Chapter 1
Alyssa Blyth ran with purpose. Always had. Like it was stitched into the lycra, cutting into her thighs. Flight. With fight. That was her.
That day back in eighth grade. Back in Oregon. Third period. But her first. The feeling of it. Then the sight. That blood. She could already picture Vanessa Wright’s face if she saw. Ready to tear her apart for being too early. Or being too late. Whichever she and her little gang of bitches decided on. So Alyssa bolted. Out the classroom, then the school gates, and just kept going. Trees blurred. Sidewalk cracked beneath her soles. She was halfway through the next town when the cruiser found her. Knees scraped and cheeks streaked. Crying like the girl she wanted to still be.
And four years ago—that still and quiet, and tragic night. Kiera’s mom’s voice thin and trembling on the line. Gone. Slammed the door and hit the pavement. Up Ruffly Avenue and left down Smith St. Her lungs burned. Feet slapped. She burst through the door. Wrapped Kiera in arms and didn’t let go. Mr. Jessop, such a kind and caring man, had blown a hole in his wife and daughter’s hearts. A single shot through the back of his own head.
And she ran with it then. 9.23 pm. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. Cold air and crunching leaves. One lap to go. But she wasn’t running away. Not that night. Her purpose was him.
She spotted him as she rounded the bend near the lake—gray tee, long stride, the familiar glint of his sweat on the nape of his neck. Thursdays. Always Thursdays. Same time. Same loop. He liked routine. She liked watching him break it.
They passed just past the slight incline, where the trees thinned enough to catch a glimpse. She adjusted her pace. Not by much. Just enough. She waited until they were two arm’s lengths apart, and then eased up again. Gave him space to see her. Let her hips roll a fraction more. Let her breath catch so that it lifted her chest. A bead of sweat traced the valley between.
She felt it. The moment he saw her. Eyes snagging just below her collarbone. Sliding down. Not a stare, but a flicker that lingered just a beat too long. And that was the point. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.
She passed.
Then—yes. There it was.
She heard his stride falter. The hitch in his pace, the air displaced behind her. The quiet betrayal of muscle memory as he turned his head, just for a second. She could feel the gaze on her ass, on the sway of her hips, on the dark seam of her shorts clinging between her thighs. A low thrum of triumph rose in her gut. She didn’t change speed again, didn’t break stride—just let him look.
And she smiled, just barely. Not for him. For her.
Her rhythm returned—tight, fluid, more purposeful now. Not about pace but placement. About ending the lap exactly where she’d decided, and when.
She ran harder. Breath steady, legs burning. One more incline. The path turned, slick with mulch from yesterday’s rain. She didn’t look. Didn’t need to. She felt him. Not too close. Not too distant. She hit the final bend, the cool air scraping against her flushed skin, the lights above. Right on time.
Alyssa slowed. Then stopped. Breath easing gradually.
She reached for her left foot, pulling it back to stretch her quad. Her other hand rested on her hip, fingers splayed just beneath her damp shirt, revealing a sliver of bare stomach—taut, glistening. Held it for a beat more. Then she bent forward, letting her back arch, arms hanging loose as she reached for her toes. The curve of her ass on full display.
She didn’t glance around. But her breath stilled just slightly when she heard his footsteps draw close.
She stood up slowly, rolled her shoulders back, and turned toward him like she’d only just noticed.
He was stretching too now, hands behind his back, chest out, that same gray shirt clinging tighter than before. His hair a little damp, jaw set, lips parted. Then he looked at her. Took her in.
“Nice stride,” he said, sliding up beside her. “Really leaned into the bends. Kicked on the straights.”
Early 30s. Mixed race—half-Asian, half-white—cut jaw, runner’s build, tousled hair. All sweat and confidence. He smiled with his teeth, but it was his eyes that really lit up as they wandered her body, lingering too long over the rise of her breasts.
Alyssa saw it. She never missed it. And didn’t mind it one bit. She bent her leg back, slowly. Stretched out again. Lycra shorts clinging to her skin—tight, black and taut. Thought that if he looked close enough, he could see the outline of her inner lips. Just peeping through the fabric. He was certainly trying to.
“Thanks,” she said, voice calm, but curved with interest. “You too.”
She pivoted, back to him, and bent—slow and deliberate—to grab her water bottle. She felt the moment his breath hitched. The fantasy twisting behind his gaze—his hands gripping her hips, her ass rocking back into him. Skin slapping and breath mixing.
She rose again, unhurried. Tipped the bottle and drank. Let a drop sit on her lower lip. For him to see.Then wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“She didn’t come tonight?” Alyssa asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Flexed her arm, just enough muscle to catch his eye. “Or did you not want her slowing you down again?”
She was hot—his girlfriend. Blonde. Nice, shapely tits. Perfect teeth. Practiced effortless smile. She’d run with him a few times, always cheerful, always clinging, always making him dial it back. Worth it, though. A catch. Only an idiot would do anything to risk losing that.
He laughed, a little too quick. “Nah. She’s out with the girls. Brunch turned into drinks, drinks turned into selfies—you know how it goes.” He paused, thoughtful. “Still, it’s nice to push sometimes. Just go until your legs are screaming.”
His eyes dropped again. This time he didn’t pretend it was an accident. He followed the slow path of sweat slipping down between her breasts. He was thinking. She could see it.
“Got anything fun planned after this?” he asked, letting the question hang heavy, unfinished.
She shook her head, took another sip, never breaking eye contact. “Just some forms for my PhD.” A beat. “You got a better offer?”
A pause.
—
His eyes flicked down, then back up. He leaned in to kiss her. She let him. His lips on hers, his mouth open just enough. He tried to deepen it. She pulled away with a little click of her tongue.
“Where?” she asked.
“There’s a spot just over…,” he said. She cut him off with a finger to his lips and whispered for him to lead the way.
They walked, as the strain in his shorts started to grow. His hand brushed her lower back. Her hip. Then further down.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured. His voice darker. Less afraid. “So many fucking times.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, not turning around. “About what, exactly?”
“You. Bent over. Mid-run. Pulling off to the side, saying you needed to tie your shoe, and then just… arching like that. Like you wanted me to look.”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. He swallowed.
“I wanted to grab your hips,” he went on, eyes glazed now, “push those shorts down and just… fuck you right there. While Lauren…while she, was just ahead. Still talking.”
“Mmh,” Alyssa purred. “Talking about what?”
He stepped closer. “Fuck knows. And I wouldn’t have heard a word. In my head I was already inside you.”
She laughed. Quiet. Cruel. Slowed, then suddenly darted forward, jogging into the trees, slipping between two low branches, disappearing into the deeper dark.
He followed. Branches snapped at his sleeves. His pulse fast and cock hard. And there she was—just ahead. A flash of thigh.Just out of reach. He caught her.
His hand snatched her wrist. yanked her back into him. And before she could smirk, he was kissing her once more. Harder. Her hand slipped behind his neck, holding him there, and she bit his tongue.
He groaned. She laughed. He shoved her against the tree. The bark scraped her back. Tore a little hole in her shirt. He shoved his hands down her shorts. Fingers teasing. She gasped, mouth opening. Then he thrust them into her. Hard. She gritted her teeth.
“Mmm—fuck, that’s it,” she hissed. “Harder. You’ve been waiting—take it.”
He fucked her with his fingers, rough and fast, until she twisted against the bark, breath ragged. Then he turned her. Spun her by the hips until she was braced against the tree, her ass arched out, back curved. She looked over her shoulder.
“Well?” she said, voice sharp and breathy. “What do you want?”
His cock pressed against her ass, grinding slowly through the thin barrier of her shorts.
“I want to fuck you,” he breathed. “Right here. Right now. I want to slide into you and forget her name.”
She turned her head slightly. “Then do it.”
He spit into his hand again. Rubbed it against her, slicking her more, fingers spreading her open.
Then he pushed in.
She gasped as he slid the tip in, then out again, teasing her, grinding slowly against her opening.
Then he licked the side of her cheek, tasting the salt of her skin. Bit the edge of her jaw.
And plunged in. As far as he could.
Her body jerked.
“Fuck—” she breathed.
He pulled out and shoved straight back in. Faster. Harder.His hips snapped forward, in again, and out again. In harder again.The slap of skin on skin echoed between the trees. His hands clutched her hips. His cock throbbed between her pussy lips.
“I thought about it the first time I saw you,” he growled. “She was smiling. Talking, and all I could see was you. Bent over like this. Shorts riding up. That perfect fucking ass.”
“Mmm, yeah,” she gasped, meeting his thrusts. “She’s talking weekend plans, you’re picturing me.”
“Every fucking time,” he grunted. “Couldn’t even focus on her voice. Just the bounce of your hips. Just fucking this.”
He slammed in harder. Faster.
Alyssa moaned—throatier now, the sound cracked and deep as his cock speared into her again, harder, and again, faster. Her cheek pressed to the bark, fingers clawing uselessly at the trunk for grip, but he had her bent and braced just where he wanted her, legs wide, back arched, ass bouncing with every hard snap of his hips.
“Ah—fuh—fuck,” she gasped, the syllables jolting loose in rhythm with each thrust. Her mouth hung open. Eyes glazed, unfocused.
He was panting now, jaw clenched. “You feel—shit—tight—so fucking tight—” His voice rough, buried deep in his throat.
She threw a look over her shoulder, messy hair in her face, a smirk twitching at her lips even as they trembled. “Don’t hold back.”
His groan cracked out of him like something feral. He leaned low over her back, hand sliding from her hip to her throat, gripping just enough to make her breath catch. His chest against her spine, soaking into her skin.
He yanked her head back by her ponytail, hard enough that she gasped. His teeth found her shoulder, biting down, and his cock shoved even deeper as her back arched into him.
“I imagined her turning around,” he snarled against her skin. “Mid-sentence. Seeing your ass like this. Watching me fuck it. And knowing.”
Her moan was high now, pitched, desperate. “Yesss—fuck, yes—”
He pulled out suddenly, and she whimpered, a raw, broken sound that made him grin. His hand cracked across her ass—once, twice—sharp slaps that made her jolt, then whimper again.
“Turn,” he commanded.
She obeyed. Stumbling as she spun around. Her shirt was torn, bark-burn blooming red across her back. Her lips swollen. Shorts still tugged halfway down her thighs. She dropped to her knees on the mossy ground without a word.
He stepped in, stroking his cock once, twice, then brought it to her lips. She opened without hesitation, tongue out.
“Fuck,” he hissed as she took him.
She sucked him. Mouth hot, drool slicking her chin. She worked him deep. Gagged, then right back down. Moaning around him. Fingers digging into her own thighs.
“Shit—” he groaned. One hand gripped her hair, the other steadied at the back of her skull, and he began to fuck her mouth. Deep, slow strokes at first, watching her lips stretch around him. Then harder. Muffled sounds leaking from her throat, low, wet glk-glk-glk. His cock bottomed out against the back of her tongue.
She never broke eye contact. Even when her mascara began to smudge, even when he snarled and pulled out, cock twitching, slick with spit.
He hauled her up by the arm, spun her, and pushed her down to the soft moss.
Flat on her back, legs spread. Eyes wild. Her shirt hiked, breast exposed, nipples hard. She reached down between her thighs and rubbed herself, fast, shameless, still wet from the way he’d finger-fucked her.
He pushed in again. She gasped, nails raking his back. He buried himself in her, deeper than before, hips slamming until his pelvis crushed against hers.
He stilled. For a second. Feeling it. Feeling her legs wrapped around him, locking him in. Her heels dug into his ass, driving him deeper.
And then he started to move.
Faster.
Harder.
His thrusts savage now, rhythm breaking down into raw, pulsing need. Their bodies slammed together, loud and slick. Her tits bouncing with each filthy thrust. Her cries rose wild and ragged as they echoed between the trees.
“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m coming—” he gasped, voice cracking, hips snapping as every muscle tensed. He slammed in, deep and fast, then again, then—
“FUCK—!”
His shout cracked the air, and his cock twitched violently inside her, bursting with thick, hot release. His rhythm broke into short, jerking thrusts, eyes wide, mouth hanging open as he came so hard his legs buckled.
She gasped, fingers clutching at his back, holding him deep, feeling each spurt inside her. Her cries rose with his, loud, raw, the rhythm of her moans tangled with the wet slap of his final thrusts. He collapsed forward, still pulsing inside her, their bodies soaked, stuck, trembling.
—
The trail was dim as they walked. Bodies buzzed with heat. He broke the silence first.
“Fuck,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re… I mean—Christ. That was…”
She raised a brow.
He laughed, half-winded. “Fucking incredible.”
She smirked.
They stepped around a patch of damp leaves, ducked under a low branch, emerging from the thicket back toward the path where the lamplight bled. He stuck close, glancing at her like hewas trying to memorize the moment before she disappeared again.
“You do this often?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or was that just—a one-off?”
She didn’t answer. Not no. Not yes.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “I mean, shit, I’d kill to see you again. No Lauren. No jogging. Just us. A bed. Or a wall. Or another tree, I don’t care.”
That earned him a laugh, smoky and light.
“I’m serious,” he said, catching her wrist for a second. Not hard. Just enough to get her to look. “Let me take you out. Or in. Whichever.”
Still no reply. But she stopped walking.
He reached for his phone, thumbed it open fast. “Here. My number. Jason Chang.”
She took the phone. Entered it into her own. Then handed it back.
He waited. Hesitating. Expectant. “You gonna give me yours?”
She stepped in then, surprising him. Pressed a kiss to his mouth. Soft this time. Slower. Her lips lingered just long enough to mean it, to give it a little ache. Then she pulled away, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
He blinked. Breath caught. “At least tell me your name.”
She backed up a step, then another.
“Hey,” he said, laughing, “your name?”
She was jogging now. Smooth, unhurried, light on her feet, in those same running shorts he’d yanked halfway down her thighs. Her silhouette cut clean through the lamplight.
He called after her again, one last time. “Come on—tell me!”
But she was already gone, melting into the Brooklyn night. No name. No promise. Just the memory of her moan in his mouth, the sting of her nails on his skin. The air had cooled, Brooklyn —top-floor windows open, music drifting, a lone trumpet somewhere. She passed a shuttered bodega where a cat sat in a window. A kid on a stoop nodded as she jogged past. A trash truck rumbled on.
She passed, into the quieter stretch by the all-night laundromat. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the faint warmth of dryers tumbling. An older woman smoked out front, watching her. Judging. Alyssa just kept going, steady stride.
Her apartment building —a tired brownstone with ivy clinging stubbornly to its bricks. She pushed through the front door, sweat cooling on her neck, the scent of fabric softener and old paint.
And Jerry was there. He always was.
“Evenin’, Miss Alyssa,” he said, sitting back in the cracked leather chair behind the desk, crossword folded neatly, jazz playing. He looked up with those soft, tired eyes. He smiled, voice deep and warm as whisky. “Out running again?”
She grinned, catching her breath.
“Don’t start, Jerry.”
“I ain’t starting,” he said, shaking his head, already rising to lean on the desk. “I’m just sayin’. Pretty girl like you, runnin’ after dark through the park? This place ain’t what it used to be.”
She leaned on the counter, her smile sweet, laced with that note of affection she reserved for him. “You’re always watching out for me. It’s very sweet.”
“Girl, please.” He waved her off with mock offense, then softened again. “I just want you safe, that’s all.”
She nodded. “Deal.”
The elevator opened. She stepped inside.
“Don’t work too late,” he called after her.
“I won’t.”
The doors slid closed.
Her apartment was cool, clean, quiet.
Open plan with a long slab of concrete as kitchen counter, exposed shelving, a print of Egon Schiele’s Reclining Nude with Spread Legs hanging above a low couch. In the corner: a potted plant. Along the far wall, wide windows overlooked the Brooklyn skyline.
She peeled off her top. Kicked off her shoes. Poured herself a glass of water from the fridge spout and downed it fast. She could still feel him. Between her thighs. Inside her.
The laptop sat open on the kitchen island. She flipped it around. Opened a new document.
Subject: 008 Location: Prospect Park
She paused. Stared at the blinking cursor for a second. Then began to type.
Recollection Log – Post-Encounter Entry Type: Subjective Narrative (Third-Person Framing)
Said it started with a kiss.
Described her pulling away—directing, not denying. Followed willingly. Said the tension was “already unbearable.”
Spoke of watching her body mid-run. Fantasizing about stopping, fucking her just off the trail, while his partner kept talking up ahead.
Recalled catching her. Bark against her back. Her laugh. Her bite. Fingering. Turning her. Spreading her. Said he couldn’t help himself.
Claimed he’d wanted it since the first run. Couldn’t focus on anything else.
“I wanted to forget her name,” he said.
Recounted climax as overwhelming. Described the sound she made, the way she clenched.
“I’m gonna think about it for days,” he said. “That noise when she came.”
Made no mention of guilt.
Response: [Entry archived.]
She shut the laptop and walked to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Hot. Then turned it up. Got in. And scrubbed away the evidence.
