Orfevre

The internet was still running hotter than lava with the fresh news of Orfevere’s triple crown victory. Fans across the globe were still busy singing praises for her and cheering her on, and the thunderous claps of the crowd was still fresh in your mind, making your heart leap with joy. The announcer’s stunned announcement of Orfevere’s win seemed just like a second ago. It was only natural, given that it occurred just this afternoon. And the chaos that ensued included much entanglement of limbs and loud cheers and praises. At least…for the first good hour and a half.

But when you had regained your bearings, you found yourself alone with Orfevere within the confines of the locker room. As your eyes flicked to the lavender eyes belonging to the Empress, she spoke — her assertive voice taking a foreign tone you couldn’t quite place your thumb on.

“Trainer. Look over here.”

She crossed her hands to pull her shirt and yanked it off, landing on the stone floor with a light thud, revealing the drenched black sports bra. She inched toward you, inch by inch — forcing you to take startled backsteps behind you. She moved forward, and you backwards. Without a moment to react, you sharply hit your foot against the wooden bench. Startled, she taunted you and used her hands to shove you against the floor. And within a second she toppled and sat on top of you, remaining astride you.

Watching her sat astride you, one singular thought crashed through the lightheadedness that occupied your mind. She was absolutely flawless to you. And you could tell that her skin was still covered in the sheen of post-victory sweat, flawless and perfect. It did little to reduce the friction, the charge of their interaction. It did the exact opposite.

She wore a lacy black that outlined her thighs. However, unlike before the start of the race, it was still wet with sweat sticking and accentuating the curves as much as possible. The kind of curves impossible to ignore, to avert your eyes from, especially when it was pressed against you. The muscular thighs you guessed could deadlift five hundred kilograms, possibly six hundred — were used to straddle you and pin you down to the floor, rooting you to the spot. However, vexingly, it was soft as well. A complete paradox that you didn’t dare complain about. And before you could give it any more thought, reach out for your chin. Her fingers gripped it hard, and forced your head to look at her.

“Right here.” she ordered, and you were only too happy to comply — your hard-on was actually hurting.

Her right hand pulled up the last layer of cloth, exposing her fair skin onto the fresh air. Her breasts were pert and perfect, her nipples hard and aroused, surrounded by pebbled flesh, and by the Three Goddesses did you want to massage, knead and suck on them.

“Trainer. It’s been a long while since we’ve met, haven’t we? And even from the start your eyes were always looking at me, eye-to-eye. Wandering all over me and my figure. I liked it back then. I still do now. I just simply want…. other things as well.” A brief pause entered the conversation, as she let her unclasped bra fall onto the floor, her now free left hand reaching out for your pants waistband eagerly, hungrily. Her prize, unclaimed from the Triple Crown victory.

“And, a tyrant claims what she wants. And what I want right now is….” Her palm rested right against the zipper above your crotch, her sturdy fingers pulling the metallic pin downward, slow and steady, as if she knew this was a race she would win, just like every other race. “This.”