Chapter 2: Climbing Conundrums
The air in the climbing gym tasted of chalk and effort, a fine white dust hanging in the shafts of sunlight from high windows. The rumble of fans, the slap of palms on textured holds, the grunted exhales of climbers pushing their limits—it was a symphony Travis usually found meditative. Today, it was just background noise to the pulse thudding in his ears.
He saw her first from across the cavernous space. Bianca was already harnessed, facing a towering blue route, her back to him. The electric blue set from the photo was indeed tiny, the shorts so short the hem cut across the very tops of her thighs, showcasing the powerful curve of her glutes. She reached up, stretching, and the muscles in her back and shoulders rippled under smooth skin. She looked strong, predatory.
He walked over, his own gear bag slung over his shoulder. “Couldn’t wait for me, huh?”
She turned, and that smile—knowing, electric—lit up her face. Her eyes swept over him, taking in his grey sweat shorts and tight black t-shirt. “Just warming up. This wall looked like it was talking shit. Had to put it in its place.”
“It’s still talking. Says you’re all show, no go.”
“Fuck you,” she laughed, punching his arm. Her hand stayed there, rubbing the spot she’d hit, her thumb stroking his bicep. “You’re belaying me first. I want to try this red line.”
They moved to the base of a severe overhang, its red holds like scattered wounds against the faux rock. The ritual began: checking each other’s harnesses, the knot, the belay device. It was intimate, this trusted preparation. Her fingers brushed his hips as she tugged on his harness loops, her touch clinical and charged at once. When it was his turn, he stepped close, his front barely an inch from her back. He reached around her waist to pull the leg loops of her harness tight, his hands skimming the tops of her thighs. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric. He gave a deliberate, firm tug, settling the harness snug against her.
“Comfortable?” he murmured, his lips near her ear.
“Getting there,” she breathed back, leaning her weight into him for a second.
She started her climb, moving with a fluid, powerful grace that was mesmerizing. He fed out the rope, his eyes tracking the shift of muscles in her legs, the way her shorts pulled tighter with every high step. Halfway up, at the crux, she struggled. A hold was farther than she’d judged.
“Come on, Bianca! Dyno for it!” he shouted up.
She glanced down, flashed a grimacing smile, and launched. Her body stretched, flying. She caught the hold with a desperate slap, but her foot swung out. She dangled for a heart-stopping second, twisting on the rope before regaining contact with the wall. From below, the view was sheer, breathtaking obscenity. The short legs of her bottoms did nothing to contain her. Framed perfectly by the blue fabric and the stark white of her harness straps was the full, unfettered shape of her pussy, pressed tight against the material. The seam vanished into the deep cleft. He stared, his cock jumping momentarily in its harness, his hands mechanically locking off the rope.
“Take!” she called, her voice strained.
He broke his gaze, lowering her slowly. As she descended, the angle shifted, offering him a torturous, moving display. When her feet touched the mat, she was breathing hard, a triumphant grin on her face. “Fucking nailed it.”
“You… almost had it,” he chuckled as he took a swig from his water bottle.
She unclipped herself from the wall and immediately walked up to him and playfully slapped his ass, her eyes challenging. “My turn to belay. You’re doing the black route. No wimping out.”
The black route was a fierce, technical problem on the far wall, less frequented. As he climbed, he felt her eyes on him like a physical touch. The focus required was intense, a battle of finger strength and balance. At the top, making the final clip, his arms and legs burned with fatigue. He looked down. She was staring straight up at him, a small, wicked smile on her lips and she shimmied her shoulders, her breasts bouncing playfully, her nipples prominent points for anyone to easily stare at as she paid minor attention to the safety routine.
He rappelled down. When he unhooked, she was right there, holding out a water bottle. “Not bad for a pretty boy.”
He took it, chugging. Water dribbled down his chin onto his chest. Her eyes followed the trail.
“You’ve got chalk,” she said suddenly, her voice dropping.
“Where?”
“Here.” Her hand came up and wiped slowly, deliberately, across his pectoral, her fingers tracing the line of his muscle through the damp shirt. It wasn’t chalk. It was an excuse. Her thumb brushed over his nipple, and it stiffened. She held his gaze, her fingers now resting flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer against her palm.
He laughed as he took a drink from his bottle, tilting his head back he chirped "Yeah? You get it wiped off yet? You know I might find chalk on you, you know..." he said as he swallowed and winked, his eyes drifting down to her chest, her thick nipples very prominently pointed under the sports bra cradling her sizable breasts.
He let his gaze linger, the air between them crackling with unspoken filth. "I might have to conduct a full inspection later," he murmured, just as the sound of the gym's main door clanging open cut through their bubble.
"Hey, climb-nerds!" Meesh's cheerful voice rang out, followed by Gwen's softer laugh. They approached, both in leggings and tanks, their own gear bags in hand. Meesh’s eyes went wide as she took in Bianca. "Oh my god, B, that outfit is killer! Where’d you get it? You look insane."
Gwen slid an arm around Bianca’s waist, planting a casual kiss on her shoulder. "She does, doesn’t she? I picked it. With tits like these, why NOT put them on display??" Her tone was affectionate as she pressed her face into one of Bianca's boobs; utterly oblivious to everyone else in the gym as she squeezed Bianca. Bianca leaned into the touch, her smile a beam of sunshine as her eyes flicked to Meesh and then Travis, a secret spark in them.
The dynamic shifted, splitting into pairs. Travis belayed Meesh on a moderate wall, offering steady encouragement. "You've got it, babe! Right foot up to that blue chip." His voice was warm, patient as he watch Meesh's form; the short shorts riding up and her breasts mashed against the wall. Meanwhile, Gwen belayed Bianca on a neighboring route, telling her about the new clay that should be arriving at the studio soon so she could start her next project.
During a water break, as Meesh scrolled her phone comparing climbing shoes and Gwen re-tied her hair, Travis sidled up to the chalk bag Bianca was using. Their hands met in the cloud of fine powder. He gripped her fingers, not the bag, his thumb pressing hard into her palm. She didn’t pull away, just slowly curled her fingers around his, a covert, silent squeeze that promised everything and nothing.
"Alright, let's try a boulder problem together!" Meesh suggested, pulling Travis toward a low, complex series of holds. It required spotting—close, physical oversight. As Bianca attempted a dynamic move, her body arcing, Travis’s hands went to her hips to guide her landing. His fingers dug into the bare skin above her shorts, his thumbs sliding beneath the fabric to press into the soft, hot dip of her waist. She slipped and took him out, landing with her back against his front, his legs straddling her hips and stayed there a beat, feeling the hard line of him against her ass.
"You good?" he rasped, his breath in her hair.
"Perfect," she breathed back, pushing off.
Later, Travis was on the wall, and Bianca was his spotter. As he reached crux, his grip slipped. He peeled off, and she caught him, her body bracing his fall. Her hands, ostensibly for support, slid from his shoulders down his chest, over the tense plane of his stomach, and hooked firmly on the front of his harness, her knuckles pressing deliberately against his cock. He grunted, landing on his feet, her hand still there, a bold, fleeting claim. Gwen, chatting with Meesh about dinner ideas, saw none of it.
The sun began to slant through the high windows, painting long shadows. Muscles were spent, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat and chalk. "I'm tapped," Gwen declared, stretching her long arms. "My fingers are done."
"Same," Meesh sighed, leaning against Travis. "What should we do for dinner? We could grab stuff and crash at our place. Movie night?"
Travis nodded, his arm around Meesh. "Yeah, that sounds perfect. Burgers? Pizza? Something easy would save these hands." His eyes met Bianca’s over the top of Meesh’s head. A silent, electric agreement passed between them.
The group shuffled out into the cool evening air, the tension of the afternoon simmering beneath friendly banter. At Bianca’s car, as Gwen threw their bags and shoes in the trunk, Bianca hung back for a second beside Travis’s open door. Meesh was already inside scrolling through her phone.
"Forgot my water bottle," Bianca said loudly, then leaned in as if to retrieve it from his back seat. In the shadow of the door, her hand shot out, not for a bottle, but to palm the thick bulge straining against his sweats. She squeezed him, hard, through the fabric, her fingers mapping his length. "Looking forward to the movie," she whispered, her voice low and filthy. He grinned back at her "If you think the movie is the only show you're getting tonight, you're dead wrong..." he said, using his index finger to lightly jab her chest repeatedly, making sure the point moved steadily southward until it contacted her nipple twice, sending heat down to both of their groins.
With a wink and a smile, she turned, walking back to her car with a swing in her hips. Travis shut the door and swung into his driver’s seat, his face in full smile and his heart pounding, the feel of her grip imprinted on him, the feel of her lush tit still on his hand. Meesh smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Fun day, right?"
"Was it ever! The best," he said, returning the kiss, patting her leg and putting the car in gear; his mind already in the dark of his living room, plotting how to get his hands on her tits and his dick in her mouth sometime soon.
Their cars arrived at the Craftsman bungalow within minutes of each other, tires crunching on the gravel drive. The evening air was cool now, raising goosebumps on their sweat-damp skin. "God, I need a shower," Bianca announced, stretching her arms overhead so her tank top rode up, exposing a sliver of her toned stomach. "I feel like a chalk monster."
"Towels are in the hall closet," Meesh said, unlocking the front door. "You and Gwen can use the guest bath. Travis, we’ll use ours."
The house filled with the sound of running water and the casual, familiar noise of friends settling in. Travis pulled a stack of clean towels from the linen shelf, their texture soft and smelling of detergent. He handed one to Gwen as she passed, then lingered as Bianca approached, hair piled in a messy bun, cheeks still flushed from exertion. He held out the towel. Instead of taking it, she stepped close, her fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice low. She tugged, pulling his hand—and the towel—against her chest. The thick terrycloth pressed between his palm and the swell of her breast. He could feel the firm nipple beneath. Smiling, he squeezed and shifted his hand so it drifted across her chest, going from one breast to the other, fully cupping it and squeezing in an illicit moment that made Travis's erection thick, immediately. She held him there for three long seconds as he slowly pressed her nipple between his thumb and finger, rolling it as their eyes locked on each other. A moment later, she released him with a smirk and continued down the hall. The phantom heat of her warmed his hand; he wanted more.
He heard Meesh on the phone in the kitchen, her voice bright. “Yes, half pepperoni, half vegetarian. Extra garlic dipping sauce, please.” The mundane order was a bizarre counterpoint to the throbbing in his groin. He showered quickly, the hot water sluicing away gym grit, his mind replaying her grip in the car, the press of her breast, the thickness of her nipple as it rolled. When he emerged in a fresh t-shirt and sweats, the house smelled of steam and shampoo.
Bianca was in the living room, draped in one of his old, soft band t-shirts that Meesh kept for guests. It was too big for her, hanging off one shoulder, the hem brushing her mid-thigh. Her bare legs were curled under her as she scrolled through a streaming service on the TV. Gwen was beside her, sketching idly in a notebook, her damp hair a dark spill. “Pizza’s thirty minutes,” Meesh called, emerging with a bowl of tortilla chips and a tub of salsa. “I’ll get drinks. Beers all around?”
The next twenty minutes were a study in agonizing, casual proximity. Bianca rose to help Meesh in the kitchen, brushing past Travis in the narrow hallway, her shoulder, her hip, the back of her hand connecting with his body in a series of innocent-seeming collisions. Each touch was a brand. He fetched bottles from the fridge, his fingers grazing hers as he handed her a cold IPA. “Fuck yes I need this,” she murmured, leaning in to grab a lime wedge from the counter behind him, her swaying breasts pressing into his arm.
The pizza arrived. They ate on the floor around the coffee table, a chaotic spread of cardboard boxes, napkins, and bottles. “What are we watching?” Gwen asked, licking garlic sauce from her thumb.
“Something dumb,” Bianca said, her knee nudging Travis’s under the table. “I’m too tired for subtitles.”
They settled on a loud, visually frantic sci-fi film. Meesh curled into Travis’s side on one side of the L-shaped couch, her head on his shoulder. Gwen and Bianca took the other side; Gwen and Travis in the middle. The room fell into a dim blue glow, punctuated by explosions on screen.
The room fell into a dim blue glow, punctuated by explosions on screen.
An hour later, the credits for the first act rolled. Meesh stretched, her spine cracking. “I need a refill and a pee, stat,” she announced, uncurling herself. The movement was a cascade: Gwen stood, mumbling about more ginger ale; Bianca slid off to the kitchen for another beer. Travis remained, a temporary island on the couch, the heat from their bodies lingering in the cushions around him. He listened to the familiar sounds of his home—a cabinet closing, the flush of the toilet, the crack of a new bottle cap.
They drifted back. Meesh returned first, yawning. She reclaimed her spot, but this time she lay perpendicular to him, her head finding his shoulder, her body stretching along the length of the couch. He automatically lifted his left arm to drape over her. His forearm settled beneath her, the soft, warm weight of her braless breasts pressing against his skin through her thin tank top. She sighed, nuzzling into him. “This is the spot,” she murmured.
Gwen, returning with a full glass, eyed the arrangement. She gave a sleepy smile. “You guys look cozy. I’m claiming the end.” She folded herself onto the far end of the same couch, tucking her feet under a throw pillow. This left the space directly next to Travis, thigh to thigh, open.
Bianca walked back in, holding two bottles. She handed one to Travis, their fingers brushing in the transfer. Without a word, she sat into the vacant space, so close he could feel the static from the borrowed t-shirt against his sweatpants. She pulled a large knit blanket over both their laps, its woolly bulk a deceptive shield. The room darkened as she restarted the film.
For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the movie’s dialogue and Gwen’s gradually deepening breaths. Then Gwen’s head lolled to the side, her sketchbook slipping from her fingers. The rhythm of her breathing shifted into the slow, even pattern of sleep.
Bianca moved.
It was a single, deliberate shift. She leaned her weight into Travis’s right side. Under the blanket, her hand found his right arm, which was resting on his own thigh. She pulled it up and over her own shoulders, arranging him as if he were a piece of furniture. His hand hung limp near her collarbone. Then, she guided that hand downward, sliding it inside the wide neck of the t-shirt she wore. His fingertips met the smooth, hot plane of her shoulder, then the sharp ridge of her clavicle. She pressed his palm flat against her chest, just above the swell of her breast. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He didn’t move. He stared straight ahead at the screen, where spaceships collided silently. His left arm was still wrapped around Meesh, his forearm cradling her tits. He was straddling two women, divided by a cushion and a lifetime of choices.
Bianca snuggled deeper, turning her face into his neck. Her breath was warm and smelled of hops. Her hand, under the blanket, found his and pushed it lower. His fingers slid over the firm curve of her breast, the nipple already a tight, eager peak. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry.
She made a soft, contented sound and let go of his hand, leaving it there, cupping her. A silent command. An offering.
His fingers twitched. Then they closed around her. She was full and heavy, her flesh yielding perfectly to his grip. He squeezed, gently at first, then with more pressure, his thumb finding that hardened nipple and rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Beneath his left arm, Meesh stirred in her sleep, pressing her chest more firmly against him. He mirrored the motion, his left hand tensing to knead her breast through her tank top. He was touching them both, rhythmically, in the dark.
Bianca’s lips brushed the skin of his neck. “I want to touch too...,” she breathed, the word a vapor against his jaw.
Her own hand slid under the blanket and onto his thigh. It crept upward, over the tense muscle, until her palm settled over the hard, aching length of him straining against his sweats. She rubbed him, a slow, firm stroke through the fabric. A low groan caught in his throat.
“Shhh,” she whispered, her mouth now dangerously close to his ear. “Keep going. Quietly.”
Her other hand came up to pull the neckline of her shirt further down, giving his roaming hand unrestricted access. He took it, his fingers delving, grasping bare skin. He plucked at her nipple, pinching it lightly, and he felt her shudder against him. Under the blanket, her hand worked him more insistently, her fingers tracing his outline, squeezing the head.
He turned his face, his lips finding her temple. “You know I love tits... you're such a naughty girl,” he whispered back.
“You know it,” she murmured. Her hand slipped inside the waistband of his sweats, her cool fingers wrapping around his bare, leaking cock. The direct contact was a jolt of pure lightning. He slowly pushed upward into her fist, a sly, intentional grind.
His left hand grew bolder on Meesh, sliding under the hem of her tank top, grasping and fondling her soft breast, his fingers sliding across her semi rigid nipple. His mind was elsewhere but his eyes were on the screen, his face a mask of false concentration. Meesh cooed at him, lightly sleeping, and arched into his touch.