The Athletic Aesthetic

  Athletic Aesthetic

  Compiled by Kojo Black

  “In love as in sport, the amateur status must be strictly maintained.”

  –Robert Graves (1895 – 1985)

  Sweetmeats Press

  A Sweetmeats Book

  First published by Sweetmeats Press 2015

  Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2015

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-909181-46-5

  Typeset by Sweetmeats Press

  Sweetmeats Press

  27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

  www.sweetmeatspress.com

  Sweetmeats

  Sport can be beautiful for so many reasons, as toned and limber athletes at the very peak of their performance demonstrate dedication and stamina on and off the field.

  Inspired by this, we asked five erotic authors to demonstrate their literary prowess in this genre. Our authors did not disappoint, and they’ve delivered five wonderful stories of athletes who work hard and play harder. From the elegance and strength of the gymnast in training, to the speed and heat of the Formula One racetrack, precision and excellence always yield satisfying results! Come and join us as we explore and enjoy the Athletic Aesthetic!

  Contents

  Rigorous Training by Lisa Fox

  Doubleheader by Emerald

  Monocoque by Vanessa Wu

  Playing with the Big Boys by Lexie Bay

  The Master by Malin James

  Rigorous Training

  Lisa Fox

  Chapter One

  Christy scowled at the GPS unit on her dashboard. Stupid technology. She had been on this single-lane country road for miles upon miles and there was no civilization in sight. The damn machine was obviously having one of its fits, like the time it insisted that she was in Montreal even though she was definitely in Milwaukee. This particular glitch had taken her so far north of San Francisco, she was almost to Oregon. Nobody lived out in these woods.

  The road curved along the mountainside, afternoon sunlight filtering through the ancient redwoods. Everything was quiet out there. Traffic, people, city lights—they were all far, far away. She gripped the steering wheel on her rented Jeep Wrangler, set her jaw, and drove on. If the GPS was unwilling to help, well, then, she was just going to have to find this man on her own. She needed him.

  Kyle Weston was the mastermind behind PUMP, Southern California’s premier fitness and lifestyle chain. Celebrities flocked to the Sunset Strip, Santa Barbara, and Laguna Beach locations to get bulked up, slimmed down, made pretty. He was once the top trainer in the nation, and the waiting list to workout with him was over a year long. But then one day, without any warning, he dropped from sight, left L.A. and his franchise behind. He bought some land and sequestered himself way up in the far reaches of the state. Every now and then though, he took on a private client or two, and he was still considered to be one of the best athletic trainers on the planet. Rumor had it that he was behind the careers of many of the elite athletes from around the world. Of course, it was all speculation. He hadn’t been seen in public for more than ten years.

  Christy followed another wide turn and then blinked hard when a house suddenly appeared on the horizon. She leaned forward, checking it out through the windshield. Even at this distance, she could see that it was huge, a sprawling ranch-style home isolated on acres of land with a giant lake at its back. The owner of that estate obviously had no need or desire for human interaction. It was literally in the middle of nowhere.

  “Slight left in one hundred yards,” the GPS demanded.

  She almost missed the turn she was so startled, her hands shaking as she caught it at the last second, turning onto a freshly paved, deserted road. Tall trees shaded the path, and the air coming in through the car’s open windows was markedly cooler. She shivered, her nerves kicking into overdrive, churning up a queasy sickness in her belly as the house drew closer. It had taken weeks and minor miracle to get this appointment. Her entire future rested on what happened next. Finding him was only the beginning of the battle. She still had to convince him that she was worthy. By all accounts, he turned away more people then he accepted, and he was supposedly terrible to be around—terse, taciturn, mercurial. But he got results.

  She needed results. In six days, she was going to be competing in the final trial for a spot on the U.S. gymnastics team. And she was going to make that team. Christy Turner was going to be a star at the games and bring home the gold. End of story.

  She pulled up the driveway and parked in front of the massive garage about a hundred feet away from the main house. This was it. She reached for the review mirror, angling it down to give herself one last look before getting out of the car. She combed her fingers through her sandy brown hair, then adjusted the scoop neck of her thin cotton top. Unlike a lot of female athletes, she had managed to retain some considerable boobage … and she made use of them whenever she got the chance. Do me proud, she thought, and gave herself a squeeze. Her own touch sent a wicked thrill through her, and she sat up a little bit straighter. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Much better. She lifted her ass and pulled her muslin skirt up higher on her thigh. This was purely a business meeting, but it didn’t hurt to use every advantage. Men had a hard time resisting her, and Kyle Weston was not going to be an exception.

  She exited the car, ready to take on whatever was to come. It was a gorgeous Northern California day, warm but not hot, the air filled with the scent of woods and earth. Birds chirped in the trees, and a rabbit scampered through the woodlands that blanketed the property. Gravel crunched under her feet as she followed the winding path to his front door. You’re here to win. She exhaled a hard breath, pumping herself up. You got this. She gave the front of her shirt an extra tug, offering a slightly better hint of the rounded curve of her breasts.

  The door opened just as she stepped onto the porch, and the man standing in the doorway gave her pause. He was nothing like she expected. Kyle Weston had left the public eye when she about ten years old, so she had no real frame of reference for him, but for some reason, she had envisioned him to be old, grizzled, a man well into his sixties with frown lines and a mustache, and hard, leathery skin. The man standing before her wasn’t old at all, he’d barely be over thirty-five, if that. And he was pussy-thumping hot. Built like a basketball player, he was tall and muscular, lean, not bulky, and he was all sex—from the top of his golden blond head, right down to his bare feet. But it was the blue eyes that really sold him, the color so intense, they alone were enough to make a girl’s panties drop like it was prom night.

  A pleasant jolt zapped her cunt as a smile curled her lips. This could be interesting indeed. She held out her hand as she crossed the porch to meet him. “Hello, Mr. Weston. I’m Christy Turner.”

  He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his head cocked to the side, looking her up and down. He made no move to take her hand, no move whatsoever, just silently weighed and accessed her. She dropped her hand back to her side. He was not going to faze her. She was here to win. There was no alternative. She gave him her best smile, the one the judges loved, and waited.

 
Time stretched out. A cool breeze rustled her skirt, the light fabric tickling her thighs. A hawk sliced through the sky above their heads. His gaze was like a physical caress, touching her face, her breasts, her waist, her legs. She tried to be patient, but his scrutiny was making her itchy, horny, lighting a low fire, deep down in her core.

  His gaze traveled slowly back up her body, and when their eyes met, the intensity of him pierced her defenses. She was exposed, naked before him, all her dirty thoughts cataloged, cross-referenced, and found disdainfully amusing. Lust blazed through her, sizzling hot. The sheer force of him totally blew her away, and she dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning with a complicated mixture of competitiveness and desire.

  Seconds passed. Neither of them moved. Christy stood firm. There was no way she was going home now. She had to work with this man. Without a word, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter.

  Her heart raced as she followed him through the doorway into the tastefully appointed living room. The dark furniture, exposed beams, and wood accents were rustic, masculine, and perfectly suited to the man before her. Her gaze touched on his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine, his high, firm ass. She wanted him, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what his cock might taste like. After she got what she needed from him, she was definitely going to fuck him.

  They took a right and entered his office, a wide open space featuring more dark wood and a breathtaking view of the expanse of nature around them. Mountains rose in the distance, a ragged line in the never-ending stretch of blue sky. She tore her eyes from the bay windows and took in the mahogany desk, the bookshelves lining the walls, the various framed certificates and diplomas. There was only one chair in the room, an executive leather recliner back behind the desk.

  He sat down, and it seemed that she had no choice but to remain standing. Fine with her. His little set-ups and antics weren’t going to intimidate her. She stood before him with her hands clasped against the small of her back.

  He studied her again, another slow, detailed appraisal, then leaned forward, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why did you come here?”

  His voice was deep, meditative, the question quiet and reflective. She met his gaze for an instant before her eyes skipped away. “They say you’re the best. I only work with the best.”

  He nodded slowly. “You’re old for a competitive gymnast.”

  Her upper lip curled in disdain. “I’m twenty. In perfect shape. And I have more experience and drive than any of those virgin harpies.”

  Was there a hint of a smile on his full lips? Did those blue eyes linger over her breasts, the curve of her waist? She thought so. Gymnastics training might not be the only skills that needed to be perfected over their time together. She had some other muscle groups that could use a nice, hard workout as well.

  His gaze moved down her body to focus on her legs. “What about the injury that kept you out of the last games? Is that an issue? Many athletes don’t ever fully recover from severe tears.”

  She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat as the memory of the day her tendon snapped assaulted her, the sickening pop in her knee, and then the pain, mingled with embarrassment and fury. Two seconds, one bad landing, and poof—her dreams were over. So sorry, see you in four years, she was told, and she was replaced by a girl who hadn’t had the skill to qualify in the first place. Well, four years had passed. It was time for her to claim the spot that was rightfully hers. “I’m better than ever.”

  His face was impassive, neither impressed nor distressed by her bravado. “I’ve seen the tapes. Your vault was decent, your beam work was adequate though lackluster, but it was the floor exercise where you lost the most points. Why is that?”

  Her skin prickled and rage made her blood run hot. She was the ultimate comeback, the feel-good story of the games, the pretty young woman who overcame grievous injury to win the gold. Everything was in her favor. Maybe her routine was a tad shaky, but that was even more reason for the judges to be a bit lenient with her. She had worked harder than any of those other girls to be on that mat. She should have scored higher. “The judges were obviously having a bad day.”

  He raised a single eyebrow. “You would have to put out a phenomenal effort to make the team at this point.” He leaned forward, toward her, his hands flat on the desk. “Are you willing to do that?”

  She scoffed. She was there wasn’t she? “Of course.”

  The leather creaked as he sat back in the chair. “I don’t think you are.”

  “What?” She was so flabbergasted her mouth hung open. “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t have what it takes. We’ve only just met, and I already know that you’re a princess. Arrogant. Entitled.” He rose from the chair and stood toe to toe with her. He was huge, almost a foot-and-a-half taller than she was, and he dominated the entire room. He deliberately dropped his gaze to her cleavage. “Being fuckable does not make you a good gymnast.” He bent down a little farther into her space. “Discipline makes you a good gymnast. The strength and drive to push further, work harder, go to the very ends of your endurance, and still do better.” He dropped his voice, held her gaze. “You are nowhere near as good as you think you are. But you could be. You could be the absolute best and have the entire world know it.” He shook his head. “But I don’t think you’re willing to go to the lengths you need to in order to get what you want. Not even for all that glory.”

  Glory was the only thing she had ever wanted. It was her destiny. He had no idea what she was capable of. She leaned into him, bared her teeth. “I am the best fucking gymnast you will ever know.”

  Time stretched out between them once again. Their eyes clashed, a silent battle of wills. She would not look away this time. Not for anything.

  “Y-scale,” he commanded.

  Responding to such a directive was an innate response, ingrained into her very being by decades of coaching. She didn’t even think, immediately lifting her left leg into the air, supporting her ankle in her left hand, and extending her right hand out and up, her body creating a standing Y shape. Her cold, tense muscles weren’t prepared for the sudden stretch, however, and she failed to reach the perfect form.

  He circled around her, taking his time to look her over. He stopped behind her, so close his body heat touched her skin. She breathed him in, the clean scent of soap and Sequoia Blue, and desire raced through her veins. Placing one hand on her hip, he ran the other up the back of her calf, a light caress that went from her knee to her ankle. He crouched to speak softly and directly into her ear. “You’re about forty degrees off center.”

  She fought back the shivers that wanted to cascade along her nerve endings and concentrated on elongating her muscles, maneuvering them in into the proper position. His breath on the back of her neck made her cheeks hot, but it was the challenge in his voice that really got her blood pumping.

  “Higher,” he said, and tapped the back of her thigh.

  His grip tightened on her hip as she repositioned herself, helping to hold her steady. “Very nice,” he said, even closer. The scrape of his stubble against her cheek sent heat spiraling down to her pussy. “Now stand a little taller.”

  She did as she was told, her muscles finally warming up enough to be malleable. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. On her raised leg, he traced a path from her calf, to her knee, then down the long, smooth line of her hamstring. Her skin tingled from his touch, and her breath caught when he reached the edge of her panties. He fingered the lace border, following the crease flesh where her thigh met her torso. Arousal moistened her inner folds, and she trembled.

  “Concentrate,” he snapped.

  She gasped when he spanked her pussy, the sudden sting sharp and hot. She wanted to mold herself to his body and writhe against him, but she closed her eyes instead, breathed out, and found her balance. Pretty soon, she was going to turn around, rip off hi
s clothes, throw him on the floor, and fuck him hard. That one thought kept her upright.

  “Good.” He ran fingers back up her hamstring. “Now bring your leg higher.”

  She planted her foot on the ground, and stretched her leg up farther, inching it closer to the top of her head. The edge of fatigue was creeping in, her muscles starting to ache. She’d never held a y-scale for this long before, never stretched this far in her life. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain it.

  “Hold it.” His fingers moved down her calf again, fondling the hard muscle, then caressed the back of her knee before gilding along her inner thigh. She clenched her teeth when he stroked the length of her slit, tickling her folds over the thin, lacy material of her panties. “Just like that,” he murmured while he tormented her.

  She was on fire, her pussy throbbing, her muscles nearly at the end of their strength. Every light caress made her wetter, her juices saturating her underwear. She battled through the discomfort, the blinding arousal, struggling to remain upright.

  “Whatever happens— Do not come.” He reached beneath her skirt and ripped open the crotch of her panties.

  Cool air touched her hot folds, and she whimpered, a plea, a denial, something beyond words. The pain had become perversely erotic, excruciating and lascivious. She moaned when he touched her swollen clit, immediately bringing her hips up to meet his finger.

  “Hold. The. Form.” He punctuated each word with a brutal slap to her bare, vulnerable pussy.

  The punishing jolt blasted along her nerve endings. She wanted to squirm, she wanted to escape, she wanted the fierce sting to go on forever and forever. Every successive spank made her wetter, even as her muscles screamed to relax. She forced her body back into a perfect Y, and the pain stopped, but only to be replaced with a new kind of torture when his finger returned to her clit. Her pussy flooded with liquid heat, ready to orgasm. Don’t come? Was he insane? How was she not going to come? One more stroke, and it was all going to be over.