by Brianna Hale
His warm words curl around me. Wrung out and heavy in his arms, I feel safe enough to tell him the truth. I take a shuddering breath, and without lifting my cheek from his chest, I start talking about my shitty day. “You know I work as a journalist, but I’m an artist, too. That’s my real passion. Painting.”
I feel him look down at me in surprise. “Peaches, I had no idea you were so talented.”
I shrug a little, but I can’t deny it feels nice when he says that. Not that he’s ever seen any of my work. But it’s lovely he believes in me. “I visit all the city’s galleries, the ones that exhibit contemporary art, and fantasize about one day seeing my work hanging on the walls. There’s one gallery in particular in the inner east that’s like my Mecca. It my goal to be exhibited there one day.”
It’s the one thing I’ve got on my bucket list. I don’t care if it takes five years, ten years, forty years, I will get my art into that galley one day. If I ever paint again, that is.
“Anyway. I worked on this series of paintings last year that I was so proud of. Not because they were good pieces, but because I felt them in my soul. I valued them, and it’s weird, when you value something you’ve created so much, it almost doesn’t matter what other people think of it.”
“Oh, I get that babygirl. I get that so much.”
I pull away a little and look up at him, studying his face. I wonder if he felt the same thing starting this gym. The concept is pretty strange, but he just fits it so well. And he’s making it work. This place is always packed. “I believe you, daddy.”
He plants a slow, searing kiss on my mouth. “Go on.”
I take a deep breath. “The paintings were all about grief and loss. But angry grief. I lost my parents a few years ago in a car accident. My father had been drinking. I never forgave them because I was just so mad at them for leaving me in such a stupid, pointless way. Painting that series was the first time I really dealt with what I was feeling. There were lots of red and harsh lines, and it was the first time abstract art really clicked with me and felt authentic.”
I can see the paintings before my eyes. They’re still the best thing I’ve ever made with my own two hands, and yet now they feel… spoiled.
“I showed that series to a lot of gallery curators and got turned down, of course, but I expected that because I’m nobody. Finally, the series was accepted for just one night at this super tiny but lovely gallery in the south, and I was ecstatic. There’s this woman who’s older than me who’s kind of my hero. I invited her to the opening—well, the only night—and she said she would do her best to make it, but in the meantime, could I send her photographs of all the pieces? I mean, she replied to me, so I was already buzzing, and I sent the pics.”
I wipe the tears on my face with my fingers at the memory. So, so stupid.
“She didn’t come. But hey, that’s no big deal. She was still aware of my work and of me and that felt pretty special. Seven months later, I opened a marketing email from that inner east gallery. This woman had a new exhibition opening, and I couldn’t believe it when I saw the photos of her standing in front of her art. The colors were the same as mine. The style was the same. The subject was the same, too, except she said the paintings were about grief over the sister she’d lost when she was nine, nearly forty years ago.”
I remember reading what one journalist gushed about the pieces: “…grief so palpable, as if it was inflicted only yesterday.”
“There were a few differences. She’d gone bigger with the idea. Bigger canvases. Glossy brochures. Dozens of limited edition signed prints for sale. Invitations to journalists at all the big papers and magazines. But I knew what I was seeing.”
Dom tenses against me. “She’d copied you?”
I shrug miserably. “Define ‘copy.’ It’s not illegal to take someone’s idea and change it just enough to make it your own. I mean, she put in the hours painting those pictures. Grief and red aren’t astoundingly original.”
“Yeah, but the timing, peaches. You have to see that—”
I put a finger to his lips, and whisper. “I know. I’ve been over it a thousand times in my head. I know what she did, this famous woman who already had a big following, to someone who is new and struggling to be seen. Thank you for being angry for me. And thank you especially for not telling me that it doesn’t matter.”
“I would never say that. Of course it matters.”
“Some people have told me I should be flattered, or they’re confused that I’d even feel bad about something like this.”
“How do you feel? Deep down. All the way down here?” He puts his hand against my belly, as if he knows that’s exactly where the worst of it is.
“Powerless,” I whisper. “Like a child too weak and confused to be able to fight back against this giant presence who acknowledged my existence just long enough to snatch something precious from me. Now she’s dangling it above my head, just out of my reach. Everyone only sees her, praises her. None of them see me, because I’m as small and puny as an ant.”
There’s nothing I can do, because publicly accusing her of stealing my ideas will only make me seem petty and jealous.
“A grown-up isn’t supposed to feel that way. It’s not fair.” I sniffle for a moment, thinking. “And yet I like it when you make me feel small and powerless. Why is that?”
“Because you chose it.”
I give him a watery smile. “Simple as that, huh?”
“Yes. It’s as simple as that.” Dom wraps me tighter in his arms and sits down on the desk with me perched on his knee. “Three things, peaches. One, she’s a miserable cow, and I’m sorry she made you feel that way. Two, you have every right to feel that way.”
“Thank you. And three?” I ask.
“Let it go.”
I sigh. “I’m trying. I thought I was over it, but then I saw yet another puff piece about her work this afternoon and it set me off.”
“I’m not saying do it all at once. But there must be something you can do to help ease the hurt.”
“Like what?”
He gives me a sly smile. “Why don’t you paint something inspired by this experience? Artists do that all the time, don’t they? They put someone who’s wronged them into their novels or art or whatever, and change them just enough so no one else knows who they are. But you’ll know, won’t you?”
I think about it. Putting this awful woman in my art, and owning a little piece of her like she tried to own me. A smile spreads over my face. “Daddy, that’s the best idea ever!”
He kisses my smiling mouth, and then I’m melting against him, falling into his all-consuming kiss. His lips brush firmly over mine, and then he sucks my lower lip into his mouth. I groan and bury my hands in his hair.
“Isn’t this against the rules?” I whisper. “I’m your trainee and you’re my trainer.”
“Not anymore. You’re my little girl. Aren’t you, peaches?” His hand slips down between my legs, and he rubs my clit. I squirm against his hand, my eyes closing.
I moan, nodding. “Yes, I’m your little girl. And you’re my daddy.”
He nuzzles my ear. “And you know what that means, don’t you?”
Oh, I know what that means. It’s means he’s going to make me come again, in the most delicious way possible.
Dom pulls his hand away and spanks my wet pussy with a loud, wet smack. I yelp and clutch his shoulders, and his eyes blazing down at me are ferocious.
“It means you’re going to get out there and do your damn workout! On the double, little brat. Go, go, go!”
Chapter Six
Dom
I meet Amelia in the foyer of the gym after her shower—a hot one, this time, as she was punished enough over my knee. As I take her hand, Joshua’s eyebrows shoot up. I return his surprised expression with a challenging one, and then he breaks into a smile and shakes his head in a you old dog way. I know he’s pleased for me. He’s been at me for months to go on a date with someone.
Neither of us are dressed for anything fancy, so I take Amelia across the street for ramen. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place that serves huge bowls of noodle soup while you sit in tiny chairs. We order the house special, which is ramen with pork belly, and iced green teas.
I look into Amelia’s slightly flushed face. “Thank you for telling me what you told me earlier.”
She shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Thank you for listening to me even though I was a total brat at first. It felt good finally saying it out loud. And I will get back to painting. It’s just, ugh. After that bad experience, and a long day at the office struggling to care about the silly things Suzanna wants me to write… but that doesn’t include the piece about Dom Fitness. I started it yesterday, and I’m really enjoying writing it.”
“Oh?”
She digs her phone out of her bag, taps the screen, and then passes it to me. “Here. It’s not finished, but I thought you might like to read what I’ve got so far.”
It’s about a page long, and it faithfully describes what it was like for her to arrive at the gym as a complete newbie to the dom/sub thing and to working out, and how it felt being chucked in at the deep end of both. I find myself laughing, because she’s injected a lot of humor into the piece. It’s also wonderful to see the gym through a sub’s eyes.
“Peaches, this is amazing! From a writing point of view, and what you’ve said about the gym and how it’s made you face up to some things. Do you really mean what you’ve written?”
Amelia grins and rolls her eyes. “Well, the place is doing amazing and it’s the best idea ever, obviously.” I stare at Amelia so long that she frowns. “What’s wrong, daddy? Are you mad I rolled my eyes again?”
“You really mean that? You think the gym is a good idea?”
Amelia plays with the straw in her iced tea, uncertainly. “Yeah. Of course! Don’t you think so?”
“I think that it’s a goddamn insane idea of mine,” I say, breathing out hard. “I’ve seen some comments on social media about how the gym is tacky and gross. How it’s offensive and demeaning. It’s been a risk from the start, and I think it always will be, one way or another.”
“But you’ve got to go for it, because it’s yours?” she finishes.
I nod, my chest feeling tight. When I look into her beautiful green eyes, I know she understands.
She reaches out her hand and covers mine. “The people in the gym are so happy. I look around at everyone as I exercise and everyone’s working so hard. The members, the trainers. It’s got one of the best vibes I’ve felt in any room ever. I know, because I’ve been paying attention. First because of the article, and then…because of you. I think you’re amazing, too,” she squeaks, her cheeks turning pink.
A slow smile spreads over my face, and my heart feels very full. “Right back at you, peaches. I’ve wondered if we were doing something crazy, seeing each other like this. But maybe it’s…”
“Just crazy enough?”
I squeeze her hand. “Yeah. Just crazy enough.”
We grin at each other like silly teenagers.
“So, this is like our first date, then?” she asks, batting her lashes at me. “I’ve never really been on a proper date before.”
I look around at the cheap and cheerful décor. “Yeah. I guess it is. Makes me wish I’d chosen somewhere better.”
Amelia shakes her head and digs into her ramen. “It’s perfect. And this tastes so good after my workout. I’d like to keep coming to the gym, if that’s all right with you?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love you to. But that means me riding your ass several times a week, you realize that?”
She smiles at me, and her face turns a little pinker. “I kind of love that, though.”
I reach out and stroke my fingers across her peachy cheek. “Yeah. I kind of love that, too.”
Chapter Seven
Amelia
“You really think it’s good? You really honestly truly think it’s good?” I ask Dom these questions as I hover at his shoulder. He’s looking at the work-in-progress on my easel.
He plants a kiss on my nose. “I think it’s incredible. You’re an amazing artist, peaches.”
I gaze at the painting. The canvas is three feet high by two feet, and shows a huge figure, dazzlingly beautiful, except that she’s made of porcelain and part of her skull has broken away, showing the smooth, hollow interior. Her gaze is as vacant as a doll’s. Ants are marching up her legs. Dozens of ants. Hundreds of ants. All tiny, but each one possessing the strength to walk right up this empty figure as if it’s nothing.
Dom gives me a hug and a kiss and sits down on the sofa.
“C’mere, you little minx.” He pulls me astride his lap, and we wrap our arms around each other. It’s been a month since we started dating, and everything has been amazing between us. We see each other several evenings a week, and most weekends, too. My ass is as toned as hell now, thanks to him. It’s also been as tanned as hell on more than a few occasions. Sometimes it’s just too much fun being bratty and having him get all daddy on me.
“Do you feel better about it now that you’ve got it down on canvas?” he asks me.
I consider my work, head on one side.
“I do. Plus, it feels amazing holding a brush again. I wish I had more time to paint. I like doing it in the morning when my mind is clear, but work gets in the way. Ah, I’ll figure it out.”
I smooth my hands up Dom’s strong chest, feeling the muscles beneath his t-shirt. Who wants to think about work when you’ve got a gorgeous man beneath your thighs? I’m wearing a sundress, and I wriggle out of my underwear, giving him a sort of lap dance as I do, and feel him grow hard beneath me. He unbuttons my dress and lets it slip from my shoulders, and then pulls my bra down and takes one of my nipples in his mouth.
I moan in pleasure, my head tipping back. I’m in the mood for lazy sex, right here on the couch. Dom put me through an intense workout last night at the gym, so I think I’ve earned it.
He unclasps my bra and throws it aside. “Get down on the floor, plank position.”
I stay where I am, still rubbing against his bulge, and purr, “But I want to make you come, daddy.”
“And you will. Let’s try the wheelbarrow.”
He’s shown me the wheelbarrow in a book of sex positions. It’s when the girl has her palms braced against the floor, and the man is behind her holding her legs as if he’s pushing a wheelbarrow. It’s one of those positions that looks like it would make your arms ache and tone your core.
I pull back and stare at him. “Oh my god. More working out!”
“Do as you’re told, peaches. You’ve been skimping on arm day.”
That’s a scurrilous lie. I couldn’t skimp on any part of my workout around him, and he knows it. Shooting him my sassiest look, I get down on the floor in a plank. Dom takes his time getting up from the sofa and removing the rest of his clothes. I can feel his eyes on me and I know he’s enjoying himself.
“Hurry up, my arms are getting tired!”
Dom swats my ass. “Don’t be bratty just because you want cock.”
I make a scoffing noise. It doesn’t sound very convincing. I so want cock.
I hear the rip of a condom, and then he kneels behind me on the floor and takes my thighs in each of his big hands, lifting me. I feel the stiff tip of his cock against my slippery entrance, and try to wiggle back.
“Hold still, peaches, or you’ll tip us over.”
He’s agonizingly slow about it, pushing just the tip of his cock inside me and then withdrawing again.
“Daddy, please,” I moan, wanting him to fuck me hard.
“Not thinking about your arms now, are you?” he asks with a chuckle.
I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of him for that, and he impales me fast and deep. Immediately forgetting the bratty thing I was going to say, I press back against him and close my eyes, loving the feel of him pounding me. I can’t get enough of it.
>
He hooks an arm under my hips to support my weight, and then uses his free hand on my clit. It’s blindingly intense. My climax gallops through me wildly, and I come with a shout.
Dom’s only a moment behind me, thrusting hard and deep as he comes, all the power of his body behind him.
We collapse onto the rug together, panting and hot, and Dom pulls me against his chest, and says, as if we’re at the gym, “Good technique, babygirl. Excellent stamina.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” I say, grinning lazily up at him. “How’s the gym going?”
Dom fists his hands through my hair, letting the strands run through his fingers. “Good. Really good, babygirl. My trainers are happy. My clients are working hard. I almost didn’t dare hope it could be like this.”
I rub the tip of my nose against his chest hair, smiling. “I’m so happy for you.”
“You gave me the confidence early on that it would actually work. Thank you, peaches.” He keeps stroking my hair, then a moment later he whispers, “I love you.”
I look up at him, a bright hot feeling burning in my chest. He looks back at me frankly, the golden lights burning brightly in his brown eyes. “You do? Oh, daddy. I love you, too.”
He kisses me tenderly. When he pulls away, I add, “Even when you make my arms ache.”
Dom shouts with laughter. “There’s my bratty little girl.”
We lay together in silence for a while. I listen to his deep breaths and enjoy him playing with my hair. My mind wanders over pleasurable thoughts of Dom and I being together, and me painting again. Everything would be perfect if only I had more time to work on what I love.
“I have an idea,” Dom says suddenly. “You can say no. It might be the worst idea ever, but hear me out.”
I look up and search his face, wondering what he’s thinking, but finding no clues. “What is it?”
“What you were saying earlier about having more time to paint has got me thinking. The gym has a website with a blog, but not much is happening on there yet. I need someone to manage our communications and social media. That place is crammed full of doms, but it’s subs who are our clientele. They might respond to your voice more than ours. What do you think?”
