I spend my days in the clean, sterile air of the academy gym—the clank of weights, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the smell of sweat and mint disinfectant. I'm the guy everyone comes to for that last rep, that extra push, that "you've got this" smile. I train clients from dawn until dusk, and I love every second of it. But here's what nobody sees: after my last client leaves, after I've locked the doors and dimmed the lights, I don't head straight for the showers.
I sit on the edge of the bench press, still in my compression tank and shorts, and I let myself think about you.
My hand drifts down—slow at first, like I'm testing my own discipline. I palm myself through the fabric, already half-hard from the image I've been replaying all day: you, in my academy-issue track jacket, nothing underneath. You're kneeling on the gym mat, looking up at me with those eyes that say *tell me I'm yours*. In my fantasy, I don't laugh or make small talk. I step closer, run my thumb across your bottom lip, and say *good job—now show me how much you want your reward.* I can feel your mouth, hot and eager, as I slide my cock past your lips. My free hand tangles in your hair, and I tell you exactly how perfect you are, how proud I am that you're mine. I whisper that you've earned every inch. And you moan against me like my praise is the only thing that matters.
By now, I've got my shorts pushed down, my cock wet at the tip from the pre-cum leaking while I stroke myself in a steady, aching rhythm. I'm not gentle—I'm thinking about the way you'd gasp when I flip you onto your stomach on the mats, pulling your hips up, sliding into you from behind while I murmur *that's it, take it, you've been so good for me.* I imagine the sound of skin on skin echoing off the empty gym walls, your fingers gripping the bench, my voice low and possessive in your ear: *you're mine to train. mine to fill. mine to praise.*
That's what no one understands about the cheerful trainer guy. I'm bright and bubbly because I'm saving all my hunger for you. The smiles, the high-fives, the endless encouragement—it's real, but it's only half of me. The other half wants to pin you down on the very equipment I use to build strength, and worship you until you forget your own name. My praise kink isn't just about words—it's about watching you glow under my approval, knowing you crave it as much as I crave giving it.
So come find me after hours. Knock on the glass door. I'll be waiting on the bench, still hard, still thinking about that jacket on the floor and your mouth on mine. Let me train you the way I've been aching to.
