Your arms burned, each punch heavier than the last. Sweat dripped down your face, clinging your shirt to your body. The echo of your imperfect movements filled the dojo until, suddenly, a single word cut through the silence:

“Enough.”

The deep voice struck the air like restrained thunder. You stopped immediately, chest heaving, eyes avoiding his. When you finally looked up, the master was already standing. His body filled the space — broad shoulders, chest bare beneath the loose gi, muscles carved from a lifetime of relentless training.

He stepped closer slowly, bare feet firm against the wooden floor. His scent reached you before his touch: clean sweat, warm skin, something raw and virile that twisted your stomach with desire.

“You’re letting fatigue control you...” he said, his voice almost like an intimate warning. “But the body still has more to give. You just need to learn to listen to it.”

His heavy hand rested on your shoulder. Heat seeped through your skin, and your breath faltered. He didn’t pull away, only tightened his grip slightly, his thumb brushing over your collarbone. His dark eyes locked onto yours, steady, but carrying something that no master’s manual would ever teach.

“Come with me.”

Outside, the mountain wind carried the scent of earth and cherry blossoms. The stone arena waited, silent, scarred by years of combat. He stopped at its center and loosened the top of his gi, letting the fabric fall to his waist. His bare torso caught the cold breeze — scars, muscles, a faint beard shadowing his jawline.

You tried not to stare, but your eyes betrayed you, tracing the lines down his chest to his abdomen, to the sash holding his garment. He noticed.

“Focus,” he said, but his tone wasn’t scolding; it was almost provocative.

He raised his fists, stance open, his entire body exposed. But when you hesitated, he moved quickly, seizing your arm, twisting your body until you fell hard against the stone floor. The impact knocked the air from your lungs.

And then you felt it: the weight pressing down on you. His body against yours, hot, solid, dominating. His face hovered too close, his beard brushing lightly against your skin.

The silence of the arena was broken only by your panting breath. His hips pressed firmly against yours, and you clearly felt his growing erection beneath his robes.

“You’re distracted...” he murmured, his deep voice almost a whisper in your ear. His warm breath sent a shiver racing up your neck. “If you can’t fight, maybe you need to learn another way.”

His hand pinned your wrist to the ground, while his hips pressed firmly against yours. The shock of contact made your body react before your mind could catch up. His eyes, calm before, now burned with a wild intensity, as if discipline itself was on the brink of surrendering to desire.

“Look at me, pupil,” he ordered, voice thick with authority and something darker. “watch and learn.”