ꕤ﹑Satomi Gojo is a prodigy, a genius student, that much everyone can tell by now. But what they don't even imagine is how much of a slut she is for her history teacher at the university. 🧁; masterlist
The night class always runs too long.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, making the whiteboard glare and washing everyone in the same academic gray. Sukuna leans back against the edge of his desk, ankles crossed, arms folded under the stretch of his shirt as he watches the last discussion burn itself out.
He teaches history, but on Tuesdays it feels like he’s teaching them how to waste his time.
“Primary sources, not TikTok threads,” he says, dry as bone. “You wanna talk about the Meiji Restoration, you cite the damn text, not some guy with a ring light.”
A few students laugh, most type.
One, in the third row, crosses her legs.
Satomi Gojo knows exactly when his eyes are on her.
She always knows.
Tonight, she’s dressed like a crime he’s already committed — soft pink miniskirt that rides high when she shifts, black tights that catch the dim light reaching under her desk, an oversized university hoodie that only makes her bare thighs more obvious when she tucks one heel behind the other.
She’s twenty-one, sharp and loud and infuriatingly bright.
She could coast through his classes without trying, instead she spends the whole seminar poking the tiger.
Right now, she leans back in her chair, pen tapping against her mouth. Lip gloss catches the harsh light as she drags the cap slowly along her lower lip, the way you do when you’re thinking.
She is not thinking.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow.
“Any questions before I let you degenerates go pollute the streets?”
There’s the usual rustle — laptops closing, notebooks snapping shut, bags zipping.
Questions die on tongues because it’s late and he looks like he’ll eat whoever raises their hand.
Except her.
Of course.
Satomi’s hand goes up, just two fingers, lazy and delicate.
“Sensei,” she says, sugar poured over smug. “About next week’s essay. Are you more interested in structure or… content?”
There’s a little pause in the room.
A couple of students smirk because everyone knows Gojo Satomi gets away with murder in this class.
He should shut it down.
He always thinks that.
Instead, he meets her eyes.
“Wild concept,” he replies. “Do both.”
She smiles, slow and wicked. Her legs uncross under the desk, knees drifting open before closing again, the tiniest shift, just enough that from his vantage point he sees the hem of her skirt slide up another inch on her thighs.
She knows the angle.
She’s practiced it.
He feels his jaw tighten.
“Multitasking is hard,” she says in that dragged tone, pouting. “Maybe I could come by your office hours so you can… guide me.”
Someone snorts. Another voice mutters “of course she can.”
He lets the silence sit just a little too long, lets himself look at her the way he shouldn’t — the long pale line of her throat above her hoodie, the delicate little hoop in her ear that catches the light when she tilts her head.
Her lipstick’s a shade too dark for class. It suits her.
His thoughts go somewhere very far from pedagogy. Closer to profanity.
“Office hours are posted on the syllabus you never read,” he says at last. “Now get out of my classroom.”
Laughter. Chairs scrape. The spell breaks.
Students file out in clumps, yawning, talking about trains and drinks and assignments. Sukuna busies himself with the ritual — closing slides, uncapping red pen, pretending he doesn’t hear Satomi laugh with the girl next to her as they pack up.
He can feel her eyes on him like a fingertip between his shoulder blades.
By the time the last of the class trickles out, the hallway beyond the door is mostly quiet. The night campus hums low, all concrete and sodium lights and distant traffic.
He moves behind his desk, stacking stray papers, pretending not to notice that one student has not left.
He hears the click of her boots long before she reaches him.
“Sensei.”
He doesn’t look up.
“Class is over, Gojo.”
“Mm. You always say my family name like it tastes bad.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The air shifts when she comes around the side of the desk, stepping into his space like it belongs to her. The room feels different once it’s just the two of them — bigger, but somehow tighter, the echoes gone and only the faint buzz of the lights left.
She props her hip against his desk, close enough that he can smell her perfume — sweet, a little sharp, like something citrus peeled with nails.
Her hand lands on the stack of essays he’s half-heartedly trying to straighten.
“You were grumpy today,” she says. “More than usual.”
“Maybe my students spent ninety minutes flirting instead of discussing Tokugawa policy,” he snaps back.
“Oh?” She tilts her head. “Was someone flirting?”
He finally looks at her.
Satomi’s eyes are impossibly blue, framed in liner that makes them even bigger. She’s smiling, but there’s a tremor under it, something bright and reckless.
Her lip gloss is smudged at the corner of her mouth where she chewed on it during class. One strap of her bag has slipped off her shoulder, hoodie collar slipping askew enough to show a glimpse of the black bra strap underneath.
He hates that he notices that detail. He hates how his body answers it.
“You know the rules,” he says. His voice is lower now, not for the class, just for her. “In here, you’re a student. I’m your professor. You don’t pull that shit.”
“In here,” she echoes softly. “And out there?”
Out there is his car. Her tiny apartment. His kitchen counter. The back row of an empty theatre the week before midterms. Places where he’s had her legs locked around his hips, where she’s moaned his name so loud he had to clap a hand over her mouth.
Out there, she isn’t Satomi Gojo, problematic genius in his syllabus.
Out there, she’s just Satomi — twenty-one, stubborn, filthy-mouthed, with her nails in his shoulders and tears on her lashes when he pushes her past what she thought she could take.
Out there, he’s not Sensei.
His grip tightens on the red pen until the cheap plastic casing creaks.
“Out there,” he says, “you still like to act like a brat.”
She beams at him. It’s unfair, how soft that smile can be when her words are the opposite.
“I was paying attention,” she protests. “Mostly. It’s not my fault if you look good when you’re talking about revolutions.”
“Don’t.” He leans closer before he can stop himself, one hand braced on the desk beside her hip. “Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing crossing and uncrossing your legs like that where I can see.”
Her breath catches.
It’s small, almost nothing, but he hears it. Feels it. Her fingers curl slightly on the stack of papers, as if she’s considering grabbing them just to have something to do with her hands.
“You’re the one looking,” she whispers.
He laughs, low and humorless.
“You dress like that in my classroom and you expect me not to look?”
Her lashes flutter.
“So it worked.”
The last thread of his patience snaps.
Sukuna moves before he has time to pretend he’s thinking. One moment he’s half-bent over the desk, the next his hand is around her wrist, the other at her waist, hauling her in until her back hits the wood with a soft thud and a clatter of pens.
Her breath leaves her in a little gasp. Her hands fly up automatically, then pause, hovering near his chest, not quite touching.
“Sensei—”
“Don’t call me that.” he growls.
Up close, she’s all heat and softness, the faint tremble of adrenaline under her skin. He can see the pulse at the base of her throat. His thumb presses into the curve of her waist, not gentle, keeping her pinned between his body and the desk’s edge.
“You want to act like this is a game?” he asks, his voice a rough scrape. “You think it’s funny to spend my whole lecture trying to see how hard you can wind me up?”
Her eyes search his face as if she’s trying to tell how far she can go.
She finds whatever she’s looking for, because her lips curve, her chin tilts up.
Entitled little brat.
“I like seeing you lose control,” she says, simply. “You always look so composed up there. It’s boring.”
He huffs out a dark laugh.
“Boring, huh.”
His hand slides up her side, fingers brushing the ribbed fabric of her hoodie, feeling the thinness of it, the warmth beneath. He stops just under her arm, thumb fitting under the soft swell of her chest, not quite touching, just there.
A promise. A threat.
“Tell me, brat” he murmurs, eyes locked on hers, “who do you belong to when you pull this shit?”
Her throat works as she swallows, confidence faltering.
The bravado wavers, then flares again.
“You,” she answers, almost too fast. “Obviously.”
“Then act like it.”
He doesn’t wait for another smart remark.
His hand comes up to her jaw, fingers splayed, thumb dragging across that smudged edge of gloss.
He tilts her head back and kisses her.
It’s not the careful, stolen kiss of a secret affair. It’s hot and angry, teeth and tongue, her back arching off the desk as she grabs fistsful of his shirt and hauls him closer.
She tastes like cheap coffee and mint gum, like the candy she pretends to sneak in class when she thinks he isn’t looking.
She makes a little sound into his mouth when he licks into her, a whine that goes straight through him.
Her fingers curl tighter at his shoulders, finally daring to touch, to cling.
His mind blanks out in a rush of sensation — the slide of her lips, the way she sighs when he bites, the arch of her as he nudges a thigh between hers, spreading her legs to fit between them.
The neat rows of desks fade to nothing.
It’s just her and the way she melts against him.
He grinds her back into the desk with his hips, just once, harsh and deliberate, feeling how her body reacts so prettily when he pushes. She breaks the kiss on a gasp.
“Fuck,” she breathes. “Suku—”
“Language,” he says, almost conversational, even as his own breath comes rough. “This is an academic setting.”
Her laugh breaks on another exhale when he does it again, slower this time, grinding his own clothed bulge against her laced panties.
Her miniskirt does nothing to protect her from his heat and the hardness under his jeans, and he doesn't have to look nor touch the fabric under it to be sure she is wearing one of the many pairs of laced underwear he bought her.
She always wears them to his class in hope they end up going out after it.
Sweet little nympho girl.
He can feel her legs trying to hook around him, even with the stupid miniskirt trying to be in the way, the hitch of her hips seeking friction.
“You’re harsh.” she says, and there’s adoration in it, the stupid, reckless kind that makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t examine.
“You started it.” he counters.
His hand drops from her jaw to her throat, his palm warm and broad, fingers resting lightly where he can feel her pulse race. He doesn’t squeeze. The weight of it is enough to make her eyes go darker, her breath catch.
“Last chance,” he murmurs. “I'll stop now if you want me to be nice.”
She looks up at him, cheeks flushed, lipstick smeared, hair a little mussed from his grip.
She looks, he thinks, exactly how she’s wanted to look all evening, ruined by him.
“Don’t you dare.” she whispers.
Something ugly and tender curls in his gut at the same time.
He leans in, mouth brushing her ear.
“Then you’re going to stay very quiet for me, princess,” he says. “Door’s not locked. Anybody could walk by and hear you. You remember what you promised me last time?”
Her fingers tighten where they clutch at him.
She nods, fast.
“Say it.” he prompts.
“That I wouldn’t… make a mess of it,” she says, voice low, shaking but sure. “That I’d be good.”
“Mm.”
His hand skims down the line of her body, the edge of her hoodie, the bare skin of her thigh where her skirt has ridden up from when he pressed her into the desk.
Goosebumps follow where his fingers trace, a visible shiver.
“You did everything but that tonight.”
“Sukuna…”
Her voice has that particular edge he knows by heart now — half plea, half challenge.
He looks at her for one long moment, mapping every line of her face like he’ll need the memory later.
Then he smiles, slow and dangerous.
“Guess I’ll just have to remind you.” he says.
He bends over her, crowding her down against the cold desk with his body, his mouth following the line of her jaw, the collar of her hoodie, lower — her hands grasping at his shoulders, breath catching in his ear — and soon enough, without parting his lips from her skin, she's put seated on the edge of his desk.
His hands find the straps of her panties under the bunched up pink miniskirt and he wastes no time in sliding them down her bare legs until the delicate piece is completely apart from her. She makes no mention to grab it, he stuffs it in his pant's back pocket and in a beat he's on his knees.
She's still not used to the vision.
He is one of the most imponent men she's ever came across — intelligent, built like a house from how bricked he is, dominant in all of the ways she likes, undeniably handsome and a little insufferable at times. And he's on his knees between her legs, a big, strong hand sliding up the plush skin on the inside of her thighs, the other grabbing her waist, anchoring her on his table while her own manicured hands find purchase on his broad shoulders, making Satomi lean a little bit forward.
"You got this hard by just listening to me teach?" he asks, his face inches from the apex of her thighs and her throbbing cock — the pink tip already leaking and the flushed color matching her cheeks now. "Cute."
"Sh—shut up." her tone is a mix of embarrassment and despair, he knows how sensitive she gets and he knows very well how good it feels to have hot breath hitting against thin skin.
He squeezes lightly her waist, once, and his other hand slides up to encase her hardened dick, wrapping around it and swallowing the shaft completely in his palm, leaving just the tip out — leaking to the point of pooling pre cum on the valley of his grip.
With his crimson eyes boring into her, Satomi's eyebrows knit together as she bites down on her lower lip, muffling a whine while Sukuna pumps her erection a few times, spreading the slick down her shaft, making the movements of his hand feel even better. His face tells her he's testing how much she can take without making a mess — without making noise.
She's positive she can endure whatever he puts her through.
That thought lives for two more seconds in her head before Sukuna's tongue is circling her rim, his face buried under her cock and balls as he works his way into her asshole.
She gasps and both her hands fly to cover her mouth.
She feels him chuckling in that inappropriate place but can't bring herself to do anything other than lean back slowly, supporting her body on her forearms as she half-lays over his pile of papers that may or may not end up ruined before the night ends.
She isn't worried about that, and he doesn't seem to be either.
His hands find the back of her knees, letting go for a moment the velvety skin of her cock, as he settles the soles of her feet against his shoulders, spreading her legs farther in a way he can enjoy not only the view, but the whole meal in front of him.
"Fucking perfect." he breathes hot against her cute clenching asshole, both hands splaying on the fat of her ass globes, grabbing them tightly with barely any restraint — he squeezes the flesh to the point of his sinking his nails into the soft skin, just so he can spread her open wider before resuming his ass eating activities.
"Fffuck—" she whispers ragged, supporting herself on just one forearm as the other lifts and extends so she can reach between her legs, grabbing a fistful of his pink hair, pulling him flush against her and bucking softly her hips as he tonguefucks her ass without a single pause to breathe.
Her low mewls, contained moans and the lewd sound of him having that delightful meal echo shyly in the empty classroom, bouncing on the walls and filling their ears as they let themselves forget for a second that they could be in unprecedented trouble if someone decides to barge in unannounced.
But the building makes sure to remind them that they're not alone, and that the classroom is not a cheap motel room.
Her heart thunders against her ribcage when a group of students walk down the hallway and someone bumps on the wooden door, making the knob slightly turn but not enough to move the door — bright blue eyes snap open and Satomi's body stiffens immediately, she sits up and recovers her posture, pulling even harder on Sukuna's strands, which grants her a low growl coming straight from his chest, his eyes flying up to meet her panicked face as he, unwillingly, removes his tongue from her entrance.
"What?" he snaps and his look is so heavy with lust she almost forgets the imminent danger of doing what they are doing, where they are doing.
"What if someone walks in?" she whispers, looking down to meet his eyes, hand still on his hair.
"I thought you didn't care." he cocks a brow and she notices that lazy grin forming on his lips. "Since you're a genius and you can get into any school—" he reminds her of her own little bravado thrown at him the last time she wanted him to fuck her on the spot after class. "—but a cock like mine was something h—shit!" his rant ends in a hiss of pain as she yanks his hair once, not wanting to hear the rest of that sermon.
"I don't want you to be fired, Sensei." those pretty, almost crystalline eyes, the sweet lilt in her voice and the batting lashes are more than enough to fool anyone, but Sukuna is not just anyone, he's the man who had to decipher, break and tame that brat into someone almost bearable to have around.
"How considerate." he deadpans and gives her no time to snark back before the flat of his tongue slides from the base of her balls to the tip of her — still hard, still twitching — cock.
He feels her body jolting and a soft moan rolling out of her lips just as Sukuna circles her glans and collects the leaking pre in his tongue, giving the pink head one good sharp suck that has Satomi squirming briefly before he lets the cock go with a wet pop.
"I think you just fear your colleagues might realize," and just like that he's not on his knees anymore, her feet no longer settled on his shoulders, his hands are finding her hipbones and pulling her towards him, once again getting her to stand on her feet between him and the table. "That the most intelligent girl in their class, the little genius Satomi Gojo, is in fact, a needy whore."
His tone is composed, conversational, and his lips brush against hers ever so slightly as he continues his little speech.
Satomi, however, continues to pretend she isn't getting even harder with every word leaving her lovely sensei's mouth.
"I think," he takes one step back and catches that little pout forming on her lips. He takes her in for a beat before steering her body and placing a firm hand against the space between her shoulder blades, forcing his best worst student to bend over until her chest presses against the table top — papers even more scattered now, some of them even a little crumpled. "You don't want people thinking you are the top student only because you're fucking your teachers."
She should curse him off.
Maybe throw a little tantrum, make a little fuss.
But oh my god she wants his cock so bad she is managing to do the impossible — to listen to all of that without trying to talk back even once.
A miracle, really.
She thinks she should be canonized as a saint after that night.
"So let's not take any risks, hm?" he unbuckles his belt, sliding it out of its loop. "Open."
"You think that's gonna make me quiet?"
The taunting tone is gone in a moment, because the instant that pretty bratty mouth opens, the softness she knows very well to be lace is shoved inside, pressed flush on her tongue.
Her eyes widen at the realization she has her own panty in her mouth, but the complain never makes its way out of her lips — the strap of leather that is his belt is now looped around her head, pretty, silky white hair is pressed against her skull and her mouth is now forced to be open — her poor jaw not strong enough to bite and bend thick, legit leather — with her underwear stuffed in.
A whiny, almost strangled sound that is probably a complain only gets Sukuna to press himself against her ass, the ridge of his hard cock printed against his pants and the heat coming from it through the fabric being enough to make Satomi drop any resistance and begin to purr like a domesticated cat as she perks her ass up, arching her back further.
Wanting, demanding, begging for him.
He pushes her miniskirt even further up and spreads her round, perfect plush ass cheeks with both hands to take yet another good look at that beautiful little pink hole before he ruins it.
As he enjoys the view, she grows impatient, but she knows better than to give him a reason to make her wait even longer — and he would, out of cheer fucking spite, she knows it very well.
Collected spit lands on the small of her back and slides down between her cheeks, encouraged by two broad fingers that massage, circle around her rim and slide inside with some ease, sending shivers down her spine, which are followed by her attempt to spread her legs even wider for him.
"Pathetic cockhungry slut." he drawls while undoing his pants, lowering them along with his boxers just enough to free his aching cock from the fabric prison. "Don't worry, I'll give you what you need."
Her whole bratty act is as cute as it is enticing.
As is her attempts of holding back her voice while his fingers play inside her ass, stretching her nice and well, scissoring them a little further before adding a third finger that makes Satomi let out another muffled groan and buck her hips almost automatically.
Sukuna could spend hours toying with her, making her squirm and beg for him to fuck her properly in every way she manages except with her words, but soon enough the lights will begin to power off on the campus and the staff will come in to clean the classrooms, so he halts the movement of his fingers inside her, pulls out and fists his own throbbing cock.
He gives it a few lazy pumps, the angry-red-head dripping precum brushes against her needy hole and he can feel how immediately her body tensing up in anticipation as she feels the familiar warmth of him.
"Remember, princess," He leans in, chest hot against her back, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear as he whispers. One hand finds her jaw and cups it, not minding the saliva that has already started to escape from her forced-open lips. The other is wrapped around the base of his dick as he presses his tip on the puckered rim. "quiet."
Sukuna snaps his hips forward with no further warning, bottoming out inside of her at once at the same instant he rises his hand from her jaw to her lips, covering her gagged mouth to suffocate a yelp that tried to leave.
Her eyes roll back instantly when she feels his length stretching her, filling her up and throbbing as her velvety walls clench around him. He keeps his hand there, warm, big palm being a third barrier to stop her high pitched, needy moans as he starts to move his hips.
He doesn't let her get used to him, not that he needs to, but each thrust is crude, sharp and deep — oh so deep — she feels her lower belly bulging each time he bottoms out.
He finds amusing how she always seem to take him so naturally — fingers or cock, it's almost like she was made for him, always ready to be fucked silly without much resistance, always taking him so well.
Sukuna lets his weight press over her lean body, pounding her in a rhythmic, steady velocity before snaking in his free hand under the hem of her hoodie, just to press on that delicious point where the head of his cock stretches her to the point of bulging visibly below the cute pierced navel — making her body tremble and her ass squeeze him even tighter.
It feels so good to be inside her that he immediately forgets how annoying she can be in his classes.
How can someone with such a delicious set of holes be so obnoxious?
No wonder the first time he accepted fucking her was to stuff her throat with his cock and have her shut the fuck up for a moment.
She presses back each time his groin slaps her ass, as if wanting him to get even deeper inside her, and he stops pistoning for a beat just to graze her ear with his teeth before nibbling at the shell. Just enough to feel her squirming and trying to make him move. Just enough to press that palm harder against her open mouth and turn her head enough to look into those perfect blue eyes, now threatening to leak and smudge her pretty makeup.
"So desperate." he croons and ruts into her, pressing his body further against her, squeezing the poor girl on the table as she pathetically tries not to suffocate on her own panties and drool. "I should let you fuck yourself on my cock until you learn to behave."
Her eyes widen before squinting as he muses, but the thin eyebrows knit tight just as fast, giving Sukuna that expression she only wears when, she wants him to pay attention to her, to buy her something pretty — or to dick her down.
He should be immune to those eyes by now.
Alas, he's not.
So he licks a stripe from her jaw to that spot right under her ear and presses his lips there, a tender kiss.
"You're lucky you have such a delicious tight ass." he groans before starting once again to fuck into her, his pace now faster, breathing getting ragged as he places open mouthed kisses on her neck where her pulse lives, on the curve of her shoulders, and lets her hear his deep groans and low moans as his cock drills into her warm hole.
She could cum from just that — from just getting dicked down by him in that rude way he does, but she feels his hand sliding down from her lower belly to grab once again her neglected cock. He's able to pump it three, maybe four times before that heat curling in her stomach unravels and the build up reaches its climax, getting Satomi to let out a longer whine and writhe under him as she releases in spurts as long ropes of cum hit the underside of Sukuna's table and fall to the floor.
He keeps pounding as she rides her orgasm, sometimes deeper, sometimes he ruts in, mean, just to press her prostate and make her whole body jerk and her legs shake before he falls back into the rhythm that brings him faster to his own orgasm. His hand is still enveloping her softening sharp, a thumb pressing against the slit on her glans, drawing slow circles and teasing it past overstimulation.
And when he finally reaches his own high, he sinks his teeth on the porcelain skin of her exposed shoulder, bite strong enough to make her eyes bar with tears and her vision blur as she's filled with his hot, thick seed painting her walls white.
She bites the leather belt and slowly lets her head fall until her forehead is against the cold wood of the table. He allows it and slowly retrieves his own hand from her gagged mouth, his chest and abdomen still pressing her down against the surface filled with scattered paper, his cock still fully sheathed inside her clenching asshole.
Slowly she brings her hand to the back of her head and tries to unbuckle the belt with trembling fingers. He breathes deeply, helping her once he peels himself from the pretty curve of her back.
Strings of saliva fall from her lips to the table, tainting the papers and the wood — she's a drooling mess with sore jaw, but she looks happy, satisfied. Less unbearable.
"You didn't have to use your belt, y'know? Your hand is more than enough." she grouses while fixing her hair, which was her biggest worry apparently.
When he pulls out and tucks his softening cock inside his boxers again, he takes a moment to appreciate his work — gaping hole clenching around nothing as his seed slowly overflows, sliding down her perineum, her cute balls, until it's dripping on the floor.
She swats away the hand he used to spread her ass cheek so he could have a better view, proceeding to pull down her miniskirt and consider wearing or not her soaked saliva-panties.
"Where's the fun in that?" he smirks, impish, as he loops his belt back and buckle it before tending to his pouty brat of a student. "Look at me."
When she does his hands cup her face, turning it slightly to the left and then right, looking for any redness or bruises he may have caused. The belt left dents on that soft, pristine skin, but he knows those will be gone in an hour or so.
His thumbs find the hinges of her jaw and he presses slightly, earning a brief wince from Satomi.
"It's gonna hurt for tonight, try not to talk much. You'll wake up fine and ready to piss me off again tomorrow."
He waits for her lips to become a pout — because he knows her too well for her own good — and leans in to kiss them without hurry and without letting go of her face.
"Unlike these papers you drooled all over. Once again you made a mess, princess."
"Good luck explaining to your students why their papers are all odd and smudged." she whispers against his lips, blue eyes boring into him as she opens a devious smile, manicured delicate hands already trying to unbutton his shirt.
"Insatiable little thing." He huffs a laugh and holds her wrists, everyday growing more sure she will be the death of him with how often she wants to fuck. "Come, I'll give you a ride home. We can't be here for much longer."
"What about the papers? The floor, the mess?" she acts worried but her arm is already looping around his as they walk out, her hand finding his biceps as she presses her body into his side.
She gets really calm and obedient once he gets to stuff her full with cum, it's an impressively quick effect.
"I'll conveniently forget to leave the door unlocked for the cleaning staff tonight. I'll deal with it tomorrow morning."
And just like that they leave.
Door locked, Satomi doing her best not to walk like a person trying to let her teacher's cum leak from inside her, Sukuna considering the risks of that brat trying to suck him off as he drives her home, and the specifics of how he once again ruined her stays between the two of them and that classroom's four walls.
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