All Work, No Play

3. Gym Rats

Francine's chest heaved as she sucked air with labored gasps. Her heart was pounding for a way out. Sweat trickled down her flushed cheeks. She adjusted her slick hands and pumped them harder, her arms sore from working them for so long.

Almost there, come on!

Her legs were giving out from the up and down motion. Her butt muscles ached from the abuse. She could see it rising, ready to pop.

She dug deep, everything she had. "Uugghh! Rrrrrr!" she groaned. It exploded in a celebratory shower.

Yess!!

She collapsed from the exertion, nearly falling off the elliptical machine. The glowing numbers blinked on the screen, as firework animations exploded around it. She hit her calorie goal and was done. She reached for her towel and dragged herself into the locker room.

Dead tired and out of breath, Francine was completely out of shape. Her body threatened to hurl her lunch from all the abuse she had laid upon it, but she fought the urge to run to the toilet. She was just happy to finally have her workout routine back.

She examined herself in the mirror. Something caught her eye and she frowned. Is that a tear? A rip had formed, frayed stitching flayed out from the edge of her sports bra. How couldn't it, when it's job is to wrangle these things. She squeezed her tits with frustration and sighed. The bouncing was unbearable, and her back screamed with pain.

"Everything okay with you, hon?" a voice tinged with Southern drawl called out behind her.

Francine looked up to see a blonde woman approach her. She replied, "I even doubled up on sports bras, and the bouncing is still unbearable."

"Are you nursing? I had the same problem when I had mine. The girls kept on growing and growing, and I cried thinking I'd have throw out all my old bras. Agent Provocateur ain't cheap, y'know."

The woman with the expensive tastes unwrapped the sweat towel from her chest to show her shirt stretched treacherously taut. Without solicitation, she pulled her top all the way up to reveal her girls. They seemed to be wrapped in some type of adhesive, and barely budged after being set free.

"I found this boob tape after seeing an influencer's post raving about it. Let me tell ya—total game changer. Keeps them from giving me a black eye during HIIT boxing." She jumped up and down to demonstrate. They were immune to the forces of physics, and looked like bolt-ons if Francine had been none the wiser.

"Oh my god." Francine's jaw dropped. Then her brow scrunched in a discerning manner. "You aren't pulling my leg are you? Looks more like you've had some work done."

"Work done? Honeychild, please. My mama's rolling in her grave hearing you throw shade on her blessed genes. Go ahead, see for yourself."

Francine gave her a quizzical look. The woman sighed and grabbed Francine's hands and placed them on her chest. Before the suspicious mother could squirm away, she found herself fondling the boobs. They were soft and delightful and completely natural—unless the woman had managed to source herself a surgeon who could work miracles.

"Incredible," Francine murmured, as she tried to bounce them up and down.

"What'd I tell you? And you thought a Southern belle would lie to your face. Bless your heart."

She pried Francine's hand off and pulled her top back down.

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"Now if you'll excuse me, I got to mosey on down to my boxing class."

Francine hit the shower, got dressed and headed home. Again, she found Marcus in front of the TV with ESPN on and sports clips pulled up on his laptop. Her blood boiled like a neglected pot of pasta.