Arriving at the firing range, a nondescript white building dropped into the middle of an industrial district, she unloaded her range bag and gear from the boot of her car. Jeans, black v neck lightweight sweater, nothing special, just another morning to be spent throwing lead at paper and steel targets in preparation for competition. She noticed that her instructor’s car wasn’t in the parking lot yet, but knew he would be here soon enough. Twelve years of practise, and she was still learning.
Pushing open the glass doors and smiling at the rangemaster, Paul, she gives him her customary wink and heading for the shooting bays. It was quiet this morning, the bays empty, the familiar smell of gunpowder and the slight scent of sweat enveloping her senses.
She chose her usual bay, third from the left, put her range bag down on the brass littered concrete floor, unzipped the bag, and carefully set her beloved Glock 34 on the bench rest, accompanied by three empty magazines and two fifty count boxes of 9mm ammunition. It was just her and the waiting silence of the target, 50 metres downrange.
Loading each magazine, putting on her shooting glasses, putting on her hearing protection...this was all part of the ritual, leading up to the Zen moment when it was just her and the sights and the target. The seating of the magazine, the racking of the slide, each movement bringing her closer to that moment. Racking the slide, seating her first round in the chamber, she failed to notice that someone else had entered the shooting bays, not that she would have cared either way.
She raised the 34 and sighted the target. Her stance was carefully considered, acquired through years of training, and she took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pulled the trigger slowly on the exhale, sending the chambered round downrange to pierce the heart of the innocent piece of paper hanging from its metal clip. One, two, three, four, each rhythmic round relaxing her body and mind.
The slide racked back and stayed there, indicating an empty magazine. She went to pick up the second magazine from the bench, but as her hand settled on the cool metal, she felt the distinct pressure of what she thought was her instructor’s body against hers, and felt the warmth of a hand come down on top of her slim fingers.
“Hey, Brian, just thought I’d throw some lead whilst waiting for you”, she said, not looking up. She wasn’t paying enough attention to notice that the hand covering hers wasn’t Brian’s at all.
She lifted her hand to load the magazine, and was surprised when this stranger’s hand pushed hers back down onto the bench rest. What was this? She placed her 34 on the rest and turned around, a sharp intake of breath replacing her surprise.
It wasn’t Brian at all. It was Paul. Tall, taller than her six feet, his blue eyes staring straight into hers. She had no words. Breathing hard, his body still pressed against hers, her mind waiting for this to all make sense. Surely, Paul had no interest in her. She reached back and grasped the unloaded 34, handing it to him. Perhaps he had seen her mishandle the weapon, although for the life of her she didn’t know how she could have possibly violated range rules.
He looked at her, palmed the 34, and reached around her, putting it back on the bench rest, his body now pressed firmly against hers.
“Ashley.”
One word, and he was pushing her back against the rest, kissing her hard. She reflexively parted her lips, allowing him full access, her mind racing as his hands travelled down her sides, his right hand coming to rest on her jean clad ass. What was this? They had known each other for as long as she had been shooting, longer than he had been the rangemaster. Her breath came in irregular gulps now, her heart racing, her hands, as if of their own accord, finding his chest, running over his belly to glance over the hardness in his trousers.
“I’ve wanted you since the first day I met you, Ash.” Her eyes flew open in astonishment, and she held very still for a moment, processing this statement.
Breaking the kiss, she whispered, “Since the day you met me?”
“Since the day I met you”, he said, burying his face in her hair, hair she knew smelled now of her plumeria shampoo and gunpowder.
“There’s no one here, Ash. I’ve locked the range down.”
With that, he took her hand in his and led her out of the main bay, through the observation area, to the law enforcement bay. The forbidden bay, the bay with low, carpeted benches and pockmarked walls. Her mind raced as she tried to process, without success, what was happening.
Paul turned to her, settling his strong hands, hardened by years of shooting, onto her waist. “Ash…” his voice trailing off, replaced by his actions. Spinning her around, he rapidly, almost frantically began undoing her jeans, sliding them off over her wide hips, kicking them aside, exposing the black lace panties beneath. She heard his low moan as her barely covered ass was exposed to the cool of the bay and the unwavering gaze of this man, this man she knew so well and yet not at all.
“Ash...I need you, desire you desperately...please…”.
She obliged, surprised at the waver in his voice, and pulled down her panties as she kneeled over the worn bench, exposing all she had to offer.
It was his fingers she felt first. Rough and gentle at the same time, parting her outer labia, his laboured breathing filling the room as he sunk one finger into her already wet cunt. “Fuck, Ash…” she heard, then the sound of the zipper on his jeans and the metal clink of his belt buckle hitting the floor. Soft lips, surprisingly soft, kissing and nuzzling the nape of her neck, his cock pressing against her ass. She pushed her hips back into him, her body betraying her sudden want and masking her confusion.
She reached back, grasping his cock and guiding it to her most secret place. “Oh, fuck, Ash…” and then he was in her, forcing her pussy walls open, plunging into her, her breasts, still in their black lace bra, rubbing against the carpet of the bench. Her mind was a fuzzy mess now, swimming in oxytocin, beyond trying to make sense of this situation. She felt him slamming into her wanting cervix, over and over, the perfect mix of pain and pleasure shooting up her spine to her muddled brain. Her cries of want were stifled by her own biting of her lip, the ferrous taste of her own blood filling her mouth as she looked back over her shoulder at him.
He was an angelic picture of pleasure now, eyes closed, hands on her hips, not the Paul she’d known for a dozen years, a new and different Paul exposed in this early morning encounter. She closed her own eyes as he pounded her needful pussy, feeling her impending orgasm gathering all around his cock, trying to hold off for him, knowing he was close, but it was too late.
Her orgasm crashed over her like waves on rocks, her cunt gushing with need, and then she felt him losing it, too, exploding hard up against her wanting cervix, his seed running out of her, down her thighs, all things shooting related forgotten in this exquisite moment. She waited until she felt him pull out, her freshly fucked pussy open and (if possible) saddened at the loss of his cock. She stood, facing him, her jeans and panties still on the floor.
He was reassembling himself, pulling his boxer briefs and jeans back on, refastening his belt, watching her watch him. “Ash...thank you.”, he said, as she reached for her panties.
Laughing, putting her panties and jeans back on, she whispered, “So do I now have carte blanche to use the law enforcement bay?”
A crooked smile crossed his face. “Yes, yes, you do. Anytime you want to use it, it’s yours.”
Both dressed now, he went back up front to unlock the range, and she went back to her 34, satisfied in a way no amount of rounds fired downrange could provide.
