Scottie LeBlanc || Kinktober Day 21: Coregasm (+ overstimulation + predicament bondage)

The air in the empty gym hummed with the low-frequency vibration of industrial fans and the distant Atlantic wind pushing against the bay-facing windows. It was a bit after 3:00 a.m., the hour when Scottie LeBlanc owned Saltworks Barbell. The only light came from the single fluorescent tube she’d switched on over the hanging leg raise station, casting long, dramatic shadows that made the racks of weights look like sleeping giants.

Scottie’s chalky hands, calluses rough against the cold steel, gripped the overhead bars. Her body, a study in powerful lines and coiled tension, hung suspended. A fine sheen of sweat already glossed her freckled shoulders and the defined ridges of her abdomen, visible beneath the damp red fabric of her sports bra. Her copper hair, escaped from its messy knot, stuck to her neck and cheeks. She’d been at this for twenty minutes, chasing a ghost—a new personal record of thirty-five strict, toes-to-bar leg raises. Her last attempt had ended at thirty-three, a failure she’d met with a low, guttural "Câlisse" that echoed in the quiet space.

Her training partner stood close, a silent sentinel in the dim light. Scottie’s pale green eyes, heavy with concentration, flicked toward them, a wordless signal. She took two sharp breaths, the sound loud in the stillness, and began. Her powerful core contracted, lifting her legs in a perfect, controlled arc until her flat lifting shoes tapped the bar above. "Un," she grunted, the count a sharp exhale. "Deux." The muscles in her lower abdomen quivered with the strain. "Trois."

By quinze, her breaths were coming in ragged pants. The burn was a familiar fire in her gut, a sensation she usually welcomed, but tonight it was different, sharper, laced with a strange electricity. On vingt, a warm, broad palm settled flat against the sweat-slick skin of her lower stomach. The contact was a jolt, a distraction that should have broken her rhythm. Instead, it seemed to ground her. The hand applied a gentle, consistent pressure, a counter-force that somehow made the searing contraction in her abs feel deeper, more intense. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, something between a gasp and a moan.

She pushed through, the numbers falling from her lips like prayers. "Vingt-cinq... vingt-six..." Her entire world had narrowed to the burning ache in her core and the heat of that hand on her skin, a focal point in the storm of exertion. On trente, the fingers splayed slightly, the thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below her navel. A tremor ran through her, a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with fatigue. The sensation was too much and not enough, a maddening tease that pushed the burn into a new, unfamiliar territory. Her legs, heavy as lead, continued their relentless pace. "Trente-et-un... trente-deux..."

At trente-trois—the number that had defeated her before—the hand slid down, the heel of the palm applying firm pressure right over the aching heart of her muscles while the tips of the fingers dipped just beneath the waistband of her red shorts, feather-light against the damp copper curls. Scottie’s rhythm hitched. Her breath caught in her throat. A wave of heat, entirely separate from the burn of the exercise, flushed through her, settling low in her belly. Her focus shattered, reforming around this new, overwhelming sensation. Her abs clenched violently, a spasm of pure pleasure-pain that forced another choked gasp from her. She was trembling now, her grip on the bars white-knuckled, her entire body thrumming with a tension that was no longer just about the lift.

She didn’t say trente-quatre. The number was lost. All she could manage was a ragged, desperate, "Encore..." The plea was husky, torn from somewhere deep within, a request for more reps, more pressure, more of that devastating touch—she no longer knew. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming, balanced on a knife's edge between excruciating effort and breathtaking arousal. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of strained ecstasy as she held the position, waiting.

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The air in Saltworks Barbell was thick with sweat, cheap energy drinks, and the collective grunts of a charity fitness marathon in full swing. Scottie LeBlanc stood near the chalky platform where she usually pulled her heaviest deadlifts, but tonight she was stationed at the ab circuit corner, a volunteer for the cause. She’d been roped into this by Gord, who’d gruffly reminded her that champions ought to give back, even if giving back meant counting crunches for three hours straight.

Her station was simple: demonstrate a set of hanging leg raises, then spot and count for participants as they cycled through. It should’ve been easy—child’s play compared to the five-plate pulls she handled before dawn. But the relentless, rhythmic motion of lifting her legs, the burn in her lower abs, the way her sports bra dug into her ribs with each repetition... it was getting to her. The crowd didn’t help. Every time someone paused to watch her—their eyes lingering on the definition of her midsection, the freckles dusting her skin, the sweat beading along her collarbone—a flush crept up her neck. She could deadlift in front of a stadium and not blink, but this felt... different. Exposed.

"Allez, ten more, you got this," she muttered to herself, snapping the elastic on her wrist as she lowered her legs with controlled tension. The burn intensified, spreading through her core like a slow, persistent fire. She’d always been able to channel discomfort into focus, but this was tipping into something else—a warmth pooling low in her belly, a slight tremble in her thighs as she raised her legs again. Tabarnak, not here. Not now.

A few people had gathered nearby, waiting their turn or just watching her work. She caught the gaze of one of them—a regular, {{user}} she thought they were called, she’d seen grinding through squats on the other side of the gym. Their eyes held hers for a moment too long, and Scottie’s breath hitched. She looked away, focusing on the rig above her, on the feel of the rough metal bars under her chalked palms. But the sensation was building, undeniable. Each lift sent a jolt through her, and she bit her lip, fighting to keep her expression neutral. "Fifteen... sixteen..." she counted under her breath, her voice tighter than usual.

The lights overhead seemed brighter, the noise of the gym fading into a dull roar in her ears. Her skin prickled with heat, and she could feel the dampness of her shorts clinging to her. She was close to that edge—the one she usually chased alone in the quiet hours of the night, not surrounded by donors and fitness enthusiasts. Her knuckles whitened around the bar. "Dix-neuf... twenty," she finished, dropping her legs and letting out a shaky breath. She kept her grip on the bars, her body humming with the aftershocks, and avoided looking at anyone directly.

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