More dilf shikaku 👀👀
You really hadn’t meant to act out as much as you had.
It started the way it always did—small, deliberate provocations that slid under Shikaku’s skin without ever quite cracking his composure. A slow roll of your eyes when he asked you to pass the mission report. A drawn-out, theatrical sigh when he reminded you the clan meeting started in twenty minutes. The deliberate scatter of your weapons across the living-room floor even though you knew how much he hated clutter.
He never raised his voice. Never stormed out. Never gave you the cold shoulder. Shikaku simply exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching in that private, almost fond way of his, and let your attitude roll off him the way he always did. Patient. Enduring. Quietly amused.
You loved that about him. You also hated it a little, because it meant you had to push harder.
Tonight you had gone further than usual.
You had been sprawled on the couch in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, the soft cotton still carrying the faint scent of his skin and the clean herbal soap he used. Your bare legs were kicked up on the low table, deliberately interrupting every serious conversation he tried to have with the other clan heads over the encrypted line. You made soft, exaggerated bored noises. You “accidentally” knocked a stack of sealed scrolls onto the floor with your foot, the soft thud and scatter of parchment loud in the quiet room. When he finally muted the call and turned those sharp, dark eyes on you, you only smirked and asked, sweet as poison, if he needed something.
Something in his expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible. The same quiet click of a lock turning that you always watched for.
He ended the call without another word.
You didn’t move when he stood. You only stretched languidly, the hem of his shirt riding higher on your thighs until cool air kissed the skin of your hips. You watched him cross the room with that same bratty little smile. He didn’t grab you right away. He never did. He simply stopped in front of the couch, looked down at you for a long, considering moment, and said in that low, dry voice of his,
“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
You opened your mouth to answer with something clever and cutting.
You never got the chance.
One moment you were lounging; the next he had you up and over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. The solid heat of his body pressed against your stomach and chest. One large hand clamped firmly on the backs of your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make you feel claimed. You yelped—more from surprise than protest—and kicked uselessly, the movement only making the shirt ride higher until your panty clad cunt was exposed to the cool air of the hallway. He carried you into the bedroom and dropped you onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your overheated skin for only a second before he was between your legs, knees spreading your thighs wide, pushing the shirt up to your waist. His dark eyes fixed on the damp spot already visible on the thin cotton of your underwear, the fabric clinging slightly to the wet heat between your legs.
“Shikaku—”
“Quiet.”
It wasn’t a yell. It never was. Just that calm, slightly tired command that somehow hit harder than any raised voice ever could. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs in one smooth motion. The soft scrape of fabric over your skin made you shiver. He tossed them aside without looking, then freed himself. The heavy weight of his cock slapped against your folds once, twice—hot, thick, already slick with the wetness coating you. The blunt head dragged through your slit, catching on your swollen clit just enough to make your hips jerk and a soft, involuntary sound escape your throat.
“Still going to keep talking?” he murmured, the tip of him sliding up and down, smearing your slickness along his length. The wet sound was soft and filthy in the quiet room. “Still going to act like you don’t know exactly what happens when you push me this far?”
You opened your mouth again—maybe to sass him, maybe to beg—and he thrust in.
One long, relentless stroke forced every thick inch of him into you until his hips were flush against yours and the air punched out of your lungs in a broken, high sound. You were already soaked, but the stretch still burned in the best way—full, deep, the sudden pressure against your walls making your toes curl hard against the sheets. Heat bloomed low in your belly. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He never did, not when you’d earned this.
He folded you in half.
Your legs were shoved up and over his broad shoulders in one smooth motion, knees nearly to your ears. The new angle forced him even deeper. Cool air kissed the backs of your thighs where they met his warm skin. The position left you completely open, completely helpless, every thick thrust driving straight against that sensitive spot inside you that made white sparks burst behind your eyes. His hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in; the heat of his body radiated down onto yours. He began to fuck you with the kind of controlled, punishing rhythm that said he had all the time in the world and zero intention of letting you off easy.
The wet, filthy sounds filled the room—slick, rhythmic slaps of his cock driving into your cunt over and over, the soft, wet suck of your walls clinging to him on every withdrawal. Your arousal coated his length and dripped down onto the sheets in warm, sticky trails. His scent wrapped around you: clean sweat, faint tobacco from the occasional cigarette he allowed himself, the warm, familiar musk of his skin. Every deep, grinding thrust punched soft, broken sounds from your throat. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity—the stretch, the depth, the relentless pressure against your cervix.
“There it is,” he breathed against your ear, voice low and knowing and just a little smug. His breath was warm, the faint scrape of stubble against your cheek sending shivers down your spine. “You gonna cry for me sugar?”
You tried to answer—tried to form words—but every deep thrust stole the air from your lungs. Your cunt clenched hard around him at the words, at the slight patronizing edge in his tone, and he felt it. A low, pleased hum rumbled in his chest, the vibration traveling through both of you.
“Poor baby.”
He didn’t slow down. If anything he fucked you harder, the controlled snap of his hips turning sharper, deeper, until every thrust forced a wet, helpless sound from your throat. Tears slipped down your temples into your hair, cool against overheated skin. You were so full, so stretched, so completely held open for him that you couldn’t do anything but take it. Your hands scrambled uselessly against the sheets above your head. He caught them again easily, pinning both wrists with one large hand while the other slid down between your bodies. Rough-calloused fingers found your swollen clit and rubbed slow, firm circles—pressure that made your thighs tremble around his head and your breath hitch into soft, broken sobs.
“You’re going to come on my cock,” he said, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. The low rumble of his voice vibrated against your ear. “And then you’re going to come again. And you’re going to keep coming until I decide you’ve learned your lesson about being a brat when I’m trying to work.”
You shook your head—more from overwhelm than refusal—and he only smiled that small, knowing smile against your cheek, hips never stopping their relentless pace. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, more urgent. Sweat dampened the places where your bodies met—his chest against your folded thighs, his hips against yours. The heat between you was almost stifling.
“Yes you are sugar. Because this is what happens every time you push too far. You end up exactly like this. Folded open. Crying. Taking every inch while I tell you how good you feel when you finally stop pretending you don’t want it.”
The combination of his thick cock dragging over that perfect spot, the firm pressure of his fingers on your clit, and the low, smug murmur of his voice in your ear was too much. Your orgasm hit like a wave—sudden, violent, your cunt spasming hard around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. A broken cry tore from your throat. Wetness gushed around his length, the sound of it obscenely loud. He didn’t stop. He fucked you straight through it, riding the clenching pulses of your walls, praising you in that same calm, slightly condescending tone that only made you clench harder.
“That’s one. Good girl. Keep going.”
You were still shaking when he shifted, pushing your legs even higher, folding you tighter so he could grind the base of his cock against your oversensitive clit with every deep thrust. The overstimulation made fresh tears spill, hot tracks down your temples. You sobbed his name—half protest, half plea—and he only kissed the wet tracks on your cheek, the soft press of his mouth a stark contrast to the hard, relentless drive of his hips.
“I know baby. I know it feels like too much. But you can take it. You’ve taken it before.” Another slow, deliberate roll of his hips forced a high, broken sound out of you. The stretch burned sweetly. Your walls fluttered around him. “And you’ll take it again the next time you decide to test me. Won’t you?”
You nodded frantically, beyond words, beyond anything except the thick, wet stretch of him and the way he was still talking to you like he had all the answers and you were just a pretty, spoiled thing he was correcting. Your second orgasm built faster than the first, coiling tight and sharp in your belly until it snapped. You came with a sob, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock in desperate, rhythmic pulses. This time he groaned low in his throat—the first real crack in that unshakable composure—and the sound vibrated through your chest.
“Fuck. There it is baby.” His rhythm faltered for half a second before he drove in harder, chasing his own release now. The wet, filthy sounds grew louder, faster. “Show me how much you needed this.”
He didn’t last much longer. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he came hard inside you. Thick, hot pulses flooded your already oversensitive cunt, the heat of it spreading deep, the wetness overflowing around his cock and dripping down onto the sheets in warm, sticky trails. He stayed there, pressed deep, breathing against your ear while the last tremors of your orgasm milked every drop from him. His breath was warm and uneven. His heart thudded against your folded thighs.
For a long moment the only sounds in the room were the two of you breathing and the soft, wet noise of him slowly rocking into the mess he’d made. The air smelled of sex and sweat and the faint herbal scent of his skin. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders. Every small shift made you whimper from the oversensitivity.
Eventually he eased your legs down from his shoulders, careful with the way your thighs shook. He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed inside you, softening gradually, one large hand stroking lazily up and down your side—warm, calloused palm sliding over damp skin—while he pressed quiet kisses to your temple. The soft press of his mouth, the faint scrape of stubble, the low rumble of his breathing all settled over you like a heavy blanket.
“Next time,” he murmured, voice still low and a little rough, “try not to interrupt a clan meeting just to get fucked like this. Or do. I’ll still put you on your back either way.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh against his shoulder, too wrung out to manage anything else. His chest shook once with a quiet chuckle of his own. The vibration traveled through both of you.
He finally slipped free, the slow, wet drag of his cock making you whimper at the sudden emptiness and the warm trickle of his come leaking out of you. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. One arm settled heavy and warm around your waist. The other hand drifted down to cup between your legs—not to tease this time, just to hold the soft, swollen, thoroughly used heat of you while his spend slowly leaked onto his palm. The wetness was warm and slick against his fingers. His skin smelled like sex and you.
You nuzzled closer, already half-dazed, and felt him press a final kiss to the top of your head. His lips lingered, warm and soft.
“Rest,” he said quietly. “Because if you try that shit again tomorrow, I’m not going to be nearly this gentle.”
You smiled against his skin, small and satisfied and already a little bratty again.
You both knew you would.
