Chapter 4: Advancing the moves
Three days passed in a blur of spreadsheets and polite office laughter that rang hollow in Rachel’s ears. The damp patch on the emerald leotard was a ghost that haunted her, a secret stain on her sanity. She’d washed it, scrubbed at it, but in her mind, it remained—an accusation. She almost cancelled. Her finger hovered over Sasha’s contact in her phone a dozen times. But a deeper, stranger pull drew her back. A need to prove that the dampness had been a fluke, a physiological mistake. To prove she wasn’t what it suggested.
THE NEXT LESSON CAME FAST.
The gym was empty again, just the two of them under the fluorescent hum. Sasha was a vision in crimson this time, a one-piece that cut high on her hips and plunged deep at her chest, the fabric so taut it seemed painted on the dense slabs of her muscle. Her smile was all business, but her eyes were banks of emerald fire.
“We’re moving beyond basic holds,” Sasha said, her voice a low purr that vibrated in the empty space. “Today is about control. And escape.”
Rachel nodded, her throat too dry for words. She wore her standard assigned green emerald leotard that Sasha had given her, just how Sasha likes to see her in. It felt foolish now, like tissue paper against a storm.
They started on the mat, Sasha demonstrating a rear body lock from the knees. “You feel my weight?” Sasha’s chest pressed against Rachel’s back, her arms banded around Rachel’s ribs, just beneath her breasts. “Your job is to break my grip. Use your core, twist into me.”
Rachel tried. She planted her hands on Sasha’s corded forearms and heaved. Nothing. Sasha’s body was an immovable wall of heat. The harder Rachel struggled, the tighter Sasha held, until every exhale forced Rachel’s spine to mold more completely against the solid curve of Sasha’s torso and abdomen. She could feel every breath Sasha took, could feel the powerful swell of her pectorals against her shoulder blades.
“Good,” Sasha murmured, her lips close to Rachel’s ear. The word was hot, damp. “Feel how trapped you are? Now, feel this.” Sasha shifted one hand, sliding it slowly, deliberately, from Rachel’s ribs down to the crease of her hip, splaying her fingers wide over Rachel’s lower belly. The touch was intimate, possessive. It pinned Rachel more completely than any lock. A bolt of pure, unwelcome heat shot straight to Rachel’s core. She gasped.
“Sasha, I…”
“The move isn’t done,” Sasha cut her off, her voice losing its instructive tone, becoming something darker, more personal. “Stop talking. Start feeling.”
RACHEL BECOMES DUELY AWARE OF HER OWN SEXUAL FEELINGS THE MORE SASHA GRABS HER INTO THOSE WRESTLING MOVES THAT SHE JUST CAN’T SEEM TO BREAK FREE FROM.
The awareness was a rising tide, drowning her protests. It was in the slickness gathering between her legs as Sasha maneuvered her into a side headlock, her face pressed against Sasha’s firm, sweaty inner thigh. It was in the hard, aching points her nipples became when Sasha mounted her from behind, one powerful thigh sliding between her legs for leverage, creating a devastating, grinding pressure. It was in the helpless, silent moan that choked her when Sasha, demonstrating a cross-body pin, settled her full weight onto Rachel’s hips, her pelvis a hard, undeniable press, and leaned down so her mouth was a breath from Rachel’s.
“You’re not even trying hard enough to escape,” Sasha whispered, her gaze dropping to Rachel’s parted, trembling lips. “Are you?”
Rachel couldn’t speak. Her body was a traitorous symphony of wants. Her mind screamed wrong, but her hips gave a tiny, involuntary lift, seeking more of that crushing, delicious friction.
The tiny, reflexive arch of her hips was a confession screamed in the silent language of the body. Sasha felt it—the slight yield, the seeking pressure against her own cunt through the layers of taut fabric. A sharp, triumphant smile cut across Sasha’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared. She held the pin for a beat longer, letting the heat of that small movement bloom between them.
“See?” Sasha breathed, the word textured with gravel. “Your body knows what it wants. It’s smarter than you are.” She released the pin suddenly, rolling off and standing in one fluid motion. Rachel lay gasping on the mat, the cool air rushing over her overheated skin where Sasha’s weight had been. The absence felt like a punishment. “Get up. We’re not done.”
SENSING THAT RACHEL WAS SLOWLY SUCCUMBING TO HER SENSUAL HOLDS, SASHA DELIBERATELY BEGAN TO TRY OUT MORE HOLDS THAT MASHED THEIR INTIMATE BODIES TOGETHER.
“Let’s work from the clinch,” Sasha said, her tone deceptively clinical. She moved behind Rachel again, one arm snaking around her waist, the other threading between her legs from behind to hook her inner thigh. “This is about off-balancing your opponent.” She pulled, lifting Rachel’s leg, and drove her pelvis forward. The hard mound of Sasha’s pussy, unmistakable even through the leotard, ground against the cleft of Rachel’s ass. A rough, grinding rotation followed, the friction against the slick, thin fabric of both their garments creating a wet, obscene drag. Rachel cried out, her head falling back against Sasha’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” Rachel whispered, the swear word torn from her, foreign and true.
“That’s the spirit,” Sasha growled into her ear, not ceasing the slow, deliberate rotation of her hips. The movement was nothing like a wrestling move. It was a dry, brutal fuck through their clothes. “Your body is so fucking honest. It’s dripping for me right now, isn’t it? Just like in the locker room.” The reference to her shame was a precise, devastating blow. Rachel whimpered, her hands flying back to clutch at Sasha’s powerful thighs, whether to push away or pull closer, she no longer knew.
Sasha released the hold only to spin Rachel around and shove her backward until her shoulders hit the cold, unforgiving mirror. The impact jarred her teeth. Before she could slide down, Sasha was on her, one hand pinning her wrist above her head, the other gripping her hip. Sasha slammed her own thigh between Rachel’s legs, driving it up high and tight. The pressure was direct, immense, a blunt force against Rachel’s now swollen clit that is visible through the damp green leotard crotch. Rachel’s back bowed, a broken sound escaping her throat as her eyes rolled back.
“This is a pin,” Sasha said, her face inches away, her breath hot and shared. “You try to escape. You try to bridge out. Show me you don’t want this.” She rocked her thigh, a cruel, slow sawing motion. The emerald and crimson fabric mingled, soaked through with sweat and other wetness, creating a searing, slippery heat. Rachel’s legs shook violently. She tried to buck, but it only increased the grinding pressure, sending electric shocks of unbearable pleasure up her spine. Her attempts at resistance were pathetic, erotic convulsions.
“I can’t,” Rachel sobbed, tears of frustration and raw sensation leaking from the corners of her eyes. Her rational mind was a distant, shattered thing. All that existed was the mirror’s cold kiss on her back and the brutal, heavenly friction between her legs. “Sasha, please…”
The word hung in the air, a shattered thing. Please what? Stop? Don’t stop? Rachel didn’t know. Her mind was white static, her body a live wire strung between agony and a need so profound it felt like dying.
Sasha stilled her grinding thigh, leaving a throbbing, aching void. “Please what, Rachel?” she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of Rachel’s ear. Her hand released the pinned wrist and slid down Rachel’s trembling arm, over the sweat-slick leotard, coming to rest with terrifying gentleness on her lower belly. “Use your words. Tell me what your body is trying to say.”
Rachel shook her head, a tear tracking through the sweat on her temple. She couldn’t. Speaking it would make it real. Sasha’s fingers began a slow, circular massage just above the soaked fabric, a maddening millimeter from where she needed to be touched. The promise of it was worse than the grinding. It was exquisite torture.
“You’re drenched,” Sasha observed clinically, her gaze locked on Rachel’s in the mirror. Her other hand slipped between their bodies, and with a deliberate, casual precision, she dragged her knuckles over the swollen seam of Rachel’s pussy through the green fabric. The contact was electric, a bolt of pure sensation that made Rachel’s hips jerk forward off the mirror.
SASHA WANTS RACHEL TO BEG FOR MORE PLEASURE BUT USES THE CHANCE TO TEASE HER LONGER.
“I don’t… I can’t…” Rachel choked out, her protest meaningless even to her own ears.
“Can’t what?” Sasha’s knuckles rubbed again, a little harder, a little more focused, a rough pass directly over Rachel’s aching clit. “Can't give up when a strong woman pin you down against a mirror?”
Rachel’s mouth opened, but only a ragged breath came out. Shame warred with a desperation that was swallowing her whole. Sasha smiled, a predator with infinite patience. She shifted her stance, her body still caging Rachel’s, and reached for Rachel’s own hand. She guided it down, forcing Rachel’s trembling fingers to press against the soaked, hot fabric between her own legs.
MAKING SURE THE ACCIDENTALLY TOUCHES OF HER SWOLLEN CLIT THROUGH THE LEOTARD CONTINUES WITH EACH HOLDS, MAKING THE DAMP PATCH WETTER AND MORE OBVIOUS.
“Watch this,” Sasha moved on to the next hold instead of granting relief. She suddenly swung Rachel away from the mirror and drove her down onto the mat. It was a new hold, a complex entanglement of limbs Sasha called the “scissors and strap,” where Rachel’s legs were pinned apart by Sasha’s powerful thighs, and Sasha’s torso lay heavy across her chest. As Sasha adjusted her grip, her forearm, slick with sweat, dragged directly across the front of Rachel’s leotard. The coarse friction against her clit was accidental, purposeful, devastating.
Every adjustment, every shift of weight, every demonstration of superior strength came with a brush, a grind, a pressure that was just enough to make Rachel whimper and never enough to let her come. The dark bloom on the emerald fabric spread, a blatant, shameful stain. The air grew thick, humid with their exertions, carrying a pungent, salty-sweet scent that was entirely new to Rachel.
AS THE MUSKINESS OF THEIR SESSION FILLS THE ROOM, SASHA TOOK THE CHANCE TO FACE SIT HER LEOTARD PUSSY ON RACHEL.
Sasha paused, looming over her, breathing heavily. A new, more floral scent cut through the raw musk—clean, like expensive soap and a hint of jasmine, but underpinned by something deeply, fundamentally animal. “You smell that, Rachel?” Sasha whispered, her eyes glinting. “That’s focus. That’s what wanting something smells like.”
In one fluid, overpowering motion, Sasha moved. She released the hold, grabbed Rachel by the shoulders, and flipped her onto her stomach. Before Rachel could process the change, Sasha’s weight settled on her back, pushing her face into the mat. Then Sasha shifted, sliding her body up, straddling Rachel’s shoulders.
The world went dark, muffled. Sasha settled her full weight back, lowering herself until the tight, damp crimson fabric of her leotard, heat radiating through it, pressed directly over Rachel’s nose and mouth.
MAKING SURE SHE SMELLS HER SWEAT AND AROUSAL AS WELL, SHE HAS TAKEN PAINS TO WASH THAT AREA AND PUT PERFUME TO MAKE IT SMELL ESPECIALLY NICE TO GIRLS AS WELL.
Rachel froze, paralyzed. The scent was overwhelming. It was the clean, deliberate perfume, yes, a pretty, feminine lure. But beneath it, potent and unmistakable, was the dense, musky aroma of Sasha’s own sweat and the tangy, profound smell of her arousal, seeping through the fabric. It was the smell of the gym, of dominance, of a woman utterly confident in her own desires. Sasha ground down slowly, a deliberate, rotating press that smeared the essence of herself across Rachel’s face.
Something primal and final snapped inside Rachel. The last fragment of resistance dissolved, not in defeat, but in a surge of pure, shocking hunger. This wasn't an attack. It was an offering, a forced intimacy that bypassed every confused thought in her head and spoke directly to her raw, throbbing nerves. Her body went pliant beneath Sasha’s weight. A low, guttural moan vibrated against the hot, damp fabric smothering her. Her lips, pressed tight in shock, parted accidentally and feeling some of the slippery, musky wetness passed between her lips and filled her passageway with sensuality.
She also inhaled from her breathlessness, filling her lungs with Sasha. Her hips, of their own volition, pushed down against the empty mat, seeking friction, a pathetic, needy grind. Her hands, trapped at her sides, clenched and unclenched. She was utterly seduced, not by gentle words, but by this brutal sensory baptism—by the weight, the scent, the total, suffocating claim of it.
She was utterly seduced, not by gentle words, but by this brutal sensory baptism—by the weight, the scent, the total, suffocating claim of it. Her moan vibrated against the damp crimson fabric, a sound of surrender that made Sasha’s abdomen clench with victory. Sasha rose off her face, the cool air hitting Rachel’s wet lips like a slap.
“You liked that,” Sasha stated, her voice ragged with her own need. It wasn’t a question. She shoved Rachel’s shoulder, turning her onto her back again. Rachel stared up, dazed, her lips glistening, her breathing a shallow pant. Sasha’s eyes burned into hers. “My turn.”
Before Rachel could process the words, Sasha’s strong hands flipped her over onto her stomach with a rough efficiency that stole her breath. The mat was cold against her flushed cheek. Sasha’s weight settled across the back of her thighs, pinning her down. Rachel felt a shift in the air, a new intention that tightened her skin.
Sasha’s hands gripped the firm swell of Rachel’s ass through the slick emerald fabric, kneading with a possessive hunger. She lowered her head. Rachel felt the hot puff of Sasha’s breath through the leotard, right at the crease where her ass met her thigh. A low, animal sound escaped Sasha.
“Fuck, you smell incredible,” Sasha muttered, the words muffled against the fabric. “All that sweet confusion. All that desperate fucking juice.”
Then Sasha pressed her face in, hard. She nuzzled, inhaling deeply, her nose grinding against the soaked seam of the leotard that disappeared between Rachel’s cheeks. The fabric was a wet, warm barrier, and Sasha sought the source, pushing insistently at the material with her nose and mouth, smearing her own face with Rachel’s sweat and arousal.
Rachel whimpered, her fingers curling into the mat. This was a different violation, an intimacy so profound it shattered her. It was worship and debasement in one act. Sasha groaned, a sound of pure, greedy pleasure. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s your real scent. Not the marketing assistant. This ripe, wet cunt.”
Sasha’s hands slid down, hooking into the leg openings of Rachel’s leotard. With a sharp, tearing sound of stretched fabric, she wrenched the material aside, exposing Rachel’s bare, glistening skin. The cool air hit Rachel’s exposed pussy and ass, a shocking contrast to the heat of Sasha’s breath a second before.
There was no hesitation. Sasha buried her face directly into Rachel’s exposed flesh. Her tongue, broad and flat, licked a ruthless stripe from Rachel’s quivering entrance all the way up to the tight knot of her asshole.
Rachel screamed, her body arching against the pinning weight. It was too much. It was everything. Sasha’s tongue was an insistent, searching creature, fucking into her with shallow, brutal thrusts before circling her clit with a precision that spoke of a predatory expertise. Sasha ate her like a starved animal, growling into her flesh, her nose pressed deep into Rachel’s ass, inhaling the raw, unfiltered musk of her.
“Taste yourself,” Sasha ordered, pulling back for a second, her voice thick and slurred. She gripped Rachel’s hips, yanking her back onto her mouth. “Taste what you’ve been hiding. It’s fucking ambrosia.”
Sasha’s tongue speared deep, curling inside her, drinking her down. Rachel’s mind dissolved into a white-hot nothingness, corrupted beyond repair by the feel of that relentless tongue, by the obscene, wet sounds filling the silent gym, by the realization that she was coming apart under another woman’s mouth and loving it. Her hips began to piston back against Sasha’s face, seeking more, fucking herself on that devouring tongue. A broken chant fell from her lips. “Please, please, please…”
Sasha pulled away, her chin slick and shining. She flipped Rachel over again, looming above her, a goddess of sweat and conquest. She shoved her own crimson leotard down her hips, just enough, exposing the thatch of blonde hair and the swollen, dripping folds beneath. She grabbed Rachel’s limp hand and pressed it against her own cunt.
“Feel what you did,” Sasha commanded, her green eyes wild. “Now get those pretty fingers inside me. I want to come on your hand while I watch your face.”
Rachel’s fingers, trembling and unsure, slid into the startling, silken heat of Sasha. It was like sinking into a live wire. Sasha threw her head back, a ragged cry tearing from her throat as she began to ride Rachel’s hand with a furious, demanding rhythm.
Sasha’s cunt was a vise of slick, desperate heat around Rachel’s fingers, pulling them deep with each downward jerk of her hips. “That’s it,” Sasha snarled, her gaze drilling into Rachel’s wide, shocked eyes. “Don’t just lie there. Fuck me back.” Her hand clamped over Rachel’s wrist, forcing a quicker, harder rhythm, showing her exactly how she wanted to be taken. The sound of their bodies meeting, of wet flesh, filled the space where instructions used to live.
Rachel’s mind was a blank, white screen. All she could process was the feeling of being used as a tool for Sasha’s pleasure, and the terrifying, thrilling power it gave her. Her other hand, moving without permission from her thoughts, came up to grope the heavy weight of Sasha’s breast through the crimson fabric, her thumb finding and rubbing a hard nipple. Sasha’s cry escalated, approving, animalistic.
“You’re a natural fucking slut,” Sasha gasped, her movements growing erratic, grinding hard against Rachel’s palm. Her breath hitched. “You want to taste it? What you make me do?” The question was a razor wrapped in silk. Before Rachel could formulate any answer, Sasha’s body clenched, a series of violent, inner spasms rippling around Rachel’s trapped fingers. A guttural shout tore from Sasha’s throat as she came, her back arching, every muscle in her abdomen standing in sharp relief.
She collapsed forward, catching her weight on her hands beside Rachel’s head, dripping sweat onto Rachel’s chest. She was still panting, her eyes like fractured glass. Slowly, she pulled Rachel’s hand free, bringing the glistening fingers to Rachel’s own lips. “Clean them,” she ordered, her voice husky and spent. The smell was pungent, musky, entirely Sasha. Rachel, trapped under her gaze and her body, obeyed. She sucked her own fingers into her mouth, the taste a shocking, salty tang that was nothing like her own. It was domination distilled into flavor.
Sasha watched, a satisfied, exhausted smirk pulling at her lips. Then she shifted, rolling off Rachel to lie beside her on the sweat-damp mat. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The gym was a cathedral of their wreckage. For a long minute, only the sound of their ragged breathing existed.
Then Sasha turned her head. “Your turn.”
Rachel blinked, still tasting Sasha on her tongue. “What?”
“You heard me.” Sasha propped herself up on an elbow. Her expression was no longer predatory, but something more daunting: expectant. “You don’t get to just take. You give. Get between my legs and eat my pussy until I come again.” The crude words, delivered so casually, landed like physical blows. This wasn’t a wrestling move disguised as something else. This was an explicit, undeniable command.
Rachel’s body, still humming from everything that had happened, clenched with a new wave of panic. This was a line, bright and final. To willingly put her mouth there… it would erase the last fiction, the last fragile claim that this was something that was being done to her. It would make her a participant. A collaborator. She shook her head, a tiny, frantic motion. “I can’t.”
“Yes,” Sasha said, simply. “You can.” She reached out and traced a damp line from Rachel’s collarbone down between her breasts. “Your body is begging for it. You’re so wet it’s dripping down your thighs onto my mat. Your nipples are so hard they could cut glass. That ‘can’t’ is just noise in your head. I want to hear you swallow it.”
She lay back, spreading her legs, an open invitation. The crimson leotard was pushed down around her hips, her cunt exposed, swollen and glistening from her own climax and Rachel’s fingers. The sight was profoundly obscene, and Rachel couldn’t look away. That same scent from the face-sitting filled her nostrils, but now it was pure, uncut, without the barrier of fabric. It was the perfume gone, burned away by sweat and sex, leaving the essential, earthy truth of the woman.
“Come here, Rachel.” The use of her name, so soft after all the filth, was what undid her.
Rachel moved as if in a dream. She pushed herself up, her limbs heavy and clumsy. She crawled the short distance between them on the mat, the rough texture biting her knees. The space between Sasha’s thighs was a dark, beckoning country. She hesitated, her face inches away, the heat radiating against her cheeks.
“Look at it,” Sasha murmured, her hand coming to rest on the back of Rachel’s head, not pushing, just present. “See what you do to me.”
Rachel looked. The folds were dark pink, slick, swollen. The scent was overwhelming. Her stomach twisted, but lower, in her own cunt, a fresh pulse of liquid heat answered. Her breath shuddered out. She closed her eyes, but that was worse. In the darkness, all she had was the smell and the memory of Sasha’s tongue on her, the brutal expertise she could never hope to match.
“Open your mouth,” Sasha instructed, her voice a low thrum.
Rachel did.
RACHEL EATS OUT.
She didn’t know how to start. She pressed her open mouth against Sasha in a clumsy, closed-mouth kiss. The skin was incredibly soft, giving, and the taste bloomed on her lips—a deeper, more complex version of what was on her fingers. Sasha’s hand tightened in her hair. “Use your tongue. Lick me. Like you mean it.”
Rachel’s tongue slipped out, a tentative stroke through the slickness. The flavor intensified, flooding her senses. It wasn’t sweet. It was primal, salty, bitter at the edges, uniquely and powerfully Sasha. A low groan came from above her. The sound was encouragement, a reward. She did it again, a longer, firmer lick from bottom to top, finding a hard little nub at the top.
“Yes,” Sasha hissed. “There. Suck on that. Gently.”
Rachel enclosed the bud with her lips, sucking lightly as she’d been told. Sasha’s hips jerked off the mat. “Harder. Don’t be fucking timid now.” Rachel obeyed, increasing the pressure, swirling her tongue around the sensitive flesh. Her own need was a screaming ache between her legs, and she ground herself against the hard surface of the mat beneath her for a pathetic shred of relief.
“Fingers,” Sasha demanded, her voice starting to fray. “Inside me. Now.”
Rachel pulled her mouth away, a string of saliva and wetness connecting her lips to Sasha’s skin. She pushed two fingers inside, meeting gripping, velvety heat. She began to fuck Sasha with her hand, her mouth returning to suck and lick in a rhythm that felt instinctual, driven by the gasps and curses falling from Sasha’s mouth.
“Just like that, you perfect fucking girl,” Sasha moaned, her thighs clamping around Rachel’s head, plunging her deeper into the wet darkness. The world narrowed to taste, sound, and the commanding pressure of Sasha’s body. Rachel lost herself in the mechanics of giving pleasure, in the raw feedback of Sasha’s escalating cries. It was simpler than thinking. It was a brutal, beautiful equation her body understood perfectly.
Sasha’s climax built quickly, a tension that vibrated through her entire frame. Her instructions dissolved into a stream of filthy, shattered praise. “Oh god, yes, right there, don’t stop, suck my clit you perfect little cunt-licker, make me come all over your pretty face…” Her words broke into a wordless, raw shout as her body seized. Rachel felt the violent flutter around her fingers, tasted a new, sharper flood of wetness on her tongue, and kept working her through it until Sasha’s hands were pushing weakly at her head, over-sensitive and spent.
Rachel pulled back, breathing hard, her jaw aching. Her face was soaked, her chin dripping. She looked up, met Sasha’s hooded, wrecked gaze. Sasha looked down at her, a slow, deep satisfaction settling in her expression. She reached out a trembling hand and swiped her thumb through the wetness on Rachel’s cheek.
“Now,” Sasha whispered, the word barely audible over the hum of the lights. “You know what you are.”