[Underground Parking Garage – B2 Level]
The overhead fluorescents on this level had been dying for weeks—two out of every three tubes reduced to a faint, jaundiced flicker that barely touched the sedan's tinted windows. Inside, the only real light came from the dashboard's ice-blue glow and the amber parking indicator still blinking on the console. The leather seats held a residual warmth from the drive over, and beneath it, the car smelled like sandalwood cologne layered over new upholstery and the cold mineral tang of underground concrete. Somewhere above, a ventilation shaft rattled—a low, rhythmic drone that filled the silence between them like a metronome counting down to something neither of them had named yet.
His hand was already on her face.
Not gentle. Not quite rough. The calloused pad of his thumb dragged across her cheekbone with the kind of casual possessiveness that made Mitsuki's jaw tighten involuntarily. His palm was broad enough to cup the entire side of her face, fingers curling behind her ear where the skin was thin and warm, and the roughness against hers—against the porcelain smoothness she maintained with religious devotion—felt obscene in a way she couldn't articulate.
This is humiliating. She glared at him, brows drawn tight, dark eyes burning with open hostility. The request he'd just made hung in the air between them like something foul.
"What's wrong?" Sasaki Fuyumi's voice was low, amused, his mouth curved into that infuriating half-grin he wore when he knew he held the advantage. He leaned closer, and the sandalwood sharpened. "Scared? Weren't you the one who said I could do whatever I wanted?"
His thumb moved. Slid from her cheek down to her lower lip—plush, naturally pink, slightly parted from the breath she was struggling to keep steady. He pressed into the soft flesh, just enough to watch the lip compress and dip inward, the faintest imprint of his thumbprint left in the moisture there.
God, this mouth.
Mitsuki's nostrils flared. "What exactly do you think you're—"
She got four words out.
His index and middle finger slipped past her lips the instant they parted—smooth, deliberate, pressing flat against the wet surface of her tongue before she could clamp down. The taste of his skin hit her immediately: salt, something faintly metallic, the ghost of hand soap. Her eyes went wide, pupils blowing out in the dim blue light, and her first instinct was to gag, to shove the intrusion out with her tongue—
A hand clamped down on her left breast.
Not a graze. Not an accidental brush. His left hand closed around the full swell of her chest through her blouse with enough force to make her gasp—a hard, possessive squeeze that compressed the soft tissue against her ribs and sent a bolt of sharp, almost-pain radiating outward from the center of her nipple. Her brows crumpled. A strangled sound caught in her throat, muffled around the fingers still resting on her tongue.
"Mmn—!"
It hurts. That hurts, you—
Her hand flew to his wrist, fingers wrapping around the tendons, pulling. But the squeeze came again—firmer this time, his fingers kneading into the give of her breast through the thin fabric, the pad of his thumb finding the stiffening peak and rolling it sideways with a pressure that turned the pain into something worse. Something that tingled, spread, converted her grip on his wrist from a pull to a trembling hold.
"Hnn—" The sound leaked out before she could stop it, low and nasal, vibrating against the fingers in her mouth.
"Hm?" Sasaki tilted his head, the picture of innocence. His left hand kept its rhythm, thumb circling. "You were saying?"
His left hand worked in slow, methodical circles—alternating between squeezing the entire mound and pinching the nipple through her bra with just enough pressure to make her breath stutter. Mitsuki's body went rigid in the passenger seat, spine pressed flat against the leather, thighs clenching together beneath her skirt. The recycled air in the car felt suddenly too warm, carrying the faint sweetness of her jasmine lotion mixed with something sharper underneath—something her body was producing without her permission.
She's already getting soft. Sasaki watched her eyes lose focus, the fight draining from her posture one squeeze at a time. His fingers pressed down gently on her tongue, feeling it twitch and contract beneath the pads. Sensitive chest. Filed that away.
"Don't move," he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted across her ear. "Unless you want my nails to scrape your tongue. Just trimmed them, so they've got edges."
His fingertips began to move inside her mouth—slow, circular motions against the slick muscle of her tongue. The texture was impossibly soft, wet, alive—her tongue reflexively curling and uncurling against his touch like it couldn't decide whether to resist or accommodate. A thin, obscene sound filled the car's interior: the wet schlck, schlck of saliva being displaced, fingers sliding over oral tissue, her breathing growing ragged and shallow through her nose.
Mitsuki's face burned. The sensation of having her tongue manipulated—pressed flat, rubbed in circles, stroked from base to tip—was nothing she'd ever experienced, and the shame of it made her chest heave against his still-groping hand. She couldn't close her mouth. Every time she tried, his fingers pressed down harder, and all she managed was a helpless, gurgling whimper.
Saliva pooled. Overflowed.
A thin, glistening line of drool escaped the corner of her lips and slid down her chin in a slow, shining trail that caught the dashboard light. Her eyes watered—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming strangeness of being touched in places she'd never considered erogenous, her brain short-circuiting between indignation and a creeping, unwanted heat building low in her belly.
Sasaki watched the drool track down her chin and swallowed hard.
Fuck.
He pulled his fingers out. A wet string of saliva connected them to her lower lip for a half-second before snapping, and Mitsuki barely had time to suck in a desperate, gasping breath before his mouth was on hers.
---
The kiss was nothing like the soft, tentative first kisses in the shoujo manga she'd devoured in middle school—Sasaki kissed the way he did everything else: with intent and without asking. His lips sealed over hers, slick with her own saliva, and the suction was immediate and bruising. He pulled at her lower lip, drawing it between his own, biting down just hard enough to dimple the flesh before releasing it and pressing back in. The taste of her flooded his mouth—clean, warm, faintly sweet from whatever lip balm she used, underlaid by the raw, intimate salt of spit.
My first kiss.
The thought surfaced through the static in Mitsuki's brain like a bubble breaking the surface of dark water. Her very first kiss, and it was happening here—in a dim, exhaust-scented underground parking garage, in the back of a sedan that smelled like leather and sandalwood, with a man whose hand was still cupping her breast like he owned it.
I'm going to kill him.
But her body refused to cooperate with her rage. The press of his lips sent a cascading wave of sensation radiating from her mouth through her jaw, down her neck, pooling in her chest where his hand still rested.
She'd read about kisses. Written about them, late at night in her journal, trying to capture what they might feel like based on descriptions in novels. None of it had prepared her for the reality—the wet heat, the pressure, the way his lips moved against hers with a confidence that made her own feel clumsy and frozen.
Then his tongue touched hers.
He didn't ask for entry. He nudged her lips apart with the same direct pressure he'd used with his fingers—just enough to get past the barrier of her teeth—and then his tongue slid against hers, hot and slick, and Mitsuki's brain went blank.
"Mmph—"
Oh.
The sound she made was involuntary, muffled, vibrating between their sealed mouths. His tongue stroked the underside of hers with a slow, deliberate drag, and some ancient, traitorous part of her nervous system responded before cognition could catch up. Her tongue pushed back. Met his. Curled around it in a clumsy, instinctive answer—pure mammalian reflex, a body encountering unfamiliar stimulus and doing what biology demanded before her higher brain could intervene.
At least, that's what she told herself.
She's kissing back. Sasaki's pulse kicked up a notch, his grip on her breast softening into something almost tender as he deepened the kiss. He could feel her inexperience in every tentative motion—the way her tongue retreated and advanced in uneven little surges, the way her lips kept trying to close out of reflex. First kiss. No question. And I'm the one who took it.
The knowledge sent a hot, possessive satisfaction curling through his chest like smoke.
He wrapped his arms around her, palms flattening against the ridges of her spine through her blouse, pulling her into him. Her body was warm and pliant against his chest, her small frame fitting against his larger one with a precision that felt deliberate. He kissed her deeper—sucking her tongue into his mouth and then releasing it, licking the roof of her mouth, tracing the ridge of her teeth—and between them, the wet, rhythmic sounds of the kiss filled the car's interior like a private language: chup, nn, schlk, mm—
Liquid gathered where their mouths met and failed to seal completely. A thin rivulet of mixed saliva traced down Mitsuki's chin, dropped onto the collar of her blouse, soaked into the fabric in a spreading bloom.
She was drowning. That was the only explanation for the feeling in her chest—an expanding pressure that had nothing to do with his hand and everything to do with the way her heart was hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape the cage of bone. The parking garage, the car, the circumstances—all of it dissolved into the wet, breathless reality of his mouth on hers, and for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, Egawa Mitsuki stopped thinking entirely.
This is… what it feels like.
A strange, unfamiliar warmth unfurled from somewhere deep behind her navel, spreading downward through her hips and thighs with a liquid heaviness that made her press her knees tighter together. Her fingers, which had been balled into fists against his chest, slowly unclenched.
---
Sasaki pulled back.
The separation was sudden—his lips leaving hers with a soft, wet pop, and for a disorienting moment, a thin bridge of saliva connected their mouths, glinting in the dashboard light like spun glass. It stretched. Thinned. Snapped.
Mitsuki stared at him.
Her expression was wrecked. Lips swollen and glossy, parted, the lower one still trembling faintly. Her cheeks blazed—not pink, but a deep, scalded crimson that extended down her neck and disappeared beneath her collar. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, the dark pupils blown wide enough to swallow most of the iris. She looked like a character in the final panel of a doujinshi—the one right before the page turn that changes everything.
I just…
Her lungs remembered they needed air. She inhaled sharply, one hand pressing against her sternum where her heart was doing something medically concerning, and the parking garage crashed back into reality around her—the rattle of the ventilation shaft, the distant echo of a car door slamming on another level, the smell of exhaust and concrete mixing with the musk of what had just happened between them.
She turned away.
Her hand dove into her bag on the seat beside her, rummaging with a precision that bordered on frantic, and emerged with a small packet of tissues. She pulled one free and began wiping her mouth—carefully, methodically, pressing the tissue against her lips and chin with the concentration of someone performing surgery.
Sasaki watched her from behind heavy-lidded eyes, one arm draped across the back of the seat, his breathing still elevated. His expression shifted from satisfaction to annoyance in the space of three seconds.
"What, kissing me was that disgusting?"
Mitsuki didn't look at him. She kept wiping. But the sidelong glance she shot from beneath her lashes was knife-edged, and her silence said more than words ever could.
Is that even a real question?
Sasaki's jaw tightened. "Funny. The girl kissing me back thirty seconds ago seemed pretty into it."
The tissue froze against her lips.
The crimson in her cheeks deepened—if that was even possible—and she could feel the heat spreading to the tips of her ears. He was right. She knew he was right. She'd responded. Her tongue had moved. She'd made sounds. The memory played back in mortifying high-definition behind her eyes: the wet slide of his tongue against hers, the way her body had gone soft, the tiny, helpless noises she'd fed into his mouth like offerings.
Physiological response. Stimulus and reflex. Like the textbooks describe. Nothing more.
She pressed her lips into a line and said nothing.
---
Sasaki's hand moved. Before she could react, he snatched her bag off the seat.
Mitsuki's head snapped toward him, the tissue still clutched in her fingers. "Give that back—"
She reached for it, but he was already holding it beyond range, leaning back against the driver's-side door with a lazy grin. The bag was modest—cream-colored leather, understated, the kind of thing that cost more than it appeared—and he held it up like a prize at a festival booth.
"Tell you what." His thumb popped the magnetic clasp, the tiny click absurdly loud in the quiet car. He held her gaze, steady, mocking. "Kiss me again, and you get it back."
Mitsuki went rigid.
He wouldn't.
He absolutely would. She could read it in the glint behind his eyes—the offer was theater, a provocation engineered to watch her squirm. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at him with an expression that could have curdled milk at twenty paces.
Sasaki shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He upended the bag.
The contents tumbled onto the leather seat between them with a soft clatter and rustle—a lipstick tube rolling into the stitched seam, a phone charger coiling like a white snake, a compact mirror landing face-up to catch the faint blue glow, a crumpled receipt, a pen, and then—
Sasaki's hand froze mid-shake.
Three objects lay among the everyday clutter with the subtlety of a grenade on a dinner table. A small, egg-shaped vibrator in matte pink, still sealed in its clear plastic clamshell packaging. A realistic silicone dildo—flesh-toned, maybe six inches long with a slight upward curve, vacuum-sealed—the suction-cup base visible through the plastic. And a blister pack of oral contraceptives, the foil backing pristine, every single pill still nestled in its cavity.
The car was very, very quiet.
The ventilation shaft droned on overhead. Somewhere on the level above, a car engine turned over and caught, the sound muffled through layers of concrete. Inside the sedan, the two of them stared at the spread of items on the seat like archaeologists examining artifacts from a civilization they didn't quite understand.
She's been carrying all of this around. To school. Every day.
Sasaki picked up the contraceptive packet first, holding it between two fingers, turning it over with the slow deliberation of someone reading the ingredients on a cereal box. He looked up at Mitsuki.
Her face had gone white. Not red—white. The blood had drained so fast it was almost visible, and her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles sharp against the skin. She stared at the scattered evidence on the seat with the expression of a defendant watching the prosecution lay out exhibits.
This girl's brain runs on an entirely different operating system.
Sasaki's gaze tracked from the pills to the vibrator to the dildo, then back to her face. His expression was unreadable for a long moment—disbelief wrestling dark amusement behind his eyes—before settling into something quiet and evaluative.
He held up the pill packet. "The birth control. Same logic as the condoms you had before, right?" His thumb tapped the foil backing, each tap punctuated by a tiny metallic tink. "Bought on my account. Because you figured if it was inevitable, you'd rather control the aftermath."
He could read the logic plainly enough. Contingency planning. Grim, practical preparation from someone who'd accepted a worst-case scenario and decided to meet it armed rather than ambushed. She hadn't surrendered. She'd fortified.
Mitsuki pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. Her jaw was set so tight the muscles in her cheeks twitched. She gave him nothing.
Sasaki set the pills down and picked up the vibrating egg. He tore the clamshell packaging open with one clean pull, and the small device rolled into his palm—smooth, lightweight, about the size of a large grape. A dial at the base served as both power switch and intensity control. He turned it over, examining it with the casual curiosity of someone inspecting a novelty lighter.
"How many times have you used this?"
Mitsuki's teeth clenched. She stared through the windshield at the concrete pillar six feet in front of the bumper. The silence between them stretched taut.
Sasaki clicked the dial.
The egg buzzed to life with a high-pitched, insistent hum—bzzzzzzz—that filled the car's interior like a wasp trapped in glass. The vibration was strong enough to travel up through his fingers into his wrist, and the sound sliced through the parking garage quiet with an obscenity that was almost comical.
He brought it to her chest.
The matte pink surface pressed against the swell of her left breast, just above the cup of her bra, and the vibration transferred instantly through the thin layers of fabric. Mitsuki's breath hitched—a sharp, involuntary inhale that lifted her shoulders and bowed her spine.
"I'm curious." Sasaki's voice dropped, low and unhurried, his mouth close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of each syllable. "And if you don't answer, I'll have to find creative ways to open that mouth of yours."
The buzzing hummed against her breast—persistent, maddening, a sensation she could feel in her sternum, in her teeth, in the tightening flesh beneath the fabric. Mitsuki's nostrils flared. Her breathing came faster, shallow pulls through her nose, and the jasmine scent of her skin was sharpening into something warmer, muskier—a note she couldn't disguise no matter how rigidly she held herself.
"Never," she bit out, the word forced through clenched teeth like it cost her a tooth to release. "Not once. Take it off—"
Sasaki's eyebrows rose. Genuine surprise flickered across his features, chased immediately by something darker—the expression of a cat discovering the mouse still had fight left. His lips curled.
"Never?" He tilted his head, studying her flushed face. "Brand new, then." His hand shifted, dragging the vibrating egg down the curve of her breast with agonizing slowness until the buzzing tip found the raised point of her nipple through the layers of bra and blouse. "Seems like a waste not to break it in."
Bzzzzzzzz—
The vibration concentrated on that single, stiffened peak, and the world behind Mitsuki's eyes went white. The sensation was electric—a sharp, shuddering pulse that radiated outward from her nipple in concentric waves, tightening her stomach, clenching her inner thighs, pulling a thin, reedy whine from somewhere behind her sternum that she barely managed to trap behind her teeth.
"Nnh—"
Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't you dare—
Her nipple had hardened into a rigid peak beneath the vibrator, visible now even through the bra and blouse, and the swollen flesh around it throbbed with a heat that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. The buzzing egg pressed and held, and Mitsuki's fingers dug into the leather seat on either side of her thighs hard enough to leave crescent-shaped nail marks in the grain.
Sasaki watched her jaw lock, the cords of her neck standing taut as bridge cables, her chest rising and falling with each shaking, controlled breath. The scent rolling off her skin had thickened—jasmine and arousal braided together, warm and unmistakable in the sealed cabin.
--