The gym was silent except for the low hum of the cooling fans and the distant, rhythmic thud of music from another set. Salma looked even more dangerous under the high-contrast spotlights. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy, sweat-dampened bun, and the ink of the dragon on her back seemed to glow against her golden, olive skin.

​She walked toward us with a fluid, feline grace. The neon-green sneakers squeaked softly on the rubber flooring—the only thing she was wearing.

​"Mr. Hart," she purred, stopping just inches away. Her scent was a mix of vanilla and something primal. "I've heard very... impressive things about you."

​"Well, I've seen impressive things from you too," I replied, my eyes dropping to the curve of her waist. "That was quite a performance you were giving Kevin earlier."

​She actually blushed, a soft pink creeping up her neck. "Is that so? I heard you perfom magic. I want to see you use your... magic cock." She giggled, her eyes darting down to my jeans, clearly looking for a sign of the 'magic' she'd heard about.

​"Holmes has been talking, I see," I said, glancing at the director.

​"I'm nothing but your humble director," Holmes chirped, though he looked like he wanted to take credit for every bit of my reputation.

​"Give me a few minutes with the storyboard," I said, taking the folder from the crew member. "Then I'll show you exactly what it can do."

​The plan was straightforward but intense. It wasn't just a mindless fuck; it had a narrative designed to capitalize on the gym's cold, industrial aesthetic. I went through it.

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​The Warm-up: Salma is on the pull-up bar, struggling with her final reps. I step in as the "head trainer," assisting her by gripping her waist and lifting her body.

​The Stretch: I move her to the leather weight bench for a "cool down," using the slickness of her skin to transition into a full-body massage.

​The Main Set: The "magic" happens. The storyboard called for a high-intensity standing position against the chrome squat rack, followed by a finishing move on the bench.

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​I closed the folder and handed it back to Malone. I looked at Salma, who was already back at the pull-up bar, hanging by her arms and letting her body stretch out, giving me a perfect view of the dragon's tail disappearing between her cheeks.

​"You ready?" I called out, my voice dropping an octave.

​She looked over her shoulder, a predatory spark in her eyes. "I told you, Mr. Hart. I've been waiting for this all day."

​I kicked off my shoes and began unbuttoning my shirt, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. Two-bit and Holmes moved to the monitors, and the camera crew adjusted their angles, the red lights flickering on.

​"Alright," I signaled. "Let's give them something worth watching."

---------------

The moment Holmes yelled "Action," the gym's professional hum evaporated, replaced by something primal.

​Salma was already at the pull-up bar, her slender arms reaching up to grip the cold steel. As she hauled herself upward, the muscles in her back rippled, making the dragon tattoo across her shoulder blades shift and flex as if the creature were drawing breath. I stepped into the frame, sliding into the role of the relentless trainer.

​I moved behind her, my hands find her waist. Her skin was still damp from the previous take—slick and deceptively soft. As she struggled with the next rep, I didn't just assist her; I guided her body flush against mine. The contact was a jolt of pure heat through my thin shirt.

​"Higher," I growled near her ear, keeping my voice thick and commanding for the mics.

​She let out a shaky breath, her head falling back against my shoulder as her chin cleared the bar. I let my hands slide down from her waist, my palms cupping the firm, heavy curve of her glutes. I squeezed, feeling the tension in her legs as she dangled there.

​"You're falling behind, Salma," I whispered. "You know the cost of a failed rep."

​"Please, Mr. Hart," she panted, her voice a perfect cocktail of exhaustion and scripted desperation. "I can do better."

​"If you can't, I'll have to punish you," I said, leaning in. "And we both know you'd enjoy that."

​"Depends on the punishment, Coach," she purred, nailing the seductive lilt Holmes had asked for.

​"Fifty squats or fifty pushups. Take your pick."

​Suddenly, the rhythm changed. Salma dropped from the bar, landing light on her feet, but she didn't step out of my space. She turned in my arms, her eyes locking onto mine with a look that definitely wasn't in the script.

​"Ooh, that's disappointing, Coach," she murmured, a playful, dangerous tilt to her lips. "Can't I choose between those... or your cock?"

​ I blinked, the professional mask slipping, like it was supposed to.

​"I beg your pardon?" I managed, my heart hammering against my ribs. We were acting but the way she talked turned me on.

​Salma didn't back away. Instead, she stepped closer, her eyes dark and focused. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of my bicep, her touch light but searing.

​"Look at you," she whispered, her voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed meant only for me. "All this raw power. Do you have any idea what it does to me, watching you play the dominant trainer? Watching those muscles bunch every time you reach for me?"

​Her hand slid up to my chest, her palm flat against my heart, which was currently trying to kick its way out of my ribs. She followed the contours of my shoulders, her touch lingering on the pulse point at my neck.

​"You talk so much about discipline," she murmured, leaning in until her lips were brushing the shell of my ear. "But I bet underneath this shirt, you're just as desperate as I am. I bet you're dying to break your own rules."

​She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. Then, her hand began to travel downward. It traced the ridges of my abs slowly, before her fingers hooked into my waistband.

​I felt the air leave my lungs as she trailed lower, her touch firming as she reached the heat between my legs. When her palm finally cupped the heavy length of my cock through the fabric, the world outside the two of us ceased to exist.

​"So," she breathed, her thumb grazing the tip through the denim. "Are we still talking about pushups, Mr. Hart? Or are you going to show me what a real punishment feels like?"

​My breath hitched, my hands hovering at her waist, caught between pulling her closer.

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