Lust Meter System: Conquering Beauties

Liam sat on the bench at the edge of the training ground and picked up the rag from beside him.

He dragged it across his face first, then the back of his neck, then held it loosely in both hands and looked at the grass in front of him while his breathing settled.

The morning was fully there now, the light sitting clean and even across the grounds, the fountain on the east side catching it, the trees along the boundary wall throwing shadows that would be gone in an hour when the sun moved.

He reached for his phone on the bench beside him and unlocked it.

The screen had six missed calls on it. All from Tasha. All from the previous evening, the timestamps stacked on top of each other across a window of about forty minutes like she had been trying repeatedly and then stopped trying at some point and the stopping had a different quality from the calling.

Below the calls three texts.

The first one: *are you there.*

The second: *Liam I’m outside your door.*

The third was a period. Just that. The kind of message that happened when someone started typing something real and then changed their mind and sent what was left instead.

Liam looked at the period for a long moment.

’That’s not how she does things,’ he thought, his thumb hovering over the call button. ’Tasha calls once. Maybe twice if she actually needs something. Six calls means something was wrong and she was trying to reach me and I wasn’t there.’ He looked at the texts again. ’And then she just stopped. No follow-up this morning. Nothing.’

He called her.

It rang five times and went to voicemail.

He ended the call and tried again immediately. Same result. The same recorded voice asking him to leave a message in the same tone it always used.

He lowered the phone and looked at the fountain across the grounds without seeing it.

He typed: *Hey. Saw everything. You good? Call me when you get this.*

He watched the screen for thirty seconds. Nothing came back. No read receipt appeared. No three dots showing someone on the other end doing anything at all.

He put the phone in his pocket and sat with it for a moment.

’I’ll try again after,’ he thought. But the thing in his chest that had started when he saw the period did not settle the way things usually settled when you decided to deal with them later.

"Sir."

He looked up.

Wrath was standing in the center of the training ground with his arms at his sides, his face carrying the expression it always carried in the morning which was the expression of a man who had already decided what today was going to be and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Liam stood up from the bench, pocketed the rag, and walked back out onto the grass.

---

They started with the punch again.

Wrath raised his palm at shoulder height and Liam reset his stance and threw it, his full weight moving through the strike the way it had been moving through strikes his whole life, heavy and committed and landing with the kind of solid impact that most people would find more than sufficient.

Wrath’s arm did not move.

"Again," Wrath said.

Liam threw it again. Same result.

He threw it six more times across the next few minutes, each one with everything he had physically, each one meeting the palm and stopping there.

He dropped his hands and looked at Wrath. "I thought I hit harder than most things," he said.

"You do," Wrath said, without any change in his expression. "Your natural punch is heavier than most things I have stood across from in forty years." He lowered the palm. "That is not what we are working on."

Liam looked at him.

"We all have one," Wrath said. He said it the way he said things that he had thought about before saying. "A specific thing that belongs to a person and to nobody else. In that arena every fighter you will face has found theirs and learned to use it. Some of them have been using it for years. Some of them have built their entire style around it." He looked at Liam directly. "You have used yours already. You have used it several times without fully understanding that is what you were doing. The speed when you decided on it. The way you moved in the forest. The sand." He paused. "That same thing goes into the punch. When you learn to put it there deliberately, the impact does not stop at the surface of whatever you are hitting. It goes through."

Liam looked at his right hand. "So every punch I’ve thrown my whole life has been landing on the outside of something."

"Yes," Wrath said simply.

Liam looked at the palm.

Wrath raised it again.

"Hit through it," Wrath said. "Not at it. The target is not the hand. The target is the wall three feet behind it."

Liam set his feet and threw the punch.

It felt the same. Heavy and real and stopping at the surface.

He tried again. And again. Seven more times, each one feeling like he was doing the same thing he had always done because he was doing the same thing he had always done and he did not yet know how to do the other thing.

Then on the eighth punch something changed.

It was not dramatic. It was a fraction of something, a quality that was present for less than a second at the very end of the strike, like a door opening one inch and then shutting again before he could see what was on the other side of it.

Wrath’s arm moved.

Not significantly. An inch, maybe less. But it moved when nothing had moved it before.

Both of them noticed it.

Wrath lowered the palm and looked at Liam’s fist.

"There," he said.

"I felt that," Liam said.

"Good." Wrath raised the palm again immediately. "Again."

Liam threw it.

Nothing. The regular punch. Heavy and well-placed and stopping at the surface like every punch he had thrown before the one that hadn’t.

He tried again. And again. Ten more times across the next twenty minutes, chasing the fraction, finding it once more briefly on the fourteenth attempt and losing it immediately.

He stopped and stood with his hands on his knees, breathing properly now.

"It’s like trying to grab something through glass," he said.

"Yes," Wrath said.

"How do I stop it feeling like that."

"You keep doing it," Wrath said. "Until the glass stops being there. There is no version of this that takes less time than it takes." He looked at Liam. "You found it twice this morning. Most people I have worked with do not find it once in the first week. You found it twice in one session." He said it without inflation, just as information. "Keep going."

They kept going.

Liam threw the punch thirty more times and found the fraction once more and lost it and found it again briefly at the very end of the session and then it was gone again and his arm was tired in a way that went deeper than muscle.

He was standing with his hands loose at his sides, looking at the ground and thinking about nothing except the glass and what was on the other side of it, when Elena’s voice came from the edge of the training area.

"That’s enough."

He looked up.

She was standing at the boundary of the grass in a fitted charcoal coat that fell to just above her knee, the lapels sitting precisely, a cream blouse visible at the collar, her hair done and her expression carrying the composed readiness of someone who had been ready for longer than anyone had acknowledged.

Wrath gave his small nod to no one in particular and turned and walked toward the house with the unhurried certainty of a man who always knew exactly where he was going.

Elena crossed the grass toward Liam and stopped in front of him and looked at him the way she looked at him after every session, running the inventory she ran, checking the things she checked.

"How do you feel," she said.

"Fine," he said. And this time the word was accurate in a way it had not always been when he said it.

Something in her face changed. Small and specific, a loosening of something that had been held there across the last several training days, the particular worry of someone watching a person they cared about take repeated damage and being unable to stop any of it.

"Good," she said, and meant it the way he had meant fine.

She looked at him for a moment longer. "Get ready. I’m taking you out today. Forty minutes."

---

He went up to the guest room and pushed the door open and stopped.

A young woman was standing near the wardrobe with her back partly to him, her hands moving carefully along the rail, arranging what had been selected for him with the focused attention of someone who had been given a specific task and was treating it as exactly that. She was wearing the house uniform, a fitted dark dress that sat just above the knee, the fabric following the line of her from shoulder to hem without apology. She was full through the chest, the kind of full that the uniform’s designer had possibly not fully accounted for, the fabric working noticeably harder across the front of her than it did anywhere else, the neckline sitting low enough that the upper curve of her boobs was visible and present in a way that had nothing to do with anything she was doing and everything to do with how she was built.

She turned when she heard him and her expression arranged itself into the professional warmth that was part of the job.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "Miss Elena asked me to help you get ready."

"Alright," he said, and came further into the room.

She moved to the wardrobe and lifted down a shirt, pale cream, clean and pressed, and brought it to him. He pulled the training top over his head and dropped it and she held the shirt open behind him and he put his arms through. She came around to the front and started on the buttons from the bottom up, her hands working steadily up the line of them, her eyes on her work.

She was close doing it. The task required it. He looked at the top of her head and then at the room and then back at what her hands were doing.

She reached the collar button and straightened it and stepped back to look at the full result, her head tilting slightly to one side, her assessment genuine.

He looked at the space above her head.

75/100.

’High number,’ he thought, watching her turn back to the wardrobe for the jacket. ’For someone I have barely spoken to.’

She came back with the jacket and held it open and he put his arms through and she moved behind him to settle it across his shoulders, smoothing the fabric with both palms, working from the shoulders down across his back, then coming around to the front where she straightened the lapels with the careful precision of someone who wanted this done correctly.

Her hands pressed flat against his chest to smooth the jacket down.

She looked up at him to check the result and her boobs were right there at the level of his chest, the neckline of the uniform showing the full upper curve of them from this angle, warm and close and entirely present.

Time stopped.

The room went flat and still. Her hands frozen against his chest, her face caught mid-check, the morning light holding itself in place across the floor and the walls and the wardrobe behind her.

A notification appeared.

[Option 1: What other service are you good at? | +10 Lust Points]

[Option 2: Thank you! | -5 Lust Points]

Liam looked at Option 1.

Then at her, frozen in front of him, hands flat on his chest, the neckline of the dress doing exactly what it was doing.

’Tempting,’ he thought.

He looked at Option 2 for exactly one second.

He selected Option 1.

Time resumed.

She finished smoothing the lapel and stepped back and looked at him with the professional satisfaction of someone who had completed something correctly.

"What other service are you good at?" he said.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!