"Latina Heat" with Lola Vice

[TheLW]

Latina Heat
With Lola Vice
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Rimjob
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

I had only been with WWE for a few weeks, hired on as a writer to help shape the stories coming out of NXT. Developmental brand or not, the pressure was real. This wasn’t some fantasy booking forum. This was live TV, real stakes, and a locker room full of hungry talent looking to break through. And it was my job to help make that happen.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the creative room feels like a war zone, whiteboards full of names, arrows, timelines, ideas half-scribbled then violently crossed out. I’d retreated to my office to get some clarity, hammering out storyline progressions for the next few weeks. With a premium live event on the horizon, every segment mattered. Every match had to lead somewhere. No dead weight. No wasted time.

Then came the knock.

Knock knock.

I didn’t even look up from the paper.

“Come in,” I called out, half-distracted.

The door opened, and in walked Valerie Loureda, known to the WWE audience as Lola Vice. She shut the door behind her and stood for a moment, arms crossed, radiating confidence like she owned the damn room. Dressed in workout gear, her hair still damp from training, she had that unmistakable presence. Not forced. Not fake. Just real, focused intensity.

“You busy?” she asked, already knowing the answer but not giving a damn.

I motioned to the chair across from me.

“Never too busy for a talent with something to say.”

She sat down, leaned forward, elbows on her knees. This wasn’t small talk. She had something on her mind.

We started tossing ideas back and forth, how she was being used, what she wanted out of the next few months, what kind of spotlight she needed to really make a splash. She had good instincts, better than most. She knew what worked for her and what didn’t, and she wasn’t afraid to speak up about it.

But then she shifted gears. Her voice dropped just a bit, her eyes locked in.

“I want a shot at the NXT Women’s Championship,” she said. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”

That got my attention.

I leaned back in my chair, watching her carefully now. I’d heard variations of that line a hundred times before, I’m ready, I deserve this, give me the chance, but there was something different about the way she said it. No pleading. No desperation. Just cold, unflinching determination.

“Anything?” I asked, my tone sharpening.

She didn’t blink.

“Anything.”

A pause filled the room, just long enough to let the tension breathe. Then I leaned forward again, resting my arms on the desk.

“That’s a dangerous word to throw around,” I said.

“Not for me.” Her voice didn’t waver.

I could see it, she wasn’t bluffing. Lola Vice wasn’t here to coast. She was here to kick the damn door in.

A moment later, she stood, making her way around to my side of the desk with the effortless, whipcrack confidence only women like her possess.

She paused, letting the silence stretch between us, and with a sly arch of her eyebrow, pivoted on the ball of her foot. She then gave me that seductive trademark booty shake. A move she’d perfected in the ring, a move she considered her biggest selling point. It was impossible not to notice. Hell, she made sure of it.

Lola leaned against the edge of the desk, effectively crowding out any space I had to maneuver, her legs crossed at the ankle. “You write what happens next. You make the calls, right?”

“Within reason,” I muttered, staring up at her, suddenly very aware of the power dynamic in the room. They never taught you about this in orientation, how to keep your cool when one of the Superstars, one of the real ones, calls your bluff before you even finish the sentence.

“Within reason,” she repeated, voice gone low and intimate, “is a big window.”

“They still have to buy it upstairs,” I said, but it came out weak, like I was reassuring myself.

“Well like I said,“  Lola says “… I’m willing to do anything.”

I lean over, grabbing a handful of her perfect ass, giving it a squeeze. Lola didn’t pull away. If anything, the contact only hardened her resolve.

Lola just arched her back and let out a soft, predatory hum. “Good,” she said, voice syrupy. “Now we’re on the same page.”

She let me manhandle her. Her hips pressed into my waiting palm, both of us acutely aware of the futility in pretending I had any control. In one efficient motion, I hooked my fingers under the waistband of her spandex shorts, standard-issue black, a little sheen from sweat, not an ounce of protection. They peeled away from her hips to her thighs, then puddled around her ankles. She planted her stance, solid as a tree, grounded and proud. Gym socks and all.

Her ass stared back at me, firm and round, as if she’d trained every muscle with a grudge against the world. I caught the faint, chemical tang of coconut body lotion, something wholly hers, and buried my face against the perfect cleft. No hesitation. Not in this room, where the stakes were as tangible as flesh and breath.

I dropped to my knees. The office carpet was cheap and scratchy, but my focus was on the way her ass arched so perfectly, the faint tanlines framing her hips, the subtle flex of her glutes as she adjusted her footing. Lola knew what she was doing. She was in control of the narrative here, and for once, I was just a live body along for the ride.

I dug my hands into the side of her thighs and spread them, just an inch, just enough to open her up. My tongue pressed, circled, and then committed with a precision that felt both desperate and reverent, scientific and depraved at once. I licked a slow, heavy circle around her asshole, then drove straight in, not stopping to check her reaction, because I could already hear it, a low groan swelling into a triumphant cackle.

Lola Vice, for all her hype, melted under worship. Her legs tensed, and I felt her hips roll, chasing every lick and swirl I offered. I continued, mouth greedy, every swipe of my tongue daring her to use me as rough as she used her opponents in the ring. She reached back, and gripped my hair hard. Pulled my face tighter, forced my nose right into the smooth underside of her tailbone.

I traced the rim of her asshole with deliberate slowness, then flicked my tongue deep, feeling her whole body shudder at the contact. Lola exhaled sharply, the sound reverberating off the cinder block walls, and I felt her relax, give herself over to the rhythm I set.

She started to push back slowly, letting me know exactly how she wanted it. She bent further, gripping the edge of my desk for support, lowering her hips to meet my mouth with even more authority. Her ass flexed with every movement, immaculate, no wasted anatomy. I lost time down there, drank in her salty, musky sweat, the faintest tang of metal from whatever preworkout she’d taken.

"Ugh, so good."

I pulled her cheeks wider and buried my face. She smacked the desk with her palm, once, twice, punctuating each pass of my tongue. She loved the dirty worship. I didn’t stop. I wanted her to know I could keep pace, that I could take her demands as well as she could dish them out, even if it left me gasping for breath and half choked on her scent. I spit, spat, tongued her relentlessly, letting my own drool drip down her thighs, making it a wet, noisy ordeal.

She started talking shit, trash talk tumbling out of her mouth in breathy fragments, half-playful and half-command, “You like that, huh? You want to taste every inch of me? Good boy, you fucking nerd.”

I shut her up by driving my tongue harder, switching up my rhythm so she couldn’t predict what came next. I found a way to flatten it and press the whole width against her, then sharpened into a point to spear inside. Her squirming grew more explicit, ass grinding in concentric circles, her voice punctuated by the slap of her hand on the desk and the squeak of her sneaker soles on the tile.

After several more minutes of worshipping Lola’s oh so fuckable ass, with my tongue I stood up, pulled my cock out and lined it up with her asshole. She didn’t hesitate, and neither did I. The tip pressed in slowly at first, the resistance a living thing, taut and unwilling, until finally she relented and let me breach her.

A hiss broke from her lips, not pained but alive, everything about her wound tight around my next move. I gripped her hips for leverage, pushing deeper, feeling the slide as she acclimated, her hole clenching down on every inch, making me grit my own teeth with the effort. Lola dropped her head, strands of still-damp hair sticking to her brow as she braced both palms flat to the desk, knuckles whitening.

“Ugh, fuck.”

The first thrust was deliberate, measured, letting us both get a sense for the fit. I watched the rim of her asshole stretch and then swallow, the sight almost unreal, a challenge answered by force of will. I buried myself to the hilt, momentarily stunned by how she took it, how perfectly her ass fit around me. The sound she made was not a whimper, not a gasp, but a pleased little fuck yes buried in the crook of her arm. I couldn’t stop myself.

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna,“ Her voice broke, throat raw with need, the rest of the sentence lost under the slap of flesh.

Her trash talk dissolved into guttural exhalations, broken only by the slap of flesh and the rasp of her rapid breathing. I leaned forward, grabbing both her wrists and pinning them to the desktop, using the leverage to angle myself even deeper. Lola twisted her head to meet my eye, eyes wide and raw, mouth curled in a crooked, feral smile.

“C’mon, motherfucker. Thought you were the boss.” Lola said, taunting me.

Lola took it like a champ, her body braced to wring every last drop of sensation out of the moment. The small of her back arched, showcasing every hard knot of muscle and curve of skin. She met my every movement, bucking back with an assertiveness that made it clear she wasn’t just along for the ride, she was the main event.

Every drive of my cock into her ass was a battle she relished, muscles flexing, daring me to push deeper, harder. She was grinding herself back onto me, trying to force more, greedy for the burn, for the ache of being filled. I battered her rim, then slipped out and jammed myself back in, burying all the way.

My hips smacked her, there was a pulse of resistance, a shudder that rolled up through her back and stiffened her neck, like each thrust was a dare and every answer upped the ante. Sweat beaded between her shoulder blades. The friction in the tiny office made the air humid, claustrophobic, but neither of us gave an inch. There was no room for finesse. Just the ragged friction and the wet gasp of her hole opening, then clamping down, then opening again. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, a slickness building where her thighs pressed against the fake wood finish.

The guttural noises Lola made were hypnotic, a wet growl, a gasped cuss, then a wild, rolling cackle that sounded more like a victory lap than a cry of surrender. With every punch of my dick up her ass, the muscle trembled then yielded, and I watched with something close to awe at the way she took it, how her whole body radiated the pride of someone who’d never surrendered a second in her life.

At some point she reached back, palmed her own cheek, tugging it wide as if to dare me to ruin her. I watched her do it, mesmerized, then spat down on my cock and shoved in again, even deeper, the pop of each thrust echoing around the cinder blocks like applause. She didn’t slow, didn’t falter, just locked her arms and bore down into the desk, body trembling from the effort. The raw, animal tightness of her ass made my vision swim, every inch I buried inside her felt like a negotiation, and she wasn’t giving up easily.

I crashed into her again and again, punishing her without mercy, until her taunts dissolved into ragged exhalations, shudders that overtook her core. I watched at the point our bodies met, the way her asshole split and clung, smearing my length with the sheen of her sweat and spit. She pressed her forehead to her forearm, biting down to keep from screaming outright, and the sight of her fighting for composure only drove me harder.

I felt her convulse around me, clenching, resisting, then surrendering in increments. A tremor ran through her body, starting at her calves, up through her thighs, and then into the flexed valley of her back. She came with a guttural, growling sound, an animal rumble in her chest that rattled the air and made my own pulse skip.

“Fuck,” she spat, voice shredded from the force of it. A tremor rolled through her, the muscles in her legs and arms going loose, spent, her ass still spasming around my cock.

She didn’t beg for a break. Lola Vice wasn’t built for rest. She tried to clench me out, reversing her angle, pushing back to milk it for all she could. When my own climax built, I gripped her wrists harder, until I could feel the bones in her forearm shift. I buried myself to the root, the pressure white-hot, and came with a violence that nearly made me black out, a wild, pulsing explosion that wracked my whole body and left me clamped inside her, shaking.

Lola held me in until the last throb, then let go, standing up so suddenly I stumbled backward. Lola Vice, in all her sweaty, wrecked glory, whipped around and stared at me. Her eyes, wild and very much alive, locked on mine. She was smiling, but not kindly, her own private post-battle victory, a hard-won prize.

Afterward, the room was quiet.

Lola adjusted her work shorts, smoothing them back into place with that same cool confidence she'd walked in with. There was no awkwardness, just the calm efficiency of someone who never second-guessed her moves.

She caught my eye as she fixed her hair in the mirror on the wall. “So… about that title shot?” she asked, casual, like she hadn’t just shifted the entire power dynamic between us.

I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, trying to find the right words. She beat me to it.

“You said you’d give opportunity to the ones who want it bad enough,” she said, tone even. “Well… no one wants it more than me.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I finally nodded.

“You’ll get your shot,” I told her. “Starting next week, you’re in the title picture. No more waiting.”

She gave a small smile.

“Good. Because the next time I walk in here…” she briefly paused, “it’ll be with that title over my shoulder.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and walked out the door, leaving me sitting in silence, wondering whether I’d just made the biggest creative call of my short NXT career… or the biggest mistake.

The End