"That's some ass, sweetheart," the man with the knuckle tattoos growled as April bent to refill his coffee. His fingers traced the hem of her tight uniform skirt, fingertips brushing the warm swell of her thigh. She forced a breathy laugh, shifting her hips just enough to break contact without making it obvious.
"More coffee, sir?" she asked, voice honeyed, her journalist's mind cataloging the scars on his hands—defensive wounds, probably.
The booth behind her erupted in rough laughter. "Ask her about the special, boys," someone jeered. A calloused palm cracked against her left cheek—not hard enough to sting, just enough to make the fabric stretch taut over the curve. She bit her lip, not from pain but from the electric snap of unwanted awareness.
Across the diner, a man in a tailored suit watched silently, stirring his untouched soup. April caught his gaze—cool, assessing—as another patron's fingers slid under her apron to knead the yielding flesh beneath.
"Gentlemen," she murmured, stepping back with practiced grace, "the pie today is *especially* fresh." Her pen hovered over her notepad, useless. So far, all she'd gotten were fingerprints on her skin and the sour tang of sweat clinging to her polyester uniform.
The kitchen's swinging door hissed shut behind her. "Jesus fuck," she exhaled, pressing her spine against the stainless steel fridge. The cold seeped through her thin blouse, raising goosebumps as she rolled her shoulders—every nerve still alight where rough palms had mapped her curves.
The cook didn't glance up from the grill. "Order up," he grunted, slamming a plate of greasy eggs onto the pass.
April inhaled sharply—garlic, bleach, the stale musk of men who thought paying for coffee bought rights to flesh. She rubbed her thigh where knuckles had lingered, fabric whispering against skin still humming from trespass. "Table seven's getting handsy again," she muttered, adjusting her apron straps with deliberate slowness.
The diner's bell jangled. Five women in motorcycle leathers slid into booth three, their laughter sharp as switchblades. April exhaled through her nose—maybe *this* table wouldn't leave bruises under her uniform. "Evening, ladies," she chirped, pen poised over her notepad. The blonde by the window licked her chapped lips.
"Those lips," she purred, tapping a chipped nail against April's mouth, "I'd bite the lower one till you whimpered." Her breath smelled like peppermint and gasoline.
The redhead next to her hooked a boot around April's calf, leather creaking. "These legs?" She squeezed, calluses catching on nylon. "I'd spread 'em over my handlebars and see how far they bend."
Across the booth, a brunette reached up to flick April's name tag, making her breasts sway. "These tits?" She grinned, tooth glinting gold. "I'd leave teeth marks on both nipples before I sucked 'em raw."
April's pulse hammered—not fear, but something hotter, darker. The woman by the aisle grabbed her ass with both hands, fingers digging into the curve. "This ass?" She chuckled, low and mean. "I'd smack it purple with my belt before I ate you from behind."
The last one—pale, silent—reached between April's thighs, thumb brushing the damp seam of her panties through the uniform. "And this?" Her whisper raised goosebumps. "I'd make you come screaming into my mouth while the others held you down."
The pen slipped from April's fingers.
"I... I'll get your drinks started," she stammered, scrambling to reclaim it before the blonde snatched it up with a predatory grin.
"Sweetheart," the blonde drawled, spinning the pen between her knuckles, "we didn't come here for *drinks*." Her boot nudged April's knee wider under the table.
April's throat tightened—these weren't just handsy bikers. Their leather jackets bore the faintest outline of a embroidered emblem half-scrubbed out. *Foot Clan*.
The redhead's calloused fingers traced the hem of April's apron. "You smell like cheap perfume and adrenaline," she murmured, nostrils flaring. "What's a pretty little thing like you *really* doing in a place like this?"
Gold-tooth's grin widened as April's pulse visibly jumped. "Maybe she's *our* kind of dessert."
April forced a giggle, leaning into the redhead's touch like it didn't make her skin prickle. "You girls are *fun*," she lied, breath shallow. The silent one's thumb pressed harder against her panties, fabric dampening.
"Fun's just the start," the blonde purred, snapping the pen in half. Ink bled over her fingers like a warning. "Now tell us..." She leaned in, lips grazing April's earlobe. "...why your heartbeat says *liar*."
April's smile froze. The kitchen door swung open—a distraction. She twisted away, hips brushing against groping hands. "Special's meatloaf," she blurted, voice too bright. "Extra *juicy* tonight."
The brunette licked her gold tooth. "We know what we're hungry for."
April gasped as the blonde grabbed her waistband and spun her violently into the diner's peeling wallpaper. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs as thick fingers clamped over both breasts through the polyester uniform, kneading roughly. The material strained against her nipples—already stiff from adrenaline—as the blonde's hot mouth pressed against her ear: "Fuck your meatloaf. These D-cups are tonight's special."
Behind them, chairs screeched across linoleum. The redhead trapped April's wrist above her head while the silent one slid a boot between her thighs. April's heartbeat thundered in her ears as calloused thumbs circled her peaked nipples through damp fabric—each rough rotation sending jolts down to her clit.
Gold-tooth's laughter was a dark promise. "Look at her," she purred, dragging a knife handle down April's trembling belly. The cold metal bit through thin cloth. "Breath hitching, thighs shaking—bet she's dripping through those cute little panties." Her free hand yanked the apron strings loose. "Let's see if Channel 6's star reporter can take *real* investigative journalism."
The blade tip caught the first button of April's blouse. A drop of sweat slid between her breasts.
"You... you've got the wrong girl," April gasped, thighs clenching around the boot wedged between them. "I'm just... just a waitress..."
The redhead's laugh was a rasp against April's throat. "Bullshit." Her teeth scraped skin as she tugged the apron down. "We've seen your press pass, princess. April O'Neil, sniffing around our docks." Her grip tightened—April's wrist bones ground together.
Gold-tooth flicked the second button open. "Here's how this works," she purred. The knife's flat edge dragged over April's nipple through damp fabric. "We fuck you senseless against this wall. If you come hard enough... maybe we keep you." The blade slit the third button. "If not?" A shrug. "The East River's *real* hungry tonight."
April's pulse hammered where the silent one's fingers slid under her skirt.
"Shh," the blonde murmured, biting April's earlobe. "Better start begging." The knife handle pressed against April's clit through soaked cotton—every vein throbbed under cold metal. "Show us how *badly* you want to live."
Then—*thwack*. A six-inch steel spike buried itself in the wall between April's splayed fingers, vibrating inches from the redhead's nose. The diner fell silent except for the hum of neon and the wet sound of Amane slurping noodles from across the room.
"Hey," Amane said, chopsticks hovering over a steaming bowl of ramen piled high with pork belly. Her dark red eyes flicked up, unimpressed. "You're dripping sauce on my appetite." A single blue curl bobbed as she sucked broth off her thumb, gaze locked on the Foot Clan women. The cannon resting against her booth gleamed under the flickering lights.
Gold-tooth's knife paused. "The fuck?"
Amane shrugged, shoveling more noodles into her mouth. "If you're gonna rape someone," she mumbled around a mouthful, "do it *quietly*. Some of us are trying to enjoy our meal." She flicked a glance at April—dispassionate, assessing—then sighed and wiped her lips. "Urgh. *Fine*."
Her cannon whined as it powered up, blue energy crackling along the barrel. The silent Foot member's fingers froze halfway up April's thigh.
"Last chance," Amane said, picking a sesame seed off her tongue. "Walk away hungry... or get *eaten*."
The blonde snorted, twisting April's nipple hard enough to make her gasp. "Cute toy, kid, but that cannon's useless in here. You can't even *lift*..."
Amane blurred. The barrel whipped sideways fast as a striking snake—*crack*—and the blonde's jaw shattered. Teeth skittered across the linoleum as she spun into the jukebox, ribs snapping against the chrome edge.
Red eyes widened as April's uniform straps slipped down her shoulders—tan skin glistening with sweat, blouse gaping to reveal the swell of lace barely containing her heaving breasts. "W...wait," Amane stammered, grip faltering on the cannon's trigger. "*You're* April O'Neil? The...the one who does the nighttime bulletins in the... the tight red dresses?"
Gold-tooth lunged with her knife—Amane kicked the table into her gut without looking, sending her crashing through the dessert case. Glass rained down as the redhead ducked under the cannon's swing, only to eat Amane's knee straight to her nose. Cartilage crumpled with a wet *pop*.
April gasped as the silent Foot member's fingers *finally* reached her soaked panties—just before Amane's boot stomped down, pinning the woman's wrist to the table with a splintering *crunch*.
"Uh-uh," Amane murmured, cheeks flushing darker as April's hips jerked involuntarily against the trapped hand. "That's *my* after-dinner snack."
The silent Foot woman barely had time to gurgle before Amane's cannon barrel slammed into her temple—fabric hissed as April's panties tore free with the force, still tangled between the unconscious woman's fingers.
April opened her mouth—to thank her? To scream?—but Amane was already spinning, blue hair whipping as she drove an elbow into the last attacker's solar plexus. The woman folded like a broken accordion, vomit splattering across Amane's yellow boots.
"Gross," Amane sighed, wiping bile onto the woman's leather jacket before turning back to April. Her eyes darted to the gaping blouse, the heaving chest beneath—then snapped up guiltily. "S-sorry about the... the..." She gestured vaguely at April's ruined uniform, her own breath coming too fast for someone who'd just dismantled five grown women. "You're *way* hotter in person."
The diner's bell jangled again—not another attacker, but fleeing patrons. Plates shattered as chairs overturned, the last cook diving out the back alley door. Only the suited man remained, his silhouette framed in the kitchen's pass-through window, fingers steepled under his chin.
"You're..." April swallowed, fingers scrambling to pull her torn blouse together. The fabric slipped through her trembling grasp, baring one peaked nipple still aching from rough fingers. "Who *are* you?" The words came out huskier than she intended—adrenaline and something hotter coiling low in her belly.
Amane's cheeks burned crimson. She fumbled with her cannon straps, nearly dropping the massive weapon. "A-Amane? From Shinobi Base? I watch... I *mean*, analyze your investigative reports." Her boot scuffed the linoleum, crushing a stray molar underfoot. "Your expose on corrupt city officials was *flawless*."
The suited man's pen scratched against paper—notes? April's journalistic instincts prickled, but Amane's sudden proximity drowned all thought. Cool fingers brushed April's bare shoulder, tracing the reddening outline of a belt buckle left by the Foot Clan's grip. "You're bleeding," Amane whispered, her thumb coming away smeared pink.
Something wild flickered in those dark red eyes—protective fury melting into hunger as April's breath hitched. Amane's gaze dropped to April's parted lips, still swollen from biting back moans. "I...can't..." Amane's grip tightened, her other hand sliding into April's tousled hair. Then—no hesitation—she crushed their mouths together, tasting blood and stolen sugar from April's coffee break candy.
The kiss burned. Amane's tongue mapped every sensitive spot April hadn't known existed—rough from ramen broth, sweet from stolen soda. April's hips arched instinctively, her half-bare chest pressing against Amane's leather harness as the girl pinned her to the sticky diner wall with surprising strength. The cannon's cooling vents hummed against April's thigh, its residual heat branding her through torn stockings.
"Fuck," April gasped when Amane finally pulled back—only to trail open-mouthed kisses down her throat. Calloused fingers—from cannon triggers, not crime scenes—dug into April's waist where the uniform had ripped, finding bare skin. Every nerve sang.
The suited man cleared his throat. "Fascinating," he murmured, pen still moving. "This day has been full of surprises." He stays hidden as he continues to watch from the kitchen.
"Stop..." April gasped as Amane's teeth scraped her pulse point, her hands shoving weakly at the girl's shoulders. The leather straps of Amane's harness dug into her palms, still warm from battle. "We don't even... *ah*... know each other!"
Amane pulled back, her lips glistening with April's sweat. "I know," she breathed, fingers trembling where they gripped April's hips. "And I *hate* that I'm acting like those fucking hyenas." Her thumb brushed the bruise forming on April's inner thigh—gentle, apologetic. "But I've watched you every night for *months*, and if I walk away now..." Her pupils dilated, swallowing the crimson of her irises. "I'll die."
April's protest died in her throat as Amane crushed their mouths together again—softer this time, her young lips molding against April's fuller ones with desperate precision. The kiss tasted like ramen broth and iron, Amane's tongue tracing the cut on April's lip with reverent care. Distantly, April heard the suited man's chair scrape back—then the diner door swinging shut.
Cool air rushed in where Amane's hands finally tore the blouse open completely, buttons scattering across the linoleum. April arched into the touch as calloused fingertips—so different from the Foot Clan's rough groping—brushed her peaked nipples with featherlight reverence. "Fuck," Amane whispered against her mouth, "you're *better* than the newscast closeups." Her hips rolled forward, the hard line of her thigh slotting between April's with perfect pressure.
The cannon's power core whined as it overheated against April's leg, its vibration syncing with the pulse thrumming between her thighs. Amane's teeth caught April's lower lip—not claiming, but *questioning*. A silent plea trembling between them: *Let me*.
April's fingers tangled in Amane's blue hair, tugging her closer as the girl's lips trailed down her throat. "T... that cannon..." April gasped when Amane's tongue swirled around her nipple, the fabric of her ruined blouse clinging damply.
Amane shrugged without breaking contact, her hands sliding under April's thighs to hoist her effortlessly onto the grease-smeared table. "Safety's on," she murmured against April's sternum, her breath hitching as April's legs wrapped instinctively around her waist. The ammo belts dug into April's inner thighs—cold metal contrasting with Amane's scorching mouth as she lavished attention on each breast, her kisses featherlight compared to the Foot Clan's bruising grip.
Across the diner, the jukebox crackled to life—a slow, distorted waltz from a bullet-shattered speaker. Amane's lips traveled lower, pausing to nibble the soft swell of April's belly where the apron had chafed her skin raw. "You taste like..." Amane's voice cracked as her tongue dipped into April's navel, "...stolen sugar packets and panic sweat." Her fingers hooked into April's torn panties—once white, now translucent with slick—and paused.
April arched, her back sticking to the vinyl tablecloth. "D... don't stop..."
Amane's laugh was a shaky exhale against April's inner thigh. "S'not *stopping*," she corrected, her canines grazing the crease where leg met hip. "Just..." Her pupils swallowed the crimson of her irises as she inhaled deeply, nose buried in April's curls. "*Memorizing*." The table groaned under April's weight as Amane finally sealed her mouth over April's clit—not tentatively, but with the same devastating precision she'd used to dismantle the Foot Clan.
April's thighs trembled, her toes curling in ruined stockings as Amane's tongue flicked over her in rapid, practiced strokes. The cannon slid off the table with a metallic *clang*, forgotten. Amane's fingers—still smelling of gunpowder and pork broth—dug into April's hips, holding her in place as she whimpered and thrashed. Somewhere beyond the haze, the diner's neon sign buzzed like a dying insect, casting Amane's flushed cheeks in flickering pink light.
The jukebox skipped. Amane's teeth pressed a warning into April's inner thigh just as two fingers slipped inside her—curling *just so*—and April's vision whited out. Her back arched off the table, a shattered moan tearing free as Amane drank her down with greedy, wet sounds. When April finally collapsed, boneless and gasping, Amane rested her forehead against April's trembling stomach, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
"Fuck," Amane whispered, licking her lips with a dazed expression. "You *really* do taste like victory." She stands back up straight with a smirk. "I bet I'm the first woman that has tongue fucked your sweet pussy."
April blinked away the last stars from her vision, her thighs still trembling against Amane's shoulders. The metal table groaned as she slid forward—not away, but *closer*—her fingers hooking under Amane's skirt before her brain caught up with her body. The black cotton panties snapped against Amane's thighs as April yanked them down, revealing pale skin flushed pink with exertion.
Amane's breath hitched. "Wait... you don't have to..."
April's reply was muffled against Amane's inner thigh, her tongue tracing the sweat-slick crease where muscle met fabric. "Shut up," she murmured, inhaling the tang of gunpowder and young arousal. "I'm *not* stopping." Her teeth grazed the delicate skin just above Amane's knee—not hard enough to mark, just enough to make the girl whimper.
The taste surprised her—not just salt, but something bright and tart like citrus soap. Amane's thighs trembled against her ears as April's tongue found its mark, tracing slow circles around the swollen bud. A distant part of April marveled at how different it felt—softer angles, sharper responses—as Amane's fingers tangled violently in her hair. Her hips jerking forward with a choked-off gasp when April's tongue dipped lower, probing the tight furl of muscle beneath.
"*Shit*... your *mouth*..." Amane's voice cracked, her knees buckling as April hummed against her clit. The cannon's power core beeped a warning from the floor, forgotten as Amane's thighs clamped around April's head, her orgasm hitting like a misfired bullet—sudden, messy, her back arching with a strangled cry. April drank her down, fascinated by the way Amane's muscles fluttered against her tongue in erratic pulses, the girl's scent thickening with each ragged gasp.
"Stop...*stop*, I can't..." Amane's fingers twisted in April's hair, torn between pushing her away and holding her closer as April licked her clean with slow, deliberate strokes. Every flick sent Amane into another shudder, her thighs trembling violently against April's temples. "*Fuck*, you're *good* at this," she panted, her torso slick with sweat where it curved over April's shoulder.
April hummed against her, savoring the bitter-salt tang of Amane's climax still trembling on her tongue. She'd never tasted another woman before—never imagined the way musk could twist into something addictive, the way slick could coat her throat like warm honey. "You're *delicious*," April murmured against Amane's flushed skin, nose brushing wiry blue curls as she chased the last echoes of pleasure twitching through Amane's hips.
Amane yanked her up with surprising strength, their mouths crashing together in a messy kiss that tasted of shared arousal and ramen broth. Her fingers fumbled with the ruined remains of April's uniform—buttons pinging off the griddle as she tore the blouse open completely, the skirt ripping at the seams when Amane shoved it down April's hips. "Mine," Amane growled against her collarbone, teeth scraping skin as she manhandled April onto the table, her bare back sticking to the vinyl.
The cannon's power core beeped again, ignored as Amane stepped back, her fingers hooking under her own top. April's breath caught—Amane's body was all wiry muscle and sharp angles, her stomach fluttering with each ragged breath. But when she peeled off her bra, those big C-cups *bounced*—firm and full, nipples already pebbled tight from anticipation. April licked her lips, still wet with Amane's taste, as the girl shimmied out of her skirt, revealing a thatch of blue curls glistening under the diner's flickering neon.
"You've never..." Amane's voice cracked as she climbed onto the table, straddling April's trembling thighs. Her dark red eyes searched April's face—not predatory, but *pleading*. "Right?" April swallowed hard, her nails digging into the vinyl as Amane's hips settled lower, their heat separated only by damp skin. "Tell me I'm your first."
April's laugh came out breathless. "For this? *God*, yes." She arched instinctively as Amane's fingers traced her inner thighs—so different from the Foot Clan's rough groping. Gentle, reverent. "I didn't even know I *wanted* this until...*oh fuck*..." Amane's hips rolled down, her wetness smearing against April's swollen lips in a hot, silky slide.
The sensation knocked the air from April's lungs—Amane's pussy was *softer* than she'd imagined, the plush folds grinding against her own with delicious friction. Every rock of Amane's hips sent sparks up April's spine, her clit throbbing where it pressed against Amane's. "*Jesus*," April gasped, her hands flying to Amane's waist—not to guide, just to *feel* the muscles flexing under sweat-slick skin. "You're...*ah* ...*perfect*."
Amane's breath hitched, her forehead dropping to April's shoulder as their rhythm stuttered. "Shit, you're *so* wet," she panted, her hips circling faster, their slickness mingling in a way that made April's toes curl. "Fuck, *fuck*, I can feel you..." A broken moan tore from Amane's throat as April's hands slid lower, gripping her ass to pull her harder into each grind. The table screeched against the linoleum, their combined weight making the legs buckle dangerously.
April's nails dug into Amane's hips, her back arching off the sticky vinyl. "D-don't stop...*oh God*...right there..." Her words dissolved into a gasp as Amane's thumb found her clit, pressing in tight circles while their bodies slid together. The contrast was dizzying—Amane's callouses rough against April's oversensitive flesh, their breasts crushed together so tightly April could feel the other girl's heartbeat thundering against her own.
"You like this?" Amane growled, her teeth scraping April's earlobe as she ground down harder, the angle shifting just enough to send a white-hot jolt through April's core. "Feel how *good* we fit?" Her laughter was breathless, wild, as April's hips jerked up to meet her, their clits rubbing together in a slick, maddening rhythm. Neon light glistened off the sweat between their collarbones, the air thick with the scent of sex and spilled soy sauce.
April's nails raked down Amane's spine, her words fracturing into gasps. "F...fuck, *yes*... just like...*ah!*" Her back arched off the table as Amane's fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. The sharp bite of pain melded with the pleasure coiling tighter in her gut, every drag of Amane's hips sending shocks through her oversensitive flesh. "I'm gonna...*fuck*... Amane, I'm..."
"Come for me," Amane demanded, her voice raw as she slammed their bodies together, their wetness mixing in a filthy, audible *slap*. "Let me *feel* it." She wasn't gentle—couldn't be, not with April's thighs clamping around her waist, not with the way April's pussy fluttered against hers like a trapped bird.
April's orgasm hit like a flashbang—blinding, violent, her cry echoing off the diner's grease-streaked windows as her hips stuttered against Amane's. She barely registered the girl's answering groan, the way Amane's rhythm fractured into desperate thrusts before she came too, her release spilling hot over April's trembling thighs. For a heartbeat, they held there—foreheads pressed together, lungs burning—before Amane collapsed atop her, their sweat-slick bodies sticking to the ruined vinyl. "Fuck," Amane panted against April's shoulder, her lips twitching into a dazed smirk. "Guess I *did* ruin your uniform."
April's laugh came out shaky, her fingers tracing idle patterns down Amane's spine. "Worth it," she murmured, tilting her head to catch Amane's lips in a slow, sticky kiss. The taste of herself on Amane's tongue sent a fresh pulse of heat between her legs, her oversensitive clit throbbing in protest. Amane's answering moan vibrated against her mouth, their hips shifting instinctively closer—until the cannon's power core let out a shrill beep, its red warning light pulsing in time with April's racing heart.
Amane groaned, reluctantly pulling back. "Fuckin'—hold that thought." She rolled off April with a wet *smack*, her bare feet hitting the greasy linoleum as she scrambled for the overheating weapon. The movement sent a draft across April's damp skin, her nipples pebbling in the diner's flickering neon.
Beyond the kitchen's swinging door, a shadow detached from the fridge—the suited man April had noticed earlier, his soup bowl still untouched. He adjusted his cufflinks with fastidious care, his polished Oxfords squeaking against the tiles as he slipped out the back exit. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving behind the faintest glint of gold on the stainless steel counter—a signet ring embossed with the unmistakable curve of a Foot Clan emblem.