Entanglement

My tears carve hot, angry trails down my cheeks, mingling with the grime of the entryway floor where I sit, hugging my knees tight to my chest. I'm a mess, a tangled knot of fury and despair. Each sob is a hammer blow to my own spirit, a testament to the loathing and rage brewing within me.

The memory of his voice echoes in my skull, a sinister whisper that clings to the shadows of my thoughts. "Remember, this is a secret between us..." Mr. Otonari's greasy fingers caress the camera that chronicled my shame. "I've recorded everything. So please just keep quiet about this."

It's a vile, sickening loop that plays in my head, each replay another punch in the gut. The weight of my situation is crushing. Not once, but twice, he's defiled me. The heaviness of my reality is almost too much to bear.

Blackmail scenarios swarm my mind like a plague of wasps, each sting a jarring burst of fear. Ken's face, the man who embodies everything gentle and kind, twists in my mental torture into a mask of horror and disgust. The man who loves me, finding out not just what happened to me, but that I concealed it — the betrayal cuts deeper than anything Mr. Otonari could inflict.

My body shakes with sobs, my fists clenching and unclenching with impotent anger. "I don't care if this all turns into a huge mess!"

LIKE HELL I'M GOING TO KEEP QUIET ABOUT THIS! My inner voice is a roar, a wild animal caged too long. I WILL call the police.

The only glimmer of solace through tear-blurred eyes is the move. The certainty of leaving, of putting this cursed apartment complex and that monster behind. We're leaving soon... it will be over... THEN I'll tell the police.

The door opens and Ken's familiar, comforting presence fills the space. My heart lurches. "Huh, honey, what are you doing there, are you okay?"

I surge to my feet and into his arms, my hug a desperate plea, a silent cry for rescue. "Ken... listen..."

His arms wrap around me, but they're the prelude to a shattering truth. "Elizabeth, sorry... that transfer business, it's all a mistake."

My heart plummets.

"W-what do you mean?" The words are a whisper, a breath's release from shattering.

Ken's face is a picture of relief. "Well, HR mistook me for a guy in another department... UGH!!!"

"Sorry, anyhow," he says, his smile broadening. "Sorry for making you all worried about it and thinking we're moving... we're going to settle here, just like we wanted, don't worry."

His reassurance is a dagger, each word twisting the blade. He sees the horror on my face.

"Are you okay? Did something happen?" he asks, concern seeping into his voice.

Now... that changes everything. The thought of staying, of facing Mr. Otonari, the potential fallout, it's a chasm opening beneath me. The prospect of coming clean — of dealing with the consequences right here, in the belly of the beast — it's a nightmare scenario.

The headache begins, a dull throb at the base of my skull. "Ugh... what am I gonna do?" I murmur to myself, my brain scrambling for a solution.

DING DONG.

I stand there, paralyzed, as Ken opens the door revealing Mr. Otonari-san, his grin stretching across his face. He's holding a bottle of sake, an expensive-looking one with a delicate label and a top sealed in wax.

Ken's face lights up with genuine happiness. "Ah, Otonari-san! It's good to see you."

"Konbanwa, Nakamura-san! I brought a little gift." Mr. Otonari bows, presenting the sake to Ken. "Kore wa meibutsu no sake desu. Tottori Prefecture no nihonshu. Very special, very delicious."

Ken accepts it, his eyes wide with appreciation. "Kore wa... hontōni ii saké desu ne! Are you sure about this? This looks expensive!"

I blanch, a sick feeling swirling in my stomach, as Mr. Otonari waves off Ken's concerns with a magnanimous gesture. "Aa, kore wa watashi no wakaremiyage desu. We just became neighbors, and to learn you must leave so soon…"

"Ah, about that," Ken interrupts, setting the bottle on the foyer table with a clink. "I just found out I won't have to transfer anymore!"

The old man's grin widens, dark eyes flickering with something I recognize all too well. "Oh? Is that so???"

Ken, oblivious and ever hospitable, claps the man on the shoulder. "Would you like to join us for a drink? Elizabeth can set out some glasses."

Mr. Otonari nods eagerly, "Of course!"

The fury within me roils, a storm breaking against my ribs. Ken turns to me, his eyes shining with an innocence that makes my heart ache. "You're okay with that, right?"

My voice is a strangled, "Uh, yeah, sure," as I feel the walls close in on me.

As Mr. Otonari steps inside, Ken continues, shaking his head. "My company sure is awful, huh? All this confusion. Terrible communication."

"Pardon me, ma'am," Otonari-san says, now addressing me, his grin taunting, victorious.

I can't stand it. I can't breathe the same air as him. "Excuse me," I mumble, fleeing to the kitchen under the pretense of preparing for their drink.

The dishes in the sink become my victims as I scrub at them, furious, my movements sharp and jerky. From the living room, the laughter of the two men filters in, each chuckle a knife twisting deeper into my wound.

Fuck... I sigh to myself. I've lost my chance to talk to my husband about this... I just have to wait for the guy to leave...

I glance up, and there they are: Ken, naive and happy, Mr. Otonari-san, the embodiment of evil masquerading as a friendly neighbor. How can he sit there, so close to Ken, after what he's done? How can he laugh and smile as if he's the epitome of kindness?

HIS SMILE PISSES ME OFF. My fists clench involuntarily below the counter.

I'm burning with the need for justice, for vengeance. But the thought of what comes next — the police, the neighbors, the possibility of them turning on me, the foreigner — terrifies me. They might not believe me. They might side with him, the respected community member. I hate everything about this!

But I can't let him get away with this! That rapist!

The porcelain in my hand creaks under the pressure. I set it down, take a deep breath, and brace myself for the long evening ahead. I finally take out the sake glasses.

—

As the evening wears on, the once crisp atmosphere of our living room grows hazy with sake fumes and Ken's laughter. My husband's slurred words blend with the clink of glasses, a soundtrack to my mounting discomfort.

"Another round, Elizabeth?" Ken raises his glass, his speech slightly slurred.

I smile mechanically, my hands shaking as I pour the sake with practiced precision, stealing glances at the clock on the wall. It's almost midnight.

I slide the glasses across the table, the liquid sloshing ever so slightly against the delicate porcelain. Ken is engrossed in a rambling tale about his company, the recent mishap over the mistaken transfer. The story loops, familiar beats in an all-too-common narrative after a few drinks.

"…and I told them, 'how do you mess up that badly?' It's all about communication!" Ken gestures wildly, nearly knocking over his glass.

Mr. Otonari nods sagely, though I swear there's a glimmer in his eye that suggests more sobriety than he lets on. "Hai, communication wa important desu ne," he agrees, his voice steady and clear.

Ken chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Exactly! It's like, without it, everything falls apart."

I clear my throat, glancing between the two. "Ken, you're drinking too much. Maybe lay off a bit," I murmur, concern laced in my voice.

But Ken waves me off with a grin. "I'm fine! It's not every day we get to enjoy good sake like this!" He lifts his glass once more, his cheeks flushed.

I feel Mr. Otonari's gaze on me. It's oppressive, a tangible weight. His eyes trail my movements as I collect dirty dishes, his lewd stare lingering on the sway of my hips, the stretch of my blouse across my breasts. Fury simmers within me, my skin crawling under his scrutiny.

Ken's voice rises above the haze, his words tumbling over one another like a landslide. "—just gotta keep pushing forward, right? No use getting hung up on little mistakes."

I nod, my smile brittle. "Right. It's getting late, though. Maybe it's time for the evening to draw to a close?"

Mr. Otonari's wide grin doesn't falter. "Ah, is that so? Well, I do not wish to overstay my welcome."

But then Ken, with a THUNK, slumps forward on the table, his snores filling the room. Panic lances through me as my eyes dart to Mr. Otonari. He's all too aware of Ken's state, his grin sharpening like a blade.

"Hey, ma'am," he says, standing up with that camera in his hand. "Before I go, let's have a quick chat."

I'm livid, each breath a hiss through clenched teeth. We walk into the hallway, standing far too close for comfort.

"Let me be clear," I say, my voice a low growl. "It's useless if you expose that video. I'll make sure you pay for this!"

His grin is wide, grotesque, stretching from ear to ear. His huge body looms over me, a leering mountain of flesh and malice. My fingers curl into fists.

"Oh? So you're saying I should show this to your husband?" His voice is a purring threat.

I'm paralyzed, the nightmare scenario playing out in my mind's eye. Ken, my love, seeing his wife... seeing me in that state. The betrayal, the hurt... God!

"That would be bad, right?" Mr. Otonari's voice drips with sinister glee. "I can't do that, right? Just imagine him..."

His words are like poison, painting a picture so vivid, so horrifying, I can barely stand. Ken's trusting blue eyes, wide with shock and disbelief, the foundation of our life together crumbling like sand.

I'm shaking, fear wrestling with rage. But I have to believe that Ken's presence, even unconscious, will protect me.

"You wouldn't dare," I hiss, my voice trembling.

His grin never falters, his eyes never stray from mine. "But Elizabeth-san, wouldn't you like to keep this all a secret?"

His voice is mockingly sweet.

"Your husband is already so stressed from his job... what do you think would happen if he saw a video of his precious wife being fucked by another guy... if I were him, I wouldn't even bear to think of how horrifying it is!"

My anger boils over. "YOU WOULDN'T DARE!" My voice is a blade, sharp and slicing. "Why aren't you ASHAMED of yourself?? You disgusting old man!"

He leans in closer, the stench of sake heavy on his breath. "So, let's get to the point," he murmurs mockingly, the camera in his hand like a grotesque prop. "One request. If you agree to it, I'll delete this video completely. Without a trace." His tone drips with feigned sincerity, a serpent's hiss clothed in sheep's wool.

My fists clench at my sides. I glower at him, the disgust and loathing for this man twisting my features.

His eyes gleam with a sickening gleam. "After this, I won't bother you ever again. I had my fun. And all the rude things I've done so far... well, we can forget about it. I'll be done."

The very idea of acquiescing to his demands makes my skin crawl, but the stakes... Ken's anguish, our life...

He continues, voice oozing with false ease. "Also, this request isn't too much of a big deal, you see?"

—

The cramped confines of our bathroom amplify the revulsion that clings to me like a second skin. I'm standing there, fully clothed, the stark brightness of the fluorescent light casting an unforgiving glow over us both.

Mr. Otonari sits naked on the edge of the bath, his flesh pale and flabby, the rolls of fat on his stomach quivering with each breath. The tight space is choking, the walls seem to close in on me, and the air is thick with the scent of his unwashed body.

I'm barely able to make eye contact, my gaze flitting around the tiny bathroom, the peeling paint, the dripping faucet, the cheap shower curtain hanging limply on its rod. I'm aware of every sound: Ken's distant snoring, the hum of the fridge, the faint sound of night-time traffic from the streets below.

My hand, pale and delicate, looks ghostly as it hovers near Mr. Otonari's cock. It's grotesque — the inflated head, the spongy texture, the sickening heat emanating from it. The veins running along the shaft seem to pulsate, as if alive with some vile energy of their own.

I reach out, my fingertips touching the flesh with the lightest of pressure, as if afraid it might burst at a firmer touch. I have to focus on the task at hand — just get this over with, and it's done. My hand wraps around the shaft, my fingers unable to meet around the girth.

The texture is repulsive, like squeezing a damp sponge covered in oil. My stomach churns as I start to move my hand, the skin sliding under my grip. The slight squelching sound it makes ignites a fresh wave of nausea.

"Don't look so disgusted, ma'am," he mocks, his voice a guttural rumble. "You're doing a good job. Just keep going."

A plea claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down. I can't make a sound; I can't risk Ken waking up, not now. I focus on the cold tiles beneath my feet, the way they feel against my skin, anything to distract me from the appalling task.

—

I can't believe I'm here—kneeling in this cramped, dingy bathroom, the one where the shower curtain clings to your skin and the mirror fogs up with every heated exhale. The sink drones on, water running at full blast, a desperate attempt to mask the hideous reality reflected in the bathroom mirror.

He's there, on the edge of the bath, his bulk threatening the stability of the porcelain. The enormity of his repugnant flesh seems to spill everywhere, his naked thighs squashing like dough against the tub's lip.

And then, there's me, fully clothed, but kneeling in front of him.

Just a handjob. Just a handjob, and then I'm done.

The weight of it—his flaccid, half-hard penis—is revolting in itself. It's an inconceivable mass, heavy and bloated, like a malignant growth. It's mottled with veins; they throb with a sluggish vitality, a pulsing horror.

I can't make eye contact with him, with IT. My jaw clenches, my stomach churns. My hand, manicured and pale against his unwashed girth, looks alien. My arm moves mechanically, a reluctant piston in a flesh-machine.

"Phew. I'm lucky... The wife jerking me off, while the husband is dead drunk," he chuckles, his massive belly jiggling with mirth.

I recoil at his words. My hand feels filthy, contaminated, as if his vile essence is seeping into my skin.

"It's not bad, Elizabeth, not bad... Life is..." he sighs heavily, "good..."

I hear the smug contentment in his voice and want to howl, to tear at his eyes, at the world that has brought me to this point.

"Don't show me that face," he chides.

"You'd better hold up your part of the deal!" I growl.

He feigns contemplation. "Of course, of course," he says, grinning lecherously. "But, the deal is to satisfy me. Using techniques... That handjob might not do it... I might not even get erect."

My wrist pumps faster, trying desperately to finish this ordeal. His precum dribbles hot and slick over my hand. But… he's not fully hard.

I sob, a miserable sound that fills the tiny room. "Just hurry up and cum," I hiss through gritted teeth.

"You're bad at this... So, I can't..." he grunts, eyes half-closed in burgeoning pleasure. "I guess you'll have to use your mouth."

I recoil as if struck. "Why would I do something nasty like that?!" The words are a strangled cry, my eyes squeezing shut, rejecting the idea.

He leans closer, chin slick with his own sweat. "Listen here, okay? Delaying things will waste time. What about when your husband sobers up? How are you going to explain this to him?"

My eyes are level with his erect phallus. It's a monstrous, offensive object, its surface marred with pulsating veins that squirm under the pale, clammy skin like worms.

The smell... It's a thick, heady mix of sweat and something more animalistic. It's an intimate scent that's horrifying in its implications. This... this isn't my husband. This isn't Ken, who always smells of his crisp citrus cologne and the faint linen of our shared bed.

The heat radiating from Mr. Otonari's grotesque erection is something I can feel, a sickening reminder of its carnal purpose. Its size is overwhelming. Even just to take it in my hand, it stretches from the base of my palm to the tips of my fingers. And I'm expected to... to put it in my mouth.

I've given Ken blowjobs before, but only a few times. Times when I was in the mood, when I wanted to. But this...

This is cheating… this is betrayal... My mind races, thoughts colliding into each other like a devastating car crash.

Ken and I, declaring our love for each other, making promises of forever... the dreams of starting a family with him... stepping out of our comfort zones for the sake of love... all of it, being destroyed by this sickening act. I can never look at myself in the mirror and truly say I was faithful, even if I convince myself I'm doing this for him.

"It might even be too late, you know," Mr. Otonari says, his voice a grating rasp in the silence of the bathroom. "He'll be back up any moment."

I look away, my cheeks flushing hotter. I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I turn back to him, my eyes forced to stare at the gross spectacle of his stupid dick.

My lips part, a tremble rippling through them as I lean in. The taste... it's a mixture of saltiness and something far more revolting. A bitter, metallic tang that is so distinctly male that my stomach churns in protest. His girth is too much, stretching my lips uncomfortably wide, the sensation of his flesh in my mouth abhorrent.

"UGH!!!!" I gag, recoiling as the awful taste invades my mouth. I quickly spit out the disgusting flavor, my body shuddering in revulsion.

Mr. Otonari just laughs above me, his fat jiggling.

"Seriously? An American housewife who can't even satisfy a man with a blowjob?" He sneers, and that stinging comment ignites my fury.

Yet, the looming fear of Ken finding out creeps in, and I move in again, forcing my lips onto the repulsive mass.

Suddenly, he stops me, his thumb gently prying my lips apart.

"Let me show you how it's done," he says, his voice overridden with a sick thrill. His hands take hold of the back of my head, winding into my hair, tugging my face closer to his throbbing girth.

A wave of panic surges through me as the tip of him presses against my lips. It's a grotesque intrusion, a battering ram at the gates of my dignity. The taste of him is even more revolting up close, his smell stronger.

His hands tighten in my hair, the pressure bearing down on my scalp as he pushes, guiding himself into my mouth. My lips part, reluctantly yielding to his dick. I gag at the feel of him on the back of my tongue, the maddening sensation of him filling my mouth.

The dreadful taste, the sickening smell, the horrible stretch of my lips around his massive form—it's a sensory overload, a nightmare come to life. I choke around him, my throat constricting in protest, my eyes watering.

"MMM… SUGOI," he groans, his voice full of perverse pleasure. His hands continue their relentless pressure, his hips grinding forward.

I feel my body constrict, the reality of what's happening slamming into me like a freight train. I'm being face-fucked—a crude and demeaning act that's the antithesis of everything I am.

His girth stretches my mouth wide, the back of my throat straining against the intrusion, the slick, spongy head of his cock battering against the sensitive flesh.

His grip on my hair tightens, yanking my head back and forth with each thrust. The rhythm is brutal, unrelenting—the wet slap of his groin against my face, the grating, guttural sounds he makes, and the disgusting squelch of his dick sliding into my mouth.

"Hooh… oh!! that hits the spot!!!" he groans, his voice a harsh, grating sound that makes my stomach churn.

His wiry pubic hair grates uncomfortably against my face, the scent of him—musky and sharp—assailing my senses. It's a horrible, vile sensation, one I'll never forget, no matter how hard I might try.

"You have such a fine mouth-pussy."

"UUuhhkkk- glurkk-" I reply.

I feel the hot tears in my eyes, a desperate plea for release. But I… I have to let him finish. Then this is all over.

My throat constricts around him, the muscles spasming as they try to reject the intrusion. It's a futile attempt. I can't stop this. I can't stop him.

My eyes fly open, locking onto his face. Otonari-san's bald head gleams under the harsh bathroom light, his pitted skin looking almost reptilian in its texture. His eyes are half-closed, his mouth twisted in a lascivious grin.

He's enjoying this. He's enjoying my agony, my humiliation, my fear. It's a perverse pleasure, a monstrous delight that turns my stomach.

"Having fun, Elizabeth?"

He starts to thrust harder, faster. I feel my throat stretch around him, the sensation both frightening and sickening. His girth expands, filling my mouth, stretching my lips until they're numb with the strain.

He's getting bigger, harder. His size is overwhelming.

His grunts grow louder, more consistent. "I can feel it! I'm... I'm..." he gasps, his voice hitching in pleasure.

I slam my hands against his thighs, begging him to stop. But he's too far gone, lost in his own pleasure. His grip on my hair tightens, his thrusts growing harsher, more brutal.

My eyes widen as his penis throbs menacingly. The ripple of anticipation surges through his flesh, each twitch signaling the impending doom. I'm frantic, my hands smashing on his thighs, my muffling pleas drowned by his frenzied grunts.

His climax is a horrifying spectacle, an excruciating display of male prerogative. His veiny mass twitches violently, and suddenly, with a low, feral growl, his orgasm hits.

Each muscular spasm is a precursor to the inevitable, each twitch a harbinger of the vile payload to come. The first surge is shockingly forceful…

BLURRRRT. A heavy, hot rope of cum shoots down my throat with a sickening intensity. The thick, gooey fluid doesn't even touch my tongue before it's already sliding down into my belly.

Despite the preparation, despite the dread, nothing could have readied me for the reality of it. It's a robust, putrid ejaculation, carrying the weight of its virility in every burdensome pulse.

His semen is thick, almost solid, the texture of custard left out in the sun. It's foul, a taste akin to spoiled milk and something far more primal. Each additional spurt brings more of the rancid fluid, his cock unloading in heavy, lazy spurts.

My throat convulses, struggling to swallow, to force the disgusting mess down into my belly. BLURRRRRRRT. Another twitch, another fat, heavy spurt of cum forced down my throat, filling my belly and staining my soul.

His semen floods my tummy, drowning my carefully prepared breakfast of tamago gohan. I imagine strands of his cum coiling around the grains of rice, sinking into the delicate folds of the omelette, the two meals mixing into a hideous concoction. His foul seed is ruining my meal, my body, my life.

His voice is a distant hum, lost beneath the pounding of my heart and the rushing of blood in my ears. He's still thrusting, his cock jerking uncontrollably in my mouth. His grip on my head is painful, his fingers digging into my scalp as he empties himself into me.

The room is spinning, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I can't breathe, can't think. I'm just a vessel for this man's disgusting pleasure, a receptacle for his cum.

His final spurt is a pathetic dribble, a sticky rivulet that leaks from the tip of his cock, smearing across my tongue. The taste is repugnant—salt and bitterness and bleach. It's a taste I'll never forget, a taste that will forever be associated with this night, this man, this act.

He pulls out slowly, leaving a trail of slimy cum smeared across my lips, my chin. My mouth feels empty, my tongue coated in his residue. The sight of his flaccid cock is almost as revolting as the taste of his semen.

I'm left there, on the bathroom floor, my body wracked with tremors. My throat is raw and aching, my stomach churning with the foreign intruder. His jizz clings to the back of my throat, a disgusting reminder of the trespass he's committed.

"Wow, Mrs. Nakamura," Otonari-san chuckles as he stands before the toilet. He wipes himself with a piece of toilet paper, leisurely cleaning off the leavings of our sordid act. "You sure know how to make a man feel good."

Shame burns my cheeks, my dignity unraveling with the casual malice in his voice. The toilet bowl swims in my blurry vision, stuffed with thick clumps of yellowish, off-white cum. Most of his seed is already in my stomach, a vile weight pooled inside like a malevolent creature, expanding, claiming me.

"That was a lot, wasn't it?" he gloats, grinning down at me as he offers a crumpled wad of toilet paper. With trembling hands, I grab my own clean piece and start wiping at the mess smeared across my chin, trying to rid myself of every molecule of him. The paper comes away sullied, marked by the revolting stickiness of his essence, and I discard it, horrified.

The enormity of my actions crashes over me like a tidal wave. I've betrayed everything — my love, my vows, my self-respect — for the grotesque demands of a monster. I try to spit, but I can't empty myself of him that easily, his cum clinging to the inside of my throat/

"Cleaning the bathroom after this must be tough," Otonari shrewdly observes. "Knowing you have a gut-full of my spunk must make it quite a challenge."

My hands clench around the rim of the toilet bowl, my body quivering with suppressed rage and disgust. "SHUT UP!" I hiss venomously. "You're going to delete that damn video, right? THIS IS OVER!"

I'm coughing and sputtering, trying to rid my body of his repulsive cum. Each heave is a splash into the bowl of thick, gooey mess, my body fighting to expel the intruder. But much of it remains, a disgusting presence in my stomach, a weight coiling and knotting.

Suddenly, Otonari-san leans down, so close I can feel his moist breath on my neck. "Oh, it felt GREAT. I shot a lot... But I'm afraid it doesn't count. Our deal was… you had to satisfy me with your own technique. And I was doing all the work."

WHAT?!