Chapter Seventeen
Rebellion
“Honestly, give a man a view and it goes to his head.”—Verruca
Legless, cheering the men on, cycled like a demon, his fit legs perfect for the job.
Ten years on, Legless had grown from a man with ostrich legs to one with the sort of legs that required a second look, a gasp, and a yearning to touch. And as for his butt, it was, to quote an earthling, “poetry in motion, s*x in Lycra.”
Not that any in the gym appreciated it.
The men bitched, especially when he started shoving thick industrial socks down the front for extra “titillation,” although who he was trying to titillate was anyone’s guess.
Legless still believed in the pull of a butt.
The others, however, had seen where that got them and laughed. Still, he could motivate, and his push-ups were to die
