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izuku's perspective

katsuki's perspective

You stare.

He beams, unbothered by the silence. “May I come in and speak with you about faith, family, and eternal salvation?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you lift an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to come in pairs?”

Satoru nods, sheepishly. “My partner had to return home suddenly, unfortunately, so it’s just me today. I’m not supposed to but it’s my last run and I kind of had a bet going to get more people to sign up than everyone else.”

Honestly, you should turn him away; what business do you have falling for this farce? 

Not to mention the fact that you have to head out.

You’re wearing tall heels and a pretty little dress — he notices. Oh, does he ever?

His eyes are expressive; they slide down your frame, unable to help themselves, and linger on your tits and on the imprint of the apex of your thighs where the material clings to your body. One could mistake it for the reflexive appraisal of a stranger, which is fine. A second, third, and fourth sweep, however?

Not a chance.

Especially not when he subconsciously licks his lips and shuffles on his feet.

“I’m alone. Is that okay?”

He notices that you noticed him noticing. He blanches. Nervously, he pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “Uh, actually, that won’t do. Forgive me. I think I should get back to the church. It’s getting late.”

Smile curving into sharp points, you say, “Nonsense. Come on in. I was feeling in the need of saving.”

Satoru knows he shouldn’t, you can tell. He’d probably be breaking a million rules by entering your home, without his partner, and without the presence of another person in your home. Only a beat passes however before he clears his throat and decides, fudge it. 

So, when he strolls in, arm brushing yours, you both know he can’t blame anyone but himself for the sins he’s about to commit.

You gesture toward the sofa. “Please. Sit.”

He obeys immediately, perching on the very edge of the cushion, knees pressed together, posture rigid with good intentions. From where you lower yourself opposite him, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate slowness, you can see the way his gaze stutters. The click of your heel against the floor lands louder than it should. His fingers tighten around the book.

“Thank you for letting me in,” Satoru says. His voice is steady, though his ears have gone pink. “We usually begin by asking about family. Do you have people you’re close to?”

A soft laugh leaves you. “Not really. Just me.”

The admission seems to please and trouble him in equal measure. He nods, earnest, eyes flicking up to your face and then, traitorously, drifting back down again. Your dress rides up a fraction as you shift, smooth fabric hugging where it knows it will be noticed. He swallows.

“Well,” he continues, rushing a little now, “faith can be a family, too. A structure. Something to come home to.” His knee bounces once before he stills it with visible effort. “The Church is like that. It offers guidance. Purpose.”

‘Purpose’ hums in the space between you. You lean forward, elbows on your knees, close enough that he can smell your perfume, something warm and faintly sweet. From this angle, your cleavage must be all he can see. His breath hitches, barely there, but you catch it. 

“And what about rules?” you ask. “I’ve heard you have quite a few.”

He smiles, nervous and sincere, and adjusts his glasses once more. “They’re there to help us stay on the right path.” A pause. “To avoid…temptation.”

Your eyes soften, mouth curving. “Sounds difficult.”

For a moment he forgets himself and meets your gaze fully. Desire flashes there, bright and unguarded, before he looks away again, mortified. His foot shifts, heel scraping lightly against the floor.

“It can be,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “But it’s worth it.”

“So, you’ve never touched yourself. Hmm?”

Satoru makes a choked noise. “N-no. Of course not.” Then, as if realising he doesn’t need to answer questions like that, he frowns a little. “That’s not any of your business…ma’am.”

“And you guys aren’t allowed to have premarital sex, right? So that’d make you a virgin.”

He blushes. Hard. “I believe in saving myself for a very special girl, yes. We’re really getting off topic here. Please, allow me to discuss with you the programs the Church holds that might interest you.”

You rise from the sofa with an unhurried grace, smoothing your dress as if you hadn’t heard him. The hem lifts when you straighten, just enough to draw his eye again. He looks away too late, cheeks warming as he pretends to study the spine of his book instead.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea?”

“Water would be fine. Thank you.”

The kitchen is only a few steps away. You take them slowly, aware of his attention tracking you even when he tries to be polite about it. Cabinets open and close. Glass meets tap. Whilst you wait for it to fill, you glance back at him over your shoulder. He’s sitting straighter now, back rigid, as if bracing himself.

When you return, you don’t hand him the glass right away. Instead, you stop in front of him, close enough that your knees nearly touch his.

“Careful,” you murmur, setting the glass on the low table. “You look tense.”

Your fingers lift, light and curious, brushing through the soft fringe of his hair. It’s impossibly white, silk-smooth beneath your touch. He freezes, breath caught somewhere in his chest. No other woman had probably touched him like so before. 

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, though he has done nothing wrong.

A smile curves your mouth. “Don’t be.”

“Allow me to ease your tension.” Your hand slides to his shoulder, thumb pressing gently into the muscle there. 

“There’s really no -hah- n-need.” He exhales shakily at the contact, shoulders dropping an inch as if your touch has unknotted something he has been holding tight all day. The book slips from his grasp and lands forgotten on the floor.

Bending slightly, you lean closer, close enough that with one little stretch, his face will end up buried between your breasts. A flush creeps down his neck. You wonder if he’s ever seen a female body nude, if he’s watched porn, or has a dirty magazine hidden under his bed. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he’s right where you want him, and you’ve got what he knows he shouldn't want.

“You were saying something about programs of interest,” you prompt softly.

Words fail him. His mouth opens, closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than before. “Y-yes. The Church holds Bible study groups on the weekend a-and— I shouldn’t be here. We’re forbidden from making inappropriate contact with anyone, least of all outsiders.”

You straighten just a little, fingers lingering at the nape of his neck before you withdraw them. The absence seems to affect him more than the touch itself. He watches your hand retreat as though he might reach for it, then remembers himself and grips his knees instead.

“Well,” you say, settling onto the sofa beside him, close enough that your thigh brushes his, “it’s a good thing we’re just talking.”

Satoru swallows, eyes fixed forward, ears burning red. “Yes,” he agrees, far too quickly.

He doesn’t shuffle away, like you thought he would. Perhaps he thinks it’d offend you. Instead, he remains sitting there, as rigid as anything else. The little Mormon smells nice; clean, soapy, none of that aftershave business. He’s all natural. Your mouth waters. 

Oh, you’re going to have fun with him. 

“Why are you here, Mr. Gojo?”

Grip adjusted on his book, he answers, like memorised from a script, “I am here to serve the Lord and deliver his children to salvation. I serve the Church and the cause.”

“No, why are you here?”

Brows furrowing, he answers, “I wish to serve the Lord by delivering you to salvation.”

Drawing close, you cage his arm between your tits, and whisper in his ear, “And me? Could you serve me, Satoru?”

His name from your lips sends a shudder down his spine. 

That’s when you strike. 

Manicured hand grips his jaw and keep him right where he is as you engulf his lips with yours. He makes a surprised noise and tries to get away, but you’re insistent. You taste the mint in his mouth, and you know he tastes the fruity allure of your lipgloss. 

It’s not an innocent, romantic kiss. It’s not a peck or a shy fumbling of lips. No, it’s messy, it’s dirty, it’s sinful. You’re practically consuming him. It’s all tongue and teeth and saliva. The lewdest type of kiss, one not even the most devout of worshippers can deny. 

Satoru is no exception — he puts up a good fight, but mere seconds later, he’s melting in your hand and into your lips. Soft moans, breathy and whimpery, travel to your mouth and down your throat. You swallow it all. 

The wet slurps are sending jolts to your clit. Knowing you’re toying with an untouched diamond in the rough before anyone else could soil him is dizzying. You need more. 

“Mm, is this your first kiss?” 

Panting heavily, his eyes flutter beneath his slightly foggy glasses. He’s confused by your question; it takes him a moment to realise you were, in fact, speaking the same language as he. “Y-yes. The Church — they, um, we’re not supposed to do this, to kiss strangers.”

You run a nail down his chest, thoroughly amused by the heaving of his chest and the swollenness of his lips. Your lipgloss is smeared all over them. Wiping the glimmer away, you say, “But I’m not a stranger. We’re friends, aren’t we, Satoru?”

He’s troubled by the sadness in your voice; he hurriedly kisses you again, to show he means it. “Yes, we’re friends. We’re very good friends.”

“Then, let’s get to know each even better,” you say, running that finger down his thigh now, where something hard and heavy rests. He jerks into your touch, eyes panicked and wide now. “Shhh, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. It’s just us.”

Satoru throws his head back when you begin rubbing his clothed length — gasping and shivering. He’s long. And thick. Certainly much bigger than you expected from the bumbling Mormon. 

Fuck, it’s going to be a tight fit. 

Your pussy’s already aching for it. 

“W-wait, please!” He’s pleading, writhing under your touch. “Something’s happening. Fudge! I-I think I’m going to pee.”

With his head back, his long neck is bared to you. You lick a stripe, following a vein, just as your thumb brushes the cockhead. A sudden whine, an intense shudder, and wetness pools under your hand. 

“Oh no.” Satoru slumps back into the sofa, gasping for breath.

He came. 

He came in his pants.

From a kiss and light, over-the-clothes petting.

Oh yeah, you’ve soaked through your panties. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, cheeks beyond pink. He looks damn near ready to cry from embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to dirty your hand, ma’am. Please forgive me.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll forgive you if you make it up to me.” He nods, intent on doing whatever it makes — he’ll mow the grass, wash your dishes, vacuum the carpets. Anything. “Pick up your book.”

He blinks. 

That wasn’t what he was expecting. 

Looking down, he’s surprised to realise that, in all the teasing and seducing, his book had fallen on the floor. He hastily kneels and picks it up. He gets up. You stop him with a hand on his head.

“Stay, Satoru. Be a good boy.”

He gulps again. “Yes, ma’am.”

There, following your orders, he watches whilst you raise your dress higher and higher up your thighs and over your hips, and whilst you pull your panties down. A string of wetness stretches and stretches and then breaks as the distance grows too big. He sees it all. 

You throw the flimsy thing somewhere.

Satoru readjusts his glasses, lips parted and pupils blown out.

“Like what you see?”

Satoru gulps. “I-I don’t know, ma’am.” 

You throw a leg over his broad shoulder, keeping him where you want him. The last thing you need is him bolting for the door in a moment of doubt. No, you need him here, staring at your pussy.

He licks his lips. 

Maybe it’s too much for the Mormon boy to handle in one afternoon — after all, you’re not taking the time to ease him into it, to get him used to the idea of being alone with a horny woman in her home. If he was any other kind of virgin, perhaps you would go easy on the poor guy, but he’s different. There’s a barely restrained hunger in his eyes, an untapped potential that would go to waste if you don’t harness it now. 

Just as he has his mission, you have yours.

And you have no doubt your will is stronger.

“Wanna get a taste, Satoru?” 

Hands gripping the sofa, it creaks under his painful attempt to suppress himself. A literal war breaks out in those beautiful, blue eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn’t. I’ve already gone too far. It’s wrong.”

You pout. “But it’s not fair you got to cum, and I’m left hanging, is it? That would be very cruel of you, Satoru.”

“Cruel?” Brows knit together. He doesn’t want to break the rules any more than he already has, but he also doesn’t want to hurt you, or insult you. That much is clear.

“Oh, yes. I’ll feel all used up and unloved if you leave me like this. Am I not pretty enough for you, Satoru? Maybe you prefer girls who are perfect, like you.”

Vehemently, he shakes his head. For the first time since meeting him, he looks assertive. Spine straight, shoulders stretched out, and chest puffed out, he denies your insecurities, fake as they are, with a growl, “You are perfect.” Then, that dominant facade pops. Slumping, his cheek nuzzles your inner thigh. “Oh gosh, you’re so pretty. Prettiest girl ever. And you smell so nice.”

“Yeah?” 

He nods. 

“I’ve been told my pussy tastes,” you say in a sing-song tone — the words hang, settling in his very soul — and as he leans in without realising, as his mouth grows dryer and dryer, you finally bring him closer with your heeled foot, and finish, “heavenly. Won’t you let me know if there’s any truth to that?”

Transfixed by the even closer sight of your cunt, he draws closer and closer. His words come out a faint whisper when he asks, “May I?”

“May you what?”

He swallows, more embarrassed now than ever. “May I, um, may I taste your…”

“My…”

“Your p-pussy?”

“Good boy.” You smile harder. “Yes, you may.”

Is it the word ‘heavenly’ that bravely urges him to press his face to your pussy, the consent, or the glistening moisture on your swollen folds?

It doesn’t matter, you suppose; it feels amazing either way. 

“Ngh, fuck!”

Long, his tongue parts your lips, pushing its way in between and collecting your tangy juices on his tongue. Satoru groans. He moves forwards, shaking hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart to make room for his eager body. “O-oh sugar. You do taste –mm– heavenly.”

His inexperience is clear; he has yet to nudge your clit out of its hood, he doesn’t seem to know where your hole is, and he’s just running the tip of his wet appendage all over the place, seeking the taste and not your pleasure. Despite that, you’re breathless, arching your back, and threading your fingers through his hair.

He’s a fucking natural.

“Here, Satoru. Suck here.” You spread your own pussy, pointing to the top where he’s been neglecting the throbbing bundle of nerves. “It’s my clit. Can you say ‘clit?’”

“It’s your…your…um…it’s your c-clit.” He smiles gently when you reward him with a pat on the head. More seriously now though, he wonders, “It won’t hurt if I suck on it?” 

“No, sweetheart. It’ll make me feel so good. You want that, right? You want to make me feel good?”

“I want to make you feel so good.” His voice reveals his neediness, the boyish quality in the breathiness, and how he sounds so desperate. Hesitation disappearing, he wraps his lips around it and sucks. 

Hard. 

You cry out. “Softer! Suck softer. Fuck!”

The apology comes out muffled. He does as he’s told, changing up the intensity, like  a well-trained puppy. Egged on by your content sigh, he maintains it, whilst occasionally rolling the bud on his tongue.

“Don’t use your teeth, alright? Just like that mm. Not too fast or too hard, ‘kay? Good boy.”

Attempting to shut your legs around his head, you’re shocked to find his strength surpasses yours; he keeps them open, keeping you spread, without even realising what he was doing. 

It was something you’d notice earlier — he’s strong and muscular. Underneath the ironed shirt, he’s got a fit body. Does he work out or is he naturally like that? 

“Mmm, don’t stop. Keep eating my pussy, Satoru.”

Even without you needing to speak the orders, you don’t think he was ever going to stop. The Mormon’s really going to town on your sloppy cunt. He’s making out with it, though he only learnt what it meant to make out mere minutes before. His thumb is rubbing tight circles around your clit as he burrows his tongue inside your pussy.

SLUUURRPPP! SLUURRRRPPP! 

“It’s so wet,” he mutters to himself. “I can barely get a grip. Smells so sweet, tastes so tangy. God made you so beautifully. Thank you, thank youthankyouthankyou.”

Lightheaded and woozy, you find it in yourself to laugh. “Yes, thank you god.”

That ball of pleasure grows bigger and bigger inside. It’s been too long since you last felt a tongue prodding that gummy spot inside you that has you panting like a bitch in heat. Way too long since a man’s eyes were rolling to the back of his head from how sweet you tasted. 

Even more breathless than you, he asks, “Am I doing good?”

“Yes, yes, fuck! You’re doing so good. So so so good. Don’t stop.”

His hair’s grown a mess under your hands, with all the hair pulling and rustling. But he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s groaning into your sloppy cunt with every tug; the vibrations tickle your pulsing clit, which he can’t leave well enough alone. Over and over again, he flicks the tip of his tongue against it, rolling it and sucking, until you’re moaning his name. 

Those thin-framed glasses are askew, foggy beyond recognition. He doesn’t care. He’s being led by an innate, primal need for pleasure, not by his sight. You hardly recognise him — gone is the little nerd at your door, in his place is a beast.

Satoru laps at your pussy like an obedient, yet out of control dog. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way he eats you out. He’s just doing anything and everything. And it works so fucking well. 

Hips raised, you ride his face, nudging your clit against his nose. You’re using him as you please, timing it to the exploration of his tongue from your oozing hole to the very top, where he’s realised if he presses down hard enough, you’ll release more juices. 

“More,” he mumbles, huskily and not sounding like himself any longer. “Make more wetness. I want to taste you more.”

You cum with a stuttered scream. 

But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that shaking legs, spasming limbs, and elongated moans are signs of an orgasm — a good one, at that. So he continues. Licking. Sucking. Shhlurrrrrrping!

“Satoru! S-stop!”

You shove him away. He growls, and dives right back in. Your cupped hands prevent him. 

“Bad!” You berate, fixing him a glare. Your pussy’s tingling with sparks, overused and abused. He’s had his fun. Time for things to progress. “Stand up. Right now.”

Blinking through the dazed cloud, he stumbles to his feet, book still on the floor and completely forgotten about. It seems like he’s a man that likes to be commanded, to be led. So you’ll do just that. And as you thought — he’s hard again. There’s a dark spot where his tip is. You press on it. 

Satoru’s hips jerk with a gasp.

“Take your dick out.”

“B-but—”

“Now.

Belt unbuckled, zip down, blush growing deeper, and there it is. Not his cock. No, his undergarment; a white pants. You’ve heard rumours and memes, but never knew for sure if it was a fact.

Unable to help himself, you laugh. “Oh my god, you’re like an actual Mormon, aren’t you? That’s hilarious.”

Maybe he gets embarrassed, maybe he’s offended, but whatever the case, he adjusts his glasses and makes a move to zip his pants up. “T-this was a mistake.”

You stop him.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I’m not making fun of you. Promise.” You wipe the humour off your face and give him a reassuring smile, fluttering your lashes up. “Why don’t you take it all off, hmm?”

His hands fiddle with the hem of his vest. “I, um…I’ve never been bare in front of anyone before.”

Satoru’s nervous, and self-conscious. It’s adorable. Feeling sympathetic, you grin. “I’ll do it if you do it.”

Standing up, you shrug his vest off, his shirt, that ghastly undergarment top, and then his pants until he can no longer hide anything from you. One wolf whistle later, and you’re creaming your panties again — he’s fucking hot: perfect skin, defined abs, tapered waist, a V-line, a flush on his chest and on his lower stomach, leading to his magnificent pink cock. It’s just as long and thick as it felt, and prettier than you could have imagined. And hard again. His cockhead is glistening with his pre.

To think, no woman was going to see him in all of his glory until their wedding night. That’s the real sin. 

He tries to cup his boner. You shake your head, tutting. “No, don’t hide yourself from me, baby. You’re gorgeous. My mouth’s watering. Help me with mine, will you? 

You grab one of his hands and lead it to the zip on your back. He follows your guidance and slowly, very slowly, unzips you. The dress falls to the floor. You’re naked. 

Lips parting, he stares in awe, and wonder, at your curves and skin. His cock bobs, leaking a drop. 

“Still think I’m pretty?”

“Yes. Yes. Oh sugar, yes.” One could very easily see his knees are threatening to weaken beneath him; he almost looks ready to pray at your feet. And you might just let him if you aren’t aching to be fucked soon.

“Such a sweet talker,” you drawl. “Don’t be shy. Touch me. Have you ever felt up some tits before, Satoru?”

Hands once again guided by yours, they tremble upon contact with the fat mounds of your chest. Your nipples are hard, reaching for him, and they’re completely unavoidable as he explores the shape of your breasts with hesitant gropes. 

“N-no. I’ve only seen pictures, ma’am. Oh gosh,” he moans, squeezing harder now, more sure of himself, “it feels so nice, so warm and soft.”

His hands are smooth, not yet calloused by age or hard work, and they draw out shivers from you. When he accidentally flicks a nipple, he’s as surprised as you when you suck in a breath.

“Oh no, did that hurt?”

You slink back to the sofa. Satoru follows, magnetised by his unrelenting grip on your tits. “No, it felt good. In fact, why don’t we make each other feel good?”

He doesn’t seem to know quite what you mean, but he doesn’t object when you maneuver him to lie in your lap. Confused, he stares up at you with doe eyes. That confusion doesn’t last very long, however, because, from his angle, all he can really see is your tits. 

The Mormon licks his lips, eyes basically black at this point.

“Go on, Satoru. It’s okay.”

Cautiously, he licks the underside of a breast. He’s testing the waters, seeing what he likes and what he doesn’t, and what makes you feel good. Once he’s satisfied it really is okay, he suckles on a teat and throws all caution to the wind. There’s no stopping him — he’s sucking and sucking, like he’s being breastfed after years of starvation.

One could liken it to the way he was eating your pussy; plain messy and driven only by vulgar desire. 

Meanwhile, your hand wanders downwards, towards the ramrod thing pulsing in the air. You grip the base. He grunts, sending vibrations through your tit. Reflexively, he grabs your other breast and squeezes for comfort. 

“You really haven’t ever jerked yourself off?”

Satoru shakes his head. “I don’t know how to; it’s scary.”

“Well then, allow me to teach you how to do it.” He’s not circumcised, which you had already predicted. Sliding his foreskin down, you carefully reveal more and more of him to the cool air. He hisses, burying his face deeper into your chest. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

At least, he keeps it clean there. 

When you finally start tugging on the length, his back arches. He’s practically scalding, like an iron bar over a fire. The poor boy’s been pent up all his life; his balls are near bursting, even though he came barely even ten minutes ago. 

“You start off slow, usually,” you say. “Slow and gentle. Then faster and faster, building up and up, until you can’t take it anymore. Of course, some people like it intense and fast straight away. That’s why it’s important to have experience.”

Thumbing his slit and spreading the wetness, you let him hear how squelchy! He’s getting from his own cum. But he pretends he doesn’t hear it, far too busy nursing on your tits. You see his abs contract though. Feel his stuttered breaths and the quiver in his lips. 

It doesn’t take long at all for him to start hissing. You don’t let him cum.

Satoru makes a noise of panicked complaint. “B-but I was so close.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Again and again, you withhold his orgasm from him, no matter how close he gets, no matter how nicely he begs. You’ve familiarised him with the look and sound of a man’s orgasm, and a woman’s. Now, you’re going to familiarise him with the pleasure of withholding. “Patience, young Jedi. Trust in me.”

“Please,” he gasps. “I need to–NGH!”

Pretty veins, cute balls, and adorable cockhead — it’s impossible to not want to mess with him. But he can’t have everything he wants. He can’t be greedy and spoiled. That would just be disastrous. No, he needs to know that the real boss around here is you. 

Plus, if you didn’t push him to the edge only to drag him back, you wouldn’t see the toe-curling look of a man who’s had enough. Satoru displays great strength as he spins around and pins you to the sofa with a manic glare. 

Towering over you with a feral glint in his eyes, he snarls. “I need to-to—Fudge!”

Underneath him, you lie there and brush the hair that sticks to his face away. “Cum, sweetie. It’s called cumming.”

“That,” he says with a nod, losing his edge as he basically pouts down at you. “I need to cum. Please, can I cum? Please?” His cock bobs to prove his point. 

You don’t have any condoms, and you’re not sure he knows what they are. But it’s a safe day so you say, fuck it. 

Legs spread around his hips, you nudge him forward. His searing cockhead bumps into your throbbing clit. You both moan. Every nudge of your crossed ankles at the base of his spine sends his cock gliding through your swollen folds. It covers his length with the same glistening juice as his lips were. 

That, too, feels good for him; he leaves a streak of precum on your skin, mixing with the oozing juices from your pussy. 

It’s not enough, however. Not when his orgasm has been withheld for so long. Satoru grows beyond frustrated. “Fudgecake! I can’t find it. Where do I put it in?” 

His glasses have fogged up and they’re threatening to fall off his nose. You take it from him anyway and fold them somewhere. Tears have sprung to his eyes. Cooing, you wipe them away, sucking on the salty liquid. Your clit pulses. You always did love making virgins cry. “Here, poor baby. Here’s my hole.”

With your help, he prods at your entrance and gasps as he swiftly enters. You’ve been so wet for so long that it’s not hard to welcome him in. But the stretch does, ever so slightly, sting. He didn’t know to finger you, to scissors those long digits in, to get your walls used to his girth. You can’t blame him though; it was your responsibility to teach him.

Purpose forgotten, Satoru jerks his hips inside, as if driven by instinct, a past life of debauchery, or a future of servicing. It’s as clumsy as his head game — shallow thrusts and bumps that lead to nowhere — and yet, it works. You’re moaning, and arching your sensitive tits into his chest. 

“S-so tight,” he grits out. “So -hngh!- warm.”

“It’s okay. Take your time. Get used to it.”

He doesn’t hear you. 

Too much blood has risen to his head and to his cock. He’s crying. Full blown crying. “So good. It feels so good. Oh fuck. God forgive me. I’ve sinned.” He whimpers. “And it’s so fucking good.” The dripping of hot tears, the pleading, the whines and whimpers, and the thrusting against your g-spot has you clamping down. 

“N-no!”

With a girlish howl, his dick pulses one last time and he cums inside. 

Burning liquid paints your gummy walls white. You gasp. He falls on top of you, muttering apologies. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pee -hic!- in you.” His words are slurred, drunk on the heat of your pussy. You pat his head. 

“You didn’t pee in me, Satoru. I told you, it’s cum. You came in me. And it’s okay.”

He’s out cold, just like that. He probably didn’t hear your last words before he begins drooling on your neck. 

.

.

.

“Ngh! Too much! P-please no more. I can’t take any -hah- more.”

Satoru woke up with you bouncing on his cock, head thrown back and tits flying up and down. It was enough to send him over the edge. He thought it was all a dream — a beautiful young woman welcoming him into her home when many never did, kissing him, touching him where he’s never been touched, letting him taste her petals, and allowing him to enter her sacred body. 

Although, as you ride him for all he’s worth, despite the fact that since his eyes opened to a blurry sight he’s came twice, he can’t deny it was all real.

And he has no idea how to feel.

The Church, the Father, and his brothers would scream if they found out. What he’s doing is wrong. It’s against the scripture, against the teachings, and all his values. He’d be scolded beyond reason, possibly shunned, and isolated. Considered tainted and impure now. 

Yet, there isn’t one bit of him that cares.

No one ever told him that sinning feels so good. Perhaps that’s the real sin. A crime, even.

His fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, simultaneously holding you there and also trying to pry you off. Satoru can’t decide. And it’s bringing him to tears. He’s sobbing, crying, hyperventilating. Born anew.

“Fuck, you’re so big!” You’re wantonly screaming, hair flipping around. Nails scratch his sweaty, flushed skin. Tight walls punishingly grip his cock. “Rub my clit, baby. Play with my tits. Ngh, do something!"

You’re so close to another orgasm, and nothing’s going to get in your way. He can see that in your vicious eyes. Too frightened by the obscene sounds you’re fucking out of him, he doesn’t argue. A thumb rubs your clit, just as his other hand gropes your breast. 

Soon, you explode all over his stomach and balls. A splash that renders him speechless and thirsty. You don’t stop. No, you continue bouncing and bouncing like nothing happened. It’s clear you need more, and Satoru doesn’t think he has any more to give. He sure does want to try though.

He can’t keep his eyes off you — you’re like a siren, luring him into water. A succubus draining him of his life source, pulling him deeper into hedonism and depravity. And, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t care. 

“You’re so tight,” he whines out. “D-don’t tighten up on me, more, please!”

The pleats inside you wrap around his cock, squeezing cum out of his length, and kissing every inch. The tip of his cock is bumping against something hard inside, and he finds it all too overwhelming. You’ve forced orgasms out of him too many times. There really should be nothing left in his balls. In spite of that, he can’t stop giving you what you want.

When he cums again, it’s almost painful. He’s orgasmed more times in one afternoon than he has in his entire lifetime, which wasn’t a difficult record to beat. 

He passes out again.

And the next time he wakes up, he’s in your bedroom, ramming his alive-again cock inside you from the back. He watches your behind ripple with the force of his thrusting, a force he didn’t know he was capable of. 

“Yes, Satoru. Harder! Fuck me harder!”

Sheets are crumpled up, ripped and drenched in a puddle of sweat and cum or something else entirely. Whatever it is, he feels himself covered in it. Doused. Cleansed.

He blacks out. 

Satoru’s shaken back to consciousness with the jostling of your body once again bouncing on his cock but this time, you’re pinned to the wall, hugging him to you. Your breasts are squashed against his chest, nipples scraping. Cum is leaking down his thighs. He’s sticky, and salivating, and sore. 

In spite of that, he can’t seem to stop his hips or the spraying of his cum.

“K-kiss me,” he finds himself murmuring, begging. “Please, ma’am. Kiss me.”

Your lips slam onto his. 

After that, he stops blacking out.

He makes love to you on the coffee table, on the kitchen counter, against the window, against the front door, back on the sofa, many more times on your bed, and in the shower, and he loses track of the positions and how many times he or you cum. 

There’s no way of knowing how many hours, or days, have passed. 

There’s only you, him, and the merging of bodies.

And he doesn’t regret a thing.

.

.

.

“Take care of yourself now, Satoru.”

The young man beams. “You too, ma’am. I hope to see you around.”

“Me too.”

He finally leaves, only a day later. Freshly washed, clothes ironed, and balls empty. Every step feels light, like he’d unburdened his problems for good. Maybe the Church will be mad at him for disappearing, but he’ll make up some excuse. They love him.

Or perhaps he’ll think a little more deeply about his experience, what he’s been taught, what right and wrong really means to him. Because a lot of people would condemn him for what he’s done, though none of it feels wrong, not even in the slightest.

Well, whatever the future holds, he’s sure he can face it.

The man’s become so happy-go-lucky, he doesn’t notice that a familiar face passes him by and heads straight for where he just left. 

“How did it go?” 

You wink at him. “Very well.”

A lock of hair is tucked behind your ear. Entering your home, he grabs your hips and pins it to his. You feel the undeniable imprint of a cock ready to go. 

“Thanks for taking care of him; he’s an uptight idiot who needed to know there’s more outside the Church than the lies they’ve been selling us.” 

“He’ll be fine,” you say with certainty.

Smiling, he insists, “I owe you.”

His fingers seek your soaking pussy out from behind, prodding and rubbing as he hugs you to his firm chest. You gasp, then grin. “I know a way you can repay the favour.”

He grins too. 

“I bet I know exactly what you’re thinking, pretty girl.”