Tension & Release

Be at the sports hall tonight. 8pm. Do NOT be late, French.

It was 8:03 when I finally parked at the college sports hall and checked my phone. Striker's last message glared at me disapprovingly, while my latest message to him remained unread.

Sorry, running late. I'm having a day.

Grabbing my gym bag from the passenger's seat and sword from the footwell, I made my way towards the dark building. It looked like it had been locked up for the night, all the staff and students heading home early on a Sunday to get ready for a new week tomorrow. The early winter's darkness pressed in around me, and I regretted forgetting a jacket in my haste to get here as soon as I could.

I followed earlier instructions, walking around the side of the building, and found light spilling out onto the dark asphalt from an open door. My heart skipped a beat, and I allowed myself to hope that Striker had not simply given up on me and headed home. Slipping into the sports hall, I saw Striker in his white fencing gear, standing in the middle of a piste, looking up at the large clock on the wall. His back to me.

"Four minutes late, French. I can't say I'm impressed. Shut the door."

The captain of the dancing club turned to face me. His dark eyes slammed me with a glare that tore right through me. A broad chest rose and fell slowly with deep, deliberate breaths under an open jacket. His square jaw was clenched tightly, making the muscles around the outside pop out furiously.

I did as instructed, and began to make my way across the large, open space towards the women's changing rooms. The hall wasn't specifically designed for fencing, but was wide enough to accommodate for the forty-six foot long rubber mat I was to be trained upon that night. Striker had already set up all the electronic score counting equipment. A small box with an LED display on the floor off the centre of the piste, and two retractable spools of wire at either end of the mat. He was already plugged in and connected to the equipment, his sword held loosely in a gloved left hand.

"I know, I'm sorry," I began, " I got end of semester exams an -"

"Where do you think you are going?" barked Striker, his deep voice echoing back at me from all angles of the empty hall.

"To the changing rooms, to get changed?" I said, sounding like I was asking for his permission.

It was denied.

"Fucking freshmen," he hissed, talking at me and not to me, "give them an opportunity to train with a Goddamn Olympian and all they do is waste your time. Enough of this, I'm out. Good luck against Dartmouth next week, French."

Ace Striker. With a name like that, the man was destined for greatness. He almost achieved that two years ago when he won a silver medal for America at the Olympics. Now he was studying for a Master's degree while leading the college fencing club. He was an expert with all three blades, foil, épée, and sabre, and had his sights on taking gold at the next games. Having seen him against our men's team, I truly believed he would win that medal.

Our women's team lost our épéeist when she twisted her ankle a week earlier. Striker had personally selected me to take her place. I was new, barely two months into college and learning how to fence. Other team members said I was impressive, but there was no way I was competition-ready. Everyone knew it, especially me. But Striker said that I had potential. He would teach me not only how to duel, but how to win.

And now, he was unclipping himself from the electronic scoring system and heading home. My heart sank as the fear of embarrassing the team settled into my stomach.

"No, Striker. Stop. Don't leave. I need you to teach me. I have done everything you said this week. Morning stretches. Cardio three times a day. I've eaten better, started lifting weights. But I need piste time with you. Please don't leave."

Striker slowed himself down, but didn't stop.

"Why shouldn't I go home? Convince me."

"I want to win," I said, almost adding - for you - before my brain realised how terribly pathetic that sounded.

Striker rolled his eyes at me, his thin lips pressing tighter.

"I don't want to just win, Ace. I want to win. I want to leave my opponent stunned at what I can do while I unpick them point by point. I watch you do that every week with the team, and I want that. I will do anything for it."

Striker's smile spread from ear to ear. He was the very image of a contented nobleman content with his subordinate. The weight of my heart lessened a little.

"See, I knew there was something to you. I can see the fire inside you, Millie French. It's just embers at the moment, but I want to see it blaze. If you follow my instructions, I will turn you into an inferno. Is that what you want?"

I nodded, not trusting my mouth to avoid saying something embarrassing.

Without taking his eyes off me, Striker began to plug himself back into the scoring system.

"Good, now get changed. Right there. We have no time to waste".

Right here?

He wanted me to strip to my underwear in the middle of a freezing hall. I knew there was no one else but us in the building. But the thought of stripping in front of him felt -

The heat between my legs began almost immediately. A slow, rolling warmth that quickened my breath by a pace. Was Striker getting off at the thought of me standing nearly naked before him? I glanced at his cock, half expecting to see a hard bulge in his breeches. There wasn't one, although the tight, heavy, cotton pants left little to the imagination.

No, I assured myself. Striker isn't into me. He just wants to train me. He's a professional Sportsman after all. I bet he has seen it all before. My heat spread down my legs at the thought of him partying with women from all over the world at the Olympic Village in two years. All of them perfect, wearing tight athletic wear with their names and countries printed on it. Their bodies living representations of Greek goddesses, amped up on excitement and anxiety.

How could I even compare to them? I was just a nineteen-year-old art student from Ohio, after all.

Maybe I was just an art student, but I was also one who wanted to be the best fencer at this college.

Dropping my bag, I pulled my t-shirt up and over my head. Before it hit the floor, I was already unbuttoning my pants. Shoes off next. If Striker was watching me stand there in my black panties and sports bra, I did not care. I only hoped he could not see the wet spot between my legs as I bent and unzipped my bag.

The frigid air cut at my skin and my warmth became uncomfortably cold and present. I could feel my nipples hardening with the exposure. I threw my base layer over my top half, the elastic fabric constricting around me. Breeches next, pulling the white cotton pants up until they rode high and slipping the suspenders over my shoulders. The plastron followed. A kind of heavy, one-sleeved t-shirt designed to offer extra protection against the tip of a sword. Finally, I stepped into the thick jacket. I pulled it up so that the bottom fabric nestled into my crotch. Sliding each arm into the correct sleeve, I could feel myself already warming up. I knew in the summer, the dense material would have me feeling far too hot as I sweated enough already in it as I moved. Shoes on, gloves on, and mask in hand, I faced Striker.

"That was quick," he said, then pointed towards my end of the piste with his épée. "Go on, get going".

I said nothing and scooped my own sword from the floor. I had learnt that there were three different swords used for fencing. A foil was the standard sword everyone thinks about when they picture fencing. A saber is a slightly curved blade that feels more like using a whip than a sword.

Each of those swords came with its own rules on where to strike someone. Too many rules for my liking. That's where épée was different. So long as you poked someone with the tip of the sword hard enough to depress the little button for the electronic system to register the score, any hit was legal. The downside was that épée was the heaviest blade to use, which made moving the sword a little slow and cumbersome. Though, someone as good as Striker could work magic with his épée which left me awestruck.

I plugged cable into the slot behind my épée's circular handguard.

"Ready?" I called out.

Striker had turned his back to me and was walking towards his end of the piste, popping his masked helmet over his head.

I did the same.

My vision darkened as the light became filtered through a fine black mesh of metal.

He turned and took position.

"En guarde!" He called out. The bassy thrum of his voice cutting through me.

I raised my own sword, aiming the blunted tip at his heart. Easing into the loose stance, I felt my muscles relax. I bobbed on the balls of my feet for a moment.

Striker raised his hand. My thrill grew. My mouth felt dry.

His hand dropped to his side.

It was on.

I rushed forward. Right foot leading, left foot following. I charged in a semi-sideways prance which optimised offensive options, reduced the visible areas Striker could hit, while also allowing me the chance to spring backwards if he came on too hard. Fencing was one of the few sports where the physical differences in strength between men and women was, largely, nullified. Skill weas paramount, followed by timing. After that, reach and speed were important. That was why the men and women often trained together, more bodies, different styles. New tricks to learn. In fencing, the ability to read your opponent and know what they were about to do made you dangerous.

I could not read Striker at all.

He stood there, nonchalantly. His sword pointing towards the ground. There was no visible tension in his body. No flick of his impassive mask to indicate where he was looking. What he was thinking.

I stepped into the lunge, throwing my arm forward. However, a shrill shriek from the scoring box informed me that I had been hit. I did not even feel it.

Striker lowered his head, looking down at my feet. I followed his gaze. The top of his épée was pressing into the front of my shoe. Just enough to score a point.

"One, nil" Striker said smugly. "I think I'll play with you until I get to seven points. Then I'll get serious until the end of the match at fifteen points."

Fifteen points, the end of the match. "I'll give you something to play with," I said reactively. They were stupid words, and I cringed as they left my mouth.

He chuckled.

We reset. Each round slipped by in a flurry of steps and blows. I lost round after round, but I did not care. Our swords would beat off one another. I would bind his épée by wrapping mine around his and pushing the blade away. He would faint. I would dance away. Together we moved like spectres in the night. Neither of us talked, communicating only with our bodies and blades.

We pressed in tight and pushed away. I retreated, and he pursued. His short half steps became a leaping lunge. I realized he'd read me. Calculated my pace, and was moving in for the kill. But my arm was already in motion. I caught his tip with the handguard at the base of my blade. I swept his sword away. Stepping in close enough to smell his sweating body, I drove my épée into his ribs.

The box shrieked in delight, and I grinned as the score read four to Striker, one to me.

"Good hit, French". Striker said from behind his mask.

"It was lucky," I admitted.

"No, it wasn't. I overcommitted, you saw the opening. Your ability to perform well under pressure is impressive"

"I'm impressive? I thought you were just playing with me."

Striker's hand disappeared up under his mask to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"I said I was playing with you. Not taking it easy on you. Some advice. I'm left-handed. That's a natural advantage in fencing until you get to the Olympic level. About eighty percent of people in the club are righties. So when you practice, you learn how to do things one particular way.

"That explains why everything I did just felt weird."

Striker nodded,

"Against a lefty," he said, "everything is the wrong way around. Get better at doing things in reverse. Is that clear?"

It wasn't, but I nodded anyway.

"And watch your feet. You got big farm girl feet. Sure, it means you are taller than most women so have a longer reach. But if you keep planting those flippers out of line, you are going to bleed points."

I felt adequately bullied by his remark. What had begun as almost kind advice had become a scathing comment about the size of my feet. He must have known that I was self-conscious that I wore size eleven shoes. It had been something my last boyfriend had teased me about relentlessly in high school.

We reset and then began again. I was so suddenly aware of my feet.

Each step felt like enormous clown shoes slapping the rubber mat. I half imagined a honking sound with each footfall. I tried to ignore the intrusive thoughts and focus my attention on Striker. The tip of his blade wobbled in front of me. I blocked and bound, parried and feinted. But comments about my feet had driven the dance from me. I stood, rooted to the spot, unwilling and unable to move. I tried rationalizing my lack of grace as not wanting to allow Striker to score a point. But who was I kidding, the Olympic fencer should have scored against me whenever he damn well chose.

Suddenly, my head snapped backward, and I found myself looking at the ceiling. The shrill call from the score box informed me that I'd been hit, but my brain had not registered what had happened. That's when I stumbled back, my flippers tripping over each other and I fell. Landing hard on my ass.

Striker started laughing at me. It sounded conceited and smug like he had intended for all of this. My embarrassment, my humiliation. I tore my helmet off and looked at it. The mesh was dented right between the eyes. Striker had hit me hard enough in the face to damage my mask and put me on the ground. It was the final insult. 

"Hey, asshole, quit your Goddamn laughing," I said, jumping to my feet, "now I don't know where you get off being mean to girls. But this stops now."

Striker dipped his head, removing his own mask. Sweat had stuck his blonde hair down to his scalp. I realized I probably looked as much of a hot mess as he did. However, I was too flustered to consider him hot at that moment.

I stormed over to him, fury playing across my face. Striker looked at me impassively, as if he was frequently on the receiving end of a girl's ire. This irritated me further, so much so that I almost didn't register the slight shock in his eyes. My grip tightened around my épée's handle, and I found myself pointing it at his throat.

"You wanna make a girl feel bad about the size of her feet? Well, newsflash, my guy - you ain't that hot. You're what, twenty-five? You look barely twenty with that shaven baby face of yours. At least grow some stubble, you fresh-faced fucker."

My chest heaved with emotion I didn't even know I was carrying. I had been raised to be quiet and demure. A good girl. While I tried to live up to that standard, something about fencing just unlocked me. I felt passion and a primal joy flood through me for a brief moment until someone scored. And going toe to toe with an Olympian was a release the likes of which I had never felt before.

Then Striker laughed. Placing one hand on his hip, he looked up and cracked a genuine smile as rich and warm guffaws filled the air between us. His laughter this time was infectious, and I found myself chuckling alongside him.

"Fresh faced-fucker? Damn, French, that's too funny. What are you some kind of comedian?", Striker said, wiping his eyes.

"I'm a Literature major, so more of a poet I guess". I said, feeling my frustration ebb away.

"Oh, we don't get many art students in the club. Normally it's history majors, Renaissance fair types, and people with a thing for Europe. I'm in that latter category. Have you ever been?" "Europe, no. Coming to college was the first time I ever left Ohio", I said.

"Well, if your fencing keeps getting better, I'm sure you'll end up at a tournament in Europe in no time.

"You think? I mean, you are totally beating me right now. The score is six to you, one to me. I'm outmatched in every way here."

Striker's smile was the first genuine glimpse of emotion I had seen from him in all my time at the club.

"That may be the score, French, but you haven't made it an easy six points. I've struggled less in regional qualifiers than I have with you tonight. The fact you have been doing this for only two months is astounding. However, when I get to seven points, I'm really going to turn up the heat."

I could feel myself begin to blush at his praise. I hoped that my cheeks being flushed from the exertion of keeping pace with him hid my giddiness. However, I was not about to hide my grin, so I stuffed my head back into my helmet.

"If you keep training me, maybe I'll be good enough to inherit the club from you when you finish studying", I said. Striker's smile slipped into a wistful grin. As if he had never considered actually having to leave the fencing club behind. I almost felt sorry for him.

"Hey, French," He said, softer than I had heard him before, "What I said about your feet. Sorry. That wasn't cool of me, I just got caught up in the moment. Though, do you really think I need to grow a beard?"

He was being sincere. While it was nice to see this softer side of him, something told me that Ace Striker was rarely soft with anyone.

"It's okay," I said, "Just don't be an asshole. And yes, a beard would suit you".

Striker's smirk as he dropped his helmet over his face was almost enough to melt me. But I was locked in, ready for a duel. I was determined to get one more point before the end.

We reset.

He dropped his hand. Slowly, we inched towards each other. Our feet moved in and out of our natural rhythm. Each step trying to be unreadable. I could feel his eyes stalking me, absorbing every twitch and movement of my body. Analysing. Calculating. I would have found the attention to be a turn-on, but this was not the time for arousal. I had a point to score. And, I had a plan for how to get it.

He read my plan.

Moving first, he sprang at me like a panther looking to plant his blade into my arm. I stepped back and realized my mistake. It was a double lunge. Striker capitalized upon his momentum, batting my sword away with speed, and took a second lunge to score. My mind raced with possibilities. I landed on one idea. It was stupid, but worth a shot. Throwing my trailing leg backward, I sank into a deep reverse lunge. So, deep, I might as well have been doing the splits like an overdressed cheerleader.

But it worked. The tip of Striker's épée sailed through the space my shoulder had been less than half a second before.

He said something. Perhaps a sound of surprise or frustration at having been denied. I couldn't tell. I was far more occupied with flicking my own blade up, trusting in its flexibility, and driving the point into the underside of his gloved left hand.

The box screeched as the point registered. Six for Striker, two for me.

I was elated.

Striker snorted, breathing heavily now. "Good trick, French. But it won't work twice."

"It doesn't have to," I said, getting to my feet, "Just once. Now I can go to bed imagining the look of surprise on your baby face."

Why was I goading him?

"Okay, Footloose, you want a surprise? Get ready. Playtime is over."

The insult didn't make much sense, but I supposed he was trying to be nice about it. However, I knew I was in for it now. I was about to witness what an Olympian was capable of. We reset.

I held my hand up this time.

He waited.

I dropped it.

We began.

His half steps moved with lightning pace, leading foot closing the distance and backfoot following. He slid across reality like a ghost in a horror movie. His torso was still, his arms unmoving. He just glided on nothingness until he was dangerously close in the blink of an eye. Too quick. My brain had not even begun to register what was happening and I was already stepping into his attack.

"Flèche!" Striker roared as he shot forward like an arrow. He charged at me, abandoning all of his previous poise and grace. I did not know what to do when the six-foot hulk of a man began barrelling towards me at a speed that would embarrass a wide receiver.

I flicked my blade downwards, hoping to catch something as he charged. A knee, a thigh, anything that would save me.

I watched in horror as the tip of my blade buried itself deeply into his groin.

Striker crumpled. His knees buckled and he collapsed at my feet. His momentum carried him forward and into my legs. I screamed as we toppled. The score box screamed as it registered the hit.

My third point, but I wasn't happy with it.

I had just stabbed an Olympian in the balls.

We landed in a heap of wires, weapons, and sweaty clothes. I could hear Striker hissing pain through gritted teeth. Blood. I expected blood and was thankful to see his pristine white breeches remained white as he rolled onto his back.

"Oh, God. Ace. I'm so sorry," I began, but he held up a hand for me to stop talking.

He pulled his helmet off with one hand, massaging the stricken area with the other. I pulled mine off too, and scrambled on my knees to him. I waited for the anger, the rage, the sudden outburst of indignant fury. Part of me wouldn't have blamed him if he were mad, it must have hurt. Only the metal button at the end prevented him from being skewered.

Striker looked at me, and I could not tell if tears or sweat ran from the corner of his eyes.

"Oww", was all he said finally.

"Ace, I don't know what happened."

"You stabbed me in the dick, French."

I groaned loudly with embarrassment.

"I'm so, so, so, sorry"

Striker rested his head back on the mat, his breathing slowed a little, but I could tell from the sounds he made that the pain was real.

"Don't apologize. It's a legal hit in épée. Just not a very sportsmanly one. Besides, the handjob you are giving me totally makes up for it."

"The hand- ", I looked down my arm, to my hand. My glove rested in his crotch. Without realizing it, I had been rubbing the area to soothe the pain, like I had just hit him in the shoulder with a bat. I must have been doing a good enough job at soothing the pain as Striker's bulge grew into semi-erection. Although I could not feel it pressing into my palm through the glove.

We looked at each other, then at his crotch, then back at each other.

Neither of us wanted to be the one to ask,

So what next?

I made sure neither of us had to.

Moving closer, I leaned forward and planted a deep kiss on his lips. I breathed out a sigh through my nose as a grumble of released tension rumbled in Striker's chest. Removing my right hand from his damaged area, I took off the glove and reached up to his neck to tug at the zip of his jacket.

Striker did not move, seemingly unsure what - if anything - he should be doing. The heat of his body hit my hand as I dragged the zip down his torso, and fell open in two parts at the end. He placed his ungloved right hand around the back of my head, his fingers tangling the mass of sweaty hair above my ponytail. He pressed my lips closer to his. I had expected a lashing tongue forced down my throat, Ace didn't do that. Instead, our questing lips sought each other as I slid my hand down his breeches, down his underwear, and gently teased his cock out.

Where I had expected to find an exposed cock head, my fingers brushed against enveloping skin. Uncircumcised.

I guess he really does have a thing for Europe.

Gently, I brought the head into play with teasing touches. His whole cock throbbed and pulsed in excited anticipation.

We broke our kiss, and I stared deep into his eyes. They almost surprised me with how deep and green they were. With his other hand, Striker loosened the plastic sliders on his breeches and wriggled his cock free of its constraints. I squeezed the head just as it was released, feeling his firmness in my palm. I knew at that moment what I was going to do for him.

"Are you going to kiss it better?" He asked, almost sheepishly. It was as if having his dick in my hand drained him of all confidence. His clean-cut face was almost cute, though imagining how he looked when he came sent a thrill charging between my legs.

"Oh no, we'd need to shower before I did that. But..." Sliding my hand to the base of his cock,

I almost jumped out of my skin when he swore loudly. His face contorted in discomfort, revealing a perfect set of gritted teeth. Pain. Only pain. Striker wasn't at the boundary of mixing pain and pleasure. I had actually caused harm, and he was trying to mask it.

"Where does it hurt?" I asked.

"It's fine, I'm okay. Keep going", he hissed.

"Hey asshole, that isn't an answer to my question. You hurt, and it's no fun for me if I cause more damage. So tell me. Where does it hurt?"

"At the base, right where it connects".

I kissed him again.

"Okay, I can work with that. Lay there."

"Work with what?"

It would have taken longer to tell them than just to show him.

Standing, it took me no time at all to remove my jacket, breeches, and underwear. I straddled him on my knees. His cock tip touched the bit between my pussy and ass. It spasmed and somehow grew harder.

The man was eager. I almost wondered if he would last any time at all. I leaned forward, taking my weight on one elbow as I spread my legs into a wide split stance. Reaching my hand between us, I held his cock steady, and slid myself backwards over his thick head. I was not prepared for how wet I was already

. As I pulled Striker into me with ease, I let my fingers trace a lazy circle between my lips just to feel myself. I was soaking wet. Not from the earlier arousal, but something else. The duel? Possibly. The physicality, the tension, the aggression. Could it be that all those things were a turn-on for me?

Now was not the time to linger on that thought as I began to roll my hips, making sure I kept him exactly where I needed him. My pussy kissed his cock, running over the contours of his head. I rocked backward and forwards, the sensation of him at the front of my cunt sending waves of balled lighting through me.

The cold nipped at my exposed thighs, and my slick arousal on him quickly cooled. The sensation was different but not unpleasant. Once I had worked Striker into a position where I had properly gauged his length and girth, my fidgeting intensified. I bounced and jerked in place, held up by the stretched tendons in my inner leg. The head of his cock inside me rubbed inside and pressed against my hole. Outside, it caught and scraped against my thin lips.

I tightened myself in time with my motions, contracting around his head as I partially swallowed it. His cock was throbbing wildly now. It was an uncontrolled tempo of pulsing and jitters. He would finish soon, brought to climax by the masturbatory talents of my pussy.

I wanted to slide the full length. To feel him fill me with his thickness and fill me with cum. But I didn't. Things were going far too well to be ruined by being greedy and causing pain. I chose to finish myself instead. I put my free hand back down on me. My clit was larger than I had ever felt. Thunder roared inside me the second I placed a wet finger against it. With quick shakes of the wrist and a steady pressure, I had brought myself close to the edge in no time.

I wanted to tap myself, hard. Let the sting and pressure send me over the line and turn my brain to mush. But I couldn't, not without leaning back and hurting him. Instead, I built up to a furious pace, indulging in the sensation of my fingers slipping off and on and over my clit. While his cock bumped against all the right spots towards the front of my pussy.

How was I already this damn horny?

No time for thoughts as the orgasm tore through me. I shuddered, hard. The shaking in my legs caused me to bounce wildly. I roared in triumph as I finished. As he finished inside me. As we finished together. Our throaty yells echoed around the sports hall for no one but us to hear.

I pushed my ass up and off him. He leaked out, and it tripped down onto his shrinking cock. I tried standing, but my legs had not quite recovered and were like jelly. So, I half crawled, half scooted over to my abandoned clothes. My underwear was halfway up my ass when he said.

"wow that was -"

"Incredible? Yeah we farmgirls from Ohio know how to fuck, Striker"

"Well, damn. You certainly know how to make an apology, French. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Once or twice. But that was just me teasing, next time I'll give you a full show."

Striker went silent. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. I felt the weight of the moment opress my joy.

"What's wrong, Ace?" I asked, unable to help myself.

"There can't be a next time, French. If she found out - "

She.

The word stung harder than it should have. It's not like we were together or anything, but it still felt uncomfortable.

"Well, she is a lucky girl if she gets that dick of yours on the regular. Though I'm sure there are a few she's about campus, so who am I to avoid?" I laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

"The captain of the women's tennis club. She is my fiancée".

Shit,

There was nothing more to say.

Without a word, I slipped my shoes on, picked up my bag, and went to leave the sports hall. Not before calling Ace Striker an asshole as I opened the door.