The scent of rain on stone always brings me back. Not to the palace, but to the nights after. The way the air would cool my skin, still flushed from the heat of the forge. My muscles ached from the Water God forms, but a deeper ache always remained. I'd stand in the courtyard, the dampness seeping through my thin training clothes, and imagine a different kind of discipline. A hand, not on the hilt of a sword, but gripping my hip, pulling me back against a hard chest. The quiet, possessive whisper in my ear telling me how well I take a pounding, how my tight cunt milks every last drop of cum. The memory is a ghost that still visits, a phantom touch that makes my breath catch. Some aches are meant to be cherished.