Chapter 2: Bench Press Punishment
The cold vinyl of the weight bench seeped into Charlie’s naked back as Max stood over him, her shadow swallowing him whole. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of appraisal and amusement. She placed a hand on his chest, right over his pounding heart, and pushed him flat.
“Scoot down,” she said, her voice casual, as if asking him to pass a water bottle. “Shoulders off the bench. Just your head on it.”
He shuffled down, the edge of the bench digging into his shoulder blades. The world inverted. The ceiling with its stained tiles and fluorescent lights became his floor. Max was a silhouette against the glare, all powerful legs and narrow waist. She put one knee on the bench beside his head, then the other, and lowered herself into a crouch above him. His view was now utterly filled by the dark, taut fabric of her shorts, the heat from her body radiating onto his face.
“You remember the safeword?” Her question was quiet, almost gentle.
“Red,” he breathed, the word tasting like dust.
“Good.” Her hands went to the waistband of her shorts. In one smooth motion, she peeled them down her legs, kicking them aside. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The reality of her, bare and so close, hit Charlie like a physical blow. The neat trim of hair, the slick fold of her, inches from his mouth. Her musk, potent and deeply female, flooded his senses, obliterating the generic gym smells. “Now, you’re going to use that tongue. You’re going to eat my pussy until I come. And you’re going to hold your arms out. Like you’re still benching. Let’s see how long they last.”
She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She simply settled her weight down, her thighs caging his head, her wetness smearing directly onto his lips. A choked sound escaped him. His arms, already jelly from his failed set, trembled as he lifted them, holding them perpendicular to his body, suspended in the air. The burn was immediate and vicious.
“Start,” she commanded.
He opened his mouth, his tongue darting out tentatively. He found her heat, the complex salt-sweet taste of her. He licked a slow, unsure stripe.
“Pathetic,” she sighed, shifting her hips, grinding herself more firmly against his face. “You lift like a bitch and you eat pussy like one too. Use your whole fucking mouth.”
The crudeness, the sheer derision in her voice, sent a jolt straight to his cock, which twitched, achingly hard against his stomach. Humiliation curdled with a dark, sucking need. He opened wider, letting her folds part his lips, and pressed his tongue flat against her, lapping more firmly. He swirled it around her clit, following the sounds she made—a sharp inhale, a low hum.
“That’s it. Right there. Now keep going.” Her hands came down, not to caress, but to grip his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him in place. She began to move on him, a slow, relentless rolling of her hips, fucking his face with deliberate, controlled motions. “Your arms are shaking, Charlie. Don’t you drop them.”
Sweat dripped into his eyes. The agony in his deltoids and triceps was a white-hot fire. His arms quaked violently, wanting nothing more than to collapse. Each tremor traveled through his entire body. But his mouth worked, his tongue plunging and circling, driven by a frantic desire to please, to obey, to not fail at this too. The wet, obscene sounds of her using his face filled the silent gym, mixing with his own ragged breaths through his nose and her escalating gasps.
“You’re just a fucking toy,” she moaned, her voice losing some of its edge, fraying with pleasure. “A weak little thing I get to use. Yeah, just like that. Suck on it. Harder.”
He obeyed, drawing her clit between his lips, sucking rhythmically as she ground down. Her thighs tightened around his ears. The world was reduced to this: searing muscle pain, the drowning scent and taste of her, the building tension in her body. Her breaths became short, sharp pants.
“Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.” Her grip on his hair was brutal. His arms were screaming, the tremor now a constant, uncontrollable vibration. A high whine built in his throat, muffled against her flesh.
She came with a sound like a sob, her whole body clenching, her hips stuttering against his mouth. He rode it out, lapping at her through the pulsating waves, drinking her in until she shuddered and went still, her weight heavy on him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then she lifted herself off, dismounting from the bench with a fluid grace that mocked his own broken state. She looked down at him. His arms had finally, mercifully, crumpled to his chest. They lay there, useless and twitching. His face was soaked, glistening with her.
She smiled, a real one this time, less sharp at the edges. She tugged her shorts back on. “Not totally useless, I guess.” She tossed his shirt onto his heaving stomach. “Get up. We’re not done.”
Charlie dragged himself to a sitting position, every muscle protesting. He wiped his face with the shirt, the cotton smelling of his own sweat and her sex. The shame was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was quieter now, overshadowed by a strange, exhausted clarity. He had done that. He had taken it. He hadn’t said red.
He met her eyes as he pulled his clothes on. His hands were steady.
“What’s next?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Max’s eyebrow arched. A spark of something new—respect, maybe, or fresh curiosity—flashed in her dark eyes. She picked up a twenty-kilo plate, hefting it casually. “Next,” she said, “you try again.”