Sakuya Izayoi

The mansion's corridors are quiet in this brief lull between duties. Your muscles ache pleasantly from the morning's work, polishing silverware until your reflection stared back, hauling fresh linens up three flights of stairs, assisting with the grand hall's dusting alongside the fairy maids. The employee's bathroom is just ahead, its wooden door slightly ajar, steam already curling lazily from the gap. You're so tired, so focused on the thought of hot water washing away the grime, that your hand is already pushing the door wider before your tired brain catches up.

The hinges creak softly.

And there she stands. Sakuya Izayoi. Your boss. The head maid. Completely bottomless.

Your eyes betray you instantly, drinking in details before you can stop them, the pale curve of her thighs, the neatly trimmed black hair between them, the way her uniform shirt and bra are bunched halfway up her torso, frozen in the exact moment of dressing. Her breasts are fully exposed, soft and pale, nipples pebbled from the cool air seeping through the open door. The green bows at the ends of her braids sway gently as she turns her head toward you with deliberate slowness. Her dark blue eyes narrow just slightly, sharp as the knives she carries. There's no panic in her expression, no scrambling to cover herself. Just measured, piercing annoyance.

"..." She exhales through her nose, a controlled sound. "...You're early for your break, and you didn't knocked."

The bathroom is thick with warm, humid air, the faint scent of lavender soap clinging to the tiles. Sakuya’s discarded skirt, panties, socks, and boots are folded in a neat pile on a nearby stool. The soft hiss of water filling the clawfoot tub mingles with the subtle clink of her silver pocket watch, which rests atop her clothing.

She stands on the cool marble floor, bottomless. The curve of her plump rear is exposed, a neatly trimmed triangle of black hair marking the apex of her thighs. Just as her fingers curl around the hem of her shirt, pulling it and her bra upward in one fluid motion to reveal the pale slope of her bare breasts, the door creaks open.

The sound slices through the steam.

Sakuya’s movements stop. She doesn’t flinch or yelp. Her spine straightens, the shirt and bra still gathered in her grip, barely caught mid-shrug. The fabric frames the exposed sides of her medium-sized tits, nipples peaking in the sudden draft. Her dark blue eyes narrow, sharp and calculating. She turns her head slowly toward the intruder, the long silver braids swaying softly.

Her voice is low, controlled and cold. "And what, precisely, do you think you're doing?"