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Chapter 153 - The Housewife's Display
🕑 Added 2025-12-19 10:19:24 +0000 UTCMy hand splayed wide, fingers splayed wide and claiming, squeezing the soft flesh of the housewife’s exposed pale rear.
It wasn’t the firm, deceptive steel of a kunoichi, nor the tight, athletic snap of a younger woman. It was civilian-soft; doughy, yielding, and substantial. She had curves that came from age and a sedentary lifestyle. The kind of flesh that spoke of afternoon teas, lazy gossip sessions, and comfortable cushions rather than squats or tree-hopping.
And honestly, there was something appealing about that contrast. My fingers sank into the plushness of it, pale skin dimpled slightly under my grip, warmth radiating through my fingers.
Mebuki, shameless woman that she was, pushed back against my hand.
She wiggled her hips, a grinding motion that was less about seduction and more about a needy, tactile greed. There was a wet, squelching sound as she opened her legs wider, practically begging for more of the fingers I already had buried inside her married cunt.
She looked over her shoulder, her eyelids lowering in a look that aimed for sultry bedroom eyes but landed somewhere between drunk tavern wench and discount brothel worker.
"Do you like what you see, Eishin-kun?" she purred, her voice dropping a pitch too low, sounding thick and breathless.
I smirked, though my eyes flicked momentarily toward the closet door, just a sliver of darkness in the corner of my vision.
I really thought Sakura would have burst out by now.
I thought the breaking point would be when her mother bent over for her sensei. Or maybe when I lifted the hem of this pretty little sundress to reveal that her dear mom wasn’t wearing a damn thing underneath.
The clone I'd sent to deliver the dress had, on its own volition, instructed Mebuki not to wear panties. Surprisingly—or maybe unsurprisingly—the shameless cheating wife hadn't needed much convincing.
I — he — had Devil's Whisper coiled ready to compel her compliance, but Mebuki had practically jumped at the chance to slut herself out.
She had caked her face in anticipation. The foundation was thick enough to crack if she smiled too widely, hiding the crows' feet a vain woman like her obviously despised, and her lipstick was a shade of red that screamed 'pay attention to me.'
It was exaggerated, pathetic, and oddly fitting.
A little too enthusiastic, in fact. Hell, way too enthusiastic.
It wasn't just the enthusiasm of a status-obsessed climber sinking her claws into a high-ranking jōnin—though she was definitely that. It was mostly the eagerness of a needy wife who'd tasted something so good she couldn't pass up the chance for more. Like a stray cat that had been fed premium tuna once and now came meowing at the door every night, expecting another handout.
Seemed I'd done a thorough job fucking her brains out last time.
Which was funny, considering she was a fairly forgettable fuck. I barely remembered the last time, other than the fact she was a squirter, that I’d finished on her back, and that Sakura had been watching.
Just like right now.
And much as it went that time, Sakura still didn’t intervene.
She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t stormed out to defend her family’s honor or scream at me for degrading her mother.
Which was both odd and impressive, considering that, unlike last time, I hadn't used Devil's Whisper to keep her in place. This was all her doing. Her self-delusional mind was working overtime to keep her still while her mom and I did shit no daughter should ever have to witness.
A hand groped the front of my trousers, snapping my attention back to the woman currently presenting herself to me.
Mebuki was reaching back, her manicured nails digging into the fabric as she found the ridge of my cock. She squeezed, not gently.
"My, my," she breathed, her voice dripping with a vain, preening sort of wonder. "Young shinobi really are something else, huh." She squeezed again, as if checking the ripeness of a melon at the market. "So big, so hard," she whispered, stroking the length of it through the fabric. “Such vigor shouldn't be wasted.“
I suppressed a snort. Not gonna lie, that did stroke my ego too, but…
I wondered how much Sakura could endure. The goal had been to test her limits, to see just how much degradation she could swallow before her brittle pride snapped. But she was taking this so well—too well. It felt like playing a game on easy mode.
It didn't hurt to push for more. To see where the breaking point was. If there even was one.
I licked my lips, leaning down to whisper in Mebuki’s ear, putting on the charm.
"I pride myself on my self-control, Mebuki," I lied, my voice smooth as silk. "I don't usually get hard this easily. It takes a lot to break my composure." I trailed a hand up her spine, feeling her shiver. "But when you're here… looking like this… you wreck my discipline. It wasn’t fair."
Of course, I wasn't going to mention that I'd been brick-hard because I’d just spent the last twenty minutes finger-fucking her daughter’s throat.
Mebuki’s green eyes widened, the flattery hitting her like a drug. She was easier than her daughter.
She beamed, a wide, triumphant smile that caused the thick makeup around her eyes to crinkle into spiderwebs. A blush fought its way through the foundation, staining her neck red. She let out a tittering laugh, pressing a hand to her cheek in a gesture she probably thought was girlish but looked purely theatrical.
"Oh, stop it, you flatterer!" She swatted my arm playfully, preening like a peacock. "Though… I suppose I can’t blame you. A woman has to take care of herself, doesn't she?"
She leaned back, her voice taking on that conspiratorial, self-important tone.
"I’ve been so diligent since our last… meeting," she chattered, her hips still needlessly wiggling. "I bought that expensive snail cream from the Land of Lightning—Kizashi complained about the price, the stingy man, as if he understands the cost of upkeep—and I've been doing facial exercises every morning to keep my skin tight. And I even bought new lingerie, though I suppose you won't see it today… I knew you’d be back. I just knew it."
She sighed, a dramatic heave of her chest.
"I asked around, you know. When you didn't visit right away, I was worried you’d forgotten me." Her tone sharpened slightly, nitpicking even in her adoration. "A gentleman doesn't leave a lady waiting. But then I heard about the Mizukage! Can you believe it? The Mizukage!"
She turned her head to look at me, eyes glittering with borrowed glory.
"I told Kizashi, I said, 'I knew that young man was destined for greatness the moment I saw him.' I can spot quality. All those other ninjas are trash compared to you. It proves I was right to let you in. You defeated— oh, that! Ah—!"
I drove my fingers deeper into her cunt. Stuffing her bottom hole proved a good remedy to shut her upper one. Her rant cut off instantly, replaced by a soft, trembling moan as her body reacted to the intrusion.
I deadpanned. This bitch.
She was just as delusional as her daughter, if not more so. She'd rewritten the events of our first meeting entirely. I'd stopped a thief, and she'd rebuked me instead of thanking me. Only after she learned I was a jōnin—a high-ranking shinobi—did she do a complete one-eighty.
Still, she was a tight MILF who got wet easily and squirted like a broken faucet, so I'd ignore her shenanigans.
"You talk too much," I deadpanned.
I didn't bother being gentle. Mebuki's mouth fell open, a soft moan escaping as I pushed my fingers deeper—the same fingers her daughter had prepared with her own throat and spit. Her back arched, pressing her ass more firmly into my hand, and her thighs trembled.
"Oh—oh—Eishin, you're so—ahh—so good-ah there—ah!" she gasped, her voice breathy and exaggerated.
"So you keep yourself pretty for me, huh?" I asked, twisting my fingers inside her, hunting for the rough patch of nerves I roughly remembered from last time.
The thought that these fingers were coated in Sakura’s fluids—that I was effectively mixing the essence of the daughter into the mother—sent a fresh wave of heat straight to my groin. It was nasty. It was perverse.
It was fantastic.
"Y-yes," Mebuki hissed, her voice trembling, head thrown back. "Yes, I—ahh!—I do! All for you, only for you—"
She let out a loud, drawn-out moan that curled at the end.
Her acting was dogshit.
I could tell immediately that she was putting it on, exaggerating every sound, every reaction, like she thought she needed to act to please me. It amused me and annoyed me in equal measure.
She thought she needed to perform? Like, I couldn't tell the difference between genuine pleasure and this cheap theater?
I curled my fingers harder, pressing against her front wall, and watched her face contort for real.
Interesting, she exaggerates the small but hides the strong and true reactions. She hadn’t been like this last time.
I pulled my fingers from her wet heat with a wet shloop, leaving them glistening in the dim light.
"Why don't you show me how pretty you are down there?" I said, my tone deceptively light. "Spread yourself."
I punctuated the command with two taps against her pussy—not hard, just enough to make her jerk her hips forward with a startled gasp.
Mebuki hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, something that might've been shame flickered across her face. Her hands hovered uncertainly near her thighs, and her breath caught.
But then she swallowed it down, burying whatever dignity she had left beneath layers of rationalization and vainity.
"Just… just a quick peek," she said, her voice breathy and coy, like she was granting me some kind of favor. "A lady has to prepare her lover properly, doesn't she? You can't just… rush these things. "
And then she reached back with both hands, grabbed the pale flesh of her own ass cheeks, and pulled them apart, spreading herself open.
She presented herself to me—and to her daughter hiding in the closet—with an almost aggressive lack of subtlety.
Bending over the bed, her sundress bunched up at her waist, she offered a view that was jarringly obscene and biological. She wasn’t a kunoichi with tight, sculpted muscles and hardened skin. She was soft. Everything about her was soft in a way that spoke of age and gravity and childbearing.
Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, pulling the cheeks apart to expose everything.
Her labia were puffed and slightly darker than the surrounding skin, glistening with the moisture I’d coaxed out of her. Unlike last time, she was clean-shaven, a detail that spoke more to her vanity than anything else, leaving the whole landscape exposed.
Above, right in the center, framed by her spread hands, her asshole was pulled taut by the spread of her cheeks. It was pale, tightly puckered, and clearly untouched. Virgin territory that her pushover of a husband had probably never even considered, let alone explored.
It wasn't the flawless, airbrushed perfection you'd see in some fantasy. This was real. A middle-aged civilian woman's body. There were stretch marks fading to silver on her hips, a bit of cellulite dimpling her thighs, and the flesh sagged just a little under its own weight.
And yet, there was something undeniably arousing about it. The sheer shamelessness of the display.
A glistening drop of her arousal gathered at her entrance, swelling until it broke free and slid down the curve of her pussy lips, trailing toward her inner thigh.
Mebuki looked back over her shoulder and giggled, a breathy, stupid sound that tickled on my ears. She saw the way I was staring, and she enjoyed the intensity and the hunger.
Her breath hitched. A clear drop of arousal seeped from her entrance, sliding slowly down to coat the sensitive skin of her perineum.
“Mmh, do you like what you see, young man~” she purred, winking at me clumsily. “It’s been kept pristine, you know. Kizashi wouldn’t know what to do with a woman who… embraces her needs like this.”
I hummed, a vibration low in my chest.
My eyes were locked on that tight, virgin pucker.
I rarely got the chance to explore a back door. With my size, it was usually a logistical nightmare, more pain than pleasure for most partners. I might be a jerk, but I wasn’t cruel in bed. I wanted them writhing in ecstasy, not agony. There was a specific kind of pride in knowing I could wreck a woman purely with pleasure.
But looking at Mebuki…
Looking at the way she preened, the way she offered herself up with that smug, needy smile… honestly, I could see myself not giving a fuck. Relatively speaking. I wouldn’t injure her, but I certainly wouldn’t be gentle.
The housewife smirked, a luscious, self-satisfied curl of her lips as she basked in my attention.
“I imagine you’re not used to seeing a real woman like this,” she said, her voice dripping with that peculiar, venomous sweetness she saved for other women. “Those kunoichi girls… all hard angles and scars. Muscle where softness should be. They don't have that feminine grace, do they?”
I hummed noncommittally, my eyes locked on that tight, untouched asshole. She shifted her hips slightly, widening the spread.
The urge to slam into her was almost overwhelming. To grab her hips, line myself up, and just take what I wanted. To feel her body clench and struggle around me, to hear her performative moans turn into genuine, uncontrolled sounds.
“A woman shouldn’t be built like a brick. It’s crude and unrefined,” she sniffed. “Stiff joints and calloused hands… honestly, I doubt they could even arch like this for you without pulling something. It’s unseemly.”
I breathed out slowly through my nose.
The sheer audacity of this woman. Dissing the very warriors who protected her village, judging them for having the strength to keep her soft, useless ass safe.
The shameless milf's enticing butthole aside, Sakura was still in that closet. She was seeing the exact same view I was. Her mother, bent over, spreading herself open, on display like a piece of meat, and hearing her insulting the very profession she was giving her all to excel at. She must be fuming right now.
And yet, silence from the closet.
Was she closing her eyes? Or was the spectacle of her mother presenting herself in such a shameful, degrading way somehow not enough to break through the layers of self-delusion?
Logic said the former. But knowing Sakura, it was probably the latter. She'd found some way to gaslight herself into enduring this. Some twisted rationalization that let her stay silent and still.
Maybe she just needed a little more motivation.
I raised my hand and brought it down hard on the soft flesh of Mebuki’s ass.
The slap echoed through the room, sharp and unmistakable.
Mebuki's whole body jerked forward, and she let out a breathless moan that was half surprise, half delight. Her smile widened, and she glanced back with a look that was pure performance—eyelids lowered, lips parted, voice pitched higher than natural. Yet the lust and need in her eyes were real.
She put on that annoying, girlish cadence again.
“Ah! Eishin-kun, you brute!” she teased, wiggling her hips as if trying to get away but clearly planting her feet. "I said a peek, not to play rough!"
But she was loving it. Every second of it.
I could've sworn I heard something from the closet. Faint. Almost imperceptible. A shift of fabric, maybe. Or a sharp intake of breath.
I smiled.
I wondered what was going through that big forehead of hers right now. Seeing her mother get spanked and loving it. Especially since Sakura’s own ass had been thoroughly acquainted with my hand not too long ago.
Was she comparing the sounds? Comparing the reactions? Wondering if she should have wiggled and purred instead of crying?
For how long could she keep silent?
I raised my hand again and brought my palm down on her mother’s pale ass one more time.
I was about to find out.
