Chapter 4: The Feast of Filth
The taste of him lingered in her mouth, a metallic, living truth. For a long moment, Orihime stayed on her knees, breathing through her mouth, the reality of what she’d just done settling into her bones like a cold, permanent stain. Goro snored on, oblivious, his flaccid cock resting against his thigh, glistening with her saliva.
It wasn’t enough.
The hunger, momentarily quieted, roared back twice as loud. It was a hollow, scratching thing behind her navel, demanding to be filled with more than just that single, sleeping offering. She stared at his nakedness, the long, veined shaft, the patches of coarse, gray-streaked hair. The foreskin was still partially retracted, revealing the darker, moist head beneath. In the sickly yellow light of his single overhead bulb, she could see the faint, cheesy accumulation there. The source of the bitterness from the condom. The proof.
Her hand moved without conscious thought. She reached out, her fingers trembling only slightly, and pushed the skin back fully. The smell intensified, pungent and deeply personal. Her throat tightened, but she leaned in closer. Her tongue, slick and pink, darted out, tracing the ridge beneath the head. Salt. Musk. A profound, unclean bitterness.
She closed her eyes and licked it clean.
Her tongue worked methodically, exploring every fold, every crevice, collecting the thick, waxy residue. She didn’t gag. She savored it, letting the foulness coat her tongue before she swallowed. This was consumption. This was claiming. Each bitter swallow was a nail in the coffin of the woman she used to be. When the skin was clean, she nuzzled into the thatch of pubic hair, rubbing her face against its wiry texture. A dark flake caught on her lip. She caught it with her tongue, chewed it into nothing, and swallowed that too.
Goro groaned, his body shifting. His hand flopped onto her head, fingers tangling in her orange hair. “Wha… the fuck?”
Orihime pulled back, looking up at him. His lazy eye wandered, unfocused, before settling on her face between his legs. Confusion, then a slow, dawning lechery spread across his features.
“Holy shit,” he slurred, his voice thick with sleep and sake. “You’re real.”
“I’m real,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
His fingers tightened in her hair, not gently. “You gonna finish what you started, or just sniff around?”
In answer, she took him into her mouth again. This time he was awake. This time, he watched. His grip guided her, forcing a rhythm that was rougher, more demanding than her earlier franticness. She let him. She leaned into the pressure, allowing him to use her mouth, her throat. The degradation was a hot, liquid current in her veins.
“Fuck, yeah. Just like that. Office goddess on her knees,” he grunted, his hips beginning to piston upwards.
The sounds in the room were filthy: wet, choking slurps, his ragged curses, the creak of the cheap futon. Orihime’s own arousal was a sharp, blinding ache. She needed more. She pulled off, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip.
“Get on,” she demanded, her own voice alien to her.
He grinned, a yellow, broken thing. “Who’s hungry?”
He didn’t move to undress her. He just watched as she scrambled to unbutton her shirt, her fingers clumsy. The fabric fell open, her massive, heavy breasts spilling free, the huge, darkened areolas and pointed nipples already taut. He whistled, low and long. She shimmied out of her skirt and tights, leaving them in a puddle on the filthy tatami. His eyes devoured her fleshy, curvy body, the soft swell of her stomach, the thick expanse of her hips.
“Better than I fucking dreamed,” he whispered.
She climbed over him, straddling his thin waist. She was wet, a slick, ready heat that shamed her. She reached down, guiding him inside her with one hand, not letting herself think about the diseases he might carry, the ugliness of this union. She only felt the stretch, the filling, the brutal, perfect satisfaction of being physically occupied.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, sinking all the way down, taking every thin, veined inch until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
“Whose god?” he chuckled beneath her, hands grabbing handfuls of her ass, fingers digging in. “Not your husband’s.”
The words were a spur. She began to move, riding him with a frantic, piston-like desperation. Her breasts swayed heavily with each motion. She threw her head back, her orange hair sticking to the sweat on her back. This wasn’t lovemaking. It was exorcism. Each drive of her hips was an attempt to fuck the loneliness out of her soul, to pound the image of Ichigo’s indifferent text bubbles into oblivion.
“Yeah, use it. Fucking use my dick, you lonely bitch,” Goro rasped, slapping her thigh. The sting bloomed, a bright companion to the internal friction.
She rode him for what felt like hours. Time dissolved in the sweat-slick, stinking gloom of his apartment. She came first, a silent, shuddering convulsion that locked her around him, her nails raking red lines across his chest. He followed soon after, his body seizing, a guttural "FUCK!" torn from his throat as he emptied into her.
She collapsed onto his chest, spent, feeling the hot, alien spill inside her. She didn’t move. She just breathed in the stench of him, of them.
Minutes, maybe seconds later, he shifted. “Still got more in me,” he muttered, his hands groping her again. “You’re not done.”
He wasn’t either. He rolled her over onto her stomach, her face pressed into the stale-smelling futon. He took her from behind, his pace rougher now, animalistic. There was no more talk. Just grunts, the slap of skin, the squelch of her overused body. He came again, a weaker pulse, and she accepted it, her own body too wrung-out to climax.
They lay in a heap. He dozed. Orihime stared at a water stain on the ceiling, feeling the slow, warm trickle of his cum leaking out of her. A profound emptiness, deeper than any she’d known before, opened up inside her. It had been filled, brutally, repeatedly, and was now emptier than ever.
The digital clock on his microwave blinked 2:17 AM. The city outside was silent.
With a mechanical slowness, she extracted herself from his limp embrace. The air felt cold on her slick skin. She dressed in silence, buttoning her shirt over breasts that felt bruised, pulling her skirt over hips that ached. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
“Leaving so soon?” His voice was a sleepy croak from the futon.
“My son,” she lied, the word ‘son’ tasting like ash.
“Mmm. Same time tomorrow?” he chuckled, already rolling over.
She didn’t answer. She let herself out, closing the door softly on the mold and the sweat and the spent condom of her old life.