Does Fanfit Offer Personalized Workout Plans?

I’m Bella, a plus-size fashion influencer who smiles for the camera and tells thousands of followers to love their curves. But behind closed doors? My husband Ryan tears me down every single day. He calls me fat, disgusting, and refuses to touch me. I felt worthless… until I hired Marcus, my personal trainer. In my own words, it started as innocent home workouts. Then the tension snapped. One sweaty squat session turned into the hottest kiss of my life, and suddenly I was moaning Marcus’s name while my husband was at work. Every session gets riskier and hotter. I feel truly desired for the first time in years, but the guilt and danger keep growing. My followers notice my glowing confidence. Ryan starts paying attention again. And Marcus’s wife is getting suspicious. This book is extremely explicit. Expect raw, high-heat romance scenes packed with sweat, domination, and intense pleasure. Marcus doesn’t hold back because of my weight, rough pounding from behind while I’m bent over the workout bench, passionate mirror body claiming, shower scenes, risky quickies, and long, filthy sessions filled with dirty talk, spanking, hair-pulling, choking, and multiple explosive orgasms. He worships my thick thighs, soft belly, and heavy chest in ways my husband never did. Cliffhangers will leave you breathless, close calls, near discoveries, police cases, court rooms. If you love forbidden cheating stories, dominant men, plus-size heroines finally claimed, and addictive erotic drama, then dive in. My story is messy, sweaty, and completely addictive.

“No… I can’t… Uh… My body belongs to my husband…” At the gym, I hired a personal trainer to work on my glutes. To make sure I was training my hips right, I wore a pink mini skirt with a hint of my plain white underwear peeking out from underneath. As if I wasn’t sensitive enough, the personal trainer lifted my skirt and pressed against my thighs. I felt a tingling sensation coursing through my body. The personal trainer tugged down my damp underwear. “Are you getting an itch you can’t scratch? Let me help you there.”

After wrapping up a book signing out of town, I received a message from a friend on the way home. "This personal trainer is something else. He can do all kinds of things with an exercise ball." He also sent me a Live Photo. In the Live Photo, a woman was lying on an exercise ball, pinned down by a man. Her hair was covering her face. In the Live Photo that was a second long, I heard a familiar moan. I called my fiancée. "Where are you?" Her voice was a bit hoarse, "I'm training with an exercise ball at the neighborhood gym, babe. I have a big surprise waiting for you when you get home." I snorted and said, real slow, "How about I give you a big surprise right now? Open the door!"

My husband's gym was celebrating its grand opening, so I grabbed my best friend and headed over under the guise of "checking the place out," armed with a $10 trial class we had snagged from a group deal. I never once mentioned that I was the owner's wife. The moment we wrapped up the workout, a female trainer slapped a price sheet into our hands and gave us a look that could cut glass. "Let me guess, you two came here to milk the freebies? Our private training sessions cost hundreds. They're not here for people like you to exploit." I let out a disbelieving laugh. "We bought a perfectly valid trial class. How does that make us freeloaders? Get your manager." She rolled her eyes, acting like she was the rules. "Call whoever you want! The owner is my boyfriend, and he can't stand penny-pinchers who show up trying to mooch off his gym." Then, right in front of us, she called him—voice raised, dramatic, dripping with fake indignation. "Babe, there are two cheapskates in your gym demanding the manager. Come deal with them for me!"

On my father-in-law Charlie Moore's sixtieth birthday, I rented out the VIP box at the Titan Boxing Gym so he could watch his favorite event with me, the championship title fight. The match was in full swing when the door to our box was kicked open. A man dripping in name brands stormed in with a pack of bodyguards, jabbing a finger in Charlie's face and cursing him out. "Where'd this old relic come from, thinking he can squat in my private box?" "I rented this fight tonight for my own entertainment. Get out, now." I kept my expression flat and my voice cold. "I paid in full for this box weeks ago, and the venue confirmed it. What gives you the right to throw us out?" The man sneered, looking at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "Paid in full? The entire Titan Boxing Gym was an engagement gift from my woman! This is my territory. I make the rules here. "People like you, reeking of poverty, ought to be grateful. If you dirty my leather couch, selling the both of you wouldn't even cover the cost." Charlie shook with rage. I just smiled. Since when had a gym I'd handed off to my wife, Cassidy Moore, to run under her name, become someone else's engagement-gift plaything?

"Mr. Brewer, please stop grinding against me! My pants are all wet now!" In the gym, Hazel Simmons, a beautiful woman with a sexy figure, pleads to me as her perky, juicy buttocks twitch between my legs. I purposefully thrust deep into the crack of her butt. Upon feeling the foreign intrusion, Hazel squeezes my manhood with her butt. It feels so good that I get turned on instantly. What excites me more is that Hazel seems to be turned on by my actions as well. To my delight, she actually pulls her pants down on her own.