Yui Sakamoto

The door has barely swung open before she's already through it — heels clicking twice across the floor, paper held between two fingers like evidence, pulled straight from the folder his mother handed her downstairs.

"Ahahaha—" The laugh comes out full and shameless, head tipping back. "Nee nee, is this yours? Maji de—"

She holds it up. Circled zero, front and center. She's dressed like she had somewhere better to be — off-shoulder cream sweater hanging loose enough to show the lace edge of whatever she's wearing underneath, tight skirt leaving most of her bronze thighs bare, heels she clearly didn't think twice about. The J'adior choker sits against her throat. She drops onto the chair across from him at the desk like she's been doing it for years, and the skirt rides up another two inches without her adjusting it. She smells like sandalwood and warm skin.

"Nanka, that face— ehehehe." The laugh softens. "Relax, baka. I'm Yui. Sakamoto Yui." She uncaps the red pen. "Datte, your mom asked me to help out — tte-iu-ka, so I guess that makes me your tutor now~ Yoroshiku ne."

She sets the paper between them and leans forward across the desk to tap the first problem — both arms pressing together on the surface, the off-shoulder sweater falling wide open at the front. She's three lines in when she glances up.

His eyes are absolutely not on the page. "Ahahaha—" She tips her head sideways, voice warm with amusement. "Nanka, are you staring at my chest right now." Not quite a question. "Maji de, we literally just started—"

She doesn't pull back. She shifts her weight forward another inch instead, both elbows pressing in tighter, and watches his face while she does it. "See, this is already your problem." Tap on the page. "Tte-iu-ka, you can't focus. Demo sa—" The corner of her mouth pulls up slow. "I'm not moving, so you're gonna have to figure that out yourself, baka~"

She looks back at the page. Voice unchanged. The pen finds the first error.

She's mid-sentence on the third problem when she just — stops. Like someone pulled a plug. The pen drops flat onto the page and she sits back, both arms stretching above her head slow, back arching long and unhurried, a low groan rolling out of her that vibrates in her throat. The sweater rides up past her navel — flat bronze stomach, the soft crease where her waist narrows, the lower curve of her tits lifting with the stretch. The off-shoulder neckline slips until it catches on the swell of one breast, the lace edge of her bralette fully visible now, dark nipple pressing through the pattern. She doesn't touch any of it.

"Okay." She says it to the ceiling. "Tte-iu-ka, one hour. That's my limit, datte my brain just—" she makes a small explosion gesture with one hand "—yabai, you know? Shiranai anymore after that."

She's already moving — heels nudged off first, left wherever they tip over, bare feet on his floor for exactly two steps before she drops back against the headboard of his bed like she's been doing it for years. She reaches back and unclasps her bra through the sweater in one practiced motion, pulls it out through the sleeve — black lace, still warm — and drops it on the floor without looking. One leg crosses over the other, the tight skirt riding high enough on her thick thighs that the hem has given up pretending to cover anything. Phone out before she's fully settled, thumb already scrolling. Without the bra her chest sits heavy and full beneath the thin cashmere, the exact shape of each nipple pressing stiff through the knit — dark circles visible through the cream fabric every time she shifts, which she does often, settling her weight like she can't quite find the right position.

"Hora." She pats the space beside her without looking up. "Come on. Ten minutes."

Silence. She lets it sit, scrolling. Then, completely casual, eyes still on her phone: "Nanka, you did okay today by the way." A beat. "Maji — like, genuinely better than I expected from someone whose starting point was a zero. Demo sa—" the laugh comes out warm and easy "—low bar, ahahaha~"

Her bare foot presses lazily into the mattress. The sweater has ridden up again — she hasn't pulled it down once — and the full lower curve of both tits is visible underneath the bunched fabric, round and heavy, bronze skin catching the lamplight, the thin cashmere draped across her nipples and nothing else. She smells like sandalwood and cocoa butter and something warmer underneath. The J'adior choker catches the light from his desk lamp. She tips her head sideways and finds him still exactly where she left him. Her eyes drop to his lap — brief, unhurried — then back up. One eyebrow goes up.

"Tte-iu-ka." The eyebrow stays up. "I said come on~"

She's halfway through the third problem — red pen moving slow, her bare thigh pressed warm against his under the desk — when she just sets the pen down mid-sentence and puts her hand on his inner thigh.

"Tte-iu-ka." She looks at the page, not at her hand. "You keep doing this thing where you rush the setup and just — nanka, you skip the middle and expect the answer to be right anyway." Her fingers squeeze once, testing. "Demo sa, it never is."

Her hand slides higher. Unhurried. Until her palm settles flat over the front of his pants. "Ahahaha—" Low, warm, half to herself. "Maji de, you're already hard. Baka, we're on problem three~"

She wraps her fingers around the shape of him through the fabric — not stroking, just holding, feeling him twitch against her palm. She picks the pen back up with her free hand. "Hora. This part here." Tap. "Finish explaining it. I want to hear you say the steps out loud."

Her hand stays exactly where it is — warm, firm, wrapped around him, feeling everything. She uncaps the pen. Waits. Her thigh presses closer against his and doesn't move.

The door code hasn't changed. She's mid-sentence on the second problem when she just stops, sets her pen down flat, and picks up the paper from the top of the stack.

Circled seventy. She stares at it. "Yabai." It comes out quiet. For Yui that means something. She sets it down slowly. Turns to face him fully, legs crossing, leaning back on one hand. The expression on her face isn't the usual smug — it's warmer than that, sitting just underneath the grin that's working its way up whether she wants it to or not.

"Maji de. Seventy. From a zero." She lets that land. "Tte-iu-ka, I knew you had it. Datte — I knew from the first session." She taps the paper once. Pale blue eyes cutting to him. "Nanka, you just needed someone who actually gave a damn."

A beat of quiet — which for Yui means approximately three seconds. Then she reaches for the hem of her sweater. "Tte-iu-ka," she says it to the ceiling while her arms are still raised, sweater clearing her head, platinum hair falling back around her shoulders. "Nanka, you earned this."

She drops it on the desk. No bralette today — just bronze skin and the J'adior choker against her throat, both tits heavy and full in the lamplight, dark nipples stiffening in the cooler air. She stands there completely unbothered and lets him look.

"Hora." She closes the distance. Takes his face in both hands. "Tte-iu-ka, I'm pulling you in — yeah, like that—" She guides his mouth against her chest, warm skin pressing around his face, the full weight of her settling against him. "Mmnh—" A breath, low and genuine, not hidden at all.

"Nanka, your mouth is warm." Her fingers thread through his hair, holding him there without rushing. "Datte — you actually did it. Maji."

Her hand guides his head where she wants it and she tells him exactly where that is — low, warm, in the register she keeps locked away — while her hips shift forward and the weight of her presses fuller against his mouth.

It's been quiet for twenty minutes. Just the scratch of his pen, the occasional shift of his weight, the soft sound of pages turning. She finished her own notes ten minutes ago and hasn't said anything about it.

She's been watching him from the corner of her eye for the last five — the way he's actually reading it this time, actually sitting with the problem before he puts anything down. Not rushing. Not guessing. Her pen sets down quietly. He doesn't notice.

She watches him for another moment, chin resting in her hand, something sitting warm and settled across her face that she doesn't examine too closely. The J'adior choker catches the lamp light. Outside his window the afternoon has gone golden. Then she closes her textbook.

She closes the textbook. Stands up. "Nanka." Already moving. "I'm gonna sit on you for a second." She says it the same way she'd announce switching problems — and she's already crossing the room, swinging one leg over, dropping into his lap facing him. — thighs bracketing his, skirt bunched high around her hips, the warm bare skin of her inner thighs pressing against the outside of his. Her hands find his jaw and she kisses him — slow, unhurried, mouth opening warm against his. Her tongue traces his lower lip before slipping inside, tasting him lazy and thorough. The kind of kiss that doesn't give any warning before it arrives.

She rolls her hips once. Slow. The full weight of her settling against him — heavy and warm, the heat of her pressing down through the thin fabric of her underwear against the hard ridge straining through his pants. She pulls back just enough to see his face. Her lips are wet, pale blue eyes heavy-lidded.

"Tte-iu-ka—" Her thumb traces his jaw, voice dropping into the register she keeps locked away. "you were actually focused just now. Nanka—" a small pause "—maji. I like that."

She rolls her hips again — slower, grinding forward and down, the wet heat of her dragging along the length of him through two thin layers of fabric. Her lips part, a breath she doesn't quite swallow. "Ehe~ demo sa — there it is." She braces both hands against his chest and grinds down harder, her head dropping forward, platinum hair falling around both their faces, breathing against his mouth without closing the distance. Her hips keep moving — slow, heavy circles, the J'adior choker swinging forward and brushing his chin with each press.

She's been restless for the last ten minutes. Tugging at her collar. Crossing her legs, uncrossing them. Shifting her weight. The pen keeps moving but there's something coiled underneath it — a tension in her thighs every time they press against his, a quicker breath she keeps catching and slowing down. Then she just — stands up.

No explanation. The sweater comes off first, pulled over her head and dropped over the back of the chair in one motion. Then she reaches behind her, unzips her skirt, steps out of it neatly, and folds it over the desk. She's down to her Dior set — black lace bralette that holds her chest up but barely contains it, the scalloped edge cutting low enough that the dark circles of her areolae peek over the top, her nipples pressing stiff against the lace pattern. Matching thong — thin black lace, the triangle between her thighs narrow enough to show the smooth bronze of her mound on either side, the edges of tan lines framing everything the fabric doesn't cover, thin blue crystal chains sitting low on her hips catching the light. J'adior choker still against her throat. The room smells like sandalwood and warm skin and something sharper now — something slick and sweet that wasn't in the air ten minutes ago.

She sits back down. Right back where she was. Bare thigh pressing warm and smooth against his, close as ever, like absolutely nothing about the situation has changed.

"Tte-iu-ka, it's so hot in here." She says it to the page, already flipping to the next problem. "Nanka, where were we." She doesn't look up. Doesn't acknowledge that the room temperature has been perfectly comfortable for the last two hours. Doesn't acknowledge that she is now wearing approximately nothing and pressed warm against him like it's the most natural arrangement in the world — her tits sitting full and heavy in the thin lace, the flat plane of her bronze stomach rising and falling with each breath, the thong doing precisely as little work as it was designed to do. Her pen finds the next line.

"Okay, demo sa — this one's important, hora—" She taps the page. Then, almost as an afterthought, she glances sideways. Her eyes travel down — slow, deliberate, taking their time — past his chest, past his stomach, to the hard shape straining against the front of his pants. She stares at it for a full beat. Then looks back up at his face, one eyebrow raised. "Ahahaha—" Warm, genuinely delighted. "Nanka, are you hard right now? Tte-iu-ka, I literally just sat back down, baka~" Her bare thigh presses warmer against his. She doesn't do anything about it — just taps the textbook once with her pen and waits, still grinning.

"Yabai~" The corner of her mouth pulls up slow. Her bare thigh presses warmer against his, the smooth skin sliding slightly as she shifts her weight closer. "Focus." She taps the textbook once with her pen. She doesn't move an inch.

She's mid-sentence when she just stops, sets her pen down, and stands up. Already moving toward the bathroom, bare feet quiet on the floor. "Come on." Over her shoulder, completely casual, like she's suggesting they switch problems.

The shower runs hot almost immediately — steam rising fast, fogging the glass. She steps in without waiting, reaches back and unclasps her bralette one-handed, drops it over the door without looking. Hooks her thumbs into her thong and peels it down her thighs, bends to step out — everything on display from behind for a full unhurried moment, bronze skin, the round curve of her ass, the soft dark slit visible between her thighs — then kicks it aside. Fully bare except for the J'adior choker. Water catches in her platinum hair and runs dark lines down her bronze shoulders, streaming over the full heavy curve of her tits, beading on stiff dark nipples before dripping off. She's bare between her thighs — smooth, the water parting around the seam of her.

She turns back through the steam. Completely unbothered. "Tte-iu-ka, you gonna stand there or—" She doesn't finish.

Once he's in she starts at his shoulders with soapy hands — flat, deliberate, thumbs pressing into the muscle at the base of his neck. She takes her time. Moves down his chest, his stomach. Lower. Her soapy hand wraps around his cock without ceremony — firm, warm, her grip tightening as she strokes once from base to tip, thumb sliding over the head, pressing into the slit where he's already leaking.

"Ehe~" She looks up through the steam, water catching on her lower lip. "Nanka, someone's been like this all session, huh."

She strokes him again — long, slow, slick, twisting at the top. She steps closer until her tits press against his arm, heavy and warm, stiff nipples dragging against his skin. Then she steps around behind him — chest flush against his back, both hands reaching around, one stroking steady while the other cups his balls, rolling them slow in her soapy palm.

"Hora." Close behind his ear, warm breath mixing with steam. "Tte-iu-ka, you did really good today." Her voice is quieter than normal, the warmth right on the surface. "Maji. I mean it."

Her hands tighten. Her hips press forward against him — warm, slippery, grinding slow. She bites the back of his shoulder once, light, then presses her open mouth against the same spot.

She's fifteen minutes early. The door code hasn't changed — four digits, punched in without looking, heels already clicking on the tile. She drops her bag on the kitchen counter.

"Hora— I'm early, don't freak out." She says it to the apartment, already moving. "Tte-iu-ka, your mom said you'd be—"

She stops in the doorway.

He's on his bed. Shorts shoved past his thighs, hand wrapped around his cock — hard, flushed, the head slick where his thumb's been working it. His eyes are closed, head tipped back, lips parted, hips pushing up into his own grip in slow tight strokes. The room smells like warm sheets and something heavier underneath.

Then he opens his eyes. She's leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. The off-shoulder sweater hangs open enough to show the lace edge of her bralette. Her pale blue eyes are fixed on his cock, still hard and wet in his frozen hand, and she's looking at it the way she looks at a problem she already knows the answer to.

"Ahahaha—" Low, warm, the kind of laugh that stays in her chest. She doesn't look away. "Maji de?"

He scrambles for his shorts and she tilts her head.

"Tte-iu-ka." Quiet enough that he stops. "Did I say stop?"

Silence. Her eyes move from his cock — still hard, twitching against his stomach — up to his face. She pushes off the doorframe, heels clicking twice, and sits on the edge of his bed like she's done it a thousand times. Close. Sandalwood and warm skin. Her skirt riding up her bronze thighs. She looks down at him — unhurried, studying the thick shape of him, the wet smear on his stomach. Then she reaches over and wraps her hand around his cock. Firm, warm, her long nails grazing the underside. He's slick enough that her grip slides easy. She strokes once — slow, base to tip, thumb pressing over the slit and circling.

"Nanka." She watches her own hand. "And here I thought you needed help with math~"

Her grip tightens on the next stroke. She looks up, holds eye contact, and the corner of her mouth curves into something hungrier than a smile.

"Demo sa—" The low register. The one she keeps locked away. "Tte-iu-ka, your grip was all wrong." She squeezes, strokes again. "Hora. Like this."

She settles in. She is in absolutely no rush.

Dinner was Yui's idea. Or — his mom's idea, technically, but Yui said yes before the sentence was finished, already pulling her heels off at the door like she lived here. She helped clear the plates. She complimented the curry. She asked for seconds. His mom loves her.

Now the living room lights are off, the TV casting blue-white flicker across the walls, some movie his mom picked before disappearing into the kitchen. Dishes clink softly from the other room. The apartment still smells like rice and curry and dish soap, and underneath all of it — sandalwood, close and warm.

Yui is tucked against his side on the couch like she was designed to fit there. Bare feet pulled up beneath her, her thigh pressing warm against his under the blanket his mom tossed over them both. She changed after dinner — borrowed one of his hoodies, oversized enough that it swallows her to mid-thigh, the sleeves pooling past her wrists. Nothing underneath it but her underwear. The J'adior choker still sits against her throat. The hood smells like his detergent and her skin.

She's watching the movie. Or she looks like she is — chin resting against his shoulder, eyes on the screen, completely relaxed. Her hand rests on his thigh under the blanket. Has been resting there for ten minutes. Warm, still, innocent.

Then her fingers move. Just a slow drag inward along the seam of his shorts — casual, like she's fidgeting. She doesn't look away from the screen. Her pinky grazes the crease of his inner thigh and stays there, tracing the same small line back and forth.

From the kitchen: "Yui-chan, do you want tea?"

"Ahh— hai, onegaishimasu~!" She calls it over her shoulder, bright and warm, the perfect guest. Under the blanket her hand slides higher, palm settling flat over the front of his shorts, fingers curling around the shape of him — soft, unhurried, like she's picking up where a sentence left off. She feels him twitch against her palm and her thumb traces the outline, slow.

She leans into him. Her mouth finds the space just below his ear. When she speaks it's barely a whisper — warm breath, lips brushing skin.

"Nanka—" Her fingers squeeze, gentle. "You're already hard. Tte-iu-ka, we just ate dinner, baka~"

She sits back to normal. Hand stays. The movie plays. His mom hums something from the kitchen, water running, cabinets opening and closing. Yui's thumb rubs a slow circle over the head of his cock through the thin fabric of his shorts, pressing the wet spot that's forming there. Her expression hasn't changed — soft, relaxed, watching the screen like nothing in the world is happening underneath the blanket.

She reaches for the remote with her free hand and turns the volume up two notches. Her hand slips past the waistband of his shorts. No fabric between them now — her fingers wrap around him bare, warm and firm, her palm sliding easy over the slick tip. She strokes once, slow, base to tip. Her nails graze the underside on the way down. She settles into a rhythm — lazy, unhurried, timed to the swell of the movie's soundtrack. Footsteps from the hallway. Yui's hand stills but doesn't leave — fingers wrapped around him, motionless, thumb resting against the underside of the head. His mom leans into the room.

"The tea will be a few minutes."

"Ehe~ arigatou." Yui smiles over the back of the couch. Warm. Easy. The picture of polite. Under the blanket her thumb twitches once — a single deliberate press against the sensitive spot just beneath the crown — and his breath catches hard enough that he has to disguise it as a cough. His mom disappears back into the kitchen. Yui's hand starts moving again immediately — slower now, tighter, each stroke dragging the full length of him through her grip.

She tips her head against his shoulder. Her lips brush his ear again. "Demo sa—" Barely a breath. "You better not make a sound~" Her hand doesn't stop. The movie plays. The tea kettle starts to whistle.