Artist: 毒林檎 (kuroame) https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/131002867
Her shimakaze cosplay felt perfect in the hotel mirror that morning: The wig didnt arrived so she had her own pigtails tied with ribbon, topped by shiny black bunny ears, the tight navy top clinging to every curve of her breasts, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric when the light hit just right.
The pleated skirt was scandalously short but still technically decent, brushing the tops of her red-and-white striped thigh-highs. She’d even painted little heart-shaped freckles across her nose for extra cuteness.
She stared at her reflection, breath catching. Her stomach twisted for a second, sharp little flutters that made her thighs press together instinctively.
What if it was too much?
What if people laughed instead of looked?
What if someone called security because the skirt rode up wrong or the top slipped? Her fingers fidgeted with the hem, tugging it down an inch, then letting it spring back up. Her cheeks burned. She could already imagine the crowd, the stares, the whispers.
And yet…
Under the anxiety, there was something else. She tilted her head, watching how the bunny ears bobbed with the motion, how the tight top lifted her chest, how the striped thigh-highs made her legs look endlessly long and toned. Damn, she looked good. Really good. The kind of good that turned heads and stopped people mid-sentence.
A slow, shaky smile tugged at her lips. Yeah, her heart was racing like she’d chugged three energy drinks, but there was a spark of confidence flickering beneath it.
She exhaled a trembling laugh. Nervous? Absolutely. Terrified she’d regret this the second she stepped into the hall? Definitely.
But she also felt powerful. Like she could walk out there, own every inch of exposed skin, and make the entire convention remember her name.
“Okay,” she whispered, voice half-shake, half-smirk. “Let’s see what happens.”
She turned away from the mirror, grabbed her con bag, and stepped toward the door.
The convention center was overwhelming, thousands of voices, the constant pop of camera shutters, the bass-heavy voices leaking from nearby panels. Lucy had arrived early, hoping to beat the worst of the crowds, but the moment she stepped off the escalator her plan unraveled.
She barely made it twenty steps into the main hall before the first request came.
“Hey! That’s incredible, mind if I take a quick pic?”
She smiled, automatic politeness kicking in. She turned, popped a hip, gave a peace sign. Flash. A tiny electric jolt zipped down her spine. Nice, she thought. Just nice.
Then another. And another. Within minutes a loose semicircle had formed around her. Phones, DSLRs, even a few vloggers with gimbals. The compliments rained down like confetti.
“Those legs are insane.” “The detail on the top is perfect.” “Can you do the classic cheer jump?”
She jumped. The skirt fluttered up, flashing black fabric and a glimpse of pale inner thigh. Cheers. Laughter. More flashes. Her pulse kicked harder. She could feel heat crawling up her neck, settling behind her navel. It wasn’t embarrassment anymore, it was something greedier.
She started posing before they asked. Hands behind her head, chest thrust forward so the tight top strained audibly against the swell of her breasts. A side profile with one leg bent, ass curved out just enough to make the skirt ride dangerously high. Someone called for a back arch; she gave it to them, spine curving like a bow, head tipped back so her pigtails spilled over her shoulders. The crowd groaned in collective appreciation.
More bodies pressed in. The circle tightened. She could smell sweat, cologne, the faint metallic tang of hot camera gear. Her breathing grew shallow. Every time she obeyed a shouted direction her clit throbbed in answer.
“Turn around, yeah, just like that.” “Hands on your knees!” “Bend over a little more!”
She bent. The skirt slid up her ass until the lower curve of her cheeks peeked out. A ripple of appreciative murmurs. Someone whistled low and long.Her thighs trembled, not from strain, but from the heat gathering between them. She was getting wet. Noticeably wet. The tiny thong she’d chosen was already clinging uncomfortably to her swollen lips.
Then came the accident.
A particularly enthusiastic photographer lunged forward for a low-angle shot just as another fan bumped her from behind. The tiny clasp at her waist gave with a soft pop. The pleated skirt slithered down her hips in one smooth motion, pooling around her ankles like spilled ink.
Silence for half a heartbeat.
Then, an explosion of sound. Cheers, gasps, phones clicking so fast it sounded like machine-gun fire.
Lucy froze, heart slamming against her ribs. She stood exposed in the cropped top, long gloves, thigh-highs, bunny ears, and a black thong that had ridden up between her ass cheeks, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Her full, rounded backside shining under the harsh convention lights like the moon. Between her thighs the fabric was visibly darkened, clinging to her dripping slit.
She should have screamed. Should have snatched the skirt up and fled.
Instead she felt the strangest, most delicious rush flood her brain.
They wanted this.
They were starving for it.
And she wanted to feed them.
Slowly, deliberately, she kicked the skirt aside with one foot. A roar went up. Someone yelled “Holy shit!” and the chant started: “Pose! Pose! Pose!”
Lucy obeyed.
She planted her feet wide, bent at the waist, hands braced on her knees so her ass thrust back toward the densest knot of cameras. The thong pulled taut, outlining every curve of her pussy. She could feel the cool air kissing the wet fabric and the trickle of arousal sliding down the inside of her thigh.
“Arch harder!”
She did. Spine curved to the breaking point, breasts hanging heavy in the tight top, nipples now painfully stiff and poking through.
“Leg up, like a high kick!”
She raised one leg straight up, ballerina-style. The motion tugged the thong aside just enough to flash glistening pink flesh to a dozen lenses at once. Moans and curses filled the air. Her clit pulsed so hard she nearly whimpered aloud.
“Shake it!”
She rolled her hips in slow, obscene circles. Her ass jiggled with each movement; the crowd lost its mind. Phones were practically pressed to her skin now. She could hear heavy breathing all around her, could feel the heat radiating off so many bodies.
Her thoughts were swaloowed and replaced by the crowds shouts.
Too many voices. Too many flashes. Too much want pouring into her.
“Spread wider!”
Legs parted farther. The thong slipped fully between her lips now, soaked and useless.
“Touch it!”
Trembling fingers drifted down. She brushed the sodden fabric, then, without conscious decision, pulled it aside. Cool air hit her bare, swollen clit and she gasped, loud enough for the front row to hear. Fingers slid through slickness, circling once, twice. A broken moan tore from her throat.
“Pinch your nipples!”
Her free hand yanked the top down, exposing one flushed breast to the flashing sea. She caught the stiff peak between thumb and forefinger, rolling it hard. Pleasure lanced straight to her core.
The commands came faster now, overlapping, a chaotic chorus she no longer tried to parse. She simply moved, body on autopilot, mind dissolving into white static.
“Spread yourself!”
Her fingers digging into soft flesh, pulling her cheeks apart so every camera caught the glistening, needy hole of her pussy.
“Look back at us, eyes on the lens!”
She twisted, lips parted, pupils blown wide, mascara starting to smear from the heat and tears of overstimulation.
“Cum for us!”
She didn’t even register the command as words, just sensation. Her fingers plunged inside herself, two then three, while her thumb ground against her clit. The orgasm hit: thighs shaking, a raw, animalstic cry ripping out of her as she came hard enough to splash onto the convention floor.
The crowd erupted.
Lucy didn’t collapse. She couldn’t. Her body kept posing,still trembling, still leaking, still obeying, because the voices hadn’t stopped.
And deep inside the blank mind of her, a single thought flickered one last time before it too dissolved:
More.
Please.
More.