Chapter I. The Pervert and the Unsmiling Cat

If one were to hold a contest determining which swimsuit is the greatest, which design would come out on top?
Have you ever considered this eternal question before? As for me, I've pondered it myself every day, and it's quite frustrating.
“Of course, the liberating design, especially in the breasts, of the bikini is best,” as some vulgar fetishists might say. “No, the one-piece and its feeling of pure fantasy is the true ideal,” others would say.
However, the source of my frustration is yet more complex: the third great power, which one must not overlook – the competition swimsuit.
“That’s tacky,” one might say disdainfully, to which end they must immediately head to the womens’ swim club to observe their activities. Having done so, one will soon realize that the competition swimsuit is a truly magical specimen. But if, with a cry of “I must research these magicks, let me go, let me enter!”, one barges into the pool, they may be left with an ineffaceable corruption. So in the interest of caution, I shall first declare that I am in no way responsible for your actions.
Having said that, how exactly does one go about observing the swim club, then?
It’s simple.
In my high school, the track and outdoor pool are connected, albeit with an austere steel-concrete wall between them. Yet only three days after I began studying at the school, I noticed a small crack in the wall by the corner of the field. This crack also happens to be a blind-spot from the pool, and as such, the perfect place to admire this heavenly oasis.
Of course, it goes without saying that peeping is a crime, if not an absolutely unforgivable, despicable crime.
However, in this world, some matters are simply inevitable!
I joined the track and field club, the boundaries of which extend to the corner of the field, allowing me to get as close to my oasis as possible. When we get tired during practice, we might rest by the wall, or perhaps chat nonchalantly by the wall, and inevitably discover the crack in the wall through which you can see the bank of the swimming pool and its charming beauties – it’s unavoidable, really. It just can’t be helped.
As my most revered Irish “hentai” author, Oscar Wilde, said during his imprisonment:
“To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.”
His words couldn’t be more true. Likewise, while upon the verge of my summer paradise, I’m definitely not about to let any chance at peeping slip by.
As far as flaws in my strategy go, that would be the nature of the track and field club itself.
Before passing the point of no return, I really should have done some more research. As a mixed-gender activity, there ought to be the possibility of being surrounded by girls in their spats, sweating profusely, in which case both the track and swim clubs would be as good as mine. Looking back now, though, that sort of fantasy was nothing but a pipe dream. Even from the start, the track and field club has been totally adverse to such romance.
I still remember the summer of my first year – forget about swimsuits – when my world became an absolute hellhole.
Day after day, I was wasted like an old rag, cut and bruised all over; upon arriving home, I could only make like a puddle of ooze and sleep until pitch dark. I was too tired to even watch my pre-recorded late-night show, “Idol Swimsuit Assembly (only a bit is exposed, though!)”, episode after episode of which eventually accumulated into a backlog.
As things are now, though, I can no longer turn back.
The “King of Steel” rules over the entire track and field club.
Having said that, some of you might be a bit confused. Who is this ‘King of Steel’? Perhaps a relative of Boogiepop’s King of Distortion? Or even a friend of Andrew Carnegie? Nothing of the sort. Imagine the common devil-commander character in a war film, whose terrifying presence makes people run at the very sight of him. The King of Steel would be at that sort of level.
“The hell you doin’? What ‘cha lookin’ at? Y’want some cigarette burns on that face? Huh?”
In a downtown arcade, some troublemaking delinquents had the misfortune of crossing paths with the King; yet after having dealt with them severely:
“Our humble selves have been much enlightened; we shall willingly pledge our worthless existence to thee. We shall be at your beck and call, no matter the task, Your Highness.”
It seems like a farcical chain of events, but there are, in fact, innumerably more meritorious tales like these.
...never mind the King of Steel. I just want to talk about swimsuits and the like. I’m sure people across the world are in heated debate over swimsuits. As long as there are swimsuits and water, I can continue living.
Now that we’re back on topic, I must say that competition swimsuits really do have some kind of magic to them. As time passed and seasons changed, only in the summer of my second year did I finally reach this conclusion.
Unfortunately, upon reaching my verdict, I came face-to-face with the greatest crisis of my life.

On that day, I was preparing to run 5000 meters, and in the interest of caution, I first did some stretching exercises to loosen up my calves. My line of sight just happened to coincide with the crack in that concrete wall, and that crack just happened to yield a clear view for peeping at the lovely scenery on the other side. Of course, this was all inevitable. Nothing could have been done about it.
Under the crimson sun of late June, the headwind too weak to cool, penetrating rays filled the south sky. The track was scorched, radiating with heat. It felt as though I were being cooked from head to toe – truly a hellish afternoon.
Such a day only makes one want to stay in the ‘oasis’ a bit longer.
On the other side of the wall was the slightly elevated bank of the swimming pool. Amid the splash and foam, girls clad in navy competition swimsuits shared the sight of their young bodies with the blistering track on the other side. With every warm-up stretch, their angelic curves, refined and toned through training, rubbed against the swimsuits constantly, every feature of their bodies clearly distinguishable through the navy fabric.
“That’s it, just like that!” – a sudden utterance in my head during that brief moment.
In fact, now that we’re talking about the allure of competition swimsuits, I guess the idea of forced cosplay is a factor as well. That would be the fetish of said young bodies being constrained; whether buxom or slender, it’s simply the best –
“Oi, Yokodera. What do you think you’re doing?”
I honestly thought my heart had stopped beating. In that moment, with every panicked heartbeat, all the blood in my body came rushing to my head.
I had already been in the track club for a good year and four months. My own little oasis wouldn't be discovered today...right?
Panic-stricken, I timidly turned myself around. As I thought, it might have been better had my heart actually stopped then. My field of vision was dominated by a bundle of jet-black hair.
"K-ki...of Steel...!"
"Steel? I don't know what you're saying. Speak clearly."
"St-steel...well, as the saying goes, steel has to be forged while it's hot...likewise, a girl should have a good upbringing from the start...I wonder why I suddenly thought of that. Weird, huh?"
"...what are you going on about? I don't have time to listen to your nonsense. Yokodera, if there's one thing I cannot stand, it's weak people. But after weak people, do you know what I despise most?"
With the authoritarian control of a king, it was none other than the leader of the track club - the King of Steel, who cast an askance look at me from steeply above.
With exquisite features, her trademark ponytail, a pragmatic nature and an athletic girl's charisma, not to mention an outstanding bust and close-fitting knicks showcasing her toned legs, it would be no exaggeration to see her on the cover of a track and field magazine.
In fact, if we could just lose the demonic glare, it probably would have happened already.
The club leader’s expression was the same as always. Cold, narrowed eyes and tightly furled lips; no matter how hard you searched, there was not a single trace of a smile or shred of grief to be found. From the most basic emotions to vehement rage, all had been dispelled from her expression, as though it were a mask of steel.
Resembling an intractable bronze, she was the so-called King of Steel. I’m not sure who came up with that nickname, but I daresay that person has quite a knack for naming things.
“Yokodera? If you don’t know, then I’ll tell you anyways.”
Seeing my taciturn response, the club leader began to speak in a deep voice that seemed to rise from the pitch-black, freezing depths of the Earth, and gruffly said,
“That would be – betraying my trust.”
“Ah – well, this...it’s...it’s a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“There’s no such misunderstanding or ‘disintersanding’. Those who betray me go straight to hell.”
I suddenly recalled a rumor I had heard someplace that “our club leader knows karate, judo, kenpo, aikido, Shaolin kungfu, calligraphy, how to use an abacus and various other skills, totaling around twenty levels in twenty disciplines.” And the scariest part would be those with twenty levels. Only having refused such ‘weak’ little tricks such as calligraphy and computation, even opting to use the brush and abacus as unassuming close-range weapons, would she quit such skills at the tenth level.
And such a weak and disloyal act as peeping...no, it was all by chance; I just happened to catch spy of the swim club’s activities, yet having been discovered, how would things end for me? The noble and majestic, not to mention mysophobic King can’t stand even the thought of such disgraceful acts. Unfortunately, I forgot to activate my internal alarm again today, so I guess my life is in my hands this time.