ねるられ (Nerurare)

 

**The Bamboozled Idol**

Neru stood in the dim light of her suburban Tokyo kitchen, a faded idol poster of herself pinned to the fridge—young, radiant, a stark contrast to the woman she’d become. Once, she’d been a star, her bright eyes and coy smile captivating Japan’s otaku masses, her voice a lilting melody on late-night variety shows as she danced in frilly costumes. But fame was fleeting. Scandals, a jealous rival, and a poorly timed photo had snuffed out her career like a candle in the wind. Now, at 32, she was Neru-san, a housewife married to an anonymous, gentle but overworked salaryman, her dreams of stardom replaced by the monotony of laundry and convenience store bento.

Her husband was kind but distant, his late nights at the office leaving her alone in their modest home, a quiet ache growing in her chest. She missed the spotlight, the adoration, the thrill of being wanted. That desperation gnawed at her until one day, fate—or something darker—knocked on her door.

It was Matsumoto, a slick-talking “talent scout” with sharp cheekbones and a predatory grin, leaning against her doorway in a leather jacket, his cologne sharp and intoxicating. “I’ve seen your old idol posters,” he purred, his voice smooth as silk. “Your beauty’s wasted here. I’ve got connections—exclusive gigs, private audiences, high-paying stuff.” Her heart raced, a flicker of her old self sparking to life. “Really?” she whispered, hope trembling in her throat.

That night, her anonymous husband came home, his tie loosened, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. She sat across from him at the table, ramen steaming between them. “He says I could perform again,” she said, her voice eager, almost pleading. He frowned, slurping his broth, his tired eyes narrowing. “Sounds like a scam, Neru. Be careful.” She waved him off, pride stinging. She wasn’t some naive girl anymore—she’d been an idol, damn it. She could handle this.

 **The First Encounter: A Slow, Sensual Seduction**

The next evening, Matsumoto’s black car idled outside, and Neru stepped out into the cool Roppongi air, her tight black dress—a relic from her idol days—hugging her curves, the hem riding up slightly as she moved. She entered a sleek penthouse, the city skyline glittering through massive windows, jazz drifting softly through the air. Takahashi, a wealthy older man with silver hair and a tailored suit, lounged in a leather armchair, his legs spread, a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. Matsumoto lingered by the bar, sipping whiskey, a smirk playing on his lips as he toyed with his phone.

“Begin,” Takahashi said, his voice a deep growl, and Neru’s heart thudded as she started to sing. Her voice wavered at first, but it steadied, and soon she was swaying—hips rolling, arms lifting, the dress clinging tighter to her full breasts and round ass. Takahashi watched, his dark eyes hungry, drinking in every curve. She finished, breathless, and he clapped—slow, deliberate claps that echoed in the room. “Beautiful,” he murmured, rising from his chair, his polished shoes clicking on the hardwood as he approached. “You’ve still got it, Neru-chan. That spark.”

She flushed, her old idol instincts stirring under his praise. “Thank you,” she said, voice soft, uncertain. He stopped close—too close—his presence towering, the scent of his expensive cologne mingling with the whiskey on his breath. He didn’t touch her yet, just let his gaze roam, deliberate and invasive, like he was peeling her apart layer by layer.

“You miss it, don’t you?” he said, his tone low, almost intimate. “The stage. The screams. Being wanted.” Her breath hitched—he’d struck a nerve, and he knew it. She nodded, barely perceptible, her eyes dropping to the floor. He tilted her chin up with a single finger, forcing her to meet his stare. “I can give that back to you. Not some cheap comeback—something exclusive. Private shows, elite audiences. Men like me who’d pay a fortune to see a star like you shine again.”

Her pulse quickened, a mix of hope and unease swirling in her chest. “What… what do you mean?” she asked, her voice trembling. Takahashi smiled, a predator’s grin, and leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “Dance for me now, just me. Show me you’re still that idol. And if you please me, I’ll make you famous again—rich, adored. More than you ever were. But it’s not free, Neru-chan. I want more than a song.”

Her stomach twisted, the implication sinking in. She glanced at Matsumoto, who nodded subtly, his smirk widening as he sipped his drink. “I—I’m married,” she stammered, stepping back, but Takahashi caught her wrist, gentle yet firm, pulling her back into his orbit.

“Your husband buries himself in work, leaves you rotting in that little house,” he said, his voice smooth, cutting. “Does he see you? Does he *want* you like I do?” His thumb brushed her wrist, a shiver racing up her arm. “One night. Prove you’ve still got it. I’ll give you everything you’ve lost—and more. No one has to know.”

The room spun. Shame clawed at her, but so did desire—not just for him, but for the life he dangled before her. The spotlight. The thrill. She thought of her husband’s tired eyes, the cold breakfasts, the silence. “Just a dance?” she whispered, testing the lie she wanted to believe.

“For now,” Takahashi purred, releasing her wrist and stepping back, giving her space to choose. The music shifted, a slow, sultry beat filling the air. She hesitated, then began to move—hips swaying, the dress sliding higher up her thighs, revealing smooth, toned legs. His eyes darkened, locked on her, and the power of his gaze reignited something dormant, a flicker of her old self.

He closed the distance again, hands finding her waist, pulling her into a slow, deliberate dance. His grip was firm, possessive, sliding down to squeeze her ass as she gasped, lips parting. “Exquisite,” he breathed, spinning her until her back pressed against the cold glass of the window, the city lights a blur behind her. He pinned her arms above her head with one hand, the other roaming—brushing her breast, squeezing softly, then gripping her hip. “Tell me you want this,” he said, lips hovering over hers, the whiskey scent intoxicating.

Guilt screamed, but temptation roared louder—fame, desire, escape. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audible, and his smirk deepened. He released her wrists, spun her again, her palms flattening against the glass, ass arching back instinctively. He hiked her dress up, exposing black lace panties, his fingers tracing her trembling thighs until they slipped beneath the lace, finding her wet. She whimpered, head tipping back, hair spilling over her shoulders as the slick sound of her arousal filled the air.

“So responsive,” he chuckled, peeling the panties down to her ankles, nudging her legs apart. His belt clinked as he unbuckled it, his cock pressing against her entrance, teasing her folds. “Beg for it,” he demanded, and her “Please, fuck me” was a desperate, broken plea, the last of her resistance crumbling under the weight of his promise.

He thrust in, one hard stroke filling her, and she screamed—raw, primal—her body jolting forward, breasts pressing against the glass. He gripped her hips, setting a slow, deep rhythm, the wet slap of skin mixing with her moans. “Take it,” he grunted, speeding up, his balls slapping her clit, her cries growing louder. He yanked her dress down, baring her breasts, squeezing one hard, pinching her nipple until she yelped. “You’re mine,” he growled, fingers rubbing her clit in relentless circles. Her orgasm hit—legs shaking, a high-pitched moan, her walls pulsing around him.

He slammed in deep, groaning as he came, hot and thick inside her, then pulled out, leaving her slumped against the window, dress tangled, cum dripping down her thigh. Matsumoto’s “Perfect” cut through the haze, his phone still recording, smirk triumphant.

The next morning, she stumbled home, dress wrinkled, lipstick smeared. Her husband was gone, breakfast cold. Her phone buzzed—Matsumoto: “You were perfect,” with a photo of her surrender. “Next gig’s tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me.” Shame and arousal battled as she stared, hands trembling.

**The Next Gig: A Group Frenzy**

The following night, the penthouse was darker, the air thick with cigar smoke and the low rumble of men’s voices. Six of them waited—suits undone, eyes gleaming with predatory intent, their faces scarred or wrinkled from years of excess. Takahashi greeted her with a hard, possessive kiss, his tongue shoving into her mouth, teeth clashing as he pulled her close. “Our little idol,” he announced, and their laughter rolled through the room, dirty and menacing.

“Dance,” a burly man barked, his voice rough, and she obeyed, her movements stiff at first, mechanical, until the sake loosened her limbs. Soon she was grinding, spinning, the dress riding up to flash her panties—black, lacy, barely there. Hands reached out—one gripped her ass, squeezing so hard she winced, another twisted her nipple through the fabric, a sharp sting that made her gasp, a third tugged her into a lap, his erection pressing against her thigh. They pulled her onto a plush couch, surrounding her, their touches relentless—fingers pinching her nipples, a hand sliding up her thigh, forcing her legs apart until she was spread wide, vulnerable.

Takahashi stepped forward, shoving her down to her knees on the hardwood floor. “Suck me,” he ordered, unzipping his trousers, and his cock—thick, already hard—slapped against her cheek, leaving a faint red mark. She opened her mouth, taking him in, her lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling along the underside as he groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling tight. Another man approached, his cock in hand, and Takahashi nodded. “Take him too.” She reached out, stroking the second man, her fingers wrapping around his shaft as she sucked Takahashi, saliva dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor.

He thrust deeper, hitting the back of her throat, and she gagged, her throat bulging, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she kept going, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing with the effort. The second man groaned, “Fuck, she’s good,” his voice strained, and he came first, hot spurts spraying across her chest, white streaks staining her dress, soaking through to her skin. Takahashi pulled out, jerking himself with quick, rough strokes, and came on her face—thick, sticky ropes hitting her cheeks, dripping down her jaw, one strand catching in her eyelashes. She blinked, dazed, as he hauled her up, bending her over the couch.

He ripped her panties off, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and thrust into her from behind, her ass jiggling with each brutal slam. Another man knelt in front, shoving his cock into her mouth, and she rocked between them—Takahashi’s thrusts pushing her forward, the other man’s cock gagging her, her gurgles wet and desperate as spit dribbled down her chin. “Such a slut,” the man in her mouth muttered, thrusting hard, his balls slapping her chin, his hands gripping her head to hold her still.

They switched—one flipped her onto her back on the couch, spreading her legs wide, her pussy exposed, red and glistening, and fucked her deep, his cock stretching her as he pounded in. Another straddled her chest, yanking the dress down to bare her breasts, sliding his cock between them, the friction hot and slick with her sweat. She moaned, cried out, the sounds muffled as a third man shoved into her mouth, his thrusts erratic, his balls heavy against her face. Her pussy made wet, sloppy sounds as they took turns, each thrust harder, the room filled with their grunts and the rhythmic slap of flesh.

Then two men lifted her, one sliding beneath her on the couch, his cock entering her pussy, filling her with a single, deep thrust, while another positioned himself behind her, pushing into her ass. The double penetration was brutal—her scream tore through the room, ragged and loud, her body stretched to its limit, the burning stretch of her ass mingling with the fullness in her pussy. “You love this,” the man in front growled, his hands gripping her hips, and she couldn’t deny it, her body shaking, another orgasm ripping through her as they pounded in sync, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin wall inside her. Cum spilled everywhere—hot inside her, streaking her thighs, pooling on the couch—as they finished, leaving her trembling, soaked, her breath ragged and uneven.

Matsumoto watched it all, his phone capturing every moment, and as she lay sprawled out, chest heaving, face flushed with shame and arousal, he said, “You did well,” his voice smooth as poison. She stared blankly ahead, wrecked, as the men zipped up, their laughter echoing in her ears.

**As the Weeks Pass: A Descent into Hardcore**

Weeks passed, and the penthouse became a den of depravity—ropes, blindfolds, and toys scattered across a table, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Neru was a regular now, her tight dress replaced by black lingerie—sheer, barely covering her, nipples poking through the thin fabric, thong riding high on her hips. The men grew rougher, their demands darker, and she sank deeper into their world.

One night, they tied her up—red ropes binding her wrists above her head, a metal bar spreading her legs wide, a blindfold tight across her eyes, plunging her into darkness. A man spanked her ass with his hand, each smack raising red welts, the sharp *crack* ringing out as her skin burned. “Count,” he barked, and her “One… two…” came out shaky, pained, her voice breaking by “Ten.” He switched to a paddle, the *thwack* louder, the sting sharper, and she sobbed, her ass raw, glowing red, each hit sending a jolt through her trembling body.

Another man pressed a vibrator against her clit, turning it to maximum, and the buzzing filled the air as she bucked, screaming, her hips jerking against the restraints. Her pussy clenched, juices dripping down her thighs, warm and slick, as she came hard, a gush soaking the floor beneath her. They didn’t stop—another man thrust into her while the vibe stayed on, her body convulsing, overstimulated, her “No, please!” lost in the haze as he slammed into her, his cock stretching her swollen pussy. He pulled out, cumming on her stomach, white ropes pooling in her navel, sticky against her skin.

Later, she was on all fours, a leather collar tight around her neck, a leash pulled taut by a scarred man with a sneer. He yanked her head back, fucking her mouth, his cock hitting her throat, spit stringing from her lips, her gags loud and wet as he thrust deep. Another man took her from behind, spanking her as he went, each slap making her ass bounce, the sting mingling with the stretch of his cock inside her. “Crawl,” they ordered after, and she did—ass swaying, cum dripping down her legs, warm and thick—servicing each man in turn. She sucked one off, his cock throbbing as he came down her throat, the taste bitter and hot, then rode another, her hips grinding, breasts bouncing wildly, until he flipped her over and fucked her into the carpet, her screams muffled by the rough fibers.

One night turned brutal—three men took her at once. One lay beneath her, his cock thick in her pussy, stretching her as he thrust up, while another pushed into her ass from behind, the burn intense, her hole clenching tight around him. A third shoved into her mouth, gagging her, his thrusts erratic, his balls heavy against her chin. Her body rocked between them, the wet *slap-slap-slap* a chaotic rhythm, her eyes rolling back, tears streaking down her face as they pounded her relentlessly. “More,” one grunted, and they added toys—a dildo shoved into her ass alongside the cock, doubling the stretch, the pain sharp and searing, while another fucked her pussy, a third smearing cum across her face, rubbing it into her skin with rough fingers. She screamed, came again, her body breaking under the onslaught, her pussy and ass pulsing, dripping, as they finished, leaving her a shuddering wreck.

By the end, she collapsed on the floor, bruised and soaked, surrounded by men zipping up, their laughter harsh in her ears. Matsumoto knelt beside her, brushing her sweat-soaked hair back, his “You’re mine” soft but firm, a promise and a cage. Her anonymous husband’s voice echoed in her mind—“Where were you?”—but she was too far gone, her spirit shattered, her body claimed.

**The Breaking Point**

One evening, she stood in her bedroom, slipping on heels, her hands trembling as she applied red lipstick, the color smudging across her lips. Her anonymous husband grabbed her wrist, his grip tight, his “What’s happening to you?” raw and pleading, his eyes searching hers for the woman he’d married. Her phone buzzed—Matsumoto, with a video of her on that couch, collared, fucked senseless, Takahashi’s “Mine” ringing clear. She pulled away, whispering, “I’ll be back,” and fled into the night, the door slamming shut behind her. He slumped against the wall, defeated, as the faded idol poster on the fridge fluttered slightly, peeling at the edges—a relic of a life she’d lost forever.

**Finale: The Ultimate Betrayal and Unexpected Redemption**

The men’s depravity didn’t stop—it grew, their naughtiness twisting into something crueler, more perverse. Matsumoto had a new plan, one he whispered to Takahashi with a gleam in his eye, a scheme to break Neru completely while dragging her anonymous husband into the abyss with her. They’d grown bored of their private games; now they wanted an audience—one who couldn’t look away.

One humid night, Matsumoto arrived at her doorstep, his grin sharper than ever. “Tonight’s special,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “Wear something slutty. And don’t ask questions.” She obeyed, her hands shaking as she slipped into a red lingerie set—lace bra barely containing her breasts, a thong so thin it vanished between her cheeks—and a sheer black robe that hid nothing. She didn’t know why her stomach churned more than usual, why his smirk felt like a knife.

The penthouse was different this time—dimmer, the air heavier, the jazz replaced by a low, ominous hum. Takahashi and the others waited, five of them sprawled across leather couches, their suits half-unbuttoned, drinks in hand. But there was a new chair in the corner, facing the center of the room, and in it sat her anonymous husband—bound, gagged, his eyes wide with shock and dawning horror. Neru froze, her breath catching, her robe fluttering as she stumbled back.

“Surprise,” Matsumoto said, stepping behind her, his hands clamping onto her shoulders. “He kept asking where you were. So we brought him to see.” Her husband’s muffled protests vibrated through the gag, his wrists straining against the ropes, but the men just laughed, a sound that slithered down her spine.

Takahashi stood, his silver hair glinting in the low light, and approached her, his fingers brushing her cheek before sliding down to tug the robe open, letting it fall to the floor. “Let’s give him a show,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust, and the others cheered, their eyes darting between her and her husband’s anguished face.

They shoved her to her knees in the center of the room, the hardwood cold against her skin, and Takahashi unzipped his trousers, his cock springing free—thick, veined, already hard. “Suck it,” he ordered, grabbing her hair, and she hesitated, her eyes flickering to her husband, his muffled cries cutting through her. Matsumoto slapped her ass, the sting sharp, and hissed, “Do it, or we’ll make him join.” Tears welled, but she opened her mouth, taking Takahashi in, her lips stretching, tongue swirling as he groaned, thrusting deep, hitting her throat until she gagged, spit dripping down her chin.

Her husband’s chair creaked as he thrashed, his eyes locked on her, tears streaming down his face, but the men didn’t care. Another stepped up—scarred, burly—unzipping and shoving his cock into her hand. “Stroke me,” he barked, and she did, her fingers trembling as she worked him, his grunts mixing with Takahashi’s. The scarred man came fast, hot spurts hitting her shoulder, sliding down her arm, while Takahashi pulled out, jerking himself to cum on her face—thick ropes landing on her cheeks, her lips, dripping onto her chest as she gasped, humiliated.

They didn’t stop. Takahashi flipped her onto her back on a low table, her legs spread wide, thong yanked aside to bare her pussy—red, glistening, already wet despite her shame. He thrust in, hard and deep, her body jolting, a scream tearing from her throat as he filled her. “Look at her,” he grunted, glancing at her husband, “she loves it.” Her husband’s sobs were audible now, even through the gag, his body shaking as he watched, helpless.

Another man—a wiry, grinning bastard—climbed onto the table, straddling her chest, sliding his cock between her breasts, the lace bra pushed down to expose them. He squeezed her tits together, thrusting fast, the friction hot and slick with her sweat, his “Fuck, so soft” a taunt aimed at her husband. She moaned, her body betraying her, hips bucking against Takahashi as he pounded her, his balls slapping her ass, the wet sounds loud in the room.

Matsumoto circled, his phone out, recording every thrust, every cry, zooming in on her husband’s broken expression. “Smile for him,” he sneered, and when she didn’t, he grabbed her chin, forcing her head toward her husband as Takahashi sped up, his cock pulsing inside her. She came despite herself—legs trembling, a high-pitched wail, her pussy clenching tight—and Takahashi followed, groaning as he spilled inside her, hot and thick, pulling out to let it drip onto the table.

The scarred man took his place, flipping her onto her stomach, her ass up, and thrust into her pussy from behind, his hands gripping her hips so hard they’d bruise. Another shoved into her mouth, his cock salty with pre-cum, gagging her as he fucked her face, her gurgles wet and desperate. Her husband’s chair tipped slightly as he lunged forward, stopped by the ropes, his muffled “Neru!” a broken plea she couldn’t answer.

They kept going—two at a time, then three. One lay beneath her, fucking her pussy, another took her ass, the stretch searing, her scream muffled by the cock in her mouth. Her body rocked between them, sweat and cum slicking her skin, her husband’s sobs a haunting backdrop. “She’s ours now,” Takahashi said, his voice a knife aimed at her husband’s heart, and they laughed, finishing one by one—cum inside her, on her back, her face, her hair—until she collapsed, a shuddering, soaked mess.

Matsumoto knelt beside her, brushing her matted hair back, his “You’re ours forever” a whisper in her ear. She didn’t move, didn’t look at her husband, whose head hung low, defeated, as the men untied him, shoving him toward the door. “Take your trash and go,” Takahashi spat, and he stumbled out, leaving her behind, broken on the floor, the faded idol poster flashing in her mind—a life she’d never reclaim.

After weeks of tension, the anonymous husband and Neru sat down for a long-overdue heart-to-heart. The living room was dim, the silence heavy, until he broke it. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t exactly husband of the year. Work swallowed me whole, and I left you drifting. Part of this mess… it’s on me.” His voice was quiet, sincere.

Neru stared at him, caught off guard. “No, I—” she started, but her throat tightened. “I chose to step over the line. That’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “But I didn’t make it easy to stay.” They talked for hours, unraveling the knots of their strained marriage. By the end, tears streaked Neru’s face as she made a vow. “I’m done with them,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremble. “If those men release that video, it’ll ruin me—us. I won’t risk it.”

He reached for her hand. “We’ll figure it out. Together.” And for the first time in months, they felt like a team again.

A few weeks later, Neru started feeling off—queasy, exhausted, like her body was staging a quiet rebellion. A trip to the doctor turned their world upside down. “Congratulations,” the doctor said, peering at the ultrasound. “You’re pregnant.” Before they could process it, he added, “With *eight* babies. Octuplets.”

“Eight?!” Neru yelped, while her husband’s jaw hit the floor. The screen showed a chaotic cluster of tiny shapes, like a cosmic joke unfolding in real time. They sat there, speechless, until he finally murmured, “Well… we can’t exactly say no to this.” They’d recently converted to Roman Catholicism, and their newfound faith made the decision clear. “We’re keeping them,” he said. “All eight.”

Neru nodded, still dazed. “All eight,” she echoed, wondering how they’d fit that many cribs in their tiny apartment.

The news didn’t stay quiet for long. *Former Idol Expecting Octuplets!* blasted across headlines, and Japan lost its collective mind. Reporters swarmed their doorstep, snapping photos of Neru’s rapidly growing belly. Overnight, she was famous again—not for scandal, but for something so absurdly wholesome it defied belief. Offers flooded in, including a juicy deal for a reality show: *Neru’s Octuplet Odyssey*. Cameras would trail her every waddle, capturing the chaos of diaper changes, midnight feedings, and her husband muttering, “We should’ve bought stock in baby formula.”

The public ate it up. Neru, once desperate for the spotlight, now had it in spades—just not how she’d pictured it. “I wanted fame,” she’d laugh, wrestling with a stroller the size of a small car, “but this is ridiculous!”

The cherry on top came when Japan’s prime minister invited them to a flashy ceremony. Beaming for the cameras, she pinned medals on their chests, declaring them national heroes. “You’re saving Japan!” she proclaimed. “An inspiration to couples everywhere—marry, have children, lots of them! Together, we’ll stem the population crisis!” The crowd cheered, and Neru exchanged a look with her husband. He smirked, whispering, “Eight kids. Guess we overdelivered.”

As they stood there, bathed in applause, Neru’s belly a national treasure and her reality show set to premiere, she couldn’t help but laugh. It was messy, absurd, and nothing like she’d planned—but somehow, it was the happiest ending she could’ve stumbled into.