Konoko closed the door of her room with a trembling hand, the small metallic click of the new lock echoing like a secret pact. For the first time, she felt the weight of privacy — a safe cocoon where she could finally give in. Her heart drummed wild in her chest as she crawled onto the bed, laptop glowing faintly in front of her.
The images filled the screen, bold lines and colors pulling her in. Every panel, every curve, every rope, every flushed expression—it was as if the stories had been drawn for her alone. She pulled the sheets higher beneath her, tucking them against her body as though wrapping herself in the warmth of the fantasy.
Her fingers moved hesitantly at first, brushing against her own skin through the thin fabric of her clothes. The heat of her body gathered quickly, blooming like fire in her chest and pooling lower. She slipped her hand beneath the fabric, tracing her stomach before daring lower, until her fingers brushed over [ ... ]. The slickness was instant, coating her fingertips, a wet contrast to the soft weight of her palm pressing down.
Her wrist strained as she moved, small circles that grew tighter, faster. Each press seemed to send sparks racing through her, like electricity darting under her skin. She gasped softly, biting down on her lip, as her hips arched into her own touch. The sheets under her began to cling, damp and heavy, catching every shift of her body.
Her free hand wandered upward, grasping at her breast, thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple through the fabric until she couldn't help but cry out in a muffled moan. The ache was sharp, delicious — perfectly in sync with the slick rhythm below.
Her mind was a swirl: the weight of ropes around a drawn body, the humiliation in flushed faces, the cruel dominance of a captor in her hentai. She imagined herself there, exposed, trembling, begging. Each image slammed harder into her, her wrist working desperately, the wet sounds of [ ... ] echoing beneath the blanket.
And then it broke — a flood tearing through her body, a violent wave that left her shuddering and clawing at the sheets, the slick mess soaking deeper into the fabric. She froze, breath caught, every nerve lit on fire until slowly, slowly, the tremors subsided.
When her mind cleared, shame rushed in just as fast as the heat had. She looked down at the wrinkled, wet sheets beneath her, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. What have I done…? she whispered, pulling the blanket over her face, hiding from the glow of the screen and the weight of her own desire.
Konoko lay still under the covers, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts, her skin still buzzing with aftershocks. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of her laptop, the glow of the screen painting her flushed face. She pressed her palms over her eyes, ashamed, trembling—and yet, beneath that shame, a question burned.
Maybe… maybe I should test it. Just a little. Only a little more wouldn't hurt… right?
Her own whisper cracked in the air, softer than a sigh. She pulled the sheets tighter around herself, hiding in their damp warmth, as if the fabric could shield her from her own thoughts. But her body betrayed her—her thighs pressed together instinctively, rubbing against the sticky dampness of [ ... ] that still clung there. The sensation was too sharp, too real. A shiver rolled through her spine.
Her heart beat harder the more she thought of it: the images on the screen, the ropes biting into drawn flesh, the helpless eyes of girls surrendering to something overwhelming. She imagined herself in their place, her body offered up, trembling and bound. The thought alone sent heat flooding back, creeping through her belly, filling her chest with that same unbearable weight.
She rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow as if she could bury the hunger in it. But her wrist twitched, her fingers aching to move again. She tried to argue with herself—It's wrong. It's shameful. I should stop. I already went too far. But then, just as quickly: No one will ever know. The door is locked. It's only me. Just a little more… only to see what happens.
Her hand drifted downward again, hesitant, trembling. When her fingertips brushed against [ ... ], the slick warmth made her gasp, louder this time, the sound muffled only by her pillow. She felt the texture—silken, sticky, clinging—coating her fingers until they glided with effortless shameful ease. Her breath quickened, her body tensing, every nerve raw with anticipation.
The strain in her wrist returned as she picked up the rhythm, her hips betraying her by rising into her own touch. Heat swelled in her chest, her stomach, her thighs, growing unbearable. She imagined Kazuo's steady hands massaging her calves earlier, his strength, his warmth, his presence so close—it slipped into her fantasy without her permission. And then, her mind twisted it, reshaped it—Kazuo not just near, but holding her down, commanding her, the same way the characters in her hentais were commanded.
Her body shook. Her back arched. The slick sounds of [ ... ] filled the room, obscene in the silence, each motion of her hand sinking her deeper into a spiral of heat and guilt.
Just a little more. Just a little more.
When release came, it hit her even harder than before—her entire body convulsed, thighs squeezing tight, toes curling against the mattress. She bit down on the pillow to stifle the cry, her whole body trembling violently until the wave subsided, leaving her weak, sweaty, and clinging desperately to the sheets.
Her chest heaved, lungs burning, as she slowly pulled her hand away. The shame hit immediately, a cold flood after the fire. She looked down at her hand glistening with [ ... ], at the soaked fabric beneath her, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
I'm a pervert… she thought, curling into herself. Yet beneath that crushing guilt, one dangerous whisper lingered, coiling inside her chest like smoke:
But maybe… maybe I need to test more.