Description
A total sadist. A submissive woman. And a lust for pushing boundaries.
This story originally appeared in EXPOSED.
Excerpt:
“Handsome, isn’t he?” Marlena asked. She’d caught me flirting.
“And then some,” I agreed.
“So sign up.”
“There’s a list to fuck him?” I could feel the smile meet my eyes.
“No, a list to train with him,” she explained to my horror. “His name is Granger and he owns RUSH, the gym on 4th street.” I’d been hoodwinked. He didn’t look like a trainer—not my idea of one, anyway. Sure, he had a tight body in his simple black cashmere sweater and well-cut gray slacks, but he didn’t appear overly muscle-bound. There were no rippling biceps, no Mr. America triangular-shaped physique, top-heavy upper body tapering to a tiny, girlish waist. I couldn’t imagine him gleaming bronze beneath bright white lights, striking pose after pose for an audience of hooting female fans.
As I watched, he casually stroked the lower back of the red-haired woman at his side. She was wearing a form-fitting emerald dress with an oval cutout that dipped dangerously low in the rear. I could see her structured arms, her superior posture, the way she seemed to radiate an inner strength.
Was this luminous woman a girlfriend, a client, or both?
I stared, transfixed, as his fingers lingered again at the lowest point of the dress, more forcefully this time. At his touch, she turned automatically to face him, as if well trained. An image flickered in my mind—an image of him in worn black leather and me at his side, not in a dress, but stripped totally bare, not standing as his equal, but on my knees on the floor at his feet—then immediately that vision was gone.
“I’m no gym rat,” I reminded Marlena, losing interest. “I don’t do trainers.” The thought of discussing whey-shakes and tight glutes made me nauseous.
“Break your rules,” she advised. “Try this one.”
I shook my head, my shiny black bob swinging gently over my cheeks. Sure I live in California, but I’m not nutty or crunchy. And although I am acquainted with people who jog, I’ve never been a fan of the pink-cheeked glow of health that comes from excessive physical activity. When I see studs pumping iron out at Muscle Beach, I turn my head away from their glistening, sweat-drenched figures—not in heart-pounding lust, but in embarrassment. They look like nothing more than caged animals behind the cool silver wrought-iron fence, steroid-enhanced freaks putting on a show for the masses.
“He’s a total sadist, you know,” she added gleefully, her eyes still focused on Granger’s handsome visage. I stared at her, incredulous. She’d said my buzzword.
Photo By Riendo
Writen By Alison Tyler
No comments:
Post a Comment