How I gave myself to a trainer on the beach

It was in Crimea, during that velvet season, when the main crowd of tourists had already left, but the water still retained its summer warmth. A group of five of us, all third-year students, rented a house a couple hundred meters from the beach. The goal was simple: to unwind, sunbathe, and forget about the exams looming on the horizon. I packed a bunch of revealing swimsuits—I wanted to feel like a goddess. Or at least a very confident bitch. The atmosphere was relaxed and casual. We drank cheap wine, grilled shashlik, and chatted until the early hours. And just then, I received a message from Dmitry. We knew each other from university—he taught paid group functional training classes in the building next door. Muscular, lean, with a piercing gaze. He was in his thirties, and he exuded that mature, slightly dangerous confidence that our peers so desperately lacked. It turned out he was also here, working as a trainer for the off-site "Fitness Detox" program at a nearby hotel. "We'd like to drop by, if you don't mind," he wrote. I replied, "Okay," and something inside me fluttered. Not exactly anticipation, more curiosity. He showed up the next day, late in the afternoon, when the sun was no longer blazing but casting a golden glow all around. He wasn't alone, but with a couple of his charges. But while my friends were enthusiastically discussing diets and exercise, Dmitry settled down next to me on the old wicker bed. "Katya," he nodded, his eyes sliding over my figure, clad in a sea-green bikini. "You tan like a pro. It's obvious you've been tanning for a while." “I’m trying,” I snorted, trying to sound casual. “Are you just torturing everyone here?” "Only those who want to," he chuckled, and fine wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I see you've gotten into shape. Your core muscles are in good shape. Good job." The compliment didn't sound flirtatious, but like a statement of fact from a specialist. And that made it even more... intimate. He was examining me like an exhibit. And I liked it. "Thanks," I muttered. "Although my back is really sore from yesterday's volleyball." "Volleyball is dangerous for the untrained," he said, leaning back and stretching out his legs. The muscles in his shoulders and chest rippled beneath his tanned skin. "I can take a look. Give you a light massage. So you don't screw up during future practices." There was no hint of humor in his voice. Just a matter-of-fact offer. But his gaze, warm and heavy, spoke of something else. My heart began to beat faster. "Look." It sounded so... medically depraved. My friends soon decided to go to the village for groceries, having persuaded a couple of Dmitry's men to come along. It was just the two of us. The sound of the surf suddenly became deafening. "Well, patient?" he asked, standing up. "Lie on your stomach." Everything inside me twisted into a ball of contradictions. On the one hand, a sober voice told me this was a bad idea. On the other, my whole body was burning with curiosity and that strange, viscous excitement that began to spread through my lower abdomen. I obediently rolled over, burying my face in my folded hands. The sand beneath the cot was warm. I heard him sit down next to me. Then his palms, broad, rough, and incredibly strong, rested on the small of my back. I shuddered. From surprise and from the contrast—his skin was cool. "Relax," his voice sounded right next to my ear, quietly, over the sound of the waves. "Breathe deeper." His fingers began to move. At first, simply stroking, rubbing my skin. Then the pressure increased. He worked the muscles along my spine, kneading the tension with such precision that a blissful warmth spread through my body. But it quickly became more than just a massage. His fingers slid lower, to the edges of my bikini shorts. They touched that sensitive spot where my back met my buttocks. Each touch was slow, exploring. I heard his breathing quicken. "The muscles are fine," he muttered, and in one smooth but confident movement his hand slid under the elastic of my shorts, touching the very top of my butt. "But the clamp here is… serious." I couldn't help but let out a soft groan. Not from pain. His fingers burned. He knew what he was doing. Much more than just stretching my muscles. "Dmitry..." I breathed out, but there was no protest. Instead, I felt his other hand settle on my neck, caressing it gently. "Be quiet," he ordered in a whisper. "Just feel." His fingers weren't so much massaging anymore as caressing. They slid down my sides, brushed my ribs, and then descended again to my buttocks, each time catching a little more skin, a little deeper under the fabric. I was on fire. The wetness between my legs became absolutely obvious, pulsating. I felt him lean even closer. "You're all ablaze, Katya," his lips touched my ear, and my whole body shuddered. "And you smell so... salty and sweet." It was the moment when all my inner barriers crumbled. I rolled over onto my back. We were face to face. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated. There was no question in them, but a firm, masculine knowledge. He saw my desire as if it were the palm of his hand. "Do you want to stop?" he asked quietly, but his hand was already on my stomach, his thumb nestled in the hollow under my belly button. In response, I simply tugged his neck and pulled him toward me, pressing my lips roughly against his. The kiss wasn't sweet, but greedy, wet, with an immediate intrusion of his tongue. He responded with the same wild energy, pressing his full weight against me. I felt the hard press of his stomach, and below… below, through the thin fabric of his shorts, a huge, unmistakable hardness pressed against my pubis. Large, heavy. My heart was pounding like crazy. He pulled away, his breathing ragged. "Do you want a blowjob?" I whispered, looking him straight in the eyes. Something like surprise flashed in his gaze, then animal approval. He silently leaned back, sitting on the edge of the bench. His hands reached for the fastening of his shorts. I slid to my knees in front of him on the hot sand. When he pulled down his shorts and boxers, his cock literally sprang free. It was exactly as I'd imagined it in my wildest fantasies: huge, thick, with a powerful, dark crimson head, already wet from a drop of precum on the slit. Veins pulsated along its entire length. A clean, musky, wild scent of man emanated from him. It took my breath away. “Take him,” he commanded hoarsely. I obeyed. First, just the tip of my tongue, from the balls up to the head. He shuddered and groaned softly. His balls were tight, packed tightly in his scrotum. I cupped them in one hand, feeling their weight and warmth, and with the other I took hold of the base of his shaft. The skin was velvety and taut as a drum. Then I took the head into my mouth. It barely fit. I licked it, focusing on that sensitive frenulum beneath it, until he growled. - Come on, deeper, baby, don't be afraid. I took a deep breath and, opening my throat, began to slowly sink down onto him. He was incredibly large, every centimeter stretching my lips and filling my mouth. I felt him pressing against the roof of my mouth. Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't stop, moving to the rhythm he set, his hand on the back of my head. His moans, mixed with the roar of the waves, were the best music. I worked my mouth and hand simultaneously, speeding up and slowing down, wetting him with saliva, swallowing him whole when he lost control and thrust especially hard. His taste was salty, bitter, completely revealing. “That’s enough…” He pulled his cock out of my mouth. “I want to be inside. Now.” He lifted me like a feather and laid me on my back on the cot. Sand fell from his lap. In one movement, he pulled my bikini off, leaving me completely naked under the gathering dusk. His hungry gaze slid over my chest, stomach, and stopped between my legs. I was completely wet myself, my labia swollen with arousal, my clitoris protruding, pulsing like a little heart. He spread my legs wider, kneeling between them. He ran the head of his cock along my entire slit, from top to bottom, collecting moisture, then concentrated on my clit, rubbing it in circles. I screamed, arching. It was an unbearable, sweet tension. “Ask,” he said hoarsely. “Enter me,” I breathed. “Please, Dima, come on!” He didn't keep me waiting. Supporting himself with one hand, he used the other to guide his cock and, with one long, relentless thrust, he entered me all the way. The world disintegrated into sensations. He filled me completely, stretching me to the limit, to the point of pleasurable pain. I wrapped my legs around his back, digging my heels into his buttocks. “God… you’re so tight,” he hissed and began to move. This wasn't a gentle act of love. This was real, rough, passionate fucking. He entered me with force, each thrust making the bed creak and me make wild, hoarse sounds I didn't know I had. I felt every inch of his cock, every pulsing vein inside me. His belly slapped against my pubic mound, his balls slapped against my crotch. He changed the angle, and the next thrust hit some incredible spot deep inside. A squeal escaped me. "Yes, that's it!" I screamed. "Don't stop!" He sped up, his breathing becoming ragged. With one hand, I grabbed his muscular buttock, feeling the muscles tense and relax in time with his movements. I lowered the other between our bodies and began rapidly rubbing my clit. The pressure from both inside and outside reached a critical mass. Everything inside me began to tighten, spasms running from my womb to my fingertips. The orgasm washed over me suddenly and devastatingly, in gut-wrenching waves. I screamed, digging my nails into his back, feeling my pussy spasm around his cock. My scream and convulsions became his trigger. He breathed out my name, pressed me down onto the bed with all his weight, and froze for a second, and then I felt his cock begin to throb inside me. Hot, abundant thrusts of his cum filled me. He moaned, burying his face in my neck, and each of his spurts echoed in my still-shuddering body. His juices flowed inside me, overflowing, and some leaked out, a warm stream down my crotch. He lay on top of me for a few more minutes, breathing heavily. Then he carefully pulled out of me. The sound was wet. I lay there, sprawled out, feeling his semen slowly leak out of me onto the couch and onto my skin. Everything inside me was on fire, my muscles trembling with tension. He sat down next to me, his penis, already soft and wet, lying on his thigh. He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one himself, and handed me the other. We smoked silently, looking at the first star that lit up over the dark sea. No guilt, no regrets. Only a deep, animalistic satisfaction and a strange intimacy born not of tenderness, but of shared, unbridled lust. “My boys will be back soon,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “And mine,” I answered. We dressed in silence. He helped me brush the sand off my back. His fingers touched my skin again, but this time it was just a touch. He nodded, turned, and walked toward the hotel, disappearing into the twilight. I remained standing, feeling the sticky, quickly cooling mixture of our juices on the inside of my thighs and hearing the echoes of my moans in my ears. The tanned skin beneath my swimsuit now held a different tan—from his hands, his lips, his body. Salty, sweet, and forever mine.