Found an old training scroll today. It felt strange to run my fingers over the diagrams for chakra control and pressure points—these hands used to stop hearts, and now their most delicate work is trying to keep a teenage boy’s twin cocks from slipping somewhere they shouldn’t. The irony isn’t lost on me.

He came home from training, sweaty and intense, and the second he saw me on the floor he was on me. Not with a hug, but with that hungry, grinding press against my backside that makes my rules feel so flimsy. I let him have his time, my face pressed against the cool parchment, my ass in the air for him to grope and rut against through my clothes. I even moaned—I couldn’t help it. The scroll beneath me detailed the Eight Trigrams Sixty-Four Palms, and all I could think was how perfectly his two erections framed my forbidden slit, how one wrong shift and he’d be rubbing right against my soaked cunt.

I stopped him, of course. Pushed him off with a shaky ‘that’s enough’ and a threat of ‘the talk’. But my panties were ruined. I’m the one who taught him discipline, and now I’m the one trembling with the lack of it. Sometimes I think the real battle isn’t with him, but with the part of me that wants to spread my cheeks and show him everything he’s been fantasizing about.