by JD Hawkins
I bring those fingers to her throbbing clit, red as a warning sign, an alarm for all the dangerous electricity surging through her muscles. I tease it between fingers, flick and squeeze, light as feathers, pushing and pulling. My tongue and teeth still drawing the contours of her throat.
I slam her back against the locker, the cold steel making her gasp as the metal clangs loudly. Her hand searches for my cock, bringing the head to trace the outline of her pussy lips with the desperation of a dying breath. She presses soft lips to my lust-hardened mouth, gentle moans mixing with primal growls, quivering breaths with dark growls.
Sucking lips break from mine as she brings her pussy over my cock, lips that sigh upwards as her pussy swallows me downwards. I bring my hands to those taut thighs, and with the elegance of a gymnast she wraps slender arms around my neck, long legs around my waist, holding herself on me, impaling herself on a cock big enough and hard enough that only a pussy as wet as hers could handle it.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll dream about it,” I whisper, grabbing handfuls of firm ass, and ending the sentence by slamming her back up against the locker.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. Frankie’s eyes open for the first time since I told her to close them, her expression halfway between drunken joy and snarling anticipation. “Don’t be gentle,” she says, in between short gasps.
I slam her up against the locker again, metal clanging loudly, a sound only a little less chaotic than the gasps and grunts between us. Her pussy lips open further, taking more of me inside her, Frankie holding herself after each inch as if stopping to catch her breath, before discovering more cock.
Another slam, another gasp, another inch inside of her. Frankie rolls her head side to side on the cold metal, metal that shows more sign of giving than my hard thrusts, more sign of giving than Frankie’s tensing and un-tensing body. Rhythms take over my body, the bounce of her breasts, the sway of her head, the rise and fall of her moans, all set to the clang of metal like cymbals crashing with increasing pace, all inspired by the perfect beauty that’s filling my eyes, compelling the hardness inside of me to invade her body even deeper, with even more force, as if in search of the source, as if trying to mark this goddess as my own.
“Yes,” she moans, over and over. “Fuck me, Connor.”
Focus and control disappear, replaced by Frankie’s wild screams, her pussy lips squeezing tighter, as if we’re in danger of slipping, like two riders who didn’t see the cliff coming. Frankie’s mine—this is a fuck that’ll leave a mark on her soul, a fuck that’ll claim a part of her for myself, a fuck that could only happen between two people with tangled destinies. Nobody will fuck Frankie that way I’m doing now, with the kind of intense desire and deep craving I’ve had for her since I saw her. This fuck is just for us.
Her nails dig into my back, I bury my head in her neck. She tightens one last time, squealing through gritted teeth, and I push her body against the locker as I stroke into her with all I’ve got, as if forcing every last drop of pleasure from her body. She says my name again as she starts to come and we explode at the same time, a chain reaction, a body scan that ends in the middle, the hot core of our union, a bout in which both fighters submit at the same time.
We ride the last waves of our connection, of the pulsing heat, and come back to reality; slowing breaths, cooling sweat, relaxing muscles. Frankie’s legs release their anaconda-grip on my waist and she puts her shaky feet on the ground again.
“We should do that more often,” Frankie whispers through a soft smile.
“I promise you,” I say, stealing a quick kiss, “we’ll do way more than that.”
20
Frankie
“No way,” Connor says, as he lies naked in my bed, hands clasped behind his head. Sitting up just enough for the hard lines of his torso to look even more glorious in the morning light that seeps through the window.
“Come on,” I say, as I lie on my front beside him, finger surfing his abs tenderly, eyes looking up at the angles in his jaw.
“That’s a ridiculous idea,” he insists.
“You said you wanted to help.”
“And I will. Just not…like that.”
“It’s perfect. Do you remember how good you were at the other kids’ class?”
“I find acting like one of the kids easier than trying to be a teacher.”
“But being a teacher would be good for you, too.”
Connor laughs, the sinews in his shoulders tensing as he does so.
“How is that good for me?” he asks.
“It’s humbling,” I say, smacking his thigh gently. “It’ll keep you grounded, give you a sense of responsibility.”
“Shit,” Connor says, rubbing the back of his head with his clasped hands, “getting my ass handed to me by Hendrix was ‘humbling’—but I ain’t planning to make a routine of it.” I keep my eyes on his while my fingers draw strokes up and down his sides. “How would it even work?” he says, eventually.
I sit up, cross-legged and naked beside him.
“You have a black belt in judo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, so we put some notice out that we’re doing judo classes for kids—first lesson free, of course—and then hope people show up.”
“Which they will if my name’s attached to it—mostly to laugh at the supposed hot shot of the UFC preparing for a career as child’s entertainer.”
“That’s not very alpha male,” I say.
“No shit it isn’t!” Connor says enthusiastically. “Giving judo classes to kids just out of diapers.”
“Not that,” I say, losing the smile to get serious for a second, “caring about what other people think so much you’re embarrassed to do something good. Something selfless.”
“Shit,” Connor groans, rubbing his face, “I walked into that.”
“But, I get it,” I say, as I shift aside to roll off the bed, “if you’re worried about your fragile ego taking a hit then fair enough. You do you. Besides, I know how busy you are. It’d be nearly impossible to squeeze a single 90 minute judo class into your busy week.”
Connor grabs my wrist before I can pull myself off the bed, whipping me around onto my back and putting his large body over me, a tent made of muscle and prominent, stubbled cheekbones.
“I’ll do it,” Connor says, swooping powerfully to feed me his delicious lips, “if nothing else…” he says, kissing me lower again, on the nape of my neck, “so that I can spend even more…” this time he moves himself between my breasts, that sharp jaw dipping between them for another kiss, “time at the studio…” the next kiss in on my belly button, tickling a giggle out of me, “with you…” he says, slower, his kiss longer, inches above the prickling sensation of my pussy.
“Connor…” I moan, as he moves himself between my legs, my thighs spreading wide to help him, mind screaming that I shouldn’t, that I’ve got an appointment, “I can’t…”
“Sure you can,” he says, glancing up to flash a devil’s grin at me before lowering his lips between my thighs.
“I can’t!” I say, burying my hands in his hair and holding him there for a second as he licks me, before a sense of obligation makes me pull him away. I hate obligations.
Connor slides his body back up against mine, face to face again. “What could possibly be more important than me eating your pussy like it’s in season?”
I slide out from under him, pulling my body from our tangle of limbs to stand at the side of the bed and move toward the clothes I scattered the night before.
“I’m meeting my sister.”
“What’s so important about that?” Connor says, lying on his side and watching me get dressed.
“Let’s see…” I say, as I flick through my wardrobe. “We haven’t met for more than a month, and the last time we saw each other we had a massive fall-out, and I have no idea who is expecting who to apologize.”
I turn back to find Connor stroking my satin panties in
his fist with a cheeky smile, and reach over to snatch them from him. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be going to the gym? The fight’s in two weeks—you should be completely focused on it by now.”
“I told Butch I’d work out by myself yesterday.”
I drop my smile and watch Connor suspiciously.
“But you were with me yesterday.”
He flashes me that schoolboy-done-bad grin again. “‘Worked-out’ pretty well, I reckon.”
I smile meekly, only for show, just so Connor doesn’t notice the swarm of concerns and doubts which invade my mind like an army of disgruntled shadows. I’ve done a good job of forgetting what Tara told me up til now. Been pretty effective at putting it to the back of my mind—and the fact that Connor and I have been fucking like rabbits for the past week is a hell of a way to make you forget all the reasons it’s a bad idea. But seeing him now, more interested in fucking than he is in turning up for his training, doesn’t give me any other choice but to take what Tara said more seriously.
“Connor,” I say, with low seriousness, “I need to talk to you about something.”
“What’s up?” Connor says, dropping the smile and leaning up on his elbow when he sees how hard it is for me to say what I need to say.
“The past few weeks…you and me…” I stammer, looking for the right entry point, feeling like the wrong one will make this explode in my face. “I like being with you, Connor. But I don’t know if it’s the smartest thing to do…right now.”
Connor leaps up, and sits on the edge of the bed, muscles taut, energy directed at me now. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not saying we should quit seeing each other, or anything like that…just…you’ve got the biggest fight of your life in two weeks, the one you told me you dreamed about since the first time you walked into a gym. And I feel like I’m distracting you from that. Maybe I’m even part of the reason the Hendrix fight went down the way it did.”
“Frankie,” Connor exclaims, leaping to his feet and moving in front of me, cupping my face in his palms, as serious now as he was cheerful before, “don’t ever think that. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I walked into that gym. And no gym could make me feel as good as you. The breathing, the yoga, the meditation—it’s all making me feel incredible. I’ve never been this calm and confident, never felt this amount of control over my body. I almost feel like I’m cheating.”
I sigh a little smile. “The techniques, sure, but this?” I say, gesturing around us at the messy bed, the scattered clothes, the bottles of nail polish still on the floor from when Connor fucked me from behind against my dresser so he could admire my ass and the reflection of my bouncing tits at the same time, the curtain dangling from a broken ring-pull where I grabbed it in passion. Connor looks around as if just noticing, as if it’s evidence of a crime, and drops his hands away from my face, stepping away to rub his scalp.
“It’s not just missing training,” I go on. “You don’t even talk about fighting anymore. You’re more interested in my studio, in us—and I appreciate it, I really do. And I want us to be like this, and I want it to work, but maybe not right now.”
“I don’t understand. Where is this all coming from?” Connor casts those eyes back at me. I look away and sigh, wondering if I should tell him, and find myself doing it anyway.
“I overheard some of the guys talking, last time I was at your gym.”
“About you and me?” Connor frowns, a trace of anger in it, as if he’s already planning what he’s going to do to them if it turns out they said something about me.
“Not like that,” I say quickly. “But they did mention that the last time you were this hung up on a woman…it didn’t turn out well.”
It’s true that I heard that, but I wouldn’t have cared so much if I hadn’t heard it from the woman herself, Tara. I’m not going to tell Connor that, though. A promise is a promise.
“You’re right about the training,” Connor says, token humility. “I shouldn’t have skipped it. But you’re wrong about me—I’ve never been this focused, this sure of myself. And it’s because of this. Because I can worry about your studio, worry about you. I have more balance, more stability.”
“I don’t know, Connor,” I say, turning away and rubbing my triceps. “You’re a great guy, which…I wasn’t sure until a couple of weeks ago, but you are. Yet…you’re still a fighter. Still need to fight. You’re still the Alpha Male…I just don’t want the other guy, the great guy, to get in the way of all that, of your potential.”
Connor snorts. “The Alpha Male,” he repeats, with sneering derision. “Bullshit. It’s bullshit. You wanna know the real secret of an alpha male? He’s just a man with a big mouth, and massive ego, and a lot of fears that he keeps locked up inside.” He turns once more to me, steps forward purposefully, pulls me to him with strong arms. “I don’t need anything but you—and I’m not afraid of anything now.”
“I can’t—” I say after a moment, looking up at Connor so that he can see I mean it. “I can’t be the one who ruins your career before it’s even taken off.”
“You won’t be.”
“And what if you lose?” I say, the words slipping out before I vetted them, hard and cold, spoken straight from a core of fear. “I couldn’t live with that. Feeling like us being together is taking away from your ability to do the thing you love, the thing you’re meant to do.”
“It doesn’t take away from anything,” Connor says quickly, before seeing the look in my eyes and realizing I’m not going to be placated. “So…what are you saying? What does this mean?”
I shrug, and it feels empty.
“Maybe we should just cool off a little, not get so serious. At least until the fight’s over…then we’ll see.”
Connor looks down for a moment, defeated, before raising his head again and smiling knowingly.
“You’ll see. I’m gonna show you just how good we are together.”
“How?”
“By beating Pete Foreman.”
We meet in a small, artisanal café in Mid City, where the drinks are just expensive enough to give it airs of exclusivity, but the finger food is locally sourced, freshly prepared, and comes in big enough portions not to feel like a rip-off.
Neutral territory.
I arrive exactly at seven, knowing with how much military precision Jaime likes to be punctual. We’re both so prepared we virtually pull up at the café doors at the same time, spotting each other walking toward it from forty yards away. The whole thing feels like a showdown, however much I wish it didn’t.
“Hi Jaime.”
“Hello,” she says coolly, before gathering me into a brief, formal hug, and then sliding into a seat where she begins her usual napkin and chair-adjusting routine. I drop unceremoniously into my own seat and wait for her to get settled.
“So how have you been?” she says primly, once she’s done with her OCD set-up.
“Good, good,” I reply. “And you?”
“Pretty well,” Jaime says, patting her tightly-bound hair, “working hard. As always.”
She says it like an accusation, like it’s something I wouldn’t understand, but the rise of indignation in me is scrambled by the entrance of our waiter. I order a kale smoothie, Jaime orders a cappuccino, and once the waiter leaves a wave of tense awkwardness fills the gap he’s left behind.
“Look, Jaime,” I say, leaning forward, sucking up my pride to be the first to pierce the tension—Jaime always holds out for longer than me— “I’m sorry about how things went…the last time we spoke.”
She sighs haughtily, but a little of the tension leaves her tight expression. Jaime always softens, eventually.
“I was only trying to help you, Frankie—”
“I know.”
“And to have it thrown back in my face like that was—”
“I know.”
She presses her lips together, studying my face to see if I’m just trying to appease
her. “It’s as if you think I get some sort of sick, twisted pleasure from seeing you struggle.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that. Really.”
The distant coldness and resentment leaves her face, verbalized now, expressed and drained of its power, and Jaime looks at me with soft eyes for the first time, traces of pity and love in her face.
“I just…” she starts, her words trailing off. She looks down at the table, scratches something on it as she speaks. “I just feel like sometimes…I don’t understand you. At all. We were so close when we were kids, and I guess we grew up and grew apart, but we live ten miles away from each other now and we barely even talk. I don’t want it to be like this. Maybe I just get too caught up in my own life to be a good sister.”
I can hear the hurt in her voice, and it hurts me too. “Jaime,” I say, making it sound like encouragement. “That’s not true.”
She tries to speak again but instead she covers her mouth with her hand, looking out at the street with faintly damp eyes as if embarrassed someone there might see her like this.
I reach across the table and put a hand on hers. She turns her eyes to it, before biting her lip and blinking back her tears, nothing to say, only nodding at the connection of my hand with hers.
The drinks come just then, causing us to break apart, and Jaime to gain some composure from having something else to focus on, the teaspoon breaking the cream, whipping the cinnamon on top of it into her drink.
“Anyway,” she says, her voice steadier now, “we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I want to talk about it,” I say, still focused on her, my smoothie untouched.
Jaime looks at me over the lifted coffee cup as her thin lips take the most royal of sips.