Another pause. The tension in the room shifts slightly, becomes something different.
"You ready to train?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Good," he says. "Because today we're going to work on what to do if someone grabs you from behind. And I'm going to need to touch you more than I did last week."
My breath catches.
He notices.
"Is that going to be a problem?" he asks.
Every part of me wants to say yes. Yes, it's going to be a problem, because every time you touch me, I stop being able to think, because I'm already wet just standing here talking to you, because I don't trust myself to be professional when you put your hands on me.
"No," I say. "That's fine."
"Then let's begin," he says.
I’m fucked.
Chapter 5 - Rampage
This is just a job.
That's what I tell myself as I watch her process what I just said, watch the way her breath catches when I mention touching her, watch her eyes go slightly wider behind those glasses before she gets control of herself again and says it's fine.
This is just instruction. This is what I do with every student who comes through here needing to learn how to protect themselves. There is nothing different about Chloe Marsh except that she's paying for private lessons and she showed up at the fights and she's standing three feet away from me right now looking nervous and determined in equal measure.
Except my cock is already thickening.
I haven't even touched her yet. Haven't moved toward her. Haven't done anything except tell her what we're working on today, and my body is already responding like I've given it permission, like the six days I spent trying to convince it that we were absolutely not doing this meant nothing at all.
I touched myself twice last night.
I haven't touched myself twice in one night in… I genuinely cannot remember the last time. Masturbation is maintenance for me, something I do occasionally out of physical necessity, quick and efficient and entirely disconnected from anything resembling desire. But last night I was hard before I even got my hand around my cock, and I came thinking about her, about those brown eyes looking up at me, about what sounds she'd make if I pushed her down onto the mat and spread her legs and—
And then three hours later I was hard again.
I took another shower. Cold water, practical thinking, reminding myself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. It didn't help. I ended up with my hand on my cock again, stroking myself in the dark while my brain supplied increasingly detailed images of exactly what I wanted to do to her.
This morning was worse.
I woke up from a nightmare, the usual one, the desert, the ambush, the sounds, and my cock was hard before I was fully conscious. I lay there in bed with my heart racing and my body aching and I couldn't separate the adrenaline from the arousal, couldn't tell which was a response to the nightmare and which was a response to the fact that in a few hours she'd be walking through my door again.
I touched myself in the shower. Fast and rough and I came so hard I had to brace myself against the wall.
And now she's here.
And I'm already getting hard again.
This is a problem.
"We're starting with situational awareness," I say, forcing my voice level. "Most attacks happen because someone wasn't paying attention. They had headphones in, they were looking at their phone, they were distracted. So, first rule: stay aware of your surroundings."
She nods. She's listening, her whole body focused on me in a way that most students aren't in their second lesson. Most people are still nervous, still getting comfortable with the space. She looks like she's trying to memorize every word I say.
"Second," I continue, "if someone grabs you from behind, your first instinct is going to be to pull away. That's wrong. That'swhat they expect. You want to do the opposite. You want to step into them, create chaos, use their surprise against them."
