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And while I’ve been doing my very best not to praise her like I would if she were my sub, since we haven’t established any kind of rules between us and she hasn’t given me direct permission to use monikers with her, I can’t help it. I’m just so fucking proud of her.
But just as I’m typing out the message, a voice calls from behind me, and I spin on the bench, clicking the button on my phone to shut my screen off.
“Dr. Travers!”
“Brian.” I grin, standing quickly and reaching out to shake the big guy’s hand he holds out before leaves. He’s one of the co-owners of Club Alias and one of the very, very few people in existence who knows my true identity in and out of the establishment. But he of all people holds discretion to the utmost level of importance.
After all, he’s a fucking mercenary.
There’s a mutual understanding—one that’s more take-it-to-the-grave than even the club’s NDAs and the honor between people in the lifestyle can assure—between me and the four men who created Club Alias. The four men who also happen to run Imperium Security next door to it. Imperium Security being a cover business for what they truly are—vigilantes… mercenaries who take matters into their own hands when the system fails.
With my Asperger’s, it was much easier for me to grasp what Doc, my long-time friend since med school, was telling me when he came to me for help. One of the main aspects of my particular spot on “the spectrum” is I have to actively keep myself from fighting against social norms. Things that most people can intentionally accept even if they don’t make logical sense.
So there was no question when Doc confided he’s the head of a mercenary team who makes rapists disappear when justice won’t be served otherwise and asked if he could put me on the payroll as their on-call MD. It was an immediate yes.
I can’t willfully take someone’s life, not after the oath I made, no matter how evil they might be, but I can make damn sure the brave men who’ve made it their life’s mission to wipe them from the earth stay healthy and get any injury fixed under the radar.
Especially when a few moments later, I get a photo of a treadmill screen with a caption.
WillDive4Plants:
Day one, I guess.
What are we listening to today?
I love it when she speaks to me this way, like we’re old friends who have known each other forever. But at the same time, I can’t let it go on much longer this way, or she might not be able to see me as anything more than that. It’s better to establish the tone and the way she should view me as an authority figure from the beginning, or else it’ll be hard to get back there if she becomes too lax.
So, after I leave the locker room, I make my way up the staircase that leads to the workout floor, spotting her immediately on the treadmill closest to the glass wall—just mere feet away from me on the landing. I’m lower and slightly behind her, so unless she were to look over her shoulder and down at this exact moment, there’s no way she’d see me before I disappear behind the solid wall the glass is attached to when the next set of stairs begins.
Though I can’t see her face from this angle, I can see clearly how small she is, tall and slender but no muscle tone. I know from holding her on my lap for that brief minute outside the dumpster that she’s soft in all the right places, but from the way she’s asked over and over, practically begging me, if I’ve done personal training before, she’s unhappy with her body. She wants to get back to the way she looked before the depression took hold of her and she fell off the workout wagon. As I climb the rest of the way up, I have the sudden urge to give her just a little taste of the praise I have the uncanny ability to dole out, so breaking my own rules, I give us what we both want before we’ve ever established our roles.
I lean against the wall next to the water fountain, mostly blocked by everyone on the exercise bikes, but I have the perfect view of her flushed face as her head bobs above the screen of her treadmill with every step. I type out the message, glancing up at her as I hit Send.
RomanticSadistLL:
Great job, little one. I'm very, very proud of you. *kisses forehead
I watch closely, my focus on her every microexpression I can pick out from this distance. Four rows of moving bodies on big machines separate us, but in that moment, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist as I see her headphone-topped ponytail swing out from behind her when her head whips toward her phone propped in the cupholder. She smiles even before she picks it up, I assume recognizing the notification is from me, which I confirm when I glance down just long enough to see my message go from Delivered to Read. My eyes return to her, and her physical response corroborates everything I’ve built up in my head, everything I desire from her.
