FACT
Side Story — Kana
Grant was stealing my side of the bed again.
I opened my eyes to find him maybe six inches from my face, asleep on his stomach with one arm shoved beneath his pillow and the other stretched comfortably into the space that had belonged to me when we went to bed. I frowned. Twenty-three years of marriage and somehow the man still couldn’t understand that a king-size mattress had more than one side. More importantly, I had specifically told him last night that things were different now. Same bed. Same marriage. Same life. But his side was his side, and mine was mine.
“Grant,” I whispered, annoyed. “Mō...”
He didn’t move.
Of course he didn’t.
I stared at him for another moment, irritation gradually losing its edge. Grant looked peaceful when he slept. Younger, somehow. The little crease that had settled permanently between his eyebrows over the years disappeared. No work. No bills. No Saki problem to solve. No Evan making fun of him. Just Grant, breathing softly into his pillow with his hair flattened on one side.
I knew this face better than I knew my own. I knew the tiny twitch near his eye when he was pretending not to be annoyed. I knew he rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger whenever he worried about money, even though we hadn’t needed to worry about money in years. I knew he would insist he wasn’t hungry, then eat half of whatever I ordered. I knew he checked the doors every night before bed, including nights when he’d watched me lock them ten minutes earlier.
And I knew he followed me across this mattress in his sleep. Always had. When Saki was little, she used to climb into bed with us after nightmares. Grant would somehow make room for her without waking, pulling her against his chest while I got pushed farther toward the edge. More than once I’d woken with half my ass hanging off the mattress while those two slept like angels. I complained every time. I loved it every time.
But that was before last night.
I put my palm against Grant’s shoulder and firmly pushed him back toward his territory.
“Your side.”
Grant grunted into the pillow.
“Stay.”
Nothing.
“Baka.”
I smiled despite myself.
There were mornings when I could still see the boy I’d fallen in love with underneath everything that had accumulated since. He’d made America feel less lonely when I was sixteen and still rehearsed sentences in my head before saying them aloud. He never laughed when I got something wrong. Well, almost never. He’d been patient when I was homesick, terrified when Saki was born, and somehow became an even better father than I’d expected.
He was ridiculous. He was kind. He was my husband. I loved him.
I felt absolutely no desire to sleep with him.
The thought came without cruelty because there was nothing cruel about it. Grant was the person I wanted beside me when I was eighty. The person I wanted across the table at breakfast. The person I trusted with Saki, our home, and every boring piece of the life we’d spent decades building together.
I just didn’t want him touching me sexually anymore.
That boundary mattered, even if apparently sleeping Grant hadn’t received the message.
I pulled my pillow back into position and finally noticed the other side of the bed.
Empty.
I frowned.
Evan wasn’t there.
I lifted my head and looked toward the bathroom. Door open. Light off. After last night, I had expected him to sleep until noon. I listened for movement downstairs, but the house was quiet except for the air conditioning and Grant breathing beside me.
Maybe coffee.
Coffee sounded good.
I planted one hand against the mattress and pushed myself upright.
Something shifted heavily against my chest.
I stopped.
Looked down.
“Oh.”
For several seconds, that was all I had.
My breasts had grown.
Not a little.
Growth itself wasn’t unusual. Women’s bodies kept developing throughout adulthood. Mine certainly had. Exercise, hormones, age, genetics. Sometimes nothing obvious caused it at all. I’d gone through little spurts before, enough that discovering an old bra had become too tight wasn’t exactly a crisis.
This was different.
The sheet had fallen into my lap, leaving me staring at a chest that had apparently spent the night making up for lost time. They were enormous. Fuller than yesterday, substantially heavier, the added volume obvious even looking down at myself. Their shape was still mine, only exaggerated, as though my body had taken what I already had and decided subtlety was no longer necessary. When I straightened my back, their unfamiliar weight shifted with me.
I cupped them instinctively.
My eyebrows climbed.
“Uso...”
That was a lot of breast.
I lifted one carefully in my palm, testing the unfamiliar weight, then the other. My hands looked smaller against them than I ed. They were warm from sleep, soft beneath my fingers but substantial enough that I immediately felt the difference through my chest and shoulders.
I released them and watched them settle.
Then I glanced at Grant.
Still asleep.
Of course.
His wife could apparently wake up with a completely different figure and Grant Halloway would sleep through the announcement.
I looked down again.
A slow smile spread across my face.
Well.
If my body wanted to keep improving itself, who was I to argue?
I slipped out of bed before Grant could migrate back across the border and padded toward the bathroom.
The mirror answered my first question immediately.
“Holy shit.”
I closed the door behind me and stepped closer.
They looked even bigger from the front. Of course they did. Looking down had hidden half the effect, but the mirror showed everything at once: the familiar athletic shape of my body, the narrow waist and toned stomach I’d spent years maintaining, and above it all a chest that had apparently decided overnight that the rest of me wasn’t getting enough attention.
I turned sideways.
“Oh my God.”
Then the other way.
I straightened my posture and watched how the movement changed my silhouette. There was no hiding them now. Not that I would have wanted to. They were dramatic, excessive, completely disproportionate by any reasonable standard.
They were magnificent. A grin spread across my face.
I whispered. “Maji de?”
I lifted them again, watching myself in the mirror this time. The new weight filled my hands and then some, my palms ing them while I studied how differently they sat against my frame. I let them go and watched them settle naturally, then repeated the experiment because apparently I was twelve years old and had just discovered breasts.
Except these were mine. That made it considerably better. A perfect addition to an already perfect body. I laughed quietly and leaned closer to inspect myself.
There was something deeply satisfying about seeing my body change and immediately realizing it had somehow become even harder to ignore. I’d worked too fucking hard on myself over the years to pretend I didn’t enjoy looking. The stomach beneath them was still tight from yesterday’s workout, faint definition showing when I stretched. My waist still pulled sharply inward before my hips widened below it.
I turned around.
And there she was.
My favorite part.
I looked over my shoulder at myself and shifted my weight onto one leg. My ass pushed outward behind me, huge and round against the comparatively narrow line of my waist.
“Perfect.”
Maybe that was arrogant. Whatever. It was true. I gave one cheek an experimental squeeze and immediately sucked air through my teeth.
“Ah... yabai.”
Sensitive as always.
I should have stopped there. I had intended to shower, find coffee, and figure out what the hell I was supposed to wear with a chest that had declared war on my closet.
Instead I stayed in front of the mirror.
My hands wandered over the body I knew so well, exploring how the overnight change altered its proportions. One hand went up to cup my newly enlarged breasts and started pinching a nipple lightly. I bit my lip to hold in the moan. So fucking good. The iration gradually became something warmer, more indulgent. That wasn’t unusual for me either. I’d never understood people who couldn’t appreciate themselves. If I looked good, I looked good. Why pretend otherwise?
A playful smack against my own backside sent a startling rush through me.
I froze.
Then stared at my reflection. Looking at the knockout Japanese woman with large, round breasts and an ass that pulled in eyes like oxygen.
“...Oh.”
My grin returned. Apparently last night’s discoveries had given me ideas.
I squeezed one cheek again, watching myself react in the mirror, and laughed softly at how ridiculous I was being. Another playful smack followed, then another, each one making it increasingly difficult to that I’d entered the bathroom for entirely practical reasons.
“Mō... Kana. Mō. Mō!”
I was supposed to be getting ready.
Instead, I plunged my fingers deep into my pussy. I flicked and pinched both my nipples and my clit, driving myself wild. Never looking away from the intoxicating image staring back at me.
“Ah… ah…. AHHHHHHHHH!” I came hard.
My mind rushing but not done yet. I couldn’t stop myself. I discovered a truth about myself last night. I stopped playing with my cunt and moved the wet fingers between my cheeks and stuck them up my ass. Nails be damned.
The pleasure was indescribable. I arched. I wriggled. I came.
“Sugoi.” I panted.
By the time I finally forced myself away from the mirror, my skin was flushed, my hair was messier than when I’d woken up, and whatever chance I’d had of starting the morning normally was gone.
Time to get cleaned up. I absolutely couldn’t go out like this. I dimmed the mirror so I could no longer get distracted and showered.
Time to get cleaned up. I absolutely couldn’t go out like this. I dimmed the mirror so I could no longer get distracted and showered.
Then came the difficult part.
Getting dressed.
I stood naked in front of my closet, hands planted on my hips, and considered my options.
There was an order to this. Always had been.
First, decide what I wanted to look like. Not what I wanted to wear. Those were different questions. I needed the finished Kana in my head before I started pulling things off hangers. Casual? Cute? Elegant? Sexy? There were degrees to these things, and throwing on whatever happened to be clean was how people ended up looking like Grant.
I was going shopping for an entirely new wardrobe because my body had apparently decided yesterday’s proportions were inadequate. This was not an occasion for sweatpants.
Sexy, then.
Obviously.
I pulled several possibilities from the closet and laid them across the bed, immediately rejecting two. Too conservative. One looked beautiful but needed the right bra underneath it, which was probably impossible now. Another was expensive enough that I’d rather not stretch it while figuring out exactly what had happened to my chest.
Eventually I settled on something simple enough for shopping but fitted enough that nobody could mistake simple for boring.
Normally, bra came first.
Today, bras were the problem.
I opened the drawer and stared down at the collection I’d spent years accumulating. Lace, satin, seamless, plunge, balconette, sports bras, colors for practically everything I owned. Grant complained about what some of them cost.
Grant was wrong.
Good lingerie was important.
Unfortunately, apparently none of mine had received advance notice that my breasts were going to become enormous overnight.
I picked up one of my favorites and held it against myself.
I laughed.
“No.”
Another.
Worse.
I found the largest bra I owned and actually tried that one. The band still fit, but the cups had no chance. I adjusted myself once, frowned, tried again, then looked down at the result.
“Uso.”
Yesterday, perfect.
Today, ridiculous.
I removed it and tossed it onto the bed.
Fine.
No bra.
That wasn’t exactly a hardship for me. The real problem was that my normal dressing strategy depended on having something covering my chest before I dealt with everything below my waist.
Top first. Always.
Fabric over my breasts gave me a barrier. A little distance between my fingers and nipples. Something to keep one source of distraction under control while I handled the much more dangerous business of pulling clothing over my hips and ass.
I’d learned that lesson years ago.
Trying to put panties on while completely naked was how getting dressed turned into not getting dressed.
So I reached for the top I’d chosen.
It was fitted, naturally. Deep neckline, naturally. Soft enough to stretch, thankfully.
I pulled it over my head and worked my arms through, then carefully eased the fabric down over my chest.
It caught.
I pulled again.
My breasts compressed beneath the material before finally settling into place, stretching the top much farther than its designer had ever intended. I smoothed the fabric carefully along my sides and looked down.
Well.
The neckline was considerably more ambitious now.
I turned toward the mirror before ing I’d dimmed it.
Probably for the best.
I could feel enough to know what the shirt was doing. It hugged my waist, fit comfortably through my shoulders, and strained across my chest in a way that made the original design almost irrelevant.
I smiled.
“Still fit.”
Technically. More importantly, my nipples were covered. Not much of a wall. But a wall. I looked toward the panties and jeans waiting on the bed. This was where getting dressed actually became work. I took a breath.
“Okay, Kana.”
Bottoms. I could do bottoms. Probably.
I picked up the panties.
Black lace. Low rise. Pretty. Expensive. Exactly the sort of thing Grant had better stop stealing now that he’d discovered how much he liked my underwear.
I stepped into them and pulled them carefully up my legs.
Slow.
That was the trick.
The lace ed my knees, then climbed my thighs. I kept my movements deliberate, trying not to let the fabric drag any more than necessary. Even so, my thighs pressed together instinctively as the sensation built.
“Mō...”
I stopped.
No.
Absolutely not.
I had already wasted one hour this morning because I couldn’t behave myself in front of a mirror. I was not losing another hour to a pair of panties.
I pulled them higher.
The lace reached my hips and began stretching around the enormous curve of my ass. I shifted from one foot to the other, easing the fabric into place a little at a time rather than dragging it upward all at once.
That helped, but not enough. I bit my lip. My thighs squeezed together again.
“Come on, Kana.”
I gave the waistband one final pull and immediately froze. The panties settled into place. My whole body shivered.
I stood perfectly still, eyes closed, waiting for the rush to fade. The top helped. That was exactly why I dressed this way. My chest was safely behind fabric, my hands were nowhere near it, and I had eliminated at least one way this could spiral out of control.
Unfortunately, everything below my waist remained very aware of what I was doing.
I rubbed my thighs together without meaning to. That was worse. I stopped immediately.
“Baka.”
There was already warmth between my legs, enough that I could feel exactly how badly my body wanted me to abandon the entire concept of getting dressed.
No.
Shopping.
New bras.
New clothes.
Then I could come home and be as ridiculous as I wanted. I reached for my jeans. This was the real enemy.
The denim slid easily over my calves and thighs. I kept my feet planted wide enough that my legs couldn’t rub together and pulled until the waistband reached my hips.
Then I looked down at myself. One more pull. That was all. I hooked my fingers into the waistband and worked the jeans upward. The denim caught beneath my ass. Of course.
I pulled one side higher, then the other, slowly working the tight fabric over each curve. The pressure increased as the jeans climbed, shaping themselves around me until they finally slipped over the widest point.
“Ah...!”
I stopped with the zipper still open. My thighs immediately pressed together.
“Kuso...”
The sensation refused to disappear. I could feel the snug denim everywhere now, particularly when I shifted my weight. Even standing still wasn’t entirely safe because breathing moved me just enough to remind my body that the fabric was there.
I stared at the ceiling.
Think about something boring. Taxes. Grant’s spreadsheets. Grant talking about refinancing.
There. Better.
I buttoned the jeans. My hips shifted. Not better.
“Mō, mō...”
I squeezed my thighs together again, this time knowingly, and instantly regretted it. The pressure made my knees weaken for half a second.
I grabbed the dresser.
“No.”
I was getting out of this house. I straightened, took one careful breath, then another. My body gradually settled. Mostly.
I could still feel the slick warmth between my thighs, an embarrassing reminder that simply putting on my clothes had become a negotiation with myself.
But I was dressed.
I looked down at the result.
Tight jeans. Black lace hidden beneath them. Fitted top stretched considerably more dramatically across my new chest than it had ever been designed for. No bra because apparently bras were a thing of my past until I bought new ones.
I turned the mirror back on.
Then I stared.
“Oh.”
The jeans looked incredible. I turned sideways. Very incredible. I turned farther, looking over my shoulder.
The denim hugged every curve of my ass so tightly that I briefly forgot the entire struggle required to get into it.
My smile returned.
“Worth it.”
Then my thighs rubbed together.
I inhaled sharply.
“Stop.” I told myself.
The mirror went dark again.
“Shopping, Kana.”
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door before I could change my mind.
I arrived at the boutique a little before noon.
Calling it a store felt insulting. The place occupied a corner of one of those shopping districts where nobody put prices in the window because anyone worried about the price wasn’t supposed to be shopping there. Pale stone floors, brass fixtures, enormous mirrors, soft lighting specifically designed to make women look expensive. Clothing hung far enough apart that every dress got its own little territory.
Perfect.
The woman near the entrance smiled when I walked in. Her eyes briefly swept over me, professional enough that most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.
I noticed.
“Good morning. What can I help you find?”
“Need bras. Mine don’t fit anymore.”
“Of course. Do you know your current size?”
“Yesterday? Yes. Today?” I looked down at myself. “No.”
She laughed. “Then let’s start there.”
No surprise. No stupid questions. Women’s bodies changed throughout adulthood. Sometimes slowly enough that you didn’t notice until your favorite bra started digging into you. Sometimes apparently your breasts woke up one morning and decided they had ambitions.
Ten minutes and two measurements later, I had an answer.
“Thirty-six G.”
I looked down.
So that was the damage.
I liked it.
The fitter started pulling options while I wandered through the lingerie section. She was useful, but I knew underwear. There was a difference between something expensive and something worth being expensive. Good lace shouldn’t scratch. Embroidery should complement the structure instead of being slapped onto it. Seams mattered. Bands mattered. At my new size, anything flimsy pretending to be ive could fuck right off.
Apparently my chest required engineering now.
The first bra was nude.
I hated it immediately.
Not because nude was boring. Good nude lingerie was essential. The problem was that there was no universal nude, despite decades of lazy designers pretending otherwise. This one was too pale and too pink against my warm olive skin. It didn’t disappear beneath clothing. It announced itself.
“No.”
The fitter glanced at the cups. “The fit looks—”
“Color.”
She studied me again and nodded. “Warmer.”
“Much.”
The replacement was closer to caramel, with enough golden warmth that it blended against my skin instead of fighting it. Better. Much better. The plunge worked too: low center, firm band, enough structure to lift everything forward without flattening me. I added two more practical options before moving on to things I actually wanted to look at.
Black came next.
Obviously.
The balconette had sheer black mesh through most of the cups with embroidered lace tracing the upper edge. Wide-set straps left more of my chest exposed, while the cups lifted my breasts into a rounder, more open shape.
I put my shirt back on over it.
“Oh.”
That was dangerous.
The difference between my waist and chest looked even more dramatic now. The bra wasn’t trying to make me smaller. It ed what I had and let the rest speak for itself.
I turned sideways.
Then farther.
The fitter waited behind me while I studied the result in the three-way mirror. I adjusted my shoulders, turned again, and caught her reflection before she could redirect her eyes.
Not my bra.
Lower.
I smiled.
There was a special satisfaction in catching a woman looking.
Men were easy. Sometimes all I had to do was walk through a room. But a beautiful woman who worked in a boutique like this? She spent every day surrounded by models, expensive lingerie, beautiful customers, and women changing clothes ten feet away.
If I distracted her, I was having a very good day.
I shifted my weight onto one leg.
My waist angled. One hip pushed outward. The movement traveled naturally through the rest of me, changing the shape of my silhouette before I slowly transferred my weight to the other side. My ass followed a fraction behind my hips, too full to move without that little delayed sway I’d learned years ago people couldn’t stop watching.
The fitter’s eyes flicked down again.
Got you.
I pretended not to notice.
One step toward the mirror. My hips rolled gently with it, denim pulling tight around one side before the movement transferred to the other. Another step. Another slow shift.
She was definitely looking.
Warm satisfaction spread through me.
I met her eyes through the mirror.
She smiled professionally.
I smiled much less professionally.
“This one.”
“Definitely.”
I bought it in black and deep wine red, then added a dark emerald plunge because the color looked gorgeous against my skin. White was useful but boring. Pale pink was too sweet. Bright red tried too hard. Deep jewel tones were better on me: emerald, burgundy, midnight blue.
Black was black.
Black always worked.
Panties were easier. I liked beautiful things, but I wasn’t interested in underwear that only looked good lying flat in a drawer. The cut mattered. Anything that visually chopped my hips in half was immediately dead to me. Higher-cut legs elongated them. A narrow waistband sitting correctly at my hips emphasized the sharp transition from my waist into everything below.
Coverage was negotiable.
I held up a full brief.
“No.”
The fitter laughed. “Not your style?”
“Do I look eighty?”
She laughed harder.
I eventually collected matching bottoms for every bra, mostly Brazilian and cheekier cuts. Lace where it belonged, smooth fabrics beneath tighter clothes, cuts designed to follow my ass rather than cover it like somebody was ashamed of having one.
Then I found a black lace thong so minimal I briefly wondered why they’d bothered manufacturing the back.
I pictured it on myself.
“Two.”
By the time I reached swimwear, I’d accumulated enough boxes that an employee had quietly started carrying things to the for me.
I had not come for a swimsuit.
This was irrelevant.
A black bikini caught my eye from across the room.
I walked toward it.
It was almost aggressively simple. No flowers. No dangling jewelry. No pointless little decorations demanding attention that rightfully belonged elsewhere. Just black fabric, clean lines, and enough structure to make the minimalism deliberate rather than cheap.
The top was built more like lingerie than the triangle bikinis I could no longer realistically pretend were designed for me. Underwire beneath each cup. Adjustable straps. A firm band. Low neckline. No ridiculous padding adding volume to breasts that had spent the night becoming thirty-six Gs without assistance.
Then I saw the bottoms.
“Oh, yes.”
High at the hips. A clean V in front. Narrow through the sides. Minimal behind.
Exactly enough swimsuit to establish that I was technically wearing one.
I took both pieces into the fitting room.
The top required some negotiation. Everything involving my chest apparently did now. I adjusted the band, shortened the straps, settled everything where it belonged, and finally straightened.
I stopped.
“Damn.”
Black against olive skin. My breasts lifted and framed instead of hidden, the dark fabric making the warmth of my complexion stand out even more. Beneath them my stomach looked almost impossibly tight by comparison, the faint definition I’d spent years earning visible when I twisted. My waist pulled inward before my hips widened dramatically below.
Nothing about the bikini competed with my body.
Good.
Then the bottoms.
I pulled them carefully up my legs.
Very carefully.
“Mm...”
No.
Shopping.
I eased them over my hips, one side and then the other, and adjusted them high enough to lengthen my legs without destroying the proportions of my torso.
Then I straightened.
The front was tiny.
I approved.
I turned.
The back was tinier.
I approved more.
I looked over my shoulder at myself.
“Kawaii.”
I tilted my head.
No.
Cute wasn’t right.
My smile slowly widened.
“Kanpeki.”
Perfect.
I walked out of the fitting room.
A man waiting nearby looked up from his phone.
Then forgot to look back down.
Another woman glanced over as I ed. Even my fitter’s professional smile changed slightly when she saw the finished result.
I knew what the bikini was doing.
More importantly, I knew what I was doing inside it.
I let my walk loosen as I headed toward the three-way mirror. My hips shifted with each step, one rolling forward as the other eased back, the movement flowing through my waist and down into the exaggerated sway behind me. The tiny bottoms did absolutely nothing to disguise it. Every step changed the shape of my silhouette, my ass moving with that soft delayed follow-through that made staring almost inevitable.
The man’s eyes followed.
I caught him in the mirror.
He looked away.
I smiled.
Coward.
I turned slowly in front of the mirror, giving myself every angle. Front. Side. Back.
Chest. Waist. Hips. Ass.
God, I looked good.
And knowing everyone else could see it made the warmth between my thighs harder to ignore.
That had always been part of the fun. I knew I was beautiful without anyone telling me. I didn’t need strangers to confirm it.
I just really fucking enjoyed when they did.
I walked back toward the fitting room a little slower than necessary. Another glance followed me. My hips swayed. My thighs brushed together.
“Mm...”
Fuck.
I slipped behind the fitting-room door and leaned against it for a moment.
Attention made me excited. Being excited made me want more attention. More attention made me want to exaggerate the walk that was already causing the problem.
Terrible cycle.
Fantastic bikini.
I looked at myself again.
Something was wrong.
I frowned.
Not the swimsuit.
Absolutely not the swimsuit.
Something had been bothering me all morning. In the car. Walking through the boutique. Standing still while the fitter measured me. I’d blamed my jeans at first. Then my sensitivity. Then the fact that apparently I could turn buying bras into foreplay with myself.
But standing there now, nearly naked, I finally recognized the sensation.
Or rather, the lack of one.
I shifted my hips.
There.
Empty.
My ass felt fucking empty.
The realization landed with such obviousness that I wondered how I’d missed it all morning.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
Then a slow smile spread across my face.
“Oh.”
Well.
That sounded fixable.
The Pleasure Chest occupied the ground floor of a glass-and-stone building in the expensive part of town, discreet enough that I almost walked past it. No blacked-out windows. No flashing neon. Just smoked glass, brushed brass lettering, and the tasteful silhouette of a woman worked into the logo.
I stopped outside. The silhouette had enormous breasts, a narrow waist, broad hips, and an exaggerated curve behind her. I looked at the sign, then down at myself, then caught my reflection in the glass. “Oh.” I turned sideways. Actually... I shifted one hip outward and compared. The silhouette might have been underselling it. I smiled and went inside.
This was more like it. Dark hardwood, warm lighting, velvet furniture, glass display cases, expensive packaging arranged with enough empty space around it to communicate that nobody here was looking for bargains. Even the customers looked expensive. One man wore a watch Grant would have recognized from across the room. Another had the immaculate hair and tailored shirt of someone whose car probably cost more than my first house.
Interesting. Maybe I should see if I could ruin a marriage before lunch.
The woman behind the counter greeted me. “Welcome. Let me know if you’d like any help.”
“Arigatō.”
I gave her a polite smile and continued without another word of English. Three men noticed me before I reached the first display. I noticed all three noticing. Of course I did.
I let the boutique bags hang casually from one hand and loosened my walk. Heel down. Hip forward. Weight shifting smoothly through my waist before everything behind me followed a fraction later. Left. Right. The motion was natural, but there was natural and there was Kana natural. I knew exactly how much extra movement I could add before it became obvious I was putting on a show. Conversation behind me stopped. I smiled.
The toys were displayed farther back. I browsed seriously despite the game I was playing. If I was buying something for myself, I wanted quality. Good material. Good construction. Something substantial enough to address the emptiness that had been distracting me all day.
Then I found twelve inches. I picked up the box. Well. That looked promising.
A man farther down the aisle looked over. Early forties, expensive loafers, wedding band. Oh, this one was practically volunteering. I stared at the packaging, frowned, turned it sideways, then looked helplessly around until our eyes met.
“Sumimasen?”
He glanced behind himself. I pointed at him. “Anata. Hai.”
“Me?”
I nodded eagerly and held up the box. He approached cautiously. “Do you need help?”
I stared at him blankly. “Help?”
“Yes. Do you... speak English?”
I shook my head. “Nihongo.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t speak Japanese. Perfect.
I pointed at the measurement on the box. “Twelve...?”
“Inches.”
“In... ches.”
“Yeah.”
I frowned as though this meant absolutely nothing to me. Then I held my hands apart experimentally. “This?”
He adjusted the distance between my hands. “About that.”
My eyes widened. “Ōkii...”
He clearly didn’t understand. I pointed at the toy. Then tried the English word. “Big?”
“Very big.”
I repeated it slowly. “Big.”
“Yeah.”
A grin threatened to ruin everything. Instead, I glanced downward at him, then suddenly my hand shot out and delicately stroked his manhood through his pants.
“Big?” I asked as seductively as humanly possible. The accent helped.
The question landed. His face changed immediately. I felt his pants stiffen. Meh. Not even close to Evan. I pulled my hand back. I widened my eyes with perfect innocence.
He stumbled through something about the product while I nodded as though he were giving me extremely valuable information. I could see the hunger underneath the embarrassment now, the growing suspicion that maybe the lost Japanese woman knew exactly what she was doing.
She did.
I held the box against my shopping basket, considered it seriously, then smiled. “Big. Good.”
He stopped breathing for approximately three seconds.
“Arigatō.”
I walked away. Still fun.
The plug set took longer. Several sizes, beautifully made, elegantly packaged. Sensible enough to experiment with instead of treating enthusiasm as a substitute for judgment. I put it in my basket.
Another man noticed. This one was younger, dressed like he’d come directly from some finance office where everybody called themselves vice president of something. I caught him staring. He looked away. I took two steps. My hips rolled. He looked again. Caught him again. His face reddened.
Oh, I liked this one.
I picked up the box of plugs and studied it, turning it over in my hands. Exactly what I wanted. I put the box into my basket, then glanced toward him. Still looking.
Fine. Let’s play.
I pulled the box back out and held it up. “Ne...”
He looked behind himself. I pointed at him. “Anata.”
“Me?”
I nodded and walked toward him.
“Uh... hi.”
I smiled brightly. “Konnichiwa.”
“Hi.”
He clearly had no idea what to do next. Good.
I showed him the box. His eyes dropped to it, then returned to me. I tilted my head. “Dō? Suki?”
Nothing. Of course.
I repeated it, slower, then pointed at the box. “Suki?”
He gave me the helpless smile people always gave when they thought repeating Japanese back at me might somehow summon subtitles. “Sorry. I don’t understand.”
I nodded seriously as though I didn’t understand him. Then I pointed at the box and pointed behind myself. His eyes followed my hand straight to my ass.
Understanding arrived immediately. His lips parted.
I looked over my shoulder too, as though checking what I’d just pointed at, then back at him. “Dō?”
I gave my hip a tiny shake. His eyes dropped again. There it was. That hunger.
I held up the box beside myself, then pointed toward my ass again. “Suki?”
“Oh.”
I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
I stared blankly.
He nodded harder. “Yes.”
Still nothing from me. Then he pointed toward the box and gave me a thumbs-up.
I almost broke. That was adorable.
My face brightened as though he’d finally crossed the language barrier. “Ah!”
I pointed at the box, then my ass, then copied his thumbs-up.
He nodded. “Yeah. Definitely.”
I bit my lip and gave him a shy little smile, lowering my eyes as though the whole exchange had embarrassed me. Then I turned away. One slow step. My hip rolled. Another.
I glanced over my shoulder. He was staring exactly where I’d left his attention. I gave my ass another little sway. His eyes stayed glued to it.
God. Maybe I should start charging for this.
I slipped the box back into my basket and continued down the aisle, smiling to myself. Behind me, I heard him exhale.
“Jesus.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Poor guy thought he’d just helped a lost Japanese woman make a very important purchasing decision. I already knew I was buying them. I just wanted him thinking about where they were going.
Men were easy when they knew I was teasing them. Apparently they were even easier when they thought I had no idea what I was doing.
By the time I reached the , I had the twelve-inch toy, the graduated set, cleaner, lubricant, and several other things that had caught my interest. The woman behind the counter scanned everything without blinking. The twelve-inch box ed over the scanner.
Beep.
The married man from earlier was waiting several feet behind me. I caught his reflection. Looking again.
I slowly turned. He froze.
I pointed at the box. “Big.”
The cashier’s mouth twitched.
The man managed, “Yeah.”
I pointed toward him. Then the box. Then raised my eyebrows as though asking a perfectly reasonable question.
His wedding-ring hand disappeared into his pocket.
I gave my most innocent giggle, and waggled my finger.
His expression changed as he realized.
I collected my elegant black bag while the poor man stared at me. “Arigatō for lesson.”
I winked and walked away.
The emptiness I’d been trying to solve had become impossible to ignore now. I stopped near the private restroom, looked into my new bag, and smiled.
A little experimentation later, I emerged considerably more satisfied with my purchase. Even starting conservatively had been enough to send the sensitivity I’d discovered last night surging through me, forcing me to brace myself until the overwhelming rush ed. Apparently my body had very strong opinions about my shopping decisions.
“Yabai...”
I took my first step. Stopped. Second step.
“Oh.”
Walking was going to be interesting.
The unfamiliar pressure remained constantly present, changing subtly whenever my hips moved. Left. Right. Every shift of my weight reminded me it was there, and suddenly the exaggerated sway I’d been using to torment men all afternoon had consequences for me too. It was oddly, the greatest pleasure ever, besides Evan’s cock that is.
I walked past the finance guy. He looked. I smiled innocently and bit my lip dropping the empty box for the plug I just used in his hands.
His mouth fell open.
I continued toward the exit, laughing to myself as my hips swayed behind me.
Outside, sunlight hit my face. New bras. New clothes. A swimsuit that looked fucking incredible on me. A black bag full of expensive new entertainment. And for the first time all day, that strange emptiness was finally gone.
I shifted my weight and smiled at the sensation. Enough playing with strangers. Time to get home and take care of Kana.
By the time I got home, I was so fucking horny.
I opened the front door with shopping bags hanging from both hands. I had spent an obscene amount of money and regretted absolutely none of it. More importantly, I wanted to show someone. Not Grant. He would tell me I looked beautiful because Grant always thought I looked beautiful. Sweet. Meaningful. Completely useless for what I wanted right now.
“I’m home.”
No answer from Grant. Instead, I found Evan sprawled across my couch in his boxers, one arm stretched across the cushions and his legs comfortably apart like the house belonged to him.
I stopped.
“Oh.”
Naked was my favorite Evan, but boxers were second. His eyes found me. Then my shopping bags. Then traveled slowly back up. I smiled. Finally.
I set the bags beside the couch and deliberately stepped between his knees. “Notice something?” His eyes moved over me again.
“Several things.”
I straightened my posture. Nothing. “Evan-kun.”
“What?”
I waited. His gaze finally settled on my chest. There. I smiled proudly and pushed my shoulders back, letting the fitted top make the difference impossible to miss. “Look.”
“I am.”
“More.”
That earned a laugh.
“You are quite needy for attention.”
I folded my arms beneath my breasts, lifting them higher, and watched his attention follow the movement. Heat stirred through me. I slowly wet my lips with my tongue.
I expected surprise. Instead Evan gave me that satisfied little grin of his.
“Looks good on you.”
Of course it did.
I released my arms and turned for him, slowly enough that he got the entire view. The outfit already showed off the new proportions beautifully, but the best part was knowing what waited inside the bags. I imagined putting on the black balconette first. Maybe emerald. Letting him see exactly what I’d bought and exactly how it looked on me. Then taking it off again. That thought made me smile.
“I bought things.” I said sweetly.
“I figured.”
“Very sexy things.” I nudged one boutique bag toward him with my foot. “Maybe I show you.”
“Maybe?”
I leaned closer, hands settling on his shoulders. “First on Kana.” My lips came close to his ear. “Then off Kana.” I licked his ear lightly as I backed away. That got his attention. Much better.
I straightened again, enjoying the way he looked at me. This was still so new. Evan wasn’t Grant. I loved Grant. I would always love Grant. But the distinction felt completely natural now. Grant was my husband, my family, the man I wanted beside me when I woke up fifty years from now.
Evan was a man. A real man. There was something exciting about simply standing in front of him knowing that. His size. His confidence. The way he never seemed intimidated by me. Grant treated my body like something precious. Evan looked at it like something he intended to enjoy. And, of course, Evan had Kami-sama. I glanced down at his boxers.
“Mmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He knew. I knew he knew. His eyes dropped toward the black bag. He laughed and leaned back. “Grant’s going to have an interesting reaction to all this.”
That caught my attention.
“Grant?”
“The lingerie.”
I looked toward the boutique bags. Then laughed.
“Oh. Hai.”
“Think he’ll want to borrow some?”
“No. These mine.”
The answer came immediately. Evan laughed harder.
The image amused me more than it should have. Grant shopping for lingerie. Grant standing there seriously deciding between lace and satin. Grant pretending not to be embarrassed while secretly loving every second of it.
I smiled.
“He really like panties.”
“Apparently he really likes a lot of things.”
I looked at Evan. He was grinning again.
“He like watch,” I said.
“Cuck.”
I giggled.
Last night should have made the word feel cruel. Somehow it didn’t. Grant had been happier than he wanted to it. Embarrassed, absolutely. But embarrassment and unhappiness weren’t the same thing. I’d known that man most of my life. I knew the difference.
“He like watching.”
“He loves watching.”
“And panties.”
“Loves those too.”
I thought about the red satin pair he’d chosen before bed. The little bow. The way he’d touched the material as though discovering something he’d been missing his entire life.
“Not exactly masculine.” Evan stated.
That came easily too. Grant wasn’t Evan. The comparison was ridiculous.
I looked at the man sitting in front of me, broad, hard, and confident in nothing but boxers, then imagined Grant last night in delicate red satin.
A laugh escaped me.
“Not real man like you.”
“Maybe he’s better at the other side of it.”
I tilted my head.
Evan shrugged. “He likes women’s underwear. Likes watching his wife with another man. You already think he’s cute dressed like that. Maybe Grant should stop trying so hard to be masculine.”
I considered it.
There was something appealing about the idea. Grant had spent so much of his life worrying. Trying to be the husband he thought he should be. The father he should be. The man he should be. Even last night, when he was obviously enjoying himself, embarrassment kept fighting with it.
Why? If he liked something, he should fucking like it. I did. Life was easier that way.
“He should be comfortable,” I said. “Being feminine.”
Evan smiled. He reached beside himself and picked up a coin. I looked at it.
“What that?”
“Magic.”
“Baka.”
“No, for real. Want to make it interesting?”
I smiled. Of course I did. Evan rolled the coin across his fingers, watching me.
“Fact. This coin can grant Kana one wish.”
The coin warmed in his hand. I stared at it. Then Evan. He looked completely serious. I laughed.
“Magic coin?”
“One wish.”
“For anything?”
“Anything.”
I looked at the coin again. Maybe I should have wished for something enormous. Money. Youth. Something impossible. But we’d just been talking about Grant.
Sweet, ridiculous Grant in his red satin panties, still carrying embarrassment about something that had made him obviously happy.
I already knew what I wanted. I wanted to make Grant happy. I smiled.
“I wish Grant completely comfortable with feminine side.”
Evan’s grin widened.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s a good wish.”
I looked at the coin. That was it?
“Done?”
“Done.”
Good. I immediately turned my attention back to the important things. I nudged one of my shopping bags with my foot. “Now you want see?”
Evan looked at the bags, then at me. “No.”
I blinked.
“No?” I was seriously shocked. How could anyone not want to look at me.
“Upstairs.”
I stared at him. He nodded toward the staircase.
“You want any more of me, go upstairs and get ready.”
A slow smile spread across my face. I gathered my bags and headed toward the stairs, letting my hips move freely now. One step. Then another. The day’s newest purchase made each shift of my body considerably more distracting, but knowing Evan was behind me watching made slowing down impossible.
Halfway up, I looked over my shoulder. He was staring. Good. I gave my hips one last deliberate sway. “Don’t take long. Kana can entertain self.” Then hurried upstairs. I had an entire afternoon’s worth of purchases to choose from. And Evan had just told Kana to surprise him.
Poor man had no idea what he’d asked for.