I signed up because the mirror was starting to bullshit me.
Office chair for eight hours straight. Beers on Friday and Saturday with the guys. Takeout when I was too wiped to cook anything that wasn’t delivered in a greasy bag. That slow creep of softness around my middle had turned into something I couldn’t suck in anymore. Shirt collars felt tighter. Waistband dug in when I sat. I caught myself in the bathroom mirror one morning, twisting sideways, trying to convince myself the love handles were just lighting. They weren’t. I hated how pathetic it felt to care that much.
The gym ad hit my feed late one night while I scrolled in bed. Results or your money back. Before and after shots of guys who looked like they lived in the weight room. And Brock. Six three of solid muscle, thick veined arms crossed over his chest, black tank so tight it looked painted on every ridge of his pecs and abs. Constant five o’clock shadow that made him look like he’d just rolled out of bed after fucking someone senseless. Deep voice in the promo clip that rumbled through my phone speakers and made my stomach do a weird flip even though I told myself it was just intimidation. Just the idea of someone that built kicking my ass into shape.
I booked the intro session before I could talk myself out of it.
First time I walked in he was wiping down a barbell with a rag. Black tank. Gray shorts that hugged his thighs. Sweat already beading on his neck even though the AC was blasting. He looked up. Smiled that half smirk that showed a flash of white teeth.
“Logan right?”
“Yeah man.”
“Cool. Let’s get you assessed.”
He led me through the main floor to the private training area in the back. Mirrors on three walls. Scale in the corner. Tape measure hanging from a hook. The place smelled like rubber mats and faint bleach and something sharper underneath it. Male sweat maybe. He had me strip down to my underwear for the body fat calipers. Cold metal pinching skin at my chest, my sides, just above my hip bone. His hands were warm. Steady. Professional as fuck. But every time his fingers brushed my lower abs or the crease where thigh met hip I felt heat crawl up my neck and settle in my face.
“Leaner than you think,” he said. Voice low. Gravelly. “We can get you shredded fast if you show up and actually listen.”
I nodded. Swallowed. Cock twitched once in my underwear when he pressed the caliper just above my waistband. I blamed the cold pinch. Nothing else.
We started training that week. Three sessions booked. Mornings mostly because my work let me flex hours. But the third one he moved to evening.
“Late nights work better for me anyway,” he said over text the day before. “Gym’s dead after eight. More focus. No distractions.”
I showed up at eight fifteen. Parking lot empty except for his black truck parked crooked in the handicap spot. Inside the overhead lights were already off. Only emergency strips glowing along the floor and the mirrors catching faint blue from the exit signs. Brock was waiting by the squat rack in his usual gear. Tank clinging to every ridge of his chest. Shorts riding high on thick thighs. Five o’clock shadow darker in the low light. He looked bigger like this. More solid.
“You’re late, Logi.”
“Sorry. Traffic was shit.”
He chuckled. Deep sound that vibrated in my chest. “Means we go harder tonight bro.”
Something about the way he said it made my pulse kick up a notch. I laughed it off. Shook my head like it was nothing. Dropped my bag and started warming up.
Dynamic stretches first. Arm circles. Leg swings. High knees. Brock circled me slowly. Correcting form. Big hands landing on my shoulders to pull them back. On my hips to square them. Thumb brushing the top of my waistband once when he adjusted my stance for lunges.
“Lower back flat,” he said. Palm pressing between my shoulder blades during cat cows on the mat. Then sliding down. Flat against my lower back. Thumb dipping just under the waistband again. “Feel the activation here. Right in the glutes.”
My breathing hitched. Cock stirred in my jock. I told myself it was the blood flow from stretching. The warm up. Nothing more. Just physiology.
Squats next.
He spotted me from behind. Close enough that his chest brushed my back every time I hit bottom. Bulge pressing firm against my ass through our shorts. Not subtle. Deliberate pressure. Heat radiated right through the fabric. I froze mid rep. Barbell trembling on my shoulders.
“Keep going,” he growled low. Right against my ear. “Feel that burn. Push through it.”
I forced the rep up. Legs shaking. Not just from the weight. Cock thickening against the pouch of my jock. Pre starting to wet the fabric. I blamed the pump. The endorphins. The fact that I hadn’t jerked off in two days because work had me slammed. Anything but the hard length grinding against me from behind.
Deadlifts.
He stood even closer now. Hands sliding to my hips for stability. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. Pulling me back slightly so my ass ground against his crotch on every pull. Friction building with each rep. Obvious now. His cock thickening behind me. Mine leaking steadily into my jock. Mind racing in circles.
This is just training.
He’s straight.
It’s nothing.
Professional touch.
But my hole twitched. Once. Involuntary. Like it knew something my brain refused to admit.
Cardio finisher. Treadmill sprints.
Brock stood right beside the machine. Counting reps out loud. Breath hot on the side of my neck every time he leaned in to check my form.
“Faster. Push. Ten more seconds.”
I stumbled on the last interval. Legs gave out. Belt kept running. He caught me. One arm snaking around my waist. Hand splayed low on my stomach. Pinky brushing the happy trail just above my waistband. Held me steady while I panted and the treadmill slowed.
His grip lingered. Too long. Thumb tracing a slow lazy circle over my abs through the shirt. I could feel his heartbeat against my back. Steady. Strong.
I looked down. Shorts tented. Obvious bulge. No hiding it in these thin compression shorts.
Brock glanced down too. Saw it. Chuckled deep in his throat.
“Looks like you’re getting a different kind of pump tonight bro.”
I laughed. Nervous. Forced. “Yeah. Uh. Blood flow.. I guess.”
He didn’t let go right away. Hand stayed low. Pressing just enough to feel how hard I was. How the pre had soaked through.
“Good work tonight Logan.”
“Thanks man.”
The session should have ended there.
He stepped back. Finally. Rolled his shoulders like he was shaking something off.
“One more thing before cooldown.”
Walked to the front door. Locked it with a loud metallic click. Double checked the bolt. Turned the key once more for good measure.
Lights dimmed further. He hit a switch near the rack. Overhead fluorescents dropped to nothing. Just the mirrors catching faint blue from the exit signs and the red glow of the emergency lights along the baseboards. Gym felt smaller suddenly. Hotter. Air thicker.
He turned back to me. Towered. Six three of muscle blocking the only way out.
“You’ve been leaking all night haven’t you?”
My mouth went dry. Tongue stuck to the roof.
“What?”
“Don’t fuckin’ lie bro.”
Brock just grinned. Slow. Dangerous. Eyes locked on mine.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Towering. The emergency lights catching the sweat still shining on his neck. His breathing was steady. Controlled. Mine wasn’t.
He looked down at himself. Slow. Deliberate. One big hand dropped to the front of his gray shorts. Palm sliding over the thick outline of his cock there. Rubbing once. Twice. The fabric stretched tight. Obvious bulge thickening under his own touch.
Then he looked back at my crotch. “Then why the fuck are you rock hard bro?”
I followed his gaze. Down.
My cock was standing straight up inside my compression shorts. No hiding it. The head pushed against the waistband. A dark wet spot spreading right at the tip. Pre had soaked through enough that the material clung. Outlined every inch. No excuse. No plausible deniability. Just blatant. Throbbing. Betraying me.
“Shit… I… didn’t…”
Words died in my throat.
Brock kept palming himself through the shorts. Slow circles. No shame. No rush. Just letting me watch. His cock jumped visibly under his hand. Thickening more. The head pushing up toward the drawstring. A small damp spot forming there too.
“I am hard as fuck too man.”
His voice came out rougher now. Lower. Like gravel dragged over concrete.
He took one step closer. Then another. Closing the gap until I could smell him again.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought he could hear it.
He stopped inches away. Hand still on his bulge. Squeezing once. Hard. A low groan slipped out of him. Barely audible. But it hit me like a punch.
His eyes flicked to my mouth. Then back up.
“Come here Logi.”
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