"Might as well hit the gym," I finally announce, earning a scowl from my wife. I shrug in response, seeing my old body's eyes once more immediately jump to the nipples tenting through the top I'm wearing, and a mix of emotions runs through me. On one hand, sucks to see your hot wife with her body on display, knowing you can't touch it, huh? On the other, why do I really want her to touch me right now? This is just too weird.
"The gym? Really?" Susan rolls her eyes, which I've never been good at it, and it looks awkward as hell coming from my old body.
A raise a hand, ticking off points as I go. "We've just called off work so we have no obligations today. We're not going outside, anywhere, under any circumstances. We don't enjoy watching movies together. I don't like reading. I needed to lift today anyway, so we might as well check that box."
With a sigh, Susan-as-me stands and walks her plate over to the sink, rinsing it and placing it into the dishwasher. "Fine. We can go work out."
"Once upon a time, you didn't mind it," I told her as I tossed my yogurt cup and we headed for the man cave. I led the way and could practically feel the heat of her gaze on me with each step I took. Sooner or later, something was going to have to change, but that's a conversation I'm not ready for. Maybe not ever.
We make it into my man-cave and I gesture toward the squat rack. "I can walk you through the exercises, if that's okay? I lift four days a week and I know you think it's silly, but it's honestly important for my work that I'm strong. I have to be able to pick up a joist and help the guys carry it, or break up a fight between a pair of hungover trades, or any number of other things."
"I said I'd do it, okay?," she complained, and stared at the weights. Susan used to do light workouts back when she was a cheerleader, and had always been into yoga, pilates, barre, and that whole thing, but actual barbell lifts were new to her. "You're just going to need to show me what to do."
Nodding my head, I started to lay out the routine. "We're going to begin with squats, working our way up to a top set of three reps at maybe 85% of my max. Then we'll repeat for bench, then deadlift. It'll be tough, but not impossible, and I'll help you count out the plates and demonstrate each lift. Thank you for doing this." I was trying to be graceful about this. I knew she didn't want to, but it was important to me that I stayed strong, and she was going to give it a shot.
Walking over to the squat rack, I quickly realized the barbell was set too high for me to use, and I fumbled around briefly while I lowered the J-cups to a more appropriate height, then put it back into position. "Okay, so pay attention to my form, please. As we increase in weight, it's going to be more and more vital that the form is good."
I start with a few sets of 5-rep air-squats, making her walk around me and observe from all angles. She gives me a funny look as she does, while I'm gesturing toward the angle of my femur and back, making sure she can see that my butt is down near the ground, and then driving up out of the bottom. Then I repeat with the empty bar, nearly killing myself as this blonde hair gets tangled around it.
Susan runs off, returning a minute later with a hair tie, and expertly wraps it into a low bun and I repeat the process, this time without ripping out a chunk of scalp. Then I add a pair of 25s to the bar, and repeat, and suddenly my thighs are burning in a way I hadn't planned. Still, I've got to show her how this is done, and on the next set I swap them for 45s. A 135-pound squat is barely an appetizer for me normally, but suddenly I'm pouring sweat and grunting as I try to drive out of the bottom, staggering as I re-rack the bar.
"That's how it's done," I brag, and I raise my shirt, wiping my forehead, and suddenly Susan can't make eye contact with me anymore. Oh, right. I skipped the sports bra and I'm now drenched in sweat in a thin shirt. Well, she can just fucking deal with me being a tease, I suppose.
Under my supervision, Susan begins with air squats, then the empty bar. I correct her form a few times and she starts to growl at me, saying I'm nitpicking. I insist it's important, and then tell her to add a pair of 45s onto the bar. She repeats, the work nearly effortless, and she glances at me in surprise. "Yeah, laugh it up. Add another pair." Putting another pair of 45s on the bar, she proceeds to squat 225 pounds, glancing at me quizzically as she finishes. "And another," I repeat, gesturing toward the stack of iron plates on the floor. She squats 315 pounds, starting to sweat a little.
"Another?" She glances at me in disbelief and I nod my head. Susan bangs out another rep, now up to 405 pounds, and she turns to me. "I cannot possibly do more than that. That's insane."
"Yeah, no. We don't quit until we're struggling. I won't punish you, but throw a pair of 25s onto the ends."
"I can't," she protests, and I scoff.
"Suze, I can squat 525 pounds. My body can do 455 fairly easily. You just need to not be a wimp about it."
She growls at me, real anger on her face, and it sends a shiver down my core and suddenly my throat is dry. Susan hangs the 25 pound plates on the bar and unracks it, grunting as she does, banging out the five reps. Her legs are shaking on the last one, and her form gets a little sloppy, but I'll allow it. "Calling me a wimp, huh?"
I nod to her, "Well done. Anger is useful." She blinks at me, then at the bar, then an expression of wonder overtakes her face. "And now we take all the weight off and start on the next exercise." Grumbling, she slowly removes each plate from the barbell, me making a quick suggestion to alternate sides so it doesn't get out of balance and tip over, trying to kill someone.
Finally, we're back down to the bar itself and I reset the cups for bench press as Susan drags a flat bench over from the side of the room. I lay down, adjusting myself on the bench, and suddenly Susan can't look at me once more and I feel the tank top riding up, exposing a flat stomach, and my nipples hard at attention. Shit. I plant my feet, gesturing down. "Push away with your feet, arching your back slightly, then grab the bar. Bring it down to your nipples, then shove it back up." I use the empty bar to demonstrate and I'm not sure how much sunk into Susan's head beyond the word "Nipples."
To be honest, I'm not even sure how good my form was, because the moment the bar touched my nipples, I nearly gasped and almost dropped the bar. Struggling to sit up, I place a pair of 15 pound plates on the bar, and repeat the process, arms absolutely burning as I struggle to bench a meager 75 pounds. By the fifth rep, my face is beet red and I'm struggling, "Help," I gasp, and Susan steps forward, straddling the bench as she grabs the bar from my hands, crotch practically in my face as she helps re-rack it.
Well, hello there, I think to myself, staring at the bulging erection in her gym shorts. Then I shake my head slightly, trying to get the image out of my head. "That was light," Susan says with confusion, and steps back, giving me room to sit up.
"Yeah, well, not to this body," I grumble. "Your turn." I coach her through the workout, running all of the way up to a 315 pound bench press which my body is still able to bang out with relative ease, and she sits up, a smug grin on her face as she flexes a bicep at me. I try to avoid the feeling it triggers within this body, and distract myself by moving on to the next exercise.
I begin by teaching the proper deadlift form, her eyes glued to my ass as I demonstrate the hip thrust at the top of the rep, using a very lightly loaded bar with just 65 pounds on it. "Now I'll add some weight, and I'm going to need you to spot me." She moves, standing behind me, her arms threaded through mine, broad chest to my back, as I once more slowly follow the five step deadlift process, grunting as I struggle to lift 135 pounds off the floor, legs shaking as I reach lockout. I release my knees and the weight plummets back toward the floor as my ass shoots backwards - right into a giant steel tube. That steel tube nestles in snug between this body's tight ass cheeks and I swear it fucking throbs.
That giant steel tube is my old body's painfully erect cock, I realize, as Susan grunts in surprise, a strained "Jesus - fuck" coming from her mouth, and her hands grab my hips to keep me from toppling forward. I stay there a second, bar on the ground, bent over at the waist, ass rubbed into my old body's dick, her hands on my hip. You know, I think to myself idly, It wouldn't take much for her to yank down the leggings and go for it. Teach that frigid wife a lesson.
Neither of us moves, and sweat drips down my chest, my hamstrings starting to burn from this position. I need Susan to step backward, so I can start the next rep, and instinctively I nudge back with my ass, grinding into the body's cock. I hear a gasp, and somehow this body I'm trapped in lets out a little moan and I nearly fall over my legs are shaking so hard. Susan's fingers dig tighter into my hips and she sways forward, grinding into my ass and I suddenly can't breathe, the cock practically jumping as it strains against the fabric of Susan's gym shorts.
The mirrors in here aren't helping, as I glance up at one - the 5'7" blonde cheerleader practically impaling her ass on her husband's cock, as he wraps her body around her. Both of us panting, faces red, nobody who walked in would doubt for a second that it was about to turn into a raunchy fuck-fest.
She takes a step backward, away from me, and I'm shaking so hard I'm not sure I could pick the bar up if my life depended on it. I'm breathing so hard you'd think I just sprinted a mile, and I slowly release the bar, turning to face her. My body is struggling, I can instantly tell. A vein is pulsing in my neck and it's the very image of "sexual tension" as Susan grits her teeth, staring down at me, and I realize I've sweat so much this tank-top is winning me the local wet t-shirt competition - and I'm the only contestant. And yeah, the painfully hard erection tenting the shorts. Time to be a jerk.
"Well, one rep was enough. You get the idea. Your turn," and I gesture toward the bar. "I'm not going to be able to spot so, so just drop it if you fail a rep. That's what the crash pads are for."
Gritting her teeth, she bangs out the 135 pound bar like it's a fucking toy, and I sit down on the bench, fanning myself as I instruct "Another pair" as she goes up the scale. By the time she hits 405 pounds, she's got sweat pouring down my body's frame once more and it looks good. "We can stop at 495. Well, throw the change plates on since we're not a bitch, go for the round 500."
She glares at me, snapping, "Every time I pull this fucking bar up, it hits your stupid boner. I'm about to break the fucking thing off." Break it off inside of me, this body seems to urge, and I swallow, trying to find the words.
"Well, uh. Tough shit. Some problems can't be spotted." Yeah, that's helpful advice. "Oh, you'll want chalk for this one." I show her the chalk bucket, chalking up my own hands to demonstrate, then supervising as she does it. She walks over, grabbing the bar, and getting in position. I slap my hands against her ass, as hard as this tiny body possibly can, leaving two cute handprints across the the rear of the gym shorts, and yell "Go!"
Susan grunts as she lifts and I feel something throbbing in my panties, and wonder idly if it's too late to run to the bathroom. She goes again, the plates slamming home against the ground, then up in the air, a victorious grunt as she slams them back home. I sit down, crossing my legs as my thighs rub together unconsciously, and I lose track of reps, watching as my old body manhandles the weight with ease.
Finally done, she turns to me, a broad grin on her face. "That was so cool," she gushes, and I smile back - an honest smile, a proud one.
"Great job, Susan," I tell her, and I find that I mean it. "You did awesome!" She wraps me in a hug and suddenly I'm feeling a lot of different things at once. That boner is back, pressing into my chest. My nipples are hard enough to cut glass and grinding against Susan's abs, her hands are wrapped around me, pulling me tight into that giant sweaty body, which smells so fucking good, and I'm struggling to breathe as I try not to dissolve into a puddle of lust, fighting this body's urge to wraps its legs around him and be taken wildly, passionately, reminding us both why we got married in the first place.
How did we ever fall out of love?