As Rhonda lubed the dildo and worked it against Dean’s ass, she laughed to herself at the absurdity of it all. Covid! What had started out to kill her business had in the end enhanced it, and indeed transformed it, and her, in the process.
Rhonda was a personal trainer and had worked at a large, fancy gym for a couple of years. She loved it, but it wasn’t an easy gig. To actually make a living required long hours strewn haphazardly from six in the morning until nine at night. And even then she had to supplement with a cocktail server job on weekends.
Then the Big Germ hit and she was out in the cold. Gym closed. Bar closed. Thank god for the supplemental unemployment insurance. Once it was clear that the pandemic wasn’t going to end anytime soon, Rhonda got creative. She scrounged for second hand gym equipment, got a loan from her Dad, and opened a “studio” in her loft apartment. Then she hit up her old clients and said she was open for business. Those brave enough, and tolerant enough, to work out in a mask with the loft windows open started showing up. They paid in cash, and for a while she was better off than she had been before. Until she was way better off. When vaccines rolled out, and the gym reopened, she stuck with her solo studio.
“Argh, yes Mistress, thank you, thank you!” Dean groaned as the blue fake cock made it’s way past his sphincter. Dean’s swollen cock and balls were constrained within the webbed fabric of his jockstrap. Rhonda gave the package a hard squeeze, just to remind him that she wasn’t there for his pleasure. Well, she was, but that wasn’t part of the act. Dean lay on his upper back and neck, his legs thrown back and tied to a weight bench. Rhonda stood above him, pile driving the dildo into his rapidly expanding asshole. It was a reward. Dean had been among her first clients to make the switch from regular fitness client to high paying sub, and after a year of meeting all his fitness goals she was fucking him for the first time.
Dean was a douche bag. A commercial real estate dick, who walked around with big swinging arrogance and a misogynist attitude everywhere he went. Rhonda had put up with the inappropriate remarks, the leading questions, the blatant propositions, for months. It was part of the job, sadly. Most clients were decent folks, just trying to get fit. But some were like Dean. Pigs. And a lot were just dismissive, elite assholes that treated her like a servant. Cancelling at the last minute. Showing up late and asking her to juggle her next client. Complaining when she had to raise her rates to make rent.
She never let her resentment show through. She was a gorgeous African American, with the body of her former college pole vaulting days, and a bright, killer smile complete with dimples and perfect teeth. A shortish natural mop of a haircut, and huge brown eyes completed the picture. Clients picked her because they wanted a body like hers, or because they got attention walking around the gym with her, or because they thought they had a chance to sleep with her. Ah, back to Dean.
Dean had jumped at the chance to do “solo sessions” at Rhonda’s loft. Rhonda had almost thought to not even ask him, knowing that without the bounds of the gym he was likely to get even more aggressive. But she needed the dough. And, as she predicted, at his very first session he implied that if he paid extra they might “exercise in the bedroom.” He was swinging a fifty pound kettlebell at the time, and she was holding a jump rope. Without thinking she swung the folded rope against his ass.
“Listen here, asshole, I’m not you’re fucking girlfriend!” she yelled as she took a few more swings with the rope, “You come here, you do what I tell you, and you fucking leave! You got that?! Now keep counting, mother fucker!”
Dean looked alarmed but kept swinging the kettlebell, “forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty” he gasped as he lowered the kettlebell to the padded floor with a thud. He looked at Rhonda and smiled, but this time sheepishly.
“On the mat,” she ordered calmly, handing him a twenty five pound dumbbell. “Turkish get-ups, thirty.” Dean groaned. “O.K., fifty then. On each side.” Dean shut up and commenced the elaborate series of steps to rise from lying down to standing while holding the weight above his head.
“You like telling me what to do?” Dean asked, his smarmy smile and arrogance returning.
As Dean attempted to rise for his third or fourth get-up, Rhonda put a trainer-clad foot against his chest and pushed him back against the mat, then slid her foot up to his Adam’s apple where she applied gentle pressure. “No,” she said, “I think you like me telling you what to do.” She had no idea where this was coming from. But she was pissed off and there was just something in his countenance that told her she was now in charge.
“Yes…Mistress,” Dean managed and she allowed him to return to the workout.
An hour later he Venmoed her a $100 tip, and asked if he could come three times a week. When he arrived a couple days later, he handed her a gift box but avoided direct eye contact. Inside the box was a leather cat-o-nine tails whip. The terms of their future sessions were set.
In time, Dean referred a few of his douchebag friends with tastes similar to his own, and Rhonda turned a couple of her existing clients, as she grew to read the signs of submissive desire. There was an adorable chunky redhead who had sheepishly lusted after Rhonda long before Covid. She was easy. One firm slap on her exposed left cheek as she was bent over a Roman exercise chair, and she was soon paying double and showing up in a thong. A middle aged guy trying to get back into the dating scene was another easy mark. Rhonda merely crouched over him as he was doing sit ups and soon he was coming five days a week to smell her ass.
She liked to give all of her clients, whatever their kinks, their money’s worth. She did not give up on her core mission of getting people in shape. But for this particular audience, abuse, both verbal and physical, was part of their routine. And it worked. While most were motivated by positive reinforcement, this crowd strove to reach new heights of fitness with the help of a leather strap, or the pull of a handful of hair, or a foot against their neck, or chest, or genitals.
Not that positive reinforcement didn’t have it’s place, even with these guys. When they met their goals, she rewarded them. Sort of. She’d let them lick her foot, freshly pulled from her sweaty Nikes. That was always a good start. As they progressed she might sit on their face, clad in spandex and fresh from her own workout, of course.
Not every sub was treated the same. It was what was needed to keep their spirits in the right place. She’d allowed the adorable redhead to eat her after just ten “modified” sessions. And, eventually, Rhonda had even let herself get all the way to orgasm to help the redhead celebrate the vanquishing of her twentieth unwanted pound. But she was an exception.
Dean was mostly about humiliation and abuse. Sucking on her toes a couple of times was the most she’d given him beyond a solid whipping in the first six months of their adjusted arrangement. But at that six month milestone, she offered him her sweaty asshole. As he knelt on the mat in his jock strap (the only thing she allowed him to wear), Rhonda pushed her tight white spandex shorts past her dark legs to the floor and positioned herself on all fours in front of him.
“Don’t even think about touching my pussy,” Rhonda told Dean, though in truth she had been wet with anticipation since he had arrived, “Only my filthy asshole is good enough for a slacker like you. Now get in there.”
Dean looked upon the most beautiful thing he had ever seen: Rhonda’s full, brown, heart shaped ass spread open, with both her dark star and rosebud widening before him. Just a hint of pink revealed themselves from either hole. He had not eaten ass before, and so despite his excitement, he pressed between Rhonda’s cheeks tentatively. Rhonda reached round to grab Dean’s hair and pull him firmly into her ass. Dean quickly realized he loved the musky, earthy smell, and he licked with a flattened tongue around her rim.
Rhonda suppressed a moan, but her gooseflesh gave her away. She was enjoying this! Excited to please his mistress, Dean lost the last of his inhibitions, and probed Rhonda’s asshole as deeply as he could with his distended tongue. Rhonda was desperate to rub her clit in time with the tongue lashing, but she could not give him the gift of her orgasm. He simply did not deserve it.
After a few minutes she crawled away, pulled her shorts back on, and said simply, “You can leave.”
And now, here they were, at the year anniversary of Dean’s turning. It had been good to him. Already pretty fit to begin with, the three workouts a week, when he was desperate to show Mistress how much he would do for her, had transformed him into a jacked stud. In another time, he would have added that to his repertoire of douchebag seduction traps of female receptionists, property managers, and junior employees. But now he only desired to please Rhonda.
Dean had been begging Rhonda to peg him for months now. He had met all his goals. What was she waiting for? But she always dismissed him with a laugh and whipped him all the harder. Until today. When he arrived Rhonda was in a silk black robe, which she dropped to reveal an elaborate leather BDSM harness. She’d covered her nipples (she’d never allowed him to see her beautiful breasts) with black falsies, but the rest of her, including her shaved chocolate mons, was available for viewing, That is, until she wrapped a leather strap-on harness complete with an electric blue prick around her lovely waist .
“Strip. Leave the jockstrap on. As usual.” Rhonda ordered. “Get on your back. Swing your legs back toward the bench,” she continued. Rhonda then used pink latex exercise bands to secure Dean’s ankles to the cross bar.
“Thank you, Mistress. Thank you,” Dean cried breathlessly, his heart racing.
Rhonda responded with swats of a riding crop against Dean’s exposed ass. When she saw Dean smile, she swung the crop hard against his taint, sending a shock directly to his prostate that caused him to see stars. His smiling stopped. She returned to his ass cheeks, then gave his mesh clad balls a few strokes, then shifted to short rapid smacks against his taint before moving down to his asshole.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, Mistress, ouch, fuck, thank you,” Dean managed, though the pain was severe. Rhonda set the crop aside. She grabbed a bottle of lube and dripped a few streams into Dean’s sore hole. Dean felt a moment of relief from the cool liquid, and, indeed, was relieved there would be lube at all.
Rhonda slid past Dean’s sphincter with some effort. Truth was she had never pegged a guy before. She had put a somewhat smaller dildo up the redhead’s ass once, but she had seemed rather practiced in the act. It was new to Dean. He grimaced with each slight advance. Rhonda didn’t especially care about his discomfort, that was kind of the point, but she didn’t want to tear the guy either, so she went slowly. She found herself surprisingly turned on by it all. This guy has needed an ass fuck for a while, she thought to herself.
Dean moaned in pleasure-pain. As his anus relaxed, the silicone prick felt increasingly good as the faux circumcised tip slid against his prostate. He realized he was hard and he reached up to slide the jockstrap aside. He knew he would be denied, but he had to try. Rhonda slapped his hand away, then spanked the inside of his thighs very hard, and gave his balls a tight squeeze. That would teach him to get cheeky.
As Dean’s ass gave way, Rhonda moved with increasing speed. Her strong, sinewy brown thighs and butt burned slightly in the crouched position she was in, but the pressure of the soft concave base of the “cock” against her clit helped her forget about it. My god, she thought, I’m fucking loving this. She looked down at Dean and could tell from his slack jaw, glazed eyes and the stream of pre-cum making its way through the mesh of his jockstrap, that he was enjoying it, as well. Ah fuck it, Rhonda thought, I guess he can have a good time too, just this once.
She was pounding him now with full pile drives that pressured her swollen clit with every down stroke. She was going to cum. She was going to give him this. Rhonda finished with four or five more hard thrusts, her orgasm causing her to arch and close her eyes. When she opened them Dean was looking up at her with a look of total and complete adoration. The douchebag was gone, at least for the moment. He was her loyal, loving submissive, taking the dicking he deserved. Still moving in him with slow strokes, she gave Dean a nod. He hesitated, unsure if perhaps he was misinterpreting. When Rhonda nodded again, he pulled the head of his cock from its jockstrap prison and stroked it violently. No telling when she might change her mind. To Dean’s delight, she did not, and in less than a minute Dean was shooting cum onto his own face and open mouth.
Rhonda withdrew the dildo with a slurp. She unhooked the harness and let it drop to the floor, then quickly slipped her robe back on. She flashed Dean that dazzling smile, dimples and all, for just a moment, but quickly returned to her stern Mistress mode.
“Get out.”
