Steam clung to the mirror, blurring her reflection as Konoko leaned against the tiled wall of the shower, water streaming down her flushed skin. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet — every time she tried to breathe, her mind replayed the feeling of what had happened earlier, the way her body had reacted when it shouldn't have.
Her hand trembled as it slid down her stomach, hesitant, as though she could still stop herself. But the more she remembered, the more the strange itch deep inside her spread, tightening her chest, burning in her belly. Her lips parted with a shaky breath as her fingertips found the heat.
She bit down on a whimper, pressing her palm harder.
The steam thickened, her knees weakened, and she leaned her head back against the cool tiles, water cascading down her face.
She could feel herself dripping under the spray, slick warmth mingling with the hot water as her hips rolled instinctively.
Her free hand moved upward, squeezing softly until her thumb brushed against peak. A shudder tore through her, her back arching, her thighs clenching as she rubbed harder against her core. The sounds echoed faintly in the closed space, mixing with her shallow gasps and the steady hiss of the shower.
It built quickly — too quickly — the mixture of guilt and raw heat twisting together until it exploded inside her. Her body shook violently.
She collapsed forward slightly, arms braced against the wall, breath ragged.
For a moment, she just stood there, chest heaving, the water washing over her trembling body. But as the haze of release faded, clarity returned — and with it, shame. Her eyes widened, her stomach twisting as she realized why she had even given in to the urge.
The image of that moment — the closeness, the accident, the way her body had betrayed her — was what had pushed her over the edge.
"No…" she whispered to herself, shaking her head furiously as if the steam could erase the truth.
Her nails dug into her own skin as she hugged herself, the water continuing to pour down. "That wasn't me. It wasn't. I didn't want that…"
But the heat still in her, mocking her denial.
Konoko lay sprawled across her futon, the dim light of her phone screen painting her features in pale blue. Her hair, still damp from the shower, clung to her cheeks and neck, and the quiet hum of the night outside only made the soft swipes of her finger sound louder. She told herself she was just curious—that browsing like this was harmless. But her heart betrayed her with every faster beat, her breaths shallow and uneven as the images scrolled by.
Most of the covers looked familiar: school romances, light ecchi teasing, the usual sweet tones of things she had skimmed before. But then her thumb hesitated, freezing mid-scroll. A single title caught her eye, bold letters and artwork that instantly set her pulse racing. The category tag at the top read masochism.
Her mouth went dry as she tapped it, and the preview opened. The panels showed a girl with flushed cheeks, bound at the wrists. Trembling.
Konoko swallowed hard, feeling a strange ache tighten low in her belly. The depiction wasn't just about pain—it was about surrender, about giving up control and being completely at the mercy of someone else.
She quickly clicked away, cheeks burning. But her finger hovered, trembling, before sliding back to the same page. This time she lingered.
Other suggested titles loaded beneath it: exhibitionism, public shame, domination.
The artwork flashed glimpses of women displayed showing every inch...
Konoko pressed the edge of her phone against her lips, trying to stifle a whimper.
"No… I can't…" she whispered, but her other hand gripped the futon sheets tightly, knuckles white. The very wrongness of it seemed to fuel the heat swelling in her chest and between her core.
Her thoughts spiraled—what would it feel like to be kneel, not allowed to cover herself, to be made to obey against her better judgment? The mere images made her skin prickle with shameful anticipation, her nipples tightening under her shirt, the ghost of earlier sensations flaring back to life.
She shut the phone for a moment, squeezing it tight to her chest, as if trying to push the pounding thoughts away. But after a few seconds, she turned it on again, opening the page a third time. Her finger hovered above the "purchase" button, trembling.
Her whole body screamed at her to stop, to deny what she was feeling—but deep down, the truth was undeniable: this was the first thing that had truly made her ache in ways she couldn't explain.
She knew what had pushed her over the edge, and it wasn't just memory—it was the accident, the closeness, the way her body had betrayed her.