My Personal Trainer Took Advantage Of Me And I Loved It

I’m only human…

I’ve never been one of those girls who goes to the gym to meet guys.

I wear a supportive sports bra instead of a lacy push-up, I put my hair up in a messy pony, and I remove every skerrick of makeup beforehand (sweat unclogs pores, so why would I want to clog them with chemicals?). The only piece of luxury I afford myself comes in the form of my gym gear: Lorna Jane, generally, in black and pink – my power combo when I’m pumping away to my dance mix.

After four months, I was getting bored with my routine, so I enlisted the help of a personal trainer. I wanted a female one so as not to get distracted (I am a straight woman with eyes, after all), but only guys were available. I chose the British one, Scott. He was less intimidating than the others (read: he was not on ’roids), but what I didn’t take into account was that his British accent would make me want to drop my lycras and take him right there on the sweat-infused mats.

But I was there to do a job: get fit. He pushed me to the limits, and I let him, and when I ended up red-faced and looked as though I’d just been in a wet T-shirt competition, the ‘pretty girls’ would come by.

“Oh, Scott, you should make me that hot and sweaty one day,” they’d say. I wish I was kidding. It almost made me feel more sick than the workout itself.

Anyway, after a few weeks of the same shit happening, I was intrigued to find out how he felt about it, so, after one of our sessions, I asked.

“I’m not going to lie,” he said, “getting attention from a good-looking woman is great. I mean, you know what I mean, right?”

“Oh, sure, but… Wait. Why would I know how good it feels for a hot woman to give me attention?”

“You’re gay, right?” he stopped packing equipment away and looked me straight in the eyes.

I laughed my arse off. What the hell? When did I start giving off a gay vibe?

“Oh, God,” he said. “You’re not? I’m so sorry, Arie. It’s just that you come in here, looking normal, like you’re ready to work out.”

“That’s because I am ready to work out,” I laughed.

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He looked at me intently, for what felt like hours, then he spoke. “So… you wouldn’t mind if I did this then?” he said, grabbing my arse and leaning in closer to me, his warm breath beating down on my neck.

My pussy twitched. Was I all of a sudden in some dodgy Hollywood film? Or a porno? Or just having a really realistic erotic dream?

He kissed me, soft but urgent enough for both of us to know what was about to go down. Without stopping, he pushed me into the ladies’ showers.

“What if someone comes in?” I panicked.

“Arie, it’s 8PM and I’m the only PT left. Who else do you think is going to train this late at night?”

He turned the tap on, kissing my body all the way down while the water heated up, almost as if replicating the heat between us.

“I’ve been dreaming of doing this for weeks,” he revealed, pulling my hand into his shorts.

“Oh, God,” I groaned.

He lifted me up, my back flush to the wall, and with my legs wrapped tightly around him and the water streaming down on us, we fucked – and it was INCREDIBLE. The way my hands kept slipping as I worked to dig them into his back. The way the muscles in his arms moved as he lifted me up and down his cock. The feeling of relief, like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, when I came and he blew, almost simultaneously. Afterwards we just stood there, under the shower, smiling cheekily and kissing each other.

I remember that moment like it was yesterday, and when I recall it my heartbeat still quickens the way it did back then. It was so out of character for me, but I don’t regret it for a second.

Moral to the story: Don’t be an attention-seeking bimbo and you’ll be laid like you’ve never been laid before.

Comment: Has your PT ever hit on you? How far did you let it go?