Ch 2.4 My Quiet Beach Vacation Is Actually a Government Population Initiative, as I Suspected (Patreon)

My Quiet Beach Vacation 

Is Actually a Government Population Initiative, 

as I Suspected

Story Starts

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Chapter 2.4 -

Obviously, All Scientific Progress and Governmental Reproductive Sponsors Are Entirely Above Board

Disclaimer: Everyone here is an adult!

Isshiki Iroha placed her forearm across her forehead and breathed. Deep, ragged pulls of air filled her lungs but did nothing to stop the violent tremble running through her thighs. 'So that’s what it’s like.'

She had touched herself, of course. Almost weekly since she had discovered the trick a few years back—fumbling under her duvet with the screen of her phone casting blue light across the ceiling, earbuds jammed in, volume kept low. She had thought she understood her own body completely. She had mapped every sensitive spot, catalogued the exact rhythms that worked, and built a reliable little system. Efficient. Practical. Very Isshiki Iroha.

Hachiman’s fingers—still guided by Anna’s patient hands but unmistakably his—had torn that system apart in roughly forty seconds. Those calloused pads, rough from years of carrying grocery bags and flipping light-novel pages, had moved with a focused intensity that left her reeling.

Heat flooded her cheeks in two distinct waves. The first came from the lingering pleasure; her second orgasm still sent little aftershocks rippling through her muscles, making her belly clench at random intervals and her pussy flutter around nothing. The second wave was pure mortification. Pure, crystalline embarrassment.

Five pumps.

She had lasted five pumps.

The counter on the screen read 0157 and she had already used two of her five required finishes on what amounted to little more than a warm-up. The other women watched through the one-way glass. Yukinoshita watched. The thought made Iroha want to yank the ruined sheets over her head and scream into the mattress until her throat gave out.

But the sheets were already a soaked, twisted mess beneath her, she still had three orgasms left to collect, and—

Squelch.

Her hips jerked hard at the wet, obscene sound. The broad, blunt head of Hachiman’s cock nosed between her swollen folds, spreading her open with slow, heavy pressure that stole whatever clever thought she had been trying to assemble. Anna’s slim fingers were right there too—careful, professional even in this insane context—angling him, holding the thick shaft steady so the tip pressed right against her entrance. Not inside yet. Just there. Promising. Teasing.

Iroha looked down. Her thighs lay spread obscenely wide, knees bent, and between them Hachiman knelt with his face tight with concentration and a flicker of that familiar existential crisis in his eyes. His cock stood flushed dark and furious, the pharmaceutical compound doing its aggressive work. The head glistened thickly with their combined mess from the previous rounds, and Anna’s fingers kept it pressed against the pink, puffy swell of Iroha’s entrance.

It looked—

'Big.' Her brain supplied the word without permission. 'That was inside me. That’s going inside me again.'

She watched, breath caught in her throat, as he pressed forward. Just the tip at first. Her outer lips parted around the fat head, stretching visibly to accommodate that angry thickness. She saw her own body yield, watched his shaft disappear centimetre by slow centimetre into her slick heat. The visual punched far harder than the sensation itself. She was watching herself get fucked in explicit, unfiltered detail—no fantasy filter, no imagination filling the gaps—and the raw sight made her pulse hammer against her throat and her clit throb in time with it.

“Ah—”

Her gaze travelled upward. Past the lean lines of his abdomen—nothing athletic, just the kind of wiry build that came from nervous energy and skipped meals—past the flat plane of his chest, until she reached his face.

Dead fish eyes. The same half-lidded flatness he wore during confessions, during fireworks, during sunsets. The face that had launched a thousand of her teasing rejections.

'Senpai, you’re gross.'

'Senpai, that’s so creepy.'

'Ehh, was that supposed to be cool? Rejected~'

He did not look pleasant. That was the wrong word. What he looked was familiar. The slope of his jaw, the dark hair falling across his forehead, the slight furrow of his brow when he concentrated—she had memorised every detail across hundreds of student-council meetings, dozens of festival planning sessions, countless walks to the station where he had carried her bags without being asked and complained the entire time. He had helped her when the council paperwork threatened to drown them. He had shown up to events he hated because she had guilted him into it. He had stood literally behind her, hands in pockets, scowling, while she faced down third-years who wanted to gut the Christmas-event budget.

It was never the face. It was never going to be the face.

Then he bottomed out.

Her hand dropped from her forehead to her lower belly. Fingers pressed just above her navel. She could feel the heavy, solid bulge of him there, impossibly deep, the pressure radiating outward until every nerve between her hips felt stretched and lit up. When she pressed down harder she swore she could trace the thick shape of his cock through her own flesh.

“Hn—”

Their eyes met. His had gone wide now. Not dead at all—dark, startled, searching—and for once in his miserable loner life Hikigaya Hachiman looked directly at another human being without flinching away.

Iroha reached up with both hands. She hooked them behind his neck and pulled him down until his face hovered centimetres above hers, his weight settling onto forearms braced on either side of her head. His breath came quick and warm against her lips.

She turned her mouth to his ear.

“Take responsibility.”

His entire body went rigid.

“I—”

“You heard me.” She let her lips brush the shell of his ear, teeth grazing lightly. “Just like that time on the train. You remember, don’t you, senpai?”

The sound he made was not a word. It came out strangled and broken, vibrating through his chest and straight into hers where their bodies pressed tight. She smiled against his skin—her best weapon, even when he could not see it—and yanked his mouth down to hers.

The kiss started soft. Exploratory. His lips felt drier than she had expected, slightly chapped, and he kissed the way he approached everything else—cautiously, analytically, as if calculating optimal angles. Then she bit his lower lip, a gentle tug, and whatever analytical framework he had been running collapsed. His hips snapped forward and the kiss turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed. She forgot how to breathe.

He moved.

The first thrust pushed the air from her lungs in a sound she did not recognise as her own. He pulled back—not all the way, just enough for the thick head to drag along her front wall—then drove in again. The angle shifted and the slow, grinding pressure sent white sparks scattering behind her eyelids. The stretch burned at first but quickly transformed into something richer, a deep liquid heat that pooled low in her belly and radiated outward in heavy waves with every stroke.

“Mmm—hah—”

Each thrust built on the last. He had found a rhythm—steady, unhurried, the kind of mechanical consistency she should have expected from someone who treated life like a maths problem—and every single stroke hit that same devastating spot inside her. Pressure gathered between her hips, tightening notch by notch with each pump. Her inner walls clung to him on every withdrawal, reluctant to let him go, and when he pushed back in she felt every ridge and vein in sharp, slick detail against her swollen, sensitised flesh.

She fumbled for his hand, found it braced against the mattress by her shoulder, and dragged it to her chest. She pressed his palm flat over the soft swell of her breast. His fingers twitched, uncertain. He squeezed once—tentative, like a scientist testing an unknown specimen.

Nothing.

He squeezed again. His thumb shifted and the pad of it grazed her nipple.

“Ahh—!”

Her back arched clean off the bed. The sound ripped out of her before she could stop it—high, sharp, a vocal admission she would never have made voluntarily. Her nipple hardened instantly under his thumb and the pleasure lanced straight down from her breast to her core in a direct line that made her clench around his cock so hard he groaned deep in his chest.

Hachiman froze. His eyes flicked from her face to his hand on her breast and back again.

Then his thumb circled her nipple deliberately. When she whimpered he did it again, and something shifted behind those dead-fish eyes—a spark, focused and intent, the look of a man who had just discovered a new variable and meant to test it thoroughly.

“Senpai—don’t just—ah—”

He lowered himself. His hips kept that relentless metronome rhythm—in, out, in, grinding against her front wall—but his mouth descended to her other breast. Warm breath ghosted over the peak first, then his lips, then the wet heat of his tongue circling before he sealed his mouth around it and sucked hard.

Iroha’s hand flew to the back of his head. Fingers tangled tight in his hair and held him there. Her hips rolled up to meet his thrusts on pure instinct, matching his pace, and the combined assault—his thick cock stretching her open, his mouth sucking greedily at her breast, his thumb still working the other nipple—crashed through her nervous system in overlapping waves that left her gasping.

“Faster,” she gasped, voice cracking. “Senpai—more—faster—”

He obeyed instantly. The steady rhythm broke into something urgent and raw. His hips pistoned forward, each stroke shorter and harder. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room alongside the filthy squelch of her soaked pussy taking every inch. The pressure inside her wound impossibly tight. Every muscle in her lower body clenched. Her thighs shook where they gripped his waist. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her swollen clit, pounding in perfect time with his thrusts, and the pleasure was no longer building—it was climbing, hand over fist, scrambling toward a peak she could almost taste.

His teeth grazed her nipple.

Everything detonated.

Her toes curled so hard the joints cracked. Her spine bowed, lifting her hips completely off the mattress as she ground her pelvis against him. Her walls clamped down in powerful, rhythmic pulses she could not control, squeezing and milking his cock in desperate contractions. The sound that tore out of her mouth was raw, broken, and loud—nothing cute, nothing calculated, nothing like any version of herself she had ever shown the world.

Hachiman buried himself to the hilt and followed her over. She felt the tell-tale twitch, the sudden swell, then the hot liquid rush of his cum flooding her deepest walls in thick, pulsing spurts. His groan vibrated against her breast. His hips jerked in short, involuntary thrusts as he emptied himself into her for the third time, painting her insides until she felt full and leaking around his shaft.

The world went white. Then grey. Then slowly, reluctantly, sharpened back into focus.

“Three-seven-five.”

Anna’s voice floated in from the side, calm and informational, like a weather report.

Iroha’s eyes snapped open. The haze of pleasure evaporated. She turned her head—neck protesting—and stared at the pump counter.

0375

More than double the previous count. More than a third of her total allocation, and she had only managed three orgasms so far.

'Six hundred and twenty-five pumps left. Two orgasms to go. That’s… that’s fine. That’s manageable. That’s—'

Hachiman was still buried inside her. Still rock-hard—Tabane’s compound refused to let him soften. His body sagged with post-orgasm lethargy, the chemical override fighting his natural urge to collapse and sleep for fourteen hours straight.

Anna was already beside them. Her hand slipped between their bodies. Iroha felt the brush of slim fingers against the base of his shaft where it stretched her folds, then quick, practised strokes that coaxed him even harder.

“Hikigaya-san,” Anna said brightly, “don’t go soft on us, yeah?”

Iroha did not wait for instructions. She pulled forward, feeling his thick cock slide out of her with a wet, obscene sound that made her ears burn. She rolled onto her stomach, drew her knees up beneath her, and pushed her arse high—back arched deep, face pressed into the mattress, pussy glistening and leaking their combined mess down her inner thighs.

She looked back over her shoulder and wiggled her hips—slow, deliberate, shameless.

Not her proudest moment. But effective.

Hachiman’s cock, which had been hovering at three-quarters mast under Anna’s ministrations, surged back to full, angry attention in seconds. Anna guided him in from behind. The blunt head pressed against Iroha’s entrance in this new angle and when he slammed home she gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Ah—!”

Deeper. This position let him reach places that had not been touched before. She felt the fat head nudge against her back wall with every thrust, the stretch and pressure turning every nerve ending between her hips into a raw, live wire. New sensation layered on top of the accumulated sensitivity from three previous orgasms until pleasure bordered on overwhelming.

She looked back at him again. Sweat plastered her hair to her face. Her expression—she knew without a mirror—was nothing like the carefully crafted Iroha smile she usually wore for the world.

“More.” Her voice came out flat, serious, stripped of any teasing lilt. “Faster, senpai.”

Something shifted behind his eyes. A switch flipped. His hands seized her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. He pulled back until only the tip remained inside her—she felt her entrance grip the ridge of his head, clinging, refusing to let go—then slammed forward.

“AH—!”

Again. And again. Faster. The rhythm abandoned every pretence of consideration and became brutal, urgent, perfect. Each thrust jolted her entire body forward. The impact travelled up her spine and rattled her teeth. The sheets bunched under her fingers. Her moans—uncontrolled now—tumbled out in a continuous, broken stream that rose in pitch with every stroke.

“Nn—hah—yes—ah, sen—pai—!”

The wet sounds were obscene. Three loads of his cum and her own arousal churned noisily between their bodies, squelching loudly with every thrust and running in warm rivulets down her inner thighs. She could feel herself clenching around his thick length in involuntary spasms, her walls fluttering and gripping as if trying to milk him dry. The friction against her swollen entrance sent sharp bolts of pleasure radiating through her pelvis.

Her face pressed harder into the mattress. She arched her back deeper, angling her hips higher, and the change shifted him back against her front wall again—that devastating dragging grind. Her fourth orgasm hit without warning.

Her toes curled against the sheets. Her thighs trembled violently. A long, shuddering moan escaped into the mattress as her walls contracted around him in powerful waves, squeezing and releasing. Pleasure rolled through her body in a full-system crash that left her limbs liquid.

Hachiman did not stop. The compound had its claws in him now. He fucked her straight through the orgasm, hips snapping relentlessly, each thrust extending the contractions until she could not tell where one wave ended and the next began. Stars burst behind her eyelids. Her fingers had gone numb.

Then his hands shifted. One arm hooked under her waist, the other gripped her far hip, and he rolled them both onto their sides without pulling out. She gasped at the sudden change—the angle shifted again, his cock now pressing against her side wall, and her leg was lifted high. His hand hooked under her knee and pulled it toward her chest until her flexibility strained.

“Wha—”

He kissed her from behind—an awkward sideways press of lips that missed her mouth and landed half on her cheek, but the desperate intent was unmistakable. She twisted her neck to meet him properly. Their tongues slid together, sloppy and graceless. His hips kept pumping in the new position—shorter, deeper strokes.

Then Anna’s mouth was on her breast.

“Hnn—?!”

Warm lips sealed around her nipple. Anna’s tongue flicked across the sensitive peak while her slim fingers found the other breast and rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger. The double assault crashed through Iroha’s already-overtaxed nervous system. She was trapped between them—Hachiman behind her, stretching her open and filling her with every pump; Anna in front, working her breasts with expert attention. Nowhere to retreat.

“I—can’t—it’s too—”

Anna sucked harder. Hachiman’s grip on her leg tightened, pulling it higher, opening her wider, and the next thrust went so deep Iroha’s vision whited out at the edges. Heat built again—impossibly, absurdly—after four orgasms her body should have had nothing left, but the compound in her system had its own agenda. Every nerve between her navel and her knees screamed toward a fifth peak.

The pleasure spiralled tighter and higher. Each thrust wound the coil further. Each pull of Anna’s mouth on her nipple added another thread. Iroha felt herself unravelling—not just her body, but the masks, the calculated sweetness, the strategic vulnerability—until nothing remained except raw sensation and the terrifying, exhilarating feeling of being known completely.

Hachiman’s hips stuttered. His rhythm broke. She felt him swell inside her—that unmistakable throb—and he buried himself deep and came with a groan that rumbled against the back of her neck. Thick, pulsing warmth flooded her core, spreading through her belly. The sensation of being filled while Anna’s mouth still worked her breast and Hachiman’s hand held her open pushed her over the final edge.

The fifth orgasm did not crash. It consumed.

Every muscle in her body locked. Her jaw fell open in a silent scream. Pleasure obliterated thought, obliterated identity, obliterated the room and the programme and the counter—everything except the white-hot supernova detonating behind her navel. Her walls clenched around him in violent, rhythmic contractions that pulled him deeper and milked every last spurt. She felt every twitch, every pulse, every hot jet with crystalline clarity.

Then darkness. Quick and complete, like someone had pulled a plug. The last thing she registered was warmth—inside her, around her, everywhere.

Sound returned first. Distant. Muffled. A rhythmic, wet, percussive noise accompanied by a high, breathy vocalisation that seemed to come from directly above her.

'…moaning?'

Iroha’s eyelids fluttered open. The ceiling looked wrong—not directly overhead but blocked by something. Someone. A curtain of blue hair swayed above her face. Beyond it Anna’s features twisted in an expression Iroha had never seen on the cheerful girl—brows knitted, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed deep crimson.

Anna was on her hands and knees directly above Iroha, and behind her—

'Oh.'

Hachiman’s hips drove forward. Anna jolted with the impact, her breath hitching into a sharp moan that Iroha felt vibrate through the mattress. The pump counter on the screen caught her eye.

0587

'He’s been… while I was out… with Anna—'

Anna’s eyes cracked open and met Iroha’s. The older girl’s expression cycled through embarrassment, relief, and something apologetic before another thrust knocked the words out of her.

“You’re—ah—you’re finally—nn—awake—”

“Anna-san, what—”

“He wouldn’t—hah—stop, and you were—oh—unconscious, and someone had to—AH—”

Anna’s back arched sharply. Her fingers clawed at the sheets on either side of Iroha’s head. Her arms trembled as another thrust rocked through her. Iroha could see everything now—Anna’s body suspended above her, Hachiman behind her, hands gripping the other girl’s waist as he drove in deep and relentless.

“Hikigaya-san—” Anna gasped, voice cracking, “—quickly—pull out—cum inside Isshiki-san—she’s awake now—you need to—NNGH—”

Too late.

Anna’s hands shot down and grabbed Iroha’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard. Her back arched so sharply her blue hair brushed Iroha’s chest.

“I’m—I can’t—I’M—”

Anna came loudly. Her scream echoed off the walls—shocked, overwhelmed, completely unfiltered. Her whole body shook violently above Iroha. Through the chaos Iroha heard the wet, frantic slap of Hachiman still pumping—ten more strokes, twenty, thirty—

His groan cut through Anna’s fading cries. He slammed forward one final time and held. Anna whimpered as he filled her, her arms gave out, and she collapsed onto Iroha’s chest.

Then Hachiman collapsed onto Anna.

Three bodies stacked together, breathing hard like they had just sprinted a marathon. The pump counter read 0623.

For a long moment nobody moved. Anna’s face pressed into the crook of Iroha’s neck, hot rapid breaths tickling her collarbone. Hachiman’s weight pressed Anna down, which pressed Anna into Iroha, which pressed Iroha into the mattress. A sweaty, sticky, sex-scented human sandwich.

Iroha lifted her hand, reached past Anna’s shoulder, and flicked Hachiman hard on the forehead.

Thwack.

“Ow—”

“That was supposed to go inside me, senpai.”

His head lifted. Those glazed, exhausted, pharmaceutically intense dead-fish eyes blinked at her. Then the meaning of her words sank in and something raw and primal flashed across his face—confusion, comprehension, panic, and recognition all in the space of two seconds.

“I—that wasn’t—she was—I didn’t mean to—”

“You came inside Anna-san.”

“She was—you were unconscious—I couldn’t just—”

“You were supposed to cum inside me.”

“I’m sorry?! You passed out! What was I supposed to do, just—”

“Cum inside me.”

“You were unconscious!”

“And?”

Between them Anna made a small, strangled sound. Not pain. Something far more complex. Her hips shifted.

“Oh,” Anna breathed.

Both Iroha and Hachiman looked at her.

Anna’s eyes were very wide. Her already-flushed cheeks darkened further. She swallowed.

“He’s—” She took a shaky breath. “—getting hard again.”

The silence lasted exactly one second.

“Inside you?” Iroha’s voice came out flat.

“…yeah—uh.” Anna confirmed. Her expression wavered between mortified and fascinated. “He’s—that’s—oh—definitely hard.”

Iroha watched Hachiman’s face. The panic remained, but underneath it something raw had surfaced at her demand—the knowledge that she wanted it, that she was pouting because he had finished in the wrong girl. 'Men really are simple creatures.'

Anna eased forward. Iroha felt the shift of weight, heard the wet sound of Hachiman sliding out of Anna, and then Anna’s slick, warm fingers reached between their bodies. They found him, guided the swollen head downward, and angled it until it pressed against Iroha’s entrance once more.

“There,” Anna murmured, voice still unsteady. “Where you belong, Hikigaya-san.”

He pushed inside.

Iroha’s breath left her in a long shudder. She was looser now—four orgasms and three loads of cum had left her slick and open—and he slid in without resistance, filling her in one long, smooth stroke that bottomed out against her cervix. The stretch felt familiar. The heat felt familiar. The fullness pressing against her inner walls felt familiar. But everything was wetter, messier, and when he pulled back she felt the thick mixture of their fluids shift inside her with a lewd squelch that made her ears burn.

“Mn—”

His forehead dropped against hers. Close enough that she could count his eyelashes. She saw the pharmaceutical sheen in his pupils—dilated, glazed, running on pure chemical willpower.

He moved.

No technique remained. No calculated rhythm, no measured strokes. He fucked her with the sloppy, urgent desperation of a body pushed past every limit—hips snapping forward in uneven thrusts that hit different devastating spots each time. Some shallow and teasing, some brutally deep, some angled left, some right. Inconsistent. Messy. And somehow, in that chaos, more real than anything that had come before.

Her hand found the back of his head. Fingers threaded through sweat-damp hair. She pulled him down and kissed him with an open mouth, tasting salt and exhaustion, and his tongue slid against hers in the same graceless rhythm as his hips.

The sounds were filthy. Constant squelching and slapping. The creak of the truck beneath them. The rasp of sheets. Their shared, ragged breath between messy kisses. Anna lay beside them now, one hand resting on Iroha’s hip, the other tracing idle patterns on Hachiman’s back—witnessing, grounding them both with her presence.

Iroha felt the heat building one last time. Distant at first. Faint. Her body had been wrung dry, yet the approaching orgasm was slow and deep, like a tide coming in, each thrust pushing the waterline a fraction higher.

“Senpai—”

“Nn—”

“Inside. Again, one last time.”

His hips stuttered. His jaw clenched. She felt him swell—the familiar throb, the tightening of his arms around her—and she clenched down deliberately with what little muscle control she had left.

He broke.

Thick, hot pulses flooded her. Heavy jets of cum painted her deepest walls, marking her exactly the way she had demanded. The knowledge that he was cumming inside her—filling her, claiming her—pushed her over the edge.

The last orgasm washed through her like warm water. Gentle. Pervasive. Her toes uncurled. Her grip on his hair loosened. Her body went completely boneless beneath him and the pleasure settled deep into her bones.

Hachiman’s hips gave three more weak, twitching thrusts. Then he stopped.

He did not pull out. He stayed buried to the hilt inside her, weight heavy and warm and real on top of her chest. His eyes slid shut.

Iroha wrapped her arms around his back. She felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat against her breasts slowly evening out. His breath grew deep and even against her neck. 'Did he fall asleep? Inside me? He actually fell asleep.'

She looked at Anna. Anna looked back at her. The blue-haired girl’s expression hovered between amusement and tenderness, her own cheeks still flushed, and she mouthed a single silent word.

Done.

Iroha’s lips twitched. Then curved. Not the calculated smile she usually deployed like a weapon. Something smaller. Something that reached her eyes and stayed there.

She held Hachiman close, felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing, and closed her eyes.

The timer blinked 01:03:17. The counter read 0872.

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End

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