Hitting [it on] the Treadmill

(WARNING: No profanity, but explicit. True story.)

Ever since college, I try to wake up by 5:30am and do a quick, 3 or more mile run. If it’s too cold outside, I run on the treadmill instead. I don’t really mind running on the treadmill because I get to wear what I would wear if I knew nobody was watching and/or I wouldn’t get arrested. Sometimes, if nobody is home, or if it’s just hubby and me and I feel particularly horny, I like to run in the nude except for sneakers and a sports bra.  (Okay, I admit, I really like being a nudist at home anyway, so it’s not really that big a stretch, I suppose.)  Anyway, I like to feel super-sexy when I run, like I still have my pre-baby body from back in the 80’s, so I wear the skimpiest, closest-to-porno clothes I can find.  Before post-baby-body took over – you know what I’m talking about, you’re still fit and lean, but you never quite get rid of that poochy – boys at my college always gawked as I flew by in my tiniest, cheekiest, baby blue dolphin shorts.

It was 32 degrees this morning, just a little too cold to jog outside. So I put on my favorite Underarmour jogging shorts, the ones I wear when I feel like attracting extra attention.  They feel like second skin and they cup my butt like a pair of silky firm hands.  I put on my white sport bra, put some mindless HGTV junk on the tele, and I ran. Within minutes, a few beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. After 2 miles, I was drenched, with sweat dripping from my chin. It fell between my breasts and formed a stream.  The stream rolled down and joined with with the dew on my belly, flowing onward and saturating my shorts.  My back was soaked, and even in breathable Underarmour my butt was drenched. It probably didn’t help that I turned up the heat in our home gym before I got on the treadmill.  At around 2 and a half miles, I heard hubby come around the corner into the room. I heard him start to say something, then he stopped dead.

“Hey babe,” he started, “are we taking the train today or… are we…”  He paused.  “Ohhh boy.”

I glanced over my right shoulder at his big, saucer eyes.  “Yes, Mr. Man? What’s up?”

My boobies and booty bounced with every footfall.  Hubby was horribly distracted.  “I… I was… uhm… Are you… uh…” he stammered.

Down below, Mr. Man’s crotch had sprouted a redwood.  “What’s wrong, babe?” I asked with faux innocence.

“You look…  uh…”  He waved his hand up and down, at a loss for words.

“Like a sweaty mess?” I asked coyly.

“Uh… no,” he stumbled over his tongue as he skipped right past the words “incendiary,” “smokin’,” and, “scorching.”   “You look…” he began tentatively.  Hubby blew out an exaggerated exhale, widened his eyes, and said, “Wow!”

I pointed to the tent pole in his crotch.  “That good, eh?”

He looked down, laughed, and nodded like the dopey, horny mess he was.  “Yeah. That good.”  He shook his head in admiring disbelief.  “You look hot. Very, very hot.”

Ignoring his growing appendage, I played dumb.  “So was there something else you wanted besides telling me I’m super sexy?”

Hubby couldn’t take his eyes off my ass.  Next to my eyes, it’s my favorite body part, truth be told.  Yoga will do that to you.  I love knowing that when he’s staring at my ass, tight and firm and flexing with each stride, it reminds him that I stay in shape just for him.  Okay, maybe him and every other hot guy who I wouldn’t mind knowing I still get turned now that I’m 49+

“Yeah…” he began hesitantly, “I was wondering… if… if… you are…

I blew him a kiss.  “Just spit it out, dear. You were wondering if…”

He huffed with resignation.  “Good grief! How long till you’re off the treadmill? I can’t focus when you’re like this!”

Without a second of hesitation, I slammed the stop button, jumped off the treadmill, and bounded over to hubby with one hop.  I reached up, tossed my arms around his neck, and pressed my slimy, sloppy tits hard into his bare chest.

“I just finished,” said I.  “Got time for a quick shower?” I inquired with coquettishly batting eyes.

Saying nothing, he pressed the palm of his left hand into my belly, fingers down, and slid it under the waist of my shorts.

“Whatcha doin, Mr. Man?” I inquired dimly, knowing full well what he was doing ’cause I’m just not that stupid.

Silently, he pushed his hand down, down, strafing my clit with his meaty, callous digits, until he cupped my cunny in a firm, take no prisoners grip.  He wiggled his fingers round my mound, splitting my puffy slit with his middle finger and hunting for my heavenly hole.  As if being covered in sweat like a pro basketball player wasn’t bad enough, my pussy flooded with lust.  I feel him enter me and pump.  And pump.  And pump.  Once… twice… faster… slower… faster.  As if he hadn’t made me crazy enough, he thrust in a second finger and gave me a stretch.  The outline of his knuckles pushed out on my shorts as his fist filled my flange.

Hubby leaned into my ear and whispered.  “Got time for more than just a quick shower, dear?”

“Hell YEAH!” I screamed into his.

Now hubby loves it when I go Domme on him, so I shoved him back up against the wall, tugged his hand out of my shorts, and gave his middle finger a nasty suck just to prove I’m no June Cleaver.  I yanked his sweats and boxers down to his ankles, diving in for my morning protein fix. I lost track of time, because sucking hubby is my second favorite thing to do next to feeling him deep inside me, with his arms wrapped around my shoulders in a crushing embrace and my legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. The salty muskiness of his privates against my tongue lit my taste buds on fire.

Soon, I felt his tongue playing with my poon and the treadmill platform turned into an impromptu magic carpet. With a firm tug and jerk, he freed me of my shorts, then hooked his knees over his shoulders and dove in for a morning snack of cookie and creamy. I came fast, hard and jerky!  The crazed, teenagerish fever of our sex made me gush like Old Faithful.

After hubby was confident he had me warmed up and ready to submit, he threw my legs wide in a flying V, straddling over me in a Sumo crouch and aiming his missile at my delicate pink. In a single, swift movement he thrust himself into my soul. On and on he crammed my cut, his distended manhood prying me wide and thrilling my clit on every pummel.  It felt as if time stopped. I came again, and again, my cunny gushing and dribbling as he rode me like a world class slut, right up to the crest of his own climax.

Then it happened, awareness that the mother-making load was ready to explode. He pulled out quickly, hovering over my chest, his tool taut and pointing at the wall above my head. He gripped his cock, aimed it down toward my face, and – after a few more jerks – burst out with a primal grunt, hot tangy jets of cum spurting into my gaping mouth. Some of the white cream grazed my right cheek, landing in my sweat-matted hair. I swirled his DNA round my mouth playfully pooling it between my parted lips. I play, too, with the remnant on my cheek, smearing it round-and-round, watching him go hazy eyed in a post-ejaculation stupor.  I smiled.  I closed my mouth.  I took a deep swallow, feeling his heat flow down my throat and into my belly.

We collapsed there on the treadmill.  After a few seconds of heady panting, we laughed in unison. After nearly 30 years of marriage we realize we are still finding steamy, playful new ways to blend our bodies and inextricably intertwine our souls.

I got to work 30 minutes later than usual. I tried not to wear a huge, “I got me some!” smile, but it didn’t work. Someone who knows me way too well took one look, shook their head, and said, “Well, don’t you look like the cat who just ate the canary…”

Leave a Reply