You sit.
The bench is cracked leather, still warm from whoever was here before you. The surface gives slightly under your weight, worn smooth from years of use. You can see Karim in the mirror across the room, moving weights with the same precision he probably applies to everything. His thighs pull the fabric of his shorts tight when he bends. His shoulders shift under the tank top when he reaches up.
He doesn't rush.
You watch him work. The rhythm of it is almost hypnotic. Lift, adjust, set down. Wipe his hands. Reach for the next plate. His movements are efficient, economical. Nothing wasted. Nothing hurried.
Your pulse is still elevated. Not from exertion. Just from being here. From sitting where he told you to sit. From waiting.
The music plays its low, steady beat. The ventilation hums. Time stretches.
Then he's done.
He wipes his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband one last time, then turns to face you fully. His stance is wide, balanced. His eyes meet yours in the mirror first, then he turns his head to look at you directly.
"Stand up."
You do.
Your legs are steadier than you expected. He crosses the space between you in four strides, stopping close enough that you can smell him again—sandalwood, iron, sweat, something warmer underneath.
He circles you. Not touching. Just looking.
His gaze moves over your shoulders, your chest, your arms, your stance. Evaluating. Measuring. You feel it like a physical thing, that attention. It lingers on your hips, your thighs, comes back up to your face.
He stops in front of you.
"When did you last train?"
Your throat is dry. You tell him. A month ago. Maybe six weeks. You're not sure.
He nods once. Not disapproval. Just acknowledgment.
"You'll need to change," he says.
You glance down at yourself. Jeans and a t-shirt are tnot exactly gym attire, but you weren't planning to—
"Trial membership includes gear," he continues, already moving toward a door at the back of the gym. "Come on."
You follow.
The door leads to a short hallway. Concrete floor, exposed brick. He opens another door on the left and gestures inside.
"Locker room. Showers are communal, if you need them later."
You step inside.
The space is smaller than you expected. A row of lockers along one wall, a wooden bench bolted to the floor. Through an open doorway at the far end, you can see white tile and three shower heads mounted to the wall. No dividers. No curtains.
Karim moves to a cabinet mounted above the lockers. He pulls out a folded shirt and a pair of shorts, both black with a small gold lion logo on them. He hands them to you.
"These should fit."
The shirt is soft in your hands, lightweight. A muscle shirt, with deep-cut armholes that will hang loose on your frame. The shorts are thin, athletic material. You unfold them. They're short. Very short.
"Doors lock from the inside if you want privacy," Karim says, already turning to leave. "I'll be out front when you're ready."
The door closes behind him.
You're alone.
You set the clothes on the bench and start undressing. Your shirt comes off first, then your shoes and socks. Your jeans. You stand there in your boxer briefs, holding the shorts Karim gave you.
You hold them up.
The inseam can't be more than a few inches. When you pull them on, they sit low on your hips and end high on your thighs. Very high. The hem hits well above mid-thigh, stopping just below where your boxer briefs end.
You look down.
The waistband of your underwear is visible. An inch of fabric peeking out from under the shorts. It looks ridiculous. You tug at the shorts, trying to pull them higher. They don't budge.
You could leave the underwear on. Deal with it showing. But the thought of walking back out there like that, of Karim seeing it—
You make a decision.
The boxer briefs come off. You pull the shorts back on. They settle low on your hips, the waistband resting just above your pubic bone. The fabric is soft, almost silky, and there's nothing between you and it now.
You reach for the shirt. Pull it over your head. It fits, but loosely. The armholes are cut deep, almost to your ribs. When you move, the fabric shifts. You can see the side of your chest, your ribs, all the way down to your hip. If you raise your arms, there will be nothing hidden.
You look at yourself in the small mirror mounted above the lockers.
You look different. Exposed. The shirt hangs off your shoulders, gaping at the sides. The shorts leave most of your thighs bare. You're not used to this much skin showing. Not in public. Not in front of someone like Karim.
Your cock is aware of the lack of underwear. The fabric brushes against it when you move. Not unpleasant. Just present.
You take a breath.
You can do this. It's just workout clothes. Just a trial session. Just—
You open the door and head back into the gym.
Karim is waiting near the mats in the center of the floor. He's stripped off his tank top.
You stop walking.
He's bare-chested now, his skin catching the amber light. The lion's head tattoo is fully visible on his left pec, dark lines and shading following the curve of muscle. His nipples are pierced, thick silver bars through both of them. Dark hair spreads across his chest, thicker at the sternum, thinning as it trails down his abs. His body is exactly what you expected from watching him move—solid, powerful, built for strength rather than aesthetics.
The shorts still ride low on his hips. Still threadbare and nearly transparent in the right light.
He looks up when he hears you approach. His eyes move over you once, quick and assessing.
"Better," he says.
Not a compliment. Just an observation.
You're suddenly very aware of how much of you is visible. The deep cut of the armholes. The shortness of the shorts. The lack of anything underneath them. The way the fabric moves when you walk.
Karim doesn't comment on it. He just gestures toward the mat.
"We'll start simple. I'm going to watch how you move. If I correct you, don't argue. If you need to stop, say so."
His voice is the same as before. Low, accented, certain.
"Stretch first. Hamstrings, hip flexors, shoulders. You know how."
You move to the mat. The rubber is cool under your bare feet. You can feel his eyes on you as you lower yourself down, as you extend one leg and reach for your toes.
He doesn't move. Just leans against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest. Watching.
You go through the motions. Hamstring stretch. Hip opener. The shorts ride up when you move, the hem sliding higher on your thighs. The muscle shirt gapes at the sides every time you reach or twist. You can feel the air on your ribs, your sides, your lower back.
You're trying to focus on the stretches. Trying to do them correctly. But you're hyperaware of everything else. The way the shorts sit on your hips. The way the fabric brushes against your cock with every movement. The way Karim is watching.
You move into a shoulder stretch, reaching one arm across your chest.
"Stop."
You freeze.
Karim pushes off the wall. Steps onto the mat. He's close now. Close enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way the silver bars in his nipples catch the light when he breathes.
"Your hips are too high," he says. His voice is quieter now. Calmer. "You're compensating with your lower back."
His hand reaches out. Settles on your waist. Firm, not rough.
Heat spreads where his palm makes contact. You feel every point where his fingers press into your skin, into the thin fabric of the shirt that barely covers anything.
He adjusts your position. His thumb presses into the small of your back, guiding you lower. His other hand comes up, resting on your hip, steadying you.
"There," he says. "Feel the difference?"
You nod. Your throat is too tight to speak.
"Good."
He doesn't move his hands right away. They stay where they are, warm and grounding. You can feel his breath on your neck. Smell the sandalwood and sweat.
Then he steps back.
"Again. Slower this time."
You repeat the stretch. His eyes track every movement. Every shift of your body. Every place where the clothes reveal more than they hide.
"Better," he says. "But you're still holding tension in your shoulders."
This time both hands come up. One on your shoulder blade, one at the base of your neck. He presses down, then releases. His palms are rough with callouses. His touch is sure.
Your breath catches. You can't help it.
He hears it.
"Relax," he says, quieter now. "You'll break yourself if you stay this tight."
The correction session continues. Squat form—his hands on your hips, guiding them back, teaching you where the weight should sit. Plank hold—his palm flat on your lower back, holding you steady when you start to shake. Resistance band work—his body behind yours, his chest almost touching your back, his hands over yours on the handles.
Every adjustment is an excuse for his hands to be on you. Every instruction leaves less space between your bodies.
By the time he tells you to stand, your shirt is damp with sweat. It clings where it touches and hangs loose everywhere else. The shorts have ridden up even higher. You're breathing hard.
Karim reaches for a water bottle on the bench and hands it to you.
"Drink. All of it."
You take it. Tilt it back. The water is cold, shocking against your throat. You swallow once, twice, then again. He watches your throat work. Watches the way your chest rises and falls.
When you lower the bottle, he's closer than before.
"You did well," he says. "Better than I expected."
Something tightens low in your stomach. Heat that has nothing to do with the workout.
"Next part is harder. I'm going to spot you on the bench press. If you can't handle the weight, tell me before you try. Understand?"
You nod.
He gestures toward the bench.
The bench is cracked leather, still warm from whoever was here before you. The surface gives slightly under your weight, worn smooth from years of use. You can see Karim in the mirror across the room, moving weights with the same precision he probably applies to everything. His thighs pull the fabric of his shorts tight when he bends. His shoulders shift under the tank top when he reaches up.
He doesn't rush.
You watch him work. The rhythm of it is almost hypnotic. Lift, adjust, set down. Wipe his hands. Reach for the next plate. His movements are efficient, economical. Nothing wasted. Nothing hurried.
Your pulse is still elevated. Not from exertion. Just from being here. From sitting where he told you to sit. From waiting.
The music plays its low, steady beat. The ventilation hums. Time stretches.
Then he's done.
He wipes his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband one last time, then turns to face you fully. His stance is wide, balanced. His eyes meet yours in the mirror first, then he turns his head to look at you directly.
"Stand up."
You do.
Your legs are steadier than you expected. He crosses the space between you in four strides, stopping close enough that you can smell him again—sandalwood, iron, sweat, something warmer underneath.
He circles you. Not touching. Just looking.
His gaze moves over your shoulders, your chest, your arms, your stance. Evaluating. Measuring. You feel it like a physical thing, that attention. It lingers on your hips, your thighs, comes back up to your face.
He stops in front of you.
"When did you last train?"
Your throat is dry. You tell him. A month ago. Maybe six weeks. You're not sure.
He nods once. Not disapproval. Just acknowledgment.
"You'll need to change," he says.
You glance down at yourself. Jeans and a t-shirt are tnot exactly gym attire, but you weren't planning to—
"Trial membership includes gear," he continues, already moving toward a door at the back of the gym. "Come on."
You follow.
The door leads to a short hallway. Concrete floor, exposed brick. He opens another door on the left and gestures inside.
"Locker room. Showers are communal, if you need them later."
You step inside.
The space is smaller than you expected. A row of lockers along one wall, a wooden bench bolted to the floor. Through an open doorway at the far end, you can see white tile and three shower heads mounted to the wall. No dividers. No curtains.
Karim moves to a cabinet mounted above the lockers. He pulls out a folded shirt and a pair of shorts, both black with a small gold lion logo on them. He hands them to you.
"These should fit."
The shirt is soft in your hands, lightweight. A muscle shirt, with deep-cut armholes that will hang loose on your frame. The shorts are thin, athletic material. You unfold them. They're short. Very short.
"Doors lock from the inside if you want privacy," Karim says, already turning to leave. "I'll be out front when you're ready."
The door closes behind him.
You're alone.
You set the clothes on the bench and start undressing. Your shirt comes off first, then your shoes and socks. Your jeans. You stand there in your boxer briefs, holding the shorts Karim gave you.
You hold them up.
The inseam can't be more than a few inches. When you pull them on, they sit low on your hips and end high on your thighs. Very high. The hem hits well above mid-thigh, stopping just below where your boxer briefs end.
You look down.
The waistband of your underwear is visible. An inch of fabric peeking out from under the shorts. It looks ridiculous. You tug at the shorts, trying to pull them higher. They don't budge.
You could leave the underwear on. Deal with it showing. But the thought of walking back out there like that, of Karim seeing it—
You make a decision.
The boxer briefs come off. You pull the shorts back on. They settle low on your hips, the waistband resting just above your pubic bone. The fabric is soft, almost silky, and there's nothing between you and it now.
You reach for the shirt. Pull it over your head. It fits, but loosely. The armholes are cut deep, almost to your ribs. When you move, the fabric shifts. You can see the side of your chest, your ribs, all the way down to your hip. If you raise your arms, there will be nothing hidden.
You look at yourself in the small mirror mounted above the lockers.
You look different. Exposed. The shirt hangs off your shoulders, gaping at the sides. The shorts leave most of your thighs bare. You're not used to this much skin showing. Not in public. Not in front of someone like Karim.
Your cock is aware of the lack of underwear. The fabric brushes against it when you move. Not unpleasant. Just present.
You take a breath.
You can do this. It's just workout clothes. Just a trial session. Just—
You open the door and head back into the gym.
Karim is waiting near the mats in the center of the floor. He's stripped off his tank top.
You stop walking.
He's bare-chested now, his skin catching the amber light. The lion's head tattoo is fully visible on his left pec, dark lines and shading following the curve of muscle. His nipples are pierced, thick silver bars through both of them. Dark hair spreads across his chest, thicker at the sternum, thinning as it trails down his abs. His body is exactly what you expected from watching him move—solid, powerful, built for strength rather than aesthetics.
The shorts still ride low on his hips. Still threadbare and nearly transparent in the right light.
He looks up when he hears you approach. His eyes move over you once, quick and assessing.
"Better," he says.
Not a compliment. Just an observation.
You're suddenly very aware of how much of you is visible. The deep cut of the armholes. The shortness of the shorts. The lack of anything underneath them. The way the fabric moves when you walk.
Karim doesn't comment on it. He just gestures toward the mat.
"We'll start simple. I'm going to watch how you move. If I correct you, don't argue. If you need to stop, say so."
His voice is the same as before. Low, accented, certain.
"Stretch first. Hamstrings, hip flexors, shoulders. You know how."
You move to the mat. The rubber is cool under your bare feet. You can feel his eyes on you as you lower yourself down, as you extend one leg and reach for your toes.
He doesn't move. Just leans against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest. Watching.
You go through the motions. Hamstring stretch. Hip opener. The shorts ride up when you move, the hem sliding higher on your thighs. The muscle shirt gapes at the sides every time you reach or twist. You can feel the air on your ribs, your sides, your lower back.
You're trying to focus on the stretches. Trying to do them correctly. But you're hyperaware of everything else. The way the shorts sit on your hips. The way the fabric brushes against your cock with every movement. The way Karim is watching.
You move into a shoulder stretch, reaching one arm across your chest.
"Stop."
You freeze.
Karim pushes off the wall. Steps onto the mat. He's close now. Close enough that you can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way the silver bars in his nipples catch the light when he breathes.
"Your hips are too high," he says. His voice is quieter now. Calmer. "You're compensating with your lower back."
His hand reaches out. Settles on your waist. Firm, not rough.
Heat spreads where his palm makes contact. You feel every point where his fingers press into your skin, into the thin fabric of the shirt that barely covers anything.
He adjusts your position. His thumb presses into the small of your back, guiding you lower. His other hand comes up, resting on your hip, steadying you.
"There," he says. "Feel the difference?"
You nod. Your throat is too tight to speak.
"Good."
He doesn't move his hands right away. They stay where they are, warm and grounding. You can feel his breath on your neck. Smell the sandalwood and sweat.
Then he steps back.
"Again. Slower this time."
You repeat the stretch. His eyes track every movement. Every shift of your body. Every place where the clothes reveal more than they hide.
"Better," he says. "But you're still holding tension in your shoulders."
This time both hands come up. One on your shoulder blade, one at the base of your neck. He presses down, then releases. His palms are rough with callouses. His touch is sure.
Your breath catches. You can't help it.
He hears it.
"Relax," he says, quieter now. "You'll break yourself if you stay this tight."
The correction session continues. Squat form—his hands on your hips, guiding them back, teaching you where the weight should sit. Plank hold—his palm flat on your lower back, holding you steady when you start to shake. Resistance band work—his body behind yours, his chest almost touching your back, his hands over yours on the handles.
Every adjustment is an excuse for his hands to be on you. Every instruction leaves less space between your bodies.
By the time he tells you to stand, your shirt is damp with sweat. It clings where it touches and hangs loose everywhere else. The shorts have ridden up even higher. You're breathing hard.
Karim reaches for a water bottle on the bench and hands it to you.
"Drink. All of it."
You take it. Tilt it back. The water is cold, shocking against your throat. You swallow once, twice, then again. He watches your throat work. Watches the way your chest rises and falls.
When you lower the bottle, he's closer than before.
"You did well," he says. "Better than I expected."
Something tightens low in your stomach. Heat that has nothing to do with the workout.
"Next part is harder. I'm going to spot you on the bench press. If you can't handle the weight, tell me before you try. Understand?"
You nod.
He gestures toward the bench.