I used to judge girls who slept with their gym instructors.

You know, the way they’d whisper about how hot he was, how strong his hands felt on their waist, how they couldn’t help themselves. I always thought it was gross. Messy. Unnecessary.

That could never be me. So I thought.

Three months into my fitness journey, I still stuck to that belief. The gym had become a routine, a kind of escape. And even though I wasn’t assigned to him, he always stood out.

He wasn’t just fine. He carried himself calmly like he knew what he was doing and didn’t need to say too much. He’d sometimes handle the general classes, walk around correcting people’s postures, and call out reps. His voice had this deep, soothing thing to it that always made my stomach flutter, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

Our eyes always met.

At first, I brushed it off. Coincidence. But it kept happening. During squats. Lunges. Even when I pretended not to look his way. He’d catch me. And then he’d smirk.

Still, I kept it professional. I was focused. I had a man.

Or so I thought.

One night, everything changed.

I came into the gym late, long after the crowd had left. My body was moving, but my mind was numb.

I didn’t even notice he was still around until I heard his voice behind me.

“You’re here late.”

I turned. “Yeah. Just… needed this.”

He nodded and walked closer. “You had a bad day.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew.

And for the first time, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I sighed and sat on the bench.

He sat beside me. “Want to talk?”

We did. About heartbreak. About expectations. About pretending to be strong when everything inside you feels weak. We forgot about boundaries. I told him what happened. He listened. His hand brushed mine gently.

Then his palm rested on my thigh.

I didn’t move.

When he leaned in, his lips brushed mine softly, like he was asking a question. I answered with a kiss. Slow at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. I needed to feel something real. Something that didn’t lie.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me to the empty yoga mat at the back of the room. My leggings came off with one firm pull. His mouth traced a warm line from my chest down my stomach. My breath caught in my throat as his tongue slid between my thighs, slow and deliberate. He took his time, teasing, tasting.

I moaned, loud, honest.

When he slid into me, it was deep and slow at first. Then faster. His grip was firm. His body pressed into mine like he wanted to bury all the pain I came in with. I held on to him, nails digging into his back. My legs wrapped around him tightly, meeting every thrust with urgency.

I came with a loud gasp, shaking underneath him, and just when I thought it was over, he kissed me again, deeper this time. Like he meant it.

When we finally lay side by side, sweaty and breathless, I started laughing.

“What’s funny?” he asked, eyes on me.

I shook my head, still smiling. “I get it now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Get what?”

I didn’t answer him. It was more for me.

In that moment, I understood.

I understood why some women gave in. Why they crossed line they said they never would. It wasn’t just about lust or needing a man. Sometimes, it was about being seen. Being touched without judgment. Being reminded that you’re still desired, especially when life knocks the wind out of you.

I used to think it was weakness.

Now I knew it was survival.

I lay back down, head on his chest. I didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, and I didn’t care.

For tonight, I wasn’t ashamed. I was just… human.

And honestly?

It felt damn good.

Downtown
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