Jen , Me: Sis-In-Law Rewards

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Why am I standing here in the rain, soggy paper bags in hand, and afraid to knock on the door? I wonder.

My mind wanders back, reliving the events that led to my being here. It all started about 7 months ago…

* * * *

After a long and trying day, I had asked my sister-in-law, Jen, to surprise me with a drink out on the screened-in-porch. (Among the many jobs she had held, bartender was one of the most common.) She came out with a pitcher of some strange concoction, pouring two large glasses.

“Thanks, Jen, after a fucked up day like today, this sure hit’s the spot.”

“You think your day sucks? I spent the entire day waiting for those assholes to come by and finish the plumbing on my house. The guys never showed, finally calling to say they won’t be there tomorrow either. And I can’t be there Friday to let them in. Shit I may never have water again. I way as well move in here for good.”

She was stuck at our place, ever since her plumbing had exploded. The damn discount plumber her father had found had torn up her kitchen, and left it a shambles, saying he needed some parts. She’d be here at least until the weekend. She’d lived with us for spells before, since we were close to her work and school, and we certainly had the room to spare.

“I’m sure Cheryl will let the guys in on Friday.” I tried to reassure her.

“Sure, whatever,” she mumbled, downing half of her drink.

“Well this is my last drink for a while. The doctor today gave me a lot of grief. I’ve been putting on five to ten pounds a years for the last seven years, and now it’s causing me knee trouble, and my cholesterol is up. This damn management desk job is going to be the end of me. I’ve got no willpower for these diets.”

“I don’t know, you lost a lot of weight last year,” she reminded me, encouragingly.

“Yeah, nearly forty-five pounds on that Atkins diet, but I’ve gained nearly all of it back. I couldn’t eat that no-carb thing for another six months. I was dying for pizza almost every day.” I had ballooned back up to nearly three hundred pounds. I was a big guy, but should never be carrying more than about two-twenty. Cheryl had done as poorly, going from one-thirty-five to two-oh-five.

“Well you guys are always eating out, and going on vacations. You need to discipline yourselves.”

“Easy for you to say, you still have a twenty-year-old’s metabolism. Wait until you’re my age, and life starts playing its little tricks on you. I notice you can eat anything you want,” I added defensively.

“That’s because I work out every day. If you and Cheryl would, it might be easier to lose weight.”

Being overweight wasn’t the only problem I was facing. Lack of fitness was causing a serious problem in my sex life; my wife and I were so out of shape, that sex had become an effort. We only made love about once every few weeks, and then I just laid back, she climbed aboard, and 3 minutes later it was time to clean up and sleep.

“Well, I will say that it’s keeping you looking pretty good. I’m kind of looking forward to hitting the beach house in a couple of weeks to see how you look in a bikini this year.” Oops. Better ease up on the hard-stuff!

“You wish, dirty old man!” She was giggling. She lifted up her shirt to show me her abs, which she’d been working hard on. “I am finally getting some definition here. It’s about time – I swear I’ve done a million crunches and leg-lifts.”

Some inappropriate thoughts raced through my head, as I ogled her 24 year old hard-body. Jesus, I thought, she’s not a little girl anymore.

“Looks nice! Bet the boys can’t keep their hands off of that,” I teased.

“I wish. I haven’t had a serious date in ages. My sex life is the shits. What with school, and work, I have no time for anything. I can’t go on vacations all the time like some people.”

“Try being eighty pounds over-weight, with a partner who’s fifty pounds over-weight. Then we’ll see how great your sex life is.” Shit, I hope I didn’t sound as bitter as I felt.

“At least you don’t have to sweat every weekend wondering if your tips are going to cover your rent, insurance and car payments. I still don’t know how I’m going to pay for that damn software my computer graphics class wants me to buy.”

“Believe me, money is always tight. In my case, you just get to keep adding on the debt. You’re going to pay $300 to fix your plumbing; I’m already out almost $10,000 this year on repairs to this old house.”

“At least you’re getting laid regularly.”

“If you can call monthly, regularly.” Ouch. I probably shouldn’t have let that slip out. What the hell was she putting in these drinks anyway?

“What are you complaining about anyway. You look better at three hundred pounds than I do working out every day. Sometimes I hate my dad. It’s his fault I look like this!”

We had finished one pitcher of her specialty, and were halfway through our second, deep in the throes of self-pity.

The grass is always greener…

“How can you hate your fake hospital hastane body?” I asked, incredulous. “You are so pretty, and you are in such great shape.”

“I have to work out two hours every day to stay in shape, it’s a job in itself. My nose is too big, my hair is too thick, I have a flat ass, and I have no tits at all. How can I have no tits when mom and Cheryl have such big ones? It’s not fair.”

“Come on, they’re not that bad.” I had seen her in tight shirts and she was small but nice.

“Oh, please. Without the push-up padded bras, I might as well be a boy.”

“Jenny, you’re very pretty. And they are not that bad,” I answered, perhaps incautiously.

“Oh yeah, look at these! Tell me any guy would want to play with these tits!”

She pulled her tank and bra up, off her breasts, and I could see the story was partly true. She was almost totally flat.

I stared for a moment, stunned, wondering how it ever came to be that my hot little sister-in-law was showing me her tits! Not very large, but I would love to gobble them up.

“See, nothing to say – ’cause you know it’s true. I’ll never have a boy friend.”

She was crying now. Jenny shouldn’t cry, it’s not pretty, just splotchy. Nose and mascara running, she was successfully countering the effect her bare breasts were having; I pulled her to my shoulder, to give her a place to cry, and tried to pull her bra and shirt back down to cover her breasts.

“It’s ok, things will get better.”

“Better for you maybe. You can hit the gym and look great in six months. My tits are so small you don’t even get excited; you just want to cover them up because you’re embarrassed. God, I hate my life.”

“Jenny, you are sexy as hell. Sure your tits are small; I would still love to play with them, but I’m married to your sister, so of course, I hold back.” It looked like the excess booze and self-loathing was making for a day of true confessions. “Plus,” I added, “it’s easy to say hit the gym but you’ve known me for 10 years and I just get worse every year.”

“You just have to make it a priority. You can do it. You just don’t want to. Your life is too easy.”

“So easy it’s made my sex life miserable,” I replied bitterly.

“So miserable, you have to hide my tits when I’m offering ’em to you for inspection. You’ve just lost the desire I think, although I can understand you’re not wanting mine.”

Accepting the implied dare, I reached under her shirt, and grabbed her breast. I rubbed my thumb over her nipple. “Can I kiss them?” I asked.

“Stop teasing me you bastard. You can’t be getting excited over these puny little things.” She swatted me on the arm.

I took her hand and placed it on my lap, so she could feel how hard I’d gotten. “I guess you’re right. I can’t get excited over you.”

She pulled her hand back. “Oh! I’m…I’m sorry.”

I leaned her back on the couch, and lifted her shirt above her breasts. She just watched me. Her bra was off her tits, and I pushed it up the rest of the way. I then kissed each nipple; stopping on the left one to give her breast some much needed attention. Once her nipple was hard in my mouth, I went back to the other. After a few minutes I stopped, and pulled her shirt down.

“You don’t have any idea how hard it was for me to stop just now,” I confessed. “Things will work out for you, I’ll help you if I can. I can help with the computer work. I want you to be happy. How can I help?”

“Well…” she hesitated a moment, then caught me totally by surprise when she blurted, “Can you loan me some money for breast implants?”

“Oh, Jenny, do you really want to do that?”

She looked crestfallen.

“Listen, money’s pretty tight at the moment, with the holidays just past. I do, however, have some options that vest in June. I can probably help then.”

“Really?” she enthused.

“Sure, our secret. Cheryl doesn’t even know about these options – and it’s an awful lot of money. I’m planning to pay off all our credit cards and car loans. I can swing enough for implants too.”

“God that would be great! I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you to the gym every day, and be your personal trainer,” she offered. “I’ll make sure you get back in shape, and we’ll both be happy this summer. Deal?”

“Deal,” I answered, shaking her proffered hand.

“You know I’m gonna work you hard.”

“I can’t get much harder,” I quipped.

She blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Nothing really happened — just friends working out their problems. Right?”

“Right.” She didn’t sound any surer than I did.

The silence stretched out, into one of the very few times I felt awkward around my young sister-in-law. She finally broke the silence.

“We better get to bed, early morning workout at the Y tomorrow.”

She stood up and headed for the door. She turned back after a couple of steps, leaned over and gave me a kiss on the lips — my first. “Thanks.”

I brushed fake taxi porno her breast with my hand, and answered, “My pleasure.”

* * * *

By Monday, Jen was back in her place, and I was in pain all over.

After two weeks of investigation, I moved us to a real gym, leaving the Y behind. The Powerhouse Gym was my idea of a gym. Ample cardio equipment, but none of the spandex meat market. Most of the gym was dedicated to free weights, and advanced weight machines. There were still eight each of the gliders and recumbent bikes, and ten each of the treadmills, regular bikes, and Stairmasters. People who came in here came to work and sweat, and not to see and be seen.

For four long months, I hit the gym religiously — three, then four, then five mornings a week. We did some lifting, but the meat of the workout was cardio, specifically extended periods on the stationary bikes.

Jenny was queen of the bikes; she could out-pedal anyone, and keep it up for an hour easy. I had done a lot of road biking in my youth, including numerous centuries, up through about age twenty-seven. All those hundreds of miles of riding certainly were no help to me now; when it came to keeping up with her.

I was starting to see some pay-off from an improved diet and all that time spent in the gym. I’d gone to six smaller high-protein meals a day, and a variety of nutritional and metabolic supplements. Cut out all soda (at least 5 cokes a day less) and drinking almost two gallons of water a day.

I had reduced my body fat from 30% to less than 15%, and had lost forty-four pounds. I was still heavy, but no longer obese. I was putting on some muscle, and was hoping to lose another twenty pounds, and get my body fat below 12%.

Cheryl loved the new me. She was inspired to diet by my early success, and Weight Watchers helped her to drop thirty pounds. She joked about Jenny and I going overboard with this exercise stuff, but she was encouraging me, and supported my dieting. Our diets were drastically different, as were our exercise regimens, but we were both making a concerted effort. Our sex life was steadily improving – not stellar yet, but better.

Each morning session at the gym, 5 days a week, I watched Jenny on the bikes. She looked so hot, sweaty and sexy in her tight shorts. Too often, I had a hard-on that interfered with pedaling. Since that first evening when we’d made our pact, there had been a little sexual tension, and occasional innuendo in our conversations, but nothing physical had occurred.

One morning I had to broach a subject that had me curious. “Jen, how come you always bike in chase mode, don’t you ever want to try intervals, or any of the other dozens of profiles available?”

“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but I like to play a little motivational game with myself,” she confessed.

“And that would be…?”

“It’s like a race, and I just can’t let the chase rider catch me. Ever.”

“And why is that?”

“Then I would be at their mercy,” she laughed, a bit too hesitantly.

“And you never get caught?”

“Never.” She was adamant.

“So that’s why you compare your speeds to the other bikes people are riding, isn’t it? I’ve noticed no one can have a higher setting than you, and no one can finish with a higher distance.”

“That’s right. No one beats me,” she replied with easy confidence.

“But if they do, they get you?” I hinted.

“They never will.”

“Ah, but it gives us a goal to work towards.” I smiled enigmatically.

She giggled, and hit me jokingly, but that morning she was really spinning hard, checking my speed, and smiling. After 30 minutes, she had done almost a full mile more than I had.

* * * *

Five weeks later, I met her in the parking lot in front of the gym with a big grin.

“And what has you so happy?” she inquired, while pulling her gear from the trunk.

“Three things,” I told her. “First, I’m at two-forty for the first time in over ten years.”

“That’s great!”

“Second, I’m down to under 12%. New goal is 10%.”

“Even better!” she laughed, dropping her gym-bag and high-fiving me.

“Finally, I have a surprise. I’ve worked out a barter deal. I’m doing some database work for a web-design firm, they’re doing a web site for Dr. Neil Bardon, plastic surgeon, and you have an appointment for Friday morning to select your new breasts, top-of-the-line.”

She looked at me, stunned. “Really?”

“Yep. No workout on Friday; you have to be there by 8:30. But there is a condition.”

“What?” she asked.

“When I hit 10%, I get to see the good doctors handiwork. That should give you at least six weeks.”

“Of course! You can see them anytime, I mean, are you for real? Really? This Friday?” she was babbling.

“For real.” I picked up her bag, “Let’s hit the weights.”

She jumped up and gave me a big hug. “This is the nicest thing. How can I say thanks enough? Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Look at me, I’m almost family stroke porno back to college shape. I should be thanking you.”

* * * *

Jenny was driving me mad. It was over six weeks since I had surprised her. She wore sweatshirts constantly now, and I couldn’t tell anything about the operation. I asked her how it went and she just said I’d see.

For the last few months, I’d been gravitating away from the exclusive cardio and circuit training, and to the weights. My bike time was stable at forty-five minutes, six days a week first thing in the morning before breakfast. I’d added an evening weight-lifting session four nights a week, working about an hour on the free weights, and finishing with another 30 minutes on the bikes. I wasn’t working out with Jen much, often doing my lifting in the evening. Although we usually still met for our morning bike sessions.

For almost two weeks I had hit a plateau and ceased all progress. The amount of weight I was lifting was not going up, and my body fat, at least according to my Tanita scale, was not going down. I took a couple of days off from the gym, moved my biking outdoors, and went on a juice diet to shock my system into change. I had been riding bike machines so long, I found I had almost forgotten how to ride a real bike, particularly along some of the hilly terrain along the W&OD trail. I had to relearn shifting, and the difference in using toe-clips and generating power on both the up and down stroke, left my legs burning. I embraced the pain as progress, and lengthened my rides on the weekends to several hours.

* * * *

On Monday morning, after my first century ride in almost 15 years, I was feeling confident. I’d finished the 100 miles in just over 5 hours, along some pretty varied terrain. I was hoping to tell Jen of my progress but she didn’t show that morning.

I worked out hard that evening, and bumped my bench-press five pounds to six reps at two-seventy-five. I was stoked. I weighed myself in the gym and almost danced. It looked like I had dropped two more pounds, but their scale was notoriously inconsistent. I was eager to share the news with Jen, and with the possible results I barely slept that night.

Tuesday morning arrived, and I hit the gym for the morning cardio, barely able to contain myself.

“I might be there,” I told Jen. “If you’ve got time, let’s hit your place after so I can use your scale and check the body fat level.”

“I can’t, how about tonight, after work? It’s Tuesday. Cheryl will be at Weight-Watchers tonight, doing her weigh-in. How much has she lost?”

“Thirty-eight pounds; she’s hoping to hit forty tonight. She was really strict on her diet this week. Ok, how about around 6:00?”

“Sounds good.”

* * * *

At 6:15, I was at her place.

“Two-thirty-two and 9.9%,” I crowed, “Finally!”

“Congratulations! You look great you know; let me see your abs.”

I opened my shirt. My abs were actually just starting to show a little definition. Ten more pounds and I would be sporting a six pack.

“Nice.” She ran her hand across my belly. “That’s a big improvement. You really are looking hot. I notice some of the chicks in that gym eyeing you. I tell ’em you’re taken. They think I’m so lucky.” She was laughing, and rubbing my stomach, sides and chest, as she walked around me. From behind, hands wrapped around my midriff, she leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “Do you want to see the other rewards of your hard work?”

“Absolutely!” I answered.

“Then wait here.” She disappeared into the bedroom, and I plopped down on her couch to wait.

It wasn’t long. Five minutes later she reappeared, in a sexy little red bikini. Her breasts were full, but not huge, not even as big as Cheryl’s.

“God, you look great! Turn around.”

She twirled slowly for me, sweeping her long brown hair out of the way with a toss of her head.

“Great choice. They fit you perfectly.”

“Do they look real?” She held them out, examining them for any fault.

“I think so, come closer.” I sat up for a better inspection.

She stopped just in front of where I was sitting on the couch. She bent over to show me some cleavage, then turned again.

“Looks pretty good to me.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but an adolescent quiver in my voice may have given me away.

“Steve, do me a favor?” she asked, embarrassed, “Tell me if they seem real. You know, feel them, try them.”

“Jenny, I don’t know if that’s a great idea.”

“Nothing serious. Like last time — just friends, please? I have to know. They look good, but will the guys like them? Well, you know…” She was almost begging.

“Ok. Come sit here.” I made room on the couch. She reached behind her and in seconds, the top was gone. Jesus! I hoped she wouldn’t look down; my cock was about to burst free from its inadequate confines. She looked damn good. I could feel my mouth going dry.

She leaned back, and I held one breast, then the other, cupping them, weighing them.

“Are they still sensitive?”

“No, that feels nice.”

A hint of a smile played across her lips. Perhaps she was testing these in more ways than one.

I slipped off the couch and knelt beside her; I slowly bent over and kissed the near nipple.

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