取引の条件

The fitting room at the "Margot" boutique smelled like leather and vanilla. I was hanging up dresses after closing when the door creaked open behind me. I turned around—and froze. Him. Forty years old, expensive suit, that cocky squint. Marat. Ten years ago, he fucked me in the storage room of our café, promised to marry me, and vanished.

"Lika?" he smirked, his eyes raking over my apron and the messy bun falling apart. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Same."

Marat stepped closer. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of my blouse. His fingers landed on my waist—confident, as if those years had never happened. I should have pushed him away. Instead, I breathed in his scent: sandalwood, coffee, male skin.

"You alone here?" he asked, his grip tightening.

"Until closing."

"Then we've got time."

My head knew this was insane. But his hand was already undoing the buttons of my blouse, and my tongue felt numb. Marat yanked the curtain shut—we were in a cramped booth, mirrors on every side reflecting us, almost touching.

"You never came back," I breathed out as he pressed me against the wall.

"I'm back now. Same terms?"

"What terms?"

"You do what I say. And I make you feel good."

My heart pounded. I felt his knee push between my legs, felt his cock hardening under his trousers. Marat grabbed my ass, pulling me closer, and I moaned at the pressure.

"Well?" His lips brushed my ear. "You in?"

"はい。"

He spun me around to face the mirror. I saw my flushed cheek, my unbuttoned blouse, the lace of my bra which he stripped off in one motion. My tits sprang free—nipples hardening from the air and from his gaze in the reflection. Marat squeezed them, tugging slightly, and I arched my back.

"Look at yourself," he ordered. "You're still fucking gorgeous."

My skirt slid to my feet with a soft whisper. He tore my panties—just yanked them apart, and I heard the fabric rip. The wetness between my legs gave me away completely. Marat felt it—ran a finger along my slit, gathering my slick, and brought it to my lips.

"Taste it."

I licked his finger, never breaking eye contact with his face in the mirror. His eyes went dark. He unzipped his fly, and I heard the zipper, watched him pull out his cock—hard, thick, the head glistening.

"Bend over."

I braced my hands on the bench. Marat moved behind me, ran his palms up my spine, grabbed my ass, spread me open. His cock pressed against my entrance—I gasped at the pressure. He entered slowly, impaling me inch by inch, until I felt him fully, buried to the base.

"Fuck," I breathed out, feeling him stretch me.

"Take it," he said, starting to move. Slow, deep, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, hitting that spot that made my knees go weak.

I watched in the mirror: how he gripped my hips, how the muscles in his arms flexed, how my back arched with every thrust. His pace picked up—he got rougher, slamming into me, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

"Faster," I whispered.

"Ask me."

"Please, Marat."

He smirked and sped up. I felt his hand slide across my stomach, down to my clit, rubbing in time with his strokes. My body tensed like a wire. I was about to come when he stopped and spun me around to face him.

"Look at me. I want to watch you come."

He lifted me—I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he sank into me again, deeper, at a different angle. I clung to his shoulders, feeling the wave crash over me. He fucked me hard, fast, and I shattered into a thousand pieces, clenching around him.

"Yeah," he grunted, coming right after, hot and thick.

We stood there, breathing hard, pressed together. I felt his heart hammering against my ribs. He kissed me—soft this time, almost tender—and I smiled against his lips.

In the morning, I woke up in his hotel room. Coffee was steaming on the nightstand—two cups. Marat sat on the windowsill, watching the city, and smiled when I opened my eyes.

"Your deal," I said, stretching. "Still in effect?"

"Lifetime."