Amara, still as a statue, watched Andrew. A faint flush crept onto her cheeks. The Matriarchy, a force that commanded nations, had bowed to a child. This little man radiated an inner strength, a core of defiance. She liked it, too much perhaps.
A tremor ran through her. Andrew's rapid growth unsettled her, though she buried the feeling deep. She was a woman of control, of discipline, but Andrew chipped away at her resolve daily. Thoughts, primal and insistent, flitted through her mind: soft skin, firm muscles, the ghost of an embrace. She pushed them away, but they always returned.
Sometimes, in the soft warmth of the communal sleeping area, she'd wake to find herself entangled with him. Her arms wrapped around his small frame, pulling him close, her face buried in his hair. He felt sturdy against her, far more substantial than his age suggested. Shame warmed her cheeks, but she never truly stopped. It felt too good, too… right.
One morning, the familiar pressure on his face startled Andrew awake. He opened his eyes to a soft expanse of skin, the scent of blooming flowers. Amara's pelvic area rested against his head, her relaxed leg thrown over his midsection. He understood immediately. A dull ache began behind his eyes.
Could she not just let him grow up? Lucy, yes, she was a teenager, a young woman finding her way. But Amara was something else entirely, a fully formed woman. He knew, instinctively, that he needed to calm her, to set boundaries. This was getting out of hand.
He shifted, gently nudging her leg. Amara stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, confusion clouded her gaze, then it sharpened, landing on his face. Her eyes widened. A slow blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She untangled herself with a speed that defied her sleepy state, pulling her leg back, sitting upright as if a jolt of electricity had passed through her.
"Morning, Andrew," she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep and something else. Her gaze darted to Eva, still asleep in their own sections of the communal bed. They noticed nothing.
"Morning," he replied, his voice even, betraying none of the swirling thoughts in his mind. He sat up, pushing the covers back.
Amara picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "Did… did you sleep well?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Soundly," he lied, though the headache thumped a different rhythm. He needed to talk to her, to make her understand. But not now, not like this. He would wait for his opportunity.
He stood, stretching his small limbs. The morning light streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He walked to the training mat, a familiar routine, a sanctuary from unspoken tensions. He began his warm-up exercises, each movement precise and deliberate, a physical manifestation of his mental control. Amara watched him from the bed, her eyes following every graceful twist and turn. The blush on her cheeks remained.
The day arrived. Eva had left for an extended shopping trip, and Lucy had no training scheduled. It was just Andrew and Amara in the quiet house. Amara moved through the rooms with an easy confidence, her body bare, the soft light of morning gilding her curves. She picked up a book, settled onto the floor, and, with a languid stretch, spread her legs wide. Her eyes scanned the page, but Andrew knew her gaze held another agenda. He felt the pull, a carefully orchestrated magnetic force. She wanted a reaction. He, however, remained impervious. His body, still in its pre-pubescent stage, had no real interest in the display, even if his mind, older and wiser, recognized the play.
He watched her, a slow, exasperated sigh escaping his lips. Her antics, once a source of mild amusement, had grown tiresome. She pushed. He knew she pushed.
"Amara," his voice cut through the stillness. His tone held an edge of weariness. "Cut the crap."
She flinched, the book lowering slightly. Her eyes, wide and innocent, met his. "What do you mean?" The question carried a feigned confusion.
"Do you remember who I am?" he asked, his voice low, steady.
A seductive smile touched her lips. "You're my Andrew." Her voice, a purr, dripped with insinuation.
"Do you obey me?"
That caught her off guard. The smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise. Her eyes searched his, a silent question passing between them. Then, a slow nod. "Yes." The word was barely audible.
"Then go to the training mat," he commanded, his voice firm, unwavering. "On all fours. Head down, hips up."
Her breath hitched. For a moment, her eyes flashed with defiance, then resignation. She moved, gracefully, to the mat. Her hands and knees met the cool surface, her body forming an arch. Her head dipped, blonde hair splaying over the mat. Her hips rose, a soft mound of flesh.
Andrew approached her, lying on his back beneath her. Just as he settled, he spoke again. "Closer. Your pussy, closer to my face."
Her body trembled, a barely perceptible ripple. But she obeyed. Her hips lowered, bringing her soft mound inches from his face. The scent of her, subtle and warm, filled his nostrils.
"Not too loud," Andrew murmured, his voice barely a breath. "And not a word to Eva."
Amara nodded, her head still down, a silent agreement.
Andrew reached out, his small hand brushing against her. The shock rippled through him. It was even worse than Lucy. Her heat, the pulsing dampness, overwhelmed his senses. Holy shit, he thought. Are all the women here this horny?
He lowered his head. His tongue, a small, tentative explorer, touched her.
A gasp tore from Amara's throat. Her body convulsed, a violent tremor shaking her from head to toe. She spasmed, a series of uncontrolled movements that made the mat creak beneath her. Her hips bucked, a desperate rhythm against his face.
She did not reach climax quickly. The build-up was long, drawn out, each second stretching into an eternity of sensation. Her breathing grew ragged, punctuated by sharp intakes of air. Sweat slicked her skin. Her muscles bunched, then released, taut and trembling.
When it finally came, it was an explosion. A raw, primal scream ripped from her lips, quickly stifled by the realization of Andrew's earlier command. Her body arched, a taut bowstring, and then collapsed, shaking violently. She bucked and writhed against him, completely lost to the storm coursing through her.
"Oh, Andrew," she moaned, her voice thick with ecstasy, a strangled whisper. "Get deep inside me." Her words tumbled out, wild, unhinged. "Grow quicker! Cover me. Everywhere. All over."
Her hips rose and fell, a frantic, desperate motion. "I'll do anything. Any desire. Tell me. Anything."
As her rant continued, her orgasm intensified, a second wave crashing over her, even more violent than the first. Her body seemed to vibrate with the sheer force of it. She cried out again, a half-choked sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Andrew looked at her, his small face impassive. What a crazy woman.
Andrew's small hand slipped inside her, a curious exploration. Amara went rigid, then exploded. Her body convulsed, bucking against his face, a wild, untamed thing. He hadn't expected this intensity. Her orgasm, a violent tearing of sound from her throat, felt like a force of nature. He pulled back, a fleeting thought of her head hitting the floor.
She thrashed, limbs flailing, a silent scream distorting her features. Her hips slammed against him, a frantic rhythm. He pushed his hand in deeper, his fingers circling, stroking. Her body responded, each movement a desperate plea.
"Oh, Andrew," she gasped, her voice raw, unfamiliar. "Oh, my sweet boy. Yours. Always yours."
He worked his hand, fingers dancing, mimicking a rhythm he vaguely recalled from another life. Her words, a torrent of chaotic devotion, washed over him. My pussy is always yours. You can put your hand up to your elbow inside me anytime. Each phrase, soaked in raw passion, unnerved him. She came in violent waves, her body arching and contorting beneath his probing hand. Her climax seemed endless, a continuous tremor that shook her entire frame. He felt drenched by her, surrounded by the scent of her release, the damp heat of her body.
He kept his hand moving, a rhythmic pulse against her. She finally quieted, her breath ragged, her body slick with sweat. He pulled his hand out, the withdrawal a soft suction against her folds.
Amara lay there, a crumpled heap, her breathing still harsh. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed and swollen from the intensity of her experience. It took her a full hour to return to something resembling normalcy. Her eyes opened, slowly, focusing on him. The wildness had receded, replaced by a strange, quiet reverence.
He met her gaze, his own impassive. "Don't tell Eva," he stated, his voice flat.
She nodded, a slight tremor in her lips.
"If you need to come, and Eva isn't around," he continued, holding her eyes, "I'll make you."
Her expression shifted, a dangerous spark flashing in her eyes. It was raw desire, hungry and potent, a silent promise. She looked at him with an intensity that made the hair on his arms stand on end. He saw it then, a possessive hunger that went beyond mere physical release. A primal instinct, an animalistic devotion.
He felt a strange mix of fear and excitement. He was a child, yet she looked at him as if he held the key to her very existence. The moment ignited something within him, a silent vow forged deep in his nascent male core. When I grow older, he promised himself, staring into her fervent gaze, I will fuck you so hard you will beg for mercy.
He watched her as she slowly rose from the mat, her movements stiff, but a new grace, a coiled energy, seemed to emanate from her. She retrieved her book, her eyes never leaving his. She dressed, her actions deliberate, almost ritualistic. The air between them hummed with an unspoken understanding, a secret pact. It was terrifying and exhilarating. He knew, with absolute certainty, that their world had profoundly shifted.