Turning His Body Into Your Property

You decide what he eats, where he sleeps and when he comes. It would be odd to stop short of how he looks. The belly, the slouch, the "no time" — none of that is his private business; it's the condition of your property. An ordinary wife nags her husband about his gut for years and gets nowhere. You have something no dietitian has — the key. A belly disappears remarkably fast once a date depends on it. You have something she doesn't: leverage.

The standard. Tell him how you want him to look — once, specifically, no "it'd be nice if." A number on the scale, a waist measurement, pull-ups. Write it into the contract as a requirement, not a wish.

A requirement is something he isn't praised for meeting and is punished for missing.

Bonuses. This is where the most honest currency you own comes in — his orgasm. One kilo down — one full orgasm: not ruined, not milked, the real thing. One kilo up — a month with no talk of release at all. No trainer, no dietitian on earth has a motivator like that; yours hangs on a chain around your neck. You can make it harder: a kilo earns him the right to ask — whether you say yes depends on your mood.

Working out at home, in front of you. This is its own ritual, and it isn't about fitness. You're in the armchair, he's on the floor — in a thong, with a plug in, so every push-up registers inside. Your heel on the back of his neck or between his shoulder blades sets the pace: down — touch, up — hold. “Under her heel” is the one phrase in the language that says exactly where he belongs; odd that it’s meant as an insult. He counts out loud. Loses count — the whip across his ass, and the count starts over. Plank until you say so; squats until he shakes, then ten more. He comes out of it soaked, arms trembling, head empty — and the cage felt too tight the entire time. That's what he's losing the weight for.

The gym. The membership is his obligation; the report is your right: a photo on the scale once a week, in the thong, so the progress shows — and so does its absence. A plug for the workout — your call. For cardio, the thong goes under the shorts: let him run and think of you every kilometre.

What you get. A body that's pleasant to touch and pleasant to look at when it's on its knees. A man who is busy doing something instead of whining. And one more area of his life where the last word is yours. He wins too, by the way: no man trains as hard for money as he does for an orgasm you hold in your fist.

The point: his shape isn't his business — it's your property. Look after it the way you look after the lock.