Work Text:
When Asuka evicted Shinji from his bedroom, she took the liberty of pillaging a handful of useful paraphernalia from his many teen boy trash piles. The biggest spoil she found was a sexy postcard of Misato. She was bent over flashing a peace sign, one eye winking suggestively with her purple tresses falling erotically over her shoulder. An arrow scrawled next to the phrase “Check this out!!” enthusiastically pointed to the plumage of her spaghetti strap, or, rather, the spilled heft of the breasts that hung within, a green bra loosely fit around their shape. Asuka hated that the postcard addressed Shinji by name and often covered the writing with her thumb, but she nevertheless loved to imagine Misato picking her up for a date in that blue Alpine of hers, her lips glossy with the same brand of red lipstick that she used to stamp the bottom left corner of the photo. Asuka would trail her tongue along that lipstick stain over and over again, huffing with bated breath against its lingering cherry aftertaste as her eyes scanned the bare skin of Misato’s breasts, arms, and legs, every curve of her hips outlined in loving detail by her trimmed shorty shorts.
Asuka stood above the toilet bowl holding the postcard in one hand and her cock in the other, masturbating with wide, bended knees to Misato’s image. Her strokes were always rough. She liked them rough. A little bit of pain kept her awake and alive. With each pump of her hand, the skin would fold over the tip of her cock, dabbing against the precum oozing down over her frenulum before redistributing it all along her shaft. The wetter her cock then became, the louder the fap of her ministrations.
Her head tilted backwards, her mouth open and breathing airy moans. Sometimes she liked to look away from the postcard and reconstruct Misato in her mind, animating her body and giving her new movements far more provocative than anything that existed in reality. She’d make Misato say all kinds of tantalizing things. Some seductive. Some debasing. She’d call Asuka a good girl and tease her cock, telling her to keep stroking herself while she watched. Asuka imagined her hand was Misato’s, her long, painted nails wrapped around the neck of her cock. Her arm flab and breasts would jiggle as it pumped up and over her shaft, that spaghetti strap discarded completely along with her green bra. She’d look up at Asuka, her beautiful, eager smile narrowing with pride over how she made the girl’s knees buckle in pleasure, and Asuka would peer down at the whole of her caretaker’s body, her top-down, god-eye perspective absorbing the hump of her peach and the valley between her womanly swell. The scar on her chest would be visible. Asuka wanted to lick that scar. She’d kiss it and make all of Misato’s pain go away and then fuck her with her cross necklace still on and do so in the master bed where she would act as the man of the house.
“Misato,” she moaned. She wanted to yell out her name, to make herself heard; to voice the name back at its owner as though to validate each other’s existence. “Miiiiisatoooooo.”
The greater the tension in her cock, the racier her fantasies became. Misato would dab the tip against her tongue, ahhing as the precum soaked into her saliva as though administering a check-up. She would fondle her balls while rubbing her cock against her nipple, letting both of their pink studs react in aching unison. She’d wedge Asuka’s cock between those insatiable adult breasts and funnel it through their cushiony crevice. She’d then use words like “yours” to relinquish ownership of her body to Asuka. She’d say it openly and shamelessly, that she was Asuka’s to use.
And then.
Just as Asuka’s throbs would become unbearable.
Misato would gaze up at her.
Cock between her tits.
And say.
“Cum for mama.”
“Let mama see you cum.”
And Asuka would bite her lip one last time.
As her cock braced for its final tense.
In her momentary hubris, Asuka thought to herself to just cum without properly aiming into the toilet. It would be more exciting that way. Fuck the consequences. This was her territory. Her sperm then splashed against the underside of the seat, some spilling over her hand and falling along the rim of the bowl. Some dripped off the sides and landed on her scrunched up toes as the squelch of her stroking hitched in volume, semen slipping between the bends of her fingers as her entire hand and shaft moistened with her fluids. There was always an inkling of temptation to hold the postcard in front of the line of fire and dirty Misato’s image in her cum, and while she always fantasized about the idea, she never went through with it. She really, really thought about it, though.
With her cock softening inside her grip, Asuka floated out of her lewd fantasy and waited with dismay as rationality returned to her. She glanced down and sighed. Why did she cum on the seat? Now she had to clean and scrub it so the smell wouldn’t stick. She set the postcard in a cabinet and washed her hands, clicking her tongue as her seed rinsed down the drain. In her fantasies her sperm was erotic and sensual. When sober it was just gross. She then grabbed a rag and some all purpose cleaner—the cheaper brands since Misato liked to save money for Yebisu—and pulled some disposable gloves over her hands. Squatting in front of the seat, she came face to face with the mess she had made and watched, with some remorse, as it slowly dripped down the porcelain in fat gumps of slightly off-colored white. “I really need to stop doing this.”
A knock came at the bathroom door. “Asuka,” Misato called. “Dinner’s ready. Shinji cooked chicken.”
“Haiiiii,” she answered. She felt neither guilt nor embarrassment. This song and dance had been played out dozens of times since she came to live in Tokyo-3. She simply waited for Misato to leave and then went to spraying the toilet, back to her usual wits and starved for dinner. She would cum one more time that night when she took a bath. She would cum and then groan as she cleaned the affected areas around the shower drain before putting on her pajamas and going to bed, her final thoughts replaying those romantic dreams of her womanly caretaker until the cycle repeated the next day.