机甲

My name is Takuya Hayakawa. I'm a mecha pilot assigned to the Yamato Fleet, one of humanity's expeditionary armadas. Our primary mission is to hunt down the remnants of the queen—the insectoid matriarch that nearly wiped us out decades ago. She's been crippled, scattered, but not destroyed. Somewhere out in the black, she's still breeding, still plotting. And it's our job to find her and burn her down.

But even a war fleet needs supplies. Right now, we're parked in a dense asteroid belt, a drifting sea of rock and ice. Hundreds of drones swarm the larger chunks, mining everything we need—fuel, minerals, water. The crew has been given downtime while the automated systems do the heavy lifting. For us mobile suit pilots, that means something precious: rest.

I'm leaning against a bulkhead on one of the observation decks, watching the mining operation through the thick viewport. The stars are scattered fragments of light, and the belt drifts like a slow river of stone. It's peaceful. Quiet. The kind of moment you learn to treasure out here.

Then darkness hits me.

Soft hands press over my eyes. Warm. Small. And there's that scent—cherry blossoms. I'd know it anywhere.

"Guess who~?"

A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. Finding a girlfriend on an expedition fleet isn't easy. The numbers are brutal. Mostly men, mostly lonely, and most of them look at me like I stole the last piece of bread when they see her walk past. But she chose me. Every day, I still can't quite believe it.

"Hmm," I say, putting on my best thoughtful tone. "Let me guess... is it the little piggy I'm going to eat later?"

A light slap lands on my head. Not hard. Playful.

"Jerk! Who are you calling a pig?"

She steps around to face me, and I drink her in. Sakura Ibuki. Nineteen years old. The ace of aces in our mobile suit wing. And yes, my girlfriend.

She's gorgeous in that transitional way—still carrying the brightness of a girl, but with the curves and presence of a woman starting to bloom. Right now she's in a tight sports bra, white, soaked with sweat from her workout. Her breasts press against the fabric, full and round, spilling pale skin at the edges. Her stomach is completely bare, every line of her abs and obliques visible, the subtle shadow of her navel drawing my eye. She knows I'm looking. She arches her back just slightly, showing off.

Below, she wears denim shorts cut so short they're almost indecent. The fabric hugs every curve of her peach-shaped ass, just barely grazing the cleft. Her legs are long and toned, ending in black knee pads and white trainers. Sweat glistens on her skin. She smells warm, alive.

Her black hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a white sweatband across her forehead. Her face—flawless as a doll's—is fixed in a pout, dark eyes glaring up at me with feigned outrage.

But I know how to disarm her.

I step behind her in one smooth motion, wrapping my arms around her waist. My hands settle on her stomach, fingers brushing the bare skin just above her shorts. I lean down, my lips close to her ear.

"Unless," I murmur, "you don't want to be eaten tonight, Sakura?"

My index finger finds her navel. I press lightly. Circle it.

Her whole body jolts.

I feel the tremor run through her abdomen, the muscles clenching under my touch. She sucks in a sharp breath. I watch her thighs press together, instinctive. I know what's happening down there. She's getting wet. She always does.

"N-no..." she breathes, but her voice cracks.

Her hands come up and grip mine, but instead of pushing me away, she presses them harder against her belly. Her fingers interlace with mine, guiding, urging.

"Not... not here," she whispers, glancing around. Her lashes flutter. She's nervous, excited, torn.

"Back in my quarters," she manages. "Do it there. Please."

I grin against her ear. Then, deliberately, I pull my hand away.

Her stomach gives a little push forward, chasing my touch. I see the disappointment flash across her face before she catches herself. She blushes, furious and adorable.

I just smile.

"Fine. But you owe me."

She punches my arm. Lightly. Then she grabs my hand and starts pulling me down the corridor, her ponytail swinging.

"Just shut up and walk, idiot."

The wireless electrodes on my nipples and clit suddenly unleashed a powerful surge of electricity. Pain, numbness, pleasure—all these sensations converged at once, nearly sending me over the edge into a full climax right there!

The two pile drivers inside my belly had ramped up to six or seven thrusts per second, hammering into my tender pussy and intestines with insane speed. My entire abdomen vibrated from the impact.

So good! It felt too damn good!

I was starting to drown in the pleasure. One mistake—I barely dodged an insectoid as it screeched past my cockpit, missing me by inches. If that thing had connected, my mech would be wreckage, and I'd be dead, my body scattered across the void.

That close call jolted me awake. Cold sweat broke out across my skin.

And as if sensing my fear, the toys strapped to my body worked even harder. They kept stimulating my slutty flesh without mercy. The wound on my belly, which hadn't fully healed yet, started sending strange, twisted pleasure signals to my brain. The pile drivers slammed right against my navel from the inside, pounding away like cannons.

"Sakura, are you okay? Focus! We've located the mother insect's position. Head there immediately and support the team. Kill it as fast as possible!"

My brain was going fuzzy from all the pleasure shooting through my body. I held back the desperate need to cum. "Nnn—uhhh—I'm fine. Mission will be completed!"

I forced the words out while smoothly dodging another wave of insectoids chasing me. I turned my mech toward the mother insect's coordinates.

Four of my comrades had already lost their mechs. They'd gone down, but they'd carved a path straight to the mother insect's nest. My body was a mess, and I could barely think straight, but I couldn't let their sacrifice be for nothing.

Up ahead, I saw it—the mother insect's bloated, disgusting form. She looked like a fat, writhing nightmare. A super soldier insect stood guard beside her, a monster that would terrify any ordinary mobile suit pilot. But for me, it wasn't that hard.

Take it down. Then kill the mother insect. The long war would finally end. My heart pounded with excitement.

The electrodes and pile drivers must have felt my arousal. A massive surge of electricity shot through my entire body. My limbs went numb. I couldn't control myself properly. How could such tiny electrode patches produce so much current? Even with my enhanced physique, I was trembling, on the verge of losing control of my bladder. Spasms wracked my body. My nipples and clit felt like they were being roasted!

The pile drivers inside me had turned into fists, pounding against my womb and intestines without stopping.

The sudden, overwhelming stimulation drove my body into a frenzy. I was already teetering on the edge of climax, and now I fell headfirst into the abyss of pleasure.

Ohhhhh—it feels so good—I'm breaking apart—the current is too strong—I'm being cooked alive—I'm turning into a roasted sow!!!!

My mind went blank. I only vaguely remembered that just before the electricity knocked me unconscious, I drove the beam saber of my mobile suit straight into the core of the super soldier insect.

Did it work? Or did I fail?

My body could only twitch and spasm uncontrollably. The electrodes and pile drivers had eased up now that I'd climaxed, but I didn't know what fate awaited me. If the soldier insect was dead, I'd live. If not, my mech would be torn apart, and my fragile human body wouldn't survive in the vacuum of space. More likely, my flesh would be shredded along with the mech's wreckage.

A violent tremor rocked my cockpit. The terrifying force knocked me unconscious.

"Little Sakura! Wake up! Damn it—is this the mother insect's psychic attack? Hayakawa, go get Sakura out of there now! All remaining mobile suits, pursue the mother insect! Don't let it escape!!!"

The tribunal chamber was cold, the way all places of judgment were meant to be. Rows of polished steel benches rose in tiers, filled with officers in crisp uniforms, their faces unreadable masks. At the center, on an elevated platform, sat the three judges—Commander Ishida, a man whose grey hair spoke of decades of service; Captain Morozova, her sharp eyes fixed on the two figures below; and Elder Watanabe, the oldest living pilot in the fleet, his hands folded over a ceremonial blade.

Sakura stood with her back straight, her hands bound before her. The shame burned in her chest like a physical wound. Beside her, Takuya trembled, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he wished the ground would swallow him whole.

"Lieutenant Sakura Tanaka," Commander Ishida's voice rang out, flat and without emotion, "you stand accused of unauthorized interface with a classified mecha unit, destruction of military property, and dereliction of duty. How do you plead?"

"Guilty," Sakura said. The word tasted like ash.

"And Pilot Takuya Nakamura. You stand accused of aiding in unauthorized interface, failure to report a security breach, and conspiracy to commit sabotage. How do you plead?"

Takuya's voice cracked. "Guilty."

Captain Morozova leaned forward. "The court has reviewed the evidence. Your actions resulted in the complete loss of the prototype unit, damage estimated at twelve million credits, and a security breach that compromised our operational timeline by six months. The recommended sentence is twenty years of hard labor in the orbital penal colonies."

A murmur rippled through the assembled officers. Sakura felt the weight of their stares like needles on her skin. Twenty years. She would emerge at forty-five, her prime spent breaking rocks in the asteroid belt. Takuya would never pilot again. His life, his dreams—everything they had sacrificed for, everything they had done—would be erased.

But there was another way.

She had learned it as a child, whispered in the corridors of the academy. An ancient tradition, carried forward from the old world. When a female warrior brought dishonor upon herself, she could wipe it clean with a single act. Seppuku. The ritual suicide of the samurai. It did not matter the size of the crime. A woman who faced the blade without flinching was absolved. Her shame died with her. Her family's name remained untarnished. And her co-conspirator, if she named him as her accomplice, would be shown mercy.

Sakura raised her head. "Commander. I request permission to speak."

Ishida nodded.

"I accept the court's judgment. I am guilty, and I deserve punishment." Her voice did not waver. "But I ask for an alternative sentence. I request the right to perform seppuku, to cleanse this dishonor with my own blood."

The room went silent. Even the ventilation seemed to stop.

Takuya's head snapped up. "Sakura, no—"

"Silence," she hissed, not looking at him.

Elder Watanabe's eyes narrowed. "You understand what you are asking, Lieutenant? There is no return from the blade."

"I understand."

"And you know the tradition." His voice dropped, becoming almost gentle. "A female warrior who performs seppuku is granted full pardon. Her record is sealed. Her family receives her pension. And her accomplice—" he paused, "—her accomplice is shown leniency, as it is assumed he was under her influence."

"I know."

Captain Morozova studied her with something that might have been respect. "Why would you choose this? You have twenty years of life ahead of you. Hard years, but life nonetheless."

Sakura thought of Takuya, of his hands on the controls that night, of the way his eyes had lit up when the mecha responded to their combined touch. He was the best pilot she had ever seen. He could be great. He could be legendary. But not if he spent twenty years in the penal colonies, his hands calloused and his spirit broken.

She thought of herself. Of the shame that would follow her for the rest of her life, even after the sentence was served. Of how she would always be the woman who broke the prototype, who betrayed her oath, who dragged someone else down with her.

"I choose this," she said, "because some debts cannot be paid with time. Some debts must be paid with blood."

Commander Ishida looked at his colleagues. Morozawa gave a single nod. Watanabe closed his eyes and inclined his head.

"The request is granted," Ishida said. "The execution will take place at dawn, in the temple of the first fleet. Lieutenant Tanaka will be permitted to write final letters. She will be given a blade of her choosing. And Pilot Takuya Nakamura—"

Sakura felt Takuya's hand grab her arm, his fingers digging in with desperate strength.

"—will be reduced to the rank of cadet and assigned to the reclamation division on Mars for a period of five years. Following that, his record will be expunged."

Five years. Reclamation was brutal, but it was not the colonies. He would survive. He would come back.

The guards moved forward, separating them. Takuya fought, his face contorted with grief. "Sakura, you can't do this! It was my idea! I pushed you into it! Tell them, tell them it was me!"

She looked at him, and for the first time, she let herself smile. "Be a good pilot, Takuya. Be the best."

They dragged him away, his shouts echoing off the steel walls until a door slammed and cut them off.

Sakura was alone.

She spent the night in a small cell, writing letters. One to her mother, apologizing for the shame but asking her to understand. One to Takuya, telling him that he was never to blame himself, that she had made her choice freely. And one to the fleet, a formal confession that took full responsibility for every action, absolving Takuya of all guilt.

At dawn, they came for her.

The temple was a circular chamber at the heart of the fleet's flagship, its walls lined with the names of every pilot who had died in service. Candles flickered in bronze holders, casting dancing shadows across the polished floor. At the center, a white cloth had been laid out. On it rested a blade—simple, unadorned, its edge gleaming.

Sakura knelt. She wore a pure white kimono, the traditional garment of the condemned. Her hands were free now. She picked up the blade, testing its weight. It felt right. Balanced.

Elder Watanabe stood before her, dressed in ceremonial robes. "Do you have any final words, Lieutenant?"

Sakura closed her eyes. She thought of the moment in the cockpit, when the mecha had responded to her and Takuya's linked minds. The power had been intoxicating. The connection had been beautiful. And the crash, the fire, the screams of the alarm—that had been the price.

"Tell Takuya," she said, opening her eyes, "that I loved every second of it. Tell him I would do it again."

Watanabe bowed.

Sakura positioned the blade against her abdomen. Her hands were steady. Her heart was calm.

"Forgive me," she whispered, and pressed forward.

Today, I am dressed in a pure white white 无垢, the special wedding kimono worn by women of this island nation only when they marry. The fabric clings to my body, emphasizing every curve and hollow of my slender frame, but I have found the headdress too cumbersome, so my hair is left uncovered—a carefully arranged chignon that bares the nape of my neck, pale and vulnerable. Unlike my usual bare-faced indifference, I have applied makeup today, softening the sharp edges of my usual commanding presence into something gentler, more alluring. My feet are encased in white tabi, the split-toed socks wrapping my soles in clean fabric.

But I am not here to marry. I am here to atone.

I glance at Takuya. He stands beside the doorway, dressed in the black kimono of a groom, but today he is not my husband. He is my kaishakunin—the one who will end my suffering when I can no longer endure. He has pleaded with me for days, but I cannot bear to live with the shame of my failure. I am no longer fit to serve in the Yamato Fleet. Only by following tradition can I restore my honor.

Takuya’s voice is quiet, steady. “Are you ready, Sakura?”

I nod, my throat too tight for words. My long legs fold beneath me, knees pressing into the clean tatami mats. The sharp edge of the wakizashi glints before me, and my stomach clenches in anticipation. I remember watching a senior officer perform this ritual—the wet sound of the blade, the way her face contorted before she found peace. I never imagined I would be the one kneeling here.

But another thought stirs beneath the surface, one I barely admit to myself. I want this. Not just the atonement, but the end. There is a dark hunger in me, a craving to cut my own beauty short at its prime. To destroy this body with my own hands. My cunt is already slick with arousal, a shameful testament to my twisted desires.

I untie the white kimono. The fabric falls away, baring my upper body to the still air. My breasts are full and firm, the nipples already tightening in the coolness of the room. My skin trembles—not from cold, but from the raw excitement that floods my veins. This body, honed through years of training and discipline, is about to be broken by my own hands.

I trace my fingers over my abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath the smooth skin. Every hour of practice, every sacrifice, has led to this moment. I am the sculptor and the stone, the artist and the canvas. And now I will destroy my own masterpiece.

My hands close around the wakizashi’s hilt. My fingers wrap around it like a lover’s embrace. I align the tip with my navel—that innocent, perfect dimple that has never been touched by violence. A voice inside me screams, *Do it. Do it now.*

I commit.

The blade pierces my skin with a wet, tearing sound. Pain blossoms like a red flower, and I gasp. The blade sinks deeper, slicing through my navel, through the layers of fat and muscle. What was once flawless flesh is now a gaping wound. I feel no fear, only a strange relief. The heat of the blade inside me is almost unbearable, but it is a sensation I crave.

Blood wells up, hot and thick, spilling over my white kimono. I watch in the large mirror I placed before me. A woman in white, her face painted with a mask of calm and desire, drives a sword into her own belly. The image is beautiful. Art. I am both viewer and subject.

My intestines are not cut—I have not eaten in three days, and I emptied my bowels with an enema this morning. There will be no foul odor to spoil the purity of this moment. The pain is exquisite, a burning heat that spreads outward from my core. My womb contracts in pleasure, and I feel the slickness between my legs, proof that even in death, my body betrays its desperate hunger for sensation.

Takuya steps closer. His shadow falls over me. “Sakura…” His voice is strained, but he does not stop me.

I twist the blade. A moan escapes my lips. The mirror shows me everything: the crimson bloom spreading across the white, the flutter of my eyelids, the slight smile that curves my lips. I am dying, and I have never felt more alive.

I’ve already wasted too much time. I need to hurry and finish what I set out to do. According to my plan, I’m going to perform a cross cut on myself. I hope I can hold out long enough to complete it.

With that thought, in the mirror before me, the beautiful woman begins her next move.

She draws the wakizashi horizontally across her abdomen! A violent, twisting pain and a strangely exquisite sensation explode inside my belly—

Ahhhh—it hurts so much—but this feeling—it feels too good—I’m going to break apart, ahhhh—

Cutting through one’s own intestines is excruciating. From everything I’ve read about seppuku, most people attempting a cross cut fail because the pain is too overwhelming to gather the strength for the second stroke. And my belly has always been unbearably sensitive; the agony must be a thousand times worse for me than for others. I have no confidence I can do it properly, so I’ve decided to cheat.

The blade now slicing through my beautiful stomach and severing my bowels is no ordinary artisan-forged weapon—it’s a high-frequency oscillating cutter! I already switched on its vibration mode when I started the horizontal cut.

Unfortunately, my body can’t feel the high-frequency oscillation—its amplitude is measured in nanometers—so there’s no pleasant buzzing like a vibrator. What a shame. My intestines only perceive an ordinary blade, albeit terrifyingly sharp. The high-frequency vibration makes it cut through iron like mud! Even a slab of steel over ten centimeters thick would part effortlessly if the blade were simply laid on it.

With this level of sharpness, I don’t have to worry about failing to cut through my own guts due to lack of strength.

“Ughhh—it hurts—my intestines—they’re all cut through—ahhhh—urghhh—”

I can’t bear it any longer. It truly feels like my very core is being torn asunder. I throw my head back, eyes rolling white, tears and snot streaming down my face—a picture of utter ruin. The pain is too much. The “surprise” my hypersensitive belly has given me is beyond anything I imagined. My lower body seems to have lost control; I think I even climaxed once. My whole body is convulsing, trembling. I can’t maintain the kneeling position anymore and nearly fall backward, but Takuya supports me from behind.

After a brief respite, I gasp for breath, fighting the searing pain in my abdomen as I open my beautiful eyes. In the mirror, I see the blade has sliced a horizontal wound across the naked woman’s stomach. Bright red blood pours out of the gash, soaking my white kimono almost completely. I can no longer kneel properly; I’ve slumped into a sloppy sitting position.

A flicker of fear runs through me. Is that really me in the mirror? Such a beautiful woman, yet she’s turned her own belly into this bloody mess? Her stomach is still spasming, twitching as if trying to close the wound. But all her abdominal muscles have been severed—how can she possibly pull them together?

Several gray-blue intestines, stained with blood, slide out from the cut. Some are sliced through; others remain intact and tubular—so this is what’s inside me?

Blood loss makes me dizzy, and I know I can’t wait any longer. Even though I’m terrified now, I have to continue with the seppuku. Just one vertical cut, and it will be finished.

I pull the wakizashi out of my belly—it’s still clean, without a single drop of blood sticking to it. My bloodstained hands tremble as I align the blade with the midline of my beautiful stomach, just below my chest, and plunge it in.

Ughhh—it hurts so much—I’m going to pass out—no—I can’t faint—

Darkness flickers before my eyes. The pain from the existing wound and the fresh incision is beyond what I can endure. I have to find a way to distract myself, or I’ll black out from the agony first.

With that thought, my left hand reaches down to my vagina. It’s slick and sticky now—I can’t tell if it’s my own fluids or blood. But I manage to find my small clitoris. I’ve no time for gentle teasing anymore. I pinch the soft nub hard and rub it frantically. Intense pleasure bursts from the tip of my womanhood. It feels so good—the pain in my belly seems to dim slightly.

Tears streaming down my face, I moan and cry out at the same time, my left hand playing with my cunt to dampen the pain, while my right hand steadily pushes the blade downward.

The high-frequency oscillating blade slices through my skin like butter. I feel almost no resistance in my hand.

“It hurts hurts hurts—I’m going to come—urghhhhh—I—urghhh—save me—my body is breaking—urghhhhh—”

I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore. The mixture of pleasure and agony has driven me half mad. Then my vagina clenches and releases wildly, fluids gushing out—I’m climaxing again. My entire body goes limp from this final, exquisite orgasm before death. It feels so good—this destructive bliss—my abdomen is split open, ahhh—

At the same moment, my right hand loses its strength. I hadn’t anticipated that. In the throes of orgasm, I can no longer control my grip. The result is catastrophic.

The high-frequency blade, which I had been guiding slowly down to open my belly, now zips all the way down like a zipper! Before my skin can react, it has sliced my entire abdomen from top to bottom!

I had only intended to make a cross. Now the blade has even split my vagina in two!

The climax seems to continue, but it also feels suddenly cut short. I haven’t fully processed what happened. I only know that the sensation of pleasure feels strange.

In reality, my small uterus—which had been enjoying the exquisite feeling—has now been cleaved in half, along with my vagina. Worse still, my left hand, which had been soothing my cunt, has been inadvertently severed!

The pain hits a moment later. My belly, completely ripped open, can no longer hold my organs. My hot, severed intestines spill out from the gaping wound, sliding between my spread thighs!

My beautiful legs finally feel the slippery, wet mass of my own viscera—

Ughhh—I’m dying—it hurts so much—but it feels so good—is this the ending I wanted? I don’t want to die—I still want—

Takuya's grip on me suddenly released. My useless body could only fall backward onto the floor.

I knew what this meant. He was preparing to perform kaishaku for me.

With a haze of confusion, I looked up at him. I truly wanted to know what I looked like in his eyes right now—was I still beautiful? Or had I become ugly because of the blood and viscera spilling out of me?

Alas, I would never know. The purpose of kaishaku is to end the suffering of the one atoning as quickly as possible. His blade found its mark in my already ruined abdomen, sweeping across in one motion—

My abdominal aorta. This was the method we had agreed upon beforehand.

If the blood had only been gushing before, now it was spraying out!

I saw the fountain of crimson erupting from my belly, and for the first time I truly felt the terror of death. My life had entered a countdown—5, 4, 3, 2, 1—and my vision was going dark. I was going to die.

I wanted one last orgasm. If I could climax, it might drive away the fear of death, right?

I tried to reach for my vagina with my left hand, but I couldn't feel my left hand at all. (I didn't realize I had accidentally cut it off.) So I had to use my right hand.

It was so hard to find anything down there. Everything was slippery loops of intestine. Touching them felt pleasurable, sure, but I still wanted to enjoy the sensation of my cunt one last time.

To my shock, all I found were two useless flaps of sliced flesh. Only then did I realize how badly I had failed at seppuku—I had even destroyed my own vagina. The pain had become a dull numbness. My hand rummaged deeper into my abdomen, and soon I found my target: my tiny uterus, now cut into two pieces. It had probably been mid-orgasm when the blade severed it. Even touching it now brought a faint pleasure, but it was already ruined.

Ah, what a complete failure. I couldn't even kill myself properly without destroying my own body. Now that my uterus and vagina were split, I wasn't even a woman anymore. Could I not even enjoy one last climax in my final moments?

This was it. My failure. The failure of me, Ibuki Sakura. I don't want to die—I still want to—

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hayakawa Takuya's perspective:

I stared at Sakura's body lying on the floor, her eyes still open. Her pupils had already dilated, and her expression was one of disappointment.

Her beautiful upper body was naked, collapsed on the tatami. Those perfect breasts still captivated me. But her once-sensual abdomen was utterly destroyed. Two cruel wounds had sliced her belly into four flaps. Intestines mixed with other organs spilled across the floor. Blood pooled beneath her. She had completed the full cross-cut.

There was one regrettable detail: near the end, she had made a mistake and accidentally cut her own vagina in half. That intoxicating jade chamber that had once driven me wild was now completely ruined. She had also inadvertently severed her own left hand. Perhaps using the high-frequency vibration blade had been a mistake after all? I had thought it would make the seppuku easier. No—if I hadn't provided that blade, she might never have been able to carve her beautiful abdomen so thoroughly.

Looking at my beautiful girlfriend's corpse after she had atoned by cutting herself open, I shamefully grew hard. I had always wanted to treat her lovely white belly this way. Now my desire was finally fulfilled.

She was too tragically beautiful. In this moment, I think I truly understood what *mono no aware* meant. That distinctly Japanese aesthetic of pathos. The cruel beauty of destruction.

My life's wish had been completely satisfied today. Like Sakura in her white shiromuku, I was also wearing black formal attire. Of course, I hadn't dressed up just to watch my beautiful wife die.

I am a stomach man. There is no denying it. Whether it's a woman with clearly defined abs, the ridges of her abdominal muscles standing out with every flex, or a belly that is flat and smooth, soft as cotton, it is the most attractive part of the female body. But what truly drives me crazy, what pulls at something deep and primal inside me, is the navel. That tiny, innocent-looking indentation holds an almost obscene power over me. And I'm not the type to just look and touch. That's for amateurs. My real pleasure comes from tormenting that little spot and watching the reactions it draws out.

Sakura and I were made for each other. She loves having her stomach played with. It's not exactly a normal hobby, and finding someone who shares it is nearly impossible. The fact that I managed to win her over is thanks to this shared secret. Otherwise, how could I have ever landed a woman as perfect and captivating as her?

She's one of the top five ace pilots in the entire fleet. Me? I'm just one face in a crowd of tens of thousands of ordinary mobile suit grunts. She has outflown and outgunned more talented men than I could count. And right now, that prodigy of the cockpit, that goddess of combat, is lying obediently on our bed, waiting for me to have my way with her.

I'm not about to be gentle. I climb onto the bed and settle myself on her smooth, plush, impossibly soft thighs. Her legs are beautiful, perfectly rounded and full of life. I grab both of her wrists with one hand and pin them above her head, leaving her completely open and vulnerable. My other hand comes to rest on her flat belly. Just an appetizer for now.

Her stomach rises and falls gently with each breath. Her beautiful face is staring straight at me, a mixture of anticipation and shyness dancing in her eyes. Her body is completely limp, as if she has no strength to resist. There's a faint tremor running through her.

To be honest, her hand-to-hand combat skills are way better than mine. Our raw strength is about equal. If she really wanted to fight me off, I wouldn't stand a chance. But this pose of utter defenselessness is what gives her the greatest pleasure.

I press my index finger into her cute little navel. The soft skin gives way, and I slowly push deeper.

"Ahhh… that feels so good…" Sakura moans, a flush of pink spreading across her cheeks.

The navel is a miraculous thing. Before birth, all the nutrients from the mother's body are channeled through it to the infant. It's a direct connection to the entire network of nerves and muscles. Just by pressing into her belly button, I can feel every change happening in her body.

Her sexy abdominal muscles contract, flexing with power. The movement tightens her navel around my finger. It clamps down on me like a vice, a sensation more exquisite than anything her pussy could offer. Her limbs stiffen.

"Keep going… keep digging into my belly button… oooh… it feels so good… I'm getting wet…"

Sakura seems to be losing herself to the pleasure. Her slender waist arches upward, pushing her stomach higher to give me better access. I don't disappoint her. I start to rub, my fingernail scraping and circling the sensitive inner wall of the cavity in her flesh.

"Ohhh! My belly button! Hahaha… ahhh… it's breaking… oooohhh…"

Her navel is incredibly sensitive. To heighten the experience, she even had a drug injected near it to increase the sensitivity. Now, under my vigorous assault, her body is going wild. Her slender waist squirms and twists frantically, as if trying to escape my finger and grind into it at the same time. Her limbs spasm and struggle like she's having a seizure. Beneath the tight confines of her sports bra, her firm, perky breasts bounce with her violent movements, like they're performing some kind of mystic dance. Her beautiful eyes roll back, and her mouth hangs open, alternating between laughter and crying. She has completely lost control.

To me, this is a masterpiece. The ultimate reward. But I can't hold her down anymore. Her thrashing is too strong, and she flips me off the bed. I land on the floor with a thud. On the mattress, her body continues to spasm and tremble, curled into a tight ball.

"Hey, Sakura, you're way too strong! I couldn't hold you down."

She's still lying there, her whole body bent like a shrimp. Finally, she seems to come back to her senses. A teasing edge creeps into her voice.

"Then you'd better train harder. If you don't, you might get your little toothpick crushed by my abs."

It's a cheap taunt. I know what she really wants. She wants me to be rougher with her. And I'm more than happy to take the bait and teach her a lesson she won't forget.

I still remember that day clearly. The senior female pilot in our fleet had made a critical mistake during a battle, causing massive losses. There was only one way to atone—seppuku. Our commanding officer wanted every member to learn from her fate, so we were ordered to witness the entire ritual.

When the wakizashi pierced her navel, I saw cold sweat streaming down her body. Her abdomen convulsed as bright red blood flowed over her pale skin. In that moment, I couldn't suppress the tremor inside me—not fear of such an end, but *desire*.

I projected myself into her position, imagining what it would feel like if it were my own belly being cut open. The blade sliding into my navel, that most sensitive spot, then slicing downward to expose everything inside. My beautiful, sexy stomach laid open for all to see.

So even though that day was supposed to be a somber occasion of death and atonement, my cunt was shamefully soaking wet. I was mortified, but that was also the day I awakened my obsession with abdominal mutilation.

None of my teammates would ever guess that beautiful, powerful ace pilot Ibuki Sakura is just a depraved woman who yearns to have her belly sliced open.

But enough of memories. Let's return to the present.

My boyfriend, who seemed somewhat annoyed by my earlier taunts, was now binding my limbs to make sure I couldn't throw him off again like before. Takuya's movements were practiced and efficient. Soon my wrists and ankles were tied tightly to the four bedposts, my body stretched into a perfect X shape.

He stood between my spread legs, admiring my helpless form.

"Sakura," he said with a grin, patting my wet crotch through my denim shorts. The sound of squelching moisture echoed in the room. "I can't believe you came just from that earlier. Your juice is already soaking through your shorts."

I felt my cheeks flush with heat. What could I do? My navel was so sensitive. When he'd been playing with it earlier, it felt like there was an invisible line connecting my belly button directly to my clit. The sensation of him fingering my navel, threatening to push through, combined with the tugging feeling deep in my gut—it was too intense. My entire abdominal cavity seemed to be on the verge of being pulled out through that tiny hole. The pleasure was beyond words.

Now my ice-silk thong was still plastered wetly against my split-open pussy lips. But I hadn't expected so much fluid to leak through my thick denim hot pants. Maybe I should wear looser clothes next time instead of something so form-fitting?

Seeing me too embarrassed to speak, Takuya crawled onto the bed with a wicked smile. He tore open my sports bra, exposing both pale breasts without any concealment. My areolas and nipples, pink and sensitive, were bared to his hungry gaze.

I struggled in shame and anger, making my breasts bounce with exaggerated waves of flesh. "Don't ruin my clothes! This was my last sports bra!"

He snorted dismissively. "Perfect timing. You won't need them anymore anyway."

"What?"

I didn't understand what he meant. With my big tits swaying, I was nearly naked as I questioned him.

Then he pulled out a sharp knife. The cold gleam of the blade told me it was real.

"You know my hobby, Sakura." He carefully sliced through my tight denim shorts with the knife. "You deliberately showed off your beautiful belly to me. I can't hold back anymore—I have to cut you open."

As soon as he finished speaking, my hot pants were completely cut away, easily pulled from under my full buttocks.

I froze. But his expression wasn't joking. Yes—I knew his hobby. He really wanted to cut my stomach open, to mess up everything inside.

I felt a flicker of fear, but even more than that, I felt anticipation. Pleasure. I could feel my abdominal muscles tensing in excitement, trembling. Was he really going to slice open my sexy belly with that blade?

Cool sweat beaded on my skin. My stomach arched upward unconsciously, as if eager for what was coming.