I met Mizuki when she moved into the apartment next door. She was 28, stunning, with these big breasts that seemed to defy gravity—every guy in the building noticed her. I was 32, single, just trying to keep my head down and live quietly. We’d chat sometimes, small stuff about the weather or the noisy neighbors, and I thought she was out of my league. Then one night, she knocked on my door, pale and shaking. “There’s something behind me,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. She said it started after she found an old photo in her place—a creepy old man who loved women’s breasts, dead for years, but somehow still around. She swore his spirit was haunting her, always lurking just out of sight, obsessed with her chest. I didn’t believe her at first—ghosts? Come on. But then I saw it: her shirt twitching, her gasps as invisible hands tormented her nipples, day and night. She’d be cooking, sleeping, even showering, and suddenly she’d cry out, her body twisting from the relentless teasing. I tried to help, stayed over to keep her company, but it only got worse—she’d moan, half in pain, half in something else, right… Read more »
dadaserfu
4 hours ago
I met Mizuki when she crashed into my life—28, gorgeous, with breasts so big they turned heads everywhere she went. I was 30, a quiet guy renting the place next to hers, just trying to keep things simple. She’d wave hello, all smiles, but then she started acting strange—jumping at shadows, muttering about an old creep from the neighborhood who’d died. “He’s still here,” she told me one night, her voice shaking. She swore his ghost—a dirty old man obsessed with tits—had latched onto her, teasing her nipples nonstop. I thought she’d lost it until I saw her freeze mid-conversation, gasping, her shirt twitching like something was at her from behind. Day, night, didn’t matter—she’d whimper in the kitchen, squirm in her sleep, that unseen pervert working her over. I’d sit with her, helpless, as she moaned through it, half-crazed, half-lost to it, and I couldn’t tell if I was scared or hooked on watching her fall apart.
![[DRPT-085] A busty beauty haunted by a tit-obsessed ghost, her nipples teased 24/7. Yayoi Mizuki](https://cdn.javmg.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/1drpt085pl.jpg)
Nice story you should more like this
Hantu di jepang mang ea bisa nguewwwwwe
sub this pls
I met Mizuki when she moved into the apartment next door. She was 28, stunning, with these big breasts that seemed to defy gravity—every guy in the building noticed her. I was 32, single, just trying to keep my head down and live quietly. We’d chat sometimes, small stuff about the weather or the noisy neighbors, and I thought she was out of my league. Then one night, she knocked on my door, pale and shaking. “There’s something behind me,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. She said it started after she found an old photo in her place—a creepy old man who loved women’s breasts, dead for years, but somehow still around. She swore his spirit was haunting her, always lurking just out of sight, obsessed with her chest. I didn’t believe her at first—ghosts? Come on. But then I saw it: her shirt twitching, her gasps as invisible hands tormented her nipples, day and night. She’d be cooking, sleeping, even showering, and suddenly she’d cry out, her body twisting from the relentless teasing. I tried to help, stayed over to keep her company, but it only got worse—she’d moan, half in pain, half in something else, right… Read more »
I met Mizuki when she crashed into my life—28, gorgeous, with breasts so big they turned heads everywhere she went. I was 30, a quiet guy renting the place next to hers, just trying to keep things simple. She’d wave hello, all smiles, but then she started acting strange—jumping at shadows, muttering about an old creep from the neighborhood who’d died. “He’s still here,” she told me one night, her voice shaking. She swore his ghost—a dirty old man obsessed with tits—had latched onto her, teasing her nipples nonstop. I thought she’d lost it until I saw her freeze mid-conversation, gasping, her shirt twitching like something was at her from behind. Day, night, didn’t matter—she’d whimper in the kitchen, squirm in her sleep, that unseen pervert working her over. I’d sit with her, helpless, as she moaned through it, half-crazed, half-lost to it, and I couldn’t tell if I was scared or hooked on watching her fall apart.