Chapter 9: Ass Worship
The silence stretched, thick and humming like the vintage record player in the corner, its needle tracing invisible grooves on a long-finished vinyl. Hana lay panting, her body still singing with aftershocks, the world reduced to the feel of Akari’s thumb tracing her cheekbone and the spiderweb tattoo on her neck. The fairy lights strung above the bed cast fractured constellations on the ceiling, shimmering over posters of scowling metal bands and wide-eyed anime heroines.
Akari’s gaze was a physical weight, dark and unreadable beneath smudged kohl. The possessive satisfaction hadn’t faded; it had merely banked, like coals waiting for air. Her thumb drifted lower, skimming the point of Hana’s jaw, then down the column of her throat. The touch was light, exploratory, yet it carried an implicit command. Hana shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity radiating off the younger woman coiled beside her.
"You okay?" Akari’s voice was rough velvet, scraped raw. It wasn’t really a question about wellbeing.
Hana swallowed, finding her own voice thin but steady. "More than." The admission surprised her. Shyness usually clamped her mouth shut after intimacy, a retreat into familiar shadows. Not tonight. Tonight, the taste of Akari’s skin and sweat was still on her tongue, mingled with lavender soap, driving a boldness she hadn't known she possessed. The memory of Akari’s relentless mouth, the filthy promises whispered against her skin, ignited a reciprocal heat low in her belly. She wanted to give back. To claim in return.
Her hand, trembling only slightly, lifted from the rumpled black lace sheet. She traced the defined ridge of Akari’s collarbone, feeling the hard muscle beneath damp skin. Her fingertips brushed the warm metal of a barbell piercing, then trailed lower, over the taut plane of Akari’s abdomen, following the trail of dark hair leading downward. She felt Akari’s breath hitch, a subtle tensing of powerful muscles.
"Turn over," Hana whispered, the request quiet but firm. Not a demand, but an offer Akari couldn’t refuse.
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by dark amusement, lit Akari’s eyes. "Bossy now, librarian?" But she was already moving, rolling onto her stomach with fluid grace. The muscles in her back flexed, a landscape of hard-earned power sculpted by countless hours in the ring and the record store. The fairy lights caught the intricate patterns of tattoos across her shoulder blades – jagged lines and stylized symbols Hana didn’t recognize, but found fiercely beautiful. Water droplets still clung to the small of Akari’s back, glistening above the curve of her ass.
Hana shifted behind her, kneeling on the futon. The scent of sex and exertion was stronger here, underscored by that ever-present faint musk of vinyl clinging to Akari’s skin, and the lingering sweetness of Hana’s own release on Akari’s chin. Hana leaned down, pressing a soft kiss between Akari’s shoulder blades. She felt the younger woman shudder.
"Just returning the favour," Hana murmured, her voice gaining confidence as she inhaled Akari’s unique, potent scent. Her hands settled on Akari’s hips, thumbs brushing the indentations just above her ass. She felt the corded strength in Akari’s thighs beneath her palms. Using that boxer’s strength, Hana gently urged Akari’s hips up, lifting her onto her knees. Akari complied, pushing back instinctively, presenting herself. A low groan rumbled from her chest as Hana’s thumbs pressed firmly into the dense muscle of her thighs, holding her open.
Hana paused, drinking in the sight: the powerful lines, the vulnerability offered, the dark, glistening center. The mingled scents – lavender, vinyl, sweat, sex – filled her nostrils, heady and primal. She leaned in slowly, deliberately. Her tongue, tentative at first, touched the heated skin just beside Akari’s entrance. A jolt went through Akari, her entire body tightening.
"Fuck," Akari hissed, her voice muffled against the pillow her face was buried in. Her fingers clenched in the black lace sheets.
Emboldened, Hana traced a slow, wet circle with the flat of her tongue around Akari’s tight rim. Not teasing, not yet. Mapping. Savoring the salt and heat and the sheer intimacy of the act. Akari moaned again, deeper this time, pushing her hips back against Hana’s mouth with startling force. Hana’s fingers dug deeper into Akari’s thighs, anchoring herself against the surge of power. She applied more pressure, swirling her tongue with growing confidence, feeling the tremors running through Akari’s legs.
Akari arched her back suddenly, a sharp, guttural cry tearing loose. "Oh god—your mouth!" Her hips ground back, seeking more friction, more contact. "Fuck—it was made for this!" Her fist twisted violently in the bedsheet, knuckles white. The scent of sex intensified, overwhelming the lavender soap, thick and musky in the air.
Hana responded with a low hum that vibrated against Akari’s skin, sending another shockwave through her. She focused her tongue, no longer circling, but pressing flat and firm directly against Akari’s entrance, tasting her deeply, then flicking with quick, insistent strokes higher, finding the swollen bud nestled above. Akari bucked, a strangled gasp escaping her. "Yes! Right… right there! Don't fucking stop!"
Hana didn't stop. She alternated – broad, wet strokes with the flat of her tongue over Akari’s core, followed by sharp, focused flicks and gentle suction on her clit. She listened to Akari’s ragged breathing, the punched-out curses and pleas, letting the sounds guide her rhythm. She felt Akari’s muscles clenching tighter, felt the tremors intensify, heard the fabric of the sheet straining under Akari’s grip.
The record player’s soft hum was drowned out by Akari’s escalating gasps. The fairy lights blurred in Hana’s vision as she lost herself in the taste, the texture, the desperate need radiating from the powerful body straining against her mouth. She sucked gently, then harder, her fingers pressing bruisingly into Akari’s thighs now, holding her impossibly open as her tongue worked with relentless precision.
Akari’s cry peaked, sharp and raw, shattering the charged air. Her body locked, every muscle drawn wire-tight. She shuddered violently, hips stuttering against Hana’s face as the orgasm ripped through her. Hana held on, her tongue still moving, softer now, gentler, prolonging the sensation as Akari collapsed forward onto the futon with a long, shuddering groan, her body going lax.
Hana finally lifted her head, breathing heavily. Her chin was slick. She watched Akari’s back rise and fall with deep, ragged breaths, her fingers slowly unclenching from the ruined sheet. The silence returned, deeper now, filled only by their combined panting and the persistent, gentle hum of the record player. The scent of their combined release hung heavy, intimate and undeniable.
Slowly, Akari rolled onto her side, facing Hana. Her eyes were dark pools, heavy-lidded and sated, but the sharp intensity hadn’t vanished. It had merely softened, replaced by a profound weariness and something else… a flicker of awe mixed with the lingering hunger. A bead of sweat traced a path from her temple down her jawline.
She reached out, her calloused fingertips brushing Hana’s wet chin. A slow, languid smile touched Akari’s lips, genuine and disarmingly soft. "Damn, Hana," she breathed, her voice thick and rough. "Who knew the quiet librarian packed such a punch?" Her thumb swiped gently across Hana’s lower lip, collecting a glistening trace. She brought her thumb to her own mouth, tasting it, her eyes never leaving Hana’s. The intimacy of the gesture, the deliberate tasting, sent a fresh jolt through Hana’s spent nerves.
Outside, the city’s distant pulse seemed louder. Inside, the fairy lights glimmered over tangled limbs and flushed skin, illuminating the silent understanding passing between them. The unknown still stretched before them, vast and complex. But lying there, tasting Akari’s satisfaction on her own lips, Hana felt the comforting weight of Akari’s gaze anchor her amidst the quiet hum of the night. The connection wasn't tentative anymore; it was a live wire, humming with shared heat and unspoken questions, waiting for the next spark.