Chapter 25: Confessions Under Fingertips
The antiseptic sting bit deeper than Sasha’s spike-toed boot ever could. Ingrid flinched, a muscle jumping in her jaw as her girlfriend dabbed at the reopened cut above her eye. The locker room fluorescents hummed, casting harsh shadows on the cheap vinyl benches and making the blood smeared on Ingrid's thigh look black. Sweat plastered stray tendrils of ice-blonde hair to her temples, and her breath hitched with every shallow inhalation. The crimson latex thong felt like a garrote against her swollen flesh.
"Hold still," her girlfriend murmured, her voice low and steady despite the worry tightening her features. She worked with efficient, practiced movements, cleaning the split lip next. Her own black leather catsuit creaked softly as she leaned closer, the low neckline revealing the tension in her neck muscles. "Sasha got her licks in, huh? That spike is nasty."
Ingrid’s response was a low growl, barely audible. "Little bitch aimed for the tape. Every damn time." She shifted on the bench, wincing as the movement sent fresh fire lancing up from her core. Her hand instinctively went to her lower abdomen, pressing against the sodden bandage taped high on her inner thigh, just below the edge of the thong. "This… this is worse. Deeper."
Her girlfriend’s gaze followed the movement, her expression hardening. She knelt, the high slit in her catsuit revealing powerful, scarred thighs. Her fingers, surprisingly gentle, probed the edges of the tape. It was already peeling, stained dark crimson in the center. "Let me see," she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. "Properly."
A flicker of defiance warred with the pain in Ingrid’s steely blue eyes. She hated the vulnerability, the exposure. But she lifted her hips slightly, allowing the access. Her girlfriend carefully peeled back the saturated gauze. The air hit the raw, inflamed tissue beneath, making Ingrid hiss through clenched teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped the bench edge. The muscles in her powerful legs trembled.
Her girlfriend’s breath hissed out between her own teeth. "Jesus, Ingrid." She stared at the damage – the brutal swelling, the angry red tear marks radiating outwards, the sticky mess of blood and other fluids. "Violet didn’t just rough you up. She gutted you. Like a fucking fish."
"Told you," Ingrid ground out, her voice thick with pain and fury. Her head fell back against the cold cinderblock wall, eyes squeezed shut. The memory surged, sharp and violating, cutting through the fog of the fight's adrenaline crash. "Backstage… before Petrov made me change boots. Cornered me. That rancid cunt…" A shudder racked her frame. "Forced three fingers knuckle-deep while twisting." Her hand shot down, grabbing her girlfriend’s wrist, not to stop her, but to anchor herself. Her girlfriend’s fingers, still resting near the injury, felt the violent tremors running through Ingrid’s body. "Twisted and yanked. Like she was trying to rip it out. Tore something inside me. Felt it… snap."
Her girlfriend’s fingers moved then, not probing the wound further, but shifting upwards with deliberate, slow pressure. They found Ingrid’s swollen clit, hard and throbbing even amidst the wreckage. She began working slow, firm circles around it, a counterpoint to the agony just below. It wasn’t arousal she sought; it was a connection, a grounding wire for the storm of pain and rage.
Ingrid arched violently off the bench, a strangled gasp escaping her. Not pleasure, but a complex jolt of sensation – the sharp bite of the injury competing with the insistent, almost punishing pressure on her most sensitive nerve. "Fuck! Don't–"
"Breathe," her girlfriend commanded, her voice low and absolute. Her thumb kept up its relentless, circling pressure. "Channel it. Into the memory. Into the rage. Where does it live?" Her green eyes locked onto Ingrid’s, fierce and demanding.
Ingrid’s back arched again, her teeth bared in a silent snarl. She fought the instinct to buck away, forcing herself to stay open, to feel the brutal duality of the touch: the promise of obliterating sensation warring with the deep, tearing pain Violet had inflicted. "Here," she rasped, her free hand slamming down onto her lower belly, just above the pubic bone. "Burning. Like acid. And…" Her gaze darted downwards, towards her girlfriend’s circling fingers. "There. Raw. Like sandpaper." She forced her eyes back up, meeting her girlfriend’s stare. The ice-blue was molten now. "She marked me. Inside and out."
"And you marked Sasha," her girlfriend countered, her thumb pressing harder, making Ingrid gasp. "Steel toe on arch. Beautiful. Heard the crunch from the tunnel." A grim satisfaction touched her lips. "Violet saw it. Saw you walk out on your own steam, leaking like a sieve but standing tall."
"Yeah," Ingrid breathed, the word a puff of air. The pressure on her clit was a white-hot focal point, blurring the edges of the deeper agony, forging her fury into something sharp and cold. She leaned into the touch despite the pain, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary grind against the tormenting fingers. "Sasha was just… practice."
Her girlfriend finally eased the pressure, her hand moving back to gently cover the inflamed wound below. "You need a hospital, Ingrid. Right now. This isn’t just a fight injury. She ripped tissue. Could be infected. Could be bleeding internally." She started applying fresh gauze, her touch efficient but far gentler than before. "Petrov’s medic is a hack with a bottle of vodka and butterfly strips."
"No." The word was flat, final. Ingrid straightened up, wincing but pushing through. Sweat beaded anew on her forehead. "Finals are tomorrow night. Violet." She grabbed the discarded steel-toe stiletto, its gleaming cap crusted with Sasha’s blood and flecks of canvas. She held it up, the light catching the dried gore. "She wears those beaded clown shoes. Flimsy plastic." Her lips peeled back from her teeth. "I’m going to stamp every last fucking bead into her instep. Make her swallow them."
Her girlfriend finished taping the fresh gauze in place, her expression unreadable. She looked at the bloody stiletto, then back at Ingrid’s face – the swollen lip, the stitched eyebrow, the eyes burning with a feverish, dangerous light. She saw the tremors still running through the powerful frame, the pallor beneath the sweat and blood. She also saw the unbreakable will, the promise of violence colder than the Arctic ice Ingrid hailed from.
"Okay," she said simply. No argument. No platitudes. She stood, smoothing her sleek black catsuit. "Then you rest. Now. Or you won’t make it to the ring." She pulled a clean sports bra and loose sweatpants from Ingrid’s bag. "Shower first. Carefully. Then I’ll find some real antibiotics. Not Petrov’s swill."
Ingrid nodded, the movement stiff. She looked down at the crimson thong, the fresh white bandage stark against her skin. Her fingers traced the edge of the tape, feeling the heat radiating from the wound beneath. Violet’s face swam in her vision – those mocking green eyes, that cruel smile. The phantom sensation of tearing fingers returned, twisting deep.
She closed her eyes, not against the pain, but to focus it. To shape it. When she opened them again, the molten fury had solidified into something crystalline, lethal. She reached out, not for the clothes, but for her girlfriend’s hand. Her grip was iron, despite the tremor.
"Find me a scalpel," Ingrid said, her voice a low rasp that scraped the air. "Sterile. Small. Something I can tape… inside." She met her girlfriend’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The red thong, the hidden wound – they weren’t just injuries. They were weapons waiting to be deployed. "Violet likes playing dirty with her fingers?" A cold, humorless smile touched Ingrid’s split lip. "Let’s see how she likes grabbing a blade."