"Seven o'clock alarm… as ever," Hayasaka Ai murmured sotto voce, silencing it.
She charged the device by his bedside, confirmed the room's lock—secure—and returned to his side. Her lithe legs, clad in modest student socks, brushed together as she shed her polished black shoes. Facing Kagura, her right hand dipped into the pocket of her uniform skirt, folded to the knee.
Therein lay a silken, rose-hued undergarment—proof of her bare state beneath.
Leaning down, she patted his face lightly—pat, pat—a subtle curve gracing her lips. Tucking a strand of hair aside, she pressed a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Glancing at the phone—6:55—she waited until 6:58 to lift his quilt, unveiling him to his feet. She mounted the bed, stepping lightly upon his pillow, pivoting to face his toes, and straddled his head with parted thighs.
Kagura slumbered yet in dreams.
"Hmph…" Hayasaka Ai grasped her skirt's hem, as she had these three or four years past, lifting it as she knelt astride him.
Her meticulously cleansed sanctum pressed against his visage, adjusted deftly to rest upon his lips—a clandestine ritual to rouse him.
His breath impeded, Kagura awoke instantly. Scant sleep left him drowsy, yet this did not hinder his execution of their perennial "morning salutation."
Among his proclivities for feminine delights—his so-called fetishes—savoring such intimacy ranked high. Thus, Hayasaka Ai oft dubbed him "a cur in heat beneath a maid's skirts."
Her warm, pliant petals met his lips with apt pressure, his nose grazing her entrance, inhaling the beguiling scent of maidenly depths—a fragrance that enthralled men without fail. Needing neither hands nor sight, he extended his tongue in half-wakefulness, encountering that semi-firm pearl, a nexus of countless nerves, the fount of feminine bliss.
It was, too, his cherished means to master Hayasaka Ai.
"It seems… you are roused… Good morning, Lord Kagura," she intoned, poised above to let him relish her.
Even absent such ministrations, his manhood stood erect beneath his loose robe, its tip emerging fully, flushed crimson and violet—an aching testament to need.
Kagura spoke not, merely savoring her nectar. Save during her courses, this covert awakening never ceased.
In his past life, a virgin felled by overwork ere tasting womanhood, he had, in this existence, sampled her ambrosia for years afore his manhood breached the hallowed crevice now poised above his lips.
Its flavor defied precise depiction yet enthralled him utterly—a faint salinity, perfectly balanced, tinged with a peculiar astringency. Her viscous nectar clung, slurping audibly, coating his lips, trickling into his mouth, twining with his tongue—drawing threads, forming beads, entwining, dripping.
In this stance, her seam kissed his mouth vertically, or perchance horizontally, as a mischievous maiden might wet his lips in jest. The more he lapped, the more her honey flowed, an endless wellspring that defied his efforts to exhaust it, keeping his tongue ever occupied.
Lips and tongue caressed, sucked, or swayed like a slug's embrace along her folds, reveling in their subtle, lascivious shifts. Her youthful, lascivious aroma enveloped his nostrils, her stifled moans filled his ears, and her skirt veiled his sight—his world reduced to this moist, sacred hollow upon his face.
Probing her depths, the passage narrowed swiftly, thwarting deeper ingress—a lamentable limit of mortal tongues. Were it possible, he'd wield a tongue sixteen centimeters long, pinning Hayasaka Ai to a piano, delving beneath her skirts, parting her undergarments to plunder every crease from cervix to core, scouring her love's essence clean.
Under his ministrations, Hayasaka Ai swiftly crested, her waist buckling as she collapsed forward. Brushing aside errant locks, she propped herself with her left hand betwixt his thighs, her right encircling his weeping manhood, anointing it with a delicate spit.
Only after he brought her to rapture would she, sated, bend to tend him—save during her menses, when she'd kneel at his feet for oral reveille.
Kagura's ardor for such savoring was profound. Soon after he first gained potency, he'd linger over her an hour or more, she gazing upon his arousal, a mere touch sufficing to spur his release.
Now, his endurance waxed; only her earnest lip and tongue could coax his climax.
"So engorged… is my nectar so delectable?" Hayasaka Ai panted, stroking him with a teasing smile. "Without me, would you scour a phone for a bare maiden's image, lapping like a witless hound? How… mmph! curious…"
A sudden flick upon her pearl melted her frame; she clapped a hand to her mouth, then, piqued, engulfed his manhood wholly—lips and hands in concert, sucking and sliding with fervent service.
Morning haste made this a tonic for vigor, not a test of restraint. Feeling the tide, Kagura clasped her hips, pressing his mouth ardently to her ravaged haven, probing deep with his tongue.
Sensing his peak, Hayasaka Ai swallowed him fully, urging forth his essence, then eased back, her lips and tongue cradling his crown. Her tongue swirled as her right hand gripped his base, kneading rhythmically to aid his pulsing release into her mouth.
As his tremors subsided, she cleansed him with her lips, swallowing the thick, rich yield with languid grace.
Releasing her hips, Kagura patted her buttocks, bidding her rise from his face.
She complied, retrieving disinfectant wipes from his nightstand to meticulously cleanse herself, donning her rose-hued undergarment with haste. She proffered tissues to Kagura, who sat up, wiping saliva and nectar from his visage.
Though her cheeks blazed to her ears, Hayasaka Ai's work-mode visage was an unshakable mask—yet no less endearing.
After he wiped, she disposed of the tissues, then perched beside him, leaning close to whisper behind her hand, "My most cherished, depraved scoundrel, Lord Kagura—how fared the flavor this morn?"
Invigorated, Kagura squinted, clucking his tongue with a shake of his head. "I could savor it a day entire…"
"Why not proclaim a desire to taste till death? That would better befit your perverse nature," she teased, lifting her skirt to flash the violet-ribboned undergarment, winking impishly with her left eye.
"Off with you! Is savoring such delights perverse? Then you, my wanton maid who relishes being savored, are scarce better!"
Lest their banter escalate, Kagura curtailed it, stretching with a yawn as he inwardly summoned: Summon Auxiliary System!
Instantly, his consciousness parted from the world.
"Greetings, Lord Kagura. The auxiliary system stands at your service," it responded promptly.
"May I sign in now?"
Having slept but an hour, weariness gnawed at him, yet school beckoned—opening day brooked no absence. The system's sign-in promised succor.
"Indeed. Operating on Tokyo time, a new sign-in becomes available past midnight. Consecutive sign-ins yield no added boons, nor does abstention incur penalty."
"But I'll breakfast soon. Henceforth, let sign-ins default to excluding hunger restoration, unless I stipulate otherwise."
"Of course. Shall you sign in now?"
"Yes, proceed."
The prompt scarce faded ere his consciousness returned, his spirit buoyant, his frame light, even the urge to relieve himself dispelled—a marvel unforeseen.
Hayasaka Ai aided his rise, shedding his robe to usher him to the bath, while she tended to her ablutions at the sink—brushing, rinsing, spritzing freshener to banish lingering traces, inspecting for stray hairs from his vicinity.
He might have summoned her to bathe him, yet time pressed; a shared wash risked further dalliance, so he abstained.
"How do I fare—dashing, no?" Kagura queried, adjusting his Sobu High collar once all was set.
"Ah…" Hayasaka Ai clapped listlessly, her gaze wan. "Most dashing."
"Hey! What demeanor is this!" Kagura huffed, leaning to kiss her lips, only for her to interpose a hand, drawing back. "No dawdling—breakfast awaits."
Lest a kiss reignite their fervor and delay departure.
"Very well, let's away~" Kagura snapped his fingers, whistling merrily as he exited.
In the capacious, luminous dining hall, a rectangular table clad in pristine white cloth—fit for twenty—bore but one occupant: Eriri, perched at the rightmost edge. She sat idle, cutlery untouched, her cheek propped in ennui as she regarded them.
"Morning, Eriri."
"Good morn, Lady Eriri."
"Mm, morn…" Eriri replied with languid nonchalance, her gaze drifting to the freshly served delicacies.
Clad in a deep green tracksuit striped with white, she resembled an unkempt recluse. Her golden tresses spilled haphazardly down her back, her posture slouched with a leg cocked. Her feet, shod in plain, dowdy purple socks—pilled at the heels—dangled beige slippers, exuding a careless air.