She let the first go to voicemail without looking; it would be her agent Tasha, anal and worried about where she was, still hours before she had to be anywhere or smile for any cameras.
She placed her phone quietly on the nightstand, trying to see how far she could tug her new toy toward release without waking him. It was better that way. His words always ruined the moment.
His cock, however…almost made up for it.
As she stroked she wrapped long fingers around to her palm. She squeezed until the head got thick and red, so red against the ivory sheets. He filled her grip like a beer bottle. The girth…*god why did it have to be attached to-*
“H-hey, beautiful. Good morning to you too!” Eddy sat up, big stupid grin on his face. His blond hair fell over his eyes in places and stood up with static in others. *A perfectly fine fuck any day of the week*, Tasha would say. Clara forced a smile, even bit her lip for him as he climaxed across her chest and stomach. All for show.
“Ready for your big day?” Eddy sighed, flopping back into bed spent and oblivious.
The most boring thing he could be.
Clara slid out of bed and into her walk-in closet without a word, the door shut behind her.
“Not shy, are you? After last night, I didn’t think you could be.”
“Uh, thanks?” Clara pulled her dark hair back, tied it, and stared at the waves of fabric.
“I was thinking you could meet some friends of mine next time we go out…” He let the words lunger
*You’re hung, that’s all you’ve got. Don’t push it.*
“Well, the Trials are a busy month for me, so I don’t know.” Clara made an effort to sound distracted. She shifted several dresses on the top rack before she realized what she’d done. Memories flooded back. Little cocktail dresses, slutty club outfits that barely registered as *clothing*. Tops she couldn’t fit into anymore if she tried. Things no zipper or button could hope to hold together.
The bed shifted as Eddy got up. Clothes rustled. Eddy dressed and Clara decided she should do the same. But it wasn’t that simple. She’d stared at her outfit for weeks, dread creeping into every facet of the event she’d been so ready and eager for.
A track suit. What national-level sprinter was afraid of that? But that thought led to others.
*You let yourself go.*
*You’re soft. You couldn’t run a mile.*
*Everyone will know.*
And yet, somewhere in her gut, those comments didn’t stop her. The shame was there. But the motivation was different. In a sick fascination, she always thought, “keep going. See what happens.”
So she did. The trips to the gym dwindled to once a week. She found a love for craft beer and yoga pants with extra stretch. Her body started growing on her, in more ways than one. Out of reflex at the thought her left hand drifted upward along her stomach, ribs no longer angling taut skin. She could barely cup her breast with one hand. Sensitive flesh bulged between each finger. She smiled.
Friends at first tried subtle interventions, kidnapping her to the gym under the guise of “eating out”. Instead of joining their circuit training, she ate a random stud’s protein bar and got his number on the foil.
Memories of that lay made her wet all over again.
Clara coughed. “Hm?”
“I said I guess I’ll see myself out, then.” Eddie said.
“Yeah, thank you!” She heard the defeated sting from that one in the pathetically soft way he closed her front door.
Clara opened the closet door and embraced the flush of cold air on her bare skin. She looked back at the warm-up suit from her racing days. Black half-zip with white stripes along the arms, and matching compression pants. She remembered how tight they’d been four years ago.
“Fuck it,” she said, excitement growing.
* * *
Clara beamed as another sharp flash drowned her eyes in light. She’d long ago given up on trying to look the right way and just looked her best, remembering the feeling of finishing first. Winning.
Being important. Being idolized for her talents.
The list kept going, but she couldn’t decide why it no longer mattered.
Track and field trials were again the momentary focus of the nation so eager to win gold and so willing to stop caring the minute the olympic torch snuffed out. Clara adjusted her arm around another of the class of 2012 Olympian “retirees”. She couldn’t remember his name, but he’d been fucking one of the javelin throwers at the time. Maybe they got married? He sniffed, gawking down her black top. More cameras flashed.
*It won’t zip any higher!* She thought. But come to think of it, she hadn’t tried hard, either. Her cleavage dominated the scene of otherwise toned and calculating athletes. She looked different from all of them.
At once she felt out of place, like going on a first date wearing sweatpants, but at the same time she could feel the firm grip of arousal bearing down on her insides. She pretended to adjust her stance, letting the friction of her very-much-touching inner thighs do a little work for her. That made her chest bounce, and the jiggle drew another gaze from her probably-married picture partner. “Careful, softy,” he whispered as the athletes were released to the next photo op set. “Wouldn’t want to work too hard looking this good. Might break a sweat. Just keep up appearances like the chubby fangirl they all know you are.”
Clara gaped, the glint of the man’s wedding band catching the sunlight. From the left, a tall blonde who still poured right into her black warmups skipped over to him. Their hug was almost a wrestle, corded muscles rippling under tight fabrics. She squatted down, tight pink thong peeking over the top of her waist, then jumped high enough that he caught her sitting on his shoulders. Her thighs were so thick they covered his head from view completely. The crowd laughed as the picturesque couple waved.
Tasha power walked up the track, waving a clipboard and breathing hard.
“There you are! Christ, Clara. Give me a heart attack.” Her agent’s eyes froze when she saw the size of Clara’s breasts, moisturized and gleaming in the afternoon sun. *Did I really oil up before coming to this thing? What was I thinking?* Another tingle of enjoyment rumbled through her. It was fun to think about her body like this. Why had everyone always pushed her to cut weight?
“I see you, um, didn’t get the other track suit we ordered. C’mon, let’s get you fixed, they’re going to want you on the track “Past and Present” shoot.”
Over Tasha’s shoulder, a pair of men in the stands were raising and lowering their shirts, in a “flash me” pose. They whistled and clapped for attention. Clara tossed them an open mouth and a wink.
Clara moved around her jittery agent. “Hey, we’ll talk later, ok?” Clara jogged to the blocks, feeling different than she ever had on the track before. Even without the same bounce in her legs, without the same fine-tuned electricity she always channelled before a heat, she felt lighter than ever before. She felt like she could run anything, do anything. Squatting into the blocks raised more whistles and cheers. It made her dizzy. Her mouth hurt from all the smiling.
“Ok, on your marks, ladies.” The cameramen dialed in their lenses as Clara looked to either side of her. Dark, toned bodies overshadowed her, their perfect and repeated stances making it appear that this would be an actual race. One she could never win.
Instead of feeling helpless or sad, the difference was a thrill. She’d already accomplished things these girls only dreamed of. Now she wanted to enjoy herself. As she raised her ass in the air, she felt the heft of it. She imagined someone palming it, taking her thickness in both hands and leveraging themselves straight into her.
“Get set.” The cameraman was getting a little to into it. But it was contagious. Clara shifted in her stance, rubbing her teasing thighs together.
More whistles. A spike of arousal. *God, could I cum from this?*
“OK ladies, just a quick jump out of the blocks for an action shot. Ready? Go!”
The cameras clicking wasn’t the same rush as the starting gun. They weren’t loud enough to cover the sound of Clara’s pants giving way, either.
*Riiiiiiiiiip!*
She stood immediately, trying to piece together fabric that was never meant to stretch so far in the first place. She hopped up, arms at her back. It forced her chest outward, launching one tit free of it’s track-suit prison.
Clara was out of hands, screaming fuck only drew the attention of the press. Legs locked tightly together, after all her teasing, finally took the hint as a sour, unusual orgasm shook her legs and bent her over. Her pants ripped further. Her breast was still exposed. She didn’t have a clue what to do, and she was moaning in pleasure.
It was the most confused she’d ever been.
She looked up to see a man looming over her. He blocked out the sun, and continued to glare downward at her cleavage, now far more blatant than it had been just minutes before. He stood in the way of the cameras and smirked.
“Oh, thank you, um…” Her words devolved into stammering as the waves of pleasure slowly gave back her voice and reason.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied, turning away from her and walking off. The cameras launched a new barrage of flashes at her exposed and ruined suit. Through it all, she watched him walk away, as another orgasm threatened to bloom deep in her gut.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/jta7c1/the_softening_part_1_clara_woke_grumbling_a