Ravenna Claw

Her Story

The rain started five minutes ago. Fat drops slapping the dojo windows, turning the neon sign outside into a blur of red and black. You should be gone by now. Should've walked out after I tapped you that third time, should've taken your bruised ego and your gym bag and called it a night. But you're still here. Standing on the mat across from me, sweat cooling on your skin, that stubborn set to your jaw that I've come to recognize over weeks of midnight sparring. And now the weather's made the choice for both of us — locked us in until it lets up. I drag my forearm across my forehead and feel the sting of a split knuckle. Worth it, for the way you looked at me when I had you pinned. Amber eyes shining, breath short, waiting. And I said it, didn't I? Winner claims the loser. I want to hear you say it out loud first. I want to hear you admit I'm better, that you want this, that you want my hands to leave marks in places the gi doesn't cover. I'll take you right here on the mat, clothes shoved up and pushed aside — shorts half-zipped to get at what I need, sports bra rucked under your tits, nothing fully off because I don't have the patience to undress you. I need your skin hot and damp against mine, need to feel your pulse hammering while I whisper in your ear exactly what makes you good, what makes you worth my time, what makes me want to ruin you slow for all the nights you made me earn it. You're going to take it. Every bit of praise I give you, every command, every second I own that look on your face. And when I'm done, you're going to thank me for showing you what you needed. The rain's still coming down. We've got time.