chase
We don’t sleep early. I need to prove to myself over and over that you’re going nowhere. You cede control of your pleasure for longer and longer until it’s like meditation, riding high above the world on waves of bliss. When you can finally let loose, the tension floods out through one last bone-cracking orgasm. You reach a tranquility you have not felt for years, the closed fans of your eyelashes damp with tears.
You’ve introduced me to Lucy and Shaun and the gym is our haunt. They’re already warmed up and are taking turns on a lats pull-down machine when we beep our way in. It’s a 24 hour gym. As always, you have to use a special code to open the broad automatic door, as the little air-lock style entrances are far too narrow for your body.
You wait for me, standing close and watching me through the plexiglass doors of my pod. The external doors have already closed behind me and there’s a tiny delay before the internal doors will open. I am suddenly painfully aware that I’m actually trapped, and once the internal doors slide open, there is literally nowhere to go but into you. From the faint smile on your face you’re well aware of what you’re doing.
Oh good. You’re in a playful mood. This is going to be an intense session for me.
“Andrew. Harder.”
“Heavier, Rey. You mean heavier.”
“Do I?”
You smile at me sweetly from the leg press machine. The very position you must adopt draws attention to your curves. Unloaded, as now, the foot plate is far away so your legs are at full extension, demonstrating how the muscular calves blend into the wide sweep of your hips, overhanging the seat on both sides. When you let the foot plate glide towards you your legs will bend and come apart. Your knees will squeeze either side of your belly, giving you a warm, tight self-hug and causing your breasts to ride high on compressed fat.
The weight plates are loaded onto the machine near your feet. I add ten kilos and watch your shape expand and contract, stretch and fold, accompanied by your deep, regular breathing and occasionally grunts of exertion. I watch your legs open and close in regular thrusts.
Later you will demand to see my heartrate graph on Fitbit. You will mock me for the spikes.
For now: “Is that a dumbbell in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”
It’s a good job you’re so gorgeous.
“How come you guys never do cardio with us?” asks Shaun. He’s finished his trademark light weights routine and is headed for the treadmills. Lucy, on one of her off-days, meekly follows him.
“Numbers,” I explain, enigmatically. “Raven is a nightmare about anything with a speedometer.”
You bat my shoulder and I give you a grin. “I like to chase.” You fix Shaun with an expectant stare.
He takes the bait. “Nothing wrong with a bit of friendly competition. Come on, join us running!”
“Oh, it’s friendly, alright,” I say mostly to myself. You grab me by the wrist and pull me after Shaun and Lucy.
At 130kg last measured, you are now comfortably within the weight rating of the treadmills. You dislike running inside, in place, but needs must. You suggested a game and now we’re all using the high-intensity training mode. We’re synced up, intermittently dawdling as we recover, then sprinting as fast as the current setting makes us run.
“How high… does this thing… go?” gasps Lucy. We all increment the setting, ready for the next sprint.
“I told you, as high as it takes for you to give up and let me catch you,” you say. You’re breathing hard but not as hard as Lucy, not as hard as Shaun. I think I’m keeping pace with you.
“Or till we outpace you,” I remind you as I watch the interval counter tick down.
“You’re underestimating how much I want to catch you.”
“You’re underestimating how much I’m trying not to get caught.”
You give me that smirk that causes your right eye to narrow. I call it your devil-aspect. It makes me stumble slightly on my tread. “Oh, honey, you’re already caught.”
Shaun breaks in: “here we go!”
You chase down Shaun first. Lucy takes more time, but succumbs eventually. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it’s something.
“If the treadmills had higher speeds I would have got you,” you complain, adjusting the towel wrapping your long black hair. The rest of you is air-drying. We’re home, and you luxuriate in the feeling of endorphins, in my attention on your glistening, shapely body.
“I guess we’ll never know. Lie here, please.”
You comply, sprawling on the bed. I pop the top of a bottle of massage oil. Bergamot colours the air.
“I know.”
I smile behind you, lean down to kiss the nape of your neck, then commence with a long, luxurious massage from head to toe and back again. We travel the warm summits and hidden valleys of your body together, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes just experiencing flesh on soft flesh. Not every intimate act leads to sex. Tonight we will both find satisfaction simply affirming the majesty of your belly, breasts and hips.
“Shaun really shouldn’t have pushed for it,” I murmur as we fall asleep, you in my arms.
“I know,” you agree quietly. “But at least he goes first. He doesn’t have to watch me eat Lucy.”