PENNY DAVIS can’t afford to hire a personal trainer to get her fit for bikini season until ex military hard man, HAWK STURGIS, offers her an unorthodox fitness regimen and an even more unorthodox payment plan, guaranteed to have her heating up the beach in her new bikini just in time for summer hols.
‘Davis, you will do as I say or find yourself another personal trainer. I will not tolerate insubordination.’
The thought of one hundred quid an hour flashes through my mind, followed in quick succession by the thought of a svelte, sleek new me in a red bikini, and I peel off the shirt to reveal and equally ugly white sports bra.
But he doesn’t notice the bra or the knickers, instead he yells in my ear. ‘Drop and give me ten!’
‘Make it twenty. Now!’
I fall to the floor with all the grace of a wildebeest on ice, then I struggle through eight push-ups, arms trembling like I’ve got some spastic muscle disease just before I collapse on the floor in a heap.
And suddenly he’s arched over me like he’s gonna put some kind of painful wrestling move on me. But just as I muster the breath to beg for my life, he wraps one tree-trunk of an arm half around my waist and supports himself with the other. ‘I’ll spot you,” he says. ‘When I say twenty push-ups, I mean twenty push-ups.’ And there he is doing push-ups on top of my push ups, all supported on three limbs, like a tripod, his hand splayed low on my belly, pulling me up every time he pumps up. He gives me just enough help to struggle through.
It’s impossible for me to count. It’s impossible for me to think of anything other than Hawk Sturgis arched over me, his big hand pressing dangerously close to my pubic bone, his camouflaged crotch raking against my granny-pantied arse with each upward thrust. When I’m finished, he hauls me to my feet, pressed tightly against acres of hard muscle, and I’m very aware that one of those hard muscles just happens to be his cock.