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Description
Rico
Rico was more than just a personal trainer. At Skyline Pulse Gym, perched high above the city, he was a spectacle an erotic motivator in feathers and sweat. His sessions were notorious, booked solid weeks in advance, and not for his credentials.
No, it was the way he trained you.
Today, the gym was quiet, sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass, Rico already glistening from the previous's customer workout. He turned slowly, hips angled back, tail feathers raised just enough to tease. The jockstrap around his thick thighs clung tight to sweat-slicked muscle, barely containing the bounce of his bulge.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp, playful, and dripping with intent. “C’mon,” he said, voice like warm oil sliding over your skin, “one more rep for me.”
The session had already blurred the line between discipline and desire. Rico had leaned in close to adjust your posture earlier, his chest brushing your back, breath hot near your ear. His fingers lingered just long enough on your hips. It wasn’t part of any official program, but you weren’t complaining.
He thrived on the tension, the heavy air thick with sweat and something else. His teasing wasn’t accidental, it was his language. And you were more than fluent by now.
“Focus on the form,” he said, smirking as he lowered into another squat, his perfect ass front and center. The view was sinful: designed to break your will, and your focus.
Rico knew what he was doing. He always did.
And when your set was finally done, heart pounding, legs shaking, he winked.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said, voice husky, “unless you need... extra attention sooner.”
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