Seducing The Runners, Part 1

Some of my friends play social sport in an attempt to stay fit. My heavier girlfriends stay home and guiltily play Wii. A couple even indulge in cocaine binges as soon as they step out of the office, which has the dual advantage of helping them stay thin, and introducing them to rich, greedy, horny men.

Me? I seduce runners.

Perhaps ‘seduce’ isn’t the right word. More accurately, I proposition male runners for sex, mid-workout.

I live in a trendy waterfront apartment across from the city. All day, every day, men and women jog past my apartment. Each locked in their own private, silent battle against themselves, with the goal of losing – or maintaining – weight. Most of their motives, I’ve learned, are rooted in a desire to appeal to the opposite sex.

So, for the men, I came up with my own way of validating their dedication to their bodies. I began offering free fucks. Think of it as a karmic gift, paid in advance.

My favourite part is the introduction. I sit on a bench a few metres from the running path, wearing tight lycra. To observers, it probably looks like I’m taking a rest from my own workout. As men jog by, their eyes are inevitably drawn to me: my big tits, my tight legs, my plump lips. My blonde hair. If we share eye contact, I smile and stand up. Nine times out of ten, the men nearly fall over from the shock of being engaged by someone like me.

I greet them each in the same manner: like I’m meeting an old friend. Big smile – lots of teeth. Hand outstretched. An excited “Hi!”. I skip the pleasantries though; I’m there for a reason. I gesture for them to come closer, and then I cut to the chase. “Can I fuck you?”, I whisper in their right ear.

That’s my second favourite part. Again, the near-universal reaction is one of disbelief. They request confirmation: Pardon me?”. Or: “Are you serious?”. I either repeat the question, or nod my head, while still wearing a wide smile, and looking every bit the dirty slut.

I only ever approach men exercising alone. I’ve never been turned down. My youngest proposition was a mature-looking 12-year-old; when I was done with him, he nearly passed out from the sensation of experiencing his first orgasm while five inches deep inside me. The oldest man I’ve approached had just celebrated his sixty-first birthday. He didn’t last long, but throughout our brief intercourse, I was preoccupied with how I’d go and explaining the situation to the police if he died in my apartment, mid-coitus.

Once they accept my offer – and they always do – I immediately turn and start walking to my apartment block. We share the lift to the eighth floor. I make no small talk; rarely do they. My guess is that they’re still processing their apparent lucky break. The elevator goes “ding!” and the door opens. I lead them into my one bedroom apartment, and shut the door behind us.

I utter a command: “Strip.” They do.

Twelve hundred and fifty-three pairs of sweaty shorts have hit that same spot in my living room over the past ten months. Some of them are already sporting boners at this point. It’s cute.

I often need to encourage them: “The underwear, too.”

And then, without warning, I bend down and start sucking their cocks.

The taste and scent of male sweat turns me on like nothing else.

A few of my partners have blown their loads within seconds. They each replaced their shorts and left in a hurry, embarrassed, never to be seen again.

But the vast majority of them make it to my bed, where – after the hottest fuck of their lives – they’re soon made aware of the real reason I’m so willing to suck and fuck a sweaty stranger.