Chapter 11: Game Day
The corridor outside the home team locker room was a throat of cool, shadowed concrete, a stark contrast to the blistering sun baking the pitch outside. The distant roar of the gathering crowd was a muffled wave. Skye leaned against the cinderblock wall, her cleats scraping the floor, the bulky shoulder pads making her seem even broader. She smelled of grass and pre-game sweat.
Grace felt utterly, deliciously exposed.
The white dress was a whisper against her skin, the thin cotton doing little to hide the tight points of her nipples or the fact that she’d followed a reckless, thrilling impulse. The neckline plunged, the hem flirted with the tops of her thighs, and the pink floral detailing felt like a flag she was waving just for Skye.
“You look…” Skye’s voice was husky. She shook her head, a slow grin spreading. “Fuck, Grace. You’re trying to kill my concentration before we even start.”
“That’s the opposite of the plan,” Grace said, stepping closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She placed a hand on Skye’s hard, padded chest. “You’re going to be amazing. Just focus on the game. See the gaps. Hit hard.”
“I’d rather hit you,” Skye murmured, her eyes dark.
“After.” Grace’s voice was firm, surprising herself. She rose on her toes, her hands cupping Skye’s jaw, careful of the mouthguard dangling from its strap. “Win. Then I’m all yours.” The kiss was deep and lingering, a promise that tasted of mint and adrenaline. Skye’s hands, big and strong, squeezed her hips, threatening to crease the pristine white cotton. “Now go,” Grace breathed, pulling away.
She hurried back to the stands, the sun hot on her bare shoulders, hyper-aware of the empty space between her legs, the subtle glide of fabric against her most sensitive skin. She found her seat, a knot of nervous energy.
When Skye exploded onto the pitch, Grace’s world narrowed to her. The way she commanded the scrum, her shouts crisp and authoritative. The powerful drive of her legs as she broke through the defensive line. Grace screamed herself hoarse, leaping to her feet when Skye scored the first try, her fist punching the air. Every time Skye landed a tackle, the solid thud of bodies echoing, Grace felt a jolt of primal satisfaction. She played magnificently, a relentless engine of force and strategy, and when the final whistle blew, their team had won by fourteen points.
Grace waited, buzzing, near the players’ entrance. The team trickled out, a river of mud-streaked, exhilarated women. Then Skye appeared, her kit filthy, a fresh scrape on her cheekbone, her long hair a damp, tangled mess. She was glowing.
“You were incredible,” Grace said, her smile so wide it hurt.
Skye didn’t answer with words. She grabbed Grace, pulling her into a crushing hug that smelled of earth, salt, and victory. Grace glanced quickly left and right. The corridor was clear. She met Skye’s lips in a fierce, tasting kiss, licking the salt from her skin.
“Congratulations,” Grace whispered against her mouth.
“Thanks to my lucky charm,” Skye growled. Her eyes flickered down the empty hall towards the locker room door. “Come on.”
“Skye, it’s the team room—”
“Empty. I was the last one out. Shower’s still running.” Her grip on Grace’s hand was irresistible.
She pulled Grace inside. The room was humid, smelling of steam, cheap soap, and damp concrete. Benches were scattered with discarded towels and tape. The showers hissed in the adjacent room. Skye pushed the main door closed with a definitive click. The sound echoed.
Grace’s back met the cold metal of a locker with a soft clang. Skye was on her immediately, her mouth hot and demanding, her muddy hands sliding down the white dress, leaving dark smudges. Grace moaned into the kiss, her own hands tangling in Skye’s sweaty hair.
“I thought about this all game,” Skye panted, biting at Grace’s lower lip. “About you in this fucking dress. About what you weren’t wearing under it.” Her hand cupped Grace between the legs, a rough, direct pressure through the thin cotton. Grace cried out, her hips jerking. “Yeah,” Skye hissed. “Knew it.”
She reached for her sports bag, dumped on the floor, and rummaged inside. When her hand emerged, it held the familiar harness and the sleek, silicone cock. Grace’s breath hitched. Skye’s eyes were blazing. “Brought it hoping. Was that okay?”
Grace answered by turning around, facing the locker. She heard the soft rustle of Skye undoing her shorts, the click of the harness. Her own movements were deliberate. She gathered the hem of her white dress in both hands, pulling the fabric up slowly, over her thighs, her ass, until it was bundled around her waist.
The cool, damp air of the locker room hit her bare skin. She was completely exposed from behind, her pussy naked and vulnerable. She pressed her forehead against the cool metal, her hands flat against the locker above her head.
“Fuck, Grace,” Skye breathed, a sound of pure awe. Her hands, now clean but still calloused, gripped Grace’s hips. Grace felt the blunt, smooth press of the toy at her entrance, already slicked. Skye leaned over her, her body a furnace against Grace’s back, her mouth at Grace’s ear. “You’re so fucking ready for me.”
She pushed in. Not slow, not gentle. A hard, claiming stroke that filled Grace utterly, punching a ragged scream from her lungs. Skye’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the sound.
“Quiet, baby,” Skye whispered, but there was no teasing in it, only raw need. “They’ll hear.”
Then she started to move. Deep, punishing thrusts that slammed Grace against the locker with every drive. The metal rattled softly in its frame. Grace whimpered against the palm of Skye’s hand, her eyes squeezed shut, her world reduced to the brutal, exquisite friction splitting her open. This was different from the hotel, from their bed. This was stolen, dirty, drenched in the scent of Skye’s game and her own reckless desire.
“Take it,” Skye grunted, her rhythm relentless. “Fucking take it. My good girl. My lucky charm.” Each word was punctuated by a drive of her hips. Grace could feel the power in them, the same muscles that had broken tackles now fucking her into the locker. The hand not covering her mouth slid around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles.
The orgasm built like a storm surge, terrifying and inevitable. It tore through her, a silent, convulsing wave that made her knees buckle. Skye held her up, fucking her through it, her own breath coming in sharp gasps. Grace felt Skye’s body go rigid behind her, a shuddering groan hot against her neck as she came, her hips stuttering, pressing deep and holding there.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant shower. Skye slowly withdrew, her hand falling from Grace’s mouth. Grace’s legs trembled. She let the dress fall, the cotton now stained with mud and dampness, clinging to her sweaty skin. She turned, leaning back against the locker for support.
Skye was disconnecting the harness, her hands unsteady. She looked wrecked and magnificent. They stared at each other in the stark fluorescent light.
“Well,” Grace finally said, her voice a wrecked whisper. “That was one hell of a thank you.”
Skye’s laugh was a low, rough sound in the quiet room. She stepped closer, her fingers gently tracing the muddy handprints staining the white cotton on Grace’s hips. “It was. But the night’s young. Come for post-game drinks with the team. At The Boot.”
Grace’s stomach tightened. She looked down at the smudges, then back up at Skye’s hopeful, eager face. “Everyone? Skye, I… I don’t know if I want everyone to know about us. Not like this, not all at once.” The memory of the hotel, their own private world, felt safer.
“It’ll be fine,” Skye said, her voice softening. She took Grace’s hands. “Look, everyone on the team knows I’m a lesbian. I’ve never hidden it. And I’m not the only one on the squad. It’s just my friends. They’ll be cool. I promise.” Her thumbs stroked Grace’s knuckles. “I want you there. I want to be with you, not just in here.”
Grace searched her eyes, seeing the vulnerability beneath the confidence. This mattered to Skye. She exhaled, a slow release of tension. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” She nodded, a small smile touching her lips. “But you need to get changed. You can’t go smelling like a locker room and victory sex.”
“Says who?” Skye grinned, but she bent to her bag.
Grace worked on her dress, smoothing the wrinkled cotton, licking her thumb to rub at the dark smudges from Skye’s hands. The stains lightened to faint grey ghosts. Skye shucked off her kit, using a damp towel for a quick, efficient cleanup. She pulled on clean, dark jeans and a simple green shirt that made her eyes look like deep forest moss.
They walked to the bar under a sky bleeding orange and purple. They didn’t hold hands, but their shoulders brushed, their arms swinging close enough that their knuckles sometimes touched. The silence between them was comfortable, charged with the aftershocks of what they’d just done.
The Boot was a cavern of warm wood and low light, empty except for one long, roaring table crammed with rugby players. The air smelled of fries, beer, and celebration. The moment they crossed the threshold, Skye’s fingers laced firmly through Grace’s. The contact was a bolt of electricity.
She didn’t hesitate. Skye led them straight into the heart of the noise, her grip unwavering. “Hey, shitheads!” she announced, her voice cutting through the laughter. The table quieted, a dozen friendly, curious faces turning toward them. Skye lifted their joined hands. “This is Grace. My girlfriend.”
A beat of silence. Then a tall woman with a shaved head whistled. “Finally!” she barked, and the table erupted in cheers, laughter, and a chorus of “About time!” and “Get her a drink!”
Grace felt a blush burn its way from her chest to her hairline. She leaned into Skye’s side, the thrill a live wire in her veins, buzzing louder than any fear. It wasn’t just acknowledgment. It was a welcome.
It was a welcome. Glasses were thrust into their hands, cold and beading with condensation. Grace squeezed onto a bench between Skye and the tall woman, Sam, who immediately launched into a story about Skye missing a crucial tackle during freshman year because she was too busy checking out a girl in the stands.
“She’s evolved,” Sam laughed, clinking her pint against Grace’s. “Now she just dates the girl in the stands.”
Grace’s laughter felt real, unforced. She told them about studying kinesiology, about the relentless balance beam routines, and they listened with genuine interest. A forward named Jess, her arm in a sling, asked thoughtful questions about muscle recovery. The conversation flowed around her, through her. Skye’s hand remained a warm, possessive weight on her thigh under the table, but above it, Grace was just Grace. Not a secret. Not a confused girl blushing in a shared bedroom. She was Skye’s girlfriend, and she belonged here, in the roar of this post-game euphoria.
“Another round!” someone shouted.
“Kiss her!” another voice yelled, cut off by a shove.
But the chant was picked up, a rhythmic thumping of fists on wood. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Grace met Skye’s eyes. Skye’s expression was a question, her brow slightly raised. A year of hidden looks, of terrified what-ifs, flashed between them in the dim light. Grace answered by leaning in first. The table erupted as their mouths met. It wasn’t a chaste peck. It was deep, a reclaiming of the taste of each other, now flavored with lager and salt. Skye’s tongue slid against hers, and Grace forgot the crowd, the noise, everything but the warm, familiar slide.
When they broke, breathless, the team was howling. Sam pounded the table. “Okay, okay, we believe you! Jesus.”
Skye, her eyes dark with a sudden, playful hunger, didn’t pull Grace back onto the bench. Instead, her hands went to Grace’s hips. In one smooth, strong motion, she lifted Grace and placed her on the solid oak tabletop, right beside the pitcher of beer and a basket of half-eaten fries. Grace gasped, her hands flying to Skye’s shoulders for balance. The wood was solid beneath her thighs.
“They want a show?” Skye murmured, just for her. Her voice was a low vibration that went straight to Grace’s core. Then Skye kissed her again, one hand cradling the back of Grace’s head, the other braced on the table beside her hip. This kiss was even slower, more deliberate, a blatant performance of ownership and desire. Grace melted into it, her fingers tangling in Skye’s hair, her legs parting slightly where she sat. The team’s roar was a distant thunder. All she knew was the slick heat of Skye’s mouth and the hard press of the table edge against the backs of her thighs.
Later, much later, the neon signs of The Boot blurred into the quiet residential streets. Their shared house was dark except for the porch light. They walked slowly, hands linked, their steps in sync. The cool night air was a balm on Grace’s warm skin. She felt weightless, saturated with the ease of the evening.
“I want to tell Jenna,” Grace said, her voice cutting the quiet. “And Marco and Li. I don’t want to… sneak in our own home.” She remembered the careful silence after the hotel, the unspoken agreement to keep the world at bay. That world didn’t feel so threatening anymore.
Skye stopped, turning to face her under the yellowish glow of the streetlamp. Her expression was soft, utterly open. “Yeah?” The single word was thick with hope.
“Yeah.”
Skye kissed her then, a slow, tender press of lips that held the entire night’s joy in it. “I’d love that,” she whispered against Grace’s mouth.
They climbed the creaking porch steps. Skye fumbled with her keys, the metal jangling. The front door swung open into the dark, still living room. As Skye pushed it closed behind them, the latch clicked into place with a sound of profound finality.
In the sudden, complete darkness of the hallway, Skye’s hands were on her immediately. They slid from Grace’s waist around to her ass, palms gripping the bare flesh beneath the rumpled white dress. Grace gasped as she was pulled flush against Skye’s body. Skye’s mouth found her ear, her breath hot.
“You have no idea,” Skye whispered, her voice rough, “how fucking sexy you looked tonight in this dress. Sitting on that table. Letting them all see you’re mine.” Her teeth grazed Grace’s earlobe. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. While I was talking to Jess, while Sam was telling that stupid story.” Her hands squeezed, fingers digging in. “I need you to fuck me, Grace.”
A shiver, sharp and electric, raced down Grace’s spine.
“I need you to put me on my hands and knees,” Skye continued, her words a hot, filthy stream in the dark. “I need you to keep this perfect, dirty dress on and use that strap on. I want you to fuck me into my pillow until I can’t remember my own name.”
Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs. She turned in Skye’s grasp, finding her lips in the darkness. The kiss was desperate, all tongue and teeth. “Show me,” Grace breathed.
They moved through the dark house by memory, past Jenna’s silent door, down the hall to their room. Skye closed the door and flipped the lock. The click was softer than the front door’s, but more intimate. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes across Skye’s bed.
Skye didn’t turn on a light. She shucked off her jeans and shirt in the near-dark, her movements swift. Then she crawled onto the bed, onto her hands and knees, her back beautifully arched. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes glowing in the moonlight. “You know where it is.”
Grace’s fingers trembled only slightly as she opened the drawer of their shared dresser. She found the harness and the dildo, the silicone cool and familiar. She kept the dress on, just as Skye asked. She pulled the harness up her thighs, fastened it snug around her hips. The weight of the toy was a promise.
She climbed onto the bed behind Skye. The sight was profoundly lewd: Skye’s strong back, the curve of her ass, the wet gleam already visible between her thighs. Grace ran a hand down the length of Skye’s spine, feeling the muscle tremble. She positioned herself, the blunt head pressing against Skye’s soaked opening.
“Now,” Skye growled, pushing back against her. “Don’t be gentle.”
Grace obeyed. She drove forward in one long, smooth stroke, burying the entire length inside Skye’s clutching heat. Skye cried out, a muffled sound shoved into the pillow. Grace held there, overwhelmed by the feeling of absolute fullness she was causing, by the tight, velvety grip around the silicone.
Then she pulled back and slammed home again. And again. She set a brutal, pounding rhythm, the smack of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings loud in the quiet room. The white dress rustled around her thighs with every thrust.
“Fuck, yes,” Skye moaned into the pillow, her words distorted. “Harder. God, just like that. You feel so fucking good.”
Grace leaned over her, bracing one hand by Skye’s head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises. She fucked into her with a focused, driving intensity, each thrust chasing the tight, hot coil of her own pleasure. She could feel Skye’s body tightening, convulsing around the toy.
“Come for me,” Grace commanded, her voice a stranger’s—low and gritty with power. “Let me feel you come on this cock.”
Skye screamed, the sound swallowed by the down pillow. Her back arched violently, her entire body clenching in a series of relentless pulses around the toy. The wet, squeezing rhythm pushed Grace over the edge. Her own orgasm tore through her, a silent, racking wave that locked her joints and stole her breath as she pressed impossibly deep, grinding against Skye as they both shuddered.
Her own orgasm tore through her, a silent, racking wave that locked her joints and stole her breath as she pressed impossibly deep, grinding against Skye as they both shuddered. For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged, gasping breaths and the settling bedsprings. Grace stayed inside her, hips flush against Skye’s ass, feeling the slow, final pulses around the silicone. Sweat cooled on her back beneath the white dress.
Skye’s muffled voice came from the pillow. “Don’t you dare pull out yet.”
Grace laughed, a breathless, spent sound. She flexed her hips, a shallow movement that made Skye whimper. “Demanding.”
“You have no idea.” Skye pushed back against her, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. The movement reignited a low, simmering spark deep in Grace’s belly. The exhaustion was there, but beneath it ran a current of pure, unspent possession. Skye’s submission, the raw trust in her arched back, was a drug.
Grace wasn’t done.
She slid her hand from Skye’s hip, up the sweat-slick valley of her spine, and tangled her fingers in the long, dark hair still held in its game-day ponytail. She fisted it tightly, right at the base of Skye’s skull, and pulled. Not hard, but with undeniable authority. Skye’s head came back, her spine bowing, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.
“That’s it,” Grace murmured, her voice dropping into a gravelly register she barely recognized. She began to move again, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by a hard, punctuating thrust. The sound was wet, obscenely loud. “Let me hear you now. You were so quiet for the team. Be loud for me.”
She yanked Skye’s head back further, exposing the long line of her throat. Skye moaned, a raw, open-mouthed sound that filled the moonlit room. “Grace—fuck—”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Grace said, picking up the pace. Her thrusts became harder, less controlled, driven by the filthy symphony of Skye’s cries. Each drive forward was accompanied by a sharp, stinging crack as Grace’s other hand came down on Skye’s round, reddening ass. The spank wasn’t playful; it was a demand for focus, a punctuation mark to the rhythm of their fucking. Skye jerked, crying out, pushing back into both the slap and the penetration.
“You like that?” Grace growled, spanking her again on the opposite cheek. The flesh was hot under her palm. “You like being my good little fuck-toy after your big win?”
“Yes!” Skye screamed, the word breaking into a sob. “God, yes, don’t stop!”
Grace fucked into her with a punishing pace, the bed slamming against the wall. She leaned close, her mouth at Skye’s ear, the ponytail still wrapped around her fist like a rein. “Remember the hotel? Your boot laces around my wrists?” She punctuated the memory with a particularly vicious thrust. “I’ve been thinking about returning the favor.”
Skye’s whole body tensed. “Please.” It was a whisper, then a shout. “Please, Grace, do it. Tie me up. Use them. I’m yours.”
Grace pulled out abruptly. Skye whimpered at the sudden emptiness, collapsing onto her forearms. Grace swung her legs off the bed. The harness felt heavy, the toy glistening. She went straight to Skye’s kit bag by the door, unzipped it, and rooted past the damp jersey. Her fingers closed around the long, coarse laces from her rugby boots. They smelled of leather and grass and sweat.
She returned to the bed. Skye watched her, eyes wide and dark, chest heaving. “Hands behind your back,” Grace ordered.
Skye complied instantly, shifting onto her side to offer her wrists. Grace wound the stiff lace around them, pulling the knots tight with a deliberate, cruel efficiency. She remembered the bite of the material, the helpless thrill. She was replicating it now, binding Skye’s strong, capable hands together. When she was done, she gave the bound wrists a tug. “Good.”
She pushed Skye back onto her knees, the position was more vulnerable now, Skye’s balance precarious with her arms secured behind her. Grace took her place, lining up the slick head of the toy. She didn’t ease in. She shoved, a single, brutal re-entry that made Skye cry out and sway forward.
Grace grabbed the ponytail again, using it to steady her, to pull her back onto the thrust. “That’s how you want it, right?” she snarled, setting a ruthless, driving rhythm. “Like you’re just some slut I paid for? Just a hole for me to use?”
“Yes!” Skye sobbed, the word shuddering out of her with each impact. “I’m your slut, your fucking hole, use me, please—”
Grace fucked her like she meant to break her. The noises were animalistic: the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the choked, sobbing moans Skye couldn’t contain. Grace watched her own small, pale hands, one fisted in dark hair, the other gripping a bound wrist, controlling every jerking movement. The white dress was soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a second skin.
Skye’s cries climbed, becoming ragged, desperate shrieks. “I’m—I’m gonna—Grace, I’m gonna come!”
“Not yet,” Grace commanded, but she could feel Skye’s body clenching, rippling uncontrollably around the toy. She was too close. With a final, mighty thrust, Grace drove Skye’s face down into the pillow, smothering the scream as Skye’s orgasm exploded. Skye’s body convulsed, a violent, shaking storm against her, the binds straining as her muscles locked.
Grace held her there, buried deep, as the tremors subsided into weak, continual shudders. Slowly, gently, she pulled out. Then she leaned over the bound, trembling form. She hooked her hands under Skye’s arms and pulled her upright, onto her knees. Skye was boneless, her head lolling back against Grace’s shoulder.
Grace wrapped one arm around Skye’s chest, holding her close. With her other hand, she brushed the sweaty hair from Skye’s neck. Then she lowered her mouth. She kissed the junction of neck and shoulder, then sank her teeth in. It wasn’t a love bite. It was a claim. Skye whimpered, a broken, blissful sound, as Grace sucked a dark mark into her skin. Grace trailed open-mouthed kisses down the cord of her shoulder, marking the path, her tongue tasting salt.
Skye moaned, a weak, thready sound of utter submission and adoration. She leaned her full weight into Grace’s hold, her bound hands limp behind her. Every quiet whimper, every shuddering breath, was a testament. She was utterly spent, and she loved every lewd, brutal second of it.