February 21, 2026. Saturday.
The alarm on Tanaka Yuta's phone vibrated against the pillow at exactly 7:15 a.m., but sleep had already abandoned him long before that. For nearly forty minutes he had lain motionless on his narrow futon, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, heart beating with the slow, insistent rhythm of something he refused to name. The thin winter light slipping through the half-closed curtains painted pale bars across his room: over the stack of untouched textbooks on his desk, across the faded ecchi poster he'd taped behind the door where no one ever looked, and finally over the small lockable drawer where he kept the things he never wanted his mother to find.
His phone screen was still warm when he finally reached for it. He didn't unlock it, not yet. Instead, he let his thumb hover above the home button, remembering the last thing he'd seen before forcing himself to sleep: a looped video clip, thirty seconds of a woman on her knees, eyes vacant and smiling, lips moving in perfect, programmed devotion. The sound had been muted, but he could still hear her imagined whispers in his head. Yes. Anything. For you.
Yuta exhaled sharply through his nose and rolled onto his side. The futon creaked under him. He was already half-hard, the familiar ache settling low in his belly like it did every morning now. He hated it. He craved it. He hated how much he craved it.
He pushed the blanket aside and stood. Hoodie pulled over his head, sweatpants tugged low on narrow hips, bare feet silent on the cold tatami. The apartment was quiet except for the soft clink of porcelain from the kitchen and the low hiss of the gas stove. That sound alone was enough to pull him forward, step by reluctant step down the short hallway.
Tanaka Akari was already there, of course.
She stood at the narrow counter with her back to the doorway, stirring miso in slow, practiced circles. She wore the cream-colored sweater she always chose on weekends, the one that had started life loose and comfortable but had shrunk just enough over years of washing to cling in all the wrong (or right) places. The soft knit stretched taut across her shoulders and back, outlining the gentle valley of her spine before flaring dramatically over the impossible swell of her hips. Below that, plain gray lounge pants sat low on her waist, the elastic band digging faintly into soft flesh, revealing a thin crescent of smooth skin whenever she moved.
Her long blonde hair, was dyed golden, a small vanity she maintained despite the extra cost, fell in loose waves past her shoulder blades. A few damp strands clung to the warm nape of her neck; she must have showered only minutes ago. The bathroom door was still ajar, releasing faint steam scented with her floral body wash and the clean, warm smell of her skin.
Yuta stopped dead in the doorway.
From here he could see her in merciless profile. When she reached up to grab the ladle from the high shelf, the motion lifted her arms and pulled the sweater tight across her chest. Her breasts were full, heavy, and impossibly round, rose with the movement, straining the fabric until the faint shadow of her nipples appeared for one betraying second before she lowered her arm again. They settled back with a soft, liquid sway that made the knit ripple.
Lower, her waist curved inward in a deep hourglass dip before exploding outward into hips so wide they seemed engineered for gripping, for holding, for never letting go. The lounge pants molded to the thick plushness of her thighs, the inner surfaces brushing together with every small shift of weight. When she bent slightly to check the rice cooker, the cotton pulled tight across her backside, outlining the generous, rounded cheeks and the shadowed cleft between them. A single bead of sweat or perhaps condensation from the steaming pot, gathered at the small of her back and slid slowly downward, disappearing beneath the waistband.
Yuta's mouth went dry. His fingers flexed involuntarily at his sides.
Akari turned halfway, reaching for a cutting board, and the motion gave him the full side view he both dreaded and craved. Her breasts hung forward, pendulous and soft, pulling the sweater's V-neck low enough that he could see the shadowed valley of cleavage, skin glistening faintly in the kitchen light. The upper curves spilled slightly over the neckline, creamy and flushed from the warmth of the room. When she straightened again, they bounced once subtle, natural, and devastating.
He wanted to cross the three steps between them. Wanted to slide both hands under that sweater from behind, cup the unbearable weight of her breasts, feel them overflow his palms while she gasped in surprise. Wanted to press his hips forward against the plush cushion of her ass, grind slowly, let her feel exactly how hard she made him without a single word. Wanted her to turn, blue eyes wide, lips parted, and whisper—
"Yuta?"
Her voice snapped him back.
Akari had turned fully now, blue eyes (the coloured contacts she wore even at home sometimes, a quiet indulgence) meeting his. For a heartbeat her expression flickered something unreadable, and almost startled, before it softened into the familiar maternal warmth.
"You're up early for a Saturday," she said. Her voice was lower than usual, still rough from sleep or steam or maybe both. She tucked a damp strand of blonde hair behind her ear; the motion lifted her chest again, making the sweater pull even tighter across her nipples. "I was going to let you sleep in."
Yuta forced his gaze up to her face. It took effort. "Couldn't sleep."
She studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled gently, the kind of smile that always made something twist painfully in his chest.
"Come eat. You look… tense."
She turned back to the stove. Hips swaying as she carried the miso pot to the small table. Each step rolled her ass under the thin fabric, hypnotic, and obscene in its innocence. When she leaned across to place his bowl in front of him, her breast brushed the bare skin of his forearm soft, and warm, but accidental. The contact lasted less than two seconds, but it burned through him like live current. He inhaled sharply, catching the clean floral scent of her shampoo mixed with the faint, intimate musk of her skin after a shower.
Akari sat across from him. The table was small; their knees nearly touched beneath it. She folded her hands on the surface, elbows pressing inward so that her arms squeezed her breasts together, deepening the shadowed line of cleavage until it looked like an invitation. She didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did. Maybe she always noticed and simply chose not to acknowledge it.
She picked up her chopsticks. "Your grandpa called yesterday," she began, voice softening. "His knees have been giving him trouble again. The old house is a mess, boxes of your father's things, old books, and papers, junk piled up for years. He asked if you could go over today or tomorrow to help him sort through it. I have overtime both days at the office, so…"
She leaned forward as she spoke, earnest, pleading in that quiet way she had. The motion made her breasts settle heavily against the edge of the table, sweater stretching until Yuta could see the delicate lace pattern of her bra pressing through the knit. A single lock of blonde hair fell across her eye; she blew it away with a small puff of breath that parted her full lips.
"Please?" she added. Her voice dropped even lower, almost intimate. "It would really help him. And… it would make me feel better knowing you're there."
Yuta stared at her mouth. Then at the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Then back to her eyes blue, and wide, filled with trust, completely unaware of the storm behind his own gaze.
His fingers curled into fists under the table so hard his nails bit into his palms.
"Yeah, sure," he rasped, throat tight. "I'll go."
Akari's smile bloomed brighter, and achingly beautiful. It lit up her whole face, crinkling the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, making her look ten years younger and infinitely more dangerous.
"Thank you, Yuta." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand once briefly, filled with maternal love. Her fingers were soft. Her palm was slightly damp from the steam. "You're such a good son."
She stood to clear the dishes.
As she turned toward the sink, the lounge pants slipped a fraction lower on her hips, revealing another smooth inch of lower back; pale skin, faint dimples above the swell of her ass. Yuta watched every sway, every roll, every impossible curve all the way to the sink. Water ran, as she hummed softly under her breath, some old enka song she liked when she was relaxed.
He stayed seated, pulse hammering in his ears, cock straining painfully against his sweatpants.
Today he would go to his grandfather's house. Today he would open dusty boxes and find something buried for years. Today something would change.
And when he came back through that front door tonight…
Tanaka Akari would never look at him the same way again.
He didn't know how he knew it. He only knew it was true.
(End of Chapter 1)
XXXX
This story, Taboo Hypnosis: Love Rewritten by Alaric Lock, is currently available exclusively on Patreon for now.
All new chapters, early access, uncensored artwork, bonus scenes, and full uncut versions are posted there first (and for the foreseeable future, only there).
Dying for more? Get 5 chaps ahead on Reborn Sovereign, Business Emperor & Shadows of Dominion. 2 chaps early of Zombie Apocalypse Harem + exclusive NSFW refs!
Join: https://www.patreon.com/Alaric_Lock 🔥👀💦