Kai's hand froze on the sliding door.
The moonlight painted Reiko in silver and shadow, the thin yukata doing absolutely nothing to hide the weight of her breasts or the way her nipples had already stiffened against the damp fabric.
"I… didn't mean to wake you," she whispered, but her eyes never left the thick ridge straining down the left leg of his jeans. A visible pulse ran through it, making the wet spot at the tip grow darker. "It's just—when a new man comes to Hanami, the women… we like to make sure he feels at home."
Her voice was pure honey poured over gravel. Married for twenty-five years, Kai guessed. And not fucked properly in at least ten.
He stepped aside without a word.
Reiko glided past him, hips swaying, the scent of her skin—jasmine, sweat, and something unmistakably aroused—filling the small room. She set the tray on the low table, bent far more than necessary, and the back of her yukata rode up just enough to flash the bottom curves of an ass so plump it made his mouth water.
Tea forgotten, she turned.
Up close she was even more devastating. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes, full lips painted the faintest pink, and those tits—heavy, pendulous, easily an I-cup—swaying with every breath. A thin rivulet of sweat disappeared into the valley between them.
"You're very… big," she said softly, echoing the words he'd heard a hundred times in the city, except this time there was no fear in her voice. Only hunger.
Kai's control snapped.
He closed the distance in one step, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her like he was starving. Reiko moaned into his mouth instantly, soft tongue seeking his, hands clawing at his bare chest. When she felt the steel bar in his jeans press against her belly she shuddered and ground herself against it.
"Please," she gasped against his lips. "My husband—he hasn't touched me in years. I'm so empty it hurts."
Kai growled, spun her, and pushed her forward over the low table. Tea cups rattled. Reiko braced her hands on the wood, back arching, ass presented like an offering.
He yanked the yukata ties. The fabric fell open like theater curtains.
No bra. No panties. Nothing but smooth, sun-kissed skin and curves that had ripened for decades without being properly picked.
Her pussy was already glistening—plump outer lips, neat trim of black hair, and a steady drip of arousal sliding down the inside of one thick thigh.
"Fuck," Kai breathed. He dropped to his knees behind her, spread those glorious cheeks, and dragged his tongue from clit to slit in one slow lick.
Reiko cried out, knees buckling. She tasted like sea salt and ripe peach—sweet, musky, desperate. He ate her like a man possessed, tongue fucking into her, nose buried in her scent, while she babbled broken pleas in Japanese.
When he stood and freed his cock, Reiko looked back over her shoulder and her eyes went wide.
It slapped heavy against her ass—nine inches, wrist-thick, angry red and veined, precum stringing from the slit to her skin.
"Slowly," she begged, voice trembling with need. "You'll ruin me."
"That's the plan," Kai said, and fed the head between her soaked folds.
One inch. Two. She was impossibly tight—velvet walls clamping down like they'd never been stretched this wide. Reiko's breath hitched, then turned into a low, continuous moan as he kept pushing, slow and relentless, until his hips met her ass and she was stuffed fuller than she'd ever been in her life.
He gave her ten seconds to adjust, then started to move.
Long, deep strokes. Pulling almost all the way out until just the head kissed her entrance, then sliding back in to the root. Each thrust nudged her cervix and made those massive tits swing like pendulums beneath her.
Reiko came on the fifteenth stroke—hard. Her pussy spasmed, gushing around his cock, soaking his balls and the tatami below. She bit her forearm to muffle the scream.
Kai didn't stop.
He fucked her through it, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, watching her ass ripple with every impact. Minutes blurred into an hour. She came again, then again, until tears streaked her cheeks and her voice was hoarse from crying his name.
Only when her legs gave out completely did he flip her onto her back on the futon.
Reiko's eyes were glassy, lips swollen. She spread her thighs without being asked, showing him the beautiful mess he'd made—puffy red pussy lips, his cock glistening with her cream, a steady trickle of mixed fluids already leaking from her hole.
"Inside," she whispered. "Fill me. I want to feel it for days."
Kai sank back in with one smooth thrust and let go.
The first rope of cum painted her insides so hard she jerked. Then another, and another—thick, endless pulses until her lower belly swelled slightly and cum was forced out around his buried cock in creamy rivulets.
He stayed inside her long after, still half-hard, feeling her pussy flutter with aftershocks.
Reiko traced lazy circles on his chest. "There are others," she murmured, lips brushing his ear. "So many others. Lonely. Starving. When word spreads about what you just did to me…"
Kai's cock twitched inside her, already thickening again.
She smiled, wicked and sated. "Welcome to Hanami, Kai-kun. You're going to be very, very busy."
Outside, the cicadas screamed on, oblivious to the fact that the village's long drought had just broken.
The morning after Reiko left (bow-legged, yukata clutched shut, cum still dripping down her thighs), Kai discovered two things:
1. Word travels faster than light in a village of 312 people.
2. The only store in Hanami was a twenty-minute walk away… and it was heaven.
The sign read "Yamada Mart – Open 6 a.m. to midnight."
It was 9:47 a.m. when Kai pushed through the glass door, shirt sticking to his back from the heat, cock already half-hard from the memory of Reiko's pussy milking him dry.
The air-conditioning hit him like cold water. So did she.
Behind the counter stood the clerk he'd only glimpsed from the bus window days ago.
Sayuri. Forty-two years old, name tag crooked between the deepest cleavage Kai had ever seen in public. Short—barely five-foot-two—but built like a fertility goddess who'd decided to cosplay as a convenience-store worker.
Her uniform was criminal: a tight white polo shirt with the top three buttons permanently defeated, stretched so thin across her chest that the pink lace of her bra was visible through the fabric. Her breasts were obscene—round, gravity-defying J-cups that rested heavily on the counter whenever she leaned forward. Below, a black pencil skirt hugged an ass so fat it looked like two beach balls fighting for space.
And she was sweating. The AC was clearly losing the battle against summer. Beads rolled down her neck and disappeared into that endless valley of titflesh.
Sayuri's eyes flicked up from the magazine she was reading. The moment she saw him, the magazine slipped from her fingers.
"You're… the new farmer," she breathed, voice low and smoky, like she'd been gargling honey and whiskey. Her gaze dropped straight to his crotch, lingered on the thick outline straining his work pants, and her thighs pressed together under the counter.
Kai smirked. Reiko had definitely talked.
"Need some things," he said, stepping closer. The store was empty—no cameras in sight, just like every rural shop that barely broke even.
Sayuri came around the counter slowly, hips rolling, skirt riding higher with every step. Up close she smelled like vanilla body spray and wet pussy. Her nipples were rock-hard, poking obscenely through shirt and bra.
"I'm Sayuri," she said, stopping inches away. Close enough that her tits brushed his chest when she breathed. "My husband owns this place. He's in Tokyo until next month… 'business.'"
Her hand drifted down, boldly palmed the front of his pants, and squeezed. A soft whimper escaped her when she felt how thick he was.
"Reiko-chan came by this morning," she whispered, cheeks flushing. "She could barely walk. Said you… ruined her. In the best way."
Kai caught her wrist, guided her hand lower so she could feel his balls—full and heavy again already.
"I close at midnight," Sayuri continued, voice trembling with need. "But for you… I can close early."
The rest of the day was torture.
Kai bought instant noodles, beer, anything to drag out the visit. Every time Sayuri reached for a high shelf, her skirt rode up, revealing the bottom of a fat, jiggling ass and the fact she was wearing a thong the size of dental floss. Every time she bent to the low fridge, those monstrous tits nearly spilled out completely.
By evening the store was still empty, the cicadas screaming outside like they knew what was coming.
At 9:58 p.m. Sayuri locked the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and dragged him into the back stockroom.
The second the door shut she was on him—mouth desperate, hands tearing at his belt.
"I've never been fucked properly," she panted against his lips. "My husband is tiny. Five inches on a good day and over in thirty seconds. I need it hard. I need it deep. I need—"
Kai spun her, pushed her chest-first against stacked boxes of cup ramen. He hiked that tight skirt up over the biggest ass he'd ever seen—two pale globes swallowing a neon-pink thong already soaked through.
He ripped the thong off. Literally. The fabric tore like paper.
Sayuri's pussy was a work of art: puffy, shaved except for a small landing strip, and absolutely flooding. Juices ran in rivulets down both thighs.
"Jesus fuck," Kai groaned, dropping to his knees. He spread her cheeks and buried his face, tongue plunging into her hole while she sobbed and pushed back against him.
She came in under a minute, thighs clamping around his head, squirting so hard it splashed his chest.
Only then did he stand, free his cock, and line up.
Sayuri looked back over her shoulder, eyes wide and glassy.
"Do it," she begged. "Split me open."
He did.
One slow, relentless thrust until his hips met that ridiculous ass and she was stuffed balls-deep. Sayuri screamed into her forearm, pussy spasming wildly around the invasion.
He gave her a moment—barely—then started pounding.
Hard. Deep. No mercy.
The stockroom filled with wet slaps, her muffled screams, and the obscene sound of a married pussy finally getting what it had craved for decades.
Sayuri came again and again—gushing, shaking, babbling nonsense about never wanting another man.
Hours later, when Kai finally let himself explode, he pulled her down to the floor, bent her over a stack of beer cases, and pumped rope after thick rope straight into her womb. So much cum it overflowed immediately, running down her thighs in thick white streams.
She lay there afterward, skirt around her waist, tits spilled out of her ruined uniform, pussy gaping and leaking.
"Tomorrow," she whispered hoarsely, "I'll introduce you to Mika next door. And Aiko. And the twins from the shrine…"
Kai's cock—still half-hard and shiny with her cream—twitched at the promise.
Hanami wasn't a village.
It was a buffet.
And he was just getting started.
Sayuri wasn't born in Hanami.
She was born in Osaka, twenty-two years ago when she was still a loud, brash nineteen-year-old idol trainee with dyed honey-blonde hair, a 105 cm bust that made the agency scouts drool, and dreams of Tokyo stardom.
She had the body agencies killed for back then—tiny waist, legs for days, and tits that looked fake but weren't. The plan was simple: debut in a three-member gravure-idol unit, do a few photobooks in micro-bikinis, then transition into variety shows and maybe a drama or two.
Then she met Kenji Yamada.
Thirty-eight, heir to a small chain of rural convenience stores, visiting Osaka for a franchise fair. He saw her at a host-club event (she was moonlighting as a bottle girl to pay for dance lessons), took one look at those overflowing breasts in the bunny suit, and decided he had to have her.
He courted her the way rich countryside boys do: expensive dinners, Louis Vuitton bags, promises of a comfortable life where she'd never have to worry about money again. Sayuri, exhausted from 4 a.m. dance practices and creepy producers who kept "accidentally" brushing her ass, fell hard.
They married six months later. She was twenty, he was thirty-nine. The wedding was the talk of three prefectures.
The first year was paradise. Kenji fucked her three times a day, obsessed with her body, buying her lingerie that cost more than most people's rent. She got pregnant on the honeymoon—twins, a boy and a girl—and suddenly the idol dream was quietly buried.
The kids came. The stores expanded. Kenji spent more nights in hotel rooms "negotiating" with suppliers. Sayuri's body changed: breasts ballooned from a already-insane G-cup to a back-breaking J-cup from breastfeeding, hips widened for childbirth, ass thickened into the kind of shelf that made old men walk into telephone poles.
Kenji's interest waned the moment the stretch marks appeared.
By the time the twins were in elementary school, sex was once a month if she was lucky—and always the same: three minutes of missionary, a sad little spurt on her belly, and Kenji rolling over to snore. He started calling her "Mama" even in bed.
Sayuri tried everything. Lingerie. Begging. Blowjobs in the store office at 2 a.m. Nothing worked. Kenji's dick barely twitched anymore unless it was some twenty-year-old clerk in Tokyo he was paying for hotel rooms.
So Sayuri did what neglected wives in the countryside do: she coped.
She started wearing the old idol outfits again in secret—tiny skirts that barely covered her ass, tops that her tits had long since outgrown. She'd lock the store early, stand in the walk-in freezer, and masturbate furiously with the thick handle of the ice scraper, imagining the roaring crowds from her almost-debut, imagining thousands of men jerking off to her photobooks that never happened.
Some nights she came so hard her legs gave out on the cold floor.
The village women knew, of course. They all knew each other's secrets. Reiko had quietly slipped her a vibrator shaped like a lipstick years ago. Mika lent her doujinshi. Aiko once caught her fingering herself in the onsen changing room and just smiled and said, "We've all been there, sweetheart."
But toys were never enough.
Sayuri needed to be wanted again. Needed to feel a man lose his mind between her thighs. Needed to be fucked so hard she forgot her own name.
Then Kai walked into Yamada Mart.
One look at the outline of that monster cock in his pants, and twenty-two years of frustration crystallized into a single, animal thought:
Mine.
She didn't care that he was half her age. Didn't care that her husband might find out. Didn't care that the security camera in the stockroom had been broken for six months.
All she cared about was finally—finally—getting the fucking she'd been starving for since the day she traded fame for a quiet life.
And when Kai eventually painted her womb white for the third time that night, when she lay on the stockroom floor with her ruined uniform around her waist and his cum pouring out of her like a faucet, Sayuri cried.
Not from pain.
From relief.
Because for the first time in over a decade, she remembered exactly who she was:
A woman built to be worshipped.
And Kai was the first man in years who looked at her like a goddess instead of a wife.
She knew, even as her pussy fluttered around his still-buried cock, that she would never let him go.
None of them would.