The holdover

Hitomi gently closes the door as the other members fall asleep in their respective rooms, leaving her with only you. It took a bit of persuading, making some alibi about her solo activities before she could finally leave them alone. The hallway light casts soft shadows across her face, highlighting the faint hint of exhaustion etched around her eyes.

Being a leader to seven younger girls is no easy task. Difficult at times, but fun for the most part. It’s a burden shared between her and you, their respective manager, though she carries it with a grace and enthusiasm that never fails to impress. Her public persona—strong, unbreakable, always in control—melts away in these stolen moments, revealing the vulnerable, human woman beneath.

“Phew,” she gently huffs, pressing a hand close to her chest. Her voice is softer now, stripped of the performative tone she puts on for the cameras, for the fans, even for the members sometimes. “These girls— they’re something else.”

“Tell me about it,” you casually remark, knowing she has to face them every day. Look after them every hour, every minute. Her eyes meet yours in the dim light, and for a moment, you see the weight of responsibility she carries, the constant need to be perfect for everyone else.

“Now where were we?” she asks, changing the conversation almost immediately.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly sure if you wanted to do it tonight,” you say, tapping your sneakers. “But it’s at my place.”

“Good. I’m ready to go, then.”

“You sure?” you wonder, genuinely concerned.

As you scrutinize her face once more, the exhaustion you noticed earlier seems more pronounced now, etched into the delicate lines around her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. You can’t help but worry that the weight of responsibility has become too much for her tonight, that perhaps what she truly needs is rest. Her usual unwavering confidence appears to waver for a fraction of a second, her gaze flickering downward before meeting yours again with renewed determination.

“Of course. We don’t get time like this,” she insists, steadfast in her demeanor and her expression meaning business. “I’ll be fine. We don’t have anything to do tomorrow, yeah?”

And well—she does have a point. The next few days are generous to her and her team, given they have no schedules, but seeing that she looks as if she’s reached her physical limit—

“I know,” you begin, stepping closer. Your hand brushes against her cheek, the pad of your thumb rubbing over her soft skin. “But are you really sure? There’s always another day. You need the downtime. You need rest.”

She leans into the touch. Her eyelids flutter closed; her lips part slightly. “I’m sure.”

“Alright,” you concede. “Just let me know when you want to stop. And not overexert yourself. I don’t wanna get in trouble because of you.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassures, and her lips curve up in a smile. Cute on the outside, but the undertone is anything but. “I’m a big girl.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Hitomi flashes you a little smirk. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Please do.”

The drive to your place is quiet, the tension between you and Hitomi palpable. Her fingers tap against the passenger seat, restless, as city and street lights pass by. You keep stealing glances at her, watching her shift in her seat and cross her legs. A warm flush creeps up her neck, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips.

You couldn’t get there any faster, even with zero traffic.

It’s a heavy relief when you finally arrive.

As soon as the front door closes, Hitomi pounces on you. Her hands are on your shoulders, her mouth hungry, demanding, and you respond in kind, the two of you stumbling toward the bedroom.

Her kisses are frenzied, desperate. Her hands wander down, squeezing your ass, and you let out a low moan.

“Fuck,” you mumble, breaking the kiss. “Slow down, Tomi—”

“I fucking want it now.”

She pushes herself away from you, then makes quick work of the uniform she wore today for their performances and schedules. No care for the price, the quality, nor the fact buttons are flying off—her movements are frantic and rushed. The sound of ripping fabric fills the room, a contrast to the careful preservation these curated clothes usually receive.

It’s like another performance, but rather than for hundreds or thousands, it’s for you—and only you.

Hitomi rips her shirt off for dramatic effect, leaving just the bra and pencil skirt, kicking off her shoes but keeping the thigh high socks around—just the way you like it.

She effortlessly takes your breath away. You’re like a deer caught in the headlights; you’re stunned speechless. Your mouth is watering.

“Like what you see?” she suggests, knowing damn well this is all for show, and she fucking revels in it.

“Yeah,” you can only muster, still utterly frozen and in awe. This never gets old.

“Then come and get it.”

Hitomi spins around; her back is turned. Her long, dyed blonde hair cascades down her slender, toned frame.

“Take the rest off,” she demands, and you obey without question.

Your hands tremble, and your mind is racing. All thoughts are replaced by one singular goal: please her. Use her. Fuck her.

It starts slow, deliberate. Gently, you push aside her hair and plant a trail of kisses down her neck and shoulders. You can hear her breathing quicken, feel her pulse racing.

“Faster,” she orders.

You take hold of her pencil skirt and slip a finger between the obstructive fabric. Between the thin, already soaked underwear, she’s glistening, suffocatingly wet. Hitomi moans upon the sudden intrusion, and you can’t resist teasing her.

“So wet already,” you whisper in her ear, and she shudders.

“H-hurry up,” she whines, her tone growing impatient. “I can’t bear without you being inside me—”

"Patience. Let me savor this.”

Hitomi squirms and tries to buck her hips, but you keep her firmly in place.

“Shhh,” you soothe, and she lets out a shaky breath.

You continue stroking her wet, your fingers moving in languid circles. She’s trembling, whimpering, and begging, and fuck, her reactions are so hot.

“Oh god, yes, yes,” she cries out, the mask cracking with each entry, growing more and more vulnerable. “Please.”

You oblige and increase the pace, with her thighs shaking in response. Your fingers are faster now, plunging deeper inside her with each deliberate thrust, the slick, wet sounds of her arousal filling the room along with her desperate whimpers.

The muscles in her legs begin to quiver uncontrollably, the strength she usually displays as a performer now completely surrendered to the pleasure coursing through her body. You can feel her clenching around you, her body arching back against your hips as she pushes her hips forward, begging despite the inability to form coherent words. Her head falls back against your shoulder, blonde hair tickling your neck as she completely surrenders to your control, the facade of control crumbling away to reveal the raw, needy woman beneath.

“Please,” she moans. “More—”

"Since you asked so nicely,” you mumble, sliding a third finger inside.

Hitomi keens, her entire body tensing as the new sensation overwhelms her. God, it’s the way her jaw drops then gradually closes. How it takes her all at once—the pain, the pleasure—and how it overrides her senses before coming back to life, craving for more. The way she’s clutching at air—as if anything can save her at this point—is all too much for her tired, lithe body.

“God, you’re tight,” you groan, the heat and pressure around your fingers almost too much to bear.

“Mmm,” she hums, biting on her lip, bent forward, her underwear partially drawn down her thin legs.