Seduce His Wife!

The gym stood empty—just me, a yoga mat, and four pairs of hands molding my body into positions that made my breath hitch.

God, it had been so long since I'd felt this kind of pleasure. Desire, buried deep for months, surged through me like a live wire.

Then one of them—Lucas, with his stupidly perfect biceps—nipped my earlobe and growled, "Mrs. Roscente… front or back?"

"B-both…"

My name is Diana Roscente. I own a gym.

From the outside, my life looks like some fantasy—dance academy grad, killer body, married to a mountain of muscle. People probably think my bedroom life is one long, sweaty highlight reel.

But here's the truth.

Two months ago, my husband decided to compete in the National Bodybuilding Championship. Since then? Not a single touch.

I've tried everything—teasing, tugging at his sweatpants, straddling him mid-set. His answer never changes:

"No distractions before comp."

"Not one drop of protein wasted."

Every night, he grabs a pillow and disappears into the guest room. Every night, I lie there, aching.

All that muscle, all that strength—wasted on barbells instead of me.

Doesn't he worry I'll find someone else? The next morning, I seethed in the locker room.

Running a gym isn't easy. Profit margins are slim. Thank God my husband's reputation pulls in clients.

But there's a catch.

Our gym became a temple of testosterone—zero women, just a pack of guys who definitely aren't here just for the gains.

Oh, they respect my husband's training. But let's be real—they're here for me.

I hate using my body as bait, but survival's survival. So every three days, I teach spin class.

Spin days? Every member shows.

I slip into a thong, skin-tight yoga pants, dim the lights, and crank the music. Headphones on, hips rolling, I arch my back just enough to let the fabric cling—just enough to tease.

The mirror catches it all—their stares locked on my ass, the outline of my camel toe, the way their jaws tighten when I bend over the bike.

At first, the sheer transparency horrified me. Might as well have been naked.

But then?

It became a game.

Especially when they thought I couldn't hear them:

"That waist… that ass… fuck, the way she moves—"

"So goddamn round. Want to bite it."