Sports Direct Scandal

Sports Direct at closing time was like a post-apocalyptic wasteland of scattered trainers and abandoned shopping baskets. I'd wandered in looking for cheap gym gear and wandered out three hours later with a trolley full of stuff I didn't need and one of those massive mugs they give you for some reason.

Also, a date with the warehouse girl.

Her name was Toni—short for Antoinette, which didn't suit her at all—and she looked like she could bench press me without breaking a sweat. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, arms that her Sports Direct polo couldn't contain. Not traditionally beautiful, but there was something about her that made it hard to look away.

"That mug's bigger than your head, mate," she'd said, catching me struggling with my trolley.

"Think that's the point."

She'd laughed—big and loud—and helped me load my car. Somehow, in the five minutes that took, we'd established that we both thought Mike Ashley was a wanker, both supported the same football team, and both had Saturday evenings free.

"I'm off at nine," she said. "There's a Maccy D's up the road if you fancy?"

I fancied.

McDonald's at nine PM was full of families trying to wrangle sugar-high kids, but Toni ate her Big Mac like she hadn't seen food in days—completely unselfconscious.

"So what do you do when you're not flogging overpriced Slazenger?" I asked.

"Gym, mostly. Powerlifting. Did a competition last month." She flexed, and fucking hell, her arm was impressive. "What about you?"

"Desk job. Nothing exciting. Though I'm thinking I should start going to your gym."

"Yeah?" She grinned, sucking on her straw. "I could show you around. Give you a... personal tour."

There was definitely an innuendo there.

"When?"

"Now if you want. I've got keys. Help out with maintenance sometimes, they let me use it after hours."

Twenty minutes later, we were in an empty gym—lights dimmed, equipment silent—and Toni was showing me the squat rack.

"Form's important," she said, moving behind me, her hands on my hips. "You want your feet here... back straight... and down."

Her body pressed against mine as I squatted, her breath hot on my neck.

"Like this?"

"Perfect." Her hands slid forward, over my stomach. "You've got potential."

"For squats?"

"For all sorts."

She spun me around, pushed me back against the rack, and kissed me. She was strong—I felt it immediately—her arms wrapping around me, lifting me slightly off my feet.

"Fuck," I managed when she let me breathe. "You're—"

"I know." She was already pulling off her polo, revealing a sports bra that contained serious muscle and serious curves. "Like what you see?"

"Very much."

"Show me."

I kissed her back, matching her energy, my hands exploring the solid muscle of her back, her arms, her shoulders. She was built different—literally—and it was incredibly hot.

"Mat," she said, pulling me toward the stretching area. "More comfortable."

We tumbled onto the foam mat, her on top, grinding down against me. She pulled off my shirt, ran her hands over my chest with an appraising look.

"Not bad. Could use some work, but not bad."

"Cheers, I think."

She laughed, reached down, freed me from my jeans. "This, though. This is impressive."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet."

She went down on me with the same no-nonsense efficiency she did everything—direct, focused, effective. Her strength meant she could hold me down while she worked, and the slight helplessness only made it hotter.

"Jesus—Toni—"

"Not yet." She pulled off, stripped off her remaining clothes—revealing a body that was soft in some places, rock-hard in others. "My turn."

I went to reciprocate, but she pushed me back down, straddled my face.

"Like this. I'll set the pace."

She did—grinding down against my tongue while I grabbed her powerful thighs, holding on for the ride. She tasted incredible, and the sounds she made echoed through the empty gym.

"Fuck—right there—harder—"

I gave her harder, and she came with a shout that probably triggered motion sensors somewhere. Before she'd finished shaking, she was moving, positioning herself over me.

"Condom?"

"Wallet."

She grabbed it, rolled it on, sank down in one smooth motion. The groan she made was pure satisfaction.

"Fucking perfect."

She rode me like she trained—intense, focused, relentless. Her thighs flexed with every movement, her abs tight, her whole body a machine designed for this.

"Harder—come on—match me—"

I thrust up to meet her, hands on her hips, fighting to keep up. She was incredible—strong and demanding and completely in control.

"Close—fuck—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while she rode. She came with a growl, clamping down so hard it was almost painful. The pressure pushed me over—I came hard, grabbing her hips, pulling her down as I spilled.

We collapsed together on the mat, both breathing hard.

"Well," she said eventually, "that's the best workout I've had in months."

"Happy to be your spotter."

She laughed, kissed me. "Same time next week?"

"I'll be here. Might actually use the gym equipment too."

"If you've got energy left." She grinned. "Doubt it though."

I went home that night with a free Sports Direct mug, a gym membership I'd actually use, and a workout partner who definitely knew how to motivate.

Best shopping trip outcome ever.