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This was the last time he was going to meet up with this specific old man. He doesn't care how much he'll offer for
next time
or whatever else, because after last time's experience…
Makoto grimaces thinking about it.
He doesn't miss the way the old man's hands grope him, from top to bottom, investigating every aspect of his body. He doesn't like the way he gets told to get changed into just a frilly apron, with nothing underneath. It's humiliating, but he puts up with it. He has to.
The fingers continue to trace his body, as he's roughly shoved onto the fabric of the mattress.
"So," the old man starts to speak, "I'm going to pay you extra. Because we're going to do something a little different today."
"Uh, sure…"
There's suddenly a bad, bad feeling he gets. He stares at the old man, watching carefully, even though it didn't really matter. Not when a pill gets shoved down his throat and he passes out.
—
Makoto wakes up to his chest feeling extra sensitive. His body feels sluggish and strange, but it doesn't really compare to what he sees next.
He's leaking milk.
There are suctions on both his nipples, and he can't move, can't do anything about it. The lactation continues, and he cries in frustration, especially since the other man was watching him from above, playing with the pumps. He presses again, and his body jerks, his back arching against the sheets, his mouth open and panting. It felt good.
Too
good. With the way his body tried to generate what should've been impossible.
"You're doing well."
Unnecessary praise. He can't respond.
"Think of this as practice for when you bear my child. You'll need to lactate much more than you can currently. Your body will need to change."
He doesn't like the sound of this.
When he tries to retort, his voice crumbles into a symphony of moans. He twitches hearing his own voice, a completely out of body experience.
"Maybe that's enough for now."
The pumps get removed, and Makoto blinks through the daze. Then, he feels a cock breach his entrance, and suddenly has the energy to speak again.
"W-Wait—"
It was too late. The thing filled up his walls, his unwelcoming flesh, and stuck itself inside. He can't resist it, can't move, his vision blurring into stars. A continued assault on his body, with him being used as a fleshlight for this creepy old man, who viewed him less than a woman.
"We're going to be having baby-making sex today. I won't stop until you're pregnant. You're going to bear my kids and you're going to
like
it."
Makoto weakly grabs the other's shoulders, trembling against each thrust. The discomfort in him continued to morph into horror, as it always did.
"N-No, I can't get—ngh—pregnant…"
"You can."
The response goes straight to his dick, and he hates how it makes him feel. He hates how he entertains the thought, the vision of him physically being able to bear children. How many bastard kids would he have? Children who he didn't even know were whose? It makes him excited in a way he didn't know was possible. But it also terrified him like nothing else did.
"No—I seriously—ugh…" He bites down on his lower lip. "I can't!"
"No, you can. You're already able to lactate. Your body was made to bear children. My kids. I'm going to fuck you until you understand this. Until you're going to be begging for more. You're going to be filled up so much that there's no way you're going to leave without being pregnant. I'll breed you until you get it."
"You—" He's so desperate now, trying to push the other man off, "You can't be serious."
"But I am, Minato-chan. I'm completely serious. You're going to be a teenage wife. A mother."
Makoto gulps down the shock. He's panicking again. Sweating. Looking between himself, the other man, and the ceiling. He can't bear this. He can't even properly register what was happening.
"No, no, n-no… please stop…"
The other man only smiles at him.
"Disobedient wife. Should I kill you for saying no?"
He shakes his head, pleading, begging for his life. Spreading his legs further. Letting himself get used.
This was fucking crazy. Since when were they married? The thought lingers as he continues to beg and cry.
"That's more like it. Obedient wives are the best. My current one just bitches constantly. It's always
something
that I've done wrong. I seriously don't care. I want to hit her all the damn time, just to get her to shut up. Ugh."
He rams into Makoto slightly harder, and he cries out, continuing to beg.
"I'm sorry for being disobedient," he forces out, "I'm sorry, so please don't hurt me…"
Uncharacteristic careful fingers roll against his cheek. He hates this so much. He wants this to be over already.
A pinch of his nipple, and he's leaking milk again, making him want to scream.
"That's right. Ah, Minato, Minato… You're a great wife… Lactating for me like this…"
He doesn't
want
to be lactating!
But he doesn't say that. Not when his nipples are being pinched and squeezed and sucked on. His hands tremble around the head that latched onto his chest, chewing at the red of his skin. This was embarrassing. Infinitely worse than anything before. Maybe the worst of the lot.
Whatever the other did to him while he had passed out, he decided he'd think about it later. The unnatural way his body responded—leaking—had to be due to something he didn't know about. Instead, he makes another stupid sound as more milk is forced out of him.
This time, he doesn't know if he could grit and bear it.
"W-Why did you," he rasps, grabbing at the strands of hair, "upload that video of me? People found out. At school."
The other man stops sucking to look up at him and laugh, jerking his body to grind against his prostate again, and he doesn't bother holding in the sounds that are forced out of him. Makoto tenses up even more when he stops, opting to pinch him, watching the liquid seep out of him.
"Boredom."
A single word answer that might as well have ruined his life.
"Y-You…"
He yelps as more gets sucked out of him, and as his body squirmed in desperation. The grinding inside his body makes him experience some sort of strange high, as it always did, with his flesh reacting like it was the best thing in the world to be ploughed senseless. He thrashes slightly, trying to cover his chest, but then his arms are held behind his back. Milk continued to seep from him, even as he cried out.
Fingers reached his nape. He panics, but they only trace outlines, with no intent to hurt him.
"I told you, today, I'm going to cum inside you continuously. You've already given your consent for that, yes?"
Makoto can only barely nod, wincing at the way his fingers curled around his hips.
"First one."
A hard thrust and it spills inside him. He's gripping onto the sheets for his life. The feeling was as awful as it always was. Spurts of hot cum violating him inside, trying to get him pregnant. He flushes thinking about it.
It doesn't help that he's trying to not panic about it either. He tries not to react even though parts of him were pushed down on, like buttons to elicit reactions out of him. Cock pressed at the exact right angle to have him heaving, pressing against the bedsheets, body grinding downwards to meet the other. He takes his time to settle down. Deep breaths, slow exhales.
Makoto doesn't make a sound at being thrusted into again. He weakly grasps at the other, pulling the body closer. Onto parts of his skin. But that didn't… that didn't make it much better. He huffs at the infrequent thrusts, completely off beat from before.
"I remember you told me about yourself a while ago," the other man starts, as he twitches. "Well, maybe
you
don't remember it. You were so jacked up on drugs you couldn't speak properly. But I'll remind you of what you said."
Makoto looks at him. Bewildered. Huh?
"You mentioned something about having no parents."
He's suddenly afraid of what's to come. Body wracked in cold sweat. Not just from the sex, but also from his own fear. His palms feel cold despite the heat.
Oh no.
"I would think about how you'd have nowhere to really call home. Moving between relatives. Getting sent barely any living expenses. Having to take care of yourself since you were young. Having no adult to rely on. It got me so excited. You're truly so unfortunate, and I always get to see you at your worst."
He doesn't say anything. Can't say anything. He's frozen in place and speechless.
"An apron looks so good on you. Did you know that? It's perfect. An orphan boy wearing an apron. I might as well be holding the universe in my hands."
Awful. While cum was still inside him. While he was still being thrusted into lazily, as hands roamed his upper body and he moaned intelligibly, trying to pry the fingers off him, to no avail. Makoto did not give into the pleasure. He took shallow breaths between making stupid sounds, ignoring the hazy feeling in his head. It was the most he could do without feeling the need to die.
"Hey, I just had an idea. You'll bear my child, and I'll kill you after," the old man grunts, "how does that sound?"
As if he had just read his mind. The notion has him hitting a fist against the other's chest, biting down on his lower lip. Clenching up for all the wrong reasons.
"You're sick."
"Says the pervert who just tightened up when I said that. Does the sound of death really turn you on that much?"
He tries to shake his head, but all the energy is sapped out of him. He opts to simply glare, even while teary-eyed.
"Even after all this time, you still make the effort to glare… Truly marvellous…"
The other leans in.
"Too bad it gets me even more excited. It's no fun if you're
too
submissive."
"Isn't that an aspect you want from your wife?"
"Do you want to be my wife? Every night where I'd rail into you like this, and then afterwards, there would be a slight wobble in your step. You won't be able to move properly, and you'd crawl on the floor. Confined inside the house. Forced to do housework. And then the cycle would repeat."
"..."
He starts to panic all over again. Nervous. Anxious. All of his insides in distress.
This had since stopped being some sort of play. It had turned into something strange, something that attacked him on a deeper level. Makoto hisses at the next load being pressed into him.
"Oh, would you look at that. We came at the same time."
Fingers smeared in his own cum are brought to his face and pushed into his mouth. He awkwardly licks it all off, ignoring the taste of himself as much as he could.
Again he tries to work around it. Tries to imagine he was anywhere else but here. He can't snap out of it, even when the fingers are removed from his mouth, even when the other man is still inside him. He's looking elsewhere. Anywhere but here.
"Hm? Did you faint?"
A palm strikes him against the cheek and he's back to reality. He lets out a sound, and his unfocused eyes are back to being in focus. Makoto looks down at the bulge in his stomach, enlarged and disgusting. He watches it move. He looks back up at the other man as a form of confirmation.
"Where's your reply?"
He gets hit again, and he tenses up, tears brimming at the corner of his eyes.
"I-I didn't faint," he mutters, unsure where to look, "It just felt good."
"Yeah?"
He curses internally.
"It felt good so I blanked for a moment. It feels good inside. Please go faster."
Makoto gets a smile in return, before the length plunges back into him, and he whines at how it feels. Sounds continued to drag out of him. His body was still overly sensitive from the earlier orgasm. And yet, his body continued to writhe against the pleasure, excited and enjoying it all.
Hands grasp tightly around his waist. Like they were trying to kill him. Fingers grasping into his skin, indenting, making themselves at home. He wanted this. Right? He wanted to suffer, to keen under violence and pleasure. He wonders how a knife would feel against his cheek. How fear in a very different way would affect him. He can't forget the way his neck was held back then, his windpipe nearly crushed. The pretence of death, all the more prevalent.
He moans like his life depends on it. Bucks and keens when it's appropriate. Lets the tears fall freely. Everything that was expected of him. Even as his chest was played with, even as they leaked milk and he sort of still wants to kill himself.
The apron shifts and he's nearly glad that it's mostly all off him, if it weren't to warrant the fact he still felt embarrassed at being properly naked. Yet, it wasn't like any of that really mattered, not when his body convulsed at any jostle, and he let himself get used.
"Hey, play the part. Say you're my new wife. You're in this naked apron every day, waiting for me to come home."
More useless, delusional babble. Makoto grimaces, but nods, beckoning the other to continue.
"I fuck you on the kitchen island. I fuck you on the dining table. You're 2 months pregnant, but I keep pumping more cum into you. I fuck you on the couch. In the bedroom. In the shower. You can't get enough of it. All the while you're lactating and I force you to take load after load, just like right now."
He squirms helplessly under the other man, heaving between each raunchy sentence.
"A wedding ring on your left hand. Your friends ask about your wife. You avoid the topic as much as you can. You try not to wear it in public, but at home, you wear it often. To turn me on."
The movement comes to a halt, and he can finally catch his breath. He simply nods in acknowledgement, too tired to reply to the delusions.
"You're in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle in some foreign country. No one you know is in the gallery. People talk about how you're a beautiful woman, and that I'm so lucky. I take you afterwards and fuck you in the lingerie you had worn underneath. You swear to be with me forever."
An unpleasant fantasy, in an unpleasant world. He bites down on his lower lip for the nth time, stopping the sounds escaping from his mouth. He looks up. He meets those eyes, full of lust, full of emotion just for
him.
Makoto doesn't avert eye contact, but he continues to feel dread fill out his entire body. He wishes he was dead. He wishes he was anywhere but here.
"So?"
".... Yes, d-darling."
"Hehe."
The mouth is back to sucking on his chest and the leaking milk. He puts both hands on the head, trembling fingers trying to pull it away.
"That's for the baby, quit it—nngh…"
He suddenly feels cum spurt into his body again as he says that, and he shudders in response. He already felt so
full
from the first two loads, and this added to that feeling. Enough bloat and maybe there would be a small lump at his stomach, enough to make him look pregnant and owned by another man. A terrible thought. A terrible outcome.
Without thinking, he puts a hand on his stomach, his brain fried from the implication. It could actually be possible. In the same vein that Personas were possible, him being… pregnant …
At some point it had stopped being horrifying, and he had started to flush wildly at the thought.
Perhaps if he just thought of it as some unreasonable request Elizabeth had, then it would be more okay. If under that framing, if he looked at it in a different light…
"Your milk is delicious," told in between slurps that could kill him, "as if you have a natural talent for all of this."
Makoto looks away. The cloth of the apron had nearly been discarded, only existing as a loose barrier between either side of his chest. He presses his lips into a firm line. Internal admittance for touch he shouldn't be craving. Praise from an adult. He ignores the way his heart turns and how he feels the most emotionally fulfilled he's ever felt in his life. Acknowledgement behind closed doors and faded windows, hands on his body, words that meant something and nothing at the same time.
If only he could throw away the cast of what other people expected of him. The
leader,
or a
romantic interest,
or someone to
rely on.
Burdensome titles and attributes and assumptions about him that he never bothered to confirm or deny.
In truth, if he was just to be this rich old man's stay at home housewife, he could escape from all of that. He didn't
have
to be someone. Anyone. Blurring into the background once again.
Of course, in reality, this only stayed as a thought. It couldn't be anything more than a delusional fantasy. It couldn't escape the confines of this room. The one time it did—he reflects slightly bitterly on the videos and photos on the web—he ended up being more closed off than ever. A physical and metaphorical distance between him and his friends.
He feels his other nub continue to leak in response, two fingers pinching it softly, as he squirms with a dick inside him. The build-up of cum was starting to get to him. His head was all floaty and he couldn't think at all.
Whimpering, he feels the sweat crawl off his body, and the other man finally decides to stop milking him. In exchange, he gets kissed, the taste of his own milk entering his mouth, to which he closes his eyes.
Don't think too hard about it, don't think at all.
The tongue slides against his lips, invading his mouth, sliding against his own tongue. His moans are muffled, as he puts both hands against the other's chest, desperate to hold onto something. Makoto struggles to breathe. When the other man parts from his mouth, he knows he looks debauched, completely stripped of any dignity. The man moves to his neck, marking anything and everything. Nibbles on his collarbone as he cries. Chews the sides of his nape as he shifts uncomfortably, for any sort of friction for his lower half.
"Please…" He whines, shuffling his hips on the erection that hadn't moved inside him.
"Shh, be patient."
He bites his lip, and moves his hand to his cock.
"Hm?"
He ignores the look he gets, and the hand that latches onto his wrist.
"Did I give you permission to do that?"
He looks up into those vacant eyes.
—
Makoto's wrists are tied above him, chained to some part of the bed frame. He doesn't know exactly where. But those pumps are back on his overly sensitive nipples, and there was a butt plug inside him. He groans, watching that the old man had stepped out somewhere to smoke, while he was left writhing on the bed. He thinks about what will happen if he gets told to leave with this plug still inside him. If he has to sit through classes or work or Tartaurus climbing with this thing. It gives him the worst erection of his life, imagining the cum within him, continuously trying to impregnate him.
His body is so damn sore, but his lower half was delirious. No, even his chest was throbbing, the pumps being set to auto, slowly sucking the milk out of him. He watched the bottle get filled up, ever so slightly, and he wonders if he'll ever go back to normal ever again.
Unintentionally, he squeezes down, and he makes another awful sound. The positioning of the toy angled right up against his prostate, and when he unclenched, it shifted slightly, just barely any movement. Unsightly edging. Unbecoming.
He was stuck alone with his thoughts. A form of repentance? He doesn't know. But with the way his body convulses, he isn't sure what else to do, either.
Twitching, Makoto struggles against his bindings again. No luck. He was tied up pretty thoroughly, as some form of punishment, or something. Another game where he couldn't win. He tries to control his breathing despite the way his body jerks, his chest being played with in ways he didn't know was possible.
He looks away from it. The ceiling was a strange shade of desaturated apricot. The dim lights from the nightshades were all that he could confirm. The sheets below him—damp with his own sweat, and nearly as porcelain as his own skin.
A sharp inhale later and he nearly climaxes on himself, completely untouched. He hates how naturally sensitive his body is again, and he wonders how much more he was going to endure. Waiting here. Forced to feel everything and nothing.
The world fades in and out of his vision, blurry through tears and semi-consciousness. He manages to turn his head to the clock, mortified at the time. It was nearly the dark hour, and he was going to be stuck like this. Overly sensitive and unable to do anything. At least the pumps would stop milking him, but the suction would keep his nipples uncomfortably erect the whole time.
It's… not a good thought.
He tries his best to get it together. He won't lose to this. He thinks of what he's going to do tomorrow, and the day after. How he's going to finish all the homework that he hasn't done. Watch that movie with his friend. Order the peta-wac combo. Again. The cycle repeats. The boring everyday cut between the abnormal trysts of the dark hour. He shouldn't have started this. Whoring himself out near constantly, for money to support himself and SEES. He tries to reason that having extra yen had benefit to it, that it was just
his duty
to fulfil. Not that it meant much.
Makoto looks away from the clock. His heart is pounding loudly in his chest, noticing that the bottle that's attached to him is half full. With—with breast milk.
His
breast milk. He swallows a lump of discomfort.
Then he watches the room turn into that sickly green of the dark hour. The only light from the windows; the all-too-big crescent moon, morbid yellow. He looks to the side, trying his best if he could find the outline of the transmogrified coffin. No luck.
He might as well be left to edge for another additional hour.
For some reason, he thinks about Takeba Yukari. He never really saw her as much further than a friend, and even if he did, he wasn't sure what he could even really offer her. He thinks back to the look on her face after the incident at school. It was difficult to put into words at the time, and it was still difficult now. Kirijo also looked at him with more than concern. In the same vein as Takeba, who expected more than he could really offer. Empty promises like
let's be together forever
and
I'll love you for who you are
and
this'll be our secret.
If he could really uphold any of that, he wouldn't be seeing both of them behind their backs. He wouldn't be seeing other girls.
And yet, here he lay. Atoning for his sins.
If cheating had any moral consequence, he never really acknowledged it. But spreading his legs for money, on the other side of that coin, gave him a sense of both fulfilment and unease. He must hate himself for this. A form of self harm. Especially while drugged up on something that could make him
lactate
against his will.
Makoto twitches again, feeling the cum inside him move, trying to inseminate what wasn't there. He feels hot all over once more, unable to do anything. Even pressing his legs together and feeling his thighs slide against each other did nothing but make him more desperate. Was it fun, being edged like this? Was this what he liked?
The truth came afterwards, when he'd be praised for doing a good job. When there would be warm hands on his head, on his body, as he'd be called a good boy over and over again. That's the thing. He didn't care what happened to him, as long as an older man would tell him he did well. If that wasn't a depressing thought, he didn't know what was.
Suddenly, he thinks back to his absolutely failed lay with Takeba. During the lovers mission, where they were both completely out of it, and she had slapped his cheek harder than anyone else. Makoto wonders if he can even get it up to her anymore. Maybe, back then, there was still a slight chance. It was before
this
had become a regular thing, before his upper half had been trained to be overly sensitive.
He looks down at them again, with a slight groan.
Takeba wouldn't forgive him for this. She wouldn't expect someone like him to—to even… Her eyes still looked at him under the assumption he was well-adjusted emotionally. Someone to rely on. Someone whose parents' death never affected him. Someone who she was quick to call Mr. Perfect.
He presses his legs together again, trying to relax, despite being horribly turned on.
She would've never thought of him as someone who would take it underneath another man. Not until there were images of it plastered over the school bulletin board. Even then, she told him that he wasn't like that, and she didn't believe it, and it was okay. Takeba was substantially more normal than him. He wouldn't be able to meet any of her expectations. Even if she lied to herself, deluded herself with a false image of him. He couldn't be whoever she thought he was. He'd never be able to fill the hole her father left behind.
He tenses up, thinking about being railed into again, and cumming against his will.
Takeba had once looked at him like he understood her. Maybe he did, to some extent. Did any of that matter, though, when he continued to betray her? See other women constantly? Hang out with Yamagishi, help Yuko out with the neighbourhood children, various library dates with Chihiro, fake-date Kirijo…
He thinks about having to hang out with them with this plug inside him, and he's completely breathless. Unable to uphold any sense of dignity or masculinity. At that point, he'd be the same as any woman. This ugly man's submissive little boy wife, young enough to be his son.
Makoto winces.
—
He wakes up to his cheeks being pulled. Thankfully, his wrists are untied, and his palms lay flat against the sheets. He shifts, just to look up at the old man who had decided to free him.
Well, that might have been an overstatement. The plug was still inside him, but at least his chest was free.
A little too late to be celebrating that.
"Hey. As punishment for trying to get off on your own earlier, how about you get off solely on your nipples?"
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
He still finds it in him to glare, but he complies anyway, shaky hands trailing up his chest. Makoto starts slow. Gentle. He doesn't want to do this. Seeing the milk being forced out of him had already sucked enough. Having to milk himself? That was a different matter entirely.
With the pads of his thumbs, he presses down on both of them at the same time, giving up on any sense of shame. He curses at how it feels. He cries as he pinches and watches the milk dribble onto his fingers. If he wanted to die before, this took it to a new level.
"Keep going. I'm going to take this out, okay?"
He can barely nod, and he moans weakly as the plug gets removed from him, and fingers get quickly stuffed inside before anything can leak out. A new form of torture—as he continues to prod at himself, flicking his overly sensitive nubs, making himself gasp.
The length finds its way inside him again. It takes its time. He's wary of his own reaction to it: nervous, panicked, and worst of all, excited. Carving itself back into his heated passage with strange fervour. Makoto meekly continues to touch himself, massaging the plump of his skin before circling the areola again.
"Is that how you touch yourself while you're alone?"
He glares again, to which he gets slapped.
"Don't make this difficult, slut."
"... Yes," he breathes, pinching them again.
He thinks about the way his fingers feel against himself. Tries to imagine how this didn't mean anything, that this was nothing and everything.
Things are difficult. That much was obvious. But right now, he feels, was the worst of all. Even if it truly wasn't, even if he wasn't really thinking. But the balance between good and bad had been unceremoniously tipped; leaving him rotting in the line between.
"Hmm."
Judgement. The arcana of all things. Memories from a decade ago, entangled in a web of his own fabrications. Did it matter if things were real or not? If they gave themselves meaning, in the timeless escapade of a memory bank?
His fingers stop moving. He's tired and overstimulated.
"Do you like guns?"
Makoto suddenly reels. The old man had begun talking again.
"Uh…?"
He doesn't say anything in particular, mostly confused at the question.
"I've been able to get one, recently. It feels so good in your hands. I truly love it. And I was wondering if you'd like how it feels at the side of your head. Wouldn't that be nice? It'll dig into the side of your scalp, a loaded gun, and if I pull the trigger—bam! Your brain explodes, and you'll be dead."
….
….
… It takes a while for him to process it. Maybe he never really processes it at all. There had to be some sick irony to this, and he wasn't one to judge that, nor was he someone to recognise how bad it was.
How the lines had connected and he was stuck in the middle, a bystander to fate.
He doesn't know what to say. The silence is filled with his pathetic sounds anyway, skin against skin, as his trembling fingers tried to get him off again. Maybe if he just ignored it, then—
"... Your blood staining these sheets would be no good, huh… but no doubt your corpse would be beautiful. How old are you again? 16? 17? Dying at such a young age, how unfortunate."
Another considerable thrust inside him.
"Oh, right. You're totally jailbait, huh."
Makoto stops to glare again. He shouldn't be putting up with this. And yet, he doesn't stop. He lets it all happen to him. Watches the way the older man pounds into him with no remorse, as he fiddles with his own leaking body. He wonders if he could beg enough to get this man to stop him from lactating.
"Well, whatever. Your corpse would be a thing to behold. I'm sure of it."
Another load is forced into him, and he grips the sheets underneath him in response. All his muscles tense up and he struggles to slow down from the high.
The other man finally pulls out, and Makoto struggles to close his legs. He can feel the semen pool out of him, and it may just be the worst feeling in the world.
"So? What did you want to tell me about?"
"... I'm ending this." Makoto heaves, sitting up with great difficulty. "I'm not doing this anymore. I'm done."
"Aw, that's a shame."
And that was it. What an eerie end to it all. The last shower in an overly expensive hotel. The last time he scrubs himself clean, and stuffs a brown envelope into his bag.
Even when he sits down to reflect on it all, he can't feel any relief.