His cock pressing at the ring of her ass — the passage that knew him before her pussy had, the first relationship of the two — and he pressed inward with the slow, pulling entry of a man who had been here many times and understood exactly what arriving felt like from the inside.

"MMNH~!! Oh—AAAHH~—"

Full depth.

He settled.

His hand on her hip.

"You both," he said, his voice carrying across both women, "will listen to me."

Jennifer, pressed from the front by the chain’s architecture, Yuna against her from behind, Raven filling Yuna from behind — the arrangement of all three of them compressed into the shared space of the bed.

"We are listening," Jennifer said.

Her voice had developed a flatness that was not resignation — it was the flat, present voice of a woman who has been through enough in one night to have arrived at a kind of clarity on the other side of it.

He grabbed Yuna’s hair.

Pulled.

Her head came back.

PAAAH!

"IAAAANGHH~!!"

The clit chain yanked.

"MMNH~—HIIEEK~!!" — Jennifer, the chain dragging through her.

Both of them crying.

Both of them present.

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! PLEASE — SLOW — THE CHAIN—"

He pulled out of Yuna.

Stood.

One motion — his hands finding both women, turning them sideways, the chain between them going through its adjustment as both bodies rotated until they were facing each other on the bed, their chests pressed together by the nipple chains’ demand, the clit chain pulling both of them at the base.

His cock between them.

The channel their pressed-together bodies created.

He pushed between their linked breasts — the warm, soft pressure of four breasts closed around his shaft — and the chain hooks, compressed between their chests, pulled both nipples inward simultaneously, making both women cry at the same pitch.

"MMNH~!" — Jennifer.

"HNGH~!" — Yuna.

He looked down at them.

At both their faces, tear-tracked, flushed, looking up at him with the expressions that had been built over the course of the night — Jennifer’s the complex, layered expression of a woman in the process of revising everything she had thought she knew about herself, Yuna’s the direct, devastated, helplessly oriented expression of a girl who had been made into something that pointed at him.

He grabbed both their heads.

Turned them toward him.

Both faces angled upward.

"From now on," he said.

The tit-fuck pausing. The ambient, deliberate weight of the sentence arriving.

"You will both refer to me as master." Even. Final. The announcement of a rule being implemented rather than a request being made. "In front of anyone. In front of everyone. There are no exceptions."

Jennifer opened her mouth.

He twisted the hook at her nipple.

Not the chain — the hook itself, rotating.

The magic he had placed on both of them earlier held — no damage, no blood, just the sharp, traveling signal of nerve endings being directly addressed — and Jennifer’s back arched off the bed and the sound she made was not a word.

"MMPH~!! AAAHH~—HNGH~!!"

The hook at Yuna’s nipple went the other direction.

"HIEEK~—HNGH~!!"

Both women.

The simultaneous, layered cry of two people receiving the same message through different channels.

He waited.

"Yes, master."

Jennifer’s voice. Flat. Present. The voice of a woman who has arrived somewhere.

"Yes... master."

Yuna’s voice. Softer. The voice of a woman who had already been going in this direction and had just received formal confirmation.

He released the hooks.

Both women exhaled.

He pulled his cock from between them.

Three strokes, standing over both of them — the deliberate, unhurried pace — and he aimed.

The seed landed across both of their chests, the ropes of it striping across the nipple chains and the compressed, soft flesh of both sets of breasts, warm and immediate.

Both women looked up at him.

"Well done," he said.

His cock, still half-hard, landed flat across both their chests with the soft, proprietary slap of something being placed on something it owns.

"My bitches."

He tapped Jennifer’s breast with the head of it.

Then Yuna’s.

"We are going to corrupt a new world."

Both women blinked.

"What?" — Jennifer.

"What does that—" — Yuna.

He looked at their faces.

The confused, seed-painted, exhausted, tear-tracked faces of two women who had been built into something new over the course of a single day and a single night and were now being told the reason.

"You don’t need to think much," he said.

He stood.

"First we collect my sluts."

He looked at both of them — the comprehensive, assessing look of someone conducting an inventory — and then he said:

"Then I dress all of you to my desire."

His fingers snapped.

The room.

The amber light.

The water cycling through the basin.

The two wrecked sets of sheets.

The four finger-channels in the stone wall.

The chair with no rope around it anymore.

Empty.

All three of them gone.

’Japan. Present.’

The marketplace had the specific density of a weekday morning in a busy district — the commuters moving against the shoppers, the delivery carts navigating the gaps, the sound of a city that had already decided what kind of day it was having and was committed to it.

He walked slowly.

Not because he chose slowly — because slowly was what his legs were currently capable of, the leg support taking the weight his left side could not, the physical evidence of whatever had happened to Kenji Matsushita written in the careful, managed way he moved through the crowd.

Twenty-three years old.

Dark hair. Good face. The face of a man who had been handsome before something had happened to him and was still handsome now, just carrying it differently.

The young woman beside him held his elbow.

"Kenji." Her voice — Kira’s voice — the specific, careful voice of someone managing the gap between what they feel and what they’re saying. "Are you alright?"

"Thanks," he said. "Thanks for helping me, Kira."

She nodded.

"You don’t have to worry." Easy. Present. "I’m here."

She said it with the smooth confidence of someone who had decided to mean it.

But her thighs.

The way they pressed together with each step she took — the small, involuntary tension of muscles that were responding to something they had no current stimulus to respond to — and the heat that had been living there for three days, since the night she had decided was not happening, was not real, was something she was in the process of successfully forgetting.

The man’s face.

The purple eyes.

The way he had looked at her with the warm, unhurried certainty of someone who had already decided something about her and was simply waiting for the implementation phase to begin.

She had not told Kenji.

She would never tell Kenji.

’’I don’t need a cock,’’ she thought, with the flat, affirmative firmness of someone building a wall. ’’I don’t need any of that. Kenji is here and I am here and we are going to the hospital and everything is—’’

"What?"

She said it out loud before she had processed saying it.

Kenji turned his head slightly. "What?"

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing. I was just — thinking. Don’t worry."

’’What am I thinking.’’

She bit her lip.

She pushed the wheelchair through the hospital’s automatic doors and the cold, antiseptic air of the entrance hall arrived on her face and she breathed it in and reminded herself of all the reasons the last three days did not exist.

The wheelchair’s wheels on the linoleum.

The fluorescent lights overhead.

Kenji’s back, the familiar geometry of his shoulders.

And then—

"How are you, Kira."