Jennifers Obsession Payback

She removed the banana, put right her gown, and went to fetch the mail, disposing of the banana as she went. It was a letter for Andrew, not that she'd noticed – her 'recollection' had temporarily slighted her ability to concentrate. As she returned to the living room she tore open the letter, wondering what had become of Ken after all these years – she'd never saw him again after that night, and she liked it that way. She stopped at the window; it was still raining. Probably married to some pretty little Japanese girl, couple of kids, the usual thing I expect, she thought as she glanced down at the letter. She went cold and her stomach felt as if she'd just been disembowelled by some medieval executioner.

Her forehead furrowed as she tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling with her hand over her heart. That's not right, no fucking way is it, she thought, turning her attention to the view out the window – it was still raining. Still holding the letter, her arms had dropped to her sides and her usually virile posture, slouched. She wasn't really thinking about anything now, just staring blankly into the mist. Some feeling returned to her stomach in the form of a churning, sickening feeling, and her eyes had started to well with tears. There was an overwhelming weakness and she had to sit down, but she wasn't sure if she should to go to the toilet first. The flight of stairs leading to the bathroom made the decision for her – she was too weak to make it and besides, she couldn't care if she'd pissed herself right there by the window, not now. She dragged herself over to the sofa where she'd, earlier, pleasured herself through memory. Now, there was no pleasure, and no memory of pleasure.

She dared to look at the letter again, hoping what she'd seen might be gone. Her chin quivered, and the tears that had welled broke free from her eyes. She quickly stuffed the letter down the side of the sofa as if hiding it might, by some chance, help. She looked about the living-room, her face crumpling in despair. She placed her elbows on her knees, cupped her head in her hands, and sobbed, and snivelled, and sobbed some more.

The letter was only brief, but those few words managed to shatter Jennifer's whole world. It read:

Dearest Andrew,

Paris was great, perhaps this time we can see some of it, or not! Really looking forward to having, sorry, seeing, you on Saturday. Thanks for the invite.

Wet already,

Hannah xxx

It was some time before Jennifer regained control of herself. She wiped the tears from her face on the sleeve of her gown, took a few deep breaths, and adopted a posture not too different from a traditional English gent about to duel. Wounded but not beaten she scurried upstairs and swilled the tears from her face. She strutted into the bedroom, stood in front of the full-length mirror, and dropped her robe. She critically examined herself, wondering what it could be that drove Andrew to fuck another woman. She looked at and squeezed her tits. Nothing wrong with these, she thought. They were quite bulbous and firm, very firm, and definitely weren't heading south. She stroked her waist; it was as tight as the day they'd met. She turned around, twisting her neck as she did as far as it would go, to study her behind. She stroked it as she looked. Well, I haven't seen many as tight and peachy as this, she thought, slapping it to see how much it wobbled – it barely moved.

She slipped a single finger into herself and felt for a crushing sensation on it as she flexed her pelvic floor muscles. She smiled smugly. I could crush a pencil in there, never mind milking a cock, she thought, quite impressed with herself. She stroked and squeezed her thighs, then her upper arms; her skin was tanned and soft as velvet, whilst the flesh was firm to the touch, no looseness or excess. She adopted several different sexual positions and studied herself, eagle-eyed for any flaws. She couldn't find any. She had one last look at herself with hands on hips and legs spread. Her focus drifted from her perfect figure and zoomed-in on her face. She was still beautiful -no doubt - even without make-up, and having tearful, reddened eyes with hair that hadn't been touched since the night before. Maybe he's just bored with me... or I've become boring, and that's why he's fucking another woman, she thought as her lips curled in anger. Well, two can play at that fucking game you bastard.

She didn't consider for a moment her experiences in this field; she didn't have to because this was different. I've never got involved with anyone else before, what the fuck does he think he's playing at, she thought as she drove to the gym, cursing the rain as she went. She hadn't planned on going there today but the day had changed, Andrew had changed, she had changed, everything was going to change, today!

She parked up, grabbed her kit bag, and splashed her way through the puddles to the steamed-up glass doors of the gym, wishing that the weather would change also. Two minutes later she appeared at the door of the changing room wearing, very little. Looking at her you'd think she'd got ready for a tanning session, certainly not a training session. Her outfit seemed to be, pretty much, a bikini. As she came out onto the gym floor several women decided to call it a day and disappeared, whilst the men seemed to stop what they were doing and stand around in pairs whispering to each other and trying desperately hard not to get caught looking at her.

Jennifer stepped up onto the treadmill and started off with a slow trot, but quick enough to give the impression her breasts might just pop out at any moment. The guys suddenly flocked to use apparatus placed around the treadmill. The two remaining women left. After warming up she decided to hit the resistance machines. The first was the shoulder press. She felt like she had a bucket of corn and the guys were hungry chickens, watching her every move, just in case something might fall out. She forgot her problems for now as she basked in the attention, her face radiant.

She altered the weight setting on the machine and sat into it, being sure to open her legs wide. She gripped the handlebars and slowly pressed upwards. As she neared full stretch her bikini top began to heave against the movement, slowly rising up her breasts. If she couldn't feel what was happening she only had to look at the guys' faces; with every stretch she made their eyes widened in time with the move. After about seven repetitions the only thing holding her bikini down was her hardened nipples; the bottom half of the areola that encircled them was on display, as was the voluptuous flesh that hung beneath them. All the guys were now on apparatus directly in front of her, or were queuing to use it. As she counted the tenth repetition she stretched that little bit further. She could feel her nipples tug and strain under the tension and an overwhelming sense of anticipation hung heavy in the air. The gym was silent except for the sound of Jennifer's machine, and she could feel the heat of the men's stare on her breasts. Jennifer shut her eyes and reached for the heavens. The men's prayers were answered as two bullet-like nipples shot out at them, seemingly filling the room. There was a loud and deep exhaling sound; it made Jennifer quiver and she felt like her pussy was being licked.

She dropped the handlebars and rose to her feet, opening her eyes as she did so. "Oops, I seem to have popped out," she said, slowly packing them away. She held her head low as if embarrassed and smiled in a way that told you she wasn't. The men quickly turned their attention to everywhere else except in Jennifer's direction, and clumsily fumbled with whatever apparatus was next to them.

Jennifer strutted over to the leg-bicep apparatus like a lap-dancer. The gym hissed with whispers, eyes darted in all directions, and there was a lot of elbow-nudging going on. Jennifer climbed onto the bench-like apparatus; the nature of the exercise dictated a belly-down position with your backside placed high in the air and your legs pointing toward the floor at about a forty degree angle – the only word to describe this position is sexual. She thought the apparatus may have originally been designed for being taken from behind. It was perfect; not only could the woman lie comfortably over the bench and have her weight supported whilst offering 'easy access', but there were also two handles to hold, just below the head on either side, that were the same size as an erect penis which suggested there were a whole bunch of guys doing terrible things to you and making you do terrible things to them, or that's how Jennifer saw it anyway.

She fidgeted a little until she was comfortable with her position, and set to work. As she curled her lower legs upwards, pulling the weight up in the process, she could feel her slightly swollen mound pressing hard into the bench. God, it feels fleshy today, she thought, hurriedly repeating the move. It was fleshy, and getting wet. For some reason she felt it had become so fleshy it could do with a 'good slapping'. She continued her moves. She was getting more swollen by the second. Every time she curled her legs up there it was, only it started to feel like she was being fucked now; not from behind but in the missionary position, when a man penetrates so deep into you it produces pressure on your pubic area. She squeezed those 'cock' handles harder and harder, thinking 'if only I could get my mouth on them'. She found a groove. Just then there was a loud, clanging of metal. Jennifer lost her rhythm and looked around. One of the men had dropped a dumb-bell. She was grateful for the interruption, she'd forgotten where she was for a moment; she didn't really fancy bringing herself off in a public place. Bit embarrassing, she thought, trying not to think about it.

Jennifer decided the interruption was a good opportunity to change exercise. She headed for the mats where she could do a little stretching – her legs had tightened a little from the previous move, just like her knicker-like shorts had around her mound. There were two guys there already. One was tall and quite thin - Jennifer thought he might be a musician; he had a sort of 'arty' look about him. The other was of average height and was one of those quite tubby, jolly-looking sorts of fellows whose presence had a definite warmth about it – she liked him.

As she made her way over she couldn't help but notice how 'full' her pussy felt. This is what blokes must feel like, she thought, her lips so enlarged she imagined them to be testicles. The men were sneaking looks at her ass as she passed them by; one side of her knicker-like shorts had ridden up into the crease that separated her buttocks, neatly showing one of them off. She was thoroughly aware, and quite enjoyed it. As she reached the mats the two guys looked at each other quickly and launched into a seemingly disjointed series of moves. Jennifer smiled smugly as she positioned herself on the mat; she was starting to feel like a queen surrounded by her loyal and somewhat in awe, subjects. She placed her hands on her hips, waiting for her breathing rate to return to normal. In spite of having the opportunity of doing so, Jennifer made no attempt to restore her shorts to how they were supposed to be worn. It felt good, and 'if it aint broke don't try to fix it' was her thoughts on the matter. The guys next to her were getting more erratic and uncoordinated with each passing second. She began leaning from side to side, loosening up and trying not to laugh. She made a point of sucking in her tiny waist and pushing out her chest; it wasn't as if she needed to mind you.

"Shall we do some rowing?" the squat, jolly fellow suggested to his mate in a 'put on' way – they just weren't comfortable being so close to this, almost naked, and seemingly goddess-like creature. His voice sounded quite hoarse, sexy even, Jennifer thought. The thin chap passed in front of her looking straight at the floor and feeling rather self-conscious as he went. The rounded fellow made a move. Whoosh, Jennifer lurched forward into a toe-touching position with her head coming to rest inches from his crotch, stopping him dead in his tracks. "Whoahh," the stocky chap said, holding his hands out in front of himself obviously fearing a collision of some sort. "Sorry, didn't see you coming," she said, angling her pretty face up toward him but keeping her head where it was. "It's lucky you're wearing something, I could have had a right mouthful there," she continued with a tone that also told him 'well that wouldn't be such a bad idea, would it?' The burly bloke just stared at her, not entirely sure if he'd heard her correctly.

Something moving in his grey, cotton tracksuit bottoms caught Jennifer's eye – he'd heard her correctly alright and it was Jennifer's turn to be surprised. Judging on the movement she'd witnessed he must have had a cock the size of a cucumber. I wondered why I'd taken a liking to him, I must have a sixth sense, she thought, smiling and turning her attention back up towards his face – it was early days to be talking to his cock. "I'm sorry, are you uncomfortable with the proximity of your cock to my mouth," she said, holding her mouth open and letting his mind do the rest. "Because I'm not," she added, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling at him. He didn't seem to notice her eyes, though; he was still envisioning his meat filling her mouth. There was another movement and his tracksuit bottoms started to behave like a magician's handkerchief, moving all on its own. Jennifer's eyes teasingly worked their way back down to his crotch where she suddenly looked back up at him.

"Hey Anthony," his weasel-like mate shouted, breaking the developing tension.

"I... I got to go..." he said, rearranging his crotch as he went. Jennifer's eyes followed him.

Anthony and the 'musician' set about some rowing, whispering occasionally and looking over in Jennifer's direction. A short while later Jennifer joined them and climbed aboard the rowing machine next to Anthony, who was panting quite heavily now and had worked up quite a sweat, as had his mate. "So what do you do, Anthony?" she said, "I heard your friend call your name."

"I'm a baker... a manager at a bakery," he growled, in between pants and gasps and heaves and pushes.

Jennifer began rowing. "Mmm, so as a baker, what do you think of my buns?" she said, without turning to face them. Anthony and his mate stopped what they were doing.

"What was that you said?" Anthony asked, trying to quieten his breathing so he could be sure of what he heard. His mate was doing the same and was leaning so far over on his rower it looked as if he might fall out at any moment.

"What do you think of my buns? Do they pass your quality control?" she said, still not looking at them and continuing to exercise.

Anthony's mate burst out laughing and had to look the other way. Anthony, with his hand, wiped the sweat back from his forehead onto his strawberry blonde, short-cropped hair. Is she taking the piss out of me or what? he thought, before answering. "Well, they look fine but of course, to be sure, I'd need to feel them," he said, looking back at his mate and laughing. He'd decided to play her at her own game.

Jennifer stopped rowing and turned to face them, her face golden brown and a little clammy with sweat. "Well, to be sure, why don't you take that french-stick of yours and fuck me with it, and that way you'll get to have a really good feel of my buns," she said, as if she might have been talking about the weather. They both turned to face her, their faces looking as if they'd just entered the twilight zone. "Perhaps your friend can help, maybe give a second opinion," she continued as she peeled back the cup of her bikini-top to give them a brief, private viewing of a well erect nipple.

They both appeared as if they'd been cast in stone. She twisted around on her seat so that her body faced them; her legs were spread wide. "I'll go and get showered, scribble down my address, and pass it to you on the way out – I'll see you there in half an hour, if you're up for it that is," she said, quickly pulling her knicker–like shorts to one side and giving them a fleeting glimpse of the pussy that awaits them, should they choose to accept. They remained cast in stone until Jennifer disappeared from view behind the changing-room door.

"Fucking hell, did you see her cunt, Dave... Dave?" Anthony said, totally bewildered and looking worried about the possibility of having lost his mind: he'd ask the question just to confirm that he hadn't.

"Did that just happen," Dave said, looking intently at Anthony and waiting for a response.

"I think so... you coming" Anthony said, rubbing his hand over his hair again before rubbing his hands together.

"Coming, yeah I'm cumming, right in her fucking mouth mate," Dave responded, getting to his feet and feeling like he'd just snorted a few grams of something illegal. Anthony joined him and leapt to his feet. "We're fucking in there mate, she's like a fucking page-three girl, and we are gonna fuck her" he whispered in disbelief, grabbing at his cock over his tracksuit bottoms and jigging it about. They were like kid-brothers on Christmas Eve, shuffling about impatiently, whispering about what they might get but not really believing it until Christmas day arrives when they can see it, touch it, and know for sure exactly what they've got. All-the-while their eyes were fixed on the changing-room door.

About ten minutes had passed when the door suddenly swung open. Anthony and Dave suddenly acquired some butterflies from somewhere and they were fluttering about quite energetically. Their faces reddened as Jennifer approached them. She's having a fucking laugh, look at her, she's fucking beautiful, Anthony thought, but secretly hoping the opposite was true. He was starting to feel a bit silly now, having believed her. He couldn't look her in the eye. Dave had his hand over his mouth and was looking in the opposite direction to Jennifer, kicking his heels. "Anthony," she said, "I hope you can make it." She handed him a scrap of paper. Anthony gathered up the courage to look her in the eye as he took the paper. She looks for real, he thought, stuffing the paper scrap into one of his pockets as if it were top-secret and should only be viewed in private. She turned and left. Anthony watched her leave, the mood of the situation changing as she did. It's like her heart isn't really in it, I could see it in her eyes, Anthony thought.

"Let's have a look... Anthony... the paper, is her address on it?" Dave bickered, pulling on Anthony's arm as he did so. Anthony took the paper from his pocket and handed it to him, his stare fixed on the door Jennifer had just gone through. "Fucking hell mate, we've got her address, let's go," Dave said, steaming towards the changing-room. Anthony trailed behind, still looking at the last place he'd seen Jennifer.

About a half-hour later Anthony and Dave pulled the car over, parking it outside number eleven, Horse-shoe Avenue; so-called because the forty-four rather grand-looking houses were set out in a horse-shoe shape forming an oak tree-lined avenue about a three-quarter-mile long. (Anthony thought it was called 'Horse-Shoe' Avenue because 'you'd have to be a really lucky bastard to be able to afford to live there'.) A large, bright red, panelled door opened as they headed up the drive like two hoodlums casing the joint. "Glad you could make it, come in" she said, turning and walking through to the living-room, beckoning them in with her hand as she went. She was wearing a white gown and some strange-looking slippers, more like shoes. Anthony started to feel as if he were some sort of gigolo; it was all becoming a little business-like. He went inside nonetheless. Dave was right behind him, almost on his back.