Day 1 – Thursday, March 28 – Observation Only
7:41 a.m.
The alley between our buildings is still cold, the sun barely cresting the rooftops. I stand at my bedroom window, coffee cooling in my hand, eyes locked on the tiny balcony opposite mine.
Aoi steps out exactly on schedule.
She's wearing the same oversized white men's dress shirt she always sleeps in (three buttons done, the rest hanging open so the inner curves of her small breasts flash whenever she moves). The hem stops just beneath the swell of her ass. Pale-blue cotton panties with a tiny white bow ride low on her narrow hips. Her legs are bare, slim, impossibly smooth, feet naked on the cold concrete. Long black hair is a sleepy mess, strands sticking to her cheek where she drooled on her pillow.
She yawns, stretches, shirt lifting high enough to reveal the bottom half of her peach-shaped ass and the way the fabric clings to the faint outline of her pussy lips. No bra. Her nipples are already hard from the morning air (small, dark-pink, poking straight through the cotton like they're begging for attention).
She picks up the little metal watering can, bends forward over the railing to reach the basil pot. The shirt rides all the way up. The blue panties stretch tight across her cheeks, the center seam disappearing between them, a tiny damp spot already forming where the fabric cups her slit.
My cock thickens in my sweatpants, heavy, veiny, pressing a clear outline against the gray cotton. I don't touch it. Not yet. I just watch.
She waters each plant slowly, humming something soft under her breath. Every bend, every stretch, every little shift gives me a new angle: the soft underside of one breast, the dimples at the base of her spine, the way her thighs tremble when the cold air kisses between them.
7:49 a.m.
She finishes, straightens, hugs herself, rubs her arms. Her gaze drifts across the alley (straight to my window). I don't move. The morning shadow hides me perfectly. Her eyes linger for four full seconds, confused, cheeks pink, then she scurries back inside, bare feet slapping softly.
I exhale for the first time in minutes.
The arrow pulses once under my skin, warm and eager.
Day 2 – Friday, March 29 – First Contact
7:42 a.m.
I time it perfectly.
I'm in the alley pretending to check my mailbox when she steps out. Same white shirt, same blue panties, watering can in hand. She sees me and freezes.
Water sloshes over the rim, splashing across her bare feet and up her calves. She gasps (tiny, adorable sound).
I walk over slowly, hands in my hoodie pocket, morning wood still half-hard and obvious in the loose sweatpants.
"Sorry," I say, voice low. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She tries to bow a little (Japanese reflex) and the movement makes her shirt gape. I get a perfect down-shirt view: small, perfect tits, puffy pink nipples, the faint blue veins under pale skin.
"I-I'm okay!" she squeaks, clutching the watering can to her chest like a shield. The metal is cold; her nipples stiffen even harder against the shirt.
I reach out and steady the can before it spills again. My fingers brush hers (warm, trembling). Electricity shoots straight to my cock.
Up close she smells like sleep and peach shampoo.
Her eyes flick down (just for a split second) to the thick ridge straining my sweatpants. The head is already pushing past the waistband, a wet spot blooming where pre-cum has started to leak. Her pupils dilate. Her cheeks go scarlet.
I hold eye contact two full seconds longer than polite.
Then I smile, step back, and walk away without another word.
That night, 11:03 p.m.
Her curtains are open for the first time in weeks.
She's on her bed, knees drawn up, thin blanket pulled to her chin. The room is lit only by her phone screen. She's watching something (I can guess what). One small hand disappears under the blanket. Her breathing quickens. Her toes curl. She bites her bottom lip so hard it turns white.
Thirty-seven seconds. That's all it takes.
Her back arches, hips jerk once, twice, and she comes with a tiny, muffled whimper, eyes squeezed shut, face flushed bright red.
I come in my fist at the exact same second, imagining that whimper is my name.
Day 3 – Saturday, March 30 – The Peach
3:11 a.m.
I slip out barefoot, wearing only black boxer briefs. The arrow is burning now, a steady throb against my heart.
I place a single perfect peach on her doorstep (freckled pink and gold, so ripe the skin splits slightly under my thumb, juice running down my wrist). No note. I lick the juice off my fingers, stare up at her dark window, and go back inside.
7:31 a.m.
She opens the door in a tiny tank top and the same blue panties. Sees the peach. Freezes.
She looks left, right, then picks it up with both hands like it's fragile. Brings it to her nose, inhales, eyes fluttering. A bead of juice drips onto her thumb. Without thinking, she licks it clean (slow, pink tongue curling around the digit).
Her gaze darts to my window. I stand in plain view this time, shirtless, morning wood straining obscenely. She sees the bulge, sees me watching, and her thighs press together hard.
She flees inside, peach clutched to her chest.
8:02 a.m.
Through my kitchen window I watch her sit at her little table, legs crossed, slowly eating the peach in small, careful bites. Juice runs down her chin, her wrist, one drop sliding between her small breasts and disappearing under the tank top. Every time she licks her fingers clean she glances at my window, cheeks burning.
By the time the fruit is gone, the crotch of her blue panties is soaked through, dark and clinging.
Day 4 – Sunday, March 31 – The Shot
7:41 p.m.
The sun has set. The alley is quiet, lit only by the soft glow from our windows.
She steps out onto her balcony again (this time in a pale-pink camisole and white cotton shorts so thin I can see the shadow between her legs). Hair in a loose bun, strands framing her flushed face. She leans on the railing and stares straight at my dark window like she's been waiting all day.
I step into the light.
She inhales sharply.
I raise my right hand. The arrow materializes (glowing neon pink, heart-shaped tip pulsing like a heartbeat). Only she and I can see it.
Her lips part. Her nipples stiffen instantly against the camisole. A visible shiver runs through her whole body.
I draw my arm back slowly, savoring the moment.
Her eyes (wide, glassy, already pleading) never leave mine.
I release.
The arrow flies straight and true, crossing the twenty feet between us in a blink. It strikes her exactly over her heart with a soft, soundless shimmer.
For one frozen heartbeat, nothing.
Then her knees buckle hard. She catches the railing with both hands, a tiny, broken "ahn—" escaping her throat. Her eyes roll back slightly, eyelids fluttering. Her small chest heaves. The pink camisole darkens instantly at both nipples (two perfect wet spots spreading fast). Between her thighs, a dark stain blooms across the white shorts, spreading down the inside of both legs in slow rivulets.
She looks at me across the alley, mouth open, pupils blown wide, body trembling like she's already mid-orgasm.
I mouth two words, slow and clear:
Come. Here.
She moves instantly (no hesitation, no thought). Bare feet slapping tile, she disappears inside her apartment. I hear her door slam, the frantic jingle of keys, then the soft thud of footsteps racing down stairs.
Twenty-three seconds later my door flies open.
Aoi stands there in the same soaked camisole and shorts, hair escaping its bun, chest heaving, eyes wild with desperate, impossible need.
She steps inside, shuts the door with shaking hands, and drops to her knees on my hardwood floor, forehead pressed to my bare feet.
Her voice is barely a breath, cracked and reverent.
"Please… I don't understand what's happening to me… but I need you inside me more than I need to breathe… please… please use me however you want… I'm already yours…"
The arrow pulses once, warm and satisfied, under my skin.
I thread my fingers slowly through her silky black hair and tilt her face up to meet my eyes.
"Take my cock out, Aoi. With your mouth. Slow. You're going to learn every single inch tonight… and for the next twenty-nine days, you're going to wake up wet and aching for it every single morning."
She whimpers, nods frantically, small hands already fumbling with the drawstring of my sweatpants, lips trembling as they brush the obscene bulge that has ruled her dreams for the last ninety-six hours.
April has officially begun.
And I haven't even kissed her yet.