by Brianna Hale
Dom stares at me, hard, and then slowly shakes his head.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I know how I’m going to start my article. Dom Fitness takes itself way too seriously.
“Young lady, as you’re aware we’re not an ordinary fitness center.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Young lady?
“The rules are to protect our staff and clients and the questionnaire is to ensure that you receive an experience that’s tailored for you. In your case, it’s especially important that you get a feel for the place, for the article you’re writing. Don’t you want to do your best possible work for your employer?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I need to know how you’re different from all my other clients. I’m going to sit you down on a chair just over there, and you’re going to fill out the questionnaire for me.”
He’s already holding out his arm toward the chairs, but I’m not ready to obey. “I thought the questionnaire was to pair me with the right trainer. Aren’t you my trainer? That’s what Joshua said.”
Take that, you big bully. LOGIC.
Dom’s eyes travel to my lips, as if he’s displeased with what’s coming out of them. “Yes, I’m your trainer. We’re paired well already. Joshua on the front desk is an excellent judge of character.”
I wonder what it means for me that I’ve “paired well” with Dom. In my opinion, we go together about as well as red wine and chalk. “Then why do I—”
“I need to know everything about you before we begin, and you need to study the rules.” He points to the chairs. “Now sit.”
For heaven’s sake, this is more trouble than it’s worth. I take the clipboard from him and flounce over to a black chair.
“Not that chair,” he tells me. “That one.”
Next to the black chair is a tiny pink one covered in flower stickers. I glare at Dom and he glares right back, still pointing at it. I suppose this is meant to humiliate me for all my backchat. Doesn’t he understand that I’m a journalist and I can write whatever I like about this horrible place? I’ll show him. I’ll really go to town on Dom Fitness in my article.
Fuming, I sit in the pink chair. It’s sized for a five-year-old and my knees are up around my ears. Dom stands over me, and when I crane my neck up I’m certain I see a flicker of pleasure in his eyes at the sight of me looking so ridiculous. I’m being humiliated for his amusement, just like Kevin was humiliated.
This place is full of assholes on power trips. When I’m done with my write up, Dom Fitness is going to be mud.
I turn my attention to the questionnaire and start to read. Being praised by someone I respect is an enjoyable feeling. What a dumb question. Who doesn’t get a nice feeling when a really cool or together person thinks you’re amazing? A big old ten to that. I circle the number and read the next question.
Being told what to do makes me lose my temper. Oh, hell yeah. Again, who wouldn’t get their back up by being bossed around? Ten again.
I’m happiest when I have nothing to worry about. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Who wrote this questionnaire, Captain Obvious? Who enjoys worry? Shaking my head, I mark down another ten.
There are some questions I can answer “one” to just as easily—no humiliation for me, thank you very much—and some where I’m definitely in the middle. Pastels can be cute, but some days I like to be grungy and wear black T-shirts and ripped jeans.
I finish my answers and turn to the rules.
Dom Fitness is a safe and secure environment for all trainees and trainers. Anyone found to be in violation of the below rules will have their membership immediately revoked and escorted from the premises.
Rule #1: There will be no physical contact between trainers and trainees on the premises, other than for instructional fitness purposes. This includes bodily contact or contact via implements.
No actual spanking and stuff goes on here, then. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
Rule #2: The trainee is to speak to their trainer politely and respectfully at all times, and address them as ma’am, sir, mistress, master, mommy or daddy etc., to be agreed on between each trainer and trainee.
“What the actual fuck,” I mutter to myself.
Over my head, Dom clears his throat. When I glance up, he’s glaring at me.
“I don’t tolerate any bad language,” he says.
“Is that in these rules?”
“I have additional rules.”
I roll my eyes and keep reading.
Rule #3: A trainee will commit one hundred percent to each workout and follow their trainer’s instructions to the letter. If a trainer feels as if a trainee is deliberately underperforming or being willfully disobedient, the trainer reserves to the right to set punishments for their trainee, including but not limited to: extra exercises, cold showers and corner time.
Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.
Rule #4: No trainee or trainer will comment on or stare at another trainer and trainee’s session unless invited to participate in public scoldings or praisings. Neutral abstaining is also permitted.
Rule #5: Trainees and trainers will act in a safe, sane and consensual manner toward each other at all times.
“Do you have any questions about the rules?” Dom asks when I get to the bottom of the page.
“Not really. They’re written in a way that even a five-year-old would understand.”
He casts his eyes over my tiny pink chair. “Then you and I shouldn’t have any problems, should we?”
Yeah, no. We’re going to have problems.
He holds out a hand for the clipboard and I pass it to him. “You will listen to me at all times and obey my instructions. If you have any questions you will say, Please, I have a question. If you feel as if you’re about to do yourself an injury, say, red alert. If you have done yourself an injury, say black alert. If you can’t speak, hold up one finger for the former and two for the latter. Being out of breath or tired or generally being a whiny little baby is not an injury. Is all that clear?”
Jeez, this dude is off the charts. How many thousands of rules does he want to give me? “Yes. All right. Fine.”
“Yes, daddy.”
I look up at him, startled. “Excuse me?”
Dom leans down from his great height so that his lips are very close to my ear, and he says quietly, but firmly, “You’re going to call me daddy. Say, yes daddy.”
Oh, hell no. I haven’t even called my own father daddy since I was eight years old. I’m not about to start saying it to some stranger.
Dom just looks at me, his face very close to mine, and waits.
Chapter Two
Dom
Amelia is staring at me with her mouth wide open. She sure is one hell of a brat.
“Well?” I snap, raising my voice. “I haven’t got time to stand around all day while you catch flies. If you understood everything I just said, say, yes daddy.”
Her eyes dart left and right as if she’s conscious of people listening in on our conversation. I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger and turn her face back to mine. Her eyes are as wide as saucers as she stares up at me, still open-mouthed. I become distracted by the extremely clear image of slapping my thickened cock against her cheek and then pushing it into her sulky mouth.
Best way to shut a little brat up. Shame I have to keep this completely professional.
“Amelia. Look at me, not them. I asked you a question.”
Amelia licks her lips, and then mutters, “Yes, daddy.” She visibly squirms in her tiny pink chair. I can’t help the grin that covers my face. What a picture she makes.
“Good girl. Up on that bike over there for a warm-up.”
Amelia does as she’s told, frowning a little as she goes, as if she’s not quite sure why she’s cooperating and doesn’t think she likes it very much.
She’ll grow to like obeying me. She’ll grow to love it.
I watch Amelia clamber onto the stationary bike, which was last used by a much t
aller person. She doesn’t seem to know she can adjust the seat and her feet struggle to push the pedals around.
“Having fun there, peaches?” I ask dryly.
The nickname just comes to me. Her lips are faintly peach-colored, and so are the freckles that dust her nose and the auburn tints in her ponytail. I bet her nipples are that pretty peach color, too.
“No,” she huffs. “I can’t reach the pedals. Stupid bike.”
“Lift that little ass of yours up a sec.”
Obediently, she stands on the pedals while I reach between her legs and adjust the seat for her. “There you go. Sit yourself back down. Is that better?”
“Yes.”
I brace one hand on the handlebars and the other on the seat of the bike, just below her peachy ass. We’re eye to eye as she sits on the seat. “Yes, what?”
Amelia gnaws on her lip for a moment. A few strands of her hair have come loose around her face and her eyes are uncertain. She’s got the look of a brat who’s suddenly found herself way out of her depth.
“Yes, daddy.”
I harden my expression, and she scrambles to add, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Give me five minutes at a good pace.”
While she pedals, I read through her answers and I have to suppress a wicked smile. She’s exactly what I guessed she’d be, a brat with a praise kink. I’m going to have my hands full with her, but there’s a good little girl hiding somewhere underneath all that sass. I can’t wait to find her.
“Now, tell me your fitness goals.”
“I don’t have any. I’m just here to write a story,” she puffs.
I check the resistance on her bike. Almost nothing, and she’s been cycling for less than two minutes. “Never mind the article, peaches. First, I’ve got to give you something to write about. Now, tell me what you’d like to improve in your life.”
“I guess I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
They all say that, but Amelia is pretty damn hot just as she is. What she needs is some muscle tone and cardio training, and a regimen to give her life some structure and put color in her pretty cheeks. “What would you say to having more energy throughout the day, and being able to walk up two flights of stairs carrying groceries without huffing and puffing?”
She perks up. “That would be great. I wouldn’t mind sculpting my arms a bit, too. And my butt. Ooh, and can we define my waist a bit?”
That’s more like it. I let the grin spread over my face again. “You bet we can, peaches. It would be a pleasure.”
“Why do you keep calling me peaches?” she asks.
“It suits you. Do you like it?”
“Do I have a choice?” she retorts, her sassiness flooding back.
“Yes, you do, if you’re a good girl. If you’re not, I’ll clip a hot pink sign to your shirt that says I AM A BRAT and you’ll wear it all session. Now, would you like to ask daddy that question again?”
Amelia scowls for a moment, and then schools her face into politeness and tries again. “Can I choose what you call me, or do you decide that, like how you decided I would call you daddy?”
I want to laugh. I didn’t decide she’d call me daddy. Her inner bratty little girl decided that for us. “What would you like me to call you?”
She thinks for a moment, still pedaling. “Well, Amelia, I guess? But I suppose peaches is kind of cute.”
She mutters this so quietly that I pretend I haven’t heard her and lean closer. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Peaches is cute,” she tells me with a glower.
I nod decisively. “Damn right she is. Okay, peaches, that’s enough warm-up. Time for your weight training.”
Amelia jumps down from her bike and approaches the free weights. I take her through some standing lunges, and it becomes more and more obvious to me that Amelia has never set foot in a gym before today. She has zero balance, her coordination is sloppy, and I even have to teach her how to hold the weights properly so that she doesn’t hurt herself. I don’t mind, though, because everyone has to start somewhere and it’s a pleasure teaching her.
“That’s twelve,” I tell her when she completes her reps, and she breathes a sigh of relief and puts the weights back on the stand.
“What’s next?”
“Next?” I ask, my eyebrow raised. “Next you do it all again. And then again. Sets, peaches. This is how we build muscle.”
Amelia opens her mouth indignantly, and I fold my arms and wait. A moment later, she thinks better of whatever she was going to say and picks up the weights again.
“Good girl. All right, you’re going to feel the burn, but that’s a good thing. We like it hot, here.”
Once she’s done with the lunges, I take her through bicep curls, tricep curls, and then a batch of burpees and jumping jacks. After those, Amelia is sweating and breathing hard and looks just about done in. Either she’s going to be too tired to be bratty, or she’s going to bust out into one hell of a tantrum any minute now, because I’m so not done with her yet.
“Assisted squats,” I tell her, pointing at the machine. “The bar goes across the tops of your shoulders, and you squat, letting the guides help you balance.
Amelia approaches it and scrunches her nose thoughtfully. “That doesn’t look so bad.”
I add weights to either side of the bar, and suddenly she’s not looking quite as confident. Or happy.
“Do you have to make everything so impossible?” she grumbles, stepping up to the bar and getting her shoulders beneath it. She does one squat on shaky legs, and then stands up.
“Again. And again. No, keep going, peaches. That’s it. Your left hip is popping out.” I grasp her firmly by the hips to hold her steady as she continues her squats. She’s a tidy little package. The heels of my hands are on the fleshy parts of her peachy butt, purely for instructional purposes, but a man would enjoy putting his hands on her for other reasons. I would enjoy it, for sure. First for a spanking, and then to hold her firm while I fuck her fast.
I don’t usually get so into my dom role at the gym. There’s just something about Amelia that I really like.
She gets through two sets of squats, and I let her rest for thirty seconds before telling her to do a third.
“No. No more.” She folds her arms and glares at me, red cheeked and puffing. “My legs are jelly. I’m exhausted.”
Oh, please. If she’s got the energy to glower, she’s got the energy to work out. “Are you using one of your safe words? Red alert for if you’re going to hurt yourself, black alert if you have,” I remind her.
“No. I’m not about to hurt myself. I just don’t want to do anymore.”
I force my features in seriousness, though on the inside I’m grinning. Time to see what this little brat is really made of. “Oh, have you? I decide when your workout is over, young lady. Not you.”
Amelia’s chin juts. “Excuse you, but I’m a grown woman and I have agency over my own body.”
“You forgot, ‘And I’m a brat.’”
She bridles at that, and her voice goes up in pitch. “I am not a brat! How dare you say such a thing? I’m sick of your stupid face and I’m sick of your dumb gym!”
My eyes narrow. She can stomp her foot and carry on all she likes, but she will not disrespect me, and she will not disrespect my gym.
I step closer, looming over her. “You don’t have the self-control to finish one sixty-minute workout when your employer and I have both requested that you do so. You’re a self-centered little brat who can’t see past the end of her nose.”
Her very cute, kissable little nose.
Damn, I need to stop thinking like that.
I dig a key out of my pocket and hold it out to her. “Hit the showers. I’m done with you.”
Amelia grabs the key out of my hand without a thank-you and storms off. I wait where I am, knowing she’ll be back in thirty seconds.
Back she comes, right on cue, holding out the key. “It won’t open the showe
r room door.”
“Yes, it will. That shower room.” I point to the sign that says Cold Shower Room. “Little brats who get mouthy cool off under icy showers.”
Amelia looks as indignant as if I’ve smacked her bare bottom. “That’s not fair,” she splutters.
I turn and walk back to my office before I tell her what I’d do to her if she really were my little brat. After her mouthiness, a spanking would be truly fair.
Twenty minutes later, I’m talking to Joshua on reception when Amelia emerges in her street clothes with her gym bag over her arm. She looks like a completely different girl to the brat I saw marching off to the showers. Her face is pale, and her eyes are big and anxious. She plays with the strap of her bag, glancing uncertainly at me.
Joshua starts to grin, but I give him a sharp shake of my head. Amelia is humiliated and she’s not into humiliation, so this experience has been painful for her.
I go over to her. “Did you enjoy your cold shower?”
She shakes her head, and there’s a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “No. I’m… I’m…”
I know what it is. She’s regretting getting into a strop and ending her session with a punishment. A flood of tenderness goes through me. Poor baby. She’s cold, too, from the shower. I wish I could pull her into my arms and warm her up.
“I’m sorry for what I said about the gym,” she whispers, crossing her arms and shivering a little.
I make my voice slow and deep, and as kind as I can. “You did so well today, Amelia. I could see how difficult and new it was for you. You were afraid, but you worked hard. I’m proud of you.”
She looks up at me, her green eyes large and troubled. “But I didn’t finish my workout.”
“And you were punished for it. You took your punishment without complaint, which means you’re forgiven. Daddy’s so proud of you. Now, off you go.”
Amelia swallows, and smiles a little. She says in a small voice, “Okay.” She stares up at me for a moment longer, as if reluctant to leave my side. Then she squeaks, “Thank you, daddy.”