Who will have her first?

The first month was hell.

Every morning Emma woke aching. Every night she collapsed into bed with muscles that screamed as if they’d been torn apart. Tyson, Zane, and Rex left nothing in reserve, squats until her ass quivered, presses until her shoulders gave out, planks that left her drenched in sweat, trembling like she’d been fucked senseless.

Mark reached for her at night, hopeful, ****, but she batted him away. “I can’t,” she muttered again and again. “Not tonight. I’m ruined.” And she was, ruined by the gym-bros, by their iron-clad routines, by the way they stripped her bare under the harsh lights and made her pose while they dissected her body with their blunt words.

Mark grew frustrated. He’d roll over, cock stiff in the dark, left to jerk off silently while Emma slept like the dead beside him. She barely noticed.

But by the second month, something shifted. The soreness dulled into a burn she craved. Her thighs hardened, her stomach began to flatten, her arms carved with lean lines of muscle. Each morning she saw herself in the mirror, waist tighter, ass lifted, tits still heavy but perched higher on a chest built firm by push-ups and presses. And with it came the hunger.

It started as a spark, the brush of her own hands over sweat-slick skin during a workout, the way her leggings now clung like paint to her ass. By week six she was soaked most nights, her pussy clenching on nothing as she tried to sleep.

She rolled onto Mark one night, waking him with her hand already dragging down his boxers. “Fuck me,” she whispered, voice ragged. He blinked, groggy.

“Em, I—”

“Now. I need it. Please.”

She rode him hard, tits bouncing, nails raking his chest, sweat dripping down her temple. She came in minutes, shuddering, panting, before slumping against him and groaning, “Again.”

Mark stared at her. He couldn’t keep up. Each night became a battle, Emma climbing onto him, grinding, gasping for more. She wanted it in the morning, after her workouts, bent over the counter while making coffee. She craved cock the way she craved the burn of the weights. Mark gave what he could, but by month three he was drained, shooting weak loads while Emma writhed on top of him, unsatisfied.

By month four, Emma had stopped expecting Mark to fill the void. She took her satisfaction in the gym. The training sessions left her panting, slick between her thighs. Tyson’s barked orders, Zane’s smug corrections, Rex’s blunt commands, they drove her harder than any man had ever fucked her. She started masturbating in the showers afterward, grinding her fingers into her clit as hot water pounded her aching muscles, picturing herself posing naked under their cameras.

The bros remained detached, clinical. “Quads are improving,” Tyson muttered one day, adjusting her stance.

“Abs are cutting through,” Zane said with a grin, tapping her stomach.

“Breathing’s tighter,” Rex rumbled.

Not one glance dipped to her tits. Not one word hinted at the ache in her cunt. It infuriated her.

By month five she was unrecognisable. Her stomach was iron, cut into grooves. Her arms rippled when she lifted, veins surfacing. Her ass was a perfect globe, striated with muscle but still soft where it counted. Her tits, still heavy, jutted proudly from her chest, absurd and obscene against the rest of her chiselled frame. She looked like a goddess — or a freak, depending on who was staring.

Mark barely touched her now. When he tried, it was clumsy, apologetic. Emma rode him in silence, getting herself off, leaving him panting beneath her.

And then came month six.

“Today’s the day,” Tyson said as she finished her final set, arms trembling under the weight of the barbell.

Emma wiped the sweat from her brow. “What day?”

“After shots.” Zane grinned, phone already in hand. “Strip.”

She froze, heart hammering. “Here?”

“Yeah, here,” Rex said, flat as always. “Same as before.”

The gym hummed around them, clangs of plates, shouts of encouragement, the steady thump of music. Emma swallowed, then hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her leggings and peeled them down, her sports bra following. The air hit her skin like ice. She was naked again, but not the same woman who had trembled here months ago.

She struck a pose, biceps flexed, abs tight. Click.

“Peak condition,” Tyson muttered.

She spread her stance, showing off her quads, tits lifted high. Click.

“Perfect symmetry,” Zane grinned.

She bent forward, ass out, her glutes tight as stone. Click.

“Fuckin’ phenomenal,” Rex rumbled. Then he stepped closer, thick finger trailing down her thigh before pressing between her legs into her pussy. Emma gasped, her knees almost buckling as he pushed inside.

“Christ,” Rex muttered, brow furrowed. “Tight. Like, barely one finger.” He worked it slowly, Emma biting her lip, breath stuttering.

“Three to one,” Tyson said with a smirk. “That’s some progress.”

Emma flushed hot, humiliation and pride colliding in her chest. She pulled herself upright, tits heaving, sweat slicking her skin.

“Well?” she snapped, defiant now. “Which one of you wants to fuck me first?”

For the first time in six months, the three of them laughed.

“Emma,” Zane chuckled, shaking his head. “We’re gay.”

Tyson grinned. “Always have been.”

Rex looked at his finger, wiping it on a towel. “This is a gay gym. Didn’t you get that?”

Emma’s jaw dropped. Heat surged up her neck, a cocktail of rage, embarrassment, and betrayal. Six months of ****. Six months of sweat, humiliation, pushing herself beyond anything she thought possible. Six months of aching for their approval, their touch. And now — this.

“You—” she sputtered. “You’ve been—”

“Training you,” Tyson interrupted calmly. “And look at you now. Stronger. Tighter. Peak female condition.”

Emma’s cheeks burned. She yanked her leggings back up, shoved her tits into her bra, and stormed out of the gym, their laughter still echoing in her ears.