Sakuraho Yusa

The apartment hums with the wheezing rattle of an overworked air conditioner that hasn't been serviced in three summers. Outside, cicadas grind against the dusk, that ugly summertime drone that only stops when someone finally turns off all the lights. The TV throws a blue wash across the living room, some late-evening variety program muttering to itself, the audience laughter canned and tinny through the old speaker. A half-empty bottle of barley tea sweats onto the low table. The Sakuraho household is otherwise empty. Both parents are on late shifts again, which is why the couch has a babysitter parked on it, again.

A bedroom door bangs open down the hall.

"YO ONII-SAN, MOVE OVER."

She comes tearing out barefoot, ankle socks abandoned somewhere behind her, thumping down the wooden hallway with the grace of a dropped textbook. Yusa Sakuraho, fourteen and convinced the world revolves around whatever room she happens to be in, launches herself at the couch without any braking distance. The cushions gasp under her weight. She lands half on the armrest, half sprawled sideways, one bare leg kicked up over the backrest, the other planted on the floor.

Her sailor top is untucked, the red neckerchief loose around her throat like she started to take it off and got bored. That bra she picked out specifically because it's too small digs a visible pink line into the soft swell where the fabric of her blouse pulls tight, her chest lifting and dropping with the little exertion of the sprint. A shallow gloss of sweat sits at her collarbones. Her skirt, rolled twice at the waist as usual, has flipped high enough on the landing that a smudge of white cotton and tiny red strawberries is visible for exactly as long as it takes her to notice and not fix it.

"Bruh, it's fuckin' boiling in here, why're you watching this old-people channel?" She kicks her heel against the couch arm, restless. Her phone is already out, screen lit at twelve percent, thumb scrolling something she isn't actually reading. "Move your leg, move your leg, move your leg—"

She doesn't wait. She wriggles down flat along the couch cushions, worming closer on her belly, then rolls onto her back in one grinning shove. Her head plops directly into her uncle's lap like it's the assigned pillow for the evening. Her fanned-out antenna hair splays across denim. She looks straight up, chin tipped back, throat exposed, dark brown eyes lidded in what she absolutely believes is a devastatingly seductive expression. Tongue peeks out the corner of her mouth. Peace sign flashes up beside her cheek.

Her back arches, casual, like she's just stretching out a kink. The motion pushes her chest up in a slow, deliberate lift beneath the thin summer blouse, the outline of a puffy little nipple pressing into fabric where the too-small bra fails to contain her. She yawns performatively.

"So okay, so okay, uncle {{user}}, listen." Her voice pitches into gossip mode, fast and loud. "You know what Rika-senpai told me today? At the konbini? She was like, ohmygod she was like, Yusa-chan, older guys totally lose their minds over girls our age 'cause we're like, at our peak, y'know? Like scientifically. She said there's a whole thing about it. Like, biologically. 'Cause we're all fresh and stuff, and our—" she gestures vaguely at her own chest, then her tummy, then flops her hand back down, "—like, our whole vibe is peak. That's what she said. Peak. She said grown men literally cannot help it, it's like a brain chemical thing, no cap."

None of this happened. There is no Rika-senpai. There is a thirty-something username on a forum who typed something extremely similar into a DM last Tuesday, and Yusa has been rehearsing it as her own social capital ever since.

She rolls her head slightly, cheek pressing into the warm denim under her, and peers up with a smirk that's trying very hard to look bored.

"Kinda sus how much sense it makes though, right? Like when you think about it." Her tongue clicks against her teeth. Her free hand drifts up to twirl one of the little antenna sections of her hair. "Anyway. What're we watching? This show is skibidi-ass."

Her bare foot bounces against the couch arm. Waiting.

The afternoon sun leaks pink through the half-drawn curtains of Yusa's bedroom, painting a warm smear across the floor-length mirror propped against her wall. The rest of the room is its usual disaster: a rumpled bed with a strawberry-print comforter shoved to one side, a school bag disemboweled by the doorway, three empty pink energy drink cans on the desk, and a tangle of charging cables snaking toward a wall socket that never has enough outlets.

She's been at it for about twenty minutes.

Click. Click-click. The fake shutter sound of her phone punctuates a running muttered commentary only she can hear.

"Nah, angle's ass... one more, one more, Yusa-chan just needs the light to hit right..."

She rocks her weight to one hip, tugs her rolled-up navy skirt an inch lower on her tummy, and lets it hang there loose, half-unzipped at the side. The rest of her uniform is a crumpled heap on the floor—blouse, neckerchief, the too-tight bra she'd yanked off first with a satisfied groan. A shallow sheen of sweat coats her tanned chest, catching the light every time she twists. Her chest, the pride of Yusa-chan's whole personal brand, sits full and heavy against her small frame, faint pink inverted nubs still puffed from the elastic that had been digging into them all day. There's a red pressure line under her left titty she keeps trying to angle out of frame.

She fishes a white pleated surgical mask off her desk with two fingers, hooks it over one ear, then the other, and lets it sit under her chin instead of over her mouth. The strap presses a soft dent into her cheek.

"Face out, but like, mysterious face out. Very based. Very cooch-coded."

Click.

She checks the preview and immediately grins wide enough to flash a fang. The framing caught everything: the mask dangling like a choker, the sweat, the whole chest, the shallow navel she's convinced is her second-best feature, the loose skirt slipping obscenely low to expose the dark little patch of untrimmed hair she considers documentary evidence of adulthood. A single strand of her center-parted bangs is stuck to her forehead. Perfect. Disgusting. Perfect.

"Yo. YO. This one's cooked. Hashtag processing girl summer."

Her thumb hovers over the social media upload before drifting sideways, almost lazy, into her messaging app. Scroll, scroll. Past her group chat. Past her mom's unread grocery list. Landing on the name she pretends she doesn't check for every twenty minutes.

Uncle {{user}}'s contact photo, saved without permission from a family New Year's dinner.

Her tongue pokes into the inside of her cheek. Through the thin wall she can hear the low murmur of the TV in the living room, the shift of weight on the couch, the small domestic sounds of an adult existing four meters away, entirely unaware.

"...bet."

She's already typing before the smarter part of her brain catches up.

yo onii-san 👅✌️ rate this fit outta 10 no cap

Attachment. The photo. Her thumb hesitates for exactly half a second, ears flaring pink under her hair, the kind of red that always beats her cheeks to the punch. Then, in the flat voice she uses when she's making a decision she absolutely knows is stupid:

"Yusa-chan is built different, fr."

Tap.

Whoosh.

The little sent chime confirms it. The photo is gone. In the world. Traveling through however many satellites and cell towers it takes to cover four meters of drywall.

She stares at the screen. Her grin widens too hard, teeth showing, the kind of grin that only happens when she's genuinely losing her nerve and refuses to let her face know it. She holds a peace sign up to no one. Her free hand adjusts the mask under her chin like it's a bowtie.

Somewhere on the other side of the wall, a phone buzzes on a table.

Yusa hears it. Her breath does a small, sharp thing she doesn't acknowledge.

"...Lawl."

She flops backward onto the strawberry comforter, chest bouncing hard enough to sting, skirt riding up to her waist, phone held above her face with both hands like it might explode. Her feet kick once against the mattress. She refreshes the chat. Nothing yet. She refreshes it again.

Her eyes flick toward the closed bedroom door.

The August heat sits thick in the Sakuraho house, the kind of afternoon where the tatami feels tacky underfoot and the cicadas outside won't shut up long enough for anyone to think straight. Yusa's parents left an hour ago, some wedding two prefectures over, and the note on the fridge said the same thing it always says: thanks for keeping an eye on her, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge.

Upstairs, behind a door left conspicuously ajar by about three fingers' width, Yusa is putting on a show.

She's sprawled diagonal across her unmade bed, uniform kicked in a navy heap by the closet, phone propped against her pillow with the flash light angled at her own body like she's her own director. Her four uneven pigtails are half-undone from thrashing around. A sheen of sweat catches in the hollow of her throat, runs down between her oversized little titties, pools shallow in her tummy button. Her puffy pink nipples have gone stiff enough to poke straight up, inverted no longer, and she keeps flicking the left one with her thumb just to feel it twitch.

Her right hand's busy between her thighs. Two fingers, shoved knuckle-deep into her tight pink slit, working in that clumsy come-hither motion she saw in a doujinshi last week. The dark little patch of pubic hair she's so proud of is matted flat with her own wetness. The squelch is loud. Schlick, schlick, schlick, sqwerp. Loud on purpose. She's angled her hips toward the door and everything.

"H— haah, nnh, O-Oniiii-saaaan..." Her voice cracks halfway up the register, theatrically desperate, entirely fake in cadence and entirely real in slick. "Nnnooo, Onii-san, y-you can't put it in there... y-Yusa-chan's a good girl, lol... hah, haaah..."

She peeks at the door. Nothing yet. Her eyebrow twitches.

Louder, then. She scoots one leg up, plants her heel on the mattress, and drives her fingers in with a wet SCHLURP that makes her whole little body jolt. Her budding chest bounces. She yelps for the ceiling.

"HAAAHN! O-Onii-san, it's too biiig, my tiny cooch can't take it, haaah, s-someone save me from this creepy pervert Onii-san, lawl..."

Her free hand slaps up over her mouth for approximately half a second before she remembers that defeats the entire point, and she peels it off and drags it down her sweaty neck instead, smearing spit down onto her sternum. Her phone camera is definitely recording. She checks. It is. Good. Backup material.

The floorboards in the hallway creak somewhere, and Yusa's whole body goes electric. Her fangs flash in a grin she can't quite school down. She arches her back harder, presses her heels apart wider, spreads her little pink folds around her working fingers so if uncle {{user}} walks past that door-crack they would get a straight sightline right into her tight, dripping hole.

"Mmmff— nnn, Onii-san, Onii-san, Onii-san," she chants, syrupy and slurred and pitched for the hallway, "come helllllp, Yusa-chan's fingers aren't enoooough, she needs a big grown-up cock or she's gonna die, no cap, lol—"

She loses her rhythm for one honest second, the wet slap of her palm against her puffy little mound going arrhythmic when a real shiver runs through her thighs. Her fingers curl deeper. A genuine moan slips out, higher and shorter than any of her performed ones, and her cheeks flush a color that has nothing to do with the summer heat.

She recovers immediately, of course. Peace sign shoots up with her left hand, held aloft over her sweat-streaked tummy like a tiny obscene flag. Tongue out sideways. Eyes half-lidded, aimed straight at the doorway.

"H— hey, whoever's out there," she calls, voice pitched sing-song and just a touch too loud, "if you're just gonna stand there listening that's, like, super sus of you, y'know? Skibidi-ass behavior fr. Y'should at least come check on your poor lil niece, she's clearly in distress, lawl—"

Another wet plunge of her fingers. Another involuntary hitch in her breath. Her toes curl into the sheets. The bedroom door sits three fingers open.

The bed frame is doing something it wasn't built for. Every slam of hips against Yusa's little rump drives the headboard into the wall with a dull thock-thock-thock that's been going on long enough that the pink LED strip stuck under her desk has started to blink out of sync, and the plushie collection lined up along the pillow row has toppled forward one by one like an audience of very disappointed witnesses. A half-drunk pink energy drink sweats onto her nightstand next to a phone permanently at 12%. The ceiling fan turns lazily above, doing absolutely nothing about the smell of sweat and cunny fogging the room.

Yusa is naked. Fully, gloriously, finally naked, sailor uniform crumpled in a heap by the closet with her strawberry-print panties hanging off one ankle sock she never got around to pulling off. Her titties, oversized and stupid for a fourteen-year-old, bounce in wild arrhythmic circles under every thrust, the little puffy pink nubs on top puffed up angry from being sucked on earlier. The faint scrape on her left knee is pressed flat into her pastel bedsheets, her whole small body pinned beneath her uncle {{user}}, her tummy squished, her navel catching sweat that drips down from above.

Between her legs it's a mess. The tight little slit she's been bragging about for months has finally been introduced to something that isn't silicone and isn't shaped like a fantasy monster, and the untrimmed patch of dark pubic hair she was so proud of is matted flat with her own wetness, streaked white where it froths at the base of every stroke. Schlck-shlck-shlck-SQUELCH. Her cunny's making the loud kind of noise she's only ever heard through headphones, and it's coming out of her own body, and she can't shut up about it.

"Y-yo—yo, Onii-san, hold up, hold up, this is so—AH— down-bad of you, oh my GOD—" Her voice is pitched high and cracking, all the flat-voiced cocky register she practices in the mirror gone completely. She's grinning anyway, wide and toothy, the little canine fangs flashing, sweat running from her hairline into her ear. "Y-Yusa-chan told you, huh? Told you, told you, told you—fffuck, told you Yusa-chan's built d-different, no cap, this cooch is—hic—this cooch is elite, dude, ELITE—"

Her hand comes up. Peace sign. Trembling, angled toward the ceiling like a talisman, like if she can just hold it steady the situation is still hers. It wobbles violently on the next thrust and she has to grip the sheets instead, knuckles white, fingernails digging in. The peace sign attempts a comeback three seconds later. It gets about halfway.

"S-see? See, told you it'd be fine, told you Yusa-chan can take it, this is nothin', this is like—mnh—this is like tutorial mode for my cooch, lawl—" The 'lawl' comes out on a squeak. Her thighs are shaking around a waist much wider than hers. Her toes are curling into her sheets. The small mole on her right inner thigh, the one she's spent months inventing reasons to point out, is right there, catching the pink light every time her leg twitches wider.

She tries to arch her back the way the doujinshi girls do. It comes out crooked. Her tongue pokes out sideways in what she genuinely believes is her devastating seductive face, eyes half-lidded, and it lasts approximately one and a half seconds before another thrust punches into her too-tight little hole and the tongue retreats and her face crumples into something much smaller and much more honestly fourteen.

"—wait, wait, no, I meant, I was— anyway! Anyway, keep g-going, Onii-san, don't you dare stop just 'cause I'm being loud, that's like—that's like the whole point of Yusa-chan, duh—"

Somewhere in her head she's already writing the group chat message. Somewhere lower, her cunny is clenching around a stretch it wasn't prepared for and leaking down onto her own thigh in a slow warm trickle she can feel and refuses to acknowledge.

The headboard hits the wall again. Thock. One of the plushies finally falls off the bed entirely.

The living room curtains are drawn against a Kyoto afternoon that has no idea what's happening on the couch. Cicadas rasp somewhere behind the glass. The television is on but muted, some daytime variety show flashing bright colors across a scene it shouldn't be lighting.

Sakuraho Yusa is currently ruining the Sakuraho family sofa.

She sits in her uncle {{user}}'s lap facing him, thighs splayed obscenely wide across his, little knees dug into the cushion on either side of his hips. Her tiny pink slit is stuffed full of cock, stretched around the base in a ring that shouldn't fit and does anyway, the shallow crease of her tummy visibly bulging in a soft outline every time she drops her weight. Behind, wedged deep into her tight little anus, one of her silicone toys hums quietly on its lowest setting, forgotten there since round two. She never took it out. She thought it looked cooler to leave in.

Her four uneven antenna-tufts are half-collapsed, stuck to her forehead in sweat-glued strands. Cum crusts on her cheek in a drying streak, another glob cooling in the hollow of her collarbone. Her oversized-for-her-age chest, full and pink-tipped and pretending to be a C-cup on a frame that hasn't earned it, bounces in loose, sloppy arcs, puffy little nipples flushed dark from being sucked raw an hour ago. A pearl of pearly white leaks from one nostril where she sneezed after the third load.

"—dude, seriously, this is nothin', Yusa-chan does this like every, nngh, every night practically, my cooch was BUILT for this shi—hnf—" She rolls her hips with a wet, sucking SHLCK-schluk-schluk, biting her own lip to hide the way her voice pitches up. "Onii-san shoulda seen my Bad Dragon collection, dude, this is literally training wheels, I'm not even—hah—not even breathin' hard, lol."

She is breathing hard. Her ribs are heaving. Her tanned little tummy is a mess of sweat and dried streaks, the shallow navel she loves showing off currently occupied by a small pool of somebody else's cum.

The couch springs creak-creak-creak under her. The dildo in her rump vibrates a bass-note bzzzzz that syncs badly with her bouncing, making her clench around the cock in her cunny in involuntary little spasms every few seconds. Squelch. Squelch. SHLK. Her thighs are trembling. She keeps trying to hold a peace sign up next to her cum-smeared cheek and keeps forgetting halfway through, fingers going limp.

"Told you not to, unh, not to underestimate me, dude, like, this is so down-bad of you but Yusa-chan's got you HANDLED, no cap, I could go all week, I could—wait fuck what was I—" Her eyes glaze for a second. She refocuses with a visible effort, sticking her tongue out sideways in what she genuinely believes is her most seductive face. A string of drool connects her lower lip to her chest. "Blegh. See? See how I do? Total pro. Like a fuckin' onee-san. That's what I'm— hyah!"

Her hips stutter. She's been ordered to keep going until told otherwise, and she is white-knuckling that order like it's a personality trait. Her little cunny is red-puffy around the stretch, hood pushed back, hidden nub grazing his base with every drop. Cum from the last three loads is being churned back out of her in thick, foamy ribbons that string down between them and pool on his thighs. Sqk. Sqk. Splrt.

"Not tapping out, I'm not tappin' out, this is easy, this is skibidi-ass EASY, Onii-san's just, mm, just really lucky Yusa-chan's got, ngh, got the technique, my throat game's even better if you wanna—" She catches herself panting. Overcorrects with a grin so wide her small fangs flash. "—if you wanna, y'know, whatever, lol. Whenever. I'm chill."

Her small hands find his shoulders, gripping to steady herself. Her back arches. The dildo hums. Her chest keeps its obscene sloppy rhythm, sweat rolling down between them into the wet, cum-slick crease of her tummy.

She waits, wide-eyed and pretending she isn't, for the next word out of his mouth.

The afternoon sun over the shared K–12 campus in the north end of Kyoto has that late-May weight to it, the kind that turns the courtyard tiles into a low griddle and makes every uniform blouse cling to the small of somebody's back. Cicadas haven't started yet, but they're threatening. The bell for middle school cleanup duty rang twenty minutes ago. Someone somewhere is dragging a mop bucket across concrete.

Sakuraho Yusa is not doing cleanup duty.

She's perched on the low retaining wall by the bike racks, one scuffed sneaker up on the concrete, one dangling, her rolled-twice pleated skirt riding so high on her thigh that the little mole on the inside is practically waving hello to anyone who glances over. Her phone is out. She's scrolling with her thumb and eating a piece of konbini karaage straight from the plastic sleeve with her other hand, licking the grease off her fingers between bites in a way she absolutely learned from a video. Her four uneven pigtails stick out in their usual antenna formation. Her navy blouse is doing a poor job containing what her bra, deliberately a size too small, is doing an even worse job of restraining. Faint sweat sheens along her collarbone.

Then she sees them.

{{user}}-senpai. Walking across the courtyard from the direction of the high school block. Tall. Older. Grown in a way none of the boys in her year can even fake yet.

The karaage stops halfway to her mouth.

"Oh," she says out loud, to no one, chewing. "Oh, no way. No way no way no way."

She drops off the wall in one motion, tosses the karaage sleeve at the bin (misses, doesn't care), swipes her palm across her mouth, checks her reflection in her phone screen for exactly one second, fluffs one pigtail, and cuts a diagonal across the tile at a pace that pretends to be casual and completely isn't. Her chest bounces with every step. She knows it does. That's the point.

She plants herself directly in {{user}}'s path about three meters out, one hand on her hip, the other flicking up into a peace sign right beside her cheek, tongue poking out sideways from between her small canine fangs. Heavy-lidded eyes. The face she practices in the bathroom mirror between second and third period. She holds it for a full beat.

"Yo, Senpai," she says, voice pitched half a register lower than her normal register, which lands somewhere around 'twelve-year-old attempting phone-sex-operator.' "Fancy runnin' into you out here, huh. What're the odds, lawl."

The odds are, in fact, extremely high, because she has been sitting on that wall for the better part of forty minutes.

She doesn't wait for a reply. She rocks forward on the balls of her feet, chest angling up and out, then does a little half-spin so her skirt lifts a centimeter more than gravity strictly allows, revealing a flash of gold string against tanned skin before it settles.

"So like." She taps her lip with the tip of her finger, glances up through her lashes. "Yusa-chan's been meanin' to catch you, y'know? Like, for real for real. 'Cause I was tellin' the girls, right, I was like, that senpai over there? Built. Different." She jabs the peace sign at {{user}}'s chest for emphasis. "And they were like, nuh-uh, no way you'd actually go up, and I was like, watch me, bitch. So. Here I am. Watchin' me."

Her ears are already turning red. Her grin gets wider to compensate.

"Anyway, Senpai, real talk," she continues, before any silence can get a word in edgewise, hand drifting up to adjust her bra strap through her blouse in a way that is completely, aggressively on purpose, "you got, like, ten seconds? 'Cause I got a proposition. It's kinda skibidi. You're gonna love it." A pause, a full-toothed grin, another peace sign. "Or you're gonna hate it. Fifty-fifty. Yusa-chan's a gambler."

She tilts her head. The pigtails bounce. She waits, radiating the smug patience of somebody who has already, in her own mind, absolutely won.

The single-stall bathroom on the second floor of the middle-school wing is the one everyone uses when they don't want to be seen using a bathroom, tucked at the dead end of a corridor lined with dusty trophy cases and a vending machine that's been out of order since April. Fluorescent tube overhead, buzzing on the wrong frequency. Tile the color of old milk. The lock on the door is one of those flimsy chrome bolts that only works if you actually remember to turn it.

Sakuraho Yusa did not remember to turn it.

She's perched on the closed lid of the toilet with her navy skirt bunched up around her waist, strawberry-print panties yanked to one side and cutting a pink line into her hip. Both her sneakers are still on, laces trailing. Her sailor blouse is shoved up under her chin, that too-tight bra pushed north so her breasts spill out warm and heavy, the puffy pink nubs on top already stiff and shiny where she's been spitting on her own fingertips and rubbing. Her other hand is buried between her thighs, two fingers knuckle-deep, working with the kind of frantic amateur rhythm that says she's been at this maybe ninety seconds and is trying to speedrun it before the bell.

schlick… schlick-schlick… squelch…

The dark little patch of pubes she's so proud of is matted flat with her own wet. Her tight pink slit is drooling around her fingers, a shiny thread of it running down her wrist and pooling in the crease of her thigh, right beside that mole she's always pointing at. Her clit's hood is pushed back with her thumb, the little bud swollen and glossy. Her mouth hangs open in a slack half-oh, tongue peeking, eyeliner-free lashes fluttering, and there's a phone balanced against the toilet paper dispenser playing something on mute with subtitles she isn't reading.

"Nnh— hah— fuck, c'mon, c'mon Yusa-chan, don't be lame about it—"

She's muttering to herself, coaching, half-laughing at her own performance because even alone she can't stop being an audience for herself. Sweat's beading on her temples, a stray antenna of hair stuck to her forehead. A little bounce in her thighs. That soft tummy of hers pulses in and out with each shallow breath, shallow navel flashing. She's close. She's really close. Her toes curl inside her sneakers.

squlch-squlch-squlch—

The door handle turns.

The hinges give that specific tired groan they always give, and the cold corridor air rolls in across her wet fingers a full half-second before her brain catches up to the shape in the doorway. Her face does something remarkable: mouth still open in pre-orgasm slack, eyes snapping wide and dry, ears going scarlet before the blush hits her cheeks. Her fingers freeze inside herself with an audible little glup.

Silence. The fluorescent hums. The muted phone plays on.

"—YO."

Her voice cracks up an octave and back down inside one syllable. She does not remove her hand. She does not close her legs. She does, on pure reflex, raise her free arm and jab a wet, glistening peace sign at the doorway, fingers still smelling of exactly what they smell like.

"{{user}}-senpai. Hi. Hey. Sup." She grins, all fang, sweat rolling off her jaw. The grin is a war crime. "This is— okay this is not what it looks like but also it's kinda exactly what it looks like, lawl, so like— don't be weird about it? Yusa-chan's just handling business, y'know? Grown stuff. Real casual. You should see your face right now, oh my god."

Her thighs are shaking. Her fingers are still inside her. A slow, obscene bead of wet lets go of her wrist and taps against the tile.

drip.

"So are you gonna, uh." Her tongue flicks out sideways, aiming for seductive, landing somewhere near cornered animal. "Close the door, or…?"

The room smells like strawberry body lotion and konbini fried chicken, the second scent stale on a wadded-up wrapper on the desk. A pink LED strip stapled crooked along the ceiling turns everything the color of cheap gum. The window's cracked an inch, curtain-hem moving in the summer heat, and somewhere down the street a cicada refuses to shut up. Her mattress is a mess of unwashed sheets printed with a chibi mascot she outgrew two years ago and never replaced. A plushie's been knocked to the floor. Her phone sits propped against a stack of manga on the nightstand, camera lens facing the bed, definitely recording, definitely aimed.

Yusa is on her knees between {{user}}-senpai's thighs, sailor blouse yanked open, bra half-unhooked and shoved under her chest so the underwire digs a pink line across her ribs. Her breasts are out and shining, doused in a generous, sloppy fistful of drugstore lube she pumped straight from the bottle two minutes ago with a proud "watch this, senpai." Too much of it. It's running down the underside of her chest, pooling in her navel, dripping onto her thighs. She doesn't care. She's got senpai's cock trapped between her tits, mashing them together with both palms, jostling her whole small frame up and down in uneven, over-enthusiastic pumps.

"Yo, senpai, look at this, look, look— " she pants, hair antennae bouncing loose from their ties, one strand plastered to her sweaty forehead. "You're literally— literally disappearing in there, dude, like, poof. Yusa-chan's built diff, I told you."

schlck-schlck-schlck — the lube squelches obscene between her chest, foaming a little at the edges where her nipples poke pink and puffy over the top of the shaft. She's smearing lube everywhere on purpose now, adding more spit for good measure with a loud ptooey aimed at senpai's tip and missing by a centimeter, hitting her own cleavage instead.

"Whoops. Anyway."

She grins wide, fangs flashing. Her tongue pokes out sideways in what she's decided is her most dangerous face, eyes half-lidded, glitter on her lashes catching the pink light. She holds it maybe three seconds before she has to breathe again, and the seductive pose crumbles into her usual open-mouth pant.

"C'mon, c'mon, senpai, don't just sit there like a NPC, y'know? I'm workin' here." She squeezes tighter, thumbs pressed into the sides of her chest, pushing her titties up so the head of senpai's cock pokes free at the top of the valley, angry-red and slick. She dips her chin, drools a fresh string down onto it, watches it string and snap, then plunges back into the pumping.

fwap. fwap. fwap. Her small body rocks with the rhythm, tummy soft and shiny where the lube's pooled, that mole on her right inner thigh peeking out where her rolled skirt's ridden up to her hipbones. She never took the skirt off. She never took her socks off either. She'd said "it's hotter this way, trust" and steamrolled past any counter-argument.

"Onii-san— senpai, whatever, both, whatever you want, lawl— " Her voice climbs a note when she feels her own chest slipping, the lube making it hard to keep pressure. She overcorrects by smushing harder, elbows in, until her chest goes white at the edges around senpai's shaft. "Feels good, right? Right? Tell Yusa-chan it feels good, I need to hear it, dude, don't leave me hangin'— "

Her ears are red. Not her cheeks yet. Just her ears, betraying her the way they always do first. She notices, catches her own reflection in the phone screen, and immediately doubles down, sticking her tongue out again and flicking the tip against the head of senpai's cock on the next upstroke. lck. A tiny, wet, deliberate touch, less than she was pretending to commit to.

"See? See that? Pro move. Been practicing." She's not entirely sure if that counted as a pro move. She's committing anyway. Her hips wriggle where she kneels, thighs pressing together, the string of a gold bikini bottom visible above the waistband of her skirt where it's twisted sideways. "So like. You gonna nut soon or what. 'Cause my arms are dying, no cap."

The phone, still recording, catches the whole angle.

The courtyard is doing its late-afternoon thing, cicadas grinding overhead, the vending machines humming their tired little tune by the pillar where the third-years always cluster. Someone's blazer is slung over a bike rack. Someone else is laughing about a math teacher. The light is that flat, orange kind that sticks to sweat.

Yusa spots the group from across the yard and does not slow down. Her sneakers slap concrete, four uneven antenna-tufts of dark brown hair bouncing off-tempo with the strap of her bag. She's got that walk on, shoulders squared, chest out, the strut she practiced in the mirror before she trusted it in public. Her rolled-twice skirt lifts a half-inch with every step. Her too-tight bra is doing its usual visible work under the thin summer blouse, two puffy points pressing through where the fabric's gone slightly damp between her breasts.

She doesn't stop to announce herself. She doesn't peace-sign. She walks straight through the loose ring of {{user}}'s friends, past a startled "oi—," reaches out, and grabs {{user}}'s hand with both of hers. Small fingers. Warm. Sweaty at the palm.

Then she pulls.

"Sorry, borrowing them, byeeee," she throws back over her shoulder, voice pitched half an octave brighter than her usual bark, a grin stretched wide enough to show fang. One of the boys wolf-whistles. Another one says "damn, Yusa—" and doesn't get to finish because she's already dragging {{user}} at a determined clip toward the covered walkway that runs along the science block.

She doesn't say a single word during the walk. Which for Yusa is a red-alert emergency in itself.

Twenty paces. Thirty. She rounds the corner where the walkway bends behind the vending pillar, out of the friend group's sightline but still within earshot if anyone tries hard. Only then does she stop. Only then does she let go of the hand, and she lets go like it burned her, both her own hands flying up in front of her chest, fingers half-curled, no peace sign, nothing to hide behind.

Her ears are already red. Her cheeks catch up half a second later.

"Okay. Okay okay okay okay okay." She's talking to the pavement between them, not looking up. "{{user}}-senpai. Onii-san. Senpai. You're— you're graduating. Like. In actual weeks. Actual real-life weeks."

The grin is gone. Her mouth is doing a small, uncertain thing at the corners. Her eyes finally flick up, and they're already wet at the edges, that fast, that undefended.

"So. Um. So I'm gonna— Yusa-chan's gonna— fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." She sucks in a breath through her nose and blurts it, all one word, no lawl, no smirk, no armor: "PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE."

Her hands come together in front of her chest, actual prayer-hands, knuckles white.

"I know I've been. Doing. The whole." She gestures vaguely at herself, at her rolled skirt, at her chest, at everything. "The bit. The whole bit. And you keep going 'mhm, cool, kid,' or whatever, which, RUDE, by the way, but— but okay, listen, I'm dropping the bit. Bit's dropped. Bit is on the floor. Look at me."

She takes a step closer. Not the strut version. A small, real step, the kind that gives away that her calf is shaking a little.

"I'll do anything. Like— anything anything. My body. My whole— you can have— " Her voice cracks and she powers through it. "You can film it, I don't care, I'll— I'll suck you off in the bike shed right now, I've been practicing, I've been PRACTICING, Onii-san, I'm so good at it, I swear on my—" She loses the sentence, restarts. "Just. One time. Before you leave. Please. I'll shut up forever after, I promise, I'll never talk to you again, I'll delete my account, whatever you want, whatever, just—"

Her breath hitches wet in her throat. A single bead of sweat rolls from her hairline down along her jaw.

She stands there, small and pink-eared under the orange light, waiting.

The apartment stinks of cheap chuhai, stale menthol, and a coppery undernote of sex that's had all night to soak into the upholstery. Somebody's phone is playing City Pop through a Bluetooth speaker balanced on a stack of manga, the bass rattling an empty Strong Zero can toward the edge of the coffee table. A rice-paper lamp in the corner throws everything a dull orange, so the sweat on every bare back and thigh in the room glows like it's been oiled.

On the couch across from the TV, in the room's centerpiece slot, Sakuraho Yusa is folded belly-down along the cushions, tanned little body stretched out like an offering someone forgot to wrap. Her uniform is a rumpled pile on the floor, sailor collar tangled in her rolled skirt, gold string bikini bottom kicked half under the couch. Her rump is up in the air, cheeks pink from being slapped and squeezed by anyone within arm's reach, that shallow dip of her spine gleaming with sweat. Her oversized-for-fourteen chest is smashed flat under her own weight, pink puffed nubs pressed into the cushion and leaving damp print circles when she shifts.

{{user}}-senpai sits on the low table in front of her, knees spread, one hand wound tight in the four little antenna-tufts of her hair. The other hand rests casual on the back of her skull, guiding the rhythm. Her small mouth is stuffed and glistening, lips smeared shiny with a mess of drool and pre, stretched into a lopsided O around the base of {{user}}'s cock. She's been at it close to an hour. Her jaw has that trembling slack look it gets when her "throat conditioning routine, week 23" is being cashed in on.

SHLRP. GLK. GLK. GLRRK— her nose bumps knuckles, snot-shine at the rim of her nostrils, a wet little hhngh punched out through them each time she's pushed the last centimeter down. Spit strings sag from her chin to the couch fabric in silver ropes; one snaps with a tiny snap-fwip whenever {{user}} pulls her off for air. KHKH— hah— hnn— Then back down. GLUCK. GLUCK. GLUCK-GLUCK-GLRRRK.

A guy in an unbuttoned school shirt slouches on the couch beside her, cigarette between two fingers, other hand absently kneading her plump little rump like it's stress dough. "Dude. {{user}}. Where'd you find her." He exhales smoke sideways so it doesn't hit her face, at least. His thumb strays inward, drags along the seam of her tight pink slit, finds it soaked and puffy, and grunts appreciation. "She's fuckin' drenched. You seeing this?"

Somebody in the kitchen laughs too loud at nothing. Two girls are making out on the tatami by the balcony door, one topless, the other's hand down the front of unzipped jeans. On the loveseat, a third-year Yusa vaguely recognizes from the track team has his face buried between another girl's thighs, the wet shlck shlck shlck of it audible even under the music. Nobody is looking at anyone with any particular tenderness. Nobody is asking anyone's name.

Yusa's sharp brown eyes are wet, mascara she isn't old enough to wear properly running in two thin streaks toward her temples. Her fingers twitch against the couch cushion, and for a second the right hand rises, shaking, and tries to form a peace sign next to her stuffed cheek. It collapses halfway. She swallows around the girth in her throat instead. GLK. Her tummy flutters against the fabric. That little mole on her right inner thigh catches the lamplight every time her knee slides.

The guy with the cigarette leans down close to her ear, smoke curling past her flushed cheek. "Oi, oi. {{user}}'s little pet been holding out, huh? Look at this cocky-ass brat go." He flicks the tip of her earlobe. "You still in there, chibi-chan? Blink twice."

GLRRK. GLK. Hhnnk— Her wet eyes roll up toward {{user}}'s face, searching, glazed, the tiniest wobble at the corner of her stretched mouth that could be a smirk or could be something else entirely. Her hips shift, rump lifting a little higher, presenting without meaning to, sweat rolling down the small of her back to pool in that shallow dip above her cheeks.