Chapter 15: Face Sitting Revenge
The rough, sweat-stiffened fabric of Akari’s boxing wraps bit into the delicate skin of Hana’s wrists as Akari moved. It wasn’t just a shift; it was a sudden, predatory surge of muscle, a growl rumbling low in Akari’s chest as she flipped them. Hana’s gasp was cut short, muffled instantly by the hot, slick press of Akari’s body against her face. The younger woman straddled her head, knees pinning Hana’s shoulders to the worn rug beside the futon, her dripping core hovering for a brutal second before descending.
"Need you," Akari rasped, the command raw, stripped bare of its usual sharp confidence. It echoed the desperate "still mine" whispered in the humid bathroom, a vulnerability exposed then quickly armored over.
Hana’s world narrowed to scent and taste and pressure. The musky tang of Akari’s need filled her nostrils, more potent here in the bedroom’s incense-laden air. Then came the overwhelming heat, the wetness smearing across her nose, her cheeks, her mouth. Akari’s entrance pressed hard against her lips, demanding entry. Hana opened instinctively, her tongue seeking the familiar swell of her clit even as Akari’s hips began a relentless, grinding rhythm.
Hana’s dark lipstick, already ruined from the bathroom, became grotesque streaks of crimson and black against Akari’s inner thighs and Hana’s own pale skin. The friction was immediate, intense. Akari rocked down, seeking the perfect angle, her breath coming in sharp, ragged pants above Hana. Each downward thrust forced Hana’s head deeper into the rug, the fibers scratching her scalp. She moaned, the sound vibrating directly against Akari’s most sensitive flesh.
"Fuck yeah," Akari hissed, her voice tight. Her fingers, still wrapped, tangled back into Hana’s dark hair, not guiding now, but anchoring, pulling her impossibly closer. "Like that. Vibrate for me. Harder."
Hana obeyed, flattening her tongue against the swollen nub, applying firm pressure, humming low in her throat. The vibrations resonated through Akari, drawing a choked cry. Akari’s thighs clenched around Hana’s head, trembling with the effort, the dense muscle Hana had admired earlier now a prison of pleasure. The scent intensified, thick and primal, mingling with sandalwood smoke and the faint dustiness of old vinyl drifting from the corner where the record player spun a slow, melancholic B-side.
Akari’s movements grew frantic, losing their grinding rhythm for sharp, desperate bucks. Her grip on Hana’s hair tightened to the point of pain. "Close… fuck, Hana, so fucking close… tell me!"
The words, demanding and fractured, pierced the haze. Hana focused, dragging her tongue in broad, wet strokes, then circling fast and tight. She managed a muffled sound, an affirmative groan pressed directly into Akari’s flesh. The taste, the scent, the overwhelming sensation of being used, consumed – it ignited a fierce answering heat low in Hana’s own belly, a desperate ache throbbing in time with Akari’s movements.
"Yesss…" Akari’s cry was a guttural tearing sound. Her whole body locked, rigid above Hana. Then she shattered. Hips pistoned down hard, once, twice, grinding Hana’s face into her as waves of release convulsed through her. Hot wetness flooded Hana’s mouth, spilling over her chin. Akari’s thighs trembled violently, her back arching impossibly as she rode the intense peak, her cries dissolving into breathless, high-pitched whimpers.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. Akari slumped forward, her weight heavy on Hana’s face for a moment before she managed to roll sideways, collapsing onto the rug beside her. They lay gasping, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the soft crackle of the record. Light from the paper lanterns painted shifting patterns on the ceiling, casting Akari’s sweat-slicked skin in warm gold and deep shadow.
Hana turned her head, wincing at the stiffness in her neck. Akari lay on her back, eyes closed, chest heaving. The fierce boxer was gone. In her place lay someone young, utterly spent, the piercings in her brow and lip catching the light, her expression slack with exhaustion and the fading echoes of ecstasy. The raw need from the bathroom, the almost-panic in her voice when she claimed Hana – it felt close to the surface again, just beneath the fatigue.
After a long moment, Akari’s hand fumbled blindly across the rug. Her fingers, the wraps rough against Hana’s skin, found Hana’s wrist where the red marks were already blooming. She didn’t speak. Just traced the faint impressions left by her own ferocity with a clumsy, almost apologetic touch. Her thumb rubbed a slow circle over the tender skin, a silent counterpoint to the storm that had just passed. Outside, the city hummed, distant and indifferent. Inside Hana’s sanctuary, amidst the band posters and the silent fox shrine, the air hung thick with the aftermath of hunger and something fragile, trembling on the edge of breaking.