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Punk flops down on the sofa across from Jo with an aura of bored restlessness so strong that Jo can almost feel it disturb the air. “I think I wanna get another piercing this week,” she says.
Jo puts down her book and rolls her neck, settling back into the single run-down armchair that’s come to be her preferred seat in Punk’s living room. “You don’t wanna get another piercing.”
“Sure I do,” Punk says. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t wanna wrestle with a two-day-old piercing,” Jo tells her, “and you don’t have more than two days off in a row until next month.”
Punk shrugs, looking obstinate. “It’ll be fine,” she says. “I just have to get it somewhere that doesn’t get bumped. Maybe I could get a daith.” She sticks one finger into the shell of her ear; Jo hums and tries to look like she knows what Punk’s talking about. “Or a septum.” She touches the underside of her big pointy nose with one prodding fingertip. “I’d have to keep everyone off my nose for a couple weeks, though. Like, after I got my clit pierced, I had to smack Dragon cuz she wrapped my legs around the ringpost for her showoff submission shit, like, three days after I got it.”
Jo rubs her forehead. Yes, she remembers, because ever since Punk’s gotten her clit piercing, she hasn’t been able to shut the fuck up about it for two days together. At first it was sort of funny; now, a couple months in, it’s getting annoying. It’s like Punk is bragging somehow, Look how much sex I’m having, I got a piercing to make it better - it’s not exactly logical, but it rubs some deep-seated gnarly spot in Jo’s brain the exact wrong way. She’s got a headache coming on, she thinks, and she’s always overwarm in the apartment because Ace and Punk are both skinny little yankees who don’t feel the need to run the AC until it’s baking hot outside, and she just can’t let this go past one more time.
“Okay,” she says, trying not to let too much real annoyance creep into her voice. “Are you aware that you’ve managed to bring up your clit piercing in every single conversation we’ve had for the past two months?”
Punk snorts. She sticks her tongue out to play with her lip ring and furrows her brow like she’s thinking hard, slouching down into the stained couch-cushions. Her big crooked nose scrunches up even crookeder. “No way,” she says. “No way it’s every conversation.”
“I mean—” Jo pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Okay, like, half of all conversations we have had.” She pitches her voice into her best approximation of Punk’s Chicago yap: “Ohhh, my piercing hurts so bad today. Oh, that last bump jostled the new piercing. Oh, did you know having your clit pierced makes sex so much better? Jesus, Punk.”
“I do not sound like that. Who is that?” Punk looks at Jo with gape-mouthed, amused indignance. It’s frustratingly difficult to stay mad at her in any meaningful way.
“That’s you,” Jo insists, “bringing up your pussy piercing every damn day like you made it up to annoy me personally.”
“It’s not a—” Punk bites her tongue. “Made it up? I’m not making it up. It’s so real. It has a little rhinestone in it.”
Look at her, Jo thinks - she’s almost pouting. “Okay,” she says, trying hard not to laugh. “Now I know you’re lying. No way CM Punk has rhinestones anywhere on her body.”
“Fuck you,” Punk says, loud and incredulous. Then: “I’m not lying. I can show you right now, I’m not lying.”
Silence.
“I mean,” Jo says. “For real?”
Punk has one hand at her waistband, thumb to the button of her baggy jeans; she seems pretty for real. She shrugs. “Why not? It’s like, girl talk, right?”
Jo stares. In point of fact, she’s never really been clear on what girl talk is, exactly, but she’s pretty sure this is something else. Then again— On reflection, this particular scenario doesn’t seem all that different from Punk showing her the gnarly rainbow of bruising on her thigh from hitting the ringpost sideways, or from Jo letting Punk poke at the way her back scabbed over in stripes after she got sent skidding along the ropes too forcefully. They’ve changed in enough cramped little locker rooms and shared enough shoebox motels for Jo to know Punk doesn’t shave her bush (or basically anything else), that she wears silver rings in her perky little nipples when she’s not wrestling, that she favors men’s briefs and has a birthmark on her hairy left asscheek. They’ve always been comfortable with each other - more comfortable than Jo can remember being with almost anyone else, if she had to be honest. Jo doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with that - they’re just close. And she is, actually, kind of curious . They always are, about each other.
Punk clicks her teeth against her lip ring; taps her ragged black-polish nails against her knee through the baggy mid-wash denim. Looks at Jo through her sloppy black eyeliner with her wide brown eyes, eyebrows raised. Jo suddenly feels like her tongue is too big for her mouth. “I mean,” she says, grappling for words. “What— What if Ace comes back? Is she gonna be out all afternoon, or…”
Another shrug from Punk. “Ace has seen me without pants on,” she says, dismissively, like this explains everything. “Do you wanna see it or not?”
“Um,” Jo says. She eyes the hand that Punk has draped across her crotch, the way her inked knuckles twitch with potential energy at the zipper. She tries not to sit forward too far in her chair, tries to seem like she’s maintaining a strictly friendly interest in seeing her friend’s bare cunt. “Yes.”
“Cool,” Punk says, like it’s nothing, and starts shimmying her jeans down her narrow little hips, kicking the voluminous ripped cuffs down her ankles. “You can’t make fun of me, though, or I’ll kill you, okay?”
Jo raises her hands in mock surrender. (She does regret making fun of Punk’s short-lived navel piercing, now, even though it was really only once or twice. She didn’t know Punk would take being lightheartedly compared to a Santa Monica boardwalk slut so seriously.) “Deal,” she says.
After the casual speed with which she undressed, Punk bares herself to Jo almost shyly. Her hands unfold from around her cunt, and she slides the fingers of one hand down to pull her lips back so Jo can see her clit and the metal that hooks through it.
Jo does lean forward in her chair now, scrutinizing with a sudden slack-jawed fascination: the piercing curves sleek through the fleshy hood of Punk’s clit, thick silver ring dropping down from the rod with a little silver ball on each end, the lower one nestled right up against the vital red-pink bud of her clitoris - with, yes, in fact, a tiny rhinestone stud lodged into the metal. Jo can see all too clearly, now, how it would press and rub up against her in the ring - every time someone catches Punk between the legs on a dive, or splays her legs apart to pin her, the twinge and catch of smooth warm metal pressed between her flesh and her compression shorts.
Maybe she should feel bad, getting annoyed with Punk for complaining all these months. Now, in retrospect, all the complaints feel more like— Yeah, like she was bragging, but more like the object was to bring Jo in on what she was feeling, her poor sore cunt. Not just vulgar and pitiable, as alluring as that would be on its own, but also brazenly exhibitionist.
Jo blinks rapidly; she feels, suddenly, a little dizzy, watching the exposed hot dampness of Punk’s pussy. For all they live in each other’s pockets on the road, she’s never actually seen this - how dusky blood-pink Punk’s clit is, peeking out from within the hanging silver ring, and how the thick folds of her pussy obscure all but the lowermost edge of her wet little hole. She can see the thin, sticky strip of skin that falls between Punk’s cunt and her hairy furled asshole, which is the same dusk-pink as her clit and forms a tight pouting pucker in the dip of her narrow cheeks. Jo is close enough now to smell, faintly, the musky sweat-scent of Punk’s crotch; she watches Punk twitch beneath her gaze and realizes that her breath is tickling at Punk’s sticky-wet flesh. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, wondering. Wondering.
“So, um,” she says eventually. Her words break the still silence somehow unexpectedly even to her, like they’d both forgotten how to speak. “Does it. Like, does it actually make getting head better?”
Punk blows her grown-out bangs out of her face with a sigh, suddenly looking frustrated and pitiful. “Well,” she says, drawing out the word. “Yeah, it’s supposed to, but I actually, um. I haven’t gotten to hook up with anyone since I got it done.”
Jo stares. “Seriously?” Punk juts her chin out, like she’s daring Joe to laugh at her. Which - fair, okay, but it still seems supremely improbable that CM Punk has had a dry spell this long. And really, all that talk about increased sensation, all the posturing locker-room obscenity... “Nobody?”
Punk jabs at Joe’s shoulder with her foot. “Shut up,” she says, glowering from her somewhat undignified position slouched into the couch cushions. Her face and tone are belligerent in a way that rings familiar to little nightmare heel Punk in the ring; Jo probably shouldn’t find it so endearing. “The piercers told me to stay off it for a month, and after that we had the midwest tour and I was wrestling every night, remember?”
Jo shrugs; she does remember. This last tour beat the hell out of them both. More often than not, the night would wrap up with Jo flipping channels on the crappy motel TV, knee elevated and iced after she landed wrong on it the second night out, and Punk snoring over the channel-change static in the other bed, rather than either of them going out with the rest of the locker room. (It’s a mercy that they each managed to land a couple weeks of shows just in Chicagoland afterward, long enough for them both to catch their breath a little. Jo’s been crashing on Punk and Ace’s futon for a week now, and will probably keep doing it until the show she got booked on in Cali next week - despite how her back has already begun to protest the lack of a box spring, because she’s still young and dumb enough that the idea of putting her long-term physical health before good company and a free place to sleep would just be stupid.) So, yeah, in all fairness, Jo can see how Punk might not have been getting any.
And yet. “Yeah, but like—” Why is she pressing this, she wonders vaguely. Why is she sitting here engaging in discussion while Punk is splayed out in front of her, naked from the waist down? Jo feels a little crazy. She keeps looking between Punk’s cunt, up to her face, back down again; the little glint of silver crowning Punk’s red-pink flesh draws her eye irresistibly, the ring that perfectly encircles her clit. Her words are thick in her mouth, difficult to form, distracted. “You haven’t even. Um, you have to have tried rubbing one out with it, or…?”
Punk sighs again. “I mean, sure, but it’s different,” she says, twisting her face up like she, too, is struggling for words. “With a mouth. Instead of a hand. And with,” she shrugs, “someone else.”
“Sure,” Jo parrots. She bobs her head dumbly, nodding for a duration far past the typical, because she’s thinking. Staring between her best friend’s legs, watching her cunt pulse every time she breathes out, thinking, thinking.
“We could,” she starts, eventually. “I could. I mean— I could do it. So you can see what it’s like. You know?”
The words are disjointed, ideas stopping and starting and rushing all over each other. Jo finishes with the weak, You know?, not even fully sure herself what she just said, whether she’s done an adequate job getting across the point that she wants to fucking eat Punk alive right now.
But Punk is nodding, immediate and eager, stringy blonde hair bouncing at either side of her flushed face. “Yeah,” she says, so very quickly. “Yeah, if you— Oh, shit—”
She loses the end of her sentence to a shaky, shocked-sounding moan; Jo’s already dropped from her position kneeling up in front of the sofa and dipped her head to set her mouth to Punk’s clit. God, she smells incredible - the body-sweat scent that’s so familiar to Jo already, ripened by the close hairiness of her crotch and the briny vinegar smell of her pussy. Jo’s upper lip kisses the dark curls at Punk’s mound as she touches her tongue to Punk’s clit, right into the center of the target made by that little bedazzled metal ring. It’s free-floating, she discovers, anchored only by the top ball to the bar through Punk’s tender fleshy hood; she hooks her tongue through it and licks at the bud underneath, tasting metallic warmth and salty soft skin.
Punk’s thighs shake around her ears; Jo can hear her breathing high and quick up above her head, tossing out a low drawn-out Fuuuuck when Jo closes her lips around skin and metal and sucks gently. God, she’s so sensitive, already worked up from just a few moments of Jo’s mouth. Jo wonders, as she slides a hand up Punk’s furry thigh to trace her wet labia with one teasing finger, if it’s the piercing or just Punk. She always has had sort of outsized reactions to sensation of all sorts, even if she tries to hide it with her tough-bitch great-worker set-jaw act - whining and hissing through her teeth when she wipes antiseptic over a wound, going sweet and heavy like a cat on the rare occasions when she lets Jo brush out and braid her ratty blonde hair (just to give Jo something to do with her hands, Punk says, because she knows how restless Jo can get; hilarious, considering it’s Punk who can’t sit still through a whole movie without Jo’s hands in her hair).
It’s the same now, and Jo’s beginning to realize just how much she loves drawing these reactions from Punk: her own cunt pulses between her kneeling legs as Punk starts up an obscene litany above her, a low chorus of Yeah yeah fuck yeah right there s in her sweet sandpapery whisper. She squeezes Punk’s thighs, draws her nails though the patchy dark fur on them; she sucks harder on Punk’s clit, making a point to rub that little metal ball against the underside with her tongue, and Punk sobs for her.
Where she was almost afraid to touch before, watching Punk twitch under the warm gust of her breath, now it’s like a dam has broken. She wants to touch Punk everywhere, wants to squeeze her in both hands until she’s gasping and squirming and begging for more. She drags her face down, drinking the slick that flows from Punk’s hole, smearing her lips and chin with the hot tangy wetness of Punk’s arousal. Punk’s clit rubs firm and fleshy up against the bridge of her nose, dragging across her skin in a sensitized pulse - God it feels good, Jo needs to touch it, needs to feel the hot cling of Punk’s soft-hot-hard flesh.
She splays her hand up on Punk’s furry mound and traps her clit between two fingers, feeling the shifting resistance of metal under the skin above. Punk’s clit is firm and hot, swollen enough from arousal that she can jack her off using the pierced flesh of her hood; when she starts, Punk gives her a beautiful whining cry and leaks a wave of sticky slick onto Jo’s tongue, uncontrolled and desperate.
Her hips are moving in little rhythmic rolls, demanding more, whatever Jo can give her - Jo imagines the metal bar compressing that great big pulsating cradle of nerves underneath Punk’s skin, and her fingers toying with the metal, what it must be doing to Punk’s entire body.
She shoves two big fingers into the soft hungry suck of Punk’s hole, almost without thinking about it - it’s what she does to get herself off, pressing up relentlessly on the spongy mound of flesh inside her channel - and licks again at the sensitive little bud of Punk’s clit, and Punk bucks against her face, contracting from her light-furred little belly to the tight tight boiling heat of her channel, spitting out curses loudly enough to echo across the hall. Jo presses down with one hand and up with the other, a closed circuit, coaxing the full shuddery length of Punk’s orgasm from her.
By the time Punk starts twitching away from her mouth instead of into it, her face is glossy with sweat, little splotches of red blooming high on her cheeks, eyes wide and dizzy. “Oh, fuck,” she says, sounding winded. “Oh my god. Fuck, Jo. Fuck, yeah.”
“Yeah?” Jo feels bold now, cocky enough to smile up at Punk as she keeps fucking with the little silver rod in her hood. “You wanna go again?”
“I dunno if I can— I usually just— Just one, but—” Punk is biting her lip, squeezing her lip ring between her teeth and tongue. Jo crooks her fingers inside Punk, just to give her a reminder; Punk seizes around her again, shocked and clutching. “Yeah, yeah,” she nods. “Try it, give it to me.”
Jo grunts, low and appreciative, as she goes back to work. Punk’s body is strung tenser now than it was, hot like she’s running a fever, making the air between them thick with the earthy tang of her sweat. Jo pumps her fingers dutifully, probing deeper into Punk once or twice before she goes back to bullying her g-spot; she feels like she’s trying to drag the orgasm out of Punk by force. Punk’s clit is huge and swollen now, hot against Jo’s tongue, barely able to fit through the ring that rests against it - it must be so, so fucking sensitive. Jo drags her teeth against it just for a moment, accidentally-on-purpose, just so she can drink in the hiccuping howl that leaves Punk’s throat.
“Bitch,” Punk whines, squirming in Jo’s hands. You like it, though, Jo thinks but doesn’t say - too busy lapping her tongue over Punk’s clit, kissing it better for her. She sucks hard at the eager knot of flesh, lets spit flow out of her mouth and down onto where her fingers are working in Punk’s tight sweet hole. It makes the slide easy, impossibly slick - Punk barely needs the extra help, she’s been leaking steadily since she took her panties off.
It feels like a gulf has opened up since that moment: there’s no fucking way they can go back, and that should make Jo nervous, maybe, but right now she can’t imagine why. All she can think of is Punk, Punk’s incredible cute hairy pussy, Punk’s smell and feel and taste against her. Between her legs she feels the dense burning thud of her own arousal, her thick thighs squeezing together to compress her cunt against itself, but she doesn’t want to move her hands from Punk to touch herself more effectively. Not when Punk is so hot and welcoming around her big fat fingers, so pretty and hairy and sweaty where Jo’s other hand squeezes at the tender inside of her thigh.
Punk’s second orgasm takes Jo by surprise - she’s been tense and shivery and loud since she came the first time, so she doesn’t get the same crescendo. What she does get is a high, thready gasp, Punk’s shins locking tight around her shoulders, and a sudden spray of hot liquid gushing across her face.
Up until now, in Jo’s mind, squirting has been firmly in the realm of shit-that-only-happens-in-porn. It still kind of feels that way, to be honest - Punk coming on her face, the hot briny splash of fluid across her mouth and dripping down her chin, feels dizzy, surreal. Without stopping to think about it, she sticks out her tongue, swiping up as much as she possibly can; she must look foolish, desperate and gluttonous, but Punk is looking at her with gaping glaze-eyed adoration.
The second orgasm makes Punk go elastic-loose, sinking into the sofa, her hiked-up knees drooping wider outward. Her pussy is red and soaking wet and so hypnotically spongy-soft; Jo pets her fingers over it, not even trying to make Punk come again, just feeling the velvety folds of Punk’s tender skin, the hairy plumpness of her outer lips, all slimy-sticky-messy-wet with pleasure. Still, when Jo moves to trace the fat pierced mound of Punk’s clit, to touch it again with just one probing fingertip, Punk shudders and whines and hisses out another trickling squirt of that clear fluid that beads in the matted hair between her cunt and asshole - a third orgasm, or just an aftershock from the second one, Jo’s not sure, but she feels a sick fierce pride for having coaxed it out.
Jo’s so wet that she must be soaking through her underwear now, maybe even staining her shorts; she rests her head against Punk’s inner thigh, just breathing in the thick sex-sweaty scent of her while she tries to catch her breath and clear her head. But once she’s there, she can’t help herself - she’s drawn back in, licking at Punk’s cunt with the broad flat of her tongue, cleaning the slippery wetness from her close dark curls. Punk is dripping out a steady stream of noise for it, hoarse groans from deep in her chest, body twisting in rhythmic slow-motion. Her swollen, silver-circled clit is huge and hot and twitchy between Jo’s lips. Her cunt smears Jo’s cheeks with fragrant wetness when Jo plunges her tongue into Punk’s hole - loosened and chafed from her broad fingers, silky tensing flesh rippling around her, muscle thrust into muscle.
Jo grasps her own cunt through her shorts, squeezing viciously for the friction, too distracted to do more while she’s still swimming in the smell and feel and taste of Punk. Punk’s third orgasm comes shivering and whiny, her voice climbing through the still air of the apartment; her thighs flex and shift around Joe’s ears and her cunt leaks slow, sticky, exhausted on her tongue. She falls back like a puppet with her strings cut, head lolling on the pilled couch cushions, and tracing her gaze up the line of Punk’s body Jo finally remembers that there is a world beyond Punk’s cunt. Punk is staring down at her, red sweaty face and big dark eyes lidded heavy, her mouth hanging open slack and smiling.
“What,” Jo tries to ask, garbled slightly by the wet stickiness in her throat. She licks her lips and watches Punk track the movement. “You want another one?”
Punk gives her a strange little laugh, wheezing and incredulous. “Come here,” she says, and she hooks her ankles around Jo’s shoulders, pulling her up and in; the movement is demanding but it feels natural, like she’s catapulting Jo into the next spot. Jo goes easily by instinct - comes up on her knees and into Punk’s sweaty embrace, lets Punk press her face to Jo’s and lick at the wetness on her lips like a dog. It’s not really a kiss - until it is, until Punk gets enough of her brain back to suck on Jo’s tongue and move her lips instead of mindlessly licking into the stale musky taste of Jo’s mouth. The whole thing is cute in a way that Punk so rarely is, unstudied and sloppy and earnest. It makes Jo feel a little dizzy - the gross sort-of kiss, the callused hands clinging to the flesh of Jo’s broad shoulders, the way Punk moves Jo’s hand up under her shirt to feel at her little pierced tits. She doesn’t realize she’s grinding against Punk’s bare thigh, squirming desperately into her, until Punk’s hand is on her - with her cunt cupped through her shorts, she feels abruptly and jarringly owned. She’d do anything Punk wants her to right now, anything at all.
All Punk seems to want right now, though, is to keep making out. She melts into the sofa underneath Jo, arching up into Jo’s hands on her chest and making sweet little noises when Jo pinches at the firm flesh of her nipples; her own hands are roaming too, groping at Jo’s wide hips and worming their way into her sports bra to play with her sweaty tits. Punk buries her nose in Jo’s cleavage and kisses and sniffs and bites at the tender sweat-soaked skin of her sternum - like a dog, Jo thinks again, like a little teething puppy. When Punk squirms totally out of her shirt, Jo can’t help herself; she bends to lip and suck one of Punk’s pretty nipples, toys at the silver ring through it with her tongue. She thinks she should feel strange about sitting on top of Punk like this - she must be pressing the air out of her - but the feeling is wiped out by the long correspondence her body has had with Punk’s, in the ring and out of it. Besides, Punk seems to be delighted by the way Jo’s weight is settled heavy on her little body. Every roll of Jo’s hips into her belly, or onto her thigh, makes Punk moan and nod her head for more.
Punk keeps rubbing Jo’s pussy through her shorts, feeling out the wet folds with her fingertips, a maddening exploration. Her hand, when she squeezes it into Jo’s waistband, is ineffective - wrong angle, strangely folded fingers - but the demand is obvious. Jo’s head is spinning; she feels uncontrolled, unmoored, anchored only by Punk’s hot little hands and the cradle of her hips on the creaking sofa.
She tugs her shorts down, watching Punk watching her, rushing through the awkward dance of disrobing - she doesn’t want to leave the couch, doesn’t want to move away from the bubble of Punk’s body heat, sweaty little furnace of a woman. Punk’s eyes snag intently on every bit of skin she reveals: the firm overhang of her stomach, her bush all overgrown with her clit just peeking through the hair, even the dusky discolored flesh of her wobbly inner thighs seems fascinating to Punk. As soon as Jo tosses her shorts away and returns to straddling Punk’s body, Punk is gripping her hips to tug them forward, shimmying down the couch to put her face underneath Jo’s cunt.
Punk’s hot panting breath, gusting thick over the mess of Jo’s slit, makes her squirm in place and grunt through her teeth. She’s so fucking desperate, all of a sudden, that when Punk pulls her down she goes without a thought - rolling her hips down onto Punk’s face, held there by Punk’s strong clinging hands. Licked into, eagerly, hungrily, by the broad pointed muscle of Punk’s tongue.
Jo had forgotten, she realizes now, that Punk has a tongue piercing too. Not forgotten, exactly, she knew it was there - every time Punk opens her mouth wide enough, there it is, glinting bright against the wet oyster-mantle of her tongue - but still she doesn’t expect the smooth pressure of it against her flesh, the way it catches and drags along the folds of her pussy. Her thighs jerk with the sensation, squeezing tighter around Punk’s head, and Punk moans against her like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt - seen - tasted. Jo can’t help but sink her hands into Punk’s blonde hair, pulling and petting, trying to praise Punk without speaking since she can’t seem to get a handle on words at the moment.
Punk whines into Jo’s cunt and presses her face up, so Jo keeps pulling, grinding herself down against Punk’s face with two mean fistfuls of her messy bleached hair. Her clit bumps the crooked side of Punk’s nose, Punk’s teeth scrape at her inner thigh - it’s sloppy and desperate and fucking amazing, maybe the best Jo’s ever had. Almost like Punk’s done this before, the way she just keeps taking it, keeps licking and sucking at Jo’s flesh despite how hard it must be for her to get a breath. When Jo tries to sit further up, Punk’s mouth follows her; when her legs start to shake, Punk’s hands are there to support her, fingers digging into the broad crease where Jo’s thighs meet her ass. Maybe she’s done this before - maybe Punk’s been banging all the girls in the locker room and Jo’s just never fucking noticed - or maybe she’s just a champion dicksucker and the skills have transferred. She gets a little dizzy imagining it, any of it - somehow, in her mind, it becomes her cock in Punk’s mouth, cutting off her air, making her drool and cough. She fucks down onto Punk’s face again, presses herself down hard, and Punk just stays there, mouth sealed to her and working hard.
Finally, though, she does have to disconnect, and she tips her head back just slightly to suck a desperate wheezing breath in through her nose. Jo tucks one broad thumb into Punk’s still-open, gasping mouth; she watches Punk suck it, then struggle to keep up when it becomes two of her fat fingers. Punk’s thin little lips are stretched around her flesh, sucking without even being asked, but her eyes are on the mound of Jo’s wet pussy. When Jo starts to rub her own clit, taking in the spectacle of Punk choking on her two thrusting fingers, Punk whines and paws at Jo’s thigh with one hand - clumsy and sex-stupid, greedy like she’s being left out of something, which Jo supposes she is.
“Okay,” Jo says, “okay, okay,” and she draws her fingers out of Punk’s mouth with a wet saliva glide, and she sets herself back down to let Punk have what she really wants. Punk’s mouth is immediate and grateful on her cunt, lips and teeth and sloppy wiggling tongue.
Jo brings her spit-sticky fingers to her nose and sniffs, without really realizing she’s doing it; they smell like the plain sourness of drool and like her own pussy, musk and sweat, and it should be disgusting but it makes her heart thud through her cunt where Punk is licking her out so relentlessly. She can still taste Punk in her own mouth, this flat spunky aftertaste that clings to her tongue, and the sensation folds in on itself like a recursive loop of scent-taste-spit-come. She kind of wants to kiss Punk again, just to see how her mouth would taste, but she’s so fucking close - she can’t pull off now. The little metal ball in Punk’s tongue is making itself known, rubbing up against the underside of her clit, that tender spot where it bisects and unfurls itself into the ruched dusk-brown inner lips of her cunt. She can feel how wet Punk’s face is, too, with drool and her own juices; as her jaw works, her chin rubs against Jo’s leaking hole, sliding smooth with how messy they both are.
The knot is tight at the base of her gut, tying itself up tighter and tighter with every stroke of Punk’s tongue. She braces herself against the arm of the sofa and looks down at the top half of Punk’s face, and god— She’s beautiful, Punk is so beautiful, with her thick overgrown eyebrows drawn up in concentration and her long eyelashes fluttering against her cunt-wet cheeks, with her sloppy eyeliner and her crooked broken nose and the dark circles that stain both her eye-sockets like twin black eyes.
And then she does something with her tongue, unseen and diabolical - licking hungrily down to Jo’s sensitive hole and twisting while her teeth press flat to Jo’s clit - and Jo hangs her head and grits her teeth and shudders through it, thighs flexing, hips rolling forward into Punk’s beautiful face.
“Shit,” she gasps. “Holy shit, dude.” She feels dissolved; she tries to shift off Punk’s face on shaking legs, but Punk holds her there, pressing kisses to the hairy sweaty crease between her belly and her groin. Punk’s whole body reaches up to Jo’s, curling up with clingy hunger, throwing off palpable heat. Short of actually standing up, she realizes, she’s gonna be here as long as Punk wants her to - Punk and her thin-lipped, clever mouth, and her sharp tongue, and the ring-rough fingers she’s spreading Jo open with now. Jo feels suddenly flayed apart: when Punk presses three probing fingers into her body all at once, too big to fit but they do, they fit perfectly - it feels different from anything else she’s ever had inside her. She’s always been utterly ambivalent about getting fingered, but she wants to watch Punk pulling her open, wants to watch her try to get her whole hand inside. There’s a strange paranoia that comes with the thought, like it must be visible on her face somehow, like she wants it so bad she’s beaming it out with her mind.
If Punk can tell what Jo’s thinking, she doesn’t let on. Her eyes are closed again, working her tongue piercing against Jo’s clit while she curls her fingers up just— Jesus— It feels like Punk is touching the center of a wound, sensitive enough to get her pain receptors crossed, when she starts rubbing at Jo’s g-spot. It’s different when it’s fingers - when it’s Punk’s long callused fingers, probably flaking nail polish off inside Jo’s body, buried all the way to her bruised knuckles. Jo’s shoved half her fist into her mouth, at some point, and she bites down on it hard enough to hurt, dizzy in the press of sensation.
Jo comes a second time with Punk fucking her, three fingers deep and the fourth one teasing against the soft skin between Jo’s cunt and her asshole. Punk looks— When Jo sits up for real, and shoves Punk’s face down because she can’t again, not right now - Punk looks up at her all dazed and wet-faced and extremely, entirely too pleased with herself. Jo holds her face in one hand to inspect her: her eyeliner is smeared and muddy, her breath coming in little panting huffs. She’s wet from the bumpy bridge of her nose to the underside of her chin with drool and come and sweaty cunt. Her shoulder works slowly against the couch-cushion, and when Jo looks behind her she can see Punk’s legs spread open, one lazy hand rubbing against her little pierced clit.
“God, you’re such a slut,” she says, without thinking - she means it fondly, and Punk seems to take it that way, eyes rolling back and crooked little teeth coming out to chew at her lip ring. She whines and nods, jaw still trapped by Jo’s big sweaty hand. Jo squeezes, opens Punk’s mouth up enough to hook one thumb in. “You happy with your new piercing?”
Punk grins around Jo’s thumb, wide and stupid and smug. “Yeah,” she says, drawing the word out, half-muffled. “Soooo— Oh!” Her hips buck and squirm and her belly tenses up; she’s coming again, Jo realizes, feeling a little light-headed as she watches it take hold on Punk’s messy face. Her eyebrows draw up together and her mouth shapes itself around Jo’s thumb, half-biting, half-sucking; she looks caught between pain and ecstasy, the same look she gets when she’s selling in the ring, and isn’t that curious? Jo shifts her weight on top of Punk, asserting herself a little, and Punk bucks her hips dumbly into Jo’s backside. The mash of Punk’s fuzzy belly and hairy groin against her thigh feels, again, like only a slight adjustment to the way their bodies move together in the ring - Punk trying to bridge out of a hold, Jo slamming her back down into the mat.
Then it’s over - Punk’s face smooths out again, she stretches out like a cat underneath Jo and wipes her sticky hand off on her belly. “Yeah,” she says again. “Real fuckin’ happy with it.” She shimmies up the sofa, out from between Jo’s legs to set her feet on the floor. “You hungry?”
Jo’s been watching the roll of muscle underneath Punk’s sweaty skin, the way her tits jiggle as she shifts around - smelling the sex-scent that clings all over and between both of them, getting a little lost in it. “What?”
Punk stands and stretches again; Jo hears something in her back pop. She starts rooting around on the floor for her discarded panties, tosses Jo’s clothes at her when she finds them instead. “I mean, I think Ace is getting groceries on her way home, but we could order in too, I’m fucking starving.” Jo watches as Punk wipes the crotch of her briefs across her messy, slimy cunt, then balls them up with her shirt and jeans. “I’m gonna go change,” Punk says, “and maybe put the A/C on ‘cause it’s fucking hot in here. Think about where you wanna order from.”
Jo spends a long minute sat ass-naked on the sofa, staring at the putty-beige terrain of the opposite wall. Eventually, though, she gives up on trying to work through what the hell just happened - she pulls her clothes back on and walks to the kitchen to splash water on her face and rifle through takeout menus, even though she’s not really even hungry. Maybe she’ll just order something and let Punk eat it; maybe she’ll be hungry by the time Ace gets back and she’ll make herself an egg sandwich while Punk and Ace talk about the training gym. Maybe her mouth will taste like Punk for the rest of her life.
The sickly rattle of the window unit creaking to life announces Punk’s return. “Maybe that Mexican place off Clark? You liked them, right?”
“Yeah,” Jo says. There’s a glob of dried paint on the wall above the sink, slightly off-color from the rest of the wall. Maybe it’s just the way the light hits it. “Yeah, that sounds good.”