Neighborhood Orgy - Chapter 36

 We started the cleaning, but the place isn't as dirty as I expected, and he doesn't have much stuff.

Sigh. I let out a breath. I ended up coming along for this cleaning job just because I went with the flow of what Ms. Aso said, but yeah, this kind of physical labor really takes a toll.

Ms. Honda, who's instructing me, is apparently a former housewife—and what was it? A clerk at some high-end brand store? She’s a pro at cleaning. I’m just trying to keep up by mimicking her.

Still, this is a massive house. A place like this... if you tried to clean it yourself, you’d have no time left to actually live. And yet the parents are overseas while a middle school kid lives here alone? I can't quite wrap my head around that.

While I was lost in those thoughts, we finished the first floor. Just as we moved our work to the private rooms and bath on the second floor, snow abruptly started to flutter down.

I happened to open a door, and there he was—the master of the house. He was breathing softly in his sleep, looking more like a man than a boy.

Outside the window, it’s snowing. It’s the season of the "Cold Ninth" rains, but I wonder if snow brings a bountiful harvest too? I am a Japanese teacher, after all. Though I certainly don't look like one right now.

Looking at the bookshelf, there are quite a few old volumes. There are even original legal texts. I wonder if he speaks several languages? And oh, look—Satō Tokuji, Suzuki Seijirō, Ozaki Midori, Nomizo Nanako... how incredibly niche. Is this the boy’s taste, or his father’s?

On a whim, I picked up Suzuki Seijirō’s Nihonbashi. I believe this was a candidate for the Akutagawa Prize. The list price was 150 yen. As I flipped through the stained pages, I was shocked by the price written by the secondhand bookstore on the flyleaf.

20,000 yen, it said. Looking closer, it was inscribed: Presented to Mr. So-and-so.

Haa. Who actually buys stuff like this? Thinking that, a different kind of interest—different from what those other women felt—started to well up in me.

I started working in the sex industry back in university, I’ve been a teacher, I’ve done all sorts of things... but in my heart of hearts, I’m someone who wanted to be a writer but never made it.

I like sex. It feels good, you earn money, and it's absolutely necessary for the world. Plus, you can clearly see people’s facades and their true feelings through it.

Hmm. He has a handsome face. Perfectly symmetrical. And under that T-shirt, he’s got muscle. Plus, his crotch is bulging—he has an erection. He must be dreaming. I wonder what kind of dream? Since it’s snowing, maybe it’s a dream without sound.

With a slightly poetic motive to "provide the missing sound" and a bit of mischief, I crouched beside the bed and whispered into his ear. The bulge in his pants grew larger, but he still didn't wake. So, I took the liberty of lowering his trousers and pulling off his underwear.

A surprisingly large member stood tall. I let a bit of saliva drip onto it, gripped the shaft with my left hand, and used my right palm to stroke and swirl around the glans. This is where my experience as a pro comes in handy.

I performed my "master technique" from the base up, and he was ready to go in no time. Semen thudded against my palm, pulse after pulse. It was thick and translucent. I licked a bit of the pungent fluid before wiping the rest away. Then, his impressive member lay back down quietly.

This boy... he’s probably very good at imagining things. That’s why he’s become a total sex-crazed monster. Men like that can never be satisfied with normal sex, no matter how much they have; they’re the type to hop from one brothel to another all day long. But, the thing is, the more a man is like that, the more he finds instant peace when you whisper to him and finish him off like you’re sleeping beside him. Men really are creatures of imagination; it’s hard for a realist like me to fully understand.

But a senior once told me: "A professional’s job isn't done until the man goes home in peace." That woman would never serve her lover rice in a bowl—only rice balls. Because otherwise, he’d never be able to go back home. These days, amateurs are encroaching on the industry and preying on the customers... it’s a nasty era. But looking at a boy like this, my heart clears a little.

I’m sure he’s having a very strange, erotic dream right now. Though that’s halfway my fault.

Just as I was thinking that, I heard footsteps outside. Ms. Honda. I didn't want to look like I was slacking off, so I’d better get back to work. I pulled a blanket over his legs and slipped out of the room.

About an hour later, the work was finished, and Ms. Honda knocked on his door. He really had been dreaming; he came out looking completely dazed—and half-naked from the waist down. Ms. Honda looked shocked.

"We’ve finished today’s work, so if you could just check everything..."

He seemed to still be half-asleep. "Ah, yes," he said, starting to follow us before realizing he wasn't wearing pants. He slammed the door shut in a hurry. When he finally emerged, fully dressed, his face was beet red.

Outside, the snow had stopped. My worries about the commute were gone, but a different worry had taken its place. I have a feeling my whispering sank a bit too deep into his heart.

After the walkthrough, he saw us off at the front door. Standing there under the silver sky, looking bashful, he finally looked like a normal middle schooler.

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