I've come back feeling extremely sweaty, a little bit horny and absolutely gasping for a drink. But then jogging on a warm day will do that to you.
I kick off my clammy running shoes, tuck them away in the corner of the porch where they can't harm anyone, and let myself in the front door. A lovely whiff of fresh coffee and the sound of Baba O'Riley playing on the radio drift into the hallway from the kitchen. I smile to myself. I've got to get out of these clothes before I start to stink the place out.
"I'm back." I call out at the foot of the stairs.
"I'm in here," comes the disembodied reply from down the hallway.
"Do you want a coffee?"
"Please. There's some stewing in the pot."
"Yeah. I can smell it."
After loading myself up with mugs of coffee and flapjacks I wander into the living room. Standing in the middle, bent forward at the waist with her bottom pushed out towards me, part-way through a stretch, is Eva. I tilt my head to one side and have a long, studious look at her. The Lycra she's wearing clings to her like a second skin leaving very little to my imagination. What a truly inspired invention that fabric was. I chew my lip a little and ponder a lot.
"Good run?" She asks.
A voice in my head answers. Yeah, nice. Very nice indeed. I can't take my eyes of the small section of material that has creased into the slit of her pussy.
"Not bad." I reply, somewhat distractedly.
Being about as deep as a puddle, seeing her like this has given me an overwhelming urge to fuck her. I guess it could be the last gasps of an instinct from a time when our knuckles were closer to the ground than they are now. When eating, sleeping and reproducing were of paramount importance to survival and when such opportunities, when they arose (so to speak), had to be taken. That, or I'm simply a randy little devil.