Somehow it seems like he’d be above average in looks, so you’d think he’d be popular, but given the nature of Pilates—where you have to wear body-revealing clothes throughout the workout and constantly hold embarrassing positions—it might feel burdensome in front of a handsome guy. 

Even the thickest-skinned auntie might not want to show her jiggling belly fat to an attractive man during daytime classes filled mostly with housewives.

Just look at me. How many weird thoughts did I have today?

I’m a freelancer with reversed day and night schedules, so I work out during this time instead of working, but I couldn’t be certain his classes would be unpopular during the evening slots around quitting time when young people flock in either.

* * *

Today’s class is just me alone.

One-on-one lessons become high-intensity workouts because he focuses entirely on me, leaving no room to slack off even for a moment. My legs will give out by the time I get home, but these days I only take this male instructor’s classes.

Paying for group class fees while getting the effect of one-on-one or one-on-two lessons makes him feel like my personal trainer. The excuse about cost-effectiveness sounds plausible, but truthfully, my real interest still lay in his touch.

As a fitness instructor, he freely pressed down on various parts of my body, pulled, and gripped my pelvis to show me the direction of movement. 

But for someone naughty like me, somehow his touch kept lingering all over my body, and I couldn’t stop imagining lewd things all day long—it happened more and more often.

“Sit sideways on the barrel. Support yourself by touching the front with your fingertips to maintain balance.”

I sat with my legs spread in a riding position on the tall equipment with its rounded top and leather cushion.

Today he wore a mask again, along with a somewhat long, loose sleeve t-shirt that covered the waist area of his leggings. Was it just my imagination, or did his firm chest muscles—barely visible yet not quite—stand out more today? 

I needed to consciously make an effort not to lower my gaze.

His bangs, either permed or naturally wavy, hung down to his eyebrows. Somehow I felt his face must be as gentle as his voice…

However, what stood out above the mask were his long, distinct eyes even without double eyelids. I often stole glances at his eyes through the mirror. He traced a line from my crotch to my knees.

“This movement has the effect of smoothing your inner thigh line. Hands on your waist, lengthen your spine from head to toe. We’ll lift the pelvis using the strength between your legs. Be careful not to lose your body’s center.”

I lifted my pelvis from the seated position with my inner thighs tightly squeezed. He suddenly thrust his fist under my crotch, which had risen slightly from the equipment.

“Squeeze more, more. Don’t let your b*tt sag. Imagine you’re holding something between your thighs. You can’t drop it, right?”

The mid-to-low voice right beside me stole all my attention. I did my best to hold myself up without collapsing onto his fist with its prominent knuckles.

“We’ll go straight into a variation. Hands behind your head, maintain your horseback position, and rotate your torso.”

Once I took the position, he pulled both my elbows outward. My chest opened wide.

“Back to center. This time, firmly engage your core, and just lengthen your torso line to bend sideways. Going down. Breathe in…”

“Hup!”

With my body bent to the side, he walked his fingers up my exposed side one by one, like taking steps. I was startled for a moment but quickly controlled my breathing to hide any moan.

“So the spaces between your ribs open up.”

Following his fingers walking past each bone, I slowly inhaled. The man’s languid voice seemed to pool inside my ribcage.

“Exhale until there’s no air left in your lungs. Hoooo…”

I exhaled at the same pace as him. The instructor wrapped his hands around both sides of my ribs below my chest and pressed firmly inward so no breath remained. My heart stirred slightly at the dull pressing force.

“Pelvis neutral. Articulate the spine to make a C-curve, then back to neutral, all the way to imprint.”

The barrel, being a large piece of equipment, spread my legs quite wide when I sat in riding position. I hunched my body and pushed my pelvis forward to create a slouched posture, then straightened my body again, pushing my chest out and pelvis back.

“A bit more duck b*tt.”

He gripped my pelvis on both sides and applied force with his hands to make my b*tt stick out more.

“C-curve again.”

Following his guiding touch through the movements, I suddenly felt a bit heated. Because every time I moved my pelvis, I felt the sensation of my lower area being pressed firmly against the equipment. My heart raced a little, worried he might notice.

He pushed my pelvis further inward while pulling my b*tt back, and pressed his palm firmly against my upper chest.

My pelvis and shoulders moved in opposite directions. My back arched like a bow, then slipped slightly, causing my br*ast under the instructor’s hand to jiggle briefly.

“Open your chest more. Pull your shoulder blades down. Your shoulders are raised.”

“Haah…!!”

I was startled while breathing. That sounded way too much like a moan. However, the instructor nonchalantly poked my b*tt with his thumb again.

“Your glutes need strengthening. You have weak thigh strength, so this position is difficult for you, but there’s no method other than repetition.”

While saying this, he covered my inner thigh with his palm and gripped it firmly. That spot burned hot.

“Ungh…!”

For a moment I worried my underwear might have gotten wet from the slight leaking sensation. Unaware of my inner state, the instructor tied a theraband to the barrel’s ladder and handed it to me.

“Clasp your hands in front of your solar plexus, and when you exhale, straighten your knees and push your heels back. More strength in your b*tt!”

His businesslike gaze lingered on my b*tt. My breathing quickened a bit, but it didn’t matter since he’d think it was because I was struggling.

“Flex your feet. Lower your ribs. Strength in your adductors and b*tt!”

My body wouldn’t obey.

“Hold the band in your left hand and extend so your toes and fingertips form a straight line.”

My arms and legs trembled. The instructor corrected the position of my fingertips. Then with his palm, he swept down along my extended arm, past my chest, down my side, thigh, all the way to my toes.

“Maintain the straight line. I think you can lean more.”

He stood in front of me and pressed my armpit and thigh in opposite directions. My body—no, my skin—felt stretched and pulled, but I endured the pain while staring at the arm muscles below his sleeves.

“Haah…”

I secretly released hot breaths little by little.

“Lie prone on the barrel, arms overhead, extend them longer.”

He demonstrated once on the empty equipment. While continuing through the sequence of movements, I just stared intently at the instructor’s face.

What does his face look like under the mask? How high is that nose bridge? His eye color is light. How can his eyes be so long? Is it because he doesn’t have double eyelids?

We made eye contact for quite a while. I was so entranced I didn’t even notice.

“Maam?”

“Yes?”

“You should be looking at my b*tt.”

“What?”

“Can you see the muscles moving?”

Only then did I hurriedly tear my gaze from his face and look at the instructor’s lower body.

“You need to be careful. You could fall.”

The instructor’s body taking the position effortlessly was attractive. His lean muscles stood out taut, making his lines even more defined. He poked the side of his b*tt. Just like when he poked mine.

“Here, this spot needs to have strength.”

He released the position and immediately approached me.

“Come up more. Your navel should touch.”

He grabbed both my hands as I lay prone on the half-tower-shaped equipment and slowly pulled. My body swayed for a moment since I had to maintain balance with my lower abdominal strength. Worried I might topple forward, he stepped between my arms.

“More, like you’re pulling your arms out.”

Yet he still dutifully demanded the movement. I had no choice—not because I wanted to, but truly had no choice—but to fix my gaze near his lower region. Because he’d fixed my head at that angle.

“Good position. One, two…”

Just as I was about to lower my arms after finishing the movement, the instructor who’d been between my arms moved aside, and his clothing brushed against my palm. And something blunt too.

I just flopped down with my limbs sprawled. I was tired, and my hands tingled. He laughed softly.

“Very tired?”

I mumbled vaguely. But at that moment, warm hands wrapped around my neck and began pressing firmly down the back of my neck to where it meets the spine.

“Did you know you have a straight neck, client?”

“Not turtle neck?”

While receiving his massage, I still mumbled with my head buried.

“Here, this area hurts a lot, right?”

“Ugh! Yes, it hurts.”

A sharp pain lingered where his thumb pressed and passed. And somewhere in my lower belly felt pressed too.

“When you sleep, it helps to roll up a towel, place it under your neck, and then use your pillow.”

“Ugh, it hurts so much.”

“You’re coming Friday too, right? Since we did lower body today, we should focus on upper body then. We need to loosen up your shoulders a lot too.”