I feel nervous and frightened. With you in the driver's seat and me sitting along side, I fear someone might look in through the window. I worry they might see me as we drive down the road.
I feel naked, and I practically am. The meager clothing around my waist makes me feel uncomfortable. The even slimmer clothing over my chest makes me feel exposed. I feel naughty and humiliated, yet I have to admit that it also gives me a thrill - just like you said it would. It is like when you sneaked me into the movie theater as a kid. I was still underage, only a freshman, but you worked at the theater and sneaked me in through the delivery door in back. I was always so afraid over getting caught. I feared someone might see me-just like I fear now.
I have ample reason to be afraid. Around my body I wear your gift for my 21st birthday. It is a white bikini - a very small white bikini. It is one of those tiny white bikinis that I guess you would call a string bikini. The top leaves little to the imagination, and the panty rides high on my thighs to hide my short frame.
A semi truck pulls along side. Out the corner of my eye I see a man sitting in the cab, and he looks right down on me. He sits at the perfect angle to look in.
"Look at those knockers!" I imagine him say.
"Wow! What a rack!" I see another, his partner, lean over from the passenger's side.
I make the mistake of glancing up. In response, they pucker their lips. I cannot hear through the closed window, but I know they give me a whistle.
The red light finally changes and I breathe a sigh of relief.
It feels extra embarrassing for me because I have little experience showing off my big chest. I always purchased one-piece swimsuits as a teenager. My parents never allowed me to wear anything else, plus I always assumed big-chested girls were supposed to wear one-pieces. Little did I know until you taught me.
I hear the roar of the truck engine as the men attempt to accelerate along side. They want to look at me again, I know, because I have a lot for them to look at. I think the bikini is too small. The top looks as though it was designed for a girl with half my cup size. My double-Ds fill it to overflowing.
The men keep up with us for only a few feet. It is a lucky thing I sit in a 911. A semi tractor has no chance against a Porsche.
You were the first to talk me into buying a two-piece swimsuit soon after we ran away and moved to California. I can still remember when I wore it to the beach for the first time. It felt both embarrassing and thrilling at the same time-a lot like it feels now. The embarrassment came from exposing my tummy, thighs, and heavy cleavage. The thrill came from knowing how I affected the men when they saw me. By the look in their eyes, I knew. I easily imagined them getting hard-ons beneath their swimming trunks. On a few men, I thought I could even see it for myself. And it wasn't just the young men either. The nasty old men looked too, the ones in there 40s and 50s. They should have felt ashamed to look at an underaged girl of 17 like they did, but they still looked.
This particular bikini is a lot smaller than the first one I wore on the beach. It is, in fact, smaller than anything I have ever worn before. It looks to be a great deal smaller than any bra I own, even the small demi bras. It is even tinier than the latest nightie you gave me for Valentines' day. My double-Ds look as though they are about to spill out, and the rear thong allows my buns to stick to the leather seat beneath me.
We drive for a long time, about 20-minutes. Most of it is on the freeway, thank goodness, where few people pay attention to the passengers in the cars around them. No one else sees me, or at least no one else that I notice.
We finally exit near the place where you work. I want to ask where we are going, but I know better. You told me long ago that I will find out only when we get there.
I briefly worry your plan might be to take me into work and show me off to your buddies, but instead we turn into the parking lot of what I recognize as your gym. This is where you go three nights a week to work out and tone your fabulous muscles. You are a tall, handsome man, 6-foot-2, three years my elder with a body that makes all my girlfriends rave with jealousy.
A sparsely populated parking lot tells me the gym isn't very popular at this time of night. We drive past two, maybe three- dozen cars. A large majority are Mercedes and Lexis automobiles, I notice, which tells me something about those inside. This must be an exclusive club for professionals. I figure they must come to the gym to relax after a long day at the office, just like you do, although today you first came home to bring me along.
"We're here," You announce as you park at the back of the lot, away from all the other cars. We stop at the rear of the building, as far away from the front entrance as possible. This worries me, for I think about the people who might see me when we walk around. The sun has just set, but the sky continues to glow in light. One of the high overhead lights in the parking lot turns on, but it does not yet produce sufficient light to be of any practical value.
"What are we doing here?" I ask with curiosity.
"We're going to work out, of course," You tell me. "What else would you do at a gym?" You let out a slight laugh, but I do not laugh along with you. "Oh, don't worry Lisa, it will be fun. Just do what I say, and you'll have a great time."
I am afraid to step out of the car, scared some elderly lady might see me. I can almost picture someone walking past me now, giving me a rude look or calling me a tramp. But all is clear. No one is within sight. I get out of the car and quickly follow you a step behind. Much to my relief, we do not walk around to the front of the building. You open a back delivery door with a key and wave me inside, just like you once did at the theater.
At first it is okay. It feels weird walking in a strange place with so little clothing, but no one is there to see me. We walk down a short hallway, past some storage rooms and some offices. No one seems to be working at this time at night, but then we walk through a fire door into the main workout area of the gym.
I see people all over. Some lift fee weights. Others walk on treadmills. Several joggers circle on an elevated track. A few of the bigger guys do specialty work-outs on machines, like leg presses, curls, and all those other exercises I hear you talk about. I suddenly feel very exposed, almost naked. I turn to hide back behind the door, but it has already locked behind me.
"Don't be shy," You tell me. "Follow me. I need to check you in."
You take me by the arm, and we walk through the gym. It is like walking down a public sidewalk. I feel the eyes of a dozen men upon me. I suspect a dozen more glare at my ass after we pass. It feels very embarrassing, even humiliating, although I have to admit there exists a strange erotic element too.
We walk past the treadmills, and then past the weight stations. I do not look back at the men when they look at me. I hold my head down and act shy. I walk amongst them almost as if in a dream.
"She's a friend of mine," You tell the receptionist as you hand her your membership card.
She gives me an unfriendly glare. "You know this is men's night!" She first wants to refuse my entrance, but then thinks better of it. "Although I guess it's all right for you. At least I know none of the men will complain about your workout attire."
