Gina Scratches the Itch

Her cellulite-riddled lower half was nothing to look at either. Her ass jiggled with the debris of too many cookies and not enough celery; it was beyond me how a woman could show up four days a week for yoga, then undermine it by eating like a cow. No, like a pig; cows are fucking vegetarians.

"Yeah, well, y'know," she burbled uselessly, "once you have kids, the abs aren't ever really the same."

Ha! Gotcha, you stupid slut! "I've got two kids," I pointed out baldly. I straightened up as I said it, that cropped top practically shoving my four-pack in her worthless face. Eat that, bitch. She blinked. "How old is yours?" I asked; she might have an excuse, I reflected, if her spawn was some sort of newborn. It really did take time to get your body back under control.

"Oh, he's five." I had to force myself not to laugh with derision. Five years after whelping, and the dumb ho hadn't even gotten herself down to any kind of decent fighting weight yet. What a weakling! "His name is Leonardo."

And, recounting the story to Shannon after brunch, I still felt the surge of disgust. Leonardo! Holy shit, the woman wasn't even Italian! Her last name(s) was "Lavelle-Quinn." She should have named her little asshole "Pierre-Seamus." "I'm Italian, and even I didn't name my son anything as pretentious as 'Leonardo,'" I fumed.

"You like that word today," Shannon pointed out mildly. "'Pretentious.'"

"If the shoe fits..." I had an urge to rip that Meaghan bitch's head off, but I had a prescription that controlled that most of the time.

"I'm going to just let you off at your place. I've got to go work out," Shannon said apologetically. "You going to be okay?"

I thought again about goddamn Meaghan Lavelle-Quinn. "Probably," I reflected. Then I brightened up as we pulled into my driveway. "Let me know if Kyle calls," I added.

She drove off, bluish fumes flying from the tailpipe.

* * *

Oh, but I was in for a surprise when Montoya's yoga class reconvened on Tuesday evening. I tossed Brucey into bed, left Little Mikey with Big Mikey, and headed off to class with the special feeling of freedom and lightness available only to mothers whose kids aren't nearby, even if only temporarily.

That night's session was particularly grueling, as the Tuesday ones usually were; Montoya was a sadistic bastard. We focused on legs that evening, lots of Warrior and Bridge, and I had a hard time stifling my laughter as, one by one, my classmates started to lose it. That little princess Meaghan, for example, stumbled flat on her ass during the very first Chair pose. Montoya and I exchanged an exasperated, professional glance; I was in very little difficulty, as usual.

With ten minutes remaining, though, a distraction appeared. I heard the door close at the back of the gym, saw Montoya glance at the interruption, and then I saw him. A tall, rugged-looking man, looking lost, was drifting uncertainly among the posing women. "Can I help you, sir?" Montoya called, moving gracefully back into Warrior.

"Oh, hi honey!" That was Meaghan, panting wretchedly, her violin-string voice strained with effort. I blinked, my glance snapping back to the man as Montoya motioned him to the bench along the mirrored wall; he went uncertainly, smiling sheepishly at that dumb ginger twat.

Holy shitstick. Was this actually the hidden Mr Lavelle-Quinn? Was this the man who'd chosen, for whatever reason, to voluntarily share a life with the repulsive Meaghan?

Seeing him shocked and infuriated me. Nature abhors a mismatched couple, and the Quinns (sorry, the motherfucking Lavelle-Quinns) were certainly mismatched. Such a dowdy and socially-dead wife deserved a fat man named Burton or Wilbur, a nearsighted little shit with a hopeless overbite and a lack of hair.

But no. Goddamn Meaghan's husband was a true studly knockout: he had the kind of face that people used to put into ads for aftershave, or beer. He was tall and solid and he looked like a man should look; his jaw was square, his teeth straight, his eyes the dark piercing brown of a cave I'd love to crawl into and get lost. Dark brown hair to match, cut short; he was a man who took good care of himself. His belly, as far as I could see, was neither too flat nor too flabby, his height neither too tall nor too short. A sturdy, capable man; a guy with a blue-collar past.

I wondered at the size of his cock. Knowing my luck, he was probably hung like Ron fucking Jeremy. I pegged him at 33, maybe 34; just a tad older than me, anyway.

I stared at him intently, not even caring if he noticed. From where he sat, awkwardly trying not to look at the sexy female bodies in their twisty yoga poses, he could easily look straight at Meaghan and, of course, me. Montoya normally moved into Chair after Warrior, which was good; Chair was about the only pose that made it look like I had an ass, and it was also a difficult one. He'd watch his wife collapse, the lined-up rows of sweaty bitches struggle and tremble, and then he'd see me. I'd be neat and compact, strong and perfect, my butt thrust out and a little extra arch in my spine.

And, I swear to God, I'd be staring right the fuck back at him.

Silently, quickly, I called upon Gina Mode. I needed strength and confidence and drop-dead sexiness. I needed him to get one look at me and realize how inadequate his wife was by comparison. Because, although my meds kept me from kicking Meaghan in her sweaty, no doubt ill-groomed cunt, they didn't ever stop me from noticing a hot stud I could target, especially if he was married to someone I loathed.

This was an old story with me. Many, if not most, of my affairs had been conducted firmly behind the backs of women I despised, or who I was jealous of. It was something I'd worked with my psychologist about, until I started fucking him too. The new psychologist hadn't gone there yet. It's not like I'm a sex addict, or anything like that; I mean, I enjoy fucking, but I can control myself if I want to. It's just that I don't do many things well, to be frank about it; sex is a talent I have, so it's what I use.

Already my mind was humming about Mr Lavelle-Quinn, the devoted father of the unfortunately-named Leonardo. And as Montoya sang out his patter and I slowly and expertly moved into Chair, I saw him notice me.

Oh yes. He'd do nicely, I reflected, our eyes meeting with that special electric snap that moves both people into a different state of awareness, that snap that goes straight to the gonads. It happens a lot: you look into a crowd of people, they look back at you, and 99% of those eyes are vacant. But that hundredth pair of eyes arrests you, captivates you, and lets you know there's sex on offer, if you want to come and get it.

That's certainly what my eyes were saying, and I was pretty sure I saw the same thing in his. With any luck he was a man open to an affair; frankly, with a wife as repugnant as his, I figured he'd have to be. In another way, though, I was hoping he'd be a little more reluctant; it would make my victory so much sweeter.

His dark eyes opened a little wider, his jaw dropping just a little, and I held that pose like a goddamn mannequin. He saw strength, power; he saw my energetic pale eyes, and my sharp nose, and my thin lips. He saw stringy brown hair rolling in waves from my ponytail. He saw whatever I could possibly show him in the boob department, not helped much by the restrictive lycra; I was feeling hot and horny, though, so I hoped my nipples were showing. He saw the skin of my belly, the roundness of my ass, the fluid muscles of my legs. He saw me sweaty and vibrant and, again, he saw me focusing on him like a sexual laser.

If he wasn't getting hard, I should just mail in my woman card. Really.

I showed off some more through the last couple of poses, regretting that I'd chosen black pants. I stared at him the whole time, being careful not to smile. And when Montoya at last put his hands together and called out, "Namaste!" I was fast off the mark, headed straight for my bag so that I'd be there when the Lavelle-Quinns arrived to pick up her shit.

They met with an awkward hug; I was pleased to see that his kiss was no more than obligatory, though to be fair she was a sweaty mess. I wouldn't have wanted to be near her, either. I slowly wadded up my towel, timing it so that I'd be adjusting my shoes when he approached.

And I was, bent from the waist, my legs straight and my ass right back out there. I'd always been flexible; yoga had moved me to another level, like I had rubber bands in my joints. I heard them come up and gave him a few seconds of waiting to look at me; he'd see the tattoo over my ass and know that I'd been a slut once upon a time, maybe still was. That's what would be going through his brain, I hoped, as I straightened up and looked at them.

"Excuse me," she said timidly; she'd noticed I was standing right in front of her bag.

"Sorry," I smiled briefly, and when I moved out of her way I moved straight into his, between the two of them.

"Tough workout tonight," I said casually, my voice rock-solid. "Is this your husband, Meaghan?" I extended my hand strongly, assertively, looking him straight in the eye. He smelled the way a man should smell.

"Yes, um. This is..."

"I'm Gina Torrey," I said, running right over her. "It's a real pleasure, Mr Lavelle-Quinn."

"Oh, I'm just the Quinn part," he grinned, taking my hand. I gripped him as though I were breaking rocks. "Robert Quinn."

"Hello, Rob," I gambled; he didn't seem like a Bob, and if he actually used the full name Robert I wanted nothing to do with him.

"Hello yourself," he said amiably, but my mind had just caught up with something else.

"What about the Lavelle part?" I asked; could it be that that silly red-haired muppet hadn't even been able to make her man take her name? The fuck? Didn't she realize she had a cunt, and could make him do whatever she wanted?

Apparently not. "No, just Quinn."

I nodded, at last releasing his hand with my usual little extra finger action. "Thinking of joining the class, Rob?" I asked with a thin smile. "I'm sure some of us wouldn't mind seeing you in Reverse Tabletop." I was practically daring Meaghan to step in and tear me a new asshole, but I knew she wouldn't. Flirting with her man right in front of her nearly made my cunt start flowing.

"Umm, no. Her car's just in the shop, so I'm picking her up." He looked me over, at last. "Besides, you girls wouldn't want to see me yoga-ing." He laughed, and Meaghan joined in, but I did not.

"Like I said," I drove on, "some of us would." And then the payoff: I gnawed at my lower lip and tipped my head down so that I could look up at my prey through my eyelashes. The oblivious Meaghan kept trying to roll up her mat, so her husband and I had a Moment. I saw him swallow three times. Ideal. I was silent then, regarding him gravely, letting him smell me and see me, setting the hook. "Well," I said at last, just as Meaghan finished, "it was very nice meeting you, Rob." I deployed a simmering, passionate smile. "I hope to see you again soon."

"Likewise." His voice was very subdued now. Oh, he'd be thinking about me tonight; no doubt about it.

* * *

I saw Meaghan's car back in the lot the next evening when I pulled into yoga. Must be out of the shop. She drove a nice Volkswagen, the kind you could still fit a carseat in. I wondered suddenly what kind of attorney she was. Hopefully not the kind that does collisions, I reflected as I very deliberately rammed Mike's black SUV into the Volkswagen's passenger side; I'd checked the night before to make sure the parking lot wasn't equipped with cameras, and I'd even gotten here late to make sure I'd be unobserved as I smashed her car. I went quickly into reverse, crashed slowly into the Volkswagen again, and then calmly drove off.

Then, unconcerned, I pulled into another space all the way across the lot. I hadn't done much damage to Mike's car; I'd been going slowly and, after all, the large car usually beats the small car. If he asked, I could say I'd had a fenderbender. Which, in a way, was true.

I was certain Rob Quinn would be back to pick up his little wifey on Thursday evening at 7:00, the next time Montoya had a session. No doubt the damage was severe enough for the bodyshop to keep her silly German piece of shit all weekend, so I'd see him Sunday before brunch as well.

* * *

As a bonus, Rob stayed for the entire workout on Thursday. Whether he was pissed over the car or pissed because stupid Meaghan was alive, I couldn't say; either way, he seemed surly as he perched himself on the bench. He was dressed for work, it seemed, in khakis and a button-up shirt.

I'd made sure to show up early and I'd moved my mat so that I'd be right behind Meaghan. I presumed he'd want to sit near her, which meant he'd also be sitting near me. I wasn't entirely sure how this would go, but I was pretty certain I could have his dick in me before the following Tuesday, one way or the other. Hopefully he didn't share young Kyle's unfortunate length, because that itch I had down in my cunt absolutely needed scratching by now.

I was stretching as Meaghan got set up, moving my legs slowly and carefully as he sat down and pretended not to watch me. He had his phone out, frowning at it in his lap; I fantasized that he was secretly filming me, for later spank material. So I behaved as though he was, preening shamelessly, fully on display in grey boyshorts and a very brief pink top.

On my own schedule, I met his eyes at last. I was on the floor, doing a lower-back stretch that involved lifting one leg over the other and twisting my upper body toward him. I'd be looking at him, once again, through my lashes; guys dig that. "Nice to see you again, Rob Quinn," I said quietly. The session would start in a few minutes, and Meaghan always went to pee right before; I planned to take full advantage.

"Oh, hi Gina," he said, as if he'd only just noticed me. I favored him with a smile, then turned to stretch the other side; just then, Meaghan flashed Rob an apologetic look and scuttled off for some alone time with the toilet. I sighed; she was late for that, as always. The line was already out the bathroom door. Almost every mother in the place was worried about holding it during the poses... every mother but me. Ha! Do your kegels, bitches!

I got slowly to my feet and looked down at my quarry. "So, Rob," I began warmly, bending from the waist to pull up my sock, "what is it you do?"

"What, you can't tell from the distinctive uniform?" He smiled back at me. "I manage a temp agency."

"Huh." No fuel there; I lacked racy quips and puns for temp workers. I was vaguely disappointed. "You look like you work out," I put in, probing.

"A little," he allowed, moving his hand self-consciously to his bicep. "A few times a week." I stood and waited for him to reciprocate, and he didn't disappoint. "You seem to work out a lot yourself."

"Well, you know," I shrugged modestly, "once she gets past thirty, a woman really needs to start taking care of herself." I'd subtly told him I was old enough to know just what I was doing, and I'd also indicted his wife. No reason to stop now. "Most of us who attend Montoya's sessions turn into well-honed machines." But not your wife. I didn't even need to point that out; my chiseled body told the tale. I smiled indulgently. "I meant what I said, Rob, about yoga. You should give it a whirl." I winked. "I could give you lessons."

"No doubt," he said, smiling hesitantly. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for yoga. I'm more of a weights guy."

"Come on," I said dismissively. "Weight rooms are smelly and gross. If you did yoga, you could come here and watch all us hot chicks bending and twisting." I let him digest that image. "Yoga's great for sex, Rob. That's why I got into it, frankly." I was staring again, in Gina Mode, letting him think. Seductions are as much mental as physical, after all. "I'm sure you've noticed..."

"Noticed?" he replied after a pause.

"You know," I simpered, grabbing my heel and stretching my quad. With my back arched slightly, he'd have an excellent view of my labia. "I'm sure Meaghan's been a demon in the sack since she's been coming here. Most women who do yoga experience a 78% boost in their sex drive," I lied smoothly; the statistic made no sense, but I didn't mind. I chuckled knowingly. "I know I did. My husband doesn't mind me leaving the kids with him and heading over here. He knows he'll benefit later." I waggled my eyebrows, just two grown-ups having a conversation.

"I'll bet he does," Rob said quietly. Outstanding! There was sincerity in that voice, and want. Not quite need, though; not yet. I'd set the hook deep.

"What brings you here today, Rob?" I smiled. "More car trouble?"

"Yeah, some dickhead rammed into Meaghan's car door. Totally jacked it up."

"Holy shit," I exclaimed gravely, my hands on my chest. "Like, out of the blue? Just hit it?"

"Crashed right into it. Out in the parking lot."

"Jesus." I shook my head sympathetically. "Some people are just absolute, full-fledged selfish assholes." I reflected. "You call the police? I'll bet someone got it on camera."

"Nope. No cameras; they said it was just a normal hit-and-run. Nothing they can do. I guess the paint scrapings showed a black truck."

"Damn. Like, a pickup truck?"

"Yeah." He mused. "Guys with pickup trucks are all jerks." Well. So much for a blue-collar past. He sighed.

"Hmm." I crouched low and spread my legs, feeling the burn in my quads. "Well, if you find out who did it, give him an extra kick in the teeth for me. Hell is too good for that kind of chickenshit." I dusted off my hands as Montoya got us up and ready. The women in line for the bathroom gave up and came back, including frumpy Meaghan. "Well, we're off," I told Rob with a wink. "Enjoy the show."

"I sure will," he said fervently.

* * *

Even I felt a little dirty during that yoga session. Never once had I so blatantly advertised myself for any man. Every folded pose, every smooth transition, every long stretch, was designed to show Rob Quinn just how well I could fuck. I was fully on display, every body part showing clearly, my sexual excellence obvious right next to Meaghan's inept attempts at the more advanced poses. I'd dressed to impress in the briefest possible shorts and a tiny sports bra.

As usual, it really was just me, Montoya, and Tricia in the back row who were still keeping up. Tricia was fun and energetic, a tall dynamo with a killer bod; I'm no lesbian, but I can appreciate a sexy woman, and Tricia had it all. Montoya had approached the two of us a month ago about taking advanced classes, getting certified, and teaching with him; I was still mulling the time commitment, but Tricia had agreed enthusiastically. Maybe that's why Montoya hadn't responded to me; maybe he was fucking Tricia instead. The thought worried me.

But Rob no longer did. Now, at the end of the session, it was painfully and bluntly clear just how into me he was. He never once looked away from me, even when Meaghan shot a glare at him. I laughed inwardly, contorting, thinking about the erection I was giving him. Hell, this was practically a lapdance for him; I half-expected him to slip a twenty into my boyshorts at the end of the session.

Well, that took care of the mental part. I admit, I'd expected to need another day or so for that, but I guess not. Shit, Meaghan must be giving him absolutely no satisfaction at all in her cold, sterile bed. Just seventy minutes of blatant bodily display, and he was already primed to do me. My thoughts began to turn to the physical.

I'd made frequent use of cars, hotel rooms, my own marital bed, and restrooms in my adventures. Less commonly, I'd even done a few men outside, bent over park benches and the like, though that was never my preference. More often than not, fucking married men in their own houses was a bad idea; I'd found it gave them hangups. I doubted that would be a problem with Rob, but I'd been wrong before.