Challenge 46: 🍗 Stuff Me, Senpai! 🍗

[IsabellaRose]

THE CHALLENGE

For Thanksgiving, your challenge is to write a scene, story, or scenario around the theme of seduction, stuffing, and seasonal submission. Write a spicy, sultry, or hilarious Thanksgiving-themed story inspired by the phrase “Stuff Me, Senpai.” Interpret it however you like: literally, figuratively, metaphorically, magically, monstrously... Bring your best anime-style holiday ecchi chaos. School festival? Just a student and their senpai left behind during college break? The two of them at the hot springs trip during fall break? Baking pumpkin pie in an apron (and nothing else)? Food as a flirtation device? Bring the teasing, the comedy, and the steamy fallout.

Deadline

• Midnight (EST) Saturday 22 Nov, 2025

Limits

• 1 entry per person
• keep it around 2,000 words, no penalty for going a little over but remember, everyone has to read these to vote

Prizes

• 1st Place: 4,000 EcchiCredits
• 2nd Place: 2,000 EcchiCredits
• 3rd Place: 1,000 EcchiCredits

[IsabellaRose]

Well this came out more depressing than I originally intended, but here's my sad sack version of "stuff me, senpai" which actually ended up being "stuff me, sensei" but whatever...

 

Spoiler

Stuff Me, Senpai

A Thanksgiving Short Story

 

The kitchen smelled like sex and sage.

Not actual sex, of course, but something about the way Akiko moved, barefoot on the tile, apron tied scandalously tight, humming softly while she massaged butter under the skin of the turkey like it was foreplay, made Greta’s camera hands twitch.

She’d meant to make this serious. It was meant to be a profile of Professor Carver’s famously extravagant holiday feast, mixed with her usual German film school flair: long tracking shots, oddly framed inserts, a little existential detachment, something with mood. But Akiko had clearly brought something else to the table. Greta shifted her grip on the rig and zoomed in as Akiko slid her fingers deeper into the cavity of the bird.

“Don’t worry, Professor,” Akiko said, voice all innocence. “I’ll be very gentle while I stuff it.”

Carver coughed once and muttered something about prep temperatures, retreating to the cutting board with his dignity in hand.

Greta smirked and thought, subtle, Aki. Real subtle.

Akiko glanced over her shoulder. “Is the lighting okay?”

“It’s a little soft,” Greta said, adjusting focus. “But I think we’re leaning into softcore anyway.”

Akiko giggled, brushing her cheek with her wrist. There was flour on her nose. Flour. On. Her. Nose. She was irresistible and from her vantage point, Greta was in hell, a very pleasurable, very well-lit hell.

Carver, ever the professional, said nothing. But even from behind the camera, Greta could see the tension in his jaw, the way he gripped the knife, the way he refused to look directly at Akiko once she started peeling carrots and holding them just so with unnecessary eye contact.

Greta loved it. She was catching it all, every glance, every not-quite-touch, the way Akiko leaned across the counter just a little too far, or licked her fingers after tasting the yams. Carver was clearly trying not to break, and Greta wanted him to break, not because she liked him (he was handsome, sure, but not her type), but because she wanted to watch Akiko win.

Akiko always won.

And Greta… well, Greta always filmed it.

"Funny that nobody else showed up," Carver said at one point, frowning toward the door. “Wasn’t this supposed to be a group dinner?”

Akiko’s smile was slow and perfect. “Some people thought you had to cancel. Emergency trip to Paris, I heard.”

“Hm. Strange. I never said that.”

“Rumors are powerful things,” Akiko said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Greta almost dropped the camera from laughing. Oh my god, she did it. She actually scared off the competition.

The professor glanced between them, one girl with her hands in a bowl of sage stuffing, the other filming every beat like it was a rom-com climax, and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“We’re not making a porno, you know.”

“Of course not,” Akiko purred. “This is purely educational.”

“Extremely educational,” Greta added helpfully, as Akiko bent down to retrieve a pan from a lower cabinet, giving the camera a very cinematic angle as her skirt hiked up those long, lean legs. Greta focused, zoomed… God, she’s perfect.

The professor muttered something about needing wine and escaped into the pantry.

Akiko turned to Greta with a wink. “Too much?”

Greta just grinned. “You’re perfect.” She meant it.

Of course, she wanted to say so much more, and when Akiko smiled like that, cheeks warm, lashes low, daring and sweet all at once… Greta could believe, for just a second, that this whole performance wasn’t just for Carver, that it was a shared secret, a private joke. A show Akiko was putting on… just for her. And maybe, Greta thought as she captured another perfect shot of Akiko brushing egg wash across a golden crust, maybe tonight I’ll get more than just footage.

Maybe she'd get invited to the table, too.

- - -

The red light blinked steady on the tripod. Recording. Always recording.

Greta adjusted her frame again, angling the camera to catch the way Akiko’s hands moved, deft and confident as she halved the pomegranate. It cracked with a sigh, and the seeds tumbled out like tiny jewels. Akiko’s fingers chased them across the board, scooping the glistening red orbs into a glass bowl with delicate flicks, her nails gleaming like lacquered shell.

God, she’s perfect, Greta thought, not for the first time.

“Since this is educational, I’ll be sure to pronounce each step very clearly,” Akiko said sweetly, and Greta swore the girl’s voice wrapped itself around her like a silk ribbon. Was she speaking to the professor, or was it for her?

When Akiko tilted the bowl toward the lens and said, “If you rush, you’ll miss the juice,” her eyes brushed past Carver and landed directly on Greta.

Greta nearly swallowed her own tongue. She wanted to laugh, to make a snide, flirty quip, something light and effortless, but her throat tightened instead. She wasn’t the light flirty girl. That was Akiko. Instead she stayed quiet, hiding behind the lens. That was safer.

“Careful, Akiko,” the professor said, “someone might think you’re trying to spice up a family holiday.”

Akiko leaned in, sultry and sweet. “Spice is essential. Especially when you want to make something unforgettable.”

Greta’s chest bloomed with heat. That’s it, she thought. That’s the game. That’s what we’re doing. Teasing him. Together. They’d talked before about pushing the boundaries, about how far they could go before Carver folded. Greta thought they were just fantasizing, but now, here in this overheated kitchen of golden light and glazed yams, it felt real. This wasn’t just footage for a film. It was foreplay.

She kept her hands steady, she was proud of that, but inside she buzzed. Akiko was flirting with both of them, wasn’t she? Or maybe with her and he was just the obstacle, the prize, the third act twist, the one they’d laugh about after the credits rolled and Greta kissed her in the doorway and said, “You were incredible in there.”

Carver stirred stuffing on the stove, muttering something about moisture control and giving versus holding back. Akiko smiled over her shoulder and Greta caught it, perfect angle, perfect lighting, perfect everything. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, her blouse just barely clinging to her skin and outlining of her curves, her posture unconsciously elegant.

“I study everything you make,” she said, licking yolk from her finger with slow, exaggerated care.

Greta’s knees hit the cabinet. She muttered a curse, barely audible, and re-centered the shot. Her camera felt too heavy suddenly. Her jeans were too tight. Her own breath sounded loud in her ears. She wanted to be cool, detached, professional, but she feared that ship had sailed with the pomegranate seeds. She was in it now. Watching Akiko like this, poised between performance and surrender, was like falling in love with a moment you helped create but couldn’t quite claim.

Carver stepped behind Akiko, too close, not touching. Just a silhouette hovering. A masculine shape intruding on their mise en scène. Greta’s pulse jumped.

“You’re bold today,” he said.

“I like heat.” Akiko smiled.

Greta’s stomach fluttered with giddy anticipation. It’s happening. Not just the seduction, the whole thing, the plan, the slow simmer to something wild. But that didn’t mean it would end with him. No, Greta told herself. They’d laugh about it after… tease Carver, toast their success with wine on the couch, and maybe… just maybe, tonight, finally, Akiko would kiss her.

She adjusted the focus with shaking fingers and kept recording.

There was a moment where she closed her eyes to inhale the rich, savory scent of roasted garlic, and when she opened them, she saw a change. The kitchen was warm, golden, full of the sounds she loved, whisking, simmering, the little clinks of metal on ceramic, but something in the air tightened, like a note held just a little too long.

Carver rolled up his sleeves.

That shouldn’t have meant anything. Professors rolled up sleeves all the time. But the way he did it, slow, methodical, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with flour, made Greta’s stomach dip in an odd, unwelcome way.

He stepped closer to Akiko, leaning just enough to imply intent, but not enough for Greta to call it out.

“You’ve got a steady hand,” he said softly, voice low enough Greta almost didn’t catch it.

Akiko’s whisking faltered for half a second.

Greta caught that. She caught everything.

“I’ve had a good teacher,” Akiko said, lilting, light, practiced.

Then, oh god, she dipped her pinky into the glaze and held it up for him.

Greta focused the camera. Reflex. Profession. Survival. But she wasn’t ready for how Carver looked at Akiko’s wrist, slow, appreciative, like something in him had just given permission to wake up. He leaned forward and tasted. Nothing obscene, just lips meeting skin. But the sound, the soft inhale he made after, lodged in Greta’s chest.

“That’ll do,” he said, straightening.

Greta swallowed. Hard. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls had stepped in closer, as if the warmth was no longer cozy but suffocating. She shifted her weight, the hardwood cold beneath her boots, the camera suddenly heavy in her hands.

Akiko called over her shoulder, bright, lilting, sugary sweet. “Greta, are you getting all this?”

All this? Greta wanted to laugh… or maybe scream, or ask if Akiko remembered who she’d dragged here in the first place. Instead she lifted her chin. “Every second.”

Akiko didn’t even turn back. She just smiled at Carver. Not at Greta. At him. Greta felt something twist sharp inside her.

“I thought it’d be just us today, Professor,” Akiko said.

Carver chuckled. “Funny how that worked out.”

Funny? Greta’s cheeks warmed. Akiko had planned this, worked for it, schemed for it, and Greta had followed her like always, thinking she was… what? The co-star? The sidekick? The secret crush who’d finally get her chance after dessert?

Akiko reached for the seasoning bowl, brushing Carver’s fingers.

Greta didn’t miss the touch or how Akiko didn’t pull away.

“I like when you call me steady," Akiko said.

Steady. Devoted. Perfect. The opposite of everything Greta felt now.

“You’ve impressed me,” Carver said. “And that’s what worries me.”

Greta’s breath hitched. Worries him? She hadn’t even known Carver could be worried about Akiko.

But Akiko… oh, she just tilted her pretty head, all coy defiance. “Why worry?”

They were talking like Greta wasn’t even there.

Carver reached behind Akiko for the pan, but before he took it, his palm slid over hers, firm, warm, intentional.

Greta froze.

She saw Akiko’s breath stutter, saw the faint shiver run through her shoulders, saw the exact moment something heavy and electric passed between them.

“I’m supposed to be the one in control here,” Carver said.

Akiko smiled, soft and wicked. “Then take control.”

Greta’s fingers jerked on the camera. The shot shook. She steadied it, because that’s what she could control. The only thing.

Akiko didn’t look back at her, not once, not even accidentally. She poured her entire attention into Carver, every flutter of her lashes, every teasing word, every slow reach of her hand. It was like watching someone season a dish too long, too lovingly, forgetting there were other mouths to feed.

Greta felt it then, the first cold seed of doubt. Maybe she wasn’t part of this moment at all. Maybe she was just an audience member, a lens, a witness. Akiko wasn’t dancing with her, she was dancing for him. Greta focused through the burning in her chest, but she kept recording.

- - -

The kitchen had gone strangely quiet… not silent, never silent, but the kind of quiet where every small sound became intimate: the soft hiss of butter at the stove, the gentle scrape of Akiko’s knife, the faint hum of Greta’s camera still recording. Greta held her breath without meaning to. She wasn’t directing this anymore. She wasn’t even included.

Carver stood behind Akiko now. He’d been close before, but this was different. This was deliberate. He didn’t touch her, not yet, but Greta could see the outline of his body behind Akiko’s petite frame, the way the heat between them shimmered like summer pavement.

“I should step away,” he said quietly.

Akiko didn’t even turn. “But you haven’t,” she whispered back.

Greta felt that line like a slap. She tightened her grip on the camera. She could feel the strain in her wrist, the tremor in her fingers as she adjusted the focus, not because the lens needed it, but because she did.

Carver reached around Akiko, brushing her palm as he plucked a sprig of rosemary from her hand. He crushed it gently, releasing a sharp, herbaceous fragrance that filled the world. The action was small, ordinary, but the way his fingers lingered…

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

Greta’s heart clenched when Akiko tilted her head back, the ends of her hair touching Carver’s collar. “Teach me, sensei.”

Greta’s vision tunneled. She could see Akiko’s cheek, flushed, Carver’s jaw tightening, softening, the line of tension between them drawn taut long before Greta ever stepped into this kitchen.

The moment dragged out… not long, but just long enough for Greta to know she shouldn’t be here. Just long enough for Akiko to forget she was… and then Carver lost the fight.

His hand came down on Akiko’s, firm, steady, completely unambiguous. His fingers folded over hers like they’d been meant to fit that way all along. His breath ghosted against her temple.

“Then let me show you how I want this done,” he said.

Greta’s throat closed.

They cut together, movements slower, bodies closer, him pressing close against her from behind, her grinding back into him as the blade rocked in a rhythm that felt too intimate for cooking. Carver’s hand guided hers with a confidence that was almost tender. His breath brushed her neck each time she leaned, and Greta could see the tiny shivers Akiko didn’t try to hide.

Akiko said, “You’re shaking.”

Carver answered softly, “So are you.”

Greta felt something in her chest crack. It was small, but sharp, a fracture. Akiko had never spoken to Greta like that, never looked at her with the same softness she reserved for sugar and heat and Carver’s hands. Greta swallowed her own pulse. She was filming a romance scene. She was the cinematographer, not the co-star.

Carver set the knife down. He didn’t step away. Instead he leaned in, slowly, reverently, his nose brushing the curve of Akiko’s neck. She melted, head tilting just slightly to the side, offering more.

Greta’s breath stuttered. She felt the camera dip, then corrected herself with a jolt.

“You’ll ruin me,” Carver whispered again, this time against Akiko’s skin.

Akiko’s exhale trembled.

And in that heartbeat, that precise, devastating heartbeat, Greta knew. There was no version of this where Akiko chose her, no universe where Greta was the one Akiko leaned into, no alternate take where the professor wasn’t the answer she’d already decided on.

Akiko turned her face to one side, toward Carver. Their cheeks brushed. The moment crystallized and then broke in one soft, crushing instant. He kissed her… soft, slow, inevitable, like he’d been waiting to finish the sentence he started years ago.

Greta’s breath left her in a quiet, involuntary sound, part awe, part heartbreak. The lens fogged slightly from the warmth of the kitchen, softening the edges of the scene into a dreamy blur. Akiko’s flushed cheek caught the light; Carver’s silhouette curved protectively behind her. It was beautiful. It was unbearable. It was the perfect shot, and Greta was not in it. She held her breath.

The camera's viewfinder framed them in a dim tableau, the Professor’s hands settling low on Akiko’s waist, the whisper of silk as her apron shifted, the soft hitch of her breath as she leaned back into him. Their silhouettes moved like a dance long-rehearsed but just now performed for the first time. Slow. Certain. Hungry.

Greta's fingers trembled against the camera rig. She told herself it was just the weight of the gear, the strain of holding still, the warmth in the room. But the image blurred, a gentle wobble in the frame, and she realized it was her. She was shaking.

Akiko was so beautiful.

Not in the way the professor seemed to crave her, no, Greta’s want was stranger, older. The kind that ached behind the ribs when you saw sunlight cut through someone's hair just right. The kind that made your skin prickle when she laughed with someone else. She had followed Akiko into workshops, study groups, even holidays, and Akiko had never minded, had never looked back.

Greta inhaled. Swallowed. She tried to steady the lens. This is art, she told herself. Art.

Light and shadow, chiaroscuro curves, the golden halo of stove-warm light behind Akiko’s face. The hush of breath. The subtle shiver of her shoulder as his mouth traced her neck, unseen but implied. The image was gorgeous, soft edges, blurred movement, whispered tension.

It was a poem in motion, a scene out of time.

She adjusted the aperture to soften the edges even more, tried to detach, tried to become just the eye behind the lens. But her heart betrayed her. She was the ghost in the room, always watching, never touched, never invited.

Greta blinked hard, willing herself not to cry, not now. Her jaw clenched as the professor shifted closer and hiked up Akiko’s skirt, as Akiko arched subtly in welcome, reaching behind herself to undo his pants, stroking something out of sight, a breathless sound slipping from her lips, half-laugh, half-sigh.

Greta wanted to scream, to shove the camera between them, to step into the light and say “Me. It should’ve been me.”

But she didn’t. Because it wasn’t. She was just… orbiting. She was a satellite around their gravity, watching her sun fall into someone else’s stronger gravity.

The moment broke.

The Professor moved his hips, their shadows melting together. Akiko inhaled sharply as he entered her and whispered something Greta couldn’t hear. Her hand reached backward to cradle his neck, and one of his hands slid upward to cup her breast, the other firm on her hip as they began moving in a steady rhythm.

Greta’s hands moved by instinct. She stopped the recording and left the kitchen quietly. The doorway swallowed her. She stood just beyond it, her back to the wall, breathing ragged in the shadowed hallway. From the other side, she could hear them, muffled and soft. A sigh. A whisper. A moan.

She looked at the camera, rewound, paused on the frame before the kiss, before her world shifted. She stared at the screen, at Akiko’s tilted face, lit with something holy and doomed.

Delete. It was a small button. One press and it was gone. But not from Greta’s memory. No, she couldn’t be that lucky.

She slid down the wall, arms around her knees and stared into the dark like it might answer her. And then finally, finally, the tears came. It was not rage, nor heat. It was just the hollow ache of knowing she had lost something she never truly had.

And no art could save her from that.