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Unwanted desire

The Pavlovian Heir

The Mendō estate was a monument to absolute, unyielding order. Every stone in the garden was placed with mathematical precision; every servant moved with the silent efficiency of a ghost. Yet, inside the master bedroom, Shūtarō Mendō was a man falling apart at the molecular level.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his palms. The morning light was an insult. He had just woken up from a dream that was, by all accounts, a victory. In the theater of his mind, he had finally reclaimed his throne. He had been the one holding the golden chain. He had been the one sitting in the velvet chair, looking down at a kneeling, compliant Ataru Moroboshi. He had called Ataru a "good dog," and the dream-Ataru had looked up at him with eyes full of pathetic, simper-sweet devotion.

It was exactly what Shūtarō wanted. It was the ultimate triumph of the Mendō Zaibatsu over the Moroboshi mediocrity.

But as he looked down at the silk sheets, the damp reality of his physiological response told a different story. His body didn't care who was holding the leash. It didn't care about the hierarchy of power. Apparently, the mere proximity of Ataru Moroboshi in a state of intense, focused intimacy—even a submissive one—was enough to trigger a localized biological catastrophe.

"I am defeated," Shūtarō whispered to the empty room. "I have conquered him in my mind, and yet my body has declared its independence. I am a traitor to myself."

He stood up, his legs feeling like lead. He had to go to school. He had to maintain the mask. He was Shūtarō Mendō, and he would not be brought down by a stray neuron's obsession with a lecherous peasant.

The hallways of Tomobiki High were as chaotic as ever. Mendō walked through them like a man navigating a minefield. Every time he saw a shock of messy brown hair or heard that irritating, high-pitched cackle, his heart skipped a beat, and a cold shiver of dread raced down his spine.

"Hey, Mendō! Over here!"

Ataru was leaning against a locker, looking remarkably smug. Since the incident in the warehouse, the boy had developed a sixth sense for Mendō’s discomfort. He didn't know the specifics of the dreams—Lum’s neutralizer had wiped the memory of the "Galactic Heat" potion—but he knew that Mendō was acting like a high-strung thoroughbred in a room full of firecrackers.

"Moroboshi," Mendō said, his voice stiff. He kept his eyes fixed on a point exactly three inches above Ataru’s head. "Move aside. I have a student council meeting to attend."

"What’s the rush, Shūtarō? You look a little flushed," Ataru teased, stepping into Mendō’s path. "Did you have another nightmare? Or did you just realize that your private jet is smaller than my... ambitions?"

Ataru let out a mocking laugh and reached out, intending to poke Mendō in the chest. It was a standard insult, a minor physical provocation.

But as Ataru’s finger made contact with the fabric of Mendō’s white suit, a memory of the dream flashed through Shūtarō’s mind. The image of Ataru kneeling, looking up at him, whispering, *“Whatever you say, Master,”* hit him with the force of a physical blow.

Mendō’s breath hitched. A sudden, traitorous heat flooded his lower abdomen. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated panic.

"Don't... don't touch me," Mendō gasped, his voice cracking in a way that was decidedly un-aristocratic.

Ataru paused, his finger still extended. He looked at Mendō’s face. The heir to the Mendō Zaibatsu was turning a shade of red that shouldn't be possible for a human being. He was trembling, and his hand was frantically tugging at the hem of his long school jacket, pulling it down with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

Ataru’s eyes traveled down. He saw the way Mendō was standing—knees slightly pressed together, body hunched forward in a protective, awkward crouch.

"No way," Ataru whispered, a look of dawning, wicked realization spreading across his face. "Mendō... are you...?"

"I am nothing!" Mendō shrieked, backing away. "I am a pillar of stone! I am an iceberg! I am the fifty-one percent!"

"You’re hiding something," Ataru said, his voice dropping an octave. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. He remembered the warehouse. He remembered the collar. He remembered the way Mendō had looked at him in the infirmary when the dream-link was active.

Ataru was a lecher, a loser, and a frequent victim of lightning strikes, but he was not an idiot when it came to the baser instincts of the human animal. He saw the sweat on Mendō’s brow. He saw the way the boy’s eyes darted toward the exit.

"Hey, Mendō," Ataru said, his voice dripping with a newfound, experimental malice. "You remember that dream? The one where you were the boss?"

"I remember nothing!"

Ataru leaned in, his lips inches from Mendō’s ear. He didn't whisper an insult. He didn't ask for money. He spoke a single word, infused with a mock-seriousness that sent a jolt of electricity through Shūtarō’s nervous system.

"Master."

The effect was instantaneous. Mendō’s knees buckled. A soft, strangled sound escaped his throat—half-whimper, half-gasp. The blood rushed to his face with such intensity that he felt dizzy. Beneath the layers of his expensive suit, his body betrayed him with a violent, undeniable surge of arousal.

"Stop it," Mendō moaned, his hand clutching his briefcase against his lap like a shield. "Stop it this instant, you monster!"

Ataru’s jaw dropped. He had been joking. He had been looking for a way to mock his rival. But the reaction he had just witnessed was beyond anything he could have imagined. Mendō wasn't just embarrassed; he was physically compromised.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Ataru muttered, his voice full of awe. "One word? Just one word and you turn into a puddle?"

"It is a Pavlovian response!" Mendō hissed, his eyes watering with shame. "A psychological scar left by Lum-san’s alien technology! My brain has associated that word with a specific neuro-chemical reward system! It means nothing! It is purely mechanical!"

Ataru started to laugh. It wasn't the usual cackle; it was a low, dangerous chuckle. "Mechanical, huh? Let’s test the machinery."

He followed Mendō down the hall, keeping pace with the aristocrat’s frantic, limping stride. "Hey, Master. Master Shūtarō. Does the Master want me to carry his books? Does the Master need a footstool?"

"Silence! I will have you executed! I will buy the school and have you banned from the premises!"

Every time Ataru said the word, Mendō’s stride faltered. He was walking like a man in a trance, his face a mask of agony and illicit pleasure. He ducked into a vacant classroom, slamming the door shut, but Ataru was right behind him, slipping through the gap before the lock could click.

The room was silent, the afternoon sun casting long, golden bars across the dusty desks. Mendō backed into a corner, his briefcase held firmly in front of his crotch, his chest heaving.

"Why are you doing this?" Mendō whispered, his eyes full of a desperate, broken pride. "Is my humiliation not enough for you? Must you destroy my very biology?"

Ataru walked toward him, his hands in his pockets. He felt a strange, heady rush of power. For years, Mendō had looked down on him. Mendō had the money, the looks, the private army, and the girl Ataru wanted. But right now, in this dusty room, Ataru held the remote control to Shūtarō Mendō’s dignity.

"I’m just curious, Mendō," Ataru said, his voice surprisingly calm. "I want to see how far this goes. I want to see if the great heir of the Mendō family can actually keep his cool when his 'good dog' talks back."

Ataru stopped a foot away. He reached out and grabbed the edge of Mendō’s briefcase, slowly pulling it aside. Mendō resisted for a second, his knuckles white, but his strength was gone, sapped by the overwhelming internal chaos.

The briefcase fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The evidence was undeniable. Despite the white fabric of his trousers, the clear, sharp line of Mendō’s arousal was visible, a physical manifestation of a psychological defeat.

Ataru whistled softly. "Wow. You really are a pervert, aren't you? You dream about being the master, but the reality makes you... this."

"It is not... I don't..." Mendō’s head fell back against the wall. He was shivering, his eyes half-closed. "Please, Moroboshi. Just... stop."

Ataru leaned in, his face inches from Mendō’s. He could smell the expensive cologne and the sharp, metallic scent of Mendō’s panic. He felt a strange, unbidden surge of his own. It wasn't the potion this time. It was the sheer, raw vulnerability of his rival.

"What if I don't want to stop, Master?" Ataru whispered.

Mendō let out a sharp, broken sob. He reached out, his fingers tangling in the lapels of Ataru’s school jacket. He didn't push him away. He pulled him closer, his forehead resting against Ataru’s shoulder.

"I hate you," Mendō whimpered into the fabric. "I hate you so much it’s killing me."

"I know," Ataru said, his hand tentatively moving to rest on Mendō’s waist. He felt the heat radiating through the suit. "I hate you too. But you’re the only one who looks at me like this. Even if it’s because you’re a crazy person."

The door to the classroom suddenly rattled.

"Mendō-kun? Darling? Are you in there?"

Lum’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. The spell shattered instantly. Mendō shoved Ataru away with a strength born of pure, unadulterated terror. He dived under a desk, his briefcase clutched to his chest.

"Don't let her in!" Mendō hissed from the darkness of the leg-well. "If she sees me like this, I’ll jump off the roof! I’ll do it, Moroboshi!"

Ataru scrambled to straighten his uniform, his heart racing. "Uh, hey, Lum! We’re just... we’re practicing for the talent show! It’s a drama! About... about a master and a servant!"

The door opened, and Lum floated in, her head tilting in confusion. "A talent show? But the school festival isn't for months. And where’s Mendō-kun?"

"He’s... he’s in character!" Ataru said, pointing vaguely at the desk. "He’s playing a man who is very, very dedicated to his privacy! It’s avant-garde!"

Lum hovered over to the desk and peered under it. Mendō was curled into a ball, his face pressed against the floorboards, his briefcase acting as a shield for his entire lower half.

"Mendō-kun? Are you okay? You look like you’re having a cramp."

"I am... contemplating the floor," Mendō’s muffled voice emerged from the shadows. "The craftsmanship is... superb. Leave me, Lum-san. I must be alone with the wood."

Lum looked at Ataru, her eyes suspicious. "Darling, did you do something to him? You have that look on your face. The one you get when you’ve successfully stolen a snack from the fridge."

"Me? I’m innocent!" Ataru raised his hands, though he couldn't hide the small, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I was just helping him with his lines. Right, Master?"

A low, guttural growl emerged from under the desk.

"Moroboshi," Mendō’s voice was a promise of future violence. "I will give you ten seconds to leave this room before I call in a tactical airstrike on your house."

"Okay, okay! Geez, some people have no appreciation for the arts!" Ataru laughed, grabbing Lum’s hand and pulling her toward the door. "Come on, Lum. Let’s go find some takoyaki. The Master needs his rest."

As the door clicked shut, the classroom fell silent once more. Mendō didn't move. He stayed under the desk, the cool shadows a small mercy for his burning skin.

He waited until he was sure they were gone. He waited until the physical evidence of his betrayal had finally, mercifully receded. He crawled out from under the desk, stood up, and spent five minutes meticulously brushing the dust off his suit.

He looked at his reflection in the window. He looked the same. He looked like Shūtarō Mendō. He looked like a man who owned fifty-one percent of Japan.

But as he picked up his briefcase, his fingers brushed against the spot where Ataru had held him. He closed his eyes, and for a split second, he heard that voice again.

*“Master.”*

Mendō’s hand trembled. He gripped the handle of his briefcase so hard the leather groaned.

"It is a curse," he whispered to the empty room. "A localized, biological, Moroboshi-shaped curse."

He walked out of the classroom, his head held high. He passed Shinobu in the hallway and gave her a polite, aristocratic nod. He ignored the Black Glasses Squad as they fell in line behind him. He was the master of his domain. He was the heir to a fortune.

But as he reached the school gates, he saw Ataru standing by the bicycle rack. Ataru didn't say anything. He didn't mock him. He just caught Mendō’s eye and gave him a slow, deliberate wink.

Mendō didn't draw his sword. He didn't scream. He simply turned on his heel and walked toward his waiting limousine, his face a perfect, frozen mask of dignity.

"Young Master?" the lead guard asked, opening the car door. "Is everything alright? You seem... distracted."

"Drive," Mendō said, sliding into the plush leather interior. "And find out if it is possible to buy the word 'Master.' I want it removed from the Japanese language by tomorrow morning."

As the limousine pulled away, Shūtarō Mendō leaned back and closed his eyes. He was safe. He was going home. But in the quiet of the car, his own heart began to beat a rhythmic, traitorous tattoo against his ribs.

He was the master of fifty-one percent of Japan. But he was no longer the master of himself. And as the sun set over Tomobiki, Shūtarō Mendō knew that his next dream wouldn't be a nightmare. It would be something much, much worse. It would be a reality he couldn't afford to want.