But you can't just go from zero to eleven and then back to zero again, can you?
You can't experience something that intense, that all-consuming, that physically and psychologically transformative, and then just... pretend it never happened.
Pretend your body doesn't remember.
Pretend you don't have a new reference point for what touch can feel like, what desire can do to you.
It's set a whole new baseline. A whole new standard. A whole new bar that regular human interaction can't seem to clear.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
I like… weird sex. And Ryan might be the first man I've encountered since… the maze, that could give me more of what I'm after.
He's built like someone who could pin me down. Who could hold me in place if I tried to squirm away. Who knows what his body can do and isn't afraid to use it.
And he's giving me signals that he's interested. That he's noticed me. That those lingering touches and the deliberate eye contact aren't accidental.
So maybe I should do something about it.
Maybe I should approach him. Stop waiting. Stop hoping he'll escalate. Take some kind of action instead of just… showing up and hoping proximity does the work.
But what the hell would I even say?
How do you signal to someone that you're into the kind of sex that requires negotiation? That you don't just want missionary with the lights off? That you need something darker, something harder, something that involves words likeconsensualandsafewordin the same conversation?
Do I just walk up to him after my next session and say, "Hey, Ryan, you got any workouts that might help with, say, lowering my gag reflex? Asking for a friend. The friend is me."
Or maybe, "Is there some special routine I could do that might prepare my ass for penetration? Like flexibility training? Core strength? I feel like there's got to be a muscle group involved here that I'm neglecting."
Yeah. Great plan. Really subtle.
And it doesn't help that he looks like he's got a perpetual chub going on beneath those joggers he wears.
Like, it'salwaysthere. Every single time I see him. Morning, afternoon, doesn't matter—there's a visible outline pressing against the fabric, a ridge that catches the light sometimes when he shifts his weight or leans back against the counter.
I mean, maybe it's not a chub. Maybe it's just—maybe his cock is genuinely that size when it's soft. Maybe that's just what he's working with baseline. Which would mean when he's actually hard, when he's actually aroused, it's probably?—
Massive.
Like, genuinely intimidating. Like, I-don't-know-if-that-would-even-fit massive. Like, that-could-be-a-problem-and-I-don't-know-if-I'd-care massive.
And now that I've noticed it, I can'tstopnoticing it.
Every time I walk past the front desk, every time he comes over to adjust a machine setting or ask if I need help with my form, my eyes flick down for half a second before I can stop myself. I don't mean to. It's compulsive at this point. Intrusive thought made visual.
And the worst part is… I think he knows I've noticed.
Because sometimes when I glance up after one of those half-second slips, he's watching me. Not smiling, not smirking—just watching. Waiting to see if I'll look again.
It's hard to tune out.
Impossible, actually.
"Hey, Scarletta?"
I turn, blushing. Because it's Ryan. He's striding towards me with purpose. His cock bouncing beneath his gray sweats.
Do not look.Do not look.
