Chapter 2: Of Course James Fucks His Sister...

James blinked awake, his eyes struggling to focus in the dim light that filtered through the faded curtains. A sense of dissonance washed over him as he took in the unfamiliar room. The stark contrast between his memories and his current surroundings was jarring, leaving him with a feeling of vertigo. He sat up, his gaze falling upon his hands—small, delicate, unmistakably those of a ten-year-old. Yet, his mind was a repository of adult experiences and knowledge, creating a disconcerting disparity that sent a shiver down his spine.

The room was modest, a stark contrast to the modern, minimalist aesthetic he had grown accustomed to. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper, depicting a repeating pattern of toy soldiers and trains, a clear indication of the room’s intended occupant. A small, wooden toy box sat in the corner, its once-vibrant red paint now chipped and worn.

A few toys lay scattered across the floor, remnants of a child’s playtime, abandoned mid-battle. A rocking horse, its paint faded and wooden frame slightly askew, stood silently in another corner, a testament to countless hours of imaginative play.

His bed was a simple, wooden frame, the mattress thin and lumpy, a far cry from the plush, memory foam he was used to. A faded, hand-stitched quilt lay crumpled at his feet, its once-vibrant colors now muted with age. The quilt bore intricate patterns of stars and moons, stitched with a level of care and precision that hinted at a loving hand behind its creation. A single pillow, flat and misshapen, bore the indentation of his head. The room was sparsely furnished, with a small, rickety desk and chair tucked beneath the window, and a worn, wooden wardrobe standing sentinel in the corner.

As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touched the cold, wooden floor, sending a jolt through his system. He stood, his body feeling light and agile, yet awkward and uncoordinated, as if he were a puppet, still learning to manipulate his strings. He stretched, feeling the muscles in his arms and legs lengthen and contract, a sensation both familiar and alien. The floorboards creaked softly under his weight, each step echoing slightly in the quiet room.

He began to explore his surroundings, his eyes scanning the room for any clues that might shed light on his new identity. The desk held a few sheets of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell, but little else. The parchment was yellowed with age, and the inkwell was nearly empty, suggesting that it had been some time since the desk had seen regular use. The wardrobe contained a meager assortment of clothes, all neatly folded and arranged, but clearly well-worn. He ran his fingers over the fabric, feeling the coarse, homespun material, so different from the soft, luxurious textiles he was accustomed to. Each piece of clothing told a story of a life lived simply, with a focus on practicality over fashion.

As he turned his attention to the toy box, he felt a pang of nostalgia, a longing for the simplicity of childhood. He knelt down, his fingers tracing the chipped paint, before lifting the lid. Inside, he found an assortment of wooden toys, carved with a level of craftsmanship that belied their simple appearance. There were soldiers, animals, and vehicles, each one painstakingly detailed and lovingly worn. A small, wooden sword caught his eye, its hilt wrapped in leather and its blade dulled from countless imaginary battles. He picked it up, feeling the weight and balance of the toy, a tangible connection to the child who had once played with it.

The room was illuminated by a single, small window, its glass frame slightly warped with age. The curtains, once a vibrant blue, were now faded and frayed at the edges, their pattern of stars and moons matching that of the quilt. A small, wooden bookshelf stood beneath the window, holding a modest collection of books. The spines were worn and the titles faded, but he could make out tales of adventure, fantasy, and history, suggesting a child with a vivid imagination and a thirst for knowledge. As he sat there, surrounded by the remnants of a child’s life, he felt a sense of unease wash over him. This room, these toys, they were all meant for someone else, a child who had lived and played here. Yet, here he was, an adult in a child’s body, an interloper in this strange, new world. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dissonance, the jarring contrast between his memories and his new reality. But he knew he had to adapt, to learn and grow in this new body, this new life. For now, he was a ten-year-old boy, and he would have to navigate the world as such.

The room, despite its modesty, held a certain charm, a warmth that spoke of a loving home. The details, from the hand-stitched quilt to the carefully carved toys, hinted at a family that valued craftsmanship and care. As he took in his surroundings, he began to feel a sense of determination. He would uncover the mysteries of this new world, learn its rules, and find his place within it. This room, this life, was now his, and he would make the most of it, no matter the challenges that lay ahead.

James stripped off his clothes and left the room, his small, naked form padding down the hallway. He looked around the place, his eyes taking in the simple, rustic decor of the home. The walls were adorned with family portraits and handmade tapestries, and the furniture, though well-worn, bore the signs of careful craftsmanship. He followed the sound of voices and the scent of food, finding his family in the kitchen.

The kitchen was a warm, inviting space, filled with the aroma of fresh bread and the sound of sizzling bacon. A large, wooden table dominated the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs. His sister looked up from her seat at the table and grinned, her eyes sparkling with innocence.

“Morning James,” she said, her voice light and cheerful.

“Morning sis,” he replied, walking over to the table. His father, a taller, dirty blond-haired man, blinked and looked at his son, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“James, why are you naked?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Too warm,” James mused, his voice nonchalant. His father snorted in amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he suppressed a laugh. James’s mother bustled around the kitchen, her massive chest jiggling with each movement, causing James’s small cock to grow erect. His father noticed his son’s reaction and chuckled.

“Yeah, she has that effect on me too,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

“Wow, can I see it?” James asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. His father paused, frowned slightly, then shrugged and undid his trousers. He pulled out his cock and sat there, grinning. It was long and thick, with big, hairy balls, a stark contrast to James’s own small, smooth member.

“That’s a lot bigger than mine,” James observed, his voice filled with awe.

His father shrugged, “You’ll get yours when you hit puberty,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact.

Their mother turned around and blinked, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in the scene before her. “Defton, put that away,” she scolded, her voice firm. “James, why are you naked?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Why aren’t you?” James retorted, his voice filled with childlike innocence. Defton blinked, then started laughing, his deep, booming laugh filling the kitchen. James’s sister grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she began to plate up the food.

James sat down at the table, his stomach rumbling. He had technically not eaten in quite a while, and the sight and smell of the food made his mouth water. He dug in, his small hands grasping the utensils with a clumsy enthusiasm that betrayed his newfound youth. As he ate, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth and belonging. This family, this life, it was all so different from what he had known before. But there was a simplicity, a honesty to it that appealed to him. He knew that he had a lot to learn, a lot to adapt to. But in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his new family, he felt a sense of contentment. He would face whatever challenges this new world threw at him, one step at a time.

James and his sister, Lily, left the kitchen, leaving their parents to their morning routine. James retreated to his room, his small feet padding softly on the wooden floor. He quickly dressed, pulling on a simple tunic and breeches, the coarse fabric rough against his skin. He slipped his feet into a pair of worn leather boots, their soles scuffed and worn from countless adventures.

Once dressed, he followed Lily out of the house, his eyes taking in the surroundings of his new home. The house was a modest, two-story structure, its wooden walls weathered by time and the elements. The roof was thatched, its edges frayed and worn, and the windows were small, their glass frames slightly warped with age. The house was surrounded by a lush, green garden, filled with vibrant flowers and towering trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze.

As they walked, James began to subtly question Lily, his queries carefully crafted to conceal his lack of knowledge about his new family. Through a series of leading questions and innocent observations, he managed to gather information that would have made even Freud impressed. He learned that his father was Defton, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dirty blond hair and a quick smile. Defton was a skilled woodworker, his hands calloused and strong from years of crafting furniture, tools, and other essentials from the abundant timber in the surrounding forests. His work was highly regarded in the community, and it provided enough income to keep the family afloat.

His mother, Martha, while she seemed stern, took care of them all. She had huge tits that Lilly had seen on more than one occasion.

As they ventured further from the house, they found themselves in a secluded, out-of-the-way area. The trees here were denser, their branches intertwining overhead to create a natural canopy that filtered the sunlight, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The air was cool and quiet, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds.

James turned to Lily, his expression curious and slightly mischievous. “You ever kissed anyone?” he asked.

Lily shook her head, her eyes wide with innocence. “No,” she replied simply.

James continued, “I saw mother and father kissing. They looked happy.”

Lily nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Do you want to kiss me, James? Is that why you’re asking?” she asked.

James grinned, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “Yeah,” he admitted.

They stood face to face, the air between them charged with a mix of curiosity and innocence. Lily leaned in, her eyes closed, and James followed suit. Their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, a moment of pure, innocent connection. The kiss lingered, and James, feeling a surge of boldness, tentatively touched his tongue to Lily’s lips. She parted them slightly, allowing him to explore further, their tongues meeting in a clumsy, yet earnest dance. The sensation was new and strange, but also exciting and intimate.

“Wow,” James sat down on the ground, “will you lie back on me?”

“Sure,” she grinned, walking over and laying down over him, he reached up and cupped her chest, she sighed as he stroked her.

It did take some getting used to, but James did get to know how everything worked around the property, every time Defton bought someone in, he wanted to be involved, especially when theywere travelling traders, James did ask one.

“I want to learn real sword fighting,” James said, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Not the fancy stuff knights do, but actual combat.”

Thalion Darkheart looked James over, his expression thoughtful and slightly amused. “You want to learn to fight, not dance around with a blade?” he asked, his voice gruff with a hint of interest. James nodded eagerly. “Yes, I want to learn how to defend myself and others. Real fighting, not just show.”

Thalion stroked his stubbled chin, considering the request. “I can help you, but it won’t be easy,” he said after a moment. “Real sword fighting takes time and dedication. You won’t learn it overnight.”

James stood his ground, his resolve unwavering. “I understand. I’m ready to put in the work,” he said. “I want to learn, no matter what it takes.”

Thalion nodded, a glint of respect in his eyes. “Alright then. Meet me here tomorrow at dawn. We’ll see what you’re made of.”

True to his word, Thalion started James’ basic combat training not long after. He arrived at dawn, holding two wooden swords, and tossed one to James.

“This is a training sword,” Thalion explained. The wooden practice weapons were stained with dark ink along their edges and were the same length as a metal sword.

“Why the ink?” James asked, examining the weapon.

“So you can see where you’ve been hit,” Thalion replied.

James nodded, grasping the sword firmly.

“Through repetition we learn,” Thalion began, taking a stance.

“But isn’t the point to be unpredictable?” James questioned.

“Yes,” Thalion nodded, “but you must also understand your enemy’s moves to counter them effectively.”

“So, moves and countermoves?” James asked, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“Exactly,” Thalion confirmed.

Thalion showed James how to hold the sword, how to sheathe it, and how to draw it again. This went on for months, each day spent standing in front of a mirror practicing until he got the technique right. James learned the proper grip, the correct stance, and the basic footwork required to move fluidly with the sword.

When he was ready, Thalion began his true training.

Thalion was a stern taskmaster and took great pleasure in giving James some well-deserved pain, as he eloquently put it. But James had to admit, he did learn. He received a very full, very thorough set of lessons. Unbeknownst to Thalion, James had an advantage—a unique ability he called “Eagle Vision.” This heightened sense allowed him to perceive his surroundings with extraordinary clarity, picking up on subtle movements and anticipating his opponent’s actions with uncanny precision.

Thalion drilled James through his lunges, attacks, parries, and ripostes, first counter ripostes, and second counter ripostes. Then he took him through attacks on the blade, including beats, and prises de fers of all kinds, with binds and froissements and coulés and glisses. Thalion then began to work on James’ footwork – steps, and jumps, and appels, and balestras, and the fleche, which means diving through the air at your opponent. He paid special attention to the balestra, with which James struggled. It was a cross between a jump and a step.

“The balestra is your greatest friend,” Thalion said. “It breaks the rhythm of your step, so you are not where your opponent thinks you will be, and it adds great penetration to your lunge.”

He took James through the standard procedures, walking him through drills. First, they were done at slow speeds, and gradually became faster and faster until his reflexes sharpened and responses to attacks came automatically. With Eagle Vision, James could see the slightest twitch in Thalion’s muscles, allowing him to react more quickly and accurately than his teacher expected.

As Thalion began to layer in lessons on fighting with a sword, sensing his opponent became more important. James’ ability in that area began to grow, but he didn’t trust it enough to abandon himself to it. Though they sparred with wooden practice swords, he treated each cut or slash as if it were from a true sword. Thalion’s instruction couldn’t be faulted at all in this regard because he taught James the three rings of defense.