The Weight of Want
The membership card felt slick between my fingers, still warm from the laminator. I turned it over twice, reading my own name printed in blocky sans-serif beneath the gym’s logo—IRON ASCENT ATHLETIC—a stylized mountain peak that looked more like a bicep flexing if you squinted.
“First time?”
I looked up. The woman behind the front desk had a ponytail so tight it pulled at the corners of her eyes. She was already reaching for a clipboard before I could answer.
“Yeah. Signed up online last night.”
“Smart. Avoided the enrollment fee.” She clicked a pen. “I need you to fill out the waiver and the fitness goals sheet. There’s a spot on the back where you can indicate interest in personal training.”
Personal training.
The phrase sat in my chest like a stone. I’d been circling the idea for months—ever since Ryan started making those little comments. You’re looking good, babe. Pause. But imagine if you really bulked up. He’d squeeze my arm, find it wanting, and his mouth would tighten at the corner before he caught himself and smiled.
Ryan. My boyfriend of four years. Account manager at Morrison & Fitch. Brown hair, green eyes, shoulders that filled out a button-down in a way that made secretaries linger at his desk. He bottomed exclusively, which worked out because I’d never had the slightest interest in flipping. My cock was decent—seven inches, respectable thickness, curved just enough to hit the spot—and I knew how to use it. Ryan never complained.
But lately.
Lately he’d been scrolling Instagram a little too long on certain pages. Fitness influencers with traps like mountain ranges and quads that strained their shorts. I’d lean over and he’d lock his phone.
“Just scrolling,” he’d say.
I wasn’t stupid.
So here I was. Iron Ascent Athletic. The kind of gym that smelled like chalk and effort and had more squat racks than treadmills. I’d done the commercial gym thing before—Planet Fitness, with their pizza Mondays and lunk alarms—but that wasn’t going to get me where I wanted to go.
Where I wanted to go was: bigger. Thicker. The kind of body that made Ryan’s thumb pause mid-scroll.
I filled out the forms. Checked the box next to Personal Training Interest. Wrote “muscle gain, upper body focus, 15-20 lbs bulk” in the goals section. My handwriting looked small and uncertain.
“All set.” The receptionist—her nametag said MARLA—scanned the paperwork and typed something into her computer. “We’ve got a few trainers with openings. You want a consultation?”
“Sure.”
“Let me see who’s available.” She clicked around. “Marcus has a slot this afternoon, actually. Four o’clock. He’s one of our most requested.”
Something in the way she said most requested snagged my attention.
“He’s good?”
Marla looked up at me over her monitor. Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes. Amusement, maybe. “He gets results.”
I went home, showered, changed into my best gym clothes—black Nike shorts that hit mid-thigh, a fitted grey tank that showed off what little definition I had—and tried not to think about why I was nervous.
Ryan texted at 2:14: Meeting ran long. Ordering in tonight?
Me: Sure. Thai?
Ryan: Pad thai extra peanuts. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I didn’t mention the personal training consultation. It felt like something I needed to do alone.
The gym was quieter at four. The after-work rush hadn’t started yet. Someone was doing deadlifts in the corner, the barbell clanking against the platform in rhythmic intervals. A woman with purple hair was doing something complicated with resistance bands. The overhead speakers played something bass-heavy and aggressive.
Marla pointed me toward the training area. “Marcus will meet you by the turf.”
The turf. A strip of artificial green near the back of the gym, lined with sleds and battle ropes and heavy bags. I stood there feeling conspicuously average, watching a guy do farmer’s carries with dumbbells that probably weighed more than my entire body.
“You’re the four o’clock.”
The voice came from behind me, low and unhurried. I turned.
Marcus didn’t walk so much as he arrived. The space around him seemed to reorganize itself to accommodate his presence. He was black, maybe early thirties, with skin the color of polished mahogany and a shaved head that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. His jaw looked like it had been carved from something denser than bone.
But his body.
Jesus Christ.
I’d seen muscular men before. I’d watched bodybuilding competitions on YouTube. I knew what a physique looked like when someone dedicated their life to the craft.
Marcus made them look like beginners.
His shoulders were boulders wrapped in a black tank top that strained across his chest. His arms hung at his sides with the kind of mass that made his lats push them outward, creating a V-taper so dramatic it seemed almost cartoonish. Veins ran down his forearms like river systems on a topographical map. His waist was narrow, his quads thick enough that his gym shorts—grey, fitted—could barely contain them.
And the shorts.
The shorts were doing very little to hide what was underneath.
I forced my eyes up to his face. “Yeah. That’s me. Alex.”
“Marcus.” He extended his hand. His grip was dry and warm and completely enveloped mine. “Saw your intake form. Muscle gain, upper body focus.”
“That’s right.”
He didn’t release my hand immediately. His thumb pressed into the meat of my palm, not quite a massage, not quite an assessment. “You’ve been lifting before.”
“Some. Nothing serious.”
“I can tell.” He let go. “Good foundation. Decent shoulder structure. But you’re not eating enough and you’re probably doing too much isolation work.”
I blinked. “You can tell that from shaking my hand?”
Marcus smiled. His teeth were very white. “I can tell a lot from looking at a body. Comes with the job.” He gestured toward the turf. “Let’s do a movement assessment. I want to see how you squat, hinge, push, pull. Then we’ll talk programming.”
The movement assessment took twenty minutes. Marcus had me do bodyweight squats while he watched from different angles, his arms crossed over his chest. He corrected my hip position during hip hinges, his palm pressing flat against my lower back to cue the movement. He stood behind me during push-ups and tapped my shoulder blades with two fingers.
“Retract here. Don’t let your shoulders round.”
“Like this?”
“Better. Two more.”
His presence behind me was a physical thing. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell him—sandalwood and clean sweat, not the acrid gym-sweat I associated with my own workouts but something earthier. Muskier.
When I finished the push-ups, I stood up too fast and nearly backed into him. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, solid as a wall, close enough that my shoulder blade brushed against his chest.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You’re fine.” He didn’t step back. “Let’s check your pull. Grab the TRX straps.”
The assessment continued. I did rows, lunges, planks. Marcus touched me constantly—adjusting my hips, repositioning my shoulders, tapping my core to cue engagement. Every touch was professional. Every touch lasted a half-second longer than it needed to.
Or maybe I was imagining it.
When we finished, he led me to a small office near the locker rooms. It was cramped—a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, posters of anatomy charts on the walls. Marcus sat behind the desk and gestured for me to take the other chair.
“So here’s what I’m seeing.” He pulled out my intake form. “You’ve got decent mobility. Your squat pattern needs work—you’re quad-dominant and your hips are tight. Your shoulders are mobile but unstable under load. You’ve got the raw material, Alex, but you need someone to put it together.”
“And that’s you.”
“That’s me.” He leaned back in his chair. The tank top rode up slightly, exposing a strip of his abdomen. Even relaxed, his abs were visible—thick blocks of muscle separated by deep grooves. “I train clients three to five times a week depending on their goals. For what you want—fifteen, twenty pounds of muscle—I’d recommend four sessions. Upper body push, upper body pull, lower body, full body. Plus nutrition coaching.”
“How much?”
He named a figure that made my eyebrows rise. I could afford it—my job as a financial analyst paid well—but it was still significant.
“That’s the premium package,” Marcus said. “It includes meal plans, weekly check-ins, and priority scheduling. But I’ll tell you what.” He leaned forward, forearms on the desk. The veins in his arms popped with the movement. “Let’s do a trial session. Tomorrow, same time. No charge. If you like how I work, we’ll talk packages.”
“That’s generous.”
“I’m not generous.” His eyes met mine. “I’m confident. You’ll sign.”
The way he said it—matter-of-fact, almost bored—sent something skittering down my spine. Not fear. Not attraction, exactly. More like the feeling of standing at the edge of a very high diving board.
“Tomorrow at four,” I said.
“Wear shorts. Loose ones. We’re doing legs.”
I stood. Marcus stayed seated, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Alex,” he said as I reached the door.
I turned.
“Bring a towel. You’re going to sweat.”
---
Ryan was already home when I got back, sitting on the couch with his laptop and a half-empty container of pad thai.
“How was the gym?” he asked without looking up.
I dropped my bag by the door. “Fine. They have a lot of equipment.”
“That’s what gyms are for.” He glanced at me, smiled. “You’re all flushed.”
“Did some assessment thing. Squats, push-ups, that kind of stuff.”
“Fun.” He returned to his laptop. “There’s pad thai in the fridge. I got you extra peanuts.”
I heated up the food and ate standing at the kitchen counter, watching the back of Ryan’s head. He was still in his work clothes—light blue button-down, grey slacks. His brown hair was getting long at the collar. He’d need a haircut soon.
“They have personal trainers,” I said.
“Mmhmm.”
“I might try one. Bulk up a little.”
Ryan’s fingers paused on the keyboard. Just for a moment. Then they resumed typing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. My shoulders are getting soft.”
“Your shoulders are fine.” But he didn’t say it with much conviction. His eyes flicked toward me, down, back to the screen. “If you want a trainer, get a trainer. You can afford it.”
“I have a trial session tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
I waited for him to say something else—to ask about the trainer, the cost, the schedule—but he’d already disappeared back into whatever spreadsheet was occupying his attention.
I finished my pad thai and went to bed.
---
Marcus was already on the turf when I arrived the next day. He was stretching, one arm pulled across his chest, the other holding it in place. His bicep bulged against his forearm. The muscle was so defined it looked like an anatomical diagram.
“Alex.” He released the stretch. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
“Good. First rule of training with me: early is on time.” He picked up a foam roller and tossed it to me. I caught it awkwardly against my chest. “Roll out your hips and your thoracic spine. Ten minutes. I’ll set up.”
I sat on the turf and worked the foam roller along my IT band. The sensation was borderline painful—tight fascia releasing under pressure. Marcus moved around the training area, loading plates onto a barbell, adjusting the height of the squat rack. His movements were efficient, practiced. Every now and then he’d glance at me, assess something, return to his setup.
When I finished rolling, he called me over to the squat rack.
“Today’s session is about establishing baselines. We’re going to do back squats, Romanian deadlifts, walking lunges, and leg press. I want to see your numbers before I design your program.”
“I haven’t squatted heavy in a while.”
“I’ll be right here.” He positioned himself behind the barbell. “Empty bar first. Just the forty-five. Show me your form.”
I ducked under the bar, positioned it across my traps, and unracked it. The weight was negligible but my form felt awkward, my body unsure of the movement pattern. I squatted down, tried to keep my chest up, drove through my heels.
“Again.”
I did five reps. Marcus watched in silence.
“Your knees are caving inward,” he said. “And you’re not hitting depth. Let me see your stance.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the individual pores on his nose, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Wider,” he said. “Bring your feet out another six inches.”
I adjusted.
“More. You’ve got long femurs, you need a wider stance to hit depth without rounding your lower back.”
I widened my stance further.
“There. Now squat.”
I descended. My hips felt more open, the movement smoother. When I hit parallel, Marcus’s hand pressed against my lower back.
“Keep your spine neutral. Drive up through your heels.”
I pushed up. His hand stayed on my back, tracking the movement.
“Better. Five more like that.”
We worked through the squat sets, adding weight incrementally. Marcus spotted me on every rep, his hands hovering near my torso, sometimes making contact to correct my form. His touch was never inappropriate. His touch was never accidental either.
When we moved to Romanian deadlifts, he stood so close behind me that I could feel the heat of his body against my back.
“Hinge at the hips,” he said. His voice was quiet, right near my ear. “Push your butt back like you’re trying to close a car door with your ass. Feel the stretch in your hamstrings.”
I hinged forward, keeping the barbell close to my shins.
“Slower. Control the eccentric.”
My hamstrings screamed. The stretch was deep and burning and I could feel sweat beading along my hairline.
“Good.” His hand landed on my hip. Heavy. Grounding. “Now drive forward. Squeeze your glutes at the top.”
I did. His hand stayed on my hip for three full reps before he removed it.
The session lasted an hour. By the end, my legs were trembling and my shirt was soaked through. I’d sweated through my shorts too—damp patches spreading down the grey fabric. Marcus handed me a towel and a bottle of water.
“Hydrate. Stretch. I’ll see you in the office when you’re ready.”
He walked away. I watched him go—the broad expanse of his back, the way his lats flared with each step, the impossible narrowness of his waist. His shorts clung to his glutes, the fabric pulling tight with every stride.
I looked down at my water bottle. Took a long drink. Tried not to think about how my heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the workout.
---
The office was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe Marcus was just bigger.
He’d changed shirts—the sweaty tank top replaced by a fresh one, also black, also straining. He was sitting behind his desk, writing something in a notebook. His handwriting was surprisingly neat.
“Sit down. Don’t worry about the sweat.”
I sat. My legs immediately started aching.
“First impressions,” Marcus said, putting down his pen. “You’re stronger than you look. Your squat is limited by mobility, not muscle recruitment. Your deadlift pattern is solid but your grip strength is weak—we’ll need to work on that. Your work ethic is good. You didn’t quit, even when I knew you wanted to.”
“I didn’t want to quit.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I admitted. “During the lunges, maybe.”
“Lunges are humbling.” He smiled. It softened his face, made him look younger. “They humble everyone. But you finished. That matters.”
He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. The posture stretched his tank top across his chest, the fabric pulling tight enough to reveal the outline of his pectoral muscles and the dark circles of his nipples.
I forced myself to look at his face.
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “Four sessions a week. Upper body push on Mondays, lower body on Tuesdays, upper body pull on Thursdays, full body on Fridays. I’ll give you meal plans, macros, supplement recommendations. In three months, you’ll be up fifteen pounds of lean mass. In six months, you’ll look like a different person.”
“I want that.”
“I know you do.” His eyes held mine. “But I need to know something first.”
“What?”
“Why are you really here?”
The question landed somewhere in my gut. I opened my mouth, closed it.
“I want to get bigger.”
“That’s what you wrote on the form. I’m asking the real reason.”
I thought about Ryan. About his thumb pausing on Instagram. About the way he’d said your shoulders are fine in a tone that meant the opposite.
“My boyfriend,” I said. “He’s... I think he wants someone bigger. Someone more muscular.”
Marcus didn’t react. Didn’t nod sympathetically or offer reassurance. Just watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“You’re trying to keep him,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m trying to be what he wants.”
“What if what he wants isn’t you?”
The words hit like a slap. I stiffened in my chair. “That’s why I’m here. To become what he wants.”
“No.” Marcus leaned forward, his arms dropping to the desk. The veins in his forearms popped. “You’re here to become what you want. The body is secondary. The mind has to change first. You walk in here looking like you’re apologizing for taking up space. Your shoulders round forward. Your eyes drop when someone looks at you too long. You’re a good-looking guy, Alex, but you carry yourself like you don’t believe it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I can build your body,” Marcus continued. “I can put fifteen pounds of muscle on you in three months. But if your mind stays the same, it won’t matter. You’ll still be the same guy who’s afraid his boyfriend is going to leave him for someone with bigger arms.”
“I’m not afraid.”
He tilted his head. “No?”
“No.”
Marcus smiled. It wasn’t soft this time. It was knowing. “Good. Then prove it. Sign the contract. Commit to the program. Let me build you.”
He slid a folder across the desk. Inside was the training agreement—four sessions a week, three-month minimum commitment, the premium package fee spelled out in black and white.
I signed it without reading the fine print.
Marcus watched me push the folder back across the desk. His smile widened slightly. “Welcome to Iron Ascent, Alex. We’re going to do great work together.”
He stood. I stood. We shook hands over the desk.
His grip lingered. His thumb pressed into my palm like before.
“First real session is Monday,” he said. “Four o’clock. Don’t be late. Don’t eat less than two hours before. Bring that towel.”
“I will.”
I turned to leave. My hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again.
“One more thing.”
I looked back.
Marcus had moved around the desk. He was leaning against it now, arms crossed, ankles crossed. The posture was casual but his eyes were not. They tracked down my body—slow, deliberate—and back up.
“Your boyfriend’s an idiot,” he said. “If he can’t see what’s already there.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. I left the office, walked through the gym, past the squat racks and the turf and the front desk where Marla was typing something on her phone. My legs were still shaking from the workout. My heart was shaking for entirely different reasons.
In the locker room, I sat on a bench and stared at the lockers for a long time.
---
The first week of training nearly killed me.
Monday’s upper body push session left my chest and shoulders so sore I couldn’t lift my arms above my head. Tuesday’s lower body workout had me walking sideways down stairs. By Thursday, I was so exhausted I almost canceled—but I showed up at 3:55, towel in hand, because I couldn’t stomach the thought of Marcus’s disappointment.
He didn’t acknowledge my dedication. Didn’t praise me for showing up. Just put me through the workout like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The sessions followed a rhythm. Warm-up, main lift, accessory work, finisher. Marcus corrected my form constantly—hand on my elbow, palm on my spine, fingers tracing the line of my shoulder blade to cue retraction. His touch was clinical. His touch was everywhere.
During one session, while I was doing lat pulldowns, he stood behind me and pressed two fingers into the muscles between my shoulder blades.
“You’re not activating here,” he said. “I want you to think about squeezing my fingers with your back.”
I tried. His fingers pressed deeper.
“Harder. Squeeze like you’re trying to crush something.”
I squeezed. The movement finally clicked—my lats engaging, the bar pulling down with new force. Marcus made a sound of approval low in his throat.
“There it is. Feel the difference?”
“Yeah.” I was breathing hard. His fingers were still between my shoulder blades.
“Good. Now ten more like that.”
He didn’t move his hand for the entire set.
After the workout, he had me stretch. I was lying on a mat, pulling my knee across my chest to stretch my glutes, when Marcus crouched beside me.
“Deeper,” he said. “Pull your knee toward your opposite shoulder.”
I pulled. The stretch intensified.
“Better.” He looked down at me. I was flat on my back, sweaty and exhausted. He was crouched above me, composed and massive. The angle emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck. His gym shorts were loose but gravity was doing certain favors, pulling the fabric against the shape of what was underneath.
I looked away fast.
“You’re making progress,” Marcus said. “I can see changes already. Your delts are popping more. Your traps are coming in.”
“It’s only been a week.”
“I told you. I get results.”
He stood, offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet with one smooth motion, his bicep barely flexing.
“Same time next week,” he said. “Eat more protein. I’m sending you a meal plan tonight.”
“Okay.”
He held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned and walked toward the office, his back a wall of muscle, his calves thick and defined below the hem of his shorts.
I went home. Ryan was working late. I ate chicken and rice alone at the kitchen counter and thought about Marcus’s hand between my shoulder blades.
---
Week two, things started shifting.
Not with my body—though that was changing too. My arms looked fuller, my chest slightly thicker. Ryan had noticed, had run his hand over my shoulder while we were watching TV and said, “You’re filling out.”
It was the way he said it. Surprised. Pleased. Curious.
But the bigger shift was with Marcus.
The touches got longer. The eye contact got heavier. He started standing closer during our sessions—close enough that I could feel his body heat, could smell the sandalwood and sweat and something else underneath. Something that made my mouth go dry.
He also started dressing differently.
The loose gym shorts were still there, but now he wore them lower on his hips, the waistband riding below what was clearly a very defined V-line. His tank tops got tighter, if that was possible, the fabric stretched so thin across his chest that I could see the striations in his pectoral muscles when he moved.
And he made sure I could see his cock.
It wasn’t subtle. Or maybe it was—subtle enough that I could never quite prove he was doing it on purpose. But he’d position himself during my sets so I had a direct sightline to his groin. He’d adjust his shorts in ways that made the outline unmistakable.
The outline was...
I didn’t have words for it.
I’d seen big dicks before. Porn existed. I knew what was possible.
Marcus’s was not possible.
It lay against his thigh like a third leg, thick and long and obvious even through the grey fabric of his shorts. When he moved, it moved—a heavy, pendulous weight that seemed to have its own gravity. The head was visible sometimes, a distinct ridge pressing against the material.
I tried not to look. I looked every time.
During our Friday full-body session, he demonstrated a hack squat while I watched. His shorts pulled tight across his glutes as he descended, then tighter across his front as he drove up. The outline of his cock was so vivid I could see the ridge of the head, the thick shaft, the heavy hang of his balls beneath.
“Your turn,” he said, stepping out of the machine.
I got into position, my face burning. My own shorts suddenly felt very tight.
“Knees out,” Marcus said. “Chest up. Drive through your heels.”
I did the set. When I finished, he was standing right beside the machine, close enough that his hip was level with my face. His cock was inches from my cheek, separated only by a thin layer of cotton.
“Good set.” He didn’t move away. “Form’s improving.”
“Thanks.” My voice came out strained.
“One more set. Then we’ll do calves.”
He stayed right there for the entire set. His cock inches from my face. Not moving. Not acknowledging it.
But he knew.
I knew he knew.
---
Week three, I noticed the changes in myself.
My body was transforming faster than I’d thought possible. My shoulders were wider, my chest thicker, my arms developing visible separation between the bicep and tricep. Ryan had started touching me more—casual touches on my arm, my back, my chest. He’d press against me in bed and his hand would wander, exploring the new terrain.
“You’re getting really big,” he said one night, his palm flat on my stomach, tracing the emerging outlines of my abs.
“That’s the point.”
“I know.” He kissed my shoulder. “I like it.”
But I also noticed other things. The way my eyes tracked to Marcus before I even realized I was looking. The way my pulse quickened when he touched me. The way I thought about him at night, lying next to Ryan, replaying the sessions in my head—his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the outline of his cock in those grey shorts.
I wasn’t attracted to him. I kept telling myself that.
I was with Ryan. I loved Ryan. We’d built a life together—four years, an apartment, routines and inside jokes and a future we talked about in vague but committed terms.
Marcus was just my trainer.
My very attractive, very touchy, very hung trainer who looked at me like he was imagining what I’d look like on my knees.
I wasn’t attracted to him.
But I was thinking about his cock. A lot.
---
Week four, everything broke open.
It was a Tuesday. Leg day. I was doing barbell hip thrusts on a bench, my upper back supported, the barbell across my hips, driving up against the resistance. Marcus was spotting me, standing at my feet, watching my form.
“Squeeze your glutes at the top,” he said. “Hold for two seconds.”
I thrust up, held, lowered. The weight was heavy—225 pounds across my hips—and the effort was showing on my face. Sweat dripped down my temples. My thighs were shaking.
“Three more.”
I did three more. On the last rep, I held at the top, my hips extended, my glutes clenched. Marcus looked down at me. His eyes traveled from my face down my body—my chest, my stomach, my hips, the barbell pressing across my groin.
“Good,” he said. “Rack it.”
I racked the bar and sat up, breathing hard. Marcus handed me a towel. His fingers brushed mine.
“You’re ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?”
He smiled. It was the knowing smile, the one that made me feel like he could see through my skin.
“More weight. New program. Tuesday’s session is going to get a lot harder.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” He stepped closer. “That’s what I like about you, Alex. You can handle more than you think.”
His hand landed on my shoulder. Squeezed. Slid down my arm, tracing the curve of my bicep.
“You’re getting big,” he said. “Another month, you’ll be turning heads everywhere you go.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Is it?” His hand dropped away. His eyes held mine. “Or is there something else you want?”
The question hung between us. The gym noise faded—the clanking weights, the bass-heavy music, the distant grunts of other lifters. It was just Marcus and me and the three feet of space between us.
“I should stretch,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
I got down on the mat. Marcus watched me for a moment, then walked toward the office. I stretched my hamstrings and tried to breathe normally.
My phone buzzed. A text from Ryan: Working late again. Order yourself dinner.
I stared at the screen. Then I looked toward the office door, behind which Marcus was probably writing notes in his neat handwriting, his massive body filling the small space.
I had a choice.
I could go home. Eat dinner alone. Wait for Ryan to come back at nine or ten, smelling of takeout and stress, too tired for anything but a peck on the cheek and maybe a handjob if I was lucky.
Or I could walk into that office.
I stood up. Grabbed my towel. Walked toward the locker room.
I didn’t go into the office. Not yet.
But I thought about it the whole way home.
---
The next Tuesday, Marcus was waiting for me on the turf. He wasn’t alone. There was another man with him—huge, white, with a thick beard and arms covered in tattoos. They were talking in low voices, laughing about something.
When Marcus saw me, he gestured me over.
“Alex, this is Dom. He trains here. We were just talking about you.”
“About me?” I looked at Dom. He was older—late thirties, maybe—with the kind of build that suggested years of heavy lifting. His t-shirt was sweat-stained, his gym shorts hanging low on his hips.
“Marcus says you’re making good progress,” Dom said. His voice was deep, rough. He looked me over with an expression that reminded me of Marcus. Assessing. Knowing.
“I’m trying.”
“He’s being modest,” Marcus said. “Alex is one of my best clients. Showed up with a decent foundation and now he’s really starting to transform.” He stepped closer to me, threw an arm around my shoulders. The weight of it was solid, grounding. “We were just talking about how important it is to have a strong training partner. Someone who pushes you.”
“Someone who knows what you need,” Dom added.
His eyes met Marcus’s. Something passed between them. Something I didn’t understand.
“Alex,” Marcus said, turning me to face him. His arm was still around my shoulders. “I’ve been training you for four weeks. I’ve watched you work. I’ve seen your dedication.” He paused. “I’ve also seen the way you look at me.”
My stomach dropped.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I’m not offended. I’m flattered. But I need to know what you actually want from this.”
His arm tightened around my shoulders. His body was pressed against my side, solid and warm. I could feel his cock against my hip through his shorts—heavy, thick, unmistakable.
“I want to get bigger,” I said.
“And?”
I didn’t answer.
Marcus looked at Dom. Dom nodded slightly.
“Here’s what I think,” Marcus said. He released my shoulders and stepped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “I think you want something you’re afraid to ask for. I think you’ve been with the same man for four years and you love him but he doesn’t make you feel the way you want to feel. Powerful. Desired. Seen.”
He put his hand on my chest. Not clinical this time. Not correcting my form.
“I see you, Alex,” he said. “I see what you could be. What you want to be. But I can’t help you if you won’t be honest with yourself.”
His hand slid up to my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed my lower lip.
“Next session,” he said. “I want you to think about what you really want. Not what your boyfriend wants. Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What you want.”
He dropped his hand. Stepped back.
“Same time Thursday.”
He walked away. Dom gave me one last look—assessing, knowing, hungry—and followed.
I stood on the turf for a long time. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.
My cock was hard.
I went home. Ryan was already asleep, his breathing slow and even in the darkness of our bedroom. I stood in the doorway and looked at him—the curve of his shoulder under the blanket, the familiar shape of his body.
Then I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and jerked off thinking about Marcus’s thumb on my lip. Marcus’s cock against my hip. Marcus telling me to be honest.
I came so hard my knees buckled.
And afterward, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—my chest broader, my shoulders thicker, my eyes darker than I remembered—I realized I had no idea what I was going to do on Thursday.
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