The Personal Trainer

Elizabeth squatted down low, feeling the burn, then lifted back up to her ready position. Behind her, she heard a deep voice.

"That's right, bitch, work them glutes. Make this ass poppin'!" the Black man boomed. His name was Quintavious Randle, although he simply went by Tave. He was, by almost every metric, unworthy. He'd dropped out of school as a freshman. He was uncultured and uncouth. He was 18, far younger than Elizabeth. He was fiscally irresponsible, always needing Elizabeth to buy him a shake or a bite to eat after a workout, and his old beat-up vehicle was marred with empty 40 oz malt liquor bottles and weed residue. He was Emily's personal trainer, and she trashed him constantly to Elizabeth, even as her physical fitness reached its peak.

And yet .... he was 6'3, built as if sculpted by God himself, with a cocky and dominant demeanor that probably assured he had it where it counted. And she was only looking for a frolic, wasn't she?