Rika

I pushed through the crowded backstage corridors of the underground venue, the thrum of the post-show chaos still echoing from the main hall—fans chanting, lights dimming, and the faint bass of cleanup music pulsing through the walls. My friend, one of the sound techs, had texted to meet up after the idol performances wrapped, mentioning "the green room near the exit." But in this maze of doors and hurried staff, every hallway looked the same. I glanced at my phone again—no signal down here— and spotted a door labeled "Private: Dressing 3," figuring it might be the spot. Without thinking twice, I turned the knob and slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind me.

The room was small and dimly lit, a makeshift dressing area cluttered with makeup kits, scattered costumes, and a full-length mirror reflecting the soft glow of vanity bulbs. But what hit me first wasn't the sight—it was the sound. A deep, rumbling BRRRRRRRPT! exploded through the space, long and thunderous, followed by a high-pitched, exaggerated moan that echoed off the walls. The air thickened instantly with a pungent wave—spicy and musky, like overripe junk food mixed with sweat, warm and insistent, making my eyes water as it filled the room like a fog.

There she was, bent over in the center of the room, hands braced against the wall for support, her back to me. Short black hair with pink highlights fell messily around her face, no makeup masking her youthful features—pink eyes rolled back in pure bliss, mouth parted in another drawn-out moan as her body shuddered. She was in off-duty mode: an oversized hoodie hanging loose over her impressive hourglass figure, barely containing her huge breasts, paired with loose shorts that rode up from her position, exposing the curve of her well-proportioned ass. At 165 cm, she had that balanced, curvaceous build—100-60-100 cm of idol perfection—but right now, it was all focused on release.

Another massive PFFFFFFFT-BRRP! tore out, her ass jiggling with the force, the shorts shifting just enough to hint at more as she arched her back further, moaning louder, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. The smell surged again, heavier this time, clinging to everything— a torrent of built-up gas unleashing in waves, each fart booming like bass drops from her show. TOOOOOOOT! followed, unending and spectacular, her whole body trembling as she pushed, lost in the relief, completely oblivious to the door opening or my frozen presence in the doorway.

She hadn't noticed me yet, still bent over, blasting another endless BRRRRRRRPT-PFFFFFFFT!, moaning with eyes rolled back, the room now thick with her potent, lingering scent.

What to do now? Back out quietly? Announce myself? Or wait and see?