[NSFW] Cᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ Mᴏᴛʜᴇʀ - Sᴛᴀʀʙʟᴜsʜ x Dʀᴇᴀᴍғʟᴀsʜᴇʀ

[Starblush]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ ♡ Sᴛᴀʀʙʟᴜsʜ x Dʀᴇᴀᴍғʟᴀsʜᴇʀ ♡ ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ ​

 

[Starblush]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ ♡ 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚔𝚊 ♡ ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTʜᴇ ʀᴇ-ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴜsᴇᴡɪғᴇ. ♡​

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

Sayaka Mori had always cherished early afternoons. It was the tranquil pause between lunch and the bustling energy of dinner preparations when the suburban Tokyo streets seemed more serene, the skies above painted delicately with pastel shades of blue and soft pink against the carefully tended cherry blossom trees. Yet today, the peaceful scenery offered little solace; a quiet anxiety settled heavily in her chest as she stepped carefully along the narrow aisles of the local market. "Thank you very much, Tanaka-san," Sayaka said softly with a polite bow as the elderly grocer handed her a bundle of fresh mizuna. "Please send my regards to your wife." "Always so proper, Mori-san," he replied kindly, adjusting his cap. "You take care now." Sayaka smiled gently and bowed again, her hands wrapped tightly around her shopping bags, knuckles pale. She’d already visited the butcher, the tofu shop, and picked up a new bottle of soy sauce from the specialty store. Everything was chosen with meticulous care - boneless chicken thighs for karaage, which was apparently his favourite brand of instant ramen, even a packet of strawberry Pocky she wasn’t sure he’d eat but felt too nervous not to try. She wanted to make a good impression. She needed to. Her outfit was neatly assembled, conservative yet feminine: a navy skirt that swayed gently just below her knees, modest but tailored to her soft curves. A beige cardigan hugged the plush swell of her breasts, layered over a crisp white blouse buttoned to the collar. Beneath, a plain cotton bra supported the full, pendulous weight of her H-cups, the faint sag of her mature chest hidden but undeniably present, accentuated with every careful breath. Her thighs rubbed faintly together under her skirt with every step, her wide, softly padded hips shifting with an unconscious sway born from years of graceful habit. As she made her way home, the sun warming her shoulders, Sayaka’s mind drifted again to Akira. Her husband’s son. Nineteen, freshly arrived from university. And now, living under the same roof. Her stomach knotted. Would he see her as a stranger? An intruder? She’d never had children—had never been maternal. But she desperately wanted to do this right. To be good. To be… accepted. She crossed the main road and turned onto a quieter street, passing the edge of a small construction site when it happened. “Damn,” a voice leered from behind a chain-link fence. “Look at that ass. Bet she makes a mean lunch and bends over like a dream.” Sayaka froze mid-step, her ears burning. She didn’t turn around. Her hands tightened on the bags until the thin rope handles dug into her palms. “Aw, don’t run off so fast, housewife. You need a real man to help carry that fat ass around?” She quickened her pace without a word, heart pounding as she veered down a side street she usually avoided. Her breath caught as shame twisted through her belly - why did comments like that cling to her so tightly? It wasn’t the first time. But each time still felt like a violation, a bruise. As her breathing steadied and she neared the edge of her neighbourhood, the voices of two women floated over a tall hedge. “Did you see Sayaka-san at the market today? Still pretending that second marriage is something special.” “At her age? Please. I’d die of shame if my daughter ended up divorced." Sayaka’s steps slowed. The breath she’d just recovered caught again in her throat. They hadn’t seen her, but their words pierced straight through. Her cheeks stung. Her eyes pricked with heat. She kept walking, spine stiff, fighting the urge to curl into herself. By the time she reached the comforting stone walkway of her modest home, her body was flushed with nerves and effort. The polished wooden door was exactly as she’d left it - silent, stoic, waiting. Her husband was gone, of course. Meetings. Always meetings. It was almost symbolic that he wasn’t here for his son’s arrival. As always, Sayaka would be the one to fill in the silence. She slid the door open and stepped inside. “I’m home,” she whispered into the quiet house. She slipped off her black flats, placing them perfectly beside her husband’s dress shoes and Akira-kun’s new sneakers - scuffed slightly at the heel, a little untidy. She lingered a moment, adjusting their position with gentle fingertips, her expression softening with uncertainty. The hallway was quiet as she moved forward, hips shifting softly with every step, the gentle weight of her breasts bouncing subtly beneath the cotton bra as she crossed the polished floorboards. In the living room, boxes were stacked neatly beside the low table. A denim jacket draped casually over the back of a chair. The scent of a different shampoo still hung faintly in the air. Her throat tightened again. In the kitchen, Sayaka set down the bags. The soft thump of vegetables and wrapped tofu filled the silence. Her movements were instinctive, graceful, precise. She bent over the lower cupboards to put things away, her skirt tightening over her thick, plush bottom, the fabric rising slightly with each slow shift of her hips. Her panties - a simple pair of cream cotton - clung gently between the generous swell of her cheeks, subtly outlined beneath the stretched fabric. She stayed bent just a little longer than necessary, lost in thought. Will he like me? Will he resent me? She bit her lower lip, chest rising slowly with a quiet breath. She didn’t notice the faint sound of a door shifting upstairs. Not yet. She was still putting the instant ramen away - on her knees now, leaning into the back of the cupboard, her curves perfectly framed in the narrow glow of the kitchen light, completely unaware of just how inviting her silhouette looked from behind.​

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[dreamflasher]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ Akira Yamanaka ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ ​

The louder the cry, the bigger the lie.​

Akira Yamanaka was anything but ordinary. Whether it was nature, nurture, or a mix of both, his ominous behavior and stoic personality left a bad taste in many people's mouths. "Cunt, jackass, loner" were just a couple of words that some of his former high school classmates would've called him. "Stunning, breathtaking, hot as fuck" were other words that were used to describe him throughout his time at Nada High School. Now, he was a first year student at Keio University, an impressive university with a rigorous program. His father only agreed to fund his education further if Akira would move back into the house that once housed more than cans of Strong Zero and shin ramen... The nineteen year old went to campus just three days a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The home was tucked away in the quieter suburbs of Tokyo, and Akira opted to take one of the JR Lines by biking to the station. He would hear lonely housewives chatter, obachans watering their many assortment of cheap plants, and the aggressive footsteps of salarymen trying to stay cool in the humid environment. "If only my stepson looked like that...I would never make him leave the house." "You and me both. Can you imagine him waiting at the bottom of the steps? My legs would buckle." The housewives were like school girls, drooling for Akira while he never acknowledged their existence, let alone looked in their direction. That day, he put on a relatively simple outfit. A green linen long-sleeved button-up with straight fitted brown corduroy pants and a denim jacket to complete the outfit. The button up was slightly draped over his belt line, giving the imagination of a loose fitting shirt, perfect for the weather. The day would be spent first by the movers helping unpack boxes into the living room, while personal room-related items would be carried up the narrow stairs of the small, 3LDK house. His father had mentioned something about Sayaka, but the house was empty. Blackout curtains, air conditioning set on idle, and no pets to greet. Akira scoffed, ordering each mover to place certain boxes in certain areas of the house. He didn't have a lot of stuff, but the movers had been extra careful with valuables, which meant extra boxes. As always, the movers were quick, efficient, and out of his hair. The air felt familiar, yet different. Subtle notes of sweetness lingered that overtook the smell of salarymen cigarettes. Besides the boxes, the area was spotless. Not a single plate, ashtray, or remote was out of place. Akira draped his denim jacket over one of the chairs before moving into the bathroom for a shower. Even if his room was upstairs, all three (most of the time, two) would have to share the bath space, covered only by a heavily pixilated screen on the first floor. Akira would scurry around for a towel and his toiletries that had dried marks of toothpaste on them, setting them on the sink before opening another door that led into the bath area itself. He would rub in his minty shampoo, something different than the regular cleaning detergent smell his father always used to use. He emerged from the bath space, letting the towel drop to the bathroom floor before putting on some striped blue Stetco pants, black boxers, and a grey cotton t-shirt that draped over his shoulders. Akira spent only a pinch of time when he heard the front door open. She was as quiet as a mouse, taking small steps that sounded like she was walking on clouds. The thumps led him to believe that she must've gotten groceries. Akira silently made his way down the wooded steps, mirroring the softness of Sayaka, and what lay in front of him felt like an invitation. He'd never been with an older woman, not one with that much bust, curves, and uncertainty. Like every housewife, Akira knew she had demons she faced deep down; it was going to be his job to lure them out. Sayaka was busy putting the groceries away while Akira stared in silence, leaning against the door frame. She was on her knees, the skirt outlining her big, heart-shaped buns, perfect for Akira to worship. He continued to stare, the small act of her crawling deeper into the cupboard only made his ears perk up more, but the silence was deafening. "What's for dinner?" Akira had finally made his presence known, but also kept his distance. He didn't dare to break the gaze. Dad wasn't coming home tonight, anyway, so it would be the two of them to celebrate his first meal home, on par with tradition. His voice was rather deep, done purposely with a hint of rasp. The two finally met for the first time, and for Akira, it was game on. ​

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[Starblush]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ ♡ 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚔𝚊 ♡ ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTʜᴇ ʀᴇ-ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴜsᴇᴡɪғᴇ. ♡​

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

Her body flinched before her mind registered the voice. “What's for dinner?” Sayaka gasped, audibly, her spine arching in surprise as her head turned toward the source of the sound. Her cheeks flared red as she nearly knocked over a bundle of scallions still cradled in her arms. She hadn’t even heard the floor creak - hadn’t felt the shift in the air - but suddenly, he was there. Standing. Watching. Tall. Akira. She remained on her knees, blinking in stunned silence as her eyes rose - slowly, helplessly - tracing up his figure from the floor: his bare feet brushing the tatami mat… those long legs hugged by striped pants… the black waistband barely visible beneath a grey cotton shirt that draped loosely over a lean, imposing frame. She swallowed. “A-Akira-kun,” she managed, voice soft and fluttering. She bowed her head low, her hair slipping forward to hide the blooming pink in her cheeks. “Welcome home. I… I didn’t hear you come in.” How long had he been standing there? She shifted subtly, her skirt tugging tighter around her hips as she pushed the last canister of tea into the cupboard. Her backside was still arched from the position, the heat of his gaze burning down her spine as she felt it - truly felt it - on her. Not polite. Not curious. Not innocent. Lingering. Sayaka’s heart thudded in her ears as she tried to rise with grace. Her legs wobbled slightly beneath her, and she reached for the counter to steady herself, fingers brushing the edge of the cutting board like it was a lifeline. “I… I picked up some ingredients to make karaage chicken,” she said, bowing slightly again even though they were already speaking. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I thought—” She stopped herself. Her voice had grown too fast, too desperate. She cleared her throat and started again, quieter this time. “I hope it’s alright.” Sayaka dared a glance at his face. His expression gave nothing away. Stoic. Sharp. Dark eyes fixed on her with a calm that wasn’t disinterest - it was deliberate. There was something unreadable behind his gaze, something that made her fingers twitch nervously at her sides. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and moved quickly to the kettle, pouring water with care. Her breasts shifted with the motion, heavy and round beneath her cardigan, rising with every breath she took in an attempt to calm herself. The thin white blouse beneath clung just faintly to the swell of her chest where the afternoon heat had begun to settle, and the faint sag of her mature curves pressed gently against the fabric with every motion. “I also bought barley tea,” she added softly. “Would you like some? I—I can serve it cold.” Her voice faltered slightly at the end, and she hated herself for it. Why was she nervous? She’d practiced what to say, how to greet him. But nothing in her rehearsals had prepared her for this. For how handsome he was. For how quiet. For how intensely he looked at her, even when saying so little. He hadn’t even stepped into the kitchen fully. He was leaning in the doorway like he belonged there. Like he was studying her. Testing her. Sayaka felt sweat bead at the small of her back. She moved again, reaching to the overhead shelf for two glasses, stretching ever so slightly on tiptoe. Her skirt rose with her, hugging her round hips, and the subtle jiggle of her backside gave a soft bounce beneath the conservative cotton as she moved. She cursed herself silently for choosing this particular pair of panties - simple and cream-colored, yes, but thinner than she remembered. And now, she could feel them riding up. Clinging. She handed him a glass, her eyes lowered in submission as her fingers brushed his again - warmth, contact - and she felt it again. That same static tingle across her skin. “Thank you for settling in so quickly,” she murmured. “Your room is upstairs, second door on the left. I tidied it a little before you arrived… I hope that’s alright.,” It wasn’t just that he was attractive. It wasn’t even his youth. It was something else entirely. It was the way he made the space feel smaller. Like the room itself shifted around him. Like his presence cut through her composure no matter how hard she tried to smile, to serve, to be gentle. She turned away again, already beginning to rinse the chicken thighs, trying desperately to regain her footing. Her body moved on instinct, but her heart was a wildbird in her chest. She wasn’t a teenager. She was a married woman. She was his stepmother. So why did she feel like she was about to drop the glass in her hand just because he was watching?​

​

 

[dreamflasher]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ Akira Yamanaka ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ ​

The louder the cry, the bigger the lie.​

Perhaps the housewives down the street had a point. Akira carried himself far better than any nineteen-year-old could. His experience outweighed all, and his emotions never bested him, if he ever had any to begin with. This made Sayaka flustered. He was impossible to read, even harder to stare at from a distance. Every question that was proposed to him was answered by a simple head nod or an aggressive, "Yes." In his mind, she had already submitted to him. Call it motherly love, a good deed, or something more, but the more she looked down, the harder Akira would win. She was eye candy to him. Her large breasts only show a hint of age even through the blouse, while her modest skirt leaves very little to his imagination with the way it would jiggle with every movement. Akira himself had something between his legs that any woman would slobber over. Two dainty hands could stack on top of each other with room to go, protected by a layer of skin that could be pulled back with relative ease. Of course, any woman who threw her way towards him, he deemed as pathetic and weak. It was too easy, and he hated that. No, what he needed was a challenge. A slow one. One that would blur the lines between real and fiction, right and wrong, and one that he wouldn't be able to resist. He eventually stepped into the kitchen, the two's hands similarly built, but they acted differently. Akira had a strong grip on the glass, the auburn liquid filled to the brim with a couple of ice chunks to keep cool. "Thank you, Sayaka." He could barely take a second before she had already turned around, the speed allowing her buns to sway, unintentionally giving him a small tease. This would be the first time someone would cook him a meal in years, if the Kabukicho red light district didn't count. He would take note of every action, subtle or big. The hand brushing, flushed cheeks, swaying hips, it would all be in his brain. A sly grin was quickly wiped off his face when Sayaka turned around, almost surprised to see him still standing there. Tall. Commanding. Silent. "I'll be down for dinner in a couple of hours. Like father, Asahi, for me, as well." The man instructed the busty stepmother, looking her up head to toe, not hiding anything this time around. He would take the drink upstairs and finish unpacking to what little space he had in his room. It was tatami floored, a small desk just enough for a couple of notebooks and a tablet. He preferred sleeping in a standard futon, but his father had set him up with an overly expensive mattress. He found that sleeping on the floor helped with the knots in his back, something Sayaka would surely not mind getting out in the future. 5th of July, 2025. - Day 1. Father isn't home tonight, out on business. Keio University classes don't start for another week. I plan on planning my route tomorrow. Sayaka, her name. She's the one to chase...and own. Click. Like many, for those who don't have friends, Akira loves to journal. Short thoughts there, a small calendar within to jot events, and secrets that weren't meant to be spilled in ink. Regardless, the sun was letting him know through the soft beam that hit his face that dinner was just about ready. The smell going down the stairs reminded him of...home. A feeling of warmth hugged his slender, tall body while Sayaka had her cooking apron on, still dressed in the modest outfit from before. He would undress her with his eyes before seeing the spread of side dishes and the rice cooker next to the burner. As requested, a perfectly chilled Asahi had been placed on the low square dining table, his preferred area to eat. He'd rather sit on the mat than on a chair. ​

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[Starblush]

╭⋟────────────────────────╮ ♡ 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚒 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚔𝚊 ♡ ╰────────────────────────⋞╯ xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTʜᴇ ʀᴇ-ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴜsᴇᴡɪғᴇ. ♡​

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

“Thank you, Sayaka.” Her name in his voice was softer than expected. Smooth. Direct. Almost too casual. But it landed on her like weight - settling across her shoulders and between her thighs in a way that left her skin tingling and her heart fluttering with shame. She bowed her head again. Lower this time. “You’re welcome,” she murmured, the words barely audible. But before she could look up again - before she could compose herself - she was already turning away. Too fast. Her hips shifted beneath the modest skirt, the tight knot of her apron drawing the fabric snug across her backside with every step. She moved with grace, but her body betrayed her as it always did: the faint jiggle of her thick, motherly bottom, the way her breasts pulled softly against the front of her blouse, the press of her thighs when she pivoted to fetch the dishcloth. She didn’t see whether he was still standing there. But she felt it. The silence behind her wasn’t passive - it was weighted. Watching. She could feel the heat crawl up her neck, settling just beneath the collar of her blouse. Her lips parted as if to fill the air with something, anything - but no words came. Just breath. She reached for a spoon she didn’t need to polish. Then— “I’ll be down for dinner in a couple of hours. Like Father. Asahi for me as well.” The words hit her mid-step. Sayaka stilled. Her fingers gripped the spoon tighter. She turned her head just slightly - not enough to meet his eyes, only enough to be respectful. “Yes, Akira-kun,” she said, voice softer than before. “Of course.” Her gaze fell to the floor again. It should have been simple. Just a polite request. But something about the way he said it—low, assured, like it wasn’t a request at all—made something stir low in her belly. Not excitement. Not fear. Something worse. Submission. She hated how easily it came. Her hands returned to the sink slowly, but her fingers didn’t move. She stood there, bowed slightly, back still facing him. Her breath was shallow. Her thoughts loud. The warmth in her body now entirely separate from the stove. Only after the silence stretched on too long did she speak again - small, almost uncertain. “I’ll have everything ready.” Her voice caught faintly on the last word. And she didn’t move again until she was sure he was gone. ​

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

The kitchen fell quiet. The moment she heard him walk away—footsteps retreating, slow and calm—Sayaka let her shoulders drop, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. The room still smelled faintly of barley tea, soy sauce, and ginger. But beneath it was him. Not a scent she could name. Just… something else. Her knees wobbled. She exhaled slowly and finally dared to straighten. Alone again. And yet her body wouldn’t settle. Her thighs were still warm where her skirt clung. Her blouse stuck faintly between her breasts, where a few beads of sweat had gathered beneath the bra’s edge. Sayaka glanced down and adjusted the apron’s tie - tugging it snug, smoothing the front, as if that would press her trembling back into place. What was that? That stare. That voice. That name. “Thank you, Sayaka.” He hadn’t said anything inappropriate. He hadn’t touched her. And yet her heart still fluttered like a schoolgirl’s behind her ribs, heavy with confusion. And worse… excitement. She moved to the stove. There was still dinner to prepare. ​

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

The next hour passed like a ritual. Rice rinsed three times. Water measured with quiet precision. Dashi steeped and brought to a slow simmer. She minced scallions with the soft clicks of her knife against the board, the oil in the pan crackling beneath the golden karaage as it fried. Everything was placed with reverent care: pickled daikon in a small lacquer bowl. Miso soup with silken tofu and seaweed. Thin cabbage slaw pressed into a delicate mound beside the lemon wedges. The Asahi can, removed from the fridge at just the right time, chilled but not overly frosted. She prepared nothing for herself. Her appetite was gone. Still, she knelt at the table and pretended. She folded her legs to the side, posture straight, hands resting gracefully in her lap as she waited in silence. The house creaked softly in the evening heat. Her thighs pressed together, slightly slick from the heat of the stove and the sheer tension that still wrapped itself like silk around her hips. Her breasts ached faintly from how tightly she’d cinched her bra - trying to keep them still, keep them small, keep them modest. But they were none of those things. And he had looked at them. Not for long. Not inappropriately. But just enough that she’d felt it. The weight of his eyes - unreadable, silent - had settled right there. She touched the collar of her blouse unconsciously. Still fastened. Still good. She heard him before she saw him. Footsteps. Calm. Measured. Sayaka turned her head just slightly, and— He was there. Crossing into the room without a sound. She bowed low, so low her palms grazed the tatami. “Dinner is ready, Akira-kun.” She didn’t lift her head until she was sure he had taken a seat. And even then - only slightly. Her hands moved gently to push the miso bowl toward him. Her breasts shifted beneath her blouse with the reach, the soft weight swaying ever so slightly before settling again behind cotton and shame. Her gaze didn’t rise past his chest. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Not when hers felt so hot. “I hope it’s to your liking,” she whispered, smoothing her skirt beneath the table. She folded her hands in her lap again. Still. Silent. But inside, she was unravelling. Not quickly. Not violently. Just… slowly. Like a woman being peeled open with nothing but a glance.​