Chapter 2: The Private Room
The walk to the back room was a blur of colored lights and bass that vibrated in Megumi’s molars. Sukuna’s hand was a vise on the back of his neck, steering him, not unkindly, through a private door and down a narrow corridor. The music from the club became a distant, muffled thump, like a sick heart beating behind walls.
“Private space,” Sukuna said, his voice close to Megumi’s ear. “For our best investors.”
The room was warmer, the air still and dense. It smelled of leather cleaner, stale cigar smoke, and underneath it all, something faintly chemical. A single, long chaise lounge dominated the space, bathed in the glow of a red neon sign outside the window. The light sliced across the floor, painting everything in strokes of blood and shadow.
Toji was already there, leaning against a small wet bar, pouring three fingers of amber liquor into a glass. He knocked it back in one go. “Took your time,” he grunted, his eyes scanning Megumi from head to toe. “Get the puppy drunk enough?”
“He’s perfectly primed,” Satoru said, slipping past them into the room. He finally took off his sunglasses, folding them into his jacket pocket. His blue eyes were startling, almost inhuman in their clarity. They fixed on Megumi with a look of appraising warmth. “Aren’t you, sweet thing?”
Megumi could only nod. The floaty feeling from the booth had coagulated into a heavy, needy fog. His skin felt too sensitive, every brush of his own clothing a minor shock. The wetness between his legs was a constant, shameful awareness.
Sukuna pushed him gently, and Megumi’s knees hit the edge of the chaise. He sank onto the soft leather. It was still warm.
“Let’s get a proper look at our investment,” Sukuna said, his tone conversational, as if discussing a car.
Hands were on him then. Not just one set. Toji’s, rough and calloused, working at the buttons of his expensive shirt. Satoru’s, deft and smooth, unbuckling his belt. Sukuna stood back, watching, a king observing his subjects prepare a tribute.
Megumi trembled, but he didn’t resist. He lifted his arms when Toji tugged his shirt off, shivered as the cool air hit his skin. His pants and underwear were taken down in one practiced motion by Satoru, who made a soft, approving sound.
“Exquisite,” Satoru murmured, tracing a finger along the sharp line of Megumi’s hipbone. “So finely made.”
Megumi was naked. He felt the red light on his skin like a physical touch. He wanted to cover himself, but his arms lay heavy at his sides. He was exposed, laid bare on the altar of the chaise, and the three pairs of eyes on him didn’t feel like judgment. They felt like consumption.
Toji whistled. “Yeah, that’s a pretty penny right there.” He wasn’t looking at Megumi’s face.
“On your knees, puppy,” Sukuna instructed. The command was quiet, absolute.
Megumi’s body moved before his mind could question it. He slid off the chaise onto the floor. The carpet was rough against his skin. He looked up, the view a forest of denim-clad legs and tailored trousers.
Satoru crouched in front of him, a hand cupping his cheek. “You want to be good, right? This is how you’re good. You take care of us.”
Megumi understood. He’d seen enough in the vague, lonely corners of the internet to understand. His heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped bird. He nodded, his throat tight.
It was Toji who undid his fly first, pushing Megumi’s head forward with a blunt pressure. “Open up, kitten.”
The first touch of skin against his lips was startling. The smell of salt and musk filled his senses. He gagged instinctively, pulling back.
A sharp slap landed on his bare ass. The sting was bright, shocking. It wasn’t playful.
“None of that,” Toji warned, his voice losing its earlier gruff affection. It was flat, impatient. “You wanted this. Now be a good bitch and take it.”
Tears sprang to Megumi’s eyes. The humiliation was a hot wave, but underneath it, the filthy thrill sparked again. He was being used. He was serving a purpose. He opened his mouth.
It was a clumsy, messy ordeal. He choked, tears and saliva mixing. Toji didn’t seem to care, holding his head in place with a firm grip, cursing under his breath. Through the blur, Megumi saw Sukuna take a seat on the chaise, watching with a serene, detached interest. Satoru had moved behind him, his hands rubbing slow circles on Megumi’s trembling shoulders.
“You’re doing so well,” Satoru whispered, his voice a lifeline in the haze of discomfort. “So perfect. Just relax your throat.”
Eventually, Toji finished with a grunt, shoving him aside. Megumi coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving.
He didn’t get a moment to recover. Sukuna snapped his fingers. “Here.”
Megumi crawled the short distance to the chaise. Sukuna looked down at him, one hand combing through his red hair. “Better make this worth my while,” he said, but it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise of disappointment if he failed, and that was somehow worse.
Sukuna was different. He was controlling, deliberate. He guided Megumi’s pace with hands fisted in his dark hair, not rushing, just enforcing a slow, deep rhythm that made Megumi’s jaw ache. He forced eye contact, those sharp eyes watching every tear, every flutter of helpless submission. It felt less like a physical act and more like a dissection.
When Sukuna finally pulled his head away, Megumi was gasping, dazed. His body was alight with a confused, buzzing static.
“Now the main event,” Toji said, his voice thick. He was already undressed, his scarred, powerful body blocking the neon light. He didn’t ask. He just hauled Megumi up by the arm and bent him over the back of the chaise, the cold leather against his feverish stomach.
Satoru was there again, in front of him, tilting his chin up. “Look at me, Megumi. Just look at me. It’ll feel good. I promise.”
The first breach was a brutal, burning stretch. Megumi cried out, a raw sound swallowed by the room’s soundproofing. Toji didn’t pause, didn’t gentle. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each thrust jolting Megumi forward. The pain was sharp, then it blurred, melting into a overwhelming surge of sensation that short-circuited his brain. The pleasure, when it came, was a shocking betrayal—a deep, internal spark that caught and flamed, fed by the very violence of the act.
He sobbed, drooling onto the leather. Satoru wiped his mouth with a thumb, his beautiful face the only anchor in the storm. “That’s it. You feel that? You’re made for this, sweet thing. Taking it so perfectly.”
He came like that, bent over and being fucked, his own climax a silent, shuddering convulsion that left him blind. Toji cursed, slamming into him a few final, rough times before stilling.
Megumi went limp, held up only by Toji’s grip and the chaise. He was empty, full, shattered.
He was barely aware of being moved again, laid back on the chaise. Satoru hovered over him, his weight a welcome pressure. He was talking, soft, sweet words that didn’t match the keen, analytical look in his blue eyes. He entered him with a slick, practiced ease, and this was different too—slower, almost tender, a deep, grinding possession that sought out every raw, oversensitive nerve.
Megumi whimpered, overstimulated, his body responding on a hair-trigger. Satoru smiled, kissing his tears. “You belong to us now,” he whispered, his breath hot. “Every part. This pretty cunt is ours. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” Megumi slurred, the words tearing from a place beyond shame.
“Good boy.”
When they were all done, they didn’t leave him. They lounged around him on the chaise, passing a bottle, their hands still petting, stroking, claiming. Toji bit a bruise into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a sharp, possessive pain. Sukuna marked his inner thigh with his teeth. Satoru simply traced the lines of his face, as if memorizing him.
Megumi lay amidst them, covered in sweat and spend and blooming bruises. The red neon painted his skin. The heavy, sated silence was broken only by their breathing and the distant thump of the club.
He should have felt ruined. He did feel ruined.
But as Sukuna’s hand settled on his stomach, a heavy, final claim, Megumi felt something else, too. A terrible, welcoming peace. The silence of his gilded tomb was gone, replaced by the sound of their presence. The marks on his skin were proof. He was seen. He was used.
He was, for now, not alone.