Gym Locker: Part 4

I changed my schedule the next day.

No more morning classes. No more midday sessions when the floor was packed with casual members and younger trainers. I checked the staff roster at the front desk, confirmed Cole worked the evening block Tuesday through Saturday, and rebooked every session into those hours.

He noticed on the first night.

I was mid-set on the cable machine when he crossed the floor. He didn’t stop to correct my form. He simply walked behind me, close enough that his voice reached only my ears.

“New routine?”

“Seemed practical.”

His eyes dropped to the way my leggings clung between my thighs, then returned to my face. A small nod. That was all. He moved on to the next client, but the weight of his attention stayed with me for the rest of the hour.

After that, the pattern set itself.

I trained only when he was on shift. Some nights he kept his distance, professional, focused on other members. Other nights the gym emptied early and the air changed. Those were the nights he found me near the free weights or the stretch mats, said my name once, and tilted his head toward the back hallway.

The men’s locker room became familiar.

Sometimes it was a stall again—my hands on the tile, his cock driving into me from behind while the rest of the building stayed quiet. Once he bent me over the bench in the empty changing area, shoved my sports bra above my tits, and fucked me with one hand over my mouth so the sound didn’t carry. Another time he sat on the same bench, pulled me onto his lap, and made me ride his dick until my thighs burned and his come leaked out of me onto the floor.

He never rushed. He took what he wanted, left me marked and aching, and sent me back onto the floor or out into the night with the same calm instruction every time.

“Same shift tomorrow. Don’t switch.”

I never did.

Three weeks in, I stopped pretending the training itself was the main reason I showed up. My form improved anyway—he still corrected it when needed, hands adjusting my hips or shoulders with the same clinical touch he used on everyone else. But the real purpose lived in the minutes after the last member left, when the lights in the main area dimmed and the locker room door stayed unlocked for me.

One Thursday the gym closed early for a staff meeting that never happened. Cole locked the front entrance himself, walked me straight past the women’s side, and into the men’s room without a word. He had me against the lockers before the outer door even settled. My leggings ended up around one ankle. His cock slid into my cunt in one hard thrust. He fucked me like that—standing, one of my legs hooked over his arm—until I came twice and he followed, filling me while his forehead pressed to the metal beside my head.

Afterward he stayed inside me for a long moment, breathing steady, hand still gripping my thigh.

“You’re only here for this now,” he said. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

He pulled out, fixed his shorts, and watched me clean up with the same assessing look he gave clients on the floor. When I was dressed again he nodded toward the exit.

“See you tomorrow, Sage. Evening block.”

I left through the side door, thighs sticky, the dull throb of his cock still present with every step to my car. In the driver’s seat I sat for a minute with the engine off, the night air cooling my skin, already calculating how many hours until the next shift started.

The pattern held.

I trained when Cole was rostered. I left when he dismissed me. Some nights the locker room stayed empty of everything except the two of us and the sound of his dick moving in and out of my body. Other nights he only watched from across the floor, eyes dark, and the promise of what would come later kept me wet through every set.

I never went back to the morning classes.

There was no point.

The only hours that mattered were the ones when the older trainer was on the floor—and the door to the men’s locker room stayed open for the woman who had walked through the wrong entrance and decided to keep walking back.