Dream Idol Training Diary: Hotarun ~Kawarazuka Hotaru~ episode 2 (Patreon)

(…What… the hell is with these responses?)

It was like talking to programmed obedience—no, worse. Something had erased her autonomy entirely.

Stepping closer, I studied her face—disconnected, hollow.

"Hotaru."

She blinked, slow.

"Stand up."

Her body moved automatically, smooth. Too smooth. Like strings pulling her upright.

"Raise your right hand."

She did it—without question.

"Touch your own face."

Fingertips met porcelain skin. No hesitation.

This wasn't just memory loss.

This was ownership.

Gritting my teeth, I asked the dangerous question:

"What happens if I say… take off your clothes?"

A beat.

Then—

Her hands moved toward her ribbon.

"Stop."

She froze. Immediate.

My stomach dropped.

She wasn't "Hotaru" anymore.

She was the mannequin.

And I—

—somehow, I had become the master of an idol-shaped doll.

I was filled with questions. To test this further, I tried a slightly different line of inquiry.

"Are you thirsty right now?"

"…It is for Master to decide."

"For me… to decide?"

"…Unless Master says 'drink,' I will not drink."

(—!!?!)

At that moment, I realized—

This wasn’t just a lack of preference.

She could not make a single choice on her own.

Like a puppet with no will outside of its master’s command.

None of this made sense. But I had to analyze it calmly.

"What if I told you to drink?"

"…Then I would drink."

"And if I told you not to?"

"…I would not."

"……"

(So… completely dependent on my orders?)

I slumped into a chair, dragging a shaking hand down my face.

The realization crept up my spine like ice.

"…You said this was our 'promise.' But—why listen to me?"

She gazed up blandly, answering without inflection.

"…Because that is how it was decided."

"By who?"

"…By you and me."

"No. I don’t remember any of this."

"…But it is already set."

The confusion only deepened. Was this even reality?

Then—my eyes caught the loose ribbon on her costume. One side had come undone, and the strap of her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder.

"Shouldn’t you… fix your ribbon?"

"…If Master commands me to adjust it, I will."

"…………"

(…She won’t do anything unless I say so?)

"…Fine. Fix it."

Slowly, she lifted her hands, fingertips brushing the silk of her ribbon—

(—Wait.)

If she genuinely couldn’t act without my permission…

"STOP. I revoke that order!"

"…Yes."

Her hands fell immediately.

Perfect obedience.

(……………)

(This… isn’t an illusion. It’s real.)

Was this some kind of joke? Some elaborate prank? No.

She was unmistakably—

A living doll.

One that moved only at my word…

…yet undeniably human in every other way.

"…Hey."

Swallowing the tightness in my throat, I forced out one final question.

"…What if I told you to take off your clothes?"

"…I would remove them."

Instant. Unwavering.

No hesitation—just her hollow eyes meeting mine, awaiting confirmation.

(……………)

(This is…)

Morning light spilled into the room as I slumped forward, gripping my head. In front of me—without a doubt—sat Hotaru. Too real. So painfully close I could still feel her warmth if I reached out.

"Shit… what the hell am I supposed to do…?"

Then I spotted my phone.

Right. Evidence. If this turned into a legal disaster, I couldn’t risk being framed as some kidnapper. Swiping to camera mode, I hit record.

"Okay. We're testing this."

She nodded blankly. That mechanical response made my skin crawl.

"State your name."

"Kawarazuka Hotaru. Center of Azure Ribbon."

Identical to the real thing. Even her face on the screen matched broadcast footage pixel-perfect—except for the wrongness of the context.

"Birthdate?"

"August 24th."

"Blood type?"

"O."

"Recite yesterday’s live setlist—full order."

Without blinking, she listed every song—debut single to newest track—flawlessly. That recall wasn’t human.

"Where were you yesterday?"

"Waiting here for you, Master."

"Bullshit. You performed at Ariake Arena. Your SNS posts prove it."

"Yes. But I was also here."

A contradiction—yet she said it without deceit, like the dissonance didn’t even register.

"Then answer this. Your manager’s name?"

"Nakajima Yukari."

"Her number?"

"090—"

All correct, down to non-public details. But—

"Call her right now."

"…I don’t possess a phone."

"An idol, phone-less?"

"Master’s permission is required for external contact."

Again, that ownership. Where did this damn protocol come from?

I needed air. Pausing the recording, I chugged water in the kitchen. The cold clarity helped, but the facts defied logic—her memories matched the real Hotaru, yet her behavior was something else.

Resuming, I angled the phone back.

"What do you think of this apartment?"

"It is Master’s domain."

"Not that. Your impressions as a first-timer."

"…I lack permission for impressions."

(Lack permi—?)

Then it hit me—the mannequin arm. The glass figurine’s glow.

"Hotaru. What form did you take… before yesterday?"

A flicker—almost imperceptible—in her expression. Her brow tensed.

"…A mannequin."

(…So it was that.)

"How did this happen?"

"…Master wished it."

My grip dented the phone’s frame.

Wished?

But—

If only she were real.

The idle thought whispered nightly through expensive screens…

"Are you separate from the real Hotaru?"

"…I exist for you, Master."

Avoidance.

One last test.

"Say I ordered you to return to your agency."

A beat. For the first time—her pupils dilated.

"…I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am yours. There is nowhere else."

That’s when I knew.

This wasn’t Azure Ribbon’s idol.

Perhaps never was.

Only the mannequin—reforged by something when I—

Saving the recording, I exhaled raggedly.

Evidence secured.

But…

(Now what?)

Reality would take time to swallow.

I gripped my phone tighter, staring at the latest update on the screen—Hotaru's official account, posted just 30 minutes ago. There she was, mid-rehearsal at a Tokyo studio: same costume, same hairstyle, same beaming smile. A pale blue performance ribbon dangled from her fingers like she was moments away from stepping onstage.

My fingertips shook.

"…Explain this."

The girl in front of me simply gazed back. Our earlier Q&A proved it—her memories and knowledge perfectly replicated the real Hotaru, yet she was undeniably the only one physically here.

"This can't be…"

I thrust the phone toward her. "Can you rationalize this?"

After a brief glance, she tilted her head slightly.

"…That is herself."

"But you're here! How?!"

"…I belong to you, Master. That one performs idol duties."

Slowly, she extended a hand toward the CD player in the corner—the one I'd barely used. On top lay Azure Ribbon's newest single, a limited edition I'd mail-ordered months ago.

"…Shall we verify?"

A chill crawled up my spine. Wrong. This is all wrong. But—

"…Yeah. Play it."

She rose with mechanical grace, retrieving the disc in fluid yet precisionless movements no human would make.

The tray slid shut with a click.

Piano notes flooded the room—

—and like magic, vitality surged through her.

"Hii~! I'm Hotaru, your shining star from Azure Ribbon! ♪"

The sudden burst of exuberant energy was jarring—her previously empty expression transformed in an instant, face lighting up with a dazzling idol smile. Matching the rhythm spilling from the speakers, she began stepping lightly in time with the music.

"This feeling in my heart just won’t stop—! Looking at you makes my chest go doki-doki!"

Flawless movements—no, more than flawless. More perfected than the real thing. Her ribbon swayed with each step, hair bouncing in delicate arcs. Every pose mirrored the album cover exactly, her expression locked into that pristine stage-smile.

I slumped into my chair, legs giving out. The same performance I'd rewatched a hundred times on screen—now playing out in real time in this cramped three-tatami room, for me alone.

"H-Hotaru…!"

Even as the track neared its end, she didn’t stop. Without missing a beat, she transitioned into the next song, spinning on her heel to shoot me a glowing wink—just like a real concert.

"Everybody, with me—yeah!"

A picture-perfect final pose, synced flawlessly with the recording’s climax.

Then—as the last note faded—so did her energy. Her expression reset to hollow neutrality. Not a single ragged breath, despite the exertion.

"…Master. Was this acceptable?"

Monotone. Mechanical.

I swallowed hard, throat dry.

What I’d just witnessed was Azure Ribbon’s center.

And yet—it wasn’t her at all.

"…Do it again."

"…Yes."

The CD spun back to life.

And once more—

"Delivering the world's cutest magic to you todaaay~!"

Reality bent again.

The idol resurrected like magic, right on cue. Perfect smile, perfect choreography.

Hotaru existed.

But she wasn’t—couldn’t be—real.

When I finally hit stop, the room drowned in silence.

And I understood, down to my marrow.

This was no dream, no hallucination.

I’d pulled the idol straight through the screen.

“…Hey. Can I touch you?”

I paused just before pressing play again, finger hovering.

Her lips—still expressionless, still sculpted in that flawless line—parted slightly.

“…Master’s permission governs all.”

A meaningless answer. I was the one doing the touching.

But the response was irrelevant.

I hit play.

The piano intro flared.

And like a switch—

Her face activated.

“Hi~! It’s Hotaru from Azure Ribbon! Today’s another 365 days of full throttle—” —Pose!

Identical to before: seamless idol-mode. Arms sharp, hips snapping into calculated angles. Even the cheap apartment floor seemed to warp under her polished footwork as if apologizing for its mediocrity.

But I tested.

“Ignore me.”

And she obeyed.

“My love for you loops into eternity—♪ No no, don’t look, or I’ll fall too hard!”

Never glancing my way. Just singing, spinning—skirt flaring just enough—her skin peeking past fabric with every bounce. All of it so convincing my pulse roared.

…Let’s disrupt this.

I waved right in front of her eyes.

Nothing.

Danced on.

Pressed fingertips to her shoulder.

Warm. Soft. Undeniably human.

Still—no reaction.

“♪ Spinning heart’s dial—LOVE⇄YOU!”

Her arm arced up—mine still clinging to her—smoothly adjusting around my touch as if my intrusion was just part of the choreography.

I stepped into her path.

Her elbow collided with my wrist mid-motion.

“Oops, did I surprise you~? Teehee, sorry ♡”

—No pause. No acknowledgment. Her limb rerouted seamlessly, continuing the dance like I was air.

(This—this thing—!)

I almost laughed at how ridiculous it was. Bumped, touched, blatantly interfered with—yet she never broke. A masterpiece of absolute submission.

Then—pure accident—

Misdirected by her twirl, my palm collided with—

—the soft swell of her chest.

“———!”

I stopped breathing.

An idol’s breasts. The forbidden pulse of warmth under fabric. Yielding. So much softer than imagined—

Her dancing didn’t falter.

And that’s when I realized:

Nothing was off-limits…

…as long as the music played.

But she remained unchanged.

♪In the middle of this dreamlike love—please, turn around and look at me!

As she sang, her body continued its dance without hesitation. The spot where I’d touched her—the gentle swell of her chest—merely swayed with her movements. Even then, her expression never lost that flawless idol smile.

(…Ignoring me… completely, utterly ignoring me…)

The lingering sensation on her skin felt disturbingly real. A mix of guilt and raw excitement coiled in my gut.

“…Can I… touch you a little more?”

Of course, there was no response.

She was still obeying the command to ignore me.

The music continued. So, carefully, I reached out again.

This time, with intent—my fingers brushed her cheek.

♪—You’re someone precious, forever and ever!

Still… no reaction.

Her warmth, the rhythm of her breathing, the faint dampness of exertion under my fingertips—all of it painting her realness in undeniable strokes. Yet the one fundamental difference with the "real" Hotaru was plain:

She would never deny my desires.

Her body was pliant under my exploring fingers—soft, yielding. Yet she kept dancing, kept singing, unwavering under my touch.

♪"Honey, my heart just won't stop—!"

A bright, bubbly tune. Lyrics brimming with cheer. And she performed them flawlessly, even as my hands traced the curve of her waist, the dip of her collarbone—never once reacting. Just obeying.

Ignoring.

(This is—)

The thrill of touching an idol.

The intoxication of control.

And the sheer, dizzying realization: she would never resist.

Then—the song ended. Silence settled. In an instant, the life drained from her face, leaving only that blank, waiting stare.

"…Master. Are you satisfied?"

Even her voice was robotic, detached.

I swallowed, fingers still tingling. "…Yeah."

She was mine.

Only mine.

Standing before the CD player, I clenched my fists. This was different. Until now, I'd only tested, only played. But what I wanted next—

"…Hotaru."

My throat was bone-dry. The sound of my own swallowing was deafening in the stillness.

"I… want to see—"

I faltered.

That dazzling smile. Those sparkling dance moves. The glimpse of white bloomers beneath her skirt—

I wanted to witness them up close.

"Lift your skirt."

My voice shook. Some last thread of societal decency flared—too late. There were no witnesses here. No consequences. She belonged to me now.

For the first time, Hotaru blinked.

"…If Master wishes."

"You may see beneath my skirt whenever you desire."

No hesitation. A statement of fact.

Then—

"…May I suggest?"

I froze.

"First, I will dance as usual—letting you see while still wearing my bloomers."

"Then… I shall remove them, and repeat my choreography."

"—!"

My vision swam. She had said it so clinically—like discussing a costume change. Just another performance tweak.

"…Yeah."

My nod was slow. Dazed.

The music began again.

"Heeere we go~! It's Hotaru from Azure Ribbon!"

She burst into motion—identical idol radiance, identical practiced steps. Except—

The song was "Secret Time"—an uptempo track filled with flips, spins, and fluttering skirts.

At first, she was subtle. Skirt drifting with each twirl, but never quite showing enough.

Until—

"…Harder," I rasped.

And her movements shiftted.

Each kick, each pivot—calculated. Now, her skirt rolled higher. When she spun, she arched slightly—just enough to let the fabric ride up.

♪"Maybe I'll show you a little… secret~"

A hop—

—sudden, deliberate.

Her skirt flew. For one electrifying moment, white bloomers in full view.

"—!"

Dazzling.

On the next beat, she exaggerated a hip sway—the fabric flipping up again in slow, torturous waves. Like a tease meant only for me.

And all while singing—

Smiling—

Ignoring me perfectly.

♪"How's this? My… seee~cret!"

A flick of her fingers—deliberate, teasing—caught the fabric's edge, lifting it just a bit more.

By now, the dance had completely warped into performance-for-my-eyes-only.

She moved with practiced grace under my burning stare, the outline of her thighs pressing distinctly against the white fabric of her bloomers with every hop, every spin.

(Next… I’ll have her take them off—)

Just the thought sent my pulse thrumming.

As the song faded, Hotaru’s expression instantly blanked again. But sensing the heat in my gaze, she spoke—as if she’d been waiting for this.

"…Master, if you command…"

"…I will remove them now."

Right.

She was—unquestionably—mine.

The room was thick with tension. The melody still echoed faintly in my ears as I stood there, watching Hotaru’s poised stillness beside the CD player—awaiting orders with that same doll-like vacancy.

"…Take them off."

My voice was hoarse. A single sentence—one that would’ve gotten me arrested in another life.

Yet she didn’t even blink.

"…Understood."

Her hands moved to her waist, fingers finding the small, hidden fasteners along the side of her skirt. Buttons that no fan, no stagehand, no one—had ever touched. The sacred barriers of her idol modesty, undone now for me alone.

Click.

A soft sound—the snap of restraint giving way. Her fingertips hooked into the hem of her bloomers, sliding them down in agonizing slowness. The taut fabric clung briefly to her hips before loosening, sinking—revealing creamy thighs beneath as she peeled them away.

The discarded fabric pooled carelessly on the floor—unfolded, unceremonious, like the shattered remains of modesty itself.

Yet Hotaru’s expression didn’t waver.

Even with her skirt still covering her knees, it was impossible to forget what wasn’t beneath it now. Under my gaze, she mechanically reset the CD player, selecting the same song as before.

“…When the music starts, I will dance.”

And then—maybe I imagined it. No, I definitely didn’t—the way her skirt moved differently now. Of course it did. The last fragile barrier was gone.

♫ "Here we go~! Gonna shout my looove today too! ♪"

The intro kicked in, and the idol mask snapped back into place—same song, same choreography.

But nothing was the same.

The sway of her skirt was different. Freer. Unrestrained. Was that why my pulse pounded like this?

(Step right—TURN!)

I mentally tracked the routine, eyes locked onto her every motion. The transitional strides—this was the moment the bloomers should flash into view.

—Except now, nothing. Just glimpses of pale inner thigh, teasing through the fabric’s fluttering edge. Frustrating. Intentional.

(Is she… toying with me?)

A slow exhale escaped me.

♫ "Hey, today's special! Wanna be honest with you—Yay! ♪"

The pre-chorus. Hotaru hopped lightly—skirt billowing—

—and still, nothing.

(Next chorus… Next one—!)

My fingers dug into my knees. Like some desperate virgin waiting for a first kiss, I braced for that moment.

♫ ”Love you—mwah mwah mwahhh~! ♪”

—The chorus.

Her jump was higher this time. The skirt flared wide—

—and I saw.

Blue.

A lightning bolt of shock. White-hot, branding the image into my brain. Of course she was wearing them—plain cotton, probably. But in that half-second flash, time stretched, slowed, burned.

Then—gone.

The skirt fell back into place as she landed, spinning away like nothing happened.

Her smile never faltered.

Her voice never shook.

(All for me.)

I exhaled through my teeth.

This wasn’t just obedience anymore.

It was worship.

But then came the true revelation.

The choreography evolved.

No—it became something more.

♪"My feelings—should I let you peek? ♪"

Singing cheerfully, she deliberately pinched the hem of her skirt and pulled it taut, holding it in place just enough to make sure it stayed at the perfect viewing angle.

♪"I Love You—look right at me, darling~ ♡"

A spin. The skirt flared wide—this time, riding all the way mid-thigh as she twirled.

(——!)

My pulse exploded in my ears.

The way the fabric outlined every curve, the straps cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs, the faint rise and fall of her lower abdomen with each controlled breath—

Everything was visible.

No—

She was displaying it.

Her expression hadn't changed—still that flawless idol smile—but her fingers adjusted the skirt just so, ensuring the best possible view with each motion.

(……)

At that point, I could only watch. Any last shred of reason or shame had long since shattered.

With every twirl, the skirt fluttered open.

With every hop, the line between modesty and abandon blurred further.

And by the climax—

She struck a pose where she arched backward, holding up her own skirt with both hands—

——revealing it all.

Yet despite the obscene display, the professionalism in her performance never wavered.

Her voice remained sweet.

Her smile, pristine.

And her body—puppeted not by shame, but by loyalty.

Because she belonged to me.

And idols don’t refuse their masters.

Silence swallowed the room as the song ended—only the hammering of my pulse remained.

Hotaru’s expression reverted to emptiness in an instant, as if flicking off a switch. She stood at attention, poised and neutral, awaiting orders—while the disheveled hem of her skirt swayed just above her knees, still bearing the traces of her dance.

My gaze locked onto the thin gap in the fabric, dizzy with the realization:

I could look as much as I wanted.

I could lift it again anytime.

That simple thought struck my brain like a nail—pure, illicit thrill. Heart thundering, I was about to order her to dance again, to give me another show—

—when she spoke first.

Unprompted. Voluntarily.

For the first time.

"…Master."

Her voice, still flat—but the words cracked my thoughts in half.

"Shall we… go one step further?"

A beat. A choked pause.

One step further?

What did—

Then came the gut punch.

"I will remove my panties."

"And keep the skirt on… to show you."

My mind went static.

Skirt still up—nothing beneath?

Her face hadn’t changed. Her tone hadn’t wavered. Yet this wasn’t just obedience anymore.

This was her pushing my desires past the brink.

(Since when could she—)

As if sensing the chaos in my skull, she didn’t wait for confirmation.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her skirt, already poised. No hesitation. No Do you want this? Just the silent assurance that she knew.

"…Wait."

My voice didn’t sound like mine.

This was beyond sanity—beyond idols, beyond fantasy.

And yet.

My nails bit into my palms.

"……Take them off."

Her hands moved.

And as she began peeling down that last barrier—skirt still perfectly in place like an idol on stage—something in me short-circuited.

This was no porn scene.

No staged fantasy.

This was real.

Hotaru slid her fingers beneath the lace-lined hem, the fabric dipping—

—revealing the unbreakable contract between master and idol.

White cotton inched down tan thighs, slow, deliberate. Each inch uncovered taunted every shred of common sense left.

Her hips rolled just slightly—not a performer’s flourish, but a slave’s adjustment—letting the panties stretch, then slip past the curve of her ass.

Down. Further. Further still—

Until they pooled over the skirt’s hem, dangling mid-thigh.

Fully removed.

Yet she hadn’t pulled them off yet.

No.

She held them. Mid-strip.

And crushed my last bit of resistance with a single, lax blink.

"Shall I keep going?"

(…!)

Shit.

I’d actually done it—actually removed them.

With a final flick of her toes, the panties slid off completely. The fabric dangled from her fingers for a fraction of a second—still warm from her skin—before she set them aside and straightened up.

Just the skirt now.

Nothing else.

Which meant—

(……)

My gaze snagged on the thin veil of fabric, already imagining what wasn’t beneath it.

If she stood still, there’d be nothing to see.

But if she danced—

—It would all be visible.

The reality hit me like a truck. My finger hovered over the CD player, hesitation creeping in.

That radiant idol performing—

—while completely bare under her skirt.

"……You’d really dance like this?"

"Yes."

"I will dance as many times as Master desires."

No hesitation. No remorse.

Before I could second-guess myself, her expression shifted—that idol spark igniting in her eyes. The smile snapped back into place.

I pressed play.

"HAI! Full of love today too! Hotaru's affection, coming at you—Yay! ♪"

And just like that—

The last barrier between fan and fantasy dissolved.

Every leap.

Every sway.

Everything now on display.

Not just for me.

For me.

And in that moment—

I understood true ownership.

The bright melody filled the room as she began dancing, her skirt fluttering with each movement—yet still hiding what lay beneath…

"See? I can't help but notice you~!"

Aaand—spin. The skirt flared, and—

Was that…?

A fleeting glimpse, maybe? So quick I couldn’t be sure. My heart pounded—equal parts desire to see and fear of crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

"I totally love you! That's why I wanna smooch~!"

Then—the pre-chorus hit.

Hotaru leaped high, her body arching—

And in that instant—

The skirt flipped all the way up.

(——!)

Everything exposed.

Every forbidden inch, every untouched secret of an idol's "purity"—now fully, undeniably laid bare.

Her tender, pink folds, faintly glistening with proof of life—soft flesh that pulsed ever so slightly as if fluttering under my gaze. The real thing. The very core of the idol I’d adored through a screen.

My mind teetered on numbness, overwhelmed by the obscene intimacy laid bare. The plush, pliant flesh, dewed in exertion at her inner thighs, the heat of her body radiating even as she—

—never stopped smiling.

"I・LOVE・YOU! Today, I'm jumping right at chu～♪"

Now her movements weren’t just choreography. They were demonstration. Each sway of her hips, each flip of her skirt—executed to display. The fabric clung to sweat-slick thighs, and with every bounce, that delicate pink peeked through, fluttering like the wings of something forbidden.

"♡ Look, look! My heart—take it all in!"

One leg lifted high—too high—and the skirt drew back in slow motion, gravity surrendering to the spectacle she crafted. And in that moment—

There.

The supple, quivering lips—beaded with moisture, catching the morning light. A glimpse of slick inner flesh where her folds parted, ever so slightly.

"♬ That's right, even closer—♪"

Suddenly, she closed the distance between us, rolling her hips forward, the hem of her skirt riding up with methodical lewdness.

"—I'll show you ev.ry.thing. ♡"

A pornographic performance, perfected. Every step, every twist—engineered to reveal.

She loosened her stance in spins, letting the skirt billow wider. She lifted the fabric herself during sideways steps, angling for the perfect, inescapable view.

And then—the climax.

"Love you ❤ Love you ❤ I'm—so—hoooooot!"

A jump. Legs spreading midair in an arrogant display—the skirt peeled back completely, unveiling everything—

Her dew-slicked depths, now shivering openly on full display.

And still.

Still smiling.

The petals of her labia pulsed faintly—alive, breathing. The delicate folds, the tension of her perineum—every intimate detail now spotlighted under my manic gaze.

"♫ More! Look deeper-♪"

The moment she landed, her hips rolled again—swaying the skirt in teasing flicks. Sweat glistened along her inner thighs, the plush swell of her mound pressing visibly against the fluttering fabric.

And then—

She looked at me.

That once-hollow gaze now burned. The awareness of being exposed, the expectation of reciprocation—no longer mere obedience, but open seduction.

"♫ Can't stop—your heat belongs to me…♪"

A final spin: her skirt blossomed open in surrender, baring every defenseless inch—dew-beaded, quivering flesh. An eroticism so unreal, so sacrilegious, it scorched itself into my retinas.

The music cut.

Her skin—flushed.

Her thighs—trembling.

The proof of her arousal—undeniable.

And she did not resist.