The Calm Before the Fun

The gym was alive.

Music thumped from the high-end surround system—gritty trap beats, bass so deep it vibrated through the floors. Air filled with body heat, protein shake breath, the squeak of sneakers on rubber mats.

And the bodies—so many bodies—were grinding through a brutal HIIT circuit.

Burpees. Over and over.

Drop down. Push. Explode up. Jump. Repeat.

Groans and gasps. Sweat dripping like it was raining inside.

Not just muscle-bound guys.

There were college girls in neon sports bras and leggings, ponytails swaying like metronomes.

MILFs with tight cores, fierce focus, bouncing in sync, glutes clenched, abs tight, each move practiced and hungry.

A couple of "fit uncles" in bandanas and gold chains, grunting, drenched, pushing through like they had something to prove.

All different, all soaked, all moving under one voice.

Mia.

The heat at the center of it all.

Her bronze skin shimmered with sweat, sports bra drenched and sticking to her cleavage, leaving nothing to imagination. Toned arms, sculpted legs, glistening abs that flexed and rippled every time she landed from a jump. Her thick braid bounced with her—wild, sexy, in control.

She prowled between the chaos, clapping, shouting, smiling like a dominatrix in paradise:

"Let's go, let's go! Drop it down and give me sexyyyyy push-ups!"

"Milena, your ass is killin' it today!"

"Push, uncle Dev! That gut's got two weeks to disappear!"

"Come on, Jess! Burpees don't bite—unless you like it rough!"

Her eyes sparkled, lips parted, panting a little herself as she jumped in again—joining them, leading them.

And every time she hit the floor, her ass flexed perfectly in those skintight leggings—pure power and seduction packed into every inch.

Cameras were rolling.

Her phone mounted in one corner, catching it all.

She picked it up in-between, giving it a dripping-wet close-up of her abs, then flipped it for a wide shot of the whole crew behind her.

#FitFamFrenzy #LatinaBeast #MILFMode #UncleOnFire #MiaMoves

"Let's make 'em sweat," she purred, grinning into the camera. "This ain't just a workout—it's a f**kin' party."

A girl in the back, barely holding on, gasped, "You're gonna kill us, Mia!"

Mia winked, licking a droplet of sweat from her lip.

"Baby, if it don't burn, it ain't worth it."

*******

Far away from the music and madness of Gym, the air here was different—silent, sterile, still.

Shanaya lay reclined on the examination bed, arms lazily resting above her head, legs wide in the air, propped up in a familiar M shape. The white hospital gown was loosely tied, revealing more than it concealed. Her silky, dark Indian-Italian curls cascaded over the pillow as she stared at the ceiling.

She exhaled with a smirk.

"It's still extremely itchy. It hasn't gotten better since last week," she murmured casually, as if reviewing a playlist instead of her own intimate health.

And then—pop—a man's head rose slowly from between her thighs.

He blinked behind his glasses, that calm clinical expression betraying nothing.

It's him—the dude from her dreams, all chiseled jaw and smirking eyes. Turns out, he's her gyno. She's been fantasizing about him fucking her brains out.

DREW, mid-thirties, dangerously handsome in that crisp-medical-coat-and-charming-smirk kind of way, pops up from behind the screen at her feet. He pulls off his gloves, brows raised.

"Does your partner complain about the same thing?" he asked, with a professional tone, his eyes flicking up to hers.

Shanaya chuckled, one eyebrow lifting with mischief.

"I wish."

The doctor pauses.

"I mean—I wish I had a partner," she adds quickly. "Not that I wish I had one. I just—don't."

He tilts his head, amused by her flustered ramble.

"I mean by partner I don't mean, like… partners. Not plural. Not that I judge anyone who has multiples! I'm just saying, I don't."

He says nothing — just smiles as he walks toward the sink and starts washing his hands.

"It's not like I'm a prude. I'm just waiting for someone who's not a walking red flag, you know? Someone decent, sexy, emotionally available, maybe with a six-pack."

"Where are the nice men anyway?" she kept going, half-laughing now. "Even if they're out there, where do you find them? At the hospital? God, sorry—what was the question again?"

"Nothing. You can get dressed now."

Shanaya sat up, pulling the gown back around herself, and muttered under her breath, "Smooth, Shanaya. Real smooth."

******

DOCTOR'S OFFICE – A FEW MINUTES LATER

Shanaya sits across from Dr. Aarav now, fully dressed, legs crossed, tapping her fingers on his desk while he finishes writing.

He slides a paper toward her.

"Same as last time. No signs of infection. You're good. No need to worry."

She looks down. There's nothing clinical written there — just three bold words:

"Bathe Thrice Daily."

Her brows rise. She leans in, sniffs herself discreetly, then looks up with a half-smirk.

He doesn't look up.

"You can do that outside. There's a line waiting."

She laughs, folding the paper and rising from her seat.

"Right. Of course. Thanks, Doc."

She gives him a slow glance — one that lingers a second longer than it should — and walks out the door, hips swaying slightly with each step.

Shanaya walked out of the hospital, the wind tugging gently at her open shirt. Her mood? Restless. Charged. Needing an outlet.

She pulled out her phone, smirking to herself as she opened the group chat titled:

"The Sin Squad 🍑💋🔥"

Her fingers flew across the screen.

Shanaya:

[Friday night, Ladies.

Spirits Bar within the hour. Be hot. Be wild. Be ready.]

She hit send and grinned.

"Let the games begin."

At that exact moment, far across town, Alicia was still trapped in her mom's living room — or what felt more like a psychic den of judgment and unwanted prophecies. Emma was now deep into a new tarot reading, brow furrowed, nodding solemnly at every card Aanya turned.

Alicia's phone buzzed. She peeked at it under the table.

[Finally! Shanaya's dragging me out!] she typed with relief, smiling at the screen.

"You know this is about your future, right?" Emma's voice cut through the air, sharp as ever. "You could at least pretend to care."

"Yes, mummy," Alicia muttered, already pressing send. Her thumb hovered over the phone, itching to order a shot before she even left the house.

Meanwhile, Emily had just stepped out of her ex-husband's apartment, her face stiff but composed. Her daughter's laughter still echoed behind her as she pulled out her phone to check the group chat.

At least someone still wants me! she typed, half-laughing, half-exhaling her frustrations. She shook her head as she slid the phone back into her bag. God, she needed a drink.

Back at the gym, the pounding music nearly drowned out everything, but Mia heard the buzz of notifications over her Bluetooth. She glanced at her phone between reps, saw the group chat lighting up, and couldn't hold back a big, sweaty grin.

[Boooooo YEAHHHHH!] she typed back, throwing in a few fire and peach emojis for flair. She adjusted her sports bra, flicked sweat off her brow, and gave a cheeky wink to her camera before switching off the recording. Friday night was on.

In four different places, four women, one after another, read the same message—and with it, the unspoken promise of a night that was about to get wild.