Sexy Gym Owner Lady - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The gym was empty except for me—sprawled naked on a yoga mat, my body twisted into compromising positions by five sculpted men.
One of them nipped at my ear, his voice rough with desire. "Front or back, boss lady? Your choice."
"Both," I gasped. "I want both."
To the outside world, I had it all—a dancer's body, a gym of my own, a husband built like a Greek god. A life dripping with pleasure.
But no one knew the truth.
Two months ago, my husband decided to compete in the national bodybuilding championship. Since then? Not a single touch. Not even when I tugged at his waistband, begging.
"No distractions until after the competition," he'd growl.
"Not one drop of protein wasted."
"I'll buy you a vibrator tomorrow. Handle it yourself."
Then he'd grab a pillow and disappear into the guest room, leaving me hollow.
All he cared about were his weights, his gains, his damn protein shakes.
Didn't he worry I'd find someone else to satisfy me?
The next day, as I changed in the locker room, the thought simmered.
Our gym barely stayed afloat—profit margins were brutal. The only reason we survived was my husband's reputation, drawing clients hungry for his expertise.
But there was a catch.
Over time, our gym had become a temple of testosterone—not a single female member in sight.
And I knew exactly why these men kept coming back. Sure, they valued my husband's training. But what they really wanted?
Me.
I hated using my body to keep them hooked, but I had no choice. So, every three days, I hosted a special spin class.
On those days, every member showed up.
I'd slip into a barely-there thong and skin-tight yoga pants, dim the lights, and crank the music. Then I'd lead the class, headphones on, moving like I had an audience.
Because I did.
The mirror reflected their hungry stares—eyes glued to my ass, the sheer fabric leaving nothing to the imagination.
At first, the shame burned. But soon?
It thrilled me.
Especially when they thought I couldn't hear them—their heavy breaths, their filthy whispers about my body, sending shocks of heat straight between my legs.
Eventually, I stopped wearing underwear altogether.
"Look at that waist... that ass, moving like that..."
"So fucking round—I just want to bite it."
"If I were her husband, she'd never leave the bed."
Their words made me burn—with humiliation, with need. I arched deeper, rolled my hips harder, gave them exactly what they craved.
Because just like men loved hearing women moan?
I loved hearing their dirtiest thoughts.
Normally, after class, we'd all shower and leave.
But today?
The ache between my legs demanded more.
So I dropped my bag, walked to the dumbbell rack, and bent over—giving them one last, unobstructed view of everything they wanted.