Welcome to the Neighborhood

Sunlight peeks through the translucent curtains, painting our new little living room in Nagoya with warm strokes of gold.

It's our first morning here, in a box of a space that's more 'cozy' than 'claustrophobic,' depending on who you ask. I vote cozy. Especially when Ken's here. Everything's better when Ken's here.

He's in full Japanese businessman mode—crisp suit, sleek tie, hair combed to such perfection it could probably deflect bullets. Yet, there he stands, amidst a fortress of unopened boxes, looking perplexed at a coffee maker that's still wrapped in bubble wrap.

"Remember? 'Home is where your Wi-Fi connects automatically,'" I remind him.

"Right, right. I'll pick up the router on the way home." He glances at his watch. "I should get going, though. Let's tackle this… fortress when I get back. I'll do what I can to come home early."

"Sure. A kiss before you leave me, so cruelly?" I add, cocking my head to the side.

Ken plants a quick, tender kiss on my lips. But I'm not having any of that quick peck nonsense. Not this morning.

"Muah!" I pull him in, turning a simple goodbye into a proper send-off. Our kiss deepens, my fingers finding their way into his perfectly combed hair, messing it up (just a bit).

"Nnggh!!" my husband tries to protest, but I can tell he's not really trying.

"Ken..." I whisper between breaths.

"Okay, okay," he laughs, breaking away but still in the grasp of my arms. "I'm off to work."

And then, despite our passionate interlude, I dive back in. This time, it's laughter that breaks us apart.

"I'll be late for work!"

I watch him leave, a bubble of happiness in my chest. Our new life in Japan, the adventure we embarked on together, is filled with these small, enchanted moments. I'm standing in an apartment overrun with boxes, in a city where I'm still learning to navigate both the streets and the customs, but with Ken, it feels like the pieces fall into place.

With a contented sigh, I glance around the apartment. Time to tackle the day, one box at a time.

I start with "Kitchen Misc."

"Here thar be dragons," I slice the tape with more enthusiasm than necessary.

The first thing that greets me is a teapot. Not just any teapot, though. It's the horrendously neon pink teapot that Ken won for me at a summer festival. The one that makes him squirm, given its clash with every aesthetic known to man, specifically his favorite earthy tones. I remember insisting he try the ring toss; his serious face then seeming as if the fate of nations rested upon his shoulders. Then, finally, him presenting it, with all the solemnity of a knight errant offering a quest item.

"In the name of love and terrible decor," I set it aside.

The clink and clatter of dishes interrupt my unpacking trance, each item unraveling our mix of East meets West, his and hers, ramen and burgers.

Next up is the heavy cast-iron skillet, a housewarming gift from my sister back in the States, inscribed – no, prescribed with the words "For Better Bacon." It's the skillet that Ken found mystifying, questioning its absurd weight like one would an alien artifact.

"It's multipurpose," I assured him, remembering the first omelet I cooked him, how the cheese oozed like my heart did when he ate it despite his aversion to "runny dairy."

A pair of mugs tumbles out next. One has a staid print of a shinkansen. The other boasts a graphic of Rosie the Riveter flexing with 'We Can Brew It!' splashed in bold letters.

I might be a red-haired explosion of freckles and untamed ponytails to his precise part and restrained demeanor, but it works, somehow.

I tug at bubble wrap and it gives way to the clink of cutlery and dishes. A photo frame edges its way into view.

There he was, Ken, flanked by cherry blossoms, a man with the kind of composure that could've solidified air. This was back when I did English tutoring, and he was one of those diligent after-hours attendees, tie slightly askew, always five minutes early.

"Foundational phrases," I had ventured that first class, but his earnestness soon had us tumbling into conversations that ranged from the philosophical depth of the four ways of eating Hitsumabushi, to the untapped comedy of fiscal reports.

Here's a spatula we bought on that giggly, shop-hopping Saturday. It has a giraffe-patterned handle—his impromptu gift following a playful spat about whether long necks or significant heights were more evolutionary advantageous, or a dead end.

I come across an old ceramic bowl, and within it lies an assortment of hair ties. I remember once complaining about the weight of my copious, unruly locks in the Japanese humidity. Ken was leaving for a business trip. When he returned, among the souvenirs and tales of meetings, he unveiled the most delicate, ornate hairpin I had ever seen, a testament to the skill of local artisans but also, silently, an embodiment of his attentiveness to my struggles.

That was just a few weeks before he proposed.

I pull out my apron - it's baking time.

Nothing says 'neighborly love' like a batch of homemade brownies. And we're talking the Thompson family recipe, the kind that could broker peace treaties or at least win over the apartment complex.

Brown butter is key, the kind of secret that makes you want to whisper and glance over your shoulder. I watch the butter melt in the pan, turning a golden hue, turning an ordinary moment into a little culinary alchemy.

"Foundational flavors," I muse. I remember the hesitant way he first tried a brownie, analyzing it like a quarterly report before surrendering to the gooey, fudgy magic.

As the butter browns, I chop the dark chocolate, the knife rocking back and forth in a steady rhythm. The scent of cocoa and espresso powder mingles in the air, a promise of indulgence. I think back to our wedding—how we skipped the traditional cake and served brownies instead, how Ken's meticulous precision melted away as we fed each other the sticky, sweet squares, his laughter mingling with mine.

I love it when he laughs - it's so hard to get him to do it, and I love triggering it.

I whisk in the sugars and crack the eggs. One by one, they slide into the bowl, golden and gorgeous. Japanese eggs are just on another level. Vanilla pours in like a fragrant rain, and I whip the mixture until it's thick and fluffy.

The oven hums as the brownies bake, and I step out to the apartment's railing, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. Below, Nagoya is coming to life, the sun casting long shadows as the city stretches awake. I lean there, procrastination whispering sweet nothings about unpacked boxes, but I'm already committed to my mission of sugary diplomacy.

I cut the cooled brownies and tuck them into little packages, the kind that say "I'm your new best friend." I feel Ken's fond amusement as I fuss over the presentation, knowing he'd tease me about my 'generous portions'—an allusion to my big ol' titties.

Well, generosity is a virtue.

I knock on the first door, the brownies a sweet ambassador in my hands.

The door creaks open and the Ishikawas, my new neighbors, peer out—a couple so quintessentially Japanese, they could have stepped right out of a travelogue. They're immediately taken aback by the sight of a foreign woman—the redhead with a gift-bearing grin.

"Konnichiwa! Watashi wa, tonari ni hikkoshi shimashita, Elizabeth to mōshimasu." Hello! I've just moved in next door, my name is Elizabeth.

They crinkle into warm smiles. Their astonishment isn't at the brownies but at my Japanese, which is fairly fluid after almost 10 years of living here.

"Ah! Hontōni?" Really? They beckon me in.

Mrs. Ishikawa takes the brownies, examining them as if they're exotic treasures.

"Amerika no recipe desu," I explain. "Oishii to ii desu ne."

I hand them the brownies, still quite hot, fresh from the ven.

"Chotto, neko-jita kamo shirenai kara..." I caution with a playful smile, warning them that they're still quite hot.

Ken had taught me this phrase about having a "cat's tongue," meaning you can't handle hot food.

I touch my own tongue and wince comically, "Jibun mo sakki yaita kedo, taberu kachi ga arimashita!" I might have burned my own tongue earlier, but it was worth it!

Mr. Ishikawa lets out a hearty chuckle.

"Sugoi, Nihongo ga jōzu desu ne!"

Their praise washes over me, and I bow my head, letting a humbled "Arigatou" escape my lips.

They insist on repaying the kindness and invite Ken and me to dinner. It's a whirlwind of 'yōkoso' and 'itsumo no you ni', welcomes and as-always', all served with the kind of sincerity that makes you believe in the inherent goodness of people.

As I make my way back, a sense of pride swells within me. I've navigated this exchange not as the foreigner I am but as the neighbor I hope to be. It's these little victories, these bridges built of brownies and banter, that make Japan feel more like home.

"Round two!" I cheer to myself as I ring the next doorbell.

This one is Mr. Otonari.

He's huge. A chubby mountain of a man with a grin that's all teeth and way too much enthusiasm.

"Are you Marin-san from the 'Nice and Chunky Club'?" he blurts out in Japanese, his words tumbling over each other in excitement. "I've been expecting you!! Come! Get in, get in!"

I blink. Once. Twice. Did I hear him right?

In an instant, he's grabbed my arm, pulling me into his apartment with a strength that leaves me stunned. My brownies fall to the ground.

"Payment is on the cupboard, please take it when you leave!" He huffs as he drags me through the cramped, dimly lit apartment.

"Ch- chotto matte kudasai!" I stammer out, my mind spinning, unsure what to do.

He doesn't pay any heed, manhandling me into a traditional-style bedroom and tossing me onto a futon.

"Aah!" I yelp out, pain stinging through me as I land. "What are you...?!"

I start to protest in English, my Japanese failing me in the moment of panic.

But he's already tugging at his shirt.

"Sorry but I can't wait any longer!" He bellows, unbuttoning his pants, "I'm already pent up for this!"

My heart races as he strips his pants off, revealing his stained white underwear.

My protests turn into horror, "A-aaahh!!!" This is some kind of horrible mistake. He thinks I'm someone else.

"Marin-san, are you the type of person who screams?" His grin widens, misunderstanding my terror for an act.

He strips off his his briefs and in a horrifying move, stuffs it into my mouth as a gag. The taste is as vile as you'd expect, a musky stench that makes me want to retch.

"Please bear with it. My underwear." He says, entirely too pleased with himself.

His words and actions are so absurd, so surreal, that it leaves me stunned and speechless. The room spins, my mind churning with disbelief... and fear.

His pudgy, cold fingers yank at my white linen pants, a stylish pair I'd picked up from a little boutique in Ginza last month. He strips them off with frightening force. My heart beats faster, harder as I squirm.

What the hell is happening???

His comments fly at me in fast, lewd Japanese, remarks about my body that cause my cheeks to burn in abject humiliation. He's undressing me on his dingy futon, his sweaty, clammy hands on my hips, his greasy fingers brushing against my thighs.

"Fuwaa…"

His eyes practically gleam at the sight of my pale, freckled legs bared before him. His grotesque comments tumble out in Japanese.

"Ah, such pale, delicious skin! I am enchanted. You Western women really do have some allure, ne?"

I squirm under his gaze, the whites of my legs contrasting with the bright pink blossoming across my thighs and fading into the blue lace of my underwear.

It's getting harder to breathe, harder to keep the panic at bay as he pulls my shirt upwards, revealing my blue bra, white-bordered, barely containing my big breasts breasts. The shock of this, the shock of being seen - examined this way in fact - by anyone else but Ken is adding to the rising hysteria.

"Uwa… What an erotic body…" He ogles my bosom, his grubby hands reaching for my lace-covered breasts that were, just moments ago, safely nestled away. My stomach lurches, a whimper choked by the foul gag fills the room as he dares to lay his grimy hands on my breasts.

My world starts spinning at a nauseating speed, his sweaty body heaving over me, his meaty hands squeezing my flesh. His rough digits quickly give way to his hot, ravenous mouth, as he pushes my panties aside.

"Itadakimasu!" he declares it's time to eat.

The disgusting sound of his tongue reverberates through my ears, kicks me into a new level of panic. NGHHH!! My mind screams in vain - my voice only a muffled, stifled sound.

He seems to take my whimpers as encouragement, the horrid feeling of his tongue flicking, lapping at my vagina. The sensation, unwanted and harsh, spins me into overdrive. It's not pleasure, it's an overload, an invasion of my being, as his enormous palms squash my flushed breasts, my breath hitching every time he tweaks my sensitive nipples.

The man is huge, grotesque; having him bear down on me, having his tongue sloppily devour—my body reacts involuntarily to the new, intense stimuli, a helpless, choking gasp leaving my gagged mouth.

My mind is a whirl of obnoxious details - the musty scent of the tatami, the swampy stench of his briefs, the slurping noises from down below, the harsh pressure of his fingers digging into my breasts, the vulgar slur of his words, praising my 'juicy gaijin body', the betrayal of my own flesh.

"Douzo, Marin-san!" He growls, pushing my legs further apart. His slobbering mouth dives in again; his tongue stroking and parting my folds, his groans of satisfaction mixed with my stifled, helpless cries.

I feel a jolt of sensation as his tongue circles my clit, sending sparks through me. It's too much, too soon, too shameful. I can feel my body responding in spite of my panic.

"NHHH!" My body arches upward involuntarily, a breathless whimper escaping just before his underwear muffles it.

"Uma~i!" He bellows contentedly between slurps, "Oishi! American pussy is delicious!"

Blood roars in my ears, my heart pounding as if trying to vault out of my rib cage. Sickeningly, he takes my sounds and movements as a sign of pleasure, his laughter rendered sadistic by the echoes of my useless mewls.

As his tongue returns to its sloppy lapping between my legs, I try desperately to close my thighs against the assault, against the shuddering, revolting sensation coursing through me. But he's too strong, easily spreading me apart again, his brutish laughter echoing in the room.

"Ah, you're juicy, Marin-san," he growls into my searing heat, taking a deep, appreciative sniff.

"Wha... Ughhhhh...!!"

The crude slurping sounds grow louder as his fat, sloppy tongue works its way deeper into my folds. My body involuntarily quivers under his lapping. My screams stay muffled inside his disgusting underwear.

I can hear him, chuckling like a pig above me, his greasy hands now greedily grabbing and squeezing my HUGE breasts. They've been kept lovingly hidden, not even a bit of cleavage, seen only by Ken, and here's this nasty stranger manhandling them with such utter delight.

"Wow, what a heavy pair of tits," he grins grotesquely, his fingers cold and clammy on my hypersensitive skin, "Never thought juicy white tits like these could be so big, pale, and soft."

My face feels like it's scorching, my skin inflamed from the absolute humiliation.

Suddenly his rough hands yank hard at my breasts, forcing them fully out of their delicate lace confines with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

"Haaa, they're spilling out!" He laughs like a kid at a candy store, his clammy hands pawing at my mounds, squeezing at the hentai-sized knockers that have caused me all sorts of back problems. "So full and ripe, they're a feast, rich and creamy."

His snorts pique my determination. I try to struggle, to push him off, but it's like wrestling an angry, lustful bear back into its cage. He's far too hefty, too strong.

"MmBBBBHHHH!!"

But the more I struggle, the harsher he pins me down. His big, chunky hands continue manhandling my breasts, causing each breast to jiggle violently, the pink nipples hardening under his rough thumbs. It's an intense sensation that's neither pleasure nor pain. It's an invasion.

My legs flail, desperate to kick him away or fight him off, but he's unflinching, his tongue unabated, lapping away at my folds with disgusting devotion.

"Your pussy tastes so sweet, so juicy! Just as I'd imagined an American one to taste. Is this what they feed you back there, cupcakes and cream?"

His lewd commentary peppers the outrageous situation, his grunts rough and primal as he explores my pussy, his rotund belly wobbling with his exertion.

"I'm having a boner just by licking you," he declares.

He's panting now, his hand reaching for a pocket of his discarded jeans. The sound of foil tearing rent the air.

"Hmm… Marín-san," he continues, his gaze keenly pinning me to the mattress. "Please make sure to envelop me properly with your pussy, okay? That's why I'm paying you."

Somewhere in the midst of this horror, a realization peppers the back of my mind. He's assuming I'm a prostitute. A western novelty sent by this 'Big and Chunky Club'.

He doesn't even know he's raping me. He thinks this is all an act!

Somehow, that makes it ten times worse.

"Mou dame. Yaru ze!" I can't take it anymore! Let's do this!

I look towards him, my eyes wide and misted over, a silent plea in the hazy blue depths. But he's beyond comprehension, beyond the bounds of restraint. Too lost in his own arousal.

I can feel it, the thick head of his covered erection nudging at the entrance of my pussy, insistent and arrogant. It's already so hot, too insistent.

He growls, low and animalistic, "Come on now." He hungers for what's beneath me, eagerly sniffing my wet, sopping snatch.

"Ughhh!" I squirm while trying to protest, dancing on the precipice of this terrifying situation.

I don't even know what to do at this point. He's too strong. I clamp my eyes shut, desperately trying to shut him out, to retreat into a safe corner of my mind.

I feel the cool, slippery latex against my pussy, and the sudden push of his swollen cockhead against my clit! His cock grinds against my puffy, wet lips, in a lewd display of bestial desire.

"Unngh…" he groans.

I feel the resistance give way, his bulbous cockhead trespassing the frame of my faithful pussy.

His thick, obese dick-helmet nudges against my folds... kisses my entrance... pushing... prodding... and then...

"HHHGGGUH!!!"

I feel it... the sheer enormity of his girth breaking past my entrance and planting itself inside me as he seems to expand.

My body locks up, eyes rolling back as I squeal, uselessly.

Like a piston, his hip slams into my legs, the base of his engorged member shoved snugly against the drenched entrance of my cunt. I can feel his hairy balls cradle against my ass...

Another muffled, pointless scream.

His rotund presence engulfs me; the musky smell of a man in his fifties, the uncontrolled groaning, the wobbling of his fat paunch crushing down on me. It's all too much, too fast. His dick feels like a rod - a huge, unreasonably brutal porking torch spreading me wide around it.

I'm totally overwhelmed by the slick suction of his cock pumping in and out of my pussy. His frenzied ardor is a grotesque swap for the consistency I get from Ken. This is RUTTING. Like pigs in the mud.

He leans over me as he fucks me—his meaty tongue hangs out of his slobbering mouth. His breath reeks, his grunting pleased and primal.

"OOOOOOOO!!" His ecstasy pitched high, echoing through the room as he slams me open again and again. The grotesque squelch of my pussy lips submitted and conquered by the brutal prying of his cock's girth murders any remaining shreds of dignity I might have had.

My breasts flop to each side with the terrifying force of his thrusts. He arranges them, squeezing my mounds together, creates a cushion for his sweaty chest to slobber over.

"Your pussy … is so good… NGHHGHHHH!!" he moans and slobbers, his voice raw with his barbaric pleasure, snippets of his sweaty face looking down at me, inflating my terror.

His cock is buried in my core, the feeling of being impossibly full, outrageously stretched - it stays with me.

"Oooh, Marin-san!" he grins down at me. His face looking far too pleased with me. As if I'm willingly leaning into his fantasy. "I knew you'd be worth every yen! So responsive, so sexy!"

The room is spinning, circling me into this grotesque carnival of depravity. His weight is an anvil against my body, pinning me down to the tatami mat, his face awash with an obscene pleasure that challenges the bounds of human decency.

I try to wrestle against him. But to him, my struggles are a flailing, feeble resistance engulfed by his tidal wave of fat, sweat, and unquenchable lust.

Suddenly, his pickled-fish breath assaults my senses as he repositions, hauling my legs up towards my head with a crude manhandling. My bare, freckled legs are spread wide, exposing my most intimate parts to the old man now looming larger still from this angle.

His meaty hands brace against my shoulders, shoving me further into the mattress while he positions his red, condom-sheathed cock at my entrance.

A noise leaves me, pathetic, high and desperate, muffled by his underwear.

"SYA... NGHHHHH..."

The grinding push of his phallus splits me open again. It feels like hot, hard steel, ripping me apart each time he slams himself in to the hilt. The room fills with the sickly vulgar sloshing sounds of my wet, abused pussy around the intruder.

Sloppy – wet – invasive sounds mar the air as he bashes his dense, obese cock into my drenched slit, his cock slamming and squelching between my folds; the fat, sloppy fleshiness as he slams into me, slams into me, SLAMS into me.

Each thrust sends a shock of unwanted pleasure through me. It's raw, it's brutish. His fat cockhead grinds against my cervix, invading inner nooks never touched this way.

The sheer enormity has my eyes rolling back in their sockets, as he punches into me. Each brutal thrust jostles my asscheeks harshly, the fat mounds rippling with a borderline slapstick frequency.

"Ooohh... Marin-san!" His voice is thick with arousal, the pleasure in his words making my stomach churn.

I make a vain attempt to wriggle free, but he's got me good, my body trapped in the rutting cage of his repulsive thirst. His sweaty balls hang loose, slapping crassly against my ass with each plunge of his cock into me.

"NNGH... UOH... HNNGH... EHHH...!" he grunts over me.

I try to fight back the spreading warmth. Each helpless moan — another nail sealing my fate. It's a cruel parody of pleasure.

He's fucking me. Fucking INTO me, FUCKING the shit out of me. This is such a horror show. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING??

My eyes water and cross, the sensation of his massive member violating me completely overwhelming. My brain is on fire, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, and the gravity of my situation threatens to obliterate any remaining threads of composure.

Each thick, brutal stroke of his cock sends ripples through my body, my thick ass jiggling under the harsh, repeated slap of his balls against my butt.

Expletives, muffled and distorted, tumble out from the corners of the gag. I'm shaking, trembling, gasping. The sickening, wet sound of his cock slamming in and out of my pussy overrides my senses, my reality wobbling between disbelief and terror.

"My, my, Marin-san! You're such a good girl!" he howls, his voice manic with pleasure. He's loving every second of this, feeding off the pain he's inflicting, the searing humiliation.

With a gesture as abrupt as it is brutal, he yanks my underwear gag out of my mouth, freeing my lips, my tongue, my screams.

"Stop! Please! I'm -"

He doesn't let me finish.

He swoops down, his wet, slobbery mouth claiming mine. His tongue is a grotesque invader, a vile, probing beast that seeks to conquer and subjugate. I'm choking on his scent, his taste, the sickening slush of our tongues wrestling for dominance.

His kisses are rabid, savage, nothing like the tender ones I share with Ken. These are the kisses of a man lost to lust, a man drunk on his own perverse desires.

"MMMMMmmmmMMM!"

His cock is a ruthless piston, relentlessly pounding into my pussy, a sledgehammer relentlessly fracturing the last vestiges of my sanity.

My body spasms beneath him at the barbaric rhythm of his thrusts; my wide hips, my round ass, my big tits - all jiggling in obscene synchrony with his frenzied humping.

"Ohhh you're squeezing me so good!" His voice is a guttural growl, his eyes wild with lust. "Your pussy... so tight, so hot, so juicy!"

His words, his voice, his actions - they merge into a monstrous cacophony, a symphony of violation that shakes me to my core.

I'm not even sure what's happening anymore, but he's grunting, groaning, his thrusts growing erratic. His breath hitches, his pace falters, and then...

"MMMMMNGHHH!!"

His words dissolve into incoherent grunts as he nears his climax, his belly slapping against my trembling form.

"Cumming!!" He growls, his voice thick with arousal, his movements becoming erratic.

"NO!!!" I manage to squeal, my voice raspy, my body shaking with exhaustion and terror.

Suddenly, his movements still, his cock buried deep inside me. His head rolls back, his teeth gritted as he gives one final, powerful thrust. His condom inflates inside me, the feeling of the rubber stretching around his cock as his hot, sticky semen fills it makes me want to vomit.

-SQURRRRT! SPLURRT!!!- The obscene sounds of his orgasm echo in my ears, his hot breath huffing against my neck as he empties himself inside me.

Each thick, heavy pulse of his orgasm sends a fresh wave of humiliation through me, the feeling of his condom swelling with his nasty old man seed almost too much to bear.

"Haah ahaah... this feels great..." He pants heavily, his sweaty body sagging against mine.

His condom is a grotesque balloon, filled with his spurting semen, drooping heavily between his legs when he finally pulls out.

"Since we've come to this... how about another round?" He proposes, his hands already pawing at my breasts again.

Suddenly, there's a sound at the door. DING DONG!!

He freezes, looking towards the entrance. "Huh, a visitor? I was just getting to the good part…"

"I'm Marin-san," comes a voice from outside. "From the Nice and Chunky Club."

I gasp, my heart pounding.

He looks back at me, his expression puzzled, his eyes slowly widening.

I'm not Marin-san.

—

Mr. Otonari's girth shuffles awkwardly back into the bedroom. His brow is furrowed, eyes fixed on me, my body trembling on the futon, a shiver of disgust running through me.

"So, just who on earth are you?" he demands.

I lie there, a broken gasp escaping me. "Ugh... uwh... just who am I??? WHO AM I?"

The fury building within me becomes a conflagration, the heat in my eyes must be visible, a tempest of righteous anger and burning humiliation.

"I'll tell you WHO I AM!" My voice roars, louder than I've ever heard it, "I'm the woman you've just violated, you MONSTER!"

The adrenaline surges, a volcanic eruption of pure, unadulterated rage. My body is trembling, but not with fear anymore. It shakes with fury, with the force of an anger so intense it's almost blinding.

"Yes, I'm the neighbor you just assaulted, you sick bastard!" I scream, my voice a weapon, sharp and unyielding.

He scuttles back, almost comical in his sudden panic, but then he regains his composure. His grin returns, now holding a camcorder, a glint of malice in his eyes.

The recording light is red.

The AUDACITY of this man, to film me right now!

My hands are a flurry of motion, yanking my underwear back into place, pulling down my blouse over my sore, reddened breasts. The fabric sticks to my skin, thanks to all the sweat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" I demand, my voice a thunderclap in the small room.

"Ah, just securing some insurance," he replies, the camcorder unwavering in his hand as he films my frantic attempts to cover myself. He's narrating this atrocity like it's a documentary.

"Blackmail? You think you can blackmail me into silence?!" I'm screaming now, the sound ricocheting off the walls.

His smile stretches wider. "Yes, I'm aware of the gravity of my mistake. But at my age, I would prefer to avoid any... complications with the law."

The words come out like poison, his voice dripping with false contrition. He's maneuvering me into a corner, using my own dignity as a ransom.

"If you want to keep this quiet, it would be in your best interests to forget this little mishap," he says, his tone sinister beneath the veneer of friendliness. "Let's just say nothing happened here, yes?"

"Nothing happened? You raped me!" I'm about to explode, the fury igniting in my eyes, the room spinning with the white-hot intensity of my rage.

"And now, remind me again..." He tilts his head, the camcorder still trained on me. "Who are you?"

"I'm Elizabeth Nakamura. And you've just made the biggest mistake of your life." My voice is ice-cold now, the inferno of my anger solidifying into a deadly calm.

His grin falters for a split second, sensing the resolve in my tone. The fear of consequences, however fleeting, crosses his face. He knows, in that moment, he's not the only one holding cards. He's just unleashed a tempest he wasn't prepared for.

"I filmed everything, Elizabeth," he says, voice laced with smug satisfaction. "Just imagine what would happen if this little encounter of ours found its way onto the internet... or worse, into your husband's hands."

The threat is clear, the implication nauseating. I want to fight, to scream, to claw at him, but the tendrils of fear wrap around me, choking the resistance out of me.

"Think of the embarrassment," he chortles, his lens never straying from my face. "Your husband watching you here, on this futon. Watching you taken by another man."

I can feel bile rise in my throat at the thought, the humiliation stinging more than the rawness between my thighs.

"If you don't want this to spread around," he continues, his face obscured by the camera, "You'd better forget about today. You can make this all go away."

My mind races, panic and dread mingling into a toxic brew.

"You understand, don't you?" he continues, his voice deceptively mild. "A foreigner, especially a woman, might find the authorities less than sympathetic. And then there's your husband, think of his face, watching the video..."

A cold shiver runs down my spine. The implications of his words raise bile in my throat. I can feel the blood draining from my face, the room going cold around me.

"You piece of -" my words are cut short, a sob catching in my throat. I can't even look at him, my gaze dropping to the floor, to the brownies scattered there, the sweet gesture for my new neighbors now just another casualty of this nightmare.

With every shred of dignity I can muster, I snatch up my clothes, clutching them to my chest as I make a run for the door.

---

It's the silence that haunts me now, the stillness of the apartment that feels like a tomb. My mind is a whirlwind, spinning, spinning, and refusing to settle. The moving boxes sit there, mocking me with their normalcy, their promise of a fresh start now tainted by the horror of the day.

This day was supposed to be about new beginnings, not... this. I can hardly bring myself to think of it, the memory rises like bile, choking me with its vividness.

I'm sobbing at the kitchen table, my body wracked by tremors as I try to piece together the fragments of my shattered peace. It's late. 9:35pm. Where is Ken?

The thought of telling him makes my stomach twist. Pretending nothing happened isn't an option; it's a festering wound that no amount of denial can heal. But the alternative... revealing the truth... How do I even begin to tell him?

The image of that video playing before his eyes — my Ken, watching his wife being violated on a futon by that... that monster. Would he doubt me? No, he wouldn't. He can't. He knows me, knows us. We'll get through this together.

Footsteps approach the door. A key rattles in the lock.

"I'm vaack..." Ken's voice is slurred, thick with alcohol. "OW!"

"Careful," a second voice, familiar and dripping with smugness, chides gently.

What the hell? My heart stops. I'm on my feet before I can think, my mind spinning.

"KEN??" My throat tightens around his name.

There they are, Ken swaying on his feet, Mr. Otonari steadying him with a hand on his arm. I can't breathe. This isn't happening.

Ken chuckles, a loose, drunken sound that usually makes me smile. But now it's just a prelude to another nightmare.

"Sorry 'bout this," he slurs. "Helping me get home."

Mr. Otonari just grins, a Cheshire cat playing with his mouse. "It's no problem. Neighbors look out for each other."

Their casual exchange is surreal, played out in my kitchen like a grotesque pantomime. My eyes are locked on that grinning face, that face which not hours ago was contorted in lust over me.

The world tilts, my heart pounds against my ribcage, the situation unfurling before my eyes a grotesque parody of neighborly kindness.

"Well then, I'll take my leave here," Mr. Otonari says, turning towards the door.

"Good night!~" Ken's voice is soft, unaware, innocent.

"Good night to you too," Mr. Otonari adds, his voice slimy with unspoken knowledge. His eyes meet mine, and the grin he offers is a lecherous brand that burns into my soul. "Ma'am."

I glare at him, the venom in my gaze lethal enough to kill. I watch him leave, the door closing with a click that sounds like the lock of a cell.

Ken stumbles towards the couch, oblivious to the storm raging within me.

I want to scream, to explain, to break down and reveal the truth of what's happened, but the words are caught in my throat, strangled by fear and the fresh memory of Mr. Otonari's threat.

Ken leans forward suddenly, his breath a hot wave of whiskey.

"Ken, what even happened tonight?" I press, my voice edged with frustration.

"Haaa..." He sways a little, his words a buoy on the ocean of alcohol. "Otonari-san, we hit up a snack bar. It was... good fun."

"Snack bar?" My words come out clipped. "Didn't you say you were going to be home early today?" I bite down on my lip.

Ken's face is flushed, a crimson tide that doesn't reach his cloudy eyes. He slumps forward, his weight suddenly mine to bear.

"Hey, you're heavy!" I squeak, trying to prop him up without getting crushed.

"Today at work, you see..." He buries his face in my neck, his words muffled against my skin. "They said I have to transfer again~"

My mind grinds to a halt, gears catching on the word 'again.' "Transfer? TRANSFER?!" I shake him, trying to bring some sense back into him. "That's so weird! It's your first day, and they're transferring you again?"

Ken's eyelids droop, his words slurred and soft. "I also don't understand it..."

"So, where is it? Where are you going to be transferred?" I prod, hoping for a lucid moment.

"Uh... Stonai- kai... something island..." He trails off into a mumbled mess.

"Seto?!"

My brain is working overtime, a pot on the verge of boiling over. We've just settled in here, and now we're supposed to pack up and leave again? But maybe... that's a good thing?

Actually, wouldn't it be better to just go? To leave this place and all its ugly memories behind? Avoid the whole mess?

"Elizabeth..." Ken slurs, his hand groping for my breast with drunken aimlessness. "Elizabeth... let's have sex..."

I push his hand away firmly. "No, Ken. Now's not the time for it."

"We c-can't?" His question is a whimper, lost and confused.

I stare at him, his face flushed and eyes blurry with alcohol. He's not seeing me. Not really. He's somewhere else, lost in a fuzz of sake and beer.

"Wanna go to bed?" he mumbles, his voice a lullaby of promises he can't keep.

"S-sure..." I relent, my voice breaking.

I help him to his feet, supporting his stumbling steps toward our bed. My mind is a battlefield, but for now, I push the thoughts away. There's too much to process, too many decisions I'm not ready to make.

—

Ken's eyes are filled with drunken lust, but softened by affection.

His breath comes in ragged gasps; he smells of alcohol, of sweat, but also of the man I love.

"Elizabeth..." His voice is hoarse, husky, filled with desire. "I need you."

His hand grips my thigh, pulling me closer, spreading me open for him. The touch is familiar, comforting in its intimacy. His gaze is sobering, the love in his eyes a balm to my wounded soul.

He's always been a great lover. Attentive. Considerate. And now, his passion is fueled by alcohol, wiping away any inhibitions.

My heart races in anticipation, a flutter of excitement breaking through the turmoil. This is what I need, this closeness, the warmth of our tangled bodies, the promise of pleasure that comes with his touch.

"Ken, I need you too…," I whisper, my voice shaky but determined.

His hands are on my breasts now, gently coaxing them out of my bra, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin that send shivers down my spine. It's a stark contrast to the harsh manhandling of my body earlier. Ken is gentle, his touch familiar and filled with love.

"You're so beautiful…" He mumbles, his lips trailing over the curve of my breast. A sigh escapes me as his lips close over a nipple, his tongue flicking it gently.

I whimper, my back arching into his touch, encouraging him to continue.

His hands are all over me, touching, feeling, appreciating. I revel in it, in the love and desire in his eyes, in the way his hands make me feel beautiful and wanted.

He's inside of me now, his cock sliding into my pussy with a practiced ease. This isn't the rough fucking of the monster from before. This is lovemaking, a dance we've perfected over the course of our young marriage.

"Ah... Ken!" I moan, the rhythm of his thrusts setting my body aflame. My big breasts jostle with each shove forward, the sensation different now.

His hips grind against mine, his cock buried deep inside me. He's hitting that spot, the one that makes my toes curl, my breath hitch. That spot that makes me feel like a woman. His woman.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over me. My eyes flutter open, staring blankly at the ceiling. It's not Ken's movements, no, not his gentle thrusts that know just the way around my body, but that memory.

Mr. Otonari.

His grotesque face swims into my mind, his lecherous smile, his greedy eyes.

His touch on my skin, not warm and loving like Ken's but cold, brutal, forceful. A violation.

His voice. That disgusting tone of pleasure, the way he'd called me 'Marin-san,' the way he'd moaned the name of a prostitute as he climaxed inside me.

I blink, my tear-filled eyes focusing on the ceiling, a silent scream rising in my throat. A tear slips down the side of my face, a tiny drop of despair.

"Elizabeth?" Ken's voice. His voice soothes me, a soft caress against the storm of my thoughts. "W- what's wrong?"

"No..." I manage, my voice choked with emotion. "No, Ken. Please don't stop."

I need him now, more than ever. I need his touch, his warmth, his love. I need to wash away the filth, the memory of that monster from my mind.

Ken is my salvation. His hands, his lips, his body... they all knit me back together, piece by piece.

And so, I lose myself in him, in his rhythm, in the rock of his hips against mine. I let the feeling of his cock deep inside me erase that monster from my mind.

My moans fill the room, not of pain, but of pleasure. Pleasure that I share with Ken, pleasure that makes me forget, if only for a while.

"Elizabeth." His whisper in my ear is a soothing lullaby, his lips tracing my jawline in a silent promise of love, of protection.

He falls asleep beside me, his arm draped over my waist. I lay there, his warmth seeping into me, his steady breathing a calming rhythm against the storm in my mind.

Soon, we'll pack our things, say goodbye to this Godforsaken place, and leave for a clean start. A fresh beginning, an escape from this nightmare.