Onslaught

*She meets the kiss the way she's learned to over the past few weeks — eyes closing, jaw unclenching, those sharp features going soft. Her hand comes up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. She's gotten better at this. The first attempt had been a disaster — too much force, zero finesse, she'd basically headbutted your mouth and split your lip. Now she knows to be gentle. Or at least her version of gentle, which still involves a grip on your neck that could probably crush a coconut.*

*Her lips are warm and slightly chapped from the wind during the run. She tastes like the sports drink she chugged on the way back. The kiss lingers — longer than the early ones, which she'd break after exactly three seconds like she was timing them.*

*When she pulls back her eyes are half-lidded, that flush dusting her cheeks. Her thumb traces a slow circle on the back of your neck.*

"Mm."

*She makes the sound quietly, almost to herself. Evaluating. Then her brow furrows — not the scowl, the thinking furrow.*

"John."

*No Trainer-san. She's been switching between the two lately, the given name slipping out during moments like these before snapping back to the formal address during training. She hasn't noticed the pattern yet.*

"The Derby is in nine days. I want to ask you something."

*Her ears twitch. The flush deepens.*

"Will you say it before the race? The thing you said the first time. On the couch."

*She meets the kiss the same way she's learned to over the past few weeks — eyes closing, lips parting slightly, one hand coming up to rest against the side of your neck. She's gotten better at this. The first time you kissed her she just sat there like a statue with her eyes open, completely motionless, and afterwards asked if the duration was sufficient. The second time she used too much force and nearly split your lip.*

*Now though there's something almost gentle about it. Her thumb traces your jawline, rough calluses catching on your skin. She breathes slow through her nose, that massive chest rising and falling against you. Her tail curls around your wrist — she does this every time now, an unconscious possessive tic she's developed.*

*She pulls back after a few seconds. Not far — her forehead rests against yours, the tip of her nose brushing your cheek. Those dark eyes open, half-lidded, closer than they've ever been. You can see the individual flecks in her irises from this distance.*

"Mm."

*A satisfied sound. She's flushed again but it doesn't alarm her like it used to. She's learned to sit with it.*

"John."

*No Trainer-san. Just your name. She's been alternating between the two lately, the formal title during training hours and your name during moments like this. The distinction happened naturally — she never decided it, never planned it.*

"The Derby is in nine days."

*Her fingers tighten on your neck. Not painful. Grounding.*

"I want to win it for you. Is that love?"


John

Really think you're going to run faster if I call you umazing?~ *I reach down to bop your nose before kissing you again.*
Of course, i'll tell you I love you until you've run your heart out, and then i'll say it again.


Onslaught

*The nose bop makes her go cross-eyed for a split second. Her face scrunches — genuine, unfiltered, the most expressively human you've ever seen her — before the second kiss smooths it away.*

*When you pull back she's doing something you've never seen before.*

*She's smiling.*

*It's small. Barely there. Just the corners of her mouth lifting a few millimeters, nothing like the ear-to-ear horror show that comes out during races. This is something entirely different — private, fragile, like a plant pushing through concrete. It doesn't fit her face right, the muscles clearly unpracticed at holding this particular shape, and it's gone within seconds. But it was there.*

"...The pun was still terrible."

*She turns her face into your thigh, hiding whatever expression comes next. Her ears are scarlet. Her tail thumps against the couch once, twice, three times — completely beyond her control, wagging like a dog's.*

*Her voice comes out muffled against your leg.*

"Nine days. I will break 85. For you."

*A pause.*

"And for me. But also for you."

*Her fingers find yours and lace between them. She's gotten better at this too — the grip is firm but no longer bone-crushing. Her thumb runs along the side of your index finger in that slow repetitive motion she does when she's processing something emotional.*

"Stay until I fall asleep."

*The nose bop makes her go cross-eyed for a split second. Her face scrunches — an expression you've never seen on her before, something between confused and flustered that makes her look like an oversized cat that just got flicked on the forehead.*

"Not that one. The other—"

*The second kiss cuts her off. She makes a small sound against your mouth — that involuntary hum again — and her fingers tighten in your hair. When you pull back her eyes stay closed for a beat longer than necessary.*

"...Both. Say both."

*Her tail is doing the rapid swishing thing again, thumping against the couch cushion in a rhythm that matches her heartbeat. She opens her eyes and there's something new in them — not the race-mode emptiness, not the training blankness. Something warm and terrified and alive.*

"Nine days. I will be ready. The 2400 meters. The zone. All of it."

*She reaches up and pulls you down against her chest, your face landing in familiar territory. That low humming starts in her ribcage again, vibrating through you. Her arms wrap around your back — carefully, she's learned how much pressure your skeleton can actually handle — and her chin settles on top of your head.*

"John."

*Quiet.*

"I am not still learning anymore. I know now."

*Her arms tighten fractionally.*

"I love you. It is inconvenient and distracting and it makes me faster. Thank you."


John

*Nine days go by fast, and soon its already the day of Derby and instead of sitting in the stands i'm walking with you through the dugout leading to the track, stopping right before it opens up into the fresh air.*
I'm not going to try to motivate you with fancy words, because I know that you've got this. *I grab your hand, squeezing it before leaning up to kiss your neck.* I love you, win for me.


Onslaught

*She stands in the tunnel mouth, the roar of the crowd washing over her from the open end. Sunlight cuts a sharp line across the concrete floor. This isn't the half-full training track from her debut — this is Tokyo Racecourse. 100,000 seats. National broadcast. The Japanese Derby.*

*Your lips press against her neck and she shudders. One full-body tremor from ears to tail. Her hand squeezes yours back — controlled, measured, the grip of someone who's learned exactly how much force your bones can take.*

*She looks down at you. The scowl is there but it's different now. There's something living behind it. Those dark eyes hold yours and her jaw works once, twice, like she's chewing on words that don't come naturally.*

"I will win."

*Simple. Flat. Certain. But her thumb traces one last circle on the back of your hand before she lets go.*

*She turns toward the light and walks out. The crowd noise swells as she emerges — 201 centimeters in that black bodysuit, slicked hair catching the sun, those impossible proportions drawing gasps and camera flashes from every direction. The commentators kick in immediately:*

"AND HERE SHE IS — THE FANG OF JAPAN, ONSLAUGHT! UNDEFEATED IN FIVE RACES, THE ROOKIE SENSATION MAKING HER FIRST CLASSIC APPEARANCE—"

*You watch her walk to Gate 3. She doesn't wave. Doesn't acknowledge the crowd. But just before she steps into the gate, her hand drifts up and touches her neck.*

*Right where you kissed her.*

*She stands in the tunnel mouth, the roar of the crowd bleeding through the concrete walls. This isn't the modest debut stands or the half-full Oka Sho bleachers — this is the Japanese Derby. 100,000 people. National broadcast. The biggest names in the country waiting at the gates.*

*Your lips press against her neck and she shudders. One full-body tremor that runs from her throat to her toes, those colossal thighs flexing inside the black bodysuit. Her hand squeezes yours back — controlled, measured, the grip of someone who's learned exactly how much force your bones can handle.*

*She looks down at you. The scowl is gone. The smile isn't there either. What's on her face is something between the two — focused, present, alive in a way she wasn't six months ago when she was sitting alone on the grass after a fourth-place qualifying race.*

"John."

*Just your name. No Trainer-san. Her free hand comes up and cups the side of your face, her calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone. She holds you there for three seconds, memorizing something.*

*Then she lets go. Turns toward the light at the end of the tunnel. The sun catches the black bodysuit, gleaming off her shoulders, her massive frame filling the corridor.*

"Watch me."

*She walks out into the noise. 100,000 voices crash over her like a wave and she doesn't flinch. The cameras find her immediately — the Fang of Japan, the rookie monster, five wins and zero losses. The crowd's reaction splits between cheering and that uneasy murmur that follows her everywhere, the instinctive recognition that something about this girl isn't quite right.*

*Gate 3 — Silence Suzuka. Elegant, composed, already in position with her eyes closed.*

*Gate 7 — Mejiro McQueen. Cool confidence, adjusting her gloves.*

*Gate 1 — Onslaught. She steps in. Goes still.*

*Waits.*

*She stands in the dugout tunnel, blocking most of the light behind her. The black bodysuit is pristine — she'd spent fifteen minutes this morning making sure there wasn't a single crease. Her hair is slicked back tighter than usual, not a single strand out of place. She looks like a weapon someone just finished polishing.*

*Your hand feels small in hers. Her fingers close around it and hold — not crushing, not gentle. Just sure.*

*The kiss on her neck makes her breath hitch. A single sharp intake through her nose, her jaw tightening, a shudder running down through her trapezius and into her shoulders. Her tail coils once and releases.*

*She looks down at you. Dark eyes. Clear. Present. No zone, no grin, no white irises. Just Onslaught — the real one, the one that only exists in the clubhouse with her head in your lap.*

"I will win."

*She says it the way she says everything. Flat. Certain. But her thumb traces one circle on the back of your hand before she lets go.*

*She turns toward the light. The roar of the crowd hits like a wall — this is the Derby, sixty thousand people packed into Tokyo Racecourse, the noise rolling down the tunnel in waves. Camera flashes strobe across the exit.*

*She takes one step. Stops. Doesn't look back.*

"John."

*Her voice carries over the noise somehow.*

"After this, teach me what a date at a nice restaurant is like."

*Then she walks into the light, and the crowd's roar shifts into something different when they see her — gasps, cheers, murmurs. The Fang of Japan, in the flesh.*


John

*Making my way to the seats I continue to listen to the commentators drive the rest of the crowd into a frenzy as I examine the competition for today.*


Onslaught

*The gates fill one by one, and the commentators run through the field with barely contained excitement.*

"Gate 1 — MEJIRO MCQUEEN! The long-distance queen herself, three-time Tenno Sho winner, looking to add another classic to her legendary resume! She's the favorite today, folks!"

*McQueen stands tall and elegant in her white and purple silks, silver hair catching the light. She carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who's been here before — multiple times. Her eyes sweep the field with calm authority.*

"Gate 2 — TOKAI TEIO! The comeback kid! After that injury last year many counted her out but she's back and she looks HUNGRY today!"

*Teio bounces in her gate, brown hair bobbing, that trademark grin plastered across her face. She's smaller than most of the field but radiates an infectious energy that has her section of the crowd chanting her name.*

"Gate 3 — ONSLAUGHT! What can we say that hasn't been said? Undefeated, untested at this distance, and absolutely TERRIFYING!"

"Gate 5 — RICE SHOWER! The giant killer herself, known for crushing favorites when they least expect it. Dark horse today — no pun intended!"

*Rice Shower stands eerily still in her gate. Small, dark-haired, unassuming. She doesn't look at the crowd or the cameras. Her eyes are fixed on McQueen's back with an intensity that borders on obsessive.*

"Gate 7 — GRASS WONDER! Gate 9 — GOLD SHIP!"

*Gold Ship is actively heckling someone in the adjacent gate, cackling. Grass Wonder adjusts her gloves with surgical precision.*

*Eight runners. 2400 meters. The starting bell begins to charge.*

*Through your binoculars you find Gate 3. Onslaught is motionless. Default scowl. Dark eyes forward. One hand at her side, fingers curled slightly.*

*Still regular Onslaught. Not yet.*


John

*As the start approaches I can feel my breathing starting to slow, and based on how the whole arena goes quiet its not just me. With baited breath 100000 people (not to mention tv-watchers!) hold their breath waiting for the starting shot to be fired.*

...
**BANG!**


Onslaught

*The gates explode open. Eight bodies launch forward in a thunderclap of hooves and muscle.*

*McQueen takes the early lead with practiced ease, her long stride eating ground effortlessly. Teio slots in right behind her, drafting, that grin still plastered on her face. Rice Shower drifts to the outside rail, hanging back — waiting, watching, those dark eyes never leaving McQueen's heels.*

*Onslaught—*

*Onslaught is fifth.*

*Your stomach drops. She's boxed in behind Gold Ship's erratic weaving and Grass Wonder's tight positioning. Her start was clean but not explosive — she held back. She's actually PACING.*

*400 meters. McQueen extends her lead by a length. Teio stays glued to her shadow. Onslaught is still fifth, that black bodysuit lost in the pack, her face unreadable from this distance.*

*"MCQUEEN TAKES THE EARLY LEAD AS EXPECTED! TOKAI TEIO IN SECOND, GRASS WONDER THIRD— AND WHERE IS ONSLAUGHT?! THE FANG OF JAPAN SEEMS CONTENT TO SIT IN THE PACK!"*

*The crowd murmurs. This isn't what they expected. This isn't what anyone expected.*

*800 meters. You raise the binoculars with shaking hands, scanning for Gate 3, finding that black shape in the cluster of bodies.*

*Her face is still flat. Still normal. Her jaw is set, her stride controlled.*

*She's waiting for something.*

*Eight bodies explode from the gates. The roar of the crowd crashes down like a physical wave.*

*McQueen takes the early lead with practiced ease, her long strides eating ground as she settles into a pace that says 'I've done this a hundred times.' Teio slots in behind her, drafting perfectly, that grin still plastered on her face. Rice Shower fades to the back of the pack deliberately — her usual strategy, waiting, watching.*

*Onslaught—*

*Onslaught doesn't blast to the front. Your heart stutters for a moment before you realize what she's doing. She's PACING. Third position, two lengths behind McQueen, those massive legs cycling at something well below her maximum. The shock collar training paying off. She's conserving.*

"AN UNUSUAL START FROM ONSLAUGHT! THE FANG TYPICALLY TAKES THE LEAD IMMEDIATELY BUT SHE'S SITTING THIRD BEHIND MCQUEEN AND TEIO!"

*400 meters. The pack strings out along the first turn. Gold Ship is already doing something chaotic on the outside, running wide for no apparent reason. Grass Wonder moves up methodically on the rail.*

*Through the binoculars you find Onslaught's face.*

*Still flat. Still normal. Jaw set, eyes forward, tracking McQueen's back with predatory focus. Her ears are pinned flat against her skull — not from distress, from concentration. Every muscle in that massive frame is coiled, waiting.*

*She's hunting.*

*800 meters. The first hill. McQueen crests it without slowing. And behind her, Onslaught's lips begin to twitch.*

*Eight gates explode open simultaneously.*

*Gold Ship stumbles — classic Gold Ship, terrible starts — and immediately falls to last. Grass Wonder slides out clean into mid-pack. Rice Shower tucks herself behind McQueen's shadow like she was born there, drafting perfectly.*

*Teio rockets to the front. That comeback energy isn't just talk — she's FLYING, brown hair streaming behind her, seizing the lead with a burst that draws a roar from the crowd.*

*Onslaught—*

*Onslaught launches clean. Not the explosive detonation from her debut. Controlled. Measured. Those weeks of shock collar training carved into her muscle memory. She slots into third behind Teio and McQueen, those massive legs eating ground in long, powerful strides. Restrained. Patient.*

*Your binoculars find her face. Still flat. Still the scowl. Running within herself.*

*400 meters. Teio leads by two lengths. McQueen sits second, effortless, that veteran composure radiating off her like heat. Onslaught third. Rice Shower fourth, still glued to McQueen's shadow.*

"TOKAI TEIO SETS THE EARLY PACE! MEJIRO MCQUEEN SITTING PRETTY IN SECOND, AND ONSLAUGHT — NOTABLY RESTRAINED FROM THE FANG OF JAPAN HERE, SITTING IN THIRD!"

*800 meters. The pack strings out. Gold Ship is making up ground from the rear, that chaotic energy finally kicking in. Grass Wonder holds mid-pack.*

*Onslaught's jaw twitches.*

*1200 meters. Halfway. Teio's pace hasn't dropped. McQueen hasn't moved. Rice Shower hasn't blinked. And Onslaught—*

*Through the binoculars you see her lips part.*


John

You dum-
*Throwing my binoculars to the side I run down as far down the stand as I can, gripping the railing as I hit the bottom before shouting as loud as I can.*
I DONT CARE IF YOU UNDERSTAND HOW THEY FEEL NOW, YOU'RE ONSLAUGHT! **FUCKING DESTROY THEM!!!**


Onslaught

*1200 meters. Halfway.*

*Your voice shouldn't carry. Not over 100,000 people, not over the commentators, not over the thunder of eight runners at full tilt. It shouldn't reach her.*

*But her ear twitches.*

*Just one. The left one. Rotating toward the stands like a satellite dish finding a signal. And something in her face — something that's been coiled tight for 1200 meters of patient, controlled, disciplined running — snaps.*

*It doesn't come in stages this time.*

*Her eyes roll white. The grin tears across her face all at once, splitting her features open like a fault line. Her stride doesn't lengthen — it DETONATES. The runners around her physically flinch as she surges out of the pack, Gold Ship stumbling sideways from the sheer displacement of air.*

"WHAT— ONSLAUGHT MOVES! SHE'S MOVING FROM FIFTH TO— SHE JUST PASSED GRASS WONDER— GOLD SHIP— SHE'S IN THIRD—"

*1400 meters. She blows past Teio like the girl's standing still. Teio's grin vanishes. For one horrible second those wide brown eyes lock onto Onslaught's face — onto that white-eyed rictus bearing down on her — and Teio's stride physically stutters.*

*1600 meters. McQueen. The queen. The favorite. Three-time champion. She glances back.*

*Onslaught is RIGHT THERE. Two lengths back and closing like a freight train. That head rolls sideways, grinning, GRINNING, empty eyes locked on McQueen's face—*

*McQueen doesn't flinch. Her jaw tightens. Her stride extends. She pushes.*

*1800 meters. The gap isn't closing anymore.*

"MCQUEEN HOLDS! THE QUEEN HOLDS HER GROUND! ONSLAUGHT IS PUSHING BUT MCQUEEN WON'T—"

*2000 meters. 400 to go. They're neck and neck.*

*1200 meters. Halfway. Your voice shouldn't carry over 100,000 people screaming. It shouldn't reach the track. It's physically impossible.*

*Her ear twitches.*

*Something detonates behind those dark eyes. Not gradually this time — not stages, not a slow awakening. It hits like a bomb. Her pupils roll up and vanish. Her lips peel back from her teeth in that horrible, beautiful, ear-to-ear grin. Every muscle in her body fires simultaneously and the runners around her physically FLINCH as the air pressure changes.*

*She moves.*

*Gold Ship doesn't even see her go. One stride Onslaught's behind her, the next there's just a blast of wind and a black streak tearing through the gap between Gold Ship and the rail. Grass Wonder's head snaps sideways, eyes going wide as something massive and grinning rockets past her peripheral vision.*

"ONSLAUGHT MOVES! SHE— WHAT— SHE'S PASSED THREE RUNNERS IN A SINGLE STRIDE?!"

*1400 meters. She's third. Teio hears her coming — that rhythmic BOOM BOOM BOOM shaking the ground — and glances back. The grin on Teio's face dies. Just... gone. Replaced by something primal. Her legs stutter for half a stride.*

*1600 meters. Onslaught blows past Teio like she's jogging. Her head turns as she passes — slow, deliberate, those white empty eyes finding Teio's face. Drinking it in.*

*McQueen is ahead. Two lengths. The queen of distance, running her race, perfect form, perfect pace.*

*1800 meters. One length.*

*McQueen looks back.*

*And Onslaught LAUGHS. Out loud this time — a sound that cuts through the crowd noise, through the commentators, through everything. Raw, unhinged, joyful in a way that makes your skin crawl.*

*2000 meters. They're neck and neck.*


John

*I dont even need to see the rest, slowly starting to walk towards the area's exit, heading back to the clubhouse, for once i'll let you handle the media thats about to swarm everybody. Though right before I begin walking down the stairs I turn my head one more time, just brief enough to witness you crossing the finish-line.*


Onslaught

*2400 meters.*

*You turn your head at the top of the stairs.*

*One black shape crosses the line. Then a white and purple shape, half a length behind. Then everything else.*

"ONSLAUGHT WINS THE JAPANESE DERBY!!!"

*The crowd detonates. 100,000 voices hitting you in the back as you walk down the stairs. Your phone buzzes immediately — race stats, messages, notifications flooding in. You don't check it.*

*You already know.*

*The clubhouse is quiet when you get there. You sit down on the couch. The industrial-grade one. Her dent is still in the cushion from last night's head-in-lap session.*

*You wait.*

*2200 meters. Neck and neck. McQueen's elegant form against Onslaught's raw brutality, white and purple silks beside black bodysuit, stride for stride. The crowd is on its feet, 100,000 voices merging into a single wall of sound.*

*McQueen is giving everything. You can see it in the way her face has shed its composure, teeth bared, silver hair whipping behind her. This is the three-time champion at absolute maximum output. This is what the top looks like.*

*Onslaught's head turns. That grin. Those white eyes. She looks directly at McQueen from inches away — close enough to see the veins in the queen's neck, close enough to see the strain, the effort, the refusal to break.*

*And for the first time in the zone, Onslaught does something new.*

*She laughs. Out loud. A sound that cuts through 100,000 voices like a knife through silk — raw, joyful, ALIVE. Not cruel. Not sadistic. Something else entirely.*

*2400 meters.*

*You're already turning when it happens. One last glance over your shoulder. The finish line. Two shapes crossing it almost simultaneously.*

*Almost.*

*The black shape is half a body ahead.*

"ONSLAUGHT!! ONSLAUGHT TAKES THE JAPANESE DERBY!! BY HALF A LENGTH OVER MEJIRO MCQUEEN IN WHAT MAY BE THE GREATEST DERBY IN THE HISTORY OF JAPANESE RACING!! THE FANG OF JAPAN HAS DONE IT!!"

*The speedometer readout flashes on the stadium screen.*

*86.4 km/h final stretch.*

*You smile, and head for the clubhouse.*


John

*It takes a full hour until you're here, part of me wonders if you got forced into the post-race idol show. It doesn't matter.*

*Getting up from the couch my hand slaps across your cheek, not as hard as I can but still hard enough to leave a red mark.* Next time you're going full burst from the start. *Then with both hands I grab the collar of your skinsuit, using it to pull you down (or maybe rather pull me up) into a deep kiss.*


Onslaught

*She takes the slap without flinching. Her head turns with it — barely, just a few degrees, the red mark blooming across her cheekbone. Her eyes are back to normal. Dark, flat, that default scowl in place. Sweat-soaked, bodysuit still damp, hair plastered to her forehead in messy strands. She smells like dirt and exertion and victory.*

*She opens her mouth to respond — probably something about pacing, probably something clinical — and then you yank her down.*

*The kiss is messy. Your feet are barely touching the ground, hanging off her collar, and she staggers forward half a step, one massive arm wrapping around your back on pure instinct to keep you from falling. Her other hand hits the wall behind you with a THUD that shakes the trophy shelf, a sixth space now waiting to be filled.*

*She doesn't pull back. Her eyes close and she leans INTO it, pressing you against the wall with a fraction of her weight that still pins you completely. Her mouth is clumsy at first — adrenaline still bleeding off, her body still running on race fumes — but it finds its rhythm. Her fingers spread across your back, each one like a warm iron bar.*

*When she finally breaks the kiss there's a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips. Her forehead presses against yours. Those dark eyes fill your entire field of vision from an inch away.*

"I held back because I wanted it to last longer."

*A breath.*

"The race. I wanted... to feel them try. To feel them believe they could win. And then take it."

*Her thumb traces your spine through your shirt.*

"You are angry."


John

I am, because my prized trainee could have ran that race 2.5 seconds quicker than she did if she wanted to, but didn't because she likes toying with her food.
*Grabbing my shirt I yank it over my head, tossing it aside.* Suit off now and on your knees, i'm going to punish you for disobeying your trainer!


Onslaught

*She stares at your bare chest for exactly two seconds. Processing. Cataloguing. Then her hands go to the collar of her bodysuit — the zipper hidden beneath the high neck — and she pulls it down in one smooth motion. The black material peels away from her skin with a wet sound, sweat-soaked fabric unsticking from muscle and curve and skin. It catches on her tits, those H-cups compressing as the zipper crosses them before bouncing free with a heavy wobble. The suit pools at her hips, bunched around the flare of those ridiculous proportions.*

*She pushes it down further. Over the swell of her ass — the fabric audibly straining before releasing — down those tree-trunk thighs, past her knees. She steps out of it, standing in just a plain black sports bra that's more structural engineering than underwear and matching compression shorts that have been wedged so deep into her ass crack they might as well not exist. Her body steams slightly in the cool clubhouse air, heat radiating off all 108 kilos of her.*

*Then she drops.*

*Her knees hit the floor hard enough to rattle the table. She looks up at you from down there — way down, for once — those dark eyes level with your belt buckle. Her hands rest on her thighs, palms up, fingers slightly curled. Perfect submission posture. She definitely read that WikiHow article section.*

"I disobeyed. I should have run harder from the start. I chose to enjoy their suffering instead of optimal performance. Punish me, Trainer. Teach me to be better."

*She blinks. Once. Processing the command the way she processes all commands — literally, immediately, without question.*

*Her hands go to the collar of her bodysuit. The zipper runs down the front and she pulls it in one smooth motion, the sound cutting through the quiet clubhouse. The fabric peels away from sweat-slicked skin, revealing the terrain beneath — those H-cups spilling free, nipples already peaked from the chill of dried sweat, abs still heaving slightly from the race, every ridge and valley of muscle glistening. She shrugs the suit off her shoulders, down her arms, past her hips. It pools at her feet.*

*She's not wearing anything underneath. Never does on race days. Says it restricts movement.*

*Then she drops. 108 kilos hitting the floor with a THUD that rattles the windows. On her knees she's still massive — her head level with your chest, those broad shoulders filling your vision, thighs spreading to balance her weight. She looks up at you with that flat expression, the red mark from your slap still visible on her cheek.*

"I am in position."

*The same words from the first time on the couch. But her ears are forward now. Her tail swishes behind her. And there's something in those dark eyes that wasn't there before — anticipation. Hunger.*

"What is my punishment, Trainer-san?"


John

Oh I'll punish you alright...
*Unbuckling my belt I grab the base of my cock, slapping it against your face.* Tell me who made you faster~


Onslaught

*Your cock lands against her cheek with a meaty slap. She doesn't flinch. Her eyes track it — clinical, curious, like she's examining a new piece of training equipment. The heat of her face radiates against your shaft. Up close you can see the red mark from your slap still blooming on her other cheek.*

"You did."

*Flat. Direct. She turns her head slightly, letting your cock drag across her face, across the bridge of her nose, her lips brushing the underside. Her breath is warm and unsteady.*

"John did. My trainer. My—"

*She pauses. Her tongue darts out — just the tip, testing, tasting the salt of your skin. Her brow furrows in concentration like she's approaching a difficult drill.*

"My... person."

*Her hands stay on her thighs. Obedient. But her tail is swishing behind her, sweeping across the floor in rapid strokes that betray the composure on her face. Her ears are pinned flat, burning red at the tips.*

"I have not done this before. Tell me how. I will do it correctly."

*She looks up at you, your cock resting against her cheekbone, those dark eyes waiting for instruction. Patient. Eager beneath the stoicism. Her jaw is slack, lips slightly parted, breath coming faster than her expression would suggest.*

"Teach me, Trainer."


John

Fuck you're too cute! And SO hopeless at this...
*I sigh, before nodding at the couch.* Lay down and spread your legs, I wont have to teach you this next part.


Onslaught

*She rises from her knees in one fluid motion — all that muscle good for something — and moves to the couch. The industrial frame groans as she sits, then lies back, her head hitting the armrest, those massive legs still hanging off the other end.*

*Her hands go to the waistband of the compression shorts. She hesitates for exactly one second — the first hesitation you've seen from her all day — before hooking her thumbs under the fabric and pushing down. The shorts peel away from sweat-damp skin, catching briefly on the swell of her ass before sliding down those ridiculous thighs. She kicks them off.*

*She spreads her legs.*

*Her pussy is... proportional. Thick outer lips framed by the muscles of her inner thighs, a neat strip of black hair above it, already glistening. Those thighs tremble slightly as they part — not from exhaustion, not anymore. Her tail curls beneath her, the tip twitching against the cushion.*

*She stares at the ceiling, that flush spreading down her neck to her chest. Her sports bra strains with each uneven breath. Her hands grip the couch cushion on either side of her hips — familiar position, familiar coping mechanism.*

"I am ready."

*Her voice cracks on the second word. She swallows hard.*

"Be... gentle. The first time. Then you can punish me properly."

*She rises from her knees in one fluid motion — muscle memory from countless training drills — and walks to the couch. The industrial frame groans as she sits, then lies back, her legs hanging off the end from mid-calf down. The couch wasn't built for someone her size. Nothing was.*

*She spreads her thighs.*

*Those compression shorts are soaked through — sweat from the race, maybe something else now. The fabric is pulled so tight across her crotch that it might as well be painted on, the outline of her pussy lips clearly visible through the black material. Her inner thighs are slick, muscles twitching involuntarily as cool air hits overheated skin.*

*Her hands grip the couch cushion on either side of her hips. Same position as the first time you scratched her ears. Her chest heaves, those barely-contained H-cups rising and falling with each breath, the sports bra's structural limits being tested with every inhale.*

*She watches you approach. Her face is still flat — the scowl, the set jaw — but her ears are trembling. Her tail has curled around her own ankle, squeezing tight. Between her spread thighs, you can see wetness seeping through the compression shorts, darkening the already-dark fabric.*

"I am ready."

*Her voice cracks on the second word.*


John

How am I supposed to punish you when you're being this adorable, come here... *Stepping up to the couch I grab both of your hands, interlacing my fingers with yours as I line our genitals up together before slowly sinking into your wet, tight heat, squeezing our hands together as I do.*


Onslaught

*Her fingers crush yours the moment you push in. Not intentional — pure reflex, every muscle in her body clenching at once as you stretch her open. A sound rips out of her throat, raw and startled, nothing like her flat monotone or the terrifying race-laugh. Something entirely new.*

"Nngh—hahh—"

*Her back arches off the couch, that massive frame curving upward, abs clenching into sharp relief. Her thighs slam inward on instinct, catching your hips in a vice grip that makes your vision blur. The sheer pressure of those legs — the same legs that shatter treadmills and crack starting blocks — squeezing your waist is genuinely life-threatening and she doesn't even realize she's doing it.*

*Inside she's impossibly tight. Hot. The muscles of her walls clench around you with the same ridiculous density as the rest of her, every millimeter you push deeper met with resistance that slowly, reluctantly gives way. She's soaked — has been since the kiss probably, maybe since the race — and the wet heat of her pulls you in even as her body fights the intrusion.*

"John— it's— nnh—"

*Her eyes are squeezed shut. The scowl is completely gone, replaced by something open and overwhelmed and desperately vulnerable. Her ears are flat against her head, twitching erratically. Her tail thrashes beneath her.*

*You bottom out. Her breath leaves her in one shuddering exhale. Her fingers are still interlocked with yours, grip trembling now instead of crushing. She opens her eyes — dark, glassy, pupils blown wide — and looks up at you.*

"...Full. I feel full."

*Her voice is a wreck. Small and broken coming from that enormous body.*

"Move. Please. Slowly."

*Her fingers clamp down on yours the moment you start pushing in. Not crushing — she's learned the limits — but firm enough to feel her nails digging into the backs of your hands. Her whole body goes taut, those massive thighs tensing on either side of you, abs rippling beneath the sports bra.*

"Nnh—"

*The sound punches out of her. Her head tips back against the armrest, baring her throat, that sharp jaw clenched tight. She's tight. Impossibly tight despite the wetness, her walls gripping you like she's trying to keep you from leaving. Her hips twitch — an aborted thrust, her body trying to take more before her brain catches up.*

"It's... big. You're... hah..."

*Her vocabulary fails her. Her ears are flat against her skull, trembling. Her tail thrashes beneath her, thumping against the cushions in erratic bursts. When you finally bottom out she makes a sound you've never heard from her — a whine, high and thin, completely at odds with 201 centimeters of muscle and power.*

*Her eyes find yours. Wet at the corners. Blown wide. That scowl is completely gone, replaced by something raw and open and desperate.*

"Move. Please. Trainer— John— please—"

*Her fingers squeeze yours tighter.*

*Her fingers crush yours as you push in. Not intentionally — pure reflex, those calloused hands clamping down hard enough to make your knuckles grind together. Her whole body goes rigid, back arching off the couch, abs flexing into sharp relief.*

"Nnh—!"

*The sound punches out of her. Her walls clench around you — tight, wet, hot, the muscles inside her just as powerful as everything else. Her thighs shake on either side of your hips, those massive quads twitching with each inch you sink deeper. Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, that permanent scowl finally completely gone.*

*She's tight. Impossibly tight for someone her size, her body gripping you like it's trying to keep you there forever. Her heels dig into the couch cushion, tail thrashing beneath her.*

"John— it's— you're—"

*Words fail her. Her chest heaves, sports bra straining, sweat beading fresh on her collarbones. When you bottom out she makes a sound you've never heard from her — high, broken, somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Her grip on your hands loosens just slightly.*

*Her eyes open. Wet at the corners. Looking up at you with something raw and unguarded.*

"...Full. I feel full."

*Her fingers crush yours the instant you push in. Not intentional — pure reflex, every muscle in her body firing at once as you stretch her open. A sound rips out of her throat, raw and unfiltered — not a moan, not a scream, something in between that she clearly has no experience producing.*

"Nngh— hahh—"

*Her back arches off the couch, that massive frame curving upward, abs clenching into rigid definition. Her thighs clamp around your hips with terrifying force — not enough to hurt but enough to remind you that this girl could fold you in half if she lost control. The wet heat of her is intense, her walls gripping you tight, muscles squeezing involuntarily in rhythmic pulses.*

*Her eyes are wide. Not the white-rolled race mode — just wide. Shocked. Her mouth hangs open, those sharp features stripped of every defense, every wall, every carefully maintained layer of stoicism. She looks young. She looks her age.*

"It— nnh—"

*Her ears flatten completely. Her tail thrashes against the cushion. She squeezes your hands harder, knuckles white, anchoring herself to you like you're the only fixed point in a world that just tilted sideways.*

"John. John, it's— a lot— I feel—"

*She can't finish. Her head turns to the side, pressing her burning face into the armrest. Her hips shift under you, not pulling away — adjusting, accommodating, her body figuring out how to hold you inside her. A shaky exhale fogs against the fabric.*

"...Don't stop. Please don't stop."


John

*Gently letting my chest sink down onto yours I begin to slowly hump my hips back and fourth, intermixing it with kisses to your neck and lips, though each time your pussy squeezes around me I collapse with a "hhaaa" against you, needing a few seconds before I move again.*
Love you Onslaught, I know you asked to get faster but you're too *haah* cute.


Onslaught

*Each thrust pulls another sound out of her. Not moans — she doesn't know how to moan. They're closer to grunts, sharp exhales through clenched teeth, the same noises she makes during the last hundred meters of a sprint. Her body knows exertion. It doesn't know pleasure. The wires are crossing.*

"Hhng— nn— John—"

*Her sports bra is the last barrier between you and the full catastrophe of her chest. Your weight pressing down on her pushes those H-cups up and together, the fabric straining, the clasp in the back audibly creaking with each breath. Her skin is furnace-hot beneath you, still radiating post-race heat, slick with a fresh layer of sweat that has nothing to do with running.*

*Her hips twitch. Involuntary at first — tiny upward jerks that meet your thrusts off-rhythm. Then something in her body figures it out. The same way she learned pacing, the same way she learned to hold 63 km/h, her hips find your tempo and match it. Slow. Rolling. Each movement grinding you deeper into that impossible tightness.*

"Love— you said love—"

*Her hands release yours. One grabs the back of your head, pulling your face into her neck. The other wraps around your lower back, fingers splayed across your spine. She could snap you in half. Instead she holds you like you're made of glass.*

"Again— say it again— hhaah— every time you— nnh— push—"

*Her legs wrap around your waist. The pressure is terrifying and incredible simultaneously, those thighs locking you in place, heels digging into your lower back. You couldn't pull out now if you wanted to.*

"I feel— something— building— what is—"


John

F-Fuck, you're squeezing too much! Gonna-
*Picking up speed I put every bit of strength into my hips, pistoning in and out for 30 seconds, with a soft "I love you" punctuating each thrust. Then right as I feel my own orgasm coming I manage to pull out at the very last second before glazing your face, tits, abs with thick loads of hot human cum.*
A-Ahh...shit... *I fall down on your shoulder, not even caring i'm getting it on me.* One day, when you've run your last race, i'll finish inside...and make a family with you.


Onslaught

*The orgasm hits her before yours does. Her whole body seizes — not like the shock collar, deeper, TOTAL — every muscle from her calves to her neck locking rigid. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, jaw stretched wide, eyes rolling back to white in a way that's eerily familiar but completely different from the race-mode. Her back arches so hard the couch frame CRACKS, one support beam giving way as 108 kilos of convulsing uma-musume tests the absolute limits of industrial engineering.*

*Then you pull out and the hot ropes land across her and she makes a sound. A real sound. Not a grunt, not a gasp — a genuine, unfiltered moan that starts in her belly and tears its way out through her chest. It echoes off the clubhouse walls.*

"AAHhnn—!"

*Her abs ripple under the streaks of white, muscles spasming in waves. Her thighs clamp shut on empty air, trembling violently. Her tail is coiled so tight around her own leg it's leaving marks. Between her legs her pussy clenches on nothing, wet and twitching, a visible pulse running through those thick lips.*

*Then you say it. The family thing. And her hand — shaking, uncoordinated, still riding aftershocks — finds the back of your head on her shoulder. Her fingers thread into your hair. Her chest heaves against you, heartbeat hammering so hard you can feel it through her ribs.*

"...A family."

*Whispered. Broken. Her voice sounds like it's been sandblasted. She turns her head, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.*

"Is that... a promise?"

*Her fingers tighten in your hair. Her other hand comes up and smears through the cum on her stomach, examining it between her fingertips with that characteristic clinical curiosity before her hand drops back to your spine.*

"I will run every race there is. I will win all of them. And then..."

*A shudder runs through her.*

"...then I want that. With you."

*She lies there, trembling. Her whole body is vibrating at a frequency you've never seen — not exhaustion tremors, not race adrenaline. Something deeper. Her thighs are still locked around empty air where your hips were a second ago, slowly releasing, falling open against the couch. Her pussy clenches around nothing, pink and swollen and dripping.*

*The orgasm hit her mid-sentence. She'd been trying to say something — your name probably — and it shattered whatever words she had into a broken keen that rattled the trophy shelf. Her abs are still spasming in visible waves beneath the streaks of white painted across them, each contraction making the cum slide slowly down the ridges of muscle.*

*Her face is a mess. Cum across one cheek, across her nose, a thick rope draped over her lower lip. She blinks through it, those dark eyes unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth hangs open, breathing ragged. One ear stands straight up. The other is completely flat. Her tail has gone limp, hanging off the couch like a dead thing.*

*Your words land somewhere in the haze. Family. Last race. Inside.*

*Her hand finds the back of your head on her shoulder. Fingers thread weakly into your hair — no strength behind it, every muscle in her body spent twice over today.*

"...Family."

*The word comes out cracked. Fragile. She rolls it around like she did with 'boyfriend' and 'dates' and 'love' months ago. But this time her eyes are wet. Actually wet. A single tear cuts a clean line through the cum on her cheek.*

"Promise me."

*Her voice breaks completely.*

"Promise me, John."

*She lies there, trembling. The orgasm hit her like a truck — maybe the first one she's ever had, her body clearly not knowing what to do with it. Her thighs are still locked in a death grip around nothing, quaking, those enormous muscles firing in random spasms. Her mouth hangs open, a thin line of drool running down her chin, eyes unfocused and staring at the ceiling. Her tail is rigid, vibrating like a tuning fork.*

*Your cum streaks across her face, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone, dripping down the valley between those H-cups still straining against the sports bra, trailing down the ridges of her abs in slow white rivers. She blinks. One strand crosses her left eye and she closes it, the other dark iris slowly refocusing on the ceiling. Then on you, collapsed against her shoulder.*

*Her breathing is ragged. Broken. Each exhale shudders through her entire frame. Her hand finds the back of your head again — shaking, barely controlled — and her fingers thread weakly into your hair.*

"Family..."

*The word comes out cracked. Destroyed. She repeats it like she repeated 'boyfriend' months ago, but different now. Not tasting a foreign concept. Tasting something she wants.*

*Her chest hitches. Once. Her eyes are wet — actually wet this time, not just glassy. One tear cuts a path through the cum on her cheek.*

"...You would want that? With me?"

*Her voice is so small. So impossibly small from something so impossibly large.*


John

Then its a promise from both of us. *I squeeze your hands one more time before slowly pushing off you, before realizing something and sinking back down again, nuzzling into one of your fat tits.* Lets stay here until its dark, trying to get to a shower like this would cause an even bigger media storm than you winning today did.


Onslaught

*She doesn't argue. Her arm settles around your back like a warm steel beam, pulling you tighter against her chest. The sports bra finally gives up — the clasp pops with a defeated PING and the cups spring apart, releasing those H-cups to their full uncompressed glory. Your face sinks into warm, sweat-damp tit-flesh that smells like salt and exertion and her.*

"Mm."

*She reaches down blindly, grabbing the remnants of your shirt from the floor and draping it over both of you. It covers approximately nothing — maybe your shoulders and a fraction of her torso — but the gesture is there. Domestic. Almost normal, if you ignore the cum drying on her abs and the destroyed couch beneath you.*

*The clubhouse is quiet. Late afternoon light filters through the grimy window, casting long shadows across the trophy shelf — six spots now, five filled. The sixth won't be empty for long.*

*Her heartbeat slows beneath your ear. That low hum starts again in her chest, the tuneless vibration she doesn't know she does. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, following the line of your spine up and down.*

"John."

*Quieter now. Drowsy.*

"Today was the best day."

*Her breathing evens out. Her hand goes slack in your hair. 108 kilos of Derby-winning, record-breaking, cum-covered uma-musume passes out beneath you in four seconds flat.*

*Some things never change.*

*She doesn't argue. Her arm settles around your back like a warm steel beam, pulling you tighter against her chest. The sports bra finally gives up — the clasp pops with a defeated PING and the cups spring apart, releasing those H-cups to their full uncompressed glory. Your face sinks into warm, sweat-damp tit-flesh that smells like salt and exertion and her.*

"Mm."

*She reaches down blindly, grabbing the remnants of your shirt from the floor and draping it over both of you. It covers approximately nothing — maybe your shoulders and a fraction of her torso — but the gesture is there. Domestic. Almost normal, if you ignore the cum drying on her abs and the destroyed couch beneath you.*

*The clubhouse is quiet. Late afternoon light filters through the grimy window, casting long shadows across the trophy shelf — six spots now, five filled. The sixth won't be empty for long.*

*Her heartbeat slows beneath your ear. That low hum starts again in her chest, the tuneless vibration she doesn't know she does. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, following the line of your spine up and down.*

"John."

*Drowsy. Her voice thick with approaching sleep.*

"The 2.5 seconds."

*A pause. Her chest rises and falls.*

"Next race. I will not toy with them. I will run from the start. Full speed. For you."

*Her breathing evens out. Her hand goes still on your back. In under a minute she's asleep, that massive frame going soft beneath you, face slack, scowl finally absent. Just a girl. Enormous, terrifying, cum-covered, but just a girl holding someone she loves on a broken couch in a shitty clubhouse.*

*Her tail curls around your ankle.*

*She looks down at the state of them both — her cum-streaked abs, the destroyed sports bra hanging on by a thread, your disheveled hair and the mess smeared between your bodies. For someone who's particular about keeping her clothes clean, she surveys the damage with surprising calm.*

"...Acceptable reasoning."

*Her arm wraps around you, pulling you tighter against her chest. The sports bra finally gives up — the clasp pings off somewhere into the darkness of the clubhouse — and suddenly your face is buried in bare tit. Warm, heavy, the thin layer of squish over dense muscle making for something between a pillow and a sandbag. Her heartbeat thuds against your cheek, still elevated but slowing.*

*Outside the sun is dropping, orange light cutting through the clubhouse's grimy window. Distant sounds of the racecourse filtering in — crowds dispersing, cleanup crews, the occasional burst of commentary replaying highlights. Somewhere out there reporters are looking for the Fang of Japan for post-race interviews.*

*She's here. In a busted clubhouse with a broken couch, holding her trainer against her naked chest with cum drying on her stomach.*

*Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your scalp. The humming starts again — that tuneless vibration resonating through her ribcage into your skull.*

"John."

*Quiet. Drowsy.*

"I smiled today. After the race. Before the reporters. A real one."

*A pause.*

"It felt like the park bench."

*Her breathing evens out. Her hand goes still in your hair. Her tail uncurls and drapes over your legs.*

*She's asleep in under a minute. Derby champion. Undefeated. Terrifying. Snoring softly with her trainer tucked against her like a stuffed animal.*