Mio, Run Baby Run

Chapter 6 Layla

Giving credit where it's due, I have my mother's ex-boyfriend, my boyfriend to thank. Without him, I would never have come up with the idea that birthed The Gym. Men frequented our apartment like trains passing through a station, always someone new to fall into rotation. One, in particular, took an interest in me. Perhaps it was timing—on the cusp of turning sixteen, my body was blossoming. My chest became weighty, no more than a handful, and my hips curved like the outline of a coke bottle. I was aware of my growing sexuality, though I was yet to learn of the power it held. But he knew. Raphaelle knew.

He'd come from a small coastal town in Barcelona, arriving in Hollywood with stars in his eyes, believing he'd be the next Brad Pitt. He had the good looks and charisma to pull it off. But having a ticket in the genetically blessed lottery doesn't guarantee a win. With the solid physique of a bodybuilder and the golden tan of a Greek god, his kind eyes, soft baby blues with flecks of Arctic ice white, stood in stark contrast. God knows what he saw in Cindy, who dragged him back to the apartment like a stray dog. Yet, he saw something in me. Perhaps the true allure.

My mother didn't bother with formal introductions, ordering me to fix Raphaelle a drink. Two dry martinis, as if I were the resident bartender and not her sixteen-year-old daughter. When I handed him his drink, our fingers overlapped at the "V" of the cocktail glass. That was when I first felt the tingling sensation. A growing pressure between my legs. A yearning of wanting. None of the high school boys made me feel the pulsating ache like he did. He ignited the telltale signs that I was coming of age, and I liked it.

Raphaelle dropped by one night when mommy dearest was out, partying at some bar, hoping to secure her next payday. I think Raphaelle knew I was home alone. He was opportunistic. This I had observed when he was around my mother. I can recall that day with crystal clarity. I answered the door to find him leaning against the frame, his broad, muscular shoulders filling the entire space. A tight white tee clung to his frame, like shrink wrap. Highlighting each one of his well-defined abdominal muscles. Saturated in an air of his own arrogance, like an expensive perfume. He was addictive and surreal, a potent mix of pheromones I could not resist. I found myself captivated. Whenever he was around, I couldn't get enough of him. He wasn't blind to my schoolgirl crush. Nearly twice my age, he was all man. Sneaking opportunities, moments I'd flirt to gain his attention, careful not to spark my mother's wrath. This was the first lesson I learned. The ability to captivate a man's attention with just my body. It was intoxicating.

I welcomed him in, closing the door behind him. I watched his hips sway ever so slightly as he strode down the entrance hall of our apartment, cocky son of a bitch. His tired blue jeans faded, they hung low off his hips, enough that I could see the designer label of his boxers. Casually, he inquired if my mom was around. My answer was redundant. He already knew she wasn't. Before I could answer, he turned, took one stride towards me, and his lips crashed down on mine. That's when I really knew. His kiss was deep, raw, and passionate. Nothing like the high school boys I had experimented with. I had the power to steal my mother's boyfriend.

For the following 6 months, I was a thief in the night. Taking what she thought belonged to her, right from under her nose. Raphaelle was mine. Stealing moments in his apartment, telling my mother I was studying at a friend's house, not that she really gave a fuck about what I did.

Raphaelle taught me many things. I was an excellent student. Quick to learn that the more you gave, the more you could command. This was my power. Vanilla sex rapidly grew into something much more. He ruined me for any other guy, and he was proud of it. 'You will never know another lover like me,' he'd crowed. I wanted to tell him that's because I won't have another lover.

He showed me another world where sex was erotic, dark, and taboo. I craved it. I couldn't get enough. Physically rough and domineering, he knew how to fuck a woman. To date, I haven't met a man who could match Raphaelle's instinctual sexual domination and prowess in the bedroom. We engaged in the sex every woman secretly desires. But is publicly and privately shunned by mainstream society for their desires. Only sluts fuck like porn stars, or so they'd have us believe. There was the seed of a thought. That germinated into The Gym. Women would pay for the chance to use their bodies to get what they needed. I knew it to my core because I felt it. There was a gap in the market. Why should men be the only ones to have access to the sex they desired? I'm a firm believer in equality. Women should have access to means that give them the control and power to be properly fucked. A woman doesn't want to talk about her needs, she wants to be taken, and satisfied, by a man who knows how to ravage her body.

The business I would later create would serve the good girls, the high-society ladies expected to be reserved and shy in the bedroom. Society expects these women to be held down in a pool of water and somehow breathe. If they show too much sexual confidence, they're deemed whores by their partners. Their partner's insecurities overpower their erections. These are the women who experience sexual frustration and suppression. These women are my customers. My target market live a life sneaking snapshots of porn on their phones, fingers deep in their cunts, desperate for release, yearning to find the magic trigger point their partners cannot reach. These sexually frustrated good girls just want to be fucked, dominated; they want it hard, the exquisite and intricate balance of pleasure and pain.

The idea for The Gym grew like a snowball in my head. With each passing month, it got bigger. When the opportunity finally presented itself, I had already undergone a dozen dress rehearsals in my mind's eye. My business plan read like War and Peace. The capital to start falling in my lap, the poisoned chassis, both a godsend, and the constant noose around my neck. It's the reason I take extreme measures to disguise my appearance.

The business took time to build. It wasn't an overnight success. Like any first-time business owner, I experienced the same frustrations as any other entrepreneur determined to carve out their own piece of the American pie. Fake IDs had to be sought for building permits, council planning, and other legal documentation. Intricate financial structures had to be set up to hide the cash flow. With the government red tape rubber-stamped, the next challenge was sourcing the right stock. It was difficult to find outstanding stock. Once I did, they had to be trained. Not all guys know how to fuck a woman, how to truly please and satisfy her needs. Some of us just want to be taken by the throat, shoved hard against a wall, and have the life fucked out of us. We're not all pretty little wallflowers, lying on our backs with our legs spread.

Shooting a text to Katie, employed as my 2IC, I instruct her to organize a meeting with Andreas. Estimating I should reach the office in just over an hour, I stand and step into the vacant aisle. The rush of passengers slowly disperses in front of me. Turning towards the overhead lockers, I grab my hand luggage from the compartment, the plastic exterior scraping along the edge. Hoisting it to the ground, I set the wheels in motion. It's back to being Layla from New York.