Going for Gold

Foreword

This is a slow-burn, multi-part erotic story about Mia--a former Olympic gymnast, now a wife and mother--who finds herself craving more than routine and memory.

Each chapter builds on the last, both sexually and emotionally. The sex is explicit, consensual, and realistic but the focus is Mia: her choices, her arousal, and how far she's willing to go once she realizes how much she still wants.

If you're after something fast and simple, this probably isn't it. There's sex, infact it's an integral part of the story, but everything in good time.

But if you like character-driven smut with a real emotional core, welcome. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

The sheets carried the faint musk of sweat and skin. Morning light slipped, silently, eloquently through the blinds, striping Dale's bare back like gold. He breathed deeply--slow, steady--one arm thrown over her pillow, the other resting next to him, his hand softly perched onto of a bump under the sheets, as it moved gracefully up and down.

Beneath the covers, Mia shifted. Silently, purposefully. Her cheek brushed the line of soft hair running down his abdomen, her mouth accepting the heat of him. Hard. Familiar. Hers.

Kisses traced up and down the length of the hard, thick shaft, slow, reverent right up and back down to the base. Her tongue, deliberate and warm, slid back up the length of him like worship.

He groaned. Low. Rough. "Mmm... baby... Mia..."

She hummed around him, low and full of heat, the sound vibrating deep in her throat. Every inch of him responded with it thickening, twitching against her tongue like it knew her all over again. With one hand wrapped gently at his base and her lips sliding lower, she moved in practiced rhythm, every movement deliberate, every flick of her tongue a memory made flesh.

Harder now. Thicker. Firmer. More swollen. Her jaw opened wider; spine arched in that perfect gymnast's bow she could still summon in her sleep if she so wished. She was a fantasy come to life. It wasn't just movement, it was controlled and fluid, as though this act, this rhythm, had always lived in her bones. Every breath she took drew her deeper. Every inch she swallowed with ease down her throat brought her closer to something sacred.

She adjusted her angle, sliding her knees, tilting her head, breath warm and focused, her throat opened more, pulsating, he slipped in easier, deeper, heavier. There, in that breathless moment, she felt it again. That click. That certainty. The way her body knew what to do before she did. She wasn't just good at this. She was made for it. Her mouth moved on instinct, it was the most natural thing she knew how to do, and she was damn good at it.

His fingers slid into her hair, not guiding, just enjoying the feeling of himself inside her mouth, down her throat, as she hummed, sucked and gasped. A tremble ran down his thigh, quiet but urgent. She felt it, tasted it.

"God, Mia..."

She let him fall from her lips with a slow pop, a 'slap' as the shaft smacked against his abdomen, her breath fanning warmly across his skin. "Good morning baby," she said softly, licking the head once before tracing it with her lips.

He tilted his head down, eyes heavy-lidded, voice rough from sleep and arousal. "Best one I've had in years."

Smiling, she leaned back down. This time she took him deeper--her lips sealing around him with reverence, her tongue pressing flat beneath the shaft as her nose kissed the warm skin at his base. He hissed through clenched teeth.

Her hand slid to his thigh, nails grazing skin, and she moaned around him--soft, sweet, and unfiltered. The vibration pulled a helpless gasp from his chest.

"You're gonna kill me," he muttered, hips rising, the edge catching him fast.

She didn't stop. She didn't flinch. She just sank lower, mouth and throat and tongue all working in perfect, aching sync, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She'd always been good at this--naturally good. Sex came easily to her, like rhythm or breath. Back in her teens, before kids and chaos, she'd already learned how powerful pleasure could be--how much she liked giving it, how much it stirred something hot and real in her when she did. Not power. Not control. Just pure satisfaction.

She had a libido that didn't quit, and a body built for sin, and Dale... loyal to a fault, the kind of man who wouldn't even glance at anyone else. She, on the other hand, wasn't wired that way. When she got turned on, her mind wandered--playfully, hungrily--through anyone who caught her interest. She didn't act on it, never would. But the fantasies? They were hers. Wild, unfiltered, and always leading back to him.

When he came, it was a quiet disaster--his hips bucked up, breath stuttering, one hand clenching her jaw like it was the only thing anchoring him to the bed. Her name spilled from his lips in fragments, torn and trembling, half-confession, half-praise. The first spurt hit the back of her throat--hot, thick, salted with sleep and skin and him--and she swallowed instinctively, moaning low as more followed, slower now, coating her tongue and sliding warmly down.

The taste was familiar: clean, musky, undeniably Dale. Her lips lingered over the head, suckling gently, cleaning him with slow reverence. She didn't rush. She wanted it all. Every last drop.

When he twitched under her mouth, oversensitive and gasping, she finally released him, letting him fall free with a wet, satisfied sound. Her lips were slick, her cheeks flushed.

She slid up his body, her skin brushing his--the faint sweat on his chest, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the tremble still in his thighs. She kissed him on the sternum, tasting salt. Then higher. His collarbone. The crook of his neck. Finally, his mouth.

Sticky. Breathless. Intimate.

He didn't flinch at the taste. He opened to her, groaning into her mouth as their tongues slid together--his hands already pulling her closer, like he needed to feel her everywhere at once.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered softly, running his hand through her delicate, soft, chestnut brown hair.

"You do," she said with a hint of wicked gratitude in her voice. "Every bit."

Stretching like a cat in sunlight, Mia rolled out of bed. Naked. Golden. Gorgeous.

Dale, still half-drunk on orgasm, watched her toss him his boxers with a grin. He caught them with one hand.

"You trying to get me dressed or undressed again?"

"You owe me tonight," she teased, stepping into tight shorts that cupped her ass like a glove. As she reached for a tank top, she turned, tapped two fingers to her backside. "I miss you in here too."

Groaning, he ran a hand down his face. "Jesus, woman. I'm only human."

She winked, then laughed with a sweet cadence. "Occupational hazard. Hyper libido. You married it. That's on you bub."

He stood, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and kissed her bare shoulder--softly, slowly, lovingly.

"God... how couldn't I, Mia? I've had mates tell me I'm punching so far above my weight I should be in orbit--and honestly? I couldn't be prouder. Look at you. You're everything. And somehow, you're mine."

Together, fingers brushing, they walked toward the scent of toast--warm, buttery, with a faint edge of something burnt. The house stirred around them, soft with morning sounds: the rattle of bowls, the low hum of cartoons, the distant thud of a cupboard door.

They stole glances at each other as they moved through the light-filled hall. Mia's lips still tingled; her breath faintly flavoured with him. She licked them once, absently, and caught his eye. The look he gave her--equal parts wrecked and adoring--made her feel wicked.

She leaned into him just enough to whisper, her voice like silk, "God, you taste so good... I might just have to lick the rest of you clean when we shower later. Maybe not leave a drop behind this time."

He choked on a laugh, ears reddening, eyes full of her. "You're gonna be the death of me."

She grinned and kissed his shoulder, fingers brushing again--this time lingering longer.

In the kitchen, light bounced off the fridge door. Mia filled a scattered water bottle while Dale hunted for yogurt and blueberries.

A small voice from the other room called something about a blue plate.

"You can have two blueberries if you put on your slippers and robes, it's cold," she said, smiling at Dale, who just shook his head and laughed.

With the cartoon still blaring and the toast being quietly devoured in front of it, Mia wandered back down the hallway, coffee in hand.

In the garage--cooler than the rest of the house, filled with echoes and clutter--her home studio waited, or what was meant to be a studio. She paused at the doorway, taking it in the half-completed soundproofing they'd started one weekend and never quite finished, the uneven patches of acoustic foam still tacked to the far wall like a forgotten promise. Dumbbells leaned against the wall beside a stack of yoga mats, resistance bands dangled from an unused pull-up bar, and a ring light sat unplugged in the corner, collecting dust.

They'd had big plans for this space. Filming schedules, branded content, maybe a channel of her own. But life had happened instead. Kids, bills, broken washing machines. Priorities shuffled like cards.

She crouched beside a worn plastic crate tucked between a box of old baby gear and the half-dead elliptical, fingers brushing across it before tugging free an album thick with memory.

Cross-legged on her yoga mat, she flipped through it slowly, sipping as she turned each page.

One image stopped her. Eighteen years old. Taut. Gleaming. Leaping through a perfect split mid-air, feet pointed like spears. The caption:

Mia Torres - Women's Artistic Gymnastics All-Around Champion - Beijing.

The next: Her podium moment. Flag on her shoulders. Tears at the edges of a clenched jaw. Gold twice over. But it wasn't just the medals that made headlines--it was the way she moved.

Her warm-up routines had gone viral. The world had become obsessed with how she stretched--how her legs folded back, knees behind her shoulders, spine coiling like silk. They called her the 'Sexy Human Pretzel' on talk shows, which, the internet had soon shortened to 'Prexy.' It was playful, sure, but there was awe in it too. Amazement. Captivation. Like watching something human and impossible all at once.

And behind the cameras, behind the headlines--there were nights in the Olympic village she never forgot. The night the swim team carried her--and three other girls--out to the pool under moonlight, skin slick with chlorine and anticipation. They were athletes from all over the world: lean, eager, playful. What started as laughter turned to gasps, moans, and slippery skin pressed against the edge of the pool. One girl was up on the ledge, another held mid-air, Mia herself folded and stretched in ways that made even the most seasoned men stop and stare before sliding into her.

That night, they filled her completely--her mouth, her pussy, her ass--sometimes all at once, sometimes in slow rotation that left her gasping, stretched, shaking. The sensation was blinding: three distinct rhythms moving inside her at once, every hole explored, every inch of her body pinned, arched, overflowing. And then--when two cocks pressed into her pussy at the same time, thick and relentless--she'd had to put her head underwater and scream as loud as her lungs allowed. Not from pain. From pleasure. From the unbearable, glorious pressure that surged through her, igniting every nerve ending with a white-hot need that shattered thought. Her body had accepted it, clung to it, begged for more. The lust, the fullness, the beautiful pain--it was too much, too perfect, too overwhelming to process.

She came so many times she lost count, legs locked around one man's hips while another held her jaw and the third fucked her ass with practiced control. There was no shame, no hesitation--only the raw, animalistic bliss of being wanted, taken, adored. Pure pleasure, pure surrender, and the knowledge that she'd never forget how perfectly full she'd been.

They'd taken turns, explored every inch, every fold, every possible angle of their willing bodies. Mia had lost count of how many times she'd come--once, so hard, the splash echoed like a dropped stone and made all of them laugh and cheer and kiss her as if they were celebrating a win. And when it was over--when her holes were raw and twitching, stretched and wet and satisfied--they all finished on her. One by one. Across her stomach, her thighs, her breasts, her face.

She was painted in it, dripping with their lust. She could feel it cooling on her skin even as another stream landed across her lips. One of the girls crawled over--grinning, wicked--and licked it off her chest, slow and showy, moaning like it was dessert. Mia, dizzy with sensation, licked her clean in return, tongues tangling, cum-slick and breathless, before they kissed--deep, messy, open-mouthed. The boys groaned, transfixed. She had no clue who the girl was--some Japanese girl, maybe her age.

They hadn't even spoken a word before it happened. Not a name, not a greeting. And after? Nothing. They'd finished, cleaned up, and parted ways like it had been the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, it was. It was incredible. Animalistic, passionate, utterly chaotic in all the right ways. A night without shame, without cameras, without rules. They'd all wanted it. They'd all loved it. So did she. And now, years later, it was mind-blowing to her how quickly and intensely the memories surged back--full-bodied, fever-hot, and utterly alive.

From the kitchen came the clatter of bowls, faint chewing sounds, and Dale's voice on the phone, already handling work. Her eyes dropped to her own body--no longer the zero percent-fat machine it had been at eighteen. She wasn't overweight, but motherhood had softened her in places. Her breasts sat lower now, but only slightly. Her hips wider. Her face, still beautiful, just framed by the quiet changes of time.

A tear stung her eye. She reached out and traced the edge of the photo beside her, fingertip gliding over the frozen image of herself in mid-leap, glossy and golden. "I miss who you were," she whispered, voice barely audible beneath the hum of the house. "I miss how it felt to be you."

She missed it. Not just the body--but the way it had once felt to live inside it. What she didn't miss was the oversexualisation, the endless headlines reducing her to a stretchable piece of ass instead of the Olympian she truly was. The men had been praised--lauded for their strength, endurance, focus. The women? Desired. Picked apart. Fantasised over.

But when Dale proposed to her on the day she won gold--right there in front of the cameras--it hadn't even been a question. She screamed yes so loudly half the arena turned toward the sound. The cameras caught everything: her laugh, his tears, the way she launched herself into his arms like she was vaulting into the next chapter of her life.

The moment went global. News outlets replayed it in slow motion. Social media devoured it. She was the hottest thing on the internet for a month, the golden girl with the gold medal and the perfect fiancé. Hell, not even the Mayan calendar could compete with her in 2012.

And then, when preselection's had started a few months after arriving back home, she'd made a quiet, definitive choice. She wouldn't compete again. She was effectively retiring. Off birth control, trying for a family, focused on a new rhythm of life. The Olympics didn't fit anymore--not with who she was becoming. Not with what she wanted now.

She wandered back out to the kitchen. The lounge was occupied by little bodies sprawled in front of the TV; eyes locked on some new American-made, anime-inspired monstrosity that blasted cartoon noise like a cannon. Bright colours, louder dialogue, no plot in sight. Dale sat at the table in his work shirt and boxers, sipping coffee and eating vegemite on toast like it was a five-star meal.

She wrinkled her nose, her lips pursing comically at him as she did. "How can you eat that mess!?"

He raised his head from his meal, looking her in the eyes firmly, then downed the rest in one go like it was inevitable. Licked his fingers clean. "It's amazing. You philistines who can't stand it--every one of you gets the butter-to-veg ratio wrong. It takes a

lifelong

consumer of the 'mite to be able to eat it in potent amounts!"

He laughed--bold, boyish, unbothered.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and leaned in to steal a sip of his coffee.

"I like my shit in the toilet, not on my toast, my darling..." she teased, poking her tongue out.

"Ew, gross... aren't you meant to be feminine or something?" he shot back with mock offence.

She laughed and grabbed the peanut butter, making herself breakfast.

"So," she said casually, spreading her toast. "I want to get back into my gymnastics and gym work. I was thinking--I still get emails from people, I thought I could start a channel talking about my experiences, do workout videos, give gymnastics advice? Free gymnastics tips, and some paid ones too like private sessions. Make it profitable, finally use my fifteen minutes I had to our advantage?"

"You know?" he mused. "That's a fantastic idea, I mean, so many former celebrities get on YouTube, insta and all that capitalising? Why couldn't you?"

"Exactly, I think there's an opportunity here babe. We might not make millions, but we can possibly make our lives a little more comfortable?"

He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. "I think it's a fantastic idea. So, you'll do that while the house is quiet during the day and I'm at work?"

She nodded. "Yeah, if you're okay with it?"

"Absolutely," he said, reaching for her hand across the table, his eyes warm. "Go for it."

She hesitated, then squeezed his hand a little tighter. "Dale... I need to ask something else too. I need something. I need us to finish the garage as soon as possible, so I can do this. Before the weekend. Please."

He looked at her, no hesitation in his eyes. "Done. I'll start tonight after work. I can be done by tomorrow arvo?"

She smiled, warmth rising in her chest. "I love you, baby... thank you."

She squeezed his hand, her thumb grazing his knuckle. But even as she smiled, a familiar heat unfurled low in her belly. The memories--of being stretched, filled, used--rushed in again like a flood. Her thighs pressed together. She was wet. Dripping. Her breath caught.

She rose from her chair, fingers tightening around his, and leaned close enough for her lips to brush his ear. Her breath hitched--not from nerves, but from the deep, aching pulse between her thighs. Her nipples had stiffened beneath her tank, her thighs slick where they met. She didn't look at him when she spoke. She didn't need to.

She leaned in closer, lips grazing his ear, breath trembling from the heat pooling between her thighs. One hand slid down between them, finding the bulge beneath his waistband. Her fingers slipped under, curling around his cock, warm and heavy in her palm. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, her thumb brushing the sensitive underside. Her nipples ached beneath the soft brush of her tank top, her thighs slick with need.

She dropped to her knees without a word. Pulled him free. Her mouth parted, eyes locked on his, and she took the tip between her lips--slow, deliberate. Her tongue circled once, teasing, catching the salty tang of precum--musky, slick, hot. She moaned softly, then sucked deeper, guiding him along her tongue until her lips pressed flush to his base. Her moan vibrated through him.