My Late Night Workout By Wanderer You never can tell who you're going to run into after midnight. This is adult material. Please do not read if you are under age 21 or laws in your country forbid you to do so. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental. Copyright 2005 by Wanderer. These two guys were down at the end of the locker room talking. "Have you seen that broad that comes in here at midnight?" one guy asks. "Hell, no," says the other guy. "Midnight, I'm at home screwing my wife. Or my girlfriend," he adds, a salacious grin on his face. "Well, one night I come home from an overseas business trip, and it's midnight here but it's 3:00p.m. in the afternoon where I just left, so I'm full of energy because I'm still on 3:00p.m. time. I decide to go to the gym because I've been too busy on my business trip to work out. I figure to tire myself out a little and I'll go home and sleep better. So I get in here and here's this broad pushing weights. Man, what a build! Like your proverbial outhouse, you know what I mean?" "Yeah," says the other guy, "but I'm not going to come in here at midnight to watch a pair of boobies. I got my own private boobies at home," he laughs. "Well, I've never met your wife," says the first guy, "but I guarantee you she ain't got a pair of boobies like this." "You've seen one booby you've seen them all," says the second guy, and they go out of the locker room laughing. Now me, I'm intrigued. I'm thirty-five years old, and I'm single. I've been busy building my business and now we're doing pretty good. Damn good, in fact. I can sit back a little and look around. I've got a great home, good business, and zilch love life. Nada. Zero. Oh, I've tried the dating scene, but the twenty somethings are all into their first marriages, and the thirty somethings are divorced and single mothers with two or three brats. And I want brats of my own, I don't want to share somebody elses. So, what the hell. I can get in here at midnight. And I've always been a boob man. I think I'll give it a go. I'm the boss and I can get to the office at lunch time if that's what I want to do. So the next Monday I finish up at the office, go home, take a little nap, and then go down to the gym at midnight. It's one of those twenty-four hour places, open 'round the clock, but there's only one guy at the front desk, just to check people in and keep the lights on and things. He used to be on the day shift so I know him. "Hi, Bob," I say, "what's doin'?" "Not much, Mr. Elliot," he says. "Kind of late for you, isn't it?" "Oh, I got tired coming during the day and having to wait for a bench or a Nautilus. I thought I'd give later a try. Anybody here now?" "Nope, just you," Bob says. Damn, I'm thinking to myself, where's Miss Boobs? "Anybody else ever come in this time of night?" I ask, slyly. "Well," says Bob, "we usually get a gal coming in around this time, but she's not here yet. Usually comes in around 12:30. Works the swing shift down at the plant, four to midnight, you know. Wants to earn enough money to go to college for the fall semester. She's got an athletic scholarship to the university but she'll still need dough for all the extras. We went through middle school and high school together. We both ran track, and she played volleyball and basketball, too. Pretty damn athletic. But she's some looker." "Oh, your girl friend?" I asked, somewhat crestfallen. "Nah, she didn't date much. A couple guys bragged about how they were going to take her out, then they'd show up the next morning with a black eye or two, so I think that pretty much scared the rest of the guys off. She's got some body, big breasts, you know. I guess maybe they tried to feel her up. She's pretty strong, you know. Track and all that." Well, I didn't know, but I was thankful for the heads up. If we ever got something going I wasn't going to push it. Slow and easy. But then I'm thinking if she went to school with Bob she's way too young for me. Must be seventeen or eighteen, same as Bob, and I'm thirty-five, so no way. Oh, well, might as well work out as long as I'm here, no sense in wasting the whole evening. Besides, maybe I'll get to scope out a well-stacked babe. Might be worth it just to stick around for a while. I can go home and wank myself, as our dear British friends say. "O.K., Bob, might as well get started, I'll see you later." "O.K., Mr. Elliot," says Bob, "you need anything, just call me. Here's your towel." I go into the locker room and change. Takes me about five minutes and I'm out into the gym. Warm up first on the treadmill, do a few pushups, and I'm ready for the big stuff. Today's chest day so I warm up with a hundred thirty-five pounds on the bench press, add another fifty to make it one hundred eighty-five, and then do my max with another fifty at two hundred thirty-five. Man, that's hard. As I'm doing the seventh and eighth rep I glance over to the clock on the wall and I see it's 12:45a.m. Guess I'll be here all alone tonight. No big boobs. I struggle through the tenth rep and just manage to rack the two hundred thirty-five pound barbell. So I'm lying on the bench huffing and puffing, not anxious to move, when I hear this soft feminine voice say, "Mind if I work in?" "This can't be the babe I came to ogle. The voice is too soft, too feminine, it just doesn't fit with some big stacked broad who runs track and gives guys black eyes. "There's another bench over there," I say. "It's set up for girlie weights." What they do is they close down most of the gym at night so the janitors can clean it, but they leave this smaller room open for the night owls, and it's got enough equipment for a good workout, just not a lot of it. So if she wants to bench press she can do it on the bench down at the other end of the room. Right now I'm too exhausted to move. "Oh," she says sweetly, "they only have twenty-five pounders down there, I'll have to carry all these bigger plates down to the other end of the room. Do you mind? I'll set it back up for you when I'm finished." What the hell? Who does she think she is? Wonder Woman? I glanced back from my prone position to look at her as she was standing behind the bench press bar. I couldn't tell what she looked like because I couldn't see her face. All I could see was a pair of breasts standing out far enough to create a deep cleavage between them. All of a sudden I felt a wave of energy surge into my body and I jumped up off the bench. "Oh, sure, I've got it up to two thirty-five," I said, macho-like. "I'll take some plates off," I offered, gallantly. "No, that's O.K.," she says, "I'll warm up with that." I'm thinking, warm up with my maximum? Who the hell does she think she is? Maybe she IS Wonder Woman? I would have been put off by such arrogance but she was gorgeous. What a beautiful face! She had the glow of youth, sparkling eyes, long blonde hair, and the guys in the locker room and Bob hadn't exaggerated her body. Her breasts were magnificent. I gulped a little. I mean here I am, thirty-five years old, and this teenager has me weak in the knees. I'm having trouble finding words. "O.K.," I finally manage, "I'll spot you." That was clever. Now I can stand behind her and give her the once-over and she won't know it. If only I can keep from getting an obvious erection. Luckily I had on a tight new jockstrap, maybe that would help. "Sure," she says. "That way we can both add weights at the same time. It'll go faster." Well, she knocks out ten quick reps with my maximum weight that I struggle with, two hundred thirty-five pounds, but she keeps going. "That was ten," I say, trying to be conversational. "Oh, I do twenty with a light weight to warm up," she says. She warms up with twenty reps that I have to struggle to get ten with? What a putdown! She does her twenty and then jumps up off the bench. "Want to add another ten pounds?" I ask, as I go to the plate rack and pull a ten pound plate off. "No, no, silly," she giggles. "Let's put a fifty pounder on each end." "But that'll make three thirty-five," I say. "You'll hurt yourself." "Haven't yet," she says. "Will that make too much weight for you to spot me?" "Of course not," I lie. My manhood has been attacked. I won't back down. She knocks out a quick ten with the three hundred thirty-five pounds, effortlessly. "What, not twenty?" I kid her. That makes her giggle. "You're funny," she laughs. "Good. I like that. It makes the time pass quicker. Let's add two more plates." "The two and one-half pounders are down at the other end of the room. I'll get them," I say, half seriously. Well, now she really breaks down laughing. "God, you're funny," she says, between giggles. That would make three hundred forty pounds. You want me to go from three thirty-five to three forty?" "I think you'll have to," I say. "I don't think there are any one pound plates in the gym." For a few seconds she looks at me, an incredulous look on her face. Then she realizes I'm joking, and she really breaks into hysterics. She falls to her knees and starts pounding on the bench with her fists, she's laughing so hard. She must have laughed for five minutes, she couldn't stop. Tears were coming to her eyes. Finally she manages to get out, between laughing hiccups, "You know, I really like you, you're such a funny man. You make me laugh. I love that. You come here for your workouts every night. I'll meet you after midnight and we'll work out together. I can train you. I'm very good at it. That way you won't have to pay out for instruction and I can correct your form and you can save the money you'd have to put out for a trainer." Little did she know I could afford ten trainers, but I wasn't about to tell her I was a wealthy man. I didn't like people who only wanted to be around me for my money. "That would be very nice of you," I said. "I've only been working out for about six months. Being thirty-five years old I thought I'd better get serious about trying to keep in shape. I think I've gotten to the point where I could use a little instruction." "Well, I was always athletic, and I started doing weights to help me do track when I was twelve years old, in the seventh grade. My coach thought weights would help me develop. And they sure did," she added. "If you've been doing weights for two years you know a lot more than I do," I said. She looked at me, a quizzical look on her face. Then she realized again that I was kidding her. "Oh, no, silly, I'm not fourteen, I just turned eighteen. Been doing weights for six years. That's how I got this body," she giggled. And for emphasis she put her left hand on her hip and flexed her right arm. Well, even though she was wearing a heavy sweatshirt because it was cool this time of night you could just see her upper arm swell up, expanding the sleeve to its limit. It was unbelievable. It looked like there was a great big softball in there. I was surprised the sleeve didn't split open. Without thinking, or even asking, I reached out and put my hand on it, squeezing. It was hard as a rock, and huge! My jockstrap wasn't going to keep my penis in place, that was for sure. Realizing that I may have overstepped myself I said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you like that." "No, that's O.K.," she said. "A gym is a sweaty place, there's not a lot of formality in it." She stopped talking and looked at me closely. I could see the wheels n her head spinning. "Aren't you put off by muscles on a woman?" she quizzed. "Most men are. You can see right away I'm stronger than you. If you work out with me and I lift heavier weights than you do isn't that going to shatter your fragile male ego?" "Well, I always liked athletic women," I said. "You women are cops, pilots, soccer players, in the military, business executives - I'm sure all these physical stresses are changing your female testosterone levels. I knew it was only a matter of time before some women came along who could do the things in a gym that you yourself seem to be able to do. I think men are going to have to change with the times. Besides, if you do have big muscles I think you're beautiful enough to compensate for it," I complemented her. "Why thank you, kind sir," she blushed, and she did a graceful little curtsy. "You're welcome, pretty lady," I responded, and I did a graceful little curtsy also. Well, we both broke up laughing at that. When we finally stopped giggling she said, "You know, you're really a nice guy. You don't seem like a thirty- five year old guy. Most of them have lost their senses of humor by then. They're thirty-five year old sourpusses." "And you don't seem like an eighteen year old," I answered. "Most of them are only interested in fancy clothes, Britney Spears, manicured nails, and boys. Mainly boys. Or maybe girls," I added, as an afterthought. "Well, I don't have time for boys right now, or girls either," she laughed. "I was into sports, and boys just wanted these, and girls too, for that matter," she added, giggling as she put her hands under her magnificently huge breasts and gave them a little lift. At this point my penis was doing a little lifting of its own. I pretended to be shocked. "Why, that's awful. Didn't any boy just want to be your friend?" With a pair of knockers like that she should have had a lot of friends. "No, they all get grabby," she said. "And don't you get any ideas either, even if we do work out together. What would your wife say?" "She'd say shame on me, that is if I were married, but I'm not married," I said. "Been too busy trying to get myself established in business." "Oh," came this tiny little whisper out of her mouth, and she was quiet for a few moments. Then she seemed to gather herself together and said, "Well, we'd better get going if we're going to finish before daybreak. I need to get my beauty rest." "You'll never miss it," I said. "Damn," she blushed again, "you're just the nicest guy. I can't believe I met you here, of all places, and after midnight. You just never know, do you? Since we don't have one pound plates grab that fifty pounder over there, will you, and I'll take this one over here and I'll do my last bench press set with four hundred thirty-five pounds." She picks up the fifty pounds like it is a one pound weight and puts it on her end of the bar and I struggle with the fifty pound plate like it is a fifty pound plate on the other end of the bar. I get it up to chest height, just barely, and she gets on her back to knock out another ten reps with four hundred thirty-five pounds. Now this is tougher, and she does it slower, and it gives me a good chance to look her over. Four hundred thirty-five pounds you don't just casually lower and raise the bar. You damn well better take a deep breath first, maybe two or three breaths. Monster chest is heaving up and down, and tight new jockstrap has given up the ghost. I'm sure she has noticed but she doesn't say anything, she seems to be smiling and kind of giddy as she goes through her sets. She takes a break after the four hundred thirty-five pound bench presses, and I say to her, "What else do you do on chest day?" "Oh," she says, "I usually do legs, but we can do something else if it suits your routine better." "Well, legs it is," I say. Now I've got her there. I'm squatting two forty and I figure big chest, little legs. So I'm a little surprised when she says, "I usually warm up with five hundred pounds, how about you?" "Oh, I'm a little under that," I mumble. "Suppose I just spot you?" "I'd appreciate that," she says. I think she knows I'm bluffing. "I'm going to take off my sweat pants," she adds. "When I get into the higher weights my thighs get all sweaty, so I like to do squats in just my bikini panties since usually no one else is here to see me. That won't offend you, will it?" "Well ... " and I hesitated here for a little emphasis, " ... if you insist," I say. Again I get that quizzical look. Then she realizes I'm still kidding her. "Oh," she says, "I'll bet you like girls' bodies as good as any guy," she says. "It's just that ... well ... my body is a little different. Want to look?" "Well, if you must," I mutter. So she takes off her sweat pants. Looking at those thighs I figure she must squat five thousand pounds, not five hundred pounds. I figure nobody makes pants wide enough in the leg to accommodate those thighs. As if reading my mind she says, "I have to have my slacks custom made." So I say, "With such skinny legs I imagine it's hard to get a ready made slim fit that looks good on you." Again I get that look. "Skinny? Skinny? I'll have you know these are thirty- four inches. How big are yours?" "Thirty-eight inches," I lie. Her jaw drops, a look of disbelief on her pretty face. Then she sees where this is going. "You've got to be the biggest liar in the world!" she exclaims. "I'd show you but I don't want to embarrass you," I say. "Liar! Liar! Pull down your pants!" she orders, laughing hysterically. Well, I can't stop laughing either, so she comes over to me, grabs the top of my pants elastic waistband and tries to pull my pants down to my ankles, and I'm holding on to the top of my pants for dear life and we tussle. She doesn't want to rip my pants - she can see it's an expensive designer workout suit, so she does a little pirouette, comes around to my right side and puts her left arm around my waist and lifts me up onto her left hip with the greatest of ease. I'm so shocked by this maneuver I let go of my pants and throw my arms around her neck so I don't fall, not that I needed to worry. Now she easily pulls my pants down. "Thirty-eight inches? Thirty-eight inches?" she yelps. "More like eighteen inches!" "How'd you know?" I mumble. That, in fact, is what my thighs measure. "Hell," she says, "my biceps are bigger than your thigh!" "Yeah, you and what army?" I say, cleverly. "Ugh," she says. "You may have to get used to being with a woman stronger than you. I may have to get used to being with a guy whose thigh is smaller than my bicep! And a big liar to boot," she giggles. "But I'm cute," I say. Well, now we both break down laughing again. Between laughs I get out, "Anyway, no way is your puny bicep bigger than my masculine thigh!" "Oh no?" she says. "Wanna bet?" "Dare you!" I say. So she puts me back down on the floor and takes off her sweatshirt. First thing I'm interested in is watching her massive muscular chest expand as she raises her hands above her head to remove her sweatshirt. She sees where I'm looking. "Only fifty-eight double D," she pouts. "Shame," I mutter. "We should add an extra set or two to your bench presses." "I'll bench press you if you don't cut that out," she giggles. "Highly unlikely," I say. "What, you think I can't do it?" she asks. "Highly unlikely," I repeat. Before I can move she comes over to me, puts one hand on my neck and the other on my crotch and lifts me over her head, easy as pie. Now I like this view because I'm looking down on an inflated chest that is obliterating my view of maybe half the gym floor. But I'm also kind of scared. I mean, how many eighteen year old girls do you know who can easily hold your one hundred eighty-five pounds over her head? "I believe! I believe!" I yelp. "You'd better!" she giggles. She walks around the gym room holding me over her head. Then she stops in front of one of the mirrors to admire her handiwork. I also can see my reflection and I look pretty stupid with my body stretched out horizontally, held over the head of a rather short five foot five or five foot six inch girl who appears to have very, very large muscles. Just to show it's not a fluke she lowers my outstretched body to near the top of her head, then pushes me back up until her arms are fully extended. She does this about ten times. Getting tired doesn't seem to be part of her vocabulary. "Aren't you getting tired?" I ask. "Nope," she says. "You getting tired?" "I'm exhausted," I say. "Ooohhh, poor baby," she says, in a kind of mother to child voice. "Let mommy comfort you," and she pulls me down from over her head into a cradle hold. Now she's directly looking into my baby blue eyes as if to say, "What happens next?" Here I am, a thirty-five year old guy, being comforted in the arms of an eighteen year old girl. On impulse I throw my hands around her neck, hugging myself up tight against her fantastic bosom, and I plant little kisses on her muscular neck and shoulders. Now I'm a little embarrassed because how do I explain what led to this? Got it! "Baby needs a hug," I say, in my very best imitation of a childish voice. Well, that leads to more giggles, and she just plays along. She starts giving me small pecks on the tip of my nose, then my forehead, then one eyelid and then the other eyelid and a little peck on the mouth, and then her tongue invades my mouth and takes over. All of a sudden she realizes what she is doing. She holds me straight out from her body as far as her arms will go. She's holding my hundred eighty-five pound body rock steady at arm's length, and she isn't showing the slightest strain on her beautiful face, and she's studying me intently. What I'm studying is the bowling ball deltoids that can support her arms that are holding me like this. Suddenly she says, "You like me, don't you?" "Yeah, maybe," I gulp. "One thing," she says. She carries me over to the nearest bench and sits down with me on her lap. This big rich business executive that I am finds that strangely comforting. Here I am, thirty-five years old, I've always been a take charge kind of guy, and now an eighteen year old teenage girl is taking my control away from me. "I need to be sure this is real," she says. "I think it's real," I say. "I don't think I've ever felt this way about anyone before." "How do I know it isn't just my breasts?" she asks. "They are rather spectacular, as you can see." "It is your breasts," I say. She looks really crestfallen. It looked like tears were beginning to form in her eyes. "But it's also your personality, your sense of humor, your good looks, your self-confidence, your athleticism, your intelligence ... are you satisfied, or should I go on?" She brightened considerably. "You are a sweetheart," she says. "And I believe that a relationship is a partnership, you decide things together. But ultimately one person is the final decision maker. And that is always the man, he's bigger, he's stronger. But look. In any relationship I'm going to have I'm going to be the dominant person because I may not be bigger but I'm sure as hell going to be stronger. I will be the final decision maker. In the end I will be in control of the relationship. What I say goes. Any man who wants to be with me on a long term basis needs to face the reality of my strength." And for emphasis she flexes her right bicep right in front of my face as I sit on her lap. Well, it's an absolutely humongous bicep. It's peaked like I don't think I've ever seen before, and that includes the big macho guys around this gym. It has finger width blood vessels running this way and that. Again on impulse I reach out and squeeze. Rocks aren't any harder. I take both hands and run them around the muscle, just trying to gauge the size. It definitely is bigger than my thigh. "How big is this little thing?" I ask. "This little thing is twenty-four inches," she says. "I win our little bet. Your manly eighteen inch thigh doesn't even come close." "Well, I guess I can let you be boss of this relationship for a while," I say, "until I can add another ten inches to my big fourteen inch bicep. Should take me about six months to get mine up there." I use my most serious voice, the one I use when I want to impress business clients. She looks at me like I'm crazy, which maybe I am to let an eighteen year old teenage girl become my master. Then she again realizes I'm joking with her and she bursts out into hysterical giggles again. "You're ... you're ... (giggle) ... pulling ... (giggle) ... my leg!" she manages to get out. "Can I?" I ask, in all seriousness. But then I begin to have second thoughts. "Look, I hate to ruin a good thing for myself when everything seems to be going my way, but you're starting college in a couple weeks. Aren't you going to dump me for some college football hero? You're going to be one of the hottest new babes on campus. The football jocks are going to be knocking your door down." "No, they only want these," and she emphasizes her point by lifting those magnificent breasts again. Actually, I marvel that they don't lift very much as she pushes. Man, they must be solid. Hopefully I'll be able to test them out for myself real soon. She continues: "I want to make something of myself, I want to spend my time in study, and I want to have someone at home who values me not just because I have big boobs but who also values my other attributes. These college guys, they won't care about me. All they'll want to do is get into my pants. I'm the new breed of female. When I'm ready it won't be you getting into my pants, it'll be me getting into your pants," she giggled. "I can hardly wait," I say. "Should I wear shorts?" "I don't think shorts are going to hide that big boner of yours," she says. So she did notice, after all. I've been so intrigued with this teenager that I've totally ignored my erection creeping down along my thigh. "Oh, my, I'm so embarrassed," I say. "That's O.K." she says. "I wouldn't want to be with a man who didn't find me attractive sexually. It also tells me my muscles are not a turn-off for you. My muscles are here to stay, they're not going away. And looking at the size of that thing growing between your legs you don't seem to mind. That thing isn't going away very soon either," she giggles. "No, I may have just turned eighteen and graduated from high school, but I know what I want. I want a guy who's impressed with my assets, and I can see you're very impressed," she giggled, as she looked at my growing erection. "Look, I want someone who's impressed with my brains as well as my brawn, not just some college quarterback who wants to spend his free time squeezing these babies," she adds, doing her own squeezing. Her honesty and openness with me just lead me to impulsively give her another kiss on her full, sexy lips. Here I am, sitting on the lap of a fantastically gorgeous muscular babe half my age with muscles twice the size of mine, making out like crazy, but I realize she's only a teenager. I'm twice her age, and I'm the one that has to be thinking about what the future is going to hold for the two of us. So I say, "You're going to go through four years of college, and then what? You're going to dump me? What do you want after college? What's your major going to be?" "Gee, I haven't really decided yet, but I was thinking about sports therapy," she says. So I had a bright idea how to keep her close. "You seem to be pretty damn smart," I say. "For your long term future why don't you consider a business career? If you get an MBA you can come work for me at my corporation." "I'd have to start off as a vice-president," she giggles. "You get top grades and that could be arranged," I offered. "And I would need a six figure salary," she added. "Woman, you drive a hard bargain," I said. "Well, don't you think this figure is worth that figure? And I have a couple of pretty good bargaining chips," she says, and here she does a deep inhale of her fifty-eight double D's. "I'm convinced," I say, as sweat begins to break out on my fevered brow. "I'll be the best asset you'll ever have," she said. "In more ways than one," I murmur. "What was that?" she asked. "I said, it should be fun." "Good," she said, "Let's seal the deal. You may kiss me now." Boy, did I lay one on her. After all, if I just acquired a vice-president and a lifetime partner I had to have a few privileges. I realize she giggles a lot, but what can you expect from a teenager just turned eighteen? And I have no one in my life. She can be my companion, my business V.P., my sexual partner - these thoughts area going through my head as I snuggle up real tight to her massive bosom. Then I realize something is missing. "Hey, I don't even know your name," I say. "Joannie," she says. "I'm Fred. Fred Elliot." "And I'm Joannie Wentworth," she responded. "Why don't we talk this over?" she asks, as she stands up, still cradling me easily in her powerful arms. "How about we go get some coffee?" "Who pays?" I ask. "I'll flip you," she says. "I'll bet you could," I reply. Bob can only gape at us as she carries me out the door of the gym in her bulging muscular arms and I wave goodbye to him. We exit laughing (and giggling).