(Continued from “A little anisette, please…” Part ll)
From the house, the land rolled in fits and starts down to the lake. He wasn’t a lawn guy-the expanse of native grasses, shrubs and trees were gloriously if meticulously, untended creating small thickets and copses around seemingly randomly placed boulders. About half way down was a natural flat spot that he had manicured carefully. The surface, firmly tamped with tightly mowed grass looked like nothing so much as a putting green minus the hole and flag.
It was here that she practiced her form. She had left her wooden sword on the rack at the top of the clearing, and instead used her tournament weapon-the polished steel glinting in the sun. She wore loose fitting black pants cinched tight at the waist and a black tank top that showcased her strong shoulders and sinewy arms glistening under a thin sheen of sweat. Her long hair-tightly bound in a thick braid-flowed over her shoulders and around her neck.
She was getting better, he could see that. Her form, though by no means artful, was practiced enough to have risen to a level of proficiency that would move her easily through the next one or two belt levels. Whenever she chose another teacher, that is. Given their situation he could not continue in that capacity.
She parried, she spun, she thrusted and slashed as he ticked off under his breath the Chinese names of each move. The good ones, the truly good ones, could feel in a 100 or 200 movement form what was coming next, then next and could see all of the movements as a single tapestry winding uninterrupted from beginning to end. Her form was a series of index cards, each standing alone with no seeming through line to the next. To the unschooled she was a goddess and possibly deadly. To him, she was competent enough with proficiency hard won through rote and dogged repetition. There was no shame in that, but the dawning realization that she didn’t have the intuitive gift that she thought she did was driving her a tad batty.
Which was probably why she always wanted to fight.
He strode out of the shadows of the sycamores and past the leather heavy bag to where she could see him. She stopped her form and bowed. Not to him, but to the school. He had learned that-when entering or leaving a school to bow in respect. But in his practice, all of outdoors was his school, so out here people were bowing all the time.
“I saw you”, she said.
“I hope so.”
“What did you think?”
“Not bad”, he gave his usual. “You could get lower in ‘snatching the serpent at the water’s edge’”, he said in English as she didn’t-and seemingly would never-know the Chinese.
“I felt that…happens when I rush.”
“And why were you rushing….?”
Instead of answering she walked over to the rack and sheathed her sword after slowing wiping it down. He followed.
“We can work that sequence if you like…” he offered.
She picked her wooden sword from its spot.
“Maybe later”, she said twirling her sword and meeting his eyes before pacing away.
He didn’t smile, afraid it would be condescending-she wasn’t smiling. “Maybe”, he said. “Same stakes?”
“As always”, she said bowing to him.
She came at him tentatively-slashing toward his sword arm before spinning and thrusting directly. He knew that was coming-but rather than countering-was content to block it with a “CLACK” of wood on wood and spin past delivering a light but effective elbow to her head on the way.
“There are more weapons in a fight than swords”, he said.
She shook it off and lunged carelessly but with surprising speed. He blocked, then parried, then slid away from her sword side. The trick was to not let her know he was toying with her; to allow her attacks, to seem surprised, then to recover at the last moment.
When he pressed, she responded well, parrying in flight but was sloppy in transition. When she stepped aside and meant to spin her toes caught in the grass and she was exposed from behind. Rather than delivering a killing blow he pulled back his weapon and delivered a hard swat with the flat of his sword to her backside.
“OWW!” she cried hopping out of harm’s way and grabbing her bottom with her free hand. “Owww, Dammit”, she grumbled kneading her paddled cheek.
“A glancing blow”, he said. “Not a killing one. You can continue.”
“It should have been a winning blow. You opted to swat my ass instead.”
“What’s a little swat between friends?” He lifted his sword. “Ready?”
“No.” She dropped the point of her sword. “I’m beaten.”
“As you will”, he said, lowering his own sword. He took hers and carried them both over to the rack while she lifted the heavy bag from the hook where it hung. She managed the 80 pound bag easily, flopping it onto the grass.
“You were better today”, he offered.
“Not good enough, though…” she answered untying the waist strap of her pants.
“Not to beat me…but better than last time…”
He allowed himself to watch her strip-to slip her pants down then step out of them, right leg, left leg admiring the muscles of her quads rippling as she balanced. Her tank-top followed allowing her small firm breasts to enjoy the light of day.
She turned away from him to face the lake and the bag on the ground before slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her black silk panties and rolling them down, then off. A bright scarlet smudge on her right cheek colored the otherwise milky white globes of her bottom.
Without looking back she knelt in the grass then paused before laying over the bag positioning her bottom uppermost. Her nerve endings hummed-vividly imprinting everything in her unconscious. Every blade of cool grass on her cheek as the heady aroma filled her nostrils and tickled her lips. She felt him spread her behind and heard him spit. Then felt his wet fingers lubricating her tight bottom. She took a breath then exhaled slowly, eyes wide open as she felt the burn of him entering her. His thrust was slow and steady, relentless and ever burning as she stretched open for him.
Closing around his cock like a warm satin glove she watched a man and a woman in a small sailboat obliviously tacking into the breeze toward them.