Membership Benefits

 

The girl standing in front of me looks nothing like the guy who moved into the spare room six months ago.

Lyle had been—well, Lyle. Skinny arms, patchy beard, the kind of guy who wore the same hoodie three days running and thought a big night out was extra cheese on his pizza. When he told me he'd signed up for some bougie gym called Aphrodite Elite on January 2nd, I'd laughed. Told him I'd see him back on the couch by February.

I wasn't wrong about the couch. But I was wrong about everything else.

The changes started small. His skin cleared up first. Then his voice got softer, his jawline narrower. By week two, he was wearing his hoodies differently—baggy in the shoulders, tight across the chest in ways that made my brain short-circuit. By week three, the beard was gone, and something else was very much there.

Now it's January 31st, and Lyla—she'd insisted on the name change around day eighteen—is standing in front of the full-length mirror in our cramped living room, completely absorbed in her own reflection.

She's wearing green camo cargo pants that hang low on her hips and a crisp white blouse—but neither garment is doing its job anymore. The blouse hangs open, buttons undone from collar to hem, framing her torso like a gallery display. The cargo pants are shoved down around her thighs, bunched up over her knees, forgotten entirely.

And underneath? Christ.

Thin olive green lingerie. Transparent. The bra is barely there—just a strip of sheer fabric that does absolutely nothing to hide the dark circles of her nipples, the perfect swell of her medium-sized tits. The matching panties are worse. Or better. I can see everything through that gauzy material—the neat strip of dark hair, the soft mound of her pussy, the way the fabric clings to every curve and fold.

She's gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes you feel inadequate just for looking. Tanned skin that glows like she's been sunbathing in the Mediterranean rather than sweating in some industrial estate gym. Long chestnut hair tumbling past her shoulders. A tight little waist that flares out into hips I've spent the last week dreaming about. Her tits are perfect handfuls pressing against that sheer olive fabric, and her ass—Christ, her ass looks like it was sculpted by someone with very specific tastes.

She runs her hands down her sides, watching herself in the mirror with naked admiration.

"God," she breathes, turning slightly to check her profile. "Look at me."

She's not talking to me. She's talking to herself. I might as well not exist right now—she's too busy tracing the curve of her waist, cupping her own tits through that transparent bra, biting those plump glossy cock-sucking lips as she admires what the gym made her.

"Fucking perfect," she murmurs.

Then she catches my eye in the mirror's reflection, and something shifts in her expression. The self-worship transforms into something sharper. More calculating.

"I've been thinking," she says, finally turning to face me. She doesn't pull her pants up. Doesn't close her blouse. Just stands there in her olive green lingerie like it's the most natural thing in the world. One manicured finger rises to press against her lower lip. "The VIP membership renewal is due tomorrow."

I know what's coming. I've known since she gave me that first blowjob two weeks ago—when her technique went from 'enthusiastic amateur' to 'should be illegal' overnight. She's been training me. Conditioning me.

I know it. And I still can't stop staring at her nipples through that sheer fabric.

"It's like, so expensive, babe." She pouts. Actually pouts. Her free hand drifts down to rest on her bare stomach, fingers splayed across that tanned, toned flesh. "Three hundred a month. And I'm just a poor girl now, you know? No job. No savings. Lyle's bank account doesn't exactly work for Lyla."

"You could just—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Cancel?" She tilts her head, lets her hand drift lower, fingertips teasing along the waistband of those transparent panties. "I could. I'd lose all my gains though. Like, all of them. The transformation reverses if you stop going." She sighs dramatically. "Lyle would be back. No more of this."

She gestures at herself—the open blouse framing her body, the sheer bra, the tiny panties that hide nothing, those thighs that I've imagined wrapped around my head every night this week.

"No more blowjobs for you, baby."

There it is. The hook.

I should say no. I know I should say no. This is manipulation. This is financial domination wrapped up in transparent lingerie and lip gloss. Three hundred a month is insane—that's my beer money, my takeaway fund, half my disposable income gone just because some magical gym turned my nerdy housemate into a walking wet dream.

But Lyla's already moving closer. I can smell her perfume—something sweet and expensive that definitely wasn't in Lyle's budget—and beneath that, something else. Something warm and musky that makes my cock twitch traitorously.

"You've been so good to me," she murmurs, sinking to her knees in front of the couch. Her open blouse slides off one shoulder. Her hands slide up my thighs. "Letting me stay even though the old me is basically, like, gone. Buying me all those cute outfits." She glances down at her lingerie with a smirk. "Letting me practice my new skills on you every single night..."

Her fingers find my zipper. I should stop her. I should have this conversation like an adult, discuss boundaries and expectations and the fact that I'm essentially being blackmailed with blowjobs.

But her hand is already wrapped around my shaft, and she's looking up at me through those long lashes with an expression that's somehow both innocent and utterly filthy, her tits swaying slightly in that see-through bra.

"So you'll pay for it?" she asks sweetly. "For me?"

"Lyla—"

"Pleeeease?" She strokes me slowly, her grip firm and confident. "I'll make it worth your while. I'll be so grateful."

I think about my savings account. I think about the raise I was planning to use for a holiday. I think about how much I hate myself for what I'm about to say.

"Fine," I hear myself mutter. "I'll pay for it."

Lyla's face lights up—and then her mouth is on me, and fuck, every rational thought I've ever had just evaporates.

She's good. She's obscenely, impossibly good. Whatever that gym taught her, it wasn't just physical transformation. Her tongue swirls around my head while her lips create this perfect seal of suction, and she takes me deeper with every bob of her head, moaning like she's the one getting pleasure from this.

"Mmmmmh..." The vibration travels straight up my spine.

I should feel bad. I do feel bad—somewhere, in some distant corner of my brain that isn't currently drowning in sensation. I'm being used. She's got me exactly where she wants me, paying for the privilege of watching my housemate become more and more of a manipulative little bitch every month.

But those soft pink lips are sliding up and down my cock, and her hand is working the base in perfect rhythm, and when she pulls off with a wet pop to look up at me, her eyes are sparkling with wicked triumph.

"I knew you'd say yes," she breathes, her hand still stroking. "You're so easy, baby. So predictable."

I should be offended. Instead, my hips buck up involuntarily.

She giggles—actually giggles—and licks a long stripe up the underside of my shaft. "Tell you what. Since you're being such a good boy..." She pauses, lets the anticipation build. "If you pay for a whole year upfront—that's, what, thirty-six hundred?—I'll let you fuck my ass."

Jesus Christ.

My brain does the maths against my will. Thirty-six hundred dollars. That's my entire emergency fund. That's six months of being financially reckless. That's—

That's Lyla's perfect, round, gym-sculpted ass, which she's now presenting to me as she turns around on all fours, the cargo pants still bunched around her knees, looking over her shoulder with a smirk.

"I've been working on it," she says, reaching back to pull those sheer olive panties aside. "Flexibility training. Relaxation techniques." The transparent fabric stretches, revealing both tight holes—her puckered little asshole and, beneath it, the glistening pink folds of her pussy. "I'm told I'm a natural."

By who? Who's been telling her that?

The question dies in my throat as she wiggles her hips.

"Well?" she purrs. "What do you say, baby? One year of VIP membership, and this—" she reaches back with both hands, spreading her cheeks, "—is all yours. Whenever you want it."

I think about Lyle. About the awkward guy who used to leave passive-aggressive notes about the washing up. About how simple my life was before some magical fucking gym turned him into this bratty, manipulative, heart-stoppingly beautiful creature who's currently offering me her ass in exchange for thirty-six hundred dollars.

I think about how wrong this is. How I'm being played. How she's probably going to push for more next month—a car, maybe, or a designer handbag, or whatever else her new feminine brain decides it needs.

And then I stop thinking entirely.

"Deal," I say.

Lyla's laugh is pure victory. "I knew it. God, you're such a simp." She spreads herself wider. "Come on then, baby. Come claim your prize."

As I position myself behind her—as I feel the tight heat of her ass start to yield around me—I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror across the room. Me, red-faced and desperate. Her, smirking like a cat with cream, her white blouse hanging off her shoulders, that olive bra pushed up over her tits, already tapping something into her phone.

The gym membership confirmation, probably.

Or maybe she's texting someone. Bragging about how easy I was.

I should care. I really, really should.

But Lyla pushes back against me with a theatrical moan, and I stop caring about anything at all.

---

Later—much later—she's curled up against my chest, still wearing nothing but that dishevelled white blouse and the olive lingerie I never quite managed to get off her. She's scrolling through her phone while I stare at the ceiling and contemplate my life choices.

"You know," she says casually, "the gym's got this amazing new package starting in February. Premium Plus. Apparently it makes you, like, even hotter. Bigger tits, smaller waist, that sort of thing." She tilts her head back to look at me, those plump lips curving into a smile. "Only five hundred a month."

I close my eyes. "Lyla—"

"Six thousand for the year." She shifts against me, and I feel her hand slide down my chest, my stomach, lower. "That's a lot of money, I know. But I was thinking..."

Her fingers wrap around my cock—still sensitive, still spent—and she strokes lazily.

"The ass is nice, baby. You seemed to enjoy it." She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with those big brown eyes. The open blouse falls away, giving me a perfect view of her tits in that transparent bra. "But you know what you haven't had yet?"

She takes my hand. Guides it down between her legs. I feel the damp heat of her through those sheer olive panties—the panties that hide absolutely nothing.

"My pussy," she whispers. "My tight... little... pussy."

My fingers press against her involuntarily. She's wet. Soaking. The thin fabric is practically dripping.

"And here's the thing." She leans closer, her lips brushing my ear. "If you pay for Premium Plus—the whole year, upfront—I'll let you have it. Properly." Her teeth graze my earlobe. "No condom. Nothing between us. Just you... filling me up... as deep as you can go..."

My cock twitches back to life. She feels it. Of course she feels it.

"Mmmmmh." She giggles against my neck. "Someone likes that idea."

"Six thousand dollars," I manage. "That's—"

"Shhhh." She pulls my hand harder against her pussy, grinding down on my fingers. "Don't think about the money, baby. Think about how good it'll feel. Think about how tight I am. Think about coming inside me—" she moans softly, "—whenever you want. However you want. All year long."

I stare at the ceiling. I think about my credit cards. My savings. The holiday I'll never take, the car I'll never buy, the financial ruin this girl is cheerfully steering me toward.

And then I think about sinking into her bare. Feeling her wrapped around me with nothing in between. Watching her face when I—

"I'll think about it," I hear myself say.

Lyla's smile is radiant. Victorious. She kisses my jaw, soft and sweet, and settles back against my chest.

"I know you will, baby." Her hand keeps stroking, slow and teasing, keeping me hard, keeping me wanting. "I know you will."

And the worst part?

She's already got my credit card details.