Unleashed Desires Under the Lockers, chapter 2

The morning sun streamed through the high windows of the gym, glinting off the polished steel of a lat pulldown machine. Marcus stood beside it, his clipboard held loosely in one hand, his expression one of professional detachment. Inside, he was a furnace.

He watched George, Jane’s husband, huffing through a set of mediocre bicep curls with twenty-pound dumbbells. Look at him. Forty-five minutes on a treadmill, then curls in the mirror. A checklist for mediocrity. George was… fine. Pleasant. The kind of man who said “thank you” to the microwave. A man whose greatest ambition in the bedroom was probably not to wake the dog.

And he was married to Jane.

The thought sent a fresh, hot coil of arousal straight to Marcus’s groin. He adjusted himself subtly, the memory of her tight heat clamping around him in the locker room just two days prior as vivid as if it were happening now. He’d taken her against the lockers, her soft, suburban whimpers music to his ears. He’d filled her up, left his mark deep inside her. His seed. In another man’s wife.

“Hey, Marcus!” George called out, setting the weights down with a clank. He wiped his brow with a towel. “Getting a good pump in. Thanks for the tip on the form last week.”

Marcus offered a tight, practiced smile. “Anytime, George. Consistency is key.” Consistency. While I’m consistently burying my cock in your wife.

The sheer, delicious irony of it was almost too much. Here was the oblivious husband, smiling, grateful, completely unaware that the man he was paying to train his wife had just reduced her to a sobbing, begging mess, her prim little body stretched around a thickness her husband could never hope to provide. Marcus’s eyes tracked George as the man moved to the water fountain, his movements unassuming, gentle. Five inches of polite affection, he thought, recalling the phrase Jane had sobbed into his chest. He’d guessed as much.

This was the game. This was the true workout. It wasn’t about sets and reps. It was about possession. About the slow, meticulous reprogramming of a woman who didn’t even know she was starving. She thinks she’s here for glute bridges, Marcus mused, his gaze drifting toward the women’s locker room door. She’s here for baptism. For the only gospel that matters: mine.

Jane emerged a moment later, dressed in sleek black leggings and a fitted tank top, her hair in a high ponytail. She looked fresh, put-together. The perfect suburban portrait. Only Marcus saw the faint tremor in her hands as she adjusted her water bottle. Only he saw the way her eyes flicked to him, then away, a blush creeping up her neck. Guilt and need, all wrapped up in one delicious package.

“Ready for your session, Jane?” he asked, his voice a low, neutral rumble.

“Y-yes,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Great. We’re focusing on core stability today. Follow me.”

He led her not to the mat area, but to a secluded corner near the heavy bags, shielded from the main floor by a line of equipment. It was private, but not too private. The risk of being seen was a spice all its own.

“On your hands and knees,” he instructed, his tone all business. “We’ll start with bird-dogs. Engage your transverse abdominis.”

She complied, getting into position on the mat. The pose arched her back beautifully, presenting the round swell of her ass in those tight leggings. Marcus knelt beside her, his presence enveloping her.

“Back flat, Jane,” he said, and his hand came down firmly on the small of her back, pressing. It was a trainer’s touch. It was also a claimant’s touch. He felt her shudder beneath his palm. “You’re holding tension here. You need to release it to engage properly.”

His hand slid lower, just an inch, to the top curve of her ass. He applied pressure. “Here.”

A small gasp escaped her lips. “Marcus… someone could see.”

“They’re seeing a correction,” he murmured, his voice dropping so only she could hear. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate circle over the thin fabric. “But you and I know what this really is, don’t we? We know what this is for.” He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “It’s to remind you of who you belong to. Who owns this pretty little ass. Who stretched that tight married pussy so wide two days ago you could still feel me when you sat down to dinner with him.”

She whimpered, her arms trembling. “Please…”

“Please what?” he whispered, his other hand coming to rest on her hip, his thumb stroking the crest of her pelvis. “Please stop? Or please remind you?” He shifted his weight, his own arousal now a firm, undeniable pressure against her hip. She could feel him—the length, the thickness that had ruined her for any other man. “Your body remembers, Jane. It’s begging for it again. I can smell it on you. That sweet, guilty ache.”

His words were arrows, each one piercing her façade. He loved this part. The unraveling. The moment the last thread of her denial snapped. He thought of George, probably at his desk right now, thinking of his sweet, shy wife doing planks. You have no idea, little man. No idea that your precious white wife is on her knees for me, already wet, already imagining my black cock splitting her in two again.

“I can’t,” she breathed, but her hips were pushing back, seeking the pressure of his hand.

“You can. You will.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings and her underwear, pulling them down in one swift, decisive motion. The cool air of the gym hit her exposed skin, and she jolted. “Shhh. Just a core exercise. Deep breaths.” He unzipped his own shorts, freeing himself. The sight of his erection, thick and dark against her pale skin, was a image of pure, devastating power. His most precious possession, Marcus thought, a wave of dark superiority washing over him. And I’ve got the key.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. His control was absolute. With one hand on her hip, he guided himself to her entrance, finding her already slick, already open for him. She’s so ready. She’s been thinking about this all day.

“Now,” he commanded softly. “Engage your core. And take it.”

He pushed forward, not in a savage thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that stole her breath. He watched, mesmerized, as her body yielded, stretching to accommodate him, a faint, helpless sound escaping her lips. God, yes. His little tight white pussy. Molded for me. Begging for me.

He seated himself to the hilt, a groan rumbling in his own chest at the exquisite, clutching heat. “There,” he breathed, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still. “That’s where you belong. Full of me. While your husband is out there, living his small, quiet life, this is your truth.” He began to move, a deep, rhythmic roll of his hips. “This thickness. This stretch. Tell me you feel it.”

“I… I feel it,” she choked out, her face buried in her arms.

“Tell me what you feel.”

“You’re… so deep. So big.”

“Bigger than him?”

A sob. “Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes! God, yes, so much bigger!” The words were a confession, torn from her.

He rewarded her with a sharper thrust, making her cry out. “And whose is it? Whose cock is buried in George’s wife?”

“Yours!” The word was a mantra now, a prayer. “It’s yours, Marcus!”

Mine. The thought was a drug. Every smooth, powerful stroke was a act of conquest. He set a relentless pace, each drive punching a soft, wet sound from her body, the sound of her submission. He watched the muscles in her back tense and release, watched the way her fingers clawed at the mat. This was better than the locker room. This was more dangerous. More his. Here, in the semi-public of his domain, he was remaking her, one deep, claiming stroke at a time.

“You’re my good girl,” he grunted, his own pleasure coiling tight. “My secret. My perfect, guilty little toy. And you need this, don’t you? You need to be filled like this. Ruined like this.”

“I need it,” she wept, her body starting to quake beneath him. “I need it, I need it…”

Her orgasm built, a palpable tension in the air. He could feel her inner muscles fluttering, trying to clamp down, to milk him. “Come for me, Jane. Come on my cock. Show me how much you love taking what belongs to your husband.”

The command shattered her. Her body convulsed, a silent scream locked in her throat as she clenched around him, wave after wave of violent pleasure rocking through her. The sight of it, the feel of it—his prim, married client coming undone on his dick in the middle of the gym—was what sent him over the edge. With a final, possessive grind, he emptied himself into her, a hot, pulsing release that felt like a brand. My mark. Inside her. While he pays the mortgage.

He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, feeling her aftershocks, savoring the victory. Finally, he pulled out, watching his release trace a path down her inner thigh. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He reached down and pulled her leggings back up over her damp skin, the act somehow more intimate than the sex itself.

Jane collapsed onto the mat, trembling, her body humming with spent pleasure and scorching shame.

Marcus stood, looking down at her. He adjusted his shirt. “Good set,” he said, his voice back to its normal, composed tone. “Your core engagement is improving.” He paused, letting the double meaning hang in the air between them. “Same time Thursday, Jane. Don’t be late.”