I’m not that heavy. I mean, seriously, the way Patricia was going on, you’d think I had packed on at least a 100 pounds since the summer ended. You’d also think she was much more into the domination thing than she’d let on — and you’d be correct. She’s easily the most fun of all the women I’ve dated, but when she gets on something — like me losing weight — she’s like a dog with a bone. She will not let up, and she won’t hesitate to leverage some of my, ahem, predilections for motivation. 

“How many steps did you do today?” she demanded the minute I walked in the door of our giant loft. She was on her elliptical, not looking at me, her long legs scissoring back and forth as her blonde ponytail bobbed.

I made a show of checking the wrist pedometer she’d bought me with the demand that I never take it off during exercise time.

“Five…’bout 5,000,” I murmured.

I knew better than to hand her a lie, even a little white one. If I did, Pat would no doubt check the pedometer and assign me 20,000 steps the next day as a penalty.

“Ugh, 5,000?!” she barked, shaking her head as she brought her own workout to an end. “You know better — 10,000 is the minimum.”

“I know, I know,” I moaned.

I should have done at least 10,000, and if I made it that far, there was no reason I couldn’t have made it to 15,000.

I didn’t really mind walking. It was a lot better than some of the tortures Pat could have put me through. She could have had me on the elliptical or — worse yet — hefting dumbbells. I hated that kind of stuff, even when I was comparatively fit. My job was the real reason for my modest weight gain. The increased responsibility that came with promotions and a bigger salary kept me in my chair for longer hours.

Try telling that to Pat, though.

“At least you didn’t stop for any treats,” she said with a glare. “Right?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said truthfully.

Much like lying about my steps, if Pat suspected I was stretching the truth — even a little — she’d demand to sniff my breath. If she caught a whiff of cheeseburger, I’d be in deep trouble.

“Dan, Dan, Dan,” she sighed, dabbing her glistening brow with a towel. “What am I going to do with you?”

I knew what I’d like her to do with me. She must have, too, because she began sliding out of her exercise outfit and showing me her glorious body. Her pink lips bowed up in a sly smile as she buffed her tits with the towel, which left her nipples fat and seemingly as hard as my dick was at that moment. She turned and slapped her ass cheeks with both hands.

“It’s too bad,” she purred. “If you’d done the whole 10,000, I might have let you join me in the shower. We could’ve had a little fun.”

I don’t know what was more exciting: the idea losing myself in a cloud of steam, hot water and Pat’s body or the bittersweet pleasures being denied the same.

She knows I’m kinky that way.

I guess I should have displayed some dignity. I shouldn’t have begged quite so piteously to join her under the spray. Finally, she tossed her sports bra at me and, sighing mightily, headed toward our bathroom.

“All right, one more indulgence,” she said. “But this laziness of yours, hon, is getting to be a problem. And you’d better believe Miss Pat’s going to be working on a solution.”

“OK, sure,” I babbled eagerly, falling right into step behind her and already tearing off my trousers. I wasn’t really paying attention to her promise, which — I realized in hindsight — was much more like a veiled threat.

After all, why would I? Seriously, how bad could it be?

My ordeal started the very next night. No sooner than I stepped into our home than I heard Pat’s voice say, “Strip. Everything but the pedometer.”

I didn’t hesitate; I could tell from her tone that she meant business. By the time I’d gotten naked, she’d slipped out from behind the decorative screen in the corner, having undergone a change of her own. Her outfit wasn’t really something typically associated with a dominatrix. However, it was sexy. The black spandex looked painted on. It showed off her every curve, every toned muscle. Her one concession to the fetish look was a black leather cap, like something a cop would wear. She had it pulled down low over her blue eyes. She looked wicked. Positively evil — in the best possible way.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” she said in a throaty voice, while running a finger over my chest. “You’re going to do a mile for me right now. On the treadmill.”

“A whole mile?” I squeaked. “Right now? You’re kidding!”

“Oh, pooh,” she said, giving my cheek a pat that could have easily been mistaken for a slap. “It’s 11, 12 minutes, right? Don’t worry,” she added, “you’ll get your reward afterward.”

“What reward?” I asked hesitantly.

Pat just laughed, motioned at her torture machine and said, “Get to work.”

I immediately hopped on the treadmill and switched it on. I’m sure I must have looked both clumsy and lacking in confidence. It didn’t help that I was trying to hide my bouncing erection — or at least keep it from being so painfully evident — to spare myself more embarrassment. No question about it, my dick was as hard as hell. I kept recalling myself in the shower with Patricia — me kneeling on the cold porcelain with my face buried in her twat as she dragged her long fingernails over my back. I imagined her making me lean over and grip my ankles, presenting my fleshy ass to her for a good swatting. Lastly came the pulse-quickening memory of the last time we fucked — only she had referred to it as her fucking me. These thoughts flashed over and over in my mind until I was seriously worried the bobbing of my hard cock might cause me to suddenly squirt orgasmically all over the floor.

Meanwhile, Pat was working her elliptical while I did my thing on the treadmill. She was moving briskly, making tiny moaning sounds as she high-stepped through her own workout. Her passionate cries did nothing to diminish my growing excitement.

In the end, my out-of-shape bod took about 25 minutes to finish the mile. Someone more fit who was really pushing themselves probably could have done it in under 12, as Pat had suggested. I was not one of those people. Still, I felt pretty good. Breathing hard, I raised my eyebrows at her, like an eager dog begging for his biscuit: Can I have my reward now?

“Good,” she said, giving me a short nod. “In fact, you did so well, you can do one more mile. Then you’ll get something really nice.”

What could I do? I was helpless. Pouting and arguing wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I started up the treadmill once more. No, another mile wasn’t as painful as a kick in the balls, but by the time I’d finished another 40 minutes had passed. I was breathing hard and sweating when I got off the equipment. I was afraid Pat was going to deny me again, but I was delighted to see she was seated on the bed, removing her running shoes and sweaty white socks.

“All right,” Pat said as she spread her perfect piggies. “Come get your treat, bad boy.”

Her bare, hot feet were a delight I couldn’t pass up. I knelt before the bed with my hands behind my back — just the way she likes — and nuzzled and licked her welcoming soles. Their pungent odor told me she must have worn the same socks for a couple of days, preparing her feet for my reward. Her feet were stinky and wonderful, their sweaty skin delectably salty to my tongue. The bits of white sock-fuzz I’d sucked off her toes did make me cough a little, but I wasn’t complaining. After half an hour of increasingly avid foot worship, Pat let me move one hand from behind my back to stroke my aching cock. Pretty soon all of her toes bore the mark of my sloppy adoration. In fact, they were dripping with saliva.

I didn’t get a second chance at one of Pat’s rewards until the weekend, even though I dropped plenty of hints. I didn’t ask for any leniency on the diet Pat had set up for me. I even started walking to the grocery store for our provisions instead of driving — all with an eye toward proving I was completely committed to my lady’s regimen and thus worthy of more rewards. Finally on Saturday morning, Pat gestured to the treadmill again.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Two miles this time,” she said.

My bossy babe demanded two more after that. I barely had a break between them, so my legs and back were aching by the time Pat acknowledged I’d earned my next reward. My cock was semi-hard, but drooping a little from my exertion.

Once again, Pat began stripping, but this time she didn’t stop at her shoes. She stood before me, a naked goddess. Her golden skin gleamed with perspiration, her eyes and voice both smoky.

“Don’t you want to taste my ass?” she asked in a sweet voice. She turned to present her royal backside to me, and that was all it took. Suddenly my cock sprang back, fully hard once more. I positioned myself behind her, and with great delicacy, I began to service Pat’s butt.

I know a lot of people would consider this a punishment and not a reward, the same way they would look at her having me lick her smelly feet. I guess I can understand their point of view. But to me, those moments of being buried between her plush cheeks are nothing short of paradise.

Pat gasped delightedly when my tongue began delicately washing her sphincter — reminiscent of those earlier elliptical moans that had so tantalized me.

She let my reward go on and on, and when I finally came up for air, I glanced at our bedside clock and saw a half hour had passed. What’s more, Pat’s backside and crack were gleaming wet with my saliva.

“Well, Dan, I hope you see now how much better a healthy lifestyle is for you,” Pat whispered. She stroked her clit gently, while I nodded like a simpleton. She did not remove her fingers from her slick pussy. “Maybe I should fuck you to make sure the lesson gets through. What do you think?”

I told her that seemed like a fine idea. She ordered me to get on the bed. I lay down with my erect cock pointing toward the ceiling, and immediately, she pounced. Pat impaled herself on my rod and rode me for a marathon sex session. We were both panting when we finally reached the finish line. I thought it was a gold medal-winning performance and couldn’t wait to do it all again.