Bea's Morning Warm-Up (1.1k words) (Patreon)

Short story to accompany - https://www.patreon.com/posts/64354454

Hope you guys enjoy this and please let me know your thoughts!

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 You arrive to meet Bea at dawn, in the gym. You're always on time to the appointments - 6am or earlier but you have never made it there before her. Far from it in fact, she often seems thoroughly worked over by the time you arrive to start her planned regimen. You often find yourself wondering whether she sleeps there, or if she even sleeps at all.

 Today, at first, seems different. You step from the icy outside into large, cold gym, an open space full of wood, iron and leather. Rustic but functional. Bea is nowhere to be seen, and your immediate thought is of what disaster could have interrupted her obsessively disciplined schedule. But a squeak takes your attention, and the knot in your gut loosens. A punching bag, swinging softly on rusty chains. It has been torn with foam bursting out of its front like gore. Beneath, a damp mark of sweat. She's here, somewhere. Just as you put the pieces together the supply room doors burst open, and Bea emerges like a predator, compact but muscular. Her bare feet might have been boots for the sound they make on the hardwood floor. A fresh punching bag is slung over her shoulder and she carries the hefty weight as one would carry an oversized party balloon. Her face is hidden for the moment, but her body catches your eye and gains your awe as it does for every one of these sessions you've found yourself lucky enough to oversee. Apparently her baggier apparel has been cast aside in favour of the black leotard shrink-wrapped around her chiselled frame. The wet material clings to the tightly bunched obliques, and over the clear silhouette of her side on frame. Nothing is left to the imagination including the squared plates of muscle protruding from her flat stomach.

For a moment you wonder if that punching bag filled with anything at all until she drops it and you feel the heavy thud against the ground. Bea efficiently pulls down the broken bag from the hook suspended from the ceiling and replaces it, before finally turning to you. She clasps her fist with her other hand in front of her chest and bows deeply with her back straight. "Good morning, Sir. Almost done with my warm-up." Her face is hard to read, but you knew better than to take her simmering glare at face value. It rarely reflects what Bea was really feeling. 

 As she takes position back at the punching bag, steam rises from her shining body, sweat trickling down her. The porous floorboards below her are visibly darkened with perspiration. As she takes a particularly deep breath her costume creaks, her back expands and contracts, the thin straps pathetic against the mountain range of muscle. The movement seems to draw the material even more tightly around the curvaceous, trembling butt that she's squeezing tightly. In a split second the entire landscape of her body changes with a violent action. "HAH!!" her voice booms as her foot flies upward like a cannonball. She sprays sweat outward with the rapid movement. Her legs part in a flawless vertical split, rising to the toes of her planted foot.

 She draws her leg back down before it blasts back up in the same manner with another quick yell. Her form is perfect, kicking with the side of her foot, twisting her body back to accommodate the force. They are measured, consistent strikes and they come one after the other. Bea looks as though she's trying to kick right through her opponent, each individual kick a killing blow. She works with shocking ferocity, on both the imagined foe and her own body. Her lower obliques flare as she lifts each leg, upper obliques chomping down as she twisted to deliver the kick. The sweat continues to pour as she refuses to slow down, gulping in deeper breaths between her downright violent outburst. As she switches legs without rest you noticed she has shut her eyes tightly. Then come the alternating kicks. Her reps were slower to adjust her stance with each strike, and her breathing quickened to get two quick breaths in between kicks. Her voice was higher now, more pained and desperate. Yet all the attacks to follow have every bit as much technique and ferocity as her first.

 Heat radiates from her in the icy room, and you can feel it as you get close. You start to spot see the details in her body, the way the sinews across her muscles lock up rhythmically to absorb impact and become flexible at different moments. You see veins forced to the forefront of her skin, desperately pumping blood to fuel the continuing intense cardio. From here you can even spot flecks of blood across the bandages that cover her knuckles and wrists.

 And in a moment, silence. The sheer volume of her grunts and yells, alongside the impacts against the bag became apparent as they ceased, and Bea's shoulders rose and fell with her ragged breaths. Her legs are parted, her stance strong. Bruises line the tops of her feet and lower legs. They bow for a moment, tremble as they fail to hold up her weight. It looks like the girl is about to collapse until she moves her foot and stamps down with an angry growl. Just like that, she's back at it. This time it's her fists, which you can tell have already taken some unknown amount of punishment. What had been a brand new punching bag was already looking worn, the material at the sides frayed and thinning. Somehow her punches seemed as hard as her kicks - they certainly made the same hammer-blow sounds. The girl was gritting her teeth, her voice growing hoarse as she yelled, no doubt to keep her focus amidst the searing pain in her muscles and the no doubt reopened wounds in her knuckles. You know better than to ask her to stop, even if it's hard to watch.

 The second punching bag of the day pops like a balloon, the foam spilling out again. Bea, victoriously collapsed into the bag at the same time, clutching it to stay upright. Her face is a mask of pain and exhaustion, mouth hanging open as she continued to gasp. With that, she turned away from you to show you only sparkling, sodden silver hair. Whatever expert, intense meditative discipline she summons, the calmness with which she eventually turns back is unnerving. She stands up straight, steps in front of you and gives another respectful bow. You can tell her heart is bounding, even see her pulse in her neck and chest, but her breathing seems normal, her poker face once again infallible.

 "Ready to begin, Sir."