by Nikki Castle
"So fucking sweet," I murmur. I guide her hand back to her pussy. "Touch yourself again. I want to see you come."
When she whimpers, I finally get a sense of her desperation. The last time she sucked my dick she got so wet that she exploded almost immediately after I next touched her. She's probably aching to come right now.
Sure enough, there's nothing lazy or playful about the way she starts rubbing her clit. Her pace is hurried—frenzied. She starts to squirm as her orgasm builds.
I'm mesmerized by the sight below me and try not to increase my own pace as she nears her release. She's distracted enough now that she gives up trying to actually create suction around my dick, and instead just lets her mouth drop open as I continue to thrust in and out.
I can't stop myself from reaching down and sliding two fingers into her pussy, once again feeling my brain short-circuit when I realize she’s drenched from just my dick in her mouth. The moan that she lets out at the feeling of my fingers fucking her reverberates around my dick and I swear I only hold my orgasm back by sheer force of will. I continue to thrust my fingers into her as she frantically swirls her wetness over her clit.
When I curl my fingers inside her, she drops me from her mouth and screams as her release tears through her. I groan and work my other hand over my shaft as I watch her explode beneath me.
That sight is what brings on my own release. I feel it barreling down my spine and I have just enough time to give her one more instruction.
"Open and stick your tongue out," I gasp.
Heavy-lidded and looking a little dick-drunk, she eagerly does as I say. Just as she opens her mouth, I explode, shooting my release all over her tongue. I watch as it drops to the back of her throat. I grunt through the overwhelming orgasm that Remy has once again brought on.
She swallows, her eyes sparkling up at me as she licks her lips.
I gape at her for another moment, then pull my sweatpants up and step around the couch to drop to my knees in front of her. I tug her to a sitting position before sliding my hand behind her head and gripping the nape of her neck. I press a heady kiss to her lips.
"You have the sweetest fucking mouth," I murmur against her skin. "You have no idea how pissed I am that we waited so long to start doing this." I sigh dramatically.
She laughs—a real, tinkling laugh—and pushes me away. I drop heavily to my spot next to her on the couch.
I take a deep breath to calm my still-racing heart. I watch as she straightens her clothes, then I hand her the beer that she had been drinking. I raise my eyebrows when she chugs half the can.
Seeing my surprise, she shrugs her shoulders and answers simply, "As good as you taste, I still prefer a good IPA as an aftertaste."
I bark a startled laugh. Shaking my head, I reach for my own beer. "Okay, now back to your question game." I settle back against the cushions and flash her an impish grin. "I actually did you a favor with that blowjob. If we hadn't started with that, I would've been distracted the whole game and every question would've been about sex. And then I would've fucked your mouth. So, this way, you actually get good questions and good answers. You're welcome."
She rolls her eyes as she tries to tamp down on the smile that's threatening to curl the edges of her lips. "Yes, thank you so much for fucking my face and coming in my mouth. How very thoughtful of you."
I chuckle and take a few gulps of my beer. I turn my full attention to Remy and study her thoughtfully. I'm trying to remember the last time I wanted to talk to a girl after an orgasm.
I'm coming up empty.
"Well, go on then. Ask away."
She tilts her head thoughtfully as she taps a finger to her lips, no doubt trying to make her first question a good one. Unfortunately, all I can think about is how swollen her lips look from my rough treatment of her—and how much I'd like to bite that plump bottom lip.
I swallow roughly and shift my hips, subtly trying to ease the ache of my hardening cock.
Unbelievable. I just came two minutes ago and she's already making me want to go again.
How am I so affected by this girl?
"OK, I'll start easy," she says, oblivious to my internal struggle. "What's the hardest part of fighting?"
I wince when the answer immediately comes to mind. “The day of the fight,” I answer as I turn back to the TV. Incidentally, they’re showing the fighters as they’re warming up in the locker rooms. The scene on the screen is exactly the worst part about fighting. “The nerves are the worst. The week of the fight isn’t bad because you’re distracted by the weight cut, but the day of the fight—after you’ve weighed in—the only thing you can think about is how you’re about to be locked inside a cage with a very large man that wants nothing more than to hurt you. It’s a surreal feeling. And I don’t care who you ask, every fighter will tell you that they question their decision to sign the contract during the hours before the fight.”
Remy giggles even as she stares at me with wide eyes. “Seriously? All of you are scared of fighting? I didn’t think you guys were scared of anything.”
My brow furrows. “It’s not scared, necessarily. It’s more like we’re in disbelief and questioning our own sanity. It’s why I never judge people when they say our sport is crazy—it is. They’re absolutely right about that.” I turn back to Remy with a feral grin. “But all those feelings go away as soon as the bell starts. And then the real fun—and my favorite part of fighting—begins.”
She shakes her head with a small smile. She’s been around fighting long enough that despite never having gotten in the cage herself, I know she understands my answer. A lot of people don’t see MMA as a sport, they just see it as people beating the shit out of each other. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Fighting is the ultimate competition between humans: it requires skill, strength, speed, intelligence, and strategy, for starters. Nowadays you can’t just be good at one aspect of this sport—you have to be really good at all of it. So even though on screen my sport looks like human cockfighting, it’s actually the final exam of everything we’ve spent weeks, months, years training for. And being able to execute all of that hard work is exhilarating and actually incredibly fun.
I study Remy thoughtfully. "OK, my turn. Have you ever thought about fighting? You’ve done plenty of Jiu Jitsu tournaments, so what about taking a fight?"
She shrugs and starts playing with a thread on her sweatpants as she answers. "I’ve thought about it. Plenty of people have pushed me to try it over the years. Lucy tries to get me to take one every time she has a fight. But I just don't think I care enough about actually getting in the cage. I love training and studying the techniques, but I don't think I have it in me to want to hurt someone. I'm sure I would do fine if I actually did take a fight, but if the whole point is to physically best your opponent, and I don't really want to do that, then why would I do it?" She shrugs again as she looks up at me. "Maybe someday I'll want to experience what fighting is like but for now I just don't really have any interest. I'd rather watch you guys fight."
I hum thoughtfully at her answer. Most people have the opposite response—they brag about how much they want to fight, post it all over social media, but never put the necessary work in and usually end up dropping out of the sport after the brutal reality of their first fight. It's refreshing to hear someone that thinks like Remy.
She moves onto her next question. "Question #2: what would you be doing if you weren't fighting?"
"Like with my career or as a hobby?"
"Both, I guess. Although I assume they're wrapped in one for you, so fighting is either your whole life or nothing at all."
I nod. She's spot on in her assumption. I tilt my head and mull over her question. "If I wasn't fighting, I would've just used my business degree for something. Which is most likely what I'll end up doing after I retire, too. I would've figured out what industry I want to be in and what kind of work I like doing. I can't give you a more specific answer because I have no idea. Fighting
has taken up all my headspace since even before college."
"What if it were just a hobby? What sport would you pick instead?"
I quirk an eyebrow. "How do you know I would need to pick a sport as a hobby? What if I enjoy chess?"
She looks at me in shock. "Do you like chess?"
I smirk and take a swig of my beer. "I do, actually. You don't need to assume I'm a dumb brute just because I like punching people."
"I didn't—" she sputters defensively.
"We're venturing into follow-up questions, which I believe is against the rules," I interrupt. She swallows roughly but nods. "What was the first thing you liked about training?"
A warm smile lights up her face and I can't help but think about how genuine her expressions are—and how contagious her happiness always seems.
"I liked how strong it made me feel," she replies honestly. "It's probably a cliché response as a chick but it really is empowering to be able to throw a good punch. It's so ingrained in us to be dainty and feminine that it's like a shock of cold water when you realize that a strength like this is actually practical. I push every woman I know to try a class at least once, just so they know what it feels like." She grins as she continues, visibly getting more and more excited now. "My favorite part is how nervous and awkward they are when they start, but then they slowly start to get into it and by the end they look like they're women on a mission. It's awesome."
Her answer is helpful from a gym employee perspective, since I can use that knowledge to make the right pitch to prospective female members. But it also surprises me—it’s odd to think of Remy as anything but strong. Her physical strength is decent but it's her mental strength that puts the majority of grown men to shame.
"OK, enough about me. Next question is what was your favorite subject in school?"
I smirk. "History. My turn."
Her jaw drops open. "That's it? That's all I get? I gave you a whole dissertation as my answer."
I shrug. "It's not my fault you asked a simple question. Nowhere in the rules does it say I have to defend my answers."
She knows I'm right so all she can do is glare. I chuckle and think about what else I want to ask her.
"What's one thing on your bucket list?"
My thoughtful question surprises her. For a few seconds she just blinks, and I wonder if I've actually stunned her into silence.
"I've always wanted to go blonde," she mumbles. "I've only ever had brown hair and for some reason I've always wanted to see if I could pull off the hot blonde look. But everyone always tells me it'll look horrible and that I shouldn’t do it. So, I don't know if I'll ever actually have the balls to go through with it."
"You're already hot," I blurt without thinking. She blushes and looks down, and I try to cover my compliment by adding, "But fuck what anyone else thinks. They shouldn't have any say in what you want to do with your life. If you want to go blonde, go blonde. Fuck, go hot pink if you want to. It shouldn’t be anyone’s decision but your own."
She laughs at my visual. "I don't think my office would appreciate hot pink hair, but I get your point." She contemplates her next question, then asks, "What's your top travel destination that you want to visit?"
"I loved Thailand and Brazil for the training but I've already been there so I can't put that on my list. I'd probably say Rome."
She looks at me skeptically. "Because you like history?" she guesses. I grin and wink at her, to which she rolls her eyes.
"My cousin lives in Rome," says conversationally, reaching for her beer. "Jax and I always talk about visiting, we just haven't gotten around to it. We always end up in a different European city."
I know how much Jax and Remy love traveling. I’ve been invited to more than one trip to Europe, but with fight camps it was never good timing. Plus I was never sure that being cooped up in a hostel or hotel room with a girl that hates my guts was ever a good idea.
Ignoring the temptation to get into a conversation with her about her traveling memories, I instead ask my next question. "What's your favorite book?"
I'm losing track of the amount of times I've shocked her tonight. If I were any other guy, I'd probably be offended by her shocked expressions that clearly imply she thinks I'm dumb as a brick. But I'm so used to people assuming that fighters are idiots that I can't summon enough energy to be outraged anymore. In fact, part of me actually enjoys the low expectations because it makes me feel smug when their assumptions are proven wrong.
"I'm not surprised because I think you're dumb," she says hastily, as if hearing my thoughts. "I feel like you think that I see you as a dumb brute just because you're a fighter. I don't. It's just… people don't ask that question anymore. They don't read. Or play chess. I feel like having academic interests just isn't as normal anymore outside of an actual intellectual career."
I shrug, caring less about what other people think or do than Remy seems to. I read because I like learning and exercising my brain. I don't feel any need to share my knowledge with anyone else if they don't ask.
Then again, I also don't care to socialize with people like Remy does. I will never understand how bubbly people have as much energy as they do.
"Rooftops of Tehran," she answers my question. "It's a coming-of-age story based in war-torn Iran and it's the most beautifully written novel I've ever read in my entire life. I read it once a year and it makes me sob like a baby every time."
I blink incredulously. "First of all, how can a book make you cry? And second of all, how does it make you cry when you already know what's going to happen?"
She glares at me pointedly. "You're veering into follow-up questions. My turn to ask a question." She taps her lips thoughtfully before glaring at me again. "You have no idea how badly I want to ask you what your favorite book is. Something tells me you'd have a fascinating answer."
I grin and shrug my shoulders mockingly. I do actually have a fascinating answer.
She sighs but moves on to ask her question. "What's the worst female quality?"
Now it's my turn to stare in shock. I figured we'd get into sex or relationship questions eventually, but that's definitely not the direction I expected her to go in. Especially since she only has two questions left after this one.
I mull it over, wanting to give her an honest answer. I think about the women I've dated and fights or turn-offs I've experienced.
"Probably the inability to think logically when they're really emotional. Not that I think women aren't capable of that," I add hurriedly, anticipating her outrage. "But it's just a very female quality. I've had plenty of fights with women where they refused to see the issue logically because they were too caught up in feeling upset. It's definitely the most frustrating type of fight because there's no way to win or convince them otherwise."
She taps her lips as she considers my answer. After several moments, she nods her head in acceptance.
"That's it?" I blurt. "No rebuttal? No outrage that I dare to see women as emotional weaklings that are incapable of making smart decisions?"
"No, because that's not what you said." She pauses and then grins. "Also, that would prove your point."
I bark a startled laugh when I realize she's right.
"What's the most cringe-worthy thing a guy has ever said to you?" I ask her curiously.
She winces and starts picking with the thread on her pants. I'm starting to realize that twitchy hand movements are her biggest tell when she's nervous, and grin while I eagerly wait for whatever answer is making her uneasy.
"I had a guy repeatedly say the word 'wow' while I sucked his dick,” she mumbles quietly.
I blink in shock—and then roar with laughter.
"Are you kidding me?" I gasp when I finally catch my breath. "Was he drunk?"
"No," she mumbles, still not making eye contact.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." I'm still chuckling when I reach over and tug her hair to get her attention. "Not that your blowjobs aren't the definiti
on of wow-worthy, but I'd much rather tell you I think you look beautiful with your lips wrapped around my cock. Not 'wow.’"
She pulls her legs up on the couch and wraps her arms around her knees, but I don't miss the small smile that appears on her face. Suddenly, I wonder if she has any idea how sexy she is.
"How many girls have you dated?" she asks.
I raise an eyebrow. "Dated, or been in relationships with?"
"Um, either. Whichever one you want to answer."
I settle back into the couch cushions, debating what answer I want to give her. There are two different aspects to this question when girls ask it: either they want to know my body count—which is never a fun conversation—or they want to know how many girls I've been serious about. Which is also not a great conversation.
"I don't know how many girls I've dated, depending on your definition of the word. The majority of my experience with women is either a one-night stand or a casual hookup type thing. Not sure if I'd qualify either of those as really dating." I shrug awkwardly as I prepare to answer the second part of her question. "I had one serious girlfriend in college, but it ended when I went pro. Since then, I haven't really been interested in relationships. It doesn't seem to pair well with how selfish I have to be as a fighter."
I can see the wheels turning in her head as she considers my answer. I realize suddenly that I've never had this kind of honest conversation about relationships with a woman. I've never admitted that I am okay with being in this selfish phase of my life. I wonder if she's going to ask me more. But she seems to be resigned to the fact that we keep shooting down the other's follow-up questions, so she just nods in acceptance of my answer.
I think about the next question I want to ask her. We each have two questions left and there's a certain heaviness that's settled into the mood of the room—clearly calling out the personal nature of our questions.
"What's the longest relationship you've ever had?" I ask finally.