CHAPTER 6 – GYM SHENANIGANS
Hunter
I’m strolling through the lobby of Sanctum, watching snow swirl through the windows like a malfunctioning confetti cannon, when the guilt sneaks up on me and sticks in my throat.
It’s always worst in moments like this, when there’s nothing to do but watch the world go about its business and remember that you’re a monster.
A man who found his amnesiac stepsister wandering the street and brought her, not home, not to the authorities, but to a private club built for the pleasure of men with more money than they know what to do with.
It’s not even the sex I’m ashamed of. That’s a given.
What shreds my dignity is that I’m lying to myself.
I’m telling myself what I’m doing is for Daisy’s own good.
Right now, I’m telling myself that my stepsister needs the club.
That if she’s going to survive in a world that doesn’t care about pretty, lost things, she should at least be trained by an expert.
That I am, in some twisted way, helping her by keeping her here, making her strong, building her up before she rejoins the wider world.
And if I can’t believe that? Then I’m just a sick bastard waiting for his sister to offer herself up to the highest bidder, and that’s a truth I can’t sit with for more than five seconds at a time.
I watch the glass doors. The staff have the place running like clockwork—every bellhop, every hostess, every girl in a silk uniform moves with the same smooth intent.
The lobby is gold and onyx, a temple of old money that’s never seen a single day of hardship.
But I need to get upstairs stat, for my exercise date with Daisy.
The gym manager, a guy with a neck like a tree trunk and the personality of a Roomba, appears at my side. “Mr. McCarren. I’ve set up the equipment in the gym for you and your guest as requested. Please let me know when you’re ready.”
“Thanks,” I say, tossing my duffel over my shoulder. “Give us ten minutes. We’ll be up shortly.”
He nods, already texting his minions.
I take the elevator up to the third floor, and step out into a small entryway before entering the gym.
It’s luxurious, as befits the club. Double-height windows, all polished chrome and navy blue, sunlight bouncing off every reflective surface.
You can smell the money in here, from the fresh eucalyptus towels to the wall of supplements no one will ever use.
They have a cryotherapy pod, a rock wall, a row of Pelotons with built-in VR goggles, and a juice bar that would bankrupt a small Caribbean nation.
It’s all for show. The only thing that matters here is the machinery—bodies moving, glistening, competing for the right to exist. Fortunately, the place is empty at this hour, and I nod with satisfaction. Perfect.
I change in the locker room, pull on a white tee and black track pants. The shirt is fitted, clinging to me, showing off every inch of chest and arm, and I like that. You have to look like you deserve to win if you’re going to win at Sanctum.
I’m standing at the edge of the weight rack when she comes in.
Daisy: pale blue sports bra hugging those big tits, the kind that barely counts as clothing, and black shorts so tiny they’re more of a punctuation mark than a garment.
Her stomach is soft and her legs go on forever.
Her hair is up in a ponytail, wispy flyaways haloing her face.
She looks nervous and gorgeous, bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes scanning the empty gym with open awe.
“Wow,” she says. “It’s huge in here.”
I smile.
“Figured you could use a proper tour,” I say, nodding her over. “And if you’re serious about this auction thing, you need to get comfortable moving in front of a crowd.”
Daisy smiles hesitantly. “Is that part of the deal? Walking around half-naked in front of everyone?”
“Depends on the audience,” I say. “Some dudes like a show, so there are girls who do a little dance when they’re on stage. But it’s up to you.”
She blushes, but it’s the kind of blush that says she’s thinking about the description, not rejecting it.
I start her slow, easy. Treadmill for five minutes, then a dynamic stretch routine that I talk her through.
She’s flexible, strong, and shockingly coordinated for someone who claims not to remember her own birthday.
I watch her every move, and it’s all I can do not to stare at the way her ass bounces in those shorts, the way the sports bra barely restrains her luscious tits when she stretches overhead.
I put her on the rower next. “Twenty strokes, fast as you can.”
She takes the challenge, face set in determination. Her thighs flex, her stomach tightens, and her form is almost perfect. When she finishes, she’s winded, cheeks pink, blonde hair damp with sweat.
“Not bad,” I say, handing her a towel.
She wipes her brow, then her chest, then—fuck—she tugs the sports bra up a half inch to dab underneath. For a second, the underside of her breast is visible, all soft curve and damp skin, and my pulse jumps like I just did a shot of adrenaline.
“You okay?” she asks, catching my stare.
“Fine,” I say, voice a little rough.
We move on: deadlifts, then squats, then cable pulls.
Every time I demonstrate a move, she watches with absolute focus, eyes tracking the muscle groups, the angle of my hands on the bar.
When it’s her turn, I spot her, fingers hovering at her waist or just above her ass, correcting her form with gentle, lingering pressure.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done with clothes on.
At one point, I step behind her to correct her posture during a squat, and when my hand lands on her hip, her breath hitches. I don’t move away. I press, slow and deliberate, and she lets me.
“Like this?” she asks, dropping lower, her ass brushing against my groin.
“Exactly,” I say, and have to grind my teeth to keep from moaning.
We finish the circuit, and by then we’re both sweating. She’s flushed and radiant, eyes bright and body humming with energy. I could fuck her right here on the mat, and for a second, I seriously consider it.
She stands, stretching overhead, and her nipples are visibly hard through the thin fabric of the bra. She follows my gaze, then giggles, cupping them with her hands.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s cold in here! I mean, I’m hot from working out but they blast the A/C.”
“Yes, they do,” I say, and she giggles again.
We sit on the bench, side by side. She’s still catching her breath, and the silence is comfortable.
Finally, she looks at me, shy. “So, how’d I do? Working out, I mean.”
“You did amazing,” I say. “You’re athletic and coordinated. You’ll own the room.”
She smiles hesitantly, but then it fades, and she looks down at her hands. “I’m scared, though. What if I get up on stage and freeze? Or what if no one wants me? I’d be so embarrassed!”
The idea that anyone could reject this gorgeous woman is so insane I almost laugh, but she looks genuinely worried.
“They’ll want you,” I say, putting a hand on her thigh. “You’re perfect. Trust me.”
She glances at my hand, then back to my eyes. For a second, we just stare.
“Do you really think so?” she whispers.
“I know so.”
She looks away, swallowing.
After a moment, I clear my throat and shift gears. “By the way, I should probably check your status again. Just to be sure.”
She looks confused. “Status?”
“Virginity,” I say, voice low. “Strenuous exercise can sometimes… you know.”
She blushes hard, then laughs, a little wild. “You mean, it can break my hymen?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If we’re going to auction you as a virgin, it helps to be accurate. You’ve been checked twice now, I know, by the doctor, and by myself last night. But you’ve been working out hard, and it never hurts to triple-check.”
Daisy’s quiet, biting her plush bottom lip.
Then: “Do you want to check, Hunter?”
I nod, slow.
Her face is pink, but she doesn’t look away. “Now?”
“Locker room’s empty,” I say.
She hesitates, but the arousal is plain in her big blue eyes. “Okay,” she whispers, and stands.
I follow her into the men’s locker room, my hand pressed to the small of her back. I feel like a wolf leading a lamb into the woods, but the way she walks—shoulders square, head high—tells me she wants to be devoured.
In the marble and steel echo chamber, she turns to face me, blue eyes wide as her big breasts heave.
“Should I take off my clothes?”
“If you’re comfortable,” I say.
She peels off the sports bra first, letting her Double D’s bounce free.
They’re better than I remember from last night—full, high, tipped with perfect pink nipples that are utterly lickable.
Next, the shorts. She shimmies them down her hips, then steps out, leaving her in nothing but sneakers and a faint shimmer of sweat.
Her twat is plush and lovely, already moist with a smear of nectar on her thigh.
I kneel, because that’s the only thing that feels right. I spread her legs, hands steady on her hips, and kiss my way up her inner thigh. She’s trembling, but not with fear.
“Do you trust me?” I ask, voice thick.
She nods, already breathing hard.
I press my mouth to her pussy, tongue searching for the proof I need. She tastes sweet, a little tang of salt from the sweat, and she’s so wet it’s like she’s been waiting for this all morning. I find her hymen—delicate, barely a whisper—and lick it gently.
“Oh mmm,” she moans, cupping her big tits as I savor her twat. “Oooh, that feels good.”
“It should, baby,” I rasp. “I want you to feel good.”
I flick my tongue over her hymen again, gentle, then circle her clit. Her hands fly to my hair, grabbing fistfuls and pulling me closer.
“Oh fuck,” she gasps. “Oh god, Hunter—”
That’s my signal. I slip two fingers inside her horny cunt, careful not to break her fragile shield, and shake them gently. Her pussy clamps down, and she makes a sound I’ve never heard from her before—pure, animal pleasure.
“Ooooh!” she squeals. “Mmm, more!”
I know I shouldn’t because any vigorous exercise should be off limits. But this woman looks so beautiful nude, with her big breasts trembling and her thighs wet as I shake my fingers inside her tender pussy.
“Yesss,” I hiss while giving her pleasure. “This slutty cunt needs Daddy’s fingers, doesn’t it? You like that.”
Daisy can’t reply because she’s already approaching the cliff.
“Oh,” she squeals. “Oh oh oh, my god, Hunter!”
Then it happens. The curvy girls soars over the precipice, her cunt clamping down on my hand with vicious tremors. She milks my fingers, sobbing and crying as convulsions overcome her twat, hot nectar spilling out into my palm.
“Hunter!” she cries out. “Oooh god yes!”
I croon with pleasure, soothing her with praise.
“Yes baby, you look so good like this. You’re a slut through and through, and you crave Daddy’s hard cock in this horny cunt. Don’t worry, it’s coming soon.”
The beautiful blonde can’t reply as I continue to shake my fingers in her wet slit, her back arching as she’s overcome with ecstasy.
But finally, she calms somewhat, still panting and gasping after her powerful climax.
I pull back, wiping my mouth. “You’re beautiful, Daisy,” I say, voice shaking.
“You’re absolutely what the club needs and wants. ”
She looks at me, stunned.
“You mean for the auction?” she says, and it comes out half-tease, half-dream.
I stand, cupping her face in both hands, and kiss her slow and deep. She melts into it, her body pressing to mine, tits crushed against my chest. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
I pull away and look her in the eyes. “Yes, for the auction. You’re perfect, Daisy. They’re going to lose their minds.”
She nods, breathless.
“I think I will do it then,” she whispers.
Perfect. I smile because as fucked up as it is, I can’t wait to see my slutty stepsister on stage with her curves bare and lush. I want other men to look at her … only to realize that she belongs to me.