You stare at the calendar propped up on your desk in quiet contemplation. Despite the two thick red rings of ink encircling the date and despite the stack of alarms set on your cell phone, the tenth of the month has found a way to escape your notice.
The tenth of the month was the deadline for submitting crucial materials in support of Kiara’s first 3D concert. She had entrusted that task to you during a hectic span of weeks last November when she barely had the time to eat, sleep, or open her phone. She had stressed its importance over and over during every in person meeting and you, in turn, had assured her it was under control.
You lean back in your chair and let the anxiety run over your body. Without your timely contribution, the domino effect on the rest of the production schedule would be catastrophic. Budgets would be compromised. Delays were guaranteed. Your only decision was whether to tell Kiara now or later.
Better to come directly from you than anyone else, you figure. You slip into an empty meeting room and pull out your phone. Steadying your hand, you call Kiara’s number– she picks up on the second ring.
“Hello?” She sounds tired, likely still reeling from the weeks of recordings and choreography rehearsals.
“Hey, Kiara. Uh, there’s some updates I’ve been made aware of concerning your upcoming concert.”
Concern seeps into her voice. “What, like, costuming and stuff?”
“No, it’s more from the production side.” You should have spent more time planning how to break the news. Blindsiding her with this first thing in the morning seems almost cruel. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this; the concert’s been delayed.”
“Delayed? Wait, why? I checked the spreadsheet just last week and everyone was hitting their deadlines!”
“I know but there was an unfortunate miscommunication with, uh…” Your mind races. Hearing Kiara’s unconcealed frustration and knowing how livid she would be with your incompetence drives you to swerve violently from the truth. “...with the camera crew. Yeah, they had a...conflict with another gig and they won’t be available. We’re going to need to find another before we can go forward.”
“...We don’t have a backup? Or any other way to squeeze them in?”
“I’m sorry.”
The line is silent for a while. You hear Kiara sit down, sniffling softly as she processes the news. “God…fucking unbelievable. This is the third time, you know? I’m starting to think they hate me or something.”
“No, no, everyone wants this to come together just as much as you do! But with these big productions it’s hard to keep everything spinning.”
“How long is the delay? Will it still happen this year?”
You swallow. This is the hard part. “It’s difficult to say. Five months, minimum. Again, I’m sorry I have to tell you this.”
Kiara breathes in and out. For a moment you wonder if she’s given up on appearances and would start crying. “Yeah. Sure. I have to get back to practice, I’m hanging up now.”
The call ends. You release the tension from your shoulders and slump against the wall. That wasn’t the worst outcome, even if you did have to bend the truth a little. But your decision to shift the blame was just good business; it wouldn’t help anyone for Kiara to be at your throat while you try to patch this mess back together.
Three hours later, while you’re logging off and packing up your laptop, a text comes in from Kiara.
Come to Studio 4. I need a ride back from dance practice
Easy enough. The studio wasn’t far from your office. This is a good opportunity to remediate the negative feelings she’s surely been brewing all day. You grab your keys and double check the address of the studio.
Sure. I’m on my way
–
–
You push through the studio’s doors into a large, cavernous space that’s all polished floorboards and massive wall-spanning mirrors. Kiara’s in the middle of the room along with a few other members of Holotori. They’re busy chatting and rehydrating between sets. From the state of their outfits and the heavy stink of sweat circulating in the air, it’s obvious they’ve been in here for a while.
Kiara notices your arrival and briefly breaks off from the rest of the girls. “There’s a few more songs we want to tighten up while we’re here,” she says to you, tipping back a bottle of water. Half of it disappears down her throat before she speaks again. “I’ll make it quick.”
“No problem. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
You pull up a folding chair from the wall and take a seat, smoothing out the wrinkles of your pant legs. You had the foresight to bring your laptop inside so you catch up on some emails while the music starts and the girls get back to work. The finer details of professional choreography evade you, but from the scattered glimpses you catch of their routine over your screen, you can tell they’ve made some serious strides since the group’s inception.
Something about Kiara’s performance in particular draws your eye. Something that every man and woman has trouble recognizing until they take that extra minute to seriously consider their reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Kiara was putting on weight.
Nothing egregious, but easily noticeable when you focused your eyes and traced her silhouette. Her breasts were fuller and visibly strained the column of buttons running down the face of her vest. Her previously toned stomach carried a fair bit of pudge, and the beginnings of love handles sat above her tightening waistband. Her thighs were much thicker and jiggled heavily whenever she stomped down or high kicked into the air. Though the most significant change, the real showstopper that pulled your gaze like a gravity well, was how undeniably fat her ass had gotten. While you get plenty of opportunities to observe her backside from the mirror sitting behind her, nothing compares to when she spins around and swings her hips in your face. Her micro skirt had always been closer to an extra wide belt, but now it failed to even cover the bottom of her butt cheeks. And her spats (so thin and short that they felt far more provocative than even the most daring pair of panties) were no longer up to the task of containing her extra plumpness, flashing a good two inches of her plush, pale skin where her thighs met her ass. Every move she makes, every pivot and pose, needs an additional split second to let her meaty buttocks catch up and stop wobbling.
You tear your eyes away from her skirt and stare down at your monitor. The last thing your professional career needs is a record of you pitching a tent during the talents’ practice. Fortunately the girls are much too concerned with their footwork to notice your stares.
Roughly a half hour later, as the sky darkens and light snowfall powders the pavement outside, the music dies down for good. The girls high five and congratulate one another for another productive day.
Their hard work is written all over their bodies. Multiple hours of intensive cardio left the girls sweating down to their socks, and the small towels hanging off the ballet barre had been used and wrung out and reused to the point of sopping uselessness.
Kiara looks especially affected. A glistening sheen coats her armpits, neck, stomach, and thighs– every inch of skin subjected to intermingled layers of fresh and drying sweat. The floorboards around her sneakers are slick with perspiration. As she moves about the room, a faint musk fills the space around her and hits your nose like an indoor breeze.
She says her farewells to the other girls– long hugs and a few selfies– before they go rushing out the door. The studio empties out until it’s just you and Kiara and the unspoken weight of the morning's conversation hanging heavy like a gathering thunderhead.
You’re the first to break the silence. “Nice work out there. I can tell you guys have been putting in a lot of hours.”
Kiara lugs her backpack to her shoulder. Her eyes are distant and weary. “Ah, well, apparently I was just gifted five more months of practice, right?” She shoulders open the door and nods her head. “Come on, let’s go. I’m exhausted.”
You pack up your things and follow her outside to guide her to your car. She throws her bag in the back and climbs into the passenger seat, letting out a heavy sigh. Seated next to her like this, you can fully appreciate how strong the scent wafting off her is. Your car might need an interior cleaning after this trip.
As you drive off to her apartment, the musk of her workout hotboxing the car like a sauna, you look for an opportunity to gauge her emotions. It’s selfish, but hearing her less broken up about the concert’s delay would ease your guilt.
“So, any other plans for this week?”
“There’s some collabs on Thursday. One of them was supposed to lead up to the concert’s announcement.” She looks out the window listlessly and traces her finger along the glass. “I’ll find something else to fill that time.”
You awkwardly tap at the steering wheel. The mood is cold, as expected. “Hey, on the bright side, at least the concert wasn’t made public yet. You don’t have to worry about breaking the news to KFP or anything.”
Kiara half-smiles but there’s only bitterness on her face. “Wow, I’m so lucky.” She turns her head towards you. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but I don’t really want to talk about that anymore, okay?”
A perfectly reasonable request, you concede. Aside from some quick inquiries about her cats and her cooking, you stay muted and focused on the road.
Five minutes from your destination, Kiara suddenly pulls out her phone and starts texting up a storm. There’s no more than ten seconds between her sending a message and the phone buzzing her back. Given the near-constant communication, you assume she jumped into a busy group chat with friends to raise her spirits…though she never smiles when reading the messages. She steals a quick glance in your direction, fixing you with a stare five seconds past the point of being uncomfortable, then puts her phone away and once again turns to the window.
The rest of the drive is spent in total silence with only the crunch of snow under the tires and the windshield wipers squeaking across the glass.
–
–
Kiara’s apartment is sparsely furnished. She only moved in last month and much of her possessions remain confined to irregular towers of taped up moving boxes. Thus her living room houses only a couch, a small center table, and her streaming setup (both the desk and chair recently ordered from a local furniture store) set against the wall.
You’re still not sure why Kiara invited you inside when you dropped her off. There are very few situations that require you to enter a talent’s home outside of an emergency or technical support. The inscrutable reason Kiara gave you was “needing to check something with you”, but, according to her schedule, she still had a stream this evening. Why wouldn’t she wait until after that was finished to bring you over?
Regardless, you had accepted her invitation and are now milling about her living room. You make a few vapid compliments on the space as Kiara drops off her bag in her room. Instead of explaining why she brought you here, Kiara suddenly circles behind you and blocks off the only exit. A simmering tension fills the air as she stares you down.
“I was texting the production staff earlier. In your car. They said that yes, the concert had to be delayed, but they also said everything was fine with the camera crew.” Kiara paces towards you and tilts her head. “But you know who they hadn’t heard from?”
You take a reflexive step back. This outcome shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but part of you hoped Kiara would have been too dejected to further investigate your lie. You raise your hands as though placating a hulking tiger that had stumbled in from the tall grass. “Now hold on. I know it looks bad, but I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you. You have to understand I’ve been very busy wi-”
Kiara’s leg flashes upward and drives the laces of her sneakers between your legs, smashing your balls into your pelvis. White hot pain forces the air from your lungs and instantly crumples your body. Your knees hit the floor and you collapse on your side in agony, wheezing small whines between clenched teeth.
Somewhere beyond the resounding hammer of pain and nausea squeezing the space below your stomach, you hear a chair scraping against the floor. A rough force seizes the collar of your shirt and lifts your torso upwards. The back of your head drops onto something soft and leathery. There’s a harsh sshrrp from behind as packing tape is ripped off the roll and wrapped around your arms, binding them to the legs of the chair.
You slowly lift your eyelids and assess your situation. You’re sitting on the floor, legs outstretched in front of you and your head leaning backwards on Kiara’s seat cushion. The bindings are much too strong to muscle through. As you’re trying to figure out what possible combination of words could get you out of this, a massive object blots out the ceiling lights and casts both your face and the rest of the cushion in shadow.
You’re staring at the seat of Kiara’s spats.
Kiara looks down at you over her shoulder, her violet eyes beset with pure anger. Most of her flowing mane of flame-orange hair is hidden behind her enormous, spats-wrapped buttcheeks, a smattering of light reflecting off their slick, overstretched surface. The twin seams running down the back of her spats are pulling apart, every fiber working its hardest not to snap and give her sweaty ass the room it needs to breathe. An especially damp streak traces along the length of Kiara’s crack– a musky canyon of ass sweat where the most potent of her scent has soaked and collected during the long hot hours of dance practice.
“Is it really so hard to get one competent fucking manager for this branch?” Kiara sighs and slowly bends at the knee, her ass growing larger in your view until it’s almost all you can see. You feel the insane body heat pouring off her spats and warming your face. Beads of sweat roll down the flesh of her thick, pale thighs and drip onto your shoulders and arms. “Congratulations. For the first time since we started working together, you’re about to properly support me.”
“W-wait…” you manage between strained breaths. The pain from Kiara’s nut shot is sliding off and you’re at least allowed to think straight again. “Look, I know I messed up but there’s still ti-”
The rest of your plea is shoved back down your throat as the full weight of Kiara’s fat ass unceremoniously drops on your face, smashing your nose flat and driving your skull into the seat of her chair. The chair legs creak and groan under their heavy newfound burden. Your mouth gapes, your nostrils flare, trying desperately to pull in oxygen but all you get is the concentrated musk of her sweaty asshole and taste of her damp, spandex-covered crotch filtering through your airways. Your shoulders jerk and twist, but the chair barely moves under Kiara’s weight.
“Mmm, your face fits pretty good down there. How would you like a promotion to ‘Tenchou’s Chair’?” Kiara’s voice is significantly muffled after traveling through so much ass fat to reach your ears.
You mumble your rejection through her spats, earning nothing but a mouthful of sweat for your trouble.
“I guess that’s a ‘yes’? Anyway, if you paid any attention to my schedule you’d know I still have a stream to do. Make any noise and I’ll stomp your balls into the floor.” Kiara wiggles on your face and leans forward to run through her pre-stream checklist. After a few minutes of mouse clicks and working the keyboard, the loading BGM fades out and Kiara addresses her audience.
“Kikkeriki~. Hello, hi, everyone. Sorry if I’m low energy today, but… Ah, man, it’s been one of those weeks. Too many projects, not enough sleep. And some annoying company stuff on top of everything else.” She waits a bit for chat to react. “Hmm? Well, not really a company problem, just one specific person.” She accents the end of her sentence with a heavy bounce on your face, forcing your nose deeper up her ass crack. “I don’t know, I won’t go into it too much but it’s crazy how some people wait until the last fucking minute to do things and then act surprised when it doesn’t work out.” Another bounce, the entire chair shaking under her weight. Your skull is feeling the extra pounds she’s packed on. “It’s not that hard to finish shit ahead of time and make things easier for the rest of the team.”
One of your whimpers slips through and hits the mic. Apparently it’s loud enough for chat to pick up on and get curious.
Unfortunately for you, Kiara expertly deflects their suspicions. “Hm? The squeaking sound? Oh yeah, my shitty chair’s been doing that lately. I was supposed to get one of those ergonomic ones that cost, like, a thousand dollars or whatever, but management hasn’t gotten back to me on that either. Here, listen.”
Kiara flexes her thighs and starts to bounce her hips off your face, forcing out the same pained grunts from your mouth that chat heard earlier. She’s packing a lot of cushioning to lessen the impact, but there’s still plenty of weight to contend with. It’s near impossible to time your breath in the short windows where her huge cheeks pause and wobble midair before crashing back down. Your face and bangs are completely matted with sweat by the time she’s finished proving her point, your skin flushed and tingling from the abuse.
“Shit,” she says, breathing hard and leaning back in her seat, “as if I didn’t work up enough of a sweat today. But yeah, back to my story, they seriously fucked me over today…”
Kiara barely moves while she recounts the fallout of your fatal error in just enough detail to preserve the anonymity of the concert’s existence and your identity. She’s content to sit back, stretch her legs, and crush your face under her weight like any other seat cushion. She taps her fingers on the armrests and wiggle her hips while the full range of the sweat and smells collected from her intense workout slowly seeps out from her spats and presses onto your features. At some point she shifts her legs and kicks off her sneakers, letting her bare feet air out.
When the story wraps up and she pivots to the next tangent, Kiara bears down with her hips and roughly grinds the seat of her spats into your nose like she’s trying to get at a stubborn itch deep in her ass crack. The pressure completely seals your mouth and you no longer have the space to even open your eyes. Every breath you take ends up sucking the sweat from her spats, swallowing hours worth of stale juices that had soaked into the spandex fibers alongside the intimate taste of her pussy.
Only when your breathing gets too erratic and your legs kick against the floor does she give an irritated sigh, lift her hips, and grant you the barest hint of relief; a paper thin sheet of air separating you from her ass. A thick layer of sweat remains slathered on your face like a warm mask and drips down the side of your face as you gasp for air. You desperately inhale what you can from the outside world in the seconds before Kiara drops her hips and goes back to smothering you out.
Time blends together within the humid smotherbox of Kiara’s spats. You hear snippets of the conversation playing out above, most of it bemoaning her assumed ostracization in the company, the lack of outside support, and, of course, your unforgivable blunders. Yet, amidst all the public verbal humiliation and the slow drain of oxygen from your brain, a powerful erection fights to escape your boxers, tenting the front of your pants like a poorly smuggled weapon. Pre-cum pumps uselessly into your underwear for every second you drink in Kiara’s sweaty aroma.
“Hang on, there’s someone at the door. Be right back,” Kiara says as she finds the mute button and switches to the Be Right Back screen. She leans forward, rests her hands on her knees and fully stands up, peeling her stuffy spats off your face and finally letting the condensed smog of crotch musk dissipate into the room. You can see dark wet imprints on her spats where your nose and mouth were huffing and snorting like a pig.
Kiara hikes up her meager skirt and hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her spats. “Fucking things are so uncomfortable…” With significant effort, she starts yanking her spats down, allowing inch after inch of sweaty jiggling ass flesh to spill out. Soon enough she has to wiggle side-to-side and jump in place to get the much too tight clothing down and around the width of her incredible hips. The spandex nearly snaps before reaching the bottom.
Your mouth hangs agape. Above, Kiara’s massive, naked, sweaty shelf of an ass is hanging over the waistband. A constellation of freckles span the bottoms of her heavy butt cheeks. The surface is dripping with countless fat drops of sweat like she just got back from a long, oily massage. Looking at her backside in its full nude glory, you wonder how she’s managed to pack all that inside those spats without them shredding apart.
She slaps down both hands on her cheeks with a resounding smack that bounces off her room’s bare walls. A soft spray of sweat flecks over your face and soaks into your hair.
“Stick your tongue out. Might as well make yourself useful while you’re down there.”
She spreads her doughy cheeks and drops her ass within millimeters of your face. Her tight pink hole nudges your nostrils while her perfectly smooth, fat pussy lips slap down over your mouth. The scent trapped between her bare cheeks is strong enough to hitch your breath in your chest and brings tears to your eyes. Once you're buried in her crack and her asshole is snugly smothering your nose, she lets go and allows her cheeks to clap over your face, burying you under mounds of butt fat.
The choking scent of her ass doesn’t last long. Kiara immediately shifts forward in her seat, smearing your face with her sweaty crotch until her asshole presses against your lips. Remembering her order, your tongue darts out and presses flat against her asshole, running over the sweat-soaked wrinkles with directionless vigor. The flavor dominating your tastebuds is incomparable to what she’s subjected you to so far, and you can only hope she’ll switch positions soon.
Her hands reach down and smack the fat masses of her buttocks, rippling across their width and over your face. “Getting a good enough look from down there? I saw you staring during practice. It’s not enough to suck at your job, you have to perv on your talents too, don’t ‘cha?”
Any employee with a hint of pride would have defended themselves there, but you’ve no room for rebuttal. Not anymore. Instead, your mouth ravages the space between her cheeks like Kiara’s sweat was the finest ambrosia, planting rapid kisses along her crack and circling the rim of her asshole with your tongue. There's more room to breathe with your nose no longer plugged by her ass, but the scent is just as potent and intoxicating.
She suddenly reaches down and painfully snags your hair in her fingers. “C’mon you little shit! You call that eating ass? I know a loser like you has never gotten that far, but pretend you’re making out with your girlfriend and get in there!”
With concentrated effort, you shove your tongue against Kiara’s pucker and force your way inside, lavishing the inner walls of her asshole with saliva as you strain to drive your tongue as deep as it can go. Punching forward, spinning and slurping until she starts shuddering on top of you.
Your head’s swimming. Oxygen is a long forgotten luxury with Kiara’s smooth sweaty ass flesh clogging your airways and the buckets of musk circulating in your blood. You force the rest of your mouth into action and throw yourself into a noisy, sloppy makeout session with Kiara’s asshole, locking lips with her tight ring of muscle like long lost lovers. The thin walls of the apartment likely couldn't contain your depraved ministrations but Kiara was beyond caring. Your brain falters under the two pronged sensations of your nose huffing her stuffy, sweaty ass crack and your tongue drowning in her most intimate flavor.
Kiara, remaining firmly in control despite her moans of pleasure, glances down and takes notice of your helpless erection. “Ehh? Five minutes smothered under a girl’s ass and you’re basically creaming your pants. I should’ve guessed this wouldn’t be a punishment.” Kiara laughs and grabs her cheeks, kneading and squeezing and massaging her backside while you rim her out, generously allowing your tongue to get as deep as possible.
At the same time, her bare foot deftly slips under your waistband. You feel your pants and underwear shoved down your thighs, cool air alighting your shaft as more and more of its length is released from your trousers, until she finally frees it completely. Your full-bodied erection springs upward, slaps your stomach, and stands pointing towards the ceiling. A constant trail of precum runs down the underside.
Again you hear laughter from above. “Oh my God! Seriously?” You hear her fumble for her cell phone and the damning click of a photo being taken. “I mean, I guess depending on the country, some girls wouldn’t think it’s so bad, but there’s a minimum, right?”
Playfully, Kiara’s foot reaches out and strokes your length, her toes dancing along the head. She steps on it gingerly, batting it around like a toy. Her other foot joins from the side, sandwiching your throbbing meat between two soft, sweaty soles. She rubs them up and down, pumping your cock with a steady, unhurried grip. All her weight now rests on your face, forcing her post-workout funk directly down your nostrils.
“Fucking useless prick.” Kiara sneers as she mashes her fingers into her leaking cunt, two digits plunging in and out and matching the rhythm of your tongue’s action. Her schlicking grows faster and more intense until she’s fingerbanging herself into a manic stupor, grinding onto your face for extra stimulation. “Can’t submit shit on time. Always late for our meetings. Doesn’t have the balls to push back on the company’s unreasonable deadlines.” Kiara’s throaty moans briefly interrupt her tirade. “God, at least your tongue’s a decent sweat rag at the end of the day.”
You can barely think, all conscious functions focused on eating Kiara’s ass, huffing her stink, and enduring the sloppy, angry footjob assaulting your cock. Your balls are aching for release, your steelhard cock primed and wired to a hair trigger as the sweaty soles of her feet urge you closer to your climax.
Kiara’s nearing her limit as well. An unending stream of venomous insults overlay the sloppy sounds of ass-eating and fingerblasting, making sure to remind you how terrible you are at your job and how lucky you are to be working with someone as talented as Kiara. Her frustration boils over in the final moments, slipping to her native tongue and cursing out your sheer fucking incompetence in a slew of Austrian swears thick with her accent.
Buried under Kiara’s fat ass, her sweat pouring down your face, her musk filling your nostrils, her feet squeeze together and give your twitching shaft one final, orgasmic pump. “Just fucking suffocate under there, scheißkopf!”
Her asshole tightens around your tongue as she jams her fingers inside her cunt and climaxes, soaking your neck and chest under a heavy spray of warm girlcum. Milliseconds later, the roiling semen in your balls surges up your shaft and blasts into the bottom of her desk, countless lances of spunk smacking into the wood and pouring back down over your waist. A warm puddle of jizz slowly oozes to the floor. Your spent dick twitches a few more times before slapping down on your thigh.
Your body reels from the mind-melting orgasm that had been steadily building up since Kiara pulled up her skirt and stood over your face. It’s hard to tell if you’re breathing anymore or if your soul has completely left your body.
Kiara is in no hurry to get up, instead happy to sit on your face while she pants and slowly comes back down. “...is that really all it took? Once I took the spats off, you couldn’t even last a minute under this ass, huh?” She looks down to your flaccid cock lying in a puddle of drying spunk and prods it with her foot.
She then hefts herself off your face and kneels down by the chair. Picking at the bindings winding around your arm. The packing tape takes a few of your arm hairs with it when she rips it off. “Well, at least we found a use for you. You’ll be on call when Reine and Nerissa are busy.” She kicks your body to the floor with a firm punt to the ribs. “Now get out of my house. If anything else happens to my concert, I’ll do a lot fucking worse than kick you in the balls.”
Head spinning, you drag yourself out from under her desk and get to your feet, stabilizing yourself on the wall. After getting the feeling back in your hands, you awkwardly adjust your package and zip up your pants. You hear Kiara’s stream start back up behind you as you shut the door and walk back into the quiet winter night.
As you sit in the driver's seat, rubbing your arms and fixing your hair, you wonder if the last hour was just an intense hallucination. It would be nothing short of surreal for the relationship between manager and talent to have taken such a turn...but Kiara’s smell is still baked into your nostrils, and the Pavlovian effect that has on your dick isn’t reassuring. You start the ignition and drive back home. A thought lingers in the back of your mind like a small briar; the five months delay you communicated was a conservative estimate. Knowing the incredible lethargy in which Japanese business' operate, it's likely to be more like eight months, if not a full year.
You wonder, with perverse curiosity, how Kiara would react to such news.
–
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Art courtesy of a drawanon from /wg/
