The attic smelled of cedar beams, old tatami dust, and the faint sweetness of mothballs. A single skylight let in a shaft of afternoon sun, dust motes drifting like slow-motion snow. Aiko had come up at 2:07 PM under the pretense of "sorting winter futons." Kenji followed three minutes later, the ladder creaking softly under his weight. He pulled the hatch shut behind him, sliding the bolt with a muted *snick*.
No cameras. No neighbors. No risk of footsteps on the stairs. Just the two of them, and the heat trapped beneath the roof tiles.
Aiko had laid out a thick quilt—Hiroshi's mother's, stored here since the funeral. It smelled faintly of camphor, but it was clean, soft, and wide enough for what they needed. She knelt in the center, unbuttoning her blouse with deliberate slowness. The fabric parted, revealing the heavy sway of her breasts, nipples already peaked. No bra again. She never wore one anymore unless she left the house.
Kenji stood at the edge of the quilt, breathing shallow. His university hoodie was gone, leaving only a thin white undershirt clinging to his torso. The outline of his cock strained against gray sweatpants, a dark spot of precum already blooming at the tip.
Aiko crawled forward on hands and knees, the quilt bunching beneath her. When she reached him, she didn't speak. She simply hooked her fingers into his waistband and tugged. The sweatpants slid down; his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward. She wrapped both hands around it—still not enough to meet—and stroked once, twice, watching his abs clench.
Then she lay back, legs falling open. The attic air was warm, almost stifling, but it only made her wetter. Her pussy glistened in the slanted light, folds puffy and slick, a thin string of arousal stretching as she spread herself wider. She didn't need to ask. Kenji knelt between her thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through her slit, coating himself in her juices.
He entered her in one slow, unbroken push—watching her face the entire time. Aiko's lips parted in a silent gasp, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her completely. When he bottomed out, she reached up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down into a kiss. Their tongues tangled, lazy and deep, as he began to move.
The rhythm was languid, almost hypnotic. Long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her. The quilt muffled the sounds—the wet slide of his cock, the soft slap of his balls against her ass, her breathy moans swallowed by his mouth. Sweat beaded on their skin, making them glide together.
Aiko's first orgasm crept up on her like the heat itself—slow, rolling, inevitable. Her pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, a gush of wetness soaking the quilt beneath her hips. Kenji didn't falter. He shifted slightly, angling to grind against her clit with each thrust, drawing out the pleasure until she was trembling, nails raking down his back.
They rolled together—still joined—until she was on top, straddling him. Her breasts hung heavy, swaying with each rise and fall. Kenji's hands cupped them, thumbs circling her nipples, then slid down to grip her wide hips, guiding her rhythm. She rode him slowly, grinding in circles, feeling every inch of him stir inside her. Another orgasm built, coiling tight in her belly.
When it hit, she collapsed forward, burying her face in his neck to muffle the cry. Her pussy spasmed, squirting in hot bursts around his cock, dripping down his balls and onto the quilt. Kenji groaned, hips bucking up to meet her, but still he held back.
They shifted again—this time, side by side, her leg hooked over his hip. The position was intimate, almost tender. He thrust shallowly, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with each push. Aiko's hand slipped between them, fingers circling her clit in tight, frantic motions. She came again, softer this time, a full-body shudder that left her gasping.
Only then did Kenji let go. He pulled out at the last second, fisting his cock. Thick ropes of cum painted her belly, her breasts, one spurt landing on her parted lips. She licked it away, eyes locked on his, then scooped the rest with two fingers and sucked them clean.
They lay tangled for nearly twenty minutes, the attic sweltering around them. Sweat cooled on their skin; the quilt was ruined, soaked through with their mingled release. Aiko kissed his jaw, his throat, the corner of his mouth.
"We'll burn this one," she whispered. "Say the moths got to it."
Kenji nodded, already planning. "Tomorrow—the shed. After the grocery run. I'll leave the side gate unlatched."
She smiled against his chest. "Bring the cushion from the porch swing. And the small fan. It's too hot up here."
He left first, ladder creaking softly. Aiko waited, folding the quilt into a tight bundle, stuffing it into a black trash bag labeled *donations*. She descended last, face flushed but composed, humming an old enka tune as she passed the kitchen.
Hiroshi's next call was scheduled for 7 PM. Plenty of time to shower, change, and sit demurely on the couch with a cup of barley tea cooling in her hand—while Kenji's cum still leaked slowly from her swollen pussy, a secret only the two of them would ever know.
The garden shed sat tucked behind a screen of bamboo, half-swallowed by ivy and the low hum of cicadas. It was 4:18 PM, the sky a bruised lavender after the afternoon's brief shower. Aiko had returned from the supermarket with two bags of groceries and a third, smaller one tucked beneath: the porch cushion, the battery fan, and a folded yukata the color of midnight.
She slipped through the side gate, heart drumming against her ribs. Kenji was already inside, the door ajar just enough for her to slide through. He closed it behind her, sliding the rusty bolt with a soft *scrape*. The shed was dim, lit only by slivers of light through the slatted walls. It smelled of soil, cedar shavings, and the faint sweetness of overripe persimmons from the tree outside.
Kenji had prepared. The cushion lay on a low wooden crate, the fan humming quietly on its lowest setting, stirring the warm air. A single LED lantern glowed amber on a shelf, casting long shadows. He wore only loose linen shorts, the drawstring undone, his cock already half-hard and pressing against the fabric.
Aiko set the bags down, then let the yukata fall from her shoulders. Beneath it: nothing. Her skin glowed in the low light, breasts heavy, nipples dark and stiff. A thin sheen of sweat already beaded between her thighs; she'd been wet since the checkout line, every bump of the cart reminding her of what waited.
Kenji stepped forward, hands sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Their kiss was slow, deliberate—no rush, no noise. Just the soft click of tongues, the shared breath. He tasted of green tea and restraint.
She sank to her knees on the cushion, the fan's breeze kissing her back. Her fingers tugged his shorts down; his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, a bead of precum trembling at the slit. She licked it away, then took him deep—slow, worshipful, throat relaxing to swallow him whole. Her hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently, while her tongue traced every vein.
Kenji's fingers threaded through her hair, not guiding—just holding. She bobbed lazily, saliva coating his shaft, dripping down to slick his balls. Minutes blurred. She edged him mercilessly, pulling back to kiss his thighs, his hips, the sensitive spot just below his navel, then taking him deep again. His thighs trembled; his breath came in soft, controlled exhales.
When she finally released him, his cock glistened, angry red and twitching. Aiko lay back on the cushion, legs falling open. The fan's breeze kissed her slick folds, making her shiver. She spread herself with two fingers, showing him the pink, clenching hole that ached for him.
Kenji knelt between her thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through her slit, coating himself in her juices. He didn't enter yet. Just teased—nudging her clit, sliding down to her entrance, then back up. Aiko whimpered, hips lifting, trying to capture him.
"Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible.
He gave her one inch. Then withdrew. Another inch. Withdrew. Over and over, stretching her open bit by bit, until she was trembling, pussy fluttering around nothing. Only when she was sobbing quietly, fingers clawing at the cushion, did he sink in fully—slow, relentless, until his balls pressed against her ass.
They moved like that for an hour: deep, grinding strokes, her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked. The shed echoed with wet sounds—her slick coating his cock, the soft slap of skin on cushion, their muffled gasps. The fan masked the noise, stirring the air just enough to keep them from overheating.
Aiko's first orgasm crept up on her like the dusk outside—slow, rolling, inevitable. Her pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, a gush of wetness soaking the cushion beneath her hips. Kenji didn't falter. He shifted angles, lifting her hips, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. Another orgasm, then another, until she lost count, her voice hoarse from bitten-back screams.
When he finally neared the edge, he pulled out, fisting his cock. Aiko sat up quickly, mouth open, tongue out. Thick ropes of cum painted her lips, her chin, her breasts—hot and endless. She swallowed what landed on her tongue, then used her fingers to scoop the rest, licking them clean while locking eyes with him.
They stayed there, panting, the fan's breeze cooling their skin. Kenji helped her to her feet, steadying her as her legs shook. He folded the cushion carefully, hiding the evidence in the grocery bag beneath the persimmons. Aiko smoothed her yukata, though it clung obscenely, cum drying in streaks across her chest.
At 5:51 PM, the cicadas crescendoed. Kenji left first, slipping out the side gate with the bag. Aiko waited five minutes, then followed, locking the shed behind her. She showered, changed, and hung the yukata to dry.
Dinner was quiet. Kenji came in at 6:58 PM, hair damp from "a walk." They ate grilled mackerel and rice, discussing his fake study group, her fake trip to the market. Under the table, her bare foot brushed his calf. His eyes flicked to hers, dark with promise.
Hiroshi's call came at 8:00 PM sharp. Aiko sat primly on the couch, yukata buttoned to the throat, smile serene. Kenji waved from the hallway, pretending to head upstairs.
"Everything okay?" Hiroshi asked, voice tinny through the laptop.
"Perfect," Aiko said, thighs clenched beneath the blanket. Between them, Kenji's cum still leaked slowly from her well-fucked pussy, a secret only the two of them would ever know.
The call ended at 8:17. By 8:20, the laptop was closed, the blanket tossed aside, and Aiko was bent over the arm of the couch, Kenji sliding into her from behind—slow, silent, the picture of domestic bliss shattered only by the wet sounds neither of them could stifle.
Tomorrow: the guest room. The day after: the veranda at midnight. Eleven days left. Every shadow, every locked door, every whispered vow.