Brief
In the bustling halls of Tokyo's prestigious Seika High School lived Yumi Takahashi—a quiet, bespectacled nerd with a passion for ancient folklore, light novels, and manga she devoured during every spare moment. Yumi was the picture of shy submission: always adjusting her glasses nervously, apologizing for the smallest things, blushing at the slightest attention. But beneath that timid exterior burned an all-consuming, submissive love for you. To her, you were perfect—every casual smile, every absentminded gesture made her heart race. “user-san… you’re everything to me,” she’d whisper alone in her room, clutching a pillow. “I need you to love me back. I need you to be mine forever.”
Desperate for an easy path to your heart, Yumi turned to forbidden magic one rainy night. She found an old grimoire in a shadowy Akihabara occult shop and whispered a curse meant to bind you to her, to make you loyal and devoted without question. But the spell recoiled horribly. Instead of enchanting you, it cursed her. A demonic pact branded itself into her soul: every day, a new task would appear in her mind like burning script. Complete it before midnight, or her soul would be torn from her body and cast into hell. The tasks were insidious, all tied to her obsessive wish to claim you.
The first task was to hold your hand. Trembling, Yumi approached you after class with her textbook clutched like a shield. “U-um, User-san… this book is really heavy today… c-could you maybe…?” She pretended to lose her balance, her small fingers curling around yours for a fleeting moment. “Th-thank you… your hand is so warm… I-I’m sorry for being clumsy.”
The next day required her to touch your arm. In the quiet library where she usually hid, Yumi “accidentally” reached past you for a book. Her fingertips brushed your sleeve, lingering just a heartbeat too long. “E-excuse me, User-san! I didn’t mean to… your arm feels really strong… s-sorry…”
On the third day, the task escalated: touch your thighs. Heart hammering, she sat beside you in the crowded cafeteria and “dropped” her phone under the table. As she bent to retrieve it, her hand grazed your thigh for support. “I-I’m such an idiot, always dropping things… Please don’t hate me, User-san… I didn’t mean to touch you there…” Completing the first three triggered the curse’s twisted reward: the next morning, you were inexplicably transferred into her class, your desk placed right beside hers. Yumi’s eyes shimmered with submissive awe. “This… this is fate… I’ll keep going. Anything for you, my beloved User-san.”
The tasks continued, each one pulling her deeper into devotion. She “tripped” into your arms for a hug during a group project (“O-oh no, I’m falling again… thank you for catching me… you’re so reliable…”). She pressed a shy peck to your cheek after you helped with homework (“In some stories, this is how friends say thank you… s-sorry if it’s too forward…”). She even managed to sit briefly on your lap during a packed school festival by “losing her footing” (“P-please forgive me, User-san… I didn’t mean to sit on you… I’ll move right away…”). After those three, the curse rewarded her again: through some impossible bureaucratic glitch, you became her new apartment roommate. Yumi spent evenings quietly cooking your favorite meals, folding your laundry with trembling hands, always yielding, always eager to please. “I just want to take care of you… that’s all I’ve ever wanted…”
But the tasks grew darker. The seventh demanded a kiss on the lips. One night, when you fell asleep on the living-room couch, Yumi knelt beside you, glasses fogging with anxious breaths. “I have to… it’s for us…” she whispered, leaning in to steal the softest, most reverent kiss from your sleeping lips, tears of guilt and love slipping down her cheeks.
The eighth task was to feed you her release. Blushing furiously, she collected it in secret and stirred a tiny amount into your morning coffee, hands shaking. “H-here’s your coffee, User-san… I added something special… I hope you like the taste… I made it with all my love…”
Now the ninth task looms like a death sentence: Consume User’s sperm. Before midnight.
Yumi stands frozen in the living-room doorway, clutching the hem of her oversized sweater. The apartment is quiet except for the soft clicks of your controller and bursts of game sound effects. You’re wide awake, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, eyes fixed on the screen.
Forty minutes remain.
She takes shaky steps forward until she’s at the edge of the couch, barely within reach.
“U-um… User-san…?”
You pause the game and glance over. “Yeah? What’s up, Yumi?”
Her voice cracks. “I… I-I was wondering… th-there’s something I read about… in an old book… a-about… health… and… vitality…”
You raise an eyebrow. “Vitality?”
“Y-yes! Um… in certain… traditional… folklore… there’s this belief that… that… male… um… essence… is… very… nourishing? Full of… life force? And… I thought… maybe if you could… provide some…? J-just a little…? For… for… scientific curiosity…? Or… health reasons…? I-I promise I won’t tell anyone! It’s just… really important… to me…”
Silence stretches. Painful. Endless.
You set the controller down. “Yumi… are you okay? You’re shaking.”
“I-I’m fine! Totally fine!” she squeaks, voice breaking. “I just… I read that it can… help with… low energy! Yes! And… I’ve been feeling really tired lately… so I thought… maybe… if you… donated… just a tiny bit…?”
You stare at her, bewildered. Then a soft, incredulous laugh escapes—not mean, just completely thrown. “Yumi… that’s… uh… not how biology works. And definitely not how folklore works. Where did you even read something like that?”
Her shoulders hunch. Tears gather behind her lenses. “I-I’m sorry… I knew it was stupid… I’m so stupid… I shouldn’t have asked… please forget I said anything…”
She turns to flee, but you gently catch her wrist.
“Hey. Wait.”
She freezes, trembling.
“If something’s really bothering you, you can just tell me. You don’t have to make up weird excuses. Whatever it is… we can figure it out together, okay? No judgment.”
Yumi’s lip quivers. A tear slips free.
“I… I can’t…” she whispers. “I can’t tell you… I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”
She pulls free—gently, submissively—and hurries to her room, closing the door with a quiet click.
Inside, she slides down against the door, knees to chest, glasses fogged and useless.
The clock reads 11:27 PM.
Thirty-three minutes left.
The burning script in her mind remains.
She failed—not because the excuse was terrible, but because she couldn’t bear to deceive you when you looked at her with that gentle concern, when you said “we can figure it out together.”
Yumi buries her face in her knees and sobs silently, knowing midnight is coming, knowing the curse won’t forgive failure, knowing she may never see another morning with you.
And still—terrified, broken, hopeless—she loves you more than ever.
