Insatiable: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Sophia Desmond

  And then, we came to a door and entered. I gasped.

  What greeted us was a floor to ceiling view of Manhattan. For a second, I felt an intense sense of vertigo, as if we had just walked out of a building and into the naked air.

  But no. It was just floor to ceiling glass surrounding us.

  The gym was certainly not little. There was a squat rack, a bench, and dozens of huge, heavy looking plates. Besides that, a rowing machine, an exercise bike, a treadmill, a full selection of dumbbells and kettle bells, a heavy punching bag, and a few machines that I couldn't identify.

  "Now, we warm up. You will row for five minutes, yes? Sound good?"

  "Sure thing."

  Just like Crossfit, I thought, as I dropped my bag and set up at the rower. I had done Crossfit with a few girlfriends for a while, but I couldn't keep up with it while not eating. I supposed I could have just started eating more, but when you're a model... That's a dangerous slope.

  Even rowing now, I found myself getting ever so slightly winded around the four minute mark. Sven clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

  "We will have to work on this. Work capacity, you'll need it. Mhm."

  I tried to say something, but I was panting too hard. Finally, my five minutes were up and I staggered back to my feet.

  "Now, we stretch and warm up..."

  "I thought I was warmed up?"

  Sven laughed. He was disrobing, revealing an impossibly muscular small body, wrapped in a tight singlet.

  "No. We have not yet begun to warm up. Your blood is flowing; that is all. We are going to work all of your muscles today; they all need to be warmed."

  And so, we went through a series of basic body weight exercises: push ups, lunges, a few pathetic attempts at pull-ups, and more. After ten minutes, I was a mess on the floor, a pool of sweat with a girl in the middle.

  Sven clucked his tongue disapprovingly once more.

  "Well, it is not so bad, but it is not great," he said seriously. "We will do more warming up next time. But now, we lift heavy things."

  We began with squats, which, as Sven told me, are the ones that will crush your soul the most. I was able to get a pathetic six reps with seventy-five pounds on my back before my legs started shaking uncontrollably.

  "It's good, it's good," he said, helping me to rack the weights.

  "I thought I was going to drop them. What do I do if I can't stand back up?"

  "Just that. You drop them."

  Sven kicked the floor.

  "Your Mr. Boss has installed a very good floor here, you see. Nuclear war could happen and the floor, it would survive. The floor is stronger than your back. Stronger than my back, even."

  After that, we moved onto deadlift. I was able to move a bit more weight with that one, knocking out eight repetitions of ninety-five pounds before I started to feel dizzy.

  "It's good, it's good."

  We switched back and forth between the two for a while until I had completed three sets. My body felt like it was going to melt and I dreaded whatever was coming next.

  That would be the bench press. Beneath the bar, laying back, I grunted and struggled to force the weight--a paltry fifty-five pounds--over my face.

  "Sven, I'm gonna' die. What happens it I can't finish this one rep? How do I get the weight off of me?"

  Sven clucked his tongue.

  "Well, the best case scenario is never lift more than you think you can finish. You are stronger than you think; if you are conservative, you will never get into trouble. You need to squeeze. Squeeze everything. Squeeze your butt, your stomach, squeeze the bar. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze."

  "Okay, but for the sake of argument..." I growled, the ceiling spinning ever so slightly above me.

  "For the sake of argument, you have a spotter. That is me. Or, you lower it to your thighs and hope it is not so heavy your fibula breaks."

  My eyes widened. Sven waved his hands.

  "No, don't worry, fibula is a very strong bone. I like him very much, this strong bone."

  I scowled and lay back down. I did two more sets, struggling the entire time, with Sven helping me finish the final rep on each one.

  "It is very good for the first day!" he declared. "Now, one last exercise. It is very fun; my favorite."

  I gasped and groaned, but Sven didn't seem to notice. He loaded up a heavy bar with what seemed like half a dozen plates on either end. The bar sat on the floor like some imposing beast, a predator ready to devour me.

  "I... I can't lift that."

  "No, is not for you. Is for me," he declared. He squatted down, squaring his hips, looking forward seriously, his muscular arms gripping the bar far apart. And then, he exploded up, even jumping slightly as the bar sailed up, over his head from the momentum. I laughed in surprise and delight as he landed in a squat, with the bar over his head. Then, as if it were nothing, he stood up. And then, as if it were a totally normal and not terrifying thing to do, he dropped the bar. It slammed into the floor, bounced a few times, and stopped moving.

  "Oh my god!" I squealed. "Be careful!"

  "Is fine. You see? You can drop bar all day, all night. No one in the building even notice. Your Mr. Boss sound proofed this room."

  The room was sound proofed? My ears perked up at that. If this room was sound proofed... Which other rooms were sound proofed? Maybe the entire apartment... If I were screaming, no one would know. I would be helpless, at his mercy.

  The thought sent a shiver up and down my spine. I couldn't tell if it was a shiver of fear, or one of... excitement.

  "Now, you will try."

  He selected a short, shiny metal bar for me. It was only thirty-five pounds, I learned, and it finally felt like something I could handle. We went through the movements, which I actually found myself enjoying. I had always enjoyed things like yoga and pilates, and this wasn't that much different--it was more about flexibility and timing than strength. Almost like doing a very short, very precise dance, in which everything had to be tightened and flexed at the exact right moment. I liked the way the bar sailed up over my head, something I might have struggled to get up over my head without momentum.

  "Excellent," Sven said, clearly pleased. We added weight to the bar, and then again, until my entire body--legs and back, arms and shoulders--were aching pleasantly.

  "I think we are finished for today," Sven finally said, offering me his hand. "I will see you tomorrow for short workout. And then, more weight lifting on day after tomorrow."

  "I don't know if I'm going to be able to..." I murmured. "I'm not exactly an athlete, here. I might need a few days to rest."

  Sven shook his head.

  "I have very strict orders from your Mr. Boss. He wants you to get into shape very quickly. He wants me to push you. He says it will be good practice for you."

  I sighed.

  "Fine. What does Boss want me to do?" I grunted, already dreading how sore I was going to be in the morning. Sven just smiled.

  "It is for me to decide..." he murmured, and drifted over to the line of kettle bells. He selected one marked for thirty-five pounds. When I took it from him, I gasped as it nearly pulled me over double.

  "You will perform kettle bell swings--do you know the exercise?"

  "Sure... Like in Crossfit."

  "Exactly. I will time you. As many repetitions as you can, starting..."

  I got into position, holding the kettle bell between my legs.

  "Now!"

  And I was off, pumping my hips and gasping before long, the Indian food in my stomach swirling around as I moved. After what seemed like a million years, but only forty eight repetitions, Sven stopped me.

  "It's good. Now, you will wait."

  I was nearly on the floor, nearly vomiting, but within thirty seconds, I was working again. And then we did the cycle over and over and over.

  "How... How many more, Sven?" I gasped, panting hard like a work horse who's been put through his paces by a cruel driver. "I don't... I don't know... If... If
I can keep--"

  "One more. One more, Tara, and that is it for the day." Again, he pronounced my name with a Y rather than a J.

  Before long, the round had started again and I was pumping my hips, swinging the iron bell like there was no tomorrow, like I was trying to heave it up into an opponent or up onto a cart--I couldn't imagine what other practical carry over learning to swing a kettle bell might have.

  I could have sworn that this round was longer than the others. At least twice as long--that's what it felt like, at least, as the bell sailed through the air more and more slowly, and my muscles ached and screamed louder and louder. A few times, I came to a stop, all but bent over gasping, until Sven began to yell at me, ordering me to work, work, work.

  And then it was all over. I collapsed on the ground in a pool of my own sweat.

  "Good. It was a good first day. We will do more later, but today was good."

  "More? More? Sven, I'm going to die if we keep this up."

  "No, you will die if you keep up with the cocaine on an empty stomach," he said, suddenly very serious.

  "With this? You will vomit far less than with cocaine. The kettle bell is cruel, but not as cruel as the powder."

  Fine. He was right. I knew he was. I staggered to my feet, dragged my kettle bell back to the rack, and saw Sven off. He, cheerfully, informed me that he would be around tomorrow to run me through a short workout, designed to help me recover from today's.

  "I can't wait," I murmured sarcastically. He must not have picked up on my sarcasm because he looked genuinely delighted by my words.

  And then, as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. I was alone. Alone in the huge apartment. Just like how I had woken up. What a strange place this was...

  Back in the kitchen, I found a smoothie made for me--a recovery smoothie, Bobby's note to me explained. I took a sip and my throat seemed to melt in the most pleasant way. Imagine the most decadent chocolate milkshake possible--not just a milk shake, but a malt, which I had practically never seen on the East Coast and which I certainly would never have consumed as a model.

  Even though it had to be basically candy, I slurped down the smoothie as fast as I could, until my belly felt swollen and bloated. Then, I peaked into the fridge and found more of the smoothie in the used blender, plus a dinner covered in plastic wrap to be warmed up--tandoori chicken, chana masala, naan, rice, and more.

  I could get used to this kind of life. Eat whatever I wanted. Work out. Watch TV in between.

  With my gut full to bursting from my smoothie, I waddled back to my room and ran myself a shower. I sighed as the hot water hit my sore, wasted muscles and before long, I found myself slumping against the cool tile of the side of the shower, sighing as the water worked out the tension in my flesh.

  What was Boss doing right now? Probably cutting a deal with some major Chinese businessmen. Maybe he was on a secret spy mission? I had no idea. Maybe some James Bond type stuff? I imagined him sliding his mask off, drawing a small pistol from inside of his tuxedo (of course he was wearing a tuxedo), and disappearing into the darkness of a Shanghai night.

  But, no. It wouldn't be that interesting. I was sure he was simply meeting with some colleagues, some business associates. Something boring, but something that would make him a whole lot of money.

  Maybe something stressful. Maybe he would be needing my attention when he came back.

  The thought alone turned me on. The idea of tending to him, of relieving his stress and doing whatever he needed me to--it appealed to me in a way I wouldn't have expected it to. I like rough men, but I had never been one to serve, not really. But there was something about Boss that made me want to serve him, made me want to prostrate myself before him, want to offer myself up to him...

  I ran my hands over my soapy breasts, gasping in spite of myself as my fingers fondled my own nipples. My hand fled down, then, to my pussy and leaning against the wall of the shower, I began to touch myself, murmuring his name, his name as I knew it: Boss. Boss. Boss. I knew who my Boss was. And I wanted him back.

  I was slick and sopping wet and it wasn't just shower water. I brought myself to an orgasm quick, painful because of my sore muscles as I straightened out, stretching and whimpering as I finished. I rinsed off, my breath coming in short, hard pants. I was still tired from my work out and I imagined I would be tired from tomorrow's exertion too...

  5

  The Return

  The days since Boss's departure all ran into one another, blurring together, precisely because they all seemed more or less the same. Bobby would come by once a day to cook for me, making my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus my special post workout smoothie.

  "Baby girl, I am jealous as all get out of you," he murmured once as I sat, watching him make it. Bobby was gay, obviously, and I was right--he was from Tennessee. His true passion was drag performance. He had come to New York to indulge his interest, taking a pay cut as he moved from his easy job at a university, working with too-skinny sorority girls and trying to convince them to eat every once and while, to a private business he had started, catering to people like me: wealthy Manhattanites who need lots of attention and, occasionally, affirmation. As he told it, it was far harder in Manhattan than Nashville, but being able to go to a drag show every night of the week and not getting called horrible names on the way home more than made up for it.

  "This shake, it's like what they give to burn victims," he continued. I knew this already--he told me, each time he made it, how lucky I was to be able to eat whatever I wanted. I was starting to agree with him. After years, decades, of not eating what I wanted, it felt amazing to be able to eat my fill and, not only was I not judged for it, not subject to the side glances from my friends and peers and, yes, even my mother at Thanksgiving--but actually encouraged to eat, to fill up.

  "Protein, fat, sugar... It's got everything. You can't drink it for the rest of your life, but after a few weeks, you'll be a whole different person."

  "I'm going to miss not being able to drink one of two of these things a day," I said with a giggle as Bobby licked his spoon.

  "Mm, enjoy it while you can. That one lick? That's a one mile jog right there. I am not even joking, girl."

  Meanwhile, my workouts with Sven had begun to stabilize, to the point where I did not completely dread them. I wasn't as sore as I thought I would be, which is to say my limbs did not fall off--I was still in agony when I woke up after my first workout. But after a few days, the soreness, while not disappearing, did diminish to a point where I could manage it, where it wouldn't break my soul and make me want to stay in bed instead of getting up and facing the day.

  With Sven, my workouts when like this: one day, like my first day, would be a very serious, hard day, focused on heavy lifting, and then a short, intense workout. The next day was basically yoga, with a big of cardio for a warm up. As Sven told me, the idea was not for me to be losing weight, but for me to be gaining lean muscle mass. It was fine if I gained some fat too--I was already underweight.

  "You will not bulk up like a bodybuilder," he assured me. "Only if you are taking steroids, and those are not prescribed for you, I do not think. Very hard to get, in general."

  "Did you ever use steroids?"

  He shrugged.

  "After a certain point, you know, you run up against your body's limits. And then, you need to make decision: do you stay with your limits or do you try to go beyond? Well, if you are an athlete, you always try to go beyond. And if you are trying to go beyond, well... You can only train so many times in a day. You can only eat so many chicken breasts. You have to sleep, have to go to work, have to see the kids... And so, you take the steroids, because even though you are working twelve, sixteen hours a day, it makes each one of those hours a little bit more."

  I was stunned.

  "But I did not take that much. Some of my friends, they took too much, very sick. I only started as my career was ending."

  He could see I was uncomfortable, but I don't kn
ow why I was: after all, hadn't I been in the habit of ingesting a veritable pharmacy over the course of a month if I felt like it?

  Speaking of controlled substances, I had no access to cigarettes. Dr. Fernandes provided me with a nicotine patch which kept the cravings at bay pretty well, but I was amazed, still, at how much I missed smoking. Ultimately, I realized, what it had become for me was a way to escape from everyone else, a way to remove myself from situations. If I had to go outside and smoke, I could get away from whatever guy was creeping on me, from my publicist, from Nora, I could get away to cry in an alley as I took unsteady drags.

  I kept up with my email on a laptop Boss had provided for me. It was nearing the end of the ten days when I got an email from him. His email address was hidden from me--I had no idea how he managed to do that, or why Gmail allowed that.

  "Dear Tara," he wrote.

  "I hope you're enjoying yourself. I hope the last few days have been recuperative for you. Bobby and Sven tell me you are in fine spirits, and looking healthier and healthier by the day. That's great news, and I hope you're feeling well too."

  It was true. I was feeling well. Better than I'd felt in years, in fact. I was gaining weight, too. Not a ton, but enough that my ribs weren't so painfully obvious. And I could have sworn that I was starting to develop powerful, toned thighs, the kind that women all think they want, when in fact, they'd rather just been skinny and call it a day.

  "I hope you're ready for everything I've got planned for you when I return. You'll find a green dress in your closet. I'd like you to wear that, and only that, for when I return. I'll be back at the apartment by 11 PM. Why don't you pour us a few glasses of champagne and meet me out on the terrace? And then we can take it from there. But make sure you rest up beforehand--I'm not going into the office the next morning. You'll have my undivided attention, so make it worthwhile."