Lust Meter System: Conquering Beauties

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

He worked it across his face slowly, then folded it and pressed it against the back of his neck where the sweat had gathered the most, and stayed there for a moment with his elbows on his knees and his breathing finding its way back to something even.

The morning had been long already.

He reached for his phone on the bench beside him and turned the screen on.

He had called Tasha seven times.

He looked at the timestamps and counted them.

All from last night, from the window after he had seen her missed calls and texts and tried to get back to her. Seven outgoing calls, none of them answered, all of them sitting in the call log like small unanswered questions.

He opened the messages.

His texts to her were there, read receipts absent on all of them, the last one sitting at the bottom of the thread with no response beneath it.

He looked at the screen for a moment.

’She called me six times and then when I finally called back she didn’t pick up once,’ he thought. ’And hasn’t replied to anything since.’ He looked at the last message. ’That’s not Tasha. Tasha picks up or she texts back. She doesn’t just go quiet.’

He tried one more time.

It rang out.

He lowered the phone and looked at the fountain across the grounds and stayed with the feeling that something was off in a way he could not yet locate.

"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," Elena said, and her voice carried something in it that the words themselves did not.

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."

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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 to him, her hands moving along the rail.

He saw the back of her first.

The uniform dress stopped just above the knee but she was reaching forward along the rail and the hem had ridden up past that, showing the full shape of her thighs, smooth and present, the fabric sitting at a height that made the phrase just above the knee feel generous.

Her ass filled the back of the dress completely, round and full, the fabric pulling tight across it every time she shifted her weight or reached further along the rail, the outline of it clear and specific and impossible to look past.

He stood in the doorway for a moment longer than he needed to before coming further into the room.

She turned.

The front was a different situation entirely.

She was full through the chest in the way that made you understand immediately why she had been given a task that involved standing near a wardrobe rather than something that required running.

The neckline of the dress sat low, not inappropriately low by any technical standard, but low enough that the upper curve of both her boobs was sitting there fully visible, the fabric stretched across the rest of them, the shape of them round and heavy and present in a way that the uniform was simply not winning the argument against.

She looked at him with the professional warmth that was part of the job.

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

Liam looked at her.

"Alright," he said.

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.

’Mmmmm,’ he thought, watching her turn back to the wardrobe for the jacket.

She came back with the jacket and held it open and he put his arms through.

She moved behind him to settle it across his shoulders, her hands pressing flat and smoothing downward, and her chest pressed briefly against his back as she reached across, soft and full and warm before she stepped away.

She came around to the front and reached up to straighten the lapels, the lift of her arms pulling the neckline forward slightly, the full weight of her boobs shifting with the movement, close enough that he could feel the warmth coming off her skin.

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, her boobs right there at that distance, the neckline doing nothing to help the situation.

’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.

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