Impulse - Results Pt. 01

***Authors Note: This is an older story of mine, written during a time when I guess I just had a lot of words pouring out of my head. It will be presented in parts. This first part does not particularly have that much "action" in it, rather is offered as background and build up to the chapters yet to come. Stick with it and enjoy! ***

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From an early age, I have been told that I can be a bit impulsive. My mother used to say that there was rarely something I wanted that I didn't get. Not because it was given to me, but instead because I went out and got it. She said I was a hustler, doing odd jobs for neighbors to make money, making trades with friends, always playing to long-game. Considering how much I enjoy my life, I'd like to think that my impulsiveness has worked out pretty well for me. Then again, even I can admit that it has caused me some headaches.

My name is Phil. When this story started I was in my early 40's, white, relatively attractive, relatively fit and relatively wealthy. I am still most of those things, just no longer in my early 40's. But to truly even get to the start we need to go a bit further back.

IMPULSE: After college I took an inheritance I received when my parents passed and purchased a small, run-down apartment building on the gulf coast in Florida.

RESULT: Well, I made my money in real estate so one would think it worked out pretty well.

Over about 18 months I succeeded by consolidating. I changed the original 18 units in the building into 9 "upper end" and 2 "luxury" apartments. My finances were in the black only 26 months after I signed that first mortgage and I then took most of the proceeds I had made and put them into additional properties. 20 years later, I was a mini-magnate in my community. I owned over 200 rental units spread across 14 buildings covering almost 40 acres of prime, sandy, beachfront real estate.

I also owned 2 divorces.

IMPULSE: With my wealth I had decided to treat myself. I was young and wealthy and figured the good times could only get better. So, it was fast cars, big houses and beautiful women. I was married and divorced with my first wife, Sarah, in 42 months. After a string of what amounted to the exact same relationship(s), I married my second wife, Aubrey, and was divorced from her within 36 months.

RESULT: Neither turned out to be the person that I thought they were going to be.

In their defense, our problems were not completely their fault. I was working... a lot. My hours in the office and in my properties ranged between 70 and 100 per week. A relationship means 2 people and they were mostly on their own.

Yes, it did turn out that each one of them was more interested in a certain lifestyle they thought they could obtain with me (or my wealth) then they were interested in me or how I obtained my wealth. It wasn't as if either had ever stepped foot on one of my properties to see just how things worked in my professional world. It appeared they looked down on my doing manual labor and the people I was working with. Instead, they were each always pushing the latest clothing and parties and tangible objects that were for sale as a way to prove how perfect their (our) lives were.

It wasn't like I couldn't afford it, I certainly could. But, as it turns out, that lifestyle that I thought I wanted just didn't turn out to be the one for me.

But, there is nothing like a mid-life crisis to get a person's head back on straight.

Some time back I had a fall at work. I had a severe, compound gross fracture of my femur on my right leg. Now, while modern medicine can work wonders (doctors reset the bone, applied 2 stainless steel rods to its sides for support and had me stitched up and out the door in a few days), so can traditional macho bull-headedness wreak havoc.

I didn't stay off my leg like I was told to.

I didn't stay home from work like I was advised.

Within 6 weeks I was back in the hospital with a staph infection and additional microfractures around my leg. As an added bonus, in the short period of time I had done so much over-compensation with the rest of my body that my entire spine and muscle system were completely out of whack.

In short, I was a physical mess. And, if I was being honest, I was a bit of a mental mess as well.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

IMPULSE: I sold my properties... all of them.

I moved out of my massive, fancy house in the suburbs and got as far away as it seemed reasonable; another city and into a modest (by wealthy people standards) loft on the waterfront.

I got rid of the vast majority of my stuff.

I was trying to start from scratch (again, by wealthy people standards). Maybe it was all a bit drastic but honestly I believed it was the best thing for me.

I also decided to focus on getting my head and body right again. What was the point of working the hours I was putting in if I had no time to enjoy it or nobody to enjoy it with? I realized that there had never been a goal in mind with my wealth generation, only "more."

RESULT: It wasn't like I was going to live in a yurt in Afghanistan, I had certain levels of comfort that I... well, that I felt comfortable with. This meant physical and mental comfort. Translation: I moved into a construction site. While still under renovation, the building I moved into was a work in progress but did have a very well equipped gym on its top floor including a wide variety of weights, cardio equipment and even a commercial swim spa (amusing, considering it was gulf coast, waterfront property). To help me use the facility properly (not getting myself off track or injured even more) and to help me with my entire personal journey, I hired 2 people into my life.

Paul was in his mid-thirties. A tall-ish Asian-American whose specialty was being my live-in personal assistant. He kept track of my appointments, my apartment clean and me fed with fantastic, nutritious-but-delicious meals. He was quiet but personable and suited me well. He was there when I needed him, disappeared when I didn't and honestly, most of the time I only knew he was around because of the couple of meals we shared or the fresh laundry I put no effort into on my own regularly appearing.

Stacy was probably in her late 20's, or at least that is the assumption I made when we started working together. In reality, I am a terrible judge of age and hadn't actually asked. Also somewhat tall-ish at 5'7", she was a very spirited, very independent brunette whose specialty was being my combination physical therapist, massage therapist, chiropractor and personal trainer. She was the one who was beating my broken old body into submission and attempting to get my brain to think that it was enjoyable in the process. She was not technically live-in like Paul but, based on how much time we spend together, she might as well have been.

Speaking of my old, broken body I can admit I exaggerate just a bit. I was 42 years old, just less than 6' tall and normally a trim 181lbs but at that point ballooned up to 197 (losing muscle mass in the process). My muscles and joints were still not necessarily responding as well as I would have liked for them to have but we were working hard and I was feeling younger and more appropriately fit each week.

For the most part, my days consisted of the following.

Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday:

7:30am - Wake up.

8am - Light breakfast served by Paul and often eaten with the company of Paul as well as Stacy.

8:30am - PT Session 1 - Usually lasting about 2-2.5 hours. This usually involved total cardio. In the beginning it was only no-impact pool and bike work. It then progressed to getting on the elliptical and treadmill here and there as my leg got stronger and my body more "corrected."

Noon - Lunch by (and often with) Paul and often (again) in the company of Stacy. I was Stacy's first private client. I had been referred to her by a doctor friend of mine from when they had been working together at a local club. Based on what I felt I needed from her, Stacy agreed to quit that job and work with me semi-full time. Now, while the money I was paying her was more than enough to compensate her like it was full time, Stacy was not a person to sit still. As I started getting better she didn't take what basically amounted to free money and walk, instead she went for more. She got permission from the apartment board and started a training business in the building gym, getting exclusive rights to the property for a small fee. She almost immediately had about 12 clients that came to see her, paying not only her rate but the building an additional "gym membership" fee. I am happy to say that the setup was one I helped negotiate.

3pm - PT Session 2 - Free weights and resistance work. This was the bane of my existence. It was, in my pathetic opinion, 75 minutes of pure torture. Stacy worked me hard and never let me slack. She kept reminding me just how messed up my body was and, if I wanted to get better... no pain, no gain.

6:30pm - Dinner

In addition, every day except Sunday Stacy would also give me a 45-60 minute massage. There wasn't any sort of particularly scheduled time, we worked them around her schedule. Sometimes they were after either of the PT sessions, other times they were right before I went to bed.

During the first couple of months, most of my free time I spent in the apartment. While I admit it took a few weeks to get used to being sedentary, once I did get into a routine it wasn't difficult to relax. Physically, I resigned myself to needing it. Mentally, I challenged myself to puzzles and games. Plus I still had my money to manage to keep me motivated professionally. Though, I still made time to "check out" as I sat and enjoyed the views of the sea.

My apartment itself was coming along as well. I had been taking some time and decorating the place with artwork and unique items from around the world. I was, unfortunately, not in the physical shape to travel and get them personally but was confident in the work Stacy and I were doing and hopeful that I would be galavanting the globe in short order... or at least so I thought.

The apartment was a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath loft with about 2800 square feet of floor space. (As previously said, it was only modest by wealthy people standards.) Being the leaseholder and the one paying the rent, I took the huge main bedroom and accompanying en-suite master bath. Paul took the 2nd largest bedroom that had access to a disconnected bath technically shared with the third bedroom. As part of our agreement, Paul got his room and bath totally to himself. Honestly, I hadn't been in there since the day that he moved in.

Otherwise, the apartment was mostly open space on the first floor with the bedrooms on the second. The only exceptions to that open space on the first floor was a small, walled off study or office type room and the final powder room/ half bath. Because I had my own office (really just my computer on a desk and a couple of filing cabinets) in the third bedroom, Stacy decided the study/office would be the perfect spot for the massage table. I purchased one to make it easier for Stacy and it was nice knowing that the only ass and balls to touch the thing were my own.

Stacy didn't live in the apartment building. It was something we were both obviously aware of when we originally agreed to our plan. In the beginning it wasn't a big deal, we really didn't know each other and, as she didn't have that much to do with me, she just went on her merry way after each of our sessions.

Where? I had no idea.

However, as our work progressed and, with her burgeoning business on site and the two of us becoming much more comfortable with one another, it made sense to help her out. So, I gave her a key to the apartment and told her that she could use it for her downtime, getting cleaned up and as a makeshift office as needed. (I did not consider this to be particularly impulsive.)

Though she had the key, it wasn't like we were then immediately seeing each other all the time. In fact, after giving her the key we probably went 4 weeks without it even being mentioned again. I think that she felt funny about actually taking advantage of my offer. Though, the first time she did use it turned out to be one of the more memorable encounters of our relationship.

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I had gotten home after taking a trudging walk on the beach following PT Session 2 for the day. I was sweaty from the workout, sandy from the beach, and very much looking forward to a shower.

Getting into my apartment I had the initial inclination that something was "off." I called out for Paul but was met with no response, leaving me to figure he had gone to run errands or pick up groceries for dinner. Making my way to my bedroom I heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom with some sort of live activity splashing in it. Not able to put 2-and-2 together I panicked.

In hindsight, I am mildly thankful I did not take the proper action of calling the police for the harrowing case of a showering intruder as the paperwork and police blotter would have been a bit of an embarrassment. Instead...

IMPULSE: I fashioned my cane as a weapon and crept my way toward the shower with the idea that I would somehow scare the intruder into submission.

I still remember, like a scene in a cheesy movie, the "showering bandit" had not turned on the exhaust fan and the entire bathroom was steamed opaque. Scared but undeterred, I continued forward. In a flash I yanked open the thick glass shower door and shouted as loud as I could at the obviously unknown crazy person who had broken into my apartment.

RESULT: Stacy, with shampoo dripping down her face, screamed in shock, lost her balance and fell to the floor. In the process of falling she instinctively threw out her arms in an attempt to grab something and balance herself but the only thing her hand found, her eyes blinded by soap, was my cane. Nonetheless she latched on and pulled the cane into the shower with her.

I watched briefly as she writhed around on the floor, spewing a string of profanity and repeatedly hitting herself with the cane and then I proceeded to do what any healthy, red-blooded, viral man would do: I mumbled that I was sorry and shuffled myself right out of there, leaving her in soapy-wet, naked pile on the shower floor.

I had stumbled out of the room and was sitting on my bed, waiting for Stacy to emerge so I could apologize profusely and beg her to not quit. As it turns out, however, those concerns were only mine as Stacy could seem to have cared less.

A few moments after hearing the water stop there was some audible shuffling and Stacy emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and obviously looking for me. She had a strange type of look on her face.

"Well, our first experience with me having a key to your apartment was probably not ideal."

I must have looked like a 5-year-old who had been caught stealing marshmallows from the pantry. I started to apologize again but she cut me off.

"Phil, seriously, don't worry about it. Shit happens. No need to get bent out of shape about it. Bruises and egos heal."

I still felt awful.

Stacy was inspecting herself in a large, full body mirror that I had in the corner of my bedroom, somewhat between the bathroom and my bed. She used the reflection to look at the back of her arm and elbow that she landed on, sighed, and commented about bruising.

My head was still partially hung though I could not help but stare out of the corner of my eye at Stacy as she continued to inspect herself. The lines of her body were enticing.

Stacy had stopped inspecting her arms and had moved to her hip. To do so, she pulled the opening for the towel that was wrapped around her WAY open.

My jaw must have been on the floor as I stared openly at her smooth, exposed flesh.

She caught my eye and winked.

"It's usually the other way around, huh?"

It was true. Stacy had seen me in all my glory plenty of times at that point with my massages 6 days a week. I have never been particularly embarrassed of being nude. I am not ashamed of my body and have always been a bit annoyed by the puritanical sense of morality when it comes to nudity here in the US.

When we first started I didn't know what Stacy's view on the topic was. She always dressed appropriately for her job and in fashion with the times, tight yoga pants and tank-top athletic shirts, a wardrobe that was hardly an indicator for her wanting me to expose myself to her. After having me shuffle awkwardly around her for a few sessions, loosely holding a towel around my waist, only to remove it on the table, she asked me directly if I would like to wear some sort of cover-up as she said she made the assumption that I was embarrassed of myself. After telling her I was not at all, rather trying to maintain a sense of modesty only for her sake, she did both of us a favor and literally pulled the covering towel right off of me. There was a sense of shock for me at first, but the reality of how much more physically comfortable it was for me and easier for her quickly set in and we both seemed to be much more comfortable with the process.

Stacy was still inspecting herself and was not being modest in any way about it. Her towel was pulled so far open basically everything except her breasts were exposed to me. Her long, smooth legs. Her toned, sensual abdomen. The tuft of silky dark hair in between.

"Are you just gonna' sit there and stare at me?" Stacy laughed.

"Uh... Uh..."

I tried to stammer a response but words were not my strong suit right then.

Stacy rolled her eyes, dropped the towel fully, and walked back into the bathroom, her heart-shaped ass swaying with each sexy step.

"We all have parts, Phil. That includes me. It's been a long time since I was ashamed of myself and don't see a reason for either you or any other person to feel embarrassed around a little bit of skin."

I heard Paul walk in the door downstairs.

I got off the bed and walked into the bathroom. Stacy had put her underwear and bra on and was now attempting to pull up a tight pair of yoga pants.

"You're absolutely right," I spoke. "And I am sorry about this entire situation. I don't know what the hell was going on in my head when I decided it would be a good idea to attack you in the shower."

"It's okay, it happens. Besides, the little I could see through my shampooed eyes made it least appear that you were hauling ass pretty quickly to get out of here when I was lying helpless on the shower floor. So, while chivalry might be dead at least it seems that all the hard work we have been doing is starting to pay off."

I knew she was chiding me but it didn't stop me from blushing. Stacy stepped up directly to me, still with no shirt on, and reached around to pat me on the butt.

"Keep up the good work," she said with a wink and a smile.

There was a split second of silence before I blurted out.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?"

She chuckled.

"Sure, dinner would be great."

I shuffled out of the bathroom and asked Paul if he had enough to include Stacy with us at dinner. I wasn't surprised to hear him say yes. Based on how much she has been over he seemed to be planning on the prospect.

Going back into the bathroom I stood behind Stacy as she worked on herself in the mirror. She was still shirtless, performing some sort of grooming on her face and hair. I again found myself staring at her.

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing, I just remembered that I was originally coming up here to take a shower."

Silence. We just sort of stared at each other. Stacy had a confused look on her face.

"So... take a shower."

I admit I hesitated. It was pathetic. I was in my own bathroom and it wasn't two minutes since we had agreed to this "not-a-big-deal" idea. Plus she had seen me naked so many times previously. But I admit I was still hung up for a second before breaking through my fog. Stacy didn't look at me, she was doing makeup or something. I didn't try to face her and flaunt my dick. Instead, I just pulled off my clothes, turned on the water and got in the shower.