3 hours

by Red Velvet

Could you imagine anything less sexy than a date at the gym? Unless you’re a muscle Mary or an aspiring PE teacher, hell hath no fury like an overweight woman in ill-fitting lycra. So the saga began when the object of my desires (the ‘eat sushi off my…frame’ lady mentioned in 12 hours) enticed me for a free personal training session at a rather up market gym at a West London postcode that shall remain unnamed.

So I scramble for a Sweaty Betty ensemble kipping at the bottom of my underwear drawer, and hot foot it down, turbo charged with Powerade and an unhealthy amount of anxiety. 19.47 and she’s working out, so I nonchalantly sashay past cardio to the boys’ arena where she’s pumping free weights brushing a micro-bead of sweat off her pristine features. I’m already moist with desire, yet haven’t exerted one muscle aside from my over-active brain. So she gets me down on the floor doing the plank which I complete nearly successfully, the last 10 seconds producing a smile/grimace when she blinks. Not for long, as she whips me onto one arm for a side plank, while my attempts to flex the dyke muscle take a serious battering as she aligns my quivering hips. Thankfully the rest of the session is easier as I tense my rather stronger thighs to 35 kgs while she attempts a spot of weightlifting like some pygmy Baltic superstar. I am relieved.

After all that exertion, why not splish-splash in a 20 metre pool luminated in cobalt chrome? She takes her time joining me in the jacuzzi, I try to busy myself by counting ceiling tiles from 20.56 to 21.03 but it gets rather tiresome. Once she cascades into the water, I can’t really help but touch her fleetingly, blaming the ripples for every caress. From there, she offers me goggles to breast stroke lengths. I politely decline. A mini workout later and we’re in the sauna, where inexplicably and overwhelmingly erotically she decides to loosen up my right hamstring by placing it between her taut hamstrings and rubbing it down. I have no fucking idea what she is doing, but the two hairy blokes on the top bench certainly don’t seem to mind as I nearly pass out from the sheer horn and 90°C heat.

Sensing that I was distinctly losing my cool and ability to walk in a straight line, she ushers me into the showers where I become ridiculously British. I opt to go into an adjacent shower, in essence a clever, unassuming move. I slap my bikini atop the cubicle partition. She follows suit, removing both top and bottoms. I steal them bashfully. She makes a throwaway comment about her brand of shampoo being superior to mine, I give myself a two second talking to before scooting over asking her to put a squirt in the balm of my palm. But no, she doesn’t want to give me her native shampoo. Instead she upgrades, asking me for a full body cream scrub with her sponge.

‘Holy mother of Moses!’ I think, this is fast turning into a C-list porn plot, what should I do? Of course, I jump into her wet space wearing my towel and begin to rinse her down, first shoulders, neck then soap suds around each nipple. From there, finally the bubbles explode as does my heightened libido which (for a moment) is satisfied after weeks of longing. The corrugated partition shudders, as I thrust her hard against its steamy surface. The experience is all too brief, rudely interrupted by an irksome call on the tannoy, screeching ‘would X, please come to reception?’ at 22.47. In my C-list porn plot, this would have been tweaked to ‘would Red Velvet please cum to heaven again?’ but alas it wasn’t to be. Follow up gym session and complete consultation, any takers?