Reluctant Domme 3: Born to Command

[taoschild]

This is a rough draft for the intro to the 3rd book in the Reluctant Domme series: Born to Command. For those of you who've read the other two and you want me to include something in the finale, let me know here.

---
I train alone.

Not because the gym is empty, though it nearly is at this hour, but because solitude sharpens everything. Sound. Sensation. Intention. When no one is watching, there's nothing to perform. No one to impress. No one to soften myself for.

My hands know the bar before my thoughts catch up. Calluses bite into the steel. Familiar. Trusted. The weight waits for me, indifferent as gravity always is. It doesn't care who I am or what I want. It only answers strength.

I inhale.

Deep. Controlled. The breath settles low, tight against my core. My body aligns itself without instruction—shoulders set, lats engaged, spine braced. Muscle memory takes over before I consciously tell it to. It always does.

The lift is slow.

The bar rises because I decide it will. Not because anyone is watching. . Not because anyone will admire the shape of my arms or the sheen of sweat on my skin. The satisfaction still blooms anyway—quiet, intimate, unmistakable. A private violence I inflict on gravity itself.

Strength earned and admired. It's part of my persona now, and I wonder how I ever lived without it. And the interim period, when I let myself become soft and round and slow for nine months, terrified me. I let something grow inside me and render me temporarily fragile. Vulnerable. The word still tastes like metal in my mouth.

I was never meant to be vulnerable.

After Rosie was born, the hospital room still smelled of antiseptic and milk, and all I could think about, while Jack cradled her tiny head and cooed, was getting back under a barbell. Not in six weeks. Not in twelve. Yesterday. The first week home, I started doing bodyweight squats in the nursery while she nursed, feeling the old pathways flicker awake. By week three, I was sneaking deadlifts in the garage at 4 a.m., trying not to wake them. Every rep felt like I was reclaiming my birthright.

I know it's pathological. I know the way my pulse quickens when I think about pinning Jack's wrists above his head until his breathing changes, about making him beg just to hear the sound of his surrender—I know that hunger isn't entirely healthy. And yet I crave it the way some people crave sugar or nicotine. A low, constant throb between my legs that only quiets when I'm this strong, this deliberately dangerous.

It's my secret. One, I keep away from Jack and our therapist. One that led to another.

That's why the vial came back out.

Novoregen. I'd returned to the same compound that turned my twenties into something mythic, producing veins like rivers, and strength that bordered on obscene. I told myself I'd never touch it again after the pregnancy scare, after the doctor's quiet warnings about long-term endocrine disruption.

I lied.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

With Jack asleep upstairs and Rosie's soft breaths filtering through the baby monitor, the hallway light was left on like a nightlight for ghosts. Or burglars. Or whatever version of myself might still believe this was a bad idea. I locked the bathroom door, sat on the edge of the tub in the half-dark, and parted my legs just enough.

The vial was cold against my palm. I rolled it between my fingers until the oil inside warmed to body temperature, the way you warm a lover before you let them in. Or a syringe, apparently. My life contains multitudes now.

I tore open the alcohol swab packet with my teeth. The sharp medicinal scent cut through the lavender candle I'd lit to mask what I was about to do, because nothing says responsible new mother like trying to outsmart antiseptic with a scent called "Lavender Dreams."

I drew the plunger back slowly, watching the clear oil climb the barrel like slow honey, no bubbles, no hesitation. Twenty-five gauge, half-inch. Thin enough to slip in clean. I pinched the skin low on my tight, round glute, right where the muscle flares thick and unapologetic, and twisted my torso toward the mirror so I could watch.

Of course I watched.

The needle kissed first, a cold silver point dimpling flesh. Then pressure. Then the exquisite little pop as steel parted tissue. I exhaled through my mouth, long and shaky, as I pressed the plunger home. Milliliter by milliliter, the oil sank into me, viscous and deliberate, spreading like warm mercury under the skin.

I didn't pull out right away.

I held the syringe steady, thumb still on the plunger, and just... felt it. The first bloom of heat started deep in the glute, radiating outward in slow, syrupy waves. Familiar. Merciless. Welcome. My clit throbbed once, hard, uninvited, like someone had flipped a switch inside my pelvis.

I clenched around nothing and felt the answering pulse travel up my spine.

I eased the needle free. A bright bead of blood welled at the puncture, smaller than a pinhead. I pressed my thumb over it, hard, smearing the tiny red dot while the heat kept traveling down the back of my thigh, up into my lower back, curling around my hips like possessive hands. My nipples tightened against the soft cotton of my tank top, almost painful. Breathing turned shallow.

Somewhere upstairs, my baby slept peacefully. Somewhere inside me, several very questionable systems had just come online.

I could feel my labia swelling, parting slightly under the thin sleep shorts, already slick.

I stood up too fast. The room tilted for a second from a different kind of dizziness. It was the sudden rush of blood going exactly where my body now demanded it go. I braced one hand on the sink. The other slid down the front of my sleep shorts without waiting for approval.

"Oh, Dani," I thought dimly. "You didn't."

[taoschild]

Curious what you guys think of the start of the finale of the trilogy. My general idea is that she realizes how much she just expects dominance and when it's threatened later in the book.... But for those of you who've read the first two - if there a subplots you'd like me to explore I'm all ears:
Link to book 1: The Reluctant Domme: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
Link to book 2: Submission Training: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
--------
My fingers found drenched heat immediately. No teasing, no slow build. Two thick digits plunged inside me like they belonged there. They curled hard against that swollen front wall while my thumb ground tight, frantic circles over my clit. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet room, obscene, matching the wet slap of my palm against my own mound.

The mirror showed me everything. And God, I couldn't look away.

Flushed cheeks. Pupils blown so wide the blue was nearly gone, swallowed by black hunger. Lips parted on shallow pants. My chest heaved, the deep cleft between my pecs already carving itself deeper as the tissue beneath thickened and drew tight.

My traps climbed higher with every breath, swallowing the base of my neck. My delts rounded fuller, unmistakably striated even at rest, forcing the stretched straps of my tank to bite into skin.

Ridiculous.

I couldn't already be bigger—not on this timeline. And yet, given what I'd witnessed... it wasn't entirely implausible either.

Veins mapped themselves across my forearms in real time. They were thick, ropey rivers pulsing beneath paper-thin skin, driven by the roar of vasodilation flooding my system. My biceps twitched without permission, involuntary contractions snapping through the muscle as the peaks sharpened, harder and more pronounced by the second.

I stared, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to awe. I looked obscene. Powerful. Ruined in the best possible way.
Another pulse of heat rolled through me deeper and heavier. It was like the compound was uncoiling in my bloodstream, shaking every androgen receptor awake and demanding tribute. My quads spasmed, sweeping outward, the teardrop above each knee sharpening into razor-cut definition. My glutes clenched hard enough to crack walnuts, lifting the hem of my shorts as the muscle bellies swelled. My knees buckled.

"Jesus," I breathed, barely a sound.

I flexed my free arm watching the bicep balloon, the split peak rising like a mountain range under sweaty skin, veins snaking over the surface like lightning. It was like the compound was no longer just swimming in my bloodstream, it was already rewriting the architecture. Every fiber re-knitting thicker. Denser. Hungrier.

The contraction sent another jolt straight to my core; my inner walls clamped down on my fingers so hard I gasped.

I caught myself on the counter, fingers digging into the edge as my hips snapped forward into my own hand. The surface held but it complained, a low creak vibrating up my arms as I bore down on it, strength bleeding off me in uncontrolled bursts.  A low, animal noise followed, tearing out of my throat. Half moan. Half growl. I swallowed the rest, glancing stupidly at the locked door as if it might judge me.

I pumped my fingers faster, thumb relentless on my clit, hips rolling in short, brutal thrusts. The heat coiled tighter in my pelvis, in my chest, in the rock-hard slabs of my lats flaring like wings. My forearms looked ready to burst, cords standing out as if I'd just finished a thousand-rep set.
I was so close already. embarrassingly close. Just from the injection. From the violation of steel and oil. From the promise of what this dose would do to me over the coming days— the thicker traps, harder glutes, veins like rivers, and strength that would make Jack's knees weak when I once again pinned him down and took what I wanted.

Fantastic.

Barely minutes in and I'm already a cautionary tale.

My fingers moved faster. Sloppy now. Wet sounds filled the bathroom. I stared at my reflection and imagined tomorrow's version of this body—bigger, meaner, unstoppable and that was all it took.

"Of course," I thought faintly, the realization faint and almost amused as the edge rushed up to meet me.

[taoschild]

Looks like there isn't much interest in this but I'll drop one more rough draft segment. Anyway, if people have ideas, feel free to message me and I'll consider adding them into the final book in the trilogy: Born to Command.
---

Even then, my body shuddered. The pump from the orgasm hadn't left; it had metastasized. I was leaking again. Not just arousal. The shot was making everything wetter, slicker, more insistent. My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat—each pulse visibly nudging the swollen hood forward. It felt like it had its own heartbeat now, obscene and insistent. One more full-body flex, traps swallowing my neck, pecs ballooning until they touched the glass, and the second climax ripped free.

This time there was no warning. No buildup. Just detonation.

My vision whited out. Thighs locked and quivered so violently I almost buckled. A guttural, broken sound tore out of my throat—half roar, half sob. Slick poured down the insides of my legs in hot, obscene streams.

Afterward, I dragged two fingers through the mess and brought them to my mouth without thinking. The taste was sharp and musky, like blood and sex and raw fucking power distilled.

I growled, yes actually growled, at my reflection.

"Fuck," I breathed. The word came out thicker, lower. My voice had dropped half an octave in the last ten minutes.
I planted both palms on the sink again.

When the second round finally ebbed, I was trembling. My legs were jelly and my core still fluttering around my fingers. I pulled them free, glistening, obscene. Brought them to my mouth without thinking and licked them clean, tasting salt and iron and myself.

In the mirror, my eyes were black with pupil. My reflection smiled back—small, secret, predatory.

"Hi," I told her silently. "You again."

I wiped the tiny blood dot from my skin with a tissue. Capped the syringe. Hid the vial behind the tampons in the back of the drawer where Jack would never look.

Then I turned off the light, slipped back into bed beside him, still sticky between my thighs, already counting the hours until the next dose.

Because once wasn't going to be enough.

It never was.

The bar stalls halfway up.

My breath hisses through my teeth as I crest the movement. The burn flares, sharp and familiar. Welcome. It reminds me that I built this. Rep by rep. Choice by choice. Long before Jack told me it was beautiful. That he needed it too. That he needed me. Dominant. Superior.

I lower the weight under control, muscles trembling as I push through another personal best. Even fatigue obeys me now.
My body is not decorative. Although Jack might not agree, he still traces the swell of my quads with reverent fingers, and still calls the thick ridge of my traps "fucking art" when he's half-drunk on post-orgasm haze. But it never was decorative. It is a functional power tool for dominance. Capable of holding, moving, pressing, and pinning. Capable of deciding when something stops.

The thought lingers longer than it should.

Mhmm. Jack will prostrate himself before me tonight. And he'll like it.

Another rep. The bar bends just enough to remind me it's heavy. My glutes fire, hamstrings coil like steel cables. In the middle of the grind, the gym dissolves. My body's here my brain isn't. It's already thinking abou tonight...

[taoschild]

One last one....
----


Another rep.

The bar bends just enough to remind me it's heavy. My glutes fire, hamstrings coil like steel cables. In the middle of the grind, the gym dissolves. My body's here my brain isn't. It's already thinking about tonight...

The bedroom lights are low. He's on his knees because I told him to wait there until I'd read Rosie's bedtime story and attending to my self care. He's naked, hands behind his back, with his eyes down until I say otherwise.

I walk in still damp from the shower, towel abandoned somewhere down the hall like an afterthought. My skin is warm, clean, carrying the faint metallic edge of Novoregen under soap and steam. Power hums just beneath the surface—contained, coiled, unmistakable. I don't rush. I don't need to.

I let the door close softly behind me.

The sound is enough.

He looks up.

Just a flicker. Instinct. Hope. Habit.

Mistake. I step close, fist his hair, yank his head back until the column of his throat is exposed.

"Eyes. Down."

My voice is low. Calm. Final.

He shudders once. Then his whole body follows. His gaze drops immediately, like gravity has reclaimed him. His shoulders sink a fraction, breath catching as relief and anticipation collide. He stays perfectly still, waiting for whatever comes next—because I decide when things begin.

And I always decide when they end.

The vision pulses hotter than the set I'm doing. My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. I re-rack the bar harder than necessary.

Clang.

The sound snaps me back.

Next set.

Deadlifts now. I set my grip with my hips back, spine locked. Pull. My hamstrings scream as the bar breaks from the floor. And again, the shift.

He's face-down on the mattress, wrists crossed at the small of his back, held in place by one of my hands. I straddle his thighs, weight forward, pressing him flat. My free hand slides between his legs from behind, finds him already leaking, already hard enough to hurt.

"Of course you are," I murmur. "You had all that time to wait."

I don't stroke. I grip. It's firm, possessive, and with just enough pressure to make him gasp into the pillow.

"You don't cum until I say," I murmur against the shell of his ear. "And tonight I might not say."

That lands. I feel it in the way his body goes still, like something inside him has clicked into place. Acceptance. Relief. Mhm.

[marc3603]

Really love what you're doing. Is there any chance we see her using the harness again against him?

[taoschild]

The gym snaps back into focus—the bar heavy in my hands, chalk dust in the air, my pulse still hammering. Proof that even when my mind goes elsewhere, my body never stops working.

I load more weight. Always more.

The fantasy surges back in on the inhale.

He whines high, broken, and desperate trying to rock back into my hand. I press my chest to his back, trapping him completely, and let him feel every pound of new muscle I've rebuilt.

He says he wants me off Novorogen, but I know what he really wants. Plausible deniability.

"Don't," I warn mildly, when he moves again. Like I'm correcting a child reaching for a hot stove.

He freezes.

I let him feel how much bigger, how much stronger I am than the version of me he fucked before Rosie. He stops moving. Surrenders. The sound he makes when he gives up is better than any orgasm I've ever had.

My breath catches mid-rep. The bar stalls for half a second. I growl—quiet, feral—and force it the rest of the way up. Lockout. Hold. Quads and glutes are screaming. Between my legs, I'm soaked through the compression shorts, the seam pressing right against my swollen clit with every shift of weight. I can feel the slickness sliding down the inside of my thigh.

"Unprofessional," I think faintly.

One more rep.

A scream rips out of me before I can stop it. It's raw, wordless, and echoing off concrete and steel. It fills the empty gym and comes back to me doubled, distorted.

For a split second, I forget where I am, who I am.

Then the bar hits the safeties.

Clang.

And I'm gone again.

Later, after I've edged him until he's shaking, after I've made him beg in full sentences, I flip him onto his back. Straddle his chest. My knees pin his upper arms, my weight distributed so he can't buck me off even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to.

His cock is flushed dark, twitching against his stomach, untouched for twenty minutes now. I lean forward, brace my hands on the headboard, lower myself until my wet folds drag along the length of him—slowly, but never quite letting him slip inside.

Being a domme requires control at all times. Even when you want to release.

"Look at me," I order.

His eyes snap open, pupils blown. I rock once, twice, coating him.

"This is what you get tonight. Me using you. Not the other way around."

When I finally sink down, taking every inch in one controlled glide, his back arches off the bed like he's been electrocuted. I don't ride fast. I ride deep. It's controlled like every lift I've ever done. Each roll of my hips is a rep. Each clench around him is me deciding how much pleasure he's allowed.

Later, when he starts to babble—please, fuck, I can't, please—I clamp a hand over his mouth.

"Quiet."

He cums anyway, helplessly pulsing inside me, eyes rolling back, because I let the rhythm tip just enough. Because I decided.

And yet I didn't give him permission. So that requires punishment.

[taoschild]

Probably my last installment here. Here is a link to the original novel, the Reluctant Domme You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login  Born to Command, the final novel in the trilogy should be out next week.

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

The bar hits the floor with a dead thud. I stand there panting, hands on my hips, staring at nothing. My whole body is buzzing—endorphins, testosterone, arousal so thick it feels like another heartbeat between my legs. The gym mirror shows me flushed from neck to navel, nipples like bullets under the soaked sports bra, a dark wet patch visible at the crotch of my shorts if anyone were looking closely.

No one is. It's just me.

"Get it together," I tell myself, not very convincingly.

My pulse is still hammering between my legs like a second heartbeat. My traps are pumped, veins standing out on my forearms, glutes still twitching from the memory of every controlled descent. And somewhere in the back of my mind, he's still whimpering under me, still mine, still small and perfect and wrecked because I wanted him that way.

I wipe chalk off my palms, grab my water bottle, and head for the rack again.

Another plate. Always more. Happy Birthday to me.

I slide off his chest and stand beside the bed, legs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of my own release. Yes, even dommes get to come, even if it's on our own terms and timeline.

He watches me through heavy lids, uncertain, hopeful, already stirring again because he knows exactly what comes next when he disobeys. The little traitor cock of his twitches like it's personally offended by the concept of refractory periods. Adorable. Infuriating. Mine.

"Over my lap." Simple. No negotiation. No please or thank you. Just the order, calm and expectant, the way I'd tell a barbell to get off the floor.

I sit on the edge of the bed, thighs spread, the mattress dipping under my weight. I pat my left thigh once expectantly. He hesitates for half a second. Only half. Just long enough for the vulnerability to hit him like a second hit of whatever drug this dynamic has turned into for us. Then he crawls forward, cheeks already flushing with that perfect mix of shame and want. The position he used to hate admitting he craved back when he still pretended he was the one in control. Back before I outgrew every version of myself he'd ever fucked.

Now he arches into it like it's home.

I guide him with one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip, maneuvering him until he's draped across me the way I want: chest on the sheets to my right, ass centered over my thick, powerful thighs, cock trapped between them, legs dangling helplessly off the other side.

He's not a small man. Objectively. Six-one on a good day, broad enough in the shoulders that he used to fill out his shirts the way men do when they think size matters more than strength.

But against the mountain of muscle I've carved myself into from years of relentless lifting, calculated surpluses, secret needles, and sheer bloody-minded refusal to stay the same? He might as well be pocket-sized.

My quads alone are thicker than his waist used to be when he still had that soft little layer before I started making him watch me eat six meals a day just to grow. My glutes and hamstrings could crush if I flexed wrong (or right, depending on the mood). He knows it. He feels it. My legs don't budge an inch from his weight. Not even a tremor. Physics has picked a side, and it's mine.

I start without warning.

Fast, hard enough to sting like fire but not hard enough to injure. We both know the drill by now.

Ten sharp, overlapping cracks that cover every inch of already tender flesh. Ten sharp, overlapping cracks that paint every inch of already tender flesh in overlapping handprints. He cries out with each one, voice cracking higher with every strike, body jerking against me in helpless spasms. Tears soak the pillowcase in dark blooms; his hips buck involuntarily, grinding his cock down between my thighs in desperate little thrusts he can't control.

The friction must be torture.

Good.

[taoschild]

Born to Command should be coming out this weekend. Woohoo! Here is a little more to tie you over and if you want to read the original, The Reluctant Domme, it can be found here: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

When I stop, the room is suddenly too quiet except for his ragged breathing and the soft, wet, embarrassing sounds of him trying, and failing, not to sob outright.

I rest one heavy forearm across the small of his back—pinning him flat like a butterfly under glass. My other hand strokes down the curve of his spine, slow, almost tender, before cupping one blazing cheek. The skin is fever-hot, mottled dark red and purple from the impacts. He flinches at the lightest touch, then sighs into it like relief.

I'd feel bad if he didn't crave this.

I lean over him till my breasts brush his back. My nipples are still hard, dragging across his sweat-slick skin.

Mouth at his ear, I ask. "Whose ass is this?"

"Yours, ma'am," he chokes out immediately. No hesitation. No sarcasm. Just raw, wrecked truth.

"Whose orgasms?"

"Yours." The word cracks on the end, half sob, half prayer.

I smile against his ear, let my breath ghost over the shell of it. "That's right. And you came without permission earlier. Again."

I let that sit for a beat. Let him feel how completely the answer belongs to me.

"And who decides when you come?"

"You do, Dani. Only you."

"Right. So, we're going to count to twenty this time, and you're going to thank me for each one. Out loud. Like a good boy. Then we'll see if you've earned a second chance tonight."

He nods frantically into the pillow.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

That part never gets old. He actually whimpers and nods against the sheets.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, amused voice pipes up: Happy Birthday to me, indeed. Who needs cake when you have a man who'll cry prettily across your lap and call it love?

I raise my hand again.

Because birthdays are for indulgence.

And I'm feeling very, very indulgent tonight.

A predatory grin sweeps across my face. One more set.

The bar waits where I left it, patient and heavy. I wrap my hands around the knurling, feeling the familiar bite of steel against callused palms.

Because I can wait. Waiting makes it better. Because when I finally walk through that bedroom door in a few hours, he'll already be hard just from the sound of my footsteps.

And I'll make him wait a little longer.

Just to hear him break.

I reset my grip, feeling heat bloom under my skin, blood moving exactly where I demand it go. There was a time when training, pushing, and taking up space felt like performance. That was before him.

Before the click.

The moment he turned on my drive for domination, by accident, I think. Or maybe because he saw something I was still pretending not to notice. The memory surfaces without permission, as it always does when I'm under load. After that I wasn't chasing fitness anymore.

I was feeding something. And it never said thank you.

He'd stood behind me then, hands hovering but never touching, voice low—almost reverent. You're so big, he'd said, like it was a confession. I don't know how you're already stronger than me.

I was.

I just didn't know yet how much dominance was threaded straight through my DNA.

I remember laughing it off. Making a joke. Telling him I could never get stronger than him, even as my body quietly proved me wrong. I'd said it lightly, like it didn't matter.

It mattered.

[taoschild]

Built to Commannd is now out on Amazon. Smashwords and Apple Books soon.
Link to book 1: The Reluctant Domme: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
Link to book 2: Submission Training: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
Link to book 3: Built to Command: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login


Dominance had sounded like a costume back then. Like theater. Something you put on because someone else wanted to see it, performed for the right audience, then folded up and put away when the lights came up.

He wanted it. I didn't think I did.

My breath stutters as I drive through another rep, thighs braced, shoulders steady. The weight moves without hesitation. My body answers without question, like it always has, like it's been waiting for me to catch up.

I wonder now why the idea unsettled me so much back then. Why the suggestion that I could be more than accommodating, more than responsive—more than nice—felt like a threat instead of an invitation.

The answer presses close, warm and undeniable. Because it wasn't something I could try on.

It was something I already was.

I rack the weight with a muted clang and straighten slowly, breath deep and controlled. I stand there a moment, hands on hips, chest rising and falling, mirror reflecting back a woman who finally stopped apologizing for wanting more.

More weight. More power. More of him small and trembling.

The mirror catches my reflection standing there. Veins map lazy rivers down my forearms, sweat trace paths between the ridges of my abs. I'm powerful and unapologetic in the space I occupy.

"Huh," I think, almost laughing under my breath. "So that's what that was."

My power no longer feels performative. It doesn't need witnesses nor a spotlight to validate it. It lives in the quiet certainty of my muscles answering before my mind even finishes the question and in the way my body locks into position under load. The bone-deep knowing settles into me when I lift, when I hold, and when I decide. When I pin him, when I spank him, when I let him come or don't.

It's the same mechanism. Different implement.

Relationships came later. This came first. And I'm done pretending otherwise.

I wipe chalk from my palms onto my shorts and my pulse finally steadies. A faint, knowing smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Whatever he thought he was asking of me back with that reverent confession on a story night breathed against my neck years ago wasn't resisting some external kink. I was resisting waking up.

My dominance was never negotiated. It was already coiled tight in my DNA, waiting for me to stop playing small. Waiting to break free from the chrysalis I'd built out of denial and polite laughter and "I could never be stronger than you."

My phone vibrates against the bench.

I glance down.

Two hours gone. Just like that.

"Of course," I mutter, grabbing my bag. Time always behaves differently around me when I lift. Like it knows better than to argue with someone who routinely tells several hundred pounds of steel where to go and how fast.

I shower fast, dress faster, my muscles already humming in that low, satisfied way that means Novoregen is blooming under my skin. I can feel it working—quiet, efficient, unapologetic. Jack will still be asleep when I get home.

That won't last long.