Episode 6. The Fourth Time — Futanari, the Restaurant, Push and Pull, Seduction
Saturday evening, seven o'clock.
Miu stopped in front of the restaurant entrance.
Why did I come.
When the first message arrived, Miu had shut it down in three syllables: "Don't bother." The second, she read and put away. On the third, she moved to block the number — and didn't. She had decided not to think about why. She simply hadn't blocked it, that was all. Then the fourth came: an address, a time, nothing more. No persuading, no pleading — just the bare information, offered with the calm certainty that she would come.
That was what disgusted her most.
She had resolved not to go. In front of the mirror, again and again.
And then she opened the closet. She tried on the first dress and took it off — it looked like she was trying too hard. The second was the opposite: it looked like she hadn't cared at all. She stopped at the third. Looked in the mirror. Looked at her own face. Knowing exactly what she was dressing up for — she did it anyway.
That night came back to her.
She had tried to erase it, over and over, and the harder she tried, the sharper it grew. Jian's hand inside her — and the thought, don't stop. The way she had come apart and admitted it. The way she, so cold, had been opened that completely. She hated it.
That was why she had refused three times.
And yet she came.
Before the glass door, Miu lingered a moment longer. She could still turn back. Not yet — she hadn't so much as stepped inside.
But her hand pushed the door open.
Jian was already seated.
A black shirt, the top two buttons undone. An androgynous beauty that needed no makeup at all. She was watching Miu. She didn't rise. No gesture of welcome. She simply — looked.
Eyes that hid nothing of what they wanted, yet were in no hurry at all. The eyes of someone who had known all along that she would come.
That gaze unsettled Miu more than anything. Because it was never wrong.
She sat down.
"So you did come?"
"Just here to eat, and then I'm leaving."
Jian didn't answer. The corner of her mouth lifted, barely.
Wine arrived, dishes arrived, conversation flowed. Jian applied no pressure. She was simply there, never pulling things toward anywhere Miu didn't want to go. It was just talk. Just a meal. Little by little, Miu began to loosen.
Maybe this really is just dinner.
Then, beneath the table, Jian's hand began to move toward her.
Miu went rigid.
Jian lifted her wine glass and said, perfectly casual:
"You look lovely today."
Under her skirt. Fingertips touched first — over her panties — drifting slowly to their place.
She remembered. These fingers. This heat.
Miu stared straight ahead.
While Jian's fingers moved, she fought to keep her expression unchanged. This was a matter of technique — this much should not have been difficult. Whatever happened underneath, the face above stayed composed. That had always been Miu's way.
Jian's fingers found the most sensitive spot.
"...Hng—"
Miu snatched up her napkin and pressed it to her mouth, coughing — or pretending to.
Jian's finger traced slow circles over the fabric of her panties. The heat bleeding through that single thin layer was more vivid than memory — the same spot as last time, as if Jian's fingers had memorized that night down to the last detail.
Then the waiter approached.
Miu smiled. She lowered the napkin, turned her eyes to him, and laid her voice a register lower than usual.
"Thank you."
A perfectly cool voice. The waiter bowed and withdrew.
Jian's fingers did not stop.
Miu let her breath out as her eyes followed the waiter's retreat. No one had caught on. No one knew what was unfolding beneath the tablecloth.
And yet her hand — was trembling.
She picked up her water glass and brought it to her lips to hide it. She managed a sip. Her throat burned.
Two of Jian's fingers pushed the fabric aside and slid straight inside.
"Ah—"
A sound escaped, small. As Miu set the glass down, it knocked against the table — a tiny chime. That was all anyone could have heard.
Inside, her body answered instantly. Memory got there before she did. How these fingers moved, where and how they pressed — her body knew first. Something low in her belly pulled tight at once.
A rhythm took shape, curling along her inner walls, tapping upward — once, then again.
Miu picked up her fork, cut her food, brought it to her mouth, chewed — without tasting any of it.
I have to stop this. There are people all around us.
And yet her hips rocked, faintly, without her permission — as if chasing the rhythm of Jian's fingers.
A wet sound rose, very small, beneath the table. It rang unmistakably in Miu's ears. That sound betrayed exactly how wet she was. It was mortifying. And it pulled her deeper.
Jian changed the angle.
"...Hah—"
Miu muffled her mouth with the napkin — the sound had already escaped. Across the room, a guest at another table lifted their head, then lowered it again.
Miu raised her wine glass so she wouldn't meet their eyes, managing the stranger's gaze over the rim. Even as her lips touched the glass — below, the fingers never stopped.
The fork cut into her plate with a small clatter; her hand was shaking. Jian lifted her own glass and looked at Miu. As though aware of nothing. As though doing nothing at all.
She's sitting there calmly drinking wine. While doing this to me.
The thought, absurdly — made her burn hotter.
Jian's fingers slowed to a stop just short of Miu's climax.
Completely. Still inside her. Not moving.
Miu went rigid. She waited, half-expecting the motion to resume.
It didn't.
"...Why?"
Miu asked it low, trying to keep her voice cold — but it shook at the end.
Jian looked at her. Slowly.
"Do you want it?"
Miu didn't answer.
Jian's fingers pressed deeper, then stopped — right at the border, at the place that felt like just barely enough. Even that stillness made the depths of her ache with want.
"Say it, and I'll give it to you."
"...Forget it."
"Then I'll take them out."
She felt Jian's fingers beginning to withdraw.
"Wait."
The word left her, and Miu startled even herself. She had never said it first — words like these, not to this person.
"What is it?" Jian asked, low.
"...Keep going."
Miu's voice cracked, low. It was an admission — that she wanted it. Saying it first meant losing, and she knew it, and her mouth had moved first anyway.
Jian moved again. Deeper this time.
Miu's eyes fell shut. Beneath the table, fingers found the deepest place and pressed up against it, precisely.
"Hahh—"
A low, short sound slipped out.
Jian took the lead.
"Come over here."
The tablecloth hung long, nearly to the floor. Jian's seat was tucked into the corner, a wall at her back. She drew her chair back a little.
Miu looked around. The waiter was on the far side. The other guests were sunk in their own conversations.
This is insane. Here?
Jian waited. She didn't rush. That patience was — more certain than any urging could have been.
Miu stood, as though simply moving to the seat beside her, naturally — and inside the tablecloth, settled onto Jian's lap.
Jian undid Miu's jacket buttons, slowly. Then her blouse. Then her bra.
"...People can see."
Miu said it low.
"The tablecloth covers everything below, doesn't it?"
Below was hidden. But her chest — was bare. Fair skin, laid open to the restaurant lights.
Jian looked. Unhurried. A long time. Like someone savoring a view.
That gaze made Miu uncomfortable. Uncomfortable — and still she didn't turn away. That night, too, it had been this look: one that saw everything and judged nothing.
Jian's hands covered her, slowly, palms learning their weight. Thumbs found the most sensitive points.
Miu gripped the edge of the table, tendons standing out in her fingertips.
Jian looked up at her.
Can I put it in?
It wasn't spoken aloud. It was in her eyes.
Miu looked away.
That was her answer.
From below — it entered her.
There was resistance; she was stretched taut. Jian didn't hurry. Slowly, she felt herself parted, then giving way, adapting — fullness, strain, nothing like fingers. A heavy weight filling her all the way to the depths of her belly.
Miu's breath stopped entirely.
Jian took hold of her waist. Lifted her slowly. Lowered her. A rhythm formed.
No. Not here. I can't, not here.
But her body was accepting that rhythm. Every time she sank down, something deep inside her was pressed — a place fingers never reached. A place she hadn't known, even that night.
"...Haah—"
It slipped out low, before she could muffle it.
A sticky sound of clinging and parting rose — in the quiet restaurant, very faint, clear to Miu's ears alone.
Praying that sound — the sound her own body made from inside — would never rise above the table, Miu followed the rhythm, deeper by little degrees.
Jian's hands pressed her breasts at the same time, thumbs circling the tender points. The two stimulations overlapped — below and above at once.
Her hips sank deeper. As if asking for more.
"Hah— hah—"
She pressed the sounds down, but her breaking breath was beyond her control.
Jian shifted her angle.
Deep inside — a place unlike any before was touched. A place Miu had never known. An unfamiliar sensation bloomed there — unfamiliar, and her body answered it instantly. It felt as though her whole body were reaching toward it.
"There—"
The word escaped. Miu clamped a hand over her mouth. Too late.
Jian held that angle exactly.
Something began to gather below her belly. She tried to control it, tried to keep it from closing in. It was no use. Her body was following Jian's rhythm, tilting to match her angle — after refusing for so long, after turning back three times, she was losing this easily.
Then the waiter approached, and Miu froze.
She tried to stop. Jian's hands locked around her waist — and did not stop, even knowing exactly where Miu's body was heading. She would not allow it to stop.
The waiter came to a halt beside their table.
"Your dessert."
Miu lifted her head. Their eyes met.
He saw. The flushed face. The trembling shoulders. The bared chest.
And — he stopped.
It was a knowing look. He understood what this was. What was happening below the table.
Miu's eyes stayed on his. She couldn't look away — her body was still moving, and she couldn't stop it. Under the waiter's gaze, eyes locked, Miu's body stood one breath from collapse.
It was mortifying.
Being seen like this — chest bared, riding on Jian, staring the waiter dead in the eye.
And that shame — shoved her body straight to the edge.
She couldn't hold it back any longer. It was already coming.
Strength drained out of Miu's whole body.
I'm losing. Losing. To her. Again.
"Aaah—"
Her hips sank down — the deepest yet. Her body had decided, outrunning her reason.
The contractions came — quiet at first, then all at once. Miu's hands seized the table edge harder. Her head dropped against Jian's shoulder. Her eyes closed.
Tears fell.
From the shame of it. Of being seen. Of falling apart like this.
The contractions wouldn't stop — once, and again. Everything inside her clenched around Jian and pulled, heat and slickness flowing from every place they touched.
Her body had already said it all.
The waiter set down the dessert and bowed his head.
"Take your time."
And he withdrew, quickly.
Silence returned.
Miu rested her forehead against Jian's shoulder.
Her breath wouldn't come back. She was still throbbingly raw inside, the contractions not quite finished — as if the smallest movement from Jian would start them all over again.
Jian slowly straightened Miu's blouse for her. Then her jacket. Without a word.
A long while later, Miu returned to her own seat. The dessert sat waiting on the table. She dabbed her eyes with her napkin — coolly, as if nothing at all had happened.
"You're a filthy person."
Miu said it quietly.
Jian looked at her.
"Your body was honest, though."
Miu said nothing. It wasn't a lie.
Outside the window, the night was deepening. Inside the restaurant, conversation still hummed along. No one knew what had just happened at this table.
Jian said it over her dessert:
"See you next time."
Miu didn't answer.
But — she began to eat her dessert.
That was her answer.
There would be no need for a fifth message.