Her rhythm faltered as her jaw ached, drool slipping from the corners of her lips, but his steady hand corrected her pace again. His voice, hoarse yet unwavering, carried that same tone of technical critique.
"Not too fast. That wastes stamina. You'll tire before the opponent does. Focus… sustain the time."
Her eyes watered as she bobbed her head, his weight pressing her tongue down, her throat tightening with each push. Her hands clutched his thighs for balance, nails dimpling his damp skin as she forced herself to endure.
The taste made her stomach twist, salty, sour, sharp—yet she kept repeating to herself: It's training. Only training. If this helps me grow stronger, then…
His laugh slipped out again, that odd, almost giddy rasp. "Heh—yes, good—now swirl the tongue, keep pressure underneath. Not clumsy. Tighter. Yes, that's closer to proper form."
She whimpered around him, cheeks flushed, her whole body trembling as she obeyed. Her thighs rubbed together, her chest heaving as if even her lungs were straining under the discipline.
"Almost… test concludes soon," he muttered, his voice breaking as his hips jerked despite his efforts to stay clinical. His thick fingers tightened just slightly on her head, guiding the final motions.
She knew what was coming, panic flashing in her eyes—but she didn't stop. She couldn't. Her pride, her promise, her desperate need to prove herself—they locked her in place.
With a sharp grunt he broke, heat surging against the back of her tongue. Her eyes flew wide as the thick, bitter flood spilled into her mouth, and her first instinct was to gag, to pull away. But his words echoed in her ears like commands: Adapt. Endure. Don't falter.
So she forced herself to swallow. Once, twice, again and again, each gulp making her throat burn as tears streaked her cheeks.
At last she pulled back with a cough, her lips slick, chest rising and falling in ragged waves. She wiped at her chin with the back of her hand, glaring up at him with watery eyes. "Ughh… t-taste is the worst…! Hhhhn… disgusting…"
He exhaled heavily, wiping sweat from his brow, then straightened his posture as though officially concluding a lesson. His tone returned to businesslike clarity.
"Evaluation complete." He spoke like an examiner reading results. "Endurance—acceptable. Control—moderate. Rhythm—poor, but improvable. Reflex under duress—commendable. Overall: novice, but with high potential."
She blinked at him, still panting, her stomach rolling with what she had swallowed. "H-high… potential…?"
He gave a small nod, pulling his waistband back into place with an air of finality. "Yes. With refinement, you could develop into a formidable wrestler. For now—you pass the trial."
Her face burned, shame and a strange thrill battling inside her chest. She pressed a hand to her lips, still tasting him, and muttered under her breath, "J-just… training…"
"Exactly," he replied, tone sharp but oddly approving, like a mentor satisfied with a pupil's first effort. "Just training."
"Ah—!" The man suddenly chuckled, slapping a hand to his forehead as though remembering something crucial. His wide belly jiggled with the motion. "I forgot the most basic courtesy." He puffed his chest, still damp with sweat, and gave a crooked grin.
"My name is Master Gorvald. I've trained many things in my long years, but now—I dedicate myself to wrestling instruction. You'll be my first official pupil." His eyes gleamed, not with malice, but with the hunger of a man eager to see his trade validated.
Darkness blinked, clutching her chest as though steadying her fluttering heartbeat. "M-Master Gorvald…?"
"Yes," he nodded firmly. "And I'll help you refine that oral technique until you can use it without hesitation. Then, we'll move on—grappling, counter-holds, pinning drills. Every part of you must learn how to fight, how to endure, and how to exhaust the enemy before they exhaust you." His tone wavered briefly, a rasping little laugh slipping out, before sharpening back into authority.
She felt her cheeks burn hotter, but she found herself nodding despite the shame twisting in her stomach. "I… I see. Th-that makes sense… in its own way."
Gorvald's grin widened. He lumbered toward a stack of old scrolls and scratched notes piled haphazardly in the corner of the room, then turned back to her with something like pride. "Because you are my first student, I grant you a permanent discount. Ten coppers per week. That is all I ask. And for you, lessons every other day. Regular training is the only way to master this art."
Her eyes widened. Ten coppers… permanent discount… every two days…
It was absurd, humiliating, and yet—her chest tightened with a thrill she couldn't explain. A strange sense of belonging stirred in her stomach, as though she had stumbled onto something inevitable.
She bowed her head quickly, stammering. "Th-thank you, Master Gorvald. I'll… think about it…"
That night, back in her rented room, she lay on her futon staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the village outside had faded, replaced by the stillness of midnight. Yet her mind refused to rest.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the lingering taste, the rhythm of his instructions, the way his heavy chest had pressed down against hers. Her thighs shifted restlessly beneath the blanket.
"E-every two days…" she whispered to herself, voice trembling. "Ten coppers… that's not much at all…"
Her body rolled, curling on her side, but the memory of his gravelly voice echoed in her ears: Endurance acceptable. Control moderate. High potential.
Her cheeks heated again as she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, hiding even from the empty room.
It's training, she told herself, closing her eyes as sleep finally began to pull her under. Just training… nothing else…
But the last thought to cross her mind before dreams claimed her was the crooked grin of Master Gorvald, and his promise that her lessons were only just beginning.