By three in the afternoon, after buying most of what they needed, Rika Kawasaki drove Kaoru Hoshitani back to the hotel.
The car stopped at the hotel entrance, and a bellboy came forward, taking the car keys.
Rika Kawasaki carried Kaoru Hoshitani into the lobby. The elevator doors opened, and she pressed the button for their floor.
The room still held the scent from when they’d left at noon—the air purifier was off, the window was cracked open, letting in a cold draft that stirred the curtains, casting swaying light and shadow on the carpet.
The bed had been made by housekeeping, the comforter neatly folded, pillows placed side by side. No sign remained of what had happened there just hours before.
Only the bathroom door was still open, with damp water stains lingering in the grout between the tiles.
Rika Kawasaki placed Kaoru Hoshitani on the edge of the bed, then turned to draw the curtains.
The heavy blackout curtains slowly closed, completely shutting out the dimming twilight outside.
The room darkened, leaving only the bedside wall lamp on, casting a small pool of dim, yellowish light.
Kaoru Hoshitani sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, his fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of the bedsheet.
He naturally knew. The woman had bought him so many things—clothes, jewelry, cosmetics—piled high in the back seat, each item exorbitantly priced. So, of course, he was in for it now.
He spoke, his voice soft, carrying a trace of resigned exhaustion.
“Just get it over with quickly, aren’t I on the five o’clock flight?”
He remembered the time.
When he came, the secretary said the flight back to Tokyo was at five PM, arriving home just in time for Aina to get off work.
He didn’t want to make Aina wait, didn’t want her to ask, “Where did you go today? Why are you back so late?” Didn’t want to spin those flimsy, full-of-holes lies again.
Rika Kawasaki, taking off her own clothes without turning her head, said,
“It’s fine. I’ll make a call later, have your useless girlfriend work overtime tonight.”
Her tone was casual, as if discussing the most ordinary of matters—changing a flight ticket, making a phone call, having a woman she’d never met continue sitting in an office at night, staring at tedious reports, while her boyfriend knelt beneath another woman in an unfamiliar city.
“I changed your flight to eight PM.”
Kaoru Hoshitani had no words.
His lips moved, as if wanting to say something, or perhaps nothing at all. In the end, he just pressed them tightly together and fell silent.
Now, he didn’t even have the energy to voice an objection.
The anger, the humiliation, the unwillingness that had once burned in his chest had all been ground to dust through repeated crushing, scattered by the wind, leaving not even ashes behind.
“Alright, alright, don’t worry.”
Rika Kawasaki finished taking off her last piece of clothing and turned around.
Her body, under the dim light, displayed smooth lines—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the contours of muscle faintly visible beneath her skin, like a leopard poised to strike.
“In a month, I’ll get your useless girlfriend a promotion. I won’t treat her poorly.”
Her tone was like bestowing a favor—See how good I am to you? I’m even taking care of your woman.
She bent over, picked up a pillow from the bed, and tossed it onto the floor beside it.
The pillow landed with a soft thud, bounced once, then lay there quietly.
She gestured toward it with her chin, the corner of her mouth hooked in an unrefusable curve.
“Get down and kneel.”
Kaoru Hoshitani looked at her.
Those gray eyes seemed especially bright in the dim light, like two stars burning with flame, scorching and impossible to meet directly.
His gaze lingered on her face for a moment, then shifted away, landing on the white pillow on the floor.
It looked so soft, so innocent, like an invitation, yet also like a trap.
He slid off the bed, his knees landing on the pillow.
The pillow core sank down, the cotton emitting a faint rustling sound under the pressure.
He kept his head bowed, eyes lowered, his gaze fixed on his own fingers, neatly folded on his knees. His nails were trimmed neatly, cleanly, as if he’d never done anything shameful.
Rika Kawasaki was already sitting on the edge of the bed, legs apart, one foot on the floor, the other dangling, toes slightly curled.
She looked down at the small man kneeling before her, at his lowered brows and eyes, at his slightly pursed lips, at the glimpse of his pale nape between strands of hair.
Kaoru Hoshitani turned his head away, gaze fixed on the carpet beside them, refusing to look at her.
His voice was muffled, carrying a hint of petulant complaint.
“I’m so tired. I don’t want to. If you’re not going to move yourself, then just don’t do it.”
He knew how laughable his words were. Between the two of them, he’d never had any room for negotiation.
But he said it anyway, like the last, useless roar of a trapped beast.
Rika Kawasaki wasn’t in a hurry.
She reached out her right hand, placing it on his fluffy head.
The hair was soft and warm, slipping through her fingers like silk, like flowing water.
Her fingers combed through his hair, gently, slowly stroking, as if soothing a bristling cat.
“Be good.”
Her voice softened, carrying a deliberate, clumsy coquettishness, completely different from the aggressive businesswoman at the negotiation table.
“You don’t know how much I’ve missed you this week. Every day I had to rely on those videos… to vent. Just indulge me a little, okay?”
She drew out the last word, the tone rising, carrying a hint of grievance, like a child who didn’t get candy, acting spoiled with an adult.
But coming from such a tall, dangerous woman, it made the whole scene bizarre and ridiculous.
Hearing this, Kaoru Hoshitani felt a chill of disgust. The cold shiver ran up his spine, climbing all the way to the back of his head, raising fine goosebumps.
He hunched his shoulders, trying to escape that hand, but it seemed glued to the top of his head, impossible to shake off.
Sometimes he felt that Rika Kawasaki was naturally his counter.
In front of him, she always knew what tone, what expression, what action would make him retreat step by step.
Under that shameless assault, he could only retreat again and again, his boundaries constantly breached, like a levee repeatedly battered by floodwaters, cracks growing more numerous, deeper, ready to collapse completely at any moment.
But what he didn’t expect was, even with his head buried, this yellow-haired woman’s mouth didn’t stay idle.
Those insulting words spilled from her lips, one after another, like poison-tipped arrows, each striking his most vulnerable spot with precision.
“Hiss…”
She drew in a sharp breath, her voice carrying a sated, pleasurable note.
“Kaoru, you’ve improved so quickly. I remember the first time I had you do this, you were so clumsy, your teeth scraping painfully. Clearly had no experience.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair, giving a slight tug.
“Did your useless girlfriend never let you do this before?”
His ears began to burn. The heat spread from his earlobes to his cheeks, from his cheeks to his neck, his whole body feeling like it was being roasted over a fire.
“Do you know how many women were staring at you on the road earlier?”
Her voice lowered, carrying a smug, boastful tone.
“They’d never imagine a beauty like you would be kneeling beneath me right now, pleasing me.”
Kaoru Hoshitani jerked his head up, glaring at her viciously. Those little deer eyes were bloodshot with anger, red, like two burning coals.
His lips trembled, wanting to say something harsh, wanting to curse her, wanting to make her shut up—but the words, reaching his lips, turned into a string of broken, incoherent syllables.
Rika Kawasaki looked down at him from above. Those gray eyes held no anger, no shame, only something even more intense, ignited by his gaze.
The corner of her mouth curved deeper, that arc holding a nearly perverse satisfaction that seemed to say, The more you’re like this, the more excited I get.
He knew. The more he resisted, the more this woman felt it.
His anger, his humiliation, his unwillingness—they were all fuel for her fire, only making the flames burn brighter.
“I’m not doing it anymore!”
He sharply turned his head away, his jaw aching so much he could barely close it, his cheeks trembling.
“My jaw is sore!”
Rika Kawasaki looked at the little man on strike, at his puffed-out cheeks, furious appearance, and didn’t press him.
She stood up, walked barefoot to the sofa, and rummaged through the largest bag they’d brought up from the car, pulling something out.
It was a pink dress.
To be precise, something that could barely be called a “dress”—fabric as thin as cicada wings, so short it hardly covered anything, neckline plunging low, waist cinched tight, hem barely reaching the top of the thighs.
When lifted from the bag, it looked like a crumpled wisp of pink smoke, light, weightless.
Kaoru Hoshitani stared at this garment, as thin as paper, probably using less fabric than his shorts, his eyes widening in disbelief. His pupils contracted as if seeing something utterly absurd.
“You… you want me to wear this?”
His voice cracked.
Rika Kawasaki didn’t answer, just held the dress up in front of him, gave it a shake. The fabric unfolded in the air like a small, pink flag.
—
After some wheedling—or rather, after a one-sided, non-negotiable persuasion—Rika Kawasaki finally managed to get the “attack speed buff” pink dress onto Kaoru Hoshitani.
She personally helped him into it, adjusted the straps, smoothed the skirt, took a step back, and admired her handiwork.
The dress looked even better on him than on the hanger.
The pink fabric made his skin appear even paler, like snow, like porcelain, like some unreal texture only found in fairy tales.
The neckline plunged low, revealing a large expanse of collarbone and the delicate skin of his chest.
The waist was cinched tight, outlining a slender, almost graspable waistline.
The skirt was short, only reaching mid-thigh. Two long, slender legs extended from beneath the pink fabric, smooth and straight.
He stood there, head bowed, not daring to look at himself, nor at her.
His hands unconsciously tugged at the hem, trying to pull it down a bit, to cover more, but the skirt was too short; no matter how he pulled, it didn’t cover much.
Actually, that bag of hers contained far more than just this dress.
Collars, little whips, lace blindfolds, silk restraints… everything was there, stuffed full into the whole bag.
But adhering to the principle of gradual progression, Rika Kawasaki decided to boil the frog slowly, letting this somewhat conservative little man accept things bit by bit.
Today, the dress. Next time, the collar. The time after that… No hurry. She had plenty of time.
And next, with the “attack speed buff” applied, Rika Kawasaki went all out.
Kaoru Hoshitani, who had already been half-dead that morning, soon began to beg for mercy.
His voice went from initial restraint to suppressed groans, from groans to broken, panting breaths, from panting to fragmented, tearful pleas.
His tears fell one by one, hitting the bedsheet, spreading into small, damp patches.
Finally, even crying, he followed the woman’s orders, using that hoarse, almost inaudible voice, calling out “Master,” “Sister.”
Each word seemed forced from his throat, carrying humiliation, unwillingness, yet also an instinctive submission he could no longer control.
But of course, Rika Kawasaki wouldn’t stop.
And so, time passed minute by minute.
The sky outside the window turned from gray-blue to deep blue, from deep blue to ink-black.
The city lights came on one by one, merging into a brilliant river of light in the darkness.
But inside this room, behind the curtains, there was only the dim wall lamp and the intertwined shadows of two people, swaying on the wall, panting, seemingly tireless.
—
By seven-thirty in the evening, Rika Kawasaki finally rose from Kaoru Hoshitani’s body.
Her skin glistened with a fine layer of sweat under the light, her wheat-colored complexion looking as if glazed, smooth and shining.
She gasped for breath, her chest heaving violently, but those gray eyes burned with a sated, post-conquest glow.
Then, she lifted her foot.
That wheat-colored, long-toed foot, still bearing thin calluses, came down on the man’s exquisite face, now etched with utter collapse.
The sole pressed against his cheekbone, toes touching the corner of his eye, heel against his chin.
The wheat-colored skin formed a stark contrast with his pale face, like a boldly composed, tension-filled painting.
Kaoru Hoshitani lay there, eyes vacant and unfocused, deep within his pupils as if two pink hearts slowly rotated.
His face was streaked with a mixture of tear tracks and sweat, lips swollen and red, slightly parted, revealing a glimpse of pearly teeth.
His body still twitched faintly, like a machine pushed beyond its limits, every component groaning under the strain.
Rika Kawasaki’s foot pressed down slightly, forcing Kaoru Hoshitani’s head deeper into the soiled bedsheet.
The sheet was crumpled, damp, indistinguishable whether from sweat, tears, or something else.
His face was buried in it, his breathing obstructed by the fabric, becoming rapid and faint.
But he didn’t even have the strength to struggle, just letting her press down on him, like a piece of shattered glass trampled into the mud.
Gazing at this exquisite scene—
The pink dress tangled messily around his waist, the pale body covered in red marks, the vacant pupils reflecting the shape of hearts, the wheat-colored foot trampling the face that had once haunted her dreams.
Rika Kawasaki’s sense of conquest, as a woman, was instantly, immensely satisfied.
The corner of her mouth slowly curved into a smile. That curve held no triumph, no mockery, only a settled, steady happiness.
She bent down, reached out a hand, and gently brushed the hair from his face—a motion so tender it seemed unlike the person who had just been inflicting violence.
“It’s almost eight.”
She said softly, her voice hoarse yet gentle.
“Time to go to the airport.”
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