Silly Sex Rituals
Episode 10
“Harder.”
Sweat pours down Garrett’s washboard abs.
“Come on, you pussy! Harder!”
Garrett closes his eyes to concentrate. If he can last just a few more minutes…
Except the slapping sound from the medicine ball is distracting. He loses his rhythm and his pace slows to a crawl.
“Is that it?” Kerrigan’s nostrils flare. She’s clearly unimpressed.
“I’m trying here,” Garrett says.
Her scoff could almost be mistaken for a laugh. But Garrett knows better. She’s no-nonsense one-hundred-percent of the time. The others in the gym call her Drill Sergeant. Garrett calls her “Boss” since she agreed to become his personal trainer.
“Come on, Garrett,” she assumes a cutesy mocking tone. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Garrett grunts and twists with visible strain, imagining what it would be like to show her what he’s got.
Sex fantasies come to him often in the confines of the gym. There’s something about the facility’s industrial spareness, with its exposed brick and steel rafters, that makes his testosterone levels climb. He loves to watch other people come in to grind and sweat. How people will stand in front of mirrors the length of a wall to flex and pose, muscles rippling, their skin glistening, simultaneously oblivious and all too aware of the eyes watching them, judging them, fucking them.
Garrett often wonders who might be interested in him, keeping their gaze locked on him like a tractor beam out of the corner of their eyes. But at this late hour, the gym is nearly empty. Outside, it’s cold and the roads are slick with snow. He hasn’t been laid in months, ever since his last girlfriend left him for being emotionally distant.
“You are hopeless,” Kerrigan says, clicking the stopwatch in her hand.
“Yes, Boss.”
“Go on, then. Get outta here.”
“See you tomorrow then?”
“Sure.” She plants a foot atop the medicine ball like an arriving conqueror, then swipes a towel across her brow. “Maybe next time you’ll actually make it worth my time.”
The way she says it sprouts a seed that was planted in Garrett’s head the first time they met. At the time she was dressed like some wrestler from the 80s in neon blue Spandex tights, crinkly socks pushed down to the ankles, and a loose-fitting sleeveless Wonder Woman shirt that left plenty to the imagination. Her bushy mane the color of fire had been pulled into a ponytail and she smiled before her eyes turned to stone and she got down to business.
Six months later and he almost has the results he wants. Except, no amount of effort on his part seems to satisfy her. On his way to the locker room, he glances over his shoulder at her, but she’s got her sculpted backside to him and is talking on the phone.
A recurring dream he’s had lately involves her coming into the locker room while he’s getting changed, seeing the bulge in his underwear, and demanding an inspection. He’s standing at attention as she circles around him slowly, then lowers to her knees. Every time he’s about to come, the janitor walks in singing “Feliz Navidad,” and then he wakes up.
The locker room smells perpetually of wet towels and Hugo Boss. He takes a shower, then gets changed at a languid pace, just in case his dreams may come true. He carries his duffel bag to the parking lot and notices her car is already gone. Some things, he muses, aren’t meant to be.
On the drive home, he decides to stop at a bar for a drink. It’s been a long week, he’s exhausted, and he figures he deserves it. He sits at the bar, orders a lager, and watches Sportscenter on mute since there’s a jam band masturbating solos on stage. He ill-advisedly accepts a shot of Jagermeister on the house, and in due time he’s three sheets to the wind.
When he swivels on the stool, there’s a ruby-lacquered nail pointing at his chest. “You are such a lightweight, Garrett.”
“Kerrigan,” he smiles, rising to greet her. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You may dispense with the pleasantries and order me a drink.”
It takes an enormous amount of willpower to not say, “Sir, yes, sir.”
When their drinks come, they clink glasses and say cheers. He asks her why she’s out tonight and she says the drummer in the band is a friend.
“But they suck,” Garrett says.
“Too true.” Kerrigan circles a finger around the lip of her wine glass, then adds in a tone that suggests she’s made up her mind, “I’m gonna fuck you tonight.”
“Uh, I’m okay with that.” It’s the understatement of the century. In an instant, he’s downed the rest of his drink. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine. I don’t want to meet your mom.”
“I’m gonna let that slide.”
“Pay your tab and meet me out back. I’m going to use the little girl’s room.”
He follows her black sedan to a two-story house with a screened-in deck. The footpath is dusted with snow, leaving footprints in their wake. They kiss at the top step.
“First, wine,” Kerrigan says, pushing him away to locate a bottle in the kitchen. “Then, music.”
He’s surprised to find out she likes Motown, though before he can request “Let’s Get It On,” she’s pushed him back against the couch and goes searching for his belt.
They clamber upstairs like horny newlyweds and make the mistake of bringing the wine. Clothes are flung to the four corners of the room. Kerrigan lets her hair down and Garrett notices the carpet matches the drapes. They merge together upright in the center of the bed, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands and tongues in a way the eyes can only dream. Their making out eventually leads to a more comfortable horizontal position as Garrett snakes down between her legs. Despite his inebriation, nothing gets him harder than eating a girl out. Kerrigan squirms like she’s trying to remove wet jeans, grinding her hips to the languid rhythm of Garrett’s lapping tongue.
After she comes, Garrett rolls Kerrigan over onto her belly and she arches her ass up for reception. At first, they go slow. It’s a sensual connection, one unspoken but felt, deeply. The warm wetness of her pussy is such a contrast to her rock solid body. As his speed increases, he can subtly feel her anchor into place.
Staring down at her undulating pale white ass, he thinks it’s just begging to be spanked. There’s a loud wallop and Kerrigan bucks once and turns her head back at him. Her look is vicious, enthralling.
“Again,” she commands. “Harder.”
Garrett obliges her, then grips the reins of her hair. For several minutes they fuck with abandon. She grunts into the pillows as he piledrives her with every inch at his disposal. He has the stamina of a machine, almost unconscious in his sexual efficiency, lost in the thrall of their union. Sweat drips down his washboard abs. His balls make a slapping sound with each thrust.
“Oh God, yes. Harder,” Kerrigan moans in muted pleasure.
In the heat of the moment, Garrett doesn’t notice how hard the headboard is rocking. The vibrations send the wine glasses tumbling off the table and onto the plush white carpet at the same time Garrett pulls out and sprays a fountain of jizz across her backside.
They collapse, entangled, exhausted. For a few minutes, they just lay there, catching their breath.
“That was impressive,” she says. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I’ve been practicing.” He pulls on his underwear and turns on his side. “Aren’t you worried about the wine staining your rug?”
“Nah, I’ll clean it tomorrow.”
“I can help.”
“That’s all right.” She pats his hairless chest, then gives him a peck on the cheek. “You shouldn’t be here when my husband and son get back in the morning.”
Garrett shoots upright, scanning the floor for his shirt. “Yes, boss.”
