Come To Me

Stella stays tight for men who can open doors. She runs. She lifts. She watches herself in mirrors and makes sure nothing jiggles that shouldn’t. The private club gives her the best view: actors, producers, the odd director who likes his girls sweat-glazed and willing. Christian Clay shows up every evening at eight. She can feel his eyes when she bends for another set of squats. That’s the whole point. Tonight she leaves the lights on in the empty gym and peels the leggings down slow. He steps closer. No talk. She drops to her knees on the rubber floor, takes him in her mouth until her lips shine. He pulls her up, turns her, and she plants her hands on the weight bench. He pushes in from behind, long strokes that make her breath catch. She reaches back, grabs him by the base, slides him straight from her ass to her tongue, tasting both of them. He groans. She smiles around the wet shaft, then climbs on top, facing away, riding him in tight circles until her thighs burn. When he flips her onto her back she spreads wide, lets him bury deep again, switching holes without pause. Her fingers find her clit. She comes with a sharp cry, legs shaking around his hips. He follows, emptying across her stomach while she watches, already planning the next round.