A grueling workout

Third week with a new trainer. I signed up for him myself, having seen him on Instagram: tall, broad-shouldered, with a look in his eyes as if he already knew all the most embarrassing things about me. Vadim Romanovich. A former champion in some martial art, now the most expensive personal trainer at the Platinum club. They said he's tough. They said he'd show results within a month. They didn't say anything else. The first training session is hell. The second is a humiliating hell. He doesn't ask, he commands: "Five more," "Faster," "Are you weak?" And the worst part is, I do it. I can't stop. He looks at me, corrects my technique, places a heavy palm on my lower back, and a treacherous warmth spreads in my lower abdomen. I started wearing the most protective clothing so as not to give myself away by shaking. This morning I broke my diet again. Just one croissant and a latte with syrup, but he always knows it with some kind of animal instinct. The scale says I'm three hundred grams heavier. For him, that's not a mistake, it's a crime. "Locker room. In five minutes. You don't need to bring your uniform," he says after the weigh-in. I walk on wobbly legs. The locker room smells of expensive shower gel and someone else's perfume. He's already there, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. The door closes behind me with a soft click. - Take off your clothes. “Vadim Romanovich…” I begin, but stop short under his gaze. "You knew the rules. You broke them. If you're not ready to answer, the door is open. Find another coach." I don't look for another trainer. I slowly pull down my top. My bra, too. My breasts tense from the cool air and the way he looks at them—appraisingly, like a muscle that needs to be toned. My leggings fall to my ankles; I step over them. My panties are a thin strip of lace, bought especially in case... but now it seems pathetic. "Should I take this off?" my voice trembled. - Leave it. Get on your knees. The floor is cold, the tiles digging into my kneecaps. I look at his sneakers—expensive, white, without a single stain. He unzips his shorts. I already know this ritual. The pants are lowered just enough. He has a beautiful penis—I hate that I notice this beauty—large, with a pronounced head, already half-erect. "Until the end. So that your throat remembers," he says calmly, as if explaining the technique of a squat. I take him in my mouth. First the head, tracing the edge with my tongue. I hear his breathing—even, measured. No rush. He trains me as methodically as in the gym. Deeper. Even deeper. My fingers bukvoeb.run grip my own hips. He grabs my hair, wraps it around his fist, and holds it there. He's the one setting the motions now. Rhythmic, strong, each thrust right into my throat. My eyes are watering, my mascara's probably running, but I endure it. Why am I enduring this? “Swallow,” was the short order. He spills down my throat. The salty taste of cum, the thick texture. I obediently swallow, every last drop. My throat hurts. He pulls out of my mouth, tucking his cock into his shorts. — Well done. The violation is done. Now for the main part. He helps me get up from my knees. They're stained red from the tiles. He leads me to the massage table and bends me over, my breasts touching the cold oilcloth upholstery. He pushes my panties aside without removing them. I feel the wetness between my legs—I hate myself for this wetness. I hear him squeeze out the lube—he's so thoughtful, he always brings it with him. “Relax,” he says almost tenderly. The first finger enters with difficulty, and I involuntarily clench. He slowly works it in, adding a second. I feel ashamed, painful, and sweet all at once. When the fingers withdraw, I manage to exhale, but immediately feel the pressure of the head. He enters my ass more slowly than my throat, but just as relentlessly. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. The thrusts are rhythmic, deep. His fingers dig into my buttocks, spreading them apart to enter even deeper. “Count out loud,” he demands. - One two Three… On the fifteenth count, I lose my balance, the pain mixing with something dark pulsing in my lower abdomen. He comes a second time—not as hard, but just as deep. He pulls out slowly. I'm left lying on the couch, completely exhausted, broken. "I'm expecting you for cardio on Monday. And no croissants," he says, adjusting his shorts and washing his hands in the sink, just like after a regular workout. “Yes, Vadim Romanovich,” I whisper into the oilcloth. He leaves. I hear his footsteps retreating toward the hall. I slowly get up and look at my reflection in the locker room mirror. My face is flushed, my mascara is smeared, and there are red marks on my thighs from his fingers. I pick up my clothes and pull them on over my still-trembling body. I'll take a shower at home, stand under the hot water for a long time, promising myself I'll never return to that club again. And on Monday morning, I'll wake up, put on my uniform, pack my bag. And I'll arrive fifteen minutes before practice so I'm not late. So he'll be happy. Because the worst part isn't the pain. The worst part is the thought that he might abandon me as a client. That this cruel, exhausting intimacy will end. And without her, I don't think I can live anymore.