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Diving Rally

By Ashlyn Selvatico

Copyright 2017 Ashlyn Selvatico

Smashwords Edition


Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


This book is intended for adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. All sexual activity in this work is consensual and all participants are 18 years of age or older.


Whenever we play і-pins, Carmine spanks me like a ginger rent pony. It's the same when we meet for belly pong, or whiz or even muzubir. But I refuse to lose at racquetball. Racquetball is an Earth game.

It's my game.

I've got my safety goggles on. Technically, I don't really need them, since my eyes are artificial and replaceable. But I could never afford a major repair. In any case, it's a rule. Clothing is optional, here in the Embassy gymnasium. Minimal safety gear is not.

We step onto the court. The gallery is empty. What a shame! The exhibitionist in me demands witnesses. The promise of a good fight pulls me onto the balls of my bare feet. Racquetball makes the blood hum, especially when it's played Levanian fashion- bare naked and shining with mimmer oil. And Carmine, the brick red, hairless Levanian, looks bahut fuckable in goggles and her short, platinum wig.

Sometimes I wish we could just have sex, without all this violent foreplay. But then Carmine would have to admit she's infatuated with a mere Earthwoman.

She tells me I seem different, somehow.

It's been a while,” I say. “My hair is at least an inch longer.”

By now my pixie cut is a just a smidge shorter than Carmine's wig.

That is not it,” she says.

I raise my arms and pirouette for her review. The motion isn't quite as smooth as I intended. The soles of my feet are painted with microscopic robots that grab the floor, simulating the traction of a good pair of sneakers.

Carmine cocks her head, without smiling. “It will come to me.”

Are we playing for the usual stakes?” I ask.

Of course.”

It was never in doubt. As far as Carmine is concerned, we're the perfect Doat-Kora partners. I nearly always lose, and I have the most proficient tongue.

I win the serve with a lag to the short line.

I've been practicing here in the embassy for a week, at four in the afternoon when the stands are packed with off-duty administrators and the immerseels who love them. They watched me and the other athletes through the transparent back wall. The last three or four times I came Carmine was lurking in the back rows, studying my game. She wasn't wearing her wig, and she must have thought I didn't recognize her. But most of the other spectators were brown or bronze or wearing clothes. That naked red body was hard to miss.

Now she thinks she knows all my tells.

I telegraph a serve to Carmine's backhand side. She returns it. I hit the ball on the fly, and she wins the rally with a pinch shot.

Carmine aces her first four serves.

You are not even trying!”

I let her score another couple of points before I feel like serving again. Then I destroy her with nick aces, power drive aces and a perfect Z serve off the back wall. Carmine doesn't even exist. It's all about me.

And when I'm up three points I start playing stupid again.

Carmine is furious. She knows she's been had. That I'm toying with her. But she doesn't let the passion wreck her game. Far from it. She swallows her indignation and accepts the points I give away. And the next time I try to pull ahead, she's ready.

I deliver what I think is a true, untouchable ace serve. Carmine retrieves it. I try for a pinch shot, but I hit it too high. The ball bounces high on the front wall, into the far side wall. I've given Carmine the perfect setup. After the way I've been teasing her, I wouldn't be surprised if she thought I did it on purpose.

She uses a passing shot to draw me into the back left corner. I go to the ceiling, and so does she. The ceiling rally ends when she goes for a straight in kill.

I'm too far back to reach the ball. Now it's Carmine's serve. The score is 9-9.

From here on out, I sweat every point. But I've still got the advantage. For one thing, I'm wearing those vapor shoes. Carmine probably doesn't know such things exist. She's gone barefoot all her life. I've never liked wearing shoes, but on Earth they're a social necessity.

Now that I live in the alien quarter I don't have to wear them, or anything else. I'm more or less a full time nudist now. And I've discovered that it's easier to go without pants than without shoes. From a practical standpoint, I mean. I'm literally a tenderfoot. So I asked my naked roommate Foxy how she manages. She's gone barefoot for years.

Foxy turned me on to vapor shoes. They're diamond grade nanotech, so they're invisible. They don't feel like anything. You forget that you're wearing them. But they're like deflector shields for the feet. And they're smart. Every time I touch the floor the robots adjust the friction so I can't slip.

In a battle of maneuver, like racquetball, this tiny edge in speed and agility is the difference between winning and licking.

Of course, Carmine has an advantage of her own. Her eyes are always on the ball. I'm distracted.

Carmine has a fascinating body. Once, when she was asleep in my bed I stared at her soft, hairless, almost human shape. I was memorizing her, because she wouldn't let me take her picture. Most Levanians are funny that way. I suppose I could have simply used the record function in my artificial eyes. I don't know why I didn't. I'm not always the most scrupulous person. But I couldn't bring myself to deceive Carmine about something that was so important to her. So I tried to fix her in my mind, the old fashioned way, with raw memory. I watched her chest swell and fall. Slow deep breaths.

At rest, her body is a quantum of raw pleasure. But when it is in motion it's like a shooting sun, radiating sex. By glimpses, I admire the flexes and springs, the violent passes. When she serves, I stand back and gaze upon her muscular backside.

Carmine and I haven't made love in weeks. It's been days since I've had even a self-inflicted orgasm. It's not easy to practice self restraint when you're playing racquetball every afternoon, Levanian style, with an audience that's dripping with enthusiasm. But I wanted to face Carmine hungry. I thought that would sharpen my game. Now I just want it to be over, one way or the other. Even if it ends with my head between Carmine's legs, again. If I play well, and lose with grace, she will let me grind a dildo while I give her the champion's due.

At least, she always has before. This time I taunted her. She's furious. If she wins, I doubt she'll be merciful.

Damn the distraction. Damn the Levanian heat. The air in the embassy is over eighty F. She's used to it; I'm not. I'm getting winded, and she's barely begun to sweat.

Carmine wins the first game, 15-14.

She rewards herself with a good, long leer at everything I've got. I know that look, and where it leads. She puts down her racquet. I flatten against the side wall, arms wide. My nanobots brace for impact.

She lands across my body with savage kisses. Her lips press my open mouth. I let a pleasant moment pass before I push her shoulders back.

You haven't won the match yet.”

She slides her hands down my ribs. “Concede.”

I'm tempted.”

We've parted slightly. Inches of air pass between the sweat of our chests. At the same time, Carmine's wet mound is grinding against my hip.

Her expression isn't nearly so friendly.

I know why you seem different today.”

Tell me.”

You do not smell like you.”

It's true. These days, I smell more like a Levanian than a Terran. Levanians don't go in for perfumes or antiperspirants, although they bathe many times a day, to keep their sweat from getting stale. On days where I go to the embassy I don't wear deodorant either. Levanians don't trust people unless they can smell them. But Levanians have a pleasant, woody odor. I don't. Or at least I didn't, until recently.

I've been spending so much time here, I've picked up your bacteria.”

What bacteria?”

I massage her shoulders.

Bare sweat doesn't actually have much of a smell. It's the bacteria. The soap I use kills Earth germs, but it isn't that effective against yours.”

I liked the odor of your body.”

You called it my stench.”

She nodded, just once. “You smelled like a barbarian. As you should. You are an American. A savage Earth creature. We are not even the same species. What you and I do together is a kind of sexual perversion. That is part of the attraction. Your stench reminded me that you were a forbidden thing. Now, your scent is merely bland.”

Do you still want to fuck me?”

I plan to defeat you. And you will give me the champion's reward. As always.”

We'll see about that.

Since our first game began, we've drawn half a dozen spectators, unnoticed before now. They're clustered in the back rows: Four Levanian bureaucrats, a Maltese princess in a bone dress, and a bearded neo-Sikh, naked except for his turban and a leather harness. It's not much of an audience, but it'll do. I need the attention more than Carmine does, I think. It'll work in my favor.

This time I play smart. Not because I'll have any trouble beating her, but because I need to conserve my energy for the tiebreaker. More bodies slide into the stands. Every new pair of eyes is another sharp thrill. I'm on top, all the way, pounding cross court and down-the-line passes. Carmine tries to draw me away from the center court, but it's no use. I bury her, 15-5.

I'm doubled over, fighting for air. Carmine puts her hand on my shoulder.

You are suffering. We must stop.”

As I stare at the ground, panting, I shake my head wide.

Very well,” she says. “In that case, I concede.”

I stand straight. “You can't concede, that's bullshit!”

You misunderstand my purpose. I am not trying to spare myself the humiliation of defeat. I am defeated, and I do not fear the rites of humiliation. I concede because you have proven that you are the superior racquetball player. Your skill and stamina are without equal. I am prepared to submit with grace- in the traditional way.”


First, I need a shower. We retire to the entertainer's sanctuary. The irregularly shaped main lounge is full of naked musicians and immerseels, practicing their arts. The only other Earth woman in the place is my ginger roommate, Foxy. She's playing a xylophone, but I can't hear it over the general buzz.

I wave to Foxy. She smiles. Carmine and I move to the group shower that's built into a curved mezzanine. Levanians pop in and out of the chamber, mostly just to freshen up. Few Levanians masturbate or screw in the shower; that's what the main floor is for.

I ask Carmine if she ever performed Doat-Kora, before she met me.

Of course.”

But I'm your first Terran?”

Yes.”

The water's brisk, and there's no soap.

Would you still want to be with me, if I were a Levanian?”

That is a ridiculous question.”

In the cold spray, we kiss, and explore each other. Carmine's fingers are sweet, but I'm growing impatient, and I have no intention of letting her perform the rites of submission this far from the spotlight. So I take her hand and practically drag her to the center of the lounge.

No one is using the small bed that stands on a platform near Foxy's xylophone. I turn on the sound dampeners. The live music and the buzz and moaning of the crowd bleed through, but now they're miles away. And I'm flat on my back on the firm bed, with my legs apart.

Carmine is about to fall onto my vulva, lips first. But I insist she start with my feet. She submits with enthusiasm. Her tongue flickers between my toes and I wonder if the vapor shoes taste like anything. I'm pretty sure they're non-toxic. I masturbate while she worships my feet. For once, I'm the domme. I hope Carmine is enjoying the novelty as much as I am.

Would she still enjoy the taste of me if we happened to be the same species? According to her, that was a ridiculous question. But did she mean “that is a ridiculous question because you are sexy and talented and it does not matter what species you are?” Or “that is a ridiculous question because you could never be a Levanian?”

I close my eyes. The sounds of pleasure wash over me.

Boltat, he media conglomerate that represents my brand is looking to transform some lucky Earth woman into a Levanian. I'm the obvious candidate. I speak the language and I'm a talented immerseel. And I have contacts at the Levanian Embassy. Genuine Levanians are camera shy. Not me. Boltat wants to put me in commercials. They want to exhibit me at parties, in embassies and on sky yachts. They want to turn me into their corporate whore.

Not that I'm offended. They're offering me enough lolly to buy my own state legislature. Not a famous state. More like Nebraska, but still.

Last week they gave me a kind of screen test, recording me while I danced, and practiced yoga, and masturbated. And they let me keep a copy. I loaded it onto my eyes. They can't store more than a few terabytes of data, but I've made room for this series of videos that depict me as I would be, if I really were a Levanian.

The most explicit of the videos is playing inside my closed eyes. I adore all the shuddering curves of her: the Levanian I could be. How deliciously wicked she is. She's breaking the taboos of both worlds. Her existence is an abomination. Wonderfully perverse. The ultimate sex symbol. I imagine the pair of us, Earth me and Levanian me, appearing together onstage, for an audience of worlds.

You'd never forgive me. None of you. None of my Levanian friends would understand.

Without opening my eyes, I invite Carmine to move from my feet to my wet vulva. Her tongue slides along the folds of paradise. She's my Doat-Kora partner. She taught me the joy of angry sex. The hostility, the aggression. I never know if she's faking it, whether it's all just part of the game. But her tongue is real. The pleasure is real.

Oh, Carmine, I don't know what to do.

And I'm so sorry I don't smell right.


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