Chapter 1: The First Domination
The air in the gym locker room was thick, a soup of stale sweat, chlorine from the distant pool, and the harsh, alkaline bite of industrial cleaner. Alex avoided the wide mirrors, still fogged at the edges from the shower steam. He focused on the combination lock in his hands, the numbers a blur. His thoughts were across campus, in the library where Lauren was probably studying, a stray strand of chestnut hair tucked behind her ear as she concentrated.
He flinched when a shadow fell over him.
Bertha leaned a shoulder against the next locker, her tank top damp across her chest and shoulders. She wasn’t just tall; she was monumental. Sculpted deltoids, triceps that carved definitive shadows under the fluorescent lights, a neck that spoke of deliberate, heavy labor. Her hair was cropped close, her face all strong planes and a cool, assessing gaze. She wiped her brow with a thick wrist.
“Hey. Alex, right? Lauren’s guy.”
Alex’s chest did a funny little jump at the label. “Yeah. Hi, Bertha. Lauren’s mentioned you.” He tried for a friendly tone. She was Lauren’s new friend from the women’s rugby team, someone Lauren described as ‘intense but really sweet once you get to know her.’ Up close, the intensity was a physical pressure.
“She mentions you a lot.” Bertha’s voice was a low, even contralto. She didn’t smile. Her eyes traveled over him—his slender frame, the unmarked gym bag, the way his shoulders hunched slightly inward. It wasn’t a check-out. It was an appraisal, like she was judging the structural integrity of a piece of furniture. “You ever lift with her?”
“Um, no. Not really her thing. Or mine.” He laughed, a short, brittle sound. “I’m more of a library person.”
“I can see that.” She pushed off the locker and took a half-step closer. The space around Alex seemed to shrink, the hum of the ventilation system growing louder. “She’s a vibrant person. Full of energy. A real force.”
“She is,” Alex agreed, warmth flooding him at the thought.
“She needs someone who can match that.” Bertha’s eyes pinned him. “You think you match it?”
The question, so bluntly delivered, felt like a slap. Alex’s mouth went dry. He’d asked himself the same thing on endless, anxious nights. Lauren, with her easy laugh and her circle of friends, who turned heads in every lecture hall. And him. “I try,” he managed.
Bertha’s lip curled, just at one corner. Not quite a smirk. Something more clinical. “Trying isn’t the same as being.” She flexed one hand, watching the tendons play. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. I care about Lauren. I watch out for her. And I see the way she looks at you—she wants to be proud of you. She wants a partner, not a project.”
Each word was a precise, surgical cut. Alex felt exposed under the blazing lights, painfully aware of his own lack of mass, of definition. He saw it suddenly through Lauren’s eyes: a boy, not a man. Someone to be protected, not someone who protected.
“What are you saying?” His voice was quieter now.
“I’m saying she deserves the best version of you. And right now, you’re operating at, what, forty percent?” Bertha finally moved, leaning in, one powerful arm braced against the locker above his head. She smelled of salt and effort. “You’re weak, Alex. Physically, sure. That’s obvious. But it’s a mindset. It’s in the way you hold yourself. The way you just accepted my assessment without a single word of defense for yourself.”
He had no defense. It was all true.
“But I can fix that,” she said, her tone dropping, becoming almost conspiratorial. “If you let me. If you’re serious about being someone Lauren can really lean on. Someone she doesn’t have to make excuses for.”
The ‘excuses’ part hit like a gut-punch. Did Lauren make excuses for him? He thought of her gentle deflection when her friends suggested hikes he’d struggle with, her quick change of subject when someone asked what sport he played.
“Fix how?” The question left him in a rush of desperation.
“A transformation. Body, mind, posture, confidence. The whole package. It’s not just about lifting weights. It’s about rebuilding you from the ground up.” She straightened up, withdrawing her presence slightly, making him lean forward to follow her. “It won’t be easy. I’ll be hard on you. You’ll want to quit. But if you stick with it, Lauren will look at you like you’re the only man in the world. Guaranteed.”
The image was a dopamine spike to his insecurities. Lauren, looking at him with unmasked awe, with desire, with pride. Him, standing tall, feeling her hand on a solid arm without a flicker of her worrying he was fragile.
“Why would you do that?” Alex asked, a last flicker of suspicion cutting through the haze of longing.
For the first time, Bertha offered something resembling a genuine smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Like I said. I care about Lauren. Her happiness matters to me. Seeing her with someone who doesn’t measure up… it’s frustrating. This fixes my frustration. Think of it as a project. My project.” She extended her hand, not for a handshake, but palm up, waiting. “So? You want to become someone she deserves? Or do you want to stay in the library, hoping she doesn’t eventually outgrow you?”
The choice, framed that way, was no choice at all. His own self-loathing, carefully nursed and curated, met Bertha’s cold, calculated offer and embraced it like a salvation.
He placed his hand, cool and slightly trembling, into hers. Her grip was immense, dry, and utterly engulfing. It felt less like a deal and more like a surrender.
“Good,” she said, her fingers tightening for a second before releasing him. “We start tomorrow. Six AM. This gym. Don’t eat breakfast. And Alex?” She turned to leave, then glanced back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”
The hiss of the airlock door sealed shut behind her. Alex stood alone, the ghost of her grip still burning on his skin, the echo of her words—weak, project, outgrow you—swirling in the sterile, scented air. He looked down at his own hand, then at his reflection in the foggy mirror. A slender boy looked back, wide-eyed and hopeful.
He didn’t see the first, faint crack in the foundation of everything he was. He only saw the promise of what Bertha said he could become. For Lauren. Always for Lauren.
He started packing his bag, his movements quicker now, purposeful.
The duvet felt like quicksand when his alarm screamed at five fifteen. He’d barely slept, a nervous electricity buzzing under his skin. He dressed in the dark, careful not to wake his roommate, in the old grey cotton sweats and faded t-shirt Bertha had specified. Something you don’t mind ruining.
The walk to the gym was a bleary-eyed trek through a silent, pre-dawn campus. The air was cold and bit at his lungs. His stomach grumbled, a hollow, acidic ache. He’d obeyed her—no breakfast—but now, shivering under a streetlamp’s jaundiced glow, it felt less like discipline and more like a mistake.
The main gym doors were locked. A piece of paper was taped to the glass. USE SIDE ENTRY BEFORE 7AM. He found the metal door, its paint chipped and rusted at the hinges. It groaned open to a concrete staircase leading down into a deeper silence.
The lower-level auxiliary gym was a ghost of the bustling space above. A third of the lights were off, casting the far corners in deep shadow. The air was cooler here, smelling of rubber mats and old dust. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor, the sound absurdly loud.
Bertha was already there.
She wasn’t waiting. She was working. She stood in the center of a mat, facing a heavy bag that hung from the ceiling like a condemned man. She wore a black sports bra and compression shorts, her body a topography of defined muscle under sweat-slicked skin. She didn’t look at him. Her focus was total. Each strike—fist, elbow, knee—was a sharp, concussive thwack that echoed in the empty room. The bag shuddered on its chain. She moved with a vicious, practiced grace that was nothing like the playful sparring he’d seen in movies. This was predatory. Efficient.
He stood there, his hunger momentarily forgotten, replaced by a cold drip of awe and fear.
She landed a final, spinning back kick that sent the bag swinging violently, then turned. Her chest rose and fell steadily. She wasn’t even winded. Her eyes found him, scanned him from head to toe, and the quick, dismissive flattening of her lips was more cutting than any insult.
“You’re late. It’s 6:03.”
“The door… I couldn’t find—”
“Save it,” she said, walking toward a duffel bag slumped against the wall. “The first rule is that my time isn’t wasted. Your excuses are a waste of my time. You’re already in deficit.” She pulled out a jump rope and tossed it at his feet. The plastic handles clattered on the floor. “Five minutes. Continuous. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Alex picked up the rope. His hands felt clumsy. He hadn’t used one since elementary school. He began, the rope slapping the floor with an uneven rhythm. Slap-thwack, slap-thwack, trip. He stumbled, the rope catching his ankle.
“I said continuous,” Bertha called. She was leaning against the wall, sipping water from a clear bottle, watching him with the detached interest of someone watching a malfunctioning machine.
He started again. The slapping sound filled his ears. Within a minute, his lungs were burning. His shoulders screamed. The hollow ache in his stomach curdled into nausea. The numbers on the large clock above the door seemed frozen.
“Posture,” Bertha said, her voice calm. “You’re hunched. Stand tall. Shoulders back. You think Lauren wants to be seen with a question mark?”
He forced his spine straight. The movement made him miss a beat. He gritted his teeth and kept going. The sweat was cold on his temples.
After an eternity, she said, “Stop.”
He dropped the rope, hands on his knees, gulping air. The room tilted slightly.
“Pathetic,” she said, not unkindly, but as a statement of fact. “But expected. Your body has no memory of discipline. It’s a spoiled child. We’re going to teach it new memories.” She pointed to a row of empty mats against the wall. “Lie down. Crunches. Hands behind your head, elbows wide. Don’t pull on your neck. Up on the exhale.”
He collapsed onto the mat. The rubber smell was stronger here. He did the first one. Then another. His abdominal muscles, long dormant, shook in protest.
Bertha knelt beside his head. Her shadow fell over him. “Slower,” she instructed. Her voice was closer now, a quiet drone in his ear. “Control the movement. Don’t just flop. Think about the muscle. Imagine it shortening, tightening. That’s it. Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“To… get stronger,” Alex grunted on the upswing.
“Wrong.” Her tone was sharp. “Try again. Why are you here?”
“For Lauren.”
“Better.” He could feel her gaze on the side of his face. “Keep going. Ten more. And I want you to say her name in your head with every rep. Make her the reason your body is hurting. She’s the reward.”
Lauren. Up. Lauren. Up. Each repetition became a desperate prayer. The burn in his core was blinding. His form broke. He started to curl inward.
A hand, large and unyielding, pressed down on his sternum, pinning him to the mat. It was Bertha. She hadn’t pushed him down with force, just with absolute, immovable pressure. “I didn’t say stop,” she murmured. “Your mind gives up before your body does. That’s the weakness. Push against my hand.”
He strained upwards against the pressure of her palm. It was like pushing against a brick wall. A raw sound escaped his throat. He collapsed back, spent.
Bertha removed her hand. She stood up, looking down at him as he gasped on the mat. “Get up. We’re moving to the sled.”
He rolled to his side, his muscles watery and unresponsive. The world swam. He got to his knees, then, unsteadily, to his feet. The hunger was a sharp claw in his gut now, mixed with the sour tang of bile.
She led him to a corner where a metal sled sat loaded with a single, massive black weight plate. “Push it to that line and back,” she said, pointing to a yellow tape mark twenty feet away.
He set his hands on the cold metal frame and pushed. It didn’t move. He dug his feet in, threw his weight forward. The sled scraped an inch, then stopped.
“Your legs are twigs,” Bertha observed. She walked around him. “You’re all arm. It’s a feminine posture. All upper-body anxiety, no base power. Drive from your heels. Through your hips.”
He tried again, groaning. The sled lurched forward a foot. The friction was immense. Every muscle fiber in his legs and back ignited. He managed five agonizing feet before his will evaporated.
Bertha stepped in behind him. Not to help. To observe. “You’re quitting,” she said. “I can see it in the slump of your spine. Lauren wouldn’t quit. She’d dig deeper. Find it. Find the part of you that wants to be worthy of her.”
Tears of frustration and exhaustion stung his eyes. He let out a choked cry and shoved. The sled moved another few feet. He was seeing spots. His stomach cramped violently.
He collapsed against the sled, his forehead pressed to the cold steel, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs. The humiliation was complete. He was a child. A weak, pathetic child.
He expected derision. Instead, he felt a hand on his trembling shoulder. It wasn’t comforting. It was possessive.
“Good,” Bertha said, her voice low and close to his ear. A strange, vibrant energy thrummed through her touch. “That’s the feeling. That total emptiness. That’s where we start. Remember this moment, Alex. This is the ‘you’ that Lauren will never see again. I’m going to make sure of it.”
She straightened up. “Now, we’re going to finish this circuit. And you’re not going to eat until you’ve earned it.”
The circuit was a carefully constructed hell. Bertha’s instructions were crisp, devoid of mockery now, all business. This, somehow, was worse. It made the pain feel like a curriculum.
“Fire hydrants. On all fours. Knee out to the side, hold, squeeze at the top.” Alex got on the mat, his knees aching on the hard surface. The movement felt ridiculous, like a dog at a hydrant. He felt the burn immediately in his outer hip, a deep, unfamiliar ache.
“Don’t sag in the middle,” Bertha said, her foot nudging his lower back. “Core tight. Imagine you’re holding a coin between your cheek and your hamstring. Squeeze it.”
He squeezed, face flushing. Twenty on each side. Then came “donkey kicks,” driving his heel toward the ceiling, the focus relentlessly on the same posterior chain. His old sweats did nothing to hide the forced, isolating contractions. Next were glute bridges, lying on his back with knees bent, thrusting his hips up. “Higher,” Bertha commanded, placing a heavy hand on his lower abdomen to push him down, forcing his glutes to work harder to lift against the pressure. “This is the engine you’re missing. This is power.”
The exercises had a rhythmic, almost aerobic quality to them. She mixed in “curtsy lunges” that made him feel off-balance and graceful in a way that prickled his skin with self-consciousness. Then “sumo squats” with a wide stance, toes pointed out. “Deep,” she insisted, standing in front of him, her own powerful legs mirroring the stance. “Get those knees out. It’s a foundational feminine movement pattern. Develops stability.” She said it with such authority that the adjective just slid in, unattached to any critique.
His muscles trembled, a waterlogged ache spreading through his hips and backside. It was a different burn than the sled—not about raw power, but about meticulous, exhausting control. Bertha watched, her arms crossed, her gaze analytical. She’d nod occasionally, a coach seeing form improve, but her eyes held a different kind of calculation.
“Good.Last one. Hip abductions on the machine.” She led him to a contraption he’d never seen anyone use. He sat, and she adjusted the pads against his outer knees. “Push out against the resistance. Slow and controlled. Don’t let it slam shut.”
It was torture. Each rep was a battle against the burning fatigue. His glutes were screaming, fully awakened for the first time in his life. When he finally staggered off the machine, his legs felt strangely loose and heavy at the same time, a pronounced soreness already setting in with every step.
“Water break,” Bertha said, tossing him his bottle. He drank greedily, the water doing little to clear the fog of exhaustion. He leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
Bertha rummaged in her duffel again. She pulled out a plastic shaker bottle filled with a thick, pale pink protein concoction. “Here. You’ve earned some fuel.” She tossed it to him. It was sweet, with a faint chemical berry aftertaste. He gulped it down, grateful for anything.
“Change, shower. You reek,” she said, gathering her things. “We’ll meet same time Thursday. No slacking.”
Alex dragged himself to the locker room.It was still empty. He fumbled with his lock, his fingers clumsy. He needed the shower’s heat on his screaming muscles. He peeled off his sweat-soaked t-shirt, the cotton clinging. As he bent to grab his towel and shampoo from his bag, a sharp tearing sound ripped through the quiet room.
He froze. Bertha was walking past his bench, her own bag slung over her shoulder. The corner of it had caught on the loose, fraying seam of his ancient gray sweatpants. The thin material gave way completely, tearing from the mid-thigh all the way down the outside seam to the cuff, exposing his leg.
“Shit, my bad,” Bertha said, not sounding sorry at all. She didn’t even stop. “Those were on their last legs anyway. Literally.” She glanced at the ruined garment, then at Alex standing there in his shorts, holding the tattered fabric. “Can’t wear those home.”
Alex blinked, stunned. The vulnerability was acute. “I… I guess not.”
Bertha sighed, as if put upon. She dropped her bag on the bench with a heavy thud. “Look, I’ve got some spare stuff in here. Old camp gear, whatever. Better than nothing.” She unzipped a side compartment and pulled out a neatly folded bundle of fabric. She tossed it to him. “It’ll be big, but it’ll cover you.”
Alex caught it. The fabric was soft, a heather grey. He shook it out. It was a pair of joggers, but the cut was… different. Slim through the thigh, tapering sharply at the ankle. The material had a lot of stretch, a sleek, technical feel. There was also a matching long-sleeved top, a light grey with a subtle peach tone at the neckline.
“Uh, thanks,” he mumbled.
“Just don’t bust the seams. Those are expensive,” she said, turning and walking toward the door. “See you Thursday. Don’t be late.”
The door hissed shut behind her. Alex stood alone in the silent, humid room. He looked at the clothes in his hands. They were clean, smelled faintly of floral detergent. They were undeniably nicer than anything he owned. But as he pulled on the joggers, he noticed how they clung to his newly aching glutes and thighs, how the tapered leg emphasized his slender ankles. The top was soft, the peach detailing at the collar undeniably like something from the women’s section. The fit was snug, hugging his torso.
He looked in the mirror. The reflection was unfamiliar. The clothes changed his silhouette, making him look softer, more streamlined. The aggressive, baggy masculinity of his old sweats was gone, replaced by something that felt… curated. He turned, saw the way the fabric stretched across his backside, highlighting the very muscles Bertha had just spent an hour meticulously torturing.
A hot, confused shame washed over him, followed immediately by a wave of defensive reasoning. They were just clothes. They were clean. They were a favor. Bertha was helping him. She was tough, but she was helping. Lauren would like someone who took care of their appearance, right? This was just… modern.Athletic.
He bundled his ruined sweats into his bag, the torn fabric a ghost of his former, shabby self. Dressed in the new, soft, fitted gear, his body humming with a deep, specific ache, he walked out of the gym. The morning air felt different on the technical fabric. Each step was a reminder of the workout, of the transformation already beginning.
He didn’t feel stronger. He felt remade. And the path, paved with Bertha’s instructions and her choices, stretched out before him, narrow and disquieting, leading away from the boy he had been.