I take the elevator up to the third floor, and step out into a small entryway before entering the gym. It’s luxurious, as befits the club. Double-height windows, all polished chrome and navy blue, sunlight bouncing off every reflective surface. You can smell the money in here, from the fresh eucalyptus towels to the wall of supplements no one will ever use. They have a cryotherapy pod, a rock wall, a row of Pelotons with built-in VR goggles, and a juice bar that would bankrupt a small Caribbean nation. It’s all for show. The only thing that matters here is the machinery—bodies moving, glistening, competing for the rightto exist. Fortunately, the place is empty at this hour, and I nod with satisfaction. Perfect.
I change in the locker room, pull on a white tee and black track pants. The shirt is fitted, clinging to me, showing off every inch of chest and arm, and I like that. You have to look like you deserve to win if you’re going to win at Sanctum.
I’m standing at the edge of the weight rack when she comes in.
Daisy: pale blue sports bra hugging those big tits, the kind that barely counts as clothing, and black shorts so tiny they’re more of a punctuation mark than a garment. Her stomach is soft and her legs go on forever. Her hair is up in a ponytail, wispy flyaways haloing her face. She looks nervous and gorgeous, bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes scanning the empty gym with open awe.
“Wow,” she says. “It’s huge in here.”
I smile.
“Figured you could use a proper tour,” I say, nodding her over. “And if you’re serious about this auction thing, you need to get comfortable moving in front of a crowd.”
Daisy smiles hesitantly. “Is that part of the deal? Walking around half-naked in front of everyone?”
“Depends on the audience,” I say. “Some dudes like a show, so there are girls who do a little dance when they’re on stage. But it’s up to you.”
She blushes, but it’s the kind of blush that says she’s thinking about the description, not rejecting it.
I start her slow, easy. Treadmill for five minutes, then a dynamic stretch routine that I talk her through. She’s flexible, strong, and shockingly coordinated for someone who claims not to remember her own birthday. I watch her every move, and it’s all I can do not to stare at the way her ass bounces in those shorts, the way the sports bra barely restrains her luscious tits when she stretches overhead.
I put her on the rower next. “Twenty strokes, fast as you can.”
She takes the challenge, face set in determination. Her thighs flex, her stomach tightens, and her form is almost perfect. When she finishes, she’s winded, cheeks pink, blonde hair damp with sweat.
“Not bad,” I say, handing her a towel.
She wipes her brow, then her chest, then—fuck—she tugs the sports bra up a half inch to dab underneath. For a second, the underside of her breast is visible, all soft curve and damp skin, and my pulse jumps like I just did a shot of adrenaline.
“You okay?” she asks, catching my stare.
“Fine,” I say, voice a little rough.
We move on: deadlifts, then squats, then cable pulls. Every time I demonstrate a move, she watches with absolute focus, eyes tracking the muscle groups, the angle of my hands on the bar. When it’s her turn, I spot her, fingers hovering at her waist or just above her ass, correcting her form with gentle, lingering pressure.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done with clothes on.
At one point, I step behind her to correct her posture during a squat, and when my hand lands on her hip, her breath hitches. I don’t move away. I press, slow and deliberate, and she lets me.
“Like this?” she asks, dropping lower, her ass brushing against my groin.
“Exactly,” I say, and have to grind my teeth to keep from moaning.
We finish the circuit, and by then we’re both sweating. She’s flushed and radiant, eyes bright and body humming with energy. I could fuck her right here on the mat, and for a second, I seriously consider it.
She stands, stretching overhead, and her nipples are visibly hard through the thin fabric of the bra. She follows my gaze, then giggles, cupping them with her hands.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s cold in here! I mean, I’m hot from working out but they blast the A/C.”
“Yes, they do,” I say, and she giggles again.
We sit on the bench, side by side. She’s still catching her breath, and the silence is comfortable.
Finally, she looks at me, shy. “So, how’d I do? Working out, I mean.”
“You did amazing,” I say. “You’re athletic and coordinated. You’ll own the room.”
She smiles hesitantly, but then it fades, and she looks down at her hands. “I’m scared, though. What if I get up on stage and freeze? Or what if no one wants me? I’d be so embarrassed!”
