He Proposes A Trade

For the second time in her life, Rias Gremory found herself despising her own beauty. The first occasion had unfolded on the day her engagement to Riser Phenex was proclaimed, when she had extended every conceivable alternative to him—vast reserves of power, influence, and knowledge—in a **** bid to evade the suffocating bonds of matrimony. He had dismissed her offers with that insufferable smirk, murmuring platitudes about the sanctity of pure bloodlines and the burdens of duty, even as his eyes betrayed his true motives, tracing the generous curves of her breasts and the elegant sweep of her hips with undisguised hunger. No enticement she could muster had proven sufficient to eclipse the allure of possessing her body.

Issei Hyoudou, however, surpassed Riser in his depravity, embodying a cruder and more insatiable form of perversion. Riser, despite his towering arrogance, had at least maintained a veneer of decorum, confining his indiscretions and shallow conquests to shadowed corners, away from prying eyes. He had never stooped to lurking in locker rooms, installing concealed cameras, or proclaiming his harem ambitions in boisterous shouts that echoed through the school corridors. Issei, by contrast, radiated a raw, unfiltered desperation, a virgin's impatience stripped of any pretense at subtlety. If Riser had stubbornly refused to release her from their betrothal, this boy—with his repressed urges and scorching glances that seemed to sear her skin—would cling to a woman of her caliber with even greater tenacity, especially now that her body lay entirely at his mercy.

That realization struck her as the cruelest irony of all: Her attempts to escape her fate had delivered her a far crueler one. In her negotiations with Riser, she had stood as his equal, a Gremory heiress wielding the full arsenal of her clan's wealth and territories as leverage. But with Issei, she existed as mere property, stripped of autonomy. Whatever she might propose, Issei could seize without effort or consequence, rendering any bargain obsolete, leaving her subject only to his capricious desires and her enforced submission.

Yet when he refrained from immediately rejecting her plea, his expression shifting toward something resembling contemplation, Rias felt her breath catch in her throat. A fragile spark of hope ignited within her, fluttering against the walls of her chest like a trapped bird.

Then he delivered his response.

"You're best friends with Akeno, right? Help me capture her, and I'll let you go."

The proposition coiled through her thoughts, venomous and searing, lingering for one agonizing, interminable instant. Freedom beckoned in that fleeting vision: Akeno bearing the mark of his name upon her skin in Rias's stead, while Rias herself roamed unburdened, immersing in the trivial delights of the human world—vibrant screens, fleeting amusements—leaving her dearest companion to suffer his clumsy gropes, his slobbering kisses, his insistent demands.

A shiver raced along her spine, a volatile mix of horror and an unnamed shadow she dared not acknowledge. Revulsion surged in its wake, clogging her throat like viscous tar, knotting her stomach into painful contortions. How could such a betrayal even cross her mind? Akeno, who had woven braids into her hair during their childhood games, who had shared whispered confidences beneath shared blankets, who had vowed unwavering support in Rias's struggle against the arranged marriage to Riser. To surrender Akeno would equate to excising a piece of her own soul.

"I cannot," she replied, the words crumbling to ash on her tongue. In that moment, she sensed the final vestige of her liberty dissolve into oblivion.

Countless devils in the Underworld would have seized upon his offer without a second's pause, viewing their peerage members as expendable commodities—vessels for gratification, to be discarded once their novelty waned. But the Gremory clan adhered to a different ethos: their servants formed an extension of family, and one did not consign family to chains.

"Oh. Okay." Issei shrugged with the nonchalance of someone commenting on a passing cloud. "In that case, I order you to help me capture her."

The directive burrowed beneath her skin like a heated iron, transforming her despair into a blazing fury. "If that was your intention all along, why present me with the illusion of choice?" she demanded, her nails pressing crescents into her palms.

Issei cocked his head, pondering her question with deliberate slowness. "What I really want is to be a Harem King. You? You're just interchangeable."

The declaration landed like a physical blow, sharp and humiliating.

"Akeno's an upgrade," he went on, and Rias's stomach churned as he enumerated Akeno's supposed superiorities. "Bigger tits—forty inches to your thirty-nine. Matsuda's never wrong about that stuff. She's Japanese, polite, knows how to act all sweet. Total Yamato Nadeshiko type. Wifey material. My folks would love her."

Each word pierced her pride like a finely honed needle, reducing her to mere metrics and comparisons, her value quantified and found wanting.

"The truth is, I don't need you to capture Akeno," he confessed with a low, guttural chuckle. "I've been watching her for months—know her routine, like which classroom she hits after lunch, when she showers in the gym. Had the whole thing planned before you even showed up. You'd just make it easier. And Koneko?"

Rias's heart faltered at the mention of her petite peerage member.

"You think I wouldn't want Kuoh's little mascot in my collection?" His eyes shifted to Sona. "Tsubaki, Momo, Tsubasa... come on. I don't need your help for them either. Any girl in this school? Murayama's got those toned thighs, Katase's got that pouty mouth... if I want 'em, they're mine already."

He leaned in closer, his voice thickening with anticipation. "Here's the deal, Rias: you want your freedom? Bring me someone better than you. Hotter. Someone I don't know about and wouldn't be able to get otherwise. Like—do you got a hot older sister?"

The inquiry hung suspended between them, viscous and expectant.

"No." The refusal escaped her lips with undue haste, its edge too keen. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her neck, drawing his gaze to the **** expanse of skin.

The denial had been too abrupt, too revealing. She could not fabricate outright lies under his compulsion, but truths permitted nuances. Grayfia's image materialized unbidden in her mind—her sister-in-law's immaculate maid attire rumpled beneath Issei's eager grasp, those glacial blue eyes fracturing with betrayal. The notion provoked a nauseating surge, blending abhorrence with a calculated temptation: he might indeed release her in exchange for such a prize. Yet her nails dug deeper into her flesh. Gremorys did not betray their kin.

A sidelong glance at Sona revealed rigid shoulders and lips compressed into a pale seam. Evidently, the Sitris shared that principle; Sona could have divulged details of her elder sister Serafall, describing how her magical girl ensembles accentuated her curves in provocative ways, but she held her tongue.

Issei shrugged again. "Pity. That could've been your way out."

Sona's voice sliced through the oppressive atmosphere, precise and incisive. "You speak of 'could have,' implying release is not assured?"

"Don't worry about it, prez," Issei replied, his grin assuming a feral quality. "You're not the main prize. Get me someone half-decent, and you're free. But her?" His attention pivoted back to Rias, heavy and unyielding. "She's special."

He surveyed her form with meticulous detachment, cataloging the flare of her hips, the prominence of her breasts, the taut pull of her uniform against her contours. Rias suppressed the impulse to shield herself from his ravenous scrutiny.

"Busty is a given," he continued, his blunt finger gesturing vaguely in the air before her face. "But I want exotic too. This hair... these eyes... foreign for foreign. Blonde and green might do. Silver and violet..." His breath caught, ensnared in some internal reverie. "Around the same age, maybe. I can enjoy Rias for decades before she's worn out. Don't wanna short myself."

"Akeno fails to meet half those standards," Rias countered, the bitterness sharp on her palate. Indeed, Akeno's lush figure and amethyst eyes aligned with his cravings, yet her raven hair lacked the exotic flair he now stipulated. A chilling insight dawned upon her. "Would you truly have freed me had I delivered her to you?

"Oh, ye of little faith," Issei whined, his lower lip protruding in a mock pout that clashed grotesquely with his heated flush. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Look," he pressed on, his tongue darting across his lips to leave them glistening. "What I really want... hot girls come in packs. Murayama and Katase, always together in their kendo outfits. Sona's got three beauties trailing her in the council. You and Akeno? Total package. And Koneko? Why's the school's mascot hanging with your Occult Research Club? Doesn't matter. The point is—you know more. Girls who fit exactly what I'm after."

He flashed that lecherous grin, crude and unapologetic.

"Trade up. One perfect specimen—exotic, busty, the full fantasy—or a few that check most of the boxes. Up to you."

The ensuing silence pulsed with tension.

"Or don't." Issei shrugged indolently, as though relishing the helplessness of his captives. His phone materialized in his hand with casual sleight, and he swiped upward, then right, before tapping into a folder marked solely by a smirking, winking emoji. "There are plenty of things I want to do to you, Rias."

When he angled the screen toward her, Rias's stomach plummeted.

The display unveiled a sordid repository: videos, animated loops, a painstakingly curated compendium of obscenity.

Her breath snagged as the images imprinted themselves upon her retinas—restrained wrists taut against silken bonds, sweat-slicked flesh gleaming under harsh illumination, lips distended around intrusive members.

She averted her eyes, but the visions lingered, vivid and indelible.

Issei tilted the device to include Sona in the view. One loop cycled relentlessly—

—a man with coarse fingers clutched a voluptuous woman to his chest, his mouth affixed to her nipple in voracious suction, her back arching as her breasts enveloped his face amid slurping sounds. At his feet, a diminutive figure knelt, her mouth enveloping his shaft, oscillating with mechanical precision.

Rias's insides knotted.

"You know," Issei murmured, his tone laced with mounting excitement, "I saved this one thinking of Akeno and Koneko. The contrast—black hair against white, curvy next to petite." He exhaled dreamily. "But you two would work just as well."

His gaze slithered over her before settling on Sona's lithe silhouette. "You're busty enough, Rias. And Sona? She's got that petite thing going."

Her flesh crawled with disgust.

"Wanna try it?" he proposed.

"No."

The denial scarcely formed before his grin broadened, not in defeat but in wicked delight. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, brimming with eager impatience. He had hovered just beyond the threshold until now, a looming silhouette. At last, he advanced, his foot scraping the floor as he nudged the door closed with a resonant thud that echoed through her frame.

"Too bad," he drawled, his voice rich with expectancy. "I do."

Rias's muscles seized, not of her volition but compelled by the invisible fetters of his authority. Her body remained immobile, compliant, as his hands encircled her waist, their warmth penetrating her uniform's fabric in a proprietary clasp. He drew her against him, inundating her with his scent—a blend of perspiration, inexpensive cologne, and an primal masculinity that overwhelmed her senses.

The Student Council room, with its gleaming mahogany desk and sumptuous leather couch, exuded an opulence ill-suited to a mere high school setting—a lavish sanctuary for Sona's peerage, now profaned as the backdrop for Issei's indulgences.

He maneuvered her toward the couch, his digits probing the yielding contours of her hips. Sona trailed behind, her movements rigid; a single command compelled her to drop to her knees, another to crawl in their wake, dismantling her customary composure. The carpet softened the sounds, yet Rias registered the subdued, mortifying whisper of fabric against fiber.

Issei settled onto the couch, tugging Rias down alongside him. The leather groaned beneath them, its coolness contrasting the heat of her thighs. He pressed too near, his leg aligned with hers, emanating warmth, his respiration accelerating as his eyes darted between them—Rias positioned like a marionette at his flank, and Sona halted on her knees before him.

Poised in anticipation.

Utterly defenseless.

"Have you ever given a blowjob before, Prez?"

"No." Sona's utterance emerged crisp and unyielding, a glacial edge to her voice.

"Teeth would be a pain," Issei grumbled, angling her chin upward. "So here's the plan."

Rias observed, her pulse thundering, as he coaxed Sona's jaw apart—probing, adjusting—until her lips parted grotesquely around vacant space. A slender thread of saliva shimmered between her teeth.

"Good," Issei exhaled appreciatively. "Hold it like that."

His unoccupied hand wrestled with his belt, the zipper's rasp piercing the chamber's hush. When his erection emerged, engorged and ruddy, Rias's stomach lurched.

"Facefuck yourself on it," he commanded, his timbre gravelly. "Keep it wide. Take what you can—****, back off, then go again."

Sona's fingers spasmed at her sides. For a fleeting, optimistic instant, Rias entertained the possibility of resistance, of Sona shattering the enchantment.

Yet her hands complied.

Slender digits encircled his girth, directing it toward her splayed lips. The initial contact elicited a recoil, her features contorting in revulsion at the flavor of his essence. Then she advanced.

Rias found herself unable to divert her gaze.

Sona's esophagus contracted as she impaled herself upon him, retching immediately, moisture welling in her eyes. The sodden retch resounded, intertwining with Issei's guttural moan.

"Fuck—yeah, like that."

His grip constricted in Sona's hair, anchoring her as she battled, her form rebelling even as the mandate propelled her onward. A rivulet of saliva cascaded from her chin, staining her attire.

Rias's throat constricted in empathy.

Sona—ever dignified, ever composed—convulsed around Issei's intrusion, her lips distended unnaturally, tears tracing her cheeks. The cacophony of her distress saturated the space, each spasm a dagger in Rias's core. They were devil aristocracy, their siblings governing the Underworld's quadrants. Sona and Rias had navigated social galas as kindred spirits, their bond forged in shared heritage. Sona ranked among her most enduring allies.

And now she knelt, quivering, as a human adolescent thrust into her maw.

A scorching, disgraceful relief coursed through Rias.

Not her. Not in this moment.

The sentiment repulsed her; she yearned to resist, to lash out, to rake at his visage—actions thwarted solely by the inscription on her wrist, rendering her impotent, seated in paralysis, her heart racing, cherishing each interval his focus strayed from her.

Then he pivoted.

Issei's lips collided with hers, inept yet voracious. The kiss proved sloppy, overheated, his tongue breaching her defenses before resistance could form. His flavor—briny with hints of inexpensive beverage—assailed her palate.

Nothing like the kisses she had shared with Akeno.

That recollection served as her bulwark.

Akeno's touches were tender and playful, her fingers weaving through Rias's strands during clandestine interludes. Youthful exploration, laced with mirth rather than carnality.

This bore no resemblance.

Issei's hold intensified in her hair, hauling her nearer. His teeth grazed her lower lip, his exhalations ragged against her skin. A tenacious fragment of her spirit clung to one consolation: at least he had not pilfered her first kiss.

That fragile barrier crumbled as his mouth departed hers.

His lips descended her neck, fervent and moist, teeth nipping her throbbing vein amid labored inhalations. Each of his gasps drew from Sona's strangled exertions, every utterance extracted from her as she navigated his length. The auditory **** proved vulgar—squelching, primal, the cadence of an innocent compelled into unfamiliar territory.

Then his tongue grazed her earlobe.

"I've got more videos. Stuff I wanna try," Issei panted, arousal thickening his words. "So much more." His teeth skimmed her ear's curve, eliciting an unwitting tremor. "Half a decade's worth of fantasies." A coarse laugh reverberated against her. "And now? I get to live 'em all. With you."

His digits fumbled at her blouse's fastenings, each release a minor capitulation. Ambient chill kissed her bared flesh—then his mouth enveloped her, torrid and slick, sucking a bruise into the swell of her breast. The scrape of his teeth made her gasp. His tongue encircled her nipple, abrasive and persistent, and Rias comprehended with mounting dread: he was not merely touching her.

He was relishing her.

Every suck, every covetous squeeze, every tremulous breath against her proclaimed an irrefutable verity—Issei did not want to relinquish her.

The epiphany infiltrated her essence, frigid and inexorable. He would not negotiate equitably to make it easier for her to regain her liberty. She faced a stark dichotomy: engage in his skewed contest, procuring woman upon woman without assurance of sufficiency, permitting him to perpetually recalibrate the threshold—or yield, conceding perpetual captivity, compliant and accessible for his whims.

His mouth transitioned to her opposite breast, lips adhering with a lewd suction. His fingers kneaded her posterior's softness, kneading possessively. A tangled surge of sensation and loathing coiled in her abdomen, a feverish disquiet she declined to label.

A muffled sob redirected her focus downward.

Sona.

Tears carved paths across her inflamed cheeks as she strangled on Issei's intrusion. Saliva saturated her blouse, rendering it translucent. Each retch impacted Rias like a corporeal strike.

That fate could claim her by dawn.

The phone's vignettes replayed in her mind's eye—fettered limbs, parted thighs, orifices compelled to accommodate. Issei harbored schemes for her, interminable and debasing.

Escape became imperative.

But by what means?

The contest favored him, its parameters mutable at his discretion. What alternative remained?

Defiance ensured eternal subjugation.

Compliance offered a slender thread of honor in his judgments.

Issei's teeth nipped her nipple, eliciting a sting. Rias stifled a whimper.

Unjust though it was, the game was her only chance at salvation.