Chapter 5: Straddling and Shy Requests
The coffee mugs sat abandoned on the counter, the liquid inside going cold. The space between Natasha and Hannah in the kitchen thrummed with a new, specific energy. The sixty percent was a tangible thing now, a percentage that seemed to tick upward with every shared breath.
They kissed some more. It was less practice now, more conversation. Natasha learned the language of Hannah’s mouth—the way she hummed when Natasha nipped gently at her lower lip, the slight part of her lips that was an invitation Natasha wasn’t yet ready to fully accept. Her hands, however, itched with a singular focus. She wanted to touch Hannah’s breasts again. The memory of the weight, the softness, the responsive noise it had elicited, was a loop playing in her mind.
Asking for it felt like a tactical request for unknown terrain. Her mind scrambled for the correct phrasing.
“The…” Natasha began, then stopped, her lips hovering a breath from Hannah’s. She pulled back slightly, frowning at her own inability to articulate. “The… thing. From before.”
Hannah’s eyebrows lifted, her expression warm and curious. “The thing?”
“The… touching.” Natasha’s gaze flicked downward toward Hannah’s chest, then back up, her cheeks heating. “I. I want to.”
Hannah’s face softened. A gentle laugh escaped her, not mocking, but utterly charmed. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay. You can just ask. Just breathe.”
Natasha took a deliberate, shaky breath. The words felt childish, absurd. “Can I… touch your breasts again?”
The smile that broke across Hannah’s face was immediate and brilliant, lighting up her whole expression. “Yeah,” she said, her voice warm and sure. “That’s very okay.”
A slight, almost invisible smile touched Natasha’s lips. But now that permission was granted, a fresh wave of shyness paralyzed her. Her hands remained at her sides, fingers twitching.
Hannah laughed softly again, a sound of pure affection. She took Natasha’s hand, her grip firm and leading, and dragged her gently from the kitchen. They didn’t go far—just to the sleek black leather couch in the sunlit living room. She guided Natasha down, sitting close enough that their thighs touched. The cool leather was a contrast to the warmth between them.
“Here,” Hannah murmured. She took Natasha’s hand and placed it firmly over her own breast, over the soft cotton of her t-shirt and the structured lace of her bra beneath. “Explore. No rush.”
Natasha nodded slightly, her focus dropping to where her hand rested. She curled her fingers, applying a cautious pressure. It was a good squeeze, confident in its strength even if the intent was timid. She could feel the shape, the rise and fall of Hannah’s breath.
Hannah leaned in and kissed her, a slow, sweet press. Natasha kissed back, her attention divided between the softness of Hannah’s lips and the softness under her palm. It was easier with the kiss as a backdrop, a distraction from the intensity of the act itself.
Then Hannah moaned. It was a soft, deliberate sound, vibrated directly into Natasha’s mouth. A performance, maybe, but a devastatingly effective one.
The effect was instantaneous. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down Natasha’s spine, pooling low in her belly. Her fingers tightened involuntarily, and a wave of boldness washed over her, drowning the shyness. She broke the kiss, her eyes wide and dark.
Without a word, she shifted, moving to straddle Hannah’s lap on the couch. Hannah’s hands came up to hold her hips, a steadying, possessive grip. It felt right. Empowering. From here, Natasha could look down at Hannah’s face, see the effect she was having. She used both hands now, massaging through the fabric, learning the contours, her thumbs brushing over where she knew the nipples would be.
A small frown creased Natasha’s brow. The layers were an interference. A barrier to proper data. “There’s too much clothing,” she mumbled, the complaint earnest.
Hannah’s hands squeezed her hips. “Do you want me to undress?”
Natasha’s hands stilled. The boldness receded a fraction. She looked suddenly shy, but gave a tiny, quick nod, her gaze fixed on Hannah’s collarbone.
“Okay.” Hannah’s voice was a smile. She reached for the hem of the borrowed hoodie and pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. She was left in a loose, grey t-shirt and the pink bra Natasha had felt through the fabric.
Natasha’s hands returned immediately, settling on her chest. The barrier was thinner now. She could feel the lace detail, the warmer skin beneath. “A little better,” she whispered, her voice hushed.
Hannah smiled, tilting her chin up for a kiss which Natasha gladly gave. As they kissed, Natasha’s hands wandered, mapping Hannah’s shoulders, her back. Her fingers traced the line of Hannah’s spine through the shirt, then encountered the strap of her bra, the clasp.
Curiosity overrode protocol. Her fingers, clever and dextrous from a lifetime of handling weapons and tools, found the hook-and-eye closure. She fumbled for a second, the cotton of the shirt bunching under her questing touch. Then, with a focused click, she unclipped it.
Hannah gasped into her mouth, a sharp, surprised intake of breath.
Natasha recoiled as if shocked, scooting back on Hannah’s lap, her hands flying away. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Hey, no,” Hannah said, her voice breathless. She reached out, her hands cupping Natasha’s face, pulling her gently back. “It’s okay. That was… that was incredibly sexy.” She was blushing, her eyes bright. “Unexpected. In a very good way.”
Natasha blinked, processing. She hadn’t crossed a line. She’d… done something sexy. The realization made her own face burn with a furious, hot blush. “Oh.”
Hannah laughed, a little giddy. “Help me get it out? It’s gonna be awkward.”
It was. Hannah had to half-stand, shimmying the bra straps down her arms under the shirt while Natasha tried to help, their hands tangling. They fumbled, laughed quietly, and finally pulled the pink lace garment free from a sleeve. Hannah dropped it on the couch beside them.
Natasha picked it up, holding it in her hands. The material was still warm. It was delicate, practical, cute. She looked from the bra to Hannah’s face. “It’s very cute,” she said softly.
Now it was Hannah’s turn to blush, a deep pink spreading across her cheeks and down her throat. She squeezed Natasha’s hips where she still straddled her. “Thanks.”
They stayed like that for a moment, the air between them thick and sweet. Hannah’s gaze was soft, inviting. “You can explore underneath now,” she offered, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “If you want.”
Natasha’s hand hovered at the hem of Hannah’s t-shirt. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, searched Hannah’s for final confirmation, for a sign she’d misunderstood the permission.
Hannah held her gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
Natasha hesitated. Her fingers brushed the warm skin of Hannah’s stomach, just above the waistband of her jeans. The leap from over the shirt to under it felt monumental, a border crossing into a country of pure, unmediated sensation. She took a sharp breath, and then slowly, carefully, slid her hand upward beneath the soft cotton.
Her palm met bare, warm skin. The sensation was a revelation. It wasn't just soft; it was living, yielding warmth, the texture of her skin impossibly smooth over the firm muscle beneath. Natasha’s breath hitched. She kept her hand flat and still for a moment, just feeling the rise and fall of Hannah’s ribs, the frantic heartbeat echoing under her own palm.
“You can touch them,” Hannah whispered, her voice thick. “They’re yours right now.”
Natasha’s fingers curled upward, seeking the weight she remembered. Her fingertips brushed the underside of Hannah’s breast, then cupped it fully. The heat was more intense here, the skin so delicate. Her thumb swept across a nipple, already taut and pebbled. Hannah’s head fell back against the couch cushion with a sharp exhale.
“Yeah,” Hannah breathed. “Just like that.”
But Natasha froze. A sudden, paralyzing uncertainty locked her joints. What was the right pressure? The correct rhythm? This was an unexplored system, and she had no schematic. Her hand went still, a statue of pure hesitation.
Hannah felt the shift. She opened her eyes, reading the panic in Natasha’s rigid posture. “Hey,” she murmured, her hands coming up to cradle Natasha’s face. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I don’t know how,” Natasha admitted, the confession raw.
“So I’ll teach you.” Hannah gently guided Natasha’s head down, tucking it into the curve of her own neck. The world narrowed to the scent of Hannah’s skin, clean sweat and vanilla. “Stop kissing. Just listen. Feel.”
Natasha nodded, her nose brushing Hannah’s collarbone. She focused entirely on the hand under Hannah’s shirt. Her other hand remained on Hannah’s thigh, gripping for balance.
“Use your whole hand,” Hannah instructed, her voice a low, guiding vibration against Natasha’s temple. “Not just your fingertips. Squeeze, like you’re testing a ripe peach. Not to bruise it. Just to feel the give.”
Natasha obeyed, applying a firm, steady pressure. Hannah’s breath stuttered.
“Good. Now, your thumb. Circle the nipple. Slow. Yeah, just like that.” A soft, unbidden moan escaped Hannah’s lips, warming the shell of Natasha’s ear. “God, you learn fast.”
The praise lit a fuse in Natasha’s chest. She concentrated, mapping the terrain under Hannah’s direction. Each husked word was a coordinate. Hannah was getting wet; Natasha could feel the heat of it through both their jeans, a new, pressing dampness.
“A little pinch now,” Hannah murmured, her voice dropping to a hungry rasp. Her hips shifted restlessly. “Use your fingers. Just a little.”
Natasha pinched the tight peak gently between her thumb and forefinger.
Hannah moaned, louder this time, the sound vibrating directly into Natasha’s skull. “Harder. Please, Natasha, harder.”
The ‘please’ undid her. Natasha pinched again, with deliberate, focused pressure.
The noise Hannah made was high, sharp, and utterly sincere. It wasn’t a performance. It was a fracture. The sound went through Natasha like a live wire, zinging straight to her own core, igniting a deep, throbbing ache between her legs that was wholly new and overwhelmingly urgent.
She made a small, desperate sound of her own and moved to capture Hannah’s mouth again, needing to swallow those moans, to fuse with them.
Hannah turned her head, denying the kiss, holding Natasha close against her neck. “We should slow down,” she gasped, though her hands were tight on Natasha’s back.
“No,” Natasha protested, the word muffled against Hannah’s skin. She squeezed her breast again, earning another shudder.
“We’re gonna be late for work.” Hannah’s voice was laced with regret, her body arching into the touch even as she said it. “I have a home visit at ten.”
Reality, mundane and brutal, poured over them like ice water. Natasha went still. Her pulse hammered in her throat, in her wrists, between her legs. She slowly pulled her hand from under Hannah’s shirt, the air cooling her damp skin. She sat back on Hannah’s thighs, looking down at her.
Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a lust so profound it looked like confusion. Her lips were swollen, her breath coming in short pulls. She’d never looked more undone, or more beautiful.
Hannah reached up, tracing the line of Natasha’s jaw. “I know,” she said softly, answering the unspoken frustration. “I feel it too.”
She drew Natasha down for one last, soft kiss. It was different now—slower, but deeper, a silent communion of mutual ache. There was no clumsiness in it. It was familiar, a known language they were already beginning to speak fluently.
They untangled themselves. The apartment was too quiet, the sunlight too bright. They ate a silent, swift breakfast of toast, standing at the counter. Natasha couldn’t taste it. Every nerve was still tuned to the frequency of Hannah’s moan, the feel of her skin.
They dressed for work in separate rooms, a practical and painful distance. When they met again by the door, Hannah in a soft sweater and Natasha in dark jeans and a jacket, the air crackled.
“Tonight?” Hannah asked, her hand on the doorknob.
Natasha just nodded, not trusting her voice.
The day was a fog. Natasha’s hands, usually so precise on a keyboard or a sparring dummy, felt foreign. They kept remembering weight, heat, the specific resistance of a nipple between her fingers. During a tedious security consult, her mind replayed the high, punched-out sound Hannah had made, and she had to shift in her chair, grateful for the dark wood of the conference table.
Across the city, Hannah’s day was no better. Sitting in a foster child’s cluttered living room, taking notes on a unstable family dynamic, her body hummed. The memory of Natasha’s intense concentration, her fierce obedience to instruction, the look of awestruck lust on her face, was a persistent loop. It made her thighs press together under her notebook.
Later, in her own quiet apartment, Hannah couldn’t settle. The silence was too empty. She ran a bath but didn’t get in. She poured a glass of wine and left it full.
Finally, she gave in. She lay back on her bed, the same bed that had felt too big for years. Her skilled hands, which knew every way to bring a woman pleasure, went to work on herself. But her mind wasn’t on technique. It was on a specific redhead. On wide, pale green eyes clouded with wanting. On clumsy, determined hands learning their first lesson in giving pleasure.
She pictured Natasha’s focused frown, the way she’d tucked her head to listen. She imagined those hands on her, now with more confidence. The fantasy was potent, immediate. It didn’t take long. Her climax rolled through her, warm and deep, her back arching off the mattress.
In the quiet aftermath, she sighed, a soft, unsteady sound in the dark room. Her skin felt oversensitive, her body humming. She thought of the sixty percent, and a slow, anticipatory smile touched her lips. It was going to be a very long week.
It was going to be a very long week.
Three days passed in a taut, stretched silence. Natasha functioned. She ran perimeter checks on her building’s security out of habit, not need. She answered emails with terse, professional efficiency. Every mundane action felt like a cover for the low, persistent hum in her bloodstream, a frequency only Hannah’s touch had ever tuned. Her own body felt like an unfamiliar asset, one suddenly broadcasting confusing signals. The ache between her legs was a new, persistent alert system.
She stared at her phone, a sleek black rectangle that felt more dangerous than any weapon. The last message was from Tuesday, a simple ‘Made it home’ from Hannah. The conversation thread was a sterile monument to her own paralysis.
On Thursday evening, the silence became untenable. The memory of Hannah’s breathy ‘harder’ was a drumbeat in her skull. She picked up the phone, her thumbs hovering over the screen. The action felt more vulnerable than disarming a bomb. She typed, deleted, then typed again, forging the message like a mission brief.
Natasha: Are you available this weekend.
She hit send before she could strategize further. The whoosh sound was a point of no return.
The reply came almost instantly.
Hannah: Yes. Very available.
A sharp, bright relief stabbed through Natasha’s chest. She exhaled, a tension she hadn’t fully acknowledged unwinding from her shoulders. A follow-up impulse, a surge of giddy, private triumph, took over. She opened a different thread, one labeled ‘Notes,’ her private digital log for processing overwhelming intel. She began typing a raw, unfiltered status report.
But her focus was split, her mind already racing ahead to logistics, to the terrifying, glorious possibility of seeing Hannah’s bare breasts, of putting her mouth on them. Her thumb slipped. The intended note never made it to her private log.
It went to Hannah.
Natasha: She said yes to meet. God, she’s so mommy. I hope I can see her boobs this time and maybe even suck them.
Natasha stared at the screen. The seconds stretched, thick and syrupy. Her blood turned to ice, then fire. A malfunction. A catastrophic, irrecoverable system failure. She watched in mute horror as the ‘Delivered’ notification became ‘Read.’
The three dots appeared. They pulsed. They vanished. They appeared again.
Hannah: ?
The single character was a bullet. Natasha’s stomach dropped through the floor. The phone fell from her numb fingers, clattering on the hardwood. She scrambled for it, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled twice. The screen was a courtroom.
Panic was a white noise siren in her ears. She typed, her vision blurring, the words a frantic flood of damage control.
Natasha: Hannah. That was not for you. It was a mistake. A terrible error. I am so deeply sorry. That was a private note, a thought I was logging for myself. It was inappropriate and disrespectful and I have compromised everything. Please disregard it. I understand if you no longer wish to meet. I have no excuse.
She sent it. The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum sucking all the air from the room. She paced, a caged animal. Five minutes. Ten. Each second was a judgment. She imagined Hannah’s face, the warm confusion hardening into disgust, into pity. The ‘mommy’ thing. It was absurd. It was revealing. It was over.
In her apartment across the city, Hannah sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand. Her initial confusion had been genuine. The text was so graphically at odds with Natasha’s usual clinical distance. Then the apology flooded in, a river of stark, desperate regret.
Hannah read the accidental text again. ‘She’s so mommy.’ The words settled in her belly, warm and heavy. A slow, deep blush spread across her chest. It wasn’t disgust she felt. It was a startling, jagged bolt of heat. The contrast was electrifying: Natasha, the lethal, guarded woman, thinking that about her. Needing her like that. Using that word.
She imagined it. Natasha, breathless, those intense eyes clouded, whining that word into her neck. ‘Mommy.’ A soft, pleading sound. The fantasy unfolded, vivid and unbidden. Natasha, vulnerable and wanting, giving over that fierce control with a single, needy term.
Hannah’s breath shortened. She typed a response, then deleted it. It wasn’t right. Not yet. Natasha was in a tailspin, interpreting this silence as condemnation. Hannah needed to think, but her body was already ahead of her mind, throbbing with a sudden, wet ache.
She put the phone down, screen-up, on her nightstand. She lay back, the cool cotton of her sheets a contrast to her heated skin. Her hand slipped under the waistband of her pajama shorts. Her fingers were clever, knowing, but tonight they felt impersonal. She reached for the Womanizer in her bedside drawer.
The device’s quiet hum filled the room. She closed her eyes, and Natasha was there. Not the poised Avenger, but the woman from this morning, the one who had stared with awe at a pink bra. Hannah thought of her wetting the bed, that quiet shame, and the trust it took to allow Hannah to see it. She imagined cupping her, not through a pull-up, but directly, feeling that same helpless dampness for a different reason. She pictured Natasha pressing her face into Hannah’s stomach, whimpering that word as a plea, as a prayer, as Hannah’s fingers worked her into a shaking, sobbing release.
The orgasm was swift and devastating, wracking her body with deep, silent tremors. She rode it out, the fantasy so potent it left her limbs weak. The afterglow was a haze of possessiveness and tender hunger.
She finally picked up her phone. Natasha had sent two more messages. At
Natasha: I will understand radio silence.
Natasha: I am sorry.
Hannah smiled, a soft, private thing. She typed back, her body still humming.
Hannah: Breathe. It’s okay. We’re still on for the weekend.
Hannah: And for the record… I liked the memo.
She sent it, then added one more line, her pulse jumping at her own boldness.
Hannah: Get some sleep, little girl.