Andrew watched Lucy with a sharp gaze, noticing the way her focus drifted once more during their training session. Her steps faltered, her usually precise movements in the final stages of body forging growing sluggish. A faint flush crept up her neck, her blue eyes unfocused, staring past him into some distant thought. He bit back a groan. At five years old, with a mind far beyond his body, he was stuck navigating the swirling mess of a hormonal fifteen-year-old. Her feelings, chaotic and raw, were slowing her down, and he could feel the weight of it pressing on their progress.
The small training room behind Eva's modest home buzzed with the late afternoon heat, dust kicking up under their feet. Andrew crossed his arms, his tiny frame almost comical against the intensity of his expression. Lucy stood frozen mid-pose, her blonde hair sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. He'd had enough of her distracted nonsense.
"Ma, Amara," he called out, his voice carrying a firmness no child should wield. The two women poked their heads out from the kitchen window, Eva wiping her hands on a cloth, Amara's bright grin flashing as she leaned over her sister's shoulder. "I'm shutting the door. Me and Lucy need some private training time. Don't come in."
Eva raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes flickering with curiosity, but a soft smile tugged at her lips. "Alright, little man. You got it. We'll keep outta your way."
Amara giggled, bouncing on her toes. "Don't work her too hard, Andrew! She's already looking like a lost puppy!"
He didn't bother responding, just waved a dismissive hand and slid the heavy wooden door to the training yard shut with a grunt. The latch clicked into place, sealing them off from prying eyes. Turning back, he found Lucy still rooted to the spot, her gaze now on him but clouded, like she was half in a dream. Irritation prickled under his skin. He stepped closer, his small stature forcing him to tilt his head up to meet her eyes, and jabbed a finger into her arm.
"Snap out of it, Lucy. And strip. Right now."
Her jaw dropped, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her eyes widened to saucers. She blinked rapidly, color flooding her cheeks, hands instinctively clutching at the hem of her worn training shirt. "W-what? Andrew, are you serious?"
He let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a tiny hand. The gesture looked absurd on a child, but his tone dripped with impatience. "Don't act like you didn't hear me. You're already mine, ain't you? I told you, and you nodded like a bobblehead. So relax. Get naked. We're training, and I'm not dealing with you zoning out every two seconds."
Lucy's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her fingers tightening on her shirt. "But… but this is… I mean, are you sure? What if—"
"I already told Ma and Amara. They're not busting in. No one's gonna see a thing except me, and I don't got time for your blushing and stammering. You wanna finish body forging or not? 'Cause the way you're dragging, we'll be here till I'm old enough to grow a damn beard."
Her face burned brighter, a mix of shock and something unspoken dancing in her eyes. She hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the tension in her shoulders visible. Andrew just stared, arms crossed again, his piercing gaze cutting through her uncertainty like a blade. The yard was silent save for the distant hum of the village beyond the walls, the air thick with the unspoken challenge hanging between them.
The air in the training yard thickened, charged with something deeper than the humid afternoon heat. Lucy stood trembling, her clothes pooled around her ankles, fingers pressed tight over her breasts, thighs clenched. Her breath came in shallow bursts, eyes wide, swimming between shame and some strange, reluctant trust. Andrew didn't flinch. He studied her like a mechanic assessing a faulty engine—calm, clinical, unimpressed by the spectacle.
"Stop hiding," he said, voice low but firm. "You're not doing anything wrong. You're training. That's it."
She swallowed hard. "But… I've never—"
"It doesn't matter." He stepped forward, small bare feet pressing into the sun-warmed wooden mat. "You need release. Your body's tense. Energy's backing up. You won't advance in body forging if your spirit's twisted up like rope. I'll fix it."
Her gaze flickered down to him—this tiny boy with ancient eyes, speaking like a master twice his age. The flush deepened, spreading down her neck.
"On all fours. Now."
She hesitated, breath hitching.
Andrew didn't raise his voice. He simply stared. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Something in his tone brooked no argument. Not cruelty. Not coldness. Just certainty. Absolute, unshakable. Like gravity. Lucy lowered herself to the mat, palms pressing into the worn fabric, knees spreading. Her spine arched slightly, golden hair spilling over one shoulder. She kept her head down, unable to look at him.
Andrew crouched behind her, his movements deliberate. He placed a small hand on the small of her back, feeling the fine tremble beneath smooth skin. "Relax. Breathe."
The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of dust and burgeoning tension. Lucy remained frozen, a statue carved from shame and a bewildering curiosity. Andrew, a small island of composure, lay flat on his back, positioned directly beneath her. The sight of him there, so vulnerable, so…expectant, sent a fresh wave of heat washing over her. Her breath hitched, a strangled sound lost in the stillness of the yard. He'd explained it with a clinical detachment that was somehow more disturbing than any explicit demand.
He'd stated, with the matter-of-factness of a seasoned physician diagnosing an ailment, that her blocked energies were hindering her progress. The solution, delivered without a flicker of emotion, was to release them. Through him.
The absurdity of it nearly broke her. A five-year-old. Instructing her, a fifteen-year-old on the cusp of full body forging, in the art of…this. He'd preempted her outrage - anticipating the shock, the disgust, the fear - with a blunt reassurance. Too young for intercourse, he'd said. Simply a vessel, a conduit for the pent-up energy clogging her meridians. A tool.
The word echoed in her mind, cold and sterile.
She'd stared at him, mouth agape, processing a reality that shattered every boundary she'd ever known. He'd sighed, a miniature sound of exasperation that belied an ancient weariness. Then, the final, chilling instruction: maintain contact even after climax; remain silent lest Eva overhear.
Now, suspended between disbelief and a perverse fascination, she felt the weight of his gaze on her lower abdomen. She squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles white against the wooden mat. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest, yet a strange compulsion, woven with humiliation and a desperate hope for relief, held her captive.
"Get your pussy over and think about your stuff in that position," he repeated, his voice small but carrying an undeniable authority.
"My…" The word caught in her throat, tasting like ash. She couldn't bring herself to articulate it again. She couldn't even think it.
Slowly, agonizingly, she shifted her weight. Muscles trembling, she bent her knees, bringing her hips forward, hovering above him. The distance was minimal, a matter of inches. Each pulse of her heartbeat throbbed with a shameful awareness.
She risked a glance down. He hadn't moved. His dark eyes, unnervingly steady, met hers. They weren't lustful, or even curious. It was…analytical. Like he was observing a complex biological process.
"Relax your muscles," he instructed, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're clenching everything. It won't work if you're tense."
She tried. She really did. But every attempt to loosen up only tightened the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The heat between her legs was almost unbearable.
"Think of something else," he urged, a hint of patience creeping into his tone. "Anything. A field of flowers. A cool stream. A boring lecture. Whatever takes your mind off…this."
A field of flowers? A boring lecture? The suggestions felt ludicrous, almost cruel. How could she possibly conjure serenity when she was about to…
A sob escaped her lips, quickly stifled. She bit down on her lower lip, desperate to maintain control. Despite her best efforts, a single tear traced a path down her temple, warm against her skin.
Andrew remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He didn't offer comfort, didn't offer judgment. He simply was, a small, resolute presence anchoring her in this bizarre, terrifying reality.
Slowly, tentatively, she lowered herself a fraction of an inch. A whisper of skin brushed against the rough fabric of his training clothes. A jolt of pure, raw sensation shot through her, making her gasp.
She was too close now. There was no turning back.
The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of dust and burgeoning tension. Lucy remained frozen, a statue carved from shame and a bewildering curiosity. Andrew, a small island of composure, lay flat on his back, positioned directly beneath her. The sight of him there, so vulnerable, so…expectant, sent a fresh wave of heat washing over her. Her breath hitched, a strangled sound lost in the stillness of the yard. He'd explained it with a clinical detachment that was somehow more disturbing than any explicit demand.
He'd stated, with the matter-of-factness of a seasoned physician diagnosing an ailment, that her blocked energies were hindering her progress. The solution, delivered without a flicker of emotion, was to release them. Through him.
The absurdity of it nearly broke her. A five-year-old. Instructing her, a fifteen-year-old on the cusp of full body forging, in the art of…this. He'd preempted her outrage - anticipating the shock, the disgust, the fear - with a blunt reassurance. Too young for intercourse, he'd said. Simply a vessel, a conduit for the pent-up energy clogging her meridians. A tool.
The word echoed in her mind, cold and sterile.
She'd stared at him, mouth agape, processing a reality that shattered every boundary she'd ever known. He'd sighed, a miniature sound of exasperation that belied an ancient weariness. Then, the final, chilling instruction: maintain contact even after climax; remain silent lest Eva overhear.
Now, suspended between disbelief and a perverse fascination, she felt the weight of his gaze on her lower abdomen. She squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles white against the wooden mat. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest, yet a strange compulsion, woven with humiliation and a desperate hope for relief, held her captive.
"Get your pussy over and think about your stuff in that position," he repeated, his voice small but carrying an undeniable authority.
"My…" The word caught in her throat, tasting like ash. She couldn't bring herself to articulate it again. She couldn't even think it.
Slowly, agonizingly, she shifted her weight. Muscles trembling, she bent her knees, bringing her hips forward, hovering above him. The distance was minimal, a matter of inches. Each pulse of her heartbeat throbbed with a shameful awareness.
She risked a glance down. He hadn't moved. His dark eyes, unnervingly steady, met hers. They weren't lustful, or even curious. It was…analytical. Like he was observing a complex biological process.
"Relax your muscles," he instructed, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're clenching everything. It won't work if you're tense."
She tried. She really did. But every attempt to loosen up only tightened the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The heat between her legs was almost unbearable.
"Think of something else," he urged, a hint of patience creeping into his tone. "Anything. A field of flowers. A cool stream. A boring lecture. Whatever takes your mind off…this."
A field of flowers? A boring lecture? The suggestions felt ludicrous, almost cruel. How could she possibly conjure serenity when she was about to…
A sob escaped her lips, quickly stifled. She bit down on her lower lip, desperate to maintain control. Despite her best efforts, a single tear traced a path down her temple, warm against her skin.
Andrew remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He didn't offer comfort, didn't offer judgment. He simply was, a small, resolute presence anchoring her in this bizarre, terrifying reality.
Slowly, tentatively, she lowered herself a fraction of an inch. A whisper of skin brushed against the rough fabric of his training clothes. A jolt of pure, raw sensation shot through her, making her gasp.
She was too close now. There was no turning back.