Getting Lucky

A quick check of the clock informs me that it’s almost six. The last client went home fifteen minutes ago and all that’s left for me to do before I go home is clean the changing room. Dragging the mop bucket behind me with one hand, I sweep the corridor in a haphazard fashion. I’m missing bits, but I don’t care. My mind isn’t on work. It’s on something else entirely. That something?

Miss Lucky Bellamy.

Though I would never tell her, she’s the only client of ours to ever make my cock twitch. She comes in three times a week and works out until she almost passes out. The woman practically crawls out of here half dead every time, but the sad thing is, she isn’t doing it for herself. No, she’s doing it because her dickhead fiancé wants her to wear a size ten wedding dress when they get married early next year. That fucker doesn’t realise how lucky he is. I’d kill to have what he has.

I push into the changing room, trying to ignore the acrobatics going on in my pants. My cock is doing sit-ups again, as it does every time I let myself think about Lucky. My thoughts start out innocent enough. Things like, what she looks like dressed up for a night out. Whether her smile is different when she has lipstick on, or if her eyes look more or less sultry when she lines them in black. But, nine times out of ten, my thoughts turn dirty and I end up wondering what she looks like naked.

Whenever she’s running on the treadmill I imagine how her tits would be moving if they weren’t constrained by her bra. Would they sway back and forth as she walks, then start to bounce and slap against her ribcage when she picks up the pace? When she straddles the seat on the exercise bike, every corner of my mind ends up crammed full of images of her fleshy ass wobbling a couple of feet away from my face while she holds on to my calves and rides me.

I round a row of lockers and stop immediately, though the mop bucket squeaks an inch or two further before it comes to a halt. The guy I thought was the last client? He wasn’t. I thought Lucky had left ages ago, but she’s still here. I mean right here, in this locker room, drying off after having a shower. I know I should turn around and leave. Seeing her like this…it isn’t meant for me.

The thing that keeps me from leaving is those few squeaks from the mop bucket. Lucky couldn’t not have heard them. She’ll have heard them as soon as I started dragging it over the tiled floor, but she hasn’t bothered to cover herself.

She doesn’t look at me as she rubs a fluffy towel over her arms. God, I can’t take my eyes off her. I watch her pat her chest dry, I see her arch her back a little to lift her tits so she can dry the undersides.

Watching her do this is making me sick with longing. Even as I stand there, exhaling slowly as she lifts a leg and makes her thigh ripple as she dries her ass, I’m imagining us fucking. My mind shows me Lucky on her knees, sucking my cock, then me on mine with one of those plump thighs over my shoulder and my face buried in her cunt. I see her with her back against a locker… against her asshole fiancé’s locker… her tit scrunched in one of her hands while the fingers of the other part her smooth lips to show me the swollen bud of her clit and the wrinkled opening that features in all of my wildest dreams.

She still hasn’t looked at me.

But she has moved.

My face contorts, my mouth opens and closes as I try to ask her just… just what the fuck?!

Her knees are resting on the two side-by-side benches between the rows of lockers. She’s leaning forward, her tits pressing against the wood and her ass lifting in the air. I get a shocking eyeful of everything I’ve ever wanted to see. Small, tight asshole. Thick, hairless lips, and the dripping wet folds that lie between them.

This is an offer, right? It has to be. She’s on all fours with her pussy on display, looking all puffy and juicy and fuckable. I want my cock in it. Want to feel it contracting, want to feel that ass shudder as I slam against it, I want to feel Lucky pushing back and circling her hips because instinct tells her that’s what makes me come.

The mop clatters to the floor and I’ve palmed my cock before I even reach her. I don’t speak to her. Don’t ask if it’s okay. Not with words, anyway. I ask her with my cock. Stroking the tip around those soaking lips, pressing it against her clit, jiggling it there until she shivers.

I get my answer when she curls her hips and forces her cunt over the first couple of inches. It’s the wrong angle and I see her asshole bulge out a bit. Fuck, that moan of hers makes that worth doing again. Keeping it shallow, I rock back and forth, watching her asshole twitching. Then, with a wide roll of my hips, I sink every inch of my cock into her cunt. Her walls close around me, squeezing, trying to force me out. When I find the end of her she moans again, then those walls try their best to cling to me while I pull out.

Believing this is really happening is almost impossible. I’ve fantasised about it, dreamt about it. I’ve sat on this very bench and stroked my cock until I’ve spurted all over the floor while thinking about it. And now my hands are buried in soft skin, that ass is clapping against my belly, and my cock is pumping away inside of this beautiful woman.

She moves and I know she’s reaching for her clit. I feel her nails on my balls, just for a second, and a few strokes later, it happens. She starts to quiver. The benches beneath us start to separate. Her body vibrates in my hands and, with a soft, almost shocked sounding squeal, she comes. Her cunt is so fucking tight around my cock, squeezing me, milking me. A few more thrusts and my turn comes. I do it inside her. Each jerk of my hips taking me further in, forcing my spunk to come splattering out of her.

My back hits the locker and I stare at her, not caring that my limp cock is dribbling down the front of my shorts. She still doesn’t acknowledge me, she just lets me watch her put all of those gorgeous curves away. Once she’s dressed she looks at me. Lazy eyes, lazier smile, a funny bench print on her forehead.

“I’m not marrying Mace,” she says. “I’d thought he was what I wanted, but it turns out that fitness fanatic isn’t my type. I prefer my men nicer, and softer around the middle.”

As she passes by me she taps my pudgy belly, then stands my mop against her fiancé… her ex-fiancé’s locker. The door closes behind her and I snigger, snatching up my mop. My eyes linger on the cum covered benches, but my mind is on Mace. I wonder if he’ll fire me when he finds out I stole his bride.

Week #167

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