Lucy returned two days later, a subtle shift in her demeanor. Her movements were sharp, her focus unwavering. A new intensity shone from her blue eyes, an edge Andrew hadn't seen before. They stepped into the training room, the heavy door thudding shut behind them, sealing them in. The air, usually thick with the scent of sweat and effort, now held a different kind of tension.
She stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her gaze flitting around, anywhere but at Andrew. Her shoulders bunched, a nervous energy radiating from her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her blonde hair, usually a vibrant wave, now seemed to hang limply. She didn't know what to do. The ease that had once defined their training sessions had vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar discomfort.
Andrew let out a soft sigh. The sound, barely audible, still carried a note of exasperation. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the turmoil churning beneath her composed exterior. All this drama.
"Just train hard," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Treat me as your partner. That's all." He dismissed her hesitation, her awkwardness, with a flick of his wrist. What was there to be ashamed of? He had seen her, intimately, completely. Her body, her raw pleasure, laid bare before him. She had come four times with his help. More than that, she had responded to him, a five-year-old boy, with an intensity that belied her age and their relationship. After all of that, what, exactly, was there to feel shame about?
He sat on the floor, settling into his usual cross-legged position, his gaze direct. "When I grow up, I'll claim my prize from you," he stated, the words hanging in the air, a quiet assertion of ownership. "For now, I need you to be a good teacher. A friend." He needed her to be effective, to channel her considerable energy into their shared goal. If her hormones got out of control again, he would just fix it.
A knowing glint entered his eyes. He leaned forward, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. "So, did you like it?"
Her head snapped up, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. Her eyes darted away, unable to hold his gaze. She mumbled something inaudible.
"What was that?" he pressed, enjoying her squirming discomfort.
"Yes," she finally whispered, the word barely audible. Her blush deepened, spreading across her neck.
He scoffed, a small, dismissive sound. "Even if you said anything else, I wouldn't believe you." He chuckled, a low, guttural sound from such a young boy. "Coming four times in a row was the best answer." He leaned back, satisfied, his eyes twinkling.
Lucy's eyes narrowed. A flush of indignation momentarily eclipsed her embarrassment. She glared at him, then, with a huff, she reached out, her index finger poking his small head. It wasn't a hard poke, more a playful jab, but the message was clear. A silent rebuke.
The air, brittle moments before, softened. A fragile truce settled between them, brokered by a playful jab and a shared understanding. Lucy, still red-faced but with less rigid shoulders, moved to the side of the room. She began her warm-up routine, a series of fluid stretches that showcased her developing musculature. Andrew watched, a small smile playing on his lips. His plan unfolded exactly as he had envisioned. The tension, the unspoken awkwardness, had lifted. He needed her focused, not flustered.
Their training resumed its relentless pace. Lucy, now unburdened by her previous self-consciousness, attacked each exercise with renewed vigor. Her movements, already powerful, gained a newfound precision. She absorbed the academy instruction like a dry sponge, her progress accelerating at an astonishing rate. Her body, already a testament to rigorous training, began to hone itself further, each muscle defined, each motion economical. The gentle curves of a young girl started to morph into the lean, strong lines of a warrior in the making. Andrew, in turn, pushed himself. He followed his own cultivation regimen, the arcane sequences flowing through him as naturally as breath. He felt the subtle shifts within his core, the slow, methodical strengthening of his inner workings.
A week and a half melted away, marked by the rhythmic thud of combat boots on the training mats, the sharp exhalations of exerted breath, and the occasional grunts of effort. Then, one afternoon, Lucy arrived. Her face was flushed, her blue eyes wide, a familiar tremor in her hands. She stood at the threshold of Andrew's home, her blonde hair a disheveled halo around her face.
He saw her, and a knowing glint entered his eyes. He turned to his mother, who hovered nearby, drawn by the unexpected arrival.
"We're training, Mom," he said, his voice carrying the authority of a much older child. "Don't open the door for anyone."
His mother, accustomed to his strange pronouncements, nodded slowly. She swept a hand through his hair, a faint smile on her lips. "Be good, you two."
Andrew closed the door with a soft click, sealing them inside. He turned back to Lucy. She stood awkwardly, her gaze fixed on the floor, her fingers toying with the hem of her loose training tunic.
"What are you looking at?" Andrew asked, his voice even, devoid of surprise.
She didn't answer, her blush deepening, staining her neck and ears.
"Get naked," he instructed, his tone calm, unwavering. "Get ready to cum."
Andrew watched her, a small smirk playing on his lips. He knew what was coming. Only the first time would be so intense, he thought, a fleeting flicker of smug satisfaction. He quickly understood he was wrong. She came almost instantly again, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips, her body arching involuntarily, a silent scream of pleasure. He was speechless.
He chuckled, a low rumble from his small chest.
"Do you like that?" he asked, his voice a low purr.
She nodded, a slight flutter of her eyelids. A soft groan escaped her, a sound she tried, in vain, to suppress. Her gaze, unfocused moments before, now locked on him, a mixture of awe and defiance in their depths.
Another chuckle rippled through him. "Ask me to lick you. Ask me to make you cum."
Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock passing through them, quickly replaced by something else, a nascent hunger. She bit her lip, her chest heaving, the rapid rise and fall of each breath a testament to her burgeoning desire. Slowly, tentatively, a whisper escaped her.
"Don't stop," she pleaded, her voice hoarse, raw. "Make me… make me cum." The words, barely audible at first, gained strength, imbued with a desperate urgency. A soft moan followed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
He did not reply. He moved, his tongue, surprisingly adept for his age, found its mark. The wetness, the heat, the scent — it all intensified, overwhelming his senses. Her body vibrated against his touch, a silent testament to the exquisite torment he inflicted. She twisted, her hands clutching at his hair, her fingers tangling in the soft strands. She whimpered, a low, guttural sound, as if fighting an internal battle. Her hips bucked, a frantic, rhythmic movement as she pushed herself against him, seeking a deeper connection, a more profound release. The sounds that escaped her were not words, but pure sensation, a symphony of pleasure. He felt the tremors begin, a slow build from deep within her core, spreading outwards like ripples in a pond. They grew in intensity, shaking her entire frame, until she convulsed, a final, earth-shattering wave of pleasure washing over her. Her hands clamped down on his head, a vice-like grip, as if to anchor herself to him, to the source of her ecstasy. Then, just as quickly as it began, it receded, leaving her breathless, spent, yet utterly sated.
He pulled back, a faint smile on his face, the taste of her still on his tongue. She lay there, her eyes closed, her body still trembling, bathed in the afterglow. He watched her, a silent observer of the storm he had unleashed.
He gave her a few minutes, allowing the tremors to subside, for the vibrant flush on her skin to calm. Her breathing, once ragged, now settled into a deep, even rhythm. Her eyes fluttered open, a dreamy haze still clinging to their depths. She looked at him, a silent question in her gaze.
"I enjoyed that," Andrew said, his voice a low hum. "I liked you asking me to make you cum. You'll need to keep doing that now." A subtle command, hidden beneath a veneer of praise. He watched her, his gaze unwavering.
Her face, still flushed, deepened in color. She remained silent, her breath catching in her throat.
"Lower your head," he instructed, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Get your pussy over here."
She moved, a slow, deliberate motion, her body still heavy with the lingering tendrils of pleasure. She positioned herself, her head lowered, her hips slightly raised.
"Imagine how I'll fuck you in the near future," he murmured, his voice a soft caress, a promise whispered in the heated air. "While I please you now." He leaned in, his lips brushing against her inner thigh. "Imagine me, deep inside you, every thrust taking you higher, faster, until your mind shatters from the ecstasy." His words, crude and primal, ignited a spark deep within her. Her body tensed, a ripple of anticipation coursing through her.
Her breath hitched, a faint whimper escaping her lips.
"Lick me," she pleaded, the words raw, desperate. "Make me cum. Don't stop."
He moved, his tongue a precise instrument of pleasure. The world narrowed to this moment, this sensation, this desperate need. He delved deeper, his movements rhythmic, relentless. Her body arched, a silent scream of exquisite torment. Her hands clutched at the mat beneath her, her knuckles white. Each thrust of his tongue sent shivers through her, each caress a wave of unbearable pleasure. The sounds that escaped her were no longer coherent words, but guttural cries, born of pure sensation. The tremors began, deep within her core, escalating rapidly. Her body convulsed, a violent tremor shaking her from head to toe. Her legs stiffened, then buckled, as a deafening climax tore through her. It was a release so profound, so utterly overwhelming, it left her breathless, shocked.
He paused, pulling back, his small chest heaving. Even he, with his profound knowledge and experience, was momentarily stunned by the sheer force of her climax. Her legs trembled violently, a relentless tremor that refused to subside.
Andrew pushed himself up, moving with a surprising agility for his age. He settled into a cross-legged position, directly behind her. He reached out, his small hand finding her wet, tangled blonde hair. He began to stroke it, a slow, comforting motion.
At the touch, her legs started shaking even harder, a violent spasm that rattled her frame.
"Relax," he said, his voice soft, a gentle command. "Just relax."
And she did. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the tremors began to subside. Her breathing deepened, evening out. The frenetic energy that had consumed her slowly dissipated, replaced by a profound calm. She leaned back against him, her body pliant, utterly spent.
She left an hour and a half later, a complete mess. Her blonde hair, usually a vibrant wave, was disheveled, plastered to her forehead. Her eyes, still slightly dazed, held a faraway look. Her lips were swollen, red, a testament to her profound release. Her movements, usually precise and energetic, were clumsy, her legs still trembling slightly, as if she had just emerged from an epic battle, thoroughly defeated but strangely invigorated. She stumbled out of the door, a phantom echo of pleasure still lingering in her body.
Andrew watched her go, a faint smile on his lips. He turned to Eva and Amara, who were now standing in the doorway, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.
"Just hard training," he said, shrugging his small shoulders. "All's fine."