Tie Me Chicago XII

My sister graduated high school. It was then off to college for her, close enough to be home for major holidays, weekend visits rare. Miss Eve also graduated and decided to matriculate locally, majoring in physical therapy. With required courses in health, biology and anatomy for Miss Eve the Friday afternoon visits became defacto real life laboratory lessons, no part of my nakedness to escape her palpating fingers and examining hands.

With sis well away, my mother’s Friday bridge club occupying her well into the evening, clothing for me was no longer deemed necessary. I was stripped naked before mother’s car left the driveway.

Miss Eve and I would then work out to together, my physical efforts shamefully inadequate... initially. Me in the nude, Miss Eve fully clothed in sweats, she was given to picking me up and lifting me well over her head... with little expended effort, laughing as her display of puissance served as a catalyst for embarrassing but thrilling tumescence. She learned what excited, what aroused, playfully taunting... until it was bath time. Then her handling became more earnest, my continuing obsequious behavior earning the touch of her caring hand... and eventual climax, ejaculating for her further and further into the suds of the bubble bath. 

We became a curious item about town, she at six feet, me a head shorter but gaining. The gym was visited in unison. Showing me various exercises, she indeed worked me. I slowly became buffed and I also learned some anatomy.

The woman owner of the gym held males in disdain, my free use of the facility a favor to Miss Eve, even though chores were required as compensation. One of which was cleaning the women’s locker room.    

And that’s when the owner’s disdain became apparent.

“He’ll look more presentable in his jock strap,” the woman quips to Miss Eve. “If he’s going to traipse about in the lady’s locker room, he can at least offer the girls some entertainment.”

Talking directly to the Lesbian owner prohibited, Miss Eve nods on my behalf.

“And make sure he doesn’t stare. Most of the girls aren’t overly shy, but a gawking male is annoying.”

Miss Eve nods her concurrence, extending her hand palm upwards, with me knowing it is the gesture to dispense with my covering... tee shirt, running shoes, socks and shorts.

Thereafter the protocol was for Miss Eve to put me through the paces... numerous weights, cardiovascular work, calisthenics... strip to my jock strap to cool down... and attack the floor of the lady’s locker room. No mop permitted, bucket and brush, I scrubbed on hands and knees, occasionally glimpsing up, but knowing to never brazenly stare at the patrons in various states of deshabille.

It was tempting. Despite Miss Eve’s Friday afternoon baths, hormones flowed, priapism beckoned. The gym was for the most part used by shapely female athletes, not the social facility of middle aged housewives attempting to shed the detriments of the prior evening’s fudge cake.

On occasion, my uncovered buttocks received a playful pat. Condescending compliments flowed. ‘I should have one of these at home,’ the typical observation.

At times, I was greatly incentivized to face the floor and stay down. Certain girls, no shyness indeed, would exit the shower, in haste a toweled hand busily patting dry uncovered flesh, ignoring my presence but as stated, furthering my anatomical education. I would feel the jock strain with the resulting bulge. Such tempting moments.

Then came the day when Miss Eve cut short her workout, showering while I labored on the locker room floor. In the many months of her tutelage, the protocol was for me to be nude whenever feasible and of course for her not to deign in showing herself, however divinely molded in feminine athleticism. Thus her nudity was not... her body unknown to me.

I glance up, catching her amazingly chiseled femininity, momentarily stare, then immediately realize my transgression and return to my task... too late.

Bunched towel in her left hand, right hand to her hip is a pose of authority, Miss Eve comes to stand over me completely nude. While I feign unawareness, I feel the bulge, my swelling penis to challenge my only garment. Finally she speaks.

“Stare again and I’ll have you working without anything at all, Matt. You can show the girls that unruly penis of yours.”

I want to protest. It is Wednesday, my hormones burgeoning, anticipating our Friday rendevous... my bath... my display... my humbling exhibition of amusing virility.

Peripherally, I can see her calves, incredibly shapely but so toned, so strong. Thighs of tree trunks, but of equal attraction. Dare I shift to view higher? I freeze in concern, my scrubbing hand motionless and betraying my male curiosity. From above, I hear my idol chuckle sardonically.  

“Go ahead and look, Matt. Nearing age fifteen I suppose you need to learn a few things. But if you visually harass the other girls, it will be a long time before I bathe you again. And trust me, that jock strap will be denied. I may even have you work out in the nude. What do you think of that?”

I gulp. But with permission granted, I look up. My awe and admiration are well founded. With the layers of subcutaneous fat of most women limited, Miss Eve is a tigress, a powerful beast with rippling muscles not limited to arms and legs. The abdominals belie her gender. Still, as a male, as a hormone laden hound, my gaze goes to parts pink... fine pink folds of labial flesh peaking past plump labia majora. The breasts protrude firmly, advanced pectoral muscles disguising the depleted fat of mammary glands, nipples of cherry red.

She lets me assess then finally snorts slowly squatting and parting her knees to offer a most salacious unimpeded view of her quim.

“You’re precocious, Matt. You have no clue what you’re looking at, yet you gawk. Better get back to work... and remember my warning.”

Disappointingly, she rights herself. Stepping away, I know to go back to scrubbing, very much in need of my bath.