A tennis coach has a difficult pupil

By Jo Green

In the ‘normal’ days, the summer before the pandemic began, Tracy, a 35-year-old former model had taken up tennis and was coached by Mark, a 37-year-old former UK circuit player who had quit due to back issues. He then took up a successful coaching career while in his late 20s and worked in a private sports venue a little way outside London. Tracy enjoyed her one hour a week with Mark. Her husband worked in international finance and travelled widely, so could be away from home for days or weeks at a time living it up in luxury hotels or as a guest of the rich and famous.

Tracy always booked the 8.30 pm slot on a Wednesday. The centre officially closed at 9.30, but it was normal practice for coaches to finish their sessions and lock up after themselves if things over-ran slightly. Tracy was invariably late, so it was quite normal for them to be the last two out of the building. Whilst this was occasionally frustrating for Mark if he had made arrangements afterwards, he usually made allowance for this in any plans he might have for later in the evening.

On one especially warm, humid evening, Tracy was her customary 10 minutes late and was looking a little frazzled from the outset. Mark knew better than to enquire what was wrong. If he did, they would be even later getting started. He was meeting friends for drinks around the corner at 10.00-ish, so was keen to get on.

Their session started well with them working on Tracy’s service first of all, and then her forehand back into the service court from both sides. Then they practiced lobs before having a mini match for the last 20 minutes. Throughout the evening, Tracy had been getting hotter and hotter under the collar, smashing balls wide, smacking the net, and finally launching her racquet after a wide ball and smashing it on the walls as it impacted. Fortunately, after a similar event a few weeks ago, she always made sure she had a spare. The sports store in town was doing well out of her temper.

The session continued past the 9.30 pm finish and the lights in the centre started to go off as staff left for the evening, leaving court 2 as a light oasis in the dark desert of the rest of the building. Mark was clearly getting to the point of enough being enough.

“Tracy, calm down, won’t you? This is getting out of hand,” Mark admonished his pupil.

“Calm down yourself! At £50 an hour, I think I am allowed a couple of minutes to sound off if I like,” Tracy retorted.

Tracy knew she was ‘new money’ and, like most recently rich, liked to rub it in other people’s faces at every opportunity. Mark was himself from a wealthy background. Whilst his tennis career was cut short by back issues, he had wisely invested his winnings on the circuit in a fund with his brother’s firm and made a fortune. He was only really doing this job because he loved coaching and enjoyed the variety of people he met. Thankfully, most were nothing like Tracy!

Tracy served. Mark sent a steady controlled volley back over the net, designed to be a slam dunk for her to finish the game. She returned the ball and it went smack into the bottom of the net.

“Oh for f**ks sake!” Screamed Tracy. “I have had enough of this f**king game.”

With that, she launched the second racquet of the evening into the air. Rather than impacting the net, it impacted Mark’s right hip, and with some force as he had turned slightly to grab his towel and was largely unsighted.

“Oh my goodness, Mark. Mark, I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Are you alright? Here, sit down and get your breath back,” she said by way of an apology.

“That’s it, that’s all I am going to take, Tracy. You were in a foul mood when you arrived and have not improved as the session has gone on, and now you behave like a spoiled bratty teenager!” he scolded.

“You can’t talk to me like that, Mark. I’m your employer,” she yelled.

“No, actually, I am a freelancer working for the centre. I am independently rich and do not need this role. I just do it for the enjoyment and to help other people develop, something you are not showing any great shakes at doing yourself. Your behaviour is atrocious and I am not sure I want to continue with this going forward. Maybe one of the other coaches would be more suitable to your needs,” Mark said very matter of factly.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to continue?” she enquired. She was clearly taken aback. “Mark, I am sorry. Yes, I can sometimes behave like a spoiled brat, that is for sure. That is what happens when your husband spoils you and then buggers off for weeks at a time doing goodness knows what and with whom,” she said with an edge to her voice and a tear in her eye. “Please, I really enjoy our sessions. Some weeks it is all I really have to look forward to. Surely there must be something I can do to win you around, please Mark?”

“It is probably too late for that, Tracy. What someone should have done was take you in hand and temper your behaviour a long time ago, not let you get away with it week in week out.” Mark felt he could speak frankly. He didn’t need her as a pupil; there was a waiting list. But, he did feel there was a burning need for someone to care enough about Tracy to help her put herself, if not on the right track, at least heading in the right direction. “What does your hubby make of your tantrums?”

“He rarely notices, if I am being honest. I wish he did,” she said quietly, even closer to tears.

“Well, maybe he should pay you a bit more attention before it is too late. If you were my partner I would have had you over my knee a long time ago!” Mark said.

“Maybe that is what I need, but my husband isn’t around long enough to notice these days,” she said dejectedly.

Mark thought for a moment and decided to act on instinct whilst his blood was up. He took hold of Tracy’s wrist and firmly but gently led her towards the side of the court.

“What are you doing, Mark? Mark? Mark?” she said with a hint of fear and trepidation in her voice.

“Something you have needed for a long time, by your own admission.”

Sitting on one of the chairs at the side of the court, Mark pulled a struggling Tracy squarely across his lap. With her long blonde hair falling to the ground in front of her, and her toes more or less touching the ground behind, for a brief moment she lay motionless. Mark ran his right hand under her very short tennis skirt and whipped it out of the way to reveal a very well-shaped bottom which was in the perfect place for what Mark now had in mind. Restraining her left arm, with which she was trying to shield her exposed panty-covered bottom, Mark could now exact punishment upon her defenceless backside which was only protected by her thin sports knickers.

Spank! Mark’s right hand came crashing down, sounding like a gunshot in the empty court and echoing loudly. Spank! came the second. Soon the sound of one fresh spank merged with the echo of the one that had gone before. Tracy struggled, but to no avail. As the spanking continued and he worked his way around her entire bottom, a red glow appeared around the edges of her panties. By now, Tracy had stopped struggling and was sobbing uncontrollably, but Mark continued the spanking for about another minute or so before bringing the spanking to an end.

“Now Tracy, I hope that has taught you a lesson. I have never had to do that to anyone before and I hope I never do again. Get yourself up and sort yourself out and let that be an end to this cycle of behaviour. Do it again and I will have to repeat the performance,” he said tersely.

Tracy jumped up and began vigorously rubbing her stinging bum, unconcerned at her bottom being on full show as she did so. Mark had every opportunity to gaze at it for the last couple of minutes. She rubbed and hopped about for a good minute before calming down, with the flow of tears beginning to stop.

“You bastard!” she half spat, half cried, still rubbing her bum.

As she calmed further, she became more objective about what had happened.

“Mark, I am sorry. I have had that coming for a long time. At last, someone was willing to do it. I guess you won’t be seeing me next week then? Maybe you can suggest another coach?”

“Now, now, Tracy. Behave, and I will be glad to keep you under my wing. But if we have a repeat performance like this evening, you know what to expect.”

“I’ll end up back over your knee, I presume. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” she said, trying to smile and make light of the situation.

“Indeed that may happen, but I don’t really want to make it a regular part of our sessions, if you don’t mind,” said Mark, not even sure if that sounded convincing to himself, never mind Tracy.

Tracy smiled warmly and absentmindedly touched her sore bottom again through her panties. The initial pain had waned into a hot glow and she was tingling at the possibility of a repeat performance.

“Come on, I need to get going,” Mark said kindly. “I’ll see you next week.”

Tracy threw her arms around his shoulders and gave him a big hug, which took him by surprise, as did the gentle kiss she left on his left cheek.

“Thank you, Mark. Thank you for being there and caring.”

With that, Tracy turned and made her way off the court and out of the side entrance.

Mark quickly showered and changed, and made his way to the wine bar where he was meeting his friends. Mark sat down with a glass and bottle of chilled rose and drained the first glass almost in one slug.

“You look like you needed that, mate,” said one of his friends. “Has it been a tough day?”

“You could say that. I had to take a bratty pupil down a peg or two, but I think the results will be obvious for a while,” he finished cryptically as he poured himself another glass.

The End

© Jo Green 2021