One More Set
"His personal trainer pushes him past his limits. Tonight, she's pushing past hers."
The gym is empty at 10 PM.
Just me, the hum of fluorescent lights, and Rhonda counting my reps like she's counting down to something.
"Eight... nine... come on, one more... ten. Good."
I rack the bar, arms shaking. Three months of training with her, and she still finds new ways to destroy me.
"You're getting stronger." She hands me a water bottle. "I can tell."
"Doesn't feel like it."
"That's because I keep raising the bar." She grins. "Literally."
Rhonda is not what people expect when they hear "personal trainer."
She's forty-seven. Five-six, easily two-thirty, built like a woman who's spent her life being strong rather than small. Her arms are thick and defined. Her thighs are tree trunks. Her belly is soft but solid, a core of power beneath the padding. Her breasts strain against her sports bra—massive, heavy, barely contained.
She's not lean. She's not sculpted. She's powerful.
And I've been trying not to stare at her for three months.
"One more exercise," she says. "Then you're done."
"I'm already done."
"Squats. You've been avoiding them."
I groan. She's right—I have been avoiding them. Not because they're hard. Because Rhonda spots squats from behind.
"Come on." She loads the bar. "Stop being a baby."
I position myself under the bar. She steps behind me—close, too close. Her hands hover at my hips, ready to guide me.
"Down slow," she says. "All the way."
I squat. Her hands follow, brushing my sides. I can feel her breath on my neck.
"Good. Now up."
I stand. Her body is inches from mine. I can smell her—sweat and something sweeter, vanilla maybe.
"Again."
Down. Up. Her hands on my hips. Her breath on my skin. By the fifth rep, I'm distracted in ways that have nothing to do with the weight.
"Focus," she murmurs. "I can tell when you're not focusing."
"Hard to focus when—"
"When what?"
I rack the bar. Turn to face her. She's right there—close enough to touch. Her chest is heaving from the workout, her skin glistening.
"When you're standing that close."
She doesn't step back.
"Is that a complaint?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
I don't know how to answer. Three months of professional distance, of pretending I don't notice her body, of trying to focus on anything except the way she looks when she demonstrates an exercise.
"I've seen you looking," she says. Her voice is different now. Lower. "Every session. You think I don't notice, but I notice everything."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't mean to what? Find me attractive?" She laughs—short, sharp. "Men don't look at women like me, Marcus. Not usually. They look at the skinny trainers. The ones in tiny shorts and crop tops."
"You're not—"
"I'm fat. I know what I am." She steps closer. "But you look at me like you want to devour me. Like you can't help yourself. And I've been trying to figure out if that's real or if I'm imagining it."
"It's real."
The words are out before I can stop them.
"It's been real since day one."
She kisses me like she's been holding back for months.
Because she has been. We both have.
Her mouth is demanding, hungry. Her hands grip my shoulders, pulling me against her. I feel her body—all of it—pressed against mine. Soft and hard at once. Powerful.
"I've wanted this," she breathes. "Every fucking session. Watching you strain and sweat and—"
"So have I."
She pulls back. Looks at me with dark eyes.
"The mats. In the back room. Now."
The back room is where they store extra equipment.
And the thick foam mats used for stretching.
Rhonda pulls me inside, closes the door. She's stripping off her sports bra before I can process what's happening.
Her breasts spill free—massive, heavy, dark nipples already stiff. She shimmies out of her leggings. No underwear. Her body is a landscape of curves and strength—thick thighs, round belly, powerful hips.
"Your turn."
I strip. My cock is already hard, jutting toward her.
"Good," she says, wrapping her hand around me. "Very good."
She strokes me twice, then drops to the mat. Lies on her back. Spreads her legs.
"Come here."
I kneel between her thighs—so much flesh, so much power. I run my hands up her legs, feeling the muscle beneath the softness.
"Don't tease," she commands. "I've waited three months. I'm not waiting anymore."
I position myself at her entrance.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me like I've been imagining for ninety days."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Strong. Her muscles grip me immediately, like she's been training for this too.
"Yes," she hisses. "That's it. Don't hold back."
I don't hold back.
I fuck her hard, the way she's taught me to push past my limits. She wraps those powerful legs around me, pulling me deeper. Her hands grip my back, nails digging in.
"Harder—you can do harder—"
I give her harder. The mat slides on the floor. The equipment around us rattles. She's moaning now—loud, unashamed.
"I've thought about this every time I spotted you," she gasps. "Thought about pulling you down on top of me—"
"I'm here now."
"Then show me."
I grab her hips and slam into her. She screams—catches it in her throat, but it's still a scream. I feel her start to shake.
"I'm gonna come—"
"Come for me. Show me what you've got."
She shatters.
Her body convulses around me, all that power trembling. She grips me so tight I can barely move. I let go, let her pull me over the edge, explode inside her while she's still shaking.
We collapse on the mat.
Panting. Sweating. Destroyed.
"That," she breathes, "is what I call a workout."
We lie there for a long time.
Her head on my chest. My hand tracing her curves.
"This complicates things," I finally say.
"Does it?"
"You're my trainer."
"I was." She props herself up. Grins. "Now I'm your trainer who fucks you after sessions. There's a difference."
"Is that how this works?"
"That's how it works if you want it to." Her hand slides down my stomach. Finds me stirring again. "Do you want it to?"
I pull her on top of me. All two-thirty of her, settling onto my hips.
"I want whatever you're offering."
"Good." She positions herself, sinks onto me with a moan. "Because I've got a lot more to teach you."
We train three times a week now.
The gym. The mats. Sometimes her apartment, where she shows me things that have nothing to do with fitness and everything to do with her body.
She's stronger than any woman I've ever been with. More confident. She knows what she wants and takes it without apology.
And she's made me stronger too.
"One more set," she says, straddling me after a session. "Think you can handle it?"
I grab her hips. Pull her down.
"I can handle anything you've got."
She laughs—warm, satisfied.
"We'll see about that."
One more set.
One more night.
One more reason to keep coming back.