The game is close as the wager escalates.

Wiping the water from her face Sam retrieves the ball and walks towards the net. “Alright, Hometown, here are the rules: We volley for serve, then we each take turns serving, the first one to win five serves, wins the game.”

“Fair enough Red. I'm ready when you are.”

“So, what is your favorite type of music?” Sam continues the banter as she punches the ball with her finger tips over the net.

Hitting it back over the net you answer, “Most types, especially classical, folk and rock.” Sam returns your volley and you easily hit it back. “Just not old hick-a-billy country, rap, and . . . sorry . . . metal.”

“Pfft,” Sam has to jump to get this one. “Pretty closed minded and judgmental.”

“Taste and tolerance are different things Red.” You spike the ball into the water, giving you the first serve.

Moving to the back right corner of your side of the pool you decide to bluff a little with regards to your volleyball skill. Instead of taking the safe route and serving underhand you throw the ball up in the air, hitting it overhand like a pro. “So, what's your favorite movie?” You continue the friendly conversation, playing it cool.

To your surprise a perfectly placed strike sails past Sam scoring you the first point. Taking the ball Sam answers, “'Captain Blood' with Errol Flynn” though now in a more business like tone. “0 to 1.” Sam, following your lead serves it overhand. Unlike your shot, however, hers goes long and bounces off the cement behind you, out of bounds.

Jumping out of the pool you get the ball and then slide back into the water. “My favorite movie is Brando's 'On the Waterfront.'” Again the volleyball gods look kindly on your serve. Sam hits your shot with power, but back into the net.

“That's 2-0, Red.” You cannot but smile catching the ball thrown back to you by the statuesque candidate. Trying to be gallant, and keeping things friendly, you offer your opponent a little grace. “Don't worry about the bet, that delicious lunch was good enough for me.”

A fierce offended glare comes across her face at the offering of mercy. “Why don't we up the wager then.” She defiantly responds.

You don't answer at first, surprised at her brashness and **** competitiveness. Sam takes your puzzled silence as an invitation to challenge you, “Besides preparing dinner, the loser has to wash and wax the winner's car while still in their bathing suit!”

With a two point lead, a dirty car that could use a good washing, and the vision of seeing more of the bikini clad beauty as she bends and stretches over your car with a soapy sponge is more than enough incentive. “Sure.” You give a friendly, casual nod.

“0-2.” Sam hits the ball, this time serving it underhand. Her shot is on target, its gentle trajectory and lack of power, however, always you to hit it right back at the fiery redhead. With a **** lunge Sam barely gets a piece of the ball, hitting it up with a high arc that will just barely make it over the net, setting you up for a perfect spike. As you prepare to pounce the buxom Republican jumps up in the air, her hands stretched high, trying to fence the incoming shot.

Your eyes briefly loose sight of the ball and gaze down through the net watching that incredibly proportioned body stretch out before you at eye level. Her ample firm breasts thrust up, straining against her bikini top, which though cut to give some athletic support, cannot help but yield a glimpse of her undercleavage.

This bewitchment momentarily freezes you in place. You only shake of its enchantment in time to catch the ball, less it embarrassingly bounce off the top of your head.

“Something wrong Hometown?” Sam gives a devilish grin guessing the real cause of your distraction. “Something got in your eyes?”

“Yeah, both of the them.” You mutter to yourself. Tapping the ball with your hand you move to serve. “Ok, Red 2 to 1.”

All idle chitchat now ceases, as you both focus in more intently on winning the game. You trade the next two hard fought points through several serves. Sam is able to tie the game at 2-2 and then you pull ahead once again with a 3-2 lead.

While you have gotten more serious in your focus, Ms. Kenderick seems to be thriving on the competition. After announcing “2-3” she serves with panache an almost perfectly placed shot. Madly diving to the back corner of the pool you are able to barely get your fist on the ball as you go face first into the water. Your shot is actually quite amazing, sailing back across your body and miraculously clearing the net. Unfortunately for you, Sam is perfectly placed and waiting. Jumping up the fiery Republican drills the ball as hard as she can back at you. While trying to stand up and turn around the ball bounces off your head and out of the pool.

“Now its 3 to 3.” Sam gleams, very pleased with herself.

Climbing out of the pool you comment, “So that's how we're going to play it?”

“I play to win Hometown.”

“Noted.” Getting the ball you climb back into the pool. “3 to 3.” You state with a serious tone, “Get ready Red.”

With skill Sam volleys your serve back, but panther like you ponce. Jumping up you hit the ball with all your strength, aiming at the open water near Sam, wanting to make a point. The determined redhead, however, tries to fence the net once again, this time the ball slams into the topheavy conservative. With a loud “THHWAP” the wet vinyl slaps hard against the upper part of Sam's chest, and ricochets back into the net, giving you the point.

“Ahhh!” Sam gasps from the impact and the sting. Wrapping her arms around her chest as she stumbles backward, almost falling underwater.

Your first instinct is to run over, profusely apologizing and attending to a lady in distress. But something within you decides against it. Putting on your best poker face, you stoically and simply ask, “are you okay?”

Sam raises her hands and looks down at her tits. A large red circular spot, as if sunburned, now appears on her skin in between the neck straps of her bikini in the upper part of her cleavage.

She bends over and dips her chest into the water a few times trying to lessen the sting of the welt. You feel a little guilty being aroused by this scene, which was caused by Sam's discomfort.

Sam looks up at you with an angry glare.

Again, you would normally apologize, but you continue to play it cool.

“Its 4 to 3 Red.” You state matter of factly. “It's your serve.”

Sam's expressions quickly changes from anger to offended puzzlement to curiosity and finally a cocky grin. “Bring it, Hometown.” She answers with a fiery glint in her eyes, dropping down into an athletic crouch, waiting for your serve.

This final reaction perplexes you, for she almost looks aroused. You have figured out Sam is very competitive, but this competitive? Several reasons run through your analytic brain to why she is now smiling. Is it because you treated her as you would a man, and thus an equal? Maybe she is just trying to act tough? Or is she simply that tough in begin with? Maybe she is just thrilled by the challenge of a well fought game? Or could it be that she is pleased that you acted in a traditional masculine commanding role? Most women are a mystery, but this redhead is very much an enigma, which scares you a bit that someone so intense is your political opponent, but it is also very intriguing and arousing.

“Earth to professor.” Sam waves, holding the ball on her hip. “Wake up Hometown, I am about to serve.”

“I'm ready.” You shake off your analytical trance, a bad habit you have had since childhood, and return your focus to the game, “go ahead and serve.” Sam could have easily scored and tied the game, your realize, but decided to play it fair. “My” you think to yourself with a grin, “she is beautiful.”

The next point takes several hits back and forth to determine, but the shapely businesswoman comes out on top and thus ties the game.

“4 to 4.” You announce before your serve. “Match point Red.”

“Care to make it even more interesting, Hometown?” Sam face continues to gleam with that strange combination of confidence and excitement.

“But I am serving for the win?” You respond, pondering why Sam so likes to double down when behind.

“Life's a gamble Professor.” She grins and assertively proclaims, “Besides, I don't think you have a prayer of winning this.”

“Oh?” You say amused while still taken aback by her brashness. “What do you have in mind?”

“You have to trade in your trunks for a Rush Limbaugh towel I have. You can tie it around your waist while washing my car.” Seeing your eyes go wide the overconfident beauty taunts, “Yeah, a wardrobe malfunction would be a real possibility.”

Your first inclination is to decline, never being one to play the fool by being goaded into something. Looking over your gorgeous tempter, however, how can you refuse? Besides, you're a little miffed that when stating her conditions Sam assumed the only outcome would be her winning. Maybe, you think, by raising the ante, you could **** the arrogant Republican to back down.

“And if I win,” You state your victory conditions and thus agreeing to the new wager, “you have to trade in your bikini top for my 1996 Clinton campaign t-shirt I use to wear as a kid.” Slowing your cadence down, you try to convey the peril of your suggestion, “Its white . . . old . . . thin . . . worn . . . torn . . . shrunk . . . and too tight for me now . . . Even the little Clinton/Gore logo up on the left corner has almost faded off.

The confident redhead doesn't flinch. “Deal, it's a bet.” And takes position waiting your serve.

“Damn it.” You swear to yourself; though certainly not troubled by the thought of seeing the shapely Harvard graduate so attired, you are frustrated that Samantha so easily called your bluff. As you tap the ball with your hand preparing to serve the confident conservative quips, “1996? Still having those teenage dreams of girls in wet t-shirts Hometown?”

You let your serve be your answer, which bounces several feet out of bounds. The redhead, and the thought of her in a wet t-shirt, has gotten into your mind. The one consolation is that you get to see her pretty little bikini covered rear as she climbs out of the pool to get the ball.

“Focus John, focus.” You think to yourself, really wanting to avoid losing.

“4 to 4. Match point Hometown. Oh, and make sure you use a toothbrush on my hubcaps.” Sam boastfully proclaims and serves the ball.