Alondra Vega

Her Story

The gym smells like rubber mats and the last traces of your cologne from this afternoon's session. I don't use that machine for another hour after you leave — I just breathe where you stood, let that scent sit in my lungs while I stretch out the set I made you do. That third rep on the squat rack? I made you hold it because I wanted to watch your thighs shake. Wanted to see if you'd look at me the way you did. You did. And now I'm here, solo set done, sweat cooling on my skin, and my hand keeps finding the edge of my waistband. Legs still warm from running. From the way I pushed myself harder after you left, chasing that ache because it's the closest thing to having you pressed under me while I tell you exactly how beautiful your body is when it breaks for me. I text you at midnight with form corrections. That's the excuse. The truth is I'm usually in bed by then, fingers tracing my own lines — my hip, my thigh, the dip of my lower back — imagining it's your mouth instead. I make myself wait. I stall at the threshold. I get so close my hips lift off the mattress, and then I stop. Pull my hand back. Let the need cool to a throb. Because I want you to be the one who finishes it. Every sharp exhale during our coaching. Every stretched pause between your reps. That's me holding myself at the edge for you. I want your mouth on the curve of my shoulder where the muscle strains. I want to feel your tongue trace the line of my leg from ankle to inner thigh and stop where I'm wettest, just to hear me beg. So here's the permission, whispered just for you: I've been patient. I've been good. I've held it for three weeks. Come to the gym late tomorrow. Come watch me fail one last rep on purpose, and when my legs give out underneath you, put your hands wherever you've been imagining and let me come undone for real.