You know who you are. Yeah. The pretty blonde who's run past my campsite three mornings in a row, just after I've stepped outside with my morning cup of coffee and settled in my chair with a good book. You wear the yellow tank-top cut just above your navel with red running shorts that are just short enough to show your butt-ledge if you stop to stretch or make a sudden turn—something I've seen you do each morning. You're serious about the run with gray Saucony shoes that look like they have a few miles on them.
The first morning, it was pure chance that I stepped outside just in time to see you rounding the bend ahead of me and running my direction. I'm pretty sure it was chance, anyway. I glanced up over my reading glasses and coffee cup to see your muscled legs pumping and your ponytail flipping from side to side. I'm not a big fan of underwear that shows under clothes that are too small to hide them. But if you didn't have that black running bra on under the little tank-top, I'm sure your generous breasts would be hurting from all the bouncing they'd be doing.
I just sighed a little and went back to reading, catching you out of the corner of my eye as you passed again on the trail loop opposite me. Then I heard your feet scuff on the trail as you came back, apparently unaware that the trail does a full loop and you could just continue on. You were about fifty yards on up the camp road when you stopped and did your stretches. I looked around and there didn't seem to be another soul stirring in the campground. That's when I saw the first flash of your little ass as you bent at the waist before you straightened, stretched your hands in the air, and ran on. You disappeared around the bend.
I thought it was a strange coincidence that you rounded the bend again the next morning just as I took the first sip of my strong black brew. It wasn't the same time as yesterday. I'd lazed in bed reading before I got up and campers were already lighting their fires. You certainly lit mine. Still, you seemed serious about running as you did three laps of the camp road loop, catching my eye each time. I had to wonder if you were wearing anything under those damp shorts that clung to your front and rode up in back. The indentation of you navel between the waistband and your crop-top was like a target to my lustful eye.
I was up early this morning. The storm last night brought down branches, one of which nearly crushed the tent in the next site over. I wandered around picking up some of the deadwood for my fire tonight, my coffee cup in one hand. I was near the trail as you ran by. You have startling blue eyes, riveting my gaze from just a few feet away. You smiled and I saluted you—with my cup. Not more than thirty steps down the trail, you stopped and stretched, never looking back. Still, you had to know that I'd be watching. How could I tear my eyes away as your ponytail bobbed from side to side and drew them toward you? Did you take a little longer than necessary, bending at the waist with your legs together, your hands clasped behind them? And do runners usually pick a foot up with one hand and stretch it over their heads. That did nice things for my view. Today it was out and back, out and back as I sat and waited for you, my book forgotten.
Tomorrow? Hmm. Why don't we stop these pretenses? Only you and I will be stirring in the dawn light. I'll be sitting there waiting.
You come running along like any other morning. I have an extra cup of coffee poured, the pot sitting nearby on my camp stove. You take the cup and glance around for a place to sit. Seeing the picnic bench is still wet with morning dew, you opt for my lap. You sigh as the hot liquid touches your lips and settle more deeply in my lap. I start to say good morning, but you hold a finger to my lips. No words are spoken as you shift your butt on my stiffening interest. I set my cup aside.
I find your legs as smooth and silky as they appeared when you ran past. Did you really find time to shave before running? My left hand slips around your waist, pushing the short top up a bit so I feel your skin and taut muscles. My right continues to explore your legs up to the hem of those little shorts and pushing it higher.
You bend, stretching to set your cup on the bench and pressing the soft fullness of you breast into the back of my hand. I turn my hand to face your tit and you freeze, breathing deeply to push it more firmly into my grasp. As you slowly sit up, my hand comes with you, dislodging itself only long enough to find its way beneath your shirt and back to your softness. You melt toward me and our lips touch, our tongues still tasting of coffee slide together, explore, and mate.
I push that black sports bra up, freeing the twin globes from their binding. Your nipples begin to harden and a small moan escapes into my mouth. Your new position leaves just one cheek on my lap, the other high enough that my left hand can slip beneath the waistband and find only the smooth skin of your ass beneath its touch. That answers one question.