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“Executive Manager, I must implore you, as your most loyal sinner, and your most trusted advisor,” Outis begins. Dante feels themself roll their non-existent eyes all the way back into their head, and then back around. Here we go again, they think to themself, and they’re suddenly very glad that Outis can’t actually see the expression on their - errrr, face? “That you change your work attire at once!”
Outis stands ramrod straight in the cramped confines of Mephistopheles’ main hallway, her posture a perfect echo of old military discipline. The other sinners had all turned in for nighttime, and Dante was looking forward to doing the same until Outis pulled them to the side… as she usually did.
But something was different about her, today. She’d been looking at them funny the whole mission.
<Uhhhhhh.> Dante tick-tocks dumbly. <What’s wrong with it?>
Outis’ lips press into a thin line, her expression one of pained loyalty. Solemnly, she closes her eyes, taking a soft breath in.
“Executive Manager, with all due respect—which I hold for you in boundless measure—you cannot possibly be unaware of the obscenity you present?”
Dante’s heart begins to pound a little faster. It’s weird, that they have a heart but not a head, the City’s weird, but whatever Outis is saying is infinitely weirder! Lifting up their gloved hands, they shrug a little, because it’s all they can think to do. Outis just called them obscene.
<Ob…scene…? Outis, can you speak a bit more… plainly? I’m not really catching what you’re putting out there,> Dante says.
Outis’ eyes open back up, and she sighs as she looks Dante up-and-down, which suddenly makes them want to press their legs together.
“Look at yourself. That skirt of yours mold to your form like a vice, accentuating every contour. And your top… that is, might I add, does not even resemble a suit any longer… it squeezes your breasts so tightly they bulge against the seams, practically spilling forth with every breath you take. To be frank, like one as faithful as I, Outis, must be… It is distracting, Executive Manager. Deeply, unforgivably distracting to the entire bus.”
Dante can’t technically breathe, they haven’t breathed since their head was removed from their body, but they swear they feel something hitch in their throat as heat spreads down their neck, deep and confused and humiliated all at once. They feel it then: the sudden, vivid awareness of their own body. The weight of their breasts, full and confined, pressing insistently against the tight blouse. The way the pencil skirt rides up just a hair when they move, the smooth fabric sliding over the softness of their thighs. Their cheeks would flush if they had any, but instead, the flames atop their head flicker erratically.
<Outis, this is...> They trail off internally, not sure how to finish. Part of them wants to dismiss her, but the words sink in, and they can’t help but want to hear more. Sure, maybe they were the only one wearing a skirt on the bus, but wasn’t that because they were the manager? Or something like that? Maybe they should’ve questioned it more…
Outis steps closer, her boots clicking sharply on the floor. She is the picture of composed authority, yet her tone carries that sycophantic edge, the one that always frames her criticisms as acts of profound devotion.
“I speak only with the intention to make you aware of this shortcoming of yours, Executive Manager. You command the respect of the sinners, yet you parade around looking like a common temptation from the Backstreets! Those curves, the way your hips sway in that skirt! The jiggle of your chest with every step… it undermines the dignity of your position. The other sinners stare. I have seen it. They whisper. How can they focus on the mission when their leader’s body is displayed so shamelessly?”
Is it just them, or are Outis’ descriptions getting more and more crude? And the way she’s looking at them… their breasts feel heavier, more noticeable. They can almost feel the fabric’s tension, the way it digs into the soft flesh, outlining every curve on their body that already feels like living within a foreign being. The pencil skirt feels shorter somehow, tighter around their ass, emphasizing the roundness there. They uncross their legs only to recross them, the motion drawing another pointed glance from Outis.
<I... I didn’t think it was that bad. It’s just work clothes,> they say sheepishly, feeling their stomach turn.
“Work clothes?” Outis echoes, as if in doubt of Dante’s word—their authority, as she might say—her voice rising with controlled indignation. She circles Dante’s seat slowly, like a general inspecting troops. “Executive Manager, forgive my bluntness, but your breasts are enormous under that constriction. They are practically vacuum-sealed into that shirt of yours… It is obscene. Lewd. It is uncouth. It invites the wrong sort of attention… predatory eyes from the districts we traverse, or worse, distractions among our own ranks. I cannot allow my revered leader to walk about looking as if they’re ready to service every body in the barracks.”
Dante should stop her. Dante should really stop her. It’s horrifically embarrassing if not mortifying to hear that they’ve been going around dressed inappropriately and being gawked at by their own sinners (and maybe Outis most of all), but something inside of them—
<Y-You’re exaggerating, Outis,> they say quickly, trying to stand up. Outis pushes them back down by pressing into their shoulder, easily slotting them back into place on one of the bus’ seats. They squeak—or tick, rather—and feel their skirt ride up their ass all the while. Great way to prove Outis’ point, idiot! <Guh. You’re being really rough… and mean…>
Now they sound like a baby. Great!
Outis leans down, her breath ghosting across their exposed neck. “Exaggerating? I think not. I am merely describing what is before my eyes. You look cheap, Executive Manager. Like an easy whore… rather than the splendid leader of Limbus Company that you are!”
Their body responds viscerally to Outis’ words. Their nipples harden further, pressing insistently against the blue top underneath their red coat, their thighs clenching in the restrictive skirt. The awareness is overwhelming now: every curve, every soft swell, every intimate contour laid bare by Outis' words. Their breasts feel massive, slutty in their display, vacuumed and squeezed into lewd prominence. The pencil skirt suddenly seems like a tool of provocation, shaping their lower body into something inviting and accessible. They squirm in their seat, the fabric whispering against sensitive skin, and a fresh wave of self-consciousness crashes over them.
<Easy... whore?> Dante can barely speak.
Outis’ lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. She’s not anywhere near done with them.
“Ah, Executive Manager… look at yourself, if you don’t believe me. Your thighs pressing together… Do you think I’ve never seen such a sight before?”
Dante knows for a fact that Outis has, if the way she acts around Faust and Rodya is enough indication. They let out a stupid little moan.
<Wait…! H-hold on…> Their choked, stuttered little tick-tock dies in their throat as Outis steps even closer. She plants one knee firmly onto the seat beside Dante, the chair creaking underneath the weight of her. In another smooth motion, Outis forces their legs apasrt—spreading their thighs wide despite the restrictive pencil skirt riding up further. Cool air kisses the exposed skin above their pantyhose, and Dante gasps helplessly, hands flying down as if to cover themselves, only for Outis to catch their wrists in one firm grip.
“None of that,” Outis murmurs. Her free hand slides down, palm gliding over the sheer black pantyhose stretched taut across Dante’s inner thighs. The fabric is silky under her fingertips, warm from the heat radiating from Dante’s core. “Such delicate things you wear beneath your so-called work attire. And what’s this…?”
Her fingers press higher, tracing the edge of the skirt until they find the thin strip of fabric beneath. A thong. Barely there, the narrow band already damp against Dante’s folds. Outis lets out a soft, disapproving click of her tongue, though her eyes burn with satisfaction.
“A thong, Executive Manager? Really? This is not helping your case at all. How can I believe you are anything but a slut when you dress your cunt like this?”
Dante whines, a broken, mechanical sound that warbles through their clockwork head.
<S-Stop… this is… ah—>
But their protest fractures as Outis’ fingers begin to rub deliberate circles over the soaked crotch of their thong. The pressure is firm, dragging the thin material back and forth against their swollen clit with practiced precision. Each stroke sends sparks jolting through Dante’s nerves, making their full breasts heave against the straining blouse, nipples stiff and aching.
“There we go. Executive Manager… you like this, don’t you?” Outis’ breath is getting a little heavier now, smirk wide on her face as she glances down between Dante’s thighs. “Being called out for what you are, knowing that all of us sinners stare. Knowing that I stare.” Her fingers press harder, rubbing faster as time goes on, slipping just beneath the edge of Dante’s panties to stroke slick, bare skin. “My obscene Executive Manager. Tell me how much my touch pleases you.”
Dante’s hips buck involuntarily into the touch, thick thighs trembling wildly around Outis’ hand. They won’t last long like this, and Outis’ fingers never relent once. She focuses entirely on Dante’s swollen clit skin-to-skin. The pressure is merciless, each glide sending sharp jolts of pleasure through Dante’s core. Their heavy breasts bounce with every shuddering breath they can’t actually take, nipples scraping painfully against the constricting undershirt.
<Oh. It actually is really tight,> they think, feeling the fabric squeeze around their breasts.
<Outis! Ah, f-fuck…I can’t—>
“Yes, you can,” Outis husks. The slick sounds of Dante’s cunt fills the empty room on the bus. “So cum for me, Executive Manager.”
The orgasm crashes over Dante. Their whole body seizes, thighs clamping down hard as a sharp, warbling cry rips from their clockwork throat. Pleasure floods them in hot, pulsing waves, cunt clenching as Outis cruelly rubs them through orgasm, drawing out the climax until Dante has to squirm away, the flames atop their head flickering weakly.
<N-No more, please, no more of this…>
They’re unsure if they’re pleading for Outis’ verbal assault to end, or for her to get her hands out of their panties. Their clit aches raw with pleasure and pain, and it’s only when Dante slumps against the seat does Outis finally slow her fingers, giving one last lazy stroke before withdrawing her hand. She rises smoothly to her feet, composure snapping back into place.
She adjusts her coat with a sigh.
“You really must adjust your sizes, Executive Manager. Or perhaps invest in wearing a proper pair of pants. The guide can assist you with that, I’m certain.”
Dante’s head is whirring, thoughts a dizzy, post-orgasm haze of shame, lingering pleasure, and confusion. Their thighs are still trembling, skirt askew, body feeling more exposed and slutty than ever. They can barely form a coherent noise.
Outis offers her (clean) hand with perfect gentlemanly poise, as if she hadn’t just finger-fucked them into a whimpering mess moments ago. “Now… might I escort you back to your quarters? It's dangerous to go alone!"
Dante hesitates for only a second, flames still flickering unevenly. Then, with a weak, defeated little <…Yes…>, they accept her hand and let Outis pull them to their feet.
Their legs feel unsteady as they reach behind them, pulling their skirt down to cover themself up.