(All characters are at least 18 years of age.)
(This is a work of fiction; any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)
Frank awoke at seven-thirty. She always got up early, even if, as was the case this morning, she had gotten a poor night of sleep the night before. Every day, in her opinion, should begin with exercise: either a brutal workout session or else yoga, for recovery. She normally alternated between the two. Today was slated to be brutal.
She removed her boxers, frustrated, as usual, that she could not see them when they were around her waist. Her view of that area was obstructed by her prodigious tits. Next she removed her sleep shirt in favor of a dark blue sports bra. Like many of her bras, this one had a strap that went around her neck; its incredibly high neckline ensured no cleavage showed at all. With difficulty, she wrestled her way into it. She could now see her waist if she craned her head forward slightly. She pulled on men's basketball shorts (featuring a liner, unnecessary in her case), followed by long red compression socks and white Air Jordans. Lastly, she pulled on a Chicago Bulls replica tank top with the number twenty-three on the back. "OK, where's that lazy-ass cousin of mine?" she thought.
The cousin was not being lazy, as it turned out. He was not in his bedroom or the bathroom. She found him, at last, in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the espresso machine, which had been broken for over a year. It was partly disassembled. He looked up at her. He still had sleep in his eyes but seemed alert. "Hi Frank!" he said cheerily.
"Coffee," Frank said. It came out more grouchy than she had intended.
"Just give me a few minutes," John said, unphased by his cousin's tone. He was intimately familiar with her pre-coffee persona. "I've almost got his sucker back together."
John was good with mechanical objects. Frank knew better than to try to dissuade him. Once he got focused on fixing some gizmo he was like a hunting dog following a scent. Also, they were in the kitchen, and John was difficult to argue with, on any topic, in a culinary setting. Perhaps most importantly, she knew that if she waited, she would receive an amazing espresso drink rather than the pedestrian filter coffee she could make for herself.
After ten, rather than "a few", minutes, John had the machine back together and had re-attached it to the water line. Soon Frank was drinking cappuccino. There was a particularly good cafe near the local university, and this drink was about as good as their best effort. She was so pleased that she briefly considered letting the tired-looking John off the hook. "Naw," she thought.
"Where're yer exercise clothes, homeslice?" she said.
"I thought you were kidding about working out," groaned John.
"Hell no, dude! I'll see ya in the garage in five." Frank sounded like her old basketball coach, or at least how John imagined she must have sounded.
John was still tired from his interrupted night of sleep, as well as their erotic adventure in the park the day before. If he were not a habitual early riser, he would surely still be in bed. He briefly considered arguing with his cousin, but then decided he would feel better if he worked out. He also took into account that he could not recall any specific argument he had won with her, unless it was about food preparation, in the last five years. So they both walked towards their respective rooms. John ducked into his room and Frank slipped into the bathroom. As he changed into exercise attire, John could once again hear Frank peeing flamboyantly, door wide open.
The door to the garage was in the same wing of the house as their bedrooms. John somehow beat Frank there, even though he had had more to do. The space was huge. It had two external doors and could have easily accommodated two full-sized SUVs. The closer half, the bay where John was now standing, had been turned into a home gym. There was a bench with a rack for doing chest presses, a set of barbells, a squat rack, and other similar workout gear. A large, thick exercise mat covered most of the floor. In front of the garage door was a 65-inch flat-screen television, perched on a cabinet and hooked up to a three-speaker sound system, including a sub-woofer. "More retail therapy?" John thought to himself.
The far side was actually being used as a real garage. Its back wall was taken up with a large work table. Numerous tools hung from hooks mounted on the wall. A chest-high, dusty red tool cabinet labeled "Snap-on" sat in the corner.
Most of the rest of that area was taken up by a faded, orange two-door car. All four wheels were missing; it was resting on jack stands. With mounting excitement, John noted a barely-discernible white stripe towards the back of its rear quarter panel. When he saw the number "500" on it, his heart began to race. John ran over to the car, tripping over a barbell in the process. He stumbled headlong, catching himself just as he got to the passenger side door. He looked in through the dusty window. There it was, the telltale round gearshift indicating a four-speed manual transmission. John could not believe what he was seeing. He opened the driver's side door, released the hood, and walked around to the front of the vehicle. He surveyed the grimy engine compartment. On the rusty air cleaner lid he could just make out the words "426 HEMI HEAD". John ran two fingers along the dingy lettering.
Frank had arrived about a minute beforehand, carrying two Nalgene bottles that were full of ice water. John had been too engrossed in whatever it was he was doing to have noticed her arrival. He probably would not have noticed had a 747 landed outside in the driveway.
"Dude, you can finish mating with that car later. It's time to git yo' sorry butt over here!"
John closed the hood and walked back towards the other side of the garage.
"Do you know what that car is?"
"Yeah, it's the fuckin' piece of shit car my piece of shit ex-step-father bought for Mom. And then never restored like he'd promised."
John felt a surge of adrenaline. Blood rushed to his face and his shoulders tensed. "Well, I am going to restore that 'piece of shit'," he said angrily. Then he added, with less authority, "Well, if Debbie will let me. It might cost some bucks."
"Dude, if you restore that car she'll fuckin' marry ya," Frank said, grinning broadly.
Her humorous comment belied her mood. Recollecting her mom's continual disappointment over the never-restored car had thrown her into a sour frame of mind. It had been one of a series of disappointments from Will that culminated with his nasty betrayal. Frank was also reminded of her discovery, the previous night, that her mom had stopped using her giant dildos and, by implication, had stopped having orgasms.
"OK, we're going to start with dynamic stretching," Frank barked out. She began to swing her right leg, from the hip, fully forward and fully back. John imitated her and she frowned.
"No, like this. You need to come further forward." She motioned him to swing his leg upwards even more, holding out her hand to indicate where his foot should reach. It was a lot higher than he had been swinging. Once satisfied with his form on the front swing, she moved to his back swing, insisting he repeat the motion until he was hitting her hand with his foot.
"If this is how she's gonna be the entire time, I'm really in for it," John thought. He was correct. She proved to be a stickler for form and made him repeat every stretch and exercise until he at least approximated the correct technique.
One of the first actual exercises was pushups. After his third one, Frank stopped him.
"That shirt is too baggy, I can't see if yer doin' it right, although I'm guessing it's crap. Wouldya mind takin' it off?"
"There's no arguing with her when she's like this," John thought. He removed his shirt and resumed pushup position.
"Butt down!" Frank said, pushing on his right buttock. "OK, go down but then stay there."
John lowered himself fully. Frank stood over him, made a disgruntled noise, and then moved his arms down slightly so that his hands were aligned with his nipples. She made him push upwards, then corrected his chest position, which was too low. She made an annoyed sound as she touched his chest hairs. "I may have to do something about that," Frank thought. She noticed his ass was too high and pushed it down again.
Later, when doing biceps curls, Frank felt that John's stance was too narrow and his knees were too straight. She came up next to him, bent down, and put her hand on his inner thigh, then pulled his leg to one side. Satisfied with the width of his stance, she then put her hands on his hips and pushed downwards until his knees were bent at a satisfactory angle. The workout proceeded in this manner. The only breaks were for water.
