The rain started just after lunch, a soft spring downpour that drummed steadily on the roof tiles and blurred the garden into watercolor greens. Aiko stood at the kitchen window, watching droplets race down the glass, her reflection superimposed over the sakura petals plastered to the path. She wore a simple gray cardigan over a thin cotton dress—modest, unassuming, the kind of outfit Mrs. Sato would nod approvingly at. Beneath it: nothing. Her nipples pressed dark circles against the fabric; her pussy had been leaking since dawn.
Kenji's text arrived at 1:42 PM.
**K:** *Garage. 2:15. Bring the blue tarp.*
**A:** *Already wet.*
She slipped the folded tarp under her arm, heart hammering. The garage was detached, a narrow concrete box at the end of the gravel drive. Hiroshi used it for his seldom-driven sedan and boxes of old tax files. It had a side door that locked from the inside, no windows, and—crucially—no Wi-Fi camera. Their safest room yet.
Aiko waited until the street was empty, then dashed through the rain, cardigan soaked in seconds. The side door creaked open; Kenji was already there, hood up, rainwater dripping from his lashes. He pulled her inside and bolted the door with a soft *click*.
The air smelled of motor oil, damp cardboard, and something electric. A single fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting harsh white light over the tarp spread on the concrete floor like a makeshift bed. Kenji had thought ahead.
No words. He peeled her cardigan away, water streaming from the wool. Her dress clung to every curve—breasts heavy and swaying, nipples stiff, the fabric translucent where it molded to her dripping slit. Kenji's breath caught; his cock was already straining against his track pants, a thick ridge she could trace with her eyes.
Aiko stepped forward, fingers hooking into his waistband. "Slowly," she whispered. "We have all afternoon."
She sank to her knees on the tarp, the plastic cool against her shins. His pants slid down; his cock sprang free, flushed and veiny, a bead of precum trembling at the tip. She licked it away, savoring the salt, then took him deep—slow, deliberate, throat relaxing to swallow inch after inch. Her hands cupped his ass, pulling him closer until her nose brushed his abdomen. She held him there, humming, feeling him throb against her tongue.
Kenji's fingers threaded through her wet hair, not guiding—just anchoring. She pulled back, lips dragging along his length, then sank down again. Over and over, unhurried, until his thighs trembled and his breath came in ragged gasps. Saliva coated his shaft, dripped from her chin onto her breasts, mixing with rainwater.
When she finally released him, his cock glistened, angry red and twitching. Aiko lay back on the tarp, dress rucked up to her waist, legs falling open. Her pussy was a mess—swollen, pink, glistening with arousal that had been building for hours. She spread herself with two fingers, showing him the slick, clenching hole that ached for him.
Kenji knelt between her thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, coating himself in her juices. He didn't enter yet. Just teased—nudging her clit, sliding down to her entrance, then back up. Aiko whimpered, hips lifting, trying to capture him.
"Please…" The word slipped out, desperate.
He gave her one inch. Then withdrew. Another inch. Withdrew. Over and over, stretching her open bit by bit, until she was sobbing quietly, fingers clawing at the tarp. Only when she was trembling, pussy fluttering around nothing, did he sink in fully—slow, relentless, until his balls pressed against her ass.
They moved like that for an hour: deep, grinding strokes, her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked. The garage echoed with wet sounds—her slick coating his cock, the soft slap of skin on plastic, their muffled gasps. Rain hammered the roof, masking every noise.
Aiko came first, back arching off the tarp, pussy spasming so hard she squirted—a hot gush that soaked his lower belly and puddled beneath them. Kenji didn't stop. He shifted angles, lifting her hips, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. Another orgasm, then another, until she lost count, her voice hoarse from bitten-back screams.
When he finally neared the edge, he pulled out, fisting his cock. Aiko sat up quickly, mouth open, tongue out. Thick ropes of cum painted her lips, her chin, her breasts—hot and endless. She swallowed what landed on her tongue, then used her fingers to scoop the rest, licking them clean while locking eyes with him.
They stayed there, panting, rainwater cooling on their skin. Kenji helped her to her feet, steadying her as her legs shook. He folded the tarp carefully, hiding the evidence in a trash bag labeled *old rags*. Aiko smoothed her dress, though it clung obscenely, cum drying in streaks across her chest.
At 4:27 PM, the rain eased to a drizzle. Kenji left first, hood up, disappearing around the side gate. Aiko waited five minutes, then slipped back into the house through the kitchen. She showered, changed, and hung the cardigan to dry.
Dinner was quiet. Kenji came in at 6:58 PM, hair damp from "the library." They ate miso-glazed cod and rice, discussing his fake study group, her fake trip to the market. Under the table, her bare foot brushed his calf. His eyes flicked to hers, dark with promise.
Later, Hiroshi's video call came through at 8:00 PM sharp. Aiko sat primly on the couch, cardigan buttoned to the throat, smile serene. Kenji waved from the hallway, pretending to head upstairs.
"Everything okay?" Hiroshi asked, voice tinny through the laptop.
"Perfect," Aiko said, thighs clenched beneath the blanket. Between them, Kenji's cum still leaked slowly from her well-fucked pussy, soaking the cushion. "Just missing you."
The call ended at 8:17. By 8:20, the laptop was closed, the blanket tossed aside, and Aiko was bent over the arm of the couch, Kenji sliding into her from behind—slow, silent, the picture of domestic bliss shattered only by the wet sounds neither of them could stifle.
Tomorrow: the attic. The day after: the guest room futon. Thirteen days left. Every room, every shadow, every locked door.