They left the ryokan at noon, cheeks sun-kissed and secrets tucked behind their smiles.
The proprietress pressed a bento into Ryosuke's hands—"for the trail"—and bowed so deeply her forehead nearly brushed the gravel. Miki's thighs still trembled from the morning; every step down the stone path sent a delicious ache through her core.
The map led them along a cedar-lined footpath that climbed gently behind the inn. Sunlight dappled the moss; cicadas buzzed in the canopy. Ryosuke walked ahead, bento swinging from one hand, the other brushing Miki's every few steps—fingers grazing her wrist, the small of her back, the curve of her hip beneath the light cotton dress she'd changed into.
Half an hour in, the path narrowed. Ferns brushed their calves. The air smelled of wet earth and pine resin. A wooden sign pointed left: **Taki-no-ura Falls – 400 m**.
Ryosuke glanced back. "Up for it?"
Miki nodded, pulse already quickening.
The trail steepled. Sweat bloomed between her breasts; the dress clung to her skin. Ryosuke's T-shirt darkened at the collar and spine. When they crested the final rise, the forest opened like a curtain.
The waterfall plunged thirty feet into a turquoise pool, mist rising in shimmering curtains. Mossy boulders ringed the cove; sunlight fractured through spray into tiny rainbows. No one else—just the roar of water and the hush of their breathing.
Ryosuke set the bento on a flat rock. "Private enough?"
Miki's answer was to kick off her sandals and wade into the shallows. The water was shock-cold, lapping at her ankles, then her knees. She turned, dress hem floating like dark petals, and crooked a finger.
He was on her in three strides.
The kiss was hungry, teeth clacking, tongues sliding. Ryosuke's hands shoved the dress straps off her shoulders; the fabric caught at her elbows before he yanked it down to her waist. No bra today—just sun-warmed skin and the stiff peaks of her nipples begging for his mouth.
He obliged, dropping to his knees in the water. One breast, then the other—sucking hard, grazing with teeth until Miki's fingers tangled in his wet hair and she moaned loud enough to scatter birds from the canopy.
Ryosuke stood, spun her, pressed her front to a waist-high boulder still warm from the sun. The stone was slick with moss; her nipples dragged across it as he hiked the dress to her hips. No panties—she'd stopped bothering after the morning. Cool air kissed her soaked folds; then his fingers were there, parting her, sliding through the slick evidence of how long she'd been wet on the hike.
"Fuck, Miki," he groaned. Two fingers pushed inside, curling, pumping. His thumb circled her clit in tight, ruthless strokes.
Miki braced her forearms on the rock, back arching, ass tilting for more. Water splashed around their calves; the falls drowned her cries. When the first orgasm hit, her knees buckled; Ryosuke held her up with one arm banded under her breasts, fingers still working her through the spasms until she sagged, gasping.
He withdrew, spun her again, lifted her onto the boulder. The moss was soft, cool against her bare back. Ryosuke shoved his shorts down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, dripping. He stepped between her spread thighs, lined up, and thrust in to the hilt.
The angle was brutal, perfect. Miki's legs locked around his waist; her heels dug into the small of his back. Each stroke dragged the head of his cock across her front wall, sparks shooting behind her eyes. Water sluiced between them, over his balls, down her ass crack, mixing with her arousal.
Ryosuke's hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. "Touch yourself," he growled.
Miki obeyed, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in frantic circles. The second climax built fast, coiling low and hot. She came with a sharp cry, pussy clenching around him like a fist. Ryosuke's rhythm faltered; he pulled out at the last second, fisting himself. Thick ropes painted her belly, her mound, dripping into the crease where thigh met groin.
They stayed locked together, panting, water swirling pink and gold around their feet. Ryosuke's forehead dropped to hers.
"Still scared?" he whispered.
Miki laughed—breathless, incredulous. "Petrified. Don't stop."
He kissed her slow and deep, tasting waterfall and salt and the faint sweetness of the bento tamagoyaki they hadn't touched yet.
---
They ate on the boulder, legs dangling in the pool, feeding each other rice balls and pickled plum with sticky fingers. The sun climbed; steam rose from their skin. When the bento was empty, Ryosuke lay back, head in Miki's lap. She traced the shell of his ear, the bridge of his nose, the swell of his lower lip.
"We should head back soon," she said, but her fingers were already sliding lower, over his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the half-hard length stirring beneath his shorts.
Ryosuke caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, kissed the pulse point. "One more," he murmured against her skin. "Then we'll go."
Miki's smile was slow, wicked. She shifted, straddled his hips, and reached for the button of his shorts.
The waterfall kept roaring, indifferent and eternal, as mother and son lost themselves again in the green hush of the hidden cove.
They stumbled back into the suite at dusk, sun-drunk and river-chilled, hair still damp from the falls. The proprietress had left a lacquered tray on the low table: strawberries glazed with honey, a small pot of whipped cream, and a fresh tokkuri of plum sake. A note in elegant calligraphy: *Enjoy the evening.*
Miki's dress clung to her thighs; Ryosuke's T-shirt was half-untucked, shorts riding low on his hips. They locked eyes across the tatami and laughed—breathless, conspiratorial.
"Shower first?" he asked.
Miki shook her head. "Food first. Then you."
The word *you* hung between them, electric. Ryosuke's pupils flared.
They knelt at the table. Miki poured sake into two cups, handed him one. Their fingers brushed; neither pulled away. She lifted a strawberry by the stem, dipped it in cream, and held it to his lips.
Ryosuke took it slowly—teeth grazing the fruit, tongue flicking the cream, then her fingertips. Honey dripped onto his lower lip; Miki leaned in and licked it clean. The kiss tasted of summer and sin.
She pulled back, eyes gleaming. "My turn to be in charge."
Ryosuke's breath hitched. "Yes, ma'am."
Miki stood, circled behind him. Her hands settled on his shoulders, kneading once, then sliding down his chest. She tugged the T-shirt over his head, tossed it aside. His skin was sun-warmed, still smelling faintly of river water. She traced the line of his spine with her nails, watched gooseflesh rise.
"Hands on the table," she ordered softly. "Palms flat."
He obeyed instantly.
Miki dipped a finger in the cream, painted a slow stripe down the center of his chest. She followed it with her tongue—lapping, sucking, nipping at his nipples until they pebbled hard. Ryosuke's knuckles whitened against the wood; his cock strained against his shorts, a dark wet spot blooming at the tip.
She knelt between his spread knees, unbuttoned the shorts, freed him. He was thick and flushed, veins pulsing. Miki swirled cream around the head, then took him into her mouth in one smooth glide.
Ryosuke's head fell back with a guttural groan. "Fuck—Miki—"
She hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. Her tongue traced the underside, swirled the slit, then sank deeper until her nose brushed his abdomen. She swallowed, throat working, and he cursed again, fingers twitching against the table.
Miki pulled off with a wet pop, licked a stripe up his shaft, then stood. "Stay."
She shimmied out of her dress, let it pool at her feet. Naked, she straddled the low table in front of him, knees on either side of his hips. The wood was cool against her shins; cream and honey smeared across her breasts, her belly.
"69," she said simply.
Ryosuke's eyes went black with lust. He lay back on the tatami, head between her thighs. Miki lowered herself onto his face, sighing as his tongue parted her folds, lapped at the slick heat already dripping for him. She leaned forward, took his cock back into her mouth, and they moved together—slow, filthy, perfect.
The table creaked beneath them. Ryosuke's hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider, tongue fucking into her while his nose nudged her clit. Miki moaned around his length, the sound muffled and wet. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked harder, one hand cupping his balls, rolling gently.
The room filled with the sounds of slurping, gasping, the wet slide of tongue on flesh. Miki came first—sharp and sudden, thighs clamping around his head, juices flooding his mouth. Ryosuke drank her down, groaning into her pussy as his own climax hit. She swallowed every pulse, throat working until he was spent and shaking.
They stayed locked like that, trembling, until the aftershocks faded. Miki lifted off him, turned, and collapsed onto his chest. Cream and honey smeared between their bodies; the table was a battlefield of sticky fruit and spilled sake.
Ryosuke's arms came around her, cradling her close. "You're going to kill me," he panted.
Miki laughed against his neck. "Not yet. We have all night."
Outside, the rotenburo steamed on, patient and waiting. Inside, the tray lay forgotten, strawberries rolling across the tatami like tiny red hearts.
They didn't make it to the futon for hours.