Inappropriate gym-wear

She greeted me in a spangly white tank-top, with shimmering silver panels, her copious cleavage barely contained by the cotton of the shirt. She wore a tight black miniskirt, her round, meaty ass almost visible at its bottom, her chunky, muscular thighs inescapable from view. And brown leather boots stretched up her calves, almost to her knees.

“You’re seriously going to train me in that?” I was a bit incredulous. Usually, she demonstrates each exercise I’m to do.  In this get-up, she’d be obscene.

“I know. I’m not sure what I was thinking,” she apologized, a sly smile on her face.

For the first few sets, it was as if nothing unusual were happening: she had me do some bicep curls. “Make sure you go all the way down,” she admonished me. I smiled at her. She often speaks in intentional double entendres.

She had me do some standing shoulder presses, some rows. For these, her demonstrations were no more titillating than usual – she always looks good. Her breasts, since they were enhanced six months ago, fairly demand attention, regardless of what she’s wearing or what she’s doing. And her ass – big, meaty, muscular – can only be described as “phat.”

When it came time for my bench presses, I thought I might get to see her straddle the bench, and lie down. But no: she knew I knew what I was doing, and didn’t demonstrate. She did, however, spot me.

As I lay back and positioned my hands on the barbell, I noticed her approaching. She bent her knees just a bit, lowered herself slightly, and placed her hands between my chest and the bar, to catch it if something went awry. I rolled my eyes back, slightly, and was confronted with the unavoidable view: her thighs coming together, the patch of air and light between where they met and her pussy, the black silken panties obscuring her cunt from view.

“Fifteen!” she commanded, and I began my presses.

Could she tell I was staring between her legs? Did she care? I don’t know.

“So, are you still slutting it up?” she asked.

“Not as much as you,” I grunted, between reps.

“Oh come on,” she said. “How many women have you fucked this year?”

“Three, I think. Same as the number of guys you’ve fucked, no?”

“Five more.  But you’re married,” she protested.

“So I’ve had more sex, perhaps….”

Next up were abs – crunches, obliques. For all these, I lay on the floor beneath her as she stood above me, tempting me with the view. Every few moments, I’d catch a glimpse, but no more, of her thighs, of her panties.

She had to know what she was doing.

At the end of the workout, she said, as she always does, “Stretch?” cocking her head toward the stretching/massage tables.


We walked toward the tables, but at the last moment, she turned me to the side, into the dance studio, which was mirrored on all four walls, and empty. And which had no tables. “I can’t really get up on one of those tables in this,” she said, looking down at her skirt. She grabbed a yoga mat, closed the door to the studio, and lay it on the floor, close to a mirrored wall. “Lie on your back,” she said. “Lift your leg,” she said, grabbing my left ankle and lifting it high, stretching me painfully. I craned my head, but couldn’t see higher than her thick thighs.

She reached down my leg, to my thigh, and pressed it back, accentuating the stretch even as her thumbs brushed against my inner thigh and pressed, hard, in toward my crotch.

“OW!” I said.  My cock was growing hard, even as my hamstrings and quads were protesting.

Did she know my cock was growing hard?  Could she feel?  Her thumb was damned close.

“Ok,” she said.  “See you next week,” as she let me up off the floor.

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