【Short Story】Taisho Mixed Boxing

Hello everyone! This is Takoyaki!

I've compiled the works from the commission slots I opened last week into a story format by adding some scenery and slice-of-life images.

It ended up becoming something of a spin-off to my old "Taisho Mix Boxing" series.
↓Here is the link to the original work:
https://www.patreon.com/posts/89304075

It's a curious feeling to realize just how much my technique has changed in two years.

Well then, please enjoy!

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Taishō 20, the Imperial Capital.

Iwanokouji Shimako, the eldest daughter of the former noble house of Iwanokōji, was to be wed on the morrow to Kusaka Taichirō, a fiancé chosen by her parents.

Behind her, the door opened. It was her fiancé, Taichirō.

Upon his arrogant and insolent face, Shimako cast a gaze of undisguised coldness.

"Oh, Taichirō-sama. I was just hoping to see you. Before our wedding tomorrow, might I prevail upon you to grant me one, final, selfish request?"

"Nonsense. Save it for tomorrow."

"Taichirō-sama... From tomorrow, I shall no longer be a lady, but your wife. Surely, then, you might deign to hear my final wish?"

Her voice held no trace of coquetry. Rather, it carried the sharp ring of a finely honed blade.

Taichirō snorted, not bothering to hide his irritation. "...Fine, out with it. And be brief."

"Let us make a wager. With boxing."

The proposal was this: they would settle the matter with a boxing match, and the victor would hold absolute authority in their future marital relationship.

"Hoh…"

Taichirō’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. He had, on countless occasions, "disciplined" the defiant Shimako with his fists. It was nothing less than a sweet, delectable game that satisfied his twisted desire for control.

"Kukuku… You enjoy being struck by me that much? Very well, we shall have a small celebration tonight. I will carve into that insolent body of yours the truth of who is master."

"Then it is settled. If I am victorious, all authority in our marriage shall be held by me, Shimako. If you are victorious, I shall become your silent doll, and I shall serve you in all things."

"Hmph. If you fail to be as obedient as a doll, I will simply discipline you until you are. ...Like a dog."

That night, the two stole away from the mansion in a black motorcar.

Their destination was an old Western-style manor, abandoned on the outskirts of the Imperial Capital. It had been built on a whim by Taichirō’s grandfather and was now visited by no one.

Pushing open the heavy door, they descended a stone staircase to the cellar. There, a square ring sat enthroned with an uncanny presence. This was the very stage for the secret rites, secretly built long ago by the grandfather for his own perverse amusements.

Shimako’s satin gown slipped from her shoulders.

Her body, illuminated by the candlelight, was clad in the thin, white, one-piece swimsuit that Taichirō had always forced upon her during their prior sessions of ‘discipline.’

The fabric, clinging to her damp skin, did not hide but rather vividly accentuated the contours of her body, from her full breasts to her waist and down to her thighs.

Taichirō, in turn, was stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of white swimming trunks. He swung his arms again and again, as if to flaunt his well-forged muscles.

The opening bell announced the beginning of their depraved, distorted rite.

The opening moments were a reenactment of the "discipline" they had repeated so many times before.

CRACK! "Ngh!" THWACK! "Kuh!"

Taichirō’s heavy fists accurately grazed Shimako's cheek and struck her solar plexus. She let out a cry like tearing silk and staggered several times.

THUD! "Guh!"

Soon, she was cornered against the ropes, her escape cut off. Before the sight of the noble lady’s face, contorted in anguish, Taichirō was filled with sadistic bliss.

"What's wrong, Shimako! Is that all you have?
A woman's place is to writhe, either in bed or beneath a man's fist!"

Taichirō drew back his arm for the finishing blow. In that instant—

CRACK!

The dry, explosive sound of a jaw being struck echoed a fraction of a second before the sound of Taichirō’s own fist cutting through the air. In the moment he had reared back for his wide swing, a vicious short uppercut had shot up from below, striking his unguarded chin.

WHOOSH. Taichirō's mighty arm, unleashed a moment too late, met only empty air.

"Guh...!"

Stumbling from the unexpected blow, Taichirō glared back at Shimako, his face twisted with humiliation. The beast, his pride wounded, attacked with blind fury.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
SWISH! SWISH! SWISH! ZIP!

But the ferocious rush met nothing.
Shimako moved her upper body sharply, evading every blow with minimal movement, swaying and ducking by a paper-thin margin.

His frustration mounting, Taichirō's movements grew wider.
He launched a right straight, a desperate attempt to turn the tables.

SMACK! "Agh!"

An instant before his arm could fully extend, Shimako’s counter right struck his unguarded face with unerring precision.

CRASH!

From the impact, Taichirō’s massive body lifted slightly, then crumpled to the canvas like a puppet with its strings cut.

Shimako slowly looked down upon the fallen Taichirō. She bent at the waist with an elegant gesture, and gazing into his fading eyes, began to count herself, her voice like a lullaby, yet as cold as ice.

"...One... two... three..."

Through a haze of fading consciousness, Taichirō grit his teeth in humiliation, but his body was as heavy as lead.

"...Eight... nine... ten..."

Even as the final count echoed, he could not move a single finger.

Shimako seized the limp Taichirō by the hair and, as if dragging a soiled rag, hauled him to the corner post and shoved his body against it.

Then, deliberately, she pressed her own sweat-dampened chest and stomach hard against his body.

In defiance of the humiliation, his body reacted with a vulgar excitement, hardening and rising.

But, as if in mockery of this bestial response, in the next moment, his arms were skillfully bound to the ropes by Shimako’s hands.

His face, now robbed of all freedom, was a mask of despair.

Shimako slowly raised her fists before her, as if confirming the protocol for the ceremony about to commence.

"Now, it is time for your real 'discipline,' Taichirō-sama."

CRACK!

The instant she finished speaking, she struck her gloves together sharply.

The dry, explosive sound echoed through the silent cellar. It was the signal to begin the one-sided execution, beyond all pleas and protests.

Before the sound had faded, a furious rush of punches began. Shimako’s fists, like iron hammers, rained down upon Taichirō's defenseless face and torso.

THUD! WHAP! THUD! CRACK!

"With this pathetic level of skill!" BAM!

"You—!" CRACK!

"Intended to rule me!?" THUD!

"Now cry! It hurts, does it not!?" WHUMP! WHUMP!

"Cry for me more prettily!" SMACK!

The merciless punishment continued, punctuated by words of scorn. His lips split, blood streamed from his nose, and Taichirō’s consciousness rapidly sank into darkness.

Upon Shimako's white swimsuit, his blood bloomed like crimson camellia flowers. The cellar's gloom simply swallowed the frenzied spectacle whole.

An unknown amount of time had passed. Taichirō’s body, grotesquely fixed to the ropes, slumped down. Shimako, breathing heavily, brushed back her hair, wet with sweat and splattered blood. Then, leaning close to the ear of her unconscious fiancé, she whispered in a voice that was low and sweet and seemed to crawl along the floor.

"...Tell me, Taichirō-sama. Who is the one who will be the dog, now?"

Shimako licked her crimson-stained lips and cast a cold look down at the man collapsed on the canvas.

Upon her face, a smile of victory over long years of humiliation—a smile as cold and exquisitely sweet as a dark camellia flower, blooming in the splatter of blood.

On the eve of their wedding, the master and the servant had, on this night, completely traded places.