Chapter 3: The Ogre's Claim
The pain was a new kind of teacher. It lived in him now, a dull, persistent throb deep in his pelvis, a sharper ache in his ribs where Yujiro’s foot had pressed down. But Baki was on the heavy bag in the empty training room before dawn, his bandaged hands slamming into the leather with a rhythm that was more panic than discipline. Each strike sent a jolt through his sore core, a reminder.
Weak. A hole I fucked.
The words played on a loop in his head, synchronized with his punches. He hit harder, faster, trying to drown them out with the sound of impact. Sweat stung his eyes. He could still smell the liniment, the sex, his father’s skin. He could still feel the ghost of that monstrous intrusion, the terrifying fullness followed by the brutal emptiness.
The door to the training room swung open with a soft creak. Baki didn’t stop punching. It would be Yujiro. It had to be. Come to finish the lesson, or start a new one.
“Hanma.”
The voice was wrong. Higher. Calmer. Baki let his last punch fall, the bag swinging listlessly. He turned his head, his breath clouding in the cold air.
Koushou Shinogi stood in the doorway, his physician’s bag in hand, his expression unreadable behind his round glasses. He looked from Baki’s feverish eyes to the violent, uncoordinated strikes he’d been throwing. He said nothing for a long moment.
“Your heart rate is irregular. Your posture is favoring your left side. You’re injured,” Koushou stated flatly. “Not from the fight in the ring. From after.”
Baki turned fully, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “What do you want?”
“To see if you were still alive.” Koushou set his bag down. “Rumors travel fast in places like this. They say The Ogre carried you out. They say you haven’t been seen since.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Koushou took a step closer, his medical eye assessing. “There’s trauma. Internal. Muscular. You’re walking with a subtle hitch. You need to be examined.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended. The idea of anyone, especially this man with his clinical gaze, looking at him there, probing… it made his skin crawl. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. An infection could set in. You could—“
“I said no!” Baki snapped, his voice cracking. He took a shaky breath, trying to force calm into his frame. “Just… leave.”
Koushou studied him. The fear wasn’t hidden. It was plastered across Baki’s face, in the too-wide eyes, the tense line of his shoulders. A different understanding dawned on the doctor’s face, one that had nothing to do with martial arts injuries. His lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded once, slowly.
“Some wounds,” Koushou said softly, picking up his bag, “aren’t in the muscle or bone. Those, I can’t fix.”
He left as quietly as he came. The silence he left behind was heavier. Baki stood in the center of the room, the echo of his own denial ringing in his ears. He was unclean. Damaged. Marked. He stalked back to the bag, attacking it with a renewed frenzy, a scream building in his chest that he refused to let out.
“Pity from a quack. How pathetic.”
The voice filled the room without being loud. It came from the shadows by the weapon racks. Yujiro leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if he’d been there for hours. His expression was one of profound boredom.
Baki froze, his fist an inch from the trembling leather. His heart didn’t just race; it seemed to stop entirely, then slammed against his ribs in a frantic, painful rhythm.
Yujiro pushed off the wall and walked into the pale light filtering through the high windows. He moved with a predator’s effortless grace, circling Baki. “He sees the wound your father gave you and offers a bandage. You should have let him. It’s oozing.”
The crudeness was deliberate, a scalpel slid between the ribs. Baki kept his eyes forward, fixed on the bag. “What do you want?”
Yujiro stopped behind him, so close Baki could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the clean, sharp scent of him that overrode the memory of sweat and sex. “You’re training wrong. You’re unfocused. Flailing. You’re thinking about my cock inside you instead of your form.”
Baki’s face burned. He said nothing.
A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy as a tombstone. Yujiro’s fingers dug into the muscle, not to hurt, but to possess. He leaned in, his lips almost touching Baki’s ear. “It’s all you can think about, isn’t it? The feeling. The stretch. The shame when you came.”
“Stop it.” The words were a whisper.
“Why? It’s the truth.” Yujiro’s other hand snaked around Baki’s waist, palm flattening against his lower abdomen, pulling him back flush against his front. Baki could feel the hard line of Yujiro’s erection through their clothes, pressing against the cleft of his ass. His body, traitorously, shuddered, a spark of that unwanted heat flaring in his gut. “Your body remembers. It wants it again.”
Baki shoved back, an instinctual burst of strength fueled by humiliation. He broke the hold and spun, falling into a fighting stance. “Don’t touch me.”
Yujiro looked amused. He looked at Baki’s clenched fists, the defensive posture, and laughed. It was a short, derisive sound. “Or what? You’ll fight me? You couldn’t fight me off when I was balls-deep inside you. You moaned for it.”
He stepped forward. Baki stepped back, his heel hitting the wall. There was nowhere to go. Yujiro closed the distance, crowding him against the cold concrete. He didn’t strike. He just looked down at him, his demonic eyes tracing every flicker of fear on Baki’s face.
“You confuse need for strength,” Yujiro said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “You think because you can take a beating, you are strong. But strength isn’t about taking. It’s about claiming.” His hand came up, and he caught a single tear that had escaped the corner of Baki’s eye. He examined the moisture on his thumb with detached curiosity. “You cried when I came inside you. You cried from the pleasure of it.”
“I didn’t—” Baki choked.
“You did.” Yujiro leaned in, his breath warm on Baki’s lips. “And you want to do it again. You want me to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Until all you are is a vessel for me.”
The raw, filthy truth of it shattered Baki’s last defense. A sob broke from his throat. His hands, raised to fight, unclenched and fell to his sides. He slumped against the wall, his head bowing in defeat.
Yujiro saw it. The surrender. His eyes darkened with a deep, unholy satisfaction. He grabbed the front of Baki’s training shirt and tore it open, buttons pinging off the concrete. His hands were rough on Baki’s skin, pushing his shorts down his hips. He turned him around, face first against the wall. The concrete was unforgivingly cold on his cheek.
There was no preparation this time. No slow seduction. Yujiro spat into his palm, slicked himself, and guided the head of his cock to Baki’s entrance. The press was insistent, brutal.
“Please,” Baki whimpered, the word muffled against the wall.
“Please what?” Yujiro growled, not pushing, just applying that terrifying, steady pressure.
Baki squeezed his eyes shut. The images flashed: the gentle touch in the arena, the patient claiming in the storage room, the violent reaming at dawn. The confusing, all-consuming storm of pain and pleasure, of hatred and a desperate, twisted need. He wanted the pain to erase the memory. He wanted the pleasure to make him forget the shame. He wanted his father, the monster, the god, to look at him and see something other than weakness.
The dam broke.
“Please…” Baki whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession. “Please, just… love me.”
The words hung in the cold air. For a second, nothing happened. Then Yujiro’s hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back. “What did you say?”
“Love me,” Baki begged, the tears flowing freely now. “Father, please. However you want. Just… love me.”
It was the key. The permission. The final surrender.
Yujiro drove forward.
It was a brutal, shearing penetration, tearing through the residual soreness in one vicious thrust. Baki screamed, his voice bouncing off the training room walls. Yujiro buried himself to the hilt and held there, a solid, unyielding invasion. He didn’t move. He let Baki feel it, every impossible inch, the burning stretch, the complete and utter fullness.
“You want my love?” Yujiro snarled, his mouth against Baki’s ear. “This is my love. This is all the love you’ll ever get.”
He pulled back and slammed in again. And again. There was no rhythm, only punishment and possession. Each thrust was a hammer blow, jarring Baki’s teeth, driving the air from his lungs in broken gasps. Yujiro fucked him with a pure, unadulterated fury, his hips a piston of rage and dominance.
Baki’s world narrowed to the slam of their bodies, the slap of skin, the searing friction burning him up from the inside. The pain was immense, a white-hot brand. But woven through it, fed by his own pathetic plea, was a dark, shameful thread of ecstasy. His body, broken and compliant, began to respond. His own cock, trapped against the wall, was hard and leaking. A low, broken moan escaped him with one particularly deep stroke.
Yujiro heard it. His hand left Baki’s hair and wrapped around his throat, not squeezing, just holding, a collar of control. “That’s it,” he breathed, his own voice strained with effort. “Take your father’s love. Take every fucking inch of it.”
His pace became frenzied, losing all semblance of control. He fucked into Baki with a wild, animal desperation, as if he was trying to climb inside him, to possess not just his body but the very core of him. The hand on Baki’s throat tightened slightly. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, mixing with the dizzying pleasure-pain.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” Yujiro grunted, his rhythm becoming ragged, erratic. “I’m gonna pump my love so deep into you, you’ll taste it for a week.”
With a guttural roar that shook the dust from the rafters, Yujiro slammed home one final time and came. Baki felt the hot, pulsing flood, a scalding claim deep in his gut. The sensation, the sheer vulgarity of it, tipped him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, a silent, convulsive seizure, his seed painting the concrete wall in weak stripes as his body clenched violently around the throbbing heat inside him.
Yujiro stayed buried, leaning heavily against him, his breath hot and ragged on Baki’s neck. They stayed like that for a long minute, joined by the most intimate of violations, the only sound their ragged breathing and the slow drip of sweat onto the floor.
Finally, Yujiro pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a visceral shock, a cold void where there had been brutal fullness. Baki sagged against the wall, his legs unable to hold him. He slid down the concrete, a streak of sweat and come marking his descent, and crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Yujiro stepped back, looking down at him. He adjusted his clothes, his face an impassive mask once more. He gazed at Baki’s broken form, his eyes devoid of the passion, the rage, the anything that had been there moments before.
“Love,” Yujiro said to the silent room, the word tasting like ashes. He turned and walked to the door without a backward glance.
He left Baki on the cold floor, trembling, covered in the physical proof of his plea, the echo of his own words haunting the empty space around him.
Love me.
And he had.
Time bled into the cold concrete beneath his cheek. He didn’t know how long he lay there, a discarded heap of muscle and shame. The air was a stale cocktail of sweat, sex, and his own spilled release. His body was a map of aches, the deepest one a hollow, violated throb. Love. The word curdled in his mind, a bitter poison. He had begged for it. He had received it. It felt like being flayed alive.
A shadow fell across him, blocking the weak light. He didn’t need to look. The presence was a weight on his soul, a change in the room’s pressure. Leather creaked softly.
“Get up,” Yujiro’s voice was flat, devoid of the earlier fury. It was a command, simple and absolute.
Baki’s limbs felt like lead castings. He pushed himself up onto trembling forearms. The movement pulled at the soreness deep inside him. He looked up, vision swimming. Yujiro stood over him, perfectly composed, his earlier dishevelment gone. In his hand, he held a small, clear plastic bag. It was knotted at the top. Inside, a viscous, milky fluid sloshed softly. Baki’s stomach turned. It was his own come, collected from the wall where he’d spilled against it minutes before.
Yujiro saw his recognition. A slow, terrible smile spread across his face. “You left a mess. I cleaned it up.” He dangled the bag before Baki’s eyes. “You gave this to me. A token of your… affection.”
Baki looked away, a fresh wave of nausea rising in his throat.
“Look at it.” Yujiro’s voice brooked no disobedience. He knelt, the bag now at eye level with Baki’s slumped form. “This is your love. This is what you are. Weak, spilt seed.”
He stood up, towering once more. “On your hands and knees.”
The command was so absurd, so deliberately degrading, that Baki almost laughed. He didn’t. He knew the cost of refusal. With a shuddering breath that hitched in his bruised ribs, he obeyed. The position pulled at his sore muscles, emphasizing his vulnerability, his exposedness.
Yujiro stepped around him. He moved with a dreadful, casual purpose. He settled himself on the floor directly behind Baki’s raised rear, sitting cross-legged. His face was level with Baki’s ass. The proximity, the intimacy of it, was a new and shocking violation.
“Now,” Yujiro said, his voice a low, conversational hum. “You’re going to give me something else.”
Baki stared at the concrete between his hands, confused, terrified. “W-what?”
“You’re full of gas. I felt it. Your guts are churning from fear, from shame.” Yujiro’s hand came to rest on the small of Baki’s back, not a caress, but a point of control. “Push it out. Let it go.”
Understanding dawned, cold and sharp as a blade. A pathetic, strangled sound escaped Baki’s lips. “No.”
The hand on his back pushed down, firm and inescapable. It forced his spine to arch, his hips to tilt upwards, presenting him obscenely. “Yes. You begged for my love. You offered me everything. This is part of everything. Your base, animal functions. Your filth.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against Baki’s sensitive skin. “Do it. Fart for me. In my face.”
Baki squeezed his eyes shut. Humiliation burned hotter than any physical pain he had ever endured. His body clenched in revolt. He held his breath, trying to lock the shameful impulse inside.
Yujiro waited. The silence stretched, heavy and thick. Then, he reached around Baki’s hip with his other hand. Baki heard the soft, wet sound of the plastic bag being opened. He heard a slick, rubbing noise.
He dared to glance back.
Yujiro had poured the contents of the bag—Baki’s own semen—into his palm. He was slowly, deliberately, smearing it over his own erect cock. The sight was so profoundly wrong, so utterly depraved, that Baki’s mind blanked for a second. Yujiro’s eyes were fixed on Baki’s exposed hole, gleaming with a dark, predatory focus. He began to stroke himself, using his son’s spent seed as lubricant.
“Your spunk’s still warm,” Yujiro mused, his voice thick with arousal. “It’s perfect. Now give me the rest. Give me the gas from the gut I just fucked full of my own come. Do it, Baki. Or I’ll put my fist in you and pull the noise out myself.”
The threat was real. The image was visceral. A sob wracked Baki’s frame. His body, stressed beyond all limits, betrayed him. A tight, painful pressure built in his abdomen. He tried to fight it, but the muscles, weakened and traumatized, gave way.
It wasn’t a loud sound. It was a short, choked puff of air, escaping with a soft, wet hiss.
Yujiro inhaled deeply, his nose pressing against Baki’s skin. A low, guttural groan of pleasure rumbled from his chest. “Again.”
Baki trembled, tears of utter degradation tracking through the dirt on his face. He had no control left. The humiliation had broken something fundamental. He relaxed the clenched muscles, and another, longer release of gas escaped him. This one was wetter, messier.
Yujiro moaned, the sound utterly genuine. His hand on his cock moved faster, the lewd, slick sounds of his masturbation filling the air. “Your ass smells like me,” he breathed, his words hot against Baki’s skin. “It smells like sex and your own shit. It’s perfect. Again.”
He was commanding the very air from Baki’s bowels. And Baki, broken and obedient, complied. Over and over, spurred by Yujiro’s growled prompts, he released small, damp bursts of flatulence. Each one was met with a deep, savoring inhale from his father, followed by a filthy, encouraging word.
“Yes. Give it to me. That’s my good boy. Empty your fucking guts for me.”
Yujiro’s stroking became frenzied. His other hand gripped Baki’s hip hard enough to bruise. His breathing grew ragged. He was getting off on this. On the smell, the degradation, the absolute dominion over his son’s most base, involuntary functions.
“Now,” Yujiro grunted, his voice strained to breaking. “Now, you little bitch. Give me a big one. Push it out for your father.”
Baki, lost in a haze of shame, bore down. A final, longer, unmistakably wet sound erupted from him.
Yujiro cried out—a raw, animal sound of release. His body jerked violently. Baki felt warm, wet splatters hit his lower back and thighs. Yujiro’s orgasm mixed with the existing mess, a new layer of filth.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Yujiro’s harsh panting. Then, he let go of Baki’s hip. Baki collapsed fully onto the cold floor, his face pressed into the concrete. He was beyond weeping. He was a void.
Yujiro stood up. Baki heard him wipe his hands on his pants with a soft, casual rustle. He walked around and stood over Baki once more. He looked down at his son’s utterly broken form, at the new stains coating his back.
“Love,” Yujiro said again, the word now a quiet, final verdict. He dropped the empty plastic bag onto Baki’s shoulder. It clung there, a sticky, weightless testament.
Then he turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed in the silent training room, fading down the corridor until there was nothing.
Nothing but Baki, the cooling mess on his skin, and the echoing, empty truth of what had just been taken from him.
The cold from the concrete seeped up into his bones, a final anchor to the emptiness inside him. He lay there, a statue of spent flesh, until the chill became a burning necessity to move. Pushing himself up felt like reassembling a broken doll, each click of a joint a fresh accusation. He stood, legs trembling, and stared at the wall where his own release had streaked downward, now a faint, dried mark. The plastic bag clung to his shoulder; he peeled it off with numb fingers, letting it fall to the floor with a silent, sticky sound.
He shuffled towards the locker room showers, a place of routine now turned alien. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, exposing every tremor in his hands. He turned the water on as hot as he could bear and stepped under the spray, scrubbing at his skin until it burned. The water swirled dark at his feet, carrying away the physical filth, but the feeling of violation was a stain no soap could touch. He traced the bruises on his hips, the ache deep in his core, the ghost of a hand on his throat. Love. The water roared in his ears, drowning out his own quiet, broken breathing.
The door to the shower room opened with a slow creak. Baki didn’t turn. He knew the footfalls, the density of the presence now sharing the humid, tiled space. He kept his forehead pressed against the cool tiles, the hot water sluicing over his bowed neck. A shadow fell across the spray.
“You missed a spot.”
Yujiro’s voice was casual, conversational, as if commenting on the weather. Baki said nothing. He heard the rustle of clothing being removed, the clink of a belt buckle hitting the bench. The showerhead next to his own hissed to life. He closed his eyes.
“Look at me.”
Baki didn’t move. A hand, large and unforgiving, grabbed his wet hair and wrenched his head back, twisting him around. The water blinded him for a second. Through the blur he saw Yujiro, fully nude, water sluicing over the carved terrain of his body. His expression was one of detached curiosity.
“I told you to clean yourself,” Yujiro said, his grip tightening. “You’re still dirty. Inside.” His free hand pressed against Baki’s lower abdomen, fingers splayed. “I can feel it. Your guts are cramping. You’re holding it in.”
A fresh wave of cold dread washed over Baki, colder than the shower spray. “No,” he whispered, the word lost in the water’s roar.
“Yes,” Yujiro corrected, his voice low and absolute. He turned Baki around, pushing his chest against the wall. The tiles were cold and unforgiving on his skin. Yujiro’s body pressed against his back, pinning him. One arm wrapped across Baki’s chest, holding him firm. The other hand slid down, over the curve of his ass. “You took my love. Now you’ll give me yours. All of it.”
His fingers didn’t seek entrance. Instead, they spread Baki’s cheeks, exposing him utterly to the water and the air. The position was grotesquely vulnerable. Yujiro leaned close, his mouth near Baki’s ear. “Push.”
“I can’t,” Baki choked out, humiliation heating his face.
“You can. You will.” The arm across his chest tightened, compressing his ribs. The hand between his cheeks remained, a relentless, demanding presence. “Your body wants to. It’s screaming to. Let it go. Shit for me.”
Baki shook his head, a frantic, desperate movement. He clenched everything inside, a fortress against this final, unthinkable demand.
Yujiro’s patience evaporated. His hand left Baki’s ass only for a second. When it returned, it was with a cruel, invasive pressure. Two thick fingers pressed hard against his tight, resistant opening, not trying to enter, but applying a brutal, external pressure. “Now,” Yujiro commanded, his voice a guttural growl that vibrated through Baki’s spine.
The combination of terror, the physical pressure, and the raw, animal violation of the command broke something loose. A deep, involuntary cramp seized his lower body. His control, shattered beyond repair, gave way. It wasn't a gentle release. It was a violent, painful expulsion, a hot, shameful rush that pushed past Yujiro's fingers and spattered against the tiled wall and down Baki’s own legs. The sound was wet and obscene, muffled by the shower’s hiss.
A shudder of ultimate degradation wracked Baki’s frame. A sob caught in his throat, drowned by the water. Yujiro made a sound—a satisfied, deep hum. He withdrew his fingers, now soiled, and held them in the shower spray. He didn’t look disgusted. He looked fascinated.
“There it is,” he murmured. He brought his fingers to his own face, smelling them with a dark, thoughtful curiosity before rinsing them clean. Then he turned his attention back to Baki, who had gone limp against the wall, broken by the act. “Good. You’re empty now.”
Yujiro pressed himself close again. Baki felt the rigid, terrifying hardness of his father’s cock against him. Yujiro guided himself, the head slick with water and a trace of what Baki had just expelled. He didn’t pause. He pushed forward, into the fouled, slack channel.
The entry was shockingly easy, a smooth, revolting slide into a space that had just been violently emptied. Baki made no sound. He was beyond sound. Yujiro buried himself to the hilt with a single, deep thrust, sheathing his cock in the warm, filthy passage. He groaned, a sound of pure, dark pleasure.
“Fuck,” Yujiro breathed against his neck, his hips flush against Baki’s ass. “That’s it. That’s your love. Warm and dirty and mine.”
He began to move. His thrusts were slow, deliberate, a grinding, obscene rhythm that emphasized the squelching, wet sounds of penetration. The friction was different now—slick with more than water, an intimate, degrading lubrication. Baki could smell it, the mingled scents of sex and his own waste, rising in the steam. Yujiro fucked him with a possessive, savoring slowness, each stroke a claim on his utter defilement.
“You feel that?” Yujiro grunted, his pace incrementally increasing. “You feel how open you are? How you’re just a fuckhole for me to use?” He drove in harder, punching a weak gasp from Baki’s lips. “My perfect, filthy boy.”
Yujiro’s arm locked around Baki’s chest like an iron band, holding him upright as the force of his thrusts shook Baki’s whole body. The pace became punishing, a hard, driving rhythm that slapped their wet skin together loudly over the shower’s noise. Yujiro was chasing his peak, his breath coming in ragged growls against Baki’s ear. His cock dragged inside the soiled channel, the sensation apparently pushing him toward the edge.
With a final, brutal series of thrusts, Yujiro slammed home and held, his body tensing like a coiled spring. A rough, snarling cry ripped from his throat as he came, pumping his release deep into the violated space. He shuddered through it, his grip on Baki vicelike. When he was spent, he stayed buried for a long moment, panting.
Then, he pulled out. The withdrawal was a slow, slick, disgusting sound. Baki sagged, held up only by Yujiro’s arm. Yujiro turned him roughly, shoving his back against the wall. Baki’s vision swam, his mind a grey static of shame.
Yujiro’s cock, slick and glistening with a mix of fluids, was still semi-hard before his face. “Look,” Yujiro commanded, his voice hoarse. “Look at what you did. Look at what you are.”
Baki’s eyes focused reluctantly. The sight made his stomach heave. It was smeared, fouled.
“Clean it,” Yujiro said, his tone leaving no room for debate. He fisted a hand in Baki’s wet hair, pulling his head forward. “Use your mouth. Take it all. Every fucking drop.”
The proximity, the smell, the sheer, overwhelming wrongness of it paralyzed Baki. He clenched his jaw, turning his face a fraction of an inch away.
Yujiro’s other hand came up and gripped his throat, not squeezing, but applying a steady, threatening pressure on his windpipe. “Open your mouth,” he said, eerily calm. “Or I’ll break your jaw and pour it down your throat.”
Air became a precious, thin commodity. Baki’s survival instinct, deep and primal, overrode the last vestiges of his will. His lips parted in a silent gasp. It was enough.
Yujiro guided himself forward, pushing the slick, filthy head past Baki’s lips. The taste was immediate and horrific—a bitter, acrid tang that coated his tongue. Baki gagged, his body convulsing in revolt, but Yujiro held him firm, pushing deeper. He filled Baki’s mouth, a thick, invasive weight on his tongue, the taste overwhelming his senses.
“That’s it,” Yujiro groaned, watching his son’s face contort in disgust. “Take it all. Swallow your fucking filth.” He pushed further, until Baki’s nose was pressed into his skin, until he was deep-throating him, the intrusion triggering a violent retch that Baki choked back. Yujiro held him there for an agonizing count, letting Baki taste the full, degrading reality, before slowly pulling back and thrusting back in, a shallow, fuck of his mouth.
He did this several times, a vile mimicry of the act he’d just performed, until Baki’s mouth was as thoroughly violated as the rest of him. Finally, with a last push, Yujiro spent the last drops of his own release onto Baki’s tongue. He pulled out with a soft, wet pop.
Baki slumped against the wall, coughing, spitting, the horrible taste filling his universe. He retched, bringing up only bile and water, which swirled at his feet. He was hollow, scraped raw, every boundary obliterated.
Yujiro stepped back under his own showerhead, rinsing himself off with methodical, calm strokes. He looked over at Baki, who was shaking violently, trying to spit the taste from his mouth. “Remember this,” Yujiro said, his voice now completely flat, devoid of even the earlier perverse pleasure. “The next time you beg for my love, know what you’re asking for.”
He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and began to towel himself dry with crisp, efficient movements. He dressed in silence, not glancing at Baki again. When he was done, he walked to the door.
He paused, hand on the frame. “Clean yourself up properly this time,” he said, without turning. Then he was gone.
Baki was left under the still-streaming water, the heat long gone, shivering in the cold. He scrubbed at his mouth with his hands until his gums bled, but the taste lingered. It was inside him. He would never be clean again. He slid down the wall, curled into a ball on the wet tiles, the water beating down on him like a punishment without end. The emptiness inside him was now total, a yawning, silent void where a son used to be.