𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝘅 (eng)

𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝘅

Satoru is a prostitute.

An escort, if you prefer it, but still a whore. She knows it, it's not that she doesn't know it, but sometimes it almost seems like she can pretend she isn't.

She wakes up when the sun is already high - she's never been a morning person and has never had a reason to change this habit of hers. Blades of light cut through the dark room, painting abstract figures on the white wooden panel at the door of the massive wardrobe pressed against the wall.

The bed is empty, obviously.

Satoru watches the specks of dust floating through the rectangles of light in front of her for what feels like an eternity; hours could pass, and she wouldn't notice.

She lingers among the sheets a little longer. They're freshly laundered, smooth against her skin, of excellent quality like every single tile in that enormous house. She groans as she stretches her muscles, stiff from sleep, the blankets tangled around her legs, her rebellious white hair tickling her face.

She rolls over to the other half of the bed, the side where Suguru sleeps. It's cold, lifeless, the sheets seem barely disturbed, and the pillow has just a small indentation where she rested her head the night before. Suguru sleeps very neatly, still as a mummy; you wouldn't even notice she's there, betrayed only by the occasional soft snore.

Satoru buries her face in the pillow and inhales deeply, taking in the scent of Suguru's shampoo buried beneath the more persistent smell of detergent. She feels warm, wet, and nervous. She clutches the sheets in her fists, pulling them slightly as if blaming them for the other woman's absence.

She presses her legs together, easing the throbbing sensation between her thighs. She squirms, letting out muffled sighs and gasps into the soft memory foam pillow where her face is buried, rolling onto one side, then the other, roughing up the bed linens around her.

She climbs onto the mattress, leveraging the headboard and sits up, moaning as she straddles Suguru's pillow. A sound of appreciation escapes her lips as her swollen clit rubs delicately against the pillowcase, covered only by a pair of light blue lace panties she doesn't even remember wearing last night.

She throws her head back, her white hair has grown longer and tickles her shoulders as she tilts her neck, rolls her hips and it doesn't take her long to find the right angle, the one that sends shivers down her spine and makes her feel like her insides are knotting in the bottom of her stomach.

She lets lewd moans stain her lips; one thing she loves about this house is that no matter how loud she is, no one would still be able to hear her.

She rides the pillow like it's her lover's face, moans her name like she can hear her, pinches her nipples until she screams because Suguru isn't there to do it for her and doesn't stop until she cums shaking, muscled burning from the effort, a trickle of drool dripping down her lips swollen from biting them too hard.

She grips the soft pillow between her legs tightly, slips her hands under Suguru's black t-shirt that she fell asleep in, and wraps her own arms around her hips. She likes to be hugged after an orgasm.

***

Satoru is a prostitute, and she knows it. There's no need to remind her.

After her shower, she goes to the living room with her hair still wet. The Italian leather of the sofa sticks annoyingly to her thighs - a real shame because Satoru finds that couch so elegant. She believes it's an important design piece; it certainly looks like one.

Suguru bought her a PlayStation along with a ton of video games. Satoru asked for some really violent ones, and Suguru openly expressed her disapproval - but she bought them anyway.