If anything, the new outfit looked even better on her than it had in the store's fitting room. Trish ("Patsy" to her husband, "Patricia" to the rest of the world, but "Trish" back in school and still in her internal monologue) was especially happy with the papaya-colored lycra shorts. They were made by an athleisure wear company that seemed to have her prominent bottom's exact shape programmed into its patterns. The fresh shorts presented the part of her figure of which she was proudest to best effect, and the white, form-fitting tank top made the shorts pop, while framing her attractive tits (she'd never refer to them that way out loud, but liked the vulgarity of the word) that had largely retained their shape through months of breast feeding two children and years since.
Trish posed in the large mirror of the family's beach vacation rental bedroom. The early morning sun filtered through translucent blinds and sheer curtains with enough light for her self-appraisal. She looked, as her husband, then softly snoring in the bed a few feet away, liked to say, "painfully hot." He meant it as a compliment, like it hurt to look at her, so it was a sweet thing to say. A shame though that he didn't mean her sex appeal would ever prompt him to administer what she'd always craved and thought about hourly. Nor had he, even when she'd politely suggested it, because, kind, conventional guy that he was, he couldn't bring himself to "hurt" her. And that was the missing ingredient in their otherwise satisfying casserole of a marriage.
She'd bought the shorts for this beach week, and Husband hadn't seen them on her yet. Trish expected he'd express his approval by gently caressing her ample, shapely bottom, as long as nobody else was around. He might even give it a two-handed squeeze while pulling her close against his solid frame. She liked it when he did that. However, he definitely wouldn't cite some recent misdeed as an excuse to pull her over his knee to spank her in them, nor would he roll them down her thighs to continue the spanking, ignoring her protests and holding her rebellious body in place while he -
Trish pushed pause on her unlikely revery. The quiet time before her family awakened was her time, and she had a goal.
She'd ride the bicycle Husband rented her for the week on a newly-constructed loop from the beach town they visited every year to a neighboring town and back. Not counting the Peloton, which she'd made a habit of spinning during the Pandemic and kept as part of her routine since, Trish hadn't been on a bike since she was a freshman in high school, up until boys with driver's licenses started noticing her. This bicycle rode smoothly, though, back and forth between the house and the beach, and she was confident that the fitness base she'd maintained between the stationary bike and her regular yoga and Pilates sessions would be more than enough to conquer the flat, fifteen-mile loop described by the man at the bike shop.
She'd checked him out while Hubby completed the rental paperwork. Older than Trish by maybe a decade with gray at his temples and in his goatee, Bike Guy was obviously fit and had the easy physical presence of someone used to making things happen as planned. During their brief visit, Trish found time for a momentary fantasy featuring him lecturing her for returning her bike in damaged condition, then matter-of-factly ordering her to the back of the shop, and finally punishing her pale bare bottom with his strong, grease-stained hand. She didn't have time to develop her daydream just then, but her evening shower lasted a few minutes longer as she filled in the make-believe details while pleasuring herself.
This is how it'd always been for Trish; she'd had flash spanking fantasies running in the background of her perfectly acceptable, generally above-reproach life for as long as she could remember. The compulsive habit used to worry her, but she'd finally made peace with her secret pervy side. As long as spankophillic Trish stayed in the background, in the shower, and out of the way.
Trish brushed her hair back, popping an elastic tie around her ponytail. Then she quietly slapped the back of the wooden brush against her derriere, three times each side, just hard enough to trigger a sensation, before replacing it on the dresser. The secret ritual boosted her mood for reasons that she wouldn't have wanted or even been able to explain.
Trish hustled quickly and quietly down the stairs and into the back yard, where her rental bike was leaning against the home's vinyl picket fence.
Pedaling away on quiet neighborhood streets, she enjoyed the feeling of the still-cool salt air on her skin. After a few minutes, she turned onto the dedicated bike path, paved for the first mile or so, and then followed it as it became a dirt trail with a layer of fine gravel. She pedaled at a relaxed pace through pine woods, the sound of her tire treads the only noise. Hitting the occasional bump, Trish felt the tip of her pony tail brush the nape of her neck. She began to sweat as the woods opened to fields and the path crossed bridges over canals. Her breathing settled into a regular rhythm in time with her pedal strokes.
The path neared another neighborhood, and she started passing cyclists, joggers, and walkers, some of them on leisurely outings, chatting along the way and others all business, pursuing their respective fitness goals. Trish collected a few lingering appreciative stares in passing. Proud of her unapologetically feminine physique, including the stubborn pounds of mommy weight that had amplified her curves, Trish decided to indulge herself by catching as many eyes as possible. She stood up as she pedaled along the straight stretches and coasted around bends, giving her fellow travelers a show. She imagined those with their romantic partners stealing glances at her full bottom or generous tits, and especially liked it when she rode over a rut or root, giving her display the benefit of an extra jiggle.
Trish's legs began to tire from cycling out of the seat, but the feeling of being on display and lusted after by strangers fueled her. She sped up, planning to stop for a rest after the next turn. Maybe one of those she'd distracted would make guilty eye contact with her when they passed by during her break...
Trish accelerated into the turn before realizing it was tighter than it'd appeared. She squeezed the break levers and twisted the handlebars, losing traction for a moment and nearly skidding into a three-person group standing on the other side of the bend.
She came to an abrupt, barely controlled stop, reflexively calling out, "Sorry! So sorry!"
Within arm's reach of her now were two men and a woman, middle-aged, fit, two around Trish's height and the third taller. The shorter man, well-muscled with blue eyes, had put his hands on her bicycle's frame, steadying it, while the woman had hopped back a step. She was a voluptuous blond with long hair pulled back through her baseball cap. A spandex top strained to contain her impressive breasts while her shorts accentuated pleasantly swollen hips and thighs below a trim belly.
The man holding her bike released his grip. "Easy there. You OK?" He smiled.
Trish, flustered and embarrassed, instantly regretted her curt reply. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
The closer man shrugged while the taller one behind frowned. "You're going too fast. Slow down and look out for others out here," he said, fixing her with a level gaze. Trish looked directly at him. Unlike the other two, he was straddling a bicycle. He must've stopped to talk to them. Even though he was wearing loose fitting shorts and a t-shirt, she could see the signs of a lean, athletic body. The dork was wearing a helmet, though, and the gear bags, water bottle cages, and lights attached to his bike detracted from his appeal. Noticing the salt and pepper whiskers, she recognized him as the bike shop manager. She saw him glance down at her bicycle and knew he clocked the bike as being one of his. She wondered whether he remembered her.
Suddenly feeling her already flushed face growing hotter, Trish replied with a more-surly-than-intended, "Yeah, got it," and stomped down on her pedal. She felt the rear wheel spin for a moment as she pulled off, accelerating as quickly as she could.
She heard the woman speak for the first time, her voice fading in the growing distance, "Well, that was rude." And it was, Trish admitted to herself. Sometimes she was unintentionally impolite in awkward social situations. She thought about returning to the group to apologize but quickly lost it in the pleasure of the breeze, the feeling of her lungs filling with oxygen-rich air, and the pleasant burn settling into her muscles as she powered along the trail.
Back up to speed, Trish slalomed around walkers, while making sure to give eyefuls of her now sweaty and especially fetching figure to those fortunate enough to share the trail with her.
Crossing another bridge, Trish decided to push her pace for a minute or two longer before stopping to check her phone for time and location. She applied maximum effort, feeling a heavier burn in her legs as the wind whipped sweat from her salty face. Just as she let off, coasting while looking for a comfortable stopping point, perhaps one of the occasional benches she'd noticed along the trail, she felt a jolt. Her handlebars jerked, her pedals seized up, and she toppled off the bike, landing on her hip and thigh, sliding a few feet to the edge of the path.
Trish sat for a moment, collecting herself. She spotted the low stump, marked with a badly faded orange "X," that had felled her. She felt the sting of scrapes to one palm and the outside of a knee and then a duller ache behind the side pocket containing her phone. She gingerly pulled the phone out of her shorts to inspect its spiderwebbed screen and repeatedly pushed the power button on and off.
"Sonofabitch!" she said, too loudly for a couple pushing a sporty looking stroller in the opposite direction. The phone still worked, but Trish couldn't navigate anything on the mangled screen. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to control her frustration and rise above the low moment.
The sound of tires approaching prompted her to look up to see (Of course! Who else?) Bike Guy coasting to a controlled stop, swinging his leg out and over his bike frame and leaning it against the nearby bench in one fluid movement. He casually walked over and lifted hers off the ground, rolling it behind her to a tree. Embarrassed, Trish started to object, "I don't need your-" when she felt his arms lifting her up from behind.
"It's too dangerous for you to sit here," he warned, "Another daredevil might come along any second, and you could cause someone to get hurt."
