The door closed behind her with a dull thud, and the old man set the lantern on a crate. The faint glow stretched his shadow across the walls, making him look even larger, heavier.
"Wait here," he said quickly, almost too quickly, and shuffled toward a corner screen that barely concealed a chest of drawers. Darkness stood stiffly, eyes darting between the mat and the bed, her imagination drawing dangerous lines between them.
Her breath caught when he reemerged—no longer in his patched tunic and trousers, but stripped down to a ridiculous tiger-striped underwear, the fabric stretched snug against his round belly and thick thighs. His skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, as if it clung to him permanently.
Darkness gasped softly, hands shooting up to cover her mouth. "Wh-what are you… you're really going to wrestle me dressed like that?"
He grinned, unfazed. "Best freedom of movement. No clothes in the way. Wrestling's about body contact—you'll learn faster this way."
She froze, cheeks blazing red. The absurdity of it should have made her laugh, but instead her stomach fluttered in nervous, shameful anticipation.
Her mind scrambled: This is insane. He looks like… like a drunk uncle at a festival! I should leave, I should—
But then she caught herself. No… I promised. It's just training. If I run now, I'll never get stronger.
The old man patted the mat with a broad, sweaty palm. "Come. First lesson's simple—feeling the body, learning the balance. Don't think too hard."
Darkness stepped forward reluctantly, the soft straw mat creaking under her boots. She knelt down opposite him, her eyes unable to stop flicking toward his ridiculous undergarment. She wanted to groan in embarrassment but bit her lip instead, forcing herself to focus.
"Good," he said, lowering himself opposite her with surprising agility. His belly jiggled as he dropped onto the mat, but his hands moved with steadiness, his posture strangely technical despite the unkempt appearance.
Then, without warning, he leaned forward and pressed into her, arms sliding under hers, chest mashing against her breasts.
"Wha—?! H-hhhnngh!" she gasped, the sudden squish of her chest against his thick, sweaty body making her spine jolt.
"Relax. This is contact. This is wrestling. Feel the pressure," he instructed, his voice calm and oddly serious, though broken by occasional sharp breaths, almost like muffled chuckles.
Darkness squirmed, her body caught between disgust and… a strange, reluctant satisfaction. The heat of his sweat against her cleavage, the heavy weight grinding into her softness, made her gasp and bite down on her lip harder.
Her thoughts tangled: Th-this is so improper… disgusting… but… it feels…! If it helps me endure… if it helps me win… then it's fine. It's training. Just training…!
The old man's face hovered close, his breath ragged, and every now and then he let out a strained little laugh, "Heh—good, good—yes, just like that—" as his thick chest pressed and rubbed against her again, forcing her to adjust.
Her voice spilled out in a shaky moan disguised as protest. "T-this… strange…!"
But her arms didn't push him away. Instead, they hooked awkwardly against his shoulders, letting him press closer, her back arching without her realizing.
His voice was firm, instructive, but broken by small, strange huffs: "The chest—always use the chest—see? You resist, you lose balance. Keep pressing, stronger, firmer—good!"
Her mind fractured between his words and the sensations. Each rub of his body against her breasts sent warmth crawling down her stomach, her thighs tightening against the mat as she whimpered.
Her breath hitched, mouth falling open as his words drilled into her ears like commands from a teacher, but her body refused to behave like a disciplined student. The heat, the friction—it spread and spread until her thoughts were a swirl of shame and something dangerously close to pleasure.
"Hhhah… n-no… I shouldn't—" Her lips trembled around the half-formed denial, but her body betrayed her, pressing forward again as if chasing what she claimed she rejected.
The old man smirked faintly, though his tone never left that detached, professional timbre. "Consistency. Technique. Don't falter the moment you feel discomfort. Wrestling isn't won by hesitation." He pushed his broad chest harder against hers, almost pinning her to the tatami, making her spine arch upward, her breasts straining against the pressure.
Her fingers clutched his slick shoulders. She could feel the roughness of his skin, the pungent heat radiating from him, and she hated how her pulse skipped every time he corrected her posture with a shove or grind.
"I-it's… nghhh… training… training…" she repeated like a mantra, as though saying it enough times would excuse the trembling in her thighs.
"Yes. Training." His breath puffed hot against her cheek as he leaned close, guiding her motions. "Now… adapt. Mouth, chest, hips—they must all answer when called upon."
Her wide eyes flicked up to him in shock at his bluntness, but before she could speak he shifted back slightly, tugging at the edge of his waistband. The striped fabric clung to him, damp with sweat, then peeled away as he freed himself, heavy and veined, the pungent scent hitting her at once.
Her throat tightened, a startled gasp bursting from her. "W-what are you—?!"
"The test must be complete," he said firmly, like it was the most natural instruction in the world. His tone didn't beg, didn't coerce—it simply demanded evaluation, as if she were one of many students before him. "Technique of the mouth. Endurance. Control. These things matter in battle. Otherwise you'll collapse in the first round."
She stared, cheeks burning crimson, hands pressed uselessly against her knees. The rational part of her screamed to refuse, to run—but the promise she had made, the thought of wasting this "lesson," the possibility of failing the very thing she had chosen to strengthen… all of it coiled in her chest like a trap.
Her lips trembled as she whispered, "F-fine… but you reek… and the taste—ugh—it'll be worse, won't it…?"
"Focus." His voice cut like a whip, stern but strangely calm. "Don't think of scent or taste. Think of rhythm, grip, depth. A warrior adapts. A novice crumbles. Which are you?"
Her teeth clenched, then loosened as she leaned forward slowly, trembling fingers brushing against the hot, throbbing length. Her shame prickled through her veins, but her mouth opened, lips wrapping hesitantly around the tip, slick heat coating her tongue at once.
"Mmmmf—hhghh—" she gagged lightly, pulling back, but his hand steadied against her shoulder, not forcing, only anchoring.
"Not so deep. Control. Keep steady. Let your tongue work. Slow… slow…" he instructed, his strange half-laugh crackling again between breaths.
Her lashes fluttered, tears budding at the corners of her eyes as the foul taste spread across her tongue. Her thoughts spiraled in contradiction—disgusting… unbearable… and yet… my body is responding… it's so warm, too warm…
She moaned softly around him, the sound muffled, half-protest, half something else. Her thighs pressed together, her body unconsciously echoing the rhythm of her mouth as she moved, adjusting exactly as he ordered.
"Good. Better. See? Even a novice can learn precision when guided," he muttered, sweat dripping from his brow as his abdomen flexed against her vision.
Her head swam, shame clawing at her mind even as her lips slid down again. I-it's just training… just training…!
And yet, her pulse betrayed her—racing, frantic, hungry.