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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 bahis siteleri 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 canlı bahis siteleri 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 canlı bahis 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.
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