Dia, much to her own mortification, is no trouble to squeeze more such noises out of. She bites down on her lower lip, but the strained little giggle-whines reverberate through her throat, only barely. The brush of Mari's fingertips rakes shivers down her body, settling at the pit of her belly; Dia's thighs shift and squeeze together in attempt to accommodate the sensation.

It's a deadlock: a perfect, impossible balance of humiliation and pleasure. Her pride is rejecting it, twisting uselessly away from Mari's fingertips, while everything else about Dia wants to lay itself down before Mari and just let her. Let her reach in to grab the weakness she can't show anywhere else by the fistfuls, and drag it to the surface.

Dia's already quivering this much. It feels good. It feels petrifying. It feels good.

"M-Mari-san," she shakily forms her name. Like she's begging, without knowing what for.