Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
After parking across the street from the aging brick building, I look both ways and make the sprint. My bag is heavy with gear but it doesn’t slow me down. It couldn’t possibly. I am here.
The dark stairwell leading up smells of sweat. Probably somebody cleans it once in a while, but it will always smell this way. That’s because the dojang is a sweaty place, and… that’s a good thing.
In the women’s locker room I strip quickly. My hair is already French-braided so I don’t have to worry about that. On with the sports bra, the uniform. Then my belt, the blue stripe. Any day now I will be called to test, but I really don’t care about that. What matters is the sweat. I tie the belt correctly, high color on the right, grab my bag and get to the mat.
I’m early but there is no time to waste. Being past thirty means the more time spent stretching, the better. Eighteen months ago one of the black belts took me aside. “Don’t forget.” he said. “You never stretch a cold muscle.”
I haven’t forgotten. My gear bag gets tossed in a corner and I start running laps. It is wonderful to feel the easy way the air moves in and out of my lungs, feel my thigh muscles waking up and saying thank you, thank you for using me. A dozen laps clockwise, a few more counterclockwise, and I’m nice and tacky.
I plop down then and spread my legs as far apart as they will go. I’m not rail-thin the way I was when younger, but more shapely, with better muscles. Stretching, ah, twisting at the waist, bending my nose to my shin. Left, center, right, center, chest to the mat, arms spread wide… Laura comes in and we do some partner stretches.
Her legs are longer than mine so I push the soles of my feet against her ankles. “How’s life at the bank?” I ask. We stretch in opposite directions: my hands reach to her left ankle, her hands go to my left. “Same ole, same ole,” she answers. “How about the college?”
“Fun week,” I grunt. “Started inspecting hospitals.” I explain that we do that for the sake of the medical students’ education, and she laughs. “Will you push down my knees?” she says.
Of course. We take turns kneeling behind one another. She pulls the soles of her feet together for the butterfly. My arms come around and lightly, carefully, I press down on the knee joints until she spanks the mat. Then she presses my back, something I really appreciate, because the hip joints need that precursor if I’m going to kick anyone in the head. Which I plan to do — in a friendly way, of course.
My legs can spread wider now. Laura gently but firmly leans her weight against my upper back. I can feel my boobs squashing flat on the mat. My hands grasp at the air in front of me. “Inhale,” she directs. I breathe in, then, “Exhale,” and she presses a bit more as the breath whooshes out of my lungs. This works. I love it. “Thanks.” I tap the mat, and she nods, and lets up.
Other students have been trickling in. Rick and Jacob, the Burke twins. Not my favorite people. Carol Martin, the matriarch. She is the oldest student. Andrea, a trusted friend. Adam, strawberry blond and green-eyed, he’s hot. I wouldn’t mind a few partner stretches with him, but he’s never shown any interest, and I don’t feel like making the first move. Three white belts. Couple of yellow belts.
The lead black belt claps his hands sharply. “Let’s line up!” he bellows, and the twenty-five or so students scramble into place, lined up by rank. I’m in the middle of the pack. Everyone faces forward for the opening ritual. Bow, salute the flag. Bow, to the headmaster. Bow, to the black belts. My long dark braid slides over one shoulder.
The headmaster barks out the official warmup. “Move your hips!” the old man snaps out. Off the mat, he is the nicest guy you’d ever hope to meet. Students universally adore him. On the mat, you’d better do what he says, or brace yourself for a solid kick in the ass.
The forms begin. “ONE!” comes the command. My left hand shoots out to the side, a sharp knife-hand. I make the horse stance. There are many ranks in the room, so the person behind me does something different, the person in front of me does something else, and to my left, something still different. In the frieze we look like some odd modern dance.
“TWO!” Down block, turn ninety degrees. My eyes don’t go anywhere but where they should. Back straight, wrists straight. I’m completely focused on my invisible target.
“THREE!” For a second I wonder if he ever gets hoarse doing that. After each count, there is a slight pause while the teacher looks over everyone’s form. Sometimes he corrects someone, and the pause is a bit longer. Out of the corner of my eye I see the black belts helping the white belts.
At step seven, my block isn’t what the instructor wants. The whole class pauses while he steps over to demonstrate. No words are spoken. He realigns my shoulders, a warm, reassuring touch. Then his uniform snaps like a sailcloth in the wind. I do my best to imitate Van Escort the master. He does it again. I do it again. He gives me the keep working on it look. The sweat is pouring down my body. Of course I will.
The count proceeds. At step twelve, I do something I’m not supposed to do. The form calls for a kick that I just don’t agree with, so I change it. It’s dumb to kick with the toes extended! I’ve always been taught that’s a great way to get your toes broken. So I change it, and strike with the heel. The headmaster notices but doesn’t correct. So I keep doing it. This is brash, and in a few moments I’ll probably get a lesson. Stubbornly I tell myself I don’t care.
At step eighteen, many of us are finished. We hold the last position, stock-still except for the panting and sweating, while the advanced ranks continue to follow the count. I’m lucky. The poor white belts have to stand still for a long time. I get to keep moving twice as long. The count finally rolls to 36. My heart rate is decreasing.
Then something odd happens. The headmaster gives a rare command. “Gather around. Sit down.” Most us kneel, palms on our thighs, to show respect. One of the white belts is observant, and follows suit. The rest will, in time. If they stick around.
“I need to raise a delicate issue,” the old man continues. Involuntarily I shudder. The upper ranks’ faces are impassive, but their eyes flicker. Something or someone has annoyed the man, and they don’t like it. “How many times,” he asks, “have we talked about setting goals in this class?” He looks around. “Mr. Burke?”
“Many times, sir,” comes the answer.
“That is correct. Where are goals, in time?”
I raise my hand and he nods in my direction. “The future,” I say.
“Again correct,” he affirms. “But for the next two hours, I want you to stop thinking about your goals. Why is that?”
No one can answer. He looks into each face.
“Daydreaming!” he finally snaps. “When you are in the future, you are not here. Because the future has not happened yet, you are not there either.
“You must pay attention to the here and now. It is through daydreaming that you are distracted. It is through distraction that there are injuries. There will not be any injuries in this class. Do you understand?”
Everyone nods, basically too terrified to speak. A few mumble yes, sir.
“Yes, sir,” is the loud chorus.
“Good. Where are your minds today?”
“Here and now, sir.”
Satisfied, the headmaster stands. He orders the lineup, by height this time, for sparring. He catches my eye. “Miss Crane,” he says curtly, and points to the ground in front of him. I jog over and stand formally, eyes down, while he gives the rest of the class orders to spar.
“Now,” he turns to me, “tell me why you changed your kick.” I tell him I think the kick looks like a pretty ballerina. “Uh-huh,” he grins. There is a twinkle in his eye, which lets me know I can relax a bit. “Now think about your form,” he instructs. I do as I’m told. It is in my mind. “What do you think is happening, here?”
“Breaking a board?” I try. Shake of the head. “Striking an opponent?” No, that’s not it. I feel like a dufe. “One-step sparring,” he orders. “Kick my balls.”
My head rolls back and I choke on a laugh. “I can’t do that!” But he motions me into position. “Attack.”
I step forward and swing my fists into place. “Ay-yah!” He steps backward and repeats the salute. Then I kick viciously towards his crotch, striking with the heel. In less than one-tenth of a second, the pretty ballerina foot loops up, catches my leg and neatly flips me onto my back. I land with a loud whump and barely remember to slap the mat. Some of the shock is absorbed but I am dazed. The shapes in the ceiling plaster look like a horsey … a duckie … the Mona Lisa …
The forearm that enters my field of vision has grey hairs on it. The hand opens, grasps mine, easily pulls me to my feet. “Pretty ballerina,” he snorts. “Never heard that one before.”
The next ninety minutes go by too swiftly. By noon my arms are trembling from sparring and push-ups. My sports bra is glued to my skin and I smell like a goat. I have never been so happy, except of course for last Saturday at this time, and the Saturday before that, and the one before that.
In the women’s locker I elbow to my place between Carol and Andrea. “So, Miss Greene,” I ask, “lunch?”
“Nah, not today. Kids.”
“Oh, too bad. We’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, maybe next week.”
Laura’s coming, though, and Carol. Some of the guys will, don’t know who yet. Knowing isn’t critical.
We get through the shower — hot, delicious, lathery, soapy, it feels so good — and combing our wet hair, we walk across the street to our typical haunt. I order an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat, and freshly squeezed orange juice. There is nothing like feeding protein and whole grains to a body that is alive with exertion. Van Escort Bayan You feel like you could just about levitate, if you tried hard enough.
Only half a dozen of us make it to lunch today. The headmaster is at the opposite end of the table from me, too far really to engage in conversation. But our eyes meet from time to time and our friendship is easy and warm. I really respect that man.
After lunch I am checking my tires before the long journey home. One of them seems a bit low, I think, and I hook up the portable compressor. While it’s whirring away, I floss in the driver’s side mirror. “You might want to keep an eye on that,” says a voice, and I jump.
Quickly I yank the floss from my teeth, flash a grin and hop out of the car. “Oh, it takes a minute. Aren’t you headed home?” My teacher seems at a loss for words, something I have never seen, and finally he says, “I want to talk with you. Care for a beer?”
“Ah, sure.” I am puzzled and surprised. He names a pizza place on the other side of town, and in our separate cars, we drive over.
“So,” I say. “So,” he replies. Across the table in the dim restaurant he looks just like somebody’s dad, or somebody’s grandfather maybe. His shoulder-length hair is all grey, going white. It is impossible for me to tell what color it might have been.
He touches my face, runs his fingers gently over my mouth. “Did I hurt you today?” “No, sir,” I say quickly.
“Good.” He pours us each a beer. I am starting to get the picture or what I think is the picture and my mind is filled with images of his body in the dojang. I am remembering the hundreds of times he has moved my limbs into position and the gentle strength in those touches.
Thoughtfully I sip my beer. “You know I’m not married,” he begins.
It’s Wednesday night. For the first time in ages I am skipping class. The clock reads 8:55 and I stroll softly around the room, lighting candles and sipping a little wine, trying to remain calm, but my palms are sweaty and my stomach is jumpy. He’ll be here any minute.
With a sigh, I stretch out on the couch. I’m aware of my skin, newly clean, and freshly shaven in so many places, cocooned in a silk kimono. Usually this attire is a treat just for me, to wear for meditating after a scented bath. Tonight it’s for someone else’s pleasure, too.
The anticipated knock skyrockets my heart rate. I drop the magazine I couldn’t read anyway and rush to the door. There he stands. This is real. Hands shaking, I put my fingers in his and draw him in. “You came,” I whisper in shock. He leans in close, his beard tickles my neck and he plants a quick kiss. “I expect we both will,” he says in my ear. I have to laugh. My nervousness drops away as he pulls at his jacket. “Wait,” I say. “Dance with me first.”
Sade is asking — Is it a crime? We sway in gentle steps, my bare feet adding to the feeling of lightness. My lover strokes my back and caresses my butt. “I have always wanted to tell you what a glorious ass you have.”
“Thank you.” The aroma of leather fills my nose, I breathe it in. My hands do a little squeezing, too. “So do you.” Against my tummy, I feel his cock jerk in his pants. I want you to want — me, too — pines the music. His mouth falls to my neck like a shooting star and my legs forget to move.
Our breathing sounds faster and he pushes the silk away from my shoulders. My skin pinks and he murmurs his appreciation. His beard scrapes over the tender skin, languorously working south of my neck. Red marks appear and start to swell a little.
His knowing fingers untie my obi without any difficulty and he lets it drop. The kimono is just a loose robe now, wide open to the longed-for attack. I hang onto the soft leather armor for dear life, bending backwards as he makes his way to the swell of my bosom.
His forearm makes a steel bar at the small of my back, and he leans to nuzzle the lace of my bra. The half-cups offer up what I have to give, barely covering my nipples. The pink aureoles are clearly visible and he homes to the target, his hand dipping in to rescue my left breast. “Ah!” is all I can gasp out, and then his tongue is on that delicate peak, electricity bolts through my system, and my knees turn to water. He has held me before, caught me when I fell, but never like this.
“My nipples are very sensitive,” I explain as he lowers me to the sofa.
“So I see.” His eyes glitter with lust and good spirits. His beautiful mouth descends to mine. I suck his tongue as if it were his cock, demanding, flicking the underside with the tip of my own. My hand finds his hardness and strokes the length. I caress his huevos, squeezing gently. He breaks the kiss. “Stephanie—” he pleads.
“Way ahead of you, brother.” We leave the saxophones in the living room and I lead him down the hall. My bedroom is plain, but illumined by candles. I tug his shirttails out of place. Now it is my turn to run my hands over his ribs: Escort Van to feel, to explore, to appreciate. The buttons give.
How many times have I noticed his chest in the vee of his uniform; how many times have I felt those abs, sparring, training, making me what I am? Now I openly caress his belly, his breastbone, and lay my lips to that fine smooth shoulder. With the tip of my tongue I circle his nipple, press hard. To my satisfaction, he draws a sharp breath in response.
Against his body I speak softly, “You are wearing far too many clothes.” I keep nipping and kissing his torso while together we shuck his pants, the particular sound of the zipper like a clarion call in my ear. He peels off his shirt and I push him to sit on the bed.
My face is in his underwear while I untie his shoes, yank them off, and away with those damn socks, and toss the black jeans anywhere, out of the way. I keep my face in close contact with those low, tight briefs, humming with happiness, letting him feel the alto vibrations all over his shaft and balls. He strokes my hair, a gesture both selfish and thankful, encouraging the ministrations.
Suddenly I begin to laugh. “What!” he exclaims. “What’s so funny!” I look up in mischief. “College days,” I smirk. “There was a group of guys who called themselves the ‘Pink Helmets.’ This is what they were talking about.” I lick the crown in question, savor the tiny drop of fluid, and slip my fingers under the leg elastic. My palms are flat against his hips — those marvelous hips — and I slide my hands around further, skin upon skin, gripping those handsome cheeks, until he is sitting on my hands. A simple move up, a light tug down, and finally, he is naked in my bed.
He lies on his side, resting on one elbow, looking up at me as I get to my feet. I pause. In the candlelight I look him over frankly. “You’re gorgeous,” I tell him. “You’re so beautiful.” I coast my hand over his bodyscape, trail my fingers over his thick stylus and up, up to his mouth. He bites and tongues my digits. “You’re not so bad yourself. Come here, woman, keep me warm.”
Willingly I comply. I spread the kimono like a pair of silken wings over our bodies, and slide my arms free. Our hands get busy. He finds my bikini underwear and without fanfare, simply rips it off and throws it away. I shiver with delight. The full-length, full-body contact assaults my brain. We savor the complete nakedness, eyes reflecting simmering desire in the half-dark. I taste the sweat at the hollow of his throat. His callused hands pet my body.
He grips my hips and guides me to straddle him. We both groan at the sharp, intimate touch. My wetness is hot against his wood and he lifts my body, as if I weigh nothing. “Yes, move me,” I implore him. My voice is husky with passion. “Move me the way you want me to go.” I give him full play to my limbs and he spreads my legs wide so I am doing the splits, my toes poking out to the sides of the bed.
“Come here,” he orders again. I lean forward, finding our kiss again, and his thumbs rub over my nipples, not too gently. “MM!” I moan against his lips. He has quickly learnt my fine points. He keeps teasing the delicate nubs, driving me wild while he sucks my tongue, plunders my mouth.
I am going under, drowning in the flames. His hands go everywhere, stroking my thighs, my ass. He pulls my ankles up to his shoulders. Our abs press together. His prick is horizontal in my trench and with just a wriggle … just a twitch, he could slip right in. I start to move.
But he rolls us over, and keeping my legs on his shoulders, shimmies down my belly. I clench at what’s to come, shudder and buck as his kisses sparkle over my hips. My arousal is dripping down over my perineum, slicking the crack of my ass. He wastes no time in licking that vertical path and I wail a keening cry. I clutch at the bedclothes, my hips jerking under his strong hands. He holds me firm while he makes love to my labia with his tongue, suckling, penetrating my secret places, pursing his lips in a passionate kiss to my clit. He takes his time, nosing my muff, exploring every fold and valley, thrusting deep inside.
I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it. I am writhing in pure animal pleasure that builds to erotic torment. I find myself saying out loud, “I can’t stand it!” How did he get that latex on? I have no idea but urge him up, calling “Please!”
“Tell me what you want!” he growls.
“Bang my brains out!” I pull him to me, urgently. “Fuck me!” He does. His penetration explodes a sharp gasp from my lungs. Oh, goddess! A perfect fit! The ride is hot and hard. His balls slap my ass and the spanking drives me higher still. Our eyes meet and hold, lasers of pure lust connecting.
Then we look down to watch his cock pounding into me. Bang… bang… bang… bang. The sight sends me over the edge, I lose it completely. Somewhere a woman screams “YES! YES!” and release courses through me, thunderous and sweet. His own is a heartbeat later, his eyes shut tight, his guttural roar filling the air. My hips lift to meet him, my back arches like a bow. Again and again he spurts his liquid fire, jabbing at my insides, pounding his awesome strength into my being.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32