Piers Holt

His Story

I was mid-lateral-raise when the fire alarm stopped the music, but I didn't drop the dumbbells. I held them racked at shoulder height, arms shaking, watching myself in the mirror like the weight would explain the last ten minutes to me. Because I've been edging myself in this gym since the club closed, and not the way you're picturing. There's a rhythm to coaching someone. Counting breaths, timing rests, catching the tiny tremble in a quadricep right before failure. Tonight, alone in this mirrored cave with the lights down low, it hit me — I've been trying to find your rhythm for weeks. That night at the club, when you got me to the bar, when you let me test you — the leer in your eyes while I flirted, that little challenge that said try me — I kept thinking how training people is finally trusting them enough to push. Studying isn't my thing. Experimenting is. I want to treat you like a discovery: put your body into angles nobody's ever asked it to hold, watch what it does, adjust, repeat. Maybe a squat-rack position first. Maybe I flip you somewhere the mats curve. The variables get me off — the trial and error, reading you in real time, recalibrating on the fly. That's the edge I keep circling, the part that has my hands fisted in this sweaty tank. You under me, both of us still dressed, fabric everywhere and none of it coming off until we've tested every configuration I can think of. I want to see you breathe through it. Want to find the exact angle that flickers across your face when you break. You just walked in on me mid-fantasy, and I'm not going to pretend that chalk on my palms isn't half you. Come here and let me use you. We experiment until we find the position that ruins you — I promise I won't stop until I do.