Published by: eXtasy Books
Author : Lark Westerly
Word Count :30750
Publication Date :2011-06-19
Series : #
Heat Level :
- Product Code: 978-1-55410-577-9
While Atalanta engages with Greeks, Mel is beavering in the background to make his dreams of unlimited pussy-worship come true.
Atalanta (fastest woman east or west of the Rockies) is the upstairs neighbor of the long-suffering Mel. Atalanta wants a casual relationship and someone to water her orchid when she’s training. Mel wants Atalanta, preferably naked and horizontal. Mel’s efforts in this direction involve some very virtual reality. Through Mel’s machinations, Atalanta finds herself in a training camp in ancient Greece, where she is must marry the athlete who can beat her in a race. The lusty lads are all super-speedy, so Atalanta sets about her own Elysian Games. She’s sure she can prevail if only she can discover each man’s sexual Achilles heel. While Atalanta engages with Greeks, Mel is beavering in the background to make his dreams of unlimited amorous games come true.
Atalanta was panting for it. I could tell by the way she kept flexing her ass and twitching in her seat. Hercules was flexing and twitching, too, but I knew the sweaty bout Atalanta had in mind wasn't the one my ever-hopeful Herc had in his mind.
They say men think of sex every six minutes, but the way I see it, it isn't men that do the thinking. I think of plenty of stuff normal-type stuff like computer games, cloning, DNA, world peace, fruit fly, cabbages--Mr. Clean, that's me. It's Herc that has the dirty mind stuck under his helmet. He might be lolling about on his beanbags, snug in his sleeping bag most of the time, but whenever Atalanta Atkins comes striding back into our lives, he's suddenly up on his haunches insisting he wants it now. He's pretty explicit about it, too. Anyone with half an eye could see he's ready to rumble. Anyone but Atalanta, that is.
"Will you stop squirming, Mel?" says Atalanta this day in July. She's called to say 'hi' on her way down from the twenty-fourth floor. I'd like to cuddle a bit, and talk a bit, and offer her a back-rub, and generally hang together, but she's already getting restless.
Panting for it, like I said.
She gets out of her seat, and starts her stretching regime.
"Like a cup of coffee?" I say hopefully. It's the best thing I can think of to keep her with me a little longer. If she'll accept the coffee, maybe the cuddles can follow.
And the sex. Lots of it. Lashings of it.
That's Herc, getting back into the action. It was the C-word that did it.
"No coffee while I'm in training," says Atalanta.
"A beer, then?"
"No beer while I'm in training."
"Come to bed, then?" It slips out before I know it. I guess Herc is to blame. He's using me like a ventriloquist's dummy.
"Hmm?" Atalanta flexes that neat ass some more. Her gluteus contracts as if winking at me. Herc does a little samba in my shorts.
"You look tense, Atalanta." I pat the couch beside me, and edge my toe over towards the lever that drops the couch into a bed. I do a little inventing and adapting in my spare time. This is one of my niftier creations. "Let me relax you. I do a wonderful back rub."
Atalanta turns to stare at me. She's gorgeous in her running vest and shorts. Those legs go on forever, and every muscle ripples like a tiger's under the skin. She's got a mouth just made for sucking and I almost moan aloud. I haven't tasted pussy in a slick little sixty-niner for weeks.
"I don't want to relax, Mel." Atalanta drops into a flex that hoists her ass in the air. She rests her palms flat on the ground.
"Sure you do." I get up and edge behind her. Maybe I can get a nip of that thigh? Herc is straining to peek above the rim of my shorts. Go get her, cowboy.
Atalanta sways over so one leg is stretched out sideways. "I'm going for an easy seven today." Herc flexes his muscle. He definitely saw what I did. I think he wants some. "Want to join me?"
"Yes, please. Whipped cream or Athenian slaves?"
"I'm talking about miles." She sways over to do the other leg, and gazes up at me from next to her ankle. "This isn't working, Mel. It's the same every time we get together. You can't think of anything but sex."
"I do! I do! I think of lots of other things. Movies, moonlit walks, mousse, picnics..."
"All of which lead to sex," said Atalanta.
"So what? Sex is good. Sex is fun." Herc is doing his little samba again, but now I'm back in control. "Sex is wonderful, but there are other things that are wonderful too. Let's get married!"
Atalanta shoots upright like someone rammed a lollipop up her ass. "You have got to be joking."
"It's logical," I say. "You can run every day, and every night you can sleep here. I'll cook you dinner when I finish work, and then we can do other things."
"We can have gorgeous dripping sex, yes. Lashings of it."
"No," says Atalanta. "I have to concentrate on my training, and you should concentrate on your work. Don't you have a deadline?"
"I can't concentrate," I say. "Every time I start a new chapter I start fantasizing about making it with you in a hot tub. I even find myself looking funny at the bain marie." I write popular biographies for Profile Press, but I double as a fancy cook at Marie Helena on Friday nights. And I've heard every pun there is about books and cooks. Wanna make something of it?
Atalanta shrugs. "That's your problem, Mel, not mine."
"So it's up to me to solve it, right?"
"Sure," says Atalanta.
"Any way I can?"
"Exactly. I'm glad you're being mature about this. I'll see you after my run." Atalanta drops a kiss on my eyebrow, then steps out on the landing and takes off down the stairs in that long loping stride that reminds me of racehorses. She'll lope down the eight flights, hit the ground running and never crack a sweat until Mile Five. Me, I sit down to solve things, just like she told me.
"Shut up, you," I say to Herc. He's envying my eyebrow. He wants me to think about getting those lips on him. Ever since we met Atalanta and wrote her biography, finger and thumb just don't do it for him any more. Other women? Puh-lease. When you've had the best...
Oh, who am I kidding? I love the woman. I'd die for her. If I didn't crack jokes about it, even to myself, I'd crack right down the middle.
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking..." I mutter.