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Mirror Image	By : wolfeatsman Category: +G to L > Kaiji Views: 1215 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Kaiji, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Mirror Image
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AN:/ I began filling some of the Kaiji kink meme requests, and wanted to archive the ones I've finished. The request was for Ichijou masturbating with distaste for the act and primping afterwards. Implied pairings in the form of vague fantasies, no spoilers.

Mirror Image

It's disgusting but he can't help himself. It's been like this ever since he was a teen, with an icky pubescent body raging with hormone laden desires. He doesn't want to do it, he doesn't want to touch it but he has to. He has to do this disgusting act; just like he had to do whatever that disgusting old Chairman wanted to be sure he was the best, to be sure he was the manager of the Bog and not just a two bit lackey forever.

Ichijou runs his hand softly against the side of his cock, his preference is for the gentle almost touches. Sensory but not quite. He always starts off this way with the intent of not mucking up his clean hands. It's a miserable failure, but he resists, he tries to think of things that aren't nice but instead his legs tense up and the swollen flesh in his hands tells him to do more...

His thoughts are on more distressing things these days, and that's how his body became the way it is now, wound up tightly like a spring. The stress was bound to appear in some fashion, especially after Teai's notorious stray made an appearance. And then there it was the other day, a painful erection that wouldn't go away. Embarrassing because of the insinuations, but otherwise harmless. He'd deal with it as he's always dealt with it - by himself.

He can't stop now, it's painfully obvious that it won't go away on its own. So he slides his fingers gently to the tip, wincing a little when liquid appears and it sticks to his fingers. It's almost enough to put him off the whole ordeal with a disgusted shiver. Instead he darts his open hand near the bottom of his shaft, it's less daunting touching there but still not quite enough. Never enough because he can't bring himself to do this until its absolutely painful.

Sometimes it's frustrating, he doesn't want to actually touch his dick because...it's not just for sex that his body has one and it makes him cringe just thinking about it. But if he doesn't, he'll be frustrated and short with his employees, irritated by the smallest whinging of the customers. It's his duty to deal with it, though it's a far cry from the joy he feels brushing his hair or the rush gazing into a mirror after plucking his eyebrows.

He can hear his own breathing, feel his bare ass rubbing against the leather of his office chair. He quickly slams down the mirror next to him, he doesn't want to see his own face like this, sweating and flushed with rank desires.

It's not like he's low enough to actually solicit prostitutes, though he's had the VIP card for ages. It's too disgusting to think about, rutting with some unclean body that's been who knows where in the last twenty-four hours. He'd rather suffer through it in his office with his pants pulled partway down, just a little lower than his hips. He has about an hour to himself alone but there could always be an emergency, he has to be able to put himself away quickly. Efficiency is and always has been, important.

The quickness of his hand surprises him, he's going so fast his hand is a blur. Even rubbing the head of his cock when he was hesitating only moments before. The sticky clear fluid disgusts him no longer, he can't think about that sort of thing now or he'll lose his rhythm. All he can think about is the feeling, his fingers slipping so fast against his hot skin. Sometimes images pop into his head, it would be incredibly sexy his perverse mind thinks, if Murakami were standing in the doorway watching him. Sometimes he'll think about the stray, his angry eyes turned tearful and pathetic in defeat. It makes him too hot thinking about those things and he doesn't want to enjoy it really, even if he can't help it. So he tries to think of nothing but the sound of his skin slapping together. The moist flesh on the head of his cock being caressed by his fingers while his lips part, panting.

It's too much, these images. So he leans over his desk, his shoulders hitting the surface scattering papers and pens. The mirror he had slammed down is accidentally hurled into the wall and flips over. He can see just a tiny bit of his hair reflecting, an eye half closed. It's enough, really, to see his own face so disgustingly weak.

“N-...No....not that...”

He uses his other hand to gently squeeze his balls. Sometimes he wants to move his hand lower, to go lower into a more depraved place but he can't bear the thought, it's really too dirty. Too revolting. Maybe someday he'll do things properly, clean himself out and indulge in the ultimate foul act. Right now he only indulges in the fantasy, thinks about what it would feel like to slide a finger inside of himself, to open up like that from the pressure. It would feel deliriously good, he knows it. He's read things, looked at pictures, he knows all about this act because he's well educated not because he's an insatiable pervert. Really, there's quite a difference.

He's not coming because he's insane, he does so because he has to or else he'll go crazy. His eyes crunched shut and his hand carefully shielding the sperm from making a mess. But it's so intense, his filthy, sordid thoughts. He can see the stray's eyes, Murakami watching him and he can't help but imagine at the climax when his body twitches and heaves forward, what it would feel like to have a man do filthy things to him. What would it feel like to be pounded the way his hand manipulated himself, what would it feel like to do something like that to someone else. To fuck them, the way he so desperately wants to be fucked.

“...please,” he begs his indulgent mind, “No...no more...”

His forehead is against the desk sweaty and slick, the cool feeling of the metal soothing as his shoulders twitch, the hot mess in his hands causing him to shiver. It's revulsion and delight and all of these horrible things wrapped into one, visceral experience. He blinks and glances at the shining surface next to him. Ichijou raises his head, noticing a spatter of cum across the face reflecting back at him.

He sees his own lips turn into a sneer, his own disgust reflected back at him. His tongue darts out from between his lips, licking them slightly and then, as he watches his face contort into a disgusted grimace, he licks it up as his tongue slides along the cold glass.

“Um...manager, are you all right?” a concerned Murakami asks.

“I'm all right,” Ichijou hisses, and if it comes out as a snarl that's fine, “Better than ever. With that stray out of the way.”

He hasn't shown up in days and Ichijou feels like he's already won. He doesn't know about the plans or the countdown, or that his own doom is being plotted by three war torn heroes miles away.

“I was a bit stressed,” he warily admits, “But I feel much better now.”

Even if he preens more often, more precious minutes spent in the mirror cleaning himself up, tidying his hair, making sure his eyebrows are perfectly plucked. He can't help it, with the nasty little habit he's picked up under all of this pressure.

“That's good,” Murakami smiles at him, “I'm glad.”

Ichijou refuses to acknowledge his good will, as he refuses anything to do with kindness. People are dogs and only the strong survive, this simple fact of life has been drilled into his head in the harshest of ways. Ichijou will be one of the strong for sure and someday, live in paradise among other elite men and women. When that happens the world can die around him, without him missing anything about it.

Or so he thinks, when he's not staining his hands with his own cum, wishing for things he didn't dare speak aloud. Rutting himself into oblivion with nameless murmurs on his lips, gasping what he can't admit to himself.
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Mirror Image