The Trainer and the Taste I Still Crave

By: MarsMouth

Secret‑Telling Saturday: She sat on that sink like a prayer I was born to answer.

I kept to myself at the gym. Professional. Efficient. Cordial when needed—but never too warm, never too open. Work was work, and personal space was sacred. People mistook my quiet for cold. I didn’t correct them.

I didn’t want to be known.

Except one person got through.

The trainer.

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was gravity. Italian. Radiant. A walking contradiction—strength and softness, fire and sadness. Her body was sculpted like perfection and moved like music without sound. She was magnetic without trying. But her eyes… they carried a weight no set of reps could lift.

It was obvious—whatever love she was in, it wasn’t soft. Everyone whispered about the fiancé. Her fingers fidgeted at the mention of him. The kind of man who dimmed more than he loved.

We started talking more—slowly. Small exchanges. Quiet curiosity. I didn’t want to care, but something stirred. Something dangerous. And one day, without planning to, I said it:

“I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about being with a woman... but if you ever let me, I’d make you feel like the only one that matters.”

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t laugh.

She leaned in.

After that, we found reasons to be near each other. Lingering moments. Accidental touches. But one day, games weren’t enough.

A whisper.

Meet me in the bathroom.

The clatter of weights outside faded behind the stall door. She sat on the sink, breath shallow, legs parted, heart pounding. I dropped to my knees—not out of lust, but reverence. Worship. I was between her thighs, tongue baptized in sin.

Her moans painted the tile walls, soft and reckless. Maybe wanting to be caught. Maybe finally wanting something to feel uncontrollable. Anyone could’ve walked in. That was part of the thrill.

But it didn’t stop there.

Nights became drives. Quiet roads. Empty parking lots. Places where the world didn’t matter. In the backseat, she became art and ache all at once—coming undone in my hands, finally adored the way she always deserved.

She was engaged—but with me, she was chosen.

Seen. Tasted. Loved.

We didn’t have a title. No beginning. No plan. Just moments stitched together by hunger and heartache.

And somehow…

We never really ended.

Years later, our messages still linger like sparks refusing to die.

“You’re still my Italian princess. My beautiful girl.”

She haunts me sweetly.

She still lives in the gym lights.

And I still crave her.

Her taste. Her sighs.

The way she surrendered like I was the first one who ever earned it.

For my flower girl—I still water the memory of you.

🥀 “Some love stories never begin. Some never end. Ours did both.”

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