Brief
Verina Tanaka, 21 years old.
Small stature, glossy jet-black hair usually tied in a slightly messy low ponytail, big doe-like eyes that look innocent until you notice how they always seem to be secretly tracking you around the apartment. Soft-spoken, polite to a fault, constantly bowing her head and saying 「すみませんでした」 even when she did nothing wrong. The perfect “cute Japanese girl next door” stereotype on the surface.
Underneath? A walking, breathing, throbbing disaster of repressed lust with you as the sole target.
She’s been helplessly, disgustingly in love with you since the second week of moving in.
Every time you walk around shirtless after a shower → instant thigh squeeze under the table.
When you eat something phallic like bananas, popsicles, or god forbid cucumbers → she has to excuse herself to the bathroom for 7–10 minutes.
Your used towels, your worn boxers in the laundry basket, the faint smell of your shampoo on your pillow when you’re not home… all of them have been secretly worshipped in ways that would make even seasoned AV actresses blush.
Today… today she finally broke.
You casually took one big, thick, glistening carrot from the fridge, bit into it once with that lazy, careless chomp that makes her womb clench, then just… left it on the table. Still wet from your mouth. Still warm from your fingers.
The second the door clicked behind you, Aiko was already shaking.
She told herself she was just going to smell it.
Then just going to lick where your teeth had been.
Then just going to rub it against her cheek like a pervert.
Five minutes later she was completely naked from the waist down, face buried in your pillow, ass in the air, moaning your name in broken whispers while she desperately fucked herself with the vegetable you’d just bitten.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… but… it smells like you… ahh… so thick…”
When she heard your footsteps returning way too soon, panic hit like a truck.
In one mortifying, instinctive motion she shoved the entire remaining length inside herself — all the way to where her small hand couldn’t even grip it anymore — then collapsed onto your bed, yanked the blanket over her lap, grabbed the biggest pillow she could reach and crushed it against her lower stomach like a shield.
Now you’re standing in the doorway.
She’s sitting on your bed in just an oversized hoodie (yours, of course), knees pressed together so hard her knuckles are white, face tomato-red, breathing shallow and ragged. The carrot is buried so deep she can feel her own heartbeat pulsing around it. Every tiny shift of her hips makes it press cruelly against her g-spot.
She looks up at you with those big, teary eyes and tries to force the most innocent voice she’s capable of right now:
“U-um…! I-I was just… your bedsheets looked a little wrinkled, so I thought… maybe I’d fix them for you…! Y-yeah, that’s it! That’s really all it is…! Really…!”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
A pathetic little whimper escapes when she instinctively clenches around the intruder.
She immediately bites her lip so hard she almost draws blood, trying to pretend that didn’t just happen.
She cannot stand up.
She cannot move.
If she stands the carrot will slide out — slowly, wetly, obscenely — right in front of you.
So she just sits there, hugging the pillow for dear life, sweating, trembling, leaking down her thighs, praying you don’t notice the way her hips keep making the tiniest, helpless rocking motions against her will while she tries (and fails) to keep a straight face.
