Chapter 3: Relationship and Acceptance
A low hum vibrated in Martha's chest, a pleasant warmth spreading through her limbs. She sighed, sinking deeper into the comfortable haze of sleep. A wet heat closed over her nipple, and a sharper jolt of pleasure—this one undeniable—cut through the fog. Her eyes fluttered open.
Jotaro.
The scent of him, clean and male, filled her senses. His dark hair was a curtain against her skin as he left her breast with a shameless, hungry attention. The memories slammed into her then—not like a truck, but like a wave of icy water, stealing her breath and leaving her gasping.
"No," she whispered, the word a ragged, pathetic thing. "No, no, no…"
"Yes. Wake up, love." Jotaro's voice was a low rumble against her skin, a vibration she felt more than heard. He didn't stop his attention. He shifted, his weight moving as he pushed her onto her back. He knelt over her, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of her torso, caging her in. One hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Chill, Martha," he said, his tone earnest, yet utterly commanding. "You gave me consent. You invited this. More importantly," he paused, his fierce eyes boring into hers, "I no longer feel like I should kill myself."
His words, blunt and raw, silenced her frantic denials. This was not the boy she knew. This was not the spoiled, lost child she'd been living with. This was a man, his voice steady, his gaze holding a terrifying new confidence.
"What happened last night is a secret between the two of us," he continued, his thumb stilling on her skin. "Own your actions like an adult and live with it. I hate people who don't stay on their word."
Martha stared up at him, her mind a blank slate of shock. The mature cadence of his voice, the unyielding dominance in his eyes, the undercurrent of concern—it was all wrong. It was a complete rewrite of the person she thought he was.
"I… I—" she stammered, but he silenced her by shifting his weight.
"I guess this is the only way to silence you," he murmured. He rose up slightly, and the hot, heavy weight of his erection settled against the valley between her breasts. Martha gasped, the sheer, unapologetic dominance of the act stealing the air from her lungs. He pressed her breasts together, engulfing his length in the soft, warm flesh. The sensation was overwhelming, a primal mix of pleasure and surrender that short-circuited her panic.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her entire body.
Her eyes, wide and dazed, locked onto his. This was a man who had seized control, not just of the moment, but of himself. He began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through her. Each thrust was a statement, a physical punctuation to his words: *This is real. This happened. Accept it.*
Her hands, which had been frozen at her sides, slowly came up to rest on his thighs. She wasn't pushing him away. She was holding on. The denial in her mind crumbled, replaced by the undeniable reality of the pleasure he was forcing upon her.
Her body, traitorous and honest, arched into his touch. A soft, breathy moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet them as she stared at the head of his cock with each thrust.
Jotaro's lips curved into a triumphant smirk. He saw the shift in her eyes, the surrender. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his pace quickening slightly. "That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Feel it. Feel us."
The heat between them built to an unbearable intensity, a fire stoked by last night's memories and this morning's raw claim. He was erasing her denial with every stroke, replacing it with an imprint of ownership so profound she knew it would never fade.
…
Minutes later, he disentangled himself, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving her feeling cold and exposed. He swung his legs off the bed, completely at ease.
"Martha, I've ordered food. Pizza, fried chicken, drinks. Clean yourself up and meet me in the hall." He didn't look back as he spoke, his hunger a practical, immediate concern. He walked to a dresser and pulled out a pair of clothes, tossing them onto the foot of the bed. "These should fit. They were my stepmother's."
Martha flinched at the mention of another woman. She watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and finally let herself breathe.
Her body ached in a way that was both foreign and deeply satisfying.
The clothes on the bed were a tiny tie-front crop top and a pair of high-waisted denim shorts. They were an invitation, a costume for the new role he'd assigned her. She rose, her legs unsteady, and walked toward the bathroom, the clothes clutched in her hand.
The hot water did little to wash away the feeling of his hands, the phantom weight of him on her chest.
She scrubbed her skin, trying to erase the scent of sex and surrender, but it felt ingrained, a part of her now. As she dressed, the tight fabric of the crop top and shorts felt like a second skin, a brand. She looked at her reflection—a woman she barely recognized, with flushed cheeks and dazed eyes. She looked… sexy. And that terrified her.
When she entered the hall, Jotaro was already at the table, unpacking boxes of food. He'd showered and wore only a bathrobe, his dark hair still damp. He looked up as she approached, his eyes roaming over her body with an open, appreciative gaze.
"You look good, Martha."
"It's a little tight," she said, her voice quieter than she intended. "But I look sexy."
"Indeed," he affirmed, his attention already shifting back to the food. He began to eat with a ferocity that was startling, devouring six slices of an extra-large pizza and nearly an entire bucket of chicken by himself. It was the appetite of a man starved, not just for food, but for life.
"Boss, you'll get fat if you eat so much suddenly," Martha said, picking at a single piece of chicken, her phone sitting untouched beside her plate.
"Today I have no limit," he said between bites, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "I feel strange. Like I'm reborn." He paused, fixing his gaze on her. "You're taking things well, Martha. I didn't expect that."
His words were a test. She could feel it. He was probing, checking to see if the mask would slip. A spark of her old anger flared, hot and sharp.
"You should be the last one who's surprised," she shot back, her voice gaining strength. "How—how the hell do you know what I like? What I watch? The things I… the roles I like to play?" She stared at him, the realization hitting her anew. "Now that I think about it… you do feel like a completely different person than the one I've lived with for months."
Jotaro leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "Well, to answer your questions: the office cameras have recorded your phone screen. Second, when you're drunk, you've done plenty of indecent things for me to get the picture. And in your own home, I've seen your rather… extensive collection of hentai books."
Martha's face burned. Every secret she had, every private fantasy, laid bare on the dinner table between half-eaten pieces of fried chicken. She grabbed a piece and shoved it into his mouth.
"That's enough," she snapped, her blush betraying her fury. "I get it."
He chewed slowly, swallowing before he spoke again, his voice softening. "I want you to know I accept how and what you are. I don't give a rat's ass about the world."
And in that moment, looking at his calm, accepting face, Martha felt the last of her resistance crumble. She wasn't just a secret to be kept; she was a choice he had made. And she had no idea what to do next.