Amber stumbled in, hair frazzled, face flushed, gasping, looking like something the cat dragged in. She had just come from a session with her personal trainer. It's always the same structure--stretching, breathing, focusing. Then comes the torture--one exercise after the other, each more intense, with Bushka, her trainer, screaming at her to step up the pace. Swing those kettle bells.
Pain is weakness leaving the body. Limited water breaks, no sobbing allowed. Fast music, heavy bass beat. There was no safe word that could end the agony. Worse than anything, Bushka kept up a stream of complaints about her boyfriend, family, back stabbing friends, not enough parking spaces and a spreading yeast infection she couldn't control.
Personal trainer nightmare. All so Amber could fit into stretch pants. Women.
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