Athletic Aesthetic

Erotic paperbacks from Sweetmeats Press Buy
978-1-909181-45-8

Illustrated by - Not illustrated

An erotic anthology of sporting prowess

Rigorous Training by Lisa Fox
Christy Turner has come so close to making the U.S. Gymnastics Team, and she’s not about to give up now. If she can convince a reclusive trainer to help her, Christy might just be able to find the edge that she needs.

Doubleheader by Emerald
Caught between two heavy-hitting baseball players, a team boss must consider her position very carefully when both players come to play for her.

Monocoque by Vanessa Wu
A chance meeting on a plane helps a young businesswoman understand the finer nuances of Formula One motor racing.

Playing with the Big Boys by Lexie Bay
In her bid to climb the corporate ladder, a determined sales executive uses golf to make sure her own needs are met!

The Master by Malin James
A top-level fencer must compete for a chance to train with The Master. The days will be long, and the training will be hard … but just who is The Master?

Rigorous Training
Lisa Fox
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.

Doubleheader
Emerald
Rita looked at the name on the screen and caught her breath. She stared for a few moments before clicking over to an open spreadsheet and entering the name into it. Of course, it had been a possibility ever since he was traded a few months ago to their affiliated major league team. And she had heard about his injury—in the back of her mind, she’d known he might come to the Triple-A level for rehab. But seeing the evidence right in front of her was different from speculation.
Pushing back from her desk, Rita stood and turned to leave the office. For her, one of the biggest perks of working for a professional baseball team was being steps away from a stunning view of the immaculate field whenever she needed to clear her head. As she climbed the steps to the club level on the third base side, she heard the sounds of batting practice underway in preparation for the night’s game. She reached the top step and gazed over the field at the array of Triple-A players milling around the batting cage. While she loved the aesthetics of an empty baseball field, the team certainly added to the scenery in a way she appreciated as well.
A few of the players noticed her standing up there and waved. She returned the greeting, giving the manager a nod as he turned and caught sight of her. Despite her desire for a bit of solitary time to process what she’d just seen, Rita turned and headed for the ground level of the field.
“Hi Mike,” she greeted the manager as she walked across the track to his position behind the batting cage. “How goes, Rita?” Mike Ashton, a former all-star left fielder, moved aside to make space for her and turned back to the cage. The familiar sound of bat against ball punctuated the air as they watched the third baseman taking soft warm-up pitches. “Come out to pitch a little batting practice?” he asked with a wink.

Monocoque
Vanessa Wu
“I’d never kick a girl out of bed for a pimple on her bum.”
“No, I’d hope not,” I said. Then I felt myself blushing in case he jumped to the wrong conclusions.
“You don’t have a pimple on your bum, do you?” he asked.
“That’s for me to know,” I said, rather more harshly than I intended.
“Well, I wouldn’t kick you out if you did,” he said.
Actually he was more than handsome. I liked his lean physique. He was muscular without being brawny. He seemed very intelligent and I have a thing for intelligent men. The fact that he liked Formula One counted against him. It was not a sport I cared anything for. It seemed full of vain and superficial people who prized looks above substance. But I could easily drop my prejudices in the face of his warm, physical presence and his seductive gaze. I could drop more than my prejudices in fact. He was exactly the kind of man I could drop everything for, so when he talked of not kicking me out of bed I blushed again and felt very foolish and confused.
I covered my embarrassment with some polite phrases and busied myself with arranging my blanket and headphones while he talked nonsense about this and that. I wasn’t really listening. I was registering his voice as a physical thing only, like fingers caressing my cheek or the wind in my hair. I had no idea of the meaning carried by his breath.
Then, as the stewardesses in the aisles adopted that stiff position that they always take just before they go through the safety instructions, his voice trailed off and was silent.
I was aware of him leaning towards me slightly, craning his neck to get a better look at the stewardesses. I think perhaps that was the moment that my desire for him became more than a passing fancy. It became a craving. It was sweet and delicious at first. I breathed in his scent. I willed his body to move closer to mine and I sensed my physical presence drawing him like a magnet. I imagined him without his shirt. I wanted to touch his skin.
But gradually, during the course of the flight, my craving grew and I began to feel pain. I wanted him. My body wanted him. It was a mono—mono—
“Monocoque,” he said.
I blushed. “What?”

Playing with the Big Boys
Lexie Bay
Nathan raised a concerned eyebrow at her first attempt as he moved to stand behind her. He could hear Adam and Danny laughing at him, but the majority of his focus was taken by the sweet curve of Grace’s ass rubbing against his thickening member as he leaned over her to correct her grip on the club.
“You hold it like this,” he said, positioning his hands over hers. Grace closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body against hers. He smelled just like he did in the office. He smelled like money and swagger and she wanted to sink into him and let him take care of her. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t seen as the big ball breaker at every company she worked at. It would be nice to let someone into her life for a change. His crotch was pressed up against her ass and she could feel the thick length of his cock, hardening in his checkered trousers. Grace wiggled against him a little, leaning back against his chest as his grip tightened slightly on her hands.
“So, is my grip ok?” she asked, turning her head slightly to look up at him. Their faces were so close she could have kissed him and she felt his breath hitch in his chest. His cock twitched against her and she could feel him lose concentration as he looked down her cleavage. She loved what she was doing to him, but if she wanted to take this further, she needed to get him alone.
“You, uh, yeah, it’s good but you need to spread your legs a bit wider for me.”
Grace stifled a moan at the words he used. At that moment, in the warm sunshine, she could think of nothing she would rather do than spread her legs for him. “I can definitely do that,” she said, easing her legs apart and rubbing against his crotch again.

The Master
Malin James
No one refused the Master. No one ever had.
In the midst of the Cold War, Alin Dalca had emerged from the mountains of Romania to revitalize sport fencing for a new generation. Then, suddenly, at the height of his career, he’d retired from public life.
Why, the fencing world had murmured, though no one ever asked. Dalca was developing a method. He needed privacy. Who was the world to refuse?
The fact that Dalca had not been seen in nearly fifty years had done nothing to dim his influence. Rather, his legend had only grown as he’d taken on students, one handful at a time, producing a lineage of athletes notorious for mental clarity and skill. In this way, Dalca had ceased being Dalca, and had instead become the Master.
Even now, with electrical scorekeeping and revised standards changing the sport again, to train with the Master was considered to be on par with Olympic gold. So when Tom Granger received an invitation to one of the Master’s clinics, he accepted without hesitation, despite rumors and expense. The Master produced masters. That was enough for him.
At least, it had been back at his club in New York. It was a different story now that he was standing in a training room, naked, with three other men, in a remote château deep in the Italian Alps.
Tom watched the other men posture and stretch. They were familiar to him by name, though he’d only properly met one—the French national champion, Michel Bisset. Tom’s mouth compressed. Yeah, he thought, as his eyes slid over the Frenchman. He knew him well enough … The other two, however—a smooth, young Spaniard named Santiago Cerra, and a mountain of a Russian called Alexei Voloshin—were reputations and nothing more.
Tom rocked on the balls of his feet, pressing them into the fat, black line that ran the width of the room. They were all at their physical peaks; and yet, every fencer had a weakness to uncover and use. Tom’s goal was to find theirs, without betraying his own. Of course, there was more to his interest than the bite of competition. Tom’s sexuality, which could be best described as “omnivorous,” was actively engaged in observations of its own.
Cerra’s face had a sweetness that intrigued him. It made the rest of the package, from his shiny black curls to his boyish cock, all the more compelling. The Russian, on the other hand, was the Spaniard’s foil. Whereas the Cerra was small and slender, Voloshin towered over Tom’s six feet, and packed more bulk than most fencers preferred. And then there was Bisset … Tom’s jaw ticked, though his face remained still. Bisset always looked the same—flat muscle, quick hands, sharp, hooded eyes … Bisset would never change.


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