Work Text:
Estimated delivery time: 4:24pm.
Your clock read 2:15.
"Dammit," you hissed. "Shit shit shit." Your shift started at four--weren't Rainforest Gold packages supposed to be fast? Anxiously, you nibbled your thumbnail between your teeth like you'd been doing for the past hour since you'd gotten the notification that your order was en route. It was surprising you hadn't bitten the whole nail off by now.
In your defense, you'd tried to keep yourself otherwise occupied in the meantime. You finished your report from last week's theoretical physics lab, even though it's not due until Tuesday. You swept, vacuumed, and swept again in your modest little Shibuya studio. You gave your cat a treat, even though the little bastard had pawed your grandmother's ceramic heirloom butter dish off the kitchen counter last night. Anything to keep you from refreshing the Rainforest app every ten minutes for an update on your delivery.
But it was hopeless. You were hopeless. You totally refreshed that damn app every chance you got and felt your confidence flag a little further every time the disappointing notification window popped up:
Estimated delivery time: 4:24pm.
Groaning, you tossed your phone onto your futon and flopped back onto the covers. Your cat, who had been unceremoniously licking his balls on your pillow, grumbled with disdain at you before prancing toward your desk to resume his bath.
"Sorry," you said, as if your cat knew Japanese. He glanced at you reproachfully from his new perch, leg straight in the air.
You let your head fall back into your pillow with a sigh. Of course this had to happen--the day before the end of the semester, the day before you had to go back home and visit your family for an entire month, and the most important package of your twenty-some years had the audacity to be late to show up before your shift started.
Maybe you could tell Iwai that you were going to be late—it wouldn’t be the first time, after all, although the previous times you were late it was because you got caught up studying for your exams or something. Immediately, you felt your cheeks burn with shame at that idea—Iwai Munehisa had already given you plenty of passes, being tardy for a fucking Rainforest Gold package was a kick in the teeth. Iwai told you “college comes first,” in that deep, gravelly tone of his, but he wasn’t an idiot. If you lied to him, he’d probably be able to tell. Ex-yakuza and all that. Besides, you were also a very, very bad liar, and you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to Iwai.
Not that with that gravelly tone of his.
You shook your head. “Pull yourself together, (y/n),” you mumbled to yourself. Your cat glanced up again, mid-taint-lick.
You rolled over and buried your head into your pillow. Of course, as soon as Iwai crossed your mind, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d given you so much despite knowing so little about you. You’d been in Shibuya for only one semester now and one month into your physics course, when you realized that instant ramen and cheap beer was no way to live, you’d gone skulking around the city alleyways for work. Two hours of scouring for “For Hire” signs in restaurant and bar windows and swatting away talent poachers for Shibuya’s maid cafes had your feet sore and your tights wet from the rain. For a minute, you actually started considering those maid café job offers.
Running into Untouchable was an accident. The Saturday night lights of Shibuya were dancing against the torrential downpour of the freak storm that the morning weather report had conveniently neglected to mention that day—you could stand a sprinkle, but not the bone-soaking rain that started in the middle of your job search. You’d dashed into the nearest lit storefront you could find, ignoring the harsh glint of the fluorescent interior lights. After you’d managed to squeeze the rain off your eyelashes, you’d blinked into existence in what was definitely, absolutely an Airsoft gun store, with a very confused looking man with sharp grey eyes and a gecko neck tattoo staring at you from behind the counter.
You were surprised Iwai had even offered you a job at all. You came from a podunk town in Hokkaido, you’d never seen a real gun in your life, let alone model guns. Nevertheless, after a brief explanation of your hurried entrance and that you had no intention of being his customer, Iwai had given you a wry smile and a part-time offer polishing models and restocking inventory. You’d gone home that night with a light step and hop that you could maybe buy real ramen from the store from there on out.
Fumbling for your phone, you refreshed the Rainforest app. Estimated delivery time: 4:24pm. Your clock read 2:45pm.
You sighed. “I’m hopeless,” you said aloud to your cat.
Cats didn’t have lips, but you’re sure yours scowled at you nonetheless. He tucked his feet beneath him and began loafing in earnest.
Absentmindedly, you checked your texts. The most recent one was from Iwai—u still cumin @ 4? because Iwai was the only person you knew that still had a flip phone and texted like he did. You’d responded yeah of course—that had been your routine for several months now, coming in at four every other day and staying until closing, sweeping and polishing and talking to Iwai about your coursework. Iwai had told you early on that he wasn’t an academic—I didn’t finish high school, ya know; times were different back then—but he still asked you questions about what you were studying. He even listened to your long-winded, hyper-layman’s explanations of chromodynamics and optical physics with a smile and a nod.
So obviously, you’d fallen in love with Iwai Munehisa.
In retrospect, it was a no-brainer—Iwai had dense, packed muscle on his arms and weather-worn tattoos on his shoulders that extended to what you were certain was a secret mural on his back. His slate-grey gaze was piercing and you felt ready to be dismantled by it in an instant. His voice was dark-toned and liquid gold. He’d never revealed you how old he was, but from what he told you about his teenage son, you figured he couldn’t be any younger than forty. A handsome older man with a shady past but a soft, compassionate smile? Honestly, it was inevitable.
But when you’d realized your feelings for him, you were still mortified. He was (probably) dangerously close to your dad’s age, (probably) still involved in something dubious that was above your understanding, (probably) dating women his own age, even though he’d told you he was divorced now. You were a college student, Iwai was your boss and a grown fucking man with a teenager. Your crush on him may as well have been the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to you, and you’d seriously considered working at a maid café. Iwai wouldn’t ever go for you. That was practically a fact.
But you were an warm-blooded adult and that didn’t stop you from trying.
The hem of the skirts you wore to work became shorter, the neckline of your t-shirts plunging further. You started wearing a swipe of makeup here and there, despite the heavy lifting and the subsequent sweat you worked up on inventory days. You climbed the ladder in the stockroom a couple rungs higher than was necessary when Iwai was in the back as well. You’d given it the old college try.
Nothing. Iwai’s disposition toward you did not change. He still asked you about particle physics and still gave you the most infuriatingly platonic slap on the shoulder at the end of your shift.
The Rainforest app pinged. You scrambled to check it—estimated delivery time: 4:15pm. Your breath hitched a little in your throat. Something akin to hope bloomed within you.
It wasn’t like your efforts at seduction had gone entirely unnoticed, however—just unnoticed by the intended target. Akira, Iwai’s brooding, funky part-timer with square glasses and a rap sheet a little longer than the hemline of your miniskirt, had pointed out your outfits one afternoon. “You’re going to have to be a little more direct than that,” he’d told you with a grin. The two of you had become good friends, once you’d gotten past the initial ick factor of befriending a high schooler—although the ick factor returned when he took you to his uncle’s shop for coffee and curry and made the worst possible suggestion you had ever heard. Akira casually mentioned you’d be away for a whole month after you gaped at his idea, and who knows who Iwai might meet while you’re gone?
Of course you’d followed his suggestion.
(Thank God you’d thought to open your own credit card when you moved away.)
Another urgent ping interrupted your thoughts. Estimated delivery time: 3:35pm.
Your clock read 3:30pm.
Your scramble to throw on a pair of sliders and a mask startled your cat as he sat up hurriedly from his loafing position, whining at you as you searched frantically for your apartment keys.
“Sorry, gottagotothepackageroom,” you said quickly, already halfway out the door. You barely had the wherewithal to lock your door as you jogged to the stairwell, sliders slapping against your heels, heart in the soles of your feet along with them.
By the time you managed to fly down eight flights of stairs and make it to the mailroom, the postman was there with a look of surprise on his face as you ambushed him for a package addressed to (y/n) please. After a moment of rifling through his sack, he produced it—a small square box sealed with Rainforest Gold tape, the contents jingling as he handed it to you. You remembered to bow with a hasty thank-you before taking the stairs two at a time back to your apartment.
Your quads burned as you unlocked your front door, but the adrenaline rush in your veins and the roaring blood in your ears drowned out the aches. Using the bit of your keys, you tore open the tape on the package.
The contents of the bubble wrap turned the tips of your ears red.
Fucking Akira.
Your clock read 3:48pm.
You were late to Untouchable anyway.
Iwai’s eyebrows shot up beneath the brim of his hat once you walked in the back door. He was at his desk in the back, balancing what you figured was his checkbook, seemingly engrossed in the task until you walked in. His eyes, calculating and careful as ever, seemed to widen a bit when he saw you—surprising, since you were dressed more modestly today. In your hurry to get to work, you’d had enough time to throw on a baggy t-shirt and a long skirt, opting to go sans makeup today. There wasn’t much different about you than usual.
Except there was, because you were wearing your order—a black leather collar with a simple silver ring at the nape.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, hanging up your bookbag on the coatrack by the back entrance. “I was, uh. Editing an essay.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
But it was enough of one and you were just enough of a bad liar for Iwai to blink in thinly veiled disbelief. “… Right,” he said. The hum of the ceiling fan in the dingy back room was loud enough to make you wonder if the thickness of Iwai’s voice was merely a hallucination.
You swallowed as you shrugged off your jacket and hung it up beside your backpack. It was a Thursday, meaning you needed to clean today. Absently, you hooked your pointer finger into the ring around your neck—glass cleaner, broom, dustpan. Akira had told you that there was a certain… implication about these collars that Iwai almost certainly understood. If you want him to notice you’re available, Akira had said through a mouthful of curry rice, you’ll want to get one of these.
Glass cleaner, broom, dustpan. You turned toward the utility closet in the corner, but Iwai’s voice interrupted you.
“(y/n),” he said. “What’re you wearing?”
Your stomach began churning with excitement. It’s working. Akira was a high schooler, but apparently he knew something.
You glanced at Iwai. You felt bold. “Oh, this shirt is from the K-PON world tour,” you said, gesturing to your t-shirt. With most people, you’d feel a little silly being an adult and still listening to J-pop, but you know Iwai wouldn’t judge—although by the way his smoldering charcoal eyes narrowed, maybe he was, just a little. “From last year.”
“Not that,” Iwai continued. “I don’t give a shit about K-PON.” He pointed at your choker. “That. Where did you get that?”
Your finger still in the steel ring, you gave it a little tug. A small thrill ran through you at the sensation—it’d be better with someone else’s fingers—“Oh, I bought it on Rainforest online. I thought it was cute.” Now that was a lie, a boldfaced one.
Iwai saw right through you. You knew he would. The shivering chill mounted as he wheeled his chair around to face you, elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. His eyes peeled you apart like a paring knife. He wasn’t wearing his usual green jacket—his bare arms were on display, those muscles you loved so much flexing as he folded his hands together.
“Really?” Iwai asked bluntly. “Because that looks like a sub collar to me. That’s an awfully presumptuous thing to think is cute.”
You swallowed again—this time, though, you weren’t sure if it was the tightness of the choker or the heavy tension that made the motion so difficult. “Oh?” you said. Your voice was a little higher pitched than usual. “What’s a sub collar?”
“You’re pretty bad at playing dumb, (y/n),” Iwai said. “I think you know what it is. Who gave it to you? Boyfriend?”
There were no windows in Untouchable’s back room and the door was shut and locked tightly behind you—still, you felt a cold draft at Iwai’s assumption. “Wh—no!” you sputtered. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I swear, I was just on Rainforest and I saw it and thought it was cute!”
Smirking, Iwai leaned back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He rolled his lollipop back and forth in his mouth; you watched the stick pass between his cupid’s bow with every flick of his tongue. You felt hypnotized. “You’re a terrible liar, (y/n),” he teased. As if he flipped an internal switch, his expression suddenly became serious. “Listen. From my background, girls that wear that kinda shit in public get… unwelcome attention. Unsavory people like claiming collared subs. It’s a power trip. Tell your Dom that he should get you something a little more subtle for everyday use.” He turned back to his checkbook, breaking his gaze from yours. “Seems like that should be common sense.”
You twisted the hem of your t-shirt beneath your fingers. You gnawed on your lip. “I promise I’m not lying when I said I bought it,” you told him.
Iwai glanced over at you as he picked up his pen. From the way his lips pursed in a thin line, you could tell he believed you this time. “I see,” he said after a long, contemplative pause. “What you get up to in your free time is your own business. Just don’t wear it to work again, I don’t need to know.”
You remembered the conspiratorial gleam in Akira’s eye when he showed you the listing for the collar on Rainforest, hunched over the table in his uncle’s café, torso narrowly missing the steaming cup of black coffee you’d ordered. He’s obviously going to know what this is, Akira had told you, but he may not understand why you’re wearing it. Don’t be afraid to be forward. He likes that.
You stopped gnawing on your lip. You were going to be gone for one whole month.
“I want you to,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray your nerves.
Iwai stopped scribbling in the checkbook. He didn’t look at you. “What’re you talking about?” he asked.
“I want you to know,” you said. “I wore this for you, Iwai-san.”
Snap. You hoped the pen in his hand was cheap because he’d just broken it in half. Ink bloomed on the surface of the checkbook. Iwai stared down at the leaking pen he was holding for a moment, then up at you. He looked stunned.
You’d said it. Your throat felt full of wool, heavy and thick with exertion with every breath you took. There was no going back. Either this was the end of your job or the start of something else.
You clutched the hem of your skirt. You had to take that risk.
“I know it’s forward, Iwai-san,” you said nervously. “But. I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. And, er. I want to be something more to you.” You worried your skirt in your hands. “More than just an employee.”
Iwai blew out a sigh. He tossed the leaking pen to the side, shoved his checkbook to the upper corner of his desk, and leaned back in the chair. “Hm.” He didn’t look at you.
Your stomach plummeted. This is it. It’s over. “I’m sorry,” you said again.
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Iwai replied. He still hadn’t looked at you, but he was clacking that lollipop between his teeth with a higher tempo than usual. You’d noticed that momentum building before—usually when he was in tense negotiations in the back room with arms dealers over the phone or when some wayward Yakuza wandered in and a flicker of recognition flitted over Iwai’s stony expression. The lollipop clicking was rare.
It betrayed tension.
Finally, Iwai looked at you. He seemed to be studying you. Evaluating your reaction. The gnawing on your lower lip and the twisting of your skirt hem intensified.
“You sure?” he said.
“Uh?” you mumbled.
Iwai swiveled his desk chair in your direction. He leaned forward, elbows on his legs, stare intent. “I said, are you sure?” he asked. “Because I like you too. Shit, (y/n), I have for a while. But I want to make sure we’re clear on you being okay with this before I say or do anything else.”
Your pulse must have skipped a beat, maybe you’d blacked out. But you were sure. You were so sure that you’d gotten coffee and curry with his wayward part-timer on a hunch. You were so sure that you’d ordered a Rainforest Gold package on rush delivery last night at three in the morning. You were so sure that you were late today, just so you could dive on this last-ditch effort before you left Shibuya for an entire month.
You were terrified.
But you were sure.
“Yes,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t betray your anxiety. “Iwai-san, I’m sure.”
Iwai sucked in a breath through his nose. A contemplative glaze passed over his face for a moment, but it was so brief that you were almost certain you’d hallucinated it. Quietly, he climbed to his feet and made his way over to you.
You didn’t back up, even as he approached you.
You were sure.
Iwai linked his finger into the hole of the ring and tugged it forward. Just as you’d suspected, it was way nicer to have somebody else pulling on it. The squeeze of the leather against the nape of your neck made you whimper.
“I stand by what I said earlier,” Iwai said gruffly. “This is way too obvious for public. I’m going to buy you something simpler.”
“Y-Yeah?” you squeaked.
Iwai tilted his head to the side wordlessly, instead feeding you a smirk so subtle you could’ve waved it away as a trick of the light. He slid his finger out from the ring around your neck and took one step back. His expression was stone-faced, stolid—yet the only betrayal of his true emotions was in his eyes, nothing but pitch-black pupil ringed with ash grey.
You couldn’t hide your shudder this time around. You felt cornered, trapped by a predator much larger and more fearsome than you.
Yet somehow, you had no desire to run.
“Now, sweet pea.” Iwai sidestepped your nervous question. “Before we get started, I’m going to need a safe word.”
Safe word. There was something elusive about Iwai’s comment about buying you a simpler collar, something that could be dismissed with a gust of wind and a misinterpretation—but a safe word? You felt heat creep up your neck. There was not one damn bit of wiggle room in the implications of a safe word. You knew what a safe word was, sure—you’d been on the Internet before. Still, you somehow felt caught off guard. You and Akira didn’t talk about safe words.
“Uh,” you stammered elegantly.
You must have looked like a deer in headlights—Iwai actually smiled at that. “Relax, sweet pea,” he said. Had his voice dropped an octave or was it just you? “Think of something you wouldn’t normally say. Something easy to forget. In the heat of things.” Oh, his voice had definitely dropped an octave.
You glanced up at the ceiling. The ceiling fan was still on. It didn’t feel like it.
Your reaction wasn’t fast enough, because when you looked at Iwai again, his amusement had morphed to concern, etched between those salt and pepper brows. “Hey, (y/n),” he said softly. “We don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready. I don’t wanna catch you off guard. I accept nothing less than enthusiastic consent.”
“No, no!” You were almost tripping over yourself. “Iwai-san, please, I want to do this. This has been, like, my wet dream for… months. I’m just… ah.” You shifted nervously from one foot to another. Your legs felt stiff, your knees locked up. “Out of my element.” And. “Honestly, I didn’t expect to get this far.”
That was the tickler, because Iwai belted out a belly laugh that nigh shook the walls of Untouchable. You’d only heard Iwai laugh like that a handful of times—once at a joke Kaoru had told him late one spring evening in the shop after school, once at Akira tripping over the doormat and spilling coffee on himself—and this third magical occurrence was at your expense, in the back room of Untouchable, because you wore a sub collar to work and Iwai had just offered to be your Dom.
If you weren’t so frazzled, you’d laugh too.
“You’re somethin’ else, pumpkin,” Iwai chuckled, arching a mirthful eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to get this far? Have you looked at yourself?”
You felt your breath hitch. “Oh? What do you mean?”
“Ah, ah,” Iwai tutted. “Safe word first, then you can fish for compliments.”
A new feeling bubbled up effervescently inside you, riding the rails in tandem with your anxiety—playfulness? Rebellion? You couldn’t put a word on it, but it caused you to pout. You noticed a shift in Iwai’s expression—from amusement back to dark, thinly veiled interest.
You looked down at your shirt. “K-PON,” you said. “My safe word is K-PON.”
Iwai barked out another laugh and the earth must have shifted on its axis. “Fucking K-PON?” he said. “Shit, guess this is what I get, going after girls half my fuckin’ age.”
You broke out another pout and reveled, quietly, in the near-inaudible rumble at the base of Iwai’s throat. That sound made you feel positively tingly. “You have your safe word,” you said. “Can I have compliments now?”
Iwai recovered the step he’d retreated and, without breaking his gaze, wrapped his hands around the base of your ponytail. He gave your hair a brisk but gentle yank; the pinpricks of pain on your scalp weren’t overwhelming, but they did make you gasp and press your thighs together a little tighter. Iwai forced your head back to look at him.
He leaned in. His breath smelled of blue raspberry, lollipops, sweat. “First lesson, sweet pea,” he growled. “Don’t abuse the bratty sub pout or you’re gonna make me want to wipe it off your face.”
With that, Iwai crushed your mouths together.
You were immediately assaulted with the sweet discordant din of cherry flavor—rough, chapped lips pressing firmly against yours, tinged with sugar and urgency. You parted your lips slightly with a gasp; Iwai found the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. The sweetness of the lollipop, still present in his mouth, was amplified by the way he sucked lightly on your tongue.
Your knees must have started to buckle a bit, because Iwai had his hand on the small of your back as he pulled away. You found yourself chasing his motions inadvertently, desperately, trying to kiss him again. But Iwai pulled his face away from yours just long enough to smirk, eyes smoldering and interested. Your breath was coming out in short pants.
“Easy now,” Iwai chided gently. “Don’t want you getting too carried away right off the bat.”
You whined. You wanted to get carried away. Wasn’t that the whole point of this? The whole point of the—
“Safe word,” Iwai commanded. His voice had enough presence to lock your knees and straighten your spine, but it had no real bite behind it. “Tell me it again. I want to hear you say it, clearly.”
You whined, again, this time with greater urgency. Your thighs were rubbing together, your arousal thick and damn between your legs. Your mind was foggy, addled with all the scattered paths that this encounter could lead you down. Safe word? Safe word? Somewhere deep in your psyche, you unearthed it.
“K-PON,” you breathed. It took all your strength.
Iwai smiled, languid and satisfied. “Good girl,” he murmured, and you shuddered. Jerking his head toward his desk, he continued, “panties off. Skirt up around your waist. On the desk.”
You scrambled to obey, nearly tearing the fabric of your underwear as you reached beneath the hemline of your skirt to rip them off. The burst of adrenaline pushed you toward the surface of Iwai’s desk, the edges cluttered with receipts and the inventory clipboards you’d stacked there for his consideration in the past, now long forgotten. With shaking arms, you hoisted yourself up on the desk, legs pushed together, skin tingling with anticipation.
Iwai sauntered over to you, approaching you with the practiced swagger of a predator assessing his prey. Not for one second did his eyes leave you—instead, the smoky, ashen promise behind his gaze only intensified as he reached you, crowding between your legs. His hands met your knees, softly coaxing your legs apart as he boxed you in with his body. He was warm, so warm.
“Now, don’t be bashful, sweet pea,” Iwai said huskily. “We won’t do anything too intense today. Baby steps.” He leaned in, lips ghosting on your neck as he peppered kisses around the choker. You sighed and craned your neck to the side to allow him access as he sucked a mark into the pulse point at the crux of your jaw.
“I’ll just make you feel good,” he whispered into your skin, breath hot. “How does that sound?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation.
Iwai’s grip on one of your knees tightened. “Yes what?” The implication was hooded but firm.
You got the hint. “Yes, sir,” you whimpered.
With an appreciative hum, Iwai pulled back enough to fill the space between you with air again and fumbled around for something on his desk for a moment. Just as you were about to make a fuss, Iwai revealed the checkbook he’d been writing on when you’d walked in. He flipped to the most recent check and held it up to your face.
“Tell me what you see,” he ordered.
You swallowed. Iwai’s penmanship, choppy but practiced, was obscured by the ink blot from the snap of his pen earlier. “There’s a stain on it, sir,” you answered.
“That’s right.” Iwai closed the checkbook and brought it down to your bare thigh. The graze of the paper’s edge, the promise of a paper cut, made your blood roar in your ears. “And what do you think made that happen?”
“I.” You lost your voice for a moment as Iwai traced the corner of the binding along your inner thigh. The hairs on the back of your arms stood up as a shiver wracked its way through you. “I don’t know, sir.”
Iwai hummed, pressing the back of the checkbook against your skin. “I think you’re lying,” he said. Before you could respond, the checkbook came down against your leg with the force of a whip. The crack of paper against skin made you cry out and jolt, crackles of pain shooting toward the tips of your toes. Shakily, you looked down at where Iwai had slapped the checkbook against you—an angry red rectangle had begun to form, the skin stinging there.
“Again,” Iwai said. “Tell me what happened that made me ruin my checkbook.”
The twinges of pain were intoxicating. You couldn’t tell him. “I promise I don’t know, sir,” you said.
Your hope for another smack was rewarded—this time with the bite of the checkbook’s spine against the opposite thigh. The pain was more intense, further blooming this time, and you felt tears form at the corners of your eyes. You wanted more, more, more.
“Tell. Me. What. Happened.” Iwai growled. Once more, twice more, thrice more, the checkbook found a violent home on your legs. With each strike, your heart pounded faster and the dampness between your legs grew ever urgent. By the fifth slap, you were quivering, the skin on both thighs welting red and sore.
Finally, you could admit you were at your limit. You found the decorum to point to the collar on your neck. Your free hand met the hot, burning swell on your thigh and the heady rush you got from the pain made you feel faint.
“This,” you moaned. “It was this, sir, this.”
Iwai grunted. To your chagrin, he dropped the checkbook, the ledger dropping with a muffled tap onto the concrete floor below. Reaching toward the ring on your choker, he looped his finger into it once more, giving it a sharp tug. “That’s right,” he growled. “You ruined my checkbook. Now I have to get another one. I think you owe me.” He yanked on the ring once more; for a moment, your breath cut deep in your throat, the promise of asphyxiation too strong to ignore—too dangerous to explore this time. “And do you know how much you owe me?”
You barely felt the journey of his free hand to the space between your legs, the suggestion of his fingertips against your folds, the callouses from handling untold weapons an impetus. The cheek had seeped from you long ago.
“No,” you whispered. “How much?”
His fingers rubbed a parabola around your clit. Your eyes nearly crossed.
“At the very least, this,” Iwai rumbled. Finally, finally! he pressed his thumb into your clit and the moan that ripped itself from your throat was guttural. The fingers found your entrance, pushing into the slick warmth.
You cried out as his fingers curled inside you, a come-hither coaxing a wave of pleasure that made your toes curl. Your voice made Iwai hiss under his breath, his teeth grazing the point on your neck where he’d so delicately kissed earlier.
“Fucking hell,” he snarled as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, thumb exigent on your clit. “Can’t fuckin’ believe I waited this long. You and your short fuckin’ skirts. Should’ve bent you over the counter ages ago. Shit. Fuckin’ tease—”
“Iwai, sir, please,” you sobbed. The implication of Iwai’s words was long lost on you—the only thing you could focus on was the constant tide and pull of pleasure that Iwai was pulling from you, each crest growing dangerously close to flooding. At your pleading, his actions became hastier, unfocused, altogether rougher.
“Ask me.” Iwai’s order was ensconced with lust, voice thick with clout that knocked any remaining breath out of you. “Ask me to come. Don’t you dare come without my permission.”
Your body was quaking. You couldn’t stave it off—the tide was approaching ever faster, the cadence of it out of your reach. Iwai was in control.
You could only beg.
“Please, sir, please, let me come please—”
Up against the shell of your ear, Iwai growled: “Come.”
And you did—the wash of your orgasm was so powerful that you felt every muscle in your body tense and relax simultaneously, the sensation almost too much to bear. You shook in Iwai’s grip as you rode out the shockwaves, clenching around his fingers. The vibrations in your body peaked, then dimmed to a low frequency as the only hum left was Iwai’s voice against your chest.
You sank into Iwai’s grasp, the orgasm turning you boneless as you leaned against him. You felt the tremor of Iwai’s chest as he chuckled against you.
“Good girl,” he said again.
Weakly, the welted skin on your thighs twitched. The skin underneath your choker ached.
Delivered: Your Rainforest.com Order
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