The air in the room hung thick and humid, saturated with the musk of sweat and sex.
Only the low, labored breathing broke the stillness.
"Haah… haah…"
Two bodies lay fused on the disheveled sheets, skin slick, limbs heavy. The third round had drained them both to the marrow; even lifting an arm felt like moving through water.
"Okay, if you're finished, can you get up from her now?"
The voice cut through the haze like cold steel—calm, precise, and utterly sober.
The young man still braced above the woman lifted his head slowly. His gaze found the figure standing just inside the doorway: late thirties, suit jacket discarded somewhere earlier, tie loosened but posture immaculate. Mr. Tachibana.
"Sorry, Mr. Tachibana, sir," the younger man rasped, voice thick with fatigue and faint apology. "It's just… I was too exhausted."
Mr. Tachibana gave a small, measured nod.
"I understand. But I would like you to get away from my wife now. I'm fully sober, and I don't like what I'm seeing."
The young man swallowed once, then dipped his chin in quick obedience.
"Understood, sir."
He began to withdraw—slowly, carefully.
As his hips eased back, the woman beneath him couldn't suppress the soft, involuntary sound that slipped from her throat.
"Umm~…"
A final, wet separation.
Plop.
Between the woman's parted thighs her entrance glistened, swollen and flushed. A slow, viscous thread of white followed his withdrawal, sliding down the crease of her skin before dripping onto the sheet.
Mr. Tachibana's eyes lingered there a moment, clinical rather than heated. He gave a single, satisfied nod.
"I see. Good job."
His tone remained even. "I'll add extra to your payment."
Exhaustion still tugged low in the younger man's gut, yet a faint, reflexive brightness flickered across his face. He dipped his head again, deeper this time.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Tachibana, sir."
Mr. Tachibana gave a single, quiet nod. His gaze drifted back to the bed.
His wife lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets—limbs loose, chest rising and falling in the deep, even rhythm of someone already claimed by sleep. Her satisfied breathing filled the quiet like a soft, lingering echo.
He studied her a moment longer, then turned to the young man still kneeling at the edge of the mattress.
"Okay," Mr. Tachibana said, voice level and final. "You can take a shower, then go home, little Kael."
"Understood, Mr. Tachibana, sir."
Kael dipped his head again in a small, practiced bow.
The older man turned without another word, crossed the threshold, and disappeared down the hallway toward his study. The door clicked shut behind him—soft, decisive.
Alone now, Kael let out a long, weary sigh.
"Haah… that was too much."
The thought drifted through him, half-spoken, half-felt, as he pushed himself upright. Every muscle protested; his legs felt borrowed. He moved toward the adjoining bathroom on unsteady feet, the carpet cool against his soles after the fevered press of skin on skin.
Inside, he twisted the shower knob. Water hissed, then roared.
The first cascade struck his shoulders like a cold slap—sharp, cleansing, almost punishing. Gooseflesh raced across his arms and chest. Yet beneath the chill, strength began to creep back into his limbs, slow and tentative, like blood returning to numb fingers.
He tipped his face into the stream, eyes closed.
"Haah… with the amount I'll get this time, I won't have to worry about two whole years now."
The thought settled, solid and anchoring.
A faint twitch stirred low in his groin as the icy water sluiced over sensitive skin, but he barely registered it. The reflex was old news.
"Haah… But unfortunately, that is just a dream for me—to live for two years without worrying about not getting back onto the bed again."
The thought curled through his mind like smoke, bitter and familiar.
Most of what he earned never stayed in his hands. The people who controlled him—the organization that had bought him from his parents years ago—took their cut first, always. Ninety-five percent vanished into their accounts before he ever saw the rest. Control. The word fit like a collar he could never quite loosen.
He worked the soap across his shoulders, fingers pressing into tired muscle.
His profession wore many labels depending on the speaker: male prostitute, gigolo, lady's toy. In the hushed circles of his wealthy clients, though, one name carried a different weight—Breeding Bull.
He understood the title's origin without illusion.
He was hired to breed other people's women—or women who needed it. The work paid far better than anything else his looks and body could command, and that was the point.
Rich clients sought specific traits to pass on: in his case, the sharp symmetry of his features, the evident strength and vitality that promised robust, attractive children. They chose him for those traits to impregnate their wives, their girlfriends, or single women who wanted a child without the complications of marriage.
It might sound strange in the world of common people, but he had long since stopped questioning the logic. Wealth bought preferences, and preferences bought nights like the one he had just left behind.
He reached for the faucet and twisted it off. The sudden silence was loud—only the final drip-drip from the showerhead and the faint hiss of steam settling against tile.
He stepped out onto the cool floor, water still beading on his skin, and dragged the towel across his chest and arms in brisk, practiced strokes. The terrycloth rasped softly against damp flesh, soaking up the last traces of heat and exertion.
When he emerged from the bathroom doorway, towel knotted low around his hips, he stopped short.
She was no longer sprawled in sleep.
Mrs. Tachibana sat upright on the edge of the bed, sheets pooled around her waist like spilled cream.
The dim amber glow of the bedside lamp caught the sheen of perspiration still clinging to her skin, tracing the generous swell of her breasts, the lush curve of her hips, the soft dip of her waist.Every line of her body seemed heavier, riper in the low light.
She held a cigarette between two fingers, the thin ribbon of smoke curling lazily upward as she drew it to her lips. The ember flared briefly, bright as a small ember in the half-dark, and she exhaled a slow, deliberate plume that drifted toward him like an invitation.
She looked molten. Dangerous.
Kael felt the sudden, insistent surge low in his belly—his length stirring hard and eager, straining against the towel as though the last hours had never happened, as though her body were still an open question begging to be answered again.
He sucked in a deep, steadying breath through his nose.
Okay, not anymore, he told himself silently, the words firm inside his skull. Our work is over here, partner.
Almost comically, the urgent throb eased. His erection softened, retreating into a dull, resigned calm. Relief washed through him in a quiet wave; he let the breath out in a long, soundless sigh.
Only then did she turn her head toward him.
Her gaze traveled the length of his body—slow, unhurried, appreciative—starting at his bare feet, rising over the towel, lingering on the flat plane of his stomach, the defined lines of his chest, finally settling on his face. Hunger flickered openly in her eyes, dark and liquid, unmistakable.
She rose from the bed in one fluid motion. The sheet slid away, leaving her bare except for the cigarette still smoldering between her fingers. Her movements carried the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly what her nakedness did to the room.
"So," she murmured, voice low and honeyed, carrying the warm, enveloping cadence of a mother soothing a restless child, "are you going home now, my little baby?"
The words landed soft against his skin, yet they carried heat—like a hand brushing the small of his back. Fresh warmth bloomed low in his gut, threatening to stir him all over again. He clenched his jaw, forced control back into his limbs, and dipped his head in a small, polite nod.
"Yes, Mrs. Tachibana. Thank you for having me."
Mrs. Tachibana's smile curved slow and knowing at his polite farewell. She closed the distance between them in three unhurried steps, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Their heights aligned almost perfectly—eye to eye, breath to breath—in the warm amber spill of the lamp.
"Well," she murmured, voice still wrapped in that honeyed warmth, "I would say it was really nice having you inside."
Her hand drifted downward. With deliberate slowness she patted the gentle swell of her lower belly, tracing a lazy circle over the skin still flushed from earlier.
The gesture was intimate, proprietary, almost reverent.
Kael's throat worked visibly. A hard swallow bobbed beneath his jaw.
This moment repeated itself with unnerving frequency among the wives of his clients. For reasons he had never quite unraveled, they all seemed to harbor the same quiet hunger for someone young, someone like him. Mrs. Tachibana was no exception.
She lifted the cigarette back to her lips, drew a long, contemplative inhale. The ember flared bright. Smoke curled from her nostrils in twin slow ribbons as she regarded him.
Then her free hand shot forward—fingers threading roughly into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him in with sudden, possessive force.
Their mouths met hard.
The kiss was deep, demanding, flavored with tobacco and the faint metallic edge of her lipstick. Kael yielded instinctively, lips parting under the press of hers, tongue meeting hers in the practiced rhythm of compliance. Smoke from her last exhale drifted from his own nostrils in faint wisps as she explored him, unhurried and thorough.
Her bare breasts flattened against his chest, nipples grazing skin still sensitive from the shower. She rubbed against him in slow, deliberate circles, the friction reigniting every nerve he had only just begun to quiet.
After a long, languid minute she finally eased back. A glistening thread of saliva stretched between their parted lips, shimmering briefly in the lamplight before it snapped.
She studied his face—eyes still closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks—then leaned in again. This time the kisses were softer, feather-light pecks brushed along the seam of his mouth, tender almost to the point of sweetness.
"Okay," she whispered against his lips. "Now you can go."
Her palm cracked sharply against his ass through the towel—playful, proprietary, the sound ringing crisp in the quiet room.
She turned then, hips swaying with exaggerated languor as she crossed toward the bathroom. The wide, generous curves of her backside shifted and jiggled with each step, hypnotic in the low light.
Between her inner thighs, pale streaks of his release had begun to dry, glistening faintly like frost against her skin as she disappeared through the doorway.
Heat surged through Kael again, sudden and unwelcome. He shook his head once—sharp, clearing—and reached for his scattered clothes.
He dressed quickly, mechanically: boxers, trousers, shirt. Buttons slipped through holes with practiced fingers. The towel dropped to the floor in a damp heap.
Outside the bedroom door, Mr. Tachibana stood motionless, phone pressed to his ear.
"Okay," he said quietly into the receiver. "Take care of this one."
From the other end came a clipped reply: "Understood, Mr. Tachibana."
The call ended with a soft click. Mr. Tachibana slipped the phone into his pocket and walked away down the corridor, footsteps measured and soundless on the carpet.
Inside the bedroom, Kael finished buttoning his shirt, smoothed the collar, ran a hand through still-damp hair—completely unaware of the quiet machinery already turning around him.
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