The air hung thick with the mingled scents of jasmine perfume and something sharper, muskier—the unmistakable evidence of what had just transpired. Outside, cicadas droned their endless summer chorus through the cracked window, but inside the dim living room, time seemed suspended in amber.
Tachibana Hina had completely checked out. The sudden, overwhelming surge that had crashed through her left consciousness scattered like dandelion seeds in a hurricane. Her body lay slack against the couch cushions, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, eyelids fluttering with the rapid movements of someone lost in the space between waking and dreaming.
Yūto Shō worked quickly.
His fingers pinched her tongue, drawing it gently from between parted lips. The soft pink muscle was warm, pliant, utterly defenseless. With his other hand, he uncapped the Libido Marker—that impossible pen the system had provided—and pressed the tip to the underside of her tongue. The ink flowed like liquid obsidian, forming the strokes of his name in neat, deliberate characters against flesh that glistened with saliva.
Perfect. He admired his handiwork, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. Who would ever guess that beneath this proper housewife's elegant exterior, right under her pretty little tongue, my name sits waiting like a secret she'll never discover?
The image struck him as profoundly erotic—this hidden claim, this invisible collar. The "First Mover Advantage" mission the system had assigned was practically in the bag now.
Her tongue twitched.
The movement was subtle, unconscious—a gentle swirl against the pad of his finger that sent an unexpected jolt through his nervous system. Her eyelids trembled, consciousness beginning its slow ascent back to the surface.
Yūto Shō withdrew smoothly, repositioning himself between her parted thighs, burying his face against her heat as if he'd never moved. The musky sweetness of her arousal filled his nostrils, heady and intoxicating.
"Mmnh..." A soft moan escaped Tachibana Hina's throat as awareness seeped back into her limbs. Everything felt heavy, liquid, her muscles refusing to cooperate with even the simplest commands. And there was something strange happening with her tongue—an unfamiliar sensation, somewhere between discomfort and an itch she couldn't scratch.
Her brow furrowed. Eyes opened.
And froze.
Yūto Shō's dark hair was buried between her knees, his shoulders working with subtle movements. Her skirt had vanished entirely—she couldn't even remember when that had happened. The realization of her exposure crashed over her like ice water, shame flooding her cheeks with scorching heat.
Oh god oh god oh god—
She tried to close her legs. Her thighs trembled, twitched, but wouldn't obey. Whether from exhaustion or some treacherous reluctance, her body refused the command.
Before she could spiral further into mortification, Yūto Shō lifted his head.
His face was drenched.
Glistening rivulets traced paths down his cheeks, dripped from his chin, caught the dim lamplight like morning dew. He looked like he'd just surfaced from underwater—and she was the ocean that had tried to drown him.
I... I did that?
The embarrassment she expected to feel never arrived. Instead, something else bloomed in her chest—something hot and tight and utterly inappropriate. Her heart hammered against her ribs, blood rushing in her ears, and that strange sensation on her tongue intensified, morphing from discomfort into a trembling pulse that seemed to call out to him.
What is wrong with me? Tachibana Hina swallowed hard, unable to tear her gaze from his dripping features. Why do I want to—
Her body moved before her mind could catch up.
She sat up in one fluid motion, hands cupping his wet face, palms sliding through the slick evidence of her own pleasure. Her eyes had gone glassy, unfocused, a flush spreading down her neck and across the swell of her breasts visible above her disheveled blouse. Her tongue emerged, tentative, experimental—and dragged a slow stripe up his cheek.
The contact sent electricity singing through her nervous system.
"Haaah~" The sound escaped involuntarily, breathy and desperate. Her tongue felt incredible—like scratching an itch that had been building for hours, like finally drinking water after crossing a desert. Relief and pleasure tangled together into something addictive.
"Hina-nee?" Yūto Shō blinked at her, the picture of innocent confusion. "What are you—"
"Your face." The words came out husky, barely above a whisper. Red painted her cheeks, but she couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. Her tongue traced another path across his skin, collecting her own taste mixed with his sweat and something indefinably him. "I made a mess of you. That's... that's not right. Let me clean it up."
This is insane. I know this is insane. So why can't I stop?
Because it feels too good to stop.
She licked him like a cat grooming its favorite person—long, languid strokes interspersed with delicate flicks. Every drop she collected, she swallowed, and the act should have disgusted her. It was her fluids, after all, smeared across a man who wasn't her husband. But the taste had been transformed by contact with his skin, infused with his essence, and it slid down her throat like honey.
Delicious, her hazed mind supplied. He tastes delicious.
Yūto Shō's smirk was hidden against her collarbone as she worked. Choosing her tongue as the signature site had been inspired—he'd expected increased arousal, heightened sensitivity, but this compulsive need to taste him exceeded his wildest projections.
His hands wandered while she licked, skating up her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, dipping into the valley of her spine. Tachibana Hina shivered at each touch but didn't pause her ministrations, the urge to clean his face overriding any remaining modesty.
Cheeks. Forehead. Chin. The bridge of his nose.
When she'd erased every trace of herself from his skin, only one territory remained unconquered.
His lips.
Tachibana Hina pulled back slightly, chest heaving, gaze fixed on his mouth with the intensity of a woman possessed. Saliva pooled on her tongue, eager, anticipatory.
"Open up," she breathed, and the command trembled with barely contained want.
"Hina-nee, what exactly are you planning to—"
"You swallowed some." She cut him off, voice dropping into something soft and coaxing, the tone a mother might use with a reluctant child—except utterly corrupted by the hunger burning in her eyes. "Let me clean that out too. Be good. Open."
I sound like the Big Bad Wolf. The thought drifted through her consciousness, distant and irrelevant. Asking Little Red Riding Hood to show me her grandmother's house.
She didn't wait for compliance.
Her mouth sealed over his before he could respond, tongue sweeping across his lips to catch any lingering traces before pressing forward, seeking entrance. He parted for her—of course he did—and she dove in like a woman starving, licking the roof of his mouth, curling around his tongue, chasing a flavor that might not even exist anymore but god the act of searching for it felt so incredibly right.
This is wrong, a distant part of her protested weakly. This is so, so wrong.
Shut up, the rest of her responded. His mouth is warm and he tastes like everything I've ever wanted.
Yūto Shō kissed her back, and the sensation of their tongues tangling made her moan into him, the sound swallowed by their connected lips. But it wasn't enough. The more she tasted, the more she craved, the itch spreading from her tongue through her entire body until she was vibrating with need.
She pushed him.
Yūto Shō fell back against the couch cushions, and she followed, crawling over him like a predator over prey. Her lips traced down his jaw, his neck, pausing to suck at his pulse point before continuing their descent. Collar bone. Chest—she nuzzled aside fabric with her nose, too impatient for buttons. Stomach, muscles tensing under her kisses.
Belt buckle.
Her fingers fumbled with shaking urgency, but she didn't trust them—too slow, too clumsy. Instead, she bent her head, catching the leather between her teeth, working the metal free with a combination of lips and tongue that should have been awkward but felt natural as breathing.
I've never done this, she thought distantly, watching her own hands drag down his zipper. Not even for Natsuo. Never wanted to.
But for him—
The fabric parted, and oh.
Tachibana Hina's breath caught in her throat.
His cock sprang free, and she could only stare. It stood proud and angry-red, thick enough that her fingers wouldn't quite meet if she wrapped them around the shaft, long enough that the head reached past his navel. Veins roped along its length like rivers on a map, pulsing with his heartbeat, and the crown flared wide and smooth, already weeping clear fluid from the slit.
It's huge, she thought, dazed. How is it this big? How would it even—
Her tongue swept across her lower lip, leaving a glistening trail of saliva.
The itch roared.
She took him in her mouth like a woman taking communion.
The first contact made her eyes roll back, a whimper vibrating through her chest and into his flesh. The taste—salt and musk and skin and him—exploded across her tongue, and the relief was so intense it bordered on orgasmic. Like ice cream on a sweltering August day. Like water in a drought. Like finally, finally scratching an itch that had been driving her insane.
"Mmmmph~"
Her lips stretched around his girth, the corners of her mouth going white with the effort of accommodating his size. She bobbed experimentally, testing how much she could take, and discovered that even at her most ambitious, a good third of his length remained exposed. Too big. Too thick. Too much.
She didn't care.
Her hands compensated where her mouth couldn't reach—one wrapping around the base to pump in counterpoint to her oral ministrations, the other cupping the heavy swell of his balls, rolling them gently against her palm. They were warm and full, drawing tight against his body, and she could feel the weight of his arousal literally in her hand.
So full, she marveled. So much inside, waiting to—
The thought short-circuited into pure sensation as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked.
Yūto Shō's groan rumbled through the quiet room, his hips beginning to rock in instinctive counterpoint to her rhythm. The head of his cock bumped the back of her throat with each thrust, triggering her gag reflex, but she breathed through it, relaxing muscles she hadn't known she possessed.
This is what it feels like, she thought hazily, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as he fucked into her mouth. Being used. Being filled. Being—
"Glk—glk—glk—"
The wet, obscene sounds of deepthroating filled the apartment, punctuated by her muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. A strand of dark hair had escaped her loose bun, plastering itself to the corner of her mouth where saliva had smeared, and the image she must have presented—this composed, elegant housewife with her face stuffed full of young cock—would have mortified her former self.
This self just wanted more.
I've never done this for anyone, she thought again, some desperate part of her clinging to that truth. Not in all of marriage. Not once.
He's the first.
Why does that make me so—
Yūto Shō's hands found her breasts through her blouse, and conscious thought scattered like startled birds. He kneaded the soft mounds through thin fabric, and she could feel her nipples stiffening against his palms, twin points of heat that throbbed in time with her racing pulse.
"Mmmnph!" A protest, muffled by the cock in her mouth, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The pleasure from his hands on her chest merged with the satisfaction of her tongue wrapped around his length, creating a feedback loop of arousal that left her dizzy.
His fingers found her nipples through the fabric, rolling, pinching, and she whined around his shaft, the sound vibrating through his sensitive flesh.
"Fuck," Yūto Shō hissed, hips stuttering. "Hina-nee—your mouth is incredible—"
The praise went straight to her core.
More, something primal demanded. Make him feel good. Make him—
She doubled her efforts, head bobbing faster, cheeks hollowing with increased suction. Her tongue swirled around his crown each time she pulled back, dipping into the slit to collect the steady leak of precum, before she plunged back down to take him as deep as she could manage.
His hands abandoned her breasts—she made a disappointed noise—but only so he could grip the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. Not forcing, not yet, but guiding, setting a rhythm that had her eyes watering and her throat convulsing.
She let him.
Use me, she thought, and the words should have been shameful but only made her wetter. Use my mouth like it belongs to you.
When his hips began to stutter, rhythm growing erratic, she knew what was coming. Part of her wanted to pull back, to finish him with her hand, to watch from a safe distance. But a larger part—the part that had been awakened by whatever magic his touch contained—wanted something else entirely.
She pressed forward.
The head of his cock breached her throat, and she fought through the gag, swallowing around him, milking him with muscles she hadn't known could be used for such purposes. Her hand worked his balls with increased urgency, feeling them draw up tight against his body.
"Hina-nee—" His voice cracked. "I'm gonna—"
She hummed her encouragement.
He came with a sound like a dying man finding salvation.
The first shot hit the back of her throat, thick and hot and endless. She swallowed on instinct, throat working to accommodate the flood, but more kept coming—rope after rope of thick white seed pumping directly into her stomach.
So much, she thought wildly, struggling to keep up. How can one person produce so much—
It was too much.
"Glk—cough—hack—"
She pulled off, coughing, gagging, strings of saliva and semen connecting her lips to his still-pulsing cock. But he wasn't done—the next shot caught her across the cheek, another striping her forehead, a third landing in her hair with an audible splat.
"Haah... haah..." She gasped for air, chest heaving, cum dripping down her face like obscene tears. Her body trembled with aftershocks, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
But when she looked up at Yūto Shō through cum-clumped lashes, there was no disgust in her expression.
Only hunger.
She crawled back up his body, straddling his thighs, and lowered her mouth to his softening cock without a word. The taste was stronger now—cum and sweat and musk concentrated into something that should have made her gag but instead made her moan.
I want to clean him, she thought, lapping at the sensitive flesh with long, loving strokes. Want to taste every drop. Want to—
"Sssss—" Yūto Shō sucked air through his teeth as her tongue traced the underside of his shaft. "Hina-nee, that's... sensitive..."
She hummed acknowledgment but didn't stop. The softened cock fit entirely in her mouth now—a blessing after the strain of accommodating him at full mast—and she could take her time. Worship him properly. Clean every inch of skin with devoted attention.
"Mmm~"
Her tongue swirled around his crown, dipping into every fold and crevice, collecting the mixture of their combined fluids. She swallowed each mouthful with visible pleasure, eyes fluttering closed in contentment.
"You're good at this," Yūto Shō murmured, stroking her hair. "Really, really good."
The praise made her glow.
He likes it, she thought, redoubling her efforts. He likes what I'm doing. He thinks I'm good—
She felt him twitch against her tongue. Then swell.
The cock in her mouth grew, hardening by degrees, filling her once more with insistent, undeniable need. Within moments, she had to pull back or risk choking, and when his length emerged from her lips, a string of crystalline saliva connected them—delicate and obscene.
"Nnngh~" She stared at his restored erection with something like wonder, lips swollen and red from their workout. "Yūto-kun, your... it's so big..."
"That a complaint?" He grinned down at her, one eyebrow raised.
"N-no, I just—" Her blush deepened impossibly. "I meant—"
"Good." His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her back down. "Don't forget the balls this time. You were so focused on the main course, you ignored the sides."
The crude instruction should have offended her. Instead, it sent a bolt of heat straight through her core.
"Yes," she whispered, lowering her mouth to his sac.
Her tongue traced the wrinkled skin with painstaking thoroughness, producing plenty of saliva to ease the way. Each ball got its own attention—licked, sucked gently, rolled against her tongue while her hand kept up a steady rhythm on his shaft. The taste here was stronger, muskier, and she found herself moaning softly at each pass.
"Fuck yes," Yūto Shō groaned, head falling back. "Just like that. You're such a good girl, Hina-nee."
Good girl. The words sank into her brain like hooks.
She sucked one testicle into her mouth, then the other, tongue pressing and massaging while she worked. His cock leaked steadily onto her pumping fist, slicking her movements, and the wet sounds filled the quiet apartment.
I'm servicing him, she thought distantly. Like a... like a...
Like I belong to him.
The thought didn't scare her as much as it should have.
She worked him like that for what felt like hours—mouth alternating between balls and shaft, tongue and lips and hands collaborating in a symphony of worship. Each time he got close, she could feel it in the way his muscles tensed, the way his breathing changed, and she'd ease off just enough to drag him back from the edge.
Eventually, though, her own endurance flagged. Her jaw ached, her knees were sore, and exhaustion had begun to creep in around the edges of her arousal-fogged brain.
Yūto Shō noticed.
"Tired?" His hand stroked her hair, gentle despite the obvious need straining his cock.
She nodded against his thigh, shame flickering through her. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't be." He reached past her for something on the side table—a small bottle of vivid blue liquid she didn't recognize. He downed it in one gulp, and she watched his eyes sharpen, energy flooding back into his frame. "My turn now."
He moved before she could process, flipping their positions until she lay spread beneath him, his cock bobbing above her like a compass needle finding north.
The night was young, and Tachibana Hina discovered that Yūto Shō had absolutely no intention of letting her rest.
His fingers traced the curve of her hip, skating dangerously close to her center, and she tensed—ready to resist, to protect that final barrier even as every other defense crumbled.
Not there, she thought desperately. Anywhere else but there—
His hand retreated.
But his mouth descended.
And Tachibana Hina's world dissolved once more into sensation.