Is It My Body or Ours?

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It had happened to me once before; many years ago. Ages before, I had experienced a similar set of feelings. The feeling that my body did not belong to me and that I shared it with someone else. That it was like a third party, an inanimate object that my mind could leave, and look back upon.

It had firstly happened in my late teens when I was eighteen or nineteen, and now it was happening again, almost quarter of a century later.

Back then, it had resulted in three or four rigid fingers being buried deep inside me, now it was the stunningly hard cock of a young man. Then, I had been finger-fucked to a series of shattering orgasms, the like of which I had not previously experienced; now I was cock fucked to levels of climax that I had forgotten existed.

Back then, I was a pretty good tennis player. Then, I had neat little B cup lumpies on my chest, not the D and sometimes DD dumplings that hang out there now. They ruined my tennis; you try running with two big things like DD cup tits flopping all over the place. Anyway, I almost, but not quite made Wimbledon. I did, though, make the county squad when I was just eighteen and represented Essex Ladies in national tournaments; we didn’t win it the years I played, but usually did make the quarter or semi-finals.

I was in my gap year, between school and university so I played a lot. I also trained a lot and attended live in training camps at the national tennis centre at Bisham Abbey once a month or so.

We had four coaches. A tennis coach, a fitness coach, a sports psychologist and an agility coach. The tennis guy looked after your court work, the fitness your stamina and speed, the psychologist, the only female, worked on your mind and motivations and the agility one on your body.

At camp, it was intense from tennis and training aspects, but very relaxed in other ways. The coaches were often in the changing rooms and after a while, the dozen or so girls that were usually there, sort of forgot about them. So, it would be nothing for a couple of us to be naked after coming out of the showers and a few of us to be in our undies as we got dressed or undressed. The coaches didn’t even seem to notice. But then, firstly, they had groups of girls there every week and presumably they got used to it and, secondly, we were all lesbians in any case weren’t we! Actually that’s not far from the truth, but I’d say more like 50/50 than anything else!

Those weeks at camp were hard work. We either, trained or, played tennis for at least six hours every day and then had theory, techniques, tactics lessons and massage in the evenings. Even with the lesbians there wasn’t much flitting from room to room at night, we were so tired!

It was during my third or fourth camp visit that my “body experience” started happening. The coach and I started referring to my body in the third person, “It will become more supple” “if we do this to it, that will happen.” It was as if we were referring to something that didn’t belong to me, not my own bloody body.

It was the same when he demonstrated how certain muscles work. His hands would be on me, pushing and squeezing without any consideration of the man/woman aspects. He would massage me, focusing on my upper thighs, telling me to clench and relax them as his fingers were almost touching my pussy, which was covered by just a slither of cotton. I became aroused of course. It didn’t seem to matter though. After all, it wasn’t really me was it, just my body?

After a few times like this, the atmosphere between us became closer, but it wasn’t just him and me. No there most certainly was three in this relationship; Steve, me and my body.

Looking back a few years later when I was living with Kevin and was very much in love with him, I often wondered whether Steve, the coach, was really nothing more than a sleazy perv who preyed on young tennis women, perhaps having a different one, like me, each week or even several each week. I hadn’t then, and don’t now, have any answers to those questions.

At the time, I was putting everything into tennis and my social and love lives just didn’t exist. I hadn’t had sex for well over six months and I was suffering from the inevitable frustration.

It was early summer when things really got going with Steve, my body and me. I, and the other girls in the group I trained and practiced with, had got to know him quite well and we had all become more and more relaxed in each others company. He was always in and out of the dressing room, more and more frequently he saw us undressing, getting in and out of the showers or completely nude; and we didn’t mind: odd! We also were pretty relaxed about what we wore. Often playing in loose tops, short skirts or shorts or even in bikinis, I guess we showed off to him, the other coaches and, of course the lesses.

I was lying on my front. Steve was kneeling beside me. He was holding my legs just above my knees. I was wearing a short tennis skirt and a singlet, with a normal bra under it, not a sports bra. He was lifting my legs from the floor while pressing on the small of my back. The exercise was to stretch my thigh muscles ankara escort and make me more flexible at the hips. As he lifted my legs a little, so my skirt slipped up. I was wearing panties, not a thong. I felt his hands pressing on my bum.

“Now I’m going to lift the legs and apply pressure against this,” he said. “Make the gluts work hard.” See, he used ‘the’ not ‘yours’, again the third person.

It hurt, yet at the same time excited me.

“We have to get more power from this,” he said, adding as he squeezed. “From your bum.”

It just went on from there. It seemed that once he had touched one of my intimate places, the rest became fair game.

I was on my back. His hands were on my waist, then my stomach, and then his fingers touched my pubis. It didn’t seem to be wrong, not even when he pressed me there, not even when he slipped a finger further down and touched my lips through the panties. My body jerked

I grunted then groaned. For some reason, I mumbled.

“Sorry Steve.”

“Don’t be, there’s no need.” He replied, not removing his finger.

I moaned again, it felt so lovely. He pressed harder, I opened my legs, he slid his finger between them. My eyes were tightly closed, my mouth was open.

“You have to look after your body, Mandy, in every way,” he said.

“How? What do you mean?” I asked rather ridiculously.

“You are so tense, so taught,” he went on running his fingers along my lips.

“Am I?” I groaned back, now not even trying to hide my excitement.

“Yes, you aren’t looking after its every need are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re neglecting some of its needs, aren’t you?” He said, one of his hands cupping

my breast and pinching my already hard nipple.

I got what he meant.

“Yes, yes Steve I am.” I managed to blurt out, just before he slid his hand inside my knickers and found my wetness.

It was absolutely fucking amazing and I started to cum immediately.

“That’s good, that’s what it needs Mandy.”

My head was rolling from side to side and I was gasping for breath as I felt his fingers slip inside me. I grabbed his wrist and pulled his fingers harder into me.

“See isn’t that good, doesn’t it like that?” He asked

“Oh yes,” I managed just before having an explosive orgasm.

Each day after that he made me cum. We never actually fucked and I never actually touched his bare dick. I did rub his hardness through his shorts and sometimes ran my hands over his chest but he didn’t undress or seem to want anything back from me.

No, all he wanted to do was to use ‘our’ body, to help it, relieve it and take the tension away from it. And the way that Steve did that was to shove three fingers right up my cunt, often twice a day, and hand fuck me to shattering orgasms. After all, he would have rationalised I’m sure, the body needs that as much as it needs all its other requirements.

When you have big tits, doing things like going on a running machine in a gym can be embarrassing. Equally, visiting a pool, a spa, jacuzzi, sauna or steam room can be unsettling. The leers, stares and ogling become tiresome.

I had been going to a gym in Docklands for several years. Just before Christmas last year, I had thought “Why go?” It only drives me mad. I resent the stares from the obvious pervs and get too steamed up about those from anyone that is even the slightest fanciable. But then why not? After all I am celibate and hadn’t let anyone near me for months. But I never did anything about those I fancied and I didn’t accept the occasional invitations for coffee or a drink. Instead, I became increasingly resentful of being stared at. Stared at when: I laid on a mat stretching, my singlet pulled tightly across those big lumpies on my chest; they leaped about as I cycled, rowed or ran on the various machines and in a swimsuit, one piece of course, as I swam or sat in the sauna or steam room.

So I decided to leave.

In the apartment we have a spare bedroom, or study, that Sara and I use as a junk room. During December, I cleared that out, gave it a quick paint job and had a handyman clad two walls in mirrors. We re-carpeted it, hung a forty two inch plasma on one wall and installed a portable A/C unit. I ordered a bike, a running machine, some weights and other gym stuff as Christmas presents to myself.

A few days later I watched enthralled as the delivery guys assembled the equipment. As part of the package for spending thousands on the machines the suppliers had ‘kindly’ thrown in a couple of medicine balls and one of those big gym balls. I was all set. So by New Years Day, my gym was set up and ready to go.

“You should have a personal trainer,” a friend advised. “He’ll explain what to do and he or she will measure your progress, “otherwise how will you know how you are getting on?”

“Mmmm true,” I responded, realising the truth in what she said and recognising the potential difficulties of pushing myself by myself.

“And on top of that,” she said, sipping her wine, crossing her legs giving a flash right up to her panties and smiling. escort ankara “He’ll probably be young and handsome, with a body to die for and he’ll fuck you rigid whenever you want.”

“Yeah” I smiled, joining in the light banter between the girls I was with at the golf club. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

Despite that, I realised when I got home that it might be a good idea. Not being fucked rigid, although, at times, that had such appeal recently that I had to attend to myself on an almost daily basis. It was having someone to keep a check on me: I am such a lazy bitch at times.

I spoke to the gym I had been using and they said they would e-mail me some names, suggesting that I call them and have a chat.

“They are all freelance trainers and don’t work for the gym,” the receptionist explained, adding. “Do you have a preference for male or female?”

I said I didn’t and they said they would send two of each.

“Hmmm, quite a problem,” I thought looking at the email that came through almost immediately. It had four names. Luke and Harry, Sally and Mo. With brief details of their experience.

I wasn’t sure whether to go for the safe option of a girl or, the slightly more appealing one, of a guy. On balance I thought male.

I called Harry first and got no reply so I left a message for him to call me. To this day I haven’t had a call back. I also left a message for Luke who returned my morning call that evening.

He was very attentive and we arranged a meeting at my apartment the next morning.

He explained that he was training in a particular aspect of fitness called Corrective Holistic Exercise Kinesiologist, CHEK. He told me that this was a holistic approach, based more around stretching than strong CV stuff although he did of course, use running and cycling machines, nodding at my new kit.

“What are you trying to achieve?” He asked.

“How do you mean?” I replied looking at the impossibly young looking PT.

“Well, do you want to run a marathon, just be generally fitter, be more supple, improve your stamina, be stronger or what?”

“Oh I see what you mean,” I replied, quite conscious that his eyes were roving over my body as he asked those questions and then added.

“Or lose weight as most of my clients do.”

I smiled.

“Why, do you think I need to?”

Diplomatically he replied. “We all do a little.”

His use of suppleness took me back to the tennis camps and made me realise that was probably what I needed more than anything to improve my golf swing. I explained that and he told me that he had been golf pro at a driving range and that he specialised in fitness as it applied to golf.

“I’m actually a qualified, by CHEK, golf biomechanic,” he said flashing me a lovely smile.

We had a long chat about golf as I made him a cup of tea, now having made my choice of trainer.

“So how do we start?”

“Well the first step is I perform a thorough analysis of your posture, suppleness and muscle elasticity,” he explained.

“When would we do that?”

“Are you appointing me?” He asked.

“Yes, yes I am,” I replied, a little quickly.

“Great thanks, that’s cool. We could do it now if you want. It takes about half an hour and I write you a detailed report about what I find and the exercises I propose.”

We agreed the terms and that he would perform the ‘examination’ there and then.

“Should I change?” I asked, wondering if my sludgy coloured, elasticated waist-banded combat pants and long sleeved khaki tee shirt would be appropriate.

“No you’re fine like that,” he said, again running his gaze over my body.

Was he focusing on my tits, I wondered? Or was I, since putting on weight over Christmas and becoming a DD as opposed to my normal D or even C cup, becoming paranoid about guys ogling me. After all that was the main reason I had built this bloody gym in my flat and had stopped going to the public gym and pool.

Luke went out to his car in the courtyard and came back with a brief case and a pairs of scales.

As a starter, he measured practically every aspect of me with a tape measure. Thankfully not my ‘vital statistics’, but my shoulder width, length of arms, hands, feet and legs, my waist and hips, and the girth of my thighs, calf muscles and arms. He had me stand against a wall, my head and heel touching it, made me do sit ups and press ups, touch my toes, lift my knees and loads of other movements. He then made me stand on the rather complicated looking scales.

“This determines your weight distribution,” he explained, showing me that I placed almost 2 kilos more on my left side than on my right.

He explained the purposes of all the measurement and calculations were to establish a bench mark against which future progress could be measured, to work out where it needed more suppleness and the exercises we would need to get that.

As he spoke my mind again went back almost a quarter of a century.

“We need to know as much about it as we can, so we can control it, not it you.”

The first couple of sessions were fine. He got me into ankara escort bayan the swing of his way of doings things quickly and I kept my promise of doing the exercises he set me. We had agreed on two one hour sessions a week for four weeks, going down to one a week after that.

Luke was in his early twenties. He was quite tall, probably six two against my five feet seven, had short, blonde hair, against my long, chestnut mane and his physique was slim, angular and taught against my fullish, rounded and rather soft, well a bit flabby really, figure.

Why the hell I was comparing him to me as I got ready for his fifth or six visit? I had no idea, but I was. And, I realised, he was on my mind more and more. Far more than he should be. Far more than it was healthy for a personal trainer to be. But we were getting on great. Not just working together on my body, but also laughing and joking as we developed our relationship.

In the shower getting ready for my next session with him, some of the phrases stuck in my mid. “Working on my body.” “Developing our relationship?” God what was I thinking? For fucks sake he’s twenty three, he’s nearer my daughter’s age than mine, and he is young enough to be my son.

Stop it, I insisted to myself, put that out of your mind, forget it, I stressed, nevertheless slipping into a pretty thong and a normal, not sports, bra under the tight singlet and hipster gym trousers. They were full length and tight round my bum and hips and left a fashionable strip of bare belly flesh between them and the hem of the singlet.

The ‘relationship’ between anyone and their coach has to be close and open and that was how mine and Luke’s was shaping up. I was able to say things like.

“My boobs get in the way of my golf swing.”

He felt comfortable enough to be able to explain. “Big boobs can be an advantage for they mean you have to hold you arms straight when you swing.” Again, see, talking about them, my tits, as though they were separate from me.

And, of course, a coach or a personal trainer has to feel free with the material that he has been commissioned to work upon, which in this case is a body, my body.

At first he was tentative, when he would bend my leg, arrange me in a stretch position on the floor or draped over a ball. The first few sessions he held me loosely as though being afraid. But then I noticed, or my mind imagined, subtle changes. He became bolder and more assertive with his hands. He touched me more frequently, his hands went nearer to my more intimate places, we were developing our ‘relationship!’

It was, I have to admit, driving me fucking crazy. Not so much at the time, not when we were together in ‘my gym’, not when I was in my gym gear and he was wearing his tight, white tee shirt and blue tracky trousers. No, at those times my concentration was on performing the exercises he ordained. It was after them, sometimes almost immediately he left, more often that night in my bed, when my imagination ran wild. When I thought of having his erection between my breasts; breasts that I was squelching together.

What do I mean erection and breasts? At those times, if it was just after Luke had left, it might be on the mat in the gym or even on the secluded balcony outside, or if it was later, in my bed, it wasn’t ‘his erection’ and ‘my breasts.’ No, it was Luke’s cock that was between those two big tits I was pressing together. It was his big, hard, hot cock that was between my soft, full, luscious titties, sliding up and down the surrogate cunt I was creating for him as my other hand found my wet, throbbing pussy. Yes it was his young, what I imagined would be, stunningly hard prick that was fucking my tits as I fucked myself.

It was with the backdrop of those thoughts that I was getting ready for him. Ready for my personal trainer, my young coach, my imaginary lover.

“Was that purposeful?” I had wondered as the back of his hand grazed the side of my boobs.

“Did he have to press so fully on the base of my spine, just above my bum?”

“Had his hand gone just a tad further it would have touched my lips inside the thin trousers and little thong?”

“Was his shoulder pressing against my tits an accident?”

“Did I shove my boobs out more obviously? Was I thrusting my crotch at him?”

“Was the touch on my tummy or thigh more of a caress than a hold?”

These sorts of events and thoughts had been occurring more recently over the past two or three sessions. Was it me? Was it him? Was it both of us? Or was it just my sexually frustrated imagination? Surely he wouldn’t risk it? Surely he could not take the chance? Surely if he tried it on and got it wrong he would be finished as a PT? But maybe they all try it on; maybe women like me welcome it, expect it or want it even? Who knows? And then again there is the age thing? I know many young guys ‘just love older women.’ But then had they seen sagging tits, tummies with a swell to them, bums that had fallen a bit and wrinkles round the eyes? Sure, older women may be conceptually more exciting to young guys due to their experience, but what about the feel of their skin, the extra flab or, not in my case fortunately, but with many my age, the cellulite. Not all twenty somethings want to get into forty somethings knickers, even if, as in my case, they are pretty, little, sexy thongs.

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