"Thank you so much, everyone, for all your support!" Anri struck a final pose, wishing her slavering fans a farewell and concluding her tour. Her 'stans' erupted into a joyous uproar of praises, a sea of lonely, middle-aged men waving their 'Anri-branded' glowsticks and decked to the nines in the preteen idol's fan apparel; absolutely pathetic.
The stage lights dimmed, Anri shuffled behind stage and the performance came to a close; for them, at least.
"Wow, I can't believe I made it through that." Anri wiped a layer of perspiration from her tiny brow and shed some of the forced enthusiasm that her job required; a sincere smile replaced it, "I-I thought my knees were gonna give out."
"You did great, given the circumstances." I assured from the couch, arms laxed and posture open. In a world of sleazy managers, who were little more than money-hungry parasites, it was an honor for me to take care of Anri's personal needs first and foremost. My little idol looked absolutely precious in tonight's getup, a glittery little number customized to shield her taut tummy from wanting eyes.
Anri gave a frilly spin, presenting herself in full, "Even though it s-still aches," her cheeks burned with bashful perversion, "can we get started?" Soft, amber orbs bore into me with a longingness that didn't befit a child. Behind the cameras and the ever-present eyes of her adoring fans, Anri had a scandalous secret.
"Damn, you're eager tonight, sweetheart. Then again, you have needs, right?" I rose from the couch, resting a soft touch upon Anri's shoulder; her skin glowed beneath the bright, fluorescent lights of the dressing room.
"Okay..." Anri cleared her throat, but not from trepidation. Her breath hitched, stifling a belabored moan as her dress met the floor. Beneath it was nothing more than a matching bralette and frilly panties, Anri's fair skin filled with unmistakable warmth of anticipation. Years of choreography training, rigorous dance lessons and dieting had rewarded Anri with a tight and lissome figure; childish but toned. While it possessed no 'womanly' attributes, that wasn't what I was interested in. "W-well, are you ready?" She trembled in place, eager for my not-so-tender love and care.
"Of course, darling," Every moment that I could steal with my deviant diva, allowing her to be her truest self, was an honor. I gripped her chin with my left hand and planting a kiss on her forehead; an assurance of my affection, despite my impending actions. I rolled up my sleeve to the elbow, flexing my forearm in a demonstration of its power. Anri nearly gushed as noticed the individual muscles ripple beneath my skin, noting the thick veins that ran from my wrist to the crux of my arm.
There was just something about hara-pan—better known as stomach punching—that tainted a girl forever. It was a matter of external womb stimulation, overloading the uterus with a massive release of endorphins as the mind converted pleasure into pain. The act was so euphorically intoxicating that most of girls became addicted to it; Anri surely had. Of course, she'd never be able to have kids, and was at risk for a plethora of major adverse health conditions. But for Anri, and plenty of secret, elementary-aged sluts like her, the tradeoff was negligible. Did she enjoy the denigration? The humilation? To be used as a disposable piece of meat that was only good for cumming at the blow of my first?
"Stand still," I ordered,