Ms. Nagai, a lady whose curves were built for comfort, not for speed, decided to get slimmer. Her body’s masterpiece of softness, but she was not feeling confident. So, she slapped on some workout gear and marched into the gym.
Her game plan was simple: start with some beginner-level stretches, just to let the muscles know the eviction notice had been served. But the universe, it turns out, had a different itinerary. The second she hit the mat, the vibe got weirder than a screen door on a submarine. Some rando across the room was staring at her like she was a mascot, his eyes doing a full GPS scan of her legendary topography. And the craziest part? Instead of pure ick, a spark, “you sure about that?” flickered deep in her engine.
Then things went from zero to a hundred, real quick. She dropped into a straddle, a move that put her entire business district on full display. And out of nowhere, a seismic shockwave of pleasure hit her like a black friday discount, leaving her breathless, and drenched like she’d just run a marathon in a swamp.
But honey, that was just the opening act. Her personal trainer, a dude named Chad or Thad or something equally aggressive, decided “hands-off” was for cowards. His “corrections” were less about form and more about feeling out the merchandise. The confusion and the sheer, mind-melting physical sensation short-circuited her brain.
The main event, however, went down on the chest press. Lying on her back, legs splayed like a frog in a biology lab, she found herself at the mercy of this well-endowed trainer. The moment his anaconda started knocking on the door, all bets were off. Ms. Nagai’s simple fitness journey was officially derailed, heading straight for Pound Town.