Wolves in Sports Bras

[RockRye]

Avery remained still, her expression perfectly composed but her anticipation alive and electric under her skin as Tomas followed her invitation. He climbed over her, his movements unsure yet deliberate, straddling her midsection with a weight that made her stomach tense instinctively. She met his gaze with a polished, welcoming smile that was anything but genuine, all part of the game she so effortlessly played.

As his hands found her shoulders, she could feel the uncertainty in his grip, which gradually firmed as he gained some semblance of confidence. When his fingers crept closer to her collarbone, pressing down with a tentative but noticeable pressure, a spark of excitement flared in her chest. Avery relished the precarious line between control and relinquishment, though she was far from ceding the latter. Tomas seemed content to hold her in place from his mounted position, his offense ending there. That suited Avery perfectly. It gave her the opening she wanted, the moment to test him, prod him, and uncover the triggers that could test this composed demeanor.

Her body tensed with precision and grace, the muscles in her core and back engaging in a coordinated effort. Slowly but purposefully, she lifted her legs high despite the weight of his body pressing into her midsection. Her legs arced upward, her toned thighs framing his torso as her feet and ankles rose near his face, gently brushing against his neck and cheeks.

“Now,” she began, her voice a mixture of authority and casual curiosity, “if I were going to counter this mount, this would be my start. Legs up, hooking under your chin like so.” She tilted her head slightly, her smile shifting into something mischievous. “Your move. What are you going to do about it?”

Of course, her true aim hidden beneath the guise of instruction. Avery wanted to see if Tomas would falter, testing for a deeper, more personal vulnerability she could exploit that so many men seemed to share. With that mischief in mind, she let a foot shift against his jawline.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás stiffened slightly the moment her legs began to move—not out of fear, not quite, but wariness. The kind that lived in the body, not the mind. Her thighs rose with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sort of motion that looked effortless but carried weight and intent. He could feel it. Her calves bracketing his ribs. The subtle lift of her hips beneath him. And then—her feet. They ghosted against his jawline, soft but deliberate. A brush. A test. His jaw tightened, but not in resistance. It was something else.

He blinked once. Brief. Sharp. A flicker of distraction that made its way across his face before he could kill it. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to be real.

Avery’s voice floated up between them, even and measured, but laced with something unspoken. Something that made the air feel heavier. He didn’t meet her eyes immediately. He was too focused on the way her ankles pressed lightly into either side of his neck, threatening to tilt this entire balance toward something else—something he hadn’t planned for and didn’t have a response to.

He swallowed once, quietly. She asked a question—perfectly timed, of course. A challenge. A dare, even.

Tomás shifted his weight, but not decisively. His hands, still on her shoulders, slid down a few inches, as though he were going to push himself upright, but he hesitated. His muscles were coiled, but without direction. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do in this position—not in a wrestling sense, not in a tactical sense—and her body, poised like a sprung trap beneath him, made every move feel like a potential mistake.

Muay Thai never trained you for this. You were taught to finish the fight before it hit the floor. You were taught to break the rhythm, not play into it. Right now, he was in it—deep. And she knew it.

Her foot brushed again, this time more confidently against the edge of his cheek. He inhaled, slow and tight. He didn’t back away, but his posture shifted—unconsciously. A tilt in his spine. A faint loss of his centerline. He should have moved. Should have repositioned. Should have leaned back or dropped into her hips to pin her properly—but instead, his grip tightened slightly at her shoulders. Not hard. Not forceful. Just reflexive. Grounding himself.

“I... don’t know,” he said, low and rough around the edges, honesty bleeding through before he could stop it. “This isn't my game.”

His voice carried no shame, but it didn’t carry confidence either. Just blunt truth. That dangerous edge of not knowing what came next—and feeling the heat of that uncertainty settle somewhere in his chest. Still, he didn’t get off her. Not yet. Maybe he was testing her too now. Maybe he just wanted to see where this would go. But he was aware—painfully aware—of how close she was to having complete control.

[RockRye]

Avery’s advantage over nearly everyone in her life, whether in the ring, in business, or in moments like these, had always relied on her ability to read people. She caught even the smallest of details, and Tomas’ faint flinch was no exception. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. She couldn’t immediately draw any conclusions from it, but she mentally filed it away.

For now, she resisted the urge to prod at potential fetishes outright. Though she didn't care to “teach” Tomas anything, Avery found herself entertained by the idea of seeing just how much she could get away with under the guise of being helpful. After all, the less he learned, the more he would serve as another plaything and one less obstacle in her way. A queen of sessions always needed more prey for her thighs.

She let her body relax beneath him, her piercing gaze watching his every move. The way he held himself above her, a mix of rigidity and hesitance, was as amusing as it was revealing. He was holding his position, but the tension in his frame made it clear he was on edge. Worse still, he was waiting. Whether out of caution or indecision, he wasn’t so much as reacting, and that was all the opening she needed.

Avery smiled faintly, her voice cutting through the silence like silk with just a hint of a sneer. “You’ve taken too long.”

Before Tomas could react, Avery moved. Her legs snapped into action. She jerked her feet into place on either side of his cheeks with precision, her ankles crossing in an X beneath his jawline and pressing firmly against his throat. With a flex of her legs, she pulled him down by his neck.

The reversal ended with Tomas flat on his back, sprawled helplessly in her lap. Avery sat up with an almost regal flourish, her blonde hair falling over her cheeks as she locked her legs in place, her toned calves and ankles ensuring his neck stayed firmly trapped. Her smirk deepened as her arm slid between his legs, curling underneath and toward his chest pull him into a tight, inverted roll-up, though his shoulders resided on her thighs rather than on the mat. She would have been able to hold him here until he found a way to escape or submitted to the discomfort.

Her positioning was deliberate. Tomas’ legs framed her shoulders awkwardly, and her bicep pressed against his bulge in a way that was far too intentional to be written off as coincidence. Avery leaned slightly forward, letting her body weight and grip emphasize her control while her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Now,” she began, her tone light, barely avoiding her usual condescension, “this is what happens when you hesitate.” She shifted slightly, just enough to draw attention to the hold, ensuring Tomas felt every inch of her advantage.

She tilted her head, letting her golden locks frame her face as her smirk widened. "Hesitation, Tomas, is just another word for weakness. Now, can you get out?”

[GoingBananas]

The snap of her legs around his neck came before he could even think to move.

One second, Tomás was still locked in that half-measured stance above her, trying to figure out what came next, and the next—he was down, dragged with sudden, shocking force. Her calves clamped tight across his throat, crossing just beneath his jaw, and the mat slapped his back with a dull thud that echoed in his ribs. His instincts flared late, muscles reacting to a beat behind the trap. It wasn’t just the hold—it was the precision of it that made the back of his neck burn hotter than the surrounding pressure. He’d hesitated. And Avery had capitalized. With grace. With clarity. With something that felt like rehearsal.

His breath hitched as her ankles flexed against either side of his jaw, cutting off the space he needed to breathe comfortably. Not choking him, not yet. Just reminding him that she could, whenever she wanted. Her thighs bracketed his head like a vice. The pressure was sharp, but the positioning—god, the positioning—was what undid him.

Her body settled atop his chest in a way that made it feel less like grappling and more like a ritual. His legs lay awkwardly splayed, his back conforming to her lap as if he belonged there. And then she shifted again, slow and sure, rolling him slightly until her bicep nudged there, deliberate, intimate. His pulse spiked. It wasn’t just the hold—it was the proximity. The way she made him aware of every part of her at once.

Then came her voice. He clenched his jaw, more to keep from letting something slip than out of defiance. Her words weren’t wrong. He had hesitated. And now he was paying for it—trapped, humiliated, with her looking down at him like a queen surveying the wreckage of a pretender. Pain pulsed faintly at the base of his skull, creeping along his neck where her ankles locked. It wasn’t unbearable. Yet. But it was growing. His breath came shorter now, not panic, but a controlled kind of desperation. She was giving him a chance—mocking him while doing it—but a chance all the same.

Her question rang sharply in his ears. He didn’t answer right away. Because part of him was distracted. The brush of her heel against his cheek. The flex and shift of her thighs each time she made a point. The scent of her skin, clean sweat and something light, just sweet enough to throw him off balance. And then the pressure down low—her bicep curled under him in a way that blurred the line between technique and suggestion. It made thinking harder than it should have been.

But Tomás wasn’t here to be broken—not like this. Not yet.

His hands came up, cautious but steady. He didn’t know the proper escape. He didn’t know the textbook counter. But he started to push—not against her hold directly, but at her hips, trying to shift her center of gravity just enough to loosen the scissor. It was a clumsy beginning, pure guesswork born from instinct, not training. His legs tried to brace. His core tightened. He didn’t care how awkward he looked doing it. All he needed was an inch of air.

“No.” he rasped, finally answering her with a dry voice and a spark of something under it. “But I’m not out yet.” He didn’t say more. He couldn’t. Between the pressure, the heat, and the jolt of unwanted arousal tightening in his gut, talking was suddenly a luxury he could barely afford.

[RockRye]

Avery’s smirk blossomed like a thorny flower as she peered down at Tomas, taking in the cracks spreading through his shaky composure. He had been trying so hard to keep it steely, hadn’t he? But she could see it unraveling beneath her, quite literally. Her calves, feet, and ankles bore down on his neck and jaw, not enough to choke him, but enough to create discomfort and a clear sense of danger.

For a moment, she indulged in the satisfaction the position brought her. She had never considered crushing and trampling as part of her fetish repertoire, but perhaps she should reconsider. The lowest and lowliest parts of her body had become a work of art and power. Her feet flexed slightly, her ankles creating a taut, sculpted line that framed Tomas’s chin. Her calves pressed firmly into his throat, threatening but calculated. She glanced down, observing the interplay of her limbs against his jawline with a detached fascination, as if admiring her work. As if getting off on her work.

But only for a moment. She remembered herself, quickly erasing the smirk. She was his trainer, after all. This was about teaching him, or so the story went. Yet a flicker of satisfaction remained, deeper and more primal than she cared to admit. Crushing him like this, so effortlessly, so completely, sent a thrill through her.

A subtle shift caused her bicep to work more tightly against his crotch, an additional humiliation for him, though not her focus. She noticed his hands on her hips as he finally tried to muster an escape. His effort, while present, was questionable at best. Avery tilted her head, pretending to consider his chances, and then spoke with a low, sultry confidence.

"My hips?" she mused. "Darling, they’re much too thick for that to work. You’d need more than just your hands to move me."

To emphasize her point, she bore down harder, her calves tightening like steel cords and becoming a solid wall of muscle. The effect amplified the pressure. After several seconds of crushing his neck, she lowered her voice to a whisper and let her lips hover over his ear. "Roll," she ordered, her voice soft but commanding as if revealing his escape route.

The instruction was laced with deceit. She didn’t want him to escape. Far from it. She wanted him to roll so she could pounce on his back and make his predicament even worse. She bit back a smile, already envisioning how she’d capitalize on his movement.

[GoingBananas]

The pressure around his throat intensified—slowly, precisely—until it became something Tomás couldn’t ignore. Not just pain. Presence. Her calves flexed like coiled cables around his neck, and the subtle grind of her ankles adjusting beneath his jaw sent jolts of awareness racing up his spine. This wasn’t a frantic scramble for dominance. This was methodical. A demonstration. A lesson in humiliation.

He grit his teeth, jaw straining beneath the cradle of her feet, her ankles, her control. The frosty edge of discomfort ran alongside something warmer, something he didn’t want to name but couldn’t deny. Every part of her body pressing into him told him one truth: you’re not in charge here.

And then she spoke. That voice, sultry and measured, curled in his ears like smoke. He didn’t look up—he couldn’t—not with her thighs cinched so close, but he could hear the smile in her tone. He felt it too, in the sudden clamp of muscle that made his airway flutter with warning. Her taunt echoed under his skin, stoking the helpless heat building in his gut, and for a moment—just a breath—he forgot this was training.

It didn’t help that her bicep shifted beneath him again, dragging across the front of his shorts with clinical indifference. He tensed from instinct, but there was nowhere to shift without grinding himself deeper into the hold. His hands faltered against her hips, unsure whether they were meant to resist or surrender.

Then came her whisper. “Roll.” One word. Simple. But it hit him with weight. Tomás didn’t have a grappler’s mind—he wasn’t trained to decode deception in submission holds. And when someone like Avery, coiled around his throat with practiced elegance, gave an instruction… he took it.

He moved.

His body turned with effort, his core twisting as he tried to shift to his side. It wasn’t clean—he was off-balance, half-blinded by the squeeze of her legs, the lingering press of her limbs clouding his focus—but he obeyed. Rolled.

He didn’t know it was a mistake. Didn’t know she was baiting him. He just wanted out. Just wanted to breathe. And in that desperation, he gave her exactly what she wanted.

[RockRye]

It wasn’t in anything obvious, since he was far too proud to openly concede defeat, but the subtle cues were enough for her sharp, discerning eye to see that Tomas remained lost on the bottom of this exchange. The flicker of concern in his gaze, the stiffness in his body as it lay up against hers, and most telling of all, the way his hands clutched at her hips, not with defiance but something bordering on resignation, told the story that he needed a cute to have so much as a chance to escape. He might have lain there until even the gentle pressure of her ankles robbed him of consciousness.

It would be so easy to mock him, to let her silver tongue loose with a biting quip about how his grip on her curves wouldn’t earn him any favors. Instead, she leaned into her role, hiding her intentions behind a veneer of poised instruction.

And he obeyed, beginning his roll. "Good, good," she murmured, her voice dripping with faux approval as her ankles eased their pressure. She feigned surprise, letting out an exaggerated “Ooooh!” as if his effort to obey her, utterly misguided as it was, had impressed her. Her body slackened, her form purposefully shifting just enough to give him an opening. She could feel him seizing on it, twisting awkwardly beneath her to escape the vice of her thighs, turning onto his stomach.

The moment he shifted, Avery struck like a serpent. Rising smoothly onto her knees, her thick, powerful thighs straddled the small of his back, pinning him down with the inevitability of a predator closing in on its prey. Her chest, soft but unyielding, pressed firmly against his shoulders as she leaned forward, her blonde hair tickling at the back of his neck. One arm snaked beneath that neck, her bicep brushing his throat in a threatening prelude to a choke, though she refrained from applying pressure. Yet.

Her icy blue lips hovered just above his ear, the warmth of her breath brushing his skin as she spoke in a voice low and velvety, meant for him alone. “Even when you make the right move, darling, you have to be decisive,” she "instructed," still hiding the teasing behind a professional tone. “Hesitate for even a second, and you’ll find yourself right back where you started.” Her free hand trailed teasingly along the line of his jaw before withdrawing, a deliberate reminder of her control.

She didn’t squeeze yet. The real art of dominance, after all, wasn’t in brute force but in making her opponent understand that their fate was entirely in her hands. She wanted to see how he reacted.

[GoingBananas]

The second Tomás felt the pressure of her ankles lessen, hope flickered through him—flickered and, foolishly, flared. His body twisted into the roll she coaxed, desperate for leverage, desperate for air. For a moment, there was lightness, an opening, the naive belief that he could get free if he just moved fast enough, wanted it badly enough. But that hope shattered the instant Avery shifted.

Her thighs clamped around his lower back like iron gates swinging shut, her weight settling onto him with a devastating finality. Tomás grunted under the sudden crush of her body pinning his hips, his chest flattening against the mat. His hands splayed uselessly at his sides for a second, disoriented by how quickly the ground seemed to vanish from under his plans.

He barely registered the soft brush of her hair against the nape of his neck before he felt it—the warm, coiling threat of her arm sliding beneath his chin. His pulse quickened. Instinct made him tense, as if sheer willpower could stop what was happening, but even that was stripped from him piece by piece. She was careful. Precise. She didn’t need to choke him yet—knowing she could was enough.

Her voice slipped into his ear, thick with that polished, almost maternal mockery she wore like perfume. Every word vibrated against his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Decisive. That’s what she said. As if he hadn’t tried. As if this hadn’t been a trap from the first goddamn breath he took when he walked into this room. Her hand trailed his jawline, light as a feather, leaving a trace of heat behind it. A reminder: she owned this moment. She was choosing not to finish him. Yet.

Tomás squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, jaw clenching under the weight of the lesson. Muay Thai taught you to attack, to control space, to dominate standing. But grappling? Grappling taught you humility—or forced it into you. Here, strength didn’t matter. Position mattered. And right now, every inch of him was compromised. Still, he didn’t submit. He dug his palms into the mat, trying to push himself upward despite the crush of her hips pinning his lower back. It was clumsy, a blind scramble for leverage. He tried to shift his shoulders side-to-side beneath her chest, knowing instinctively he needed space—any space—if he was going to turn this around.

But deep down, part of him knew: every move he made was just another thread for her to pull. Still, he moved. Still, he fought. Even if he had no map. Even if the path was already closing around him like a noose. He wouldn’t just lie there. He couldn’t. Not even for her.

[RockRye]

Avery felt a thrill at how utterly clueless Tomas seemed as she latched onto his back like a predator locking in on its prey. Her arm coiled around his neck, snug but not yet squeezing with the full power she was capable of, while her legs anchored around his sides, locking her body firmly into place. It was almost intoxicating to feel him writhing beneath her, trying to throw her off with movements that had no hope of breaking her hold.

Her lips curled into a sly smirk as her mind wandered back over his expressions. Was his struggle purely about not knowing how to counter this type of offense, the LAW style throwing him for a loop after his rigid, disciplined training? Or she wondered, as her smirk deepened, was there a part of him that enjoyed this treatment? Maybe it was a subconscious thrill he didn’t even realize, but Avery couldn’t ignore the delicious possibility that she might be teaching him something about himself as she tightened her hold, aiming to leave him both physically and mentally spent. She would bring it up before this ended with him unconscious and her with a video to present to her gracious benefactors.

Her ample frame pressed against him, her breasts grinding against his shoulder blades as he shifted beneath her. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “You’re putting up a decent fight... against someone fifty pounds lighter and far weaker than me. But let me show you what I can do from here.”

With that, she shifted her weight suddenly and decisively, throwing her hips to the side. The motion of her thick lower body rolled them over, reversing their positions so that she ended up on her back with Tomas above her. It looked like he had gained an advantage, but in truth, she had only deepened his peril.

Avery’s arm flexed, her biceps bulging as she tightened the rear naked choke. The veins in her forearm and biceps stood out as she applied about half of her potential power, just enough to make him panic, to send fire through his lungs, but not enough to end it just yet. Her legs hooked over his hips, her feet locking in place, dangerously close to his crotch as an added threat, pressing just enough to remind him of her dominance.

She hissed into his ear, barely holding back the condescension, “Go ahead, Tomas. Find an escape… or tap out. Let’s see what you’ve got left.”

Her grip pulsed slightly, her muscles hardening for just a moment as if to tease the idea that she could end it any second if she wanted to.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás barely had time to register the shift before the world tilted again. One moment, he was pinned under her weight, locked tight between her thighs and the creeping thread of her arm across his throat. The next—her hips rolled, smooth and savage, flipping them over in a way that left him straddling her body awkwardly, like he’d somehow seized control.

Only he hadn’t. Not even close.

The second his weight settled above her, Avery’s arm cinched tight across his neck, cutting through the space between breathing and not-breathing like a knife through paper. He grunted low, hands flying instinctively to her forearm as her bicep flexed against his throat, the power behind it alarmingly real despite the so-called “instructional” pretense. His fingers scrabbled for leverage, pulling at her arm, but the pressure only grew tighter, closer, like a noose slowly ratcheting closed.

Avery whispered against his ear, her breath hot and infuriatingly calm. He barely caught the condescension wrapped up in her silk-soft tone—too busy fighting the surging burn in his lungs, the primal pulse of panic threatening to override every bit of composure he still clung to.

His body strained against hers, but it was useless. She was in complete control. Her legs hooked over his hips with brutal precision, her feet locking just below his waist, pressing close enough to remind him exactly how vulnerable he was. He tried again—gripping at her choking arm with both hands, elbows tucked, fighting against the leverage she had—but he was no grappler. His instincts screamed at him to strike, to elbow or wrench free, but that wasn’t the game here. That wasn’t allowed. Not if he didn’t want to lose even worse.

And then, as if to pour salt into the open wound of his struggle, her voice cut into him again, low and merciless.

Find an escape, or tap out.

The flex of her arm made the fire in his throat blaze hotter, his air thinning into shallow, ragged pulls. His face burned, a deep flush climbing from his chest up his neck as humiliation pressed just as heavily as the choke. He wanted to push back—wanted to fight harder—but even through the haze of desperation, he realized something brutal and undeniable: He didn’t know how. Everything she had accused him of—hesitation, lack of decisiveness, lack of adaptation—it all slammed into him at once, sharper than the ache tightening in his jaw. Stronger than whatever is stirring and growing between his legs.

Still, he refused to tap. Tomás’s pride, stupid and raw as it was, anchored him there. His hands dug into her arm, straining to create space. His hips shifted, trying to slip sideways, to do something—anything—that would get him even one inch closer to escape. But deep down, he knew: This was her moment. And she was going to make damn sure he understood it.