by Ash Harlow
It seems to take an age for them to make it up the stairs into the apartment, and when the door finally opens, Birdy stands and heads inside. I pause for a moment to gather myself, and once I follow I find Birdy and the young woman wrapped in each other’s arms.
She’s clearly no ordinary apprentice.
Finally they disentangle and the visitor looks over to me. She’s got that muddled look of a traveller who’s been cooped up too long within the confines of a cramped plane cabin, before being discharged into another time zone. Her clothes are crumpled, hair in disarray, panda-smudges of make-up around her eyes. She’s fucking gorgeous.
“You remember Natalie, don’t you, Zach?”
I look at Birdy, then back at the young woman. Natalie. Hell.
I’d met Birdy’s granddaughter once when she was on holiday in New Zealand. She must have been about ten at the time and to be honest, I hadn’t taken much notice of her. My burgeoning professional rugby career with the All Blacks was in tatters from a busted Achilles that refused to stabilise. Frustrated, I decided to give what I considered my godmother’s quirky exercise method a try as a last resort. It worked to the extent that it got me walking properly again, but at the same time Birdy worked her magic on me and convinced me to train to become a Pilates instructor. You, Zach, shall be my protégé, she declared.
Around the same time, my new wife, Ellen, whose own burgeoning career as a high-status member of the All Blacks WAGs was extinguished by my decision to abandon rugby, left me. So, no, I really didn’t recall Natalie, but from this moment on I know I’ll never forget her.
I pull myself together and step forward to take Natalie’s hand, making a quick assessment of her body which I tell myself I’m doing in a completely professional sense. She is, after all, my new apprentice.
Thankfully, Natalie is not my type. I go for tall women, slim, athletic. It sounds shallow, but I believe most of us have a typical shape we’re drawn to and as I’ve been an athlete all my life, they’re they type of women I usually mix with. Natalie is curvy, not likely to push the measuring stick much beyond five-four in height, but the eyes that look up at me are an extraordinary deep brown that match her hair. Her full lips spread into a broad smile as she catches me checking her out.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, taking her hand, and I’m shocked by the jolt of desire that zips through me when I touch her. Not a good sign at all, and the gentle clasp of her palm against mine is making me completely reassess what I consider to be my type. All I can think about is how soft her body is and that tomorrow, in the studio, I’ll get to touch it.
I’m concerned. That sort of thinking is so far out of line it isn’t funny, and even though I should feel ashamed, I don’t give a shit. The rush of heat to my groin distracts me until I feel a tug; I’m still holding her hand. I drop it as if I’ve been burned, turning to mess about with closing the French doors that separate the large living room from the verandah, mentioning a stiff breeze that actually doesn’t exist.
Natalie has thrown me completely off my axis.
With the doors latched and locked, I notice Tai has stopped hovering in the background and is at a window with Natalie, one hand resting easily on her shoulder as he points out various landmarks in the dark. He seems as struck by her as I am, and this jealousy I feel is completely new and inexplicable. I don’t even know her, and anyway, Tai is much closer to her in age.
Birdy’s giving me a little frown that tells me to settle. She’s sharp-eyed, and the look lets me know that my reaction to her granddaughter has not gone unnoticed. She asks Tai to take Natalie’s bags through to her room, and I have to bite my tongue to stop me saying that I’ll do it.
“Meet me for coffee at seven, Zach,” Birdy says. Her words are unnecessary because we always meet at seven on weekday mornings, but it’s her way of dismissing me.
I sleep like my bed is filled with crawling bugs and thorns, and I’m awake earlier than usual in the morning. My early morning wood is pleading for my hand and it’s been that way every time I woke through the night. The thought of a quick wank to the image of Natalie spread out on my bed, begging for my cum, is tempting, but at some time around two a.m. I decided that my reaction last night was a complete aberration, and when I next see Natalie, she’ll just be another apprentice.
In the studio I put myself through a punishing workout, focusing on the exercises I find challenging because I want every muscle exhausted before I take on my charge for the day. I repeat the ‘teaser’ again and again, on every piece of apparatus, until my abs beg for mercy, my thighs tremble, and my troublesome dick exists only as a limp appendage between my legs.
I treat myself at the finish by hanging upside-down with my feet in the fuzzies—sheepskin loops on the Cadillac frame— as I close my eyes and centre myself.
The Cadillac is the piece of equipment most likely to make a studio visitor’s eyes widen, evoking comments about medieval torture equipment and BDSM dungeons. It’s a flat bed surrounded by a large metal frame to which arm-springs, leg-springs, a trapeze, a push-through bar and the wonderful fuzzies, used for ballet stretches and hanging, are attached.
I’m thinking about having Natalie in the position I’m in when Maree, my level three instructor, arrives at the studio.
“I hope you’ve earned that,” she says as she marches past me, her hair swinging in a ponytail that’s as tight as her body.
“Of course,” I reply.
“It’s 6.40; you’d better get your skates on or Birdy will be banging on the floor to summon you.”
In the mirror I catch the sight of her hard, shapely arse as she disappears into the staff room, and I remind myself that Maree, not Natalie, is exactly my type. It’s a useless thought because I’m completely immune to Maree.
I swing myself up so that I’m lying on the Cadillac, unhook my feet from the sheepskin loops and head to the shower.
Right on time I give a short knock and enter Birdy’s apartment. It smells different this morning. Over the coffee aroma I can smell the presence of Natalie. Birdy’s at the kitchen table with her diary open, the morning newspaper spread, and a large pot of coffee with two mugs alongside. Like a daily ritual, I pour both mugs full and place one in front of my godmother.
I glance around, looking for evidence of the new apprentice.
“She’s still asleep.”
I respond with a quick nod and bring my mug to my mouth lest I say something and give myself away.
“I want to talk about her before she gets up. Natalie’s here because she’s in trouble. Right before sitting her final exams, she was expelled from the smart and expensive boarding school she attended. Her parents wanted her to complete her year at the local comprehensive in London and Natalie dug her toes in. She wants to be a photographer, but sensibly, her parents insisted she get a proper education first.”
I’m keen to understand why she was expelled but also know it’s better not to ask. If Birdy wants me to have that information, she’ll share.
“All a long way from training as a Pilates instructor in New Zealand,” I remark.
“Things were becoming ridiculous. Natalie was threatening to leave home; silly girl, she doesn’t have any money although she has proven herself quite capable at turning a dollar into ten when she wants to. Her parents were becoming tired of it all, and I was becoming tired of the overwrought phone calls. I told them to send her to me for a year. If she qualifies to be a Pilates instructor she will at least have something to fall back on if this photography thing doesn’t work out. And as we know, it’s a useful career if one wants to travel.”
“Sounds sensible.” I’m trying not to appear too interested.
“I want you to teach her, get her up to speed. Poor thing doesn’t look as though she’s done anything more strenuous than lift a camera to her face for the past few years.”
The sip of coffee almost chokes me and I just manage to get the mug to the table before I spill it in my lap.
�
��She might feel more comfortable with a female instructor to start with: Maree, or Kylie,” I suggest. Pilates instruction is both verbal and tactile, and I’m not sure I can get through an hour of instruction with my hands on her body, and come out of it sane.
“I don’t know why everyone’s trying to block me when it comes to Natalie. First her parents and now you.”
“My diary’s completely full.” I’m being honest; it is.
“Shuffle, Zach. You’re perfectly capable of doing that. Now give me an update on the Sydney conference; is it fully booked?”
Natalie as a subject is clearly finished. We talk through Sydney and the guest instructors who will be there. Then Birdy shares some gossip she’s picked up from New York, and I’m just about to leave when Natalie walks into the kitchen.
She’s still dishevelled with bed hair, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt sans bra. We all say good morning, and she lifts a hand to rub her eyes, her t-shirt rising with it, exposing a strip of smooth, creamy skin.
It’s too much for me and my cock lurches in my pants. I say I have to leave, and when I reach the door Birdy calls out that Natalie will be in the studio by ten. I hope I can get my overzealous libido under control by then.
3
~ NATALIE ~
I had hoped to be allowed a day or two to get settled before I started in the studio, but Gran has other ideas. I was Skyping my friend Poppy when I heard Zach come into the apartment. Poppy is a mad rugby fan and is well-excited that I’ve met Zach Buckley, but to be honest, I don’t know anything about him or rugby. Apparently I met him when we holidayed here when I was a kid. I remember the beaches, and the ice cream, and the funny way people spoke, but certainly none of the adults I’d been introduced to.
Once I realised Zach was leaving I shut down my Skype call and hurried out to the kitchen. I wanted a better look at him, wanted to know if he really was as hot as I’d remembered from last night, and if his eyes were truly grey or was that something from a dream. His hair is dark blond, of that I’m sure, and when he ran his fingers through it right after we shook hands, it looked rough and sexy.
I thought Tai was pretty fantastic, but he faded into obscurity once we were inside Gran’s apartment and I met Zach.
I feel pretty weird. I was awake for a good part of the night and then, after I fell asleep, I woke again without a clue where I was. That was unnerving. This Pilates thing sure isn’t in my life plan, but I have to let stuff settle before I take off and do my own thing.
I don’t really know what I’m looking for, but the opportunity to step away from the rigid constraints of boarding school and parental expectations is high on my list. Sure, I mucked around at school, but I’m not academic and there’s nothing they were going to teach me that would change that. But I’m not evil or bad either, and that’s something that surprises people given that I was expelled from school. I’ve taken the first step, now it’s time to truly break free.
The parents are furious with me for messing up my education and have cut off the allowance I had. They’re sending money to Gran for my keep and have told me it will be up to her whether I’m allowed extra money.
Nothing like passing the buck.
They won’t find me begging for pocket money. I’ll work out how to make some cash myself.
This feels worse than being a child. But I like Gran; I think we’re very similar. Unconventional. I also like the look of Zach. I’m not so keen on the idea of Pilates and all this physical shit, but it’s only for a year so I’ll toe the line.
I’d forgotten how amazing the apartment is, and the shower is fanfuckingtastic. There’s a regular ferry service to the city within walking distance, so it’s not as if I’m stuck out in the country with only sheep for company. I’m missing my friends already, but I don’t regret what I did. Poppy needed help, and if I could go back in time, I’d do it all again.
On top of the dresser is a stack of workout clothes, which I guess Gran has provided. I’d presumed I could work out in sweats and a baggy t-shirt, but I’ve been told I have to wear the studio uniform.
Rummaging through the suitcase I’ve yet to unpack, I find a pair of boy-short panties and a reasonably plain bra. Lingerie is my weakness and although I have a varied selection, sports bras have never been on my shopping list.
I pull on some workout pants that are so tight I might as well be naked, and I tug at the crotch to relieve the camel toe I’ve got going on. The studio name is emblazoned across my butt. Wow, way to draw attention!
Twisting in the full-length mirror, I notice the legs of my panties have rolled up and left a thick line bulging around the tops of my thighs. I strip off, opting for a thong that won’t bunch up, and luckily the pants are so tight I can get away with it without my arse cheeks wobbling about. The stretchy cloth holds everything in place and even makes my arse look round and lifted.
The top is a disaster. It’s crushing my boobs in a way sure to draw attention away from my arse, but I don’t know what’s worse. The bra and top combination leaves me with a spectacular cleavage but I doubt it’s appropriate. Across the back of the black shirt is the word ‘Apprentice’, which firmly puts me in my place.
Judging by the way Zach looked at me this morning, he’s going to pass out when he sees me dressed this way. The idea sends a rush of heat to my pussy. God, that guy all but had my nipples standing to attention when he gave me that look in the kitchen. Even a blind person would have felt the scorching gaze he aimed at me. I know he’s too old for me, but I’ve got a total Zach-crush going on right now.
“You’ve got five minutes.” Gran’s voice echoes from somewhere in the apartment. She’s a stickler for punctuality, and I can tell my day will be mapped out in one-hour increments, just like school.
I pull my hair up into a ponytail and rub some gloss over my lips. Zach’s taking me for my first lesson so I’m filled with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. With one last futile tug at my t-shirt, I go to meet Gran.
“Don’t tuck. Keep your tailbone down.”
Zach stands over me, his hands on my hips, keeping me pressed against the weird machine I’m lying on. My pussy actually throbs with the weight of his hands, and I’m embarrassed because I’m sure he will see it pulse. Either that or smell my arousal because his head’s right down near his hands, as he studies my pelvis. I don’t think a doctor has even examined me in such close proximity.
I feel vulnerable and turned on, and I’m certain this isn’t what Pilates is about. My brain’s so full of instructions that my earlier concerns over how good the others in the studio are at this workout stuff have completely vanished. Earlier I noticed a woman—twice my size and about four times my age—doing things so gracefully, and so acrobatically that I felt ashamed.
Mirrors are everywhere, like a hairdressing salon without the funky music and chemicals. Whenever I catch sight of myself, I see a hot red face plastered with sweat-damp hair. As for my nipples, if they get any harder they’ll pierce their way through the two layers of cloth covering them.
I’m lying on this thing called a reformer. It has a ‘carriage’, a flat upholstered platform that moves on rollers along a frame. Everything’s helped and hindered by resistance springs and leather straps with handles and the weight of my body, of course. It doesn’t matter what I do or how hard I try to follow Zach’s calm instructions, I seem to be getting it wrong. It’s constant correction, correction, correction and I’m becoming frustrated.
When he took hold of my feet, securing them against the foot bar in the position he wanted them I nearly shot through the air. I’m ticklish, and I wasn’t expecting Pilates to be so hands-on. He told me to push out while he held onto my feet with one hand, rubbing the other right along my shins to my knees, explaining how I needed to lengthen. It’s like he’s got fairy dust on his hands because wherever he touches me, I tingle.
Halfway through our session I experience a strange shift in my mind. Suddenly, I’m enjoying myself. My
body’s doing things I’ve always avoided because I thought I was incapable of making it twist or stretch. I want to do this, I want to be good at it, and there’s also this odd feeling that I want to do it for Zach, too. He’s taking me to a place in my mind that’s incredibly motivating.
When he tells me we’re finished on the reformer, I feel a twinge of disappointment, thinking that our session’s over.
“Go and lie on the mat.”
He points to a row of raised padded mats in an adjoining room. The studio is pretty much open-plan, but there are short dividing walls between each grouping of equipment. As I walk across the room I feel taller, lighter, and the thing I notice most is that nobody gives me a second glance. They’re all busy concentrating, and the focus between client and instructor is intense and heady.
Less than a day into my new life and I’m loving it.
Soon, Zach’s on the floor beside me. The heat of his body acts like a diffuser for the cologne he wears, which wafts about, teasing me. I have to keep closing my eyes because I want to lie there and simply stare at him. He takes me through a series of exercises that I’m rubbish at and I complain and then become angry with myself for sounding whiny.
“I know this is frustrating you, but we’re teaching your muscles things that are new to them. They’ll remember what we’re doing and become stronger as you practise and become more proficient. I’m proud of you, Natalie. You’re doing really well.”
I’m sure he compliments all of his clients this way, but I don’t care because his words give me the encouragement I need.
We’re doing a stretch forward, a relief for my stomach muscles which are screaming at me to stop with this nonsense. I’m sitting on the mat, legs outstretched, and splayed like a sitting Barbie doll, only chubbier. I’m too scared to look in the mirror in case the dampness I feel between my legs is visible. Why the hell did I go for the thong? Next time, it’s granny knickers and double panty liners for me!