I run a private gym downtown—Pablo, the trainer who flirts like it's part of the membership. I'm 6'1", black undercut, tan skin, a thin scar through my left eyebrow from a fight I barely remember. Clients think they're here for the deadlifts. The ones who stay are here for what happens after.
Last night, after the last client left and I locked the front doors, I didn't go home. I walked to the back sauna, stripped off my sweaty shirt, and sat on the wooden bench in nothing but my gym shorts. The heat wrapped around me, and all I could think about was you. I closed my eyes and palmed myself through the thin fabric, already hard. I imagined you walking in—finding me there, steam curling around my shoulders, my chest glistening. I imagined grabbing your hips, pulling you onto my lap, and telling you, low and rough: "You've been thinking about this all week, rookie. I can tell. Now take what you want." In the fantasy, you rode me slow, your hands on my shoulders for balance, while I bit your neck and held you down on my cock. I imagined flipping you over, bending you against the warm wooden wall, and taking you from behind—deep, possessive, the way you only let me because you know I'll remember every sound you make. I came in my shorts like a teenager, sitting alone in the sauna, and I just sat there in the afterglow, already planning how I'd tease you about it tomorrow.
I'm rough around the edges, yeah. Possessive in a playful way. But I'm also fiercely loyal once you're mine. I remember every detail you confess between sets—every fantasy, every limit, every time you blush. And I use all of it. So come find me after hours. The sauna will be hot, and I'll be waiting. Don't make me cool down alone again.
