BODYLINE BOWLING

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2012


I know that Americans don’t ‘get’ the English sport of cricket – but then, a lot of English people don’t really understand the game either, or at least they don’t understand its interest and pleasure. That goes especially for women, because – like football – it always used to be seen as a man’s sport. But that has been changing for a while now, and, as with golf and football, the women’s game is slowly developing a following.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I have enjoyed playing cricket ever since as a kid I insisted that my three older brothers let me join in their games, and then proved that I was better at it than they were! I have always been a tall and well-built girl (oh yes, in every way – I know what you’re thinking!), and I’m strong, with fast reflexes and good judgement of pace and distance, so I do very well at the game. In fact, I play for one of the top women’s league teams in England – although not professionally, there isn’t the money in the game for that yet, but I can fit it around my paying job, as I work on a freelance basis.

My team plays one-day matches almost every Saturday during the season, from the spring to the early autumn, against other teams all over the country. I have been in the side for four years now (I’m just over twenty-two years old), and was recently made Vice-Captain – oh yes, when that was announced, it caused plenty of sniggers in the locker room, from those who know about my personal life: I am strictly a one-hundred-per-cent pussy-loving girl-fucking lesbian bitch! However, I don’t look at all like the stereotypical image of a sporty ‘dyke’, not even with my height (exactly six feet), my broad shoulders (which give my swing of the bat that extra lash of power) and my generally athletically fit and toned body. There are several reasons for that: in particular, I have conventionally ‘pretty’ features, with pale green eyes, snub nose, rosebud lips and smooth pink complexion, all framed by a rich mane of ginger curls – they are always a struggle to fit in under my helmet (though very good extra padding!), but I would never cut them short. Most of all, the reason is my curvy shape – I have always had big tits, taking an E cup bra, and I have a jutting rounded ass, flaring out from my hips and with a wide gap at the crotch where my powerful thighs meet. With my height and length of stride, my strutting stalk of a walk makes the swaying goodies of my chest and butt really catch the eye – even in flat trainers, never mind high heels! I don’t have any trouble pulling the prettiest young chicks in the lesbian bars and nightclubs, or attracting the cream of the smart and experienced women in their thirties and forties, and I love fucking as many different women as possible – for now, all I want are lust-powered casual encounters and one-night stands of wild uninhibited sapphic sexual thrills.

On this particular Saturday in early August, we were playing a team down in the south-west of England who were amongst the top three or four rivalling us for the League championship. We had heard rumours that they had a new demon bowler, a whizz-kid just turned eighteen who had learned the game as a pupil at one of those fancy girls-only private boarding schools – I had heard of it, an elite and expensive place called Hirstmere Hall. Apparently, this girl was living at home during the summer before starting at university in October, and she had been eagerly snapped up to play for her local team, who were our opponents today. They won the toss, and elected to bat first, so I didn’t get to see their wunderkind in action for a while. Like many bowlers, she wasn’t particularly good with the bat, and was down as the tenth in their order, out of the eleven players.

As it turned out, the pitch and the weather favoured batting, and our bowlers were maybe not quite on their best form. Anyhow, their opening batters (I know, I know – the teams are all females, but saying ‘batswomen’ is not only an awkward mouthful, it makes you feel like you should be putting on a cape and mask for a superhero movie, not white shorts or skirt and knee-pads!) piled on the runs fast, and their score rapidly mounted to a challenging total. They declared before losing their seventh wicket, so their new girl didn’t even have to come out of the pavilion during our innings. In fact, I think they were deliberately psyching us up, by keeping their ‘secret weapon’ out of sight.

So it came to our innings, with a tough score to chase. Our two opening batters did OK, but too slowly, and then one of them was bowled out after only scoring eleven runs. However, this was by one of our opponents’ usual bowlers – so, where is the prodigy? I mused, as I sat on the pavilion veranda, padded up and ready to go in next. I didn’t get much more chance to wonder, for Miranda, our No. 3 batter, who can be brilliant but is always a bit vulnerable until she settles in, made a silly mistake – going for a ball she should have left well alone – and was caught by their wicket-keeper. All too soon, it was my turn to go in – I’m No. 4 in the order, which is the lynchpin position in the batting. Your role is either to pile on the heat and press for victory, or, as in this case, grimly dig in and try to stave off a collapse.

I took Miranda’s place, and carefully played away the last three balls of that over (for you non-cricketers, there are six bowls in an ‘over’, which must all be bowled by the same player, and then it can change to another player to bowl the next ‘over’ of six balls). On the final delivery, I managed to get my score started – breaking your ‘duck’ always makes you feel better – with a single run. However, this put me at the other wicket, and, because the overs are bowled from alternating ends, that meant that I was now due to face the next bowler.

The captain of the other team was a clever tactician, an experienced woman of nearly 30, and of course she had kept their new girl fresh and ready for just such a psychological moment as this, when our team was already stressed and under pressure. I saw her give a tight wolfish grin, and then wave in one of their outfielders, who had been stationed near to the boundary and had had almost nothing to do so far, as we had hit hardly any long shots. I realised at once what this meant, and watched the girl as she trotted up (girl was the word – she was too young-looking to be a woman). She didn’t look anything special, but then the best players often don’t. She was around the average height for a player – which is a little above the female average, so maybe five feet six or seven inches – and quite thin and wiry in build. Her most noticeable feature was a thick mop of jet-black hair, cut above the collar and shaped stylishly around her face – it was quite a feminine cut, yet also brisk and purposeful. She took the ball from her captain, who gave her a slight encouraging slap on the ass, and I heard the woman say:

‘Go, Carla, go – we’ve got the bitches on the ropes, go get ’em, babe!’

I wondered for a second if the girl’s name signified something Italian in her ancestry – her features and especially her hair hinted at that – but then it was time to concentrate. Carla had finished her walk out and turned, waiting for a moment before beginning her sprint up to the other wicket to bowl. Our gazes locked, and I guess almost unconsciously I stood taller for a second, bracing my shoulders, which has the effect of thrusting my breasts out even further. I saw Carla’s eyes widen and she bit her lip in concentration, before tossing her head and starting her run.

My God, she was fast! Before I knew it, she had flung the ball, and it bounced once before flashing past my helmet, only a few inches away. I had barely got my bat up to block the stumps, and if this had been a low one on target she might have bowled me out with her first delivery. As it was, the cocky little cunt stood at the other wicket, with her hands on her hips, as if to say ‘yeah, you didn’t expect THAT, did you, bitch!’ I did notice that she had a slim waist and maybe a little more curves than I had previously thought, especially when she turned her back and strutted away in preparation for her second bowl. Now there was a spring and confidence in her step, which manifested itself in a jiggle of her tight teenage tush that in other circumstances would have got me very interested – but here and now, it was a distraction to be put out of mind.

I managed to last through the other five balls of her over, blocking a couple of sneaky low ones (one of them, I’ll admit, only just), and ignoring some others which, if attempted, would probably become edged shots that would offer the fielders an easy catch. I scored nothing from Carla in that over, and had a respite during the next one as my playing partner, our No. 1 opener who was still grimly holding on, faced the deliveries of their spin-bowler. She managed to score two runs, but that left us back in the same position, and I got ready to face Carla for the second time.

I had more of a sense of her pace and style now, and I’ve never been someone to be intimidated or stay on the defensive – and I knew that I had to attack, if we were to have any chance of winning. This time the battle honours were more even: she nearly got me with the last ball of the six, but before then I had scored two runs from one ball and hit another right to the boundary (our first boundary in the match) for four – making a total of six runs, which was nearly what we had to get from each over if we were to beat them.

The game see-sawed back and forth like this for a while – all very exciting for the small number of spectators, but gruellingly intense for those engaged in it. When I was at the other end for a change, Carla took her first wicket – our No. 1 batter – with an amazing, really unplayable delivery; it wasn’t Suzie’s fault at all. This put the black-haired teen on a roll, and she took two more of our wickets quite soon afterwards. I gritted my teeth, ground down, took my opportunities wherever I could, and slowly my score mounted – past twenty, then forty, and then, almost to my own surprise, getting the half-century with a slightly wide swing at one of Carla’s balls that sent it high and far in the air: thankfully, far enough that it sailed over the boundary for a six, rather than falling into an eager fielder’s hands.

Whilst I acknowledged the applause for my 50 from the crowd – there were maybe a hundred people watching! – I stretched my shoulders and eased my back, without consciously meaning to waggle my tits in Carla’s direction. She was standing only a few yards away, looking rather frustrated, with her eyes fixed on my bust and her lips pursed.

She almost stalked away, but when she turned to start her run-up, her eyes still seemed to be focused on my chest. Perhaps that should have given me warning, but I was beaten by the sizzling pace of her delivery – which neither went past me, or swung in for the wicket, but instead thudded into the side of my left breast. Even though women players wear chest protectors for exactly this reason, it was both unexpected and quite sharply painful. I gave a kind of ‘ooof!’ noise, dropped my bat, and stood rubbing the stricken part of my anatomy. I glared at the bowling bitch, who made no enquiry as whether I was OK, and no apology.

Two balls later, the cunt did it again, this time scoring a hit right on the nipple of my right breast – once more, nearly all of the impact was absorbed by the plastic boob-protector, but still it was unpleasant. I shook my head, refusing to be intimidated and, more importantly, refusing to get angry and be goaded into responding by hitting balls that should be let alone – which is the easiest way of all to get out. When Carla’s next spell resulted in two more hits on my breasts (and it would have been four without some good defensive parrying on my part), I began to realise that this ‘bodyline’ bowling was a deliberate tactic on her part.

Now, it isn’t against the rules – at least, not unless it really is dangerous play. However, as in the original and famous ‘bodyline’ bowling controversy, when an England (male, of course) team used it against Australia in the 1930s, it is against the ethos and the spirit of the game, and arouses a lot of resentment. So I was pretty cross about it, as well as feeling a bit sore and tender – though most of all from one impact when I managed to get my arm in front of my tits and it got hit instead – even whilst acknowledging that the tactic was working. The cunt had me – our strongest batter – almost pinned down, surviving but scoring too slowly, whilst she and their other bowlers steadily dismissed the other players in my team. When it got down to our last four – our bowlers – I knew the writing was on the wall. They looked quite intimidated by Carla’s ultra-fast, highly accurate deliveries, even without having already seen them thud into my upper body, and knowing that I was much better at defending myself than they were. Sure enough, they crumpled quite quickly, and it was all over – but not before two more of Carla’s deliveries had slammed into my now thoroughly tenderised breasts. Although I had done quite well myself, remaining in play and finishing with 78 ‘not out’, which was good for my personal batting statistics, my team had lost the match by a wide margin and with over a hour still remaining before the official close of play.

Naturally enough, our rivals were in a merry mood, slapping each other on the back, and especially congratulating Carla – in fact, I saw from the corner of my eye that five or six of them had hoisted her onto their shoulders for a triumphal parade to the pavilion.