Chapter 60: Closed-Session Training
The steam from the shower had barely dissipated before Anya was moving, a woman with a plan. She dressed Alex herself, selecting his clothes with a curator’s eye: simple gray joggers and a tight black t-shirt. “You should look like you belong in a gym,” she said, zipping up her own athleisure set, a dove-gray ensemble that hugged every curve and stopped high on her thighs. “Even if you’re just going to watch.” Her smile was a quick, bright flash. “At first.”
Toby’s private studio was in a converted warehouse downtown, all polished concrete, exposed ductwork, and the sharp, clean smell of ozone from industrial air purifiers masking the underlying tang of sweat and rubber. The heavy thump of bass-driven rock music pulsed through the floor. It was late, the space empty except for them. Toby stood by a rack of dumbbells, a mountain of muscle in black compression gear. He was texting, but looked up as the buzzer sounded, his face breaking into a wide, easy grin.
“Annie. Looking like a full meal, as always.” His voice boomed, friendly, cutting through the music. He gave Alex a nod. “Alex. Good to see you, man.” The normalcy of the greeting was its own kind of surrealism.
Anya strutted over, meeting Toby in a hug that lifted her off her feet. He kissed her, a deep, possessive thing that made Alex look at the floor, at the intricate pattern of the rubber matting.
“You ready for a real workout?” Toby rumbled, setting her down but keeping a massive hand on her waist.
“Always.” Anya turned her head, her eyes finding Alex. “Set my stuff on the bench, baby?” It was a gentle command, domestic almost.
Alex did as he was told, placing her small duffel by a weight bench. When he turned back, Toby was already leading Anya to the center of the room, near a squat rack. The music shifted to something darker, with a grinding, industrial edge.
“Okay, superstar,” Toby said, his tone shifting from friendly to instructional. “We’re going to focus on form tonight. Leverage.” He positioned her in front of the rack, his hands on her hips. “You’re going to bend over, grip the bar here. Nice and wide. Arch that pretty back. Show me your flexibility.”
Anya complied without a word, bending at the waist until her torso was nearly parallel to the floor. The fabric of her shorts stretched taut across her ass. Toby adjusted her stance with a professional tap of his foot against her ankle.
“Perfect. Now, you’re going to hold that position. No matter what.” He looked over at Alex, who stood frozen ten feet away. “You see that form, Alex? Textbook. Everything in line. Strong.”
Alex could only nod, his throat tight.
Toby moved behind Anya. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He unzipped his shorts, freeing himself. The sight, even from a distance, was a brutal geometry. Anya’s head dipped lower, a soft, eager sound escaping her as Toby used one hand to guide himself, the other to push the thin fabric of her shorts aside. He slid into her in one smooth, relentless motion.
Anya gasped, her knuckles whitening on the barbell. “Fuck, Daddy.”
“Hold the position,” Toby reminded her, his voice steadier than hers. He began to move, a slow, powerful piston. The wet, rhythmic sound was obscenely clear between beats of the music. Each thrust shoved her forward an inch, her shoes squeaking slightly on the floor as she fought to maintain her stance.
Alex watched, a familiar cocktail of awe, humiliation, and sharp, piercing arousal twisting in his gut. He was hard, trapped painfully in his joggers. Toby’s physique was a masterpiece of human engineering, every corded muscle in his back and shoulders working in synchrony. Anya, beneath him, was pliant, taking it, her body jolting with each impact.
After a minute of this, Toby pulled all the way out. He was glistening, slick with her. Anya whimpered at the sudden emptiness, still holding her pose.
“Good girl,” Toby muttered. Then, in a move so casual it stole Alex’s breath, he drew his hand back and slapped Anya’s ass with the length of his own cock. A wet, meaty smack that echoed. Anya cried out, part shock, part delirious pleasure.
“Now,” Toby said, turning his head. He wasn’t even out of breath. “Your turn to spot her, little man.”
He left Anya bent over the bar, dripping, and in three long strides was across the space. His hand, enormous and unarguable, clamped on Alex’s shoulder, spinning him and propelling him forward. Alex stumbled, caught off-balance, until he was kneeling on the hard floor right behind Anya.
The view was immediate, intimate, and devastating. The evidence of Toby’s possession was everywhere.
“Clean her up,” Toby said, his voice dropping, not a request but a foundational fact. “She’s a mess. You made the mess, you deal with it.”
Alex’s mind went blank, then white-hot static. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching her skin. The musky, sweet scent flooded his senses. He extended his tongue.
The moment it made contact, Anya shuddered, a long, full-body tremor. “Yes,” she hissed into the silence that had fallen between songs. “Good boy, Alex. Such a good, helpful boy.”
He closed his eyes, the world narrowing to taste and texture and her scent. He licked, tentative at first, then with a desperate, hungry focus, trying to swallow the reality of what was happening. Trying to own it, somehow. Anya’s breathing grew ragged above him, little hitches and moans prompting him, guiding him.
Above him, he heard the low rumble of conversation resuming.
“So, Friday,” Toby said, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. Alex could see his massive legs, planted like columns, just in his periphery.
“Mmm,” Anya managed, her voice strained. “Sam.”
“Yeah. He’s excited. Nervously excited. You know the type.” There was a rustle of fabric. Toby must have been adjusting himself. “Told him you were next-level. That you had a… dedicated support system.”
Anya laughed, a breathy, broken sound as Alex’s tongue worked. “He does his best.”
“He’s doing great right now,” Toby observed, and Alex felt a fresh wave of heat flood his face. “That’s why I was thinking. For Friday. He should prepare you.”
Anya was quiet for a beat. “Prepare me?”
“Yeah. You come over, say, an hour before Sam gets there. Alex comes with you. He gets you ready. Gets you warmed up, opens you up a little. For us.” Toby’s tone was considering, logistical. “That way, when Sam and I get to work, we’re not starting from scratch. We can just… enjoy the product. And Sam gets to see the whole process. The before, and the during.”
Alex’s tongue stilled. The concept—his role reduced to a preparatory service, a human tool to facilitate her for others—lodged in his chest like a cold stone.
Anya pushed back against his face, a silent command to continue. He obeyed.
“I like that,” she said, her voice regaining some of its steel. “He’d like that. He’d hate it, which means he’d love it. You know how he is.”
“I’m starting to,” Toby chuckled. “So that’s the plan. He preps you. Then he sits in that corner chair. And watches the main event.”
“Spit roast,” Anya said, the crude term sounding almost poetic in her mouth. “You promised him a classic.”
“A classic requires two ends,” Toby said. “I’ll take the front. Sam can have the back. Or vice versa. We’ll see how the mood strikes.” He shifted his weight. “You’re okay with Sam taking you there?”
Anya’s answer was immediate. “If he’s with you, and you’re okay with him, then I am. I trust your judgment, Daddy.” She moaned then, a genuine, unraveling sound as Alex found a particular rhythm. “Fuck, Alex… right there…”
“See?” Toby said, admiration in his voice. “He’s a natural at this prep work. Friday will be smooth.”
The conversation, its casual cruelty, was a blade twisting in Alex’s gut even as his body thrummed with a perverse pride at her moans, at being used as a tool so effectively.
Without warning, Toby’s hand was back in his hair, not gentle, fisting and pulling his head back, breaking his connection. Alex looked up, blinking. Toby loomed over him, his expression unreadable.
“Enough. Time for the main set.”
He pushed Alex aside, not violently, but with absolute certainty. Alex scrambled back on his hands, ending up slumped against the cool metal of a leg press machine, a perfect spectator once more.
Toby took his place, sinking back into Anya with a deep, satisfied groan. “Fuck, you’re loose now. Good job, spotter.” This time, there was no slow burn. He drove into her with a pounding, animal intensity. The weight bench rattled with each thrust. Anya’s cries were loud, unfiltered, lost to the music and the raw physical noise of their collision.
Alex watched, his own need a frantic, caged thing. He couldn’t look away from where they joined, from the brutal efficiency of Toby’s hips, from the utter surrender on Anya’s face. This was no longer about his preparation, or his cleaning duty. This was the elemental thing itself, the core truth he had consented to witness.
Toby’s pace became frantic, his grunts echoing off the high ceiling. He gripped Anya’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding her in place as he slammed home a final, shuddering time. He cursed, a guttural string of words, and then went still, pressing deep, his big body trembling through its release.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried inside her, both of them panting. Then he pulled out, stepping back. He zipped himself up, as casual as a man washing his hands.
Anya slowly straightened, wincing as she stood. She was gloriously wrecked, hair plastered to her temples, her outfit disheveled. She turned, her eyes immediately seeking Alex. They were dark, glazed, triumphant. She walked to him, her gait slightly unsteady. She crouched down, bringing herself to his eye level. Her scent, now mingled profoundly with Toby’s, enveloped him.
She cupped his face. Her palms were sweaty. “You did so well,” she whispered, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. “You always do.” She kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and her and something else, something foreign and irrevocable.
Behind her, Toby grabbed a towel, wiping his neck. “So, Friday. Eight o’clock. You bring the wine.” He said it like they were planning a dinner party. He looked at Alex. “You bring your A-game for the prep, yeah? Don’t want her tight for Sam. He’s not as… forgiving as I am.”
Anya helped Alex to his feet. He was unsteady. The concrete floor felt like it was tilting.
“We’ll be ready,” Anya said, her voice a husky promise. She laced her fingers with Alex’s, her grip firm, anchoring. “He’s always ready for me.”
Toby nodded, a grin spreading. “Great. Now get out of here. I’ve got to sanitize the equipment.” He winked at Anya, then turned to spray down the weight bench, whistling.
Anya led Alex out, past the silent, hulking machines, through the buzzing door, and into the cool, indifferent night air of the parking lot. The sudden silence was a physical pressure. She leaned against the car door, not getting in yet, just looking at him under the sulfur-yellow streetlight.
She saw it all on his face—the shock, the arousal, the dawning horror of the commitment he’d just overheard. She reached out, traced the line of his jaw with a single, gentle finger.
“Two days,” she said softly. Her eyes gleamed, reflecting the distant city lights. “Two days, and you get to give me to them properly.” She bit her lip, a gesture of faux-thoughtfulness. “I wonder if Claire will want a full report. Or… maybe she’ll want to help you practice before.”
She opened the car door, the interior light painting her in a soft, warm glow. “Get in, baby. Let’s go home. I’m starving.” She said it like everything was normal, like the night hadn’t just been cleaved into a before and an irrevocable after.
As he slid into the passenger seat, the ghost of the taste still on his tongue, he knew the countdown had begun. His hands would touch her first. But his eyes would witness the rest. And there was no world, now, where he could choose not to see.