The gravel path crunched under Charli's trainers as she rounded the entrance to Piedmont Park, the morning air carrying that particular Atlanta smell, cut grass, damp pavement, the faint sweetness of magnolia. She spotted Dave immediately, leaning against the stone pillar near the parking lot entrance in navy running shorts and a heathered grey technical shirt, his phone in one hand. He looked exactly like the photo from his profile, broad through the shoulders, clean-shaven, with the kind of easy posture that suggested he'd been standing there five minutes and wasn't bothered by it.
He straightened when he saw her. "Charli?"
"Dave." She stopped a few feet from him, one hand on her hip, the other holding her phone. "You're early."
"You're on time. You actually came." His eyes moved over her face first, then down, but not in the way she expected. Not the hungry sweep. He was looking at her outfit. The charcoal bra, the way the bolero jacket framed the deep line of her cleavage, the leggings hugging the new curve of her thighs. Then his gaze landed on her hands. "Your nails, that's like a burnt sienna?"
"Brownish terracotta," she corrected, holding her hand out, fingers spread. The polish caught the morning light.
"It works. The whole palette, charcoal, gold, the terracotta. It's coordinated." He pulled his phone out, opened Venmo, and sent the three hundred dollars without her having to ask. "Receipt's in your inbox."
She checked. It was there. She pocketed her phone and looked at him, really looked. He was treating this like a coffee date with a friend's coworker. Respectful. Attentive. Not once had his eyes dropped to her chest and stayed there.
She gathered her hair, pulled it back into a high ponytail, and let a few strands fall loose around her jaw. "Ready?"
They started at a quick eight-minute-mile pace, cutting through the oak-lined main path toward the meadow. Dave matched her stride without crowding, and they fell into conversation, easy, scattered stuff. He'd run track at Georgia State, never competitively. She told him she'd picked up running during the pandemic, which was true enough. He asked about her favorite routes. She asked about his breakup, carefully, and he gave a short, honest answer about two years that should've been one.
The whole time, Charli's mind was running a different track. He'd sent her a dick pic. He'd found her OnlyFans. He'd paid three hundred dollars to jog beside her in tight leggings. And yet here he was, asking about her hydration strategy and complimenting her nail polish like they were at a networking event.
Why wasn't he pushing? Why wasn't his hand brushing hers on the wide path, why wasn't he steering the conversation toward what she posted online, why wasn't he at least looking at her body the way men looked at bodies they'd already seen naked?
The confusion sat in her chest like a low heat. With every stride, it migrated lower.
By the time they reached the pavilion on the east side of the park, a covered structure with wooden beams, water fountains, bathrooms, and concrete picnic tables, they'd clocked the 5K in twenty-six minutes. Charli's skin was damp, the charcoal fabric darkened across her ribs and between her breasts. Dave's shirt clung to his chest in a way that confirmed what the dick pic had suggested: the man was built underneath the politeness.
"Can you help me stretch?" she asked, walking to the pavilion's low railing. "My hip flexors are wrecked."
"Sure." He followed her without hesitation.
She lifted her right leg onto the railing, straight, toes pointed, and leaned forward over it. The leggings pulled taut across her thigh and the curve of her ass. She felt the stretch in her hamstring, the new body was limber, elastic in ways that still surprised her, and she held the position, letting him see the line of her body from the side.
"Push on my lower back," she said. "Right there… please."
His hand settled on her lumbar spine, warm and flat through the bolero jacket. He pressed gently. She reached forward, grabbed her own ankle, and folded her torso flat against her raised leg, chest to thigh, nose nearly touching her knee.
"Jesus," Dave said quietly.
"Flexible?" She straightened, switched legs. The left one went up, and she repeated the fold, slower this time, arching her back slightly as she rose. His hand was still on her back. She could feel his fingers pressing harder than before.
"You're really flexible."
She dropped her leg and turned to face him. His shorts told her everything, the fabric was tented, straining outward, the outline of his cock pushing against the thin material. He was hard, and he was trying not to look at her while being hard.
Charli glanced at her phone. "We finished faster than I planned. You've got time, right?"
"I, uh, yeah, I don't have to be anywhere until,"
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him around the corner of the pavilion, past the last support beam, to the wooden fence that bordered the maintenance yard. The area was screened by a row of crape myrtles, thick with late-summer bloom. She pushed him against the fence. It thudded.
"Charli,"
She smiled seductively at him, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts and pulled them down to mid-thigh. His cock sprang free, thick, veined, exactly like the photo, but harder now, flushed dark, the tip already slick. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and stroked slowly, base to tip, her terracotta nails contrasting against his skin.
"You've been so respectful all morning," she said, looking up at him. "It's annoying."
"I didn't want to," His voice caught as her thumb circled the ridge beneath the head. "I didn't want you to think,"
"Think what? That you're a horny guy who paid three hundred dollars to run next to me?" She stroked him again, slower. "I know exactly what you are."
She leaned forward and dragged her tongue across the tip of his cock, tasting the salt of his pre-cum, the faint musk of his sweat. Dave's head hit the fence with a dull clang. His hips jerked forward.
"Fuck! Charli."
"You want me to stop?" She licked him again, a long flat stroke from the underside of the shaft to the head.
"No." The word came out strangled. "No, please."
She held his gaze and took him into her mouth, lips sealing around the head, tongue working the frenulum in tight circles as she sank down his shaft. Charli wrapped her pink lips around the Dave’s throbbing cock, her top now fully unzipped and her tits hanging out as she sucked him off. Her right hand cupped her own breast through the sports bra, squeezing, pinching the hardened nipple through the compressed fabric before she lowered her hand, and slid into her leggings, fingers finding the slick mess between her legs, she was soaked, had been since the second mile, and she stroked herself in rhythm with her mouth. She simultaneously used her left hand to stroke Dave’s cock and occasionally, his testicles.
Dave's hands pushed against the fence behind him. His hips moved in shallow thrusts, and she took them, relaxing her throat, taking him deeper. The wet sounds, her mouth, her pussy, his breathing, filled the space between the crape myrtles. She moaned around his cock, and the vibration made him buck.
"I'm. Charli, of fuck, I'm gonna,"
She didn't pull back. She swallowed around him, tongue pressed flat, and he came, thick pulses down her throat, his whole body rigid against the fence, his muscles tensed as he stood up on his toes, a sound between a groan and a gasp tearing out of him. She took all of it, milking him with slow strokes until his cock softened against her tongue.
She pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and sucked the residue off her thumb. Her fingers were still wet from herself. She licked one clean, tasting salt and musk mixed together.
Dave was slumped against the fence, shorts around his thighs, chest heaving.
Charli patted his cheek twice, gently, and smiled, before accidentally rubbing her ass on his shaking cock.
"We should go for a run again sometime." As she flashed a smile over her shoulder, and sauntered off.