It was midnight. The important people were already gone. What was left was the wreck of the party — half-empty glasses, plates smeared with sauce, napkins crumpled like surrender flags, the chandelier dragged down to its lowest setting. She was waiting for me. Taller. Broader through the shoulders. Former military, someone’s protective detail, sent to take a document off me before I left. She thought catching me alone, after the party, was an advantage.

She was wrong. And the second I knew that, I already liked it.

She came in fast. Standard grapple, using the reach. I didn’t step back. I stepped in. I drove my heel down onto her instep — thin skin, bone close to the surface. The l*ttle gasp she let out ran all the way through my sole. I felt her weight leave her. That’s the instant I love: the other body confesses before the mouth does.

While she was still reading the foot, I took an abandoned glass and flicked the dregs straight into her eyes. Cheap red. Acidic. It stung. She recoiled, blind, and my knee came up between her legs. Full contact. Vulva, pubic bone, the whole soft cluster she’d spent years learning to guard and didn’t guard from me. The strike traveled hot and clean up my thigh, and the sound she made — half grunt, half whimper — dried my mouth with pleasure. Not hate. Accuracy. A trick that lands has a taste. That was the first sip.

I didn’t stop. Hand on the back of her neck, I pulled her down and drove the knee up again, angled this time, more on the clit. She nearly folded. Tough, I’ll give her that. She grabbed for my leg. So I let the neck go, stepped back, and when she straightened — thinking she’d bought a second — I snapped a front kick up into her. Bare toes pointed. The b*ll of my foot found clit and pubic bone at once. She folded c*mpletely. I felt the smile before I let it out. Small. Vain. Mine.

She was on her knees between the tables, clutching herself, those low sounds in her throat. And I understood I had time. No one was coming back. So I indulged.

I crouched. Asked who sent her. She didn’t answer. From behind, still kneeling, I put my hand between her legs and grabbed. Not the thigh. Not the hip. Everything. My fingers found the seam of her underwear through the dress and squeezed. She screamed into her own palm. I increased it slowly, so she could feel exactly how much I could give her. My thumb found her clit and pressed — not s*x, the kind of pressure that whites the vision out. Nerve endings don’t ask what you meant. I was enjoying it. The tremor in my hand. How wet the fabric got from the fright. The way her body turned honest.

I let go. Stepped back. Let her think it was over. She started to rise, legs shaking, and I came in from the side: a low roundhouse, shin against the outer labia, the impact traveling through the soft tissue into the pelvic bone. She went down sideways into a table. Glasses. A plate. The crash tasted like a laugh I didn’t let out.

By then she was crying. Not loud. Tears, breath broken, hands covering whatever I’d h*t last. Every time she protected one place, I took another. A strike to the thigh opened her. A pinch to the inner arm shifted the guard. Then a stomp, heel driving down while she was on her side, straight into the cervix. She vomited. A l*ttle. I wasn’t even breathing hard. I asked again, almost tender, because I already had her.

This time she gave me a name.

She was on her back. Legs trying to close. Arms trembling. I could have ended it. I didn’t want to. I knelt beside her and set my palm flat on her mound. Sustained pressure. She twisted. Nothing left. I held it while I told her, very softly, what happened if our paths crossed again. She whimpered. She nodded. She would have agreed to anything. That was the whole pleasure: not the strike, the hot surrender under my hand, the moment she stops fighting and only wants you to stop.

I stood. She was sobbing, curled around herself. I took her by the ankles — she barely resisted — and dragged her under the long banquet table. The cloth hung. She disappeared. Then the triangle. Legs locked around neck and arm, the flow cut, out in about eight seconds. I held it a l*ttle longer. Not to d*mage. To be sure. And because I liked the quiet weight. The silence after the noise.

Dress. Hair. Document. Service entrance. She was still under the table when I left. She’d wake in the dark with the worst pelvic p*in of her life and a very awkward conversation waiting for whoever sent her.

I walked out with the glass still warm in my hand and a small, coquettish, indecent satisfaction. Heel on the instep. Red in the eyes. Knee to c*nt, twice. Toes up into her. The grab. The thumb. The shin. The stomp. The palm. The ch*ke under the cloth. Dirty. Beneath every tradition I respect. And I liked every second, because the body breaks the way it actually breaks, and that truth, when you have it in your hand, tastes sweet.

Femme Fatale Crotch Busting Female Fighting Russian spy cuntbust her way to victory on a late party with C4s.com