Natural Endurance

Been in America four weeks and training's going well, no injuries yet which is mental given how hard Steve's pushing me. Hamstring's tight, hip flexors sore, but nothing that's going to stop me.

But there is a new problem. Ashley Brennan, Steve's physio. She's married, two teenagers. Gave me a blow job today during treatment then wanked me off with her feet, and I mean... I don't even know where to start with that one.

First appointment was boring, nothing to report. Second one she played jazz, said it relaxes athletes, but her hands kept going higher than necessary and I remember thinking that's a bit forward. Third time her voice went all breathy asking about pressure and I'm lying there getting hard thinking bollocks don't get a semi during physio, this is embarrassing Dan.

Today I walk in already half-interested, not sure if it's the weather or because every American woman I see looks like she's wandered off a film set. Tanned legs and white teeth everywhere you look. Anyway there's photos on her desk, husband looks boring as fuck holding some massive fork thing like he's just conquered a steak, two kids grinning like they've never had a worry in their lives. She's fit though. Forty-something in a polo shirt that's doing a lot of work across the chest. Glasses that keep sliding down when she looks at her notes. And I'm still twenty-one with zero impulse control so you can see where this is heading.

Actually no, you can't see where this is heading because I definitely couldn't.

"Face down sir, shorts off please."

Sir? What the fuck. So I lie down and the jazz starts like something from a 70's porn film, then she locks the door and I'm thinking oh, okay, privacy, sure.

Or maybe she locks it every time and I'm the pervert reading into things.

Hands on my calves first, professional enough. Then working up the inner thigh. Higher than physio requires. Unless American physio is just different and I'm the pervert here for noticing.

"Okay, now roll over. I want to check your hip flexors..."

Bollocks!

So I get onto my back and there's an obvious situation in my boxers. She glances down, then back to my face.

"Oh, don't worry that's normal young man."

But she's smiling when she says it. Pushing her glasses up. Her hand's moving towards me.

"Are you okay for me to continue?"

What kind of question is that? My cock is making all my decisions for me, as I nod like an idiot.

Her hand slides over. Covers me through the fabric. Just rests there.

Ugh, warm.

And I'm lying there thinking married, kids, Steve's physio, this is insane. But also thinking about the photos on her desk and the boring husband and how she's looking at me right now like I'm something she's been waiting for.

Her hand starts moving. Stroking me through the cotton.

Fuck me, it feels good.

"Um, so I've been thinking about this since session one..."

She pulls my boxers down. Wraps her hand round me. Strokes base to tip, watching my face.

"Just tell me what you need from me."

My brain's empty. Voice comes out weird.

"Er, your mouth... please m'am?"

Brilliant. Asking permission like I'm ordering a Big Mac and fries.

"Mm. Good boy."

Bends down and takes me in.

Fuck. Supersize me.

Her tongue flat against the underside, pressing, then circling, then flicking right underneath where I'm sooo sensitive. She's good at this. She knows she's good at this.

"Mmmm."

That sound. Not performative. Actually wanting it.

She pulls off. String of spit... "Don't move now."

I'm not moving. Couldn't if I wanted to.

Goes back down, deeper, lips tight round me, sucking hard on the way up. I'm gripping the table trying not to thrust into her mouth.

"Uh. Fuck. Uh huh."

Her hand's wrapped round the base, wet with spit, squelching. Other hand on my balls. Rolling them. Testing.

She's bobbing now. Taking me deep enough that she gags, pulls back, goes again. Wet sounds. Jazz saxophone. Her moaning round me, muffled.

And I'm thinking about her husband. That boring bloke with his fork. Wondering does he know his wife does this? Does she do this to him? Probably not. Probably lies there while he fumbles about then rolls over to sleep. Probably hasn't made her come in years.

She speeds up. Spit everywhere. Hand and mouth working together.

"Uh-- yeah-- uh huh--"

I'm close. Right there.

"Ashley I'm--"

Takes me deeper. Nose against me. Throat working. I'm coming, spunking down her throat, and she swallows and keeps going until I'm empty and twitching.

Pulls off. Licks her lips. Wipes her chin with the back of her hand.

I'm staring at the ceiling. Feeling faint.

She sits next to me. Flushed. Lips swollen.

"Well young man. That was fun, but I need to tell you something about boundaries."

Oh yeah, here we go.

"Let me tell you, I don't do penetration. That's cheating." Her accent's sharper now. "I'm a Christian woman, Dan. Blow jobs, hand jobs, other things, that's different. But actual sex is the line."

I'm sorry, what? So spunk down the throat is fine but cock in pussy is where Jesus draws the boundary? Only in America.

"So we can do what we just did, and other things. And maybe other things my husband won't let me do."

Won't let me do. Very American, that.

"Er okay, um what things?"

Please don't say pegging. I'm not ready for that.

Silence.

And I'm lying there, still hard because apparently I'm twenty-one and made of erections, brain already racing ahead. If blow jobs don't count. If hand jobs don't count. What else?

Her feet are right there. Bare now, trainers kicked off at some point. Red polish. Little toe ring on her right foot.

Something twitches.

"How about... a footjob?"

She blinks. "A what?"

"With your feet. On my... you know."

Brilliant. Eloquent.

"Oh my, I've never done that before."

"Right. Yeah. Forget I--"

"Yes Dan, how naughty. Let's try it."

Wait, what?

"Really?"

"It's not penetration so..." She's looking at her own feet now. Red toenails.

"Jesus will be fine with it."

"Don't be a dick Dan."

"Sorry."

But she's smiling. Shifts position. Feet near my hips.

"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong..."

"I don't think there's a wrong way."

"There's always a wrong way."

She slides one foot up my inner thigh. Soft against my skin. The sole pressing.

"Like that?"

"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah."

Both feet now. Either side of my cock. Not touching yet.

Then she presses them together. My cock sandwiched between her arches. Starts moving. Slow.

"This is weird."

"Bad weird?"

"No. Good weird."

She laughs. Adjusts the angle. Gets a rhythm going.

"You're nice and hard again."

"Yeah well. Your delicious feet are on my cock."

"Fair point."

She's watching what she's doing. Tongue poking out. Concentrating. Her toes grip the head on the upstroke and I grunt.

"There?"

"Fuck. Yes."

Working me now. Arches squeezing. Heels pressing together at the base then sliding up. The toe ring catching against me.

"You like this, don't you."

Not a question.

"Yeah."

"You like my feet."

"Apparently."

She speeds up. I'm watching her toes grip and release. Building again. Going to come on her feet. On her married feet. Her red toenails. Fuck I can't quite believe my luck.

"Do it Dan..."

Ugh, fuck....Jesus! Spurting across her feet, her ankles, getting the toe ring, getting between her toes. She keeps stroking through it until I'm empty.

She looks at me. Something in her face. Not just satisfied. Something underneath.

"Kiss them."

I look at her.

"Go on. Where you came.".

I bend down and kiss her instep. Salty. My spunk on there.

"And the other one."

Kiss the other foot. Tongue out this time, licking between her toes where it's messy.

"Good boy. Clean up your mess."

And I do. Tongue working between each toe. My own jizz on my tongue. Her skin underneath. The toe ring against my lip.

The shame's there. Always turns up late with me. Not enough to stop. Never enough to stop.

Her hands are already at her polo shirt.

No bra. Tits right there. Nipples hard. She's got her trousers shoved down and her hand between her legs.

"Come lick me..."

She's on the table now, where I was. Legs hanging off the edge.

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

I get between her legs. Push her hand away. She's soaking.

"Oh-- fuck-- oh--"

Her thighs clamp round my head. Hands in my hair pulling me tighter. Grinding against my face.

"There-- yeah-- uh-- there--"

I'm licking everything. Her clit. Her lips. Tonguing inside her. She's shaking.

"Lower."

I know what she means.

I lick down. Past her pussy. She tilts her hips up.

"Uh-- oh god-- he never-- uh--"

Course he doesn't. Boring fork bloke doesn't lick his wife's arse.

I tongue her. Pushing in. Wet.

"Oh-- fuck-- oh fuck-- oh--"

She's coming so quickly. Fuck me! Her thighs crushing my ears. Some noise coming out of her that might be my name?

When she stops moving I pull back. Face covered.

She looks at me like I've just performed a miracle.

"Such fun Dan. You know what else I've always wanted?" She laughs. "I want to wear your glasses. Do you have any?"

"Reading glasses yeah. Back at Steve's."

"Bring them Thursday. I want you wear them before I go down on you."

Her voice has gone breathy. She's thought about this. Probably lying next to her husband in the dark, hand between her legs, running through the whole scenario while he sleeps.

Probably get some husband at the door eventually. Wanting to lamp me for wrecking his marriage. And yeah fine, I think with my cock, guilty. But mate. You had years. Years to notice her. Years to not be shit in bed. Years to lick her arse instead of pretending it doesn't exist.

Then I show up and say yes once and suddenly I'm the problem? Fuck off. I didn't make her miserable. I just benefited from it.

She slides her wedding ring off. Holds it up.

"Open your mouth Dan."

I open my mouth.

She puts it on my tongue. Cool metal.

"Hold it there. Don't swallow it."

Nervous laugh from both of us. Then she takes me in her mouth again, slower, and I'm lying there with his ring on my tongue tasting it while she sucks me off.

Should feel bad about this.

Instead I feel chosen. Weird word but there it is.

She's working me slow. This thing that means everything to some people just sat in my mouth getting covered in spit while she does this. Like communion. Taking something holy and making it not.

When I get close she pulls off. Takes the ring back. Slides it on her finger. Wet.

"Now you're part of it."

Part of what though? The marriage? The lying?

Don't ask. Don't want to know.

"You're a good boy Dan."

Checks her watch. "Training in twenty minutes."

"You're mental."

"Maybe." Smile. "Same time Thursday?"

"Obviously."

"Can I keep your knickers?"

She stops. Looks at me.

"Please m'am?"

Pulls them up from round her ankles. Steps out of them. Wet patch obvious. Hands them over.

I'm getting dressed with her knickers in my pocket thinking about her in my reading glasses. Vision blurry, mouth full, lenses fogging up while I grip her hair. Thinking about coming on those glasses and watching her tongue clean them off. Thinking about her boundaries and her husband and her arse clenching round my tongue while she came.

This is what Americans do, isn't it? Compartmentalise. Put everything in little boxes. This box is marriage, this box is Jesus, this box is getting her arse licked during physio appointments. And as long as the boxes don't touch, everything's fine.

God bless America.

New message from Emma. Bollocks about her new boyfriend, delete. Katie asking where I am, ignore. Megan with a peach emoji which, fine, but my head's still on Ashley's red toenails and her husband's ring on my tongue and whatever the fuck just happened in there.

Four weeks in America. Shagged Steve's wife, daughter, mother. Blow job from his sister. Now his married Christian physio with kids my age calling me good boy and thinking tonguing her arsehole doesn't count because Jesus said so or whatever.

Dad always said I lacked impulse control. Proved him right with Felicity Carter at his mate's garden party, her mum's Pimm's jug and the guest bathroom and the proper scandal that followed.

Proving him spectacularly right in North Carolina.