Page 7 of Spinning Out Of Control

The only problem is that neither of us has a condom and I’ll never get to feel his filthy, perfect dick wrecking me from the inside out. I take one of his hands and guide it into my hair. Like he can read my mind, Ren grabs a fistful of my curls and pulls them taut.

“Hold on tight, SSF. My mouth is about to ruin you for all other women.”

I flick my tongue out, toying with the piercing closest to the head of Ren’s cock. At first contact, a full body shiver runs through him, his knees knocking together and his head falling back as his grip on my hair loosens. That won’t do. I pull back, blinking up at him and reaching out to cup his balls.

“Pay attention. I’m not sucking you off for my health,” I say, and like a good boy, Ren’s head snaps up, his gaze lowering to meet mine. I reward him by opening wide and taking him right to the back of my throat and swallowing. He groans out a low curse and I know I’ve got him right where I want him. This won’t take long at all.

The feel of his piercings on my tongue and lips is foreign, and I have to work a little hard to keep my gag reflex from kicking in. After a minute or two, I’ve got the hang of it and can take every inch of his long, thick cock in my mouth while simultaneously swirling my tongue around his shaft and rolling his balls in my palm. If I ever had any doubt about my blowjob skills, they’re long gone after this. The hand Ren has in my hair comes down to cradle the back of my neck as his breathy moans get louder and more frequent.

“Kira, darling, fuck. I’m going to…Oh my god I’m so close, I’m going to come,” he breathes. He pulls his hips back, clearly intent on removing his dick from my mouth so that I don’t have to swallow his cum. I let him, not because I don’t want to swallow, but because I have a better idea. I stroke his length as I remove my mouth from him. When the head pops past my lips, I purse them and look up at Ren with wide, innocent eyes. On an upstroke, I swipe my thumb over the head of his cock, and he comes on a groan, painting my lips with his release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cries out as his cum splatters against my mouth, warm and sticky. When he finishes, he cradles my cheek in his hand as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. I stick my tongue out, smiling coyly as I lick his cum from my lips.

“Ruined,” he whispers, stroking my cheek with his fingertips. “I am fucking ruined.”

4

WARREN

A few days later, I lean against the railing of my balcony watching the pinks and purples of the evening sky swirl as an icy breeze from where the Pacific Ocean meets the bay cools my heated skin.

One hand in my empty pocket, I recall the way I’d spent the entire ride home from the wedding toying with the scrap of lace I’d stolen from her. Her pretty pink panties serve as both a trophy and a memory from a sexual experience I don’t think I’ll ever get over.

She insisted our tryst was a one-time thing. No numbers, no regrets. I knew the score when I went home alone on Saturday night. It would hurt, knowing I’d never have her again. Never get to know her or kiss her perfect lips again, but I was okay with it. I’d have my memories of her lemony scent, the image of my cum on her lips and the sweet taste of her cunt to keep me company on lonely nights.

But this morning, everything changed. One email. One meeting over lunch in Hayes Valley. A few hundred million dollars spent and one social media deep dive that came an hour too late, and Kira is no longer just the one-night stand I will surely still be fantasizing about on my deathbed. A deathbed that I will probably be laying on sooner rather than later because in a few months when the news breaks…

Kira McKenna is going to fucking kill me.

5

KIRA

A few months later…

After nearly a decadeof working as a fitness instructor and personal trainer across a variety of different disciplines, I've come to appreciate the fact that my body is my home and my meal ticket. I have to treat it well so that it will continue to serve me the way I need it to. I stretch regularly. I have a physical therapist on standby. I drink enough water to hydrate a hockey team daily, and I rarely take risks that could lead to serious injury.

However, the few times a week that I have to walk down a set of metal stairs and across a slippery platform to my instructor's bike while wearing cycling shoes flies right in the face in all of that careful consideration.

The large plastic cleats on the bottom of my pink rhinestone encrusted Nikes are a necessary evil for stationary biking but I swear, one of these days I'm going to slip down these steps, eat shit in front of all my students, break both my ankles, and ruin my career in the most embarrassing way possible.

My Saturday morning spin class is by far the most popular time slot I teach here at Spin Sync. It’s been dubbed the ‘Saturday Killa Sixty’ and it always books up weeks in advance. The crowd in the room is typically quite a sight to behold. I've had movie stars, professional athletes, even the First Lady of the United States in class with me for sixty minutes of cycling and sweating to music.

As I walk into Studio B—carefully, taking small steps so I don’t slip in these stupid cleats—I recognize about half of the thirty-nine patrons as regulars, including my three best friends, Rachel, Dottie and Georgie. They’re in the front row like always, pedaling on the bikes closest to mine.

I chose AC/DC's “Thunderstruck” as my walk-up song for today, since I'm teaching a metal music themed ride. These are widely known as my hardest classes and possibly the most difficult classes on the Spin Sync platform. They're always fun for me because there's nothing better than sweating and screaming to Rage Against The Machine and Korn while encouraging people to do things they might not realize they're capable of.

The class applauds as I cross into the room, grippinga cold brew coffee in one hand while the other gives out high-fives like they're free candy. My hair is tied in a bun on top of my head, secured with about a million bobby pins in a feeble attempt to keep the frizz at bay.

I've got on my least comfortable workout set–faux leather black leggings with a matching sports bra, as well as a hot pink, long-sleeve mesh rave top to match my shoes and my hot pink mic pack belt. It's not at all practical. When class is over and I’m trying to peel the sweaty pleather leggings off my body, I will regret all of my life decisions, but I can't help myself. I need to look the part if I'm going to teach a heavy metal class, even if the goth-looking smokey eye I spent twenty minutes applying will be melted down my face when the hour is up. I clip into my bike at the front of the room as my producer, Jackie, speaks into my in-ears.

"I'm sending a production assistant out to take that coffee away from you Kira, so you'd better get to chugging."

"Ah shit, y'all. I just got here and they're already trying to take my caffeine! C'mon, hype me up," I call out as I remove the plastic lid from my coffee cup and bring it to my lips.

My regulars are well-versed in this tradition by this point. I never finish my coffee on time, it’s a curse. My producers are constantly trying to steal it away from me before the camera goes live, and the class begins streaming. Not only am I teaching the thirty-nine students in my studio today, but I’ve also got about a thousandpeople logged in at home on our app ready to ride with me, with more joining every second as the countdown to pre-show ticks on.

Spearheaded by my girls in the front row, the crowd chants like we're at a frat party and I'm the upside-down guy doing the keg stand.

---