| >> |
09/25/11(Sun)07:26 No.29987058>>29986982
Well, let's see how well I can recreate it:
Your arms feel like they're on fire. She added an extra fifteen pounds to the bar, and you know it, but calling her out on it will do no good. You set the dumbbell back on the rack and give yourself a rest, arms hanging limp off the bench. On cue, you hear her yell at you. Stop slacking off, she says. You've got a marathon to run, and training every day is the only way you're going to make it. When you look up, you see her straddling right over you. Her multicolored dyed ponytail is brushing your nose as she leans into your face, but you're more fixed on other things. Her pert breasts, held tight in her sports bra, nipples poking through the thin fabric, have always proved to be sufficient motivation to come back to the gym with her. You're lucky your arms are so worn out, else you'd be tempted to trace your fingers along her rippling abs. In the middle of her lecture, she notices where your eyes are pointing. Oh, so that's how it is, is it? She shuffles down, planting her body on top of yours. With a heave, she lifts the dumbbell and places it into your hands. She grinds her hips, barely veiled by the spandex shorts, against yours, rubbing against your hardness. Lift, she whispers into your ear, her sweat mingling with yours. With each lift, she bucks against you, pushing you further. You don't even last ten reps. |
