Three-Quarters

"And why not?" thought Sharon.

The young man continued his butterfly curls. His arms and neck glistened with sweat under the gym's soft lights. Sharon noticed he'd become a member almost four months ago. He'd been a six-foot-three lanky string bean with bad facial hair. Now, he was a six-foot-three toned, chiseled beanstalk. Though not huge, his muscles were well-defined. His jawline could slice cheese.

Sharon also noticed he came to the gym the same three days a week she did. It couldn't be a coincidence. She must be the reason. His dark brown eyes had a strange, severe intensity to them. He scrutinized everything that fell under his gaze, as if trying to stare through it, and moved on once satisfied there was nothing more to see. And yet, again and again, his eyes returned to her. He looked away whenever she turned to face him. The attempt to hide his interest was futile. Giant mirrors filled the gym. Everyone could see everyone from almost any angle.

"And why not?" thought Sharon again. Why shouldn't he look? Maybe she motivated him to get in shape and improve himself. At forty-one years old, she looked amazing. Her skin was clear and creamy, her blonde hair thick and shiny. She'd been a five-foot-four curvy girl ever since high school. She was even more curvy now. With her workout regimen, the baby weight from her pregnancy had redistributed beautifully. Her bust and hips had widened, her waist had narrowed, and all three had tightened. If that wasn't inspiring, what was? She SHOULD be his model. Role model, whatever.

Sharon positioned herself directly in front of the young man, facing the mirror, her back to him. Between each of his butterfly curls, she did a squat. Every time she dropped it down, she watched the reflection of his long, taught arms spread out, straining against the weights. She watched him watching her firm, round buttocks stretching her yoga pants so tight, her skin was nearly visible underneath. Today, she would catch him looking. No more deniability. It was time he knew she knew.

At the end of her last rep of squats, Sharon placed the medicine ball on the floor. She turned sideways, put her foot atop the ball and both hands on her knee. She arched her back (a perfectly innocent stretch). Then for the finisher. Sharon closed her eyes. She ran her hand under her thigh all the way around to her hip. She let a soft groan escape her full lips. One, two, three, she counted, then whipped her head toward the young man, flashing her sweetest smile. He wasn't there. He was nowhere to be seen. The eyes of five other gym-goers and two employees, men and women, were glued to her.

"Damn it," she thought, "goddamn it." Had he finished his reps at the exact same time? Of all the bad luck. Sharon didn't mind others staring. That was nothing new. But she couldn't make a habit of putting on a show like that. It would attract unwanted attention. Peeved, she picked up the medicine ball and replaced it on the shelf. As she passed by the machine the man had used, a powerful aroma struck her. Unwittingly, she wandered toward it. She saw the source of the scent. Sweat shone off the backrest. It was musky, sweet, and intoxicating. How had she not noticed this before? Had they really never been close enough? The pit of her stomach tingled.

"Hold on," came a dry, deep voice behind her. Sharon turned with a gasp. It was the young man. He was so much taller close up. His jaw seemed dangerously heavy. She folded her arms across her bare midriff, unable to make a sound. His pheromones were overpowering. "I forgot to wipe down the machine."

"Oh," Sharon managed at last. The man went to work, cleaning up his sweat with a towel. She clasped her hands and pulled her shoulders inward. It squeezed her breasts together in her sports bra. He'd missed her big display a moment ago, but this would do in a pinch. But when he stood up again, he looked directly into her bright blue eyes. That strange, severe scrutiny she'd only ever glimpsed from afar penetrated her point-blank. She couldn't move. The temperature in her cheeks rose. The hotter she felt, the more she froze. After what felt like an hour, the young man gave a curt nod.

"All yours," he said, and walked off.

"Thank you," she breathed inaudibly. Sharon let herself fall onto the seat. She was too weak to lift a single pound. The tingling in her breasts was unbearable. She wanted to squeeze them and calm them down but couldn't risk giving the randoms in the gym any more to think about. She had to get out of there and into the showers. Some cold water would help.

###

Cold water did not help. Sharon was still horny, and now she wanted a hot body against her even more. She was so distracted three cars honked at her on the drive home.

She paced up and down the house -- across mahogany floors, velvet carpets, marble tiles. She threw herself down on one designer couch after another, only to get up and whisk herself restlessly to another room. Not one thing in the whole three-story home interested her. She was hungry -- none of the ready-made gourmet meals in the fridge appetized her. She was bored -- the automatic recliners in the home theater couldn't contain her. She was lonely -- the neighbors' party was still a week off, the book club wouldn't meet till tomorrow, Desmond wouldn't be home till late.

It was odd. Desmond hadn't mentioned any new clients, but he seemed to spend more and more time at the firm lately. Sharon couldn't help but wonder. An affair? She brushed the thought from her mind. From the living room, the antique grandfather clock rang the time -- 4:00. Cassidy should be home by now. Sharon retrieved her phone and called. At length, her daughter responded.

"Yeah, mom?"

"Where are you?"

"With friends. I'm spending the night at Janet's." A surge of voices, male and female, cheered in the background. "She said it was okay."

"Who else is there?" asked Sharon.

"Friends. I told you"

"What about Janet's parents?"

"They're out of town."

"Out of town? Cassidy, you need to tell me if you won't be home. Especially if..."

"Okay, well, I told you. Bye." Before Sharon could say another word, the call disconnected. Ever since Desmond had given Cassidy that car for her eighteenth birthday, she'd spent as much time out of the house as possible. Desmond didn't care what she did as long as her grades stayed up. And they did -- straight A's. She never seemed to study. How did she do it?

But Sharon didn't want to think about that either. She circled the beautiful glass coffee table. So many pretty things in this big, pretty house, and she was all alone in it. What if someone came to rob this place, she thought suddenly. The idea gave her a thrill. What if someone, a man, broke in to steal something? A strong man, but also slender, so he could slip away and escape. Sharon thought of the young man from the gym -- his wiry, taut frame in a black turtleneck, gloves, and ski mask. She clasped her hands under her chin, squeezing her forearms against her tingling breasts. She did a little twirl and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

What would he steal? Her jewelry? A few earrings, necklaces, and her wedding ring. Not enough. Not for him. The paintings? Too difficult to move. The safe? Only Desmond knew the combination. There must be something else he could take. Her?

Sharon slipped to the floor. She lay flat. He could take her. Just like this. Right here, in the middle of her home. She shuddered, her luxurious blonde locks spilling across the Persian rug. She peeled her yoga pants off smooth, shapely legs. In another moment, her sports bra came off, and firm, supple mounds lifted free of their restraints. A flick of her foot sent a pair of underwear flying over the couch. A home invader could use her in any fashion he pleased.

Trembling, Sharon brushed her fingertips across her skin. The young man wanted her. She was there for the taking. It didn't matter if he had a ski mask, she'd know his eyes anywhere -- those dark, fierce eyes gazing deep inside her. One hand slipped to her breast, the other between her legs. The hood of her clitoris drew back and she caught the nub in her fingers, swirling it one way, then the other. Whenever her rhythm picked up, she pinched her nipple and let out a gasp of ecstasy. Then she returned to kneading the breast -- a shame it was too big for her hand.

But not HIS hands. Hands with long fingers gripping her everywhere, possessing her, owning her. And his mouth, that stern mouth enveloping hers, roaming every contour of the body he'd stolen. Drops of moisture flew as her hand became a blur around her crevice. Her breasts heaved. The violation was too much to bear. Sharon twisted to her side. She had to reach her spot. Her hand left her breast and began entry. Her walls automatically gripped. Just a bit farther...

Sharon heard a gasp. It had not come from her.

In one second, she was on her feet, covering herself with a throw pillow, screaming. Before her was a short, heavyset, middle-aged Latin American woman, covering her eyes, also screaming.

"Paola! Oh, my God! Oh, my God..."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Crawford. It Thursday. Four-thirty." cried the Honduran maid, still covering her eyes.

"Thursday? Oh, no... I forgot... Of course," said Sharon. Terror had shocked her out of bliss. Shaking and out of breath, she did her best to gather her clothes while keeping covered. Her panties were nowhere to be found.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Crawford," said Paola, beginning to wail.

"Poor thing, she's worried about her job," thought Sharon. "She can't even open her eyes." She took Paola's wrist and brought it down. "Hey, it's okay," she cooed. Paola kept her eyes rigidly averted. "It wasn't your fault, Paola. Don't worry. Take all the time you need." The stout Latina did not move a muscle until Sharon backed all the way out of the room. Had she stolen a sidelong glance, the sight of the tumbled blonde hair, sharp flushed cheeks, abundant breasts spilling over the silk pillow, and swelling womanhood barely hidden beneath it would have driven Paola to some highly unprofessional behavior.

###

"Look at me. Right here, baby." Sharon held Desmond's face with both hands. Beads of sweat ran off his forehead and soaked the grey hair at his temples. His hazel eyes were dazed and lost. She leaned on his chest and rode him faster.

Sharon had ambushed him. Upon getting home, Desmond always went straight to his office to put some things in the safe. That's when she'd struck. Her attire: heels and a fishnet bodystocking -- crotchless. The fishnet was like a trap that had left the most dangerous part of her free -- the part that now held her captor.

Scarlet and out of breath, Desmond clasped her breasts. He had to hold onto something. The room was spinning. Where had this come from? They never did it in the office. She looked so damn tasty in this bodystocking. But oh, God, why did it have to be tonight of all nights?

"Paola caught me," said Sharon. She had to use every new thing she could. They hadn't had sex in a week. It was becoming routine. Tonight, she wanted multiple orgasms. "I was masturbating. In the living room. She saw me naked." It was hard to tell if Desmond heard, but it didn't matter. She was so close. She thought of who she wished had seen her instead -- who she wished were with her now.

A wave broke over her. Her abdomen contracted, matching the hardness within. The rest of her muscles went loose. With her weakened, Desmond was able to push her to the side. He lay prone, eyes closed -- not relieved, just exhausted. Sharon snuggled beside him on the floor. Her lips brushed his shoulder pleadingly. Her hand drifted down his torso to his member -- so red it was almost purple. He had not come.

"That was good," said Sharon. "Let's go again." Desmond grimaced as her fingers brushed his shaft. He grasped her hand.

"Sharon, I'm very tired," he groaned. "Some other night, okay?" He picked himself up, using his wide rosewood desk for support. He stumbled to the bedroom, not even bothering to close his shirt or zipper. Sharon gathered up his suit jacket and pulled it around her.

"Why hadn't he come?" she wondered. Too much work? Desmond's briefcase lay on the floor by the safe. He'd been in the middle of turning the combination when she jumped him. What could he be working on so hard? Sharon knelt by the case and opened it. Nothing out of the ordinary -- files, notes, pens, papers filled with legalese... a cell phone. This wasn't his. Sharon turned it on. Two unread text messages.

"Wait," thought Sharon. She shouldn't open these. They'd be marked as read. Desmond would know she went through his things. As a lawyer, he had access to information that had to stay between himself and his clients, for their sake, and his, and hers, hence the safe. "For absolute deniability," he'd told her. But surely, it wouldn't hurt to maybe glance at one or two photos.

Had she not already been on her knees, the sight would have brought her to them. Dumbly, Sharon scrolled through image after image of a slender, gorgeous -- nude -- east Asian girl. Not just nudes, but pornography. Every hole, from every position. The phallus in the pictures was Desmond's, no question about it. In the latest one, the Asian girl grinned at the camera, at Sharon, through a face-full of seminal fluid, as if mocking her. The timestamp read 8:18 PM of that day, not two hours ago. The oldest timestamp was six months.

Sharon let the phone fall in her lap. What she felt was not anger nor sadness. Not outrage, shame, nor disgust -- but calm. The contents of that phone were not just a monument of lies, deceit, and a broken home -- but permission. Permission to act on her urge toward the young man from the gym. Though Desmond didn't know it, he had unleashed her. What she felt was the calm before the storm.

###

"This sucks," thought Sharon. Not only had the young man not shown up at the gym, she'd had to put up with three other guys flirting her whole workout. Sure enough, her little display last time had caught unwanted attention. And to top it off, there was a long line at the coffeeshop. It was packed. All she wanted was to sit, relax, and caffeinate herself through the headache she felt coming on. Even small comforts eluded her today.

Sharon ordered her whole milk latte and shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her hoodie. Why hadn't he been there? He always came when she did. She scanned the room hopelessly for an empty table. Maybe someone would leave. What caught her eye instead was a pair of taught, vascular forearms. They suddenly appeared out of a grey hoodie in the corner. Their owner pulled up the sleeves, and large, veiny hands returned to a laptop keyboard. The veins seemed wired into the machine, channeling power from the arms to a screen that illuminated a pair of intense, brown eyes.

It was him.

"SHARON!" She jumped. The barista had evidently called her name several times. Embarrassed, Sharon collected her latte and made her way to the young man's table.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked. He drew his hood back, ruffling his thick brown hair. Regrettably, his eyes stayed fixed on his work.

"Go ahead," he said. Sharon sat and watched him over the rim of her drink. One of his hands lifted off the keyboard and stroked his chin in contemplation. She couldn't decide what she wanted more, to stroke that face herself or for that hand to stroke hers. The hand dropped to a gym bag near his feet, retrieved a flash drive, and inserted it into the laptop. Gym bag? Then she remembered, she'd had a bad day, and it was his fault. Just where had he been? Sharon extended one leg and nudged the bag before crossing it over her other.

"Where were you?" Finally, he looked up at her. His stern gaze turned to recognition.

"Oh," he said. "I lost track of time. I got this idea for how to program the..." He stopped, studying her. "Are you keeping tabs on me?" Sharon didn't realize, but her foot was perched on tiptoe to make her running shorts ride as high as possible.

She shrugged. "Just wondering. I usually see you there. You're not going to be one of those guys who skips leg day, are you?"

"No." He chuckled, stretching. His arms and shoulders towered over her.

"You shouldn't skip leg day," she said, enjoying the view, "It's important."

"I can see that," he said. Sharon was suddenly very aware of her naked, crossed legs, perched on one toe, practically on display. Her cheeks flushed. She uncrossed her legs with a little kick, then, with a flourish, recrossed them. He was captivated. Then his eyes shot to hers. He saw her smiling sweetly at him over her coffee cup. He knew he'd been caught.

With rigid formality, he held her gaze for an obligatory two blinks before looking back at his computer screen. He clicked a few keys, but she could tell it was for show. In place of their usual severity, his eyes held forced blankness.

"I'm Sharon." She extended her hand. When he took it, she felt the size and strength of his own envelop hers. She was secure, but not stuck. She felt safe.

"Travis."

"Have you lived in the Bay Area long?"

"About five months."

"How old are you?"

"It's not polite to ask." Sharon almost spit out her latte.

"Oh, come on."

"Twenty-three." He smirked.

"So, you came here for work?"

"Yeah. I make VR simulations."

"Oh? Of what?"

"Nothing yet. We're still working on the horizon. Horizon's gotta be rock-solid. Otherwise, it's like floating in a fishbowl, you know?" Travis removed the flash drive from his laptop and closed it. He was about to leave.

"So, you're a programmer," she said.

"Sometimes. That's part of it."

"A brogrammer."

"Sure, if you like." He smiled.

"Soon you'll be walking around with huge arms and shoulders on spindly little legs, looking like a genie that popped out of a bottle."

Travis laughed. "Carrying my shoulders around will BE my leg workout." He packed his computer in his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. Sharon stood, unwilling to let him get away so soon.

"Have you been to the beach?" Her mind raced for more to say.

"No, never."

"Never?!"

"I'm from Wyoming. We don't have beaches."

"Well, you have to go."

"I will. Sometime." This was her chance. She'd always wanted to try what she had in mind at a beach. And she knew just the one. They'd have it all to themselves.

"What about right now?"

"Now?"

"I know a great one. It has an amazing horizon." Sharon felt the weight of his eyes caress her features -- her high cheekbones, sharp jawline, pointed nose, down the curve of her neck.

"Alright," he said. He picked up his last item from under the table: a motorcycle helmet. "I'll follow your car."

"Oh." Sharon thought quickly. "Actually, my car's at home. I ran to the gym today," she lied. Before he could answer, she said, "But we can take your motorcycle. I've never ridden one before."

"Are you sure?" She nodded. "You'll have to hold on tight."

"I will."

"You'll have to wear my helmet. It's kinda sweaty."

"Okay." She had to stop herself from saying "perfect."

###

Sharon was in heaven. She hugged her thighs to Travis's hips, her hands across his abs. He leaned on the handlebars, locked still. The world rushed past them. The broken white lines on the road were nearly solid. Wind nipped her legs and hands. It made his body heat cozier.

Snug against him, Sharon inhaled his scent. She attempted to synchronize her breath with his. Whenever they breathed in at the same time, it brought their bodies that much closer together. His breaths were long and deep. Hers were too fast. She wanted to experience him with all her senses. There was one left to go.

She didn't realize the world was holding still again until Travis got off the bike. They were parked at their destination. He stood over her, the setting sun at his back. Rays of gold light cut around him. Looking right in her eyes, Travis placed a hand on either side of her head. Sharon let her eyelids fall closed and her lips part -- the fifth and final sense.