Chapter 4: The Drenched Blouse at the Front Desk
Renji didn't just walk into the lobby of his new workplace; he survived the commute.
After escaping the pheromone-choked hellscape of his apartment complex—barely dodging a very confusing encounter with a slippery assassin in a kitchen—he had sprinted three miles through the neon-lit streets of this strange, anime-obsessed Tokyo.
He was twenty minutes late. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, wet rhythm that echoed in his ears. His shirt, a cheap white button-down he had bought yesterday, was plastered to his back, soaked with a mixture of his own nervous sweat, the lingering, ghostly scent of Tsunade's heavy perfume, and a alarming amount of premium extra-virgin olive oil from Yor Forger's floor.
He looked like he had wrestled a grease trap and lost.
"Soul Society Corp," he wheezed, looking up at the towering fortress of glass and steel.
He hit the revolving doors at a full sprint.
WHOOSH.
The transition was instant. The humid, heavy air of the street was replaced by the frigid, sterile blast of corporate air conditioning. It should have been a relief. It should have cooled his boiling blood.
But as he stepped onto the polished marble floor, squeaking loudly with every step—squish, thud, squish, thud—he realized the temperature in the lobby wasn't dropping. It was rising.
It wasn't the ambient heat. It was the friction of a massive, overwhelming presence nearby.
Across the vast, empty expanse of the lobby, behind a semicircular desk made of black marble that looked more like an altar than a workspace, sat the receptionist.
She was slumped over the desk, her head resting on her folded arms. A cup of steaming liquid sat dangerously close to her elbow, but the smell wafting across the cavernous room wasn't Earl Grey or Green Tea.
It was the unmistakable, sweet, fermentation-heavy scent of cheap, warm sake.
"Haaah..." The receptionist sighed.
The sound was heavy, wet, and filled with the misery of a catastrophic hangover. It vibrated through the quiet lobby, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering.
Renji took a tentative step forward. The receptionist shifted.
Her uniform—a white silk blouse that was at least three sizes too small for her "assets"—strained violently against the hard surface of the desk. As she moved, the buttons cried out in agony. The fabric pulled tight across her back and shoulders, becoming dangerously sheer under the harsh, unforgiving lobby lights. The seams dug into her soft flesh, creating valleys and hills of constrained beauty.
It was Rangiku Matsumoto.
And she looked like she was about to spill out of her clothes and onto the floor at any moment.
"Ugh..." Rangiku groaned, lifting her head slowly, as if her skull weighed fifty pounds. Her strawberry-blonde hair was a magnificent, bedhead disaster, waves of orange cascading over her face. Her grey eyes were rimmed with red, sleepy and glazed with a thick, heavy need for hydration and attention.
She blinked, focusing on Renji. Her vision seemed to swim. Her gaze traveled down his oil-stained shirt, lingering on his heaving chest, then up to his sweat-slicked face.
"Oh?" A slow, predatory smile spread across her face, cutting through the hangover haze. She licked her lips. "If it isn't the new hire..."
She stood up. Or at least, she tried to.
She swayed on her heels, clutching the edge of the desk for support. The pencil skirt she wore was navy blue and so tight it restricted her movement to a sultry, dangerous shuffle. The slit up the side of the skirt was torn—likely from a previous stumble—exposing a scandalous length of pale, creamy thigh encased in sheer, shimmering nylon that caught the light.
"You're late, Renji-kun," she purred. Her voice was a low, vibrating hum that went straight to his groin, bypassing his brain entirely.
She leaned over the desk, invading his personal space. Her face was inches from his. He could smell the alcohol on her breath, mixed with the sweet, cloying scent of strawberry lip gloss and the natural, musky heat of a woman who had slept in her makeup.
"The CEO... Esdeath-sama... is furious," Rangiku whispered, her eyelids drooping heavily. "She hates tardiness. She wants to punish you. She's been pacing in her office, cracking that whip of hers..."
Renji gulped, his throat dry despite the humidity rolling off her. "I... I had an issue with my landlady. And my neighbor."
"Landlady?" Rangiku giggled. It was a wet, sticky sound that bubbled up from her chest. She reached out a manicured hand and grabbed his tie, yanking him forward until his chest bumped against the marble edge of the desk.
"You smell like her," Rangiku accused, sniffing his collar. Her nose brushed against his neck, sending shivers down his spine. Her skin was hot—feverishly hot. "You smell like old women, money, and... wait."
She paused, sniffing deeper.
"Is that... olive oil?" She pulled back slightly, looking at him with confused, dilated pupils. "Did you fry something? Or were you being fried?"
"It was a cooking accident," Renji lied quickly.
"Accident..." Rangiku muttered. She swayed again, her equilibrium failing. Her hand flailed out to steady herself, hitting the paper cup on the desk.
SPLASH.
The cup tipped. The warm sake didn't spill onto the desk. It spilled onto her.
Specifically, it splashed directly onto the center of her white silk blouse.
"Ah!" Rangiku yelped, jumping back.
The liquid soaked instantly into the fabric. The white silk turned transparent in seconds, clinging to her skin like a second layer of dermis.
Renji's eyes involuntarily dropped. He couldn't help it. The physics of this world demanded it.
Through the wet, translucent silk, he could see everything. The heavy, dark shadow of a black lace bra—industrial strength, clearly—struggling to contain the sheer mass of her chest. The pale, flushed skin underneath. The way her breathing hitched, causing the wet fabric to rise and fall with a heavy, gelatinous rhythm.
"It's cold!" she whined, pressing her own hands against the wet spot. "And sticky! It's making me crazy!"
She looked at him, her eyes wide and pleading. The authoritative receptionist facade crumbled, replaced by a needy, messy woman who just wanted to be comfortable.
"Renji-kun!" she cried out, walking around the desk. Click-clack. Click-clack. Her heels struck the floor with a heavy, uneven cadence.
She cornered him against a large potted fern.
"Help me dry it off," she commanded, her voice thick with panic and arousal.
"D-Dry it?" Renji stammered, looking around the empty lobby. "I can get you a towel from the bathroom—"
"No towel!" she interrupted, grabbing his hands. Her palms were damp, slick with sweat and condensation from the cup. She placed his hands directly onto her waist. "Use your heat. You're a man, aren't you? You're practically radiating heat. I can feel it from here."
She stepped closer. Her hips bumped into his. The sensation was overwhelming. She was solid, heavy, and incredibly soft all at once. The [Milf Magnetism] skill in Renji's brain began to scream like a siren.
Target Acquired. Tension Levels: Critical.
"Rangiku-san, this is the lobby!" Renji hissed, trying to pull his hands away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. "People could see!"
"Nobody comes through here until 10," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his chest. "And besides... I'm the receptionist. I decide who enters. And right now... nobody enters but you."
She pressed herself against him. The wet spot on her blouse soaked instantly into his shirt, transferring the warm sake and her body heat directly to his skin. He could feel the dampness, the scorching temperature, the sheer volume of her chest crushing against him.
"Rub me," she groaned, closing her eyes. "My back kills me. Sitting in that chair all day... carrying these things... it ruins my posture. It's torture, Renji."
She spun him around with surprising force and pressed his back against the reception desk. She trapped him there, placing her hands on the marble on either side of his hips, locking him in a cage of soft curves and dangerous scents.
"Do you know how heavy they are?" she asked, looking down at her own chest with a disdainful, yet proud expression. "They weigh a ton. And my bra... the underwire is digging in. It hurts. It hurts so good."
She grabbed his right hand, which was still slick with Yor's olive oil, and forced it up.
"Check," she ordered, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Check the strap. Is it cutting into my shoulder? It feels like it's slicing me."
Renji's fingers slid under the strap of her blouse. It was tight. Unbelievably tight. Beneath it, the strap of her bra was dug deep into her soft, flushed skin, leaving a angry red mark.
"It's tight," Renji croaked, his pulse racing.
"Loosen it," she breathed.
"I can't—"
"DO IT!" she barked, her voice cracking with desperation. "Or I'll mark you as 'Absent' and Esdeath will freeze your assets! Do you want to be frozen, Renji? Do you want to be an ice sculpture?"
Renji panicked. His fingers fumbled with the top button of her blouse. The olive oil on his fingers made everything slippery.
PING.
The button didn't just unfasten; it popped off. It flew across the room, hitting the glass door with a distinct tink.
"Ahhh~" Rangiku sighed, her shoulders slumping instantly. The blouse fell open just an inch, but that inch was enough to reveal the top of the black lace cups, straining against the laws of gravity.
"Better," she slurred, her eyes rolling back slightly. "But not enough. The pressure... it's still there."
She turned around, presenting her back to him. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the marble desk.
RIIIP.
The sound of the seam giving way echoed in the silent lobby like a gunshot. The slit in her pencil skirt tore upward, ripping all the way to her hip. The fabric parted, revealing the back of her thighs—thick, powerful, and squeezed into sheer black stockings that ended in a lace band that dug deliciously into her flesh.
"My lower back," she moaned, arching her spine cat-like. "The tension builds up right there. Use your thumbs. Dig in until I scream."
Renji stared. The view was panoramic. The majestic reception desk, the hungover Shinigami bent over it, her skirt ruined, her blouse wet and open, demanding a massage in the middle of the corporate lobby of a Fortune 500 company.
"Rangiku-san..."
"Don't talk," she hissed over her shoulder. Her hair fell into her face, sticking to her sweaty cheek. "Just work. If you do a good job... maybe I'll let you take a 'lunch break' under my desk. It's spacious down there."
She wiggled her hips. The movement was hypnotic.
Renji placed his hands on her lower back. Her skin was feverish. He could feel the sweat soaking through the thin silk of her blouse. The oil on his hands transferred to the fabric, turning the silk translucent on her back as well.
He pushed.
"YES!" Rangiku screamed, her voice echoing up to the mezzanine. "Right there! Oh god, you have magic hands! Don't stop! Harder! Treat me like a stress ball!"
She ground her hips against the marble desk, the friction creating a squeaking sound that mixed with her wet, ragged breathing.
"More!" she begged, drool glistening at the corner of her mouth. "I need it! I need to release this pressure! Why are you so good at this?!"
Renji worked his thumbs into her muscles, the [Milf Magnetism] skill roaring in his ears. He was drowning in the scent of her—sake, sweat, oil, and raw, unadulterated need. The heat radiating from her body was making the air shimmer.
"Renji..." she whimpered, reaching back blindly to grab his thigh. "I'm so hot... I feel like I'm melting..."
Ding.
The sound was soft, polite, and terrified Renji to his core.
The private executive elevator located directly behind the reception desk slid open.
Renji froze. His hands were still on Rangiku's lower back.
Rangiku didn't freeze. She was too lost in the sensation.
"Don't stop!" she whined, bucking her hips back against him. "I was almost there! Push harder!"
Renji looked up slowly.
Standing in the elevator, bathed in the soft golden light of the cabin, was a figure that commanded absolute silence.
She wore a pristine white military uniform with gold accents. A white peaked cap sat atop long, flowing hair the color of glacial ice. She held a riding crop in one gloved hand, tapping it rhythmically against her thigh.
Esdeath. The CEO. The Empire's Strongest.
She looked at the reception desk. She looked at Rangiku, bent over, skirt ripped, blouse soaked and open. She looked at Renji, sweaty, oily, with his hands deep in the receptionist's flesh.
The temperature in the lobby dropped twenty degrees in a single second. Frost began to creep across the marble floor, radiating from the elevator.
Esdeath didn't look angry. She didn't look shocked.
She looked... hungry.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across her lips. Her blue eyes gleamed with a mix of cruelty and intrigue.
She stepped out of the elevator, her high-heeled white boots clicking ominously on the floor. Click. Click. Click.
"Receptionist," Esdeath said. Her voice was soft, like cracking ice over a deep lake.
Rangiku yelped. The sound was like a puppy getting stepped on. She stood up so fast she almost fell over in her heels. She tried to button her blouse, but the buttons were gone. She tried to fix her skirt, but the rip was terminal.
"C-CEO-sama!" Rangiku saluted, her chest bouncing violently with the motion, threatening to escape the black lace entirely. "I was just... uh... conducting a security pat-down! The new hire... he... he seemed suspicious! He was covered in oil!"
Esdeath ignored her completely. She walked straight past the trembling receptionist and stopped in front of Renji.
She towered over him in her heels. She leaned in, invading his space just as Rangiku had, but where Rangiku was heat and mess, Esdeath was cold precision.
She sniffed him.
"Olive oil," she whispered. "Sake. Sweat. And... fear."
She reached out a white-gloved hand and wiped a bead of sweat from Renji's forehead. She brought the finger to her lips and tasted it.
Renji stopped breathing.
"Salty," Esdeath murmured, her eyes locking onto his. "And full of adrenaline. You have high stamina, don't you? To survive that..." She gestured to the disheveled Rangiku. "...and still be standing?"
She reached down and grabbed Renji by his tie. She pulled him close, until her lips were brushing his ear.
"You're hired," she declared.
"H-Hired?" Renji squeaked.
"Yes," Esdeath purred. "My office needs cleaning. And by cleaning... I mean I need a new footrest. One that's warm. And alive."
She yanked the tie, dragging him toward the elevator.
"Bring him to my office, Matsumoto," Esdeath commanded over her shoulder. "And bring a mop. You're making a mess of my lobby with your... secretions."
Rangiku slumped against the desk, panting, her face flushed crimson, her blouse hanging open. She looked at Renji as he was dragged away by the Ice Queen.
She winked.
"See you at lunch, darling," Rangiku mouthed, biting her lip. "You missed a spot."
As the elevator doors closed, shutting Renji in with the most dangerous woman in the world, he realized one thing:
The day had only just begun.