Ikumi Sunohara
New P.E. Teacher…trained as sex slave
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The school was deathly quiet after 11 p.m., only the faint hum of the emergency lights breaking the silence. Ikumi Sunohara moved through the darkened corridors like a shadow—her athletic frame tense, sneakers silent on the polished floor. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming. Not her husband Yasuo, not the police. Makoto Kanou had simply vanished two years ago, and the official story (
She reached the faculty office wing. Yasuno Shiro’s private office door was locked—of course. But Ikumi had prepared. From her pocket she pulled a small set of lock-picks she’d
The lock gave way.
She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the desk. Her flashlight beam danced over papers, a coffee mug, a framed photo of Yasuno shaking hands with some official. Nothing obvious.
Then she saw it…The camera was inside, powered off. She pressed the button. The screen lit up.
Her breath caught.
The first photo: Makoto Kanou. Naked. Blindfolded. Kneeling on a concrete floor, wrists bound behind her back with thick rope, mouth stretched around a large red ball gag. Drool glistened on her chin. Her toned body was marked with red rope burns across her chest and thighs. A thick leather collar circled her neck, chain leading upward out of frame.
Ikumi’s knees nearly buckled. Her best friend—strong, proud Makoto—was being held, tortured, broken. And the photos were timestamped. The latest one was only three days old.
Her hands shook so badly the camera nearly slipped.
She scrolled faster. Dozens of pictures. Hundreds. Makoto in every degrading position imaginable: hogtied, spread-eagled, suspended, plugged, clamped, filled. Some showed her with vacant, broken eyes. Others showed her mid-orgasm, body betraying her.
Then the last photo.
It wasn’t Makoto.
It was Ikumi herself.
sudden resignation, personal reasons) stank of lies.
She reached the faculty office wing. Yasuno Shiro’s private office door was locked—of course. But Ikumi had prepared. From her pocket she pulled a small set of lock-picks she’d
borrowedfrom a shady acquaintance. Her hands were steady despite the pounding in her chest.
The lock gave way.
She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, painting silver stripes across the desk. Her flashlight beam danced over papers, a coffee mug, a framed photo of Yasuno shaking hands with some official. Nothing obvious.
Then she saw it…The camera was inside, powered off. She pressed the button. The screen lit up.
Her breath caught.
The first photo: Makoto Kanou. Naked. Blindfolded. Kneeling on a concrete floor, wrists bound behind her back with thick rope, mouth stretched around a large red ball gag. Drool glistened on her chin. Her toned body was marked with red rope burns across her chest and thighs. A thick leather collar circled her neck, chain leading upward out of frame.
Ikumi’s knees nearly buckled. Her best friend—strong, proud Makoto—was being held, tortured, broken. And the photos were timestamped. The latest one was only three days old.
Her hands shook so badly the camera nearly slipped.
She scrolled faster. Dozens of pictures. Hundreds. Makoto in every degrading position imaginable: hogtied, spread-eagled, suspended, plugged, clamped, filled. Some showed her with vacant, broken eyes. Others showed her mid-orgasm, body betraying her.
Then the last photo.
It wasn’t Makoto.
It was Ikumi herself.