Chapter 3: The Princess's Punishment
The silence in the penthouse was a living thing, thick and syrupy with spent heat. Megumi lay between them, every muscle liquid, her mind a pleasant, buzzing static. The come on her back had dried into a faint, tacky map she could still feel. Sukuna’s even breathing ruffled her hair. Yorozu’s fingers traced idle, possessive circles on her stomach.
It was Yorozu who finally stirred, stretching like a satisfied cat. “I’m parched. And this nest reeks. Let’s move.”
Sukuna grunted, not arguing. He slid out from the tangle of limbs with a ease that spoke of profound physical certainty, pulling Megumi up with him. She stumbled, her legs unreliable, and he caught her with a scoff that wasn’t entirely unkind. “Like a newborn fawn. Walk it off, princess.”
They migrated to the living room, a cavern of cool, clean lines that contrasted violently with the bedroom’s decadent chaos. The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, a silent, electric witness. Sukuna poured three fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy tumbler and sank into the center of the vast leather couch, naked and utterly unselfconscious. Yorozu fetched a bottle of red wine, something old and expensive she opened without ceremony.
Megumi, wrapped in one of Sukuna’s discarded shirts that swam on her, padded barefoot to the kitchen island for a glass of water. Her hands were still unsteady. The bottle was heavier than she expected. As she reached for Yorozu’s offered glass, her slick fingers slipped.
The bottle hit the polished obsidian floor with a deafoning, crystalline crack. Blood-dark wine exploded outward, a shocking arterial spray across the pale cream carpet.
Time froze.
Megumi’s hands flew to her mouth. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“
Sukuna’s head turned slowly from the cityscape. His red eyes tracked from the growing, sinister stain, up her trembling legs, to her horrified face. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. It held no warmth.
“Oops,” he said, the word a soft, dangerous bullet.
Yorozu whistled low. “That’s a five-thousand-dollar rug, baby.”
“I’ll clean it! Right now, I—“ Megumi dropped to her knees, heedless of the shards, but Sukuna’s voice stopped her cold.
“Don’t you fucking touch it.”
He set his glass down on the table with a definitive click. He rose, a mountain of deliberate, coiled muscle. “You made a mess, Megumi.” His voice was a deceptively gentle purr. “Now I get to decide how you clean it up. Shirt. Off.”
Her breath hitched. Yorozu’s eyes gleamed with instant, dark understanding. She leaned back against the arm of the couch, a spectator settling in for the main event.
With shaking fingers, Megumi unbuttoned the oversized shirt, letting it puddle around her on the clean part of the floor. The air conditioning kissed her skin, raising goosebumps.
“Crawl,” Sukuna said. He’d resumed his seat, spreading his legs. His cock, already half-hard from the spectacle of her fear and the rich scent of spilled wine, lay thick against his thigh. The metal glint of his piercings caught the neon light. “To me. On your knees. And no avoiding the wine. You wear it.”
Tears of shame pricked her eyes, but a hotter, deeper thrill coiled in her gut. She lowered herself onto all fours. The first knee pressed into the cold, wet stain. The wine soaked into her skin, a shocking chill. She moved forward, a slow, shameful procession, leaving a trail of diluted burgundy and the clear imprint of her knees and palms on the ruined carpet.
Sukuna watched, his expression one of bored ownership. Yorozu mirrored his pose, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, openly touching herself, her fingers slipping easily through her own wetness.
“Look at her,” Yorozu moaned, her head falling back. “So fucking pretty when she’s being punished.”
“She’s not being punished. She’s being useful,” Sukuna corrected, his eyes fixed on Megumi’s progress. “A mouth is for talking, eating, and sucking cock. Yours has been doing too much of the first two. Time to rebalance.”
Megumi reached the couch. The heady mix of smells—expensive leather, whiskey, Yorozu’s arousal, the sharp tang of the wine on her own skin—made her head swim.
“Up,” he ordered.
She raised herself on her knees, eye-level with his groin. The sheer, daunting size of him, the intricate metalwork, the potent, musky scent of him made her mouth water involuntarily.
Yorozu scooted closer, until her thigh brushed Sukuna’s. She spread her legs wider, presenting herself to Megumi’s side vision, a slick, pink offering. “Hey, baby,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Don’t just stare at his. You can taste me too while you work. Come on. Make a mess you’re actually allowed to make.”
Sukuna’s hand fisted in Megumi’s hair, not yanking, just holding. A anchor. “Open.”
She did. Her tongue touched the plush, velvety head first, tracing the barbell. He tasted of salt and skin and something uniquely, profoundly him. She took him into her mouth, inch by impossible inch, her jaw straining immediately.
“That’s it,” Yorozu encouraged, her hips shifting forward. The warm, wet swell of her pussy pressed against Megumi’s cheek. “Get him nice and deep. I wanna feel your face move.”
Sukuna began to fuck her mouth with a slow, relentless piston rhythm. There was no gentleness, no search for a comfortable angle. It was an invasion, a claiming of another part of her. Her throat opened, protested, then accepted him on a guttural, choking gag that sent vibrations through them both.
“Listen to that,” Sukuna groaned, his free hand gripping the couch. “Like she’s trying to swallow her own fucking tongue for me.”
Yorozu ground against Megumi’s cheek, her moans pitching higher. “Yes, just like that, Gumi. Oh fuck, your cheek is so hot… I can feel you gagging… It’s so good…”
Tears streamed down Megumi’s face, mingling with the wine on her skin and the saliva that slicked Sukuna’s cock. She couldn’t breathe. Spots danced behind her eyelids. Her body, so recently overspent, sparked back to life, a low, helpless thrumming building between her own thighs. The dual sensation—the brutal fullness in her throat, the soft, wet friction on her face, the sound of their voices—unraveled her.
She came, silently, violently, her core clenching around nothing, a shockwave of pleasure that originated from the humiliation itself.
Sukuna felt the convulsive swallow around him. “There’s one. Just from this. You really are a fucking slut, aren’t you?” The insult was for Yorozu, but it seared Megumi, too, branding her.
His pace quickened. He was losing his famed control, his hips jerking upward. Yorozu’s movements grew frantic, her fingers a blur on her clit.
“I’m gonna cum,” Yorozu gasped, “I’m gonna cum all over your pretty face, baby, make a bigger mess than the wine—”
Sukuna’s grip in Megumi’s hair tightened. He pulled her down onto him, hilted himself in her throat, and held her there. She choked, her body straining, her lungs screaming. At the same moment, Yorozu cried out, a sharp, staccato sound, and warmth flooded Megumi’s temple, her ear, the line of her jaw.
The constriction of Megumi’s throat around him, the feel of Yorozu pulsing against her skin, was too much. Sukuna roared, pulling her off just enough to let him jerk himself over her face. Hot stripes joined Yorozu’s release, painting her lips, her nose, her closed eyelids.
He released her hair.
Megumi collapsed forward, catching herself on her hands. She dragged in a ragged, whooping breath, then another, her entire body shuddering. Coughs wracked her, mixed with sobs. Drool and come and wine dripped from her chin onto the carpet below, adding to the original stain.
For a long moment, the only sounds were her desperate gasps and their slowing breaths.
Sukuna leaned back, draining the last of his whiskey. He looked down at the wreck of her between his legs, at Yorozu sated and glowing beside him, and a smirk of profound satisfaction touched his mouth.
Yorozu reached down, her touch surprisingly tender, sweeping Megumi’s sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. “You did so good,” she murmured, her thumb wiping at a mix of fluids on Megumi’s cheek. “Our perfect, messy girl.”
Megumi, still trembling, turned her head just enough to press a feeble, grateful kiss against Yorozu’s inner thigh. The taste of them both was layered on her tongue, in her nose, a permanent record.
Sukuna watched the exchange, his smirk softening into something quieter, just as possessive. “Carpet’s still fucked,” he stated, his voice rough. “But you’re clean enough. For now.”
He nudged her with his foot, not hard, a command to move. “Up here. Before you pass out on the floor.”
Megumi, every limb weak, crawled the short distance onto the couch. She didn’t hesitate to curl into the space he made for her against his side, her wine-stained, tear-streaked face finding its home in the crook of his neck. Yorozu instantly molded herself against her back, an affectionate, full-body shield.
Surrounded, saturated in them, Megumi closed her eyes. The city’s neon pulse beat against her eyelids, a silent metronome to the rhythm they set in her blood.