Personal training at 69

My name is Elena. I'm thirty-eight, and I had everything a decent woman should have: a successful husband, a daughter, a cat, a mortgage on an apartment in a decent neighborhood, and a lingering melancholy that I hid behind new curtains and the scent of expensive candles. Our marriage had long since become a comfortable cohabitation. Sergey and I had been sleeping in separate rooms for two years now, and his touches, when they happened, were quick and businesslike, like signing a contract. I felt drained, withered, like a houseplant that had been forgotten to be watered. The Energy gym became my escape. It was where I escaped thoughts of unwashed dishes and silent dinners. It was where I felt alive, if only from the muscle pain. And then he appeared in the gym—the new trainer, Alexander. Not a muscular boy, but a man of about forty, with such a calm, confident gaze and hands that seemed to understand the strength and weakness of every muscle. He didn't shout or offer idiotic encouragement, but spoke quietly, to the point, and his fingers, adjusting my stance or guiding me through movements, left stinging marks on my skin. I caught myself timing my workouts to suit his schedule, and then, burning with shame and excitement, I signed up for private lessons with him. Our first individual training session was scheduled for eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, when the gym was practically empty. The only sounds were soft music and the hum of the air conditioners. "Well, Elena, show me what you've got," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. His T-shirt stretched tightly across the contours of his shoulders and chest. I tried my best, doing squats and lunges. He stood behind me, so close I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. "Don't let your knee drop," his hand landed on my thigh, just above my knee, warm and heavy. "Like this. Do you feel the tension?" I just nodded, afraid my voice would tremble. He smelled fresh, like men's deodorant and something deep, animalistic. After a series of abdominal exercises, I lay on the mat, completely wet, my heart pounding wildly. "Not bad," he approved. "But I can see the tension in my back. After that kind of work, you need a good massage, otherwise you'll be sore in the morning." "Do you also give massages?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbows. — For my clients, yes. It's part of the job. Let's go to the massage parlor. The office was small, with dim lighting, a couch, and the scent of lavender oil. Suddenly, I felt afraid. Not physical fear, but the fear of removing my coverings, of exposing not only my body but also my silent despair. “Lie on your stomach,” Alexander commanded, his voice sounding different in the confined space—deeper, more intimate. I obeyed. I heard him pour oil into his palms and rub them. The first touch of his hands on my shoulder blades made me shudder. This wasn't just a massage. His fingers found every knot, every place where tension had pent up over the years—from lifting heavy weights, from carrying a child, from waiting in an empty bed. He was silent, working. And I lay there, my face buried in the hole in the couch, feeling my body come alive beneath his palms, and not just physically. A hot, shameful fire began to warm in my lower abdomen, then flare up. “Turn over,” he said, and for the first time his voice took on a less professional, more subdued tone. I rolled over, trying not to look him in the eye. He sat on the edge of the couch, his thigh almost touching my side. His hands moved to the front of my thighs, to my stomach. Each movement was technical, but the context changed everything. His thumb slid too close to the hem of my sweatpants, and I let out an involuntary moan. Our eye contact was like an electric shock. There was no question in his gaze. There was understanding. And a silent offer. Something inside me snapped. All the years of pent-up sadness, anger at myself and Sergei, the desire to simply be desired—it all burst forth in one impulsive movement. I abruptly sat up, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him toward me, pressing my lips roughly to his. He didn't push me away. He responded. His mouth opened, and our kiss became frantic, wet, locked in a struggle for air and dominance. His tongue entered me roughly, his hands gripped my sides, and then, with one determined tug, he pulled my sports bra off. His palms roamed over my skin, but now they weren't the hands of a massage therapist, but the hands of a man who wants a woman. He pinned me back against the couch, his hard, enormous cock pressing against my thigh through my shorts. "Are you sure?" he rasped against my lips, his breath hot and ragged. Instead of answering, I pulled his T-shirt off myself, my gaze greedily engrossed in his torso. Then my fingers found his shorts, which slid down along with his boxers, and his cock, now fully erect, heavy and veined with blue, rose up, hitting my stomach. I cupped it in my hand, feeling it throb beneath the thin skin. But Alexander wasn't one to be led. He roughly flipped me over, laying me on my back, and without a word, pulled down my pants and underwear. His gaze, heavy and appraising, slid over me, and I wanted to cover myself, but it was too late. He lowered himself between my legs, spread them wider than my shoulders, and, before I could recover, pressed his mouth to my pussy. Oh, my God. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Not like my husband's timid caresses at the beginning of our relationship, not like anything I'd ever experienced before. It was an assault. Purposeful, merciless, and masterful. His tongue wasn't just a tongue—it was a tool, hard, fast, knowing every fold. He didn't lick—he worked: he moved in broad, flat strokes across my entire slit, coating it with saliva, then concentrated on my clit, clamping it between his lips and flicking the tip of his tongue with such a frantic frequency that I screamed, my fingers clenching in his hair. He thrust his fingers inside me, one, then two, deep and measured, synchronizing the movements of his tongue. I screamed into my fist, my body arching, wild, uncontrollable tremors running from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. He didn't stop, even when I began to rave and beg for mercy. He brought me to the edge, let go slightly, and then pounced again, until the world narrowed to a white noise in my ears and spasmodic jolts in my lower abdomen. The orgasm washed over me not like a wave, but a tsunami, a crushing, gut-wrenching blow. I came, screaming hoarsely and drenching his chin with my juices. While I was coming to my senses, he stood up, his face and lips glistening with me. He knelt in front of the couch, his penis, wet with precum, level with my face. "Now it's your turn," he said hoarsely. "I want to see how you do it." I didn't force myself to ask. I wanted it anyway. I rose up, grabbed his cock by the base, and, looking into his eyes, slowly, with pleasure, ran my tongue along its entire length, from his balls to the lumpy head. He grunted. Then I took him into my mouth. All that power, that hardness, wrapped in velvety skin. I did it with fury, as if I wanted to suck my entire past life out of him. I worked my lips, my tongue, sucked with my cheeks, swallowed deep until it pressed against my throat, causing a gag reflex, and I loved the feeling of suppression. Saliva flowed from my mouth along the shaft, dripping onto his scrotum. He groaned, his hands gripping my hair again, guiding the rhythm. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, swallow it all,” he growled, and these rough words turned me on even more. “Lie down,” I exhaled, releasing his member with a loud smack. He understood without words. We found ourselves in a 69 position on the narrow massage table. His tongue found my swollen, hypersensitive pussy again, and I, hanging my head over the edge, took his cock into my mouth. Now we were locked in a vicious, perfect circle. The sounds were disgusting and delicious: slurping, smacking, our stifled moans. I felt the familiar tension building inside me again, but now it was mixed with the taste of his skin and salty anticipation. His fingers entered me, his tongue swirled on my clit, and I sucked desperately, feeling his balls tighten under my chin. “I’m going to cum now…” he warned, his voice trembling. “In your mouth,” I moaned, not breaking away. “I’ll swallow it all.” That was the trigger. His body shook, he screamed loudly, pressing his face against my crotch, and I felt hot, thick streams of cum shooting down my throat. The taste was tart, bitter, and alive. I swallowed, trying not to lose a drop, and at that very moment, his tongue performed one final, precise vibrational trick, causing my own body to explode with a second, even more powerful orgasm. I came, choking on his semen, and this mixture of sensations—his pulsating cock in my mouth and the raging release inside me—was the most animalistic and most wonderful feeling in my life. We lay entwined, drenched in sweat, cum, and my own juices, trying to catch our breath. The silence was broken only by the pounding of our hearts. Then, without a word, he stood up and fetched paper towels. We dried ourselves off in silence. No tenderness, no promises. It was a pure, raw, physical act of mutual use, and there was an honesty to it. I returned home in a daze. Sergei's scent, his indifferent kiss on the cheek—it all seemed like a flat backdrop. A hurricane raged inside me. I felt alive, sinful, strong, and broken all at once. I deleted Alexander's number, but I couldn't delete the one photo I'd secretly taken while he was sleeping after the second round in his apartment: his back, muscular, scratched by my nails. That photo was my talisman, proof that it had all been real. It all came out two weeks later. It was stupid, mundane. Sergey asked for my phone to find the plumber's number while I was in the shower. He didn't find the number. I came out of the bathroom and saw his pale face, distorted with cold rage, and my phone in his hand. He silently showed me the screen. There was that very same back. The words "betrayal," "divorce," "shame" hung in the air. But strangely. Through the chilling horror and panic, somewhere deep down, I felt... relief. The house of cards of my former life had collapsed with a roar. And in the dust of that collapse, I smelled the truth. Dirty, forbidden, but my truth.