by S. E. Law
But now, the day’s over and I’m on my way to CrossFit with Mr. P. I’m not looking forward to it, so I trudge slowly down the sidewalks of Morningdale, despite the fact that I should be speedwalking in order to get there on time. I purposefully hung out later at my workplace in order to put off the inevitable, but unfortunately, there’s only so long a woman can stall. I’m probably about to get the living daylights beat out of me through a series of hard-core exercises, all the while pouring sweat and looking gross. Ugh.
Plus, today I watched a couple of CrossFit videos on my phone at work and it was terrifying. One guy grabbed hold of an iron bar and began doing pull-ups like he couldn’t get enough of them. It was literally up-down-up-down so fast that I could hardly breathe. Then, he let go of the pull-up bar and immediately launched into fifty push-ups at lightspeed, before bouncing to his feet and running three laps just for fun.
Who does that? Why would anyone subject themselves to this kind of punishment? If I were doing a workout like that, I would undoubtedly vomit from the exertion, and then keel over, dead-tired. I can’t even do one pull-up now, much less a series of them, so what’s the point in even trying?
But I have to go through this because my parents have already pre-paid for the personal training sessions, and there’s no point in wasting their money. Besides, it’s a well-meaning birthday gift, so I might as well make the most of it.
Ah-ha. Here it is. I slow to a stop in front of a door with a small sign on it that says “Mr. P’s CrossFit.” Ugh. Slowly, I push it open, revealing a small, empty reception area.
“Hello?” I call, stepping into the space. “Is anyone here?”
There’s no sound, which is odd because I expected to see a gym filled with lugheads grunting and straining. Instead, all I can see is a reception desk and some lockers over on the left. Everyone must be in the back, although it’s still eerily silent.
“Hello?” I call again, nervously jiggling my bag on my shoulder. “I have a personal training session at six p.m. Is anyone here?”
With that, muffled footsteps sound and a huge man appears from behind the wall. I gasp because he’s absolutely gorgeous. He has to be at least six foot four, with thick chestnut hair brushed off his forehead, and blue eyes that remind me of a sunny day sparkling off the Caribbean seas. He’s also perfectly toned and fit: broad shoulders emphasize the width of his chest, and he’s wearing a muscle-T that shows off a rock-hard stomach. Not only that, but as my eyes drift lower, I let out an involuntary gasp because there’s that. Ohmygod ohmygod. Mr. P has a giant candy cane inside his gym shorts, and judging from his cocky grin, it’s all for me.
14
Patrick
The girl waiting for me at the entrance to my gym is not what I expected. When her mother called, she made her daughter sound like a misshapen pile of Play-Doh that needed a firm hand.
“My daughter … well, she’s big,” Lorraine Handle told me. “You’ll need to put her through your most rigorous exercises.”
“That’s fine,” I said smoothly into the phone. “CrossFit is a challenge for most people, and even elite athletes have trouble with the regimen on occasion. I’m sure I can find something that will be right for your daughter.”
“Don’t just challenge her,” Lorraine insisted. “Make her work. Maisie has a lot of weight to lose, and her father and I are at a loss. We need this because how is she going to meet someone otherwise? You’re our last option, Mr. P. We’re depending on you.”
I bit my tongue because there are a lot of gorgeous larger women out there, as well as men who appreciate ladies with curves. Myself, for example. I love women who have some extra pounds on their frame, and actually prefer junk in the trunk to skinny minnies who are always dieting.
But as a result of Mrs. Handle’s words, I was expecting someone morbidly obese to step through the door. Perhaps she would be three hundred pounds and lumber from side to side, huffing and puffing from the stairs that lead to our front door. After all, it happens sometimes. A patient gets a warning from their doctor that they’re a candidate for gastric bypass surgery unless they lose weight, and they begin dialing all the gyms in the neighborhood in a panic. More than a few have showed up on my doorstep, hoping to turn their lives around, and I’m happy to lend my expertise. But obviously, I can’t start at level ten with clients in that state. Instead, I tailor a regimen for my trainees that fits their body type, energy requirements, nutritional habits, and fitness goals. It’s the only way to be healthy for any human being, and not just the ones looking to slim down.
But the woman before me is no giant white whale. Yes, she’s curvy, but in a good way. She has large breasts that press against her exercise top, and her hips are wide with a certain swing to them that has my mouth watering. Her buttocks are creamy and enormous, encased in tight gym leggings, which also highlight her ample thighs and narrow, shapely calves.
“You must be Maisie,” I say in a deep voice while sticking my hand out. “Hi, I’m Patrick. Also known as Mr. P.”
She flushes brightly even as that small palm is engulfed in my large one.
“You’re Mr. P?” she asks breathlessly. “Oh wow. You’re not what I expected at all.”
I grin.
“Let me guess … you were thinking gold chains, bulging guns, and a mohawk right?”
She giggles a little, flushing even more.
“Yes,” she admits. “I guess you get that a lot.”
I nod.
“Yep, sure do. But I’m glad you’re here because I’m ready for our personal training session. Are you?”
She swallows, a little nervous.
“Yeah, I am. Well, sort of. Is there a women’s locker room where I can drop my stuff off?”
I nod.
“There’s a women’s changing area right back here,” I say, leading her around the partition to a narrow hallway. “And the gym is the second door to your left. Meet me there when you’re ready?”
She nods, her breasts bobbling a bit even though they’re encased in a stretchy viscose top.
“Sure. Looking forward to it, Mr. P,” she says sassily while disappearing through the door. I stop in my tracks, the blood pounding in my temples. Holy cow, is Maisie flirting with me? I would swear yes, judging from the flirtatious swing of her hips and the brightness of those big brown eyes. But her mom made it sound like she was a wallflower, desperate for a guy to ask her to dance.
Stop it, the voice in my head warns. You were hired to help Maisie lose weight, and not to flirt and make-out. Get a hold of yourself.
Of course, the voice is right but I can’t help the X-rated thoughts that churn through my head. Maisie, spread eagle with her big breasts heaving, the tips hard and pebbled. Maisie, chanting my name as I give it to her hard and direct. Maisie, convulsing with ecstasy with my candy cane stuck deep inside her wet warmth. Suddenly, personal training has never sounded so good.
15
Maisie
I let myself out of the locker room to step into the hallway. Every cell in my body feels alive, like I’ve been sleeping for centuries only to be awakened a gorgeous prince. After all, Patrick is definitely very prince-like. He’s tall, handsome, with the charisma and confidence of an alpha male, not to mention the anatomy of a male stallion.
After all, I can’t get the image out of my mind. I keep seeing his penetrating blue eyes, of course, but I also keep seeing that enormous bulge in his gym pants. Most men wear loose basketball shorts, but not my personal trainer. He was wearing compression leggings that not only highlighted his thick tree trunk thighs, but also the giant snake that was so big that it reached almost to his knee.
His knee? the voice in my head scoffs. Please, Maisie, get real. That’s only in the dirty movies you’ve been watching on your phone.
I blush because the voice has a point. I’ve never been with a man in real life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy some of the free videos on-line every now and then. In fact, I find them kind of fun.
There are all sorts of X-rated clips that titillate me, and sometimes after my parents are asleep, I’ll pull the covers over my head and flip on my phone for some raunchy viewing.
But that’s the thing. It’s fun to watch the videos and my battery-operated boyfriend does his job just fine. But sadly, there have been no men in real life. There were some boys at my community college who asked me out, but I found them uninspiring and always said no. They were immature, with greasy skin and ill-fitting clothes. More recently, Lionel’s asked me out a few times, much to my chagrin. My co-worker thinks he’s got it going on, but I always say no, stating that we can’t date because we’re co-workers. To be honest, there are no rules at the vet’s office about dating another employee, but I just say that there are so that it’s easier to get Lionel off my back.
But now, I’ve seen manhood in its full glory, and my mouth falls open with the memory of Patrick’s member because I didn’t know that guys like that actually exist in real life. He must be at least ten inches long and so thick that it’s difficult to get a rubber on. What would it feel like to have that in me? Would I moan with pleasure or squirm with discomfort? Would he be gentle or ruthless? My body grows moist and hot merely thinking about it.
Unfortunately, I can’t let on that I’m having these thoughts because it would be humiliating if he knew. Of course, how any woman controls herself around such masculinity is beyond me, but before opening the door to the gym, I force myself to take a deep breath and try to calm my pounding pulse. Down girl, the voice in my head warns. You’re here to work out, and not for sexy times.
But when I open the door and glimpse Patrick again, every nerve in my body leaps to life because he’s absolutely mouth-watering. At the moment, he’s turned around fastening a weight to a machine, and I can’t help but appreciate those firm male buttocks. They look like they’re as hard as steel, and I long to run my tongue along that heavenly musculature.
“Hi,” I stammer. “Sorry I took so long.”
For the first time in my life, I’m glad that Lorraine made me invest in some sexy work-out clothes. After all, left to my own devices, I’d be wearing shapeless sweats that have seen better days. But instead, I’ve stripped off my gym top to reveal a sports bra, and I know it highlights my generous Double Ds. In fact, my girls strain at the tight material, bulging a little bit from the sides and I giggle as Patrick stares involuntarily.
“You like my outfit?” I ask teasingly.
He merely shakes his head.
“Are you sure that’s going to stay on today? We’re doing some pretty rigorous stuff.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say merrily. “If your tight spandex can keep your junk in the trunk, then my tight spandex can definitely keep my girls in check. Trust me,” I say.
One eyebrow rises and a dark flush descends on his sharp cheekbones.
“Oh, is that so?” he growls.
“It is,” I chirp merrily. But then I look around with confusion. “But where is everyone? Why isn’t anyone here? Is today a slow day or something?”
After all, the gym is completely empty, and I don’t hear a sound, which means there isn’t another soul hiding behind the weights or the towering stack of mats.
Patrick merely grins.
“It’s empty because we’re having a personal one-on-one session. Did you expect something different?”
I nod, my brows knitting together.
“Well, yes. I mean, there are tons of lockers in the locker room, and I thought that while we were having our personal training session, other people would be using the gym. You know, running, lifting weights, et cetera.”
Patrick merely shrugs and grins.
“Yeah, that’s what happens in regular gyms, but my gym is different. We’re an elite, exclusive outfit, and as a result, it’s just me and my client a lot of the time. When we’re working out, there’s no one else present, which a lot of customers appreciate because they value their privacy. We do have some open hours each afternoon when members can come in to exercise on their own, but for the most part, it’s just one on one discipline.”
My heart begins racing.
“So for the entire fifty minutes it’ll just be you and me?” I ask quizzically.
He grins, blue eyes gleaming.
“That’s right, Maisie. Why, are you scared?”
Immediately, I stand up straighter.
“Of course I’m not! I’m just asking because I’m surprised.”
He grins, flashing bright white teeth, and if I’m not mistaken, the air between us is pulsing with tension … sexual tension to be exact.
“Good,” he says. “Then let’s get started. On your back,” he commands. “Now.”
I stare at him, and then at the mat on the floor he’s laid out. It’s blue, flat, and beckoning to me. I hot shiver runs over my body and my knees tremble slightly. Oh my gosh, things are already starting to get steamy between me and my hunky personal trainer, and I can’t wait.
16
Patrick
Maisie stands there for a moment, her breasts trembling.
“What are you waiting for?” I growl. “I said, get on the mat.”
She gasps, flashing me a look with her big brown eyes, but then she gets down like I’ve ordered. The curvy girl lies on her back with her knees up in a vee with her sneakered feet flat on the ground.
“Like this?” she asks in a tremulous voice.
I can barely answer because she’s so gorgeous spread out before me. Her curves are hilly and lush, with those giant breasts like fluffy mounds balanced against her chest. I’d love to pop one out of her sports bra right now and suckle on the tip, but that would be unprofessional. After all, I’m here to help her lose weight.
But the truth is that Maisie doesn’t need to lose weight because she’s perfect as she is. Many times, when women drop weight they don’t realize that the structures that keep them looking feminine are going to go right down the drain. For example, their boobs will sag and they’ll develop saddle bags on their hips from excess loose flesh. In fact, if I were going to have heart-to-heart with Maisie right now, I’d ask her not to diet. I’d recommend that she gain some weight in order to fully flesh out her figure, and to make her look even more womanly. Twenty more pounds sounds just about right.
But I can’t say that right now as the plush girl looks up at me, breathing shallowly through her nose.
“What next?” she murmurs.
I growl, getting down on my knees next to her.
“We’re going to do some stretching because before you work out, you should always stretch. Otherwise, the risk of injury is higher, and you could seriously pull a muscle.”
I can feel her temperature skyrocket as those large breasts quiver.
“Oh yes, of course,” she babbles a little. “Stretching. Definitely.”
With that, she pulls one knee up to her chest, squashing her generous bosom with the back of one thigh. I almost groan and my hardness twitches as her creamy white flesh bulges from the side of her sports bra. Holy shit, this woman is bursting out of her clothes, and I’ve never wanted to see a woman nude as badly as I want to see Maisie. She must look like a goddess: wanton, fleshy and fertile.
After all, I’m done with hardbodies. They come into my gym, with their stiff-as-rock muscles and eight-pack abs. But the thing is that women who look like that don’t appeal to me because they almost resemble men. I like females who are curvy and plush, with moist bits and giggly laughs. I like them soft and generous, with sweet smiles and a welcoming look in their eyes. By contrast, the alpha females who work out at Mr. P’s often have low voices from testosterone shots and bronzed muscles that feel like soda cans when you touch them.
That doesn’t mean that they’re not women though. They still book me for personal training sessions, but I’m always very deferential and courteous during those sessions. I call them “Ma’am” or “Mrs. So-and-So” and avert my eyes whenever we do exercises involving the chest or groin. I also
wear loose t-shirts and basketball shorts when working with my other female clients because I don’t want to give them the wrong idea.
But somehow, I knew that Maisie was going to be different. When her mother called, I had a feeling deep in my gut that this curvy girl was going to be right up my alley, and sure enough, she is. I need to stay focused and professional, but unfortunately, the snake in my pants has a mind of its own. It’s stiffening and hardening, and goddamnit, but I think it’s already beginning to leak. Hopefully, the wet spot isn’t showing, otherwise my sweet customer is going to go running for the hills.
“Mr. P, am I doing this right?” Maisie asks while lifting her knee to her chest and squeezing it tight. “Should I do the same thing with my other leg?”
I shake my head.
“Let me help you get a better stretch,” I say, taking her calf in one hand. “Now extend your leg, and let me press it over your shoulder.”
We get into a very close position where we’re almost face to face despite the fact that I have her outstretched left leg in both of my hands. Slowly, I press it backwards, and she moans at the delicious stretch.
“Oooh, I can feel that in the area behind me knee,” she squeals. “It’s tight!”
“It is,” I growl. “One. Two. Three. Hooooold. Now relax.”
With that, I let go of her leg, and slowly bring it back down to rest on the mat. Then I pick up her other leg.
“Same thing on this side,” I rumble. “Ready?”