It had been a good game. A spectacularly good game, even though we lost. All 8 of us had seemed so close, shouting and laughing and bouncing off the walls and each other. Walleyball is a good game for exercise if you play 2 on 2, but very sociable 4 on 4. The rules are vaguely like volleyball (vaguely interpreted, among us at least), but the big blue ball has the spring of a racquetball. It stings pretty fiercely, too. We looked down on the cowards who played in long sleeves, showing off our reddened forearms. I rubbed my bruises pensively, leaning against the wall in the shower. I had probably overdone it with that new serve, the one where the sensitive skin inside the wrist hits hard for backspin, but there was a woman on the other team I was trying to impress. Her legs were so long and graceful, stretching lean and strong between her shorts and knee pads. I savored the memory of one play, leaping to block her spike, nearly touching her body through the net, feeling her warm and resilient and alive as we fought for the ball. Seeing her blush as she came back down, looking away as I noticed her nipples erect under her damp shirt. I wanted her. Later, she dove for a low ball, ending up huddled on her knees, almost cringing at my feet as her teammate reached over her towards the ball. I reached under the net to help her up, congratulating her quickness even as my fingers dug cruelly into her red, puffy, forearms. She smiled at me. I wanted to see that smile again. By the time the game ended, we were all glowing and sore. I lingered in the shower, expecting her to take a long time in the women's locker room. She always did, simply because it took so long for her to brush out her long hair. Gorgeous hair, but it always seemed to get tangled up, even though she tied it back. I hoped to meet her in the waiting room, walk with her to the restaurant where we were to meet the others. Besides, the hot water felt good, and I was in a mood for sensual luxuries. When I finally left, she was waiting for me, tousled and beautiful. Our friends were gone. "Hi, Will. I forgot my hairbrush." She tossed her head ruefully. "Could I borrow yours? I hate to go to dinner looking like this." My hair was cropped so short I had little use for a brush, but I kept one at home. Wanting to spend a few minutes alone with her, I didn't mention that she looked magnificent already. I just invited her to my apartment, which was conveniently between the gym and the restaurant. We chatted lightly, easily, as we walked across campus. She was as exhilerated as I was by the game, the teamwork, the solid smack of rubber against flesh. She was wearing a leather jacket that took my breath - it looked supple as brushed silk, softer than the delicate skin inside her wrist, warm and alive. I had never much liked leather, but this was different. I contrived to brush her sleeve casually, and my fingertip felt rough and crude on that magical surface. I wanted to touch it with my lips. I left her in my living room while I hunted down the hairbrush. She admired the heavy, old-fashioned wood, noticing that the painted design on the back was nearly worn away. She ran her fingers through my short hair. "How do you get so much use out of this? Or did it belong to someone else?" I blushed, but she was smiling. Could she know I got more use out of the back of the brush than the front? Or did she just think it used to belong to my grandmother? "I mostly use it in the dark, and the back gets banged against things." There. Honest, but ambiguous. She started tugging the brush through her hair, wincing when she got to a snarl. She handed it to me, turning her back. "Would you care to help? It goes faster if you can see what you're doing." She leaned into the strokes as I brushed, stretching like a cat against the slight pull on her scalp. Her hair was very dark, fine and soft. I held my hand between the hair and that jacket, revelling in the raw sensation. She was bending slightly forward over the back of my couch. Her bottom brushed my thigh. Accidental, or flirtation? I swatted her with the back of the brush, not very hard. "Hold still, and let me finish." My voice cracked. Gods, she was beautiful! She moaned softly, bending further down so her head rested on the couch, her bottom offered up to my hand. I stepped back and spanked her, experimentally, not sure how much she could take. She seemed to enjoy the first few blows, squirming towards me, arching her back as her hair fell forwards. I pulled down her sweatpants. I wasn't really surprised that she wasn't wearing underwear, but I hadn't expected her to be so very wet already. I spanked her long and hard, holding her down with one hand firm in the middle of her back, fingertips stroking that extraordinary leather. (Words fail me. I don't know how to describe the next 5 minutes so they don't sound dull and banal. Suffice it to say, a good time was had by all. And I'm sure the couch can be cleaned.) We finally arrived at the restaurant, not so very late that our friends suspected the details of our detour. We talked about the game, and compared the red marks on our arms, boasting of our courage and skill. Red marks elsewhere, and other skills, were never explicitly mentioned, though I noticed my new friend fidgeting on the edge of her seat, and my fingers wandered to the leather draped over the back of her chair.