Daddy Cool - Chapter 1 : Jotaro Kujo
First of part of a small series I am working on! Tiny xReader one-shots for my favourite DILFS from JoJo's: - Jotaro Kujo - Diavolo - DIO - Norisuke Higashikata - Joseph Joestar
For other chapters in this series please see my JoJo masterlist
Chapter 1: Jotaro Kujo (Stone Ocean)
Summary: You are Jotaro's pretty co-worker and he gets off to the thought of you.
Tags: Masturbation, age difference (older man/younger woman), professor Jotaro, humiliation for him (kinda)
Words: 1.6k
Read on my ao3
Doctor Kujo had first met you in the faculty lounge. A pair of pretty eyes and a smiling face. But he had really noticed you in the lecture hall. It was supposed to be a simple guest lecture. You were a placeholder, filling in for him whilst he dealt with a timetable clash. The reproductive cycle of large cephalopods wasn’t exactly the most thrilling of topics, even for Marine Bio 121 students, but when he had snuck back into the theatre, you had them all wrapped around your finger.
You had stood at the front of the room, commanding attention with humble confidence and a friendly smile that he had never quite managed to master. There was no over-reliance on PowerPoint slides, no monotone, bland regurgitation of textbook chapters while students half-listened, fantasising about lunch. You had had them engaged– actually engaged.
There was passion twinkling in your eyes, in the way your hands had moved as you explained the intricate biological details of how a squid reproduces. It should have been ridiculous, really: standing there in a room full of half-asleep undergrads, talking about spermatophores and chromatophores with that kind of fervour. Instead, you looked absolutely enthralled. Like this was the most interesting thing in the world to you. And you were pretty damn convincing.
Maybe he should have been focused on that, on what he could learn from you as an academic, but his thoughts kept snagging on other details. The way your blazer fit just right, well-tailored and cinched at the waist, the fabric pulling ever so slightly across the front when you gestured wide. The smooth line of your legs in the dark pantyhose as you paced, small court heels clacking against the timber floor, seemingly effortlessly holding their attention. The way your eyes lit up with excitement when a student asked you a question.
Of course, he had never mentioned any of this to you. Doctor Kujo just thanked you for covering his ass, nodded along when students gushed about how good of a teacher you were. But after that, he found reasons to sit in on your lectures to your own classes. To watch the way you made even the driest topics feel vital. And if his gaze lingered on you a little too long when you turned to write on the board—well, maybe he just really liked your handwriting too. That was it.
But in the quiet of the evening, when he stepped through his front door, body full of tension, what had been haphazardly brushed off as quiet admiration had now become something that he was absolutely ashamed of. It was then, alone in the dim hush of his home, that Doctor Kujo lost his dignity.
His erection was already tenting in his pants, straining against the fabric, hot and insistent.
He couldn’t.
No.
Guilt curled tight in his stomach, shame clawing at the edges of his restraint. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, not here, not now, not behind your back like this. You were a colleague, a fellow educator. Beautiful, cute, younger than him.
But it seemed his body had already decided for him.
He couldn’t even wait until he was alone in bed.
The belt was off, buckle unfastening with a little clink. Pants shoved down to his knees, breath coming short and uneven as he braced himself against the bathroom sink. Knuckles paling as he held the crisp white porcelain hard enough to almost break. His reflection in the mirror was a disgrace—lips parted, brow furrowed, jaw clenched against the weight of something both desperate and humiliating.
God, it had been so long.
Since his divorce, since he’d last felt anything close to this—want, need, something raw enough to hollow him out from the inside. To stir his insides and spoon them out like some sort of fucking fruit.
Was he really this pathetic? Apparently so.
His grip tightened on the sink, his spare hand hastily scrambling to squirt some lotion on his hand with horny urgency.
Your voice was still in his head—clear as it had been in the lecture hall, warm with enthusiasm, bright with something almost tender as you spoke about something as mundane as squid. You had been enthralled, and now—fuck, so was he.
Balling his hand into a fist, he pressed his thick, leaking tip into the slick vice, squeezing a little around the full girth of his shaft. He couldn’t help but hiss through his teeth at the relief. He had been to one of your lectures this afternoon, and he had been hard since. He needed this.
He didn’t waste any time. He started fucking his fist with rough, urgent strokes, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, each ragged, shaky breath feeling like a confession, a betrayal.
He clamped his eyes shut, as if that could stop the images flooding his brain. Jotaro imagined how your tight cunt would squeeze around his fingers–his cock. How messy your face would be if he took you in missionary: how your cute doe eyes would glaze over as he wrecked you, how your jaw would go slack, mouth hanging open in a lewd, breathless moan. How your boobs would bounce in time with his thrusts. He’d fuck you so hard. He wanted to ruin you.
The guilt sat heavy in his chest, warring with his desire and a heady mix of forbidden need. His hips jerked forward into his own grasp, movements bordering on frantic now, shame and want now tangled too tight to separate. He was so lost.
He let go of the sink, bringing his hand to his mouth to shut himself up. His knuckles pressed against his teeth, biting down hard, a useless attempt to keep quiet.
Why?
There was no one home. Jolyne was at her mother’s. No one to hear him, no one to witness his descent into this mess of lust and shame. He could be as loud as he wanted. Let his moans spill out into the empty space of his house. Yell out your name if he damn well pleased.
But he didn’t.
The shame was too much. Instead, small whispers and moans of your name slipped from his lips like a quiet prayer.
“Please, baby…..baby girl.”
The vague images in his mind of you on your back morphed into him bending you over the mahogany of his desk. Your skirt hiked up the back of your thighs, scrunched up around your waist. Your tummy pressed against the wood, your perfect French tips scratching the varnish, how you would look at him if he grabbed a handful of your hair and forced your head back. His handprint on your ass.
Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic . Here he was, rutting into his own hand like a desperate man at the thought of his cute co-worker that was far too young to ever be interested in him. He was jacking himself off like a teenage boy, like he hadn’t been touched in years—because he hadn’t.
But he wasn’t stopping now. Hell, he was too far gone.
Small Japanese curses left his lips as he felt himself get close. Moaning around his finger, husky and wanton. He bit down hard, hips snapping forward into his fist, chasing that inevitable, deliciously terrible release.
Not bothering to breathe properly, just little strained exhales, and the squelch of the lotion that he imagined was coming from the wetness of your pussy were the only sounds that filled the room. His thighs trembled. His stomach tightened. The tension coiled so tight inside him that for a moment, he thought he might choke.
He braced himself against the vanity, panting, head bowed. Breath fogging up the mirror. His skin felt too hot, flushed with something ugly and raw. Searing shame and embarrassment.
Each glide of his palm over his knob, how the butt of his hand brushed up against his balls at the bottom of each stroke, your image behind his eyelids. Fuck, he was going to lose the plot.
Your voice bounced around in his ears:
“Cum for me, Doctor Kujo…”
What? He tried to bury that thought under his lust, but it was far too late for that.
He broke.
His whole body went tense and taut, pleasure crashing over him in thick, powerful waves. His hands trembled, and he moaned like he was a girl in a porn video, breathless, weak syllables of your name, over and over. Thick, viscous ropes of cum spurted and pulsed out of his cock and into his hand, all of the pent-up desire for you leaving his body as if it were his atonement.
His sounds were hardly muffled by his attempts to do so. Embarrassing, needy whimpers escaping from around his finger. He sighed, as if that could rinse the shame from his soul.
For a long moment, all he could do was stand there, panting, his body spent and balls empty, his mind reeling. There was none of the clarity he usually got after getting off. Only heavy, gnawing, shame that scratched at his conscience.
He forced his eyes open, met his own gaze in the mirror. And there it was again, the weight in his chest, the flush of heat that had cooled too fast. Warm, sticky semen dripped over his knuckles, stark and damning in the dim bathroom light. The undeniable proof of what he had just done.
He let out a slow, uneven breath, dragging his clean hand down his face.
He needed a cigarette.
