Writing Exercise: weight bench

Another Roxy prompt, turned into borderline smut:
I wiped the sweat from my face and stared at the next stop in my PT routine.  Leg curls used to be so easy, before the surgery.  I tried to walk without limping, conscious that my therapist would see any small weakness.  I wasn’t at the top of my game today, and I knew it, but I didn’t want her to see it and decide that I had to back off and delay my progress.

Gritting my teeth, I strode with feigned confidence to the leg curl bench.  Belly down, heels in place, I began my reps.  One, two, three, four… happily, my hamstrings weren’t as sore as I’d expected and I fell into the rhythm of the exercise.  My mind wandered.  I felt good.

Her voice next to my ear startled me. “I think it’s time to raise the weight, you’re making this look too easy.”

She was crouched beside the bench, inches from my face, adding weight to the stack.  She caught me staring at her, narrowed her eyes a millimeter and stood up.  I closed my eyes and prepared for the next set, more than a little distracted.  The thoughts I was suddenly having needed to be pushed aside, quickly.  One, two, three …she smelled good today  … four, five, six… she always pushed me until I hurt and then more …seven, eight … my hams were starting to complain … nine, ten … don’t want to show weakness… eleven, twelve.. why was she standing so close to me?

I finished the set and let the stack down a bit harder than I should have.  I could practically hear her disapproving thoughts.  Turning my face toward the wall, I worked to steady my breathing.  I had one more set and at this weight, it was going to be a challenge.

“Alright, Jones, let’s get this over with.  I’ve got a big ice bag with your name on it.”

Inhale, exhale, begin.  One, two … groan… three, four… pushing myself harder, thigh muscles pulled hard and pressed my groin into the bench.  Oh god, not this.  I do not need this right now, can’t be distracted by that right now.. five, six .. again, my body mixed pleasure and pain, the pressure against my mound a counterpoint against the stress my legs were starting to feel.

Seven, eight … her hand was on my tailbone,”Don’t lift up, remember this is for your legs.”  The warmth and pressure of her palm hit like an electric surge and suddenly sweat wasn’t the only wet my body was producing … I groaned out loud, unable to stifle it and she gave an amused snort.  How could she know?  Or maybe she just thought it was the pain I was groaning about.

Nine, ten, eleven … on to the end of the set.  Bathed in sweat and red-faced for other reasons, I gingerly picked myself up to a seated position.  She stood in front of me, close, really close almost too close, she smelled so good, this isn’t right, I shouldn’t be thinking this way about her.

“Good job, Jones.” her hands on my shoulders, damn, had she ever touched me this much in the course of a session?  “Come on, let’s get you iced down.”

“There’s a lot of heat coming off you right now.”

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