Encounter in the Gym

There was no way around it: I was out of shape. For years, I had tried denying that fact. I would ignore the fact that I was wearing hoodies in the summer, or the fact that I’d transitioned from “medium” t-shirts to “large.” All in all, I was maybe ten or fifteen pounds heavier than I should’ve been. Not the end of the world, but it wasn’t exactly something I could hide, no matter how straight I stood or how much I tried to suck my gut in. I had man-boobs and a bit of a gut.

So I had to do something about it.

Luckily, there was a gym in my apartment complex. I’d known about it since I moved in, but I’d never actually used it. There was always something I had to do, always some excuse. It was too cold out. I had just eaten, and you can’t work out on an empty stomach. I had that thing I had to do.

But not anymore.

No more excuses.

I threw on a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt and I hopped in the elevator and rode it all the way down to the gym.

The gym was a wide room with a mirror on every wall and dozens of workout machines. There were shelves full of weights in a dozen shapes and sizes. There was some crossfit stuff too: wooden boxes and rope machines and even the tire of a truck.

In short, the room was intimidating for a workout noob like me. Of the almost three dozen machines in the room, I could use maybe four. Well, it didn’t matter, right? I wasn’t there to become the next Arnold Schwarzenegger or The Rock, I was there to waddle my way through a treadmill for half an hour to 45 minutes so that I could feel better about myself.

But maybe I wouldn’t even do that because there, in one corner of the room, was a man lifting weights. He was the only person in the gym, but I’ve always been self conscious about how I look when I work out when there are other people in the gym. Especially if they look good.

 

And this man looked great. His body was tight and hard and chiseled. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, choosing instead to expose his tanned skin slick with sweat. The man turned to look at me, and I saw that his face matched his chiseled body. He had a beard that was well-maintained, trimmed, and conditioned. His eyes were shrewd and dark and more than a little mysterious. He had curly, brown hair that was slicked back with sweat.

The man looked me up and down and then turned back around, lifting a dumbbell off the floor and continuing his rep. His biceps bulged as he worked out.

I almost turned around. He had ignored me, like most people did. I didn’t blame him. He looked like he practically lived in the gym. He was more than fit, he was familiar with this environment, at home here. And I was an intruder, a bumbling newbie who would no doubt distract him.

I bit my lip. No. I wasn’t going to leave. I had gone to the gym because I wanted to change my lifestyle and improve my confidence. I couldn’t just walk out because I had experienced a pang of insecurity. If I distracted this man with my bumbling, unfit body, so be it. Let him look! I would be happy to return the favor.

I walked toward one of the treadmills, set my water bottle and gym bag down on a bench next to it, and started walking.

A few minutes passed, and I was already sweating heavily. This was harder than I’d thought it would be. Once again, more insecurities and excuses began rearing their heads. I’d done enough, right? I could call it quits for today. After all, it probably wasn’t healthy to overdo it on my first trip to the gym in years.

No.

I was going to push through. No more excuses. I was tired of wearing baggy clothes and hoodies and trying to hide parts of my body that I was ashamed of. I grit my teeth and kept going, finding my groove, getting deeper and deeper into the zone and…

My shoelace caught on the treadmill, pulling my foot toward one edge and yanking my leg violently. With a yelp, I was thrown off the treadmill and collapsed on the floor next to it. My leg was still on it, the rubber of the treadmill’s mat rubbing against my sweatpants with a horrible whine.

Then the treadmill stopped. I looked up and saw the man standing next to it, one of his bulging arms reaching over the handrails and his big hand pressed against the stop button.

“You alright?” the man said. His voice was deep and confident.

I nodded.

“No, you’re not,” the man said, reaching for my foot. He grabbed my calf with one hand and the bottom of my shoe with the other. “I’m going to try to take your shoe off, is that okay?” he asked.

I nodded again, already used to this man leaving me speechless.

He pulled my leg up and, in one swift motion, slipped the shoe off my foot. The whole process had taken less than a minute and only then did I realize that, throughout it, he had never let my ankle bend.

“I’m going to check if your ankle is sprained, alright?” the man asked.

I nodded again.

“I’m just going to try bending it slightly, if it feels uncomfortable or painful in any way, I’ll stop.”

When I’d first laid eyes on this man, I’d thought he was cold or disinterested. But, with every passing second, he was only growing more and more considerate and gentle.

He grabbed my foot with one hand and my calf with another and, gently, he bent my ankle ever so slightly. He wasn’t lying. He was moving slowly and gently, and his eyes were studying my face for any sign of discomfort.

Luckily, there was no discomfort.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“That’s good,” he said, “then I’m going to try moving your ankle a bit more, is that okay?”

I nodded again.

He bent my ankle further, stopping after the slightest movement and then looking up at me for signs of discomfort. I noticed he was holding his breath in an effort to keep his body as still as possible so as not to move my leg. I found myself blushing at being the center of this man’s gentle, caring, and considerate attention.

“I’m alright,” I said.

“Good,” the man said, “I don’t think you sprained it. It doesn’t look swollen. You should avoid putting too much weight on it for the rest of the day. Just in case.”

“That’s gonna be hard,” I said, “I’ve got a lot of extra weight.”

“I don’t think you do,” he said, “but if you do, I think you should feel good about it. You look good.”

I blushed again, now deeply aware of the fact that this man’s hands were around my foot. His touch was warm, gentle, and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he said,” moving my foot down so that it sat on the floor, then he removed his hands, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I said, my voice lowering to a throaty whisper, “you made me feel good.”

The man smiled. “I’m glad I did,” he said, “my name’s Nick, by the way.”

“That’s a nice name,” I said.

“Really? Nick’s a nice name?” Nick asked, “I think it’s a boring name personally, nothing exotic or anything.”

“You’re exotic enough anyway,” I said

“Wow,” Nick said, sighing, “you’re cute.”

Things had been going too well, but this was something else. Why was Nick talking to me like this? I was a short, slightly overweight guy with an unremarkable face, a bad haircut, and baggy clothes. How could he possibly find me cute?

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Nick asked.

“I…” I stammered. There I was, lying on the ground, one of the most handsome men I had ever seen sitting in front of me, and he was flirting with me.

“I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” Nick said, standing, “I have to work on that. You’re just really cute and I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone now.”

“No,” I said, standing, “don’t leave. I want…”

“What do you want?” Nick asked, “turning to face me.”

“I want to kiss you,” I said.

“I want to kiss you too,” Nick said.

I pounced on him, my lips meeting his, my stubble rubbing against his strong, thick beard. As we kissed, our tongues met and intertwined just as our hands began exploring each other’s body. My hands met his hard muscles, his warm skin, his cold sweat. My body pressed into his, and I found myself becoming hard. His musky scent and hot, hard, powerful body were having an intoxicating effect on me.

I felt one of his big hands find my erection. He gripped it through my sweatpants and a soft moan slipped out from between my lips. He tightened his grasp, moving his hand up and down, exploring the length of my shaft, squeezing here and there as my member jolted up with the stimulation.

His touch was electric, and I needed more of it. And I needed it right there and then. So, throwing all caution to the wind, I moaned “take off my sweatpants.”

He obliged, plunging one big hand under the waistband of my boxers and holding them and the sweatpants above them in a tight grip. He pulled my sweatpants and boxers down in quick movement of his powerful arms, leaving me exposed and ready.

“I see you’re hard for me,” Nick said.

And I was.

Without letting go of my manhood, Nick kneeled in front of me and guided it to his mouth. His lips felt cold on the skin of my shaft, but his saliva was hot. He began licking the tip of my penis, finding the most sensitive spots and massaging them, making me squirm. Then he wrapped his lips around my shaft, using a bit of pressure from his teeth to stimulate all the right places. He sucked my member down while using his hands, lips, and tongue to pleasure me.

When the pleasure was too much, I came and Nick swallowed every drop, deep-throating my eager cock and working it until there was no cum left.

I was in heaven, but it was about to get better.

Before the after-orgasm lull could steal my arousal, Nick pulled off his shorts and revealed a massive, rock-hard cock. He reached into one of the pockets of his discarded shorts and produced a condom. He stuck it into his mouth and bit into it, ripping the wrapper off and stretching the condom itself onto his straining, quivering member.

“Can I fuck you now?” Nick asked.

“Of course,” I said.

I laid down on one of the padded benches and felt Nick step over me so that one leg was on either side of my body and the bench below it.

“I’m going to penetrate you now,” Nick said. Even now, with how hot things were between us, he was still as considerate and gentle as he had been before. He pulled out a bottle of lube and covered his condom-wrapped member in it.

“Do it,” I said. Then I felt him in me. His manhood moved through me, slick as butter. He was slow, moving into me inch by inch as he rocked his hips back and forth. The nerve endings in my anus lit up, sending fireworks of pleasure through my body.

He was good at this. The penetration was an in and out motion, stimulating the inside of my anus during both movements, curving up and out and stimulating everywhere it touched. My anus was on fire in the best way possible, the pleasure radiating from it, through my lower back, and all the way around to my own member. I was getting hard and turned on all over again.

Nick was riding me, his hot sweat dripping onto my back, his hard legs wrapping around my eager body, his sweat-slicked body hot and comforting and overpowering all at once.

His member penetrated deeper and he rocked it from side to side, stimulating me to no end. Then, in one masterful motion, he hit my P–spot and set my prostate ablaze in a storm of pleasure

We climaxed together, our bodies hot with pleasure and exertion and mutual satisfaction.

It was the best workout I’d ever had, and it was the first of many. Nick worked out everyday and I’d join him. Who knew that burning calories could be this much fun!

THE END.

Written by: F. Inglewood

F.Inglewood is a writer who strives to transport readers into vivid, personal and erotic worlds. Each of their stories is a sensual escapade that you might find yourself daydreaming about. After all, it could happen to you!