Chapter 13: Anal Training Begins

Sarah Thompson pulled into the shadowed slot at 9:24 p.m., the engine’s low rumble fading into the thick evening quiet. Two nights had passed since she had called him Coach on those yoga mats and felt herself come apart in a way that left her sheets damp the next morning. The memory of her own release soaking his face still tightened something low in her belly every time she sat at her desk or crossed her legs in the car. Tonight she had obeyed his last whisper without hesitation. Beneath the fitted black tank and the same snug leggings she wore a new set of lace—smaller, sheerer, the bra little more than two delicate triangles that framed her nipples and the thong a thin string that disappeared between her cheeks the moment she moved. The fabric had been teasing her since she left the house, the narrow strip already slick against her folds. She told herself it was just another workout. The words felt paper-thin.

The doors slid open to the familiar cool hush, but the gym felt different tonight—charged, intimate, the mirrors reflecting only the low golden glow of the security lights. Mike waited by the bench press station, black tank already clinging to the hard lines of his torso. His hazel eyes swept over her once, slow and deliberate, lingering on the faint outline of the tiny lace beneath her tank. “Sarah,” he said, the word carrying that low, commanding timbre she had come to crave. “You followed instructions. Good girl.”

They started the workout like any other session, a full circuit designed to push her limits and leave her flushed and breathless. Warm-up on the rower, then shoulder presses and lat pulldowns. Mike spotted her from behind, his hands steady on her upper arms, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts each time she pulled the bar down. Sweat gathered along her collarbones and slid into the valley between them, darkening the tank until the sheer lace cups became visible as dark shadows beneath the fabric. Every rep made the tiny thong shift, the string rubbing against her clit and the sensitive ring of muscle behind it in a constant, maddening tease.

They moved to cable rows and tricep pushdowns, the conversation light on the surface—her latest deadline at work, a funny story about her youngest refusing vegetables—but beneath it his touch lingered longer on every correction. When she finished the last set he stepped close, voice dropping. “Cooldown on the bench. Face down, hips high. We’re going to work on something new tonight.”