Happy Gym (3): PT Hell Begins
The consultation at the gym wasn't a big deal at all. My new body isn't going to have any issues after just a week, after all. My weight and build are still in the healthy range. Sure, the fat's concentrated a bit too much on my chest, but overall, it's pretty well-balanced. Now that I've got this body, I've gotta take even better care of it. I'm really gonna work hard this time.
And that resolution lasted exactly 10 minutes into the PT session before it shattered.
"Hah... haaah... Trainer..."
"Mm! You're doing great, member! This is how you maintain your health and build stamina!"
"I... I'm really gonna die..."
"Aw, come on, member. People don't die that easily."
I swear to God, I don't think I can walk on these legs today. Since it's our first session, she said we'd focus on balancing my lower body, which is the most important—said it all super casually, like it was no big deal. She specifically mentioned it'd be simple bodyweight stuff like squats and lunges because it's the first time, and called it 'simple.'
But something's seriously off here. I figured it'd just be a bit tough, so I approached it with a super light heart. Squats? Isn't that just a harder version of sit-and-stand? That's what I thought. Now, after barely finishing two sets, I'm slumped on the bench, my legs trembling, cursing my naive past self and this PT trainer who's like the vanguard of hell itself.
I sensed something weird around the 8th rep of the first squat set. Up until then, it was manageable. But after 8, the load on my legs started feeling unnatural. They began shaking without me realizing, my form slipping more and more, and every time, the trainer corrected me, insisting I do it right. My legs shook harder with each fix. By the end of the set, I was gasping on the bench, chugging water nonstop. During the second set, my legs felt like they weren't even mine anymore—numb, but the dogged pain shot straight to my brain, tormenting me. Barely enduring the sensation of my thighs ripping apart, I finished the second set and collapsed onto the bench like I was dying.
...I've gotta keep doing more of this murderous intensity? And she says this isn't even that intense? She hasn't even rested long, but here she comes, heading for my legs like she's about to chop them off. I shoot her my most desperate, pleading eyes, but it ain't working.
"...Trainer..."
"You're fine, member! Let's go to the next set!"
I couldn't even refuse, and somehow finished the third set before slumping back down. I'm chugging water, feeling utterly powerless, like I can't do any more exercise. The good news? It's the first day, so that's it for PT. The bad news? I've gotta do 30 minutes on the treadmill next. And not at some normal speed she set—something way beyond that.
Five minutes in on the treadmill after the trainer sets it up herself. My legs are completely drained, so I'm shambling along on pure instinct to keep from falling off. Sweat pours from my head and body; my arms cling to the bars, barely holding me up.
"Huff... haaah..."
Hot breaths and groans escape my lips automatically as I force my exhausted body to endure. I'm so drained it's basically walking, flopping along on the machine. Ugh, if I go home like this, I won't be able to do a damn thing. And I've gotta keep this up? Getting even tougher from here?
Lost in those despairing thoughts a few minutes later, I sense someone next to me.
...Huh? I'm on the treadmill at the very end. Gym's busy right now—no open spots except here?
I glance over casually, and there's a guy walking on the one beside mine. The other treadmills behind him? Empty except for that one spot. He notices me looking and turns... then gives this super sleazy, leering smile, dipping his head in a creepy nod.
Why's he like that? I don't get it, but ignoring the nod feels rude and awkward, so my social autopilot returns it. Then I snap my head forward.
Don't make eye contact.
Luckily, no chit-chat mid-run or anything. But I catch him glancing my way now and then.
They say women can feel eyes on their bodies. As a guy, I thought that was BS, but now as a girl? Yeah, it's real. His gaze stings like needles. Face, then chest—over and over every time he turns.
I ignore it hard and focus on the treadmill. My squat-tormented legs actually feel a bit looser trudging along; the tension eases, maybe? Or not? Is this gaslighting or something?
The incident happens after I get off. I half-expected it, but not this soon.
I stop the machine, utterly wrecked, and stumble off. The guy next to me stops and gets off at the exact same moment. I try to ignore him and head to the locker room, but...
"Ah, wait a sec! Um..."
Shit. Why can't I dodge bad vibes? Maybe it's nothing. Let's hear him out.
"...Yeah? What is it?"
"Uh, your style's just so my type—could I get your number?"
Damn it. Not even a legit excuse. He looks decent enough—college heartthrob type, probably got confessions back in the day—but dating or hooking up with a guy? Still way too hard physiologically.
"Sorry."
I make my rejection crystal clear and bolt to the locker room. He stares at my fleeing back the whole time.
Hope I never see him again.
I change quick and head straight home, standing under the shower. Gym's close, so showering comfy at my place beats the hassle. Dragging my wrecked self to wash with other women around—naked women, no less? Yeah, not happening. Not today, not ever.
The treadmill worked wonders; my legs aren't shaking anymore. Body's still drained, though. I scrub every sweaty inch. Gotta wash my hair today. Long strands soak and fall back.
"Hoo..."
I soothe my gym-exhausted mind and body under the water. Rinse the sweat from every crevice first. Especially these huge tits—sweat pools between and under them. Closed-up skin plus fat? Super sticky. Gross.
I splash water everywhere, soap up quick, and bolt from the bathroom ASAP. Old me might've zoned out or pondered life under the spray. But right now? I'm too wiped; my body just craves the shortest path to bed.
I flop onto the bed, hair wrapped in a towel. No face-planting anymore—I'm getting used to this girl body without thinking.
Hair needs drying... I stretch for the hairdryer—nuh-uh, too far. Annoying. Stagger to the chair, slump, grab it, and dry with Herculean effort.
Vreeee—
The whir drowns everything, white noise dragging my mind down again. I fight it, manage to at least shake out the worst of the wet.
Final task done, I haul my fatigued self back to bed and crash. Nap aftermath? Whatever. Right now, sleep's priority.
I drift off just like that.