The Miko's Completed Curse

White Male to Japanese Female

Text Version:
You stand behind her, the curve of her spine leading your eyes down to where her panties cling to the swell of her hips, the cotton stretched taut as she kneels on the dining table with her thighs parted. Her shoulders tremble when your breath ghosts over the nape of her neck, the skin there smooth and golden under the dim kitchen light, her jet-black hair spilling down her back in a silken wave. You know every inch of this body now: the almond tilt of her eyes when she glances back at you, the flush high on her cheekbones, the plush bow of her mouth quivering as she sees you. She whimpers, “Please… I cannot wait anymore.” Her accent clings to the words, and you hate how your cock twitches at the sound.

Three weeks ago, this throaty plea would’ve come out in Jake’s baritone alongside his usual crude jokes and frat-house bravado. You remind yourself of that as her fingers push against the wood grain, her nails scratching faint grooves into the varnish. The shrine maiden’s curse had left his body frozen in this delicate mold: petite and unmistakably Japanese, with hips that flared and breasts that were heavy enough to strain the buttons of his shirts. This body was a temporary prison that would hold him for thirty days unless he broke its sole rule. The Miko’s had demanded abstinence. Had said that a whole month without sex was needed to reverse the transformation, or a single slip in this body to crystallize it forever, his mind overwritten by the instincts and hunger of the woman he’d become. No number of cold showers or hissed arguments had prepared either of you for the way his new nerves lit up when you brushed past him in the hallway or the way your breath caught when you saw his delicate curves. “One month,” he’d snarled that first night, fists clenched in the fabric of your couch as his borrowed body shuddered through another wave of need. “Just don’t fucking touch me, and I’ll be back to normal.” But his resolve weakened as his Japanese body burned with need.

Now he grinds his ass against your crotch, the heat of him searing through your jeans, and you grip his waist to still him. “Jake… stop! Remember what that witch said.” You try to control your breathing and the twitch of your cock against the denim.

He twists in your hand, his shirt riding up to expose more skin. “I… I don’t care about tomorrow.” His accent makes him hard to understand, but you can’t miss the way he moves his hips. “This body… it scream. You feel it too. Stop lie.”

It just felt so good to give in. Later, you’ll tell yourself he was already gone when you pushed his thighs wider, when you dragged the head of your cock through his slick cunt and watched his toes curl. A broken moan that melts into “Ah… ah, motto…” as you sink into him. His walls clamp down, and his back arches so sharply you have to fist his hair to keep him from slumping forward. Every thrust pulls a higher pitch from his throat, his Japanese bleeding through in gasps. “Iku… iku…” He babbles as his fingers scramble to claw at your forearm, and you realize with a sick lurch that he’s not trying to push you away. His hips piston back to meet yours, his ass jiggling with each slap of skin, and when you risk a glance at his face, his eyes have rolled back, tears moving down his soft cheeks.

You think he is already gone by the time he orgasms. He seizes around you, his scream fracturing into a shrill, unfamiliar cry, “Yatte! Yatte!”, and for one suspended moment, you feel him clench like a vice, his cunt milking you as his body locks up. Then he goes boneless, collapsing face-first onto the table with a thud, his ass still raised and twitching as you spill into him. The silence that follows is punctuated by his panting, his fingers limp against the wood. “Anata…” he mumbles into his slender sweaty arm. When you pull out, your cum drips from him in fat streaks, and he doesn’t flinch.

You call his name. Then his old name. Then every stupid nickname he ever earned during your shared lease. She tilts her head, blinking up at you with foggy eyes, and asks you something in flawless Japanese. Before you can ask what she meant, her hand snakes out to grip your wrist, and she drags you toward the bathroom. Steam fogs the mirror as she pins you against the shower tiles, her mouth hot against yours as water pours down you both. You let her ride you under the spray, her thighs clamped around your hips and her cries echoing off the porcelain as she cums a second time.

Guilt cracks through you when you cum inside her again. You know you should mourn your friend. But as you slump against the wall and watch her wring water from her hair with delicate fingers, the guilt dissolves. Replaced by the slow, hungry thought of how soon you can bend her over the sink and fuck her raw all over again.

I don't blame you for giving into your desires. After all, when you friend is both sexy and desperate then how can you possibly resist? It's just a shame that your friends mind truly became that of a Japanese woman... Or is it?

The web-version can be found [here].

Thanks for supporting me!

Anyway, I am going to go insult some Mikos to see if they 'curse' me like this too~