Ex's Steam Room Surrender: Her Latex Stocking Feet Claim Me

I never should have gone back to that gym. Three weeks after Petra and I imploded, I told myself I was only there for the late-night weights, the empty racks, the chance to sweat her out of my system. Instead I pushed through the corridor and saw the studio glass fogged with bodies in black leather harnesses and gleaming latex. Petra stood at the front in a painted-on black uniform—corset top, tiny shorts, and those glossy latex stockings that climbed her long trainer’s legs like liquid night. Twenty-nine, fierce, the same dominant fitness trainer who used to edge me for hours and laugh when I begged. Our eyes locked across the room and the old electricity hit me like a fist. She didn’t look away. Neither did I. My cock stirred against my shorts while she demonstrated a restraint knot, hips rolling, latex catching the light every time she shifted. I stayed for the whole class, pulse hammering, already half-hard and hating how badly I still wanted her.

When the last student filtered out I drifted toward the co-ed steam room like a man sleepwalking. The air hit me thick and wet. Petra was already there, leaning against the tiled bench wearing nothing but the shiny latex stockings, thigh-high leather boots still zipped, and that wicked little smile that used to own me. Steam beaded on the curve of her breasts and ran down the dark sheen of her thighs.

“Victor,” she said, voice low and amused. “Spying on my kink class? Or did you finally admit you miss getting wrecked?”

I swallowed. “Missed the way you look in those stockings. Missed how filthy we used to get.”