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[Complete] Ch 2.6 My Quiet Beach Vacation Is Actually a Government Population Initiative, as I Suspected

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My Quiet Beach Vacation

Is Actually a Government Population Initiative,

as I Suspected

Story Starts

-=&&=-

Chapter 2.6 -

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

Disclaimer: Everyone here is an adult!

I didn't know what to make of my current situation.

That statement alone should have earned some kind of award for understatement. The Nobel Prize for Inadequate Descriptions, perhaps. The Fields Medal for Mathematical Imprecision in Summarising One's Circumstances. Because "didn't know what to make of" implied a level of cognitive processing that simply wasn't happening. My brain had checked out somewhere around the third orgasm—my third orgasm, to be specific, though the collective count had long since escaped my ability to track—and had yet to return from whatever tropical destination it had fled to.

'I had sex.'

The thought arrived with all the weight of a revelation, despite being approximately two hours late to the party.

'I had sex with Iroha.'

Still processing.

'I had sex with Anna.'

The blue-haired girl who I'd met approximately ninety minutes ago. Who had guided my hands. Who had—

'I had sex.'

The word felt foreign. Abstract. Like reading a kanji you'd memorised for an exam but never actually encountered in the wild. You know what it means intellectually, but your brain refuses to connect that knowledge to practical reality. Sex. The thing other people did. The thing riajuu did. The thing I had now done, multiple times, in a government facility, on camera, whilst pharmaceutically enhanced and emotionally bewildered.

'Hikigaya Hachiman. Twenty-one years old. Aspiring househusband. Has now had sex. Multiple times. With multiple women. In a government facility. On camera.'

'This is my life now.'

'This is actually my life.'

"Yukinon, you should scooch closer for when Hikigaya-kun is about to—"

Fujiwara's voice cut through my existential spiral. I didn't catch the end of her sentence because my attention had already been hijacked by movement in my peripheral vision.

Hayasaka and Fujiwara—I noticed I'd stopped adding honorifics even mentally, which probably said something about the erosion of social boundaries when everyone involved had seen you naked, chemically aroused, and performing government-mandated reproductive duties—were crouched at the side of the room. Fujiwara held a tiny blue flag with "Ganbatte!" written across it in cheerful hiragana. Beside her, Hayasaka maintained her characteristic stoic expression whilst aiming a handheld video camera directly at the scene.

The red recording light blinked steadily. Accusingly.

I gave them my deadpan stare. The patented Hikigaya Hachiman Dead Fish Eyes™, perfected through years of social isolation and refined by countless encounters with people who expected enthusiasm I couldn't provide.

They didn't even flinch.

'Of course they didn't. They've probably been recording since I arrived. My sister has been building dossiers on potential wives for years. Why would a little thing like basic human dignity stop anyone at this point?'

I wanted to object. React. Something. But then my gaze drifted to the upper corner of this storage container—because that's what it was, ultimately, a shipping container converted into what could only be described as a government-sanctioned production suite, branded with the Shichijou Productions logo like a fast-food wrapper on a crime scene—and found exactly what I expected.

A camera. Mounted in the corner. Its lens catching the overhead lighting with an almost accusatory gleam.

I directed my Dead Fish Eyes™ at it with the full force of my accumulated disappointment in humanity.

The camera, being an inanimate object, remained unmoved. We had that in common. Neither of us was going anywhere, and neither of us had volunteered for this assignment.

'Japan's surveillance state has achieved its final form. Not content with tracking our purchases, our movements, our browsing histories—now they're documenting our reproductive activities in high definition. Somewhere, an algorithm is analysing my thrust patterns. A government database now contains footage of my vinegar strokes. Future historians will have access to this material. Scholars will write dissertations.'

'"The Biomechanics of State-Mandated Reproduction: A Frame-by-Frame Analysis of Subject H's Pelvic Movements." Peer reviewed. Published in a respected academic journal. Required reading for public policy students nationwide.'

'I am a primary source now. I am historical documentation. I have been archived. The National Diet Library will have a copy.'

I sighed—the deep, bone-weary exhalation of a man who had surrendered any illusion of privacy—and reached down to grip myself. The pharmaceutical enhancement meant I was still fully erect, still ready, still operational despite everything that had already transpired. My body had become a machine, and the machine had a quota.

I shifted forward towards Kaguya.

She shivered as my thighs bracketed her waist, her legs settling over mine. Her skin was cool from the air conditioning, smooth in a way that spoke of careful diet and genetics rather than athleticism. The Shinomiya family breeding—and I was going to stop using that particular word in casual contexts any day now, I swore—had produced results.

Click. Whirr.

The mechanical sound of Hayasaka's camera drew my attention. Her lens rotated—adjusting focus, probably. Or zooming in. Or capturing evidence for future blackmail, performance review, or quarterly report. Appendix D, presumably.

Dead Fish Eyes™. Maximum intensity. Hostility dialled to eleven.

Hayasaka's expression didn't change. If anything, she adjusted her angle slightly, finding a better shot. My glare was not a deterrent. My glare was composition advice.

'I am being directed. The camera operator is using my hostility to improve her framing. I have become a collaborative participant in my own surveillance footage. Stockholm syndrome, but for cinematography.'

Yukinoshita shuffled closer to Kaguya, their bodies pressing together side by side. Kaguya's compact frame beside Yukinoshita's slightly taller one. Both flushed. Both watching me.

I'd expected some kind of visual contrast between them—one dark, one light, fire and ice, something poetic. They were both dark-haired, both pale, both slender, both looking at me with expressions that mixed anticipation with nerves. The real contrast wasn't visual. It was architectural. Yukinoshita held herself like a fortress—walls up, defences manned, the posture of someone who let you in but kept the drawbridge operational. Kaguya held herself like a boardroom—open, calculated, every surface designed to put visitors at ease whilst concealing the agenda underneath.

'I'm reading too much into how two naked women are sitting next to each other. That's my bread and butter.'

Or rather, rice and egg.

No—if we're being honest about the calibre of my observations right now, rice and salt.

When I turned to meet Yukinoshita's eyes, she had her hands pressed against her collarbone, fingers interlaced. The gesture people make when they're trying to cover something without obviously covering it. Or maybe she was just cold. Or maybe I was overthinking a hand position because my brain desperately wanted something to analyse that wasn't the current state of my genitals.

Her blush extended from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing somewhere below her modest chest.

My gaze trailed downward. Past her breasts, her flat stomach, the gentle curve of her hips. Down to—

'Ahem.'

My eyes snapped back up. Dead fish met arctic blue.

Yukinoshita's expression was complicated—embarrassment, indignation, and something I couldn't quite identify all warring for dominance. But she didn't look away. Didn't break contact.

I offered an apologetic smile. The kind you give when you've been caught looking at something you probably shouldn't have been looking at, even though you were going to be looking at it quite intimately in the very near future, making the whole concept of "shouldn't" rather academic.

'She took me. All of me. Despite the obvious size discrepancy.'

The memory of how that had happened surfaced unbidden: an eroge enthusiast's misguided application of visual novel logic, a bottle of smelling salts, and a violent collision that had resulted in the welt currently adorning Yukinoshita's forehead like a badge of... something. Honour? Shame? The universe's cruel sense of irony?

'Girl manages to lose her virginity through the combined forces of otaku media literacy and pharmaceutical intervention. There's a light novel premise in there somewhere. Volume one: "My First Time Was Ruined by My Partner's Friend Who Learned Romance from Eroge, and Now I Have a Concussion." I'd read it. I'd hate myself for reading it, but I'd read it.'

I shifted forward again, positioning myself over Kaguya.

She lay beneath me, her dark hair spread across the mattress like spilled ink, her crimson eyes watching my every movement with an intensity that made my skin prickle. At twenty-two, Kaguya Shinomiya was the image of refined Japanese beauty—porcelain skin that seemed to glow under the harsh overhead lights, delicate features arranged with the precision of a master artist's final work. Her body was slight, almost fragile-looking, with modest breasts that rose and fell with each quickened breath. Her waist tapered dramatically before flaring into hips that, whilst narrow, possessed a subtle feminine curve. Between her thighs was bare skin and her glistening—stop! Everything about her body had the curated quality of someone who'd grown up knowing she'd be looked at and had decided the terms in advance.

The difference between her and, say, Kawashima Ami—who wore being looked at like a weapon—was that Kaguya wore it like a negotiating position. You may look. But the looking comes with terms and conditions.

'Page forty-seven, presumably.'

'The heiress of one of Japan's most powerful conglomerates is currently pinned beneath me. This is either the setup to an elaborate political trap or the beginning of a very complicated tax situation. Possibly both. The Shinomiya Group's legal department will have opinions about this. Their PR department will have nightmares.'

I gripped myself at the base and laid my length against her stomach. The contrast was almost absurd—the angry red of pharmaceutical-enhanced arousal against the white of her skin. She was so small. I was so... not small, apparently, or at least the drugs had convinced my body that ambition and dimension were the same thing.

Click. Whirr.

Third time. Third bloody time.

I turned to Hayasaka. Slowly. Deliberately. The way you'd turn to face someone who'd been tapping your shoulder repeatedly during a funeral.

"You're getting my bad side."

I don't know why I said it. Exhaustion, probably. Or the terminal stage of resignation, where you stop fighting the current and start offering it constructive criticism.

Hayasaka just stared.

"…"

"Oh, move to your right a bit more," Fujiwara suggested helpfully, waving her tiny flag. "You can get a better angle when he takes her."

'Takes her. Like I'm a conquering army and she's a fortified position. Like this is a military operation rather than—whatever this actually is. State-mandated intimacy? Government-supervised reproduction? The world's most uncomfortable first date, except it's a third date, and the first two dates also happened today, and none of them involved dinner or conversation or any of the preliminary social rituals that civilised societies developed specifically to prevent situations exactly like this one?'

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you still here?"

The question came out more plaintive than accusatory. The voice of a man who had long since given up on controlling his circumstances and was now merely trying to catalogue them.

Fujiwara beamed. "We're recording an important milestone for a friend!"

I turned to Kaguya, hoping for some explanation, some justification, some flicker of shared incredulity that the person about to have sex with me was being cheered on like a horse at the Nakayama Grand Prix.

She blushed—a delicate pink spreading across her cheeks—and said, "We volunteered together."

That wasn't the question I'd been aiming for. I'd been going for something more along the lines of "Why is your friend documenting our imminent sexual encounter with the enthusiasm of a wildlife cameraman who's finally found the mating dance of an endangered species after six months in a hide?" and less for "What is the nature of your personal relationship with the camera crew?"

But clarity, like privacy, had been an early casualty of this programme.

Best not to ask more. Best to simply accept that my life had become a nature documentary and I was the subject being filmed. David Attenborough would narrate with quiet dignity. Fujiwara would narrate with a flag.

But Fujiwara, it seemed, had other plans.

"Yeah!" She pumped her flag emphatically. "After that no-good vice-president broke her heart! That dummy!! How does it feel getting NTR'd by a dead fish?! You hear me, Shirogane-kisama?!"

She shook her fist at the ceiling. At god. At a man named Shirogane who was not present but was apparently being spiritually cuckolded via government initiative.

'NTR'd. She just used NTR as a verb. She just accused someone named Shirogane of being on the receiving end of netorare—at my hands. Or rather, at my— well. The anatomy involved is beside the point.'

'I'm not going to ask. I'm absolutely not going to ask. Whatever romantic drama preceded this moment is none of my business. I don't need to know who Shirogane is. I don't need to know what he did. I don't need to understand the complex web of relationships that led to Shinomiya Kaguya lying beneath me whilst her friend waves a flag and shouts threats at an absent ex-boyfriend like a drunk uncle at a sporting event.'

'I have enough complications in my life without adding "revenge sex proxy" to my list of identities. The list is already too long. "Government breeding participant" was supposed to be the ceiling. "Revenge sex proxy" is a whole new floor I didn't know the building had.'

"Hikigaya-kun, you should start now."

Kaguya's voice was soft but steady. Her eyes met mine with an expectation that bordered on instruction—a woman accustomed to giving directives and having them followed. The Shinomiya family had probably trademarked that particular tone of voice. Filing number pending.

'Wait, I've been using her first name.' I shook my head for the nth time today. 'First name or family name? Does it even matter at this point? We're about to have sex. We are actively about to have sex. The social protocols governing address were designed for a world where people wore clothes and maintained personal boundaries. That world is a memory. That world sends postcards sometimes, but it never visits.'

I pulled back, lifting myself slightly. Kaguya reached down—her fingers cool, precise, the touch of someone who approached every task with methodical care, even this one—and guided me towards her entrance. The tip traced along her folds, and I was surprised to find her already slick, already—

I pushed forward.

The speed of entry caught me completely off-guard. I'd expected resistance, friction, the gradual accommodation that had been necessary before. Instead, I slid in with an ease that sent me lurching forward, my balance compromised by the sudden absence of expected opposition.

'Oh no. Not again. Not another forehead collision. The programme's medical staff will have to start issuing helmets. "Government Reproductive Initiative Participant Safety Equipment: One Size Fits All, Prevents Concussions During Intimacy." Subsidised by the Ministry of Health, Labour, and Welfare. Embossed with the BREED logo. Someone will have designed a font for it.'

I caught myself at the last moment, arms locking on either side of Kaguya's head, my face stopping centimetres from hers. Her eyes were wide. Mine probably were too.

Our breath mingled. Her chest rose against mine with each rapid inhale.

Neither of us moved.

'Say something. Anything. Something suave. Something reassuring. Something that indicates you are a functioning adult male capable of navigating an intimate moment without the verbal acuity of a broken vending machine.'

"...No concussion this time."

'Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Casanova himself just rolled over in his grave and asked to be buried deeper.'

I do feel someone glaring at me from my left.

But Kaguya laughed. Soft. Surprised. A sound that seemed to catch even her off-guard.

"No," she agreed. "No concussion."

Her hand came up. Her fingers—still cool, still precise—touched the side of my face.

Click.

I didn't turn to look at the camera this time.

I looked down—past her breasts, past her stomach, to where our bodies met. We were flush against each other. Completely connected. The entire length of me buried inside her with no warning, no gradual progression, no foreplay beyond the cursory positioning.

I looked back up, my expression clearly questioning.

"He-he-he!"

The giggle came from the side. Fujiwara's grin had achieved dimensions that shouldn't have been physically possible.

"We prepared!"

I didn't want to know. I absolutely, categorically did not want to know what "prepared" entailed or how it had been accomplished. But my eyes betrayed me, drifting towards movement in my peripheral vision.

Hayasaka—stoic, professional Hayasaka, who had maintained her composure through every absurdity of this evening—was holding something.

It was pink. It was anatomically shaped. It was, unless my eyes deceived me, roughly approximate to my own dimensions.

'Pink Hikio.'

'They made a practice version of me.'

'They made a practice version of me and used it to prepare for actual me.'

'I have been replicated in silicone. My anatomy has been mass-produced for training purposes. Somewhere, there is a mould of my penis. Multiple women have—'

'No. Stop. Do not follow this thought to its logical conclusion. There lies madness. And where did she pull that thing out?!'

"When we volunteered, we of course asked about your information!" Fujiwara continued, her enthusiasm undiminished by my obvious horror. "Not wanting to get shocked, we had to train ourselves!"

'Train. Themselves. Like I'm an obstacle course. Like intimacy with me is a skill that requires practice. Like my body is a challenge to be overcome through diligent preparation.'

'I suppose I should be flattered? In a deeply disturbing way?'

"I still consider this my first time."

Kaguya's voice was quiet. Almost meek. A stark contrast to the commanding heiress persona I'd glimpsed moments before.

I looked down at her. She was blushing fiercely now, her crimson eyes struggling to meet mine.

'She trained with a replica of me. She practised. She prepared. And yet she still considers this her first time.'

'That's actually kind of...'

I should have said something. Something romantic. Something reassuring. The bishounen version of me—the one with sparkles floating around him and wind dramatically tousling his hair despite being indoors—would have tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Would have whispered something devastatingly smooth. Would have made this moment feel like the climax of a shoujo manga rather than a government-mandated breeding session being filmed by her friend.

But I wasn't that version of me. I was the dead fish eyes version. The socially awkward version. The version who had spent years perfecting the art of not being noticed and had precisely zero experience with genuine romantic intimacy.

I shook my head. Trying to dispel the bishounen fantasy. Trying to find words that fit who I actually was.

When I opened my eyes, Kaguya was looking up at me with an expression of adorable confusion. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her lips parted, her eyes searching my face for some indication of what I was thinking.

'She's cute.'

The thought arrived without permission.

'She's actually really cute. The kind of cute that makes you want to protect something, even though she's probably more capable of protecting herself than I'll ever be. The kind of cute that—'

"Oooh! Capture that! That!" Fujiwara's voice shattered the moment like a hammer through glass. "Them looking at each other! How cute!"

Click. Whirr. Click.

Hayasaka adjusted her angle. The recording light blinked steadily.

I grumbled. Kaguya giggled.

The giggle was soft, musical, and completely at odds with the ridiculousness of our circumstances. It made me want to hear it again, which was a dangerous thought to have about someone I was currently inside of for government-mandated reproductive purposes.

I turned to Yukinoshita. She was watching us, her expression a complicated mixture of emotions I couldn't fully parse. Embarrassment, certainly. Something that might have been jealousy. And beneath it all, an intensity that I recognised from years of our complicated relationship.

She nodded at me.

I nodded back.

The exchange was awkward. Stilted. The kind of non-verbal communication that occurs between people who have too much history and not enough vocabulary.

'What is the appropriate way to acknowledge your long-time friend whilst simultaneously being intimate with another woman in her immediate presence? What social protocol covers this situation? Did anyone write a guide?'

'"Navigating Multi-Partner Government Breeding Programmes: A Guide to Etiquette and Emotional Boundaries." Surely someone has addressed this. Surely there's a pamphlet.'

'There's never a pamphlet when you need one.'

I couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing adequate. Nothing that would address the absurdity whilst still acknowledging the gravity. So I defaulted to the only thing that felt appropriate.

"Yoroshiku onegaishimasu."

Complete with a bow. A slight inclination of my head, as much as my current position allowed.

'Please take care of me. The same phrase you'd use starting a new job, meeting a colleague, beginning any formal relationship. The same words I've spoken a hundred times in contexts far less intimate than this. The same words Yukinoshita said a few minutes before to the very same girl.'

'I just used business keigo to initiate sex. I've achieved peak Japanese formality. There's nowhere to go from here but forward.'

Kaguya's blush intensified. Her lips moved, forming words that came out stuttered and barely audible.

"Ko-kochira koso."

Likewise.

'She responded in kind. She accepted my formal greeting. We have now completed the ritual exchange that precedes all Japanese endeavours, from business meetings to baseball games to apparently reproductive encounters.'

'We are truly a nation of protocols.'

And then, having exhausted the possibilities of verbal communication, I began to move.

The first thrust was tentative. Exploratory. My hips withdrew slightly, then pressed forward again, testing the sensation, gauging her response.

Kaguya's breath hitched.

The second thrust was deeper. More confident. I established a rhythm—slow at first, steady, the kind of pace that allowed me to actually process what I was feeling rather than being overwhelmed by it.

And what I was feeling was... a lot.

She was warm. That was the first thing. Warm in a way that seemed impossible, as though her body temperature exceeded normal human parameters. The pharmaceutical enhancement had made me hypersensitive—every nerve ending firing with amplified intensity—and the warmth surrounded me like a second skin.

She was tight. Despite the preparation, despite Pink Hikio and whatever training regimen she'd undertaken, her body gripped me with a pressure that bordered on uncomfortable. Each thrust required effort, required me to work against the resistance, and yet that very resistance created friction that sent sparks cascading up my spine.

She was present. Not just physically, but attentionally—her crimson eyes fixed on my face, watching my every expression, cataloguing my reactions with an intensity that made me feel exposed in ways that had nothing to do with nudity.

'She's studying me. The way she studies everything, probably. The way the Shinomiya family trains their heirs to analyse and understand and control. Even now, even like this, she's gathering data.'

'I'm a case study. Always a case study.'

I looked down. Watched myself disappear into her and emerge again, the visual confirmation of what my body already knew. Her stomach flexed with each thrust, her small breasts shifting slightly with the motion. Her hands had found my forearms, gripping with a strength that surprised me.

"Ah—"

The sound escaped her lips involuntarily. A soft exclamation. The beginning of something she couldn't quite contain.

I thrust again. Deeper this time.

"Nn—!"

Her voice cracked on the syllable. A high, musical note that seemed to hang in the air.

'She makes sounds. Actual sounds. Not the performative moans of JAV actresses or the exaggerated cries of anime heroines, but real, involuntary vocalisations. The kind of sounds that people make when they're experiencing something genuine.'

'I'm causing those sounds. Me. Hikigaya Hachiman. The man most likely to die alone according to every statistical model of social success ever devised.'

I increased my pace slightly. Found an angle that seemed to draw stronger reactions.

"Hikigaya—kun—"

My name. She said my name. Fragmented by pleasure, split across syllables, but unmistakably mine.

'That's different. That's—'

I didn't have words for what it was. Only that hearing my name in that context, in that voice, with that particular inflection, created a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the pharmaceutical compound and everything to do with something I'd spent years trying to suppress.

Her moans became more frequent. More melodic. Each thrust drew a new note from her, building a song I hadn't known I wanted to hear. Her back arched slightly, pressing her body against mine, seeking more contact, more sensation.

Then her hands moved. Released my forearms. Reached up to cup my face.

Before I could process the gesture, she pulled me down.

Her lips met mine.

The kiss was—

'Oh.'

—inexperienced. Enthusiastic. A little clumsy in the way first kisses always are, teeth clicking briefly before we found the right angle. But also warm, and soft, and intentional in a way that made my brain short-circuit.

'She's kissing me. Not because the programme requires it. Not because it fulfils some reproduction metric. She's kissing me because she wanted to kiss me. In this moment, this specific moment, Shinomiya Kaguya wanted to kiss Hikigaya Hachiman.'

'I don't know what to do with that information.'

I kissed her back. Instinct more than technique. My hips never stopped moving—couldn't stop, the rhythm had become automatic—but my attention divided, split between the physical act and this new, unexpected intimacy.

Her tongue touched my lips. I opened for her. The kiss deepened.

Click.

'I'm going to ignore that.'

Whirr.

'Ignoring that too.'

A small, frustrated sound penetrated my awareness. Coming from beside us.

I broke the kiss. A strand of saliva connected our lips briefly before breaking.

Yukinoshita was watching. Her hands had moved from her collarbone to her sides, clenched into fists. Her expression was—

'Oh no.'

—the particular combination of jealousy and hurt that I'd seen before, in different contexts, for different reasons. The expression she wore when she felt excluded. When she felt like the world was moving without her.

"I'm sorry."

Kaguya's voice drew my attention back. She was looking at Yukinoshita, not me.

"I kissed him before you. That was... inconsiderate."

'Did she just apologise for stealing a kiss? In the middle of sex? Is this a formal complaint that needs to be addressed through proper channels?'

'"Dear Yukinoshita-san, Please accept my sincerest apologies for the unauthorised lip contact with the shared reproductive partner. I acknowledge that this violated the implicit queue protocols and pledge to be more mindful of kissing priority in future encounters. Respectfully, Shinomiya Kaguya."'

"Hikigaya-kun." Kaguya's voice had steadied. Taken on that commanding edge again. "Kiss Yukinoshita-san."

It wasn't a request.

'The Shinomiya heiress is giving me orders. Sexual orders. In the middle of our government-mandated intimate encounter. And somehow, despite everything, my instinct is to comply.'

'This says something about my psychology that I'm not prepared to examine.'

I turned my head towards Yukinoshita. She was still flushed, still watching, but something in her expression had shifted. Anticipation, maybe. Or permission.

Click. Whirr.

Hayasaka circled to get a better angle.

I chose to ignore this.

Yukinoshita leaned closer. Hesitated. Then closed the remaining distance.

Our lips met.

This kiss was different from Kaguya's. Yukinoshita kissed the way she did everything—with precision, with intent, with the focused determination of someone who had researched the theory and was now applying it practically. Her lips moved against mine in deliberate patterns, testing different pressures, different angles.

'She's analysing me. Even now. Even here. She's gathering data on optimal kissing technique.'

'Why is that endearing rather than disturbing? What has this programme done to my sense of normalcy?'

I was still moving. Still thrusting into Kaguya, who moaned beneath me—around me—the vibrations of her pleasure providing a backdrop to the kiss. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Kissing one woman whilst inside another. My brain couldn't fully process it, defaulting instead to pure sensation.

Yukinoshita's hand found my cheek. Steadied me. Deepened the kiss.

When we finally broke apart, Kaguya's moans had become more urgent.

"Hikigaya-kun—"

I looked down. She was flushed entirely now, from her cheeks to her chest, her skin glowing with exertion and arousal. Her eyes were half-lidded, struggling to focus.

"Change position."

Again, not a request.

Before I could respond, she was sitting up, pressing her hands against Yukinoshita's shoulders. The movement pulled me out of her—the sudden absence of sensation was almost painful—and then Kaguya was guiding Yukinoshita down, positioning her on her back.

Kaguya moved to all fours above Yukinoshita. Her dark hair fell around both their faces like a curtain. Her back arched, presenting her rear to me.

'She's...'

I understood what she wanted. The configuration was obvious. Kaguya above, Yukinoshita below, and me behind, able to access either as the situation demanded.

'This is a logistically complex arrangement. There are multiple participants and one... point of contact. The mathematics of pleasure distribution becomes significantly more complicated.'

'I overthink everything. Even this. Especially this.'

Kaguya looked back over her shoulder. Her crimson eyes found mine.

"Continue."

I moved forward. Positioned myself at her entrance again. The angle was different now—the position allowing for deeper penetration, different friction. I traced my tip along her folds, watching her shiver, watching goosebumps rise along her spine.

Then I pushed in.

"Ahh—!"

The sound she made was louder this time. Less controlled. The position seemed to heighten everything, make every sensation more intense.

I began to thrust.

Click. Whirr. Click.

Fujiwara was circling now too, her flag forgotten, trying to get the optimal angle for—whatever this documentation served. Historical records. Training materials. Blackmail.

'At this point, what's one more camera? What's one more witness? The whole government probably has access to the footage. My sister definitely has access. Future generations will study this moment in their social history classes.'

'"And here we see the reluctant participant Hikigaya Hachiman engaging in the posterior position with Programme Partner Shinomiya Kaguya, whilst Co-Participant Yukinoshita Yukino observes from the prone position below. Note the complex emotional dynamics at play."'

Kaguya's head dropped. Her face came to rest beside Yukinoshita's, her moans now directed into Yukinoshita's ear. From my position, I could see Yukinoshita's expression—the complicated mix of emotions as she listened to Kaguya's pleasure, as she watched me over Kaguya's shoulder.

"Hikigaya-kun—"

Kaguya's voice was strained now. Breathless.

"When you're about to—nn—to finish—"

She paused, overcome by a particularly deep thrust.

"—pull out. Put it—ahh—in Yukinoshita-san."

'She wants me to... switch? At the last moment? Transfer from one to the other at the critical point?'

'The logistics of this are going to require precision timing. The pharmaceutical enhancement has made me more responsive, not more controlled. And she wants me to withdraw at the moment of maximum urgency and redirect to a different target?'

'This is why reproduction programmes need project managers. There are too many moving parts.'

I nodded. Not trusting my voice.

The pace increased. Kaguya's moans became more frequent, more desperate. Her face pressed against the mattress beside Yukinoshita's head, her composure completely abandoned. Yukinoshita reached up—tentatively at first, then with more confidence—and ran her fingers through Kaguya's disheveled hair.

'They're having a moment. The two of them. Bonding through this shared absurdity. Finding comfort in each other whilst I serve as the—what? The facilitator? The instrument?'

'I'm a tool. A government-sanctioned reproductive implement. My feelings on the matter are recorded but not particularly relevant.'

'And yet...'

Kaguya cried out. A sound that seemed pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. Her body clenched around me—the sudden tightness almost painful—and I knew.

'Close. Very close. The timing needs to be—'

"Hikigaya—kun—!"

Her voice cracked.

"IN YUKINOSHITA!"

The command cut through the haze. I pulled back—out—the separation a shock of cold air against oversensitised skin.

Yukinoshita moved. Her hand found me—wrapped around me—guided me with a precision that suggested she'd been preparing for exactly this moment.

She was looser than before. The earlier encounter—the headbutted deflowering that I was still trying not to think about—had eased something, made room. I slid into her with unexpected ease, and the change in sensation—different warmth, different pressure, different her—pushed me over the edge I'd been teetering on.

I came.

The release was—

'Oh.'

—everything the pharmaceutical compound had promised and more. Wave after wave, far longer than natural, my body emptying itself with an intensity that made my vision white out at the edges.

Yukinoshita gasped beneath me. Her hands found my shoulders, gripping with surprising strength. Her hips rose to meet mine, taking everything I had to give.

Kaguya collapsed. Slumped over Yukinoshita's body, her energy finally spent. Her breath came in ragged pants. Her face, turned towards me, wore an expression of complete satisfaction.

"YAYYY!!!"

Fujiwara's cheer shattered whatever moment had been building.

Click. Whirr.

Hayasaka, ever professional, was getting a close-up of Kaguya's blissful expression. The camera's lens reflected the overhead lights, creating small stars in its surface.

I looked at the counter.

459.

Thirty-two minutes had passed.

'Four hundred and fifty-nine thrusts. Thirty-two minutes. Is that good? Is there a metric for performance evaluation? Will I receive a review at the end of the month? "Hikigaya shows adequate stamina but could improve thrust consistency. Recommend image training with Pink Hikio."'

I was still inside Yukinoshita. Still connected. My body hadn't quite gotten the message that the encounter was over.

She looked up at me. Her blue eyes were soft in a way I rarely saw. The welt on her forehead had darkened slightly—a badge of our chaotic beginning—but she didn't seem to mind.

"Hachiman."

Just my name. Nothing else.

But somehow, it was enough.

'We did it. Whatever "it" is. Whatever this programme requires of us, we completed this portion. Check marked. Processed. Filed under "reproductive activities, government-mandated."'

'And yet...'

I looked at Kaguya, still draped over Yukinoshita, her breath gradually slowing.

I looked at Yukinoshita, still watching me with that complicated expression.

I looked at Hayasaka and Fujiwara, still documenting everything with their camera and flag.

'This is my life now. This is actually my life.'

'The househusband plan did not prepare me for this.'

Somewhere in the facility, the counter clicked over to the next phase.

459.

32:47.

The numbers glowed in the corner of the room. Impassive. Uncaring. A reminder that this was only the beginning.

'Three more contestants after this. Three more women. More encounters. More cameras. More Fujiwara flags and Hayasaka zoom lenses.'

'And through it all, my sister is keeping score.'