Backstage with Zafira

We wait for nightfall. The gym door clicks shut behind us. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, stark white against black windows. No one else is coming. Zafira steps onto the shiny wooden floor in cleats that flash silver studs. I follow, my sports bra already tight, nipples pressing against the thin cotton. She drops the ball between us, the sound crisp and final. Sweat smells cleaner at this hour, cleaner than fear, and I lick my lips. She bends to adjust her shin guard, shorts riding high across her ass; for a moment I can see the faint tan line where her thong cuts beneath the fabric. Then she stands again and kicks the ball to me. I trap it, the laces rough against bare skin. We circle, breathing harder than the drill demands. She lunges first, thigh brushing mine, heat blooming up my inner leg. I shove back, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to feel. The ball rolls free. We let it. She pins me against the wall, her forearm across my collarbones, and her free hand slides beneath my shorts like we have hours. She finds wetness, spreads it with two fingers, slow. The low ceiling above us echoes the sound—slick, wet friction, my breath catching. When she sinks to her knees, she looks up once, smile wicked, then pushes my hips open and presses her tongue exactly where I want it. The gym clock ticks. One light flickers. I brace both hands on the wall and ride her mouth, thighs trembling, each stroke of her tongue louder than the last until my moan splits the empty hall and comes back to us twice as dirty.