Drunken Michiyo Gotoh's body burned hot, feverish. She lurched up from the sofa, still woozy and disoriented.
Her cheeks flushed deep crimson. Drunks didn't always black out completely—she remembered every intimate little moment with Shin crystal clear.
Something this big? No way she'd forget.
That was crossing a line. Shin's the one Hitori likes—they're endgame.
Did I gross him out? If he stops coming over, what then?
She'd gotten used to him around the house. Felt amazing, honestly—like the air itself turned sweet with a guy in the mix.
Cough. Play it off. 'I was blackout drunk, remember nothing.'
Michiyo's steps wobbled, nearly tripping herself multiple times. She shrugged off her jacket, unzipped her skirt. Nude stockings sheathed her legs; each step left faint warm imprints on the floor. Her white blouse hung open at the top, lace bra edges teasing out, hem barely veiling her secret garden.
With every sway, hints of purple flickered into view below.
Still hazy, she shoved open the bathroom door without a second thought—time for a rinse and soak to unwind.
Then she froze. Someone was in there.
Shin's pants bunched at his knees, one hand braced on the sink, the other pumping furiously in a solo sprint.
Michiyo stared, body locking up, throat itching as she swallowed hard.
Over thirty, zero male contact—her workplace all women.
With a 20:1 female-to-male ratio, guys were pampered treasures, too precious for grunt work. Working men? Rare as hen's teeth.
Streets barely had any dudes at all.
Michiyo was peak sexually frustrated—especially at her job, surrounded by women in the exact same boat.
Idle chatter turned filthy fast: porn swaps, sites circulating manga, novels, vids galore.
Key caveat? Most vids were 3D renders.
Male talent? Near impossible.
20:1 meant men were hot commodities. Porn star? Forget it—they had women lining up to bankroll them without lifting a finger.
Michiyo's fave? Novels. Lately, I Played Matchmaker for My Mom and Son-in-Law. Title said it all—steamy mother-in-law and dashing son-in-law tale.
She slotted herself as the "mom," naturally.
Sure, it kinda betrayed Hitori, but it was her deep, dirty secret kink.
As long as it stayed locked away? Harmless.
Lusting after your daughter's crush? Michiyo... you monster!
But Shin was irresistible. High schooler with mature vibes, radiating househusband aura.
Solo sessions? Thinking of him got her there fast, vistas of bliss.
Even at work—his face popping into her head—she'd duck into the bathroom for a hushed frenzy.
Afterglow always crushed her with guilt, that taboo weight choking her breath.
Last time, every time. Yet she'd cave again.
Now, seeing Shin mid-stroke? Brain.exe crashed.
"Michiyo? Auntie?"
Shin's voice quivered, a pitiful edge to him.
Memories of earlier flooded back—she craved round two.
"Don't talk."
Reason's string snapped. She crushed him in a frontal hug, burying his face in her twin peaks.
Shin drowned again in that perfume-booze cocktail.
This wasn't innocent cuddling—her hand was committing the "unforgivable."
He opened his mouth to protest, but his body went limp.
How? I train daily—built like a tank?
Lame excuse. Truth? He was kinda into it.
"Relax, I'm helping. Shh, no yelling—please. If Hitori or Futari hear, we're toast."
Michiyo whispered hot in his ear, breath sticky with booze.
"You're drunk—let go!"
Shin's voice shook.
Not enjoying it... okay, maybe it felt good, but that wasn't the point!
"This is wrong."
He felt like a Saiyan grabbed by the tail—power drained.
Weakened by my cheat? Stats shifting?
That one spot swelled, siphoning strength from everywhere else.
Shin had muscle to fight back, but against her grip? Laughable.
"Be good. Almost done."
Michiyo eyed the sink, squirting lotion into her palm.
The cool slickness made Shin shudder—foamy, fragrant glide. He rose on tiptoes involuntarily.
"I like Hitori... I don't want—"
Shin bit his lip, a reluctant whimper escaping.
The bathroom filled with their rhythmic pants, weaving into a symphony.
Michiyo gazed at Shin slumped on the floor, then her hand—stockings smeared with hot, sticky white porridge.
"What... have I done?"
Vision blurred black, legs buckled. That curse struck again, reality too over-the-top to swallow.
Job botched—now this? She'd wrecked that too.
Family shattered. How would Hitori see her?
Prison, probably.
20:1 ratio meant ironclad male-protection laws.
If this went legal? She was done for.
Dread of the fallout plunged her world into darkness.