Show Me 26

It'd been my idea, but she made little attempt to hide the fact that she'd rather be anywhere else. It'd been my idea, something for the two of us - time together, away from the kids. But it'd mostly been for me. I'd turned 40 a month ago, and I'd noticed that things had begun to slide way beyond the dad-bod. The belly-sag, going up a couple of pant sizes, and wheezing halfway up that second flight of stairs.

It bothered me, and, deep down, I worried that it bothered Liz too.

So I'd signed us up to this - a two week trial at Now Gym. To start the New Year right. The turning of the page. Out with the old, in with the new.

Now Gym and, to my right, Liz slowed her treadmill to a crawl. All around, the dull thump of dance music, grunts of exertion, and, beneath it all, the murmur of subdued chatter.

We'd landed on Sunday morning on the assumption that it'd be quieter. Which mattered to Liz. She didn't want to be seen in her gym gear. She made it clear that she did not want to be seen at all.

"I look ridiculous," she said.

But she looked far from ridiculous. She ordered her kit online, and, despite my protestations, opted the most conservative of the available options: black, full jogging pants, and a top the circled her neck and stretched the full length of her arms. But modelling it before the full-length bedroom mirror, the lycra stretched tight across her thighs, her ass, and cupped sensuously the perfect curve of her tits.

She thought herself ridiculous. I thought she looked all the more delicious for trying to hide it.

And now perfected, sheened with sweat, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, lips reddened and wet.

"Water," she said, palm against her neck, a twist of the hips, as if to loosen something.

I moved to slow my treadmill, intending to join her.

"No need," she said. "You finish up." She shook her hair loose across her shoulders, grabbed her water bottle, and headed out towards the changing rooms. I watched her until she turned into the corridor. Fuck, she looked good - even among a room filled with young, seasoned gym bunnies.

I lifted the incline to 3%, increased the pace of the track, my feet slapping hard against rubber, breath tight and whistling, legs trying hard to keep pace with the thump of bass.

Flanking me on the left, the twentysomething guy slowed, flexed with a ripple of muscle, drank deeply from his bottle, pressed the towel against his face, and allowed the track to pull him back and to earth.

I looked towards the changing rooms, wondering.

Out through the drizzle smeared window, cars pulled away, turned, and reversed in tight half-circles with the flicker of red light. Above, the sky had begun to sag and now ooze.

I looked again for Liz, worrying.

Above and around, this dance track bled into the next. I'd been joined to my right, a girl - not Liz - flushed with youth and enthusiasm, stretched, extended to a jog, matching, outpacing, and then leaving me for dead.

My treadmill beeped, "Cool Down," lit in red LED, and the track slowed to a brisk walk, a crawl, and then even less.

Still no Liz.

I unclipped the safety harness and staggered back to solid ground.

She'd headed out into the corridor, towards the drink dispensers, water fountain, toilets, and changing rooms.

I pressed the towel against my face, neck, chest, breath easing, pulse steadying, but not all the way. To my right, the girl, blonde, tight, perfect ass, half-turned from her sprint, and eyed me with something like scorn. I gathered my shit and dropped it into my gym bag before zipping it tight.

Yet still no Liz.

I found her leaning against the wall, towel slung across the slope of her shoulder. Her knee was half-bent, her left foot pressed flat against the wall, her hips a half turn. The lycra stretched and tightening obscenely across the her ass, her tits, her pubis, a tease of nipple, the blush of her lips, the lick of a tongue.

He leaned into her, his chin a turn from her shoulder, his breath against her ear. As if imparting a secret. Something she may not wish to be heard. He was young, too young, stupid young.

And yet she laughed. A tip of the head. A shake of her hair. It was the kind of laugh I remembered, from way back when, from before kids, mortgage, car loans, and obligation. He brushed a tussle of hair behind her ear, thick brown fingers against her too pale skin, and she let him.

And then she saw me. She stuttered, straightened, blinked. He turned, his lips a half-smirk, his chest thick, arms like knotted rope, skin powdery dark, teeth shark-white.

"Peter," she said it like an apology. Like she'd been caught.

The two of them met me half-way. He had the weight of his palm against the small of her back, or cupping the swell of her ass. I couldn't tell. But he caught me looking and then he grinned. But he did not withdraw his hand.

"This is Daryl," she said. "He works here."

God was he young. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-three at most. Just a few years older than Jeremy, our eldest.

He offered his hand. His free hand. His right hand continued to press against my wife. And she let him.

Without meaning to, I lifted my arm, my hand swallowed up in his. And it stung, something like humiliation, something like shame, something like capitulation. He squeezed my hand tight, shook it twice, his right hand, all the while, pressing against my wife. She chewed at her lip, tense, expectant. I squirmed.

"We should go," she said. But not to me, to Daryl. As if seeking his permission.

He nodded, pulled her into a hug, easy, familiar, her tits pressed against the thick swell of his chest, her hips tight against his hips, and I wondered if she could feel his inevitable length and thickness.

My lips dry, tongue sticky and too thick for my mouth. And the sting, something like anger, something like shame, the grind of teeth, the clenching of fists. But beneath it, through it, a wondering, a yearning, an imagining as to what might have happened had I delayed. And I could feel my cock begin to swell at the thought of it, the thought of them, him, her, the two of them. Anger, humiliation, yearning, all folding one into the other.

We drove, neither of us saying a thing, and I wondered if she were embarrassed, ashamed. But then she hit the stereo, some vacuous pop song that'd obsessed Heather, our youngest, a summer or so back. Liz was looking out the passenger window, off into the distance, her lips a smile as she intoned words of saccharine stupidity and infatuation. And then I wondered if she was thinking of me at all.

I pressed my palm against the crotch of my jeans. Without realising and then, without understanding, I was hard, rock hard.

She unlocked and then opened the front door and I took her in the hallway. The kids were out - Jeremy at football, Heather with friends. She was ahead of me, I reached for her hips, her tummy, her tits, snatching, pawing, clawing, frantic. Then my lips against her neck, my teeth, my tongue tasting her sweat and, beneath it, the bitterness of perfume.

"Oh," she said, as if surprised, but she let me.

Into the lounge, I pulled at her top, then her bra, the tear of fabric, her tits tumbling free. I turned her, my mouth swallowing her ear, her cheek, disdaining her lips, the flat of my tongue against her neck, her chest, my teeth finding the swell of her breast, and then the hardness of her nipple. Her hands tussled my hair, she pulled me tight to her.

"Like that," she said, with something like a groan. I lapped, then sucked, then bit at her nipple. "Fuck," she said, quite unlike her, as she pulled me away and to her other tit.

She gasped, arching her chest, pressing into it. Then she turned, a shock of hair, a slick of sweat, a lick of the tongue, before leaning against the couch, bent forward, presenting.

"Now fuck me," she said, offering the curve of her back, the perfection of her ass, wanting it, even though she hated doggy, all because she thought it demeaning.

I tugged at her leggings, tight against the round of her ass.

"Fuck," she said, evidently desperate, now needing this.

I ripped and her leggings pulled loose. Then her knickers, faded white, polkadot, conservative, fortysomething Mom, suggesting little else. But then they were gone, ripped asunder and tossed to the floor. Her ass, rounded, ripe, a dark tuft of pubes visible through the peak of her thighs. I slapped her with the flat of my hand. She gasped, leaned into it, so I gave it her again, flesh against flesh.

I pulled my shorts loose, kicked them free, palmed my cock just the once, and gave her all five inches with a single thrust.

"Yes," she hissed. And god was she tight, and god was she wet, and god did I need this. The panting heat of her. It'd been long, too long.

I withdrew, fully, and then returned with a slap of belly against ass.

"Oh. There." She took it with a grunt.

I pulled back again, and gave it to her harder.

"Ugh," she said, and then, "Deeper."

I adjusted, bent at the knees so that I could thrust up, maximising my full five inches.

"Okay," she said, with something like disappointment, reached back and spread her cheeks, the blush of her anus, as if she were offering me her ass. But she just wanted me deeper.

I pulled back and punched deep again. But not deep enough.

"Peter," she said, "Harder."

I clutched at her hips and thrust into her wetness with a slop. She was fucking wet. She was warm. Another fuckstroke, only I wasn't going to last.

I grunted, arhythmic.

"Oh no," she said, "Not yet. Nearly there." She'd reached down and strummed at her clit, my cock not proving enough to take her over the edge.

But it was too late. I lurched forward, a long groan, wet warmth and heat, emptying myself.

"Oh," she said, elongated, disappointment, like the end of something. Then, "Fuck," the sound of frustration.

I slumped against her back, slouched across her shoulder. The stink of fuck, and the stickiness of cum smeared across my cock, my crotch, her ass, her thighs.

We disentangled. She cupped her cunt with the palm of her hand, squatted, pulled her hand away and held it out so that I could see my cum pooled against the flat of her hand.

"You wanna clean up this mess?" she said, with an arch of her eyebrow, something akin to a sneer. So unlike her.

I swiped at it with my t-shirt, and she let me, but with a disappointment that I didn't quite understand.

In the bedroom.

"Well," she said. "That was something."

"Did you cum?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Doesn't matter," she said, "It was good." She said it, but as though she didn't quite believe.

Later, as she showered, I wondered what she might be thinking. We'd not fucked in many months or more. And it had not been like that for years - maybe longer.

I listened to the patter of water against ceramic tile, to the gurgle as it emptied into the drain, to the rustle of her towel against her hair, her flesh, the suggestion of her breath. But it told me little, it told me nothing, and I realised at once that I knew even less.

I finished early on Wednesday and she was waiting for me.

"You wanna hit the gym?"

"Okay," I said. Surprised.

"Consistency," she said, "It's a habit."

I changed in the bedroom. She was stood in her underwear, black sports bra and thong, violent red. I'd not seen her wear anything other than her Mom-pants since Heather. I hadn't realised that she owned a thong.

"What do you think?" she said.

She'd spread a couple of changes out across the bed. Dark jogging pants, conservative, but this time deep blue, along with a matching long-sleeve t-shirt that promised to reveal nothing.

"Or," she said, and laid out a pair of shorts - shocking pink - and a lycra crop top coloured to match. It didn't need her to model them to know that they were tight, that the shorts would ride high, cutting tight between her thighs, and that the top would leave her tummy pale, naked, bare.

"Well?" she said.

"New?" I asked.

"Of course, you kinda ruined the others," she said it with a smile, but bashful, embarrassed even. We'd not spoken about that day, and neither of us had dared mention Daryl.

"The pink," I said, without thinking it, and then without understanding why.

"You think?" she said, "It's not too much?"

"I think it perfect," I said.

She grinned, pushed up with her toes, her hand steadying against my shoulder, and kissed my cheek.

The gym was quiet, the two of us busy with the treadmill, a couple of lifters over by the weights, a girl squatting by the mirrors, and a guy, my age - maybe older - working the rower, eyes narrow, grunting with each stroke.

But Liz was seen. I noticed the lifters turn as she entered into the cardio room. The pink clinging tight to her curves, her ass, her thighs, her hips, her shoulders, her tits, shimmering with every movement. The crop top cut low, the pale swell of her breast lewd and bulging. The shorts dipped down, just above her pubis, and pulled tight against the crack of her ass. She looked conspicuous. She looked incredible. She looked wanton.

But no Daryl. It was unspoken, but both of us had expected him to be there. Liz now forlorn, and I disappointed, without being able to say or give reason.

We worked the treadmills, her movement effortless, luxurious, like spilled cream, and me, heavy, ungainly, sodden with effort and weariness.

After, I sat against the bench while she stretched out by the mirrors.

Only then he was there. Over by the dispensers, his eyes on hers as she watched him back against the glass.

Her hands to her hips, a twist to the left, then a turn to the right.

She pulled away her hairband and shook her hair loose.

She sighed.

She shook her bottle.

"I'm out," she said. "Should we get some water?"

She asked, seeming sincere, but her eyes strayed across and over my shoulder to him.

"I'm fine," I said. "You go. I'll wait here."

I said it, the thought of what it might mean, what he might take from it, and what she might give. I pressed my hand to my stomach, the dull ache, a clench of the jaw, and, improbably, I felt myself begin to swell and then harden.

I tapped at my phone, without seeing, without purpose. I turned, unsettled, I writhed.

She'd been gone for ten minutes, or maybe an hour, or perhaps longer still. I'd expected to find them out by the fountain, beside the dispensers, but the corridor was empty. I thought to call for her, but, instead, I checked the men's changing rooms, then dared the women's, but both were empty.

I returned to the fountain, wondering, but then I heard her, a sound, a sigh, her breath.

Around the corner, just before the emergency exit, a door which read, "Staff Only." The door open, half a sliver or more.

She was sat across his knee. She turned as I pushed the door wide, the slick of his tongue teasing at her lips as she disengaged. Her lips, red, blushed, swollen, slicked and wet. I could smell her. Her wetness, her musk, her need.

"Peter," she said, a question, as if she were surprised that I had sought her out.

"Hey man," said Daryl.

She turned and I noticed that his right hand cupped the thickness of her inner thigh, his first and index finger eased beneath the tightness of her shorts, threatening to press against her cunt.

"Hey," I said, with an idiot smile. As if this were good. As if this were cool. As if I didn't know that he'd just been fingerfucking my wife while I sat and waited.

I felt sick. Stupid. Pathetic. Fuck-sick. Like I might throw up. Like I might pass out. Like I might kill him or her or the two of them together.

But I was hard, aching, throbbing, wanting to reach down and stroke at my cock with a desperate, frantic urgency.

His eyes glanced from my face, to my crotch - where my dick had hardened and tented my shorts - and he grinned.

"I'll see you on Friday?" Liz said, standing.

"Look forward to it," Daryl said, slapping her ass as she turned.

Liz yelped like a fucking teenager and Daryl just held his hand there, groping at her ass, his eyes on me, her eyes on him, and nothing else save the lope of my heart.

We drove in silence - no music, no small talk - just the rumble of the engine and the patter of rubber against the road.

Liz slouched deep into her seat, eyes half-closed, breathing heavy, white teeth chewing at the fat of her bottom lip.

This time, I unlocked the front door and led the way.

Jeremy was out in the lounge watching the game, volume up loud, the roar of the crowd obscuring our arrival.

Liz crossed me in the hall and I watched as she mounted the stairs, too tight lycra cleaving her ass in two. She stopped, half-way, waiting, and I followed.

In the bedroom, I reached for her, her lips, her mouth, she turned her head.

"Not like that," she said.

She shucked her shorts, slid her thong along her thighs, over her knees, and then to her ankles. She sat against the edge of the bed.

She grabbed my arm, my wrist, my fingers, and pressed my hand against her cunt. She was sopping, wet, open, and wanting.

"Like this," she said.

I parted her thick dark thatch and sank a finger into her heat.

"Oh. There." She said it with a whimper. She said it with a sigh.

I withdrew, before sinking deeper.

"More," she said. I added a second finger, and then a third.

"Mmm. Better." She leaned back, then lay flat, her knees hanging free across the edge of the bed. I sank down beside her, fingering her with a slow, languid rhythm. I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head away, her eyes closed tight, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"No," she said, "My tits," she said.

She pulled down her top, and pushed her ripeness to my mouth. I suckled like a starving child.

"Fuck," she said, "I need more."

I increased the pace, my palm slopping against her sodden pubes, her swollen cunt. She shifted, a rock of her hips as she fucked herself against my fingers, grunting deep with each thrust. I adjusted, humped myself against her thigh, hard and frantic with fuck-desperation.

She quivered. She shuddered.

"Fuck. Don't stop. There."

She whimpered. She keened.

And again, this time doing the work, this time fucking my arm with a frantic intensity.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

She came with a splash of cum. It had never been like this. She had never been like this.

Then once again, this time subdued, this time fading. She took my arm, slowed the pace, tranquil, her gaze off towards the window, somewhere else entirely.

I pushed my shorts to my knees and positioned myself to penetrate her. Her palm against my chest.

"No," she said, "Not like that."

She spat into her hand and took my cock in her fist. Her eyes heavy-lidded, glassy with something like boredom. She beat at my cock, vigorous, ferocious, angry.

I came on the fifth stroke. She milked me into the palm of her left hand before holding it up to my face.

"Clean," she said, with calm expectancy.

"You're fucking kidding?"

She smiled, lightly, and leaned into to kiss me, her free hand taking me by my hair, firm, but gentle, and insistent. She pivoted, rocked away, sudden, her hand against my half-open mouth, and she smeared my cum against my lips, my tongue, my face. The taste of it was salt, bitter, thick.

"Now swallow," she said. And I did. My cock twitched. "Good boy."

She wiped my chin with the length of her finger.

"You missed some," offering it back to me.

I sucked her down. All the way to the second knuckle. Fully hard. Throbbing.

"I'll see you on Friday," she'd said to Daryl.

I thought about it that night, and through the following Thursday. I thought about it as I clambered out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, stroking my cock over the toilet bowl with a panting splash of cum. I thought about it as I rubbed myself raw, locked in a cubical in the second floor toilets between one meeting and the next. I thought about it Thursday night as I squirmed and turned, hard, dripping precum, wanting so badly to fuck, but not daring to wake her.