Stepping into the room, Yūto Shō tossed the girl onto the bed and started yanking off his clothes with the impatience of a man who'd been waiting his entire life for the next five minutes.
Sato Ruri bounced against the soft mattress from the force of it, her brow knitting at the roughness. When she cracked her eyes open, she found Yūto Shō already halfway out of his shirt, the fabric peeling off damp skin, and the sight left her looking utterly dumbfounded—like an isekai protagonist waking up in a scene she hadn't signed up for.
Then, all at once, the girl jolted, as if the fog of arousal had lifted in one clean sweep. Staring at Yūto Shō, now shirtless and displaying that lean, sculpted upper body like some shounen manga cover model—cut abs, the low V of his hipbones vanishing into his waistband, a thin trail of hair leading somewhere she didn't dare follow with her eyes—she asked in a small, frightened voice, "What are you doing?"
Yūto Shō paused, genuinely thrown. "What do you mean? Obviously we're doing it."
"I'm going home."
Her fingers curled tight around the hem of what remained of her clothes, her voice trembling. Only now did she register that her skirt had gone missing at some point, leaving nothing but her safety shorts and her bare legs exposed right under his gaze. The humiliation burned across her cheeks like a bad blush filter.
Worse, the fabric of those shorts was damp—drenched, actually, a dark stain blooming through the pale cotton right at the seam that split her—clinging embarrassingly to her most private skin, the outline of her plump little slit pressed against the fabric like a peach wrapped in silk. Uncomfortable and yet secretly, treacherously thrilling. Remembering how Yūto Shō had pressed his mouth against those very shorts moments ago—the hot huff of his breath through the cotton, the flat drag of his tongue against her clit through the fabric—her heart went full BGM crescendo, thumping wildly against her ribs. She could still feel the slick trail he'd left there, cooling now, mingling with her own wetness.
Yūto Shō heard her say she was leaving, but one glance at her flushed cheeks, that dazed honeyed expression, and the twin points poking sharp through her rucked-up top—there was no way he was letting a piece of meat this tender walk out the door.
Licking his lips like the villain in a shoujo manga two seconds before the plot twist, Yūto Shō crawled onto the bed without a word and reached out to knead her thigh. His palm sank into the give of it—that soft, pillowy give unique to girls who'd never done a squat in their lives, skin so fine it looked backlit.
The exact spot he'd metaphorically and literally staked his claim on earlier was suddenly under his palm, and the girl let out a startled cry—"Hyaa—!"—breathy and small. She tried to jerk her leg back, but Yūto Shō caught her ankle in an iron grip, pinning it wide.
His other hand climbed up to the soft dip of her belly, his rough palm gliding across her delicate skin, over the invisible signature he'd left there earlier, and the touch sent a strange, swollen heat blooming through her, radiating downward, pooling low in her gut where it throbbed in time with her pulse.
Between the two points of contact, Sato Ruri felt her whole body go limp, molten, her strength draining out through the places his hands were touching. Wherever his palm lingered, she burned—hot, aching, unbearably sensitive. She could feel a fresh gush soak into her already-ruined shorts, the wet spot spreading, and her ears burned with the knowledge that he could probably see it.
"Nnh… mmh—" She bit down hard on her lower lip, fighting to keep any embarrassing sound from slipping out, but the whimper leaked around her teeth anyway, high and kittenish.
Yūto Shō grinned, teasing, "You still wanna go home?" His thumb dragged a slow arc along the crease where her thigh met her hip, close, so close to the damp cotton, that her whole leg trembled.
Her eyes flickered restlessly, teeth digging into her lip, too mortified to answer. That big, warm hand of his was pulling something out of her—something deep, something soul-shaking. In that moment, she couldn't even summon resistance; if anything, some traitor part of her was wishing his hand would slide two centimeters left and press right where she was starting to ache the worst.
"Silence means consent, then. You're staying."
Yūto Shō declared it like the final verdict of a shounen protagonist, sealing her fate.
….
Feeling suffocated by the tightness in her chest, the girl bit her lip and finally managed, "I want to… ah—hyaan—!"
The words died in her throat as Yūto Shō's thumb finally strayed and pressed flat against the soaked seam of her shorts, rubbing a lazy circle right over the swollen bud beneath. A violent shudder rolled through her entire body, her mind whiting out like a screen glitch, unable to piece together a single coherent thought. A wet, obscene squelch answered his touch, and Ruri nearly died of shame right there.
Yūto Shō's hand slipped off her belly and took the opportunity to push her top all the way up, freeing her full cleavage to the open air—two pale, perfect handfuls, heavier than they had any right to be on a frame that small, jiggling as she panted. The delicate buds atop them, pink as sakura petals and stiff as pencil erasers, trembled like they were begging to be sucked, just barely peeking into bloom.
Yūto Shō's throat bobbed painfully. He lowered his head, and his mouth was suddenly filled with softness—tender, silken, fragrant, tasting faintly of milk and the sweet body wash she used. A single taste wasn't nearly enough, and he sank in headfirst like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, sealing his lips around one nipple and sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth catching just enough to make her yelp.
"Aah—! N-not there, ngh—!"
The girl came back to herself, aware of a ticklish, prickling sensation blooming across her chest, sharp lightning cracks shooting straight down between her legs with every pull of his mouth, and beneath the shock was something disturbingly comfortable, something that made her cunt clench around nothing. When she opened her eyes, she found Yūto Shō's head buried against her chest, his dark hair tickling her chin, cheek bulging obscenely as he suckled—a bizarre, unfamiliar sensation, entirely his doing.
A flicker of shame flashed in her eyes, but she had no strength to push him away. Being handled like this, she could feel her own desire cresting higher and higher, her consciousness slipping into a haze, her body running hotter by the second, slick smearing down the insides of her thighs now, past the edge of her shorts. She could barely control herself, and her arms rose almost of their own accord, wrapping around Yūto Shō's head, tiny mewling sounds slipping from her throat—"hnn… ah, ah, mm—"—each one thinner and higher than the last.
Yūto Shō stayed buried against her chest, his mouth full of that sweetness, breathing ragged, heart pounding like a taiko drum, blood roaring straight south—because down there, tucked in his pants, he was already at max power charge, his cock so hard it was mashed painfully against his zipper, a wet spot of precum already darkening the front of his boxers.
Yūto Shō felt even more wound up than that day he'd tricked Tachibana Hina into helping him let off steam—probably because tonight was the night he was finally handing in his V-card.
Rumor had it that every virgin met his own personal tragedy the moment he tried to cash it in. A rookie driver never got the clutch and accelerator right the first time; the engine always stalled at the worst possible moment, and the poor guy ended up eating dirt—blowing his load the second he pushed in, or worse, blowing it before he even got there.
Would that happen to him? Would she look at him like some Bakugou-tier failure afterward?
The thought flashed through Yūto Shō's head, but he shoved it aside. He was way past the point of holding back. If the first attempt bricked, then he'd just go ten more rounds, twenty if he had to—tonight, he was determined to fuck her until she couldn't remember her own name, flip her whole world upside down like a final boss battle.
Yūto Shō steeled himself, tore free from her embrace with a wet pop as her nipple slipped from his lips—glossy and swollen and painted with his spit—lifted his head to pin the girl with a burning stare, and then hurriedly began to peel off his pants.
He flung them aside along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free with an audible slap against his lower belly—thick, veiny, curved slightly upward, the flushed head already glistening with a fat bead of precum that strung down in a clear thread. His eyes blazed as he raked them across the girl beneath him, her body laid out like something straight out of a forbidden doujin—flushed, panting, her top rucked up under her chin, her wet shorts the only scrap of fabric left. He swallowed hard, throat working audibly, and reached toward her, clearly aiming to strip away her safety shorts.
That was practically her last line of defense.
The girl stared up at him, dazed. It was the first time she'd ever laid eyes on a fully unclothed man's body, and the shock hit her like a Level 100 critical strike. The thing jutting from between his hips was so much bigger than she'd imagined—thicker than her wrist, longer than her forearm from wrist to elbow, angry-red at the tip, a heavy sac hanging beneath it. Her thighs pressed together instinctively at the sight, a fresh rush of heat flooding her core.
...
After a stunned second, seeing Yūto Shō's hand descending toward her, the girl finally clocked what was about to happen. Panic surged through her, her cheeks flooded red, and she clamped her thighs tightly together, but the motion only made the seam of her shorts saw wetly against her clit and a helpless little "nnh!" escaped her throat.
But in the end, Yūto Shō's hands only landed on her chest. After palming their softness thoroughly—kneading, pinching, watching her tits spill between his fingers like fresh mochi—he bent down and caught the girl's lips again, greedy for her sweetness, prying her teeth apart, sending his tongue slipping inside to map every corner of her mouth, sliding along the roof, coaxing her shy little tongue out to play, sucking it into his own mouth. Saliva strung between them each time he pulled back an inch, only to dive in again.
"Mmph—mmnh—hah…"
The girl's eyes hazed over with something soft and dazed, her body responding on pure instinct, hips lifting off the sheets in tiny, desperate rolls she wasn't even aware of.
...
After Yūto Shō kissed her until she was gasping for air, spit shining on her chin, he finally released her lips with a wet chu sound, only to trail his mouth downward—her neck (a lingering suck that would bloom purple by morning), her collarbone, the valley between her breasts, her sternum, her belly, dipping his tongue into her navel until she squealed, every inch of her getting marked with the imprint of his kisses, like a summoning circle drawn across her skin.
The girl felt his lips falling on her like rain, until they arrived at the spot just below her belly where his invisible signature waited. Her whole body trembled uncontrollably, a soft cry breaking free from her throat—"aahn…"—her eyes fluttering back as her legs slowly parted for him, thighs falling open as if pulled by strings.
Yūto Shō hooked his fingers into the waistband of those ruined safety shorts and dragged them down her legs in one smooth pull, and the fabric peeled away from her cunt with a slow, sticky shhk, a glossy string of clear slick clinging between the cotton and her pussy lips before finally snapping. He tossed the shorts to the floor and just—stared.
She was bare. Utterly, obscenely bare. A neat little slit, puffy and swollen from arousal, slick smeared down her inner thighs, the small pink pearl of her clit peeking out from its hood, twitching faintly under his gaze. The scent of her hit him full force—sharp and sweet, faintly musky, unmistakably girl—and his cock jerked so hard it bounced against his stomach.
Yūto Shō pressed forward, wedging himself into position between her thighs, using his palms to spread them wider, opening her up completely.
Only then did the girl truly register what was happening, her eyes going wide with anxiety, her hands flying up to cover her face. But once he'd settled between her thighs, her body turned to liquid, boneless, incapable of resisting whatever Yūto Shō was about to do. She could feel the fat, blunt head of him bumping against her wet folds, hot as a brand, and her insides clenched so hard she felt dizzy.
Remembering the stories she'd heard about that thing—how it was supposed to hurt the first time, how she might even bleed—the girl trembled with fear. Yet buried beneath the fear was the faintest thread of anticipation, quiet and electric, a treacherous little voice whispering what if it feels good, what if, what if.
Yūto Shō dragged the head of his cock through her slit, coating himself in her wetness, slipping it up and down between those puffy lips, catching against her clit on every upstroke. The wet sounds it made were unbearable—shluck, shluck—and each pass made her whole body jerk.
"Ah—! Ahn, hnn—!"
The girl let out a soft, aching moan the moment sustained contact was made, her hips lifting despite herself, chasing the friction. Her delicate body melted instantly, her breath coming ragged, her full chest rising and falling in a way that would've made any red-blooded protagonist forget his own name.
Yūto Shō was, quite literally, on the straight and narrow path toward the maiden.
Standing tall, head held high, thick and heavy as a boss weapon, the flared head lined up dead center against her tiny, twitching entrance.
Ready to charge in, awaiting only the command.
Yūto Shō looked down and caught Sato Ruri gazing up at him with wide, wet eyes—tears clinging to her lashes without falling—nerves written all over her face. She was holding her breath, her expression a tangled mess of unease and something ineffably shy, like a heroine on the last page before the confession scene.
Yūto Shō bent down and captured her soft lips again, kissing her until she went pliant and boneless beneath him, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other still holding his cock in place at her entrance, then finally pulled back and murmured against her mouth, "Don't be scared. I'll be gentle."
The girl's eyes were misted over, her breathing uneven, her cheeks glowing. Hearing this rare tenderness from Yūto Shō, feeling her soft flesh pressed flush against him—his cock hot and heavy against her belly, his chest crushing her nipples flat—she inhaled sharply. Her gaze grew complicated, layered, and finally she whispered, "Do you… like me?"
Yūto Shō paused for half a beat, then nodded. "Of course."
At that, the girl seemed to exhale some long-held tension, her lashes lowering as she closed her eyes, and her thighs relaxed the last inch around his hips.
Yūto Shō kissed her lips again, this time with much more care, tongue slow and reverent.
Sato Ruri felt that rare gentleness of his, her cheeks blooming pink, and she let herself sink into the taste of it—copper and mint from his mouth, the salt of her own tears—savoring the moment like the last frame of an ending credits scene.
Sensing the moment was right, Yūto Shō hesitated no longer. Head held high, he closed in step by step, notching himself against her, and began to push.
The girl, eyes still closed, suddenly felt her breath hitch as her tight little hole was forced to stretch around something impossibly thick, her brow furrowing tight, as if some unfamiliar guest had barged into her home uninvited, making her deeply uncomfortable. The head alone felt too big, splitting her open, and a tiny whimper caught in her throat.
"Ngh… i-it hurts, it hurts—"
Yūto Shō showed no sign of stopping. Feeling the resistance—that thin, fragile barrier catching against his tip—he steadied his hips, grit his teeth against the maddening squeeze of her, and pushed forward in one firm, unhurried thrust.
He heard the girl release a pained little groan—"aah—! ahh—!"—her nails suddenly biting crescents into his shoulders, her back arching off the mattress, and then Yūto Shō felt as though he'd stepped into a whole new world—because he had, quite literally, stepped into a whole new world.
The place was tight, snug, cramped in the best possible way—her virgin cunt clenching around him in shocked, fluttering pulses, silk-hot walls squeezing every inch of his shaft like they were trying to milk him dry on contact—yet impossibly warm, impossibly inviting, slick as anything, so wet he could feel her arousal already trickling down to his balls. Like coming home to a scene he'd only ever dared to dream about.