubbed my hands up and down the handle of my bat. To anyone else, it would have seemed as if I was just settling into my batting stance – but Carla flushed at once, for she knew what my action signified: that after the match, I would take her and once again fuck her into mindless exhaustion. She went a little pale in the face and swallowed, nibbling nervously at her lower lip, but there was no mistaking the eager glint in her eye. Whatever the reason, on that afternoon there was a slight loose wobble in her thighs as she sprinted down her run-up to bowl and a slight sweaty moisture in the hand that held the ball. It was enough to degrade her speed and accuracy by a vital fraction, and I exploited it without mercy – just as I intended to do to her later, and she knew it. To the horror of her team, I swatted Carla’s deliveries around the field and even over the pavilion roof, racing to my fastest century ever. This clinched the match, which we won comfortably, my own score having reached 136 when I got over-confident and finally sliced one of Carla’s better balls into the waiting hands of one of their fielders.

After the match, we waited until the others had once again gone their various ways. Then I had Carla, first in the showers, then across the wooden bench in our changing-room (where many a babe has grunted and squealed under my tongue or my dildo), and then up against the lockers as once again I forced the thick handle of my cricket bat into her vagina, as she mewled and bucked frantically against it. Even in those intervening weeks, she must have had quite a few lesbian trysts, because she was wider and looser, and I got it into her for a good eight inches before I started pumping her pussy into submission. She came volcanically, her juice squirting down the ridged rubber handle-grip, and whilst she was still dazed from that I thrust her face down across the wooden bench, kicked her ankles apart, and drilled my strap-on into her ass-hole. She shrieked so much at that, I had to wrap her bra around her face as a gag, pulling her head up and back like the reins of a horse.

At last she collapsed, and I took the opportunity to get out the cuffs and bondage rope that I had deliberately brought with me for the occasion – cuffing her ankles together and then tying her wrists to them, so that she was fixed in a kneeling position with her legs apart. I sat on the bench with my thighs spread and put her in place between them, and ordered her to worship my tits – which she did with great delight, whilst I drove my fingers roughly in and out of her pussy, and thumb-rubbed her clitoris to distraction. After she orgasmed convulsively again, twice in quick rippling succession, I leaned back and instructed her to eat me out, which she did very effectively.

I patted her on the check, released her from her bondage, and took her back to my flat, where for the next few hours I fucked her hard and often, sometimes in bondage and sometimes not, and she repaid me with passionate attention to my breasts and avid sucking and lapping at my cunt. Eventually, I had to drive her to the railway station to get the last train back to her home town – the little slut could barely walk, her pussy had been shafted so hard and often! I was not surprised when she pulled out of her team’s next two matches – officially giving the reason as ‘groin strain’, which made me laugh. In her absence, her team suffered two successive defeats, which was not unhelpful for my team’s chances of wining the League – but I certainly had not done it for that reason, but for the much better one of pure red-hot lesbian lust.

In the end, my team did win the championship that year, and after we lifted the trophy in the decisive match against our other main rivals, a team from Lancashire in the north of England, I noticed Carla on the fringes of the happy, clapping crowd. I beckoned her over – she looked really sweet and delectably girly, wearing something very like a schoolgirl outfit – white knitted knee-highs, a short grey pleated skirt, a plain white shirt and a red blazer-style jacket. She looked at me shyly, and then asked almost in whisper if I would take her home with me.

Well, that was certainly too tempting an offer to be refused. Still, I looked at her questioningly, and then in an even quieter voice, she told me that ever since, as a schoolgirl, she had seen the pictures of me in my lingerie, she had desired me and now, after our two marathon fuckathons, she had fallen in love with me. Then she looked at me, in a very adult way, and said quietly:

‘I know you’re not in love with me, maybe you don’t even fancy me as much as you do lots of other women … and I know you like to fuck around a lot, I mean I’ve heard the rumours … but I don’t care, I can’t hide it any more … I’ll just be your fuck-puppet, any time you want to use me … but, please, do so tonight, please … take me tonight …’

I looked at her in amazement, for I had had no idea that her feelings ran so deep. As I stood there, I turned things over in my mind … she was hot stuff, no doubt about it, and as willing a sapphic slut as you would ever find. And she knew how to dress to attract a girl, just as she had that day, quite tantalising in her ‘innocent schoolgirl’ look, when I knew in reality what a voracious sexual appetite lay underneath. And she was intelligent, lively, good company out of bed … and, most of all, she shared my passion for cricket and was at a similar high level of ability too … hmmm.

Well, a girl’s gotta settle down some time, and the trick is to recognise that moment when it comes. And, I thought, perhaps it just had – yes, perhaps indeed it had.

No one was standing near us or looking our way, so I took the peachy teen by the hand around to the deserted back of the pavilion, and pressed her up against the peeling white clapboard wall. I pushed my hand up under her skirt, tugged aside the gusset of her already-sodden panties, and deftly slid my index finger for its full length into her gaping wet hole. As I slowly eased it in and out, thrusting her towards a quick climax, I kissed her throat and then said softly into her ear:

‘I think I could get sweet on you, honey, I really think I could … yeah, maybe make you my girlfriend … my one and only …’

Carla’s back arched and she cried out in ecstasy, and to this day I believe that it was the effect of my words in her ear and not my finger up her cunt.

Where is she? Where is she now, you are asking? Well, that summer was two years ago, and Carla is where she’s been ever since, in my bed with her clothes off and her legs wide apart, eager as a bunny to fuck and fuck and fuck with me. She transferred her university application to the midlands city where I live and work, which has a top-class university, and told her parents that she had an offer of lodging in the spare room of a top woman cricketer for much less rent than a place in the university halls of residence would cost. Her folks accepted that as quite natural, knowing her commitment to the sport, and they don’t seem to suspect that whilst Carla does all her studying in ‘her room’, she never sleeps there but always in my king-size double-bed. She doesn’t actually pay me rent for her room; instead, we put that money aside each month in a savings fund, some of which we use for sports equipment and some for treats and holidays.

Naturally, Carla joined the same team as me, and I have to say that the combination of my batting skills and her demonic fast bowling has made us more or less unbeatable, and thanks to that we are about to win the national women’s league yet again this year, for an unprecedented third time in a row, and with a big lead of points over the runners-up. Both Carla and I are at the top of our form, with the extra lift and pleasure of playing together on the cricket pitch on the weekend and playing together every night of the week in bed – oh yeah, we give each other a real work-out! In fact, tonight we celebrated with a bottle of champagne and best-quality fillet steaks, as we have both just got the call to play for the England women’s cricket team this coming winter in a test-match tour to India, Australia and New Zealand.

And finally – and amazingly – I am now Miss Monogamous: I don’t fuck any other women, even when they try to seduce me or almost shove their wet cunts in my face. Yes, that’s right, I did get all sweet on the hot little slut; yes, I fell in love too – if the pun doesn’t make you groan, you can say that, in the end, she bowled me over.


If you enjoyed this, check out my other all-girl lesbian stories ... you might like them too ... (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)

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