by Lisa Ferrari
“Fifty-two weeks?” Cory asks. “A whole year?”
“That’s correct,” says Kellan.
Cory makes a face. Clearly she does not want to embark on this prescription.
“I know it sounds dubious,” says Kellan, ever the mind reader, “but try it. Now, I know what you’re thinking: that you’re going to lose mass. No. You won’t. Because you can still hit the leg press and hack squat and leg extension as hard as you like. We’re retraining you to squat. Stretching your Achilles is key, as well as building up your legs and pelvic girdle and spinal erectors in a new way. It takes toddlers months to learn to walk. It’s going to take you months to correct a lifelong problem.”
“Do I increase the weight?”
“Nope. But after about six months, we’ll switch from a ten-pound plate to a five-pound plate. And after three or four months, to no plate. A year from now, you should be able to squat without it. And then you can begin to up the weight. Here’s my card.” Kellan hands her his card. “Email me tomorrow and let me know how it went tonight. Deal?”
Cory accepts Kellan’s card. “Yeah, okay, deal. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You want to get that pic now?”
“Please.” Cory is all smiles. She holds out her phone and gets a pic of the three of us. “Thanks so much,” she says. “You guys are awesome. And, Claire, I’m really glad you got your panties back.”
“Me too.” It seems everyone around town knows about my panty-stealing stalker and his demise.
“Breakfast is on me, by the way,” Cory says.
Kellan and I protest but Cory insists.
When we leave, we all shake hands and Kellan leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table as a tip.
We walk two blocks to the boardwalk, which is mostly vacant. The shops aren’t open yet and there are very few people. Just a few early-morning walkers and a few people on bicycles riding on the strand, which is what everyone calls the grey cement path; almost every beach town in southern California has one. More people are walking their bikes on the boardwalk. Kellan explains that this is the law and he knows this because he once got a ticket for $35 for riding his bike on the boardwalk.
The morning sun is just coming up over the buildings and is creeping towards the sand and the ocean.
We stroll past the Muscle Beach pit, where a few huge guys are working out, grunting and sweating and getting it done. They see Kellan and nod and give him the requisite, “What up, Killer?” and they all shake hands. Then they turn to me and say, “What up, Iron Born?” and I get the same cool-guy handshake and shoulder bump. Holy hypertrophy, I feel like one of the crew.
“Damn girl, you lookin’ tight,” one of the guys says. He’s huge, wearing an American flag tank top, denim cut-offs, and shiny black combat boots. He looks at me and then looks at himself. “Shit, I gots to get serious with my shit.” He immediately grabs a pair of dumbbells (they looks like 60s) and starts doing Arnold Presses, a move Arnold invented, where you hold the dumbbells in front of your face with your palms facing you at eye level, and then you rotate your wrists outward as you press the weights up. Kellan loves this exercise for the front deltoids.
“You guys here to train?” one of the other guys asks. He’s taller, almost as big as the first guy.
“Just did legs,” Kellan says.
“Tight. Aight den.” And he joins his friend.
As we walk away, one of them yells, “Kearns! You guys goin to Miami this weekend?”
“Don’t know yet. You?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Maybe we’ll see you there.”
He waves and we make our way to the beach.
I ask Kellan about Miami. He explains that there’s a big fit expo there and he goes every year and has a booth and does the whole nine yards but he’s not going this year because of the movie.
We sit on the sand and watch the waves. A huge flock of seagulls is resting on the sand, some of them hunkered down like cute little grey-and-white and brown-and-white chickens. Others stand on one little red leg.
A cluster of surfers bob in the water, little figures clad in black wet suits, sitting astride their boards, peaceful, Zen-like. It makes me want to surf, despite my fear of sharks. (I’ve seen Jaws about a dozen times; why?)
Every few minutes, a jogger passes by, running on the sand.
“It reminds me of Rocky III,” Kellan says, “when Rocky lost to Clubber Lang so Apollo trained him and they ran on the beach so Rocky could get faster.”
“Maybe we should jog for a bit and do some sprints.”
“Really? You up for it?”
“Sure.” I’m not sure I am after training legs with Mac two hours ago, but I figure once we get going, I’ll be okay.
We get up and start walking, then we begin jogging. I belch several times as my breakfast settles. Maybe this isn’t such a grand idea.
After about five minutes, Kellan asks if I’m warm.
My legs actually feel pretty good. They’re a little rubbery, but not as bad as they were. I stretch a bit, do ten air squats, ten toe-touches to test my hamstrings, and everything feels good.
We resume jogging.
After thirty seconds or so, we pick up the pace until we’re running at a steady clip.
Kellan’s muscular legs stretch out in long strides.
I try to match him but mostly can’t.
After a minute or so we slow down and walk for 30 seconds.
“How was that?” Kellan asks.
“Good.”
“Wanna have a race?”
“Sure. You don’t stand a chance, but sure.”
Kellan laughs. “Such confidence, Valentine. I like it.”
“I learned it from you, Kearns.”
“Okay. From here to the lifeguard station.”
The blue lifeguard hut is up ahead, perched above the sand on wooden legs.
“How far is it?” I ask.
“About a hundred yards. The length of a football field. Should take about ten seconds. Can you go all-out for ten seconds?”
“I can if you can.”
“You’re not going to barf up your breakfast?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Kellan laughs. “Okay. Ready?”
I’m a little scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ve never had a foot race with a man. I’m not certain I’ve ever had a foot race with anyone ever.
We get into a ready stance.
I realize if I’m going to win, I’m going to have to cheat. “I’ll count us down. Here we go. Three… two…” and I take off running. I get about five strides away before Kellan realizes I started without him.
“Oh, you are going to get it!” Kellan calls and he takes off running as well. His shoes slip in the sand and he stumbles a bit. I increase my lead. But Kellan recovers and accelerates quickly.
He passes me two seconds later and immediately pulls away from me. Wow, he’s fast.
He reaches the lifeguard stand first and stops.
I run as fast as I can and get there a few seconds later.
We stand with our hands on our knees, panting.
“Way to take advantage of a female,” I say between breaths.
Kellan laughs. “You’re the one who took off on ‘two’. I wasn’t going to let you win after you cheated. Besides, it’s a race. It wouldn’t be fair to go easy on you.”
We walk back to where we started and catch our breath. We then run the race again. This time, we both begin at the same time.
The outcome is the same as before. For such a big man, Kellan is a fast runner.
We repeat this five or six times and Kellan kicks my butt every time.
I suggest a longer race, a greater distance, from one lifeguard stand to another. I can’t out-sprint him but maybe I can outlast him.
Kellan says it’s probably three hundred yards. Three football fields. I’m not sure I’ve ever actua
lly set foot on a football field so I take his word for it.
I count us down and we run.
Kellan takes off fast and pulls ahead of me. By a lot. But he then begins to fade. It’s tough keeping that much mass going at full-tilt for such a distance.
I begin to catch up.
I pass him with about fifty yards to go, and I actually win!
I turn around and watch him as he chugs toward me.
We stand with our hands on our knees, eyeing one another.
“You… definitely… have a gift… for endurance…” Kellan gasps. “Holy shit.” He collapses to his knees, breathing heavily. “You should… be doing… triathlons… and CrossFit Games.”
This is an interesting idea. I’ve never done CrossFit, or a triathlon. Not even one of the short little baby sprint-distance triathlons where you swim for about 10 minutes, bike for thirty minutes, and run an easy 5K. Nancy did one a couple years ago for the first time and loved it. She showed us a bunch of pictures from the race. It looked so exciting seeing everyone standing in the water early in the morning, ready to swim, with numbers drawn on their shoulders and legs in black grease pencil, and everyone on their bikes and running across the finish line with people cheering and handing out little cups of sports drink to help them recover. But I figured it was something I could never do.
Standing here on the beach, listening to Kellan suggest that it is something I could and should do, I begin to think perhaps it’s something I ought to try. One more fear to conquer.
“Wait til we get home,” I say between breaths, “I’ll show you my gift for endurance.”
“Promise?”
We smile at one another knowingly. I’m going to throw him down on the bed or on the floor or wherever and I’m going to ride him and see how many times I can make him come his brains out. We haven’t done that for a while.
I’m puzzled by where my sudden horniness is coming from. It must be the post-exercise endorphins. I’ve always heard that exercise becomes addictive. This must be one of the reasons why.
Kellan and I trudge back to the car. It turns out to be a long walk after all the running.
But finally we get in and head for home. Most of the morning commute traffic is gone and we’re home in about 45 minutes.
As we drive, I can’t believe how horny I am. Is it the exercise? The food? Having fun with my fiancée?
I’m not sure.
I very nearly lean over and fellate Kellan while he drives. But I decide to contain myself until we get home. We don’t need any more videos of us in lude acts jeopardizing The Really Big Movie.
When we get home, Uzi is there, sitting in his SUV.
I tell Kellan we forgot to take him along.
Kellan says we didn’t forget; Uzi has been with us since we left this morning.
“I never saw him.”
“That’s his job. To protect us without us even knowing he’s there, so we don’t feel like we need to drastically alter our lives. So we don’t feel like prisoners.”
I must admit Uzi is even better than I had previously thought.
In the kitchen, I comment that other than our selfie with Cory, and saying hi to the guys on Muscle Beach, it was nice not being recognized.
“Don’t be so sure,” Kellan says. He holds up his phone. He shows me several pics of us on the beach running, including one taken from out in the water by a surfer, with the hashtags #GettinItDone #BeachSprints #IWantMyPantiesBack.
We laugh.
AFTER A QUICK snack of apples and peanut butter and coconut water, Kellan and I shower together and I begin my assault on his perfect body.
We stand in the stream of gloriously hot water. After washing ourselves, I stroke Kellan’s penis, using my desire to make certain it’s clean as an excuse. He’s been half-erect throughout our shower. I stroke him slowly and languorously, building him up nice and slowly, working the shaft and the head in equal measure.
I then back off and slow down when I sense Kellan’s body tightening, each time his erection stands more and more rigid, getting harder and harder and harder.
Once, I even take him right to the edge, and then stop.
Kellan gasps several times. His erection pulses up and down. His orgasm was beginning just as I stopped. A little white drop of semen appears at the tip of his penis. I lean down and slowly lick it off with the very tip of my tongue.
Kellan watches me with wide eyes.
“Mmm,” I purr, hoping I sound like I’m purring, “delicious.”
I resume stroking him, working him up and up and up again, focusing more on the sensitive area of the head this time, and his orgasm gets close again. His abs ripple. He cries out. And I stop.
“Oh, Claire…”
Kellan’s erection flexes a few times, bobbing up and down. Semen drips out of him. More this time.
Again, I taste it.
This gets me really worked up so I drop to my knees and take him in my mouth. He’s so long and hard. I suck on the head, squeezing and pulling and stroking the entire shaft at the same time. Kellan moans again.
“Oh, Claire… please let me come… please let me come.”
This time, I do.
I work my mouth up and down his shaft, rubbing my tongue on the underside of him, where the sensitive spot is, the frenulum.
Kellan grabs my shoulders and his entire body bucks as he climaxes. I count five huge spurts of semen blasting into my mouth before my mouth is full and I lose track.
I greedily swallow all of it. It tastes like coffee.
After Kellan comes down, I stand up and rub his chest, his massive muscular chest that reminds me of a perfectly sculpted suit of Roman armor.
“How was that?”
Kellan looks at me, his eyes half crossed. “Good.”
And I can see that it was.
I shut off the water, pat his perfect body dry with a fluffy white towel, dry myself half-assedly, and lead him out of the shower to the bed, where Kellan flops onto his back.
I’m very moist between my thighs. Nearly dripping. I climb onto the bed, kneel between his legs, and scoop his penis up with my mouth. It’s hot and still semi-erect.
I want to make him hard again. I can then impale myself upon him.
I’m so horny.
I think all the exercise and the good, healthy food has my endorphins and testosterone fired up. And knowing that that pervert asswipe dickhead who broke into our home is no longer a problem sets my mind at ease. I want to celebrate with several hours of sweaty sex.
I suck Kellan’s beautiful erection up and down, up and down, giving it everything I’ve got.
Kellan starts snoring. He’s asleep!
I stop sucking and move closer. Yep, he’s definitely asleep. What would Cosmo say to do? I begin to formulate an article I could submit to them:
Five Ways to Pleasure
Your Sleeping Fiancée:
1. Fellatio;
2. Fellatio;
3. Fellatio;
4. Fellatio;
5. Fellatio.
That’s probably not very good but at the moment it’s all I’ve got.
Kellan’s mouth is open slightly as he snores.
Fine.
No problem.
I carefully, gently, slowly so as not to wake him, straddle his head and face. I grab on to the big white headboard and ease myself down onto his face, so my wet vagina covers his nose and mouth. When he tries to inhale and can’t, his eyes open.
Kellan looks up at me.
“Stick out your tongue,” I say.
I feel his warm, soft, wet tongue slide upward and then inside me. Oh, it’s heaven.
Both of Kellan’s hands begin caressing my butt and my back and my breasts.
I reach down and begin stroking him.
He’s hard now!
Wow.
He has always had a remarkably brief refractory period, the time between climax
and being able to become aroused again. I’ve always wondered why some people are that way while others are more the one-and-done type.
I move down, so I’m ready to envelop him. Kellan grabs his erection and tries to insert it.
“Let me do it,” I say in a heady whisper I barely recognize. “Just relax. Put your hands over your head. Pretend you’re Christian Grey and I’m Anastasia Steele, and you are my sex slave and I tied your hands and you can’t move.”
We should probably get some actual restraints or some handcuffs or some cozy-cuffs, the kind with fuzzy fur covering the cold metal, like those Chandler found in the closet of Rachel’s old room which turned out to have belonged to their grandmother Nana who, quote, “liked it rough!”
Kellan reaches up and grabs the headboard. I get my feet under me and place my hands on his hips, so I can use my arms and legs for leverage. I lift myself up, so that just the very tip of him is poised to enter me. His eyes follow. He likes it.
“You like that?”
Kellan nods, taking his eyes off my vagina preparing to engulf his thick, rock-hard penis.
“Do you know what Christian said to Anastasia the first time they did it?” I ask.
“No, what?”
“He said, ‘I don’t make love; I fuck; hard.’”
I drop down onto Kellan, taking him inside me quickly.
We both inhale sharply.
He fills me up.
Every time is like the first time.
Wow.
It takes my breath away.
I’ve always heard that a vagina has the superhuman ability to adjust and adapt in size to whatever is going into (and more importantly out of!) it. Like, you could put a bowling ball in there and the first time would be like, ‘Whoa!’ and the second time would be easier, the third time you’d have a mind-blowing orgasm, and eventually it would be no big deal. You’d have to put something else up there, like one of those big round Atlas Stone things the guys on World’s Strongest Man are always picking up. Denise loves that show. I think it’s her fantasy to be dominated by a man who is seven feet tall and weighs 300 pounds and can put his index finger in her vagina and spin her around like a basketball player spinning a basketball on his fingertip.
“God, it feels good,” I say. Suddenly I want him. I want him with a hunger deep inside me. I begin working my hips furiously, back and forth, keeping him deep, deep inside.
