An Eye for an Eye: Excerpt from Stealing Muscle Anthology

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  • #146326
    Jayne Greye
    Participant

    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
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    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?

    He remembered a sickly-looking girl, with a rail-thin body, no bust at all, gangly limbs, straightened hair that had a bit of an oily air to it. He even remembered her terrible taste in clothing. There might have been a few redeeming elements, like her high cheekbones and sparkling almond eyes. Back then, he only cared about stats, about how many girls had succumbed to his charms. He was more discerning now and would never be willingly associated with a creature such as he remembered.

    But the colossus before him now was an entirely different beast. Every inch of her was rippling, bulging muscles. The stunning eyes and cheeks were the same. However, they were set in magnificent ebony skin, her hair was a daring, sculpted Afro; her outfit, a sleeveless black turtleneck and black slinky leggings, was immaculate; and although Lurch had been tall, this behemoth towered over him. He looked down and realized she was wearing 4-inch stiletto ankle boots. So, she was tall, but not impossibly taller than the girl he remembered. Maybe it really was Lurch.

    What was her damn name again? Melissa maybe, or Melanie…

    “Do you know why I’m here… Greg?” Lurch asked, in a dangerously quiet whisper. Of course, he did not, but he had enough of a sense of self-preservation to not admit that. He stayed quiet.

    “Three long years ago, you stole my heart.” It sounded utterly incongruous coming from this domineering woman and Greg struggled to remember the details of what had happened with … Lurch.

    “And with it,” Lurch continued, “my innocence. ‘You’re not like the other girls, Michelle…’” she said in a twee falsetto — Michelle! That was it! — “‘I like you because you’re exactly who you want to be, and I can be myself around you too.’”

    Greg blinked rapidly. Did he really offer up such tripe? And did Lurch — Michelle — actually buy it?

    Her voice returned to its normal timbre which, it now struck Greg, was a good few octaves deeper than he remembered from senior year. In fact, it was even deeper than his own. “But back then,” Michelle continued, “I was just another notch on your bedpost. You used me and discarded me. As soon as you could brag to your friends that you’d bedded another gullible trollop, you dropped me like a hot potato!” She was shouting again, angry veins pulsing in the middle of forehead, an exclamation mark in the center of a clear, beautiful face. The pounding in Greg’s head was back, accompanied now by a churning in his belly.

    “So…” intoned Michelle in a resonant bass, apparently calming down, “I decided I was going to steal something back from you.” She smirked. “First, I thought you stole my heart, so I’d steal yours… I knew what a bit of makeup and hair jazz could do for a girl. But I quickly realized how pathetic that was!” She practically spat the sentiment, her strong eyebrows knitting together.

    “The poor, disfigured monstrosity, chasing after someone who would never want her…” Michelle was clenching and unclenching her fists as she spoke, causing a cacophony of tendons and veins to ripple and squirm on oak tree forearms. Her fists, Greg noticed now, were covered by black latex gloves. His hands went clammy and sweat began to soak the collar of his t-shirt. What the fuck was this?

    “No,” resumed Michelle, “I wasn’t going to ‘steal your heart…’” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “It was below my dignity. And then it hit me! Dignity… I’m going to steal… your… dignity!” Her voice was giddy now, growing with inverse proportionality to Greg’s despair. Her latex-clad hands clenched into fists once more, harder than before, causing the joints of her fingers to crack loudly and her already-impressive forearms to detonate with power and mass.

    Michelle smiled serenely and took a stride forward, her Herculean legs eating up the distance between them. Greg involuntarily shrank back.

    #146613
    Jayne Greye
    Participant

    She stopped just short of his crumpled figure and gave an account of what she’d done to prepare for this day. Years of daily gym visits before and after work. A punishingly strict diet. Every spare penny spent on supplements. Sleeping on a hard floor in an apartment the size of a closet in the most rundown part of town, her only furniture — a pull-up bar that doubled as a clothes rack. Martial arts classes twice a week.

    Without taking her eyes off him, she reached out her long, muscular left arm, causing meaty lats to unfurl on that side. Suddenly her big arm jerked up and back down, crashing into his wash sink, which loudly shattered into a thousand pieces, taking the tap and spout with it and causing the exposed water pipe to spray all over the room. Greg peed himself a little before catching control of his bladder. Michelle calmly reached out again and grasped the pipe with her latex-gloved hand. Calmly she squeezed the heavy cast iron shut. It shrieked in protest before the water slowed to a dribble.

    Then, she continued, there was the last 6 months of live MMA practice. That had been particularly exciting. Building upon the martial arts, it had really taught her how to inflict some serious damage. Michelle’s recollections sent shivers down both their spines for entirely different reasons. She spun around in a lightning fast roundhouse kick and shattered the mirror above the sink, splintering the wood of the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and causing its contents to spill all over the floor.

    The scene looked like a war zone. Greg stared at the mirror, his mind fixating on it in an effort to process the radically unexpected events of the morning. “Oh sweetie,” cooed Michelle in a gravelly half whisper, “you don’t need to worry about the mirror… you’ve got seven years of bad luck right… here…”. She drew herself up to her full commanding height.

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