My Coach Was a Woman, and I Couldn’t Say No

The market is only set up on Sundays, in the square in front of the town hall. Summer dresses the fields in gold and the oak groves in green, and gives a little life back to a village that spends the rest of the year slowly fading away, devoured by the appetite of the cities. From early on, the cicadas warn that it will be a day of punishing heat.

Two old women make their way around the stalls, gossiping softly about the small lives of the place. They cross paths with Bruna, a petite, athletic girl, fresh out of university, who presses a couple of peaches with the tips of her fingers to judge whether they’re ripe. The sports top and shorts do not go unnoticed by the locals’ eyes.

—Look at that brazen little thing —murmurs one of the old women, not bothering to hide her contempt—. Didn’t her parents teach her what shame is?

—She’s the granddaughter of Renata and Tomás Valverde, the ones with the estate by the river. Don Tomás died in January, and his children, who live in the capital, only came for the funeral and to split up the inheritance.

—Well, they say she’s been seen with two other girls from the city, and that they’re setting up a gym in the old wine cellar at her grandfather’s place.

—Who’s going to go to a gym here? Your husband? —and the two of them laugh.

Oblivious to it all, Bruna walks away up the cobbled slope toward the church, following the uneven line of stalls. A rough ceramic cup catches her eye, and she lifts it carefully; her eyes, a nearly transparent blue, trace the irregular pattern of the glaze.

—Do you like it? —Mariela, the vendor, a woman a little over thirty, smiles at her young and potential customer.

Bruna looks up to take her all in: tall, with a slender neck, a faded blond mane gathered at the nape in a bun crowned with a purple flower, round warm eyes. The loose sundress with straps, a little bohemian, holds up her breasts like a basket of fruit.

—Sorry —Bruna says, still not letting go of the piece—. I really like what you have here. Did you make it yourself?

—My husband made it. I just sell it. —Mariela tilts her head, curious—. You’re not from around here, are you?

—I’m from the capital. I’m staying in the house by the river, the Valverde place.

—So you’re their granddaughter. —The woman arches her eyebrows—. And is the thing about the gym true?

—It’s a training center. I want to open it for people in the village. You’re invited, if you feel like it.

That throws her off. Mariela hadn’t expected the invitation, and even less that it would be aimed at her.

—I like brave people —she finally replies, and offers her hand—. So now you’ve got one admirer.

Bruna’s hand brushes hers for just an instant. The touch of that elegant palm is rough, worn down by work, but it still holds a warmth that refuses to bow to the calluses.

—My name is Bruna.

—Mariela. Though people who know me well call me Mari.

—Do I know you well? —Bruna smiles.

—I like you, so I’ll make an exception with you. —The woman smiles back—. But I don’t have time for gyms. I raise two boys and spend the week going from town to town hauling boxes of pots.

—Just stop by and take a look, that’s all. First session free. —Bruna winks at her—. You’re in pretty good shape.

A couple of hikers comes up to the stall asking prices, and the bubble that had formed between the two of them bursts without a chance. Mariela goes back to her world of plates and jugs. But the wink sticks to her skin all morning.

***

The van crunches over the gravel beside the cherry tree in the yard. Mariela switches off the engine and sighs. She takes a long drink from a bottle of water that has spent hours warming in the sun on the passenger seat.

In the shed, on the other side of the tree, her husband shapes a jug on the wheel, his hands sunk into the creamy clay bubbling between his fingers. The heat beads sweat on his forehead and drips down his eyeglasses. An old stained apron is the only thing covering his torso.

—Hi, love —Esteban says without looking up—. How was the morning?

—Fine. The jugs are selling. —She sets down the day’s box beside him and falls silent for a moment—. Listen, something weird happened to me. The Valverde granddaughter came to buy something. She’s setting up a gym and asked me to sign up. And I was thinking it might actually be good for me.

Esteban’s fingers squeeze too hard and the jug collapses on the wheel, which spins until it stops.

—Damn, sorry —she murmurs—, I didn’t mean to distract you.

—We’re right in the middle of summer season, Mari. We can’t waste time on nonsense. —At last he looks at her—. Besides, who’s going to go to a gym here?

—Me. I can go.

—You’re perfect as you are. You don’t need any of that.

—That should be my decision, don’t you think?

—This afternoon there’s a fair in Valderoble. We have to get everything ready. —And with that he considers the conversation closed.

Mariela understands the message. She goes into the house through the kitchen door and passes the living room, where her two children, six and nine years old, are playing video games glued to the screen. They greet her without looking at her. When she asks what they want to eat, they don’t even answer. Frustrated, she switches off the television abruptly and breaks the spell; complaints erupt, but at least they look at her.

In her bedroom, in front of the mirror on the old varnished furniture, she pulls the dress over her head and looks at herself in her underwear. Her breasts spill over the bra, beautiful and generous, a little worn by two pregnancies. Her belly has a few wrinkles, but if she holds her breath it still shows. Not bad for two pregnancies, she thinks. Her legs remain firm; her hips, not so much.

—Mari… —Lucas, Esteban’s son from his first marriage, just over twenty, appears in the doorway.

She covers herself at once, red to the ears.

—Lucas! Don’t you know how to knock?

—Sorry —the boy looks away—, it’s just that the kids don’t want to eat rice.

—I don’t care. In this house nobody does anything, so I decide what’s for dinner. —She wraps herself in a linen robe—. And you could start lending a hand.

The boy leaves, muttering. Mariela lets herself fall back onto the bed and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, her heart still pounding, while the cicadas keep singing outside.

***

Summer afternoons are long. Some families bathe in the river that winds between the trees. Mariela watches the scene from her van, stopped beside the stone bridge, the engine still running and her hair tied back in a ponytail. It takes her a while to decide. Then she crosses over, slips beneath the grapevine pergolas, and parks in front of the façade of the old estate, two stories high with balconies, seeping history through every stone.

Bruna is waiting at the door, in her usual sports gear and a bag slung over her shoulder. She smiles so wide it almost hurts as she sweeps the woman from head to toe, discreetly. Mariela is wearing a black tank top that cinches her waist and loose shorts. Her brand-new sneakers look as if they’ve just come out of the box.

—I’m really glad you came.

—I managed to sneak away this afternoon. —Mariela is nervous, like a fish out of water—. I live with four men, so imagine.

—And they think picking up the plates is already helping, right?

—When they do pick them up…

Bruna laughs and leads her toward the rosebush in bloom by the wall.

—It was my grandmother’s favorite. I’m trying to get it to bloom again.

—Banana peels —Mariela says, crouching beside it—. Bury them nearby; they add potassium to the soil.

Bruna then casts a furtive glance at the cleavage peeking from the neckline. Mariela, used to indiscreet looks, notices it, but prefers not to read too much into it. After all, she herself had also taken in the girl’s toned body when she got out of the car.

Inside, the fluorescent lights flicker on. The old storage room, about forty square meters, still keeps its cellar soul among the weights, pull-up bars, mats, and medicine balls. You can see the care and excitement in every clean corner.

—People call it a gym, but it’s a training center —Bruna explains proudly—. I do personalized work here, tailored to each person.

—You can tell you put your heart into it. Don’t let anyone ruin it for you; people around here can be really rough.

—I’m determined. Besides, I don’t need anyone: I work online, remote training, and it suits me fine.

—Then you could be anywhere. See the world. —Mariela lets herself drift—. Sometimes I feel a little trapped here.

—And I, on the other hand, fell in love with this place the moment I set foot in it.

—I’ve got family. I can’t just do what I want. Traveling and all that are just fantasies. —Mariela steels herself at once—. I can’t stay long. Are we waiting for anyone else?

—It’s just going to be the two of us. I’ve prepared something simple to start with.

The two of us alone? The idea tangles in her head, but she nods, trying to act normal.

—I won’t be responsible if you end up sore tomorrow —Bruna says, with a smile of certain malice, unsettling and irresistible.

***

They start with a warm-up on the spot, jogging to get their heart rates up. Bruna positions herself in front of her, watching, smiling. Mariela blushes; she can’t help feeling self-conscious in front of that young girl. If she had seen me twenty years ago…, she thinks. The bra, which isn’t a sports bra, barely holds her breasts as she moves.

Then come the torso rotations. Bruna, after guiding her, gently grips her waist, brushing her fingers against the skin of her belly that peeks out between the T-shirt and the shorts.

—Move your torso without moving your hips.

Mariela’s heartbeat jumps. Her thoughts pile up without order. She feels the other woman too close, and that overwhelms her.

—Sorry, it’s just that this isn’t really my thing —she manages to say.

—Don’t be silly. You’re doing great. —Bruna steps back a little—. Now step forward and raise your arms.

When she does, the shirt rides up to her ribs and leaves her belly bare. And Bruna’s gaze, tracing it? Her nipples harden beneath the fabric.

—Oof —Mariela pants, stopping—. Sorry, I’m getting really hot.

—It is hot —the girl smiles—. Want to take off your shirt?

—No! —she blurts out like a spring. The seconds stretch out—. Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t worked out in a long time.

—Well, this has only just started. Stop complaining. —Bruna stands beside her, bossy, and her voice is so sweet and firm that Mariela has no defense—. Let’s do some squats. Do you know how?

—Of course. I suppose so.

They start, but after a few reps the younger woman stops her.

—Not like that. You’re putting stress on your knees, and what we want to work is your ass. —And she grabs her right butt cheek in one precise, shameless gesture. An electric current runs up Mariela’s back like a lash—. Relax, I’ll hold you so you can go down properly.

—All right… —Mariela lets herself be handled, with no strength left to refuse. Is she groping my ass? She lowers herself slowly, her legs trembling.

—Very good —Bruna whispers almost in her ear—. Hold it there a little.

—It’s hard… a little…

The girl steps away and watches her work on her own, following the curve of her back with her eyes.

***

The setting sun slips in through a small window between the old barrels at the back. The fan spins at full speed, in contrast to the slow minutes blinking on a digital clock on the wall. Mariela is drenched; sweat slides down her neck and falls onto the mat as she holds a plank. Her breasts, overflowing and damp, hang there barely contained by the bra.

—A little more… —Bruna savors her companion’s suffering, who grits her teeth but doesn’t give in.

The alarm on the phone sounds and the woman collapses face-down, trembling.

—You’re going to have… to put in air conditioning —she pants, fanning her sweat-soaked T-shirt.

—Take it off.

Mariela takes a while to react.

—The shirt?

—Of course. It’s soaked through. You’ve got a bra underneath, it’s fine; we always do it here. —Bruna points to herself.

—Yeah… but mine isn’t a sports bra —her heartbeat thunders in her head.

—So what?

Mariela hesitates. Then she leans back on her legs and pulls the shirt over her head, losing sight of the girl for an instant, feeling absolutely vulnerable until the fabric leaves her body.

The bra is white, simple, thin-cupped; it lets the areolas and the hardened tips of her nipples show through. She feels naked, exposed, and she has never felt that way in front of another woman. Her rapid breathing barely lets her think.

—Now, reverse plank. Something easy: twenty seconds per set —Bruna does not stop.

The position seems simple: hands behind, hips raised, heels planted in the floor. Soon Mariela’s torso tightens, squeezing her breath, and through the valley of her breasts she sees Bruna coming closer.

The alarm sounds again. Mariela drops her ass to the floor and sucks in air sharply.

—You have to lift a little higher.

—I don’t know if I can.

—I’ll help you, okay?

Mariela looks into those transparent eyes and feels like prey already almost surrounded in a cat’s jaws. Bruna’s hands support her back; her fingers sink into the damp skin, lift her hips, tilt her shoulders and head back. Her skin prickles. Her mouth parts with every breath and she begins to let out little moans.

—Count with me: fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…

—Eighteen… —pants Mariela— nineteen…

The alarm. The woman collapses in the girl’s hands, and the girl gathers her up and kneads her breathing with caresses. The two of them look into each other’s eyes.

Bruna takes her right hand. Mariela is only able to let herself be led now. The young woman kisses her fingers, brushes her fingertips, and with a tenderness that is frightening, guides her trembling hand to the sweat on her own breasts, held by the sports top, and presses it in just enough for Mariela to feel that her heart is not the only one beating fast. And, like a fool, she leaves her hand there.

By the time her body reacts, it is too late. Bruna’s hand slides down her belly, slips under her shorts, under her underwear, and discovers the soaked treasure she keeps between her legs. A spasm runs through her body, a merciless contraction that tears a long moan from her. She has just come without anyone having barely touched her.

Breathless, pupils dilated, she clings to that girl, who now looks at her very seriously, as if she has just removed a mask and lust is finally showing its true face, from blue eyes burning like ice. There is dominance in that gesture, and it leaves her shaken.

What Mariela doesn’t expect is that that orgasm isn’t the end, but only the beginning; and the finger of her young predator sinks into her body, bending her to the will of pleasure.

Outside, the sun sets between the trees. The river flows unhurriedly. The first fireflies flutter by. And a cry breaks through the stillness of dusk.