Sweat

Her hands still grasped the support rails on either side; it would have only taken a second to cuff them there and snare her in place, trapped on the treadmill. But as she came up to a full run her palms lifted, and the rhythm of her running feet brought them off the revolving track and into mid-air simultaneously for several moments during each stride. The intangible charge building within the confines of her top reached a trembling constant; she had never been so conscious of her own tits and their rounded, commanding weight upon her torso. She risked a fluttered glance downward to find a pair of stiffened points asserting themselves visibly through both layers of garments; the sight brought another flutter to her running path. Suddenly she could keenly appreciate the constriction of her underwear, closed in around her loins and breasts and quietly, constantly gripping them in place: with a gasp she shot her hands out, clutching for the support rails and trying to haul herself to a stop before fumbling at the machine's controls to cut power to the treadmill.

She ended up sat sprawled, the meat of her rump upon the synthetic track, legs splayed out to either side through the frames of the handrails. She tried not to look down at the heaving mounds below her chin as she panted her breath back under control. Her hands fell from the rails to rest on her thighs, fingers squeezing unconsciously as she hunched forward. When she realised what she was doing she arched back, bringing her errant palms to the back of her head and stretching to expand her lung capacity as far as possible; the move only served to thrust her décolletage more prominently into view beyond the tip of her nose, and she screwed her eyes shut rather than suffering the indignity of their widening in amazement. It did nothing to stop her retaining the mental image of her formidable rack, lightly flushed and misted with highlights of glistening perspiration, channelled and sculpted between the two sleek fetters of her bra that the flimsy top did nothing to hide from her gaze. Whether or not anyone watching from further away would have had quite such an explicit view, was open to question.

She opened her eyes to the revelation that a hand was again lightly cupping one of her boobs, seeming to act of its own volition; the hungry, quiet roar surging beneath the pit of her stomach made a renewed demand for attention. Her vision was unfocused and she felt the simple urge to lie back and let the sensation wash over her completely, but she fought it off with an effort of brittle resistance. Nevertheless it was becoming impossible to ignore the fact that the crotch of her clothing was moistening now with more than just sweat; the weakness in her knees was only mostly due to the exhaustion of her muscles.

Feeling a little too delicate to continue on her feet, it seemed as though the time had now come to focus on her upper body; hopefully that would be more productive. The compact multi-gym unit glinted at her from the corner of the room with wicked glee: there were enough steel bars in its construction that it could, with a little rearrangement, have been a cage; the seat in its centre seemed like it had been put there to lure the unwary into imprisonment. She blinked a couple of times as she stared at the multi-gym, trying to summon up the energy and courage to stand up once more and approach. It took her a few moments, and her trembling knees introduced a slight weave to her step, but she made it over and sat down heavily; from the multi-gym's seat, she surveyed her new surroundings.

The seat was slim, the padding of her buttocks spilling amply over either side of it; the height of the backrest was adjusted to keep her spine in the correct upright posture, coincidentally acting to thrust her bosom formidably forward as a result. Again she had a slight sense of vertigo while gazing down the length of the valley below her chin. She felt the pace of her breathing rise a little as she looked to either side, located the pads for her forearms, and reached out to take up the correct positions with her arms. It just so happened to be that the correct positions for them were spread to either side of her jutting tits.

Had someone reached in to cinch tight a strap around each wrist, the work of a second or so, she would have been stuck there perfectly on display. She closed her eyes and breathed deep for a moment, before beginning to push against the pads and slowly lift the attached weights; her forearms closed in front of her face, parallel and close enough that a wicked soul might have handcuffed them there together around the metal bars supporting the pads. Rattled, she released the weights as quickly as she dared and left off after just the one go. Watching from across the room, any casual observer could have seen the fertile scarlet colour rising to her cheeks and the trickle of sweat that beaded and trailed down from her temple. They would also have noticed through the window of her halter top the shiver that seemed to have infiltrated the mounds of her bosom.

She would try the leg weights, she decided; fumbling through the unfamiliar jumble of shiny tubes and their numerous synthetic sheaths, fearful of snaring herself by a single unwary twist, she found the toggle to switch from the arm pads to those waiting either side of her calves. First she lifted one leg and manoeuvred it to the outside of the pad, then she moved the other. She put as much pressure as she could against the lifting pads once she felt sufficiently positioned but her only reward was for her legs to be stuck stubbornly apart as her rump scooted forward about half a centimetre; the squeak that was generated by her rubbing across the artificial wipe-clean fibre surface of the seat might have sounded eerily like a sudden cry of passion to a listener, given to filthy thoughts. With alarm, she realised that her crotch was now proudly projecting, her thighs spread wide apart as if to emphasise its presence between them; too late, she remembered that one was only supposed to use the leg weights one at a time, not both together.

With her legs held apart by the cruel bars of the machine, unable to struggle them back together past its obstruction, she began to panic; she reached behind her for the handholds that were designed to aid the user in situations like these. A lasciviously-minded observer would have seen her body spread-eagled by the move, her back arching upward to point those vertiginous mounds upon her chest straight out toward the rest of the room, her abdomen rearing (even thrusting) forward as she sought escape. It would have been so easy to capture her, to turn the cage-work machine into her cell, if someone had been ready with the shackles.

It was a shameful burn she felt as she extricated herself from the multi-gym, her work upon it not yet done, and collapsed in an emotional heap upon the nearest patch of floor. Unfortunately, in certain regions the burn just felt far too good, and her shameful feelings only served to kindle it. The unseen observers, those filthy phantoms, might have chased around the corners of her mind as she slumped low on her knees, planting her hands on the floor to take her weight.

Fuck it, time for yoga then.

The mat was ready to hand, awaiting her wind-down from the vigorous and productive workout she had planned. At least it wouldn't get quite so sweaty. She'd never been to a yoga class before, preferring to research the techniques and positions online; or at least, stare at some rather intriguing pictures. As a result, she didn't really know the relevant names or progressions. She started on her hands and knees, before raising one leg and stretching it out as straight as she could to the rear; the silky security of her sporty knickers tightened comfortably once again, forming the same soft but solid pouch to cup her intimate region. At the same time, the movement caused her rump to tighten up, the rear band of the underwear beginning to slip down between the cheeks once more. She tried to point her toes as much as possible as she simultaneously tried not to think about wandering eyes roving up from them along the length of her stretched leg. The whole region around her abdomen was about as firmly defined right now as it had been in the whole of her recent memory, and certain parts must have stood out eye-catchingly.

She stretched hard, back straight in line with her hovering leg and head facing down, as long as physical and imaginative tension would allow; when she released her stiff muscles and returned her knee to the mat, her lips parted to accommodate the required force of exhalation. Shuffling her hindquarters to prepare for bringing the other leg up for a stretch was complicated by the satin-like slide of her clothing, outer and inner, slipping across her skin as she rearranged herself; in any case, it would probably be unwise to bring that taut, tantalising pressure back upon her crotch when her knickers tightened up again with the stretch. Time for a new pose.

She'd studied this next one for quite some time, and felt brave enough to try it: rising from her knees to her feet and planting them both firmly down, a close shoulder-width apart, she tried to bend forward and hold her upper body on her palms; it took a little wriggling of hands and feet until she felt comfortable and happy; her body struck an inverted-V pose, rounded over the top by the curves of her buttocks. It certainly dragged the knickers out of her crack, in fact she could feel them lurking below her yoga bottoms which had been pulled completely tight across the acres of her plump, fleshy rear end. From her upside-down viewpoint, she could see clean up to her crotch and through the gap between her rigid thighs; she felt trim and athletic seeing her muscles hold so firm, but it was only a few moments before she realised that anyone behind would be able practically to see inside her through the flimsy clothing she wore. It didn't help to see the yoga bottoms moulding themselves around the very visible crease, splitting between the puffy mounds at her crotch.

She could just imagine a finger, or some even more scandalous appendage, appearing between her legs and running smoothly right along the length of that private valley; when she remembered that the pose she was trying to achieve was referred to as 'downward dog', it all suddenly became too much. Her arms might have given out a heartbeat before her knees, but either way she still ended up lying slumped on the mat with a growing intensity of heat in the pit of her belly. A wet patch was forming on the front of her yoga bottoms, just not in a place which would naturally come into contact with sweat; her knickers had begun to feel decidedly sultry. Despairing and struggling to fight off provocation, she wrapped her arms around her chest to hug herself; it was unlucky indeed that her forearms slipped down to lift her bosoms, and her hands closing from either side had the misfortune to cover her nipples beneath their palms. She let go as if scalded, but the damage was already done. She lay as still as possible and tried to catch her breath.

Unbidden, a host of different yoga poses sprang into her thoughts from her 'research', each more curvaceous, elaborate and effortlessly sensual than the last. If only she could achieve that kind of complexity with her body, if only she could continue heedless of all these distractions, free of the constraints of clothing...

It proved surprisingly simple to imagine the same poses again but with the smiling, athletic, neutrally anonymous internet models stripped entirely naked. The movements of their limbs, from certain of the instructional videos she'd seen, took on a whole new significance as they squeezed together, spread apart, rubbed along one another; as toes pointed pertly and hands caressed their way down slender, lissom legs...

Her resolve broke as her hands returned to her breasts, her thighs closing inward to try and squeeze against her crotch as she curled into a ball on the mat. She closed her eyes as her body began to grope itself reflexively, massaging in an attempt to bring out the deep ache of longing from within. It wasn't enough. Her eyes snapped open again and she rose into a crouch, a hungry, clumsy predator leering after innocent quarry: something in a corner of the room caught her attention.

She prowled over on her hands and knees in swift, impatient snatches of movement. A set of hand weights: after a quick survey and acting on inspiration born of desperation, she picked out the largest one; bulbous at each end, the weights had a smooth inward curve across the middle to form a handle which was wrapped in a smooth but ever-so-slightly textured, deep blue rubbery material. It was as if someone had smoothed down a miniature dumbbell until the shape flowed into itself. The biggest weighed four kilos, and was easily the length of her forearm. This larger one was a slight challenge for her to grasp and lift one-handed, but it would fit perfectly between her legs, against her crotch. With her prey caught, she dragged it back over to her lair on the yoga mat.

The heavy weight was quite stable in repose; she placed it carefully in the centre of the mat with a two-handed grip, then squirmed around to squat over it with her knees on either side. She bit her lip as she started to move her legs further and further apart, lowering herself toward the shaft between the weight's two bulbous ends; if she had never considered the item's erotic implications before now, they took on a blatant clarity as her vision tunnelled in on the dark blue head sticking out in front of her. This she took in one hand, steadying herself on the other, as finally she lowered her engorged love-slit straight down to nestle around the soft, grippy shaft. With the sweat of her labours and the moistness of her sex, she didn't anticipate that sliding along it would be much of a problem. As the firmness of the heavy object began to assert itself against her tender mound, she realised distantly that she'd finally achieved something suitably acrobatic in her workout as her knees spread wide apart to almost pull the splits as she settled in.

The firm rod of the handle beneath her was delicious, parting her sensitive folds without trouble; feeling secure in her positioning now, she used both hands to manoeuvre the weighted bulb in a little closer to her crotch, wriggling around until the hard metal beneath its thin, yielding synthetic skin managed to brush up against her eagerly swollen clit. She squatted there for a moment just like that, savouring the achievement, before beginning slowly and gradually to hump her abdomen down against the fitness accessory. Her thighs began to burn a little with the effort of stretching apart, her toes strained to point like a ballerina's, and she went about the serious task of attempting to relieve all the pent-up frustration she had unwittingly filled herself with so far. Between the solidity of her squatting kneel, the security of her grasp and the traction afforded by the yoga mat, she found herself confronted with just the right amount of delicious resistance as she slithered up and down a few centimetres of the shaft, battering her juicy sex against it and rhythmically crushing her stiff little nub for sparks of the most intense pleasure.

When the effort of spreading apart her thighs to such an extent became too much, when she wanted to focus herself entirely on the act of getting off, she jumped to her feet in a whirl and hauled her new lover over to the multi-gym. Now, the intractable leg pads would be turned to her advantage; just to be sure, she worked quickly to set them to the highest weight possible before setting the cream-slickened weight down on the seat beneath her and sitting down upon it with her shins trapped securely behind the pads. Now, with the narrow seat beneath her and something substantial to push against, she got straight down to riding the wonderfully solid shaft like a saddle, sliding back and forth along its curve as she began to pant her breaths out harder and harder. One hand held the head of the weight still, like the pommel on a bucking bronco; the other cast round for a grip, settling eventually on reaching behind, over her head for one of the assistance handles. She had found the zone she had been seeking all day in her exercises to no avail: set in place, practically locked that way, and ready to get down to burning some serious calories; ashamed as she was to admit it, this way was much more fun.

She imagined anonymous hands reaching for her writhing body, squeezing her limbs and stroking along the rippling shapes of her muscles moving beneath the skin. She thrust her bosom out, deliberately this time, and hauled back on the handhold for good measure, daring strange fingers to slide up over her rampant breasts and tease, toy and titillate her indignantly incarcerated nipples. She felt them taking hold of her in her mind as she rode, imagined them grabbing on and pinning her down, imagined herself having to fight against their grasp for every millimetre of pleasure she was wringing from her reckless riding. The solidity of the hand weight's metal construction, hinted at beneath its softer coating, managed to impose itself through the flimsy yoga bottoms and more substantial but no less sensual smoothness of her sporting underwear. Had she been naked, had those lecherous hypothetical hands torn every stitch of clothing from her helpless body, it might have been too much; as it was, through the extra layers of distance from the object of her self-excitation she found her arousal proceeding swiftly enough to stimulate, but sedately enough to indulge herself for the long-haul. As solidly built as it was, and bolted to the floor as well, the multi-gym shook with the effects of her ardour.

When she finished at last, she cried out in impetuous bliss for the long seconds it took her climax to evolve. Her body locked in place, the fat bulb-head of the hand weight squeezed tight against her sex almost as if she meant to swallow it inside her. She felt unseen hands caressing her all over, rising up, snaking around her neck and pressing over her face, her eyes, her mouth.

* * *

She'd planned to have a bath after her activities, and though the nature of the workout had changed somewhat, her keen anticipation of hot, soapy satisfaction was undiminished. Lying in the bath in the cosy dim glow of a few hastily-lit candles, Rosaline reflected on the failings of her maiden fitness session as she felt her skin gently sizzle in water just a whisper too hot; it was her long-kept secret, along with the copious aromatic and fluffy bubbles, to achieving utter relaxation. Her eyelids had apparently put on weight, and threatened in an agreeable manner to close; her fingers still managed to retain a trace of mischief, teasing apart the lips between her thighs and probing gently up and down along her intimate valley to the usual accompanying sensory delights. As she began to let go again and surrender once more to her own pleasure, mindful of her woeful lack of self-discipline, she wondered idly if she should just go ahead and get a personal trainer.