Eriri had assumed Utaha was being kept in the dark. But now, the way she acted so completely aware—it made clear she knew everything!
But why?
Eriri stared at Utaha in confusion.
I've gotten involved with your boyfriend!
Why aren't you angry?
Why haven't you broken up with this scumbag?
"Utaha," Seiji Fujiwara cut straight to the point. "I need you to get on that sofa and assume the pose from the drawing."
What?
Eriri's pupils contracted in shock. What did she just hear?
Seiji Fujiwara actually told Utaha to take that... indecent pose from the drawing!
Wasn't this humiliating?
That's impossible...
But Utaha moved.
Under Eriri's disbelieving gaze, Utaha raised her hands and unfastened the buttons of her school uniform jacket, then slowly bent down and, with an elegant yet utterly seductive motion, knelt on the sofa, perfectly replicating the pose from the drawing.
Her expression remained unchanged, her posture full of submission.
No, Utaha!!!
Eriri couldn't help but cry out inwardly. You're such an excellent girl—why would you willingly degrade yourself like this?
In this moment, even though this wasn't NTR.
Eriri inexplicably felt the intense heartache of being NTR'd.
"Eriri, come here." Seiji Fujiwara's voice called out again.
Eriri's body jerked violently, her gaze rigidly fixing on Seiji Fujiwara.
"Watch." Seiji Fujiwara extended his hand, and like the strictest art instructor, he began his live teaching session.
He calmly analyzed every detail of Utaha's body—the lines of her muscles, the luster of her hair, the emotion in her gaze—using this to demonstrate that unreachable thing called "mastery."
And Utaha calmly allowed Seiji Fujiwara to manipulate her.
Her curvaceous body shifted again and again according to Seiji Fujiwara's instructions.
"..."
Eriri stood frozen.
Heartache, shock, bitterness, unwillingness...
She watched her friend being made to assume various shameful poses by Seiji Fujiwara in Studio, and the complex emotions in her heart surged out like a collapsing dam.
And yet Utaha's expression never changed, willingly letting Seiji Fujiwara position her.
As if willingly degrading herself, offering up her beautiful body naturally, letting the man toy with her as he pleased.
Just thinking about it slightly.
Eriri felt inspiration exploding.
Ahhh, don't get inspired at a time like this! My brain! she screamed internally.
Meanwhile, in front of her.
Seiji Fujiwara continued using professional, calm language to analyze this captivating body.
Half an hour later.
The "lesson" ended, and Utaha elegantly departed.
Seiji Fujiwara gave Eriri no chance to catch her breath. He pulled over a chair, sat down in front of her, and continued:
"Eriri, do you know what your biggest problem is?"
"Wh... what?" Eriri's cheeks flushed red, her head feeling dizzy.
She hadn't recovered from the scene that had just shattered her worldview.
"Your story, of course!" Seiji Fujiwara analyzed with serious gravity, as if doing something completely normal and proper.
From a market perspective, he analyzed the changes in reader tastes over recent years. From a psychological angle, he dissected the forbidden pleasure and satisfaction readers pursued when reading doujinshi. He even pulled out "Eri Kashiwagi's" final work from three years ago, and page by page, calmly and objectively pointed out all the "immature" aspects of her work back then—in paneling, pacing, and emotional expression.
Eriri listened quietly.
The more she listened, the more shocked she became, her expression growing increasingly rigid.
Every word Seiji Fujiwara said was like a scalpel, precisely cutting open the surface of her work to reveal the pale, powerless core beneath.
She couldn't even summon thoughts of rebuttal, because every criticism hit the mark, pointing out the bottlenecks she'd vaguely sensed but been powerless to change.
"Conflict! Struggle! A mind and body at odds! This is the essence of R-18 creation!"
Eventually, Seiji Fujiwara's "lecture" finally ended.
He stood up and placed a note covered in writing onto the easel.
"This is the outline, character design, and theme I've drafted for your new work for this Comiket."
"A serious, earnest beautiful girl whose secret is discovered, forcing her to become the exclusive plaything of a male classmate, ultimately being thoroughly developed through the struggle between resistance and surrender."
"The subject matter is cliche, but the details in execution are what truly determine the final quality."
"I've even thought of the title." Seiji Fujiwara enunciated each word clearly. "It'll be called—The Disciplinary Committee Member's Secret After-School Tutoring."
With that, he turned and left the studio.
In the studio, only Eriri remained.
She stood there in a daze, staring at the outline for a long time.
Looking at all the details on the outline, Eriri's expression was complex. She let out a soft sigh, a sense of defeat welling up from within.
Such a huge gap... I can't even see your back.
She touched the outline, thinking to herself.
...
Time flew by, and soon it was late December—the day winter Comiket was held.
In the management office of the Kyoto International Exhibition Center, a staff member in charge of reviewing circle booth applications froze when he saw a new application.
"Circle name 'Egoistic-LILY,' selling item... R-18 doujinshi..."
The staff member muttered to himself. What truly surprised him was the name listed as the circle's "lead artist"—Eri Kashiwagi.
"Eri Kashiwagi?! That Eri Kashiwagi?!"
Another veteran colleague leaned over to look and immediately cried out in shock. "Hasn't she been gone for almost a year? I thought she'd completely left the scene! Quick, quick, quick—post this news to the internal forum! This year's CM has big news!"
At the same time, in the studio of the Sawamura family villa.
Eriri opened her computer and logged into her long-dormant Pixiv account—"Eri Kashiwagi."
She took a deep breath and typed out a message:
[Long time no see. I'm Eri Kashiwagi. At this year's winter CM, I'll be returning with my new work The Literary Girl's Secret After-School Tutoring. Booth number: East A-48b. Please look forward to it.]
The moment she clicked "Post," the entire comment section, after three seconds of silence, exploded!
[Am I seeing this right?! Kashiwagi-sensei is alive?!]
[I never thought I'd see this day!!! My youth has returned!!!]
[The King returns from the abyss!]
Watching those comments scroll past crazily, filled with excitement and anticipation, Eriri should have felt happy, but her heart barely stirred.
The manuscript she'd prepared was high quality.
But that superior quality came from Seiji Fujiwara's detailed outline—it had little to do with her.
"Sigh..."
A melancholy sigh echoed through the room.
...
On Comiket day, the Kyoto International Exhibition Center was packed with people.
Before dawn even broke, an exaggerated long line had already formed spontaneously in front of booth 48b in East Area A.
Behind the booth, Seiji Fujiwara sat in a chair with a calm expression, having disguised his appearance somewhat.
Sitting beside him was Eriri, wrapped up so thoroughly she was unrecognizable.
She wore a baseball cap, black-framed glasses, a face mask, and a wig, dressed in bulky layers that made her look round and dumpy as she nervously glanced around.
The surrounding cacophony of voices and fervent stares made her restless, her hands tightly wringing the hem of her clothes beneath the table.
"Hey... is this really okay? What if someone I know sees me?" she whispered nervously to Seiji Fujiwara.
"Relax," Seiji Fujiwara didn't even lift an eyelid. "In a place like this, no one cares what a masked booth vendor looks like. They only care about one thing."
His gaze fell on the doujinshi cover on the table.
On the cover, a black-haired girl in an empty after-school classroom had tears of humiliation in her eyes while her body displayed a posture of surrender.
Eriri thought about it and relaxed slightly.
Soon.
The first customer arrived at the booth.
"This... this is Kashiwagi-sensei's new work?!" The veteran otaku who'd bought the doujinshi flipped through a few pages and let out an incredulous cry.
"My god... this art style... it's evolved! It's like a complete transformation!"
"Not just the art style! Look at these panels! And this story! Too... too good! This is what we wanted to see!"
Word spread from one person to ten, from ten to a hundred.
By the time Comiket ended at 4 PM.
The five hundred doujinshi copies Seiji Fujiwara and Eriri had brought had already sold out by noon.
As they were packing up the booth, Seiji Fujiwara handed her a thick envelope stuffed with cash.
"This is what you've earned, 'Kashiwagi-sensei.'"
Eriri looked at the envelope but didn't immediately reach out to take it.
"What? Don't want it?" Seiji Fujiwara looked at her and smiled. "Take it. After all, it's the fruit of your hard work."
Eriri frowned and hesitated for a long time before accepting the envelope, but she still said: "Following industry convention, I'm splitting it with you half and half."
"I don't need that money!"
"Just take it!" Eriri glared at Seiji Fujiwara.
The essence of this work was primarily Seiji Fujiwara's contribution.
Taking half already made her feel guilty—if she took it all, she'd have no face to stand before him.
"Fine, give me half later." Seiji Fujiwara stood up and naturally put his arm around her shoulders, leading her toward the exit. "For now, let's celebrate."
"Celebrate?" Eriri looked at him in confusion.
"That's right. To celebrate 'Kashiwagi-sensei's' triumphant return, tonight... our 'rent' can be paid in a more interesting way."
Eh...
Eriri clicked her tongue and looked at Seiji Fujiwara with eyes that viewed him as trash.
This guy really has nothing but filth in his brain!
But her feet didn't stop—she let Seiji Fujiwara push her along.
...
Under the night sky, Kyoto was adorned with countless lights like an inverted galaxy.
On the way back to the villa, Eriri remained silent.
She leaned against the car window, watching the brilliantly lit cityscape racing past outside, thinking about what was to come and feeling no mood for it.
He's going to torment me again, ugh...
Soon, the car pulled into the villa's garage.
The two entered the living room.
Seiji Fujiwara didn't take her to the studio or bedroom as usual, but instead chose this bright living room.
Eriri sighed helplessly and complied.
Can't escape anyway.
Might as well cooperate and get it over with quickly.
Seiji Fujiwara had her sit on the large sofa, then leaned down and began "collecting the rent."
His actions still remained at the "innocent" level, not crossing that final line.
Seiji Fujiwara was extremely patient, delicately tasting the girl's lips, using skilled techniques to make her breathing quicken.
Eriri endured desperately, refusing to let herself make any shameful sounds.
However, just as she felt herself approaching the limits of her endurance, Seiji Fujiwara suddenly stopped and pulled away.
"Mmph..."
That sudden withdrawal made Eriri let out a suppressed whimper. The immense sense of emptiness made her instinctively reach out to grab him.
But Seiji Fujiwara merely looked down at her dazed appearance, smiled with satisfaction, then pulled out his phone and called Utaha Kasumigaoka.
"Utaha, come to the villa."
Eriri lay limp on the sofa, her entire body hot and restless. She looked at Seiji Fujiwara in confusion, not understanding what he wanted to do.
The doorbell rang—Utaha arrived quickly.
She seemed to have just finished bathing, casually wearing a long cardigan, her body emanating a sweet, rose-scented fragrance.
She saw this bizarre scene in the living room—Seiji Fujiwara's face wearing that playful smile, and Eriri's disheveled appearance with flushed cheeks—and merely tilted her head slightly.
"Looks like our poor golden retriever is going to receive some 'elite education' tonight."
"Alright, Eriri." Seiji Fujiwara's voice sounded like final judgment. "Today's 'instruction' assignment is very simple."
He walked in front of Utaha and, right in front of Eriri, lifted her into his arms.
"Today's assignment is called 'observation.'"
What?
Eriri stared blankly.
She watched as Seiji Fujiwara carried Utaha over to the central table in the living room and gently set her down.
A blush rose on Utaha's cheeks. She glanced at Eriri on the sofa, a trace of shyness and hesitation flashing in her eyes.
"Seiji-kun... here... isn't appropriate, is it?" she said softly. After all, doing this in front of her friend was somewhat embarrassing, even for her.
"What's inappropriate about it?" Seiji Fujiwara chuckled softly, his finger lightly hooking her chin. "Letting her properly observe what surrender looks like will be helpful for her artistic skills."
With that, he leaned down and kissed Utaha.
At first, Utaha was somewhat reserved, but as Seiji's kisses grew deeper and more invasive, she quickly forgot about the audience's existence and became completely immersed.
Her arms actively wrapped around his neck, responding to him passionately.
His hands moved with practiced ease, fingers finding the zipper of her cardigan and sliding it down in one smooth motion. The fabric parted, revealing the pale skin beneath—she wore nothing underneath.
Eriri's eyes widened from the sofa. She came here... wearing nothing under that cardigan?
Seiji pushed the cardigan off Utaha's shoulders, letting it pool on the table beneath her. His hands immediately went to her breasts, palming them with possessive hunger. Utaha let out a soft gasp, her back arching into his touch.
"Seiji-kun..." she breathed, her voice already trembling.
His thumbs circled her nipples, watching them harden under his attention. He leaned down, taking one peak into his mouth, and Utaha's fingers tangled in his hair.
"Ahh..." The sound escaped her lips unbidden.
Eriri felt her face burning as she watched. This was nothing like her drawings—this was real, raw, the sounds of pleasure echoing through the living room with nowhere to hide.
Seiji's hands slid down Utaha's body, hooking into the waistband of her skirt and panties. He pulled them down in one motion, discarding them onto the floor. Utaha lay bare on the table now, exposed completely to his—and Eriri's—gaze.
His shirt came off next, revealing the toned muscles beneath. His pants followed.
Eriri couldn't look away. Her theoretical knowledge was crumbling in the face of reality. Every textbook diagram, every reference image she'd studied—none of it prepared her for the overwhelming presence of watching two people like this.
Seiji positioned himself between Utaha's legs, spreading them wider. His hand slid between her thighs, and Utaha's hips jerked at the contact.
"Already this wet?" His voice carried that teasing edge. "And with an audience, too."
"Don't... say that..." Utaha's protest was weak, her cheeks flushed with arousal and embarrassment.
His fingers worked between her legs, drawing out more soft sounds from Utaha's lips. Her breathing grew heavier, her body responding to every touch.
Then he positioned himself at her entrance. Utaha's hands gripped the edge of the table, bracing herself.
Seiji pushed inside slowly, and Utaha's back arched, a long moan escaping her throat.
"Nnh... Seiji..."
Eriri watched, transfixed, as he filled Utaha completely. The way Utaha's body accepted him, the expressions crossing her face—pleasure mixed with surrender.
He started moving, slow and deliberate at first, each thrust measured. The table creaked softly with the rhythm.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
The wet sounds filled the room, mixing with Utaha's increasingly desperate moans. Seiji's hands gripped her hips, pulling her into each thrust.
"Look at your audience," Seiji commanded, his voice low.
Utaha's eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, turned toward Eriri. Their gazes locked, and Eriri felt something hot coil in her stomach at the sight—Utaha's face flushed, lips parted, completely lost in sensation.
"See how good it feels to surrender?" Seiji's pace increased, the slap of skin against skin growing louder. "This is what you're resisting, Eriri."
Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!
Utaha's moans rose in pitch, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth table surface. "Ahh! Seiji... there... yes..."
His hand moved between them, thumb finding her clit and circling it. Utaha cried out, her whole body tensing.
"I'm... I'm going to—"
"Then come," he commanded, his hips driving harder. "Show her what it looks like."
Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!
Utaha came with a sharp cry, her body convulsing, back arching off the table. Seiji didn't stop, fucking her through the orgasm as she trembled and gasped beneath him.
"One more," he said, his breathing heavy. His pace became relentless, the table shaking with each powerful thrust.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
"Too much... Seiji, wait—ahhh!" Utaha's protests dissolved into moans as he drove her toward another peak.
His hands roamed her body—squeezing her breasts, thumbing her nipples, gripping her throat just enough to make her gasp. Every touch calculated, every thrust hitting exactly where she needed.
"Come again," he growled. "Let her hear you."
Utaha's second orgasm crashed over her even harder than the first. She screamed, her whole body shaking, walls clenching desperately around him.
Seiji groaned, his rhythm faltering. With a final deep thrust, he buried himself completely inside her, holding her hips tight as he came. Utaha whimpered at the sensation of him pulsing inside her, filling her.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—Seiji hunched over Utaha's trembling form, both catching their breath. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
Slowly, Seiji pulled out, watching with satisfaction as his release leaked from Utaha's used body. He ran a possessive hand down her thigh.
"Good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Utaha lay boneless on the table, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on her skin. Her eyes were glassy, satisfied, completely spent.
Eriri stared dumbly at the vivid scene unfolding before her, her brain completely crashed.
What was she seeing?
That Utaha Kasumigaoka who was so cool and aloof at school, like an untouchable flower on a high peak—at this moment, beneath Seiji Fujiwara, she was like a gorgeous rose completely drenched by rain and dew, blooming with an enchanting and unrestrained side Eriri had never seen before.
No way—are you two really going to livestream in front of me?
Eriri was utterly dumbfounded.
Those sounds she only dared depict with onomatopoeia on her drawing paper were now transforming into a face-flushing rhythm, mixing with the slight, regular trembling of the sofa and echoing clearly throughout the living room.
Seiji Fujiwara was like a tireless classical sculpture, displaying the ultimate expression of strength and beauty.
And Utaha was like a perfect concerto, performing feminine flexibility and accommodation to perfection.
The air was thick with a humid heat, mixed with the scent of perfume and sweat. Utaha's hair, dampened by perspiration, clung to her cheeks, making her entire being appear to possess both a shattered holiness and a breathtaking decadence.
Eriri's sense of time began to distort.
She didn't know how long this "artistic performance" had been going on—she only knew that man's movements maintained a heart-pounding steady rhythm from beginning to end. And Utaha's responses were like the most magnificent aria, every note landing precisely on beat.
Her brain went blank, her mouth unconsciously falling open.
The interplay of light and shadow, the undulation of muscle lines, the trajectory of sweat sliding across skin... all of this formed a "work" filled with the raw tension of life.
Is this guy... really human?
Could he be a male protagonist from a doujinshi who escaped into reality?!
Utaha seemed to sense her gaze and cast a seductive, sultry look in her direction.
That look made Eriri's whole body tremble.
A strange restlessness rose from the depths of her heart. She unconsciously began imagining that intensely satisfying sensation.
Finally, when she saw Utaha let out yet another high-pitched, satisfied moan, Eriri's rationality snapped.
Her brain went completely blank.
Those hands quietly reached toward the hem of her skirt.