Chapter 2: The Price of Attention
The words—“touch me”—dissolved into the humid air, leaving only the pounding bass and Megumi’s ragged breathing.
Toji didn’t need further invitation.
His rough, calloused thumb found Megumi’s clit in a blunt, knowing press. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. Megumi’s entire body bowed off the velvet sofa, a sharp cry torn from his throat, strangled and high. Sukuna’s arm across his chest was an iron bar, holding him in the arc of the sensation.
“Fucking sensitive,” Toji grunted, his eyes locked on the spot where his hand worked. He applied pressure, a slow, grinding circle that made Megumi’s toes curl in his expensive leather shoes. A shudder, violent and involuntary, racked the younger man’s frame.
“Shhh, pretty thing, just feel it,” Sukuna murmured into his ear, but the words were a contrast to his grip, which was anything but soothing. He owned the gasp, the tremble. He consumed the reaction.
From the side, Satoru watched with a curator’s appreciation. He lifted the frosted tumbler of pink liquid, the ice cubes chiming softly. “She’s so pretty like this, isn’t she? All undone.” He pressed the rim to Megumi’s parted lips. “Drink, princess. You need to stay hydrated for us.”
Megumi obeyed, the motion automatic. The sweet, cold liquor spilled over his tongue, some of it trickling down his chin. He coughed, the burn in his throat a secondary sensation to the relentless friction between his legs. The world had narrowed to a series of overwhelming inputs: the dig of Sukuna’s rings against his collarbone, the slick, obscene sound of Toji’s fingers moving against him, the red light glinting off Satoru’s glasses.
“Look at you,” Satoru sighed, wiping the spilled drink from Megumi’s chin with his thumb, then pushing that thumb into Megumi’s mouth. “Absolutely perfect. Doing so well.”
Toji’s fingers, one then two, pushed inside without warning. The stretch was a bright, shocking fullness. Megumi whimpered around Satoru’s thumb, his hips jerking, trying to adjust. Toji held him still, his other hand a heavy weight on Megumi’s bony hip, pinning him to the sofa.
“Tight,” Toji observed, a note of dark pleasure in his voice. He worked his fingers slowly, a cruel parody of care, twisting them, curling them just enough to make Megumi’s breath catch. “Little heir’s never been opened up properly, has she?”
The question was humiliation laced with thrill. Megumi shook his head, tears finally spilling over, cutting tracks through the heat on his cheeks. He was being unmade. The expensive clothes, the family name, the sterile loneliness of his life—it all melted under the sweat-slick press of these strangers’ hands. He was just a body, reacting, wanting.
“We’ll fix that,” Sukuna said. His free hand came down to cover one of Megumi’s small, soft tits, his palm rough against the puffy nipple. He squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough to dominate, to make Megumi feel the sheer size of him. “Look at her, Toji. Crying and dripping all at once. She loves it.”
Toji’s pace picked up, his fingers driving in with more purpose. The heel of his palm ground against Megumi’s clit with every thrust. The sensations collided—the deep, penetrating stretch, the relentless external friction—building into a terrifying crescendo. Megumi’s moans were continuous now, broken little sounds swallowed by the music and the men’s low murmurs.
His vision swam. The neon streaks from outside bled into the red gloom. He was floating, anchored only by their hands, by the pain-pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
“Gonna come for us, baby?” Satoru asked, his voice a singsong tease. He had removed his thumb, instead tracing the outline of Megumi’s trembling lips. “Show us how grateful you are. Show us what a good girl you can be.”
The permission, framed as a command, was the final key. Megumi’s back arched, his head falling back against Sukuna’s shoulder as a silent scream shaped his mouth. The orgasm ripped through him, white-hot and devastating, wiping his mind clean of everything but the pulsing, shattering release. His cunt clenched rhythmically around Toji’s fingers, his body convulsing in their collective grasp.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his choked gasps and the distant thump of the bass.
Toji slowly withdrew his fingers, holding them up in the dim light. They gleamed. A low, approving laugh rumbled in his chest.
Sukuna finally loosened his hold, letting Megumi slump forward, boneless and spent. Sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead. He was trembling, aftershocks still coursing through him. A profound emptiness followed the peak—a hollow, aching vulnerability.
Satoru handed him the glass again. “All of it, now. A reward.”
Megumi’s hands were too unsteady. Satoru helped him, tipping the contents into his mouth. He swallowed on reflex, the alcohol a familiar burn now. The glass clinked softly as it was set back on the mahogany.
Sukuna’s hand returned to his thigh, a possessive weight. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You needed someone to show you what you’re for.”
Megumi could only nod, his cheek pressed against the cool velvet of the sofa back. He felt ruined. He felt seen.
Toji stood, wiping his hand on a black cloth napkin from the table. His gaze was still hungry, unsatisfied. He looked to Sukuna, a silent question passing between them.
Sukuna smiled, his cruel, knowing smile. He brushed the messy hair from Megumi’s damp forehead. “Our little princess is all tired out. And we’re just getting started.”
Satoru leaned in, his voice a whisper. “The night is young, Megumi. And this booth is so very private.” He let his sunglasses slip down his nose just enough for Megumi to glimpse the boundless, icy blue of his eyes. There was no amusement in them now. Only calculation. “You don’t really want to go home to that big, empty house, do you?”
The thought was a plunge into cold water. The silence. The vast, echoing rooms. The absence of hands, of voices, of heat.
Megumi’s blue-green eyes, glazed and wet, found Sukuna’s. He saw his own fractured reflection in them. He was already gone. He shook his head slowly.
“No,” he breathed, the word almost lost. “I don’t.”
Sukuna’s smile widened. He cupped the back of Megumi’s neck, pulling him up into a kiss that was nothing like the playful touches from Satoru. It was deep, consuming, tasting of whiskey and ownership. Megumi melted into it, his last thread of resistance snapping.
When Sukuna pulled away, Megumi was pliant, his lips bruised and parted.
“Good,” Sukuna said, his thumb tracing Megumi’s swollen bottom lip. “Then we continue.” He glanced at the others, his kingdom in order. “She’s ready.”