Chapter 13: The Footage
A low murmur of keyboards and the stale scent of reheated lunches hung heavy in the office air. Orihime stared at her spreadsheet, the numbers swimming before her eyes. The phantom stickiness between her thighs felt like a brand, a constant reminder of Yamada’s sweaty bulk and seed. The day crawled. Her phone, face-down beside her mouse pad, vibrated with a frenzied rhythm. The ‘Ladies Who Lunch (And Sometimes More)’ group chat.
She hesitated. The last session in the bathroom stall, conjuring Tajiri’s gnarled visage and imagined filth, had left her feeling scraped raw, yet wired. Shame warred with a persistent, hollow ache no ordinary touch seemed able to fill. Curiosity, sharp and dangerous, won. She flipped the phone over.
> Akemi: HOLY SHIT GUYS CHECK THE UPLOADS FOLDER! NEW SECURITY FOOTAGE 🤯🤯🤯
> Riko: Uploads? What are you— OH MY GOD. IS THAT REAL?
> Chie: Wait, what am I looking at? The quality is terrible…
> Akemi: It’s the alley behind the old printing warehouse! Look at the timestamp – last night!
> Riko: Zoom in! On the left! That dumpster! IS THAT A WOMAN ON HER KNEES?
Orihime’s blood turned to ice water. Her thumb trembled as she tapped the blurry video file. Grainy, grey-scale footage filled her screen. The angle was high, distant, captured by one of the company’s external perimeter cameras aimed at the deserted service alley. Rain-slicked asphalt glistened under a distant streetlamp. And there, beside a grimy industrial dumpster…
The figure on her knees was unmistakable. The cascade of distinctive, fiery orange hair. The silhouette of her own body, the curve of her hips, the swell of her chest even through the poor resolution. And the man standing before her… hunched, wearing ragged layers, features obscured by distance and shadow, but the shape was agonizingly familiar. The greasy fringe, the stooped posture. Tajiri.
The video, silent and jerky, showed her head bobbing rhythmically. Then, Tajiri’s rough hands tangled possessively in her vibrant hair, pulling her head forward with unmistakable force. The motion was crude, demanding. Her own body responded instantly to the grainy image, a traitorous pulse throbbing low in her belly. Heat flooded her cheeks, but it wasn't just shame this time. It was recognition. Arousal, dark and unwelcome, coiled tightly within the panic.
> Chie: Oh god… poor thing. That looks… rough. Who is he? Some homeless guy?
> Akemi: Looks like it! Filthy bastard! But DAMN, look at her go! Like she’s starving! That hair though… anyone we know?
> Riko: Can’t tell from this angle. But that hair color… it’s pretty unique, right? Orihime? You alright? You’ve got kinda similar hair…
> Chie: Riko! Don’t be ridiculous! Orihime wouldn’t… I mean, couldn’t… not with someone like that!
> Akemi: Why not? Maybe she likes it dirty! That dude must have something special under those rags, eh? 😉 Or maybe she’s just that desperate. Ichigo’s never home, is he, Ori? Wink wink
Orihime’s breath hitched. She watched her own pixelated form deep-throating Tajiri with a fervor that looked almost feral. The memory flooded back – the frantic energy buzzing in her veins after leaving Yamada’s office, the burning need for something more, something to eclipse the mundane degradation. The sharp sting of gravel biting her knees. The overwhelming, feral stench of Tajiri – unwashed skin, sour sweat, stale alcohol, and something deeply animal – hitting her as she’d approached him near the bus stop after the pharmacy. His raspy voice: "Spare change, pretty thing?" Her own shaky whisper: "I have something else you might want." The predatory glint in his bloodshot eyes. The rough shove against the dumpster. The frantic fumbling with his stained trousers, the shocking heat and size of his neglected cock erupting free, matted with thick, yellowed smegma and wiry grey pubes, the smell intensifying unbearably, making her gag even as she leaned forward…
> Akemi: Seriously though, look how into it she seems! Head forced down? Nah, she’s pulling him in. Look at the angle!
> Riko: You think? It’s so hard to tell… but yeah, she’s not fighting it. At all. God, imagine the smell. 🤢 But also… kinda hot? In a messed-up way?
> Chie: Riko! That’s vile! Poor woman is probably terrified! Orihime, what do you think? You’re quiet…
> Akemi: Ori’s probably busy imagining it’s her down there! 😂 Or remembering something similar? That blouse you wore Tuesday was fire, Ori… Yamada practically drooled. Did he give you a ‘productivity boost’ too? 😈
Orihime’s fingers flew over the keyboard, typing without conscious thought, her eyes glued to the screen showing her own degradation.
> Orihime: It’s awful. She must be terrified. 😔
The lie tasted like ash. Because she could see it. The terrifying intensity in Tajiri’s eyes up close, the sheer, brutal force as he used her mouth. The overwhelming, suffocating stench that had made her eyes water. The scrape of his dirty fingernails on her scalp. The grime-streaked thickness pushing past her lips, bumping the back of her throat, the tang of something deeply unclean coating her tongue. The shame. And beneath it, pulsing like a dark star, the undeniable, raw power of it. The surrender to something utterly base, utterly depraved. It had been terrifying. Revulsive. And it had ignited a fire in her that Yamada’s predictable filth never could. She’d been soaked before he’d even touched her.
> Riko: See? Orihime agrees! It’s horrible! …But… did you see how thick his wrist looks when he grabs her hair? Like… really thick. Maybe proportional? 👀
> Akemi: OMG Riko you nasty bitch! 💀 But yeah… Wonder if he finished in her mouth? On her face? All over that pretty hair?
> Chie: STOP! That’s enough! This is disgusting! We should report this! That poor woman!
> Akemi: Report what? We don’t know who she is! And she wasn’t exactly screaming for help, was she? Looked pretty voluntary to me. Maybe she paid him! 🤷♀️
The speculation continued, a whirlwind of faux-outrage and morbid fascination. Each message was a tiny hammer blow against Orihime’s composure. They talked about the smell, the roughness, the possible size Tajiri might be packing, the state of his clothes, where he might have finished. Each detail ripped through her, triggering vivid sensory flashbacks. The sour tang flooding her mouth. The thick, gritty texture on her tongue. The hot, urgent pulses against the back of her throat. Tajiri’s guttural groan, like broken concrete scraping together. Him pulling out at the last second, painting hot, sticky streaks across her cheek, her chin, tangling in her hair as he grunted "Pretty." Her own choked gasp, the mixture of revulsion and a terrifying, overwhelming sense of… accomplishment?
Her breath came in shallow gasps. Beneath her desk, unseen by colleagues minding their own spreadsheets, her hand drifted into her lap. Her fingers slipped under the waistband of her skirt, then her panties. She was drenched. Not from fear. From the relentless assault of memory and the group chat’s crude dissection of it. She touched herself, circling her clit with trembling fingers, her eyes locked on the grainy video loop still playing on her phone screen. Not seeing herself. Seeing Tajiri’s looming shadow. Feeling his phantom grip in her hair. Tasting the phantom bitterness. The imagined scrape of wiry pubic hair against her lips.
> Akemi: Honestly? If a man looked like that and smelled like a dumpster fire but had a monster cock? I might be tempted. Once. For science. 😂
> Riko: Shut UP, Akemi! Gross! …But… okay. Maybe. If I was drunk. And desperate. REALLY desperate.
> Chie: Orihime? Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve gone very quiet again.
Orihime didn’t reply. Her focus narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her slick heat, to the grainy image on the screen, to the phantom sensations assaulting her. The chat kept buzzing, but the words blurred. Only the image mattered. The image and the memory. And the gnawing, terrifying need it re-ignited. The need for that specific, degrading rawness. The need for Tajiri’s filth, his roughness, the way he made her feel simultaneously repulsed and utterly, shockingly alive.
Her climax crashed over her suddenly, violently. Her back arched subtly against her office chair, teeth sinking hard into her lower lip to stifle the cry threatening to escape. Her inner muscles clenched around nothing, mimicking the phantom intrusion of Tajiri’s imagined girth. Stars burst behind her eyelids, accompanied not by Yamada’s bored grunt or Ichigo’s distant smile, but by Tajiri’s rasping voice saying "Pretty." and the overwhelming scent of the alley.
She slumped forward, panting silently, forehead almost touching the keyboard. Sweat prickled her hairline. The office sounds rushed back in – keyboard clatter, a distant phone ringing, the hum of the HVAC. Her phone screen, beside her hand, still showed the frozen final frame of the video: the orange-haired figure pulling away, Tajiri’s dark shape looming over her.
The group chat notifications piled up, oblivious.
> Chie: Orihime? Hello?
> Riko: Probably busy fantasizing about dumpster kings. 😏
Orihime slowly withdrew her hand, wiping her fingers furtively on the inside of her skirt hem. She stared at the frozen image. The revulsion was there, a cold knot in her stomach. But stronger, pulsing like an infected wound, was the craving. The humiliating video wasn’t just evidence. It was a trigger. A roadmap back to that specific, dark alley, that specific, brutal encounter. The phantom smell of Tajiri filled her nostrils again, stronger than the office air. Her fingers, sticky with her own release, hovered over her phone’s contacts. Buried deep, under a fake name, was the number she’d stolen from his discarded, cracked burner phone that night after he stumbled away. A number she’d never dialed.
The cursor blinked relentlessly on her spreadsheet. The numbers meant nothing. All she could see was the flickering image on her phone screen, the dark shape of Tajiri, and the terrifying, undeniable pull towards the filth and the dark promise of being stretched wide open by something truly monstrous. Her thumb brushed the screen, hovering uncertainly over the contact labelled ‘Alley’. The office chatter faded into a distant drone.
The office chatter faded into a distant drone. Orihime stared at the blinking cursor on her spreadsheet, Tajiri’s phantom stench still clinging to her senses, the image of her grainy submission burned onto her retinas. A reckless, dizzying heat surged through her, obliterating the lingering shame. Need it. The thought was primal, undeniable. She needed that raw, terrifying oblivion again. Not Yamada’s predictable squalor. Tajiri’s. She needed Tajiri’s filth, his brutal ownership, the way he could make her feel simultaneously repulsed and utterly claimed. Her sticky fingers clenched on the mouse. She slammed her laptop shut.
"Hey, Ori? You okay?" Riko’s voice cut through her haze from the next cubicle. "You look flushed. Hot flash?"
"Just... period cramps hitting hard," Orihime lied, forcing a weak smile, her voice tight. "Need some air. And maybe... pick up something from the pharmacy?" She grabbed her bag, the movement jerky. "Cover for me? Half an hour?"
"Sure thing," Riko said, already turning back to her screen, oblivious. "Don't faint out there!"
Orihime practically ran for the elevators, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Not the pharmacy. Her destination was three blocks away, tucked between a pawn shop and a dubious massage parlor: "Velvet Secrets." The bell jingled obscenely as she pushed through the glass door, assaulted by thick perfume and dim, pink lighting. Racks of lace and satin shimmered under spotlights. A bored-looking saleswoman glanced up, eyebrow arched.
"Looking for something special, honey?" The woman’s voice was raspy from cigarettes.
"Something... noticeable," Orihime breathed, her cheeks burning. "Under work clothes. But... unmistakable. The... sluttiest thing you have." The word felt alien, thrilling, disgusting on her tongue.
The woman’s bored expression vanished, replaced by a knowing smirk. "Ah. Gotcha." She disappeared behind a curtain and emerged holding a confection of near-translucent black lace. It consisted of a demi-cup bra that plunged impossibly low, barely containing anything, connected by thin straps to a G-string so minimal it was practically a suggestion. Delicate silver chains dangled from the hip bands. "The 'No Return.' Fits the bill?"
Orihime didn't hesitate. "Yes." She paid in cash, stuffing the flimsy bag into her work tote, the black lace feeling like a live wire against her fingers. Back in the cramped, grimy mall bathroom, she tore off her sensible cotton panties and bra, shivering as the cool air hit her skin. The new lingerie slid on. The lace scraped her nipples, the G-string a stark, flimsy barrier. She stared at her reflection: the dramatic cleavage, the dark shadow between her thighs barely concealed. She looked like a stranger. A desperate, hungry stranger. She pulled her sensible blouse and skirt back on, the friction of the lace a constant, thrilling reminder. For him.
The late afternoon sun was blinding as she hurried back towards her office building, the stolen lingerie a secret fire against her skin. Her eyes scanned the familiar pavement near the main entrance, the bus stop, the alley mouth. Nothing. Disappointment, sharp and sour, warred with the frantic need still churning inside her. Where is he? She circled the block once, twice, her breath coming fast. Then, rounding the corner towards the service alley where the camera had caught them, she saw him.
Tajiri was slumped against the graffiti-tagged wall beside the overflowing dumpster, same stained coat, greasy hair plastered to his scalp. He held out a grimy hand towards a passing businessman who didn’t even glance his way. "Spare change, mister?" His voice was the same dry rasp.
Orihime stopped dead, ten feet away. The scent hit her first – unwashed skin, stale alcohol, the underlying tang of decay. It should have repulsed her. It made her wetter. He hadn’t noticed her yet. She willed her feet to move, closing the distance until the reek was overwhelming. He finally looked up, bloodshot eyes bleary, focusing slowly. Recognition, then confusion, flickered across his weathered face. "Eh? You... the redhead? From before?" He squinted. "Got more change? Or... somethin’ else?" A slow, yellowed grin spread, revealing missing teeth.
Orihime didn't speak. Her pulse roared in her ears. She grabbed his surprisingly strong wrist – the one that had gripped her hair in the video – and pulled him roughly towards the deeper shadows of the alley, away from the street view. He stumbled but didn't resist, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Feisty today, eh?" Behind the dumpster, shielded from prying lenses, she released him. The stench of rotting food and urine was thick here. She met his confused, predatory gaze. Her fingers trembled as she began unbuttoning her blouse.
"Whatcha doin’, girl?" Tajiri mumbled, watching intently as the sensible fabric parted.
Orihime didn't answer. She shoved the blouse off her shoulders, letting it hang from her arms. Then, deliberately, she pushed her skirt down her hips, letting it pool around her ankles on the filthy asphalt. She stood before him in the "No Return" lingerie, the black lace stark against her skin in the gloom, the silver chains glinting dully. She saw his eyes widen, bloodshot whites stark, his jaw slackening. He stared at the impossible cleavage, the exposed curve of her hips, the flimsy scrap of lace between her legs, already darkening with her arousal.
"Christ on a cracker," he breathed, the words thick with awe and sudden, ravenous hunger. He didn’t ask twice. A guttural sound tore from his throat as he lunged forward, not for her face this time, but grabbing her hips, his filthy fingers digging into the soft flesh above the lace, his ragged breath hot on her neck. He fumbled frantically with his own layers, the stench of unwashed crotch and old smegma blooming like a poisonous flower. His neglected cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already rigid, the mushroomed head gleaming wetly amidst the tangle of grey pubes thick with waxy buildup. He shoved her hard against the cold brick wall, the rough surface scraping her back. The lace bra offered no protection, only friction. He didn’t even try to remove it, just shoved the flimsy G-string aside with a grimy thumb, the delicate lace tearing easily.
Orihime gasped, not in pain, but in raw, terrifying relief as the blunt, uncircumcised head pressed against her soaked entrance. It felt huge, impossibly thick, hotter than anything she’d ever known. Tajiri didn’t pause, didn’t tease. He gave one brutal shove of his hips, burying himself inside her to the root in one tearing, stretching thrust. Orihime cried out, a sharp, choked sound lost against the brick. It burned. It stretched her obscenely. The sheer, unforgiving girth split her wide, the neglected roughness scraping her inner walls, the overwhelming smell of him – sweat, decay, the metallic tang of his neglected cock – filling her nose and mouth. She saw stars, her vision blurring.
"Fuck!" Tajiri groaned, his voice thick with primal satisfaction. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed forward again, his bulk pinning her, his ragged coat scratching her bare stomach. "Tighter than last time, pretty. Like fuckin' a virgin." His rhythm was relentless, pounding, animalistic. Each thrust jolted her entire body against the wall, his belly slapping wetly against hers. The cheap lace bra bit into her skin, the chains jingling faintly with the brutal force of his movements. He grunted with each drive, a rhythmic, guttural sound like an animal rutting, his hot, sour breath washing over her face. Orihime clung to his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the greasy fabric of his coat, her own cries muffled gasps. The pain was intense, a deep, stretching ache, but woven through it was the overwhelming, mind-numbing fullness, the degrading use of it, the utter surrender to his filth and strength. This wasn’t desire. It was consumption. He pistoned into her with increasing ferocity, his breathing becoming ragged gasps. "Gonna breed ya deep, pretty red," he snarled, voice thick with imminent release. "Fill yer slutty cunt up good." His thrusts became erratic, frantic, his grip on her hips bruising. He slammed home one final time, burying himself impossibly deep, and roared, a raw, broken sound, as his neglected cock pulsed violently inside her, flooding her with thick, hot seed. Orihime felt the scalding gush, the sheer volume of it, the brutal finality. She shuddered violently against him, not from pleasure, but from the shocking, visceral impact of being used and filled by him, her own climax ripped from her by the sheer overwhelming force and degradation of it. Tajiri slumped against her, panting, his weight crushing her into the wall, his softening cock still twitching inside her, leaking his seed down her trembling thighs. The alley stench choked her – garbage, stale urine, and now, overwhelmingly, the raw, animal scent of their brutal coupling. She stared blankly over his greasy head at the graffiti on the wall, the torn lace digging into her skin, the hot mess between her legs sticky and already cooling. The silver chain on the ruined lingerie glinted weakly in the fading light.