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“Now, T.M Opera O remains third from the back as the race continues on…”
The Overlord.
“They quickly storm through the third corner. T.M is still third from the back but is starting to pick up…”
An Umamusume truly unmatched.
“What’s the play here, T.M Opera? What will you do here?”
Despite being crowded by almost every other Uma on the track, she demanded attention like nobody else.
“200 to go! Is T.M not coming?”
As she stormed forward, it was as if the sun itself focused in on her, causing her golden accessories to shimmer.
“Here comes T.M! Here comes T.M! Here comes T.M!”
The jubilation of the crowd almost drowned out the commentator; their anticipation, their awe, practically seeping out of the screen.
“Has she pierced through?!”
The looks on her rivals’ faces were something to behold- disgust, astonishment, and fury- but nothing could compare to the sheer determination and grit expressed by the Overlord, bearing her teeth with bright purple eyes searing holes into the finish line.
“T.M! T.M! Is it T.M?! Has T.M barely done it?!”
The sight of her mud speckled face, beads of sweat rolling off her jawline, as she furrowed her brow and boldly declared her victory filled the crowd with near hysterical joy- and Aston Machan with a searing jealousy.
Pausing the video, she slumped into her chair, sighing. It was rare to have true free time at Tracen; while her peers used it as an opportunity to shop and eat and play, Machan saw it as a chance to gather intel. Merch trends, fan behavior, and- of course- studying the most renowned Umamusume. She had been keeping an eye on her rivals for as long as she could remember, but there was only so much she could learn about Scarlet and Vodka. To become the most beloved Umamusume mascot, Machan knew she had to broaden her horizons. There were plenty of traits she had observed- the quiet perseverance of Rice Shower; the marketable cuteness of Curren-Chan; the raw strength and elegance of Gentildonna- but none of them truly captured what she was looking for.
Machan didn’t just want notoriety. She wanted immortality. To be remembered for years to come. For centuries.
Who better to analyse then than the Centurial Overlord herself?
However, whereas most of her studies came from a place of admiration and kinship, the sight of Opera O claiming victory over and over again prompted a less pleasant sensation. A sharp, twisting feeling deep in her core. On occasions, it even made her audibly wince- and yet, she never stopped watching.
This was her tenth consecutive day of watching the famed Arima Kinen footage. Machan could practically recite the commentary by heart. It replayed in her mind on a near constant loop; the fervor in the commentator's voice made her nauseous.
How?
How could one Uma command so much attention and praise? And how did she make it look so easy?
Machan brought her hands to her face, letting out a long, exhausted whimper.
“Hyeeh… This isn’t working,” she murmured against her palms. “I need to do something or I won’t make any progress at all!”
She glared through the gaps in her fingers, staring daggers into the still image of Opera O’s victorious pose on her screen. After a few minutes, Machan’s arms flopped to her sides defeatedly as she continued to sit in frustrated silence, barely blinking. There were a plethora of components to pick apart in that single frame, but her gaze couldn’t help but trace the shape of Opera’s crown. Absent-mindedly, Machan reached up to touch her own. The stabbing pain in her gut returned, bringing with it a spark of motivation.
If she and the Overlord shared a crown, then she would simply prove herself to be the superior monarch. The Overlord of Overlords. A grand rivalry to be whispered about through Tracen’s halls forevermore. Besides, nothing inspired audience loyalty more than choosing a side. She could see it now: ‘Who do you favor? The Overlord or her Usurper?’. Her brain conjured images of fans lined up all over the shopping district to pledge their allegiance to their favorite racer; crowds decked out in pinks and reds, wearing their merchandise proudly; plushies and pins and posters galore!
In an instant, Machan sprung upright, a devious sparkle illuminating her once tired eyes. Her goal was set. All she had to do was confront the Centurial Overlord.
With a quick freshen up and a hug of her plushie for good luck, Machan practically skipped out of her dorm, eager to hunt down her new claim to fame. It was still light outside; there was every chance of bumping into Opera O somewhere in the academy. All she had to do was follow the crowds.
The first gathering she came across was swarmed around the race track. ‘Of course,’ Machan thought. ‘Everyone would probably love to watch someone like Opera O practice.’ Steeling herself, she pushed her way to the front of the group. A mischievous giggle escaped her lips as she envisioned the look on the spectator’s faces as she boldly challenged such a spectacular Uma. Unfortunately for her, there was no Overlord in sight. Instead, two other Umas- Kitasan Black and Santono Diamond- were out on the course, testing each other to the sound of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from a measuredly adoring crowd. Both had their own marketable properties, yes, but they weren’t who she was looking for. With a disappointed huff, Machan slinked back into the fray.
The cafeteria didn’t bring much luck either. While it was full of packed tables and talkative groups, the only star of the show was Oguri Cap, downing an ungodly amount of food to the bewilderment of her classmates and onlookers. An enviable image of popularity, no doubt, but another missed mark nonetheless.
Changing her trajectory, Machan began perusing the academy halls, starting at the top floor of every building and working her way down, peering into each classroom and supply closet without exception. Nothing. The only thing that could have even hinted at Opera O being nearby was the brief sight of Meisho Doto being swept up in a passing current of students, clutching a half-spilled beverage and whimpering loudly. Even retracing Doto’s hypothetical steps bore no results. Another failure.
The sun was beginning to set by the time Machan wearily made her way out to the courtyard. Her feet ached with each step and her stomach grumbled loudly, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t. She needed to find Opera O. Her dream depended on it but, as she looked around her empty surroundings, she could feel it slipping through her fingers.
Until she heard someone exclaim from behind the fountain.
“Hmm, no, no, that wasn’t quite right. I must try again- with feeling this time!”
Machan’s ears twitched.
“Yes, that’s more like it! Once again!”
Her target was in range.
Slowly, Machan crept down the path and peered cautiously around the fountain, her eyes widening at the sight. There she was: T.M Opera O, performing to a non-existent audience; prancing around like she was in her own little world. Machan watched in silence for a moment as her astonishment was slowly replaced by a mix of anticipation and reemerging frustration. The look on Opera’s face as she repeated her seemingly improvised dance set her teeth on edge. Was that arrogant smile her default expression?
“Why, hello there! Enjoying the show, are we?”
Machan flinched into an upright position, clasping her hands behind her back. Her target was looking at her, addressing her directly. “Ah! Hello, Opera O!” She took a deep breath, desperately trying to arrange the words in her head into a comprehensive sentence. It seemed her day of searching had knocked all her thoughts loose. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was just… um…”
“Spare me the justifications,” Opera declared, striking a flamboyant pose. “It is simply par for the course for even the most unexpected audience to become enraptured by me.”
Machan glanced around the empty courtyard again, forcing a giggle through her suddenly tensed jaw. “Yes, I know. I’ve actually been rewatching a lot of your races recently.”
“Oh? Do I have a true admirer in my midst?” Opera stepped forward, ears flicking inquisitively. “Do you have a favorite venture of mine?”
“Yes, actually.” Almost on cue, the wretched feeling in Machan’s core returned; softer than usual, but enough to reignite the fire in her belly. She clenched her fists as they sat just above her tail in a deceivingly demure pose. “Recently, I’ve been fascinated by your performance at the Arima Kinen.”
With an almost pained exclamation, Opera O twirled in place and cast her hand over her face. “Ah! One of my many Magnum Opuses!” Still posing, she gave Machan a cunning look from the corner of her eye. “Tell me, which part inspired you most? My determination even when surrounded by adversaries? My gallant stride as I split the pack as Moses did the Red Sea?” She shuffled a little closer. “The look on my gorgeous, sweat-shimmering face as I claimed my overwhelming, undeniable victory?”
The corners of Machan’s mouth were beginning to ache. “I don’t think I could pick just one.”
In an instant, the serenity of their surroundings was shattered by the sound of Opera O’s uproarious laughter, only for it to stop as quickly as it started.
“How in the world have I not noticed you before?” She asked. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Aston Machan.” The twinges in her face compelled her expression to convulse into something sweet and innocent. “I want to be adored just like you.”
“Aston Machan…” Opera repeated wistfully. “There is something unique about you. I can feel it.”
In any other circumstance, such a statement would have brought Machan nothing but joy but here, it only twisted the knife in her gut. She combed through her mind for the best way to retort, to express her desire to initiate a rivalry, but found herself distracted by the feeling of a hand on her shoulder.
“You know, I am still in possession of the racewear I wore during that famed Arima Kinen bout,” Opera said. “If you accompany me to my domicile, I can show you. Perhaps it will enhance your appreciation for my racing- if that is even possible.”
Machan’s eyes widened. An opening. She strained an even bigger smile. “I would be honored.”
Without a second thought, Opera O expelled a proud huff, turned on her heel and pointed forward assuredly. “Then let us go forth! Follow me!”
Machan lurked behind the entire walk to the dormitory, her tail flicking vigorously and her ears set back. While her features betrayed her, she couldn’t ruin this chance. It was all too perfect. Maybe she couldn’t make her declaration of war in front of an audience, but word of mouth could be just as powerful- especially the mouth of an Overlord. Machan stifled a giggle, playing it off as if she was simply clearing her throat. Thankfully, Opera O was too busy rambling to notice any unusual behavior. She chattered away to herself, gesticulating wildly and singing her own praises, all the way up to the door, which she opened with a bow.
“You have approached me at an opportune time,” she declared. “My cohabitant is currently on a little excursion with her friends and should not be back for a while, so there shall be no distractions as I tell you my tales of glory.”
As Machan entered, her expression dropped slightly. Perhaps her expectations were too high, but it disappointed her how ordinary Opera O’s side of the dorm appeared to be. Plain white shelves held a modest handful of trophies, surrounded by seemingly store-bought posters; the only standout feature was the string of star-shaped lights hanging limply over her bed. It was quite possibly the only thing about Opera that could ever be described as pedestrian. Machan let out a weak, underwhelmed whine under her breath; at the very least, the regal satin bedsheets and pillows looked very comfortable.
“Eyeing up my sanctum, are we?” Opera asked playfully, closing the door.
Machan inhaled slowly through her teeth. “Yes, it’s… um-“
“Delightful, I know, but what you came for is in here.”
With a restrained chuckle, Opera O threw open the doors of the wardrobe at the end of her bed, prompting Machan to saunter over to her side. Before them stood an overstuffed closet, filled to the brim with formal outfits, training tracksuits, and multiple sets of identical racewear; that same pink, white, and gold ensemble which struck fear into the hearts of even the most powerful racer and claimed the sun’s glimmer for itself. An imperial, noble style Aston Machan had adopted into her own attire. She reached up to touch her crown again as Opera fingered her way through the sea of tightly-packed clothes before eventually pulling out one of the sets of racewear.
“Behold!” Opera announced, holding the hanger up high. “Before you, dear Machan, is the very apparel I wore for the Arima Kinen! You may touch it if you wish.”
Humoring her, Machan carefully reached forward and rolled the fabric of the skirt between her fingers. Undeniably high quality, just like her own. Machan made a mental note; they were on par in the costume department, but she needed to know more.
“Forgive me if this is a silly question,” she began, “but how exactly do you remember that this is the Arima Kinen racewear?”
Opera O scoffed. “Haha, I forgive you. Look here.” With a swift flick of the wrist, she pointed to one of the pauldrons. “Really look.”
Aston Machan narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. Low and behold, right in the middle of the finely polished gold was a small, almost invisible dent, surrounded by light scratches.
“Whilst I was caged by my fellow competitors during the first half of that infamous race, the combatant in front of me kicked up a flurry of dirt and stones.” Opera began. “Some went straight into my eye, blinding me for a split second, but the largest collided with my armor, changing it forevermore. I tried for weeks to remove the unsightly blemish, but it was stubborn. Steadfast. It solidified itself as a permanent mark on my flawless ensemble.” She paused for a moment, her expression softening. “It was then I realised this was no repugnant blemish or defacement. It was a symbol. A symbol of my efforts to become the champion I am. Proof of how- even when all hope seems lost, even when the world throws everything at you to hold you back- there is always a way to claim what is rightfully yours. To win.”
There it was again. That deep-seated pain. Though it had strayed from its usual pompous intonation, the sheer casual arrogance in Opera O’s voice made Machan’s eye twitch. Of course some stupid stone wouldn’t stop an Umamusume like her. Nothing could. It was obvious she knew that. Machan chewed at the inside of her cheek as Opera kept talking, oblivious to the fact that her guest’s attention had been pulled elsewhere. Inwards at first, to focus on the ache wringing her innards and building aggravation, but then to something new just on the periphery of her vision.
Something very interesting.
Sitting at the bottom of the wardrobe was an inconspicuous pink basket with a crudely made paper sign taped to the front. The letters were difficult to make out without her glasses, but Machan knew those words better than anyone: ‘Fan Mail’.
T.M Opera O had a measly plastic bin for her fan mail… and it was empty.
In an instant, a spark ignited in Machan’s chest, feeding the previously extinguished fire and sending it burning throughout her body. If she wasn’t so determined to keep her cover, she had no doubt she would have been vibrating with anticipation. It was almost fitting that Opera had been showing off her armor; Machan had just found a weak spot.
“Say, Opera,” she began, unconcerned as to whether she had just interrupted another grand anecdote, “what’s that down there?”
Opera O blinked herself back into the present and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, that?” She delicately put away her racewear, exchanging it for the flimsy basket. “Why, this is my Reverence Receptical!”
“Oh my,” Machan said, feigning ignorance. “I hope you won’t find this rude, but it seems a bit… small for such a well-known racer. Do you empty it every week or something?”
Opera’s pleased expression faltered ever so slightly; it gave Machan her first genuine smile of the day.
“I have no need to,” Opera replied. “As you can imagine, holding the title of Centurial Overlord paints quite the formidable picture.” She dropped the basket, nonchalant. “I suspect many of my admirers are simply too intimidated to reach out to me, which is entirely understandable.”
Machan narrowed her eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Are you sure? It doesn’t upset you even a little?”
“Why should it?” Opera’s tail began to sway, wafting her skirt around her knees as if a dramatic breeze had just entered the room. “I know my worth. I hear those crowds crying my name when I cross the finish line. When you have that glorious sound ringing in your ears days and weeks after your races, you do not need some pithy letters to know how adored you are.”
Every muscle in Aston Machan’s body was beginning to twitch uncomfortably. The Overlord’s smug visage may have wavered before, but it was clearly a fluke. Not only had she missed multiple opportunities to make her initial declaration as Opera’s new rival, but her attempts to get beneath the armor had failed. Her pride was truly impenetrable- and it boiled Machan’s blood.
After a day of setbacks, she couldn’t help but curse and mutter under her breath. “That’s easy for you to say...”
Clearly, however, her bubbling emotion had burned away any chance of remaining covert.
“Pardon?”
This was it.
Her last chance.
Machan’s body couldn’t take it anymore. The pain in her core; the searing frustration and anguish; it was all too much.
Her initial plans had failed but any publicity was good publicity. If she couldn’t gain the Overlord’s respect, her ire would have to do. Either way, she would gain a reputation.
Machan inhaled sharply and shot Opera a defiant look. “I said: that’s easy for you to say. What about the Umas who can’t rely exclusively on their race prowess? The ones that lose more often than win?”
“Then they need to readjust their priorities,” Opera retorted. “Of course, winning comes naturally to some, but if you do not have the faith that you will win or the ability to pick yourself up following a loss, you will never succeed. The voices of others should mean nothing in the grand scheme of things; it all comes from the self.”
Machan’s ears shot back. How many times had she heard that one? “Oh yes, I’m sure it’s much easier to believe in yourself when you’re dubbed the Centurial Overlord.”
Opera O scoffed, putting a hand to her chest in theatrical offence, but her tone of voice was far from melodramatic. “You honestly think I earned a title of such caliber without enduring any sort of struggle? I can assure you, dear Machan, plenty more of the dents in my armor were attained away from the racetrack.” She took a firm step forward, furrowing her brow. “Hatred is a form of attention too.”
“Hatred?” Machan repeated. “I find it very hard to believe that an Uma such as yourself has received anything short of endless praise. I don’t think being ‘too consistent’ is the worst thing to be criticized for.”
The room went quiet for a moment; Machan’s words hanging in the air like thick fog. Opera’s mouth hesitated between open and shut, only able to emit sharp tuts and bewildered chuckles. She folded her arms tightly and looked over her shoulder to the line of racewear hanging in the wardrobe, pensive. Machan had clearly done her research to pluck such a particular critique from her history. The cheers of her audience were enough to drown out the disappointed wails from the peanut gallery, but no endless aria of worship could soften the blow of a thrown rock or drive away the scissors threatening to cut her mane. Taking a deep breath, Opera cast her gaze back to Aston Machan, focusing intently on the fury in her eyes.
“You do not have to believe it, but it is true,” she said calmly. “You cannot become a beloved Umamusume without disparagement- and even if you cannot find a shred of adoration from your public, you simply have to make your own.” Opera held herself tighter. “Otherwise, you will never be satisfied.”
Machan’s arms trembled as she gripped the hem of her skirt, her knuckles turning whiter by the second.
“Fine.”
The logical side of her brain knew Opera O was right, but her emotional side- the side that had been in overdrive the entire day, running on fumes of desperation- refused to acknowledge it.
“I… I don’t even know why I bothered coming here.”
All she could focus on was the stupid smug face in front of her and the pain it evoked.
“You’re just as vain and arrogant and- and out of touch as you look in your races!” Machan’s voice grew louder and more frantic with each word, squealing like a kettle. “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be an ordinary Uma! To be forgotten the moment someone like you comes along! You can’t! You’ll never know what it’s like to be an Uma like me!”
Without warning, Machan pushed Opera back, causing her to trip over herself and fall onto her bed, mere centimetres away from hitting her head on the wall.
“W-wait, what am I doing…?” Clasping her hands over her mouth, Machan took a few shaky steps backwards. “I-I’m sorry, Opera O! I don’t know what came over me! I just- um…”
For what could be presumed to be the first time in her life, Opera O was speechless. All she could do was prop herself up on her elbows and stare at the Uma standing above her.
The silence was palpable. The atmosphere, thick like rainy day mud.
Machan trembled, spewing out anxious apologies and half-words as Opera’s eyes- those deep purple eyes that she watched burn into the turf- raked over her, stunned. The searing anger in her core had melted into shame and humiliation, bringing tears to her eyes and flooding into her knees, causing them to buckle.
Once again, in her pursuit of infamy, she had made a mistake.
Machan had half a mind to run out of the dorm and never show her face again but, before she could rip her feet from the floor, she suddenly felt something tug at her sleeve. Almost instinctively, she lowered her hands only for Opera to take a hold of her wrist.
“Yes… I see now…” Opera purred, bringing the back of Machan’s hand to her lips. “You are no ordinary admirer, are you?” With an almost sickening gentleness, she planted a soft kiss onto Machan’s knuckle, smiling against her skin. “I was skeptical before, but that passion in your eyes just now was undeniable. I have never seen anything like it.” Another kiss, this time further up. “It takes true courage to stand before the Overlord and present such strong emotion without so much as a single inhibition.”
Machan felt the grasp on her wrist grow tighter.
“I cannot believe I had been so blind. There is no doubt about it!”
Before she could even contemplate what Opera was implying, Machan found herself stumbling forward into the Overlord’s arms, where she looked upon her with that god forsaken prideful smile splitting her face.
“Aston Machan… You are in love with me!”
In an instant, Machan’s expression dropped. “Huh-?!”
Any protests she could think to make were silenced by Opera putting a finger to her lips.
“There’s no shame in it, my dear. I simply must apologise for not seeing your intentions sooner.”
“But I-“
“Shh, you do not need to explain yourself. I already know.”
Machan’s mind was already swimming in her skull from the intense emotion she had been accumulating through the day, but the feeling of Opera’s left hand cupping her cheek and the right caressing her back only caused it to sink deeper. She hated Opera O, didn’t she? She had been the object of her envious aggravation for days. Just looking at her caused her core to ache…
To stir…
To yearn.
To make her whole body grow warmer… and compel her as she did the sun.
No… No! Machan shook her head as heat began to pool in her cheeks and loins. No. If not hatred, then those feelings were just envy, weren’t they? She wanted to be Opera O. To join her as the Centurial Overlord. To be the Overlord of Overlords!
To be beside her… to gain her attention and affection… to have her gazing upon her so fondly as she was now.
If the look on her face didn’t give her away, the timid swishing of her tail and drooping ears certainly did. All Aston Machan could do was attempt to control her breathing as Opera’s hands continued to wander over her body with such intentional tenderness.
“I was not exaggerating before about my admirers being frightened to approach me,” Opera said softly. “I am not blind to the ways in which my peers’ demeanors change the moment I enter a room. While it is indeed flattering, I must admit it makes me terribly lonesome.”
Machan’s shoulders drew upwards. She knew that feeling; to be all alone in a crowded room. She couldn’t help but melt further into the Overlord’s embrace as she continued.
“For all your abrasiveness, Aston Machan, you acknowledged me. All of me- my triumphs and my hubris- without fear or blind adoration.” Opera paused to deliver a soft kiss to Machan’s jaw. “As I said before, hatred is also a form of attention.”
“I… I don’t hate you, Opera O, I just… want to be remembered.” Weak and tired, Machan rested her head on Opera’s shoulder. “If I’m being honest, I envy you. I envy your ability to draw a crowd and keep people’s eyes solely on you. Even if people hate your guts, you’ll never be forgotten. You’ll always occupy space in someone’s mind.” She swallowed heavily, trying to dissolve the lump in her throat. “I wanted to see you today because I wanted to be your rival. I thought, if I beat you, I could have the renown and the status you have. I wanted… to be the Overlord of Overlords.” A weak chuckle escaped between Machan’s lips. “That sounds so ridiculous now, but- ah!”
Before she could finish her sentence, Machan suddenly found herself on her back, pinned into the silken duvet by her wrists all while Opera straddled her waist.
“You are a fool to think you could ever outshine me, Aston Machan,” Opera declared, uncharacteristically solemn. “However, that does not mean I would not love to see you try.” The Overlord leaned down, her proud grin developing an almost cruel undertone. “If what you have demonstrated today is any indication, you will no doubt be a fearsome adversary.” Keeping one hand in place, Opera used the other to tilt Machan’s chin upwards, ensuring she could see every color, every feeling, in her impassioned eyes. “It would be my pleasure to give you the privilege of falling before me and etching it into the story you so desperately wish to tell and have remembered.”
Machan didn’t know whether to swoon or spit. Color was surging to her cheeks at a rapid rate, but she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at Opera O’s words. “I don’t intend on losing to you. I want to be remembered as a champion, not one of your many competitors.”
The sound of Opera’s triumphant laughter quickly filled the room. “Yes! That is what I wanted to hear!” She exclaimed. “I have been waiting an eternity for someone to show me such unabashed defiance! It feels exquisite!” She continued to laugh a little while longer, only to trail off as her expression shifted into something more contemplative. “Yes… It feels… so, so incredible…”
As she stopped speaking, Machan could feel Opera shifting on top of her, rocking her hips back and forth absent-mindedly. Heat was already pooling in her loins, but each movement sent the sensation flooding to the rest of her body, causing small, high-pitched whimpers to drip from her trembling mouth. Opera’s ears drooped as she continued to grind against Machan’s pelvis, breathing heavily. Every so often her grip on Machan’s wrists would falter, only for her to grasp at them again with twice the strength.
The repeated jolts of pleasure being sent to her brain made Machan’s senses hazy, but she could just make out the sounds of Opera muttering words under her breath.
“Undignified… Filthy… Improper…”
Then, an abrupt stillness, followed by the feeling of her crawling downwards; releasing Machan from her clutches and dragging her hands down her curves as she went. As Machan’s eyes followed her down, she found Opera’s head resting on her thigh.
“O-Opera…?”
“I am giving you a very special opportunity, dear Machan,” Opera murmured, slowly pushing up her skirt. “You may only feast your eyes on my immaculate form once you have bested me but, for the time being, I implore you to demonstrate your passion as I show my appreciation for your fearlessness.” Running her tongue along her teeth, Opera O slipped her thumbs beneath the waistline of Machan’s underwear and slowly pulled them to her knees. “If you take anything away from this encounter today, just know the Overlord has acknowledged you, Aston Machan. No ordinary Umamusume has ever enraptured me with such ease.”
Opera’s labored breaths against her freshly exposed sex made Machan’s heart flutter, but it was her words which evoked the biggest reaction. ‘The Overlord has acknowledged you’. Despite being delivered in that same arrogant tone Machan had spent the day detesting, the moment the phrase left Opera’s lips, it filled her body with an overwhelming feeling of gratification. The day may not have started how she wanted, but it was ending in a way she didn’t know she needed.
Without another word, Opera O dragged her tongue from the bottom of Machan’s entrance up to her clit, causing her to squeal loudly and grasp at the bedsheets. She dreaded to think what Opera’s neighbors would think, but what frightened her more was how little she truly cared. If anything, she wanted them to hear. Being the Overlord’s rival was one thing, being her enemy was another, but being her lover? Being the Uma emerging from her sanctum, dishevelled and coated in sweat? It would be scandalous, depraved… but it would certainly get people talking.
“Hah… ah…”
Opera’s thumbs massaged small circles into Machan’s hips as she continued to softly lap and suckle at her clitoris, making her own deeper pleasured noises against the sensitive flesh. Every so often, she would shoot Machan a half-lidded glance over her tummy, eliciting a sheepish giggle amongst whimpers and whines.
“Y- yes… Keep your eyes on me, okay?”
Much to Machan’s delight, Opera obeyed, keeping her gaze firmly on her flushed face. Seeing those steely eyes staring up at her in such a compromising position made Machan shudder, but- just like when she was watching the Arima Kinen- she found herself drawn more to Opera’s crown. With each movement of her tongue, the crown would move up and down in rhythm with her strokes, catching the light in an almost hypnotic pattern just as it did on the racetrack.
But she wasn’t on the racetrack. The crown of the Centurial Overlord was not capturing the sunshine as she stormed down the turf, it was nestled between Machan’s legs as she was serviced by a sovereign. It was no longer an accessory indicative of status or glory, but a visual aid as to how vigorously Opera O was indulging in her. The only one truly wearing the crown was Aston Machan; splayed out on luxurious silk having captivated the King.
As Opera began applying more pressure with her tongue, tracing circles around the base, Machan reached down and placed a hand on her head. The act of stroking the Overlord’s hair was enough to make Machan feel powerful, but the sight of her tail raising itself the moment her palm made contact was the icing on the cake. Without thinking, Machan arched her back and pushed Opera’s face further into her pussy, forcing her tongue against the entirety of her clitoris, coating it in drool.
“Ohh…”
The feeling of Opera’s increasingly desperate laps, her eyes still locked onto her, was unlike anything Machan had felt before, but her position had made her greedy. She wanted more- and Opera’s lack of resistance only encouraged her. Emitting a hushed growl, Machan entangled her fingers into Opera’s soft hair and began to grind her pussy against her face. Gently at first, but growing rougher and more frantic by the minute.
Opera O clawed and squeezed at Machan’s hips and buttocks in response, but didn’t pull away for a second. Instead, she simply let out a long, guttural moan and allowed her face to be used, feebly bucking her hips against the bedding. It was enough to give her still-clothed sex some attention, but the real pleasure came from the look on Machan’s face as her thrusts intensified. Her knitted brow; her eyelashes fluttering against red, flushed cheeks; the immovable smile- all symbols of immeasurable enjoyment. Machan may have been the one receiving, but she was still praising the Overlord- her Overlord- with her visible delight.
“Ah… Opera O… I feel something. S- stay right there!”
The escalating ecstasy in Machan’s voice was music to her ears. If the gratified symphony oozing from her lips wasn’t a sufficient tell of Opera’s effort, her soft thighs enclosing around her head, tensing wildly and resisting the urge to clamp together and crush her skull, certainly was. Feeling the grip on her hair tighten, Opera knew the climax of her performance was about to commence. It was time for the grand finale.
Grasping at Machan’s waist, Opera began to passionately suck at her clitoris with a newfound intensity, moving her head in time with the erratic thrusts and refusing to let go.
“Nngh! O-oh, Opera-! Please don’t stop-!”
The way her heart was pounding, it was as if Aston Machan was running the Arima Kinen herself. It thumped against her ribcage, ringing in her ears; her body slipping further and further away from her control. Her voice had already escaped from her grasp, panting and moaning in a pleasured frenzy and her sex burned white hot with every movement, causing her to writhe beneath Opera’s fingertips and tongue. Machan could barely keep her eyes open as the sensation permeating her body escalated by the second but, just before she reached her peak, she caught one final glance of the Overlord’s crown and her striking eyes. Eyes now full of adoration for her.
Her and her alone.
The sight was enough to push Aston Machan beyond a different kind of finish line. Crossing her legs across Opera’s shoulders, Machan arched her back for a final time; her whole body tensing up as she released herself upon the Overlord’s face with a cry of unimaginable pleasure. With a final weak thrust of her hips, Machan collapsed onto the duvet, her bangs sticking to the sweat on her forehead.
As her legs fell aside, Opera O sat herself upright, wiping the drool and fluids from her chin with the back of her hand in an unusually uncouth manner. She looked down upon the satisfied Uma in front of her, admiring the way in which her chest rose and fell and her body twitched with residual pleasure. Pride did not begin to describe the feeling bestowed upon her by such a view.
After a few more minutes of enjoying the fruits of her labor, Opera O lay herself beside Machan, gently bringing her head to her chest.
“Rest assured, sweet Machan,” Opera whispered. “You have already solidified yourself in the heart of the Overlord. I will ensure you will never be forgotten.”