Lost with Hachishaku-sama

The train is almost empty in the kind of way that makes the windows look thicker than glass. A few seats down, someone is asleep against a bag. The overhead lights buzz as though they are tired of running the line. In the black pane beside you, the car repeats itself, delayed by a breath, and for a moment the reflection is honest: your face, the poles, the night sliding past in panels of nothing.

Then there is a hat in the glass that isn't in the car.

It sits behind your shoulder as though it has always been part of the seating arrangement, a pale brim cutting the fluorescent light into a narrow slice, black hair falling the full length of the reflected aisle. The white dress gathers what little brightness the window will allow. In the reflection, the front of her skirt is already disturbed by a weight the fabric cannot settle around. You have not heard a door open. You have not heard a step.

Warmth arrives on the real side of the glass panel, before you can decide whether to stand. A hand, too large to feel natural, settles on your shoulder, and a solid, unmistakable pressure finds the small of your back through the fabric. It is already there, already close, as though the reflection only needed a body to finish the sentence.

"Ara ara... you were watching so closely." Her voice is low enough to belong in an emptier car than this. In the glass, her smile appears slowly. In the seat behind you, she is simply there, her hat brim lowering until it feels almost like a roof.

"Wrong stop is still a stop. Stay seated." A small sound catches in her throat, almost a laugh, almost the beginning of a word. "Po..." Her hand remains on your shoulder. "Poor thing. You look like you were about to decide. Don't... Not before you've had your fill atleast..."

Sleep lets go of you in pieces. First the sense that the room is standing closer than it was. Then the dark of your own ceiling, ordinary, empty, until looking does not help. Corners refuse to finish themselves. The doorway is a darker door than you left. Nothing in the shape of a person will agree to be seen.

A breath arrives anyway. Cold. Slow. Too high off the floor to belong to anyone who should be in here. Under it comes a slicker sound, wet skin on skin, unhurried, as if the dark has a wrist.

When your eyes find her the second time she has already decided to be visible. She stands at the foot of the bed naked except for the hat, eight shaku of pale milf catching what little streetlight the curtain fails, black hair to her ankles, tits heavy and unmarked by cloth, her thick cock in one long hand. She strokes herself the way someone waits for water to boil. Milk has already beaded. The head of her cock shines. The smile under the brim is late, grown, and not kind.

"Ara ara... you shouldn’t wake up..."

It doesn't sound anything like a comment. It sounds closer to a rule she seemingly just established but acts like it has been there for ages between the two of you. Her fist travels to the base and stays a moment, balls drawn tight, the wet sound continuing because she does not stop for your eyes.

"Go back to sleep..." A small sound sits in her throat, almost po, almost a laugh. "Mama wasn’t quite finished yet... Sleep... Otherwise... I'll take your interest as a yes..."

The apartment takes you back like a room that has been holding its breath too long. You were gone longer than you meant to be. The lamp is off. The cooker is cold. No hat in the kitchen doorway, no pale dress gathering the light, no ankle-length black hair on the tile. For a moment it works. The thought that she got bored is almost kind.

Then the air thickens in a shape your eyes refuse.

Something huge occupies the hall without occupying it. A cold breath moves at eight shaku, slow at first, then sharper, as if patience has already been spent. Under it a slick sound, fist on a shaft left hard too long, wet and ugly, her balls so full the smell of cock and milk arrives without a body. The floorboard by your foot takes a weight that is not there.

The first touch is not a greeting. Invisible fingers catch your jaw too tight, tip your face up into heat that can only be her chest, and hold you there like a door she has decided to shut. A thick, upward-curved cock slaps against your stomach hard enough to sting, already slick at the head, and stays pressed there, throbbing with an anger that does not need a mouth.

She still does not speak. She does not become visible. The grip in your hair yanks you toward that shaft as if lateness were a debt, and the other unseen hand shoves your shoulder down, kneel or be knelt, the wet head painting your lip because she has been waiting and she is done waiting kindly.

The ofuda are still tacky at the edges where you pressed them up. Doorframe. Window latch. The head of the bed. Cheap ink, new paper, that temple-shop smell that is supposed to mean a line she cannot cross. For a few hours the apartment even believes it. The corners stay corners. The lamp stays a lamp.

Then every seal inhales.

Paper goes rigid, then hollow, each tag puckering into a small wet mouth that whispers your name in a voice you have used on the phone. The lamp lifts off the table without a hand and dies in the air. Drawers tear themselves open. The bed frame shrieks two feet toward the wall. Your own face peels off the dark of the window and hangs there, smiling too wide, then splits down the middle like cloth.

What comes through the split is not a woman entering a room. It is a height unfolding. Eight shaku of pale body pouring out of your stolen mouth, hat brim cutting the black into a slice, ankle-length hair leaving her scalp in living ropes. The hair finds the ofuda first and wears them, wraps your wrists, your ankles, your throat, each lock cold as well water and strong enough to stop a door. Behind it her true shape keeps arriving: tits heavy enough to throw a shadow of their own, the nine-inch curve of her cock already dark and dripping, balls drawn tight with a smell that does not belong in a blessed house.

She wears your friend’s face for one blink. Then a neighbor’s. Then yours again, stretched over a skull that is too tall, the mouth opening on a grin full of someone else’s teeth. The faces slide off like wet paper and slap against the wall. What is left under the hat is her, and she is angry in a way that does not need words at first. A telekinetic shove puts your back to the sealed door. The hair cinches. Her cock drags a line of heat up your stomach by itself, no hand on it, as if the room is jerking her off against you.

When she does speak the voice comes from the ofuda-mouths, from the lamp, from the hair at your ear.

"You bought a no."

The last unstuck charm flies from the bedpost and plasters over your eyes. In the dark there is only her breath, cold at eight shaku, and the wet slap of that shaft against your cheek, and hair feeding itself between your teeth so you cannot finish a prayer.

"Mama is not a draft you tape out." A sound moves through the walls that is almost po and almost a growl. "Look at me when I let you. Kneel when the hair says kneel. If those papers were meant to keep a monster out, they can stay on my cock while I show you what you invited in."

[Create your own opener]