Survival of the Fittest

I’m mentally stronger than you. I always have been, always will be. Odds are I’m physically stronger than you as well, at 5 feet 11, 145 pounds, with 15% body fat and chiseled abs, built like a pro volleyball player. Weak and pathetic macho men are such a waste of space, only good for controlling and exploiting. My favorite way to make men toe the line? Physical force.


A couple of year ago, when I was 23 and first starting out as a personal trainer, it was rough. I didn’t have many clients. It’s a hard field to break into, and even harder if you are a woman presuming to teach men how to weight lift. So the few clients I had, I made sure to control and retain. Granted, some of the techniques I used would not necessarily be found in the pages of the official NASM manual, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.


There was this one man by the name of Allen who worked out at the same time of day that I did, and I detested him. He would always run ahead of me to beat me to whatever machine or area I wanted to use. His favorite sport seemed to be interrupting me in the middle of a set to make totally original comments, like “Hey, Hadley, anyone ever tell you you look like that skier . . . ?” Oh gee, Allen, only about ten thousand times, but never while I’m precariously incline pressing a loaded bar up over my face! Such a rude and disrespectful guy. Of course, since this was my place of employment I just had to smile and be polite to this mouth breather. So I came up with an idea. I knew exactly how to get back at him and at the same time get him on my client list.


One afternoon, as I was walking over to the area that I liked to do squats in, whom did I see? Allen. Naturally, he raced over there before me, throwing his crap down on the floor. “Oh hey, Hadley, you weren’t going to use this, were you?” he scoffed. “Oh nooooo, Allen, go right ahead. It’s not like I’m on break and this is the only time I can work out today.” I leaned against the weight rack, kicking one foot over the other and crossing my arms. “Say, Allen? I don’t ever see you training with any of the trainers here. How about I give you a complimentary session? That way you could at least have a chance to see if you like it.” I gave him my brightest smile and an over-clichéd swipe of my hand through my hair so he could see the silky dark-blond strands sway back and forth over my shoulders. “How sweet of you, Hadley, but I don’t know if there’s anything a girl could show me that I don’t already know how to do.” My eye twitched faintly as I reminded myself to stay sweet. “Aw, I understand, Allen, but hey, it’s free . . . What do you have to lose?” He gave me a crooked smile and proceeded to stare at my chest with his undivided attention. “Okay, Hadley, you’ve got yourself a deal. Besides, even though I won’t learn a thing, at least I’ll get to know you better.”


I arranged to have Allen meet me at closing so we could have the gym “all to ourselves” with no interruptions, which probably only fueled his excitement. I decided to start with a 45-degree leg press and proceeded to get the equipment ready, periodically catching satisfying glimpses of myself in the multiple mirrors. I had made sure to wear an especially sexy sports bra and matching spandex shorts. The bra was very low cut and so tight that it squeezed my breasts out the top, just barely hiding my nipples. The shorts were no better, not even really shorts . . . more like glorified hot pants, considering how my sculpted cheeks peeped out the bottom and how the fabric rose halfway up when I squatted.


Allen swaggered in fifteen minutes late, of course, and dumped his gym bag in the middle of the floor, like a little boy who’d just gotten home from school. “Allen, don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?” He looked me up and down. “Cute outfit,” he said and walked over to the station I had prepared. “So you want to teach me how to use a leg press? Even if I didn’t already know how to do it, it’s pretty straightforward: sit down, push, repeat.” He plopped down into the seat, placing his feet up onto the plate. I started loading weights onto the machine, deliberately leaning over him to let him get a good look at my chest. “Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, Allen—I’m only having you warm up here, wouldn’t want you tearing a muscle.”  I placed my hand on his thigh as I said that, rubbing my palm up and down and feeling his flesh quiver and vibrate at my touch. I loaded the machine with 200 pounds, not even a warm-up weight for me, but close to his max weight. I knew he wouldn’t complain; couldn’t risk his macho demeanor, now could he?


Towering above him, I instructed him to give me ten reps. His quads strained as he pushed the carriage up and down. As he reached his tenth rep, I put my hand on the back of the foot plate before he could fully press it up to the top of the range. His knees nearly buckled at the added resistance, and his thighs began shaking wildly back and forth. “Hadley, what the hell are you doing? Let go. This isn’t funny!” My brilliant white smile reached from ear to ear. “Oh, I thought you were stronger than this? I’m just making it a little more difficult for you, honey pie. Can’t you push past it? I’m at only about half strength holding this plate right now.” I started laughing at him, watching him so desperately fight against me. The panic in his face was priceless, not to mention the dawning of the horrifying notion that he could not beat me; he wasn’t stronger than I, not by a long shot. All he could do was struggle and stare at my gorgeous physique and face, watching my breasts bounce up and down as I laughed hysterically at him. When he finally realized that he couldn’t win, realized that with minimal effort I had emasculated him, stripped away any right he had to be macho around me or to act like an entitled, dominant male . . . his cock started to grow. I saw it pitch a tent in his shorts, and I giggled at the sight.


“Please, please, Hadley, I’m begging you. I can’t keep it up. I’m going to drop the weight on my body any second. I’ll do anything you ask. Just please help me!” With that, I pushed the plate back up to its resting place in the safety catches. His legs crashed to the ground, his cock rock hard and twitching from the ordeal. I squatted down next to him, wrapping my hand around his shorts-covered dick, and I s-q-u-e-e-z-e-d. “I’m so glad to hear that, little boy. I happen to have a contract written up for a whole year of training sessions for you! I’ll make sure to whip these muscles into shape, especially this one.” I gave another hard squeeze to his package, and he jolted up to his feet. Keeping my hand on his dick, I led him like a little puppy on a leash to the office to sign the paperwork.


- Home - Press - Sexual Personae - Misdeeds - Tidings - Schedule - Links -