1-800-YOUR-GIRL

Nanami had a first meeting with a new client today. Despite how much he hated his job, he knew it was important to make a good first impression. He needed the clients to trust him, believe that their money was going to be taken care of, and their future was in capable hands. He considered his hands to be immensely capable, beyond them being trained specifically to protect the general public at one time, he simply didn’t care enough to screw over clients for the sake of company profit. He wore his nicest suit, clean and pressed to perfection himself that morning, a crispy white button up and red tie. He stepped out of the elevator, onto the office floor, and found his boss grinning, leaning against Nanami’s cubicle desk. 

“Big meeting today, Nanami!” He chattered, while Nanami set his things in their waiting, open spots he had left the night before. Briefcase to the left of his chair, laptop placed center, even with the edge of the desk but two inches back, office phone on the right, lamp on the left. 

His boss was still talking, “it may seem a little simple for a guy of your talents, but the client’s a bit---

Nanami’s eyes flicked upward. 

“-- of a piece of work.” 

Nanami’s jaw clicked, how disrespectful. 

He had read over the file last night before he went home. It was a bereavement portfolio, a combination of life insurance, dissolving and reallocating a trust in the name of the deceased as well as the substantial results of a wrongful death lawsuit, or well, the out of court settlement garnered after threatening to sue for wrongful death. Apparently the deceased had recently started a new medication that ended up not working as intended and gave the estate enough leverage to scare the manufacturers, the doctor, and the pharmacy.  Nanami had read the letter from the attorney’s office, it had been brutal, they had left nothing to chance. This lawyer, Higiruma, was a real shark. 

To call a grieving widow a piece of work was deplorable, but exactly the type of behavior he had come to expect from his floor manager. Who was apparently still talking:

“Talk to her about the stock options, okay. Start little and see if she takes the bait. I’m sure hubby handled most of their finances, she won’t know what’s up or down. It’s a, forgive my language, a fuck load of money were talking about. You play this right and not only does the company profit, but you could be in talks to join the big dogs.” He grabbed the back of Nanami’s neck in some kind of gesture of man-to-man camaraderie that he never truly understood and certainly didn’t value.

It was twenty two steps to the bathroom, thankfully he hadn’t gotten his hands on his jacket collar, so all he would have to do was clean the back of his neck. 

“Handsome guy like you, she won’t even be paying attention.” He let go of Nanami’s neck, “I’m counting on you!”

Finally the floor manager passed into his own office. Nanami cringed and cocked his neck, still feeling the disgusting touch of that man’s fingers on his skin. It was 8:07, he had exactly twenty-three minutes until the meeting was set to begin. He had booked the smallest conference room, it only had one window on the dividing wall, and the rest was enclosed. He wanted the space to feel private, where the widow could feel enabled to both grieve and discuss the logistics frankly without feeling as though she was on display.

 The crawling feeling at his neck was becoming overwhelming, he made his way to the mens room, wet a paper towel and swiped at his neck, the cool water soothing his growing rage. Water had always been soothing to him, the shower, the bath, a cool rag over his screen exhausted eyes, a warm rag on his head when he was sick, the ocean. He sighs in the sterile restroom, the ocean. The smell of salt and sun, the feeling of salt binding and crusting in his hair, the sun on his face and shoulders. Suits didn’t do well in the sun, he would have to leave them behind. Opting for more colorful, free form styling, something loose and flowy that would catch the coastal breeze and tickle the sides of his hips. He opened his eyes and met the stare of his reflection. 

Not yet. 

By every metric he had made plenty of money, but not enough to never work again. For a while last year he was toying with the idea of opening a bar or bookshop in whatever beach town he would find himself in, but even the thought of the processes necessary to open and run a business brought hives to his neck. One more swipe of the towel across the memory inflamed skin and then over his face, folded again so as to keep the contaminate off. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to rejoin his peers in the office halls. 

He had taken to preparing the room at 8:20, setting his computer, the printed copies of the to be accrued assets both liquid and non; a few dossiers of the stock option offered by the company, their individual projected investment gains, the prospective retail prices of property etc. He went back and forth a few times in his own mind but opted to bring in a box of tissues placed on the other side of the paperwork. Close enough to be available but not an assertion that emotion is expected. He hoped it would be thoughtful. Or at least benign and easy to ignore if it wasn’t useful. He pulled out his own and the chair caddy-corner to his, an open invitation to sit down. The room was set, he had a few minutes left until the client was set to arrive, so he took a short walk over to the break area’s kitchenette to make a coffee. He poured his own, letting the sound of draining liquid fill his ears before adding a half packet of sugar and stirring it. The numbers from the settlement  ran through his mind. It was a bizarre amount of money, even without the settlement there would have been more than enough money to live the rest of any human lifetime in absolute decadence. Wasting away on a beach, or in the mountains, secluded and isolated. Expensive meals, the finest linens, endless books for a never ending vacation. A life of relaxation. He sighed away the envy, the coffee’s steam giving a tangible symbol through which to watch the fantasy leave him.  That life would never be his. 

He left the kitchenette and made his way back to the conference room, only to see a figure seated inside. He was well acquainted with the silhouette of everyone who worked on his office floor, which ones to avoid, which ones would be innocuous in his periphery working alongside them, which ones had children they just begged to tell him about, which ones were on projects he worked on as well. But this one. He knew he had never seen this particular silhouette before. The hair neatly styled up into a sleek classic style, showcasing the back of their neck, shapely and long. A clean, well tailored blazer, dark in color as was most appropriate for the circumstances. The chair underneath covered the rest of the mirage before him, his throat felt parched, the coffee in his hand felt cold and absent. Or maybe he had gone numb. He pulled himself together in a snap, lamenting his momentary loss of composure. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and entered the conference room. 

You stood as he entered, offering a respectful bow. 

“Mrs. Kubota, it is nice to make your acquaintance. I am Kento Nanami, I was your husband’s financial planner. I am sorry for your loss, and I do regret the circumstances which have brought you here.” Nanami extended his hand for a formal shake. 

Which you obliged, taking his hand before sitting down once again, “My maiden name is fine, thank you. I have more condolences than I know what to do with, yours are appreciated but unnecessary.”

He nodded, appreciative of your pragmatism. It had been a few days over a month and a half since your husband had passed, and your candor towards not wanting to be fretted over was admirable. But there was an undercurrent of something. Kento took his seat across from you, and could see the dark shadows under your eyes. He wondered if you were sleeping properly. If you still slept in the bed you once shared, relegated to the side that had been yours, not yet taking the realestate now opened to you. He saw the end of your nose was raw, a slight sniffle twitching it every once in a while. He wondered when the tears had fallen. In the elevator, in the car ride over, in the mirror this morning?

“We have quite a lot to go over, can I get you a water or a coffee?” He offered, gesturing to his own beverage. 

“A coffee, thank you.” You seemed to relax in your chair a bit, your reed straight posture not faltering but taking on a feeling of ease. 

He stood again, a bit too fast, his knee almost hitting the table’s edge, “Cream?”

“No, thank you.” You were observing him so closely, he felt caught somehow, “Just one sugar please.” 

He nodded and excused himself out of the room and back to the kitchenette. Once he was gone, you sighed into the chair. Resting your head back against the cushioned edge. You didn’t want to be here. No one wants to be here. When you had gotten married twelve years ago, you never could have anticipated the drab, clinically modern interior of this office, the mountains of logistical work that followed your husband’s death. The endless phone calls with family members, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and grief counselors. Family members offering to come and ‘help keep the house while you are distracted’, were all declined. They had all been from his family, who had never been particularly fond of you, and were now trying to save face or, more likely, make sure you weren’t planning something catastrophic with his inheritance. No, your inheritance now. You had to remember that this money was yours now, you were entitled to it, and you had to feel that ownership, or the sharks around you would smell the blood before you touched even a cent.

Fuck, this was so much harder than you thought. You weren’t a cold, clinical woman, you were emotional and romantic and you had loved him. You had loved him, right? Even at the end, with the lying and the staying out too late and finding those charges, you loved him. Right?

The bookkeeper entered the room again, setting a ceramic mug of coffee, still steaming in front of you. His own had been in a paper cup, it was odd--maybe generous--that yours was presented differently. 

“I wasn’t sure which kind of sugar you liked so I brought one of each.” He had placed each pastel colored packet along the lip of the saucer that held the mug. 

You selected your favorite and tore it open, the rip splitting the silence in the small, dark room. You stirred it with the provided spoon and took a sip, the best an office can offer, which was less than you were used to, but the warm liquid chased the chill from your arms. 

“Mrs. Kubota--er, Sorry.” He corrected himself as you set the cup down, “You are more than well aware I am sure of the substantial inheritance both from the life insurance and from the wrongful death settlement. Your lawyer has done great work to insure that all of you and your husband’s assets will be absorbed under your name. You will be inheriting quite an impressive sum.” 

You nodded, “Yes, were it not for the loss of my husband, I would be tempted to call myself fortunate.” 

You didn’t care for the implication that people’s voices carried when they spoke to you about his death these days. Perhaps it was just because these logistical types could barely speak past the drool in their mouths when they scanned over the numbers on the page. It was true his family had been exorbitantly wealthy, and his own work had garnered more and more success for their business. But you had borne the burden of that your whole relationship with him. Coming from a regular working class family, the expectation was that you were some gold digging black widow that was only with him to secure your financial future of being a lavish layabout trophy wife. You had spent the last decade working to change your family's perception of you, and the untimely death of your husband, completely out of the blue, only made everyone more suspicious of you. You hadn’t yet confided in anyone about your trouble fitting in among them, or how fruitless it all felt toward the end. 

“I didn’t mean to imply. I’m sorry for my poor choice of words.” Nanami’s voice clipped through your spiral, “With a sum of money this size, it could be wise to invest. There would be very little risk to your financial future, and you could earn even more passively. Allowing you to continue whatever endeavors you saw fit, Travel, art collection, you could start your own business.”

“As you say it is substantial, I would rather not continue the expansion of my family’s wealth if I can help it.” 

“Well, it would be your wealth to…expand. The money in his possession was his own, not the money tied up in the company, that of course, returns to the company. But the will was very clear, all assets in his name will be redistributed to you and any of your children. Seeing as there are no children, this money is completely yours, to do whatever you like with.” 

You nodded, “Right.”

You weren’t interested in whatever commission earning this company may be after. Your husband had chosen this financial advisement team with the instruction influence of your mother in law. You didn’t care about investing, you knew exactly why you were here, and it was burning through the lining of your jacket pocket at the moment. Finally, you couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Mr. Nanami, I am not interested in investment. You were my husband’s financial advisor, were you not?” 

Kento’s eyebrows twitched inward for just a moment before he remembered himself. 

“Yes. One of them.” 

“And he sought your guidance on managing his personal expenses?” 

“To a certain degree.” He nodded, feeling himself becoming confused. “Our firm primarily handles the building of trusts and acquisitions of real estate or businesses.” 

Finally you retrieved the trifolded credit card statements for the last six months of your husband’s life that you had put safely in your purse as you left your apartment this morning. The ones you had been collecting, highlighting, photocopying, agonizing over since the first one came in. You carefully unfolded, gently unstacked, and set out in perfectly aligned order along the length of the table. 

June had been the dinner for two at the Michelin star restaurant you had tried to get him to make a reservation for for the previous Valentine’s day. 

And the bottle of champagne you hadn’t seen any sign of. 

July had been the necklace

A jeweler you recognized but wasn’t one of your favorites, but he happened to be fond of. 

Invoices from florists. 

Chunks of money, sizable enough for either dates, shopping trips, whatever they had been, you never saw. 

August had been the tickets to Macau, for a ‘business trip’ of course. 

It was normal, expected even, for personal assistants to stay in the adjoining room. How else would she have been able to keep him on schedule? 

And the car he had bought for her that same month was a company expense, it was allegedly easier than compensating her mileage, and he couldn’t rely on the train to get her to work on time. 

And of course his brother didn’t know anything about the meeting because he oversees a completely different department.

He started sleeping in the guest room.  

September had been slower. You suspected this was him laying low after his missteps in August. 

There was only the lingerie. Upon finding this charge you were motivated to find the order specifics through his email. It was a beautiful set. Part of you wanted to believe this could be an apology, but it hadn’t even been your size.  

October had another trip, this time he at least had the good sense to recruit some people you would have called friends to make it feel believable. 

Those same colleagues would later speak so highly of him at the funeral. Lauding his loyalty and reliability, and his unending dedication. 

November was busy, dinner dates, the opera, luxury goods masquerading as potential incoming christmas presents. 

He slept in your room a few nights as a trial run. 

Until you found the open credit line only accessible through a number you didn't recognize. 

He would never move back into the bedroom you shared together. The room stood untouched since he left it last.The door remained closed, the last hands to touch the knob his own. 

You couldn’t go inside. 

He died in December. Leaving an apartment building you had never been to, the last person to see him was his assistant. Who conveniently lived right upstairs. 

She hadn’t attended the funeral but whispers of her name echoed and were hushed away whenever you approached the huddled mourners. 

You weren’t a stupid woman, you knew what infidelity looked like.  When he started coming home later and later you praised his dedication to work. Especially when he would tell you he was working through the night and would try and catch a few weary hours of shut eye in his office. You still believed your marital vows were intact, despite how scripted every excuse filled phone call felt. It wasn’t until Macau that you even spoke to anyone about your suspicions. After their his plane had taken off, not so much as an invitation extended your way, you called his younger brother. Who hadn’t apparently known anything about a company merger occurring with a synonymous firm overseas. 

You hadn’t thought you married a stupid man, you had expected him to cover his tracks better. To his credit, the two occasions you had peeked at his phone, his call history had been unsuspicious and his messages to his assistant were professional, and even a little boring. In his absence, left to speculate in your once shared apartment for hours on end, you came to realize he likely had a second phone. One that would make itself known in a small fee each month until you found it and shut it down. 

Whatever, let the plan lapse, the money wouldn’t be noticed anyway. 

Laying the bank statements across the table, with your thorough annotations, the table looked like a conspiracy board. If there were any room in your heart alongside the bubbling betrayal and rage, you could have felt embarrassed. You watched Nanami scan over the documents as a whole. You watched his eyes look up to meet yours, his mouth open to say something that never emerged, before taking the left-most statement, June, in his hand and bringing it closer to read. You didn't sit, your knees trembled but never buckled. You weren’t afraid, you were energized. Vibrating with a bizarre amalgam of relief and sorrow. You never confide in anyone about your husband's infidelity. No family of your own, anymore, no friends you thought would support you through the divorce process, and the overbearing weight of betrayal and grief had poisoned you steadily over the course of this last year. 

Kento read each one carefully, taking special interest in your handwritten marginalia detailing the dates and citing the staple attached references to order pages and invoices. You had been incredibly meticulous with your record keeping. Every questionable charge back tracked to the origin of purchase and to its equally salacious delivery. Addresses not in your or his name. PO boxes, hotel rooms, short lived open and shut credit lines. It was…flagrant. 

As he finished the November statement, Kento set it down just where you had originally, as though it was magnetized to the exact spot. It felt like touching an artifact in a museum, the outline of dust waiting to be covered once again by the shadow of history and story that the papers held. 

“This is…” His throat was hoarse as he struggled to find the right word, “glaring.”

You, still standing, nodded, “Did you know?” 

He looked up to you, feeling suddenly small in his office chair, swallowed by the dark office around him, “No.” 

You looked for any sign of doubt, “At least that makes me no longer the last one to find out.” 

You finally took your seat again, the burden of truth taken from your weary shoulders. You had expected some sign of recognition, some familiarity to betray itself across the stony face of the man in front of you, but there had been nothing. Watching his expressions page after page, there was no tell of pre-existing knowledge. 

“Had you spoken to him about these?” Nanami asked, eyes still scanning over the table strewn with dirty laundry. 

“Yes, we had an infidelity clause in our prenuptial agreement. He knew that if I could prove it, I would get half of everything. The company, the houses, the inheritance, even the trusts. He told me it was over in August, but he admitted to the affair. He promised me that was the end of it, that we could go to counseling. That he would change, that he…” Your voice tipped you off to the tears welling in your eyes before you felt their sting, “I knew he was lying. And when he left again in October, with his friends, I knew. I tried to call her at the office and they said she was on leave due to a death in her family. How convenient. And ironic, looking back.” 

A sick chuckle left you before you could catch yourself. Nanami couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. Your lawyer had copies of everything, filed cleanly in a manilla folder marked with your married name. A folder that had been added to while your husband was still alive, a back up plan if things progressed more.

“There is a certain expectation of confidentiality that is appealing to our clients here. Non disclosure agreements, privacy laws, it's all very…bureaucratic. Many clients have similar discrepancies in their financial portfolios that, if they were catalogued, I imagine would bring about the same conclusions. I won't pretend that this is uncommon, or that your trepidation in bringing them forward is unwarranted. But,” He leaned across the table, “I find myself at times struggling to hold my tongue, when spouses come to me directly.” 

You looked at him a moment, trying to figure out what inside of him motivated this admission of knowing passivity. As though him admitting that this is something that happens, would be any boone to your opinion of him. 

“Do you tell them?” You didn’t want to play office drama anymore, a headache was beginning to bloom behind your eyes.  

“No, the closest I have come is flagging purchases as potential fraud enough times that they can put it together themselves and can keep them on hand, just as you have. But, it’s never…come to fruition, at least that I have seen .” He felt guilty that he couldn’t say he had done more. 

He should have done more. 

Part of the reason he hated this job so much was the type of people that he had to service. Liars, gluttons, cheaters, lecherous fat cats that cared only for their own whims. His boss had been conducting an affair for over five years, one that Nanami had turned a blind eye to. One of many, that he had decided were not his place, despite any personal disgust he allowed. The shame of those choices burned his throat sitting before you. 

The parallel burn in your throat was not shame, it was disgust. Disgust at the seemingly endless system of men who would protect each other through anything, no matter the costs. Even this phallic building standing tall and at attention served as a perfect symbol of the passive patriarchal assertion that men will keep their secrets for each other, weighing them out perfectly against their own sins and finding the scales too level to intervene. Were they all so callus, so loyal to their sex that they couldn't break for even a moment? For even the sanctity of marital vows? 

Pathetic. 

“Is that supposed to make you better than them?” You cocked your head, “Because you know about it, and how wrong it is? You still do nothing. You still don’t care about the wives. You think flagging a few missed anniversaries or ill-given gifts makes you some kind of hero?”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“ I’m sure you didn’t. Because you are a coward just like the rest of them. If anything, you’re worse. Clearly you have some kind of conscience that you choose to ignore, to what? Work here? Pay for your own affair? Excuse your own greed?” 

You sat silently, eyebrows raised in waiting to see if more excuses could be roused to fill the space you let open. But he said nothing. He would say nothing more. 

“Dissolve the trust, reallocate it into a savings account under my name alone.” You stood and began to collect the annotated bank statements from the desk, “From there I will redistribute to various humanitarian organizations that I see fit, with no influence from this company or the Kubota family. Or from you, whatever bankroll you were on from my husband died with him, do you understand?” 

This disdain in your voice was palpable, filling the room with an invisible sludge of hate for every foot that crossed this wretched building's threshold. Still, you continued:

“All I require from you will be a comprehensive breakdown of the remaining assets, and acknowledgement  that when the dissolution is complete, the partnership between the remaining Kubota’s and myself will be nullified and my personal involvement with your services will be over. I see no reason this should take more than the remaining days of this week, but from what I understand to be your pay cycles and commission earning spots are, I will give you until the thirty-first of March to complete the severance of assets. Any contact or input you require from me will be conducted through my attorney, with whom you are already acquainted.”

You stacked your brought papers neatly, edges aligned, corners met, before folding them along the tri-folded seams and sliding them carefully back into your pocket. 

“Wait, please.” Nanami stood, trying to preserve…something…do something to…atone, maybe, “Mrs.—er Miss—“

Without thinking he reached for your hand, his fingers barely brushed the joint of your wrist before you pulled it away. 

“I don’t think it's necessary for us to continue speaking. Surely if you have held your tongue this long, you won't mind continuing.” the look in your eyes was haunting, embers of fury trapped behind the iris, Nanami felt himself still, “Am I understood, Mr. Nanami?”

Wordlessly, he nodded. 

You turned and left the conference room, the cup of coffee nearly completely full sat no longer steaming where you had left it. 

You hadn’t raised your voice at anyone since he died. He was the last person you had fought with. Every day since his death your voice felt like it no longer belonged to you. Or at least could no longer be swayed by your emotions. When you were sad enough to feel your body was made of cement, your voice never wavered. When you spoke at the funeral, although briefly, your voice remained steady. You began to wonder if you could emote at all anymore. All your emotions and attempts at explaining them felt the same, this bizarre numbness that filled you completely had coated your vocal cords and now operated them for you like hammers in one of those self-playing pianos. Programmed to emulate the sound of human speech, over and over, but holding no real feeling.

 In the office you had felt more emotion than you had in nearly two months. Confusing swirls of frustration and nausea that all covered something more brutal. The sorrow, the crushing, aching, never ending sorrow. Your heart was lead, it barely beat. Your feet could barely be moved, they were too structural, it would risk collapse to step. Your eyes were boulders moving only when demanded. Even your hair pulled your neck down, be it onto the pillow, the car headrest, or the surface of the dining room table.  

Exactly the position you were in now. One cheek pressed onto the once cool surface of the hard mahogany table in your dining room, back slouched over its dark grain, hands falling limply at your sides, eyes locked on the venetian plaster walls. At one point you had thought they looked dynamic and expressive. But now it looked splotchy and unfinished. Dirty even.

You hated this room. But you couldn’t leave it. You hated this apartment. But where would you go?

Technically in a month’s time you would have more than enough resources to start over. You could go anywhere in the world, you could spend the rest of your life traveling with no responsibilities or ties anywhere. 

God that sounded lonely. 

But maybe that was what the rest of your life would be. It was part of marrying young, you knew it when you did it. You spent less time socializing, which meant you didn’t have a lot of chances to make new friends. And it became harder and harder to socialize outside of the pair of you.You had once thought of yourself as so lucky to have found the person you wanted to be with forever so young. But over the years you began to feel like an extension of him rather than a person yourself. You began to dread attending events alongside him, feeling the glaring lack of personage with which you were met draining. So eventually in the last ten years you had stopped trying. And now here you are, alone. No husband to be identified as an accessory of, no family to emphasize the marital status which landed you among them. Still your once marital status would follow you in its place. 

 Widowed. 

You are a widow now. You would never not be a widow ever again. You had felt an inverse sublime feeling when you had been married. Although those days it felt best expressed through the phrase “you’re married now! And you’ll never have to be alone again.” And now the phrase “you’ll never not have been married, ever again” felt more earnest. 

What time is it? 

The sun had probably set, the room was dark, but it had always been pretty moody. Thick curtains drawn to give it a dramatic, intimate feel. Your headache from this morning was still mumbling behind your forehead. A rolling thunder above the diamond enough to bring caution to the umpire, but not enough to cancel the game. Your aching back pulled your body forward, arching and straining like an overloaded fishing rod. You sat up, checking your thin banded watch. 

7:27 PM.

You groaned, dissappointed by it still being a time in which saying fuck it and just going to bed felt pathetic. If it had been even one hour later you would have done exactly that. Instead you felt the hot, acrid gurgle of shame rise in your throat. Your husband's infidelity had not been the fault of the man who sat across from you today in the conference room. He said himself that he didn’t know anything about it. From what he had said his involvement in your finances had been primarily investment, not day to day. And yet you had launched more anger at him than anyone else. You knew it wasn’t right, per say, but, you couldn’t deny that there had been something intoxicating about yelling at him. It felt cathartic to blame someone for something as unpredictable as a spontaneous death, timed in cruel serendipity around the revelation of adultery. Something so brutal and random and intangible, something where you couldn’t blame him for dying, because it was completely by chance, but you couldn’t be angry with him for cheating either, because he died. 

That bastard really got off easy. Fuck. 

You had been stuck in the loop for so long now the anger had nowhere to go. You didn’t have any interest in directing it toward the mistress. While she knew, obviously, he was married and she should have known better. She was too young to really understand, fresh out of university and painfully, frustratingly naive. You certainly didn’t feel bad for her, losing her lecherous boyfriend and all, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do any of the rom-com revenge movie antics that you sometimes wondered about. It didn’t seem worth the energy. You would be more than fine to just pretend she, specifically, didn’t even exist and that the adultery had occurred in some kind of vacuum. 

You didn’t care to confront his brothers, either, the ones who had begrudgingly embraced you, then lied to your face. The ones who knew everything and stayed quiet. You had wanted to scream at them, make them feel how you felt. But you knew it wouldn’t have worked. You can’t instill this numbness in another person. It’s far too organic. 

Mr. Nanami had become the perfect target for the anger that could go nowhere else. Despite his lack of involvement, earlier this afternoon in a millisecond decision you made him into the sole inheritor of your own misery. It wasn’t fair. But you couldn’t quite come to regret it entirely, there was something so good about releasing all of this frustration. The gratingly monotonous logistical proceedings, the meetings with Hiromi, the funeral arrangements, the calls from doctors detailing the genetic components of what had taken his life as if you had any children to make aware of it, the financiers, the property managers calling to see about their contracts, endless fucking pedantic organization had robbed you of space to grieve properly. You wanted to yell at every single one of them, but you didn’t. 

So you had just yelled at him. And he…took it. He didn’t seem perturbed at being spoken to so informally and cruelly, just…concerned, maybe? You had felt the most this afternoon than you had in months. You had already been mourning when the emergency services called you that night, you had been mourning for half a year. The relationship you once had, the marriage that you had once been so grateful for. But the grief, the grief was still waiting in the wings for room to consume you. The numbness and the anger were taking up too much space inside of you, it couldn’t find the room.

It was wrong, nonetheless. You can’t use other people as catharsis, it isn’t fair. Especially not with something so personal. Mr. Nanami was not your husband, nor was he one of his brothers, or the doctors, or your mother in law, or the friends who called or friends who didn't, or the flowers that were delivered regularly but now dispensed their saccharine sweet rot into the air of your kitchen. He was just a man. A man you were now scapegoating to relieve yourself of the pain you would have forever, even if just for a moment. He didn’t deserve it. You didn’t know him from Adam but you were sure he was a fine enough man who just wanted to do his job. 

You pulled your laptop to you from the side of the table, opening it and logging in. Your email opened automatically, the blue-white light straining your aching eyes. You should take one of those sleeping pills the doctor gave you. It had been a big day already. The email open on your screen was the confirmation email sent to you by Mr. Nanami yesterday morning, confirming the time of your meeting, the address of the office, and your parking validation. You read it over again, it was incredibly traditional. Likely some template that he had made to fill in for appointment confirmations, but your eyes wandered to the little circle icon next to the subject line. You clicked. It expanded. There he was. 

You had been laser focused this morning, well, as focused as you could manage to be in the foggy state you were often in these days. Let's call it, fine mist diffuser focus, one with one of those nozzles you can make bigger or smaller depending on room size. You had been so diffuser-focused on the bank statements that you hadn’t taken much time to really look at him. Beyond when he was reading them, waiting for a tell of recognition to reveal itself. Studying his micro expressions as he read over the papers you should have noticed the fine, angular lines of his face. The sharp line of his nose, the high cheek bones hollowed to meet a strong, square jaw. He was an incredibly proportionate man, thin, shapely lips, the color a bit too close to the skin, betraying how well defined they really were. But his eyes struck you. His expression was completely neutral in what you assumed was a work ID photo, but his eyes seemed to be looking right into you. A light, suede brown, like a perfectly risen, deliciously proofed loaf of sourdough bread. Dark bags hung under them, the ones you had seen in person were worse. But the shadows contrasted the golden brown making them appear to shine. He was handsome, very handsome. 

On reflex your heart pulled and your brain kicked you for even thinking so. The loop of shame and confusion starts again, pulling you along. 

You are a married woman. No. You were a married woman. You are a grieving woman. You are someone’s wife. No. You were someone’s wife. You are--. You…

You are-------fuck----You…fuck you. 

Who are you even supposed to be now? You crumbled against the table in a pile of arms. Hot tears burned your eyes and fell freely. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything felt wrong, you didn’t know what mattered anymore. None of the titles you once held so close fit anymore. You didn’t know what promises to keep, which ones to allow to fall away, what--if any--expectations stood before you. When you looked up from the table and back at your computer, you met Mr. Nanami’s eyes again. A flash of today in the office came to you, the same eyes but blown wide, reading over what had been done to your marriage. You should at least apologize. You looked at the clock on your computer screen. 

7:37 PM

He would surely be out of the office by now, but he would see a message tomorrow morning. You typed out an email quickly, read it over and hit send before your better judgement could kick in. 

Mr. Nanami, 

I would like to extend an apology for the way I spoke to you this morning. My behavior was inappropriate and frankly it was unfair. I did not mean to implicate you in my husband’s infidelity, and I regret doing so. I hope you can understand how it feels, losing your grasp on grief at what seems like the worst moment. But, that does not make what I did okay. 

 Thank you for your work over the years and your continued work for the remainder of the settlement. 

If possible, I would like a chance to apologize in person. Could I treat you to lunch tomorrow? I understand it is unorthodox, but my behavior this morning was unorthodox as well. I find unusual problems can sometimes require unusual solutions. 

You sighed out once it was sent. The inside of your cheek was swollen where you held it between tight molars as you typed. The pulse in your head, adrenaline temporarily lifted, returned and had now become a drumline. The bottle of sleeping medication was calling to you from your nightstand drawer. It didn’t matter that the clock had just barely passed the hour, you were going to bed. Unshowered, unceremoniously, it was time. It didn’t matter anyway, you hadn’t regularly shared a bed in months. The only filth on your sheets would be your own.

 You stood on sore, fatigued legs, pushing back your chair, not caring to realign it with the table’s edge as you once would have. It no longer mattered if the place was nice or put together. The team of cleaners would come and fix it. You had once been uncomfortable hiring people to clean up your messes, but now it didn’t matter at all. None of that life mattered anymore. Turning away to cross out of the room, you hear a faint chime. You stopped, turning back to the still lit screen. A new email. You huddled over the screen, reading too many words in the wrong order at once. Eyes jumping all over the response in search of confirmation. 

Please do not feel as though an apology is necessary. You have not wronged me in any way, nor have you hurt any feelings. I understood, and continue to understand the position you are in. I won't pretend to know how it must feel, but any empathetic mind can surmise the amount of strain you are under. For that I am sorry. 

While an in person apology is not needed, I accept your invitation. There are a few more questions that were left unanswered this morning that I would like to circle back to. I would be willing to extend my work into my lunch time hour if it would not be too much of an imposition to you. 

How is 12:30? There is a patisserie and deli I enjoy near to the office, if you wouldn’t mind coming back to this side of town? 

Awaiting your answer, 

Kento Nanami. 

You read it again. And again. You looked at the sender’s email, then back at the message. You read it one more time. 

You hadn’t expected this so quickly. And so thoughtfully. You had been so rude to him and he returned with nothing but understanding. Who the hell was this guy? What was his problem? You had spent the last month talking to similarly imposing job titled men, all of whom had to actively fight their fear that you would cry in front of them, only to then struggle to hide their confusion when you didn’t. You hadn’t anticipated this level of compassion, especially not from the previous email exchanges you had had. They were brief and deeply professional. No personality or attempts to be jovial, just purely informational. Perhaps after meeting him, being able to hear the voice writing the email made it clearer to you, giving way to his stoicism and sensitivity to feel balanced and apparent, without being forced. 

You pictured him sitting in a dark office, the light of his computer screen highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Blonde hair falling from its neat style, chunky silver watch, you didn’t realize you had noticed, ticking away far from the end of the work day. Feeling sad for him still working, you typed out a quick reply. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

You hesitated briefly, pinky finger hovering above the enter key. Was this message too casual? It was late, so maybe there was no reason to be as formal as you would be? However the lateness of the hour could require more care on your end to avoid seeming overly casual. 

Whatever. He said he was “awaiting an answer”, you didn’t want to hold him up any longer. You hit send. 

You let out a huff, excitement and guilt swirling together in your chest, making you remember your aching head. It was time to go to bed, you shut your laptop, pulled yourself through the central room of the apartment and into your bedroom. You were too tired to think about the guest room, you passed the door without stopping in front of it and wondering if you could push yourself to enter. You stripped your clothes off and let them fall at your feet, not bothering with pajamas, climbing into your large, empty bed. Finding the prescription in your nightstand you took one and swallowed it down with the stale water beside your bed. 

Did you put it there last night? Or the night before? 

It didn’t matter. Surely it was psychosomatic but feeling the pill descend your throat, you began to feel the sleep take you. 

Kento sat in the conference room after you left for a while. Weighing out what he should have done, what he did do, what you said, and how it all leveled on an elaborate mental scale, trying to figure out exactly how badly he screwed up. He felt so much sadness in his chest, it pulled his sternum down toward his pelvis, he had to fight to stay sitting straight. He hadn’t seen someone so destroyed since high school. And he always expected that to be a unique kind of grief. But he saw it in your eyes, the waver of your voice, the way your hands clenched, the dangerous calm that filled your kinesphere. He could recognize misplaced anger. He just had to look in the mirror. 

He barely registered the lecture his boss had given him for losing them one of their biggest clients. Something about expectations, something about the ‘guys upstairs not being happy with him’, something about being on thin ice. He didn’t enjoy being told his work performance was poor, but he also didn’t enjoy his work, so it was hard to dwell on it for too long. And there was still the meeting’s itinerary that hadn't been completed, along with your demands. He considered contacting your attorney to see if he could pass along a message about the work that had been superseded by your outburst. He still needed your personal information to create this savings account you requested, his work previously had been in your late husband’s name, so in order for him to create a separate portfolio for just you he needed a lot more of your input. Then there were the concerns he had about holding so much money in a single personal account, it could be dangerous to have too many eggs in one basket, it left too much to chance. Kento wanted to help you create a diverse and protected financial set up for your future, and he couldn’t if he just followed your requested course of action. 

But the work day had still only just begun, so he opted to set it aside for the time being and try to work elsewhere. But still your words hung in the space of his cubicle. The switch in your face from collection to fury. The careful way you had stacked and folded your papers, the careful swirling lines of your handwriting in the margins of those vicious forms. The level of care you exhibited in not just the presentation of evidence, but in the way you had sipped your coffee, the way your hair had been pulled up. You must be an incredibly thoughtful woman. 

After lunch he found his dwelling had migrated. The shape of your hands, the soft skin against his own when he had shaken it in introduction. The strong line of your shoulders and neck. The fullness of your cheeks, the shape of your lips, the shade of lipstick you had chosen complimented your coloring perfectly. He wondered if it had a flavor, not even an artificially added one, but the round, mineral taste that most quality lipsticks carried. Kento wasn’t sure why he had become so conscious of your charms. It was incredibly inappropriate for him to be replaying the events of a bereavement settlement and finding he can only think about how your lips would feel against his. You were mourning for Christ's sake. Mourning your husband. He was disgusted with himself.  Hours ticked by, the boss left promptly at five, others began to trickle out. He usually would have been in the elevator and out to the train station promptly, but he found that he was stuck to his desk, your file open before him, lingering over the contact for your lawyer, wrestling with how to proceed.  

That was when your email had arrived. His laptop was permanently set to silent, but he watched as an unshadowed line in his inbox appeared, signalling an unread email. Your name and email along the left side, no subject line attached. It opened itself in an instant, he didn’t even feel his fingers click over the trackpad. He read it closely, and when he finished he found his eyebrows had netted themselves together at the center of his face. An apology? Your husband was a lech and worse, a dead one, and you were apologizing to him? Guilt sunk his already deflated heart further. He didn’t deserve your sorrys, no one in this office, or any office like it deserved any kindness from you. You could have done worse, thrown the coffee in his face or shattered the glass windows, you could have told him to go fuck himself and he would have taken it. The horrid id in the back of his mind wonders if he might have done it. He typed out a response before the voice could speak again. Wanting to release you of any lingering guilt that he may have caused you. You had more than enough to deal with without him making it worse. But the voice didn’t like being ignored. 

She wants to see you outside of the office.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of the flash of fantasy that struck him. How perverse, how disgusting. Your kindness was not some kind of veiled invitation into your life. You were his client, he was the manager of the acquisition of your late husband’s estate, there were plenty of things that needed to be discussed. Professionally, and without distraction. He needed to get himself together before tomorrow. And he would. This was his chance to make this right, to do his job and do it well. He had begun packing up his stuff when your final response came in. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

A smile creeped along the lower half of his face, but he controlled it and set it aside. A professional work lunch, out of the office, to plan out the next steps of the acquisition, how mutually beneficial. Nothing to be alarmed by, nothing to prepare excessively for, certainly nothing to feel this strange giddy hum in his chest about. He slide his laptop into the center most pocket of his briefcase, organizing the interior of your file into a clean stack and folding it safely inside, turning out his desk lamp, and returning the pens he had used into the pencil cup on the top left corner of his desk, cap side down to allow for easy retrieval, capped securely protecting the ink inside. He pushed his chair in once he stood up, making sure the back was even with the edge of the desk and turned out the break room light as he made his way to the elevator. 

Normally Nanami would have taken a moment to relish the feeling of being the only body in the elevator. He wasn’t a small man, tall and broad, sharing an elevator made him feel like an imposition, as though he took up too much space by default. His neatness and cleanliness had stemmed from that same feeling of existing in a world that he felt he didn’t quite belong in. Trying to be as orderly and unimposing as possible, to make up for the characteristics that could be deemed rude or inconsiderate. On the average day there would have been immense relief upon finding the elevator empty, but tonight there was nothing to relieve. His routine executed to perfection, a clear plan for the next day, an assurance that your work together wasn’t yet finished. This feeling of weightless ease carried him into his apartment, into the shower, to his kitchen island, through the cooking of the same dinner he always had on midweek nights, to the half bottle of wine that sat in his fridge, and eventually to bed. Laying in the cool, clean sheets he wondered what tomorrow would bring. The uncharacteristic lightness carried him to sleep, and he did not push it away. 

He — and yes, you know it’s a he because only a man could be so annoying and pathetic — gropes you randomly during the day. You’ll be washing up some dishes, minding your own business as one does, when suddenly, you’ll feel big, cold hands on your hips groping the flesh there. Worse, you can even feel a nose skim the length of your neck, inhaling your scent, and the ghost’ll blow air at your skin as if he’d exhaled in deep satisfaction.

Even when you're just watching TV, sat on the sofa, you'll feel a ghoulish grasp on your ankles, pulling your legs until your feet are held in the air. Something cold, long and hard presses itself against the pads of your feet, rubbing along. Popping popcorn in your mouth, you yawn as the sofa creaks, cold liquid beginning to coat your toes. You don't know for sure what he's doing but you have an idea.

Showering is also another story. Bare and wet, you massage shampoo into your scalp, humming to a song on your phone when it begins to glitch, making record scratching sounds. Your Lizzo song is replaced with heavy breathing and mumblings that oddly resemble the word, 'mine,' on repeat. Big, foreboding hands creep into the tresses of your hair, covering your own. They push and pull, applying pressure around your scalp, really working in your shampoo. With a sigh, you let him do the work for you.

After all, your arms were getting tired. So it seems like a fair exchange for him to grind that, by now, familiar length in between the globes of your ass, nudging you against the wall, threatening to drown you under the barrage of water.

Truthfully, you once considered hiring an exorcist or a priest or something. But once he stopped being so hostile against you and you found a freakish routine with him, the idea flew out the window. Who else would know to open a cabinet with all the bowls for you right after you've picked up the milk from the fridge, so you can eat cereal?

This ghost has been pretty helpful in finding your lost items too. Whether they be your phone, keys, socks, the remote etc. Though, you suspect sometimes he hides those things on purpose so that you'll acknowledge his presence with a, 'Hey dead guy, know where my shit is?'

Sure, your pool of panties is depleting with his clear hatred of them, ripping them up and tossing them in the trash for you to find later, and you can't really invite anyone home since they wouldn't understand. But you can put up with his wandering hands and constant hard-ons if it means you have a nice, pretty house to live in.

Even if everything you do seems to turn him on. Whether that's singing along to a song (a body will press itself behind you, swaying you to the beat and grinding something hard against your back), brushing the floor (the broomstick will find it's way between your legs, the length slotting itself right in between your pussy lips as it shuffles back and forth, eliciting moans after moans from you, covering the wood with slick), or cooking a meal (the sauce you're heating up will wind up on your chest, cool and trickling down the valley your breasts, just about to disappear beneath your low v-neck shirt before something wet and slithering wipes it away, leaving goosebumps in its wake).

And God, apparently dental hygiene turns the damn thing on too. Brushing your teeth, in the morning or night, always involves your breasts being groped. Seriously. Breasts. Groped. 

You feel those same cold hands first cup your tits over the shirt, just feeling the heaviness, weighing them in his palms before you feel fingers flicking your nipples. The friction is repulsive. Really. It makes you roll your eyes. In annoyance, of course. 

“F-fuck off!”

Then, when you’re clutching the sink, he slides his hands under your shirt, nails scratching your skin before you feel its chilling grip on your breasts. That’s when he really gets to work — he doesn’t go gently, no, he’s tugging at your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingertips as if to torture you. So outraged, you’re left gasping for air, unable to string along words to express how disgusting his touch felt. 

“Don’t even ask me h-how I know you’re smirking. Dick.”

In response, all the bottles on the bathtub fall to a clatter on the porcelain.  

You can’t even masturbate in peace because though the door's closed you know he knows what you’re doing. That door will open, slowly creaking, and a gust of wind will blow over you, announcing his presence. There, under the covers, your fingers are working overtime, rubbing furiously at your clit as you stare at that open door. 

“Seriously? You won’t even let me have this?”

Pussy tingling, you writhe on the bed, spurned on by the knowledge that eyes are watching your face. Deadly quiet, the sloshing sound between your legs echo in the room, mocking and scathing.

When your hand cramps up, you reach over to your bedside table for your vibrator. Pressing the cold silicone to your steamy pussy, you get a moment of reprieve before the battery somehow runs out. 

“Oh my God, you did not. Ugh, you are such a dick. You died and now you gotta make me miserable?” You throw the damn thing to the corner of the room in frustration. 

Just as you’re about to give up, the cover is pulled away and you’re bared to the world. Your legs are spread by an invisible force before something warm touches your lips, tasting your abundant juices before it laps all of you up eagerly. “Oh fuck! A-are you eating me out?”

He’s annoyingly skilled at this. The tip of his tongue rubs tight circles around your throbbing clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your toes curl. Squelches resound in the room, getting louder when you feel, what can only be, fingers thrust into you with no warning. 

“Oh, God! Yes, right there, yesss.” He’s found your G-spot and he’s going to town on it, angling his fingers just right. 

Another hand pushes down on your lower stomach at the exact same time his lips wrap around your clit and suuuuuuuuuuuuck. You’re thrashing on the bed, pinned down by that invisible force like all your limbs suddenly weigh a ton. The noises he’s making and pulling out of you are obscene and anyone who hears would think another ghost is being added to the house. 

“Since your tongue’s going -ngh!- inside me, s-shouldn’t you tell me your name?”

The light flicks on and on the mirror across the room, your lipstick is writing the letters S U K U N A on it. 

“Sukuna, huh? Well, Sukuna. Since the afterlife is clearly lacking any kind of fun, make yourself useful and give me an orgasm.”

And so he does. 

He does every time after that actually. 

Sitting in your armchair, reading a book, legs spread and panties dangling from an ankle, he eats you out for hours. Good thing about ghosts is that they have nothing else to do, so you bet your cheap ass that he won’t be getting tired any time soon. 

In fact, he loves to eat you out. When you’re washing the dishes, he’ll be eating you out from behind, suckling on your wetness like it could bring him back to life. Hanging up the laundry in the garden will leave a man-sized lump under your dress as you desperately muffle your moans with a bedsheet, embarrassed that a neighbour might see. He wakes you up by eating you out, he sees you off to your job with a fingering and then a cleaning up of the mess with his tongue, and he welcomes you back home with an orgasm, body slumped against the front door, held up like a puppet as he tongues your insides, nipples teased by tendrils of something beyond the reach of your humanly sight.

That becomes your new routine. It seems this Sukuna has grown bolder, fearless and uncaring of what's convenient for you.

One night, however, as you’re spreading your legs naturally, you don’t feel the usual pressure there. Instead, you feel something wet, hard and salty at your lips. Devious bastard. 

Opening your mouth, you let him inch his length into your throat with surprising care. Full and stretched to your limits, you gag around his invisible cock, forced to accept the entirety of the thing entering and retreating over and over again. His balls smack against your chin as he increases his pace, growing more ruthless with the way he’s shoving his fat cock inside your mouth. 

You’re being used like a glory hole and he doesn’t seem like a minute man. Despite never having been the kind of girl who enjoyed giving blowjobs, you find this one surprisingly stimulating — it presses against a sensitive spot at the back of your throat, a sweet scent of death filling your nostrils as you gag around something firm and unyielding.

Over your shirt, you feel nails scratch against your nipples, flicking them the way that leaves your thighs squeezed shut, searching for friction where you're most sensitive.

Then, your vibrator miraculously comes back to life, buzzing with vigour right against your pussy. Squelches are joining the sounds of your gagging and you didn’t even know you were so wet already. It’s on the highest setting, driving you to overstimulation immediately and with cement for bones, you can’t move away from the onslaught of vibrations against your dripping cunt. 

Gagging even more, tears well up when you cum, squirting all over your bed just as he squirts cold, salty cum down your throat. 

You fall asleep thoroughly drenched. 

The next day, all the cabinets and doors are banging open and shut repeatedly. He’s throwing a tantrum. Great. He heard your phone call in the morning.

“Get over it, freak! I can’t keep relying on you for orgasms. So don’t get in the way of me and this guy,” you scream in your bedroom. You’re aware you look crazy but you don’t care. Enough is enough. 

The mirror shatters in front of you. 

“Yes, I will let him in. You can’t do anything about it. Just go to the light or something.”

A stuffed toy hits you on the head. 

“Oh my God! You did not. Ugh, whatever, watch me get fucked then, I don’t care. But keep your hands to yourself.”

Your guest doesn’t make it three minutes before he’s being scared shitless by the banging of cabinets, the opening and closing of drawers, the shaking of tables and shattering of glass cups. He’s running to the door before you grab him by his hand desperately. You almost convince him to move your two-person party to his house when a knife flies through the air and lands right in between you two, embedding itself into the wall. 

That’s the last straw. 

Just as he wanted, you’re left alone with the happy malevolent spirit. How do you know he’s happy?

Well, because suddenly the house is righting itself — cabinets and drawers are now closed, there’s no more shaking, glass shards are picking themselves back up, repairing all your broken cups. “Pretty pleased with yourself now, aren’t you? You are such a child, I can’t stand you.”

Not to mention, your dress is being lifted up and your panties ripped apart. 

He shoves his face in between your legs once more, tonguing your clit and massaging your pussy walls with his long fingers. This is his way of apologising, you guess, and whatever, you just have to accept your fate. Long tendrils wrap around your arms, lifting them up so you can grip something. Those very same vine-like phantoms tease at your nipples too, squeezing and pulling like his fingers would. Then you feel them seem to open up like little mouths before they suck on your nipples. Hard. There, standing in the crime scene, you cum. Heaving and lightened, you think it’d end there. 

It seems seeing that other man really pushed him because then you’re being spun around and shoved to the hardwood floor, dress folded over your back and drooling pussy exposed to the air. Something hard rubs against your most intimate area, coating itself in your wetness before it shoves itself, in one go, inside your pussy. 

“Fuck! G-go slow! Oh. My. God. Su. Ku. Na!”

His rhythm is monstrous. You’re practically screaming as he pummels your pussy with no consideration for the fact that your knees are being bruised and that your face is smushed against the dirty floor. 

Your gooey walls are being forced to stretch, lips all swollen and weeping. He’s planted so deep you can feel him in your throat, and then an arm is wrapping around your neck — he’s got you in a headlock, wrangling you back into a painful arch. From this angle, he goes in deeper. 

Another long, hard thing pushes inside your mouth and you don't know how any of this works but you swallow it down, allowing him to plug you up from both ends. They work in tandem, stretching your holes with a brutal pace.

The cock in your mouth cums first and you know, somehow, it's because he just wanted to coat your face in his ghoulish cum. Drenched, you can do nothing but take his intense pummelling with gratitude.

"Full! I feel so — yesss, right there — full."

There’s a noticeable bump on your lower stomach, years of pent up energy as a ghost being rammed into your poor cunt. Glop glop glop he goes through your juices which overflow, soaking your thighs. “Fuck, yessss.”

Watery slurps are emanating from your pussy where you’re gaping around nothing to the human eye. Sukuna gyrates his hips, heavy balls teasing your clit from the delicious angle, cock throbbing inside. 

“I’m c-close! More. I want more. Fuck me faster!”

And does he ever. 

Garbling out gibberish, you’re practically choking on your own saliva as he suffocates you with his arm.

When you cum, your vision blacks out and you fall limp, thoroughly exhausted and almost dead. But even then, he still continues to fuck you, using your body as a fleshlight, basking in your living warmth. As if your soul has separated from your body, you're aware of the thorough fucking your poor body is receiving, splashes of cum flooding the floor. Even unconscious, orgasms are being snatched from you.

Later, when you wake up, you’re in bed, tucked in with a ghostly tongue lapping up your mixed cum.

Pushing the cover off, you’re shocked to find a face and a body, firm and warm to the touch. He’s got pink hair, a muscular body and tattoos. There's nothing ghostly about the man between your legs. You can feel the blood coursing through his veins, can see the sharpness of his teeth as he flashes his pearly whites in threat, and the fingers that dig into the plush of your thighs are bruising.

Regretting not getting a priest involved after all, you gasp when you hear his voice, clear and loud, deep and powerful.

He says,