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Her ass is tight against the steel walls of the shower, the loud stream of water roaring behind them to block out the sound of her constant moans.
She’s being fucked in gym shower. By her personal trainer.
Olivia has never gotten better head in her life, this man is working his tongue along her folds, lapping up her wetness, landing on her clit to begin sucking.
It’s all she could say for the last 20 minutes.
Gripping the back of his head, she’s praying her cell phone doesn’t ring so she can stay here, riding this man’s face at 7AM.
“You see?” His voice vibrates against her core, and he takes his fingers to spread her open for him before thrusting his tongue deep inside, nose grazing her overstimulated clit.
When he pulls out, her arousal coats his chin, and she’s never been more turned on. “You can never say that again,” he growls, replacing his tongue with his middle and ring finger to pump into her vigorously. The sound from the smacking is loud—she's absolutely dripping for him.
Feeling her tighten around him, he quickly rises to his feet, continuing to finger her with reckless abandon, desperate for her release.
It started with one small comment during their session—a self-deprecating remark about how she ‘misses the body she used to have’, how she didn’t feel as beautiful as she once did. The words slipped so casually from her lips and Oliviia didn’t pay them any mind. She simply continued following his orders for the day, their exercise routine becoming almost habitual at this point.
Only, he didn’t let it slide.
“Have you seen the one you have now?”
It cut her deeper than she expected. This gorgeous man had given her compliments when she was merely in a baggy t-shirt and leggings, dripping in sweat he caused. She figured it was purely for his own benefit. After all, she was paying him.
But when he followed her after their hour had ended, called out her name before he invaded her personal space, let his eyes flick down to her lips…
He kissed her and she thought she had to be hallucinating.
The sun had barely made its appearance for today and she wasn’t even remotely herself yet. She still had to shower, do her hair, makeup, needing to hide in the confines of her bulky blazers and focus on the job. Not flirt with—
Oh, his lips. Fuck.
The gym is still empty and she’s grateful he offered her a private session this morning, under the presumption that the invitation was merely to accommodate her son’s school schedule. But as he’s pushing her body back into the locker room, lips still attached to her, hands roaming over her ass…she’s not so sure that was the reason.
She’s about to come before breakfast. Tucker could never.
Her walls are contracting around his long fingers—he’s somehow managing to hit every sweet spot of hers, like he knows her body better than she ever could.
She hasn’t been touched like this since college, when that girl from her history class asked to be her study partner. Knees buckled from her climax then, just like they do now, and he has to hold her up to keep her from crashing to the ground.
She’s completely spent. The fog from the shower clouds her breath, as she lies limp in his arms. His smile is ungodly, a smirk that reads so cocky that she wants to fuck it right off his pretty face.
But before she can, the nightmare of her ringtone ruins the moment and he knows she has to go.
They do it again.
Only this time, she's the one on her knees, hollowing her cheeks to take the entirety of his shaft down her throat.
Olivia Margaret Benson is getting throat fucked by an adonis, his fingers tight in her hair, forcing her head down so he disappears beyond her lips.
She’s gagging on him, eyes watering, but she’s loving every second.
Too many men had been afraid to do this. All they could see was her trauma and she was so tired of it. She wants to be degraded sometimes, wants to be fucked like she was a reckless 20-year-old again, wants to make men come like she used to do.
He's practically a stranger despite their sessions together.
Sure, he knows parts of her life, but just the parts she wants him to know, the parts she's comfortable sharing so casually during their workouts. He doesn’t know her past, never heard of the beach house, or an undercover operation in prison gone wrong.
So, she lets him destroy her mouth—lets his long cock choke her in the same bathroom where he had made her come last week.
Her knees will be red and sore today, but she’s happy to blame it on leg day when Amanda will inevitably ask her why she cannot walk right.
She wants to prove it to herself, wants to prove to this model of a man that she can—and will—happily swallow his cum and let it be her only meal of the day.
Her hands leave his perfect ass and one starts gently playing with his balls, the other clawing at his abs.
His hips buck. She’s still got it.
She can’t decide if she actually enjoys working out, or if deep-rooted sexual fantasies of carefree intercouse lead her back to the gym again.
Their conversations surprisingly remain comfortable, never indicating that they’ve both feasted off each other’s ejaculate several times over the last month.
She’s actually impressed by their ability to maintain a level of respect for each other, like two adults should be able to.
Olivia doesn’t even know this man outside the gym—fuck, she couldn’t even say he was single.
But when they’re both in need of water after a particularly grueling session at the park near her apartment, she isn’t surprised that she ends up bent over her kitchen counter.
He rips them.
He really rips her $50 leggings so he can pound into her ass while she keeps them on.
She's angry, but mostly turned on, letting him shove her face down against the granite while he picks up speed.
“Is this how you want it?” he teases, fingers still tight in her hair.
She whimpers, her cheek against the cold counter while her palms rest on either side of her head, glued to the surface. “Y-yes—”
“Louder—I want to hear you, Olivia.”
He yanks her up by her ponytail, tugging back roughly so she has to arch her back to continue taking his pounding.
She’s forgotten how good dick could be.
And apparently size does matter because he’s hitting areas past men never could.
His dick slams into her cervix and a guttural moan escapes her mouth. It’s like she can feel him in her throat.
The pain is so glorious, and Olivia thinks she wouldn’t mind leaving everything behind to continue being this man’s sexual pawn.
He makes her watch as he licks two fingers and slides them down her front, landing right on her clit. “I’m going to make you come so hard. I want your prissy neighbors to hear.”
She’s breathless when he hits her cervix again, the combination of his glorious thrusting and intoxicating swirling on her clit really has her about to take a week off, just so she can never stop fucking this man.
And when she climaxes—a powerful burst of fluid spilling out—she screams his name.
Work gets busy.
She's missed the last three sessions with him and thinks how it was too good to be true.
Blessed by great sex—it's such a rarity in her life for her to feel as carefree as she did. How stupid is she to think it would ever last.
Sitting in a tight black dress, all dolled up at this bar, she cannot be more bored by stories from these old male police officers. One of them keeps ‘accidentally’ nudging her foot under the table and she wants to vomit at the thought of his wrinkled hands on her.
Police functions are her worst nightmare. Especially when she’s the only woman invited.
Downing her third glass of wine, she debates calling her trainer for a midnight session. She can come up with some nonsense excuse and will suffer through squats, just so he can claim her body as his own again.
The nameless foot hits her again, this time a little too high for comfort, and she prays that she can find an excuse to go home immediately.
There’s no fucking way.
Suddenly standing next to her table, he is hovering over her and she realizes God really is on her side.
Dressed up like her, he’s donning form fitting suit pants (how all of him fits in them truly amazes her) and a dress shirt that clings to his biceps.
He’s hot. Really fucking hot.
He flashes a perfect smile at her, and the call of his name causes her colleagues to glance over at him.
“Sorry to interrupt, I’ll leave you be," he grins. "I just wanted to say hello.”
But she doesn’t let him go.
Reaching out to tug his forearm, she prompts, “Actually…”
And a shit-eating grin forms across her face as the wine hits her—she knows what she’s about to do.
“I did need to talk to you about something...”
Her dress is up around her hips, covered tits against the brick exterior of the bar. All she can hear is the sound of his panting and the ambient noises of the city around them.
If it weren’t for the wine, she would feel so guilty. A decorated lieutenant, getting railed in public, mere feet from several of her co-workers and bosses. But thank god for alcohol because she can give zero fucks.
His merciless rhythm has her writhing, his hand wrapped around the front of her, squeezing her throat lightly.
“Does this turn you on? Being fucked like this while your boss is inside?”
Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
She can’t respond, the words aren’t coming out.
He’s plunging into her from behind, grunting as her walls begin to clench around him. “What would they say if they saw you like this? Your pretty little pussy getting pounded by a complete nobody?”
Not a nobody.
But she can’t say that.
This is casual, it has to be. She cannot let the glory of her orgasms pull him into a life so dark, a life that sequestered her to mediocre men and constant trauma. No, he is a special gift. A treat that she can only indulge in on occasion. A dessert so perfectly intoxicating that he has to be enjoyed in small doses.
So, she ignores the thoughts coming in, succumbing to the feeling of him overpowering her.
“I—" she gasps sharply, "I've never been fucked like this.”
“Hmm," he tightens his grasp on her throat. His breath is hot as he whispers, "Such a shame...” in her ear and she feels herself on the edge.
She should feel shame, embarrassment, something while she's openly being fucked like this. But with the predicament she is already in, what more can she lose?
And with that realization, she pleads, tears lightly forming from the slight lack of oxygen, “Finish in me.”
He licks his lips as if he’s been waiting his whole life to hear someone say that and the thrusts somehow become deeper and harder, and Olivia Benson is lost to the hands of her trainer.
Within moments, she climaxes, and the grip around him causes him to come inside her—right where she wanted him to.
Maybe work functions aren’t so bad after all.
It ends as quickly as it begins.
When his fingertips brush against her core, teasing her right over her spandex leggings as she’s on some machine, Olivia’s hips buck at the sudden feeling of him.
“Sorry,” he says, a hint of embarrassment sneaking in.
She clears her throat, taking a deep breath. “No, no, don’t be. You're fine, it’s just—”
“Olivia, can we talk?”
No, no, no.
She didn’t want to talk. Talking made things real.
Could she say no?
Fake a phone call?
Just fucking run?
But, because it’s Olivia Benson, she musters whatever composure she can, answering, “Of course.”
And then suddenly they’re in his office—she didn’t even realize personal trainers had offices—and he’s against the door, eyes glued to the floor, hand rubbing his neck.
It's quiet for a second, so she looks around to keep herself busy, but then he blurts out, “What’s going on with us?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to it, continuing on, “I don’t want to read things wrong, and I’m sorry if I did. It’s just…”
Was she making this man nervous?
This perfect human? This Ken doll?
She’s still racking her brain trying to understand how this 6’5” man is willing to get on his knees for her, when he says the words she never wanted to hear.
“I just gotta know how you feel.”
And there it is. Feelings.
A word that quickly demolishes casualness and turns a good fuck into complications.
And as he catches her reaction, he lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head before finally locking eyes with her.
Body still against the door that she desperately wants to escape out from, he sighs. “You know what? Forget I asked,” and he smiles before she hears the faint click of the door being locked.
“One last go?”
fin. (not tutuola)