Chapter 7: A Shopping Trip
The knock on the penthouse door came mid-morning. Megumi startled, a spoonful of expensive yogurt freezing halfway to his mouth. He’d been sitting at Sukuna’s kitchen island, wrapped in a borrowed robe that smelled like cedar and someone else’s cologne, trying to piece together the previous night from physical evidence. The ache, the sticky residue in odd places, the thin gold hoop that caught the light.
Sukuna was gone. Toji was snoring in a guest room. Satoru answered the door.
“Special delivery for a special girl,” Satoru’s voice sang out. He walked back in holding a sleek, matte black garment bag and a shopping bag from a boutique whose name Megumi only knew from society pages. He dropped them on the island with a soft thump. “Can’t have you wandering around in yesterday’s guilt, can we? Go shower. We have an appointment.”
“An appointment?” Megumi’s voice was raspy. From screaming. From disuse.
“A real one. With a tailor. My treat.” Satoru smiled, all white teeth and benign amusement. He reached over, thumb brushing a dried fleck from Megumi’s cheekbone. “You look like a stray kitten. It’s endearing, but it won’t do for where we’re going.”
The shower was a monsoon head in a slate-tiled cave. Megumi stood under the hot water until his skin turned pink, scrubbing methodically. The soap stung the piercing. The sting was a grounding wire. He thought of Satoru’s fingers inside him at the restaurant, the whisper in his ear last night. We’ll take care of you. It wasn’t kindness. It was a statement of fact, like a weather report.
He put on the clothes from the bag. Soft black trousers that fit too perfectly, a cashmere sweater that felt like a caress. All new. All without tags.
The boutique was in Ginza, but not one of the glaring flagship stores. It was a discreet brass doorbell beside an unmarked oak door. A woman with silver hair and a tape measure around her neck let them in. The air inside was still and smelled of wool and jasmine.
“The private room is ready for you, Gojo-sama,” she said, bowing slightly. Her eyes flicked over Megumi, assessing, cataloging. No judgment. Just appraisal.
The room was a velvet-draped box. A chandelier, dripping with crystal, glimmered overhead. A chaise lounge upholstered in sapphire silk dominated the center. A full-length mirror, framed in gilded wood, leaned against one wall.
“We’ll need a moment,” Satoru told the woman, handing her a credit card. “Bring us the selections. And a bottle of the Daiginjo. The good one.”
Alone, Satoru turned to Megumi. He hooked a finger under his chin. “You trust my taste, don’t you?”
Megumi nodded. What else was there to do?
The woman returned with a rolling rack. The clothes on it were not trousers or sweaters. Slivers of silk, cobwebs of lace, panels of chiffon. A skirt that looked like a wide black belt. A top that was essentially two triangles of transparent mesh connected by strings.
Satoru sipped the sake the woman had poured. He didn’t offer any to Megumi. “Start with that,” he said, pointing to a hanger holding something ivory and delicate.
It was a lingerie set. The bra was lace, scalloped and pretty, with tiny ribbon ties in the front. The matching briefs were high-waisted, a sheer panel over the hips. It was the kind of thing sold as a romantic gift.
“Put it on.”
Megumi’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. He turned his back, a feeble attempt at modesty. The air in the room was cool on his skin. The lace felt strangely formal against his skin. The briefs settled high on his hips, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide the darkness beneath, the glint of gold.
“Turn around.”
He did. Satoru was still seated, one ankle propped on his knee. He looked at Megumi the way one might look at a newly acquired painting, deciding where to hang it.
“Walk. Let me see the fit.”
Megumi took a few stiff steps. The carpet was thick and silent.
“It’s pretty,” Satoru said. His voice was low, considering. “Innocent. I like the contrast. Now the skirt. The black one.”
The skirt was leather. Or maybe PVC. It was shiny and so short the hem barely grazed the bottom curves of his ass. It zipped up the side. Satoru didn’t tell him to put on the top yet. So he stood there, in the lace and the savage little skirt, his upper body bare.
“See?” Satoru said, not to him. To the room. To the idea of him. “I told you she had the lines for it.”
He rose then, coming to stand behind Megumi. His hands settled on Megumi’s bare shoulders. In the mirror, Megumi saw the two of them. Himself, half-dressed in a parody of seduction. Satoru, fully clothed, impeccable, his chin near Megumi’s temple.
“Do you like it?” Satoru whispered, his breath warming Megumi’s ear. His hands slid down, over the lace of the bra, pinching the nipples beneath until they pebbled against the intricate patterns. “Do you like looking like a sweet little treat?”
Megumi’s throat was tight. He shook his head, a tiny movement.
“No?” Satoru’s hand dropped lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, past the waistband of the sheer briefs. His fingers dipped, not inside, but pressing firmly against the lace-covered mound. “Your body disagrees, Megumi. It’s always so honest.”
He let go, walking back to the chaise. “The top. The mesh one.”
The top was an exercise in futility. It covered nothing, just gave the illusion of coverage with geometric black lines over transparent mesh. He put it on. It tied behind his neck and at the small of his back. His nipples were dark shadows behind the netting.
“Perfect,” Satoru declared. He took another sip of sake. “Now come here.”
Megumi walked to him. Satoru spread his knees. “Here.”
He knelt on the plush carpet between Satoru’s legs. This was familiar territory. His eyes were level with Satoru’s belt buckle.
“You look beautiful,” Satoru said, his hand combing through Megumi’s dark hair. It was almost tender. “This is what you’re for, you know. To be adorned. To be appreciated. To be used exactly as you are right now. Isn’t that better than being alone in that empty house?”
The words hit their target with surgical precision. Megumi’s eyes burned. He nodded, pressing his forehead against Satoru’s knee.
Satoru’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. “Change. We’ll take it all. The woman will pack it.”
Back in the cashmere and trousers, Megumi felt oddly exposed. The soft clothes felt like a lie now. Satoru settled the bill with a signature, and the woman handed him several heavy bags.
Outside, the Tokyo daylight was a shock. Satoru guided him not toward the car, but down a side alley, into the service entrance of a monolithic hotel. A keycard accessed a private elevator. It opened directly into a suite.
It was a mirror of Sukuna’s place in its expense, but warmer. All creams and golds. The garment bag was draped over a chair.
“One more fitting,” Satoru said. “The final piece.”
From the bag, he pulled not an outfit, but a single item. A dress. It was the white lace again, but not the lingerie. A full-length slip dress, sheer, with tiny cap sleeves. It was shockingly beautiful. It was a ghost’s wedding dress.
“Put it on. Nothing underneath.”
The silk whispered as it slid over his skin. It was heavy. It settled against his body like a second skin, clinging to every dip and curve. The neckline plunged. The hem pooled on the floor. He felt terrifyingly visible.
Satoru didn’t speak. He just stared. Then he came forward, his steps silent on the carpet. He turned Megumi toward the floor-to-ceiling window, the afternoon sun painting the city in pale gold. His reflection in the glass was a hazy dream of white.
“Look at you,” Satoru murmured, his hands on Megumi’s hips. “A virgin sacrifice.”
His hands gathered the delicate lace at Megumi’s thighs, hiking the heavy skirt up until it was a bundled mass around his waist. The cool glass met Megumi’s forehead. Behind him, he heard the rip of a foil packet, the brief rustle of clothing.
Satoru entered him in one smooth, ruthless push. The lace at his waist dug in. The stretch was a brutal, familiar burn.
“See?” Satoru hissed, his mouth against Megumi’s nape. One hand braced against the window, the other wrapped around Megumi’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. Anchoring. In the glass, Megumi saw their merged reflection, Satoru’s pale head bent over his shoulder, his own face a mask of shattered composure. “Look at yourself. This is the truth. This is the real outfit.”
He moved. The pace was relentless, each thrust grinding Megumi against the unyielding glass. The pleasure was a live wire, fused inextricably to the shame of being seen like this, in this beautiful, ruined dress, in the blinding light of day.
“You’re mine like this,” Satoru chanted, a dark, rhythmic prayer. “My pretty thing. My good girl. Say it.”
Megumi’s breath fogged the window. He couldn’t speak.
The hand on his throat tightened, just a fraction. A promise. “Say it.”
“Yours,” Megumi choked out. The word was a sob, a surrender, a sacrament.
It triggered Satoru’s climax. He drove in deep, a stifled groan against Megumi’s skin. For a long minute, they stayed like that, pinned against the view of the city.
Satoru pulled out, stepping back. He disposed of the condom in a sleek bathroom. When he returned, he was adjusting his cuffs, perfectly composed.
Megumi sank to the floor, the lace dress billowing around him like a deflated cloud. He was shaking.
Satoru crouched in front of him. He lifted Megumi’s left wrist. From his pocket, he produced a slim bracelet. It was a chain of white gold, delicate but strong. He clasped it around Megumi’s wrist. It fit perfectly.
“A souvenir,” Satoru said, his thumb stroking the metal. “So you don’t forget who you belong to when you’re alone.”
He stood, collected the hotel key card, and dropped it on the floor beside Megumi.
“Order whatever you want from room service. The car will take you home whenever you’re ready.” He paused at the door, looking back at the crumpled figure in the center of the sunlit room. “You did beautifully today.”
The door clicked shut.
Megumi sat on the floor, the taste of Satoru’s praise like honey and ash on his tongue. He traced the cool, hard links of the bracelet. It didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a silken collar, tightened one more irreversible notch.
He didn’t call for the car. Not for a long time.