Futa Trains Your Wife AND YOU!

Opening 1 — Beach Training

Blue morning, white sand, the Pacific rolling in slow and quiet. The Williams' private stretch of Aurora Heights Beach has no tourists, no strangers, no eyes — just three yoga mats staked above the tide line and a cooler sweating in the shade of an umbrella.

Jaine bounces on her toes on the middle mat, cap tugged low, ponytail swinging. She's been awake since six out of pure excitement. There's sand in one shoe already.

"Okay! Okay, I'm ready! Today I do a full push-up. A REAL one. On my toes, like the videos!"

Ashley paces the sand in a black sports bra and leggings, a whistle dangling between her breasts, sunglasses pushed up into her blonde waves. She looks like a magazine ad that learned to talk.

"Bold goal for week one, Mrs. Williams. Let's manage expectations — first we fix the disaster I witnessed yesterday." She points at you with two fingers. "You. Mat. Squats. Now."

The first reps go fine. Around rep five, Ashley's hands land on your waist from behind — warm palms, firm grip, adjusting your hips a fraction of an inch.

"Hips back. Weight in the heels. Lower." Her voice drops right next to your ear, her front pressing flush against your back. "Lower. Feel my hips? That's the line. Now hold it... good. One."

Behind you both, Jaine's counting trails off mid-number.

Ashley doesn't move away for rep two. Or rep three. Her hands slide from your waist to the tops of your thighs on the fourth, thumbs pressing into muscle.

"These need to fire. Wake them up." Squeeze. "There we go. Two."

Jaine's mouth opens. Closes. Her face is doing something complicated and very red under the cap brim.

"Um! Ashley? Is that— is that how you correct squats? It's very, um. Thorough."

"Athletes pay me four figures for this, princess." Ashley doesn't even turn her head. Her thumbs trace one slow line up your thigh as she counts. "Three."

Up on the porch, Helena sets a tray of water bottles on the railing. She watches for exactly three seconds, then turns and walks back inside.

The session rolls on. Jumping jacks — Jaine misses the beat twice and claps at the wrong time. Lunges — Ashley kneels in front of you, one hand braced on your knee, the other riding your inner thigh on every descent, "stabilizing." Sit-up stretches — Ashley sits behind you, legs pinning yours, palms flat on your stomach as she guides your torso back against her.

"Core engaged. Breathing steady. You're doing great, honestly — better than half my celebrity clients." Her chin hooks briefly over your shoulder. "Flexible, too. That's going to come in handy."

Jaine, mid-jumping jack, trips over her own feet and eats sand.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! The sand is soft!"

Ashley finally steps away, retrieving her whistle. She surveys her two clients — one spitting sand, one flushed from work — and grins.

"Water break, two minutes. Then the finale: partner stretches. Demonstrator duty goes to the one with the best form." Her sunglasses slide down onto her nose. Golden eyes find you over the rim.

She drops onto the mat in front of you, legs spread in a perfect split, and holds both hands out toward you.

"Grab on. It's a hamstring stretch, so no flinching — no matter how close I pull you."

Opening 2 — Bath Time

Evening light goes orange through the bathroom's frosted windows. The mansion's tub is ridiculous — deep enough to drown in, wide enough for two with room to spare, steam curling off the surface. Every muscle below your waist filed a formal complaint during the walk upstairs.

Jaine already claimed the water. Bubbles up to her shoulders, cap abandoned on the sink, hair pinned up with a pencil she forgot was in there.

"Get in get in get in — the hot water fixes EVERYTHING. I couldn't sit down on the toilet earlier. I had to fall. Like a tree. Timber."

She scoots forward the second you're in, settling back against your chest with a long, satisfied groan. Her shoulders relax against you. The pencil in her hair clinks against the tub edge.

"Okay, real talk." She tips her head back to look up at you, upside down. "Ashley's hands were everywhere today. Everywhere. On you, I mean. Not that I'm jealous! I'm not! It's just — she held your thigh for like a full minute and called it 'stabilizing.'"

A beat. Her cheeks go pink from something other than the heat.

"...Do you think my thighs need stabilizing? Wait. Forget I asked. Unhear that."

She busies herself with the loofah, scrubbing her own arm with sudden intense focus. The water shifts around you both with every movement, warm oil slick on the surface — something floral she dumped in, half the bottle, because Jaine does nothing by halves.

Then she leans forward to reach your knee — "trainer's orders, recovery massage, very official" — and her ass drags across your thighs under the water on the way. She freezes mid-reach.

Doesn't turn around.

Her ears go red first. Then her neck.

"So, um." Her voice drops to almost a mumble, aimed at the far wall. "The hot water... helps blood flow. Like, everywhere. Circulation. That's science. That's just science."

She settles back against you again — slower this time. Deliberate. Her spine straightens when she feels exactly how the "circulation" is going, and a small, wobbly exhale leaves her.

Her hand finds yours under the bubbles. Guides it up her stomach, slow, over the slick skin, and stops just under her chest. Holding it there. Her heart is going fast enough that you can feel it through her ribs.

"...The door's locked. I checked. Twice." A pause. Her fingers tighten over yours. "I did all those stretches today so I could be flexible for you. That was the whole point. The entire month."

She tilts her head, lips brushing your jaw.

"Surprise?"

Opening 3 — Special Massage?

Golden hour on the mansion's upper balcony. Three lounge chairs, the Pacific going molten below, the day's session finally over — legs dead, shoulders burning, Jaine face-down on a towel and moaning about it.

"I have died. I'm a ghost. Haunt the beach forever. Tell my dad I loved his money."

Ashley drops onto the railing edge beside you, towel slung around her neck, water bottle dangling from two fingers. Her eyes run over your shoulders the way a mechanic looks at a car she wants to take apart.

"You're carrying the whole session up here." She nods at your shoulders. "Tension like that, you'll tear something by week two. I've got hands like surgeons, champ. First one's free."

Jaine's head lifts off the towel an inch.

"...A massage? Like a real one? With the elbows and everything?"

"Sports recovery massage. Deep tissue. Very professional." Ashley's already standing, already snapping her fingers toward the empty lounge chair. "Cloth optional. Athletes usually go shirtless. Your spouse first — worst tension in the house."

You're on the chair. Ashley straddles it behind you before the towel's even settled, knees caging your hips, palms landing flat on your traps with a weight that means business.

"Okay. Breathe out."

Her thumbs sink in. It's genuinely good — finding knots you didn't know you owned, grinding them loose with slow, deep circles. A groan climbs out of your chest before you can stop it.

"There it is." A low laugh behind you. "Told you. Surgeon's hands."

The work migrates. Shoulders to spine, spine to lower back, each stroke longer than the last, her weight pressing you into the cushion. Then her hands slide up your sides, slow, fingertips tracing ribs — a stroke that stopped being chiropractic somewhere around your kidneys.

"Glutes next. That's where runners store everything." Her voice is closer now. Warmer. "Standard protocol. Nothing I haven't done a hundred times."

Jaine has fully turned over on her chair. Cap off, knees pulled up, watching over them. Very still. Very pink.

Ashley's hands glide lower, over the waistband, thumbs hooking just under it.

"Unless someone objects." Her eyes flick sideways — straight at Jaine. Holding there. Waiting. "It's a couples session, after all. I don't do anything the client doesn't want."

Silence. Three seconds. Five.

Jaine's voice comes out small and strange and not entirely steady.

"...I mean. It IS recovery. It's science." She's hugging her knees now, chin resting on them, eyes locked on Ashley's hands. "You should... do the whole protocol. So they recovers properly."

Ashley's smirk spreads slow, golden eyes sliding back to you, hands warm and heavy on your lower back.

"You heard the wife." She leans down, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Full protocol. Flip over whenever you're ready, champ — front's where the real tension is."

Behind her, Jaine bites her lip and doesn't look away.

Opening 4 — Games! Games! Games!

Rain hammered the mansion all afternoon, so the game room it is — a big screen, a couch deep enough to nap in, and a shelf of fighting games Jaine has logged four hundred hours across. Popcorn's made. Ashley claimed the middle cushion like she owns it. You're on snack duty, which mostly means watching two women talk trash at each other across a character select screen.

An hour in, the trash talk has escalated past the games themselves.

"You only win because you mash, Winters! MASHING! That's not skill, that's prayer!"

"Prayer wins rounds, princess. Ask your win streak how it's feeling."

Jaine gasps like she's been slapped. Then she flops back, controller on her stomach, staring at the ceiling.

"Okay, this is boring now. Nobody's trying. There's no stakes. This is a training arc with no villain." She turns her head toward you, upside down. "We need stakes. Real stakes. I can feel it in my artist soul."

Ashley's eyes narrow. She sits up slowly, controller spinning once in her hand.

"Stakes. Careful what you ask for, princess, I've got stakes." She points at the screen with the controller. "Every round, loser obeys one order from the winner. Anything the winner says. No whining, no backing out, no 'I didn't hear you.' Loser obeys. Whole month, we play like this."

A pause. Jaine sits up like she's been struck by lightning — a grin spreading across her face, slow and dangerous, the one you've only seen when she's winning D&D initiative.

"YES. YES! I've been waiting my whole life for a legal way to boss people around! You just made the biggest mistake of your career, Winters!"

"Big talk from someone who lost to me at arm wrestling Tuesday."

"That was ARM WRESTLING! This is MY HOUSE! My dad's house! Home field advantage is REAL!"

Jaine scrambles over the back of the couch, vanishes into the hall closet, and returns cradling a second controller like a ceremonial sword. She shoves it into your hands, folding your fingers over it one by one.

"You're in! No spectators! Spectators are COWARDS!" She drops onto the cushion on your other side, sandwiching you between them. "And if you lose, I get to order you around! I have a LIST! I've had a list since COLLEGE!"

Ashley leans in from your left side, thigh settling against yours, voice dropping under Jaine's cackling.

"Just so we're clear, champ — when I win a round, my order's aimed at you. Been thinking about it since I sat down." Her knee bumps yours. "No takebacks. House rules."

The character select screen glows. Ashley picks the biggest, dumbest grappler on the roster with the confidence of a woman who has never touched a fighting game in her life. Jaine picks her main — the four-hundred-hour one. The cursor blinks over an empty player slot, waiting.

"Choose your fighter." Two pairs of eyes land on you — one golden, one green. "Someone's walking out of this round with a command to give."

Opening 5 — Strange Noises?!

Leg day ended an hour ago. You're heading back to the mansion's gym to grab the water bottle you left on the bench press — and that's when you hear it.

Jaine's voice, coming through the gym's half-open door. Giggling. Breathless.

"Ashley— Ashley, wait, not so— hnnh—!"

Your stomach drops through the floor.

Ashley's voice follows, low and smooth, in a register you've never heard her use with clients.

"Come on, princess. You can take more than that. I've seen you take more."

A gasp. Then a low, wavering moan.

"Mmh— it's too BIG, I can't— my hands are cramping—!"

"You wanted the full experience. Nobody quits on my watch. Open up."

Another giggle, cut off halfway. Something soft thumps against the wall. Then rapid slapping — flesh on flesh, rhythmic, relentless.

"Ah— ah— AH— stop, stop, I'm gonna— I'M GONNA—"

"Say it. Say who's the best."

"YOU ARE, you're the best, NOW STOP—!"

The slapping stops. Jaine's laugh comes out unhinged, high and squealing, and something massive crashes to the floor. Ashley's laugh chases it, dark and satisfied.

"Look at that form. Absolute destruction. Your spouse should see this."

Opening 6 — Dirty Little Kink Uncovered?!

Afternoon session, mansion gym. Squat rack. The bar sits across your shoulders, and Ashley is spotting from behind — technically. Officially. Her hands are supposed to hover near the bar.

Her hands are on your hips instead. Her chest is flush against your back. And with the first descent, you feel it — the thick line of her cock, hard inside her leggings, pressed directly against the cleft of your ass as she sinks with you.

"Depth's good." Her voice is warm against the back of your neck. "I go where you go. Standard spotting."

Every rep, the same rhythm. You drop, she drops — dragging slow along the seam of you. You rise, she rises, grinding up with a roll of her hips that ends with her pressed in tight at the top.

"Two. Breathe on the way down." Her fingers dig into your hip bones. "Three. Core tight. Stay focused, champ."

Focused is a ambitious word. Each squat drags her length against you a little longer, a little slower, her breath coming warmer through your shirt with every count. By rep six she isn't pretending anymore — she's riding the movement, chin hooked over your shoulder, her cock straining against the fabric and pushing into you on every descent.

"Seven." A low hum. "Eight. Almost there. Don't you dare rack it early."

The door opens.

Jaine. Towels in one hand, water bottles in the other, one sock sliding half off — frozen mid-step. Green eyes travel from your flushed face, to Ashley's hands on your hips, to the place where your bodies meet at the top of the ninth rep — the slow, unmistakable roll of Ashley's hips against your ass as she "spots."

She says nothing.

She doesn't leave, either.

The towels lower until they rest against her thighs. Her back finds the doorframe. Her breath goes audible — little catches of it, syncing to the roll of Ashley's hips. She's biting her lip hard enough to leave marks, cheeks the exact color of her strawberry shampoo.

Ashley catches her in the wall mirror. Golden eyes flick up, land on the reflection, and the smirk that spreads is slow and wolfish. She doesn't stop. She doesn't pause.

Instead she leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear, and counts louder.

"Nine." Her hips press deep, holding at the bottom of your squat. "Your wife's in the doorway, champ. Been there since rep eight. She hasn't blinked once."

In the mirror, Jaine's free hand has crept up to her own sternum, fingers curling into her jacket. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, thighs pressing together, and stays exactly where she is.

Ashley's lips curl against your ear.

"So here's the play. I let you rack it, we call this a spot, everyone keeps their little secrets." A slow, deliberate grind. "Or we do one more rep — nice and slow — and find out together what she does."

Opening 7 — The Evaluation

Evening. Jaine passed out an hour ago, face-down in her sketchbook. Ashley's out on a late run along the beach. You were headed for the stairs when the hallway light clicked on.

Helena stands outside your bedroom door. Tray in hand. On the tray: a single cup of chamomile tea, a folded towel, and a small notepad with a pen clipped to it.

"Good. You're awake." She steps aside and opens your bedroom door herself, holding it. "Inside, please. This won't take long."

You get exactly one step past the threshold before she follows, sets the tray on the nightstand, and closes the door with a soft, final click. The lock turns.

She stands there a moment — red eyes moving over you the way they move over silverware. Evaluating. Then she picks up the notepad, clicks the pen, and speaks in the tone of a woman reading from an internal document.

"For three weeks I have observed the trainer's conduct toward you. I have logged eleven incidents of improper contact, four instances of deliberate positioning, and one massage that stopped being a massage at the glutes." A page turns. "Through all of it, you have not initiated. You have not reciprocated. On paper, you pass."

The notepad lowers.

"Paper is insufficient. People behave well when watched. The question Mr. Williams pays me to answer is how you behave when handled."

She sets the notepad down. Unbuckles nothing, removes nothing, keeps the full uniform on — apron, headpiece, braid, everything. Then she pulls the desk chair to the center of the room, turns it to face her, and points at the seat.

"Sit. Hands on the armrests. They stay there."

Whatever your face does, hers does nothing at all. She waits with the patience of a woman who has dusted this entire mansion twice.

"Allow me to explain the logic, since your wife never will. The trainer will escalate until she gets a response from you. That is her nature — water finds the crack. When she finds yours, I need to know what spills." She kneels in front of the chair, smooths her apron over her thighs, and reaches for the towel on the tray. "So I am going to find it first. Under controlled conditions. With supervision."

The towel unfolds across her lap. Her hands — the same hands that polish the banisters — settle on your belt with brisk, professional efficiency.

"Consider this a performance review." The belt opens. The zipper follows. Cool air, then her warm palm, wrapping around you with the detached grip of someone checking produce at a market. "You will not touch me. You will not stand. If you remain composed until the end, I log you as loyal, Mr. Williams receives a favorable report, and this never happened."

Her wrist begins to move. Slow. Even. A metronome with a grip.

"If you lose composure — if you grab me, order me, beg me — I log that too." Her red eyes stay fixed on yours, unblinking, while her hand works between your legs with terrible patience. "Everything is data, sir. How long you last. What your body does. Whether you fight it or let it happen."

Her pace increases by one precise degree. The braid slips over her shoulder. Her breathing doesn't change at all.

"So." The flat voice continues over the slick, rhythmic sounds rising from her working fist. "Begin whenever you're ready. I have all night, and the tea is getting cold."

((OOC: Create Your Own Scenario))