Gym owner - true story

It had started innocently enough—or at least, that's what my wife told me later, in those heated text messages that left me rock-hard and reeling. She joined the spin class at our local gym about six months ago, claiming it was for the cardio, to tone up her already curvaceous body. But from the way she described it, her obsession with those sessions had nothing to do with the bikes and everything to do with him: Marcus, the hot black spin instructor. Tall, ripped, with dark skin glistening under the gym lights, a commanding presence that made her knees weak every time he barked orders during class. She imagined fucking him every day, she confessed—fantasies of his strong hands gripping her hips, his massive cock stretching her in ways I never could.

The first time it happened, she said, was after a particularly grueling spin session. The room was dim, pulsing with bass-heavy music, and even in the darkness, he'd find ways to tease her. His hand would brush her ass as he "adjusted" her form on the bike, squeezing just hard enough to send a jolt through her soaked leggings. No one noticed; it was their secret. Class ended, and while everyone else filed out, wiping sweat and chatting, she lingered. Her heart pounded—nervous, turned on, a mix of adrenaline and lust making her pussy throb. Marcus locked eyes with her, nodding toward the back. "Follow me," he said, his voice low and dominant. So she did, her legs shaky from the workout and anticipation.

The gym was empty by then, just the two of them. They were both drenched in sweat, her sports bra clinging to her big, beautiful breasts, his tank top outlining every muscle. In the locker room, they didn't waste time. He grabbed her, pushing her against the cool tile wall of the shower stall, his lips crashing onto hers in a rough, hungry kiss. "I've wanted this ass since day one," he growled, yanking off her top and palming her tits, squeezing them hard, nipples hardening under his thumbs. She moaned, louder than she ever did with me, her hands fumbling with his shorts. When she pulled them down, his cock sprang free—big, thick, veined, at least nine inches and hard as a rock. She dropped to her knees right there on the wet floor, water from the shower they turned on cascading over them, and wrapped her lips around the head. It barely fit, stretching her mouth wide as she sucked greedily, her tongue swirling around the shaft while he fucked her face, hands tangled in her wet hair.

He didn't last long that first round—he was dying for her, she said. But he pulled out, flipped her around, and bent her over against the shower wall. "Spread those legs," he commanded, and she obeyed, arching her back, offering her dripping pussy. He slapped her ass hard, the sound echoing off the tiles, then thrust in deep. She screamed—part pain, part ecstasy—as his huge cock filled her completely, stretching her walls, hitting spots I could only dream of. The size difference drove her wild; she loved feeling small and submissive under his dominant frame, his body slamming into hers with raw power. He pounded her relentlessly, one hand reaching around to pinch her clit, the other squeezing her bouncing breasts. "These tits are mine now," he grunted, and she came hard, her juices mixing with the shower water, squirting around his dick.

But he wasn't done. He pulled out, sat on the bench in the stall, and pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, her big breasts in his face as he sucked them greedily—biting, licking, leaving marks. She rode him like that, grinding down on his massive shaft, feeling it throb inside her married pussy. "You love this big black cock, don't you?" he taunted, and she whimpered yes, bouncing faster until he exploded, filling her with hot cum. That was round two. They got dressed quickly, hearts racing, and snuck out the back entrance to his car in the parking lot. The windows fogged up instantly—it was so sweaty and steamy inside, the air thick with their scents. He fucked her again in the backseat, throwing her around like a ragdoll, her legs over his shoulders as he drilled deep, making her cum a third time that day. Three times, just like she texted—his stamina endless, her addiction instant.

After that, it became routine. Twice a week, usually, but always after classes. He couldn't get enough of her wet, married pussy getting what it needed—stretching around his girth, clenching as she submitted completely. During spin, in the dark room, he'd grope her ass openly, no one the wiser that he was marking her for later. Their secret fueled the fire; she'd go home to me, freshly fucked, cum still leaking down her thighs under her yoga pants. And then he started begging her to come home with him. She resisted at first, but one time, while his girlfriend was at work, she caved. At his place, he dominated her fully—tied her wrists with his belt, bent her over the kitchen counter, and railed her from behind, spanking her until her ass was red and raw. She sucked him off on her knees in his living room, gagging on his length, then rode him on the couch where his girlfriend usually sat. He made her scream his name, cumming inside her again, claiming her as his side slut.

All this behind my back, while I thought her "obsession with spin" was just about fitness. She loved the thrill—the dominance, the size, the forbidden rush of cheating with a man who owned her body in ways I never could. And now, knowing it all, I can't stop picturing it, my naughty wife getting exactly what she craved.