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Message-ID: <42331asstr$1052345413@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <steiner_al@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW: By the Dawn's Early Light by Al Steiner (MF,cheat) 1/2
Date: Wed,  7 May 2003 18:10:13 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d





BY THE DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT

By Al Steiner

1/2





It happened when I turned 30 years old, seemingly on the very day my
twenties were left behind.  My metabolism, once my staunchest ally, turned
suddenly and cruelly against me.  All my previous life I had been able to
eat anything I wanted and in as large of quantities as I wanted without any
measurable effect on my weight or health.  I could drink beer every weekend,
spend every spare moment of my life luxuriating on the couch, never do
anything more strenuous than walking from the airport parking lot to the
control tower where I worked, and my waistline remained a steady and
predictable 34 inches.  And then suddenly and without warning, my pants
started getting tighter and tighter on me.  At first I thought my wife was
washing them incorrectly, causing shrinkage, but eventually I was forced to
admit the truth.  I was gaining weight.  After nearly twelve years of
hovering within 5 pounds of 180, I was creeping up towards 190 and then
finally towards the dreaded 200.



In addition to the tight pants, the ever-increasing scale readings, and the
beginnings of a beer belly, my blood pressure started to creep up on me as
well.  Once confined to the nice safe ground of 130/80 or so, readings of
160/90 began to appear at my regular check-ups.  My doctor told me it wasn't
high enough that medication needed to be prescribed, but it had to come
down.  The secret to getting it down, I was told, was to reverse what was
making it go up in the first place: my weight.



Dieting didn't seem to help; it would merely slow down the advance a little.
And in all honesty, I wasn't all that great at dieting anyway.  I loved my
carbohydrates and my fats too much.  Pizza and beer and greasy tacos were my
best friends.  I was told however that there was a way to defeat the weight
gain, to reduce my girth back to normal and to still enjoy the food that I
loved.  In addition, this miracle method would also reduce my blood pressure
in and of itself, and possibly even add years to my life.  This simple
solution was exercise.



"Exercise?" I asked.  "You mean like lifting some weights or something like
that?"



Hardly.  The easy solution was not quite that easy.  What I needed, I was
told, was some moderate aerobic exercise at least four times a week.  I
needed to get my heart rate up to around 160 and maintain it that way for
thirty minutes.  If I could do that, I was assured, my weight would drop off
like magic in a matter of weeks and my blood pressure would return to
normal.



Now there were several suggestions on how I could go about obtaining this
much needed exertion.  An aerobic exercise class was the most common
suggestion.  But I could hardly see myself donning spandex so I could
stretch and dance with a bunch of overweight women.  I could get a treadmill
or a stationary bike and get my heart pumping that way.  But such things
were expensive and with a recent re-finance and second mortgage of the house
my wife and I lived in, money was a little too tight for that.  There was
one suggestion however that was appealing in its simplicity.  I could jog.
Running would provide the boost and maintenance of my heat rate while not
costing me any more than price of a new pair of shoes and a pair of sweats.



The only problem with this method of exercise was its availability.  I
worked Monday through Friday, 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM as an air traffic
controller at Heritage County Airport.  During the summer months, which was
when I started this running regime, the afternoon heat and air quality in
the late afternoon hours is unbearable.  Temperatures of 105 degrees are not
at all uncommon.  At the very best, you're talking mid-90's.  Not being a
big fan of heat stroke I elected not to utilize this particular time slot
for my routine.  Nor were the evening hours that much better.  Though
cooler, the nights are still quite muggy and the air is still quite bad.
Plus my motivation was not really there for this particular period of the
day.  After dinner all I wanted to do was relax, not drag myself out into
the night and run up and down the suburban streets.



So that left the early morning hours before work.  A natural early riser,
this was actually somewhat appealing to me.  I could get up at 5:30 AM, do
my business out on the streets while it was still the coolest part of the
day, and still have time to shower and eat breakfast before leaving for
work.  My wife and my kids were not even awake at this time of the morning
so I would not even be missing out on any time spent with them.  Thus, with
such logic, it was decided.  Dawn would be my scheduled jogging period.



The first day of this regime was in early June.  I stepped out of the house
at 5:45 AM dressed in a pair of black running shorts and a white t-shirt.
My new running shoes were tied tightly to my feet, ready to carry me on this
first journey to better health.  In my hand I carried a bottle of water to
help keep me hydrated.



The sun had yet to make its appearance above the horizon but its light was
starting to touch the sky, imparting a vague pink glow off to the east and
just enough light to allow me to see.  I went through a series of stretches
I had read about on the Internet, limbering up my calves, my thighs, my
groin, my hamstrings.  All of these muscles protested this by sending
burning pains up and down whatever limb they were attached to.  Finally,
when I was as limber as I thought I could make myself, I took a few deep
breaths and set off on my run.



In my car the previous day I had used the odometer to measure off the
distance to various landmarks.  Out to the end of my street and then down
Willow Creek Road - the main route of travel through our section of the
suburb - to Carmichael Drive was exactly one half mile.  The intersection of
Willow Creek Road and Cypress Avenue was exactly one mile.  My plan on that
first day was to start slow and only put in two miles.  I would run down to
Cypress and Willow Creek and then turn around and come back.  This, I
figured, would take me about twenty minutes or so, including the cool down
period.  Sure, I knew I was supposed to put in a full thirty minutes but I'd
have to give my body a little time to adjust wouldn't I?



Well, as it turned out, my estimations of my initial stamina were a bit of
an overestimation.  I started out at a pretty good pace, my legs pumping up
and down, my feet pounding on the pavement of the bike lane, but I was only
able to maintain it for about five minutes before a sharp pain started in my
side and my breath was tearing in and out of my lungs like fire.  Sweat was
pouring down my face and my heart was pounding alarmingly fast, at close to
190 beats per minute.  Before making it even a half mile, I was forced to a
slow walk to keep from keeling over with an exertion produced coronary.  I
ended up walking more than three quarters of the two-mile route that day and
it ended up taking me well over the thirty minutes I'd allotted.



The next day the muscles of my legs, groin, and feet ached so badly when I
got up I didn't even bother trying the run.  I was hurting in places I
hadn't even known I'd had.  It took a twenty-minute shower under scalding
water and a double dose of over the counter anti-inflammatory pills before I
could even loosen up enough to drag myself to work.



The day after however, though still quite sore, I was determined to try
again.  I knew I needed to establish myself in the routine quickly and
irretrievably or I would more than likely end up abandoning this quest
before I had a chance to see any results.  I set out once again from my
driveway, running a little slower this time, vowing that I would finish the
complete two miles even if it killed me.



Well, it didn't kill me but neither did I finish the complete two miles
either.  I'd made it about eight minutes into the run that day, just a bit
over the three-quarter mile mark, before the pain in my side and my pounding
heart beat forced me to slow back to a walk again.  Aching, drenched in
perspiration, breathing in ragged gulps, I trodded forward to the end of the
course I'd set off and then turned around and walked back.  Twice I tried to
run a little bit, just to say I had, and both times I made it less than a
hundred yards before the exhaustion forced me back to the slower pace.



The next day, though my muscles were now screaming at me for the abuse I was
inflicting upon them, I tried again.  And once again I made it just over
three-quarters of a mile - at an even slower pace than previously used -
before I slumped back to a walk, hurting and out of breath.  I was very
frustrated with myself, with my body, with the physics that made this so
difficult.  That might very well have been my last attempt if Kimberly Bates
had not come running up behind me at that particular instance.



Kimberly, or Kim as she liked to be called, was one of my neighbors.  She
and her husband lived just around the corner from us and until that day I
knew her only in passing.  Friendly waves when she drove by on her way
somewhere and some idle chitchat at the annual Independence Day block party
were the extent of our contact with each other.  She was a tall blonde woman
in her late twenties, fairly attractive in an innocent, woman-next-door sort
of way.  I knew her husband was some sort of accountant or something and she
herself was employed in some capacity somewhere since she drove by the house
at regular intervals.  I did not know that she was into running or exercise,
although, in retrospect, I suppose it should have been fairly obvious since
her body had always had that toned look about it.



"Bob?" she said carefully as she slowed her pace to match mine.  "What are
you doing out here?"  Her voice had neighborly concern in it.  She was
dressed in a pair of black spandex shorts and a black running bra.  Despite
my fatigue and misery I could not help but take in her shapely legs and the
smooth expanse of her bare belly.  A light sheen of perspiration was
clinging to her skin, giving it a bit of a shine in the early morning light.
Her moderate sized breasts moved softly up and down with her respiration.



"Hi," I panted.  "I was just out jogging."



"I didn't know you ran," she said.  "I thought I was the only one crazy
enough to come out here this time of morning."



"Well," I said, "I'm kinda new to this.  So far I'm not really doing all
that well."



"Is this as far as you made it?" she asked me.  "This is not even a mile
from your house."



"I know," I grunted, watching almost transfixed as a bead of sweat trickled
down her neck and across the front of her chest to dribble into her
cleavage.  I tore my eyes away from this sight before she caught me gawking
at it.  "I uh... like I said.  I'm pretty new to this.  Trying to get some
exercise and lose a little weight you know."



"Oh I know," she said.  "I plump up something awful if I don't do my run at
least three times a week.  But you've got to run more than a mile if you
want it to do any good."



"I'm trying," I told her.  "Believe me, I'm trying."



"How long have you been at it?" she wanted to know.



I took a drink from my water bottle, refreshing my parched mouth and then
stole another quick look at her smooth belly.  My god she was an attractive
woman.  Strange I'd never really noticed that before.  She generally dressed
in loose clothing.  Maybe that was it.  "Uh... this is my third day," I
finally answered.  "I hear it'll start to get easier soon."



"Well it will if you apply yourself a little better," she said.  "It sounds
like you're not pacing yourself real well.  You have to start slowly.  Just
kind of trot along at first so that you can keep going for thirty minutes.
I bet you're coming out here and hauling ass and burning out in a few
minutes, aren't you?"



"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that I was hauling ass," I said.  "But yes, I
do seem to be burning out fairly quick.  How far do you go?  Uh... on your
run that is."



I thought she might be offended at my unintended sexual innuendo.  This was,
after all, the era of out of control political correctness and sexual
harassment lawsuits.  Instead she just smiled a little.  "On my runs," she
said, "I do three miles.  Up to the corner of Willow Creek and Brannigan.
In the other departments, you'll just have to wait until you know me better
to find that one out."



I laughed, feeling a warm flush at her semi-flirtatious remark.  It seemed
wildly out of character for her, or at least it seemed wildly out of
character for what my perception of her was, which was of a somewhat naīve,
almost schoolgirlish persona.



"Anyway," she told me, turning serious, "I can help you pace yourself up if
you want.  Do you come out here every morning?"



"I'm trying to work my way up to four times a week," I said.



"I run Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday," she said.  "Go home, rest up
until Friday and then meet me in front of your house at 5:30.  I've been
running for years.  I'll get you up to speed in no time."



"Really?" I asked, pleased at the thought of having a mentor at this,
especially one who was as attractive as she and would teach the lessons
while wearing a sports bra and spandex shorts.



"It would be my pleasure," she said.  "It'll be nice to have someone to run
with out here.  As much as I've tried to get him to, Rick will never join
me.  He says he hates getting up early if he doesn't have to."



I did as she suggested and turned myself around to go home.  She gave me one
last wave and then headed off in the other direction, quickly establishing
what looked like a near run to me.  Though I was a bit frightened at her
pace, which was considerably faster than I'd been traveling while I'd been
at burnout speed, the view of her tight butt and the backs of her smooth
legs was well worth it.





+++++





As promised, she was there waiting for me when I emerged from my house at
5:30 AM on Friday.  She was wearing fluorescent blue spandex this time, and
a sports bra that matched.  She had a smile on her face as she saw me
standing there in my shorts and T-shirt, water bottle in hand.



"Ready for some serious running?" she asked.



"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied.



"Good," she said.  "Let's get stretched out."



The first lesson she taught me was how to stretch out.  Apparently I'd been
doing it all wrong, leaving out entire groups of muscles.  She had me bend
this way and that, lift my legs up and down, stretch back and forth in
several different ways, all of them mildly painful.  But the pain was offset
by the fact that she performed the stretches with me, from a position
directly in front of me.  Watching her tight legs become even tighter,
seeing her thighs spread wide apart as she limbered up her inner groin
muscles, was as inspiring a sight as I ever hoped to see.  I simply could
not get over the fact that this was the same woman who walked around most of
the time in ankle-length skirts, loose fitting blouses, and with her hair
tied up in a tight bun.



After the stretch we started our run.  She served as the pace setter for me
and jogged along at a clip that was hardly better than a walk.



"Are you sure we're going fast enough?" I asked her as we reached a quarter
mile and my pulse was still hovering around the 100 mark.



"Trust me," she said.  "This is the proper pacing for a beginner.  You'll
warm up slow but you'll be able to make it the entire two miles this way.
You'll start to feel it soon."



And of course she was right.  By the time we reached the half-mile mark I
had broken a nice sweat and my heart was pumping along at 130.  I was
feeling the exertion, but not so much that I had to stop.  Instead of
burning out in five minutes, I was chugging along and able to maintain the
pace.  We passed three quarters of a mile and then a mile and I was still
going.



"How are you doing?" she asked me as we turned around and started heading
back.  I noticed that, unlike myself, she had hardly a glint of perspiration
on her face and her tone of voice was still conversational instead of
breathless.



"Good," I panted.  "I think we found my pace."  I took a moment to catch my
breath and then said, "But you're not getting very good exercise today.  I'm
making you go slower than you're used to."



"Don't you worry about me," she said.  "We'll go a little faster every day
and then start to extend how far we go.  You'll be running three miles in
twenty-four minutes with me in no time."



I was forced to slow down a little towards the end of the run, but I did
indeed make it the entire two miles.  After we returned to the front of my
house she insisted that we walk for another quarter mile so we could cool
off and let our muscles gradually wind down.  This walk took us past her
house and back out to Willow Creek Road.  We then turned around and came
back.



"Good job," she told me, her hand patting me companionably on the shoulder.
"You worked up a good sweat today and you didn't kill yourself in the
process."



"Thank you," I told her.  "I was about to give up yesterday.  I'm glad you
happened along when you did."



"I'm glad I did too," she said, offering me another of her smiles.  "Like I
said, its nice to have a companion.  It's so friggin boring doing it by
myself."



"Yes," I said, before I could stop myself.  "It's really no fun doing it by
yourself, is it?"



I blushed furiously as I realized what I'd just said to her.  After all, she
wasn't one of my co-workers in the airport control tower where the talk,
even between males and females, was notoriously risqué at times.  She was a
middle-class suburban wife whom I'd really only met two days before.  I
opened my mouth to apologize for my remark, but before I could, she opened
hers first.



"It DOES work all the wrong muscles doing it that way," she said with
feigned sadness.



I looked at her with my mouth agape for a moment and then both of us burst
out laughing.



"Oh my god," she said.  "I'd better go in now and wash my mouth out with
soap.  I'll see you on Sunday morning?"



"Same time, same place," I promised.



"That's the spirit," she told me.  With that she turned and walked to her
front door.



I took one last look at her gorgeous legs, at the tightness of her ass, and
then walked home.  The house was still dark, my wife and kids still asleep
when I arrived there.  I took a shower and went to work in a good mood that
day.





++++





Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday after that, Kim and I met on my
driveway at 5:30 AM.  As the morning sun first brightened the sky and then
poked up over the horizon to warm it, we would stretch out in my driveway
and then run along Willow Creek Road at whatever pace I happened to have
advanced to.



She proved a diligent taskmaster, goading me along so I would go a little
bit faster each day, so I would go a little bit further.  She gently chided
me when I claimed I couldn't keep up, compelling me to push my body much
harder than I would have done had I been left to my own devices.  Within two
weeks I was running two miles in twenty minutes.  Within three I was running
three miles in 34 minutes.  After six weeks with her I was able, as
promised, to maintain an eight-minute mile right alongside of her and
complete the full three mile circuit in just under 25 minutes.  Not marathon
running fitness perhaps, but more than enough for my purposes.



And as the weeks went by, as my pace and speed continued to climb, I saw
very favorable results in my body.  It was nothing terribly dramatic of
course.  The weight did not just fall off of me (in fact, I actually gained
a few pounds at first as some of my fat was turned into muscle), but
gradually the beer belly that I'd been starting to sprout disappeared, inch
by inch.  My waistline, which had gone up to just a hair over 36 inches,
returned to the 34 inches I was accustomed to.  My legs, which had always
been kind of plain looking, not fat, not skinny, gradually began to bulge
with runner's muscle in the calves and the thighs.  The soreness that had
been my constant companion through the first few weeks of the regiment
disappeared as well.  The most telling consequence of the exercise however
was in how I felt.  My body just seemed more efficient.  I no longer got
winded if I had to walk up the steps to the control tower at work.  I had
more energy during the day and I slept like a rock at night.  My blood
pressure came down little by little until it stabilized at around the 120/70
range and my resting heart rate kicked along at about 64 beats a minute.
And all this despite the fact that I still quaffed down pizza and beer
whenever I could get my hands on it, despite the fact that I never turned
down seconds at the dinner table, despite the fact that I ate every high
cholesterol, high fat, and high carb meal that I could get my teeth around.



The most pleasant result of this period however was the fact that Kim and I
became close friends.  As we ran through the early morning hours next to
each other, we would talk about our lives, our hopes, our dreams.  Something
between the two of seemed to click and we found each other very
companionable, gradually working our way up to the point where we were
telling each other almost anything.  She told me about her job as a
part-time real estate agent for one of the local firms.  It was a job that
she really didn't need as far as family income went, a job that her husband,
a tax accountant for the county, was always nagging her to give up.



"I have to get out of that house a couple times a week though," she told me.
"I love Rick to death and all but I go stir crazy if I stay in there too
long.  I'm just not cut out to be a housewife I guess."



I in turn told her about my job, which my wife, who was very status
oriented, was always nagging me to give up.



"I have a bachelor's degree in business," I said, "but I've never used it.
I started working ATC on a whim in my last year of college and I've never
left it.  It's not a very glamorous job I'll admit, but I like it a lot.  I
can't see myself being a CPA now and working in some office building, or
going to law school like my wife is always hounding me to do."



"We should do what we like to do," she'd agreed, taking a sip from her water
bottle.  "That's always been my motto."



"Yes," I'd answered, watching her bouncing breasts beneath her sports bra,
"that's a very good motto."



That of course earned a flirtatious laugh from her as she saw where my eyes
were focused.  By this point in our relationship we were well beyond the
blushing stage at such innuendo.



In fact, by this point in our relationship, we were dangerously flirty with
each other for two people who were married to others.  Dangerously flirty,
and there was an undeniable sexual attraction that should have warned us
where the flirtations would eventually lead.



The attraction started with me of course.  Day after day of running next to
Kim while she was dressed in a variety of skimpy jogging outfits fixed her
image in my mind as a desirable woman.  I think the contrast between her
normal manner of dress and the way she looked in the early morning hours was
a big part of the stimulation.  During the daytime hours she wore
conservative business dresses or loose fitting slacks and billowy blouses.
She was always clean and neat and proper looking when she presented her face
to the awakened world.  But I saw her with her stomach bare, her legs on
display, her spandex clinging to her shapely ass.  I saw her with a fine
sheen of perspiration covering her skin, her face flushed with exertion, her
breasts molded to her bra and heaving with her respiration.  I became
obsessed with the sight of those legs pumping up and down, with those lovely
ass cheeks flexing and releasing as she moved down the road.  I loved the
sight of those breasts bouncing in the sweaty sports bra with the rhythm of
her stride.  I loved the damp look of her blonde hair as we really hit our
mark about two miles in.  She looked fit and very healthy when I was with
her, and my lust for her grew with each morning we were together.  Soon it
was her image that I invoked on those rare occasions when my wife would
consent to a little after hours sexual entertainment.  It was her sweating,
scantily clad body that I thought of on the more frequent occasions when I
jerked off in the shower prior to getting ready for work.



The flirtations we shared were gentle ones at first, simple innuendo such as
we exchanged during those beginning runs.  We each discovered that the other
had a rather raunchy sense of humor in regards to sexual puns and double
meanings.  But it wasn't long before we were openly discussing various
aspects of our sex lives.  I think it was the discovery that both of us were
somewhat frustrated in the marital relations aspect of our lives that was
the catalyst for what was to come.



"Rick just isn't into sex all that much," she confided to me one morning.
"Even when we were dating, we never really did it more than twice a week or
so.  Now and days, if I can get it once a month I count myself lucky."



"Wow," I'd replied, shaking my head a little at that.  "That's pretty bad.
Most men complain that they're not getting enough.  Like me for instance."



"Oh?" she said, casting her teasing gaze upon me.  "Carrie doesn't give it
up much either huh?"



"Two, maybe three times a month," I admitted.  "And its like pulling teeth
every time.  I don't like to brag or anything, but I happened to think I'm
pretty good in the bedroom..."



"Oh are you?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye.



"That's my opinion," I assured her.  "I'm a very oral person, if you know
what I mean."



"Oooh," she said.  "That's what we women call a good man."



"I'm definitely a good man then.  But Carrie doesn't like it when I... you
know... do that sort of thing to her.  She's kind of repressed about her
vagina I think.  Doesn't like me to look at it, touch it, smell it, and
especially not taste it.  Not even after she's just got out of the bathtub."



"Her and Rick should've gotten married," Kim told me.  "He won't put his
mouth within two feet of my crotch.  When he does decide he wants some he
just climbs on top of me under the covers and goes to town.  Five minutes
later, he's sound asleep."



"You're right," I said.  "He would be Carrie's dream man."



"Maybe we should trade off for a bit?" she asked.  "I'll come over to your
house and boff you for a month and she can come over to my place."



I laughed, feeling a semi-erection trying to spring to life at the very
thought.  "Sounds like a good idea to me," I said.



"But somehow I don't think our spouses would be too keen on it."



"Nope," I sadly agreed.  "That's always where it all falls apart."



The weeks went on and our talks seemed to grow more risqué by the day.  We
expanded upon the various shortcomings of our respective spouses sexual
technique.  We related past sexual experiences from before marriage with
different partners, each of us telling of the best we'd had, the worst we'd
had, and the strangest place we'd had it.  And then one day we found
ourselves discussing our masturbation habits.  I told of my practice of
jerking off in the shower before work.  She then told me she had ordered a
seven inch vibrating dildo from an adult internet site and that she was
partial to lying naked on her bed during the afternoon hours and frigging
herself to a wet, sticky orgasm with it.  It was during that particular
discussion that our talk was moved onto a higher plain.



"Are you okay?" she asked me softly.  "You have a funny look on your face.
Did I embarrass you finally?"



"No," I said, "it's just that..."



"Just that what?"



"I was just imagining you lying on your bed, naked, with your dildo," I told
her.  "Sorry, couldn't help it."



"And does that image disturb you?"



"No," I said.  "To tell you the truth, it's actually quite arousing."



"So is the thought of you doing it in the shower," she confessed.



We ran on in silence for a moment, each of us pondering this new
development.  This was the first time, despite all of the innuendo and
flirtation, that we had actually admitted a sexual attraction of any kind
for each other.  True, we had both known it was there, but we had never
articulated it.  It now seemed a slightly dangerous thing hanging between
us.



"What do you think about?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.



"Think about?" I responded, although I had a pretty good idea of what she
was talking about.



"While you're in the shower?"



I hesitated, feeling on very shaky ground all of a sudden.



"Do you ever think about me?" she asked.



"Yes," I told her.  "Lately that's all that I've been thinking about."



She gave a nervous smile.  "That turns me on to think that you're imagining
me while you do that," she told me.  "That turns me on a lot."



"Really?"



"Really," she confirmed.  She hesitated for a second, her face looking
wonderfully shy and innocent, as if she was debating whether to say
something or not.  And then she said,  "And I have to tell you that when I'm
playing with my little toy in my bed, it's been you that I've been thinking
about lately."



Another silence descended.  My stride was thrown off more than a little by
the fact that my cock was filling with blood inside my shorts.  Nor was I
the only one with a hardening problem.  I could plainly see the points of
Kim's nipples protruding from beneath her sports bra.



"It's really a shame we're both married," she almost whispered.  "If we
weren't, I think I'd have you back at my place about now."



"Yes," I agreed, breathing a little harder than necessary.  "It really is a
shame."



We ended our run a few minutes later and began walking along the sidewalk,
cooling off.  Our pace was a little slower than normal, and our faces were a
little more flushed as well.  We both knew that some fundamental line had
been crossed in our relationship and that there was no stepping back across
it.  Neither of us knew just what to make of this however, or how it would
affect us in the future.



Our parting that morning was a little awkward.  We didn't talk further about
what had just been revealed, we just went our separate ways as we passed her
house after the cool down.  I was a little worried that she wouldn't be
there the following Wednesday, that we had taken things just a little too
far.  I obsessed about it in fact, spending the next forty-seven hours with
her constantly on my mind.  Was she regretful of what we'd said?  Was she
embarrassed?  Or was she maybe as turned on by the not-so-innocent sexual
talk as I was?  I felt a little like a teenager who has met a girl for the
first time.  I also felt a strong current of guilt at the fact that I was a
married man and engaging in what seemed a very dangerous pursuit.  True I
had not so much as laid a hand on her, but I was pretty sure my wife would
not approve of the direction this association was heading.



I considered severing the relationship with her, knowing that doing so would
be the wisest course of action.  I didn't really need her to instruct me
anymore anyway.  I could just change the time I did my running, force myself
to do it in the evenings, or even to take up the opposite days that she ran.
Though my mind was screaming at me that this was the safest, most moral
thing to do, I couldn't quite bring myself to do it.



It came down to the fact that I wanted to see her, wanted to be with her.
It was sexual infatuation at its finest, a drug more powerful than any
narcotic, more addictive than nicotine or cocaine.  When Wednesday morning
came around I was out at the front of my driveway.  And there she was as
well, just like normal, no doubt having gone through a bout of moralistic
soul searching of her own and coming off the loser.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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