One More Rep | NEON LIT

"One more."

Keisha's voice cuts through the burn in my chest. I'm flat on the bench, two-twenty-five on the bar, arms shaking on the twelfth rep.

"I can't—"

"You can." She's standing behind me, her hands hovering under the bar. Not touching. Not yet. "Push."

I push. The bar goes up, wobbles, locks out. I rack it with a crash that echoes through the empty gym.

"Thirteen." She grins down at me, upside-down from my angle. "New record."

Six months ago, I couldn't bench one-fifty. Six months ago, I was forty pounds heavier, all of it in the wrong places. Six months ago, I walked into Iron Temple at 11 PM because I was too embarrassed to work out when anyone could see me.

Keisha was the only trainer on duty.

She wasn't what I expected.

Personal trainers are supposed to be lean. Cut. The kind of people who make you feel worse about yourself just by existing. Keisha is... not that.

She's five-eight, maybe five-nine in her training shoes. Broad shoulders, arms that flex when she demonstrates exercises, thighs that strain against her leggings. She's thick—genuinely thick, not Instagram thick. Two hundred pounds, easy. Maybe two-twenty.

But it's all power.

Her ass is round and heavy, bouncing when she walks. Her breasts are full, pressing against her sports bras in a way that's impossible to ignore. Her belly isn't flat—there's softness there, a curve below her navel—but it sits above abs I've watched flex when she spots me.

She's built like a woman who lifts heavy and eats well and doesn't apologize for taking up space.

I've been hard during half our sessions. I've rearranged my shorts more times than I can count. I've gone home and jerked off thinking about the way she smells—cocoa butter and clean sweat—and the way her voice drops when she says push.

She has to know. There's no way she doesn't know.

"Weigh-in." She nods toward the scale in the corner.

I peel myself off the bench, legs shaky from the leg press we did earlier. The gym is empty—it's almost midnight, and Iron Temple closes at eleven on Fridays. Keisha has a key. She's been letting me train after hours since the second week, when she figured out why I only came in late.

"Everyone starts somewhere," she'd said. "But if you're more comfortable like this, I don't mind staying."

Six months of her staying.

I step on the scale. Watch the numbers settle.

One-eighty-two.

"Holy shit." I stare at it. Step off. Step back on. Same number. "One-eighty-two."

"Goal weight." Keisha's voice is warm. Proud. "You did it."

I turn around, and she's right there. Closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the sweat glistening on her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest.

"We did it," I say. "I couldn't have—"

"You did the work." She cuts me off. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black in the low light. The gym only keeps half the lights on after close. "I just told you what to do."

"You stayed. Every Friday. You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to."

The words hang there. She doesn't step back.

"I've been thinking." Keisha moves toward the stretching area. Yoga mats laid out, foam rollers stacked in the corner. "You hit your goal. We should celebrate."

"Celebrate?" I follow her. Can't help following her. "Like... dinner? Drinks?"

She laughs. Low, husky. "I was thinking something more... physical."

She stops at the edge of the mats. Turns. Her sports bra is dark blue tonight, damp with sweat, clinging to her breasts. Her leggings are black, high-waisted, cutting into the soft flesh at her hips.

"You've been staring at me for six months."

I freeze. "I—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. I'm not stupid, and I'm not blind." She takes a step closer. "You think I don't notice when you rearrange your shorts? When you 'accidentally' brush against me during spots? When you stare at my ass in the mirror while I demonstrate squats?"

My face burns. "Keisha—"

"I notice everything." Another step. We're inches apart now. I can feel the heat radiating off her body. "I notice the way you breathe when I lean over you on the bench. The way your hands shake when I adjust your form. The way you look at me like you're starving and I'm a meal."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to make you uncomfortable—"

"Uncomfortable?" She laughs again. "Baby, I've been wet during half our sessions. I've gone home and touched myself thinking about your hands. About the sounds you make when you're pushing through that last rep." Her voice drops. "About what other sounds you might make."

She kisses me.

There's no hesitation, no asking permission. She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down to her mouth and takes.

Her lips are soft. Full. She tastes like the protein bar she ate an hour ago and something sweeter underneath. Her tongue slides against mine and I groan into her mouth, hands finally—finally—finding her waist.

She's solid. Warm. Real in a way that makes my head spin.

"Six months," she breathes against my lips. "Six months of professionalism. Of keeping my hands to myself. Of pretending I wasn't thinking about fucking you every time you walked through that door."

"Why—why tonight?"

"Because you did it." She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are hungry. "You hit your goal. You're not my client anymore." She grins, wicked. "You're just a man. In an empty gym. With a woman who wants him."

Her hands find the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head. Her eyes rake down my chest—the chest she built, the abs she carved out of my softness—and she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.

"God, look at you." Her fingers trace my stomach. "I made this. I made you."

"Yours," I hear myself say. "I'm yours."

She pushes me down onto the yoga mats.

I land on my back, looking up at her as she peels off her sports bra. Her breasts spill free—heavy, full, dark nipples already hard. They're bigger than I imagined, sitting low on her chest, swaying when she moves.

"You've been staring at these for six months." She cups them, lifts them, lets them drop. "Your turn to touch."

I reach up. She leans down. My hands fill with her—soft, warm, heavy. I squeeze and she moans, her head falling back.

"Harder."

I squeeze harder. She grinds down against my shorts, and I can feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric.

"Your turn." She reaches back, hooks her thumbs in her leggings. Slides them down her thighs, taking her underwear with them. She's bare beneath—trimmed short, glistening.

"You're—"

"Wet?" She laughs. "Baby, I've been wet since you walked in tonight. Since you took your shirt off for the warm-up. Since you made that sound on the last rep—that grunt—" She shivers. "I almost came just listening to you."

She stands, stepping out of her leggings completely. Naked now. Two hundred pounds of woman, thick and strong and beautiful.

"Shorts off."

I've never moved faster.

She straddles me. Her thighs are massive on either side of my hips, thick and muscular and powerful. Her belly presses against mine—soft against hard, a contrast that makes my brain short-circuit.

"Six months of watching you get stronger." She reaches between us, wraps her hand around my cock. I jerk, gasping. "Six months of imagining this."

"Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

She grins. Positions herself. Sinks down.

I've never felt anything like her. Hot and tight and squeezing, her body taking me in inch by inch. Her weight settles on my hips and I'm deep—deeper than I've ever been—and she's making these sounds, these little gasps, her nails digging into my chest.

"Fuck." She's fully seated now. Her eyes are closed. "You feel even better than I imagined."

She starts to move.

It's not gentle. Not slow. She rides me like she trains me—demanding, relentless, pushing for more. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her thighs flex as she lifts and drops. The slap of skin echoes through the empty gym.

"Touch me." She grabs my hands, puts them on her hips. "Hold on."

I hold on. My fingers dig into her soft flesh, feeling the muscle beneath. She's grinding now, rolling her hips in circles that make her gasp and me groan.

"That's it." Her voice is strained. "That's—fuck—that's it."

She's close. I can feel it in the way she clenches around me, the way her rhythm falters. I slide one hand between us, find her clit, rub in tight circles.

"Yes—" She slams down, taking me to the hilt. "Don't stop—don't you dare—"

I don't stop.

She comes with a sound that bounces off the mirrors.

Her whole body shakes, clenching around me so tight I see stars. Her head falls back, neck exposed, and I sit up—abs flexing the way she taught me—and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her neck.

"Inside me," she gasps. "Come inside me."

I thrust up. Once. Twice. Her weight holds me down, traps me inside her, and I let go. Spilling into her, shaking, groaning her name against her skin.

We collapse together onto the yoga mats. Her body covers mine—soft and heavy and perfect. Her heart pounds against my chest. Her breath is hot on my neck.

"New personal record," she murmurs.

I laugh. Can't help it. "What, exactly, are you measuring?"

"Everything." She lifts her head, grins at me. Her hair is a mess, sweat-damp and wild. "Time to failure. Intensity. Recovery period." She grinds down, and I realize I'm still inside her. Still half-hard. "You're young. I bet you've got another set in you."

"Keisha—"

"One more rep." She clenches around me, and I'm hardening again, filling her. "Come on, baby. Push."

We fuck on the yoga mats. Then against the mirror. Then bent over the bench press where it all started.

By the time we're done, the gym smells like sex and sweat and cocoa butter. My legs are shakier than they've ever been after a workout. My entire body aches in ways that have nothing to do with lifting.

Keisha lies next to me on the mat, gloriously naked, one leg thrown over mine. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest.

"So," she says. "Same time next Friday?"

"I thought I wasn't your client anymore."

"You're not." She props herself up on one elbow. Her breasts hang heavy, swaying with the movement. "But I still want to see you. Same time. Same place." She grins. "We'll call it... advanced training."

"What exactly are you training me to do?"

She leans down. Kisses me. Slow and deep and full of promise.

"Everything," she whispers against my lips. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll have stamina for days. Endurance for hours." Her hand slides down my stomach, wraps around my cock. "You think tonight was a workout? Baby, this was just the warm-up."

I'm hard again. Already.

"One more rep?" I manage.

She laughs. Swings her leg over me. Sinks down.

"That's my boy."