Well, you can choose.

"So you're my next opponent?" You try to keep your cool, even though she has you at something of a disadvantage already - buck naked in the girls' locker room.

"Well," she makes a disappointed face, as if that should have been perfectly obvious, "it looks that way. I mean you can scuttle back the way you came and find another door to open if you want, but if you keep going this way you'll have to get past me." She stops bouncing the strings of her racket off her sneakers and leans back against the wall, playing with it idly. You reach for your t-shirt slowly, making your movement smooth and natural, but she still catches it and stops you with a sharp "Hold it there.

"You're a lucky guy, because today I'm in the mood to give you a choice. Choose first, then you can get dressed, because those restrictive jeans might not be the best outfit." Fuck, not tennis! "We can go back there-" she jerks her thumb at the arch she must have entered through, "-and tussle and wrestle like I imagine you've had to do every time so far, or I guess we can tussle and wrestle right here if we like..." Her accent has the ring of money you notice, and she speaks with a clipped, efficient intent that speaks of an expensive education. And yet she ends up here, a Fuck-Fighter. She can't be older than 25 and you find yourself wondering about her story.

"Or we can play tennis," she finishes. "One game, the loser has to strip off in the middle of the court and make themselves cum, thus officially losing the 'fight'." Oh balls, you knew that would be an option.

She steps towards you and brings the racket behind her back. The long thin handle of it comes up between her legs as she advances, it lifts her skirt and juts out from between her thighs like some blocky, fake cock. She waggles it at you tauntingly.

"You look pretty fit, boy. Want to slip on some tennis whites?"