Chapter 7: First steps
Her hand was a brand through the denim, a sudden, shocking pressure that short-circuited his thoughts. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that felt like his first breath. She held him there, her fingers curled possessively, her eyes locked on his widening ones.
"All this," she said, her voice a low, gritty thing, "from just punching me?" She gave another deliberate squeeze, and he saw stars at the edges of his vision. "Wait until you feel your weight sink into my belly."
Then she let go. Just like that. The absence was almost as shocking as the touch.
She turned and lowered herself to the black sheet, movements fluid and unhurried. She lay on her back, her head turned towards him. The defined muscles of her torso tightened with the shift in position, the red marks from his fists standing out like graffiti on marble. She folded her hands behind her head, a picture of casual expectation. "What are you waiting for?"
Peter stood, paralyzed. The throb in his groin was a demanding pulse. The phantom feel of her hand still burned through the fabric. This was the image from a thousand screens, from the poster on his wall, but it was wrong. It was right. It was here. She was real, and she was waiting.
"how" he croaked. His throat was desert-dry.
"Start at my feet. Socks off. Feel the contact."
He knelt at her feet, his hands trembling. He peeled off his cheap athletic socks, his own pale, ordinary feet exposed. He placed a hand on the arch of her right foot to steady himself. Her skin was warm.
"Now stand. Slowly. Put your weight on the ball of your foot, right here." She tapped her own belly, then let her hand fall back. "Just get used to the balance."
He braced a hand on his own knee, pushing himself up. He hovered over her, one foot planted on the floor, the other hovering above her shin. This felt insane. Dangerous. He was eighty-three kilograms of awkward reality.
"Peter." Her tone was patient, firm. "I've had two-hundred-pound men in boots do this. You're not going to break me. Put your foot on me."
He lowered his bare foot. The sole touched the firm muscle of her lower leg. He applied pressure, an infinitesimal amount. She didn't flinch. He pushed down more, shifting his balance until his full weight rested on that one leg, his other foot still on the floor. He was standing on her.
A sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a whimper. The sensation was unbelievable. The solid, living resistance of her. The complete trust. The absolute power.
"Good," she breathed. Her eyes were closed, a faint smile on her lips. "Feels different, doesn't it? Real. Now the other foot. On my thigh. Then walk up."
It was a clumsy, staggering process. He placed his other foot on her thigh, higher up, and for a terrifying second he was completely balanced on her body, a precarious bridge of flesh and bone. The blanket slipped a little underneath her. She adjusted her shoulders, settling deeper.
"Okay," she said, her voice slightly compressed. "Come up. One foot beside the other. On my stomach."
This was the altar. The focal point of every fantasy. Her abdomen was taut, the skin still flushed from his punches. He lifted his foot from her leg and placed it carefully, so carefully, just below her ribcage. The entire arch of his foot covered the dense, sculpted plane of her upper abs. He brought his other foot up to join it, standing fully on her now, his knees bent, his arms out for balance like a surfer.
The world narrowed to the patch of skin under his soles. He could feel everything—the slight give of her flesh over the unyielding muscular wall beneath, the heat radiating into his feet, the rapid, controlled expansion of her lungs as she breathed shallowly beneath him.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Yeah," she grunted, the word pushed out from under his weight. "There it is. Now sink down. Let your weight settle. Don't tiptoe."
He relaxed his calves, letting his heels drop. His full weight pressed down into her.
Eva’s breath left in a long, strained hhhhhhh. Her whole body tightened, a spectacular full-body flex that hardened her stomach into something like concrete. The muscles leaped and defined under his feet. Her face contorted, not in pain, but in profound, focused effort. A vein stood out on her temple.
"God… that's… good," she managed, each word a controlled exhale. "You can… feel it, right? The pressure?"
He could. It was immense, a profound, sinking connection. He was imprinting himself on her. He looked down, mesmerized by the sight of his own feet, pale and ordinary, distorting the perfect landscape of her torso. He shifted his weight minutely, rolling from heel to ball.
A ragged moan crawled from her throat. Her hands, still behind her head, clenched into fists. "Again. Do that again."
He did. He rocked his weight. He took a small, shuffling step lower, so his heel was near her navel. The pressure changed. She gasped, and the sound went straight to his cock.
"This is…" he started, but had no words.
"This is what you wanted," she finished for him, opening her eyes. They were glassy with a strange, intense pleasure. "Look at you. Look at me. This is real. Now… move. Walk a little. Slowly."
It was the most intimate, grotesque, beautiful thing he had ever done. He took a tentative step, his foot sliding down to the softer, still firm territory just above her pelvis. Her whole body shuddered. He brought the other foot forward, a pathetic, weighted shuffle on the canvas of her body. Each step forced a punch of air from her lungs. Each adjustment of his balance made her muscles writhe and knot under his soles. He was mapping her with his feet.
He was so hard it was a dull ache. His jeans were painfully tight. He could see the blatant outline of his erection, and he knew she could see it too from her angle below.
Her eyes were fixed on it. Her breathing, despite the crushing weight, hitched with something new. "You like that," she stated, her voice strained but laced with a dark amusement. "Standing on me. Owning me."
He just nodded, utterly lost.
"Then really own it," she challenged. "Jump."
His brain stuttered. "What?"
"A small hop. Just enough to… jolt me. Come on. You want to feel your power? Feel it."
He hesitated for only a second. The coiled hunger in her eyes demanded it. He bent his knees slightly, tensed, and pushed off just an inch or two.
He landed back on her stomach with a soft, heavy thump.
The air exploded from her in a guttural, punched-out groan. "UNGH! Yes! Again!"
He did it again, a little higher this time. The impact traveled through her body, a wave of force that made her teeth click together. Her head rolled back, her neck corded. A line of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth. She was lost in it, consumed by the brutality of his weight.
He was consumed too. He hopped again, and again, finding a terrible rhythm. Each landing was a crash of dominance, a claim staked. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her shining skin. The room smelled of effort, of salt, of something deeply primal.
He finally stopped, breathless, swaying on the pedestal of her wrecked abdomen. She was breathing in sharp, ragged gulps, her face flushed, her stomach a battlefield of red pressure marks and the ghostly white outlines of his soles.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Then she swallowed, and her voice was wrecked, husky, and utterly compelling. "Now get off me," she said. "And get those jeans off. I want your cock in my mouth while you punch that ache you just put in my guts."
The momentum of the world lurched forward. He clumsily stepped off her, his legs wobbly, the ordinary floor feeling insubstantial. She rolled onto her side with a wince that looked like pleasure, pushing herself up to her knees, her eyes never leaving his belt buckle.