Powerlifter vs. Crossfit – an "Erotic" short story

If you’re under 18 – or related to me – don’t read this.  These images will not be easy to get out of your head.  In fact, I would highly recommend that no one read this.  You have been warned.

DIFH

Not the same girl, but she also has red hair.

So while I’m warming up on squats in the power rack, this crossfit chick comes over and does a set of cleans on the adjacent platform.  She’s about 5’3, 110 lbs.  Taut bod, not overly muscled.  Shoulder length red hair.  About 35, with an okay face.  Black spandex shorts that end above the knee.  White t-shirt with a red heart on the front.  Inside the heart, it says “Strong is the new Sexy!”

She approaches me, and I take off my headphones.

“What did you think about my cleans?” she asks.  “Did you see my set?”

“Um, yeah, I saw ’em.”

“Well how was my form?”

“Pretty good, I guess.  What is that, like 90 lbs?”

Her eyes narrow.  “It’s 95. Why?  Never seen a woman lift so much before, have you?  Feeling threatened?”

“Not particularly,” I say, and return to my workout sheet.

“Oh, like you’re real tough.  What do you have on that squat bar?  There were guys from my old Crossfit box that would have the whole bar full of weights.”

“Those were rubber, baby.  This is 315.”

“Three hundred and fifteen pounds?”

“Yeah, well, it’s just a warmup weight.”

“No, I mean, I didn’t, I had no idea how much…” she stammers.

Then she recovers her confidence and scowls at me.

“Yeah, well, you’re just a powerlifter right?  Any meathead can do that.  Olympic lifting builds functional strength.  I bet you couldn’t even clean this.  And you weigh twice as much as me!”

“Seriously?” I say, arching an eyebrow.  “You want me to clean ninety pounds?”

“Ninety. Five.  Unless you think it’s too much for you.  Unless you’re chicken.”

I sigh and approach the bar.  I yank it off the floor one handed, cheat reverse curl it, and press it three times.

I can see her in the mirror.  Her hands are still on her hips, but her mouth is open in disbelief.

“Watch,” I say, after returning the weight to the ground.  “Check this out.”

I one-arm snatch the barbell.  I toss it up in the air, catch it with my other hand.

“Real hard.”  I set the bar down.  “Now I gotta finish warming up.”

She says nothing; just storms off.

I do the warmup set, then load the bar to 365.  I’m about to do a set of floor press with the barbell I have in front of the rack, when she returns, dragging a weight bench.

I watch, bemused, as she constructs an elaborate setup:  Under each of the three legs of the weight bench she sets three thirty-five pound plates.  Under the single leg at the foot of the bench, she adds a 45 lb bumper to the stack.  Now the whole thing is basically an elevated decline bench at a 12 degree angle.  It makes no sense.  Why would she work so hard to set this up?  The gym has decline benches.

She lays down on it, scoots her rear end to the highest portion, spreads her legs, and arches her back, presenting me with a great view of her spandex-clad ass.  Her pink sneakers are on the floor. She’s up on her toes; her calves flexed.

“I gotta ask,” I say, “what the hell you’re doing?  Why would you go through all that trouble to set up a bench exactly like that?”

“It’s biomechanically most efficient.” she says, glaring at me over her shoulder.

“Most efficient?  For what?”

“For you to fuck me.”  As she says this, she rolls down her shorts – and the black thong underneath, exposing her tight, firm glutes and shaved pussy lips.

“Are – are you serious?” I ask, looking around wildly.

“Come on,” she says, wiggling her rump at me.  “No one’s gonna notice.”

She has a point: The handful of women on the cardio machines are absorbed in the attached TV screens.  An elderly man is doing slow broomstick twists with his eyes closed in the dumbbell area.  The only other person on the fitness floor is some college kid standing by the preacher bench, flexing and grimacing at himself in the mirror.

“All right,” I say.  I get behind her, lower my Dri-Fit shorts and sweaty boxer briefs and push my swollen member inside of her.

She’s right – it is biomechanically efficient.  Her wet, warm, inviting pussy is tight.  Real tight.

“Oh my god,” she moans.  “Your cock – it’s just like you:  Short, thick, and – powerful.

“And hairy,” I add, as I pound away.  “And with an oversized head.”

She arches into extreme lumbar extension.

“Keep going,” she pants.  “Harder!  This is just a warmup!  Hip thrust!  Fire your glutes!”

Forty-five seconds of work output later, I reach my limit.  I am out of ATP and creatine-phospate.  I set an ejaculation PR inside of her, however.  Been doing some volume training.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“Give me a three to five minute rest period and I’ll be fully recovered,” I tell her.

Suddenly, a man’s voice says, “Karen?”

I freeze, still inside of her.

Both of us turn to see a thin goateed guy in his early forties, standing there, watching us.  I’ve seen him before at the gym.  He tried to talk to me about “paleo eating” in the locker room.  He wears Vibram barefoot shoes.  He brings his own sledgehammer to beat on tires.  He wears a Rogue T-shirt and does his curls with bumper plates on the bar.

“What are you doing, honey?”

“What does it look like?  It’s a partner mobility drill.  I’m showing him how to lengthen his piriformis.”

“Oh.  Well, I’m finished foam rolling.  When you’re done, I’ll be waiting by the smoothie bar.”

He walks off.

I ease my wilting cock out of her.  She gets off the bench and pulls her pants back up.

The women on the cardio machines are still ellipsing, completely oblivious.  The old guy is curling an 8 pound rubber dumbbell and watching C-SPAN.  The college kid is sitting on a bench, texting.

She picks up her water bottle and stalks off wordlessly.

“Wait,” I call out, “Karen!”

She turns.  “Yes?” she says, her tone cold, her face hard and expressionless.

“This isn’t a Crossfit gym.  You can’t just leave this bench like this.  You have to put away your weights.”

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10 thoughts on “Powerlifter vs. Crossfit – an "Erotic" short story

  1. this is the best, and at the same time most disturbing, blog post I’ve ever read. in the beginning, I was thinking you were just about to flex and show off, but now I don’t know what to think.

    pictures of her!

  2. @wo – yup, i ain’t worried that my mopes are derivative. He showed me the light.
    Also, the weight flinging scene was inspired by Chuck Voghepohl’s (sp) antics.

    re your lifts: you olympic guys with your FS 40 lbs away from your BS = Weird. I need to get ripped hip flexors like Rigert, I guess

    • My FS is close to my BS, even by Olympic standards… I attribute it to my build (short torso and long legs and femurs,) and also how much stronger my quads are than my P-chain. So, actually, it’s that my BS is weak, not that my FS is strong. Helps with the cleans, though.

      Derivative? Who cares. Quality and premise were good, and not actual plagiarism. Originality can come later.

    • This was not truly derivative. In Bionicle’s stories the protagonist never gets laid, or if he does then he also dies a horrible and meaningless death.

      Also Bromide would have made the point of how everyone who lifts is a secret phagghaut.

  3. Pingback: Stop Being So Nice | Coach's Blog

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