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In the faint light of early mornings, in that space of time between deep sleep and the obligatory alarm your mind still wanders towards her, your latest conquest and your most recently exiled rival.
Kayo—no, Kuroda—first names were used only for the pure faced performance you put on to lower the guard of others—was your partner, your rival, a dagger you wielded, and the thorn in your side.
Love, you scoffed at the idea. Still do. You have never needed such a thing, had zero desire for the trappings of the domestic—spouse, family, children. The weaknesses of the other employees is that they see social outings as ‘off-time’ but you know there’s no such thing. To you, there is only the time that everyone works, and the time that exists to make hidden moves. There’s no time to take a lover. When you go on dates, you do so as coldly and methodically as any other social events you attend.
But ambition and rivalry proved potent drugs. The first time Kuroda kissed you and added sex to the merciless corporate battleground you ruled, a fire ignited in you, and the first time you met her provocation and kissed her back, you felt an addictive rush unlike anything you’d felt before. Every slight she gave you, every tiny mistake she made in your partnership burned fresh and hot in your mind. Every victory you shared made you flare that much brighter. No one pissed you off more, but no one understood you so well either.
Your connection was half mating ritual, half fight club, always present in your minds and mutually forbidden to speak of in anything resembling mixed company. You left each other bruised and battered, each session at night an airing of your daily grievances and a refreshment of your grit and resolve. You pressed her into the floor. Your fingers fucked her cunt until she cried for freedom. You made her taste her satisfaction on your lips. You made sure she knew that you understood her better than anyone else.
And then Kuroda would turn the tables, and though you would steel yourself to resist, to bite and scrape and claw your way back to dominance, her physical strength outclassed yours. Once she had you pressed into the barely-padded office carpet, one knee forcing your legs open, her clever mouth and skillful hands would push you over the peak, and when you opened your eyes to glare, her smug smile would greet you. You surrendered to her. She’d press her fingers to your lips as if to show you how much power she had over you.
Those days are over, but one faint scar remains, her teeth on your shoulder, one time when she came too hard on your hand. You trace your fingers over the marks, relishing that her final trace on you comes not from those times when she had you pinned down to the floor, her legs straddled over your hips, fingers between your folds coaxing the surrender out of you, but when she surrendered herself to you.
Did you leave any scars on her? You hope so. You hope whenever Kuroda’s lover undresses her, she sees the lingering evidence of your claim. Perhaps your teeth marks on the slope of her breasts or clawed lines down her back (You would never have dulled your talons for her sake, nor would you have respected her had she done so for yours), anything that would prove that you, Shirakawa, had used her first and used her better.
No actual bruises mark your body this morning, but in phantom pains you feel them when you touch yourself—the twist of your hair as she pulls you towards her, the heavy grip of her fingertips on your arms, the pierce of her nails on your buttocks, the taste of blood from a split lip. Arousal shudders through you. You had it once, and loath as you are to admit it, you crave more of that intensity.
While your right hand rubs at your clit and occasionally slides inside your pussy, your left hand tries to replicate the feeling of those battles with Kuroda with the way that you poke and twist at your hardened nipples. However, self-preservation holds you back from attacking yourself the way Kuroda once did without hesitation.
No matter. Kuroda is gone now, fallen and disgraced as a defeated enemy should be. If she has found tender comfort as the kept woman of another, then that is a sign of her own weakness, and you have no time to waste on someone like that.
And yet, perhaps you would have liked to have kept Kuroda not as your lover—you would never be so weak as to take one of those—but as your victory spoils. You imagine yourself two or three promotions later with a Kuroda freshly returned from her exile and still struggling to get herself back up to where she was before she crossed you. You’d take her under your wing again, this time as your contrite subordinate. Maybe she’d apologize for those times she stood between you and your ambition or for the worse offense of removing her gaze from you first. No. Forget maybe, you would make her apologize for denying you the privilege of cutting off your sexual association first. You would pin her down and use your nails and teeth to make her beg for forgiveness, and when you were done, you would lap up her contrition. Then you’d watch with a cold eye as a fucked and wrecked Kuroda fixes herself back up to professional standards—re-buttons her blouse, straightens her blazer, and ties her dark hair back up into its messy bun. Kuroda would then fall two-steps behind you—her designated place—until it was time to take to her knees and please you again.
You let out a gasp in your empty room as an early morning orgasm rips through you. Kuroda still invades your sexual fantasies, another indignity you’ll make her pay for one day. How dare she still invade your thoughts when you were the one to win the corporate war. You pull your fingers away and wipe them on your pajamas.
You check your phone, always kept nearby. Your alarm is about to go off, ringing in another day of furthering your career is ahead of you. You shake off the lingering afterglow and set your glasses on your face. This is no time to consider past rivalries.
When you dress this morning, you don’t dress with the memories of your formal rival in your mind. Your panties slide up without your hand lingering on your hips, your bra hooks without the sensation of a dark-haired woman pulling the cups down and gripping your tits like her career depends on it and nursing your nipples with the threat of teeth. Your blouse slides over your head, and these days theres no need to worry about visible marks. You tie the bow and certainly don’t think of her hands resting at the base of your throat, not actually choking you, but with the imminent threat of it.
You set and arrange your hair with the confidence that nothing will get messed up or tousled today. The one who rose up and challenged you is gone now. Your hair is perfectly arranged, neat and golden, ready for an invisible crown to be placed atop it. Your teeth you care for, always. Fangs need to be kept sharp, even with no convenient flesh ready to bite.
You spray your perfume with no concerns of who you might pass by on the street or what memories your signature scent might trigger in her.
By the time you slide your shoes on, Kuroda has completely left your brain in favor of meeting schedules, training protocols, and client meetings. Your day is busy and complete as is. No need to dwell on what you’ve lost, not when, if you play your cards right, you’ll have her replacement lined up in no time.
You steel yourself. Kuroda can and will be replaced.
The last thing you put on as you step out of the dorm room and into the public sphere of the company is your pure and radiant smile, the shield that misdirects everyone from the hand holding the figurative knife behind your back.
After all, you’re Shirakawa Junko, the deputy section chief everyone loves.