The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Konoko tried to busy herself with chores around the house, but her mind kept circling back to the promise she had made. Every time she glanced at Kazuo, quietly drinking his tea or reading the newspaper, her pulse skipped. Tonight… after dinner… I'll be touching him with my own hands.
Her body felt restless, like her skin was too tight. Even folding laundry, she caught herself spacing out, imagining the slope of his shoulders beneath her palms, the heat of his body against her fingers.
By mid-afternoon, Kazuo reminded her softly, "Don't forget, Konoko—you said Yuta arranged something for you today. Better get ready before you lose track of time."
She startled, blinking rapidly. "R-Right! The volunteer work…"
Her heart pounded for an entirely different reason. The thought of going to meet strangers, filling out forms, pretending to be calm and normal—it made her throat tighten. But she also felt a tiny spark of pride. Maybe if she devoted herself to something good, something selfless, she could balance out the confusing impulses boiling inside her.
She excused herself, retreating to her room to change into something presentable for the meeting. Her reflection in the mirror made her pause—her cheeks were still pink, her eyes a little too bright. She pressed her palms to her face, muttering under her breath, Get it together, Konoko… first the volunteering, then dinner… and then…
She couldn't even finish the thought without shivering.
When she arrived at the volunteer center, she expected only to sign a few forms and officially register. But since she no longer had her café job and had shown up hours earlier than scheduled, the coordinator asked if she would like to start right away.
Before she had time to hesitate, a cheerful woman named Naomi appeared at her side, holding a clipboard and offering a welcoming smile. "You can come with me. I'll show you how we do things," she said warmly.
Konoko nodded nervously, clutching her bag. "O-Okay…"
Naomi explained the basics as they loaded boxes of packed meals into a cart. "We take food to the park nearby, where a lot of the unhoused people gather. It's not just about delivering meals—it's about talking to them, listening, making them feel seen. Emotional support matters as much as the food."
Konoko's stomach fluttered with unease. Talking to strangers had never been easy for her. Still, she followed Naomi through the streets until they reached the square, where rows of makeshift tents and sleeping bags were scattered under the trees.
The air was heavy with a mix of city smells—smoke, damp concrete, and the faint tang of unwashed clothes. People lifted their heads as Naomi greeted them by name, passing out meals with practiced ease. Konoko trailed behind, clutching a container in both hands until Naomi gently nudged her forward.
"Go ahead," Naomi whispered. "Just smile, offer the food, maybe ask how their day is."
Her hands trembled as she crouched beside an older man wrapped in a blanket. "H-Hello… um, would you like something to eat?"
The man looked up at her, eyes tired but grateful. "Thank you, miss."
The weight in her chest loosened just a little as she placed the warm box in his hands. For the first time that day, Konoko's nervous smile turned genuine.
Step by step, she began to follow Naomi's example—kneeling, handing out meals, listening to fragments of stories. Every "thank you" settled into her heart like an anchor, grounding her. She still felt clumsy and shy, but in the soft way some of the people's eyes lit up when she spoke, she saw something that kept her going.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the park in shades of orange and gold, Konoko realized her legs were aching and her throat was dry. But inside, there was a strange warmth—different from the confusion she felt at home, but no less intense.
I crouch lower behind the half-torn canvas flap, my breath tight in my throat. The smell hits me first—sweat, dirt, the musk of men who haven't known soap in far too long. And then I see her. Naomi. On her knees.
Her body moves with feverish rhythm, both hands occupied—her mouth stretched wide around one man's [ ... ], the other juts wet and throbbing against her cheek, waiting its turn.
Her voice is thick with need, muffled around the [ ... ] she sucks so eagerly. "Mmmh—ahhn—yes, give it to me... ahh, so good…" Wet slurps echo as she bobs her head, strands of spit clinging from her lips down her chin.
The men groan low, guttural, one rasping with pleasure, the other gasping, their rough, dirty fingers tangled in her hair. And yet—there's no cruelty in it. Their faces aren't twisted with hunger alone, but softened, almost grateful.
Naomi doesn't look ashamed. She touches them deliberately, like she's offering comfort. One of them even holds her free hand tenderly, as if she were the first person to touch him with kindness in years.
My chest tightens. My breath stutters.
She wants this.
Not obligation—choice.
My cheeks burn, my thighs press together, my chest rises too fast beneath the tight fabric. I whisper to myself, trembling:
"S-she's... she's really doing it... f-for them..."
The sight carves into me—Naomi's eager devotion, the joy etched on those filthy men's faces. Each slick pop when she pulls free makes my stomach knot, my [ ... ] throb with shameful heat.
I hug my knees to my chest, face burning. I can't look away. I should—but my eyes betray me. Every slurp, every grunt, every messy drip of [ ... ] spilling against her lips sears deeper into me, as if I'm tasting it myself.
"Why… why does this affect me so much?" I whisper, weak and breathless. "It's not just desire… it's something else. Something deeper."
Naomi moves with purpose, bathed in the glow of dusk, as if the whole world could see her—and she wouldn't care. Maybe she wanted them to.
My thighs press tighter, not just from heat—but from something I can't name. Is it envy? Longing? Or a desperate need to understand what Naomi has found in this moment?