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Back in the time before his and her habits had become their habits – back before he and she had become they at all (for however brief a time) – they still didn’t know each other’s comings and goings, even if by necessity they were sharing a bed.
She might be home all day one day, if she didn’t have classes, and gone all day the next, when she did. He might come home in the afternoon if he didn’t have any clients to see or be away all day if he had appointments in the afternoon.
She needed, she had told him, someplace to live for just three months. She needed to hold on until graduation.
She had panted out this predicament to him in between sit-ups and reps, as he held her feet, counted her crunches, and spotted her reps. He considered her dilemma as he tried not to pay too obvious attention to her breasts thrusting upwards as she flexed under the weight of a chest press. He was still thinking about it as he watched her go through her stretches at the end of a workout. He settled on a course of action as she was bent so far forward that her light blonde hair was momentarily fanned out on the black mat between the triangle of her legs.
She had been living with a classmate, but that classmate had informed her that she would soon be breaking her lease. She herself was not on said lease, reducing her to being swept out like so many odds and ends that remain anytime someone moves. She was the random box of bottle caps the fleeing tenant hoped would one day be the foundation of a superb collection, but now sat abandoned behind the chipped paint of a hollow bedroom door. She was the souvenir mug thoughtlessly gifted by a relative, lying on its side in the middle of a room that now contained nothing but grimy window blinds. The fate of such things is simple: to be disposed of prior to re-letting.
It could have been worse. While, yes, she had to endure the prospect of homelessness, she enjoyed freedom from the harassment of an angry landlord who hounded her former roommate – in blatant disregard for the old phrase about blood from stones – for another week’s rent before the dingy one-bedroom apartment was occupied once more. Or even worse – she could have been faced with shouldering the lease on her own. This would have provoked a harried search for a roommate. She’d be in a crunch for time and have to settle for whoever applied quickly enough, which would of course be some creepy guy who saw her ad and sensed her desperation. Shortly after he moved in, she’d be picking out underwear for the day and get the distinct sense he’d been going through her drawers when she wasn’t around. She was spared all that.
Mr. Workout hated to see her get thrown out on her ass. In his strictly professional opinion, it was too nice to suffer that sort of abuse. She was one of the sweetest people he had met in this line of work – so friendly, so bubbly, occasionally so very playfully sarcastic. He readily surmised she couldn’t afford to get her own place even temporarily (especially not if he wanted her to keep up her gym membership, and that he very much wanted). In evidence the entire time he’d known her was exactly one workout kit: a white stretchy tank top and one pair of skintight, black workout shorts – the sort that extend just below the buttocks. The latter betrayed not only the paucity of her workout wardrobe, but the incredible progress she’d made under his watch. Where their bottom edges had gapped a bit when she started coming to see him, her glutes, rounded by hundreds if not thousands of lunges, filled them out very nicely now.
He offered up his bachelor den as a crash pad.
He knew when he offered it that the arrangement would crimp his style. There was the issue of his fastidious way of life, but that was easily solved: he got her to agree to follow his routine in painstaking detail before she moved in. No, it would crimp his style because of one important aspect of his single life: he only had one bed. He had no guest bed, the downstairs having been a workout room from shortly after he moved in. She couldn’t surf his couch either. His couch and love seat, patterned after the design of a famous architect who favored style over comfort, were two rectangular benches on metal legs: stiff black leather button-tufted surfaces and, of course, no backs to prevent a sleeper from rolling right off their narrow dimensions and onto the hardwood floors. Ouch.
She, unsurprisingly, slept awkwardly those first couple of nights. She slept on her left side, perched close to the edge of the bed so as to avoid any inadvertent spooning. She was too uneducated in the workings of the male body to be concerned about encountering the morning tumescence that follows REM sleep, but her subconscious looked out for her. It maintained a stalwart commitment to preserving the distance that existed between them when they each went to sleep – he, early; she, late.
To further convey the purely functional nature of their sleep, she wore uncomfortably modest sleepwear. casino siteleri In lieu of her preferred top (an old t-shirt too thin for mixed company), she wore a bulletproof cami with a shelf bra; and in place of the tiny, pink cotton shorts she’d usually wear, yoga pants.
She woke up warm, tired and sore in the morning, and in the afternoon of the third day, as she studied in the unfurnished room where she kept most of her things down the hall from the bedroom, she nodded off.
She didn’t hear him come home and go about his bachelor rituals in temporary forgetfulness that he had a house guest for the next three months. Things didn’t feel different, after all, from normal. The mail had already been delivered, like it always had by this time of day, through the brushed nickel that perforated his front door. He picked it up off the dark wood of the entryway and looked through it absent-mindedly as he walked through the living room, which remained the impeccably clean landscape of light and dark it had always been. He dropped the mail on the kitchen counter as he made himself a quick espresso, which he drank as he wandered upstairs to his bedroom, where, after they both got up that morning, the comforter in its sterling white had been smoothed back into place over hospital corners just as he had asked of her, just the way he always kept it. He changed out of his workout gear and went shirtless and commando in a pair of sweatpants. He headed to the bathroom to pee. After he depressed the handle and left the toilet seat in its customary upright position, he grabbed a wad of toilet paper that he shoved into the pocket of his sweatpants before he headed back downstairs.
He had no reason to go into the other room, and she made no sound, still peacefully dozing, until she heard the toilet flush. She gradually came to in a fog, and it took her a moment to awake fully and remember that she wasn’t in her old place. She even suffered a momentary surge of panic at the thought that someone else was in the house, until it dawned on her that her new roommate had probably come home and she should say hello. The least you owe the person putting a roof over your head is courtesy.
It was a new roof, a new house. The connections between screw and brad attaching floor to subflooring to joist were still sturdy and firm. Which is to say: there were no creaks or squeaks to give away someone’s location, and she had a quiet step, a stealthy tiptoe adopted in response to the habitually light sleep of her parents. Thus it was that she came to the doorway where the hallway opened onto the living room, without him being aware of her presence.
She could have alerted him. She could have cleared her throat. She could have walked into the room with a normal, audible step. She could have said something – that “hello” she’d thought about would have fit naturally here.
She stayed quiet, compelled at first by the sight of him naked from the waist up. She’d seen him without a shirt at the gym, and in the gym, his ripped torso and marble-smooth skin seemed right at home; here in his living room, amid the impeccable décor and in front of a gleaming entertainment center, it seemed somehow indecent and, frankly, sexy as hell. Maybe it was the way the sweat pants sagged below his waist, exposing a suggestive stretch of the ‘v’ of his lower abdomen. He looked good. He’d always looked good. That body was basically his job. She watched his deltoids and trapeziuses flex as he went about whatever it was he was doing.
About that. She sensed something strange. There’s a way people act when they think they are by themselves. There is a relaxed informality to their movements when they aren’t in any way concerned about anyone else’s perceptions. They are totally at ease. He had that aura about him. She had been granted this rare opportunity to observe the male of the species when he thinks no one is watching, and she decided to take it.
Then there was what he was doing. What does a guy do when no one is around? He appeared to be getting ready to watch a movie. In the middle of the afternoon. How peculiar. The TV was on, the drawer on the DVD player was open, and he was flipping through a case full of discs. Flipflipflip, flipflip, flip, flip…flip….flip. Stop. He was evidently searching for one in particular, and he had found it. He removed it from its sleeve, deposited it in the DVD player, pressed a couple of buttons on a couple of remotes, and then drifted backwards to seat himself on that ungodly uncomfortable couch of his. The toilet paper in his right pocket was removed and arranged on the leather next to him.
The screen lit up, a good portion of it shielded from her mostly virginal eyes by his head and shoulders. It looked like an arm was stretched towards the screen as she heard his voice in the background:
“Is it on?”
And after a pause, a woman’s gleeful exclamation: “It’s on. Yay!”
The arm moved out of the way, and a woman’s canlı casino face appeared for an instant: big smile, shoulder-length brown hair in a sweet bob, rounded little nose, cherubic cheeks, sweet little chipmunk. That woman quickly faded into the background of what looked to be a bedroom. As the woman moved away, her figure on the screen disappeared behind his actual head blocking the center of the TV.
By this point, it was too late to announce herself, primarily because she didn’t want to. She was in that particular state of shock and illicit curiosity. Was he about to watch a recording of himself with this woman? She waited to see.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t see much – just the back of his shaved head. She could hear the soundtrack of two people kissing, the occasional smack as their lips presumably parted in between long, long kisses. After a couple of minutes, the sound stopped, until she heard a moan in the same woman’s voice: “Mmmm.”
His hands had been resting on the surface of the couch since he sat down, but now his right hand moved towards his hipbone and then slid into the waist of his sweatpants. His elbow fell towards his side as his hand moved forward.
She pictured what she would have seen if she could have watched from the other side of him: as the action on the screen heated up, the crotch of his sweatpants stirred as his dick began to swell, until its outward curve bulged against the fabric. His hand had slipped down and wrapped around its girth in a fist. The occasional movement of his hand up and down would be visible underneath his sweats. He was touching himself, and the thought provoked a pang of excitement. Her eyes watched his elbow for every shift, every twitch in response to each movement of his fist.
He leaned a little to the side for a second, and she caught a glimpse of what was happening on the screen. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, and the woman he was with was standing between his knees. Her clothes were half removed. The skintight red tank she was wearing had been hiked up over her breasts, and she was wearing a pair of tiny bikini briefs that showed off the shape of her round little ass which was almost perfectly mirrored in the shape and size of her breasts. Quite a little sweetie, she had to admit. His hand was thrust between her legs. The front of her underwear was stretched out over the undulating back of his hand. He was naked, and her hand was wrapped around his dick, stroking it as he fingered her.
That twinge of excitement had become an urgent warmth that spread upwards from between her legs. The sum total of her sexual experiences was this: one. She had had one sweet morning stolen out of time. Now she had graduated to this: watching her new roommate watch himself have sex.
Then he sat back up, and the screen was hidden from her view again. All she could see were the muscles of his back and arms. The muscles of his right arm began to flex in a steady rhythm as the moans from the TV started coming closer and closer together.
She could make out the fact that by now the woman in the video had lost the rest of her clothes. She had seen the red top tumble down the right side of the screen. She could still be wearing her thin little panties, but it seemed like the two figures in the video had shifted. Maybe the woman had pushed him down to the bed and climbed onto him, in which case it was unlikely she was still wearing anything. The sighs and moans persisted, more intense now.
The movement of his arm stopped, and both his hands hooked into the waist of his pants to pull them down a little ways. For a second, she saw his sculpted ass before he sat back down and his hand returned to its prior position.
She could picture the scene on the far side of his body: his sweat pants now in his lap, his dick fully exposed. His fist was wrapped around it, and it was fully erect. Beneath his fist, the trunk of its base would be visible, and between the circle of his thumb and forefinger, the swollen head would protrude in its rude magnificence. His fist would slide up and down its entire length as he kept watching.
That swell between her legs had collapsed into a singular ache, one specific spot of soreness. She slid a hand inside the yoga pants she was studying in and touched the source of the dull pain.
His arm was flexing more and more rapidly, and the sounds from the TV were louder, the woman’s voice joined by his. And then there came the question:
“Do you like the way my pussy feels?”
And his enthusiastic response:
“Oh god yes, it feels so good.”
“It’s so soft and wet.”
“I love the way your cock feels inside me. In my soft…wet…pussy.”
It provoked a frenzied response in his voice. “Oh god.”
The words stabbed into her brain almost as much as they did into his. Her hand moved a little faster. Her eyes stayed fixed on the increasingly insistent movement of his arm. kaçak casino The panting moans from the TV grew higher and higher pitched. The deeper moans grew more powerful, until one particularly loud one sounded out, followed by the sound of both of them taking short, sharp breaths. On the couch, his hand had stopped moving, his back was arched, and then he let out a slight groan. “Nhnn.”
As he slumped forward and reached for the tissue next to him, she caught a glimpse of the screen. Both of them were naked. The woman was slumped face down on the bed, her arm pinned beneath her and a dreamy look on her angelic face. He was kneeling behind her, his dick in his hand.
She disappointedly pulled her hand out of her pants with the sudden realization that there was a very real risk of being caught. She vanished around the corner before he could turn around. While he mopped up the inevitable consequence of his actions, he paused, momentarily distracted by the eerie impression of sudden movement, followed by a wave of panic in the pit of his stomach as he remembered: he might not be alone.
She returned to the spare room and to her textbook to the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. His right hand was thrust into his pocket, cupping the tissue that had absorbed his fluid, hiding it just on the off chance that – he realized – she might be here. He proceeded quickly to the bathroom, where he disposed of the tissue into the toilet. He headed to the bedroom to get a t-shirt, then down the hall to satisfy himself that the one room he hadn’t checked when he got home was empty.
And there she was, seated cross-legged on the floor amid her stacks of books, one of them open in her lap.
She heard his footsteps and did her utmost to look as if she were deeply engrossed in her reading. How could she talk to him calmly after watching what she’d watched? The footsteps grew near. Only once the grey fleece of a sweatpant leg was directly alongside her did she look up. Her eyes lingered at his crotch for a brief second. Visible in the fabric was the outline of the head of his penis where it hung down from his midsection. She quickly looked up.
“When did you get home?” She decided the best defense was a good offense. Best not to wait for the inevitable, “How long have you been here?”
Was she suppressing just a bit of a smile on that sweet, freckled face of hers? Was there a little twinkle in those wide, kind eyes?
“You didn’t hear me come in?” Had she heard the TV? Just that thought alone was enough to make him feel a flush climb up his neck. Thank god she hadn’t come back from class while he was at it.
“No, I actually just woke up a few minutes ago.” Little white lie. How many is “a few,” really?
“No classes today?”
This was fun. He was obviously uncomfortable; she’d never seen him like this. There wasn’t normally anything to cause him this much stress. Everything in his life was just the way he liked it, by design. No disturbance ever intruded.
“Nope, not this afternoon. And you – no appointments this afternoon?”
“No, my 3:00 canceled.”
“That’s nice. Gives you some time on your hands.” Did she give him a wink when she said “hands,” or was he losing his mind?
(Yes and no, respectively – her eye involuntarily twitched the tiniest bit when she said it.)
“I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll be downstairs working out.”
As they went about their separate routines the rest of the day and into the evening and into the next morning, she was consumed with impatient curiosity. She had to see that whole video. She hoped he wouldn’t have the opportunity to move it.
He couldn’t leave soon enough in the morning. She waited in bed until she heard him go through his routine. The front door opened and shut. She immediately wrapped a sheet around herself to stay warm and headed down to the living room.
She rifled through the drawers of the entertainment center. The first one started with a DVD album labeled “ACTION Vol. 1.” That sounded promisingly euphemistic, until she opened it and found “Aliens,” followed by “Die Hard,” “Die Hard 2,” and “Die Hard with a Vengeance.” She grabbed the third album in the drawer. It was “ACTION Vol. 3,” containing: “Speed,” “Total Recall,” “Vertical Limit,” “X-Men,” “XXX.”
She opened the next drawer. “COMEDY Vol. 1.” Good lord.
He had a wealth of DVD’s, painfully mainstream taste in movies, and a remarkable commitment to alphabetization. Each album was completely full. Which case and which disc was she after? She assumed his “special” folder would be hidden in amongst all the others, but the third drawer proceeded dully through “DRAMA.” The fourth drawer began with “HORROR” and continued on to “ROMANCE.”
Maybe, she wondered, it was just one disk intentionally mis-categorized into one of the albums she’d flipped past?
Then she found the category she was looking for, in the last drawer, near the back. It wasn’t there, she realized, because he was hiding it (from whom would he have been hiding it anyway?). It was there, because that was where it fell alphabetically. It was labeled in the same manner as all the others: “SPANK BANK.”
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