Slowly, he drew me towards him and thrust himself into me, driving like a piston, efficiently but sensuously. Then he lay me back and jumped onto the table himself, tearing off the clothes that remained from my body. We didn’t say a word, just fucked for an hour, maybe two, maybe three.
Usually, your personal trainer is supposed to use running machines, weights and stretches to get you into shape. Or at least that’s what I used to think, until I met Andre Delgado. Andre had a different approach to losing weight and building up core strength, one that involved sex, sex and more sex. And you know what? It works. I’ve lost weight, built stamina and become stronger than ever thanks to his sexual skills. I hardly even bother with treadmills when I hit the gym these days, because I know that Andre has his own workout ideas and they are a lot more fun than running for 10km in a sweaty gym. The best thing about it is, my husband doesn’t suspect a thing. It’s the perfect arrangement. I head to the gym in the morning and the evening (as much as possible actually), and I come back leaner, tired out and completely satisfied. Here’s how it all started, if any other girls want to follow my lead.
It was my husband who suggested that I go to the gym. We were on holiday by the sea and I was comparing my not very overweight body to the sculpted bikini-clad figures of younger girls on the beach. He asked why I didn’t do something about it. “Go to the gym, get in shape” he yawned, stretching out on the towel, “I don’t mind it if you’re gone for a couple of hours every other evening. It’ll be good for you.” I wasn’t sure. For years, I’d resisted going to the gym. Wasn’t it full of narcissistic idiots listening to dance music on their headphones and comparing their biceps? Well, when I got home, I took the plunge. The nearest gym was called Delgado’s and it was a few hundred metres from our front door. I went along in the evening and found that it was almost empty. Well, empty except for a women leaving as I arrived, a cheeky smile on her face, and Andre himself. He was lifting weights when I met him, his huge arms making them seem like cardboard imitations. He smiled, shook my hand and invited me to join. “It’s very cheap” he said, in a latin-inflected accent, “you pay by the hour here, and if you like the service, you will come regularly, I know it.” Did he wink? I think he did. There was something about him that I liked. Sexy, but without being sleazy. I signed up straight away.
At first, Andre was just a personal trainer. Maybe he was trying to get me into shape before he could launch himself on me, or maybe he was waiting for an empty time when he could lock the gym doors and have me to himself, but for the first few sessions he taught me how to use the equipment and started to get me running on the treadmill. He was inspirational, a real pro. When he told me to keep going, I kept going. Something in his voice made me try harder. I wanted to please him, and I kept working harder and harder. Before too long, he was helping me lift weights, standing over me to protect me should they fall. I could see his abs through his tight shirt, and as he bent to adjust the weights, I could see something else in his shorts, a muscle that needed no extra workouts. One time, I was trying to change my position and my hand reached out. It was a complete accident, but my fingers brushed against his abs. Just at that moment, he took hold of my hand and pressed it there. “You know how I keep my muscles so toned, so hard?” he asked me. I said no, my voice trembling a little with nerves. “It’s not all about running. It’s not weights or swimming. You know, there are some exercises that are more important than those things.” He moved my hand downwards, agonizingly slowly. I wanted to move it faster, but he held it tightly and strongly. Eventually, it was hovering over his shorts. “Go ahead,” he invited me. “See if you can lift it.”
My fingers reached out to explore what he had inside his shorts. It was huge, throbbing with power and strength – so unlike my husband. “Is my workout over? I think it’s time to leave” I stuttered, but I didn’t mean it. I was entranced. As I got up from the weights, Andre locked the gym door and checked that everyone had left. The coast was clear. My tight exercise pants and bra were heavy with sweat. I was breathing hard, as if I’d been running for hours. This was not how I’d envisaged my workout when I first stepped through the gym doors, but I was loving every second of it. “Come through here” Andre instructed me, taking me around the waist. We went into a massage room that I didn’t even know was there. Obviously this was where he shared his deepest fitness secrets with his female clients. I leaped onto the massage table and sat on the edge, as Andre kissed me passionately. Pulling down my lycra shorts, he started to play with me, bringing moans from my mouth and causing me to dig my fingers into his shoulders. Slowly, he drew me towards him and thrust himself into me, driving like a piston, efficiently but sensuously. Then he lay me back and jumped onto the table himself, tearing off the clothes that remained from my body. We didn’t say a word, just fucked for an hour, maybe two, maybe three. After that, every session was a sexual and fitness workout combined. My weight was dropping because of the positions that Andre used, and my muscles were firmer. Every orgasm seemed to make my abdominal muscles tighter, more powerful. My husband never even asked my trainer’s name.
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