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— No way?! Seriously?! — the girl's voice rang out, trembling with outrage, with a surprisingly high and clear tone even to herself.
Akira was crouching in front of the open door of the washing machine, which was now empty—just a bare drum. Turning her head to the side, her eyes landed on this absurd thing, which, apparently, was now the only thing left to support her breasts.
— What is it this time, Akira? — the voice belonged to Jiro, her only companion and, ironically, the one she now depended on. Though “companion” was putting it nicely. After his transformation, he felt more and more like a fucking bastard wearing a mask of friendliness.
— Don’t call me that! — she snapped, rising to her feet and grabbing the poor bra so hard the underwire nearly popped out. — Where are my normal bras? Where’s the grey one? The sports one? Jiro, have you seen them?
— Uh... — came a suspiciously uncertain voice. — No.
— Get over here, Jiro. Right now. — Akira’s voice was as commanding as an officer fed up with deserters. She stood there, stubbornly holding the pink bra trimmed with little flowers like a piece of evidence from a crime scene. In that pose—barefoot, in short denim shorts, and a maroon tank top stretched tight over her overly sensitive tits—she looked damn striking.
Jiro, a 21-year-old guy, slowly appeared in the doorway, scratching the back of his head. His grey T-shirt hung loosely on his narrow shoulders, and both hands were shoved into the pockets of his cargo pants. But looks were deceiving. Jiro was incredibly strong, and with his mastery of martial arts, he was practically unbeatable. Still, at this moment, his face looked more like a guilty kid caught red-handed.
— What? — he asked, avoiding her gaze.
— One more time, — she raised the bra higher like it was a bloody knife. — Where. Are. My. Bras?
Jiro looked up, his eyes landing on the bra, then immediately shifting to Akira. A faint smirk crept across his face before he could even notice it.
— You’ve got one right there in your hand, — Jiro muttered, trying hard not to imagine how that bra would look on her, though it was nearly impossible. His mind was already flashing through imaginary scenes of Akira posing in that lingerie, and that, naturally, sent a rush of blood straight to his cock.
— You fucking pervert... — she hissed through her teeth, stepping closer. Her knees trembled slightly, not from fear, but from pure fury. She shook the bra right in front of his face. — This is your doing. You grabbed this horrible excuse of a bra from that supermarket and hid my normal ones!
— What? No, no-no, come on — Jiro waved his hands, backing away. — That’s... I... I didn’t do anything!
— Give me back my underwear, now! — she shouted so loud that Jiro stumbled and accidentally smashed his hand into the wall, misjudging his strength—and instantly punched a hole in it.
They both froze. Dust slowly drifted down from the fresh crack in the concrete, while Akira still held the pink bra like a prosecutor awaiting a confession. Only her eyes flickered slightly—not from fear, but from a brief, almost instinctive flash of realization: Jiro was dangerous.
Fucking dangerous...Full story (12 000 characters - 4 parts + add. images) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon