Konoko shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her whole body still buzzing from what she had done at work. The man's fleeting glances replayed in her mind like a loop she couldn't pause. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and even though she tried to steady herself, she felt the same nervous heat returning, curling low inside her.
She tossed her bag aside and headed straight for her bedroom, peeling off her uniform piece by piece. Standing in front of the wardrobe, she hesitated. Normally, she would pick her usual modest sleepwear—loose, safe, something that hid her shape. But tonight, she couldn't stop staring at one particular piece folded neatly in the back: a short nightdress, thinner than what she ever dared to wear around the house.
Her hand trembled as she pulled it out. The fabric was soft and light, barely brushing her thighs when she slipped it over her head. She caught her reflection in the mirror and almost didn't recognize herself. Her cleavage was faintly visible, her legs bare, the outline of her hips not hidden at all.
Her heartbeat became wild, irregular, as if it might break out of her chest.
That was the moment she heard it—footsteps in the hallway. Gramps. His presence was something she was always aware of, even when he wasn't looking at her. Just knowing he was nearby made the air thicker, heavier. And now, with her dressed like this, her body reacted instantly—her skin prickling, her face burning red.
She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the hem of the nightdress, knees pressing together as if to contain the restless heat inside her. What am I doing? Why did I put this on? she scolded herself, yet her chest rose with nervous anticipation at the thought of stepping out into the living room.
When Gramps' voice called gently down the hallway—"Konoko, are you awake still?"—she flinched, every nerve ending alive. Her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly answer. Shame battled with a strange, breathless excitement, leaving her trapped in her own trembling body.
Konoko forced herself to stand, her knees weak as if her body wanted to betray her. The fabric of the short nightdress clung to her skin, reminding her of how exposed she really was. She brushed her hands nervously over her thighs, but there was no way to make it look longer, no way to hide what she had chosen.
Taking a shaky breath, she opened the door.
The hallway felt colder than her room, the air brushing against her bare legs and making her shiver. Each step toward the living room sounded louder than it should, her heartbeat drumming in her ears.
Gramps was sitting on the sofa, reading glasses low on his nose, a book resting open in his lap. When he looked up at her, his expression was as calm and casual as ever, not seeming to notice the storm inside her chest.
"Oh, there you are," he said, smiling gently. "I was wondering if you'd gone to bed already."
Konoko froze a moment too long before she nodded, her fingers gripping the hem of her nightdress, tugging it down instinctively. "I… I w-wasn't sleepy yet…" Her voice cracked, shy, and she quickly lowered her eyes to the floor, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in her tone.
Gramps patted the space beside him on the sofa. "Then sit with me a while. It's been quiet tonight."
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. The thought of sitting so close, dressed like this, made her throat tighten. Still, her feet moved on their own, each step bringing her closer until she sank down beside him. The cushion dipped under her, and she felt the warmth of his body just inches away.
Her skin tingled, her chest rose with uneven breaths, and shame crept hotly across her face. She couldn't focus on anything but the thundering of her own pulse and the way her nightdress shifted slightly when she sat, baring just a little more of her thigh than she intended.
She curled her hands tightly in her lap, trying to calm the trembling.
Konoko shifted nervously on the edge of the sofa, her nightdress brushing softly against her thighs. The words were already out, and her chest tightened with regret.
"Kazuo… c-could you massage my leg? The… the spot I hurt the other day."
Kazuo looked at her in quiet surprise before nodding. He rose with his usual calmness, rummaged through a small drawer, and returned with the familiar vial of oil. The faint, herbal scent filled the air as he uncapped it.
Konoko's stomach twisted the moment the smell reached her. Why did I ask for this? Her hands curled into fists in her lap as she tried to breathe steadily.
"Alright," Kazuo said gently, kneeling in front of her. "Just relax."
She stiffened immediately as his warm, calloused fingers wrapped around her calf. The first smear of oil on her skin made her shiver, the cool slickness spreading across her ultra-sensitive flesh. She bit her lip hard, trying not to gasp.
Kazuo's thumbs pressed carefully into the sore muscle of her calf, working the oil in with deliberate, steady strokes. Konoko's mind, however, betrayed her—every touch felt magnified, unbearably intimate. Heat spread up her thigh, her chest rising and falling too quickly.
Why… why did I do this? Her heart pounded with shame. She wanted to pull away, to tell him to stop, but her body refused to move.
Each time his fingers pressed into a knot of tension, she had to stifle the trembling that shot through her leg. The oil glistened under the dim light, his hands sliding too easily, too smoothly over her skin.
"Is the pressure alright?" Kazuo asked, his tone calm, unaware of the storm raging inside her.
Konoko forced a shaky nod, though her throat was too tight to answer. Inside, she cursed herself, fighting against the heat pooling low in her belly.
The regret was immediate, overwhelming—every second of his hands on her was torture, both from the pain of her injury and from the way her hypersensitive body betrayed her.
Konoko's mind was a whirlwind. I shouldn't have asked… stupid, stupid… why did I say it? Her body still tingled where Kazuo's hands worked the oil into her calf, and each glide of his thumbs made her nerves scream louder than the soreness ever had.
She wanted it to stop—wanted to pull away, to hide in her room, bury herself under the covers until the heat in her chest faded. But Kazuo's calm presence made that impossible. He was so casual, so matter-of-fact, like this was nothing more than helping with a sore muscle.
When he finally lifted his hands away, wiping the oil from his palms with a small cloth, Konoko almost sighed with relief. But then Kazuo's voice came, steady and thoughtful:
"You're holding a lot of tension… not just in your leg. Your back must be hurting too, isn't it? Let me take care of it."
Her stomach dropped. Her eyes widened. Back?
"N-no, it's fine, really, you d-don't have to—"
He was already shifting behind her, placing the oil on the small table. "Come on, Konoko. You've been working so much. At your age, you shouldn't be straining like this."
Her throat went dry. Say no. Just say no. But when she turned her head, Kazuo's expression was so kind, so insistent in that quiet, fatherly way… refusing outright felt impossible.
"…O-okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Idiot… why did I say okay?
Kazuo motioned for her to lean forward. She obeyed stiffly, every nerve in her body bracing for the first touch. The bed dipped as he settled behind her, his hands warm and heavy as they landed gently on her shoulders. The oil was cool again, spreading under his palms, and she froze, her heart hammering wildly.
This is wrong… I can't… I shouldn't have let him…
Her thoughts tangled with shame, with the frantic beat of her pulse. His fingers pressed slowly down her spine, untying knots she hadn't even realized were there. Each stroke left her shuddering, not from relief, but from the unbearable sensitivity that made her body betray her.
She pressed her lips together, nails digging into her knees. Smile. Act normal. Don't let him notice.
But inside, Konoko was drowning—every second of Kazuo's hands sliding over her back felt like a decision she could never take back.
Konoko sat rigid, her thoughts tangled in knots as Kazuo's hands worked slowly down her back. Every press of his thumbs made her stomach twist tighter, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to stop him, to turn around and say no more—but the words just wouldn't come.
Kazuo's voice broke the silence, calm and steady, as if nothing about the situation was unusual.
"I picked up a new lock for your room today. I'll install it tomorrow, so you'll have more privacy. Oh, and the bathroom door—it's been fixed already. Shouldn't give you trouble anymore."
Her heart skipped. Privacy. The word rang in her ears, almost cruel in the moment, when her whole body was betraying her in ways she could barely admit even to herself.
Konoko forced a small nod, her voice thin: "Th-thank you… Kazuo…"
The mention of her name in his mouth still lingered from earlier, and now it mixed with this—his practical, protective words—contradicting the heat rising inside her chest. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything but his hands still moving across her sensitive skin, the warmth spreading beneath her shirt.
He's just being kind. He doesn't notice. He can't notice.
But her heart kept pounding, each beat louder than the last, until she thought it might give her away.
Konoko shut the door of her room behind her, pressing her back against it as if she needed a barrier stronger than wood to hold back the confusion clawing at her chest. Her skin still tingled where Kazuo's hands had been, the heat refusing to fade.
She slid down onto her bed, hugging her knees tight, face buried against them. Shame radiated through her, hot and suffocating. What am I doing? Why did I… why did I ask him like that? Every detail replayed—the way she had called his name, the way she had sat still under his touch even when her heart screamed to run.
Her fingers trembled as she touched her lips, cheeks burning. The memory of her own voice came back, soft, breathy, almost needy. It made her stomach twist.
"Maybe… maybe I do have this fetish…" The whisper slipped out before she could stop it. She flinched at her own words, but the thought refused to go away. The warmth in her chest, the strange pull in her body—it all pointed back to something she couldn't deny anymore.
Her phone was still on the nightstand. She grabbed it quickly, almost desperately, as if needing proof, an answer. Her search history was still open—the categories she had stumbled on before. Masochism. Exhibitionism. Domination. Just the sight of the words made her breath stutter.
She hesitated only a moment before her thumb pressed "purchase." One after another, the titles lined up in her library. Her pulse quickened with each confirmation, her mind screaming stop even as her body leaned in closer, needing to know, needing to see.
The room was quiet, but inside her chest everything was chaos: shame, excitement, fear, curiosity, all tangled into one knot she couldn't untie. She curled onto her side, phone glowing in her hand, whispering again into the silence:
"…Maybe this is who I really am."