Trainer Corrects More Than Her Form

Skin cracked against skin—one sharp, slick smack, Allen’s palm landing flat on the sweat-soaked curve of Carmen’s hip—before either of them had managed a full breath. A hiss followed it, air sucked through her teeth. Then nothing but the vent above them humming its tired, endless note and the faint tick of a pipe in the cinderblock, the low vinyl bench sitting three steps behind them in the dark like it was waiting its turn.

“Hold still.” Allen’s voice came out of him low and scraped raw, right against the back of her ear. “Hips back. I’m resetting you.” He let the words sit there a beat, let her hear how badly he was lying, then added the part that actually mattered. “And keep your mouth shut. Dani’s on the desk. That door’s thin enough to hear her chewing gum.” His shirt was out on the floor somewhere, peeled off and thrown over a foam roller after his last client, and his bare chest was slick against the strip of her back above her sports bra. His cock was already thick and aching against the damp cotton of her shorts, trapped between his own waistband and the heat of her ass, and the professional in him was doing an outstanding job of pretending this was about her pelvic tilt. Fourteen years certified. Worst form correction of his career. Possibly the best. Carmen’s hips rolled back into him on her next shaky inhale and the thin, polite part of his brain that still cared about liability sat down and shut up.

Carmen’s thoughts fell apart around the span of his hand on her hip, fingers digging in deep enough that she’d be wearing the shape of them tomorrow. Reset. Right. The word should have been a bucket of cold water. Instead her cunt clenched around nothing, slick already soaking through the crotch of her shorts, and the sound of his breathing—harsh, held, furious with himself—made her bite the inside of her cheek until it stung. She tried to straighten up, some last reflex of decency. He didn’t let her.

Allen hooked two fingers into the elastic of her waistband where it had rolled over on itself during squats. That was the excuse. That was the whole flimsy story: the band had twisted, he was fixing it, trainers fixed things. He tugged the elastic flat along her left hip, slow, knuckles dragging over damp skin, and heard her breath catch and snag. Then the right hip. The fabric stuck to her sweat and peeled away with a soft tacky sound, and his fingers stayed inside the band a half second longer than any correction needed. A full second. He felt the exact moment it stopped being a fix—the way her weight shifted back into his fist instead of away from it, the tiny grind, the invitation she didn’t say out loud. His thumb slid down inside the elastic and found the top of the crease of her ass, bare and slick, and that was it. That was the tip. “Hands on the wall,” he said, and when she was slow about it he caught her left wrist and slapped it flat against the cinderblock himself. Then the right. One at a time, deliberate, her palms smacking the paint, until he had both of them gathered in one fist above her head and her whole body stretched out and pinned.

Carmen felt the paint cool under her palms and his fingers hot around both wrists, and the difference made her shake. He had her. Not the gentle guiding hand he used on the floor in front of the mirrors, not the two-finger tap on her lower back to cue her core. He had her strung up against a wall in the dark with his breath on her neck, and the sound she made—a wet, strangled little noise she tried to swallow halfway through—told them both exactly how much she wanted to be had.

“Shorts,” Allen said, one word, flat and certain. “Down. Now.” He didn’t wait for her to try it with her hands trapped. His free hand shoved the waistband over the swell of her ass, elastic snapping against the backs of her thighs with a crack that sounded like a gunshot in the tiny space, fabric scraping down sweat-tacky skin until it bunched just above her knees. She was bare from the small of her back to mid-thigh. He shoved his own shorts down one-handed, the waistband catching and holding at the thick of his thighs, and the slick slap of his cock springing free and landing against her ass made her knees buckle so hard he had to haul up on her wrists to keep her standing. Then he leaned in and ground the full heavy length of himself up through the crease of her, not inside, nowhere near inside yet, just hot pressure and friction, and the clap of his hips meeting her ass was too loud. Way too loud. He did it again anyway.

Carmen’s moan cracked in her throat and she drove her forehead against the wall to kill it. He was big. Not gym-locker-room-rumor big, actual, thick, heavy, the ridge of the head dragging through her folds every time he rolled his hips, catching on her slick and sliding, catching and sliding. She could feel a vein along the underside pulsing against her. Don’t come, she told herself. Don’t make a sound. Don’t let the girl at the desk hear you get fucked by your trainer in a supply closet full of foam rollers. The grip on her wrists tightened until her fingers went tingly and dumb.

“Quiet.” Allen’s order was shredded, barely voiced, all teeth. “You take what I give you and you stay silent. Understand?” She nodded, a jerky little bob of her head against the cinderblock. He rewarded her by sliding his hand around her front, two fingers parting her folds wide open, and tucked his cock up into the split of her so the underside rode directly over her clit. Then he rolled his hips. Slow. Deliberate. The glide was drenched. It sounded drenched—a soft, sticky click every time the head of him broke through her slick and pushed forward.

Carmen’s whole body jolted. The jolt turned into a shudder, and the shudder turned into her cunt clenching so hard she felt it in her stomach, a hot drop of pleasure that made her eyes slam shut and her teeth sink into her lower lip. She rocked into him. Couldn’t help it. The ridge under his crown caught her clit on the backstroke and she nearly screamed into the wall.

Allen felt her drip. Actually felt it—a hot trail of her running down his shaft and over his balls, her hips twitching, the little choked sounds she kept strangling halfway out. Those sounds were going to get them both fired. Or arrested. Or at minimum written up by a nineteen-year-old with a headset. He found he cared about exactly one thing, and that thing was whether she did what she was told. “Good girl,” he told her, mouth on the hinge of her jaw. “Stay pinned. Don’t you dare rub back until I say.” He held her there, wrists trapped, hips locked by his free hand, and fucked the soaked channel of her folds with short strokes that stopped just shy of entering, every pass painting him wetter, every pass making the slide louder. Her thighs trembled against his. His free hand went up under her sports bra, found a nipple already tight, and pinched it between knuckle and thumb until she bucked. The gasp she let out was tiny. He answered it by grinding harder, the head catching on her entrance every time and threatening to slip in, and the sound she swallowed next was his name.

“Allen—” It broke out of her on a whisper. He answered by moving. His fist stayed clamped around her wrists while his other hand shoved her hip, turning her, her shoulder scraping the wall, her shorts stretched tight between her knees so she stumbled through the half-turn and he caught her weight on his chest. Her wrists came down off the wall as she spun, and he transferred them—her left wrist into his left hand, her right into his right—and drove them both back up against the cinderblock on either side of her head. Her spine hit the wall. Her breath hit his mouth. And his cock, slick with her and jutting up between them, landed flat against the soft heat of her belly just under her navel, trapped between her stomach and his.

Carmen looked down between their bodies and almost lost it right there. He was pinning her by the wrists with both hands now, forearms braced, and his cock lay pressed against her belly shining with her own slick. Then he bent his knees. Dropped his hips a hand’s width down the wall with his forearms still locked, and the heavy shaft of him dragged down her stomach as he went, over her mound, until the head was angled under her. She shifted her thighs—awkward, the shorts binding her knees and letting her go only so far—got one foot wider, and tilted her pelvis forward until the thick ridge of him slid the last inch down out of the crease of her belly and notched between her legs. Right there. The underside of the shaft seated along her clit like it had been cut to fit. She rocked once and the vent above them seemed to stop humming for a second, replaced by the wet suck of her folds closing around him.

Allen started to grind. Slow at first, weight on his toes, rising out of the crouch so the length of him dragged along her slit and the head bumped the top of her mound, then sinking back down so the ridge raked her clit on the return. Up. Down. Up. Her hips started to answer, and he let them, because her cunt was sliding over him like a mouth, sloppy and hot and loud. Sweat ran down between her breasts and soaked the band of her bra. Sweat ran down his own back and dripped off his chin onto her collarbone. The sounds were constant now—skin on skin, the click and squelch of her soaked folds, his breath punching out against her lips every time she clenched. Her heel was hooked behind his calf. Her nipples were dragging on his bare chest through the damp mesh of her bra. He dropped his forehead to hers and held her eyes.

“Look at me while I use you,” he said. “Eyes open. You come when I say and not a second before, or I stop, I pull back, and you stand here dripping on this floor until Dani does her walkthrough.” Cocky. Cruel. His whole face was wet. He could feel her starting to flutter against the underside of his cock, her hips trying to chase a faster rhythm, her breath going short and high, and he denied her—slowed the grind to one long, heavy roll every three seconds, dragging her right up to the ledge and parking her there. “Not yet. You hold it. You ride my cock exactly like this until I decide you’ve earned the bench.”

Carmen was so close the air hurt in her lungs. Every slow roll pulled her clit along the ridge of him and every slow roll stopped before it tipped her. She could feel her own slick running down the inside of her thigh now, cooling on her skin. She could feel his heartbeat through his cock. Hold it. She held it. Her jaw was aching with the effort of staying shut, and some part of her that should have been mortified was instead thinking, with perfect clarity, that she’d never been this wet in her life.

Allen walked her backward. Three steps, a hobbled shuffle for both of them—her shorts dragging between her knees, his bunched at mid-thigh—his grip never leaving her wrists, his hips never losing contact. She rode his cock the whole way across the alcove, stumbling. The low bench hit the backs of her legs. He turned her one more time, faster now, no finesse, her wrists swinging around in his hands, and bent her over it. Her palms slapped the padded vinyl. He gathered both wrists under his left hand and pressed down, splaying her fingers wide against the bench and pinning them flat, knuckles white under his. He shoved her feet apart with the side of his own, one and then the other, as wide as the shorts would allow, until the fabric went taut as a rope between her knees and wouldn’t give another inch. Then he lined his cock up between her thighs from behind and rutted the slick split of her, still not inside, just long sliding strokes along her folds until the bench creaked in rhythm and her ass started to push back.

“Hands stay where I put them,” he ground out against the nape of her neck, voice shaking with what it was costing him not to bellow. “They move, I pull out and you watch me come on your back while you get nothing. Nod if you understand.” She was breathing like a sprinter. A sound started in her throat, and he clapped his free palm over her mouth before it finished.

Carmen nodded against his palm, fast, frantic, his fingers damp with her own spit. Her wrists burned where he was leaning his weight on them. Her shorts were cutting into the backs of her knees, the elastic stretched to its limit and biting deeper every time his thighs shoved against the insides of hers, demanding more room than the fabric would give. The vinyl of the bench was cool under her cheek and she could smell rubber and chalk and his sweat, and she had never, in her entire life, wanted anything the way she wanted him to stop teasing and shove in.

He took his hand off her mouth, gripped her hip, and notched the head of his cock at her entrance. Then he pushed. Not a slam. A slow, relentless shove, the crown stretching her open and popping past the resistance with a sound he felt more than heard, then the first inch, the second, her cunt gripping each one of them like it wanted to argue, then giving. Allen watched himself disappear into her by the thin strip of light under the door. Halfway. Three-quarters. He could feel every wet, clinging inch of her swallow him, and then his hips met her ass with a soft, final slap and he was seated to the root, balls flush against her, and the breath he’d been holding came out of him in a growl he caught in his teeth. “Breathe,” he told her. “Through your nose. Don’t you make a fucking sound.”

Carmen breathed through her nose. It was the only thing left in her that worked. He was so deep she felt the pressure of him up under her navel, a thick, full, stunned ache as her body scrambled to fit around him. Her cunt kept clenching in reflexive, stupid little pulses she couldn’t stop and every one of them made her feel the exact shape of him, the flare of the head, the veins, the heat. She could feel her slick seeping out around the base of him. The bench creaked under her chest as she shook. Through your nose. In. Out. Her knuckles were pressed so hard into the vinyl under his hand that they ached.

Allen pulled out slow, almost all the way, the drag of her gripping him making a long, sucking sound in the quiet, and then pushed back in just as slow. Again. Deep, unhurried, the full stroke, grinding at the bottom of each one so his hips rolled against her ass and his cock pressed up hard against her front wall. “Hips up,” he said. “Higher. Tilt for me. Good—right there. Keep them there.” The adjustment tipped her ass up and the next slow stroke went deeper and she made a tiny sound in her chest that he felt vibrate through her ribs. He didn’t punish it. He did it again, because he was a professional and it was clearly a cue that worked.

Then the rhythm broke. Carmen felt it the second it changed—his hand on her hip clamping down, his weight shifting forward, and the slow drag turning into short, hard, hammering strokes that barely pulled back before they drove in again. The sound was savage. Skin clapping on skin, fast and flat, the bench legs knocking against the floor, her own slick squelching every time he bottomed out. Sweat was dripping off him now, off his jaw, off his bare chest, landing hot on the small of her back and running down her sides. His balls were slapping her clit on every thrust. She bit the vinyl. Actually bit it, teeth sinking into the padded edge of the bench, because the scream rising in her throat was the size of the whole building.

“Louder than that and we’re done.” Allen’s voice was all grit and air. He hauled her pinned hands an inch up off the vinyl by the wrists, then slammed them back down flat, hard enough that her palms smacked, and stopped moving entirely—buried to the hilt, hips locked against her, and simply ground. Circles. Slow and heavy, his pelvis mashed against her ass, the head of his cock rubbing hard and deep against the spot that made her legs start to fold. “You don’t come. You don’t move. You don’t breathe different. You take me like this until I tell you. Tell me you understand.” She couldn’t speak. She nodded against the bench. “That’s my girl.” And then he started again, three deep strokes and a grind, three deep strokes and a grind, until the pipe ticking in the wall behind them lost the rhythm and so did he.

Carmen was a single pulled nerve. She couldn’t tell where her cunt ended and his cock started. She couldn’t feel her hands. There was sweat in her eyes and his sweat on her back and her own slick on her thighs, and every three strokes he stopped to grind and every time he stopped she thought she would die. She wasn’t going to make it. He knew it. She could hear it in the way his breath had gone ragged and uneven against her hair, in the stutter that was starting in his hips.

Allen let go of her hip and came down over her. Chest to her back, his full weight settling on her, his stomach to her spine, his thighs wedged hard between hers and driving them wide. His left hand never left her wrists. His right arm shot forward and braced against the bench past her head, and that put the thick ball of his right shoulder riding low over her face, close enough that she could have turned and put her mouth on it. His own head went the other way, dropping down and to the left, his cheek skidding on hers as he went, until his mouth was tucked into the bare curve where her neck ran into her shoulder on the side the bench left open. He fucked her like that, draped over her, twisted across her back, short deep strokes that drove her into the padding, and he spoke straight into her skin. “Take it,” he said. “Every inch. Right now. You come on my cock and you stay silent while you do it. Milk me. Do it. Do it now.”

Carmen came with her jaw locked. It started as a hot, dropping pressure low in her belly and then her cunt seized—not a flutter, a lock, muscle clamping down around him in hard rhythmic pulses that dragged him deeper and felt like they were trying to crush him. The scream came up out of her chest and hit her closed teeth and had nowhere to go. Her throat worked around it, swallowing, swallowing, her whole body gone rigid from her toes to her trapped fingers, her back bowing up under his weight. She lifted her cheek off the vinyl the only inch his weight allowed, turned her face up into the shoulder braced over her, and sank her teeth into the meat of it. Hard. Harder than she meant to. Skin gave under her teeth with a small wet pop and salt flooded her tongue and she didn’t let go, couldn’t, because her teeth were the only thing keeping the sound inside her. The bench shook under both of them. Her thighs were trembling so violently her knees jerked inward and slammed against the hard brace of his legs wedged between them and were stopped there, straining, the elastic of her shorts gone slack and useless around her knees while his thighs held her open and her legs tried to buckle and couldn’t. Her eyes were open and she saw nothing but his skin and the dark beyond it.

Allen felt her teeth break him open and felt her cunt wring down around his cock and both of them pulled the orgasm out of him at the same instant. It hit him from the base of his spine outward, a full-body lurch with no brakes on it. His mouth was already open against the side of her neck and the roar that wanted out would have brought Dani through the door headset and all—so he crushed it. Drove his face harder into that slick, salty curve and bit down on his own sound, lips pressed flat to her skin, the growl trapped in his chest and vibrating there until his ribs ached with it. His hips jerked. Once, twice, hard and uncontrolled, then a stuttering grind as he emptied into her in thick hot pulses he couldn’t have slowed if the building were on fire. His whole body shook with the effort of staying silent. His fist on her wrists clamped down. Sweat ran off his nose and down her throat. The hum of the vent, the tick of the pipe, and the wet, smacking aftershock of his cock still jerking in her as her cunt kept clenching—that was all there was.

They stayed pinned. Neither of them moved to make it otherwise. Allen’s face was still buried in her neck, his breath coming hot and uneven against the wet skin there, and his cock twitched inside her every few seconds and she clenched every time it did. Carmen’s jaw unlocked by slow degrees and her teeth came out of his shoulder, and her cheek dropped back to the vinyl, and from there, eyes rolled up, she could just see the mark she’d left—a ragged oval of indents on the ball of his shoulder, two of them welling dark. Her blood, or his. Both, probably. His hand hadn’t loosened on her wrists. It didn’t look like it was going to. On the other side of the door the desk phone started ringing, a flat electronic trill that cut off, started again, and then Dani’s voice, bored and bright, picked it up and said the name of the gym.

Allen lifted his head half an inch out of her neck. His voice was ruined, scraped flat, and still absolutely in charge. “Don’t you fucking move. We’re not done pretending this was a correction until I say we are.”

Outside, Dani laughed at something the caller said, and her sneakers squeaked across the floor toward the alcove, and the bench creaked once under the two of them as neither moved at all.