My name is Sarah and my boyfriend's name is Mitch. Most of the time I sleep over with him, and now that I have college classes in the afternoons, I workout with my old High School track coach in the mornings. His name is Jimmy. All through HS I fantasized about fucking him and his big black cock, and I he made it clear more than once that he would like to tap me. He is 31 (to my 20), about 5'10", with light brown skin and baby blue eyes framed in the most beautiful lashes I've ever known a man to have.
Jimmy and I are down in the High School weight room, he's fiddling with the stereo and I'm stretching out. He's around the corner, so I'm not being really self conscious about how I look. I'm laying on my back, one leg stretched out across my body, trying to stretch my thigh and lower back muscles. The music begins and I hum along with it -- a gangsta rap type. I stand up and move over to a bench no taller than my knees. I still don't see Jimmy, so I continue my stretches. I lean over at the waist, legs spread out past shoulder width, and put my hands on the bench. It's surprisingly cool, considering I was already sweating from the density of the air. I close my eyes and feel my muscles lengthen and tighten, reveling in the pleasure/pain the stretching causes. Then I felt hands on my hips, dangerously close to my ass cheeks.
"You need to keep your legs still," Jimmy's voice to my ears sounded like caramel.
"Oh...okay." I replied, my voice dusky with sudden desire. He stepped away and I straightened my legs, continuing to stretch, trying to keep then still and straight. They were sore, though, so they weren't wanting to keep straight.
"Here..." he said, kneeling behind me. His hands grazed my calves before resting on me, one on the front of my knee, the other on the back of my upper thigh. I was vividly aware that this position put his hand and eyes close to my crotch. My creeping shorts didn't help, either, and the line between my thigh and ass was almost visible. The most horrifying part, though, was that I hadn't worn any underwear. Coming from Mitch's house, I had used up all my clean underwear and, having no time to go home before my workout, had just decided it wouldn't hurt anyone for me to go commando. That was the WRONG decision. I was wet, and I knew at that close range he was going to be able to smell my need. I already could. His hands switched to the other leg, hands on the same places.
"This one's really tight," he said, and pushed on my thigh muscle, moving it up and down. This succeeded in moving my shorts ever so farther north. I could feel the air hit the bottom of my ass and I clenched my cheeks in response.
"Does that hurt?" he asked, worriedly.
"No," I responded. "It feels amazing." I knew that was going to far. "Amazing" is not how you describe the feeling of tension being worked out of muscles to a trainer. He moved back to the other side and did the same massaging pressure.
"That's why you couldn't stretch well," he said. "Your muscles are in knots."
"Oh," I said, distractedly. At this point I could concentrate on only his hands. He was working my inner thigh muscles now and every so often would accidently brush the crotch of my shorts. I felt gloriously relaxed and terribly tied up.
"Why don't you go into the training room and lay down on the table," he said, standing. " I'm not going to get anything out of you until your muscles are relaxed." He stood up all the way and as he turned, I felt his hand cup my ass. I stood quickly to look at him, but he was already moving in the other direction.
