Erotic fiction by Michele London
He wraps the tape around your knuckles swiftly, but with care, taping off each mound of bone and then circling your palm to brace the joints. He’s already done his own, making his lean, strong hands curl half into fists; fists, that, in a moment, you’ll be sparring with.
His fingers are warm on your wrist as they turn your hand over so that he can tie off the tape, and he dips his head down to bit off the end. His lips come so close to your skin that you have to restrain yourself from lifting your hand to brush up against them, they’re so full and soft looking, almost too soft to be allowed on a man of his size and virility. But dammit if they don’t look delicious.
“Are you sure I’m up for this, Chris?” you ask as he begins work on your other hand.
“We only started basic training a week ago. Isn’t it too soon to spare?”
He looks up from his work with that mischievous, schoolboy smile of his, his green eyes sparkling.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s good to start this way, get an idea of what it is you’re working for. And what you need to work on. What’s the matter? Scared of me?”
You straighten your shoulders and smile back at him.
“Not even a little.”
His smile widens and he finishes taping off your other hand. Tossing the roll of tape aside, he picks up the gloves and helps you slide them over your hands, then puts on his own.
He holds the ropes open for you as you step into the ring, and then he’s facing you, his smile gone, his features all concentration now.
“Now,” he says, his trainer voice back, firm and deep and commanding. “Proper stance, knees bent a bit. Hold all your energy in your core. That’s it. Good! Again.”
You jab at the pads on his outstretched hands, aware of nothing for a moment but how good it feels to work your muscles and punch out all your stress. He moves his hands up and down and left and right, forcing you to think on your feet and challenge yourself; soon, you’re both sweating, your faces dripping and hair wet.
“Good,” he says, relaxing out of the coach’s stance he’d adopted. “You see, you did very well. You’ll be fighting crime before you know it.”
You smile, pleased at the workout and the compliment, and grab your towel off the bench.
“Finish up with a jog for fifteen, and then stretch out. Don’t let anything tighten up.”
You nod, unwinding the tape from your fists, and he gives you the smile and wink that made your stomach drop the day you started training, before picking up his own towel and walking off toward the locker rooms.
The jog is an easy one that day, and as you bound along on the treadmill, the other patrons in the small boxing gym begin to clear out, the few you know waving to you as they head out the door. Soon, all that’s left is the hum of the giant fans, the pounding of your feet on the tread, and the low din of a TV on in the office.
The belt slows to a stop and you go through the list of stretches Chris prescribed, triceps and shoulders; hamstrings and quads. You breath deep and let the glow of a good workout spread through your limbs. Suddenly, a hot shower sounds like the best idea you’ve heard all day.
The locker rooms are small, only a handful of lockers and two showers on each side. You peel off your sweat-soaked capris and sports bra and wrap a bath towel around your chest. As you pull the elastic from your hair, you realize you’re hearing something. Water running, on the other side of the wall. Oh, it’s just the shower in the men’s locker room.
The simple realization suddenly stops you. Everyone else has left for the night, except Chris, who you saw disappear into his locker room just a few minutes ago.
A thought springs to your mind without warning, the shirtless image of Chris that you fantasize about from time to time. Chris, nude in the shower, pleasuring you in the locker room. At first, you just smile at the thought and keep getting your own shower things ready. But then, you stop.
There’s been a chemistry between the two of you for a long time; he flirts with you when the other trainers can’t hear, and you’ve always known there was something behind that smile. At least, you think you know. And suddenly, the idea that you might be able to find out is just to enticing to resist.
Tip-toeing to the door, you peer out into the gym to make sure no one has come back in. It’s still deserted, so you summon up your courage and hustle from your door around the corner into the hallway that leads to the men’s locker. The echo of water pounding against shower tiles rings through the narrow corridor. You’re starting to feel a bit light-headed, but you ignore it and move on towards the steam that is creeping out and over the tiles. Stopping just inside the final doorway, you place your hand on the wall to steady yourself, but your heart won’t stop racing. You’re about to throw out the whole idea and run before you get caught, when he starts singing.
“Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars…in other words…”
You let out a breath and smile. What a goof. All anxiety gone, you step around the corner and enter the shower.
He doesn’t see you at first. You watch him rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, all the muscles you’ve always admired now totally exposed and slick with hot water and soap. And though his cock isn’t hard, not yet, you can’t help staring at it, even allowing a little flash of what you’d like to do with it enter your mind.
“Hi,” you say.
The singing stops and he looks out from the water. The confusion on his face is quickly replaced by that smile.
“Hi,” he says.
“I, um, I just thought I’d take a shower.”
You walk closer to him, until the shower spray reaches your feet and legs, then begins to wet the towel you’re still wearing. He lets you approach without saying a word, that smile still on his face and his blond hair, dark now with the wet, plastered to his cheeks and neck.
Then, you’re standing in front of him, and the water is drenching you and your towel, as well as his glorious expanse of firm, naked chest in front of you.
You meet his eyes and return his grin, and without waiting for further invitation he wraps his arm around your back and pulls you against him. When he bends down to kiss you he holds the back of your head in his hand, keeping you from falling backwards beneath his towering frame.
“You’re going to have to lose that towel,” he says into your ear, tugging at the soaked terrycloth that you’re still clutching to your chest.
“I know,” you reply, a bit breathless. You don’t resist when he hooks a finger under the fabric and frees the hasty knot that’s keeping it in place. His hands run down your sides to rest on your hips, as he takes a moment to look you up and down.
“Surveying your handiwork?” you ask playfully.
“I do do good work.”
You both laugh, but he kisses you again before you’ve finished your giggle. When your bare skin meets his, it feels like every inch of you comes to life. You hold onto his arms as he crushes you into his solid chest and deepens the kiss into something more than just a spontaneous dalliance. The shower wall meets your back, and you lift a leg up to wrap around his waist. His hardness is pushing against your pubic hair, eager and insistent.
Chris takes the washcloth he had been using and adds more soap to it, running it under the water until a thick lather churns up. He takes your arm and holds it out, and rubs the cloth in circles from your wrist to your shoulder. It's rough and slippery at the same time, a sensation that has you bursting with a new, urgent need of him. When he's done, he switches to the other arm, and then begins washing your chest, taking his time with the cloth over your nipples until they're as hard as little pebbles and you can't help arching your back and praying he'll show them more attention.
He works his way down your stomach, then nudges apart your thighs and washes your legs with slow, careful movements. You run your hands through his wet hair and prepare yourself to be touched, but he does not. He stands, a smirk on his face.
"Turn around," he says. "I have to do your back."
He guides your hands up onto the wall above your head, and proceeds to wash down your back, the curve of your waist, and the round of your buttocks.
"There," he says, his voice now husky and low.
You hear a plop as he drops the washcloth, and then his bare hands are on you again, grabbing your hips as he places watery kisses along the back of your neck. His erection nudges at your backside and you slide your feet further apart to let him in. Anticipation swirls in your belly and you turn your head towards his mouth, taking his lips with yours and bending your back to open yourself to him.
You knew he was big but still you can't hold back the cry of surprise when he enters you. You bend down even more to let him fill you completely, bracing yourself against the wall as he finds a rhythm. You're still sore and wobbly from the workout earlier, but Chris doesn't seem to be having any of those troubles.
The hot spray of the shower is pelting you both as he presses you up against the wall, and soon the little moans and whimpers that had been escaping your throat have turned into his name. He reaches under your arms and takes your breasts in his hands, using them as leverage to pull himself into you and squeezing your nipples until you can feel your orgasm rising up to overtake you.
Chris' hand slips down your stomach and finds the slick heat between your legs. When his fingers touch your sex, waves of pleasure crash over you almost immediately, and you build to the orgasm you have been waiting for. Your climax is filled with all the pent up sexual tension that you've been holding back for weeks of hard, sweaty training. He steadies an arm around you as you shudder out your release, and as your breathing starts to slow.
For a moment, his hand joins yours on the wall, waiting for some of the blood to return to his head. When he can stand again, he fills the washcloth with water and squeezes it out over your back to clean you off, again. You turn and face him, not at all as shy as you thought you would be, and trail your fingertips along his chest.
"Well? Good workout?" He laughs.
"Yes. Excellent form."
"Same time next week?"
He closes the distance between you and takes you in his embrace again.
"Sooner than that, I think."
Michele London is an author, editor, and romance consultant with Scarlet Girl. She is a regular contributor to Scarlet’s Letter and the archive of articles at ScarletGirl.com. She writes dark fiction and erotic fantasy, and dips into real-life tales of sexy for the lovely ladies as a Scarlet Girl pleasure party consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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