Her body goes on slight autopilot....

Makoto’s body moved before her mind could protest, her hips swaying in an unnatural rhythm as her platform heels clicked against the pavement with practiced ease. The gyarus' laughter faded behind her, swallowed by the pulsing bassline leaking from a nearby club. Her thighs rubbed together with each step, the slick warmth between them growing thicker, but her fogged brain dismissed it as sweat from the humid night air.

Ryuji’s voice carried over the din, sharp with frustration. “Dammit, I’m stickin’ out like a sore thumb in this uniform—”

The transfer student cut him off with a dismissive wave, already striding toward the flickering neon sign of a bar called Bar Crossroads, its entrance obscured by a beaded curtain that rattled like bones. Ryuji hesitated, glancing down at his own clothes before groaning. “Shit, you go ahead. I’ll… figure somethin’ out.”

Makoto’s legs kept moving, her toes squishing in her strappy heels as something hot and sticky trickled down her inner thigh. The beltskirt clung to her damp skin, the edges riding higher with every step until the curve of her ass peeked out beneath.

Makoto’s hips swayed with exaggerated motion as she staggered forward, her platform heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that made her rubber beltskirt ride up further with each step. The heat between her thighs was unbearable now—a slick, shameful wetness that clung to her skin as her thoughts spiraled into something filthy. God, the transfer student… I bet his cock is massive. Thick enough to stretch—

She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth as the vulgarity of the thought hit her. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat. What the hell am I thinking?! The neon lights blurred as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake the images from her mind, but her body kept moving on its own, her ass jiggling with every exaggerated step.

The beaded curtain of Bar Crossroads rattled as the transfer student slipped inside, leaving Ryuji grumbling outside. Makoto’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. She should turn back. She should run. But her legs carried her forward, her tits bouncing obscenely beneath the tube top, her nipples getting stiffer and more sensitive against the rubber.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the curtain, the beads cool against her glitter-coated nails.

The beads clattered against her wrist as she pushed through the curtain, her hips swaying with an obscene, involuntary roll. The dim interior of the bar hit her senses all at once—stale smoke, spilled liquor, and something muskier underneath. Her thighs clenched as another wave of slick heat pulsed between them with every step.

She barely registered the sticky vinyl of the stool at the bar before she collapsed into it, her platform heels kicking up as her legs fell open slightly. The moment her ass met the seat, a jolt of pleasure zapped up her spine, her pussy throbbing as if electrified. She gasped, fingers digging into the peeling upholstery, her whole body hypersensitive—the brush of her own hair against her shoulders, the tight squeeze of her tube top, even the humid air licking her thighs felt like too much.

A pack of cigarettes materialized between her fingers, plucked from some hidden crevice of her cleavage. She didn’t question it, her neon nails fumbling with the lighter. The first drag flooded her lungs, and she moaned around the filter, head tipping back as nicotine and something sweeter curled through her veins. Her thighs trembled, her cunt clenching around nothing, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

Across the room, the transfer student leaned against the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. A woman sat beside him—What what?—her platinum-blonde hair cascading in messy waves, her lips glossy and parted around a cocktail straw. The familiar slope of her nose, the sharpness of her jaw—Ohya? The reporter who hovered around Sae’s office every now and then?

Now she looked like she belonged in a back-alley brothel.

Her blouse was unbuttoned to her navel, her tits spilling over a lace bra that might as well have been cobwebs.

Makoto’s gaze darted frantically around the dimly lit bar, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every booth, every stool held a woman just like her—skin baked a deep, unnatural bronze, hair teased into gravity-defying styles, clothes barely covering their jiggling curves. A waitress shuffled past in stiletto boots that laced up to her thighs, her ass cheeks spilling out of a micro-skirt as she balanced a tray of luridly colored drinks. Even the bartender, wiping glasses with a rag, had cleavage that threatened to spill from her corset top with every movement. The air itself felt thick with cheap perfume and the musk of arousal, a miasma that made Makoto’s head swim and her pussy clench wetly against the vinyl seat.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for her phone, the device suddenly heavy and unfamiliar in her glitter-dusted palm. It was a monstrosity—bedazzled with rhinestones that spelled out “SEXY BABE” in pink, the case hot pink and sticky to the touch. The screen lit up, blindingly bright, displaying a wallpaper of her own transformed face, puckered in a duck-lipped selfie. Notifications flooded in—. Her thumb swiped on its own, opening a stream of explicit texts: Bile surged in her throat that began to go away as she scrolled through photo after photo: her on her knees, glossy lips stretched around a thick, veiny cock; her bent over a desk, skirt hiked up, her tight lil CUNT glistening; and then—oh god—Sae, her sharp eyes glazed, donning a whorish parody of her favorite work outfit, both of them on their knees, tongues laving the same monstrous shaft while the transfer student smirked down at them.

Makoto’s vision tunneled, the bar’s noise fading to a dull roar. She stared at the screen, at the proof of a life she didn’t remember, her sister’s dignity stripped away alongside her own.

Her thumb moved on its own, sticky with glitter and sweat, scrolling down the endless feed of her social media. There was Takamaki-san, once a model, now a plasticized bimbo sucking off three men at once in a club bathroom, her eyes crossed in vacant bliss. Okumura-san, that sweet girl that's been setting up a garden on Shujin's roof, bent over a luxury car hood, a designer skirt torn, her plump ass reddened by handprints while a line of men waited behind her. Even Kawakami-sensei, was there—dressed in a maid outfit ripped to shreds, her face smeared with mascara and cum as she licked a puddle off the floor. Each image sent a fresh jolt of wet heat between Makoto’s thighs, her pussy throbbing in time with the pulsing neon lights overhead. She took another long, shuddering drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling into her lungs like a lover’s tongue, and felt another chunk of her intelligence dissolve into a warm, syrupy haze. Her thoughts grew simpler, fuzzier, the horror replaced by a dull, needy ache. Why was she even upset? She looked so fucking hot in those pics. And Sae? Her big sis knew how to take a dick like a champ. Pride swelled in her chest, thick and stupid, as she double-tapped a photo of Sae’s tear-streaked face buried between her own spread thighs... What the hell is she thinking! She needs to leave! She needs to get up and get help!

Across the sticky vinyl floor, the transfer student finally wrapped up whatever conversation he was having with Ohya. The reporter went back to just chugging a ginormous bottle of... something? All the while eyeballing a man that just walked in. He turned, his grey eyes locking onto Makoto’s. His eyes lit up and a loving smile spread across his face as he started towards her.

The transfer student’s lips crashed against hers before she could even gasp, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth with the practiced ease of someone who owned her. And oh god, he did—every inch of her body screamed it, her muscles going slack as the taste of him flooded her senses, nicotine and something darker, something that made her toes curl in her strappy heels. She should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve kneed him in the groin, should’ve screamed for help. Instead, a broken moan vibrated in her throat as her back arched, her tits pressing against his chest, her nipples hardening to aching points beneath the suffocating rubber of her top.

His hands slid down her sides, fingers digging into the soft swell of her hips, and she could feel the dampness between her thighs soaking through her panties. Wait no.... A thong. the skimpiest kind. When had she put that on? The thought dissolved as his teeth nipped at her lower lip, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her clit. Her fingers, once clutching at the bar for balance, now tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if her body had a mind of its own kissing him back.

The kiss deepened, filthy and wet, her tongue rolling against his in a rhythm that made her hips jerk. A whimper escaped her as his palm cupped her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her see stars. The bar around them blurred, the neon lights smearing into streaks of pink and purple, the catcalls and whistles of the other women fading into white noise. There was only him. Only the heat of his body, the possessive grip of his hands, the way his cock strained against his jeans, pressing insistently against her thigh.

Then his lips trailed down her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse point, and her vision whited out. Pleasure detonated in her core, her pussy clenching around nothing as she came with a shuddering cry, her thighs trembling violently. Her old self was about to collapse....... collapse completely into the blissful haze of her incoming orgasm.