Behind His Back

by Stranges, Sadie

  The power cage is fastened to a battered hardwood platform at the back corner of the gym, and I head over and do a few practice sets of squats with an empty barbell on my back. There’s a thirty-five-pound women’s training bar on the rack, but I always use one of the men’s forty-five pound bars out of principle. Between sets I sneak glances at Chad, whose eyes quickly dart back to his computer screen every time I look. Knowing that his eyes are on me when I’m not looking, I squat deeper and push my ass back farther with each rep. I might as well be squatting in stilettos like the scantily clad fitness models in those ridiculous supplement ads I see whenever I flip through men’s fitness magazines. If he’s watching porn when he’s pretending not to look at me, I want him to picture me in it.

  I progressively work up to a respectable weight, starting with the dinky ten-pound plates and then trading them for the twenty-fives for a few reps at ninety-five pounds—my one-time max. From there I jump to the forty-five pounders for a set at one hundred and thirty-five, and around the fifth rep my form starts getting shaky. I fake a faint grunt as I re-rack the barbell in the cage’s steel J-cups, and like a trained dog he trots across the rubber floor to offer his assistance.

  “Going heavy today,” he says. “I like it.”

  “Thanks for the spot,” I say.

  He positions himself behind me like he’s a quarterback waiting for me to snap him the ball. I remember seeing two of the Rev warriors hit heavy squats after one of my sessions, and the way they spotted each other—the spotter standing behind the lifter with the crooks of his elbows cradling the lifter’s armpits while they lowered and raised their bodies in unison—looked so blatantly homoerotic that Nicole and I still laugh about it sometimes. But Chad’s a little more hesitant to get close than he would be with one of the bros. He’s either wary of being sued, or he’s still at half-mast from the porn he was probably watching, so once I place the bar on my back and lift it off the rack, I take an extra step back to close the gap.

  Like a good trainer, he hooks his arms under mine, and I can hear his breathing quicken when his wrists graze the sides of my tits. At either side of me I can see his forearms, which are so braided with thick strands of muscle that they look like the ropes that anchor ocean liners. With my feet sturdy on the platform, I push my ass backward, brushing against the synthetic fabric of his shorts as his body follows mine down into a deep squat. When I’m satisfied that my hips are beneath my knees, I push up out of the bottom, deliberately grazing his crotch on my way up.

  This time there’s no denying it: his cock is hard, and it wants out.

  I lower the barbell back into the J-cups and then duck my head out from under it so that the bar’s sitting in front of my chest. With my hands still gripping it, I turn my head to give him a knowing look.

  “Sorry,” he says, taking a step back.

  “About what?” I say, toying with him as though I don’t know.

  “Nothing,” he says. He lowers the brim of his cap even farther, but he can’t hide his blushing cheeks.

  Oh God. He’s genuinely embarrassed, and it’s adorable. I turn to fully face him, and I look down at his shorts, which are sporting an obvious tent pole.

  “About that?” I say.

  He’s caught, and he knows it.

  I could string him along, toying with is ego and watching his face get redder, but I’ve got other plans. I step toward him to reach my index finger up under the hem of his untucked t-shirt and hook it over the stretchy waistband of his shorts. My knuckle brushes against his abs, which are as hard as his cock.

  He recoils a little, but I don’t let go. I playfully extend the elastic and wag it back and forth like I’m going to let go and snap it against his hips.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” I say. Cassie would be so proud of me right now.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with a smile. He’s finally playing along. I was starting to worry that he didn’t have a sense of humor, which would be a huge turn-off, no matter how sinewy and thick his muscular forearms might be.

  His smile is all the cue I need to reach my hand fully into his boxer briefs and grab his cock like I’m a coked-up bridesmaid on ladies’ night. This time he doesn’t pull back. He hardens in my hand, and while I can already tell that he’s not packing anything close to Hunter size-wise, I’m eager to give him some air and watch him grow.

  “He seems a little constrained in there,” I say. “Mind if I take him out?”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” he says.

  “Good then. Lose the shirt.”

  He obeys, pulling his shirt off past his thick lats, which spread out from his ribcage like the hood of a cobra when he raises his arms. He knocks his hat off in the process, and he tosses the cotton tee onto the platform to join it.

  I’ve seen Chad topless a hundred times at Rev—ditching your shirt when you get sweaty is just part of the culture here. But his buff upper body takes on a new beauty up close, especially with his stiff cock in my hand. I trace my index finger along the ridge in the middle of his six-pack and squeeze one of his pecs, which is even harder than my ass after that last set of squats.

  I want him to step in and kiss my wet, waiting mouth, but he’s clearly not a first-move kind of guy. To spur him along, I pull him into me by his waistband and turn my chin up to him. Our lips lock, and suddenly his hands are all over me, grabbing my ass and tugging my hair and yanking down the top of my tight sports bra. It’s thrilling at first, but there’s a clumsiness and a lack of chemistry in his groping. I’d expect more coordination from a man who can snatch three hundred pounds over his head, but he’s like a wound-up puppy, frantically licking whatever flesh is exposed to him.

  His slobbering excitement is so intense that I turn away. I grip the racked barbell to steady myself while he wraps himself around me, and he continues gripping my tits and kissing my neck while pressing his hard cock into my ass.

  When I can’t take any more, I tell him to fuck me.

  My frustration fades when he tugs down my little shorts, exposing my ass. He rubs my wet pussy with a hand that’s uncomfortably calloused from years of lifting, and then he pulls down his shorts and slides his cock against me.

  “Fuck me,” I say sternly. I’m in no mood for his clumsy attempts to tease me. I’m here for one reason, and that’s to nurture the slutty seeds that Hunter has planted.

  Chad obeys, and when he finally thrusts inside of me in quick, spastic bursts, something feels off. He’s not as big as Hunter—or David, for that matter—but another piece of the puzzle is missing. Something in his frantic rhythm or in the way he grips my hips just doesn’t feel right. He’s fucking me good and hard, just as Hunter did, but I realize while he’s pounding me that being fucked hard by a hard man isn’t enough—I need to be controlled. I want to be at the mercy of a man who’s relentlessly punishing me, not at the helm.

  After a few minutes of fucking, I push him back with my ass and then pull away from his cock. I turn toward him, and I stifle a laugh at the sight of him standing there, naked down to his lifting shoes and shorts, which are draped around his ankles. His body is phenomenal. He looks like an anatomical chart, with the V-taper of his wide lats and narrow waist conspiring with the devil-horn lines beneath his abs to direct my eyes to his cock. He’s still hard, but his cock is beginning to flag and point toward the platform.

  Does he know that he’s not pleasing me?

  The thought of him getting soft ignites a competitive fire in me, and I decide to rectify the matter.

  “Lose the shorts,” I say, and he kicks them off as I peel off my tight sports bra, letting my tits fall out of it one by one.

  “You like these tits?” I say.

  He nods his head, and I drop to my knees.

  “Do they make your cock nice and hard?”

  He nods again.

  “What’s that?” I say. “I didn’t fucking hear you.”

  Good God, when did I b
ecome a drill sergeant?

  “They make me so fucking hard,” he says.

  “Good,” I say. “I want you to cum on them.” I lift his pulsing cock and lick along the bottom of his shaft, tasting myself along every inch. When I reach the tip, I give it a few strokes with my hand and then plunge it into my mouth, bobbing deep and bringing my lips all the way to the stubble of his trimmed pubic hair. He compensates for his lack of length by placing his hands on his ass and trying to thrust his hips out, as if that would make him seem bigger.

  I pull my mouth off of him, letting drool dribble down my chin, and then squeeze his wet cock in my fist and stroke it in furious, quick bursts.

  “Are you going to cum for me? Are you going to cum on these tits?”

  “Oh fuck yes,” he says, and he reaches down to grab them and pinch my nipples. I arch my back to give him better access to them, but I tire of his fumbling fingers and I take him back into my mouth. Intent on finishing him off as quickly as possible, I hold his muscular ass in my hands and suck him off at a reckless, sloppy pace while he moans above me. Within thirty seconds I feel his cock start to pulse, and I remove him from my mouth and jerk him off onto my chest. He squirts four flimsy white ropes onto my tits, and then I drop his cock and sit back on my heels. If he were Hunter, I’d be licking him clean right now. I’d be sucking every last drop out of him. But he isn’t Hunter. He’s just a clumsy sportfuck with an incredible body and an unimpressive cock that he never fully learned how to use.

  Maybe I’ll fuck him again. Maybe next time will be better. But right now, with his cum melting into my sweaty chest, all I can think about is Hunter punishing me for being such a bad girl.

  “Thank you,” Chad says, interrupting my fantasy.

  “What?” I say.

  “I just said thank you.”

  How fucking annoying is that? “You don’t need to thank me,” I say. “This is fucking, not charity.”

  “Right,” he says, and he runs to grab me a towel so I can clean him off of me.

  I wipe my sticky lips on my forearm, and I reach over to my gym bag beside the platform to retrieve my phone. Then, before I clean up and head home, with the pictures of Hunter’s perfect ass models blinking in my mind, I take a picture of Chad’s cum on my tits. I do this automatically, unthinkingly, and with no sense of how much trouble I’m getting myself into.

  Chapter 14

  David’s sitting at our kitchen island, enthralled by whatever tech site he’s reading on his iPad and sipping from a tiny white cup of homemade espresso. He bought the machine—a gaudy red countertop job that looks as out of place in our pristine white kitchen as a sharkskin suit at a wedding in the Hamptons—from a dealer in San Francisco, who had it shipped here from Italy. It’s become his morning obsession. All of the grinding and tamping and frothing and agonizing over the timing of the perfect shot seems a little ridiculous, but I have to admit: my husband makes a damn good latte.

  “You want a shot?” he asks without looking up as I pass through the kitchen.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll just grab a coffee on my way to work.” I’d be a half hour late if I stuck around for him to grind another batch of his fancy beans.

  “Cool,” he says, and he bows his head back to the glow of his tablet.

  I brush past him and kiss him on the temple before leaving, and he smiles indifferently and tells me to have a good day.

  Once I’m at my desk, cradling my black coffee and picking off emails about our next issue, my thoughts turn to the fact that David and I have fucked exactly once since he got home a week ago, and it was totally by accident. I was trying to masturbate while he was out for a run, and he came home with a cramp and caught me in our giant ensuite tub, holding the shower wand beneath the surface and moaning under its influence. I hadn’t planned to get off, but shortly after he laced up his shoes and left, I went upstairs to spray a little of my Fräulein perfume on my wrist and ruminate on my little dressing room adventure, and the intoxicating scent—full of saffron and magnolia mixed with hints of jasmine—got me so worked up that I had no choice.

  Normally I’d try to jump David’s bones in a situation like that, but it’s tough to fantasize about hot sex with Hunter when I’m struggling to keep my husband’s cock hard.

  When David returned, I was moaning so loudly that he must have known what I was doing as soon as he opened our front door. He could have ignored me and busied himself downstairs. But to his credit, he came upstairs, got undressed in our bedroom and walked into the bathroom with a half-mast hard-on and a helpful attitude.

  Don’t a lot of pornos start that way?

  I was mortified at first, not just because he’d caught me red handed, but because I was thinking about Hunter while doing it. As far as I know, it was the closest he’s come to catching me cheating.

  To make it up to him, I altered my plan and told him to bring me his cock. He obeyed, sitting calmly at the edge of the sunken tub with his shins in the hot water while I kneeled in the suds and sucked him off, all the while imagining how Hunter would have handled the situation differently. He wouldn’t have sheepishly offered to lend a hand—he would have barked orders, commanding me to touch myself until the tub was brimming with my juices. And he certainly wouldn’t have undressed himself and slinked into the bathroom brandishing a shy semi—he’d have dragged me out of the tub by my ponytail and made me kneel on the cold tiles, naked and wet, while he commanded me to unpackage his proud cock and feast on it. Then he’d pour oil down my back while I sucked, working it into my ass and pussy, and he’d fuck my slippery body on the hard floor.

  Thinking of all the dirty things Hunter would do made me want to be filled, so I let David’s sizeable but struggling cock fall from my hands while I moved to the other side of the tub and leaned over the edge. Facing away from him with my ass in the air, I instructed him to fuck me.

  Again he obeyed, kneeling behind me and fucking me slowly and gently while I sprayed the wand against my clit. There’s nothing wrong with a little assistance now and then, but I felt bad for David—and for our marriage—because every shiver and moan I let out was for the titillating bursts of water and not for him. Twice I had to increase the pressure to make up for his disinterested thrusts.

  After a few minutes of him fucking me, the wand began to work its magic, and I felt the muscles of my thighs involuntarily twitch. But before the electric tremors reached their full force, I felt him cum inside of me. He quickly pulled out and then sat back in the water, leaving me once again masturbating in front of him.

  I could have finished. I could have spitefully carried on with my ass in the air, rubbing his face in the fact that a stupid shower wand was doing a job that he couldn’t. But what was the point? Would he even care?

  I shut off the water and sat back down in the now tepid water. For a second I considered cozying up against him, just to test our capacity for intimacy beyond sex. But before I could, he was out of the water, towelling off and thanking me.

  I hate being thanked for sex. That should be one of the rules in the feature article that I’m currently putting together: never say thank you.

  The piece is on the rules of sexting. Intern Sophie suggested it at our last pitch meeting, and though it sounded a little more risqué than our usual fare, Angela approved the topic and I jumped right on it. It’s something I didn’t know much about before a few weeks ago, but given the excitement I felt the last time Hunter texted me, I was happy to research the etiquette and polish my texting game. Maybe with the right carrot, I could convince him to text me a little more often.

  One clear rule that everyone seems to agree on is that if you’re going to send a naked pic of yourself, don’t do it until you have a clear indication that the other party is interested. The second rule is to always make sure your face is out of the frame. Sure, the tits or dick in the shot could be attached to anyone other than you, but opening the gates to a little dishonesty is better than smiling stupidly in a naughty
pic that will live forever on the Internet.

  I pick up my phone and scan through my recent photos until I find the evidence of my unsatisfying tryst with Chad, and I chuckle when I realize that, if I were to send it to Hunter, I wouldn’t have to crop it. The picture is poorly lit, and the unnecessary flash makes my tits look ghastly pale and slathered in radioactive semen, but at least my face is cut out. Teens who text each other their privates every day probably spend hours color-correcting their skin with Photoshop, but my tits, despite looking a little pale, are perfectly passable. The picture is actually kind of hot—just a pair of tits that Hunter will probably recognize as mine, and semen that he’ll definitely know isn’t his.

  I wonder whether it would piss Hunter off to see another man’s cum on my chest. Would he seethe the way I have about the prints of perfect asses that he made me stare at while he fucked me? Sure, it was hot as hell, but the jealousy was what made it so hot. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help wondering how hard he’d revenge-fuck me if I could ever make him that envious.

  As I steam over the memory of all of those amazing black-and-white asses, I watch in horror as my thumb presses the share button above the dirty photo. I beg it to stop as it scrolls down my contact list to find Hunter’s number. I’m already full of regret when my thumbs, as if possessed by some devious demon that wants a strange man to fuck the life out of me, type the message “My tits. Not your cum.”

  And then I hold my breath and expect the worst as I watch myself press send.

  #

  A few hours ago David boarded another plane for a two-day trip, so I’m sitting across from Cassie at an insufferable bar called Tool and Die. We’re sipping pints of a gross, wheaty microbrew in an attempt to embrace the old-timey vibe, and there are no coasters in sight because any additional watermarks would only add to the weathered patina of the table’s reclaimed timber. The whole bar’s like this. It’s a blue-collar pub for trust-fund hipster kids who’ll never have to work blue-collar jobs. Not that their grad degrees are keeping them from wearing actual blue collars. About half the guys in here are dressed in faded blue chambray work shirts paired with disturbingly skinny black jeans that I can only hope have a hint of spandex. The other half are wearing fitted flannel shirts, the sleeves of which are rolled up to reveal expensive, intricate ink. Miss Sassy Pants from Fräulein would fit in just fine here, though she’d probably make an unsatisfying snack of any of these weaklings.