His Perfect Gym Partner

Eric walked down the street, allowing the urge to guide him without resistance. His steps were confident and decisive, his muscular body moving with natural, commanding grace. He stopped in front of the large entrance to a professional gym—a modern glass building with big signs promising the highest-level personal training.

As he entered, a man shorter than him but muscular and sturdy came out from the reception desk and greeted him. "Good thing you showed up," the man said in a grumpy but satisfied voice. "I thought you were gonna skip work." Eric, still confused, relaxed for a moment and let the urge flood memories into his head. He recognized the man: Jo, the gym owner. Eric works here as a personal trainer.

Before he could respond, Jo gave him a light, almost rough friendly push forward. "All the girls are waiting for you. You know they won’t train with any other guy."

Eric didn’t understand what he meant until he looked around. At the far end of the training hall stood a group of about ten women in their twenties, all wearing extremely tight workout clothes: sports bras that barely covered their full, rounded breasts, and thin yoga pants clinging to their juicy thighs and tight, sculpted asses. Each one had a body that looked built for a fashion show: precise curves, emphasized lines, and movements that stretched the fabric to its limit. When they noticed Eric, their eyes sparkled with excitement; some smiled seductive smiles, while others began approaching him, their bodies moving with open desire.

Eric relaxed again and let the urge clarify the situation. Memories flowed quickly: he wasn’t just a trainer here; he was a main attraction. The women—many of them regular clients—booked private sessions with him not just to work out, but to flirt, get physically close, and try to make him give in to their desire. His muscular body, the prominent erection in his tight workout clothes, and the dominant aura he projected made him a magnet for them. They competed for his attention, sometimes even offering themselves directly.

The next memory was even more surprising: Tim was the one who understood the power of this situation. He negotiated with Jo, convinced him that Eric was the main reason clients came, and in return demanded triple pay. Jo tried to resist but agreed, knowing the women not only booked with Eric but brought friends too, making the deal profitable. Tim, as the memory portrayed him, saw it as a chance to secure their standard of living, turning the women’s desire for Eric into a financial advantage.

Eric stood there, surrounded by the approaching women, feeling the weight of his new status: a trainer who wasn’t just a trainer, but a symbol of desire filling the gym with loyal, yearning clients.

Jo called the first woman, Camila. A woman with tanned skin and matching long, glossy brown hair that reached mid-lower back bounced toward Eric with obvious enthusiasm. Her body was toned and perfectly sculpted, as if built for desire: her large, rounded C-cup breasts pressed against the tight sports bra to the point of nearly tearing, causing the fabric to stretch over the prominent nipple curves. Her ass was round, high, and tight, each cheek full and sculpted like two balls jiggling forcefully with every bounce, squishing and spreading inside the thin yoga pants that almost disappeared between the juicy curves. Her thighs were strong and thick, rubbing together and creating a hypnotic motion that emphasized the deep shadow between the ass cheeks.

Eric, unsure how to lead a personal session, asked her what she wanted to do. Camila suggested a series of machines, all in positions that brought her intimately close to him: first the Smith machine for chest presses, where she bent forward, her ass raised and stretched toward him, cheeks parting and emphasizing the depth between her thighs; then the leg press machine, where she sat with legs spread twenty centimeters apart, and he had to stand very close to adjust the plates; finally, the cable machine for back, where she leaned back, arching her back and raising her chest toward him, while his hands guided the cables close to her body.

During the workout, Camila didn’t stop complimenting him— “Your muscles are so hard, I can feel them through the fabric”—and touching his arms, chest, and abs, her fingers sliding over the muscular bulges. Eric thought the attention was pleasant, unlike his previous life where he didn’t get this kind of admiration from women, but he noticed that despite the touching and flirting, he didn’t feel real sexual arousal. It was nice, but not exciting.

At the end of the session, Camila hugged him tightly, her soft, curvy body pressing against his muscular one, but she couldn’t even wrap her arms around him. The fact only heightened her excitement, and she whispered how much she loved working with him.

Eric turned to the waiting list and called the next name, Sylvie. The workout with her was similar: a series of exercises involving intimate positions—squats with weights where she sat on his knees for stability, glute cable exercises requiring her to bend and spread her legs while he stood behind her, and core exercises where she lay on her back with legs spread and his hands directing her movements. Sylvie tried to seduce him more directly—biting her lips, pulling her sports bra down to expose more skin, even whispering explicit offers—but she too failed to arouse a sexual response in him.

None of the women seemed to have real expectations of succeeding in seducing him. It appeared the fantasy itself—the physical closeness, the touching, the admiration for his unconquerable body—was enough for them. They enjoyed the time with him, the feeling of being close to a man they craved, without needing an actual sexual outcome, even if they wanted it.

Eric stood in the center of the spacious training hall, surrounded by the noise of falling weights, light music flowing from the speakers, and a faint scent of sweet sweat and expensive deodorant. He wondered if the girls knew he was gay in this world? And then, as if a punch woke him up, he thought, “I’m not gay! It’s just the curse. Just Hildi’s curse.” But the morning memory rose in him like a warm wave—the hot, wet mouth of Tim, the tongue that knew exactly where to go, the throat that opened effortlessly. His cock twitched again, hardening painfully fast inside the tight workout pants. The thin fabric hid nothing; the thick, long bulge looked like a waking snake.

Eric turned quickly, his gaze scanning the hall—no one was looking his way, thank God—and breathed a sigh of relief. He cleared his throat, tried to look professional, and raised the list. “Tiffany,” he called in as steady a voice as he could.

Tiffany approached him as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine come to life. Tall, almost his height. Long, straight platinum-blonde hair cascading like a waterfall down her back. Fair, marble-smooth skin glowing under the neon lights. Huge tits—at least G-cup—pressed into a too-small black sports bra, stretching the fabric until the seams nearly tore, the hard nipples visible like two small buttons through the thin material. Incredibly narrow waist, and then—the ass. God, the ass. Two round, firm, high globes, tight inside shiny black yoga pants that looked painted on. Every step made the cheeks jiggle in perfect rhythm, like two latex-covered bowling balls.

But in Eric’s head, without wanting it, an immediate comparison arose, and he thought: “Her ass isn’t as big as Tim’s. Not as juicy. Not soft-hard at the same time. Not… perfect in the same way.” He realized what he’d thought and shook his head.

The workout began like the others: deep squats where she bent in front of him, her ass almost touching his erection; chest presses where she lay on the bench and her tits nearly bounced out with every push; shoulder exercises where he had to place hands on her smooth shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin under his fingers. She touched him constantly—on the arms, abs, chest—her fingers sliding over the muscles as if checking if they were real.

And then, as she bent over the cable machine, ass raised high, she said in a low, husky voice without turning: “Want a blowjob?”

Eric froze. She straightened slowly, turned to him, full lips biting her lower lip. Her hands already on her huge tits, squeezing them together, creating an even deeper cleavage. “I heard you’re gay,” she said with a small, arrogant smile, “and you have someone. I have a thing for girls sometimes too, but tell me, a man like you… really doesn’t want a hot, juicy mouth like mine wrapping around you?”

Eric’s head spun. He felt the blood drain from his face. Did he want this? He was a man. She was perfect. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And it wouldn’t be cheating, right? Tim had pushed him his whole life to hit on girls. Now, with a real chance—he’d refuse? He shook his head again because he didn’t understand why he was thinking about Tim now. He blinked. The confusion, anger, desire, fear—all mixed. Finally, he nodded and said: “Just this once.”

Tiffany smiled a victorious smile. She grabbed his hand—large, warm, strong—and led him between the machines, through the back corner of the hall, toward the private trainers’ restroom. The door closed behind them with a soft click. The smell of chlorine and luxury soap filled the air. She locked the door. Turned to him and dropped to her knees.

Eric stood with his back to the cold wall, his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his throat. He told himself over and over he was doing this because he was a man, because any man would want a blowjob from a woman who looked like this, but the words sounded false in his head. Something deeper drove him—not desire, but a need to prove something. To himself. To Tim. To the curse. He didn’t know exactly why. He just knew he couldn’t refuse.

Tiffany pulled his workout pants down in a quick, confident motion. His cock flopped out completely soft, hanging like a piece of meat on a hook, and Tiffany’s eyes widened. Eric thought for a moment she was disappointed he wasn’t hard, but then saw the gleam in her eyes—Tiffany didn’t know he had no erection. Even soft, it was so big and thick. She didn’t say a word, just leaned forward and took him into her mouth immediately.

It felt nice at first—warm, wet, a skilled tongue that knew exactly where to press. But the more she worked on him, the harder she tried, Eric’s mind began working against him. He couldn’t stop comparing. She was good, clearly experienced, but Tim… Tim was on another level entirely. Tim was an expert. As if he’d earned an advanced degree in blowjobs and graduated with honors. Every motion of Tiffany’s, every suck, every tongue swirl—immediately triggered the thought of what Tim would do instead. Slower. Deeper. More perfect.

He tried to focus on the body in front of him—on the huge tits pressing against his thighs, on the platinum-blonde hair moving between his fingers, on her sweet, expensive scent—but it didn’t work. The image he wanted in his head was Tim on all fours that morning, his enormous, juicy ass trembling like jelly with every movement, the big eyes full of adoration, the open, ready mouth, the small, sweet sounds he made when Eric pushed deeper. He saw it so clearly it hurt. And his cock responded. Slowly, but surely. It began hardening inside Tiffany’s mouth, growing and thickening at a pace that made her gasp in surprise. She tried taking him deeper, but even with all her experience, it was hard. He filled her mouth completely, pushing into her throat, and she gagged lightly but didn’t release. She just took it like a challenge.

And then it came. Exactly when Eric remembered the morning climax—the hard slap on Tim’s fat ass, the wet, fleshy sound the ass made, Tim’s high, sweet moan as he came just from that—everything exploded. His cock contracted and then released a huge flood of hot, thick cum straight into Tiffany’s throat. She tried to swallow, really tried, but it was too much. Cum spilled from her mouth, dripped down her chin, fell in thick, heavy drops onto the shiny black floor. Some landed on her tits, staying there like white decoration on the black fabric.

She released him with a wet sigh, looked up at him with teary eyes, and smiled a satisfied but slightly defeated smile. Eric leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, feeling completely empty. Not satisfied. Not happy. Just empty. And the only thought circling in his head, over and over, was: Tim would have swallowed it all. Without a single drop spilling. And he would have smiled afterward. Smiled and asked for more.

Eric pulled up his pants quickly, his hands still trembling slightly from the release. He looked at the floor, where a few white drops still glistened on the granite like small stars, and felt hot embarrassment rise in his neck. He muttered a quick apology, “Sorry about the mess,” his voice sounding hoarse and distant. Tiffany just laughed, a deep, satisfied laugh that filled the small room. She stood slowly, wiped her chin with the back of her hand, and said, “Are you kidding? That was the best blowjob I’ve ever had. Hope you had fun too.” She smiled a wide smile.

Eric didn’t want to disappoint her. He cleared his throat and said, “It was… really nice,” and the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. It wasn’t a complete lie—her mouth was warm and skilled—but it also wasn’t the truth. The truth was that every second he’d been somewhere else entirely, with someone else.

They cleaned themselves in relative silence: she washed her face with cold water from the faucet, he wiped his cock with toilet paper and flushed it. Tiffany even bent down again, tongue already out, and offered in a sweet voice, “Want me to lick what’s left?” Eric recoiled automatically, raised a hand in a blocking motion, and said, “No, I’ll manage.” He thought that if Tim had offered the exact same thing, he wouldn’t have hesitated a second. He would have pushed his cock back into Tim’s mouth and let him clean every drop.

They exited the restroom one after the other, cautiously. The hall was still filled with the noise of weights and music, the neon lights still glowing, and the other girls still working out as if nothing had happened. No one looked their way too much. Eric felt small relief, but it vanished immediately as the thought returned: he’d cheated on Tim. The word “cheated” echoed in his head like an alarm. He tried to shake it off—this wasn’t a real relationship, it was just the curse, it wasn’t real—but it didn’t work. Something inside him hurt.

Tiffany stopped beside him, pink gym bag on her shoulder, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Thanks for the workout,” she said in a voice only he could hear, “and for the last exercise. It was… especially challenging. Can we repeat it?” She winked. Eric tried to be honest this time. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said slowly, “it’s not you, just…” She interrupted him immediately, raised an eyebrow, and smiled a winning smile. “You’re gay and have someone, I heard. But tell me, from the amount you shot into my mouth—you’re not fully gay. Otherwise you wouldn’t have enjoyed it like that.”

The sentence hit him like a punch in the gut. Because she was right. If he was really attracted to girls, he would have enjoyed her body, the huge tits, the ass. But he came only because he thought about Tim. Only because he imagined Tim’s enormous ass trembling, his little moan. It wasn’t about her at all. It was about him.

Tiffany waved him goodbye lightly, turned, and headed toward the exit, her ass jiggling. Eric remained standing there, heart pounding, hands clenched. He looked at the clock. Two more hours until the end of his shift. He didn’t want to disturb Tim in his research—he knew how important it was to him—but something inside him burned. He had to talk to him.