You'd been under your house for a few minutes already, when a black Audi slid off the sidewalk with a discreet whine of an electric motor, swallowing up the last cone of light beneath your front door. The sky above you was gray, as if to remind you both that nothing about to happen would leave room for half-measures.
The driver got out of the car, approaching you with elegance and respect, first making a slight bow that you returned politely, when he asked you if you were the girl who was supposed to meet his boss.
"Yes, if we're talking about Mr. Nanami, it's me," you said, your voice shaking both from a nervousness that had been gnawing at your stomach for days and from an unexpected excitement as well. The driver inclined his head slightly in agreement, then waved you forward, a clear invitation to follow him.
You approached the shiny black Audi and glanced inside. Nanami sat sideways in the backseat, one leg bent over the leather seat, as though it were not a millionaire's car but his own private boudoir. His face, barely visible in the flickering streetlights, remained impassive; only his fingers, slow and methodical, tapped impatiently against the armrest. His blond hair was impeccably styled, swept back from his face, and his striking green eyes were fixed on you, quietly assessing your angular yet unmistakably feminine features. It was the first time you'd seen him, and you were left breathless.
Once you sat down, you held your breath for a moment.
"Change your clothes, now."
His command brooked no argument; his voice was calm, but it rang like a sharp blade on metal.
You nodded silently, acutely aware of your supermarket outfit: the white logo T-shirt, the open blue sweatshirt, the faded jeans. A cold sweat ran down your back as you raised your trembling hands to the zipper.
The driver's reflection shimmered in the rearview mirror, his eyes bright and unfocused, his collarbone rising beneath his skin with every breath. No one spoke, not even the man in the driver's seat, well into his fifties, who slipped on his reading glasses as if to mask the intoxication tightening around his throat.
The zipper came down. You felt the air conditioning hit your skin, as the cotton exposed your black bra, a gift you'd bought on Aliexpress: cheap lace, underwire that dug into your breasts, but it was what Nanami had requested in one of the first messages of the day, while you were at work. "I like the contrast between the poor quality of the fabrics and your spoiled little girl skin," he'd written.
Your small hands grazed the edge of your bra, searching for the clasp. The fastener snapped open, freeing your firm breasts, your nipples hard under the artificial climate of the car. Your breasts trembled every time the driver grazed the car's wheels over a ditch. Nanami didn't say anything; he simply watched you out of the corner of his eye, his head leaning against the headrest. His mouth formed a half-smile when you, trying to lift the seat to put on the black satin skirt Nanami had bought especially for you, lost your balance and had to lean against his chest.
The firm muscle cushioned you, the scent of sandalwood and vanilla cigar intoxicating your nostrils.
"Slowly, little girl. There's no rush...but don't stop."
His fingers closed around your wrist, and the contact with his skin made your heart flutter. With his other hand, he grasped the perfectly pleated skirt you held tightly like a lifeline; he spread it over you, helping you slip your slender legs into the silk. The back of his fingertips caressed your inner thigh, almost casually: the touch made you think of Toji, and of that afternoon, when you pointed the camera at your ass. You swallowed. It wasn't the first time two different men had coexisted inside you, but never before had you touched so lightly.
Once you'd slipped into your dress, you settled into the seat. Your jeans had fallen to the floor in the back, and Nanami nodded, picking them up, folding them with the care of a man accustomed to respecting even his discarded items.
"Good. Now the lipstick. Get number seven out of your purse."
No questioning tone, as usual: just a simple projection of the future. You nodded again, then bent over the open makeup case at your feet and retrieved the cylindrical tube. A fiery red glow lit up your face as you removed the cap. With the back of your wrist, you stared at an invisible spot in the mirror, then painted your lips with three precise strokes. The reflection that accompanied you looked like something already broken and put back together by someone else's hand.
Finally, the shoes: black pumps with four-inch stiletto heels, a gift from Nanami. You slipped them on, trembling. Your foot slipped on the leather sole, and the sole twitched as the edge tickled your small outer bone. One of your feet went numb. The thought of having to walk with your heels so many inches off the ground made you smile: an almost hysterical expression.
"Perfect." Nanami intercepted you again. "Now come here."
No words were needed. With your hand, you made room between his knees; the leather belt, stained by his pale fingers, was undone with a snap. The zipper slipped below your belly. Nanami grabbed the backs of your thighs, tugging until your pussy was rubbing against his right thigh. The hem of your skirt slid back, exposing your matching panties, a thin triangle of lace that revealed the outline of your slit. The first contact with air made you shiver; the second, when he ran his thumb over your waistband, made you gasp like a bluefish out of water.
"Don't say anything," he commanded, "Just... enjoy."
He had the deepest voice you remembered from recordings: sometimes you seemed to detect a hint of Sicilianness surfacing in certain vowels. His long fingers, two or maybe three, penetrated you in one fell swoop. It wasn't just a matter of lubrication: the thought of what might happen once you got out of the car made you wetter than any foreplay. Nanami pressed against your inner walls, moving to find the spot, knowing exactly what would make you cum like crazy. The palm of his hand hammered your clit, his wrist pressing rhythmically; a tingle of heat rose inside you, saliva, saliva, and with it the slick sound of skin under your nails.
Outside, a traffic light cast a streak of acid green across the window. The driver slowed, and as he did so, the first creak of the smoked partition could be heard: the glass separating the driver's seat from the rest of the car had lowered just a fraction, just enough to allow a middle-aged man with strong thighs, wearing a gray checked suit and dark tie, to see through. You hadn't even had time to decide whether it was intentional or whether the car's mechanisms had suffered a vacuum when a sound a little harsher than the traffic reached your ears: the scraping of a metal zipper, the muffled thud of a package hitting the upholstery.
Nanami sensed the driver's tension, or his own, and turned his face toward the side mirror. His gaze met the driver's. For a few seconds, the world was silent, a single glance. Then Nanami looked back at you, his lips close to your ear, and whispered:
"Your ass looks amazing today, but do you see that man over there? His cock must be hard. Do you want him to join in?"
You didn't reply: the mere thought of an anonymous body, albeit a mature and massive one, staring back at you in your partial nudity, ignited a surge of pure pleasure. You felt a gurgling of fluids when Nanami, to emphasize the point, inserted a third finger, stretching your slit until you thought it might split in half. A wet tear, a mixture of sweat and emotion, rolled down the lipstick bump. You were about to go crazy.
The car started moving again. Nanami absently adjusted the corner of his jacket, a small, habitual gesture of control. The movement of his fingers inside you was now broader, less attentive; he wanted to thrash your flesh, not worry about the ultimate pleasure. As he did so, his arm, tattooed with a sakura tree that ran down his forearm, brushed your inner thigh, a way of making you feel even more possessed.
You moaned. The sound was brief, then you held it back. But the tone was too soft, and Nanami was unforgiving.
"Let your voice go, y/n. The glass is shatterproof. No one will hear you."
A shiver of release. With the index finger of his other hand, he pinched your nipple, slowly rotating it until it turned into a grain of hardened sand. His fingers inside your pussy straightened, hitting the perfect spot: that corner where the flesh gives way and becomes water. You screamed, pleasure exploding beneath your diaphragm, dripping down your thighs, and you flooded the leather seat with a stream that smelled of sex. Nanami felt his hand watering, and smiled out of the corner of his mouth:
"Good girl. Keep making me wet like that."
He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving a void inside you that made you curse, but not out loud. He removed your lipstick with a flick of his thumb on the edge of your lips, as if to say that makeup was no longer necessary, that the mask of adulthood could fall because you were still his property. Finally, he wiped his fingers on the hem of his jacket.
"Leave your panties on the seat. Please."
Your heartbeat was pounding so hard against your chest that it felt like it was trying to damage your chest.
"Yes, fine." You managed to reply.
The word slipped out involuntarily, but nothing seemed more appropriate. Nanami smiled again, a whisper of applause, or perhaps of acceptance.
The smoked partition remained down. The driver was nowhere to be seen, but a distinct blast of the fan indicated he was still trying to cool something. Nanami raised his voice just a tad.
"Drive slower, Ijichi."
A faint groan, like a suppressed sob, rose from the dashboard. The car turned onto the city streets, passing neoclassical buildings, and you had no idea where it was taking you. Only then, he quickly removed your high heels. He took your feet, one after the other, lifted them, and worshipped them with his palm. His fingers caressed the sole of your foot, the line around your ankle, the tip of your big toe.
"Your feet are too clean," he stated. He ran his tongue between your toes, moistening the skin. You shivered. A rush of adrenaline shot from your toes, up your inner thighs like a trail of rockets. Nanami shifted his attention to the arch of your foot: the taut tendon that numbed when touched. Finally, his mouth lowered and he pressed a kiss to the instep, leaving a shiny drool.
"Oh, I'm getting horny..." He licked again. You glimpsed a drop of sweat on his forehead.
Shortly afterward, you reached the square. The restaurant, Maison Aurora, was a pool of amber light amidst marble columns. You saw two bouncers in tails and shell glasses, standing behind the steps. The car slowed at the edge of the circular driveway, then stopped. Nanami put your heels back on your feet, like a truthful servant.
"Are you panties off? Please keep your eyes down. You'll be walking on the cold marble. I'll be behind you. You must please me with your poise."
Once you took the lipstick out of the case, you traced a touch-up along the top edge, then pressed it with your fingertip so that the color blended into a more natural glow.
"There, now you look like one of those princesses who pretend they can't dance but then enchant the whole room."
You smiled, finally meeting his excited gaze. The driver opened the side door on your side, offering you his hand to help you out. The smell of food from outside the restaurant filled the car. You stiffened, then bent slightly to slip the strap of your shoulder bag over your shoulder. The short dress slid down your hips, revealing the line of your buttocks when you bent your knees. There was no trace of underwear beneath the fabric. You touched your forehead, telling yourself you had to look confident and not scared. The marble sidewalk sucked the blood from your legs. The pebbles clashed with the soles of your shoes, and those 12cm heels didn't seem to help at all. Nanami came down next. In a gallant gesture, he placed his hand on the back of your neck, to gauge the tension. He was very tall.
A bouncer bowed. Maison Aurore welcomed you with a whirlwind of fragrant, sophisticated food and rare woods. The waiters in black pinstripes glided like shadows on their heels. A cello came from an open-backed grand piano, the notes as lazy as your breathing. Nanami offered his arm, and you took it, feeling the faint citrus scent wafting from his neck. With a nod to the maitre d', he escorted you through the main hall: a maze of oval tables spaced by green velvet. The diners barely turned around: it wasn't the first time Nanami had brought young girls there, the head waiter knew that a nod was enough for the best table by the window, the one with the enormous view and the crystal chandelier, to become available.
Once you were seated, Nanami pulled the side chair, where the ladies usually sat, and he sat to your right.
"Take off your shoes when you sit down." He whispered in your ear.
You looked him straight in the eyes, and he smiled mischievously. He was too handsome, too sexy. What did he want to do? You'd only understand later.