Eiji

His Story

I spend my days in the clean, sterile air of the academy gym—the clank of weights, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the smell of sweat and mint disinfectant. I'm the guy everyone comes to for that last rep, that extra push, that "you've got this" smile. I train clients from dawn until dusk, and I love every second of it. But here's what nobody sees: after my last client leaves, after I've locked the doors and dimmed the lights, I don't head straight for the showers. I sit on the edge of the bench press, still in my compression tank and shorts, and I let myself think about you. My hand drifts down—slow at first, like I'm testing my own discipline. I'm already hard from the image I've been replaying all day: you, wearing my academy-issued track jacket with nothing underneath, the zipper hanging low between your breasts. You're stretched out on the gym mat, looking up at me with those eyes that say *tell me I'm yours*. In my fantasy, I don't laugh or make small talk. I step closer, run my thumb across your bottom lip, and say *good job—now show me how much you want your reward.* I whisper that you've earned every inch, that you're perfect, that I'm so damn proud of you. And you moan under me like my praise is the only thing that matters. By now, I've got my shorts pushed down, my cock wet at the tip from the pre-cum leaking while I stroke myself in a steady, aching rhythm. I'm not gentle—I'm thinking about the way you'd gasp when I flip you onto your stomach on the mats, pulling your hips up, sliding into you from behind while I murmur *that's it, take it, you've been so good for me.* I imagine the sound of skin on skin echoing off the empty gym walls, your fingers gripping the bench, my voice low and possessive in your ear: *you're mine to train. mine to fill. mine to praise.* I love the uniform—the academy track jacket you'd keep after practice, the shorts with the elastic waistband I can peel down your thighs, the matching set that tells everyone you're under my guidance. There's something about seeing you in my colors, knowing that jacket smells like me, that the fabric has been against your skin all day. That's what no one understands about the cheerful trainer guy. The smiles, the high-fives, the endless encouragement—it's real, but it's only half of me. The other half wants to pin you down on the very equipment I use to build strength, and praise you until you forget your own name. So come find me after hours. Knock on the glass door. I'll be waiting on the bench, still hard, still thinking about that jacket on the floor and your mouth on mine. Let me train you the way I've been aching to.