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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: Holiday Gangbang - A Christmas Caper in Tokyo
Author: DeckerDary13
Chapter Tags: Add story tags specific to the opening chapter of your story here if you want to.
Content Warnings: Below story is purely for fantasy and fapping material only. Enjoy
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A Christmas edition story of the Musketeers universe, photo is generated purely from AI prompts and does not intend to be a real world person. Any similarities to real people are pure coincidental. Happy fapping and happy holidays
Also this is part of the Holiday Gangbang story contest-------------------------------------------------------------
Holiday Gangbang - A Christmas Caper in Tokyo
The Christmas lights strung across the bar we were having drinks at, with a Santa Claus and Christmas tree set in the middle. The holiday season had arrived in Tokyo's little college district, and none of us gave a fuck.
Han Jiang exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose, rejoicing on their latest gangbang 2 months ago. "That British piglet screamed louder than the Japs when we shoved it in her ass. Thought she'd pass out from hyperventilating." He grinned, tapping ash onto the pavement where a salaryman had vomited karaoke drinks earlier.
Joon Woo leaned back on the railing, rolling a Zippo between his fingers. "Should've seen her boyfriend's face when we made her swallow me dry," he said, thumbing the fresh scar on his lip where she'd bitten him. "Like watching a puppy get kicked. Almost came again just remembering it." The neon lights from the love hotel across the street pulsed red across the knife he'd used to cut her clothes off—still tucked in his waistband since that night.
I spat on the pavement where the American sailor's high-polished shoe had been planted just hours ago. Navy whites stretched tight across her ass as she'd bent to tie her boot, oblivious to three pairs of eyes measuring the width of her hips for restraint compatibility. We'd been two steps behind her all afternoon—close enough to smell the fragrant shampoo in her regulation bun, far enough to note the confident swing of her arms that said she could throw a punch. Then some fucking petty officer called her on her mobile, with orders to immediately set to sea again as the Chinese Navy deployed their 3rd Aircraft Carrier the Fujian to the Taiwan Straits.
Han Jiang crushed his cigarette underfoot with more force than necessary. "Whole fucking carrier group's pulling out tonight," he muttered. "Did you see the rack on that blond lieutenant? Tits trying to pop out of her bra and uniform!"
The bartender's wooden ladle cracked against the counter like a gunshot. "Keep it down, you drunken bastards." His tattooed fingers tightened around a baseball bat we'd seen him use last month on a drunk salaryman.
I held my glass of Asahi as I scanned the room for a potential target. The seasonal crowd was thinner than expected, but prime hunting material nonetheless: a group of tipsy office ladies giggling over shochu, a lone foreign backpacker nursing an Asahi, and in the far corner, a group of college students having drinks and laughing obnoxiously loud. My eyes narrowed when I saw one of them—a wiry, short Japanese boy with a hoodie and dyed-blonde hair—drop a white pill into the wine glass of an American girl sitting diagonally from him. He did it with practiced ease, his fingers flicking it in when she turned to laugh at something her friend said. The liquid barely rippled as it dissolved.
The American girl's face was the kind that launched a thousand teenage fantasies back home—soft, freckled cheeks, a pert little nose that wrinkled when she laughed, and full pink lips that always seemed slightly parted as if waiting for a kiss. Her blonde hair fell in effortless waves around her shoulders, catching the dim bar lights like spun gold. But it was her eyes that held the most innocent blue eyes. She had that wholesome, girl-next-door look, the kind that made you want to ruin her out of sadistic pleasure.
I nudged Joon Woo under the table with my knee, jerking my chin toward the scene unfolding. His dark eyes flicked up from his whiskey, tracing my line of sight to the blonde girl and the Japanese boy sliding her doctored drink closer with a sleazy grin. Han Jiang caught the silent exchange between us, his thick fingers tightening around his beer bottle as he leaned in. "Looks like a fucking amateur"
Joon Woo licked his teeth, considering. "Let the pill do its work. When she's slurring and stumbling, we intercept." His fingers tapped the knife in his pocket—the same one that had tasted British blood weeks ago.
Han Jiang scoffed. "Where's the sport in that? I want her to know it's us fucking her, not some limp-dick salaryman." He mimed snapping a neck, eyes locked on the Japanese student's skinny frame
I contemplated raping an unconscious girl again—the slack jaw, the way their bodies moved like puppets freely allowing me to do whatever I wanted. So I proposed to the gang for the Christmas season let’s do something different in our gangbang and they were up for it
Han Jiang's grin mirrored mine as we tossed back our drinks in unison, the burn of whiskey masking our anticipation. We stood with deliberate casualness—stretching, adjusting our shirts, checking phones—the perfect picture of bored patrons leaving a bar. The bartender barely glanced up as we dropped crumpled yen on the counter, his indifference another tool in our arsenal. Outside, the December air bit through our jackets as we melted into the pedestrian flow, doubling back through an alley to observe from the shadows.
Inside, Joon Woo remained the picture of disinterest, slouched over his phone with one ankle resting on his knee. But I knew his gaze tracked every twitch of the Japanese boy's fingers as he nudged the spiked cocktail closer to the American girl. She giggled, oblivious, her pink-tipped fingers closing around the glass—her nails still painted with childish glitter from some university holiday party. Han Jiang's breath fogged against the window as he muttered, "Look at her throat working. Like a fucking baby bird swallowing poison."
The Japanese predator noticed when her knee buckled for the first time. He was busy leaning in, feigning concern as his hand creeping toward her thigh as she blinked at the sudden heaviness behind her eyes. We saw it though—that exact moment when her pupils blew wide and her grip slackened. Her head lolled forward, strands of honey-blonde hair catching on her sticky lips just as Joon Woo pocketed his phone with a quiet click.
Han Jiang chuckled darkly when the boy clumsily caught her against his shoulder, his fingers digging into the hem of her sweater. Watching the kid's triumphant smirk as he hauled her toward the back exit. The bartender deliberately turned his back, wiping down glasses with exaggerated focus. Routine protocol for this kind of establishment—look away when the real monsters make their move.
We kept a measured distance, footsteps muffled by the wet pavement as they turned down an alley lined with love hotel signs. Neon pinks and blues pulsed overhead, illuminating the way her head lolled against the boy's collarbone. Her fingers twitched near his waistband, but her eyelids were already at half-mast—that cocktail of benzodiazepines and red wine working its magic.
The kid didn't even hesitate when they reached a rusted metal door wedged between two vending machines; one for condoms and lubes, another for sex toys. His hand dove into his jacket like he'd done this a hundred times before, producing a chipped plastic keycard from a hidden pocket. No hesitation, no fumbling. *He's done this before*, Joon Woo mouthed against my ear, warm breath curling around the words. The lock clicked open with the smoothness of regular use.
Inside, the hallway smelled of mold and industrial cleaner, the kind of stench that clung to places where people paid to pretend they weren't fucking. The boy hauled her forward, her sneakers dragging twin streaks through something sticky on the linoleum. His free hand kept creeping up her thigh, squeezing through the fabric of her skirt like he couldn't wait for the privacy of a room. Above us, a flickering bulb cast jagged shadows—a broken fluorescent tube sputtering its last breaths.
We knew following him into the room wasn't going to work—too confined, too predictable. Instead, we slipped into the elevator just as its doors groaned open. The mirrored walls reflected our grins back at us, warped and predatory in the dim light. Joon Woo pressed the emergency stop button with his thumb. Han Jiang exhaled sharply through his nose when the kid finally noticed us, his grip tightening on the girl's limp wrist. "You got a problem?" the boy sneered, puffing out his chest like some street-corner rooster.
Han Jiang moved first—always the quickest to violence. His fist connected with the kid's solar plexus hard enough to fold him in half, sending the girl sprawling across the floor. The boy wheezed, clutching his stomach as Joon Woo grabbed a fistful of his dyed-blond hair and held him at knifepoint "Problem?" Han Jiang repeated, kicking the kid's legs out from under him. "Yeah. You're in our way."
I crouched beside the unconscious American, rolling her onto her back. Her lips were parted, breath shallow—whatever he'd slipped her was potent. The keycard peeked from his jacket pocket, and I snatched it just as Joon Woo restrained him. The metallic clink of the card hitting the floor was lost under the boy's wet coughing.
The elevator groaned back to life, ascending with eerie smoothness. Han Jiang kept his arms in a choke hold position on the kid's throat, pressing just hard enough to turn his gasps into strangled whistles. The doors slid open on the fifteenth floor to reveal a dimly lit hallway with peeling wallpaper and the distant hum of vending machines. We dragged them both—her by the ankles, him by the collar.
Even before we reached Room 1523, the sounds hit us: rhythmic slapping of flesh, muffled feminine whimpers, and the occasional slap followed by obedient silence. The whole floor pulsed with it—wet smacks and stifled moans leaking from behind half a dozen doors. Joon Woo grinned, recognizing the symphony. "Love hotel's busy tonight," he murmured, tilting his head toward a particularly loud chorus of grunts and creaking bedsprings.
I dragged my thumb across the American girl's slack lips, still damp with spilled liquor. "Must be drug rapes like your Jap boy here," I remarked, nudging the predator with my shoe. His eyelids fluttered—aware enough to hear us, too broken to protest.
The electronic lock chirped green beneath Joon Woo's stolen keycard. Inside, stale cigarette smoke clung to velvet drapes drawn tight against the city lights. A circular bed dominated the space, its red satin sheets to set the mood. Han Jiang tossed the Japanese boy into the corner where he sat compliantly like a discarded cigarette butt.
"Bring the rope," Han Jiang ordered, kneeling to roll the predator onto his stomach. The boy's wrists were still slick with the American girl's sweat when we bound them behind his back with the curtain tie—knots cinched tight enough to bleach his knuckles white. His ankles came next, lashed together so severely his tendons stood out like bridge cables.
I placed the girl on the bed, her limp arms sprawling across the crimson satin like a discarded doll. Neon pink from the love hotel's signage pulsed through the window blinds, painting stripes across her loose black blouse, skinny jeans and sneakers.
From the minibar, I tossed them each a Santa cap—cheap red felt with white fur trim, complimentary from the hotel's "festive romance package." Joon Woo caught his midair and promptly jammed it over the Japanese boy's head, tilting it rakishly as the boy groaned through his gag. "Merry fucking Christmas," he sneered, giving the kid's cheek a condescending pat. Han Jiang didn't bother waiting; he yanked the girl upright by her ponytail and shoved the cap onto her head, the elastic band snapping under her chin. Her head lolled forward, the white fur brushing her flushed cheeks.
Camcorder whirring, I zoomed in as Han Jiang peeled off his shirt, his muscles flexing under the pulsing neon light. He adjusted the Santa cap with a shit-eating grin, the pompom bouncing as he climbed onto the bed. "Ho ho ho," he chuckled, fingers hooking into the collar of her blouse. The fabric tore like wet paper, buttons pinging against the headboard. Her bra was next—black lace, practical but still tempting—and Han Jiang made a show of sniffing it before tossing it over his shoulder.
Her breasts were beautiful and firm, nipples pert even in her drugged state. Joon Woo whistled through his teeth, circling the bed with the camcorder balanced on his shoulder. I watched Han Jiang cup them, kneading the soft flesh with his thumbs. "American girls," he mused, pinching a nipple until it darkened.
He proceeded to take off his pants, showing his raging hard-on—veins bulging along the shaft, the head already slick with precum. The neon light made his cock look obscenely large as it bobbed between his thighs, casting jagged shadows across the girl's torso. Han Jiang smirked, stroking himself lazily as he surveyed her prone form. "Let's see if she's tighter than the British bitches," he murmured.
The knife flicked out with practiced ease, its edge catching the dim light as Han Jiang traced the blade along the seam of her jeans. The denim parted easily under the pressure, revealing smooth, tanned skin beneath. He peeled the ruined fabric aside with one hand, his other still gripping his cock, thumb swiping over the swollen tip. Her legs were flawless—long, toned from years of sports, the muscles twitching faintly even in her drugged stupor. Last came her sneakers, peeled off just as easily revealing her pedicured light blue toenails.
"I *did* always love unwrapping presents," Han Jiang chuckled, flipping the knife closed before tossing it onto the bedside table. The metallic clatter was drowned out by Joon Woo's quiet laugh from behind the camcorder. Han Jiang’s fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, the cheap lace tearing easily as he yanked them down her thighs. His breath hitched when he saw the neatly trimmed patch of dark blonde curls guarding her entrance—fresh, pink.
No hesitation. No foreplay. Just the thick slap of his palm against her inner thigh as he forced her legs apart, his fingers leaving faint red marks on her tan skin. The girl's head lolled to the side, her lips parted in shallow breaths, completely unaware of the violation about to unfold. Han Jiang leaned forward, his cockhead nudging against her dry slit, the resistance immediate. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on her hips as he pushed forward.
Her body arched off the mattress in delayed reaction—reacting to the stimuli on her sex despite the drugs—as he split her open in one brutal stroke. The sound was obscenely wet, the bedframe groaning as he bottomed out inside her. "Merry fucking Christmas," he snarled, teeth bared in a feral grin as he felt the telltale snap of her hymen giving way beneath him. Blood smeared against his thighs, stark against his skin as he withdrew only to slam back in, her tightness clinging to him like a vice.
Joon Woo zoomed in on the girl's face, capturing the way her eyelashes fluttered—the closest thing to consciousness she could muster—as Han Jiang's hips pistoned against her. "Santa's been good this year," Han Jiang panted, one hand gently slapping her cheeks, his voice thick with exertion, "Leaving me a virgin elf to be unwrapped." His fingers then dug into the soft flesh of her hips, sure to leave bruises in the shape of his grip. The camera lingered on the way her breasts jostled with each thrust, the nipples pebbled tight despite her unconscious state.
"Fucking cum in her already, man," Joon Woo snapped, adjusting the lens with a frustrated jerk of his wrist. The red recording light pulsed like a heartbeat. "We've got two more stockings to stuff before midnight." Behind him, the Japanese boy whimpered around his gag, his wrists raw from struggling against the festive red rope binding him to the chair.
Han Jiang's response was to flip us off with a grin, his bicep flexing as he pinned the girl's thighs apart. Porking away at her for the past 5 minutes, His hips finally stuttered—then he buried himself to the hilt with a groan, back arching like a drawn bow. The girl's body jerked, her slack mouth releasing a soundless gasp as he pumped his release deep into her womb. The camera caught every twitch of her eyelids, the involuntary clench of her fingers in the hotel sheets. Han Jiang pulled out slowly, letting us see the mess he'd made—thick strands of cum already leaking from her abused slit, glistening under the neon glow of the blinking Santa hat light above the bed.
Joon Woo didn't waste time. He tossed the phone camera toward me and lunged for the bed, his cock slapping against his stomach as he knelt between the girl's legs—still glistening with Han Jiang's spend. The Jap kid whimpered through his gag, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair as Joon Woo grabbed the girl's ankles and flipped her onto her stomach like a ragdoll. Her breasts pressed flat against the mattress, her ass raised in invitation. Joon Woo spat into his palm, stroking himself twice before lining up—not with her dripping cunt, but lower, where her tightest hole clenched reflexively.
Han Jiang leaned against the nightstand with a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with lazy amusement as Joon Woo pushed in slowly, once her ass adjusted to the violation, Joon Woo gave a smirk to the camera then slammed home. The girl's body convulsed, a choked moan escaping her slack lips. Her hips jerked weakly, but Joon Woo just laughed, grabbing fistfuls of her blonde hair to hold her steady. "Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!" he growled, setting a brutal pace that made the bedframe screech. Each thrust punched a quiet gasp from the girl's lungs, her fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets while Han Jiang filmed her face—eyes rolled back, drool pooling on the pillow.Furiously sodomizing her, both his hands were at her hips supporting himself before his left hand roaming down to grad and squeeze her breasts. His right hand was gently enveloping her belly making sure her body was at the right angle.
She made a sound—half-sob, half-choked scream—when his balls slapped against her skin in wet smacks. The scent of sweat and sex hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid burn of Han Jiang's cigarette. Then Joon Woo shuddered, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt. His groan was guttural, satisfied, as he pulsed inside her, filling her ass with his release. He stayed seated for a long moment, savoring the clench of her around him before withdrawing with a slick pop.
"Best ass out of the three," he bragged, wiping himself on the sheets, caressing her ass cheeks before turning her limp body onto its back. Her legs fell open, displaying the mess they'd made—Han Jiang's cum still glistening at her entrance, Joon Woo's leaking from her ass. "Tightest too" He grinned down at their Japanese captive, whose face was streaked snot beneath the festive restraints. "You picked a good one, didn't you? Should thank us for letting you watch."
Now it was my turn. I settled for the mouth. Not out of mercy— but the way her lips were slightly parted made it too tempting. She was breathing through them now, shallow and fast, her body instinctively trying to recover from the assault. I grabbed a handful of that golden hair, wrapping it around my fist like reins before forcing her head over the edge of the mattress. Her neck arched uncomfortably, but the drugs kept her pliant. Didn't stop the reflexive gag when I shoved past her teeth though.
The holiday spirit had me in a generous mood—or as generous as monsters like us get. I didn't just skull-fuck her immediately. No, I let her taste me first, the tip of my cock dragging along her tongue while I watched her eyelids flutter with the wrongness of it. She made a noise in her throat, panicked and wet, but her jaw stayed slack. That was the beauty of roofies—total surrender without the mess of fighting. I rocked shallowly, letting her mouth get accustomed to the stretch before going deeper.
Her throat was slick velvet, hotter than I remembered from our British conquest. Maybe it was the contrast with Tokyo’s December chill still clinging to my skin. I curled my fingers tighter in her hair, angling her head back further to admire how her lips strained around my girth. A string of saliva dripped from her chin—pathetic, perfect. Her nose pressed into my pubes, breath hitching when I bottomed out. The vibration felt divine.
I began accelerating my pace, abandoning shallow teases for full, brutal strokes. Her gag reflex kicked in belatedly; weak twitches against my shaft as her body finally realized it should resist. Too late, darling. Each thrust punched a wet sound from her throat, a rhythm as obscene as the neon Santa hat still askew on her head. Behind me, Han Jiang was laughing—probably at how her toes curled against the tacky bedsheets whenever I pulled back just enough to let her gasp before shoving back in.
The telltale tightening in my balls hit suddenly, that delicious coil of inevitability. Normally I’d bury myself to the hilt, paint her insides—but the blinking Christmas lights strung along the mirror gave me a better idea. With a grunt, I yanked out entirely, her lips making a lewd pop as my cock sprang free. Her glazed eyes barely registered the movement before I fisted myself roughly, stroking twice before erupting across her face in thick ropes. The first splash hit her cheek, the second streaked through her eyelashes like perverse tears. Joon Woo angled the camera closer as I smeared the last pulses across her slack lips with my thumb, marveling at how the white contrasted against her smudged red lipstick.
I let her collapse onto the bed like a broken doll, her body folding into the rumpled sheets. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, drugged breaths, the swell of her breasts pebbled with goosebumps despite the room’s stifling heat. Leaning down, I dragged my tongue along the delicate curve of one nipple—salty with sweat, the faint chemical tang of her perfume still clinging to her skin. When my teeth grazed the peak, her back arched slightly in reflexive protest, a whimper escaping her swollen lips.
Han Jiang barked a laugh as he kicked the Japanese boy’s chair closer to the bed. The kid’s wrists were raw from struggling against the ropes. “Merry fucking Christmas,” Han sneered, slicing through his bonds with a flick of his knife. The boy crumpled forward, his knees hitting the carpet with a dull thud. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted between us and the ravaged girl. “Go on,” Joon Woo coaxed, nudging him forward with the toe of his boot. “She’s still warm.”
The boy hesitated, his hands trembling as they hovered over her thighs, smeared with drying semen. Her breath came in shallow, drugged huffs, her chest rising unevenly beneath the torn fabric of her sailor whites. He swallowed hard, fingers brushing the inside of her knee—then recoiled as if burned when she whimpered. Han Jiang grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “Don’t waste our generosity,” he smirked.
Something snapped behind the kid’s eyes. With a choked sound, he fumbled with his belt, his pants pooling around his ankles in seconds. His cock jutted out, thick and ruddy despite his skinny frame, the head glistening with precum. Joon Woo whistled low, circling him like a shark. “Look at that,” he mused, tapping the underside of the boy’s shaft with his knife. “Like a fucking fire hydrant. Bet she’ll feel every inch.”
Without hesitation, the Japanese boy grabbed the American girl’s waist, rolling her onto her stomach with shaking hands. Her breath hitched as her hips lifted instinctively, her body still loose from the drugs but responding to being maneuvered like a doll. He lined himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick entrance—barely hesitating before shoving forward with a grunt.
Her back arched as he sank into her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave bruises. Every thrust was rough, desperate, as if it was his last fuck ever by burying it inside her. Her whimpers rose in pitch, her fingers clutching at the sheets, but she was too weak to resist—her body rocked limply with each brutal push.
Joon Woo adjusted the camcorder’s angle, zooming in on the slick junction of their bodies with the precision of a seasoned director. "That’s it—deep, just like that," he murmured, his voice low and approving. The boy’s hips stuttered, his face twisted into lustful pleasure. Han Jiang chuckled as he circled them, crouching to catch the tremble in the boy’s thighs.
The rhythm of their coupling was unnervingly smooth—long, practiced strokes that made the American girl’s breath catch in shallow gasps. Her eyelids fluttered, still half-lidded from the drugs, but her body responded instinctively to each thrust, her legs twitching with involuntary tension. The boy’s fingers dug into her waist, his grip possessive now, as if he’d forgotten we were even there. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, his jaw clenched—not from disgust, but concentration.
Her moans grew louder, echoing off the love hotel’s tacky mirrored walls. Her hips lifted slightly, adjusting to take him deeper, and I smirked as Han Jiang nudged me with his elbow. "Look at that," he muttered. "Like she was made for it." The boy’s thrusts grew quicker, less measured, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The girl’s arms trembled as she braced herself against the mattress, her back arching beautifully—submission disguised as participation.
Then it happened. A choked cry escaped her lips as her entire body locked up, her legs clamping around his waist instinctively. At the same moment, the boy buried himself to the hilt with a strangled groan, his hips jerking erratically as he came inside her. Their shared climax sent them collapsing forward, limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat. Her chest heaved against his, her fingers clawing weakly at his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer, it was impossible to tell in the haze.
We exchanged glances, silently agreeing— Christmas party was over for us for now, let the kid have his fun. As the boy pulled out, strings of his cum dribbling down her inner thighs, he hesitated only for a second before pressing his lips hungrily against her lower back. His hands roamed possessively over her ass, fingers digging into the pliant flesh with an urgency that betrayed his earlier hesitation.
Joon Woo chuckled and lifted the boy’s discarded phone from the nightstand, casually swiping through his notifications before tapping the screen. “Sweet dreams, little wolf,” he murmured, forwarding the video file we’d captured—the boy’s frantic thrusts, her drool-soaked cheek pressed against the sheets, the way his hands shook as he gripped her hips.
The Bluetooth speaker crackled to life with that saccharine holiday tune 'Tis the season to be jolly Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la" just as Han Jiang nudged the door open with his boot. A smirk curled his lips as the boy’s silhouette—backlit by the neon glow of the love hotel’s heart-shaped lamp—positioned himself behind her again, lubed fingers working her shit hole with methodical precision. The music swelled right on cue, the bastard actually timing his thrust to the chorus.
Our laughter echoed down the corridor like carolers drunk on spiked eggnog. Joon Woo wiping tears from his eyes. "Bet his mom’ll love our Christmas special," he wheezed, mimicking a bowing Japanese housewife. The elevator doors slid shut on the muffled squeak of mattress springs and the boy’s increasingly unhinged grunts—somewhere between triumph and prayer.
The bar had transformed in our absence. Twinkling lights now draped across the counter like drunken constellations, casting jittery reflections in spilled liquor. Han Jiang kicked aside a discarded Santa hat crusted with vomit, sliding onto the same stools we’d occupied earlier. The bartender didn’t react when we reappeared; he merely poured 3 shots of Hibiki whiskey into our regular shot glasses before setting the bottle in front of us.
"What’s the tally now?" Han Jiang swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch fire under the neon Asahi sign. Joon Woo grinned, raising his glass recalling his conquests; two Brit, first American, eight Japanese, eight Korean—his knuckles still bruised from where they’d pressed into the girl’s hips. "Nineteen." His grin widened as he recalled "Best ass of the bunch, hands down."
I leaned back, savoring the whiskey’s burn—identical to the sting of her nails when she’d briefly clawed at my wrist before the drugs dragged her under again. The bartender polished glasses with mechanical indifference, his gaze sliding past us like we were ghosts. Or perhaps he knew better than to acknowledge what kind of men drank Hibiki at 3 AM with fresh scratches on their arms.
The door chimed. Two girls—American accents butchering polite Japanese—hovered by the entrance. One clutched a phone, its screen casting a blue pallor over her freckled cheeks. "Excuse me," she stammered, "have you seen our friend? Blonde, about yay tall?" She gestured clumsily at chest height, her oversized UCLA sweater swallowing her frame. The other girl—brunette, doe-eyed—kept glancing at her phone, thumb hovering over the call button.
Our glasses clinked in unison. Han Jiang's knee bumped mine under the counter; I felt his smirk before I saw it. The bartender's polishing rag stilled for half a second—the only tell that he'd registered the question. Behind us, Joon Woo stretched lazily, the hem of his shirt riding up to reveal fresh scratches raked across his hipbone. The girls' eyes flickered to the movement, then darted away when he grinned like a wolf spotting strays. All of our hard-ons rising again slowly in our crotches, great mind thought alike
The holiday season indeed, give and we shall receive. Or in our case give an American girl away to the Jap, two more shall appear to take her place
The End
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Merry Christmas folks
