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A couple days after our couch talk, my boyfriend bought me new black high-waisted leggings that hugged every curve. He handed them over with a shy grin. “Wear these next time. If he tries anything, let it happen.”
My heart raced. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I want the real thing. Not just stories.”
I was scared. Excited. Already wet before I put them on.
Gym day came. The leggings clung tight. I added a cropped tank and sports bra. More revealing than usual. I felt exposed the second I walked in. My cheeks burned.
He was there, early 40s, tall, built, gray shorts that showed everything when he squatted. His name was Ryan. I set up nearby.
I started leg press. Halfway through, I knocked my water bottle off. It rolled to his feet.
He stopped mid-rep, picked it up, handed it back. His fingers brushed my thigh and lingered. Eyes dropped to where the leggings clung, then back to my face.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“No problem.” He sounded amused. “You okay? You look flushed.”
I laughed nervously. “Just the workout.”
He nodded toward the squat rack. “Need a spotter?”
My stomach flipped. I texted my boyfriend: “He’s talking to me. Asked to spot.”
Reply: “Do it. Tell me everything.”
I nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
He walked over. I loaded the bar light, legs already shaking. He stood behind me. Every rep his crotch brushed my ass. Barely. But enough.
On the last rep I wobbled. He stepped in, hands on the bar, guiding it down. His hips pressed against me. Hard. I felt the thick outline through his shorts. Breath caught.
“Good set,” he said, voice low in my ear. “You’re strong.”
I racked the bar and turned. Faces inches apart. “Thanks for spotting.”
He smiled, eyes on my lips, then lower. “Anytime.”
I walked to the fountain on shaky legs. Texted: “He pressed against me. Felt how hard he was. Thick.”
Reply: “Fuck. Keep going if you want. I’m so hard.”
I didn’t plan more. But when I came back he was wiping his bench. He looked up. “Hey. Smoothie after? My treat.”
I froze. Texted: “He asked for a smoothie. What do I do?”
Instant reply: “Say yes. Go. Tell me everything. I love you.”
I looked at him. “Sure. Yeah.”
We went to the juice bar next door. He paid. We sat outside. He asked about my routine, said my form looked good. His knee bumped mine under the table. I didn’t move it.
He walked me to my car. Stepped close. “You’re beautiful when you lift. The way you focus. It’s hot.”
I blushed. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”
He laughed softly, leaned in. Lips brushed my cheek. Slow. Warm. Pulled back, eyes on mine. “See you next session?”
I nodded, got in on shaking legs.
I drove home dripping. Boyfriend was on the couch, sweats tented. He pulled me down, yanked leggings to knees, buried his face between my thighs.
I told him everything while he licked. The brush of Ryan’s cock against my ass. The thick outline through his shorts. How I got wetter every time he looked.
Boyfriend moaned into me. “Did you like feeling him hard?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “It was different. Bigger than…”
He groaned louder, tongue faster. I came hard, hips bucking, accidentally moaning “Ryan” out loud.
Boyfriend froze half a second. Then climbed up, slid inside me, fucked slow and deep, staring into my eyes.
“You said his name,” he whispered.
I blushed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He thrust harder. “Say it again.”
I did.
He came inside me with a broken groan, shaking.
We lay tangled after.
He kissed my forehead. “Next time maybe don’t stop at brushing.”
My heart slammed.
I didn’t say no.
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