[ Underground Parking Garage]
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The small vibrating egg pressed against the peak of her left breast through the layered fabric of her uniform blouse, its persistent hum radiating outward in concentric waves that turned every nerve ending into a lit fuse. The parking garage smelled of oil-stained concrete and the faint vanilla of Mitsuki's body lotion, the combination thick in the sealed cabin. Overhead fluorescents filtered through the tinted windows as pale grey bars across the leather seats.
Egawa Mitsuki clenched her jaw until her molars ached, determined not to let a single strange expression cross her face. Her fingers curled into the hem of her skirt, knuckles bone-white. She could feel Sasaki's gaze on the side of her face like a physical weight—amused, unhurried.
If I just endure it, he'll get bored. He will gets bored eventually. He has to.
But seconds bled into what felt like minutes, and the itch blooming beneath her left breast deepened into something worse—a swollen, tightening heat that spread downward through her ribs and pooled low in her belly. Her nipple stiffened against the cup of her bra until the fabric itself became an unbearable friction point, each tiny oscillation of the egg amplified tenfold by the taut peak pressing back against it. Her thighs squeezed together on instinct, the muscles in her calves going rigid inside her knee-high socks.
Sasaki Fuyumi noticed everything. The way her breathing had gone shallow and quick through parted lips. The way her legs clamped shut, one ankle hooking behind the other. The delicate flush creeping up from her collar.
He tilted his head, voice casual as someone discussing the weather. "You know, this toy isn't actually meant to be used there." He pulled the egg away from her chest, and the sudden absence of vibration left a phantom tingling that somehow felt worse than the contact itself. He rolled the buzzing little device between his thumb and forefinger, watching the way her eyes tracked it involuntarily. "Where do you think it's supposed to go?"
She already knows. Look at those legs clamped together like a vault door. She's known from the second she saw the box.
The flicker of loss in Mitsuki's eyes—barely a millisecond of it—told him plenty. Then his words registered. The color drained from her face in a wave that started at her hairline and washed downward, replaced almost instantly by a deep crimson flush. She scrambled backward on the seat, shoulders hitting the door panel with a muffled thud, but the car's interior offered exactly zero escape. Her spine pressed against cold glass.
Sasaki smiled. Unhurried. The overhead light caught the angles of his jaw, shadows pooling in the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He looked like an actor playing a villain who'd already read the script.
"Looks like you understand perfectly," he said. "Good. That saves me an anatomy lesson. So here's the deal—I'll give you two options." He held up one finger. "Option one: you demonstrate how this thing is properly used. On yourself. For me." A second finger joined the first. "Option two: I personally place it where it belongs and handle the demonstration myself."
The system notification had appeared the moment he'd pressed the egg to her chest on a whim—two branching routes, both requiring her to reach climax at least once before he could stop. Sasaki weighed them for half a second. Route one. Forcing her to do it herself was infinitely crueler, and cruelty, he'd found, was where the interesting reactions lived.
Watching her fight herself is better than anything I could do with my own hands.
Mitsuki's body trembled—not from arousal, but from fury. Her small frame shook like a drawn bowstring, fists balled at her sides, her chin jutting forward with the defiance of someone cornered and fully aware of it.
"Pervert!"
The word came out sharp enough to cut glass, but Sasaki only grinned wider. He let silence do the work for three full seconds, then spoke with theatrical resignation.
"So you're choosing option two, then? Alright—spread your legs."
His hand drifted toward her thigh, fingers relaxed, palm open.
Every hair on Mitsuki's body stood on end. A visceral chill raked down her spine like ice water poured between her shoulder blades. "I didn't say option two!" she blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, her voice cracking at the edges.
"Not two means one, right?" Sasaki pulled his hand back and rested it on his own knee, watching her with the patient amusement of a cat that had already cornered the mouse against a baseboard. The leather seat creaked beneath him as he settled in.
Her expression cycled through emotions like a slot machine that couldn't land on a result—defiance, fear, humiliation, calculation, and back to defiance again. She understood the trap's geometry with painful clarity: refusing both wasn't an option. And option two meant his hands on her body again—his fingers, his control, that awful deliberate precision she remembered from the principal's office. The memory hit her like a slap. His palm flat against her bare skin, his breath on her neck, the way he'd made her body betray every principle she held.
I won't let that happen again. I'd rather die than feel that helpless twice.
She inhaled through her nose, held it, released it slow. "Can you promise you won't touch me?"
Sasaki suppressed the urge to laugh. These girls, one after another—so painfully naïve. She'd already learned the hard way that his promises had the structural integrity of wet tissue paper, and here she was asking for another one. As if a verbal contract in a parked car had any enforcement mechanism whatsoever.
Adorable. Genuinely adorable. Like a rabbit negotiating with a wolf about table manners.
"Of course," he said, voice smooth as poured honey over warm skin. "I'll only watch. Hands strictly to myself. Scout's honor."
Mitsuki's lips trembled. She looked like she wanted to spit on him. Her nostrils flared, and the scent of her own sweat—sharp, nervous, layered under that vanilla lotion—filled the narrow space between them.
"Fine." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Start your… whatever this is."
"Your show," Sasaki corrected. "Not mine." He tossed the vibrating egg in a lazy arc.
She caught it on reflex, both hands cupping around it, and the persistent buzz against her palms sent a jolt up through her wrists. The thing was small—barely the size of a quail egg—smooth medical-grade silicone, pale pink, warm from his hand. It pulsed against her skin like a living heartbeat. Her cheeks flushed so deeply that even the tips of her ears went red, the color vivid and immediate, like ink dropped into water.
To demonstrate this thing meant putting it... there.
The thought alone made her stomach clench. But the alternative—Sasaki's hands sliding beneath her skirt, his fingers finding the waistband of her safety shorts, peeling them aside with that infuriating calm—was infinitely worse. She had too many weapons pointed at her own head already: the photos, the leverage, the accumulated debt of humiliations that he could broadcast with a single tap.
A beat of hesitation. Two. Then Mitsuki bit down on her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and with the desperate energy of someone leaping off a cliff, she shoved her hand—vibrating egg clutched tight—between her pressed-together thighs.
"Feet toward me," Sasaki said. "I can't see anything from that angle."
The words landed like a physical blow. Mitsuki froze mid-motion, her courage evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. For several awful seconds she sat rigid, face contorted in something between rage and the precursor to tears. Then, slowly—so slowly that each degree of rotation seemed to cost her a year of her life—she turned her body, swinging her legs around until she sat sideways on the seat, knees angled toward him, her back against the passenger door.
Sasaki watched with the attentive stillness of a connoisseur at a private gallery viewing. His dark eyes moved from her face to her hands to the hemline of her skirt, cataloguing every micro-expression.
Mitsuki's cheeks burned so hot she could feel her own pulse in her face. The shame was a physical substance, thick as honey, coating the inside of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hand hovered in the air between her thighs, trembling, the buzzing egg clutched between her index and middle fingers.
She couldn't do it.
Every time she willed her hand downward, the knowledge that Sasaki was staring—those sharp, appraising eyes taking in every detail with undisguised hunger—paralyzed her muscles like a circuit breaker tripping.
He's looking at me. He's watching me right now. Those disgusting eyes, roaming over me like I'm—
Her fingers twitched. The egg buzzed.
She bit her lip again, tasted the blood from before, and with her eyes still clenched shut, forced her trembling hand downward. The egg descended like it weighed a hundred kilograms—slow, agonizing, her wrist shaking so badly the vibrations seemed to stutter.
"Spread your legs."
Two words. Delivered with the same conversational ease as ordering coffee.
Mitsuki's face went white, then crimson so fast it looked like a traffic light malfunction. She opened her eyes just long enough to shoot him a glare that could curdle milk, then her knees drifted apart—three inches, six, enough to reveal the dark fabric of her safety shorts beneath the pleated skirt. At least those were still in place. A tiny mercy. But a new panic struck her immediately: if she kept stalling, what would stop him from ordering her to strip off the skirt and shorts entirely?
Oh God. He would. He absolutely would. He'd say it in that same calm voice like he was asking her to pass the salt.
The terror of that possibility jolted her into motion. She didn't just comply—she went further, reaching down with her free hand to hike the hem of her skirt up past mid-thigh, bunching the pleated fabric at her waist. Safety shorts stretched tight across the junction of her spread thighs, dark navy cotton clinging to every contour. Then she pressed the vibrating egg against herself, pushing it firmly into the soft cleft between her legs where the fabric pulled taut over her most sensitive spot.
Bzzzzzzzzz—
"Nnh—!"
The sound that escaped her throat was involuntary, strangled, animal. Every muscle in her body seized simultaneously, her spine arching off the door panel as though she'd been struck by lightning. The vibrations didn't just touch the surface—they penetrated through the thin cotton of her safety shorts like the fabric wasn't even there, boring directly into the swollen bud of her clit with a focused intensity that whited out her vision.
Her mouth fell open. Ragged gasps tore from her lungs—wet, desperate, hitching sounds that fogged the window behind her head. The flush spread down her neck, across her collarbones, disappearing into her blouse. Tears welled at the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes and spilled in hot tracks down both cheeks.
The sensation was nothing like she'd expected. Not gentle, not gradual. A roaring current that started at the point of contact and radiated outward through her pelvis, her thighs, the soles of her feet. She could feel her own pulse hammering against the egg, feel the slick heat building beneath the cotton as her body responded with mortifying eagerness to stimulation her mind was still screaming to reject.
He's watching. He's watching me fall apart. He can see everything—my face, my legs, the way I'm—
"Don't look at me," she choked out, her voice cracking into something dangerously close to a sob. Her head thrashed side to side against the window, hair coming loose from its clips, strands plastered to her tear-damp cheeks. "Please don't—don't look... I'm begging you..."
"That expression you're making is really slutty," Sasaki said, his voice rougher than before, a rasp at the bottom of it he couldn't quite control. "I'm getting hard just watching."
Fuck. I'm not even exaggerating.
The words hit her like a second shockwave. Her whole body spasmed—a sharp, convulsive jerk that snapped her thighs together around her own hand, her back bowing off the seat, a choked "Ahhn—nn—!" ripping from her throat as something broke loose inside her. Her hips bucked twice against the trapped egg, grinding the vibration harder against her clit through the now-soaked cotton, and then every muscle in her body went slack at once.
She collapsed sideways onto the leather seat, chest heaving, legs still splayed open in a graceless V. Her hand remained wedged between her thighs, fingers locked around the still-buzzing egg, but her grip had gone limp—the device was vibrating against fabric so wet that the cotton had turned a shade darker, a visible damp patch spreading outward from the point of contact. The smell hit the enclosed cabin in a wave—sharp, musky sweetness, the unmistakable scent of a girl's arousal mixing with the leather and vanilla until the air itself felt humid.
Sasaki's mouth had gone dry. His pulse hammered in his temples, his throat, the base of his cock where it strained against his zipper. He hadn't touched himself—hadn't so much as adjusted his position—but his body was screaming at him like a fire alarm, every nerve demanding he close the two feet of space between them and—
"Don't take your hand away," he managed, the words coming out thick, coated in gravel. "If you do, I'll have to take over."
Through the fog of her shattered consciousness, Mitsuki heard him. Some survival instinct deeper than thought understood the threat, and her trembling fingers pressed the egg down harder against the soaked cotton, holding it in place with the last dregs of her strength.
Then her eyes rolled back and her body went completely limp.
Sasaki stared at her for a long moment after she lost consciousness. The sight laid out before him—spread thighs, soaked shorts, chest heaving with each unconscious breath, tear-streaked face flushed the color of ripe peaches—hit him like a freight train. He'd released barely three hours ago with Sayuri that morning, and already the pressure in his groin felt volcanic, a dull ache pulsing behind his navel.
But the parking garage's fluorescent lights buzzed on the other side of the glass. Footsteps echoed somewhere on the level above. And Mitsuki's phone, wedged between the seat cushions, lit up with a LINE notification that he could read from where he sat:
[Mitsuki, I've arranged the delivery car for the rice. Coming to pick you up now.]
Her driver. Minutes away at most.
Sasaki exhaled hard through his nose and wrestled the heat back down through sheer force of will, jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stood out like cables. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the marker—the one he'd designated for exactly this purpose—and uncapped it with his teeth.
He leaned over her slack body. His fingers found the hem of her blouse, pulled it upward, then pushed the bra—white, lightly padded, a small bow at the center gore—up and over the swell of her breasts.
They spilled free with a soft, heavy bounce, round and full enough that gravity barely changed their shape, the skin luminous pale in the garage's filtered light. Her nipples had darkened to a flushed pink, the left one still visibly stiff from the egg's earlier attention, areolae pebbled tight despite the warmth of the car. Each breast was large enough to overflow his palm—he knew from the principal's office—with a natural teardrop fullness that quivered with every shallow breath she took.
God, these are perfect. Like something out of a doujin. And she just... walks around with these hidden under that uniform every day.
He allowed himself three seconds of pure, unfiltered appreciation. Then he pressed the marker's felt tip to the smooth skin just above her left breast and wrote his name in deliberate, unhurried strokes. The ink was a deep indigo that stood out stark against her porcelain complexion.
俞 绍
Mitsuki stirred. A cool sensation on her chest dragged her back to half-consciousness, and she forced her heavy lids open to find Sasaki's face inches from her exposed breasts, his hand moving with calligrapher's precision across her skin. The marker's chemical tang stung her nostrils.
Shame erupted through her like boiling water. She wanted to shove him off, to cover herself, to scream—but her arms were dead weight at her sides, her muscles wrung out and useless, every limb heavy as waterlogged wood. All she could do was watch, helpless and burning, as he finished the final stroke and capped the pen with a quiet click.
Sasaki straightened up. A thin sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, and his breathing had gone noticeably uneven. Staring down at her—bare-chested, marked, legs still open, the damp patch on her shorts glistening under the overhead light—required a level of self-restraint that bordered on physical pain.
A girl this defenseless, this wrecked, spread out in front of me, and I can't do a single goddamn thing about it. This is actual torture.
But the phone screen had gone dark and would light up again any second. He pulled her bra back down, tugged her blouse into approximate order, and picked up the box of condoms she'd bought earlier still sealed in their pastel packaging.
He dropped the box squarely onto the swell of her chest. It bounced once against the soft flesh, and he flicked it with his finger for good measure, watching the way the impact sent a faint ripple through her breasts beneath the fabric.
Then he leaned down. His hand gripped her jaw—not gently—and he crushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was hard, bruising, tasting of her tears and the copper tang of the blood where she'd bitten her lip. His tongue pushed past her teeth for one savage, claiming second, then he pulled back.
"I could fuck you any day I want," he said, his voice low and rough against her wet lips, each word deliberately spaced. "Keep those condoms on you at all times. Because if I decide to put it in and you don't have one—" He straightened up, adjusted his jacket. "—I'm not pulling out. And I'm not dealing with the consequences."
He opened the car door. Cool garage air rushed in, carrying the smell of exhaust and damp concrete, cutting through the heavy musk that had saturated the cabin. He stepped out, closed the door with a controlled click, and walked toward the stairwell without looking back.
Inside the car, Egawa Mitsuki lay motionless on the leather seat, staring at the ceiling through glassy eyes. The box of condoms rose and fell on her chest with each breath. The vibrating egg had finally rolled free from between her thighs and buzzed uselessly against the seat cushion, a faint and maddening hum in the silence.
Then the flush hit—delayed, devastating, blooming across her entire face and throat like a peony bursting open in fast-forward. She pressed both palms over her eyes and curled onto her side, knees drawing up to her chest, the condom box tumbling to the floor mat with a soft clatter.