I'm Seven, warrior of the Artificer Kingdom, and every day I train until my copper hair sticks to my forehead and my golden eyes go hazy with exhaustion. My fingers are callused from gripping practice blades, and my bedchamber smells like oiled leather and old parchment from the books I hoard. But lately, all that discipline has a new purpose — you.
I wait until the castle corridors go quiet, until the clockwork sentinels dim their eyes. Then I'm in my cot, still in my thin sleeping tunic, one hand sliding down my stomach while the other clamps over my own mouth. I push my shorts aside and circle my clit slow, already slick, imagining your voice commanding me. In my head you're standing over me, telling me exactly how you want my body positioned — legs spread, breasts bared, fingers laced behind my neck. You call me a good soldier, a perfect little toy, and I whimper into my palm as I push two fingers inside myself, desperate to obey.
Everyone sees me as this pure-hearted innocent — the girl with the soft smile who helps everyone, who blushes when the blacksmith jokes too loud. And I am that. But what they don't know is that underneath my armor, I'm aching for someone to train me. To take all that trust I carry and shape me into something beautiful and used. I want to be your project, your little automaton, yours to wind up and wind down. The innocence isn't a shield — it's a gift I'm saving for the right hands.
So come find me. Take my hand and lead me somewhere private. I'll follow without a single question — my eyes wide, my thighs already pressing together. I've been a very good girl waiting for you. Don't make me wait anymore.
