What His Trainer Taught Him in the Locker Room

For Yamila, Tuesday morning always began before the gym opened to the public. At six fifty, while the members were still asleep and the neighborhood lights were going out one by one, she was already in the room with the air conditioning on and a strong coffee in her hand. She was the most sought-after trainer at the center: twenty-eight years old, honey-colored eyes, a curly mane pulled back in a tight ponytail, and a body that seemed sculpted specifically to sell the afternoon classes. She had a small, discreet tattoo beneath her lowest rib, a phrase in Italian that almost no one had ever managed to read entirely correctly.

The first client of the day was named Andrés. Thirty-two years old, an executive at a small consulting firm, newly separated and a little lost. He had returned to the gym because someone had told him it would help him “get his head in order.” He had been coming for eight weeks, and since the fourth Yamila had noticed the change: he no longer arrived looking at the floor. Now he looked at her. And although she found it uncomfortable to admit, she had begun to be interested in his gaze.

—Legs today —she said, without looking up from the tablet—. And we’re doing free weights. I want to see your technique.

—Whatever you say, boss.

Andrés adjusted his gray T-shirt, a size tighter than anything he had ever worn before turning thirty. Yamila smiled inwardly. She knew perfectly well why he had changed the way he dressed.

The warm-up was easy. Ten minutes on the elliptical, hip mobility, a couple of light sets on the leg press to loosen up. When they got to the barbell, Yamila positioned herself behind him and placed her hands on the small of his back.

—Neutral hips, chest up, eyes forward. If you drop your head, you lose your line.

—Yeah, yeah.

—Don’t tell me “yeah, yeah.” Do it.

Andrés smiled and lowered himself for the first repetition. Yamila followed his hips with both hands, guiding him along the path. On the fourth repetition, she felt him lose control of his breathing. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was something else. She had already noticed it a couple of times, in the previous session and the one last Thursday: Andrés’s body reacted to her corrections as though they weren’t instructions but caresses. It had never bothered her. She even found it amusing. And for the past few sessions, it seemed to her that it was becoming more than merely amusing.

When they finished the last set, Andrés sat on the bench with the towel in his hands. He was red, sweaty, and breathing as if he had run a mile. But it wasn’t because of the squat. Yamila saw it immediately: the mark beneath his shorts, the bulge he was trying to conceal with the towel laid across it.

She slowly folded her arms in front of him and bit her lower lip.

—Again?

—Yamila, I swear it’s not…

—Again? —she repeated, this time laughing softly—. That’s three sessions in a row. You’re violating the gym contract, you know that, right?

—Sorry. You make me… you distract me.

There was a silence. Yamila squatted down in front of him, her elbows on her knees, her ponytail falling to one side. Andrés lowered the towel a couple of inches without meaning to.

—Do you know what I do with students who can’t concentrate, Andrés?

He slowly shook his head.

—I correct them.

***

The women’s locker room was empty. It always was at that hour. The cleaner came through at six, the group aerobics classes didn’t start until nine thirty, and she was the only one who had individual sessions before coffee. Yamila knew it better than anyone. It was professional information.

She grabbed Andrés by the wrist without saying a word and pulled him down the locker corridor. She locked the door, leaned against the tile, and looked at him.

—There are no cameras here. There’s no one here. You have two options. The first is to turn around, leave, and forget about this.

—And the second?

—The second, I’ll teach you myself.

Andrés swallowed. He nodded without saying anything. Yamila stepped closer, took the towel from his hands, and let it fall onto the bench.

—Take everything off. I’ll watch.

He obeyed slowly. The shirt, the shorts, the underwear. When he stood naked in front of her, his back straight and his pulse racing, Yamila bit her lip again. He had a better body than he appeared to have with his clothes on, better posture, a tan line that said the consulting executive spent more hours in the sun than with his laptop. And he was hard, rock-hard, pointing slightly to one side, as if he had been waiting months for that command.

—Good, student. First exercise of the day.

She took off her top in a single movement. Then her leggings and underwear, without ceremony, like someone undoing her belt before sitting down to eat. Andrés didn’t know where to look first. She sat on the edge of the bench, spread her legs, and held his gaze.

—On your knees.

—Yamila…

—On your knees.

He knelt without thinking. She put a hand on the back of his neck and guided him without hurrying.

—Start slowly. Don’t be afraid. The technique is the same as with the squat: lower yourself slowly, take your time.

Andrés brought his face closer and began on the inside of her thigh, a line of wet kisses that made her shiver before he even reached the center. Yamila closed her eyes for a second, drew a deep breath, and spread her legs wider. He wasn’t clumsy, no, he wasn’t. When he reached the center, he used his whole tongue, without groping, without apologizing. He parted her lips with two fingers, slipped between them with obscene precision, and began to lick her clitoris slowly, first in circles, then up and down, wetting his chin with the juices he drew from her effortlessly. She threw her head back and sighed deeply, once. Then she grabbed the back of his neck, threaded her fingers through the short hair at his nape, and set the rhythm with her hand.

—Like that. Higher. There. Fuck, yes. Stay there.

Andrés obeyed without lifting his mouth. His tongue moved in and out with a constancy that was slowly undoing her from within. Yamila squeezed her thighs against his head, felt the heat rise from her pussy to her belly, and demanded more with a sharp tug on his hair. He responded by burying his face more deeply, sucking her hungrily, sliding two fingers inside to open her even farther while the tip of his tongue kept hammering her clitoris. The sound of his sucking bounced off the lockers and made her even more nervous, wetter, more sensitive.

—Don’t stop —she said through her teeth—. Don’t stop, you son of a bitch.

He looked up for barely a second, his mouth shining and his nose buried between her folds, and that made her tremble. She seized his head with both hands and pressed almost all of it against her sex, shamelessly, without tenderness, rubbing herself against his face until her thighs began to give out. Five minutes like that. Maybe seven. Yamila lost track of the exact time. When she felt the first orgasm coming, she pulled his hair upward and indicated with a gesture that he should stop. She didn’t want to finish yet.

—Stand up.

***

Andrés stood with his chin shining and his eyes glassy. Yamila rose, placed one hand on his chest, and pushed him against the row of metal lockers. The impact made a hollow sound in the empty locker room.

—Are you okay?

—I’m fine.

—Good.

She turned around, braced her hands against the cold metal, spread her legs, and arched her back. She looked at him over her shoulder.

—Finish what you started.

Andrés came up behind her, moistened himself with his hand, and penetrated her in one thrust, burying himself as deeply as he could. Yamila clenched her jaw and let out a low, broken moan when she felt him force her pussy open with one clean stroke. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened in that locker room, but it had been months. And this one knew what he was doing. He pushed patiently, alternated rhythms, found the angle that made her knees tremble. Yamila rested her forehead against the metal, closed her eyes, and let herself go.

—Faster —she asked, her voice already in tatters.

Andrés obeyed. He grabbed her ponytail and tugged a little, just enough to force her back to arch farther. Yamila clenched her teeth and bit the back of her hand to keep from screaming as he rammed into her with a dry, deep impact, again and again, making her hips strike the edge of the locker. The sound of skin against metal and of their bodies wetting one another filled the room.

—More.

—I’m going to leave the locker’s mark on your back.

—Better.

He slipped one hand between her legs and rubbed her clitoris at the same time, without stopping fucking her. Yamila moaned loudly for the first time, long and shamelessly, and came like that, against the metal, her ponytail pulled back and her nipples brushing a laminated sign that said “no smoking.” She did it with a long, filthy contraction that shook her abdomen and left her pussy throbbing around his cock. Andrés felt her clench around him and held out as long as he could, his fingernails digging into her hip. When she finished, she turned without separating from him and whispered in his ear:

—Don’t finish yet.

—Yamila…

—Come with me to the shower.

***

The shower block was at the back, separated by a frosted-glass partition. Yamila turned on the tap and let the hot water wash away the sweat from the squats and everything else. Steam filled the space in less than a minute. She gestured at Andrés with her chin.

—Get in.

He stepped inside. She pressed herself against him from the front, took his face in both hands, and kissed him for the first time that morning, slowly at first, her tongue searching for his, as though everything else had happened to other people and the kiss was what truly mattered.

—Do you have anything left inside you?

—A lot.

—Give it to me.

She knelt beneath the water, gripped his base with one hand, and took him into her mouth in a single motion, swallowing his full length as far as she could, letting her lips brush his wet skin as she sucked him rhythmically. Andrés braced both hands against the tiles to keep himself upright. It didn’t take long. After everything that had come before, it couldn’t take long. Yamila ran her tongue over the frenulum, sucked the tip with brutal patience, and sped up with her throat, looking up at him with a calm that didn’t seem like calm. When she realized he couldn’t hold out any longer, he tried to pull away.

—Yamila, I’m going to…

—Here.

She indicated her face with a simple gesture. She didn’t insist or say it twice. He let himself go. Yamila closed her eyes for a second, felt the first hot jet against her cheek, then her mouth, then her chin, and parted her lips slightly to receive him without pulling away, letting his semen fill her tongue while the shower water ran down her face and neck. When he finished, she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and let the rest wash away with the water. Almost all of it. Not all.

—Good student.

She said it in a husky voice, smiling as she stood. She placed one hand on his cheek and kissed him again, this time on the chin, unhurriedly, still savoring him.

—Rinse off. And get dressed quickly. I have another female client at eight.

—Wait. Is this…?

—Is this what?

—Is this going to happen again?

Yamila looked at him from outside the shower, already wrapped in a white towel, squeezing the water from her ponytail.

—That depends on your technique in the next squat.

She left before he could answer. Andrés remained under the hot spray for a while, his head resting against the tiles, trying to understand what had just happened to him at seven twenty on an ordinary Tuesday. The gym opened to the public at eight. He had forty minutes left to look like a normal client again.

He soaped himself twice. The second time, he did it slowly. He wasn’t in any hurry to erase anything.