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This was a ballroom. No other word comprised so much scarlet plush and gold. Chandeliers of wrought brass blazed sextuple-split light from their crystalline candles. The matching, motley paint on the walls was still very new; fairies in the deeper reaches of the mansion could be glimpsed sporting it like veteran scars. Half a dozen hues in the honour of a goddess revivified.

And beneath them, believers thronged.

Maids scurried in strength around and around the ballroom, some laden under trays of colourfully glazed pastries and some – the guests’ gauche attentions. The job posting had been undiscriminating; here and there, therefore, it was possible to see a furry tail or ear or wing failing the human spot-check. The Scarlet Devil Mansion, nevertheless, was where everything went; and the human and youkai maids conducted themselves, if nothing else, with fewer spilled drinks and pulled pants than even the most disciplined fairies.

And this was Sekibanki. Sekibanki stood in a meticulously selected “there” rather than “here” at the farthest-flung end of the ballroom, scowling. Sekibanki was, pointedly, not drawing herself a cup of punch from the nearby bowl; she furthermore wore an unimpeachably ironed headdress, ruffled half-apron and a puffy-sleeved dress with a skirt designed to pin the guests’ attention low and away the parts of her which could’ve otherwise given them distress. Insofar as these facts, it could be surmised Sekibanki was a maid among maids at the beck and call of the Scarlet Devil and her pet goddess’s. Insofar as the chitty back in the pocket of her cape, that would’ve been correct.

The chitty hadn’t the half of it down.

Sekibanki sighed. The man beside her gave her a curious, sidelong glance. Sekibanki maintained it was a man because he listed off as one: a head (hah!) and shoulders taller than she, a cheap waistcoat over his linens, arms with longer reach than was their own good. Considered from the other end of the ball, he was misfortune waiting to happen on the way home.

“… It is nothing, sir,” she said frostily, staring ahead.

Ice tinkled in the man’s wineglass – although for this, much as she would’ve liked, she couldn’t take the credit. Sekibanki caught the hint of a twitch of the smirk-like variety at this reply out the corner of her eye. The man checked it at a healthy fraction of the speed of prudence. Some things went; attitude just made them go amiss. Ask her heel and the dented instep of his shoe.

“Had I conjectured you were by chance looking out for the head maid,” he said in response, insufferably on the mark, “what I would have told you, miss, is that she left a fair few minutes ago with a— er, escorting an unsteadily vertical gentleman. Way of the party, that, miss. Way of the party. Certain she’ll be along… before long.”

Sekibanki sucked her teeth. The head maid, a woman with a glare to give Sekibanki’s a green eye, had been a straw to clutch at for the maids drowning in their inexperience. There would always be a meeting of eyes, somehow, the briefest pause to detect and then a discreet not toward the next thing in dire need of doing. That she’d gone missing in action meant a number of the maids were left, so to speak, adrift.

Above all, it’d left Sekibanki out of an excuse.

“Should think you wanted this to pass,” said the man, stepping in close – too close – behind, “sneaking off back here as you did, miss… Apologies; I did not catch your name?”

“… I didn’t toss it,” retorted Sekibanki.

“Ahaha. Ouch. Just as well, just as well. Somebody might have snatched it first. And a blow that’d be. You are the ruby in the rough of this fair, miss.”

In the rainbow glow of the ballroom, Sekibanki flushed a faint red. Not because of the compliment; compliments were many a free drink and whittling patience. The reason why was the large, brazen hand sidling down the small of her back to venture under her lacy uniform’s skirt.

Its sibling swirled the man’s wineglass inattentively even as his fingers wormed beneath the band of her pantyhose and undies. A gap hadn’t been sooner wedged open than his palm plunged down the rear of her underwear, grasping her shapely – if she were any judge – tush directly and – contrary to the stray brushes she’d collected serving out the drinks – full-, five-fingered-on.

A squiggly, sideways-C-shape of a smile crawled onto Sekibanki’s lips. The tough pads of the man’s fingertips splayed out and gathered up the flesh of her buttocks as though assaying how they would’ve faced up to heavier abuse. She all but wished to find out for herself. Those fingers felt they could do unspeakable things…

No… No. Sekibanki whipped the dumb smile into a staid, straight line. She held an empty tray at waist-high, shielding her hitched skirt from sight, and squared up her faltering back. A maid she was. Three hundred mon a day plus room and board said so. Not her fault nor crime human males couldn’t help turning grabby when presented these uniforms. They were an invitation written in frills.

A maid she’d be. A maid who stood there and watched that the punch bowl needn’t prompt refilling.

Hope delivered it wouldn’t. The maid and her butt had scads to prove. That a single hemisphere of it, for one, more than filled out a grown man’s palm. That she wasn’t an irremediable pervert, for another. That even an evil eye from a youkai did nothing to circumcise the human lust.

Two out of three, actually, would be plenty.

Sekibanki remained a maid – drawn, serious and solemn – even as the inside of her pantyhose grew steamy from the harsh, kneading, underwear-shifting massage.

It’d be a Tengu-eyed detective who would peg her for the same youkai-woman caught prowling naked under her cape through the alleys of the Human Village two nights before. It would almost have had to be, given the most identifiable part of her physique had been floating twenty metres in the benighted sky, grinning from the thrill of ogling her own body negotiate, with its accoutrements peeking out, the streets which by day would’ve been rife with judgemental eyes.

What the youkai-woman’s friends – a group easily tallied on a quadruple-amputee’s digits – would have told you, in those shrilly blasé tones quintessential for the subject, was that this was but an inoffensive hobby. Odd, yes, and oh, sure, slightly, tee hee, heady, but by sunbreak an altogether harmless outlet. Just one of those things youkai get off to, tee hee, that is to say up to when they go cranky from an unsatisfactory traditional diet. What streets, huh? Now, now; she’d twist our guts into never-seen knots if we told you she likes to gad down the market road on Sundays, when the stalls are empty, and up those twisty, northern streets on Wednesdays. Our guts, mister! Girl’s got a grip.

Us? No, mister; the fool girl had slept through whole of Sunday on a hangover, see? Three days of nothing, no way; she’d sooner go spare down there, mister. The fool, pervert girl.

Sekibanki booked her imaginary friends for invasive braiding, but they’d had the right, them snoopy bastards. She shouldn’t have gone for a breather around the market on a weeknight; she should’ve stayed home with her pet empty bottles and practiced her solitary tongue-work. She almost had it down these days how to eat herself out to a kicking orgasm without kneeing herself in the neck stump.

The last, certainly, thing Sekibanki had accounted for was the midwatch, who would on Sunday nights shy away from leaving their station to ring their bells and holler, “All is well, no disturbances!” for fear of causing one – for instance through being smashed in the back of the skull with a half-brick by a man working early Mondays. And who, owing to the slippage in schedule, had instead been out doing rounds up and down her favourite catwalk.

There’d been hoots of surprise once her body had sauntered out one of the mucky side-alleys, because it wasn’t every night a woman missing her clothes and head occurred to you on duty. And then one or two of the watchmen had swivelled on a heel and done the runner on the spot because, once more, it wasn’t every night a woman missing her clothes and head strolled out of a shady alley in a town notoriously haunted by youkai. The rest had been longer in jackboots. Two had rushed forth – snatched Sekibanki’s body up under the arms – thrown a serviceman’s coat over its shoulders – and dragged it, flailing unimpressively, back toward their station. It’d taken no more than eight heartbeats.

And high above, the Seki-head who’d just lost custody of her body to reckless exposure had had, what those in the human-frightening business mocked as, a taste of her own medicine. She’d spat it out, which’d rather confounded a passing cat, and whizzed after the watchmen over the dark rooftops.

Through that metaphysical space-sleeve where the rokurokubi’s neck went when not in use, she could feel her body being walked indoors, down a length of wood-panelled corridor and finally ushered into a padded and disconcertingly manacle-equipped chair. There’d been no clapping and locking entertained, but Sekibanki had felt the baritone timbre of angry questions vibrate up her spine.

A deviant to the end, she’d urged her body to shrug out of the coat in which they’d wrapped up her decency and wiggle in such a way that the halves of her cape slid aside from her bare, red-peaked breasts. A whistle could be heard (felt), curtailed by a thump such as may be struck on the rear of a boiled leather helmet by a fist; and then, because by that happenstance she’d caught up and located an open hatch into the station’s attic, had come this exchange:

“Let it go on record,” a sleep-heavy voice with an undertow of cigar had said, “that the minx refuses to cooperate. All fine? Fine. Adjourned, people.”

A voice with a bright career ahead of it had interjected: “Shall I put that down as ‘perp,’ sir?”

The first voice had paused. “… Scribe Constable?”


“This is your probationary, isn’t it?”


“Outstanding. The lot of you gawkers, back out to the streets! Constable, sit. This is yours now. Send for the Hakurei first thing at dawning; until then, keep this minx—”


“—under key. And if I hear a word peeped afterward about womanly wiles…”


“It’s your head, Scribe Constable. Think about your fiancée. Good evening.”

There’d been the sound of much exiting. A door clicking closed. Then silence.

And in it, the second voice had recited, as though to itself: “… concluded the sergeant, quote… that the sexy minx refuses to… cooperate. Adjourned. And now, from the top…”

Sekibanki had dismissed his mumblings. A peek-around in the attic’s gloom, and she’d found in its rough-hewn floor a natural spyhole into the room.

There below she’d been, the weightier part of her: ensconced in a large chair and bunched clothing, pale, headless, breasts on plain display like an ancient, debauched statue preserved, nonetheless, in all the apposite areas. A scuffed, not much newer writing desk had been moved to stand between her seated body and the room’s sole door; behind it, a de-helmed watchman had been copying the interrogation’s minutes onto a second, cleaner sheet of paper. They’d added up to less than a quarter-hour of leeway.

And in Sekibanki’s hidden, disembodied head, a couple of desperate, queasy and excited nerves had fired off together to a common purpose.

Slowly, indolently, Sekibanki’s body had risen from the chair, the heavy coat spilling to her feet.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the scribing watchman had cautioned, never bothering to look up and, thus, bothering Sekibanki something unwomanly. “Advise against it, miss. The Hakurei’ll thwap you over the, er, shoulders for disturbing the boys, but the sergeant will sic the Kochiya on you for disturbing the peace. Have a time-out, rub one out once the lights are off, that’s my five coins. No biting; they’re pure copper.”

He’d dipped the pen and gone on scribbling, though not for long, since Sekibanki’s body had walked in front of the desk innocent of teeth but perky in the regions amenable to rubbing. He’d sighed.

“… Womanly wiles, are these? I am a man to marry in weeks, miss, and I’ll have you know—”

Sekibanki had swung a knee onto the desktop, breasts drooping out of the parted cape.

“—that I would’ve stayed a happy bachelor but for my father’s dues to the family of the bride, that’s the tragedy of it,” he’d crisply concluded. Swallowed. Then stood up. “Wonderful. Womanly wiles it is. Say I let you out through the courtyard door, not a pig there this time of the night, and you’ll give me a jab in the lumbus with this here pen to show the sergeant? Sound plausibly deniable? Sounds so to me. Then, miss, it’ll be ten minutes of me and that shameless bod of yours, ten minutes, gloves off, no holds barred. On the hourglass. No sex either, but I get to have my dick out. Give me a grossed-out cringe for yes.”

Sekibanki hadn’t. Neither had her body. They’d done, in the frantic stream of consciousness and the piquancy of the proposal, something worse. They’d concurred to agree later this would be forgotten. Consigned to the same place mallets and willows and shrine maidens were. No man had ever touched Sekibanki… beyond the socially inevitable. No man would; and, for a surety, some prick-for-brains desk jockey who’d charged at the chance to feel a pair of tits, even if they should be a youkai’s, scarce counted as one anyhow.

This’d been the truth, and Sekibanki would die (little by little) defending it.

In the then-and-there, the sleazy watchman had taken her fidgety dearth of reprisal for what it’d been and more. He’d rounded the desk and eased her barely resisting body supine across the desktop. In the attic, Sekibanki’s head had winced its nastiest, but from her manhandled body she’d received nothing except the same nervous, blissful tremble she would otherwise have by narrowly avoiding discovery. How narrow was narrow – i.e. very, almost touching now – turned out, mattered not in the end.

“… Wanted to do this since they hauled you in, on my soul,” she’d heard the watchman confess his own unwieldy, manful arousal. He’d stared her docile body up and down, leant over… and then reached out, thumbed open a drawer in the face of the desk and out produced a small, zinc timepiece. “Ten minutes. On the hourglass. Or I’m no fair cop. Ahaha.”

Ahaha. The laugh would need dislodging from her, ahaha, head.

Sand had begun to run. Together with it had Sekibanki’s centuries-firm convictions.

They had run away from her in teeny, dusty gasps at first as the man had glided his broad, un-scribe-like palms up her flinching body’s hips, sides, armpits and arms. They’d picked up a voice once he’d cupped and swept his fingers, one by one, over her nude breasts. Then again. Then once more, pinching the tips between his knuckles for effect. He’d flicked his tongue across both his thumbs next and twirled those softly and at length around the enlarged areolae.

Three of the sandy minutes hadn’t given in to gravity when Sekibanki’s nipples had been standing on ends and tingling from the loving attentions. The disgust at being touched by a human had crashed into the sheer reality of being touched by someone other than herself and wobbled away dazed. Two more minutes of her toes curling from his relentless caresses, and she’d well-nigh welcomed the respite of him unclasping his hands from her nude body to dismantle his pants.

Sekibanki’s woozy, blushing head, drool trickling down an edge of its lips, had positively glued one of its misty eyes to the spyhole in the attic’s floor. She’d seen penises, yes she had; no mosquito-bite-peppered exhibitionist existed who’d not, so to say, flipped their Emperor’s clothes inside-out at some stage.

Never one like this. Never one so thick, as enthused or viciously curved; above all else, never one stood so near to where Sekibanki had displaced her pent-up, impracticable youkai urges since chancing on the unlikely stopgap. The distance didn’t diminish its subduing allure; it’d stay singed on the insides of her eyelids for nights and nights and nights. She’d have hours of grudging sex with it in pyjama-ruining dreams.

The watchman had brought it down – the real, bulging, veiny article – with a hard tap on Sekibanki’s mons. She’d sworn she’d felt it in her womb.

“Was like this from the moment you came in,” he had wheezed, heaving her undercarriage by the thighs closer to the desk’s edge. “Full mast in heartbeats flat. Something insane exciting about you, miss. Insane. Can’t put my tip on it, but here it is. I’ll not look the same at youkai, ever. Good job I hunch when I write…”

A light yet assertive push had seen her legs fanned out before him into a raunchy M-shape. Sekibanki had thrust a barring hand between her thighs, but everything she’d gotten for it had been a warm handful of his dick once he’d pushed it up at her palm from below. His hot glans throbbed in her involuntary grip.

“No sex, I believe I said?” he’d reminded, brushing his shaft against her almost inadequately petite fingers. “Copper’s word, miss. We don’t pull that bad lawman panache here; I won’t slip it in precluding your say-so. Which anywise I can’t feature occurring on account of, you see, I see, everybody sees, no account of the head. Supposing you can even hear me and I aren’t lusting after some baby tsukumogami…”

“You’re a bastard either way,” Sekibanki’s head had fumed in the attic. Unheeded by all but for fearless dust motes. “You’re a bastard, a cocky bastard with a cock, and I’ll have your neck—”

A sensation of thumbs pressing down on either side of her nude groin had drained the threat into a strangled yip. With scant in the way of reservations, in one smooth tug, Sekibanki’s pink, youkai femininity had been stretched into yawning.

She’d been wet inside. So thoroughly wet, the man’s cockhead had slipped once he’d withdrawn it from her hand and crammed it up against her inner lips. They’d ridden, slickly, all down the slope of his shaft and its ridged underbelly, her helpless, exposed clitoris in slimy tow.

“… That felt nice, did it?” he’d asked her verbosely squirming body. “Your hips’ve lifted just now.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” Sekibanki’s head had spluttered a floor up, but quietly. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck me, fuck you, fuck you…

The corrupt watchman had inched his raw cock back down along her outspread genitals, slavishly lustred by her sultry, inner labia. Murder-faced, Sekibanki’s upper constituent had glared a stream of hot resentment from the spyhole at the man’s bared glutes. It hadn’t been marked, not whatsoever, outshone at large by the heat of her youkai vagina flirting with the tip of his human dick. They’d both had about them the antsy, hopeful look of almost forgotten incompatibility.

And they had, both of them, been wrong.

“… Screw this,” the man had muttered. “I’m cheating already, me. Shall we fuck for real, miss? I’ll not be a bachelor again anywise, and you’re—”

Fffuck yooou,” the Seki-head had huffed above as the long, rigid cock had been ground once more up her unfolded petals and sensitive pistil.

“—you’re, haah, wetter than a mermaid’s bum in rain season. Say the— bloody bother, smack the desk for yes. Come now; you know you want it. This place knows,” he’d reaffirmed, taking it upon another slippery tour of his full, rearing length. “I haven’t seen a woman this keen since… well, no, that’s history. I haven’t seen a woman this keen for years. Here. Own up; you’re picturing what it’d be like to fuck here and on that chair for the rest of the night as we speak. Your pussy’s throbbing, miss.”

They had been wrong: the human and youkai reproductive bits. They had been wrong because, to Sekibanki’s bottomless loathing, every sign had intimated they’d been purposed for each other all along. Such a thing shouldn’t be; and yet it had been, and it hadn’t cared a whit for the youkai’s dry-aged beliefs. She’d gotten the mental image. Mental vinegar would have to be procured.

The sex-charged silence the man had left in the air, which’d been about what Sekibanki had wished to do to him, had been cut down by its very hangman’s seething restlessness. With a sting of pride in equal parts jealous and vindicated, she’d realised she had never been the apex pervert in the room. He who had been – had cursed aloud his ulterior integrity.

“… Or you can be like that,” he’d growled, driving his hips on, giving her spread, engorged pussy one long, virile reason to regret dissent; “I’ve still three minutes, and damn me all to the dung pit, but this is a boyhood fantasy. You’re bloody ruining me for marriage anywise, miss youkai; I swear on my ancestors’—”

Which hereditary vitals would become soon subject to close scrutiny in the afterlife would stay in the afterlife. A door flying open at the wrong moment was a more effective religious censor than a pyre.

“Con, you OK in here?” a new voice had chuffed, winded. “Only, you were a while, and the guys outside saw a floating bloody head—”

The following, as the old saw goes, had happened in the twinkling of an eye. It hadn’t been Sekibanki’s eye, or even the watchman’s, but it had been someone’s all right, and twinkle it had. What it’d glimpsed in-between was this:

Sekibanki tensing. Sekibanki groping with the hand which hadn’t, nuh-uh, not in this benighted universe, been about to slap a self-hating yes on the desktop, for the watchman’s pen. Sekibanki slamming the pen barrel-deep into his flank steak. Sekibanki decompressing, like an industrial spring, to vault feet-first off the desk. The other watchman promptly commending himself on whatever bravado had compelled him to take the graveyard shift before prompter being laid out on his backside.

A floating bloody head had powered out the hatch in the station’s roof, trailing drool and fury. She’d run her body, by touch-memory, back outdoors, inconvenienced merely once by a stray coatrack, and re-joined with it behind the first happenstance corner.

And then, winding toward caution, she had fled home, where she’d flung herself on the bed and schlicked like mad to the memory of almost having sex— no, fucking— no, breeding, like a wolf-bitch in heat, with a human male. With the middle and ring fingers to begin, then the whole hand, then slapping her clit and eating herself out till she’d been bent backwards and squirting in her own delirious face.

And lastly, she’d drunk herself blacked-out.

The morning hadn’t delivered the craved oblivion, and neither had the pounding hangover. Sekibanki had had but to glimpse her dishevelled, filthy self in the mirror over her washbasin for her still-tiddly self-esteem to supply she’d looked screwable like this as well. That there’d be no sweeter break to distract from the headache than being found here and forcefully slow-fucked in her own bed as punishment. That she’d known the (cock)headsman of preference, at that…

She had chucked two more elsewise fresh sets of underwear into the laundry sack ahead throwing in the towel too and quitting home to cool her raging temples in the neighbourhood’s bath house. There she’d masturbated twice more: in a vacant changing room firstly and, afterwards, in the cramped alley outside, leaving the flagstones between her sandals spotted with moisture. She’d been spotted herself by a gang of passing-by human striplings but had waved them begone, too steeped in indignation to think of flashing a tit.

She’d nearly broken out in mad cackles after perusing some wrinkly crone’s vegetable stall for the fattest, bumpiest cucumber in stock at the morning market. She’d been ruined.

Sekibanki the youkai had been ruined. Sekibanki the pervert had shovelled up this grave for her, getting busted bare-arsed without a head. The midwatch would be on the ball for nights for a youkai flaunter in red. She would be lucky to feed before the week was out. And if, then, somebody were to put their nose to the cobbles and trace the scent to this one asocial townswoman who, what a coincidence, starred every so often in pubescent males’ gossip yet covered her neck ever and always, in heat and in cold…

She’d be worse than ruined. She’d be Kochiyaed.

Sekibanki had shuddered out of a vision of manic green death to see a gaggle of young, human females studying, at operatic volume, the square’s flaky notice board. She’d walked over, morbidly inquisitive.

And there, set in hasty type, had been salvation.
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Commune with
at this
Scarlet Devil Market Fair

Seeking house Help for threeday Festival
at the Scarlet Devil Mansion
- Cooking
- Serving
- Cleaning
- Respect the Uniform
Calm & mannered Gels
Human & Yokai welcome; NO FAERIES
we got our own
Room & Board includeed

See Head Maid from Morning before last to full Moon
Gate Guard responds to Name: Meiling


And signed below, in enormous cursive:



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Sekibanki had read the posting afresh, crookery firing off in her mistreated brain.

Yes indeed. This would do. An alibi for skipping town for a bit that wouldn’t raise eyebrows and would leave the dicks, so to say, luckless. “Serving” had smacked thickly of indignity in her state of mind; however, the Scarlet Devil Mansion had been a reputable place, provided you subscribed to the mistress’s style of repute. It’d been a den of chandeliers, scarlet upholstery, pipe organs and, so the story went, meat hooks in dungeons.

Sekibanki the youkai must reluctantly concur: it’d had a touch of class.

Second to last morning before full moon, it had said. This’d leave Sekibanki the pervert with one more night to endure. On the whole not a shrine maiden’s stick. She’d clutched her shopping bag and hurried on home.

Come morning, she’d permitted herself a breakfast of (scrupulously washed) cucumber and rice – packed the few essentials of a youkai-woman on the lam – and set out with the climbing sun.

The gate guard, a red-maned tower of a youkai, had responded to the name Meiling and directed her inside, where already wingless, clawless, neck-equipped women had been cruising around in freshly ironed uniforms. Sekibanki had been shown to the head maid, a no-nonsense (“Nonsense gets the works here, understood?”) woman, tersely interviewed (“Not an outgrown fairy? Well, we need staff who won’t go crazy for a crowd, see. Any experience? Waitress? Good, you’ll do for refreshments service. Can you grow your hair out? No? Oh, well, I’ll live.”) and consequently shooed off to a room to get her uniform fitted by a team of already slightly giddy fairy-maids.

That night, afterwards of a wringer of a day and an evening muster – whereupon the hires had been cautioned in knife-sharp terms against showboating their natural talents before the invitees, most of whom would be noble, business-minded and, therefore, frangible souls sure to think less of the mistress for harbouring ill-behaved youkai – Sekibanki had bedded down in her small, single room pondering, for a welcome change, nothing except sleep.

The nonspecific dreams of perverse, interspecies sex had lasted no longer than the bell in the hall outside calling one and all to work. The fair had been on. And Sekibanki on it, mind and maid-uniformed body.

Until here-and-now. Until the aforesaid body was subject once more to the knee-wobbling thrill of somebody else’s touch.

Sekibanki spied lengthwise the ballroom with its curtained windows and rainbow lights. Her tasks for the reception had comprised watching the snack bar and the guests’ plates for outages – and elsewise to defer to them, the goddess, the mistress or the head maid in everything, in that ascending order of precedence. The head maid was gone, presumably to show the boozed gentleman, who’d managed between the inauguration and the few hours of the fair proper to tick off his agenda for the day, to a nice hole in the ground outside. The mistress, to hear it told, had whittled away the night fussing over the décor and had, therefore, slept in despite the drapes being pulled over the windows for her health and safety. The goddess, by contrast, could and took every pain to be seen: flitting from circle to circle like a motley firefly, positively aglow, every intercession she made in the shop talks punctuated by a forever-awkward, can’t-believe-I’m-uttering-it, reciprocal “Tenkyuu!”

This left in Sekibanki’s give-a-care the bar and the guests. The former hadn’t required her intervention for a while after dispensing its supply of what everybody had joked, far past the expiry date, to probably be wine. The latter had, remarkably, not bothered her at all since growing her manly lean-to.

And that one had his, so to say, plate, so to say, full.

Supply, springily full – all the more so that Sekibanki was unsubtly pushing her butt out behind the tray. The man’s hand roamed inside the rear hold of her panties, trying out grip after grip after grip until a preference could be competently determined. And a preference was, without a doubt, taking shape. In Sekibanki’s mind. She experienced a certain amount of ambivalence about this.

There was something to say for it, for sure. There always was. The posh, satiny, black panties which had come in set with the uniform seemed almost designed to stretch thin and wedge between a tender and a sensitive place if overpacked. The man’s zealously rummaging hand ensured no less. Their front, no wider now than a soft cord, was crammed down the cleft of her privates, teasing her clit inside its hood whenever their back was stressed from her molester’s insatiate motions. And then, the wonderful, loath feeling of being touched had seen to it that they slid back and forth with slippery, devious ease.

Sekibanki clinched her fingers around the tray and hoped, from the depths of her roused femininity, nobody all of a sudden would feel like rainbow-sprinkled cake and punch.

“You have, miss,” murmured the man, above and to the side of a steaming Seki-ear, “on my oath, an ass to bloody die for.”

Sekibanki drew about herself all the maidly professionalism sewn into the uniform… sans the obscenely stretched panties. “That,” she hissed, gyrating discreetly to his squeezes, “can be arranged, sir. Mm. There are plenty youkai present…”

“I have my sights set,” he disagreed.

Then gripped her butt the hardest he had to date.

Sekibanki twinged from her toes up to the roots of her hair, and not entirely from hate. Then with every slowness he softened the hold, and half and half would have been overselling it. Sekibanki swallowed down the abominable squeals clambering up her airways.

“I would know the name of the woman,” their causer declared, “carrying such an ass only to deny every man ever proffered to take her dowry.”

“And how would you—?” Sekibanki had started, panic itching along the skin of her neck.

“Miss, miss, miss,” said the man smoothly, too smoothly; “if it had been the case you had a husband, even a fiancé, he would have been here and I would’ve had no teeth. On account he would have been hovering over you like a hawk. With fists, it has to be presumed; either road, miss, you’re single down to that lonely little ring finger and so much’s the obvious.”

Other bits of Sekibanki’s body chimed in on that penultimate commentary. Sekibanki shushed them with a shaky will. They’d get theirs soon or late. One way or… well, there was one way only, wasn’t there?

“I’m—” she gave up aloud, “my name is… Kubinashi.”

She wished instantly to hurl her head out the window, but the man made a gallantly understanding sound.

“Mhm. So it is, so it is,” he conceded. “Then your full name, I figure, must be Seki Kubinashi, the former of which the head maid parted with readier than you upon simple inquiry. Seki Kubinashi of the Kubinashi family – who are too minor to have been heard of – single and, I conjecture from the dental circumstance, unwed at a ripe age of enough. Here, miss, hardly a need for the glares… Was this intended a secret?”

Sekibanki ducked the question like a projectile bread crumb. “And you? Who do I tell the head maid hasss been, mnn, pestering the staff?”

The man’s rebuttal, to her mute resentment, was a downturn of occurrences inside her pantyhose and a swig from the by now watery wine glass. “… The head maid is familiar,” he harrumphed and said. “I am here… what’s the bloody word? Scouting? Scouting. I am here scouting for a maid to employ at my, er, liege lord’s. The head maid here knows; ask her should you please. Whenever she comes.”

Three repetitions, Sekibanki had noted. A lie’s mortar. She’d built whole walls with it.

“And this is,” she pressed on, or at least restiveness did, “I expect all part of the interview…?”

It stuck, thank the kaleidoscopic goddess. The averred head-hunter – who, now she peered up obliquely at his face, wasn’t repulsive as far as human males went, although could do to… no, should not, under no duress, shave those whiskers off – looked ruefully into his uncooperatively empty glass.

“… Ah, what the bugger,” he murmured, holding onto it for, it had to be guessed, the verisimilitude, “I wanted to be genteel about this, but—” His hand splayed, scoop-like, and seized her butt, nearly the whole of it, from underneath in a possessive grope. “Here we are,” he said, not dissatisfied. “Nothing lost; would’ve had to crack the question anywise. The job, you see, miss Kubinashi, entails love duties as well. Got your attention still?”

“… Ye—Yes?” Sekibanki eked out, heart pounding. The top joints of his middle finger had, right then, ventured far into the damp area of her panties. Now the entire thing was lodged, all lubed up, sandwiched between the slopes of her butt-cheeks and conspicuously nearby a place it shouldn’t be nor go. “I can do,” she licked her twitching lips and said, “I can do… love duties.”

“Just so we’ve no mistakes,” cautioned the man, kneading. “That stands for sex in noblesse, miss Kubinashi. More sex, I wager, than the monthly median in this room. The attitude, you understand, is a concern.”

Sekibanki eased up as contempt tided back in. So, this was it. The home straight. The suicide charge of questioning which would lead her ultimately to a little death or five on a hill of beddings somewhere in the mansion. She felt a turn down in the pit of her stomach.

It wouldn’t be until afterwards that she’d remember the gallbladder was more than a little higher than that.

“Go… on?” she said for now, thinking herself tenacious for holding down the bile.

The man beamed. Sekibanki could feel the rays on the eastern side of her cheek. “Well, butter me up and what is it they say!” he marvelled. “Got me the real article after all. Those smiles of yours you flashed going round pouring wine were the very devil to puzzle out and believe me, miss. Sod near reopened a wound crouching to see what was making you smile so in the end. Maybe it isn’t that far from the truth, what they say about the mores at the Scarlet Devil’s. Imagine that. Or maybe this is you? Never mind; none of mine. Well then, miss Kubinashi,” he concluded, “our candidate you may well be. You’ve certainly evidenced your, ahaha, bi-ass.”

And?” snapped Sekibanki, a maid on the edge of her professionalism. “What next, sir? You’ll take me aside, perhaps outside, look up an empty room and put me to an in-depth interview? Hands-on, I suspect; clothes-off, so they don’t get stained? Get me fired for leaving the post to screw around? Is that what this is mounting to?”

There was a pause that went on a fraction longer than the red-handed anticipated.

And then, blandly, the man supposed, “Could be. If you’d really, really like it to, miss Seki.”

The hand inside her bunched undies slid down her butt, bored beneath her crotch, curled two fingers, found a breach and pushed.

In front of the party, the agitated maids, the dozens on dozens of guests and one radiant goddess, Sekibanki clung to the tray while her altogether too honest vagina filled up with the human’s long, burly fingers. He stretched her entrance, knuckled her G-spot and touched regions of her femininity only touched before by oblong vegetables. All the while twirling his empty glass as though they were boringly discussing the weather.

Sekibanki the youkai held herself so fast, she would’ve slingshot all the way to Muenzuka if she’d let go. Sekibanki the pervert bit down on a half-birthed, wild grin.

Neither of them had prepared for this. One of them had hoped for something like it. And one had known it to be inevitable with a skirt this short and lacey. The human male was sod all if not a consistent creature.

On one thing they were on the same page. Sekibanki was not responsible for this. The staff had been told to comply with the guests’ say; they were to nod and smile and retribute any misdemeanours once out of the uniform and back in town, whereupon the mistress’s word would be theirs to invoke. It was a masquerade thing – only the masks were made of face. Nor the worst deal coming from a devil. Sekibanki had upheld it dispensing glasses and ice, even if she’d rather have poured it down some belts than debate whether the hands roving her backside had or hadn’t made her smiles more genuine than strictly vocational. She’d heeled her current molester’s foot, but he’d attempted to be funny, so that had been well within protocol.

It was, in sum, not her fault. No one may dock her pay for what a guest did to her of his own free will. He might well order her away to one of the guest rooms for spontaneous love duties, and all the head maid could say afterwards would be, “Well, it is the mistress’s hope you satisfied.” A maid did not say, “I should not, sir.” She said, “I would not find myself contractually able to say no, sir,” and did not lie, except horizontally.

This was the truth. A truth. Sekibanki jammed it into the jealously growing collection.

Screw you, “miss Seki,” she grumbled, but only for internal remonstrance. Stupid, sex-obsessed hag of a youkai!

On the outside, miss Seki wrestled with her grin. The paired, thick, masculine fingers, so unlike hers, were causing her belly muscles to jerk simply by being inside her vagina. She wanted them to move, to pump in and out; she wanted to feel their hard joints nudge her sensitive places. That they weren’t was such a waste of self-control.

Sekibanki stabbed her stare into the prancing, distant goddess, at the same time twisting her waist so as to entice the man’s fingers ever deeper inside. She was, anyway, slippery all the way through; the least he deserved to be was likewise. See what he wiped that on…

The man’s burning, offensive ball of a presence shifted behind her shoulder.

“… Would you like me to interview you, miss Seki?” he put forward, conspiratorially quiet.

Screw you too, was what her pride had to say. Screw you and your ilk and this pathetic mating ritual. Thankfully, it was routed through her frilly apron and choker and issued from her lips as an exasperated, “… Interview, really, sir?”

“Ahaha. Touché, miss Seki. Touché. You are, yes, bloody right, of course,” he said, as though previously unenlightened that his arm was up to mid-forearm in her pantyhose and his digits up to their second knuckles in a redhead maid’s sticky honeypot. “Then to reword. Would you like to fuck, miss Seki? Here? Now? The goddess hasn’t me half as intrigued as you do; something about you just… whips the horse in me, if you will. I cannot quite, ahaha, discharge you from my mind. It’s insidious.”

Sekibanki breathed in. “I like to… to fuck,” she managed to reply without sneering. “With you, sir? Here? Now? No. The maids, myself included, are here on duty; there are… things, no doubt things, to be done. The head maid will be back any time. I cannot go… whipping horses willy-nilly, sir.”

A click from the man indicated some extent of frustration with having been whipped for no winnings. His fingers shifted inside her but remained damnably still, wrapped in her vaginal walls. At last, he spat out the metaphorical shank bit.

“… Wonderful,” he muttered. “Then I’ll pose this straight, miss Seki. What would it take to have sex with you? I’ll not live with myself if I can’t.”

Sekibanki licked her unseen smile. Almost there… “I would more or less need to be ordered, sir.”

“Flattering. By?”

“Anybody listed in my chitty, sir.”

“Those are here? Have names?”

“Yes, sir,” Sekibanki plunged on. “Sans one, sir. It says I am morally and monetarily obliged to listen to the guests. Sir.”

A few upper-crust and, for that cause, predictably insular wits were rubbed together. And then, in the wake of the unfamiliar sensation, something behind Sekibanki sparked.

The, ahaha, head-hunter contrived with a sigh over her shoulder to imply that a great faux-pas had been done unto him and for no earthly fault of his own. Inside her kinky place, his pervading digits flexed – with all the squishy, antsy, tingly consequence due – and began their sluggish, slug-like retreat into the open. Sekibanki mouthed a curse and curbed the regret welling under her bellybutton, but… her body had betrayed her before and did so too now, sharply tilting her hips that his knuckles must negotiate her tightest-squeezing stretch all over again. Her chronically exercised labia let go of his fingers more resentfully than they ever had hers, even on that one occasion she’d quit in the middle of an operose edging session to open the door for the district’s rent collector.

He’d been a serious young human, had the collector… at least, back then he’d been. And so, Sekibanki had seen to it that her hastily buttoned-up shirt hadn’t covered two-thirds of her sweaty bust or indeed the pantiless circumstance below. The teen had stared blatantly at her peeking areolae and matted bush while she’d stamped his slip, and had trotted away with such a boner that Sekibanki had entertained following to hear the passing girls’ shrieks.

The vainglory days when the thought of a human male’s touch would’ve exploded her head before entering it.

Modern Sekibanki’s vagina slid off the tips of the head-hunter’s fingers shuddering, leaving them hot and slimy and his hand free to exit the confines of her underwear. Strained elastic snapped on the small of her back. Sekibanki winced – then glared aslant at the man whom she’d half-featured, in her bad streak, would slurp the fingers clean like the animal he was. He instead debauched a napkin from the adjoining table.

“Then, miss Seki,” he said, pocketing the napkin, one could assume, just in case, “you will heed a guest’s wish and walk with him a while. Won’t you?”

“I expect I will, sir,” said Sekibanki, endeavouring by the tone of her voice to suggest certain doom.

“No need for lip,” said the man, rather dolefully conveying the fact he faced down certain dooms every morning he reported in for work; “I may be here as a deputy, but I waved my invite to the monster at the gate, same as the rest. We needn’t go far, besides. Say, behind those drapes would do. You’ll hear it if someone chugs down the punch, and, if there’s skulls cracking, you can pull up your panties, duck on out and tell miss maid you’ve been here all along, yes ma’am, just back there. Sound liveable?”

“It is not the maid’s prerogative to judge, sir.”

This time, he matched her black look… ahaha… head-on.

“… Miss Seki,” he eventually spoke, understanding steaming off every horsey syllable. “Heed me on this. You will walk with this guest behind those drapes. You will assist him in peeling you out of this salacious legwear. And then you will, believe me, miss, aspire to remain unheard while he plugs that slutty hole of yours with something more apt for the task. Yes?”

Sekibanki did not relent. “Is that an order, sir?”

“Yes!” snarled the man, sotto-voce, since howling would’ve invited scrutiny. “Yes, you bloody minx. That is an order. Come along now and let me fuck you!”

And there it was. The safety catch dropping home. No more ambiguity. Whatever now happened was out of Sekibanki’s hands. No excuses. The chitty wouldn’t have had them.

“As you say,” curtsied Sekibanki, signing it all afresh in her mind, “sir.

Nothing more was needed. The auspiciously obscuring tray left her hands as well once the man had caught her by the docile arm and piloted her along the wall toward the shrouded windows. A tug, a shove and a pull, and man and maid were out of the party’s purview.

There was a space here behind the curtains: long and narrow, a stuffy cubbyhole between it and the sill and the window’s tall, clear panes of glass. A garden baked in the midday sun outside: a checkerboard of flowerbeds and trimmed hedgerows the like you’d see in a picture book of faraway realms. The Scarlet Devil hadn’t simply brought along her home when she’d arrived. She had brought in a slice of her home country.

Sekibanki leaned against the windowsill with poorly stuck-on stoicism. She was… giddy. The babble of the fair was muffled here, but only barely; the plain reality was, the drapes lent them at best only a veneer of privacy. An errant kick, and somebody would sure as the youkai prowl the night investigate why the bloody thing was rippling from ceiling to floor. This was not the problem nor the giddying point. She’d just have not to kick.

The sureness she would be in a minute having sex with a human male – was both of those.

It was what made her antsy from the neck down, what made the edges of her lips anxiously tweak up, made her thighs trembly and her panties wetter than they’d been made already. It made her scream at herself inside her own head – yet stay dutifully still as the man stooped to reach beneath her skirt, his nose coming level with her pounding ear.

And then it made her to shiver against her better nature when he whispered straight down its lobe.

“… Shouldn’t dawdle too much,” he said, urgently easing the pantyhose and undies down Sekibanki’s thighs, an inch on each side at a time. “Not too keen on explaining myself to the head maid, either. You’re ready as can be anywise, so let’s have a quickie for now. Shall we? Here. Turn around and poke your ass out. Good. Had this beaten into me, so I’ll try and go for the good spots, yes? Tell me if I’m glancing. I’ll bloody well take directions for a minx like you. Oh, and miss Seki— Seki? Kubinashi?”

Sekibanki, who by then had been bent half over, palms flat on the windowsill, mentally quartering her reflection for smiling like an idiot fairy when a human male was standing behind her defenceless rear, lurched to a horizontal pastiche of maidly attention.

“Ye—Yes, sir?” she squawked.

The not-so-noble head-hunter didn’t remark on it. “One: feet more apart, or I won’t be able to squeeze past these bloody great ass-cheeks,” he instructed. “And two… you’re yourself a youkai, miss, aren’t you?”

Sekibanki froze mid-process of obeying. A reining hold on her bared hips confirmed that the shoe had been dropped. It was not an unanticipated shoe, not necessarily, but up to her to pick it up.

“I… Yes, sir,” said Sekibanki, seeing a light, and not that of the noon outside the window. “I am. I am a youkai. So what? Said it before. There are plenty here today. What does it change?”

There was the jingle of a belt buckle coming undone, and the rustle of lowering trousers. A wiggle yet, and Sekibanki felt a stiff prod on her utterly exposed and pre-lubed privates.

“Turns me on like nothing, that’s what it changes,” she heard the man part-grunt, part-laugh. “Thank you in advance for not eating me, miss youkai.”

Observing which obeisance, he seized again her uncovered hips and, with a firm push, went inside her.

Sekibanki fainted. Or she wished she’d fainted. It would’ve been preferred to living with the shame. The shame, namely, of having missed out on something like this until this late a stage of her existence.

The something in turn standing for noncommittal, interspecies sex with humans.

Or what would eventually mature into such sex once the man and the maid finished being mutely amazed. The blunt tip of the man’s dick had parted Sekibanki’s slick, outer petals like it had been moulded by the gods to dominate female youkai; it’d plunged past her entrance, spreading her soft, inner labia to encompass his girth and being stripped by them in turn to the bare glans. Sekibanki’s head had tipped back from the sheer stimulation of each and every pleasure spot she’d nurtured through years and years of masturbation being not only touched, but snagged, pressed on then ground along by the mercilessly thick, rigid prick’s intrusion. Not even the longest, bumpiest cucumber had done to her composure what the ridge of his glans and pursuing shaft had seemed to without ostensive effort. She’d wanted a refund for all the uneducated dreams.

In a few, too few, furious heartbeats, the youkai vagina which’d before only known masturbation had been filled to the ruffled brim, from the loose entrance up to that of her youkai womb, of a human’s huge, erect and perfectly compatible penis. And neither of the two could’ve been palpably gladder than the other to be where they were.

Sekibanki swooned. She’d strained to stand straighter up, to angle the man’s pig-headed, curved stiffness at her G-spot, but succeeded only in sinking his dick that bit deeper in her horny, gushing vagina. Her home-trained labia strapped its burly base all around like she’d exercised them on cucumbers and eggplants expressly for this purpose. Her heated breath steamed the window.

She’d been meant for this. The realisation was a crack on her youkai conceit, but Sekibanki wasn’t a stranger to deigning. She’d deigned every day walking out among the humans in their town. This body was meant for this. Not just parading it; not just the wanton self-molestation. The stint three nights before had been an ample warning sign. Now there was no unjumping the cliff.

Sekibanki’s body was built for sex. And human males, fluttering evidence affirmed, were whom she was built to have sex with.

… No, not “have sex.” Copulate. Sekibanki was a youkai, a rokurokubi to the nape of her neck. A raw, human member snuggling up to her mismatched womb was nothing more than bestiality. As good call a dog a sexual partner.

And then the human rested his bulk along Sekibanki’s arched back, leaning over, mounting the rokurokubi maid like the aforesaid dog may mount its owner’s knee. Only, his paws were twice larger than her hands when they slapped down on the windowsill beside them.

“… Tight fit, isn’t it,” he, in all likelihood, flirted, holding her reflection’s fuzzy eyes. “Going to pull my, ahaha, head clean off if I back out now, feels like.”

Sekibanki squirmed past the unfortunate wordplay. It wasn’t – nor would it. He in truth couldn’t have put that cockhead to her cervix easier if she’d spread-eagled on the floor and let gravity collude. The sole arresting factors had been her buttocks and the dumb, animalistic position.

Sekibanki didn’t trust herself to say so. Sekibanki didn’t, in fact, trust herself with anything but respiration and clamping down on the habitual masturbator’s instincts spurring her on to use the penis sheathed inside her as an aid. If she had, she dreaded, there would’ve been the quickest orgasm she’d had since accidentally discovering her G-spot. It was right there, harried by the bent of his bellied, throbbing shaft.

“… Silent is fine,” she heard him surrender over her starched headdress. “Know bloody well I’m the villain here. Just give the word if and how I can make it more fun for you, miss youkai. Well, more fun than you’re demonstrably having. Oh, and, er…”

“… Yesss?” said Sekibanki and right away hated what she sounded like, which was a woman having demonstrably a goodly deal of fun. “Whaaat?”

“Would love to compliment you,” murmured the no-longer-sir, “really would, but no first where to start, what with the youkai thing, so… I’m glad you’re a redhead, miss.”

Sekibanki rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder in a gesture conveying, more exasperatedly than she may, that dyes were not some new-fangled invention and any man could have a redhead down his pants for a few dozen mon and the patience not to jerk off until it dried.

Out loud, she urged, “Whateverrr. Just move your damn dick alreadyyy.”

“I wasn’t about not to,” he put in edgewise, bracing himself on the windowsill to meet her needs. “Try to relax your pussy, please, miss. Or this grip’ll milk me in moments.”

And presently, oblige he did. Sekibanki strove, strove to relax and hold onto her disgust as every pleasure previously inflicted on her wet, seditious pussy was reapplied to it in reverse. The human’s raw, filthy cockhead quit its courting of her incompatible womb; his veiny shaft evacuated inch by inch her possessively clinging, youkai labia. The pronounced fringe of his withdrawing glans scooped the juices out of her every fold, scraping the spots she’d come from innumerable times by teasing them with lumpy vegetables. If only she’d known meat could be so much better for her…
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Sexual fluids spilled down her inner thighs, causing her to jolt to her tiptoes and further delaying the cock’s departure from her wayward pussy. Worse, for the sudden jump had slipped it right back up to Sekibanki’s womb, filling out the itchy loneliness it’d left in its wake. His half-disrobed hips smacked her rear at about the same time another double “Tenkyuu!” was called beyond the curtain. Somewhere out there, someone had struck a deal. Somewhere in here, someone was having her pussy dick-massaged on the job.

Almost Sekibanki had thought she ought to be the happier of the two. Then the human let go of a chuckle into her feverish ear.

“… You like doing that, do you,” he wondered aloud. “Not letting me go? That a youkai thing, or you?”

Sekibanki allowed the tinkle and susurrus of the party to take her first response. “Just… hurry onnn,” she whined. “We’re here, you’re inside, so just fuck me!”

“Wasn’t meaning to do elsewise. Wasn’t complaining, either,” he added. “Care you do that at the end, miss, and I’ll slink out here a satisfied customer.”

Insemination. He was talking about insemination. Sekibanki was a damned youkai, and he was talking about getting her pregnant. The human reproductive drive was a monster unto itself. Alas for him, nothing would come from his squandering his spunk in her inhuman womb, else than perhaps Sekibanki.

That had the earmarks of a plan. Insofar as any of this, of course, was the doing of miss Seki, the maid.

Anyway they set off to do it. He, by hauling his upwards-bent dick out of her thirsty hole, and she – by staying its lips from chasing after his thickest inch. Obedience reaped its rewards; Sekibanki’s share was the sensation of her pussy being once more thrust into and dominated by its new, instantly favourite toy. In the window-glass, her reflection’s mouth gaped wide in a tight-throated, trailing moan. The man’s fat, exposed cockhead barrelled over her weak-spots on the out as well as in, feeding into Sekibanki’s misplaced passion with every round-tour of her squeezing femininity. She was leaving his shaft and balls a tacky mess, but – once he had lingered inside her a dozen or so full strokes in – she knew the insult had been returned directly to her womb.

Not yet the promised disgrace, though a virile foretoken.

Sekibanki stood, propped on tottering arms and knees, a youkai of, it wouldn’t be an inconceivable guess looking now, having promiscuous, stealthy sex behind the curtains at a posh party. The only proof of the contrary was her butt beginning to smart from being struck over and over by the head-hunter’s hips and loosed trousers. Her vagina was used to abuse. Not her butt. Cucumbers didn’t come encumbered with loins.

Nor did they move by their own selves. That was the stem and the core of it; not having control over where and when she was stimulated meant she felt each press and push twice as strongly. Not having to bunch a muscle to keep her pussy constantly surprised was a boon she’d never ahead had trouble pretending not to need. To be able to stand here now and take the pleasure as it was dealt out was every nerve worth the effort of wilfully ignoring who – or what – was the dealer.

… Only, Sekibanki the pervert would not ignore it for an entire vegetable garden. And, as her pussy’s inner frills were stretched for the umpteenth time around the meaty base of her free-willed toy, Sekibanki recognised in the privacy of her mind she wallowed in the taboo.

That was a human male’s breath on her choker-wound neck. That was a human male’s bulk jostling her natural upholstery. That was a human male’s penis – that thing of pyjama-sullying nightmares – petting her pussy on its cavalcade of weaknesses to its sloppy, ingratiated glee. A sub-youkai animal, a fragile, mortal ape, knocking on the entrance of her womb with the dribbly tip of its crooked cock.

It was the nastiest, lewdest thing she had ever dreamt. And she was living it now: the whole, ahaha, she-bang, with the added perks of three hundred mon a day and titillating costume. She might’ve almost lived it three nights before but for an overweening sense of self-worth and circumstance, but the takeaway would have been the same. She’d been years more or less covertly taunting the town’s men with her body. She’d had it long coming one would taunt her pussy with his dick as payback.

Sekibanki the youkai loathed how fair it sounded even in her ears.

Therefore, she welcomed the following insertion as a youkai-woman who knew what she was after. What she was after being revenge. For the aching fingers, for the stained underwear, the ignominy of running away, of serving out drinks smiling while stranger hands took her for a plaything. A willing plaything, but browbeaten into the position.

And now it was her turn once more. To reimburse her body for the redress it had been made to pay. Sekibanki perpetuated the vicious cycle by throwing her butt against the next thrust. Her eyes rolled up in their sockets as the tip of the human’s cock rammed hard into her G-spot and then skidded up along her pussy’s sensitive, front wall until she was bottomed out. Hips slammed into buttocks.

Sekibanki went still, cheeks puffed up with the moan she’d hemmed in ahead it’d alerted everyone and their maid at the party. You learned to do that, schlicking in side-alleys for peeping schoolboys in broad daylight. She felt the head-hunter’s consternation above and below: exhaled gruffly all over the nape of her neck and throbbing long, emasculated throbs in the cramped, wet clutches of her youkai pussy. It was not insemination, not yet, but damned if his cock wasn’t doing its worst. Sekibanki’s crotch was runny with the warm-up.

“… There where you like it,” groaned the man, stalling while his cock-lube surged up his shaft and pre-coated her womb, “is it, miss Seki? Told you… bloody bother, to say the word. About got my dick in hot water, there…”

Sekibanki said nothing, making instead to break off the faux-impregnation, but the man shoved their lower bodies back together, loins to ass, cockhead against cervix. The trapped breath escaped her cheeks through an inadvertent opening.

“No, no, no,” panted the man, grabby hands reining in the runaway hips. “This stays bloody well in, miss Seki. Until you clue me the hell in how you want to be fucked.”

“Just damned keep—!” Sekibanki checked her indoor voice: for volume, but also in no small measure the blatant, rasping neediness. “Just… keep humpinnng,” she whimpered, but calmer; “I’ll take care of… the rest.”

There was an exhalation of filed-down machismo up the rear of her head. “Not going to toss me a bone?”

“I’m used to… doing it by myself.”

“Had a hunch,” yielded the man. “So, I keep humping. That it? You’re a cinch to please, aren’t you, miss youkai?”

She wasn’t. His cock was simply ideal. The ideal toy for a self-sufficient, youkai pussy like hers.

And he read it in her encompassing touch. “Wonderful, fine. Use me, then. Though, I’ll ask this of you, miss Seki: tell me, at least, before you come. So’s we can finish off together. In the interest of time.”

Sekibanki returned a terse nod. This earned her a thank-you buss on the back of the ear. She shivered in what could’ve been distaste if she’d been fifteen minutes in the past and not yet turned on beyond self-delusion. For that, the ear was breathed into and kissed again.

“Though, I love a woman… youkai-woman,” the head-hunter righted himself, “who knows what it is she wants. And especially when what she wants is writ all over her. Now, miss Seki. I shall hump. And you, ahaha, do you however you please, please.”

A shuffle presaged his hips undocking from her flattened butt and his cockhead ungluing from the entrance of her womb. Sekibanki heard the patter of extracted fluids on the panties stretched between her knees even over the wistful sound rolling from her very own throat. The shaft of his retreating cock dragged, contending with all that was the best in seasoned vaginal muscles. Near its top the man paused, just the glans keeping her thirsty pussy lips pacified, and waited, words had intimated, for Sekibanki to do her.

Which Sekibanki wordlessly did. She levered herself up, almost upright, on her arms, upper back nestled against the man’s accommodatingly expansive chest, butt tweaked up parallel to his waist. She forbore to object when he’d slung one of his own arms underneath her for a rutting hug, not least since her excuses had long rowed across the Sanzu and much more because in her stubborn foolishness she had thrilled to the hairs on her nape from the unforeseen, unlooked-for captivity.

To wit, she found it objectionably unobjectionable.

It was maybe best not to tumble with the implications yet. Not while she had the sex to have. Sekibanki the youkai combed her deserted faculties for an uncompromising enough advance to signal she was ready. Then the uniform chimed in.

“All done… sir,” she said, scruples dying by the score. “You may… fuck me now.”

“Those are words,” complained (?) the man, “to kill a marriage, miss Seki.”

And then he gave his amazing cock: head, shaft and base, wholly to her agog pussy.

Arms juddered. Sekibanki’s knees buckled. Hot air erupted over the window-glass in a steamy, voiceless cry.

It was perfect. The perfect insertion. Wittingly or otherwise, he had given the randy maid not only what she’d needed, which was a thick, long prick stuffed balls-deep inside her horny vagina. He had given her what she wanted as well – and speared her, to poach the vivid term, slutty hole at exactly the devastating angle she’d herself employed at the end of many a night to round off a toy-assisted binge. The frailest, most receptive areas of her femininity, her extremely private climax buttons, places she would not have told her closest sex friends had she any – had been one by one barrelled into by its swollen tip then whetted on the length of the head-hunter’s bowed, venous prick-shaft. A lowly human male, who knew mere half of Sekibanki’s name by indiscretion – and he was now fully privy to the secrets of taming a rokurokubi’s perverse, youkai pussy. To its crippling weakness to human cock.

And the greatest and worst part of it was, he needn’t be enlightened further.

Sekibanki had scarcely reconciled with her womb being yet again made hostage of his leaky cockhead when the man sawed his hips back and forth – a one-two punch to Sekibanki’s hauteur – and made hers the happiest pussy there had been since three nights before and its first rendezvous with a real dick. She wrung around his girth, bubbling girl-lube and pre-come; she breathed fast and hard, prudent not to moan, though more so out of mirror-sheen usance than any regard for the party ongoing outside. What might they do, anyway? Sack her? Sekibanki the pervert had damned already achieved what she’d clumsily bargained for since the man had first accosted her by the snack bar. To see whether sex with a human was everything she’d dreamt – or nowhere close.

And that it was. Nowhere close. Once the man had penetrated her yet again, striking orgasmic sparks all throughout her vagina with his raw glans, she knew she’d known not the first thing about sex. Masturbation was fine, really fine. Sekibanki had more than tempered her pussy on her own tongue and fingers. Yet, to think she’d passed such a thing up in favour of cold, inanimate helpers made her rue now the fruitlessness of her exhibitionist years. A daring gesture, a swallowing of her youkai preponderance, and she could’ve had one of those precocious schoolboy peepers earn his sexual education while giving Sekibanki effort-free orgasms. A little less pride, a little more skin, and she could have taught that young tax collector to, ahaha, come inside when a woman in dishabille leaves the door ajar.

An education was being had now, but by Sekibanki instead. A redder and redder error mark grew on her clueless butt with each discreet clap of the head-hunter’s loins; a tighter and slicker pussy slipped down the span of his pumping cock with every one of the womb-deep thrusts. A wiser and humbler youkai gasped together with her reflection: the wiser for every shock of joy from her fulfilled femininity and the humbler for every inch not resigned to gravity by virtue of the man’s supporting arm. He bred her crudely, in dog-fashion, as befit an animal, but was more concerned for Sekibanki’s safety and comfort than she’d been herself.

The fact was spoiled a blot by the ruthless stropping of his bare cock on her pussy’s delicate walls, but she had eaten sourer produce – and after more tiring sex to boot. Worse yet, Sekibanki realised, because she may never be able to top this instance on her lonesome or with tomorrow’s grudging breakfast. Minutes hadn’t gone by, and already her groin and thighs were twinging as if electrocuted each time her labia reached the bottom of his burly shaft. She may have distracted her head through frantic rationalisation, but her body had been taking the brunt of the lusty sex the whole interim. Sekibanki had only to let herself to feel it – really let herself, really feel it – to grasp the error of so doing.

She would come. On the job, in maidly disguise, a shroud of cloth away from indecent exposure, Sekibanki the youkai would covertly come from a human’s dick mistaking her vagina for one of its own species. And she had nothing for it but for a despairing hope she could still schlick satisfactorily afterwards.

The hard, cruelly curved cock of her first human partner vied to pamper her standards forever. It bullied her labia with the circumference of its shaft and drove the foibles of her pussy ahead of its smooth tip. It threatened her youkai womb with its first-ever impregnation and withdrew glazed in Sekibanki’s bodily consent. Confused by their compatibility irrespective of the species, the rokurokubi’s overzealous vagina ached in each of the dick’s curt absences… then throbbed in bliss once crammed all the way down again to its sturdy base. Sekibanki throbbed with it, the ears in the main, loose now in the man’s strapping arms, limp and surrendered to the fuck.

She would come. The strikes on her naked rear were too speedy, too strong to wrest back the lost control. The human had her scent; his moustached nose imbibed it by the lungful from the hair on the back of her scalp. He’d not rest, she was acutely aware, till his was mixed in with hers. In her belly, for preference. Her youkai baby-box. The blasphemous, illicit place he was by native laws never to go.

And the place Sekibanki’s pussy was ecstatic to guide him. With a great, big, double orgasm to hammer the heresy home. To anoint his wicked cock, cursing it forevermore, with her copious, youkai girl-come. As she owed his pitiful, pitiful kind.

There was no more saying which Sekibanki had thought it: the pervert or the youkai; the climax was clawing at her reason, itching to burst out and all over the human’s womb-thumping penis. In and out, in and out and all along her pussy walls, he was hounding it to come sooner.

The joke was on him. An hour would have been too soon.

“I’m—” Sekibanki nonetheless obliged, simply for the sting of depravity, “I’m almossst—!”

“Yes!” snarled the man down her nape. “You are! Can tell. Come inside you… hff, when you do. OK? Give the word.”

Fuck you, she thought. “… The wwword,” she said.

“Sassy to the end, huh,” opined the head-hunter.

And then rescinded the last pretences of civility.

Sekibanki swore under her ragged breath, shoved face and chest up against the warm window-glass. The indignity couldn’t have been shorter-lived; the man’s beating his hips on her bare ass offed it all in one. Though, the stab had come the most insidiously from his cock running her peaking vagina through at breeding horse speed. Sekibanki couldn’t suck the escaped moans back in ahead the penis had pulled right around and transfixed her pussy all over again on its uncompromising length. Then did so again. Then once more. And more, more, more, in and out, in and out.

Skin on skin, mouth on ear and crotch to crotch, the pushy man fucked Sekibanki’s cusping body straight into orgasm.

She couldn’t recall afterwards what had pitched her over the edge or when. Whether it had been the dozenth rapid smashing of her G-spot or the man’s nourishingly wretched groan when he’d untimely come from the wild cramping of her vaginal walls. What she would for ever and more contend with on long, solitary nights would be the memory of one moment having a hateful bout of barely hidden sex with a human male – and the next, one of the strongest, wide-mouthed, tongue-out, hip-bucking orgasms of her lately life.

Sekibanki’s battered ass, wracked first by the doggystyle sex and now further by the waves of oceanic ecstasy, would have long given out and dragged her bodily to the floor but for the human’s procreative labours, which held her up and close, an arrestee to his boorish wheezing and hilted cock. She came and came in his arms, pussy wringing around his throbbing girth, all the while rope after rope of his hot, incompatible seed splattered her inhuman womb.

She. Miss Seki. The naughty youkai-maid who’d pounced on the prospect of riding a guest’s dick on the quiet in the middle of her shift. Who would while away the rest of it in wet panties, with a man’s load sloshing unseen under her bellybutton. And looking out to have the ache kneaded out of her butt.

Was that respecting the uniform? Wouldn’t she get the works?

The thought didn’t yank her up short. It ought to have done. It would have for Sekibanki of three nights before, whose privates hadn’t yet known the debasing touch of a human dick. The Sekibanki of right now worried only not to slip off of the present specimen ahead her pussy had heaved, squeezed and squirted its last. And taken in each and every drop of the poor, human spunk where it would never, ever conceivably find purchase. Just to spite the world.

Sekibanki shivered in glee, malice and climax – right before the latter whelmed over the former two from moving too much with a stiff dick packed up to the fast emptying balls inside her coming pussy.

She’d just about become the blithest youkai in the room if not the realm when she felt the swollen cockhead disengage from the entrance of her womb. She hadn’t to try to make its withdrawal torturous; every vaginal crease catching on the ridge of his tender glans was a cuss of pain from the man. Sekibanki revelled in his weakness, prying wide the apelike arms which couldn’t have now pinned down a fairy – and slumped against the windowsill as the human cock at last popped free of her sticking, carnivorous, youkai labia. She swallowed.

Slowly, wary not to trip on her lowered undies and pantyhose, Sekibanki turned around, wondering hazily how to vex the man into talking them both into maybe another happy quickie, maybe in a restroom, maybe outdoors in the gardens later – or maybe at the dining table, with Sekibanki in his lap and her panties pulled aside, having her insatiable itch scratched in full, ignorant sight of the party-goers…

… And then she stopped her wonderings dead, eyes falling upon the very cause whereof.

The penis was spent, flagrantly it was – yet unbowed by the ravages of sex with a youkai-woman else than its inherent curvature. Sekibanki’s slick discharge coated it top to bottom: from the purplish glans to the lowermost inch of its vein-streaked shaft. It jutted out of the man’s overgrown groin, vulgar as anything, all but ready by the hallmarks to take on Sekibanki’s pussy a second match.

Moreover and above the aforesaid, Sekibanki knew this penis. She had seen it. She had re-sculpted it in her dreams, in every appreciable detail, each night ever since. Three of these ago, and she would’ve almost traded her freedom for its length acquainting the insides of her rattled femininity. As opposed to the by-then much acquainted outside.

Trepidation rising, Sekibanki snatched at then jerked his waistcoat and linens up to the man’s ribs. And there, wound around a tanned and brawny torso was a bandage keeping in place a worn, cotton dressing.

… The place being on the dot where she’d stuck the pen of one watchman who had done his damnedest to give Sekibanki what she’d needed all along but never deigned acknowledge.

As if to get even, the head-hunter… watchman… picked up and lifted Sekibanki’s uniform’s skirt. Then whistled.

“Clean-shaven, are we,” he admired. “That’s a lost art, that is. Anticipated to be eaten out, or… going incognito? Your hair up there’s the same colour, you realise? Miss Seki…?”

Miss Seki swiped at his forearm. To no overt effect but a slight wobble of his dick in the aftershock. What could she tell him? That she’d shorn her red wildcat bald the better to see her belly bulge from the huge cucumber? Which’d turned her on almost as intensely as had fellating it afterwards?

The man dropped the leer – although not the skirt. “Not a crime, that,” he said, conversationally. “Would love to get my mouth on this pretty thing if chance permits. I said it once, miss Seki. Something insane exciting about you. Hair or not. What? Oh. This?” he humoured her continuous and knifelike stare. “You missed the, ahaha, vitals. Classic botch; punctured skin and bruised muscle was all. Not enough to warrant throwing the book, my thinking.”

Sekibanki looked up and consequently scowled. Yes, there it was, the conniving face she should’ve catalogued under “spit and run,” yet, from having fixated on something altogether else of the man’s, hadn’t. And its infuriating, polite policeman smile.

“Why—?” demanded Sekibanki, a youkai-woman twice now inveigled by that smile.

The undercover watchman made a face. Well, one over the existing. “Coincidence,” he promised. “The brass’s in a pot of a stew about you, mark you; I am here, though, because nobody else’d been up to sucking up the cream off the crop. Ahem. To the cream of the crop. And, I did let that youkai minx do a bunk, so… Here I am. On the watch for those un-law-ful dea-linguhs.

He’d pronounced it like a foreign recipe. Sekibanki’s jaundice spoke over her apprehensions.

“… Wasn’t ours?”

“Oh-ho-ho,” chuffed the watchman, “maliciously so, miss Seki, thank you for your honest vigilance. It has been noted.”

“Going to arrest yourself now,” she suggested, “Constable?”

The man shrugged. “Why ought I? When you could use a friend?”

That was the sentence her orgasm-bubbly head had heard. What her instincts pealed was the inner fire bell. Sekibanki backed an inch up the marble windowsill, letting the watchman’s clothing to drape over the unavailing injury. Unavailing, even, of the basic caution not to come close again the youkai who’d inflicted it to start. Let alone stuffing a hand down her undies.

What breed of moron was he? The breed that got her to drop those undies, evidently; Sekibanki wasn’t about to forget what she’d orgasmed to, on and around, that being the man’s still-bared and stupendously unrelenting dick. But of one point also in the forefront of her brain she was surer than steel.

“… I don’t make friends.”

At which the hapless human’s smirk aged minutes in a heartbeat. “… Not such kind, I didn’t hope,” he assured her at any rate. “The kind, miss Seki, who’ll look out for, as it were, your neck. Who’d have you wised to changes in patrols; who’d hunker down nearby with your togs while you have your nightly strut down the boulevard. Maybe help you let off some pressure afterwise; I won’t lie, that’d be, as they parlay, the tits. Or plainly get you out of the tizzy with the midwatch, such presenting.”

“You want to fuck me,” Sekibanki translated, unfooled by any but two words of it. “Me. A youkai. For what? Favours? You said it yourself; you are a man set to marry. Go, live your life! And leave me well alo—!”

The smile returned in strength, and the man leaned in – shoulders, hard-on and all.

“I called it off,” he said.

It occurred to Sekibanki she had lost the grimace slightly, and she locked gazes with herself in the waistcoat’s polished buttons. There was a cause for ire, now. Those blushing cheeks and blowsy hair of a youkai-woman after rough sex.

“Called what off?” she snapped on reflex.

“The wedding, miss,” the watchman explained. “The whole shebang. I stand before you today a free, freshly disowned man. Ah, but fear not I did it for your sake, miss Seki. I did cheat, you know; it was, as we say, a fair cop. Ahaha,” he laughed, with mirth that was quite possibly affected. “It’s a hard lot, being fair when the world ain’t. You know?”

Sekibanki sensed a noose tightening. But. But, said something inside… What was a noose to a rokurokubi?

“… And,” she spoke after a moment’s death thrill, “what is it you want… from me?”

“You can detach your head,” noted the watchman. “Yes? I may have ideas for that.”

Sekibanki coloured. “I am not a sex toy!”

“Would you like to be? Sorry, that was insensitive,” he tacked on, unenlightened of the abrupt dryness in Sekibanki’s throat; “sooner I’ll be your toy, way of course. Some of us is destined to lock horns with youkai; I’ll be glad to be horny with one. So, consider me at your disposal, miss Seki. In return, though… Yes. There is a thing I want.”

“… What?” questioned Sekibanki.

And the man confessed, simply, “A date.”

Sekibanki let her stare trickle down his front to the part of his anatomy not so long ago engrossed in doing to her what her, granted, amateur grasp of human social niceties averred wasn’t done before, during and even after the first date. The watchman harrumphed, and Sekibanki peered up.

“Curiosity, miss Seki,” he vowed. “Curiosity and nothing else. The lettered man’s curse, if you will. I’d like to sit down and ask you some questions over tea, but… should at any time it turn ill to your like, miss Seki, you may do with this snoop as you please instead. Copper’s oath.”

“Meaning sex,” guessed Sekibanki.

“You said it, miss.”

And she had, right enough, said it.

Sekibanki’s selfishness grabbed her pride in a last-ditch chokehold. She’d had some of the most amazing times atop the man’s desk and then in his arms – and now she was putting forward her worst foot to dissuade him from giving her more? Was she, really? No. It wasn’t about the sex, was it; it was that old bugbear, the secrecy. It was the dangling shrine maiden’s stick intrinsic in the discovery – at the least propitious of moments with her luck – that miss Seki Kubinashi-alias-Sekibanki, the town’s sometimes-pervert was, in fact, a bloody youkai. She’d hardly ducked it not half a week previously. She was courting it all anew by bedding down with the law in her simple-maid disguise.

… And yet, the selfishness reminded, the unnamed watchman had “miss Kubinashi” sussed out from the get-groped. Had he somehow leveraged this against her? Or had he maybe contrived a panty-thin but mutually pliable excuse to finish what had been interrupted the night back at the midwatch house? Hadn’t he proposed barefacedly to get his colleagues out of her hair? To be her valet and dick-toy if she should but wish? For what, a bite of her self-respect over tea? It was his funeral.

Sekibanki wasn’t a bargain-chasing type, but she acknowledged a good one when it very well groped her butt under her skirt. She unbolted her mouth to have the final say and then it was just a matter of it not rolling over into a scream when the curtain was drawn aside not two arm spans from their hiding spot.
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“Hellooo,” called a bright, ebullient voice; “I scent a trade being made in heeere!”

The smell of rainbow preceded her. Heavenly refulgence defied the midday sun outside.

The goddess of the fair peeked her head in through the parted drapes. And didn’t scream, either – not even when her holy sensibilities were challenged by the sight of a maid with her underwear around her knees and a lawman’s boastfully towering penis.

Sekibanki contemplated the cost and rarity of window-glass this far out in the uplands. She didn’t, contemplating it very high, nevertheless scramble to cover anything up. It wasn’t her cock on which the goddess’s eyes had hung. She hadn’t said “Tenkyuu!” yet.

“Ah, um, well, er, this is fine, isn’t it?” babbled the rainbow divinity, who clearly had banked on appearing like a bolt from the blue but, in fact, appeared in a blue funk and unable to leave. “It is fine; youkai may trade with humans too. The market does not discriminate, does not…” Her gaze walked the sloped, seven-inch walk. Twice. Then additional hues were turned to account over the blue. “A-hem!” the recomposed goddess intoned, a fist at her mouth. “May I remind you,” she said crisply, “you, miss maid and you, esteemed guest, that each and every exchange at the fair is to be consummated with distinct thanks and a swapping of physical tokens? Such a speech I gave about this! The market accepts all, that it does, um, company included, but rules, my dears, are to be observed regardless. Well? Well!”

All in all, the effect was that of a peddler who’d trusted every word had wound you tighter and tighter round their little finger. That is to say, one used to peddling to suckers.

“Craaap. I, er,” groaned the watchman bobbing by Sekibanki’s side with – yes, it really was – genuine flurry, “seem to have misplaced mine…? The other pants, maybe? Would it, uh, suffice to do with a gesture for now? A kiss or something? Swear we’ll sweep for those tokens with due dispatch after this, miss god. On my oath.”

The goddess weighed the compromise against her continued exposure to the man’s unabashed pants-filler. “… Fine,” she deigned at more length than Sekibanki would’ve clocked necessary. “For now! Go ahead, then. Kiss, you two. And I had best hear you ‘Tenkyuu!’ like it’s going out of fashion!”

Sekibanki resisted commenting. What she didn’t was shoving a palm up the stooping watchman’s mug.

Not,” she hissed, “for all the tea in China! Here, this is all you merit…!”

Maintaining which, Sekibanki snapped her choker open, dissociated her body and head and thereon floated the latter, grimly, down to the man’s denuded groin.

The abominable, human cock which had seduced, ensnared and subdued her youkai vagina loomed before her face, wreathed in the sex-stink of its recent conquest. Sekibanki’s orgasm glossed its entire length, as sticky as it had been on the misused cucumber. And not a whiff of the man’s own. His had gone to the last whence there was no coming out.

Sekibanki pursed her lips, enheartened. She had eaten herself out more than she ought and for certain than she cared to beat herself over the head with. This was the same smell, same thing – except, somehow, naughtier yet. It abetted the impression that the watchman had stealthily tugged the foreskin from the crown of his dick so that Sekibanki’s kiss would land on the most sensitive, intimate part of it.

And land it did. Sekibanki pressed her warm lips to the smooth, bifurcated underside of his glans and knew, just knew, from the stupefied sigh shuddering his broad shoulders, that it wouldn’t be another hour before she was whisked away under some daft excuse to an out-of-the-way room and there made to learn everything there was about performing oral sex on the male organ for a change. Or merely a head of hers, for that was equipment enough for one undaunted dick.

She pulled her lips – and her head – away, both quicker and slower than she would’ve wanted.

The watchman watched her lick off the lewd lipstick all but worshipfully. “… Tenkyuu,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but behind Sekibanki the sheer pressure of expectance was poised to pop her ears.

“… Mm,” she gave in to the uniform. “Yes, sir. Tenkyuu, indeed.”

The goddess glowed… more vivid than she had for a flash. So too did her cheeks once Sekibanki had re-seated her head on the stump of her neck and turned about face. There were more than bare cock kisses on her mind and no two ways to dress it.

“That was… surely something,” her motley divinity consented. “It will, however, do. Yes. So long as you locate those tokens and make for me a proper exchange later. Or decide on something else, um, tangible to swap. The market does not, as I decreed it, discriminate. Absolutely not. Yes.”

There was a sudden and blessed hubbub out in the ballroom, and the goddess looked out to it almost gratefully.

“Ah. There we are,” she announced for the hidden two’s merit. “The prodigal head maid returns. And…” Here, her laugh-lines deepened. “… There is a gentleman with her, and they have traded behind my back! What is it with you maids!”

And then she left in a huff of credibly professional jealousy.

The curtain hadn’t yet hung still when Sekibanki’s face was full of the man’s, and her mouth – of his twirling, forceful tongue. There had never been a clumsier, greedier kiss, but Sekibanki was not a pervert to bow down to discomfiture. Never mind she had experience to give back to a receptive opening.

Time turned doughy, but couldn’t for all that stretch outlast the next minute. The watchman – Sekibanki’s watchman in more senses than one – terminated the kiss among the stringing and popping of dehydrated saliva.

“… Will head off the head maid,” he said, jimmying his pants up over his unaccommodating dick, “ahaha, and divert her for a piece. Give me but a trice, and it ought to be safe to come out. I’ll try and have you let off the hook for that interview I’m supposed to be doing. If not… well, I’ll be here all three days. I’ll work for that date.”

He strode out the gap left between the curtains in the goddess’s wake, confident as only a man who had enticed, fucked, inseminated and stolen the first another-person kiss of a youkai-woman could be. Very carefully, Sekibanki was not excessively impressed.

Alone, the maid, the pervert and the youkai all in one let themselves sigh right derisively. There. She had three days coming on. Three days-plus-nights to persuade the watchman of the futility of his ambitions… and to abort the date as he had his arranged marriage. He’d well enough made the bed; now Sekibanki would lie in it and spread her legs. And thereafter the human would see, yes he would, what a mistake it’d been to match a youkai-woman blow-for-blow.

Sekibanki pulled up her undies and pantyhose, feeling vindicated if not vindictive. She touched a few long-nailed fingertips to her aproned belly, where her first win was being celebrated. It had another one, ahaha, coming.

But not yet. That was only herself running away with, well, herself. Not an unaccustomed state of affairs where Sekibanki the youkai was concerned, though without a place in a proper maid’s shoes. And a properly shoed maid she was. Three hundred mon and so on.

The other perks were simply an audacious maid getting ahead.
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This was really hot. Chimata is adorable too
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Restrain your Chimalust! She barely had an appearance to speak of! And what about the Pervybanki? She was the protagonist, you know!
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I had thoughts about Banki, but they were wiped from my mind when I realised that Chimata stood there and watched as she cleaned up the Gensokyo rozzer's cock.
No, it was good. Banki was good. I like her reticent personality (despite her exhibitionism) and I like how she slowly cracks.
But I won't lie and pretend I didn't sit up a little straighter when I realised that Chimata Is In This Story.
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Looking forward to whatever new SFW thing you do. We don't share much in terms of tastes for porn, so dunno what to say about this one other than good job including Chimata in something, even if it wasn't for much.
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This story, like all your others, gets the fap seal of approval from me. Many buckets were filled.

Captcha: HeRMiT5
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You have a very unique style, and a talent for writing exceptionally engaging smut.

Mokou's story with that school aide milked buckets of cum from me, and this one has been no different. Thank you very much, count me among your group of avid readers.

Blessed captcha thread: WiLyOkUU54
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I love reading how Sekibanki slowly succumbed to her perverted desire. And the Chimata cameo was really cute. I hope she appears in your stories more often.
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