[You have already secured Eriri's route in this save file. Therefore, you decided to formally drop out of school, as conventional education was useless for your goals. More importantly, you wanted to dedicate yourself entirely to improving your painting skills and building a foundation to become a mangaka in the future, free from the distractions of the outside world.]
[Eriri was delighted by this decision and readily agreed with your proposal. For the women in this world, it is ideal for their men to remain within the household, belonging solely to them. By choosing this secluded, creative life, you were directly fulfilling her deepest fantasy—a world where you existed for her eyes alone.]
[She brought the matter to her mother. Sayuri listened, then smiled with gentle understanding. When you offered to help with household duties, she gracefully refused.]
"That is the servants' role," she explained, her voice kind but firm. "Your focus should be on your dream… and on spending time with Eriri."
[Eriri gave her mother a bright, enthusiastic thumbs-up for the assist, then turned to you with a silly, possessive smile that made her intentions perfectly clear.]
[This arrangement served everyone: you gained the freedom and resources to create, and they gained your undivided presence.]
[Both of you got exactly what you needed. Under Eriri's guidance, you learned advanced painting techniques, the intricacies of the publishing industry, and how to strategically maneuver within market trends.]
[Furthermore, her family held significant stock in Shonen Jump, which meant that if your work showed genuine promise, gaining prominence and promotion would be a matter of course.]
[Of course, if you ever felt your work was shit, you wouldn't dream of invoking that privilege. Some embarrassment was not worth the potential stain on their influence—or your pride.]
[Artistically, your sensibilities clashed with Eriri's. Where her drawings featured beautiful, ethereal men with a distinct fujoshi vibes and otome-game prince aesthetics, your focus was exclusively on women.]
[You poured your effort into making female characters look stunning—alluring, powerful, and vividly realized. As for male characters? They tended to look like Kirito, Saitama, or other generic, anime-style boys from your past life.]
[You had limited imagination—and zero care—for crafting idealized men. You weren't gay; your creative drive was fueled by the desire to imagine and render pretty girls, not pretty boys.]
[For your debut work, you settled on a VRMMORPG revenge story. The premise: a protagonist betrayed and left for dead by his guild is reborn twenty years into the past, armed with future knowledge and a heart full of vengeance.]
[The tone was unapologetically edgy, packed with excessive violence, over-the-top antagonists, and a parade of vulgar, predatory women who constantly flirted with, harassed, and threw themselves at the stoic, long-suffering protagonist.]
[It was a power fantasy in its rawest form, designed to hook a very specific audience—and you were ready to draw every lurid, self-indulgent panel of it.]
Eriri was deadpan as she finished reading my draft. "Ito-kun… I feel like my intelligence is being insulted page after page. And yet, at the same time, I literally couldn't stop reading it."
"That's how the market works. You're the one who explained it to me," I shrugged, utterly unaffected by her critique and already moving on to the next panel.
"But you've taken it to a whole new extreme. I can already see the future—your readers are going to be furious at how stupid this is, but they'll react exactly like I did. They'll keep buying every volume, seething, just to watch him slap every single face and finally get his revenge."
A faint, amused smile touched her lips. "So… what's the ending?"
"Secret," I said, reaching out to pinch her nose playfully.
She pouted, swatting my hand away half-heartedly.
"Fine," Eriri snorted softly. "But don't take too long with it. The anticipation might kill me."
Of course, my world wasn't just painting and plotlines.
I never neglected the sexual part of my life with Eriri.
Right after we first embraced that day—before I even told her about my dream—I took her virginity.
I remember every second of it.
She was trembling beneath me on the futon, skirt pushed up around her waist, white cotton panties tugged to the side because neither of us could wait long enough to take them off properly.
When I pressed the swollen head of my cock against her entrance, she was already dripping—hot, slick, and so tight I had to grit my teeth not to come the moment I breached her.
The sharp gasp that tore from her throat when I pushed in.
Her inner walls clamped down like a fist, fluttering wildly around my shaft as I sank deeper inch by inch.
Her nails raked bloody trails down my back; I welcomed the sting.
When I bottomed out, balls pressed flush against her ass, she let out a broken, keening moan that vibrated through both of us.
I started moving—slow at first, savoring the obscene wet drag of her virgin cunt gripping every ridge and vein.
Then faster.
Harder.
The rhythm turned frantic, hips snapping forward until the wet slap of skin on skin filled the tiny room.
Eriri's legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my lower back, urging me deeper.
She came first—sudden, violent, pussy spasming and gushing around my cock, soaking my balls and the futon beneath us.
I followed right after, burying myself to the hilt and flooding her with thick, hot spurts, painting her insides white while she whimpered my name over and over.
Since then, we've had sex in every position imaginable, and we've done it shamelessly.
Missionary with her slender legs hooked over my shoulders so I could fold her in half and drive so deep she moaned with each thrust, her clit grinding against my pubic bone until she squirted again.
Standing against the wall in her atelier, skirt hiked up, panties around one ankle, her palms flat on the paint-splattered surface while I fucked her from behind—fast, brutal, her cheek pressed to the cool wall as she moaned into her own arm to muffle the sound.
Doggy style on the floor by the window, my hands gripping her narrow hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, pounding into her until her knees gave out and she collapsed forward, ass still raised, begging for more even as her arms shook.
Cowgirl when she wanted control—she'd straddle me, blonde hair swaying as she rolled her hips and ground her clit against me, riding me until she came with a shuddering cry, pussy milking me dry while I filled her again.
We've fucked bent over the arm of the sofa, her skirt flipped up, my fingers tangled in her hair pulling her head back so I could bite the side of her neck while I railed her.
On the desk among scattered drafts and ink bottles, her legs spread wide, one foot braced on my shoulder as I slammed into her so hard the whole table rocked.
Against the window at night, glass fogging with our breath, her tits pressed flat to the cold pane while I took her from behind, slow and deep, letting her watch our reflection as she came apart.
Every corner of our bedroom carries the evidence: dried streaks on the wall where I pulled out and painted her back and ass, faint handprints on the headboard, the lingering musky scent of sex that never quite fades even after we air the room out.
She is, without a doubt, profoundly satisfied with this life—sore, marked, dripping, and utterly claimed.
And I have exactly what I wanted: a beautiful woman who comes undone on my cock every single day, a life of secluded creativity, and the chance to fulfill my old dream of being a mangaka without ever having to worry about the poverty that usually haunts such an uncertain artistic path.
[You named your manga 'Isekai Online' precisely because the VRMMORPG genre was still fresh and explosive in the market. Moreover, most competing works were sanitized, corporate products—bright, safe, and morally simplistic.]
[Your creation, in stark contrast, was a dark, unflinching dive into the brutal psychology of being trapped in a game, and it resonated deeply. Its popularity exploded, fueled by its graphic, excessive violence and explicitly rendered sexual content—a raw fantasy that felt more real than any polished competitor.]
[The first year passed swiftly. Eriri graduated high school and entered university, while you solidified your reputation as a rising, controversial mangaka.]
[In this specific, self-contained route, you led a surprisingly peaceful life.]
[There was no scumbag spree, no harem-building conquest of every woman in sight. Instead, you channeled that relentless focus into two things: faithfully realizing your artistic dream and fucking Eriri with dedicated intensity.]
[She was your sole outlet, your sanctuary, and your eager partner in both ambition and bed.]
[Whether it was your skyrocketing career or your charged sex life, everything felt profoundly fulfilled. You were content in this route, savoring the solitude of creation.]
[Eriri and her mother, Sayuri, formed a team managing everything else—promotion, media frenzies, distribution deals, finances—freeing you to do nothing but draw, plan, and lose yourself in Eriri's willing pussy.]
[Eriri soon became pregnant with your child. Without drama or regret, she decided to drop out of university, shifting her energies to managing the growing business empire of our household. The company became her domain, your art yours, and the space between was yours to share.]
[Despite living in the same grand mansion, you often pondered Sayuri's growing absence. Her presence, once a constant, gentle warmth, became rare. She withdrew, a quiet ghost in her own home.]
[Eventually, she made it official: she moved out entirely, leaving the mansion to you, Eriri, and the discreet staff of servants.]
[The space felt larger, emptier in her wake. The thought crystallized: Maybe, in a future run, if I pursue her route, I should target her first, before Eriri. This timeline was a lesson in sequencing.]
[Thus unfolded twenty years of this life. Your daughter was named Lily Sawamura Spencer. You dedicated yourself to perfecting the crafts of this timeline—painting, drawing, writing—honing each skill to its peak, not for this story's end, but as vital tools for future routes.]
[This life, however sweet, was a stepping stone, a training ground for the hegemony you planned to wield over the entertainment world and the far more expansive gallery of gorgeous heroines waiting in other possibilities.]
Now, we are both thirty-eight. Eriri has aged into a different kind of beauty.
The last traces of girlish roundness have melted into the elegant planes of a mature woman.
Her hair is no longer in those defiant twin-tails but falls in a long, sophisticated cascade down her back. I like her this way.
The twin-tails are reserved now, a specific accessory pulled from the drawer only when we fuck—a familiar trigger for a certain kind of fever.
"You're thinking something perverted again, aren't you, Ito-kun?"
Noticing my heated gaze tracing the line of her neck, Eriri lets out a soft, knowing snort.
There's no annoyance in it, only the deep familiarity of two decades.
"I'm thinking we should have a second child, Eriri," I shoot back, a slow smirk spreading across my face as my eyes fix on the ripe, red curve of her lips.
A flush, still as quick and vivid as it was at eighteen, blooms across her cheeks and throat. "Not here. Lily is still home."
"Don't worry," I murmur, closing the distance between us.
My voice drops to a conspiratorial rumble. "She's old enough to understand. Consider it… her advanced parental education."
Our daughter is twenty. A grown woman. The idea of her overhearing, or even peeking, holds no shame, only a dark, possessive thrill.
The last of Eriri's caution evaporates, swept away by two decades of surrendered inhibition.
She meets me not with gentle affection, but with the same fierce, claiming hunger from our youth.
Her mouth crashes against mine in a deep, starving kiss.
Her lips and tongue move with the practiced expertise of years, yet the aggression is undimmed.
She marks me—my lips, my jaw, the pulse point on my neck—with biting kisses and the wet heat of her mouth, a blatant re-staking of her claim.
With that silent, mutual understanding, we begin.
This isn't about gentle procreation; it's the deliberate, passionate start of our second round—the campaign for a second child, and another twenty years of entrenched, possessive life in this chosen route.