He had been watching me squat for three weeks before he worked up the nerve to spot me. Twenty four years old, sweet face, arms half the size of mine, and eyes that followed my thighs like they were giving directions. I racked the bar, turned around, and caught him mid stare, and instead of looking away like a coward, this beautiful idiot blushed and said, "You are the strongest woman I have ever seen."
Correct. And that honesty earned him an invitation he will be thinking about when he is eighty.
"My place after your workout," I told him. "Shower first. Mama has standards."
He arrived at eight with wet hair and shaking hands, and I let him look his fill this time, because I had dressed for the looking. A tank that showed every line of my shoulders and arms, shorts that let my quads do their own introductions. I am a muscle mommy, baby. I built this body rep by rep for years, and worship is not something I tolerate. It is something I require.
"On your knees," I said. "Flex check is over. Now you learn what these are for."
I guided his hands over my arms first, let him feel the biceps he had been dreaming about, then my shoulders, my back, down to the thighs that had starred in three weeks of his fantasies. He was reverent. Grown men are never reverent enough, but this boy worshipped like a religion, kissing my shoulder, murmuring about how strong I was like it was a prayer. So I rewarded him the way a mommy rewards a very good boy. I picked him up. Actually picked him up, carried him the four steps to my couch, and put him under me, and the sound he made when he understood that I could do that, that I could hold him down with one arm and he could not move unless I allowed it, that sound is why I lift heavy things.
I pinned his wrists above his head and rode him slow, my whole powerful body working over his, watching his face cycle through disbelief and gratitude and ruin. "Who is in charge here?" I asked him, flexing the arm that held him.
"You, Mama," he gasped. "Always you."
That is the correct answer, and I made sure he knew what correct answers earn. I let his hands go so he could hold onto my waist while I took him apart at exactly my pace, all strength and softness at once, a domme who babies you while she breaks you. He came saying my name like a title. He stayed for dinner. Strong women feed their boys. He has a standing appointment now, twice a week, and his gym attendance has never been better.
So let me ask you what I asked him. When was the last time a woman made you feel small in the good way? Held you down with real strength and then held you close with the same arms? If the answer is never, your education is overdue. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, where I am a dollar a minute, which is a tiny price for the biggest woman in your life. Kneel first. Then call Mama.