Gotanda Branch: The Dark Past of the "Queen of Curves" Bunny (Pixiv Fanbox)

[Episode 0]

Fluorescent lights offer no mercy. The inorganic, clinical white light rains down, cruelly exposing the raw condition of a woman who has hit her thirties.

Topless. High-cut. Reflected in the mirror is a woman with all the symbols of her sex laid bare.

On my head, red bunny ears. Around my neck, pristine white cuffs and a bright red bow tie. From the neck up, I look as formal as a bartender in a high-class establishment. But below that, the only thing covering my limbs is a crimson, high-cut T-back thong that digs deeply into my groin. There isn't a single scrap of cloth to hide my chest. The sharp V-line forcibly hoists up my soft flesh. Far from protecting my most private parts, it acts like a picture frame, politely emphasizing them: "Look, here is a woman's shame."

"...What the hell am I doing?"

Once, I was flattered with titles like "Queen of Curves," my proportions gracing the corners of gravure magazines. But things have changed. I no longer have the bursting firmness of my youth. In exchange, however, my body now possesses a mass that fingers sink into, a softness like ripened fruit. My breasts, uncovered and exposed, sway with the full weight of gravity. Depending on how you look at it, it’s far more obscene now than when I was young.

Staring directly at this defenseless figure, a flashback cuts through my mind.

The summer I was twenty-two. That one and only AV shoot my manager and senior colleagues talked me into. "Youthful indiscretion"—the scar runs too deep to call it just that.

The crowds of Shibuya and Shinjuku. While decent people in clothes walked the main streets, I was inside a truck paneled with one-way mirrors. A cheap concept video. Separated by a single sheet of glass, everyday life went on outside. But on the inside, fully naked, I exposed my shame and panted loudly like a beast. I can never forget the shock of watching the edited footage later. Is this... is this reason-deprived slut... me?

When the memory resurfaces, shame attacks me with such force I feel my brain might boil. And yet— When I imagine the eyes of the staff and cameramen from back then, and the "gaze of the masses" that shouldn't have been able to see me... my body reacts honestly. Beneath the high-cut fabric. I feel the crotch covering my most sensitive spot turning slick and damp.

(Stop it. You're about to start work.)

Smack. I slap both cheeks with my hands. Even the sensation of my breasts shaking is just a switch for work now. Customers are waiting. Here, in this shop, I greet men as a "Backroom Bunny." As a pro who provides the ultimate embarrassment, I have to head to the "scene."

Still, a secret meant only for me, a tiny desire unknown even to the customers, scorches the space between my thighs. I exhale that heat in a thin breath and push open the heavy soundproof door leading to the hall.

[Episode 1]

My request comes from a sales guy working at a nearby IT firm. He’s probably a little younger than me. A safe suit, safe conversation. While nodding along to his talk, I slip a finger under the hem of my leotard and casually adjust the dig. A distinct red mark peeks out from my white inguinal region. Instantly, I feel his gaze getting sucked right into it.

(That look...)

I know. I know you like this.

And it’s similar. The memory of that summer plays back in my brain. My manager—my boyfriend at the time—watching me have sex with a male actor, completely naked. This customer has the same eyes as that bastard. While being visually ravished by those eyes, I panted loudly in front of a crowd of people through a one-way mirror.

A memory that still sears me—hopelessly shameful, yet sweet. Remembering it, I tightly cross my legs under the counter. On the inside of my thighs, the stitching of the high-cut leotard digs deeply into my weakest spot. The stimulation causes my lower abdomen to clench tight, and the heat between my legs spikes.

(Ah... it’s coming...) Secretly, without being noticed...

—?!

Suddenly, I feel something off about his gaze. He stops his glass at his mouth, staring blankly at my lips. Clink. The ice in his glass rattles, and our eyes meet. He looks startled, then awkwardly averts his gaze.

(Wait, no way... did he figure it out?)

"You know, you always bite your lip when you come."

My ex-boyfriend's sneer refrains in my brain. I was definitely biting my lip just now. This guy noticed it, too. My habit. That beneath the thin veneer of my business smile, I’m in heat. Goosebumps rise all over my body. It’s not just my naked skin. He’s seen right through to the inside. But it’s too late. The shame and frustration become extra fuel, and the meat inside me contracts sharply.

"...Ngh, mm...!"

I grip the edge of the counter and bite my lip even harder. Feeling his averted gaze all over me, I squeeze my thigh muscles as tight as they will go. My toes curl, and my vision bursts into white.

—The noise of the shop fades away for just a second. Right in front of a customer, as an open secret, I finished.

"...Hmm? Miori-san?"

"Ah, sorry. Sorry..."

I exhale slowly and force a smile. Sweat is seeping down my back, but the shop is dim. No one else noticed... surely.

"It's about time. I'm heading out."

He settles the bill and stands up as if nothing happened. On his way out, he directs a smile at me—harmless, endearing, boundless.

"Working late must be tough, but hang in there."

With those words of care, sounding like a generic template, the slight fever remaining in me cools rapidly.

"...Huh?"

I watch his back as he leaves the shop, ruminating on the situation with a cool head. Those eyes were straight and clear. There was no awkwardness whatsoever. Whether I bit my lip or ground my thighs together, he remained the "pleasant regular customer" as always.

"Oh... is that it?"

He didn't notice a thing. Not that I secretly came, not that I used him as fodder for my fantasy. He was just a kind, slightly timid, ordinary "customer."

"And besides... he's nothing like that bastard."

Haaah. I spit out a small sigh, return to work, and organize the slips in my hand.

I set the trap, I superimposed the past, I came... and then, I went cold. All on my own. It was all just a one-sided charade.

"...What am I doing?"

I fix my smeared lipstick in the reflection of the counter mirror. Overlapping with my reflection was the image of my younger, stupid self.