As Yūto Shō spoke, his fingers dug into Sato Ruri's thigh with deliberate pressure. Her thighs were the kind of perfect that ruined a man—not too full, not too thin, soft in a way that gave just enough before springing back. Smooth like warmed jade under his palm, the kind of texture that made it almost impossible to let go.
That same thigh had already been claimed earlier, marked with his name in desire ink. Now, with his hand kneading right over where the signature lived, the sensation hit somewhere deeper than skin. Her eyes glazed over in seconds, thought unraveling like a dropped spool.
A few whimpers slipped out before she parted her cherry-soft lips and let the tip of her pink tongue peek through.
Yūto Shō's throat bobbed. He couldn't stop himself—he leaned down and caught her tongue between his lips.
"Mn…" A soft, unconscious moan escaped her. She seemed to melt into the pleasure, head tilting back on instinct, tongue pushing forward as if to make it easier for him to taste her.
Yūto Shō felt something inside him about to short-circuit, full Evangelion-level meltdown territory.
He was barely holding the line, the urge to take her deeper—properly—clawing at him.
But the last shred of restraint reminded him: not yet.
Sato Ruri's obedience was rented, not owned. It only worked because of the signature inked with the desire marker. If he moved too fast now, the second she came back to herself and realized she'd lost her virginity, the reaction wouldn't be pretty.
She might call the police. Lash out. Or worse—do something irreversible to herself.
Sure, Yūto Shō could go for the speedrun ending. But he preferred the slow, hidden route—keep his Sato Ruri forever, a steady source of scumbag points he could farm whenever he wanted.
This kind of possession wasn't just physical. He needed her to develop a deep, almost instinctual dependence on him. And with a desire marker in his pocket, that goal felt less like a grind and more like a tutorial level.
The marker was basically a cheat code for training a girl. A signature lasted ten days, but it only hit max efficiency when he was the one touching the marked area. The signed person might notice faint sensations on their own, but never enough to satisfy—and if anyone else touched the spot, nothing happened at all.
Which meant he'd carve himself into her nervous system as the only one who could scratch the itch.
Picture it: a girl whose most sensitive spots only respond to one guy's hands, and every touch from him feels heavenly. Stretch that out past ten days, and tell me she could still feel nothing for him.
Even when she traced over her own skin, the only name lighting up in her head would be Yūto Shō's. How was she supposed to hate him after that?
Just imagining the endgame had him buzzing, which was exactly why he wasn't in any rush to take her tonight. Training came first. Conquest came after.
…
Savoring her tongue, Yūto Shō couldn't help but coil his own around hers. They traded slow, wet kisses, breath mingling, and at some point her arms had drifted up to hook around his neck, both of them lost in the rhythm.
This is the limit. Any more and I'm done for.
He forced her tongue back out of his mouth and broke the kiss. Both of them gasped, finally pulling air into their lungs. Sato Ruri looked wrecked—mouth hanging open, breath ragged, lips slick with saliva, tears clinging to her lashes, cheeks flushed crimson. The expression was somewhere between pitiful and unfairly cute, the kind that made you want to push her further just to see what came next.
Yūto Shō swallowed the urge, kept his hand lazy on her thigh, and let his voice drip with mock-disgust. "And you're still gonna sit here and tell me you're not a pervert? You stuck your tongue out first. That what people are calling a French kiss these days? Tch. My mouth is literally drowning in your spit."
He made a show of wiping his lips.
Sato Ruri's eyes were hazy, fixed on him. Awareness crept back slowly, dragging the last few minutes with it, and she froze.
Just from a little thigh-rubbing, she'd turned into… that.
When Yūto Shō told her to open her mouth and show her tongue, she'd done it without thinking. When he kissed her, she didn't push him away—she'd melted into it. Then she'd shoved her own tongue into his mouth like she'd been waiting for permission.
Her face went nuclear red. The embarrassment was so heavy she half-wished she could just pass out right there.
Yūto Shō squeezed her thigh again. The girl, already drowning in mortification, shivered—the spot he pinched lit up with that weird, traitorous good feeling, and a soft moan slipped out before she could catch it.
"Do you like it when I touch your leg?" Yūto Shō leaned in close, eyes locked on her burning face.
"Uu… too close…" she sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut, voice tiny with shame.
"Open your eyes. Look at me," Yūto Shō ordered, fingers still working her thigh.
The sensation climbing up her leg got stranger by the second. She shook her head, refusing to open her eyes, refusing to accept any of this was real.
Without warning, Yūto Shō stopped. Pulled his hand away.
A hollow ache opened up in her chest, frustration she couldn't name. Her eyes flew open on instinct, searching for him—only to find him grinning like a Cheshire cat, head tilted. "Aw. You want me to touch you?"
Sato Ruri bit her lip and shook her head hard. Absolutely not. Definitely not.
"Really? You don't want me touching your leg? Then what was all that just now?" Yūto Shō kept needling her, finger lightly poking the spot on her thigh.
"Mn—" The sound jumped out of her before she could stop it. She slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide and panicked. Why does it feel good when he touches my leg? Do I actually like it…?
Watching her flustered, gorgeous face, Yūto Shō felt that itch crawl up his spine again. He pressed his palm flat against her thigh and rubbed, slow and deliberate, then arched an eyebrow at her like a final boss issuing a challenge. "Don't make a sound, okay? You said you weren't a pervert, right? Prove it."
Hearing that, Sato Ruri clamped her hands tighter over her mouth, eyes blazing with determination. She refused to turn into something weird just because her leg was being rubbed.
But the strange feelings kept rolling up from her thigh, knotting her up inside. She gritted her teeth, holding the line, breath turning shallow and quick. Her full chest rose and fell in fast little waves, as if Yūto Shō's hand wasn't on her thigh at all but somewhere far more sensitive.
Watching her face flush deeper, Yūto Shō tightened his grip just a notch. The girl, who'd been just barely holding on, suddenly felt the stimulation spike—her delicate body shuddered, and a sweet, unguarded moan finally tumbled out, her eyes going glassy.
"Do you like it when I massage your legs?" Yūto Shō leaned in, lips brushing her ear, deliberately blowing a soft puff of air against the shell of it.
She shivered violently, hands falling away from her mouth, dropping to the sheets and twisting them in white-knuckled fists. Her expression unraveled completely as she babbled, half-delirious, "I like it, I really like it…"
"Well, since you're begging so nicely, I guess I'll allow it."
Yūto Shō sighed like a put-upon protagonist granting a wish, palm sliding gently along her thigh while his other hand reached for the desire marker. With her mind still tangled in fog, he flicked open the button of her jeans, exposing the pale curve of her lower belly.
Pen in hand, Yūto Shō signed his second signature just below her navel.