The Danger Room smelled of ozone and machinery, but I barely noticed. My mind was on her—on Laura. The way she moved, the way she filled a space without trying. The way her ass poked out from behind her just enough to let you know how big it was she shifted, thighs flexing standing there like she owned the world.
She stood at the far side of the room, arms crossed, chest lifted, every inch poised and lethal. My pulse spiked the moment I stepped inside. There she was, calm, stoic, untouchable—and yet, every subtle sway, every flex of her thighs, every tight curve of her ass was an open invitation I couldn't resist.
"Three minutes," she said, voice flat, steady, like she was reading a grocery list. "Last against me without falling, or I win."
I swallowed, muscles coiling, heartbeat hammering. Three minutes. Three minutes of circling her, pivoting, dodging, and being close enough to feel her. To brush my hands along curves I'd dreamed about since the kitchen. My body thrummed with anticipation.
"You're on," I said, voice rough, eyes tracing the sway of her hips, the tight curve of her ass, the thick, powerful line of her thighs. Three minutes of touching her. Just three minutes.
We started circling. The first few seconds were measured, testing distance, gauging balance—but my eyes, my god, they weren't on her hands or face. They were on her ass, bouncing slightly as she pivoted. On the thick thighs flexing under denim, muscles solid, heavy, begging to be felt. Every sway of her hips sent my gut twisting, pulse racing, blood hot.
I let my hand brush hers—accidentally, of course. Shoulder, arm, hip, thigh. Every contact, minimal or "accidental," ignited fire in my chest. Her body was a weapon and a tease, every pivot and shift of weight a silent invitation. I wanted to press my hands against her, cup her ass, slide along the small of her back, but I had to maintain some pretense of combat.
She lunged, and my hand brushed her hip. Just a touch. But I felt it—her ass pressing slightly as she pivoted—and it was enough to make my stomach twist violently. She didn't flinch, didn't glance. Stoic. Untouchable. That only made me want it more.
Every dodge, every pivot, every brush against her body became a craving, a pulse of obsession. My hands ached to explore: along the firm, tight line of her thighs, the bounce of her ass with each shift, the sway of her hips. My thoughts turned filthy—press my hands there, grip, feel, never let go. And every time I brushed her, the smallest contact sent sparks through me.
She moved like water, hips swaying, ass flexing, thighs tight as cords of steel. My hand grazed her thigh during a pivot, and my chest tightened. Ass brushed my side, hips flexed, and I wanted to groan out loud. Her body was perfection, lethal, controlled, and intoxicating.
The timer ticked down. One minute left, sweat slick on my skin, pulse hammering, muscles trembling—not from exertion, but from pure need. Every brush of thigh, every sway of ass, every pivot and flex consumed me. I was on fire, desperate, lost in obsession.
She feinted, hips shifting, ass bouncing, thighs flexing, and I let my hands graze her arms, shoulder, and back. Tiny touches, accidental or so I claimed, sent heat ripping through me. Her stoic face betrayed nothing, but every subtle sway of hips and bounce of ass screamed "look at me, feel me, want me."
Thirty seconds. I clenched my fists, shaking, trying to keep control, trying to balance surviving the spar with touching her. But the second her thigh pressed lightly against mine as we spun past, I nearly lost it. Every nerve in my body alive, every thought a filth-drenched fantasy of her ass and thighs pressed under my hands.
The timer ended. She stopped, calm, evaluating me silently. Hips shifted subtly as she turned, ass brushing my side, thighs flexing with every step. My chest throbbed. Every muscle ached with need.
She leaned close, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her voice was low, almost casual. "I'm not wearing any underwear."
I froze. My mind exploded. Every brush, every sway, every flex I'd felt, every second of accidental contact—it all became magnified, filthy, irresistible. Her stoic delivery made it worse. No teasing, no flinching, just the statement and the proximity. Every nerve in me ignited.
She stepped back slowly, hips swaying, ass bouncing, thighs tight, leaving me flush, trembling, desperate, obsessed. I couldn't stop thinking about it—the feel of her curves pressed against me, the thought of her bare beneath the denim.
Alone now, I sank to the floor, back against the wall, knees bent, letting myself indulge. Hands slick with sweat, I circled and stroked, every touch sending shivers through me. Every time my fingers moved, I imagined them pressed to her hips, cupping her ass, sliding along the thick line of her thighs.
Her hips. Her ass. Her thighs. Every motion from the spar replayed in my mind. Every sway, every flex, every brush became a filthy fantasy, and I matched it with the rhythm of my own hands. The heat coiled in my gut, spilled into my chest, mind screaming with want.
I groaned, biting my lip, circling faster, harder, imagining pressing into her, feeling the tightness of her ass, the solid weight of her thighs under my hands. Every nerve in me pulsed. My body trembled. Sweat slicked skin, chest heaving, breath ragged. I pictured her stoic gaze, the tiny tilt of her head, the sway of her hips as she let me chase her, tantalizing me with every flex.
Every stroke, every press, every imagined brush of our bodies sent me spiraling. Pulse hammering, fingers slick, muscles taut, mind lost in lust. The fantasy became more vivid—hands pressing, thighs flexing, ass shifting under me—and I let myself groan loud, let the tension build until I couldn't hold it anymore.
And then—release. Heat crashing through me, pulse spiking, hands slick, mind drenched in filthy obsession. Every imagined touch, every sway of hips, every bounce of ass burned in my memory. I shuddered, trembling, flushed, utterly consumed.
I slumped against the wall afterward, chest heaving, sweat dripping, body spent but alive. Even spent, the memory of her—the sway, the flex, the bounce—clung to me, intoxicating and relentless. I was obsessed, desperate, wholly consumed by desire, and I knew it wasn't going away anytime soon.