A Sunday jog

You’re woken by the incessant ring of your phone. When it goes to voicemail the caller quits and phones again. You grope for it and answer.

“Finally, get up. I’ll be there in half an hour. Be ready when I get there.” It’s Blair. If she hadn’t just given you one of the best nights of your life, you’d curse her. As she did, all you do is groan.

You’re still not ready when she arrives. Almost dressed. Shorts, trainers, a t-shirt. Blair looks it up and down with disapproval, “Is that the best you can do? You’ll need better. I’ll take you shopping before next time.”

She demands your phone, gets you to unlock it and then downloads some app while you finish getting ready. Only then can you appreciate her outfit. She clearly has a penchant for tight, figure-hugging leggings, miniature crop tops and world class sports bras. The latter’s probably necessary with her bust.

She hands back your phone. “This app will track your performance. Not as good as a proper watch, but we’ll buy one of those later. I’d love to see what one of them thinks about your performance in bed. Mine tells me that yesterday evening I had a high intensity workout.” She gives you a big wink.

First, she insists on stretches and warming up. You could watch her stretch all day long, but she insists you take part. You’re more flexible than you realised, although not as flexible as Blair wants you to be. Several times she stops her stretches to put her hands on you and guide you to a tighter angle.

“With what I’m planning to do you in the next few weeks, you’re going to have to be more flexible,” she whispers in your ear during one of those hands-on moments.

Finally, Blair’s satisfied. You lock your door, and she leads you onto the Sunday morning streets.

It doesn’t take long for you to realise that Blair’s ass is the biggest incentive to keep pace with her. She’s a few steps ahead, enough that you can watch those two globes, trapped within her lycra leggings, bouncing with every stride. Your fingers itch to reach out and grasp them, to massage them, to slap them. It’s a wonderful butt, and the fact that you remember the give of their flesh just makes you yearn all the more. Direction and scenery are lost in the bountiful vision before you. You’re so fixated, you don’t notice her speeding, or you keeping pace, until it becomes too much. She’s drifting further away. The muscles of your legs are burning. Your heart is pounding, almost as hard as yesterday when she rode you. There’s not enough oxygen in the world for you to carry on. You stagger to a halt and lean over.

It takes several more strides before she realises you’ve stopped. She returns, a smirk on her beautiful face.

“Had enough already?”

You try to reply, but it’s lost in your gasps. She just stands there, seemingly not even flushed. She places her hands on her hips, which just further emphasises her breasts. That’s all you need. You’re losing precious blood you need to keep your heart going to the first stirrings of lust.

“As I said, no stamina. If you can’t keep up with me out here, how are you going to keep up with me in bed?”

How, indeed.

She slaps your ass to get you moving again. This time even the lure of her ass is not enough to keep pace. She jogs off. Comes back. Jogs off again. Waits for you at the junction. Leads you through more familiar streets. All of a sudden you’re back home.

She watches you unlock the door. She watches you walk in. She doesn’t follow.

“Not coming in?” you ask.

“I’ve only done half my planned distance,” Blair tells you.

“Later?”

“No. Now, if you’d be able to keep up, we could have showered together. As you couldn’t, we won’t.”

She reaches out, grabs the front of your t-shirt and pulls you in for a passionate, breath devouring kiss. If you weren’t already struggling for breath, you would be after that. Then she lets go and kicks off back into the streets.

You on stumbling, fuzzy legs, somehow manage to reach the shower.