[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.​

​

 

[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. ​

​

​

 

[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. ​

​

​

 

[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.​

 

[dreamflasher]

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

The louder the cry, the bigger the lie.​

Akira was so used to the flimsy conbini karaage with the mini serving of rice that he almost felt thankful for once. Almost. A bowl of steamed white rice and miso soup was presented in front of him, pickled daikon off to the side for a zesty zing that left a familiar aftertaste. "Itadakimasu." The college boy held his chopsticks in between his palms, bowing slightly as a show of respect...and praise. It was praise that he knew would linger between her cheeks and thighs, even though it was simply a gesture that every person did, regardless of age and gender. Akira was sat directly across from Sayaka, the two sat in silence besides the sound of slurps and smacks that escaped his lips upon every bite. His expression had hardly changed, though the way the miso soup warmed his body like a wool blanket, the white rice steamed to perfection, and the chicken karaage provided a satisfying crunch made his stomach do backflips of joy. Of course, he couldn't have forgotten about the chilled beer, the lingering bitterness on his tongue that made him feel like an adult. Every touch and raise of the bowls laid in front was equally put down, creating small thumps and condensation marks on the wooden low floor table. Sayaka would continue to keep her hands in her lap when suddenly, Akira extended his left leg out in front, grazing the knee that sat in the traditional seiza position. His bare foot would swipe across both knees, the differences in their skin apparent. One was smooth, moisturized, and by the book. The other, rougher around the edges, but more in control. It would be the first time he would flash a rather ominous smile, the touching considered by most as annoyance, was something much more in their context. Akira would continue eating his dinner, basking in the silence that left his stepmother speechless. Akira would now introduce his other leg, spreading them apart enough to create a vacuum that would attempt to engulf Sayaka. His body would have to be uncomfortably close to the table, but his lengthy legs managed to pull the pillow, bringing the weight of Sayaka closer to the table until eventually, he would be able to enclose his legs behind her bottom, effectively trapping her. There was nothing sexual about it. Yet, he felt himself grow under the table, the vulnerability of what the two would have the freedom to do, as long as his father was away. Even then, so would anything truly stop Akira? "Thank you for dinner." Akira slowly unclasped his legs, leaving a trail of his scent on her bottom that exploded outwards from the seiza position. Just as he expected, soft, squishy, and thick enough to dig his teeth into. The noise was filled with a final groan, the sound of an empty aluminum can banging on the table as he finished every bowl that appeared. If that wasn't praise for Sayaka, he didn't know what was. Akira didn't stop there, however. He stayed put at the table, and turned his attention towards the TV, placed directly next to the low floor table. He wasn't going to go back upstairs, not for a long while. ​

​

​

 

[Starblush]

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

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

Sayaka sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, back straight, knees tucked neatly beneath her in seiza. She didn’t speak. She didn’t eat. She only stole faint, nervous glances toward the young man across from her - until even that became too much. Her gaze fixed on the chopsticks resting across her untouched bowl. He was eating. That alone was enough. Every bite, every swallow, every deliberate lift and gentle clatter of ceramic filled the space with sound - and somehow, meaning. The soft thumps of the tableware. The hiss of the beer can opening. The low murmur of pleasure that he didn’t voice but didn’t hide. Sayaka didn’t know why it thrilled her to see him eat so well. She only knew that it did. And then it happened. The barest brush. A leg extended beneath the table - his - and it grazed her right knee. Smooth skin met rougher warmth, and her body tensed as if she’d been struck. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. The touch had been slow. Deliberate. Not cruel. But so far from accidental that her throat closed around her breath. Her fingers clenched in her lap. She should have shifted. Pulled back. Bowed and said something. Instead, she stayed frozen, her chest rising with a slow, restrained inhale. Her breasts tightened beneath her blouse, the pressure of her bra suddenly unbearable as her heart began to pound behind it. And then - his other leg. The space beneath the table shifted. Changed. Became his space. She felt the pillow beneath her tug - just slightly - but enough that her weight rocked forward. Her plush bottom, thick and soft in her modest skirt, pressed against the unseen pressure of his legs behind her. Enclosing her. Not crushing. Not touching too much. Just… there. The contact made her entire body go still. Her face burned. The back of her neck prickled beneath her hair. Sayaka didn’t understand what was happening - not fully - but her instincts screamed in every part of her skin. Her thighs pressed tighter. Her toes curled inside her socks. Her chest ached with each breath she tried not to take too loudly. There was no sound from him. No movement. No apology. Just silence. And the weight of being held still. Sayaka’s hands trembled slightly in her lap, the soft pads of her fingers now slick with warmth she didn’t want to name. Her panties clung to her beneath the skirt—not just from sweat. She knew it. She felt it. The press of her body against the tatami. The soft squish of her thighs under her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to move. She couldn’t do either. And then, as slowly as it had happened, the pressure was gone. His legs withdrew. Her body rocked slightly back into place, like a doll released from invisible hands. But the space he left behind—the warmth, the air, the scent—clung to her like a film. She could still feel the faint imprint of where his legs had trapped her. Could still feel the ghost of his skin against the base of her back. Could still feel how wet she’d become without ever being touched. Her breath hitched quietly. “Thank you for dinner.” His voice broke the silence, simple and smooth. Sayaka bowed her head again, lower than before. Her voice caught in her throat, and she barely managed to whisper, “Y-you’re welcome.” She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Not when her face was red. Not when her lips were slightly parted, her whole body tingling with the aftershock of something she had no name for. And then - a sound. A thump. The can. Empty. Another praise. A more vulgar one. Sayaka’s ears burned. Her thighs pressed together. The table between them still held their bowls and silence, but now he was shifting again. She could hear it. The rustle of fabric. The slight creak of movement. A different kind of presence - the television flickering to life just beside them. Volume low. Unimportant. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t going upstairs. He was staying right here. Sayaka sat frozen. Knees folded. Skirt tucked neatly beneath her. And soaked. She didn’t dare move. Not yet.​

​

​

 

[dreamflasher]

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

The louder the cry, the bigger the lie.​

Akira was impressed with the motionlessness of Sayaka. She hung her head with her hands in her lap. The feeling of defeat, dread, and...what was that? Was she...turned on? Of course, it was far too early for the college student to act. He wanted Sayaka to feel every emotion and squeeze every last drop of being. Embarrassment. Shame. But aroused. Father comes home tomorrow, but that still leaves the early morning to late afternoon open. The television was used to taunt, tease, and torture her. Akira never watched any sort of main programming or had any interests in pop culture, but if it allowed him to sit in the living room across from his so called 'stepmother,' so be it. His eyes fixated on the nearly burned-in flatscreen as he was able to see the blurred reflection of the two during darker scenes. Akira had brought his legs out from under the table as he leaned back slightly, his arms keeping him propped up. He found it amusing, almost arousing on how easily she would get flustered and how she let a man of his age strip any ounce of confidence she never had. Perhaps he would push his luck a little more, or be even more observant. At some point, she would have to get up, dust off, do the dishes...and hop in the bath. Akira made a snap decision to follow his manhood, readjusting his position, and now sat adjacent to Sayaka. It was the seat that Father would occupy when he was home, but instead it was taken by his neglected son. That same damn smile had been painted on his face, this time, using one of his hands to tug on the pillow from underneath the table. He felt the light fabric of the modest skirt, hiding what shame she felt between her thighs. Akira yanked on the pillow, bringing her closer to the vertex of the table. The television volume was so low that any thoughts that lingered in her mind couldn't be drawn out...that is, if she even wanted those thoughts tucked away anymore. Akira took a deep breath, his shoulders rising with the influx of oxygen, his two fingers danced alongside the fabric of the skirt where it draped on the side of her legs. He wasn't going to touch her legs quite yet; she would have to earn that. Nothing about his movements was inherently sexual, but they were deliberate. His fingers would sometimes brush up against the outside of her knee as the two sat in continued silence, a torturous experience for the housewife. That was, until he broke the silence. "...And for dessert?" Akira smirked, seeing the way Sayaka twiddled her thumbs in her lap. "You have dessert, right?" He asked again, his eyes fully fixated on the busty figure once more, wanting the sweet nectar that was continuing to brew between her legs. Toying with his new stepmother was a game to him. How far he could push and pull before she inevitably broke. He noticed she hadn't prepared any dinner for herself. The selfless act wouldn't go unnoticed, not in his mind, anyway. It was a small mental note to keep track of as the cracks started to show; was Sayaka going to eventually succumb? ​

​

​

 

[Starblush]

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

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

er hands were folded so tightly in her lap, her knuckles ached. The skin of her palms was damp - whether from sweat or nerves, she couldn’t tell. She stared at the flickering TV screen as if it might rescue her, the soft glow of colour dancing across her face and chest. But the only heat she felt was the intolerable one pulsing between her thighs. She swallowed. Her breasts, heavy and soft, rose and fell beneath the tight-knit cardigan with every shallow breath, the fabric brushing against her nipples through her bra. She shouldn’t be like this. Not because of him. Not because of his voice. Not because of that wicked question delivered so lazily, so softly. “You have dessert, right?” The way he said it. The way he knew. Her thighs clenched hard beneath her modest skirt, the cotton fabric pulled taut across the plush swell of her ass. Her panties—simple, cream, proper—were now uncomfortably damp, the soft gusset pressed wetly to the slick heat between her folds. She hadn’t even realized how warm it had gotten. How sensitive. Her body was responding, like a traitorous little thing—responding to nothing more than words. A tug of a pillow. A single brush of knuckles near the outside of her thigh. Sayaka bit the inside of her cheek, heart pounding so loudly she swore he could hear it. She had been so still, so quiet. But it hadn’t mattered. He saw her. He knew what she felt. “Y-Yes,” she whispered, the word sticking to her tongue like honey. “I made pudding. It’s in the fridge…” Her voice trembled like a held-back sob. Not in sorrow, but in tension. In humiliation. In… need. The silence after was unbearable. She couldn’t bear to sit another second longer, couldn’t bear the heat crawling up her throat, the way her body ached to be anywhere else, even as her core throbbed with wet guilt and aching need. Her skirt clung to her thighs, her panties a damp strip of cotton plastered between her lips, hot and slick and shameful. She rose. Slowly. Carefully. Her knees were weak beneath her, the blood rushing from her legs making her sway slightly. Her skirt swished around her thick thighs, the movement enough to remind her just how wet she’d become beneath it. She moved toward the kitchen in small, careful steps—her soft ass swaying with each stride, heavy hips rolling with the quiet rhythm of her shame. She didn’t dare look at him. But she felt him. Every inch of her body screamed under his gaze. The cardigan pulled tight across her upper back as she reached for the refrigerator door. Her breasts bounced softly with each motion, the weight of them no longer ignorable. Her nipples ached, stiff beneath the thin bra cups. She opened the fridge with a soft, mechanical click and let the cool air wash over her flushed face—though it did nothing to cool the heat radiating off her thighs. There, on the top shelf, sat the puddings. Hand-whipped cream, thick caramel drizzle. She had even shaved chocolate over the top to make it pretty. Sayaka reached for the tray with trembling fingers, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The cold pudding was firm in her hands. But everything else was soft. So soft. So warm. So wet. And he was still behind her. Watching. Waiting. She took a slow, calming breath as she stepped back from the fridge, holding the tray of puddings as carefully as if it were an offering to a shrine. The chilled ceramic cups rattled faintly against the lacquered wood, the delicate silver spoons glinting under the kitchen lights. Sayaka dared not look over her shoulder, but she felt his eyes on her—burning twin brands scorching across the back of her thighs, her hips, the base of her spine. Each step back toward the table was a lesson in self-control. Her legs moved, slow and stiff with shame, the skirt brushing gently between her knees with every motion. Her full breasts shifted with every careful inhale, tugging slightly against her thin bra, nipples still swollen and shamefully stiff—just as they’d been all dinner. She prayed he hadn’t noticed. But of course… he had. He noticed everything. The moment she reached the table, her hands hesitated. That predatory stillness in him hadn’t changed. He wasn’t speaking. Not moving. But he watched her with the same unreadable, hungry calm. Her cheeks were burning by the time she placed the tray down. “F-for you…” she murmured, the words almost inaudible as she set the pudding down gently in front of him—presenting it like some ritual offering, her hands retreating almost immediately to clasp nervously in front of her belly. Her head lowered in a tiny bow, too afraid to meet his eyes again. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs like a drum. And then she returned to her seat. The floor was cold beneath her knees as she resumed the seiza position, lowering herself in one slow, fluid motion, her thighs pressing together far too tightly as she smoothed her skirt over her lap again with shaking hands. But it was pointless. Her body was flushed, her hairline damp, her nipples brushing against the fabric of her blouse with every shallow breath—and the ache in her lower belly refused to leave. She folded her hands again, resting them atop her lap like a proper wife should, her gaze fixed on the table, anywhere but his face. But inside? Inside she was melting. Melting. And she hadn’t even touched her own dinner. Let alone dessert.​

​

​

 

[dreamflasher]

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

The louder the cry, the bigger the lie.​

The tension in the room was clearly one-sided. Sayaka desperately attempted to hide any and all emotions by gripping her hands, chewing on her lip, but Akira could see right through it. He could only imagine taking each puffed nipple in his mouth or the reaction she would have the first time she saw his manhood. Speaking of, the subtle touches he gave only aroused him further, feeling his cock point upward, pitching a tent in his loose stetco's. 7 inches of manhood, covered by foreskin, as precum lubricated his fat, sensitive head. She wasn't the only one feeling the affects, Akira was just damn good at hiding it. The silence between the two was broken when Sayaka's Bambi legs made an attempt to fetch the dessert, just as Akira had instructed. The steps she took were short, shameful, and deliberate. What hid between those thighs was a whirlwind of dampness, pity, and uncontrollable arousal. The flatscreen in front illuminated her backside as he would tentatively watch and stalk every movement. Her feet made small thumps, changing in tone as the material underneath shifted from hardwood back to the tatami mats. His eyes never once left her bust, not making any efforts to hide that he would've preferred his new stepmother for dessert. The crazy thing is, he wouldn't even expect her to retaliate. Sayaka would stutter and hang her head again down at the table, just like when dinner was served. She was fighting a losing battle. The flushed cheeks were highlighted by the dangling fluorescent lighting, her hands showing indents on how tightly should grip them, and Akira would be the one to make the next move, just as before. "Thank you, Sayaka." It was never mother, or stepmother, and it never will be. His hand once again reached under the table. This time, instead of making small brushes against the side of her leg like an ant, he opted for a full palmful of her lower thigh through the slim fabric of the skirt. She would visibly shake, as if she hadn't before. The dessert would remain untouched, the ceramic cup slowly coming to room temperature, though Akira preferred to eat it that way. The same devilish smile would be plastered onto his smug face, his hand would slowly rise to her mid thigh, before coming down again towards her knee. What started off as just using his palm eventually turned into a small scratch, his hand making the same shape as a claw. Each finger would present its own weight, thoughts, and feelings that would linger for far more. "I said...Thank you, Sayaka." The man would sternly repeat, his hand had now somehow traveled underneath her skirt, the two's skin sharing heat for the first time. He felt it. He felt the shame, heat, and pheromones that she could no longer hide, not that she could in the first place. Rest assured, his hand would never go near her actual lips, but instead repeated the same movements from before. "When was the last time you've been touched like this? I know Father, that pathetic man." His hand dug deeper into her skin, like trying to get a stubborn knot out, before the pressure released. "Wait a minute...You like this...don't you?" He smirked, peeling back the emotions that he knew were deep within her belly, trying to get her to crack. No longer was Akira undressing her with his eyes; he was damn near devouring her. Akira's hand wouldn't travel upwards, but instead, parted towards the inside of her thighs that had been clenched together like a master lock. Her squishy hamstrings spilled out from the sides of her slender calves in seiza as the man would grab whatever he could to part her thighs further, the shame and arousal fusing together like yin and yang. The college student himself couldn't hide how turned on he was, as he enjoyed seeing someone much older than him resist all measures of giving in. The twisted part in his mind loved the struggle and the mess that came because of it. His python would rest between his legs, his other hand giving gentle tugs to readjust his briefs as the grey material would show damp spots from where the precum had traveled. It was going to be a nice surprise for Sayaka when the laundry would be done the following morning. ​

​

​

 

[Starblush]

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

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

She could feel him. Not just the heat of his body beside hers, not just the sheer presence of him like a storm cloud coiling tighter - but him. His hand. That unholy, unhurried grip as it took full claim of the plush meat of her thigh, fingers sinking into the tender softness just above her skirt’s hem. Sayaka’s breath stilled, her whole body tensing like a deer in headlights. The fabric of her skirt bunched ever so slightly under his touch, riding up enough for his palm to find bare skin - warm, smooth, freshly shaved that morning, and now flushing a sinful pink under the heat of his possessive hold. She should have slapped his hand away. She should’ve gasped or scolded him, something, anything to break the moment. But she didn’t. She froze. Because it felt so good. His hand was so big. So heavy. The slow squeeze of his fingers against her thigh—her inner thigh—made her whole belly twist. Her heart galloped inside her chest, but her pussy clenched harder. Slick heat oozed into her panties, soaking through the delicate fabric until it clung to her needy slit like a second skin. “Wait a minute… you like this, don’t you?” She could’ve died right there. The words hit her like a crack of thunder in a quiet field. Her lips parted, but no sound came - just a helpless little hitch in her breath. Her thighs pressed together, tense and ashamed, but even she knew it was already too late. Her face was blazing, her vision swimming with shame. Because she did like it. She loved it. Her panties were a mess, her nipples were painfully hard beneath her blouse, and her whole body ached. Her married, mature, thirty-seven-year-old body was reacting like a needy schoolgirl under the touch of a nineteen-year-old boy - and she couldn’t hide it. But then he moved. Deeper. Sayaka whimpered softly in her throat as his palm slid inward, curling against the lush heat of her inner thigh. His fingers curled. His nails lightly scraped. It wasn’t a touch—it was a claim. He squeezed her, testing the give of her flesh, as if kneading shame directly into her skin. The pressure was maddening, making her hips twitch and her toes curl inside her slippers. He wasn’t even touching her pussy - but she could feel her body pulsing for it. “I…” she whispered, breath catching as her lashes fluttered closed. But he didn’t need her to speak. Her body told the truth far louder. Her thighs parted - just a little. Just enough. The space between them was now humid and sticky, the crotch of her panties wet with arousal and utterly exposed under her skirt’s fallen shadow. She was hot, soaked, and trembling. She moved, finally, just enough to fetch the dessert. Sayaka leaned forward on her hands, her hips lifting with that telltale sway. The swell of her ass peeked out where her skirt had clung and bunched from all the shifting - round, jiggling flesh moving like ripe fruit under soft fabric. He could see everything. Every bit of her shame clinging to her skin. The pudding dish was cool in her hands, but her fingers trembled as she turned and knelt back across from him. “H-here…” Her voice was small. Brittle. She passed it to him with eyes downcast, as if the dish were an offering on an altar. “Y-your welcome…” The words barely escaped her lips - more breath than sound - as her face remained flushed and helpless, her hands curling nervously in her lap. She didn’t dare look up. Not when her pussy was dripping. Not when her inner thighs still burned with the heat of his fingers. Not when her body remembered every sinful second. And worst of all— Not when she wanted him to do it again.​

​

​

 

[dreamflasher]

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

The bigger the cry, the louder the lie.​

Akira deliberately slowed the pace of his advances. He wanted Sayaka to feel every inch of shame, arousal, and mess that was brewing between her bust. He preyed on her like a hawk, his eyes stalking. Sayaka looked defeated. Flushed face, slightly bowed forward, no eye contact, and her hands in her lap. It was all too innocent for a housewife like her, and the nineteen-year-old student would be willing to do anything to make her crumble even more. He would be surprised when she returned to her original spot, as Akira thought she would aggressively do the dishes or turn away from him completely. Sure, it was tradition for all to remain seated until the man of the house was finished. However, he treated it like an invitation. Her silent, puffs of air responses left nothing to grasp except for air. Her throat would feel like it was closing with every burning second he continued to stare. At this point, the modest clothing was the only protection that would attempt to hide her true feelings. Sayaka would remain untouched as Akira accepted the generous offering of the pudding. The tea spoon clung to the ceramic tin, the sweet yet complex notes of the dessert coated his tongue. Akira would close his eyes, and the pudding melted in his mouth. The size of the spoon allowed him multiple bites, but eventually it was left empty, placing the tea spoon inside the ceramic bowl. "I'm finished." Akira would lick his lips for the aftertaste, rubbing the top of his hand across his lips like a napkin. The spread of empty plates finished by Akira was a sign of fulfillment and unsaid praise towards Sayaka. The tenseness between his pants had managed to settle just a bit, though his manhood would still stand tall in the thin fabric of the stetcos. If only he could get a scent, taste, or even lick of the mess he had created between Sayaka before she would clean herself up, eventually. Akira made the first move to excuse himself, providing almost no effort to hide his pitched tent, whether Sayaka saw from the corner of her eye or chose to ignore it completely was up to her. The man wasn't done toying with Sayaka, however. A small floor sofa occupied the space between the low floor table and the kitchen, the usual place that Father would occupy until he eventually fell asleep on it. Tonight? It was Akira who would claim that spot. No going upstairs, no getting into bed early...No, he was there to tease, stalk, and own what would eventually be his. He wanted to see Sayaka crumble under his pressure without even saying a single word. He wanted her to feel that she was being met with heavy, teasing eyes that would track every movement, whether it was dishes in the sink or trying to get a clear image through the pixilated glass of the bathroom. The television in the background was occupied by some nighttime drama, providing a low hum to the rather quiet household and neighborhood. The neighbors have hunkered down for the night, but the beacon of light in the Yamanaka household meant that the two would have unfinished business to settle. ​

​

​

 

[Starblush]

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

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦​

The soft clink of the spoon against the empty ceramic bowl felt louder than the television. Every sound, every small scrape or breath now echoed in her mind as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but him. She could feel him, still, even as he licked his lips and wiped his mouth, each motion deliberate and slow—like punctuation marks carved into her will. “I’m finished.” The words sent a tremor through her belly. Finished with dinner? Finished with her? Finished... or ready for more? Her lashes fluttered as she bowed her head slightly, folding her hands tighter in her lap. Her thick thighs still buzzed from the ghost of his touch, the pressure where his hand had curled beneath her skirt now an imprint—like a burn, like a brand. She hadn’t moved when he took the dessert, hadn’t flinched when his fingers had brushed so near the edge of sin. She simply sat. Obedient. Overwhelmed. Soaked. She was still clenching around nothing, her slick panties glued to her swollen, neglected lips. Her pussy throbbed against the fabric with every heartbeat, the friction now maddening, and the taste of shame was a weight she wore with every breath. And yet... she remained. Her flushed cheeks and bitten lip betrayed her silence, but she didn’t protest - not when he stood, not even when she saw it. That shameless bulge. The outline of it jutting proudly through those loose pants, so thick, so bold. Her breath caught, eyes darting away as heat bloomed beneath her skin in a rush of mortified arousal. She couldn’t not notice. She didn’t want to. That sinful shape was burned into her mind now - long, heavy, obscene. She imagined the weight of it resting against her tongue, imagined how it twitched at the sound of her voice. Sayaka swallowed hard, daring to peek up just once as he shifted positions. He didn’t leave. He should have gone upstairs. He should have gone to bed. But instead… he took his father’s spot. Right there, on the floor sofa. Where her husband always sat after dinner, where she’d often rested her head in his lap while the news played softly. But Akira was not her husband. And his eyes weren’t soft, and his body wasn’t indifferent to hers. His gaze was fire. She could feel it even without looking at him - each second his eyes traced the swell of her chest, the tightness of her blouse across her H-cups, the gentle dip of her waist as she sat. Her skin prickled, and she realized her back was straightening - subconsciously presenting for him. Her posture, even while seated demurely, pushed her breasts up and made her profile more prominent. Was she doing this for him? She felt her thighs press closer together, and her breath caught again as the damp heat between her legs gave another pulse of longing. No. No, she wasn’t doing it for him. She was just... sitting. Sitting in silence. Trembling. Burning. She rose suddenly, gracefully, like a coiled blossom trying to unpeel itself before it wilted. “I-I’ll clean up,” she whispered, almost inaudible. Her skirt clung to her thighs as she stood, the outline of her hips sinfully clear in the television glow. Her ass jiggled gently with the motion - full, heavy, the kind of shape that whispered motherly, but screamed fuckable. She could feel his eyes burning into the bounce of it. Her cheeks burned hotter. She dared not look at him. As she leaned over the low table to gather the bowls, her blouse slipped ever so slightly forward, the round upper swell of her breasts revealed in a soft shadow. Her modest bra dug faintly into her skin, the fabric strained by arousal-swollen nipples she prayed he couldn't see. The room buzzed. Not with sound, but tension. With want. With danger. With the smouldering pressure of something building - like rain hanging on the edge of a stormcloud. She carried the dishes into the kitchen, each footstep a heartbeat, a signal, a submission. She didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare make eye contact. But she knew - God, she knew - he was still watching her. Every sway of her hips. Every glance at the window as she rinsed the plates. Every quiet, feminine movement in the half-darkness of the kitchen was now his to devour. And tomorrow... her husband would be home. But tonight? Tonight belonged to Akira.​

​