suguru geto + black reader
cw: doctor/patient themes, power imbalance, medical play, mild dubcon, bimbofication themes, obsessive and possessive themes, overstimulation, dacryphilia, fingering, squirting, condescending praise, clinical dirty talk, semi-public vulnerability, professional setting corruption, pseudo-virginity themes, light humiliation, oral fixation, overall morally deviant filth disguised as healthcare. 5k words.
an: guess who's backk (temporarily). enjoy lovelies! minors are not welcome! dni!!
The moment you stepped inside, the clinic didn’t feel like a clinic. It felt like isolation—like you’d quietly slipped out of your small village just outside Kyoto and entered a different dimension. Your hometown had its charms: shrines, elder neighbors, the gentle vibrancy of outdated electricity. Modernity had touched it, sure. But this… this was another level entirely.
The clinic felt expensive. Immaculate, even. So pristine that the polished marble floors looked untouched by human shoes. No echo, no heel tap followed your steps. That was the first thing you noticed. There were soft, smooth instrumentals playing on speakers you couldn’t see. The plush green velvet chairs—definitely custom, definitely overpriced—cradled your hips a little too perfectly when you finally sat down in the waiting area. Like they’d been molded for you. The walls were beige, warm. Matte.
You caught a whiff of something in the air that you couldn’t fully make out. Vanilla? Maybe orchids? Certainly not bleach.
Everything that surrounded you was engineered to make you calm and relaxed. So, why couldn’t you stop fidgeting? Your thumbs hovered over your phone screen, tapping between apps with no purpose. You weren’t even looking at anything. Just toggled through your settings app like something important awaited you there. Nervous was an understatement.
Your first visit. Your first pap smear. Your first time spreading your plush, brown thighs for a stranger in a sterile room. Your first time letting cold tools you couldn’t name and gloved hands touch where only lovers had been. You weren’t here for anything dramatic. Just a check-up. Just a yearly exam that you’ve been putting off long before you turned twenty. You swallowed hard.
You glance up, snapped out of your trance by a soft voice calling out to you. It belonged to the same woman who had greeted you at the front desk—the one who handed you a clipboard and nodded politely when your fingers trembled. She was smiling now. White teeth, plump, glossed lips, and curly hair tucked into a low bun so tight it looked sculpted. She gestured toward the hallway with a graceful sweep of her hand.
“The doctor is ready for you now,” she said gently. “Please, follow me.”
You stood, your legs a little slow to move as she waited for you. The woman turned on her heel and began down the dim-lit corridor, her pace slow enough that you didn’t have to rush to keep up. She didn’t try to make small talk as you walked. Not that you wanted her to. You did.
You passed closed, featureless doors—each one identical, each one eerily silent. With every step, your stomach tightened, your spine straightened, and your nerves climbed slightly higher.
“Dr. Geto will be with you shortly,” she said with the same practiced warmth. She gestured once toward the doorway, her hand as still as her expression.
Inside looked nothing like a sterile hospital box. Muted lighting. Soft gray walls trimmed in cream. A golden desk lamp glowed low beside a curved white chair—ergonomic, plush, too elegant for a doctor’s office. The wide leather examination table sat center, its stirrups discreetly folded beneath. Along one wall were glass cabinets, pristine and backlit, holding high-end instruments arranged like artwork. Nothing looked cheap. Nothing looked rushed.
“You’ll change into this,” she said, handing you a folded silk robe. The fabric was butter-soft, branded with the clinic’s insignia in gold thread. “Undress fully from the waist down. The doctor will go over everything once he arrives.”
You nodded. Your throat was dry again. Heartbeat a little faster now.
She paused at the doorway, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than needed. Her smile returned—gentler this time, with a faint, amused curve.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she addressed you with a wink. “He’s very gentle.”
And then she left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Not an awkward one. Not dead or empty. It felt composed. Like the room was trained to hush you into submission. Even the air felt still, like it had been filtered and weighted to press against your nerves. You stood there for a second, unsure whether to move yet, as you held the silk robe against your chest.
You let a moment pass before you peeled off your clothes slowly. First, your crop top, folded neatly over the lone chair. Then your mini skirt. Then your lace panties—those last. You kick your kitten heels to the side. Once dressed in the robe, you hesitated again, fingers smoothing the hem as you glanced around.
There was no camera that you could see. No clock on the wall. No monitor beeping in the background. The room was too quiet. You felt... exposed.
The leather of the examination table was soft beneath you. You sat with your legs crossed at the ankle, your robe pulled tight over your thighs, and your hands in your lap. You could hear your breathing. The way it slowed, then picked up again for no reason at all. The way your heart kicked a little harder every time your keen hearing picked up on faint footsteps in the hallway, only to pass your door. And then there was a pause before you heard a near-silent knock.
Three slow taps. Measured. You froze. No, actually, froze.
And then you heard a deep, rich, and calm voice muffled by the door but unmistakably low and smooth, “May I come in?”
It took a second to process the voice before your throat finally worked. “Yes. Come in.”
The handle turned slowly. And Dr. Geto stepped inside.
Time bent itself around his arrival. You watched as the door opened—and the man who stepped inside made everything else in the room feel obsolete. Irrelevant. Too small to hold him.
Doctor Geto was ethereal, in a way that felt sacrilegious. Like something divine had dressed itself in white just to kneel at the altar of your discomfort. Tall didn’t quite cut it—he towered, his lab coat tailored to perfection, stitched sharp at the shoulders and cinched at his waist. Beneath it, a fitted black tee stretched just enough across the sculpt of his chest to suggest strength rather than show it off. His trousers were deceptively casual—low-slung, wide-legged denim that hinted at something far less clinical.
But it was his face that made your breath stall.
Raven hair swept back in a half-up knot, the rest cascading freely down his back in flowing waves. A single lock draped over his forehead, framing his cheek like it was choreographed. His lips were plush and pink, the kind that looked soft enough to ruin you with a single peck. His jawline was precisely cut by what you could only assume was the divine. And his eyes—gods, his eyes. Not brown, not black, but violet, unnatural and depthless. Eyes that looked designed to seduce, and knew it. They landed on you, cold and measured, and yet something in your gut coiled tight.
He didn’t smile—not like other doctors did. He didn’t coo or fawn or lean into faux warmth. Instead, he offered a slow, nearly imperceptible tilt of the mouth. Polite. Detached.
Suguru prided himself on restraint. On his reputation. Had he been any lesser man, he might have stammered. Might’ve let his eyes linger. Might’ve exposed the way his entire body pulsed at the sight of you.
You were more than stunning—you were created to tempt.
Your bubblegum pink lace wig, styled in flawless body waves, framed your face like a halo of soft decadence against your deep brown skin. Like an angel sent from above to tempt him. Your lips were glossed and plump, a glistening invitation you didn’t have to speak aloud. Your lashes curled up like wings, eyes wide and doe-like—sweet and naive, but he knew better.
His gaze dropped further, unblinking. The silk robe didn’t hide much. Your nipples were erect, poking through the fabric so obviously that he could even make out the piercings caressing them. His eyes stilled there—just for a breath too long—then continued. Your full hips were hugged by the robe’s cinch, your skin glowing and smooth, your thighs fat and inviting.
And your feet. Fuck, your feet. Soft, arched, the square white French tips glistening as if polished just for him.
You didn’t have to try. You simply existed—and it was already too much.
“Miss °❀,” his voice low, smooth, faintly amused. Addictive. “First appointment?”
You nodded, still too stunned by his beauty to actually speak. His eyes weren’t on you anymore after he took note of your answer, and you’re quick to notice the next source of his attention. He looked down at the sleek black tablet in his hand, fingers tapping something into the screen. It looked tiny compared to his hands—those large, veined, inked hands that should’ve been illegal in a medical setting.
It could’ve been that, which had you in a trance. You couldn’t help it. Your thoughts slipped. Wandered.
You couldn’t decide which would look better. Those perfect hands wrapped tightly around your neck, or maybe those same hands in between your legs. One bracing your thighs open while the other meticulously, repeatedly hits deep inside your—
You blinked. A quick succession of fingers snapping removes you from your trance.
“Hello. Miss °❀?” he tilted his head faintly, expression still unreadable. “Still with me?”
You swallowed thickly, eyes darting to meet his. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Geto. Were you saying something?”
He offered a soft wave of dismissal, a sliver of amusement warming his sharp eyes. “It’s quite all right,” he said lightly. “And please—call me Suguru.”
He didn’t move, didn’t look up. But you felt it—that unspoken prompt. The stillness in the air. He wanted to hear you say it.
He breaks into a tiny smile for the first time since he’s seen you. His eyes shift back to the screen he’s holding before he addresses you again, “I was asking,” he said, tone still impossibly smooth, “why you put this appointment off for so long.. This is your first internal exam… correct?”
Your throat bobbed. “Y-yes,” you admitted softly. “It’s… my first. I just never made time for it.”
His eyes stayed on yours too long.
“Mm. It’s good you’re here now.”
You didn’t catch the way his knuckles flexed around the tablet.
His questionnaire started normally—boring, even. He asked about your medical history, any medications you were taking, and allergies you might have. Each answer you gave, he tracked something. The way your throat moved when you swallowed. The way you fidgeted with the hem of your robe. The tremble in your perfectly manicured fingers.
He was hooked. On every word, every nervous stammer. Every time you avoided his gaze, as if it might burn you.
He set aside the tablet on the counter beside him, the subtle appearance of the muscles in his forearm flexing slightly with the motion. Then, with a soft rustle of fabric, he turned toward the medical cart.
You watched him. Your eyes wouldn’t leave him even if they tried.
You shouldn’t be watching him this closely—but you did. The way he moved was slow, deliberate. Like he knew you were watching. Like he was giving you time to imagine. To fantasize. About all the things he could do to you if he weren’t your doctor.
He reached for a drawer. Pulled out a small box of gloves.
“Your robe,” he said, voice low and even, “Ties in the front, correct?”
He looked over his shoulder. Briefly. “Good. It’ll make this easier.”
The snap of the first glove echoed in the small room. Your thighs pressed together slightly on instinct.
“I’ll walk you through everything,” Suguru said smoothly, now turning to face you fully, the white gloves fitted tight around his hands like a second skin. “I’ll be using two fingers to examine internally for any abnormalities. Pressure is normal. Pain is not.”
He took a step closer. Just one. Enough that you could smell his cologne now—something expensive and barely there. Smoky, like leather and incense.
“You’ll lie back, place your feet in the stirrups, and I’ll begin once you’re comfortable.”
His voice dropped slightly.
You nodded quickly. “Yes.”
His violet eyes flicked downward for just a second, lingering on the shape of your thighs beneath the robe. “Words, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched. “…yes, Suguru.”
“Perfect. Now, any specific concerns before we start?” His voice was deceptively kind.
Your voice was shy as you fought to look everywhere but his eyes. “No...just nervous.”
“That’s normal,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “Procedure, even.”
You swallowed again, throat dry. You didn’t know where to look—his eyes were too intense, his hands even worse. You shifted in place slightly on the table, the silky robe brushing against your silky thighs.
Suguru let the pause hang for just a second longer than needed. Then words you weren’t sure you dreaded or anticipated came, “Go ahead and lie back for me.”
You leaned back slowly, spine pressing into the leather examination table as your heart thumped beneath your ribs. Your feet moved toward the stirrups, hesitating for a breath before slipping into place. Your knees spread open slightly, instinctively modest, even as you tried to relax. You still closed your legs, too embarrassed to let him see what you were hiding. He adjusted the light—subtle, angled—not too bright.
Then his gaze returned to you.
His eyes were not sterile. They lingered. Drinking you in, practically consuming you from where you lay, robed, legs parted slightly, fingers curling into the edges of the table.
“As much as I can be,” you replied with a weak smile.
He hummed again—quiet, thoughtful—and stepped between your legs. Only a few inches separated you now. His gloved hands reached forward, slow, unhurried, and gently coaxed your knees wider apart. Not forcefully. Just enough pressure to remind you who was in control of the moment.
The robe shifted with you—bunched delicately around your hips now, Silky fabric falling open like a ribbon untied. Suguru’s touch was warm through the gloves. Strange. It made your thighs twitch ever so slightly, a subtle jolt at the contact. If he noticed, he didn’t comment.
“Good,” he said lowly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Just relax.”
Relax. As if it were that easy.
You could feel the heat in your core rising. From the way his voice curled into your chest and settled low in your belly. One of his hands adjusted the robe at your waist. The other rested lightly on the inside of your thigh.
“Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable,” he murmured.
He rolls his chair closer to your lower half. To where his face is directly in front of your cunt. The sight of it, the sight of you- plump, soft brown pussy lips. Freshly shaven, he can tell. Your little clit was peeking in between them as if greeting him. He wanted to return the greeting. He was desperate to be introduced to the messy trail of slick coming out of your covered hole. All of it had his cock twitching behind his briefs.
He forced his expression blank. Professional. He reminds himself. His gloved hand hovered above your abdomen for a breath, then lowered.
“I’ll begin here,” he murmured.
The pads of his fingers pressed gently, methodically—mapping the soft terrain of your stomach, pressing down in practiced sweeps.
Each touch was measured, never lingering too long. But that didn’t stop the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted just a bit lower, the edge of your pelvis marking the invisible border between neutral and not.
“Any pain when I press here?”
His tone was even. But his hand… his hand slid along the delicate rise of your pelvic bone, thumb brushing where bone met softness. You swallowed. “No… none.”
His eyes flicked up to yours for a heartbeat. Then back down, just as quickly. Your skin was on fire beneath his gloves. Suguru told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just routine. Just another check.
But the way your thighs had twitched when he touched you earlier? The way your robe was slowly slipping further open with every shift of your hips? He felt it. The pull. Like gravity. Like gravity with intention. Still, he moved on. Lower still.
“Let me know if that changes,” he said quietly, reaching for the small bottle of lube on the silver tray, the click of its cap punctuating the silence.
His fingers moved with quiet certainty. Practiced. Clean. Not hurried, but not hesitating either. He tilted the bottle in one gloved hand, squeezing just enough of the clear gel onto the other. The lubricant caught the low light and gleamed like glass as it spread across his fingers. “I’m going to begin the internal portion now,” Suguru said.
And you nodded—fast, too eager. Your breath had already caught.
The cold made contact before you could fully prepare. A soft gasp left your lips as the cool slickness brushed against your entrance. Your hips twitched without your permission, thighs clenching instinctively around the sensation.
“Breathe,” Suguru said again, gentler now.
And then his hand was on your thigh, grounding. He didn’t grip, but you felt enough pressure to spread you further, the soft robe bunching higher on your hips as your legs parted more freely.
“Just relax,” he added. “We’ll take our time.”
He hadn’t even inserted his fingers yet, but it already felt like he was inside your head. Like he was taking his time on purpose. Watching your body react and your nerves draw themselves taut in anticipation. And as he knelt a little closer, lining up his touch with that same clinical precision, your hands curled into the paper lining of the table.
Suguru pressed gloved fingers against your folds. He didn’t rush. Just parted you slowly, like you were made of something precious, and maybe you were. Because even with the thin barrier of latex between his skin and yours, he could feel the heat of your cunt radiating up his wrist. His breath stuttered—so soft it barely made a sound.
You were soaked. Not just wet from the lubricant—but dripping. The gushy mess gathered at your entrance shone against the dim lamplight, pooling around the edges of his touch like liquid heat. And he knew. He knew it wasn’t just your nerves. You were reacting to him. Because of him.
His jaw flexed. He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying not to let the twitch in his cock show on his face. Not yet.
“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice deceptively calm as he rubbed two fingers gently along your entrance—spreading the lube, warming you to him.
You whimpered softly. “Mhm…”
He should’ve never agreed to take this appointment. Should’ve had one of the nurses handle it. Should’ve walked away the second he saw your name on the intake form.
He leaned in instead, breath ghosting closer to your cunt. His eyes didn’t leave it—studying how your folds responded, how your hole twitched slightly under the chill, already clenching around nothing, as if you were waiting for him.
Suguru swallowed. His cock throbbed harder against his waistband. Then, with careful precision, he pressed the tip of his middle finger against your entrance. And pushed in. Just a knuckle. Just enough to make your hips jolt and a tiny gasp leave your lips.
Tight. Soft, too. The doctor before you thought. His finger slid deeper, slow and deliberate—until his knuckle disappeared into the wet heat of your walls. And he paused there, letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust.
If he moved any faster, he might forget who he’s supposed to be. His finger curled slightly inside you, testing your depth, your heat. He was supposed to check for swelling and irregularities, and to be fair, he was. But what he was more interested in was that spongy deep inside your sweet pussy.
He added a second finger before warning you, and the way your cunt clamped around him made his jaw twitch.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You’re doing so good.”
Your hips tilted, almost instinctively, following the subtle rhythm of his fingers as they curled up into your walls. Suguru’s gaze never left your face now—watching the tiny flickers of expression bloom and break across it. Your parted lips, the slight twitch in your brow, the way your lashes fluttered, his fingers touched there.
“Right there?” he asked, tone perfectly neutral, but his fingers didn’t stop moving. You swallowed and gave him the slightest nod, breath stuttering.
Your body clenched around him at that.
“Mm.” he feigned writing that down in his head, all while letting his thumb rest lightly against your mound. Not rubbing. Not yet. Just enough for your brain to anticipate. He pretended to adjust his position, just enough to lean in closer between your thighs, lips parting slightly as if he could taste you through the air. You smelled so delectable, or maybe it was his senses clouding him. Logically, he knows there’s no scent down there, but he swears he catches a whiff of papaya exuding from you.
You were flushed and glistening, and everything about your body invited him further, like you were some divine thing he was meant to ruin.
“Such a responsive patient,” he muttered as his fingers twisted inside you once more. “You feel that?” he asked, hitting a gentle pressure point. His fingers were skilled, massaging through your tight walls, rotating and probing. Every slow circle had thighs trembling, a light whimper escaping your lips that you felt forced to cover with your hands.
You gasped—soft, breathy, helpless. Your breathing growing uneven as your hips are slightly rising from the surface you were lying on.
He shouldn’t be enjoying that as much as he did. He shouldn’t be thinking about slipping his fingers out of you just to replace them with his tongue. He shouldn’t want to drag you off that table, make you straddle his lap, make you come on his cock so harshly your head went light.
But here you were. All soft curves and sweetness and need. His name falling from your lips like a gift. And here he was, still inside you, pretending this was just a medical exam.
“Still tense,” Suguru murmured, fingers still curled inside you, slow and deliberate. “Your muscles are… clenching too much.”
He didn’t sound concerned. In fact, he sounded intrigued. His tone was almost soothing. Like the mess you were making on his gloved fingers wasn’t obscene.
“You’re sensitive,” he added, drawing his thumb in lazy circles across your mound. Not quite your clit. He was watching how badly you wanted it. His fingers were still working deep inside you with a precision that had nothing to do with diagnosis. “You hold a lot of stress here, don’t you?”
You blinked up at him, lips parted, your breath shallow. You whimpered behind your hands, voice muffled. “I-It’s just… I’m nervous…”
He hummed again, low and thoughtful, “It’s more common than most realize,” he murmured. “Especially in women who haven’t… experienced regular release.”
You tried to steady your breathing, to unclench your walls. But the slow curl of his fingers inside you made it impossible. He didn’t stop there.
“Do you masturbate often, °❀?”
His tone didn’t change—still so clinical, and yet your stomach flipped, thighs twitching under his firm grip. You hesitated, naturally. That alone was answer enough.
His fingers didn’t move—yet. They stayed buried, knuckle-deep, the slight stretch already making your walls flutter. But his sharp gaze remained locked on your face like he was reading every microexpression for truth.
“No need to be embarrassed,” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “I only ask because… your body’s responding like it’s starving.” A slight curl of his fingers punctuated the sentence, pressing right against that tender spot he’d already memorized deep inside you.
This time, you weren’t quick enough to swallow the guttural moan that escaped your lips.
“See?” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Hypersensitive. Tight. You’ve been neglecting her, haven’t you?”
Her? Was he talking about- Oh god.
He didn’t rush. That was the worst part.
Suguru withdrew his fingers halfway—a soft, slick squelch filling the room—before easing them back in with a deliberate twist of his wrist.
His thumb hovered just above your clit before gently pressing down. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to taunt. A low, desperate noise slipped from your throat. His voice dropped a fraction lower, smoky now. “You’ll let me take care of it, won’t you?”
He curled his fingers again, hitting your G-spot with devastating precision. “You’ll let me teach your body what it’s been missing?”
You nodded quickly, breath catching. But he didn’t move.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
You blinked down at him, dazed. “Yes… yes, Suguru, please—”
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Then he pressed his thumb down—firm, sure—and your hips jolted so violently, you nearly slid off the table. His other hand shot out, gripping your thigh like a vice, keeping you perfectly still. His touch wasn’t frantic. It was clinical. Methodical. Slow. He circled your clit with the same care, the same precision, he used in surgery.
His thumb circled your clit in slow, torturous strokes—just enough to ache, not enough to release. The pads of his fingers never wavered, pressing rhythmically against that soft, swollen spot deep inside you. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, drawing him in like you were made to accommodate his hands, and only his.
You didn’t mean to moan again. It just slipped—wet, broken, high-pitched. A sound you’d never made before.
He was watching you now. Not your face—your cunt. His eyes were fixed, mesmerized, pupils darkening as he observed every shiver, pulse, and flutter that betrayed how close you already were.
“So easy,” he murmured, almost absentmindedly, like he was documenting a symptom. “You poor thing. If this is what it takes to break you…”
His words made your toes curl in the stirrups. He didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, he let the flat of his thumb slide down, slow and dragging, until it hovered just above where he was sinking into you. He watched a thread of your slick connect his glove to your cunt when he pulled back slightly. His tongue pressed briefly to the inside of his cheek.
“You’re going to make a mess,” he said softly, almost like a warning, thumb still tracing slow, maddening circles. “That’s alright. I’ll clean you up when we’re done.”
You let out another moan at that—high and small, your legs twitching again.
“Keep them open,” he reminded you gently. His hand on your thigh didn’t move, but his grip tightened. You tried. You tried so hard to hold still, to be good for him, but you were trembling. Overwhelmed by the pressure. Your back arched slightly off the table as he angled his fingers, finding a new spot that made your stomach flutter. His control was terrifyingly holy.
He knew you were close. He could feel it in the way your thighs quivered and clenched, in the way your walls milked his fingers with every punch to your spot.
“You’re going to come soon, aren’t you?”
He said it so casually. Like he was asking about the weather. You nodded, frantic, mouth falling open to beg.
“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Let me guess… no one’s ever made you feel this way before.”
You barely nodded, eyes fluttering and rolling in the back of your skull. You could feel light tears teetering at the base of your eyelids, threatening to fall and ruin your light makeup. “That’s alright.”
“I’ll teach you everything,” he murmurs as he moves his thumb to press a soft, faint kiss to your pretty clit. Tears fall down your cheeks as you whine when he curls his fingers, harshly, just once more, you swear you feel them deeper.
“Come for me, sweetheart.”
The words barely left Suguru’s lips before your back bowed off the table, vision white-hot—then a rush. A beautiful, clear stream arced from your soaked cunt, spraying directly onto his face. Your body didn’t feel like yours anymore. It wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged entirely to the man below you, continuously pushing his fingers in and out of your overflowing pussy.
His body stills for a second, watching you, observing you really. He really shouldn’t. He should attempt to keep a semblance of professionalism, but look at you. This view of you right now, the look of absolute pleasure on your face. You could rival the most beautiful painting by Picasso. He took a mental picture.
He’d be a fool if he didn’t at least taste you before he scheduled your next session. He leaned until there was no distance between you and your gushing lips, and wrapped his lips around your mound, sucking harshly. Your thighs trembled so hard he had to hold you down.
You tasted just as sweet as you smelled; it was so addicting that his eyes couldn’t help but roll back before he decided to move harsher, refusing to let a single drop go to waste.
Suguru’s tongue was sinful and relentless. He explored you, drinking down everything you had to offer. Even when the tremors faded, you kept spilling into his mouth, helpless to his movements, compelling him to keep devouring you and dragging your body deeper into overstimulation.
You didn’t know what to grab—his hair, the edge of the table, your own thighs—but your hands scrambled for something, anything, as wave after wave pulsed through your core. Your body twitched violently beneath him, your sobs now staticky and wordless.
Suguru didn’t stop. He licked and sucked like a man possessed. When he finally pulled back, slowly, painfully, it was only because your trembling had started to resemble spasms. Your robe was soaked, your inner thighs glistening, your breath shallow and broken. He exhaled once, steadying his own heartbeat, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—eyes still locked on your dripping folds. His voice, when it returned, was rougher than before,
“You should’ve come to me sooner,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “Never mind that now. Shall we schedule a follow-up?”
