The Gym Trainer | NEON LIT

She wasn't what I expected from a personal trainer.

Janet Martinez was fifty-eight years old and easily two-forty. Not muscular, not lean—soft, with thick arms and a belly that strained against her workout clothes and breasts that required industrial-strength sports bras to control.

But she was also a former powerlifting champion with a wall of certifications and a reputation for transforming hopeless cases.

"You want to get stronger," she said, looking over my intake form. "Any specific goals?"

"I just want to stop feeling weak."

She looked at me—really looked, the way trainers do when they're assessing your potential.

"That's not a goal. That's a feeling. Goals are measurable." She set down the form. "Let's try this: why do you feel weak?"

I didn't have an answer.

"Figure that out," she said, "and we'll figure out what to do about it."

The first session was brutal.

Not because the workout was hard—though it was—but because Janet saw through every excuse I'd ever made.

"You're holding back."

"I'm at my limit—"

"You're at the limit you've decided is your limit. There's a difference." She stood over me while I struggled through another rep. "Push."

I pushed. The weight moved. Just barely, but it moved.

"See? Your body can do more than your mind believes." She helped me rack the bar. "That's what we're training. Not muscles. Belief."

I looked up at her—this massive woman who'd just shattered my assumptions about what strong looked like.

"You don't fit the mold," I said.

"Neither do you." She extended a hand, helped me up. "That's why you're here."

The sessions continued.

Twice a week, then three times. Janet pushed me harder than anyone ever had, but she was never cruel about it. She saw potential where I saw failure. She celebrated small victories. She remembered every PR, every breakthrough, every moment I almost quit but didn't.

"You're changing," she said after my third month.

"I can see some muscle—"

"Not just physically. You carry yourself differently. Like you belong in your body."

"Is that the goal?"

"That's always the goal." She smiled. "The rest is just aesthetics."

I started noticing other things. The way her body moved when she demonstrated exercises—powerful, controlled, beautiful in its efficiency. The way sweat beaded on her skin. The way her voice, commanding during sets, softened during rest periods.

I was developing feelings for my trainer.

This was not part of the program.

She noticed.

Of course she did. Janet noticed everything.

"You're distracted today," she said, mid-session.

"Just tired."

"You're not tired. You're watching me." She set down the weight she'd been demonstrating with. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tyler." Her voice was firm. "I've been training people for thirty years. I know what desire looks like. And I see it every time you look at me."

My face burned. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry. Be honest." She crossed her arms—thick arms, powerful arms. "What do you want?"

I couldn't lie. Not to her.

"I want you. I know that's insane. I know you're my trainer and you're older and you're—"

"Fat?" She raised an eyebrow. "You can say it."

"I was going to say 'everything I never knew I was looking for.'"

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then she walked to the training room door and locked it.

"This is unprofessional," she said.

"I know."

"I could lose clients. My reputation."

"I know."

"I'm fifty-eight years old. I weigh two hundred and forty-three pounds. I have stretch marks and cellulite and my body has never looked like what fitness magazines say it should."

"Janet—"

"Let me finish." She took a breath. "I've spent my entire life being told my body was wrong. Too big. Too soft. Not the right kind of strong." She met my eyes. "And then you look at me like I'm something worth wanting. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

"Tell me."

"It feels terrifying." She moved closer. "And it feels like something I want more of."

She kissed me in the training room.

Her mouth was firm, demanding—the same energy she brought to coaching, now directed at something else entirely. I kissed her back, my hands finding her waist, pulling her bulk against me.

"Not here," she gasped. "My office. There's a couch."

We made it to her office, barely. She locked that door too, then turned to face me.

"Last chance to change your mind."

"I don't want to change my mind."

"Then show me what you've been thinking about."

I showed her.

I undressed her slowly—peeled away the workout clothes to reveal the body beneath. She was magnificent. Strong and soft in equal measure, her muscles hidden beneath layers of flesh that yielded to my touch.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"I'm—"

"Beautiful." I kissed her belly. "Strong." I kissed lower. "Perfect."

She moaned when I settled between her thighs. I'd learned attention from her—the focus she demanded during sets, the presence she required. I applied it now, learning her body with the same dedication she'd taught me to bring to everything.

"Yes—" she gasped. "Right there—harder—"

"Like a workout," I murmured against her. "Push through."

"Smartass—oh God—"

She came with her thighs clamping around my head, her whole body shaking. I drank her through it, then climbed up to cover her body with mine.

"Your turn," she said, pushing me onto my back.

She straddled me—her weight settling onto my hips, her body a landscape above me. I was pinned, held, completely at her mercy.

"Let's see what you can handle," she said, positioning herself.

She sank down onto me.

"Fuck—"

"Language." She grinned, rolling her hips. "Now. Show me your endurance."

She rode me like she was training me—demanding, relentless, pushing me to edges I didn't know I had. Her body bounced and rolled, and I grabbed her hips, tried to match her rhythm.

"Good—" she panted. "You're learning—"

"I have a good teacher—"

"Don't talk. Focus. Feel."

I focused. I felt. Her wetness engulfing me, her weight grounding me, her eyes locked on mine as we moved together.

"I'm going to—" I warned.

"Not yet." She slowed, torturing me. "Hold it."

"I can't—"

"You can. I've seen you push past limits. This is just another one."

I held. Somehow. Barely. She brought us both to the edge, held us there, and finally—finally—let go.

We came together, her cry and mine mixing, her body collapsing onto me in a warm, heavy blanket of satisfaction.

"Well," she said. "That wasn't in your training program."

"Best session yet."

She laughed—breathless, surprised. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm motivated." I pulled her closer. "Can we add these sessions to my schedule?"

"This was extremely unprofessional—"

"I'll find another trainer for official sessions. But these—" I kissed her neck. "These I want to continue."

She propped herself up, looked at me seriously.

"You understand what you're signing up for? I'm old. I'm fat. I'm not going to change."

"I don't want you to change. I want you exactly as you are."

"Why?"

"Because you taught me something." I cupped her face. "You taught me that strength isn't about fitting a mold. It's about knowing what you are and not apologizing for it." I kissed her. "You're the strongest person I know."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.

"Fine. But I'm still training you. Officially."

"Whatever you want."

"And we're keeping this professional during regular sessions."

"Agreed."

"And—" She pulled me on top of her. "We're not done with this session yet."

"Yes, ma'am."

I got stronger.

Not just physically—though my lifts improved, my body transformed. I got stronger in ways that didn't show up on the scale or in the mirror.

Janet stayed my trainer. And my lover. And my partner, eventually, when it became clear that what we'd started wasn't a phase.

"You're my best success story," she told me once.

"Because of my gains?"

"Because of your growth." She kissed me. "Muscles are easy. Belief is hard. And you believed—in yourself, and in me."

"I had a good trainer."

"You had the right one."

Goal achieved.

New goals set.

Training: ongoing.