Meat Ninja: Robin - Ch. 02

E02: Back Alley, Back Doors and Misplaced Regret

This work was created by a single author with no particular cultural or religious affiliation and contains depictions of a broad range of sexual fetishes, all used in service of character development and narrative progression. If you find yourself offended, please note that the relevant keywords were provided upfront. Rated D for Degeneracy and absolutely not for anyone under the age of 18, enforced strictly by the--Honors System.

The morning sun slanted low and golden across their quiet neighborhood home as Robin stepped through the paper gates of her bedroom. The weight of the day's secret trailed behind her like a shadow, dragging her down the sturdy wooden steps.

A few more steps, the woman thought. A few more steps, and out the front door. And from there?

Where?

The city gates.

The worn stone pillar with the plaque nailed to it, showing the schedule of the local waggoneers.

The bus ran every day, and she could be (where is she going?) in hours?

The country.

The village.

Makay.

Nana's home.

Nana's husband.

It wouldn't be the first time.

He had sent a letter begging for help, and Robin had gone because Mackay was family. Mackay had told her how worried he was about Nana, how she had left their home one morning and never returned. He had waited; been patient, and he told himself not to fret as the sun fell behind some trees and all the stars came out. He stayed awake throughout the night, talking to a cold pale moon that would not reply. First thing in the morning, he abandoned his land--a modest rice paddy where he made his humble living--and gone out to search. The poor man didn't even know where to look, and for a week, he did his best.

We all try.

Then, after one more restless night which broke him in heart and spirit, he had sent for Robin.

That meeting somehow ended with his dick buried in her ass, even as Robin promised to help. For she, too, was worried about Nana, and she looked, in the only way Robin could have.

Found out the truth.

Nana was now an anonymous star on the guild wall--the blank one where there were no names, only the knowledge that those who earned such a medal never came back. The guild wasn't even looking; and if the guild wasn't even looking, it meant there was no point in even clinging to hope. Robin returned to Mackay with the news.

That night, he came three times in her pussy, and kept going.

The third time, after Robin had begged him to use her, he fucked her in the yard, beneath moonlight, like common mating animals where she shrilled her pleasure for all to hear. The village was quaint but not quiet on that night--and everyone already knew Nana was not home. Robin didn't care--

--until she suddenly did!

By then it was morning.

She ran out. No goodbyes; no underwear either. The bandits waylaid the bus home and somehow Robin made it back in one piece. Today she was going--

Where?

Robin suddenly came to a decision.

Nowhere.

Not today.

She turned around.

She found him inside their cozy, little living room. Her husband lounged exactly as she expected him to: half asleep on the tatami, a crooked grin slipping onto his handsome face when he noticed her. He waved cheerfully. "Up early today, pumpkin!" he said, his voice smooth like smoke curling through the room. His tousled hair and casually unbuttoned shirt made him look like what he was--the ronin of legend, the shinobi for whom the bar was not raised but set. Effortlessly deadly, Robin thought, before her lips pressed into a hard line.

But always on break.

Robin bit back a sigh and looked down. She was still in her day wear, a modest number that nonetheless looked anything but modest on her. She had that effect on any wardrobe imaginable. Her plain, checkered robe clung tightly to her curves, and where her buttocks shoved against the fabric, it formed into a visible canyon riding deep into her ass. Her nipples required no encouragement, poking above a wide, colorful belt to form visible points. That conservative neckline was not designed to withhold cleavage of such magnificence.

Robin breathed. She was a view, and his indifference didn't even crack.

"You okay?"

"Fine," she lied. She was determined to set things rights.

Today.

Attempt no. 1 at making things right:

Robin moved around the small kitchen like a cat.

Lithe and teasing, she prepared breakfast wearing--well, why sugar coat it? Robin 'lost' her apron. It was the only thing she was planning on wearing, and yet, somehow, like her underwear, she had forgotten. Her husband was not lazy--not in the ways that didn't really matter. He helped her cook; and he was great at it. Had he wanted to, the man had it in him to become a world-class chef.

Robin didn't care about that.

She cared only that her thighs were pressed tightly together when she leaned over him, offering a glimpse into the soft pubic curls that were the color of the darkest of cherries. She kept doing it, bending low at every opportunity, letting her large, firm breasts speak for themselves. Swaying, bouncing. Robin stood close to the stove on purpose on a hot summer morning, until sweat glittered over her skin like dew. She moaned, held the back of a dainty hand to her forehead and looked over at her husband with smoky eyes.

He dipped a finger into the sauce. Tasted it with all the concentration of a surgeon in the process of saving a life.

In anger, or maybe embarrassment--or maybe guilt or maybe all three--Robin threw on a robe. She helped him pour the sauce. That's when he spoke up.

"Careful, dear," he smiled, warm and caring and serene, as if he was at peace with the world. "You don't want to get any on that robe."

She flushed: "You don't care."

That came out with more venom than she intended, and her husband's eyes widened in surprise. Robin bit her lip. She was about to apologize when--

"Of course I do!"

Eager.

Sincere.

As if he was right and maybe he was. Robin watched as he raised a hand, began ticking off long, agile fingers one-by-one.

"You remember what we paid for it. Three taels and twenty-two pennies for twelve blocks. Now, that was last autumn, where the harvest was good, and you had no trouble finding customers to sell the clothes you made to. Frankly I'm surprised you managed to save enough to make this one all for yourself--and proud of you, too, kiddo!"

She could only stare.

"Today, though, darling apple mine, it's only July and things are already not looking good. Linen prices are up all over, and I checked. So, don't even get me started on what real silk is going to cost by September!"

He went on like that until Robin started coughing. Then, he came over and wrapped an arm affectionately around her slim shoulders.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Do you need to see the chemist?"

No. But Robin did need to go out.

Attempt no. 2 at making things right (no really!):

They went to the market, and Robin wore a humble tan robe that brought out the brown in her eyes. It was a modest cut, and yet the fabric still pulled taut over a chest that seemed ready to burst free with every breath. It was her skirt that was the real problem for the neighborhood. It was cut much too short, hugging the swell of her hips and ending a whisper above the crotch. Long, flawless legs and perfect bared feet clad in a pair of clacking wooden sandals was the least of it. With every step, every stretch of any muscle on her body, the hemline skittered ever so mischievously upwards, until Robin's ass popped out (albeit briefly) for all to see.

Every vendor and passerby looked. Whispers trailed in their wake. An elderly woman nudged her son--though whether to remind him of the courtesies befitting a gentleman when presented with such a vision, or to reprimand him for his own inabilities to land a woman such as this one is beyond us.

Robin had forgotten to wear underwear again.

A pair of merchants stopped mid-conversation.

Mouths slack, a group of adolescents gawked from behind baskets.

And her husband?

Lost in the stall's wares, utterly oblivious.

The man was eyeing turnips, but what he was really interested in was the stall vendor's daughter-in-law's cousin's mother's third uncle's son, whose granddaughter was of age to begin learning to read and write. Literacy was important in that Age, though there were few scholars making small livings in teaching the plebs. For true education, Robin's husband maintained, you needed to apply at the local monasteries with the monks and nuns.

That was his firm opinion, and Robin's husband pressed it upon the stall owner with the same urgency as a general strategizing for war. For her part, the young woman bit back bitter, incredulous laughter, and stretched again. The crack of her bared buttocks opened briefly; and inside, the delicate, moist mound of her pussy gave off a desperate quiver.

Nothing.

The absurdity of his ignorance broke her composure.

Robin guffawed, and he didn't seem to hear her. Her life was a ridiculous, cruel joke--and she was the punchline.

Attempt no. 3 to fix things (yes, really!):

It was too hot to only bathe once or twice a week. In villages, children would be splashing in nearby lakes; and inside the capital, water was plentiful and so were bathhouses. Public ones. Private ones. Even a humble seamstress owned a huge, polished wooden bucket she could fill and share with her husband anytime she wanted.

Robin wrapped herself in the thinnest towel she could find, with the fabric practically translucent in the steam. She let water drizzle over her shoulders, her fingers trailing the curve of her neck. When they reached her breasts, she squeezed and let out a moan. She pushed upwards, one handful of soft flesh forming an alluring mound beneath her chin. Her nipple was already engorged and swollen, and she dipped her head, extending a tongue. She licked, and a tremor went through her entire body. Robin moaned again, locking eyes with her husband all the while.

He said, half-closing his own eyes and leaning back against the edge of the tub: "You forgot your towel."

Robin let go of her breast.

She ground her teeth instead.

Attempt no. 4 to fix things (really?):

Robin didn't get out of the bath for a long, long time. When she did, she didn't bother putting anything on. It was too hot; and her skin was sticky with sweat after only a few minutes. The night wind did little to cool her off. Her hair tumbled loose, framing her face like a midnight curtain in moonlight.

Dark (like we said), the color of the blackest of cherries.

Robin walked into their bedroom and stretched out languidly across the bed. It was their bed and she was determined to share it with him tonight. Her legs cross and uncrossed in slow rhythm, a single bead of sweat rolling off one glowing, round shoulder. She spread open her thighs, pushed herself up on her elbows until her pussy was bared at the bedroom door. The soft folds glistened with her secretions, and she reached around and used two fingers to open them, exposing the center within.

Robin timed everything perfectly. Her husband appeared at the door just then. Her clitoris trembled in anticipation when he opened his mouth.

Said--

"Oooh! It's cold in here for summer, don't you think?" To emphasize his point, he wrapped his long arms around himself and shivered. He was still dressed. Then, after taking her in at a glance, he said: "Wait right here! I'll get you a robe!"

Then, he was gone.

And so was she.

Robin left the house. Her shoes clicked sharply on the wet cobblestones as the city's shadows swallowed her whole. The woman walked briskly, heading toward the part of town no respectable lady would dare enter. Soon, she found herself in narrow alleys smelling of salt, sweat, and desperation. Her thoughts tumbled in time with the rain pelting her skin.

Maybe--

Maybe. Maybe.

Too many maybes.

She found the only sure-fire, guaranteed way to chase away all the unwanted maybes at the bottom of a bottle.

The sign above the door swung on rusty chains, but Robin didn't even trouble to read it. She entered the dimly lit room, eyes glassy beneath a halo of greasy candlelight. She began ordering. She didn't even look at the selection. Drink after drink, chugging down everything which came her way with reckless abandon. Every swallow was a little scream. Every empty cup an admission of surrender.

Robin sat alone at the counter. At some point during the hazy evening, she had put one foot on the stool next to her. The gesture was decidedly unladylike, and Robin was, once again, not wearing any underwear.

Her pussy spread wide open. Her buttocks lay bared for all to see. Robin's ass pressed down upon the countertop, the firm, fleshy cheeks sliding across the polished wood. She looked down her shirt only to discover she wasn't actually wearing one. Robin had fled her own home in the same state she had fled her own bed--but thankfully she was not completely naked. She was wearing--

Something.

Something that was silk and soft and completely see-through that might as well have been ribbons tying up her breasts and thighs. She remembered putting these on, making it all the way back to her own bedroom only to hear her husband snoring.

Then--

Robin sobbed.

The ribbons tightened around her tits, and her big breasts popped even more than it was usual.

Robin cried, looking down at her bared nipples. They were hard and aroused as pebbles, and she might have fingered her own clit. She doesn't even remember. At some point, the penis entered her.

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"

The grunts were guttural, and the man's hot breath washed over Robin's face. He smelled like liquor and rot, but that was okay, because so did Robin. She opened her lips, breathed huskily. A dribble of sperm fell out.

When had that happened?

She didn't know. Robin's face squeaked over the countertop, and she was aware of a rough hand pulling on her hair. She raised her head, looking back over her shoulder. Over the rise of her plump ass, a man pumped away furiously at her anus.

"Huh."

He was ronin. Masterless samurai. One step up-jumped from common brigands. Two more like him lounged about the premises, and none were wearing any pants.

"Ugh! Ugh! Ughhhh!"

The man in her ass came, and Robin screamed despite herself. She felt sperm splashing into her rectum, before he pulled out with an obscene squelch. Just from the amount of semen that dribbled down her leg, this was not his first turn with her--not any of theirs, in fact.

Robin blinked. She closed her eyes, wriggled her butt at them enticingly.

They kept going.

The beautiful woman was bent over the countertop, her asshole being pounded by a hard, rigid penis. The owner came in her again and again, and again and again until she was a mess. He filled her asshole to overflowing, before yielding his spot to the next man in line.

He was no gentler than the first had been. And why would he be? Robin was drunk, and underdressed by the standards of even the lowest, cheapest prostitute. That same wardrobe (or lack of it) would have looked desperate on any hooker but on her, it just looked sad. He grabbed Robin by the hair, and all but threw her down on a nearby table. She cried out. He forcibly kissed her. Then, he kicked her legs apart and penetrated her pussy.

He kept going and at some point, Robin's head was forcibly turned around. She barely managed a mew before the third man stuffed his dick into her mouth. She licked him eagerly, washing his penis all over with her saliva. He pushed; and she sucked. Wet suckling noises accompanied every thrust of his hips, and Robin moaned. She danced her tongue over the bottom of his shaft. When he came, she swallowed noisily and willingly.

Laughter all around.

Now, Robin was being bent over a barstool. She was on hands and feet, with her huge, ample rear raised into the air. Sweat gathered in her butt crack, running down to her filled pussy. The ronin's penis plunged in and out, even as, on the other side of the barstool, Robin raised her head to suck eagerly on the dick in her mouth. Squishing. Squelching. Muffled squeals from one end accompanied by the sound of slapping flesh from the other.

Meanwhile, the tavern owner sat in a corner and cried.

Not because of what he was seeing; but because of what he had saw before.

Robin had drunk him dry. Not a drop left in his cellars and then let three dangerous looking men take her in every orifice. She was slurping dick left and right, and they were laughing and leaning on each other for support. No one looked sober enough to think, let alone entertain any mention of settling their tab.

Eventually, all left. They did not pay.

When they finally stumbled outside, there was a bite to the hot night air. The streets felt somehow sharper, meaner. The three ronin walked, still laughing at their good fortune. One carried Robin in his lap, with his hands gripping both cheeks of her pristine, white ass. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, and he bounced her up and down with every step. His dick was still buried in her pussy, and she screamed in time with his upwards thrusts. Somebody else pulled her head back by her hair, and dumped the last of the liquor down her throat. Robin squealed. Coughed.

Laughed because she couldn't hold her liquor (not like Nana)!

They made it all the way to a narrow wooden bridge over a foul canal, when they noticed the eyes peering at them out of the darkness.

The ronin laughed! "C'mon out!" one man called drunkenly, wheeling his arm at the shadows. "Join the party!" His compatriots echoed his invitation, and all were red-faced, swaying unsteadily on their feet when the eyes vanished.

Faces appeared.

Dirty, haggard. One was covered by a patchwork shawl, and the other wasn't wearing any shoes.

The beggars joined in. Robin let them. The beautiful woman was handily abused by the homeless vagrants who couldn't believe their good luck. At some point she found herself shoved against a nearby wall. The stone felt hot against her face, and her big tits were crushed up against the masonry. She was practically pushed into the brickwork with every thrust of the man behind her, busily fucking her dripping pussy. She didn't even know if that was one of the beggars, or the ronin--and didn't much care.

They came inside her.

They came all over her.

They used her mouth, her tits, her pussy and ass. Robin eventually lost count. Her cunt was a mess of mixed fluids, and her anus positively leaked cum all over the ground. They pinched and kneaded her breasts until they left raw, visible handprints, and splattered her face with semen when she could not swallow fast enough to keep up. Robin knelt with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out. They told her to remain that way, then took turns ejaculating into their 'semen privy'. Then, more fucking. More debauchery, until Robin was left, finally, naked and spread-eagled on the ground, one leg propped up by a shaky knee, with her thighs spread wide open to the moonlight. Her pussy lips hung loosely around the exposed center, where the pink was all but obscured by pooling jizz. Her head lolled listlessly to one side, her mouth open and panting tiredly. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, and her tits heaved up and down with every breath.

Someone bent down to pinch her nipple just then--

And that's when everybody died!

Robin was in no danger. The five men were just going to leave her there, for they had no intentions of hurting her (after all, she seemed to be doing plenty of that to herself). There was no talk of taking her away, no plans to silence her to keep their crime from getting out.

She had wanted it.

Had practically asked for it.