[Complete] Ch 2.81 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 2.81 -

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

Disclaimer: Everyone here is an adult!

I sat in seiza, hands folded atop my lap, spine rigid as a salaryman awaiting his annual performance review. The futon beneath my knees had long since stopped being comfortable—not that comfort was anywhere in my immediate future. Comfort had reviewed my itinerary and resigned.

I'd already had sex with three former high school classmates and three complete strangers I'd met today. By any reasonable metric, the nervous anticipation should have dulled by now. Exposure therapy, they called it. Repeated confrontation with the source of anxiety until the fear response extinguished itself. The literature was quite clear on the subject. Then again, the literature had been written by researchers whose idea of exposure was showing someone a photograph of a spider, not strapping them to a futon and feeding them designer drugs at government expense while a nineteen-year-old in an eyepatch awarded herself points for each one swallowed.

Clearly, my limbic system hadn't received the memo. Or it had received the memo, read it, and filed a formal complaint.

Because this was Totsuka.

The person I'd spent three years convincing myself inspired purely platonic feelings. The person whose smile had once made my chest tighten in ways I'd desperately attributed to indigestion, seasonal allergies, or perhaps an undiagnosed heart condition—I'd actually looked up the symptoms of arrhythmia once, at two in the morning, because the alternative explanation was unacceptable. The person I'd watched change in the boys' locker room whilst studiously averting my gaze, believing my restraint demonstrated admirable self-control rather than, say, basic human decency toward a girl who'd been binding her chest the entire time.

'I thought I had homoerotic feelings for him—her. For her.'

The revelation that Totsuka Saika had been female all along should have been a relief. And it was. Mostly. In the sense that discovering you weren't attracted to men but had instead been attracted to a woman disguised as a man was... better? Simpler? Less complicated for one's understanding of one's own sexuality?

It was like spending three years convinced you'd failed an exam, only to learn the exam had been graded on the wrong answer key and you'd actually passed. The relief was real. The three years of existential dread remained non-refundable.

At the very least, I'd never once thought of Hayama that way—despite whatever elaborate fantasies Ebina's BL-rotted brain had concocted over the years. The fact that I could definitively rule out "potential bisexual awakening starring Chiba Prefecture's most irritatingly handsome blond" felt like a minor victory. Possibly the only victory available to me today, so I clutched it to my chest like a participation trophy. Though knowing Ebina, she'd find a way to ship me with Hayama anyway. Facts had never been load-bearing elements in her creative process. The woman could find subtext in a train timetable.

Except nothing about this situation was simple.

The hour Konuki had prescribed as mandatory rest had been the most uncomfortable sixty minutes of my existence. My pharmaceutical-enhanced erection had refused to subside for even a moment—an overly enthusiastic soldier who hadn't received the ceasefire order and was beginning to suspect the ceasefire was propaganda. I'd tried thinking about baseball statistics. Tax codes. The complete works of economic theory regarding supply-side fiscal policy. Zaimokuza's prose.

Nothing worked. Not even Zaimokuza's prose, and that usually killed any sensation below the neck. Zaimokuza's prose was my emergency brake. One paragraph of "thus spake the Crimson General, his obsidian blade drinking deep of twilight" could normally render me functionally monastic for a business week. Whatever Tabane had put in that syringe was stronger than Zaimokuza's prose. Somewhere, a pharmaceutical company needed to know about this. The marketing wrote itself: Clinically proven to withstand chuunibyou.

Konuki had appeared twice during that hour. The first time to check my vitals—penlight, pulse, clipboard, the works, all performed with the brisk efficiency of a farmer checking on prize livestock before auction. The second time to deliver more tablets.

"Vitamins," she'd said.

"What kind of vitamins?"

"The helpful kind."

"Helpful to whom?"

"Hikigaya-kun." She'd smiled. "Everyone."

I'd swallowed them without protest.

That was the terrifying part. Not the tablets. The swallowing. The complete absence of resistance between her handing them over and my taking them, as though somewhere in the past several hours my autonomy had been quietly deprecated and the update notes had never been published. When had compliance become my default setting? Was this all it took—sex with my friends, a hentai plot made manifest, and suddenly I'd abandoned every principle I'd ever held? Three years of maintaining emotional distance, of carefully constructed walls, of refusing to let anyone past my defences, and it had all crumbled in the space of an afternoon.

'Stockholm syndrome,' I decided. 'That's the only explanation. My brain has simply given up and decided to cooperate with my captors. At this rate, by Friday I'll be defending the programme at dinner parties. "Well, actually, the STORK system solves the fundamental career-sacrifice problem—" Stop. Stop it. You can hear yourself.'

The room had been refreshed during the break. Hayasaka, Fujiwara, and several of the other volunteers—Nukumizu-san and one of the Kujou sisters, from what I recalled—had replaced the futon and done something to neutralise the accumulated evidence of earlier activities. The air no longer carried that distinctive atmosphere. A digital display on the wall showed the timer frozen at 00:00:00, ready to begin counting the moment things began.

Housekeeping. For this. Somewhere there was a cleaning rota. A laminated one, probably, with initials and checkboxes. Futon replaced: check. Surfaces sanitised: check. Subject still operational: check. The programme had better housekeeping standards than most business hotels, which said something profound about Japan that I lacked the energy to articulate.

My mind kept circling back to high school.

The tennis matches where Totsuka had asked me to practise together, racket in hand, cheeks flushed from exertion. The cooking sessions during the camping trip where our shoulders had brushed and I'd felt electricity shoot down my spine. The countless times Totsuka had said "Hachiman" in that soft voice, and I'd had to excuse myself to splash cold water on my face.

'I'm not gay,' I'd told myself approximately four hundred and twenty-three times, give or take a few hundred. 'I simply appreciate aesthetic beauty in all its forms. Like how one might admire a particularly well-crafted piece of architecture, or a sunset, or—'

Or a cute girl who happened to be dressed as a boy.

Four hundred and twenty-three times. I'd essentially written a doctoral thesis in my own head—"Aesthetic Appreciation as Distinct from Romantic Attraction: A Longitudinal Self-Study"—complete with revisions, counterarguments, and peer review conducted entirely by the least impartial peer available: me. The thesis had been rejected tonight. Not by committee. By anatomy.

Three years. Three years of mental gymnastics and philosophical justifications and late-night existential crises about the nature of attraction. Three years of Komachi's knowing smirks whenever Totsuka's name came up. Three years of—

'Wait.'

Komachi knew.

Komachi had always known.

That explained the way she'd looked at me whenever I mentioned hanging out with Totsuka. The barely suppressed laughter. The comments like "You two are so cute together" that I'd dismissed as sisterly teasing. The fact that she'd included Totsuka in this deranged reproduction programme without any apparent hesitation.

My sister had watched me struggle with my sexuality for three years whilst knowing the entire time that there was nothing to struggle about. She'd sat across the dinner table from a brother in quiet philosophical crisis, in possession of the single sentence that would have resolved it—"She's a girl, Onii-chan"—and she'd kept it. Filed it. Saved it, presumably, for tonight, because a resolved crisis earns no Komachi Points but a detonated one earns hundreds.

'I'm going to have words with her when this is over. Strong words. Possibly accompanied by the revocation of certain brotherly privileges. No more emergency midnight convenience store runs. No more pretending not to notice when she steals my pudding from the fridge. I will label the pudding. I will label the pudding with my name, and when she takes it anyway—because she will, labels have never stopped her, labels are merely informational—I will... I will buy her a replacement pudding, because I am weak, and she knows I am weak, and that is precisely how we all ended up on this island.'

The door slid open.

Totsuka stepped through, Sakurasawa Sumi trailing behind her.

I forgot how to breathe.

Totsuka wore... well, technically nothing. None of the participants wore anything at this point. But where the other women had entered with varying degrees of confidence, embarrassment, or determination, Totsuka simply walked in. The same easy grace she'd displayed on the tennis court. The same gentle smile she'd offered me a hundred times in the Service Club when I'd been nursing my cynicism like a particularly bitter cup of coffee.

Except now I could see everything I'd spent three years pretending didn't exist.

The curves that the school uniform had somehow concealed. The way her hair—slightly longer now—fell past her shoulders. The athletic definition in her arms and legs that spoke of continued dedication to her sport. The—

'Focus. Focus on literally anything else.'

Her partner Sakurasawa Sumi followed close behind. The fact that I could recall these new names with such ease disturbed me. Before today, I'd have struggled to remember the name of anyone I'd spoken to fewer than fifteen times. Now my brain apparently considered it vital information to catalogue every participant in this reproductive circus. The hippocampus knew what the priorities were. The hippocampus had always known. The hippocampus and Komachi should compare notes.

Sumi fidgeted constantly, her demeanour so shy that she seemed to be attempting to hide behind someone half her size—a logistical impossibility she was nonetheless committed to, the way a cat commits to fitting in a box two sizes too small. She moved in Totsuka's wake like a nervous shadow, whilst Totsuka herself practically bounced into the room. Match-day energy. Warm-up complete, racket strung, hydration optimal. She had arrived at a government-mandated breeding event with the demeanour of someone who'd checked the draw sheet and liked her bracket.

"Hachiman!"

Totsuka's face lit up, and something in my chest performed a complicated manoeuvre that would have concerned a cardiologist. Possibly the arrhythmia I'd self-diagnosed at sixteen, finally arriving three years behind schedule. Even my heart conditions ran on Japanese rail timetables, apparently—delayed by disaster, deeply apologetic, inevitable.

"Totsuka," I managed. My voice came out roughly two octaves higher than intended. I cleared my throat and relocated it to its registered address. "I—you—"

Words. I was enrolled in a reasonably prestigious university. I was capable of stringing words together into coherent sentences. I had, at various points in my academic career, produced essays that teachers described as "disturbingly articulate."

Apparently not today. Today the articulate part had stayed home and sent the disturbing part in its place.

She reached out and extended a hand.

'A handshake?'

A handshake. We were both naked, in a government breeding facility, about to—and she was offering me a handshake. The formality of it short-circuited something. My hand rose to meet hers on pure social autopilot, the same reflex that makes you bow at automatic doors and apologise to furniture.

"Good luck!" she said, and pulled me up to stand.

Good luck. She'd said good luck. Firm grip, direct eye contact, one efficient pump of the arm—the pre-match handshake. The one exchanged at the net before a final. Athletes shook hands like this before attempting to destroy each other in straight sets.

I looked down at her chest and wondered how she'd ever concealed that. Sports bras could only do so much. Had they grown since high school? Was there some sort of delayed development involved? Or had I simply been so committed to my "definitely not attracted to my male friend" narrative that I'd wilfully ignored basic anatomy? The evidence suggested the latter. The evidence suggested my narrative commitment could have survived expert testimony and photographic exhibits.

'Wait. Good luck?'

Good luck implied opposition. Good luck implied I was the opponent. But I wasn't the opponent—I'd seen enough of this event's structure to understand my role, and my role was not "competitor." The contestants were competing. I was the venue.

"Sumi-chan, let's do our best!"

Totsuka vanished from my field of vision.

Something wrapped around my thighs. Arms. Totsuka's arms,

Then a new sensation—warm and wet—engulfed me from the front.

I looked down.

Totsuka knelt before me, her face scarlet, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Her mouth was—

'Oh.'

The timer on the wall began counting.

I stiffened. My cheeks widened under a pair of hands that did not belong to the girl currently ruining my remaining dignity from the front.

'Sumi.'

She had vanished behind me without a sound, which was impressive given that the room was a converted shipping container and I had been staring at the floor in a state of philosophical collapse. One moment Totsuka's mouth had closed around me. The next, two palms had parted me with the clinical commitment of someone following a laminated instruction sheet.

Warmth hit me there. Wet. Deliberate.

My knees locked.

"Totsuka—"

She didn't answer. Her cheeks hollowed, and the pressure dragged a sound out of me that I refused to classify. Her tongue worked the underside in short, stubborn strokes, the same way she returned a serve she had no business reaching—scrambling to the baseline, racket extended, somehow getting the ball back over the net through sheer refusal to concede the point. Every time I thought she'd ease off, she took me deeper and held.

Behind me, Sumi made a small noise. Not a word. A decision. Her tongue pressed in, shy for half a second, then not shy at all.

The two sensations met somewhere in the middle of my spine and shook hands.

'This is a coordinated attack. They planned this. During the hour I spent contemplating supply-side economics and the collected prose of Zaimokuza, these two held a strategy meeting.'

Totsuka's hands braced on my thighs. She pulled back until only the head remained in her mouth, sucked hard enough to blank my vision, then sank down again. A wet sound filled the container. The counter on the wall clicked.

I looked. It had moved.

Of course it had moved. The programme counted everything. Somewhere in a government database, a civil servant was updating a spreadsheet. Line item fifteen: Hikigaya, Hachiman—oral stimulation (coordinated, front and rear). Checkmark. Timestamp. Cross-referenced with dietary intake and vitamin supplementation schedule.

'How was the counter even increasing?'

My dick wasn't strapped to any sensor. Was there an unfortunate staff who had to physically watch each pump and increase the number?

Sumi's breath shivered against me. Her tongue circled, retreated, returned with more certainty. For someone who allegedly couldn't string two words together without her voice failing, she had located an alternative communication method and was using it fluently. The shy girl who had hidden behind Totsuka thirty seconds ago had apparently decided that words were unnecessary when actions spoke louder. They were speaking now. Loudly. In a dialect I hadn't known existed until today.

"Sumi-chan, that's perfect." Totsuka came off me long enough to say it, voice bright, lips shining. "Keep going. Hachiman's legs are shaking."

"They are not."

They were.

She laughed once, soft, and took me back in. No hesitation this time. Her throat opened around me and she stayed there, nose against my crotch, whilst one hand cupped what her mouth couldn't reach and worked it in time with Sumi's tongue. The rhythm was obscene and unrelenting. She had spent her life training for endurance events. Nobody had specified which kind.

'I watched her change in the boys' locker room. I looked at the ceiling. I recited the prefectural capitals. I was protecting her modesty, I told myself, which is a noble thing to tell yourself whilst a girl binds her chest three lockers down and you develop a heart condition. Hokkaido. Aomori. Iwate. Miyagi. I can still recite them. I can recite them right now. Akita. Yamagata. Fukushima. The knowledge cost me something. It should be useful for something. Ibaraki. Tochigi—'

Sumi spread me wider. Her tongue pushed, flat and hot, and my hips jerked forward into Totsuka's mouth. Totsuka took the thrust without complaint—took it like a backhand volley she'd been waiting for, weight already shifted, ready to redirect the momentum. A hum vibrated through me. Encouragement, or victory. With her, the distinction had always been thin.

Heat gathered low and fast. The compound in my blood had kept me hard through an hour of tax law and Zaimokuza's purple prose. It had no defence against this. My hands found Totsuka's hair. I meant to steady her. I held on instead, fingers threading through strands that were softer than I'd let myself imagine during three years of aggressive non-imagining.

"Totsuka. I'm—"

She pulled off with a wet sound and stood in one motion, as if the warning had been a starting pistol. Match point. Decisive action. Sumi's hands left me. Cool air hit everywhere they'd been. I swayed, suddenly aware that a not-insignificant portion of my balance had been outsourced to two sets of hands that had just filed for independence.

Totsuka stepped in, rose onto her toes, and guided me with one hand. Her grip was firm. Practiced. The same grip she used on a racket, adjusted for different equipment. Her eyes met mine. Flushed. Clear. The same look she wore before a first serve she had already decided to ace.

"Hachiman."

Just my name. Just the way she'd always said it—soft, certain, like it belonged to her as much as to me.

She sank.

Heat took me in a single drop. Tight, slick, all the way down until her hips met mine and her breath broke against my collarbone. My hands caught her waist on instinct. She was lighter than the afternoon had any right to make her, and she had just put all of that weight onto me without consulting the committee, the programme administrators, or what remained of my dignity.

"Ah—Hachiman."

Her thighs trembled. She didn't lift off. She settled, and the movement dragged a groan out of both of us that the walls of this container would remember until decommissioning.

I stared past her shoulder at the wall, beyond the back of her head. The display had not frozen. It had not reset. It sat there in clean government numerals, already charging me for work I had not consented to itemise.

Ninety-seven. As my cum painted the tight inner walls of Totsuka's vagina.

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End

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