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Stealing Muscle: Short Story Anthology excerpt

Jan 30, 2020 - permalink
Sevenpeight leads off the Stealing Muscle Anthology with an Eye for An Eye. Here is a little segment from his work.  The anthology is available on smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/998146 and Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083D5MFD7  All profits are split between Red Cross, the Rain Forest Trust, and UNICEF.
Greg buried himself further under the covers and winced. The only thing worse than the pounding in his head was the pounding on the door. It seemed to get louder and louder.

As with most Friday mornings, he was missing his lectures and feeling like shit. It was the last week of term and so the regular Thursday night college parties had been even bigger than usual. Having earned the moniker “Party Animal,” Greg had felt compelled to go all out. 

A little voice in his head had pestered him to go to class today as the professors usually dropped some hints about what would be in the exams. This was his last year and his grades so far were anything but stellar, but a louder voice in his head told him to Parté! His popularity and looks had got him through so far, and the hotties loved his sculpted bod. He couldn’t let all that go to waste.

The knocking went on, insistent and loud. Groaning, Greg dragged himself out of bed and fumbled to unlock the door to his dorm room. Who’s even awake so early, he wondered groggily.

As he turned the handle, the door was flung open, throwing him stumbling backwards. The fog in his mind evaporated as he recovered his balance and blinked at what stood in the doorway. He was having trouble processing what was going on.

A 6’ 4” amazon squeezed through the doorway and slammed the door behind herself. She loomed over Greg, a towering mountain of musculature. Her bare arms had to be 18 inches around the biceps and shredded to a freaky degree. Her forearms were only an inch or two less in girth. They were crossed over a chest that seemed cast in iron.

Lower down, her thighs were covered in wet-look black leggings that clung to each hyper-sized quad head. The material was distorted over shapes its designer had never foreseen, but the leggings were meant to show off the body they were attached to. Through the material exquisitely detailed striations were discernible across each sheared off plane of those impossible thighs.

“Hello Greg,” the woman said curtly, almost spitting out the name like it left a dirty taste in her mouth.

Greg’s attention, swallowed till now by the improbable gravity of this Amazonian warrior, snapped up to her face. There was something familiar about that face, but at the same time, something different. Greg’s still slightly inebriated brain rummaged around in his disorganized memory banks. Did he know this woman?

She registered his confusion. “You remember me, right Greg? Lurch?!” She almost screamed the last word, causing Greg to wince again. And then it rushed back to him.

“Lurch,” he thought, “but how did she know that we called her that?” He recalled a tall, awkward girl from his senior year in high school. She had been his fourth or fifth conquest that year. They had done it on the couch while his parents were away one weekend. He fondly remembered bedding seven girls by the end of the year. That had cemented his name in the stud hall of fame for the school. He doubted the record had been broken in the years since.

But what was lurch doing here, now, he wondered. And what the hell was her name again? And what on earth had happened to her?
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