Gym Daddy!

This story is, oddly enough, a love letter to my gym.

It's located in a posh enclave of my city, an affluent neighborhood with beautiful amenities to match, where nannies and twenty-dollar salads abound. The gym itself is located in a nondescript building, and it's gorgeous. It has views for days, clean, modern equipment, and always smells like eucalyptus. Naturally, it's quite terrifying on a social level. Tall, blonde and toned is the norm. Or petite, brunette and toned. I suppose there are also a few average, redhead and toned.

You get the idea.

The women here all prance around in expensive outfits, working out at a level of intensity I could never achieve, and always manage to look as if they never released a single droplet of sweat.

I am one of the few curvy members, and by their standards, my BMI is totally unforgivable. But I like working out here because it's close to my job, and makes me feel a little fancy. Thankfully one of the perks at my job is that they subsidize my membership.

Another one of the perks is Alex, my trainer.

He's one of the only black men in this white-washed neighborhood, but that's not the reason he stands out. He's tall and drop-dead handsome; a quintessential strong but silent type. I can tell that all the women at the gym pay extra attention to him. In any given group training session, I'll catch them twirling their hair while staring up at him, or stretch suggestively with their asses facing in his general direction. But he never seems to care. If he notices, he never shows it.

However, none of the really rich socialites train with him. The gazelles who dominate the gym typically prefer Kira, a lithe, toned, androgynous woman with a reputation for making you sweat more than anyone else. She keeps their bodies strong and appetites suppressed with a tight regime, and if you don't follow it, you're out. If you're anybody at all, you train with Kira.

I train with Alex on occasion. It's an indulgence I allow myself from time to time, partially because I like the individual attention but mostly because he is so fucking yummy. It's enjoyable to watch him work with his clients while I schlep my thirty extra pounds of junk around the weight room, but it's even better to have him up close and personal. He's quite reserved, but also laidback and funny. Over time, we've become a little friendly. Sometimes he even waves at me in passing at the water cooler. He knows I can't afford his personal sessions too often, but he's generous with his time whenever we cross paths in the main gym. I won't lie, containing my curiosity is not easy. I ask him about his life, his social activities, his family. We joke around a little. Sometimes, when I feel bold, I make offhand remarks about my sex life, my fetish-y interests, in passing:

Don't be nice to me, Alex. I need to be told what to do here.

Love those leggings on her, they're a bit bondage-y.