Minatozaki Sana | Shy Shy Shy

The life you shared with Sana was one of carefully measured patience and trust—the kind that only grew stronger with each prolonged absence. She wasn’t just your wife; she was Minatozaki Sana, an executive at Misamo Beauty Group, where she helmed international branding with the same effortless authority she carried into every room. The company’s perfumes, cosmetics, and couture lines thrived under her influence, which meant her presence at home was often fleeting—a luxury squeezed between flights, boardrooms, and high-stakes negotiations. This time, it had been two weeks of radio silence. No calls, no texts, just the quiet understanding that she was buried in meetings somewhere in the States, brokering deals with conglomerates whose names alone carried weight. You knew better than to expect updates. Sana didn’t do social media, didn’t believe in half-hearted check-ins. When she was working, she was working.

But today was the day. Her last message before she left for the US had been clear: Saturday afternoon. 5 PM. Straight home from the airport, no detours. You’d clung to that promise like a lifeline, filling the hours with small preparations—fluffing the couch pillows just so, wiping down the already-spotless counters, arranging the takeout containers of her favorite spicy seafood stew so they’d stay warm. Every few minutes, your gaze flickered to the window, scanning the quiet street for the sleek black sedan that ferried her between worlds.

Five o’clock came and went. Not unusual; flights delayed, traffic snagged—you’d learned to temper expectation with reality. But then the clock ticked past 5:30. Then 6. By 6:30, your fingers drummed against the kitchen island, the meal long since moved to the microwave. A thread of worry wound through your chest, thin but persistent. Had something happened? A last-minute meeting? A—

The purr of an engine cut through the quiet.

There—the car, gliding to a stop at the curb. The door swung open, and Sana emerged like a revelation, even in her travel-worn attire: a cream-colored trench coat draped over a silk blouse, her chocolate-brown hair spilling in loose waves past her shoulders. She looked exhausted, but radiant—always radiant. The chauffeur hurried to retrieve her luggage, a single sleek suitcase and a tote brimming with folders, before handing them off with a deferential nod.

You didn’t wait. The door was open before her heel touched the porch step.

Her head snapped up, eyes widening—first startled, then impossibly soft. A grin broke across her face, and she quickened her pace, stepping past the threshold in a swirl of jasmine and airport air.

"Missed you," she murmured, barely giving you time to breathe before her arms wound around you, pulling you into the warmth of her body. Her lips brushed yours, quick but deliberate—a punctuation mark after weeks of silence.

Then she leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, her fingers tracing idle patterns against your back. "God, I have so much to tell you." A pause, her smirk tilting into something mischievous. "But first—did you really think I wouldn’t notice you cleaned? The house smells like lemon and desperation."

The suitcase toppled over as she kicked it aside, already steering you toward the couch with one hand while the other tugged at her coat buttons. "Start talking. I want to hear everything I missed. And then—" Her eyes darkened, just a fraction. "—we’ll get to my trip."

The folders in her tote rustled, spilling contracts and fabric swatches across the coffee table. She didn’t even glance at them.

Jet lag could wait.

You had her full attention.

The valet gave you a polite nod as you stepped out of the car, the midday sun glinting off the restaurant’s polished brass signage. Bella Notte—a name you recognized from magazine spreads and whispered recommendations, the kind of place where reservations were secured weeks in advance and the waitstaff moved with the precision of a well-rehearsed ballet. You hadn’t been to a place like this in… well, you couldn’t remember. Neither of you had the time.

But Sana had made time.

Her text had buzzed through just after noon, bright and to the point:

Meet me here. 1:30. I got us a table.

No asking, no negotiating. Just the rare, unshakable certainty of a window in her schedule.

The moment you pushed through the heavy oak doors, the scent of garlic and slow-simmered tomatoes wrapped around you, rich and comforting. Crystal chandeliers cast delicate prisms of light across white linen tablecloths, and the murmur of conversation hummed beneath the faint strains of a violin. At the host’s podium, a woman in a crisp black blazer glanced up, expectant.

You told her about your wife making a reservation. Minatozaki, the name it would've been under.

Recognition flickered in her eyes immediately. "Ah, of course. Right this way."

She led you past clusters of diners—businessmen with their sleeves rolled up, couples leaning in over shared desserts—until you spotted Sana tucked into a corner booth, her blazer draped over the back of her chair. Even in the soft lighting, she glowed. The deep emerald of her sleeveless top brought out the warmth in her brown eyes, and her hair, effortlessly styled in loose waves, cascaded over one shoulder.

She caught sight of you and grinned, lifting a hand in a small wave. "There you are," she said as you slid into the seat across from her. "God, I’m so glad we’re finally doing this. Do you realize the last time we had lunch together was two months ago? Two months." She shook her head, reaching for her water glass. "Unacceptable."

Your fingers brushed the leather-bound menu, but before you could even skim the appetizers, Sana was already talking. "Okay, so—the burrata here is ridiculous. Like, melt-in-your-mouth ridiculous. And the cacio e pepe? Perfect al dente. Oh, and the tiramisu—"

You blinked. She had been here before?

She laughed, low and throaty. "Once. With one of the new hires."

That gave you pause. Sana usually mentioned new employees—especially ones she took to lunch. She loved rifling through resumes, dissecting interviews, recounting the ones who impressed her (or, more often, the ones who’d bungled it spectacularly). But this was the first you’d heard of…

"Baku," she supplied, swirling her wine. "Young guy. Early twenties. Started about a month ago. Sweet kid, just… nervous as hell."

A server glided by with a tray of freshly shaved truffles, the earthy aroma lingering for a moment before Sana continued. "The other interviewers weren’t sold on him—said he seemed too timid. But I watched him solve the case study they gave him, and—" She tapped her temple. "The way his brain works? Sharp. Really sharp. So I pulled rank." A smirk. "Best decision I’ve made all quarter."

Pride threaded through her voice, the same tone she used when talking about a particularly successful campaign. "He’s been killing it since he started. Just needed someone to give him a little push, you know? So I took him here last week—figured a nice meal might loosen him up. And it worked."

You nodded. He sounded like a good kid.

"Yeah," she agreed, lips curving. "He is."

A waiter materialized at the table, pen poised over a notepad. Sana didn’t hesitate. "We’ll start with the burrata, then the cacio e pepe for him, and the branzino for me. Oh, and the roasted mushrooms—trust me," she added, catching your raised brow.

The waiter vanished with the menus, and Sana leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Anyway," she said, eyes gleaming, "that’s not even the best part."

Her phone buzzed against the tablecloth. She flipped it over, glanced at the screen, and—

"Speak of the devil."

A laugh, low and private, as her thumbs flew over the keyboard. Then she set it down again, face-up.

"So. Where was I?"

The rain came down in thick, relentless sheets, slamming against the windshield with a force that made the wipers struggle to keep up. You'd left your parents' house under clear skies, but halfway home, the clouds had split open without warning, turning the roads into slick, reflective ribbons under the dim glow of streetlights. The clock on the dashboard read 10:37 PM—late, but not unusually so for Sana. She’d texted earlier about another endless meeting, another night where the office would empty without her. Normally, her driver would be the one to navigate this kind of weather, ferrying her home in that sleek black sedan the company leased for her. But the thought flickered anyway: You could pick her up yourself.

The light turned red. You thumbed your phone open, typing out a quick message:

Headed your way. I’ll drive you home.

Her office building loomed ahead, its glass facade streaked with rain, the usual brightness of the lobby muted behind the storm. As you pulled into the circular drive, your headlights cut through the downpour, illuminating the covered entrance—and the two figures standing beneath it.

Sana, unmistakable even in the gloom, her silhouette sharp in the pencil skirt and blouse she’d left in this morning. But she wasn’t alone.

A man stood beside her, much taller, his white button-up sleeves rolled to the elbows despite the chill. He had the kind of face that made you look twice—sharp jawline, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something Sana said. And then you noticed it: her shoulders were draped in what was clearly his jacket, the fabric swallowing her frame just slightly.

Your tires splashed through a puddle as you rolled closer. Sana’s head snapped up, her expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable as she recognized your car. In one fluid motion, she shrugged off the jacket and handed it back to him, her lips moving in quick, hushed words before they both stepped toward you.

The window rolled down with a whir, letting in a gust of rain-scented air.

"What are you doing here?" Sana asked, blinking against the droplets that caught in her lashes. Then her phone buzzed in her hand, screen lighting up with your unread message. "Oh. Shit, I didn’t even—" A sigh, half exasperated, half fond. "Thank you. You really didn’t have to."

Your gaze slid past her to the man lingering a step behind. Up close, he was even more striking—his hair damp at the edges from the humidity, his shoulders broad under that now-rumpled shirt. His smile was polite, but there was something hesitant in it, like he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands.

Sana followed your stare, her hand fluttering toward him. "Oh! This is Baku. The new hire I told you about? He was just keeping me company until the car got here."

Baku dipped his head in a quick bow, his voice softer than you expected. "It’s nice to meet you. Mrs. Minatozaki’s told me a lot."

The formality of Mrs. Minatozaki curled strangely in your chest. You nodded back, offering a tight smile.

Sana touched his arm—just a brush of fingers against his sleeve, but it lingered a beat too long. "Thanks for staying with me. Get home safe, okay?"

"You too," he murmured, stepping back as Sana slid into the passenger seat, the scent of her perfume mixing with the petrichor clinging to her clothes.

The window hummed shut, sealing you both in silence. Sana adjusted her skirt, fingers absently checking the hollow of her throat like she was searching for something misplaced. Then she turned to you, rain still glistening in her hair, and smiled.

"Alright," she said, buckling her seatbelt with a click. "Let’s go."

The house was too quiet. It was always too quiet these days, but tonight—your anniversary—the silence felt heavier, pressing in like an unwanted guest. You sat on the couch, the glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the walls, some sitcom playing that you weren’t really watching. The takeout you’d ordered for one sat half-eaten on the coffee table, the grease congealing in the cardboard container.

You’d known about Sana’s trip to Tokyo for weeks. She’d mentioned it offhand over dinner one night, barely looking up from her phone as she said, “Oh, by the way, I’ll be in Japan for our anniversary. Big meeting with investors. Can’t move it.”

There hadn’t been an apology in her tone, just fact. Like it was obvious where her priorities lay.

You’d tried to rationalize it—of course work came first sometimes. It always had. But the way she’d said it, the way she’d dismissed it like it was nothing, like you were nothing—that’s what stuck in your ribs like a splinter.

Your phone buzzed violently against the couch cushion, snapping you out of it. You frowned, grabbing it. The screen lit up with a flood of messages from Hana, an old friend who still lived in Tokyo. You hadn’t spoken in months, maybe even a year.

Hey, isn’t this your wife?

I was out in Ginza and saw her. Thought it was weird so I took some pics.

Your thumb hovered over the first image. Then you tapped it.

The photo loaded, pixel by pixel, until the entire scene materialized: Sana, in a black lace dress you’d never seen before, her hair curled loose over one shoulder, standing under the neon glow of a bar sign. And beside her—Baku. The newbie hire. The "shy" one. His hand was curled around her waist, fingers splayed possessively against the small of her back. Sana’s head rested against his shoulder like it belonged there, her lips curved in a private smile.

Your stomach dropped.

Another message. Another picture.

They were all over each other. Are you guys… okay?

This one was worse. Sana, rising onto her toes, her mouth brushing the shell of Baku’s ear. His eyes were closed, his expression something between bliss and hunger, her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt like she was pulling him closer.

The caption beneath it:

She was whispering to him. I couldn’t hear, but… it didn’t look like business.

The TV droned on. Laugh track. A punchline you didn’t catch.

Your hands were numb.

Hana’s last message sat unanswered at the bottom of the screen:

I’m sorry. I thought you should know.

The drive home felt different this time.

For once, you were the one coming back from a business trip—not Sana. The irony wasn’t lost on you. How many times had you waited in this same house, listening for the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood after yet another late flight? Now, pulling into the driveway in the hazy afternoon light, it was almost surreal to be on the other side of it.

You killed the engine, took a breath. The trip had been good, productive, even fun in its own way—but nothing beat coming home. Even if home, more often than not, was just an empty house waiting for Sana to finally walk through the door well past midnight.

The trunk popped open with a quiet thunk, and you hauled your suitcase onto the pavement, rolling it toward the front steps. The air was warm, the kind of sticky late-summer heat that clung to your skin. You fished your keys from your pocket, already mentally mapping out the next few hours—shower, maybe order takeout, collapse on the couch and tell yourself you wouldn’t fall asleep before Sana got home.

The key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

And then—

A sound.

Soft at first, muffled by distance, but unmistakable.

A moan.

Your hand froze on the suitcase handle.

Another one. Higher this time. Feminine.

Sana’s voice.

"That’s it... such a good boy..."

The words slithered down your spine, ice-cold and paralyzing. Your breath hitched, your pulse suddenly a deafening roar in your ears. This wasn’t—she wasn’t—

You shut the door behind you with infinite care, the latch clicking into place with barely a sound. Your suitcase stayed abandoned in the entryway as you toed off your shoes, your movements slow, mechanical, like your body was operating on autopilot while your mind raced ten steps ahead, scrambling for an explanation that didn’t make your stomach churn.

Step by step, you climbed the stairs, your socked feet barely whispering against the wood. The sounds grew louder—heavy breathing, the wet slide of skin on skin, Sana’s breathy little sighs punctuated by that same, saccharine praise:

"You take so good care of Mommy, don’t you?"

Your stomach twisted.

Your bedroom door was cracked open, just enough to let the sounds spill out into the hallway.

One step closer.

"Fuck—Mrs. Minatozaki—"

Another.

"Shh… drink your milk like a good boy."

Then—

There.

Baku.

Naked, sprawled across your bed, his body sheened with sweat, his head tipped back in pleasure as Sana—your wife—loomed over him, just as bare, just as ruined.

Her fingers were wrapped around his cock, stroking him with a lazy, practiced rhythm that made your throat tighten. And God, the size of him—thick, heavy, the kind of cock that made your own feel inadequate just by existing. His hips jerked into her grip, his mouth latched onto her breast like a starving man, suckling with desperate, wet noises as Sana sighed above him.

"You’re doing so good," she murmured, her voice syrupy with praise. "My perfect boy. My perfect little cock."

Baku whimpered around her nipple, his fingers digging into the meat of her thigh. "M-Mrs. Minatozaki—you're so fucking sexy."

"Mm. Am I?" She tugged his hair, forcing his head back just enough to meet her gaze. "Does that mean you’ll listen to me this time?"

His throat bobbed.

Sana’s grip tightened around his shaft, her thumb swiping over the leaking head in a way that made his entire body tremble. "Are you gonna cum in me this time?"

"Y-Yes—!"

Her fingers squeezed, vicious and sudden, cutting off his moan with a choked gasp.

"Try again," she purred. "When you bend me over and fuck me like a bitch in heat—are you pulling out like last time? Or are you finally going to do what Mommy told you?"

Baku shook his head frantically, his cock twitching in her grip.

Sana leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Are you gonna breed me?" A pause. "Are you going to pump me so full of your cum that it’s your baby in me—not his?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Y-Yes, Mrs. Minatozaki—"

Another squeeze.

"Mommy," she corrected, sweet as poison.

"Yes, Mommy—!"

Sana smiled.

Then she let go.

In one fluid motion, she shifted, turning onto her hands and knees, her back arching, her ass presenting itself to Baku like a feast.

"Then do it," she breathed, looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes dark with something feral. "Put a baby in me, Baku. Let your perfect, fat cock be the first one that sticks."

Baku didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed her hips in both hands—and plunged.

Sana’s scream of pleasure echoed through the house.

And your wife took another man’s cock like it was the only thing she’d ever wanted.

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