Work Text:
Higuruma was, for lack of better words, truly a compelling character.
Paradoxical to his worn and sullen frontage, he was a man with justice dyed thoroughly in the wool. He worked like a dog and was stubborn as a mule. Sustained his self-destructive ways with drained coffee pots and from the fear of Lady Justice’s capricious gavel. Yet, he always seemed to remain unflinching at a long hoe to row.
Slipping past his no-nonsense exterior was a tricky needle to thread in the beginning of your apprenticeship. Finding a tell on him was like deciphering a doctor’s writing, not to mention how his slight ego had him passive-aggressively looking down his glorious aquiline nose at the new apprentice who had been dumped on him by his Bar Association, despite their seal of approval of you.
He liked being proactive, piling responsibility after responsibility onto himself like he was a glutton for punishment, until eventually something broke the camel’s back - so to speak.
It had been one of those late nights at the office.
The janitor had long since switched off the lights, only computer screens and amber streetlights peeping in through the windows pathetically lit up the office. You had insisted on staying late to be of any assistance, a schmoozer move cooked up by the department of the bleeding obvious.
Thankfully, Higuruma was too exhausted to bother voicing his lack of favour of such an idea for once, his whippet of a mind managing a dry quip of: ‘Sucking up to me won’t get you a raise.’ Before begrudgingly permitting your help with the finalising of details needed for his upcoming case, the most important thing you’ve been allowed to do since you started - which was saying a lot.
That space you both shared was quiet for the most part, little mutters occasionally shared between the two of you as you worked together. The silence was the least bit awkward, rather cosy and intimate.
By the end of the night, as you left the building, he surprised you by walking you to your car. A gentleman. And when you drove home, somehow, you felt something had wordlessly shifted between you and him, tilting on its axis.
For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something real in Higuruma, something more human out of your boss - in conjunction to that hard as nether millstone lawyer act. Glimpses of persiflage shone brightly through dull shades, highlighting to you there was more than meets the eye.
You’re proven right as he thawed out considerably after that night, behaving a lot less like a hardass than he was in the beginning. He started delegating you with more tasks, gradually handing you wider responsibility like his respect for you was slowly dawning on him.
It was interesting mentally picking him apart, seeing what laid bare under casket sharp covers through the little things. You believed you knew him relatively well even around then. It became increasingly obvious he cared deeply about his job the more you worked alongside him, always passionate for objective judgement.
He was a man who was always willing to be in the eye of the storm, no matter how many times Lady Justice herself may smite him down. Believed justice is a means to an end through and through. Never even seemed to consider throwing in the towel when left dead in the water.
Which is why it was run-of-the-mill to think Higuruma was the type of man to never dare toe beyond the pale. His morals seemed contemplated well in advance, after all, making it easy to infer he’s never battled with an uncivilised thought in his life.
He’d been staring at you a lot recently. A precipitous realisation you’ve had after catching him for the umpteenth time that week.
It wasn’t sleazy in nature. You tested this suspicion with the ‘careless’ knocking over a pen pot or the ‘accidental’ swiping of a paper. There was never an indication he had been perving on you when you straightened back up again, sneaking a glance over a shoulder.
He was older than you, that was a given. You would’ve said there was at least a fifteen-year gap between you and him. You may no longer have ‘teen’ in your age, but many would see a hypothetical relationship with him as controversial. That made it hard for you to further fathom the fact this was potentially all due to attraction. Interest in you.
You eventually decided to drop the idea of knowing the motivation behind the staring, chalking it up as him keeping an eye on how hard you’re working or such other.
Yet, fortuitously, Higurumi soon developed a habit of pestering you.
Not loudly. Never loudly. Just… with the little things.
From time-to-time, your favourite pens and sometimes highlighters you knew he would never use would mysteriously disappear from your desk, forcing your hand into asking him where they might have been. Sometimes he’ll return them, drably providing one laughably terrible excuse or another. Other times he would just limply shrug, offering a smartass comment such as: ‘Unless they can walk, I don’t think you’re looking properly.’
They always ended up reappearing where they once were by the end of the day.
Those days when you actually bothered to get lunch, you would have it outside of the office. Very rarely did you bring it back, but once in a blue moon you had gotten carried away with something, thoughtlessly letting time eat away at your break hours; then you were forced to avoid getting crumbs on your keyboard while you worked with one hand.
It started off as a nice, one-off gesture. Your chair being forcefully swivelled around before a brown sandwich bag is dumped on your lap.
“Eat,” was all he offered, already on his way back to his desk with his own lunch.
When you had opened the bag, an assortment of your favourites from the local cafe greeted you. You couldn’t help but smile like an idiot to yourself. Mind like a steel trap, and yet he uses it to remember what food you liked to bring back to the office.
“Thanks, old man.”
“I’m 36, brat.”
Soon it became tradition, a bag of yummy mysteries suddenly appearing on your desk every lunchtime, with Higuruma eating his own not so far away from you.
He never provided an explanation for any of it. You presumed that’s just how he was, kind and thoughtful in his own impassive way.
Working overtime alone with him in the office somehow also turned into tradition. He said he liked your pair of extra hands, often offering to buy you both take out in return - if it weren't already running into the early hours of morning, that is.
He made you comfortable around him; he was sweet.
The staring didn’t become so much of a glaring matter again until one late night together, you were taking a quick break, arching tall, squeezing some satisfying cracks out from the discs of your spine, eventually slouching low and propping an ankle on your knee.
Your feet had been aching all day in your new court heels, having clearly not broken into them quite yet.
Higuruma quickly noticed your dilemma, overcast eyes snailing over to the heel resting up on your leg.
“Hurts?” he hummed, leaning back in his chair comfortably, eyes breaking away to study your tightly pinched face.
“Terribly,” you hissed, eventually deciding keeping up professionalism right now wasn’t worth any nasty blisters and/or calluses, letting the heel slip off your delicately manicured toes and onto the carpet floor with a dull ‘thump’. “Sorry if this is gross, but these things are killing me, god.”
It took him a short moment to reply after that, worrying you as to if you were right on the mark with your statement, forcing your attention back up to him.
Onyx cirques flickered against eggshell backdrops, premeditated to being fixed already to meet your own gaze. Had he been…? No.
“I don’t mind,” he said evenly as long, sinewy fingers tugged at his tie, loosening the knot somewhat as if to make you feel less self-conscious at the prospect of appearing unprofessional. “Never been able to understand how women wear those things. Looks tortuous.”
A breath of a chuckle escaped you at that, mutated with a relieved sigh as you kicked off your other heel. “It is, but you know what they say, beauty is pain,” you replied, pouting down at your sore feet. “I’m gonna be in so much agony tomorrow, I can already feel it.”
Silence settled in once again, however, it felt different. It was charged with static that was dangerously building towards something. Lightning? A lightbulb moment? You didn’t know what nor why.
Clearing his throat, he maintained a measured stare at something off in space, posturing himself a little more upright than before. If you were to guess, you would say that was the look of someone with a bothersome bee in their bonnet.
“You’re thinking about saying something, yet you’re hesitating,” you observed, stretching out your arms and legs like an overslept feline. “Which means it’s something interesting. Please, do spill.”
“No,” he replied simply, turning back to his computer screen, broad hands hovering over his keyboard like stagnant spiders hanging from a silk thread. He hesitated for a stretch of a second before sighing, like he was already regretting what he was about to say. “It’s inappropriate. Unprofessional. I shouldn’t.”
Now that piqued your interest.
“Oh?” you inquired, gliding closer on your chair over to his desk. “The Mr. Higuruma thinking inappropriately? Will I need to talk to HR tomorrow?”
He scoffed incredulously at that, giving you a withering look as a noticeable shadow cracked between his brows. “It’s not- not that kind of inappropriate. I was simply going to offer a hand, to ease the-” he sighed, almost petulantly, pinching the bridge of that sublime nose of his. “Just forget it.”
It was always such a gratifying treat getting a man generally known as ‘calm’ and ‘collected’ to fumble over his words, purposefully winding him up to see what kind of reaction you could elicit. It was rare, but when you succeeded, it was something you thoroughly took great pride and joy in indulging with.
But this time was different.
Your brows upheaved at such an offer, thinking about how out of character it was for someone like him to offer the likeness of.
Was it unprofessional? Yes. Did you care about that? Fuck no. This was out of work hours and all you could possibly see happening was receiving a killer foot massage from your boss slash friend. What's so weird about that??
Not to mention you didn’t want to miss out on those strong hands kneading sore tissue to mush. Oh, god. Now the thought of that was downright indecent. Holy shit. Stop thinking.
“Sooo… is that offer not on the table anymore then, lawyer?” you asked hopefully, cruising over next to him. “It would be nice having someone work their magic on them, I won’t lie.”
Higuruma’s hand dropped like a gallows trapdoor at that, beady irises locking in on you from the corner of his peripheral, lips tightly wound together. He was considering it again.
Until, eventually he sighed heavily, shrugging off his blazer onto the back of his chair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt so he could roll his sleeves up. You tried not to stare at the beryl ripples of venous branching up his lean forearm. Trying and failing, of course.
“Don’t ever bring this up,” was all he said, turning to face you while gently patting his lap. That was all the confirmation you needed before you had hauled up a foot for its well-deserved pampering by none other than Higuruma Hiromi.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
To say he was thorough would be a glaring understatement, he was unfathomably assiduous to the tending of your achy soles, thumbs working hard to the bone. You tried your best keeping any embarrassing noises to a minimum, but the way he was going at your untended muscles and tissues was driving you insane.
“Shit, that’s really- feels really good, Higuruma,” you couldn't help but praise, ivories sinking down into the cushiony flesh of your bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah, right there, ooh…”
As Higuruma's strong, skilled hands continued working over your sore feet, you couldn't help but notice a slight shift in his demeanor. His movements, while still attentive and thorough, had taken on a slightly more… furtive quality.
Adam’s apple seemed to bob frantically in the waters of your worded praise, an occasional hitch in his breath would eventually draft past parted lips at every throaty noise you made.
Little, strange tells of something.
It provoked an assortment of thoughts to embed deep in the entrails of your cerebrum, cultivating into plausible hypotheticals to obscure, convoluted scenarios.
“...The other one,” he soon spoke up, raspy and low like he was deeply reticent about the request, strangely guilty sounding in some respects.
You watched, befuddled yet enraptured, as he swallowed thickly, bracing his hands on his knees hard enough to make bone bloom through rose pink knuckles. A candid, physical embodiment of the expression, ‘on the edge of my seat.’
Clammed up at his strange, inadmissible mannerisms, you wordlessly complied, slipping your right foot off his lap for its counterpart. Mind miles away, the switch-out is instantiated by the slovenly motion of your foot brushing against the firm line of his inner thigh.
A breath, no, a muted wheeze.
Hands faltered in their quest to fondle, to please. One freezing as a support beam for the creased arch while the other was cupped over the silken skin of the slope of your foot. He was quick to perpetuate his aid, however it was a nanosecond too late, suspicions were already set in stone.
Higuruma Hiromi, your seemingly straight-laced, stoic boss, was becoming somewhat… antsy by all of this. What exactly was the cause, though, was what you wanted to know.
He must have sensed your heavy gaze upon him, for his ministrations suddenly stilled for good. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his overlaid eyes to meet yours. There, in the depths of those briar brown, saturnine irises, you saw a flicker of naked want - quickly tamped down, but not before it registered.
Higuruma cleared his throat again, the motion visibly tense. "Is… something wrong?" he asked, the gravel in his voice doing little to conceal its tremor.
Choosing a reply to that felt like you were at a crossroad, better yet, stationary before several-hundred forks in the road. Cutting down to a few actually viable options led you to two contenders:
You could play coy, he was your older boss, realistically way out of your league and, most importantly, if word got out you slept with him - or such other - you'll be forever known in the office as the slut apprentice who sleeps to get to the top and will probably get fired. Big bummer.
Encouragement, however, sounded very much tempting to the horny, unrealistic devil germinating on your shoulder. Let’s be real here, a friend, let alone your boss, wouldn’t agree to massaging your feet unless they had a fetish or were pining after you. Or both.
Being pragmatic vs. being hopeful, stupid and pervy. Choices, choices.
Mind on autopilot, your abandoned foot is already on its course, joining its counterpart on top of his thighs. That was when you hazard a slip, an innocent, maladroit slip along the apex of his thigh once again. Your breath snagged in your chest as delicate toes brushed against something hard, shameful and unmistakeable.
The reaction was instantaneous, sharp hissing cutting through the dense atmosphere as he bolted upright in his seat, like you had probed him with a naked livewire. Broad hands redirected you away from danger, as if doing that alone will prevent you from asking any questions.
Ha, in his dreams, maybe.
“Higuruma, is everything okay?” you asked innocently, really amping up the ‘concerned’ act as you tilted your head at him. “You’re looking a little feverish, or is that just a rash on your neck?”
Seeming reverent in his chagrined refusal to look at you, honeyed words are what gives him the willpower to finally stare at you head on. Eyes constricting to conspiring slits.
Oops. Guess the jigs up for everybody, now.
Painted lips stretched, teasing glimpses of pearly enamel as you chuckled softly. “Maybe massaging my feet more will make you feel better?” you offered, just adding salt to the wound for the fun of it. "You seemed to enjoy that even more than I did."
The speed in which his face thawed out into that familiar dull canvas at your teasing should’ve given you some inclination that maybe, maybe you had pushed him too far and now you’re about to get the firing and berating of your life.
Yet, all you felt was the tenacious sensation of utter excitement and anticipation spindling within you into a net of pure hedonism.
Well, spiders don't exactly anticipate getting caught in their own webs, do they?
Those toiled hands that once kept you firmly away, soon surprised you as they lured you back out of your own thoughts and into his lap by your ankles.
“And here I thought you were a sweet, innocent girl,” he finally muttered, tone low and pernicious as he gazed down wearily at your feet, like they were nothing more than a hindrance to him.
You, however, knew better.
"And here I thought you were a gentleman," you barbed back, wriggling your toes at him. "Who'd have thought that you of all people would have a predilection for feet."
Chin sinking further, roseate bled up to his pavilions in a blooming flourish, painting a once in a lifetime picture on normally pale features. Brows knitting together, a light grimace anchored the corners of his lips.
"...I'm invoking my right to remain silent."
Now that got a good laugh out of you.
Tittering in the aftershocks, you decided you wanted to take a further stab in the dark as you evilly glided against the deviation in his slacks once again. This time with purpose.
He seemed a little more trained with his reactions this time round, but it’s not enough to fool you. His grip ironed around you once again, gauzy perspiration accruing upon his temple. The tell-tale sign for you, however, was the fact he didn’t try pulling you away like last time.
"You liked that, didn't you?" you pressed, gauging his reaction closely.
Freeing an unsteady hand, he pushed rebellious strands of hair back in a sweeping comb - a flash in the pan, as they defiantly sprung back in place.
"This is... disreputable, completely inappropriate," he muttered contritely, lips parted to air out laborious breaths, brows furrowing further. “I'm your superior, for god’s sake.”
"Then stop me," you challenged, staring at him through the thicket of your lashes, chest heaving with accumulating adrenaline. "Tell me to stop, push me away and I will. Otherwise, stop acting like you don’t want to break the rules a little for once."
With rapt attention, you watch him wet his dry lips, his apple bobbing beneath milk pale skin. You become hyper aware of his touch as he idly rubs his thumb in circles over the ball of your ankle, subtle lines of his face tense like he’s going through a mental dissent.
“I shouldn’t,” he repeated soon enough, skulking to the edge of his seat, actively disobeying his dwindling conscience.
“You shouldn’t,” you agreed.
“This is wrong,” he exhaled, surprising you as he dropped down, knees hitting the careworn carpet with a leaden thud.
“So very wrong,” you breathed, guts somersaulting at the sight of him before you.
Higuruma stared up at you through heavy, burdensome eyes. He looked at you like you were the only one who could help him find penitence, repentance. Like you weren’t the reason for his moral heresy.
Like you were Lady Justice herself.
“Stop me,” he implored, poignant desperation sounding so foreign from the likes of him, leaving you momentarily speechless.
Everything about this has your stomach churning something fierce; his tone, his words, so unbecoming of the image you’ve grown to harbour of him.
There was just something so inherently erotic about your seemingly urbane boss acting out over something generally taboo as your dainty soles. It made you want to push him further, rile him up to the point there was no longer a ‘gentleman’ handling you anymore.
Fuck the consequences.
Lifting a pointed toe, you jab him square in the centre of his broad chest, only offering him one word, one command:
“Kiss.”
A shuddery breath is winded out of him, before careful hands caress your heel like fine China. He doesn’t even hesitate to pepper tender kisses along the margin of your inner foot, eyes transfixed on you. You worry your lip as soft pecks reach the thin, sensitive skin of your ankle, pulse pounding in your neck with unbridled thrill from his performance. He keeps his attention there, eyes practically pleading for permission to roam further.
“Go on…”
To say he took your sanction in stride would be an understatement, eagerly stippling his lips all over your calf, savouring your silky skin all the way up to your knee. You don’t bother waiting for him to ask for clearance again, simply pushing him back by his forehead, signalling to him that you needed some leg room. He quickly picked up on this, shuffling back like the well-trained hound he is.
Standing up, you make a show of removing your pencil skirt, leisurely pulling at the zipper situated at your hip, plastic teeth buzzing alongside forgotten monitors. You shimmy the fabric past your hip, eventually kicking it heedlessly to the side in a lazy heap, leaving you in just your black panties from the waist down.
Feeling generous, you unbutton the first few buttons of your blouse, goading him with teasing glimpses of supple fat and matching ornamental lace. All the while he patiently watched with enraptured starvation, hands curled staunchly on his lap as he waited for the command that would let him indulge in you.
Falling back into your chair, you finally beckoned him over with the crooking of your index finger.
“You know, I always notice when you’ve stared at me,” you muse with slight mirth, watching him scoot forward, situated back at your feet like a dog at your beck and call. “Your eyes can be so expressive, it’s how I mostly read you.”
Higuruma allows himself to plant the large bowls of his hand over your knees, his movements slow and cautious, as if he’s afraid you might swat him away for begging too close to your plate.
“You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?”
Fingers tense and flex on the balls of your knee in a way that you can only dub as restraint.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
You ignore how something flutters in the depths of your stomach at the pure licentiousness paved into the deep gravel of his voice, widening your knees invitingly for him.
“Did I tell you to stop kissing me?”
Immediately, his hands slipped to the back of your knees, dragging you to the edge of your seat as his kisses progressed hungrily up your inner thigh. They land harder the closer they near your hidden mound, until he eagerly delves into the cradle of your thighs, wasting no time as he plants a heated kiss where arousal bled through nylon.
Something warm and firm swipes up against the gusset of your panties once, and then again, just deep enough to taste you.
The groan he lets out after has you melting, crumbling your resolve as you sink your hand into messy tufts of sombre ink.
He gives you one last fervent swathe from his tongue before his composure completely dissipates. He’s ripping the flimsy garment in half before you know it, throwing it aside as if contemptible.
“Higurum-!”
“Hiromi,” he croaked, cutting in before you could finish scolding him. His inner eyebrows incurved as he appraised you whelpishly, panting dense puffs of warmth against your damp entrance. “Please, just… call me Hiromi tonight.”
Heart stuttering, you put your antsy energy into shakily carding through his disheveled hair. "Hiromi," you corrected yourself, shamefully sounding short-winded as you watched his eyes flutter at the mere use of his forename.
Hands rusting into fists, you guide him closer, holding him a hairs away from the holy grail of your body.
“You hungry?”
Something bright and foreboding flashed in dark, ristretto eyes like lightning behind angry black clouds, hands finding purchase on the podgy flesh at the apex of your inner thigh.
“Starving.”
You eased your grip on him. “Show me.”
That was all he needed to hear for him to dive in head first into his dinner bowl, and fuck was he greedy. He lets himself indulge in the taste of you, dexterous muscle lapping at your weeping entrance like he's a parched Bedouin and you are his crystal oasis.
The curved bridge of his beaked nose nudges teasingly against your clit in a way that has your digits twitching along his scalp. He urged just the tip of his tongue past delicate petals, into the pulsing walls of your pistil.
When he retracts himself, switching his attention to your neglected nub and giving it slow, sloppy kisses, sucking as he pulls off, then do you realise he's trying to make you squirm for it.
Blown wide pupils eat away at dark chocolate, you see it happen so clearly. He can't tear his gaze away from your face, it's impossible for you not to return it nor notice the fine details.
That's how you see that glint of knavery in those eclipsing celestials.
Twisting your grip, you mash his face impatiently into your mound. "Enough teasing, Hiromi, I want to cum in your mouth."
Lids droop eminently at your words, vibrations of a deep, wanton noise skittering to your core. He no longer wastes anymore time after that, immersing his tongue into your cunt in its entirety. His fingers creep over to meagre meadows, before his thumb is toying with your clit as he fucks you with his tongue.
Your stomach tensed; you panted with every breath you took. With a persistent nudge, you coaxed him to go deeper, pelvis rutting against his face as you wanted to feel more - preceding to which you eventually discerned that this wasn't enough for you. His tongue couldn't reach those sweet spots and nooks like his ridged fingers could.
Reassigning him by his crown, you encourage him to show your clit the attention she deserves. Once lips latched on to the tender pearl, the cap of his tongue flittered with zeal.
"That's it... f-fuck... kiss her good, Hiromi," you muttered, hoisting your legs over megalith shoulders. "Let me feel those fingers, too."
The speed in which he complies has you biting your lip, he was so eager to please you it was as adorable as it was sexy. Testing the waters, he began easing his middle finger in until he soon sunk down to the last knuckle. Experimentally furling and unfurling the digit, eagerly beginning to submerge his ring finger in as well.
Lips leaving you with a slurping 'pop', dark eyebrows curtained as he watched where his fingers converged with you, looking both bewitched and deeply engrossed at the task at hand. Literally.
Digits veer upstream, his eyes flicking intermittently from your cunt to your face as he diligently sought after something. You realise soon enough what it was when he bumps against a certain spot along the soffit of your walls.
Breath hampering, your eyes stretched tall at the sensation, thighs ticking unbiddenly against the planes of his head.
Smug as ever at his quick findings, a corner of Hiromi's lips quirked, innately tired eyes scrutinising you closely.
"Ah... there it is," he teased, pulling his hand back incrementally, until only pads remained inside of you.
There was no warning, there was no build-up, everything was simply calm before the storm.
One minute he's still, taking his time to relish your expression like you were his magnum opus and he was a cognoscente of fine arts.
The next he's slamming his fingers back into the very hilt with bruising precision, crooking fingers into the cluster of nerves that maddened you to no end, legs simultaneously cowering up his shoulder blades.
Then, he does it again, then again. Retracts, then rams back in like he's excavating for liquid gold. Subsequently configuring a sedulous pace for himself.
After the third or few plummets, you curled in on yourself torpidly like paper to a flame, head falling back as if your spine was boneless. He refuses to leave you any room for respite, reattaching himself to your clit and swarming her with further, unendurable stimulation.
The plastic spindle of your chair creaks and groans from the bombardment of force he hammers you with. A dull, persisting ache readily growing along your pelvic floor as you flinched and writhed like a salted slug. Sodden smacks of flesh are drowned out by tortured moans, tearing raw and deep from the depths of your heaving sternum.
Hiromi, on the other hand, occasionally ripostes with a rumbling sough right up against dainty flora, evoking tremoring muscles and the sight of your lurching irises.
His eyes soon wafted closed at that.
"Ohh, fuck! H-Hiro-ahhn!" you keened when he began slowly pulling on your puffy clit, suckling out your orgasm with his ravenous mouth. Another press from his fingers had familiar, torrid tendrils coiling into an unbearable knot of pleasurable pressure.
That's when you became acutely aware of something hot and teeming hastily growing in the grotto of your pelvis like a geyser in a hot spring. The unusual sensation had elements of how a normal climax usually felt to you, but something was... off. Wrong.
Hiromi continued devouring you, all while that perturbation evolved into a pressing urge, shoaling irrevocably until it had you clamping down on your body's demand to... piss?
Nails dug into his scalp as your hazy mind could barely comprehend what was happening to you. In a stupefied panic, you frailly tried pulling him away from you. All for naught.
"W-Wait! Somethin's wrong, gonna- it feels like 'm gonna-!" you sputtered, frosted glass vision catching arachnoid lashes deinterlacing as he pores over your face intently. Whatever he sees has him all but glowering up at you.
Without responding, his fingers inclined further within you. That was all the warning you got before he's doubling down, practically jackhammering into your sultry entrance and digging into that one gummous spot that had you wailing, tears fluxing over the feverish apples of your cheeks.
Molten heat bevies just above where fingers drove, climbing in dark, tidal waves in your gut. Until, finally, that fragmenting dam in your abdomen soon dilapidated entirely, freeing the deluge that was your orgasm in billows.
The last thing you could focus on in your whirlpooling mind and whiteout vision was Hiromi pulling away, refocusing right below your clit. Then, followed by a dimly registered, viscid spray.
As your body trembles like a struck piano wire in the aftermath of your climax, you feel yourself slowly come down. However, your contentment is short lived when honed ears caught onto the strange sound of harsh gulping.
Mortification creeps over you like a frigid draft as you consider what that was, unto shock has you shooting up before you know it. Peering down at the man before you, you're taken aback by the utter state he is in. Hair horribly askew, once crisp-white shirt now spattered with your fluids that painted a semi-opaque window to his bare chest.
His face. The glossy glaze upon his chin and sundered lips, crenelated cheekbones ruddy from a lack of oxygen and overwhelming excitement. Those eyes, once dominated by molasses rings, were now predominantly poisoned by carbon black chasms. You’re certain he looks even more strung out than you do.
Once he is sure you are watching, he draws his sodden, pruned fingers into his mouth. You watched, enraptured as he sucks, embarrassingly loudly. Purposefully, like he doesn’t want there to be any chance in hell that you would mistake what he’s doing. Pulling off with a damp, diabolical smack.
"Hmm," he rumbles, content. “Didn’t think you would be one of those kinds of women.”
You struggled a swallow of your own at that - at all of that - throat akin to an arid wasteland. He had thought about…?
Adding to your loss of words, his head dipped, face quietly disappearing under his hair with help from shrouding shadows. Quiet as a snowfall, he rose to his feet, looming over you like a bad omen, silhouette like a manifestation of a vengeful eidolon.
“You look gorgeous when you cum, by the way,” he started nonchalantly, like this was simply some office chit-chat. The fierce glint in his eyes, however, is blatantly telling you how he really feels. He then easily unbuckled and pulled out his belt from its loop, before, in a world of difference, hurling it to the side alongside other forgotten garments.
“Taste gorgeous, too,” he added hoarsely.
Stomach cinching at the pure, filthy hunger in his voice, you tried desperately not to preen at his praise. Tried being the subjective word here, because, since when has he ever spoken to you like this?
“Forgive me; I’m not usually this crass, am I?” he asks like he had read your mind, undoing his slacks and pulling out his cock from stretchy cotton. Moon pale skin is highlighted with vigorous carnation, you can easily infer he’s been hard for a painful amount of time from the mere sight of it. “I’m just at the end of my tether, right now.”
“I’m guessing that’s because of my own doings,” you replied coyly, subconsciously dampening your lips at the translucent sap oozing from the swollen tip. Transfixed, you watched him sit back down in his chair, languidly stroking himself once, just enough for that pre-cum to trickle down his frenulum.
“You’d be guessing correctly.”
Slipping off your chair, it’s your turn to crawl over, parking yourself between the parallels of his thighs.
“I didn’t say you could touch yourself,” you comment idly, repressing a smirk, hands running up his taut thighs.
Instantaneously, he lets go of himself.
“Ah… didn’t you?” he mused, mirth simmering in his heated gaze. “Oops.”
“Oops is right,” you hummed, a hand replacing where he once gripped. Fingers rubbing plump veins that pulsed under pressure, you relished in the barely repressed quiver you feel in his tendons. “I should make you grovel at my feet for forgiveness for such insolence. Get yourself off with my feet you love so.”
“I-Is-” he cleared his throat, “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. You’d enjoy every minute of it, too, wouldn’t you, Hiromi?”
“...I want to speak to my lawyer.”
Scoffing at his facetiousness, you retaliate by licking a strip from the base of his length all the way up to the weeping slit - saline musk has you salivating like you’re eating salted plums. He shudders a lot more violently and full-bodied at that, keeping a close watch over your every move with a dark, heady gaze.
You tried again. “Answer me.”
Hiromi lets out a long, fickle sigh, the end warping into a wavering suggestion of a breathy chuckle.
“Sorry, I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about…”
“Perjury,” you sneered, lifting yourself up from the floor with the leverage of his legs.
Dropping into his lap, you reached out for his tie, yanking it towards you like an impatient owner. As expected, he complies to your wordless command, allowing you to pull him forward enough to have lips hungrily impinge on one another. He tastes like you when you pour your tongue into his mouth. Debauched and needy, salty and sweet. You can’t help but let a hand wander, slithering up his chest to hold the base of his neck, relishing in the feeling of his throat working against your palm.
Shifting on him, your hips trundle forward, teasingly letting his cockhead rake through cushy velvet. He rocks slowly up against you, trying to coincide with your rhythm in the face of his stuttering movements. Restraint. When he brushes especially hard against your overindulged clit, you pull away from his mouth with a husky moan. The almost painful sensation leaves you stumbling as you pinch at his bottom lip, close enough to share panting breaths.
Gripping the rotund flesh of your hips, he barrenly seeks for further stimulation. Every shudder and jolt you elicit in each other incrementally riles you both to insanity, especially Hiromi, gradually moving with such broiling inarticulacy as he ruts against you. Unequivocal desperation becomes all too obvious to you when his dewy forehead eventually collapses against your collarbone.
“Please,” he wheezes, hot and heavy against your skin. “Please, I can’t- I can’t take much more of this.”
Heart exploding with delirious warmth from his begging, you push him upright by his neck. “Been a long time since you’ve been fucked, hm?” you teased, cruelly catching his head just at your entrance. “Too bad you’ve been such a bastard, isn’t it? I may have been nicer otherwise.”
Arms wrapped around your torso in an anguished frenzy, timeworn eyes peering up at you with what you can only describe as puppy eyes.
“‘M sorry,” he says, still trying to hitch his hips up into yours, only for you to pull further and further away, trying to convey that his mere apology alone wasn’t good enough for you. He responds to your rejection with dejected kisses across your clavicle.
“I… like grovelling at your feet,” he finally admits, mumbling against your skin and sounding strikingly embarrassed by the acquiescence. It does something terrible to you.
“Of your young, innocent apprentice? You dirty, perverted man,” you gibed, generously sinking down an inch to envelop his tumescent cockhead, savouring the small, rough groan he emits. “Aren’t you?”
A full-body shiver rolls through him - shaking you in the turbulence of it - muggy kisses advancing to your thudding jugular with avidity.
“...I am a dirty man,” he husked, nipping at fragile skin. “But I can be your dirty man tonight.”
Hissing, your hand snaked to the back of head, re-entangling into his hair. His tone bewitched you, profane and overflowing with need. It sunk into your skin, defiling your bloodstream and kicking pumping vessels into overdrive. It curled in your guts like ringlets of poison, leaving you sweating and breathless.
Suffice to say, it didn’t take very long for you to give in. One thing led to another until in a blink, you were bouncing in his lap like the only antidote for that poison within you was having his cock kiss and cum against the hatch to your womb. Gyrating your clit into his pubis, you stuff him to the very impossible hilt, leaving him fraying beneath you as he grips onto your ass cheeks, helping you up and down his cock relentlessly.
“H-Hah…” he huffed helplessly, blunt nails biting crescents into your flesh like a freeze brand. “Oh, God…”
“Pussy feels like heaven, huh, old man?” you sneer, fingers hooking in the shallow gap between his wet lips, demanding entry. He promptly obliges, eyes sagging as he feels you massaging his tongue dangerously close to his uvula, glossy gaze remaining glued at the sight of you perched upon your throne. Him. He nodded sluggishly, like the act alone was incredibly strenuous, all while moaning around your digits.
Pulling out with debauched webs of saliva, you reach down between you both to encircle your clit with dripping finger pads. The sight has a hand pulling away from your flesh, despairingly tugging at your blouse and bra to unveil jouncing pillows of ample flesh. Pruriency has him attaching lips to a pebbled nipple, tenderly palming the other, untended breast.
Smacks of suctioning burn against tenuous divots of cartilage, alongside the vicious slapping of flesh against flesh. He fucks your purl walls raw with each upheaval from his hips, almost like he’s trying to deadlift your entire weight. Burying your face into his pate, ebony pastures cushion your nosedive as you moan into his hair.
You wouldn’t have registered if he had said something if it weren’t for baritone vibrations buzzing through his skull and sinking into your pores. It’s a name. Your name, you finally grasped at the third or so warble. He’s calling your name. Not for the finale, no. It’s questioning, desperate. A plea for permission right up against the goosebumps overwhelming the lining of your throat.
“Yes,” you gasped, riding for dear life. “It’s safe, f-fuck, please,pleaseplease-”
Arms return to secure around your torso in a crushing embrace, restricting your movements significantly as he pulls you impossibly close, like he’s terrified you might transmute into sand and fall right through any gaps of him. A choked, guttural sound rattles through his chest like a caged beast as he thrusts once, thorough and deep.
Twice, trembling so horribly it ripples you through the commotion, pushing you over that steep cliff and into dark, undulating waves of nirvana. You wailed, muscle convulsions having your cunt contracting with cadence around his cock like an unforgiving tourniquet, leaving him in a pussy induced turmoil as he rapidly reached the end of his rope, too.
Third time seems to be the charm as he drives up to the very base with a cathartic moan, stifling cum spurting inside you and giving your abdomen a sense of intoxicating, fuzzy warmth as he gradually empties himself dry.
“Beautiful girl…”
“So good to me…”
“Feel so good…”
“Thank you…”
He brings you both down with breathless sweet nothings, kissing your clammy skin between each saccharine proclamation. It melts you down into a sappy puddle, leaving you clinging onto him for what felt like eternity.
⚖
The next day plays out just like the last: mundane and unremarkable. Hiromi treats you no differently than he normally did during office hours, like last night never happened, giving you a run down of the agenda for today with his standard monotonous flair. You would have felt a bit hurt by it if you weren’t already unsurprised by his behaviour - the man straight up walked you to your car and casually bid you goodnight after having your legs shaking in ways only pilates normally could for Christ sake.
However, like always with that lawyer, there were hints. Sprinkles of suggestion that assured you last night wasn’t some convoluted wet dream you had cooked up under severe sleep deprivation, or something. Curt, yet warm shoulder squeezes, bodies brushing as one of you went by like there wasn’t already enough room for personal space.
What really drilled it home was the pointed staring at your new heels.
At lunch, like clockwork, he dropped off your food - tuna onigiri from the local konbini. Thanking him, you subtly scour the room, making sure you two were truly alone, before reclining, kicking up stilettos onto your desk.
“How professional,” he mused dryly, attention firm on the document before him. Now that’s rich coming from him.
“You like my heels, Higuruma?”
“They look painful,” he states plainly, still looking down. "Like always."
“They are. Still breaking them in.”
“Are you a masochist?”
“Perhaps,” you teased, crossing your ankles. “Anyways, since we didn’t finish that work last night due to… distractions, I thought maybe we could stay late again tonight.”
A cocked eyebrow, a flicker of movement beneath lashes, before he's peering up at you incredulously. “Is that right?”
“Yep, and put the ol’ nose to the grindstone.”
“Mhm…” You'll take that as a 'yes'.
“Also, completely unrelated, have you ever had a footjob before?”
You stifle a giggle as you watch him almost choke on his onigiri. You'll take that as a 'no'.