The Secret Bunny Club: Kanda Branch Episode 1: The New Girl, Aoi Hiyama (Age 20) (Pixiv Fanbox)

The moment I pushed open the heavy door to the dressing room, an impossible amount of "skin-color" flooded my vision.

"Welcome! You're the girl here for the trial run, right?"

The Manager Bunny walked toward me, her smile blooming like a flower. But beneath that smile was a sight that defied sanity: She was topless, wearing nothing but razor-sharp high-cut bottoms.

A bowtie and a white collar clung to her neck—mere symbols of "being dressed"—which only served to frame her nakedness like a perverse work of art.

With every step, her raw, exposed breasts swayed with the weight of gravity. The softness of skin and fat rippled fluidly, changing shape with her movement. At their peaks, her nipples were simply there—exposed to the open air, hiding nothing.

My gaze dropped lower, only to find the high-cut fabric biting mercilessly into the soft flesh at the top of her thighs. In this shop, this insane level of exposure was "formal wear." The Manager’s perfectly natural smile thrust that abnormal reality at me as if it were common sense.

People actually work like this? And then, a realization clicked into place deep in my chest: "In a few minutes, that is going to be me."

My throat went bone dry.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it in no time!" As her bright voice rang out, those uncovered breasts swayed at the edge of my vision. Not fake, but real, heavy mass. The "real thing." Seeing them there, so matter-of-factly, threatened to collapse my sense of balance.

This...? I'm going to look like... this? My throat made a tight, dry sound.

It was just one line in the corner of a recruitment magazine. "The Secret Bunny Club - Kanda Branch. Trial Experience Available." Bunny ears, bowtie, cuffs... and that costume. It was a rumor among girls. I still couldn't believe the version of me that had dialed that number—it felt like she had come to kill the current me.

But... "I want to know the 'me' I don't know yet." That impulse alone was the only thing holding up my trembling spine.

The Manager didn't seem to notice I had turned to stone. "Alright, costume first. Let's try it on," she said, handing me the set as casually as if passing me a cafe apron.

The moment I took it, it was so light I thought it might slip through my fingers. It wasn't a costume; it was "the intent to abandon all concealment" given form. Fabric so thin it could be folded away with just a pinch of the fingers. If I entrusted myself to this, I would have no dignity left to protect. That premonition made my skin prickle.

(Really? Really? Am I... really going to wear this?)

My rational mind rejected it completely. (Go home... it's just a trial... I can still turn back...) But... why? My body began to undress on autopilot. As if it were a duty I couldn't refuse.

The inorganic chill of the locker room air stroked my back. I forced my stiff legs through the openings. The cold chemical fiber slid up my skin, sucking tight against the hollows of my hip bones.

And then, my naked upper body. I placed the bowtie gently around the area where absolutely nothing covered my chest. Immediately, the collar at my throat drew a cruel, clinical borderline: "From here down, everything is your bare skin."

—Ah.

The cold air from the AC brushed directly against my sensitive tips. The sensation was so fragile, so unreliable, that my vision flickered white.

In the mirror, I saw myself—stripped of all means to hide, exposed as a mere "female."

My skin, white as porcelain, reflecting the harsh lights. The sharp, warning-sign red of the high-cut bottoms biting deep into my groin. Every time I shifted my weight on my heels, feeling the slight sway beneath my buttocks, my entire body screamed: "I am here. Right now."

Knock, knock. A light sound. "Ready? The hall is a bit crowded today, but you'll be fine!"

Crowded...? A shiver ran down my spine. It felt like being thrown into a cage with no escape. The floor beneath me felt like it was tilting.

I opened the locker door. From down the hallway, a heat wave of men's laughter and the clinking of glasses washed over me.

(I'm going into that... looking like this?)

Reality felt distant. My heart rate spiked, the sound of my pulse deafening in my ears.

But the tips of my toes inside my heels felt strangely hot. With every step I took, every time my heel lifted, the high-cut line dug deeper into my secret places.

My heart hammered against my bare breasts.

One step into the corridor. One more step, toward the hall.

The heavy door opened.

—!! My breath stopped.

Faces. Faces. Faces. Their gazes pierced me with physical weight and humidity.

My cheeks boiled instantly. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to put on clothes and curl up in a ball right now. And yet. Deep beneath that extreme shame, something in my womb stirred—a sweet, numbing heat.

(I'm... being watched.)

The heat of their eyes taught me, violently: I was born a woman, in this form, with this shape of a body.

There was no protection. Countless eyes traced the shape of my body—licking over the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the roundness of my hips.

But that humiliation, which should have been unbearable, lit a fire under my secret desire. I found myself thinking... "I want to feel more."

In that moment, inside the plain college student named "Aoi Hiyama," A door that should have remained shut... silently swung open.