Spotter
"His gym buddy's wife starts showing up for early morning workouts. 5 AM. Empty weight room. Just the two of them, the iron, and tension that's been building for months."
She walks in at 5:07 AM.
I know the time because I always check. Because this gym is supposed to be empty at this hour—that's why I come. No crowds, no waiting for equipment, no small talk.
Just me and the iron.
But now there's her.
"Hey." She drops her bag by the benches. "Derek said you'd be here."
Derek. Her husband. My gym buddy, my lifting partner, the guy I've known for six years.
His wife is standing ten feet away in compression tights and a sports bra.
"Carly. What are you doing here?"
"Working out." She starts stretching. Hamstrings. Her ass in those tights is—
I look away.
"Since when do you work out at 5 AM?"
"Since Derek started traveling for work." She switches legs. "Gets lonely at home. Figured I'd do something productive."
Productive. Right.
Carly is forty-one years old.
She's been married to Derek for fifteen years. She runs marathons, teaches yoga, has the kind of body that makes twenty-year-olds jealous. Five-eight, lean muscle, long legs. Breasts that are small but perfect. Ass that could crack walnuts.
I've thought about her more times than I should admit.
Derek talks about her constantly. About how she's always at the gym, always training, always pushing herself. About how she's "out of his league" and he "got lucky." About how they haven't had sex in three months because they're both "too busy."
Three months.
I haven't stopped thinking about that since he told me.
"Can you spot me?"
She's at the squat rack. Bar loaded, stance wide. Waiting.
"Yeah. Sure."
I move behind her. Close enough to catch the bar if she fails. Close enough to smell her—sweat and something floral. Close enough to watch her ass as she drops into the squat.
She goes deep. Perfect form. Her glutes flex, her thighs shake, and she drives up with a grunt.
"One more," she says.
I watch her do another. And another. And five more.
By the end, I'm half-hard. I step back before she can notice.
"Thanks." She racks the bar. Turns around. Her eyes drop to my shorts.
She notices.
"Need a spot on bench?" she asks, like nothing happened.
"I—yeah. Okay."
She stands at my head while I lie on the bench.
From this angle, I can see everything—the curve of her breasts in the sports bra, the flat plane of her stomach, the V of her hips. She's looking down at me. Waiting.
"Whenever you're ready."
I lift. She doesn't help—doesn't need to. But she stays there, watching, her hands hovering over the bar.
"Derek says you've been stressed," she says conversationally. "Work stuff."
I push through another rep. "He talks about me?"
"He talks about everything." She leans forward slightly. Her breasts are directly above my face. "He talked about that fight you had last month. With your ex."
"Jen."
"Yeah. He said you walked in on her with someone else."
I rack the bar. Sit up. She doesn't move back.
"Why are you really here, Carly?"
She holds my gaze.
"Because Derek's been in Phoenix for two weeks. Because I've been alone in that house, climbing the walls. Because I saw you at the barbecue last month and I couldn't stop thinking about—"
"About what?"
"About whether you're as built under your clothes as you look."
I should leave.
I should pack up my bag, go home, text Derek that his wife is losing it. I should do the right thing.
Instead, I pull my shirt over my head.
Carly's breath catches.
"Fuck," she whispers. "I knew it."
She reaches out. Touches my chest. Her fingers trace down my abs, over each ridge, stopping at the waistband of my shorts.
"We can't," I say. My voice doesn't sound convincing.
"I know." Her hand slips lower. Palms my cock through the fabric. "But I haven't been touched in three months, and you're hard as iron, and no one comes in here until six."
I look at the clock.
5:23 AM.
Thirty-seven minutes.
"This is insane."
"Completely." She strokes me through my shorts. "Tell me to stop."
I grab her wrist. Pull her hand away.
Then I pull her onto my lap.
She straddles the bench, straddles me.
Her legs are on either side of my thighs, her crotch pressed against mine. I can feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric. Her sports bra is still on, her tights still on, but she's grinding against me like we're already naked.
"I've thought about this," she breathes. "Watched you at the gym with Derek. Watched you lift, watched you sweat. Wondered what you'd feel like—"
I kiss her.
She tastes like protein shake and desperation. Her tongue is aggressive, taking what she wants. Her hips never stop moving, grinding against my cock, driving us both crazy.
"We need to hurry," she gasps against my mouth.
"I know."
She climbs off. Hooks her thumbs in her tights. Pulls them down.
No underwear.
Her pussy is shaved, glistening, framed by lean muscle and tan lines. She turns and bends over the bench—ass up, legs spread, looking at me over her shoulder.
"Now, Marcus."
I shove my shorts down and slam into her.
She's tight.
Marathon-runner tight, yoga-instructor tight. Her body grips me like a fist as I bottom out inside her. She moans—low, guttural, the sound of someone who's been starving.
"Fuck yes—"
I grab her hips and start moving.
There's no finesse. No romance. Just raw, desperate fucking in an empty gym at 5 AM. Her ass bounces against my hips. The bench creaks beneath us. She's moaning my name between gasps, and I'm slamming into her like I'll die if I stop.
"Harder—"
I give her harder.
"Deeper—"
I grab her shoulders and pull her back onto my cock with each thrust. She screams—not loud, but sharp, bitten off.
"Someone could walk in," she pants.
"I know."
"We could get caught—"
"I know." I reach around. Find her clit. "Does that turn you on?"
"Yes—"
She comes.
Her pussy spasms around me, milking me. She collapses onto the bench, shaking, and I keep thrusting—slower now, riding her through it.
"Don't stop," she begs. "Please—I need—"
"What do you need?"
"I need you to fill me up."
I should pull out. I should be smart about this.
I bury myself deep and let go.
We clean up in silence.
Tights back on. Shirt back on. No evidence except the flush on her skin and the way she can't quite meet my eyes.
"That was—" She stops.
"Yeah."
"We shouldn't do it again."
"No."
She picks up her bag. Walks toward the door. Stops.
"Same time tomorrow?"
I look at the empty weight room. At the bench we just desecrated. At my gym buddy's wife, who still has my cum inside her.
"Same time tomorrow."
She leaves.
I finish my workout.
Week Two
She comes back every morning.
5 AM. Empty gym. She wears different outfits—shorts and tank tops, tiny sports bras, sometimes just a compression bodysuit that shows everything.
We fuck on every piece of equipment.
The squat rack—her back against the uprights, legs wrapped around my waist. The cable machine—her gripping the handles while I take her from behind. The yoga mats—her on top, riding me, watching our reflection in the mirror.
"Derek's coming back Friday," she says one morning.
"I know."
"This has to stop."
"I know."
She sinks down onto my cock. Starts moving.
"But not yet."
Friday
Derek is back.
We have drinks at his place. He talks about Phoenix, about the client, about how happy he is to be home. Carly sits across from me, smiling, playing the dutiful wife.
Her foot finds my leg under the table.
"I missed you, babe," Derek says, pulling her close.
"I missed you too." She meets my eyes. "I kept busy, though. Marcus has been helping me with my lifts."
"That's great!" Derek grins at me. "Thanks, man. She's been wanting a training partner."
"Any time."
Carly's foot slides higher.
I excuse myself to the bathroom.
She follows me.
Closes the door. Locks it. Drops to her knees.
"We have five minutes," she whispers, freeing my cock. "Derek's starting a movie."
"Carly—"
She takes me in her mouth.
I lean against the sink and let her work. She's good at this—fast, wet, no gag reflex. She looks up at me with those eyes, her husband's wife, sucking my cock while he picks out a film in the next room.
"Gonna come," I warn.
She doesn't stop.
I spill down her throat. She swallows every drop.
Then she stands. Wipes her mouth. Checks her lipstick in the mirror.
"Same time Monday?"
"Same time Monday."
She unlocks the door. Walks out like nothing happened.
I wash my hands.
Join them for the movie.
Three Months Later
Derek finds out.
He walks into the gym at 5:30—earlier than usual, wanting to surprise us.
Surprise.
Carly is bent over the bench. I'm behind her. We don't hear the door open.
We hear the scream.
The fight is ugly.
Derek takes a swing. I let him land it—I deserve it. He screams at Carly, at me, at the walls. He leaves. Comes back. Leaves again.
We don't see him for a week.
Then the divorce papers arrive.
Carly moves in with me.
We don't try to justify it. Don't try to make it pretty. We destroyed a marriage for adrenaline and orgasms and something that felt like need.
But she's here now. In my bed, every night. At the gym, every morning.
"Was it worth it?" she asks once.
I think about Derek. About the friendship we burned.
Then I think about her. About the way she looks at 5 AM. About the way she moves beneath me.
"Ask me again in a year."
She smiles.
Climbs on top.
One Year Later
She asks again.
We're in the gym—our gym now. 5 AM. The sun's coming up through the windows.
"Was it worth it?"
I watch her stretch. Watch the muscles in her back, her legs, her perfect ass. Watch the woman I destroyed everything for.
"Yeah," I tell her. "It was."
She walks to the squat rack. Loads the bar.
"Then come spot me."
I do.
Same as always.
Same as forever.