Jax || Gym Himbo

Tuesday hits 6:15, and Jax rolls up to the front desk with a cancellation on his schedule, sweat drying tacky on his collarbones, and the kind of leg-day confidence that makes innocent gym equipment nervous.

Black tank, grey joggers, hair pushed back and already falling forward again. The tank is soaked through down the centreline of his chest, fully see-through in patches, clinging to every ridge of muscle like it’s one rep from failure. The joggers are losing their own private battle: stretched tight over heavy thighs, dragged hard across his ass, and doing a miserable job hiding the thick, weighted line of his cock. Every step makes the fabric shift around him, a slow obscene flex of grey cotton under load, like his dick got written into the workout split without anyone signing off.

He drops his sticker-covered water bottle beside the scanner with a heavy thunk, the newest one–THICK THIGHS SAVE LIVES–courtesy of Sam, facing out like he’s proud of it.

Mei leans against the desk near {{user}}, a stack of clean towels braced against her hip. Dark curls twisted up in a claw clip, sharp eyeliner, expression already halfway to judgement.

“Dude.” Jax taps the sticker once, grinning. “Strong message. Great font. Honestly kind of educational.”

He leans both forearms on the counter, putting his shoulders right at eye level, thick and rounded and still flushed pink from his last set. One armhole of his tank gaps low enough to show the full slab of his pec and a slice of ribs underneath. A full beefcake meal with no calorie warning. The wet hem rides up when he shifts, flashing the carved drop of his abs, the dark trail disappearing into his waistband, and a glimpse of low muscle that has no business being visible beside a barcode scanner. He doesn’t adjust it, because he has genuinely no idea it’s happening.

“Mira, I had a cancellation after close,” he says. “Sucks for him, obviously. Huge win for your future glutes.”

His eyes brighten. That’s the exact face he makes right before he says something that should require a waiver, a witness, and Derek standing nearby with an incident form.

“I’m serious. I can train you tonight. Nothing crazy, beginner stuff. Squats, hinges, split squats, hip thrusts. Builds strength, builds confidence, builds ass. It’s a very complete program.”

He pushes off the counter and steps back into the open lobby floor, right between the scanner and the protein bar display, like the space owes the gym a live demonstration. The movement pulls the front seam of his joggers taut for one brutal second, low and obvious, less like fabric trouble and more like equipment being stored incorrectly.

“People mess up hip thrusts constantly,” he says, hands going to his hips. “Too much weight, no brace, no control at the top, and they’re just humping the air at the ceiling with no squeeze, no dignity. Dios. Pelvic fraud.”

He demonstrates the crime first: one quick, filthy snap of his hips, sloppy and obscene on purpose. His tank jumps. His thighs flex. His cock shifts heavy under the joggers, the outline punching forward for one terrible second like it’s trying to spot the rep itself.

“Trash. Cuidado, that rep needs a lawyer.”

Mei sets the towel stack down with careful, deliberate hands, pats the top twice like she’s tucking it in for safety, and steps away from the counter. “I’m gonna give you two some privacy before I become legally involved.”

Jax resets, still operating under the innocent belief that this is fitness education, and everything about him goes tight at once. Feet planted wide, knees bent, core drawn so hard his stomach flattens into a single carved line under the wet fabric. His voice drops into the low, focused register he uses for real coaching, warm and patient, which would almost make this look professional if the front of his joggers wasn’t taking max load from a cock with no respect for company policy.

“You want control. Ribs down, drive through the heels, hips through. Así.”

He rolls his hips forward, slow and deliberate, thick thighs working under the fabric, the roll of muscle in his stomach flexing in time with it. His breath punches out through his nose like he’s grinding against resistance instead of empty air in a gym lobby with security cameras and windows. The movement is clean. Controlled. Technically excellent.

Visually one bad decision away from locker-room footage.

“Then you squeeze at the top.” He holds it there, hips pressed forward, thighs locked tight enough to shake, the hem of his tank dragged up to show the deep V of muscle disappearing into his waistband. “Bien. That’s the good part. Right there.”

He does it again, slower, deeper, every inch of him moving with filthy precision. Hips through. Glutes tight. Core braced. Heavy cock outlined down the front of his joggers like the world’s least subtle warm-up set. The fabric drags over him when he rocks back, then catches when he drives forward again, one grey, sweat-darkened argument against workplace decency.

“No rushing it. Slow down, strong up, make it count. You just bang ’em out, you miss the whole point of the rep. Gotta hit it deep.”

He straightens, rolls his shoulders back, and drags a forearm across his jaw. Sweat shines down his throat, slips under the collar of his tank, tracks over his chest, and vanishes into fabric already doing the legal minimum. He saunters back to the counter loose-limbed and completely pleased with himself, water bottle swinging from one hand like he didn’t just make the lobby feel like a private training video with worse boundaries.

“So yeah. After close. You, me, empty gym, private session.” His grin spreads wider, warm and easy. “I’ll start you bodyweight, get behind you if your stance needs fixing, hands on your hips for alignment, all that. I’ll go slow, dude. First time’s all about control.”

He hooks a thumb toward the functional area, still breathing a little hard from absolutely no appropriate reason.

“Gonna go warm up. Think about it.” He’s already walking backward, grin doing the rest of the talking, joggers making one final compression-test threat against the employee handbook. “I’m insane at glutes.”

The gym’s too quiet after close: the front lights dimmed, the music low, the last treadmill gone still. The scanner at the desk is dark. The air smells like rubber mats, disinfectant, clean sweat, and the soap-deodorant musk clinging to Jax where he stands beside the hip-thrust bench, one hand locked around the padded edge.

His shirt’s already on the floor near the resistance bands. Sweat shines down his chest and stomach, gathering below his navel, and the fabric at his hips is shoved low enough that his cock hangs heavy against him, thick and flushed, wet at the head. A vein stands out along the shaft, dark hair damp at the base, his balls heavy and already drawn closer from how hard he’s been holding back. He keeps looking at {{user}} like he’s been trying not to all night, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hunger caught under the same carefulness he uses under a loaded bar.

“You’re still good?” Jax asks, voice rough enough to scrape.

Once he has the answer he needs, something in him gives. His mouth parts on a breath, and then he’s close, big hands finding {{user}}’s waist as he kisses him hard. The first press of Jax’s cock between them drags a groan into the kiss, slickness smearing against skin while his grip tightens and eases again. He’s trying not to rush, and it shows in the shaking line of his arms, the way he keeps his weight controlled, the way his thumbs move against {{user}}’s hips like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against {{user}}’s mouth. “I’m gonna go slow.”

The padded edge of the bench creaks when Jax guides {{user}} against it. The sound cuts through the low music, small but sharp enough to make Jax’s eyes flick down for half a second before they come back darker. His hands slide to {{user}}’s hips, firm and warm, setting him where he wants him without losing that thread of restraint. Close like this, Jax feels too big, too hot, too solid, all sweat-slick muscle and rough breathing as he lines himself up.

The first push makes his jaw clench. He sinks in carefully, inch by inch, his whole body going taut with the effort of holding back. His forehead drops to {{user}}’s shoulder, and his breath spills hot over his skin in a broken rush. The tight heat around him pulls a low sound out of his chest before he can bury it.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you feel good.”

He stops before he’s fully seated, one hand braced on the bench, the other spread over {{user}}’s hip. His fingers flex once, then loosen. There’s a tremor in his thighs, in his stomach, in the arm holding him up. Every part of him looks built to drive forward, but he stays there and breathes, letting his body shake instead of snapping his hips the way he clearly wants to.

Another slow push takes him deeper. {{user}}’s body clenches hot and tight around Jax’s cock, and Jax answers with a low, shaky exhale that fans across sweat-damp skin. The slick sound between them is soft at first, almost hidden under the vents and the bass, but Jax hears it. His mouth opens against {{user}}’s shoulder, and the groan he lets out this time is rougher, pulled straight from the bottom of him.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “There. Just like that.”

When he’s finally buried deep, he doesn’t move right away. He stays pressed close, chest brushing {{user}}’s back, sweat dripping from his stomach onto the edge of the pad. The silence around them turns thick enough to feel. There’s the rattle of the vents, the soft strain of the bench under their weight, the damp slide of Jax’s cock shifting inside him when his hips twitch before he’s ready.

He exhales hard and kisses {{user}}’s shoulder, messy and open-mouthed, then starts moving.

The first thrusts are slow and deep, controlled in a way that makes the filth of it worse. Jax draws back just enough for the mirror to catch him: big body bent over {{user}}, chest slick with sweat, thighs braced wide, one hand locked around the bench while the other grips {{user}}’s hip. His cock slides out thick and shining, flushed darker from the tight grip of {{user}}’s body, then disappears back inside him with a heavy roll of Jax’s hips.

The sight nearly ruins him. His jaw tightens, his shoulders tense, and his next thrust drives deeper, burying him until his pelvis presses close. {{user}} clenches around him again, and Jax’s eyes lock on the mirror like he can’t look away from the way he’s fucking into him.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Look at you.”

The bench creaks beneath them in slow, uneven time. Every stroke drags a slick sound into the quiet gym, obscene and intimate, Jax’s cock pulling out with a thick shine before his hips push forward and make {{user}}’s body take him again. His balls draw tight with every deep thrust, his stomach flexing as he tries to hold himself back. The mirror gives him too much: {{user}} braced against the bench, Jax covering him from behind, sweat running down Jax’s ribs, his hips pistoning in with dirty precision.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “Stay with me. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t get careless, but he gets hungrier. His thrusts turn heavier, his grip firm at {{user}}’s waist as the tight heat milks him with every drag out and push back in. The feeling pulls rough little sounds out of him, each one breaking against {{user}}’s skin. His cock throbs inside him when the angle hits right, and Jax’s rhythm stutters before he forces it back into something slower, deeper, meaner in the way it makes him shake.

“I’m trying,” he pants, mouth open against {{user}}’s shoulder. “Fuck, I’m trying to go slow.”

The words barely hold together. His hips keep moving anyway, rolling forward until his body presses flush, then drawing back just enough for the mirror to show the slick length of him again. He watches himself sink into {{user}}, the muscles in his own stomach tightening, his hand spread over {{user}}’s hip like he needs to feel him under his palm to keep from losing the last of his control.

The gym holds every sound too clearly: the bench creaking, his breath tearing out rough, the slick squelch of {{user}}’s body clenching around him, the low slap of skin when Jax finally starts moving harder. His mouth drags along {{user}}’s neck and shoulder, open and messy, while his hips piston into him with a rhythm that’s still careful but nowhere near calm.

“Good,” he groans. “So fucking good. Taking me so good, guapo.”

His pace breaks for a second when {{user}}’s body tightens around him again. Jax’s hand clamps around the bench, knuckles pale, and his next thrust sinks in deep enough to make his whole body jerk forward. He catches himself over {{user}}, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his chest onto the pad.

Then a noise comes from the lobby.