"Come on, man, you almost got it!" The spotter stood over the bench, his hands ready to catch the bar if his friend lost his grip.
The man laying on the bench grunted, "Gah... I... can't!"
"One more set and you're at fifty; come on, push it!"
Around the gym, people everywhere were sweating and doing various workouts. Upstairs, the whir of treadmills and ellipticals could be heard dully, and some nondescript alternative music was serenading the smell of B.O. masked by disinfectant.
The bencher grit his teeth and lowered his arms for the fiftieth time. The bar felt like a tow truck in his hands, and his wrists and forearms were shaking from the strain, but somehow his willpower was giving him the ability to keep it upright. With another grunt, he shoved the bar upward and felt the blessed relief of the weight being lifted back onto the stand, and he threw his arms to his sides and huffed loudly.
"Good shit, man," the lifter's spotter grinned and leaned against the bar, "It's all about persistence; the pain is just a distraction."
The lifter sat up slowly and laughed, "Bullshit, I don't see you trying to bench two-fifty."
"And I don't see you running a marathon, that's got plenty of pain written all over it," the spotter laughed.
The lifter grabbed his water bottle and took a long swig, then opened his eyes and sighed, "Yeah well..." he stopped talking suddenly as his eyes settled on a woman who was several yards away.
The woman was doing pull ups, and he completely forgot what he was going to say as his eyes followed her movements up and down. She was pretty by anyone's standards, with deeply tanned skin. Her dirty blonde hair was put up in a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a tight gray tank top and a sports bra.
The lifter had seen many women like her at various gyms, and he seldom noticed more than just their figure or how nice their ass looked in yoga pants, but this woman was different. There was a look of sheer concentration on her face that he seldom saw on even professional athletes, and her form was flawless. Her pace was insane and she was mowing through her sets as quickly as he could curl twenty five pounds.
His eyes were practically glued to her, and at some point, he moved them down to her body. Her muscle definition was obvious, and she was toned without being bulky, which was the kind of look that drove him crazy. His gaze moved down to her hips, which she had enough of, and he was about to stare at her legs when his eyes almost popped out of his head.
"I see you've spotted Kimber," his friend stepped up beside him and patted his shoulder.
The lifter's eyes were still bugging out of his head. The woman, who was apparently named Kimber, had the legs to match her body, but all he could focus on was the unmistakable bulge of what appeared to be a very generous package outlined against her thigh through the yoga pants she wore. The longer he stared, the more obvious it became, and his voice almost cracked as he asked, "Who is she...he?"
The spotter chuckled, "I think they usually pronoun as she. She's a futanari."
The lifter tore his eyes away and narrowed them towards his friend, "They're real?!"
"Of course they're real; don't you internet? There's not many of them in the world, I guess, but they're coming out of the woodwork now. Incidentally, Kimber is a real athlete," the spotter tilted his water bottle towards the woman who was still performing pull ups furiously, "No homo, but I would do things to that woman. She's way out of my league, though, and I think she eats, breathes and fucks her workout routine. She's in here pretty much everyday. Sometimes, if she gets really into it, she goes hard as a rock; that's fun to watch," the spotter laughed. "Everyone knows who and what she is around here... honestly, you get used to it. I've heard she's nice, but she pretty much ignores anyone here who tries to talk to her. She'll give you her autograph though, if you ask for it."
"Autograph? Who the hell is she supposed to be?"
The spotter laughed once more, "You're still in the process of questioning your own sexuality, I don't think you're ready to hear the answer just yet."
Kimber Crighton walked into the women's locker room, sweat dripping from her face. her tank was soaked in sweat, and a large, dark ring could be seen circling all the way down to her stomach.
The locker room was full of the usual suspects: a few soccer moms, some swimmers, and of course, the odd basketball player. Some of the women were naked, most were dressed, but Kimber hardly noticed any of them as she made her way to the showers and began to strip down.
She pulled her sweat soaked tank over her head before tossing it on a bench, then she curled her fingers beneath her sports bra and did the same with it. Then, with all the casualness of someone who had done the same thing a thousand times in a row, Kimber peeled down her yoga pants and stepped out of them.
Her stomach was completely flat, and her body fat content was extremely low, but there was nothing masculine looking about her as she stepped into the shower.
She sighed heavily as the cold water hit her skin, and she made no move to make it warmer as she lifted her face to allow the water to slide down her body. Her crotch always felt particularly hot after a hard workout, and she relished the sudden change in temperature as she spread her legs.
Her balls tightened as they cooled, and she smiled with relief and satisfaction as she began to soap herself. She never allowed her showers to last longer than five minutes, and she rinsed herself moments later and stepped out.
Dripping wet, she padded over to her locker and grabbed her towel. She'd been frequenting the gym for nearly six months, but her fellow gym goers were still stealing glances at her when she dressed and undressed. Kimber didn't mind in the least, and she secretly enjoyed the attention. The only time it ever became annoying was when people (both men and women) tried to hit on her, but the longer she stayed the less it happened, because people knew she wasn't there to socialize.
She pat dried her face before working her way down to her body, then she flipped the towel between her legs and dried her junk. Even flaccid, her male parts were larger than the average man's, and she could almost feel at least one other woman openly staring at her as she whisked the towel down to her pussy.
Afterwards, she stepped into a pair of briefs and pulled on a somewhat looser bra.
"Um... excuse me... Kimber?"
The fit futa turned when she heard a feminine voice behind her, "Hm?"
A thin, early twenties tennis type girl was smiling nervously up at her. The girl was fully clothed, and Kimber could tell that she'd just finished a rousing game of racquetball by the ruddy color of her face, "Hi there, what can I do for you?" She smiled.
The girl blushed, "I heard... I mean, well," she laughed, "Sorry, I'm so nervous! I'm a huge fan; your season last year... wow!" The girl giggled. "I'm sure you're busy, but... can I have your autograph?"
Kimber smirked, "Sure. What do you want me to sign?"
"Oh, um... this?" The girl hurriedly flipped open a notebook, "I have a pen too, oh..." she fumbled with the binding on the journal and awkwardly yanked the writing utensil from it.
Kimber took the pen and chuckled, "Thanks for watching; it's always nice to meet female fans, especially ones that are so cute." She brought the pen to the lined paper and signed her name with a flourish.
