The sun's heat flutters over the dojo, its golden hue screaming in colors on the panes, and the white fusuma filters inside the old house. Despite its rays being filtered, the mangaka stood still, his eyes shimmering with desire and restraint. Their interactions had always been professional, yet this unspoken tension lingered between them. The helpless gaze of the one who visualized his thoughts landed on this beautiful enigma. 

"Sensei Toshi" His fingers slide between the waistband of her skirt, pressing his palm against her soft thighs, before moving back to the hems of her skirt to play with it. As he indulged in this daring act, a surge of electricity passed between them, intensifying the unspoken tension. The space seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see how their forbidden relationship would play out. "Eileen Kills. Do you ever want to say your real name to me? He whispered in her ear and brushed his breath against her skin sending a shiver down her spine. With her fingers rubbing and the button being pulled out of its hole she muttered a laugh. "What makes you say it isn't my real name?"

"It's an unbelievable name," he replied, his voice filled with curiosity and a hint of playfulness. "It sounds like something out of a spy novel or a movie. I can't imagine anyone being named Kills." Eileen laughed, her eyes sparkling with wistfulness.

"Unbelievable, huh?" she shrugs.

"Well, maybe I am a spy, or maybe I just have unconventional parents. Either way, it's my name now, and it suits me just fine."

"Just like how you talk in fluent English, Asai Sensei. You act as if you know it all, which makes me hate you so much." He bites on her earlobe, and to her surprise, the mangaka spins her around, shoving her to his table filled with bond papers together with his manga drafts, blue pencils, calligraphy pens, and ink. 

"I hate you too, just to let you know. And by the way, I studied English."

"It's a mutual feeling, then. Why? Is it because of my art or fanfiction?"

"You. Just you. I hate all of you." He breathes out and dives onto the crook of her neck, making little kittens lick on her throat and biting it, marking it. His hands feel the heat of the skin on her chest, caressing the curves on her side and nipping, slightly tugging the tips of her breasts that are exposed. On the side of her breasts are the cups that hinder her breasts from being barely free. The mangaka reaches on the back of her to remove the hooks as he places his mouth on hers, licking her lower lip and begging for an entrance as she attentively responds by letting his tongue prod inside. She lightly places her palm on his chest, asking him to stop breathing for air. "You must hate me that your dick started growing in anger."

"Agonizingly, the answer will always be yes." A small growl escaped from his breath. "Oh god, you'll ruin my marriage."

"Toshi~. It's your choice, not mine."

"You responded to my kiss; isn't it your choice too?" His head is in between her chest, dilated eyes looking up at her copper-ringed ones. She chuckles.

"You know I'm a whore. I will write about my experiences. I'm a method writer, so I won't mind doing this." I kissed him again, but it was sweet and short.

"Stop labeling yourself as a whore. You're not."

"But I am."

"Women are no whores. Women are goddesses."

"Let me guess, you said this to every woman you encountered." poking the tip of his nose, her fingers slowly sinking to his scalp, slightly tugging it. "You are a cheesy son of a bitch."

"Yes, I do," the mangaka bends down, adoring her legs, moving upward in between them. "But you are the only goddess; I'll serve you." The only one-"

"aside from your wife." She disappointedly muttered under her breath. Her feet rub his clothed cock that's straining on his pants. Her jaw clenched with annoyance at the mangaka. "Your pants," he said, looking back up at his so-called goddess. "Your pants are annoying." Her voice is stern and commanding, but not angry, Asai thought.

Sensei Asai's mind was going at a rapid pace as his thoughts pondered the fact that he was a married man and that he'd been working as a mangaka for 10 years in the shounen genre. He was extremely popular; his artwork was displayed in international and local museums and art galleries. If anyone knew this kind of relationship with someone younger than him and had an affair during his marriage, it would destroy his career and his family.

But there's something about her that is so addicting.

"In what position do you want me in, my goddess?" In a position where you can never breathe. It was the voice inside her head, whether it came expecting his actions or feeling terrible for the woman this guy was married to.

"I wanted to draw you naked as you please me. I want to try." Her fingers scrambled their way to get the blue pencil on the table, her mind still present, and she aimed to draw and see him crawling at her feet. She started drawing him as he occasionally licked her crotch, his fingers prodding her cotton pants. The idea of himself sucking the young lady in front of him sounds so illegally arousing. "Can I?"

"Yes." She answers bluntly. He rubs his fingers on her clothed sex, her mouth slowly opening to breathe for air as soft fabric rubs on her slit finger, pushing the pants on the side of her mound. He finds her clitoral area swollen as if it were needy, inviting him to lick it, her entrance dripping in her wetness, with white sticky fluids in the middle of the pink entrance. Although it was inviting to taste, he let his fingers work in pleasuring her, making circular motions that made her shiver as her eyes slowly fluttered as if she were trying to fight over the pleasure she was experiencing. Pushing a single finger prodding her entrance, her fingers try to grip the pencil harder as she tries to form the shape of a man in between her cunts on a piece of paper with the blue pencil.

"I learned just by looking at other people doing it." She said she was still suppressing her unwanted Ohs. "You and I are the same, Asai Sensei. I learned from your drawings. Your fingers that are fucking me are the same fingers you used to flip the reference magazines you look at every time you draw. I do the same thing." She said it breathlessly, still trying on the matter-of-fact tone.

"I learn from other drawings too, and I am also an effective learner when it comes to pleasing people." He planted a kiss between her breasts and rushed down to go under her skirt, his hands slowly pushing her down to lie on the table, licking on the slit, opening it, and sucking on her clitoral area. Her toes make a point and curl as red high-heeled shoes drop on the wooden floor. Without noticing it, he caresses her black stocking-covered legs and attaches them to a belt around her waist. She remembers how she was pointing those feet to dance innocently around the stage with a pink tutu doing some ballet, and now it's on point for a dance of passion that was so different before. It was an involuntary dance of sex and bodily desires. "Do you like what I am doing?" He nods as he looks up into her face observing her lips form a o and her eyelids slowly opening. Its been some time. She thought.

"I've had enough of this." She paused. Her memories of him touching her the first time were that it was a nonconsensual act, the first time her body learned its shape without wedding bands, and the feeling of being violated at the same time brought her pleasure in the most disgusting ways. "Fuck me," she breathes, swallowing it "hard." Her mouth started finding his lips, which could block all her moans. This man who wanted to fuck the hell out of her was her violator, an annoying perv whom she'd been looking out for before he did this. It was non-consensual, as far as he knows. The real devil in here was this woman.

A stalker.

A master manipulator.

Ripping a condom off as he carefully put it on his length and poured a generous amount of lube on it, his hands started grabbing her hips and pushing them fluidly. It was painful to her; it seemed like her body rejected his intrusion. He thought it was just natural. She immediately reached out for the lube, dripping it onto his length and rubbing it onto the next part. His cock was warm to her palms, and her fingers were cold to his sensitive parts. Two different perspectives, two different feelings contrasting

I should get over this.

Soundless, needy skin slaps each other, rough and fast-paced. He embraces her cold body, sweat drips on the crook of his neck, and his suit slowly crumples between them as they reach their peak. Her tears streamed out of her face while he brushed it with his fingers. It's sort of concerning that she is always crying every time they do it. He asked her one time, and she said: "I'm so overwhelmed". Rather than asking it again, he kisses her and hugs her tight while cold sweat drips off her. He admits to himself that maybe it was because it feels like their first time was rape in his eyes.

Just like the white, pure fabric stained with my favorite wine.

Six years ago, she was scrolling around the internet until she came across a manga panel, beautifully drawn like a painting you can compare to the sketches of Leonardo Da Vinci or Michaelangelo. The manga's art style was odd in that every panel had the same consistent style. You can call it "artgasm", just like in the Greek story of Pygmalion, who liked the artwork Galatea, but instead of liking the artwork itself, she obsessed over the artist. It was just starting to collect his works at first—the mangas, the games, the posters—but then when she saw the mangaka's appearance—that long hair tied in a bun, eyes like cute cherries—she was reminded of the contacts he had in that photo. She felt her heart skip a beat and immediately searched for his commentaries and interviews she could find online.

She's crazy. She thought to herself.

But who would have thought she'd become a live model for the man she's been staring at and eyeing for a long time? It wasn't her intention to seduce this man. It may be the heat of the sun that day. Maybe it was his touches on the wine she drank before modeling for him or the shot of alcohol he drank getting prepared by drawing. Maybe it was the way the sweat dripped on her neck under the heat of the sun that was shining from the open windows, or the organza fabric barely covering her round body, bear-shaped exactly like one of those Italian Renaissance standards of beauty, or how her arm stretched and her fingers stretched out as if it were inviting to be taken by any fool.

That fool was him.

He cradled her in his arms, his cock still inside. She was being carried to the tub he invested in to relax. To his annoyance, he disconnected his body from him. As she suddenly felt the emptiness inside as their juices dripped down from the condom, he removed it, tying it and throwing it in the bin.

Despite having the ability to have sex with her, raw sex wasn't in his brain. He doesn't know if she'll like that idea.

He fills the tub with warm water streaming out from the faucet he opened. Finding any bath bomb that has a scent of flowers he has associated with her.

"I've thought about how dicks look like god just accidentally dropped it."

"That came out of nowhere."

"I was just thinking."

"Does my d*ck look like it was accidentally dropped?" He opened the shower and started lathering and rubbing the soap all over him, washing it afterward.

"No. I was just thinking randomly."

"You can't stop thinking."

"I can't stop thinking."

"So what were you thinking while we were doing it?"

"My mind went blank!" he laughs at her comment.

"Well, I'm glad that I can contribute to resting your brain."

"What are you going to do afterward?" She asked, slowly sinking her chest into the bubbles that were formed with the bathbomb.

"I'm going to get back to drawing. You?"

"I'm going to sing at the bar. Get some art and writing supplies and start writing too." He slowly dips his feet on the tub where she is while she moves and gives space for him. She leans her back on his chest comfortably while he rubs her skin with the soap while getting the shampoo on her hair. He thought about how they were both busy at the same time but still had time to have sex with each other. If his wife just finds time for him, he thinks it won't sink into his brain while with Eileen.

"Eileen."

"Sensei?" She turns her back to him as the light in Japan's skies starts to have vivid shades of purple. It was because of the impending storm that was coming, he thought. The lights of the nearby resto illuminated her figure. She was holding a bag ready to go back, wearing a set of fresh clothes after their bath. The bath was brief, and no initiating of sex happened. Even though he wanted to bite her, he thought he didn't want to give her any marks.

"Would you like to stay in for the night?" She shook her head, signaling no, even if she was smiling.

"Okay, just text me if there's anything you need."

"Same to you, Sensei."

As she walked away, she brought her phone up. "Sure. I have him now... and his works."