My Personal Trainer Novels & Stories

“I have my own student to train so why should I train them.“ Varek steps closer to me, his eyes darkening again. “Isn't up for a debate.“ His voice is final, brooking no arguments. “They paid five million dollars just to have you as their personal trainer.“ Then he eyes me down with thinly masked disgust. “I wonder why they would squander such a fortune on you—just so you could be their personal trainer, when there are other better coaches than you.“ My breath seizes. “They paid five million dollars for me?“

His tongue moved desperately while I held his head and came one last time on his face. The next day I didn't rest. In the afternoon I met a personal trainer named Theo at the gym. We went to the changing room after closing time. He bent me over the bench and fucked me standing up, his strong body slamminginto me from behind. He was rough and I loved it. I came loudly, not caring if anyone heard me.

A black and silver sign above the glass doors read: RAPID FITNESS – Elite Training. I had found the place through a desperate late-night search for “intense personal training near me.” The reviews were brutal but effective, people said the head trainer, Jax Voss, didn’t just sculpt bodies. He broke them down and rebuilt them into something stronger. Something obedient. I needed that. I needed to feel something other than lost. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The gym smelled of sweat, steel, and pure testosterone. Heavy bass music pulsed through the speakers. The walls were mirrored, reflecting rows of weights, machines, and people pushing their bodies to the limit.

I rejoined the women in the living room both relaxed and attentive to the demands of mingling. "I wanted to say, Kellie," Trisha whispered to me as I slid onto the couch next to her, "you look amazing. You have seriously got yourself in shape, girl. Who's your personal trainer?" "Actually - it's my dad. He's a coach at E--- University and knows everything about getting fit." Trisha is a very attractive woman, around 30, and the older sister of a friend of mine.

I wasn’t going to do it, even though my cock was practically twitching in my pants, leaking a bead of pre-cum. “Fuck,” I muttered. It was that serious. I gripped it firmly, giving it what it wanted, a firm rigid stroke before rolling on my side, trying to flatten it out and dismiss all the dirty thoughts all together. Still, I had personal training with him today. That was the deal I’d made with Coach: two weeks to get Jeremy into shape and prove he deserved to stay on the team. I couldn’t just abandon that responsibility because I’d nearly crossed the line with the guy I was supposed to be mentoring.

“Okay. I’ll find someone today.” “Good.” He finished his coffee, grabbed his keys. “Text me the details. I mean it and make it count.” The door closed behind him. I let out a long breath and opened my laptop. Searching “personal trainer private home sessions” brought up plenty of options. One profile stood out: a guy named Marcus with strong reviews, serious photos showing his muscular build, and a note that he was married and professional. Safe. I sent a message before I could second-guess myself.

My finger tapped send before I could chicken out. Riley: Hey Coach, sorry for the last minute thing but any chance you have a spot open today? Like… now? Trials are killing me and I’m freaking out. I can pay extra. I tossed my phone on the bed and paced, biting my thumbnail. Dominic Reyes. Forty-five years old, built like a damn tank, covered in tattoos that peeked out from under his compression shirts. Ex-pro athlete turned private trainer. His home gym was legendary luxury equipment, mirrors everywhere, that deep commanding voice that made my stomach tighten every single time he corrected my form.

I grinned at both of them and went upstairs to take a bath. I took a deep breath and got out of my car with my notebooks in my hand. I hope her dad doesn't kill me as I could see his car outside the house. I walked towards her door and rang the bell. I heard some rustling behind before the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man, with the exact brown eyes as his daughter and salt and pepper hair, smiling down at me warmly. "Good morning, Mr.Adams. I'm Tristan Harris and I go to the same school as your daughter. I believe she has told you about the tutoring job and she is supposed to teach me math today." I explain, confidently and he immediately understood who I was.

"I'm having a session with my therapist." "That is the most fucked-up session I ever saw," muttered the trainer as he took his leave. "And that's the guy they paired you with?" "He's like the third one. The first two kept trying to tell me what to do. He lets me do my own thing." "Why even schedule physio with a trainer at all if you're not going to use him?" "It keeps the shrinks and other doctors from harassing me. They seem to think if I'm left alone to my own devices I'll turn into a lazy ass."

I fall silent. “What?” She waves her hand and urges me to keep talking. “To the gym. The fact that I'm a personal trainer,” I say quickly. “I thought your Pilates classes were your thing.” “No. Yesterday I was just covering for a co-worker,” I clarify. “My thing is personalized classes. I am in charge of training high performance athletes, I help them to be more specific in terms of the exercises they must perform so as not to run the risk of injury. I design a functional exercise plan for them when they need to prepare for a competition. It's a discipline called CrossFit.”