Chapter 11: Wet Workout
The resort suite was drowning in the thick, golden light of late afternoon. Akira sat in a plush armchair, a forgotten book open on his lap, his attention entirely captured by the figure standing before the floor-to-ceiling window. Hishiama was silhouetted against the blazing ocean, but it was what she was wearing that stole the air from his lungs.
It was her old two-piece swimsuit, the same one from those grueling summer training camps years ago. But the body it contained now was not that of the promising young athlete he’d once coached. The fabric, a faded blue, strained over the full, round curves of her breasts, the seams biting into the flesh. It was too tight across her belly, highlighting the defined muscle beneath, and dug into the powerful sweep of her hips and the solid, rounded hemispheres of her ass. The sight was a brutal, beautiful anachronism.
She turned, a knowing, predatory smile on her lips. "See something you like, Tanaka-sensei?"
The old title, spoken in that new, husky tone, sent a jolt through him. He remembered those camps. The sweltering heat, the chlorine, and the relentless, shameful ache of watching her in this very suit, of stealing glances at the way the wet fabric clung, of taking himself in hand later in the sterile solitude of his staff room, muffling his groans into a towel.
"You kept that?" he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
"Of course I did." She ran her hands down her sides, plumping her breasts, making the strained fabric groan in protest. "I knew you looked. I always knew. I'd see your eyes following me during laps. I could feel them on me when I bent over to adjust my starting blocks." She took a step closer, the scent of her skin, of coconut oil and sun, cutting through the floral air. "Did you jerk off thinking about me back then, Sensei? Did you imagine what was under this suit?"
Akira felt a flush creep up his neck. The moral boundaries he’d once clung to were ashes after this morning, after the feeling of her throat milking him dry. Now, something darker and more possessive was stirring. He stood up, the book tumbling to the floor.
"Watch your tone," he said, the command feeling foreign and potent on his tongue. "That's no way for a student to speak to her teacher."
Her eyes lit up with fierce delight. She loved this. "Or what? You'll punish me?"
In two strides, he was in front of her. He didn't kiss her. He grabbed a handful of her hair, not hard, but with enough force to tilt her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. She gasped, a sharp, thrilled intake of breath.
"Or I'll have to teach you some respect," he growled, his other hand splaying across the tight fabric covering her stomach, feeling the muscles jump under his touch.
"Please, Sensei," she whispered, her voice dripping with false contrition. "I've been so naughty."
He spun her around, pressing her front against the sun-warmed glass. The ocean sprawled infinitely below, a vast, indifferent audience. He pressed himself against her from behind, his hardening cock a rigid line against the cleft of her ass through his trousers.
"Is this what you wanted?" he muttered into her ear, grinding against her. "All those years ago, was this the lesson you were begging for?"
"Yes," she hissed, pushing back against him. "God, yes."
His hands slid down from her waist, over the tight swell of her ass. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of the swimsuit bottom. With a sharp, tearing sound, the strained fabric gave way. He didn't remove it; he just ripped it, rending the material apart to expose her. He did the same to the top, snapping the tie at her back and letting the cups fall away, her breasts swaying free. She was now half-naked in the ruins of her old uniform, pressed against the window.
"Fuck," she breathed, her palms flat on the glass.
Akira unzipped his trousers, freeing his erection. He was painfully hard. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, then guided the head of his cock to her entrance. She was already wet, her heat a palpable force.
"No more games," he said, his voice low and rough.
He drove into her in one single, brutal thrust. The impact slammed her body against the window, a dull thud echoing in the room. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure-pain, her back arching.
"Jesus Christ, Akira!"
He didn't pause. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a punctuation to a sentence left unfinished for years. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he pounded into her, the wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filling the sun-drenched space. He looked down, watching himself disappear into her, into the tight, clutching heat of the champion he had built.
"You thought about this," he grunted, driving into her again, "when you wore this fucking suit. You knew what you were doing to me."
"I did!" she moaned, her head lolling back against his shoulder. "I wanted you to ruin me for it. I wanted you to fuck me just like this! Harder!"
He obliged, his thrusts becoming faster, deeper, more animalistic. One hand left her hip and tangled in her hair again, pulling her head back further. The other hand slid around her front, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
"Come for your teacher," he commanded, his breath hot against her ear.
It was all she needed. Her entire body seized, a sharp, violent tremor wracking her frame. A guttural scream was torn from her throat as her climax ripped through her, her internal muscles clamping down on his cock in a series of frantic, milking spasms. The sight of her coming apart, the feel of her convulsing around him, shattered his own control.
With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came. A raw, wordless shout escaped him as he emptied himself inside her, hot pulses marking his possession, his release a stark contrast to the one she’d swallowed that morning. He held there, shuddering, his forehead pressed against her sweaty back.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths fogging the glass. He slowly pulled out, and she turned, her body limp, her eyes hazy with satiation. The torn swimsuit hung off her, a testament to the violence of their need.
She reached up and touched his cheek, her smile soft, devoid of its earlier mischief. "You were always worth the wait, Akira."