Stairmaster

By Daddy X

It’s the view. The ladies using that stairmaster in front of me are quite concerned with their posteriors.

So am I.  

I’m already pumped up to the equivalent of a quarter mile when a thin, pasty looking woman mounts the machine. I usually prefer a plumper, rounder body but that tall and svelte in red leotard tights proves a surprising delight on an otherwise doggy day. I was twice her age over a decade ago.

She steps up on the machine. Shapely treasures undulate beneath bright O my god red silky skin tights. Long leotard legs lift and fall. In and out the machine’s heavy pistons slide. She must motivate the mechanism metered at the max for her mass I’d imagine, requiring rigorous personal prowess on those muscular pontoons activating the platforms. The effort resulting of course in a fine, rhythmic flow of reciprocal torque between individual strokes, exposing sides of her character defined by flexing aspects tightening up those two contained halves of her teeny tiny ass. All the while tactile fabric caresses the flawless epidermal surfaces lying just Jesus I’ll bet underneath.

The limp, the fine, the lovely lady plateaus. Leans her fab figure forward. Finds her frequent strider stroke. That’s tremendous for me ‘cause there’s that tighter tempo to it.  Rather than badda boomba, she’s more of a chooka chooka. In the tooka. The spinal arc now lies horizontal, parallel to the floor. Beads of sweat moisten the concave curve. That ass so skinny, now acquiring definition, style. So round, so tempting, the way she got it tipped up and out like that. Really firm in the fundament.

The lover for whom she lavishes such attention on her assets is a lucky, lucky soul and I’m thinking they must fool around back there every now and then.

Or maybe she has no lover at this time. And maybe this is her way of seeking one.

Yesss

Each and every tiny shift in position provides major changes in shape and textural relationship betwixt the two satin ensconced rounds, rubbing friction heated together not twenty feet from my face. To make that clear: When she’s standing straight upright, those twin tight globes morph to rounded grinding squared off bricks, gobbling and chewing the thin red fabric pinched in between. Which, when bent back down and pushed back out freeees it’s sweat dampened Rorschach dark in the shape of an elongated V pussy, absorbing wet spread crimson from the shadowy depths of the divide. That is, until she stands back up again. Then the inverted triangle across her upper ass gets ground once more between those masticating cheeks. Buttocks again squeeze flat. Her back arches, elbows out, backside chugging like it does, tugging tight at the slit red translucent jello hot fabric. Exacting twitches elicit teases of tushes, satin whispers, ether specters, holy hints of epidermal touching on the very complexity of her dynamic layers. Then back to the short, quick, fuck-steps, alternating feet on springing high ersatz step-stairs.

On the other hand, the basic fact that just a tiny tilt flips her tookas to a different tangent, from upright and uptight, to teeny-tiny tipped up … rotundo … seemed to me- To bump up against a universal fandango.

Observing the force in those long legs, I now get the laws of physics pertaining to the nut cracker fulcrum effect up there between those thighs, powered by those hard gluteus maximi at the apex clenching intensity of the grasping she could rip my dick off benefits of the machine while her skinny gams continue pumping up and down. Up and down. 

I’m thinking how my wife gave me these silk boxers for Christmas. How sensual it is wearing them. It’s like getting a pretty good hand job just walking along.  

So, for me, at least- Stepping out and on the streets with floppy silk junk is a really juicy leg lob bouncing jerk job. But that’s me. While for now, on this recliner bike, it more resembles a sloppy blowjob. So I’m hoping I don’t embarrass myself in these light gray sweats like I would at the school hops when I’d find myself in a slow dance grinding with some chick to the point where throes of teenage fluid stress governed by unseen hormonal agents overtook my testicular capacity to hold on to my action and whoops! I’d splooge down the front of my khakis. Then the girl would break away and say something like: “Can’t you just dance? They’d sneer at me, look at my stained crotch, maybe slap me right there on the dance floor. They’d leave me alone with my jumpy hard-on and a trickle down my pants when I coughed. And I’d think to myself: “Something may be frottage with me.” But then I looked up “frottage” and if it sounded pretty okay on the subway or in a crowded elevator car up to the upper floors. Because they never say anything in such tight quarters. So I dream about frottage with this girl on the stairmaster.

Now she pumps the pedals harder. The strain is taking a toll on her and on those upper thighs. Still the high steps. Sweat has darkened her hair and it’s sticking to her neck. She bends over again, alerting me to the fact that the tight crimson crotch of the tight red tights have turned a dark wet. And damn if her leotard hasn’t crept down in back, so by now, her fucking ass dimples have puddled up around her exposed black thong. I’m getting wetter and wetter as well. In fact, I’m pedaling faster and faster. The leg with my cock sliding alongside is bouncing up and down in time with her pumping. It’s getting better and better along with the wetter and wetter. And the juicier and juicier I get. Now my dick’s flopping around in there more and more in the slippery slick bunched up silk- And the better and better it gets.

Then fuckin’ A she’s changed her stride again. Standing up straight once more, it’s back to the short, quick, tip-toe steps. Pip-pip-pip. Faster and faster she pumps those pads. Now crossing her forearms, she leans forward, elbows laid along a horizontal shaft, which tips her churn out at yet another cantilevered cant.

And does she allow a lover’s finger free access back there? And what would a finger be subjected to, say … a knuckle deep? Or so. And then what would the tip of a long finger experience with the stairs going up and down activated by the way her powerful ass pumps up like it does? Or then again- What it would feel like, maybe with two knuckles in.  Or what would it look like with my entire index finger curling its way up and into that puckered opening? I’m thinking the rest of my fist would obviously twist. It’d twist and moosh that fucking crack wider, for chrisssakes wider, spreading those malleable buns apart, misshaping her cheeks from in between as I twist a fucking fist full of knuckles back and forth one hundred eighty degrees.

And if her butt would just stay stuck out there at that one level. And if a guy could just stand there held there behind her there like on a rig there, or a platform there of some sort on the stairmaster there with the end of a dick stuck in there? What ministrations would be felt on my glans when that grippy anus snapped behind it? Or, say then, what if I maybe pushed in more or less half way?  Again, how that would differ from all the way in? Think all the way in to the sudsy open rectal void beyond but still tightly constricted at the ah so rubber band tight private entrance to the fundamental passageway to her heart. And ahhh, what carnal knowledge of which internal organs would my dick be privy to?  And what would the hippity hoppity thing experience slapping around her insides? If I had anything to say about it, it would likely be waving side to side, sloshing round and round, slipping back and forth between the lemon squeezers, firm on both sides of the in and out of it all. With those strong muscles so velvety clenching just inside the opening. Were they as tough and tumble inside as those on the surface?

And its O so powerful grinding in there, with her pumping her ass up and into that singular shape it is now, and what fucking shape it was back then. And O if she would just let me put it in for research purposes. And if she would Onnnnnly tell me if it felt better? Or different? ? To either of us? If, we, say, angled ourselves a little bit to the left side.  Or if she would only wiggle it?  Or not? Or then what if I waved it around using the funky fulcrum of her rigid sphincter to arc it around the damp, dark, uncharted areas of her insides? But then again, how it would feel to me if only- If only I angled myself to the right?

It’s sure getting better and better if I can only keep up the pedaling and pedaling. And my dick is Jesus flopping around in there in the viscous suds with the silky slickety and the milky wet. And I’m pumping. She’s pumping and sweating. I’m sweating, pumping now crazy for thirty minutes. I’m sprinting at forty miles an hour godammit, and I can’t stand it, she points the damp part right at me. Her tush keeps chugging and morphing. She’s forming that O so shape shifting rear end with the dark crack so translucent deep and isn’t she round, those shallow dimples so firm back there with the stretched thong? And if only on that  … in that… “Awwww WWWWAG IT, BABY!”

Whoops!

Aw shit- the management.

                                                       …

The phone rang in the neat little suburban home. A prim, white haired lady answered:

“Hello.”

“Yes it is.”

“Oh no. What is it this time?”

“Oh my. The poor girl.”

“Yes, yes. Umm … did he touch anyone?”

“Thank God.”

A pause. She listens, eyes closed, head shaking. 

“I’m so sorry. Thank you for not calling the police.”

Another, shorter pause.

“Of course.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right down to get him. I’ll cancel the membership then.”

END