Chapter 229 - 228 : Nearly Committed Wrong

Chapter 229: Chapter 228 : Nearly Committed Wrong

Misaki’s breath was ragged. Her heart hammered. She swung one leg over him again, climbing onto the bed until she straddled his right thigh. She positioned herself carefully so that her dripping pussy hovered just above his now rock-hard cock. The head of his cock—still half-hard but rapidly thickening under her earlier actions—rested just one or two inches away from her soaked entrance. The swollen head of his cock brushed the outer folds of her pussy with every small shift. His balls pressed against her clit, warm and heavy.

She wrapped her fingers around his cock again, holding it steady. The shaft was warm, silky, pulsing in her grip. She dragged the thick head slowly through her slick folds—up and down, teasing herself. The head nudged her clit, then slid between her puffy lips, coating itself in her natural vaginal discharge. She rocked her hips forward, letting the swollen head nestle right at her entrance, pressing against her tight, dripping hole.

It was so close.

One push and he would be inside her.

Misaki’s mind fractured.

She froze.

Her eyes widened. A sudden, sharp wave of guilt crashed over her like ice water.

He’s my childhood friend’s son... I can’t... I can’t do this...

The thought hit her like a slap. She was Dr. Misaki—the psychiatrist who had known his mother for years, the woman who had once held him as a baby when he was still a toddler. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not like this. Not while he was asleep, not while he was vulnerable, not while she was supposed to be the professional helping him heal from his illness.

Her hand trembled around his cock.

She pulled back at the last second.

"No..." she whispered, voice breaking with raw, desperate need. "I’m sorry..."

She fell back.

Her pussy lifted away from his cock, leaving a thick strand of her own slick to stretch and snap between them. The head of his cock—now completely slick with her arousal—bobbed against his thigh as she scrambled off the bed. She stood there for a second, chest heaving, thighs glistening, a conflicted, aching mess of lust and guilt.

Then she turned and slipped back into the kitchen cupboard, closing the door silently behind her.

She slid down the inside wall, knees to her chest, and buried her face in her hands.

Outside, Haruto lay asleep, his cock still throbbing and leaking her saliva, completely unaware that the psychiatrist who had just watched him drain another woman dry had almost crossed the final, unforgivable line—almost fucked her childhood friend’s son while he slept.

And Misaki, for the first time that night, felt the terrifying thrill of almost losing control.

The minutes dragged on like warm, sticky honey in the quiet apartment. Misaki sat curled inside the narrow kitchen cupboard, knees drawn tight to her chest, her naked body still trembling from the near-miss orgasm and the overwhelming wave of guilt that had crashed over her moments ago. Her thighs were slick with the last traces of her own arousal, her pussy still swollen and throbbing, her breasts heaving with every ragged breath. The faint scent of her squirt and vaginal discharge still clung to the air inside the tiny space, mixing with the floral soap scent she had used earlier. She could hear the distant hum of the city outside, the low murmur of voices from Haruto’s bedroom, but her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

Then it happened.

Haruto stirred.

A low, confused groan rumbled from his throat. His body shifted under the sheet, one arm flailing slightly before he rolled over with a heavy thud. The impact jarred the entire bed frame. His eyes snapped open—still hazy, still heavy with sleep, but blinking rapidly as the room came back into focus. The first thing he felt was the unmistakable slick, sticky warmth coating his cock and balls.

He reached down without thinking.

His fingers wrapped around the thick, heavy shaft. It was soaked—slippery, warm, and unmistakably wet. When he pulled his hand back, his palm came away glistening, shiny with clear, viscous fluid. The same sticky sheen coated his balls, making them feel heavy and slippery against his thigh. A thick strand of it stretched from his cockhead to his palm before snapping. The scent hit him instantly—musky, sweet, faintly salty, the unmistakable aroma of a well-fucked woman’s natural fluids mixed with arousal.

Jennifer... she must have sucked me again right after I fell asleep, Haruto thought, a lazy, satisfied smile creeping onto his lips. She didn’t even bother cleaning up. That’s why it’s still this messy. He didn’t move to wipe it away. Instead, he let his hand linger, giving his cock a slow, lazy stroke. It felt good. The mess felt good. He liked knowing she had left him marked like this, like she couldn’t get enough even after he had already drained her dry earlier.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the cool air hitting his bare skin, and stood up. His cock bobbed heavily between his legs, still half-hard and glistening, the head shiny and leaking another slow drip of her slick. He didn’t bother grabbing a tissue. He left it exactly like that—drenched in Misaki’s saliva, her vaginal discharge, and the remnants of her squirt. It felt intimate. Forbidden. Like a secret she had left behind just for him.

Barefoot, he padded across the floor toward the kitchen. The apartment was silent except for the faint creak of floorboards. He stopped right in front of the narrow kitchen cupboard door, which stood slightly ajar. The faint scent of soap and her lingering arousal still clung to the wood.

"Misaki Sensei?" he called, voice still thick with sleep but carrying that gentle, concerned tone he always used. "Are you still in there? Have you been feeling any problem?"

Inside the cupboard, Misaki’s entire body slammed against the back wall. Her chest heaved like she had been punched. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her throat—too loud, too close. She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with panic and raw lust, thighs pressing together to stop the fresh trickle of arousal that immediately soaked her fingers. Her heart felt like it was going to explode. Hearing his voice—his real, sleepy, innocent voice—calling her "Sensei" while she was completely naked and covered in the evidence of what she had almost done... it was torture.

"No... no problem, Haruto," she managed, her voice trembling but forced into a professional, steady tone. "I’m... I’m fine. Just a little dizzy from the long night."

"Okay then. You can come out for a bit and get some fresh air. Jennifer is back in her apartment now," Haruto said casually, as if nothing had happened. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his still-soaked cock swaying slightly with the movement.

Misaki’s mind raced. She couldn’t come out. Not like this. Not naked. Not dripping. Not with the cupboard door only slightly open and him standing right there. The thought of him seeing her—seeing her swollen pussy, her glistening thighs, the faint trails of her squirt still drying on her skin—made her cheeks burn. She is his mother’s friend. His childhood friend’s son. The line was already so blurred; she couldn’t cross it now.

"No... no, I’m fine," she whispered, voice cracking. "One thing we haven’t done yet. Go and check Jennifer. What she’s doing. And also... I have some spare cameras on the top of the corner shelf box. Take them and secretly set them in her bedroom and kitchen. I want to make sure she will do after... everything that happened."

Haruto didn’t hesitate. "Okay, Sensei. I’m doing it right now."

He turned, bare feet padding back toward the bedroom. Misaki heard the soft rustle of fabric as he grabbed the small, discreet cameras from the shelf. She listened as he crept out of the apartment, the front door clicking shut behind him. Then the sound of him climbing the stairs to Jennifer’s place—careful, quiet footsteps, the occasional creak of the wooden stairs.

Inside the cupboard, Misaki finally let out a shaky breath. She stayed perfectly still, listening to the faint sounds of him moving around above her—Haruto’s apartment balcony door opening, then closing. The silence stretched. She could still feel the sticky remnants of Haruto’s cock on her fingers, the taste of him faintly on her tongue from earlier, the guilt and lust twisting together in her chest like a live wire.

Minutes passed. The apartment was completely silent now.

Then she heard it.

The faint, muffled sound of Haruto peering through Jennifer’s window from outside—glass rattling slightly, the creak of the frame as he pushed it open a crack. The city lights from below filtered in, casting pale stripes across her bedroom. She imagined him crouching there, eyes wide, peeking inside like a secret watcher.

And Misaki, still locked inside the cupboard, thighs pressed tight together, pussy still aching and dripping, couldn’t stop the dark, twisted smile that slowly curled on her lips.

She had almost fucked him.

And now he was out there, completely unaware, peeking into Jennifer’s apartment while the psychiatrist who had watched him drain another woman dry sat naked and trembling in the cupboard below.

The night was far from over.