Between the Lines 05 (Futa on Male)

Rain gathered in trembling rivulets that warped the neon signs of downtown into watery brushstrokes of color on the taxi window. Ben sat still in the backseat, his reflection ghostly against the flowing glass, while Friday drinkers from downtown gathered beneath awnings and umbrellas. The Christmas party ended an hour ago, but the events of the evening stayed clear in his consciousness, running across it with the metronomic accuracy of the windshield wipers.

The driver said, breaking the hush that had lasted since Ben had whispered his address fifteen minutes earlier, "making good time tonight. Roads clear up quite nicely this late."

Not trusting himself to talk, Ben nodded absently. Though he had hardly spoken for two hours, his throat felt raw, as if he had been screaming. Outside, a traffic signal changed from red to green, bathing the cab's interior in an emerald glow evocative of the garlands hanging in lazy arcs from the company lunch hall ceiling. The remembrance of those decorations turned something inside him--the joyous mood now a bitter background to his shame.

The taxi moved forward, pouring water over the windscreen. On the damp tarmac, Ben saw the headlights of approaching vehicles create golden streaks. Every passing streetlight just lit his face; his mouth was a rigid line and his eyes fixated and unblinking. He got flashes of his twisted mirror, a man he hardly knew.

Benevolently clear, his mind ran back over the events of the evening behind his expressionless visage. Not the forced laughing of workplace politics or the awkward small conversation. No, his ideas returned to one point like a compass locating true north--the storage room behind Richard's office, where everything had altered.

He closed his eyes and found himself instantly transported back. Ava's face inches from his own, the small space, the poor light. The instant when want and inquiry overcame prudence. Her cock's strange weight in his hand--warm, heavy, alive. As he massaged her, seeing her expression change with pleasure, he experienced an unplanned surge of excitement.

At the time, analysis and doubt did not exist. Only sense and connection, basic and instantaneous, had existed. Finding that his draw to Ava transcended conventional limits had been both terrible and freeing. He broke through thresholds inside himself he had not known existed with every hand sweep across her length.

A pothole rocked the vehicle, dragging Ben back to earth. Rain kept hammering on the roof, thumping hollowly to reflect his desolation. Because it was completely of his own making, what followed that moment of connection was near disaster.

Michael's knowing smirk, Dan's drunken laughing, and the words Ben had dropped like poison-- "Richard's pencil pusher"--shipped the scene in his memory to the corridor outside Richard's office.

Although his hands were numb, he felt something in his chest that he identified as guilt. Though momentary, Ava's pain on her face was indisputable--a flinch, a withdrawal as though he had hit her physically. And in several respects he had. He had turned her to a joke, an afterthought, a punchline meant to deflect attention from his own suffering after all they had shared and the tenderness she had shown.

Pushing his fingertips against his closed eyes, Ben felt stars. The worst was that he realized exactly what he was doing when he said it. With his eyes narrowing in suspicion, Michael had vowed to protect himself at Ava's price in that moment of panic. He turned her career--which she had worked hard to attain despite Richard's relentless undercutting--into a target for ridicule. He weaponized it.

"Do you have a preference for route?" Said the driver. Ben's ideas were once more cut off.

"Whatever's fastest," Ben said quickly, his voice sounding far away in his own ears.

As the cab veered onto a side street, Ben started to feel queasy. Maybe it was more of a memory of events after his careless remarks than of the movement itself.

The party had kept surrounding Ava in a whirl of noise and color after she had turned away with box in hand and marched straight with wounded dignity. He would have gone through it like a ghost, present but not involved, observing as others connected and laughed and danced. His gaze had also followed Ava always, always.

She had, at least outwardly, recovered rapidly. She had returned to the party apparently without trouble, taken a glass of champagne from a coworker, then moved to the impromptu dance floor when a hit song started to play. Glass tightly gripped in his palm, Ben had watched as Richard leaned in to say something that made her giggle.

Ben felt the sound of laughter slash through him like a knife--not because it was aimed at Richard, whom he hated, but because it was real. Ava had kept shining even with his betrayal and his reckless comments. Her fortitude made his deeds appear all the pettier.

He had nursed his champagne in the corner, turned off Michael's invites to join a group headed to the bar, and waited until the celebration was drawing to an end before leaving. Ava hadn't sought him out again. Why would she do that? He had shown himself unworthy of her confidence.

The taxi's inside was lit by a flash of lightning, then seconds later heard thunder. Mirroring Ben's mental instability, the storm was getting stronger. He found himself going back, over and over, to the feeling of Ava's cock in his hand--its softness, heat, tenseness of skin. Clearly, the remembrance caused uncertainty; but, it also brought an unquestionable, relentless arousal.

Did that make him gay? The question had come up often over the evening, but it seemed insufficient, limited. His attraction to Ava transcended boundaries and categories. It was about her--her confidence, her giggle, the way she bit her lip when focused on code, the will with which she negotiated a world that tried to box her. Her body, with all its intricacy, was simply another aspect of who she was; he found himself wanting all of her, not despite her individuality but rather because of it.

The awareness dropped upon him like a weight. He had wanted her absolutely and then failed her at the first test. Had revealed the same vulnerability she most definitely fought every day.

"Weather's supposed to clear by morning," the driver said, his voice breaking through the quiet once more. Ben understood the man was attempting to be courteous, filling what would seem to be an awkward quiet. " Just passing through, this system."

"Good to know," Ben said, trying to seem more present. "Thanks."

The taxi headed down a residential street, the softer glow of streetlamps and sporadic porch lights replacing the neon of downtown. Now they were coming near his flat. Soon he would be alone with his ideas, facing the long weekend before he could even try to right things.

Ava would hardly even talk to him on Monday. Would she avoid him totally or would she pretend nothing had happened? He was afraid of seeing her across the office and of attempting to negotiate the ruins of what may have been. Still, the other--not seeing her at all--felt even more terrible.

The taxi slowed down to head his street. Older Victorian residences divided into apartments with lofty ceilings and drafty windows were scattered here. Ben's was on the second floor of a pale blue structure that had seen better days but possessed a certain faded charm. Ben fumbled for his wallet as the car stopped at the curb.

"Twelve seventy-five," the driver remarked, the red numerals of the meter shining in the night.

Ben turned around to show twenty. "Keep the Change."

"Appreciate it. Yeah, get inside before you drown."

Ben nodded, throwing open the door and entering the deluge. The rain pounded on his shoulders, quickly soaking his shirt through. He paid hardly no attention. The cold was clearing the last traces of business cologne and champagne.

Ben paid the taxi driver as it drove up to his apartment building and left into the rain. It permeated his jacket right away, but he hardly noticed. Still encircled by questions he never would have considered asking himself before tonight, his mind remained in that storage room. About Ava, about himself, about what precisely he wanted and whether he had the guts to pursue it.

The cab turned away, leaving him alone on the pavement with rain pouring over him as he stood thinking about a Monday that suddenly couldn't arrive quick enough and a night that had changed everything.

Monday arrived with the merciless efficiency of an executioner, giving Ben exactly forty-eight hours to go back over Friday night's storage room meeting before facing its consequences. Standing in the elevator, he watched the floor numbers rise with the same anxiety he might have from seeing a bomb's countdown. Benevolent enough--clean-shaven, button-down shirt correctly tucked, tie fastened with mechanical precision--his reflection in the polished metal doors appeared normal enough, but beyond that meticulously managed surface his thoughts swirled and shattered like waves against a cliff.

The weekend had been a whirl of overanalysis. One minute he would persuade himself that what happened with Ava was merely an odd, alcohol-fueled aberration they could gently overlook. The recollection of her hardness in his hand, the gasp she had against his neck, and a fever that no number of cold showers could eradicate would then grab him.

The elevator sounded at the second floor. Ben inhaled deeply and entered the office; his eyes immediately searched for blonde hair and that black dress; before he realized, with almost comic self-awareness, she wouldn't be wearing the same clothing as Friday.

Monday morning activities hummed in the office. The little break of the weekend had restored everyone's ability for small talk, and fragments of discussion about holiday plans and gift shopping floated about the open floor layout. Relieved that nobody seemed to look at him differently, as if Friday night were somehow visible across his forehead, Ben nodded at a few colleagues as he headed to his desk.

Pretending to check emails, he sat down at his computer and watched the main door. His heart performed a gymnastics dance in his chest when Ava at last arrived fifteen minutes later. Her hair pulled up in its normal ponytail and she wore a basic black skirt falling just above her knees and a cream-colored shirt. Her look suggested nothing odd had occurred between them, which somehow made Ben even more anxious.

She didn't look his way. Rather, she headed directly to her workstation close to Richard's office and grabbed her phone right away to seem as though Monday morning crises were all around.

Before pushing himself to concentrate on the screen in front of him, Ben watched her for a second too long. For all the meaning it would have today, the code he had been working on last week could have as well been written in hieroglyphics. He opened and closed several folders, displaying a show of efficiency while his head whirled around ways he may approach her.

Richard arrived twenty minutes late as usual, already yelling directions before he had even passed the door an hour into this show. Ben watched as Ava sprang from her desk, notepad in hand, trailed by Richard into his office. He saw her nodding carefully through the glass walls as Richard indicated strongly at something on his computer screen.

"Earth to Ben," he heard, startled. Michael from accounting stood next to his desk carrying a stack of papers. "Did you get my email on the quarterly expense reports?"

"Oh--yeah, I was just about to respond," Ben lied, trying to recall if he'd seen any such email among the dozens he'd been ignoring.

Michael dropped the papers on Ben's desk with a pointed glance at Ava across the glass wall, "Well, I need them by end of day, and Richard wants the summary first thing tomorrow." " Wouldn't want to disappoint the king and his favorite servant."

Ben was annoyed at the description; the same feeling that had landed him in trouble Friday night. More sternly than he meant, he remarked, "She's an assistant, not a servant."

Michael raised an eyebrow. " Yes, Ben. Whatever you say." He turned to leave Ben with scorching ears and a fresh guilt load.

By lunch, Ben had done exactly nothing except type an apology to Ava, delete it, and open the business messaging app repeatedly. Every rendition seemed either too professional ("I wish to express my sincere regrets...") or too laid back ("Hey, about Friday..."). Ava had been in and out of meetings all morning, always within Richard's orbit, always just out of reach.

Ben's hands once more hung over the keyboard. The words "pencil pusher" echoed in his mind, making him wince. He had not intended it that way, or had he? The fact was, he'd felt a twinge of something unpleasant observing her effective attitude toward Richard at meetings, the way she anticipated his demands. Was it jealousy? Resentment that she made Richard look good when everyone knew he was a nightmare? More profoundly, a disappointment that someone as intelligent as Ava was happy to be in a supporting role?

He gave his head a shake. None of that warranted hurting her emotions; none of it compared to the more urgent matter: the fact that he'd had his hand on her penis in a storage closet and they hadn't exchanged so much as a glance since.

Ben eventually collected the confidence to say, "Ava, I owe you an apology for what I said Friday night," at 1:47 PM, with Ava momentarily back at her desk between meetings. " It was thoughtless and untrue. Can we talk?"

The message displayed as "read" practically right away, but no reply arrived. Ben saw the little typing indication show and vanish many times; his anxiousness grew with every flutter. At last, following what felt like hours but probably just minutes, her response was: "Yes, you do. But I'm buried in Richard's presentation for tomorrow."

Ben's fingers rushed over the keyboard: "I know. Perhaps coffee later this week?

This time the reply came faster: "I'll be in the company gym after work. If you really want to apologize, do it personally."

She said before he could reply: "And not over text like a coward."

The message showed her as offline right away after. Ben fixated on the screen, opening his mouth slightly wide. That went against everything he had anticipated. She preferred to meet in the gym. The same gym where they'd had their first awkward encounter weeks ago, when he'd accidentally walked into the wrong locker room and seen... well, seen what he'd now felt with his own hands.

His collar felt abruptly tight from the insinuation. Was this more of a trap? Did she wish to embarrass him for treating her rudely? Alternatively was this an invitation to carry on what had begun in the storage room? In both cases, the gym was a public venue. Anyone from the office may stroll in and see them together; while a discussion itself would be innocent enough, Ben wasn't sure he could face Ava without his whole body language clearly expressing exactly what was on his mind.

The afternoon drifted by in a cloud of conjecture. Ben alternated between allowing his thoughts go into clearly less professional terrain and persuading himself this was just about an apology. Five o'clock, when people started packing for the day, he still hadn't decided what to do.

He watched Ava deftly pack her bag, say something to Richard that made him laugh--a rare sight--and walked for the lifts carrying a gym bag slung over her shoulder. Their eyes locked momentarily across the desk, and something about her guided his choice.

He would go. He would apologize properly. And then whatever happened... he would handle that when it came.

After Ava departed, Ben waited fifteen minutes, focusing on his computer until the office had mostly cleared out. He wanted no one to see him too openly following her. He turned off his computer, grabbed his own workout bag--which, fortunately, he kept supplied for the rare times he really utilized the business fitness center--and went for the elevators when the coast seemed clear.

Ben had alone time on the ride down to the basement level to practice what he would say. The straightforward, honest approach sounded ideal: "I'm sorry for what I said. It was not what I really think of you and was insensitive." Neat, sincere, direct. What happened after that apology was anyone's guess, but at least he'd have done the right thing.

The elevator doors opened onto the parking garage; the concrete expanse there now had less cars than it did during the workday. Despite the size of the area, the alternating pools of brilliance and shade created by the overhead lights create an oddly close environment. Ben headed toward the far end, where the company gym's glass door stood as the entrance.

Each of his footsteps seemed to shout "turn back, turn back," echoing throughout the vast hall. But the picture of Ava's face when he had made that careless remark, the hurt that had flashes across her features before she could suppress it--that kept him pushing on. And if he was sincere with himself, so too did the recollection of her body against his, the surprising excitement of discovery in that small storage space.

Ben could see from the glass at the gym door that the main workout space was empty as he was walking there. That was good--fewer witnesses to whatever uncomfortable conversation he would find waiting for him. He pushed inside the door and smelled rubber mats and disinfectant, familiar. He could hear a shower running steadily down the corridor.

His heart pulsed irregularly against his ribs as he advanced, gym bag slung in his now moist palm toward whatever waited for him beyond the locker room doors.

Ben could see the parking garage before him as a concrete maze, every parking space a hollow chamber where cars would typically rest. Most were empty at this hour, producing a terrible void of negative space. As he walked, the flickering fluorescent lights above created odd, elongated shadows that moved over the floor. Though he hoped--or maybe feared--that only Ava would hear, his footsteps sounded with a hollow persistence that seemed to herald his approach to everyone who might be listening.

Comprising a glass-fronted afterthought constructed during the health program three years ago, the business gym dominated the southeast corner of the lowest level. Most workers utilized it occasionally at best, preferring the more strong facilities of commercial gyms, but it worked for those wishing a short workout without leaving the building.

Against the cool metal handle of the gym entrance door, Ben's palm was wet with sweat. He opened it and walked inside, instantly surrounded by the artificially controlled temperature--warmer than the garage--with that unique mix of cleaning agents, rubber, and subdued human effort that all gyms appeared to share regardless of size or quality.

The main exercise area was empty; the weight machines and treadmills stood like patient sentinels in the half-light. The motion-activated overhead lights switched on fully as Ben moved further inside, illuminating the empty space in harsh fluorescence. He could hear the consistent buzz of running water, a shower in use, from someplace deeper in the building.

The sound sent off a strong memory of their embarrassing encounter. When he found himself in the women's locker room instead of the men's.

Ben stopped in the corridor intersection leading to the changing rooms, his gym bag falling limp from his palm. He had not really intended to work out; it was only a cover for being here should someone question. Now, confronted with Ava in such a private environment once more, uncertainty tore across his mind. This might have been a mistake. Perhaps he should just forward her a gift basket together with an apology note. Perhaps, but no. He would have come this far. And something in Ava's message, the difficulty in her words--"not over text like a coward"--demanded a reaction. She was correct; he owed her a sincere apology personally. And if he was entirely honest with himself, he wanted to see her once more and needed to know whether the connection he had experienced in that storage room had been real or merely an alcohol-induced aberration.

He kept down the hall, the shower sound getting louder. Two doors at the end of the corridor were identical save for the little gender identification posted on each. Men towards the left; women towards the right. Paralysed by doubt, Ben stood between them.

Ava was specifically expecting what? She had instructed him to see her at the gym, but she had not mentioned specifically where. Did she mean the workout area? One of the locker rooms? Was he meant to wait outside till she came? Usually under control in a formal professional setting, his social shyness now threatened to overwhelm him with the countless ways for misreading.

He gave his alternatives some thought. Though that was just the kind of evasion she had called him out for, he could text her. He could wait in the gym area, but should she leave via the garage exit he could miss her. He could knock on the women's locker room door, but suppose someone else might be in there? His stomach turned over at the thought of justifying himself to another female colleague.

The passageway descended into relative silence when the shower sound stopped suddenly. Knowing Ava was probably drying off, Ben's heart rate quickened, either dressing--or maybe standing there ready for him to move. The moment threatened to either break or recoil, like a rubber band strained to its maximum.

Ben raised his hand and lightly, almost tentatively knocked on the women's locker room door before he could overanalyze it any more. He instantly regretted the sound, which in the silent corridor seemed abnormally loud. What if Ava had company instead? Imagine security cameras in this corridor. What if--from within--there was no reaction? Just silence, so profound he could hear the distant, muted sound of a car engine beginning somewhere in the garage above and the buzz of the ventilation system. He almost felt driven to turn and run. He could still leave and create some sort of emergency-related justification tomorrow. But the idea of Ava's disappointment--and yes, his own interest about what may happen--kept his feet firmly on the tile floor.

He inhaled deeply, knocked once more, and this time he followed with a gentle but clear "Hello?"

Inside there heard rustling, then a familiar voice: "Ben?" Ava's voice was neutral, revealing nothing about her mental state--or fashion sense.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, his voice catching somewhat. He started to clear his throat. "You, um, mentioned to meet here. To apologize."

Then: "Come in." There was a pause.

Those two words sent Ben's core a rush of adrenaline, and something moved in his jeans. Come in? To the locker room for women? His head spun with ramifications, cautions, possibilities.

"Are you sure?" he asked, giving her an out. If that would be better, "I can wait out here until you're done."

Her answer came right away, slightly annoyed yet amused: "Stop being a pussy and come in, Ben."

The rough directive startled him into obeying, thus contradicting Ava's usual polished manner. His hand moved almost naturally to the door handle, pulling it open before his brain could really understand all the reasons this was most likely a bad decision.

Ben entered the women's locker room as the door opened inward, crossing a threshold that felt symbolically important in ways he couldn't quite express but could definitely feel--in his racing heart, shallow breathing, and slacks' increasing tightness.

Steam hung in the air like spectral drapes, transforming the fluorescent illumination into diffuse halos giving the locker room a surreal character. Ben followed Ava's shadow over the vapor, her back slightly turned to him from an open locker. She wore only a black sports bra on top, the fabric sticking to her skin with post-workout moisture, and a white towel tightly knotted around her waist. Watery droplets followed slow trajectues down her shoulder blades, gathering in the small of her back before vanishing under the terrycloth barrier.

Feeling like an invader in a holy place, Ben froze just inside the doorway. Though it seemed essentially different, the women's locker room was almost exactly like the men's in design--rows of metal lockers along the walls, a little wooden bench running down the center, shower stalls seen via a doorway at the far end. Unlike the strong pine and mentholated smells that dominated the men's side, the air smelled mildly of floral shampoo and body wash.

Ava turned around not right away. Rather, she kept arranging items in her locker, her motions slow and deliberate as though a male colleague in the women's changing room were a regular occurrence. Ben felt the nonchalant confidence of it to be both frightening and yet appealing.

At last she turned to look over her shoulder; her blonde hair darkened with wetness and tied back in a messy bun to highlight the graceful contour of her neck. "You can sit," she added, nodding slightly in the direction of the bench behind her. Her face was blank, neither kind nor unfriendly; she just waited.

Ben gulped, his throat dry instantly He moved a few mechanical steps forward, the door sliding shut behind him with a gentle hydraulic hiss that seemed to lock his fate. Now the bench appeared to be absolutely small, a flimsy platform that would have him exactly at eye level with--

He shortened that line of thinking and turned instead toward the apologies he had practiced. "Ava, I wanted to say I'm really sorry about Friday night," he said, gingerly making his way to the bench and seated with eyes fixated fiercely on the tiled floor. "What I said about you being Richard's pencil pusher--it was totally out of line. Not meant the way it sounded."

He looked at his own shoes, pricey leather oxfords that looked ridiculous in the laid-back locker area. From the trek across the garage, they were still somewhat damp; dark stains on the smooth surface resembled inkblots in a psychological test. He wondered what they revealed about him--this man who could not even glance a woman in the eye while apologizing, who was striving so hard to be a gentleman when gentlemanly behavior felt like the thinnest possible shell over his genuine thoughts?

He said, "I respect you and the work you do," the words coming out practiced even though they were sincere. "I was drunk and jealous," he paused realizing too late what he had revealed.

"Jealous?" Ava sounded with a real astonishment. "of what?"

Ben glanced up, wary to fix his gaze on her face. "Of how naturally you manage Richard, I suppose. of your confidence. Of-" He hesitated, not sure how to express the complicated whirl of feelings he experienced seeing her at work.

Ava turned completely toward her locker once he stammered for words and picked out some gray jogging trousers. Then she untied the knot in her towel and let it drop to the floor, with a carelessness that caused Ben's heart to skip.

Ben's eyes dropped reflexively from the gentle thud of cloth against tile. The polite desire to turn away vanished when his gaze rested squarely on Ava's bare lower body. Her penis hung heavy and unassuming between her legs, not straight but very remarkable even in its relaxed position. It was more than Ben had expected given their clumsy meeting in the storage room: thick and lengthy, with noticeable veins along its length, tucked above a nice, tidy sac.

Ben's head was short-circuted by the contrast between this clearly male aspect and the feminine curve of her hips and neatly shaved legs. Her physique both familiar and strange at once, she was attractive in a way that transcended traditional boundaries.

Ava moved not to conceal herself or put on the pants hanging limp from her hand. Rather, she stood sideways to him, allowing--perhaps even motivating--his perspective, her lips twisting into a knowing smile as she saw his response.

"You were saying something about jealousy?" she asked, her voice lower than usual and with an undercurrent of something that might have been amusement or want or both.

Ben opened his mouth, but whatever he had been ready to say vanished from his mind. He was quite conscious of his own bodily reaction: his heart quickened, his body warmed, his pants tightened.

"What's wrong, Ben? You lost your stream of thought?" Ava's taunting now had an edge, a confidence derived from knowledge of exactly the effect she was producing. "It is not as though you have not seen it before. Felt it before."

Ben's paralysis was broken through by the clear reference to their meeting in the storage room. "I--yes--that is--" He stammered, unable to build a coherent statement while his brain was busy analyzing the visual information before him and reconciling it with the recollection of that hardness in his hand, the way it had pulsed against his palm.

Ava took a step closer, still holding the jogging pants at her side, making no move to put them on. "Tell me something," she asked, her voice somewhat laid back. "What would have happened at the party if we had not been disturbed?"

Between them, in the steam-filled air, the question lingered weighted with possibilities. Ben's mind flew through possibilities--some from his dreams over the weekend, others he hadn't let himself deliberately explore.

Finally, his voice strained, he said, "I don't know." Though that was the truth, it felt like the response of a coward.

"You don't know?" Ava repeated, doubt obvious in her voice. "We were rather far along a certain road, Ben. Are you saying you hadn't considered where it was leading?"

He had considered it, obsessively, thoroughly in ways that had both unsettled and delighted him. But clearly expressing those ideas aloud here, now, with Ava half-naked before him, was difficult.

Weakly, he answered, "I was drunk," instantly regretting the suggestion.

Ava's expression expressed displeasure, maybe rage. "So that serves as your justification? You were inebriated, so it meant nothing?" She moved still another step forward, till she stood squarely in front of him, her exposed dick at his eye level. "Is it the reason you are here now? Sober and apologetic, ready to write the whole thing off as a mistake?"

"No!" The word burst from him with unexpected force. "That's not exactly what I meant."

Then what did you mean, Ben?" Her voice had become impatiently edged. "You're still hiding behind civility and apologies; I'm standing here, literally exposed to you. What do you want?"

The directness of the question shocked him. He wanted what? Saying he begged her forgiveness for his careless remark would be the right response--that is, the safe response. Still, that would be only partially accurate. Really, he wanted...

"I'm confused," he said, staring up her face and attempting to ground himself there rather than allowing his eyes drop lower. "Friday night... in the storage room... that was unexpected. I had never felt--that is, I did not know I could--" He staggered over the words, the ideas alien territory.

Ava's posture stayed tough even if her expression softened somewhat. "Ben, life presents surprising revelations. What do you do with them is the question. She looked at his face for a moment then added more gently. "You don't need alcohol to be brave. All you have to do is choose what you want and then pursue it."

Her comments lay between them, a gauntlet dropped. Ben felt the weight of the moment, the idea that whatever he said or did next would send them on a road they couldn't readily turn around. His mouth had gone dry, and his chest felt oddly light--fear or expectation or some strong combination of both.

"I want...," he started but stumbled. How could he express wants he was just starting to recognize in himself?

Ava clearly was becoming less patient. "Ben, it's really easy. Either you don't want me or you do." Her free hand slid to her hip in a way that strangely embodied both femininity and authority. Which is it?

The question asked so plainly required an equally clear response. Ben stared at Ava--actually looked at her--absorbing the whole picture of her: the confidence with which she embraced her particular physique, the intelligence in her eyes, the slight lip curvature suggesting she already knew his answer but wanted to hear him say it.

And in that flash of insight, Ben discovered--after all--that the solution was shockingly basic.

Ava's hand crept deliberately slowly to her penis, fingers wrapping around its significant girth with trained ease. Her eyes never left Ben's face as she stroked herself, the motion slow and mesmerizing, her reaction measured. Her cock answered right away to her touch, thickening and lengthening with every slow hand pump, the skin sliding easily under her grasp.

Her voice dropped to a husky whisper that seemed to resonate in the hot air between them as she continued, "You want to know how you might really apologize to me, Ben?" The inquiry was rhetorical; the response was clear in the way she kept touching herself, in the broken eye contact that imprisoned him.

Ben could not turn away or talk. His mouth had gone bone-dry abruptly, then started to wet at the scene before him. The paradox mirrored the confusing mix of shock, arousal, curiosity, anxiety--all combining into a single, overpowering need to touch what Ava was touching.

"Kiss it," she said, her free hand pointing to her now half-erect friend. "Kiss my cock, and I'll consider your apology accepted."

Ben's system was shocked by the instruction's raw directness; a hot flush started from his collar and surged to his cheeks. Ava's penis appeared almost surreal in the fluorescent light of the locker area, filtered through residual moisture, a forbidden object from a dream becoming more substantial with every handstroke.

Not sure what he was going to say, not convinced there was anything to say, Ben began "I..." Independent of his conscious thinking, his body seemed to have an agenda. His lips watered so strongly he had to swallow often, and his own erection taxed against his slacks.

Ava remarked, "Simple choice, Ben," keeping her consistent strokes. "You either want this or you don't. Either you're not brave enough to seize what you want, or you are." Her cock was now entirely erect, proudly standing from her body, its size enough to make Ben wonder fleetingly how she so skillfully hidden it in her work clothes.

Ben said, "I want it," in the silent locker room, the words hardly audible but definitely clear.

Ava's lips turned into a content smile. "Then get on your knees and show me."

The directive should have felt degrading, but instead it gave Ben an exciting surge. Something about being told exactly what to do, about giving up the need to decide or act, was unexpectedly freeing. He slid off the bench onto his knees without thinking twice, aligning himself just in front of Ava's throbbing cock.

Her penis seemed even more striking from this new vantage point--thick and veined, the head enlarged and darker than the shaft, with a tiny bead of clear fluid forming at the tip. Driven by a natural need to feel its weight and heat, Ben's hand stretched for it almost of its own will.

Ava responded swiftly. She smacked his hand away, not too strong to hurt but enough force to make her point plain. "No," she answered with great conviction. "Just your mouth. I want to feel those soft lips that say such thoughtless things put to better use."

Though the circumstances had changed far beyond a simple expression of regret, Ben was reminded of why he was here--to apologize--by the mild reprimande. In this instant, he had an unexpected surge of subserviency, a need to please her unrelated to corporate hierarchy and everything to do with the charged intensity between them.

He laid his hands lightly on her thighs, not sure where else to put them, and felt the hard muscle and silky flesh under his palms. Looking up at her face, he sought permission or final confirmation.

Ava stared for a bit, then purposefully dropped the jogging trousers she had been holding aside--the smooth fabric gathering on the floor next to the thrown-away towel. The gesture cleared any last doubt on the direction of this meeting.

Her cock now stood completely straight before him, an amazing twelve inches at least, the shaft girthy enough Ben's fingers wouldn't have met had he been able to wrap them around. It curled somewhat upward, the head bulbous and gleaming, a road map of veins clear across its length.

Ava said, "Kiss it," her voice soft but firm. She angled her penis slightly downward with her fingers, straight at Ben's lips.

With a deep breath, Ben leaned forward and placed his lips against the side of her shaft in a tentative kiss. Her skin shockingly smooth despite the hardness beneath, and warmer than he had anticipated. The contact was electric. As he pulled back slightly, a thin strand of precum stretched between his lower lip and her cock, creating a glistening bridge that caught the light.

The taste was modest yet unique, somewhat salted with an undercurrent of not unpleasant sweetness. The smell was seductive; clean from her most recent shower, but it had an underlying muskiness that set Ben's head on a primitive trip. With the sensory assault, he felt lightheaded; his own erection pulsed angrily against the limits of his pants.

Ava observed his response through veiled eyes, her breathing increased just slightly. "Not so bad, is it?" she asked, sounding rather triumphant. She lightly touched his jawline with her free hand as she reached down. "I also think you might even enjoy it."

She was correct; the awareness should have startled more than it did. Rather, Ben experienced an odd sense of inevitability, as if he had been headed toward this moment from that first inadvertent meeting in the locker room weeks earlier

Ava deliberately showed how she squeezed the head of her cock with her thumb and forefinger, coaxing out a more significant bead of precum that hung precariously from the slit before dropping with perfect cinematic timing to the floor between them.

"Lick off the rest," she said, her voice low with excitement.

Ben gathered the last of the juice by running his tongue across the top of her penis. Now the taste was more concentrated, stronger, and he discovered he was craving more. His tongue stayed, searching the ridge where the head collided with the shaft for the sensitive areas causing Ava's breath to stop.

"Open your mouth," she murmured, her voice tightening now, controlled but barely.

Ben obediently parted his lips as Ava guided the head of her cock into the warm, wet hollow of his mouth. The sensation was alien but not bad; the silky softness of her skin against his tongue, the firm weight filling his mouth, the faint pulse he could feel across the sensitive flesh.

"Good boy," Ava praised, her free hand moving to stroke his hair, the gentle touch at odds with the obscene image they must have presented--her standing naked from the waist down, him kneeling before her in his business attire, her cock disappearing between his lips.

Seeking direction, approval, connection, Ben raised his head toward her face. Their eyes locked and something acknowledged, accepted passed between them. With his mouth full, he smiled as best he could--a sight that must have seemed absurd yet felt real.

Ava said, "Now suck it," her fingers squeezing gently in his hair. "Make me feel good; maybe I'll pardon you for being such an ass."

The reminder of his original goal--to apologize--added an unusual depth to the interaction, but Ben remained unconcerned with the contradictions. He wanted to please her, hear more of those gentle gasps she produced when he did something well, and explore this uncharted ground they had come upon together.

Ben sought to remember what had felt nice when done to him since he lacked experience to depend on. He started carefully keeping his teeth covered as he moved his lips over the head of Ava's cock, stimulating the sensitive underside with his tongue. The methods former lovers had applied on him became his manual: the requirement of suction, the worth of a consistent rhythm, the need of enough saliva to provide the proper slickness.

As he sank her farther into his lips, he purposefully let himself drool a little, increasing wetness. The extra saliva flowed down her shaft, producing obscene squelching noises that should have been embarrassing but strangely enhanced the sexiness of the occasion.

"That's it," Ava urged, her breathing getting more jagged. "Just like that. Ben, you are a naturally cocksucker. Who would have thought?"

The crude compliments sent him a fresh surge of excitement. He worked harder, concentrating on finding a consistent rhythm of bringing her in and out of his mouth and especially on the sensitive head. He discovered that tightening his lips as they passed over the ridge of her corona elicited particularly strong reactions from Ava, so he incorporated that technique into his rhythm.

Driven by a mounting will to bring Ava to climax, his jaw started to hurt with the unfamiliar strain but he pushed through the pain. Her hand in his hair tightened its hold, sometimes guiding him to a faster tempo; her breathing had become shallow and hurried.

Her voice tight with growing pleasure, she said, "Make me cum. I want to fill that smart mouth of yours."

Ben shivered down his spine from the clear direction. He doubled his work, concentrating on keeping his lips moving steadily over her cockhead and applying pressure on the sensitive underside with his tongue. As she neared her climax, his hands still resting on her thighs could feel the muscles tightening under his fingertips.

He briefly worried about what it would be like when she orgasmed. He'd heard enough female friends complain about swallowing to know it wasn't always pleasant. With Ava, would things be different? He was abruptly struck by the ridiculousness of the circumstances: here he was, on his knees in the women's locker room, obsessing about the taste of cum while fervuously sucking a penis connected to his female colleague.

Ava's body language altered before he could follow this idea further. Her breath became staccato gasps as her thighs shook under his fingertips. Her hand held him in place with a nearly agonizing grip.

Her voice shaking with the exertion of speaking through her approaching climax, she panted, "I'm going to cum. Oooah."

Ben found her shockingly beautiful--her normally calm features changed by pleasure, vulnerable and raw in a way he had never seen before--as her face twisted in ecstasy. Her cock then pumped fiercely on his tongue, and his mouth opened to a flash of warm, salted fluid.

The quantity and force took him by surprise. He naturally drew back, part of the ejaculate spilling from his lips down his chin and shirt front. Ava's penis continued to pulse, releasing rope after rope of thick, white cum. She aimed the continued spurts at Ben's chest, purposefully painting him with her release as she softly gripped her shaft with her hand.

Ben watched in astonishment as his previously immaculate shirt became stained with translucent white streaks. His lips tasted strongly--salty, somewhat bitter, with a complicated undertone he couldn't quite recognize. Not exactly nice, but not as nasty as he would have thought. He swallowed some reflexively before the remainder came out of his lips, adding to the mess.

Ava glanced down at him with half-lidded eyes and her breath slowed as her orgasm finally stopped. She looked at her handwork, Ben kneeling before her, his face and shirt covered in her cum, his countenance a mix of astonishment and something like amazement. She grinned satisfactorially.

She dropped on her knees in front of him abruptly, putting their faces level. She leaned forward and kissed Ben firmly, her tongue gently tasting herself on his lips before Ben could respond. Her tongue explored every inch of his mouth that had lately delighted her so completely, greedy and possessive.

Ben answered with similar intensity; his first shock gave way to a fresh surge of yearning. Their tongues danced together, slippery with the traces of Ava's climax, building an intimacy that felt even more transgression than the deed that had come before it. His hands discovered her waist and drew her in, feeling her body heat against his cum-stained shirt.

The kiss was a primitive exchange that appeared to ratify whatever unsaid bargain they had engaged into; it lasted until they were both gasping. Ava's eyes carried a warmth that had been lacking in her previous authoritative presence--a real connection that went beyond the power dynamics of their odd meeting--when they at last parted.

Reality crept back into the cozy cocoon of closeness they had constructed, breaking apart gently. Ben laughed slightly, down at himself--shirt plastered to his chest with sweat and semen, tie askew, knees hurting from the hard tile floor. Still knelt before him, nude with her softening penis lying on her thigh, Ava grinned conspiratorially in return, acknowledging the ridiculousness and beauty of their circumstances.

She looked sharply at his ruined shirt and said, "I think we both need a shower."

The suggestion lingered for a minute, its consequences obvious. Ben nodded, not sure he trusted his voice. Rising to her feet with elegant fluidity, Ava reached out to assist him. After the protracted kneeling, his knees objected as he stood and pins and needles shot through his legs.

She murmured, "Come on," guiding him without releasing his hand toward the shower area. "It's not like we have anything left to hide from each other."

The women's showers were exactly like the men's--a row of minimally private waist-high divided stalls. Ava turned on the water and deftly changed the temperature using the one furthest from the door. Once more rising steam filled the tiled area with warm dampness clinging to their skin.

She turned to him and quick fingers reached for his tie. She murmured, releasing the knot and removing the fabric from around his neck, "you're overdressed." There was something intensely intimate about being undressed by another person, Ben realized--a vulnerability that went beyond mere nakedness.

Ava helped him shrug out of both clothing by working slowly, unbuttoning his shirt to expose the cum-stained undershirt beneath, Her hands reached his belt, and she stopped to raise an eyebrow and stare up at him. "May I??"

After what had just happened between them, Ben grinned at the formality of the inquiry. "Please," he said, his voice rough.

She unbuckled his belt and untied his slacks, gently dragging them down with his boxers in one fluid move. His erection, which had faded somewhat during their break, sprang loose, not quite strong but clearly influenced by her proximity. Ava looked at it gratefully but did not reach to touch him there. She finally stood totally naked before him, stepping back and pulling her sports bra over her head.

For the first time, Ben saw her fully--the thin muscles of her belly, the soft curve of her hips, the little but precisely shaped breasts with pink nipples puckered from the cool air. And below, her penis, still impressive even in its semi-flaccid state, hanging heavily between her thighs. Although the combination should have been startling, it seemed to be a perfect reflection of Ava herself--complex, surprising, lovely in her individuality.

Closing her eyes, she entered the shower spray and let the water flow over her body and face. "Coming?" she asked, without opening her eyes.

Ben trailed her under the stream, the warm water shocking his sensitive skin. They had to stand close since the shower stall was not meant for two people; their bodies brushed against one another as they moved to distribute the water. With every step Ava's penis softly swung against his thigh, a continual reminder of what had just occurred between them.

They started washing each other without talking, hands stroking over damp flesh, finding fresh territory by touch. Ben moved around to cup her breasts, his fingertips following the curvature of her back, the delicate bones of her spine. Little but precisely sized to her frame, they fit smoothly into his palms. Their softness, so unlike the hardness he had just felt in his mouth, astounded him.

With her damp hair tickling his chest, Ava groaned at his touch and leaned back into him. She mumbled "Careful," as his thumbs stroked her nipples. "That kind of stimulus might get you more than you bargained for unless you're ready for round two."

Delivered with a lighthearted slant, the warning sent Ben a mix of exhilaration and anxiety. Round Two. The implication was obvious, and for a minute he let himself see Ava carrying him, controlling him entirely, across the last border of this unanticipated trip they had started.

But the idea also set off a panic attack. Not sure he was ready for that, not sure what it would mean about him, about them, about everything he'd believed he understood about himself. The confidence he'd felt while pleasing her with his mouth wavered at the prospect of surrendering in that more fundamental way.

Trying to keep his tone light and set a limit, he said, "maybe we should save something for next time."

Ava twisted in his arms to observe his face. "Next time," she said again, as though testing the idea. Her lips opened to a smile. "I like the sound of that."

They completed their bathing in companionable silence, hands sometimes straying to more private parts but without the frantic need that had propelled their previous contact. Ava moved around Ben to turn off the tap as the water started to cool; her flaccid penis felt almost purposefully casual as it brushed his hip.

Ben suddenly had a fresh idea as they left the shower and reached for towels. "Ava," he whispered minimally. "What may have happened if someone had entered? You know, even while we were..."

Though it had been hanging at the margins of his awareness during their meeting, more immediate sensations had overwhelmed him. Now, in the aftermath, the possible effects loomed more broadly.

Ava covered her waist with a towel. "The gym's empty this time of evening," she shrugged. "Most folks have memberships in fancy fitness centers. This place is practically abandoned after six."

"But someone could have," Ben said, suddenly conscious of how thoughtlessly they had exposed themselves. "Security does rounds. There is the cleaning crew here. Anyone may have heard us."

Ava's face changed to show a trace of mischief at the margins. "I know," she responded, her voice lowering to a nearly whisper. "That is part of what makes it exciting."

"Exciting!" Ben repeated, incredulous.

She moved in to lay a hand on his chest. "The risk, the prospect of discovery--that's a rush. Don't tell me you didn't feel it too, that extra edge when you thought about someone walking in on us."

Although he couldn't totally, Ben wanted to deny it. The unlawful character of what they had done had been something seductive, a heightening of experience resulting from the underlying risk. Now, with clarity returning, the possible repercussions felt more like a coming catastrophe than an aphrodisiac.

"If anyone found out..." he started, not wanting to finish the sentence.

Ava responded, "They won't," with a conviction Ben would have found both comforting and somewhat naive. She moved aside to finish drying herself; from her vantage point, the conversation apparently ended.

Ben toweled off in silence, his mind racing. What had looked to be a single, limited occurrence was now whirling consequences in all directions. Without adding the elements that made their situation particularly difficult, office interactions were tough enough. And then there was his own identity, the questions his active participation in events he would never have considered would raise.

They dressed in silence, Ben in his now-wrinkled work clothes minus the stained undershirt, which he stuffed into his gym bag, and Ava in her workout gear--the jogging pants finally serving their intended purpose, paired with a loose t-shirt that hid the contours of her body.

"Ready?" she asked when they were both dressed, gesturing toward the locker room door.

Ben nodded and started gathering his stuff. The empty gym appeared suddenly huge and exposed as they left, the big windows looking out onto the parking garage giving everyone passing a clear glimpse inside. Ben experienced a wave of paranoia, imagining late-working colleagues or covert cameras casually peering in as they passed.

Their footsteps echoed in the large gym as they moved toward the parking garage. The concrete expanse was dark, most of the cars vanished for the day, producing a strange, transitional mood. Ben felt Ava next to him, the small swing of her arm sometimes brushing her hand against his.

He hesitated then stretched out and grabbed her hand. Their fingers entwined naturally, as though they had held hands a hundred times before. Ava squeezed softly, a mute thank you for the gesture.

Walking in comfortable stillness, the distant noises of traffic filtered down from the street level above until they came to Ben's car, parked in its normal position close to the south wall.

He stated needlessly, standing next to the car, "This is me."

Ava still clutching his hand, turned to face him. "So it is," she said, a smile flitting at the margins of her mouth. Then she went forward and embraced him, her hands slipping down to cup his buttocks possessively, with a sudden boldness that reminded him of her control in the locker room.

Ben was startled by the audacious gesture. For a fleeting, confusing moment, he questioned whether she would raise him, testing her might against his weight. Rather, she leaned down and lightly kissed his cheek, her lips staying just one heartbeat longer than absolutely required.

"Next time," she whispered into his ear, "you should swallow all of it. That would be really hot."

Delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner, Ben's cheeks burned at the basic idea. Even to his own ears, his meager chuckle sounded doubtful.

Ava let him go and retreated, her face gentle but enigmatic. "Goodnight, Ben," she whispered, then turned to head toward her own car, parked several rows away.

Unable to turn his eyes away from the soft sway of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders, Ben watched her withdraw. She moved with an elegance that enthralled him even in basic t-shirts and loose sweatpants. His eyes stayed on her ass, enjoying its ideal roundness and the way the fabric stretched across each stride she took.

Until she vanished from view around a concrete pillar, he stayed standing next to his car. Then he started to feel a familiar pressure developing in his groin--his erection returning with relentless force, as if their prolonged interaction in the locker room had never ended.

Ben sighed with mixed annoyance and expectation, got into his car and locked the door, the interior light illuminating his hand as it moved to his zipper. Whatever tomorrow might bring, whatever unresolved issues concerning identity and desire, they would have to wait. For now, there was only the vivid memory of Ava--her taste, her scent, her commanding presence--and the insistent need that would not be denied.