The Gym Owner Gave Me a Very Private Lesson

I’d been paying for a gym for six months that no longer worked for me. The neighborhood where they’d opened it had filled up with twenty-year-old guys who trained in groups, blasted reggaeton at full volume, and treated one another with the nervousness of a pack. I’m twenty-four and I live in Mercedes, in a house with a backyard full of chickens my grandmother left me. I work in building management administration, and at the end of the day, the only thing my body needs is a well-done half hour of weights and a walk with music.

That’s why, when a coworker told me about a new gym fifteen blocks from my place, I didn’t hesitate. I signed up that same afternoon. It had air conditioning, modern equipment, and, most importantly, a mixed clientele: older women there for back exercises, men who stopped in after the bank, the occasional girl like me. It was the kind of place where a woman could breathe.

The first week was quiet. I met the receptionist, put together my own routine, and got used to the schedules. The only weird thing was a framed photo in the entrance hallway: a huge guy in uniform, hugging a trophy. Underneath it said, “Damián, Provincial Champion 2016.” The receptionist explained that he was the owner and hardly ever showed up. That he lived a few blocks away but was always off handling other businesses. They called him Vasco.

I met him on Saturday.

I was lying on the leg press, lifting twenty kilos for my warm-up, thinking about whether to increase the weight or just end the routine there, when I felt a shadow over my face. I opened my eyes. It was him.

—You’re doing it wrong —he said, without even saying hello—. You need to press your lower back properly against the pad.

I held his gaze a second longer than was polite. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He didn’t have a beard. I guessed him at forty-five, maybe a little older. It wasn’t the kind of body you build with supplements: it was an old body, worked over, with details only time can give. A long scar across his chest. Veins standing out on his forearms. A calm the boys didn’t have.

—Show me —I said, without getting off the machine.

He stood to one side, one hand on my knee and the other on my shoulder, and corrected my posture. He spoke softly, almost in my ear, as if he were explaining something forbidden. The question came five minutes later.

—Do you have a boyfriend?

I laughed.

—Not my thing. Boyfriends get jealous. I prefer to have fun.

—That seems like the best decision.

When I got off the machine, I exaggerated the movement a little. I made sure he saw my leggings, my waist, my back. I heard him say, almost to himself, “I want to have some fun too.” I had the bad curiosity to look at his crotch and saw him adjusting a cock that was already clearly thick against the fabric of his shorts.

—I’d love that —I told him, holding his gaze.

—Well —he replied, smiling. And he went off with a group of guys to give them a routine.

It was clear he’d come up to me with only one goal, and that was enough for me.

I spent the entire Sunday thinking about Monday. About how I was going to walk into the gym and what I was going to wear. I pulled a black pair of leggings from the drawer that left my ass uncovered, a cropped T-shirt, a sports bra, and, underneath, a cotton thong. I knew it would show through the leggings. That was exactly what I wanted to happen. That night, alone in bed, I finished with two fingers inside me thinking about him, imagining that cock I’d seen outlined under his shorts, and I came biting my lip so I wouldn’t wake anyone.

At nine Monday morning there were three boys and Vasco. Nothing else. I took off my tracksuit jacket at the entrance, slowly, and gathered my hair into a high ponytail. In the mirror I saw him lift his eyes from the counter and let them stick to my ass.

I started on the treadmill for twenty minutes. Then I got on the bike. By then, he was already standing beside me, talking.

—Want me to help you with the weights?

—Weights aren’t on today’s plan.

—I’ll help anyway.

I agreed.

***

What happened after that wasn’t as fast as it sounds, but it wasn’t slow either. Every time I bent down to lift the weight, he stood behind me. At first he left two fingers’ worth of space. Then one. Then nothing. I felt his bulge against my body, hard, trapped by his shorts, his cock outlined along the length of my thigh. I didn’t move. I exaggerated the next descent and brushed directly against him with my ass, rubbing myself slowly, feeling his cock swell against the fabric of my leggings. I heard him inhale through his nose.

—Do you know what you’re doing? —he asked me, his voice a little rougher now, his hands already on my waist, his fingers sliding down to the base of my ass.

—More or less.

—More or less doesn’t work for me.

—I do know.

He rested his nose against the back of my neck and breathed into my throat. He gripped my hips with a calm that gave me goose bumps and pressed me against his cock until I could feel every inch of that hardness in the crack of my ass. I was wet. My thong was sticking to my pussy. I didn’t know when the boys had left. When I looked again, the room was empty.

—Do you do private training? —I asked him, still bent over, still with his erection pressed against me.

—I do it very hard.

—I want to try it.

He took me to the storage room that also served as his office. It was a small room, with a long sofa against the wall, a solid wood desk, and a gamer chair that looked out of place. The light was yellow, dim. It smelled of clean concrete and men’s cologne.

He locked the door. He didn’t wait. He gently shoved me against the desk, kissed me like he’d been putting it off for a whole week, his tongue going in and out of my mouth, and lifted me up to sit on top of the papers. He dragged his tongue down my neck, lowered my bra straps, peeled off my T-shirt in one clean motion. He sucked one whole breast into his mouth, bit my nipple until a moan slipped out of me, then did the same to the other. He slid his hand under my leggings, moved my thong aside, and ran two fingers through my open cunt, from top to bottom, unhurried.

—You’re soaked —he told me in my ear.

—I’ve been like this for a while.

He sank his fingers all the way in and curved the tips against my inner wall. I threw my head back and arched my hips to ask for more. He gave it to me: three fingers, a slow rhythm, his thumb against my clit. I was about to come when he pulled his hand away and licked his fingers in front of me, looking me in the eye. Then he took off his shirt. The torso was impressive. Not gym impressive: labor impressive, years impressive.

—I’ve got a better place for this —he said, squeezing one of my breasts—. Come on.

—Not here?

—Not here. The other trainer’s about to come in. And I want you longer than I’ve got time for.

***

He lent me a jacket so it wouldn’t show that I was wearing only the sports bra. We went out the back door. He had an old but immaculate motorcycle. He lived ten blocks away, in a single-story house with a porch covered in wisteria. As soon as we got inside, the clothes started disappearing on the way to the living room. We didn’t say a word. I knelt without being asked, yanked down his shorts and boxers in one pull, and his cock jumped into my face, hard, with a thick vein running all the way along it and a drop of fluid hanging from the tip.

It was bigger than I expected. Thicker, above all. I put it against my cheek to measure it, saw it rise above my cheekbone, and made him give a nervous laugh. I grabbed it with my hand and couldn’t fit my hand around it completely. I looked at him for a second, not taking it in my mouth yet, sizing him up. I ran my tongue from the base of his balls to the tip, slowly, and lingered on the head, sucking it like it was candy. I bit the skin of the pulled-back foreskin slowly. I spit on it and spread the saliva with my hand, squeezing hard, twisting my wrist over the tip.

He grabbed my hair and pushed my head with one hand, not violently but without asking permission. He shoved it down my throat. I gagged, my eyes filled with tears, and a stream of saliva slipped from the corner of my mouth. He laughed. Then he let me catch my breath again. I took it all the way in, with saliva, with patience, with everything I’d learned over the last few years. I grabbed his balls with my other hand and massaged them while I sucked him. I heard him pant for the first time, a heavy breath, the breath of a tired man. He pulled it out of my mouth and rubbed it all over my face, over my lips, over my cheeks, marking me with his saliva and mine.

—You’re a beast —he told me, admiringly.

I lifted my eyes and held his, with his cock resting against my cheek. I wanted him to see who was on the other side. Then I opened my mouth as wide as I could and ate him whole again, until my chin hit his balls and I felt my throat open to let him through.

He hauled me up by the hair, finished taking off my leggings and thong, and took me to the sofa in a strange position: torso up, legs hanging toward the floor, head almost touching the rug. He climbed over me with his knees on either side of my face and kept fucking my mouth from above, this time from a different angle, his cock going in and out with that slow, deep rhythm that was hunting for my throat. I held onto his pecs with my hands, stuck out my tongue so the tip would brush it, licked his balls when he lowered them. I felt a desperate tingling between my legs, my pussy dripping onto the sofa upholstery.

—Want it? —he asked, gripping my neck with a firm hand but not squeezing.

I nodded.

He squeezed a little harder, until my voice caught.

—I asked you something.

—Yes —I said, with all the air I could—. Fuck me.

He let me have it.

He climbed off the sofa, pulled my ankle to reposition me, spread my legs wide open. He stayed there for a second, looking at me like that, open, breathing hard, my cunt bright and exposed under the yellow light. He bent down and ran his whole tongue over me, from bottom to top, burying it between my lips. He sucked my clit until I screamed, pushed his tongue inside me, bit my lips slowly. Then he straightened up, grabbed his cock with his hand, ran it through my cunt to coat it with my juices, and went in all at once. Not little by little. He sank all the way in on the first thrust and I let out a scream with nothing pleasurable in it, a hoarse scream of pure surprise. He smiled. I dug my nails into his forearm.

—Hold on —he told me—. Hold on for me.

And I did.

He started with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, hitting something deep inside me that made white spots flare in my vision. Every stroke tore a new moan from me. After two minutes, the pain was gone. After five, I was the one pushing, lifting my hips to slam them against his. Somewhere in my life I’d learned that a body gets used to almost anything if you choose to let it. I was getting used to it. The sound of his pelvis against my skin filled the living room, a wet slapping noise, the sound of my pussy gushing around that cock. The sofa creaked. A patch of sunlight came through the window and landed right on my left eye and I didn’t bother moving.

He put my legs on his shoulders, bent me almost in half, and kept fucking me from higher up, each thrust deeper than the last. He spat between my breasts and smeared the saliva with his open hand. He tugged my nipple while he fucked me. He licked my mouth. He bit it.

—On your knees —he ordered after a while.

I arranged myself across the sofa, holding onto the backrest, ass raised, offering it to him. Behind him, a large mirror was leaning against the wall, not yet hung. I saw myself. Hair messed up, breasts bouncing, mouth half open, strings of saliva running down my chin. I saw him too, behind me, huge against my body, his cock shining with my fluids, looking at the same thing I was looking at. That was the moment I realized I no longer cared about going back to the gym to work out.

—Put it in —I told him, moving my hips.

—Ask nicely.

—Please. Please put all of it in me.

He shoved it in hard. He drove it in to the hilt and I screamed with my face buried in the backrest. He grabbed my wrists and crossed them behind my lower back, holding them there with one hand. I was a puppet dangling from his hands, my body begging for more, my head empty. With the other hand he slapped my ass, then again, until it was red. He pressed his thumb against my asshole, not going in, just pressing, and I bit down on him with my whole body. He was moving with a rhythm he hadn’t improvised. He’d done this many times. With many. I didn’t care. In that minute, it was me.

—Who’s the slut? —he asked, giving me another slap.

—I am.

—Louder.

—I’m your slut —I told him, my face flattened against the backrest.

I came twice in a row, one stronger than the other. The first hit me with a long shudder, with my pussy clamping around the cock in spasms I couldn’t control. He didn’t stop: he kept fucking me through the orgasm, never slowing down, until the second one hit from deeper inside and left my legs so weak he had to hold me against the backrest so I wouldn’t fall. When he came, he did it screaming. A deep scream, almost angry. He drove his hands into my hips, sank all the way in, and stayed there, throbbing. I felt the heat inside me, the long spurt, and then the dripping as he pulled out slowly, still hard, while the semen started running down the inside of my thigh.

I stayed on my knees, head resting on the sofa, breathing as if I’d run five kilometers. I ran two fingers through my pussy to gather what was dripping and brought them to my mouth, looking at him. He sat beside me, naked, his cock still half-mast, and ran a hand over his face.

—You’re going to come whenever I tell you to —he said, still panting.

—We’ll see.

—You’re going to come.

I looked at him. He was forty-seven, as I learned later. A daughter my age living in La Plata. A recent divorce and a business that was doing well. I was twenty-four, had a boring routine, and a backyard with chickens. But that afternoon, in his living room, we both had the same thing: a lot of desire not to leave.

—Come here —I told him—. Again.

He came. He didn’t want to wait. He sat me on top of him, looking at me, and I speared myself down onto that cock that still had traces of both of us. I sank down slowly, feeling it open me again, until I was seated with all his weight inside me. I started moving in circles, my hands on his pecs, looking for the angle. He sucked my tits while I went up and down. That second time was different: slower, almost sweet at first, with our mouths pressed together, tongues playing, while I rode him at my own pace. Brutal at the end, when he flipped me face down, put a pillow under my hips, and shoved it into me against the sofa, crushing me with his whole body, grabbing my hair, fucking me with a different kind of fury than the first time. He made me come again and he came outside, over my back and ass, marking me white. When we were done, it was already night. He took me to the bathroom, cleaned me himself with a warm towel, dressed me slowly as if I were his property. He drove me on his motorcycle to three blocks from my house, the distance I asked for so no neighbor would see me getting off.

Before he left, he grabbed my chin.

—Tomorrow, at nine.

—Tomorrow, at nine —I repeated.

And the next day I went. And the day after that too. And the day after that. This story has a second part, because my older man, as I’ve already understood, isn’t the kind to let go quickly.