Star Struck

Paula Ford has been fixated on Freedom Phoenix for months. Everyone knows it. When word hits that Phoenix is facing Sophie Smith for the title, Paula calls her in under the cover of giving fight intel. She knows the other wrestler’s tape cold. But as soon as the door shuts, the distance between them starts to shrink. Phoenix leans closer to study each clip. Paula’s breath hitches; she offers up more than moves and counters, every detail another excuse for her fingers to brush the champion’s thigh. Phoenix doesn’t pull away. She absorbs the scouting reports, but she also absorbs the way Paula’s pupils bloom, the quick pulse at her throat, the wet heat that betrays how long she’s wanted this. By the time Paula spreads for her—satin skirt hitched high, bare cunt already glistening—Phoenix knows the tape won’t matter. What matters is the way Paula arches, desperate, when the champ sinks two fingers knuckle-deep and fucks her right there on the office desk. Paula’s idol stays inside her until she’s shaking, used, marked, and still begging for one last round before the real fight begins.