Gym

She reached the training room with bare skin and her pussy still wet. She was carrying the corset and skirt on her arm. Only the mask was still on; she’d torn off the garters on the way and dropped them somewhere. The door to the training room was unlocked. Inside, it smelled of rubber, disinfectant, and stale sweat. To the left were the showers, open, without curtains. On the right was a bench, wide enough to lie down on. That was exactly how she’d described it to him.

She turned on the water, hot, until steam rose. Then she positioned herself under the stream so she could see the door, and anyone who entered would first see her wet back, her legs spread apart, her ass facing the doorway. Her legs slightly more than shoulder-width apart. Her back slightly arched. The water ran over her shoulders, pooled in the crevice, and dripped from the lips of her pussy onto the tiles. She took the soap, lathered her hands, and began exactly where he was supposed to look.

The door opened.

He paused for a moment. He was fully dressed. His cell phone was already in his hand, as if he’d thought of nothing else the whole way there. Silke turned her head just enough for him to see the mask and the wet mouth beneath it. She nodded toward the door.

He understood. The door slammed shut. The bolt clicked. Loudly in the tiled room.

“Say the sentence,” she said. Not loudly. Just enough for him to hear it across the water.

He said it. His voice sounded different. Strangled. Higher. As if someone had taken his breath away and he now had to force it out through the same sentence he’d hesitantly uttered an hour ago in the training booth.

“The rabbit is out of the hat.”

Silke smiled behind the mask. Nervously. Good. Nervous meant he understood what she was about to give him.

“Camera,” was all she said. He held the phone so that he could see her from the side and from behind at the same time: the stream, the foam, her ass. She was putting on a show for him.

Not for her face. Her face remained hidden behind the mask, dry, because she tilted her head slightly forward and let the water run down her neck and back, not over her forehead. The focus was on her butt. She lathered her hands once more, reached back, kneaded her cheeks, pulled them apart, and let the lather run into the crease. White lather on wet skin, gathering in the crack, covering the ring, and then being washed away again by the water—just so you could see how pink and tight it was underneath. She stood there like that. Legs firm. Back arched. One hand spread the cheeks apart, the other slowly rubbed over the ring, in circles, with soap, until it glistened and gave way slightly under her finger.

“Look closely,” she said, without turning around. “This is the ass that no one has ever had. And you’re filming it while I wash it for you.”

She took more soap. Lathered her pussy, from front to back, so the foam ran over the lips and mixed with the water already coming from higher up. Then the ass again. This time with both hands. Cheeks spread wide apart. The ring right in the lens. She let a finger glide over it—not inside, just along the edge—and the foam followed the movement like a trail. The water splashed against the nape of her neck, ran down her spine, parted at her tailbone, and dripped from the finger that was caressing her entrance.

She stayed that way longer than necessary. She tilted her pelvis slightly so that the light and the camera could see the difference between the wet pussy below and the tighter, foamy hole above it. She breathed audibly. Not because she had to come yet. Because she wanted him to hear how ready she was making herself.

Then she turned off the water.

The steam lingered. She took the towel off the rack, didn’t dry herself thoroughly. Just enough so she wasn’t dripping. The mask remained untouched. Dry. The face behind it invisible except for the mouth, which was now speaking again.

“It’s my first time.” She said it calmly, as if she were explaining to him how to properly emphasize a sentence. “I want it to happen this way. Chest down. Ass up. Pelvis tilted. You see everything. The camera sees everything. You prepare me until I say you can put it in. Not before. Not hastily. I want to feel you open me up before you take me.”

She walked over to the bench.

The bench was narrow, with a lightly padded seat bolted to the floor. Silke lay down just as she’d said. Chest and cheeks on the seat, face turned to the side, mask facing the room. Arms stretched forward, hands on the edge. Her knees on the bench, slightly apart, then she pushed her pelvis up and tilted it until her lower back arched and her ass was thrust out toward the door and the camera. Her pussy hung visibly below, still wet, the lips slightly parted. The ring above it—once clean and lathered, now just bare and tight.

“Like this,” she said. “Exactly like that. And now come here.”

He came over. He set his cell phone on its side on a bag or the edge of a second bench, so that the lens captured her from the side: her back, her raised ass, his hands, and later his cock.

He knelt behind her.

First his hands. Flat on her lower back, then across her pelvis, then on her buttocks. He spread her apart. Not roughly. Slowly, as if he were checking to see if the command really applied. Silke let him. She exhaled. Her sphincter tightened briefly and then relaxed again.

Then his mouth.

He kissed the lower end of her spine. Kissed one buttock, then the other. His lips lingered longer the closer they got to the crease. Silke felt his breath first, then the wetness. He didn’t lick inside her right away. He licked along the outside. Flat. From her pussy upward over the perineum, until his tongue hit the ring. Once. Then again. Then he stayed there.

Silke let out a sound she hadn’t made in the booth. A short, startled gasp from her throat. The mask didn’t twitch. Her body did, though. She pressed her face harder into the cushion, her fingers clawing at the edge.

He was licking her asshole.

Thoroughly. His tongue circled, pressed, tapered to a point, testing the resistance that’s always there the first time. Silke had been wet from the shower; now she was getting wet from him. Saliva ran into the crevice, dripping onto the bench between her knees. He gripped her buttocks tighter, pulling them further apart, as if the camera were positioned to the side to see exactly how far his tongue went in and how the ring closed around it.

“Like that,” she whispered. “Exactly like that. Get me ready. Not your cock. Not yet.”

Lubricant. The sound of the tube was loud in the room. Cold on her skin, then warm from his fingers. One finger first. Just the tip. He ran it over the ring, spreading the gel, not pushing it in right away. Silke breathed into the fabric of the cushion. “In,” she said anyway. “Slowly. I want to feel it.”

The finger went in.

Tight. Warmer than her mouth. Silke tensed briefly, then forced herself to relax. The finger got stuck, barely moving, just turning a little, spreading the lube inside. She moaned into the bench. Not loudly. Muffled. As if she were listening to herself.

The second finger didn’t come in until she pushed her pelvis back a little. A signal. He understood. Two fingers, more gel, slow spreading. Silke bit her lower lip beneath the mask. It didn’t burn the way she’d imagined it would. It felt full. Unfamiliar. The pressure went inward and outward at the same time, as if something inside her were making room for something that hadn’t been there before.