Personal Best
"She's his personal trainer—thick, demanding, and old enough to be his mother. When she starts incorporating 'flexibility training' into their sessions, he learns that some workouts happen off the gym floor."
Monica didn't look like a personal trainer.
That was my first thought when the gym assigned her to me. Most trainers were young, lean, living advertisements for protein powder and discipline.
Monica was fifty-three, according to the bio on the gym's website. And she was built like a woman who enjoyed her life.
Thick thighs that stretched her training leggings. Wide hips that swayed when she demonstrated exercises. Heavy breasts that tested the limits of her sports bras. A round ass that made every squat demonstration a religious experience.
"You're staring," she said during our first session.
"Sorry. I just—you're not what I expected."
"Let me guess. You expected a twenty-something gym bunny who'd count your reps and flirt with you." She smiled—sharp, knowing. "I don't flirt, Tyler. I work. And if you can keep up, I'll make you the best version of yourself."
"And if I can't keep up?"
"Then I'll break you trying."
She wasn't kidding.
Week Two
Every muscle in my body hurt.
Monica's workouts were brutal—supersets and drop sets and exercises I'd never heard of. She pushed me past failure, past exhaustion, past everything I thought I could handle.
"Again," she said, watching me struggle through a set of lunges.
"I can't—"
"You can. Three more."
"My legs are on fire—"
"Good. Fire means growth." She stepped closer. Adjusted my posture with her hands—one on my hip, one on my chest. "Feel that? That's where your core should be engaged."
I felt a lot more than my core.
Her body was pressed against my back. Her breasts against my shoulder blades. Her hips against my ass.
"Focus," she murmured. "Three more."
I did three more. I would have done thirty if she'd asked.
Week Four
"Flexibility training today," she announced.
The private studio was empty—just mats, mirrors, and Monica in yoga pants that left nothing to the imagination.
"I'm not very flexible," I admitted.
"That's why we're training." She pointed at the mat. "Lie down."
I did. She knelt beside me, took my leg, and began to stretch it toward my chest.
"Breathe through the discomfort," she said. "Let me take you deeper."
Her hands were on my thigh. Her breasts brushed my knee as she leaned forward, pushing the stretch further.
"That's—" I gasped. "That's deep."
"Not yet." She pushed harder. Her eyes found mine. "But it will be."
Week Six
The sessions started running long.
An hour became ninety minutes. Then two hours. Monica said I needed "extra work"—core stabilization, posture correction, flexibility.
Always flexibility.
She'd position me in stretches that pressed her body against mine. She'd adjust my form with touches that lingered. She'd lean in close, her breath on my neck, and whisper instructions that sounded like something else entirely.
"You're improving," she said one night, as I lay on the mat after an especially intense session. "Your body is responding."
"To the training?"
"To me." She sat beside me. Her hand rested on my stomach. "You think I don't notice? The way you look at me. The way you react when I touch you."
"Monica—"
"It's natural." Her hand slid lower. "The body craves what it needs. And yours has been telling me exactly what it needs for weeks."
"What does it need?"
She leaned down. Her lips brushed my ear.
"Me."
She kissed me.
Not gentle. Not questioning. She kissed me like she owned me—because after six weeks of training, she did.
Her tongue pushed past my lips. Her hand found my cock, already hard, straining against my shorts. She stroked me through the fabric while I grabbed her hips and pulled her on top of me.
"I've been waiting for this," she panted, grinding against me. "Watching you get stronger. Watching you want me more every session."
"I've wanted you since day one."
"I know." She pulled off her sports bra. Her breasts fell free—heavy, full, glistening with sweat from our workout. "But you weren't ready. Now you are."
She stripped off her leggings. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
Her body was thick and powerful—curves and muscle, softness and strength. She straddled me, positioned me at her entrance, and sank down.
"Fuck," she hissed. "You feel even better than I imagined—"
She started to move. Rising and falling, her thick body bouncing, taking me with the same intensity she brought to every workout.
"Don't hold back," she demanded. "Give me everything you have."
I grabbed her hips. Thrust up into her.
I gave her everything.
She came three times before I finished.
The first was quick—barely five minutes of her riding me. The second happened when I flipped her over and took her from behind, watching her ass ripple with every thrust. The third was when I pulled her hair and called her coach, and she exploded with a scream that echoed off the mirrors.
When I finally came inside her, she collapsed forward, my cock still buried in her.
"That's my new personal best," she panted.
"What record did we break?"
"The one for how many times I can come in a single session." She rolled off me, lying on the mat, breathing hard. "We should do this more often. For your... cardiovascular health."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm a professional." She grinned. "I have to justify everything."
Three Months Later
I'm in the best shape of my life.
Also the best relationship. Monica doesn't call it that—she calls it "supplementary training"—but we both know what it is.
She still pushes me at the gym. Harder than ever. She says I've "unlocked new levels" and need to maintain them.
But after hours, in the private studio or her apartment or once in the sauna after close, she shows me different exercises entirely.
"You're the best client I've ever had," she tells me one night, her head on my chest.
"Best as in strongest?"
"Best as in most dedicated." She kisses my jaw. "Best as in the only one I've ever broken the rules for."
"No regrets?"
"Only that I didn't start sooner." She climbs on top of me. "Now. Let's work on your stamina."
I let her take the lead.
She's the trainer, after all.