I was on my second set, third rep at a sitting chest press machine when I happened to lock eyes with one of the grannies in a nearby aerobic class. She smiled and, I swear, licked her bright red lips. I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. She resumed exercising, but not before looking back over her shoulder and winking.

I sprung an instant boner.

First a little about me. I’m one of those pathetic Gen-Zs who have finished college but is back living in the basement game room of his parents’ house. I didn’t plan it that way. The plan was to drink a lot of Bud, shag a lot of pussy, get good grades, graduate with honors, ace the LSAT and start a top-tier law school. I had checked off the first two boxes (and then some), but ended up graduating in the bottom half of my class. I’m now working on plan B.

Plan B amounts to working for a landscape construction company and saving some jack. Come late fall, I’ll set my sights more realistically and apply to several second or third-tier law schools. I’ll try to finagle person-to-person interviews. I’m hoping my fraternity rush chairman attributes and skills (strong handshake, toothy smile, ability to BS the best of BSers, etc.) will tilt the scales in my favor.

I’d been on the job for only two weeks and already had a deep tan. I, like the rest of the crew, started the morning in a sleeveless tee, Carhartt canvas shorts, heavy socks, and Danner boots. Most days, I ditched the soaking wet tee by the 10 a.m. break.

I’m not a vain person, but I knew I was looking pretty ripped. I’d always spent a lot of time at the gym; but the college beer bongs had given me a small pudge, at least until recently. I now had essentially no body fat on my 6’ 2” and 185# frame.

So, back to the gym.

I finished my presses and prepared to move on to the adjacent biceps curl machine; but not before tucking my throbbing eight inches between my thighs. As luck would have it, the next device was also facing the senior citizens. I had an unobstructed view of five mature ladies stretching at a barre attached to a mirrored wall.

Corinne (her name, as I would later learn) was standing at a forty-five-degree angle, stretching her hamstring with the left heel on the barre. She was wearing a tennis outfit: a skintight powder-blue sleeveless top, a pleated white mini skirt, and most importantly, granny pants that matched her shirt. She appeared to be braless with prominent nipples set proudly on half grapefruit-sized knockers, improbably high for an older woman. Those beauties were clearly bolt-ons. Her legs were tan with well-developed calf musculature. An unmistakable tan line was visible as her panties rode up over her tight cheeks.

I don’t consider myself to be all that pervy, but the image of me inhaling deeply as I sniffed the cotton crotch of her granny panties was stuck in my head. The thought of that earthy aroma of brine and musk was making me dizzy.

I shifted my gaze upward at the same time Corinne was looking downward in the mirror. She silently laughed, returned her gaze to mine, and shook her head. What was so funny? I then realized I had frozen the rep in mid-curl. I looked first at my screaming biceps and then down to my gray bike shorts. There was a two-inch circle of precum wetness at the end of my unmistakable trouser trout.

I somehow made it to the locker room without embarrassing myself any further. Luckily I always bring my own sweat-rag to the gym. I just tucked it into the front of my shorts like a wide receiver and walked stiff-legged away from the resistance machine. I grabbed my bag from locker sixty-nine (no joke) and headed to the shower room. Thank goodness the room was empty.

I fired up the shower and stripped down. As the waistband released my man meat, it sprang upward like an angry Jack-in-the-box. I checked over my shoulder, stepped into the warm spray, and pulled the privacy curtain.

I was sweaty and needed a shower, but first I needed to “take care of bidnuth”, as Mike Tyson used to say. I pumped three or four gobs of Dove body wash into my left palm and began soaping up my pecs and their BB-hard nips. Despite the warm water, goose flesh formed over my man boobs. Normally, I would close my eyes and let the warm water bathe my face as I tweaked and pulled my nips, but I was on a mission.

I soaped down and across my six-pack, wasting little time before fisting my cock. I jacked it two or three times slowly, then shifted to my ball sack. I circled the scrotal base tightly with my index finger and thumb to prevent my nuts from retracting upward. My right hand was free to work its magic.

I grabbed my sausage with my right hand and began initially pumping it slowly with Dove as my lube. I increased the speed and pressure on my rock-hard prick, running my fist up and down the full length. Simultaneously, I released my ball sack and slid my long “social” finger across my taint. I applied pressure to the rosebud, just indenting the pucker. I knew I was getting close to relieving my Corinne-induced tension.

I squatted slightly, and internally rotated my knees, locking my left wrist between my thighs. Just as I reached the edge of the cliff, I forced my finger into my awaiting anus, knuckle deep. I gasped and shuddered as three huge ropes of hot jizz splattered onto the shower wall. “Fuck,” I moaned.

I regained my composure, flipped the shower controls to cold, and rinsed off. I exited, only to come face-to-face with an elderly gentleman in a towel.

He smiled. “I’ll have what you’re having.”