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A REALLY ROUGH WORKOUT
By Adam Constantine
(Mandate.July.1991.)
Frankly, he was the kind of client I loathe training: white professional
just out of some accelerated business management program at M.I.T.,
Stanford or Harvard. Probably makes five times my salary. Real polite
and considerate; works out in Ralph Lauren sweats and carries a bottle
of Evian around with him. Blonde with green eyes protected by bookish
tortoise-rimmed glasses. Doesn't know a trapezius from a tricep, but
rattles off active shares, secured notes and treasury bills stats like a
walking Wall Street fucking Journal.
I shouldn't complain. These Masters of the Universe do pay my rent,
after all. I've learned how to chum my way through their blas
conversations and feign interest in their Upper East Side lives.
Occasionally, they even invite me to some soiree, where Clark or Sherman
or Loudon introduces me to the hoi polloi of the finance, sports and
entertainment worlds. In fact, I've become a pretty good schmoozer
enough to get invited back to other parties on my own merits, thank you.
After all, I'm not chopped liver. I've been a full time fitness trainer
for almost ten years now. In New York, the gym crowd tends to be a
fickle bunch, but I've managed to hang in there and, through the years,
make a nice income on my reputation. Admittedly, my looks have helped:
I'm about six foot, curly black hair, blue eyes and a rather beat up
looking nose from my boxing days. You don't wanna look too pretty, you
know, or clients mistake you for just another actor-singer-model-dancer
wannabe. This package is the real thing.
Of course, the main selling point is below the neck. Guys and chicks
respond to my massive pecs and shoulders, the cannonball biceps and
swollen triceps, the 28 inch waist that flares down into a helluva pair
of thunder thighs, and a gluteus maximus that many a face has pressed
itself into, begging for suffocation!
But above all, I'm a good trainer. I've taken guys who were fifty pounds
overweight, put them on a training program supplemented by a nutritious
diet, and molded them into little Herculess. At my fee of $75 an hour,
these guys expect nothing short of a miracle, and after six months of
hard work and dedication, they get it.
A lot of the guys I have as clients are gay or bi, although to hear them
tell it, they're straight as George Bush right, and I'm Barbara. . . .
The thing about having a trainer is that, if he's good, he becomes
someone you look up to, someone you want to have tell you what to do,
someone who'll like you, who'll want you. So naturally, a lot of guys
end up wanting me. And if I want them back, I just let them know, very
discreetly, that play-for-pay is not included in my $75 an hour training
fee. In other words, we re-negotiate our "contract."
Let's get back to Blondie. He's been my client for about three months
now, and the guy's making progress. He likes the machines better than
free weights, prefers the Lifecycle over the Stair Master, so I've
beefed up his program with lots of circuit training and low impact
aerobics. His name's Boz (short for Rodney Boswell III), and he commutes
to the city every day from Stamford, Connecticut. He has one of those
extra large leather attach cases that doubles as a gym bag. Natch, he
rents a locker so he doesn't have to carry around those smelly sneakers
and towels.
Last week, Boz asked me if I ever gave private training sessions. I've
heard this euphemism before; read: Can I suck your dick and how much
will it cost? But the way he said it, blinking sweetly behind those
little tortoise rims and checking out his arms in the mirror at the same
time, made me consider that he might really want some extra weight
training on the side.
"Do you have any weights or machines at your home?" I inquired.
"Well, I have a new Marcy system, a rowing machine, a treadmill and a
swimming pool indoor, of course."
Where does this guy live, I wondered, Club Med?
I agreed to take the train out the following Saturday for a morning
workout. Boz and I settled for the following arrangement: he'd pay my
travel expenses, $150 for a two hour ses-sion, and "extras' whatever
those were.
Stamford is one of those East Coast "bedroom" cities where the upper
middle class escapes to from Manhattan. On the taxi ride from the
Stamford train station to Boz's digs, we flew by estates and mansions,
horses romping in acres and acres of crimped green grass, "cottages"
bigger than the entire five floor walkup I live in back in New York.
Finally, we arrived at a sprawling white clapboard house at the end of
long limestone drive. A huge Rottweiler with a head the size of a
bowling ball came bolting from an adjoining garage, followed by Boz,
dressed all in white.
"Welcome to Stamford," he greeted me, admonishing his dog, "Devin, get
off Adam. He's our guest, not your dinner."
But maybe yours, I thought, smiling wickedly.
The house was huge, with a sunken living room plied with tufted leather
couches off the foyer. Boz immediately took me downstairs to what was
once a basement. With the magic a million dollars can provide, it had
been transmogrified into a fitness oasis. At its center was a modest
swimming pool; next to it, on a little wooden deck, I spied a Jaccuzi,
with steam rising provocatively. Just off the steps leading to this spa
was a dressing area, and behind it, the aforementioned Marcy unit,
treadmill and rowing machine.
"Impressive," I said. "Let's get started."
I pulled off my drawstring pants and sweater, felt Boz's eyes on my body
and heard his appreciative sigh. I'd worn my spandex, something I never
do at the gyms in New York, since it causes too much unnecessary
attention. But today, in private, I thought this particular outfit would
let me get to the heart of whatever was or was not going to happen
between Boz and me. This was, after all, only a two hour workout I was
getting paid for.
Boz changed into a pair of skimpy white nylon shorts and some kind of
designer tank top with a fancy logo. "I really want to work out hard
today," he said. "Make me work up a good sweat."
"You got it," I replied, checking out his little round ass.
I started him out on the treadmill for twenty minutes, then on the
rowing machine, to get the aerobic stuff out of the way. We stretched
for fifteen minutes, and I made him to do some wide leg spreads, head to
knee, that he claimed pulled in his groin. "Right here," he directed,
pointing to a roll of cock that was barely concealed in his skimpy
shorts.
I got up from my stretch position and walked over to investigate. I
stood over him, his head even with my crotch. I didn't have a hard on
yet, wanting to make sure he wasn't just playing cat and mouse games
with me "Just how bad is it?"
He looked up at me, shocks of blond straggling down his forehead, eyes
shining with anticipation. "Real, real bad!"
"Get up," I commanded. "I'm gonna give you a nice, rough workout."
He trotted after me toward the Marcy machine. I divided his workout into
chest, shoulder, back, arm, leg, and stomach exercises, supersetting him
on every one. "But I've never done supersets before," he complained.
"Don't whine, Bozy," I condescended. "Just do it . . . unless you don't
think you can handle it."
I positioned and spotted him from set to set, making sure my big hands
slapped his ass for good measure between reps. He seemed to respond well
to a little abuse, so I kept it up and, in fact, got nasty.
"Look, asshole, you've got to work harder. You're not even breaking a
sweat." Boz was struggling under the weight of the bench press as I
stood astride him. I rested my knee on his prick. "Come on, Bozy, get
that thing up."
He heaved, the weight went up, and so did his wiener, right up over the
top of his shorts. I applied more pressure with my knee.
"Ouch," he groused. "That hurts." I let up a little "No, don't," he
said. "I like it rough."
I put him on his stomach on the leg curl machine, to check out that
curvy little rump to better advantage. "Take off your shorts, asswipe.
Let's see you work that butt."
I made him do six sets of progressive weights on that machine, until his
face was beet red and his quadriceps and ass muscles were quivering in
exhaustion. I watched his butt rise as he lifted up the weights, then
reprimanded him that he needed to keep his hips flat on the bench and
slapped him soundly on the backside. On his final rep of the last set, I
pulled out my dick and crawled on top of him.
"This is to give you some incentive," I said, then plugged into his
sweat-soaked crack. No lube needed here. He bucked back into me and
swallowed up my substantial pole. My balls rested comfortably on top of
his ass mounds. He grunted softly.
"Treat me like the wimp I am," he begged.
"That's easy, you whining piece of shit. I'm gonna whip your butt into
shape real good, cocksucker." I grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms
behind his back, feeling his shoulders buckle. My cock was still
simmering in his butt sweat.
Somehow, I yanked him off the machine without extracting my dick from
him and we sort of waddled over to the pool. I pushed him in, tank top
and all. Boz splashed around, pretending to be shocked and frightened. I
sat on the side, my legs dangling, with my big dick flopping over the
tiles. "Come here and suck this," I told him, wanking it in his
direction.
Good little water puppy that he was, he paddled over and clamped down on
my wang, taking it to the pubes, trying to get the balls in too. I threw
my legs around his neck and forced the issue, enjoying watching him gag
and drool spit.
Boz's glassy green eyes stared up at me, waiting for my next command. I
decided it was time for some water sports, and spied the diving board at
the opposite end of the pool. I had an idea.
"Okay, Bozy, let me see you swim over to the diving board. We're gonna
do some pull-ups on it."
Obediently, he swam over. I instructed him to stay in the water and grab
hold of the sides of the board and pull himself up until his chin was
above its edge. I stood on top of the board facing him, bouncing a
little to make things more difficult. After about twenty-five pull-ups,
he was struggling. Time for a little incentive.
Turning around on the board, I squatted down until my big ass was
hanging over the edge. Then I grabbed the sides of the board and pushed
down, until my asshole pucker was gaping wide at him. "Now, Bozy, on
your next set, every time you come up over the board, I want you to give
my asshole a nice tongue lick. Let's see if you can give me thirty reps
this way." I looked between my straining thighs at him; he was
practically slobbering in anticipation.
It took the little fucker a while to get the hang of it. The first few
reps he kept missing the target. I helped him a bit by taking one hand
off the side of the board and spreading my ass, and then his tongue
connected solidly. A sigh escaped my lips and I encouraged him.
"Eat my asshole, Bozy. Lick it good, boy!"
Well, I think that little yuppie s
did a hundred reps. Amazing how a
little rimming can boost a guy's adrenaline. He was no piker, that's for
sure. I sort of got carried away too, and dragged him on top of the
board with me. I laid him flat on his back and sat squarely on his face,
bouncing up and down on the board. The springs really helped his tongue
go for the gusto; it was buried right up my sphincter. His muffled moans
of pleasure reverberated around the tiled room. My hand reached for my
own pumped up pecker and I flogged away. Boz heard the wet sounds of my
masturbation.
"Don't yet," he said, stopping abruptly and shoving my ass out of
his face.
"What did you have in mind, Bozy?" I asked.
"Well, um, don't we have to cool down?" he meekly suggested.
We dove into the cool water, swam some leisurely laps, then jumped up
and into the Jacuzzi. The pulsating hot water opened our pores. It was
invigorating to the skin after the frigid water of the pool. Our hard
ons were still at attention; they certainly were in need of a cool down.
From the neck down, I was submerged in the bubbling bath, luxuriating in
the shooting jets against my lower back. This is nirvana, I thought, in
the back of my mind realizing it was actually only the stuff that money
can buy. I pulled Bozy over to me. He didn't protest as I sat him down
on my rod. I slid in and up him like a knife going into warm butter. His
back was to my chest, the way I like to fuck best, and I controlled the
fucking by grabbing him around his narrow hips and bobbing him up and
down. The water made little slapping sounds against us, which kinda
turned me on.
"Oh, wow!" he said, summing it up for both of us.
As the water lifted his butt up from my cock, I let him slip off me,
then pulled his ass back to the tip of my pole. I like the feeling of
penetration, and his asshole was sufficiently gaped for that particular
kind of deep digging. I added a finger for good measure. Then, he was
really stuffed with flesh.
Immersed in our cauldron of lust, Bozy and I must've carried on for half
an hour more. We were slicked up with Jacuzzi steam heat, sweat popping
off our faces, dripping off us like honey. I licked it from the nape of
his neck, reached around and tugged one of his pink, eraser-like
nipples. He groaned and thrust his butt back into me, wriggling as my
dick hit bottom. His legs reached back and snaked around my ankles,
locking us together pretzel fashion. He was masturbating furiously now,
heading for the big O.
"Ohmygosh . . . oh yeah . . . oh yeah . . . I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna .
. ."
"Yeah, I know, Bozy. Do it, baby. Do it now."
And he did,ming off with a shuddering climax that triggered my own.
I pulled my cock out of his bum and watched my sperm go shooting out my
dick in slo-mo speed under the water. The spunk surfaced and clung their
on the water in tapioca clumps. We watched our seed slowly get sucked
toward the filter at the side of the Jacuzzi, then disappear.
"That was some cool down," he said, standing up. "I need a refresher."
He dove back into the pool. "C'mon, join me," he called.
"I'm exhausted," I said. "And besides, two hours was up a long time
ago."
"Don't worry, Adam. I'm paying. You're on overtime rate now."
"Are these the 'extras' you were talking about, Bozy?"
"Let's just say I don't mind paying for a good, rough workout," he
grinned. And with that, he slipped silently under the water, moving like
an eel to the diving board.
Time for some more pull-ups, I thought with a smile.
-------------------------
Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!
By Adam Constantine
(Mandate.July.1991.)
Frankly, he was the kind of client I loathe training: white professional
just out of some accelerated business management program at M.I.T.,
Stanford or Harvard. Probably makes five times my salary. Real polite
and considerate; works out in Ralph Lauren sweats and carries a bottle
of Evian around with him. Blonde with green eyes protected by bookish
tortoise-rimmed glasses. Doesn't know a trapezius from a tricep, but
rattles off active shares, secured notes and treasury bills stats like a
walking Wall Street fucking Journal.
I shouldn't complain. These Masters of the Universe do pay my rent,
after all. I've learned how to chum my way through their blas
conversations and feign interest in their Upper East Side lives.
Occasionally, they even invite me to some soiree, where Clark or Sherman
or Loudon introduces me to the hoi polloi of the finance, sports and
entertainment worlds. In fact, I've become a pretty good schmoozer
enough to get invited back to other parties on my own merits, thank you.
After all, I'm not chopped liver. I've been a full time fitness trainer
for almost ten years now. In New York, the gym crowd tends to be a
fickle bunch, but I've managed to hang in there and, through the years,
make a nice income on my reputation. Admittedly, my looks have helped:
I'm about six foot, curly black hair, blue eyes and a rather beat up
looking nose from my boxing days. You don't wanna look too pretty, you
know, or clients mistake you for just another actor-singer-model-dancer
wannabe. This package is the real thing.
Of course, the main selling point is below the neck. Guys and chicks
respond to my massive pecs and shoulders, the cannonball biceps and
swollen triceps, the 28 inch waist that flares down into a helluva pair
of thunder thighs, and a gluteus maximus that many a face has pressed
itself into, begging for suffocation!
But above all, I'm a good trainer. I've taken guys who were fifty pounds
overweight, put them on a training program supplemented by a nutritious
diet, and molded them into little Herculess. At my fee of $75 an hour,
these guys expect nothing short of a miracle, and after six months of
hard work and dedication, they get it.
A lot of the guys I have as clients are gay or bi, although to hear them
tell it, they're straight as George Bush right, and I'm Barbara. . . .
The thing about having a trainer is that, if he's good, he becomes
someone you look up to, someone you want to have tell you what to do,
someone who'll like you, who'll want you. So naturally, a lot of guys
end up wanting me. And if I want them back, I just let them know, very
discreetly, that play-for-pay is not included in my $75 an hour training
fee. In other words, we re-negotiate our "contract."
Let's get back to Blondie. He's been my client for about three months
now, and the guy's making progress. He likes the machines better than
free weights, prefers the Lifecycle over the Stair Master, so I've
beefed up his program with lots of circuit training and low impact
aerobics. His name's Boz (short for Rodney Boswell III), and he commutes
to the city every day from Stamford, Connecticut. He has one of those
extra large leather attach cases that doubles as a gym bag. Natch, he
rents a locker so he doesn't have to carry around those smelly sneakers
and towels.
Last week, Boz asked me if I ever gave private training sessions. I've
heard this euphemism before; read: Can I suck your dick and how much
will it cost? But the way he said it, blinking sweetly behind those
little tortoise rims and checking out his arms in the mirror at the same
time, made me consider that he might really want some extra weight
training on the side.
"Do you have any weights or machines at your home?" I inquired.
"Well, I have a new Marcy system, a rowing machine, a treadmill and a
swimming pool indoor, of course."
Where does this guy live, I wondered, Club Med?
I agreed to take the train out the following Saturday for a morning
workout. Boz and I settled for the following arrangement: he'd pay my
travel expenses, $150 for a two hour ses-sion, and "extras' whatever
those were.
Stamford is one of those East Coast "bedroom" cities where the upper
middle class escapes to from Manhattan. On the taxi ride from the
Stamford train station to Boz's digs, we flew by estates and mansions,
horses romping in acres and acres of crimped green grass, "cottages"
bigger than the entire five floor walkup I live in back in New York.
Finally, we arrived at a sprawling white clapboard house at the end of
long limestone drive. A huge Rottweiler with a head the size of a
bowling ball came bolting from an adjoining garage, followed by Boz,
dressed all in white.
"Welcome to Stamford," he greeted me, admonishing his dog, "Devin, get
off Adam. He's our guest, not your dinner."
But maybe yours, I thought, smiling wickedly.
The house was huge, with a sunken living room plied with tufted leather
couches off the foyer. Boz immediately took me downstairs to what was
once a basement. With the magic a million dollars can provide, it had
been transmogrified into a fitness oasis. At its center was a modest
swimming pool; next to it, on a little wooden deck, I spied a Jaccuzi,
with steam rising provocatively. Just off the steps leading to this spa
was a dressing area, and behind it, the aforementioned Marcy unit,
treadmill and rowing machine.
"Impressive," I said. "Let's get started."
I pulled off my drawstring pants and sweater, felt Boz's eyes on my body
and heard his appreciative sigh. I'd worn my spandex, something I never
do at the gyms in New York, since it causes too much unnecessary
attention. But today, in private, I thought this particular outfit would
let me get to the heart of whatever was or was not going to happen
between Boz and me. This was, after all, only a two hour workout I was
getting paid for.
Boz changed into a pair of skimpy white nylon shorts and some kind of
designer tank top with a fancy logo. "I really want to work out hard
today," he said. "Make me work up a good sweat."
"You got it," I replied, checking out his little round ass.
I started him out on the treadmill for twenty minutes, then on the
rowing machine, to get the aerobic stuff out of the way. We stretched
for fifteen minutes, and I made him to do some wide leg spreads, head to
knee, that he claimed pulled in his groin. "Right here," he directed,
pointing to a roll of cock that was barely concealed in his skimpy
shorts.
I got up from my stretch position and walked over to investigate. I
stood over him, his head even with my crotch. I didn't have a hard on
yet, wanting to make sure he wasn't just playing cat and mouse games
with me "Just how bad is it?"
He looked up at me, shocks of blond straggling down his forehead, eyes
shining with anticipation. "Real, real bad!"
"Get up," I commanded. "I'm gonna give you a nice, rough workout."
He trotted after me toward the Marcy machine. I divided his workout into
chest, shoulder, back, arm, leg, and stomach exercises, supersetting him
on every one. "But I've never done supersets before," he complained.
"Don't whine, Bozy," I condescended. "Just do it . . . unless you don't
think you can handle it."
I positioned and spotted him from set to set, making sure my big hands
slapped his ass for good measure between reps. He seemed to respond well
to a little abuse, so I kept it up and, in fact, got nasty.
"Look, asshole, you've got to work harder. You're not even breaking a
sweat." Boz was struggling under the weight of the bench press as I
stood astride him. I rested my knee on his prick. "Come on, Bozy, get
that thing up."
He heaved, the weight went up, and so did his wiener, right up over the
top of his shorts. I applied more pressure with my knee.
"Ouch," he groused. "That hurts." I let up a little "No, don't," he
said. "I like it rough."
I put him on his stomach on the leg curl machine, to check out that
curvy little rump to better advantage. "Take off your shorts, asswipe.
Let's see you work that butt."
I made him do six sets of progressive weights on that machine, until his
face was beet red and his quadriceps and ass muscles were quivering in
exhaustion. I watched his butt rise as he lifted up the weights, then
reprimanded him that he needed to keep his hips flat on the bench and
slapped him soundly on the backside. On his final rep of the last set, I
pulled out my dick and crawled on top of him.
"This is to give you some incentive," I said, then plugged into his
sweat-soaked crack. No lube needed here. He bucked back into me and
swallowed up my substantial pole. My balls rested comfortably on top of
his ass mounds. He grunted softly.
"Treat me like the wimp I am," he begged.
"That's easy, you whining piece of shit. I'm gonna whip your butt into
shape real good, cocksucker." I grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms
behind his back, feeling his shoulders buckle. My cock was still
simmering in his butt sweat.
Somehow, I yanked him off the machine without extracting my dick from
him and we sort of waddled over to the pool. I pushed him in, tank top
and all. Boz splashed around, pretending to be shocked and frightened. I
sat on the side, my legs dangling, with my big dick flopping over the
tiles. "Come here and suck this," I told him, wanking it in his
direction.
Good little water puppy that he was, he paddled over and clamped down on
my wang, taking it to the pubes, trying to get the balls in too. I threw
my legs around his neck and forced the issue, enjoying watching him gag
and drool spit.
Boz's glassy green eyes stared up at me, waiting for my next command. I
decided it was time for some water sports, and spied the diving board at
the opposite end of the pool. I had an idea.
"Okay, Bozy, let me see you swim over to the diving board. We're gonna
do some pull-ups on it."
Obediently, he swam over. I instructed him to stay in the water and grab
hold of the sides of the board and pull himself up until his chin was
above its edge. I stood on top of the board facing him, bouncing a
little to make things more difficult. After about twenty-five pull-ups,
he was struggling. Time for a little incentive.
Turning around on the board, I squatted down until my big ass was
hanging over the edge. Then I grabbed the sides of the board and pushed
down, until my asshole pucker was gaping wide at him. "Now, Bozy, on
your next set, every time you come up over the board, I want you to give
my asshole a nice tongue lick. Let's see if you can give me thirty reps
this way." I looked between my straining thighs at him; he was
practically slobbering in anticipation.
It took the little fucker a while to get the hang of it. The first few
reps he kept missing the target. I helped him a bit by taking one hand
off the side of the board and spreading my ass, and then his tongue
connected solidly. A sigh escaped my lips and I encouraged him.
"Eat my asshole, Bozy. Lick it good, boy!"
Well, I think that little yuppie s
did a hundred reps. Amazing how a little rimming can boost a guy's adrenaline. He was no piker, that's for
sure. I sort of got carried away too, and dragged him on top of the
board with me. I laid him flat on his back and sat squarely on his face,
bouncing up and down on the board. The springs really helped his tongue
go for the gusto; it was buried right up my sphincter. His muffled moans
of pleasure reverberated around the tiled room. My hand reached for my
own pumped up pecker and I flogged away. Boz heard the wet sounds of my
masturbation.
"Don't
yet," he said, stopping abruptly and shoving my ass out of his face.
"What did you have in mind, Bozy?" I asked.
"Well, um, don't we have to cool down?" he meekly suggested.
We dove into the cool water, swam some leisurely laps, then jumped up
and into the Jacuzzi. The pulsating hot water opened our pores. It was
invigorating to the skin after the frigid water of the pool. Our hard
ons were still at attention; they certainly were in need of a cool down.
From the neck down, I was submerged in the bubbling bath, luxuriating in
the shooting jets against my lower back. This is nirvana, I thought, in
the back of my mind realizing it was actually only the stuff that money
can buy. I pulled Bozy over to me. He didn't protest as I sat him down
on my rod. I slid in and up him like a knife going into warm butter. His
back was to my chest, the way I like to fuck best, and I controlled the
fucking by grabbing him around his narrow hips and bobbing him up and
down. The water made little slapping sounds against us, which kinda
turned me on.
"Oh, wow!" he said, summing it up for both of us.
As the water lifted his butt up from my cock, I let him slip off me,
then pulled his ass back to the tip of my pole. I like the feeling of
penetration, and his asshole was sufficiently gaped for that particular
kind of deep digging. I added a finger for good measure. Then, he was
really stuffed with flesh.
Immersed in our cauldron of lust, Bozy and I must've carried on for half
an hour more. We were slicked up with Jacuzzi steam heat, sweat popping
off our faces, dripping off us like honey. I licked it from the nape of
his neck, reached around and tugged one of his pink, eraser-like
nipples. He groaned and thrust his butt back into me, wriggling as my
dick hit bottom. His legs reached back and snaked around my ankles,
locking us together pretzel fashion. He was masturbating furiously now,
heading for the big O.
"Ohmygosh . . . oh yeah . . . oh yeah . . . I'm gonna . . . I'm gonna .
. ."
"Yeah, I know, Bozy. Do it, baby. Do it now."
And he did,
ming off with a shuddering climax that triggered my own. I pulled my cock out of his bum and watched my sperm go shooting out my
dick in slo-mo speed under the water. The spunk surfaced and clung their
on the water in tapioca clumps. We watched our seed slowly get sucked
toward the filter at the side of the Jacuzzi, then disappear.
"That was some cool down," he said, standing up. "I need a refresher."
He dove back into the pool. "C'mon, join me," he called.
"I'm exhausted," I said. "And besides, two hours was up a long time
ago."
"Don't worry, Adam. I'm paying. You're on overtime rate now."
"Are these the 'extras' you were talking about, Bozy?"
"Let's just say I don't mind paying for a good, rough workout," he
grinned. And with that, he slipped silently under the water, moving like
an eel to the diving board.
Time for some more pull-ups, I thought with a smile.
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Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!
