You walk over, legs still unsteady from the stretching. The bench is padded leather, cracked in places, positioned beneath a heavy bar that's already loaded with plates. You can see the numbers stamped on them. Forty-fives.
"Lie down," Karim says.
You do.
The bench is cool beneath your shoulders, firm against your back. You settle into position, feet flat on the floor, looking up at the bar above you. The ceiling is high, industrial, pipes and fixtures visible in the amber light.
Karim moves to the head of the bench. You watch him approach in your peripheral vision, then he's standing right there, looking down at you. His thighs bracket your head on either side. You can see up past his hips, past the hem of his shorts, all the way to his face framed by the width of his shoulders and chest.
The view is overwhelming.
"Two hundred to start," he says. "Hands here."
He leans forward, adjusting your grip on the bar. His body comes closer. The shorts shift. You catch a glimpse up the leg opening. The underside of his thigh, the shadow where it meets his hip.
Your throat is dry.
"Breathe out when you push," he says, straightening. "Slow. Controlled. Understand?"
You nod.
"Lift."
You unrack the bar. The weight settles into your hands, heavier than you expected. You lower it to your chest. Pause. Push.
The bar goes up. Your arms shake slightly but hold.
"Good," Karim says above you. "Keep that rhythm."
You lower the bar again. Push. Exhale.
Karim's hands hover near the bar, not touching, just ready. His thighs are right there, framing your vision. When he shifts his weight, the fabric of his shorts moves. You can see the definition of muscle, the dark hair on his skin.
Three reps. Four.
Your muscles are starting to burn. Your breathing is getting heavier.
"Don't rush it," Karim says. His voice is calm, steady. "Three more."
You lower the bar. Push. The effort is harder now. Your arms are trembling.
"Two more."
Lower. Push. Your chest is on fire.
"One more. You've got it."
You lower the bar one last time. Push with everything you have. Your arms are shaking, vision narrowing, but the bar goes up.
"Rack it."
You guide it back. The bar settles into the rack with a clang. Your arms drop to your sides.
Karim steps back. "Good. We're going up."
He moves to the side of the bench and starts adding plates. You watch him work, chest heaving, arms already tired. He adds a twenty-five to each side, then steps back to the head of the bench.
"Two twenty-five," he says. "Tell me if it's too much."
You nod. You don't speak. Your throat is too tight.
"Lift."
You unrack the bar.
It's heavier. Noticeably heavier. You lower it to your chest. The descent is controlled but harder. You push.
The bar goes up, but slower this time.
"Don't rush it," Karim says.
You do four more reps. By the sixth, your back is arching slightly, your body compensating for the weight. Karim leans in, watching closer. His thighs press slightly inward, steadying his stance. The movement pulls the shorts tighter across his hips.
You can smell him now. Sandalwood and sweat and salt. The heat of his body radiates down.
On the eighth rep, you struggle. The bar stalls halfway up. Karim's hand touches it, just fingertips, helping guide it the rest of the way.
"Two more. You've got it."
You finish the set shaking. When you rack the bar, your arms feel like liquid.
Karim adds more weight.
"Two fifty," he says. "This is where it gets real."
You're already breathing hard. Your muscles are screaming. But you nod.
"Lift."
The bar feels impossibly heavy when you unrack it. Every rep is a struggle. You're fighting for each inch, your arms trembling, your breath coming in gasps.
Karim has to lean forward more now, his hands hovering closer to the bar, ready to catch it if you fail. The light from above hits the threadbare fabric of his shorts at the perfect angle. You can see through them. The outline of everything underneath. His cock, thick and heavy. His balls, hanging loose. All of it visible when the light catches the worn material just right.
Your cock is responding. Starting to fill despite the exertion. Maybe because of it. Because of him standing over you, because of what you can see, because of the heat and the scent and the proximity of his body.
On the sixth rep, Karim's hand touches the bar again.
"I've got you," he says quietly. "Stay with it."
You finish. Rack the bar. Your whole body is shaking now.
Karim adds more weight.
"Two seventy-five. One more set. Push through it."
Your arms are already fatigued. Already past the point where you should probably stop. But you don't say anything. You just grip the bar when he tells you to.
"Lift."
The first three reps are agony. The bar comes down slower each time. Going back up is harder. Karim leans forward, hands ready, his body close.
On the fourth rep, you lower the bar.
You push.
Your arms shake.
The bar doesn't move.
You're stuck halfway, arms locked, the weight pressing down. You push harder. Nothing.
Karim moves immediately.
He steps forward, closer to the bench. His feet widen, one on either side of your head. He squats down to reach the bar.
Everything slows.
The movement brings him lower. Right above your face. The shorts gape at the leg opening. You see everything.
His cock, heavy and thick, hanging down through the opening. His balls, loose and full, following. As he squats lower to grip the bar, his cock head comes through completely.
It brushes your cheek.
Warm. Soft skin. The weight of it.
His balls graze your jaw, your cheek, the contact unmistakable.
You inhale. Can't help it. A deep breath.
The scent is overwhelming. Musk and salt and clean sweat and him. Everything concentrated, filling your lungs, filling your head.
The contact lasts two seconds. Maybe three.
Your cock twitches hard in your shorts.
Karim grips the bar and pulls it up. The contact breaks as he straightens. The bar goes back to the rack with a controlled clang.
He steps back. His breathing is slightly heavier. His face is unchanged.
"Lost it at the end," he says. "That's fine."
No acknowledgment of what just happened. No apology. No comment.
You're still lying there, heart pounding, face hot, the scent of him lingering in your nose. Your hands grip the bench beneath you.
Karim moves to the side and starts removing plates.
Neither of you speaks.
The silence says everything.
He brings the weight back down to two fifty, then returns to the head of the bench.
"Ten more," he says. "Different position."
He doesn't wait for you to respond. He just moves, stepping over the bench to straddle your chest. One foot on each side. Facing your feet. His ass is right above your hips.
He squats down slightly, settling into position to follow the bar.
"Lift," he says.
You unrack the bar.
As you lower it, Karim squats with the motion, following the bar down. His ass lowers. It grazes your cock through the fabric of both your shorts.
Light contact. Brief.
Your breath hitches.
You push the bar up. Karim rises with it.
Second rep.
Bar comes down. Karim squats. His ass grazes your cock again.
Firmer this time.
Your cock responds, filling more. You can't hide it now. Can't control it.
Third rep. Fourth rep.
Each squat brings contact. Each graze sends heat through you. Your cock is getting harder with every repetition.
Karim has to feel it. Has to know.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't change his rhythm. Just keeps following the bar, keeps squatting, keeps making contact.
Fifth rep. Sixth rep.
You're fully hard now. The contact is undeniable. His ass presses down on your cock with each squat, the fabric between you doing nothing to hide what's happening. Your hips want to lift, want to press into him. You keep them still. Barely.
Seventh rep. Eighth rep.
Karim's breathing is slightly heavier now. You can see his cock from this angle. It's thicker than before, swaying more beneath the shorts when he moves. The outline presses visibly against the threadbare fabric.
Ninth rep.
Your cock is straining against the shorts. The fabric is thin, stretched. When Karim squats this time, his ass presses down harder. Your cock is pressed between you, between his weight and your body.
You make a sound. Can't help it. Quiet, choked.
Tenth rep.
Final rep.
The bar comes down. Karim squats one last time. His ass grinds slightly as he helps guide the bar, shifting his weight, following through.
Your cock throbs. The head has pushed past the leg opening of your shorts. It's visible now. Flushed and slick at the tip.
Karim helps guide the bar back to the rack. It settles with a solid clang.
He stands. Slowly. Has to step back over you to dismount. One foot comes up onto the bench, then swings over to the other side.
As he steps across, his hand comes down. Braces on your chest. Palm flat, fingers spread.
"Steady," he says.
The touch is firm. Grounding. Possessive.
Then he's standing beside the bench, offering his hand.
You take it. His grip is solid. He pulls you to sitting, then to standing.
Your legs are unsteady. Partly from the workout. Partly from everything else.
Your cock is still half-hard, the head still visible past the shorts. You can see Karim's cock too. Noticeably thicker, swaying when he moves, the outline pressing against the fabric.
Both of you are visibly aroused.
Neither of you comments.
"Cool down," Karim says. His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "Need to stretch it out."
He walks toward the mat in the center of the floor. You follow.
Karim stops on the mat and turns to face you.
"Arms overhead," he says. "Side bend first."
He demonstrates, raising his arms and bending to the side. His body creates a long line, ribs visible, the muscle shirt gaping at the armhole.
You mirror him. Raise your arms. Bend.
Karim steps behind you before you can settle into the stretch. His hands land on your hips, firm and warm.
"Deeper," he says. He guides you, pressing your hips to the side while your torso bends in the opposite direction.
His chest is close to your back. Not touching, but close. You can feel the heat of him.
"Breathe into it," he says quietly.
You do. The stretch deepens. His hands stay where they are, holding you in position for five seconds, then ten.
"Good. Other side."
You switch. He guides you again, hands on your hips, body close.
"Next one," he says when you straighten. "Hands behind your back."
You clasp your hands behind you. Karim's hand comes up, pressing between your shoulder blades.
"Lift your chest," he says.
His other hand settles on your lower back, just above your waistband. You lift. The stretch opens your chest, pulls your shoulders back.
Karim's hand between your shoulder blades is firm, pressing you deeper into it. The touch lingers. His thumb traces your spine.
"Hold it," he says.
You hold.
His breath is warm on your neck.
Then he steps back. "Hip flexor. Lunge position."
You step forward into a lunge. Karim kneels beside you. His hands land on your hips again, pressing them forward.
"Feel that in your hip?" he asks.
You nod. The stretch is deep, almost uncomfortable.
His thumb traces the crease where your thigh meets your hip. Pressure, then release. Pressure, then release.
"Good," he murmurs. "Switch sides."
You switch. He follows, kneeling beside you again, hands on your hips, guiding you forward, his thumb tracing that same crease on the other side.
"Last one," he says when you stand. "Sit down. Legs out."
You sit on the mat, legs extended in front of you. Karim kneels behind you.
"Reach for your toes," he says.
You do. Or try to. You can't quite get there.
"Relax," he says. His hands settle on your shoulders. "Let me help."
He presses forward. His chest comes against your back, solid and warm. His weight pushes you deeper into the stretch. You can feel his breath on your neck, warm and steady.
You stay there for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
His hands slide from your shoulders down to your forearms. His fingers wrap around your wrists, holding you in place.
"Good," he says quietly. Right against your ear.
Then he pulls back. Stands. Offers his hand again.
You take it. He pulls you up.
You're both standing on the mat now. The gym is quiet except for the hum of the ventilation, the low beat of the music.
Your cock has softened slightly but is still evident beneath the shorts. Karim's is still thick, pressing against the threadbare fabric.
The air between you is heavy.
Karim wipes his hands on a towel hanging from the nearby rack. He looks at you. Holds your gaze for a long moment.
"Good session," he says.
A pause.
"Showers are in back if you need them."
Not a command. Not quite an invitation. Just information.
Your breathing is still elevated. Your skin is flushed. Your mind is racing.
You have a decision to make.
"Lie down," Karim says.
You do.
The bench is cool beneath your shoulders, firm against your back. You settle into position, feet flat on the floor, looking up at the bar above you. The ceiling is high, industrial, pipes and fixtures visible in the amber light.
Karim moves to the head of the bench. You watch him approach in your peripheral vision, then he's standing right there, looking down at you. His thighs bracket your head on either side. You can see up past his hips, past the hem of his shorts, all the way to his face framed by the width of his shoulders and chest.
The view is overwhelming.
"Two hundred to start," he says. "Hands here."
He leans forward, adjusting your grip on the bar. His body comes closer. The shorts shift. You catch a glimpse up the leg opening. The underside of his thigh, the shadow where it meets his hip.
Your throat is dry.
"Breathe out when you push," he says, straightening. "Slow. Controlled. Understand?"
You nod.
"Lift."
You unrack the bar. The weight settles into your hands, heavier than you expected. You lower it to your chest. Pause. Push.
The bar goes up. Your arms shake slightly but hold.
"Good," Karim says above you. "Keep that rhythm."
You lower the bar again. Push. Exhale.
Karim's hands hover near the bar, not touching, just ready. His thighs are right there, framing your vision. When he shifts his weight, the fabric of his shorts moves. You can see the definition of muscle, the dark hair on his skin.
Three reps. Four.
Your muscles are starting to burn. Your breathing is getting heavier.
"Don't rush it," Karim says. His voice is calm, steady. "Three more."
You lower the bar. Push. The effort is harder now. Your arms are trembling.
"Two more."
Lower. Push. Your chest is on fire.
"One more. You've got it."
You lower the bar one last time. Push with everything you have. Your arms are shaking, vision narrowing, but the bar goes up.
"Rack it."
You guide it back. The bar settles into the rack with a clang. Your arms drop to your sides.
Karim steps back. "Good. We're going up."
He moves to the side of the bench and starts adding plates. You watch him work, chest heaving, arms already tired. He adds a twenty-five to each side, then steps back to the head of the bench.
"Two twenty-five," he says. "Tell me if it's too much."
You nod. You don't speak. Your throat is too tight.
"Lift."
You unrack the bar.
It's heavier. Noticeably heavier. You lower it to your chest. The descent is controlled but harder. You push.
The bar goes up, but slower this time.
"Don't rush it," Karim says.
You do four more reps. By the sixth, your back is arching slightly, your body compensating for the weight. Karim leans in, watching closer. His thighs press slightly inward, steadying his stance. The movement pulls the shorts tighter across his hips.
You can smell him now. Sandalwood and sweat and salt. The heat of his body radiates down.
On the eighth rep, you struggle. The bar stalls halfway up. Karim's hand touches it, just fingertips, helping guide it the rest of the way.
"Two more. You've got it."
You finish the set shaking. When you rack the bar, your arms feel like liquid.
Karim adds more weight.
"Two fifty," he says. "This is where it gets real."
You're already breathing hard. Your muscles are screaming. But you nod.
"Lift."
The bar feels impossibly heavy when you unrack it. Every rep is a struggle. You're fighting for each inch, your arms trembling, your breath coming in gasps.
Karim has to lean forward more now, his hands hovering closer to the bar, ready to catch it if you fail. The light from above hits the threadbare fabric of his shorts at the perfect angle. You can see through them. The outline of everything underneath. His cock, thick and heavy. His balls, hanging loose. All of it visible when the light catches the worn material just right.
Your cock is responding. Starting to fill despite the exertion. Maybe because of it. Because of him standing over you, because of what you can see, because of the heat and the scent and the proximity of his body.
On the sixth rep, Karim's hand touches the bar again.
"I've got you," he says quietly. "Stay with it."
You finish. Rack the bar. Your whole body is shaking now.
Karim adds more weight.
"Two seventy-five. One more set. Push through it."
Your arms are already fatigued. Already past the point where you should probably stop. But you don't say anything. You just grip the bar when he tells you to.
"Lift."
The first three reps are agony. The bar comes down slower each time. Going back up is harder. Karim leans forward, hands ready, his body close.
On the fourth rep, you lower the bar.
You push.
Your arms shake.
The bar doesn't move.
You're stuck halfway, arms locked, the weight pressing down. You push harder. Nothing.
Karim moves immediately.
He steps forward, closer to the bench. His feet widen, one on either side of your head. He squats down to reach the bar.
Everything slows.
The movement brings him lower. Right above your face. The shorts gape at the leg opening. You see everything.
His cock, heavy and thick, hanging down through the opening. His balls, loose and full, following. As he squats lower to grip the bar, his cock head comes through completely.
It brushes your cheek.
Warm. Soft skin. The weight of it.
His balls graze your jaw, your cheek, the contact unmistakable.
You inhale. Can't help it. A deep breath.
The scent is overwhelming. Musk and salt and clean sweat and him. Everything concentrated, filling your lungs, filling your head.
The contact lasts two seconds. Maybe three.
Your cock twitches hard in your shorts.
Karim grips the bar and pulls it up. The contact breaks as he straightens. The bar goes back to the rack with a controlled clang.
He steps back. His breathing is slightly heavier. His face is unchanged.
"Lost it at the end," he says. "That's fine."
No acknowledgment of what just happened. No apology. No comment.
You're still lying there, heart pounding, face hot, the scent of him lingering in your nose. Your hands grip the bench beneath you.
Karim moves to the side and starts removing plates.
Neither of you speaks.
The silence says everything.
He brings the weight back down to two fifty, then returns to the head of the bench.
"Ten more," he says. "Different position."
He doesn't wait for you to respond. He just moves, stepping over the bench to straddle your chest. One foot on each side. Facing your feet. His ass is right above your hips.
He squats down slightly, settling into position to follow the bar.
"Lift," he says.
You unrack the bar.
As you lower it, Karim squats with the motion, following the bar down. His ass lowers. It grazes your cock through the fabric of both your shorts.
Light contact. Brief.
Your breath hitches.
You push the bar up. Karim rises with it.
Second rep.
Bar comes down. Karim squats. His ass grazes your cock again.
Firmer this time.
Your cock responds, filling more. You can't hide it now. Can't control it.
Third rep. Fourth rep.
Each squat brings contact. Each graze sends heat through you. Your cock is getting harder with every repetition.
Karim has to feel it. Has to know.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't change his rhythm. Just keeps following the bar, keeps squatting, keeps making contact.
Fifth rep. Sixth rep.
You're fully hard now. The contact is undeniable. His ass presses down on your cock with each squat, the fabric between you doing nothing to hide what's happening. Your hips want to lift, want to press into him. You keep them still. Barely.
Seventh rep. Eighth rep.
Karim's breathing is slightly heavier now. You can see his cock from this angle. It's thicker than before, swaying more beneath the shorts when he moves. The outline presses visibly against the threadbare fabric.
Ninth rep.
Your cock is straining against the shorts. The fabric is thin, stretched. When Karim squats this time, his ass presses down harder. Your cock is pressed between you, between his weight and your body.
You make a sound. Can't help it. Quiet, choked.
Tenth rep.
Final rep.
The bar comes down. Karim squats one last time. His ass grinds slightly as he helps guide the bar, shifting his weight, following through.
Your cock throbs. The head has pushed past the leg opening of your shorts. It's visible now. Flushed and slick at the tip.
Karim helps guide the bar back to the rack. It settles with a solid clang.
He stands. Slowly. Has to step back over you to dismount. One foot comes up onto the bench, then swings over to the other side.
As he steps across, his hand comes down. Braces on your chest. Palm flat, fingers spread.
"Steady," he says.
The touch is firm. Grounding. Possessive.
Then he's standing beside the bench, offering his hand.
You take it. His grip is solid. He pulls you to sitting, then to standing.
Your legs are unsteady. Partly from the workout. Partly from everything else.
Your cock is still half-hard, the head still visible past the shorts. You can see Karim's cock too. Noticeably thicker, swaying when he moves, the outline pressing against the fabric.
Both of you are visibly aroused.
Neither of you comments.
"Cool down," Karim says. His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "Need to stretch it out."
He walks toward the mat in the center of the floor. You follow.
Karim stops on the mat and turns to face you.
"Arms overhead," he says. "Side bend first."
He demonstrates, raising his arms and bending to the side. His body creates a long line, ribs visible, the muscle shirt gaping at the armhole.
You mirror him. Raise your arms. Bend.
Karim steps behind you before you can settle into the stretch. His hands land on your hips, firm and warm.
"Deeper," he says. He guides you, pressing your hips to the side while your torso bends in the opposite direction.
His chest is close to your back. Not touching, but close. You can feel the heat of him.
"Breathe into it," he says quietly.
You do. The stretch deepens. His hands stay where they are, holding you in position for five seconds, then ten.
"Good. Other side."
You switch. He guides you again, hands on your hips, body close.
"Next one," he says when you straighten. "Hands behind your back."
You clasp your hands behind you. Karim's hand comes up, pressing between your shoulder blades.
"Lift your chest," he says.
His other hand settles on your lower back, just above your waistband. You lift. The stretch opens your chest, pulls your shoulders back.
Karim's hand between your shoulder blades is firm, pressing you deeper into it. The touch lingers. His thumb traces your spine.
"Hold it," he says.
You hold.
His breath is warm on your neck.
Then he steps back. "Hip flexor. Lunge position."
You step forward into a lunge. Karim kneels beside you. His hands land on your hips again, pressing them forward.
"Feel that in your hip?" he asks.
You nod. The stretch is deep, almost uncomfortable.
His thumb traces the crease where your thigh meets your hip. Pressure, then release. Pressure, then release.
"Good," he murmurs. "Switch sides."
You switch. He follows, kneeling beside you again, hands on your hips, guiding you forward, his thumb tracing that same crease on the other side.
"Last one," he says when you stand. "Sit down. Legs out."
You sit on the mat, legs extended in front of you. Karim kneels behind you.
"Reach for your toes," he says.
You do. Or try to. You can't quite get there.
"Relax," he says. His hands settle on your shoulders. "Let me help."
He presses forward. His chest comes against your back, solid and warm. His weight pushes you deeper into the stretch. You can feel his breath on your neck, warm and steady.
You stay there for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
His hands slide from your shoulders down to your forearms. His fingers wrap around your wrists, holding you in place.
"Good," he says quietly. Right against your ear.
Then he pulls back. Stands. Offers his hand again.
You take it. He pulls you up.
You're both standing on the mat now. The gym is quiet except for the hum of the ventilation, the low beat of the music.
Your cock has softened slightly but is still evident beneath the shorts. Karim's is still thick, pressing against the threadbare fabric.
The air between you is heavy.
Karim wipes his hands on a towel hanging from the nearby rack. He looks at you. Holds your gaze for a long moment.
"Good session," he says.
A pause.
"Showers are in back if you need them."
Not a command. Not quite an invitation. Just information.
Your breathing is still elevated. Your skin is flushed. Your mind is racing.
You have a decision to make.