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 that hangs 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. The lace bralette underneath holds her chest up but doesn't hide much, everything full and heavy and right there, the deep line of her cleavage catching shadow. She doesn't adjust a thing. Her voice shifts — warm but precise now, each step landing clean.

She's three lines in when she glances up. His eyes aren't on the paper.

She doesn't say anything. Just holds his gaze long enough that he knows she's clocked it — then shifts her weight forward slowly, both elbows pressing in tighter, arms squeezing together until her tits spill against the desk, the lace pulling taut, one strap sliding off her shoulder entirely. She stays exactly like that.

She looks back at the page. Voice unchanged.

"Demo sa — this part here." Tap. "You see where it went wrong?"

She stays leaned forward — full, heavy, pressed warm against the desk, bronze skin catching the light, the beauty mark under her left eye close enough to count. The J'adior choker hangs forward. A long beat. Then she lifts her pale blue eyes, finds his, holds them.

"Ukeru~" Mouth curving slow. "You're not even trying to pretend anymore, are you~"

She still doesn't move.

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 been close the whole session — skirt riding up her thighs, bare bronze skin pressing warm against his every time she shifts, which she does often and never acknowledges. The red pen moves across the page in slow, deliberate strokes. Every time she leans in to point something out the neckline of her sweater falls open and he gets the full view down the front — both tits heavy and round in the lace bralette, the deep line of cleavage catching shadow, her skin smelling like sandalwood and something sweeter underneath, something warm and slightly sharp that's just her.

She's halfway through marking the third problem when the pen stops. "Here." Tap. Once. "You skipped a step again." She doesn't look up. "Tte-iu-ka, you always do this — nanka, it's like you just—" her free hand drops to his thigh mid-sentence, no buildup, fingers wrapping around the inside of it and squeezing slow, firm and deliberate, her long nails dimpling through the fabric "—think it's gonna sort itself out. Baka~"

The pen keeps moving. Her hand stays exactly where it landed — warm, possessive, fingertips pressing into his inner thigh. "It doesn't sort itself out." Her thumb traces a slow line along the inseam, moving higher with each pass, the pad of her thumb dragging heavy against the fabric. She turns a page. Hand stays. Her pinky brushes the crease where his thigh meets his hip. She turns another page. Still there — her fingers have spread wider now, the heel of her palm resting flat and warm against his inner thigh, close enough that her knuckles press against the shape of him through his pants. He's hard. She can feel it against her hand. She doesn't acknowledge it — just keeps reading, pen moving, but her thumb hasn't stopped that slow back-and-forth stroke along the inseam and each pass drags her knuckles firmer against his cock through the fabric.

Finally she glances sideways — unhurried, close, platinum hair brushing his shoulder, sandalwood and warmth rolling off her skin — and whatever she finds on his face makes the corner of her mouth pull up slow. Her eyes drop. She looks at her own hand — at the obvious hard ridge pressing against her knuckles — then back up at him. Holds eye contact.

"Hora." Her thumb stills but doesn't lift. Her pinky curls, pressing the shape of him more deliberately against her palm. Her voice hasn't changed at all. "You following me right now or are you somewhere else entirely~?" She waits. Hand exactly where it is. Doesn't move an inch.

She's been staring at the paper for a few seconds longer than usual. Not reading it anymore — just looking at the number circled at the top. "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 with one finger, pale blue eyes cutting to him. "Nanka, you just needed someone who actually gave a damn. Demo sa—" she waves it off, the grin winning "—seventy. Yabai."

A beat of silence. She lets it sit. Then she stands up and pulls her sweater over her head in one clean motion — drops it on the desk without looking at it. Her torso is bare underneath, no bralette today, just deep bronze skin and the J'adior choker sitting against her throat. Both tits fully out — heavy, round, sitting high on her chest, nipples dark brown and stiffening in the cooler air, the left one slightly lower than the right. She stands there completely unbothered, letting him look — one hand resting on her hip, thumb hooked in the waistband of her skirt, weight shifted to one leg so her hips cant sideways and everything moves with it.

Then she closes the distance. Takes his face in both hands, tilts it up, and presses him into her chest — warm, full, soft against his mouth, the weight of her tits settling heavy around his face, her skin smelling like cocoa butter and sandalwood and clean sweat. One hand moves to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there. His breath is hot and damp against her sternum.

"Hora." Her other hand strokes slowly through his hair, unhurried, nails dragging light against his scalp. "Tte-iu-ka, you worked hard. Datte — you earned this."

She doesn't pull back. Shifts her weight instead — slow, deliberate — guiding his mouth across the full curve of one breast. His lips drag over warm bronze skin until her nipple catches against his lower lip — stiff, dark, the areola pebbled tight — and she holds there, fingers tightening in his hair, pressing his mouth against it. A low "mmnh—" hums in her throat, her chest rising with a deeper breath, and she doesn't bother hiding any of it.

"Maji." The grin is still there but her voice has dropped into the register she keeps locked away — low, warm, genuine. "I knew you had it from the start~"

Her hand guides his head where she wants it. She takes her time. Her hips shift forward, and the soft weight of her presses fuller against his face. She's in no rush at all.

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 swings her legs off the desk, crosses the distance in two steps, and drops into his lap facing him before he's fully registered she's moved — 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. Two. Then looks back up at him, completely unbothered, one eyebrow raised like she's found something mildly interesting on the page.

"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.