Wardrobe Malfunction
By: The Hatter Theory
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Inu Yasha
For the R0o, for the cookies and the crack.
And potential cone bra fanart.
Delicious crack.
Just kidding.
Sort of.
Spanks and cone bras ahead. You were warned.
~*~
Music thumped and bumped, vibrating through the floor and up her legs as she hurried to take the drinks to the exclusive VIP lounge. The walled in box was up a flight of stairs and guarded by a dour looking man she hadn't yet met. The trays in her hands were balanced precariously, ready to fall at any second, and she was grateful when he nodded and opened the door for her. Careful of her spike heels she walked over to the couches trying to ignore the topless woman straddling a DJ.
“Here you go,” She mumbled, although she wasn't entirely sure why she bothered, no one would be able to hear her over the music.
“Stay awhile,” The man cajoled as he peered around the topless woman's body. “We could use another girl up here.”
“No, thank you,” She shouted, wanting to make sure that was perfectly clear, no matter how loud the music was. Determined to get away as quickly as possible, she fled the lounge and slammed the door behind her, grateful to be out of that room. Despite her clothing, a 'uniform of sorts' she was not at all comfortable with what was going on in there.
“Everything alright?” The man next to her shouted. She nodded, not wanting to cause problems, and tried to hurry down the stairs, although her heels were preventing that.
“Just a job,” She muttered, repeating it mentally, a mantra to get her through her first night working the club. Just a job. A job she desperately needed if she was going to stay enrolled at Tokyo U.
Wishing for something besides the leather mini skirt and almost suffocating corset, she flinched when a hand reached out to pinch her bottom. That would be the fourth time.
“Good money,” She sighed, reminding herself why this job was so important. Dodging another hand by swaying slightly, she walked over to the bar and bent over, then crouched. Then shifted until she was completely out of sight to anyone sitting there or on the dance floor.
'School, school, school,' She reminded herself, careful not to smudge her makeup as she rubbed her temples. A well paying job at an exclusive club. Generous -salaried- job. There was a no tipping policy that the paycheck more than made up for. But the clothes and the clientele...
“Are you going to stay down there all night?” A voice rumbled across from her. She looked up, surprised to find herself face to face with yet another person she hadn't met, so close she almost fell backwards.
“N-No,” She muttered, blushing as his mouth tilted up at the corners.
“First night?”
She could only nod. He stood and offered his hand, but for a moment she stared beyond it, dumb and tongue tied.
He was gorgeous, no doubt. But he was also shirtless, wearing leather pants. Tight leather pants.
“Well?” He demanded. She took his hand, trying not to stare at his chest, to bring her eyes up to his face, and was almost there when her eyes caught on the leather collar on his neck. It was a thick band, and it apparently closed at the back, the whole front of it smooth unbroken black.
“Does everyone here have to dress up?” She finally asked, the words coming out before she could stop them. He nodded and stepped back, looking ever so cold as he flicked a long lock of white hair behind his shoulder.
“My name's Kagome,” She tried.
“Sesshoumaru.”
He turned away, and that, it seemed, was that.
~*~
She glared at the manager.
“If you wear the same thing every night it gets boring. Try something new.”
The entire thing looked like it was made out of plastic. How was she even supposed to get into it? She'd be like a stuffed sausage.
The bottle in his hand did not bode well for her future either.
“Put this on your skin before putting it on, makes it easier. And if you put a hole in it, it comes out of your check.”
If she bent over she was going to split the thing up from the seat of the 'pants'.
It took her twenty minutes to get the latex catsuit on, even with the help of the slippery, oily substance. Lube. Who would wear something that required LUBE to get it on?
When she emerged, he was in the locker room, bent over and buckling a boot. Once again he was shirtless and in tight leather pants. He was wearing a rather strange harness on his chest though, made of leather and big, silver rings. When he straightened, he caught her staring.
Not her fault he had the nicest butt she'd ever seen, not to mention the leather did nothing to hide, well, anything.
She took a step toward the shoes waiting for her on the bench.
She squeaked.
He smirked.
It sounded like she had let out a long, dragging a finger on a balloon, fart.
Her face burned.
“Need help?” He drawled.
Two months of catty exchanges and quips directed at their costumes, and this time she had nothing.
She walked awkwardly, legs wide apart, and then sat on the bench.
Another squeak.
“I hate this job.”
~*~
In the past four months she had worked at the club, she had been subjected to many forms of humiliation. Latex, leather, fur, maid costumes, heels that would have killed someone with weaker ankles, and any assortment of creature ears and tails.
This though, this really took the cake.
Her breasts were pointy.
They looked like they could kill anyone that came close.
She considered the amount of times she'd been 'accidentally' groped in her past four months of employment.
Maybe not so bad.
The rest of it left something to be desired, however. It was a gold one piece, like something a cancan dancer would have worn. Gold fringe hung from the bottom, only covering a few inches of fishnet clad legs.
When she walked out of the bathroom, he was there, as he had been almost every night she had worked.
“Go ahead, you know you want to,” She muttered. In the past four months he had been present almost every time she had stepped out of the bathroom, and just as frequently, he'd had something to say about the chosen costume of the night.
It was never anything nice.
“Impressive,” Was all he said, smirk mocking her as he turned for the door to the main floor.
Even so, she couldn't help but watch his butt in the leather as he walked away.
“Jerk,” She huffed as she sat and pulled on the spiky platform pumps she'd be wearing for the night.
Within an hour the waiting crowd was let in, music was pounding through the walls, and she was quickly looking forward to her fifteen minute break. Had she been of a lesser mind, she would have picked up smoking like some of the others.
When two hours had passed, she began glancing at the clock.
At two hours and thirty minutes she was trying to check it every few minutes.
Somehow, she managed to look at the clock behind the bar at exactly midnight.
“I'm going to take my break,” She shouted at Sesshoumaru, who only nodded absently, his eyes on the group of scantily clad women in front of him. Grateful that no one seemed to notice her, she began walking for the door, more the eager to get away.
The music stopped.
She started walking faster.
“Ladies and gentleman, tonight is a very special night!” The DJ announced, voice filled with anticipation.
'Miroku I'm going to kill you,' She muttered as the crowd went quiet.
“It's the birthday of a very special girl, our very own Miss Inju!”
She kept walking.
“Oh come on Miss Inju,” Miroku cajoled, voice masked in mock hurt. “Don't you want your birthday spankings?”
No, NO she did NOT want her birthday spankings.
“How about a hand Kiba?”
She turned on her heels so quickly she lost balance, only to stumble forward into none other than Sesshoumaru, aka Kiba.
He was smirking.
“If you let me go, I'll give you all of my paychecks for a month,” She offered.
“A snowball's chance in hell,” He purred, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder. A spotlight hit on them, and he carried her over to the bar and sat her on top of it. Even though she was sitting on the bar he was still almost eye to eye to her.
She suddenly regretted their sarcastic, rather short exchanges over the past few months.
“If you submit peacefully, I'll only use my hand instead of the paddle,” He offered, looking almost magnanimous, as if he was doing her a favor.
She looked at the 'birthday paddle' hanging on the back wall among the rows of liquor bottles and neon lights.
He was doing her a favor.
The damn thing was huge.
She hunched her shoulders and turned, then flopped belly first onto the bar, grateful at least, that he had brought her around the side so people wouldn't be given a perfect view of her being subjected to such humiliation. However, that meant she was forced to watch the crowd watching her.
Her cones pointed down at the floor.
She closed her eyes and prayed no one she knew was in the club.
'Job, job, job, salaried job-'
When she felt leather brushing against her legs she jerked back, stupidly, because she obviously couldn't go forward.
“Relax, you might enjoy it,” He said into her ear.
“A snowball's chance in hell,” She muttered darkly, throwing his own words back at him.
“I'm going to enjoy this,” He chuckled, and she felt, for a moment, that she was missing something.
“Our Miss Inju has just turned twenty four,” Miroku announced. “Which means twenty five licks, one to grow on you know,” He joked before the music resumed.
People were still staring, but at least she couldn't hear them. Closing her eyes tightly, she balled her hands into fists and waited.
His hand smoothed over her bottom, which was mostly exposed, fishnets giving little coverage. She tried not to think about his hand, or his eyes on her derriere.
His hand pulled back.
It came down on her flesh with a light pop, and she expelled a gusty sigh, grateful that it had not been as bad as she had expected it to be.
The next one almost sent her sliding off the other side of the bar.
Stubbornly she resisted crying out, even though it felt like her whole behind was on fire.
He paused halfway through, when almost everyone had turned away and gone back to dancing.
“Are you alright?” He asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“I'm fine,” She bit out, making sure he could hear it.
She almost wished she'd said no, because the next thirteen blows came in rapid succession, knocking the breath from her. When he finished, she could feel him step back and slid back until she was off the counter and on her feet.
Her legs felt unsteady.
He was pressed against her. She could feel bare, perspiring skin.
And...
Was he-?
He was hard.
The leather pants left nothing to the imagination.
Feeling vindictive and more than a little petty, she pressed against him, using him for support while also hoping to inflict some form of humiliation on him.
“Are you alright?” He asked again, voice somewhat strained as she pressed her sore bottom against his groin.
“I've had better,” She retorted cattily, moving away from him and walking on steady legs over to the floor before waving to those still watching and blowing a kiss.
She was intensely proud of the fact that she managed to keep from falling flat on her face.
~*~
The next night she was better prepared. She had seen others have their birthdays at the club. Midnight and then the last few minutes of the next night, before midnight hit again.
The manager approved her costume, this one bought with great care. Her vindictive plotting had carried her through the store and helped her get through the process of actually attaining it without blushing too much.
And the manager had pointed out -surprisingly- that they had never had a costume like it before.
Also, to be careful with the wings.
She went into the bathroom and took her time changing, wondering if he was waiting. But she intentionally took her time, making sure that he would have no choice but to be out on the floor and behind the bar by the time she finished.
The manager would forgive her.
White fishnet thigh highs and garter white lacy garter belt with matching cheeky underwear, a cheap corset made of white silk and lace and a fluffy white skirt a ballerina's tutu skirt than anything else and a pair of white pumps she'd borrowed from the manager's collection.
Make up and wings to top it off.
She hoped the skirt gave him hell.
There was no halo of course.
Taking great care with her posture and gait, she made sure to exit onto the main floor as if she hadn't a care in the world, even though, for the first time since beginning work, she felt like she could actually find some enjoyment in her job.
Even if it was just -finally- getting back at the smug, arrogant, mocking, too-good-for-anybody-there Sesshoumaru.
It felt good to have a purpose.
When she went for the first tray of drinks, she was positive he'd stuck some extremity in an electrical outlet, because he looked vaguely pole axed, as if he couldn't quite believe it was her.
His expression was quickly it's normal, apathetic mask.
She smiled and winked.
His eyes narrowed.
Halfway into the second hour and she found she was actually anticipating the minutes before midnight. In the brief moments she'd had to go to the bar for more drinks, she had made sure to make eye contact, and the almost but not quite glare had deepened into suspicion.
At a quarter to midnight, the music stopped.
Miroku pulled off his spiel, even cheering for her when she walked over to the bar and hopped up on top of it.
His brow raised, although whether it was in inquiry or amusement, she couldn't tell. She smirked.
He smirked.
“So do I get the birthday paddle?” She asked impishly, earning a wave of tittering from those close by.
“I think not,” He rumbled.
“You sure? Seems like you need it,” She added.
It was amazing how strong he was, and how quickly he could move.
She was on her stomach, wings shifting and eyes on the watching crowd.
Her skirts ruffled. She could feel him trying to push them away, only to be thwarted by the multitude of net-like flounces.
“Having trouble there Kiba?” Miroku's voice echoed through the club, amplified by the speaker system.
“Does Kiba need some assistance?” She asked, turning just enough to look at him over her shoulder.
“Brat.”
She turned and stared at the floor, if only to hide her triumphant grin.
He finally stopped and she stilled when she heard a sigh.
The sound of the paddle being taken down from the wall. Miroku's mocking jeer.
The paddle wasn't nearly as bad as his hand. It felt as if he wasn't even trying.
And for some reason, that was disappointing.
When it was over, the music started back up and she was sliding off of the counter.
He was not there behind her this time, and she quickly walked from behind the bar and bar to the locker room, and finding it empty, into the break room, which smelled of coffee, although not cigarettes thankfully. Smoking was outside, and the break room was barely ever used for that reason.
She had just slipped off the wings when the door opened and closed quietly. She turned, surprised to see Sesshoumaru there.
He was wearing a smirk, but it was far different than the one he normally wore. The other one had been mocking, taunting, sometimes even sneering. Always smug. But this smirk was different. Sly, almost satisfied, if reminded her far too much of a predator that had cornered it's prey.
“Were the wings too heavy?” He asked, fairly gliding around her to the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup of what had to be three or four hour old coffee.
“Umm, yeah,” She mumbled.
This was not the normal Sesshoumaru.
Needing something to do with her hands, she reached to grab the wings and put them on when he was behind her, hands pushing on her back until she was bent over the table.
“I suppose the costume is meant to be ironic,” He muttered, bending over her.
“Maybe I just enjoy being a pain in the ass on occasion,” She retorted.
“Funny, so do I,” He murmured into her ear, breath hot and fanning over the sensitive spot just behind her lobe. She shivered.
“I was too kind to do this in front of a crowd,” He told her, voice that same, silky tone he had been using since entering the room. She was about to ask, but was answered when her flouncy, intentionally chosen to be impossible to deal with skirt was pushed high until her bottom was exposed.
“Now that I can see it, your underwear is,” He paused, and she flushed hotly, although she wasn't sure if it was because of the pause of because he was staring at her butt. Or that she was letting him. This certainly hadn't been what she had planned, but it just because she couldn't humiliate him in front of a crowd didn't mean she couldn't get her own, private, spiteful kicks.
“Cute.”
It might even be more satisfying.
She was readying herself to bask in the opportunity for future gloating when his hand came down on her behind and a startled yelp was half gasped. The edge of the table bit into her thighs and she had to struggle to inhale.
Anything he had done so far was nothing compared to that one hit.
“Want me to stop?” He asked.
There was the smug, self satisfied tone she was used to. It only steeled her resolve to continue.
“You were better with the paddle,” She replied breezily, as if his prior blow hadn't affected her in the least.
Another blow on her bottom almost made her cry out, and she bit her lip, determined to keep it in. One more and she was inhaling deeply through her nose, feeling her face flush with the heat of possible tears.
Disconcertingly gentle, his hand rubbed over the hot flesh, every ridge and callus pronounced for the throbbing heat. Following the curve down, his fingertips ghosted over her covered sex. She felt herself twitch in response.
“Hnn.”
What was 'Hnn' supposed to mean? Was it him mocking her, was he playing the same game that she was, or-
Her thoughts were cut off by another blow, this landing on top of another, as if he'd memorized the spots he'd hit. It didn't occur to he that he had very big hands, because it felt lie he was intentionally laying each proceeding smack over the last in some way, slowly spreading them out over her cheeks until she was a squirming mess gasping for breath.
She still hadn't screamed or told him to stop.
The brief thought of winning flitted through her mind before his hand smoothed over the tender, over heated flesh again, following the same path it had before. When fingertips slid between her legs, light pressure just barely there, she realized two seconds too late that she spread her legs a little wider for him.
When a smug chuckle echoed in the small room, she slammed them back together, mortified that she had responded like that at all.
“We could stop,” He rumbled quietly.
“Getting tired?” She asked, voice mulish.
“Not a chance in hell,” He said before he began raining blows down on her behind in earnest. Before she had been given the chance to breathe, now she wasn't even sure she would ever breathe again as the pain blossomed and spread from her bottom out to her thighs and back in vivid, cutting waves.
She was almost ready to break, to beg for mercy when he abruptly stopped and she felt his fingers sliding over her slit, pushing the flimsy lace aside and rubbing against the slickness there. Panting and warm all over, she pushed back against his hand, crying out in shock when two fingers pushed into her. Electricity crashed against fire and she gave in and spread her legs wider, hands clinging to the edge of the table.
It was so close, she could feel it tightening the muscles in her body, her pussy clenching around his fingers, desperate for friction. Her breath was hot, misting the surface of the table with each moan that escaped.
And that was when his fingers pulled out of her, making her want to scream in frustration.
If he stopped now, she would go crazy. Pride wasn't even a consideration anymore.
Her panties were tugged roughly down her legs, and when they hit the garter straps she heard and felt them rip, didn't think to care when her legs were spread and he was pushing against her. Big, so big and hot, and barely pressing into her, teasing her with the promise of friction and gratification.
“Apologize,” He bit out, the tip of his cock slipped against her sex, offering only a moment of desperately needed pressure.
“No.”
Why was she saying no? She wanted to have sex, wanted to follow through with whatever had happened because stopping meant psychosis, she was sure of it. At the very least she'd have a nervous breakdown. Jerk or not, it had been months since she'd left her last boyfriend, and, jerk or not, he felt amazing.
“No?” He panted out, sounded almost as winded as she.
“No,” She repeated, calling herself a hundred different kinds of moron.
“Good,” He said, and she could hear the smirk, the predatory, smug, self satisfied smirk, in his voice.
And then she was stretched around him, crying out her pleasure as he filled her in one quick, hard stroke. His fingers dug into the bruised flesh of her ass and intensified a pain that was quickly getting lost in the sensations he was creating as he slid in and out of her in quick, long thrusts, pulling out of her completely before bucking forward and filling her again. Needing more she began pushing back against him, easily falling into the rhythm and losing herself as sweat soaked her skin.
Every satisfied moan mixed with an appreciative groan as her body tightened more and more, muscles ready to snap beneath the skin as their movements became rougher, his hands moving from her ass to her hips to pull her back against him.
When her orgasm crashed down on her, it felt like every muscle in her body snapped and her head turned to air, her mid blank to everything but the pleasure radiating through her. Limp and exhausted from the first orgasm, she didn't protest when he pulled out, or even when she felt his come on her reddened bottom, even hotter than her scorched flesh.
For several minutes the room was filled with the sounds of their desperate attempts at breathing. She was sure hours had passed when she finally pushed herself upright, her skirt falling back into place easily, as if the whole thing had never happened.
The netting felt scratchy against her hyper sensitive flesh, and when she sat on the edge of the table, she was surprised that she could sit at all. But the table felt vague, as if her bottom had almost numbed to it.
He had zipped and buttoned the leather pants, although he was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration.
“Good?” She finally asked, voice pitched for it's breathlessness.
“I like brats,” He responded, voice only hinting at their exertions.
She realized that being a brat wasn't so bad. At least she could get him back for all of the sarcastic remarks about her work costumes.
“You can't give out birthday spankings to the others anymore,” She finally said in a very decided tone.
“Don't wear a cone bra again and I won't want to.”
She distinctly remembered there being two others in the costume rack.
~*~
A/N: Because I was thinking about smutting, but '>_>' in chat only brought Maddonna's cone bra to mind, which made me think it might have been a bad idea. R0o bribed me to smut anyway.
I regret nothing. XD