Page 28 of Ripped

“Shh,” Donnie whispers and flips us around so fast it makes me dizzy. “My turn now.”

I lay on my back, shivering at the promise in his voice. He finds my nipples and pinches and twists them at the same time, the stinging pain shooting straight to my pulsing dick. He scrapes his blunt nails down my chest, my stomach, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

He trails them back up my sides, right over the spots where he knows I’m ticklish. I squawk and squirm, grabbing at his hands. He smirks at me, the fucker, and twines our fingers together. Palm to palm, he lifts them above my head and pins them there.

I still have my jeans on. I’m not particularly self-conscious about being naked around other guys. Yet, there’s something about lying there with my arms above my head that leaves me exposed, opened up, and on display for him. I shudder at how vulnerable I am, at how good it feels to be vulnerable with Donnie. I’ve never felt like this with anyone else before and it’s turning me on more than I’ve ever been in my whole life.

He kisses the inside of my arm, near my elbow, then again, a little lower. I’m so sensitive there, the skin is so tender, and the softness of his lips combined with the roughness of his stubble stirs up sensations that are blowing my mind. He keeps going, inching closer and closer to my armpit. The closer he gets, the less I can breathe. My eyes are glued to his mouth. He isn’t going to do it. No way.

He flicks his gaze to me and pierces me with the intensity of his stare. Then he parts his lips, reaches his tongue out, and licks a long, wet stripe from the bottom of my armpit straight through to the top.

“Fuck!” A thrill runs through me like there’s a horror movie playing out before me. I can’t watch. I can’t tear my eyes away. I need to know what happens next and I’m terrified of it at the same time.

Donnie latches onto a soft spot and sucks.

“Fucking Christ!” I yell. His mouth is on my armpit, but it feels like it’s on my cock. Hot and wet and the suction is so goddamn intense. I honestly can’t tell which is which. My hips jerk to get more. My arms strain against Donnie’s hold. My underwear is so wet, I might actually have come already.

“Good?” Donnie asks, breath hot, lips tickling the hairs. His smile is pure fucking evil, like he’s just put a spin class through its paces.

“Ahhh…” I moan weakly.

Donnie switches to my other arm and I swear to god, I almost die. His tongue swirls through the hairs and his teeth nip at the skin underneath. I’m struggling against him, desperate and afraid, and totally strung the fuck out.

“Donnie, please,” I beg. “Please, I need to come.”

He pauses and considers me for a second. If he goes back to my armpits, then I might as well expire right there because there’s no way my body can handle any more. But he takes pity on me.

His lips are shiny with spit and the entire bottom half of his face is wet with it. He smiles like the devil as he palms my cock through my jeans. “You need to come?”

“Please.” I grind my dick into his hand. I’ll do anything to come. Anything.

Donnie starts undoing my jeans and holy fucking shit, it’s almost worse. He’s moving so slowly, gently squeezing the button out of its hole, dragging the zipper down one tooth at a time. He peels back the two sides and traces his finger along the length of my cock, barely touching it.

“Donnie!” I jerk my hips, chasing his finger.

“Shh,” he whispers, leaning up to give me another kiss. It’s wet and I eat it up, showing him how hungry I am for him, how needy I am. Tears—actual, honest-to-god tears—run out of the sides of my eyes and into my ears. That’s how much I need to come.

Donnie shoves my underwear down and my cock springs out. His fingers curl into a tight, excruciating vise. It hurts so good. It’s so deliciously painful. I’ve leaked so much pre-cum there’s no need for lube. A couple pumps of Donnie’s hand is all I need to empty my balls onto my stomach.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DONNIE

“Let’s get those legs pumping! Come on, find the beat. Match my pace.”

Every last bike is taken and the room is full of men bent over their handlebars, determination on their faces, all pedaling with the same rhythm. It makes the air vibrate with an energy that always gets my adrenaline going.

“Turn up your resistance!” I call into the mic hooked around my ears. “You’ll only get out what you put in, so werk it! Crank it up!”

A rush runs through me when everyone reaches for the red resistance knobs on their bikes. There are at least a dozen glowers in the class, some guys grunt as the machines force them to use every last ounce of their energy. And still, these guys come back day after day, week after week to let me torture them.

Sometimes, I love my job.

“I want two full turns of your resistance. Don’t give up on me now, bitches. Because we’re climbing in four, three, two, one. And climb!”

Everyone rises out of their seats, swaying side-to-side as they use their full body weight to turn the pedals. They all look like they’re in pain. Everyone is soaked with sweat. This is going to be my best class of the week.

Thirty minutes later, after I’ve led the class through a cool down and reminded them to hydrate, I unclip myself from my bike and hop off.

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