(possibly to be continued if I can work out how to write a sex scene that doesn't make me cringe. Any similarity to real life is coincidental, and no, don't approach me in the gym)
It wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
It was time to try something new. It’d been a tough couple of years: divorce, career change, deaths and other challenges in the family. Her confidence was shot. She’d reflected, and it was time to do something for herself.
She decided to join a local gym. Exercise had never been a big focus for her. Never had the time or the inclination. But life is short, and she was sure her habits were shortening it.
It was almost a disaster. She joined in June. Not diluted by the New Year resolutions long since discarded. The clothes skimpier as the air conditioning strained. The other women seemed so stunningly beautiful, not a hair out of place, lithe, coordinated, glowing, everything she wasn’t. She nearly fled.
A couple of weeks later, trying to get the elliptical to cooperate, she didn’t really notice the man who approached her. When she did, she wondered whether the floor might swallow her. He, too, seemed everything she was not, and here she was making a fool of herself. It took everything in her power to bring the infernal thing to a stop, without flying off it.
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I in your way?” She kept her tone as even as she could manage. Was she breaking some sort of gym etiquette, she wondered. She tried very hard not to dwell on the other thoughts rising, unbidden. Tall, dark and handsome. Quite the cliché, and yet, here he was. Youngish, about 30, 6 foot, a curly black mop of hair, deepest brown eyes, against flawless porcelain skin. Bulging arms, muscular chest, strong legs. Yes, another bulge. Oh my. It had been quite some time since she’d been intimate with a man, longer than she’d want to admit. But it was hardly the time or place.
“Not at all.” His smile was arresting, lighting up his whole face. “I’ve seen you struggling with that thing for awhile now. You don’t seem to enjoy it. I hope I’m not imposing, but I think you can make better use of your time here. I’ve been a nervous new gym goer, too, a few years back. I’d love to pay it forward.”
Before she really knew what was happening, she was having coffee with Alastair, who had joined the gym five years ago. (His older brother had died prematurely) Fear had brought him into the gym, and he’d found a surprising amount of support there. It had changed his life.
They began to work out together, and he almost took on the role of a trainer. There was a certain intimacy to it, although she tried not to entertain the thoughts. He corrected her stance, making minute corrections to her form or grip. The way she held weights. Yes, she was in the weights room, too. She seemed to have a knack for it, although of course the idea had terrified her. It seemed the one last domain of “girl germs” from school, the weights room. The men would stare at her, the interloper. Some of the equipment didn’t particularly cooperate with her quite ample chest. But Alastair said that it was important, and she came to agree.
She seemed to have particular challenges squatting with the Smith machine. As they became more comfortable with each other, the corrections became less verbal, more physical. This was in some ways quite cruel, his big, calloused hands guiding her hips into place. She struggled to concentrate on the movement of her body through the squat, the strain of the weight, as her clitoris throbbed. She worried that the pungent aroma of her arousal would be noticeable, despite the fairly heavy cover provided by the fact that many men in the weights room weren’t as familiar with deodorant as she might have hoped. Hopefully the moisture between her legs would be mistaken for sweat. They had a good thing, and – despite his breath on her neck, his hands on her hips, even the sight of his groin above her head as she bench pressed – she didn’t want to ruin it. It certainly kept her awake at night, and she was quite pleased at the money she was saving on batteries for her mains rechargeable vibrator. She could just imagine running her tongue down Alastair’s glistening chest, savouring every little crevice until... and that would be enough to give her several body rocking orgasms.
Life began to look up in all sorts of ways. There’s something about a fitness routine, and particularly weights, that assists in the confidence department. She certainly had doubts about her attractiveness, but everything else seemed to be falling into place. The gym became her sanctuary: transferring the frustrations of life into temporary physical strain.
And, one Friday after work: of course. The bloody Smith machine squats. She wondered why she couldn’t get the hang of it, the way she had with so many other things. She hoped that Alastair wasn’t annoyed with her, they went through this every week. She tried so hard to concentrate on the way he moved her hips into position. She tried not to return to the orgasms from a few nights ago, where she’d imagined his hands on the same spot on her hips, guiding him, as he thrust deep inside her. Focus on the weight on each foot, and their positions. For the love of God, ignore his breath on her neck. Which seemed to be shuddering today.
She finished her set, and Alastair looked unusually flushed. She suggested he drink some more water. He seemed unusually quiet as they finished their workouts.
Showering, she watched the trickling water flow down her body, her breasts freed from the vice-like grip of her sports bra. As usual after a good workout, her whole body felt glowing and electric, she felt much more aware of the muscles she’d been working. And today she realised: she was changing, quite a bit. Her poor relationship with the Smith machine to one side, her body was much firmer than it was, her breasts as perky as they’d been in her early 20s thanks to the bench press, the curve on her arms firm and muscular. Her arse pert, the definition between that and her large, now muscular, thighs quite evident. She wondered how this had happened. And tried to save any further thoughts of Alastair until she was safe in her own bed, keeping her fingers away from her swollen and insistently throbbing clitoris.
After freshening up, she walked to her car. Astonishingly, Alastair was standing there. He was still flushed: she wondered if he was OK. This time she definitely let herself notice that his breath was shuddering. Trying to work out what was going on.
He seemed to be looking everywhere except at her. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t take it anymore.” He bit his lower lip, and she realised that he wasn’t flushed, he was blushing. “I did approach you with the most honourable of intentions. I really did want to pay it forward. And God, I hate guys who use the gym as a way to creep on women. I’m not that person, really I’m not. But you’re such an amazing woman. You work so hard, you’re so determined. It’s become increasingly difficult to keep my mind on the job. It’s...” He paused, looked at his feet, cleared his throat. His voice became husky. “It’s incredibly sexy. But I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to ruin our gym partnership. I know how inappropriate this is.”
She was stunned. Was this real life?
His breath was still shuddering, the way it had at the Smith machine. She struggled to let herself accept what was happening. He husked again. “I should go. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Text me if we can get back to the shoulder press on Monday.” He looked her in the eye for a fleeting moment, a half, sad smile on his face.
She took a deep breath, furiously digging through her doubts and insecurities, seeking her own courage. He’d turned to begin walking away as she summoned the will to put her hand on his arm. Trying to undo the months and months of suppression. Yes, the little things, the texture of his tricep under her fingers, the way he walked, yes, they were erotic. Maybe, yes, it was OK to let that out.
Alastair turned back to her, and she realised that she must be the same shade of scarlet that he was. For once in her life she couldn’t find words. Her whole body was electrified in a way it hadn’t been in such a long time, long before her ex bumbled into her life. Similar to the weight lifting, but with that amorphous primal energy underneath, the insatiable beast that ladies don’t admit to possessing.
She forced herself to look him in the eye, unwavering, though she trembled like an autumnal leaf in a storm. Her clitoris was trying to take the wheel. Maybe it had a reason to, for once in her life. But a balance must be found, control must be wrested. The desire and passion she felt was a devastating wildfire, and must be contained.
She tried to smile confidently, although the trepidation was probably written all over her face. Tensed her own arm, feeling her own developing triceps, tapping her inner reserves, as she raised her other arm. Alastair flinched as if she were going to slap him, so she smiled again, more genuinely this time, and ran her fingers over his stubbly cheek. Tried to contain her galloping heart. “I’ve... I’ve wanted you for the longest time.”
And again with the clichés, like the day they’d met. Yes, the first kiss was better than the thousand she’d imagined before. They’d been intertwined for so long in a very physical dance of a different kind. Come to understand each other’s bodies quite intimately, without realising it. The sexual element of it came quite easily, when it was let out. Yes, she was so self conscious about the weight she still had to lose, the fact that her muscles were comparatively tiny. But she had learned to trust Alastair with her physical vulnerability, and so with his unyielding muscular body pressed against her, she was able to let go. He was still her partner in the dance, and he held her securely as she let the lashing waves of desire consume her. Involuntarily she arched her back, her head leaning backwards. He grasped her hair and leaned over her, making his control and dominance quite clear. It was an incredible feeling, drowning in these feelings and yet completely safe. |
less control over the situation, more submissive.
Oh I'm deliberately not trying to be perfect here. It's complicated. 
