Solomon Smith stood in the backyard under the relentless Ozark sun, heat shimmering off the grass and turning the air thick with humidity and the sharp scent of pine from the treeline. The homestead's open field served as their range—hay bales stacked as backstop fifty yards out, silhouette targets nailed crude from scavenged cardboard. Sweat beaded on his dark skin, black tee clinging damp to his lean chest and back, jeans grass-stained at the knees from morning chores. The group gathered around him: four girls now, scents mingling in the close heat—Emily's faint floral from a quick wash, Sophia's motor oil lingering on her hands, Olivia's warm bread from kitchen duties, Mia's pine and gunpowder fresh from a perimeter check.
Practical training started today—no more relying on luck. Dad's lessons drilled deep: build skills early, or die clumsy. Solomon cleared the weapons table methodic: AR-15, .308 bolt-action, .22 rifle, Glock pistol—mags out, chambers empty, laid neat. "Safety first," he said calm, voice cutting through cicadas. "Four rules. Everyone repeat."
They echoed in turn—Emily soft and hesitant, blue eyes wide under blonde ponytail; Sophia firm, dark gaze focused; Olivia shy, hazel eyes downcast behind red hair; Mia steady, black ponytail flicking as she nodded sharp. Good start.
Dry fire first—no ammo in the area yet, building fundamentals safe. Solomon demonstrated stance: feet shoulder-width, aggressive lean forward, high two-hand grip—thumbs forward, support hand wrapping firm. "Bone support. Natural point of aim—no muscle fight." He mounted the AR smooth, sights aligning instinctive on target.
One by one: Mia up first—petite frame confident, cutoff shorts hugging pronounced hips and juicy round butt as she squared feet, camo tank damp with sweat. Grip solid from hunting days, stance near-perfect. "Good," Solomon murmured, minor correction on elbow lock—dark hand light on her toned arm. She dry-pressed trigger smooth, surprise break clean.
Sophia next—athletic tomboy build coiled, cargo shorts low on narrow waist, tank clinging to firm curves in the heat. Hands steady from wrench work, but recoil anticipation flinch slight. Solomon adjusted behind—hands on her hips gentle but firm, shifting weight forward. "Lean in. Aggressive." Her skin warm through fabric, scent of oil sharp up close. She improved quick, dry clicks steady.
Olivia hesitant—plush body shifting nervous in leggings and oversized sweater despite heat, wide hips swaying as she mounted the .22 awkward. Heavy curves made balance tricky, hands trembling virgin-like on the light rifle. Solomon patient: stance correction—palms on her soft sides, guiding lean. "Breathe pause at exhale. Front sight sharp." Her breaths quickened at touch, but she focused, dry press improving slow.
Emily last—soft and curvy, leggings hugging thick thighs, tee damp and clinging from nerves. Wide hips cocked unsure, full form swaying as she gripped wrong. Solomon stepped close, hands on her hips corrective—fabric warm and yielding under dark palms, guiding alignment firm but gentle. "Thumbs forward. Lean like you mean it." Her skin flushed hot through the thin material, scent floral intensifying with sweat. Hands shook on trigger, anticipation jerking sights. "Smooth press. Surprise yourself." Reps built her steady—twenty, thirty—tremble fading, blue eyes meeting his grateful.
Live fire next: ammo brought out controlled, one mag at a time. Started close—ten yards, slow accuracy. Mia impressed again: .308 groups tight, bolt cycling fluid, brass hot ejecting near Solomon's boots. "Hunter's eye," he said quiet approval. She grinned faint, juicy butt shifting balance in shorts.
Sophia on Glock: recoil jarred her athletic frame, but follow-through held—hits center mass, brass tinkling grass. Olivia with .22: light kick manageable, but flinch persisted—Solomon ball-and-dummy drill mixed live/dummy rounds, curing anticipation gradual. Her plush thighs braced wide for stability, sweater sleeves pushed up revealing creamy arms.
Emily struggled most: .22 bucked her soft curves, shoulders bruising faint from brace. Solomon hands-on again—behind her, chest to back brief for support, dark arms over hers guiding mount. "Breath control. Pause, press." Heat built between them—her wide hips against his thighs accidental, thick thighs tensing. Shot cracked clean finally, hit solid. "Better," he murmured near her ear.
Tactics basics after: movement to cover—side steps firing, use of trees as barricade. Reloading drills—emergency drops, retain mags. Malfunction clears: tap-rack-bang. Sweat poured free now—clothes clinging all, scents thick: gunpowder acrid over individual warmths. Girls' varying levels clear—Mia leading flanks natural, Sophia quick learner, Olivia steadying slow, Emily clumsy but determined.
Close call drill end: simulated ambush—Solomon "attacker" from blind, girls react. Emily froze first time, wide hips stumbling back—Solomon caught her instinctive, hands on waist firm. "Stay behind me next time," he said quiet, deep brown eyes locking blue. "You're mine to keep safe."
She flushed deeper, nodding shy—thick thighs pressing his brief in the hold, warmth lingering as he released. Others watched subtle: Sophia's dark eyes knowing, Olivia's hazel curious, Mia's black ponytail flick as she smirked faint.
Session wrapped as sun dipped—ammo conserved, skills seeded. Back inside for water and Olivia's bread—cooler air relief, bodies brushing close in the narrow hall. Tension hummed new: physical corrections echoing in touches, Solomon's quiet claim hanging soft.
House stronger for it. But moans outside grew with dusk—training timely.