The house glowed warm against the night. The living room door stood unlocked—an invitation, or perhaps a resignation.
Izumi Kirishima sat on the sofa, a half-empty can of beer dangling from her fingers. On the coffee table before her lay a letter, the handwriting elegant and painstaking, each stroke a small surrender.
I will do anything. Anything at all. Just leave my daughter alone.
The words had cost her. After discovering that Sagiri knew—had watched—her world had fractured. The carefully maintained walls between mother and daughter, between public respectability and private desperation, had crumbled to dust. She couldn't face those knowing eyes. But she could do this. For Sagiri, she could become anything. Even a vessel. Even a tool.
Upstairs, Izumi Sagiri lay on her bed, her lower body bare to the cool air. Having witnessed those fierce, intimate battles through cracked doors, the girl could no longer suppress the curiosity blooming in her chest. She explored alone now, chasing something she couldn't name.
She was old enough for such knowledge. Old enough for boyfriends and future discussions. But she had always been withdrawn—since middle school, really—and after dropping out, isolation became her habitat. Boys didn't exist in her world.
Until he did.
She didn't understand why her mother made those sounds. She didn't understand the expressions that transformed her familiar face into something strange and beautiful. But she understood that her mother, even when treated roughly, seemed to want more. To crave this man's attention like a flower craves light.
His image surfaced in her mind. In the darkness of her room, she slipped into a fantasy—not as herself, but as her mother. The role fit strangely. The feeling, even incomplete, was overwhelming.
"Ah… so good…" Her whisper vanished into the shadows. "Is this what Mother feels?"
Hot breath fogged the air. Her eyes, unfocused, traced patterns on the ceiling.
He'll come tonight. He always comes.
She calmed her breathing and caught the faint murmur of voices from downstairs.
In the living room, Akira finished reading the letter, then reached for the beer can. He took a long swallow, considering.
Touching. Truly touching. A mother's sacrifice, beautifully packaged.
It fit the butter narrative perfectly. Sometimes the realism was so immersive he forgot this was all constructed—a digital stage for his pleasures. But that was precisely the point. And he wasn't the type to skip dialogue for the sake of rushing to the "content." The build-up mattered. The immersion mattered.
He set the can down with a deliberate clink.
"So, Madam. You're willing to do anything." His voice carried a lazy amusement. "Then show me. Show me your resolve."
As if on cue, he tilted the can, spilling beer across his lap.
"Oh my. How clumsy of me." The smile he offered was utterly without warmth. "Madam, would you be so kind as to clean that up?"
Izumi Kirishima's cheeks burned. Her voice emerged thin, hopeful. "Then… you'll agree? To leave Sagiri alone?"
"That depends entirely on you." His expression didn't waver. "On how convincingly you demonstrate that resolve."
For a long moment, she stood frozen. Then, slowly, she rose from the sofa. Her steps were small, reluctant, each one a negotiation with dignity. She stopped before him. Lowered herself to her knees. Leaned forward, trembling hands reaching—
Ah.
The sensation was a lightning strike. He let out a slow breath, one hand finding her hair, applying gentle pressure. Increasing it. Testing.
Hiss.
The realism of this game was devastating. Any other man would drown in it, forget the world outside, spend himself completely on this single field. But Akira had learned. Even as pleasure fogged his thoughts, a cool corner of his mind monitored the interface.
The Anti-Addiction Hourglass. His Vitality Bar.
Through multiple sessions, he'd mapped the pattern: from initiation to completion counted as one full cycle. Each cycle cost approximately one-third of his total vitality. Combat followed the same rule—one engagement, one third.
At this rate, he had maybe two more cycles before depletion.
Priorities, he reminded himself, even as his fingers tightened in her hair. Always priorities.
He had learned from yesterday's miscalculation—the injury that cost him a full turn and a million yen to heal. His vitality bar now stood as a clear boundary: three cycles maximum per session. Three complete engagements before depletion.
Since foreplay to finish consumed exactly one-third regardless of duration, why rush? The process itself was the point. And tonight presented an opportunity—a chance to test the temporal elasticity of this world. How did butter-time correlate with reality-time? The question demanded empirical investigation.
Slurp. Slurp.
Izumi Kirishima's technique was unpolished, tentative—the awkward enthusiasm of a novice. But she was a craftsman by nature, an illustrator who understood the value of reference material. She applied herself to the task with the same dedication she brought to her art, experimenting, adjusting.
A pause. A sip of cold beer. Then resumption.
The contrast in temperature drew a sharp intake of breath from Akira.
"Madam," he murmured, genuine appreciation coloring his voice, "you're a natural."
"Don't kneel. Come here." He pulled her onto the sofa, settling her against him.
For him, she shed every reservation. Hair pushed back from her forehead. Inner shirt discarded. The fitted T-shirt beneath clung to curves made fuller by gravity's surrender. Her body was a confession written in flesh.
As expected of a mature woman, Akira thought, watching her. She understands things those high school girls haven't even imagined.
Then—
[Trophy: Bystander - TRIGGERED]
Sensation doubled, redlined, exploded through him. His hand found the back of her head, pressing down instinctively.
On the stairs, a sliver of silver hair caught the dim light. Izumi Sagiri watched through the gap in the balusters, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other... elsewhere. Her mother had told her to sleep, had believed her obedient daughter safely tucked away. But obedience had limits, and curiosity had none.
Izumi Kirishima felt only the sudden intensification—a pleasure so acute it blurred thought into sensation. She had no attention to spare for stairs, for watchers, for anything but the moment consuming her.
Everything aligned. Obstacles fell away. The world contracted to breath and touch and the electric space between.
When it ended, Izumi Sagiri could no longer lose herself in fantasy. Reality—her mother's expression, that look of transcendent surrender—was far more vivid than any imagination. So this is what it means. This is what she feels.
Akira received the familiar notification:
[Stamina +0.5]
[Agility +0.5]
He turned toward the stairs. A flash of silver—gone. But not fast enough.
He rose, crossing to the staircase. On the step where she had knelt, a small puddle caught the moonlight, glistening evidence of a watcher's private culmination.
A smile touched his lips, there and gone.
He returned to the living room, where Izumi Kirishima lay sprawled across the sofa, still adrift in the aftermath. "Madam." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "Your performance was excellent. I've seen your resolve."
A pause. She focused on him with effort.
"I agree to your terms."
He left her there, floating in satisfaction, and stepped out into the night.
The game's logic was elegant in its cruelty. Izumi Kirishima had bargained for her daughter's safety—had offered herself as sacrifice to protect Sagiri from his attention. But her words were precise: he wouldn't lay a hand on the daughter.
She hadn't considered that the daughter might lay hands on herself. Or on him.
If she walks in one day and finds us together...
The image bloomed in his imagination: her face, first confusion, then understanding, then the beautiful crack of a psyche breaking. And after that? Complete surrender. Total possession. A plaything with no reservations left.
Tsk tsk tsk.
Most butter games followed this trajectory—the gradual corruption, the inevitable collapse of boundaries. But those were static scripts, predetermined outcomes. This was real. The sense of accomplishment wasn't simulated; it was earned.
Humming softly, Akira walked away from the Izumi residence and pulled up the fight interface.
[Fight]
Difficulty: 20-30 Persons
Status: Available
He selected it without hesitation.
Time to grind.