by Karl Quentin
Cassie Evergreen turned into the driveway of her Long Island estate. The microprocessor in her car spoke to the microprocessor in the gates, and the gates swung open to admit her. She glided the half mile to her front steps and let Simpson, her English manservant, park the car for her.
Cassie's usual US residence was either in Palm Springs or in Florida when she was not in Monte Carlo; but it was August, and the US Open was about to begin, so she had moved back to Long Island for those few weeks. She was NBC's special commentator, with work for the BBC on the side.
She was now in her early fifties, but she still possessed the stunning figure that had looked so cool in a demure white tennis dress back in the day. Long straight blonde locks tumbled in a flood of gold around her shoulders; breasts still perky if rather heavier than when the athlete had won three US Open titles and four Bumbledon championships. She still had those long springy legs that no one could miss when she served. Her eyes were still ice blue, with that distant amused expression that had made so many want to make an impression upon her; to be responsible for making those eyes roll back in ecstasy, that luscious mouth beg for release...
As she dropped her tote on the chaise, Simpson glided into the hall. "Will you be taking luncheon on the terrace, Ms Evergreen?"
Her throat contracted. There was something about that well-modulated English voice. So correct, so clipped and precise, so certain of its authority - so constipated and tight-assed! English voices did something to her insides. They made her want to rebel, to revolt against everything un-American they represented, and she wanted her revolt to be firmly crushed...
"I'll let you know," she said grandly, putting him in his place. "After I've showered and changed."
"Very good Ms Evergreen."
"Do you have anything special prepared for my arrival, Simpson?"
"Yes Ms Evergreen. I think you'll find it stimulating and piquant." He left like a faint sigh.
Cassie let the hot high pressure jets blast away the Queens grime. Despite the soaring temperatures outside, she needed heat when she showered (and not only in the shower). She soaped her breasts and studied the big strawberry aureoles glowing through the white froth of bubbles. She scoured her buttocks with the abrasive slimming flannel. She ran her soapy palm between her cheeks and around her lips, moaning a little. Oh boy she was hot too! Hot and primed.
She stepped, tingling and alive on the very surface of her skin, from the shower, wrapped in a huge soft white towel. Beyond her bedroom was the smaller room that served as her closet. Cassie dropped the towel and studied her naked body, pink and moist as it was, in the full length mirrors.
Her long blonde hair flowed wet and sleek over her shoulders and curling around her perked stiff nipples. Clear bright blue eyes gazed coolly into clear bright blue eyes, the long pale lashes blinking slowly. Her face was still perfectly proportioned, though her cheeks were rather chubbier than they had been when she beamed at the world on Centre Court at Bumbledon, holding aloft the silver trophy. She had the broad shoulders and firm upper arms of the athlete. Her breasts swayed delectably as she lifted them; there was some sag, but not bad for a middle-aged lady. Her tummy was no longer flat and taut, but bulged adorably like a Titian Venus. Cassie had no problem with that; nor, as she knew, did men. On the contrary, lovely in itself, it could be read also as a need for stricter discipline in her life.
Below, her trimmed bush surmounted a smaller, cloven bulge that was pulsing and beseeching beneath. Cassie saw that she was all curves and swellings, inlets and hollows. And without twisting round she could see the sinuousness of her spine leading down to the proud full jut of her imperious buttocks. Her cheeks were heavier than they had once been, but still extremely toned and without tan lines. They seemed to be demanding smacks, and Cassie obliged. They wobbled beneath the sweet sting. Alas! Only a man could give them the fiery treatment they needed. Cassie pouted.
She paced on her long slender legs to the six drawers where she kept her lingerie. Rifling through her sets of bras and panties, she finally chose sheer white lace. Her erect pink nipples glowed through the snowy floral mesh just as they had through the bubbles in the shower. She stepped into her panties and eased them up with a snap. Lacy panels at the front gave tantalising suggestions of pubic pleasures, at the rear, her luscious bottom gleamed beneath tight white satin. Cassie pursed her lips. Mmm, that looked rather nice! There had been a time when Cassie Evergreen's frilly-pantied bottom had adorned newspapers all over the world at the height of her career.
On a day like this, she needed something light and cool. That would have other advantages too. She already had the dress in mind: a full-skirted white dress with a spring flower design. She wriggled it over her head and contemplated her images. Oh yes, that was just right. The blue belt, to go with the forget me nots. Too hot for stockings so she slipped on some comfortable not-too-high heels, dried and arranged her hair, and applied some pale lipstick and a hint of eyeliner.
Her phone rang.
"What is it, Simpson?"
"I beg pardon for disturbing you, Ms Evergreen, but there is a gentleman here to see you. He is most insistent."
"Who is he? What does he want?"
"He has not disclosed his business to me, Ms Evergreen, but I understand that he is an official from the All England Lawn Tennis Club at Bumbledon, and that the matter is urgent."
Bumbledon! Cassie's heart skipped a beat. "Very well, Simpson. Give him a drink, and show him into the Trophy Room in ten minutes."
"Very good, Ms Evergreen."
Cassie arranged herself decoratively on the white couch, underneath the four shining replica Bumbledon trophies which would give her a psychological advantage. She knew that Bumbledon officials believed that professional tennis players should be grateful to be awarded the trophy; nevertheless she had won, four times, and this guy had not.
"The mistress is within, sir," she heard Simpson say. "By the way, sir, do you have the latest score from The Oval?"
"All out for 275," said a similar but deeper voice. The door opened, and the visitor from Britain walked in.
He was a very similar build to Simpson: tall and broad-shouldered, with a rather similar face, except that where Simpson's was bland and smooth, this fellow's was humorous and lively. Unlike Simpson, he wore the Ralph Lauren outfit peculiar to Bumbledon: the smart green blazer with the crest on the breast pocket, the tie in Bumbledon colours, the trousers with the razor sharp creases, the highly polished shoes. Where Simpson glided around the house as unobtrusively as possible, this guy held himself like a four star general. Like her father, in fact.
Cassie shifted in her seat and extended her legs, smoothing down her hem. "Hi there! What can I do for you? I hope it's important. I've a full schedule." She did not offer to stand or shake his hand.
"Miss Evergreen. Such a pleasure. I shan't detain you long." He strode - no other word for it - across the room, took her hand, and kissed it. Cassie put her head on one side and looked at him. "My name is Masters, by the way. Jack Masters. I can't tell you what a thrill and an honour it is to be in the presence of the Cassie Evergreen. May I sit?"
"By all means, Mr Masters." Cassie leaned back and her breasts leaned forwards.
She appeared relaxed and in charge; but she was anything but. That voice. That damned English voice! It was almost like Simpson's, but where Simpson's voice was always smooth and calm, Jack Masters' was as dark as chocolate and hinted at something repressed and devilish. It thrilled her and insinuated itself, almost as though it was a hand inching beneath her bottom. No wonder Hollywood always got the English guys to play the supervillains. They knew what they were doing. Jack Masters was putting a hundred megaton bomb inside her San Andreas fault.
And he represented Bumbledon itself: all that tradition and authority! Cassie, who had been a bit of a rebel in her prime, responded to authority with all her heart.
"Well now, Miss Evergreen, no doubt you're wondering why I'm disturbing you like this. You might say this is largely a courtesy call. As a lifetime member of the All England club, you are entitled to a personal service when it's a matter of keeping you informed of developments at the club. You may have heard that the Committee has decided to make the demand that players wear all white, and only white, more stringent?"
Cassie nodded. She had indeed. She had been sent the agenda and the minutes. Bumbledon seemed to be the only place on earth where retired lieutenant-colonels spent ages discussing whether young women's underwear was white. When she had been a player, Cassie had delighted in flouting such rules, and getting away with it.
"Of course," she said. "I voted for it myself."
"Well, I'm delighted to hear that of course. The Committee thought you might be interested to follow developments in that area."
"Sure..."
He opened his briefcase and placed a tablet on the table between them. As he powered it up, he said, "You know that young New Zealander, Jenny Bartlett, who's had such a good year? Well, during the last championships several of the keener eyed - and young at heart - members of the Committee noticed that Miss Bartlett was sneakily wearing a bright red bra under her white top, expecting no one would notice. Despite the clear warnings she had been given!"
"Yeah, I recall. I was over in England then. It made big news. You English dudes get very worked up about that stuff."
"We believe in standards, Miss Evergreen. We know that youth requires careful watching."
"Sure. Especially the pretty young things, eh?"
He inclined his head with a faint smile. "As one of the members who voted for a return to stricter standards, you may be interested in the aftermath of the incident." He turned the tablet towards her.
Cassie was watching a meeting in what looked like one of the Bumbledon committee rooms. There were four gentlemen in the same outfits as Jack Masters sitting like a tribunal along a sturdy table. Unlike Jack, they were not good looking. They looked positively grim. Upon the table, upon a large white folder, lay a red lacy bra.
Standing uneasily in front of them was a young woman in a smart navy blue skirt suit who looked remarkably like Jenny Bartlett. Her halo of blonde curls was a little pixelated as she shook her head. "No, you can't do that!" she was saying.
Cassie looked closer. It all looked hyper realistic; although Jenny's feet didn't seem completely aligned with the carpeted floor, and everyone's voice was ever so slightly out of synch with their lips. And wasn't there something ever so slightly odd about the way people moved?
"On the contrary. Miss Bartlett, that is exactly what we can do," snapped a distinguished looking older gent beneath furrowed brow. "You have confessed - reluctantly - to wearing forbidden attire and flouting the rules of this august institution!" He turned over the lacy lingerie with distaste and longing.
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