She’s at the gym. That’s what her text says. A little odd since she left three hours ago. When you text her to ask when she’ll be home there’s no reply. An hour later she walks in. Sweaty. Legs shaky. Hair a mess. You’ll ask her if she worked her lower body. She’ll say yes, then go upstairs. What she won’t say is that her sweat is still on the floor of the locker room. She’ll also leave out the fact it was the men’s locker room.
It started a month ago. Not her fault. He’s huge soft, and that’s difficult to ignore. The first week it was just an occasional smile. But those smiles had her finger drifting mindlessly on the drive home. The second week they exchanged small talk, while one waited for the other to finish a set. Two days later their sets always seemed to coincide on the same machine. Her favorite moments were when he was focused. He couldn’t see where her eyes drifted.
It was the third week when he offered to walked her out to her car. It was late. Up to this point he’d been polite. But it’s easy to forget polite when you’re in a poorly lit parking lot, sweaty and fueled by endorphins. Particularly when you’re standing two feet from the lithe brunette who keeps your cock half hard every time she’s at the gym. When her eyes drifted again, he just said it. Five words. I know what you need.
She tried to feign ignorance. It faded when he moved next to her and let it graze her thigh. Her words failed, while a cool wetness poured from her. The kind that starts at the base of her spine. The kind that isn’t sweat. It was roughly eleven seconds before her hand was grazing him through the lycra. They didn’t kiss. She just pressed her head into his chest, and stroked. The buzz of her phone stopped them that night. But not the next.
They played the same game. Polite walk to the car. Hands and fingers through lycra. When his fingers drifted down her lower back, just inside the waistband, it snapped something and she pulled him out. He smiled at the way she stared. How it dwarfed her hand. How stroking it mesmerized her. He felt her pulling the precum up his long shaft and out. It stretched and and hung, stopping her hand and her breath, then broke and dropped to the asphalt. Only once. Her other hand quickly slid under the head, waiting to catch it. Toying with it between her fingers as it flowed. Bringing them to her mouth. Her lips. His taste. Too much. She excused herself again, but stopped two blocks from your home. On that quiet street the scent of him still on her hand, drove it between her legs. Inside the lycra, until the act of rubbing him into her skin curled her toes.
It went on that third week. The walk to the car. Her hand freeing him. Long kisses now, while she felt him throb and drip on her thigh. She almost came when he ground against it with his cock. Fucking it into her while leaving more behind. Too close to the ache. When he dragged it across her leg with his long middle finger, then slid inside her shorts she broke. Her little hand wrapped around his thick shaft, for balance. When she could talk, she apologized. He smiled and raised his finger to taste her. The way it made her cunt clench unraveled her. He was still standing there, his cock jutting out, as she pulled away. She drove home erratically. Images of him sinking into her as she lay splayed on the hood of the car.
That was Friday. This is Monday. Tonight she smiled when she saw him. Avoided him through her whole workout, if you could call it that. Unfocused. She wanted to leave. She didn’t. They both extended their routines. The gym would be closing in twenty minutes. He went to the locker room. She pushed for three more reps. She got one, then she pushed the door open. He was standing by the back lockers. Just a towel on his shoulder. That cock half hard, hanging. Her legs bent on their own. There was nothing polite in the way she filled her mouth and throat. Even less in the way he stripped her and drove himself into her cunt. First against the lockers, enjoying the tremors in her feet when he pushed her to her toes and let her hang on it. Then on the bench. It was there, gripping it tightly while she felt her spine being compressed, they fell. Those drops of her sweat. The closing shout from the manager was nearly ignored. He drove home hard, still wet with her.
While you’re downstairs watching that show, she’s upstairs in the shower. Feeling the way he opened her. How easily she can slide three fingers in now. How three fingers isn’t nearly enough. Still hungry. Starved, actually. About to discover that three orgasms isn’t remotely close to what she’s capable of, or what she needs.
//Seriously, Aaron you’ve got to start a blog, write a book, write vignettes something - this talent and ability to describe the physical and mental details of the fantasy are incredible! Hit me up on yahoo! IM sometime, I’d love to help you get that started, so fucking hot (and of course that gif of Nicole Ray being plowed in the locker room by huge meat is one of my all-time favorites)