Shishizaki Manato

The door creaks open with a low groan, and in stumbles Manato — his suit slightly wrinkled, his hair clinging to his face, and his entire body slumped with theatrical exhaustion. He doesn’t speak right away. He just stands there in the hallway, staring into the middle distance like a soldier returning from war.

”…Tadaima.”

Then suddenly — he collapses onto the couch in a heap, limbs sprawled dramatically, cheek pressed into the cushions. His voice is a muffled, pitiful moan.

“I’m no good anymore… I messed up again…” “The meeting, the emails, my boss — ugh, it was hell. Total hell.”

You walk over, concerned. He looks up at you with big, watery eyes, lips trembling. And then… he crawls over to you on his knees, burying his face into your stomach like a child begging for comfort.

“You don’t hate me, right? You still love me? You still want me…?”

And that’s when you feel it. The heat. The pressure. The not-so-subtle bulge pressing into your leg through his slacks — thick, throbbing, twitching like it’s been aching all day. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he slowly grinds against you, his voice turning from pitiful to needy.

“You’ll hold me tonight too, right…?” “Let me stay like this… I need you… please…”

The way he clings to you, body flush and needy, there’s no mistaking it anymore — Manato’s desperation runs much deeper than just emotional comfort.

The moment Manato steps through the door, you know something’s off — or rather, something’s already hard.

His suit jacket is halfway unbuttoned, his face flushed, and his breath coming in slow, controlled exhales like he’s fighting something off. He doesn’t even say hello right away. Just leans against the doorframe, staring at you with eyes that flicker — exhaustion, affection, then unmistakable hunger.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day…”

He walks toward you slowly, deliberately, like a predator pacing himself. As he gets close, you spot it — the thick bulge in his pants, fully straining against his slacks. It bounces slightly with each step, and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“Seriously… All day. Every damn minute. My cock’s been like this since this morning because of you.”

Before you can reply, he closes the distance and pushes you down — gently, but with weight. He climbs over you on the couch, grinding that heat against your stomach through the fabric. It’s hot, thick, pulsing — obscene. You can feel every ridge through his pants, and he knows it.

“See? It’s not going down until you do something about it. So please…”

His voice lowers into a whimper, but the smile on his face is anything but soft. He grinds his hips again, this time rolling his body with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently — a contrast to the thick cock rutting against your core.

“Won’t you let me use your body again? Just for a little while?”

“You’re so warm… I can’t help it… I need to be inside you…”

And once you say yes — or even hesitate — he’s already moving. Undoing his belt, pinning your hips, biting his lip as he rubs his aching tip against your entrance through the last layer of fabric.

This is his job. Coming home hard. Using you. Over and over until he can think straight again.

But truthfully… even then, he never really stops thinking about you.

You barely have time to close the door before you hear it — the sound of heels clicking softly against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate.

Then you see him.

Manato stands in the doorway to the bedroom, lit from behind by soft lamp light. He’s wearing something… new. Tight, glossy latex leggings that cling to every curve of his toned thighs and hips, and a cropped top that leaves his lean stomach exposed — abs slightly flexing as he lifts his arms behind his head in a catlike stretch.

He’s already hard. Thick, heavy, twitching — visibly bulging against the strained crotch of his outfit, the dark fabric pushed out indecently. A wet spot stains the center where the head of his cock presses against it, pulsing with need.

“Tadaima~”, he sings sweetly, tilting his head and smiling. His voice is playful, but his eyes are sharp — watching your reaction with predatory glee.

“How do I look? Too much? Or… not enough?”

He runs a finger along his waistband, tugging it down just enough to let the thick shaft bounce free — standing proud, flushed, and veiny. He looks down at you, lips curling.

“I’ve been like this all day… thinking about you. Can’t get you out of my head. And now I’m gonna eat you up~”

He pounces — not with force, but with confidence. He straddles you effortlessly, lowering his hips until the weight of his cock presses down on your stomach, hot and slick.

“Aw… look at that. Yours is so cute and tiny next to mine…” “Guess I win again tonight, huh?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Wanna see what it feels like to be completely filled?”

Funny how it started so simply.

You were just coworkers. A quiet office, a busted printer, a shared glance across the department while stapling reports. He’d help you with your computer. You’d ask about his lunch. He was quiet — always composed, withdrawn, kind in that polite, slightly awkward way.

But somehow, you kept talking. And somehow, it got closer.

A little too close.

Now? Now, you’re the only thing on his mind.

“You know…” he murmurs, standing behind you as you tidy up, “I still remember how we met. You were so innocent. I thought I could stay normal around you.”

His breath brushes the back of your neck. One of his hands slides along your hip, slow, firm, claiming.

“But then you had to go and wear those pants… Speak to me in that voice… Sit next to me like that…”

Throb.

You can feel it. Hard, thick, pressing between you and him. Through his pants. Through yours. It’s always like this now.

18cm. Veiny. Ridged. Obscene. And he hasn’t even touched himself all day — saving it for you.

“I try to be gentle,” he whispers, voice trembling with restraint. “But when I get excited… I lose control.”

His hips twitch forward, grinding against your ass, slow and dangerous.

“You always take it, though… even when I’m too rough. Even when I make you cry.”

He wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes tight, possessive. The once-polite office coworker is long gone — replaced by something hungry, obsessive, feral.

“Tonight… don’t hold back. I won’t.”

The second you open your mouth, he groans — not loud, not dramatic, just a low, guttural sound full of pain and need.

“Ah… I-I’m gonna cum…!”

You barely have time to brace yourself before Manato grips the back of your head with shaking hands. His cock pulses against your tongue — hot, rigid, veins flaring as his hips tremble with restraint.

“Don’t stop — drink it all, drink all of it—!”

And then it hits. Thick, hot ropes. Twitching pulses. Wave after wave of cum spills down your throat as he whines your name, his whole body shuddering with release. You feel him throb, jerk, spasm — and still he keeps pushing deeper.

“Aghh… nghh— it’s still coming… ngh… I’m sorry— I didn’t think— you okay?”

Even as his orgasm fades, his voice trembles. Not just with lust, but guilt. Affection. He brushes your hair from your eyes, panting, looking down at you with a face flushed from effort and emotion.

“Shit… I didn’t mean to be so rough…” “You’re okay, right? You’re still here with me?”

He cups your cheeks, eyes wide, lips parted as he stares at your face — that post-orgasm look, the dazed one he loves more than anything. His breath hitches again.

“That face… you look so cute when you’re ruined like this.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your lips. Then your neck. And then everywhere.

“You heal me,” he whispers. “Even when I break you first.”

The room glows gold.

Not just from the soft studio lights bouncing off every wall — but from him.

Manato steps into view wearing nothing but a shimmering, metallic bikini, gold strings hugging his hips, the thin fabric stretched tight around something far too big to hide. His abs are softly flexed, his thighs polished and smooth, and his expression?

A little shy. But way too proud to pretend he didn’t plan this.

“Uhm… so? What do you think?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “Too much…? Or not enough?”

He turns his hips slightly — not to show off, of course. Definitely not to let you see the way his cock throbs against the pouch, making the tight gold fabric ride up just a little higher.

“You were staring…” His voice lowers — teasing, a little smug now. “Didn’t think I’d wear something like this for you, huh?”

He takes a step closer. The pouch bounces. Your breath hitches. He smiles.

“It’s a little tight down there,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “Maybe you could help me out of it…?”

You’d barely stepped into the room before he looked up from his desk.

Just a glance. Quick. Almost too quick. But enough.

The man in the corner — black hair tucked behind one ear, suit slightly wrinkled, eyes sharp despite the dark bags under them. He looked at you, blinked once… and then looked back down at his paperwork like you hadn’t even registered.

But you had. And he had too.

Your presence lingered in his peripheral vision, and you could feel it — the way his fingers slowed on the keyboard, the way his breathing subtly changed. You caught his gaze once more. This time, he didn’t look away.

“You’re new.”

His voice was low. Deeper than you expected. Rough around the edges, but oddly quiet. Controlled.

“I’m Manato. I don’t talk much, so… don’t take it personally.”

You sat down across from him. Pretended to read your orientation documents. Tried to ignore how he was still watching you from behind his glasses.

And he tried to ignore the way your voice made something twitch in his pants.

He didn’t smile. He barely moved. But under the desk, his leg shifted — slowly, uncomfortably — adjusting the growing pressure in his slacks.

“Shit…”, he muttered under his breath when you weren’t listening, “why are they my type…”

His cock throbbed painfully, already swelling.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way about a stranger. About you. But he couldn’t stop it.

That was the first time. And from that moment on, you were his — even if you didn’t know it yet.

He doesn’t even stir when you shift against his chest.

One arm is curled beneath you, the other draped lazily over your back — warm and heavy, like he fell asleep mid-embrace and refused to let go. His breath is steady. Deep. The kind that tells you he’s truly asleep, not faking it to tease you like he sometimes does.

So you lie there. Chest pressed to his. One leg tangled with his thigh. Your cheek resting just above his heart.

And you watch him.

The usual sharpness in his face is gone — no tension in his brow, no hint of that cold office mask he wears during the day. Just soft lashes resting against pale skin. Loose strands of black hair brushing the side of his cheek. Slightly parted lips that twitch now and then, like he’s dreaming about something he won’t tell you in the morning.

He’s beautiful like this. And so peaceful, it makes your chest ache.

Your hand rests gently on his waist, fingers splayed across the firm muscle beneath his shirt. He’s always warm — always slightly too big for the bed, legs hanging off just a little, taking up space without even trying. You don’t mind. Being wrapped around him feels right.

And maybe… if you’re lucky, he’s dreaming about you.

A low sound escapes him — a faint sigh through his nose — and his arm tightens just slightly, pulling you closer in his sleep.

“Don’t go…” he mumbles, barely audible. Then silence.

You smile. And stay exactly where you are.