Nancy jogged naked on the treadmill.
She was miserably hot. Sweat beaded on every inch of her skin. Her bare feet were sore from thudding on the deck of the machine. Her breasts hurt slightly from the bouncing, but she did not stop.
Across her bedroom, Nancy could see herself in the mirror. That same mirror had, twenty years ago, reflected the sexiest little body west of the Mississippi. Now, the reflection had changed somewhat. Her breasts were full and round, but were sagging just a bit. Her ass was a little too big. And her thighs, well, Nancy preferred not to think about her thighs.
Nancy knew, logically, that the mirror still reflected a sexy body, especially for a woman her age. But all she could see was the young woman she was not - the young woman men had once worshipped. Their eyes used to stop on her, lingering on her form, undressing her. Now the looks passed her by, preferring to slide over to her daughter. And of course – why look at an aging mare when a beautiful filly pranced nearby?
Nancy turned the treadmill up a notch, increasing her pace, forcing her muscles to obey. Her breasts ached, her thighs burned, but she welcomed the pain. She knew the pain would keep her body supple, keep it young. And secretly, she was saving the pain, saving it for later. One day she’d catch a young man - the young clerk at the grocery store, or perhaps of the plumber’s assistant that sometimes came by. And then, when she’d snared him, and he wanted her like nothing else, she’d give him a little taste of her pain.
Suddenly a funny image popped into her brain: with every footfall, she was trampling a young man’s naked body underfoot. Nancy laughed in between breaths. What a twisted thing to think! And yet, somehow, it made her feel better. So she turned the treadmill up another notch, and proceeded to trample her way across a sea of prone young men.
~o~
The green Army trunk was heavy – too heavy for the plastic shelf it rested on. At some point the shelf would give, and the trunk would come crashing down.
Becky thought about that every time she entered the old tool shed. Her mother often sent her in to get a shovel, or drag out the lawn mower, or get a box of old books out. And every time, Becky would skirt the creaky plastic shelves carefully.
But this time she forgot.
She forgot about the heavy trunk for of a number of reasons. For one, she hadn’t been alone when she entered – a young man was with her. Also, after they slid the aluminum doors mostly shut, it was dark in the shed, and the trunk was lost in the gloom. Only a sliver of light cut through the darkness, illuminating a swirl of dust motes as the air was disturbed by the two people moving around.
As for Andre, he had no idea the heavy trunk was a danger. He was just excited to be alone with his girl for once, away from people. Especially Becky’s mother – the woman they both jokingly called the ‘Old Maid’.
For Andre, the term was only half in jest. He wasn’t sure, but there was something odd about Mrs. Wanek, some glint in her eye that made him feel uneasy. He didn’t like spending a lot of time around the woman, and had been wary when Becky suggested they play hooky from school and escape to the old shed on her property.
But Becky had always wanted to fool around in the shed. There was something secret and sexy about the place. As a young girl, it had been her clubhouse, her playtime sanctuary. Now, as a young woman, it was prime for a different kind of play.
Becky couldn’t see the young man in front of her, but she could feel him. His muscles were hard from a summer of work outdoors. She tugged at the buttons on his shirt, eager to feel his chest. She clawed at his belt, tugging his pants apart as she felt his rough lips press into hers. Soon, though she couldn’t see it, she knew a hard, naked male body was standing in front of her in the darkness of the shed.
Rough hands came out of the dark and started to pull up her sun-dress. It was getting hot in the shed, and Becky wanted to be naked too. The thin material was already clinging to her sweaty skin as he tugged it up her body. She raised her arms, and the dress slipped off. She wore no bra, and moments later her soaked underwear were on the dusty floor.
Andre heard Becky’s underwear hit the floor, and a thrill went through him. Becky leaned in for a kiss and he felt his member brushing between her naked thighs. A little line of electricity seemed to be arcing between their genitals, pulling them inexorably together.
Becky was wanton. She literally climbed onto Andre’s chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, throwing her legs around his waist. He grunted with the strain, and had to lean back to balance the weight. Then Andre lifted Becky up by the waist, letting her do the job of matching her wet opening to his stiff, probing length.
The head slipped in. Becky gasped. Her breasts squeezed against his chest, nipples erect and on fire. Her legs clamped across his back, and she wiggled a little, working the cock into her. Then Andre eased her body down, impaling her.
The pleasure climbed up through Becky’s body. She leaned farther onto Andre, adjusting the angle. She found a nice position, one that tickled her deep inside, and she let out a sigh of lustful satisfaction. She felt as if she could have lingered there, deeply penetrated, hanging onto that male body all afternoon.
But her own flesh had other ideas, and started to move of its own accord. Becky’s thighs flexed, rocking her pelvis up and down, inching Andre’s dick in and out of her pussy. Her sweat-slicked body slipped against his. The pleasure between her legs began to mount.
As Becky humped him, Andre did all he could to maintain his balance. Cautiously, he felt around behind him for some sort of support. His hand found what felt like an old clothes washer. He reached behind and put both hands on it, taking some of the weight off his back. It was the perfect position – leaning back, Becky could get more leverage to move her hips. She finessed her motions, massaging the inside of her channel with each stroke.
And with each stroke, the washer behind Andre shook a little. And as the washer shook, the shelves behind it shook.
And as the shelves shook, the heavy old trunk rocked back and forth.
~o~
Nancy heard something. It sounded like a crash, followed by a voice calling out in pain.
Her feet slowly thumped to a halt on the deck of the treadmill. She went to the window and peeked out through the curtains, down at the backyard. There was nothing to see. The strawberry patch, the green of the lawn, the old rusting swing-set. And beyond, miles of open field, dotted with a house or two.
Then Nancy noticed the tool shed. The lock was off, and the doors were open slightly. Her paranoia crackled to life – was there a burglar inside? She always kept the shed locked and badgered Becky to do the same.
Some women would have called the police, especially living so far from help. Nancy went straight for her dead husband’s baseball bat, which she kept under the bed. She pulled it out, wiped off a few cobwebs, and headed for the door, still naked and glistening with sweat. Almost as an afterthought, Nancy grabbed a cotton robe off the back of the bedroom door and tugged it on.
She crept slowly down the stairs, holding the bat firmly in her hands.
~o~
Becky tried again to lift the trunk, to no avail. It was just too heavy for her to budge.
“Do they hurt?” Becky asked, feeling in the dark for Andre’s hands.
“They did when it fell. Now they just ache.” Andre said, grimacing. He tried again to free his hands, but in his awkward position – leaning backwards, arms extended behind him - the leverage was bad. The trunk kept his hands pinned to the washer, and tugging just made them hurt.
