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Admission

✩ Teru Mikami

contains mutual masturbation, handjob, cumplay, cum in mouth, spit kink, fingering, overstimulation, oral, accidental orgasm, humping, filthy talk, light choking, dominance/submission, spit in mouth, possessive behavior, rough praise, explicit language, power play

You came home a little earlier than usual.

Nothing strange. You were tired, a little sweaty from the walk, and ready to collapse. Mikami’s shoes weren’t in the hallway, so you assumed he wasn’t home.

That’s why you didn’t notice it at first. The low sound—barely there. Something like a gasp. You paused mid-step, one foot still in your sneaker, brows furrowed.

Pulled your headphones out. There.

“Ah—fuck…” with a gasp. Your heart stopped. That wasn’t the neighbors. That wasn’t the wind or plumbing or TV. That was a moan. Deep, rough, breathy. Male.

You turned slowly. Light was seeping from under Mikami’s bedroom door.

Wait—was he home? You crept closer, completely silent, your breath held tight in your chest. You hovered near the door. And then you heard it—

“F-Fuck… so close… ahh—god…”

You stood there frozen. That was Mikami. Your clean, intense, obsessively restrained roommate. Moaning like that.

You bit your lip, eyes wide, blood rushing down your spine. The sound was unmistakable now. Wet, rhythmic, desperate. You could hear the slick motion of his hand stroking his cock—fast, tight, messy. The slight creak of his bed as his hips bucked up into nothing.

And then— “Shit—shit—I need—please—”

You pressed your thighs together without meaning to. He whimpered. A choked, broken sound, almost feminine with how high and wrecked it was. And then another. And another.

Your breath shook. You could barely believe this was Mikami. You’d never even seen him flinch. He barely smiled. Always so rigid. Cold. Controlled. But now?

He was falling apart on the other side of that door. Making the kinds of sounds you didn’t think a man like him could make.

“Fuuuuck—so fucking close—hah—ah—ahhh—”

You leaned in a little closer. The way he moaned. The way his voice dropped into something raw and wrecked. There was no name. No dirty talk. Just a stream of curses, soft cries, and short, gasping moans that told you everything.

He was close. You could hear it. Feel it in the rhythm of his breathing, the slap of skin, the tremble in his throat.

And then— “Ahhh—shit—fuck, fuck, fuck—ahh—”

Your mouth parted. You could practically hear the moment he spilled over, the sound of it—wet, ruined, a drawn-out cry muffled into his own wrist. Silence followed. Heavy, shaky.

You stood there, aroused out of your mind, dizzy from the heat pooling between your thighs.

Then, without a word, you turned. Not into your bedroom.

But toward the kitchen slowly, deliberately, just loud enough that the sound of your footsteps would carry down the hallway.

You made sure he’d hear the faucet. The fridge opening. The clink of a glass. Let him know you were home.

Let him sit in it. Let him wonder how long you’d been standing there. But the kitchen was quiet. You were sitting at the table, legs crossed, sipping slowly from a glass of water, heart still pounding from earlier, from what you’d heard. Your skin buzzed with heat, your lips twisted into something smug, and your patience? Barely hanging by a thread.

You heard the soft pad of footsteps before you saw him.

And then, there he was. Teru. Fresh from his room, completely unaware. Still flushed. Still breathing just a little too hard. Still wearing that black pullover that looked just slightly rumpled now. There was a faint, barely-there stain on the hem—right above the waistband of his grey boxers.

Boxers that did nothing to hide the fact that he was still half-hard.

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. You just sat there in your seat, elbow resting lazily on the table, your expression a little too calm for someone who’d just heard their roommate whimpering into his sheets.

He didn’t see you at first. He moved to the sink, ran the tap, reached for a glass—and then he looked up. And froze.

The glass slipped slightly in his hand. His eyes locked on you—wide, stunned, guilty. “…You’re home,” he said, voice rough.

You took a sip of your water, cocking your head. “Mmhm.”

He blinked. His jaw tensed. He looked down at himself like he only just realized he wasn’t decent. His hands twitched—unsure whether to shield himself, turn around, or evaporate entirely.

Your gaze dragged lazily down his body. From his still-flushed face… to the tent in his boxers. You smiled. Sweet. Sinister.

“Didn’t know you were this hot.”

He flinched. Like the words physically hit him. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat bobbed. You let the silence sit. Let it stretch until it was so thick you could cut it. He looked wrecked. A man who thought he was alone and now realized he wasn’t. Not then. Not now.

You leaned forward, voice like honey laced with fire. “I mean—quiet, polite, the whole righteous act. But you in there? On your knees for your own hand like that? Moaning like a good little sinner?”

His breath hitched. Color bloomed in his cheeks. He looked like he was about to fold in on himself and like he couldn’t stop the way his cock twitched beneath the fabric.

You dragged your gaze down again. “Still hard?”

He clenched his jaw. His hand curled at his side.

“You should clean that,” you said softly, gesturing with your glass toward the faint stain on his shirt. “It’d be a shame if I had to point it out to someone else.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Alarmed. Needy. Angry. Embarrassed. You tilted your head, smiling even wider.

“I liked it,” you added, standing up slowly, walking past him on your way to your room, brushing too close—your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Next time, moan louder.”

And with that, you left him standing there, half-hard, humiliated, and trembling.

It was quiet again. Hours had passed. The apartment was still.

You’d showered. Put on a soft oversized t-shirt and slept without pants, sheets kicked half off in the summer heat. A dim lamp glowed on the far side of your room, humming gently in the silence. The buzz in your blood had dulled—but it hadn’t disappeared.

You’d been thinking about him. About the way he moaned. The way he whimpered. The way he’d looked at you, ruined and stunned, standing in the kitchen like he’d just been caught doing something illegal. Your eyes were closed now, half-asleep, legs tangled in the sheets.

Then— a knock. Soft. Hesitant. Three quiet taps.

You blinked. Rolled over slightly to glance at your door. Not loud enough to be urgent. But not casual either. Your heart lifted into your throat. You didn’t say anything at first. Just waited. The silence stretched—then:

“…It’s me,” came a voice. Low. Cautious. Raw.

You bit back a smile. “Come in,” you said, soft but clear.

The door opened. Just a sliver. Enough for the hallway light to slip in and for Teru to step through. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, framed in the doorway, backlit and hesitant. The same black pullover from earlier, now clean. Hair a little messier. Eyes darker. He didn’t look like himself.

He looked like someone trying to hold it together.

Your voice cut through the still air. “Can’t sleep?”

His eyes flicked down, then back up to you. His voice barely rose above a whisper. “…I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You sat up slowly. Let the sheet slip just enough to expose your bare thighs. “Yeah?” Your voice was velvet. Dangerous. “What exactly are you thinking about?”

He exhaled, shaky. You watched the way his jaw clenched. How his fingers flexed like he was fighting the urge to clench them into fists.

“I didn’t know you were home,” he said. Like a confession.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean for you to… hear that.”

You smirked faintly. “But I did.”

He looked away. But didn’t leave. And God, he looked good like that with guilt curling around his posture, his control unraveling thread by thread. You leaned back against the pillows, lazy, knowing. “I liked it, you know.”

He froze.

“I liked hearing what you sound like when you fall apart,” you added, voice low. “Didn’t expect all those pretty little sounds from someone so… obedient.” His mouth parted, breath catching. His shoulders were tense. Almost like he wanted to turn and bolt—but couldn’t.

“Teru.” He looked at you. Really looked this time.

Your smile faded into something slower. “Come here.”

He hesitated. One heartbeat. Two. And then he crossed the room. Every step was reluctant. Controlled. As if fighting instinct. But he stopped just in front of your bed, close enough for you to smell the faint, clean soap still clinging to him.

You looked up at him from under your lashes. “I want to hear you again,” you said. “But this time, for me.”

He swallowed. You could see it in his face—shame, arousal, need. A perfect, burning storm. He nodded. Just once.

You patted the bed. “Get on your knees.”

And he did. Right there, between your legs, as you sat up, leaned forward, reached out with gentle fingers and cupped his flushed cheek.

“You’re so much prettier like this,” you whispered. He whimpered—already breathless.

He knelt.

Between your legs.

Silent. Still. Only the sound of your quiet breath and the hum of your bedside lamp filled the room. He looked up at you with those dark, desperate eyes—hungry in a way you’d never seen on him before. His black pullover hung loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up slightly. No glasses. Hair a little wild from earlier, from frustration, from running his hands through it as he broke down in his room.

His boxers were the only thing he wore below. They clung to him, tight and damp in the front, a clear outline of everything he was trying not to beg with. Still half-hard, still aching.

You didn’t touch him yet. You just let your hand drift up, cupping his face on one side. He leaned into it like it was instinct. Like he couldn’t help it.

You ran your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone, slow, deliberate. Then down, hovering just above his jaw. His breath hitched.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t dare blink.

You let your finger drift, feather-light, over his skin. Tracing the slope of his nose. Brushing down between his brows, to the soft curve above his lips. His lips parted—but not to speak. Just to breathe you in.

To submit. You smirked, just a little. “Didn’t know you could be this pretty,” you murmured.

He exhaled shakily. Your finger slid down to trace his bottom lip. Soft. Pink. Slightly swollen from biting it all night. Then you let your hand drop to his chest. Palm flat over his sternum. You felt the hammering of his heart.

He was trembling. Just barely. Not from fear. From restraint.

From everything he hadn’t said. Everything he’d imagined when your name spilled into his pillow hours earlier.

You tilted your head. “Show me how much you want it.”

And he nodded eager, breathless, and silent. He stared at you like he was starving. Still on his knees. Still between your thighs. But something had shifted in him. The restraint in his shoulders had cracked. The quiet obedience that had radiated off him—gone.

You saw it in his eyes. Not hunger. Possession.

You opened your mouth, maybe to tease him again—but he moved. Fast.

A hand shot up, large, firm fingers wrapping around the side of your throat, tilting your head back just slightly, just enough. “You like playing games, don’t you?” he said, voice low, gravel and heat. His other hand gripped your bare thigh, pulling you forward until you were flush against his chest, knees spread over his.

His palm on your neck didn’t squeeze but it commanded. Your breath stuttered. Your heart slammed in your chest. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching.

“Sitting there looking at me like that,” he muttered, eyes burning, “like you weren’t wet the second you heard me fuck my fist for you.” Your eyes widened, a gasp catching on your tongue. And then he kissed you.

No. Devoured you.

Mouth crashing into yours—hot, wet, filthy. His tongue slid between your lips with zero hesitation, tasting you like he’d dreamed about it every night and hated himself for it. Teeth grazing your bottom lip, the sound he made when you whimpered into his mouth, low, deep, hungry.

It was the kind of kiss that ruined oxygen. The kind that made you throb between your legs without a single touch where it mattered. He didn’t let up. One hand still on your throat, the other gripping your thigh tighter, holding you open against him like you belonged there.

You did. You moaned into the kiss, helpless, stunned—and felt the way his cock twitched hard under his boxers against your core.

You pulled back just enough to whisper—“Fuck.”

And he just smirked, licking his lips, eyes half-lidded and dark.

“You gonna be a good girl now?” he rasped.

You couldn’t even speak. Your body answered for you pressing closer, hips rolling, needing more. And Teru? He just smiled like a man who finally had permission to take what was his. He kissed you like a man losing control with hands on your waist, chest heaving, lips hot and urgent.

And then, without a word, he shifted forward. He leaned in, deepened the kiss, and gently pressed you back onto the mattress. You let him. Let him hover over you, black pullover falling forward, the weight of him between your legs making your breath hitch. His lips dragged down your jaw, the side of your neck, as he caged you beneath him.

But just as he started to settle— Your hands slid up his chest and gave him a firm push. He blinked, startled—but you didn’t wait. You climbed into his lap like you owned it, straddling him, thighs spread over his hips.

He leaned back onto the headboard, barely breathing, letting you take over and then his hands found your ass. Full, bare, soft. He squeezed once—then froze. Fingers digging in.

He dragged one hand slowly along the curve of your skin, brows lifting as his touch dipped between your thighs, skin to skin. You didn’t stop him.

You were watching his face when he realized. “Ohhh… no panties?” His voice dropped, that sharp edge of mock-scandalized heat curling into a smirk.

Then, filthier: “Fucking nasty.”

You laughed. Bright, unbothered, cocky. Your hips rolled against his once—slow and shameless—making him groan under his breath. “You’re one to talk,” you teased, licking your lips as you rocked against the hard bulge in his boxers, “half-hard and leaking for hours. What would your precious god say about that?”

His hands gripped you tighter, jaw twitching. The tension in his hips nearly snapped.

“You keep talking like that,” he growled, “and I’ll fuck that blasphemy out of you so deep you’ll forget your own name.”

You laughed again, sweet and wicked, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth as your wet core ground down against him, bare skin on soft cotton—hot and soaking through.

You moved your hips again dragging yourself over him with a sigh so breathy and mockingly soft it made his entire jaw tighten. His head tipped back slightly against the headboard, his chest rising in sharp, heavy bursts under the black pullover. Hands locked on your hips like he couldn’t trust himself not to just snap and fuck you senseless.

You did it again—rolled your hips just right—and his cock twitched hard beneath you. “Ah—fuck,” he gasped, mouth falling open. “You’re… you’re so wet—shit.”

You smiled. Smug. Lazy. All over him like silk.

“Maybe I like teasing holy men,” you whispered, grinding again, right on the head of his cock, letting it press against your clit through the damp fabric until you let out a shaky little “ah—” of your own. His eyes flew to your face.

Open. Wild. Staring like he wanted to devour you, like he couldn’t decide whether to pray or sin harder.

His voice dropped lower filthy, breathless. “You wanna cum like this?” he murmured, his hips bucking up a little, “Dripping all over my cock without me even being inside you?”

You gasped. A soft, shocked inhale—mock surrender—as you bit your bottom lip and rolled against him again, slow and aching, grinding so close it had both of you trembling.

“Hah fuck—” The sound spilled out of you before you could stop it. Head tilted, chest flushed, lips parted. His hands tightened. “Fuck—keep doing that—just like that—ah—fuck, I can feel your pussy soaking through—”

You moaned again, dragging your hips in tight little circles over his cock, the friction too much and not enough, the fabric making it worse.

Your wet heat pulsed over him, and he could feel it all—every twitch, every gasp, every clench. His mouth stayed open, panting, eyes fixed on where you moved against him.

“You’re gonna make me cum in my fucking boxers,” he growled, voice shaking. “You like that? You like making me a mess?”

You leaned down, kissed him hard, whispered: “I do.”

And he moaned loud, wrecked, hungry. You didn’t rush.

You shifted back just a little, sliding down his thighs, your soaked core still hovering just above where he was straining beneath those boxers, the fabric damp with your slick. He looked up at you with glassy, wide eyes. Breath shallow. Lips parted. One hand still gripping your thigh like he couldn’t breathe without it.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. You just reached down slow—and dragged his boxers down his hips, over his cock. He groaned through his teeth as it sprang free, hard and heavy, flushed tip already leaking. You didn’t touch it. Didn’t stroke him. Just stared into his eyes as you lifted your hips.

And then you sank down. So. Fucking. Slowly.

The stretch made your breath catch, but you didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. You kept your gaze locked on his—your thighs shaking slightly as inch after inch slid inside you.

Teru gasped. His hands flew to your waist, but he didn’t move you. Didn’t dare. He just stared up at you like you were the holiest thing he’d ever seen. You took him so well. Too well.

And you whispered—barely above a breath, while still lowering onto him— “Eyes on me.”

He obeyed. Couldn’t do anything but. By the time you were fully seated, deep, tight, completely wrapped around him—he was already trembling. You rolled your hips once, slow and shallow, just to hear the whimper that broke out of him.

But then you stopped again. No bouncing. No grinding. Just held him inside you. Warm. Pulsing. Throbbing. Your chest brushed his, your mouth close to his ear as you breathed—

“Look. So big, you don’t even slide out when I bend.”

His breath hitched—then he laughed. A ragged, bastardly sound full of wrecked pride. You fucking tease,” he muttered, hands still gripping you like he was fighting gravity. To prove your point, you pushed your hips down even more—deeper, tighter, clenching just slightly.

He let out a filthy, desperate curse. “Oh—fuck—don’t—shit—”

You kissed his jaw, hot and slow. Whispered against his ear. “You feel that?” You clenched again—just to feel him twitch. “Feel me around you? So warm. So fucking wet for you.”

And when you said it— He moaned like you’d just ripped the holiness out of him. You stayed there so full of him, sitting heavy in his lap, stretched around him so deep it made your toes curl. His cock throbbed inside you. Hard. Desperate. Straining against the grip of your heat like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You moved. Barely. A slow, slow grind of your hips. Not up, not off—just a drag. Tight. Controlled.

And he gasped. Loud. Sharp. Like he’d just been struck.

“Oh—God, fuck, don’t—” But you did it again.

Hips rolling in lazy circles, slow and soaking, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you. You didn’t ride him. You wrecked him—inch by inch, slow drag by slow drag. His hands were trembling where they held your hips, unsure if he should grip you tighter or just pray. You leaned forward, skin against his, lips at his ear. “You gonna cum like this?” you whispered, voice like silk on fire. “From me just grinding on your cock like it’s nothing?”

He groaned, deep, raw, completely overwhelmed. “Shit—shit—I can’t—” His voice cracked. You rolled your hips again. Slower. Your clit dragged along the base of his cock, and your gasp spilled right into his mouth.

He was watching you like a man who hadn’t blinked in minutes, so hungry, flushed, sweat building on his neck. You clenched around him again, and he twitched so hard you could feel it in your thighs.

“Ah—f-fuck—please,” he breathed, eyes fluttering. “You’re so—so wet, it’s too much—”

You kissed him. Open. Deep. Slow. Tongue sliding against his, swallowing his next whimper. Your hands braced on his chest. You started to ride him now—but not fast. Just enough to make him feel every single glide, every slow slide of your soaked cunt around his cock.

You broke the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmured: “That’s it. Let me feel how bad you want it.” He shuddered under you. A moan ripped straight from his throat.

“F-fuck—please don’t stop—please—” Your head tilted, teasing, breath warm against his jaw. “Beg me nicer, Mikami.”

He opened his mouth—eyes wide, desperate, almost wrecked And whispered: “Please—please, don’t stop, I’ll be good—I swear I’ll be good—please let me cum in you—”

And you smiled, slow and wicked, as your hips rolled again—deep, wet, perfect. Your hips rocked in slow, wet circles as he trembled beneath you, cock twitching so deep inside, breath hitched, lips parted.

He was close. Too close. You felt it in the way his hands flexed on your hips, the way his eyes started to glaze. His moans were turning ragged, messy, frantic. So you leaned in, mouth at his ear, voice soft and sweet like sin.

“You’re not allowed to cum yet.”

His whole body shuddered. A broken, wrecked groan tore out of him, head tipping back against the wall, chest rising in sharp bursts. His eyes found yours again—wide, pleading, flushed all the way to his ears, mouth hanging open like he’d just been slapped. He looked like a kicked puppy.

“Aw,” you cooed, hips grinding down deeper just to make him squirm, “you’re so cute when you’re flushed like this. Can’t even pretend to be dominant anymore, sweetheart.”

He cursed through his teeth. Bit hard into his lip to shut himself up. Then snarled, voice dark and low: “Stop teasing me or I’ll fuck your brain out.”

You just laughed. Mocking. Dripping with delight. Unbothered.

Until his voice dropped again—deeper. Dangerous.

“I’ve been hard for hours.” His tone turned sharp. Final. “I mean what I said.”

Your laugh faltered. Just for a moment.

And that’s all he needed.

His hands flew to your hips, slammed you down onto him, deeper than before, and before you could recover, one strong arm slid behind your neck, yanked you forward into a tight headlock. His other arm locked around your waist, holding you in place.

You gasped—“Teru—” And then he fucked up into you.

Hard. Deep. Relentless. Your body jolted with every thrust, your breath punched from your lungs, mouth falling open in a stunned moan.

He laughed. Dark. Filthy. Victorious. “Yeah?” he panted between gritted teeth. “Who’s whimpering now, huh?” You tried to laugh again—tried—but it was broken halfway by a loud, helpless moan. His cock slammed into you again, and again—dragging loud, messy sounds from your throat as he fucked up into your soaked cunt like he had no intention of stopping.

But you still wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, moaning louder, messier, deliberately letting your voice cry out right into his ear.

“Ahhh—fuck—right there—yes, yes—”

He growled, hips snapping up faster, brutal now. You felt him grin against your skin. “Keep talking. Go on. Moan louder,” he hissed. “Let everyone hear it.” You just moaned louder. He fucked you harder. You could barely breathe.

His arm stayed tight around your waist, the other still locked behind your neck, keeping you pressed chest to chest with him, no space, no mercy, no escape.

And he was still fucking into you. Hard. Deep. Slow now—too slow. You were shaking on top of him, lips parted, gasping into his skin, because the rhythm had changed. It wasn’t frantic anymore.

It was calculated. Cruel. Every time your body started to stutter—every time your walls began to clench around him in that perfect, desperate way—he changed the angle. Switched the depth. Pulled back just enough to stop you from falling over that edge. Over. And over. And over again.

“You wanna cum so bad, don’t you?” he whispered into your ear, voice low, smug, dangerous.

“I can feel it. Every time you squeeze around me like that—fuck, you’re trying to milk me, aren’t you?”

You whined completely ruined, head falling forward onto his shoulder. He chuckled darkly. “Too bad.”

You cried out, whole body twitching as he thrust in harder again but not deep enough. Not where you needed. “You’re not cumming until I say so.”

He kissed the edge of your jaw, biting it gently as your hips jerked, as your moans turned panicked and high. His cock dragged through your soaked, fluttering walls with devastating precision and fucking you with purpose, like he knew exactly where to aim and exactly how to pull back before it became too much.

You were clenching so hard, helpless, soaking him, so close you were shaking.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered into your neck, panting through his teeth. “Fucking soaking me, and I’m still not cumming. You know why?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. He slammed up into you once—brutal—and you gasped. “Because I’m going to make you lose your fucking mind first.”

He pulled you tighter, burying himself deeper, so deep it stole the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his arms. Your body jerked with every thrust. But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight it. His voice was in your ear again, rougher now.

“Gonna keep fucking you like this until you break. Until you cum so hard on my cock you forget your own fucking name.”

You sobbed out a moan, head spinning, and he felt it—felt your body seize up— And again, he shifted. Changed the angle. Slowed down.

“Nope.”

A broken cry tore from your throat.

“Nuh-uh,” he rasped, mocking now, still smiling against your flushed cheek. “You don’t get to cum yet. You wanted to tease me? Laugh at me? Now it’s your turn, sweetheart.”

His grip tightened. You were locked against him. And he started grinding instead, hard, deep circles, dragging the tip of his cock right up against your most sensitive spot, not letting you move, not letting you cum, just making you feel everything.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you can’t take it.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t say anything. You just moaned, high and desperate, trembling in his arms, completely at his mercy.

And he groaned through his teeth “Perfect.”

You twisted in his grip, hips jerking, thighs trembling, so close you couldn’t think. But the moment you tried to move, tried to pull back just enough to breathe or regain some kind of control, he tightened his hold.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

His cock slammed up into you harder than before, the shift so sudden it knocked a gasp from your chest. You clawed at his shoulder instinctively, but he was already rutting up into you, fast, rougher, deliberate. You moaned out his name, cracked and high, and that only made him growl—

“Fuck, that’s it—sound so fucking good for me—so tight, so wet—”

He wasn’t letting up. And the way he started to praise you, filthy and low between his gasps, made your body quake. “Such a good girl. Taking me so deep. You feel how soaked you are for me?” His voice was worship and sin, every word breaking you further. You clenched hard around him, thighs locking down on his hips, overwhelmed by the friction—raw, real, unbearable.

And then you felt it. The stagger in his rhythm. The hitch in his breath. He was losing it. Close. So close.

Your lips curled into a smug, breathless grin and you gasped—

“Try again—if you cum first, it’s all mouth.”

And that did it. His whole body tensed. He exhaled a shaky, broken sound—“Fuck—”—and immediately adjusted.

His grip on your waist loosened, only to let his other hand slide up, over your throat, palm flat, fingers curling gently, possessive and controlled. He pulled you in.

Your lips crashed together all rough, messy, teeth clashing—but beneath it all, there was something soft in it. The way his thumb stroked under your jaw, the way his mouth lingered just a little longer than needed.

He didn’t stop praising. “So perfect,” he murmured against your lips. “Feel you clenching. You love this, don’t you? Fuck—you’re dripping.”

And you were. You were soaking him. Every thrust made it worse—slick and deep, his cock grinding against every spot inside you like he was carving it into memory. And when he felt your body tense again—so close to breaking—he laughed under his breath, dark and satisfied. “Yeah,” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “That’s what I fucking thought.” And then—

He sat up. Pushed you upright. Still buried inside.

One hand still tight around your throat, holding you there, steady. His other hand slipped low, dragging between your legs—finding your clit. You choked on a moan.

Legs jolting. Back arching. You widened your stance, tilting your legs out, spreading wider so he could see it all: the way your slick dripped down his cock, the way your cunt fluttered around him like you were begging to be ruined. And when his fingers circled your clit—fast, precise, merciless—

You broke. “Oh—fuck—Teru—!”

He groaned at the sound of his name, the way you cried it out like a prayer, like a curse. You clenched down hard, walls spasming, and he didn’t stop—kept fucking up into you with ruthless rhythm as your orgasm ripped through you.

And all he did was watch. Eyes dark. Hand around your throat. Breath shaking with restraint.

“Good girl,” he whispered, reverent and wrecked

Your body was shaking. Chest heaving. Legs twitching. Sweat slicking every inch of your skin. You were still gasping for air when you finally let your hips lift—his cock slipping out of you, wet and still fucking hard, twitching against his stomach.

You whined from the loss of him. And he groaned, low and guttural, chest rising with restraint, fists clenching at his sides like he was still holding himself back.

You slid back—settling back between his open thighs, your cunt still pulsing from the orgasm he’d forced out of you. He looked wrecked. Flushed. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, staring at you like you were both dream and nightmare.

And then— His eyes flicked down to his hand. The one that had been on your clit just moments ago. His thumb still glistened with your slick. And he brought it to his mouth. Licked it.

Slow. Shameless. “Dirty,” he muttered. His voice was rough, like it had been torn from his throat. Then, again—lower. “Fuck.”

You moaned at the sight of it—his open mouth, the way he sucked his own finger, how ruined and raw he looked. Your breath was still ragged, your thighs trembling but you weren’t done. Not even close. You leaned forward, eyes locked on his.

Then let a thick string of spit fall from your lips. It landed right on his cock—messy, hot, adding to the slick sheen already coating him. He gasped loud, head falling back against the headboard, eyes fluttering shut. You wrapped your hand around him—slow, deliberate—and started to stroke him.

Long, tight pulls. The pace he’d tortured you with. Every time you felt him twitch—you slowed down.

“Y-You—” He couldn’t even speak. His voice cracked into a moan. Loud. Raw. So fucking real.

You bit your lip, stroking him again, thumb gliding over the head, smearing your spit with his precum. He was leaking so much it was dripping over your knuckles, down your wrist.

“Feels good, baby?” you whispered, teasing. He nodded frantically, throat working, chest heaving like he was about to explode. Your hand twisted at the tip and his entire body arched, another broken moan tearing from him as his abs tightened. You leaned in close to his ear, still jerking him slow, cruel. “I’m gonna make you cum just like this.”

“Gonna watch your pretty face when you fall apart.”

And he moaned so loud you could feel it vibrate through your chest. Your hand kept stroking him tight and slow, slick with spit and his precum, the sounds of it obscene in the silence between his ragged, helpless moans.

He was a mess.

Legs spread. Cock twitching in your fist. Head tipped back against the headboard as his chest heaved, his mouth wide open, breath coming in shattered gasps.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—please—”

You smiled, wicked and calm, watching him completely unravel in front of you. He’d been so composed earlier. So cocky. Controlled. But now?

Now he was loud. Wrecked. His knuckles white from gripping the sheets, his whole body shaking as you worked him slowly toward the edge without letting him fall.

“That’s it,” you cooed. “Let me hear you. Louder.”

And he did. “FUCK—ah—s-shit, don’t stop—don’t stop—please!”

You leaned in, your other hand bracing on his stomach as your grip around his cock got tighter, faster. You twisted just a little on the upstroke, and he cried out, loud enough you swore it echoed down the damn hallway.

“Look at you,” you breathed against his ear. “Moaning like that for me. So loud, baby. Bet the neighbors know now how filthy you are.”

He whimpered—genuinely whimpered—and then his voice broke: “I—I’m gonna cum—oh fuck, I can’t—please, please—”

You sped up, stroking harder, faster, hand soaked and warm and messy as you pushed him right to the edge. He was gasping, jerking into your hand, hips twitching like he didn’t even know how to move anymore.

Then his mouth dropped open. His head snapped forward and he shouted your name, loud, desperate, broken.

And he came. Hard. Hot spurts of cum spilled over your hand, his stomach, his thighs, his whole body jolting as he moaned so loud you could feel it in your bones.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t come down easy. He kept moaning, long, dragged-out sounds, breath hitching, hips twitching, completely gone. You stroked him through it—slow now, coaxing every last drop as he shuddered and gasped, whimpering through clenched teeth.

He finally slumped back, fucked out, flushed to his chest, still twitching under your touch. And you just smiled, sticky hand resting lightly on his stomach.

“Loudest man I’ve ever ruined.”

He didn’t even deny it. Just nodded weakly. Eyes glassy. Breath ruined. Voice barely a whisper— “…fuck.”

The air was thick. Your thighs were shaking.

You were kneeling on the bed, chest rising and falling, still catching your breath between his spread legs, your hands resting on his hips, still dripping with his cum.

Teru lay there, sprawled and flushed, chest bare, his cock twitching with the aftershocks, red and glistening, lying flat against his abdomen. His cheeks were pink, lips parted, still catching short little gasps like his body didn’t know how to settle.

And then, with his head tipped back against the pillow, voice raw and cocky and completely breathless— “Sorry,” he rasped. “You’re full of my cum.”

You blinked. Laughed through your exhale. “Yeah,” you said with a crooked grin, glancing down at your soaked fingers, “never saw a man cum so much.”

He moaned softly at that, biting his lip as his eyes dragged over you—kneeling there, wrecked, glistening with him. You brought your hand up, slowly licking a streak of him from your wrist up to your knuckle—just to watch the way his eyes fluttered shut and his cock twitched again, even post-orgasm.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. You sat back on your heels, grinning, watching him come apart even after the high had crashed.

And then, voice lower, playful and smug: “So…You staying in my bed now, baby? Or crawling back to yours full of shame and cum?”

He cracked a lazy, half-ruined smile and covered his face with one arm. “If I move, I might die.”

You laughed, leaning forward to kiss his hip. “Good. Stay right there.”

You curled up next to him, hands still sticky, both of you too warm, too spent, too far gone to care. And when you finally did move, it was only because he reached out, pulled you against his chest, and whispered: “You’re gonna wreck me, you know that?”

You just smiled against his skin. “That’s the plan.”

The room was dim, quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only follows complete exhaustion. You both lay tangled in the sheets, half-naked and sticky, your legs draped loosely around his under the mess of blankets.

His chest rose slowly. Calm. Deep. He was asleep. Mostly.

He’d turned during the night—his back now to your chest, long body curled slightly inward, spine bare beneath the soft hem of the crumpled black pullover he’d never taken off. You hovered just behind him, the heat between you buzzing all over again.

You shifted closer. Close enough to breathe him in. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips when you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand trail from his ribs to his hipbone.

He stirred at the touch. A low, sleepy hum rumbled in his chest.

You smiled. Your hand moved lower. Fingertips dragged just above his waistband, then dipped under, grazing warm skin and the faint trail of hair there.

And then you did it again. Slower this time. Dirtier. Your palm settled against the front of his boxers, warm, soft pressure—right over the bulge already forming in his sleep.

His hips jerked slightly. A quiet, desperate sound slipped from his throat. Then—half-asleep, raspy and ruined—he whispered:

“Don’t tease me, not unless you’re ready to wake up with my cock inside you.”

You froze. Eyes wide, breath caught. And then—he grabbed your wrist. Not hard. Not fast. Just sure. Possessive. Warm fingers curling around your wrist, guiding it down.

And without looking at you, still barely awake, he pressed your hand over the hard length of his cock. Still through the fabric. Still so fucking hard.

You felt it twitch. He groaned. Deep. Low. Throaty. “Touch it properly,” he murmured. “Or I’ll fuck your hand until you beg to be filled.”

Your thighs clenched. You squeezed him once, and his hips shifted back into you, slow and greedy like he needed your heat all over again. He laughed—breathless. Sinful. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought.”

He was still half-asleep, your hand wrapped around his cock through his boxers, his body lax and warm against yours—until you chuckled behind him, voice soft and dangerous: “Then do it.”

There was a pause. He tensed slightly.

“…Huh?”

Your grin curled slow against his bare shoulder.

“Fuck my hand until I start to beg.”

And before he could even process that , you flattened your palm, cupped around the bulge in his boxers, and gave it a light slap. Not hard. Just enough to sting. Just enough to taunt.

That did it. His body snapped to life like something primal had been lit up from the inside.

He grabbed your wrist again but tighter this time, no hesitation—his grip rough and possessive, and you felt your body jerk forward, torso pressing against his back with a breathless laugh. His other hand slid down, tugging his boxers low, and then he dragged your hand underneath, until your fingers curled around the length of his bare cock.

And he was hard as hell. Your palm squeezed without mercy so tight, just to hear him moan. His head tipped back to yours, his breath catching in your ear like he was already close.

“Now that’s something I like to hear,” you whispered, your grip not relenting.

He groaned, low and wrecked. “Ahh—shut up—fuck—stop gripping me so tight—” he gasped, hips starting to rut into your hand like he couldn’t help it.

But you didn’t ease up. Didn’t stop teasing.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice syrup-slow and filthy: “You feel so fucking good. So thick in my hand. Is this how you get every morning, baby? Hm? All that discipline and you’re still this desperate?”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. You licked the curve of his ear and kept going. “Keep fucking my hand like that—go on. Maybe I’ll let you cum on my stomach. Or maybe I’ll ride you while you’re whining. So full of me, you won’t even remember what it’s like to be empty.”

His moan was broken, wrecked, breathless cry, and his cock twitched hard in your palm as he kept rutting, faster now, chasing it like he’d been waiting all night to lose control.

He was grinding into your fist like his life depended on it—hips jerking, cock twitching in your hand, leaking, your grip just tight enough to make him curse every few seconds.

“Fuck—fuck—‘m gonna cum—please—”

You leaned in, voice dripping with filth and finality: “Then give it to me.”

He moaned loud, body seizing as he slammed his hips forward one last time—his orgasm tearing through him, cock twitching violently as thick streams of cum spilled over your hand, his abs, dripping down your fingers and soaking his boxers halfway down his thighs. “Oh my—fuck—” he groaned, head falling back into your shoulder, completely lost.

And you? You just smiled. Breathing heavy.

You lifted your hand—covered in him—and slid your fingers up to his lips from behind.

“Taste it.”

No hesitation. Not even a pause. He opened his mouth, took your cum-coated fingers in greedily, lips closing around them as his tongue dragged slow across your knuckles.

You moaned. Visibly shaken. The sight of him, moaning around your fingers, lashes fluttering, his own cum on his tongue, licking it like it belonged there—was too fucking much.

“Good boy,” you whispered hoarsely against his neck, grinding your hips just once against him in praise.

But he wasn’t done. Suddenly—he turned. Quick. Smooth. Hungry. He twisted, flipping you onto your back, mouth wet, breath rough, his cock still half-hard and twitching, glistening against his abs.

His palm wrapped around your throat. Not hard—just to hold you steady. Then he hovered above you, wild-eyed and flushed, grabbed your jaw again and shoved two of his fingers into your mouth. You moaned around them instinctively, and he groaned with it.

And then he spit into your mouth. You swallowed it around his fingers, whining, and just when your hips started to shift up in need, he slid his other hand down.

Two fingers plunged into your soaked cunt. You cried out, arching instantly—your body already soaked, twitching from the overstimulation of watching him lick cum off your fingers. “That get you wet?” he muttered, voice ragged, fingers curling inside you just right.

“Yeah? You like making me your toy and watching me swallow it?”

You moaned again, nodding helplessly as he thrust his fingers harder—relentless, hitting that spot over and over.

“Filthy girl. Should’ve known you’d love that.” You clenched around him, gasping, your thighs shaking under his weight.

He laughed hoarse and breathless. “You’re gonna cum on my fingers, and then I’m gonna fucking clean you up with my mouth.”

Your head tipped back. You were so close. And he just kept going, praising and ruining you at the same time, fingers slick, deep, fast, exactly how you needed it.

And this time? You were the one moaning loud.

Your thighs were still shaking, cunt fluttering around his fingers when he finally pulled back, his breath warm, lips swollen, eyes dark. “Now be still,” he said quietly, voice wrecked and reverent. “I said I’d clean you up.”

You didn’t have time to respond. He dropped between your legs without ceremony, spreading you open, tongue dragging slow and heavy through your soaked, overstimulated folds.

Your whole body jolted. “Ah—fuck, Teru—”

He moaned into your pussy, and it vibrated deep, sending shockwaves right through your spine. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you down, tongue licking messily, hungrily, not just your slick but his own cum, too, where it had dripped down from earlier.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned, lips smearing cum and spit over your clit, tongue flattening against it again and again.

But you noticed something else. The way his hips started moving. Automatically. You tilted your head and glanced down.

He was humping the edge of the mattress. Not even touching himself. Just mindlessly grinding his still-hard cock against the sheets, fucking the edge of your bed like he couldn’t stop, like your taste alone was too much.

His rhythm started to stutter. His breath came faster, tongue still lapping through your folds, desperate to clean you while his hips twitched against the bed.

“Teru?” you gasped, breathless. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. He just groaned deep into your cunt, shaky, helpless—and then you saw it: He jerked back from the bed, chest rising, muscles tensing as he grabbed at his own cock—just in time— “Shit—fuck—fuck, I—”

He moaned loud, head tipped back, as his cum spilled again, hot and sudden into his hand, his hips still twitching from the force of it. His face twisted in overstimulated pleasure, lips parted, completely flushed.

“Oh my—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You were wide-eyed. Dripping. Still trembling. And then you burst out laughing. Half-moan, half-teasing.

“Did you just cum again from eating me out?”

He slumped onto the bed between your legs, breathing hard, cum on his fingers, mouth still glistening with your slick.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at you, dazed and wrecked.

“I’m never gonna survive living with you.”

You leaned forward, cupping his flushed face, licking your lips.

“Good.”