I have been rented out.

The insidious thought skims the surface of my upset humour as I enter the break room of the clinic in the Bamboo Forest of the Lost. The door sticks fast in the humidity-warped frame. It is plain no one has used it in an eternity.

I edge the water pail and the mop through with me then kick the door shut. It is daytime. I am ill like to be disturbed by the nurses, who will have gone to their warrens with the Moon’s departure from the sky – or the medicine sellers, who by now will have departed for the human town and its smallholdings. I am, however, what I am; and so, mopping the floors of the patients’ rooms with said patients’ stares glued to my back with dull boredom has made me hanker for a spell of privacy. The break room, I surmised, would need cleaning something awful.

It does not. I have not met with the Moon Sage who heads the clinic, nor those my new colleagues have pointed out to me as her confidantes, yet she must not abide the concept of a recess well. The break room may be there, may be furnished – but I know the look of a tea service that hasn’t been taken out or used in ages. What does elude me is the purpose of the other implements, aligned on the countertop behind the wide, communal table: boxes of smooth, glossy metal which somehow isn’t cool to the touch and protruding spouts. It takes no guess to know they haven’t enjoyed a weary nurse’s hand in a long while, either.

I think they may when I hear the footfalls in the hall outside and the door creak ajar behind me. It jams in the same spot it did before – to the opener’s breathless oath. I turn to see a capped, bunny-eared head peeking into the room.

Not a nurse. The day patrol. The Sage, it is said, sees enemies in a matchstick’s flame.

“Aw, fiddle—” The patroller, one blazer-sleeved arm wresting the door, notices me standing awkwardly in the middle of the break room, mop and pail in hand. She gawks for a bit – then colours a troubled pink. “Ah, er, mister… janitor, yes, sir? Sorry. Saw somebody skulking about the place, sir, and we have a… um, forget what we have, sir,” she bumbles out. “Sorry. Not your back-ache. Shouldn’t be. Leave you now, sir. Good luck with the hard-to-reach corners. Sir.”

The floppy-eared noggin pulls back out of the doorframe before I can put forth my assistance. Then the door snaps closed – leaving me vaguely regretful to have not been of use.

I set the pail on the floor and flourish the mop. Oh, well. Quiet is quiet, and there isn’t such a thing as a too-sparkly floor.

The linoleum lathers nicely, leaving a path for the niggling thoughts to sidle back in. I have been rented out. That much is fact, and I do not niggle at it. The clinic does have need of staff; the rabbits, with their mostly nocturnal affinities, do not make for regular cleaners. The Eientei – its inhabitants’ style for the place – would benefit and has benefitted from invisible hands, like mine, sweeping away the night’s commotion and soil. And we, Zashiki-warashi, have a keener sense for tidiness than those of the Sage’s long-eared, beady-eyed menagerie. By far.

I have not mentioned this, of course. A humble and sedulous heart has proven to have reach above and beyond gratifying the Sage; from the first day, once I showed myself to be tractable and unafraid of the menial, the bunny nurses have taken to bribe me to relieve their schedules. Some with sweet words. Some with the literal sweets produced on the side by the Eientei’s pharmaceutical division. Some with sweet nothings whispered naughtily in my ear… while “treating” the “big, hard problem” down at my groin under and inside their own. I have not refused. I am anyway here to serve, and… I recognise the need to rub the day’s stress away when I hear it moaned in strained expletives. I rubbed away Reimu’s for years.

Reimu.

I stand the mop upright and prop my palms on the end. Then brood. Only a week since my miserly ward and owner farmed me out, and I have already dogged the steps of worse possibilities than she’d simply not thought much of it. The Hakurei shrine was suffering a mice problem; an Eientei’s remedy peddler chanced by with a magical cat effigy designed to rout the vermin, and I, the fool of a tool, happened to be standing by when broached was the matter of reimburse. It ended a month of my assistance at the clinic for the cat – and a good-bye, do-me-proud kiss from my lovely, stingy shrine maiden.

Truth to tell, I was cautiously excited when I possessed once more the travelling chest in which I’d been brought from the Outside World and trotted off after the polite but word-bound peddler. That excitement’s been tempered in the days of absence from my shrine maiden’s house and mind. And from the jealousy, apprehension was wrought. That I had maybe wronged my owner and ward someway. That maybe she was incensed still by my performance at the nature-viewing party in the days prior. That I had let her best friend, Marisa, use me first for a rare reagent – and then later for relief, once the “fertility potion” she’d brewed (on Reimu’s stove and from my semen, no less) had turned out instead to be a potent aphrodisiac. Reimu’s eyes had been chips of flint when she’d caught Marisa in my bedroom – straddling me with her bloomers around one ankle – but said she’d understood.

Until now, I haven’t even fancied Reimu could hold it against me. I have it on a decent if roguish source that she and Marisa have shared various other toys before – and I have not been envious of those. Not once. Never.

Of course, I may be mistaken. And if the worst comes to the worst, and Reimu forgets the deal as well as she’s no doubt forgotten me, then come the rent’s end I will return myself – and give the shrine maiden some lip. Lots of lip. All over her remiss face. For now, my world, this Zashiki-warashi’s world, is the Bamboo Forest, the clinic, its floors and the overstressed nurses.

For now, I am the Eientei’s cornerstone. Notwithstanding the tightness in my trousers at remembering my lovely ward.

Of one thing I am firm. Those hard-to-reach corners will not be the extermination of me. I grip the mop like a gohei and move behind the counter to see what needs contending with.

Then and there, the door bursts a quarter-open again. Though who is there this time, squeezing through in a tizzy, is abundantly, in ample, busty evidence, a nurse. Honey blond, hair trussed up in a ponytail, the cute, thigh-length uniform a size too small for her corpulent figure. A period of frantic, sideways wiggling ensues as the nurse’s massive bust refuses to squeeze between the door and its frame. Once it does, the rest of her half-tumbles after it into the room. The nurse scrambles to shut the door, sighs her relief, and then…

… her amber gaze falls on me: en-garde with the dripping mop. In fact, we give each other a startled once-over ahead any words do shape.

The winded nurse, I note, lacks for the near ubiquitous bunny ears; but I have more than once seen the staff hide their accoutrements before the visitors and patients, and so I mind it no more. What I do mind, however, is that her uniform top is straining at the seams. The buttons holes on the front are stretched near to snapping by her enormous, motherly bust. So are the uniform’s waist and skirt: full to capacity of her wide hips and a set of plump, round buttocks evident and visible even head-on. Her thighs could scare the toughest watermelon yellow again.

I haven’t a desire to end like one (watermelon, that is), so I avoid cataloguing her as “chubby” in my mind… despite a certain other piece of me wishing very much to relieve the poor fabric constraining those breasts.

The shifty, slitted eyes dart from me to my mop and to me again. Something beyond them marries the two in her mind.

“Ah! A janitor,” she concludes. Her voice is rich and sugary, apt for coming out of that nurturing chest. It lowers for the next lines, assuming a conspiratorial overtone. “OK. Look, stud. Those nibblers’re totally after my pedipalps, so let me hide out here for a spell, OK? I’m totally, toootally in deep here. Haven’t done nothing bad yet, either. I’ll make it worth your hush, huh?”

Curious… so, so curious… yet unconvinced, I tip my head – together with a brow. The apparently-wanted nurse titters – her whole, barely contained body jiggling along.

“Telling you!” she promises. “Nothing wrong. I was being sweet on that old man in eight – you know the old man in eight? – just a bit of nursing, a bit of caregiving, a bit of handy under the sheets… Oh, please—” she rolls her eyes at my ever-climbing brow, “—they all do it, those fuzz-eared perverts. The geezer told me himself. I was already handling him, too, so don’t believe he were lying. Almost polished him off when they caught the wind of me. Left him my panties is all…” A plump, wet tongue flashes out to lap the nurse’s sensuous lips. Somehow, I have no question the old man in eight would’ve soon felt them around a very glad part of his anatomy if she had been allowed to continue. “Anyway,” she continues with me instead, “lemme hide and not a peep, OK? You seem a nice, young man; I seem a nice, cute nurse in a spot of distress. You’ll get your sugar, no worries. Well, stud?”

The “nurse” smiles reassuringly and folds her arms beneath her voluptuous bust. I vacillate the few pounding heartbeats I am granted. On a twice-over, nothing about the woman looks rabbit-like. No ears, no tail. No chunky front teeth. Admittedly, she fills the uniform something amazing but, unlike the Eientei’s nimble staff, would have broken the small of a man’s back if she jumped him in bed. The earth-brown ribbon in her hair is cheerful in the trim but a clash for the lavender of the uniform. If she is a real nurse then I am a sunflower fairy.

But I do give a nod, all the same. Because I am what I am. And I cannot decline a plea of help. Least of all from a fellow stranger.

The fake nurse beams her gratitude, skipping as she rounds the table and joins me behind the counter. “Aww,” she coos. “Aren’t you a darling, boy? OK. Great. The name’s, um, Yami, by the way,” she throws in edgeways, just as she goes down to her knees and wedges herself between the counter and myself. “And remember. Somebody blunders in? You haven’t seen no sexy spiders in nurse clothes whatsoever. All right, now. Lessee what we’re working with here…”

There is a snap as “Yami” tugs open the belt of my trousers. Then a snag – accompanied by a girly squeal – as she yanks them down together with my underwear.

Freed in one, fell swoop, my dick nearly slaps the busty, blond Yami in her grinning face. I needn’t the enticement of her slutty expression; ogling her in the ill-fitting uniform was enough to spring my manhood to stiff, aching attention. Yami scuffs closer on her knees, pressing her soft, warm mammaries into my bared thighs – until my erection rests vertically across her delighted face. The sexy blonde puckers her full, dick-sucking lips and smacks a kiss at the base of my rather happy shaft. The resulting flex coaxes from her a chirpy, horny giggle.

Then she turns those slitted, amber eyes up – and bores them into mine. “Nnm… I said you were a boy,” she purrs – each word brushing those lips on my arching underside, “but you are a big, damn man where it counts, huh, stud? Wow. This would knock right on Yami’s womb, wouldn’t it…”

Her beatific smile widens when I reward the mental picture with a laboured grunt. I really can imagine it; Yami may be doughier than three bunny nurses boiled together but hardly comes up to my ribs when on her feet. My erection dwarfs her round, sunny face. A few weeks in the lumber camps, and I may lift her over my head and spin around. Or hoist her by the ass and spear her on my upright, rearing dick – depending.

Yami fidgets left and right, anxious to start working the penis she’s gotten so hard merely with clothed sex appeal. The fuzzy softness of her eyes and the hand sneaking down between her pudgy thighs are unambiguous. She really does want to fuck. She really would sooner be atop the counter, spreading her legs, than hiding underneath it with only her mouth, tits and hands to wrap around my lopsided girth. And then, even among these, she cannot decide which to use. The wealth of choices (and none of them her first) leaves the blond sex-bomb frustrated and masturbating with one hand, caressing my jewel sack with the other.

The bubbling tension spills over when Yami half-groans, half-laughs her indecision. “Aah, fuuuck me, why did I say thaaat?” she complains. “I’ve made myself want it now! Nnng…”

That much is audible. When her motions quicken, a wet, squelching sound emits clearly from her concealed treasure. A moment later, Yami shudders – then pulls the fingers out from under her skirt. They slide out coated in her arousal. The fake nurse raises her sticky hand to my waiting hard-on, where she dabs its length with her freshly squeezed juices as if anointing it for the battle ahead. Or, I recognise with a grimace, the battle which, had she not been fugitive, would by now have seen the head of my dick ramming down the entrance of her womb.

I pity the… spider, was it? And I pity the old man in eight, missing out on the plump beauty fawning over his manhood.

Yami, the sexy, candidly dick-loving Yami, jerks her head out of the fantasy of sloppy impregnation sex with the kindly janitor (me) – and her affectionate lips away from my shaft. Tenacity, dashed with obvious mischief, quirks her longing smile, even as she slides her hands around my flanks to grope my nude buttocks. Her sultry breath tickles my tantalised hard-on once she speaks.

“… All right, stud,” she tells me. “Let’s moult this on you, shall we? What’s your silence worth, hmm? Yami’s wet, suckin’ mouth? Yami’s soft, squishy titties? Or’d you rather I beat you off, so you can squirt all over this lewd uniform? Quickly, stud; time’s a wastin’. I’ll run once the coast’s clear, and then who’s going to take care of this fat cock? Chop-chop.”

I stare the slutty nurse down over the aforesaid fat cock, a burning urge in me to mouth a couple of names. But no matter that I want to see her proud balloon popped, I want to pop in something else even more.


( ) Yami’s tits.
( ) Yami’s mouth.
( ) Caution to the wind and fuck her.

(X) Caution to the wind and fuck her.

Inside Yami’s plump, pregnable belly, for one. I have a full and, ostensibly, not unrequited mind to give that amorous body the womb-deep what-for. It is true that I am a servant, a tool, first and foremost; yet I, too, have my appetites, tastes and drives. I have never doubted or had this doubted about myself – something few Zashiki-warashi are blessed to say. And the curves of Yami’s sumptuous, motherly bust and her thighs happen to align with those appetites. To a T. Or a double-T, in case of the former.

A naïve, artless grin nestles on her cherry lips as I reach below and grasp one of the nurse’s thickset arms. Crooning her joy, Yami complies with the mute suggestion – lets go of my butt – and draws herself straighter on her knees. Turned loose, her hands coast to the front of her uniform, where they go on to pluck two overtaxed buttons on the underside of Yami’s massive bust. The strained fabric splits apart, opening a window into the fake nurse’s deep, snug, creamy valley. Of further impediments, there is no sign; Yami’s breasts are naked beneath her top, lacking for the decency and support of a bra or sarashi. A fact additionally evinced once Yami grabs both her barely contained jugs, sweeping all available fingers across their stiffening and increasingly visible nipples. The two she has used previously to tease her down-there leave a shiny trace on the now even tighter-stretched cloth.

Yami thumbs the erect peaks of her breasts for a handful moments more, not even bothering to downplay her obvious arousal. They stand almost sorely on the ends by the time she hefts and hovers her tremendous tits over my dick – convinced still it is them I mean to screw and impregnate. How mistaken she is… well, she just about finds out once I pull harder, harsher, on her caught arm.

“What? What?” the horny nurse whines, blinking her incomprehension up at my severe face. It is a drawn-out staring match – long enough to slacken attention and rest the warm bottom of Yami’s cleavage on the tip of my hard-on. Then, though, like the fly about to be snared, understanding does at last land. Yami’s wicked, amber eyes shoot wide, and her lips crack into a naughty smirk. “… You want to fuck me,” she guesses, mock-disbelieving. “You actually want to fuck me.”

I grip her arm tighter – and nod.

A snicker is her reply. “Aw. You don’t care about Yami at all then, do you?” is what derisively follows. “You don’t care if I’m caught, strung up and have all my legs pulled off. You just wanna put a bun in my oven before I scram. Why,” she teases, “you’ll like as not rat me out yourself if I don’t let you, huh.”

To that, I shake my head with zest… which coaxes more tittering from the blatantly pleased Yami.

“But you do want to,” she wants to know, “you do want to fuck me? To use Yami’s slick, moist pussy to get yourself off? To shove this fat cock up under her bellybutton, so you can pump her baby-room full of your sticky, bottled-up spunk? Tell me, stud. Tell me how many kids you plan to put in poor Yami’s womb. Hmm?”

I gloss over the wilder of the assumptions… and show the nurse a full, five-fingered hand. Then, sooner than she can pursue with more dirty talk, I pretend to waver… and lower the number by two. The fact the fingers I curl are my middle and ring ones – resulting in rather an obscene gesture – makes her snort a rude laugh. Her enormous, plush breasts wobble in its wake, causing the top inch of my manhood to wedge in between them. Yami’s skin is hot, smooth and damp – for sure from jerking off the elderly patient then eluding the day patrol – and feels intensely comfortable on and around my sensitive bits. I choke back the rogue impulse to compare – to contrast the nurse’s doughy, maternal tits with the young, springy ones of my shrine maiden ward. Then wrestle down the urge to push myself all the way in after all.

Instead, I give Yami a reproachful look. The fake nurse giggles in sympathy and – defiantly, by degrees – lifts her tits off of my less than enthused dick. At another meaningful tug on her arm, she climbs to her feet again – though not before one last, apology kiss on my bare tip. I pull my trousers up above my knees then lead the stocky nurse out from behind the tea-brewing counter – which is anyway too high to have sex on with any convenience – and to the communal table in the middle of the break room.

All too gladly, Yami spins about and shimmies her shapely rear up onto the tabletop. I notice, for the first time since her intrusion, that she is wearing brown, lacquered platform shoes; I do so because she tucks both her feet up beside herself: anchored on either side of her hips. The skirt of her uniform rides up her amazing thighs when she spreads them wider – wider and wider – until it peels all the way back to her waist. She wasn’t embellishing. She really must’ve left her panties with the old man in eight.

I know this because, between her stout legs, Yami is totally bare.

There is not a scrap of cloth, nor a prick of pubic hair that would’ve saved the nurse’s privates from my now leering eyes. I feel my mouth dry at the sight of the smooth, chubby mons; I feel my dick tense and flex at the dark, puffy labia just below. I feel all words escape me… or, well, farther than they usually do… when Yami reaches down to press an index and middle finger on either side of her ripe, mature womanhood.

Then, with coy, flirting deliberation, she spreads herself wide for inspection. My inspection.

And my inspection could not be keener. Yami’s walls are reluctant to part, stuck together by viscous, milky arousal… but when they do, they prove to be bright, rumpled, salmon-pink and a stark contrast for the frilly, nigh-on brown curtains girdling her entrance. I bounce my eyes up to Yami’s then down again – quick enough that I see her mouth-watering insides contract in response. It warms me that they did; few things get me harder than nervousness filtering through a girl’s bravado. I have probably a certain arch shrine maiden to thank for the conditioning. And a certain witch – for the usance toward overt sexual advances.

For now, I shove them from my mind. For now, I refocus on Yami, who has recovered from the lapse and now hurries the proceedings on: keeping her pussy lewdly spread, but extending the other hand to my ready, waiting erection. Intrigued and, really, thirsting for the touch, I shuffle forward to push myself into Yami’s proffered palm. Her stubby, feminine fingers wrap around my girth; and I can sense the scrutiny in her grip as she takes measure the tool about to make a mess of her precious place. Those pervy fingertips dig into my meat: delaying, testing… provoking; and Yami swallows – long and thickly, as if she’s just wrapped up a successful blowjob.

“… Wow,” is her breathless, repeated assessment. It coincides with my impatience nudging my dick deeper into her hold, tucking the skin sheath back from my tumid glans. Yami licks her lips – those more nearby her nose, at any rate – while her lower ones purse in anticipation of their prize – now less than a handspan away. “… Aah, what a waaaste!” she moans at length. “Should’ve damn skipped the geezer and come straight here! Could’ve given this big boy the whole works. Sex in a rush is so…”

And I sympathise. I do. Turned on as I am, to deny it would be a lie. All the times I was drawn aside for this or that quick, lewd act by Reimu or her close friends would have been better memories if not for that; Marisa, especially – her, I would love for once to see take her time. The exception of my shrine maiden’s prolonged attentions is, if you should ask my dick, but that – an exception; and I have on occasion found myself wishing they would use me… longer. More rigorously. Like…

… Like the vampire lady, Remilia, did one after-party night when she found me out stargazing from the shrine’s porch after everyone had bedded down. And in her innocently overbearing manner used me for a cushion.

I can remember the peaceful, indolent hour in consequence. Of the tiny vampire monologuing: speechifying on things I ill grasped or cared to grasp; of her gently grinding her unimpressive butt back and forth on my lap the entire time. That same butt withdrawing at one point… and Remilia’s firm command to lose my pants. Hearing that haughty voice stripped of its assertive calm the longer she rubbed her privates on my exposed manhood. Through her thin, silk panties first… then directly, once she demurely pulled those aside. And then, at last, the moment she upraised her waist to prop me up and slip me inside her tiny, hairless pussy… which, by then, was worked up enough to swallow my glans and glide down my shaft with wet ease as Remilia delicately lowered herself to my lap again. I recall her peeking back at me – smiling all ladylike – and complimenting me on the smooth insertion.

And then, slowly and sensually to start, she began swaying those immature hips.

It would take the lengthy rest of the hour – and progressively more indecent motions – but she would come spectacularly in the end: a shuddering, vaginal orgasm that saw her crying out and wrung her walls hard around my girth. And I, having edged throughout the whole final stretch, would be swept right along. I would jam the overstimulated head of my penis up against Remilia’s cervix – growl in her pale ear – and blow my load straight into her prepubescent womb: flooding it with gush after gush, rope after rope of thick, warm semen. The ungodly amount could never be contained by Remilia’s petite body; it would leak before long, oozing between my throbbing shaft and the vampire’s tight, clamped labia. I would slam my pulsing, cum-smeared dick into her childish depths again and again, hellbent on breeding the uppity little lady – only just cognisant of her moaning in distress from my beastly treatment of her small, still-climaxing pussy.

It would be my longest and, even if I would sooner chop myself than admit it to Reimu, likely the overall most fulfilling sex I’ve ever had. The vampire mistress of the Scarlet Devil Mansion may have spoiled me… as she does to most in her service, to hear it rumoured. The memory of her graceful, infinitely tolerant smile after she had stood, gathered up her skirts and showed off the runny aftermath of our tryst corroborates the hearsay in my head.

… I must see about getting Reimu to lend me out to the Mansion some time.

A disaffected sound trawls me back to the present, where a bodacious, blond nurse is cosying up to my engorged dick – using her hand to tap its swollen head on her equally stiff, erect clitoris.

“… Mm. With us again, stud?” she asks me, seeing my focus returned. “Am I, hnn, really that sexy? Or maybe you were thinking of your dear, lonely wife back home?”

My mouth jars open to answer… only for the obvious realities to rear their ugly heads and smack it back shut for me.

Yami takes the absence of a comeback for one in itself. “Aah, don’t mind, don’t mind,” she reassures me, wiggling my now-slimy tip between her loose, moist petals. “Yami’s pussy doesn’t bite; she won’t leave a mark. You can fuck and knock her up and fuck her again ‘til you’re red and sore. Your wifey will never know. C’mon. Yami is super, suuuper open for business right now. Or can you, nnh, tellll…?”

The last word slurs on her tongue… because I choose right when she speaks it to seize the spider-slut by the hips and push my excited dick into her spread, eager and sopping wet womanhood.

Yami hisses her startled indulgence as the tip of my dick passes between her obscene, flouncy labia. They slide past the ridge of my glans – then wrap flush around the first, thick inch of my shaft. They eat up the second and then the third, while my bare glans rubs along her pussy’s slippery, piping-hot walls. Satisfied that our genitals are getting as intimate as they can, the wanton nurse lets go of my dick so I can bury its remaining length inside her greedy hole with no obstructions. She doesn’t squeeze; she doesn’t clamp down – merely tweaks her waist a bit as though the angle of my entry was just off the desired perfection and boldly takes in inch after inch of the dick that has made the Kirisame witch choke and the Hakurei shrine maiden moan like a cheap courtesan.

“… Nn, fuuuck yes,” comes the nurse’s purred encouragement. “Just like that, stud. Gimme that fff—at cock. Gimme, gimme, gimme…”

I obey the plea… and hilt myself inside her hot, greedy, soaked vagina. Our hips smack together, jostling Yami’s huge, lewd ass backwards on the tabletop. I push deeper into her still – slouching forward, smushing those pudgy thighs against her plump stomach – until I am all but pinning the salacious nurse to our placeholder bed.

Yami squeals her pure… or, really, impure enjoyment and loops her affable arms behind the small of my back. Her hitherto loose, capacious pussy coils around me: hugging my erection from tip to root between its warm, wet folds, causing my knees to go weak so soon after the continuous, balls-deep insertion. I rest even heavier atop her, doing my best not to let the chip in my composure show… and Yami, who I realise is probably never happier than while held down and bred by a strong, virile male, does me no additional service when she cranes her neck and pecks a small, commemorative kiss on my speechless mouth.

“… Congratulatiooons,” she chirps, full of honey and the dick she loves. “You and Yami are now friends!”

I blink, not quite following and certainly hesitant to move. Yami’s fluffy, uniform-wrapped body vibrates under my own when the girl giggles yet again. Oblivion, does she like to do that…

“See, stud,” she explains, her gleeful eyes dead on mine, “whoever manages to kiss Yami’s womb is a friend. A close friend… hnn, a close friend is someone who learns to rub her good spots as they’re kissin’ up. And then a lover…”

My ears prick up in defiance of my heart thumping inside them. Yami grins.

“… A lover,” she resumes, faux-conspiratorial, “is someone who can make Yami cream herself like a virgin fairy ridin’ her first cock. Had one in this hospital, even,” she reveals. “A lover, y’ know? Used to sneak in, play with him for hours… Sucked him off under the covers when the nurses came to check up. Always gave him somethin’ so he’d stay ‘til I visited next. He expired, though. Still Yami’s favourite. Could’ve given him so many kids if he weren’t human…”

… I wonder.

I have to – even if I shouldn’t need to. I wonder what it tells of her, a “spider,” that she craves these things be done to her. I wonder what it would’ve said of me, who wishes to do them to girls like her. The youkai I am, the youkai I suspect she is… should we be lusting for each other as we are? I have little Reimu to thank for breaking me in, making me love the act of making love; I wonder, just a little, who it was that fashioned Yami into such an unashamed sex addict.

I’d be chuffed to shake the man’s hand. And ask tips.

Steadied by the table’s edge and aroused by the thought, I haul myself off of the buxom nurse to regard the place where our bodies are mashed together in reckless copulation. I admire the creases in Yami’s stomach below the rolled-up skirt, the clean-shaved, lightly tan mound and those dark, flowery labia smooching the base of my engorged manhood. I bask in the intense heat of Yami’s vagina assailing me from all sides… as well as the numb awareness that, somewhere under that chubby bellybutton, the entrance of her baby-room is playing footsies with my dangerously sensitive glans. A few unduly quick thrusts, and I would be giving the false nurse a lewd, womb-deep injection.

For this reason and none other, I draw out my first back-stroke to its prudent extreme. Not, mind, because of Yami’s goading reminiscence. Not because the snug folds of her pussy scrub and snag the ridge of my glans on its way out, making me go soft in the knees. Not for the picture of my shaft now being slathered in her glistening juices; nor even for that of those same juices turning white the moment they touch air, like… well, like spider-silk. They are perks… oblivion, they are, yet not the point. At long, long last, the head of my dick pops out from among Yami’s loose, well-versed labia; and there I halt it: trembling and slobbering precum into her drenched, shamelessly yawing hole.

To the return trip, I afford no such caution. I angle myself down and shove into Yami’s slimy depths, those vulgar pussy lips going from smooching my tip to kissing my crotch in one, long, fluent motion. Our hips collide, and Yami makes a pleased, nasally sound; and I cannot help a wash of pride as I realise that I must’ve touched one of those friend-defining spots of hers on the way in. I set my jaw – and tow my giddy hips back for another try. Yami wises up to my intent once I thrust in again and that same spot meets my prodding tip, clenching her stuffy walls around me.

I look into the nurse’s misty, half-lidded eyes… and complete the insertion. A twinge shoots up my hard, tender length the moment I bottom out, giving Yami’s cervix a taste of what it will soon need to endure. Sooner maybe, if I do not pace myself. The spider-nurse squirms as I reverse the stroke, gouging her muggy depths, readying inch by inch for another stab at her weakest places.

“Oh, come nooow,” is her moaned, drawled complaint. “This isn’t what, hff, what we agreed on, issit, stud?”

I pause, halfway out of Yami’s loose baby-maker – attempting, I think, rather well to seem confused.

She cusses out my lack of telepathy. “Oh, for fff…” she whines. “Not like this, stud! You aren’t, nnf, using Yami proper-like. Get it? Yami is on the run; the rabbits are out to skin her; she flies to you, offerin’ up her pussy if you let her hide out. You’re supposed to fuck me.. Make Yami’s pussy your toy. Your one-use cock-sleeve. Cum inside me, knock me up – and then send me off with a slap on my ass like the spider-slut I am. And iffen you want, stud,” she promises, desperate, “I’ll swing by, apologise to the geezer in eight and have sex with you – really have sex with you – later’n this week. Want me to?”

I nod. Half for the geezer, half for Yami… and a bit on top for myself.

The nurse gifts my honesty with a relieved smile. “Then use me, stud,” she urges. “Use me, fuck me – then lemme run. Here. Yami’ll make it even easier to reach her baby-room…”

Her stocky, compact legs, nude from hip to ankle and already spread for my pleasure, straighten out and rise to rest on my shoulders. I feel the shift of pressure inside her: the minute tightening of her walls; I enjoy the heat of her bare calves squeezing around my ears. I embrace the upraised legs, clinching them to my chest. I lock eyes with the chubby nurse…

… And then ram my hard dick – lock, stock and barrel – into her slutty vagina. Yami squeals her surprise, her voice high and feminine… before it gels into that of perverted, throaty bliss.

I slide my dick out, careless of its vicious throbbing – them slam it back up against the mouth of Yami’s womb. Gasping, leaking precum like a broken faucet, I hump the nurse’s fat thighs, while the lips and folds of her pussy service my manhood from tip to root and all along. Yami grins up at my no doubt wild expression – so warmly, you would be forgiven to assume she is the Zashiki-warashi, the tool – not I.

But I understand. I condole with Yami’s pain even as I begin to fuck her as she has bid me to. After all, I do know it: the inadequacy of wanting to be useful, yet being chased out. The joy of having found a soul receptive to your service, however low. It’s… therapeutic, after a fashion. We are in a place of healing; and even if I may never experience sickness the same humankind does it, I cannot fathom Yami’s brand of “use” to not have broken up the routine of lying bedridden for days on end.

The “lover” she has mentioned, the old man in eight now in ownership of her underwear… I am positive they would’ve been as excited to have Yami’s lewd body trapped underneath them as I am right now. And that Yami would be as vocally happy as well.

… Though, maybe not quite as happy. Maybe.

Jealousy is an ugly thing, but we Zashiki-warashi are not innocent of it. Not close.

It is, at any rate, I who ploughs the pervert spider’s depths now. I drive my lubed-up manhood in and out of her hot, receptive vagina, her stout legs for support and her butt-crack a channel for the juices and precum scooped out by the end of each pumping stroke. Yami applies all her skill in milking human dicks dry to me: tightening her belly muscles in sync with my motions, so that every inch in or out is a struggle for endurance. I have to fight and pry her walls with my glans to get it; and I have to brace and clench my teeth to pull out precluding an explosive end. And whenever I bury myself to the base to make out with Yami’s cervix, the fake nurse purrs in delight and grinds her slippery butt into my groin. Coaxing. Goading.

Urging me to impregnate her already.

In my head, I apologise to lady Remilia. An hour of being massaged inside the little vampire lady has nothing on the few minutes Yami’s pussy has been lovingly fellating my dick. I can only fantasise on what she could do to me given enough time.

Time which we don’t have.

For then, for the first time in ostensive aeons, the door to the Bamboo Clinic’s derelict break room bangs wide open. I jump in fright, plunging my unprepared dick balls-deep into Yami’s slick pussy.

And come.

The fake nurse senses the dam break; she spreads those stocky legs of hers and lets me to smack my palms down on either side of her grinning face – and lie against her. The first, violent burst of hot semen pours into Yami’s generous baby-room; and I scramble, light-headed, crushing our lower bodies together – determined that no drop of it should end up outside of where we both want it. Throb after throb, I fill the chubby spider’s womb with my seed while, at the door, somebody yells an alarm. I try to peer up, to assess the situation… but fail, my eyes glued to Yami’s and my slack-jawed attention riveted by her pussy squeezing me of all my worth.

The fact I’m worth more than the run-of-the-mill male throws a wrench into that plan. There is no end to my orgasm or my ejaculation; and Yami, who by now is surely pregnant anyway, narrows her slitted eyes as footfalls rush into the room behind her.

“… Sorry, stud,” is her hushed alert. “Would love to suck you clean, but too bad. Another day. This’ll hurt, by the way.”

And before I can figure what she means, it does. It does hurt – because Yami slams her knee into my chest and kicks me clean off of the table.

I hit the floor butt-first, the flash of pain in my coccyx brief enough that I glimpse the youkai spider’s furious blur of movement. The newcomer, who proves to be the day patroller from earlier, cannot sooner cock one bunny ear than she is grabbed by the belt and the collar and hurled over Yami’s shoulder. The fake nurse makes herself scarce and bolts before the patroller can even make her landing.

And a landing she does make – crotch-first atop my unspent, cum-dripping erection.

There is a moment of tense embarrassment as the bunny and I stare each other down, faces slowly joining in tincture. At length, the patroller abashedly picks up the edge of her pleated skirt and lifts it up.

A set of slim, white thighs slides into the view, divided in the middle by a pair of lacy, crotchless panties. I stiffen, against the barely finished orgasm, once I realise where the bunny’s woefully defenceless slit is resting.

“… So, um,” I hear her speak up. “Need a… hand with this, sir?”

I cast an urgent glance after the escaped spider, but the patroller shakes her bunny ears left and right.

“Others on her tail, sir,” she explains. “Something of a regular rat anyhow, that one. No worries. And, frankly… way I see it, you could use an alibi. Sir.”

A smile opens on her face in reply to my dumbfounded look. Oblivion, but her crotch is warm…

“Was listening through the door, sir,” the patroller reveals. “Sorry. Ah, but don’t fret. Madam Tewi’s aware of how you are, sir. Us too. Can’t say no and all. So, if you’d like not to be implicated, it’d be best if we just did this—”

And then, unconcerned for my consent, the bunny soldier climbs on her knees, spreads her perversely uncovered pussy, aims my fully restored, rock-stiff dick at her entrance – and sits back down.


An hour later, the Bamboo Clinic goes into full lockdown.

The patroller and I are found in the break room, still going, given a talking-to we have both heard before and corralled, together with everyone who has come in contact with “Yamame Kurodani,” to be hosed down, sprayed with antiseptic and dismissed to our bunks. The Sage’s second-in-command, the medicine seller who traded for me in the first place named Reisen, pays me a visit soon thereafter, gratefully with no one under my sheets. Citing reasons of security, in no brooking terms, Reisen puts forward that we waive our deal early and return me home to the Hakurei Shrine. I concur, seeing no recourse otherwise; and the tall, strapping Reisen brushes her hair behind an ear as she sits beside me on the bed and names one more condition before I am freed. One last examination.

Some time after, we quit the bunk: Reisen wiping her sticky lips on a handkerchief, and I, dragging behind myself the travelling chest which has been my temporary home for this sojourn. It is too soon over, the sojourn, to hear Reisen speak it on the edge of the Bamboo Forest of the Lost, and I will be missed.

No, I want to disagree. No, you daft, sexy bunny. I won’t.

But once she turns her fluffy tail and leaves, it is already too late.

Hefting my transitory home, I set off at a resigned walk toward the distant Hakurei hill. Only one question remains gnawing on my mind. One grand conundrum faced by such Zashiki-warashi as return untimely to their wards and owners. That timeless dilemma.

What in the world am I going to cook her for dinner if Reimu hasn’t done groceries…?