Not straddling facing him. Not riding. Just seated—deeply, fully, irrevocably seated—on his cock.

Your back rested against his chest, legs draped wide over the arms of the chair, skirt gone, crumpled waves on the floor. Blouse open down the front, bra pushed beneath your breasts so they sat bare and heavy, nipples already tight from the cool air and the slow drag of his breathing against your shoulder blades. Panties had been removed with careful, almost reverent fingers—slid down your thighs, folded once, and set aside on the corner of the desk like something precious he didn’t want to wrinkle.

Choso hadn’t spoken much since he’d guided you down onto him.

Just a low, quiet “Easy,” when the thick head first breached you. A soft exhale against your neck when your cunt finally swallowed the last inch. A murmured “There,” once he was seated to the hilt, voice rougher than usual, frayed at the edges.

And then—nothing.

No thrusts. No grinding. No permission to move.

Just fullness.

His cock was long—longer than felt reasonable—thick enough to stretch your entrance into a taut, burning ring, veins prominent and pulsing faintly against your inner walls. The slight upward tilt pressed the swollen head right up against that deep, tender place that made your toes curl inside your shoes and your breath hitch every time your heart beat. You could feel every detail: the fat ridge beneath the head, the way the shaft throbbed in time with his pulse, the slow leak of precum that kept your channel slick and hot even without movement.

You were dripping steadily now.

Not a dramatic flood—just a constant, humiliating trickle. Warm arousal coated his shaft, gathered at the base where your bodies joined, slid down the underside of his cock and dripped in slow, viscous beads onto the front of his dark slacks. The wet patch was growing, darkening the fabric in an obscene bloom. Every time your cunt fluttered—helpless, greedy, spasming around the unmoving length inside you—another bead welled up and slipped free, the tiny sound of it landing audible in the quiet room.

His arms were wrapped loosely around your waist, one hand resting flat over your lower stomach, palm warm and steady, fingers splayed so he could feel every flutter, every involuntary clench. The other hand cradled the underside of one breast—not squeezing, not teasing, just holding. His thumb brushed idly over the curve, slow enough to feel like comfort, devastating enough to keep your nipple aching.

“You’re shaking,” he said finally, voice low, almost gentle. The words vibrated through his chest and into your back. He pressed his lips to the side of your neck—not a kiss, just contact. Warm. Lingering.

You tried to swallow. Your throat was dry. “I—I can’t help it.”

“I know.”

His hand on your stomach slid lower—slow, deliberate—until his fingers rested right where your bodies were joined. He didn’t rub your clit. Didn’t stroke. Just pressed two fingertips lightly against the swollen lips of your pussy, feeling how they were stretched thin and glossy around the thick base of his cock.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, almost clinical, but there was a tremor in his voice now, a crack in the calm. “It’s dripping down my balls. Can you feel it?”

You whimpered. You could. You could feel everything—the slow slide of your own slick, the way it cooled against your skin, the way his heavy sac was soaked and sticky beneath you.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was half sigh, half restraint.

“Your draft,” he said, nodding toward the open thesis document still glowing on his laptop screen. “You left the methodology section vague again.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to drag your mind back to words, to sentences, to anything that wasn’t the brutal stretch of him inside you.

“I—I thought it was—”

“Unfocused.” His fingers flexed—just barely—pressing a fraction harder against your mound, letting you feel how puffy and slick your lips were around him. “You’re circling the same idea without committing. You’re afraid to be wrong.”

Your cunt clenched hard at the quiet reprimand. A fresh gush of wetness leaked out; you felt it slide down his shaft, warm and slippery. Choso let out a low, rough sound—almost a growl—and his hips twitched once, involuntarily, nudging the head of his cock deeper for half a second before he stilled again.

You gasped. Your nails dug into the arms of the chair.

“Choso—”

“It’s Professor,” he corrected softly, but there was no real bite in it. Just reminder. His lips brushed your earlobe. “You wanted guidance. This is guidance.”

His hand slid up again, cupping your breast fully now, thumb circling the nipple in slow, maddening sweeps that made your spine arch.

“You need to learn how to stay still,” he continued, voice steady even though you could feel his cock throb heavily inside you, feel the way his breathing had grown shallower against your neck. “You rush. You push. You try to force conclusions before the evidence is there.” His thumb pressed down on your nipple—firm, unyielding. “That’s why your argument falls apart.”

You were trembling now—full-body shivers that made the chair creak faintly beneath you. Your clit was swollen, throbbing, untouched except for the occasional graze of his wrist when he shifted. Every breath dragged your nipples against his palm. Every heartbeat pulsed around his cock.

“I can’t—think—” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I know,” he said again. Softer this time. Almost tender. “That’s the point.”

His hand returned to your stomach—pressing flat, possessive—holding you exactly where you were: impaled, aching, dripping, full beyond reason.

“You’re going to stay like this,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “until you can recite the revised methodology section without stuttering. Word for word. No shortcuts.”

You made a broken little sound—half sob, half plea.

He kissed the side of your throat—slow, deliberate.

“Start whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly. “I’m not moving until you get it right.”

And then he settled.

Cock still buried to the hilt.

Still unmoving.

Still throbbing faintly in time with his pulse.

Still teaching you—slowly, patiently, mercilessly—how to hold an idea steady when everything inside you was shaking apart.

GOJO SATORU

The big office was oppressively quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in on your ears like a living thing. The only sounds were the faint, incessant hum of the overhead fluorescent light flickering every few seconds, the soft rasp of your own shallow breathing, and the wet, obscene little noises your body made every time you shifted even an inch. You were perched on your professor’s lap, thighs spread wide over his muscular legs, your thesis binder lying open on the desk in front of you like some pathetic shield of professionalism. Nothing about this was academic anymore. Nothing at all.

Because Professor Gojo’s thick cock was buried to the absolute hilt inside your dripping cunt.

He filled you so completely that you could feel every single inch of him—hot, heavy, and throbbing against your inner walls. The fat head of his dick kissed right up against your cervix with a blunt, insistent pressure that made your toes curl tight inside your plain black ballet flats. Your pussy was stretched obscenely around his girth, the slick lips of your cunt puffed out and clinging to the veiny base of his shaft. Every tiny twitch of your hips sent sparks of overwhelming fullness shooting up your spine. You were soaked—embarrassingly, shamefully soaked—your arousal coating his balls and leaking in slow, sticky rivulets down the crease of his thigh where his slacks were bunched up.

His arms were wrapped loosely around your waist, one large hand slipped beneath the hem of your white blouse to rest possessively over your bare stomach, fingers splayed wide so he could feel every frantic flutter of your muscles. The other hand stroked lazily up and down your thigh, his thumb brushing teasingly along the sensitive crease where your leg met your groin. Your panties? Long gone. He’d hooked two fingers into the soaked cotton half an hour ago, peeled them down your trembling legs, and flung them somewhere behind the chair with a wicked little chuckle while murmuring something about “removing all distractions to optimize your cognitive performance.”

You were trying—god, you were really trying—to focus on the highlighted paragraphs in your notes. The words blurred and swam in front of your eyes.

Gojo’s breath was hot against the side of your neck, his lips brushing feather-light just below your ear as he nuzzled in like he was trying to inhale the scent of your desperation. His voice came out low, velvet-smooth, and dripping with smug amusement.

“You know,” he murmured, the vibration of his words traveling straight down to where you were impaled on him, “I always thought the phrase ‘immersive learning environment’ was pretentious academic bullshit. But fuck, baby… you’re making me a believer.”

You squirmed involuntarily—your body betraying you with a tiny, helpless roll of your hips. The movement made his cock shift inside you, dragging deliciously against your fluttering walls. Gojo groaned deep in his chest, the sound raw and filthy, and you felt his dick twitch hard, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your g-spot. Your cunt clenched around him on instinct, greedy and slick, trying to suck him even deeper even though he hadn’t thrust once.

He hadn’t needed to. Just sitting here, stuffed full of your professor’s cock while you tried to practice your oral defense, was enough to have your brain melting out of your ears.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he purred, soft and mocking, his fingers sliding higher under your blouse until they found your breast. He pinched your nipple through the thin lace of your bra, rolling the stiff little peak between thumb and forefinger until you gasped sharply, your back arching hard enough to push your tits forward. “Tell me again about the disciplinary mechanisms in panoptic structures. Come on. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your mouth went dry. You stared down at the page like it might save you, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. The words were right there, but they felt slippery, impossible to grasp while his massive cock stretched your pussy to its limit. Every breath you took made your walls ripple around him. Every tiny shift of your weight ground your swollen clit against the root of his shaft. You were dripping so much that the obscene, wet squelch of your cunt was audible in the quiet room every time your body involuntarily clenched.

“F-Foucault argues…” Your voice cracked, high and breathy. You swallowed hard, trying to steady it. “That constant surveillance… creates a state of… normalized self-regulation. The… the subject internalizes the gaze of authority, becoming… becoming their own supervisor.”

Gojo hummed approvingly right against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest. He rewarded you with the slowest, most torturous roll of his hips—barely an inch, but it pressed the swollen head of his cock firmly against that spongy spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You choked on a broken moan, your thighs shaking violently.

“Mmm, that’s my good girl,” he cooed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck. His hand slid down from your breast, trailing over your stomach until it disappeared beneath the hem of your pleated skirt. His palm cupped your mound possessively, fingers spreading the slick lips of your pussy even wider around the thick base of his cock. The filthy wet sound of your arousal squishing between his fingers filled the small office. “Look at you. So fucking smart. So fucking stuffed full of my cock. Your little cunt is gripping me like it’s trying to memorize every vein.”

You whimpered pathetically, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Shame burned hot in your cheeks, but it only made your pussy flutter harder around him. You could feel your slick dripping steadily now—thick, warm strands sliding down over his heavy balls and soaking into the fabric of his slacks. The musky, sweet scent of your arousal mingled with the faint smell of old books, printer ink, and Gojo’s clean, expensive cologne.

He pressed two fingers right where your cunt was stretched obscenely around him, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit without ever letting you grind against them properly.

“You feel that, baby?” he whispered, voice dark and filthy. “That’s you learning. God, you’re so wet I can hear it. Your greedy little hole is sucking me in so tight… like your whole thesis depends on keeping my cock warm.”

Your head fell back against his shoulder. Sweat beaded along your hairline and trickled down your spine. Your nipples were aching, diamond-hard against the lace of your bra. Every muscle in your lower belly was coiled tight, trembling on the razor’s edge of something devastating.

“This is your final year, right?” Gojo asked suddenly, as if he wasn’t balls-deep in your spasming cunt, as if his thumb wasn’t lazily circling your clit while you dripped all over his lap. His tone was casual, almost conversational. “Have you thought about grad school?”

You blinked rapidly, panting, your brain short-circuiting. “W-what…?”

He chuckled softly, the sound sending delicious vibrations through his cock and straight into your core. He kissed the side of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. “Because I was thinking… I could be your advisor again next year. Keep mentoring you properly. Maybe even get you a research fellowship. Somewhere private. Somewhere with a nice big couch in the office… or a sturdy desk like this one.”

The image flashed through your mind—another year of this. Another year of being bent over his desk, fucked senseless between citations, cockwarming him through every chapter revision. Your pussy clenched violently around him at the thought, so hard that his hips jerked involuntarily and a low growl tore from his throat.

“Fuck—don’t do that, baby,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his grip on your waist tightening hard enough to bruise. His cock throbbed angrily inside you, the thick head flaring as another hot spurt of precum leaked deep into your cunt. “Don’t squeeze my dick like that unless you want me to flood this tight little hole and ruin the rest of your outline with my cum.”

You let out a broken, needy sob. Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably now. Your ballet flats scraped against the linoleum as your toes curled and flexed. Sweat glued the backs of your knees to his slacks. Your clit was swollen and pulsing, begging for friction, but he kept his touch maddeningly light—just enough to keep you trembling on the edge without ever pushing you over.

“Professor…” you whimpered, voice high and wrecked.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He sounded so fucking fond, so wickedly delighted by your desperation. One hand slid up to press flat between your breasts, feeling the frantic hammer of your heartbeat. His cock twitched again, grinding subtly against your g-spot like a promise. “What do you need?”

“Please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore. Release. Relief. To be ruined completely. Your hips jerked helplessly, trying to fuck yourself on his cock, but his strong hands held you perfectly still, impaled and aching.

“Please what?” he purred, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want me to fuck you properly on this desk while you keep reciting Foucault? Or do you want me to stay just like this—cock buried deep, not moving an inch—and make you cum from nothing but how full you are?”

You sobbed openly, nodding frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure-prickling at the corners of your eyes. “B-both… I want both…”

Gojo laughed—soft, warm, and utterly delighted. He kissed your shoulder tenderly, then nipped at the sensitive skin. “Greedy little slut. God, I love that brilliant fucking brain of yours.”

His arms tightened around you. His hips rolled once—slow, deliberate, dragging every thick inch of his cock along your fluttering walls until you saw white.

And then—he moved.

GETO SUGURU

The office carried that peculiar, intimate smell that had become the backdrop to every stolen hour: faint sandalwood incense curling from a small ceramic burner on the windowsill, mingling with the dry, metallic bite of printer toner and the warm paper-scent of stacked books. It was a strange perfume—spiritual and bureaucratic all at once—and it clung to everything, especially to him.

Geto Suguru sat behind the wide oak desk like a dark saint in tailored sin. Black button-down open at the throat, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms dusted with fine black hair. His long hair was pulled back in a loose knot, a few strands already escaping to frame the sharp line of his jaw. He looked calm. Almost meditative. Except for the way his hands—large, elegant, deceptively gentle—rested high on your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease where leg met hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

You straddled him in the deep leather chair, knees braced wide on either side of his hips, skirt shoved up in careless bunches around your waist. Blouse hanging open, bra pushed beneath the heavy curves of your breasts so your nipples—already painfully tight—scraped against the humid air with every shallow breath. No panties. He’d peeled them off earlier before setting it beside your abandoned thesis like a bookmark.

His cock was buried inside you to the root.

Thick. Long. Hot. The kind of fullness that made your cunt feel remade around him—lips stretched thin and glossy, inner walls fluttering helplessly against every prominent vein, the blunt head pressed so deep it nudged the tender mouth of your cervix with each involuntary clench. He hadn’t thrust once in the last twelve minutes. He was simply… there. Seated. Home. Letting you feel every inch, every slow throb, every bead of precum that leaked steadily into your slick heat.

The blinds were tilted just enough to carve the late-afternoon sun into narrow gold stripes across the carpet and your bare thighs. The door was locked. Your thesis—once crisp, now wrinkled, pages splayed and bleeding neon highlighter—lay forgotten on the desk beside his elbow. You were supposed to be walking him through the section on cultural relativism and competing moral frameworks in global human rights policy. Instead you were sitting on your thirty-one-year-old professor’s lap with his cock splitting you open, your pussy drooling around him in slow, humiliating rivulets that soaked the front of his charcoal slacks and left dark, glistening patches on the leather beneath you.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

His voice was low, velvet-soft, vibrating through his chest and into your back where you leaned against him. His cheek rested just beneath your collarbone, warm skin pressed to warm skin, breath ghosting over the upper swell of your breast. He hadn’t moved. He was just inside you—like that was the lesson. Like the only thing worth studying right now was the exact shape of him stretching your cunt, the exact weight of him pinning your pelvis, the exact temperature of his precum mixing with your slick until everything felt liquid and molten.

You tried to obey. Inhale. Exhale. But every breath shifted your walls around him just enough to drag the thick ridge beneath the head along that spongy front spot, and your thighs trembled violently, toes barely skimming the carpet.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby,” he said, and the praise landed like a physical touch—soft, devastating, curling low in your belly.

Your cunt answered before your mouth could—clenching hard, slick walls spasming greedily along his length. A fresh gush of arousal welled up and slid down his shaft; you could feel it trickling warm and slippery over the heavy sac of his balls, pooling beneath you in a sticky little lake. The obscene wet sound was faint but unmistakable in the quiet room.

“Still too much?” he asked.

There was no mockery in it. Only that infuriating tenderness, the same tone he used when he handed back a draft with gentle marginal notes. His cock twitched inside you—once, slow, deliberate—like it was reminding you how easily he could ruin you if he chose to move.

“No,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice cracking. “Feels… good. I’m just—so full.”

“You are.” He nuzzled into the side of your neck, nose tracing the sensitive line beneath your jaw, lips grazing the sweat-slick hollow under your ear. “So fucking warm. So tight. I could stay right here forever, baby.”

The words were almost sweet. Almost romantic. Except he was balls-deep inside his twenty-two-year-old advisee, cock throbbing heavily against your fluttering walls, your slick dripping steadily down his shaft and soaking into the fine wool of his trousers.

His left hand slid from your thigh to the small of your back, stroking up and down through the damp cotton of your blouse—long, soothing passes that made you shiver. Like he was petting a skittish thing he was proud of. Like filling you with his cock was simply another form of instruction, and you were acing it.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as though he weren’t seated to the hilt inside your spasming cunt, “your section on Mead could use more nuance. You’re flattening the distinction between the ‘I’ and the ‘me.’ It’s more dialectical than you’re giving credit for.”

Your head dropped forward against his shoulder. Heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, your already burning core. “Fuck, Suguru—”

“Professor Geto,” he corrected, soft but unyielding. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your temple. “Don’t forget the title, baby.”

You groaned—half frustration, half need—and rolled your hips in a tiny, helpless circle. The friction was devastating; his cock dragged along every fluttering inch of your walls, the head grinding against that deep, aching place that made your vision spark white.

His breath hitched—just for a heartbeat—before both hands clamped onto your hips, pinning you still with gentle but unbreakable strength.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, firmly. “If you move, I won’t be able to hold back. And I don’t want to fuck your brains out before you finish explaining your critique of utilitarian hegemony in global policy.”

The words were calm. Reasonable. Except you could feel how hard he was, how thickly he throbbed inside you, how the head of his cock flared every time your cunt clenched around him like it was begging to be ruined. You wanted that. Wanted him to snap his hips up, to pound into you until the desk rattled and your notes scattered and you sobbed his name and his title and every citation you’d ever memorized.

But he didn’t.

He just held you.

Cock hot and heavy and leaking inside your dripping pussy. Slick sliding down his shaft in slow, warm rivulets. The musky-sweet scent of your combined arousal thick in the air between you.

“Tell me,” he murmured, tongue flicking out to trace a slow, wet line up the side of your throat. “Why doesn’t Bentham’s model adequately account for long-term human dignity?”

You swallowed hard. Squeezed your eyes shut. Tried to gather the threads of thought that kept dissolving every time your heartbeat pulsed around the thick intrusion splitting you open.

“B-because…” Your voice trembled, cracked. “Because it reduces individuals to… units of utility. Ignores context… ignores autonomy… turns people into—into tools—”

His lips found yours.

The kiss was slow. Open. Reverent. He tasted your words like they were wine—sucking gently on your bottom lip, tongue sliding against yours in lazy, savoring strokes. When he pulled back his eyes were dark, molten.

“Good girl,” he breathed against your mouth. “That’s it. You’re so fucking smart, baby.”

Your hands were fisted in the front of his shirt now, knuckles white, fabric twisted between trembling fingers. Your hips gave the smallest, helpless twitches—barely movement, just instinct—and he let out a low, rough sound, the first real fracture in his composure.

“You think I don’t notice?” he whispered, lips brushing yours again. “The way you cross your legs every time I praise your work? The way your breath catches when I lean close to point out a citation? You love this. You love learning with my cock inside you.”

You nodded—dazed, dizzy, completely undone.

“Say it,” he said.

His fingers slipped beneath the bunched waistband of your skirt, found your swollen clit, and pressed—just the lightest, slowest stroke.

Your whole body jolted. Cunt clamped down hard around him, fluttering wildly. A broken whimper tore from your throat.

“I love it,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “I love learning like this. I love your cock inside me—Suguru, please—”

“Professor Geto,” he reminded you again, but his voice cracked on the edges now, self-control visibly fraying. His cock throbbed hard—once, twice—thick enough to make you cry out, the sudden flare stretching you impossibly wider.

And then—finally, mercifully, devastatingly—he moved.

A single, slow roll of his hips.

Just enough to drag every thick inch along your fluttering walls.

Just enough to grind the head against that deep, tender spot until your vision blurred.

He didn’t speed up. Didn’t chase anything.

He simply began the long, deliberate lesson of teaching you exactly how deep you could feel him—how long you could stay full, aching, dripping, trembling—before either of you broke.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

The chair creaked under the combined weight of your bodies—cheap, cracked faux-leather that had long since lost any pretense of comfort. The material clung to the sweaty backs of your thighs with every tiny, involuntary shift, peeling away with a faint, sticky sound that only made the humiliation burn hotter. Your skirt was rucked up around your hips in messy folds, the waistband digging into the soft skin above your pelvis. Blouse half-unbuttoned, bra tug roughly down so your breasts sat bare and flushed, nipples stiff and aching against the humid air of the tiny office. No panties. Toji had hooked one thick finger through the lace the moment you’d locked the door, yanked them down your legs with zero ceremony, and stuffed the damp scrap into the back pocket of his jeans like a trophy.

You were straddling his lap, knees braced wide on either side of his powerful thighs, calves trembling from the strain of holding yourself suspended just enough not to sink any deeper. Except you couldn’t sink any deeper. There was no deeper left.

Toji Fushiguro’s cock was already buried to the absolute root inside your cunt. That thick, heavy, rock hard cock. The kind of girth that forced your entrance to stretch wide and thin, lips puffed out and clinging desperately to the veined shaft like they were afraid he’d disappear if they let go. He was so long that the blunt, leaking head pressed relentlessly against your cervix—dull, insistent pressure that radiated outward in slow, aching waves with every heartbeat. The slight upward curve dragged the fat ridge along your front wall, grinding against that swollen, oversensitive patch inside you even though neither of you had moved in what felt like forever.

Twenty-seven minutes. You’d been counting the seconds by the frantic thud of your pulse in your ears.

He sat slouched back like he owned the room, like the whole university was just another place he’d wandered into and decided to ruin. Black t-shirt stretched tight across the slabs of his chest and shoulders, sleeves straining around biceps thick with muscle and old scars. Dark jeans shoved down just past his hips, belt still threaded through the loops, buckle cold and sharp against the overheated crease where your thigh met your groin. One scarred, veiny forearm rested lazily along the arm of the chair; the other hand held your thesis draft like it personally offended him—pages bent, corners dog-eared, ink smudged where his thumb had dragged across a paragraph in disgust.

“This?” he muttered, voice low and rough, gravel dragged through smoke. He flipped a page with two fingers and let it fall back with a careless flick, like junk mail he couldn’t be bothered to open. “This is what you’ve been whining about all semester? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. No wonder you needed extra office hours.”

Your cunt clenched hard at the casual cruelty. Heat flooded your face, your chest, the already soaked channel gripping his cock. The involuntary spasm made your walls flutter and ripple along his length, sucking at him greedily even though he hadn’t given you a single thrust. A fresh bead of slick welled up and slid down the base of his shaft—hot, slippery, obscene—coating the dark hair at his groin and dripping in slow, sticky strands onto the front of his jeans.

Toji’s lips curled. Sharp canines flashed beneath the heavy, lidded weight of his stare—green eyes glinting with lazy amusement and something meaner underneath.

“Oh?” he drawled, voice scraping like a blade along your nerves. “That got a squeeze.” He leaned in slow, close enough that you could smell the faint bite of nicotine and cedarwood cologne clinging to his skin, close enough that his breath ghosted hot over your jaw. “You like it when I talk shit about your precious little paper, huh? Figures. Dumb baby brain’s already leaking down my cock. No room left for citations, is there?”

Your nails dug into the chipped edge of the desk behind you—hard enough to leave pale crescent moons in the wood, hard enough that the pain grounded you for half a second before it dissolved under the overwhelming fullness splitting you open. Toji didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. He never did gentle. Never did patient. He was too big—everywhere—and too rough, all coiled muscle and careless strength beneath that deceptively relaxed sprawl.

“S’not even good formatting,” he went on, thumbing a random footnote near the bottom of the page and scoffing loud enough to echo in the small room. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how to do APA properly. Margins are all fucked. In-text citations look like a toddler threw darts at the manual. And I’m supposed to sit here—” he shifted his hips just enough to nudge the head of his cock harder against your cervix, making your breath punch out in a sharp, helpless gasp “—and take you seriously?”

“Professor—” The word cracked, high and desperate. Your voice trembled on the edge of a sob. Your pussy fluttered again—tight, greedy, spasming around the thick intrusion like it could force him to move, to fuck, to end the torture of being held perfectly still while stuffed so full you could barely breathe.

“Nah.” He cut you off without looking up from the page. Finally he tossed the thesis aside—let it slide off the desk and land face-down on the carpet with a dull slap, pages splaying open like something discarded. Both hands returned to your hips. Thick fingers dug in hard enough to leave deep, blooming bruises, and he pulled you forward—one cruel inch—grinding the swollen, leaking head of his cock even deeper into that tender pocket inside you.

Your mouth fell open on a silent, shattered moan. Your spine bowed. Your thighs shook violently.

“You don’t get to talk,” he said, voice dropping lower, darker, meaner. “You sit there. And you take it. Like a good fucking slut.”

His grip shifted—one broad palm splaying across the small of your back, fingers spreading wide to pin you flush against him. The other hand drifted down between your spread thighs. Two thick fingers pressed against your clit—rough calluses scraping the swollen, oversensitive bud. He didn’t rub fast. Didn’t chase your orgasm. Just slow, mocking circles that made your hips jerk helplessly, made your cunt clench and ripple around his cock in frantic, useless pulses.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. His voice had gone gravel-rough, edged with something rawer. “You’re tight. Pussy’s so goddamn greedy. Keeps suckin’ me in like you were fuckin’ made for it.” His fingers pressed harder—once, twice—then eased off just enough to keep you trembling on the knife-edge. “You wanna learn? Huh? This what it takes to get through that thick fuckin’ skull? My cock buried in your guts while I teach you how to write?”

You nodded—frantic, helpless, wrecked. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your lashes. Your whole body burned—sweat trickling down your spine, between your breasts, behind your knees. Your nipples ached from scraping against the damp cotton of your blouse every time your chest heaved. Your clit throbbed under the slow, torturous pressure of his fingers. Your cunt hadn’t stopped fluttering since he’d first pushed inside—slick dripping steadily now, coating his balls, soaking the front of his jeans, forming a dark, wet patch that spread with every tiny shift of your hips.

“That’s what I thought,” he grunted. His hips jerked upward—just once, sudden and punishing—driving his cock deeper in a single, brutal grind that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out—sharp, wet, broken—legs kicking uselessly against the chair legs. The sound echoed off the bare walls.

“Y’know what this thesis needs?” He dragged his fingers through the slick mess coating your folds, spreading it over your clit in lazy, humiliating strokes. “A fucking rewrite. And I’m gonna fuck the new outline into you. Every paragraph. Every citation. Every goddamn comma.”

You whimpered—high and pathetic—clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you from flying apart. He was so deep. Too deep. You could feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against the back wall of your cunt, nudging something vital, something that made your stomach flutter and your toes curl inside your shoes.

“What, too much?” he mocked, thumb pressing down harder on your clit now—fast, tight circles that made your thighs twitch uncontrollably, made your cunt clamp down around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses. “Nah. You’re not gettin’ off easy. Not after wasting my time with that half-assed draft.” His voice dropped, rough and intimate. “You’re gonna sit here dripping on my cock until I’m satisfied. Then maybe—maybe—I’ll let you cum while we go through your citations line by line.”

“Please—” The word cracked, barely audible.

“Please what?” He leaned in close—nose brushing yours, breath hot against your lips. His eyes gleamed with something feral, possessive, all-consuming. “Please fuck you harder? Please let you cum while you cry about your shitty grade?” He snapped his hips up again—once, twice—smooth and brutal and perfect, cock dragging along every fluttering inch of your walls. “Go ahead. Do it. I’ll grade you on how messy you get my cock.”

Your body locked up—muscles trembling, breath hitching, cunt spasming wildly around him—but he held you there, perfectly still again, fingers easing off your clit just enough to keep the pleasure coiled tight and unreachable. Slick poured out in a slow, humiliating trickle, soaking his lap, dripping onto the carpet in soft, wet patters.

He smirked—slow, sharp, satisfied.

“Better start taking notes, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “We’ve got a long fuckin’ night ahead.”

And then he settled back—cock still buried to the hilt, still unmoving—letting you feel every thick, throbbing inch while the ache built, while the stretch burned, while your body trembled on the razor edge of something devastating he refused to let you have.

NANAMI KENTO

The office smelled of cedarwood, fresh-ground coffee, and the faintest trace of the bergamot hand soap Nanami kept in the private washroom. Everything else was deliberate silence: no ticking clock, no buzzing fluorescents, no distant chatter from the corridor. He preferred it that way. Precision required quiet.

The blinds were tilted just enough to slice the late-afternoon sun into thin gold bars across the carpet. His desk was immaculate—monitor off, files stacked in a single vertical pile, fountain pen resting parallel to the leather-edged blotter. The only things out of place were you, and the way your skirt was currently bunched around your waist.

You were bent forward over the polished mahogany surface, forearms braced, palms flat against the cool wood. Your blouse hung open, bra shoved up so your breasts rested heavy and flushed against the desktop. Behind you, Nanami stood perfectly composed in his tailored slacks and rolled shirtsleeves, tie still knotted, cufflinks glinting. His belt was unbuckled, trousers unzipped just enough. His cock—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins prominent—was buried to the hilt inside your cunt, motionless.

He hadn’t moved since he’d pushed in.

You were dripping. Not a slow seep—a steady, humiliating trickle. Every time your walls fluttered around him (and they fluttered constantly, helplessly), another warm bead of slick slid down the inside of your thigh, then another, until you could feel the tiny rivulets cooling against your skin. The obscene wet sound of your own arousal was audible in the stillness every time you clenched. You were stretched wide around his girth, lips puffy and clinging, clit throbbing untouched against nothing but air.

His left hand rested on the small of your back—palm broad, warm, steady. Not pressing. Just present. The right hand held the slim leather paddle he kept in the bottom drawer, the one with the rounded edges and the faint scent of conditioner he applied after every use. He hadn’t struck yet. He was waiting.

“You were late,” he said quietly.

His voice was low, even, almost gentle. That made it worse.

“Three minutes and seventeen seconds. You know my policy on punctuality.”

You swallowed. Your throat was dry. “Yes, sir.”

“You also know I do not accept excuses.”

Your cunt clenched involuntarily at the word sir. A fresh gush of wetness coated his shaft; you felt it slide down over his balls. Nanami exhaled through his nose—a single, controlled breath.

“Hands flat. Arch your back properly.”

You obeyed instantly, pushing your ass higher, spine curving, breasts flattening harder against the desk. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper; the blunt head pressed right up against your cervix with a dull, aching insistence that made your toes curl inside your heels.

“Good.”

He still didn’t move.

Instead he dragged the smooth edge of the paddle along the back of your right thigh—slow, deliberate, letting you feel the cool leather kiss your overheated skin. Up, then down. Then up again, higher this time, until the flat surface ghosted over the curve of your ass, tracing the line where your body gripped him.

“You will count,” he said. “Clearly. And you will thank me after each one.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Yes, sir.”

The first strike landed without warning—crisp, measured, right across the fullest part of your ass. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a whip. Heat bloomed instantly, sharp and bright.

You gasped. “One. Thank you, sir.”

He waited. Let the sting settle. Let you feel the way your pussy spasmed around his cock in response—tight, greedy, sucking at him even though he remained perfectly still.

The second strike came lower, catching the sensitive crease where thigh met ass.

“Two. Thank you, sir.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. Another involuntary clench. More slick leaked out, dripping audibly now, a tiny patter against the carpet between your spread feet.

He shifted his stance—just enough to remind you how deeply he was seated. The slight adjustment dragged the thick ridge along your front wall, grazing that swollen, needy spot inside you. Your knees nearly buckled.

“Stay in position,” he said calmly.

You whimpered. “Yes, sir.”

The paddle came down again—harder this time, the impact blooming into a deep, throbbing burn.

“Three. Thank you, sir.”

Your arms were trembling now, fingers splayed wide on the desk. Sweat gathered at your temples, under your breasts, behind your knees. Every breath made your nipples scrape against the polished wood. Every heartbeat pulsed in your clit.

He paused longer this time. Let you simmer. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open, unmoving, unrelenting. The head of his cock throbbed once—slow, heavy, a reminder that he was just as affected as you were, even if his breathing remained perfectly even.

“You’re dripping on my floor,” he observed, voice neutral.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You will be.”

The fourth strike landed diagonally, crossing the previous marks. The pain was brighter, sharper; it sank deep into muscle and bloomed outward in waves.

“Four. Thank you, sir.”

Your voice was higher now, thinner. Your cunt clenched so hard around him that you felt the veins of his cock shift inside you. A long, slow trickle of arousal slid down the inside of your left thigh, tickling, humiliating.

He set the paddle down on the desk beside your elbow—within reach, a silent promise.

Then both hands returned to your hips. Firm. Controlling.

“You still have six more,” he said. “But first—”

He rolled his hips—just once, slow and deep, dragging every thick inch out almost to the tip before sinking back in with devastating control. The motion punched the air from your lungs. Your walls fluttered wildly, trying to grip him, trying to keep him, trying to pull him deeper.

He stopped again. Fully seated. Motionless.

“—you will ask me nicely to continue.”

Your forehead dropped to the desk. Your hair stuck to your damp cheek. You were shaking—thighs, arms, core, everything.

“Please, sir,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Please continue.”

“Full sentence.”

“Please continue punishing me, sir. I was late. I need to be corrected.”

A beat of silence.

Then the paddle lifted again.

The fifth strike was perfect—clean, centered, reigniting every previous mark.

“Five. Thank you, sir.”

Six landed almost in the same spot. The pain layered, turned molten.

“Six. Thank you, sir.”

Seven was lower—across the tops of your thighs. The sting zipped straight to your clit.

“Seven. Thank you, sir.”

Eight crossed the first set. You cried out—sharp, helpless.

“Eight. Thank you, sir.”

Your voice was trembling now, barely audible. Tears pricked your lashes. Your cunt hadn’t stopped fluttering since the fourth strike; you were soaked, swollen, aching, stretched so wide around him that every tiny shift felt like too much and not enough.

Nine was deliberate—slow wind-up, full follow-through. The crack echoed.

“Nine. Thank you, sir.”

Ten was the hardest yet—precise, punishing, right where you were most sensitive.

“Ten. Thank you, sir.”

He set the paddle aside. Both hands returned to your hips—thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your ass, fingers splayed wide.

You were panting, shaking, dripping steadily onto the carpet. Your clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Your walls kept rippling around his cock—desperate, greedy, denied.

Nanami leaned forward. His chest brushed your back. His mouth found the shell of your ear.

“Discipline,” he murmured, voice low and dark with restraint, “is not about pain. It is about focus. About obedience. About learning to wait.”

He flexed his hips—just enough to nudge the head of his cock against that deep, tender place inside you.

You sobbed.

He didn’t move again.

“You will stay exactly like this,” he said, lips brushing your skin, “until I am satisfied you understand.”

His cock throbbed once, twice—hot, heavy, leaking inside you.

You clenched around him helplessly.

He exhaled—slow, controlled.

And then he waited.

Still buried to the hilt.

Still motionless.

Still teaching you exactly how long you could burn on the edge before you broke.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

The office wasn’t his.

It belonged to some adjunct who’d left months ago—bare walls scarred with faded outlines where posters or diplomas once hung, a single flickering fluorescent tube overhead that buzzed like a dying insect, carpet worn thin in front of the door. No nameplate. No personal effects. Just a battered wooden desk, a threadbare upholstered chair that creaked under combined weight, and the sour smell of old coffee grounds someone had forgotten in the bottom drawer.

Sukuna had claimed it the way he claimed everything: without asking.

He sat sprawled in that ugly chair like it was carved from obsidian and gold. Black dress shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves shoved carelessly to the elbows, forearms thick with muscle and ink—black lines curling like smoke around wrists, disappearing beneath fabric, reappearing at the open collar to frame the hard planes of his chest. Dark slacks shoved down just far enough. Belt still threaded through the loops, buckle cold against the overheated skin of your inner thighs.

You were perched on his lap, knees braced wide on either side of his hips, trembling so violently the chair frame rattled. Your skirt was shoved up in brutal handfuls around your waist. Blouse torn open—two buttons missing, fabric gaping, bra pushed up and trapped beneath the swollen curves of your breasts so your nipples scraped raw against the damp cotton every time your lungs jerked. Panties? Long gone. He’d hooked a finger through the crotch the moment the door locked, yanked them down your thighs until they snapped at one ankle, then used the ruined lace to gag your mouth for the first five minutes just to hear you whimper around it before he pulled it free and tossed it somewhere behind the desk.

His cock was buried inside you to the root, forced your cunt lips to spread obscenely wide, flushed dark and puffy, clinging to every veined inch like they were terrified he’d pull out. The slight upward curve dragged the fat head relentlessly along your front wall, pressing, pressing, pressing against that deep, tender place that made your toes curl inside your shoes and your vision swim. He hadn’t moved in twenty-three minutes—you’d been counting the seconds against the frantic thud of your own heartbeat.

He hadn’t let you move either.

His arms were looped loosely around your waist, hands resting low on your hips, fingers splayed wide enough that his thumbs could brush the sensitive creases where thigh met groin. He held you impaled. Still. Full. Like you were nothing more than a warm, dripping sleeve for his cock while he decided whether you were worth fucking properly.

Sweat poured off you in sheets. It trickled down your spine in rivulets, gathered in the small of your back, soaked the waistband of your skirt. Beaded along your hairline and slid into your eyes until they stung. Your thighs shook uncontrollably, muscles burning from the strain of holding yourself upright while every tiny shift of weight ground his cock deeper, made the blunt head nudge your cervix with dull, aching insistence.

“You’re sweating,” he observed, voice low and dark, each syllable coated in something viscous and cruel. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path down the center of your back—nail scraping lightly over sweat-slick skin—until he reached the dimples above your ass and pressed, forcing your pelvis to tilt just enough that his cock shifted half an inch deeper.

You choked on a broken sound—half sob, half whine. Your fingers dug into the meat of his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons through the thin cotton of his shirt.

“Don’t go fainting before you defend your weak-ass argument,” he continued, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. Sharp canines flashed in the dim light. “How the fuck are you gonna prove anything if you can’t even sit pretty and take cock like a good little thing?”

Your cunt answered before your mouth could—clenching hard, slick walls spasming around his girth in helpless, greedy pulses. A fresh gush of arousal leaked out, hot and slippery, coating the base of his shaft, sliding down over the heavy sac of his balls and dripping in slow, obscene rivulets onto the worn upholstery beneath him. The wet sound was audible in the quiet room—soft, filthy, rhythmic with every involuntary flutter.

He laughed once—low, rough, pleased.

“‘Utilitarian frameworks falter in evaluating suffering due to the subjectivity of pain,’” he read aloud, plucking your thesis draft from the desk beside him. His voice dripped mockery as he scanned the page. “Fuckin’ adorable. You think this is new? Profound?” He flicked the paper with two fingers like it had personally offended him. “This is undergrad garbage wearing big-girl shoes.”

His free hand dropped between your legs without warning. Broad palm pressed flat against your mound—fingers splayed so the heel of his hand rested directly over your swollen clit while the tips bracketed the stretched lips of your cunt where they gripped his cock. He didn’t rub. Didn’t circle. Just held firm, steady pressure that made your hips jerk involuntarily.

Your breath punched out in a sharp gasp.

“But that pain?” he murmured, voice dropping to something darker, more intimate. He flexed his hips—just barely—enough to grind the curved head of his cock harder against that spongy spot inside you. “That’s real. That’s something worth writing about.”

You whimpered—high, broken, pathetic. Your legs twitched violently. Your walls fluttered again, sucking at him, trying to draw him deeper even though there was nowhere left to go. More slick poured out; you could feel it trickling down the crease of your ass, warm and sticky, pooling beneath you in a shameful little puddle.

His grin widened—slow, crooked, predatory. Teeth glinting.

“Yeah,” he growled, pushing just that much deeper, making your cervix flutter against the blunt pressure. “You like that, don’t you? Fuck, you’re tight. It’s like your cunt’s tryin’ to memorize every inch of me. Greedy little thing.”

His other hand came up to your throat—not squeezing, not yet. Just resting there. Heavy. Possessive. His thumb stroked idly along the side of your neck, tracing the frantic flutter of your pulse like he was petting something he already owned.

“Go on,” he purred, breath hot against your ear. “Tell me about suffering now.”

“C-can’t—” The word cracked. Your voice was wrecked—thin, trembling, barely human. “Can’t think—”

“Oh, now you can’t?” Mockery again, thick and cruel. His eyes—crimson, glowing faintly under the stuttering fluorescent—locked onto yours. “You were all mouth earlier, babbling about discourse, moral construction, ethical limits. But one cock—one real, mean, deep fuckin’ cock—and your brain goes static?”

You nodded. Tears pricked your lashes. It wasn’t surrender. It was truth.

“Pathetic,” he snarled.

And then he moved.

Not gently. Not slowly.

His hips lifted—just an inch—then slammed back up into you with punishing force. The motion drove his cock deeper, grinding against every oversensitive inch of your walls, punching the air from your lungs. Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.

He didn’t stop.

Another thrust—slow on the withdrawal, brutal on the re-entry. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and rhythmic. Your cunt sucked at him on every upstroke, fluttering wildly, dripping so much that each thrust pushed more slick out around his shaft, coating his balls, soaking the front of his slacks.

You collapsed forward, forehead dropping to his shoulder, hands clutching desperately at his shirt. The scent of him filled your lungs—sweat, musk, something darker and metallic, like blood and smoke. His skin was scalding against yours.

“There we go,” he panted, one hand clamping onto your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he dragged you down to meet every upward snap of his hips. “You feel that? You feel that stretch in your guts? That’s the only argument you need.”

“S-Sukuna—”

“Professor,” he corrected with a vicious snap of his hips that made you yelp, made your cunt clamp down so hard he hissed through his teeth. “You don’t get to use my name when your brain’s this fucked-out, little thing.”

Tears spilled over now—hot, messy, streaking down your cheeks. Pleasure was too big, too sharp, too overwhelming. His cock hammered into the soft, tender places inside you like a punishment. His breath burned against your ear. His voice was filthy, relentless.

“What’re you learning, huh?” he growled, nails raking down your back hard enough to leave red lines. “Tell me.”

“To—to take it—” you gasped, words fracturing around every brutal thrust. “To—fuck—to be good—”

“Good?” He laughed—dark, jagged. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. Slutty little thesis toy. Tight little fuckhole that whines when I make you think.”

Your body was shaking uncontrollably—thighs burning, core clenching, clit throbbing untouched against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Every thrust dragged the thick veins along your fluttering walls. Every withdrawal left you empty and aching before he filled you again, deeper, harder, stretching you past the point of coherence.

He kept going—slow now, deliberate, savoring every helpless spasm of your cunt around him. Letting you feel the drag, the burn, the relentless pressure against your cervix. Letting the slick sounds of your arousal fill the silence between his low, mocking growls.

He never sped up enough to finish it.

Never gave you the friction your clit begged for.

Never let either of you crest.

He simply held you there—impaled, trembling, dripping, ruined—while he fucked you slow and cruel, teaching you exactly how long suffering could last before it rewrote every word you’d ever tried to write.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

The walls of Professor Higuruma Hiromi’s office were unnaturally pristine for an academic space. No clutter of yellowed handouts, no teetering stacks of student papers, no faint coffee-ring ghosts on the wood. Just clean lines, cool light filtering through half-closed blinds, and the faint, antiseptic scent of lemon polish and old paper. Two framed law degrees hung in perfect symmetry above the tall bookshelf—one from a prestigious Japanese university, the other an international LLM. Thick, leather-bound casebooks stood in alphabetical order like soldiers at attention. His desk was cleared except for a single fountain pen lying parallel to the edge, cap on, and his laptop was closed, screen dark. Higuruma didn’t tolerate half-measures. Not in judgments. Not in arguments. Not in discipline.

And certainly not in you.

You were straddling his lap in the deep leather armchair he kept beside the small reading table—not the main desk, never the main desk. That would have been too public, too exposed to the narrow window that looked out onto the corridor. Here, in this tucked-away corner, the space felt smaller, warmer, more suffocating. The high back of the chair shielded you both from any stray glance through the door’s frosted glass panel. Cushioned. Intimate. Carnal.

Your skirt was rucked up around your waist in messy pleats. Your panties had been removed twenty minutes earlier—slowly, deliberately, his long fingers hooking into the damp lace and dragging them down your thighs until they caught on one ankle before he flicked them aside to land somewhere near the base of the bookshelf. Your blouse hung open, sleeves shoved to your elbows, bra pushed up so your breasts sat bare and flushed above the crumpled fabric. And between your spread thighs, buried to the root inside your soaked, trembling cunt, was Higuruma’s cock—thick, brutally hard, and perfectly still.

He hadn’t thrust once.

He hadn’t permitted you to rock, to grind, to chase anything. His hands rested on your hips with the same calm, unhurried authority he used when marking up a brief: firm, immovable, possessive without flourish. Every time your inner walls fluttered around him—helpless, greedy, spasming—he let you feel it. Let you feel how deep he was seated, how the blunt head of his cock pressed insistently against the deepest part of you, nudging your cervix with dull, aching pressure. Your slick coated him generously; you could hear it every time your body clenched—the soft, wet, sucking sound of your pussy trying to draw him even deeper despite the lack of movement. Warm rivulets of arousal leaked steadily from where you were stretched around his girth, sliding down the veined shaft, soaking the dark wool of his tailored trousers, darkening the fabric in an obscene, spreading patch right over his groin. The cold metal of his belt buckle grazed your swollen clit with every shallow breath you took, a cruel, incidental tease.

His gray eyes—sharp, unreadable, almost clinical—remained locked on your face. Watching. Cataloguing every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breathing.

“You interrupted my lecture,” he said, voice low and even, the same measured cadence he used when delivering a ruling. “You raised your hand to ‘clarify your question’ about the categorical imperative. When I invited elaboration, you faltered. You offered half a sentence and then went silent.”

His cock gave a single, slow throb inside you, as though underlining the sentence.

Your cunt answered immediately—clenching hard, slick walls rippling along his length in a desperate, involuntary pulse. A fresh gush of wetness seeped out, trickling hot and slippery down his balls. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper.

“Now,” he continued, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft hollows above your hipbones, “you will sit here. You will remain still. And you will construct your argument properly. No excuses. No fidgeting. No breaking posture.”

You nodded—jerkily, frantically—hair clinging to your damp temples. One hand flew up to brush the sweaty strands away; the other gripped the thick arm of the leather chair until your knuckles blanched. Your thighs trembled violently where they bracketed his narrow hips. Every muscle in your pelvis ached from holding yourself motionless while impaled so deeply.

“G-governance without reciprocal autonomy—” Your voice cracked on the first syllable, thin and reedy. You swallowed, tried again. “—is a violation of practical reason. It… mmph… it treats rational agents as means rather than ends-in-themselves—”

His left eyebrow lifted. Just a fraction. No smirk. No softening. Only that cool, judicial scrutiny.

“Your voice is shaking,” he noted. Flat. Observational. “Control it. Breathe. Begin again.”

You dragged in a shuddering inhale through your nose. Tried to steady yourself. But the simple act of filling your lungs made your breasts rise and fall, made your inner walls shift minutely around the fat intrusion of his cock. The frictionless stretch burned. Your clit throbbed against the unyielding press of his belt buckle. Another helpless flutter gripped him; another obscene trickle of slick slid down to pool in the crease of his groin.

“I can’t—” The words burst out before you could stop them. “I can’t concentrate like this, professor—”

“Then that is a failure of discipline,” he replied without hesitation, tone as final as a gavel strike. “Not a failure of my pedagogy.”

Silence stretched between you—thick, electric, humiliating.

And then his right hand moved.

Not dramatically. Not urgently. Just a slow, deliberate slide of his palm up from your hip, along the curve of your waist, then inward. His thumb traced the glistening, stretched seam where your cunt lips were wrapped obscenely tight around the base of his shaft. He pressed—lightly, almost clinically—against your clit. Not circling. Not stroking. Just holding steady pressure right on the swollen, oversensitive bud.

Your whole body jolted. A high, broken whimper tore from your throat. Your pussy spasmed violently around his cock—sucking, fluttering, trying to milk him despite his utter stillness. More slick poured out; you could feel it dripping now, warm and sticky, coating his balls, seeping into the fine weave of his trousers.

“Hiromi—”

“Professor Higuruma,” he corrected instantly. The words came out harder, darker, edged with steel. He leaned forward until his mouth was a scant inch from yours; you could smell clean cotton, faint bergamot, the barest trace of the mint he’d chewed before office hours. “You have never respected boundaries. You speak when you should listen. You demand clarification without offering context. You behave as though cleverness exempts you from consequence.”

His eyes were glacial.

“It does not.”

Another helpless clench. Another rush of wetness. You could hear it now—the tiny, filthy squelch every time your cunt tried to grip him tighter. Your clit pulsed under the unmoving pad of his thumb.

“So you will remain exactly as you are,” he said, voice dropping to something dangerously soft. “Stuffed full of my cock. Dripping on my lap. And you will finish your argument. Coherently. Or I will lift you off this chair, bend you over the edge of my desk, and fuck you until you cannot stand long enough to walk back to your dormitory. Do you understand me?”

Your throat clicked when you swallowed. “Yes, Professor.”

“Then continue.”

You tried.

God, you tried.

“Autonomy… in deontological ethics… requires that moral agents… are capable of self-legislation…” Each word felt like dragging stone up a hill. Your voice wavered, cracked, pitched higher with every syllable. Your thighs burned from the strain of holding still. Sweat gathered behind your knees, in the small of your back, between your breasts. Your nipples were painfully tight, scraping against the open edges of your blouse every time your chest heaved.

His cock never softened. Never wavered. It stayed brutally hard, thick enough to make your entrance ache, long enough to press relentlessly against that deep, tender place inside you. Every time you spoke, the vibration of your own voice traveled down your torso and into your cunt, making your walls flutter and ripple around him. Every inhale pushed your clit harder against his belt buckle. Every exhale dragged a fresh bead of slick down his shaft.

You reached the final sentence—voice splintering on the word “rational”—and your whole body shook.

Higuruma’s hands tightened on your waist. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to remind you who controlled the rhythm.

“Good girl,” he murmured. The praise was quiet, almost tender—and somehow more devastating than any reprimand.

And then he moved.

One slow, deliberate thrust upward—measured, merciless, dragging every thick inch along your fluttering walls until the head of his cock kissed your cervix again.

Your mouth dropped open on a silent scream. Your head fell back against the leather. Your legs jerked, toes curling inside your shoes.

“Again,” he ordered, voice perfectly calm even as he rolled his hips and fucked up into you with another long, punishing stroke. “Defend your position. Speak clearly. And take what you interrupted my lecture to beg for.”

You tried to obey.

You really did.

But every deep, controlled thrust punched the air from your lungs. Every withdrawal left you clenching desperately around nothing before he filled you again—slow, unhurried, devastatingly precise. Your words fractured into gasps, into whimpers, into his name—Professor—Professor—Professor—until meaning dissolved entirely, until all that remained was heat, stretch, slick, sweat, and the relentless, punishing rhythm of the man beneath you teaching you exactly what it meant to be held accountable.

He never sped up. Never lost control. Never let either of you crest.

He simply kept going—slow, deep, merciless—while your trembling body took every inch he gave, over and over, suspended forever on the razor edge of ruin.

SHIU KONG

The temporary office was too small for the kind of power Shiu Kong carried with him. It smelled of fresh printer paper, expensive aftershave that lingered like smoke—sandalwood, amber, something darker underneath—and the faint metallic tang of nervous sweat that was entirely yours.

The door had been bolted the second you stepped inside. No knock. No warning. Just the soft, decisive click of the deadbolt and the way his eyes flicked over you once—head to toe, slow, assessing—like he was already deciding exactly how many minutes it would take to break you open.

He wasn’t supposed to be your professor. Not really. The university payroll never listed him as faculty. He was the consultant they called when a project had too many zeros behind it, when the board wanted deniability, when someone needed to be quietly reminded who actually ran things. “Adjunct oversight for senior capstone projects,” the email had read. What it meant was: Shiu Kong appeared in your department for one semester, sharp three-piece suits traded for rolled sleeves and open collars, and no one asked questions when he requested private meetings with certain students.

Especially not you.

He sat in the creaking office chair like he owned the building. Dark charcoal slacks pooled around thick thighs, belt unbuckled, zipper down just enough. Black dress shirt open at the throat, sleeves shoved to the elbows, forearms corded and veined. A thin gold chain rested against the dark hair dusting his chest, catching the weak yellow glow of the desk lamp. His cock stood proud and flushed—thick, heavy, curved upward in a way that promised it would drag against every sensitive place inside you—and right now it was buried to the root in your soaked, trembling cunt.

You straddled him, knees braced on either side of his hips, skirt shoved up in wrinkled handfuls around your waist. Blouse soaked through with sweat, clinging transparently to your ribs and the undersides of your breasts. Bra pushed up and trapped beneath your collarbone so your nipples—dark, swollen, aching—scraped against the damp cotton every time your chest heaved. Your panties were long gone; he’d hooked two fingers into them the moment you’d locked the door, dragged them down your thighs until they caught on one ankle, then simply tore them off with a flick of his wrist and dropped them beside your discarded thesis binder.

The binder itself lay abandoned on the carpet—pages splayed, highlights bleeding, title page face-down like it had been thrown in disgust.

You couldn’t move.

He hadn’t given permission.

Minutes had passed—five, maybe ten—since he’d guided you down onto him with one steady hand on your hip and the other wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, holding himself still while he watched your lips part around the fat head, watched your cunt stretch and swallow every rigid inch until your ass met his thighs with a soft, wet slap.

Now he simply sat there. Perfectly still. Letting you feel it.

Every thick centimetre. Every pulsing vein. The way the slight upward curve pressed the swollen head right against the front wall of your pussy, grinding against that spongy, oversensitive patch with nothing more than your own heartbeat. The stretch was obscene—lips puffy and clinging, inner walls fluttering uselessly around his girth, trying to milk him even though he refused to give you any friction.

You were dripping. Not a delicate trickle—a steady, humiliating leak. Warm slick coated his shaft, gathered in sticky strands at the base, slid down over the heavy sac of his balls and soaked into the fine wool of his slacks. Every time your cunt clenched (and it clenched constantly, helplessly), another bead of arousal welled up and slipped free, dripping audibly onto the leather seat beneath him. The wet, filthy sound echoed in the quiet room.

Shiu’s left hand rested on your hip—thumb pressed into the soft dip above your pelvic bone, fingers splayed wide enough to almost span your entire waist. His right hand lifted slowly, deliberately. One manicured finger traced the line of your throat—light enough to raise goosebumps—then dragged down between your breasts, catching on the soaked edge of your bra before hooking beneath the lace cup and tugging it higher. Your nipple popped free, already painfully tight. He caught it between thumb and forefinger and rolled—slow, cruel, just enough pressure to make your spine bow.

“You know what your problem is?” His voice was low, clipped, cultured in the way that made every syllable feel like a velvet blade. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You write like a good girl desperately trying to prove she’s bad. All those clever turns of phrase, those meticulously chosen quotes… but baby…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “…you’re already bad. Aren’t you?”

Your whole body shuddered. Your cunt spasmed hard around his cock—greedy, involuntary, sucking at him like it could force him to move. A fresh gush of slick poured out; you felt it slide hot and slippery down his shaft, pooling beneath you in a warm, sticky mess.

Shiu’s lips curled—slow, satisfied.

“See?” he murmured. “I knew it. Dripping down my dick just from sitting here. Just from being stuffed full. Pathetic.”

The word landed like a slap. You whimpered—high, broken, needy—but it wasn’t denial. You couldn’t deny anything when your thighs were trembling, when your clit was swollen and pulsing untouched, when the sheer stretch of his cock made rational thought feel like a distant memory.

“You were supposed to walk me through your thesis,” he continued, pinching your nipple harder now, twisting just enough to send a bright sting straight to your core. “Supposed to sit pretty, recite your abstract, dazzle me with methodology. Instead you’re drooling all over my cock like a bitch in heat.” He released your nipple only to drag his palm down your stomach, fingers splaying over the soft mound of your pussy where you were stretched obscenely around him. He pressed—just lightly—feeling the way your lips were split wide, feeling the slick heat leaking out around his shaft. “Can’t even remember your opening paragraph, can you?”

You tried. You really tried. The words were there somewhere—buried under layers of heat and shame and the relentless throb of being filled—but every time you opened your mouth, all that came out was a choked little “n-no…”

“Mm.” His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of your ass and squeezing—slow, possessive, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. “That’s what I thought. You think you’re so clever. Submitting that little paper with your pretty metaphors and hand-picked citations. You wanted me to be impressed.”

He shifted—just barely. A single, lazy roll of his hips. One inch forward, then back. Enough to drag the thick ridge of his cock along your front wall, enough to grind the curved head right against that spot that made your vision white out. Your back arched violently; your nails scored red lines down the black cotton stretched over his shoulders.

“But if you really wanted to impress me,” he hissed against the side of your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, “you should’ve walked in here already spread. Already soaked. Already on your knees begging to be used like the needy little slut you pretend you’re not.”

Your legs shook so hard the chair creaked. Your cunt clenched again—harder this time—sucking at him, fluttering wildly. More slick spilled out; the wet squelch was unmistakable now, obscene in the quiet room.

Shiu chuckled—low, dark, pleased.

“That’s more like it.” He lifted his gloved hand—black leather, butter-soft—and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Open that pretty mouth. Let me hear how stupid I’ve already fucked you.”

Tears pricked your lashes. “Please—” The word cracked. “Please, I can’t—I need you to move—please—”

“Professor?” he echoed, voice suddenly silken with amusement. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’m not your professor.” He leaned closer, lips brushing yours without kissing. “I’m the guy they call when your professors can’t handle you. When they’re too polite, too careful, too fucking scared to make you behave.”

His hands clamped onto your hips—hard, bruising. In one brutal motion he lifted you just enough to slam you back down, cock driving deep in a single punishing stroke. Then again. And again. Letting you bounce, letting your cunt clap wetly against his pelvis, letting the room fill with the filthy, rhythmic sound of skin slapping skin and the slick suction of your pussy trying to keep him inside.

“You want to be good?” he growled, delivering a sharp slap to your ass that made your whole body jolt forward. The sting bloomed hot and bright. “Then prove it. Ride it. Use that little student brain and fuck yourself stupid on my cock.”

You cried out—raw, desperate—and started moving.

Sloppy. Frantic. Driven by the burn in your thighs, the coil in your belly, the unbearable stretch of being split open again and again. Every time your hips dropped, his cock punched up into that deep, aching place; every lift dragged the thick veins along your fluttering walls. Your clit throbbed against his pubic bone, smearing slick across his skin, but it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough—to push you over.

“Look at you,” he snarled, fisting a handful of your hair and yanking your head back so you had to meet his eyes—dark, glittering, merciless. “So needy. So fucking dumb. So wet you’re ruining my trousers.” Another hard slap to your ass. “You don’t need a degree. You need to be ruined.”

Your moans fractured into sobs. Your cunt spasmed around him—tight, greedy, fluttering helplessly—but he kept his rhythm cruelly controlled, never letting you grind hard enough, never letting you chase the friction you needed. Sweat poured down your spine, between your breasts, soaked your blouse until it clung like a second skin.

He leaned in, lips against your temple, voice suddenly soft—too soft, dangerously tender.

“We’ll rewrite the thesis,” he murmured, kissing the damp skin there. “I’ll help you. I’ll sit with you every night until it’s perfect.” His hips rolled again—slow, deep, torturous. “But next time?”

He pulled you down hard, cock grinding against every sensitive inch inside you.

“Next time you take my cock first.”

Just to check up on you, of course! Just to make sure that brute of a bull hadn’t completely mauled you, of course! Seriously- what kind of farmer would Shiu even be if he didn’t care about the health of his most prized cows?

Which is why he’s standing in front of the barn doors at this very moment.

Towering and red. Furious and needy.

His ears burn as they take in the lecherous whines and squelches emanating from inside- and he’s placing one hand against the splintered doors. The other cascading down his toned front and squeezing his hot erection in an attempt to get himself to fucking calm down—

“Took ya long enough to man up.” Toji’s peeking up at the farmer through the gaps of his shaggy black bangs, scarred lips twisting up into the most sleazy smirk. 

Even from here, the farmer could see the way that the bull hybrid had you on all fours. Thighs sheeny with slick and sweat, strands of golden hay sticking to your limbs, twitchin’ every time he was swabbing his bulbous red tip between your pussylips. 

Toji doesn’t stop just because Shiu was watching. 

In fact, the other man only rests his weight further down on your lower half and pins his pelvis against yours. Even deeper. Even harder. Making your poor, trembling self scramble forwards a few inches at the sudden increase of pressure- before Toji’s slapping two palms down on your hips and drag-drag-draaaaagging you back down onto his thick throbbing cock. Like a ragdoll.

Probin’ and probin’ inwards—in and out, in and out. 

Shiu gulps as he catches a wet gush! of creamy sap leak out of your cunt - and he’s wondering whether Toji plans to stop at all.

Without any warning, Toji’s roughened fingertips come down to slam! on top of your slick-glazed folds. So tender and raw. And Shiu’s stepping forwards with his hand reached out- before he’s immediately freezing at the sound of you moaning.

“P-please-” Bucking your hips back in circular gyrations, you’re addicted to the way his puffy veins were snagging and rubbin’ against your g-spot. “Just feels so gooooood, Toji—”

“Shit…” Shiu whispers underneath his breath, eyes widening as he takes in the sight. There was a slight tinge of sweet cream and something woodsy in the air- and he’s wondering if this was what experts meant when they said hybrid pheromones made one lose their mind.

Toji glances over at the other man and scoffs—and without warning, he’s pulling out of your tight hole and flipping you over as if it was nothing. Right onto your back where he can stare at your pretty face whilst he presses his reddened cock between your legs-

Like an animal. 

Rutting and rutting until Toji’s flared mushroom tip somehow bullies inside your cunt with a wettened plop! And looking from here, the size difference was just incredible- Shiu’s stepping even closer, driven crazy wondering just how such a cute, innocent-looking pussy can take such a big cock so filthily.

Without easing in, without even slowing down, Toji pumps his vein-covered shaft past your entrance and in, in, in—

“Naughty girl- heh, don’tcha know that s’rude not to greet guests?” He’s angling his hips so that the circular divot right on top of his shaft scrape-scrapes down your cervix and makes you shiver. “Or are you seriously that fucked stupid, hm?”

“Wh-what are you…” Dazedly, you’re so gone that you barely even register the way that Toji grabs onto the lil’ stubs of horns atop your crown and bodily moves your head to the side.

To where Shiu was standing frozen. Erection raging in his overalls.

You gasp-

“Awww, look.” Toji snickers, cutting you off with a few more vulgar strokes. In almost no time, he’s rendered you speechless- just loooong slobberin’ smooches being pressed up against the back of your pussy. “Your beloved farmer’s here to see ya!” Holding you in place by your horns, he forces you to make eye contact with Shiu while he fucks you. No matter how much you squirm. “What a shame his pretty girlie’s too busy getting fucked dumb on my cock to even notice him…”

“Easy there, bull.” You shudder at the husky baritone of the other man finally speaking up. The scowl on his handsome face. He still has a cigarette pressed between his lips, and the smoky scent clings to him like pheromones. 

“And what about it, human?” Toji sneers right back, the bell ‘round his neck jiggling just a little as he opens your legs even wider. Making slick leak out from your core with a deafening splosh! and glisten right down the bull’s abs. He’s hitting your g-spot incessantly- “Jealous m’getting to fuck this pretty pussy and you can only watch?”

“You little-”

“Or-” The hybrid casually continues, folding you positively in half- until the caps of your knees hit your chest and you can only whine at the incessant stretch of your hamstrings. “-are ya jealous that I get to pump her so full of my cum that she doesn’t even remember your name?”

Shiu spits out his cigarette and stomps it out- fuck, he’s never been harder. “Don’t make me-”

But Toji only claws a hand upwards and squeezes your right tit, making a line of creamy milk dribble out from your swollen nipples. Which he’s leaning down to suckle on while looking Shiu right in the eyes, “Or s’it that you’re jealous she milks so much for me and nothing for you? Jealous that when I fuck her full of my calves she’ll be making even more?” You’re yelping as he bites dooooown on that sensitive nub, smirk palpable on his handsome face. “Jealous that they won’t be your kids?”

“I’ve had enough of this!” Face burning, Shiu’s making to turn around- fuck. And maybe run off to the nearest private corner he can find just so that he can jerk off—

“But I bet it turns you on, too.”

He pales, facing Toji once more. “Wh-what did you just say?”

But the bull hybrid merely graces him with a smug smile as he’s pulling out of your sloppy cunt once more- and oh, was it such a sight to see the way you were yowling and clawing onto Toji’s toned hips in an attempt to get his thick cock to fill you up once more.

He doesn’t listen to a single plea, yet jerks his head towards you cockily.

And the farmer- oh, he might just be the worst of the bunch. Because he doesn’t listen to a single rational thought in his brain telling him to simply leave—not before he’s taking step- by jerky step- towards your two sweaty bodies. As if hypnotized.

Shiu’s knees barely even hit the ground in front of you before Toji’s clasping onto the blushin’ back of his head and shoving the other man’s face between your legs.

Nose-deep.

And he’s shocked- he’s letting his eyes snap open- he’s letting just a singular wad of your candied slick end up on his tastebuds and he’s fucking addicted. Just darting his slick tongue all over just to gulp and gulp up your heady taste.

The prominent line of his nosebridge shoves directly between your swollen, sensitive pussylips and you gasp—“O-oh my god, Shiu you’re really-” Before those gasps turn into pants by the time that Shiu’s grabbing onto either side of your thighs and pulling you deeper onto his face. He hangs open his greedy mouth and engulfs your pussy whole, long tongue startin’ to slither inside-

“Ah ah- has your momma never taught you to share?” Toji’s rudely nudging the other man over and slotting himself between your legs as well. Dipping his even lengthier tongue out to just slide-slide-sliiiide around your wet outer pussy, “Should know that m’doing you a favor.”

“Sh-shut the fuck up-” Shiu didn’t even want to breathe let alone talk to this bull bastard. Fishing the tip of his tongue in and out of your quivering hole - fuck, he has half the mind to giggle at the way you clenched oh-so-cutely around him - while Toji drags your throbbing clit over to suck.

His scarred lips mercilessly pinch your nub, making you writhe and moan. “Oh, get over yourself. One taste and you’re in liplock-”

“I hear you slurring on her pussy as well.” The farmer grumbles out.

And your mate, Toji, is just about to open his mouth to snap back as well- when you clasp both their perspired scalps and press both of them to your treacly pussy. “Sh-shut the fuck up!” They snap their bleary, pussydrunken eyes to you at the sound of your trilling voice. “Can the both of you just focus on- ngh…this instead of arguing?”

And then they look at each other.

“You heard the missus.”

“Anything you say, girlie.”

And it’s the only warning you get before they’re both delving right back in between your puffy pussylips and lavishing you with both tongues- just the most sensual sensation. 

Those ridged textures slipping and sliding over your pussy and deeeeep inside, they thrash against each other and fight for claim over your wet pussy. They fork out your entrance - both at the same time - and Toji moves over to press on your clit while Shiu tries to fuck you with his tastebuds. They lap over each other and makes Toji moan into Shiu’s mouth as well as your cunt—

Well…Shiu thinks, as Toji starts fingering your slippery hole open now with two of his rude digits, murmuring something about ‘two at once’. 

.

.

.

Later - much, much, much later - it’s Kusakabe that calls Shiu’s bull and cow hybrid farm after a few days without hearing from his friend.

“What—that damned bull hybrid giving you trouble again?” The man asks, chortling into the speaker at the other farmer’s pointed silence. “Or is it your pretty cow hybrid? The one you favor so much?”

“Well…” Shiu starts, about to head into the barn once more- he could hear your pretty moans start up already, and he’d be damned if he let that bull have one over him. “You could say they’re giving me more than just trouble…”

What was that saying again?

If you can’t beat ‘em…join ‘em.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - HibernATE.

Name: Nanami Kento

Age: 27

Hybrid type: Ursus arctos horribilis

Height: 7’6+

Weight class: 1000kg+

Other notes: Mated specimen (to a human, for more see…) is currently in the process of hibernation, though stands to be on the brink of waking up soon. It is speculated that due to his age, size, and rut cycle that the specimen will be rather famished after his arousal. Quite, quite famished.

It’d started off as a little rumble in your living room, a little quake.

You’d been lazily browsing some magazine, barely even registering the words that seemed to slug across the page. They muddled up in your mind and took on the form of Nanami Kento - the days were too long with your hybrid husband in hibernation.

Given, it wasn’t that he’d completely disappeared into a deep sleep; hibernation was a period for Nanami to slow his metabolism, to lower his body temperature, to snooze most of the day away.

He wasn’t here to spoil you with breakfast in bed like he usually would, nor was he here to kiss you goodnight, to read to you with his deep tone, to have a hand on your back whenever you were out in public, to fuck you right—

You’re squeezing your thighs together with a slight squirm, “F-fuck…” Setting aside the magazine that was now the furthest thing on your mind. “God, how I miss-”

And then you’re catching the slight movements in your living room.

It started off subtle- the glass of water atop your coffee table was tremoring, the carpet spread out on the floor seemed to be moving. You’re frantically looking around and realizing that the couch you were seated upon was slightly jumping.

Something seemed to be thud-thud-thudding closer—

“My love.” 

It’s a thick, husky tone enough to make every hair upon your body stand on end.

You almost don’t recognize whose voice it is - simply that ruined. You almost start to feel fear creeping down your spine. You almost don’t want to turn around-

“My love, I think m’in rut.”

Less than a few minutes later and you find yourself on the fucking floor beside the couch - your back against the carpet, your legs strung high in the air. Your calves thrown easily over Nanami’s shoulders as the shoves your wet panties to the side and bullies himself in—

No preparation. No foreplay.

Just pure fucking need.

Your thrash against his hovering body and find yourself absolutely, needily helpless-

“O-oh, fuck.” And you never thought you’d see the day where you hear Nanami fucking Kento’s voice crack…Lips quivering as they drop open, eyes damn near bulging out of his skull- he feels his thickened tip lodge at your hot entrance and gasps. “Fuh-fuck, it needs to go in- oh, fuck.”

A single inch inside and he’s spurting out wettened wads of cum- already! It makes the process slightly easier, with the thick glaze of his sap easing up your entrance. 

“You’ve already- oh, ngh.” Just for the words to be fucked out of your lungs. You’re almost stupid on his cock already, feeling your tastebuds sizzle with saliva at the incredible stretch. “You must be sensitive. It’s already going in, Kento-”

“It needs to-”

“But-”

“It needs to go in, it needs to go in, it needs to go in.” But it’s the only thing he can repeat, like a mantra. Like the only sentence his dazed mind knows right now.

You clench and his bear-like ears flinch- making him claw onto your body even further as he plants a rude half-thrust. 

“P-please—” Body hunching into yours. Blond happy trail scratching your clit. A slick line of drool cascades down one corner of Nanami’s lips, long lashes fluttering as he’s starin’ down at your core. “Need it to go in- want it- have to-”

“Have to?” You gasp.

“Have to.” He’s groaning, eyes wild and widened as he’s pumping out half-ruts here and there and stuffing himself deeper by the minute. And at one point Nanami’s tilting his head and gnawing down on the tender side of your neck, “N-need to…”

You’re sure it almost looks like you’ve been thrown to the bears - literally.

He’s not even halfway inside but you swear it feels like he’s opening up various crevices and hidden spots inside you that you never even knew you had—fuck, had he grown larger since before the hibernation? “You’re- hck! Kento, you’re acting like such an-” And the way you say his name makes Nanami’s pupils dilate even further, until there was almost no honey-brown within his eyes. “-a-animal…”

“Am- n-need it to go inside- s’not worth it if I can’t feel myself at your- throat-” Could barely even string together three words to make a sentence. Could barely even breathe if he wasn’t fully inside you. Nanami’s rude tip bulges its way deeeep inside of you, and you can feel him throb-throbbing away at your very lungs. “Don’t let me down, pussy.”

Your eyes widen, “Y-you’re talking to…”

“Don’t tell me you can’t take it all- oh.” His hoarse baritone quivers at the mere thought, “That would just b-break me-”

Back arching into the perfect curvature against the carpeted floor, Nanami’s reeling his toned hips back and just plunging—feeling your body start to squirm away, and one of his paws come up to clasp your neck and draaag you right back down his cock. And he’s never sounded more serious in his entire life, “Don’t. Move.”

“Y-yes, Kento.” You could feel your cunt throb even harder at his words. You recall his words from just earlier. “Think you might just break me first.”

And what you didn’t expect was for that mere answer to make the blond man’s lips quirk up into a smile, for him to scoff out a chuckle. Something looks feral in his gaze, “Yes and?”

Fuck- your gentleman of a husband was never like this.

Usually, he took his sweet time with foreplay. He’d stretch that tight orifice of yours oooooout with his fingers. He’d tease your entrance all tender and ready to take his massive cock- but right now he was pinning apart your thighs with both of his hands and ramming his entire veiny length in.

But now he’d awoken from hibernation and he wanted you—badly.

And he was just so strong - expected, for a bear hybrid - that you were absolutely no match for the way that Nanami choked his hand ‘round your throat and manhandled you down to meet his length. To meet every thrust.

He’d slam his thick girth all the way until your poor, elastic hole was stretched thoroughly around his girth and could take it no more. Letting his cum splosh! around a little before drag-drag-draaaagging his veiny length all the way back out and inching back in again, puffing apart your innards to his swollen length- you start to claw at his muscular forearm and Nanami’s tightening his hold with a growl. “Oh my- please, Kento—”

“Inside-” He snarls, his pure need making his bass sound even more rugged than usual. And every time he speaks, Nanami punctuates it with a ruthless stroke deep inside, “Was thinking about you- all day- All night. All the time. Missed the feeling of this tight hole begging me to fuck her, and when I woke up I was just feeling s-so…” It’s then that the bear hybrid slowly looks down at your pussy, all engorged open with his incredible length. He gulps back saliva, “-hungry.”

And as if it wasn’t enough to have you at his complete and utter mercy, he was now smacking one hand down on your clit and brushin’ his thick thumb down that favorite nub of yours. “Couldn’t stop thinking of her. Couldn’t stop wanting to be inside her. Couldn’t wait to fuck her all full and make her carry my cubs- bet you misssed me, ngh, inside-” He hiccups, “Will this finally make it go inside- Inside, inside- inside.”

You’re bawling your throat hoarse, seeing stars burst behind your closed eyelids. And you distantly feel Nanami lean his head down and lick away the salty tears rolling down your cheeks- his rough tongue utterly parched.

“It’s- it’s already inside-” You gasp at some point, straining your throat to get the words out. Just so full with his thick, throbbing shaft speared inside of you- now, Nanami’s simplest movements left him hammering at your cervix. “Kento s’already inside-”

“Oh?” As if he hadn’t even realized, simply way too gone on you. He looks down at the sinful sight between your legs - your cunt all stuffed and quivering as you struggle to take him - knot awaiting at his base.

Something that you already know doesn’t bode well for you.

He looks at you intensely, “I’ve just come out from hibernation and next- o-oh, y’know what comes next for bears, right, my love?”

You could barely even think right now, “What?”

“Breeding season.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Eight inches hands

Name: Geto Suguru

Age: 28

Hybrid type: Octopus vulgaris

Height: 6’2+

Weight class: Undetermined.

Other notes: Whilst the breeding habits of this particular type of marine hybrid has remained a mystery for quite some time, it seems that this specimen is overtly eager to receive his mate in this state of rut. Faintly sweet pheromones. Strong tentacles (may perhaps take to use them during breeding with human mate, see page…)

“Eight inches—” Geto’s drawling out in his sing-song voice, letting pure lust seep into his words and leave them all hot and heavy against the column of your throat. 

He pumps his puckered tip against your g-spot and snickers, “Eight inches here-” And then once more against the door to your womb, “Eight inches there—” Before he’s biting down on the side of your neck and rutting up into you so hard that you swear you can feel him there. “Eight inches heeeeere-”

It’s enough to leave you shivering in this filthy full nelson that he had you in.

To leave your heart racing at the sound of his mean tone, cunt clenching as if you’ve just been shocked with countless volts of electricity. And of course Geto Suguru notices.

Of course he’s arching a singular brow at the sensation of your clingy walls, of course he’s slowing his hips down to look at you with an expression of mocking surprise. “Oho?” He pants out, nose crinkling at the bridge as he tries to keep his words composed. “What’s that? Are eight inches not enough for you, gorgeous?”

And to emphasize his point a little more, his thiiiick shaft is plunging so deep between your pussylips that you see the pale skin ‘round Geto’s pelvis burn bright red. You were just coming down from your nth high of the night, and even the slightest brushes against your throbbing nerve spots left you keening. His creamy tip swirlin’ the back of your cervix and making it feel like he was right at your throat—

Your eyes snap open in pure shock, breath catching in your throat as you realize just what he’s hinting at. “No! No it’s not-”

“No?” A thrill was snaking down your body- and so were a few of Geto’s looooong, flexible tentacles. They were a shimmering shade slightly lighter than his hair, with slimy tips that wrapped around both of your ankles and wrenched you open.

That was one and two. Three, four, and five slide all down the your quiverin’ sides- a sixth one of his tentacles slide-slide-sliiiiiding up to flick your throbbing clit in punishment. “So no my cock isn’t enough for this slutty pussy?”

“I didn’t mean that-”

Silenced immediately by one of his slimy tentacles spankin’ down on your pussylips, which makes you keen with the sting. To which you hear Geto’s chuckle pant out against the side of your face- god, this full nelson was the perfect position. He could see the way his vein-covered cock was shoveling in and out, he could see everywhere his textured tentacles were gliding down, he could see those lewd expressions you were subconsciously making- “Ah well, what can I do? This pussy’s just tooooo greedy f’me, I just don’t think my poor cock can keep up…”

You’re whining at the pure pout that you could hear in his tone, “But-”

“Oh, wait.” As you’d expected, he’s cutting you off with a higher octave- as though a sudden epiphany had just dawned upon him. And his voice dips down to what’s almost a purr…“I have an idea.”

“Fuh-fuck—” Your spine arches into the perfect curvature as his slick-covered tip slips between your pussylips and starting smearin’ your cunt all open. Those tendrils of his were just so dexterous, and you’re squirming at the slimy texture of him prying apart your most tender parts.

Swirling and swirling in circular motions to tease your hole.

Just the sheer squelching sounds of it was enough to nearly drown out his husky voice, “Eight-” His words quiver as if he was on the verge of chuckling. “E-eight inches-” Punctuating that little phrase with a thorough strike at your sponged cervix, the rounded circumference of him leaving a bruise. “Eight kisses.”

You babble, “Wh-what do you mean eight ki—oh!” Your question’s immediately being answered by a rhythmic thud-thud-thud at the very back of your cunt.

They’re just so distinct. Mentally, you count about-

“Eight- eight, see?” Geto’s humming out, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the back of your sweaty scalp. “Eight kisses at that cute cervix. Did ya count them, gorgeous?” And you notice that he sounds even more breathy than before, you notice that the air’s sweeter- as if Geto was losing his grip on reality with every slight slip n’ slide of his tentacles rovering in past your cunt.

“I-I…” Your mouth waters, spittle drivelling down either side of your lips. 

Seeing this cute expression on your face, he chortles- hell, he cranes his head down to lick at the glittery sap on your face. “Heh- of course ya didn’t count. Too fucked dumb, are ya?” He was just making fun of you, and he was fucking you like he hated you. “But that was eight—whoops!” Another dull skid of his rotund tip leaves you gasping, “Nine now.”

“Oh, please-” Babbling away stupidly- you were feeling pleasure from so many different points that you didn’t even know what to do with yourself. “That’s just not fair.”

“Wait till ya learn about what’s not fair, heh.”

And before you can stupidly say anything more, Geto has all his slithering tentacles cascading down your body. Two still wrenching your jittery legs open no matter how much you kick and thrash, two more holding onto your thighs, two more wrapping around your tits and twiddlin’ with your hardened nipples, and-

“Eight tentacles.” The hybrid rasps out, and at that very moment you’re feeling the final two of his tentacles plunge straight between your pussylips.

Rutting. Squeezing. Bullying and bullying their honed tips inside and fucking you at a rapidfire pace that matches his hips- “Eight inches. Eight kisses—” A few more bashes at your cervix that leaves you dumbfounded, “Eight tentacles, heh- ya really do have such a fuckin’ spoiled pussy, gorgeous. She just keeps wanting me stuffed all deeeep and haaaaard and kissin’ that cute cervix. She can’t get enough of me so she keeps suckin’ me in for more.”

“Oh- oh, please.” You struggle to stare down at where he was positively ruining your pussy from underneath, the curvin’ lines of his tentacles sticking in and out of you at a blurring pace. Starting off slooooow at the tips that wriggle their way inside- before he’s suddenly shoving most of his prolonged lengths in and repeating the sultry motions. “It just feels so good, is that really only two tentacles?”

“Yes—why?” 

“It just f-feels like more-”

“More?” And you instantly know where you’ve made a mistake- Geto’s voice was breathy with excitement. “You want more, gorgeous?”

“That’s not what I…” You’re simply so stunned that you don’t know what to say. Simply so fucked stupid that before you can even think up a response, Geto has two of his tentacles probin’ apart your pussylips—and a third one lifting off of your hips to veer downwards and suction on your clit.

So hard that you’re seeing complete stars—

“Aaaaand look at that-” Geto sighs, “Yer cumming already, gorgeous. Look what happens when you ask for more.”

Begging, you’re  tearing up with the sheer intensity of your orgasm. “Mmm, please-”

“Mmmore?” You couldn’t believe the audacity of this hybrid- and the way he was lifting off his second tentacle from your hips. He now had two of his tendrils sliding inside your entrance, gliding and massaging against his red-hot cock.

And then two more that tugged and teeeeased your poor clit to no end, setting two of his suction cups on top to give you lil’ sparks of your high. They were rolling over circles. Rolling over hearts. Matching the ministrations on your tits. 

Geto made you jolt with even the lightest touches that to your overstimulated body really didn’t feel light. “Seriously- am I the one in rut or are you the one in heat?”

“Maybe both?” You dazedly ask, “I don’t even- hck! know-”

“Can’t think, can you? S’my cock leaving you speechless? My tentacles making you all stupid?” He tuts, almost sympathetic - though you knew that in reality it was far from that. “You wanted to be fucked so baaaaadly by me and now you’re getting it, aren’t ya?” At your gurgling mess of responses, “S’alright, gorgeous, I just need to know your answer to this one question.”

Yet another one of his slimy tendrils lifts off of your body - this time from your tits - to manhandle your head to the side to face him. “Yes- fuck!”

“Clean that mouth out before you speak t’me.”

Before you know it, the tentacle wrapped around your neck slips its slimy tip into your mouth and dangles it wiiiide open for him to spit inside. “There- all better. And now would ya like to hear what my question is?”

And obviously that’s going to pique your interest, even with the pistoning sensation from all angles driving your pussy wild. “And th-that is?”

“What do you think about eight kids?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - HOTEL FUCK-SYLVANIA

Name: Choso Kamo

Age: ??

Hybrid type: Desmodus rotundus

Height: 6’4+

Weight class: 80kg - 90kg.

Other notes: Subject is mated, interestingly it seems that this particular vampire bat hybrid has the ability to replace his appetite for blood with other bodily fluids. Particularly in relation to the bat’s mate, it seems that this ability takes effect twofold during times of rut.

“Don’t take this the wrong way…” Utahime asks, and by the worried expression on her face you know she means well. It’s only when you nod your head in a gesture for her to continue does she finish her sentence- “-but isn’t it, like, scary being with a vampire bat?”

You tilt your head in confusion, “What do you mean?”

To which the purple-haired girl looks around the bustling café the two of you were in before continuing with her impromptu interrogation, “Aren’t you scared you’ll wake up one day and he’ll be drinking your blood or something? I don’t know, I’m just a little worried…”

“Choso would never do that.” You’re crinkling your nose in amused distaste, even the thought of your lovely boyfriend doing such a thing is enough to make you want to laugh out loud.

“But how does he fulfill his cravings, though?” She swirls around her drink a little, as if expecting it to turn into said crimson liquid any moment now. “Because I read somewhere that their cravings are quite strong, especially during a…”

“Rut.” You finish for her, “And yeah, I suppose they are- but Choso always satiates his cravings with something else.”

“With what?”

“Um, alternatives.”

“What alternatives?”

Well…

.

.

.

“P-please…” Choso groans, voice trembling at the back of his throat. And the sounds he’s making right between your legs are plain sinful- they almost make you shy to hear. 

Just squelch after solid squelch! being wrung out of your sloppy cunt any time he’s pumping his tongue between your folds. Pistoning in and out, in and out, in and out at a feverish pace. 

And he’s not shy about getting it all filthy with your clingy wads of sap. Letting his ridged tastebuds swirl all ‘round your tender channel a few times, fishing around for those sweet wads of white before gulping them down. Choso was kneeled at your feet and practically worshipping your pussy with his mouth—

“Th-think that’s all there is, baby-” Gasping, your hands claw atop your boyfriend’s scalp. With a feeble push, you’re trying to get his spit-slicked mouth to detach from your cunt. “I think m’done-”

“But I’m not done.” Choso stubbornly says. And even from here you can see the way his pinkish, swollen lips wobble out of pure frustration where they were sucking on your clit- moved past lickin’ up your sweet, sweet juices to toy with your pussy.

And as if on cue, you swear you could hear the rumble of his hungry stomach—bat hybrids always did get extra famished during ruts, the doctor had told you.

She’d also warned you that Choso might just suck your pussy dry if given the chance - and that seemed to be exactly what he was hellbent on doing. With his puckered lips spreading even wider open and pokin’ his tongue away into your hole, he’s slurping up any and every remnant of his own cum from mere minutes ago. 

Your slick glazes all down his chin, creating a shimmery effect that made him look completely gone. “Look- look at her.” Eyes wide, completely crazed. “M’just starving for your pussy, baby—dying. I could eat her out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Arching your cunt against his face with a whine, “S-so you’re just never gonna be full, Choso?”

“Hmmmm…” He pretends to think - or, at least, you think he’s pretending to. But with how utterly ruined he was from your honeyed sap left you wondering whether Choso Kamo was actually serious about brainstorming the answer- taking a single lick at your folds and nodding. “Yeah- never gonna be full, baby.”

“You seriously needed to taste me to get your- hck! answer-” You’re panting, sheer disbelief in your tone. “You can’t be serious, Cho-”

“Dead. Fucking. Serious.”

And then he’s wriggling his crowned muscle back between your pussylips and makes you cry out, “Oh p-please—” Two doughy pads of his fingers pryin’ aside your folds to help him get to where he wanted to taste the most. 

Now he’s fingering you as well as makin’ out hotly with your pussy. Just the cushy edges of his digits searching for your sweetest spots, “S’the sweetest dessert I’ve ever tasted- the most delicious fuckin’ thing. Tastes so good. Tastes so fuckin’ good.” He murmurs wetly between your lips, long lashes fluttering as your velvety walls clench ‘round his tongue. “Always so good f’me trying to suck m-my tongue back in- never met a dessert that wanted to be eaten so badly.”

“Choso!” You’re gasping, “I’ve never heard you speak like this-”

“I’ve never been this hungry.”

But he wasn’t just hungry right now - he was absolutely starving, and eating you out like just so.

Almost experimentally, you’re pushing on Choso’s sweaty scalp and watching as he scrambles to grab onto either side of your thighs and crush himself nose-deep between your folds. “No- no no no no- don’t even joke like that, baby.” All serious. His two fanged canines peek out from underneath his upper lip, and it makes you shudder. His bat-like wings flapping behind him- “Not yet. Please not yet. You can’t seriously expect me to remove myself from your p-pussy when she’s creaming down my tongue like this—?”

“Well, I was just thinking…” You mumble, “Wouldn’t it satiate your thirst more if-”

He nips at your clit with his canines, “More if?”

“If you filled me up again, Cho?”

And then he’s peering up at you with those deep, dark irises of his - giving absolutely away in his expression. Mouth stalled. Spit drivelling. Throat bobbing with a singular gulp—

Before Choso’s on you in an instant- hands at your throat and pinning you down onto the bed, meaty thighs pushing your own apart and letting him lodge his red-hot cockhead-

“F-fuck-” Just a singular smooch at your precious cunt and Choso’s already throwing his head back in ecstasy. Back arching. His wings bolting out straight. He can’t stop himself from dribbling out in pearly beads of white that cling n’ drip down the front of your cunt, smearing it all in a glossy white shade. “Fuck- oh my god-”

“You’ve cum already?” You’re marvelling at the sticky warmth that fills you up from the inside, splatterin’ the bed around you.

Something that Choso quickly takes care of by roverin’ his greedy fingertips down and pressing them inside—in and in and in. In sinful synchronization with the constant thwacks! of his heavy base against your puffy folds, just fucking those webs of seed even deeper. 

His fingers are stretchin’ aside your tight orifice and somehow managing to squeeze in—your eyes damn near bulge out of your skull at the sheer stretch of him fitting in something else. Something you hadn’t even noticed until now - the prominent knot at his base- “Mhm, told you m’ravenous for ya.” It’s a rounded ring of flesh that bullies into your entrance, shutting it tight. “S’like a never-ending feast, I get to eat your pussy out until she doesn’t know what it feels like n-not to have my mouth on her.”

You’re gasping at the feeling of him plugging your hole - feeling that lump at your very throat. “B-but how can you eat me out when you’ve got your knot in for now? Not to mention just how deep you’re fucking your cum in…”

“Ah, no worries, baby~” Choso hums, and his cock twitches inside of you. “It’s more fun that way.”

.

.

.

The next time you’re meeting up with Utahime at your usual lil’ café it’s with Choso in tow.

Hand-in-hand.

Shoulders brushing shoulders in your booth.

Positively glowing after his last satiated rut.

You’d say that the meeting went quite smoothly, to be quite honest. Utahime had gotten over her initial trepidation over his hybrid species, and the conversation was flowing smoothly. 

So smoothly, in fact, that at one point in some dramatic recounting of her last mission- Utahime’s hitting her fork off of the table top. Brushing aside your motions to pick it up, she herself ducks under the table to get that traitorous silver utensil.

Still continuing with her story, “—and then my dear Shoko came up to me and said-”

From above, both you and Choso look at each other in confusion as your friend abruptly stops in the middle of her story.

From below, Utahime felt the soul escape her body the second she accidentally caught a glimpse of your legs, of the short skirt that covered none of the…rabid bite marks littered all across your thighs. She didn’t even have to look too hard to see the way that inched up the inner parts of your legs, closer and closer to…

When she finally resurfaces, the two of you notice that she seemed rather…pale.

You start, “Is everything alri-”

“I think I just figured out what you meant by ‘alternatives’.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Fire-BENDER!

Name: Ryomen Sukuna

Age: Don’t ask.

Hybrid type: Genitive draconis

Height: 9’7+

Weight class: 10000kg - ??

Other notes: It is quite rare to come across a dragon hybrid specimen, and this particular one is an exceptional example of the male dragon. Approaching rut it seems that horns have grown larger, wings have grown stronger, and overall body composition has become much more imposing - all likely in the hopes of seducing his mate, the human (further research see page…)

It must be noted that this particular subject is rather temperamental, and this attitude may pass over to the hormone-fueled rut, as well.

You were arranged to be married to Ryomen Sukuna.

It was not a deal that you had a hand in making, nor one that you had the right to reject.

It was the union between two clans, the marriage between human and myth, the collision of two worlds once thought to be forever separated. And thanks to the ingeniousness of your clan’s elders, it seems that those power-fueled daydreams are now becoming a reality.

And there you were, the scapegoat of it all.

They didn’t care whether you were killed by the infamous King of Hybrids - that had no matter to them, they’d still have the fame of being the first in hundreds of thousands of years to successfully barter a marriage between human and dragon. 

Which might have been why no one showed up to your wedding day.

It was quite the solemn affair, if you do say so yourself. Decent, perhaps, at best. The stiff routine of pledges to one another that should have been romantic passed by you in a blur, until ultimately you were bowing to the pink-haired hybrid before you and realized that you were bowing to your husband. To each other. Husband and wife.

Until you found yourself steeped in the most important tradition of all—the wedding night.

You sat on the farthest corner of a bed far grander than king-sized - fit for a dragon, you supposed. And as you waited for your new husband to do something - anything - you contemplated just what that hulking figure of his might mean for you in bed-

“Before we do anything, should you so wish-” He gruffs out, turned away from you so you didn’t have to see his expression. Though, you could make out the faint dusting of pink at the very tip-tops of his ears, “-you should know something.”

“Yes, anything.” You answer, brows furrowing.

“I’m in rut.”

It comes out so matter-of-fact, and you find yourself speechless for a few seconds.

A few seconds in which Sukuna finds himself exhaling, “Look- I understand if you don’t wish to consummate our marriage tonight, I won’t take fuckin’ offense if-”

“Apologies for interrupting-” Though you didn’t feel a speck of remorse, “-but I was actually about to say that I’m glad for the fact.”

He turns to you with hungry eyes.

You’re taken right then and there on the edge of the expansive bed, the velvety sheets drenched in all your sappy juices. Sukuna smacks! down both his plush, reddened tips between your pussylips (dragon hybrids had two, it seemed) and grins at the way your cunt tries to sluuuurp him up- “Are you sure yer a human, brat?” He’s asking for the nth time this past hour.

“F-for the last time-” You gasp, eyes shuttering shut at the teasin’ feeling of his matching cockheads gliding all down your quivering orifice. “-I-I am—fuck.”

Only for your mouth to fall into such a sultry oh! of pleasure, eyes rolling all the way to the back of your skull once Sukuna engulfs one of his tips inside of your cunt. That curve at the end of his shaft was just delicious, opening up your dewy wet entrance in ways you didn’t even know were possible. Stretchin’ out that adorable hole of yours so wiiiiidely around the dragon’s cockhead that you swear you’re seeing stars—

“And yer soooo fucking sure?” Sukuna scoffs, crimson eyes rolling. “How m’I supposed to know that’s not just that pussy talking, huh, mama?”

Before you can bite out a response, his slick-glazed tip was raaaapidly pumping in and out of your core. Not even waiting for you to get used to the sheer primal stretch, not even waiting for himself to get used to the suctioning sensation of your soaked walls.

Sukuna’s using one tattooed hand of his to hold onto your pretty throat and smack! you back down onto his honed v-line. The ridges of his muscles against your thighs driving you absolutely wild, “Because there’s no way- fuck, takin’ me so well like this…” His bleary eyes lock down at the spread-apart lips of your cunt, the way you spurted out just a bit of gloss with each ram. “You’ve gotta be some type of- of pussy hybrid, or something-”

“P-pussy hybrid?” You gape, and for a moment you’re not sure if you heard him correctly with the way that Sukuna was shovelling his achin’ erection into you so hard that you eardrums pop!

“Mhmmm—” He’s confirming, a primal waver in his voice. You can only watch as the King cups the second of his stacked cocks- whilst one was rudely plummeting in and out of your cunt, the other was being guided by him to knock against your cute asshole. “Tell me the truth, brat- are ya seriously just some fuh-fuck- sort of hybrid sent to ruin me? Maybe a succubus?”

“I’m not a- ngh.” But you’re being cut off by the feeling of his incredible second girth kissin’ your other hole. Just barely stretching out the outer rim before pulling back as if nothing had happened.

“I’ll give those cute holes of yours what you want if you give me the- ngh, truth.”

“But I am, I am!” You’re crying out, your spine arching against the soft mattress as he starts striking at your cervix rhythmically. As if he was trying to fuck the answer out of you. As if he was trying to plug up your shattered throat with all his gluey wads of pre.

You reach your hands out to claw at Sukuna’s sculptured deltoids and he groans, “Mhmmmm—that can’t be.” He’s looking down at you seriously, a pink-colored brow raising with a scoff. “How else are ya gonna explain how this is the s-strongest fucking rut of my entire life?”

“I can’t-”

“And what about the way I just can’t- stop- fucking you-” Two of his roughened palms hold onto your waist tight and fill up your geysering orifice, pressing you down onto the plush mattress as he drills into you. 

The pistoning of his hips was rude on your cunt- but utterly teasing against your backside. Simply stretching on your hole with his flared tip, “The way I can’t stop listening to wh-whatever this pussy wants- fuck, and the king never bows to anyone.” Sukuna scowls, entire face furrowing into an expression you couldn’t differentiate between fury and ecstasy. “The way I can’t stop fucking you- fuck. The way I know m’gonna me dreaming of this pussy tonight and the night after, and the night after. The way—” He puffs out a heaving breath, smoke curdling out of him. “-the way I think m’gonna fucking die if I stopped fucking her- you’ve got me hypnotized. You’ve got me addicted. You must be some- some succubus hybrid. Some pussy hybrid-”

“I’m just human.” You’re blatantly replying, and you squeeze your slurping walls in emphasis-

Only for that single act to nearly break Ryomen Sukuna.

He damn near collapses on top of you, with his sweaty forehead pressed into the crook of your neck. “Y-you lie.”

“I do not-”

“How else are ya gonna explain how I c-can’t even-” Even as he says it, Sukuna’s scaly wings flinch and flutter open. The feeling of your cunt clamping down on him was just too fucking good- “-control my fucking pheromones anymore?”

As the saturation of spiced wine grows stronger in the air, your lungs attempt to gulp the addictive scent down. “M’seriously just a human-”

“And you’re trying to tell me that the King of Hybrids has fallen before a mere human?”

You open your mouth to answer—but your new husband’s merely shutting you up with a vulgar few pumps that leave you gasping for air. Your eyes shuttering as he thrusts you into a high in absolutely no time.

One you didn’t even expect.

One you didn’t even know was coming.

One so strong that it makes his crimson wings snap! open and tremble sensitively at the squeezing of your cunt.

The white-hot pleasure rips through your body and leaves you whining, mouth falling agape. “Oh- oh my god, you’re such a—” Without warning, you clamor a hold onto Sukuna’s red horns- gripping onto it for dear life as the orgasm bubbles in your veins. “-fuck, keep going, Kuna.”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

And you don’t know who’s more surprised by the response that falls out of Sukuna’s mouth - your or him. 

But almost as if to make you forget just what he’d said, he’s roverin’ his puckered tip down the side of your walls- easily locating your g-spot and ruuuuubbing down that particular area with his veiny shaft. “Y-your ears did not hear that.” He rasps out, something seething in his tone. And before you know it, his second dribblin’ tip eases its way through your second hole - both swollen cocks massaging your channels in one go. So big that you could almost feel them rub against one another- “If I g-give you both, you did not hear a thing, brat.”

Still trembling from your last high, you mime zipping your lips shut. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

“That’s my wife—”

.

.

.

After your honeymoon was over - a trip through the serene countryside, as organized by Sukuna who willed that a proper honeymoon was only befitting for a marriage that had been less than planned from your end - you were met with a surprise once you arrived back home to the Sukuna Estate.

Your attendants had informed you that you had guests waiting in the meeting hall. And who you might have assumed to be your friends, or perhaps your parents, had been none other than…your clan’s council.

Here to check whether the King of Hybrids had left you alive until now, you presume. Though not out of concern for your health.

They glanced over you and straightened immediately at the sight of Sukuna following just behind.

And while you hear your husband’s tail swish in annoyance behind you, you’re raising your hand to him as a gesture that you could handle it. Because, of course, you could handle it.

“My dear-” You’re starting off, barely looking in the direction of the elderly men seated in the room before you. “-would you mind letting the house staff know to prepare some tea for our ah- guests?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

How you relished in the look on their faces.

♡ INO TAKUMA - Hop to it!

Name: Ino Takuma

Age: 21

Hybrid type: Oryctolagus cuniculus domesticus

Height: 5’10+

Weight class: 75kg - 85kg.

Other notes: Unmated however seems to express interest in a companion close to him (human?) Even for a rabbit hybrid, subject seems rather…exciteable in relation to his rut. Healthy pheromones, above-average stamina, exceptional desire to breed.

“A-am I pregnant yet, pretty?” Ino somehow manages to babble through his teeth, barely even audible through the constant wrecked moans and the bubbles of spit that just keep on leaking out of his mouth.

At least…until you’re swervin’ your gummy cunt back down his length and it makes Ino throw his head back with a whine. Just the prettiest noises you’ve ever heard, it’s enough to make your pussy throb a few more times before you’re speeding up your pace down his slender hips.

Watching as the bunny hybrid below you squirms n’ whimpers with each gyration, “P-please-” He gasps out wetly through his tears, and you feel both of Ino’s hands come up to plaster upon either side of your hips. Cute nose twitching, “Please, I need to get- ngh, I don’t think it even works like that but…”

“Oh, Taku—” You’re cooing out fondly- and the mere sound of your voice was enough to make his bulbous tip empty out a few more wads of cum. “I don’t think it works like that, baby. I don’t think you can get pregnant-”

“But how do we know if we don’t try—?” He insists- and you swear his adorably bush-like tail must be quivering by now. He’s just so pussydrunk right now that logic wasn’t even an existing concept in his brain right now.

His rut had him completely stupid. Your pussy had him completely stupid.

All creamy and soaked with how many times he’s emptied his balls out into you by now. 

And as if to prove his nonsensical point, Ino’s lifting you slightly - just slightly, he couldn’t possibly handle anything more - off of his achin’ hot cock. It makes your entrance leak out in the webs of Ino’s high, so much of it streaming down your inner thighs and making the man below you gulp at the display.

You certainly couldn’t forget that rabbit hybrids might cum fast—real fast, but they sure did have the stamina to last all night. Especially Ino.

Almost as if he was hypnotized, he’s reaching a hand up and thumbing along the mess that he himself had made. Pushing just a few of those creamy white dollops inside of you, mouth gaped and awestruck at the sheer amount of volume that’d been stuffed in your cunt. “S-see?” He breathily whispers, more to himself than anything. And Ino had such long, silken ears the same chestnut shade as his hair - they raise in alertness as they look between your glistening folds. “See- there’s just soooo much, sweetness, ngh- s-surely at least one drop of this s’gonna end up with me pregnant?”

“Oh, Taku—ngh.” Back arching as his hips start funnelling upwards into yours.

Providing your greedy cunt with so many inches- Ino was just the perfect thickness. Not too slender so that his flared edges hit each one of your tender spots, not too thick so that he didn’t have to wait for you to get used to the size before fucking you hard- fast-

“S-see how much I’ve filled you up?” He’s gurgling out, his nose twitching with keen interest. “See how much of my cum is dribblin’ out? I keep fucking it inside and it’s still- ngh, coming out-” Pleading with you. Begging to you. The air grows even more saturated with his sweet sunflower-like scent, “So s-surely…don’t tell me we can’t, pretty. I’ve cum inside you so much that I feel pregnant—”

You have to stifle a giggle - he was just too cute. “Baby, it won’t end up with you pregnant-” Enough to make his entirely pretty face become crestfallen, long ears drooping with sadness. Aw, it was just too cute. “-but it might just get me pregnant, if that’s what you want…”

“Y-you?”

Nodding, “So hop to it- if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And it only takes a split-second for him to brighten back up like a Christmas tree - ears upright, eyes shining with interest, the reddened tip of his cock jolting once, twice, thrice—

“So it’s you that gets pregnant- it’s your pretty pussy that I get to fill up until she- hah, can’t take anymore.”

Before he’s thumpin’ it straight against the back of your womb and cumming with a wet squelch! Again. The noise rings in both your eardrums and makes Ino groan at the realization that he was filling you up again-

“Oh- oh, I’ve…” His spit-slicked lips fall open, and a blush grows even stronger on the tips of Ino’s ears. “I’ve cum again- that must be a sign of good luck, right, pretty?” Urging his hips up even higher, “A sign that you’re gonna give me the cutest son?”

You’re shivering at the sultry sensation that you don’t think you’d ever get used to, “Y-yes, baby—”

“Baby—oh.” And you could practically see his dark pupils take on the form of hearts at the very sound of you calling him that. Though- in Ino’s pussydrunken brain, it’s registering as something else entirely. Whispering, “We’re gonna have a baby- m’gonna fuck a baby into you.”

“You’re so- mmm, insatiable.” You gasp, placing each of your palms atop his pecs to balance yourself as you start roverin’ your hips back down.

And you might think that meant he would be happy about the way you start to bounce down his toned pelvis- you might that meant he would be happy to see you trying to fuck his gluey white wads even deeper. But no—Ino takes one look at the way you were bouncing out sultry figure-eights on his erection, and he’s immediately tightening his hold on your hips.

He doesn’t care if he’s leaving nail marks on your poor skin for daaaaays- “N-no, don’t do that, sweetness.” Gritting through his clenched teeth, Ino pins your hips down whilst he bucks his ravenous hips into yours. Taking control now, he pecks and glides his puckered tip against your cervix- “Like you said, I’m s’pposd to be the one fucking you pregnant- me. So let me feed this pretty cunt my cum, m’kay? She must be so tired from r-riding me by now…”

“But I like it, Taku—” You’re insisting, and yet you still let him slam his parched tip inside your every tight orifice like he was addicted to the feeling - and he was. 

He couldn’t last even a single second without slide-slide-sliding along your g-spot, the curved edge of his cockhead swabbin’ into every crevice and making the ivory mess inside you splash about. His pinkish lower lip juts out in a pout, “Well you can’t do that when you’re all round n’ glowing n’ pregnant- m’kay? S’gonna tire you and the baby-”

“Oh, I see…” You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your lips.

And Ino can’t stop the way he’s fervently nodding, “S’my duty, m’kay? M’your mate now-” Before you can register a single thing, he leans over and gnaws down on the side of your neck. “-so you hafta let me do all the w-work to get you pregnant okay?”

“Yes, Taku, ngh.” Dazedly nodding, “And what do I do until then, hm?”

He thinks for just a few sultry seconds, before his ears twitch with the idea—“Pull on my ears, pretty, s’gonna make me cum even faster.”

.

.

.

And the next time that Ino’s heading to Dr. Shoko Ieri’s clinic, it’s with you hand-in-hand. And she doesn’t quite need a check-up to diagnose what that rounded belly of yours meant.

“Congratulations.” She’s droning out, and you glimpse her thin brown brows raising behind her clipboard. “You’re pregnant.”

And before you two can celebrate, she deadpans.

“You might want to sit down to hear just how many you’re pregnant with.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Cuffin’ season.

Name: Gojo Satoru

Age: 28

Hybrid type: Vulpes vulpes

Height: 6’5+

Weight class: Got offended when asked.

Other notes: Unmated subject, particularly prideful in his ability to woo though remains at odds with the object of his affections (interestingly, a rabbit hybrid—for more on the dynamic see page 2). Warned against displaying rut symptoms due to the sheer intensity.

Exceptional coat. Exceptional looks. Also note that subject is an exceptional pain in the ass.

“Felony tax evasion.”

The fox hybrid’s face drops at the words that escape your mouth- so infuriatingly handsome, he looked better when he was taken by surprise instead of insulting you.

As a new patrol officer, you’d been assigned to investigate this particular fox hybrid in Tokyo, known for swindling people out of their hard-earned money. And you’d found him, of course - you just didn’t think that he’d be so attractive.

It’d taken six minutes of him flirting with you to realize that you were a cop.

“$200 a day, 365 days a year since you were twelve- that’s two seconds, so times 20 which is $1,460,000 owed in taxes—I think.” You’re reciting those numbers off of the top of your brain, as if it was absolutely nothing. And the more you spoke the more flabbergasted the man before you looked- oh, how it made you smile. “I mean, I really am just a dumb bunny - but we are good at multiplying.”

“H-hey now-” Gojo rasps out, looking down at the cutesy police officer that he was slowly but surely learning not to underestimate. “-let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. In my defense, I’m in rut!”

“Ruts don’t make you commit tax evasion.”

“…”

…”

“You got me there.”

“And according to your tax forms, you reported- oh! Zero.” You falsely gasp, flipping through your clipboard. Before looking up at Gojo with a bat of your lashes, hands reaching for the cuffs on your belt. “Unfortunately, lying on a federal form is an offense punishable with up to five years in jail.”

“Aw, c’mon!” He seethes, “What’s a man gotta do to make a dishonest living ‘round here-” Though at your deadpan look he shuts up, “Fine- what’s something else that’ll get you to let me off easy, sweetheart?”

“Let you off easy?” You question, slightly leaning backwards.

And his eyes sweep down every corner and curve of your body, “Yeah- let me off easy.”

.

.

.

“Fuh-fuck—” Gojo’s breathing out into the crook of your neck, nostrils flaring as he drinks in the saturated scent of your pheromones - so fuckin’ sweet that he can feel his mouth start to water at the idea of simply taking a bite.

Shaking his head free of that particular day dream, he shovels his reddened cock into you with such explosive fervour. “Fuck, this is the perfect pussy. This is the perfect lil’ cunt to suck me up- ngh, are all bunnies this cute when they fuck- or s’it just you, sweetheart?” Just thud after thud! of his rotund tip.

It was the perfect curvature to leave your toes curling, and your teeth gritting at the rhythmic pleasure. You’re looking over your shoulder at the fox and struggling to keep your voice steady, “Just sh-shut up and fuck me, Toru.”

“Mmm, s’what I’m doing, silly bunny.” He rolls his eyes, knees digging even deeper into the cushion of your backseat. “And shit—” You’re clenching instinctually around him and you can feel his entire sculptured body behind you shiver- “-shit it just feels so fucking good.”

“God, I don’t know how but you’re hitting all the right spots.” You’re whimpering, feeling his glazed tip satisfy carnal itches within you that you didn’t even know you had. He was just so big that he was easily rub-rub-rubbing his swollen cockhead over your g-spot, and then thrusting right in to massage you with his prominent veins.

“Heh, you’re welcome.”

It’d taken mere seconds to drag you to your police car and bend you over in the back - mere seconds.

And mere split-seconds for Gojo to take a niiiice long look at the globes of your ass and decide he wants to give your ass cheeks a good squeeze. And decide to grab onto the fluffy tuft of your tail and pull you to him—“H-hey! Where’d you think you’re pulling-”

“Your tail, duh.” He’s unapologetically replying, “Honestly- I can’t tell if you really are just a dumb bunny or m’just fucking you dumb.”

“You’re too f-full of yourself.” You scoff.

“Too f-f-f-full of myself?” Gojo dramatically whines, quite a few octaves higher than what you actually sounded like. And as if he’s irritating you on purpose (he most definitely is) he’s tuggin’ on your sensitive tail once more and letting his cock’s hilt spank your drivelling hole. “Actually- I think it’s you who’s full of me, sweetheart.”

Your jaw drops at the sheer audacity of him, “K-keep talking and that won’t be the case any longer-”

“Oh, so I’m gonna be full of you—?” He’s cooing out, and you’re not sure whether these were the fox hybrid’s genuine pussydrunken babbles- or he was simply driving you wild. And succeeding. “You’d be the first to peg me, you slutty bunny, but I wouldn’t be ngh- opposed-”

“God, do you ever just shut up-” You’re bursting out, followed almost immediately by an elongated keen shattering from your throat. It was at that very moment that Gojo had decided to lurch his hips backwards and sloppily smooch at your throbbing g-spot, so hard that your entire body goes limp.

His fox-like ears twitch in the direction of your lecherous sounds, as if he was committing them to memory. “It seems neither you nor this pussy can…h-heh.” As if on cue, the background noise of your cunt seems to increase in volume. 

And Gojo’s feeling his ruby-red tip twitch at the lecherous noise, like he couldn’t get enough of it. He’s rutting and rutting and rutting until his swollen shaft is feeling all red and raw- until he shakes with the phantom shivers of your walls clenchin’ all around him and he still wants more. “And I can’t help it- just can’t fuckin’ help it.” He’s the one falling apart on your gooey wet walls, and yet you’re the one being teased. “Just love chattin’ with this pretty pussy- you’ve got such a sweet pussy, bunny, she loves me too m-”

“Satoru, if you don’t shut up then m’banning you from this.”

“Please no, ma’am.”

“Then do it.”

He swishes his tail in excitement, “And what you want me to do is—?”

“Fuck me properl- oh!”

You didn’t have to ask him twice. 

Because within mere moments, Gojo has his hand tightened around the puffy part of your tail and disrespectfully hauls you down to meet his hips. As if you were nothing but a ragdoll, he targets a few hits to your cervix that leave you bawling from both pairs of lips.

“Dangerous thing to ask a fox.”

Blinking back the tears in your eyes, “Wh-what do you-”

“Don’tcha know what you just asked, lil’ bunny?” Gojo questions, and it’s in a strangely…quieter tone of his voice. One that felt more primal. One that sent shivers down your spine.

When you’re not answering quickly enough for him, he’s slithering his second hand down to tease between your pussylips. That softened index and thumb pinching your clit until you’re seeing stars, “Don’tcha know what sly, cunning foxes do to c-cute lil’ bunnies like you?”

“Wh-what-” Even though you damn well knew- you were swerving your hips down onto his plump cockhead like you were addicted to the stretch of him in your deepest insides.

“Foxes eat bunnies like you.”

You shiver, and Gojo’s increasing the pace of his veiny shaft pummeling inside of you. He’s striking your spongy cervix one-two-three times a single second, he’s twisting his fingertips over your clit. He’s hauling you straight back down onto him using your tail—and acting as if he wasn’t just driving you maddened.

“And espeeeeecially for a fox in rut- oh, you’re just lucky I don’t wreck this pussy until she doesn’t remember anything but the feeling of my cock- ngh. M’one of the good foxes, see?” Dollops of Gojo’s saliva strike the arch of your spine- and you’re realizing with a jolt that he was drooling at the feeling of sloppily gliding his length between your pussylips. “You’re lucky I haven’t carved my name out into the back of your cervix…yet.” Dangerously, his puckered tip throbs at the very back of your pussy. “Fucking lucky I don’t shut you up by filling you up with so much of my cum that you feel it at your throat.”

“F-fuck-” You try to lurch fowards on instinct, and Gojo casually manhandles you down as though it was nothing. Hand still gripped firmly ‘round your tail-

“Don’t make me pull on those ears, too, bunny.” He’s hissing, hips growing just as slopping as his slurring was. Gojo flicks his fingers on your clit and you almost don’t hear his next few words, “Fuckin’ lucky I don’t- mmm, breed you until you hafta carry around a child with my name- hey.”

“What now-” You bite back at his sudden change of tone at the end.

“If I did knot you—” And you swear you feel the slowly-thickening hilt of his cock pulsate readily against your pussylips, “-d’you think we’d make foxes or rabbits, heh?” 

“Shit, are you pussydrunk-”

Gojo fucks that shocked impression clean off of your face, feeling the slightest twinges of something sizzling at the pit of his stomach. “Just kidding—!” Muddying his mind. Making him actually think of certain possibilities as he pumped you full of milky white- “Unless…”

And then you’re both stumbling into your high.

Your taking you over in a startled flash, Gojo’s making him shake and quiver and quiver and gnaw down on the damned inside of his cheek to stop himself from gnawing down on you-

“Fuck-” The fox hybrid streams out a slew of sweears underneath his breath, blue eyes clenching as he rides out the blissful waves on your cunt. It was making his toned body shake, it was making him hold onto your cute body like a lifeline as he emptied out his swollen balls into your cunt.

You were just so damn soft around him that it felt as though you were molding to each of his sensitive twitches. Your velvety walls fluttering around him as Gojo fucks you through both of your highs, “How’s it feel- being fucked by the bad fox- hah, having him cum inside you?”

Toes curling at the white-hot pleasure of your own high, it ran through  you like electricity. “So good—I feel so f-full inside.”

“Mmm, shit.” He marvels at the way that only makes his overworked divot start streaming out in even more gooey wads of cum. It fills you up until it’s overspilling, and Gojo’s blushin’ tip can only endlessly swab those gluey ribbons into your tiniest of orifices. “Fuck fuck fuck- bunny, we really might just make ngh- the cutest kids ever.”

“Please-” You gasp, your hips reaching a feverish point simply papping! down onto his. You’re turning your teary face over your shoulder to look at him, “Please- w-won’t be able to do that if you don’t knot me, Toru…”

And oh, fuck—

Gojo Satoru thinks he could’ve creamed all over again right then and there.

Gojo Satoru thinks he just does when - with a rough few thrusts -  he somehow manages to sink his incredible girth inside. All the way till the hilt. All the way till the rounded swelling of his base manages to bully inside- stretching your cunt out so wiiiiiide that all you can do is let out muffled mewls.

You gasp once his knot finally plops! inside- hot and thick and throbbing inside of you. You squirm, “Fuck- fuck, s’too fucking big. I should arrest you just for this.”

“Oh yeah-” And to your surprise, Gojo simply responds by letting go of your tail (finally!) to duck a hand down onto the carpeted floor and bring up his discarded button-up. Fishing for something in his front pocket-

Your jaw drops once he shows you an official police badge.

“Gojo Satoru, undercover agent, at your service, bunny.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - RIDE ‘EM, COWGIRL!

Name: Higuruma Hiromi

Age: 30’s (approx.)

Hybrid type: Equus caballus

Height: 6’6+

Weight class: 900kg - 1000kg.

Other notes: Sleek coat. Intelligent. The mature type. Subject has revealed that he has not been having regular ruts, with the last one being over ten years ago and yielded with no mate. Likely obstructions of stress, hormonal imbalances, and pure chance. Symptoms of upcoming rut persist. 

It must be noted that, even for a horse hybrid, the specimen is rather…well-endowed. And considering the fact that the subject’s mate is of the human type (with no prior experience in horse hybrid ruts)—further investigation must be conducted as to the procedures during the upcoming rut period.

It had started slow at first.

It had started without Higuruma even realizing.

He’d simply come back home from his law firm one day, exceptionally tired with no particular reason as to why. Somewhat feverish. Somewhat out-of-breath. It couldn’t have been the extra cases he was taking on (Higuruma had trudged through even higher workloads than this before, relatively this was a piece of cake), it couldn’t have been any illness (he visited the doctor, of course, and she’d said that there was absolutely nothing to worry about). But Higuruma had been worrying far too much that he hadn’t even had the time to flip through his medical report as thoroughly as he might have liked.

And it’s only because of you—“Hiromi, have you read through this?” Asking him in that sweet voice of yours one night. With his medical report propped open and your lips slightly parted as you swept your eyes through it.

To which he’d absent-mindedly looked up from one of his law books - Higuruma had dismissed himself from work early today, for the first time in his life. Though he was determined to get himself back in the office by tomorrow- that burning heat underneath his skin be damned. “Pardon, my angel? I don’t believe I have.”

“Well, you might want to open up another book then.” You’re grinning at his visible confusion, “A book of baby names.”

You’ve never seen the stoic man so stunned, gulping. On the verge of being ruined. “E-excuse me?”

“You’re experiencing pre-rut, Hiromi.”

It’s less than two hours later when your husband has you splayed out across his chiselled front, sweat-slicked abs moving and massaging against your back at a fervent pace as he fucked you from underneath. Such a filthy full nelson.

Your drivelling maw agape. Your legs spread wiiiide open. Your pussylips being funnelled with his thickened, throbbing inches from behind—he barely even has to try to give you particularly rough thrusts that make your mouth water.

It was the only position in which Higuruma’s absolutely massive length could fit inside you - the perks of having a horse hybrid as a husband, you guessed. And while you weren’t used to Higuruma’s entire size on a normal day, attempting to take him during his rut?

Oh, you were hopeful.

One look at his furious erection, and you knew that you won’t be making it out of this alive. He was much, much larger than usual - with his blushin’ tip almost doubling in size whenever he pumped himself viciously inside, with his girth looking almost engorged right before he was tunneling himself in. Red-hot. Veins pumping.

Higuruma was just so damn hard right now that you swear you can taste the creamy, salted-caramel flavor of his precum welling up at your throat—and you whine as he’s pulling out.

“Oh, fuck-” He’s whispering gruffly into the crook of your neck, with the edges of his canines grazing down your soft throat. Now, you knew that Higuruma wasn’t exactly the predatory type- but it still made a carnal part of you shiver to feel him leer down at your pulsating pussy. “Fuck, you don’t know how hah- how fuckin’ long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this.”

Your eyes widen, “You- you have?”

“Mhmm—not that I wouldn’t fuck you right even w-without my rut.” Murmuring- almost as if to prove his point, his rounded tip ends up lodged at your cervix with a wet thwack! “I would. I did. But with this I get to…mmmm, fill your cunt up until she remembers my name and nothing more. I get to smack at her pretty lips whenever she talks back.” Right on time, the tight curve of his ballsack ends up slamming against your treacly front. “I get to watch myself go in and out, iiiiiin and out- fuckin’ lucky that you have a horse hybrid for a husband, sugar, I get to see when exactly m’kissing that cute cervix of yours.”

“P-please-”

And one of his wide hands cascades down the front of your core, with his palm splayed out right above your womb. Higuruma was just so damn big that his thick, cylindrical cock was outlining a damn tummy bulge on top of your womb. “See- there. Mwah.”

One hit bruising your gooey pussy.

“And there again.”

Two hits.

“And again.”

Three hits.

He continues through a raspy groan, “And th-that’s not all…”

Before you can question that little sentence of his, his rude palm glides over where the globular edge of his cock was chasing your cervix. And Higuruma wastes no time squeezing his doughy palm doooown on that lil’ bump (well, not quite little…).

“-I get to fuck you like I disrespect you, my angel.”

“Oh my-” You don’t even have the words. The coherent trains of thought. With either of your feet planted flatly on the bed, you’re jerking your limbs up and attempting to move—whether back down onto him or away, you’re not quite sure. “Holy fuck, I didn’t know that you could fuck like this-”

“Ah ah-” And before you can even register it, Higuruma loops one arm ‘round your waist and draaaags you right back down onto his hilt. Feeling the scruffy trail of his hairs tickle the back of your cunt, feeling him press his bulbous tip against the  back of your pussy and bruise—“-n’ just because you didn’t know doesn’t mean you can- ngh, run away.”

“I wasn’t trying to-”

“Good.” Higuruma’s cutting you off with his stern tone, striking your gooey pussy so hard that you see damn stars- “Keep it that way then.”

And then you can’t move, you can’t even squirm.

He had one hand wrapped around your body, and the other flicking at your throbbing clit. The crowned edges of your husband’s fingers tease all down your slobbery slit, squeezing between your pussylips and pinching your cute clit. 

And no matter how much you’re jolting in his arms, you’re completely at his mercy.

Because not only is Higuruma ploughing into you like an utter madman, he’s holding you down to him. He’s holding you hostage on his cock that even breathing means you can feel him plunging straight into your lungs. “Isn’t it greeeeeat? You know exactly when m’getting into that womb of yours- see- see, giddy up, girl, you can see it. Heh…you’re shaking, angel.”

He’s tightening both hands on your body so that sparks of white-hot pleasure rush across your body and make you mewl—

“What did I say?” He draaaaags on your throbbing clit until you cry out, ramming faster and faster and faster. An incredible pace, three direct strikes to your g-spot and your cervix per second. “Don’t run. Simple as that.”

“B-but-” You’re reaching blindly above your head- somewhere beyond you to hold onto for dear life. But the only thing your greedy fingertips manage to grab onto are the sweat-stained locks of Higuruma’s hair. It seems even that’d grown longer during the transformation of his rut, silky and flowing. “-but then what am I even supposed to do-”

“Why, that should be obvious-” He breathes, scorching hot from somewhere behind you. “-all you have to do…”

You’re yelping as he bucks his hips just a little higher, further splaying you out helplessly on his lap. On his swollen cock. On his honed thrusts. 

Higuruma furrows his dark brows as the hand restraining your restless body slides down your front and presses pointedly on your cylindrical outline. “All you have to do is wait until I can fuck this cute bump—” Making you whine on the way he massages that spot, sending pleasure bubbling twofold at your voice. “-into a bump tha’s even bigger, hm?”

“You mean-”

“Yes.”

He was going to fuck that particular spot at your channel - your womb - until he’d fucked a baby into you. A baby bump is what he meant. Perhaps it’s this realization, perhaps it’s simply the way he increases his cadence, but you’re hurtled into your high and Higuruma fucks you right through it-

Mouth agape.

Toes curling.

A kaleidoscope of tears formulating behind your eyelids as he hits each peak precisely- somehow pinpointing each tender patch of nerves with his flared tip. “Mmm—” As you keep on riding your wave of bliss on his slick-glazed length, he feels himself empty out in wadded pre. Puddled out way deeply into the back of your cervix- “-I might hafta call out of work tomorrow…”

.

.

.

The questions hit you the instant you’re stepping into the office.

Well, given that it wasn’t your office so the questions were bound to come had they not known you - but more so because of the fact that everyone here already knew you.

Higuruma Hiromi’s wife.

The boss’s wife.

They crowd around you with concerned expressions - and you couldn’t blame them. Had you not been the one to let Higuruma know of his little ah- condition, then you would have been worried as to why your workaholic husband wasn’t at work, either.

The queries are thrown at you—

“Oh my god, he’s dead-”

“He’s not dead, he’s likely sick-”

“The Higuruma Hiromi I know would be at work even on his death bed.”

“Maybe he got caught up in a really tough case-”

“Is he really okay, ma’am?”

“Calm yourselves, calm yourselves.” You’re placating your husband’s coworkers and employees with an open smile.

All you’d come here for was to drop off the letter of your husband’s temporary leave- though he’d begged and begged for you to stay. Though, to be quite honest, you think if he had his way then you wouldn’t ever be able to leave the house.

But you did - no matter how much trouble you had…walking.

You answer them, “Hiromi is alright, you could say he’s just a little bit ah- out of sorts, at the moment.” Before anyone can rush to any tragic conclusions, “He’ll just be taking a much-needed break for a few days before coming back better than ever, I promise!” 

There’s a sigh of relief, before-

You think to yourself, “Oh, but he might need some considerable time off in the future.”

“Time off?” One fresh intern squeaked out amongst the burst of whispers, “I-I mean- we obviously would love for our boss to have some for himself! But what sort of time off, ma’am?”

“Ah-” You smile, “Paternity leave.”

A/N. HYBRIDSSSSSSSSSSSSS- Canva broke down like twice while making this.