Sweat

Fondling

All thanks to my editor shygirlwhore, as ever.

This one is a little experimental in nature, an attempt to build eroticism mainly without sexual content. Let me know if it worked…

* * * * *

As Rosaline entered, the sun was slanting low through the expansive south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows of the room. There was an airy freshness to the scene, invigorating, exactly what she needed at the beginning of her workout. The arrayed gym equipment was new, still bearing the lustre of recent acquisition in shiny stainless steel, crisp matte-black rubber and plastic; a miniature maze of metal poles and mechanisms.

* * *

She had taken her time readying herself. Care had been poured into selecting her outfit, also newly purchased, as well as the other aspects of her appearance. The first step had been to gather her fine, shoulder-length brown hair together, brushing out any tangles and slipping it into a tightly-coiled hair-band with a few precise, economical motions; it took her two separate attempts before she was satisfied with the security of the result. Her face was fresh and naturally rosy, unadorned by makeup.

Deciding on suitable underwear took a while longer. Getting it right seemed to be tremendously important to her sense of confidence in the whole affair: with a thought for her coming exertions she wanted to avoid anything brief enough to distract or cause discomfort; yet the idea of wide, unflattering lines leaving impressions through her exercise wear was embarrassing enough to threaten self-consciousness, even in her solitude. Naturally, it also felt necessary for the set to match.

A sports bra was vital of course. She possessed much more than a pair of handfuls, whoever’s hands might be in question. One of the ones she’d eventually found featured a plunging separation between the cups for a pleasantly perky cleavage, and twin straps which criss-crossed her back in an enticing X-shape with one more beneath, level with the middle of her spine. A pair of sporting knickers with a slightly higher-than-average waist, allowing for graceful curves lower down and offering a quite astounding level of lift to her comfortably well-padded hindquarters, completed the set. Both items were dark, an identical deep navy blue, in a bid better to conceal the expected perspiration of her labours.

The bra fastened at the front and, after a brief struggle to encompass her obstreperous globes, she found herself surprised at their sudden upward bounce to lock snugly in place at a point which seemed as if it were only just below her chin. Pleased and maybe a little awe-struck at her own upper profile reflected in the dressing mirror, she quickly dipped to tug her knickers up along her legs, ending up just a touch higher than necessary before giving the waistband a quick experimental snap at the rear. Another deliciously taut, beautifully rounded package achieved, she took a few moments to admire her progress so far. Observing eyes would have seen quite the desirable vision, even if it seemed that every pinching strap of underwear gave rise to gentle rolls of her flesh on either side.

Resplendent and suitably encircled in her selected ensemble, the outer clothes she’d chosen were a deliberate contrast: light, and as pliant as possible. She’d certainly have hesitated long before wearing them out in public. Wriggling the pale grey yoga bottoms up from her ankles, the material stretched as it began to slide over the curves of her calves to the thickening of her thighs. She got them most of the way up before pausing, perhaps needlessly, to smooth out a few creases that had bunched around the upper part of her legs, then gave a few more tugs to wiggle them up finally over the swells of her hips. It was only when they’d eclipsed the waistband of her underwear that she let them be, clinging now around her lower limbs like a lightly brushed coating, showing off with full fidelity every bodily crease and curve.

The scanty gym top was halter-necked, a snowy white in soft fabric. It too was stretchy, figure-hugging and mouldable. With her arms pressed together and pointed high, she let it drizzle over her head from above until the neck strap slithered down (with a little extra prompting) around the back of her head. The garment was flimsy in the extreme, exposing her arms and a generous portion of gently-widening midriff as well as the whole of her flanks, from the shoulder down almost to the bottom of her ribcage. Daringly, the underlined saltire of straps across her back belonging to her bra were wholly exposed. A watching eye could have roamed across acres of exposed skin before following fully the blatant curves of her body still hidden beneath her garments, though she was now fully clothed.

She noticed with a start the stiffening of twin buds upon her breasts as she took in the slinkiness of her attire in the mirror. Spring was here at last.

* * *

With an effort of will, she held escort izmit on to a delicate, fragile determination as she surveyed her personal workout playground. Getting to this point had taken a good deal of mental fortitude; indeed, she’d hoped that the rather significant time and financial investments she’d put in to finding the right equipment and clothing would help keep her focused. It was hardly a do-or-die situation, but she had come to the definite decision that now was the time to give her cosily ample body the tightening up she had always imagined, and quietly desired. The thought quite excited her imagination. She padded into the sunlit room with bare feet over the equally exposed plain wooden floorboards.

A few stretches to warm up were apparently de rigueur. In a patch of open space she spread her feet apart sideways, then began by leaning to each side in turn, a hand running closely and covetously down each smooth leg of her yoga bottoms. It was quite a tremendous confidence boost to feel the soft, yielding flesh of her thighs tauten as she tensed them in turn. It gave her an idea: once she had managed to straighten back up after a few repetitions on both sides, she started edging her feet further outward while keeping her legs as straight as possible; as she’d hoped, she swiftly felt her muscles bunching tighter. With a coy pretence at propriety she placed her hands initially around the back of her waist, before bending forward, letting the pressure of her palms slide down until she had her ‘prize’ in hand: the firmest tension-tightened orb of her rump that she had ever experienced.

She stood there for a second or two longer, feeling the burn begin to creep up and down the backs of her rigidly straight legs, bent almost in a right angle at the middle. From behind, the presentation of her jealously clasped rear end made a smoothly rounded apex to the A-frame of her legs. Seen in silhouette, she might as well have been naked.

She came back upright abruptly with an awkward little hop to try and shake loose the cramping that threatened to seize her thighs from behind. Ripples of motion radiated across her hips and other rounded parts, faithfully transmitted by her skin-tight clothing; at least her bra held up, wrangling its pair of busty captives under control throughout with little apparent effort.

Chastened by the warning sting she’d felt, she chided herself not to go too far in her inexperience. Stick to the strictly necessary, indulge afterwards. She approached the next stretch more timidly, one leg straight behind her with her weight on the other, kinked at the knee. She managed to maintain her reserve as she put her body through the angular set of shapes she had referenced in her preliminary research. A cruel hand might, at several points, have trapped her hopelessly in her contortions with the swift addition of one or two simple rigid frameworks.

The first flickers of heat had begun to play through her limbs by the time she had run out of stretches, a curious sensation that was by no means unpleasant. Perhaps she could get the hang of this after all. She treated herself to a couple of deep breaths, luxuriating in the firm hold maintained by her bra as her chest rose and fell. It would have looked to an observer like one pert, perfect package. She glanced over at the machinery around the room, looking for her first conquest: standing proudly upright in parallel polished-steel lines, the exercise bike would be ideal.

Pacing to where it stood, she surveyed it from the side. A hand reached out to brush along the top of the firmly moulded saddle, the other to stroke slowly along the crosspiece of the handlebars. Among the steel angles, the synthetic black curves seemed pleasingly exotic to the eye. Moving with a care for the appearance of capability, she made her motions as slow and measured as possible as she raised and swung a leg over to mount for the first time. She was still quietly amazed at the ease with which her gym bottoms continued to cling to the contours of her legs. She revelled in how they smoothed away any wrinkles she worried were there.

The saddle pressed uncompromisingly against her hindquarters, lifting her aloft atop the pinnacle of the shiny steel upright shaft. She felt herself adapting to its shape, feeling it drift gradually upward until it was satisfied with its hold upon her, or at least until her muscles had settled on an accommodation with its unfamiliar, hard rubberised surface. Beneath the outer layer of her bottoms the fabric of her underwear was drawn explicitly tight against her. The bulbous black front end of the saddle sat snug and sinister beneath the gap between her thighs, winking in and out of view when she brought her feet to the pedals and began to cycle.

Leaning forward a little, noting with interest the new angles of pressure the motion brought to bear against her underside, she grasped the handlebars and shuffled her grip and perch about until izmit escort she could sink into a rhythm. The experience was novel; she felt pressure against regions that had not felt the like of it before now. If she shifted her weight gently back and forth between each cheek as she built up speed, it was not purely down to the physics of the situation. She felt the plunging band of her knickers ascend slyly further still. Viewed from behind, her buttocks made for a graceful elevated spread to either side of the supporting saddle.

Her feet went around in circles of gradually increasing speed. The more she sped up, the more she felt the need to shift her weight onto them. After a minute or two of working her thighs and knees like pistons, she finally lifted up free and clear from the cup of the saddle to stand on the pedals themselves as she pumped away. Leaning forward, she shifted her hands to another part of the handlebars the better to support herself, shoulders hunching until her arms were hemming in her bosom from either side. She tried not to distract herself gazing down into the valley below, lips parted now to gulp down more oxygen, and kept pedalling with long straight plunges of her quivering leading leg before it bent sharply in trailing.

As she slowly began to sag with the continuing effort and push her legs backward in response, the prow of the saddle could not help, now and again, but nuzzle up against the rear of her thighs as she went, just below where they joined her abdomen. Rounded smooth as it was, and light as was each brush, it threatened to lead her attention astray. Her hands held more and more heavily onto the horns of the yoke; it would not have taken much to bind them there.

She felt her thighs roll together as she continued to grind away at the pedals. Their meeting was smooth, lubricated by the soft material of her clothing so they glided across one another in small, continuous circles. Standing upright as she was, at least for now, she felt a tension in her crotch from the cycling motion that was a study in contrast to the cushioned silken sensation where the insides of her legs kissed lightly against each other. Muscles she had not seriously worked before began to tense, some of them arrayed around rather private places, and the result was an inevitable addition to the level of friction between clothing and skin. As her underwear continued to nestle into new, interesting and highly diverting locations, she tried to release a little of the pent-up anticipation through her parted, panting lips. It was still too much; she had to stop.

The saddle was firm beneath her rump as she threw herself back down, legs working another half-rotation on the pedals before managing fully to control their momentum. The pressure returning to the central valley of her underside, delving almost all the way along it in fact, made her eyes open wide; her next exhalation was a more ragged gasp than its predecessor. Allowing herself to recover and cool off from the novelty of recent stimuli, she considered how best to untangle the knot of her knickers in the most efficient, decorous and non-inflammatory manner. The impetuous way in which she’d tugged them up just that extra little bit too far when dressing, spellbound by the lift and firmness they gave to the shape of her rear, came ruefully back to mind. Besides, she felt like she’d spent enough time cycling already, seeming only to ignite a molten burning in the muscles of her knees and inner thighs.

Lifting a leg up and over the central pole of the exercise bike’s frame, she swivelled her buttocks around on the oddly-shaped saddle in order to dismount. This seemed to add a twist to the constricted jam about her abdomen, pulling everything just a little tighter and drawing the infuriating stimulation of that pressure into slightly new areas. She hopped off the bike awkwardly, a little wobbly on her feet after her exertions, and bent over to hold her weight upon bent knees with both hands in an attempt at recovery. Bending only drew the garments tighter over her lower half, however, discreetly highlighting the lines of her underwear beneath the skin-swathing yoga bottoms. Finding her chest compressed, and remembering a technique she’d come across in her thorough research, she forced herself back upward to stand with hands crossed over the back of her head: her lungs would have the most space to inhale; it just so happened that the pose also served to thrust outward and upward her positively pneumatic cleavage.

With her bending and stretching, it was as if she were showing off the extremes of the curves of her body for some unseen audience. If that had been the case, her next act could well have been a lewd climax of the display. She held her arms up for a few moments more, letting her breathing subside and the heaving of her chest calm down to a soft swell; she hesitated for a second or two longer as if reluctant. Then, her hands drifted izmit kendi evi olan escort down to ride either side of her waist. They lingered before taking the plunge; the plunging lines of her crotch, the lower sides of the triangle reaching down to the top of her thighs. Her fingers slid along them before hooking in under the band of her knickers; it was easy to manipulate the underwear beneath the thin material of her bottoms. It would have been easy to see exactly what was going on underneath, as well, as she pried the material loose from its illicit nestling in her lower folds, slipping her fingertips upward to liberate the garment along its length and re-seating it a little lower down, in a slightly more comfortable and forgiving position. Then, sheepishly, she finished off with a sly flourish by trailing a single finger down beneath the band, delving inside the valley of her rear. Her breath caught in her throat throughout its passage.

Releasing the garment simultaneously released a lot of pent-up tension. It also left behind it the ache of a void, a yearning of stimulation’s echo; with pressure lifted, she experienced a charged feeling of anticipation in her sensitive regions in its wake. She wiggled her hips a little to try and seat the new orientation of her underwear and did her best to shake off the distraction. It was time for a new machine.

One down, two to go. With limited space and modest resources, she’d decided on a treadmill and a multi-gym to try and provide as much variety as possible; as much as her legs still trembled a little from their uncharacteristic labours on the exercise bike, the cage-like array of steel tubes and chains threaded through the multi-gym seemed just a little intimidating, and she felt she needed a bit more time to work up the nerve to tackle it. Jogging it was, then.

Padding over to the treadmill she took her time to familiarise herself with the panel of controls before climbing aboard. She’d already consulted the manual, but coming face to face with it at last was a somewhat different experience. She turned it on. The tread path remained motionless; she had half-expected it to whir into action at the first flip of the switch. Still, there was a newly expectant air to the machine now. She stepped on, carefully, the bare soles of her feet gripping the alien surface of the rubber with surprising fidelity. She gripped the handrails on either side of her in trepidation as she centred her stance, before reaching out gingerly for the speed control. The lowest setting to start with, a slow walk: there was a slight lurch as she got under way, not quite anticipating the moment, but soon she found a rhythm lifting her naked feet and laying them down against the revolving synthetic surface. She still kept hold of the handrails for support as her hips shimmied slightly back and forth, small jiggles beginning to radiate across her tightly-clothed thighs and belly. The mighty bra had no problems holding her redoubtable décolletage in check. Time to speed up.

As she began a slightly clumsy, loping jog, she felt the knickers pull a little tighter around her abdomen; they formed a silky cage about her mound although the contra-rotating globes of her buttocks nevertheless continued to slide freely round behind, ripples rolling across their surfaces only faintly visible beneath the reinforcement of her underwear. She began to feel a sense of security and comfort encompassing her lower regions as she sped up. The trials of her bra were somewhat more strenuous as gravity and momentum allied to bring it under assault from the battering rams of her breasts; still, the valiant garment held the line, containing her potentially rampant bosom. In a moment of unguarded curiosity one of her hands left the rail it had clutched and rose instead to take a cupping feel of one marvellously restrained bulge upon her chest. It dropped away again as soon as she realised what she had done, abrupt embarrassment bringing a burning flush to her cheeks; that feeling caused something similar to surge through her softly-caged mound down below. Her knees wobbled slightly for a moment and she had some difficulty bringing herself back to jogging straight on-track.

As the speed of the treadmill rose and her footfalls increased to match it, she was struck by a sensation of power rising in her chest, an expanding charge of potential energy that expressed itself through subtle but growing quivers in the valley of flesh below her neck. It radiated, quietly unseen, through both captive globes until it was a constant ripple; she felt as though it should have been accompanied by a low power-up humming sound of some kind to complete the allusion. Still, the buzz of the treadmill was a fitting substitute. As her pace rose so did the feeling of resistance against the cups of her bra: she felt the criss-crossed straps across her back dig in a little more moment by moment. Her rolling bosom fought against its restraints; the sensation made her breathe a little harder than she needed to, flush a little redder than the exercise had so far provoked. As pent-up as her boobs were just then, had the bra been released while she ran, the reaction would have been explosive.

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