Toji is a prostitute and you called him to service you after a long day of work.
Writing fanfic until I get commissions day 1.
You were exhausted from work. Every ounce of energy had been drained from your body during the endless meetings and the mounting pile of paperwork that never seemed to shrink no matter how many hours you threw at it.
You should have just collapsed into bed. But you missed the scent of a man. The unwashed musk of skin and sweat and hair that no cologne could replicate. You weren't horny, but you still contacted a prostitute named Toji. He was your favorite. He did any request you gave him, no matter how filthy, and he satisfied your worst fetishes without question or judgment.
Toji was more of a slut than you were.
You greeted him with a nod, and he gave you a smile.
He wore his usual uniform of sorts, a black compression shirt and grey pants. The shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and chest that was all dense muscle, not showy gym bulk. The definition of his pectorals and abdominals was clear through the fabric. His arms were thick, the sleeves pulled tight around his biceps, and his forearms were corded with lean muscle and visible veins. His hands were rough and calloused, fingers long and strong.
And then... his crotch.
His grey pants did absolutely nothing to hide the shape of him. The bulge was palpable, a thick mass of flesh that rested heavily against his thigh.
He stepped inside your apartment but before he could close the door, you dropped to your knees right in the entryway, pushing your face against his crotch, breathing in the scent of him through his pants.
The warm, musky aroma that you'd been craving flowed into your nostrils and you relaxed.
Toji let out a chuckle, his hand coming down to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.
"Missed me?" he asked, amused.
You tugged his pants down his hips, revealing the thick thatch of dark hair that covered his groin. His bush was dense and untrimmed, and beneath that nest of hair, his cock was half-hard. The shaft was thick and veined, the skin slightly darker than the rest of his body, and the head was partially visible peeking out from his foreskin.
You shamelessly pressed your entire face into that bush, smothering yourself against the wiry hairs, inhaling deeply. The scent was overwhelming, intoxicating, purely masculine. It was sweat and musk and the natural oils of his skin, a perfume that no manufactured product could ever hope to replicate. You breathed him in like a starving woman.
"I stopped shaving just for you," he stated, thumb stroking the back of your head. There was arrogance in his voice, but it didn't matter.
You brushed your lips to his cock, kissing the side of the shaft, then took the head into your mouth. You sucked on it like lollipop, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the pungent flavor of pee. You groaned around him, your restless hands traveled up his thighs, sliding over the hard muscle of his abdomen under his shirt. His stomach contracted under your touch, a reflexive response to your exploration, and he made a soft sound, half-groan, half-hum. His hand tightened in your hair, letting you know he was feeling it.
You pulled your mouth off his cock and dropped lower, pressing your face against his balls. You sniffed them, then sucked gently, each orb filled your mouth. Toji hissed through his teeth, his hips twitching forward. You could hear his breathing getting heavier. His cock has become fully hard, bobbing against his stomach.
He was turned on by your obsession.
But you weren't done with his bush yet. You released his testicles and pushed your face against that thick nest of hair again. You inhaled with your whole body, filling your lungs with his scent, letting it saturate every cell of your being.
When you were satisfied, you rose to your feet. Your knees protested the movement after being pressed against the hard floor for so long, but you ignored the discomfort. You looked him in the eye, holding your head high, refusing to show any indication that you'd done anything out of the ordinary. Toji's cock was visibly throbbing, but he didn't reach for it, didn't adjust himself, didn't do anything to relieve the pressure. He simply hitched his pants up.
You'd gotten what you wanted, and now it was time to complete the transaction
You turned and walked to your bedroom without a word. He followed. When you reached the nightstand, you pulled out the envelope and handed it to him. He took it, then counted the bills. When he was done, he waved the stack in a lazy salute.
"Call me again when you need my body."
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Despite his rugged exterior, Toji had surprisingly sensitive nipples.
Who on earth would have guessed that Toji has sensitive nipples? The man who's built like a war god and exudes an imposing aura. So it feels almost absurd that his greatest weakness is his nipples, but the evidence is right in front of you.
You have his massive cock in your mouth, his thick shaft filling your throat, but you have barely gotten halfway down the length of him when your fingers find his nipples. They are brown and erect against the hard muscle of his chest. You circle them with your thumbs, pressing down to feel the tiny bumps of his areolas.
He moans, "Hmmmm..."
His hips twitch forward a little before he starts squirming, pushing his shoulders into the cushions of the sofa as his hands tighten around the foam padding.
You pull your mouth off his cock, and you rise from your knees and swing a leg over his lap, straddling his large thighs, having to spread your legs wide to accommodate the great thickness of him. You lean forward and slide your tongue across his neck.
He shivers.
You move your mouth down to his chest and give each nipple the same amount of attention. You suck on the left one until it is wet and red, then you move to the right one, laving it with your tongue before closing your lips around it.
When you have had enough of that, you lift your head and bring your mouth close to his ear. "You like that?" you whisper as you pinch his nipples, twisting them.
He does not need to answer.
Toji turns into a total slut when you do that. He groans through gritted teeth, struggling to keep the sound from escaping. His hands come up to grip your hips, but his fingers are loose, trembling.
His hips roll up against your stomach, seeking friction. His cock, trapped between your bodies, starts twitching and leaking precum that slides down his shaft. His abdominal muscles clench as the pleasure consumes him, barely able to say a word.
You stop teasing him.
His nipples are swollen and overly sensitive, seemingly about to spray milk, but that’s impossible. Toji takes a deep, shuddering breath, pressing his palms against his eyes.
"Fuck," he curses.
You grab his wrists and pull his hands away from his face. You lean in and kiss the scar on the corner of his mouth. Your hands slide down his chest, over the hard ridges of his abs, and wrap your fingers around his thick cock. You give it a nice stroke from base to tip, and his hips twitch upward.
"All that muscle and scary face, and you fall apart from a little nipple play," you taunt.
He smirks. "Shut up."
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Gojo Satoru enjoys dry humping you and keeping you pinned under his weight.
Satoru has been rolling his hips for a while now, his massive body pinning you to the bed. Each grind of his pelvis against yours sends a slick, teasing friction through the damp cotton of your panties. You're soaked through, the fabric clinging to your cunt, and every time he rocks forward, his cock presses against your slit.
He dips his head, lips finding your earlobe, and takes it between his teeth. "What do you want me to do to you?" he breathes against your skin. "You want me to fuck you through these panties until you scream?" The gentle suction sends a tremor through your spine, and he moans.
"Yes, Satoru," you gasp, your fingers clenching at the sheets.
He pulls back just enough to capture your mouth with his, giving you soft, quick pecks, his lips brushing yours as he keeps moaning.
"Does this feel good?" he grunts into your mouth. "Am I making you feel good?"
You nod.
His hands find yours, fingers sliding between your own, interlacing tight. He squeezes, anchoring you to the bed while his hips keep the slow, torturous roll.
Satoru loves this.
He loves teasing and edging you right to the brink. He takes delight in how your body convulses with every denied peak, the way your mouth falls open on a silent cry.
He knows exactly what you need. You're aching for him to stop teasing, to rip the sodden barrier aside and push his cock deep inside you, to fuck you until you shatter around him.
And what truly drives him out of his mind is that you do the same thing to him. You break him just as surely as he breaks you.
He drops his weight, sinking his entire bulk onto you. "You like being crushed beneath me?" he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. "You like feeling helpless?"
You couldn't answer.
His massive frame, a wall of muscle and heat, smothers your delicate body into the bed. Air leaves your lungs in a soft whimper. You don't want it back. You want him heavier. You want him to fuck you into the mattress until your mind goes blank.
"You like my cock?" he whispers again. "Say it."
You groan, spreading your legs wider, letting him sink deeper between your thighs. He slams his hips harder, the impact pushing a choked moan from your throat. "Ye-yes!"
He stops moving. His cock throbs against your pussy, a desperate, trapped beat.
"Say my name," he breathes. "Tell me what you want me to do to this pussy."
You shudder, your hips bucking against his stillness. "Satoru, will you fuck me?"
His eyes go dark, black swallowing the bright blue of his irises. His body trembles with the effort of holding back. He is about to cum.
He buries his face against your neck, nuzzling into the curve, and starts humping again. Faster with desperation. He grips your hands tighter, crushing your fingers in his, and shoves himself into you, grind after grind, his entire body shuddering.
"Ah... you feel so good," Satoru grunts against your throat. "You're driving me crazy."
"Fuck me—" you manage, but the word dissolves into a cry as he rams deeper.
"Are you going to cum for me? Right here, just from my humping?"
"Satoru, please..." you whimper.
You try to meet his gaze, to lock onto those stunning blue eyes, but they're swimming, blurring, your vision going hazy as pleasure spikes through your spine. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering, unable to focus on anything but the pressure of his cock against your clit.
He notices. "Look at me. Eyes on me."
But you can't. Your pupils are lost, rolling into the back of your skull. His blue eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in them, and he smashes into you, demanding your attention.
"I said look at me," he repeats, but there's a smirk playing on his lips. "Can't even keep your eyes open, can you? That's what my cock does to you. Rips every thought out of your head until you're just a mess of moans and wet cunt."
His thrusts lose their pace, his groans uncontrolled against your ear. His cock pulses against your flesh, the heat of his semen soaking through his jeans, adding to the mess between your legs.
He pants as his lips find your neck, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive column, tasting the salt and sweat there. His grip on your hands loosens, fingers slipping free from yours, and you immediately wrap your arms around his broad back, pulling him into your embrace. He groans at the contact, his hands slide beneath you, lifting your hips just slightly to meet his.
"You made me cum so good." His breath hitches. "So fucking good. I can't get enough of you."
Layla adjusted the straps of her bag, scanning the damp bark of the ancient trees for the specific lichen sample required for her advanced biology lab. She held a plastic specimen container in one hand, her fingers fidgeting with the lid from a blend of anxiety and the pressing curiosity of whether she would actually locate the rare growth in this deep, silent part of the forest.
The air was heavy with moisture, and the stillness was absolute until she became aware of a large presence behind her. When she turned around slowly, a massive man stood before her, towering over her small frame, his shoulders broad and his posture imposing. He wore thick layers of cured animal furs and rough, hand-stitched clothing made from coarse hides that looked weathered and stained by the elements. His skin was weathered, lined by sun and wind.
Layla stepped back immediately, but the rough bark of a wide oak pressed against her spine. She stopped, trapped between the tree and the strange man advancing into her space. She tried to steady her breathing and keep her voice even despite the panic rising in her throat.
“Who... are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
She should have turned and run back toward the trail, but her legs refused to obey, and the man kept stepping forward until the distance between them vanished. He moved slowly, as though in a daze, his eyes scanning her face with a kind of stunned fascination. He stared straight into her green eyes, his gaze moving down across her cheeks, her lips, her hair.
He reached out and touched a strand of her blonde hair, running his calloused fingers through it with a reverence that seemed disconnected from the menace of his presence. It was as if he was seeing a woman for the first time in his life, marveling at the texture of her hair and the color of her eyes.
Layla turned her head away when his thumb came up to trace the line of her jaw. She forced herself to keep her face neutral, to hide the terror that made her heart hammer against her ribs. She gasped when he suddenly slammed his thick arm against the tree right next to her head.
“You’re beautiful,” he rumbled.
His face hovered inches from hers, and the scent of wood smoke and bitter herbs clung to his skin, enveloping her.
“You don’t need a name for me,” he continued. “You just need to know I’m the man who owns you now.”
She blinked, confusion cutting through her fear for an instant. She had never seen this man before. How could he own her? The statement seemed so absurd that she almost laughed, but the weight of his body and the hardness in his eyes reminded her that this was no joke. She decided he was insane, a deranged hermit living in the woods, and she had to get away.
She planted her palms against his chest and shoved him with all her strength. The impact did little—his torso barely moved under her hands, solid as the tree trunk behind her. He smirked and reached up to squeeze her face. His fingers clamped around her cheeks, forcing her mouth open, and he crushed his lips against hers.
Layla’s eyes widened in shock, and she twisted her body, trying to wedge her arms between them, but the man simply leaned into her, using his weight to pin her against the rough bark. Every movement she made was met with immovable resistance.
She pushed against his chest, scraped her hands against his arms, kicked at his shins, but he seemed not to notice. He held her head still with one hand while his other moved down to her chest, grabbing her breasts through the fabric of her shirt. He squeezed them harshly, his large hand covering nearly the entire side of her ribcage, kneading and groping the soft tissue that left her struggling for breath under the pressure.
When he finally broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of her neck, Layla drew in air to scream. But before she could release the sound, his palm slapped across her mouth, sealing her lips shut. She tried to scream against his hand, the noise muffled into a weak vibration against his skin.
Now she was fully pinned, and she could barely move.
His other hand left her chest, and before she could take advantage of the shift in pressure, he grabbed both of her wrists and squeezed just enough to lock them in place. The strength in his grip was immense; she pulled and strained, using the leverage of her legs, but her arms did not budge.
He lifted her pinned wrists and pressed them against the tree trunk above her head with no visible effort. She thrashed beneath him, her shoulders rolling, her hips twisting side to side, trying to find an angle to slip free.
He grunted, and she saw the corner of his mouth curl upward. He was amused by her struggles, treating them like the flailing of a caught rabbit. The more she fought, the more he seemed satisfied.
When he let go of her mouth, she drew in a deep breath and screamed.
“Stop, please, stop,” she begged. “Help! Someone help me!”
He did nothing to stop her, letting her voice carry out into the empty woods while he used his free hand to unfasten her pants. He pulled them down over her hips, dragging the fabric past her thighs until it bunched around her knees, and she kicked uselessly as he tugged them all the way down to her ankles.
He pulled her underwear to the side. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again as he lowered himself, his face close to her sex. She felt the wet warmth of his saliva as he spat directly onto her vagina. She jerked backward, but there was nowhere to go. He raised his head and met her terrified gaze.
“Shh. No one’s coming for you, pet. Just take it.”
He had pushed his jeans down, just past his hips. His cock was thick, the head a dark, angry red. A thick vein snaked up the underside, pulsing visibly. The length of it jutted toward her, obscene and stark against his bare hip.
“No, no, stop! No, please!” she screamed.
The head of his cock stretched her entrance. He thrust inch by inch until he was halfway inside her, and let her feel the fullness of just that much. Her hands, now free, flew to his shoulders, pushing with frantic strength, but he did not move.
“So tight,” he murmured. “You can barely take half of me. That’s all right. We have time.”
She shook her head, her nails digging into the fur on his shoulders, her body rigid with the effort of trying to expel him. He responded by gripping her hips and pushing another inch deeper.
A whimper escaped her throat.
“That’s it, breathe. Let your body open up to me.”
He thrust slowly, pulling at the tip then pushing back deeper. Layla gasped and wept, her body trembling against his as she was forced to accommodate his size. She could feel every inch of him, even though he had not fully seated himself.
“Please, please stop,” she begged. “You’re hurting me. Please.”
“I’m not hurting you,” he said, his tone gentle. “I’m stretching you. There’s a difference.”
He slid his hand up under her shirt and found her breasts, gripping them roughly in his palm, and she felt dirty under his touch, violated in a way that went deeper than the penetration between her legs.
“Please, oh God, please stop, you’re a monster,” she gasped. “A monster.”
He pulled back and then drove forward with a hard swing of his hips, burying his entire length inside her in one motion.
“I am,” he grunted.
The air left her lungs as she felt him bottom out against her, his massive thickness stretching her inner walls beyond anything she had ever experienced. Layla sobbed openly, tears streaming down her face.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder. “You’re so tight around me while you cry.”
He stayed deep inside her for a long moment, breathing right by her ear. Then he pulled back slowly and pushed in again, each thrust making her whimper and gasp against the tree. She was too exhausted to resist, too drained to do anything but let him use her.
“I’m going to cum inside you. I want you to feel it. I want you to know that you belong to me now.”
She shook her head weakly, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against his chest. He thrust once, twice, three times more, then buried himself deep and held still. She felt the hot pulse of his cum as it filled her. He stayed inside her, his body shivering, and then they both tumbled to the ground, with him ending up over her.
She could feel his cum dripping out of her, and she could not stop crying.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Shh, it’s all right. You did so well.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple, a soft gesture that felt wildly out of place against the cruelty of everything he had just done to her. Then he sat back, pulled his pants up, and fastened them around his waist. He took hold of her pants and pulled them completely off her legs, discarding them on the forest floor without a second thought.
He reached down and carefully straightened her underwear, sliding the damp fabric back to its proper place over her pussy. As soon as the cotton touched her skin, it began to soak through with the cum that was still leaking from inside her body. He watched the stain spread across the fabric, and a smile crossed his face.
Layla glared up at him. Her throat was raw, and her body ached, but she refused to break eye contact with him. She hated him. She was not his. She was not going to let him see her defeat.
He rose to his feet, bent down, hooked his arm around her waist, and flipped her over his shoulder. Her stomach was crushed against the hard bone of his shoulder, knocking the air from her lungs. Her legs dangled in front of his broad chest, her shins bouncing against his pectoral muscles with every step he took. Her torso and head hung down his back, and the entire world turned upside down. She was staring directly at the heels of his heavy leather boots and the damp moss of the forest floor moving beneath his stride.
The defiance that had been burning in her eyes exploded into action. She began to fight him. Her shins slammed into his chest again and again. Her fists beat against his lower back, her nails scraping across the rough fabric of his pants.
“Put me down! I am not your property! You cannot do this to me! I will make you pay for this!”
Her voice was hoarse and breaking, but she kept fighting, kept pouring every ounce of her fury into a struggle that was useless against his strength. He did not react to her blows. He simply carried her until the trees opened up into a small clearing. A cabin stood in the center of it, made of dark, rough-hewn logs with a single chimney and a heavy wooden door.
He carried her inside without breaking stride. The air was warm and smelled of smoke, wood, and dried herbs hanging from the rafters. She heard a door creak open and then close behind them, the sound of a latch falling into place. He walked through a main room and pushed open a door to a smaller bedroom. There was a bed in the center of the room, covered with a thin, worn blanket.
He lowered her down onto it. The world spun violently around her. The ceiling of rough logs swam in her vision. She was dizzy, her body weak and aching, and she could barely keep her bearings.
While she struggled against her own body’s weakness, he walked to the wall of the room. Her eyes tracked him, blurred and unfocused. He reached up and took down three items from hooks embedded in the wooden wall. A delicate black lace lingerie set. A simple white dress that hung straight and modest. And a thick leather collar with a small metal ring fixed at the front of it.
She tried to stand. She managed to get her feet under her, but before she could take a single step, her knees buckled, and she crashed to the floor, landing hard on her knees. She trembled, unable even to crawl away from him.
He came to her. He grabbed the collar of her shirt and ripped it open, pulling the shredded fabric away from her body. Her bra was unfastened and pulled off her arms. Her soaked underwear was pulled down her legs. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but he pushed them away.
Then he lifted the leather collar. He brought it to her neck.
“No,” she said. She tried to push his hands away, but he was simply too strong. “I am not an animal. What do you need that for? You have already raped me and dragged me to your home. Leave me with some dignity.”
He did not answer her. He placed the collar around her throat. It was snug against her skin. Then she heard the snap of the buckle as it fastened into place behind her neck. Her defiance was still present, burning in her narrowed eyes, but it was mixed with a humiliated shame.
She was wearing a collar.
He stood up and surveyed her. His eyes traveled over her body, stopping on the collar around her neck, moving down her bare breasts, over her stomach, down to her parted thighs. He was studying his work. He seemed pleased with the picture she made, kneeling on his floor with his collar locked around her throat.
He pointed to the lingerie and the dress on the bed.
“Wear them,” he ordered.
Layla’s chin lifted. She met his gaze. The defiance inside her flared up, refusing to be extinguished by his calm authority.
“I will not,” she refused.
He did not respond. He stood over her, his large body blocking the light from the single lantern on the table. The room was small and cramped. She was on her knees, and he was standing over her like an immovable force of nature. The silence between them grew heavier with every passing second. His presence seemed to fill every corner of the room until it felt far smaller than it was. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being cornered, of having nowhere to go.
She was intimidated. She was small. She was a mouse trapped in a cage with a wolf.
He took a single step closer to her. Then he spoke again. His voice was deeper and harder, and it allowed no room for refusal or argument.
“Wear them.”
Her hands began to shake. She could barely breathe. Her eyes dropped from his face to the clothes on the bed, and she knew that she had no choice. He was not going to let her refuse. He was not going to argue with her. He would simply make her do it, one way or another. She dreaded what he might do next.
Her body moved against her will; she crawled to the bed. She picked up the black lace lingerie. She bit her lip as she stepped into it, pulling the delicate fabric up over her hips. The lace was fragile and thin, barely covering her most intimate places. She fastened the bra over her breasts, her movements clumsy and slow, but he waited patiently.
Then she took the white dress. She pulled it over her head and let it fall down her body. The fabric was simple and thin, covering her from her shoulders down to her mid-thigh. It made her feel like a doll being dressed up for its owner.
When she was finished, she stood before him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, wearing the clothes he had chosen for her, and the collar he had locked around her neck. She was dressed exactly how he wanted her to be, presented to him like a gift that had been unwrapped and then wrapped again in his preferred packaging.
He surveyed her from head to toe. He smirked as he took in the sight of her. Then, he stepped closer and reached out a hand, caressing her hair and threading his fingers through the strands. He brought a lock of her hair to his face and pressed his lips to it, a gesture that was both intimate and possessive. But to her, it felt grotesque.
Her entire body recoiled from his closeness. She did not want his warmth near her or his breath in her hair. He sickened her. She glared at him, but he held her glare without flinching.
“From now on, this will be your home. You are going to stay here whether you like it or not,” he stated.
She shook her head, a quick, desperate denial. “No.”
He laughed at her, but his humor disappeared immediately, replaced by a serious tone that carried a clear warning. “Keep that act, and I might punish you for being a brat.”
He turned and walked to the door. Before he left, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “Take a rest. I raped you hard earlier. You might be sore. You’ll need your energy for what comes next.”
He stepped out and locked the room.
The moment the sound of the lock reached her ears, Layla threw herself at the door. All of her exhaustion and pain vanished. Her fists slammed into the heavy wooden surface. The impact shook her arms and sent a sharp sting through her knuckles, but she kept hitting the door again and again.
“Let me out!” she screamed. “Someone help me! Please! He’s holding me prisoner! He raped me! Help!”
She pressed her body against the door, screaming until her voice cracked, until a sob choked her words. Still, she pounded on the door until her knees gave out, and she slid to the floor.
“Please,” she whispered. “Anyone.”
The cabin remained silent around her.
There was no one coming to help.
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