I
watch as sweat drips one bead at a time onto my over-priced yoga mat. The sun is
so freaking hot and here I am, like an idiot out in my yard, bent over in the
downward facing dog pose for the past million years. Okay, not years... maybe
more like a million seconds. But my body has decided it hates me (nothing new)
and is cramping while my head spins. Even better, my over-priced yoga pants have
clawed their way up my crack (as well as one other place). And still...
No
neighbor.
What
the hell?
Despite
my eyeballs’ attempt at bulging out of their sockets, I peek at my sports watch.
He should’ve been by here two-point-five minutes ago.
Shit.
The
man is usually like clockwork, jogging by my house on Monday, Wednesday and
Friday afternoons every week. For the most part, anyway. Though, thunderstorms seem
to discourage him from his cardio. (Not sure why.)
On
those days, I would be willing to recommend another type of cardio to get his
heart pumping. And maybe get his hips pumping, too.
Anyway...
look at me! Doing yoga on my front lawn, on the uneven grass, waiting like a
desperate woman. (I’m not, really, I promise! It just looks that way.)
But,
damn, the man is fine and when he jogs past shirtless, he’s shiny with sweat,
which makes me want to drag him inside and give him a sponge bath with my
tongue.
My
thighs start shaking as I peek between my spread legs, because, of course, my
ass has to be facing the street. I want him to get a good look at what I’m
offering.
I
may even wiggle it a little when he jogs by.
That
is if I don’t pass out into a heap first.
I
sigh.
Then
sigh again a little louder just for good measure.
Maybe
it would be easier if I just took up jogging. Wear one of those sexy sports
bras, put my hair up in a cute little pony tail, plaster a smile on my face and
follow him around the block at a perky pace.
I’ll
die first.
****
Cade:
Why
I ever started this shit, I’ll never know. No, I lie. I know. I thought, “Cade,
dude, wouldn’t it be great to up your cardio game and start running?”
I
answered myself with, “Yeah, man, that would be great and fun, too!” And
then maybe I won’t get so winded when I play basketball with the guys. I’ll
have more endurance, I’ll look and feel younger, and...
Fuck that.
Running
sucks. And I don’t even think what I do can be considered as running. No, it’s more
of a jog. Or a lope. Or trotting like a donkey with a lame hoof.
Inhell.
Exhell.
My
chest burns, my leg muscles spasm, my balls feel like they’re floating in a
puddle of sweat, and the crack of my ass...
I’m
not even going there. (Trust me, you don’t want to, either.)
So,
why don’t I just stop the torture? (Good question!)
I’ve
asked myself that for the past month.
And
the answer has always been...
Her.
I
sacrifice three days a week just to see a woman I don’t know.
Not
sure why, but she always seems to be outside at the same time of the day. For
that reason, I make sure that’s when I go running (jogging, trotting, limping)
by.
Am
I crazy to torture myself because I find someone attractive and I’d like to get
her attention?
Eh.
Maybe.
Why
don’t I just knock on her door and ask her out? (Another good question.)
Maybe
I want to impress her with my physique and athletic prowess.
But
honestly, something has to give and it has to be soon. Because this running
shit sucks balls and I’d rather stick razor blades under my fingernails.
At
least my slow trot is the right speed to observe her without being creepy.
Walking would be too slow and obvious. Driving too quick and useless, not to
mention dangerous when she’s clearly a distraction.
And,
of course, my pace always allows me enough time to enjoy the show she gives me.
On
Wednesday, she was out washing her car, her top soaked, her nipples pushing
through the thin fabric of her shirt, and when she bent over to scrub the hood
of said car, my boner just about popped out of my shorts. You know, those
little nylon running shorts. The ones with the mesh liner, clearly not made for
sexual arousal.
But
I digress.
The
week before, she was out watering her lawn. And, once again, her top was wetter
than her grass.
Here’s
the thing, the entire neighborhood has built-in sprinklers.
Maybe
hers are broken.
It’s
possible.
I
grunt as I turn the corner and try to push myself a little faster since I’m off
my game today. I’m later than normal, and I want my running to look as
effortless as possible. It needs to look as though I’ve got my shit together
and I’m not secretly suffering.
My
eyes swing to the left as I jog. She’s the fourth house up. The brick ranch home
with the two-car garage.
Two
houses to go yet.
One
house.
My
eyes widen as I see her ass in tight black yoga pants in the air. My step
stutters but I can’t stop my momentum.
My
mouth becomes an O, partly because
I’m falling over my own two feet, the other because she’s dropped to her knees
and is now arching backwards grabbing onto her heels, her generous tits straining
against her top.
Last
thing I see is her blinking upside down at me as her head hangs down her back.
Suddenly,
I’m staring at nothing but pavement (and my loss of manhood). The little bit of
oxygen I had sucked into my lungs is now gone.
Then,
what seems like seconds later, bare, cute, red painted toes come into view.
I
want to just die.
So
much for impressing her. That’s been completely shot to hell. I just want to
crawl away on my hands and skinned knees to go hide in a bush.
“Are
you okay?” she asks, her hand on my shoulder, sounding concerned. Which touches
me. But, that’s not the touch I need from her.
I
raise my eyes from the toes I want to suck, up those snug yoga pants, and I
hesitate when I get to the V of her legs.
I
have a feeling she’s not wearing panties.
“Can
you stand?”
Jesus. I should respond. I can’t
just pretend none of this happened. Or could I?
“Yeah,”
I say, but it sounds more breathless (and unmanly) than I’d like. Like I’m out
of shape or something.
Can’t
be. I run three days a week.
Right.
Suddenly,
I realize I’m still staring at her crotch. Not cool. I reluctantly lift my eyes
over the snug sports top she’s wearing and hesitate for a brief, pervy second
on the hard beads of her nipples. I finally continue on, no wait... one more
peek. Okay, I lift my gaze to her face and notice she’s biting her bottom lip
and her eyes are crinkled at the corners like she’s trying hard not to laugh.
Because
me falling over myself is a laughing matter, right?
Maybe
I should start laughing and we both can guffaw, and then I can go limp home and
lock myself inside until I find my lost manhood again.
“Need
a hand?”
A
hand. A mouth. A...
“No,
thank you,” I answer and try to prove it by pushing myself back onto my feet.
This time I want to stay vertical.
When
her gorgeous sky-blue eyes travel over my body, I have to assume she’s searching
for injuries. And I stand there like a dummy as she studies my chest (which I’m
hoping doesn’t appall her), runs her gaze over my shorts (I hope my chubby is
not detectable) and then down my legs, which are my best feature (if I say so
myself) since I do a lot of squats (hey, at least it’s not running).
When
she gasps, I look down. Maybe she’s impressed with my monster cock. But no...
she’s staring at my knees. Without warning, she squats down and puts her hands
on my thighs. “You’re bleeding.”
I
stare at the top of her blonde head, which is way too close to my package. If
she doesn’t get to her feet and take her hands off my legs, she’s going to get
a face full of my unruly erection.
But she’s right, my knees are bleeding, though
it’s nothing life-threatening. “It’s nothing. I can go—”
She
suddenly pops up, eyes wide. “Oh no, let me take care of that for you. I have a
first aid kit in the house.”
Suddenly,
I picture her in this white, tight, short nurses uniform (the old style with
the skirt – remember those?), with white stockings and everything. (Well,
except for the matronly shoes. She’s wearing three-inch stilettos in my little
fantasy.)
Then
BAM...
My
half-mast becomes a full-blown hard-on.
“Come
on,” she urges as she lays a hand on my arm. I stare at her delicate fingers
wrapped around my bicep and discover her fingernails are painted the same color
as her cute little toes.
I
realize how badly I want those nails to be raking my back and digging into my
ass while she’s encouraging me to fuck her harder.
Holy
hell, I have just fallen into a deep well of depravity.
I
follow her anyway. She’s tempted me for weeks. And I finally have an “in,” even
if it’s me being a klutz.
As
she guides me toward her front door, she tosses her blonde hair over her
shoulder as she says, “I’m Skylar.”
Skylar.
It
fits her and her sky-blue eyes.
I
clear my throat, because when I answer her, I want to sound much manlier than
earlier. “Kincade.”
She
smiles over her shoulder at me and I just about trip again.
Now,
why did I just give her my full name which I never use? Ah, because all the
blood in my brain has now pooled in my cock, that’s why. “Please... just call
me Cade.”
“Cade,”
she murmurs as she pushes open her front door and, letting go of my arm, she
steps inside and moves out of the way enough to let me pass.
It
takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the change in lighting, but while I’m doing
that, she shuts (and locks!) the door behind me.
When
I glance around the foyer, I discover her house is set up just like mine, as is
probably most of the houses in this neighborhood since they were all built
around the same time, by the same builder.
Because
of that, I know exactly where her master bedroom is. Which doesn’t help the
blood flow to my cock. Not to mention, the lack of vital blood to my brain.
Then
I realize neither of us have moved. I glance over my shoulder and she’s leaning
against the door, eyeing me up like I’m a medium-rare filet mignon at a Ruth
Chris steak house.
“You’ve
got a really nice ass,” she murmurs.
I
slowly turn to face her, trying to keep the shock of her comment from my face.
Ah
fuck it... “So do you.”
“Do
you like ass play?”
I
blink. “Sorry. What?” A pain shoots through my brain as it explodes.
“Ass
play.”
Holy
shit. Am I hearing things? I shake myself mentally, and it seems maybe I need
to clean out my ears.
I
try to swallow, but my Adam’s apple sort of sticks in my throat. “Ass play,” I
repeat, trying to keep my cool.
“Yes.”
Here I thought she was going to clean up my
skinned knees. However, ass play sounds so much better than alcohol wipes,
antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids.
She’s
waiting for my answer.
“I...
uh... I don’t not like it,” I respond,
wondering where she’s going with this conversation.
“Giving
or receiving?” She pushes off the door and I automatically step back. Though, I
have no idea why. She looks
harmless...
“I’m
not sure why—”
She
tilts her head toward my shorts. “You must be having the same thoughts that I
am since you’re as hard as a rock under those silky short shorts of yours.”
I
stop my hand from heading in that direction since I don’t need to feel it to
know how hard I am at that moment. I don’t need to see it. And, apparently, I
can’t hide it, either.
No matter what, my first thought was not the
same as hers. Ass play certainly hadn’t entered my brain until she mentioned
it.
However,
I must admit, now it’s stuck there.
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