[hr][sup][h1]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/voSMcFx.gif[/img][/center]
[b][center][color=#79A6BE]姦通[/color][/center][/b]
[/h1][/sup]
[right][sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXs8uO5LwDQ]Shinagawa[/url][/sub][/right][hr]



[center]At six o'clock in the morning, Akio Murata resists the urge to put a belt around his neck and hang himself from the ceiling fan in the living room as he wakes up and sees the woman he married snoring like the bloated bulldog bitch she looked like these days. Work starts in three hours but he needs to leave in two; if he woke up any later he would have to make breakfast himself and if that was the case why did he even get married? At least in his bachelor days he could sleep a little later before working. At six-oh-five, Akio Murata looks at himself in the standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom, one hand running over the bald patch that no cover-up would be able to fix and another hand squeezing the paunch that used to be his flat stomach. These days he had to go up a shirt size, which was more expensive, or else run the risk of a button coming undone underneath the snug suit jacket. Ten years ago he could have said the secretary at the front of the office building looked beautiful and be met with a giggle; now he would be met with a firing and a harassment lawsuit and this chunk of flab was responsible. 

At six thirty in the morning, Akio Murata finishes into a kleenex and throws it into the garbage bin. He misses and has to pick it up again to make sure it lands properly. When he asked his daughter how to get videos on his phone, the look she gave him was infuriating. The freeloading bitch had the gall to roll her eyes before reluctantly helping? He was her father, dammit, and he demanded respect. When she walked him through it, once, barely, he bowed and thanked her and went to kiss her on the forehead until she recoiled. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Akio Murata, a married man, had to masturbate to models in bikinis and bras on a phone screen while his wife slept. It wasn't fair that Akio Murata, a working man, had to deal with a daughter who thought so little of him that she couldn't even look up from her phone to talk to him over breakfast. It wasn't fair that Akio Murata provided a house and the ungrateful bitches had the nerve to ask for more. 

At six fifty in the morning Akio Murata reads the paper while the morning news plays on the television at a volume just loud enough to wake up his wife and daughter. There was a time when he wasn't so rude about it, but if they didn't like it they could move out. He wasn't really paying attention to the news, the anchor was some old fogey talking about another body found behind a soapland - the sixth one in three months - which was not a story Akio Murata cared about. It wasn't until the co-anchor, a flawlessly attractive woman no older than twenty three - two years until she was past her prime - that Akio Murata actually paid attention. Her hair was so smooth looking, her lips so soft with off-pink lipstick, and her blouse was tight enough that Akio Murata could tell her breasts were suffocating. He wasn't really listening to what news story she was rattling about - something about how all the victims had been men or something - but he was focusing intently on her all the same. If it was ten years ago...if he was ten years younger...

[b]"Gross."[/b] 

It's seven fifteen and Akio Murata's daughter, Akira, shakes her head in disgust. Her father had been staring, unblinking, at the morning news woman like a fat pig staring at the slop trough. At seven in the morning, Akira Murata could no longer pretend to be asleep with the loud sounds of the morning news playing, but it wasn't until there was a knock at her door that she went through the motions. From the otherside of the door, her mother asked what she wanted for breakfast to which Akira could only say tamagoyaki and miso, the same as she said every morning. By seven ten, Akira had caught up with her messages with her friends and had dressed for school but not before catching up on two new chapters of her favorite manga. It had been an off week so Akira's plan of not reading the last week's chapter until the off week ended meant she would have twice as much to read. It was worth it, in her mind, even if she had to tune out when her friends wanted to talk about what Zoro had done this week. 

At seven thirteen Akira had to prepare herself for leaving her room, sighing in front of the door before looking at herself in the standing mirror. She had never been more thankful to have her mother's looks. Her father was balding, getting fatter by the day, and had a tendency to sweat - or spit - when he talked, and when he did talk he stuttered and stammered like a fat bullied victim. How a man like him had a wife was beyond Akira. It was hard to believe that someone like her father could ever have been attractive in any way. Once she had asked her mom what she saw in her husband and her mother still had no answer. It had to be money. But the money her father did have always seemed to go into what he wanted, which was why in the street was parked a new Acura that only he could drive. Akira's birthday was four days ago and all she got was a cake - purchased by her mom - and a phone strap from her friends. She asked her father if she could have money to see a movie - not even mentioning it was her birthday - and he complained so much that she eventually had to ask a friend with the promise of paying her back. And yet, they had a brand new Acura sitting outside their house. 

At seven fifteen, Akira had been watching her father's perverse news watching for two minutes, and if she didn't say something he probably would have been late for work. Without another word to the tomato faced mess that was her father, Akira sat at the table and helped herself to rice and bread. 

At seven twenty, Akio Murata was watching his daughter eat her rolled egg, her plump lips with faint lipstick, her jaw demurely eating the food, dainty fingers covering her chewing mouth before they flipped through her phone. Her skirt was short. Akio Murata made note of his daughter's uniform skirt. It was short enough that he could see her thighs. He needed to say something, he didn't want his daughter to be a whore. Those friends she hung around with were a bad influence. At seven twenty five his daughter had finished her breakfast and was talking with her mother, the cow, in hushed whispers. Twice over the course of their conversation, his daughter glanced over her shoulder and for a brief moment her eyes met Akio Murata's, and both times she snapped her head back so fast it was a shock her head didn't go flinging off her shoulders. With his daughter standing up, Akio Murata could see the back of her legs. Her thighs were a bit plump, but healthily. She wasn't as slender and slim as the news woman but...she definitely had his good genes. If only she wasn't wasting them...

[b]"Don't you have work?"[/b] 

It's seven thirty three and Wakako Murata has her back turned to her husband as she washes dishes. It's a wonder her husband even found time to eat with how his mouth hung open anytime a woman appeared on television. Normally, Wakako wouldn't say anything, but this isn't the first time she had noticed her husband leering at their daughter, and what kind of mother would she be if she didn't say something? 

At six o'clock in the morning, Wakako Murata had been pretending to be asleep for an hour now, having been woken up, as she often was, by the pig-like snoring of her husband. Hearing that now, she couldn't remember why she had married him in the first place. She was older than he was, by seven years, and subconsciously she knew the only reason she married him was because a younger man had complimented her. It wasn't for love. It wasn't for money. It had been because she was lonely and, as her husband had put it shortly after their honeymoon, she was 'past her prime'. As if she was spoiled milk or rotten meat. She should've said something then. But by that point it had been too late. She had a ring on her finger and a hole in her heart. 

At six twenty in the morning, Wakako has to keep from sniffling as she cries listening to her husband pleasure himself to videos of gravure models that look barely older than their daughter. It wasn't as if she was attracted to him - she wondered if she ever truly was - but any time she worked herself into a particular mood, it was always her husband who said no, and it was increasingly clear because he thought he was capable of younger women. 

At six forty-five in the morning, Wakako looks in the same mirror her husband had earlier and she wonders if the wrinkles on her face are from stress. There's hardly any fat on her body, and her daughter even says how pretty she is. So why, then, does she feel unattractive? Why, then, does her husband seem to recoil at the sight of her when he looked like a blobfish on a good day. Why did she not have the courage to do the right thing for herself and her daughter? As she dressed herself, she knew the answer to that question at least. It was the same reason why the only time they had been intimate was when her husband brought home that fucking Acura. Money. 

At seven-oh-two, Wakako was waking up her daughter though she knew Akira was already awake. On their last trip to the market the past Sunday they had a wonderful time. They even got crepes. Akira explained she was doing well in school and was working up the courage to put a love letter in a classmate's shoe locker. Wakako offered to help write the letter but Akira shook her head as she ate another bite of crepe and explained that a love letter should be written by the person themselves. Wakako couldn't disagree. That Sunday seemed so long ago, but the happiest memories always felt like forever. 

At seven eighteen, Wakako set two plates down but only one of them was eaten. Her husband was more interested in leering than eating and Akira did her best to eat quickly. Akira always found reasons to leave for school early and Wakako couldn't blame her. She wouldn't want to be around her father for that long either. At seven forty five, it is just Wakako and her husband in the house. At seven fifty, her husband finally leaves to go to work. At eight in the morning, Wakako has already cried three times. 

At eight thirty in the morning, Akio Murata notices a woman in the lane next to him, her hair blowing in the wind as she weaves through traffic on her motorcycle. His eyes are taken off the road and onto the way her ass straddles the seat; her pants are black and even with the distance between car and bike, he can tell it's soft and that he would pay anything to touch it. At eight thirty two in the morning, Akio Murata runs a red light and snaps back to attention as a car blares its horn as he almost had an accident. But that doesn't matter, because the woman on the motorcycle looks back at the sound of the commotion behind her, and as her eyes met Akio Murata's he could swear she smiled. He did too. 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"You're so sweet, you know that?"[/b][/color] It is nine in the morning and Akio Murata is late for work but he couldn't care less, because sipping an iced coffee with extra whip in front of him is the woman from the motorcycle. He saw her pull into a coffee shop parking lot and five minutes later he was behind her in line - separated by two people. Her name, as he overheard her give to the frumpy barista, was Suki, which he thought was fitting because he was absolutely in love with her. It was when he ordered his drink, a difficult task given his unfamiliarity with the menu, that Suki turned her head, gave that smile that was now emblazoned in his mind, and helped him order. In his sudden attack of love, he had forgotten how to speak a simple coffee order. 

And now they were drinking coffee. At nine-o-five in the morning. 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"You really didn't have to pay for my coffee."[/b][/color] Suki sipped her drink through a straw and Akio Murata licked his lips as he watched the liquid slide up the straw into Suki's mouth. 

[b]"The...least I..."[/b] Akio Murata trailed off and Suki giggled. God, was there a better sound than that giggle? 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"Was that a TLX?"[/b][/color] She knew about cars too? Akio Murata was in love at nine fifteen in the morning. [color=#79A6BE][b]"You don't talk much do you? It's cute. You're cute. Is that a ring on your finger. You're married?"[/b][/color] 

[b]"Divorced."[/b] Akio Murata didn't stutter this time. 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"And you still wear the ring? You don't have to lie to me, Akio."[/b][/color] Akio Murata gulped as Suki said his first name. Were they at that stage already? Was the heat on high in this place? Was he sweating? Could she tell? Could she tell that beneath the table his pants had tightened? Could she tell that he had already memorized the smooth, beautiful face in front of him? Could she tell that he had already seen she wasn't wearing a bra when she bent over to pick up a dropped phone and he could see down her top? 

[b]"I...we don't..."[/b] Akio Murata was silenced by Suki putting her index finger in front of his lips. It was nine ten in the morning and Akio Murata took Suki's finger into his mouth. He wasn't thinking of where he was, his marital status, or anything other than what his body wanted him to do - and right now his body was saying to swirl his tongue down that finger - something that even Suki seemed to encourage with how she subtly slid her finger in and out, the tip of her finger rubbing just so slightly on the inside of his cheek before popping out of his mouth while his lips smacked. 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"Easy, now."[/b][/color] Suki was smiling like only a woman could. Eyebrows uniquely narrowed, lips curled upwards, eyes peering into the soul. It was a smile as sensual as it was subtle, and Akio Murata was panting like a puppy dog. It took him a minute to realize that he was panting because pressed between his legs was the shoe-less, sock wearing foot of Suki. Toes curled, heel gently rubbing, smile on her face lingering. [color=#79A6BE][b]"Does your wife do-"[/b][/color]

[b]"No."[/b] Akio Murata closed his eyes. [b]"No..."[/b] 

Suki continued the grind her foot in so skilled a way that there was no way it was her first time doing something like this. Her big toe traveled up and just as quickly as it started, it ended with Suki pulling her foot back. [color=#79A6BE][b]"Do you want to show me your car?"[/b][/color]

It is nine forty-five in the morning and Akio Murata has decided to deal with the consequences of being late for work, because with Suki in the passenger seat there were more important things to focus on than his job. Besides, at this rate Akio Murata was going to get a different kind of job this morning. [color=#79A6BE][b]"This is a really nice car. I'd love to go for a ride sometime. Well, another one."[/b][/color] Suki ran her hand over the dashboard and her fingers brushed over Akio Murata's, and the electric feeling of it jolted through him and almost had him jerk the wheel - something that caused Suki to laugh. [color=#79A6BE][b]"It's just over here."[/b][/color] 

At ten in the morning, Akio Murata pulls into a side alley next to a soapland. This time of morning it's empty, as the entire block only really comes alive at night. Suki lives in the building next to it, on the fourth floor, and she has promised him that he can see her bedroom. Suki holds his hand as she leads him up the fire escape style staircase to a lone door on the fourth floor. [color=#79A6BE][b]"Give me a minute to slip into something...wait here, okay?"[/b][/color] Akio Murata nods as Suki steps into her room, leaving Akio Murata outside for a brief minute that lasts an eternity. 

At ten o-four in the morning, the door to Suki's place opens once again only Suki isn't wearing anything more comfortable at all. She's wearing the same thing, only her hands are wearing black gloves and in one of her hands is a small blade, a tanto by the looks of it. Before Akio Murata can say anything, his world goes dark. Cold fingers grip his face and thumbs press into his eyeballs. He screams, but his mouth is pressed against leather-clad thighs. Red, white, oozing pus and blood drip from his eye sockets as thumbs press tighter into the sockets where his eyes once called home. 

[color=#79A6BE][b]"You like looking at other women? You don't deserve your eyes."[/b][/color] Suki releases her thumbs, wiping the blood and goo onto Akio Murata's shirt. It is ten o'seven in the morning and Akio Murata is blind. Never again will he stare at the secretary. At the news anchor. At his daughter. [color=#79A6BE][b]"Who would ever love you?"[/b][/color] Suki's hand tightens around the hilt of her knife as it slices into Akio Murata's neck. He squeals. He writhes. Like a pig at the slaughterhouse. Suki stabs the knife in further, a deep cut like carving a pumpkin made of fatty flesh. As blood splashes onto her face, Suki drags the knife to the left. It is not a clean cut. It is not a quick kill. 

Tsukuyomi enters the driver seat of her brand new Acura, turns up the [url=https://youtu.be/WXBHCQYxwr0?t=13]volume[/url], takes a moment to admire her handiwork in the rearview mirror, and leaves Akio Murata in a plume of exhaust.

It is ten fifteen in the morning and Akio Murata lies dead in an alley. 

[/center]