Good Vibrations Magazine

I’d seen her working out there plenty of times before. We’d even had a conversation, or two, months ago. But for some reason we’d never talked more than that, never let things progress past a nod as we passed each other on our way to the locker room.

During our few conversations, Magda had told me she was a competitive cyclist, during the summer at least — but in the freezing Minneapolis winter, she resorted to stationary bikes here at Central Gym. She worked out three hours a day, sometimes four as the spring approached. I’d become addicted to the stair-steppers, partially because they placed me in direct line of sight of Magda as her magnificent thighs circled rhythmically, the muscles bunched and powerful, the spandex wicking moisture away from places, I fantasized, it probably shouldn’t be.

I started timing my workouts so I finished around the same time as Magda. Sometimes she would work out an extra half hour or 45 minutes, and I would strain and sweat against my exhaustion, my leotard becoming soaked with moisture that no space-age fabric could cope with. But I made it, always, started showering every day within sight of Magda.

The first time I saw her naked, I felt a conscious, physical sense of desire go flooding through my body, like I’d stuck my finger into an electrical socket. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, didn’t even try as long as she was facing the other way. Her ass, her thighs, her incredible calves — and the muscles rippling up her back, the slender majesty of her neck and the way she kept her black hair so short, the tattoo of a black rose on her shoulder blade.

Perhaps I was being too obvious, I know. But I could hardly stop myself — it had been months that I’d admired her taut body from afar, and — more importantly — admired the determination, the iron will with which she trained for her Spring awakening. I knew some day she’d go away on some cross-country, Amazonian marathon, a bike ride to Mars or something.

It was always empty in mid-morning, after the yuppies had gone to work, before the yuppies came to work out at lunch. It was Christmas Eve when it finally happened, when she and I were entirely alone in the gym. Everyone was off enjoying the holiday with their family, probably — except Magda and me, two misfits working ourselves into a frenzy instead of relaxing. The emptiness of the gym gave it an edgy atmosphere, like we were someplace we weren’t supposed to be. Not a man or woman working out anywhere; just one bored teenager checking membership cards at the door. And a locker room so empty it fairly begged to be used for nefarious purposes.

Was she shy like me? Is the emptiness what gave her the nerve to ask me?

“You told me your name, once a long time ago,” said Magda in her accented English, a smile on her face, her small breasts covered in white lather, beautiful like they were covered in winter cherry blossoms. Steamy water splashed over her, and she ran one hand luxuriously between her breasts, leaving a fresh trail of soap suds. Her dark eyes flickered over me. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

“It’s Carrie,” I said nervously. “You’re, um…”

I felt unconvincing, like it was obvious to Magda that there was no way in hell I could have forgotten her name. But she just held her smile, looked into my eyes, and said “Magda.”

“Magda,” I said softly. “That’s right.”

“You are… lesbian?”

Her bluntness shocked me. I ducked my reddening face quickly under the hot water in the hope that she’d think it was from that.

“Um… yes,” I said. “I guess you could say that. You?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, after wondering for so many months.

“Yes,” said Magda. “I see you… watching.”

“Oh God,” I said. “You caught me,” I said quickly. “I’m afraid you caught me.” Found out, terrified that I would never see Magda naked or clothed again, I let my eyes roam over her — over her stone-chiseled, handsome face, over her tight breasts, dark nipples, flat stomach, dark pubic hair, and those stunning, magnificent, lovable thighs. “I have been watching.”

“Are you a cyclist?”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “You mean I was watching your
technique…”

“You’re not a cyclist,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’m not a cyclist. I just… like looking at you.”

She looked at me, her eyes enigmatic. “We’re very much alone in the gym today, are we not? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice shaking. “I guess we are. We could do practically anything in here and nobody would find out.”

And that’s how it happened, as smooth and easy like that, as smooth and easy as if I was laying in my empty bed, dreaming of it.

Magda’s lips met mine — thin lips, feeling tight and cold, somehow, despite the heat of steam and shower — and her tongue slipped into my mouth, and I felt it tickling, caressing me. Her arms went around my shoulders, pulled me close. I felt her breasts, soapy against mine, much smaller but with larger nipples, hard.

Her fingertips moved down my back, her hands cupping my buttocks as her hips and belly and thighs pressed against mine in a markedly unsubtle slow-dance. She pressed me against the cold tile as she kissed me, and I let my arms drift around her body so I could feel the bunched muscles of her magnificent back, feel the tautness of her buttocks as she leaned one hip against me, cocked one thigh and lifted it.

And her knee pushed rhythmically against my swollen clit. My mind swam, terror seizing me as I realized that I might fall on the slippery tile, but Magda had me tight, pressing me hard against the wall, hot water spraying all over us as she rubbed my clit rhythmically.

“Do you like that?” she asked, her breath warm in my face.

“Yes,” I gasped with a fervor and an intensity. And it felt good, so good, so incredibly good, to say it, loud, and mean it, that I said it again. And again, and again.

Which is when Magda slipped — purposefully, her thigh slid down between my thighs, and she came to rest on her knees, bending low — she is many inches taller than me — to let her tongue laze across my clit. My clit felt swollen, distended, almost painfully so. Maybe that’s why it felt so good to have the warm surface of Magda’s tongue pressing up against my clit, to feel her licking me, eagerly, even sucking my full, thick clit into her mouth, making love to it with her lips and tongue. She didn’t tire, didn’t hesitate, didn’t ease up on my clit as she devoured it, hungrily, desperately, the tip of her tongue grazing my pussy’s entrance as she licked down and then up, down and then up, driving me closer with every movement until I realized it was really going to happen, right here in the shower.

And then I came, harder than I had come in months, maybe years, my hands resting on Magda’s eagerly-bobbing head, my moans louder than they ought to be, risking discovery by that one bored teenager — but I didn’t care, for if getting banned from the Central Gym forever was the price of feeling Magda’s mouth on me, I was willing to pay it and more.

Magda looked up at me, smiling her enigmatic smile as I shuddered. She had her hands on my ass, her knees braced against the tiled wall, making sure I don’t fall. It felt good to be cradled like that as I came, protected by her nurturing side and driven into a manic frenzy by the rest of her.

“Kiss me,” I told her, and she smoothly slid up my naked body and pressed her mouth to mine as our breasts met. I tasted myself, remembered the effect that taste has on me. I kissed her harder. “Let me do that to you,” I whispered.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Same place, same time.”

“What if it’s not empty?”

And she smiled, wickedly, and I knew the answer, feeling a surge of pleasure as I pictured it. I laughed, and my dumb girlish giggle didn’t embarrass me — in fact, it felt good. And I kissed her, hard, and she kissed me back, our tongues mingling as the water ran over us.