Organized!Yandere gets off on how careless you, Messy!Ready are while at the same time is desperate to control you. Every time you manage to slip away into the chaos it only turns him on more. Till he realizes he can only control you when heâs fucking your brains out. And he uses it to his utmost advantage.
Organized!Yandere has never once loved someone as much as he loved you, his Messy!Reader. While he always thought heâd need someone like him to keep him sane, heâs found insanity yo be quite a refreshing feeling.
While he plans down his days to a T, even scheduling off time to fuck you, every time that he calls for you, you simply come on right over. No matter what time itâs like you drop everything for this. He just has to ask while throwing your leg over his shoulder, squeezing the flesh of your thigh, and feeding his dick right into your tight silken core without hesitation. Bottoming out with a hard wet plap.
âWhat were you doing before hah! coming here?â
Organized!Yandere moans wantonly, eyes rolling back as he picks up pace when you tell him you left a business meeting early. Made up some excuse and left mere minutes after ending the phone call with him. Possessive satisfaction thrums through his veins. You chose to be with him, throwing away your plans for him.
He asks what plans you have for the rest of the day, wondering if you plan to go back to work. But when you say simply say ânothing muchâ his hips buck and he nearly paints you with his seed early. Fuck, you were so unhinged. A dark part of him achedâ longedâ to control you. To keep you pretty under his thumb where he could admire you and always know where you are.
His hand slips between your sweat-soaked bodies and he rubs you toward completion. Controlling your orgasm down to the very last second. When he utters a choked, âCum, ffffuuckinâ cum nowâ mmph,â your body listens.
You clamp down tight around his cock as if begging for him control. Heâs sure of it. The thought sends him right over the edge with you, filling you up with his hot seed to the point your belly distends with the hefty amount inside of you.
Organized!Yandere tries to do just that not long after. Control you. Plan a daily schedule for you to follow without exception. Still somehow youâre nowhere to be found the first time he tries to check in on you. No matter what tactic he puts in place to control you, you always find your way out of it. Ending up at the most random places he never wouldâve thought to look.
The more he tries to control you the more you end up slipping away from him. Disappearing like a magician performing their greatest trick. Of course youâre just going about your day as normal.
Deciding nah, you donât wanna workout that day, or maybe youâll take this meeting next week instead, that youâre feeling more Italian than BBQ for lunch, maybe a new movie caught your eye on the way home from work so you go there before heading home.
Totally casual and normal things to you but to him it was a nightmare.
Organized!Yandere has to track you down, he has to, whenever you go tragically missing (are out of reach for more than twenty minutes). Eventually he ends up losing complete control over not only your schedule but his own too. Making his already spiraling mind tumble down into actual insanity. While he appears to hate it, every rational thought left in my mind supporting that fact, in actuality he loves it. Craves it!
Because all of that frustration and twisted lust funnels straight back into you. Each time he calls on you and you come right away. He can fuck out his emotions into your willing body for as long as he desires. Itâs the only time he has any real control over you and that is the hottest damn thing anyoneâs ever done for him.
Youâre perfect.
The next time Organized!Yandere manages to get you in his clutches he fucks you till youâre nothing but a slobbering babbling mess, too fucked out to form a proper coherent thought.
Your eyes probably permanently crossed as he pounds away at your sloppy cunt, refusing to let you cum. Not yet, not yet. But you were so messy already, new waves of your slick gushing out of you every time he mashes his engorged cockhead into your spongy cervix.
Whenever the pressure rises in your belly he feels the fluttering of your walls, how close you are, and slows down till it ebbs away. Leaving you a begging sobbing mess with every denial. By now he canât make out any of the begging no matter how much you keep going.
âWhat, Bunny, you wanna cum?â He asks you, his voice the picture perfect example of mocking sympathy. You garble and whine over a few choked moans and he raises a brow, leaning in closer as if heâs actually trying but itâs only fault of your own that he canât understand. âHmm? Said that again, I couldnât quite hear you.â
Another harsh round of hiccups wracked through your chest as you cry, opting out to just nod along desperately. Talking was no use.
A faint smirk pulls at his lips and he presses his body close to yours, faces mere inches apart. Denying you even now as you ache to kiss him. His lips brush against your own as he says, âThen cum for me.â
For once you listen instantly, coming with a strangled cry. Your body warps and hopelessly you try to meet his controlled thrusts. He works you through your orgasm, sliding into your battered fuck hole over and over. Talking you through it too, demanding you keep coming for him.
Organized!Yandere keeps going and the realization dawns on your mushy mind that he intends to keep going. Moving from one round right into the next. He hasnât even cum yet and by the look on his face he doesnât plan to for a long time. Not when he can ruin you first.
Weakly you whine and try to squirm away. The constant sensation already too much. You donât know how much more you can take. His laughter makes something in your chest twist before he grabs your hips and slams you back down his length.
âTsk, Tsk, Tsk. Where dâyou think youâre gnngh! g-going? Iâve got the whole day scheduled off so I can play with you, baby.â
His hands slide up and down your sides, soothing out the tremors as his hips snap forward, burying himself within you so hard it sends you sliding up the bed a little. Your screams of pleasure pierce the air and you know you wonât be sneaking off any time soon.
By the end of this youâre not even sure youâll be able to walk for the foreseeable future. Keeping you right in place where he wants, where he can see you, where he can check in on you at any time and know youâd still be there.
Organized!Yandere leans down and nuzzles into your neck, peppering kisses along your feverish skin. Worshipping you as he always does when he can slow down and get a real good look at you.
âI have so much planned for you⊠youâll see.â
Times Up. The room is dim. Expensive furniture reduced to shapes in the darkness. The only sound besides your own breathing is a quiet hum from a digital timer mounted on the opposite wall. Red numerals glow in the gloom: 00:59:57.
Just under one hour.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere near the door. You crane your neck, wrists already testing the leather restraints, and watch him step into the faint light. You don't know his face. But you recognize the way his eyes move over your body. Roaming. An inventory assessment.
He's carrying things. Metal glints.
"The rules are simple," he says, approaching the bed. His footsteps are unhurried. "When the timer hits zero, I undo the restraints. The door opens. You leave." He pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. "One small addition."
Cold metal touches your nipple. You gasp as he fastens the clamp, the bite sharp and immediate, radiating heat straight down to your core. The second clamp follows. You arch involuntarily, straining against the leather.
He produces a vibrator. Sleek. Expensive looking. You watch him lower it between your legs, watch the silicone part your folds and settle against your clit. He turns it on.
"Every time you cum, an hour gets added to the clock."
You look at the timer. You look at yourself. Spread open, clamped, vibrating.
One hour. You can do one hour. You just have to not cum.
He steps back. Settles into a chair at the side of the bed and watches.
You try to focus on the numbers. Try to think about other things. Work emails. Grocery lists. The pattern of shadows on the ceiling.
But the clamps send sharp little signals with every breath. The vibrator hums against flesh that's growing wetter by the minute. You clench your jaw. Breathe through your nose. Don't cum. Don't cum.
He hasn't moved. He's just watching.
Your hips twitch. You didn't tell them to. The pressure is building low in your belly, a warmth that spreads and tightens simultaneously. You're wet enough now that the vibrator glides, hits new angles.
You bite your lip until you taste blood.
The numbers blur. 00:47:23. You've been holding on for twelve minutes. It feels like hours. Your thighs are trembling. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps you can't control.
He knows. You can see it in his stillness. The way he's leaned forward slightly. Waiting.
"No," you whisper. To yourself. To your body. To the orgasm building like a wave you can't outswim.
It hits you anyway. Your back arches off the bed, a sound tears out of your throat that you don't recognize, and you're cumming so hard your vision goes white at the edges. It rolls through you in pulses, each one a betrayal, each one exquisite.
When you can see again, you look at the clock.
01:46:12
"Impressive effort," he says. He's standing now, holding a remote. "Let's try a different setting."
The vibration changes. Pulsing now. It mimics something. A heartbeat. A thrust. Your overstimulated clit throbs in response, too sensitive, too raw, and somehow already building again.
"No... please.." you gasp out, the words weak.
"Please what?" He moves closer. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, impossibly light. "Please make you cum again?" He dips a finger into the wetness pooling between your legs, holds it up so you can see. "You're dripping. Your body knows what it wants."
You shake your head. But your hips are rocking against the vibrator, tiny movements you can't seem to stop.
This time when you cum, you're crying. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair. The clock resets: 02:38:47.
He fucks you for the first time somewhere around hour four.
Slow, at first. Long strokes that let you feel every inch, that build friction to an unbearable degree while the vibrator keeps humming against your clit. You cum on his cock within minutes. The clock adds another hour. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause.
He switches to something harder. Brutal. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs, drives you up the bed until the restraints catch. You cum again. You can't help it. Your body has stopped consulting you. It just responds. Takes. Shatters.
He introduces other things. Hot wax pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping down between your breasts. Ice traced along your inner thighs until you're shivering and burning at once. His mouth on your cunt, tongue flicking precisely where the vibrator has made you most sensitive, most ruined.
He talks through it the whole way. That's probably the worst part. "You get wetter when you're scared." "That's three in a row. You're getting efficient." "We have so much time now."
The clock climbs. Six hours. Eight. Twelve. You stop being able to track it. The numbers lose meaning. Everything loses meaning except the next wave, the next peak, the next hour added to your sentence.
Somewhere in the blur, you realize you've stopped wanting it to end.
The thought surfaces between orgasms, when you're floating in that shattered space where language doesn't quite work. You should want to escape. You remember wanting that, vaguely, like a dream you had as a child. But the wanting has curdled into something else.
He slows down. You're not sure when. The frantic edge bleeds away, replaced by something almost gentle. The vibrator stops. He removes the clamps. Your nipples throb with the renewed blood flow, a pain that registers as pleasure now. Everything registers as pleasure now.
You blink at the clock. 00:06:43.
Six minutes. After everything. How?
He's undoing the restraints. Your wrists fall free. Your ankles. You can move. You can leave.
The thought sends ice through your veins.
Leave? Leave this room? Leave him? Go back to a world where no one touches you like this, where you're responsible for your own orgasms, where pleasure is something you have to chase instead of something that hunts you down and devours you?
The silence of outside presses against the walls. Empty. Ordinary. Unbearable.
He steps back. Gestures toward the door. "It's almost time."
Your hand moves own between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick and excruciatingly sensitive. You rub with clumsy desperation, chasing the build.
"Don't," you hear yourself say. Begging. Sobbing. "Don't make me leave. Please. I need to cum. I need more time."
He goes still. Watching you fuck yourself on his bed, desperate to add another hour to your captivity. The pressure is building fast, your ruined body trained now, eager.
"Let me stay. I'll be good. I'll cum as many times as you want. Just don't make me go."
Four minutes on the clock.
Your fingers work faster. You're so close. So close to another hour in this room, in this darkness, in this endless cycle of being broken and put back together wrong.
