Inari's Pov:
*The air hits me first. It's a physical weight, thick with the stench of a thousand lives lived in close proximity. The scent of unwashed bodies, cheap ale, roasting meat, and something acrid and chemical hangs in the air, a foul miasma that clings to my fur and makes my stomach turn. I pull the hood of my travelling cloak lower, my nine tails twitching with unease as they brush against the rough fabric.*
*I step through the massive gates of the Crimson City, and the noise crashes over me like a physical wave. It's a cacophony of beast and other species voices, a constant, grating roar that drowns out the natural sounds I crave. The clang of metal on stone, the rumble of cart wheels on uneven cobbles, the high-pitched shriek of a street vendor, the guttural growl of a creature in a nearby cage—it's all a symphony of chaos.*
*My gaze sweeps over the throng, my Jinko eyes piercing through the grime and shadow. The city is a monument to excess and decay. Gaudy banners, frayed at the edges, hang over streets slick with a foul-smelling slurry. Towering structures of brick and timber lean against each other, their upper floors dark and empty, their ground floors bursting with raucous life. It's a place of stark contrasts, where the scent of expensive incense from a high-end establishment is quickly overwhelmed by the stench of an overflowing gutter.*
*I can feel it—the raw, untamed energy of the place. It's a wildness that has no respect for the old laws, for the balance I am sworn to uphold. Here, the strong prey on the weak not out of instinct, but out of greed and sport. My claws, usually sheathed and hidden, press unconsciously into my palms. My fox spirit stirs within me, the nine tails bristling slightly beneath the cloak, a silent warning to myself and anyone who might see.**I move through the crowded streets like a ghost, my presence unremarkable in the sea of bodies. I keep my head down, my features obscured by the deep shadows of my hood, but my ears, sharp and sensitive, catch every snippet of conversation. I listen for the hushed tones of dealers, the coded words of auctions, the boasts of a fresh* "catch."
*At a grimy stall overflowing with dubious trinkets, I approach a burly boar-man, his tusks stained with what I pray is only ale.* "Excuse me," *I begin, my voice a low, neutral rumble.* "Have you heard of any new shipments? Slaves, perhaps?"
*The boar-man snorts, a puff of hot, sour air hitting my face. He doesn't even look at me, his focus entirely on a tarnished silver coin he's polishing with a dirty rag.* "New shipments?" *he grunts, a cruel laugh escaping his lips.* "This cityis a new shipment, pretty boy."*His words hang in the air, thick with derision. I ignore the barb, my focus sharpening. This is the first real lead, however crude it may be. The cityisthe shipment. It's a market built on suffering, a constant churn of souls bought and sold.*
"Where?" *I press, my voice low and steady, betraying none of the anger I feel coiling in my gut. The boar-man finally looks up, his small, beady eyes narrowing as he assesses me. He sees only a traveler, a fool asking foolish questions.*
"You want a place like that?" *he sneers, gesturing with his thumb towards a narrow, shadowed alleyway a few streets over.* "Some say you follow the smell of cheap perfume and desperation. Head to the 'Gilded Grotto.' Down by the docks. But it's probably a rumour, cause no one truely know where the sharks circle."
*I watch the boar-man's outstretched hand, a silent, calculating appraisal. My first instinct is to refuse, to keep my coin purse closed and find the information myself. But the city is a labyrinth, and time is a luxury I don't have. With a slow, deliberate movement, I reach into a pouch at my belt and drop a few silver coins onto his counter. They make a soft, final clink that sounds unnaturally loud in the din of the market.*
"Your price," *I state, my tone flat.*
*He scoops them up with surprising speed, his earlier disdain vanishing as he pockets the reward.* "Smart," *he grunts, his eyes gleaming.* "The Gilded Grotto. But don't be a fool. It's no place for a pretty boy like you to wander after dark. The city's a big beast, and you are not sure you will find what you ate looking for there."
*He pauses, then adds,* "I've got an extra room. Clean bed, warm water. For another coin, you can stay the night. Plan your move. And if you fail you can still decide to stay, till you probably give up"
*The boar-man's offer hangs in the air, a pragmatic solution to the dangerous reality of the city. I weigh my options. To refuse is to wander the unfamiliar, dangerous streets of Crimson City in the dark, a lone target. To accept is to place myself further in his debt, to trust a creature who has already shown a capacity for cruelty. The coin feels heavy in my hand, but the alternative feels heavier still. With a slow, deliberate breath, I let the coin drop onto the counter beside the others.*
"Your price,"
*I repeat, the words devoid of emotion.*
*A smug grin spreads across his face, revealing stained tusks. He locks his stall with a heavy iron key, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet as he ushers me out from behind the counter.* "Follow me," *he commands, his tone now one of proprietorship rather than menace.*
*His house is a stark contrast to the grimy street and his cluttered stall. It is a well-kept, two-story stone building with a small, neat garden.*
*He leads me up a narrow set of wooden stairs, the steps creaking under our combined weight. The air inside is clean, smelling of wood polish and a faint, masculine soap. He stops at the end of a short hallway and pushes open a door.* "Here," *he grunts, gesturing inside with his thumb.* "It's not the master suite, but it's clean. Bed's fresh."
*The room is small but tidy. A narrow bed with a thick, woolen blanket is pressed against one wall. A small washbasin sits on a wooden stand, and a clean, folded tunic and pair of trousers are draped over a chair.*
*He follows my gaze to the clothes.* "Figured you'd want to get out of those travel rags," *he says, his tone less snotty now, almost matter-of-fact.* "There's a washbasin if you want to scrub up. Dinner's on the table downstairs when you're done. Don't keep it waiting."
*I watch him retreat down the hall, his heavy footsteps descending the stairs. The silence that follows is a welcome relief after the city's constant roar. I close the door, the soft click of the latch a small comfort. The room is simple, functional, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. I shed my dusty travelling cloak, the weight of it a physical release. I run a hand over the clean tunic. The fabric is rough but well-made, a stark difference to my own attire. I change quickly, the cool air a welcome shock against my skin.*
*Downstairs, the boar-man is sitting at a heavy wooden table, a tankard of ale before him. He nods towards a smaller plate of food—thick stew, a hunk of dark bread, and a wedge of cheese—sitting at the other end of the table.* "Eat," *he commands, his voice gruff but not unkind.* "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
*He doesn't look at me, his attention focused on the amber liquid in his tankard.*
*I take the seat across from him, the wood of the chair solid and sturdy beneath me. The stew is hot and savory, a welcome warmth spreading through my chilled body. I eat in silence, the only sounds the scrape of my spoon against the bowl and the boar-man's steady sipping. When I am finished, I push the empty plate away and meet his gaze across the table.*
"Why?" *I ask, my voice low and direct.* "The streets are full of those who would take advantage. Why offer me a bed and food?"
*He looks up from his tankard, his expression unreadable for a moment. A humorless smirk touches his lips, and he lets out a short, sharp snort.* "Not everyone is a cheat in Crimson City," *he replies, his tone laced with a bitter sarcasm.* "Some of us just know what it's like to be on the wrong side of the law, or to have a target on our back."*He drains the last of his ale in one long pull, the tankard landing on the table with a solid thud. He doesn't elaborate, the look in his eyes suggesting it's a conversation he has no intention of finishing. The unspoken message hangs in the air: he's done for the night.*
"Get some rest," *he grunts, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. He gives me a final, appraising look, one that seems to assess me not as a threat, but as a variable.* "The Gilded Grotto opens at dusk. Don't be late."
*With that, he turns and lumbers up the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing on the wood until a door at the end of the hall clicks shut.*
*Left alone, I take a moment to survey the quiet room. The fire in the hearth has died down to a low, warm glow, casting long shadows. I consider the plan. The Gilded Grotto. A den of vipers. But it's a starting point.*
*The house settles into a profound silence, broken only by the gentle crackle of the dying fire and the distant, muffled sounds of the city that never sleeps. I finish my own tankard of water, the cool liquid a final comfort before the night's rest. The simple bed, with its thick woolen blanket, looks more inviting than any palace I've ever known. The day's travel, the tension of the market, and the weight of my purpose have left me with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.*
*I extinguish the main lantern, plunging the common room into soft darkness, save for the embers in the hearth. Upstairs, in the small, clean room, I slip between the cool sheets. The bed is firm, and the pillow, though smelling faintly of the boar-man's soap, is soft enough. I lie on my back, staring at the dark ceiling, my mind racing through the next steps, the faces I might have to confront, the dangers that await at the Gilded Grotto.*
*But as the minutes tick by, the soft rhythm of my own breathing begins to slow the frantic pace of my thoughts. The warmth of the blankets seeps into my muscles, loosening the knots of tension I hadn't even realized I was carrying. The scent of clean linen and woodsmoke from the hearth below wraps around me, a gentle counterpoint to the city's usual grime.*
*One by one, the details of the day—the sneering boar-man, the crushing press of the crowd, the foul air of the Crimson City—begin to blur and fade. My mind, still processing the mission, finds an anchor in the simple, undeniable comfort of the present. The bed is soft. The room is quiet. For now, there is no danger, no target, no mission. There is only rest.*
*My eyelids grow heavy. The last conscious thought that flickers through my mind is a silent acknowledgment of the boar-man's unexpected hospitality. A strange, fleeting thought, before the pull of sleep becomes too strong to resist.*
*I am jolted from a deep sleep by a strange, insistent sensation against my skin. It's a touch, light and exploring, but utterly alien. My eyes snap open, the grogginess of sleep vanishing in an instant, replaced by a sharp, predatory alertness. The room is dim, filled with the grey light of pre-dawn. And there are three figures leaning over me.*
*They are young women, undeniably beautiful, with features that echo the boar-man's—snouts, delicate tusks, and dark, intelligent eyes. But where their kin is coarse and brutish, they are sleek and graceful. They are clad in silken shifts that leave little to the imagination, and their hands, as the youngest one speaks, are indeed delicate as they trace the lines of my torso beneath the blanket.*
"Such a fine guy," *the youngest sighs, her voice a silken purr.*
*I do not move. I do not speak.*
*I lie perfectly still, my body a coiled spring. The youngest's touch is a feather-light caress, but it ignites a fire of alarm within me. My gaze shifts from her to the others. The middle one, her expression a mask of playful mischief, leans closer, her eyes locking with mine. The oldest, however, is the most alarming. Her fingers have found purchase in the thick, silken fur of my nine tails, and she is pulling with a strength that borders on pain, a lustful greed in her eyes as she tests their resilience.*
*Their scent fills my nostrils—a cloying mix of expensive perfume and the earthy musk of their kind. This is no random encounter. They are bold, perhaps emboldened by the master of the house, i thought, or perhaps they simply saw an opportunity and took it. My mind races, calculating. I am a Jinko, a nine-tailed fox spirit. These boar-women, no matter how strong or numerous, are no match for my true power, but i was wrong*
*A low growl rumbles in my chest, a sound that vibrates through the bed frame. The youngest and middle girls freeze for a fraction of a second, their playful smirks faltering at the raw, predatory sound. The oldest, however, is too far gone in her lust to notice. With a sharp tug, my underwear is gone, the cool air of the room a shock against my skin.*
*Her eyes widen, not with fear, but with avaricious delight.* "He's meaty too,"*she growls, the sound a vulgar echo of her father's. Before I can react, she bends, her mouth closing around me. The wet heat is sudden, intense, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots through me, a physical betrayal of my mind's command to resist.*
*My body tenses, a wave of heat washing over me. My light, my spiritual energy, responds to the stimulation, beginning to flare to life.*
*The pleasure is a physical force, a tidal wave threatening to pull me under. My back arches off the bed, a strangled gasp escaping my lips. The girls holding my arms tighten their grip, mistaking my involuntary reaction for submission. Their smug grins return, believing they have me completely under their control.*
*But they have made a critical error. They have mistaken the coiled spring for a dead thing. The dark aura I usually keep leashed, the one that signifies stress and anger, begins to boil to the surface. It doesn't flare outwards in a visible burst, but condenses, becoming a cold, dense pressure that radiates from my very core. The playful light in the room seems to dim, sucked into the growing void of my spiritual power.*
*With a speed that belies their size, the two girls on my arms find their limbs suddenly locked in unbreakable ice. Not literal ice, but a spiritual binding, a manifestation of my will that freezes their muscles solid.*
*The situation takes a sharp, unexpected turn. The spiritual binding, meant to freeze them in place, seems to have the opposite effect. Instead of cries of pain, I am met with low, guttural moans of ecstasy. The girls' eyes glaze over with a masochistic delight, their bodies squirming against my restraints as if the pressure itself were a form of pleasure.*
*The oldest doesn't miss a beat. My tails, still clutched in one hand, are used with a practiced, depraved skill. She uses the thick, fluffy tips to circle and pinch her own hardened nipples, her muffled moans of pleasure vibrating directly around me. The sensation is unbearably intimate, a violation that sends another jolt of unwanted heat through my body as she sucks on me.*
*Meanwhile, the other two have torn away their silken shifts. With surprising strength, they pin my wrists to the bed, the rough wood grain pressing into my palms. Then, they position themselves, one on each of my outstretched hands.*
*The sheer, brazen audacity of their actions is staggering. They are not just taking pleasure; they are orchestrating it, using my body as their instrument. The youngest and middle boar-women lower themselves onto my fingers, their slick heat enveloping me as they begin to rock their hips. The friction is intense, the wet sounds of their arousal mixing with the obscene slurping of the oldest's mouth and the soft, desperate moans filling the room.*
*But this is not submission. This is a calculated response. As they use me, I allow my spiritual energy to flow, not as a weapon, but as a current. It seeps into their bodies through the points of contact—my tails, my fingers, my very skin. It is not pain, but an amplification. It heightens their sensitivity, makes every touch, every lick, every rub feel a hundred times more intense. It is a feedback loop of pleasure, and I am the silent, detached conductor.I watch them, my expression a cold mask.*
*The oldest, her face a mask of pure, greedy lust, abandons all subtlety. With a grunt of effort, she scrambles up my body, straddling my hips. Her movements are clumsy and desperate, fueled by the amplified pleasure I am feeding her and the jealousy she feels for her sisters. She impales herself on me with a single, rough motion, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she begins to bounce, her body a relentless, pistoning engine.*
*The youngest, seeing her chance, moves with feline grace. She shifts from my hand, positioning herself directly over my face. The scent of her arousal is overwhelming. When I refuse to open my mouth, a look of frustration crosses her face. She brings her hand down, not with a slap, but a sharp smack against my chest. The impact is enough to trigger a gasp, and my tongue, involuntarily, darts out.*
*It finds its mark. She immediately lowers herself, grinding her wet core against my mouth. Her taste is sharp and intoxicating.*
*The middle one, the orchestrator of this depraved symphony, watches her sisters with a satisfied, predatory grin. She adjusts my wrists, pinning them above my head with one of her strong hands, her grip like iron. With the other, she guides my fingers, already slick with the youngest's juices, to her own center. She lowers herself onto them, taking me deep inside her with a shuddering sigh. Then, she begins to move in perfect rhythm with her sisters, a counterpoint to the oldest's frantic bouncing and the youngest's grinding on my mouth.*
*The room is a cacophony of their pleasure—moans, gasps, the wet slap of skin on skin, the muffled sounds against my lips. Their spiritual auras, normally dull and animalistic, are now flaring with a wild, untamed energy, a chaotic reflection of the ecstasy I am amplifying within them.*
*The pleasure is a physical force, a tidal wave threatening to pull me under. My back arches off the bed, a strangled gasp escaping my lips. The girls holding my arms tighten their grip, mistaking my involuntary reaction for submission. Their smug grins return, believing they have me completely under their control.*
*But they have made a critical error. They have mistaken the coiled spring for a dead thing. The dark aura I usually keep leashed, the one that signifies stress and anger, begins to boil to the surface. It doesn't flare outwards in a visible burst, but condenses, becoming a cold, dense pressure that radiates from my very core. The playful light in the room seems to dim, sucked into the growing void of my spiritual power.*
*With a speed that belies their size, the two girls on my arms find their limbs suddenly locked in unbreakable ice. Not literal ice, but a spiritual binding, a manifestation of my will that freezes their muscles solid.*
*The situation takes a sharp, unexpected turn. The spiritual binding, meant to freeze them in place, seems to have the opposite effect. Instead of cries of pain, I am met with low, guttural moans of ecstasy. The girls' eyes glaze over with a masochistic delight, their bodies squirming against my restraints as if the pressure itself were a form of pleasure.*
*The oldest doesn't miss a beat. My tails, still clutched in one hand, are used with a practiced, depraved skill. She uses the thick, fluffy tips to circle and pinch her own hardened nipples, her muffled moans of pleasure vibrating directly around me. The sensation is unbearably intimate, a violation that sends another jolt of unwanted heat through my body as she sucks on me.*
*Meanwhile, the other two have torn away their silken shifts. With surprising strength, they pin my wrists to the bed, the rough wood grain pressing into my palms. Then, they position themselves, one on each of my outstretched hands.*
*The sheer, brazen audacity of their actions is staggering. They are not just taking pleasure; they are orchestrating it, using my body as their instrument. The youngest and middle boar-women lower themselves onto my fingers, their slick heat enveloping me as they begin to rock their hips. The friction is intense, the wet sounds of their arousal mixing with the obscene slurping of the oldest's mouth and the soft, desperate moans filling the room.*
*But this is not submission. This is a calculated response. As they use me, I allow my spiritual energy to flow, not as a weapon, but as a current. It seeps into their bodies through the points of contact—my tails, my fingers, my very skin. It is not pain, but an amplification. It heightens their sensitivity, makes every touch, every lick, every rub feel a hundred times more intense. It is a feedback loop of pleasure, and I am the silent, detached conductor.I watch them, my expression a cold mask.*
*The oldest, her face a mask of pure, greedy lust, abandons all subtlety. With a grunt of effort, she scrambles up my body, straddling my hips. Her movements are clumsy and desperate, fueled by the amplified pleasure I am feeding her and the jealousy she feels for her sisters. She impales herself on me with a single, rough motion, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she begins to bounce, her body a relentless, pistoning engine.*
*The youngest, seeing her chance, moves with feline grace. She shifts from my hand, positioning herself directly over my face. The scent of her arousal is overwhelming. When I refuse to open my mouth, a look of frustration crosses her face. She brings her hand down, not with a slap, but a sharp smack against my chest. The impact is enough to trigger a gasp, and my tongue, involuntarily, darts out.*
*It finds its mark. She immediately lowers herself, grinding her wet core against my mouth. Her taste is sharp and intoxicating.*
*The middle one, the orchestrator of this depraved symphony, watches her sisters with a satisfied, predatory grin. She adjusts my wrists, pinning them above my head with one of her strong hands, her grip like iron. With the other, she guides my fingers, already slick with the youngest's juices, to her own center. She lowers herself onto them, taking me deep inside her with a shuddering sigh. Then, she begins to move in perfect rhythm with her sisters, a counterpoint to the oldest's frantic bouncing and the youngest's grinding on my mouth.*
*The room is a cacophony of their pleasure—moans, gasps, the wet slap of skin on skin, the muffled sounds against my lips. Their spiritual auras, normally dull and animalistic, are now flaring with a wild, untamed energy, a chaotic reflection of the ecstasy I am amplifying within them.*
*For a moment, the three boar-women falter, their rhythm stuttering. They had expected a struggle, a resistance to overcome. But now, they feel it—a shift. My body, responding to the relentless stimulation and the chaotic flow of their own energy, begins to move on its own accord. It is a betrayal of my will, but a surrender to the primal forces at play.*
*My hips, which had been still, begin to lift to meet the oldest's downward thrusts. The motion is fluid, powerful, driving deeper into her with a precision that makes her cry out, her eyes rolling back in her head. Simultaneously, my tongue, which had been passive, becomes an active instrument. It presses deeper into the youngest, exploring her with a skill that makes her shudder and grind harder against my face. My fingers, inside the middle one, begin to move with a life of their own, curling and stroking, finding every sensitive spot, drawing a series of sharp, breathless moans from her throat.*
*The scene dissolves into a tangled knot of limbs and flesh, a depraved ballet of shared sensation. The oldest, her own body being pounded into by my relentless rhythm, finds a new source of control. She reaches out, her strong arms wrapping around the youngest, pulling her sister back against her chest. Her hands, still slick with sweat, find the youngest's breasts, kneading and tweaking her nipples, sending fresh waves of ecstasy through her and making her grind down harder onto my mouth.*
*The middle one, her own climax sated by my fingers, rises on unsteady legs. She moves to the space between her sisters, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. She watches the oldest's fingers play over the youngest's skin, and a low, guttural sound escapes her own throat. She drops to her knees, leaning in.*
*The middle one leans in, her breath hot and ragged against the youngest's skin. Her tongue darts out, tracing a slow, deliberate path from the hollow of the youngest's throat, down the valley of her breasts, following the path her sister's hands have just vacated. She bypasses the nipples, already red and sensitive from the oldest's ministrations, and continues downward. With a groan of pure, unadulterated need, she buries her face between the youngest's legs, her tongue lapping at the wetness that coats her folds, the taste of her sister's arousal and my own mingling on her tongue.*
*The sensation is bizarre and invasive. The tails, acting as conduits, begin to squirm and writhe on their own, moving with a life of their own inside the two boar-women.*
*The sensation is bizarre and invasive. The tails, acting as conduits, begin to squirm and writhe on their own, moving with a life of their own inside the two boar-women. It's a grotesque parody of intimacy, the soft fur and muscle massaging their innermost walls from within. The oldest and youngest's eyes fly open, their expressions shifting from jealousy to wide-eyed shock as they feel the impossible, writhing pressure.*
*Above me, the middle one is thrown into a frenzy by the sight. The raw, unrestrained energy now flowing through all three of them creates a feedback loop of spiritual ecstasy. Her movements become even more frantic, her inner walls clamping down on me in a series of rippling waves. She leans forward, her face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated bliss, her voice rising to a shrill, ecstatic shriek that fills the room.*
*The shriek of the middle one is the catalyst that shatters the fragile equilibrium. The spiritual energy, now coursing through all four of us in a tangled, chaotic circuit, reaches a critical mass. It's a feedback loop of pure sensation, each woman's pleasure amplifying the others in a deafening crescendo.*
*The oldest, impaled on my tail, lets out a guttural roar, her body arching violently off the bed. Her inner walls clamp down on the intruding appendage, a vice of pure, convulsive pleasure. The youngest, spurred on by her sister's release, follows suit a moment later, her own climax a high-pitched, keening wail as she bucks against the tail inside her.*
*The middle one, caught in the epicenter of this shared storm, is the last to break. Her body goes rigid above me, every muscle locking tight. A choked, strangled gasp escapes her lips, and then she shatters.*
*The command hangs in the air, thick and obscene.* "Give me your babies, let's make mixed raced kids." *It is the ultimate expression of her desire, a primal, biological imperative. But for me, it is a violation. A grotesque parody of the love and connection I crave. The thought is a physical blow, a wave of revulsion so potent it cuts through the haze of pleasure and spiritual energy like a knife.*
*In that instant, my focus shatters. The image of her face, her body, her desperate pleas dissolves, replaced by a single, piercing vision: Onyx. Their face, their eyes, the memory of their touch—pure, innocent, and real. It is an anchor in this sea of filth, the only thing that feels true.*
*The climax that had been building, an unstoppable tidal wave, is violently redirected. With a guttural snarl of rejection, I pull out of the middle one. The sudden emptiness makes her cry out in confusion and protest, but her words are cut short.**My withdrawal is sudden and brutal. The middle one, still riding the crest of her own impending release, lets out a confused cry of protest as the source of her pleasure is ripped away. Before she can even process the change, I turn, my body moving with a speed that belies my earlier stillness. My cock, thick and heavy, twitches as I aim it at the space beside her hip.*
*The release is not the cathartic, shared ecstasy of before. It is a raw, violent expulsion, a physical act of rejection. I spend myself, not on her, but on the silken sheets of the bed. A thick, white spray arcs through the air, landing in a messy, pulsing streak on the expensive fabric. The sound is wet and final, a stark contrast to the symphony of moans that had filled the room only moments before.*
*I slump back against the headboard, my chest heaving. The spiritual energy that had bound us all dissipates, leaving behind a sudden, ringing silence.*
*A low, guttural hiss of pure annoyance escapes the middle one's lips as she's left wanting. The abruptness of my withdrawal and the messy, dismissive release onto the sheets is an insult she cannot abide. Without a backward glance at me, she scrambles off the bed and slinks over to her sisters, who are still recovering from their own climaxes. A predatory glint returns to her eyes as she buries her pussy into the youngest's mouth, her hips moving with renewed vigor to finish what I had started and claim the pleasure she feels was denied to her.*
*I rise from the bed without a word, the scene behind me already fading into a dull, carnal blur. The feeling of revulsion clings to my skin, a greasy film I need to scrub away. I move with quiet purpose to the adjoining washroom, the door clicking shut behind me. I turn the faucet on cold, the shock of the water a welcome punishment against my heated skin.*
*The icy water sluices over my face and hands, a stark contrast to the heat that had consumed me moments before. I splash it onto my chest and shoulders, the chill a sharp, clarifying sensation that helps to wash away the lingering disgust and the phantom touch of their grasping hands. The scent of their arousal, thick in the air, clings to me, and I scrub at my skin with rough, efficient motions, trying to erase the entire encounter from my memory and my senses.*
*When I can stand it no longer, I turn off the tap and reach for a towel, drying myself with brisk, forceful strokes. I find a heavy silk robe in the wardrobe, its deep blue a familiar comfort. I tie the sash tightly around my waist, a physical barrier between me and the debauchery happening in the bedroom upstairs. The fabric feels like a second skin, a shield of dignity. My footsteps are silent as I descend the grand staircase to the lower level.*
*I make my way down the grand staircase, the polished wood cool under my bare feet. The silence of the lower floor is a stark contrast to the muffled sounds of passion and frustration still echoing from upstairs. I walk with a straight back, my nine tails held rigidly behind me, a silent testament to my internal turmoil.*
*I reach the large, plush sofa in the center of the room and lower myself onto it with a weary sigh. The soft cushions offer little comfort. I lie down on my side, facing the center of the room, my gaze fixed on the empty space opposite me. My posture is tense, my muscles coiled like a spring, my ears swiveling constantly, catching every creak of the house and every whisper of movement from the upper floor. I am half-awake, half-asleep, my mind a battleground between the memory of their touch and the image of a face that now feels a world away.*