Sword Practice

"Pathetic," Sophia grunts from above you, the practice sword hanging from her hand. "I can’t for the life of me understand why Persephone asked that I train a male. Only sword a man needs is the one between his legs.” She sneers, nudging your bulge with the flat of her blade hard enough to make you grunt in pain.

You remain on the ground, chest heaving, grass staining your tunic. Sweat stings your eyes. A bruise is already darkening on your ribcage. "I've never held a sword before", you wheeze, struggling back to your feet from the sand of the practice ring.

A week had passed since the ceremony, and the women had decided that you should spend a week with each to get to know one another. Persephone had gone first and had only yesterday reluctantly relinquished you to Sophia.

If your time with Persephone had been exhausting but satisfying, your time with Sophia was proving anything but.

The broad-shouldered, avowed lesbian was proving more drill instructor than wife. It didn’t help that she never went anywhere without her lover, Lila, who even now watched from the sidelines of the sparring ring, a faint look of curiosity on her otherwise stoic face.

The Duchess, or Pentarch as your wives were now called, seemed to be doing everything in her power to avoid being alone with you and had spent most of the morning brutalizing you with a dull sword.

“Brace yourself,” she grunts, hammering you with a hard overhead blow that nearly pulled the sword from your hand.

"What a waste," Viola jeers from off to the side, one hand resting absently on her stomach.

As she was already carrying your child, it had been decided that Viola would be last, and there was no end to her annoyance about the lack of attention.

"Mind your business," Sophia grunts, parrying a clumsy swing and landing another heavy blow to your side.

"Or what?” Viola snaps back.

Sophia grits her teeth, feints left, then spins right, the flat of her blade connecting solidly with the back of your knees.

"Oh, for the sake of the Goddess," Viola sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He’s a man, not a sparring dummy. What is the point of all this?"

Angered by the continued interruption, Sophia turns to respond, “Persephone…”

While she’s momentarily distracted, you lunge forward, swinging your sword in a wide arc. Sophia's eyes widen in surprise. She tries to bring her sword up to block, but she's too slow. The dull edge of your blade connects with her side, knocking the wind out of her despite the thick padding. She stumbles back, tripping over her own feet and landing flat on her back in the sand.

You stand over her, the point of your wooden sword resting against her chest. You're breathing hard, your entire body aching, but a grin spreads across your face.

Sophia stares up at you, her hazel eyes wide with fury. For a moment, there's something else in her gaze too, but it passes quickly.

Without warning, she kicks your feet out from under you. You land hard on your back beside her. Before you can react, she's on top of you, straddling your waist, her hands pinning your shoulders to the ground. Her face is inches from yours, her dark hair falling around you like a curtain. Her scent fills your lungs, a mix of sweat, leather, and something else, something uniquely her.

"You got lucky," she breathes, her voice low and husky. "Don't get used to it."

Your body responds to her proximity, a familiar heat building in your groin. You can feel her shift slightly, a subtle movement that tells you she feels it too.

A terrorized look creeps into her eyes, and she quickly climbs to her feet.

Viola laughs uproariously from the stands at her obvious discomfort.

“Enough for today,” the short-haired woman says through gritted teeth, shooting a furious glare at her fellow Pentarch before stomping away in embarrassment.

This was going to be an interesting week, you think to yourself as you make your way back to Sophia’s wing of the palace.

You reach her chambers to find the door ajar. You push it open to find Lila standing by the window, her back to you. The parlor is sparsely furnished, a testament to the haste with which the quarters had been readied as much as a reflection of its owner's practical nature.

"Where is Sophia?” You ask upon noting her absence.