Crossfit? More like CrossFUCK, amirite? Or, the time I fucked my Crossfit coach after a workout. [MF] [some CNC]

(CW: some very mild consensual non-consent play later on; don’t want it to sneak up on anyone)

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Hannah arched her back as my palm collided hard with her plump ass. A blush spread around the tanned flesh and she gasped.

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“Harder,” she grunted, pushing back onto my cock. Her muscular thighs powered her wet hole along my shaft. “You can do it harder. I can take it.”

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I raised my hand once more and she let out a yelp, butt bouncing into the spank.

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~

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How did I end up fucking my Crossfit coach on the floor of her box late one evening after a personal training session? Glad you asked.

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I’ve never been a particularly athletic guy, which suddenly strikes me as a strange thing to say, since I was an athlete in high school—but only barely. I wrestled all four years, but I was never any good at it. I loved wrestling, but I was always, easily, the most out of shape guy on the team. Even some of the flabbier guys didn’t get winded like I did. I stuck with it, though, because it was fun, I liked the guys on the team, and it was good exercise, which meant I could eat as much as I wanted and knock back beers in my dad’s basement on the weekend without looking totally awful. It also gave me decent cover during the years I was pretending I wasn’t a complete and total nerd, but that’s another story.

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After high school, I promptly stopped wrestling, and barely exercised for, say, six or seven years. By my mid-twenties, with a year of graduate school already behind me and my hedonistic appetites for beer and Thai food already taking their toll, I decided I should probably do what every good yuppie does—get in shape. Easier said than done, of course.

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I made this decision a week after I arrived in a small Midwestern college town for the summer. I was doing some pre-dissertation research at the library’s archives, and a friend of mine from high school, who happened to be working in the university’s administration, managed to arrange a summer job for me advising and managing an English-as-a-Second-Language program for international students. The job paid decently, and came with free housing and a meal plan—all in all, not a bad trade-off for what amounted to picking out American movies for a weekly film screening and then sitting with the students for an hour or so while we discussed the “theme” of Pulp Fiction or Mean Girls or whatever it was we had watched.

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I had heard good things about Crossfit, so I looked into gyms in town. There was one, a big, slick facility with showers, a juice bar, towel service, everything—and it came with a pretty brutal price tag. And then, there was another gym, tiny, built into an old garage, just starting up, and they were running discounts for any students around over the summer. I was sold.

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If you’ve never done Crossfit before, there’s usually an “on-ramp” process consisting of either a class with other beginners or personal training sessions. The on-ramp class in the evening conflicted with my prescribed film screening duties, while the other one was at 6:30 in the morning, and I did not get into academia to wake up early, so I opted for the personal training.

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I was expecting, I suppose, a gruff Bulgarian powerlifter or a grizzled Iraq war veteran with a thousand-mile stare. Instead, when I arrived at the gym, I was met by Hannah: a slender brunette with all the thighs and ass you’d expect from someone who squats for a living. She wore glasses, had her hair up in a pony-tail, and her tank top was stretched tight over her perky, cupcake boobs. She teased me about the Weezer shirt I was wearing to work out, and before I knew it, I was in love.

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My coaching sessions tended to start at 9pm and go past 10. Usually, we were the last ones in the gym and Hannah would grab a couple beers from the mini-fridge and we’d sit outside under the starry country sky, shooting the shit. I was pleased to find that I could make her laugh practically at will, and I suspect that’s what won me over—it definitely wasn’t my finely tuned physique (can one have Dad Bod at 25, never having had children?) or my brilliant athletic performance (no comment). She was surrounded by ripped, sweaty, grunting men all day, and I suppose it was simply refreshing to spend time with a sweaty, grunting man who wasn’t ripped.

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I flirted with her a bit, I suppose, but I wasn’t necessarily trying to make anything happen. A few times, she’d double over laughing, collapsing onto me with her arms around my neck, when I’d made a particularly biting wisecrack. I assumed, though, that it was just my imagination when I noticed her hands lingering on my chest or shoulders as she corrected my form—the hand sliding down my ass, forcing me into correct deadlift position and torturing my poor, protesting hamstrings was nothing more than an act of coachly kindness.

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Mostly, we chatted about our lives, interests, music we liked, movies we hated—anything and everything. We got on well, easily, but I found we were actually pretty different. She seemed so chill and relaxed to me, but before long I learned how stressed out she was: she’d taken on debt to open up the gym, and it would be a while before they were in the black. She’d grown up in a conservative religious household of German-American farmers and her parents always asked her when she was going to get married. She’d slept with a girl in college and the guilt had eaten away at her for years. She admitted that she fantasized about girls and experimenting, but she didn’t have the guts to do it, and she was afraid her parents would find out somehow. We even watched some girl-girl porn together, under the excuse that I was proving to her that there was nothing wrong with it, or her. She’d squeaked and hidden her eyes, peeking through the cracks in her fingers to watch before shutting it off, blushing something awful.

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“I, uh, finished watching that video,” she told me slyly the next time I saw her, though. “It was good. Really, really good.”

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As for myself, I’d rarely ventured outside Manhattan for most of my life, having grown up in a weird punk artist colony that was a staunch holdout from the 1980’s. She’d never been to New York and stared at me agape when I told her about seeing the towers burning on 9/11 from the roof of my school. She’d never had smoked salmon; I rarely went a Sunday without partaking of a bagel, lovingly enthroned in lox and cream cheese.

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But enough about me. It was after our last session that things changed.

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I finished the workout she’d given me—an extra-long one that left me on the floor gasping, in a puddle of sweat and sadness—and as per our ritual, she grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and we went to sit outside and air out.

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“Fuck, I’m sore,” she groaned, stretching and thrusting out her chest. She’d made a comment, occasionally, about wishing she had larger boobs and I wonder still if it was just my imagination, or if she really did look at me after these comments, brown eyes seeking my approval or interest. That particular night, she was recovering from a Crossfit competition over the weekend, which she told me about in detail. I nodded along, as if I hadn’t already looked at the facebook pictures she’d posted, and jacked off to the pictures of her next-to-naked, sweating and straining, a look of pained ecstasy on her beautiful face—

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Her face, by the way. She was self-conscious of it, I learned later on, but I thought she was cute as a button, with these soft little lips and a big nose. Maybe it’s the Jew in me, but a long, elegant nose on a pretty girl does something to me—I suspect it reminds me of my older sister’s friends from when I was growing up.

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“I’m pretty good at giving massages,” I offered. And I was, the result of growing up with touchy artists who were very into massage circles.

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“Aw, you just want to grope me,” she said with a quick, sly grin that made me wonder if this were wishful thinking on her part.

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“You got that right,” I shot back. “Nothing gets me off like some nice, swollen traps and delts.”

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She stuck her tongue out at me. We kept chatting and somehow, after another beer, we got onto the topic of my former, glorious wrestling career.

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“I can totally beat you,” she declared, jabbing a finger into my chest. “I know how strong you are, and I can definitely wipe the floor with you.”

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I laughed it off. I wasn’t confident that this was untrue, but I saw where this was going and I definitely didn’t mind losing to her if it meant rolling around on the ground with her tight, muscular body wrapped around mine.

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“You don’t get it—it’s all about technique. If you’ve never wrestled, it’s like speaking a different language—the things you’ll do naturally are the absolute wrong things to do and instinct will get you into trouble.”

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“Bullshit. Let’s do this—if you beat me, I’ll give you another personal training session on the house.”

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This seemed like a win-win scenario for me—either I’d end up with a free training sesh, or a smug, grinning Hannah straddling me. Fine either way.

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She dug out a few extra mats from a closet and plopped them down in the middle of the gym. We moved a few kettle bells and barbells off to the side and squared off.

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“Don’t you dare hold back because I’m a girl,” she reminded me.

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It went exactly as I expected: she was strong, aggressive, and even worse at wrestling than I was. She tried to tackle me, and I twisted, writhing away from her grip and directing her attacks to the floor while I wheeled around behind her, dashing quicker than I realized I good, and looping my arms around her tight belly, pulling her close to my body as if I were a dog mounting her. She gasped in surprise and delight as I lifted her off the ground, twisted again, and came down on top of her, using the force of the drop to press her shoulders to the mat.

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“That’s a pin,” I said with a gasp, grinning on top of her. Our faces were close and I could smell her shampoo and sweat.

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“You got me,” she said, grinning back. After a beat, she added: “You’re pretty good at this. You could just fuck me right now and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it.”

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I didn’t get a chance to respond to that because a moment later, she was writhing in pain.

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“Fuck, I got a cramp, get off me, get off, get off!”

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She sat up, massaging her thigh, which had landed folded beneath her butt in an awkward away.

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“You’re sure you don’t want that massage now?” I asked as she twisted on the ground, still grimacing.

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“Shit. Yeah, actually, that sounds great right now.” She laid down on the mat stiffly, and took my hand, pressing it to her outer hip. “It’s right here.”

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And so it was. I felt the muscle tensing involuntarily and she gasped when I pressed my fingers into the spot. I straddled her legs and began to dig my fingers in, imagining that the fibers of her muscle were tied up in a knot and it was my job to disentangle them.

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“Oh my god,” Hannah groaned. “Where have you been all my life?”

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Her hips writhed as I massaged her, whimpering appreciatively. Sometimes, she’d shy away from my touch if it hurt too much but I simply kept pressure on the spot until I felt the muscle start to relax a bit.

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As her hip relaxed, I moved up to her shoulders, digging into the delicate, tender flesh of her muscular back.

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“Where else should I hit?” I asked in a whisper that sounded sultry—not what I meant, but Hannah replied in the same tone.

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“Everywhere. I hurt all over. I forget sometimes.”

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“You push yourself pretty hard,” I replied, digging my fingers beneath her shoulder blades as she grunted.

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“I have to.”

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“I know. But you should take care of yourself.”

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“That’s what you’re going to be for,” she said, teasing. I worked my way down her back until I was at her waist.

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“Should I keep going?”

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“Hell yeah. My glutes are wrecked.”

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That was exactly what I was hoping for. My hands. Her ass. She moaned as I dug into the generous, plump flesh, finding tense muscle beneath fat just waiting for my touch.

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“Oh my god, I’m going to take you home and make you do this every day,” she sighed, pressing her face into her arms.

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Hannah was wearing one of her tight little tank tops and a pair of stretchy workout pants that hugged her ass beautifully, but they were slightly slippery.

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“It’s a little hard with this fabric,” I murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, and not as if I were nursing a throbbing boner.

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“You can pull them down,” she whispered after a second. “It’s cool.”

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I didn’t need any more encouragement. I peeled the stretchy grey pants down, prying them off her slick butt and thighs, down to her knees, revealing a tight pink thong. She wiggled a bit to help me get the leggings down her hips.

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“I like this,” I said, and pulled at her thong, snapping it back against her ass. She giggled.

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“You know, I usually go commando when I’m doing a workout. So everything can breath. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. This is so inappropriate.”

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“It is. I’m your client.”

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“Right? This is probably a bad business move. Oh, god, yes,” she whimpered as I dug my fists into her glutes, her soft skin, slightly sticky with sweat, providing enough friction for me to really dig into her muscles. I worked my way down her ass to her hamstrings and then calves, savoring the feeling of her flesh and skin beneath me—not to mention her plump butt wiggling appreciatively.

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Finally, I came back to her ass and tugged at her thong.

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“Should I slide this down too?”

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“Yes,” she whispered after a second, and I could hear the nervousness in her voice.

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I hooked my fingers underneath the thong and slid it down, revealing the barest glimpse of her glistening slit, winking at me.

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“I haven’t shaved in a while. And I probably smell really bad down there because I haven’t showered since this morning,” she whispered. I pulled her hips towards me, and she was like putty in my hands, letting me mold her: ass up, face down, spreading her open.

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“Do you like what you see?” she asked after a second.

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“I love it,” I growled, resisting every urge to mount her like a caveman and fuck her senseless. But no. I was going to play this cool. I wasn’t going to fail the goddamned marshmallow test.

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Her pussy—how do you describe perfection? Meaty lips, an impossibly sweet shade of pink, shimmering with juice, and smelling so sweet. I ran my fingers along her slit and she whimpered.

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“C’mon,” she whispered.

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“C’mon what?” I asked, teasing. She groaned.

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“Don’t do that. Fuck me.”

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“I’ve been thinking about fucking you for two weeks,” I informed her. “I can wait a little longer.”

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“But I can’t!”

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I leaned in and gave her pussy a kiss and she pulled away.

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“Oh, don’t do that—I haven’t showered. You don’t have to do that.”

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“What the hell is wrong with you?” I remember saying. “You’re fine.”

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“No. There’s not a guy on earth who likes that.”

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“False.” Spreading her thighs, I ran my tongue along her slit and she gasped.

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“Guys never want to do that.”

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“Sounds like that’s their problem, not yours.”

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“Oh my god, what did I do to deserve you?” she moaned as I began to lap at her musky slit, whimpering and shaking. I found her clit, teasing apart her labia with my tongue and swirling around the little nub before starting in on, lashing away at her while she panted.

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“Yes, yes, yes, fuck,” she chanted, shaking and rocking her hips into my mouth. I pressed a finger into her tight, wet depths and she groaned in delight. She gasped when I used that wet finger to trace the outline of her tight, puckered little asshole.

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“Do you like that?”

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“That’s so dirty.”

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“But do you like it?”

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“Uh-huh,” she moaned, pathetically, pressing her hips into me as I worked the finger into her ass. I felt her muscles tightened and clenching around my finger relentlessly. She didn’t last long after that and came, in a gasping sloppy mess, on my face, pressing herself onto me.

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She collapsed and looked back at me grinning.

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“That was fucking amazing.”

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And then, like that, she was on her feet, all energy again.

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“Let’s wrestle naked. Winner fucks the loser. How about it?”

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How could I refuse? She finished stripping off her pants and thong and dashed over to make sure the door to the gym was locked. When she came back, I was stripping off my own shirt, still soaked in the sweat from my workout earlier.

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“Wait, I want to undress you!” she said, dashing into my arms. We kissed and she giggled.

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“I taste my stuff,” she whispered in between kisses as she forced my shirt over my hand and sank to her knees, dragging her lips across my hairy chest.

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“God, I fucking love a good hairy chest,” she moaned.

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“Plenty where that came from.”

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And there was. She pulled my shorts and boxers down in one blow, my cock springing to life. She grasped it and I grunted, loving the feeling of her soft little hands on my shaft. I watched as the head of my cock slide between my lips and moaned, loving the way her deft little tongue danced around the throbbing tip of my cock, teasing the hole and suckling at me. She locked eyes with me and lowered her mouth down onto me, taking me to the back of her throat, bracing herself with a fist around the base of my shaft so she didn’t gag as she began to bob, slurping happily as she face fucked my cock.

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I knew I wouldn’t last that much longer with her eager lips on my cock, and I wanted to wrestle her again.

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“Hey, weren’t we going to wrestle?” I reminded her, stopping her finally only moments before I wouldn’t be able to stop.

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She giggled and kissed me, wrapping her arms around me.

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“You want to? If you beat me, you can fuck me however you want,” she whispered in between kisses.

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“Just tell me if I hurt you or something.”

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She bit her lip.

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“I don’t mind a little pain.”

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This was my kind of girl.

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“Say ‘red’ or something if you want me to stop. So I know if you’re screaming in passion or because you’re cramping or something.”

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“Red?”

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“Yeah. Like red, yellow, green.” I hesitated. “And this way, if you want, you can be like ‘No, no, don’t fuck me!’ and I’ll know that you’re actually okay unless you say ‘red.’”

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Her face went blank for a second. Then, a huge grin blossomed.

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“How do you know me so well already?” she whispered, giving me one more kiss before we squared off again.

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This time, I went on the offensive. I wanted to hold Hannah down, gorgeous curves and mischievous smile and all, and fuck her senseless, and I wanted it. Now. I went for a take-down and caught one of her legs. She held onto me, trying to push away, squealing as I spread her legs open, and forced a few fingers inside of her.

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“That’s cheating!” she gasped, reaching for my cock in retaliation. “Cheater!”

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I worked my ankle behind hers and pushed her to the ground, landing on top of her. Her knee narrowly missed my balls and slammed into my gut. I don’t necessarily recommend this strategy of courtship, dear readers.

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Still, nothing was going to stop me at this point. She squirmed and tried to get up as I put all my wait onto her, and forced myself into her eager hole.

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“Fuck!” she gasped. “No! Don’t fuck me!”

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“There’s nothing you can do, Hannah,” I hissed, kissing her neck, tearing at her neck with my teeth. She arched her back, her wet hole massaging my cock, gripping me as I began to fuck her.

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“No, no, stop,” she whimpered, half-heartedly pushing me away. I slipped out and she managed to get out from under me for a second but I grabbed her by the thigh, and pounced, taking her from behind, pressing my hips into her and popping into her again.

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“Shit,” she gasped. “You’re in so deep. Stop. No. No. Fuck.”

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In contrast to her words, she was already fucking herself back onto my cock. Now, I began to spank her and she only wanted more. In a few moments, her ass was red, shimmering with sweaty and love juices.

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Now, I grabbed her by the pony tail and she gasped, head pulled back as I rode her.

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“What’s your favorite thing to be called while getting fucked?” I asked, whispering in her ear and tugging at her earlobe with my teeth.

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“Anything. Everything. Whatever you want. I’m yours tonight.”

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“Slut.”

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“Yes.”

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“Whore.”

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She groaned and I slid a hand over her tits, gripping one hard and digging my nails into her flesh.

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“Cunt,” I tried and as I twisted one of her nipples, she was cumming, her hungry pussy spasming around my cock.

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“Yes, yes, babe, I’m all yours. Break me. Break me. Break me,” she gasped, bucking her hips into me, straining her neck to turn around and kiss me as I rode her.

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Finally, I knew I was getting close. I was exhausted and as much as I wanted to prolong this game, I knew I’d be crashing soon.

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“I’m close. Should I pull out?”

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“I dunno,” Hannah grunted. “Should you?”

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“Are you on protection?”

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“No. Do you have money for Plan B?”

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“Yes.”

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“Then it’s up to you. I’m yours, remember, babe.”

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Well, in that case…

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I kissed her neck hard, all teeth and tongue, as I unloaded myself deep in her womb. She gasped and moaned and struggled beneath me until I finally collapsed on top of her.

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We lay there for at least twenty minutes, enjoying the after glow. She grabbed us a few more beers and we lazily stroked one another. I loved exploring her body—so soft and muscular and tiny compared to mine.

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Finally, we rallied and cleaned off enough to get out to her car. We drove to the nearest CVS and I bought her Plan B. She knocked it back with a bottle of coconut water in the parking lot.

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She drove me back to my dorm and spent the night. We experienced the brief ignominy of the dorm lobby: everyone had to sign in any visitors, including me. Several of my students watched in amusement as Hannah struggled through her purse hunting for her driver’s license, the two of us obviously less than an hour removed from a session of hardcore fucking. Finally, I got her back up to my room and we showered together before tumbling into bed for another round.

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We never put a label on it, but we dated all that summer and as far as I know, we were exclusive. The words “I love you” were even said a few times in the heat of passion or, more likely, running through the rain hand in hand—the most romantic experience any pair of humans can have; fight me on this.

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Summer, however, ended. I went back to the East Coast. We kept on touch on facebook for a while but she got a boyfriend and then it became weird. Her gym closed two years ago, which is sad. She’s married now, though, and expecting.

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And as for my Crossfit career—I could never bring myself to go to a Crossfit gym that wasn’t Hannah’s.

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Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/al5i4z/crossfit_more_like_crossfuck_amirite_or_the_time