Personal Trainer: A collection of five erotic stories

Personal Trainer: A collection of five erotic stories

by K D Grace, Alex Severn, Giselle Renarde, Jeanette Grey
     
 

A collection of five erotic stories with mixed submission and domination themes from Xcite Books, winners of ETO Best Erotic Book Brand 2010 and 2011.

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Overview

A collection of five erotic stories with mixed submission and domination themes from Xcite Books, winners of ETO Best Erotic Book Brand 2010 and 2011.

Editorial Reviews

The Romance Reviews

I applaud Miranda Forbes and Xcite publishing. I usually enjoy most if not every single author in these collections. I especially love BDSM so this was a five star read from beginning to end. I recommend this collection to lovers of dominance and submission.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781908262165
Publisher:
Xcite Books
Publication date:
09/29/2011
Series:
Power Play
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
59
Sales rank:
192,087
File size:
0 MB

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Read an Excerpt

When we finally arrive at the gym, and he unlocks the door, I’m thinking death is imminent. He places a meaty hand against my neck and eyeballs his chronograph to check my pulse. I’m wondering if it’s even possible to count that fast. I’m not sure if the resulting grunt means it’s acceptable, or that he’s totally disgusted with my lack of fitness, but at least he’s not dialling an ambulance.

He marches me at a fast trot to a back room with mirrored walls and free weights.

I head straight for the nearest weight bench. It’s the perfect place to collapse and have a whimper. But I don’t get far.

‘Davis! About face!’ he huffs.

And I’m standing at attention again, while he walks around me, hands on his hips muttering. ‘Uh huh, mmm hmm, right.’ He nods to my blue trainer bottoms. ‘Take ’em off.’

‘Sir?’ My voice cracks.

‘You want a beach job, I need to know what I’ve got to work with.’

‘I have a leotard, back home. Believe me, it doesn’t hide anything. If we could just wait–’

‘Take. Them. Off.’ Between each word he makes a stabbing motion at my trackie bottoms with an index finger that looks like it might be a registered weapon.

I shove the trousers down and step out of them, embarrassed by the comfy, and now sweaty, granny panties I wore to work out in. I never expected to have to display them.

‘And the top.’

‘Really, I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we could do this after I get home and then I’ll just slip into the leotard and–’

‘Davis, you will do as I say or find yourself another personal trainer. I will not tolerate insubordination.’

The thought of one hundred quid an hour flashes through my mind, followed in quick succession by the thought of a svelte, sleek new me in a red bikini, and I peel off the shirt to reveal an equally ugly white sports bra.

But he doesn’t notice the bra or the knickers, instead he yells in my ear. ‘Drop and give me ten!’

‘Wha–’

‘Make it 20. Now!’

I fall to the floor with all the grace of a wildebeest on ice, then I struggle through eight push-ups, arms trembling like I’ve got some spastic muscle disease just before I collapse on the floor in a heap.

And suddenly he’s arched over me like he’s gonna put some kind of painful wrestling move on me. But just as I muster the breath to beg for my life, he wraps one tree-trunk of an arm half around my waist and supports himself with the other. ‘I’ll spot you,’ he says. ‘When I say 20 push-ups, I mean 20 push-ups.’ And there he is doing push-ups on top of my push-ups, all supported on three limbs, like a tripod, his hand splayed low on my belly, pulling me up every time he pumps up. He gives me just enough help to struggle through.

It’s impossible for me to count. It’s impossible for me to think of anything other than Hawk Sturgis arched over me, his big hand pressing dangerously close to my pubic bone, his camouflaged crotch raking against my granny-pantied arse with each upward thrust. When I’m finished, he hauls me to my feet, pressed tightly against acres of hard muscle, and I’m very aware that one of those hard muscles just happens to be his cock.

I’m surprised when he says, ‘Not bad, Davis. Most women have no upper body conditioning. You’d think they’d work a little harder on those pecs, do a few more push-ups, some flies. After all, it’s upper body conditioning that makes for good cleavage.’ I don’t know how he does it, but with a little shrug, and some sleight of hand, he unhooks my bra, slides the straps down off my shoulders and shoves it forward onto the floor. I try to cover myself with folded arms as he steps back and turns me to face him. ‘You got nice full breasts, Davis.’ He wedges my arms apart with his big hands and rakes a calloused thumb over each of my burgeoning nipples in doing so. ‘A few push-ups, maybe some dumbbell flies and your cleavage will give every bloke on the beach wood.’

His gaze is like a magnet pulling my nipples all taut, and I wonder if it’s my cleavage that has given him wood, or if it’s just a permanent condition for the macho commando type. He motions for me to turn around, completely oblivious to the blush clawing its way up my chest and neck. ‘Your glutes are nice and poochy, the kind that will look good in a thong. It is a thong, isn’t it? Your bikini?’

Before I can utter an embarrassed no, he hooks a thick finger in the elastic of my knickers and tugs them down until my arse is on candid camera. He ignores my yelp of surprise and keeps a good grip on the elastic while he offers a running commentary on the foibles and glories of my bottom. ‘No cellulite. That’s good. Nice heart shape.’ He cups each buttock and gives it a kneading squeeze. ‘Needs some firming. Nothing a few squats, some hack squats and a good running regimen won’t cure.’

He kneels so his nose is just inches away from my exposed bottom, shoves the panties down until they pool around my ankles, then cups my arse cheeks like they’re two melons he’s contemplating at the market. And all the while he’s contemplating my arse cheeks, his hot breath is blowing its way right up the valley in between, straight to my cunt, and my labia are parting like the Red Sea in full anticipation. Bloody hell! This isn’t what I expected.

‘Spread your legs, Davis,’ he says. ‘I need to get a feel of your thigh muscles.’

I do as he says, knowing full well that while he’s feeling my thighs, he’s getting a bird’s eye view of my puss. Did Alison go through this? Did she mind? ’Cause each time I feel his breath on my slit, I mind less and less. As he squeezes and kneads my upper thigh muscles, the tip of his heavy thumb just grazes my swelling pout, and I jump and gasp at the delicious shock of it. It’s like someone pressed the turned-on switch, and if I wasn’t hot and bothered before, I certainly am now. I’m tilting my hips forward, gripping and relaxing, gripping and relaxing, giving all those girlie muscles a stealthy workout. I’m trying not to hump air in my efforts to reel in his hot breath and wrap it all around my grasping cunt.

‘You’re carrying a lot of tension below deck, Davis. You have regular sex?’ he asks.

I respond with several fish gasps before I find my voice. ‘Not regular, no.’ I figure that’ll be good news to him. That means I won’t have to give up sex to stay focused while he rebuilds my body into a temple.

‘Sex is like calisthenics on steroids,’ he says. ‘Damned important part of any training regimen. Any good one at least.’

Before I can utter my surprise, he says, ‘We’ll start out with three times a week. See how you manage that, then we’ll work our way up from there.’

He ignores my sputters of shock and continues talking to my arse. ‘Some people get really turned on by working out. They need sex afterwards to unwind and relax. Others want sex before they work out. They like the extra rush of endorphins. Me,’ he heaves a sigh that I feel on my pussy like a gale-force wind. ‘Me, I could go either way. Sometimes both. Your body will tell you what works.’

I offer up a couple more fish gasps through a flaming blush before I manage to croak. ‘You mean you want me to ... mmm ... to masturbate as a part of my training schedule?’

‘I didn’t say masturbate, did I, Davis? I said you should have sex. The wanking, well it’ll do if you don’t have a proper work-out partner. Mind you, masturbation’s a good way to burn a few extra calories, I’ll grant you that, so yeah, I’d say have a wank whenever you feel the urge. But I’m not talking about self-pleasure here. I’m talking about real, genuine bumping and grinding. There’s no better workout.’ He manoeuvres himself to kneel in front of me, moving his hands up over my hips and abs, deep massaging the muscles like they’re dough and he plans to make some serious bread.

‘But, I don’t have a proper work-out partner,’ I say, trying not to grind my hips against his massaging hands.

He gives me that how-long-must-I-suffer-fools look and shakes his head. ‘Your body, I can do something about, Davis. But it’s up to you to exercise the muscle between your ears.’ He taps a finger against my temple, emphasising each word. ‘There’s just you and me. I’m your trainer and your work-out partner. That’s what you pay me for.’

The light bulb finally comes on in my head, and my stomach manages half a flip-flop before the hand that has been massaging my abdominal muscles so expertly suddenly slides down until it nestles against my pubes. His thumb rakes my clit, causing me to offer up an undignified grunt. He knows he’s found the control switch, and, holy crap, does he know how to use it! The rough pad of his thumb circles and rakes, and circles and rakes my nib until it feels like a lead weight straining against his fingers.

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