#3037: Lapland, Finland
Original photo: @kein
Kata loses a race she desperately wanted to win, but when the evening brings her closer to her rival Noora, their rivalry melts into something much hotter—and more satisfying—than a trophy.
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Transcript
I’ve been competitive for as long as I can remember. Winning wasn't just a goal—it was a requirement. I didn’t care for participation trophies or silver medals. Every activity I pursued—dance, painting, running—came with a clear ranking, and I always made sure I earned the top spot. It became my identity, my armor, and my purpose.
When I discovered dog sledding, it wasn’t about the prize at first. It was the rush, the cold air biting at my cheeks, the rhythm of the sled beneath me, and the companionship of the dogs. But once I learned there were races—and winners—I plunged in without hesitation. The challenge thrilled me. Not everything was under my control. The dogs had their own minds, and that unpredictability sharpened my focus.
Everything was mine to conquer, until Noora showed up.
She was new. At first, I dismissed her—another face in the snow. But then she started climbing. Third place. Second. Her ease infuriated me. She didn’t seem to be trying. Always smiling, always soft with her dogs. Where I was driven, she was lighthearted. And yet, she was catching up.
Race day came, and I was ready. Determined. Focused. At the start line, I stood beside my team, my eyes locked on the trail ahead. Noora was beside me, calm and cheerful, completely unbothered by the pressure. I tried not to let her distract me.
The race began. For a while, everything went exactly as it should. My sled was smooth, the dogs in sync, my form perfect. Then Noora surged past me.
I watched her pull ahead with impossible grace. The next turn was sharp and dangerous. I expected her to fumble—but she handled it flawlessly, leaning her body with precision.
When I took the same turn, something went wrong. Maybe it was my anger. Maybe my focus slipped. The sled veered off and I tumbled into the snow, my side slamming hard. Pain and humiliation surged through me as I scrambled back up, determined to finish.
I crossed the line in third.
Noora stood on the top step, radiant, holding the trophy that should have been mine. My jaw ached from clenching it.
Later, the competitors gathered at a lodge for drinks. I hadn’t wanted to come, but staying away would’ve been worse. I kept to myself, sulking in silence while everyone laughed and congratulated her. She was magnetic, charming. Everyone adored her. And I hated how much that stung.
I was slipping out when she stopped me. She approached calmly, and somehow, despite the fire in my chest, I didn’t turn her away. We sat together at a quiet table, far from the others, and I nursed my drink while she watched me. She seemed warm. Genuine. I didn't want to admit how that disarmed me.
There was a shift in her eyes, and suddenly I wasn’t just her rival—I was someone she had admired, even desired. Her gaze lingered, filled with something heavier than admiration. Her hand slid over mine.
Something stirred in me then—curiosity, heat, maybe even surrender.
We left the lodge quietly. Upstairs, behind a closed door, the energy between us changed. The rivalry faded beneath layers of heat and unspoken want. Our sweaters came off quickly, as if we couldn’t bear another second of separation. My mouth found hers. There was fire in the kiss, and all the tangled feelings I couldn’t express spilled out into that contact.
Clothes fell to the floor. I pushed her toward the bed, but she moved faster, reversing our positions. She dropped me onto the mattress and stood above me, confident and radiant.
She began to undress, her body smooth and lithe under the warm glow. I admired every inch of her, but then she paused, watching me with that same half-smile she wore at the finish line. There was something else in her expression now—something mischievous, a playful challenge.
She wanted me on my knees. And I obeyed.
As she sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off her underwear, I moved between her legs and kissed her thigh. Her scent was intoxicating—warm, sweet, a little wild. I took my time, teasing her, savoring her skin, letting the taste of her flood my mouth.
She responded with a quiet, measured urgency. Her body trembled under my tongue, her thighs tightened around my head. She never said a word, but the praise came in gasps and moans, in the way her fingers twisted in my hair.
She came hard, melting into the mattress.
I climbed beside her, chest heaving, asking with my eyes how I’d done. Her smile said everything.
Then her hand slid between my legs. Her touch was light at first, then firmer, more assured. Fingers stroked my clit, slow and knowing, sending sparks through my body. When she slipped inside me, I arched, gasping, overcome.
I forgot everything—the loss, the bitterness, even the race. All I felt was her hand moving inside me, her body against mine, the wave of pleasure rising, building, crashing down. My body shook as I came around her fingers, overwhelmed and utterly undone.
We collapsed together, tangled, quiet, flushed.
That night, there was no trophy. No win. Just the sound of breath, of soft hands, of surrender. And when I finally slept, it was with the certainty that some losses come with a greater reward than gold ever could.