Interlude: Cyberpunch

Hiratsuka Shizuka adjusted her trench coat as she navigated the grimy back alleys of Old Musutafu. Her bio-mechanical arm, an amalgam of glowing metal and sinew, hummed with purpose, a stark contrast to the sway of her low ponytail. Cloaked in leather, denim, and an aura of mystery, she wasn’t just a figure to be reckoned with—she was the storm.

This was the underbelly of the city. Where hope came to die and secrets refused to stay buried.

But Shizuka? She didn’t run from monsters. She collared them.

Her HUD flickered to life, highlighting a lead in neon blue—a missing girl with a Stun Aura Quirk. Last seen here, down this alley, past the drunken vagrants and shady Quirk-enhancement parlors. A biker gang tore past. A twitchy man with a nosebleed stumbled out of a massage clinic.

She didn’t flinch.

Her focus was laser-sharp. She had three active cases. Two side hustles. A student needing bail. Dojo rent hanging over her head like a sword. But none of that could override the vivid, throbbing hunger that bloomed in her gut at the mere thought of him.

Her master. Her god. Her depraved little king: Minoru Mineta.

Damn it… just thinking about that dick…

It was almost comical, how a mere thought could make her panties dampen—a testament to the potency of her master's endowment. That throbbing monument to pleasure had her on her knees last week, reduced to a drooling, needy mess the moment that devious little devil strutted into her dojo.

Get it together, Shizuka, she scolded herself, halting before a rundown Quirk-enhancement parlor. Her eye twitched in irritation.

Her rational mind was like an older sister trying to slap some sense into her, and her pussy was a shameless brat who only wanted to snuggle that beast of a cock between her soaked thighs.

It was a constant battle: the rational detective versus the depraved ****. Right now, the detective needed to lead.

The number of times she’d tried to calculate how something that massive could be attached to someone like him… was now far eclipsed by the number of times she’d been bent over her own desk with that beast inside her. Thirteen inches of divine cruelty. A living contradiction. He was small, ridiculous, vulgar—but under those pants? A god-slaying weapon.

The first time he visited her dojo—tripping over himself, ogling her chest, barely blinking as he casually declared her his ****—she’d laughed.

Now? Now she trained daily to take him. Mind, body, spirit. She sparred with giggling students all morning, then practiced oral endurance on silicone molds every afternoon. Her shame had become devotion. Her strength bent toward submission.

Focus, she growled to herself.

Her phone buzzed. Notifications. Precinct updates. Case files. And one from Meguri—her most promising student-slut. That bright-eyed martial arts prodigy was finally getting the hang of the 13-inch strap-on they'd modeled after Mineta. A few more nights and she’d be ready to serve beside her sensei in the most sacred dojo ritual: getting destroyed by their master.

Mineta’s going to lose his mind when he sees how well Meguri rides…

A smirk tugged at her lips.

Then—game face. She knelt by the enhancement parlor’s back window, fed a fiber-optic line through the crack, and activated her auditory filter.

Muffled voices. Breathing. Movement.

Jackpot.

Her entrance was instant. Silent as smoke. Explosive as thunder.

The criminals didn’t stand a chance. Sparks flew off her arm as a taser failed to land. A wiry runner made it halfway to the alley before her fingers slammed him against the wall like a thunderclap. She handled the thugs with all the brutal efficiency of a woman who still had plans for the evening.

And through it all, just beneath her growl and grit, pulsed the breathless anticipation of what was to come: the slap of skin, the creak of floorboards, the sound of her own muffled cries as she choked on that monstrous cock she worshiped.

Later That Night...

The dojo was still.

The lights dim. The scent of incense hung low in the air, warm and earthy. Her gi was folded and tucked away. Her phone silenced. The doors unlocked—always unlocked on nights like this.

She stood in the shower first, steam curling around her body. Water trickled down her abs, her inner thighs, her enhanced arm.

She oiled up in the mirror—shoulders, hips, breasts, each stroke a ritual. Her pussy already tingled at the memory of his voice saying, “Shizu-bitch, don’t waste a drop.”

Every scar, every flex of muscle, every bead of oil was preparation.

Soon she was kneeling naked on the dojo mats. Arms stretched out. Forehead pressed to the floor.

Dogeza.

Submission in its most sacred, sensual form.

She waited.

Minutes passed.

Anticipation churned into aching. Her body was ready. Her mind was blank with want. Her nipples stiffened as she imagined his arrival: his cocky little voice, the slap of his monster against her cheek, the way he always said, “You beg too easy, Cyber-bitch. What kind of pro are you?”

She moaned just thinking about it.

More minutes passed.

She blinked.

Looked up.

The door didn’t creak. No shadow crossed the entry. No cock was resting on the back of her head. No one was yanking her by the ponytail and dragging her into position like the beast she craved to be.

“...What?”

She sat up slowly.

Checked the clock.

He was late.

He was never late.

Her cheeks flushed—not from arousal now, but from sudden doubt.

She fumbled for her phone. No messages. No calls. Not even a stray voice memo of him demanding throat training or photo updates.

Where was he!?