Mean Personal Trainer 3

The gym lights cut like a blade across the floor. Glenn’s pushing iron when Paisley steps into his line of sight—blonde hair, barely-there bikini, the scent of vanilla and fresh sweat. She smiles like she already owns his next breath. “Personal training, sugar?” Glenn starts to shake his head. She takes one step closer, and every refusal dries up in his throat. “On the floor,” she snaps, and he drops. She plants her heel on his back while he cranks out push-ups, watching his arms shake. Her smirk widens; she has exactly the kind of worm she likes—obedient, trembling, desperate. She straddles his chest for sit-ups, shoving her ass into his face on every crunch. Her skin is hot and salt-damp. “Higher,” she growls, grinding against his nose. When he’s winded, she slides forward, offers one sweaty foot, toes flexing. “Lick.” Glenn drags his tongue up the sole while she laughs low and cruel. Next she lowers onto his mouth, smothering him. The world goes dark, tight, and sweet. She rolls her hips, riding the ridge of his tongue through thin fabric until she’s slick and shiny. She climbs onto the overhead ab bar, spreads her cheeks above him. “Reach,” she orders. He stretches up, nose buried, tongue working her tight ring until his shoulders burn. Every flick is met with her soft, filthy moan. She drops to the mat, fists flying. Every punch lands on his chest, every kick slams into his thighs. He’s her bag now—bruised, panting, hard as hell. She circles him, blonde hair swinging, bikini barely holding, beard-shadowed jaw set in pure satisfaction. Glenn never stood a chance.