Chapter 9
Scarletta
This is day ten.
Ten days. That's how long I've been meeting Ryan at the gym for personal training. His goal to make me so fuckable, every man within two hundred miles will be lining up to ask me out, wasn't a euphemism.
He literally meant it.
And he's been punishing my body ever since.
With my absolute permission.
It's not a spanking, there are no nipple clamps or cuffs. He's been… I would not say distant. But he has been professional.
He'll let certain things slip—like that fuckable comment.
Or the other day, when I was doing weighted squats and focusing on my form in the floor-length mirror that runs the entire length of the free weights section, he positioned himself behind me, arms crossed, watching my reflection with an intensity that made my thighs tremble for reasons that had nothing to do with the barbell across my shoulders.
When I finished my set and straightened, catching his eyes in the glass, he said, "Your ass looks really good when you squat.
I've been watching it in the mirror. I'm gonna put one up in front of you next time, at just the right angle so you can see what I do.
" Just like that. Matter-of-fact. Professional tone.
But his gaze lingered half a second too long before he turned away to adjust the weight rack.
Which seems normal, if you are normal.
But if you're a person who lives and breathes the D/s lifestyle—who understands it down to your bones—the mirror becomes something else entirely.
It transforms from a simple reflective surface into an erotic tool, a psychological weapon, a method of control. It's about being forced to witness your own submission, to see yourself through your Dominant's eyes, to watch your body respond in ways you can't hide or deny.
And my mind immediately went to the gyno table in Caleb's playroom.
How he positioned me on that cold leather surface, securing each limb before spreading my legs wide in those metal stirrups.
He made me watch in the mirror as he penetrated my pussy with that cheap blue Bic pen.
The same pen from my story. The same deliberate, clinical movements. The same psychological warfare disguised as medical examination, exactly the way I'd written it in The Appointment, down to the smallest detail.
The humiliation of it, the wrongness of it, the fact that something so mundane could be transformed into an instrument of such exquisite degradation—all of it played out in perfect detail in that mirror.
I force Caleb out of my mind.
I'm completely over Caleb. Ryan is the one commanding my attention now, filling the spaces in my head that used to belong to someone else. The other day he complimented my new sports bra. He said he liked the colors, coral and black, that they really gave me a 'good outline'.
I've replayed those words approximately fifty times since he said them.
It's maybe not entirely uncommon to comment on a woman's upper body athletic wear at the gym. People talk about brands, about moisture-wicking fabric, about whether Lululemon is worth the insane price tag.
But Ryan's comment wasn't about the brand or the fabric technology.
It was about what the sports bra did for my body, which means it was about my body itself. Which means—and I'm not imagining this—he was looking at my breasts.
Studying them, even.
Okay, fine. Maybe it's just me and my perpetually dirty mind interpreting Ryan's words to be something more than just casual gym pep talk. But he's the one who started it.
He chose those specific words. 'Good outline.' Not 'cute bra' or 'nice color choice' or any of the thousand neutral things he could have said that wouldn't have made my brain spiral exactly where it's spiraling now.
Good outline.
Does this phrase not inherently imply a specific, deliberate shape?
One that includes not just the breasts themselves but how they're positioned, how they're presented, how they're held?
And isn't posture—the way a woman carries herself, the angle of her shoulders, the lift of her chin, the arch of her spine—something a Dominant would naturally notice?
Because I think it is.
I think most men see a woman's chest and think, 'Nice tits,' and that's the complete beginning and end of their cognitive process. They don't analyze why they like them, don't break down the specific elements that create the attraction.
Or maybe—if they're slightly more articulate than the average gym bro—they can identify that the upturned point of the nipple is what draws their eye. Something I definitely have, especially in this particular sports bra with its thin, unpadded cups that hide absolutely nothing.
But they're not thinking about posture. About the way good posture creates the foundation for everything else—the lift, the shape, the outline that Ryan specifically commented on.
Which is the real reason aesthetically pleasing breasts exist in the first place, regardless of size or shape.
And Ryan noticed.
I think he's playing it professionally distant.
Not exactly waiting for me to make the first move, he's dropping hints. But he is the gym owner and I am a client. Like a real client now, because I bought three months of personal training.
And yeah, one could be cynical and say he's complimenting me because he wanted me to buy the three-month training package.
But I'm his only client at the moment.
He doesn't do that any more. He has a whole crew of trainers to manage the personal training.
So what else should I think?
He obviously likes me.
We banter and laugh as he trains me.
And he touches me. Not anything inappropriate—never anything that crosses a professional line—but he's not shy about making contact when he's correcting my form during a lift.
Sometimes the touches linger just a fraction longer than strictly necessary.
Sometimes his hand settles on my lower back with a firmness that feels deliberate, intentional.
Sometimes his fingers wrap around my wrist to adjust my grip on the barbell, and his thumb brushes against my pulse point in a way that makes me hyperaware of the contact.
It's always appropriate. Always explainable. Always just on the edge of professional distance without ever quite stepping over.
But god, do I wish he'd step over that line.
I'm dying—actively, desperately dying—for this man to touch me inappropriately. To let one of those lingering hand placements drift lower. To let his fingers tighten on my hip instead of my shoulder. To look at me like he wants to do something other than correct my deadlift form.
Almost seven months now.
Seven months with no sex.
I've started masturbating again, so that's progress, I guess. That's something. That's movement in a forward direction.
But it's not the same.
Not the same, Scarletta?
Before Caleb, you went years without sex and barely noticed. You were fine with self-touch. You functioned. What's different now?
Right. Yeah. I get that. I understand the logical inconsistency here.
But you can't just go from zero to eleven and then back to zero again, can you?
You can't experience something that intense, that all-consuming, that physically and psychologically transformative, and then just... pretend it never happened.
Pretend your body doesn't remember.
Pretend you don't have a new reference point for what touch can feel like, what desire can do to you.
It's set a whole new baseline. A whole new standard. A whole new bar that regular human interaction can't seem to clear.
And that's the problem, isn't it?
I like… weird sex. And Ryan might be the first man I've encountered since… the maze, that could give me more of what I'm after.
He's built like someone who could pin me down. Who could hold me in place if I tried to squirm away. Who knows what his body can do and isn't afraid to use it.
And he's giving me signals that he's interested. That he's noticed me. That those lingering touches and the deliberate eye contact aren't accidental.
So maybe I should do something about it.
Maybe I should approach him. Stop waiting. Stop hoping he'll escalate. Take some kind of action instead of just… showing up and hoping proximity does the work.
But what the hell would I even say?
How do you signal to someone that you're into the kind of sex that requires negotiation? That you don't just want missionary with the lights off? That you need something darker, something harder, something that involves words like consensual and safeword in the same conversation?
Do I just walk up to him after my next session and say, "Hey, Ryan, you got any workouts that might help with, say, lowering my gag reflex? Asking for a friend. The friend is me."
Or maybe, "Is there some special routine I could do that might prepare my ass for penetration? Like flexibility training? Core strength? I feel like there's got to be a muscle group involved here that I'm neglecting."
Yeah. Great plan. Really subtle.
And it doesn't help that he looks like he's got a perpetual chub going on beneath those joggers he wears.
Like, it's always there. Every single time I see him. Morning, afternoon, doesn't matter—there's a visible outline pressing against the fabric, a ridge that catches the light sometimes when he shifts his weight or leans back against the counter.
I mean, maybe it's not a chub. Maybe it's just—maybe his cock is genuinely that size when it's soft. Maybe that's just what he's working with baseline. Which would mean when he's actually hard, when he's actually aroused, it's probably—
Massive.
Like, genuinely intimidating. Like, I-don't-know-if-that-would-even-fit massive. Like, that-could-be-a-problem-and-I-don't-know-if-I'd-care massive.
And now that I've noticed it, I can't stop noticing it.
Every time I walk past the front desk, every time he comes over to adjust a machine setting or ask if I need help with my form, my eyes flick down for half a second before I can stop myself. I don't mean to. It's compulsive at this point. Intrusive thought made visual.
And the worst part is… I think he knows I've noticed.
Because sometimes when I glance up after one of those half-second slips, he's watching me. Not smiling, not smirking—just watching. Waiting to see if I'll look again.
It's hard to tune out.
Impossible, actually.
"Hey, Scarletta?"
I turn, blushing. Because it's Ryan. He's striding towards me with purpose. His cock bouncing beneath his gray sweats.
Do not look. Do not look.
It takes every ounce of restraint I have to focus on his face. "Hey, hi. What's up?" Look at his eyes, Scarletta. His eyes.
"I've got a question for you."
"Oh," I say. Please, let this question be, Would you like me to clamp your nipples for today's workout?
"How would you like to train with me for a special project?" Ryan says. "It's something I'm developing. New program. Still in the testing phase."
I blink at him. My brain's trying to process words but it's stuck somewhere around train with me and special and honestly, I'm still thinking about his dick.
He mistakes my silence for hesitation. "I need someone who can handle intensity. Someone who won't quit halfway through." His eyes hold mine. "I think that's you."
I still don't say anything. Just stare at him like my vocabulary's been deleted.
"Come on," he says, jerking his head toward the back of the gym. "I'll show you what I mean."
I follow him. Obviously I follow him. What else am I going to do? Say no to a special project with the perpetual chub man?
He walks past the weight racks, past the cardio equipment, down a hallway I've never noticed before. There's a door at the end. Double doors, actually. Industrial looking. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks them.
The doors swing open.
Holy shit.
The space is massive. High ceilings with exposed beams. Concrete floor. All the walls are covered with acoustic tiles. The room's mostly empty except for equipment positioned in the center.
And when I say equipment, I mean—
There's a TRX rig mounted to one of the ceiling beams. Professional grade. Multiple straps hanging down. Numerous attachment points.
A modified massage table sits off to the side—except it's not a massage table.
Not really. Not with those stirrups fixed at one end, positioned at a precise angle that makes my stomach flip.
Anchor points run along the sides at regular intervals, small steel loops welded to the frame.
Not decorative. Functional. The kind of thing that doesn't exist in a normal gym setup.
A huge mirror propped against the far wall. Not mounted yet. Angled directly toward the equipment.
Five tripods scattered around the space, positioned at different angles like whoever uses them has been refining their setup for months. Each one has a camera mount. Phone mounts too. A ring light sitting on the floor near the table, the professional kind streamers use, not some cheap circle.
Everything's organized. Intentional. Not random workout equipment someone's playing with—this is a production setup.
A clipboard sits on a folding chair near the table. Against the far wall, a tall storage cabinet stands closed—industrial gray metal with a padlock looped through the handle but hanging open.
I stand there in the middle of the space, trying to process what I'm seeing.
The empty floor stretches around me, too much deliberate nothing.
Every single piece of equipment has been positioned with a goal in mind.
The angles between the tripods and the table aren't random.
The mirror placement isn't accidental.
The ring light's distance from the stirrups is measured.
Even the way the TRX straps hang down creates a specific visual frame.
This isn't someone fucking around with home gym equipment.
This is a film studio.
A production setup designed for one very specific purpose.
I turn to Ryan.
"What is this?"