It's too early when you swipe in to the gym. The air inside is cold and stale, the lights blinding. It's Saturday morning, so normally you would be nursing a hangover that would make the fluorescent glare unbearable, but it's been weeks since you had a drink. But even after all these weeks, 5:30 am is still too early. You're bleary-eyed and nervous. You feel her presence in the gym. You know she is in here.
She is somewhere past the cardio equipment, through the forest of isolation machines and multi-function towers and mountains of medicine balls. She is in the back, waiting.
You sling your bag into a cubby hole and shuffle across the linoleum. Your head is down, but your eyes searching. You know she sees you. But she is hidden. Looking about, you see only yourself, transposed from many angles across the gym's mirrored walls. You're slovenly in your basketball shorts and stained gray hooded sweatshirt. Do I look bigger? The hoodie doesn't hang off your bones nearly as badly as before. Before-
"You're late."
Mistress Sarah Cane sits side-saddle on an incline bench, leaning her elbow against the padd. Her long black-sheer-stockinged legs are crossed elegantly at the knee, a sliver of bare white thigh visible just before they disappear beneath her pleated black skirt. She wears a white cloth short-sleeved button-down shirt that molds her ample frame. Wavy locks of chestnut hair tumble past her dimpled cheeks and hang about her throat. Her hawkish brown eyes fixed on you.
"Late?" you stammer. You swivel to double-check the clock on the wall behind you. "But-"
Mistress Cane snaps her fingers. Your head snaps back to her instinctively. She's watching you, a faint smile playing about her soft, full lips. She crooks a finger. "Come here."
You obey, and enter the free weight area. As you near her, she halts you with a raised hand. "You know the drill," she says. "Get that sweatshirt off."
You clumsily tug the sweatshirt over your head. The undershirt sticks to it, and your hair tangles in the neck-hole. You pull yourself free and toss the hoodie aside. Mistress's mouth turns up slightly at the corner. "Now the shirt."
A flush rises in your cheeks. But you can't resist. The voice and its promise compel. You lift the corners of your t-shirt and slide it up. It clings momentarily to your upper back, straining against your emerging latissimus. Shirts never used to do that before. You stand with your naked upper body exposed, hands instinctively trying to cover the soft parts you are ashamed of, the parts you've hated since you were old enough to know.
Mistress Cane pushes herself upright, one stockinged leg sliding over the other, and rises in an elegant motion. Slowly, she steps toward you. Her eyes burn. A black leather riding crop dangles loosely from her hand. You stiffen to full height, chest thrust out, arms at your sides. You dare not look down, but you cannot bring yourself to make eye contact with her. You simply stand stock-still like a soldier at inspection, staring into nothingness straight in front of you.
Mistress Cane patrols in front of you, scrutinizing you. Her eyes work over your body. She purses her lips. "Not terrible," she murmurs to herself. "There might be hope for you yet."
You glance at yourself in the mirror. It is true that the past few weeks have been a wonder for your physique. Your arms and shoulders are puffed up, and your potbelly has receded. Still, you are hardly an aesthetic marvel, especially compared to the other meatheads who frequent this gym.
Mistress Cane prods her riding crop into your soft belly, squishing it. Your cheeks burn. "What did you eat last night?"
"After dinner?" you stammer. Your mind races. What was it? "Nothing."
Mistress Cane's eyes narrow. They search you, prying, pulling, already knowing. Knowing before you do. She says nothing. She knows she doesn't need to. The memory swims back. "Oh," you say. "Nick had some friends over. We ordered pizza." You look down. "I ate a piece."
Mistress Cane pushes the crop harder into your stomach. "I knew it," she says, clicking her tongue. Her eyes bore into you. "Do you know what I did last night?"
You shake your head "No, Mistress Cane."
She laughs. "I went to a film premier downtown," she tells you. "It was terrible, but at least I got to dress up," A smile plays on her lips. "A dozen guys must have approached me. Hot guys. Rich guys. Models. Guys you've heard of." Your stomach churns. The thought of these guys hitting on her makes you sick. Your eyes are fixed down.
Her gaze softens. "I blew them off, though. Do you know why?"
You shake your head. She gestures around the gym with the riding crop. "Do you see anyone else here?"
"No."
"That's right. It's five-thirty in the morning. Every one of those guys is asleep now. Passed out drunk. Probably with someone they'd never met before last night." Your eyes meet. She brings the riding crop up to your face and lightly traces your cheek with the leather snap. "And here you are. With me. Again."
She looks back down at your naked torso. "You're looking pretty good," she says. The crop prods your chest. "Starting to beef up. I like it." The crop traces your sternum down past your belly button to the hem of your shorts. "Take these off."
You slip the shorts down past your shoes and step clumsily out of them, revealing your red briefs. "Look at those thighs," she whistles, poking at your legs. "They must have doubled in size." The crop runs up the back of your thigh to glute. "That barbell work is doing you wonders." She smacks your butt playfully with the crop. It stings. You exhale. There is a stirring inside your briefs.
She smirks. The crop lashes forward again, slapping your thigh. "Enough," she barks. "Get over to the rack."
You obey. The pegs are already set at perfect height, the bar just below your shoulders. Mistress Cane walks back to the bench where she was seated. "Start warming up," she orders over her shoulder.
You grip the bar and swing yourself beneath to rack it behind your shoulders. The mirror flatters your cocked arms and shoulders. Behind you, Mistress Cane faces away, rummaging through a bag. Pressing up with your thighs, you unrack the empty bar. Its once-daunting weight is now familiar. You suck in a breath, puff your chest out before you, and squat down to the floor. When your legs reach parallel, you exhale, driving yourself back up. Effortlessly, you repeat this motion four more times. It is second nature to you now.
You rerack the bar and load it. One forty-five pound plate on each side. One hundred thirty-five pounds total. It used to be your goal. Now it's a warmup. You clip the weights in place. Grip the bar. Swing under it. Unrack. Squat. Hamstrings taut. Hip drive up. Squat. Rerack. Load more weight.
When you reach one hundred eighty-five pounds, her hand grips your shoulder. You startle and start to turn, but her hand is firm. Her breath is hot on your ear. "Looking good." Her voice is a low, throaty growl. "You're almost ready."
She fastens a black leather collar around your throat. Her hands lightly brush your skin. She tugs on the dangling pink leash, jerking you upright. "Go on," she says.
You unrack the weight and step back. The leash is slack, but one jerk could send you crashing to the ground. She stands behind you in the mirror holding the leash, fixated on your bare back. You breathe and squat down deep, then drive yourself upward. The bar is getting heavy. A dull burn starts spreading through your legs as you warm up.
Mistress Cane tugs you backward with the leash, leading you away from the bar. You obediently rack more weight onto the bar and continue until you have reached two hundred and fifteen pounds. Your working weight. But she stops you after one rep.
"Drop those babyweights and add another plate." Two plates per side. Two hundred twenty-five pounds. You've never squatted that much before. Can you even do this?
She senses your hesitation, and pulls hard on the leash. "Come on," she barks, "get moving." She drags you by the leash over to the plates, where you mechanically deload the twenty-five, the ten, and the five. You bend down and pull out another forty-five. It is ominous. You load the weight and follow suit on the other side.
