Working out

“Do twelve reps!” she barked to me.

My triceps were burning.  I didn’t think I could squeeze out five more reps, let alone twelve.

She leaned down in front of me, her cleavage in my face.  “I know you can,” she said.

My eyes glued to her chest, I pulled the bar down in front of me.  I don’t know how I managed to do it, but I did – twelve reps.

“Good boy,” she said.  I always feel  patronized when she praises me.  She’s young, she’s in sick shape.  I’m older, and not flabby, but not a gym rat either.  There’s little I can do with weights that she can’t do, and she’s smaller, female, etc., so praise from her inevitably rings hollow.

And/but, when she praises me, when she says “good boy,” it always brings to mind the image of me throwing her around a little, making demands of her, saying, “Good girl” when she earns it….

“Now – do twenty diamond pushups,” she says.

“You’ve gotta be kidding – you just killed my triceps already.”

“Do twenty diamond pushups,” she says, her voice steely.

“No,” I say.  “No.”

Sweat drips down my face, off my chin.  My t-shirt sticks to my chest.

“Do it,” she says.  “You’ll be glad you did….” and her voice goes up, and then down, on “did” – as if I just may get a treat or something.

“I’ll be… what?”

“You’ll be glad you did.”  This time, no teasing intonation.  Just a flat, declarative statement.

I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’m curious.

I bend over, bring my thumbs and index fingers together on the mat in a triangle, and begin the sequence.  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen….  At about twelve, I’m feeling the burn, feeling I can’t possibly make it.  I can feel the tricep muscles pushing through my flesh, and it’s not a good feeling.

She squats in front of my face (eleven, ten…), slowly sticks her hand into her yoga pants (nine, eight…) and after a moment of touching herself (seven, six…) pulls her hand out, and sucks her finger (three, two, one).  I collapse on the mat.

“REALLY good boy,” she says.  “You’ve earned a rest.”

I lay there on my stomach, triceps burning, chest aching, sweat burning my eyes.  I close my eyes and just breathe – in, out, in, out – my chest heaving, pressing against the mat.  And I feel the lightest of touches under my shorts.  I look back – her fingers are teasing my upper thigh.

“You ready for more?”

“Give it to me,” I say.

“Sit on the bench – we’re doing shoulder presses.”

My arms, my chest – I feel I have nothing left to give.

I sit on the bench, my back straight against the support.  She hands me the weights, and I start to do my shoulder presses.  As I do so, she presses my shoulders down from behind.  She often does this – I have a tendency to lift with my shoulders, rather than with my arms and back.  The downward pressure helps my form.  But this time, she slides her hands under my t-shirt, and she’s pressing down on my flesh, not on the fabric covering it.

As I’m lifting, her hands are sliding down the front of my chest, to my nipples.  She’s squeezing them, pinching them as the weights are torturing me.  I squeeze out my reps, and she says, once again, “Good boy.”

I’m no longer feeling patronized.  I’m just charged.  My cock is growing harder under my shorts, and there’s no way she can’t see.

“Bench press, now.”

I lie down on the flat bench.  She adjusts the weights on the barbell.  “Twelve,” she says.

I strain against the weight – it’s more than I’ve lifted before, that’s for sure.  I look at her, slightly incredulous.  Slowly, she walks around me, to the end of the bench.  She kneels down between my legs, and puts her hands on my thighs.  She looks straight in my eyes.

“I think you can do it,” she says, her hands sliding up under my shorts, just grazing my balls with her fingers.  “I think you can do it.”

I press, I lift.  I’m never going to get twelve.  At nine, I’m pausing for five seconds between each lift.  At six, just as I’m about to drop the bar, her hand grabs my cock, hard.  She squeezes:  “LIFT!” she says.

That gets me to three.  “I can’t do it,” I say, her hand still squeezing my cock.  “Yes you can,” she says, and licks her lips.  “Yes you can.”

“You’re serious?” I groan.

She nods.  She licks her lips again, and runs a finger tip down the length of my cock, under my shorts.

I squeeze out the three final reps – I don’t know how – and drop the bar on the rack, exhausted.  I close my eyes, my chest heaving.

“I can’t believe I did that,” I’m thinking to myself.  And then I feel my cock pop out over the top of my shorts as she pulls them down, my eyes still closed.  As I open them, I see her mouth descend on me.


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