The jade bead necklace felt like a noose against Mulan's throat. She stared into the polished bronze mirror, her reflection a grotesque parody of tradition—white-painted face cracking where tears carved rivers through the powder, purple eyeliner smudged into bruises beneath her eyes. "Honor," she whispered, the word tasting sour. "How is *this* honor?" Her fingers trembled as they yanked the lotus flower hair pick from her bun, releasing the heavy curtain of waist-length black hair. It fell like a sigh against the narrow crimson and pale pink silk of her skirt.
"Stupid, clumsy Mulan," she choked out, scrubbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. The rouge and powder smeared into a muddy mess on her sleeve. "Can't pour tea. Can't recite poetry. Can't even *sit* without knocking over the incense burner." She tore at the ribbon fastening her blue wrap, the fabric slithering to the floor like shed skin. The cool air raised gooseflesh on her arms. "They were laughing. All of them. Even the crickets in the courtyard sounded like they were mocking me."
But then—a spark. Sharp and sudden, flaring behind her dark brown eyes. Her breath caught, not in despair, but in defiance. "No," she said aloud, voice raw but steadier. "This isn't how it ends. Not for Baba. Not for me." The decision ignited her limbs before her mind could protest. She kicked off her light purple shoes, bare feet slapping against the cool packed-earth floor as she spun away from the mirror.
She ran. Not the dainty, measured steps drilled into her, but a wild, unburdened sprint through the twilight streets. The plum and aqua collar of her jacket flapped against her throat, her unbound hair whipping like ink spilled across the sky. Her small breasts ached with each jarring step, the jade beads bouncing against her sternum. Past startled vendors packing away wares, under lanterns that cast long, racing shadows—she ran until the Matchmaker's ornate gate loomed ahead, a dragon's maw of carved wood.
Mulan didn't knock. She threw herself against the heavy door, bursting into the courtyard where the Matchmaker sat fanning herself on a low bench, her round hips overflowing the seat. "Please!" Mulan gasped, chest heaving, sweat tracing paths through the remnants of makeup on her temples. The Matchmaker's black eyes widened, her red lips parting in outrage. Mulan dropped to her knees on the rough stone, the impact jolting up her shapely thighs. "Oh please Matchmaker," she pleaded, voice cracking but clear, "give me one more chance. I *beg* you."
The Matchmaker surged to her feet, a mountain of black silk and indignation. "You!" she spat, jabbing a thick finger towards Mulan, her blue jacket straining over her ample bosom. "Impudent, clumsy, disgraceful *girl*! You dare show your face here again? After the calamity you unleashed? The spilled tea, the scorched silk, the—" Her furious tirade choked off abruptly. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's a moment before, snagged on Mulan's face. Not the painted doll she'd examined earlier, but this wild creature: cheeks flushed with exertion and scrubbed raw, eyes wide and dark without their purple smudges, lips naturally full and trembling. And the hair—long, unbound, a waterfall of ink-black silk cascading past her slender waist, catching the lantern light like liquid obsidian. The Matchmaker's breath hitched, a sound utterly unlike her usual disapproval. Her eyes travelled down, slowly, deliberately, taking in the slender curve of Mulan's neck, the slight swell of her small breasts beneath the crumpled pink jacket, the dip of her slim waist, the flare of her hips beneath the crimson skirt. The air thickened, charged with something unexpected, something hungry.
A slow, deliberate smile curved the Matchmaker's red lips, predatory and utterly unlike her earlier rage. "One last chance?" she purred, her voice dropping an octave, smooth as warmed honey. "Perhaps." She took a step closer, her own substantial form dwarfing Mulan's kneeling figure. Before Mulan could react, the Matchmaker's plump hand shot out. Not to strike, but to grasp. Her fingers, surprisingly strong, closed firmly *between* Mulan's small breasts, right where the jade bead necklace lay cold against her skin. Mulan gasped, a sharp intake of air that ended in a choked whimper as she was hauled violently upwards, pulled flush against the older woman's soft, yielding body. The scent of sandalwood and expensive powder filled Mulan's senses, overwhelming and cloying. The Matchmaker's big C-cup breasts pressed against Mulan's own much smaller ones, a suffocating warmth radiating through the thin silk of their jackets. "Yes," the Matchmaker breathed, her lips brushing Mulan's ear, sending a shiver down the younger woman's spine that was part terror, part bewildered electricity. "One last chance... *if* you obey me. Without hesitation. Without question. Do *everything* I tell you to do." Her grip tightened, the pressure between Mulan's breasts sharp and possessive. "Do you understand, little blossom? Your honor... your future... hangs on your *complete* submission."
Mulan's dark brown eyes widened, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic bird trapped against glass. The sheer physicality of the situation, the unexpected intimacy of the older woman's hold, left her dizzy. Her mind screamed warnings, fragments of propriety and fear, but the image of her father's disappointed face, the weight of her family's shame, crashed over her like a wave. She felt the rough stone of the courtyard beneath her bare toes, the heat radiating from the Matchmaker's body, the insistent pressure of that hand anchoring her. Honor. It was all for honor. A desperate, reckless resolve hardened within her. She bit her plump bottom lip hard enough to feel the sting, tasted the faint metallic tang of blood. Her gaze locked onto the Matchmaker's intense black eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she gave a single, sharp nod. "I... I understand," she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. "I will obey."
The Matchmaker's predatory smile deepened, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "Good girl," she murmured, the praise thick and unsettling. Without releasing her grip, she turned, pulling Mulan with her like a doll. She didn't lead her towards the examination hall, but deeper into the private quarters of her residence, past startled servants who quickly averted their eyes. The air grew thicker, quieter, scented with incense and something else – muskier, more intimate. The Matchmaker's stride was purposeful, her round hips swaying, pulling Mulan along effortlessly despite the younger woman's attempts to keep her bare feet steady on the polished wooden floors. They passed through a heavy brocade curtain into a dimly lit chamber dominated by a large, low bed piled with silk cushions. This was no waiting room; it was a private sanctuary. Lanterns glowed softly, casting deep shadows across the rich fabrics and lacquered furniture. The Matchmaker finally released her grip on Mulan's chest, but only to grab her upper arm instead, steering her firmly towards the center of the room. Her touch was firm, unyielding, leaving Mulan feeling utterly adrift and exposed in this unfamiliar, sensual space.
The Matchmaker turned Mulan to face her fully. Her gaze was unnervingly direct, sweeping over Mulan's disheveled form – the sweat-dampened hair clinging to her temples, the smudged remnants of makeup, the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts beneath the crumpled pink silk. She reached up, her thick fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed a stray lock of Mulan's long, black hair away from her face. The touch sent another confusing jolt through Mulan. "Honor begins," the Matchmaker stated, her voice low and resonant in the quiet room, "with knowing how to present oneself. And that, foolish girl, begins with knowing how to *kiss*." Her hand slid down to cup Mulan's chin, tilting her face upwards. Mulan felt the cool smoothness of the jade beads against her throat, the frantic pulse beating beneath her skin. The Matchmaker leaned in, her red lips inches from Mulan's own. The scent of her lipstick – waxy, floral – filled Mulan's nostrils. "I am going to kiss you," the Matchmaker declared, her breath warm against Mulan's mouth. "On the lips. And you *will* kiss me back. Properly. With feeling. Show me you can learn, Fa Mulan. Show me you can be worthy." Her dark eyes held Mulan's, a command and a challenge fused into one impossible demand. "Do not disappoint me again."
Mulan's breath caught, a sharp gasp trapped in her throat. Her mind screamed protests – the impropriety, the sheer strangeness of it – but the memory of the Matchmaker's earlier words echoed: *complete submission*. Her family's honor hung on this moment, this bizarre, terrifying intimacy. She felt the pressure of the Matchmaker's fingers on her chin, firm and inescapable. The older woman's presence was overwhelming, a wall of soft flesh and expensive fabric radiating heat. Mulan's gaze flickered down to the Matchmaker's full, painted lips, then back up to her intense, demanding eyes. The air crackled. She could feel the thrum of her own pulse in her ears, the slight tremble in her legs. Slowly, deliberately, she bit down on her plump bottom lip again, the familiar sting grounding her for a split second. Then, with a resolve that felt like stepping off a cliff, she gave a single, tight nod. Her dark brown eyes, wide with apprehension and a flicker of desperate determination, locked onto the Matchmaker's. "I... I will," she whispered, the words barely audible.
"Good," the Matchmaker purred, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through the intimate space. Her satisfaction was palpable, a tangible warmth that seemed to thicken the incense-heavy air. Without another word, her grip on Mulan's chin tightened, pulling her closer. The world narrowed to the proximity of the Matchmaker's face, the scent of her waxy lipstick and underlying musk filling Mulan's senses. Then, the Matchmaker closed the final inch. Her lips pressed against Mulan's – a firm, deliberate contact that was startlingly soft despite its command. Mulan froze, her body rigid. The sensation was alien: the yielding pressure, the slight tackiness of the lipstick, the warmth radiating from the older woman's skin. Panic flared, a cold wash against the heat flooding her cheeks. *Kiss back!* The command screamed in her mind. Tentatively, hesitantly, she moved her own lips, a clumsy imitation against the Matchmaker's experienced pressure. It felt awkward, stiff, her movements jerky with nervous energy. She felt utterly inadequate, a child playing at a grown woman's game.
The Matchmaker pulled back just slightly, her black eyes boring into Mulan's. "No," she breathed, her voice husky with disapproval laced with something darker. "Not like a frightened rabbit. Like a woman who *wants* it. Who *needs* it." Her thumb brushed roughly over Mulan's plump bottom lip. "Open your mouth, girl. Now." The command was absolute, leaving no room for hesitation. Compelled by that iron will and the desperate weight of her promise, Mulan parted her lips. It was a tiny surrender, barely a gasp. But it was enough. The Matchmaker surged forward again, her mouth crashing against Mulan's with renewed force. This time, it wasn't just lips. A slick, insistent heat pressed against Mulan's teeth – the Matchmaker's tongue. Mulan recoiled instinctively, a muffled whimper escaping her throat as she tried to jerk her head back, but the Matchmaker's hand on her chin held her fast. "Relax," the Matchmaker growled against her mouth, the word vibrating against Mulan's lips. "Accept it." The tip of the Matchmaker's tongue probed, insistent and demanding, sliding past Mulan's teeth. The invasion was shocking, intimate beyond anything Mulan could have imagined. She tasted the floral waxiness of the lipstick mixed with something uniquely *her* – a faint saltiness, a hint of spice. The Matchmaker's tongue explored, a slick, powerful presence mapping the contours of Mulan's mouth, pressing against her own hesitant tongue, forcing it to yield and move. It was overwhelming, a dizzying assault on her senses that sent confusing currents of heat pooling low in her belly despite her terror.
As the kiss deepened, becoming a wet, rhythmic tangle, the Matchmaker's hands moved. They slid from Mulan's chin, down the slender column of her neck, tracing the cool jade beads. They didn't stop. They swept downwards, palms flat against the rumpled silk of Mulan's pink jacket, sliding over the slight swell of her small breasts, down the trembling plane of her slim waist. The touch was possessive, claiming every inch. Mulan felt the heat of those hands even through the layers of fabric, a branding pressure that made her gasp against the Matchmaker's invading mouth. The hands continued their descent, tracing the flare of Mulan's hips beneath the crimson skirt, moving with deliberate slowness down the curve of her spine. They reached the small of her back, paused, then slid lower still, palms pressing firmly against the rounded swell of Mulan's ass beneath the silk. The Matchmaker's fingers curled inward, digging into the soft, yielding flesh. "Such potential," the Matchmaker murmured thickly against Mulan's lips, her tongue still exploring the younger woman's mouth. Then, with a sudden, possessive strength that made Mulan gasp again, the Matchmaker gave a firm, deliberate squeeze. Her strong fingers sank deep into the curve of Mulan's buttock, kneading the flesh through the thin silk skirt. The sensation was jolting – a sharp, unexpected pressure, intimate and commanding. It pulled Mulan impossibly tighter against the Matchmaker's soft, substantial body, pressing their hips together, making her acutely aware of the heat and solidity of the older woman pressed against her.
Mulan's mind reeled. The wet intimacy of the kiss, the demanding slide of the tongue, the possessive grip on her ass – it was a whirlwind of sensation that shattered her composure. Her hands, which had hung limply at her sides, instinctively flew up, palms pressing flat against the blue silk straining over the Matchmaker's broad back. She wasn't sure if she was pushing away or clinging on. A low moan escaped her, muffled against the Matchmaker's mouth. It wasn't entirely protest. The sheer intensity, the overwhelming physicality, was unlocking something primal, a confusing mix of fear and a strange, unwanted thrill. Her body, traitorously, seemed to soften against the Matchmaker's, her own tentative movements against the invading tongue becoming less hesitant, more responsive. The Matchmaker felt it, sensed the subtle shift. Her squeeze on Mulan's ass intensified, fingers digging deeper, pulling her even closer. She broke the kiss just enough to speak, her lips brushing Mulan's, her breath hot and ragged. "Better," she rasped, her voice thick with undisguised hunger. "Much better, little blossom. You *can* learn." Her dark eyes glittered with triumph and something far more predatory. "Now," she breathed, her tongue flicking out to trace Mulan's swollen lower lip, "let us see what else you can be taught." The promise in her words hung heavy in the incense-laden air.
Slowly, deliberately, the Matchmaker released her grip on Mulan's ass. She took a half-step back, putting a sliver of charged space between them. Her gaze, unwavering, locked onto Mulan's flushed face. "Kneel," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low murmur that nonetheless filled the room. Mulan's legs trembled, but the command, coupled with the memory of her promise, propelled her downwards. She sank onto the cool, polished wood floor, her crimson skirt pooling around her like spilled wine. The Matchmaker stood before her, a formidable silhouette against the soft lantern light, her hands settling possessively on her own ample hips. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. "Look at me," the Matchmaker ordered. Mulan lifted her chin, meeting those intense black eyes, her own dark brown ones wide with apprehension and lingering traces of bewildered arousal. The Matchmaker's red lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. "You wish to prove yourself worthy? To grasp honor?" She paused, letting the question hang. "Then prove your obedience. Prove your dedication." Her voice dropped lower, becoming almost intimate. "Undress me."
Mulan froze. The command landed like a physical blow. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. "Undress...?" The word was a choked whisper, disbelief warring with the dawning horror of what was being asked. Her gaze flickered helplessly over the Matchmaker's figure – the intricate folds of the blue jacket, the sash knotted firmly at her thick waist, the layers of black silk skirt. It wasn't just the physical act; it was the profound intimacy, the utter violation of every boundary she knew. Panic clawed at her chest. "Matchmaker, I... I cannot... it is not..." she stammered, her voice trembling violently. She scrambled for propriety, for tradition, for any shield against this demand. "It is forbidden... improper..."
The Matchmaker's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glint in her eyes. She leaned down slightly, bringing her face alarmingly close to Mulan's. "Silence!" she hissed, the word sharp as a whip crack. "Do you forget your oath? Your *complete submission*?" Her hand shot out, not to strike, but to grasp Mulan's chin again, forcing her gaze upwards. "Your family's honor hangs by a thread spun from your obedience, Fa Mulan. You spilled tea? You scorched silk? You failed utterly?" Her grip tightened. "This is your penance. Your atonement. Your *only* path to redemption." Her voice softened slightly, laced with dangerous persuasion. "Slowly. Deliberately. Show me reverence. Show me you understand the gravity of this moment." She released Mulan's chin and straightened, her expression unyielding. "Begin. With the sash." She gestured imperiously towards the knot at her waist. "Now." The command left no room for argument. It was a test Mulan hadn't foreseen, plunging her into depths far deeper than spilled tea or recited poetry. Trembling fingers reached out, hovering inches from the vibrant red silk. The air crackled with the terrifying intimacy of the command.
Mulan's breath shuddered as her fingers finally brushed the stiff silk of the Matchmaker's sash knot. The fabric felt surprisingly warm beneath her touch, radiating heat from the woman's thick waist. Her knuckles grazed the soft swell of the Matchmaker's belly beneath the blue jacket, sending a jolt of panic through her. Each clumsy tug at the intricate knot felt agonizingly slow, her fingers fumbling against the tight loops. "Faster, girl," the Matchmaker murmured, her voice low and thick above her. "Or do you wish to linger? To savor the touch?" Mulan flinched, pulling harder. The knot yielded suddenly, the long sash unfurling with a soft sigh, pooling onto the polished floorboards beside Mulan's knees. The blue jacket, now loose, gaped slightly, revealing a sliver of creamy skin and the dark silk shift beneath. The Matchmaker made no move to cover herself. "The jacket," she commanded simply. Her gaze remained fixed on Mulan's face, watching every flicker of emotion.
Mulan's hands rose, shaking visibly now. She grasped the edges of the blue silk jacket near the Matchmaker's broad shoulders. The fabric was smooth, heavy with embroidery. She pushed it downwards, the silk sliding reluctantly over the curve of the Matchmaker's big breasts, catching slightly on the prominent nipples beneath the thin shift. Mulan felt the heat intensify, the solid weight shifting beneath her palms. As the jacket slipped past the thick waist and over the round hips, it revealed the full expanse of the Matchmaker's body clad only in the dark silk shift. The shift clung to her substantial curves, hinting at the softness beneath, the swell of her hips, the thickness of her thighs. A faint scent of warm skin and sandalwood intensified. Mulan let the jacket fall to the floor, adding to the pool of red sash. She couldn't bring herself to look up, her gaze fixed on the intricate embroidery now crumpled at her knees. Her own breath felt shallow, trapped in her chest.
"Look at me," the Matchmaker demanded, her voice resonant in the sudden quiet. Mulan forced her chin up. The Matchmaker stood tall, imposing in her near-nakedness. The dark silk shift left little to the imagination, outlining the full C-cup breasts, the soft belly, the roundness of her hips and ass. Her expression held no shame, only power and expectation. "The shift," she stated, her tone brooking no delay. "Remove it. All the way." Mulan's throat tightened impossibly. Her fingers, icy cold despite the room's warmth, found the thin straps of the shift sliding off the Matchmaker's thick shoulders. The silk whispered against skin as she pushed it downwards. It caught momentarily on the curve of the Matchmaker's breasts before sliding over the soft swell of her belly. Mulan knelt lower, guiding the fabric past the thick thighs, down shapely calves. As it pooled around the Matchmaker's ankles, revealing her nakedness fully – the soft dark curls between her thighs, the heavy breasts swaying slightly, the powerful lines of her body – Mulan felt a dizzying wave of vulnerability and awe. The Matchmaker stepped gracefully out of the shift, now utterly bare before her kneeling supplicant. "Now," she breathed, her voice thick with promise and command, "you see the truth of things. The vessel that holds wisdom. The form that commands respect." She placed a heavy hand on Mulan's head.
"Lick," the Matchmaker ordered, her voice dropping to a low, throaty murmur that vibrated through Mulan's skull. The command landed with the force of a physical blow, freezing the air in Mulan's lungs. Her gaze snapped upwards, past the Matchmaker's dark triangle of curls, past the soft swell of her belly, locking onto the older woman's intense black eyes. "Clean me," the Matchmaker elaborated, her hand pressing firmly on Mulan's crown, guiding her gaze downwards towards the intimate apex of her thighs. "Show me your devotion. Show me you understand obedience. Lick my pussy, Fa Mulan. Thoroughly. Make me wet." The crude, direct words shattered any lingering illusion of propriety. Mulan's vision blurred momentarily, the polished wood floor seeming to tilt. The scent intensified – warm skin, sandalwood, and now, unmistakably, the musky, intimate tang emanating from the Matchmaker's exposed folds. Her stomach clenched, a mixture of primal fear and bewildered arousal twisting inside her. The weight of her promise, the terrifying intimacy of the command, pressed down on her. Slowly, trembling violently, Mulan leaned forward.
The first touch of her tongue was hesitant, feather-light, against the outer swell of the Matchmaker's labia. The skin was surprisingly soft, yielding, radiating heat. A low hum vibrated above her. "Deeper," the Matchmaker commanded, her fingers tightening slightly in Mulan's hair. Mulan obeyed, pressing her tongue more firmly, parting the soft folds. The taste flooded her senses – salt, musk, something uniquely earthy and potent. It was overwhelming, alien, yet undeniably intimate. She traced the slick contours tentatively, her movements clumsy and unsure. The Matchmaker shifted her stance, widening her legs slightly. "Use the flat of your tongue," she instructed, her voice husky but clear. "Press harder. Explore." Mulan complied, dragging her tongue upwards through the wetness gathering at the Matchmaker's entrance. The sensation of yielding softness against her tongue, the increasing slickness, the sheer *reality* of it sent a confusing jolt of heat pooling low in her own belly. She felt the Matchmaker's thighs tense slightly against her shoulders.
"Good," the Matchmaker sighed, the word thick with approval. She guided Mulan's head with subtle pressure. "There. Focus there." Her thumb brushed against Mulan's temple as she directed her tongue towards the sensitive bud nestled within the folds. "Flick it," she breathed. "Gently. Like a butterfly." Mulan obeyed, her tongue finding the taut little nub. A sharp gasp escaped the Matchmaker, her hips jerking minutely forward. "Yes!" she hissed, her fingers digging into Mulan's scalp. "Just like that. Faster now." Mulan increased the rhythm, her tongue circling and flicking the hardened bud with growing desperation, spurred on by the older woman's sharp breaths and the tightening grip in her hair. The taste intensified, the slickness coating her lips and chin. The Matchmaker's breathing grew ragged, punctuated by low moans. "Don't stop," she commanded, her voice strained. "Show me... show me how badly you want this honor." Mulan pressed her face closer, her nose buried in dark curls, her tongue working fervently, lost in the rhythm and the heat and the overwhelming scent of the Matchmaker's arousal. The older woman's thighs clamped around her head, holding her firmly in place as a shudder ran through her substantial frame.
"Almost," the Matchmaker gasped, her voice tight and high. Her back began to arch, pulling away from Mulan's mouth slightly. "Just... a few... more... licks!" Each word was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. Mulan doubled her efforts, her tongue flattening against the swollen bud, dragging firmly upwards again and again. The Matchmaker cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that echoed off the lacquered walls. Her body bowed backwards dramatically, spine rigid, breasts thrust upwards. Her grip on Mulan's hair became almost painfully tight. "YES!" she screamed, the sound raw and triumphant. A sudden, hot flood filled Mulan's mouth – clear, slick, and copious, tasting intensely musky-sweet. It spilled over her tongue, coating her lips, dripping down her chin onto the polished floor. The Matchmaker held her arched position for a suspended moment, trembling violently, before collapsing forward slightly, her weight pressing onto Mulan's head, her breath coming in ragged gasps against Mulan's sweat-dampened hair.
The Matchmaker finally released her crushing grip on Mulan's hair, her hand sliding limply down to rest heavily on Mulan's shoulder. She slumped forward, her breath still shuddering. "Swallow," she rasped, her voice hoarse and thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. Her dark eyes, heavy-lidded, looked down at Mulan with a predatory gleam still visible beneath the haze of release. "Every drop. That is the essence of your lesson." Mulan, trembling, her mouth still full of the Matchmaker's fluid, obeyed. She swallowed convulsively, the slickness sliding thickly down her throat. The taste lingered – potent, intimate, undeniable. She kept her gaze downcast, unable to meet the Matchmaker's eyes, acutely aware of the wetness cooling on her chin and the profound violation echoing in her bones.
The Matchmaker straightened slowly, a deep sigh escaping her lips. She looked down at Mulan kneeling before her, soaked chin glistening in the lantern light. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her flushed face. "Well," she murmured, her voice regaining some of its smooth authority, though still laced with the lingering tremor of her climax. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Fa Mulan." She reached down, not gently, and tilted Mulan's chin up with a finger slick from her own wetness. "That," she stated, her dark eyes boring into Mulan's, "was merely the first step towards understanding true submission. The path to honor is long... and requires much more... practice." Her thumb brushed roughly across Mulan's lower lip, smearing the remnants of her essence. "Get up."
Mulan stumbled to her feet, her legs trembling violently beneath her narrow crimson skirt. The taste still coated her tongue, thick and cloying. She kept her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns woven into the rug beneath her bare feet, unable to look at the naked woman towering before her. The Matchmaker chuckled softly, a low, resonant sound. "Look at me," she commanded. Mulan forced her eyes upwards, meeting the Matchmaker's intense stare. The older woman traced a thick finger along the line of Mulan's jaw. "You performed adequately," she conceded. "But adequacy is not excellence. Excellence requires sacrifice. Total vulnerability." Her hand dropped, gesturing pointedly towards Mulan's own body. "Now, it is your turn to demonstrate your commitment. Slowly. Deliberately. Remove your clothes. Every stitch. Show me the canvas upon which I must paint your worthiness."
Mulan's breath froze. Her fingers, still damp and trembling, fumbled instinctively towards the fastening of her pink jacket. The air felt suddenly colder against her sweat-dampened skin. Each movement was agonizingly slow, performed under the Matchmaker's unwavering, assessing gaze. The jacket slid off her shoulders, revealing the pale blue wrap beneath. Her fingers shook as she untied the red ribbon holding it closed. The wrap fell away, pooling softly around her ankles like discarded petals. Next came the narrow crimson and pale pink skirt; she unfastened the sash at her waist with numb fingers, letting the silk slide down her curvy slim hips and shapely legs. She stepped out of it, standing now in only her thin silk shift, the fabric clinging to her small B-cup breasts and the slight curve of her belly. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, acutely aware of every inch exposed. Finally, with a shuddering breath, she grasped the thin straps of the shift. She hesitated, her gaze flickering pleadingly towards the Matchmaker, finding only cold expectation. Closing her eyes briefly, she pushed the shift down her body. It whispered over her skin, catching momentarily on her hips before falling to the floor. The cool air washed over her nakedness – her small breasts, slim waist, the dark triangle between her thighs, the long cascade of black hair brushing her lower back. She stood utterly exposed, shivering slightly, her arms instinctively wanting to cover herself but held rigidly at her sides by sheer force of will.
The Matchmaker's gaze swept over her naked form, lingering on her breasts, the curve of her hips, the apex of her thighs. A low hum of approval vibrated in her throat. "Good," she murmured. "A pleasing form. Slender, yet promising." She gestured imperiously towards the large, low bed piled with silk cushions. "Now, climb onto the bed. Lay down on your back." Mulan moved woodenly, the polished wood cool beneath her bare feet as she approached the bed. She climbed onto the yielding silk, the cushions shifting beneath her weight. She lowered herself onto her back, staring up at the intricately carved ceiling beams, the soft lantern light casting dancing shadows. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Spread your legs," the Matchmaker commanded, her voice low and resonant. "Wide open. Show me everything." Mulan squeezed her eyes shut for a second, a tremor running through her entire body. Slowly, forcing her muscles to obey, she parted her shapely legs, opening herself completely to the Matchmaker's predatory gaze. The cool air touched her most intimate places, making her flinch. "Wider," the Matchmaker insisted, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. Mulan pushed her knees further apart, her thighs trembling with the strain and the sheer vulnerability of the position. She felt utterly exposed, laid bare not just physically, but in her terrified obedience. The Matchmaker leaned forward, placing a heavy, possessive hand on Mulan's inner thigh, just above her knee. Her touch was warm, firm. "Yes," she breathed, her eyes dark pools of hunger as they roamed over Mulan's exposed sex. "Just like that. Now... we truly begin."
The Matchmaker climbed onto the bed with surprising grace for her substantial form. She knelt between Mulan's spread legs, her own thick thighs framing Mulan's slender ones. The mattress dipped deeply under her weight. Mulan's breath caught as the older woman leaned forward, placing her hands on either side of Mulan's hips. Her dark eyes locked onto Mulan's. "You will learn," the Matchmaker stated, her voice thick with intent, "the intimacy of bodies. The friction of desire." She shifted her weight, her full, round hips hovering directly over Mulan's pelvis. "Feel the pressure," she commanded, lowering herself slowly. Mulan gasped as the Matchmaker's soft, yielding belly pressed down onto her own flat stomach. Then, the Matchmaker deliberately settled her heavy hips lower, aligning herself perfectly. Mulan felt the dense warmth of the Matchmaker's pubic mound pressing firmly against her own exposed sex. The sheer weight, the overwhelming proximity, the intimate contact – it stole Mulan's breath. The Matchmaker's dark curls brushed against her own smooth skin. "Yes," the Matchmaker hissed, shifting her hips minutely. "Feel that? Skin against skin."
"Now," the Matchmaker breathed, her voice husky and close, her lips inches from Mulan's ear. Her hands slid from Mulan's hips to grip her own thick thighs, bracing herself. "Watch," she commanded, locking eyes with Mulan. "Watch how bodies move together." Slowly, deliberately, she began to roll her hips. It was a deep, grinding motion, pressing her full mound firmly down against Mulan's. Mulan felt the soft outer lips of the Matchmaker's sex pressing, parting, rubbing firmly against her own slickening folds. A choked whimper escaped Mulan's throat as the friction ignited a confusing, unwanted heat deep in her belly. The Matchmaker's gaze was intense, demanding. "Feel it?" she murmured, her hips continuing their slow, deliberate roll. "The heat? The wetness gathering? That's the body's truth, little blossom. Ignore the fear. Focus... on... the... sensation." Each word was punctuated by a firm downward grind of her hips. Mulan could feel the Matchmaker's own wetness now, mingling with hers, creating a slick, intimate slide. The friction was relentless, building pressure against her sensitive core.
The Matchmaker increased the rhythm, her hips moving with more purpose now, rolling down against Mulan with increasing pressure. "Rub," she instructed sharply, her breath coming faster. "Let your body respond. Move your hips *up*." Mulan, overwhelmed, obeyed instinctively, lifting her slim hips tentatively off the cushions to meet the Matchmaker's downward roll. The contact intensified profoundly. Their sexes pressed together firmly, mound against mound, folds sliding wetly against folds. The Matchmaker groaned, a low, satisfied sound. "Yes! Just like that!" Her own movements became more urgent, grinding her full hips down against Mulan's upward thrust. The friction was exquisite torture for Mulan – the insistent pressure against her clit, the slick glide of the Matchmaker's labia against her own, the sheer weight and heat of the older woman pinning her, dominating her movements. "Harder," the Matchmaker gasped, dropping her weight more fully onto Mulan, her breasts pressing against Mulan's smaller ones. "Grind against me!" Mulan arched her back, pressing her hips upwards with desperate energy, meeting the Matchmaker's downward grind stroke for stroke. Their wet pussies rubbed together fiercely now, a hot, slick friction that sent jolts of intense sensation radiating through Mulan's core. The Matchmaker cried out, her head thrown back, her thick thighs trembling against Mulan's as she rode the younger woman's body, demanding the friction, commanding the pleasure. Mulan felt the Matchmaker's wetness coating her, felt her own arousal building in a terrifying wave, trapped beneath the older woman's relentless, grinding weight.
Suddenly, the Matchmaker shifted her position. She surged forward, planting her thick hands firmly beside Mulan's shoulders, her arms locking straight. Her face hovered inches above Mulan's, her dark eyes blazing with predatory intensity. "Now," she commanded, her voice rough with exertion and arousal. "Now, little blossom, you will *take* it!" With a powerful thrust of her hips, she drove herself down onto Mulan with brutal force. This wasn't the deep roll anymore; it was a hard, piston-like fucking, driving her pubic mound straight down onto Mulan's clit and vulva with each powerful stroke. Mulan cried out, a sharp sound of shock and overwhelming sensation. The direct, hammering pressure on her sensitive bud was unbearable, exquisite. The Matchmaker fucked her harder, faster, her thick arms rigid, her entire substantial weight driving down with each thrust. Mulan's hips bucked wildly beneath her, unable to escape the relentless assault on her clit. "Yes! Take it!" the Matchmaker snarled, sweat dripping from her brow onto Mulan's chest. "Feel it build! Feel the fire!" Each hard slam sent sparks of pure, blinding sensation through Mulan's nerves, coiling deep in her belly, tightening unbearably. She was trapped, pinned, utterly possessed by the Matchmaker's furious rhythm. "It's coming!" the Matchmaker hissed, watching Mulan's face contort. "Don't fight it! Let it *happen*!"
A sound ripped from Mulan's throat – half sob, half scream – as the unbearable coil deep inside her snapped violently. Her entire body arched off the bed, rigid as a bowstring. Her hips jerked upwards convulsively against the Matchmaker's pounding weight. Her eyes flew wide, seeing nothing but white light exploding behind her lids. Wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashed through her, radiating out from her clit, flooding her pelvis, shaking her legs violently. It was her first orgasm – a raw, overwhelming explosion of pure sensation that robbed her of breath and thought. As the tremors peaked, a sudden gush of clear, slick fluid erupted from her, coating her own thighs and soaking the Matchmaker's pubic mound and dark curls where they pressed hard against her. The Matchmaker gasped, feeling the sudden flood of wet heat against her own sex. "Ohhh!" she groaned, her thrusts faltering for a second as she felt Mulan's clear cum slicking her. "Look! Look what you've done!" She stared down, mesmerized, at the glistening wetness covering her pussy, mingling with her own arousal. "Beautiful," she breathed, her voice thick with awe and renewed hunger. "Now... *mine*!" With renewed ferocity, she resumed fucking Mulan hard, grinding her hips down onto the younger woman's still-trembling sex, using Mulan's own slick cum as lubricant.
The Matchmaker's movements became frantic, desperate. She rode Mulan's limp, shuddering form, her own hips pistoning wildly. "Yes!" she gasped, her voice ragged. "Use it! Use your sweet mess!" She drove herself down onto Mulan with abandon, her thick thighs straining, her breasts bouncing heavily. The wet slap of flesh against flesh filled the room. "Fuck!" she cried out, her head dropping forward, her bun loosening, strands of black and grey hair falling around her flushed face. "So close!" Her thrusts became shorter, sharper, grinding her swollen clit hard against Mulan's slick, sensitive flesh below. "Now!" she screamed, her body locking rigidly. A powerful tremor shook her substantial frame. Her hips jerked erratically, grinding down hard one final time. Then, with a guttural cry, she threw her head back, her body bowing backwards. A hot flood gushed from her, soaking Mulan's thighs and pubis anew, a torrent of wetness mixing with Mulan's own release already pooled beneath them. She held the position, trembling violently, her breath coming in harsh, shuddering gasps as the climax tore through her. Slowly, she collapsed forward, her weight pressing Mulan deeper into the silk cushions, her sweat-slicked skin pressed against Mulan's, her breath hot against Mulan's neck as aftershocks rippled through her.
For a long moment, only the ragged sound of their breathing filled the incense-laden air. The Matchmaker shifted her weight slightly, lifting herself just enough to look down at Mulan. Her dark eyes, still heavy-lidded with satisfaction, studied the younger woman's flushed face, her trembling lips, the tear tracks cutting through the faint remnants of smudged makeup. She smoothed a strand of damp black hair from Mulan's forehead, her touch surprisingly gentle now. "There," she murmured, her voice thick and low, resonating against Mulan's skin. "You see? The body speaks truths the tongue cannot. You *felt* it." She traced a thick finger along Mulan's jawline. "That surrender? That release? That is the foundation."
Mulan blinked, her dark brown eyes wide and dazed, struggling to comprehend the words through the fog of exhaustion and bewildering sensation. The Matchmaker leaned closer, her plump lips brushing Mulan's ear, sending a fresh tremor through her. "This," the Matchmaker whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr, "was merely the first lesson. The first *night*." She paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the humid air. "Do you feel it stirring, little blossom? That spark? That potential?" Her hand slid possessively down Mulan's sweat-slicked flank, resting on her hip. "Your family's honor… it hangs in the balance. One clumsy girl cannot restore it." Her grip tightened slightly. "But *I* can sculpt you. Shape you. Fill you with the knowledge you lack." She lifted her head, locking her intense gaze onto Mulan's. "If you wish it. If you submit fully. Night after night. Lesson after lesson." Her thumb stroked Mulan's hipbone. "Do you wish it? To truly bring honor to your father's house? To be worthy?"
Mulan stared up, her mind reeling. The physical weight of the Matchmaker pressed her down, anchoring her to the bed, to this moment. The lingering throb between her legs, the unfamiliar slickness coating her thighs, the phantom pressure of the Matchmaker's grinding hips – it all warred with the image of her father's quiet dignity, the shame of her failure. The Matchmaker's words echoed: *Night after night*. The promise was terrifying, suffocating… yet beneath the fear, a treacherous flicker ignited. The sheer intensity of the sensation she'd just endured, the shocking loss of control followed by that blinding wave… it hadn't just been pain. It had been something else entirely. Something powerful. Something the clumsy girl who spilled tea could never command. Her throat tightened. Could she endure it? Could she *choose* it? For honor? The Matchmaker watched her, patient, predatory, her dark eyes gleaming with certainty. Slowly, Mulan swallowed. Her lips parted.
"Yes ," Mulan whispered, the syllable scraping her throat raw. Her gaze flickered away from the Matchmaker's predatory certainty, settling instead on the intricate pattern embroidered into the silk canopy above—a lotus flower, its petals unfolding impossibly wide. "For honor. For my family." The words felt like stones dropped into a deep well, heavy and final.