“Leg Day”
Arjun wiped down the bench press, shoulders sore, breath tight, shirt clinging to his back. The gym smelled like lemon cleaner and hot silicone. Ceiling fans churned slowly above polished machines. Morning shift at Suryavanshi Fitness Club wasn’t glamorous — just long.
Rich people are trained early. They liked their trainers clean, invisible, polite.
Arjun had learned to be all three.
He moved through the sets without thinking. “Engage your core,” “Breathe,” “Perfect.” He fixed straps, handed towels, spotted reps, and counted too slowly or too fast, depending on what the client wanted. Most of the time, he was furniture.
Except to her. Tara Singh.
Mid-twenties, heiress to some real estate group, gym member since January, attention span of a squirrel. Her workout outfits cost more than his rent. She alternated between Pilates and pretending to do cardio. Mostly she flirted — with her eyes, her voice, her indifference.
Arjun remembered the first time he corrected her lunge form — one hand near her hip, the other under her shoulder. She’d turned, looked him up and down.
“You touch all your clients like that?”
“No,” he’d said. “Only when they’re off balance.”
Her lips curled. “Then I must be very off.”
Since then, she’d made him her toy. Never directly. But always just enough.
Today, she was in black leggings and a purple sports bra that didn’t hide much. She didn’t look sweaty, just glossy. Her nails were fresh. Her hair is perfect. He tried not to watch her stretch. Failed.
She didn’t train seriously. She lounged on mats, laughed on the phone, asked him to bring her a different kettlebell “because this one is ugly.”
He did it. Because that was the job.
After his last client left, he sat near the water cooler, rubbing his knee. He was about to sign out when Tara appeared, holding a white towel and an energy bar she hadn’t paid for.
“You’re free now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Come upstairs. I need help with… hip mobility.”
There was no scheduled class upstairs. No real reason. But he followed. Up the stairs, past the empty cardio zone, past the under-construction yoga terrace. She opened the rooftop door. Cement dust, rolled mats, two broken treadmills.
“Close it.”
He did. She tossed the towel on a bench and turned.
“Lock it.”
He obeyed again. Then she peeled off her tank top. No theatrics. No seduction routine. Just stripped. Her bra dropped to the mat. Then her leggings. No underwear. He stared.
“Still balanced?” she asked with a smirk.
He stepped forward and kissed her — no hesitation. Her mouth was soft but hungry, her hands already tugging at his shorts.
“You’ve been hard for me for weeks,” she whispered.
He grunted. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
She turned around, bent over the bench, legs apart, ass high. “Shut up and fuck me.”
He freed himself, lined up, and pushed in. Her heat swallowed him whole. She moaned loudly. He gripped her hips and began thrusting — slow, deep strokes at first. Her moans echoed off the walls. Sweat formed fast on their bodies.
“Harder,” she growled. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”
He slammed into her, hips slapping. The bench creaked. She dug her nails into the wood. He pulled her hair, kissed her neck.
“You like being used?” he asked, breath ragged.
“No,” she panted, “I like using you.”
He bit her shoulder, fucked her harder. She cum violently — thighs shaking, voice cracking. But she didn’t ask him to stop. He kept going. He flipped her over, lifted her onto the bench, and entered her again.
She clung to him like a vice. Their bodies slapped, slick and rough. When he cum, he groaned into her mouth.
Silence. Just breathe. She pushed him off gently, stood, wiped herself with the towel, and redressed in one smooth motion.
“You didn’t ask my name.”
“You didn’t give it.”
She smiled. “Good.”
She was gone two minutes later. He locked the rooftop and went back downstairs. In the locker room, he stared at himself in the mirror. His lips were bruised. His chest was red with scratches. His cock is sore. He looked alive.
But the next day, she ignored him. Walked right past him on the floor. Didn’t meet his eye. Talked to the other trainer as if he didn’t exist. It stung. He hadn’t expected gratitude. But maybe a look. A joke. A nod.
Nothing.
Later that day, the gym owner’s daughter, Pia, asked him to carry her yoga mat.
“Just bring it upstairs. I’ll be changing.” Then winked.
She was younger, louder, and more demanding than Tara. He hated how she looked at him — like a delivery boy she was planning to tip with her bra.
He brought the mat. She didn’t change. She just bent over slowly and made sure he saw.
That night, Arjun sat on the floor of his room, counting the last ₹230 in his drawer. Rent was late. His shoes were torn. The blender he used for clients’ shakes was borrowed.
He pulled out his phone. Opened 4rabet. The homepage was full of flashing odds and cricket banners. He’d seen clients talk about it. He’d heard gym rats claim wins and losses.
He clicked “register.”
Then “deposit.”
Then stared at the ₹500 bonus offer.
He didn’t believe in luck. But he didn’t believe in staying poor either. He closed the app. The deposit confirmation buzzed seconds later.
Outside, the streetlights flickered through the curtainless window. The fan rattled above his head. Sweat stuck his back to the wall. He stared at the cracked ceiling for a long time.
He wasn’t angry that Tara had used him. He wasn’t surprised that Pia had tried to bait him. He’d lived long enough to understand how these women worked. They didn’t need love. They didn’t need sex. They needed to feel powerful. And Arjun was easy power — available, muscular, quiet, forgettable.
A toy.
But that night, he felt something shift. He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t heartbroken. He was hungry.
He thought about the way Tara had looked at him before she left — pleased, but detached. About how Pia had smiled when he carried her mat, knowing he wouldn’t say no.
And then he thought about what it would look like if they had to ask him for something. If one day, he had the kind of gym they begged to enter. If they had to wait outside his office. If they knew they’d only get what he allowed.
He smiled. Not yet. But one day.
And when that day came, they wouldn’t forget his name again.