The skies darken, becoming tinged with sunset red. The shadows in the room lengthen until my figure is the only one that

The skies darken, becoming tinged with sunset red. The shadows in the room lengthen until my figure is the only one that remains illuminated in the iron, stone and cracked and dirty glass window of that room. My gaze expectantly contemplates the road awaiting its arrival... I know it is close. Every pore of my skin, every cell vibrates knowing it. I have been awaiting your arrival, my teacher for days... Where are you? I have done what you have asked of me, during your years of absence...Where is the reward of your company? Every day I have practiced every move you taught me, I have wrapped my young body in war paint, to give me the strength I need to carry out your plans...Where is your promised return? No one has touched me again since you left, no one has caressed my skin, not even to heal the wounds from battles. Only my body seeks the touch of your rough and thick hands. .. for a long time. I met you when you were a few years old, and out of all of them you chose me. It was the first time that your bare hand touched mine and led me to that desolate place in the middle of the wasteland that the earth had become after The Great War. You saved me from that dark place and gave me my first weapon, my first sword. You taught me how to use it, how to hold it by the handle, gently when alone, with one hand, and move it from top to bottom to get to know each of its reliefs. To know every detail of your forged metal. How to bring it to my lips to breathe heat into it before each battle, how to caress it with both hands without letting it fall to the ground, and bring it to my chest when I needed comfort in my loneliness, in your absence. Every night its blade has touched my white skin illuminated by the moon, feeling the same coldness with which you, year after year, have looked at me, but yet being so close, master. For years a desire has been born in my gut. Since that night when he spied on you with the curiosity of a young girl towards his teacher, who chased him through the hallways, light and silent as a feather. That day I saw your body as it was, how you did not teach the beings of that world, but of yours. The water ran over your back tattooed with arcane symbols, making every centimeter of your absolutely muscular body shine, and your long, wet hair, loose, without the oriental-cut ponytail that always looks sober. The broad shoulders that support the heaviness of your decades of experience... Or maybe they are more? You have never told me anything about yourself, how old you may be, or maybe centuries... who knows. Even on those nights when the sword does not satisfy my desire, my hands go down my belly and get lost in my sex of fire, remembering how that wide back ended in strong and firm buttocks... I never got to see your member, but there is not a day that I don't fantasize about it, that I feel it the same as I felt that sword in my hands... My thoughts have flown and my eyes have closed remembering it for another night. A hand has gone to rest on my semi-naked chest, removing it from the worn black T-shirt. Every caress on my nipples, in my mind they are your lips. I twist them, caress them and pinch them, imagining your fingers doing it, your tongue touching them with the tip, making circles with it, both of them, to make them hard and on edge, because I'm sure you like to feel them when you get on top of me on your chest... While my hand caresses my sex over my pants of fine and torn fabric. My mouth bites my lips, eyes closed. I can almost feel your breath running down my face from my neck... crossing that fine line between master and lover... I know it can never be, but my body, when I brush my clitoris with the tips of two fingers, refuses to accept it. My mind is deceived into thinking that it is your mouth trying to tear off my clothes to get inside me. I raise my hands again, passing through my body to my tits, grabbing them tightly, moving them without stopping stimulating my nipples, I know you like them hard, I'm sure, and that's what I want you to feel. I'm sitting on the windowsill, and just the end of it ends where I'm sitting. One leg on top, another resting on it, barefoot...The corner is at the height of my humidity and I begin to stimulate myself with it... I'm sure your cock is harder than this, and hotter... but in my mind it is she who spends her time caressing me on top while you eagerly lick everything that your mouth can reach on my body. Little moans escape my throat sometimes... there are some of my master's servants in that place doing their jobs, they will listen to me... but who cares? It's my master doing what he wants with me... well, actually it's me managing my master. I can feel his burning saliva running down my stomach, down my belly, and pushing my shorts aside until the seams creak. Like your long tongue, it sneaks inside, mixing your saliva with my own fluids, wetting part of the hard stone of the windowsill. The room begins to heat up from my own heat, the window fogs up, and I begin to sweat. My fingers stimulate my clitoris, moving it between two fingers, or indirectly stimulating it over the clothes, for me, those fingers are his, which seek to prepare me to receive him. Hard and ready to be one with me, to seek extreme pleasure and spill inside me. I insert two fingers and reach the point of maximum pleasure, and now loud, audible moans come shamelessly from my throat. I'm increasing the pace, but I need more, I need to feel something wider... so I put two more fingers in, all but the thumb. I'm so dilated and open that it seems like I'm going to tear myself apart inside, but no... I know I'm not... I know that he would skewer me even more and that I would feel his cock opening me until I think I would break inside... he is not from this world, so nothing of his has to be from here. I move my fingers a little clumsily but without losing rhythm, I am so wet that a small puddle begins to form on the stone where I am sitting. It smells like my own sex, but my mind merges it with what I'm sure he has. My master moves harshly, almost up to my knuckles, thrusting into me, making me scream just as he does now. Without stopping touching my nipples, almost hurting me with his fangs. But surely my sex would not be enough for him... he would seek to fill me through all the holes in my body... so the hand that was vigorously moving my tits went down to where the other one was, and surpassed it... and reached my anus. With my own fluids coming down, I wet my finger and move it in circles around the entrance... without entering... I'm sure he would play without removing his cock from inside me. Without being so tight against me that I could feel his powerful balls against my bulging lips full of excitement and heat. I put a finger in... it doesn't go in anymore, I've never had anything put in there... in reality, no one but me has touched my most intimate parts, no one but me and the ghostly hands and my master's cock. I dare to put two more fingers in. It's a bit of a forced position, but I can continue. I am completely open with my legs, looking at the door, with my back to the window to rest my heels on the stone of the window... if someone came in... if my teacher came in... Without removing my hand from inside me, I move the two fingers in my ass, taking them out and putting them in, even in circles, but it's more than I can take. The speed of my movements skyrockets, feeling the orgasm arrive. The contractions of my insides are brutal, so much so that they trap my fingers more, as well as those of my ass, which expel my fingers outwards. My moans are almost screams of authentic and primitive pleasure. I feel how it would fill me, how it would mix with my own fluids that do not stop wetting the cold stone, making it an accomplice of that ghostly dust. When everything ends as suddenly as it came, I remain sitting, without moving, with my hands resting on my pubis, and breathing heavily. The shame of imagining myself doing that with the person who has practically seen me grow up, with whom I have shared ancestral knowledge and ancient wisdom, with whom I have practiced the worst tactics of war, comes reddening my red cheeks even more. My red hair falls wet down my sweaty back and falls on the window panes... I notice how it stings. And while I'm catching my breath, I notice a chill run down my spine, which makes me turn my head to look again at the path half hidden by the shadows of the early night... A man is standing on the road, a few meters from the door... he is talking to one of the guards. Her hair gathered in an oriental ponytail is blurred by the shadows, and her tanned, scarred skin is barely visible. But his metallic shoulder pad does shine, revealing his position, although his dark clothes make him look like a dark ghost... He raises his black gaze and looks me directly in the eyes... my master has returned.