Unleashed Desires Under the Lockers, chapter 1

“Faster.”

The command, low and guttural, wasn’t a request. It was a demand that vibrated through the leather bench of the gym’s locker room, past the thin towel beneath her, and straight into Jane’s trembling core. Her hips moved, a frantic, slapping rhythm against his, the sound obscenely loud in the empty, echoing room.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

This isn’t me.

This can’t be me.

But it was. Her nails dug into his corded forearms, her head thrown back against the cold metal of the lockers. The scent of sweat, cheap disinfectant, and him—musky, primal, utterly intoxicating—filled her senses.

It had started, like all catastrophes do, with a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

“You’re not engaging your glutes, Jane. You’re just going through the motions.”

Marcus’s voice had been calm, observational, as he watched her half-hearted attempt at a deadlift. He was her trainer. Black, built like a pantheon god carved from obsidian, with eyes that saw everything. George, her sweet, dependable George, had gifted her the sessions for her birthday. “Thought you could use a boost, honey,” he’d said with a kind smile.

George’s idea of a “workout” was a brisk walk. His idea of passion was a ten-minute missionary session every other Saturday night, a gentle, almost apologetic rocking that left her feeling… tidy. Unmussed. Starved.

“Mind-muscle connection,” Marcus had continued, his large, warm hand coming to rest on the small of her back. A professional touch. It shouldn’t have sent a jolt straight to her belly. “You have to want it. You have to crave the burn.”

Crave.

The word had echoed in her hollow places.

Weeks of that. Of his proximity. His effortless dominance in the space, a quiet power that made the other men look like boys. The way he’d correct her form, his hands firm, unhesitating. “Arch your back, Jane.” “Deeper squat, Jane.” “Push through the pain, Jane.”

And the glances. Lingering a half-second too long when she was bent over a bench. The slow, knowing smirk when she’d catch him looking. It was a game she didn’t know how to play, but her body was learning the rules without her.

The breaking point was the shower. Her locker jammed. He’d come over to help, his bare torso still gleaming from his own workout, a towel slung low on his hips. The sight of him, the sheer, animal physicality of him, had stolen the air from her lungs. His fingers, brushing hers as he worked the lock, felt like a brand.

“There you go,” he’d said, his voice a rumble. He didn’t move back. He just looked down at her, his gaze dropping to her parted lips. “You look… tense, Jane. All that repressed energy.”

“I… I should go,” she’d whispered, her voice treacherously weak.

“Why?” A single word, loaded with challenge.

And that’s how she found herself here, now, pinned between his hard body and the cold lockers, his enormous cock—so much bigger, so impossibly, gloriously bigger than George’s—plunging into her with a devastating, perfect rhythm.

I’m married. I’m a good wife. The guilt was a faint, distant chirp, drowned out by the roaring symphony of sensation. Each thrust was a revelation. George’s gentle, careful love-making had never filled her like this, never stretched her to this breathtaking, burning edge. Marcus didn’t make love. He took. He claimed.

“Look at me.” His hand fisted in her hair, forcing her head up. Her eyes, glazed with lust and shame, met his. “See who’s fucking you. See what you needed.”

I see. God, I see.

Her inner monologue was a shattered, wanton thing. He’s ruinous. He’s perfect. His thickness… it’s everywhere, touching places I didn’t know existed. George is… sweet. George is kind. George is five inches of polite affection. This was eight, maybe nine inches of brutal, honest need.

Marcus shifted his angle, and the head of his cock ground against a spot deep inside her that made her vision whiten. A sharp, guttural cry tore from her throat, utterly foreign to her own ears.

“There it is,” he growled, his pace becoming punishing, relentless. “That’s my good girl. Your pussy is gripping me like a vice. Like it was designed for this. For me.”

Yes. Yes, it was. The thought was treasonous, absolute. Her hips began to meet his, no longer just receiving but demanding, seeking more of that exquisite friction. She was a puppet, and her strings were pulled by the deep, rhythmic slap of his body against hers.

“Whose?” he demanded, his breath hot against her ear.

“Yours,” she sobbed, the word ripped from her. “Yours, Marcus.”

“Louder.”

“Yours!” she screamed, the sound echoing off the tile. The admission shattered her last pretense. The suburban wife, the PTA member, the dutiful partner to George, melted away. All that was left was a raw, needy creature, addicted to the feeling of being utterly full, utterly mastered.

He grunted, a sound of pure masculine satisfaction, and his hands moved to her hips, lifting her, controlling her entire world. “Come for me. Now.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a biological command her body had no choice but to obey. The orgasm detonated, a nuclear blast of pleasure that started in her convulsing core and radiated outwards, turning her limbs to liquid fire. She screamed, a long, ragged sound of surrender, her inner walls milking his cock in frantic, pulsating waves.

Feeling her climax, he followed. With a final, brutal thrust that seated him to the hilt, he stilled. A hot, animal groan was torn from his chest as he emptied himself into her, jet after jet of warmth flooding her depths, a claiming more intimate than any kiss.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the humid air, and the wet, lewd sound of their joined bodies.

Slowly, he pulled out. Jane’s legs gave way, but he caught her, holding her up against the lockers. His dark eyes scanned her flushed face, her well-kissed mouth, the dazed surrender in her eyes. He smiled, a predator’s smile.

“Session’s over,” he said, his voice back to that casual, commanding tone. He patted her flank. “Good work today, Jane. We’ll work on your… stamina next time.”

He turned and walked toward the showers, leaving her there, trembling, spent, his seed already beginning to trickle down her inner thigh. The guilt rushed back in, a cold, clammy tide. George. Dinner. The dry cleaning.

But underneath the shame, coiling hot and insistent, was a new truth. A hunger that had been named, and fed.

And it was already begging for more.