A Weird Revenge NTR System (Beta)-Chapter 11 - 10

The morning at Gohoku University unrolled like a faded reel, a quiet hum of routine that Kaito Nakamura sank into, Aiko's presence a bright stitch in the drab fabric of his day. The campus sprawled under a late February sky, damp and cold, its gray stone buildings slick with drizzle, students shuffling through puddles, their chatter a low drone against the crunch of his sneakers on wet gravel. His hoodie sagged—crusted with last night's tears and blood—glasses smudged and crooked on his nose, black hair greasy and tangled, but he forced a smile—thin, brittle—playing her nerd boyfriend, her arm looped through his, her keychain bell jingling with every bouncy step.

Time with Aiko felt normal again—too normal—walks across the quad, her giggles at his awkward coding quips, her fingers brushing his in the lecture hall, warm and soft against his clammy skin. She leaned into him between classes—pink sweater hugging her tits, skirt swaying above her knees—chattering about some professor's bad tie, her vanilla scent flooding his nose, her dark hair tickling his cheek when she laughed.

If he didn't know—those pics, her cunt stuffed with cock, lips choking dick, ass dripping cum—he'd have drowned in it, soaked up her cuteness, her kisses, her teasing smiles. But a shard of him hated her—deep, jagged, slicing his chest—even as the rest clung, grateful, desperate. A girl like Aiko—hot, radiant, flawless—wouldn't look twice at a scrawny, stammering geek like him in any sane world. He was lucky—pathetic, weak, but lucky—to kiss her, grope her, bask in her light.

They lingered after the last lecture—her perched on a desk, legs swinging, him slouched nearby, her voice a melody over the hum of departing students. "Hey," she said, tilting her head, eyes glinting like polished glass, "let's hit that coffee shop after. My treat—sorry I ditched you yesterday, babe." Her tone was sugar—smooth, sweet—glossing over the sting of her cancellation, her "tired" excuse from the park day now a faint bruise he ignored.

"Sounds good," he mumbled—voice rough, glasses slipping—forcing a grin, denial a flimsy wall against the ache. She beamed—bright, disarming—hopping off the desk, squeezing his arm, her nails grazing through his sleeve, a jolt he felt low despite the hate simmering beneath. His stomach twisted—gratitude tangling with disgust—but he buried it, deep, chasing the lie that she was his, faithful, perfect. They walked—her hand in his, her hip bumping his—through the university's wet paths, past smirking faces he refused to see, to the coffee shop—a cozy nook off campus, warm with roasted beans and chatter, glass fogged with steam.

Inside, they claimed a corner table—wood scarred, chairs creaking—the buzz of the place cocooning them in a fragile bubble. She ordered—latte with extra foam for her, black drip for him—her red nails tapping the counter, her laugh bright when the barista fumbled change. They settled—her knees brushing his under the table, her sweater tight across her chest—and chatted—easy, light stuff—her teasing his messy hair, "You're such a slob, Kaito," him joking about her doodled notes, "Stick figures don't ace tests." He watched her—lips curling, foam clinging to her upper lip, eyes sparkling—and thought, she's so damn cute, a reflex he couldn't kill, even as the hate gnawed, a quiet venom under his ribs.

She sipped—tongue flicking foam, slow and deliberate—a move that'd once made his dick twitch, now a sour twist in his gut. He smiled—real for a flicker—drowning the truth in her glow, the lie he'd built since morning: she's mine, nothing happened. She leaned in—elbow on the table, chin in her hand—hair spilling over her shoulder, her scent—vanilla, thick—wrapping him tight. "You're quiet today," she purred—teasing, soft—her foot nudging his shin, and he shrugged—"Just tired"—voice flat, masking the storm he choked down.

Then it broke—she jolted, cup tipping, hot coffee splashing her sweater, a dark stain blooming fast across her tits, dripping down her stomach. "Oh no!" she squealed—high, girly—leaping up, hands flapping, her laugh shaky, panicked. "Crap, this'll stain—hold on, babe, I'll wash it quick!" She snatched her bag—bell jingling wild—coffee pooling on the table, her sneakers squeaking as she darted for the washroom, a trail of giggles and damp chaos in her wake.

Kaito lurched—instinct kicking—grabbing napkins, sopping the spill, muttering, "Need help?"—voice cracking, hands shaky. She waved him off—"I got it, back soon"—and spun back, leaning in, kissing him—soft, wet, her lips hot with coffee, tongue grazing his for a split second, vanilla and betrayal flooding his mouth. "Shouldn't be so clumsy," she purred—eyes glinting, teasing—and he froze, nausea surging, her cuteness a blade twisting deeper. She vanished—washroom door swinging shut—and he sank back, wiping his mouth—slow, rough—sleeve scraping her off, bile burning his throat. She's cute, he thought—clumsy, sweet—clinging to the lie, the hate a dull pulse he smothered. It's going to take a while to get used to this.

A minute ticked—slow, heavy—his latte cooling, her chair empty, the shop's hum a distant buzz. His phone buzzed—sharp, insistent—on the table, jolting him from staring at the drizzle-slicked roads outside, cars blurring through the wet. He glanced—cracked screen flickering—and frowned, a chill slithering up his spine. It glowed—blank, black—a buffering circle spinning at the center, glitchy and slow. His gut twisted—not again, no—and then it shifted—the app he'd trashed—"RNTR 0.1 (Beta)"—back, uninvited, alive. The circle faded—a white triangle stark in its place—and his breath caught—cold, ragged—dread pooling fast.

He pressed it—thumb trembling, heart slamming—screen flaring, a video snapping alive, raw and unfiltered, soundless but brutal. Aiko—his Aiko—bent over a sink, sweater soaked and stained, shoved up past her bouncing tits, nipples hard under the wet fabric, skirt rucked high, black panties yanked to her knees. Riku—muscled jock, buzzed hair, campus prick—fucked her from behind, savage and deep, his thick cock slamming her dripping cunt—red, stretched, glistening with her juices—her ass jiggling with each thrust, skin flushed and slick with sweat. She jammed a hand over her mouth—silencing loud moans, ecstasy twisting her face—her eyes rolling back, half-lidded, lost in it, the sink's edge bruising her thighs, coffee-drenched sweater dripping brown streaks into the basin, water splashing as Riku pounded harder.

Kaito's stomach heaved—bile surging, a sick lurch he couldn't choke—his fist clenching, knuckles splitting anew, blood seeping, tears stinging fast, hot, wild. Riku, he thought—fucking Riku—the guy she'd laughed with, "just friends," now balls-deep in her, his hands clawing her hips—nails digging red welts—his cock slick with her, cum already trickling down her thighs, pooling at her knees. The video looped—relentless—her hand slipping, a silent scream breaking free, lips parted, spit drooling, Riku's grin sharp as he rammed her—harder, faster—her cunt gaping, taking him raw, her ass bouncing, wet slaps a sound he felt in his bones despite the mute feed.

His chest burned—rage, nausea, heartbreak—a roar trapped in his throat, clawing to rip free, but he sat—frozen, trembling—shop chatter a dull hum, her latte cold, her kiss a sour lie on his lips. Right now, he thought—right there, fucking him, after kissing me—the truth a sledgehammer smashing his denial, splintering the fragile wall he'd built. He'd hated her—buried it under gratitude, her cute smiles, her soft hands—but this? This was her—bare, filthy—fucking Riku yards away, her sweater a stained rag, her moans a silent blade gutting him live.

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He dropped the phone—screen down, buzzing faint—hands shaking, breath jagged, staring at the table, the spill, her empty chair. Tears spilled—hot, messy—dripping onto his hoodie, his bloody fist throbbing, the shop spinning—faces blurring, whispers he couldn't hear. She's in there, he thought—riding him, right now—rage boiling, powerless, pitiful, a cuck in plain sight. He'd known—pics, smirks, her lies—but clung to the dream, grateful for her scraps, kissing her like she was his. Now it broke—raw, visceral—his world crumbling, the app's return a dark spike he couldn't unsee.

The washroom door stayed shut—minutes dragging, her "soon" a taunt—and he sat—numb, broken—fists clenched, blood crusting, hate surging, no shield left to hide behind.