Page 30 of Hero Daddy

"We'll practice the entry and positioning first," Chad said, turning to me. "No actual throws until you're comfortable with the mechanics."

He positioned himself in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "I'll place my hands here," he said, gripping the fabric of my t-shirt at my shoulder and sleeve. "You'll mirror me."

I followed his example, my fingers clutching the stiff material of his gi. The position brought us chest to chest, his face mere inches from mine. This close, I could see the tiny flecks of darker gray in his eyes, could smell the clean, sandalwood scent of him.

"Good. Now for the foot position," he continued, seemingly unaffected by our proximity while my heart racedembarrassingly fast. "Step in with your right foot, outside my left. Yes, like that. Now turn your body, centering yourself."

He guided me through the movement pattern several times, his hands occasionally adjusting my position—a touch on my hip to correct my stance, fingers on my elbow to align my arm, a gentle pressure between my shoulder blades to improve my posture. Each contact, though brief and professional, sent sparks skittering across my skin.

"Now we'll add the hip rotation," Chad said. "This is the engine of the throw. You create a base with your legs, then use your hips to generate power."

He demonstrated the movement slowly, his body turning against mine, his hip momentarily pressing into my lower abdomen in a way that sent heat flooding my face. The technical explanation couldn't disguise the intimate nature of the position—bodies pressed close, his thigh against mine, our faces near enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"Your turn," he said, stepping back slightly. "Remember, it's all about proper alignment and timing."

I tried to mimic what he'd shown me, stepping in and turning my hips, but my movements felt stiff and awkward, nothing like his fluid demonstration.

"You're thinking too much," Chad observed, his tone gentle rather than critical. "Your body is tensing because your mind is overthinking."

He positioned himself behind me, one hand on my hip, the other on my shoulder. "Feel the movement," he said, his voice low near my ear. "Let your body learn the pattern."

For the next twenty minutes, we worked on the complete technique, stopping short of the actual throw. Chad acted as my partner, allowing me to practice the positioning and movement against his solid frame. It was frustrating at first, my body struggling to coordinate the sequence smoothly.

"I'm never going to get this," I muttered after a particularly clumsy attempt.

"Yes, you will," Chad replied, his certainty unshakable. "Try again."

Again and again, we went through the motions, Chad offering small corrections, his patience seemingly endless. And then, on perhaps the fifteenth attempt, something clicked. My feet found the right position naturally, my hip tucked under his center of gravity, my arms pulled in the correct direction. For a brief moment, I felt what he'd been describing—the potential energy of the throw, the way my smaller body could, with proper leverage and timing, control his larger one.

"There!" Chad said, a note of triumph in his voice. "Did you feel that?"

I nodded, eyes wide with surprise at the sensation. "It felt like I could actually move you."

"Because you could," he confirmed. "Let's try once more, with that same feeling."

We reset, and this time I moved with newfound confidence, stepping in, turning, creating the proper alignment. Again I felt that moment of potential, of mechanical advantage, my body finally understanding what my mind had been struggling to grasp.

A small sound escaped me, a squeak of delight, childlike and joyful. I looked up at Chad, eyes wide and shining, forgetting for a moment to maintain my adult composure. "I did it!"

Chad's answering smile was warm and indulgent, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "That's my clever girl," he murmured, his voice a low caress. "Daddy saw that perfect hip rotation. Excellent."

I felt myself glowing with his approval, standing straighter, my previous frustration forgotten in the simple joy of having met his expectations.

As we moved into the second hour of training, sweat dampened my hairline and the back of my t-shirt. The physical exertion felt good—grounding me in my body, pushing muscles that were slowly growing familiar with these movements. But there was another kind of heat building too, one that had nothing to do with jumping jacks or hip throws. Each time Chad's hands positioned my stance, each moment his body pressed against mine to demonstrate a technique, electricity skittered across my skin, pooling low in my belly.

When he adjusted my arm position, his fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary, I found myself leaning into the contact, craving more.

"Your balance is improving," Chad observed as I successfully completed a basic foot sweep against his braced stance. "You're starting to trust your center of gravity."

His praise, even when technical and professional, affected me differently now.

"We'll work on a defensive arm lock next," he said, moving to the center of our training area. "This is effective when someone grabs you from behind. It's more complex than what we've done before, but I think you're ready for it."

He gestured for me to turn around, and I complied, hyperaware of his presence behind me. His chest nearly touched my back, his breath warm against my neck.

"If an attacker grabs you here," he said, his arm coming around to demonstrate a choke hold position without applying pressure, "you have several options. We'll focus on the one that requires the least strength and the most technical precision."

His body heat enveloped me as he slowly demonstrated the counter-movement—an elbow strike followed by a complextwisting motion that ended with him controlling my arm in a lock that could easily dislocate a shoulder if applied with force. Throughout the demonstration, he moved with careful precision, his touch firm but gentle, never causing actual discomfort.

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