My Trainer Had Classes Off the Menu

It was Tuesday, 7:20 in the morning. The gym smelled of new rubber and the citrus air freshener the manager put out every day without fail, as if he could convince the nose that this wasn’t a place where people sweated. There were three people in the weight area, and none of them was looking at me.

I arrived five minutes late. That was unusual for me, but that morning I had stood in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual for no reason I could explain.

Jazmin was waiting for me against the back wall, her arms crossed over her chest, wearing an expression that wasn’t entirely professional.

She was thirty-one. She was Colombian, from Cali, and her accent gave it away every time she opened her mouth. Her curly hair was pulled into a tight high bun, and small silver earrings caught the fluorescent light. Tall and athletic, with the kind of body that only exists when someone has spent years working on it with discipline: broad shoulders, a defined waist, legs that stretched her leggings to the limit of what was reasonable. Her purple sports top was tight and left her stomach bare. She had a tattoo on her left shoulder, three words in English that I had never been able to read completely because by the time I got close enough, she was already moving away.

We had been working together for eight weeks. I had just come out of a four-year relationship and had joined the gym on the excuse of “getting back into a routine.” What I really wanted was to tire my body out enough to sleep without thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

It hadn’t worked. What had happened instead, without my seeking it, was that since our third session I hadn’t thought about anything but her. About her tight ass inside those leggings, about her tits bouncing when she demonstrated a burpee for me, about the line of sweat running between her breasts when the hour was over.

Every time she corrected my posture during a squat, her hands on my hips lasted a second too long. Every time she handed me my water bottle, there was deliberate contact between our fingers, a gaze held for a moment longer than professional courtesy required. I told myself I was imagining it. I repeated that with considerable conviction, even though I jerked off thinking about her three or four times a week.

That morning, during the warm-up on the leg-press machine, Jazmin leaned over to adjust the angle of my right knee. Her hip was inches from my face, and I had already had an erection for ten minutes that my gym shorts didn’t hide at all. Her pussy showed through the fabric of her leggings, a damp triangle that I could have sworn had appeared because she’d been looking at me.

She stood still for a second. Then she looked at me over her shoulder.

“Andrés,” she said in a low voice. “Explain that to me.”

I blushed all the way to my hairline. I tried to cover myself with the small towel on my thigh.

“I’m sorry, Jazmin, really... it’s not that...”

She let out a short laugh. Slowly, she straightened, crossed her arms, and looked at me directly with an expression that was more curious than offended.

“What isn’t?” she said. “Isn’t what it looks like? You’ve got a hard-on, papi. It’s visible from the door.”

I had no answer.

“Look,” she continued, lowering her voice until it became something only I could hear. “I’ve been noticing it for weeks. And I’ve also been doing things for weeks to make you notice me. I don’t know if you’ve realized.”

I had realized. I just hadn’t admitted it, even to myself.

She took a step closer. Close enough for me to detect her perfume mixed with the heat of the workout.

“Today, if you want, I’ll give you a different kind of class. One that isn’t on the program you signed up for.” She tilted her head slightly. “In the women’s locker room. No one comes in at this hour. We can be uninterrupted. I want to find out whether that cock works as well as it looks.”

It took me a second to process what she was suggesting.

“And if I say yes?” I asked.

“Then you’ll learn things that can’t be taught with weights. And I’ll get a good fuck before nine.”

***

The women’s locker room smelled of vanilla and clean sweat. Cream-colored metal lockers, varnished wooden benches, indirect lighting that made everything seem calmer than the rest of the gym. Jazmin locked the door without looking at me, turned around, and studied me for a moment with her arms crossed.

“Take everything off,” she said.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an instruction.

I took off my shirt, my shorts, my underwear. I stood in front of her, completely naked and completely erect, my cock pointing upward with a drop of precum already showing at the tip. She looked me up and down without hurrying, stopped at my cock, and ran her tongue over her lower lip.

“Good,” she said, and took off her top in a single motion.

She was exactly as I had imagined her during weeks of insomnia, and at the same time different, more real, more present. Large, firm tits, dark nipples hard as stones, brown skin gleaming beneath the locker room’s soft light. She lowered her leggings and panties in one natural, uninterrupted gesture, without modesty or hesitation. Beneath them, her pussy was almost completely shaved, with only a thin dark strip above her lips, which were swollen and shiny with how wet she already was.

She stood in front of me just as I stood in front of her. She lowered one hand, ran two fingers along her slit, and showed them to me, wet.

“See what you’ve done to me for weeks?” she said. “All of this is yours. Look how it’s dripping.”

She put her fingers in her mouth and sucked them slowly without taking her eyes off me.

“First part,” she said. “Kneel.”

I did it without thinking.

She moved closer until her pussy was inches from my face. The smell hit me full force: hot, salty, feminine, unmistakably female. She ran her fingers through my hair and applied gentle but unmistakable pressure, pushing me against her.

“Now you’re going to eat me properly. Slowly. Don’t rush. We’ve got time. Lick this pussy like your life depends on it, papi.”

I touched her with my tongue slowly, following the shape of her swollen lips, moving from the entrance up to her clitoris in one long lick. She let out a sigh and pressed me harder against her sex. I opened her lips with my fingers and went in deep, sucking her clitoris between my lips, tugging gently, letting it go, then catching it again. I licked her slit from top to bottom, sank my tongue into her hole, and moved it in circles, feeling her contract inside.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Keep going, damn it, just like that. Lick it all.”

Her juices ran down her thighs and dripped onto my chin. I licked up every drop, savoring the sharp, thick taste that clung to my tongue. When I slid two fingers inside her, curling them toward that rough spot that makes women lose their minds, her body reacted all at once: her knees gave slightly and she let out a moan that echoed off the tile.

“There, Andrés, you son of a bitch, right there. Don’t move.”

I kept sucking her clitoris with my mouth while my fingers thrust in and out forcefully, making a wet, obscene sound that filled the locker room. I spread her ass with my other hand and ran my thumb over her tight asshole, barely brushing it, and her whole body shuddered. Her hips began moving against my face, riding my mouth without the slightest shame, her breathing becoming fast and ragged.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t sto—”

Her voice broke, and a shudder ran through her from head to toe. She came with my face pressed against her pussy, smothering me against her wet lips, while a hot stream drenched my chin and neck. She kept trembling for quite a while, her fingers still buried in my hair, her other arm braced against a locker to stay upright.

When she was finished, she looked down at me. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy, her chest rising and falling out of control.

“Good,” she repeated. This time it sounded different. She crouched down, wiped my lips with her thumb, and put it in her mouth. “You taste good mixed with me.”

***

She pulled me up from the floor by my forearm and gently pushed me against the lockers. Before turning me around, she knelt and took my cock in both hands.

“Wait. One second. Let me taste it.”

She took it all into her mouth without warning. I felt the tip reach the back of her throat and felt her swallow around it. She stuck out her tongue to lick my balls while she had me all the way in, then slowly moved upward, sucking hard and leaving a trail of saliva from the base to the tip. She spat on the head and used her hand to coat it thoroughly, never breaking eye contact from below.

“Tasty. Nice and thick,” she said. “It’s ready now.”

She turned around, planted her palms against the cold metal, and arched her back in that way that makes a woman’s body look designed for exactly that moment. She pushed her ass toward me, spread her legs, and used one hand to pull a cheek aside, letting me see her open, glistening pussy and the dark asshole above it.

“Now get inside,” she said. “Slowly at first. Give me all of it.”

I grabbed her hips, aimed with my free hand, and pushed. The head of my cock sank into her pussy without resistance, swallowed by that hot, tight flesh. She rested her forehead against the lockers and let out a long, deep sound, almost one of relief, as if she had been waiting for this.

“Deeper. All the way. Everything.”

I pushed until my balls struck her clitoris and paused for a moment. The heat was intense, her insides squeezing me like a wet fist. Her hips began moving before I did, setting the pace, fucking herself against my cock, telling me what she wanted without words.

I placed my hands on her waist and began moving harder, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt. The sound of our bodies against the silence of the locker room was the only noise in the world at that moment: the wet sloshing, the sharp smacks of my thighs against her ass, her moans growing higher and higher.

“Harder, Andrés, harder. Fuck me. Don’t treat me like I’m going to break.”

I grabbed her bun and pulled her head back, arching her farther, and began pounding her with everything I had. Her tits shook against the lockers, her hands searched for a grip on the smooth metal, and her sounds became shorter and more urgent until she clenched her teeth and came again, squeezing my cock inside her so hard she almost dragged me over the edge too.

“Don’t stop,” she said before I had even thought about slowing down. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I reached around to grab one of her tits and pinched her nipple while I kept thrusting. With my other hand, I moved down to her clitoris and rubbed it in quick circles. She began moaning uncontrollably, thrusting her ass backward to meet me, and I penetrated her with all the pent-up rage of eight weeks spent watching her without being able to touch her.

***

She was the one who suggested it. She slowly pulled my cock out of her pussy, turned toward me, looked into my eyes for a moment, and said with complete calm:

“Do you want my ass?”

The question stopped me.

“Really?” I asked.

She nodded slowly and ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Slowly at first. Carefully. But I want to feel you put it in there.”

She turned back toward the lockers and presented me with her ass. She spread her cheeks with both hands and showed me her wrinkled, dark asshole, tight as a little fist.

I spat on my fingers and rubbed her hole, circling the tight ring until it began to give. I inserted one finger first, up to the knuckle, and she let out a deep moan. Then the second, scissoring them to open her little by little. She breathed in a controlled, deliberate way, without tensing, like someone who knew exactly what she was doing and where she wanted to go.

“That’s enough,” she said after a while. “Put it in. With spit.”

I spat into my palm, coated my cock thoroughly, aimed it at her asshole, and pressed slowly. The tip resisted for a second, then gave way, entering all at once between a ring of tight muscle that caught the head like a mouth. She made a sound that was half pain and half something else I couldn’t name, a hoarse growl rising from her chest.

“Stay still for a moment,” she said.

I did. I could feel her ass pulsing around the head, trying to adjust. Little by little I pushed farther in, millimeter by millimeter, until I had buried it to the base. Her ass squeezed me with brutal force, far tighter than her pussy, so tight I was almost afraid to move.

“Now move. Slowly.”

I began moving carefully, pulling out only slightly and sinking back in, letting her body adjust, until her hips began pushing backward again and I understood that I could continue. I gradually picked up the pace, and she began moaning differently than before, deeper, more animal.

“That’s it, papi, just like that. Fuck my ass. Like that.”

I wrapped one arm around her hip and searched for her clitoris with my fingers. With my other hand, I grabbed one of her tits and squeezed it hard. The combination undid her: her sounds filled the locker room, a torrent of filth in Spanish and English mixed together without sense, her knees trembled, and she came for the third time with my hand pressed between her legs, her back arched as far as it would go, driving her ass against me as if she wanted to swallow me whole.

I held out as long as I could, fucking her ass with increasingly long, filthy thrusts, but the heat and pressure were too much. I felt the orgasm rising from my balls.

“I’m going to come,” I warned.

She spun around, pulled my cock out of her ass with a quick movement, and knelt in front of me. She looked up without taking her eyes off mine, her mouth open and her tongue out.

“On my face. All of it. Don’t hold anything back.”

She gripped my cock and began jerking me off rapidly, squeezing hard and aiming me at her face. I could barely breathe. With her other hand, she caressed my balls and squeezed them gently, and that was all it took. I came across her lips in one long, thick spurt, then another that streaked across her cheek and reached her eyebrow, then a smaller one that landed on her chin and breasts. Thick white semen covered her face, hanging from her nose and running down her neck.

She didn’t move. Not a muscle. She ran her tongue over what had fallen on her lips and swallowed without making a show of it. Then she gathered what was on her cheek with her fingers and put that in her mouth too. She licked her fingers clean one by one.

“Tasty,” she said. “Nice and salty.”

She stood up. She looked at me with the same serenity with which she had locked the locker room door.

“One part is still missing,” she said.

***

The showers were open: four showerheads in a row, beige-tiled floor. She turned on the hot water, and steam filled the space within seconds. She stepped beneath the spray and gestured toward the floor in front of her.

“This is the last part. If you want.”

I knew what she was offering. I didn’t ask anything. I knelt.

Hot water ran over my shoulders and back. Jazmin spread her legs, positioned herself over me, pulled her pussy lips apart with two fingers, and held my gaze for a long moment. Then she relaxed. Warm, golden liquid streamed onto my chest, shoulders, and part of my face, mixing with the shower water. I let it fall. I opened my mouth and let some of it fill my tongue, salty and thick, and she let out a low moan when she saw me swallow. When she finished pissing, she crouched, placed her hand against my cheek for a moment, and kissed me on the mouth without caring what she had just done.

“That’s it,” she said. “Now we’re done.”

I stood up. We showered in silence, side by side beneath the hot water, as if what had just happened were perfectly normal. She slowly soaped my cock, without sexual intent, with a strange tenderness after everything else.

***

I left the locker room five minutes before she did. In the hallway, I passed a woman with a blond ponytail carrying a gym bag, and she glanced at me. I must have looked like someone who had just lived through something he didn’t know how to classify.

I went to the men’s locker room, got dressed slowly, and sat on the bench for quite a while without moving.

That morning I couldn’t concentrate on work for the first two hours. Not because of regret—there was none—but because I was still trying to put what had happened in order, give it a name, understand what kind of person I had been before eight o’clock on that Tuesday morning.

When I walked out to the parking lot, Jazmin was at the entrance checking her phone. She looked up when she saw me.

“See you Thursday,” she said, with the same professional smile as always.

As if nothing had happened. As if Tuesdays at seven existed in a compartment separate from the rest of the week.

“Thursday,” I repeated.

And I went to work thinking that sometimes the thing that changes a person most happens in the one place you least expect: an empty locker room, twenty minutes stolen from the calendar, and someone who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.