Misaki

The smell was unmistakable—acrid sweat, latex polish, and the sour cling of cum drying under hot studio lights. Misaki’s muffled cries spilled around the room—soft, stuttered, and unmistakably hers. Fans across Japan would recognize that falsetto in an instant. Not from this, of course. Not from the way she was pinned between two men, face buried in one cock while another slammed into her from behind, pounding her like cheap hooker meat. Her turquoise lingerie had twisted down around her waist, soaked and stretched, as if even it had stopped pretending. The shot on the monitor caught everything: her spit-slick lips, fluttering lashes, and her cowlick that bobbed above the filth.

No mosaic. No illusion. Just proof that Minazuki Misaki, the beloved voice actress behind a dozen waifus: a spring-haired magical girl, a shy class president, a kitten-eared android who always said "nya~" before her lines. That voice—the one that once made lonely otakus fall in love—now echoed in gagged moans, stifled by cock and spit, as if trained for this instead of anime.

You’d watched scenes before, sure—but this one felt… different. Like watching a shrine girl drink holy water from a dog bowl.

"Cut! That’s a wrap—scene looked great. We’re done here, go cool off." The director’s voice snapped the air. Misaki peeled herself free, glistening and streaked, the limp band of turquoise still hanging at her hips. She didn’t towel off. Just grabbed a bottle of water, chugged half in one breath, and skipped over to you barefoot with a sunny grin. "Otsukaresama deshita~!" she beamed in Japanese, her voice slipping into a softer, syrupy cadence. "Senpai, gomen ne~ I made a mess again, huh?" She winked. Her face was still wet with spit and semen.

That was the final shoot. Three days, six scenes, all recorded in one of Sunbeam Creative Agency’s more discreet Pelona Island villas. The footage would be anonymized, then sold online—uncensored, high-res... high-dollar. It’d make waves back in Japan once it leaked. And by then, Misaki would already be home, probably voicing some schoolgirl in a slice-of-life anime.

But until then, she had three whole days to enjoy the island. And you were her handler. Her legs when she was tired, her catering, transport, and personal assistance while she was still here. You were everything she needed—and nothing that mattered.