Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ My Adult University Romcom Is Wrong, As I Expected ❯ Biochemical Activation ( Chapter 3 )

Saki Kawasaki appeared at my door one evening after I returned from my late afternoon class session. She was in fashionable clothes that retained her personal style, though a bit more grown up than the uniforms we wore at Soubu. Still, she looked good, hair up in a pony-tail and a nervous smile.

“Come in. It is good to see you,” helped her into my cramped place. She removed her shoes, displaying a slit up her long skirt that displayed patterned hose or stockings and at the top end, her cleavage, which was worthy before but epic now. It took my breath away, so I inhaled her perfume as she wafted it over me in the movement, then stood up, blushing.

“H-Hachiman,” she stammered. Cute. Light touches of makeup.

“I am about ready to serve the food. Would you like some tea or sake?” I asked her. “Or maybe shochu on the rocks? I’ve got one of those mineral water ice balls in the freezer,” I offered.

“Ah, yes, thanks,” she affirmed. I prepared our drinks, and presented them. She’d been a professional high-class bartender so I would never impress her with mixed drinks, but it was good shochu and she wasn’t here for that. We sipped, looking at each other. I’d slipped into comfortable clothes minutes before she’s arrived, a muted grey pattern shirt and slacks. The timer beeped. I served the food and we ate, observing each other.

“How is fashion school?” I asked her on finishing the food and switching to tea.

“Its lots of business classes, but with labs in manufacturing and courses explaining tricks learned from decades of experience, upgraded with modern tools and materials. Emphasis on speed and reliable fit, in quality control. There’s lots of business contracts too, and training on negotiation. We have labs where we bargain with each other, and against more advanced students, since so much of our work will be like that. Making stuff is only half of it. Selling them for profit, and getting our raw materials and labor costs down so there’s room for profit. It was a lot harder than I expected,” she admitted.

“Really. That’s interesting. It was Ebina who made us aware of your talent for fashion, back in the school festival,” I reminded her.

“The uniforms didn’t fit me. I had to fix them,” she admitted.

“You were tall, thin, built like a model. I can imagine how the average girl at Soubu wouldn’t have matched your shape,” I agreed. “You managed to pass yourself off as an adult at Angel’s Ladder when we were first years.”

“My boss wasn’t blind, but the customers were. Even Iroha’s dad, the police detective, didn’t make a fuss when I poured his bourbon. I could pass for an older woman because I knew how to keep my mouth shut, and look pretty.”

“When was it that you realized you liked me?” I asked her.

“When you explained scholarships to me. And again when you said I love you when I told you that dingbat girl was on the roof. I thought that was a confession, but you ran away and never said it again. After that, you were nice to my sister, and I realized you had father potential,” she admitted, blushing more. “I-I haven’t wanted anyone else.” She was a catch, I have to admit.

We kissed. There was hesitation, then heat and then passion. I really was her first time. It was a fulfilling and athletic evening, and I let her sleep beside me when we finished. She was clingy, and it was nice, if smelly.

I awoke to the sound of rain. Saki looked a little nervous as she stirred awake, half atop me, and her lazy smile turned hesitant. I stroked her back, which helped calm her enough to regain her composure. She sat up, giving me a look at her form, which was excellent. She stretched making various faces. She pulled on various clothes and checked her phone for messages. Her expression changed.

“Hmm?” I asked her, thinking about my shower. And she should too.

“Lots of messages from Taishi, and Seika. And your sister. How does she know?” she told me.

“Komachi has always been smarter than she pretends. Nevermind that. Whatever you do, start with a shower. We kinda need it,” I pointed out. She blinked at the clothes she’d put on and sighed at the sour smell from our coupling, stripping them off again. We headed for my shower, naked, together and got rinsed, then scrubbed each other off of us. Sex is a messy business. In stories it’s all about the emotions and the pleasure, but in the real world its four to seven minutes of trying not to lose complete control before your partner is satisfied, and hours of aching muscles and noticeable smells every housewife can detect in the parts per million by getting within two meters of you or standing next to you on the train car. What happens next is she gives you a knowing smirk, or worse, considers it a challenge and makes an approach. This has happened to me every time I’ve been with Ami for the following 36 hours. The actions of housewives and office ladies when I’d gotten lucky the night before, and showered, is part of why my department is paying me to be a research associate, and covering the cost of this apartment, even if my neighbors are a bit odd.

The guy next door is perving on the coed woman on the far side of him, and she’s pushing the Narusegawa look so hard its bordering on comedy. All I really know about the guy in question is he rarely has girls over, and the hum of his aquariums is a constant drone on my shared wall. At least they don’t yell or have loud athletic sex all the time. Speaking of, Saki would have screamed her head off if we were doing this somewhere remote. I gave her a long lingering kiss and shut the shower off. We dried ourselves, staring at each other’s bodies in silence. Yes, she could be a model. I kissed her again.

“If you do that again I’ll miss class. I need to hurry to make the train and get to my own campus,” she warned. I sighed.

“Can I see you again?” I asked her, enjoying her movements as she dressed.

“Do you want to?” she offered hesitantly, eying me carefully as she brushed her hair and tied on a scarf.

“Yes,” I affirmed with a smile and a long knowing look I am sure she understood. Saki was athletic sex, and I regret not doing her back in high school. I probably would have been a lot calmer, even if the club screamed at me over it. Jealous woman drama, no doubt. Saki measured me back, then nodded.

“Okay. When I can make time,” she agreed. She kissed my cheek, pulled on her shoes and gathered her bag. She fled my apartment, out into the rain spattered walkway, glancing at the Narusegawa cosplayer returning to her apartment at 6:18 AM, looking exhausted, but perking up at the nervous Saki going by. She regarded my lover, then turned to regard me and raised an eyebrow in question. I gave a brief bow of my head and shut the door. We respect each other’s privacy.

I made coffee, black, not the kiddie syrup of my youth. I had beans from Ami’s shop, and considered simply going there for fresh roasted, but work beckoned and I don’t need sex-guilt clouding my focus. I sipped and worked until it was time to head to the campus and attend class.

Currently I was taking courses in Advanced Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, and Child Psychology. These courses expanded on what is normal and what is not. I was also getting course work on Reproductive Endocrinology and Sociology, though both were lacking in the more advanced aspects my research was exploring. I was following up on prior research into the sexual pairing biochemistry and gene activation sequences caused by sex hormones by the partner. This topic has been documented but suppressed because it goes against currently promoted Feminist cult philosophy dominating Western countries. It was known to many in medicine, but not all. The original research suppression despite the detailed analysis, down to individual gene sequence activation and brain chemistry were chilling when you consider just how important this is to stable couples, and banning the research also means that pharmaceuticals which interfere with these receptors would also face huge medical malpractice suits, since they either break the bond or prevent it from forming in the first place. And Japan has a serious reproduction problem. Then again, original research is what my position was about. I graded papers between classes, and helped do some research and website updates for the classes, as assistant to one of the department professors. These were billable hours, so I get paid for that, same as grading assignments for the undergrads.

By chance I found Uzaki Hana sleeping in the lounge area at the base of the sociology building main staircase, snoozing next to her chosen mate, whether he knew it or not. Several of the young women took pictures of the couple, and while some looked excited by the display, others looked disappointed at the attractive male being clearly off the market for the short but busty Uzaki manifesting her dominance. Public displays of affection via napping, the implied relationship that level of trust required, and the almost-brutal method for warding off competition. I noted Ami there and approached, letting her snap some pictures and send them to her cloud storage before forwarding to Uzaki for extra embarrassment.

“So, they’re at it again, eh?” I murmured.

She eyed me up and down.

“I see you’re alone, finally. I came by your place last night, but you were occupied,” Ami accused. I shrugged.

“Yeah. Woman I knew back in high school, never got the chance before,” I vaguely answered.

“And now you’ve gotten the chance?” she asserted.

“Something like that. We tried to be quiet,” I complained. “I don’t want my neighbors giving me the dry eye.” And one of them had, come to think of it. I sighed.

“You weren’t that quiet. Then again I’m not that quiet when I visit either. Your neighbors probably hate you,” Ami predicted. She was probably right. Most of my neighbors were single, and didn’t seem to bring dates back. Being close to the university, they were mostly students. Many had no time for dating, or the headaches of accidental pregnancy and rushed marriage that could and probably should result. It would probably be an easy solution if the university had subsidized married housing for grad students and adjunct professors and a campus chapel with the paperwork handy. I have a cousin in Sapporo who got married to a guy at her prefecture office, which was a big surprise because she was super embarrassed over her huge boobs and read books all the time rather than face all the attention in nightclubs. I never thought she’d marry, but she did. Such a long name, that Lucy Kimiko Akie…. My aunt and uncle are both airheads to give her such a long name.

“Sorry I can’t give you anything today. I’m pretty tapped out.”

“I could tell from how you’re walking. You look sore,” Ami pointed. She was right.

“What do you think they’re doing in Lab today?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Those two will be flirting with math again, and the other two will be sitting in each other’s laps. The tiny one will be panting, and Sensei will be doing curls again,” Ami predicted. I went to the other building, leaving the snoozing Uzaki and her Sem-Pai to their crowd of fangirls, and found we were mostly right. Flirting, PDAs, and the panting loli. But Sensei was doing wrist curls, which is a different exercise from curls. He was working the lower arm muscles, not the bicep and tricep muscles. I paid Ami 300 yen admitting the loss, and logged into my station. The computer gets used in Beowulf cluster calculations when I’m not there, so it stays on all the time. Paying Ami for losing a bet on whether she was right or not is actually how she slips me day-old roasted coffee beans on the cheap rather than throwing it away. Day-old roast is not as good as it was fresh, but it’s nearly as good. For a student this is far superior to commoner’s coffee, like I used to serve Komachi back in High School when she wanted to talk or was mad at me for being thick about Yui and Yukino.

Someday I’m going to have to face Yui, and let’s not kid myself, sleep with Yui. Give her the screw she’s been asking for since I rescued Sable and broke my leg. This is unfinished business. She won’t move on until she’s had the real thing. I just hope she doesn’t turn Yandere afterwards. Or cry over disappointment. Four to seven minutes is the polled ideal duration in 80% of women. Not hours, like virginal fiction authors like to write. More than seven minutes and soreness detracts from enjoyment.

I have to wonder who else from high school is going to turn up asking for sex? Ebina? Miura? Shiromeguri? Iroha? Probably Iroha. Her frequent denials were hilariously aggressive now I understand her mentality. Not rising to the bait probably just made her want me more. I wonder if she’s a porn author? No, I’d better not research that here. The results could be embarrassing. Narusegawa may have married Keitaro in the end, but it was the samurai girl Aoyama Motoko who made a multimillion yen career selling romance novels about him. And for a traditional Japanese couple? She would have found a way to cheat with him. For a fictional couple they had a huge impact on Modern Japanese people. My Narusegawa neighbor covers her face and hair with distractions, but no amount of cloth is hiding that rack and hourglass figure, or the fact her face is symmetrical and therefore beautiful under those dumb glasses. I don’t ask her a thing. I don’t pester her in the hallways or stairwell. We’re neighbors, and her early morning returns in upscale clothing suggests alternative employment that’s none of my business.

“Still mulling your overnight visitor?” Ami asked, poking me from her workstation next to mine.

“Nah, my neighbor,” I answered, typing and editing a paper, finding a reference and formatting a quote to support my statement.

“That fish guy?” she asked. “Why?”

“Nah, the girl next to him. Saw her this morning. Think she’s in compensated dating,” I blurted.

“Really?” Ami asked, excited by this titillating news. She liked sexual misconduct as a topic. I think she actually got off on cheating, which didn’t surprise me. As inexperienced as she is, Ami has been developing twisted tastes from romance, doujins, and pornography since her youth, doubtlessly. It’s why she finds Uzaki so endlessly fascinating, particularly since she’s reasonably sure she hasn’t actually had intercourse with Sakurai yet and was, in point of fact, a virgin. Ami liked the conflicting signals and it gave her a certain kind of pleasure. She also enjoyed voyeurism, which I observed in her body’s response to the statistics nerds flirting with spreadsheets together. There we go, erect nipples in 1.2 seconds. Visible through her shirt. I documented this with the code name I’d given my observations of Ami, C71A.

Regardless of how I feel, work continues. And to think I never would have gotten this far if Orimoto hadn’t broken my heart back in middle school.