The next morning I got a rare call from Mr. Takeda, the car dealership owner.

"Take the day off," Takeda said in his usual curt manner. "I believe you will need the rest, Raveloff-san. Have the Thursday shift instead."

I had scarcely finished the call when my cellphone rang again. It was Jared.

"Yo, Drago, how's it goin'," he said, yawning loudly. "You up for some racing tonight?"

"Do you even need to ask!" I said with wild enthusiasm. "We're gathering at the usual place, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, just so," Jared said, stifling another yawn. "I'll see ya there. Later, dude."

Mr. Takeda's earlier call became a little more clear to me then. And, for some reason, more ominous.

I spent the day with Miko and the children. We played 'Milk Monster', where Miko rampaged around and tried to spray us with squirts of milk from her giant breasts, while the rest of us ran away. Was it extremely pervy? Yes. Was it absolutely arousing? Totally yes. Was it actually fun? It was a blast! The children dashed around, squealing and giggling in delight, while I shouted dramatic one-liners, like it was a B-movie fantasy epic. Basically, it was like a fight with water weapons, but more... ingenious. (Yes, it was my idea.)

Case in point for being fun for our daughters too was when I overheard Roro and Ruru asking Miko when their breasts would begin producing milk, so they could 'fight back'. Our elder daughters had already become quite, ahem, developed in terms of secondary sexual traits, taking on after their mother. During the discussion, Miko looked in my direction with a bemused expression, but I wisely let her sort the situation. I was barely twenty-eight, dammit! In many places, they'd still consider me a not-quite-grown-up manchild. (And I considered – with a tiny part of my mind – myself as such; but I'd never admit it openly.)

Things got heated enough that we had to end the game at some point and send the children on an imaginary errand, so I could have a lightning round with Miko to cool down my raging libido.

Afterwards, Miko retreated for her daily meditation. Since I wasn't at work today, I took turn to school the children. We had decided, early on, to focus on mathematics, linguistics, and ethics; everything else could be built upon these solid fundamental sciences. In addition, we taught our daughters practical crafts, like natural history and general survival techniques. These latter ones stemmed as much from theory as from practical experience during my three-year vagrancy.

(We also taught them magic. Duh.)

That afternoon, I had a bit of trouble concentrating on the lessons, especially for my elder daughters. Their earlier talk with Miko was stuck in my head and I couldn't help but... notice them. (Remember, we didn't wear clothes at home. Not that it would've helped much.) I swallowed, and forced myself to look away. I had to talk to Miko about this at first opportunity.

***

Later that night, I was climbing up the Taishaku Mountain Pass on my way to the top. There was a local truck stop where the street racers gathered. The truck stop had been closed since the lockdown, making it a prime spot for such meetings. As I came out of the last turn, I was greeted by the bright splashes of car headlights and loud conversations, a crowd already gathered for tonight's battles.

I sought Jared, and found him in a loose group with the Makinata Shadow Warriors. I made my way toward the large parking lot where they were standing, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious; the crowd hushed considerably and people stared at me as I went past. I had learned to stare back – if people were gonna be rude so could I – and I saw a large group of grim men standing to the side. I noticed with surprise they were Yakuza, given the specific tattoos partly visible on their necks and wrists. The Yakuza glared at me with cool interest. This wasn't a good sign.

"Hey, Drago, my man!" Jared greeted me heartily when I reached him. "Glad to see you tonight!"

"What the fuck is the Yakuza doing past the blockade?" I hissed, interrupting him.

"Oh, ah, them?" Jared hedged. "The dudes have come to look on after their, um, investment, I suppose. You know how it is," he added with a nervous chuckle. The other Shadow Warriors looked anxiously towards the Yakuza gangsters, and they all avoided my gaze.

I frowned, and spoke in English, "What the hell is going on here, Jared?"

Jared sputtered and tried to say something first in his native language, then in Japanese, but lastly only shook his head. He muttered a quick apology to the other street racers, then grabbed me by the wrist and led me away. He took me to a dark corner of the parking lot, where the streetlights didn't quite reach.

"Drago, you've got to help me!" Jared burst out in English when we were in private. "I'm in deep, deep trouble! You gotta help me!"

"Slow down," I said. "You haven't even told me yet what has happened."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jared said, dragging his palms across his face. "It's an old problem, but it's finally going to bite me in the ass. You see, I have agreed to make a series of races for the Yakuza," he explained wretchedly.

I couldn't believe my earfins. "Why the fuck would you do something so stupid, Jared?" I hissed. "You know how it'd end, getting tangled with the Yakuza! We both had agreed we'd never deal them, remember!"

"I know, I know! I made a mistake, okay?" Jared said heatedly. "I'm not stupid! I knew what I was getting myself into. But I needed the money, and I thought I could, you know, pay them back somehow."

"Whyever would you need so much money to seek somebody like the Yakuza?" I asked, baffled. "You're a former vagrant, Jared, not a bankrupted tycoon or somesuch."

Jared looked at me as if I was daft. "Dude, how do you expect I got the eight-gen Lancer Evo? That model is expensive as fuck, not to mention all the aftermarket tuning I've dumped into it. If I wanted to buy it legitimately, I'd have to spend half a decade racing for money – provided I had a racing car in the first place. See the chicken and egg problem here?"

"Okay, okay," I said, lifting my hands in placating gesture. "I see now. But that's the backstory to the situation, so to speak. How are the Yakuza even here now, after the lockdown? The JSDF don't allow anybody to enter or leave Makinata!"

Jared snorted. "How do you think we have street races? At all? With all the military patrolling every which way? The Yakuza bribe the JSDF to look the other way! Without them, we'd not have a single night with high-octane hijinks."

"But why would the Yakuza want to organize street races in the middle of a restricted area?" I wondered aloud.

"It's because of me," Jared replied despondently. "I took money from the Yakuza, and I couldn't pay them back. Instead of getting beaten to death and have my car taken away, I told the Yakuza I would win against any street racer they brought to me, and then they could collect my debt from the bets. And so I did. The Yakuza kept sending racers to battle against me, even after the lockdown, and I kept winning." Jared's expression was somewhere between pride and regret. "I became something of a celebrity: people are calling me the Gaijin Kami Racer from Quarantine Mountain. My reputation became big enough that the Yakuza kept smuggling racers and cars past the blockade, just so they could rake in money from bets. And of course," Jared added bitterly, "my debt always accumulated 'interest'. By my account I've already paid several times over the original amount."

"Wait," I interrupted my friend, "so you're telling me, the Yakuza have been here, in Makinata, this whole time? That they know about me and my family's existence!?"

"You know, Drago, you're very naive sometimes, despite your smarts," Jared sighed. "Of course the Yakuza know about you: you're an unofficial secret among them. As for your wife and the little tykes, well... I'm not sure. They're probably safe, because they haven't been seen, as far as I know."

"I hope, for all of us' sake, that you're right, Jared," I said quietly, glowering at him.

There was a heavy silence between us, a void of sound lost in the general cheer coming from the rest of the parking lot.

Jared seized my arm. "Listen," he said urgently, "you can kick my ass later, while I'm lying on the floor and apologizing till kingdom come. But right now what's important is that you have to help me!"

"How?"

"Race instead of me!"

I gaped. "How the fuck do you expect that to happen?" I growled, shaking my arm free. "I'm almost as big as a car myself!"

"Just use magic or something!" Jared shouted desperately, then jerked, and looked around to see if he had attracted attention. "I've seen you do all kinds of fantastic shit!" he continued vehemently, if less loudly. "Can't you somehow, I dunno, race remotely?"

"Calm down, Jared," I snapped, and took a moment to think. I was still hung up on the fact the Yakuza knew what was going on in Makinata District. "Why are you asking me now, of all times? We've had at least a dozen races since the lockdown. If you've beaten every previous opponent with ease, why don't you want to race tonight?"

"Ease!?" Jared exclaimed. "I never said I beat my opponents with ease! Well, in the beginning, perhaps," he said, rubbing his neck and looking away. "But the Yakuza kept bringing better and better racers. The battles became fucking Mortal Kombat, man! It got so worse I barely won the last several races! The very last one, in particular, was pure dumb luck: the other guy slipped his car on a patch of wet road and I overtook him just before the finish line."

"And tonight," Jared continued, waving frantically, "tonight the Yakuza brought a living legend! I saw the betting coefficients myself: they give me one in twenty chance of winning!! Of course, the Yakuza put down all the money on me. If I win, the prize money would be so much, I get to finally walk away from my debt. And if I lose..." Jared made a gurgling sound, dragging his thumb across his throat.

"Twenty to one against you? Who's that guy?" I asked, incredulous. Those were extremely high odds, even for somebody who was claimed to be a legend.

"I don't know him personally," Jared said with a frustrated shrug. "I asked around, and the only thing I learned for sure is the guy went pro almost two decades ago. But if the rumors are true, back in the day, while he'd been a street racer, he was apparently so good that he never got a real car – raced in some junker instead, an old Toyota AE86."

Hmm. "Two decades, you say? That guy's gotta be a relic by now," I told Jared. "Even if he started out as a teenager, these days he'd be pushing forty or near much. I doubt his reflexes have kept up with him."

"I'm telling ya, he's sharp as ever," Jared insisted. "Why else the Yakuza would bring him up as their prize champion? With such extreme odds? Unless the battle is rigged somehow," he added with fresh anxiety.

I wondered, if I agreed, how could I race instead of Jared. I wielded telekinesis well enough to manipulate even fine objects from a distance; but without line of sight I had no idea what I was doing – and my spellweaving was flashy as a rave party, making such avenue of deception impossible. Another way would be mental override, aka mind control; but that required constant commands. I could try a spiritual possession instead – dangerous, to both parties, but would probably be the best way to do it.

Provided I could win in the first place.

"Why do you expect me to race better than you?" I asked Jared. "You've been racing constantly for the past two years, while my last battle was over a year ago."

"Weeeell..." Jared was obviously trying to say something uncomfortable to him. "I'm great and all, true, but... uh... dude, you're the one who taught me how to drive, back in the States. Between the two us, you've always been more passionate about cars. And I've never beaten you so far – if I'm Roger Federer, then you're Rafael Nadal."

"Those are tennis players, not street racers."

"I know! The point is, you're better than me at this, always have been, and... and always will be, even if you've become a kaiju dinosaur with forearms thicker than my thighs. Look, I can't bear the stress anymore! I don't wanna the Yakuza to throw me into the lake with cement shoes or kill me in some other sick mafia way! Please, Drago," Jared begged, "please help me, brother! If it's possible, anyway possible, race instead of me!"

I thought about the whole situation. I was angry at Jared for being so careless and impulsive, especially having exposed my family to potential danger. Yet he was my best friend, and together we had gone through thick and thin since our arrival in Japan. Jared wasn't perfect: he was a hothead and a troublemaker, but he had saved my life at least once and he had stuck by me when it would've suited him to stay clear. Even if I was right to hold a grudge, this wasn't the time and place to do it, not while he was in a spot.

"All right, I'll help you," I said at last with a heavy sigh. Jared beamed, smiling like a schoolboy. "I'll even do it in a way for you to save face: I'll possess your body and race through you."

"Hooray, I knew I could count on you, buddy!! Thank you so much, dino dude!" Jared raised his hand for a high five, but stopped mid-gesture. "Wait, did you say 'possession'?"

***

There were three races planned for tonight. First, a warm-up duel between the Shadow Warriors, as it was usual since the lockdown. Next, there would be a battle between Karogi and one of the visiting (or rather, smuggled) racers, some youth from southern Osaka belonging to the Hidden Bay Team. Finally, it would be the big race between Jared and the mysterious legendary racer.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Or rather, my race.

I stood among the crowded parking lot, watching the revelries in grim silence. Any other night I'd cheer along with the crowd during the dramatic tyre-screeching starts; I'd listen with mounting excitement to the reports coming from the lookouts' radios; I'd discuss lively the ongoing battle with other race enthusiasts, while car engines roared up and down the mountain pass; and I'd simply enjoy the night.

Not tonight.

I cursed and cursed myself silently for being such an idiot. Looking back, I realized that all these other racers and strange unsmiling men couldn't have been part of the quarantine zone; none of those cars had come for repairs at Mr. Takeda's garage. Some of the onlookers were probably smuggled inside, too: they were well-dressed, fashionably even, and looked at me with more curiosity than fear. Rich kids who'd paid the Yakuza to bring them onsite, perhaps; now I understood, at least in part, why Mr. Nakamura had told me the JSDF wouldn't be able to keep the secret of my family's existence for much longer.

Look, don't ask me how I haven't noticed for so long. Call me naive, like Jared did, or a liar, or an absent-minded sex maniac; it doesn't matter. But before you do so, know this: when you become a husband, a father, a prisoner, and a monster in less than a year, when you go from a virgin to a regular coitus jockey in an instant, when you have children to look after and a future to fret about, when you are a neophyte occult practitioner and constantly wonder what's real anymore... when you have all those things happen to you simultaneously, you're bound to become a cloudcuckoolander to some extent. It's not that I didn't really notice what was happening – it's that I had accepted it in stride, believing it perfectly normal in a world that wasn't normal any more (by far), and only when my best friend had told me it was absurd had I become aware.

But my eyes were open now, and I watched closely.

Nobody in the crowd seemed to have any cellphones or smartphones. They had no cameras either, or indeed any recording devices. Only the Yakuza gangsters had brought a bulky long-range radio, with a dedicated commenter who followed the races' progress and announced the battles' results. A busy bookmaker was writing coefficients on a white board and taking bets from the crowd, while another radio set was used exclusively to relay results and organize (probably much larger) bets from interested parties on the outside. For the first time I was glad to be in Japan: only here the mafia would have enough honor to leave me alone if they had nothing to do with me, instead of profiting from my existence from greed alone.

When the second battle started and Karogi and his opponent disappeared behind the first corner, I went to prepare myself. I didn't tell Jared any details about how I'd possess him; he was nervous enough without extra worries.

I went behind one of the buildings on the parking lot, a cargo warehouse. I lay down in a nook between some shrubs and the building's back wall. Nobody would find me here, and I made sure no one followed me.

I settled as comfortably as possible on the cold concrete. I then closed my eyes and concentrated. I had done this spell only once, under Miko's guidance. I pictured Jared in my head. Then I slowly and clearly uttered a series of arcane phrases, while imagining my spirit rising from my body.

My senses became dull and muted. Suddenly, I was floating high above the parking lot, like a leaf suspended by a cyclone. Jared was down by the start line, just about to begin the race. I rushed toward him, a bright flash just before impact.

I possessed Jared.

For an instant, I was completely disoriented. My sense of perspective was wrong, my body was smaller, my hands had no claws, my feet were at an odd angle. I had no tail. I was human again.

The crowd cheered and I reeled from the sound. The mysterious legendary racer had brought his car next to mine – a rather plain third-gen Mazda MX-5 – serviceable but not extraordinary. The guy stepped off and our gazes met; instantly, I understood why Jared was scared. My opponent was a decade older than me but his aura was surging with power – his warrior spirit was supreme, entirely undiminished by the passage of time.

I shuddered. This was going to be a difficult battle.

The announcer presented us to the crowd. We then entered our cars and prepared for the start signal. I checked the car's DVD player; it was stacked to the brim with Eurobeat. Excellent. Jared was no fool – it was common knowledge Eurobeat made any car go at least fifteen percent faster; one of the few magical facts that were actively used in the world. I punched the stereo, set the volume to max, and grabbed the steering wheel, waiting.

A Makinata Shadow Warrior gave the all-clear and the race began.

The Mazda shot forward, taking the lead. If I overtook it at any point in the race now, I would win.

I immediately almost crashed in the first corner. The possession wasn't perfect: my reactions had queer delay, similar to lag in a videogame. I could feel Jared's presence at the back of my head, like an eager spectator who wrestled for attention. We were two spirits in one body, uncoordinated – always a bad combo. The road's concrete support wall came at us with speed. I barely steered in time, narrowly dodging death, the Mitsubishi's back spoiler grazing the wall. But straightaway came the second corner, forcing me to oversteer, nearly spinning out of control.

"Get out of my way!" I snarled and threw my head back, sharply, casting Jared's presence into limbo. It worked: everything snapped into focus, color filling my vision, the roar of the engine underscoring the thundering Eurobeat rhythms.

It was time to race.

Mako's "Sonic Love" came in the tracklist. The Mazda had already disappeared almost entirely from my headlights. I stepped hard on the gas, heedless of the near-misses in the corners. Jared's car was feather-light and monstrously powerful – a single mistake was all it needed to fly crashing off the road. I managed to shorten the lead a bit on the straight sections, the Mitsubishi clearly outclassing the Mazda.

I was on the Mazda's tail, as we flew past the 10th corner with over 140 kph. I could imagine the slacking jaws of the first lookouts. Next came a series of half-dozen close turns. Third gear, no corner above hundred and twenty. In the middle third corner I powerslid, noticeably dampening my speed.

The Mazda simply disappeared.

I stared in shock. Coming out on the next straight section, I floored the pedal, barely catching up with my opponent before the next turn. But as soon as I had to corner, frantically steering, the Mazda disappeared again.

Kuso, hayai! I thought, my heart pounding. I dashed past the second lookouts, and entered the long twisting section of the mountain pass. The corners here were sharp and vicious, with little visibility. Yet the Mazda kept pulling away. I drove faster than I ever had in my life: 80, 90, 100 kph in the corners. It didn't matter. I could only see the fading afterimage of taillights.

We entered the final straight section. The Mazda was a hundred yards away. A quarter mile away was the finish line. I realized I'd never make it. But I activated the Mitsubishi's nitro system anyway, and pressed the injector button.

Tremendous acceleration flattened me against the driver's seat as "Gas Gas Gas" began pounding away. The Mitsubishi launched like a rocket, swiftly closing the distance.

"Kuso, kuso, kuso," I snarled, straining against the acceleration. My opponent simply needed to activate his own nitro, and the race was finished. But the Mazda's exhaust remained dark and devoid of fuel-flames. Before I knew it, I was inside the Mazda's drag zone, and needed only a good moment to overtake it.

For several heartbeats, I dared to believe I could win.

Then came the last corner.

It was a mere curve in the road, but I had to disengage the nitro to avoid spinning out. I didn't lose any speed but I misjudged the racing line and went out of position for overtaking. A hundred meters down was the end of the mountain pass, and the finish line.

We crossed it an instant later. The race was lost.

Still in shock, I began to lift my foot from the accelerator. Suddenly, the Mazda shot forward – the other driver wasn't slowing down!

The race wasn't over.

We were doing the big Makinata Circuit.

I drove forward, my foot mechanically hitting the accelerator again. It wasn't possible! The blockade was stationed along the highway! How'd we get past the JSDF?!

The Mazda flew into Makinata District, with me in hot pursuit. Tyres screeched as we sped by Road Station Ogo, going over 130kph in the corner. A lone car barely hit the brakes at the intersection. We raced on, and sure enough there was a military patrol jeep just a little farther.

Then the JSDF entered the race.

They couldn't actually catch up with us. But they could shoot at us.

Machine gun fire chewed up the side of the road, fountains of dirt and tarmac erupting as we reached the Sanyo Highway. The highway was a toll-road and there was no direct access from Makinata onto it. (Dumb, especially for someone who's lived in the States.) But the intrepid local racers had found a sloping patch of ground where the Taishaku Road and the highway met, and if one didn't mind the rough transfer, they could climb directly onto the highway.

We certainly didn't mind now.

With red-lining roars, the Mazda and the Mitsubishi crashed through the slope onto the highway in a rain of earthen debris to the tune of "Nitrofire" by Kaioh. The highway was closed down, with huge, thirty feet tall barricades towering on the far side. A whole JSDF motorized battalion was stationed along the perimeter – jeeps, troop carriers, tanks. Alarms began blaring, but we went by the first outpost before they could so much as point searchlights at us.

Things quickly changed.

Jeeps wheeled away and began chasing us. Mounted machine guns swiveled, taking aim, firing. Tanks and landcruisers tried to block our path. We dodged and veered from side to side, still racing one another, the JSDF firing from all directions, Eurobeat blasting at full volume. A hail of bullets tore the asphalt a paint-layer to my side. I swerved sharply, screaming at the top of my lungs in both terror and glee. Ahead, the Mazda made an impossibly graceful S-drift, powersliding narrowly between two sandbag barricades.

It was beautiful.

We utilized our superior speed and agility to full effect, leaving the JSDF in the dust. But ahead more jeeps and tanks emerged on the road, soldiers frantically throwing sandbags, munitions boxes, and hastily prepared caltrops to stop our advance. A tank even lowered its fucking main gun, and took a shot, the projectile flying wide astray, explosion going off somewhere in the background.

The Makinata Circuit ended at Ogogawa Bridge. It was there where the finish line would be. The JSDF barricades there weren't onto the road itself, but a little ways off. Once we took the southern ramp, the road would be clear.

It was the only chance I had at winning the race.

During the frantic chase-slash-race, the mysterious racer guided his car as if the highway was completely empty. He effortlessly avoided obstacles and gunfire, him and the Mazda acting like a single being. In contrast, I was clumsy beyond hope; I had to constantly use nitro to compensate for the widening gaps during my desperate evasive maneuvers. The Mitsubishi's integrated mainframe beeped urgently, alerting the engine was overheating. But I couldn't stop. Not if I wanted to save Jared.

We crashed through a hasty road barricade, unable to go around, and went on the southern ramp. "Deja Vu" hit at this moment, the timing perfect.

This was it.

We raced down the dark highway, two comets of blazing headlights and thundering engines. Hundred and fifty kph. Hundred and eighty. Two hundred. The JSDF were still harrying us, but we danced between their strafing bursts, focused only on the finish line. The bridge was looming in the distance. I activated the nitro, surging forward. Two hundred and forty kph.

"Come on, come on, come on!" I shouted over and over. The computer mainframe wailed in alarm, the screen flashing red. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

The Mazda still hadn't activated its nitro. It dawned on me – he had no nitro. He simply was that good. He was truly a legend, one I would've never beaten if it wasn't for this cheap tuning trick.

I reached my opponent, veered out of the drag zone, and overtook him.

I won the race.

Two hundred and eighty kph. The bridge was just ahead.

But the Mitsubishi's engine had had enough.

There was a deafening bang. The front hood jumped, as if punched by a monster. The car instantly lost power, and began to slow down. The Mazda shot past me, already braking hard.

I braked, holding the steering wheel tight, struggling to control the car without hydraulics. In the end, I stopped, half-way spinning out, thick vapors wisping under the hood.

I sagged in the seat from sheer exhaustion. Outside, the finish line crowd was raving madly from the spectacle. They began to frantically disperse, however, as JSDF military vehicles swiftly approached the scene. The Mazda's driver stepped off his car. He straightened, and stood calm and composed as if he'd merely had a short drive around town. He looked at my car thoughtfully, without outward emotion, and then nodded, acknowledging my victory.

No, not my car. Not my victory. Jared's car. Jared's victory.

"Enjoy the spoils, old pal," I muttered under my breath. "Tonight you became a legend. Sorry for busting your car."

I lifted a hand, and made the anchoring gesture that kept the possession spell active. Then I dismissed the spell, and left Jared's body.

***

My spirit returned to my body with a jarring (pun unintended) impact. All of the exhaustion and soreness I've accumulated during the race came with it, too. I groaned, cursing the spell for being so vindictive.

I opened my eyes and awakened to a nightmare.

Commander Tanaka had straddled me (or nearly as much), looming over me half-naked. Waves of warm pleasure came from my loins, and I saw with horror that she was fondling my penis with her hands and rubbing it against her abdomen.

I tried to push her off, but a cold rifle barrel jammed painfully in my snout.

"Keep still, kaiju," Tanaka said brusquely. "Don't spoil the pleasure." There were a dozen soldiers with her, all armed to the teeth. They watched with keen interest, evidently as debauched as their commander. One of the perverts was holding a floodlight even, making everything visible in disgusting detail.

"Y-you whore!" I growled in impotent rage. The rifle barrel dug into my snout hard enough to make me hiss.

"I may be a whore," Tanaka said evenly, panting lightly, "but I told you, I always get what I want, beast. I told you I'd fuck you one way or another, and soon. I knew you'd help your airheaded American friend somehow, so I arranged matters to my advantage – yet I didn't expect you'd present such... golden opportunity."

"W-what?!? You set us up!?" I blurted.

"Ara, ara! Feisty and naive, I love it," Tanaka purred, smiling with almost psychotic glee. "Who do you think the Yakuza bribes? Some random corporals at the access points? You're a sweet little idiot, kaiju. Did you think you'd race through the whole highway under a hail of fire, without a single bullet hitting you? This isn't Fast&Furious! I ordered my soldiers to shoot-to-spook only."

"And now," she panted, beads of sweat upon her skin, "it's time to learn what a monster dick tastes like."

I squirmed, growling and snarling, but I couldn't really move without taking a bullet in the head. My cargo shorts had been cut, exposing all my junk for Tanaka's pleasure. I tried to calm myself, to will myself to not be aroused but it was impossible – my penis was hard and erect, stimulated by her groping hands and the brushing of her flat chest, and her caress on my swollen balls sent surges of unwilling ecstasy. Tanaka leaned, licking my penis languidly, and I couldn't resist anymore. My eyes half-lidded as a squirt of precum spurt from my shaft, and I moaned involuntarily.

Tanaka lifted then, slipping her pants, moving to ride me, to rape me in front of strangers, while I could only lie helplessly and do nothing.

"No... no... no..." I whispered, almost sobbing. "Miko..."

Suddenly, the ground shook with a ponderous crash.

"Omae, get off my husband," a terrible voice growled. "If you want your tiny life to continue."

Everybody jerked their heads upward. Miko towered at the edge of the forest, her figure dark against the floodlight glare, her eyes a pair of blazing volcanoes under her large wizard hat.

Several of the soldiers raised their weapons. Miko snarled, arcane energy crackling around her, and the soldiers' rifles melted in their arms. They yelped in pain and fear, beating a hasty retreat. Miko then glared at Commander Tanaka, who remained frozen atop me.

"Move, bitch," my wife hissed with utter hatred.

Tanaka sprang off like a steel coil, and tried to run away but Miko slammed down one enormous clawed foot in a shower of debris, barring the way. My wife then leaned down.

"Next time," she said, her tone low and savage, "if I see you around my husband, I will end you."

Tanaka squeaked and collapsed against the warehouse wall, cowering. Miko turned to me, and gently picked me up in her arms, cradling me against her bosom.

"You're safe now, Drago," she cooed.

I said nothing, shivering with shock and embarrassment.

Miko then strode around the warehouse, coming onto the parking lot. The crowd somehow hadn't noticed the short ruckus behind the building.

They definitely noticed Miko now.

Street racers, spectators, and Yakuza alike stopped mid-action one and all, staring with dread (some perhaps with a bit of arousal) at the giant monster before them.

"You there," Miko spoke in the silence, indicating the Yakuza, "who won the race?"

The gangsters exchanged frightened looks. "Uh, t-the Gaijin Kami Racer did, Kaiju-sama," one of them said with wavering voice.

"Does that mean Jared Kitts's debt is paid off?" Miko asked.

For a moment, the Yakuza gangster seemed willing to argue but sharp poking from his fellows made him think twice. "Yes, the Yakuza considers the debt settled, Kaiju-sama," he said.

"Excellent," Miko said. "It appears to me then, that the Yakuza's business in Makinata District is concluded. Wouldn't you agree, shinshikata?"

"Yes, Kaiju-sama," the gangsters replied, bowing awkwardly.

Miko gave a respectful nod, and turning away entered the forest, heading home.

Drago, why are you crying? Everything is okay now, she mindcast, peering at me with distress.

I huddled in her grasp, mashed against her breasts. Everyone saw me, I whispered mentally. Everyone saw me so helpless... cuddled like a huge, infantile child...

But I thought you liked me holding you so? Miko asked tentatively.

They saw me... I couldn't stop Tanaka... You... I needed you to save me... I feel... so fucking useless...

Shh, hey now, no more such talk, Miko growled with worry, and clutched me closer, nuzzling me. I'm sorry if I have embarrassed you, Drago. I won't do it again. But I WILL NOT let you be in danger if I can interfere. Not anymore, not ever.

Come now, my wife continued softly, let us go home. I will make you nice and comfortable. And–

No... I just want... to sleep. I need... I need some space. I'm sorry, Miko.

Of course, Drago. Of course. Take all the time you need. I'll always be with you.

I love you, Miko.

And I love you, Drago.