Lets get physical

The following morning, Emma tugged the pale-blue leggings up over her hips and adjusted the black sports bra until it sat snug against her chest. No knickers. That decision had been deliberate. A part of her wanted the gym-bros to notice, to feel the sexual tension radiating off her the way Mark always did.

She checked her reflection in the mirror. Blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, lips bare, skin still faintly flushed from the night before. Her body looked good, but not perfect, at least not under the merciless bathroom lights. That, she thought, was the point of today.

At the sports centre, the trio were already waiting by the weights area. The gym was busy clanks of metal, thuds of barbells, the rhythmic hiss of treadmills. People moved in tight Lycra, sweat slicking their skin. Emma’s pulse spiked as she walked toward them, coat folded over her arm, the leggings clinging tight enough to leave no doubt that she’d come without underwear.

“Morning,” she said, trying to sound breezy.

The tallest of the three, Tyson — shaved head, tattoos wrapping his arms, voice low and gravelly — gave her a nod. “Morning. You ready?”

Zane, leaner, golden-haired with a movie-star grin, stepped closer, eyes flicking once down her body and then back up. “We’ve got a programme mapped out for you. But first things first… the rate.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “Rate?”

“Hundred each,” Rex said flatly. He was massive, his thick beard framing a face like carved stone. “Per hour. Daily training. Minimum four weeks. Non-negotiable.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “That’s… that’s three hundred an hour. I can’t—there’s no way I could—”

Zane lifted his hands. “Relax. You want another option? We’ve got one. You help us with a project. We’ll train you for free.”

Emma blinked. “What project?”

“Before and after.” Tyson folded his arms, biceps bulging. “Social media. We put your journey online. You’re the real deal, mid-forties, mom, already hitting classes. People will eat it up. But we need raw, honest before shots. No filters, no pretending.”

Emma swallowed. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means strip it back,” Zane said, matter-of-fact. “We need to see what we’re working with. Otherwise, it’s fake. And we don’t do fake.”

For a heartbeat, Emma froze. Around her, the gym was alive with bodies in motion, men squatting under loaded bars, women pumping dumbbells, a group class thudding in time to pounding music. She imagined peeling down her leggings, baring her skin under the strip-lights, flashes of cameras capturing her flaws.

Her cheeks burned. “Here? Now?”

Rex shrugged. “This is a liberal space. No one’s gonna bat an eye. Besides, people are too busy looking at themselves.”

Emma let out a shaky breath. She could say no. She should say no. But her skin tingled, and the fire in her gut told her otherwise. She had asked for this. Hadn’t she?

“Fine,” she whispered.

Zane gestured toward the mirror-lined wall near the free weights. “Over there. Good light.”

Emma walked stiffly to the spot. Tyson followed with his phone already in hand, camera ready. Her throat tightened as she slipped her trainers off, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the leggings. She dragged them down slowly, deliberately, until they were around her ankles. Gasps of cold air prickled her bare skin. She peeled her sports bra up and off.

For a second, she stood naked under the fluorescents. Conversations hummed. Music thudded. And yet she felt as though a spotlight pinned her in place.

“Hands on hips,” Tyson said, calm as a doctor. Click.

“Side profile. Show the tummy.” Click.

“Arms up. Let’s see the underarms.” Click.

They circled her clinically, adjusting her stance, tilting her chin, making her bend at the waist so the flesh on her stomach creased, so her thighs pressed together. Each photo was a new humiliation. Emma’s nipples tightened to hard points.

Zane crouched, camera angled up. “Glutes. Push them back.”

She did. Click.

Rex grunted, blunt as ever. “ bend over part them"

Finally thought Emma she bent over a weight bench parting her pussy lips, Rax walked behind her and she could feel his meaty hand on her soft ass, one then two, then three finger were pushed into her cunt without a word.

Rex pulled out and took notes "Core’s weak. pussy could use tightening, looser than expected.”

Emma bit her lip, furious heat rising in her chest. She’d come here half-expecting them to drool, to leer, to fight for a chance to get close. Instead, they were professional to the point of cruelty. Not one glance betrayed desire. She was a specimen, not a woman.

“Okay.” Tyson lowered his phone. “That’s enough. Put your gear back on.”

Emma scrambled for her clothes, yanking the leggings up fast, pulling the bra tight across her chest. She didn’t know whether she was more humiliated or more aroused.

Then came the workout.

It was brutal. Squats until her thighs trembled. Presses until her shoulders burned. Planks that made her arms shake so hard she thought she’d collapse. Every set came with commentary, Tyson growling “Tighten it,” Zane counting slow and merciless, Rex booming “Don’t half-ass it, Emma.” Sweat ran in rivulets down her back, pooled in the waistband of her leggings. She gasped, cursed, but pushed on.

An hour later, her body was jelly. Her lungs screamed. She could barely lift her arms above her head. The bros gave curt nods, nothing more, and dismissed her with the same casualness they’d shown all along.

At home, she stumbled through the front door, skin still slick, hair plastered to her temples. Mark was waiting, camera abandoned on the nightstand. His eyes widened when he saw her.

“Jesus, Em. You look wrecked.”

She tried to laugh but only managed a ragged sigh. “I… I can’t move. Every muscle…”

Mark caught her as she collapsed into bed. He peeled the leggings down her hips, tugged the bra off, and kissed her damp skin. She moaned softly, not from arousal but from the sheer ache of it all. Yet underneath the exhaustion, that dark, frustrating fire still smouldered.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was of the bros’ voices, clinical, detached. Saggy butt. Weak core. Not toned. And the humiliating, devastating need that came with hearing it.