"Help!"

He twisted in the wheelchair — the full, lurching twist of someone who has forgotten that their body does not currently support this kind of motion — and his voice went up.

"Somebody — help — there is a man — he’s—"

The nurse at the station continued typing. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The orderly pushing a cart past the corridor entrance continued pushing.

The family group near the elevator continued their quiet, private conversation about visiting hours.

Everyone moved in the fog of not-noticing, their eyes passing over the three of them — the woman with her jeans at mid-thigh, the naked man behind her, the young man twisted sideways in the wheelchair — with the smooth, uninterrupted indifference of people whose vision had been told there was nothing there worth processing.

"Nobody—" Kenji’s voice cracked. "Can’t anyone—"

His hands found the armrests.

He pushed.

The specific, overriding physical effort of a man whose legs do not work and who has decided that this is not going to stop him — the full-body, shaking, white-knuckled effort of someone who had been told by his body for the last three months that certain things were not available to him, and who was now informing his body that he had found an exception.

He fell.

The wheelchair tipped sideways with the full weight of the failed momentum, and Kenji went down — his shoulder hitting the linoleum first, his hands catching the worst of it, his legs following with the slow, unhelpful weight of limbs that were not participating — and he landed on the floor of the hospital corridor on his side, looking up at the ceiling.

He lay there.

For three seconds.

Then he pushed himself upright.

Not standing — his legs weren’t doing that. But upright. On his knees. The full, shaking, impractical uprightness of a man who has decided that upright is what is required right now and has implemented it through pure willful disregard for the physical evidence.

His face.

Red.

The specific red of a young man who has been crying without deciding to cry and has been crying long enough for it to be visible now.

"Stop." His voice. Directed at Raven. At the man whose existence he was now looking directly at — the full, comprehensive, Greek-god nakedness of him, the purple eyes, the black hair, the cock that was currently pressed against the back of the woman Kenji had been in love with since they were fifteen. "Stop what you are doing to her."

Raven looked at him.

The warm, patient expression.

He reached down.

His finger found the panty fabric at Kira’s hip — not pulling it down — up. Pulling the waistband upward, the thin fabric bunching, the string of it traveling inward, the tension pulling everything it was attached to upward with it.

Kira’s toes left the floor.

The panty string pulled directly along the cleft of her — the thin fabric finding her labia with the surgical efficiency of underwear pulled from exactly the right angle — and she went up on her tiptoes, her hips rising with the pull, her hairy pussy pressing visibly against the taut fabric from behind.

"AAAHH~—"

Her balance went.

Her hands went out.

She grabbed the wall. Both palms flat on the corridor wall, her body now angled, hips high, jeans at her thighs, the panty string pulled to tension, her body entirely visible from behind to the young man kneeling on the floor three feet away.

Kenji.

Who was seeing her.

Seeing her — the body he had never been allowed to see, the body he had built eleven years of careful, managed longing around — from the least appropriate angle, at the worst possible moment, with another man’s hand holding the fabric that was currently demonstrating in elaborate, visual detail exactly what she was wearing underneath her clothes.

"Don’t look," Kira said.

Her voice.

Desperate. Broken. The voice of a woman who is simultaneously mortified and no longer in full control of what her body is doing and is aware of both facts simultaneously.

"Kenji — don’t—don’t look—"

Kenji’s eyes were red.

He was looking.

He couldn’t not look.

Raven released the panty.

It snapped back.

She gasped.

He grabbed both her wrists — one motion, efficient, both her hands pulled behind her back and held together in his grip — and pressed her forward toward the wall.

"You’re heavy," he said, warm, conversational, his mouth at her ear, "so don’t struggle. Give me the support or you’ll fall."

She opened her mouth.

She was going to say something that began with let me go or stop or I’m not — the sentence was fully formed, she could feel the shape of it, the protest of a woman who had been building a wall for three days and had decided it was load-bearing.

"Yes."

The word that came out.

"Master."

Two words.

Her own voice. The voice that had been deciding things all morning. Producing the two words she had been most successfully not producing for three days.

The tears ran.

She bit her lip so hard the copper taste arrived.

And across from her, on the linoleum, Kenji’s face did the thing that faces do when something irrevocable has just been confirmed — the specific, comprehensive devastation of a hope that had been sitting quietly in a corner for eleven years finally being addressed directly and definitively.

His mouth.

Open.

No sound.

His cock found her entrance.

The panties pulled to the side with one finger — not removed, just moved, the specific, deliberate casualness of a man who does not need to undress someone to access what he wants — and the cockhead pressed at her entrance.

Her pussy was hairy, wet, the insignia at her labia glowing gold under the fluorescent lights — the mark pulsing in time with her heartbeat, the binding doing its work, the claim he had placed on her three days ago now visible to both of them in the most direct possible terms.

Kenji saw it.

The glow.

"What is—" His voice dropped. "What did you do to her — what is that — what is on her—"

He slammed.

PHAAACKK!

"IAAAANGHH~!!"

Kira’s head lulled backward — the full, boneless arc of a woman whose body has just received the thing it has been waiting three days to receive, whether she had been authorizing the waiting or not — and then the scream arrived, traveling the full length of the hospital corridor, the naked, unmanaged scream of a woman being filled by something her body had been missing.

The nurses at the station did not look up.

The orderly did not stop.

The magic did its work.

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! STOP — PLEASE — KENJI — DON’T LOOK—"

"KIRA—" Kenji, from the floor, his hands finding purchase, his body trying to move toward her on his knees. "STOP — YOU — I WILL—"

PAAAH! PAH! PAH!

"IAAAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! TOO DEEP — TOO FAST—"

His hand found her shirt.

The buttons — one, two, three, four — the fabric falling open in the systematic, unhurried manner of someone who is doing something else simultaneously and is removing a secondary obstacle — until the black bra appeared.

The full, jiggling evidence of breasts that had been contained and were now caught between the open halves of her shirt, swaying forward with each thrust.

He groped.

Both hands finding both breasts over the bra cups — the full, heavy weight of her in both palms — pressing inward, the fabric stretching, the bra doing its job and losing.

"MMNH~—AAAHH~!!"