Oval Obsession
"Cricket coach Funke trains the next generation at the Oval. When adult learner Marcus joins her beginner class, she shows him that wickets aren't the only thing that can fall."
Marcus had never understood cricket. An American transplant trying to fit into British culture, he'd signed up for Funke's beginner class in desperation.
What he found was revelation.
Funke was Nigerian-British, a former county player with a body built for power—thick thighs, strong arms, curves that her cricket whites couldn't minimize. She moved with athlete's grace and taught with infinite patience.
"Grip the bat like this. No, softer. Cricket is about touch, not force."
Her hands adjusted his grip, warm and knowing.
"Better. Much better."
Weeks of lessons. Weeks of getting better at cricket and worse at hiding his attraction. Funke noticed—of course she noticed.
"Stay after today," she said as others left. "Your technique needs... private attention."
The empty pitch at dusk was magical—long shadows, quiet stands, intimacy in a public space.
"Marcus." She stood close. "What are you really here to learn?"
"Cricket?"
"Cricket you're learning. This..." She kissed him. "This needs different coaching."
They stumbled into the empty changing room, her whites coming off to reveal a sports bra and shorts beneath—practical but devastatingly sexy on her athletic body.
"I don't usually do this with students."
"I'll stop being a student."
"Don't you dare. I like teaching you." She pushed him onto a bench. "Now let me teach you something else."
She straddled him on the changing room bench, her thick thighs gripping, her athlete's body taking control of the rhythm.
"Like this... feel the follow-through... yes..."
She made cricket metaphors while riding him, and somehow it was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. She came with a cry that echoed off the lockers.
"Good. But we're not done. Stamina training now."
She bent over the equipment locker, presenting her thick backside.
"Long innings require endurance. Show me what you've got."
He showed her. The changing room filled with their sounds—his grunts, her moans, skin against skin. She came twice more before allowing him release.
"Excellent form," she gasped. "You might make a cricketer yet."
"So," Funke said, fixing her whites, "same time next week?"
"For cricket?"
"For everything." She kissed him slowly. "Consider it an extended coaching package. On and off the pitch."
"What does that include?"
"Lessons. Practice. And private sessions for particularly dedicated students." She squeezed him through his trousers. "You're dedicated, aren't you?"
"Very."
His Oval obsession had begun as cultural education. And ended as something he'd never want to graduate from.