{Note: This is the eighteenth in a multi-part story series cataloging the progressive evolution of a relationship between a dominant woman who provides leadership and discipline for her husband. Each installment can stand alone, but they read much better if you start at the beginning. Go to: Erin Ch.01: Female Led Relationship. JQGraves}

I know Erin just wants the best for me, and I admit I am a tad overweight, thanks largely to my sedentary existence as an author and freelance writer. But I really hate this damned elliptical exercise machine.

Erin has been counselling me about my weight forever, and several times I promised to start a serious exercise regime, but I've started nothing that lasted. The issue came to a head when I required a corset to fit into Mrs. Campbell's demo punishment dress. That fitting was a landmark in our woman led marriage. After The Fitting (ATF), life changed.

The Fitting was on a Friday. The following Monday, Erin was later than usual getting home from work. She'd stopped at a gym to pick up our membership IDs and meet my new Personal Trainer, Simone, whom Erin hired to "assist" me in my efforts to get into shape. Erin told me Simone was recommended to her by Michelle, the Personal Assistant to the CEO of the company where Erin is VP Supply Chain Management. I tensed up and my heart beat faster when Erin shared that news. I'm convinced Michelle is a sworn Handmaiden to the Prince of Darkness. Nothing good comes from that source.

Simone works out of a private fitness salon that caters primarily to women. Through Michelle, Erin purchased lifetime memberships for us both. Erin is into being fit, and she uses the gym in her office building frequently. Me, not so much. At least not so much Before The Fitting (BTF). BTF, my exercise consisted mostly of getting up from my chair at the computer where I write, walking out to the kitchen, lifting the coffee carafe (a bicep curl), tipping the carafe to pour into my cup (good for the wrist), replacing the carafe back on the warmer, walking back to my chair and doing one partial squat as I sit back down. I repeated this routine as necessary until the coffee was consumed and the carafe was empty, averaging 12 reps. By then it would be approaching noon; at which time, I would break for lunch.

When Erin got home that Monday, she gave me my temporary gym ID and Simone's business card. "This is your new Personal Trainer. You're booked with her at 8:00AM for the rest of this week. She has promised to whip you into shape, and I have given her carte blanche to do so. I've made her aware of our special relationship, and the methods I use to motivate and correct you, so there should be no misunderstandings going into this relationship. She has assured me that if you listen attentively, do what you're told when you're told and how you're told to do it, you will meet the fitness milestones she will set for you. If not, she will provide the incentive to... encourage you. Do you have any questions?"

Erin handled the questions I asked expeditiously: "Yes, you have to keep the appointment." "No, the contract with Simone does not have an end date." "Yes, she has full discretion to motivate you." "Yes, that includes corporal punishment and any of the other means I use." "No! And don't ask me that again! The time for questions is now over. What's for dinner?"

So, here I am at the gym, struggling with this damned elliptical trainer. Not counting the warm up, which Simone does not count, I've been working the machine for almost fifteen minutes. Erin, or anyone else our age who is in shape, could easily handle much longer at a much higher pace, but me? I'm struggling here.

"Watch your pace." Simone tapped me on the bottom with her long, synthetic rod. She has set the resistance level on the machine and informed me of the minimum requirement for pace. I'm above that lower limit, barely, so her taps are just friendly reminders. When I drop below the limit, she abandons taps in favor of full arm swings and impressive slashes, precisely placed for maximum effect.

I'm dressed in a tight, baby blue spandex T-shirt with the logo, "PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY," (I didn't pick it.) over purple spandex shorts that come to mid-thigh, with a pink thong underneath. The women in this gym think I look "cute." Pudgy but cute. Pudgy despite the waist cincher I'm wearing under my shirt, adding to my sweat. Sorry, forgot to mention the cincher, but if you were here, you'd see it's obvious under the tight-fitting T. Erin selected the clothing I'm wearing. Fortunately, she realized from the start I could not exercise while laced up in my new corset. Unfortunately, Erin has ordered a High Waist Butt Lifter through Bethany, her (our!) Personal Shopper. I guess the boutique did not have my size in stock. Erin thinks the women at the gym will find me even cuter once my butt is lifted. I've no doubt I will present a better target for Simone's rod, not that she needs it.

Of course, my member is secured. Erin took me out of my usual cage, only to put me into the Kali's Teeth Crown of Thorns, locked in place through a Prince Albert piercing. She does not like the idea of me getting hard in the presence of all those nubile young ladies in their form-fitting exercise outfits. The Kali's Teeth will punish any tendency toward growth of my member. The thong and the spandex shorts I wear do not effectively hide the fact there is something between my legs other than what nature gave me. The girls at the gym have started a pool. I believe they call it the "Penis Pool." The winner will be the woman who correctly identifies the hardware at my crotch with the tie breaker being the date and time the mystery is first revealed.

I mentioned Simone's rod. Erin does not cane me, preferring to apply Lucile, her trusty hairbrush or Delphine, her heavy leather strap. I first experienced caning at The Fitting. Mrs. Campbell used a long synthetic rod to "encourage" me to try to escape her demo punishment party dress. I learned two things as a result of that incident. The first was I could not free myself from that dress no matter how frantically I tried, and the second was I do not enjoy being caned.

Like Mrs. Campbell, Simone swings her rod with precision and impressive force. Putting a weapon like that into the hands of a Personal Trainer should be illegal, on a par with giving a suitcase nuke to a Jihadi. My spandex shorts provide little protection, and, of course, the thong up the crack of my ass adds none. And Simone has the authority to pull both the shorts and the thong down, should she choose to add to my punishment and humiliation. So far, it has only happened once.

It was earlier this week, the second week ATF. We started that day's session with an easy jog of a mile and a half, with Simone whipping my legs with her rod whenever I slowed. She has me wearing a chest strap to monitor my heart rate, which in my out-of-shape condition dictates a slow pace to keep my heart from working too hard. Still, after the first quarter mile or so I get tired, my engine sputters and I slow even more until Simone "reminds" me to pick up the pace. No doubt she gets frustrated with the slow speed my heart allows, and this makes her impatient and all the quicker to wield her rod. I was wearing six stripes on my thighs and calves before we even entered the gym.

Two of the women who train there and have placed me in the "cute" category expressed their sympathies when they saw my stripes. "Oh, you poor baby," said a surprisingly fit lady in her fifties. "Did that mean Simone use her cane to switch your legs? It's really your own fault, sweetie. You'll just have to work harder."

"Let me see," said her partner, a woman of similar age, but running more to the voluptuous. "Oh, you're right. That must have really stung. Let momma make it better." She pulled me in for a hug. She let one hand slide to my butt while the other pressed my head down so that my face was mashed into her cleavage.

"Ladies, please," said Simone. "You'll spoil the boy with your mothering."

She could have said "smothering" the way the woman with the big tits held me against her bosom. Her perfume was strong and the air I inhaled was first routed up the canyon between her boobs.

The hug ended with a playful swat to my ass, and the two laughed as they walked over to a pair of treadmills.

Simone directed me to a floor mat and, after a sequence of painful stretches, put me to work doing sit-ups. I was tired already, and it was not going well. Simone was holding my feet, keeping them on the floor. "Eleven." "This is pathetic. You look about to quit already."

I was tiring of the crap I had to put up with in this women's gym. I didn't mind the old ladies, they're harmless, but after the exhausting run and my struggles to do sit-ups, my attitude was not the best that morning, and I let my mouth get away from me.

"I'm a writer, not a mindless amazon. I don't get my kicks from harassing people and admiring my muscles in the mirror all day."

Simone smiled. You know the one, it's the smile a jungle cat displays just before it rips out your throat. She got off my feet and stood astride my legs. Simone has a body builder's muscles and she's tall, almost as tall as me, and from this vantage, incredibly intimidating. "Your wife told you, didn't she, that I do not have to put up with your crap?"

"Come on, Simone, give me a break." I was still frustrated with the mindless effort forced upon me in the name of fitness, but my tone was a little less belligerent. "This fitness crap is too much. How about you slack off a bit, and I'll try to work harder? We can kind of meet in the middle. I am, after all, the customer here."

I drew my legs up, knees together. I was feeling vulnerable. I didn't think this muscle-bound woman would stomp on my balls, but the way she towered over me cast my mind in that direction. Turns out, she had something else in mind.

"Let me help you up, Mr. Customer," she said, and offered me a hand. I took it, and she crushed my fingers like a pair of vice grips, easily yanked me to my feet, then sat on the weight bench next to us. I found myself lying over her thighs, face down, with no recollection of how I got there.

"Your wife warned me about that mouth of yours, so I knew it was just a matter of time." She yanked my spandex shorts to my knees. "Red, nice." She was apparently referring to the color of the thong I was wearing that day. "Let's redden the rest of you."

The next thing I knew, there was a loud SMACK! and a sharp pain in my right cheek. SMACK! Then the left. Erin spanks me with her hairbrush regularly. She calls it, "a meeting with Lucile." Simone was using nothing but her hand—her hard, callused, weight lifter's hand—and was easily achieving the same impact as a meeting with Lucile at its worst.

I heard laughter from women in the gym, and a fitness trainer—an attractive young girl, couldn't be over nineteen—came over to watch this man in his thirties get his bare ass spanked like a little boy over the knee of his momma. I stopped caring about either of these added humiliations by the fourth, hard SMACK! and was struggling to get free by the sixth. What a joke. Simone could have kept me in place with less than half her prodigious strength. Her strong thighs made a much firmer platform than Erin's. Her free hand captured mine and held it at my side while her forearm pressed down on my lower back, keeping me firmly in place. Meanwhile, her spanking hand rose and fell like the stamp of a hydraulic press.

I was soon kicking my feet and crying out (in advance of real crying), but Simone had a point to make and she did not pause in the making. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The hard walls of the gym echoed with the spanks, joined in counterpoint by my cries of pain. Had I been aware, I would have noticed every feminine head in the place turned in our direction. Exercise machines stopped their whirring, feet stopped their striding, weights no longer rang against each other, all motion in the building stopped but the rise and fall of Simone's hard hand and the struggles I made over her knees.

It went on like this for some time. My ass getting redder and redder, the pain growing more and more intolerable, my cries becoming more strident then fading into moans and the flailing of my legs slowing to exhausted surrender. When Simone finally stopped, there was a moment of silence followed by resounding applause, cheers and whistles.

"Thank you, ladies," Simone said. "Now, everybody back to work." There was more laughter and a few playful taunts from the women as the whirring, striding, clanking sounds of the gym in use started back up.

Over my sobs, I heard the young Fitness Instructor say, "Nicely done. Let me know if you ever need a stand-in to take care of this young man. I'd love to take him over my knee to teach him some respect."

'Young man,' I thought, I've got to be nearly twice the age of this little chit.

"I'll keep you in mind. I'm taking a couple weeks vacation next month."

"You," Simone said as she lifted me (I mean she literally lifted pudgy me) off her lap and placed me on my feet, "come with me."

She took me by the arm and, without pulling my shorts back up, walked me along the side wall to the front of the room and placed me in a corner, bright red ass facing the exercise equipment. "You got quite a workout with all the frog kicking you did over my knee. Later we'll have to work on your form. Your movements got a little sloppy. For now, take a twenty-minute break. Perhaps the sight of you here, red ass hanging out, will motivate the ladies." None of the other ladies, as far as I know, receives anything like the manner or level of motivation by their trainers as Simone gives to me.

Before my first session here, after Erin told me she'd hired a Personal Trainer, I checked on the internet to find out the difference between a Personal Trainer and a Fitness Coach. I read that a Personal Trainer is like a Fitness Coach, concerned with the physical condition of their client, but the Personal Trainer is also concerned with the emotional state of his or her client. Simone definitely affected both my physical and emotional states.

I didn't notice it, but after Simone spanked me, she moved me around the exercise area so my body was between her and the wall. No one in the gym got a good look at me with my pants down until she left me in the corner with my back to the ladies present. Also, there was no need for her to pull down my thong to bare my ass when she spanked me, so nothing was dangling and visible between my legs as I stood in the corner. These two facts did not register at the time, but I chanced to hear later that week that Simone had a date and time entered in the Penis Pool. She made it through a confederate since she was not allowed in the pool given her power over me. It was not yet her selected date and time, so she did not want to give the secret away. I don't know what she picked, but I know it's inevitable she'll reveal all when her selected time arrives.

That's one more thing to look forward to: Me naked below the waist revealing my Kali's Teeth secured by a Prince Albert, in front of a collection of physically fit women of all ages dressed in spandex—my ass no doubt spanked in the bargain—so my Personal Trainer can collect her cut in the Penis Pool.

Who said fitness can't be fun?

END of Erin Ch. 18
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Pub: Jan 03 2021 09:12 UTC
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