#standing ab exercises | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

santaasi · 3 months ago

Text

roommates with a problem

pairing: jj maybank x roommate!reader

summary: living with jj maybank is like playing with fire — you swore you wouldn’t get burned, but when he finally touches you, you go up in flames.

warnings: NSFW 18+, language, teasing, edging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), mild dom!jj, dirty talk, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 4.4k

a/n: I'm still insecure about my smut writing skills so if it's bad just live with it :(

ᯓ★ now playing…

camila cabello - shameless

LIVING WITH JJ MAYBANK IS AN EXERCISE IN RESTRAINT.

It shouldn’t be like this. He’s your best friend. Your partner in crime. The only person who can make you laugh even when you're seething with frustration, who knows the exact rhythm of your moods like a song he’s memorized.

But there’s a problem. A serious, maddening, pulse-spiking problem.

JJ never wears a shirt.

At first, you blamed it on the summer heat. The first time he stumbled out of his room, half-asleep, golden in the morning light with sleep-ruffled hair and sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips, you barely spared a thought.

Once. That’s all it was.

But then it kept happening.

JJ, stretched across the couch like it’s his personal throne, one arm tossed lazily over the backrest, his phone in one hand and that trademark smirk tugging at his lips. JJ, fresh from the shower, towel hanging precariously off one hip, droplets of water catching the light as they trailed down the carved muscles of his chest. JJ, in the kitchen at sunrise, humming off-key while flipping pancakes, looking like the most sinful version of domestic bliss you’ve ever seen.

It’s cruel. He’s cruel.

Strutting around like temptation personified, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

But deep down, you know better.

Because JJ never fails to be wherever you are. If you’re in the kitchen, nose buried in your seminar notes, he suddenly appears — digging through the fridge, drinking straight from the milk carton, standing there all golden skin and bare torso, with that lazy grin and eyes that flicker toward you like he’s watching, measuring. If you’re curled on the couch, trying to drown your thoughts in some forgettable show, he’s suddenly pressed up beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the heat of him — solid, bare, intoxicating.

It makes you think about things you shouldn't. About the way his voice would sound against your neck. About the way his fingers would feel trailing up the inside of your thigh. About the kind of noises he’d pull from your throat if you just gave in — just once.

It keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in the dark, breath shallow, thighs pressed tight together, mind spiraling.

So you run. You bury yourself in your studies, spend long hours in the library under the guise of academia, while Kiara, Sarah, and Cleo tease you relentlessly about your new obsession with “higher learning.” When you’re home, you hide — lock yourself away in your room like it’s a sanctuary, a shield against temptation.

But JJ notices. Of course he does.

Because now, he’s in your doorway more often than not. Leaning against the frame like a goddamn oil painting, abs flexing with every stretch, golden hour light wrapping around him like it’s in love. He doesn’t need a reason to be there. Sometimes he just wanders in, drops himself onto your bed like he belongs there — like he belongs to you — and watches you. Calm. Unbothered. Smirking like he’s in on the joke you haven’t caught up to yet.

It’s like he’s waiting for something.

Waiting for you to break.

And God, you're so close.

BUT ONE EVENING, EVERYTHING CHANGES.

It’s one of those days — the kind that grates down to the bone, fraying nerves until even the air feels hostile on your skin.

You overslept for your ancient literature exam. Rushed across campus half-dressed, only to be turned away — your professor stern and unmoving. Your laptop crashed mid-submission, eating hours of carefully chosen words. And the barista at your usual spot? Got your order all wrong. Too much syrup, too sweet, sticking to your tongue like everything else today.

By the time you unlock the front door, you’re done.

Done with the day. Done with the world. Done with JJ fucking Maybank and his entire unbearable existence.

You shed your coat in the hallway, kick off your sneakers without caring where they land, and stalk toward the kitchen in search of comfort — salt, sugar, anything to soften the edge carved into your mood.

And of course — of course — he’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was sculpted for it, bathed in the golden warmth of the kitchen light. He’s shirtless — because why wouldn’t he be — skin bronzed and smooth, the sharp cut of his abs flexing as he cracks open a beer with one hand. His lips curve into that signature smirk, the one that always manages to feel both lazy and dangerous. He tilts his head back for a sip, throat working slow and deliberate, like every movement was made to be watched.

It’s obscene. It’s infuriating. It’s — God — it’s unfair.

You slam the fridge shut harder than necessary, crossing your arms tight across your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever this is.

“For God’s sake, JJ,” you snap. “Put on a damn shirt.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just glances at you sideways, one brow arched, amusement dancing in those sea-glass blue eyes.

“Why’s that?” he drawls, voice syrupy and smooth, laced with mock innocence. “That bother you?”

Your jaw clenches. “It’s just–”

The words dissolve under the heat of his gaze. And then, without thinking, without filtering–

“It’s distracting.”

JJ shifts. His entire demeanor changes — like a predator catching the scent of something new. He straightens slowly, that ever-present smirk deepening into something darker, sharper. More interested.

“Distracting how?” His voice lowers, slides across your skin like warm honey. “Can’t stop looking?”

He runs a hand through his blond hair — slow, purposeful, like he knows what he’s doing. His abs flex with the stretch, and you hate the way your stomach tightens in response. Hate it. Crave it.

“I didn’t know my abs were such a problem, princess,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Unless... they’re not the problem. You just like looking.”

Your breath hitches.

And that’s it.

That’s all he needs.

His grin shifts — cocky giving way to hungry — as he steps away from the counter, sauntering toward you with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes the air grow thick and hot between you. Every step coils something tighter inside your chest, your stomach.

He stops just in front of you — too close — his bare skin radiating heat, the faint scent of salt and soap and pine enveloping you like a second skin. The kind of scent that would cling to your sheets. To your skin.

Your thoughts go quiet. Your whole body just... buzzes.

He leans in — barely. Just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath, the tension hanging on the knife’s edge between you.

“Say the word,” JJ murmurs, eyes locked on yours. They’re darker now, stormy with something unreadable — desire, challenge, restraint. “Say the word, and I’ll put a shirt on.”

You don’t say anything.

Because the truth?

You don’t want him to.

You never have.

“You could just admit you like me and save us both some time.”

JJ’s voice is quieter now, stripped of the usual teasing lilt. There's still self-satisfaction tucked into the edges — but underneath it, something else coils. Tighter. Waiting.

You scoff, reaching for something to ground yourself. Anything.

“Oh, please, I…”

The words stumble, falter, because he steps closer — and the warmth of his skin hits you before he even touches you.

JJ tilts his head, smirk deepening. “Yeah?” His voice dips, thick with amusement. “Did you say something?”

You exhale sharply, forcing your gaze away from his chest. But it’s no use. Frustration sparks, flaring hot in your gut, tangled with something you don’t have the guts to name. You meet his eyes with a scowl, jaw clenched, lips tight in irritation.

He sees it.

And he relishes it.

His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin. His eyes flick to your mouth — slow, deliberate — then back to yours, darker now.

“Oh, you’re annoying me.”

JJ laughs, low and rough, raking a hand through his hair as he watches you—really watches you. Not just looking, but studying, like he’s learning every inch of you by heart.

“Liar,” he murmurs.

Something twists low in your stomach.

“Excuse me?”

He leans in — not enough to touch, but enough that your breath shortens, your skin prickling from the heat between you. And then, almost casually, his fingers graze your wrist.

Not accidental.

“You could’ve asked me to wear a shirt weeks ago,” he says, voice velvet-soft, touch featherlight. “But you didn’t.” His fingers skim higher, ghosting over the sensitive skin of your inner arm. “You just watched.”

His voice drops again, almost reverent.

“And I was disappointed.”

Your breath catches. A shiver dances down your spine.

He notices — of course he notices.

His smirk shifts, darkens into something heavier. Hungrier.

“Tell me to back off,” he says, quiet now, the tease barely hanging on. Beneath it, something real. Something dangerous. “And I will.”

The silence thickens, clings like humidity before a storm.

“But if you don’t…” His gaze dips to your lips, and your knees damn near buckle. “I think we both know what’s going to happen next.”

You open your mouth — but nothing comes out. Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips hover by your cheek, not when his breath dances across your skin like a promise.

Your body betrays you. Heat blooms low in your belly, every nerve aching, reaching, wanting.

He lingers. Waiting. Testing. Letting you break.

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

You should.

You really should.

But your fingers curl into the waistband of his sweatpants, gripping the soft fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. His breath catches — barely, but it’s there — and then, without hesitation, you pull him in and crash your mouth to his.

And the world shatters.

It’s not gentle. It’s heat and hunger, teeth and tongue, all the tension you’ve fought against burning through you like wildfire. You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows it whole, pressing you back until the counter bites into your spine — but you don’t care. You just want.

The kiss deepens, greedy and overwhelming, stealing your breath and every last coherent thought with it. For a second — for one sharp, electric second — you forget anything else even exists.

Only this. Only him.

JJ moans into your mouth, low and guttural, as if the sound is torn from somewhere deep inside him. His hands slide around your waist, fingers splayed and gripping like he needs to anchor himself, and then he pins you back against the counter in one fluid motion.

You gasp as he lifts you, your spine arching with the sudden motion. The cold marble kisses your thighs before his hands part them and then his hands pushing the hem of your skirt higher, standing between your legs like he was always meant to be there.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your skin, his lips skimming down your jaw, warm and reverent, like he’s memorizing you. His palms press flat against your hips, grounding you, burning into you. “You should’ve just told me.”

“Tell you what?” you manage, your voice trembling as your fingers thread through his hair. It’s grown out a little — just enough for your hands to sink into — and the softness of it, the familiarity, makes something inside you ache. You’re breathing like you’ve just run a race, chest rising and falling against his with every ragged inhale.

“That you wanted me,” he murmurs. His teeth graze your throat, just barely, and a sigh escapes your lips — soft, helpless, aching. “Would’ve saved us months of pretending.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but your voice is wrecked — breathless and wanting.

He laughs against your neck, but it’s not cocky anymore. It’s shaky. A little desperate. Like he’s unraveling in real time. And then you kiss him again — harder, deeper — and that’s when the teasing ends.

The tension snaps, turning molten in an instant.

JJ growls low in his throat, hands tightening on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His body pushes into yours, chest to chest, hips to hips, until you feel every sharp angle of him. His hands slip beneath your shirt, callused fingertips skating down your sides, and the heat of him makes your knees tremble.

You moan into his mouth, and he answers with a sound that makes your whole body shudder — part hunger, part prayer.

You don’t even register the moment one of his hands slides down, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his fist, the other curling beneath your thigh. He draws you closer, dragging you toward the edge of the counter with a strength that makes your breath catch. You tilt your hips instinctively, and the pressure between your legs spikes like lightning in your veins. You lift your hips for him, heart pounding like a drum in your ears, and the fabric pools around your ankles.

And his hands–

God, his hands are everywhere.

Skimming over bare skin. Tracing lines down your thighs. Gripping, squeezing, worshiping.

You’re dizzy with it.

Every ounce of restraint you’ve fought to keep? Gone. Obliterated the second his lips crash back into yours.

JJ moans into the kiss like he’s starving for it, pulling you closer, tighter, until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the tension humming through every inch of his body as he grinds forward — slow, just enough to tease.

Your fingers slide over his chest, skimming sweat-slick skin, and he twitches beneath your touch, breath hitching when your nails graze down his abdomen.

His grip on you tightens in response, enough to bruise, enough to make your head spin.

“You’re driving me insane, you know that?” he whispers, voice rough, wrecked, as he mouths at your jaw, your throat. He stops just beneath your ear, breath hot as he bites — soft, sinful — and then soothes the sting with his tongue.

You inhale sharply, tipping your head to give him more access. “Am I going crazy?” you rasp. “You’re the one walking around here like some goddamn sinner straight out of an Abercrombie ad.”

JJ lets out a laugh — hoarse, strained. “Could’ve just said something, sweetheart.”

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug, forcing him to look at you.

His pupils are blown, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together.

“Do you think I’ll give you pleasure?” you breathe, dragging your nails lightly down his torso again, watching him flinch, jaw clenching.

He exhales harshly — and then his hands slide under your thighs, gripping your ass and lifting you off the counter like it costs him nothing.

You gasp, but he swallows the sound with another kiss — hungrier, rougher — as he carries you across the apartment. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and the friction between your bodies steals the breath from your lungs.

He pins you against the wall outside your bedroom, pressing into you like he’s trying to burn himself into your bones.

There’s no mistaking how much he wants you now.

No more games.

“Still want me to wear a shirt?” he murmurs against your mouth, teasing, breath fanning over your lips.

You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.

“Shut up,” you whisper, tugging at the waistband of his sweats, voice ragged, eyes burning. “And get in my fucking bed.”

JJ grins like the devil himself before throwing open your bedroom door and tossing you onto the mattress.

"You're going to regret saying that, honey," he warns in a low, dangerous voice.

And when he leans over you, eyes darkened with real, bone-deep desire, you realize — he’s absolutely right.

JJ doesn’t waste a second.

The moment your back hits the mattress, he’s on you — all over you. His mouth is hot and demanding, kissing you like he’s been starving for it, like he needs you just to breathe. It makes your stomach flip and your thighs tighten around his.

"You have no idea," he croaks between kisses, his hands sliding under your shirt, "how long I’ve wanted this."

Your breath catches as his fingers trace up your stomach, slowly — deliberately — moving higher.

“Yes?” you tease, trying to keep the upper hand. But your voice betrays you — already breathless, already unraveling for him.

JJ giggles — low, cocky, and utterly rude — but it slips into a sharp gasp when you grind up against him, the friction catching him off guard.

“Hell, yes,” he growls.

His lips find your neck next, kissing wetly, sucking just enough to make you shiver before biting down — leaving a faint mark that makes your pulse race.

“You’re gonna be trouble,” he murmurs, his hands gliding down your sides like he’s memorizing every inch. “I’m already fucking squirming and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

You want to snark back — but then he yanks your shirt off and just stares.

That hungry, greedy, possessive look in his eyes steals the words from your throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then his lips are on you again — hot and open-mouthed — trailing fire down your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, until his tongue flicks over your nipple.

You arch beneath him with a moan. “Damn, JJ…”

Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging hard.

He groans, rolling his hips against you — and God, you can feel how hard he is.

“Can you feel that, honey?” he pants, voice wrecked and teasing all at once. “That’s what you do to me. Walking around, acting like you don’t want to–”

He bites again, sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

Your nails drag down his back, digging in until he hisses.

“Then do it,” you whisper — your voice cracking, already undone.

JJ freezes.

Just for a second.

He stares down at you with wild eyes, dark and blown wide, like he’s about to lose control completely.

Then–

His hands are on your thighs, yanking off your skirt and underwear in one swift, fluid motion.

Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth is on you.

Your head falls back against the mattress. “Fuck, JJ–”

He moans at the sight of you, sprawled out beneath him, your legs parted, your body offered up like some fevered prayer.

“This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled, drunk on you. His tongue teases, circles, slides — then sucks you in deep, pulling a desperate cry from your lips.

You clutch at him — his shoulders, the sheets, the headboard — anything.

But he just laughs, sinful and smug, squeezing your hips tighter to hold you exactly where he wants you.

“Take it, baby,” he rasps, pushing two fingers inside you, curling them just right. “Be a good girl. Let me have you.”

And you do. God, you do.

He fucks you with his mouth like it’s a goddamn art, like it’s the only thing he was born to do. His tongue works you relentlessly while his fingers curl and thrust, and soon, you’re a mess — whimpering, clawing, begging.

“JJ, I… fuck, I can’t–”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. One of his hands reaches up, finding yours, intertwining your fingers.

You squeeze his hand like a lifeline.

Your back arches, a strangled sob caught in your throat, moans pouring from your lips like prayers.

“Come on, baby,” he groans, mouth hot against you. “Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

When he sucks at just the right spot, your vision goes white at the edges.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave — violent, shaking, devastating.

JJ moans as you fall apart against his mouth, as your body trembles under him. He doesn’t stop — licks you through it, drinks in every sound, every shudder, until you’re spent and wrecked and still gasping his name.

You're breathing hard, blinking up at the ceiling, still trying to figure out what the hell just happened, when JJ wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks down at you.

“Yes,” he murmurs, crawling back up your body, voice thick with arrogance. “That’s what I thought, baby.”

You don’t even get the chance to fire back with something smart, because his mouth is already on yours — and fuck, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You moan into the kiss, needy and undone, and your fingers tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate for more.

JJ chuckles against your mouth. “Patience, honey.”

“To hell with patience.” Your palm slides over the front of his pants, and he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, body taut with restraint.

For a second, it seems like he’s going to tease you again — draw it out, make you beg.

But then he pulls back, sits up, and yanks off his sweatpants in one quick, determined move — like he needs to be inside you, like he’s got something to prove.

And… yeah.

You stare.

Because holy. Shit.

Of course, you’ve heard the rumors. Everyone’s heard the whispers on campus about JJ and his — well. Let’s just say his confidence isn't unfounded.

But seeing him like this? Big, thick, hard — real? That’s something else entirely.

JJ smirks like he knows exactly what you're thinking. His hand wraps around himself, slow and deliberate as he strokes, watching your face with a look that’s all heat and hunger.

“You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me alive,” he rasps, voice ragged now.

You lick your lips, pushing up on your elbows, gaze locked on him. One hand reaches out, fingers aching to wrap around him — to feel every vein, every inch.

“Maybe I do.”

JJ groans, grabbing your hips and pulling you flat again.

“No,” he growls, voice dropping dark and deep. He hovers over you, pinning your wrists to the mattress, eyes blazing. “Your turn comes later.”

Then he shifts between your thighs, spreading them wide, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance.

“Right now,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

You shudder beneath him, breath catching. “Bold of you to assume I remember it now.”

JJ laughs — really laughs — and your heart stutters.

And then his grin fades, eyes darkening again, and he pushes in.

Deep.

Slow.

Devastating.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your fingers flexing in his grip as he fills you inch by inch.

JJ curses under his breath, pressing his forehead to yours, shaking.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. So warm. Fucking perfect.”

He pulls out just a little, then pushes back in — deeper, harder. You moan, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

And then he does it again.

And again.

Each thrust hits deeper, harder, rougher — his grip on your wrists tightening as your body arches up to meet him.

The world narrows to this — his breath scorching against your ear, the way his hips snap into you, merciless and unrelenting. The mattress creaks beneath you, the headboard knocks rhythmically against the wall, but it all fades into nothing compared to the sound of JJ breathing your name like a curse, like a promise he knows he’ll break the second you ask him to.

Your back arches when he angles just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips. He grins, teeth grazing your jaw.

“There she is,” he pants, dragging his hand up your side, fingers splayed wide like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin. “Knew you had it in you.”

He palms your breast roughly, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks beneath his touch, and when you whimper, he pinches — sharp, sudden, delicious.

You cry out, clenching around him, and he groans like it physically hurts to hold back. “Fuck, you like that, huh?”

“JJ–” you gasp, nails raking down his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake. He hisses, slamming into you harder, the sound of your bodies echoing in the humid, sex-thick air.

“Yeah?” he growls, mouth finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking until your hips jerk. “That what you needed, baby? Me–… ugh… inside you, owning you?”

“Yes–… God, yes–”

His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, firm enough to make your breath catch, intimate enough to make your head spin. His other hand tugs your leg higher around his hip, and he thrusts deeper, grunting low in his chest.

JJ grabs your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes lock.

“Then look at me when you come,” he says, voice thick and rough. “Take it like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your body bows beneath him, pleasure snapping through you like lightning, your vision going white as you clench around him, shaking. He holds you through it, murmuring your name over and over, like it’s grounding him, like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

You barely register his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering — until he lets out a broken groan and spills into you with a shudder so full-body it pulls a whimper from his throat. He stays there, buried deep, panting against your neck as his weight settles over you, heavy and warm and exactly where you want him.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. His hand traces lazy patterns along your ribs, then drifts lower, slipping between your legs just to watch you squirm again, already too sensitive.

"Fuckin’ insatiable,” he mutters, kissing your breast, dragging his tongue over your nipple before giving it a soft bite. You twitch, gasping, and he grins like a man who knows he’s wrecked you.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling out with a wet, obscene sound that makes you both hiss. You can feel him dripping out of you, thick between your thighs, sticking to your skin.

You should care. You don’t.

You’re still catching your breath when he breaks the silence.

“So…” JJ says, grinning crookedly, his voice still hoarse. “You still want me to start wearing shirts?”

You smack his chest weakly. “You’re such an asshole.”

But you kiss him anyway — deep, slow, and toe-curling. He tastes like sweat, like salt, like the stupid grin he’s still wearing when you pull back.

To hell with the shirts.

To hell with the rules.

Roommates with a problem? Yeah. The problem is, you’ll never get enough of him. And the real problem? He feels exactly the same.

thankx for reading <3

gosh, writing smut is so hard for me. every time I do, I feel like it’s awkward or badly written and I get so embarrassed lol. so if you’ve got any thoughts, I’d really appreciate any feedback—whether in the comments or my inbox! :3

– your santi 🪐

masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x fem!reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank smut

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yieldtotemptation · 8 months ago

Text

PROFESSIONAL ft. Bae

bae x male reader smut

8k words

For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.

Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.

It’s how she haunts you.

The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.

The photos.

So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.

Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.

Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.

Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.

Unsurprised. Unbothered.

Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.

Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—

"Looks like I beat you again, sir."

You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.

“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.

A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.

She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.

You ponder licking it off.

Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”

“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."

“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.

“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."

She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.

You clear it with a cough.

"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."

There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.

Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."

You emphasise, “Exercising.”

Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”

More of this game, presumably.

The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.

Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.

You really should know better.

Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'

You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.

Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.

(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.

After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.

And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—

Yeah.

Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)

But today—today won’t be the day you give in.

The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.

You’re the trainer. She’s the client.

You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.

And Bae…

Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“So, how do you want me, sir?”

(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)

You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.

Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”

“Sir.”

Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"

Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.

"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.

"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."

A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.

“Clock’s ticking.”

There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.

Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.

She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.

That’s the pose.

You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.

(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)

A sigh, because you know—this is it.

The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.

Fuck it.

Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.

Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"

“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).

She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time.

This is how you'll rationalise it:

There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.

Just enough to manage it.

You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.

You're not sure who's training who anymore.

Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.

You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.

Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.

Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.

Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.

An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.

It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.

“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.

“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips.

The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.

The audacity.

There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.

Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."

She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.

You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."

Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.

They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.

“You said that if I—ah fuck—”

You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.

“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”

Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)

“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”

You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.

There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.

You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.

Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.

You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.

She was already perfect the first time you met her.

The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.

A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.

Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”

Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.

With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.

Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.

But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.

“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.

Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.

A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.

The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.

“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.”

A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.

No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.

She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'

Fuck.

She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.

Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.

A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.

She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.

You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.

It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.

Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."

An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.

“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”

There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”

“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"

Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).

“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.

The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.

As if.

“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.

Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”

And you believe it—she makes you believe it.

Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.

The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.

Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.

Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.

“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.

There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.

You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—

"Stop."

It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.

A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.

“Something wrong?”

A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.

Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”

"Still with that?"

"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.

"What do you think?"

Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.

"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."

That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:

A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”

You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.

Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.

Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.

You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.

Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”

Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.

She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.

Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.

And then, without another word, she sinks down.

A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”

Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.

“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.

“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.

She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.

"Thank you," she manages instead.

And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole.

It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.

“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”

From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.

But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.

Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”

You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”

“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”

Bae, Bae, Bae.

She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.

Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.

Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.

“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.

So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.

Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.

"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”

You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.

And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?

Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.

Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.

Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.

“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"

Getting more erratic, louder, closer.

So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?

"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."

You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"

"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."

"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.

"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."

Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”

You correct her. “Yes, who?”

“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.”

Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.

So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.

She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—

Fuck you might be falling for her.

That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.

"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"

She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”

Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.

“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”

So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.

You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”

And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”

A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”

It’s fucking immediate.

The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.

Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.

You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.

Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.

You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.

"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."

Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.

"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.

Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.

She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."

The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.

“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”

“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.

“No.”

You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.

And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.

No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.

It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.

Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”

And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.

A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.

“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”

She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.

"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"

"Didn’t you say you could take it?"

Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."

You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"

"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."

A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"

"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."

You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."

"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."

You just can't wipe the grin off your face.

Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.

She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”

More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.

"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."

You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.

"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."

You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."

"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.

Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.

She's there, and you're done waiting.

"Now."

It's that fucking easy.

That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.

"God, sir, fuck!"

Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

She’s fucking gone.

Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.

You follow.

Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.

Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.

Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.

A preview. A promise. An invitation.

“Sir, your cum, if you please—"

A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.

One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.

Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.

The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.

Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.

“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”

A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.

What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.

But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”

“Yes, sir.”

You are so, so fucked.

Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.

It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.

And down her throat it goes.

"Good enough, sir?"

You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.

There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.

You must save some things for later.

Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.

You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”

Bae sings, “Every single session.”

“Christ.”

That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, only if we have the time.”

At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."

Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”

“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."

"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."

"Ah, so it's my fault."

"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."

"Mine?"

"From now on, yes."

“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”

“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.

“Sullyoon.”

“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”

You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”

The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.

But she won’t, not yet.

Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”

It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.

And then you're back at square one.

“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."

#kpop smut #bae smut #nmixx smut #male reader

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bravehyde · 5 days ago

Text

Ant Tenna Anatomy: What's In a CRT?

~Deltarune Chapters 3+4 Spoilers~

I think it's safe to say a lot of people like Tenna. TV heads are popular for a reason, they're fun! And obviously I'm not going to step on the toes of people making designs because you can do whatever you want. I've simply noticed quite a few people making him very modern under the collar, which is fun and all, but what if he's 90s tech all the way down?

I wanted to make a series of posts on possible things he could have as a television from the 20th century, as well as a broadcast host (since he seems to make his own show and would need to be sending that signal somewhere!) and just a piece of equipment that's walking around. Everything's bendable in that televisions aren't alive, so it's a fun exercise. This first post is just pointing out some things I've noticed that are very present day for such an old man. A quick checklist of things he may not have that a regular TV head or robot character would have, you could call it. I'll try to offer alternatives as well if you want them!

First things first: what is a CRT?

Most people use CRT to refer to the analog television set, however CRT technically doesn't mean that. CRT stands for Cathode Ray Tube, and is referring to the device that allows the image to be projected on the screen of the television. As such, know that when I just say "CRT", I'm not referring to the television. For the television set, we're still calling it a CRT TV, which may sound like a mouthful, but it's a pretty important distinction. For Tenna, the different between a CRT and a CRT TV is the difference between his brain and his head. We should know which is which!

It's incredible how CRTs work since it is, when we really really simplify it, electrons shooting through a glass tube completely devoid of oxygen to make an image appear on a screen we covered in phosphor cream. This is kind of a form of radiation, but a lot of things are a form of radiation when you boil it down, so that's not too big of a deal. Just know that most of what's in Tenna's head is what he uses for his display, this big glass thing right here. Basically, electrons are made by a heated filament and then bounce a million times to the screen where it displays a series of images. If you've ever heard that a CRT is radioactive, it's because of this thing. It can make x-rays, which generally you do not want to contact with your naked flesh or eyes. Sorry.

Are CRT TVs made of metal?

I put this one personally because it tickled me how many people do a full body of Tenna and give him a shiny shell when CRT TVs were not like that. If a CRT TV had a metal casing, it would be incredibly unsafe. All technology can hurt you if you fuck up, but since this thing can make ionizing radiation and/or implode with glass, they were especially careful. What's in his body past his neck can be debated, and I'll make a post later on ideas of what technology he may need inside him, but we're going to pretend for now that the rest of him is like a natural extension of a CRT TV. He's full of very thick glass that is incredibly difficult to break, designed to be free of defects, and with other little bits mixed in for durability and x-ray shielding. Yeah, these are one of many inventions that have a bunch of lead in them. Don't lick it even if it makes rainbows.

And so you don't get electrocuted, his ass is not metal. He would be incredibly ineffective if he was. If we used the incredibly simple term for his material beyond the screen, it's just plastic, but if you want to know the science-y one, Tenna's most likely made of acrylonitrile butadiene styrene, or ABS plastic. This type of plastic is used because it's very rigid, very tough, and incredibly resistant to chemicals and temperature. ABS is used in a ton of stuff, from toys to car exteriors to pipe fittings to medical implants. If you've heard recently about something being replaced with 3D printed plastic, there's a good chance it's ABS plastic.

Obviously, that's not as fun to shade if you're going for an incredibly rendered piece, so I can see why people would default to metal, but I've also seen more people lovingly render LEGO bricks than I can count, so I think there's something there for you. Bonus points if you want to bring up how he's probably 30ish years old so you can put all sorts of scratches and dents in there. Who didn't have scuff marks on their childhood TV on the corners?

Do CRT TVs have wires?

We all know why this is on this list. I don't have to say it. And yes, CRT TVs have wires, just a lot less than you're thinking. By "a lot less", I mean this is what the inside of one looks like, with a quick video of someone taking one apart.

youtube

Highly recommend watching videos of people taking old technology apart, btw, it's addicting. But anyway, this is a bullet point for a slightly separate reason. It may be tempting to have an art or fic where someone is taking Tenna apart for whatever reason.

Taking apart a CRT TV, like all technology, is very dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. CRTs can emit radiation, the actual TV can be high enough voltage to kill you. To safely take apart one of these for repairs, you'd have to ground the power. That is one of the main wires in a CRT TV, actually. It's very foolish to do CRT TV repairs while the television is plugged in, AKA while it's on, AKA while Tenna is awake. You could definitely swing this as him showing trust to the other person that they can poke around his innards while he's unconscious, or of course, if Susie's doing it when he's kinda-almost-dead. Just, uh, don't do it while he can still react and talk. That's a pretty good sign you're going to get zapped.

For a lot of wire stuff it would probably make sense to do more AV inputs and outputs. Those would most likely go right into the back of his head, but if you fenaggle it to be in other places that'd make sense too. I personally think his neck is probably just those cords lol and it's a great way to get a pop of color in him. It's most likely also how he has a microphone if you want it physically connected to him.

Do CRT TVs have fans?

Another one that makes me giggle because I see people write this who are more used to doing computer-y robot people as their writing focus. I'm sorry babes, Tenna is no spring chicken. He's not your MacBook that wails in agony when you try to play Minecraft, he's not that Windows laptop that vrrrrrrrrrrrrrs when you dare to put it on a blanket. He does not have a fan. In the days of the CRT TV, if he got hot, he got hot, and he had an oven inside of him to force him to cool off, but it took a long time. I know a lot of people want to bring up fans to talk about him ~overheating~, but it isn't quite like that.

This doesn't mean you lose the idea of him needing to cool off. Quite the opposite, really. Anyone else really like to touch the front of a CRT TV after it's been on for a while? How it kind of hurts but in a good way? You know, that little zap? Just a nice way to get around that. Of course, when people talk about a CRT TV getting really hot, it's a good idea to have a fan in the room. Maybe Tenna has an old box fan in his chest to help him thermoregulate? Food for thought, I guess.

Do CRT TVs have pixels?

This is a toughie and something that I find really fun: in a way, CRT TVs predate pixels as we think of them. LCD screens have pixels as set objects on the screen, tiny panels that cover it. CRT TVs do not, and I can explain why they don't but that's a huge thing that will take several paragraphs and pictures and I can post about at length later, so for now just take that they don't. Images in general have pixels, but they aren't projected on the CRT screen how they would be on a pixellated screen. This is part of why a lot of people got rid of CRT TVs, since this makes the pixels come out "blurry" compared to the clean, high resolution of an LCD screen. You can adjust a CRT TV to project more pixels since it doesn't have them as a set number of resolution on the screen the way an LCD TV does though! I think a lot of people have seen this image before but I'll put it here anyway as an example of what this means appearance wise. Still pixels, just doesn't look like it.

Honestly, it makes Tenna's appearance in the game that much more interesting. His pixels don't stay in the same place the way they do for every other character, with defined outlines and the same sized pixels throughout the story. Him shrinking and growing could be seen as him setting the resolution on his monitor to accommodate how many pixels he wants to be. He doesn't have an outline like everyone else because he doesn't have the set pixel count, instead approximating it the way all CRT TVs do! He already had some light reality bending powers given that he can teleport us wherever he wants and put up a "technical difficulties" screen, but him using an ability that powerful for something so seemingly inconsequential is insane. I'd also recommend looking at Tenna's sprites on a CRT TV if you track down one of those videos, because his appearance in the normal game compared to that intro cutscene on a CRT TV is crazy similar and I love it.

That's all I have for this first post. Very introductory, very basic. I know some things because I grew up with CRT TVs, some things because I have a degree in media stuff and had to take classes on the history of television and cinematography, and some things because I just kind of got curious and wanted to look into it. Obviously, I don't know everything to ever exist, but I know not everybody wants to do the digging I do for fun on old technology or knows where to look.

I'll be making more posts under the tag "ant tenna anatomy" if you want them, and my ask box is always open! Any questions you have, I'd love to answer.

#ant tenna anatomy #mr ant tenna #ant tenna #tenna #tenna deltarune #deltarune chapter 3 #crt #crt tv #Youtube

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4theitgirls · 5 months ago

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how to build your own workout routine

step 1: be realistic

when making a workout routine or schedule, it’s important to stay realistic. if you don’t work out at all or you have a busy schedule already, you may not be able to work out for 1 hour each day of the week. i always recommend to aim for 3-4x per week and gradually move up depending on how you’re feeling. you are more likely to stick to a habit when it doesn’t feel like you’re forcing yourself to go from 0 to 100!

step 2: figure out how many days of each form of exercise/target area you’d like to do weekly

this will depend pretty heavily on your goals, so i won’t say too much here. if your main goal is to lose weight, you would want to do more cardio than someone who had a main goal of gaining muscle. do some research as to which weekly splits or forms of exercise would be best for you depending on your specific goal(s).

step 3: research workout routines and take note of the exercises you would like to incorporate

this is probably my favorite step because you are able to get a lot of inspiration from others who have the same goals as you! i mainly use pinterest for this step, but you can really use any platform you’d like. i have a board on pinterest of mostly workout routines, so if you have or want to use pinterest too, that’s a great way to collect all of the videos you like and want to take exercises from.

step 4: build your workout!

now that you have all of the specific exercises or routines you’d like to incorporate, it’s time to actually build your workout. one of the main things i like to think about is what i want to gain from each day. so if i want an ab workout that also boosts my heart rate, i would either add in some cardio bursts, or i would alternate between standing and lying exercises so that i am constantly moving around when going from sitting to standing and vice verse. if i wanted an ab workout that flowed a bit more smoothly, i would choose movements that are somewhat similar and organize them so that you are “flowing” through the movements and positions rather than having that drastic change you may want if you were to incorporate some cardio.

in short, you want to plan what you want from your workout (incorporating cardio, flowing or stretching, low impact, lying or standing exercises, etc.) and plan the days accordingly. this is a major pro to making your own workouts: you can do whatever you want in whatever order you want!

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fitnessmentor · 2 years ago

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How to Include ABS Exercises in Your Workout Routine

Are you trying to get your core strengthened and aiming for a six-pack? Although sit-ups can help, you can choose better. Here are three abdominal exercises that are better than sit-ups for that shredded-looking belly.

A strong core is correlated with good health and a fit body. Everyone wants to be able to show off their six-pack. Although it comes down to having a low body fat percentage, mainly done through diet, you should also exercise your abs to make the six-pack appear faster.

In the video below, sports teacher and YouTube fitness guru Alex Lorenz lists three abdominal exercises that are better than sit-ups. He co-founded the Calisthenic Movement. He has trained in calisthenics since 2012, uploading videos regularly for those interested in getting in shape using only their body weight.

Abs Exercises Are Better Than Sit-Ups

According to Lorenz, sit-ups will only work on your rectus abdominis, limit intensity, and negatively impact your spine. So, are these ab exercises better than the sit-ups that Lorenz talks about?

Knee Raise

Leg raises, or knee raises, are great for your abs, but the knee raise is cut here because it targets your abs without being hindered by your mobility or lack thereof.

The knee raise can be done in a supporting or hanging position. Ensure you don’t use any momentum to do the movement, as it takes away the tension from your abs.

Knee to Elbow Plank + Side Plank

These are two exercises combined that will get the best bang for your buck, which is why it is on this list of abdominal exercises better than sit-ups.

Always have a posterior pelvic tilt to engage the abs more for the first part of the exercise. Aim for a hollow body position for optimum core engagement.

How to force more muscle growth

Morning habits to lose fat

Fix lower back pain

For the plank, keep your body as horizontal as possible; don’t just hang in your structures; push your arm, leg, and shoulder blade into the ground.

The side plank can be done with one or two legs on the ground; one leg is much harder to stabilize yourself.

Plank

If a regular plank is too easy, you can adjust the difficulty by lengthening the lever between your elbows and feet, the two supporting points. The further you move your body backward, the harder the exercise gets.

However, the bigger the distance, the more stress you will put on your spine, which is terrible if you cannot hold the position with your pelvis tilted forward.

This exercise can also be done by removing one foot from the ground, one hand, or both to add instability and create more tension in your abs.

Those are the three abdominal exercises that are better than sit-ups and should be incorporated into your training whenever possible. To see how each exercise is performed precisely, with extra tips from Lorenz, click on the video below.

#Abs exercises #fitness abs exercises #at home abs exercises #abs exercises at gym #abs exercises best #lower abs exercises #flattening abs exercises #kettlebells abs exercises #medicine ball abs exercises #abs exercises standing #female abs exercises #top abs exercises #abs exercises gym machines #abs exercises with weights #mens abs exercises #abs exercises ball #core and abs exercises #best lower abs exercises

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misctf · 8 months ago

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My friend is such a stuck up jock, never indulging in fatty foods or beer and always watching his calories, can you show him whats its like to live a little and let go?

“Look, you need to get this thing off me!” Mike begged, pulling desperately at the bracelet around his wrist, “Seriously, bro!”

You were still staring at the jiggling mass of fat that hung over your friend’s waistline. Just a minute ago, his firm abs were on full display. But now? Now he was sporting a jiggly beer gut. His eyes filled with panic.

“I don’t think I can.” You replied, staring at the bracelet.

You barely remember how you came into possession of it. You and your buddies were down in New Orleans, celebrating Tom’s bachelor party. Mike was getting on your nerves though- constantly turning down beers, cigars, or any fun thing that went against his strict lifestyle. For fucks sake, it was a bachelor party. Would it have killed Mike to chug a beer with his bros? You recall drunkenly walking back to your apartment, but getting sidetracked in a pawn shop. And in your drunken state, you told the owner everything. How annoying Mike was being. How you wished he would stop being so judgmental. That you wish he could live a little and let go. And that’s how you come into possession of this bracelet. A solution to your problems, as the pawn shop owner said.

“But... It will come off in a week.” You reassure, “But in that time, anything you judge others for will be reflected back on you.” You believe that’s what the pawn shop owner told you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Mike cursed as he poked his new beer gut, his finger sinking into the fatty mound, “This can’t be happening...”

Mike could barely believe what he was looking at. Years dedicated to exercise, healthy eating, and a strict lifestyle undone in mere minutes. All because he said Tom needed to lose the beer gut. For years, Mike sported a set of perfect abs and firm, clean-shaven pecs. His arms were toned and sculpted. His brunette hair perfectly styled. His perfect smile and hazel eyes could melt hearts. And while most of these remained, the large ball of flash that covered his abs felt totally unnatural and foreign to him.

“I need to go.” Mike said, “I need to go to the gym.” You told him that he shouldn’t, but he quickly grabbed his gym bag and left.

Mike wiped the sweat from his brow as he paused his treadmill run early. He couldn’t stand the feeling of his gut jiggling as he ran. Each movement reminding him of this new, unwanted growth. He placed a hand on it and bit his lip. Had it gotten bigger? He groaned and hopped off the treadmill, heading back to the locker room.

“Just a week.” He thought, “Will it even reverse though?” He thought dejectedly.

He entered the locker room, trying to calm his thoughts and made his way to the changing area. As he turned the corner though, he collided with another man, the two of them stumbling back. And when the shock of their collision subsided, Mike got a glimpse of the guy.

“My bad bro.”

“Yeah...” Mike wasn’t sure he ever saw someone so hairy before.

The man’s pits were overflowing with hair. His chest and back covered in curly, unruly hair. His beard long and thick. Mike wondered how someone could live like that. He always kept himself clean-shaven and he figured it helped show off his muscles. Too much hair was kinda gross. He watched as the man left and Mike quickly grabbed his bag. And as he passed a mirror, he froze.

“Oh my god...” Mike’s hand shot to feel the beard that now covered his face, “No way...”

The mess of curly chest hairs that rose above his collar made his stomach churn, and he lifted his shirt. As expected, his new gut now sported a thick treasure trail that traveled to his now hairy chest. Even his pits were filled with a forest of wet, musky, and tangled hairs. He quickly fled back to the apartment, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

“You good?” You asked, hearing the electric razor.

There was no response. And after a few minutes, Mike exited the bathroom. Your eyes widened when you saw your newly hirsute friend.

“The razor didn’t work...” Mike frowned, as tears threatened to fall, “I...”

“You’re staying indoors.” You say.

______

The next few days you barely see Mike. He barely left his room. You figured he was playing it safe. Besides, he had one day left of this bracelet curse. You hear him rummage through the fridge.

“Hey man.” You say, looking up from your videogame, “You good?”

He just glares at you, “I have a virtual work meeting.” He says, “See you later.”

Mike sits down at his computer, logging into the meeting. He forces a smile as people comment on his new beard. And as the meeting continues, he can’t help but wonder how some of the people even landed a job in business. Some of them were incredibly lazy and didn’t even try. He would even say some just didn’t have the smarts for it. Mike didn’t realize the impact his thoughts were having on him. His bright eyes dulled, and his mind wandered as the meeting progressed, no longer caring about the confusing numbers and figures on screen.

“Mike, do you have those figures we asked for?”

“Uh figures?” Mike asked, “Uh yeah, I think... let me see...” But he struggled to find them. And even when he did, he fumbled through his explanation of them. He could tell his boss was pissed.

“Mike, when you get back to the office, I’d like to talk to you.” He said.

Mike’s heart sunk. He needed this job. Yet, did he even care about it? It was so boring, right? The meeting ended and the young man groaned, ruminating on his performance. Yet, his thoughts felt somewhat slower. A text message broke his train of thought.

“Hey Mike,” Chad says, “A few of the guys are hitting the bar, you interested?”

Mike can’t help but wonder if that’s all they do- go to the bar and drink. Chad and his work buddies always seemed to go to the bar after work. It was kind of ridiculous.

“No, I’m good.” Mike replied. But as he sat there, he felt thirsty. Not for water or a protein shake. No...

“I could really go for a beer.” He mumbled, “Wait... no...” He continued, “I don’t drink...” But the thought of a nice cold beer at the bar seemed like a good idea, “Fuck it, I deserve one after all this shit. Not like it’ll make a huge difference.” He said, looking down at his gut.

He quickly changed into a more comfortable pair of clothes and headed out. You only realized he left when the door slammed behind him.

______

The bar next to your apartment was bustling. Apparently, there was a big event happening that night. But Mike couldn’t care less. He was just enjoying the ice cold beer, wondering why he ever gave the stuff up. And as he enjoyed his beer, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation next to him. Two guys, who Mike assumed were gay, were rating guys in the bar.

“Dad bods are like totally in.” The one said, “I don’t care what anybody says.”

“Oh you’re so right, sis.” The other replied, “I’m so excited for the show tonight.”

Mike couldn’t help but chuckle. Dad bods? Really? Women were totally into his firm muscles and abs. The way they ran their hands down his firm muscles or rested their heads on his firm pecs. Yeah, whoever said dad bods were in must’ve been smoking something. Mike shifted as his pecs sagged slightly with more fat, while his toned arms and legs lost their definition. His back even widened slightly, giving him a bulkier figure. His face became rounder, a new double-chin hidden by his beard. Mike belched as he finished off his beer, scratching at his softer chest.

“Ladies and gentleman!” An announcer called out, “Welcome to our Pride Night!” He said.

Mike groaned. He just wanted a beer. Not a social justice lecture. Did they really need to make a spectacle out of this? But as the man continued to talk, Mike couldn’t help but pay more attention. As he talked about gay rights, Mike smiled. And when he realized the two gay men from earlier were checking him out, he grinned and gave them a wink. One walked over and grinned.

“Hey daddy.” He said, rubbing his hand along Mike’s hairy forearm. The feeling incredibly pleasurable.

“And now, give a warm welcome to our main event!”

Mike watched as several nearly nude men strutted out onto stage. A few entered the audience to interact with the crowd, while others walked over to the poles on stage and began their dance. The crowd was cheering, while Mike watched on with mixed emotions. Part of him found a growing attraction to these men, while another part was disgusted. Pole dancers? How desperate did you have to be?

“You could totally pull it off.” The guy said.

“You think so?” Mike said, the thought of pole dancing becoming more appealing in his shrinking brain.

And before he knew it, he was lifting his shirt above his head. He quickly pulled his pants off too, revealing his barely contained bulge in his tight underwear. The gay man next to him cheered and ran a hand through Mike’s hairy chest.

“Oh? What do we have here?” The announcer said, noticing Mike, “Come on up!”

And Mike did. Walking up to the pole and starting his dance. Not even noticing the bracelet fall off. The changes remaining in place. And as you entered the bar, having followed Mike, your jaw drops when you saw him. Dancing, drinking- his hairy body on full display. Not a care in the world. When the event finally winds down, you find Mike talking with a few of the other dancers. When he sees you, he grins.

“Hey hun!” He gushes, “Guess what?”

“Mike?” You ask, “I... uhhh....” You notice the missing bracelet.

“I got a job! Isn’t that great?”

You have so many things you want to say. So many questions you want to ask. But as Mike grabs another beer and chugs it, clearly enjoying this new life, your words are lost. And as he flirts with some of the other men, you sigh, grab a beer, and celebrate with him. The bracelet kicked under a table for someone else to find.

#male tf #male transformation #mental change #personality tf #straight to gay #dumber tf

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