Early access chapters and commissions are available on Patreon.
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Commissioned by The Witch Doctors
(Sub Wife, FMG, Substance Abuse.)
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Her Master
– 1 –
I didn’t expect my husband’s words to affect me as much as they did. I also didn’t expect to do something about it. My problem – and I’m sure many people have it, not just middle-aged women like me – is that I take things to heart.
It was a year ago today. I’d just gotten home from a long day of work. Being a news reporter for GGN wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be; the hours were long and unpredictable, and the pressure to find and report on not only interesting but relevant stories was a nightmare. I was exhausted and sweaty and
needed some release.
“That you, Olivia?” Richard’s voice came from the living room. That’s where he always was after work, sitting on his ass watching TV, relaxing with a can of Orchard Thieves.
“Who else do you think it is?” I said in a despairing voice. We’d been married for eleven years; he should have known that I was the only other person with the keys to the house by this point. No kids, no pets, no anything. What a lonely life.
“What’s
your problem?” he said, voice slightly louder than before.
I dropped my keys on the glass table by the front door, tossed my briefcase into the basket of undone laundry, and walked into the living room. The room was lit only by the plasma-screen TV set above the fireplace mantel. Richard was the same as always: dressed in a white vest and bluejeans. The remainder of his once youthful hair was grey and patchy and receding at the front. The only handsome feature left of him was his beard, which was thick and dark and showed a mutually positive relationship with a razor.
To my surprise – shock, even – he wasn’t watching any of his boring HBO shows, no
Game of Thrones or
Six Feet Under; instead, the screen showed gorgeous, dark-skinned women standing on top of a well-lit stage. A bright-red rectangle was stretched across the bottom of the screen with the words
ARNOLD CLASSIC written inside it.
Hard muscle bulged beneath their tanned skin, each sweaty peak straining to burst free. It was as if a sculptor had brought a chisel and chipped away every ounce of fat on their bodies. Quads the size of tree trunks tensed to reveal webs of thick yet sexy veins that trailed down sinewy calves. Every so often, the women changed pose, exposing more meat that was slapped onto their broad frames through sheer grit and long hours in the gym… pumping, lifting, grunting, sweating. There was something so promiscuous about it. All that muscle, all that power, all that sweat.
Then there was me: a thin nobody dressed in a maroon suit, pale, no muscle to speak of. I hadn’t picked up a weight since high-school, and that was only for a short gym lesson. In terms of working out, lifting heavy weight, packing on pounds upon pounds of rock-hard, shitkicking muscle, I was heavily inexperienced; the thought had never crossed my mind.
But I loved their bodies, though at the same time, I was confused.
“
Bodybuilding?” I said. “Since when are you into that crap?”
He looked at me unabashedly. “I was scrollin’ through some of the channels. You see these women? That’s what real women look like. Not a bag of skin and bone.”
I chuckled with surprise. “What? You’re telling me you’re into muscles now? Oh, and let me guess, I’m the bag of ‘skin and bone?’”
The gall of this man. How dare he comment on my body when all he does is sit on his ass? Please.“It wouldn’t hurt for you to put in a little effort into how you look,” he said. “I mean, babe, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you work out. My brother’s wife recently got into it and she can’t stop going. She doesn’t take ’roids to look like these women, but she’s at the very least fit and taking care of herself.”
I sneered. “And what about you? You get to laze around and drink cider? You’re not exactly Hercules yourself, Richard.”
He groaned, stood up, and pointed at me, frustration in his eyes. “See, there you are again. It was just a suggestion. You’re always goin’ on about how exhausted you are after work. Have you worked at a factory? That’s exhausting. You walk around with a microphone.”
I disregarded him with a hand gesture and began making my way into the kitchen. I didn’t have the patience for this. “I’d like to see you try last a day in my shoes.”
He followed me through the hallway. “Don’t act like you’re physically taxing yourself, Olivia. You get mad at me for sitting and relaxing with a drink after a twelve-hour shift manufacturing gates, moving heavy girders, and welding dangerous materials, but you can’t handle walking around for a little bit?”
I was halfway towards opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water when I slammed it shut, turned to face him, and waved an enraged finger in his face. “Don’t you fucking
dare make me out to be lazy. I work my ass off and do all the chores around here. Maybe you ought to help for once in your life.”
He spread his hands, looked at me with that foolish dog grin, and shrugged. There he was showing no care for my feelings again. “If you’re not lazy, then why don’t you work out? You realise that the only reason you’re finding your job difficult is because you have hardly any muscle – ”
“Oh shut up.” I opened the fridge to grab my water bottle again.
“Just listen,” he said, “I’m only looking out for you. You’re always fighting. But Christ, just hear me out, for once.”
I took a sip and rolled my eyes.
This man. “Alright, Jesus, Rich! Say what you have to fucking say!”
“Do you find that you’re sore after work?”
I nodded. “Every fucking day.”
“It’s because your body isn’t used to physical activity. You’re not repairing muscle; you’re not getting any stronger. Your body is weak, Olivia.”
“So what, Rich? How am I gonna have the time to work out? Do you know what my hours are like? You’re not the only one doing twelve-hour shifts.”
He took a step closer, placed his hand firmly on my shoulder, and spoke to me in a clear, commanding voice. “You have to wake up earlier. I’m talking 5 A.M. That’s the golden hour. Fuck it, I’ll even pay for your gym membership.”
That took me by surprise. Even though we were deep in marriage, he wasn’t one to go out spending his money on me unless it somehow benefited him, too. Holidays, fancy dinners, movies, and so forth. But I couldn’t help but question why he was so obsessed with me wanting to get into fitness. I knew I wasn’t in great shape, but was I really that bad? I took off my blazer as I looked into his eyes. Anger faded from my face and was slowly replaced with intrigue.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked.
He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Because I love you, Olivia.” God knew I hadn’t felt a gentle touch like that from him in a long time. The only physical contact we had was the occasional rough sex. Just thinking about that made my clit tingle. I may have hated him, but he was a god in the sack.
The smell of alcohol coming from his breath didn’t even bother me. My lips curled into the early signs of a wry smile. “When you touch me like that, you almost make me want to listen to what you have to say.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That so?” And he drew closer, pulling my body against his. “How’s this?”
My smile broadened into a shit-eating grin. I closed my eyes like a nervous schoolgirl before looking up at him again. “So you’d like me with a bit more muscle, huh? Kick you into shape a bit?”
Richard brought his finger down to my chin and tilted my head up towards him. “I’ll always be the boss.”
“That right?” I said, my submissive nature taking over.
“Damn straight.” And he kissed me, passionately. My clit was throbbing now. I wanted him to rip me out of my clothes, bend me over on the kitchen table, and ram me like his little whore. This was the release I needed.
But then he pulled back. “What do you say? I told you I’d pay – ”
“God, yes! Yes I’ll do it! Just fuck me, Rich! Fuck me please!”
Rich grinned and began unbuckling his belt. “Now you’re speakin’ my language,
bitch.”
Once his cock was free and snaking up to a full, six-inch erection, he slammed me into the fridge door, shoved his tongue down my throat, and tore my button-down shirt off my body to reveal, what he had described as, a bag of skin and bone. A woman with a bit more experience or intelligence would have likely not let her sexual appetite get the better of her, but the allure of being dominated after a hard day of work was something I couldn’t resist.
When he stripped me of my clothes and bent me over the kitchen counter like the misbehaving whore I was, he slammed his cock into my pussy with all the speed and power of a jackhammer.
I moaned, almost screamed with pleasure. “Please!”
“Say ‘Daddy.’”
“
PLEASE FUCK ME DADDY!”
– 2 –
It was difficult starting my journey into fitness – and what would inevitably be bodybuilding – and during my first week I had to get used to a completely different lifestyle. Waking up at 5 A.M. when I had work at nine in the morning was no easy task, especially when I was still tired and completely fucked out from the night before.
It took a certain degree of willpower that I didn’t feel would last long in this field, and that was just the first week.
Getting there, signing up, and working out was a completely different story, however. It wasn’t at all what I had expected it to be. Things were quiet save for the high-beat music that played endlessly from the large gym walls, there were few people at this hour of the morning, and there was a pleasant aroma of honeysuckle fragrance as opposed to an imposing waft of sweat.
The only issue, and I’m sure this is something that many people have when first getting into fitness, was knowing where to start. Unlike my husband, I didn’t watch many bodybuilding shows, fitness routines, or anything of the sort.
So my first couple hours were aimless as I wandered around the gym going from machine to machine and observing other people to see how they used them. I started with the bench press, lifting nothing more than the bar, then made my way over to the pull-down machine, pushing my lats to the limit, and then I journeyed over to the free-weights section, which was unoccupied.
The feeling of my muscles pumping as I curled the dumbbells was intoxicating; I was hit with an endorphin rush so powerful that I felt like I could take on anything in the world. And I continued repping out ten-pound weights, even tried the fifteens, but failed to complete a successful curl.
I felt powerful. Strong. On top of the fucking world. Was this how everyone felt after going to the gym for the first time? I hadn’t the slightest of an idea, and I didn’t care.
When I finished, I felt so energised as I strode over to my car to drive home through the city. I was smiling – a big shit-eating grin that I would grow accustomed to. At the end of my first day, contrary to what Richard said, I was still sore and exhausted, but I knew progress came with effort and consistency, not in a single day.
So I kept going, kept lifting, day after day, week after week. I did some research into building muscle and started switching up my diet so that I was consuming higher calories and a more protein-rich meal plan. It was expensive but worth it.
My husband saw my change in attitude. After only a couple weeks I wasn’t as exhausted after work, and actually, my work performance had increased a fair deal. I was more confident in my speech, looked healthier, stronger. I wasn’t jacked out of my mind or anything, but my muscles were toned, defined, and rock-solid when flexed. I fucking loved it, and so did my husband. He fucked me almost every night; even with all my extra strength and stamina I found it challenging to keep up with his godlike speed and vigour.
It was obvious that my sex drive had taken a boost. I loved the feeling, the feeling of being able to satisfy both myself and my partner, and wanted more.
He was pumping me full of his hard cock, slamming me into the bed with such force that I felt the legs starting to give, and then he pulled out, aimed over my tits, and shot huge wads of hot steaming cum all over my face and chest. He moaned, and I did, too.
I licked the cum around my lips; it was salty, thick, and no doubt potent. Hey, free protein was free protein. He collapsed on top of me, our sweaty bodies connecting in a half-assed embrace as we panted.
“That was incredible,” he said through deep breaths.
“I almost kept up with you,” I said.
He chuckled and kissed my neck. “Not in a million years.”
I smirked back at him, flexed my bicep – a lemon-sized muscle popped out – and said, “You like that?”
He gave it a squeeze. “Rock-hard.”
“Damn straight,” I panted.
He rolled off of me, ran his hands through his face and hair, and said, “Wipe yourself off. Your covered in cum.”
I said, “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll have to punish you,” he said.
I oohed. “Tell me more, babe.” I pressed myself up with my forearms; taut muscle bulged as I balled my fists. Fuck yeah, I loved it.
“You stick to Daddy.” He shot me a serious glance.
I heaved out another laugh. “Alright, Daddy.”
He slapped my quad, which had also built up quite a bit of muscle in its own right. The slap seemed to indicate it with how firm it sounded. “I’m proud of you. You built a lot of muscle.”
“A lot?” I sat up fully, whipped my forearms out, and watched as veins popped out from under hard meat. “Look at me. I mean, not to brag, but look!”
“It’s crazy to think that you only started a couple months ago,” he said.
I nodded, feeling a sense of pride. “Am I more attractive to you now?” I said, and gave him a smile of dazzling brilliance. It was the first proud smile I had given anyone in eleven years, and in the moment of its fullness, he seemed like the man I married so long ago.
He nodded back. “Definitely, babe,” he said enthusiastically.
I got on my knees, grabbed my hair clip from the night table, and started tying my hair back into a ponytail, showing off my impressive bicep peaks. I knew he was watching them. “Do you think I can go further than this?”
He seemed intrigued. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think I can become a bodybuilder? Like those chicks you showed me two months ago. Tanned, muscular, broad, and built like a brick shithouse.”
He seemed taken aback by that. My boldness must have caught him off-guard. “I think you should. Yeah, do it.”
I smirked. “Only if you order me to.”
“You seem to love takin’ orders all of a sudden, don’t you?”
“Only from the boss,” I said.
He took a moment to respond, finding humour in my sexually induced state. “You’re going to get jacked, whether you like it or not. You’re going to be so fucking big and muscular that’ll you make all those other fitness competitors look like bitches. How’s that?”
My clit was already tingling again. I crawled over to him and kissed him passionately on the lips. After a moment, I whispered in his ear, “Anything for the boss of the house.”
Feeling eager to prove myself (like a new trainee on the job, Richard had often said), I grabbed a piece of tissue paper from the top drawer of the night table and wiped Richard’s lovejuice off my face and chest as he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
It wasn’t long before I joined him.
– 3 –
Richard’s demand to have me start bodybuilding certainly lit a fire in me that I hadn’t felt since long before I met him. Back then it was my goal to get into journalism, and now it was an impending sense of urgency to build as much muscle as possible as quickly as I could. Don’t misunderstand me, I also wanted to do this for myself – I wanted flaring lats, hulking traps, chiselled abs, huge arms with enough muscle to make a roomful of men jealous – but knowing that I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see myself succeed was exhilarating. Hell, it was a turn-on.
But after six months of continuous progress, I felt I wasn’t building muscle as much I should have. I knew that it often took a lot more time for women to build muscle than men, what with testosterone and all, but I wanted more, needed more, and was growing quite impatient.
My dieting was perfect – I was consuming up to three thousand calories a day, and with plenty of protein – and my training regiment had improved and become more strict. I was benching close to two hundred pounds and curling twenty-fives for reps.
My muscles were big and hard enough to maybe enter a bikini competition, but anything beyond that was a pipe dream. I needed more muscle, and fast. I needed to make the boss proud. I also needed to make myself proud.
So, daringly, I did some research into it, and ordered my first batch of Anavar. It cost four hundred dollars, and, unlike the gym membership, Rich didn’t put any money towards it – I didn’t even mention this to him at the time. I just wanted to get big, and steroids were known to help with that.
But I wasn’t stupid. I did research into the most effective cycle for beginners, making sure not to overdose and suffer any of those awful side effects: a deep voice, a masculine appearance, body hair growth (which, unfortunately, was inevitable regardless of the dose; I made sure to shave quite regularly so Richard wouldn’t notice).
Starting my first cycle was like a fever dream. I felt such a rush to pump iron in the gym, every morning, six days a week. Within a month all my lifts had gone up: I was curling forties for reps, benching two-seventy, and squatting five times my bodyweight.
My body was sculpted. Each of my muscles rippled with newfound power, starting with my shoulders, which carried a sharp line along my traps, strengthened by countless rows and pull-downs, and of course the hormones I was taking. My thighs bulged to what must have been close to thirty inches of pure steel, thick with striations and vascular enough to create a weblike formation all the way down to my blocklike calves. My abs were razor-sharp, looking like power incarnate.
I felt like a Greek goddess carved out of pure fucking steel. I was sexy, strong, and undoubtedly powerful.
My husband seemed to agree, too. At first he didn’t even realise I was juicing – he thought that my hard work and dedication had been the sole reason for my enormous muscle growth – but once I told him, with a little bit of shame, that I was on gear, he looked at me with a look of shock in his eyes.
“You’re taking steroids?” he said, surprised.
I expected to be punished, for him to demand that I stop taking them right away. He would probably be concerned with my health – and to tell you the truth, I hadn’t received many side effects from the drug (yes, I was a little irritable, and perhaps more horny, but those weren’t life-changing) – but I was stunned to silence when he told me that he didn’t mind, and that actually, he found it incredibly sexy that I would put that sort of effort in for both myself and him.
“So you think I should keep going?” I finally said.
He ran a hand along my bicep, feeling how big and hard it was. I had to admit, I was resisting the urge to tell him to fuck me all over again. We’d only finished fucking not even ten minutes ago and I was already looking to fuck again. The way he touched my muscles, my hard sweaty muscles, lit me up like a lighthouse.
“Do whatever you want.” He stood up and started putting his pants on. “Just be sure to clean up this place after sex. The bed’s almost falling apart after trying to fuck all your weight against the floor. You must weigh close to me at this point – and all muscle. Keep it up. You’ll make it far, hun.” When he was dressed, he grabbed the doorknob, said, “I’m gonna watch some TV, I’ll leave you to your new chore,” and left.
I didn’t get to work right away. I was simply too turned on for that. Instead, I lay back in bed, thinking about how much more progress had to be made, and how much further I needed to go. Then, instinctively, I began massaging my clit.
I’ll make it far….– 4 –
And that leads me here. It’s been almost a year since my husband told me to take up fitness, and I’m forever thankful that I decided to let him take the lead in our relationship. I won my first bodybuilding competition at the start of the new year – I was crying by the end of it, proud of myself for the progress I made.
But getting here wasn’t easy, especially after that night when I explained to Richard that I had started taking steroids. Reaching a size big enough to rival some of the top competitors out there was next to impossible unless you had two things: good genetics and lots of PEDs.
While my Anavar intake had increased over the past few months leading up to my first bodybuilding competition, it simply wasn’t enough. I needed to win. I had to follow through with my husband’s order and become the best version of myself, and to do that I needed a lot more muscle, more mass, more definition.
I started taking Winstrol, Dianabol, Restandol, Tren, and synthetic-testosterone carriers. It was a lot, but I had my husband’s permission to go through with it – I always needed his permission. He was the boss, my master, and I her muscleslut.
So I pumped iron in the gym, day after day, going full-throttle a few months out from the competition. My work performance had taken a hit – I wasn’t the once slim and sexy reporter GNN had grown to know (although I still had a nice pair of arms that I liked to show off in a sleeveless blouse on live television as much as possible) – but I didn’t care. Winning this competition was everything to me.
Once my cut started, my sex drive had taken a hit, too; I wasn’t as interested in my husband fucking my brains out, but still I obliged him. He was the boss and I couldn’t deny him his sexual desires. It was only fair considering all that he had done for me.
When I did feel my sexual appetite, sex was great – a lot better than it had been when I was a skinny little bitch. We could fuck for hours at a time, and with all the testosterone coursing through my veins, I found it difficult to stop.
But once the competition came and I stood alongside professional bodybuilders – not the top bodybuilders in the country by any means (I was still not experienced enough for that) – I knew that my definition, size, and symmetry – if not my femininity, which despite my substance abuse had remained fairly untouched – would win me first place.
And they did.
I stood on the stage a champion, men and women alike whistling and applauding my success as the host handed me my first bodybuilding trophy. I was emotional but turned on all the same.
When my husband and I got home that evening, we fucked and fucked for hours. He managed to pick me up and ram me into the wall despite my size; he was my master and he was no doubt stronger than me.
He was the boss, the reason for my success.
