The Blonde in Blac

AUTHORS NOTE: The following short story has been submitted as a part of the

750 Word Project 2023

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I see her quite often, the blonde in black.

She frequents the gym I attend regularly. She is always on the treadmill; her long blonde hair in a ponytail, tied back through the strap of the black ball cap pulled low over her eyes.

I've never seen her face; not all of it. Only a glimpse of well defined cheekbones; a glance at her rounded chin.

To view her fully, I would need to cross right in front and look directly at her.

And I don't want to be that guy. The creepy older man staring too long at the beautiful younger woman as she works out.

So I admire her from afar, and from behind, while putting in my own steps.

Her long, toned legs, hugged intimately by tight black yoga pants, move with a graceful ease that causes her round, peach shaped ass to sway in perfect rhythm with her rapid pace.

The black hooded sweat jacket with the college logo on it she wears suggests a student, perhaps in her mid-twenties, certainly not much older.

Her breasts remain hidden beneath, and I can merely speculate on their shape and size. But in my mind's eye, I am sure they splendidly match the rest of her svelte, feminine frame.

She is always alone. I've never seen her engage with anyone else, and she rarely looks up, or around, to take in her surroundings.

I never see her come. She is always there when I arrive, and always still on the treadmill long after I have finished my fifteen minute warm-up and moved on to other exercises.

I never see her go. She is simply gone, like the wind, while my attention was focused elsewhere.

I often wonder who she is; what her name is, whether she is single, or in a relationship. She wears no wedding ring that I can see.

I ponder my fascination with her; she is certainly not the only beautiful woman there, and other than her skin tight pants, wears nothing particularly revealing.

Perhaps that is what draws my attention; my desire to see more, to view what is hidden, to get more than a brief glimpse of her shadow hidden face.

To learn what color her eyes are, to see her glorious blonde locks loose from the confines of the ponytail, free to spill down her back, ending just above her beautiful bum.

I often imagine her undressing in the locker room after her strenuous workout, peeling off her sweat soaked clothing, her light skin glowing with a thin sheen of natural moisture.

I fantasize about sneaking into the dressing room to smell her yoga pants, and her damp panties, if she wears any. I want to inhale the wonders of her sweaty sex, to know her scent, her taste.

I dream of undressing her myself, inhaling from each garment as I remove them before pulling her to me and tenderly licking each drop of sweat from her neck, from between her breasts, from her firm flat abdomen, and finally from the moist, soft folds of her cleft.

I ache to taste every inch of her, even between her muscular glutes, to feel her body shudder beneath mine, to draw still more of her feminine essence from her until she begs me to take her, to fill her, to stretch her out, her heart rate increasing as we engage in our own special form of cardiovascular activities, far more pleasurable than any exercise the gym could possibly offer.

I've never heard her voice, yet I can hear it quite clearly in my ear as she gasps and groans, begging me not to stop until her climax rips through her like a tidal wave, her face flushed with excitement and lust as we explode together before collapsing upon each other in a sweaty embrace.

Mere daydreams, of course, from a man who's never so much as spoken to her. The ear buds planted in her ears isolate her from the surrounding din and do not invite interaction with others.

I long for the day I simply catch her eye, to have her glance up as I walk by. I wonder whether she might offer a friendly smile, give a nod of acknowledgement, or simply avert her gaze and ignore me entirely.

For now, I must content myself with admiring her from afar, waiting for the moment she finally turns and notices me.

I doubt that day will ever come.

But a man can dream.