Gym It hurts like hell, why are we going to fool ourselves? Go up and down. It seems easy, just up and down. Very simple

Gym It hurts like hell, why are we going to fool ourselves? Go up and down. It seems easy, just up and down. Very simple, come on. But when you go for the second repetition, things change. Oh girl, things suddenly change there. The dumbbell seems to weigh twice as much. The biceps seem to crack and you begin to sweat excessively. Over and over again, up and down, up and down. You notice how your entire body increases in temperature, sitting as you are on the bench, one hand resting on your knee, the other holding the dumbbell firmly, elbow resting on your knee, body as relaxed as possible, feeling how your entire arm seems to disengage from the effort. The sweatpants become damp in the crotch, the top begins to drip trails of sweat down the sides, unable to absorb any more fluids. The channel between your tits looks like a swamp, your back seems smeared with oil, your face feels soaked, your hair matted, your ponytail limp. You want to stop, you tell yourself that enough is enough, that nothing compensates for so much suffering, that you already look beautiful like this, with that pert butt and tits carved in stone, the abdomen firm as a board, the thighs as strong as trees, the shoulders rounded and haughty. Enough is enough, you tell yourself, enough is enough. But you can't stop, girl, you can't, that's what's fucked up. Because, even if it's hard to recognize it, even if you don't know the reason, even if you doubt it's useful for anything... still despite everything, you like it. You like to suffer, yes. Crushing your body in the gym, smelling of young sweat everywhere, getting hot with all those bodies chiseled in marble, those prominent muscles, those atomic asses, everything enthralls you and traps you. It drives you and urges you to continue. To continue. Hit it hard, Verónica, hit it harder, damn it, one more, not to mention, another, just another, damn it, come on, another one, you can do it. And when you finish the repetition you feel dead, screwed, rickety, giddy. Your head is spinning, your eyes are spinning, your ears are ringing and that sea of sweat hits you and envelops you and impregnates you all over. Then you move on to another device, another torture. Sweet torture. You go submissively, hoping not to suffer so much, not to get so tired. But reverse crunches are your food, they are your life. As you feel your belly tighten and your sides tighten, you smile. Yes, you smile. You smile like an animal, a cornered, furious, irrational animal. You attack, bite, scratch, spit, scream, tear, impale. Anything. A thousand violent things come to mind, each one wilder than the last. You notice your abs one step away from the final explosion, from the climax of your tearing. But you continue. Damn, of course you continue, of course you do. Kill, yes, kill, gloat in death. What a horrible and sweet idea. And then another device. And another. And another. You don't end up dead. It's worse. Your whole body moans and cries for a rest, a place to let yourself fall, where to die at ease. But you smile. Wow, if you smile, damn it, you smile triumphantly because you have achieved it, because you have reached the end, because you have not allowed yourself to be overwhelmed by drowsiness, laziness, indolence. You were a fucking winner. Yes ma'am. A winner. All for you, for no one else. Everybody go fuck themselves, damn it. You walk with the towel over your shoulders towards the locker room, like a champion, feeling your legs falter with every step, your heart beating with every beat. The throat drier than a stone. Hotter than a summer day in the sun. And the sweat. The sweat envelops you completely. You notice every millimeter of your body covered in that divine fluid. It excites you to feel wet with your own sweat, running through every nook and cranny of your anatomy, of your entire anatomy. Your armpits look like fountains, your sex looks like a fountain, your forehead and your temples look like a geyser. You take one last look at the rest of the fighters before going into the locker room. Clang, clang, the weights sound as they collide with each other. Sniffles, moans, whispers of encouragement, insults, boasts. Sweat seems to flow from everywhere, even from the machines, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Sweat, heat. Here you come to win. To win over yourself, to see your body suffer, to beg for mercy and spit on your weakness. To win, yes. We don't want losers. Go away, cowards. You take refuge in the locker room. Safe from the steel of the machines that moan and scream in ecstasy from contemplating so much power. You sigh and clutch your head. You open your locker. You take out your ponytail and shake your soaked hair. You take off your top and pants. You take off your thong. All wet, rolled up. All your clothes are soaked. You grab a clean towel, some flip flops, shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, soap and a sponge. Some clean panties and a bra. You walk to the showers and open the door to an empty one. Next door there are other women showering. Some whistle, some sing, some hum. Having tortured the body in unspeakable and unattainable ways makes you different. You don't mind doing what you wouldn't do at home in a strange place, without fear of what they will say, what they will think, what they will imagine. You have triumphed, you have won, you deserve to be who you really are. You turn on the tap and wait for the water to cool down. You enter between clouds of steam and unreality. The water washes away all the impurities, all your skin shines, all your curves spread beyond your senses. You spread the gel sponge well and rub it all over your body. Your tits are solid rocks that stand erect against the passage of the sponge, your nipples are proud props. You notice a timid call from the vulva. You ignore her. The heat of the water weakens you and makes you drowsy. You pass the sponge all over your body. Your shoulders, your armpits, your belly, your back, your tailbone, your sex, your ass. You open your legs to insert the sponge well inside the slit of the pussy and between the buttocks. There should be no trace of impurities left. You notice the heat rising through your vagina. You ignore it but the damn pleasure expands, comforts you and takes over your belly. Increasingly. You look towards the door and take comfort in knowing that a latch separates your nakedness from the rest of the women. You rub the sponge on the tight thighs, on the knees, on the legs. You lift one leg and gently insert the folds of the sponge between your toes. You lean against a tiled wall, enveloped in the hot, unbearably hot water. Thick water, flowing like caresses over your naked skin. You sigh and tell yourself that it can't be, that it's not here. But the heat is hellish in your pussy. You finish with the foot and lift the other leg. You hold the sponge on your thigh, brushing against the trimmed hair of your pussy. You snort with your libido on fire, ready to explode. No, damn it, no, you tell yourself. Not here, damn it. You continue with your knee, but the sponge returns to your pussy, now scrubbing the entire pubis without hints, delving into your most intimate, most fleeting, most hidden areas. You rub and rub. You bite your bottom lip and turn your head back to the door latch. It's the only obstacle between your crazy way of rubbing your pussy and reality. Fucking reality. Now you only feel how the burning corrodes your insides, how your clitoris cries out for mercy, how your heart pumps tirelessly, prepared for a new test. You throw away the sponge and use your fingers to rub your pussy. You feel how your insides liquefy and dissolve as your belly convulses and stiffens, asking for more. He wants more, you want more, your pussy wants more. You continue with your leg raised and the fingers of your hand work to unravel all your hidden interior. You moan, unable to withstand the burst of pleasures that flow from your pussy, that make your buttocks vibrate, that make you bend your back, that make your tits throb. You close your eyes and let the tide of sensations catch you hopelessly, with no possibility of escape. The water floods your few reluctances, washing them away like impurities. You sink two fingers into your vagina, rub your clitoral hood with your thumb. The pleasure forces you to open your mouth and slurp up the molten magma flowing from the shower. Your pussy gives you spasms of uncontrollable pleasure. You moan louder, clenching your teeth, feeling them chattering. Faster, faster, you tell yourself, penetrating yourself with greater fierceness, with greater depth. Your pussy is going to explode, your senses are going to explode, your heart is going to break in two. The orgasm hits you like a huge sledgehammer on your pussy. You scream, feeling the hot water penetrate your mouth. The shocks make you twist like a snapping rope, its filaments cutting through the air. You gasp and scream, feeling yourself faint. The leg that holds you up refuses to support you any longer. You support the other one, the one you had up, and maintain a kind of deceptive balance. You breathe furiously under the hot water. You open your eyes. Sparks of colors dance before you. You gasp uncontrollably. You smile. Yes, you smile, champion. Holy shit, what a cumshot. Fuck. You catch your breath. You spread the gel sponge again. You clean yourself thoroughly. Again, the whole body. You feel your pussy throb as you rub it, removing the dirt from your orgasm. You sigh with ease. It has been spectacular, of course. You soap your hair. You rub the scalp well. You rub your hair. You clarify. Again. Now a lot more foam is coming out of your hair. You clarify. Then the conditioner. Your hair shines clean and shiny as you run your fingers through it. You cover yourself with the towel. You put on your flip flops. You dry yourself thoroughly, insisting on your hair, on your back, between your breasts, between your buttocks, on your hot pussy. You put on your bra and put on your panties. You get out of the shower and head towards your locker. You notice their averted glances. Smiles, frowns, murmurs. All women know about you, your pussy and your orgasm in the shower. Fuck them. Gines Linares gines.linares@gmail.com http://gineslinares.blogspot.com