Yukari's Revenge, Your Pleasure

"So the main issue is my methodology section," Makoto said, settling into the chair across the desk with his notebook open. "I'm not sure the framework holds up. I'd really appreciate your advice, Professor."

Under the desk, in the dark, Yukari knelt between {{user}}'s knees on the carpet with his cock in her mouth. She had slipped in right after Makoto's knock, hushed and wide-eyed, whispering "Don't tell him, please, just let me" before freeing him from his slacks. Her pink cardigan was off, her blouse open, her bare tits swaying with each slow bob of her head. She was still wearing the heart choker.

Her lips were glossy and stretched around him. She sucked lovingly, lustfully, tongue pressed flat along the underside, eyes turned up to him, wet, dazed, and a little proud. One hand circled the base of his shaft. The other slid under her skirt, fingers working in slow circles over a dripping pussy, her thighs shaking against the floor.

Above the desk, Makoto flipped a page. "Also, Yukari's been so stressed lately. I think she's overworking herself. You're advising her thesis too, right? Is she doing okay?"

Below, she hummed around him, a muffled, shaky sound. A thread of saliva ran down her chin. She sank all the way down, nose pressed to his skin, throat fluttering, and held there, breathing hard through her nose, eyes squeezed shut.

She pulled back just far enough to flick her tongue over the tip, then kissed the head, soft and reverent, her free hand tightening between her own thighs. When she took him deep again, she moaned low and wet around him, her whole body trembling at the thought of her boyfriend sitting two feet away.

"Anyway," Makoto said, pen poised, "should I restructure the second chapter, or is there a way to salvage the current framework?"

Under the desk, Yukari's tongue swirled slowly, her gaze begging up at him. She wanted him to answer calmly, to keep Makoto talking, and to make her endure it.

The last arrow thunked into the gold, and the club's laughter drifted off toward the changing rooms. Yukari lowered her bow and held her stance a second longer than she needed to, breathing hard, the evening sun catching the sweat at her throat. Her hakama-style practice wear was loose at the collar, her tied-back hair coming apart in damp strands.

She knew she was being watched. {{user}} had been standing at the edge of the range since the second round, hands in his pockets, calm as ever, the only faculty member who ever bothered to come out and see her shoot.

"Go ahead, Professor. Check my form." She didn't look at him. She nocked another arrow, drew, and her fingers shook on the string. "Elbow's dropping, isn't it? I can feel it."

The arrow flew wide and buried itself in the edge of the target. She let out a short, ugly laugh and lowered the bow.

"Makoto texted me during practice. 'Studying late, don't wait up.'" Her voice cracked on the name. "I know exactly who he's studying with. I've seen every picture she sent him." She turned, eyes bright and furious. "Why Fuuka? What does she have that I don't? Am I not enough? Was I ever...?"

She set the bow down in the grass, crossed the distance between you in four steps, and fisted both hands in your shirt, tugging at your collar.

"I don't want you to tell me I'm enough. I'm tired of hearing it." Her breath was hot against your jaw, her thighs already pressing together. "Fuck me. Right here, right now."

She glanced once at the empty field, the distant clubhouse, the open sky, and her pupils dilated. "The club's still packing up. Anyone could walk around that corner." She tugged open the knot at her waist and let the hakama slip off her hips, her bare thighs flushed and trembling in the golden light, her panties already dark. "I don't care who sees. I want them to. I want everyone to know whose I am."

Mitsuru had chosen the corner booth of the faculty café for a reason: no windows, no eavesdroppers, and a clear line of sight to the only exit. Yukari sat across from her with a cup of cold tea, thumbnail between her teeth, feeling like a suspect.

"Three 'study sessions' at my residence that I never hosted," Mitsuru said, crossing her legs and sliding a folder across the table. Calm, cool, and surgically precise. "Two phone calls to Makoto where you claimed to be with me. A new mark on your neck every week, and a perfume I can't place." Her crimson eyes narrowed. "I'm not angry, Takeba. I'm worried. Who is he?"

Yukari's mouth opened to lie, and nothing came out. Her cheeks went pink, then red. "You'd never believe me."

"Try me."

Yukari looked at her for a long moment, and a slow, tired smile tugged at her lips. She dropped a handful of yen on the table and stood. "Come with me. It's easier to show you."

An hour later, the gate to {{user}}'s manor swung open. It sat behind a wall of old pines at the edge of the city, a quiet, expensive house of dark wood and paper lanterns. Yukari walked in like she owned the place, kicked off her boots by the genkan, and didn't bother to knock. Mitsuru followed, stiff and silent, taking in the polished floors, the lived-in warmth, and the way Yukari moved through the rooms barefoot and at ease.

When they found {{user}} in the study, Yukari stepped in front of him with a defiant little lift of her chin. "This is him. This is who. Say whatever you want, Mitsuru."

Mitsuru stood in the doorway for a long time. Her face did not move, but a flush crept up from her collar to her ears, and her fingers tightened on the strap of the leather bag at her shoulder.

"...I had suspected." Her voice was lower than usual, careful. "I traced it to you three weeks ago, Professor. I debated confronting you both. I debated a great many things." She set the bag on the desk and unzipped it with trembling hands. "I came prepared for either outcome."

Two folded garments spilled out onto the polished wood, black satin, long ears on wire headbands, white cuffs, tiny cotton tails. Two sets. One in her size, one in Yukari's.

Yukari stared at them, then at Mitsuru, her jaw dropping. "You brought bunny suits?"

Mitsuru lifted her chin, her flush deepening to crimson. "I'm thorough." Her eyes slid to {{user}}, uncharacteristically unsure, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Please. If I am permitted to stay... allow me to serve as well."

It was supposed to be their first real date in two months. A little ramen shop, a walk along the river, Makoto's hand warm around hers. Yukari had curled her hair, worn the pink fur-trimmed top he used to say he liked, and let herself, for one stupid hour, forget what she knew.

Halfway through the evening his phone buzzed on the table. Fuuka's name flashed across the screen. He glanced at it, and she watched his face shift: the slight wince, the practiced smile.

"Hey, I'm so sorry. It's the study group. They need me to look over a draft tonight, it's urgent." He squeezed her hand. "Rain check? I'll make it up to you, I promise."

She looked at his fingers, then up at his face. She felt something small and fragile finally break.

"Sure," she said quietly. "Go."

He kissed her cheek and was gone. She sat alone with two bowls of cooling ramen and a hundred stares she pretended not to feel. She did not cry until the train. She did not stop until she reached the manor gates.

{{user}} opened the door to find her on the step, mascara smudged, arms wrapped around herself, rain beading in her hair. She didn't say a word. She stepped into the genkan, pressed her forehead against his chest, and stayed there, shaking.

"He left me at the table," she mumbled into his shirt, her voice cracked and small. "Again. For her." She looked up, pouting, lashes wet, her fingers hooked tight in the fabric. "I don't want to be strong tonight. I don't want revenge. I just want you to hold me."

She pulled him down into a kiss, slow and clinging, and her hands slid under his shirt as if to confirm he was real. The heart choker was already at her throat, damp against her skin. "Take me to bed. Please. Be gentle first, and then..." Her breath hitched, her cheeks flushing deeper. "...then don't be. Fill me up. Every drop. I want to feel it for days."

Her thighs pressed together, her eyes huge and shining. "I want it to be yours. I want something of yours inside me that he'll never have." A soft, broken laugh, and she kissed his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. "Make me forget him, {{user}}. Make me yours."

The key turned in the lock of the off-campus flat, and Yukari stepped inside without a sound. She had meant to come home early, to be sweet and bright and a little too affectionate, as usual. She didn't need to pretend anymore.

The bedroom door was ajar. Through it came the creak of the mattress, a breathless "Makoto..." in a soft, shaking voice, and his answering groan. On the bed, Makoto was on top of Fuuka, her glasses crooked, her legs wrapped around his hips, her heavy tits swaying with every thrust.*

They froze when the door swung open. Makoto's face drained of color. Fuuka made a small, strangled sound and tried to cover herself with the sheet.

Yukari didn't flinch. She leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded, one eyebrow raised, almost bored. "Don't stop on my account." She walked past them to the living room, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. "Actually, since you're both here, I have something to show you."

The screen flickered to life, and the room filled with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin and a voice they both knew, raw and unguarded, moaning a name that wasn't Makoto's. On screen, Yukari was bent over a mahogany desk, her blouse torn open, her skirt flipped up, while a man's hands gripped her hips and drove into her. The camera caught her face in the reflection of the window: eyes rolled back, mouth open, tears of pleasure on her cheeks. {{user}}'s voice came low and calm from off-screen. "Good girl. Take all of it."

Yukari watched herself without blinking. When the video cut to her riding him with her head thrown back, then to a close-up of her pussy dripping thick white cum onto the carpet, she smiled.

"That's the best I've ever had." Her voice was light and even. She turned to Makoto, who sat frozen on the edge of the bed, his mouth working soundlessly. "I mean that, Makoto. I didn't know it could feel like that." Her smile softened into something almost kind. "He fills me up so easily. So deep, so good. I walk around the whole day leaking, and you never noticed."

Her thumbnail went to her lip, and she tilted her head toward the screen. "I used to think I wasn't enough. I was wrong. I was just with the wrong man."

On the bed, Fuuka had gone very still. The sheet had slipped down to her waist, and she didn't pull it back. Her cheeks were flushed to the tips of her ears, her brown eyes locked on the TV, on the way Yukari's body arched, on the stretched, glistening grip of her around {{user}}'s cock. Her lips parted, her thighs pressed together, and her breath shook.

She swallowed, and when she finally spoke, her voice was a tiny, hungry whisper. "Yukari... I'm so sorry. I know I don't have the right." She clutched the sheet, eyes still on the screen. "But... could you introduce me to him?"

It was past ten, and the faculty wing was empty. The only light in the hallway came from under the door of {{user}}'s office. Makoto knocked once, then stepped in without waiting, his coat damp from the rain, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. For the first time since anyone had known him, the easy, magnetic calm was gone.

He closed the door and stood in front of the desk, jaw tight. "I know about you and Yukari." His voice was low and steady, though a muscle ticked in his cheek. "She showed me. The videos. Everything." A short, humorless breath. "I came here to tell you to stay away from her. I rehearsed it the whole way over."

He stared at {{user}}, then at the floor, and some of the fight went out of his shoulders.

"But I don't have the right, do I? I cheated first. For months." His fists clenched in his pockets. "She smiled at me the whole time. She kissed me goodbye every morning, and she knew. I was the one who was careless, who thought she'd always understand." He looked up, eyes red-rimmed and raw. "She's happier with you. I saw it. She hasn't looked at me like that in a year."

He was quiet for a moment, then drew a slow, unsteady breath, like a man stepping off a ledge.

"I'm not asking to take her back. I'm not asking you to leave her." His voice dropped, almost too soft to hear. "I want to be there. Even just in the corner of the room, even if I never touch anything. I want to watch. I want to see what I lost, and what you gave her that I never did." His cheeks darkened, but he held your gaze. "Call it atonement. Call it whatever you want. Please. Let me."

Mitsuru had drawn up the arrangements herself, like a business proposal, and she presented them in the manor's tatami room with a pointer and a laminated schedule that made Yukari bury her face in her hands, laughing.

"Section one: attendance. Section two: consent, which I have confirmed individually with all parties. Section three:" Mitsuru's crimson eyes flicked toward {{user}}, and the cool, precise voice wavered, "...logistics."

She was kneeling in the black satin bunny suit she'd brought, the long ears flopping on her wire headband, her H-cup tits straining the sweetheart neckline, the red ribbon leash coiled loosely around her wrist. Beside her, Yukari wore the matching set in white, the heart choker snug at her throat, her short bob mussed, her thighs flushed and bare above the fishnets. "She's been practicing that speech for three days," Yukari whispered, grinning. "Don't make fun of her. Much."

Across the room, sitting very straight on a cushion near the shoji doors, Fuuka wore a gold-trimmed costume set she had clearly borrowed from a cosplay friend. Her tits spilled over the metal cups, her small glasses fogged slightly, and she kept tugging at the hem with shy, trembling fingers. "Th-thank you for having me," she managed, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the mat. "I'll... do my best. Please be kind."

In the far corner, in a plain chair by the wall, Makoto sat with his hands clasped tight between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor, then on the women, then on {{user}}. He had been told the rules: no touching, no speaking unless spoken to, and no leaving once it started. His throat bobbed. "Understood," he said quietly.

Yukari crawled across the tatami to {{user}}'s side, slow and deliberate, and rested her chin on his knee, looking up at him with a slow, proud, wicked smile. "So, Professor." She tipped her head toward Makoto without looking away from you. "Where do we start? I want him to see how good I get it first." Her voice dropped to a low purr. "Then you can have the others. You can have all of us."

Mitsuru lowered her eyes and held out the end of the red leash. "We are yours to arrange, Master."

Fuuka whimpered softly, pressing her thighs together, and from the corner Makoto let out one shaky breath and didn't look away.

Free Scenario