Fall 2013 – Is this the End?

We don’t talk about it, but clearly these sessions must end at some point before he leaves.  We are taking more frequent intimate breaks as the end approaches.

Our first session after the start of fall is the last agreed naked training session, which seems as natural a stopping point as any.  We have been getting along well since the last massage 🙂 so hopefully we will transition to a more suitable relationship on a positive (and high) note.  bK comes in, strips and lays his folded clothes on the arm of the couch as usual.  I also strip and lay my (unfolded) clothes on the coffee table before I head to the treadmill. The routine that we have been following for almost a year feels different on this last day.  Each action is tinted with tacit acknowledgement that our dalliance is coming to an end (as we knew it would).

We move back into the living room after I warm-up.  I get through the first two exercises before we seamlessly progress, mid-conversation, to touching one another.  We are having a good conversation, but I don’t know what about.  My mind has already wandered to what we will be doing afterwards.  When I am not thinking about that, I am reflecting on the feel of his skin as I caress his body while he demonstrates proper form, the contours of his chest as my hands splay out across it while he shows me the next exercise.  I have trouble focusing on the workout with bK playing with my nipples and taking advantage of my exposed frame arched over the exercise ball. Crunches are tough to do with his hands drifting further and further south.  The pressure starts to build inside me, together with the familiar strains of an internal battle about to be lost.

Soon bK is massaging the mound of my p-ssy, occasionally letting one or two fingers slip in, a glance here, an exploratory squeeze there, teasing of what’s to come.  Conversation slows.  We delay moving to the next exercise — neither of us is ready to break the physical connection.  When we do finally switch to the next part of the workout, I make him repeatedly demonstrate it so I have time to trace along his back, measure his broad shoulders, sweep down his stomach and finally let my hands come to rest on his balls.  Those tender orbs.  Such simple pleasure to hold those tender orbs in my hand and let my fingers roll slowly over his tender skin.  Even more enjoyable to watch and feel bK’s response to it.  He can’t control it which makes me even hotter.  Given the trauma that I caused his nuts in the past, it feels nice to give them a little TLC one last time…

It’s a pleasant struggle to work out while so aroused and with bK at full attention besides me, but I manage and finally get through the last exercise.  As usual, somehow by the end of that set he has put a condom on (French letter ninja).  We sink down to the beach towel.  On his knees, bK nestles between thighs already dotted with goose bumps that display an anticipation I’m too proud to voice.  He pauses as he lifts my legs to his shoulders and we make eye contact: “last time” he says; “last time”, I agree.  I close my eyes as he slips inside me.  I plan to savor each stroke, touch and sound that marks the end of this surreal journey.  bK leans forward and I wrap my arms around him, running my hands up and down his back as we begin to move together. Our bodies are sealed together and we start with a leisurely grind, letting the intensity build with each rotation.

After a few minutes the relaxed grinding is not enough to slake our hunger.  I need him further inside me asap and bK complies with deep forays that have the head of his dick perfectly stroking my cervix.  Mmmmm.  Even our moans, of encouragement, of pleasure, are in sync as we move in rhythm towards climax.  My hands slide down to settle where they usually do – cupping his solid ass and urging bK along each thrust.  He stops supporting himself and lets his chest fall on me as we increase the pace and scale the heights.  He doesn’t feel heavy in the midst of this frantic haze of carnal delight; his body is a comfortable weight as we reach a fiery release that radiates down to my toes.  A suitable ending.

But then my first thought as we lay there afterwards with him still inside me — what harm is a couple more weeks?  How to say let’s continue activities we don’t discuss until closer to an event we barely acknowledge…

August 2013 – Breaking the Fast

bK and I are getting along fairly well by the time Ramadan ends after the first week of August. Working out dressed and suppressing the urge to act on our mutual attraction has become semi-normal.  It helps that even with religious obstacles removed, I’m not supposed to have sex for a couple of weeks after my egg retrieval procedure.  Maybe the confluence of Ramadan and this limited biological insurance is a sign that I should stop boning my engaged trainer/friend and move on, but six wasted weeks with the b-day rapidly approaching is hard to take.

We get through the first week after Ramadan with appropriate sessions – clothes, conversation, no body appreciation or celebration. The next week temptation is eliminated since bK is out of the country on a security consulting assignment.  My mind is more or less ready to cut the cord, but my flesh is not, but an unpleasant exchange before he leaves for his trip helps tip the balance further in favor of reason.

By the first workout after his trip we still have not cleared the air.  I let him in with minimal conversation and as soon as we get upstairs, I head to the other room to warm-up in silence.  It takes bK a few minutes to head in from the living room, and when he appears I see why… He is buck naked (and nicely lotioned up). Hhhmm. No matter the inner contents, the packaging is beautiful. Principle or pleasure? He still owes a couple of days of training nude so if I choose this can just be a workout with a view. Pleasure or principle? While I consider whether I will join him in the buff or keep my clothes on, we discuss it as though talking about the weather (me – I didn’t do anything to be in the buff, him – I thought we were a team). Principle or pleasure? I take a few more steps as our short and friendly debate ends without resolution. In the end pleasure carelessly crushes principle. I pause the treadmill and strip.

And just like that, we work out in the nude as though the six year week drought never happened. I make him repeatedly show me how to do exercises that I did three weeks ago without speaking to him so I can re-familiarize myself with his body, squeeze those tight buns, feel his balls tighten in my palm as I massage them and generally do whatever I feel like doing with is body in the moment. He returns the favor during each exercise that permits it.

By the second set of exercises I could use his stiff cock as a dumbbell and I am drenched and not with sweat. Just in case, I freshen up[1] when I head to my bedroom before the last set to get my vest for the treadmill. I return and finish the last set with difficulty, trying to ignore what bK is doing to my exposed body while I stretch. The six-week break is back, silent and mocking in the air, stripping us of any pretense of patience with the time it is taking to complete the last set.

I finish the exercise with bK at full attention and raring to go. All conversation, other than our bodies exhorting us to get to it, stops. My vagina’s monologue is on repeat: “f—k now” (in Danny’s redrum voice from the Shining). His rigid dick, with its pronounced veins throbbing to the same furious beat, seems to be calling for the same. If those veins were near his other head, I’d be worried he was about to have an aneurysm. Luckily we are headed for rapture and not rupture this morning.

I want to class it up on the couch today so I put my hand on his chest to pause and we shuffle, bodies pressed against each other, around the coffee table to the couch. I half lay, half crouch on the couch as bK does the same on top of me and, with his chest weighing lightly against my back, he finally slips his c-ck inside me. My body treacherously welcomes his with a tight, hot embrace and we begin to move in sync to a familiar beat. He reaches forward to stroke my clit while I reach back and down to play with his balls, allowing my fingers stray a little further. The catch in his breath and his muted groans get me every time and I’m even more aroused. Aaah, this deep, slow stroke is the right way to start the day.  We put my sofa to the test as we unleash weeks of repressed lust.  If I could, I would have spent the morning with his dick inside me.

I feel energized and ready to take on the day after I come. By contrast, bK seems dazed and worn out after he comes. 🙂 After a few minutes of relaxing in post-coital serenity, I pop up, give bK a light slap on the face to snap him back to reality and head to the treadmill. I realize too late that we did not shut the curtains before landing on the couch. Hopefully my neighbors were too occupied to notice.

Common sense returns later in the morning and I recommit to flushing this out of my system by the end of the month.  Despite that re-commitment, we slip without further discussion back into a routine of training in the buff at least once a week with a mid-workout intimate interlude. No romance, just interesting discussions, exercise and decadent copulation, peppered with the occasional idyllic Sunday afternoon in the park.

No Massage in August. The one day we tentatively scheduled was canceled due to time constraints. We still found time to “connect” on a more primal level and then spend a quiet afternoon in Central Park discussing fidelity and the surname he will give his child(ren). It was nice. But I wanted the massage.

 

 

July 2013 (Ramadan)

Have you ever been on a really good vacation?  In a space in which you can cast aside your responsibilities and concerns about your day-to-day and just focus on doing what you feel like when you feel like it?  You can, and do, immerse yourself in the sights, sounds, thrills, smells and sensations of your environment.  But try as you might, the knowledge that this hedonistic period is finite lurks somewhere in recesses of your mind.  Unwanted though it is, that recognition magnifies the importance of enjoying every – single – day.   A steady flow of gratification of one variety or another is a requirement.  And so you do what you can to meet the surgeon general’s recommended dosage faithfully.

Imagine then, that during one such vacation, your days of contentment are harshly interrupted by illness or foul weather.  That’s you sitting in the window, sick, while the rest of the world seemingly enjoys your damn vacation.  You are stuck in a punishing time warp in which each day crawls along as you huddle under your self-pity blanket, brooding and morose over your holiday benching, while paradoxically those same days hurtle by as you watch your vacation days dwindle away into nothing.  Your mind becomes preoccupied with all the activities that you are missing, the opportunities foregone and when, when, for fuck’s sake (literally), will your time-out be over so that you can return to enjoying what’s left of your vacation?  And also, where is that second caipirinha you ordered with your lunch?

THAT is the onset of a thirty-day fasting period in July when you are f–king with someone with a hard stop set for August (the month I eventually set as my end date).

Our last workout before the beginning of the fast starts out like any other.  bK arrives and we strip down to underwear before I warm up on the treadmill.  We talk about how our respective weeks are going, current family and news events but nothing memorable.  As is now par for the course, we let our fingers do the walking as we explore each other’s bodies, touching and teasing here, there and everywhere, as I work through the exercises.  Somewhere along the second set of exercises, the conversation stops and the silence is broken only by our increasingly labored breathing and his occasional exercise counts.  By the last set of exercises his boxer briefs and my thong have somehow evaporated and we are naked.  He demonstrates a plank modification for the umpteenth time while I sit on his back and test his ability to maintain the position while I fondle and gently massage the tip of his di-k.  Just the tip today – he is so sensitive there that a few seconds is all takes for beads of moisture to start to collect on my fingers.  bK maintains the position for a while longer until he suddenly bounces up (save the eruptions for later) and it’s time for me to do the exercise.  You reap what you sow and as soon as I am in position he takes full advantage of his access to my body.  My arms and abs are not the only things on fire while I try to hold still for a full 45 seconds.  We continue like this for three sets.  By the last set my main thought is whether I am going to turn around and rest my legs on his shoulders or whether I’m going to take it easy on this one to save some energy for the treadmill.  It’s one of those choices where either way I’m f-cked 🙂

I hear and sense bK drop to the carpet as the count nears the last five seconds.  At zero, he leans forward so that he is lying on top of me without resting his full body weight on me, wraps my right leg around his thigh and places his hands on top of mine on either side of my head.  His mouth is on my ear as he slips inside me.  [His cock goes in with so much happiness, it should be sitting on a ritz©.]  For several moments we just stay that way, bodies joined, mute and still.  Taking stock as my body contours to, and envelops, his swollen and throbbing dick.

After the clit, the entrance to, and lower part of, the vagina contain the most concentration of nerve endings – today the emphasis is on every single one.  When we start moving, the main action is the base of his cock circling around and rubbing against my inner lips and just inside my aching pu–y.   Sensory overload as each and every nerve ending seems attuned to his dick rubbing gently against me.  Sweet glory in the morning…the sensations coursing through me as his rigid staff circles against my inner lips, slowly revolving against and around the entry to the ultimate sanctum of our pleasure — it feels so right, even though it’s so wrong…without sin how can one ever appreciate the beauty of forgiveness?  With each rotation, electric shots of pleasure radiate from my core throughout the rest of my body.  Even my toes are tingling.  An internal battle is raging in my body pu–y.   The first half does not want his cock to shift  further or otherwise change his motion but the second half is calling, urging him to plunge deeper inside.  It is a temporary conflict – peacefully resolved as we begin to gyrate, pressing and grinding against one another — his movements tempered as he plunges slowly but deeper and deeper inside me —  and both halves get what they are asking for.  It’s as though we have all the time in the world and in this moment the only goal is to maintain this silent line of communication until our hunger is completely fed.  He is barely thrusting, his dick never leaves the molten shelter provided and we continue our synchronized motion.  No “lovers after all” playlist, no music at all, just the sounds of our mutual delight. We are moving so slowly that with each shift I  feel each inch of his cock against my walls.  bK is now partially resting his weight on me but the only pressure computing is  between my legs.  He whispers something, that is hard to decipher but then again I have no idea what I am whispering in response either.  Our bodies have more urgent matters to address.  He moves further inside me and I arch up beneath him to accommodate the longer stroke.  Hhhhhmmm, each stroke is measured, deep and sensuous.  A nice morning drive up the mountains – slow and winding to the peak, and every bit as exhilarating.  No rush to the top and the destination is definitely worth it.

Afterwards, we rest in the same position we started for a couple of minutes.  I am already thinking about the feasibility wondering of an afternoon session, but schedules will not allow – he has afternoon bikram and mentoring and I have work.

The cool down mile on the treadmill is too much for my legs to complete and so I stop early. This leads to stone face, stern voice and the start of a squabble that continues via text.  And thus lust turns to dust.

And then the FAST.

Our first workout during Ramadan is fully clothed.  Rather than concede that we are returning to these cumbersome barriers because of the fasting period, bK tells me that naked training affects his concentration and hinders his effectiveness as a trainer.  Maybe.  But it certainly heightens other things.  Childish, but I am still salty about the way that he addresses it and so even though we “agree” to return to normal training with only occasional nude days, the next few days are chilly.

No massage: Cancelled in first week and then Ramadan. 😦

Have you ever been sidelined during a vacation?  What did you do with your time?  It seemed like a good opportunity to complete the process and so I froze eggs.

Fasting music:

June 2013 Part One (Breakfast of Champions)

When I decided to stop resisting (and to accept/luxuriate in/applaud..) lust during the last massage session, I planned on a one-time release of the building sexual tension before he gets married.  The best laid plans.

We continue with underwear workouts except for naked days.  We have dropped all pretense about our mutual desire to touch.  My hands roam freely while he demonstrates exercises that I have been doing for almost two years.  He returns the favor while I exercise.  I hate arms work but it is the best chance to feel the contours of his chest, mold the powerful muscles of his back, cup and massage his beautiful ass and, oh yes, play with his d–k.  Just stroke and feel it grow!  My (temporarily) own chia pet.  And what a squeezable ass.  His cheeks are so firm and sculpted – my hands are drawn every time.  I enjoy letting him walk down the stairs ahead of me so I can get my post-workout grope on…

Arms days are also an ideal time for him to touch me since I’m basically just standing there during sets.  He caresses my ass (it’s pretty nice too), plays with my breasts and lets his talented fingers explore all over.  All while standing so close behind me, I can feel his breath…and the changes in his body in response to our extracurricular activities.  I am generally at a disadvantage since it takes longer to do the exercise than it does to demonstrate it but submission feels quite nice. 🙂   Each set blows by (the only thing getting blown under these circumstances — saving the tasting and savoring for the fiancée we do not acknowledge) and the workouts are now so much more pleasurable even when we debate about silly things.

Initially touching and teasing during exercise feels like enough — but after about a week I decide that one more taste would be forgivable.  Just one more…

At the end of the next workout after we are dressed, I start to rub my hands along his thighs, letting my hands graze but never touch his d—k.  bK doesn’t move and we converse about random things while I slide my hands inside his sweats and boxer briefs, cup his balls and begin to massage them gently.  These chocolate caramel nuts don’t melt – they just distend with pleasure and fill my palms.  I want those nuts bouncing rhythmically against me ASAP.  Within minutes, bK’s boner is poking through his sweats and I suggest that I could put him for the team to work to lower my rent.  He asks what I’m going to do for the team.  Lulz. 

Have condom will travel is ready and raring to go and so am I.  In short order our clothes are off again (except for some reason his red tank – the only time he keeps something on besides his socks) and we are having sex on the side of my couch in front of my living room window.  I hope my neighbors have better things to do this morning.  If not, they might be watching bK massaging my clit gently with his left hand while clasping my rumpus with his right and entering me slowly but very fully from the back.  Coordination is so nice.  It’s not carnation but I’m loving it in an instant.  From the moans floating over me, the feeling is mutual.  I guess I’m serving frosted flakes because I brought out the tiger.  It’s gr-r-reat. 🙂  I arch back against him as he moves against me and we rock towards release.  A sweet breakfast treat that won’t give you diabetes.

Afterwards I commit to this being the last time and head to the office in a suspiciously good mood.

 

March 2012

Our respective birthday events pass with minimal drama. Meanwhile the workouts are proceeding (relatively) well; 3x a week plus I’ve built in a solo cardio day so I am in a great exercise groove. More chocolate and wine for me 😉

Still, the debates can be draining. Why can’t we just get along in peace? Lately it’s a lot of noise about the shortcomings of ivy leaguers and 1%ers (selfish, underpay service providers, overwork little hands, etc…). The former annoys me because it’s untrue and his friend is also an ivy leaguer, while the latter annoys the sh-t out of me because he earns more than I do. I don’t bother pointing out the hypocrisy. There is no need to fall into “serious voice” routines over it. Call me Madame Jellyfish – no spine.

Sometimes I wonder if the personal training is worth the psychological gamesmanship/emotional rollercoaster, but that level of introspection is not going to build a better body. At the end of the month bK and I agree to a combination of additional massages and 4 days of training to make up missed days from the prior quarter. Seems innocent enough…

 

Personal Training Begins

At the end of 2010, I received a text message out of the blue from my friend “bK”. We haven’t spoken in almost two years so a text asking about my exercise habits is random. My habits are sporadic use of an elliptical whenever I feel like I’m getting too flabby – no regular exercise routine.  While random, the text is right on time and after some back and forth, we negotiate an arrangement for bK to train me.  He is a high end personal trainer and I normally would not splurge on his rates, but I’m able to negotiate a sweet rate.

We start in the spring.  The start of each workout day is scented with Brut 33. bK is pretty liberal with it and it hits me as soon as I open the door and then trails behind him as he walks up the stairs.  That scent still makes me feel like I should go jump on a treadmill.

At the end of the year, bK mentions that he is getting licensed as a massage therapist to expand business which I think is a great idea. We joke about the opportunities available to a private masseur…A few weeks later as part of a settlement of old bets and to help bK meet his licensing requirements (I am magnanimous like that), we agree that he will give me some  free massages.  That’s what friends are for – any anyway, who in their right mind would decline free massages from a trained massage therapist? 🙂

We make it through the year peacefully and in December I sign up for another year.  And then it got interesting.