The Herb Merchant's Special Repayment (2)

Three days later. Morning. Faint sunlight filters through the window of my quarters in the Royal Palace. I haven't gone to the herb alley for the past three days. The silence before the second deal is just as crucial as before the first. How I process those three days in my head will set the tone for the second transaction.

I pack my bag. Notebook. Ink. Packet of sedative herb.

Afternoon. Herb alley in the commoners' district. The sun at almost the same angle as three days ago. Same street. Same signboard. In front of the shop. A small placard on the wooden door.

Rosa's handwriting. The second time. The first placard must have taken her two hours of hesitation to hang. Today, it's a single practiced motion.

I push the door open. Jingle.

Darkness similar to three days ago. A small lantern on the counter. Rosa within its light. Beige apron. Brown hair in a low ponytail. The knot tied with her usual precision.

"...You've come."

Businesslike tone. Three days ago, that tone was her final line of defense. Today, it's mere ritual.

"Have a seat."

I sit in the chair. A bit of dust has been wiped from the legs. Two teacups already sit on the counter. Three days ago, she brought them out after starting to boil the water. Today, they're already prepared.

"...Let's have some tea first, then begin."

This single sentence is today's biggest change. Rosa herself establishes that a cup of tea marks the start of the transaction.

"Yes."

Rosa turns toward the brazier. She takes a packet of sedative herb from her own shop's storage. Today, from her own packet. A spoonful of dried leaves each into two cups. Hot water. Pale green. Three minutes. One sip. Two sips. Three sips. Ninety seconds.

Rosa's shoulders drop. Her breathing lengthens by a tone.

I lightly apply it. "This time is business hours." Layer a thin Suggestion Lv.2 on top. "In this shop, this spot. Behind this counter. During this ritual."

Corruption: [■□□□□] 1/5 — Infiltration. The stage where a single line lingers beneath the surface of consciousness. She can't detect it herself. Rosa categorizes the fog as the effect of the sedative herb. But the source isn't just the teacup. It sinks in.

"...Now, let's begin."

"Yes."

Half a step behind the counter. A small mat newly placed beside the chair leg. You don't lay a mat for a spot used only once. Rosa kneels on the mat.

"No time to waste."

Ritual phrase. I nod briefly.

Rosa's hand over my clothes. Then inside. Three days ago, her fingertips trembled. Today, they don't. The precision of fingertips that have gripped scales for ten years. Her breathing deepens by a beat.

"Today too, you do your job precisely."

"...This will take too long."

Same phrase. A tone more familiar. She leans forward. The low ponytail descends near my knee. Her lips brush briefly over my clothes. Today, she doesn't pause.

'How did this become normal in just three days?' A line in my head. Calm down.

Over the clothes, then inside. The main oral work begins. Slurp. Slurp. Two beats. Rosa's lips slowly trace a line along my cock. From the glans to the base. Her tongue circles the glans rim once.

"......"

'This is fucking insane.' Internally only.

Rosa's shoulders move in steady rhythm. Shallow breaths through her nose. Her two hands brace on the counter edge and beside my knee. The apron strings remain knotted.

About three minutes in, Rosa pulls her mouth away for a beat.

"...Today, I'll take it a bit deeper. To save time."

Businesslike tone. She proposes the next step herself. She takes a long breath to steady herself. Lowers the base of her tongue. Takes my cock deep into her mouth in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one go. Glurk. The glans passes her tongue root and presses against the back wall of her throat. Her soft palate swallows the tip once, then releases. Gulp.

On that beat, I drop a line of Suggestion. 'Every time the tip of the cock touches your soft palate, the sensory circuit connected to your clitoris fires in tandem. It's a byproduct of medical neural connections.'

And one more. Today's real seed. 'After drinking one or more cups of sedative herb tea, the moment you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠take the cock to your soft palate, a deep, heavy satisfaction spreads inside your body. Tea + soft palate = pleasure.'

Now is the optimal window, with the sedative herb's bitterness still on her tongue.

Rosa's waist twitches beyond her control. Her knees clench once. Heat spreads sideways inside her pussy. A sharp spark at the back of her brain. She can't find the source within herself.

'...What is this?'

She classifies it as "reflexive swallow due to cock in throat." But the reaction's location isn't her throat. Below her waist.

'My throat tightens, but it feels just like my pussy.' A line explodes in my head.

The inside of Rosa's throat squeezes the tip from both sides. 'Was the inside of her throat this hot and tight?' Calm the fuck down.

Her mouth pauses for a beat. She steadies her breath through her nose. Ten years of scale precision records the throat penetration depth. It moves again. Her lips descend to the base once more. Her tongue grazes below the base, and her throat squeezes the tip again. Slurp. Glurk. Squelch.

The rhythm weaves four points—base to glans tip, glans tip to deep throat—into one. My limit approaches. Rosa senses it with her fingertips and breath simultaneously. She tries to match the finishing rhythm to her ten-year scale beat.

But today, I steal that rhythm once. 'I need to take her rhythm once and implant a new memory in her body.'

My right hand drops below the counter, grabs the back of Rosa's brown ponytail. Four fingers dig into the hair tie, palm cradling the base of her skull. Her throat is pulled toward me once.

"...!"

Rosa's eyes widen once. Her businesslike tone defense cracks for the first half-beat. She tries to say something, but my hips already thrust forward. My entire cock pushes to the end of her throat. The glans slaps her soft palate hard. The throat walls clamp the shaft from both sides.

"Ghk—"

Short sound. Her breath blocks once. Throat reflex tries to expel the cock, but my hand holds her head back, so it can't. Her hand reflexively swings to slap my thigh but stops in midair. Rule violation. She remembers her own rule.

'This woman stops her own hand first to avoid breaking her rule. Merchant pride shows up in places like this.'

I pull out for a beat, then thrust in again. The cock scrapes deep into her throat once more. The glans catches on her tongue root, then stabs the soft palate again.

"Ghk, glurk—"

Her throat blocks a second time. A tear beads at the corner of her eye. Her face reddens a tone. Two seconds breath, two seconds block, two seconds breath, two seconds block. Breath control. Her two hands clench her skirt tightly. Knuckles whiten. That hand is her ten-year pride. And the inside of her throat begins squeezing the cock beyond her will. Every blocked breath causes reflexive muscle contraction, each one milking the shaft up and down. Glurk. Clench. Glurk. Clench.

Rosa's waist arches sharply. A wet line seeps from under her skirt hem between her knees. She senses it herself.

'...This, this is...' She can't finish the sentence in her head.

The sedative herb tea lingers on her tongue, my cock is buried in her throat, heat spreads below her waist. Tea + soft palate = pleasure. The second seed planted today resonates deeply in the center of her body once.

Limit. Mine too.

'I'm cumming. This time, inside her throat.' My hips buck forward once more. Deep enough that the base touches her lips. Ejaculation bursts from the glans tip. Deepest in her throat. Splurt. Splurt. Splurt. Three bursts. First against the deepest throat wall. Second on her tongue root. Third as she pulls back a beat, glans resting on her tongue.

Heat spreads throughout her mouth. "...Nng...!" Rosa's short moan—beyond her control. Her eyes glaze once, then refocus. Her throat gulps once. Faster than three days ago. Gulp. Most of what's in her mouth slides down her throat. One last drop lingers on her tongue, a streak on her lip edge.

I release her hair. Her eyes look up at me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠once. Corners still wet, lip edge stained white.

'This expression is today's real achievement. The face of someone who's lost half of herself.'

She steadies her breath long several times. Four. Five. Her businesslike tone returns beat by beat. But not fully. It settles a tone lower.

Rosa pulls back. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve. Meticulously, so the white streak doesn't stain. Apron unsoiled today too. Knot intact. And a motion she didn't do three days ago. She lifts her cup for a sip. The tea's bitterness reenters her mouth. It mixes with what lingered on her tongue. She swallows the blend once more.

'Tea + soft palate + semen = taste she mixed herself in her mouth.'

"...I'll record it in the ledger."

The pen lingers a beat longer. "Subject" refers to herself. First time in ten years of ledgers she's classified herself as "subject."

Rosa sets the pen down. Glances at her ledger line briefly. Then, in businesslike tone, like reading a report.

"...Customer. One line of record assistance."

"Yes."

"My soft palate is adapting to the customer's cock angle better than the first time. Estimated reduction in swallow reflex resistance by half a millimeter per session. Secretion volume on inner thighs inexplicable by my ten-year merchant categories. Further observation needed."

She reports her own body in occupational terms. "Technical report" format. A line where she tells herself, "This is just variable management." Type B self-administration.

'Her pussy is already speaking, but her consciousness plugs her ears. Her body confessed to her first, and her mouth transcribes it in businesslike tone. My silence is today's most important work.'

"...Understood."

I say briefly. No reaction. Reacting would reclassify that line inside her as 'emotional outburst.' Let it stay within her businesslike tone.

"...That's it for today. Next appointment in three days."

"Yes."

"...Shopkeeper."

I say. Briefly.

"Yes."

"It ended faster than three days ago."

Within it, for 0.5 seconds, faintly, a line of professional satisfaction passes.

"...No wasting time is right."

Three days, then three more. Third transaction. Same street. Same alley. Same placard. I push the door. Jingle.

"...You've come. Tea first, then begin." One breath. Ritual phrase automated.

"Yes."

Same sequence. Sedative herb. Pale green. Three minutes. A bit faster than last time. Ninety seconds. Shoulders drop. Mental Interference and Suggestion layered in the same spot once more. Sinks in a tone better than three days ago.

"...Now, let's begin."

"Yes."

Behind the counter. Mat intact. Kneels. Hand over clothes, inside. Straight to work without brief exploration. Churp. Slurp. Lips trace a line from glans to base and back. Tongue along the urethra once. About three minutes in, Rosa lets out a small moan. Very faint. Almost blended with breath, hard to catch. But she did.

Squelch... Drops once, returns. Rosa immediately notices her own moan. Mouth pauses a beat. Resumes work in businesslike tone. But the moment rhythm restarts, independent of her will, her mouth goes a beat deeper. Rosa classifies it as "efficiency." But a spot inside her lips chases that depth unconsciously. Glans hits soft palate squarely once more. Waist arches a beat more. Between knees, a tone wetter. Ten-year scales can't name that wetness.

Pulls cock from mouth a beat. Breath ragged.

"...Wait a moment."

Almost inaudible line slips.

'...Why does my mouth feel like this.' A word floats half a beat in her head. '...Is this pleasure?' She asks herself with her own word for the first time.

"No. It's one unit of efficiency." Tries to cover. Covers half.

Takes cock back in. Businesslike resumption. 'Am I really believing this is just business?' A line from my side too. Calm down.

Mouth seizes depth once more. This time, a beat deeper than three days ago. Tongue root presses glans, throat clamps above. Glurk. Clench. Cock tip scrapes throat wall once. Throat gulps, squeezing glans again.

'The throat squeeze feels indistinguishable from pussy contraction.'

And about a minute later. Front half of a short title.

"...Teacher."

Three syllables slip from her mouth. Neither "customer" nor "shopkeeper." A word absent from ten years of merchant nomenclature. Counselor/therapist category.

Mouth pauses a beat. Correction half a beat late.

"...Shopkeeper."

Belated. A tone lower. She upholds her own sixth condition. But the fact that "teacher" slipped from her mouth once won't be written in ledger or diary. Implants in her unconscious. I pretend not to hear the correction. No signal at all. Unconscious title upgrade is a promotion she's never allowed herself. She doesn't know.

Work resumes. Rhythm more precise. Continues another four minutes. I reach limit. Rosa completes to the end. Pulls back. Wipes mouth with sleeve. Sip from cup.

"...I'll record it in the ledger."

The pen hesitates half a beat, then continues in ledger grammar. Rosa writes "accumulating" with her own hand for the first time. Herb inventory is "inventory." Accumulation applies only to this one word category. She's made a new category slot in her ledger for herself.

Sets pen down. Finger rests briefly on ledger. Balance: 6 gold 50 silver. The moment she sees that number and the ink stain on her fingertip, another line floats inside her. Connected to the syllable she slipped earlier. Consciousness doesn't pull it up. But at unconscious level, already in the same room.

Closes ledger.

"...Next appointment in three days."

"Yes."

I pack my bag.

"Then, three days."

"...Yes."

Push door. Jingle.

I walk out into the alley. Sun dipped another handspan. Only the small shop at the end of the herb alley remains quiet under its closed placard, one lantern lit.

Rosa is probably standing alone behind the counter now. Clearing the cup, shaking out the mat to take to the workroom. Then standing before the mirror once. Adjusting her ponytail, checking the apron knot. The self in the mirror is the same as always. It has to be. But today, she looks at herself a beat longer in the mirror. In that beat, a short line slips.

"...Is this really just business?"

First time she asks herself that question. First. Consciousness tries to answer "It's business" immediately. But the answer is a beat late. A late answer isn't complete. She drops her gaze. Leaves the mirror. Turns off the shop lantern. Shop darkens.

"...Three days."

Murmur to herself.

Rosa opens a small wooden box under the herb display. Leather-bound diary. Barely written in for nearly a year. Places it on the desk. Picks up pen. Nib hesitates half a beat.