“Three. Two! One! Zero! No-goo!”

The countdown breaks into laughter and triumphant jeers. Someone claps their cheer. The lavender-haired beauty kneeling before me makes a disenchanted sound. Then, with rather an unladylike gag, she hauls her warm, wet mouth up and off of my hard, trembling manhood. A string of precum-laced saliva joins me to her chin for a moment once my glans pops free of her full, sucking lips. Lady Saigyouji fans it away, sighing, before it may drop and stain the porcelain skin of the breasts hanging out ponderously of her undone kimono. The arresting, busty mistress of the Netherworld regards me and my dick, both of us standing tall, disgruntled by our defiance.

And then she shrugs her laden, white shoulders.

“Oh, bother,” she supposes. “It is my loss.”

Around us, jibes erupt anew. The dollmaker, Alice Margatroid, sniffs and sips from her glass of plum wine; the vampire, lady Remilia, swaps thorny commentary with the head maid of her estate, the dully-mannered Sakuya. The redhead Shinigami, Komachi, blatantly derides the ghostly noblewoman’s skills while, opposite of her, the flustered Youmu Konpaku attempts in great, drunken vain to excuse her failed mistress. The witch, Marisa Kirisame, chortles and chugs from her own fizzy drink. And beside her, my ward and owner, Reimu, does her dimmest not to glow from self-satisfaction. The recently moved-in komainu, Aunn, nods and smiles her incomprehension. The one thing she has polished to perfection.

Lady Saigyouji takes it in demure stride, wiping her mouth and retreating to her spot on the picnic mat. Only for my eyes is the ravenous, parting look: one that informs me on no debatable wavelength I am but something to be mounted, ridden and milked. If not now then later, under everyone’s sleeping noses. I venture to smile back. Six such looks I have received so far and the number has numbed the probability in my head. Nor to forget, I know they have lied. After all, I am what I am.

I am Zashi. I am the Hakurei shrine’s secret Zashiki-warashi and, at present, the object of a perverse game for a bunch of bored, besotted women of dubious humour.

Midnight breeze strokes my nude body, cooler where I am coated still in the latest contestant’s drool. I prick my chin up – too pleased, really, to press a complaint. Any other night, you may have seen the regular on the Hakurei hill. Another party. Another “nature-viewing” wherein the closest scrutiny belonged to the hops in the drink and the yeast in the cakes. Tonight’s may have fallen not far from the pattern, but… a naked man in the midst of any party is a fair distinguishing feature. As ought to be all the skinned and undone shirts, the varisized breasts on brazen display and the hair trussed up in hasty ponytails to facilitate the dissolute goings-on.

It may… or may not relate to how pleased I feel. The women chatter among themselves, barbs passing high and low, leaving me, the servant, to sweep my attention lengthwise the reception. Happily, I find no tray, plate or pitcher wanting… and so brook it for my focus to wander to the next tastiest thing.

Topless, flushed and tiddly, it is my lovely ward who draws my gaze like a fairy to a cup of hot coffee. Her dark hair tied up, those perky, youthful tits bared to the moonlight, Reimu cuts an erotic dash out of the Summer night. It was she who took and won the game’s opening wager, too; albeit, not to take away the merit, it was Marisa who had caught me refilling the plates, noting to the others (astutely, I thought) that there was, in fact, “a ready man nearby.” Chants of “Take it off! Take it off!” overwhelmed the dams of Reimu’s resistance; and the tipsy shrine maiden did take it off – where “it” proved fast to be my robe, trousers and underpants. The shame of standing in the nude before our excited guests, the innocently curious Aunn in particular, confounded my body: siphoning the blood which should’ve gone to my cheeks entirely where it had no business to be instead. And then, solidifying the flow for good, Marisa crept in from behind to yank her shrine maiden friend’s vest up to her chin.

The women cheered the debauchery; and Reimu, frustrated, pushed her bangs behind her ears… and then slipped her lips down my confused erection.

The guests clustered round, slaking their attentions on my ward’s expert blowjob. Somebody was breathlessly counting down from two hundred. Marisa, ever the imp, played diversionary by grabbing at Reimu’s tits and twirling her nipples; nothing, however, could have hindered the long usance and training Reimu had had with my dick since her teenage years. I came ahead the count reached ninety: my lovely owner’s tongue, lips and the menacing, upward glare conspiring with the feelings of exhibitionism to wring out of me the pitifully premature orgasm. Something about it still must’ve gone my ward’s way; no sooner had my hips begun to judder in helpless pleasure than Reimu plucked me out of her mouth – stuffed me between her breasts – and launched into a stream of smug “I told you so”s at the gawkers-on.

I was wised to what it was she had told them, even as I pumped Reimu’s cleavage full of warm, sticky seed. And the other women, wrong-footed by their own assumptions, sought then to prove themselves in the same feat.

The rest, as they say, was history. And one public blowjob after another.

None have bested Reimu in the allotted time. I look from my sexy ward to the reserved miss Alice who went next: her shoulder-length hair in a ponytail and impressive bust draped from above by a lacy capelet. Hers proved a furious, sucking monster of a blowjob the like a weak-bodied recluse should never have been able to perform. It did not pop me. I glance toward the flat-chested, blustering Youmu, who slipped off her white, bear-print panties and jerked me off with those rather than her mouth. To no avail. I lap my appreciative eyes all over Komachi’s natural, drooping, dark-tipped breasts, between which I was coaxed with soft, sweet release but refused to give. I smile at lady Remilia, her prepubescent body intimate to me, and who cunningly commanded her maid take the turn and then her own immediately afterwards. Twice the length, Sakuya’s slow, methodical oral sex failed to deliver still… even if I am ill like to forget those elegant breasts stretching and swaying below her as she ministered to my hard dick. Marisa meets my scrutiny, cupping one of her cute, petite titties for my entertainment – understanding passing between us that the witch went easy on me only for the sake of her best friend. At last I peer the way of lady Saigyouji: her breasts plump, paper-white and, despite the closeness in statures, even heftier than the massive bust of Yami – the fake nurse I met (and possibly gotten pregnant) during my loan to the clinic, Eientei. The ghostly mistress of the Netherworld deepthroated me professionally, seeming to have no gag reflex whatsoever, yet ran over the time ahead she could taste a Zashiki-warashi’s special sauce.

Aunn, I do not dare face.

On balance, though, I cannot object to the treatment… and neither does my glistening pride down below. The women and girls of my ward’s trust are a feast for more than the eyes; two minutes of each pushing their charms on, under and all the way down my length was twenty too few. Slighted as a man may be – being passed around in a demeaning bet – I cannot pretend to be one. Nor can I pretend no craving for a second such round. I ogle the immature lady Remilia, whom I may have given an hour-long fuck on the shrine’s porch one starry night but have yet to see debase herself with her highborn lips pressed to my dick. Then, too, I leer at the scarcely riper Youmu, wishing quite the opposite: to bury my tongue where those childish panties were returned after coming off of my precum-leaking hard-on. I want to touch and feel how stiff those little, pink nipples of hers have gotten from handling my manhood.

As well, I spare a loyal peek at my beautiful shrine maiden ward… yet find the architect of my towering erection too self-absorbed a winner to peek back.

I’ve half a mind to do something which would leave her no choice – and her lips spread in a perverse O.

The big-titted, merry Shinigami diverts my possessive instincts by waving me over; her glass has run dry, and the lazy redhead tips it at me for a refill. Scooping up a pitcher of wine, I scooch over to the Shinigami – kneel – and receive from her the wanting glass. Sooner than I’ve a quarter of it scrupulously poured, however, Komachi smiles and leans toward me, going on all-fours. Only the lessons of recent exercise stay me from bucking once her loose-lipped mouth wraps around my cooled, yet persistent erection. The moist warmth enveloping me feels nigh-on scalding after the nightly air; Komachi intensifies its distraction by hugging my dick’s underside with her tongue as she plunges lower and lower my rigid length. The pitcher and the glass rock precariously in my grip when my bare, tender glans wedges in between, then passes her tonsils. Komachi’s gullet clenches around me: so hot and so tight that breath is pinched out of my chest. The lazy Shinigami pushes on, swallowing more and more of my throbbing shaft, until her sloppy face is buried in my trimmed groin.

Somehow, I top off her glass. Afterwise which, a woefully shaken pitcher is replaced on the ground. I breathe in implosively then pat the relieved hand down between Komachi’s twin, jaunty pigtails. The Shinigami purrs around my stuck girth: the soft vibrations causing my dick to flex and pulse in the hot, wet clutches of her throat.

The spontaneity of it, the pressure on my stiffness and Komachi’s nosing in my damp crotch blur the more conscientious of my thoughts. Grasping the redhead’s neck-length hair, I tow her sucking, clinging mouth up my throbbing shaft. Saliva and precum bubble out on Komachi’s lips: a syrupy, white mess, runnier the more of it my exiting dick scoops out of her stuffed gullet. To the very tip, she accords me no mercy; and it is with a distressing, delightful cramp in my loins that I pop out of the Shinigami’s adulterous mouth, spattering her face with our intermixed fluids. Komachi’s chin dribbles the worst of it – some trickling down the slopes of her huge, dangling, pendulous breasts. The breasts are a sight themselves; enormous and unbridled, they sag nearly to a teardrop-shape between her slim arms: their dark, vulgar tips grazing the picnic mat once somebody begins to drag the ferrywoman back by the loosed collar.

Komachi coughs up a saliva-thick titter and snatches the glass from my wobbly hand before they can haul her away. The intervening “they” turning out to be a concerned Aunn.

“That’s not safe,” chides the dutiful komainu. “Not good, miss Onozuka.”

“‘S fine, girl, fine!” laughs Komachi, flumping onto her seat. “Our man’s got a steady bod. He wasn’t going to spill.”

Aunn tweaks her head of curly, seafoam-green hair left and right. “That’s not it, ma’am.”

The buxom Shinigami smirks the implications away. I cannot in any conscience, good or bad, do the same… because I am suddenly and grislily aware of the encircling stares and their overt point. Me – and the sorry state in which Komachi has left my critical piece. On comes a consternated moment when the women of my ward’s inner circle debate in their private minds how best to decry the overbold Shinigami without their own envy showing. Marisa is the one who speaks before anybody, hers apparently an even faster puffed-up chest than lady Remilia’s juvenile one.

“… Second go, then?” she proposes, mock-diplomatically. “Hey, Reimu? You A-OK with us molestin’ him some more?”

My topless ward, nose in a dish of sake, ekes out a tiddly shrug. “I’ve already won,” she points out. “You can do what you like; Zashi can take you all on.”

I flush, the vote of confidence very nigh smoothing over the jealousy for my owner conferring me willy-nilly. Then again, I should be lying and not a Zashiki-warashi if I claimed not a fair wealth of enjoyment from it. Since catching out her witch companion on kneading out a botched love potion’s effects with my dick, my dearest Reimu has nursed an opener streak toward her guests’ more or less covert use of my body. Marry to it the fact no visit of Marisa has since gone precluding us, at a minimum, stripping down to give one another a sexy rub-down, and I might figure my shrine maiden ward has discovered a like for seeing me endure other women’s attentions.

None of whom, of course, can ever beat me more soundly than she.

Any way I colour – pink or green – Marisa stamps her friend’s permit with a pervy grin. The half-undressed guests share in it with varied, yet invariably positive enthusiasm. I feel a tingle in the pit of my stomach. Silently, I renew my oath to my shrine maiden owner… but can’t deny I am looking forward to this. My dick stiffens, concurring.

“… Ahead we settle’n the order, though,” Marisa overtakes the roused suspense, “sorry, I must know. Always been seein’ Alice here catcalled whenever in town—” the witch nudges the other, blond magician, who acknowledges the charge but wards it off with a roll of her blue eyes, “—but a Shinigami?” finishes Marisa. “Thought you folks worked with stiffs ‘n deaders alone. Where in Hell d’ you get off on suckin’ a man off like that?”

Komachi, who has been cleaning the spill-over from her slumping tits with a wine-dabbed kerchief, snorts at the witch’s indelicate query. “The New Capital, duh,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Hell may be Hell, girl, but the on-highs take every pain to make their workhorses unbribable. We’ve establishments in there what ensure no crafty soul can skip the lines with, say, a promise of hanky-panky to some lonelier clerk or Kishin. I part-time at one of those.”

“And has perhaps your Yama heard,” chimes in lady Yuyuko, mischief silvering her voice, “that she hires a prostitute?”

At her side, the humble Youmu covers her mouth in shock. All which Komachi does, however, is give the Netherworld’s mistress a ribbing smile. “A civil servant, administrator,” she corrects. “The ferryin’s my main gig, and dull as milady Shiki’s undies, but the other one’s full on legal, too. Clients are nice, the tab’s paid, souls are greased, the bureaucracy gets theirs. What’s there to fault?”

“Sounds like Hell all right,” comments lady Yuyuko.

“Still pays that tab,” reminds Komachi, very seriously. “Hell likes naught like its golden blood flowing. Should wonder ‘bout you, though, administrator,” she swivels the question onto its asker. “What I heard, you died woefully young. Yeah? That’s right ahead a pretty much instant consignment to Hakugyokurou, too. Yet there you were, wringing our man-of-the-hour like a champ. Studied the bed-top arts early, or…?”

“Trained on hapless cucumbers?” guesses lady Yuyuko. “Oh, please. Those go into food. No. It is a merit of my… previous gardener having nary an ounce of tact in his head. A mountain of skill, that man was, withal a mountainous libido in the same chain. Schooled me very long… very deeply… very well. My Youmu, also. Stole her maidenhead even, I believe. Youmu?”

The Hakugyokurou’s current, beet-red gardener shrinks beneath her liege’s impelling gaze – the alcohol-fuelled confidence evaporating through her ears. “Ye—Yes, my lady Yuyuko,” she stammers at length, obedient even so. “It is so. Master Youki did, um, take my first time. Hic.”

“As well as a hundred hundreds of others into the bargain,” sighs the ghostly woman. “Our Youki had what I fear is called an indiscriminating taste. A legacy, I apprehend, my dear Youmu has taken up. How many times I have sniffed this girl coming home from Gensokyo and she reeked of an old man – or several – you may never believe.”

Youmu spits the drink meant to drown her shame. “M—M—My lady Yuyuko?!”

“True all,” argues her ruthless mistress. “Or need I remind you of that evening you returned missing your unmentionables, and you dripped the whole way to the—”

“Need not!” Youmu’s blush reaches nearly down to her budding breasts. “I do w—what I do! I admit! Can we not, hic, tagabuddit?”

“Mighty fine to have a type, girl,” Komachi chips in. “Older guys can be… cool? Usually know what they’re doin’, at least.”

“Can! We! Not!”

Chuckling like a bell, lady Yuyuko pardons her servant from the speeding rumour mill, directing the wit – and her pale, plump bust – at Sakuya. “And I do presume me,” she coyly supposes, “it should be more foolish yet to ask of a maid whether this also constitutes her duties? Hmm?”

Sakuya, called to attention, sketches a seated curtsy, those moderate, sharp-peaked titties tucked out of her maid’s dress’s front bobbing along. “My noble lady Remilia,” she explains, “prefers for her trysts to last. I take it therefore upon myself to prepare her male solicitors… in a manner preventing those trysts falling, as it were, short. With the appropriate tools.”

“You mean—”

“Oral sex, handjobs, footjobs, titfucks, intercrural,” Sakuya reels off, quick and straight as a dagger. “Men are always weak to one of these. Or all. I am not a prostitute, however; I do not copulate with our guests. That honour, I cede to mistress Remilia.”

The vampire lady, side-saddled next to her maid, makes a piqued toss with her head. Nothing much bounces along here but the leathery wings folded on her nude back. “Sakuya,” she says, warning. “I recall very distinctly the produce supplier a month ago taking the sweetest time with you in the larder. What have you to say of that?”

“We were counting the tomatoes, my lady,” Sakuya replies placidly.

“Your moans were heard by fairies all over the ground floor.”

“Many tomatoes, my lady. My throat got sore.”

“And your clothes?” probes Remilia. “They were a mess when you walked him to the gate. Meiling told me.”

“The porter had slipped, my lady. Crushed tomatoes, see?”

“And fell right on you?”

“He did, my lady. Kept slipping, too. Clumsy man.”

Remilia pfffs. “And just how many times did you come while he was slipping so, Sakuya?”

“Twice, mistress.”

“Amazing.”

“He was, mistress.”

The tiny vampire shoots her maid a hot look. Sakuya deflects it instead to the eavesdropping witch.

Marisa, sensing the expectation, perks up on her cushion. “What? My turn?”

An innocent smile dimples the maid’s perfect cheeks. “Unless you mean to tell us that was all book knowledge…?”

The black-white witch (with cream and pink presently added in) mulls the answer. “… Well, apart from this stallion,” she says then, glancing the (in)appropriate way, “when I was a wee bit younger and couldn’t chop firewood so well, I used t’ mooch off of and freeload at Kourin’s a lot.”

“The… curio shop proprietor?” Sakuya conjectures.

“Wot you swindled a while back, yeah,” confirms Marisa, not a tone of shame underlying. “Any rate, there really ain’t much y’ can do when you’re snowed in with a guy and already burned through all the books, so…”

“How romantic.”

The blond witch smiles her false modesty. “Although,” she admits, “since he’d staunchly not do anything could get me with child, what on account of knowin’ my da, I had to rein in my buckin’ mules. So-o, I got really, reeeally good at suckin’ his cock instead.”

“How… romantic?” Sakuya supposes.

“Then Alice found me that recipe for kava love elixir.”

“Oh.”

Marisa chuckles at the maid’s unhorsed expression. “Well, it wasn’t! Turned out, the thing was bogus. Or maybe alchemists of yore were jus’ too shut-in to tell the difference ‘tween love an’ rut. That’s a theory. Anyhow, younger me, she didn’t test it whatsoever, jus’ straight dropped a pinch in Kourin’s tea the same evenin’. Nothin’ cropped at first but then, hoo-hoo-wee!” she laughs. “After we’d shut off the lights, wasn’t half an hour I was lying in bed when Kourin stumbled into my room. He asked if I were asleep, an’ when I kept quiet, he threw my blankets, peeled down my bloomers, propped my butt on a pillow, pulled his cock out and fucked me then and there. Kourin’s half-youkai, too, so the elixir lasted for hours and hours. Most orgasms I’ve ever had in one night. Sorry,” she levels the final statement at my relevant parts.

Sakuya blinks her astonishment away, drawing on some unseen reserve of responsibility. “And you didn’t get… with child?”

“Sod if I had,” Marisa says wryly. “Come on, miss tomatoes; I wasn’t daft, jus’ a callow alchemist. Was the safest day of the month I done it. Only got more’n I bargained for, is everything. That pillow never washed out, though,” she snickers. “Could’ve been a second Marisa for all your nose knew.”

“… Terrible,” Sakuya says with a sharp intake of breath. “Sidelights on gullible storeowners aside, however,” she moves on, “were you not ordained to settle something for us, Marisa? An order of some variety?”

“Aah,” says Marisa. “Yeah. Yeah, I was. Humm.”

Then, the witch turns her lecherous eyes on me. Then, so does the rest of the part-disrobed guests.

A lesser Zashiki-warashi may shrivel before so much attention: so many predatory eyes, so many feminine charms… yet not I. I, Zashi, who gave the mightiest woman in the realm, the Hakurei shrine maiden, hands-on lessons in child-making when she was but a precocious teen, cannot avail myself of such comforts. I need to stand tall: for Reimu, for myself… and this, I do.

And, oblivion… I want this. I want Sakuya’s diligent service. I want Yuyuko’s depthless throat and Youmu’s dainty, calloused hands. I want to hear the reticent miss Alice gurgle again around my dick. I want lady Remilia’s lips all over me. I want Komachi’s seasoned mouth – and to see her pigtails bounce. I want Marisa, the cheat, to throw pretences to the wind and blow me with her usual intensity. A Zashiki-warashi may have made Reimu into a woman… yet it was the woman who turned the Zashiki-warashi into an incorrigible lech. My hard-on grows even tauter, veins popping out, the mere thought of these ladies’ mouths having their way with me enough to bead precum out of my tip.

The nudity which unnerved me earlier, I now find only magnifies the warm mugginess between my ears. I promise myself to see at a later date whether Reimu will feel the same.

“… So-o,” cracking the tension, Marisa speculates aloud, “reverse order, then? Startin’ with Yuyuko there? Komachi shifted to last, since she already had a go?”

“Why not get him off first?” The stares as one snap to Reimu, who chases the advice with a calm sip of her sake. “… What?” she says, noting the silence. “He’ll last longer if you do. You’ve already done him a number; Komachi damn near capped him off, there. I’ve known that grimace. Anyway. Want a fair comp? Get him off, let him rest, start afresh. Capiche?”

“… Speaking from experience?” jibes Sakuya, for want of anybody else’s comments.

My lovely owner sketches a shrug. “A lot of it,” she replies, blunt as a wrecking bar. “Trust me.”

“So, er, who—” miss Alice begins from the conversational flank.

“He’s not a doll, Alice,” Reimu rides her over. “He may not talk—”

“—an’ be sculpted like a Buddha,” Marisa puts in from the side.

“… That,” acknowledges my topless owner; “but he does have meat under that dome. Have him pick. You’ll pick, won’t you? Zashi?”

Seven pairs of eyes… and about half as many sets of breasts… present to me their unspoken offerings. I regard my liberal ward for a while more: at once jealous and luridly grateful. My Zashiki-warashi heart thumps under my jaw.

Then, on the precipice of sexy surplus, I make my pick.


( ) Vampire’s kisses from Remilia.
( ) Brothel service with Komachi.
( ) Screwing miss Alice in the spotlight.
( ) Filling Marisa’s cauldron.
( ) Counting tomatoes with Sakuya.
( ) Spoiling the innocent Aunn.
( ) Fitting the scabbard with Youmu.
( ) Swelling Reimu’s pride and belly.
( ) A class in bed-top arts with Yuyuko.