Sunset Reps and a Dangerous Dare

The sun was doing that thing where it turned everything gold and made you feel like you were living inside a perfume commercial. I'd been walking the shoreline for twenty minutes, getting my steps in, telling myself I was staying active because I wanted to, not because my doctor had used the words "at your age" one too many times last checkup.

That's when I spotted her.

She'd set up a bench press right there on the sand. An actual bench. A barbell with plates. A mat. A water bottle. The whole operation looked like someone had stolen half a gym and dragged it to the beach. And there she was, this blonde woman in a bikini that left very little to the imagination and showed off arms that looked like they knew their way around a heavy vacuum cleaner or three.

I stopped walking. Not because of the bikini — though I'm seventy, not blind — but because she was mid-rep, and the way she moved was something to watch. Controlled. Deliberate. Her core was tight, her breathing steady, and she pressed that bar up like it owed her money.

Then, on what must have been her fifteenth or sixteenth rep, her arms shook. The bar wobbled. She got it about halfway up and it just... stopped. She gritted her teeth, tried again, and the bar actually went down a little instead of up.

I laughed.

I didn't mean to. It just came out. A short, stupid bark of a laugh that carried way too far across the sand because the beach was quiet and the wind was blowing in her direction.

Her head turned. Blue eyes locked onto me like targeting lasers.

"You think that's funny?" she called out.

I held up both hands. "No, no — I just — the face you made. It was—"

"The face I made." She set the bar down on the supports and sat up. "You're laughing at my face."

"I'm laughing at the situation. You were doing great, and then—" I mimed a little wobble with my hands, which in retrospect was probably not the smartest move.

She stood up. And standing up, she was something else. Medium height, but every inch of her looked like it had been forged by decades of actual work. Not gym work. Not Pilates-and-kale work. Real, honest, moving-furniture-and-scrubbing-floors work. Her shoulders were rounded with muscle. Her legs looked like they could carry a couch up three flights of stairs without stopping.

I, on the other hand, am six feet and a hundred and eighty pounds and in what I consider perfectly respectable shape for a man who gets regular checkups and occasional compliments. I've never been laughed at while working out. I've also never laughed at someone while they were working out. Today was a day of firsts.

"Come here," she said. Not a request.

I walked over, because when a woman who looks like that tells you to come here, your legs just go. "Look, I apologize. That was rude. You were repping that thing like a machine, and I—"

"Help me get this bar up to the supports. I need to adjust the plates." She was already positioning herself on the bench, and I grabbed the bar, helped her rerack it. She sat up and looked at me. "You work out?"

"I stay active."

"That's what people who don't work out say." She patted the bench. "Go ahead. Lie down. Give it a try."

I looked at the bar. The plates. It didn't look that heavy. Maybe a hundred and ten, hundred and twenty pounds. I'd pressed that before. Maybe not recently, but my body remembered.

"I'm not going to laugh at you," she added, with a smile that said she absolutely was going to laugh at me.

I lay down on the bench. The sun was in my eyes, and I squinted, gripping the bar where it sat on the supports. I took a breath, braced my core, and pushed.

Nothing.

I pushed harder. The bar didn't move. Not an inch. Not a millimeter. It sat there on those supports like it had been welded in place.

"You have to lift it off the supports first," she said helpfully.

"I know how a bench press works," I said through gritted teeth. I repositioned my hands, pressed up with everything I had, and managed to get the bar off the supports. It came down onto my chest like a bag of cement.

"Oof," I said.

She crouched beside the bench, watching me with those blue eyes. "You okay there, champ?"

"Fine. Just... adjusting."

"Uh-huh."

I pushed. The bar didn't go up. I pushed again, harder, my face probably turning a shade of red that matched the sunset. My arms trembled. My chest burned. The bar sat on my sternum like it had found a new home and intended to stay.

"You were repping this," I said. "You were doing this over and over."

"Fifteen reps. Sixteen if I'd been having a good day." She tilted her head. "You can't do one."

"I can do one. I'm just... warming up."

"You're stuck."

"I'm not stuck. I'm resting."

"You're stuck under my barbell on a public beach."

I pushed again. Nothing. My arms felt like someone had replaced the muscles with overcooked noodles. I could feel the sand shifting under the bench as I strained, and the bar just sat there, completely indifferent to my suffering.

"Okay," I admitted. "I'm stuck."

She stood up, walked around to the head of the bench, and grabbed the bar. She pulled it off my chest and reracked it with the ease of someone putting a coffee mug back on a shelf. Then she walked back around, and instead of helping me up, she swung one leg over me and sat down on my stomach.

"What are you—"

"Shh." She looked down at me from above, and I realized I was in trouble. Her thighs were on either side of my waist, and she was heavier than she looked — or rather, she was solid, all that muscle packed onto a frame that was now pinning me to the bench. She grabbed my wrists and pushed my arms up over my head, pressing them into the bench above me.

"You laughed at me," she said.

"I apologized for that."

"You apologized, and then you made the wobble gesture with your hands." She leaned down. Her face was inches from mine. She smelled like sunscreen and sweat and something else underneath — something warm and familiar. "That wasn't an apology. That was a repeat offense."

"I didn't—"

She kissed me. Just like that. Her lips were on mine, and her tongue was in my mouth, and my arms were pinned above my head, and I couldn't move. I tried to respond, but she was in complete control. She kissed me the way someone kisses when they've decided they're going to kiss you and your opinion on the matter is not relevant.

I made a sound against her mouth. Not a protest, exactly. More of a surprised surrender. She pulled back, and she was smiling.

"You remember me," she said.

I did. But not right away. Her face was older, and I’d been looking at her body from a distance, cataloguing the muscles and the blonde hair without ever connecting them to a person I’d known. It wasn’t until she kissed me—until I tasted her—that my brain finally caught up, and by then I was already pinned.

"There it is," she said. "You remember."

"How could I forget?" My voice came out rougher than I intended.

"You laughed at me anyway."

"I didn't know it was you. You were all the way over here, and I was—"

"Excuses." She leaned down again and kissed my neck. Just below the ear. The spot she'd found last time, the one that turned my brain into static. I groaned, and she laughed softly against my skin. "Still works."

"You need to let me up."

"No, I don't."

"Someone might see us."

She glanced around. The beach was empty. The nearest person was a speck in the distance, probably a quarter mile away. "No one's going to see us." She looked back down at me. "And even if they did, I'm seventy-one years old. I've earned the right to do whatever I want on a beach."

I couldn't argue with that logic. I also couldn't move. She had my wrists pinned, and her weight was settled on my midsection, and I was genuinely stuck. I could have tried to buck her off, but something about the idea didn't appeal to me. Something about the way her thighs squeezed against my ribs made me not want to.

I rolled. It was a desperate move, and it almost worked — I got us both off the bench and onto the sand beside it. But she was fast. Faster than I expected. Before I could scramble up, she was on me again, straddling my chest this time, her knees on my biceps, her full weight pressing me into the sand.

A schoolgirl pin. She had me in a schoolgirl pin on the beach like we were in a wrestling match, and she was winning.

"Nice try," she said.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely." She shifted her weight forward, and suddenly her hips were near my face. Her bikini bottoms were right there, and I could see the outline of her through the fabric. She reached down and pulled the fabric to the side with two fingers, exposing herself to me. She was wet. Not from the ocean.

"Don't," I started to say, but she was already moving. She lowered herself onto my face, pressing her pussy against my mouth. I tried to turn my head, tried to squirm, but her thighs clamped around my head and held me in place. Her hands found my wrists again and pinned them to the sand above my head.

"Lick me," she said.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I could taste her — salt and musk and something that made my pulse hammer in my ears. I kept my mouth shut, shaking my head as much as her grip allowed, which wasn't much.

"You can fight all you want," she said, and her voice was calm, almost conversational. "But I've got all day, and you're going to wear out before I do."

She was right, and the knowing hit me harder than any weight. I thrashed, trying to buck her off, but she rode every jolt like a wave, her cunt grinding deeper against my sealed lips. My chest heaved, desperate for air. Sweat and her slick coated my face. My neck screamed. I clenched my jaw until it ached, but the taste of her seeped through anyway—salt and heat and pure, infuriating want. My arms finally surrendered, wrists going slack in the sand as if they’d never belonged to me.

"Lick me."

I tried one last time to resist and she just grabbed my balls and my mouth shot open

She shuddered. "There you go."

She ground her cunt into my mouth, and I opened for her, my tongue finding the rhythm she wanted. The taste of her flooded my senses — salt and heat and that same dizzying flavor I remembered from the condo. But this was different. This was her weight pressing me into the sand, her thighs locked around my head, and no way out. I licked because she made me, and the surrender burned through me hotter than the sun.

"That's it," she breathed. She released my wrists and put her hands on the sand on either side of my head, bracing herself. I kept licking, finding her clit, circling it, pressing against it. She ground her hips against my face, and I could feel the muscles in her thighs flexing each time she moved.

"Right there," she said. "Don't stop."

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t have stopped even if I wanted to—she rode my face with the same savage rhythm she’d hammered into that barbell, and I was just the bench she was grinding into dust. I grabbed her hips, fingers sinking into the flex of her glutes, that impossible carved strength, and I dragged her down harder, shoving my tongue deeper into her cunt.

"Oh fuck," she gasped. Her thighs tightened around my head. I felt her whole body tense, and then she was coming, her hips jerking against my face, her breath coming in short sharp bursts. I kept licking through it, feeling every wave, every contraction, until she finally exhaled and went still.

She stayed there for a moment, sitting on my face, catching her breath. Then she lifted herself up and shifted, turning around so she was facing my feet. She settled her weight on my chest, and I could finally breathe fully again.

"That was outstanding," I said, my voice muffled against her back.

She didn't answer. Instead, she reached down and grabbed the waistband of my swim trunks. She pulled them down, and my cock sprang free — hard, achingly hard, had been hard since she first kissed me.

"Well," she said, looking down at it. "Someone enjoyed that."

"I'm not sure 'enjoyed' is the word for having my face used as a—"

She took me in her mouth. The rest of that sentence died somewhere between my brain and my lips. Her mouth was warm and wet, and she took me deep, all the way to the base, and I felt the back of her throat against the tip of my cock.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

She pulled up slowly, her lips tight around me, and then went back down. She found a rhythm, bobbing her head, her hand wrapped around the base of me. All I could see from my angle was her back and her ass — and her ass was a marvel. The muscles in her glutes flexed and shifted as she moved, and I watched them, mesmerized. Years of lifting, moving furniture, working as a maid — it had all built something incredible, and it was right there in front of my face, clenching and unclenching as she sucked me.

I reached out and put my hands on her ass. She made a sound — approval, I thought — and sucked harder. I squeezed, feeling the muscle under the skin, the firmness of her, and my cock throbbed in her mouth.

"You're going to make me come," I said.

She didn't stop. She swirled her tongue around the head of my cock and then took me deep again, and I watched those ass muscles work, and I felt her hand cup my balls, and that was it. I came hard, my hips bucking up off the sand, my cock pulsing in her mouth. She swallowed every bit of it, still sucking, still moving, drawing it out until I was trembling and empty.

She let me out of her mouth with a soft pop and sat up, still facing away from me. I lay there in the sand, staring up at the sky, trying to remember how to form thoughts.

She pulled her bikini back into place and turned around, looking down at me with that smile again. "Feel better about laughing at me now?"

"I feel like I've been punished sufficiently."

"Good." She stood up and offered me her hand. I took it, and she hauled me to my feet with the ease of someone who picked things up for a living. I pulled my trunks back up and brushed sand off my back.

"I'm Lawrence," I said, because somehow we hadn't gotten to that part.

"I know who you are." She picked up her water bottle and took a drink. "You want to help me carry this stuff to my car?"

"You just pinned me to the sand and sat on my face."

"And you loved every second of it. Are you going to help me or not?"

I grabbed one end of the bench. She grabbed the other. We carried it across the sand toward the parking lot, and I couldn't stop glancing at her arms, the way the muscles moved under her skin.

"So," I said. "Same time tomorrow?"

She looked at me over the bench and laughed. Not at me, though. With me. "Bring your own weights," she said. "And maybe practice your bench press before then."

"I'll have you know I was warming up."

"You were stuck."

"I was strategically conserving energy."

She set her end of the bench down at the trunk of an old Datsun — an old Datsun with a bumper sticker that read "Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History" — and she popped the trunk. I set my end down too, and we loaded the bench inside.

"You're buying me dinner," she said.

"Am I?"

"You owe me. I gave you the best orgasm of your life on a public beach."

"That's not how debts work."

"It's how my debts work." She closed the trunk and turned to face me. She kissed me again — quick, soft, different from before. "Pick me up at seven. I'll text you the address."

"I don't have your number."

She patted my chest. "You do now. Check your phone."

I pulled out my phone. There was a new contact — "Don't Laugh At Me" — with an address and a winking emoji.

When I looked up, she was already in the Datsun, pulling the door shut. She waved out the window as she pulled out of the lot, and I stood there in the parking lot with sand in my hair and the taste of her still on my tongue.

I looked down at my phone again. I typed a message and hit send.

"Can I at least laugh at dinner?"

Three dots appeared. Then: "Only if I can sit on your face again."

I smiled, pocketed my phone, and walked to my car. Seven o'clock couldn't come fast enough.