Match Time

My body tenses, almost entering fight or flight. I bite my lip, eyes wide and staring at myself in the mirror, then throw my phone and bra into my tennis bag.

After throwing the bag over my shoulder, I rush out the door. Fuck, hopefully there won't be too many people spectating today. Even just jogging out to the court is sending my tits into a damn frenzy.

For a second I stop, an intense pressure building up behind my eyes and in my chest. My tits are just so damn ugly, so out of proportion! A glance down only makes me take a shuddering breath, the sight too obscene for me to truly handle. My nipples are erect, for fucks sake! Poking out for the whole world to see!

Out of the corner of my dampening eyes, I see Coach Chris waving me over. Of course he is, the bastard. Ugh, okay. I can do this. I'm the best tennis player here; if the crowd and the pressure won't get in my way, then my ugly fucking tits aren't gonna get in my way either. Nor will this apparently magical app.

Shit, that's a whole mindfuck that I'm gonna have to process at some point. I mean, really: magic???

Okay, I have to put that out of my mind. Deep breath in, deep breath out, focused. Just like Dr. Blaire taught.

In. Out. In. Out.

After trying to rub my eyes as nonchalantly as possible, I start jogging towards my coach. With each step, my boobs bounce against my ribs in an erratic dance. The whole way over, Coach Chris stares at me expectantly, but there's something else behind his eyes. I don't want to even think about it.

Hell, the whole team is staring, but not all of them for the same reasons. Well, my teammates who haven’t gone to their courts yet are, anyway. Probably none of them realized how big the disgusting fat hanging off my chest was, and now they were giggling about it. Or maybe they thought I was some sort of augmented whore. I certainly wouldn't blame them.

Coach Chris strides towards me, meeting me just outside of anyone else’s range of hearing. “Emily! Glad you could make it.” The sarcasm practically drips off his tongue. “You missed the introductions, but you should be good if you book it to your court.”

“Sorry I’m late coach, I’ll head over there now.”

“You did warm up earlier, right?” His eyes fall to my boobs, and he reaches across his beer-belly to rub his elbow. He looks at me with an expression that borders on concern. After a brief pause, he asks, "And are you doing alright?"

Sighing, I reply, "Yeah, I'm good. It’s just a whole thing." Yeah, a fucking magical nightmare of a ‘thing’. I rock on my heels, a nervous habit, but quickly drop it when I feel my bust swaying freely on my chest. “Oh, and I did hit earlier. With the team, as you know, and by myself before changing into… this. Sorry again.”

He swallows, then the perv glances at my chest out of the corner of his eye. "No problem-o, if you’re alright and warm then I’m happy. We’ve kind of started the pre-match rallying, as you can see." With that, he gestures at the eight courts behind him, on which I can see four groups of players from each team rallying. “So, I guess just get out there if you’re ready… Oh! And remember your gameplan, Nina is-”

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Thanks!”

Leaving Coach Chris to talk to the assistant coaches or whatever the fuck else he wants to do, I turn and jog over to my remaining huddled teammates. They aren’t even trying to pretend like they aren’t staring straight at my tits! Eyes follow my bouncing bust, but I can’t bring myself to meet the faces they’re attached to. How could I?

FUCK, I gotta keep my emotions in check. Okay, if I just keep my gaze on Claire I might be okay.

Actually, I take that back. Fuck. Claire’s face is like the stock image for perplexed disgust. I think. It’s possible the aching pressure in my throat is influencing my perception, but I can’t imagine that’s the case. What else could she possibly be feeling?

Staring at the ground might be a better idea. That way, I’ll only be imagining their horrified expressions. Not seeing them.

I reach the group and stop, taking them in while waving. Four of our players are milling around, as are our subs. After a quick breath and with my eyes locked on the ground, I say, "Hey, sorry I ran a little late. How are y’all doin’?”

Jesus Christ, Y’ALL? I’m not from fucking Texas. Then again, the word is a pretty standard contraction that might be more useful than I had first assumed… Or maybe I should just drop that hick shit for good, I dunno.

“- sure you don’t need more time?” Hailey’s eyes are locked on my tits. Although I missed most of what she said, engrossed as I was in my totally necessary inner monologue about the word ‘y’all,’ that question dragged me kicking and screaming back to reality. Her embarrassed hand-flail in the direction of my tits after she asks the damn question only serves to infuriate me more. It’s embarrassing, as I’m sure a growing flush in my cheeks could attest to.

Ugh, she has every right to ask. And if there’s one thing our star doubles player is not known for, it’s being too afraid to speak her mind. Which I’m all for, usually. Keeps me honest.

It would be nice if she could take a break from it for just today though.

While doing everything in my power to refrain from lashing out or falling onto the ground in the fetal position, I adopt a smile and say, “Nah, I’m good. Thanks for looking out, though. I appreciate it. And I’m glad to hear you’re feeling alright.”

Hopefully ‘alright’ covers most of the emotions she could have said while I was zoning out. Shit, hopefully she said something about how she was feeling to begin with!

Scratching the back of her neck, Hailey says, “Thanks… and cool, the new look suits you!”

“Thanks.”

Rub your beautiful A cups in my face, why don’t you.

From well behind us, Coach Chris yells out, “Ladies! Get back to your courts! Ten minutes!”

I roll my shoulders, trying to get back into it. This makeup match is weird, given that it’s on a Wednesday. Should’ve skipped Physics like Claire did, but I hope that my warmups earlier in the day will cover me for when the match starts. It should be fine, especially when combined with the stretching, serve prep, and wall work I did before hitting the locker room and changing into this atrocity of an outfit.

Gem ladies really took up a lot of my time.

I look at my teammates, just starting to get up after our coach’s announcement. “Y’all feeling up to your matches?”

Wow does that word feel weird on the tongue. I should drop it for good. Right? Yeah, probably.

"Hell yeah we are!" Hailey shouts from the back of the pack, smiling as she slings her bag over her shoulder. The other girls nod their assent, bouncing on the balls of their feet, their short skirts erratically revealing thighs as they hop. What I wouldn’t give for their athletic, slim builds at this moment…

“Great! Warm-ups went really well, so I’m feeling pretty good too. For all of us.” I deliberately flash a smile at Claire. “So, let's get out here, I guess. Good luck everyone!”

Muttered and enthusiastic good lucks and high fives are passed around for a moment.

The huddle disperses, but I can see some of the girls stealing glances at the girls on my chest, and some of them seem to be whispering. It's almost enough to send me back to the locker room.

Instead, I head towards my court. I really, really have to perform for my team today, even if my tits are a bit more unruly than usual.

The thought of taking a look at the stands behind our blue and red courts is terrifying, but I manage to do it. The seats seem to be mostly empty today, thankfully. But the fact that they aren’t completely empty is still a fucking travesty. I mean, there are students here that I know! Parents and professors that I respect! Hell, I think I can see my roommate, Melissa, sitting alone in the front row behind my court. She never comes to these!

Yeah, this is not gonna be fun.

Just ignore it, and it'll be over soon. I'd like to be able to tell myself that, anyway, but the feeling of my tits bouncing as I walk slowly towards the court is not at all encouraging. When they hang... unconstrained like this, it just becomes that much more obvious to me that they're massive and unsightly. Hopefully their increased freedom will just be ugly. If they also throw off my movement I'll be pissed. Well, more pissed than I already fucking am.

Not that it really matters.

The chain-link fences that create a tunnel-like path that divides our eight courts into two sets of four is almost stifling. Now that I notice it. Before today it always just seemed normal. My breaths are short, matching the small steps that alleviate some of the jiggling in my top.

Once I reach the entrance to the court I’ll be playing on, I pause, one arm wrapped around my stomach. Should I really go in? Could I call it quits, just for today? Not for the first time, I wish that I was playing on a lower court. One like the third seed singles players would be on, where I would have a little less space and a smaller crowd.

Pretty much all of the courts were visible from any seat, but the top courts were easily the most watched, and it was hard to see the other courts from that seating sometimes. So anyone looking to watch me play will be getting a good look at my chest and probably won’t have wandering eyes.

At least there aren’t too many people up there, just a handful of peers and faculty members. FUCK.

Claire walks up to me as I dilly-dally, looking concerned. Avoiding my gaze, she says, "Hey Em. Um, are you sure you're doing okay?" At that, she glances at my chest, but her gaze quickly darts to her own hands.

If I could roll my eyes, punch her, and get the fuck out of here without consequences, I think I might do it. Then again, it does seem like she's only trying to help. Steeling myself, I say, "Yeah, I'm fine. My bra... broke in the locker room, and it was my only one, so I'm gonna need to get another one custom ordered. I can manage though. It's no prob."

Looking flabbergasted, Claire says, "Custom ordered?" Her eyes widen, and she hastily says, "Sorry, sorry! That's awful! Um... good luck in your match."

"Don’t worry about it. And thanks, good luck to you too." As Emily starts to walk away, I can't help but try to assuage her fears one last time. I lightly grab her shoulder, then say, "Claire, you genuinely can win, okay? Like I was saying before, we all believe in you, and you proved in practice that you have the right strategy totally down. You got this!"

God, her smile is infectious even in these weird-ass, horrifying times. "Thanks Em! We’ll have to discuss our conquests at the champion’s table after our matches, ‘kay?”

Chuckling a little, I say, “Yeah, for sure. Go get ‘em.”

With one last wry grin and a wave, Claire jogs away, running one hand through her hair heading towards her court. The way she can just bounce off without worrying about her bust slapping her in the face must be nice. Nice like my view of her tight ass as she jogs away.

I just hope she can get over herself for once, get her mental shit out of the way and win. Like I’m one to talk though. Especially now.

A sigh works its way out of my chest. I pull at my shirt, trying to somehow adjust it into a position that actually covers up my boobs in a meaningful way. My hands press briefly into the soft flesh, and I feel my face contort into a grimace.

Giving up, I finally make my way onto the court. My opponent is already there and serving; she doesn't even spare me a glance. Her lazy warm-up serves fly towards my half of the court with a pace that I rarely ever get the chance to see. It's kind of exciting!

And nerve-wracking, if I’m honest.

The fact that she has a tall, toned, and lanky frame doesn't do anything to dull that excitement. It does change the tone of it, though. The desire in my chest combined with the red tinge that must be taking over my warming face attests to that.

While setting down my bag to the side of my bench near the net, I steal glances at her. On each serve she jumps high in the air, her legs gracefully flowing behind her uncoiling body. Her short, tight skirt often rides up until it almost reaches her waist. Her thighs are a light, tanned brown, muscled from working out and playing her sport.

She looks absolutely delectable.

Jesus, that is NOT something I need to be thinking about right now! Especially with my current state of dress. Besides, it’s not like she’d want me, of all people. Especially since she’s probably straight, like everyone else. Just gotta get into my competitive mindset.

I take yet another calming breath, then stand up from my sitting position on the bench. The motion causes my erect, sensitive nipples to rub against the fabric of my shirt. Desire burns in my chest as I see Nina connect on another serve. Flustered, I go to grab my racket so that I can rally for a few minutes. Definitely not because I want to hide my blushing face.

Unfortunately, my bag is on the ground. It isn't until I start to bend at the hips that I realize what that means. In less than a second, I'm yet again face to face with my boobs, gravity's merciless pull almost dragging them out of the confines of my fucking low-cut top. Instantly, my desire is forgotten, blown away in a fickle wind.

I unzip my bag, then grab my racket, still bent at the waist. Is anyone from the crowd looking? Staring? I can only hope not.

Once I’m fully bent over, the backside of my skirt taunts the back of my thighs with the removal of its touch. All that remains to cover my ass is the tight embrace of my black boyshorts. They only reach about two inches below my all-too-effin-large ass, but it’ll have to do.

Thank god we all need something to hold the tennis balls. Otherwise, I might have on even more scandalous underwear, and this would be so much worse! Then again, if the administration let me wear actual fucking shorts like I wanted, with pockets, it would already be a non-issue. But nooooo, girls can’t wear shorts. That would be a grievous insult to the spirit of our “divine” sport!

Sexist assholes.

My arm is trembling, but I manage to calm it while I stand up. I turn towards my side of the court, which has the chain-link fence to its back. The stands are on the opposite side, so once I’m on the baseline it’ll almost be like I’m face to face with the spectators. Well, it would be like that if I intended to spare them a glance.

Hopefully I can tune them out.

As I jog to the back corner of the court to pick up a ball or two, my boobs bounce. Experimentally, I shuffle to the right one step and then reverse direction. The fat blobs of fatty fat swing wildly with even that movement, but it doesn’t quite throw me off. It’s just annoying. And fucking awful.

If that’s all it’ll be, I’ll take that as a win, all things considered.

The sub from the opposing team who had been returning Nina’s balls to her while I was out of the picture sees me approaching, and heads for the exit. A loud SMACK sounds out from the opposite side of the court, and a split-second later a green ball lodges itself in the chain-link fence in the opposite corner from me.

There are two balls in the corner I’m closer to, so I figure I might as well grab those first, then have my obligatory chat with Nina before we rally.

Just before I reach them, images from Gem Ladies flash through my mind. The lights, the music, the boom of the bomb. It’s all so enticing.

Wait, enticing? What the actual fuck?

My hand shakes slightly at my side. I clutch my skirt in a balled-up fist and close my eyes, banishing the game from my mind. I’ll try to remove my punishments… later. Then I’ll never play the damn thing again.

If I can help it.

Returning to myself, I take a step forward. As usual, I reach out with my racket, preparing to pull the ball to my shoe and then flick it up to my hand. It takes no effort at this point, so I don’t even have to think about it, and can instead prep mentally for the game. Which is why it’s so surprising when I find myself face-deep in my rippling cleavage.

My whole body tenses and I stop breathing. Frantically, I try to stand up, but it’s no use. Shit. Who the hell made this game?

Do I have to pick up everything like this, even if I wouldn’t have to use my hands?

My breath catches in my throat. The only thing that finally spurs me on into motion is the realization that my school-enforced skirt is riding up towards my waist and that the crowd and my cute opponent are getting an eyeful of my unsightly, curvaceous ass.

I reach out and grasp the ball, then shoot up to my feet. Which was a bad idea, since the **** of the motion sets my “unconstrained” tits into a frenzy. My initial attempts at slowing down the motion only result in me squishing the juicy flesh against my arms and my body.

Looking up, I see some of my teammates staring at me, aghast. Or confused. One of them even seems aroused, but that can’t be possible. Fuck.

I shut my eyes for a second and drop my hands to my side, letting my aching tits settle themselves on my chest. With a practiced motion, I deftly shove the ball under the side of my boyshorts for storage.

I’m just going to have to play this off as intentional. Fuck, I hadn’t considered that I might have to bend over to pick up every single fucking tennis ball. While rubbing my shoulder and stepping towards the second ball, I think things over.

Do I try to play another game of Gem Ladies? The thought alone makes me shiver for some reason, my body lighting up in a momentary perverse anticipation.

I could also just deal with things for now, either grab this ball or go talk to Nina. It’ll suck, but maybe bending at the waist won’t be exponentially worse than what I was already expecting to do.

Fuck it, whatever I do, I have to get into a winning headspace. Before I can expound on that, my body apparently decided that I was indeed trying to pick up that second ball because I find my face diving towards the ground.

An “Eep!” escapes my lips. Seriously. Like a fucking mouse.

The way my hand trembles as it grasps the ball is disgusting. I can practically feel the eyes on my butt, on my chest. As I stand, I take in a deep breath while staring at the rough ground.

I straighten out my skirt and shirt, trying to get my unruly boobs back into a good position where they’re a little less visible. Satisfied, I turn, intentionally avoiding looking at the crowd or my teammates or Nina. I just have to figure out what to do, beat Nina, and then beat this app into fucking submission.

Blinking rapidly, I realize that my shirt is still eschewed, revealing way too much creamy cleavage. As quickly as I can, I straighten it, feeling the heat in my face rising while my boobs compress slightly under my hand’s correction. Pleasepleaseplease don’t let many people be staring right now.

After I store the second tennis ball next to the first one and straighten out my clothes again, I walk towards the baseline, nervously twirling my racket around a finger as I go. Just before I reach the center, I pause. Should I try to fit in a game? Just one? It couldn’t be too bad, right?

Nina is no doubt wondering why the hell I’m not already rallying with her, especially since her partner is gone because of me. Steeling my fraying nerves, I peek up at her. She stands on the baseline, one hand resting on her cocked hip, the other tapping her racket on her toned calves. One foot taps the ground impatiently, but her eyes seem to twinkle with a bemused mirth, mixed with a spark of interest.

That’s not possible, though. I’m sure of it.

I bite my lip, glancing at my bag on the bench near the net. It probably wouldn’t take too much time to grab my phone. Maybe it would be best to do that after warming up, though, or between sets. Yeah, that seems better.

Just deciding that I will play another round soon seems to scratch an itch I barely even registered having. The relief combines with embarrassment when I realize I just teased my ugly body to a bunch of people and am now just standing on the court, listless.

Calling out to Nina across the court, I say, “H-hey, hi! You good to rally for a bit?”

“Sure thing!”

Nina grins at me, then gets into her stance, ready for me to send over the first ball. God, I better not have to pick up many balls on my side of the court while we’re doing this.

The swallow I take must be noticeable to anyone close enough to hear it and to anyone looking at my throat. I slide a ball out of my skirt, tossing it in my hand, and then drop it and swing my racket through.

It’s probably the most tense and awkward swing that I’ve ever had, but it gets over the net and lands somewhere close the the service line. The main issue is that even that simple motion swing my tits into my biceps and against each other in ways I hadn’t even considered before given my commitment to sports bras and binders.

God, at least I can still move. As Nina effortlessly swings through the ball, I move my feet to prepare for it to land well to my right with heavy top spin.

For a moment, I forget my new predicament, my whole focus trained on the ball and my body. As soon as my racket connects, however, my swinging tits are at the forefront of my mind.

They swing against with my momentum as I plant my foot to change direction. I can feel them bouncing on my ribs, pressing into my arms. It’s annoying. Disgusting. Wrong.

I get into position with two quick steps, bouncing on the balls of my feet while Nina moves to my ball. With each micro-hip, my boobs comically pull down and up, usually against my actual motion.

Fuck it. As the next ball comes in to my backhand, I again manage to put it out of my mind. I’m trained to, but I also have to. Although I’m sure they do their best impression of twin cyclop bobbleheads when I hit the ball and change direction again, it barely registers in my mind.

I’m focusing. In and out.

A few hits later, and the ball sits still on Nina’s side, thankfully. That’ll be one less thing I have to pick up for now. I pull out my second ball and hit it over, thinking about how I can best exploit her weak one-handed backhanded.

We only get in another couple of rallies before we hear the whistle that signifies we have to practice some serves. Luckily I’m feeling pretty good already. Nina hasn’t even tried, lazily swinging through balls and sending them back in my direction. At least I haven’t been picking anything up.

Serving is going to change that though.

I have one ball to my name, and Nina has three, so I hit mine to her and get in a stance to return her serves. As I bounce in place, I glance at the crowd for the first time. Many are speaking amongst themselves, bored while they wait for the matches to actually begin, but I see a number of people staring at me on rapt attention.

Fuck. Apparently not everyone is ignoring the big boobed circus freak like I had hoped. Not that I expected it, at all.

The thing that might be the weirdest is Melissa. I only catch a glimpse of her before I have to return Nina’s serve, but it almost looks like she’s the most enraptured person here! Her face seemed red, her eyes strained, and her body was leaning dangerously forward over the guardrail, her moderate and perfectly shaped boobs hanging down in her crop top.

What the hell is that about! Does she just love my humiliation or something?

Whatever. I barely connect on Nina’s first serve, my return limping over the net with no pace. Focus. This isn’t even her actual serving. I’ve gotta be better than this!

My boobs run against the flesh just below my ribs with each bounce. Racket out, I wait for Nina to connect on one of her beautiful serves. Her foot twists just before she jumps, and I can’t help but grin as I preemptively shift to my right and connect on a forehand, cracking it sown the line.

Okay, that tell could be a godsend, if my idiotic utilization of it in a fucking PRACTICE point didn’t just tip her off.

Nina stops on the other side for a moment, tilts her head, and shrugs. As she returns to the line, I catch her glancing at my fucking shaking chest, at my huge boobs and the nipples that push against my shirt.

I feel a pulse in my pussy. A hand clenching my heart. A ball flies by me, slamming into the fence. Damn. Gotta pay attention.

I think she missed though. My short-term memory has a flash of an image of the ball over a foot wide of its intended target. Huh. Wonder what distracted her, if anything.

Getting back into it, I focus in and return Nina’s serves, though they seem more erratic than before, and her face seems redder. She’ll probably figure it out once we start for real. Maybe she’s messing with me.

Wordlessly, she lifts a ball in my direction. I nod, and she lobs three of them to me, one after the other. Shit!

I scramble, trying to grab them all up before they stop on the ground. I get the first easily, and manage to catch the second with my racket before it blows past me. The third flies by me, and I just let it go. I can potentially get a handful of serves in without it, provided that Nina hits her returns to me and I get lucky.

My practice serves are pretty uneventful. I already warmed them up before this, so if anything this is mostly for tradition. I throw in some serves that are slower than the ones I’ll actually be using, and some weird spins, thinking it might keep Nina guessing later.

Her eyes never seem to leave me, even as she softly hits her returns back to my waiting hands. It’s almost creepy. I mean, I get it already. I’ve got a fucking disgraceful body and I’m flaunting it for no reason with too little clothing on. Give me a break, geez.

Glances at the stands confirm that Melissa is still fixed on me, though she’s finally leaned back in her seat.

After a few serves, a final whistle blows. I call out, “You ready to go?”

Nina nods with a soft smile, and jogs to the benches. Not wanting to cause more of a show than I have to, I walk back, then plop down on my ass with my head buried in my hands.

Okay. I can do this. I can! My gaze shifts to my bag, colored gems flashing through my head.

No! I have a minute at most, and for all I know I’ll get something even worse when- if!- I lose. But I’ll try again once the first set finishes, that should work. I fucking hope.

I scratch the back of my neck, but not the magical itch that started to subtly crawl across my skin. Standing up, I roll my neck and walk to the net, ready for the initial coin toss.

My boobs bounce, threatening to break out of the top or the sides my tank top. More of the crowd takes note, and I see Nina casting wide-eyed glares in my direction as we head towards the approaching judge, but I shove it out of my mind.

I simply have to.