Constant, Book 5: Chapter 8 (Draft)

Feels like I'm on a bit of a roll this month, pushing out nearly a chapter a week. This one completes the 'Jonas' arc. Book 5 currently sits at 71k words. I've got a few more chapters planned for this book, and reckon it'll finish at just around the 100k word mark. At which point it'll be time to turn to book 7, and bringing Constant to its conclusion.

In the meantime, however, here's the current chapter! As always, feedback and comments always apprecaited. Enjoy!

***

Eight: This Hollow Man

Third night, he took me to his favorite hostess bar, Nostalgia.

            Laser-cut katakana inscribed in bronze at the door, twelve stories up a rickety elevator of some nondescript building along a neon-lit back-alley off the main drag of Takamatsu. Like stepping into the pages of an old Murakami novel, faithful recreation of something that never existed, so encrusted with decades of tobacco smoke the chintz wallpaper wept yellow. Perpetual jazz music, archaic vinyl records and softly lit recessed wall behind the counter stacked high with bottles of bourbon and scotch, labelled with their owners’ names. Lights turned down low, voices even lower, male growls and titter of young women in dresses shorter than their heels. Yet respectable in its way, still fashionable if somewhat faded. Cool enough to let a gaijin through the door; respectable enough the bouncer only let me through on my host’s honor.

            I was still getting the measure of this man. During the day, I wandered the city or did a little remote work from the ryokan I’d rented. The temple atop the plateau looked down across the glittering expanse of the Inland Sea and I spent several hours there, simply sitting in the warm wind, watching. Lunchtimes, I ate the local specialty, the best udon I’d ever tasted, and who knew a simple white noodle could take so fucking good? And when the evenings rolled in off the coast like the tide, blue and heavy and damp, I’d gradually make my way down to Kairyuu, his favorite bar though not his local one. He was a regular, they knew him by name. Sitting hunched over a bowl of ramen. Rhythmic rumble of trains, comforting. Beer, whisky, the silence of men, the shared communion of silent eating.

            First night, his name; the second, I leveraged the inherent oddity of being foreign to draw him into conversation, generic complaints about work and the state of the world easing, with the lubrication of several drinks, into his opinions on the exotic beauty and intrinsic sluttiness of Western women, delivered with the frankness of a taxi driver of decades past. On Friday, he took me, his pet gaijin, out on the town.

            Pachinko palace cacophony, flashing lights and harsh, flat florescence overhead, clattering game machines and thick fugue of smoke, rows of sad men staring blankly into hyperkinetic hopelessness. A short break for more food, street-side yakitori, takoyaki, and a steamed dumpling of some unidentified meat, maybe duck. Staggering through the mists, into some real drinking hole, kind of place only locals know, hidden beneath a raised rail crossing, regular reverberations felt through century-old brick overhead, dust falling in darkness lit only by the giant clock the size of a railway tunnel set against the far wall. Sake and smoke, hollowed-out men in wrinkled suits wrapped around their drink. Hot, cheap sake burning the throat, then out onto rain-slicked pavement painted in shifting neon, clustered signs overhead, sky glimpsed as a dreary swath broken by dangling wires, balconies, jagged building tops. Drunk already—him far than me—as he finally led me into Nostalgia.

            Gaijin-san, he called me, cigarette dangling from his lips. The hostess leaned across the table, lit his cigarette with the tip of her own, crimson dots, ember flare gleaming on red lips. Mako leaned back, licks of smoke rising. His eyes burned, staring at the girl across the table. She was young. Probably still a teenager. Hard to tell sometimes with these girls. Full breasts beneath a silky blouse, orange the color of trees in August. Her arms, so slender they might break for looking too hard, a waist I could nearly circle fingertip to thumb. And beneath the makeup and her veneer of confidence, she trembled. The smile never reached her eyes. Slivers of ebony set in painted alabaster. God, how she hated him and hated me. Tainted by his company. Disdain rolled off her in waves, abhorrence for this sixty-year-old man in rumpled clothes and his foreign company.

            How many times had he touched her before tonight? Young enough to be his daughter. His granddaughter, for fuck’s sake.

            He’s in his sixties, but still a full head of hair, shaggy black mop with streaks of grey over the temples. Narrow face, sallow skin—the face of man who drank, smoked too much for too many years, ate poorly. His skin shone as though very slightly wet, under the pale-yellow light of the bar. Fine wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, creasing his cheeks, his brow. Pattern of age spots darkening the back of his hand, like a secret map to a location you never want to find. And yet, not fat nor ugly, an almost raffish charm to the bastard, the cocky confidence in the curve of his lip, smirk and a wink, familiar. Cheap suit, though, and his tie, God, what an atrocity. But not his shoes. Or his watch. That watch was worth more than the rest of his outfit put together.

            His English was good, spoken with a British twinge, better than my mediocre Japanese. Showing off; he made sure the hostess, the bartender overheard our conversation, had been doing it all night. Mr. Green, he said, my friend, later Mr. Foreigner, as he got more drunk, gaijin-san. Green, because with my first introduction I defaulted back to my dead name, the surname of someone long forgotten. Not even a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but then, why should there be?

            Now, sitting back, with smoke coiling from his nose he seemed lost in the moment, Zen-like focus on the cigarette held between his fingers. Wisps coiled from the corner of his mouth. He sat next to the young woman, his arm around her waist, holding her close. First, he looked intently at his cigarette, at its ash glow. Then, he gazed into his tumbler of whisky, sitting on the table.  Ice chipped into a smooth sphere floating in amber, both glowing in the light. Finally, he stared at the woman. The woman’s return smile was thin and febrile; she’d matched us drink for drink and her face glowed red. Her smile turned uncertain as his silent stare continued for some time. Then, the man turned his attention back to his cigarette. He put it between his lips and burned it half down in one long draw, cheeks hollowed out, eyes closed and his whole body curling around this act. With watery eyes and what was left of his cigarette in hand, he picked up his drink and shot it back in one, smoke escaping from the corner of his lips in long, grey tendrils. Peat, ash and caramel, held before swallowing, sagging, grinning. He then sat there, crooked, stained teeth set in a mask of pure bliss, garlanded in smoke, a tobacco wreath lit up like a crimson crown, briefly resembling one of those carved oni I saw earlier that day at a local temple.

            With steady black eyes, Mako considered me for a long, drunken minute. “Do you have a family, David-san?” he asked, his voice like an ashtray.

***

Back at his place. Here only a few days ago, Sunday. Ended that visit with a blowjob. Same again this time, if it all goes well and how fucked up is it that going down on this kid is now the desired outcome? Still a vast distance to bridge, mentally, the idea of myself from a year ago and the reality of me, today, not just the physicality of tits and long hair but also the fact that mentally, emotionally, I’m ready to do this thing.  A few days ago, I curled up at the bottom of his shower with self-recrimination and disgust. And now, I’m fine with this. I really am, and how and when the hell did that happen?

            In any case, I didn’t waste time. In the elevator, I leaned up against him. Once through the door and I led him directly to his bedroom, closing the door behind us, noting how tidy the apartment now seemed, how clean. Grinning, bemused, he watched as I reached down and slipped off my shoes, then sidled up to him, arms snaking around his waist. Minus the heels, I barely reached his chin.

            He looked down and I tilted my head up and he kissed me. I smiled. Not yet, I told him, there’s something else I want first. Then I padded over to the corner of the room where his computer was. For all his earlier protestations, he’d clearly had high hopes I’d come around tonight. The room looked a lot better than last weekend. He’d wiped down his work desk, changed the sheets, vacuumed the floor and emptied out the garbage. Faint scent of fresh linen and wood polish.

            Smiling, I retrieved his tablet and returned. I want to know what happens, I told him, pushing the tablet into his hand, to the little girl, to her mom, we didn’t finish it last weekend. And that was a mistake, because by the end of the movie, I was nearly in tears, chest tight with some indefinite, powerful emotion, not quite sadness, because it wasn’t a sad ending, nor happiness, because it wasn’t that, either. I yearned intensely for something nebulous and unknown, rooted in a vividly colored Japanese world that never existed.

            We sat up at the edge of his bed, tablet resting to one side. He tried to comfort me, clumsily. Now, my hand rested on his knee, and his hand rested on my thigh. His fingers reached just a little under the skirt of my dress. My skin, soft and smooth under his fingertips. I shaved this morning, moisturized—not for him, per se, but still. We sat side by side but twisted slightly at the waist to face each other. Long hair, a smooth wave down my back. His other hand rested on my flank, palm flat and just beneath my breasts.

            We kissed. At first, tentative, his lips sweeping so gently across my bare left shoulder, curve of the neck, my chin that I barely felt him. I sighed, it felt nice. Then, my lips. And that felt nice, too. He kneaded my thigh, and his hand crept a little higher beneath my skirt. And his other hand left my waist to cup my chin. I leaned into his palm. When he kissed me again, it was firmer, more confident, my lips parting and his tongue found mine. He smelled differently than before, cleaner, manlier, new soap bought after my last visit, optimistic little shit but can’t deny I appreciated the effort. We kissed a little more, like that, in the quiet of his room. His fingers slid through my hair, down my back and then handled my right breast through the fabric of my dress, and it felt good, it really did and fuck me if I wasn’t getting turned on. It wasn’t him, of course, but Aiko, that crazy bitch, she’d left me horny as hell and now this guy was reaping the benefits. I squirmed a little and daringly, his hand slipped inside the neckline of my dress, cupped my boob, massaged the flesh and now I moaned, open mouth into his, and he got excited, kissing me more fervently. My hand drifted from his knee to his crotch and yeah, there was the proof of his excitement, he wanted me. We were both ready for what comes next, I thought.

            I broke our kiss, and scooted a little down the bed, to put some distance between us.

            His eyes widened. “Oh, Christ, sorry, was that—”

            A finger to his lips silenced him. “Jonas,” I said. “I—” and then hesitated, biting my lower lip.

            “What is it?”

            “I…” Now I glanced away, blushing, and it wasn’t entirely forced. My stomach lurched a little, and my throat grew tight at the thought of what I was about to propose. Which was—crazy, really. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before. I’d been with plenty of girls who enjoyed a bit of kink.

            But… not like this, not with me as the girl. First of all, there was some risk. He seemed like a nice kid. But what if he wasn’t? The trust required. Fucking crazy, it was the easiest way. The alternative was either drugging him, or violence. Both were tempting. We were alone in the apartment, after all. It’d be easy to choke this boy out. Or slip a little something into his beer, easy enough to find stuff like that around where I live. Afterwards, lay an unconscious finger to the tablet and unlock it. Possibly problematic afterwards, if he came looking for the crazy chick who knocked him out and ran off, or if he noticed someone accessed his device while he was unconscious.

            I didn’t want to do either of those things. Both approaches lacked subtlety. And—goddamn it, but I liked the boy. He deserved a gentler approach. Hopefully, better for it, even, in the end. Experience, more confident, a pretty girl in a red dress boosting his self-esteem. Fuck it, I was doing him a favor, when you got down to it, really. Darius could go fuck himself. I was doing this for Jonas, for this kind, gentle kid who’d shown me kindness last weekend, and tonight.

            Still blushing, I said, “I’d like to try something. With you.”

            I picked up my bag and brought it back to him. From beneath the day’s work clothes, the skirt, bra, top and sensible day shoes, I retrieved a blindfold, black and trimmed in delicate white lace. I also took out a set of restraints, designed to loop around a headboard, with Velcro fastenings. There wasn’t anything particularly special about them, I’d bought them at a popular kink shop in the mall near work. These places were ubiquitous. It barely even counted as kinky, frankly. But still, his eyes went wide, and he paled, slightly.

            “I want you to tie me up,” I said, very softly, voice trembling and cheeks flaming. “And—um, you know. Blindfold me, too.” Unable to meet his gaze, I stared into my lap and the cheap tools that sat there. But my hand drifted back to his crotch, rested over the erection still tenting his trousers. “And—I’d really like it if you let me do the same thing to you.”

            Judging by the way he stirred beneath my hand, at least one part of Jonas was intrigued by the idea. He stared at me like he was waiting for the punchline. When I didn’t add anything, he chuckled nervously. “Um—” and then a moment later, again, “um.” After a pause, he added. “Really?”

            I nodded my head, blushing red enough to match my dress.

            “Why?”

            “Because I think it’d be exciting,” I said.

            He tilted his head a little, chewing on his lip. “I don’t….” He chuckled uneasily. “But I barely know you, Cindy.”

            I nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. “That’s what makes it so exciting.” Shifting closer, so that our knees touched, I faced him, resting my palm against his chest, fingers fanned wide. “But it’s—safe, too? Because I know you’re a good boy, Jonas. Last weekend, you could’ve done anything to me. No need to tie me up to have your way with me. But you didn’t. You didn’t, but—maybe—” and I don’t think it would’ve been possible to force my blush any deeper, and I fluttered my eyelashes in distress—“since then, I’ve imagined, even dreamed one night, you know… that maybe you did?”

            Then I turned my back to him, hands clenched tight in my lap. “Oh, God, you must think I’m such a slut.”

            There was a long pause in which I heard him breathing behind me. I wondered if maybe I’d over done it. Then, his hand fell lightly on my shoulder. “I don’t think you’re a slut,” he said.

            I smiled. “Thank you.”

            “But why me?” He reached across to my lap, picked up one of the restraints, turned it over in his hand. “You said—”

            I blew a bang out of my face, irritated. “Because I like you! Why is that so hard for you to—”

            “No,” he interrupted. “I mean, why me, as in, why tie me up, too?”

            “Because—I’d like to feel—powerful, for once.” I gripped my forearm tightly and breathed a little heavily from my mouth. “Like, giving up control, in some ways, that’s easy, my whole life sort of feels like it’s been out of control, know what I mean? I won’t pretend to understand the, you know, psychology of any of this. But letting you tie me up and letting you take charge, I dunno, I think that sounds easy, it’s not something I’ve ever done, not in this way I mean, not with actual restrains and all, but I give way to stronger people, like all the time, Jonas, I’m used to it? And trying this with you, I think it’ll be fun.

            “But also, taking it, that is, taking control? It kinda feels—wrong, for a girl?” And here I grinned, poked him in the chest. “For a girl like me?” He winced, and I continued. “Somehow, subversive, you know, and that makes it exciting, a little bit naughty, if you get me, like we’re inverting those power structures you keep going on about. Because. Well.” And here, I touched his wrist, his forearm. “Do you have any idea what it feels like, Jonas, to be—small? And um… weak?”

            With a wry smile, he answered, “I’m hardly Mr. Macho myself.”

            I smiled. “You’re stronger than me, Jonas. Like, a lot stronger.” Sliding my hand up to his bicep, I now lifted myself, turned away and sat lightly in his lap, spreading my arms out alongside his arms. Our arms made a sharp contrast. He wasn’t wrong: Jonas wasn’t exactly a big guy. And yet. My arms were slender, at rest lacking definition. Taking his wrists, I pulled his arms around me, in an embrace. He held me. It was easy to feel small, in his arms, but also safe. “And I guess it’s okay I’m not very strong. I’m small and that’s fine, I like it, it feels good, usually.” I shivered in the strong circle of his arms. “Frustrating, sometimes. And scary, too. Sometimes scary-good, sometimes not. And I guess—what I’m trying to say is that just once, I’d like to feel—strong, like I’m the one in charge.”

            His breath was hot on my neck, and his erection pushed into my lower back. “You don’t need cuffs to be in control, Cindy” he murmured. “I’ll already do whatever you want. Anything.”

            This fucking kid.

            “This,” I said, then took his hand and brought it to my lips and kissed his knuckles. “I want to do this. If you’re okay with it.”

            A single, deep intake of breath, loudly released and then he said, “I’m okay with.”

            I gave a little squeal of pleasure, jumped to my feet, pulling him to his. “This is going be so much fun!” He grinned uneasily. I unbuttoned his shirt, slid my nails along his chest up to his shoulder, and holding him there, kissed his chest, and again, up to his neck and as he shivered with excitement, I tugged his shirt down his arms and tossed it to one side. “You won’t need these,” I said, unbuckling his belt. Another quick tug and Jonas kicked his trousers to one side. His boxers were impressively tented by his boner. He blushed a little and, without hesitation—eagerly, even—I knelt and lay a gentle kiss to his cock through the fabric of his underwear. They were clean, or had been until a moment ago, dots of precum now staining the cotton dark. His cock jumped under my lips. Then I took both his hands and led him to the bed. He followed with a sort of far-away look to his eyes, and a distant, small smile.

            Jonas sat at the head of the bed as I fiddled with the restraints. For a second, the straps baffled me, just like a particularly complicated piece of lingerie, too many straps, buckles. He watched, a little bemused. “I think—” I said, looping one strap through his headboard. The headboard was made up thin slats of simple, varnished wood, with centimeter-wide gaps between each one. “But, no, this needs—”

            “Maybe—” He loosened a buckle, intrigued by the challenge despite his nervousness.

            “How about?”

            “Yeah—there.” He winched a strap a little tighter. “And then—”

            We had it, two restraints about a meter apart, cuffs opened and waiting.

            “Voila!”

            Jonas chewed his lower lip. “Cool.” He tugged at one of the restraints. “Cool.”

            “Only one piece missing, now.”

            He stared blankly at me.

            “You,” I said.

            “Oh.”

            “You’re not—okay with this, are you?” I held his hand, and stared intently into his gentle, brown eyes. “You don’t have to—”

            “It’s fine, I want to.” But he didn’t move.

            “I could go first,” I said. “If you prefer?”

            He shook his head, smiled wanly. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

            I kissed him on the lips. “No,” I said, and meant it. I felt him waver as I kissed him. I ran my fingers through his hair and bit gently on his lip and sucked on it. His hands found my hips and held me there. Firmly, I took his right hand and brought it to the first cuff. As though in a daze, he allowed me to guide him into position. I closed the Velcro cuff around his wrist. He gave it a tug. It held just fine. I asked him if it was comfortable and he said it felt a little too tight. I told him to undo and redo it. He did so and said it was more comfortable, now. Then I circled the bed and took his other hand and brought it to the second cuff. He watched me silently, again gnawing on his lip. Then, I closed the cuff around his wrist. He gave it a tug. It, too, held. And now he lay there in his bed, arms spread wide above his head, watching me with clear nervousness.

            I smiled. “Comfortable?”

            “Um,” he said. He glanced first at one hand and then the other, clenched his fists. “No?”

            “Too bad,” I said, grinning.

            With giddy energy, I bounced onto the bed and straddled his waist. “Oh, this is fun,” I exuded. “I like this!” Reaching behind my neck, I untied the halter top to my dress. The front dropped and my breasts hung loose and free. His eyes went wide. I gave a little wiggle. “Go on,” I said. “Touch them.”

            His hands yanked uselessly at the restraint. “Not fair,” he said.

            I jumped off the bed, grabbed the blindfold. “Now this.”

            “I… don’t know, Cindy.” He looked worried. “I don’t know if I want that.”

            “You don’t trust me?”
            He looked hurt. “I let you tie me up!”

            “Then why not this?”
            “I—” His mouth worked an unspoken idea for a moment, then he sighed. “Because I want to look at you?”

            “Aw, that’s sweet.” I said. “Well, you’ll get to feel me instead. And hear. And smell.” I grinned. “And if you’re really good, taste, too. Trust me, Jonas. I’m going to make his worth your while.”

            He nodded. I slipped the blindfold over his face. “No peeking,” I said. He released an annoyed breath, and I laughed. Then, I kissed his cheek, his ear, nibbled at his earlobe. He chuckled, uneasily. “Don’t go anywhere,” I said.

            At the foot of the bed, the tablet. I picked it up. The tablet was still on, though locked after sitting unused for several minutes. With the device in my hand, I walked around the bed to my purse. Jonas’s head turned a little, tracking movement by sound. “What’s going on?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached into the hidden pouch of my purse and retrieved Darius’s security key. With it held between finger and thumb, I returned to the kid’s side. He felt the bed give slightly as I sat next to him.

            I lightly touched his hand, still curled into a fist. He gave a little start. I kissed his hand, his fingers. I took his thumb into my mouth, then his little finger, but not the index. He shivered, relaxed his hand. “Music,” I said, and held his hand firmly. “We need some music,” and I held the pad of his index finger to the tablet sensor.

            “What was that?” he asked.

            The tablet unlocked. I ignored his question. I slid Darius’s key into the tablet’s port. The three micro-LED at its tip flashed red, then one by one, lit up—green.

            Nothing else happened. But then, I didn’t know what to expect or whether anything else should happen. I removed the key and slipped it back into my purse. Meanwhile, Jonas shifted uncomfortably. “Cindy?”

            On the tablet, I tapped a music app.

            “Music,” I said. I picked the first playlist I found. Beautiful, slow, rolling over us with rhythmic familiarity, the somber sounds of piano.

            I could have left it at that. With the boy tied to his bed, blindfolded, with a little music to keep him company. God, it was tempting. Just to leave him there. I had what I came for. Bruno would find him, eventually, he’d be fine. And yet. Jonas was a good kid. Could have made this so much more difficult. Expected, demanded so much more. I would have, once. Yet he didn’t, he was kind, he took care of me when I failed to care for myself. And what was the price of this? A blowjob? And what if it was? Such a simple thing, really. For Cindy, anyway. Commonplace these days, less meaningful than a kiss. Or more. I’d already done him three times, what’s one more? And look: Christ, he wanted me, ready to tear a hole in his boxers he wanted me so badly. There was power in that, something appealing in provoking a reaction like that. And where’s the disgust, as my hand drifted to his thigh? Only mild queasiness remains, the rest washed away last weekend, down the drain of his filthy little shower.

            I slipped out of my dress. Easier, this way. Then, I climbed onto the bed. I stretched out alongside him, sweeping my hair over my right shoulder. My naked flesh against his naked flesh. The air whispered against us both, goosebumps rising. My right breast pushed into his side. Slowly, my right hand traveled, spider-like, across his thigh, his abdomen, walking gently on red nails across his pale skin. He drew in a sharp breath as my nails pricked him. My other hand stroked his hair. Reaching his neck, I gently wrapped my fingers around his throat. I felt him grow tense. I tightened my grip; he grew more tense; his cock strained ever tighter against his boxers. Meanwhile, the music played on, Moonlight Sonata coiling its melancholy around us both as I relaxed my grip, gently raked my nails across his cheek, his chest, and then I straddled him, kneeling over his stomach. I held my head low, long hair swaying across his chest. Slowly, I tickled my way up until my hair fell across his face, a blonde cloak wrapping us both in its gilded cocoon. A moment, and then I leaned closer—breath hot against his face—breathed in deeply, the scent of my perfume and his aftershave—something musky, surprisingly masculine—and then, with exquisite slowness, pressed my lips against his. I kissed his lips, his temple, his ear and reared up, made him wait, then lifted my breast to his mouth. He smiled, darted out his tongue, and licked. I gave a little squeal, leaned closer and he eagerly took my tit into his mouth, tongue swirling, licking, mouth closing around the peak. It felt fucking amazing. He sealed his lips shut and I slowly pulled back until only the nipple remained between his lips until—with a final pop and string of drool—it popped free.

            Then I kissed him again, the top of his nose, his chin, collarbone, sliding down his body, his erect cock now pushing into my body. I kissed him until I reached his pectoral. My fingers threaded through sparse chest hair, and I pressed my lips to his chest, licked, circled his areola and just as he’d done a minute ago, sealed my lips around his nipple. He jerked, drew in a hissing breath. I breathed out over his nipple, laughed lightly, lapped at the small pale nib. He whimpered, complained and I told him to be quiet, he seemed to enjoy doing it to me, if he wanted me to stop, he could just use his hands to stop me, oh wait. He bit his lip and writhed beneath me as I attacked his other nipple. But only for a short while before I resumed my progress down his body, slowly crawling downwards as I kissed his waist, his stomach, dipping my tongue in his belly-button, and his dick now prodded my chest.

            I reached his boxers. I tugged them down his legs, tossed them to the floor. His cock stood tall and erect. It surprised me again by its size. I gazed at it and waited for the shudder of revulsion. It did not come, only mild queasiness. This wasn’t something I would choose to do. And yet doing it no longer seemed so terrible. Unpleasant, certainly, a man’s cock in my mouth. Somehow, this kid made it seem less unpleasant.

             I curled my fingers around the base of his cock. His whole body flexed under my touch and his penis was hard and hot to the touch. I grinned, even though he couldn’t see me. I opened my mouth and breathed out against the length of his penis, ahhh, and he made a similar sound and his bum rose from the bed. Then I trailed one long nail up his cock, slowly, tracing a dark, purple vein, and reaching the head, slowly dragged the edge of the nail around the rim. Jonas bit his lip, whimpered. I lay a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock, tasted saltiness there and he exclaimed, Cindy! I breathed in deeply and smelled fennel, noted that he’d even trimmed his pubes. Good boy, I thought and opened my mouth and swallowed him as far as I could go.

            He didn’t last long. I tried to keep him going but he barely lasted a minute before groaning, hands curling into tight fists, headboard creaking as his whole body clenched tight, he cried out, once, Oh God, Cindy! and then came in my mouth.

            I went to the bathroom and gargled mouthwash. Then I came back. The Moonlight Sonata was just rolling into the third movement. Jonas lay there, looking supremely pleased with himself. He heard me return.

            “Enjoy that?”

            “Oh my God,” he said. “That was fucking amazing.” He tugged at his restraints. “Anytime, Cindy. Honestly.”

            I smiled, releasing him. “Thank you,” I said.

            He shook his head. “You go down on a guy, and you thank him?”

            I laughed. Then he looked at the restraints. “Would you—?”

            I blushed. I wouldn’t, but I’d promised. I’d gotten what I wanted out of him, but I’d promised. With a little nod, I indicated my consent.

            It didn’t take very long, though he did surprise me a few times. Lacking originality, he followed the pattern I laid out for him. He pulled the restraints tight and slipped the blindfold over my eyes. First, he lay next to me, our naked bodies lightly touching. His fingers traced gentle patterns across my skin, with the addition of a little breast play; he couldn’t help himself and who could blame him, tits like mine? Unlike him, instead of hissing and twitching with displeasure, his touch elicited little moans and signs of pleasure. He wasn’t bad, this kid, had a fine instinct for handling tits.

            Following that, he straddled me, drawing a line of kisses and licks and little bites up and down my body, again paying special attention to my nipples. My back arched and I moaned, unwillingly, and the wetness and excitement Aiko planted in me earlier returned. I wasn’t thrilled to be tied to some guy’s bed but couldn’t deny it felt good. Damn that girl, though, for getting me all excited earlier.

            Then he kissed me, my lips, my neck. There was a brief wait, in which I heard him breathing heavily over me. I smelled fennel and sandalwood and then felt the tip of his cock prodding my lips. Almost involuntarily I opened my mouth, made some vague sound of protest—we hadn’t talked about this!—and then his cock was in my mouth, again, and fucking Christ to be twenty-two again with a refractory period shorter than a goddamn sonata movement. His dick in my mouth was hot, hard and ready. Then the real surprise when, after a few, shallow thrusts, he made a sort of strangled noise and suddenly grabbed my shoulders and held me firm and suddenly his cock twitched, he groaned and came again. I wasn’t ready. I coughed and sputtered and swallowed, involuntarily, bitter taste of cum hitting the back of my throat. It tasted awful. I could imagine it splashing in my stomach, white curls coiling in ramen broth.

            Stupid fucking kid. Thanks for the extra trauma, you little shit, more for me to process later, at home and alone, over a stiff, cleansing bottle of whiskey.

            Jonas must’ve seen the look on my face. His weight lifted from the bed. He removed the blindfold. The music continued to play, Beethoven’s third movement reaching its conclusion. I blinked with the sudden light, tears dotting the corners of my eyes. Wordlessly, he reached for the restraints.

            “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

            He arrested his motion. “I—”

            “You’re not done yet, mister.”

            “But—” Still unsure, a hint of a smile. “I—I didn’t mean to….”

            “And I didn’t want you to.” I grimaced, stuck my tongue out. “Like, gross dude. Give a girl some warning next time.”
            “Next time?” That hint blossomed into something fully grown.

            “That depends,” I told him. “On whether you stick your finger in my pussy or not.”

            Which he did, finding me very wet and very excited, and I squealed, just a little, and clenched down and wiggled and squirmed around his finger for a bit, and he played with my tits for a little longer, and fuck me if it didn’t all feel sort of fantastic, though in a totally unsatisfying way, leaving me hot, bothered and very horny, panting and red faced because I didn’t orgasm, despite his efforts, and eventually asked him to stop.

            Afterwards, I slipped back into my work clothes for the day. “Thank you for tonight,” I said.

            “When can I see you again?” he asked.

            “Goodbye, Jonas,” I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

***

And leaving his place, I remembered that night in Takamatsu some two years ago. Funny, because I hadn’t thought of that night since.

            I remembered how, very drunk now, Mako and I staggered out of Nostalgia into the hot, heavy night.

            It was very late. The streets were empty. Swaying, drifting side to side, we stumbled down the covered shopping arcade, past shuttered shopfronts and dark side alleys, our shoes squeaking against the floor. The only thing that kept Mako from hitting the floor was my arm around his shoulders. Between the fingers of one hand, he clutched a cigarette. His face was flushed and he was half-blind with drink, muttering words I could not understand. There were still a few stores open: a Lawson’s convenience store, painfully bright with florescent light; a late-night flower shop, its opening exhaling a humid breath across out skin.

            “Flowers,” Mako exclaimed, and slouched into the store. He emerged five minutes later with a bouquet of flowers, an expensive one, pale purples and light pinks, yellows and a singular brilliant burst of red, clutched tightly in his free hand.

            “For me?”

            He laughed. “Wife,” he slurred, and as we resumed walking, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. It took him a few tries but eventually he unlocked it and brought up some photos. “Wife,” he repeated. “Children.”

            She stood in a red dress with white polka dots, fluttering hem caught in the fingers of some unseen breeze, hands clasped demurely at her front, and little pearl earrings. His wife was very pretty with kind eyes. She had a knowing smile. And pictures of his children, a boy and a girl, both in their teens. The boy had his father’s smile, the girl his nose and chin. I saw in both something familiar. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing another possible life.

            The final picture Mako showed me must have been on holiday somewhere, maybe Hokkaido, there was snow in the background as the family relaxed in a hot spring, steam rising from the water. All four of them were smiling, with the father and mother in the middle, a child on either side. It was a very happy picture. I felt a stirring deep in my belly.

            Mako put his phone back in his jacket. He brandished the flowers. “She’s a good woman,” he said, grinning, face gleaming grotesquely with a sheen of sweat and booze. His lower lip drooped in his drunkenness, wet and grey. “A good wife.”

            Nodding, I took him firmly by the upper arm. “This way,” I said.

            I led him into one of the narrow dark alleys between buildings. It took him a moment to realize where he was. A stench of garbage and piss hit us. He half-turned and blinked at me with confusion.

            I punched him in the gut, hard. He folded in two, silently, dropping to his knees. Then, I kicked him. My foot caught him in the ribs. Something gave way. He crumpled flat to the ground. Grabbing him by his jacket, I hauled him from the ground and then slammed my fist into his face. His nose burst and blood stained my knuckles. He dropped flat to ground and lay still on the dirty concrete floor, surrounded by garbage. One hand scrabbled in the filth. God stand up for bastards, I thought. I kicked him again, and again. It was like hitting a lump of meat. The only sound was the dull impact caught in the space of the narrow alley.

            Finally, I knelt next to this man. I heard him wheeze and blood bubbled from his nose. Red dribbled to the ground, pooling beneath his cheek in the dirt. This pathetic man. A father. My father. A night in his company and he said nothing of worth. This hollow man, a drunk and a lecher in a cheap, creased suit. He had nothing to offer me.

            But I reached for his wrist anyway. I felt his pulse. It beat strongly beneath my fingertip. I stripped him of his watch. Then, I slipped the watch onto my wrist. It was a perfect fit. Then I stood and brushed myself down. I stared at this man. I wasn’t even breathing heavily.

            I left him there and the next day returned to Tokyo and the week after that returned home, job done.

***

After that night at Jonas’s, I returned home to find Julia waiting for me. She’d been gone for weeks, and then suddenly she was back. I was hardly feeling my best, especially after the long bus ride from his place to mine. But it was good having her there. She distracted me from less pleasant thoughts, even if I only told her about Jonas much later.

            Later still, I visited Anna, and afterwards, Darius.

            As usual, Anna dressed me for visiting Xanadu. I was still Darius’s dress-up doll, but Anna took a kinder approach after that first visit. Instead of tight bondage, she opted for more of a Lolita look: corset dress with a very short skirt, tottering heels, lots of petticoats, lots of lace and bows and bright sparkling makeup. Still embarrassing but less uncomfortable and I appreciated not being gagged. She couldn’t gag me because, after all, she had entirely too many questions to which she expected answers. Tell me about these girls, she said, this Mel, she sounds fun. Or: how did it feel, kissing him, touching his penis? After, why did you choose to wear your work clothes instead of the red dress? Can I see a picture of the dress? Tell me about your work, about Cindy’s work, how does it feel, this job? And that girl, the waitress, yes, Aiko, tell me about her, please.

            Eventually, satisfied, she led me through to Darius. As before, the panels lining the long walls of Xanadu lit up at my entrance. This time, however, the images were new: Cindy, in that short, tight dress, at Tartarus; dancing at the club—dancing, then dancing with my tits out, surrounded by leering boys—then being led away red-faced and ashamed, by Bruno. Lying half-conscious, in the chill pod. Kneeling, between Jonas’s legs in the dark, this one on a short loop, head bobbing up and down over his lap. The sight of myself delivering my first, sloppy blowjob, seen from that outside perspective, it twisted my stomach. I felt sick. But I wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

            “That’s one way to get close to your target,” Darius said, his projection flicking into existence near the table at the center of the room. I didn’t like his smirk, nor the way his eyes tracked across my tits, my bared shoulders.

            “Fuck you,” I said. “Job’s done.”

            He waved his hand theatrically, and more screens lit up. “Maybe more than just a job?” The new screens tracked my evening with the boy: sitting with him at Edo, the stolen kiss with Aiko in the corridor, leaving with him, too and then walking along the road to his place, hand in hand. “You like the boy.”

            I glared at him, took a deep breath, let it go. “Yeah, the kid’s alright,” I said.

            Darius stood at the other end of the table from me. “Through the boy, I’ve gained access to the security network at the club.” Behind him, one-by-one, more screens lit up and revealed scenes from Tartarus. There were too many to make any real sense of it, an incoherent barrage of young people, dancing, drinking, a bacchanal of youth captured in high definition. The images came from—everywhere, from the many dance floors to the chill-out rooms, bathrooms and bars, kitchen, entrance, cloak room and storage closets, VIP rooms and basement passages in grey concrete. “This boy, Jonas, he’s clever.” A hint of grudging respect in his voice. “One to keep an eye on.”

            The idea of Darius keeping an eye on Jonas made me uneasy.

            “But perhaps you’d enjoy keeping an eye on him?” New images appeared: Jonas’s bedroom. These were a little fuzzy, slight distortions suggesting lower resolution images boosted and cleaned up a little. But there we were, in his bedroom. First, Jonas tied to his bed and me crouched over him, face down around his crotch. But also, me tied to his bed, naked, the boy’s pale white ass and his dick thrusting in between my red lips, beneath a black blindfold trimmed in white lace.

            “He filmed us?” Hot outrage rose in my chest; I’d kill the little punk.

            But Darius chuckled. “No,” he said. “I did.”
            I glared at him. “What’s next?” I snapped.

            The footage surrounding us fragmented, dissolved and faded to a dull grey glow.

            “Two more,” he said, “as agreed.”

            On the table, two more security keys. And then, flickering to life on the nearest screens, two faces I recognized all too well.

            The first was Mr. Michael Connor. And the second, Julia.

            “Good luck,” Darius said.