Summary: What begins as quiet resentment and careful observation slowly twists into obsession. He meant to ruin you, to tear apart the perfect life he envied—but when you’re paired together, plans unravel.
C/w: biting, praise, fem Dom, riding, oral (fem rec), messy, begging, fishnets, stalking, power kink, orgasm control, overstimulation, cum eating, raw, choking,
An: Happy Day 23 of Kinktober! This fanfic is a little on the more darker and weirder side with stalker/yandere Gyutaro. Also not proof read @blushinglemon
He observed you long before you noticed him. Most people at school saw him as the ugly, sickly-looking guy who was always crouched over his desk with ragged nails, muttering under his breath. Those who did catch him talking often said how much he despised those who were fortunate. And you just happened to be the type of person he despised the most: a scholarship student surrounded by wealth and luxury, you brought light with you everywhere you went, and he despised that.
He despised how no one shone brighter than you and how expensive your clothes were. How your smile came so naturally, how with one conversation you had friends and professors who admired you, and a future literally handed to you with a golden spoon. You strolled about carrying everything he'd been denied since birth.
So his fixation didn't begin with admiration; it grew from hatred. It was a plan for breaking you down socially and emotionally, rather than physically. He wanted to pull your gorgeous, glossy life apart, exactly the way he peeled his own skin back when he was enraged.
You were someone who "had too much" for him, someone from whom he could justify taking everything.
He took notes. Pages have been filled out. Personal life patterns. Weaknesses. Pals who trusted you too easily, all the way down to those who were your pals because of your celebrity and wealth. Secrets you shared with your girlfriends in the hallways. Your routines. Even your flaws, which you attempted to hide from the world.
The scrapbook he started began as a roadmap for your prompt destruction.
But somewhere between spying on you laughing with your friends and watching you cry alone in an empty classroom one morning, he started to see his intentions perverted, and he began to feel like he should be the only one to witness your agony.
His hatred started to soften. Began curling into something he couldn't place.
He was enraged when he realized he was tracing the form of your smile with his fingertips over a photo he had stolen and chopped your eyes out of. Envious. He tore at his arms with his claws, ripping his own skin because how dare his body betray his mind? Why was he feeling things for something he wanted to see scream and fall apart? Why was his mind gradually shifting away from his own control? Why was he suddenly thinking of methods to make you his and his alone?
Even with these thoughts, he kept looking and collecting. He kept feeling that peculiar sickness in his chest whenever someone else talked to you, whenever he said you were crying over some loser guy.
Even as his infatuation grew darker, more controlling, unpleasant, and desperate, life continued to move around him and around you. People continued approaching you, laughing with you, touching your arms, and whispering secrets, and he began to wish he could cut their mouths from their faces. Every grin you gave to someone else scratched on his insides like broken glass. Despite all the time he spent observing you from the shadows, you remained remote, unreachable, an entire world away from him.
So when fate (fate being me fr) finally brought your lives together, when your name was suddenly shouted alongside his in the same sentence for a project, it felt like the ground moved beneath him. Meanwhile, you had no idea the storm was heading directly at you.
You didn't know him; you knew about him since he always sat in the back of the classroom, extending himself out the window, but you didn't know him.
You just knew his name because your teacher said it in that "he's smart but weird" tone. The tone grownups adopt when they want to compliment someone but can't hide their discomfort is one you're all too familiar with.
So when you were partnered up for the assignment, your friends chuckled behind their hands, murmuring together.
"I heard he has a sister complex."
"I feel bad for you getting stuck with that guy."
Their voices were so harsh that you couldn't help but wonder what they said about you when you weren't present. Of course, they yelled it loudly enough for you to hear, but there was no use in ruining your circle for home, weirdo.
Gyutaro was just sitting there, watching you listen to them. A small grin on your lips, but a strain in your jaw, and fingers fumbling with your notebook. You weren't laughing with them, really. But you weren't defending him, either. Why would you, though?
He expected you to roll your eyes. Avoid him. Whisper that you're too busy and ask the teacher for a new partner. That is what normal people would have done. Instead, you did something he was unprepared for. You walked up to him after class. Without hesitation. Have no fear. There was not even a trace of contempt. Just you.
"Um, Gyutaro, right?" You inquired, pressing your binder against your chest. "Do you want to meet up after school to go over some project ideas?"
It struck him like a blow to the ribs. Hard.
You were speaking to him.
Nobody ever waited for him.
His breath faltered, and for a brief moment, he felt heat creep up his neck—jealousy, rage, and longing all twisted together into something sharp. He wanted to snarl at you for being friendly. He tried to shove you away because you were too close. He wanted to grab you by the throat for staring at him as if he wasn't disgusting.
Instead, he said, "Tch." Whatever. "If you want."
"Great," you said. "My house is nearby. We can walk there after the final block."
A place he had always despised you for having. A place he had previously intended to demolish. He wanted inside for many other reasons.
And when he followed you out of the classroom, staring at the back of your neck and bouncing your hair with each step, you didn't notice how his fingers trembled at his sides. You didn't see the yearning in his eyes.
You didn't notice the moment fanaticism devoured whatever remained of his original plan.
He was already anticipating what he would uncover and take from your room.
Your place was everything he expected it to be—warm, clean, and comfortable.
He stood just inside the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes darting everywhere like he was searching for traps.
You kicked off your shoes and smiled over your shoulder.
He’d never even had one of those. But you said it so casually, like the words meant nothing.
You led him upstairs, chatting about project ideas, but Gyutaro wasn’t listening. Not really. He was too focused on the sway of your hips, the bounce in your step, and the way your fingertips brushed the banister.
Every movement you made went straight into that rotting little scrapbook in his brain.
Your bedroom door opened with a soft creak.
It was exactly what he imagined.
Soft colors. Polished furniture. A bed big enough for two. Photos of you and your friends are lined up neatly on a dresser. Perfume bottles. Makeup. Clothes that probably cost more than he made in a month.
It felt like stepping into everything he hated…
Everything he wished he could shatter.
“Is this okay?” you asked, pulling out your laptop.
He nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Whatever.”
You set up your things, rambling something about scheduling, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. Not when he noticed something else—
Your phone buzzed on your bed.
A guy’s name showed on the screen.
Jealousy tore through him like a blade.
That sharp, ripping kind of anger that made his nails itch to dig into skin—his or someone else’s. He clenched his fists. You sighed. “Ugh. I’ll be right back. I have to grab a charger. Don’t touch anything!” You laughed playfully as you left the room.
But the moment your footsteps faded
He went straight to your desk.
He knew exactly what he wanted. Something small. Something personal. Something that would smell like you, feel like you, and prove you belonged to him even if you didn’t know it yet.
A photo corner sticking out of a notebook.
He took the first photo of one of you with your friends, smiling under the sun. His thumb brushed your face. His own smile twisted into something crooked and mean.
“Better,” he muttered, ripping the edges so only you remained.
From his bag, he pulled out the battered, overstuffed scrapbook. Its edges were frayed. Some pages were stained with his blood. He flipped it open, page after page of you staring back at him.
He slipped the new picture into the most recent section.
He was so absorbed, so overwhelmed by that sick-sweet ache in his chest, he didn’t hear your footsteps returning until—
You stood in the doorway, eyes wide, staring straight at the scrapbook.
You plastered it across every inch. And he added a new piece like it was nothing. For a moment, the room was silent. Completely still. Your breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs. He expected screaming. He expected you to run. He expected the disgust he’d always told himself you’d feel.
So when you whispered, voice trembling,
Your eyes were wide—not terrified. Not yet. But shocked. He laughed sharply, brokenly, and defensively.
“Yeah. Are you going to cry about it? Call me a freak?” He stood, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. “Go ahead. Tell the whole school. Call the cops. I don’t care.”
You swallowed, eyes flicking down the messy pages again.
“…I’m going to call the police,” you said slowly, voice shaking.
That got him. His expression twisted, panic flaring, and jealousy and possessiveness crashed into each other like broken glass.
His voice cracked into a growl.
“You—you can’t. I don’t—I don’t have anybody else. Daki—she needs me. I can’t—don’t make me go away.”
Violent and vulnerable all at once.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he rasped.
“Just… don’t turn your back on me. Don’t leave me like everyone else.”
Your pulse hammered, heat crawling up your neck. You should have screamed. You should have run. You didn’t. Instead, something dark and electric tightened inside your chest. You stepped closer—too close.
Close enough to see the wild desperation in his eyes.
“Anything I want?” you murmured.
Your fingers brushed his jaw.
His entire body shuddered.
“There is something I’ve always wanted to try that my past boyfriends wouldn’t let me do,” you whispered, leaning in—
You didn’t raise your voice; you didn’t need to. After everything he’d done to try to tear your life apart, every lie and every calculated plan he had in his scrapbook to bring her to ruin, you somehow still found a way to get control.
“God, I hate rich people, but fuck, she’s hot when she's angry,” he whispered to himself low enough that you couldn’t hear.
So you began to step closer, slow and deliberate.
“You want me all to yourself,” you said quietly. “You wanted to decide how our lives turned out. You tried to break me first. Remember that.”
He swallowed, eyes dropping straight to the floor.
“Good,” you said. “Because now you’re going to listen.”
Your voice sharpened, taking on a cool authority he’d never heard from you before.
“Start by going to the bottom dresser drawer. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you from now on. No arguments. No games. You follow my instructions, and maybe, maybe you can start to understand what it feels like to feel pretty instead of disgusting.” He hesitated a moment too long.
“Now, or do you want me to call the police?” you said
He moved quickly this time, like someone who finally understood he'd pushed the wrong person too far. And for the first time, you felt your own power, something you actually earned, deserved, and completely uncompromised.
You watch him cross the room, every step stiff with nerves he’s trying—and failing—to hide. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched, like he’s bracing for something he can’t name.
He stops in front of the dresser.
For a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the bottom drawer like it’s something dangerous. His hand lifts slowly, hovering, hesitating. You can see the way his fingers tremble before they finally curl around the handle.
He glances back at you—quick, uncertain—like he needs one last confirmation that this is really what you want.
He turns back and pulls the drawer open.
The sound is soft, but he reacts like it’s loud, like the entire room shifts with it. You see his shoulders jump just slightly as the folded stockings come into view. His breath stutters. His fingers twitch.
From where you’re standing, you can see the exact moment it hits him, the reality of the command you gave, the trust you expect, and the control you’re quietly claiming.
He reaches out, hesitating only a heartbeat before touching the fabric. You watch the way his fingers sink into it, slow and careful, as if even that small action is overwhelming.
He stands there, holding the folded stockings, his fingers curling around the fabric as if it were heavier than it should be. You watch him carefully, your eyes sharp, unblinking. The air is thick with quiet tension—like the room itself is holding its breath.
“Put them on,” you say, your voice calm but firm. No hint of malice, no laughter. Just authority.
He swallows hard, jaw tight. His hands shake slightly as he takes his pants off and slowly starts to lift one leg, carefully pulling the stocking up. Then the other. Each movement is slow, deliberate, and precise. He’s tense but obedient, completely aware that you’re watching every step.
You don’t look away. You don’t need to. The quiet control, the way he follows your instruction without question, is enough. You see the conflict in his eyes—pride, embarrassment, obsession, and that strange, unnameable feeling he’s been battling since the moment he started collecting you.
He finishes, standing stiffly in front of you. His gaze flickers to yours, searching, waiting, unsure if he did it right.
“Good… Now go lie on the bed,” you say simply, letting your tone carry all the weight of your control. No other words are needed.
You had never felt this amazing before; you were accustomed to being everyone else's plaything, doing whatever they wanted, and dating anyone they wanted, but now seeing some creepy turn into your plaything was giving you a high you don't believe you'll ever get back from.
He stood at the foot of the bed, rigid and exposed in his boxers and the delicate lace stockings. The contrast was dizzying—the harsh lines of his tense body against the feminine fabric you’d forced him into. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls.
“All the way on the bed and on your back,” you commanded, your voice low and even.
He obeyed, moving with a stiffness that spoke of a war between shame and a dark, thrilling obedience. The mattress dipped under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at you, but you saw the frantic pulse in his throat.
You climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him. The silence was heavy, broken only by his shaky exhale. You let it stretch, letting the anticipation coil tightly in his gut. Your fingers, cool and deliberate, traced a line from his knee, up the sheer lace of the stocking, to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.
He flinched, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. “D-Don’t…”
“Don’t?” you repeated, your voice a soft, dangerous whisper. Your nails dug in just enough to make him gasp. “That’s not a word you get to use with me. You wanted all of me. You took pieces of me without asking. Now you’ll take what I give you.”
You lowered your head, and your mouth found the same spot on his thigh. Your tongue flicked out, a brief, wet stroke that made his hips jerk. Then you closed your teeth over the quivering muscle and bit down.
He cried out—a sharp, broken sound that was half-pain, half-surrender. You held the pressure, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the tremor that ran through him. When you released him, a perfect, darkening mark was already blooming on his pale skin. A brand.
“Mine,” you breathed against the hot, damp skin.
You moved upwards, a predator claiming its territory. Your lips and teeth found the sharp line of his hipbone, the soft plane of his lower stomach, and the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Each bite was followed by the soothing lap of your tongue, each kiss a promise of possession that left a purple blossom in its wake. He was writhing beneath you, his hands fisting the sheets, a continuous, low whine building in his chest.
His boxers were tented, straining, a desperate plea. You hooked your fingers in the waistband and peeled them down, freeing his erection. He was painfully hard, leaking. A raw, needy sound escaped him at the exposure.
You looked down at him, at the complete picture of his surrender—the lace, the marks, the utter want. “You’re prettier like this,” you murmured, wrapping your fingers slowly around his length. “All desperate. All for me.”
He whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut. You stroked him once, twice, a slow, torturous friction that had his back arching off the bed. But you stopped before he could tip over the edge, smiling at his frustrated groan.
You shifted, straddling his hips. You took your clothes off slowly so he could see the new parts of your body. Come to life. After you were done, you finished taking the rest of his clothes off and threw the pile of clothes somewhere to be found later. Once you were down, you took his throbbing cock in your hands, guiding him to your now sloppy cunt.
You watched his face as you sank onto him, inch by excruciating inch. His eyes flew open, wide with shock and overwhelming sensation. His mouth dropped open in a silent scream as you took him fully, sheathing him inside your heat.
He felt so good filling you up just right. You began to move, a slow, rolling grind of your hips that had him seeing stars. You set a brutal, perfect rhythm, using him for your own pleasure, each rise and fall a testament to your control.
“Look at me,” you ordered, your voice breathless but firm.
His glazed, tear-filled eyes focused on you. He was completely unraveling, his breath sobbing in his throat with every thrust.
“You thought you could break me?” You panted, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. “You thought you could own me from the shadows?” You dug your nails into his chest, riding him harder, faster. “This is what ownership looks like.”
His whimpers turned into full, shuddering cries. “P-Please…”
“Please what?” you taunted, not breaking your rhythm. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop?”
You could feel him tightening, his whole body coiling like a spring. You slammed down onto him, grinding against him, milking him for every drop. “Come for me.”
It was less a command and more a release of the tension you’d wound so tightly. He shattered with a broken cry, his orgasm tearing through him violently. His hips bucked wildly underneath you as he spilled himself inside you, wave after wave of pleasure that seemed to drain the very life from him.
You didn’t stop. You kept moving, riding him through the intense overstimulation. He sobbed, thrashing his head from side to side, his hands coming up to push weakly at your hips. “N-No more… too much… s-stop…”
You captured his wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head, and leaned close, your lips brushing his. “I decide when we’re done.”
You continued to move, a slow, relentless rhythm that had him crying openly, tears tracing paths through the sweat on his temples. He was hypersensitive, every movement a jolt of electric sensation, his spent cock twitching inside you. He was babbling, a mess of pleas and choked sobs, completely and utterly ruined.
You finally stilled, feeling his entire body go limp beneath you, spent and trembling. You released his wrists and looked down at your work. The once-defiant stalker was now a whimpering, marked, and crying mess, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You traced a possessive finger over the darkest hickey on his neck.
His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, swimming in a sheen of overwhelmed tears. His lips part, trying to form a word, a name, or a plea, but only a wet, ragged breath escapes. I… I… He is utterly spent, a beautiful, broken thing beneath you.
You do not allow him the dignity of finishing. You lean down, your hair curtaining his face, and your mouth finds his. It’s not a kiss of affection but of reclamation. You bite his lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make him gasp into your mouth, his body jolting beneath yours. You swallow the pathetic, whimpering sound he makes.
“I told you you were not done until I say so,” you whisper against his lips, your voice husky with your own power. You can feel him, still semi-hard and incredibly sensitive inside you. You give a slow, deliberate grind of your hips, a circular motion that makes his breath hitch into a sob.
”P-Please,” he finally manages, the word cracking in the middle. ”No… can’t…”
“You can,” you counter, your voice dropping to a low, mesmerizing hum. “You will. You tried to take so much from me. My privacy. My peace. My image. Now you’ll give me everything you have left.”
You begin to move again, a slow, torturous undulation. His head thrashes side to side on the pillow, a fresh wave of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. His hands, which had fallen limp, rise to push weakly at your thighs. His touch is feather-light, trembling.
You catch one of his wrists, pinning it to the mattress beside his head. Your other hand comes up, and your fingers lace tightly across his throat.
His eyes fly open, wide with a new, primal fear that sends a thrilling jolt straight through you. He freezes, every muscle in his body locked in tense anticipation.
You don’t squeeze. Not yet. You just hold the potential there, your thumb resting against the frantic, rabbit-quick pulse hammering beneath his jaw. You can feel every desperate beat of his heart against your palm.
“You wanted to consume me,” you murmur, watching the terror and arousal war in his gaze. You press down, just a fraction. His breath hitches, a choked gasp escaping his parted lips. His hips give an involuntary, tiny thrust upwards, a reflexive search for friction even in his panic. ”Now see how it feels to be devoured.”
You increase the pressure.
It’s not enough to cut off his air, not truly. It’s just enough to make every breath a conscious, difficult effort. To make him acutely aware of the fragile column of his throat in your hand. His face begins to flush a deep, beautiful crimson.
And you move. You set a ruthless, driving rhythm, riding him with deep, punishing strokes that jolt through his oversensitive body. Each time you sink onto him, your fingers tighten just a little more. Each time you rise, the pressure lessens, giving him one gasped, glorious breath before you take it away again.
He is babbling, a continuous, slurred stream of consciousness lost to sensation. “Too much… oh god… ’s too much… it’s good… please… stop… don’t stop…”
His free hand claws at the sheets, his back arching off the bed. His body is a mess of contradictions—trying to escape the overwhelming pleasure-pain while simultaneously chasing it. His cock, which had begun to soften, is rigid and throbbing inside you again, responding to the dizzying lack of oxygen and the relentless friction.
You lean close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. ”Come for me again,” you command, your voice a dark promise. Your grip on his throat tightens to its peak, and you piston your hips faster, nailing that perfect, deep spot inside you with every stroke. ”I want every last drop. I want you empty.”
His eyes roll back. A guttural, choked cry is torn from him, a sound you feel vibrate against your palm more than you hear. His orgasm hits him like a seizure, his entire body locking up, straining against your hold. You feel the hot, pulsing cum inside you, weaker than the first but no less intense for him.
You don’t let go of his throat. You don’t stop moving.
The overstimulation is absolute agony for him. He screams, a raw, broken sound, thrashing beneath you. Tears pour down his temples, soaking into his hair. His pleas are incoherent now, just fractured syllables and sobs. He is a whimpering, crying mess, completely and totally ruined. Spent in every sense of the word.
Only then do you release his throat.
He drags in a huge, ragged, whooping gasp of air, his chest heaving. He coughs, his body convulsing. His eyes are unfocused, seeing nothing. He is limp, boneless, a puppet with its strings cut.
You finally still your hips, though you remain seated on him, feeling his softness inside you. You release his wrist and gently trace the vivid red marks your fingers have left on his neck. You lean down and press a soft, almost tender kiss to the bruised skin.
He flinches at the touch, a fresh, silent sob shaking his frame.
You smile, a slow, possessive curl of your lips. You run your hand through his sweat-damp hair, a mockery of comfort. ”There,” you whisper. ”Now you’re mine. All of you.”
His eyes slowly focus on you, filled with a devastating mix of terror, awe, and something horrifyingly close to worship. He opens his mouth, his voice a shredded, broken whisper.
The word is a confession, a surrender, the final crumbling of every wall he’d ever built. You feel the truth of it in the limp weight of his body beneath yours, in the hot, wet evidence of his ruin still pooling inside you.
You don’t move off him. Not yet. You savor the feeling, the absolute fullness of your control. Your fingers, still tangled in his damp hair, tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him.
“Yes,” you affirm, your voice low and impossibly calm. “Mine. And what’s mine, I take care of. And what's mine always cleans up their mess.”
His brow furrows in exhausted confusion, his tear-glazed eyes struggling to focus on you. He doesn’t understand. He’s too spent, too thoroughly broken, to anticipate your next move.
You shift your weight, lifting yourself off him with a slow, deliberate motion that makes him gasp at the sudden emptiness. You kneel beside him on the bed, looking down at his ruined form—the lace stockings, the map of purpling bites and marks, and the sheen of sweat and tears.
“Sit up,” you command, your tone leaving no room for hesitation.
A weak, broken sound escapes him. He can’t. His limbs are lead, his will utterly extinguished.
“Now,” you snap, the single word cracking through the room like a whip.
He flinches, the sound jump-starting his broken system. With a tremor that runs through his entire frame, he obeys, pushing himself up on shaking arms until he’s sitting slumped before you. He won’t meet your eyes.
You reach between your own legs, gathering the slick cum, evidence of his climax, on your fingers. You bring them to his lips, watching his face closely.
His eyes widen. He understands now. A fresh wave of shame and something else—something darkly eager—flashes across his features. He tries to turn his head away, a last, pathetic gesture of defiance.
Your free hand snaps out, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to look at you. Your grip is firm, unyielding. “Open.”
His lips part on a shuddering sob. You slide your slick fingers into his mouth.
The taste is immediate—musky, salty, uniquely him, mixed with the essence of you. His tongue flinches back for a second, his body recoiling from the act, but you hold his jaw steady. You watch, mesmerized, as his eyes screw shut, as his Adam’s apple bobbles with a reluctant swallow.
“Clean them,” you order, your voice a husky whisper. “Get every last drop.”
A tear traces a new path down his cheek, but his tongue moves. Tentatively at first, then with a strange, growing fervor. It flicks against your fingertips, lapping at the taste of his own release. A low, guttural moan vibrates against your skin. It’s a sound of utter degradation, and it makes your cunt clench with renewed heat.
You pull your fingers away, now clean. He sways, his breath coming in ragged pants, a string of saliva and cum connecting his lower lip to your hand for a second before it breaks.
“Good,” you purr, and the praise seems to shudder through him more violently than any punishment. “But we’re not done. That was just the appetizer.”
You move, settling onto your back beside him. You pull him down with you, a guiding hand on the back of his neck. “The main course is still being served.”
You don’t have to spell it out. He knows. The understanding is there in the way his body goes rigid for a moment before going completely pliant.
You guide his head between your thighs.
The first hot, hesitant breath he exhales against your sensitized flesh makes you jerk. He’s trembling, his entire world reduced to the scent and sight of you, laid bare before him.
“Do it,” you whisper into the quiet, charged air.
It’s a tentative, shaky stroke, almost chaste. But the effect is electric. A jolt of pure pleasure arcs through you, and you can’t suppress a sharp, gasped, “Oh.”
The sound seems to unlock something in him. His initial hesitance evaporates, replaced by the same obsessive focus he used in his stalker’s notebooks. Now, instead of cataloging your movements from afar, he is cataloging your taste, your sounds, and the way your body shudders under his mouth.
He licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you moan, your head falling back against the pillows. Your fingers find his hair again, not guiding, just holding on as waves of sensation crash over you.
He learns fast. His tongue circles your clit, light and teasing, before flattening against it, applying just the right amount of pressure. He drinks from you, his movements growing more confident, more desperate. It’s as if he’s trying to devour you whole, to consume you in the only way he’s now permitted. His nose presses against you, his breath hot, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive skin. The obscene, wet sounds of his worship fill the room.
You’re climbing fast, your hips lifting off the bed to meet his mouth. “Yes… just like that… fuck, Gyutaro…”
Hearing his name on your lips in this context sends him into a frenzy. His hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, come up to grip your thighs, digging into your flesh as he holds you open for his feast. He’s not just obeying anymore; he’s pleading with his mouth, begging for your approval, for your sweet slick.
The orgasm builds swiftly, a tight, coiling pressure in your belly. “Don’t stop,” you pant, your voice strung tight. “I’m going to come. You’re going to taste all of me.”
He redoubles his efforts, his tongue fucking into you, lapping at you, relentless and perfect.
You shatter. A raw, guttural cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as you ride his face, grinding against his mouth as the waves of pleasure roll through you.
He doesn’t pull away. He drinks it all down, moaning into you as if your orgasm is his own, his own hips shifting against the bedsheets, searching for friction he’s not permitted to have.
When the last tremor subsides, you go boneless, collapsing back onto the mattress. Your grip on his hair loosens. He pulls back slowly, his breathing as ragged as yours. His face is glistening, soaked with you. His eyes are dazed, his lips swollen and slick. He looks utterly debauched, and a profound, possessive satisfaction settles deep in your bones.
You hook a finger under his chin, forcing his gaze to yours. “How do I taste?”
His voice is wrecked, a raw scrape of sound filled with awe and terror. “Perfect.”
You smile, a dark, victorious thing. “Now you know what you really are. Not a predator. Not a master. You’re my pet. My thing. And you’ll always come back?
He doesn’t answer with words. He just leans forward, his eyes closing, and his tongue darts out to lick one last, lingering stripe up your inner thigh, cleaning away a stray trickle of your combined slick.
“You know, if it wasn't for that little book of yours, I never would have imagined you'd be into this or me. Then again, who doesn't like me? "You add," watching as he finishes up before looking up at you.
"What are you talking about? You've never seen my book until today," he says, trying to catch his breath. You don't say anything right away; you just push him off of you and stand all the way up before strolling over to your window, not caring that you're nude.
"You left it in your desk one day. I was going to give it to the teacher and have him give it back to you, but then a picture of me slipped out, so I peeked inside, and what do you know, it was filled with me and all your dirty thoughts."
He looked at your bare back and wished he had a camera to capture the moment, but you interrupted his thoughts with a quick "Take a shower and get dressed; it's finally time for my parents to meet the guy I've been talking about for so long."
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