Screwdriver

Pamela climbed the stairs from the dressing room to the main gym with anticipation: she always enjoyed her late-evening exercise, it was her relaxation and meditation time. This had been an awfully tense day at work, so tonight there would be no weight-machines, just a long ride on the semi-recumbent Exercycle, then a thorough stretch.

She scanned the room: her favorite machine was free, the front one nearest the treadmills. Treadmills she didn't use: they made her knees sore. She adjusted the seat, then settled onto the saddle and keyed in her program, got her earphones on and radio tuned to the good jazz station.

The reason for her choice of machine was simple: the long row of treadmills in front of her almost always had at least one or two (often several) attractive men jogging away, her own discreet body-shop. Not to mention the men stretching on the mats just off to her left. A girl could have a good time this way, at least optically: she always did.

Of course, it hadn't ever led to anything. In her many months of membership, the one time she'd been approached (by a very cute, muscular blond guy ten years her junior: flattering!) it hadn't taken ten seconds before she was sure there was only hard vacuum or dense fog between his ears. It would be nice, she thought, if she could get her now-slug of a husband to join. On the other hand, if he did, it would certainly inhibit her fun as observer. Oh well.

She started pedaling, settled into her rhythm, and observed the surroundings. Most of the people were regulars. But on the treadmill most directly in her line of sight was someone new, in a bright green running singlet -- and with a GREEN towel over the control panel. Cute, she thought: NOBODY used a colored towel! He was running fast, loose, good style, the man looked just fine. She eyed him: new meat! Good legs, compact muscular build. He had already been running for some time: his arms and legs glistened with sweat, the front of his singlet stuck to his skin, showing useless little nipples.

She wondered if he were new to the club, or just new to this time of day? Mr Green had a full-membership club ID clipped to his waistband, so he certainly wasn't just a visitor or some member's guest. And even from her distance she could tell the card wasn't pristine: not a NEW member, either. So where had he been? Maybe a change of shift or habits had moved him from another time of day. Idle speculation, but she hoped that he'd be a regular at her time. Scenic improvements were always welcome.

Pamela glanced away as his eyes shifted her direction. She positively felt them settle on her, then sweep past. She looked again: his eyes were discretely scanning the room, studying. She followed his gaze as best she could, found it fixed briefly on the crotch of one of the women doing stretches. She smiled to herself: perhaps Mr Green and she were players in the same game? She watched him watching other women. He was nicely inconspicuous about it, nothing obvious or obnoxious, never stayed focused for too long on any one person, didn't move his head much, but it was clear once you studied him.

He fixated for a moment on a youngish, big-busted woman in a tight leotard. Pam took the opportunity to study him more closely. Very nice legs indeed. Full beard, neatly trimmed, good arms and chest, the musculature not overly defined but strong. She wondered why he was running in a Speedo racing swimsuit instead of runner's shorts? Maybe he was showing off? Perhaps he'd learned to run at the beach? Maybe, just to be simple, he found it comfortable? She could understand any of the options, was happy he'd chosen that revealing costume: he did have quite a nice bulge, and through the damp thin material she thought she could make out the bump that would be the edge of his cockhead. That, she thought, meant circumcision, a naked plum.

Her belly twisted slightly: she'd always felt that her view of cock-traces was probably a lot like a man's view of nipples. Exciting due to what remained concealed. The hint as teaser.

His age? Indeterminate. Certainly between 40 and 55, a good mature forty or a very well preserved (plus good genes!) fifty five. Nice to live in an era when one couldn't tell any closer than that. She wondered how he would evaluate her own looks? His gaze rotated towards her, she went back to staring at the control panel, but she could feel his eyes on her now. Much to her surprise, she found the very thought made her nipples spring to attention beneath her top: she wondered if he could see the bumps through her exercise bra, and found herself wondering why in the world she hoped that he could!?

Pedal pedal pedal!!!

He studied her for quite some time. That was interesting, flattering - after all, he did have quite a range to choose from out there. Every now and again, they would make very brief eye-contact: that embarrassed her. It wasn't often she got caught. But he didn't seem to mind, just smiled at her when it happened, always broke the contact himself (very gentlemanly of him!) and went back to scanning the room.

Then a little commotion on the mats, two eighteen year old girls settled down to their giggle-fest and minor stretching. His eyes shifted to watch, his pace never varied, his head didn't advertise his gaze. Considerable baby-fat, lots of tit, long legs, both blond, probably very appealing to Mister Green, she thought. Phooey!.

She glanced down at herself, wondering what it was he'd found so fascinating, tried to estimate what he could see given his line of sight.

OOPS! Her face reddened brightly as she realized what was going on: her running shorts were riding up, the pedals and her pose were such that her legs were slightly spread. With every pedal rotation he must have had a clear view of her crotch, covered only by the nearly-transparent inner liner! And most likely, the bottom of her butt was hanging out quite blatantly.

She started to reach down to correct the situation, but stopped short, tickled by a thought: why not stretch the game? She checked: he was still keeping track of the two baby-girls ("Quit it with the cattiness!" she scolded herself), picked up his towel and wiped his face, now he hung the thing back over the machine's control panel, and damn!, it was blocking her view of him from waist to knees. Shit! No matter ... game ON! Her hands quickly tugged and twisted, the inner liner became a thong and disappeared into her crotch-crack.

She was mildly appalled at herself: her pussylips simply had to be hanging out in the open for him to see... and at once she decided 'appalled be damned'. She adjusted the outer shorts for exposure, to be sure of providing an interesting view. Certainly her liner had often ridden up this way naturally, so it might not look entirely contrived. Or would it? Her belly flopped hard: this was something very new to her. Exhilarating: the import of danger, without the actuality?

She locked her eyes dead ahead, determined not to panic, not to clean up her act. What would he do? Would, in fact, he even notice at all? If so, then just let him look his fill! Her whole pussy was seriously gooey now. Very nice sensations indeed. The pedaling motion was exciting, strongly sensual. She remembered stories about women in sweatshops using treadle sewing machines, how in any roomful there was usually one runaway machine wailing along as its operator headed for orgasm.

Eyes front. Pedal!

His brief stumble caused her a moment of triumph: the noise gave her an excuse to look at him for a second. His eyes leapt from looking up her shorts, caught her gaze, locked for a moment. He actually blushed! Little boy naughty, caught in the act of looking up the girl's dress! Then, after studying her face for a long moment, they flicked down again, and she could almost feel the heat sweep up her legs and across her furry lips. She pretended not to see him, ignored him, dropped her hands to the handles at the sides of the seat, straightened her arms to take her weight off her butt and pumped furiously, as if she hadn't noticed him at all, fastened her gaze on the odometer. What the hell was she doing this for, anyway?

There was no warning -- none - before her climax hit. A little corner of her mind kept enough control so that she didn't broadcast her "problem" to the whole floor, but somehow, somewhere, ten or fifteen seconds of her life simply disappeared into the yawning chasm of her pussy-ache.

She surfaced, arms quivering, and slowly let herself down into the seat again. Her body was covered with goosebumps. It had really, really gotten her, but good! She was enormously embarrassed of a sudden: nothing like this had happened to her since the last time she'd gone bareback riding as a teenager: back then, she had come violently, over and over, right in the middle of the crowd of riders.

It took a true effort of will to look up in MG's direction again. Something had changed: the towel was hanging on the other side now, he had moved it. His whole body was back in clear view, singlet tucked into his waistband. She caught his glance again, he smiled at her, nodded.... it wasn't the least disrespectful, nor was it a smirk, rather seemed an acknowledgement, almost a thank-you.

His eyes certainly twinkled. Nice eyes!

She watched as his hands slowly came to his sides, one slid around the front of his suit, cupped and tugged as if to adjust things. It was a particularly private, just-for-her sort of motion, extraordinarily sensual. A real player! His fingertips disappeared momentarily beneath the waistband, down the front of his belly, and she realized that while she'd been elsewhere MG had developed a roaring hardon. Another compliment! They grinned at one another, both scaldingly self-conscious, and he waved a hand gently to indicate the rest of the room, tugged his singlet free, let it drop slowly down to hide the bulk of his erection. And never missed a step.

Conscience, or whatever, belted her, and suddenly she was horrified at herself, stopped abruptly and stood up, tugged her panties from her cleft, gathered her stuff. No eye contact now. Her face was burning: the whole damned gym must have seen (or heard!) this, or so she thought. She was wrong, of course, but wouldn't have believed it if told so. She almost left in a hurry, then decided NO! - it was, after all, just a game and she, not he (!!) had raised the ante! She couldn't let minor embarrassment drive her away, and decided to simply brazen it out: besides, she wasn't done yet with her routine. It was time to stretch.

Mr G was slowly increasing his speed on the treadmill. As her fluster decreased, she was impressed. She picked up her water bottle and towel, looked for room to stretch on the mats. The floor was full now, but as she watched a young couple stood up together and left. Their spot was directly in front of Mr Green: at this point she would definitely have preferred a different location, but there were none. She shrugged mentally: would he would watch her again? Her nipples tingled at the thought, and inverse voyeurism took solid possession of her. Well, hell, why NOT enjoy being enjoyed? It was innocent, really, wasn't it?

As she lay on the mat stretching, her wide-spread legs were pointed right at him. She watched him as best she could as she moved: it was hard to be sure, but he did seem to be keeping his eyes in her direction most of the time.

She puzzled over this strange behavior of hers: the whole exciting event was genuinely out of character, but that thought didn't stop her. Her belly was buzzing again nicely now. Whee! Then, just as she was done, Mr G slowed to a fast walk. In a sudden mild panic at perhaps having to actually meet him, she picked up her gear and strode past his machine to the door, down the stairs. He nodded politely, said nothing. She nodded back, felt his eyes follow her out of sight. The backs of her knees felt hot from his gaze.

In the locker room she stripped off her sweaty togs, wrapped herself in a towel, headed for the showers. Her nipples were almost painfully erect, hard and prominent enough to keep the towel from slipping down. The showers were civilized and private: individual stalls with doors down to mid-calf. A long row of closed doors: feet, feet, feet, empty, feet, four feet! She giggled to herself: Japanese men, she had read, had a special ethic: inside a bathroom, nothing is seen, heard, or remembered. So it was with women here.

She clicked the shower door behind her, set the controls to hot, began to soap up, discovered her nipples with her palms. Suddenly, her belly was afire again: she hadn't been so overtly horny in years! Her foot went up on the seat, legs spread, soap-slippery fingers rolled her clit hard, fast, then delved deep. She had a fine imagination: MG and his probably-circumcised cock were driving into her, harder, faster. Biting her lip to keep silent, she shivered and shook through three, four, five climaxes, until her body told her that leg cramps were imminent, the inevitable consequence of continuing.

She slowed, took a deep breath, shook, chortled to herself. My, how NICE!

Rinsed, she dried before the big wall mirror, alone for the moment. She looked at herself. Still a good body, taut belly, small high tight tits. No droop to her butt, though that'd doubtless arrive someday. Gravity uber alles - the ultimate victor. Face and hands? Well, if one knew where to look (MEEOW!, and didn't women know where to look!), they would tell the truth, but the body was doing just fine. Not a teenager in disguise, but hardly her real age, either. The years of gym certainly paid off.

Satisfied, she dressed, packed, drove home. To George. Oh well. She mused, hoping Mr G, "MG" now in her musings, might be at the gym two days hence when she returned. Wondered if she could face him again after tonight? What if they were, horrors of horrors, to accidentally meet somewhere during business, say downtown or, even worse, at a customer's office?

In bed that night, she thought restlessly about the event. George snored delicately beside her as she pressed two fingers into her sopping split, clenched her thighs together over and over around them until, just like in girl-scout camp decades ago, she climaxed hard, silently, without a quiver to tell the world. It helped: finally, she slept.

Next gym day, early in the morning, she went through her entire exercise wardrobe, carefully chose a too-tight top. What, she wondered, was she trying to accomplish? Probably (a) MG wouldn't be there, and (b) she was making much ado about nothing, to coin a phrase. Nonetheless, she entered the gym with belly quivering and nipples at attention. Well? A quick scan: there he was, same treadmill. Her bike was open, too! Dumb luck, but she'd take it. His eyes caught hers the instant she came into view. His grin sparkled as he saw her, warmed her immensely, dissolved her knot of worry and embarrassment. She liked this fellow! He never broke stride, just grandly bowed to her as he ran, swept arm and hand towards the bike in invitation. She nodded to him, felt his gaze stroking over her confined breasts. The game was ON, oh, YES! Her nipples responded as if they'd been touched, and the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stood up.

Much later, there followed another long shower.

Two days later, she spent a difficult eight hours at work, wondering if he'd be there yet again... their two encounters had been fun, it would be nice if they were to continue, but he'd never been there in the previous months and probably those two times, given her luck, would be all of it... a two-night stand! But maybe not. And WHY, dear heart, did she care in the least? Maybe because of his obvious frank appreciation of what she was working on so hard, of her body? Well, at any rate, once past the embarrassment the attention had certainly been nice.

Luck on her side, he was there again. Tingles: the smiling nod of welcome. She was glad she'd worn her over-tight top and no bra. With this setup, if she did just a little leg syncopation her tits would jiggle nicely. She knew, she'd done it before but only for herself. She looked at him: he had on a different suit, too. Still a Speedo, nice and tight, but somehow it seemed thinner, more revealing. "How could that be?" she wondered: "The suit is just one layer of nylon. Maybe it's old and worn even thinner?" At any rate, it certainly let her watch the muscles in his butt work. No complaints.

Over the next few days he was always there, a strong silent rapport developed. Neither said anything to the other, not a word, but the teasing exhibitionism and mutual appreciation grew. Every now and again, she'd have a flash of irrational jealousy... she was actually getting possessive for god's sake, that was crazy!.. wondering whether he were here on her days off, carrying on with "Other Women?" She could shrug about it intellectually, but still...

Things evolved. She could do more to tweak him than he could do to her, but their efforts echoed, frank and inventive and friendly under the overt sexuality. This whole thing was alien, surreal, something she'd never tried before, never believed actually happened to anyone -- much less to HER! It was enormous fun, especially the spice of being in public, with (but not with) a stranger (but not a total stranger). And every evening, however they had entertained themselves, every session ended in the shower with her soapy cunt wrapped tight around her fingers.

She always left both fully refreshed and anxious for the next encounter. She wondered what HE did? Did he imagine her as vividly as she did him? And (careful, girl!) if he did so, then did he do anything about it -- as in her own shower-time relief sessions?

They evolved to exchanging "in-the-lead days". One day, she would wear her tightest top, the next the loosest and no bra: then she would do her front-tilting stretches smack in his field of vision. He would wear a different suit, or tuck it up in different ways. When she did things perfectly, he would develop a roaring hard-on, very hard to conceal. That made her giggle through her hornies. Once, finishing together, they'd stretched face-to-face. THAT had been a turn-on of the first water, easily in touching and smelling distance, no touches, not a word exchanged. He wore an old pair of shorts that she'd come to know well, nicely-loose ones that let his parts move and bounce freely and enticingly. The elastic was totally gone in the leg-holes of the liner, and there, against the mat before her face, his balls peeked out at her, the pink tip of his cock winked in and out. (NAKED plum, no foreskin blanketing the goodies! She'd been right!). And men thought that women won't get excited over glimpses of men's bodies! She practically creamed on the mat: he KNEW, too... just grinned that gorgeous grin of his, made sure she got her fill. Nicely played!

Escalatio!

The very next time, she arrived wearing her own oldest shorts, but with the liner freshly scissored out. An infinite free clear view for him, and atop that, she had shaved her entire crotch.

What a reaction! MG developed such a screaming hardon that he couldn't hide it at all, the tip had actually peeked out over the top of his Speedo for a few seconds before he rearranged things! Then he left the treadmill guarded by his towel, disappeared downstairs for several minutes, returned with a sheepish grin and no hardon. Now THAT was a compliment she could understand! She wondered how he had looked, cock in hand, exactly where he had done it, what was his own personal technique, what exactly was he thinking of when he came, how far did he squirt? How many pearly-white jets of sperm equaled a complete MG climax? Would his sperm have a particular, individualized odor, like some men's? What did he clean up with?