"Shush," Andrew whispered, his voice barely a breath. "Quiet. Minimum noise." He shifted on his back, a tiny strategist coordinating a clandestine operation. The image of Eva bursting in, catching Lucy butt-naked atop his face, evidently troubled him. "Face down. Hips closer."
Lucy complied. Her movements stiff at first, then flowing with an unsettling obedience. The faint groan caught in her throat as she angled herself, her hair a veil obscuring her face. Andrew's small hand found its way to her. A soft, exploratory touch. He felt the slick warmth, the surprising wetness.
Holy shit, he thought, a flicker of genuine surprise in his ancient mind. This girl is so ready it's scary. He had not even truly touched her. She was already dripping.
She lowered herself further, guided by his silent will, until her pussy hovered inches above his face. He nudged her slightly, a precise, almost surgical adjustment. Her clitoris aligned perfectly with the tip of his tongue.
His eyes drifted upward. Her breasts, full and heavy for her slight frame, hung freely, dark nipples puckering in the cool air of the training room. A small, involuntary sound escaped her.
"You've got great boobs," he murmured, the unexpected compliment a pebble dropped into a still pond.
Before she could process the words, before she could even register the shock, he moved. His tongue darted out, a quick, firm flick against her sensitive skin.
A sharp, almost silent gasp tore from her. Her body convulsed, a violent tremor that shook her from head to toe. Her hips arched, pushing down against him, then she collapsed. One agonizing breath, then another, before her limbs went limp. Lucy came, almost instantly, a silent explosion of sensation.
Andrew was shocked. Holy shit. He paused for a moment, the taste of her still on his tongue, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. This was unexpected, even for him. He expected a build-up, some resistance, a longer battle. Not this instantaneous surrender.
He continued, his tongue working with a newfound rhythm. He licked, he sucked, he swirled, exploring the depths of her immediate response. Her body responded again, less violently this time, but with the same desperate urgency. Another guttural moan, low and raw, escaped her. Her hips bucked, a desperate rhythm against his face. He watched her eyes flutter, her lips part, a silent scream of release twisting her features.
He understood then. He had a lot of work to do, a storm of hormones to calm. This wasn't merely about clearing blocked energy. This was a runaway freight train, a geyser of pent-up desire waiting for the slightest trigger.
Andrew had his fun, watching her cum. He found a certain perverse satisfaction in being the catalyst for such an overwhelming eruption. But he did it more for her. He was too small for all this, too young to truly engage in the full scope of what he was unleashing. He was a conductor, not a participant, and the responsibility weighed on him heavier than his tiny frame suggested.
Andrew knew she was not done. The single, explosive release was merely the uncorking of a bottle; the contents still waited to spill. He looked up at her, a knowing glint in his young eyes.
"I'm going to lick you until you beg for mercy," he said, his voice serious, devoid of childish playfulness.
She pushed back, a small protest forming on her lips, but he cut her off, his tone firm. "Your job now is to quietly moan and cum until you cannot do it anymore. After that, we train." He did not invite further discussion. Negotiation was not on the table.
He did not wait for her response. His hand, so small yet so deliberate, found its way between her legs. He pushed against her mound, fingers finding the slick entrance, then burrowing inside. He felt the soft folds, the internal friction, the quickening pulse within her. His thumb found her clitoris, pressing firm, while two fingers worked inside her, swirling and circling, hitting nerve endings she never knew existed.
Lucy gasped, a wet sound caught in her throat. Her body tensed, then bowed, an involuntary reaction to the sudden onslaught of pleasure. She came again, a sharp, sudden wave that left her trembling. The force of it almost lifted her from the floor. He continued to work, his movements precise, almost mechanical in their efficiency. Her body became a landscape he charted with his fingers, mapping every tremor, every involuntary twitch. He traced the pathways of her desire, pushing her further, deeper.
Another wave seized her, stronger this time, more drawn out. Her hips arched, pushing against his hand, seeking the pressure, the friction. He felt her inner muscles clench and release around his fingers, a silent plea for more. Sweat beaded on her forehead, tracing paths through her blonde hair. Her eyes fluttered, half-closed, her mouth slack.
Lucy was bewildered. She had come twice already, a quick, intense rush. Now, twice more, her body a battlefield of sensation, each orgasm a fresh explosion. Her legs began to shake, a fine tremor that intensified with each movement of his hand. They almost buckled.
"Please," she whimpered, her voice hoarse, barely audible. "Stop. Please."
The word hung in the air, a fragile plea in the otherwise silent room. Andrew's hand stilled. He pulled his fingers from her, the sudden absence a shocking void.
Andrew got up, a small figure towering over her prone form. He looked down at her shaking legs, a faint smile playing on his lips. He knew he had done what was needed for her. He had untangled the knots, unstoppered the dam. Now, it was up to her to manage the flow.
"You owe me one," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "For that." He paused. "And if you feel the need, just come over. Cum all you need. Anytime. No questions asked." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, warning rumble. "But if I see you losing control again, if I see you blanking out, I will make you cum. And your legs will shake even more. Understand?"
Lucy's eyes, wide and unfocused, blinked slowly. She tried to nod, the movement barely perceptible. He wanted her normal, not hormonally crazy. He was too young for all this shit. His small hands had already done too much.
She could not move. Her muscles screamed in protest, a symphony of exhaustion and lingering tremors. Her legs, in particular, felt like jelly, utterly useless. She lay there, an hour blurring into the next, the rhythmic drumming of her own pulse her only companion. By the time she managed to push herself up, every muscle protesting, the sun had begun its descent.
She looked at Andrew, who sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a thick book of cultivation theory. It all felt… unreal. How did she even interact with this little guy after that? What was she supposed to say? The words felt trapped in her throat, cloying and foreign.
He sensed her gaze, lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. A small, knowing smile curved his lips.
"Don't take it to heart," he said, his voice light, almost dismissive. "Just relax. You're already mine, anyway." He didn't elaborate, didn't need to. The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. He saw that she needed it. And she would get what she needed. Not from anyone else. From him.
"And," he added, his voice hardening, "don't tell Eva anything. Not a word." His eyes held hers, a silent threat embedded in their innocent depths. He returned to his book, the conversation, for him, concluded.
Lucy stumbled towards the door, each step a testament to her wobbly legs. Her mind reeled, a whirlwind of confusion and lingering pleasure. She felt…used, in a way. But also…relieved. The tension that had coiled in her gut for weeks had finally unspooled, leaving her strangely hollowed out, yet light.
She opened the door, the cool evening air a shock against her flushed skin. The world outside the training room seemed to spin, colors too vibrant, sounds too sharp. She hugged herself, a shiver running down her spine. The training room, once a sanctuary of rigorous exercise, had become something else entirely. A confessional. A chamber of unspoken desires. And Andrew, the five-year-old child, had morphed into something far more ancient, far more powerful. He was a force, an enigma, and she was irrevocably caught in his orbit.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. Lucy walked, her legs still protesting, her mind a chaotic mess of thoughts and feelings. She replayed the scene in her head, the feel of his small hand, the unexpected intensity of his tongue, the shattering climax that had left her a trembling wreck. It was intimate, shocking, and utterly wrong. And yet…a part of her longed for it again. The shame warred with a primal yearning she could not articulate.
She ran her hand over her hair, still slightly damp with sweat. The scent of him, faint but undeniably present, clung to her. She scrubbed at her wrist, trying to erase it, but it lingered, a phantom touch, a silent reminder of the impossible encounter. She was his. The words echoed in her ears, a chilling promise. She was his. And the thought, terrifying as it was, also held a strange, unsettling comfort. He had seen her, truly seen her, in a way no one else ever had. He had touched a part of her soul she didn't even know was there.
She walked on, the darkness deepening, the stars beginning to prick through the velvet sky. The world felt different now. She felt different. The childish innocence she had clung to, even at fifteen, had been stripped away, replaced by a raw, new vulnerability. Andrew had done that. The little boy with the ancient eyes. The one who had seen her and, in seeing her, had claimed her.