The Soccer Star: Part Two

Zoe Parker looked up the second her apartment door clicked. She had been expecting no one, but there stood Yhivi—still flushed from the time they spent slick on bathroom tile. The soccer star’s white tank clung to her breasts, fresh sweat and condom-slick fingers giving her the scent of sex. Zoe strode over bare-legged, crotch already damp from the image she’d been replaying alone on her couch. She didn’t ask why Yhivi had bolted or what the notebook was for; she wanted the journalist’s mouth back between her legs, this time on cotton sheets instead of cold porcelain. Yhivi opened her mouth to announce she’d come for round two of the interview, yet Zoe yanked her wrist and pressed the writer’s palm flush to soaked cotton. The heat pulsed right through the fabric. With a low laugh Zoe peeled the tank above her nipples, the pale skin taut, little dark smudges where teeth had marked her earlier. Yhivi swallowed and almost followed the kiss Zoe offered—hot, open, impatient for the journalist’s tongue inside her. But duty pressed in. Yhivi stepped back, clutching the notes. She rattled off the first unanswered question about the championship final. Zoe sighed, lifted the journalist’s free hand, and drew the long middle finger into her mouth, curling her tongue around it the way she remembered the touch on her clit. The muscle play sent an obscene slickness straight to Yhivi’s own panties. Zoe released the finger with a wet pop. She dropped to her knees on the hallway rug, sliding Yhivi’s briefs aside. Two quick strokes along swollen folds, the narrow labia already pulsing. The scent of earlier sex lingered. Yhivi started another question, words stuttering when Zoe flicked the tongue exactly over the clit hidden beneath its tight hood. A short heartbeat, and Zoe hooked two fingers, pressing up toward the spongy ridge inside, reminding the younger woman how perfectly those fingers had made her spill before. Yhivi steadied herself against the wall. Half formulated phrases left her—corner kicks, sponsorship contracts—because Zoe was relentless, opening her, licking wide, then teasing a feather-stroke. Slick ran between Zoe’s knuckles, a wet echo every time she curled. Yhivi broke, spread her thighs wider, notebook sliding from numb fingers onto the wood floor. Zoe’s chuckle vibrated directly against her clit, the vibration arriving with every lick like an electrical current. At the first wordless plea, the star gave in, abandoning thoughts of sport or brand or reporter’s deadline. They moved through hallway shadows into the living room. Yhivi stripped hurriedly; Zoe peeled last, thighs gleaming under the mid-afternoon window. Soon her mouth returned to purpose—Yhivi flat on her back, knees drawn up, cunt facing up, glistening. Zoe dragged her open with thumbs until the soft pink walls showed, then lapped a long stripe, the taste sharp and sweet and laced with their shared slick. Her own labia brushed the couch cushion, hips grinding to grind out friction when Yhivi, gasping, curled fingers against Zoe’s braid and guided the pace. Each shallow thrust of Zoe’s tongue coincided with the lazy drag of a fingertip across Yhivi’s inner thigh, tracing shallow circles before diving back inside. Zoe’s own need hammered. She shifted position, bringing her shaved mound flush to Yhivi’s mouth in sixty-nine. Yhivi obliged instinctively, lips parting wide around the swollen clit. For a moment sound was replaced only by the obscene chorus of two mouths drawing sharply at wet flesh: suction, tongue strokes, tiny cries that popped soft at the back of the throat. Pelvises began the slow, rolling grind, cunt on tongue; tongue on cunt, rhythm growing slicker, heavier, until the tension pitched. Both shuddered together, thighs clamping and releasing, ankles tightening, the rough moisture trickling onto the sheets in warm drops. Afterward, sweat cooling, Zoe rolled to her elbow and waited, expecting the follow-up queries. Instead Yhivi lay with fingers curled loosely in the soccer star’s hair, whispering that perhaps the questions could wait until morning. Zoe kissed the soft flesh just under her belly-button and laughed, sound half-muffled by the journalist’s skin. She had won this round, but the clock was ticking.