Dark Indulgence

I crumple the ruined schoolgirl outfit, the fabric stiff with dried semen and sweat, and shove it into a trash bag. I double bag it, triple bag it, desperate to contain the foul stench that could betray the vile acts committed upon me.

My bathing ritual begins, a necessary cleansing after the hours spent under Otonari-san's grotesque ministrations. In the Japanese style, I sit on a stool in front of the shower area, the faucet and showerhead at the ready. I need to rid myself of the overwhelming stench, of the vile residue that coats my every inch. My body is hypersensitive, each touch a reminder of the repeated pounding, the endless thrusts of that fat, old man.

The water stings as it hits my skin, cascading down my body in rivulets that seem to carry the weight of my filth. I scrub viciously, soap in hand, trying to erase the touch, the smell, the very memory of him from my flesh. It's futile—the scent seems ingrained into my pores.

With a showerhead in hand, I wash away the soapy water, trying not to notice how the suds carry with them cloudy, vile streaks of his semen. It's everywhere—matted in my hair, congealed in the crevices under my breasts. The deposits are stubborn, oily, and they cling to me like a second skin.

My sobs echo against the tile, each sob a rasp of pain and self-loathing. I clean my pussy, the gentle touch setting off unwanted sensations. I hate it, the way it responds, the way it seems to crave attention even after everything.

I rinse and rinse, water sluicing down my body, carrying with it gloopy bits of cum that stubbornly release from inside me. I watch them swirl down the drain, pieces of my dignity vanishing into the sewer.

Finally, standing before the mirror, I see my naked body—my breasts more… floppy-looking… than before, dangling heavily, obscenely. My body looks lewd, marked by the hands and fluids of a man I loathe. How can Ken not see the change? How can he not smell the stink of betrayal on me? I hate myself, hate my reflection, hate the woman I've become.

I need to stop this. I need to get it together.

—

After my bath, the feel of the fresh, clean pajamas against my skin is a small mercy. The soft fabric is a stark contrast to the sheer terror and disgust that's been clinging to me for what feels like an eternity. I refuse to let the horror of the past days dictate my life any longer.

I'm seated at the dining room table, my iPad propped up before me. My fingers tremble as I navigate to the incognito tab, where I start watching porn.

The harsh light of the screen illuminates the desperation in my eyes, the fervor with which I scan the explicit scenes for anything that might resemble the "techniques" that sick old man desires. I huff and puff, a mixture of anxiety and determination fueling my resolve to learn, to service Otonari-san, to be rid of him for good.

I hear Ken's footsteps approaching, and I hurriedly flip the iPad down, hoping he won't catch the lewd sounds still playing from it.

"Elizabeth," Ken says, his voice tinged with concern. "You're not going to bed yet? It's late."

"Ah—," I stutter, my throat tightening. "I was just researching something online..."

"Is that so?" he responds, his gentle demeanor a comforting presence in the room. "Then I'll go to sleep first."

"Umm..." My voice trails off, my heart aching with the weight of my secret.

He leans down, giving me a kiss on the forehead, his affection a balm to my fractured soul. He smiles and walks towards the bedroom, unaware of the turmoil raging within me. And then, as if ripped from the depths of my being, I blurt out, "I LOVE YOU, KEN-CHAN, I love you, okay??!"

He turns, his expression one of bewilderment mixed with affection. "What's wrong? I love you too, Elizabeth... Well, then, see you in bed."

The door closes behind him, and a tear slips down my cheek. "Ken... I'm sorry..." I whisper to no one but the shadows of the room.

I go back to what I was watching—a woman performing a titty-fuck, her ample breasts pumping a cock with practiced ease. My cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and determination as I look down at my own large breasts, my nipples pressing insistently against the tight black fabric of my pajamas.

Time to practice.

A resolve hardens within me, a fire that I'll use to end this hellish ordeal. I won't let that degenerate disturb our life any further.

I retrieve a banana from the kitchen.

"Like this?" I mutter to myself, my face a furnace of embarrassment. I watch the woman on the screen, trying to mimic her movements, wrapping the sides of my big, fat breasts around the fruit, attempting to hold it in place using the techniques I've gleaned from the video.

I maneuver my breasts, squeezing them together around the banana, my skin slipping against the pajama fabric. I tilt my head down, watching my own cleavage take the shape of a makeshift channel for the fruit.

I remember some of the tips, my brain cataloguing each one: Use lube. Control the action. Be ready to hold them together.

I go over the motions again and again, my resolve hardening. I will get through this. I will reclaim my life and my body. No more will I be a plaything for that vile man.

—

Today is the day. The day I reclaim my life, my dignity. Clad in white yoga pants and a teal sports bra, my resolve is an unbreakable shield. I'm ready, prepared, and nothing will stand in my way.

Kneeling in Otonari-san's filthy tatami room, I fixate on the task at hand, ignoring the revulsion that churns in my stomach. His grotesque body looms over me, but this time, I am in control.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I press the sides of my breasts together, feeling the repugnant outline of his veiny, sloppy cock between them. My sports bra strains under the pressure, the band tight across my heaving chest as I use it to trap his erection in place.

He grunts, "OH! OOOH!! OOUH!!"

His pleasure is abhorrent to me, but I persist, my face a mask of determination while inside, I feel utterly pathetic.

I pour more lube between my breasts, making the space slicker, ensuring there's no friction—nothing to slow me down. With each movement, I compress their flesh around his girth, working them up and down with a ferocity born of desperation.

"That's nice, keep it up, ma'am," he groans, a sickening satisfaction in his voice. "You're quite familiar with boob jobs, huh?"

"Shut it," I snap back, my gaze averted from his ugly, leering face. "Just hurry up and cum already."

SCHLICK SHLICK SCHLICK. The sensation is vile, my big, heavy tits now weapons of my will as they envelop his lubricated shaft. I refuse to meet his gaze, can't stand the sight of his winking urethra, that gaping maw that's caused me so much suffering.

"Please don't give me that disgusted look while you're doing it with me. Because it will make my dick harder!" he laughs, a sound so uproarious it shakes his entire body.

This is so gross.

"OOH..." he breathes out, his eyes half-closed in a lustful daze.

I'm eye-level with his paunch, the nauseating sight of his flesh quivering with each pass of my breasts. My red hair is tied back in a practical ponytail, my yoga pants hugging my legs as I kneel resolutely on the floor before him.

I'm struggling, adjusting my grip, pressing my E-cup breasts together with all the force I can muster. His cock slips out once, twice, but I'm quick to reposition it, refusing to let this moment drag on any longer than necessary.

This isn't about pleasure. It's not even about the act itself. It's about ending this nightmare. I pump my chest up and down his slickened length, driven by the single thought of freedom.

SCHLICK SHLICK SHLICK.

I'm unyielding, my jaw set, my arms aching as they force my breasts into a relentless rhythm. This is for Ken, for the love we share, for the life we've built together that I won't let be tainted any further.

With each slick movement, I feel the grotesque heat of him, the abhorrent stickiness that's seeped into every facet of my torment. But I won't break. I will do this. I will finish it.

For my husband. For my dignity.

My disgust mounts with every squelching slide of his veiny, discolored cock between the clamped prison of my breasts. I'm repulsed by the brushing of that purple, engorged head peeking between the pale, freckled swells of my bosoms, bound still by the sports bra, now a corrupt harness for his pleasure.

"CUMMING!" he announces with a voice that pierces the thick, tainted air.

I'm caught off guard, "Wha-!" but it's too late. That putrid dick erupts, twitching monstrously, and the deluge of his grotesque cumshot emerges in relentless SPURTs of off-white abomination. It's a horrifying fountain that spews forth, drenching the fabric stretched across my chest. Thicker, more yellowed strands splatter and spread, some reaching the gasp of my mouth, others streaking down the valley between my breasts and staining the once pristine cotton of my bra.

The sweltering, almost burning sludge splats against my skin. It's a putrid avalanche that pools, congealing into a warm, custard-like sludge as fetid ribbons drizzle unchecked down my stomach, curling nastily into the waistband of my white pants.

I'm engulfed in the stench—a swirling, nauseating cocktail of sour musk and bleach that wrenches my gut. The remnants between my breasts begin compacting into a vile blend, thickening in texture, reminiscent of curdled milk mixed with the unctuous mucus from a diseased sinus. Some strands start to cool, forming a gelatinous, viscous mess that glues my skin in an unholy matrimony of secretion and sweat.

"Thank you very much, ma'am," Otonari-san breathes heavily, attempting to collect himself. "That was a clumsy boob job but really made me horny. So overall, I'm quite satisfied. And with that, I'll grant you my deal; I won't bother you anymore."

I tug at my lower lip with teeth gritted in revulsion, barely able to acknowledge his words. My hands, trembling, reach to support the underside of my breasts, letting the gloop ooze into my palms. It trickles like a sordid syrup, a viscous, gelatinous slop that is, without question, some of the vilest filth I've ever laid eyes on.

He stands before me, the weight of the past few days hanging between us in the air, thick and palpable. In his hands, he clutches that bastard instrument of my degradation - the camcorder.

"I deleted all the video recordings in here," Otonari-san declares with a hint of solemnity I hadn't thought him capable of. "Feel free to take a look and confirm it yourself."

My gaze drops to the device, my thoughts racing. In my hands, the warm pool of his revolting cum slops against my skin, a heated reminder of what it took to reach this moment. An idea sparks within me, a final act to seal my victory and reclaim the last shreds of my power.

Without a word, I lift my hands, tipping them just enough to let the sticky, vile mess drizzle down onto the camcorder. The off-white globs pour over it, sullying its black casing with a sloshing, ruinous cascade.

"Ah!" he gasps in shock, his voice catching in his throat.

The hot, foul cum infiltrates the device, seeping into its crevices and coating the buttons. There's a sizzle, an ominous, electrical pop from within, and I know the camcorder is done for, its innards fried by the unwelcome deluge.

Good riddance. It's over.

---

Nighttime envelops our bedroom, a peaceful cocoon away from the filth of the day. I lie next to Ken, his soft laughter a melody that soothes and heals. I curl into him, feeling more than ever the stark contrast between his gentleness and the brutish force of the man I endured.

This will be a secret from Ken. There's no way I can tell him about the repulsive ordeal I suffered. I want to erase these vile memories, scrub them from my mind as thoroughly as I've scoured my skin.

It's time to move forward, the bond with my husband untouched and sacred. As he wraps a loving arm around me, I find solace in his embrace. We're here, we're together, and that's all that matters.

I will forget. We will continue, unmarred and happy in our married life, and I will never look back.

In the sanctuary of our bedroom, the laughter Ken and I share is a cleansing balm, wiping away the remnants of my ordeal. We sprawl across the sheets, our naked bodies intertwined as we exchange playful words and loving gazes.

"Elizabeth, you're like a fine wine. You get more exquisite with every passing day."

I snort.

"Tell me," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear, "what's your favorite Japanese word?"

I giggle, tracing a finger along his collarbone, "Hmm, 'Yakimochi'."

"Oh? Jealousy?" His eyebrow arches playfully.

With a wink, I clarify, "No, silly. The grilled kind. Because it's hot, sweet, and I always want more."

And so it goes.

Beneath him, I am alight with a fire that feels pure and true. His trusting eyes, his kind face—this is the man I adore. His cock, a familiar presence, fills me with every thrust, the stark contrast a reminder that he, and only he, is my sanctuary.

"Elizabeth..." he gasps, kissing me tenderly, a true meeting of souls as much as flesh.

"Ken!" I moan back, clinging to him with every fiber of my being.

It's over quickly, but it's a race to the stars and back. As we lay breathless, I feel my breasts pressed up against his bare chest. His heartbeat is a drum in my ear, matching the rhythm of my own.

"Phew, that was great..." he says, his face contented and flushed with exertion.

"Yeah..."

And then, the itch.

The gnawing, insidious little itch.

I want more. A craving that nips at the edges of my satisfaction.

"Wanna do... one more round...?" I venture, my face hopeful as I look up into his warm eyes.

He grins down at me, a flicker of tiredness with his good-natured laugh. "A bit too much for me! Haha," he admits.

"Right," I giggle, accepting the sweep of his arm as an invitation to nestle close.

As we cuddle up, my heart races with an unidentifiable need. His comfort, his warmth, the sync of our breaths—it should be enough. But there's a whisper, a tantalizing thought that trembles through my veins as I press my cheek against his shoulder.

What is this feeling?

—

Donning my purple, frilly lingerie, I check myself out in the mirror, giving my high-waisted panties a snap against my skin. My reflection boasts confidence—a woman in control of her life again, with her voluptuous breasts and fiery red hair.

But as I adjust the lace top over my ample chest, an unwanted memory intrudes—the repugnant image of Otonari-san slobbering over them.

I shudder, and shove the thought aside. It's going to take time to forget about all that.

Ken looks so peaceful as he prepares for bed, but tonight I need more. I straddle him, my knees sinking into the mattress.

"Sorry, but I need to be early..." he murmurs, a yawn marring his sentence. "Let me sleep."

"Eh?" I respond, my voice a mix of disbelief and rising frustration. I lean forward, spilling my breasts out of the lingerie, letting them hang lewdly as I make my case without words. "No way..."

"Tomorrow, we'll do it tomorrow, okay?" he replies, already turning away, rolling over.

"Tomorrow? You promise?"

---

"Ah! Ahn!!! That's great, Ken!!!" I exclaim, riding him with a fervor that's matched only by my desperation.

I'm on top, my breasts bouncing wildly. The rhythm is frantic as I grind down onto his pelvis, seeking, striving for that peak.

"Elizabeth, stop it!!" Ken's voice cuts through my haze of lust.

"Eh?" I pause, mid-bounce, confused.

"What?"

"Sorry," he pants, his breaths uneven. "I came."

Disbelief washes over me as I lift myself up, feeling the strands of his semen dangling from my pussy. "Can't you do a bit... more? One more time?" My voice trembles. I'd been looking forward to this all day.

"I'm really… done for the day," he admits, exhausted.

Ugh...

I curl up next to him in a fetal position, my body on fire beneath my pink pajamas. My hands press between my thighs, clutching at the heat that won't dissipate. I'm crying now, tears streaming down my face as I confront the horrible truth—I'm still burning, still aching. My pussy is hot, wet, and utterly unsatisfied.

Ken lies beside me, oblivious to my turmoil, his breathing deep and even in sleep. I'm left alone with my raging desires, a twisted knot of frustration and need.

—

The hum of the washing machine blends with the distant murmur of the TV, setting the rhythm of our easy Saturday. I'm in the service yard, the warm sunlight filtering through the half-open roof, dancing across the speckled tiles. I'm wearing my pink long-sleeved shirt and apron, my hair tied up in a practical ponytail as I tackle the pile of laundry.

Ken is lounging on the couch, half-watching the news. The anchor, a sharply dressed woman with a no-nonsense bob haircut, is narrating something about local festivities with an enthusiasm that barely penetrates the cozy veil of our living room.

As I bend over to retrieve more clothes from the laundry basket, a sudden wave of heat flushes through me—not from the sun, but a more internal, simmering kind. A sigh escapes me, mingling with the scent of fresh laundry detergent.

*Guess I'll try seducing Ken again after I'm done cleaning...*

The thought hovers in the back of my mind, teasing, persistent.

"I wanna have sex... But I think it's better for him to relax at least on his day off..." I whisper to myself, chiding my own desires.

"Sigh..."

"Hey, Elizabeth," Ken calls out, his voice pulling me from my reverie. "What if we go to Asuke village village tomorrow? Just saw a TV spot for it - it's like stepping back in time."

I peek around the doorframe. "Asuke? Isn't that near Korankei Gorge?"

"Yeah, exactly!" He's animated now, the news forgotten. "They recreate traditional lifestyles and stuff. Might be cool to see how things were done a hundred years ago."

I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Sure. Are you suggesting a weekend getaway?"

"Mhm," he nods, then adds with a twinkle in his eye, "And, I hear they have that yaki-mochi you like. Well, it's like pressed rice on sticks. But it'll suit that sweet tooth."

I giggle, folding a freshly laundered shirt. "The way to my heart—through mochi."

Ken stands up to stretch. "Gotta keep my wife happy, right? How are we on laundry duties, General Elizabeth?"

"Almost done, just need to conquer this last batch of socks," I announce, holding up a pair for emphasis. "But, um… speaking of traditional lifestyles, want to help me start some rice in the kitchen?"

He groans playfully. "I'm more of the 'eat the rice' type than the 'make it' type, but for you, I'll make an exception."

The TV continues its low murmur as we share a brief, comfortable silence.

"Hey, Ken." I pause, shooting my shot. "Since we're learning about traditional lifestyles tomorrow, maybe tonight we can... explore some traditional... bedroom techniques, tonight?"

My husband raises an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Is that so? My dear wife, are you suggesting we delve into the ancient art of... love-making?"

I giggle. "The most ancient of arts. I believe there's quite the historical precedent for it."

But for now, I get back to laundry.

The socks dangle from my fingers, their mundane presence a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts storming my head. I hang them, marching them in pairs along the line, a silent army of domesticity. Each one's mate found and secured, like mine, my hands working on autopilot while my mind buzzes with darker musings.

I sigh, looking out over the tranquil Nagoya cityscape, bathed in the golden glow of early afternoon. The city spreads out calm and serene, so at odds with the turmoil churning within me. I catch my reflection in the glass balcony railing, my features twisted in a grimace.

*I can't have another night like that,* I think, frustration knotting inside me. *It's not fair... I feel...*

But before I can complete the thought, my eyes snap to the dividing wall of the service yard. A small, rectangular slot has opened, a dark cavity in the otherwise innocuous barrier. A voice, familiar and odious, oozes through the gap.

"Good morning, ma'am."