Chapter 2: The Kitchen Floor
He held her there for a long moment, feeling the frantic animal beat of her heart against his own.Her heat was a brand. Her little sounds, the damp cotton grinding against his thigh—it was pathetic.It was interesting.Toji lived for interesting.
“C’mere,” he grunted, not a request, and his hands moved.
He didn’t push her away. He pivoted, using his weight and her disorientation, and guided her down.Her back hit the linoleum with a soft thump, not hard, but final. The buzzing light was directly above her now, bleaching her face, catching the shock in her wide, black eyes. She lay there, sprawled and gasping, a pale offering on the dirty floor.Toji crouched over her, a mountain of scarred muscle and dark intent. He placed a knee between her thighs, not gently, and pressed down. The pressure made her arch off the floor, a choked moan tearing from her throat. He watched her face, the conflict there—the drug’s hungry flush battling a flicker of human shame.
With one calloused hand, he pinned both her slender wrists above her head. She didn’t have the strength to fight it.With the other, he took the neckline of her white tank top and pulled. The thin fabric ripped with a sound like a sigh, baring her small breasts to the cool, stale air. Her nipples were tight, pebbled. He ran a thumb over one, and her whole body jerked.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?” His voice was a low rumble, almost conversational.He ground his knee slowly, deliberately, against the soaked center of her panties. The wet cotton made a soft, obscene sound. “All those years of looking at me like I was something to figure out. Now you’ve got your answer.”
“Daddy, please—” The word was a sob, a curse, a prayer.It wasn’t clear what she was begging for.
“‘Please’ what?” He smirked, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing her whole. “You’re not making sense, Megumi. Gotta use your words.”
He brought his hand, the one that had just touched her breast, up to her mouth. His fingers, thick and smelling of whiskey and her own skin, pressed against her lips.“Or don’t. Just open up.”
Her lips parted on a trembling exhale.He slid two fingers into her mouth, over her tongue. She gagged, her throat convulsing, but he held them there, his other hand tightening on her wrists.“Suck,” he commanded, his gaze locked on hers. “Clean ‘em off. You made the mess.”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracing clean lines through the flush on her cheeks.But her tongue moved.A weak, tentative stroke under his fingers. Then another.Her eyes drifted shut, lashes wet and clumped. The drugged haze was winning, turning shame into a weird, submissive hunger. She sucked his fingers deeper, her mouth hot and timidly eager.Toji watched, a cold fascination settling in his gut. This was his doing.Not the drug—the drug was just a catalyst. This unraveling, this need, was the harvest of every missed birthday, every empty promise, every time he’d walked out the door without looking back.She was starved.And now she was trying to eat.
He pulled his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected them to her swollen lips for a second before breaking.He looked at his glistening fingers, then back down at her. Her chest was heaving, the exposed skin of her breasts rising and falling rapidly.
“Daddy’s little slut,” he said, the words not a growl but a flat, amused statement. He let go of her wrists.She didn’t move them. They stayed above her head, limp and surrendered.
He shifted his weight, his knee still planted firmly between her legs, and used both hands to hook his thumbs into the sides of her damp cotton panties. He yanked them down her thighs in one rough motion. She lifted her hips instinctively to help, then froze, as if horrified by her own compliance.The kitchen air felt cool on her newly bared skin. Toji sat back on his heels, looking at her.Really looking. The pale, delicate junction of her thighs, the dark thatch of hair, the glistening evidence of the aphrodisiac—and of him.His own arousal was a demanding, painful pressure against his zipper. He ignored it for now.The seeing was better.
Megumi brought her hands down, not to cover herself, but to press her palms over her eyes. A broken sound escaped her, part moan, part whimper.She was trying to block him out, to block it all out. It was too late for that.He leaned forward again, his large hands spreading her thighs wider. She flinched but didn’t resist.He lowered his head.Not to kiss her.To smell her. That musky, sweet-tea scent was concentrated here, mixed with something utterly, uniquely her. He breathed it in.Then he dragged the flat of his tongue through her wetness.Her reaction was electric. Her back bowed violently off the floor, a sharp cry echoing in the hollow kitchen. Her hands flew from her face to tangle in his messy black hair, not to push him away, but to clutch, to hold on.“Oh god—oh—!”
He didn’t let up. He was merciless, exacting. He used his tongue and lips not like a lover, but like a man studying a machine, finding out what made it shake and whirr and beg. He learned her quickly.The shaky hitches of her breath told him what worked. The tightening of her fingers in his hair screamed when he was close. He drove her ruthlessly towards an edge, then stopped, pulling back just as her muscles coiled for a fall.
“No, no, please, Daddy, I can’t—” she babbled, thrashing her head side to side on the grimy linoleum.“You can,” he muttered against her thigh, his voice muffled. “You will.”
He did it again. Built her up, let her tremble on the brink, then denied her.Her pleas dissolved into incoherent sounds. Her body was slick with sweat, trembling with a tension that was both agony and ecstasy. She was completely unraveled, a puppet with its strings cut, and he held the only remaining thread.
Finally, when her cries were thin and ragged, he lifted his head.His mouth was wet.His green eyes were dark, satisfied. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, never breaking eye contact with her wrecked, pleading face.He unbuttoned his jeans. The sound of the zipper going down was obscenely loud.He freed himself, his cock thick and heavy in his hand. He watched her eyes track the movement, saw the flicker of fear—and beneath it, a deep, drug-fuelled hunger.
He positioned himself over her, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.She was small. He was not. He saw the realization dawn in her hazy eyes, the brief, primal panic.He leaned down, his mouth beside her ear.
“You drank the tea, Megumi,” he whispered, a final, brutal reminder.“This is what you ordered.”
He pushed in.
The sound she made was swallowed by the press of his body against hers. It was a choked gasp, a rending, a surrender.He didn’t stop. He couldn’t have if he wanted to.The hot, tight clench of her was unreal. He buried himself to the hilt in one slow, inexorable motion, feeling her stretch to accommodate him, feeling her inner muscles flutter in shocked reflex.
He stayed there, buried inside her, letting her adjust, letting the sensation wash over them both.Her breath was hot and frantic against his neck. Her nails dug into his shoulders, drawing faint, stinging lines.The fridge buzzed.The light flickered.Then he moved.
It was not gentle. It was a steady, punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her body a little up the slick floor.The torn edges of her tank top rubbed beneath him. Her small breasts crushed against his chest.Her cries were muffled against his skin, each one a vibration he felt in his bones.
He fucked her with a focused intensity, a man completing a transaction. This was the price of his attention.This was the interest on all that neglected love. Her legs locked around his hips, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, pulling him deeper. The line between resistance and craving had dissolved entirely.Her climax, when it finally broke over her, was silent at first. A tensing, a seizing, a complete locking of her limbs. Then a raw, ragged scream tore itself loose, echoing off the cramped kitchen walls. Her inner walls clenched around him in frantic, pulsating waves, milking him, dragging him over the edge with her.
His own release was a blunt, physical shock, a emptying of heat and tension into that clutching, accepting warmth. He shuddered, his rhythm stuttering into a final, deep push. He stayed there for a long moment, his weight fully on her, listening to the wild hammer of their hearts slowing into something uneven and tired.
Slowly, he pulled out.The separation was wet, intimate. He rolled off her, sitting up with his back against a cabinet door. The cold linoleum was a shock to his overheated skin.He left his jeans open, too spent to bother.Megumi didn’t move. She lay where he left her, legs still slightly parted, the torn tank top revealing her bruised mouth and hollow stare fixed on the buzzing fluorescent bulb. The pale light caught the tear tracks, the sweat, the patch of wetness on the floor between her thighs.
Silence pooled in the room, thicker than the humidity.The after-image of their violence hung in the air. The sticky sweet scent of the tea had been overwhelmed by something saltier, more human.
Toji reached for the forgotten whiskey bottle on the table, took a long, direct swig. The burn was a familiar comfort in a world that had just tilted.He looked at her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, post-storm tremors.He waited for the sobs, the recriminations, the hysterics.
They didn’t come.After a minute, she slowly turned her head on the floor. Her dark eyes, cleared of some of their drugged haze but filled with a new, profound weariness, found his.Her lips, swollen and red, parted.
Her voice, when it came, was a dry, shattered whisper, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.
“Are you… are you staying this time?”