[SS-1642] Interviewing Gymnasts

INTERVIEWING GYMNASTS

Chalk hangs in the gym like fog. Metal hums. Fans push warm breath over the mats. I’m gripping a cheap mic and trying not to stare at two adult champions: ring master with messy hair, vault master with a clean skull shine and a grin like he knows my next line.

“How’d you take regionals?” I ask.

“Training,” ring master says, his voice low and steady.

“Partnership,” vault master says, shoulder bumping shoulder, a private knock that speaks volumes.

We slip to a corner. The mic cable squeaks. I ask about the rumor.

“Sleepovers in season,” ring master says, his eyes flicking to mine with a hint of challenge.

“Keeps us synced,” vault master adds, his voice a low rumble.

I say I don’t understand. He crooks a finger. “Come watch.”

They lead me to the warm-up mat by the stubborn window. Night air leaks in, sticky and heavy. Ring master lies back, wrists up like he’s catching invisible rings. Vault master kneels behind him, palms firm at the waist. They count, soft, like prayer.

“One… two…”

Breath lines up. Shoulders gleam with a sheen of sweat. Their bodies talk in tiny moves—hip tilt, back arch, thigh press—nothing graphic, everything honest. The mat gives little squeaks, like it knows the routine. Their sweat smells like salt and lemon peel. I feel my pulse in the plastic mic, my heart racing.

“Three… four…”

Vault master leans close, lips ghosting ring master’s ear. Ring master’s mouth opens on a hush of sound, not a word but a message. Hands travel familiar routes—waist, ribs, the bracket of a hip—finding grips the way you find them on equipment: sure, respectful, hungry. The window fogs a little circle. A droplet slides down a collarbone and disappears.

“Five… six…”

They laugh under their breath, clumsy for a heartbeat, then the rhythm catches like a run-up that finally locks. Their counting unravels into yes, yes, yes. Vault master kisses the edge of a temple. Ring master answers with a slow turn of the head, noses brushing, a small, ruined smile. The room shrinks to heat and a steady drum of air from the fan.

“Seven… eight…”

The hold tightens, then softens. Not for judges; for mercy. For wanting. A quiet lands. I lower the mic because sound seems rude. Their chests move together and my own mirrors it, like I’m being coached into the breath.

“Nine… ten.”

They pause, foreheads touching, shining, grinning like thieves who stole sleep back from the world. Vault master helps ring master up, fingers still threaded a second too long.

“That’s partnership,” he says, his voice thick with unspoken promises.

“And recovery,” ring master adds, voice warm and intimate.

I’m shaky. The gym keeps humming. The rings sway a little, as if nodding. I click the recorder off and finally understand the headline: Rigorous training. Passionate partnership. Sleepovers that turn two bodies into one routine. Later, alone, I can still smell their heat, a sweet ache that sticks to memory all night.

The night deepens, and the gym becomes a sanctuary of whispered secrets and shared breaths. Ring master and vault master move together, their bodies a dance of strength and flexibility, a testament to their partnership. The air grows thick with the scent of their sweat and the promise of more.

Ring master rolls onto his back, his chest heaving with exertion. Vault master straddles him, his hands roaming over the firm muscles of his partner’s torso. Their lips meet in a fierce, hungry kiss, tongues exploring and tasting. The sound of their breaths mingles with the hum of the gym, a symphony of desire and connection.

Vault master’s hands slip under ring master’s shorts, gripping his ass firmly. Ring master arches into the touch, a low moan escaping his lips. Their bodies grind together, the friction building a fire that threatens to consume them both. The mat squeaks beneath them, a rhythm that matches the beat of their hearts.

Ring master’s hands find their way to vault master’s waistband, pulling him closer, deeper. Their kisses become more urgent, more desperate. The world outside the gym fades away, leaving only the two of them, lost in each other’s arms.

Vault master rolls them over, settling between ring master’s legs. He reaches for a small bottle of lube from his gym bag, his movements quick and sure. Ring master watches him, his eyes dark with lust and trust. Vault master prepares him gently, his fingers slipping inside, stretching and teasing until ring master is writhing beneath him, begging for more.

With a final, lingering kiss, vault master positions himself at ring master’s ass, pushing in slowly, carefully. Ring master’s eyes flutter closed, his breath catching in his throat. They move together, a perfect synchronization of bodies and souls, their partnership transcending the boundaries of the gym.

The room fills with the sounds of their love-making, the soft whispers of skin on skin, the ragged breaths, the occasional gasp or moan. The fan pushes warm air over their sweating bodies, cooling them just enough to keep them going, to keep the fire burning.

Their climax comes together, a rush of pleasure that leaves them breathless and spent. Vault master collapses onto ring master’s chest, their hearts pounding in unison. They lie there for a moment, basking in the afterglow, their bodies still connected, still one.

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