Awesome Authors Presents KD Grace TODO

Muscle Bound by K.D. Grace

(Published by Cleis inSmooth, Erotic Stories for Women, Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel)

When I trained with Becky Strauss, Rachel McLish had just bared her well-muscled, feminine body in her book,
Flex Appeal. Arnold Schwarzenegger was still Conan, the Barbarian, and his lovely but savage side-kick, Sandahl Bergman, was wielding her bad-ass sword with arms that were the envy of every woman.

I had just finished university, and was working at a local radio station in Central Oregon. My refrigerator was covered in pictures of women with washboard abs and granite thighs. But books and magazine articles were no substitute for experience, so I scraped together the money to join Muscle Bound Health Club.

Becky Strauss taught women’s weight training at Muscle Bound to supplement an artist’s meager income. I wouldn’t recognize her from the glammed up photos I see of her today. But her face wasn’t what I looked at. It’s her body that captivated me.

“You’re very strong,” she said as I grunted out five squats in rapid succession. “You’ve never lifted weights before?”

“I was raised on a farm,” I stammered. “I’ve been lifting weights all my life.”

She chuckled. The sexy, but can-do contralto of her voice was a puff of warm air against my shoulder. “I grew up in Kansas. Guess it comes naturally for us farm girls.”

When I finished the set, she rested a large hand on my back. “Good job. Now you can be my spotter. Listen up, everyone, and pay attention,” she called out to the rest of the group. Becky was nearly six feet tall with miles of rock solid legs well displayed in work-out shorts, and I got a great view as she stood in front of me and positioned herself under the bar bell. “Spotting is especially important when you’re doing squats. Your partner’s safety is in your hands. Remember that.”

The other women gathered round to watch as Becky took the barbell across her shoulders while explaining about keeping the spine straight and the head up. All the while I admired the narrowing of her back, the curve of her hips and the way her butt pressed against the satin fabric of her shorts like two halves of an opened peach. Even in my heavy-duty sports bra, my nipples ached at the sight.

That first day I was torn between the excitement of finally getting to work seriously with free weights and admiring the powerful physicality of Becky Strauss. Becky’s breasts were small and firm and she never wore a bra. When she demonstrated flies on the incline bench, I could barely breathe from the sight of her. The working muscle groups were completely visible from the spaghetti strapped top she wore. I held my breath as she lifted the dumbbells in an arc in front of her chest. The motion compressed striated pectorals, forcing her lovely small breasts to rise to exquisite prominence with each press of the dumbbells. All the while, her nipples were like two large pearls straining just beneath the caress of Lycra.

That night, I masturbated thinking about the two of us alone in the gym doing squats. In my fantasy she kept adding more weight to my barbell, always complimenting my strength as I strained upward beneath the load. I imagined her sliding down my shorts and panties to watch my glutes at work. I imagined thrusting my butt out, keeping my back straight just like she had instructed. I imagined her watching, admiring, coaching. And when I
was at the bottom of my squat, just when I was straining under the weight for the upward thrust, I imagined her making me hold that position until I could feel my pulse throbbing in my cunt.

While I strained, I imagined her sliding her fingers between my pussy lips to find me slick and ready. My moans and grunts were as much from her explorations as from the weight bearing down on me. Then at last, I imagined her helping me lift the barbell back into the rack and rewarding my efforts by slipping the spaghetti straps off over her shoulders and letting me touch her breasts and thumb her hard nipples.

I came then and slept, dreaming of Becky Strauss.

The class met twice a week, but I came in early, stayed late and worked out extra on my own, always in hopes of spending a few more minutes with Becky.

One evening after a particularly hard leg workout, I went to the sauna. The heat was just beginning to dissipate the tension in my quads and glutes when the door opened and Becky stepped inside.

“Good workout today, Kate.” She dropped her towel. Surely I must have stared. What else could I have done? The plane of her belly stretched supple and flat between the rise of her breasts and the closely trimmed curls shielding her pubis— both places I visited regularly in my fantasies. She dropped onto the bench opposite me, positioning herself so her back was against the cedar wall and her legs stretched out on the wooden slats in front of us, her toes nearly touching mine.

As she shifted to get comfortable, moaning softly in the
muscle-relaxing heat, I glimpsed the pale pink folds of her pussy, and for a
moment, the world seemed slightly out of sync, just enough to let me memorize
the soft pout of heavy folds, the brief peek at her dark anus and the moist
intimations of her clit pressing out from under its hood. I collected that
moment, along with so many other moments spent with Becky, and filed them all
away in my imagination to be used whenever I chose, for my private
pleasuring.

I squirmed to get comfortable, blushing until I was sure
my face was glowing, awkwardly rearranging myself, desperate, for some
reason, that she should have a glimpse of me as well. I felt foolish and
feminine and horny all at the same time, and I didn’t know what to do about
it. But before I could make too big a fool of myself, Becky spoke.

“I can’t believe the class is nearly over.”

“Me neither,” I breathed.

“What are you going to do?” She asked. “There won’t be an advanced class until the fall, and you’re too skilled to repeat the beginning course.”

“I’ll work out on my own I guess. But I’ll come to the class anyway, you know, to make sure I’m doing things right.” More importantly, I’d come to class to be near her, I thought.

She studied me until I began to feel uncomfortable, then she spoke. “I need a training partner, Kate, and you need a challenge. I think you’re ready if you’re interested.”

After that, we trained together three or four times a
week. I was in heaven, surrounded by the sage smell of her sweat and the
tangy under scent that I knew to be something even wetter, even sweeter. We
declared war on our abs, we did flies until we could barely lift our arms, we
piled the weight on the bar bell and did squats until our legs trembled.
Sometimes we had a sauna, sometimes we went out to eat after, but always at
night it was Becky Strauss I visited in my fantasies.

One day, she called and asked if I was free for a late lunch at Mountain View Cafe. I thought she sounded a bit strange. Still, if I was going to be with Becky, I wanted to look my best. I took my time getting ready, making sure my make-up was perfect and my jeans were the ones that accentuated my curves—muscular curves that she had admired. I wore a summer sweater with a plunge neckline showing off my hard-earned pecs along with a bit of my deep cleavage.

She was already there when I arrived. Once the waitress had brought two hibiscus iced teas and left to refill the condiments after the lunch rush, Becky spoke without preamble. “I fucked my ex last night.”

“Oh?” My pulse accelerated. Becky wasn’t shy about sharing, and the opportunist in me figured I’d be masturbating to the details of her sex life tonight.

“He was just passing through, seeing to the shipping of a couple of paintings his firm bought from me. He always liked my work,” she added. “He asked me for dinner and drinks and one thing led to another.” She waved her hand absently. “It was a mistake, of course, but not really such a bad thing. It’s good to know that I made the right choice in divorcing him.”

“I’m glad.”

“Nothing has really changed. All the things I hated about him when we were married are still there.”

“Oh?”

She took a contemplative drink of her tea, and we both paused as the waitress brought our salads. Then she spoke, leaning over the table, holding my gaze. “Sex is not his forte. I got tired of finishing myself off in the bathroom afterwards.”

I nearly choked on my tea.

“I hope I’m not embarrassing you, Kate. I just needed
someone to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not upset. In fact, I feel like
I’ve just had a revelation. I mean I’ve been celibate now for almost two
years, and it’s not so bad. Anyway it’s not just the sex. I mean if it was
just that, I could live with the masturbating afterward, but I’m thirty years
old. I’m not getting any younger. If I’m ever going to make my art work for
me, the time’s now. I’m not cut out for a house in the suburbs and the kids
and …” her voice trailed off and she stared into her tea. The silence
stretched between us, and I was about to break it with some awkward cliché
about following one’s dream, when she saved me the trouble and spoke. ‘Right
now it’s just beginning to be what I’d always hoped it would be. I have
several commissions to work on. I’ve got my classes and my training. I’m
doing all right.” She nodded hard and squared her shoulders. “Last night just
confirms I made the right choice.”

Not knowing what else to say, I raised my tea glass. “Here’s to right choices.”

“To right choices,” she returned the toast.

We talked about sex and weight training and our plans for the future. Mostly we talked about sex. We stayed until the waitress began glancing at the clock then back at our table. The dinner crowd was just trickling in when we paid the tab and headed out into the warm evening. I can’t remember now exactly how it happened, but we ended up at her house.

She lived in a rented Victorian on the edge of town, way
too big for one person, and way too run down to qualify as anything but a
fixer-upper. “An artist needs lots of space,” she said, as she gave me the
grand tour. “And so does a body builder. I have space for my weights, my
books and my bike and my skis. It’s good for me.”

The décor was hippy retro. The walls that weren’t
painted in murals best described as Renaissance nouveau, were lined with
brick and raw lumber bookshelves loaded down with everything from Nietzsche
to herbal medicine, to graphic novels, all half hidden in a jungle of
overgrown house plants.

In the living room, we plopped down on a huge pile of
cushions in the middle of the green shag carpet. She
opened a bottle of expensive chardonnay one of her wealthier clients had
given her as a bonus for a family portrait. Once we had properly admired the
elderflower bouquet and the slight butterscotch undertones of the wine, I
grabbed Becky’s dog-eared copy of Flex
Appeal
from the bookshelf and began to flip through it.

Becky scooted closer to look on. I flipped the page, and
we found ourselves looking down at a bikini-clad Rachel McLish posing to best
display hard bronze muscles overlaid by just enough feminine softness that no
one could ever imagine she was anything but one hundred percent primo woman.

“You remind me of her,” Becky said, pushing my hair off
my shoulder and behind my ear.

My heart skipped a beat. “Me? You’re kidding, right? I’m
too dumpy, I have no butt, and my –”

She stopped my words with a finger against my lips.
“Every time I see you in the sauna, I think of how much you remind me of
her.” She scooted a little closer, and I could almost taste the wine on her
breath. “Your breasts are bigger,” she peeked down the front of my sweater
and offered me a teasing smile. “I like ‘em bigger.”

“Really? You like them?” I looked down and cupped my
tits. “I always wished I had smaller breasts, more like yours.”

“Come on,” She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet.
“Bring the book. Let’s practice a little posing.” She
pulled me into a room with stripped wood floors, a training bench and a
fairly basic, if high quality, set of free weights. All the walls were
mirrored ceiling to floor.

“I ate a lot of peanut butter to pay for this,” she said
when she heard my gasp of approval. “But it’s been worth the sacrifice.” She
sat the wine glass on the bench, and before I knew what was happening, she
pulled her shirt off over her head followed in short order by jeans and pale
blue panties. I watched as she struck the same pose Rachel McLish held in the
photo. “What do you think,” she called over her shoulder.

“Nice definition in the delts and triceps,” I replied,
too shy to tell her it was her breasts I was actually admiring.

“Really? My thighs don’t look flabby?” She flexed
harder.

“I don’t see any flab anywhere.” My reply was
breathless, as it always was when I saw her naked. I stood shyly at the door
with my arms folded protectively across my breasts, which ached with the
heavy fullness I felt whenever I saw her body.

She studied herself in the mirror, turning slightly from
side to side. “Of course I can’t do the tit thing like she can.” She turned
to face me, giving me a full frontal view that made me feel like my cunt was
bathed in champagne. “Come on. Show me how women with tits do it.” She
laughed out loud. “Don’t be shy. I’ve seen your tits before, and your pussy.
Don’t think I didn’t notice how you flash me in the sauna.”

“I don’t.”

“Of course you do.” She reached for my jeans and gave
them a tug. “Here, let me help.”

I slapped her hands away, but she was too fast. With a
movement any adolescent boy would have envied, she reached under my blouse
and unhooked my bra with a resounding snap of elastic. I yelped.

“Come on, I wanna see you pose, and you can’t pose in
all these clothes.” Her voice became sing songy as she tugged the sweater
over my head until it covered my face and bound my arms, leaving me
blindfolded and trapped at her tender mercy. Then she went to work on my
jeans. “I wanna see you po-ose, get rid of all these clo-othes.” She sang
between breathless giggles, tugging and pulling until my jeans and panties
were down around my ankles, and I was bound by them at one end and my sweater
and bra at the other.

I gasped and jumped as I felt her warm lips against my
navel, then between my breasts. Her strong hands moved up my ribs to cup me.
“Mmm, if I had these, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off myself.”
I felt her humid breath against my ear. “Tell you a secret, Katie.
Last night while Derek was fucking me,” with one hard shove she freed me of
the cumbersome upper body wear, and I found myself almost nose to nose with
her, staring into her large brown eyes. “It was thinking about you that made
me come.”

She reached down to help me free my legs from my jeans.
“I think about you a lot when I come.” She kissed my earlobe, then my cheek.
“I love the way your pecs tense and your breasts mound up when you do flies.
I love the way your quads bulge and the way your pussy presses against your
shorts when you’re doing heavy squats. And when you finish a hard set, I love
to listen to you breathe.” Her lips brushed mine. “I imagine that’s what you
sound like when you’ve just come.”

I returned her kiss, timidly at first.

It was as though I had given her permission. She ate my
mouth with a hunger that I returned in kind, all the while she walked me,
pushed me, pressed me, until my butt and shoulders were squished hard against
the cold mirrored wall, and I sucked breath at the shock of it. Then she
drenched my breasts in warm wet kisses, pinching my nipples to sharp little
points and tugging them none too gently with her teeth.
She growled, and I mewled like a kitten, soaking myself, guiding her hand
over my mound between my unsteady thighs. I bore down and rode her palm until
her whole hand was slippery, and the room smelled of female heat.

“I’ve never been with a woman before.” It sounded
foolish the second I said it.

“Neither have I.” She brought her wet hand away from my
cunt to her lips, then her pink tongue flicked over her fingertips. “Taste
how yummy you are.” She offered me two fingers, which I sucked and licked as
though I were nursing. Then she pulled away and with a hard shoved turned me,
cheek and tits to the mirror, forcing the breath from me in steamy clouds on
the glass. My nipples tingled from the chill.

With a grunt, she pressed her whole body tight against
me, and I was sandwiched between her and the mirror. “I want a print of you.”
She shifted and insinuated until I could barely breathe from the press. “You
know what I mean, a print like an ink block print.” Her body undulated
against mine until I was so hot from the feel of her that I humped the
mirror, relishing the cold hardness of it against my pubis.

She forced my legs apart with a knee, then knelt and began to nibble and tug at my labia, still holding me tight against the mirror. She teased my clit until the weight of it felt heavier than anything I’d lifted on the barbells. Then with a slurp, she pulled away. “Turn around one more time.”

I did as she commanded.

“That’s a girl, now bend over. Spread your legs just a little more. Keep them straight, that’s right. Now look.”

Bent practically double, I looked down between my legs into the mirror at the view of my pussy like I’d never seen it before, slick and heavily swollen, the normal pink color darkened to the purple-red of arousal. The whole of my vulva pouted like a hungry mouth, crowned by the hard marble erection of my clit.

Still kneeling, taking in the view of me, Becky suckled each of my breasts in turn, then pushed me back, moving me, arranging me, shifting and lifting my buttocks until every bit of my cunt was pressed against the mirror. The pressure of her hand, against my pubis, and the cold hardness of the mirror was all it took to send me over the edge.

I stumbled forward and fell against her with the
intensity of my orgasm. As she tumbled backward onto the floor, I wrapped
myself around her, groping her everywhere I could reach with my mouth and my
hands. I nipped her breasts, I stroked her curls, I probed her pussy with my
fingers, amazed at the velvet-wet strength of her grip. We were all over each
other, tasting, touching, testing, then doing it all again. We explored and
experimented until everything was spent, then consciousness slipped away, and
we slept.

It was long toward morning when she woke me. Moonlight drenched the room. We had fallen asleep in the corner on an exercise mat. “You have to see this,” she whispered as she pulled me to my feet. In my drowsiness, I half stumbled, half followed as she led me to stand in front of the mirror.

“Look, I have a print of you coming.”

And sure enough, the moonlit mirror told the story of my
arousal. There pressed against the glass were the half dome prints of my
buttocks, the curve of my back, the press of my shoulders. To the right was
the peach and rose smear of my make up where my cheek had been. And below
that, amazingly clear, if slightly flattened and distorted, was the image of
my breasts, nipples and areole clearly visible, captured in the medium of
Becky’s warm saliva. Beneath was the press of my belly, the stipple brush
marks of my pubic curls, and the swell of my thighs. But the true masterpiece
was next to it. There in the medium of my own juices, spread and splayed with
exquisite detail right down to the nub of my clit, was my pussy.

“Look.” She took my hand and pulled me closer to inspect the shape of myself on the mirror. “See how the muscles seem to be in motions, almost like there are little waves rising from beneath the surface. That’s what an orgasm looks like. That’s what your orgasm looks like.”

I’m not an artist, so I don’t know the technique Becky used, though she did try to explain it to me. What I do know is that life-size prints of my orgasming pussy and my other Mirror Images, as Becky entitled the series inspired by that night’s passion, presently hang in some of the wealthiest homes in the Northwest. I understand any one of them is now worth more than I make in a year. Knowing that I get to be an exhibitionist to the wealthy vicariously does strange things to my head and to my cunt.

I read glowing reviews of Becky’s latest exhibitions in New York and London, but I’ve not seen her in years. She gave me one of the first prints of my orgasming cunt as a gift for my inspiration. It still hangs over my bed. I suppose I could always sell it if times get tough. But I like that unique view of myself and the memories attached. I’ve always been sentimental, and after all, it was Becky who made me come – many more times than she actually knows about, or was present for. And it was Becky who made my pussy into a work of art. That being said, I think I’ll keep the print above my bed right where it is.

About K D Grace

K D GraceVoted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace/Grace Marshall believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked coast to coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

KD also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall and has work published with SourceBooks, Xcite Books, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Erotic Review, Ravenous Romance, Sweetmeats Press and others.

Find K D Here:

Books by KD Grace

Interviewing WadeInterviewing Wade
(Accent Press 2015)

An Executive Decision novel

The Executive Decisions Trilogy may be over, but the story continues. Intrepid reporter, Carla Flannery, wants to interview Wade Crittenden, the secretive creative genius behind Pneuma Inc. But when, against all odds, Wade actually agrees to the interview, Carla suspects ulterior motives.

Carla has made a lot of enemies in her work and when Wade discovers she’s being stalked, he agrees to the interview to keep her close and safe. As the situation turns deadly, lives and hearts are on the line, and the interview reveals far more about both than either ever expected.

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Body Temperature and RisingBody Temperature and Rising
(Xcite Books 2012)

Book One of the Lakeland Witches Trilogy

American transplant to the Lake District, Marie Warren, didn’t know she could unleash demons and enflesh ghosts until a voyeuristic encounter on the fells ends in sex with the charming ghost, Anderson, and night visits from a demon. To help her cope with her embarrassing and dangerous new abilities, Anderson brings her to the Elementals, a coven of witches who practice rare sex magic that temporarily allows needy ghosts access to the pleasures of the flesh.

Deacon, the demon Marie has unleashed, holds an ancient grudge against Tara Stone, coven high priestess, and will stop at nothing to destroy all she holds dear. Marie and her landlord, the reluctant young farmer, Tim Meriwether, are at the top of his list. Marie and Tim must learn to wield coven magic and the numinous power of their lust to stop Deacon’s bloody rampage before the coven is torn apart and more innocent people die.

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The Mount Box SetThe Mount Box Set
(Xcite Books 2015)

Rita Holly’s sexy initiation; the strange contract Nick Chase fulfills for Elsa Crane; Liza Calendar and Paulo Delacour’s formulation of an exclusive perfume derived from the scent of sex – the cult of The Mount is behind them all. Shrouded in mystery and grounded in sexual exploration, The Mount is world-wide and ancient, its existence known only to its members who keep its secrets from generation to generation. Together
for the first time in one volume, the accounts of The Mount in London, Las Vegas and Rome — three novels, three wild romps of lust, sexual largesse and love.

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The Pet ShopThe Pet Shop
(Xcite books 2012)

In appreciation for a job well done, Stella James’s boss sends her a Pet for the weekend – a human Pet. The mischievous Tino comes straight from The Pet Shop complete with a collar, a leash, and an erection. Stella soon discovers that the pleasure of keeping Pets, especially this one, is extremely addicting.

Obsessed with Tino and with the reclusive philanthropist, Vincent Evanston, who looks like Tino, but couldn’t be more different, Stella is drawn into the secret world of The Pet Shop. As her animal lust awakens, Stella must walk the thin line that separates the business of pleasure from the more dangerous business of the heart or suffer the consequences.

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