382 – The Fire Rises ❤️❤️
Calcine had never seen Morgan look so relaxed. Earlier, when she'd pressed Heatstroke into the dirt, the Murkrow had seemed almost drunk on the Salazzle's voice breaking into desperate, husky moans. Her shadows had curled possessively around her prey, her feathers ruffled up in that way that made Calcine's chest tighten. Morgan had been letting loose, soaking up the attention, riding the crowd's roars like they were her personal anthem. And Calcine? She had loved seeing Morgan like that. She had wanted to give her more. Let her be herself without any need to throw up a guard.
That was why she had taken on Hustle in the first place, so Morgan could indulge herself, untethered, while Calcine handled the heavy lifting. She had barely known Hustle, had exchanged only a few curt, dismissive words before she'd had the horse woman sprawled out beneath her. Calcine's heavy body had pinned Hustle down, smothering her chest to chest, her heat seeping into the mare as she loomed over her with a glare that would have made a Trainer proud. She had slapped Hustle's thick, monstrous cock up against her own abs with a sharp, humiliating smack that had made Hustle jolt, then grabbed it with both hands, marveling at the sheer weight and heat of it, the way it had throbbed like it had its own desperate heartbeat. It had been too thick to handle with anything less, Calcine had needed both hands to truly show it the reverence it demanded, and she had made a decadent show of that, dragging her palms slow and firm along the slick shaft, teasing the sensitive ridges with the edges of her thumbs, making sure the crowd saw every stroke.
She had squeezed just enough to keep Hustle panting, her movements deliberate, taunting, curling her hands in tandem to drive the mare to squirm and gasp, to make her whole body jerk under her like a startled colt. Calcine had relished how Hustle's polished muscles had flexed and bunched under the strain, betraying every weakness even as she had tried to act strong. The sheer strength beneath Hustle's oiled skin had been impressive, muscles rolling along those powerful hips and thick-cut flanks, but under Calcine's skilled hands, all of it had been reduced to a quivering, needy mess. She had delighted in its delicious contradiction, how a body built for stamina and power had melted down to helplessness under the right touch.
Beneath all that bluster and muscle, Hustle had been desperate for someone to take control. Calcine had seen it in every trembling breath, every flick of her gaze avoiding eye contact, her voice catching and cracking in ways that had told Calcine she was far out of her depth. It had made Calcine's Steam Engine sing, how easily she could make this big, strong, cocky mare crumble just by giving her what she secretly wanted. To be handled, to be shown her place, to be reduced to a mess beneath someone stronger, hungrier, bolder. Calcine had reveled in that power, in knowing that despite Hustle's size and strength, it had been Calcine who held her breath, who dictated her every shudder and every buck of those powerful hips. She had whispered into Hustle's ear as she'd stroked that cock, feeding her need for affirmation, letting her know just how good a girl she was being.
She had adored the way Hustle's thighs had tensed tight beneath her butt, how those strong hips had bucked desperately into her grip, like Hustle couldn't stop herself if she had tried. The mare's breath had hitched, her voice falling into broken, pleading little sounds that had widened Calcine's smirk.
Calcine had leaned in close, so close her lips brushed the flick of Hustle's ear, whispering filth and cruel praise, her breath hot and heavy against flushed skin. She had told her exactly what the crowd was seeing, what a pretty, needy, eager mess she was, how easily Calcine could make her crumble in front of everyone. And the crowd? They had eaten it up. Their cheers had rained down like fire, chanting Calcine's stage name, Embers, as Hustle had writhed and whimpered beneath her, reduced to a spectacle. Every tortured moan, every helpless buck of those powerful hips, every jerk of Hustle's leaking, glistening cock. The energy from the stands at the show had been electric, like the entire arena had leaned in, hanging on every tortured moan, every jerk of Hustle's hips.
She had felt untouchable. Adored. Worshipped. She hoped Brandy and Sparky were left absolutely drooling at what she was doing.
Calcine had also wanted Hustle to feel that adoration so they could bask in it together. She'd even caught herself hoping Mercury would see this someday, that the horse-lady would see what she'd face next time she tried to cross Brandy. It wasn't the sex that Calcine enjoyed; it was the way others would see her doing a good job and feel excited. Proud of her. Thirsty for their turn.
That was when Morgan had approached with Heatstroke, led like she was on a leash. Her grin had been sharp, her shadows licking at her heels as she walked with a swagger in her hips. Calcine could see the smug slight tilt to Morgan's hat, the way her crimson eyes sparkled as she strutted up like she owned the ring.
When she got her hands on the Murkrow later? Calcine would give her exactly what she needed. She'd be broken down, and then thoroughly adored. She could already picture it, the way Morgan's bravado would flutter away, feather by feather, until all that was left was a shivering, gorgeous mess. She would make sure Morgan basked in every second of adoration, filling her head with love so she wouldn't ever even think that her team didn't want her. It was Calcine's duty to give Morgan that surety. To fuck her so thoroughly, so completely, she'd never have to wonder if she was loved again.
Hustle had to do until then. Morgan's shadows had pinned Hustle's chest while Calcine had gripped her hips from behind, and she'd worked the horse-girl over, driving her to the edge, forcing her to feel every inch as she claimed her ass. Together, they would have dismantled them both, stroke for stroke, push for push, matching each other's rhythm until the couple had been left mewling and overwhelmed in each other's arms.
That was the plan. Calcine had thought she had it all under control.
But now? Now, Hustle stood tall, soft hands steady, blushing cheeks lifted with a quiet confidence that sent a dangerous thrill through Calcine's chest. She'd been broken down, but all it'd taken was a touch of Heatstroke to regain her confidence. The horse woman drew strength from her partner, and they'd just forced them together.
Heatstroke glared over Hustle's shoulders, her eyes devouring Calcine with hungry, open admiration. There was no jealousy in what Calcine had done to Hustle, only an eager want. Heatstroke's gaze traced every glowing rivulet running under her skin, licking her lips like she wanted to taste them all. Green fire dripped from her mouth, and a few drops hit Calcine's skin.
Calcine shuddered. Arceus, that flame made her burn inside. It wasn't normal fire. The green fire didn't burn her body, but slid through the cracks. It was burrowing into her head, clouding her thoughts, dragging out her instincts. Poisonous fire, not a Move, but Heatstroke's ability. Corrosion. Able to ignore all of Calcine's Type advantage and chew her up from the inside. Calcine's Steam Engine roared hot and loud, but her focus? Now that was slipping.
Calcine clenched her jaw, trying to force it down, but she could feel it already, just like with Sharpy's bite. She wasn't going to win this match with a clear head tonight.
That was fine. Calcine didn't need a clear head for this kind of fight. Not tonight.
"Let them have a chance?" Morgan said, "They're clever ladies."
"Won't help them." Calcine growled, "But if they want us so bad, they can give it their best shot."