My wife and I were out at a beachside cafe. We were both in slightly above-average shape, the kind of couple that works out moderately at home and at the gym but never takes it very seriously. This beach is a popular destination for spring breakers and foreign tourists. There are dance clubs within walking distance, tennis courts, basketball courts, volleyball nets, calisthenics bars, and yachts ever on the horizon.
“Some sight, honey?” she asked, breaking my trance. She caught me staring unconsciously at this absolutely unreal volleyball baddie wearing almost nothing.
“Uh? Sorry,” I said. I couldn’t deny looking.
She took a sip, smiled. “You don’t need to say sorry. I understand.”
I sighed. “But I’m sorry. I was rude.”
She grinned and pointed over her shoulder. “I don’t make it as obvious as you do, but I shouldn’t be a hypocrite.”
I looked over her shoulder in the direction she was pointing. There was a shirtless stud doing muscle-ups on the bar, each motion a machine-like, glistening articulation of his body’s muscles. He had hair down to his shoulders and a sculpted, angular face like some Bronze Age war chieftain. He came off the bar and retrieved his phone, selfie-talking at it. He had been recording himself, clearly a fitness influencer.
“You mean you’re also taking in the sights?” I asked.
She nodded, then blushed, chin in her chest. “Mm-hm.”
I get it. I was doing it too. She couldn’t have told me in a softer, more deserved manner. I had no room to object to her wandering eye. It even graciously seemed to neutralize the offense to her caused by my wandering eye, leaving us mutually guiltless. But an eye for an eye leaves the whole world in a bind. I didn’t like it that she was noticing other men that way. I wish I wasn’t gawking at bikini babes, I do! But no balanced scales are going to make it OK that another man’s stunning visage penetrated my wife’s pupil holes and snaked back to her occipital lobes, stroking along her optic nerves, from where he then lit up her sexual cortices, dumping horny hormones into her bloodstream, activating her pussy! No!
I couldn’t poke those meatballs out of her head. They’re too pretty. So I had only one solution: I had to looksmax. Um, I mean I had to work on my looks. I knew it could never cure her glancing and gazing totally, but it could reduce it. I could give her something to gawk at right here.
Fortunately, her mom was dying. Well, her stepmom. Wait, let me reword all of that. It was fortunate she felt enough responsibility for her dad’s last wife, who she barely knew, to fly home and take care of her in her final month. My wife was happy to go home and see her family, and they were grateful she took off some work to attend to her late dad’s last love.
I decided in that month I’d go hard as all fuck. Drop the fat, serious fasting, serious supplementing, build the muscle, pump it, work it, get swole, get lean, burn it, max it out, grimace through the pain, time under tension, fibrous micro-tears, loaded stretches, all of it. I worked out, I jogged, I went nuts trying to make as much of a transformation as I could before she returned. I would surprise her. The contrast between old me and new me would drop her panties and own her eyes.
I did astonishingly well. I blasted my biceps with arm curls, cables for the triceps, lateral raises for the delts, hung myself upside down like a bat to do core-torturing situps and crunches, Roman chair for the lower back, barbell squats for the ass, calf raises for the calves, and I did lap after lap around the neighborhood to melt away fat. By the time my wife returned, I think I hit an aesthetic sweet spot, not a Spartan but no longer a skinny-fat desk jockey either. Under good lighting, I looked rather fucking good in the mirror. I’d fuck me.
“What… in the… world?” Yes! That’s what she said when she saw me standing at arrivals. I took her bags and we walked. She furrowed her eyebrow at me. “You look so different. What did you do?”
“I took it seriously for once. I wanted to get your reaction, too,” I said as we walked to the airport parking.
“Wow. That’s my reaction.” She glowed. I realized then how much she admired a good-looking man in his best shape. I regret that I hadn’t gotten the nerve to better myself like this much sooner.
“No more looking at other men?” I was straight out with it.
She play-slapped my chest and stopped walking. Then, continuing on, she added, “Is that why you did this?” She gestured and squeezed my arm.
“Yeah. I don’t mind if you notice other dudes, as long as you still notice me, too.” It took some emotional vulnerability for me to say that and didn’t come out easy.
When we got into the car and I started driving, she ran her hand under my shirt, grabbing at my slimmed, hardened waistline. She leaned over the center console, lips to my right ear, and said, “I was going to fuck you all night. I was so horny going a month without you. But now, I’m going to ride you until you’re too sore to move a muscle.”
She fondled all my parts on the drive home. And then, she had me carry her through the front door, up our stairs, and into our bed.
Having placed her on the bed, she put her hand on my chest and said, “Stop. Back up. Right there. Take everything off.”
That’s what I wanted to hear, that I had something she wanted to see. I smiled, blushed a bit like a bashful bitch, but whatever, I was happy. I took my shirt off, twirled it over my head like a helicopter, and flung it off at her face. She laughed. I shimmied out of my pants and stood in nothing but my socks and briefs.
“Everything,” she commanded.
So I crouched, pulling my briefs and socks down together, and stood with them off at my feet. I stood for inspection.
“Flex,” she commanded.
And I flexed. I stretched and squeezed and twisted into a dozen different poses.
“Oh!?” She took in the sight of my modestly expanded shoulder width.
“Nice…” She complimented my increasingly 3-dimensional buttocks.
“That’s sexy. It really is,” she admitted as I did this pose I call the handcuffs. Joining my wrists together, it manages to flex everything from the belt up. She could see a pectoral cleft, the mounds of my amateur natty six-pack, and the rope-like striation of my forearms.
My cock filled and pointed up, in part because of the tone of her voice. But what really got me turned on was that her eyes were completely fixed on me, and it was sincere. She was looking at me like she had looked at beach brah. I. Mother. Effing. Loved. It. Her eyes dilated and wide open, drinking me in.
She unbuttoned her blouse, and I pulled her skirt off. We fucked there in our bed, and the dry spell did its part in soaking her fast.
She dug her fingers into every line of me now cleared of excess fat. She pressed her lips to my pectoral and kissed, then sucked a purple spot. She licked my abs, leaving a cool saliva trail. She ran her thumbtip along my better-defined jawline, and I watched her irises scanning, bouncing, rolling in a survey of my upgraded form. She bounced on my lap, panting, and clasped my delts in her palms, squeezing like they were there to be squeezed. I hadn’t seen her bounce on me like that in maybe ever, so fervently and ravenously. Her tits rocked and jiggled, and she had begun sweating. In short order, she threw her arms around me, raised herself off my dick, and spasmed out a dripping, straining orgasm.
I laid back on the pillows, and she cranked my cock with one hand as her opposite hand groped my thigh, my calves, and my sack. “You were borderline hot when I left. Sorry. But I can say it now that you’re more… fit. I like the change.”
“You like the change?” I asked.
“I like it a lot. You look like an actor who got in shape for a romantic lead role, or an athlete at the end of training season, or a model for a paperback smut cover.” She lowered herself onto my crotch and licked my dick in swirls and flicks, working it in her palm. She was laying it on thick, the talk and the mouth action.
“Babe! Babe!… Eeaaa-shiiiiii!” I shot my sperm on her face, which she hadn’t let me do in years.
That sex was the validating, yearning, corporeal, bodily sex of our marriage. I stuck to my regimen, but with a sensible pace, and I have since improved upon my improvements. I don’t think I’ll become the fitness influencer at the beach filming himself for his followers, but I have recovered the one follower I want.
