Chapter 71
"I'm such an idiot, really."
Denji lifted his eyes, which currently had zero "energy" left, and continued.
I only knew that once emotions were stirred, little Makima would find it hard to be satisfied with just kisses and hugs—she would want to explore love even deeper. What I didn't know… was how thoroughly she had prepared.
After a fierce verbal and physical battle, I was taken back to her place. We washed up properly, and I told our little Denji to go play outside for a while to help me secure the win.
He's very obedient—he listens to every word I say. So he left.
I recalled everything in my mind, summarized the experience, theory in place, practice began.
I called for little Denji. No response. I opened my eyes and looked—only to see little Makima wrapping around me. Our little Denji was gone.
Did he go play somewhere else? I groped around everywhere—sure enough, nothing.
I panicked and begged someone to release my little Denji.
It wasn't until the middle of the night, after searching high and low, that I found a trace of him hanging on a thorny bush in a mountain hollow.
My mind roared—oh no, he must have been done in by little Makima.
I went in further. Sure enough, he was lying in the grass nest, his insides… already eaten clean. In his hand, he still tightly clutched that little basket…
Little Denji, oh little Denji!
...
Later, Denji repeatedly encountered similar stories. Although the surrounding conditions might change slightly, the core always remained the same…
...
In the heart of Tokyo, still that same luxurious high-floor apartment.
In the blink of an eye, the world had turned completely white with daylight.
Sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, harshly illuminating the messy aftermath of last night's fierce battle. This place had become Makima's meticulously constructed "battlefield" that belonged only to her and Denji.
The air was thick with a heavy, salty scent mixed with lust and sweat—like a tropical jungle after a torrential rain, humid, sticky, making it hard to breathe.
Every inch of the room still bore traces of last night's "tactical confrontation," silent testimony to that earth-shaking madness.
The sofa armrest in the living room was scratched with several deep nail marks. Ring-shaped sweat stains bloomed on the crystal coffee table. In one corner of the carpet lay a crumpled piece of lace fabric.
The bathroom mirror was covered in fog and fingerprints. The showerhead hung crookedly, and a few pure white feathers were scattered on the tiles below—remnants of the "Angel Abstinence" set that never got the chance to be properly worn.
Palm prints and lip marks crisscrossed the floor-to-ceiling glass on the balcony. Half the curtain had been torn down; when the morning breeze blew in, the scattered clothes on the floor still rustled with hoarse whimpers, like lingering gasps.
Returning to the bedroom—the core battlefield.
The black lace top was almost torn to shreds. Every piece of openwork lace was curled up, edges unnaturally twisted—from the intense friction between the two of them.
The matte silky thigh-high stockings were covered in wrinkles; the real-silk binding ribbon at the waist had snapped into three pieces. It had once been wrapped around Makima's wrist like a special shackle…
Those "patent leather liquid soft armor" pieces that were supposed to be worn on the body now lay limp on the floor in various grotesque poses. The high-molecular mirror coating was covered in messy scratch marks; one section had even been violently torn open, exposing the broken fiber lining underneath.
It looked like an abandoned, broken suit of armor, silently recounting the brutality of the previous offensive and defensive war.
Farther away, those "Primordial Totem" three-dimensional installation art pieces were even more shocking: the fox tail fluff had been torn into scattered fibers, the fox-ear decorations broken, the ear tips bitten with a neat row of notches. The fluffy faux lamb fur was covered in pressure marks; countless gaps had been torn in the lace transitions, exposing the fine mesh gauze inside.
Nearby, the dark wool-blend pleated skirt was crumpled into a ball, the hem… (omitted)
The lace suspender skirt's shoulder straps were tilted, nearly tearing the main body apart. The chiffon hem had been shredded into dozens of tassels.
A pair of off-white cotton thigh-highs suffered especially badly: one sock cuff had been pulled up past the knee, the ribbed texture twisted like rope; the other had been torn until it was little more than rags, hanging from the headboard like a surrendered white flag.
Moving the view upward.
On the bedside low cabinet, one of the tactical bags had been opened and left there in a pile. Dozens of carefully prepared "equipments" were scattered across the floor—some crumpled into balls, some with their lace edges ripped open.
The cotton preppy-style set representing "Innocent Camouflage" was now wrinkled and stuffed under the pillow. A blurry, damp tooth mark was clearly imprinted on the white ruffled sailor collar.
Clearly, it hadn't even had time to be fully unfolded before more primal desire brutally interrupted it.
Focusing on the center.
The bedsheet on the zelkova wood bed was wrinkled beyond recognition, with a deep depression in the middle. Two bodies lay there in an almost entangled posture, as though they had just experienced a fusion without distinction between self and other.
Makima's breathing was heavy; her chest rose and fell violently. Every movement tugged at the traces still left on her body.
On the fair skin of her neck, several red marks of varying depths were now imprinted—traces Denji had left at the edge of losing control, like a beast marking its territory, domineering and full of possessiveness.
Below her collarbone, a small fragment of patent leather material still remained—the last remnant of one of the series from the fierce battle.
Her fingers unconsciously gripped the bedsheet beneath her; her knuckles were white from the force, as though she was still savoring the near-uncontrollable pleasure from before.
In a daze, one could almost still hear the sounds of slaughter from that battlefield.
The two of them's heavy, staggered panting, along with the faint "riiiip" sound of fabric being torn.
That was Makima's unconscious action. Her hand was still moving; her fingertips hooked onto a black lace thigh-high stocking hanging from the edge of the bed. As her arm trembled, the delicate lace mesh was stretched to its limit in her fingers, letting out an unbearable groan—as if it was about to follow in the footsteps of that earlier gauze.
...
Black lace, white cotton, glossy patent leather fragments, and that striking pink of human skin—all intertwined across the messy battlefield.
The water vapor still floating in the air had not yet dissipated. It refracted faint light, casting mottled, chaotic shadows on the ceiling. Those shadows twisted and swayed, like a silent silent film replaying everything that had happened here—
From probing to attack, from defense to collapse, all the way to complete surrender.
Makima slowly opened her eyes. In those layered golden-ringed pupils, there was no longer emptiness or void—only a heavy, full satisfaction that had just been poured in. She shifted her body slightly, tugging at her sore muscles, and let out a lazy sigh.
In this "war," she had lost willingly and won completely.
She turned her head and looked at Denji sleeping beside her like an infant. The corners of her mouth curved into a weak yet slightly proud smile.
"Denji," her voice was hoarse, carrying post-climax languor and a trace of lingering madness, "I know… whatever you want… I'm willing to give it all to you…"
As she spoke, she reached out and touched toward her heart…
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