Sydian: Working Out
Keywords: Sydian:, Out, Working,
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*Sydian/Working Out/ Ch. 1*
Work and working out were as much a way of life for Sydd as fucking and getting fucked. She was a partner in a prestigious firm; her professional life was secure "and" private. She had no fear that anything she did privately might jeopardize it. It was an accepted fact that she was brilliant, intensely skilled, "and" transgendered….and that she took no shit or prisoners. In fact, it had been "her" case that signaled the sea change in the professional acceptability of folk like her; and her skill and brilliance that brought clients to the firm for her counsel and litigation. Straight, gay, in between, it made no difference; they all knew she was a winner—in large part, because she "lived" there….she was professional. And, she was private….they hardly mixed except with her very deliberate intention…she always held the upper hand. Probably because of her brutal honesty—with her you always knew what you got….literally and figuratively. She always found the appropriate venue—the right time, space, and words—to let all concerned know that "Yes. She was a fine, black "bitch"….with a huge cock and big balls to boot." Figuratively in the professional setting; the literal was reserved for intimates.
She took the steps two at a time; the tight, white spandex leggings sleek and translucent against the sculpted black marble of her hard calves and thighs, and that full, supple ass. A short, midriff baring, half t, just barely getting over the distended nipples and the rounded fullness of her tits was covered by an over-sized black sweat shirt, the wrists pushed up to the muscular forearms, promising more form and power above. Her other ""muscle"" was discretely tucked—she didn"t want to "start" anything before she got into the gym—she had a technique that made the tucking give the "uninitiated" the impression that she had a very large "mons venus"—lips swollen and provocatively protruding. Then again, maybe Sydd meant "trouble" wherever she went—trouble in the best of ways. In any case, the tuck always got looks from those who didn"t know—some hostile; a good, good number just damn lustful….
***
6 a.m. is a wonderful time for a workout. Springtime; up with the sun, the streets not quite empty, and the gym—wonderfully—virtually vacant. "Vacant"….a thought that causes Sydd to muse about the possibilities of "sneaking" a quick shower in one of the private stalls without causing too much of a disturbance. Maybe even a sauna might be empty….
"Virtually vacant." The intrusion of cyber-space; the illusion of space and emptiness at 6 a.m. All the young "wanna-get-aheads" are here. Well, at least what seems an inordinate amount if you didn"t know this culture. The pursuit of perfect bodies and perfect positions could be literally aligned here, and not necessarily by doing pilates, either. In the perfection of bodies and positions in the hours commencing at 6 a.m. and moving onwards, more than once Sydd had come across sweat induced by carnal activity other than contact with free-weights, or the nautilus. While the "jerking" she had witnessed was not necessarily "clean", o, it was stimulating! It did, like at good workout, cause the blood to rush—hers, as well as those she stumbled upon…."Working out"—terminology of so many meanings and nuances….
Perfect bodies and perfect positions. Aside from the physical ones that could be encountered in the nooks and crannies of the gym, there were those that related to career. When the physical and career orientations were taken together, Ms. Sydd was almost iconic. It was not that she is "intimately" known here. She had no friends, and no lovers—as yet—in this space. It was her carriage, and its almost mythic proportions that stimulated interest when she pushed either in or out of the gym"s doors on those early mornings.
Picture this: living within walking distance of her gym, Sydd is an easily identifiable entity within and without: in sweats; the tailored business suit; or, her "preferred" evening wear—the always stylish, always tight, always short; yet, always tasteful, if slightly kinky. But those are the clothes…..
The element that is most arresting is the body—her sheer physicality. Again the picture becomes the metaphor. Again, is she a "small" "woman"? 5"6-7; 135; solid, "cut." Compared to other "girls," she is a little one. So, in many ways, it is "carriage" that stops traffic. That 5"6, 135 pound frame seems cut from polished onyx—if onyx can be polished. The color is sometimes the subject of ridicule—anonymously, usually by unsuccessful cyber assassins—quite possibly because of its power and her pride of possession. She works onyx. She works obsidian—all to her advantage. She magnifies contrast: as surely as spring will give way to summer, the winter-wheat twists have given way to an even shorter, and if at all possible, even "blonder", nappy cut—a celebration of African kink. The cobalt lenses still blaze from that perfect black face, able to cut through ice….and bullshit.
The body—"iconic"—5"6, 135, a "modest" pair of 38s—"the best that money can buy," she laughs, whenever they are "encountered"—a tight 30 inch waist, and a muscular, bubbled, 36 inch ass and hips, attached to thighs and calves that Olympic runners covet. The eye-popping, traffic-stopping, iconic, "and" arresting Sydian is just that because she is also 50+….She"s seen half a century and more. She is all the boys and girls hope to be, wish to be, work out to be, "and" more, through their 6 a.m. forays to the gym. For some, she is silently their living role model….and for a great many more, the imagined object of their lust. Upwardly mobile, all the boys and girls. Thrust together, now…..
*Sydian/Working Out/ Ch. 2/Sweat*
Sweat. It runs in rivulets. From her forehead down her face, finding the channel between her breasts and condensing around her balls and the serpentine stricture of her cock. On the backside, sweat has collected at the nape and across the shoulders. It rolls across the shoulder blades, converges at the small of the back. It then finds its way between the cheeks of that marvelous ass—who or what wouldn"t? Two distinct streams have found their ways to the tops of those cheeks and cascade over and down them, leaving a sheen as they slick the back of her thighs and calves. It has been a good workout….
It is fairly quiet, fairly empty, as she makes her way back to her locker. It is almost as she anticipated; her desires are almost met. There are very few people this morning. She turns on to her row and there are two black women there, chatting. They look up and catch her eye. She nods and flashes a "shy" smile of acknowledgement. Their response is hard to decipher….a begrudged nod? A catty flit of the eyes between the two?
Sydd works the latch on the locker. Pulls the t over her head. She can feel the heat of their eyes on her silhouette as the cool air assaults her tits and nipples as they make their own expressions of freedom. Intent on her own business, she turns her back to them, steps from her shorts, her thong intact—no need to reveal "any more" than she already has. She wraps the huge white towel under her arm pits and pivots toward the sauna….
***
She settles in. She has a corner on the high bank. The sweat room is timed. She closes the eyes to muse and the two of them insinuate themselves into her meditations….They were quite attractive—the two of them—athletic in all their proportions. One about Sydd"s height; tight, compact body, but by comparison, almost breast-less—sort of flat-chested—not quite; boyish and beautiful. Chestnut colored; hair, an asymmetrical, "oriental" cut—terribly straight—yet again, in the most beautiful way, and so black that it held a cast of blue….
The taller one, gingered and buxom; hips that most women pray for. The sheets of red mane have been pulled back for her work out into a thick French roll. Good friends. Sharing secrets and gossip….
In her heavy lidded musing Sydd is only too aware of the way in which her thong is being strained. Beneath the towel, the weight of terry-cloth and steam frame a serpentine form that "sleeps" now, across her thigh…."Those two, young bitches…." She smiles to herself….
***
The sweat the sauna produces is nothing like the rivulets that cascade from a hard workout. In here, sweat is a fine mist. She"s been gently sprayed. Hmmmmm….she muses, sexually…. "spraying"…. "cat-sex"…..a slight twitch in her groin….
She almost misses it. The door parts silently. Through hooded lids, lashes heavy with sweat, she sees the slender, compact figure glide in. Chestnut girl. Sydd does not fully open her eyes; makes no acknowledgement, but she is fully focused. The Chestnut passes her hand behind her. A deft sliding move, accompanied by the soft sound of polished metal fucking…the door is bolted. More annoyed than alarmed, Sydd"s only thought: "Now why hadn"t I noticed that? The lock…."
Eyes still hooded; pulse unnoticeably elevated, Sydd waits….all this morning"s muscle slightly coiled….wary. And aware, as the Chestnut watches her. More than a few questions….
Then, it happens….Ms. Chestnut drops her towel—"hell-o!" Sydd"s mind snaps—and the tight, slim boyish body teeters there in a pair of 6 inch, metal-heeled, black patent, stilettos. In a sauna….
The Chestnut woman drops a hand, two fingers extended, to very puffy pussy lips that hardly hide a thick, and what seems to be, rapidly growing clit—the thickness of a little finger and still swelling….Sydd has the impression that there"s been play well before this entrance. What once "slept," stirs and leaks across Sydd"s thigh. Sydd has always found it difficult to resist beauty, in any form—difficult, but not impossible…
The two fingers frame the clit as the two long legs spread themselves—almost imperceptibly, but shamelessly, wide. The fingers pull on the clit, tugging, making it distend, grow fuller and longer. Then they disappear into what appears to be a deep, honey-well….
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Keywords: Sydian:, Out, Working,