A Locker Room Workout

Disclaimer: Mentions and depictions of cheating in this one.

I've never been invested in exploring social life at the gym. I go, I exercise, I mind my own business. It didn't take long for the parade of beautiful curves in the locker room nude to become background noise I filtered while stripping out of my own sweaty clothes.

There was something about her, however, that captured me since the moment our eyes met. Love at first sight, really, without realizing it. After all, how could one realize that love has been found in the powerlifting class?

She was not a gym bombshell, an athleisure model. Her beauty was partly in her relatability: in a world of difference, she was like me. A good wife, a good mom, a good citizen fighting to gather enough minutes for herself, not for others. There were wrinkles around her eyes, whites in her hair, a healthy dose of sag in her boobs. Legs to die for, I learned by locker room day two. I wanted to see them tremble.

The first few weeks, we lived as if the other did not exist. We did not talk, we exchanged no glances: I was an admirer who did not even admire from afar. But there is no deadline that goes unmet, and it soon became clear that we were the ones lifting weights at 6 in the morning, the ones doing yoga late on weekend mornings.

I was the one who broke the ice by handing her dumbbells the day she was late to class. She reciprocated by complimenting my choice of leggings the next day. We slowly began to exchange pleasantries, smile through masked workouts, wave locker room goodbyes. Despite the rings on our fingers, we never talked about our husbands or our family duties. This was our time for ourselves.

Still, I was caught off guard the day she stepped out of the dressing room in the most seductive lingerie set I had ever encountered. The delicate lace flowed over her breasts, creating a playful fringe that barely covered her nipples in an otherwise see-through bra. Her thong left little to the imagination, the strap hugging the hipbone I now knew I wanted to bite. I must have been unable to conceal my reaction, but she did not seem to mind. This lace had probably been purchased for a man that did not care, and it had finally found its rightful audience. It was my honor to take it all in: I saw it, I took in the outline it created against her flesh. I did a shit job at work that day.

After that brief encounter, I found myself packing my best underwear into my gym bag, wondering if she, too, stared when I bent over. I started wearing dresses and heels to work more often after she complimented me on a form-fitting dress, her voice in the perfect pitch of complicity. When I felt daring, I took my time applying lipstick in front of the mirror, wearing only my underwear. In hindsight, it all feels a bit silly. A locker room flirt, really? But she was there for me, always staring, and I was there staring right back.

I first masturbated to the idea of her after we coincided in the showers. I heard her grunts under the stream of water after a particularly challenging workout; I wanted to be the one massaging her trapeze, soothing the pain with gentle kisses on her tense muscles. When I couldn't sleep that night, I faced away from my husband. I slipped my vibrator quietly over my clit, biting my lip when I came thinking of her between my legs.

I arranged my sleep schedule so diligently to be on time for our daily date that I had forgotten that the gym was open in the evenings. After a particularly grueling week at work and at home, though, it was all I wanted. I cancelled my Friday night plans with family to take some time to myself. It might be a little sad, perhaps, but the only place I knew I could go to escape my life of duty was the gym, and my core could use a good workout.

It turns out she had had the same idea.

I simultaneously felt a flutter in my heart and a blow to the stomach. My secret gym crush was here, and I couldn't stop staring at my wedding ring. I knew my kids were doing pizza night at home without me, and my husband had been complaining about my lack of sexual interest. It was hard to focus on subpar missionary and predictable blowjobs when her lingerie choices fed my sexual imagination so deliciously.

Of course she was here, squatting in the tightest shorts ever manufactured, on a day I needed to forget my problems.

That night, I didn't wave at her. I kept my head down and I took out my feelings on the darned Ultra Abdominal Crunch. I took my sweet time obliterating each of the fibers of my rectus and transversus abdominis. All a calculated effort to let her finish in the locker room before I even showed up. When the cramps became too constant, I threw in the towel and dragged my feet to the locker room.

Of course she was still in the locker room, wrapped in the shortest towel ever manufactured, on a day I needed to forget my problems.

I smiled politely, speechless, when I passed her on the way to the showers while she gathered her toiletries. The brief sight of her hand pressing the towel up to her breasts, the top halves revealed casually behind the sweaty strands of her soft hair, made me more grateful than I had ever been for shower dividing walls.

Thankfully, my abdomen was happy to command my attention. The hot water relieving my workout cramps made me grunt, and I sighed under the hot water that drenched my figure.

I barely noticed that she had closed her tap.

"Hey, sorry -- is there any hot water in your shower?"

I closed my tap.

"Yeah, it's running fine; is yours out?"

"It is."

My kids were having cheese pizza. God, I hate cheese pizza. My husband was probably getting ready to watch some nerdy show I didn't give a shit about. I felt a thousand things at once: overwhelmingly, however, I wanted to curl up into a ball under the hot water. Still, I knew this time was for me, and I opened my shower door. She was already right outside, staring nervously. Mama bear, good wife, she looked almost innocent in her vulnerable stance.

I do not recall how it all got ignited. I might have offered her my hand, or I might have just nodded discreetly. She might have coyly accepted, or maybe she pounced like a cougar in heat. But, before I knew it, hot water was once again running in my shower, this time over my body and over hers.

Her lips tasted better in the flesh than they had in the many fantasies I had had alone with my vibrator. They were plump, soft, they were eager. We must have kissed for minutes, arms tangled around our slippery bodies. My forearm pressed into her upper back, pulling her up to me, her beautiful breasts squeezing mine. I wanted all of her. Once we were wet, and oh how wet we were, we paused to close the tap and take a good look at each other. Her large nipples were hard, begging for attention. Her fingertips ran down the side of my breast, my ribs, my wide hip. Her eyes were beautiful, and staring into them helped me forget my worries. All I wanted was to see them roll back in pleasure.

My fingers got lost in hers as I pinned her arms against the wall, my mouth hungrily taking in her nipples, licking and tasting and nibbling the round flesh of her breasts. Her arched back told me that, in any other setting, her sweet moans would fill my ears; but, for now, a firm bite of her own lips sufficed. Her breasts were not enough to quench my thirst, however, and my lips ventured further down, following a path of muscles that tensed under touch. Her legs twitched, perhaps having long lost the familiarity of oral attention.

I let her hands go to hold her hips instead when I lifted her thigh, revealing her sweet folds. I had long tried to study them by paying close attention to the outline of her underwear, but my lips were ready to make a new mental map. The first cartographic layer, one of kisses from her mound to her perineum and back up. Second layer, gentle licks tracing the outline of her fold, a treat for me as I gathered her taste. Third layer, a mission to discover the terrain: the bumps, the valleys, the earthquake epicenters.

Her quiet sighs fed my greed, and my tongue doubled down on her pleasure spots when I identified them. I wanted her to be mine. My fingers moved away from her hip to instead enter her, slow but steady, and they only moved faster once she grunted. I smiled against her flesh when her small hands finally moved to the back of my head, sometimes tugging, always pulling me close to her.

I had fallen for her because we were so similar, kindred spirits in a world of unpredictability, and I knew it in my heart when it stopped being a gamble. With nibbles on her hood, soft but consistent pressure against her G spot, and short tongue movements against her clit, it was no longer a matter of if but rather of when. She was going to reward me with her orgasm. I just needed to persist.

It's a good thing I was cheered on by her taste, the trembling of her thighs, her fingers in my hair, for her orgasm was everything I had dreamt and more. Her hips angled awkwardly in the shower, desperate to spread herself against my face, and her fingers began digging nails into my scalp. My good girl was cumming. She grunted quietly, unable to breathe as she exploded around my fingers, giving me the most sensual and sustained squeeze while I held my tongue still against her clit. The peak of her pleasure gave way to quick panting, and I brought her leg back down, safely bringing her back to the ground.

She returned just in time: we heard noise in the showers. Someone else had arrived. I got up and, when I started to laugh nervously, her hand covered my mouth, giving me a playfully stern look. I still melt when I think of it.

I opened the water again, and we busied our hands, we killed time by washing each other. My curves could not remember such devotion, such loving touch. Sadly, when yet another person arrived, it became clear we would not have the shower room to ourselves anytime soon. So we settled for silent kisses, repeated fondles, and tight hugs. With inefficient gestures, we signaled we should leave separately, and that she should be the first to leave. I closed the tap again and took a last look at my goddess. With her towel loosely wrapped around her body, she stepped out of the shower, and turned to give me one last look. "I'll see you tomorrow night," she whispered.

I waited the longest five minutes before leaving. She was gone by the time I got out. So I did the only thing I had it in my power to do: I texted my babysitter. I told her I no longer needed her to come on Saturday night; our usual date had been cancelled.