Another would-be hard landing is prevented by Carl Casagrande getting flipped over from an expertly-applied throw as his back slams against the soft padding of his karate foam mat.
He sees stars burst behind his closed eyes momentarily, not knocked out for a loop enough to feel his adrenaline ebb as he catches his breath through soft pants—his sweat-soaked chest brushes against his loose-fitting gi.
His blurry eyes open, first seeing muddy smears that quickly come into focus—at first, he sees his room from his vantage point from the floor. And then, what was once a pale, dark brown-topped blob looking over him melds into the familiar shape of the person who put him here in the first place.
She still has him by the wrist, her petite fingers curled tightly around it.
She still has her taunting smile, gleaning in victory from another successful takedown.
She still has his number, and she's quick to remind him of that fact as she says, a teasing inflection pulsing in every syllable, "Too slow, Carl."
Adelaide makes sure to roll her tongue off the "l" because she knows it annoys him and sure enough, Carl growls and swats her gripping hand away, assuming another stance as he staggers back to his feet. He charges at her with wild abandon and history repeats itself.
Again.
For the thirtieth time since their sparring outside of Par's class started two weeks ago.
"Too slow, Carl," she taunts again, her foot pressing squarely in the middle of his heaving chest.
Her sassiness is starting to wear his patience thin. But then again, he's the one who asks for this. He acknowledges Adelaide is his superior and wants to surpass her. It only makes sense for him to test his skill against hers every other day of the week after increasing the rigors of his training regimen.
But alas, so far effort does not equal the gains that can finally topple Adelaide off of her perch.
"I don't blame you if you wanna quit," Adelaide says with a prominent sneer that glows with playful condescension, her eyes narrowed into slits as her arms fold. "But don't worry; I won't like you any less."
He contemplates it for half a second and it dawns on him that it's half a second longer than he's ever considered giving up. He knows he needs to makes a move soon before his resolve completely shatters from stooping in yet another bout of utter failure.
He waits for her foot to slide off before he leaps back up, ready for another round.
"Oh ho ho," she chortles. "Still want more? Fine. I've got more enough butt whooping just for you, Carl Casagrande."
He cracks his neck, clenches his fists, and scowls. "We'll see about that, Adelaide Chang!"
And with a mighty yell, he goes for yet another blind rush, inching ever closer towards his smirking adversary...
Outwardly, nothing changes ten years later.
Carl's still the more physically imposing one in the equation, but it's wrought meaningless as he finds himself turned upside down and thrown on his back.
Inwardly, though, everything's changed and Carl senses that Adelaide knows it, too.
Along the way, age presents Carl with a revelation. Several, actually.
He likes his very attractive best friends' body warmth and curvy figure incidentally pushing into him as she throws him about.
He's more than happy to catch glimpses of her cleavage with each sway of her modest chest under her clothes.
He soaks in every second she straddles him after a takedown, relishing in the way her lithe thighs pinch his sides as she holds him down. From there, he can't deny how great being powerless feels once she has his arms gripped by his wrists and pinned at the side of his head.
He had once been in fear that she'd find out and really give him a good thrashing for being such a pervert, but last month's last bout of sparring put an end to his anxiety. He had been on his stomach, his arm twisted from behind as Adelaide clambered onto his back. He was ready to try and squirm his way out until he felt her press more of her body against him—completely flat as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, her breasts flattened against his shoulders, "That all you got, chica?"
When she let go and he allowed himself to "recover" (aka will his budding hard-on from getting worse), he had looked up and found the unmistakable red coating of a fiery blush paint across her face and the gentle pink flesh of her lower lip clamped down by her overbite. Her eyes, half-lidded and radiating with sultry smoke, had nearly made him swell up again.
Presently, eyes closed and gasping for air, his stomach coils and his nerves blaze with fire as he waits for Adelaide's next move. Sure enough, he feels her body weight scramble over his lap and the skin-tingling surface of her fingers slip under his gi to grip the heated, bare flesh of his shoulders—they deftly push into his muscles, and he sighs dreamily with a shiver as her magic drips through tight tendons and marinates his bones. His eyes open half-mast and he watches her tilt her head to the side—her grin follows suit.
"Too slow, Carl~," she purrs huskily, and there's no mistaking the evil delight sparking up the fire in her earth-toned eyes or the passionate flair of her blush glowing on her cheeks.
She leans down, and he can feel her breath puffing against his nose from her panting from exhaustion, as if she's worn out from tossing him to and fro. But he knows better, and not even the brain-melting scent of her apple cinnamon body wash can make him think without clarity—she's struggling to keep herself together, much like he is.
"Give up?" she whispers, and it sends a jolt of electricity through his lower body, pumping life into the tent that he knows she can feel in his gi, smushed underneath her hips as they "accidentally" push into him as she subtly shifts and squirms about.
Despite his own blush betraying his unfazed front, he matches her moxie and shakes his head with a matching smirk. He's aware of what she means by "giving up". He knows that she gets off on this, too, and he also knows that she knows that he's privy to that fact. At this point, it's a game that they silently agreed to the terms of long ago—the true winner would be the one that didn't give into their hormones first.
But Adelaide throws a wrench in the usual fares. Instead of getting up and letting Carl go at her again, her devious hands grab him by the wrists.
What was once a playful smile shifts into a predatory, challenging sneer that shows her teeth and her full intentions bare. "Then buck me off. If you can."
Carl's more than happy to acquiesce, but soon realizes just how difficult it'll be under an innocent pretense—with his arms immobilized and his legs unable to throw her off from her current position, he can only buck his hips about, thrashing them into her groin.
And as soon as he does, swiveling his body up and down to create some kind of leverage for himself, Adelaide moans, no doubt feeling his erection through their clothes as it pushes against her groin. She bucks back just as hard, and the friction their bodies create makes him hiss through his teeth.
They moan and writhe about, gis shifting about and divulging scant inches of their sweaty bodies. His eyes roam to the globes of her breasts, hidden beneath nothing but her karate outfit and her pink, frilly bra—the pink flesh nearly matches the crimson hue blotting all over her face. Her back arches as she grinds into him harder, and the motions makes the swell of her butt clamp around his bulge.
Their mouths are so close, and the scent of her peppermint breath is ambrosia, an elixir of intoxication that inebriates him further down the path of the hindbrain of a savage beast. Somehow, whether by his intent or hers, their lips get closer—he can almost taste whatever fruity, sparkly lip gloss coats her mouth.
The tight, steel band around Carl's chest squeezes and his heart thumps louder and harder in response. His breath hitches, excitement and arousal coursing through every limb in his frame—namely the extra "leg" that continues getting kneaded by the curves of Adelaide's shapely derrière pushing into it.
And then she moans again, a tiny squeak that scrambles his brain and shatters his will to pieces.
He closes the gap, molding his lips to hers. Her eyes widen from the initial shock and the grip on his wrists loosens. His free hands find the hot skin of her face as they cup her cheeks, the fervor of his lips against hers thrilling his red-hot libido. Their eyes close as she kisses him back, and she's the first one to open her mouth wide enough for his tongue to slide through.
The grip on her jaw tightens reflexively as the smooth, wet surface of her tongue teases his gums, runs over the back of his teeth, and massages his own. Their moans reverberate sweet buzzing down his spine, and it tingles him like nothing else. His hands sweep up her face and thread through her hair, getting to her scalp with devious swirls of his fingers.
Adelaide breaks the kiss to let out a sigh, but is only allowed a brief respite before Carl lunges up and initiates another kiss. Their grinding bodies soon tumble about, rolling around on top of each other and savoring the dips of doughy curves and firm muscles pressing into each other. Carl winds up on top, his hands now fumbling awkwardly at his belt as he straddles her waist. Adelaide does the same with hers, and doing so lets their gis split open—his chest scrapes against her bra, and it makes him shiver.
He feels her smirk against his lips, knowing that she's gloating from another victory. Carl concedes, much like he always does with her, but he let's her know that he'll be a winner in his own way by smirking back.
It doesn't take long for clothes to finally fly off and for their romp to wind up with them as a wriggling pile of cheeky gropes, heated moans, and deep plunges that light their bodies ablaze. And when it's all over, Adelaide admits—through a lovedrunk slur in her voice as her naked body presses into him while she lays her head on his chest and trails a finger up and down his side—that she much prefers Carl being on top.
Carl grins at that, beaming with pride at the admission that for him was far more valuable than some dumb 'ol black belt any day of the week.