#slapping tw

kuroo tetsurou:

it wasn’t your fault.

truly, it wasn’t. you didn’t even realize you gave off the wrong impression. sure, kuroos’ colleague was kind of sleazy and didn’t stop giving you compliments at the annual company christmas party, but you didn’t think he had any malicious intent. you just thanked him and spoke to him a bit about his work, while kuroo was busy catching up with his superiors.

but all your boyfriend was hearing were excuses when you said the exact same thing to him while he confronted you.

so now, here you were. getting pounded into oblivion in the backseat of his expensive, slick tesla. he didn’t even let you take the new car for a ride yet, but he’s already fucking you in the back of it. priorities.

“fucking slut”, kuroo hissed through clenched teeth, “can’t let you out of my sight even for a second, huh? already running to the next best man to pay attention to you. needy fucking whore.”

the next thrust hit your cervix at an angle that hurt more than it brought you pleasure the way the action normally did, but when you cried out in pain, the tall man behind you only covered your mouth with his large palm and lowly threatened: “you better shut the fuck up and take it, you ungrateful brat, or i’ll give you something to cry about.”

this felt wrong. it felt vile, mean and much darker than your usual jealous sex with him. you weren’t against degradation by any means, kuroos’ smooth voice could be reading the encyclopedia and you would cum just from listening, but this was different.

maybe it was the way he didn’t listen to your explanation, the way not a word of praise was mixed in with the degrading, or the way he kept hitting your cervix at a painful angle, as if to hurt you on purpose.

not your fault. unfair. cruel. vicious. stop. stop. stop!

this were the only thoughts that crossed your mind as your screams and protests got muffled by tetsurous’ large hand. not being able to take it anymore, as he continued to spew harsh remarks, too deep in his jealousy to see how uncomfortable you were, you slithered your arm behind you and tapped his thigh three times. you were never more grateful for the fact that you both decided on a non-verbal safe word when he finally stopped and immediately slipped out of you.

“kitten? fuck, are you ok?”, he questioned, worried, and now hyperaware of the fact that you weren’t reacting as usual as the haze clouding his mind finally subdued.

energy completely spent, you could only fall forward, curling up into a ball, a heart wrenching sob leaving your lips.

“i didn’t m-mean to tetsu’! i was just t-talking to him because i didn’t w-want to annoy you”, you cried apologetically, hands covering your tear-stained face from the black-haired male.

fuck. kuroo could practically feel his chest tighten as he took in your wailing, weak state. he was responsible for this. not his colleague, not you, just him.

slowly, as if afraid to scare you with any sudden movements, he reached out, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his strong arms tightly around you.

“i should be the one apologizing, i’m so sorry, kitten. you never annoy me, you know that, right?”, he softly whispered against your temple, pressing light kisses against it between sentences.

sniffling, you pressed your face against his neck, shamefully mumbling: “you were so busy talking to your superiors, i didn’t want to be the clingy, bothersome girlfriend.”

“you never are. i love you more than anything, ok?” his tender voice as he directed your gaze towards him and gently smiled, had butterflies erupting in your stomach just like the first time you talked to him.

“i love you too, tetsu’.”

oikawa tooru:

„d-dirty fucking bitch.“

was it supposed to sound this…unsure? and were both of your cheeks supposed to burn in embarrassment as if you were two virgins exploring your bodies for the first time?

when your boyfriend first introduced the idea of degrading you in the bedroom, you weren’t too sure, but from the sound of it, he wasn’t either. he normally opted for praise, wanting to shower you in affection and love in any and every situation. where the idea to degrade you came from, was a mystery to you.

it’s as if oikawa was able to feel how you weren’t taking him seriously, because the next thing you knew he had your thighs in a bruising grip, trapping them against the mattress with his large palm by your head and picked up his pace to an animalistic pace.

“fucking slutty brat. not taking her daddy serious? i thought you knew better than that”, he growled, annoyed, while your eyes widened when his fat cock reached new, painful depths in the current position he had you in.

“other women would do anything to have me underneath them, pounding the living shit out of them, while you’re just taking it all for granted. i should just pick one of my groupies at the next game, then you would come crawling back, huh?”

this isn’t what you signed up for. it hurt. everything hurt. the snaps of his powerful hips against yours, his mean threats and his blunt nails digging into the flesh of your thighs.

when big, salty tears started forming, you couldn’t help a whiny, displeased ‘turquoise!’ escaping you. the brunets’ thrusts halted as soon as the word left your mouth, his wide, shocked eyes meeting yours, before realizing how stressed out you were, making him pull out and embrace you without a care about crushing you.

“this was the worst idea i’ve ever had, even more than that one time where i tried to bake iwa-chan a birthday cake and almost burned down his own kitchen on his birthday! i hate hurting you, please don’t cry i- “, oikawa started rambling against your throat, only to pause when he heard you lightly chuckle through your tears.

“yeah, they were both pretty shitty ideas, tooru.”

pouting, he mumbled: “’m sorry.”

you quickly wiped away the tears hindering you from seeing your gorgeous boyfriend before softly suggesting: “let’s just stick with praise, ok?”

the man above you nodded eagerly in agreement before leaning down and capturing your lips in a gentle kiss.

tsukishima kei:

this wasn’t anything new if you were honest.

the usual feeling of your boyfriends’ long cock down your throat was always welcome, and the degrading nicknames leaving his slightly chapped lips were usually a huge turn-on, panties sticking to your wet, puffy pussy.

but today was different.

you had an awful day and just wanted some soft sex to make you feel wanted and needed, unlike your horrible job made you feel. not only were you running around fixing other people’s mistakes, but you were also constantly reminded that if you didn’t, it’d be easy to replace you.

though when you got home and your tall, blond boyfriend told you how much he needed you, you didn’t have the heart to deny him. now you’re on your knees between his spread thighs, while he sits on a wooden chair in your shared kitchen, his grunts and low condescending ‘such a fucking slut’s and ‘only good for sucking cock, huh?’s filling the space.

your displeased hum and you trying to pull off his cock, got interpreted the wrong way, as he placed a large hand on your head just to push you back down on his long cock, your gagging and choking replacing his sounds of pleasure.

“a good fucking whore keeps doing her job until her master says otherwise”, tsukki provocatively hissed as your teeth grazed the sides of his throbbing length.

you suddenly flinched as you felt a striking sensation on your right cheek, when the blondes big palm collided with it, tears that have already formed from the rough treatment now rolling down your hurting cheeks.

“you’re only good for sucking cock and getting off, so if you can’t do that, i just might need to find a better fucking bitch to get me off.”

at that, you couldn’t hold back the agonizing sob that left you, making you choke on his length once again and with a weak slap to his left thigh, he knew something wasn’t right.

immediately, tsukishima pulled you off his length, trying to be as gentle as he could with his hair tangled in your hair and gently patting your cheek to bring you back to reality, only to freeze when you scrambled away from his touch as if he was about to hit you and cry: “i’m sorry! don’t hit me!”

if you weren’t sobbing loudly, burying your face in your hands, you might’ve noticed how the cogs inside your boyfriends’ mind started turning and his hands shaking from the realization of what he had done.

“y/n…i’m not going to hit you. look at me, please”, tsukkis’ unusually gentle voice reached your ears, making you slowly lift your head and look at him through a blurry curtain of tears.

you could see a slight pink hue spread across his cheekbones up to his ears before he shyly whispered: “you’re the only one for me. i would never replace you, and you’re not only here to get me off. i love you too much for that. i’m sorry if i went too far.”

when you only continued to stare at him with teary eyes, the blonds’ blush deepened and he broke eye contact, too embarrassed at the affectionate phrases leaving his lips just a few seconds ago. it’s not that he’s ashamed of admitting his devotion to you, he just prefers to show it in other ways.

“i love you too, kei. the blush really suits you; you know.”

“shut up”, he grumbled in mock annoyance, a smile creeping onto his handsome features when you laughed.

tagging: @weepinglevi, @thighridingsamu, i feel kinda annoying tagging you but you both said i should tag you in everything so,,,,thanks for being my biggest supporters guys<3

With a steeled breath you unlock the door and the final barrier between you.

“Hanma, I didn’t know you were in Shanghai,” you say, which feels flat and shallow in the face of all the years that separated you.

“Business called. I’ve expanded into export/import. Boss man says I have a way with people in negotiations. Since I was in the city, how could I not stop in and say hello?” Hanma says.

The line is too thick with subtext to pass for a real explanation of his surprise appearance. Besides, you’re too distracted to try to parse it by the sight of Shuji Hanma for the first time in six years. Of course. he wouldn’t look the same as he had at twenty. No one did. Still, you’re taken aback by the unfamiliar man standing before you. Your eyes catalogue the changes in rapid succession. After years of nagging, he finally broke and got glasses for his abysmal near-sightedness. The crisp pinstripe suit is new too; he would have never been caught dead in something so fussy when you were younger. He’s still using too much hair gel, but now it parts his hair to the left in highlighted waves.

The most striking difference is that damned expression, perfectly matching his tone from before. Apathy colors his cheeks and smooths his lips into a flat line. He offers nothing. Even his once wild eyes don’t speak to you.

Mildly, you think that an apathetic Hanma must be dangerous.

There is one similarity, so surprising that you blurt out, “I bought you that earring!”

“I remember.”

It was a present for his eighteenth birthday, a thank you for looking out for you all that time. You spent two months of the allowance your brother gifted you to afford the thing: long and gold and dangling. Hanma had barely glanced at it, telling you he was only doing a job and you shouldn’t be grateful. Yet, here he is, eight years later, and it is the only adornment that proves the past isn’t a fiction you created in your head.

There would be a time for pretty nostalgia later. For now, there is a gangster standing in your entryway. Maybe there was once a time when you felt safest with Hanma by your side, but the man before you might as well be a stranger.

“Come in,” you finally manage, leaving space for him to slip by. “Would you like something to drink? I have soju, beer, tea. Umm, or water, obviously. If you want something else, I can maybe run to the store or – “

“Beer’s fine,” Hanma says.

“Sure thing, coming right up. So, you’re in Shanghai for…business, but that doesn’t explain what brings you to my neighborhood, or how do you even know where I live actually? Big city, could have walked right past each other, and neither of us would have ever known,” you babble as you pull the beer from the fridge.

“I would have noticed if you walked by,” Hanma says.

You think that unless Hanma starts using more than ten words per sentence, you’re not going to make it through the evening of small talk. If he had chosen tea, you would at least have something to do with your unoccupied hands. But, alas, the beer is at his lips, and the ball is back in your court.

You don’t have to tell Hanma to make himself at home. He walks around your apartment like you’ve invited him to redecorate, peering through open doors, rifling through your research docs. Revealing every one of your paltry secrets. You trail him like a puppy as he ransacks your apartment, leaving crumpled receipts on the floor and drawers wide open. By the time he moves to the toilet to inspect your medicine cabinet, you have resigned yourself to the invasion of privacy. The intrusion isn’t worth the fight it would take to stop him.

Though it does raise the question of what he is doing here again, and you ask, “Did my brother send you to check on me?”

Again, subtext. ‘Check’ could just as easily be replaced with ‘spy’ as he reads the label of each of your medications. You pretend he doesn’t smirk at the birth control tablets. There is no way he’s that childish.

“You don’t have any of the good stuff in here,” he comments as he abandons your meds.

“You’re the one who taught me not to sample the product. They don’t exactly let you work in big pharma when you ignore the use-as labels,” you say.

It is the second time you brought up the past unprompted, which should embarrass you as Hanma appears completely uninterested in speaking to you, let alone reminiscing on the good old days. What is Hanma to you though but a beacon of the past you’d left behind? Of course, it is on your mind.

You were sixteen when your brother decided you needed a bodyguard. The Tokyo Manji gang was starting to sell amphetamines and ecstasy at scale, a transition from boyish delinquency to a serious criminal enterprise. With the change would come new enemies, ones with more to lose and looser morals to limit them. Your brother couldn’t do his job if he was worrying about your neck separating from your shoulders. He needed someone he trusted to guard you, an oxymoron for your brother who hadn’t let a new person in since that girl he liked in elementary school. So, maybe it wasn’t trust, but Hanma was the best fit for the job, and he took it.

For your final two years of high school, Hanma dogged your shadow. He was there when you left for school in the morning, there with his bike glistening in the sun when you exited cram school in the evenings. If you needed to buy groceries, study with friends, go for a jog, or do literally any activity that brought you outside the solid walls of your home or school, Hanma accompanied you.

Naturally, you weren’t his only responsibility in Toman, which mean there were countless times you wanted to see a friend or take a walk but couldn’t leave. You would be stuck for hours, bored as only a prisoner can be, until he finished cracking skulls or whatever task took him away from you.

Was it any wonder then that you began to long for his return the moment he left each day?

If you tallied the hours of your life, you probably spent more time with Hanma than nearly any other human being, excepting maybe your brother or dormmates in uni. Time had a way of wearing down all things, even the most guarded and emotionally stunted delinquents. Once upon a time, you had known him. And, Hanma had once known you, too.

“Close to discovering the cure for cancer yet?” the newly well-dressed and bespectacled Hanma of the present asks as he leaves your medicine cabinet behind in favor of your bedroom.

“I’m not working in Oncology. I’m in Hematology. Specifically, I’m working on variants for the thrombolytics currently on the market. See, the current rate of patients that redevelop clots is around twelve-ish percent, so we’re trying to reduce that,” you explain and feel your confidence return at the familiar topic that dominates the better part of your days and nights.

“Not all of us went to university, sweetheart,” Hanma says, which you think is a fancy way of admitting he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

“Blood. Hematology means the blood.”

“Yum,” Hanma says before licking his lips.

“Yum? Hanma, men in 10,000 Yuan suits should not say ‘yum’ at the word blood!”

“What should they say? ‘Icky?’”

That’s all it takes really to finally alleviate the unbearable tension that has been rising ever since you saw him buzz to be let into your building. He’s smiling, genuine, a little feral in the way that all his real smiles are. Facing him before, you’d felt frozen in time, like you hadn’t changed at all since you left him and Tokyo behind at 18 for university. But maybe he hasn’t changed as much as you thought either. It makes you bold.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here, at my apartment at 9 pm on a Tuesday. I have an early day in the lab tomorrow. If you’d called, I might have moved some things around.”

“Think I’ll be keeping you up late?” Hanma teases. He sits down on the edge of your bed, legs spread unnecessarily wide, like he needs to be ready in case a woman appears and lowers herself into his lap. With his money, face, and charisma, it may well be a regular occurrence he needs to prepare for.

“Stop hedging and tell me why you’re here,” you order.

A mistake. The meter of distance between you – Hanma on the bed, and you leaning against the dresser – seems to shrink as the tension snaps back like a rubber band. He said he was good at negotiations, which means he has a way of making the most dangerous criminals cower and submit to Toman. You have no chance, your teeth like ice and the taste of metal flooding your mouth at his oppressive glare.

“Six years, and not even a Nengajo on New Year’s?” Hanma accuses, coldly. “When I said goodbye as you went off to university, I thought it was goodbye until the winter holiday. I didn’t realize you were saying goodbye for life.”

“I would have thought you were eager to be rid of me. You were never much of a babysitter,” you say.

He rolls his eyes and replies, “Fishing for compliments? I didn’t miss you if that’s what you’re driving at. I especially didn’t miss the salon appointments or fifty boba trips a week. My talents were wasted looking after you all that time.”

You pretend his words don’t hurt and hope your performance is convincing. You missed him nearly every day those first two years.

Six years before, when you left for Kyoto, you had every intention of returning to Tokyo and all it held: your beloved brother, your friends, the stuffed animals you were too embarrassed to bring to the dorms, and the man you were too embarrassed to admit was in your heart.

That was before you shadowed at the hospital. You were already interested in hematology and wanted a chance to see doctors administer to patients up close. As a first-year chemistry student, you were wildly underqualified to warrant an attending’s time or energy, but your brother’s money had a way of opening doors. The hospital administration, with their greased palms, welcomed you. For months, you spent every Thursday after classes haunting the ER, pestering nurses, and taking notes.

In November, an ambulance pulled up, same as any other day. Only this time, the patient was a child, just a little girl with a pretty round face, precious fat hands, and a gaping hole beneath her heart. An errant bullet. They said it was gang violence. There was nothing the doctors could do. The noise the girl’s mother made, when her daughter stopped responding, was unlike anything you’ve heard to this day. It haunts you.

Violence always circled you. Kisaki tamed it to his ends. Hanma craved it. The other boys in Toman mocked and conquered it. But, for you, it had been a hypothetical. Something you chastised and then promptly forgot.

Confronted with the collateral damage up close, your entire self-concept shattered. How many parents had seen their children brutalized because of the Tokyo Manji gang? Maybe most victims weren’t on the cusp of their sixth birthdays, but everyone was a precious child to their parents. Had your brother ever pulled the trigger and rended someone’s flesh apart? Had Hanma ever delivered a punch too strong and chased the light from a person’s eyes? Had their customers ever OD’d on amphetamines, their families not learning their fate for days?

Making the choice to leave it all behind was not easy, but the winter holidays came and passed without your return to Tokyo. You didn’t cut Kisaki out altogether – he would have made that impossible – but he visited you in Kyoto exclusively. When the job offer came to work as a pharmaceutical scientist in Shanghai after graduation, you left without a backward look.

But how to explain this to Hanma now? Fights, bikes, liquor, and girls were about the only things that excited him when you were young. Since then, he’s become even more entrenched in organized crime. His hands are drenched in blood. Your conscientious objections won’t mean anything to him. Especially now, after six years of no explanation for your disappearance.

“Sounds like everything worked out the way it was meant to. I’m doing what I always wanted, and so are you,” you say, projecting confidence in your voice and words, even as your hands tear apart the fraying ends of your sweatshirt.

Hanma rolls his eyes. “Stop fidgeting and sit down.”

You immediately join him on the bed. Listen to Hanma. He’ll look out for you. A half-second delay could mean a bullet. That’s what your brother drove into your head like a mantra. It is instinct to obey.

“Kisaki brags to anyone who will listen about how successful you are,” Hanma says blandly. “I know you graduated with honors and that your company’s a big deal, but not much else. Do mad scientists have friends these days?”

You smile a bit at the mad scientist descriptor, a shared joke from the past. “A few friends. The language barrier makes it tricky. I spend most of my time in the lab, and my Mandarin is passable enough for the rare work conversation, but making real friends is challenging. There’s a pretty big Japanese expatriate community here, so I sometimes go out to the bars and meet people from back home that way.”

“Pick up a lot of men at these expat bars?”

“Excuse me?”

It’s not a lot of men.

“Too ashamed to answer, hmm? What will dear brother say?” Hanma sneers, eyes mean in the periphery. He hasn’t even angled his body towards you.

“What about you? Fucked many virgins lately?” you challenge spitefully.

“There it is,” Hanma hisses, and now he does look at you. You wish he didn’t because his gaze is even meaner than you expected. “And here I thought you’d play demure all night.”

“I’m not tiptoeing around it, Hanma! Yes, last time I saw you, we had…sex. Did you travel all this way just to check if I’d suffered from a bout of memory loss?”

You were Kisaki’s cherished little sister. Throughout high school, you didn’t have a single boyfriend, a single date. No one was brave enough to cross your brother and his penchant for enduring vendettas. For two years, Hanma shadowed your every step, and in that time, he didn’t so much as brush your shoulder unless it was absolutely necessary.

The manufactured distance crackled with tension. You’d lose focus in the library, imagining how easy it would be to cross that invisible barrier and touch his hand – just a pinky to his – while he flipped boredly through a magazine at your side. Train rides were hell and nirvana in one, the pulsing crowds pressing you close but never close enough. He’d always insist you finish his boba tea, and your whole body would thrum as your lips wrapped around the same straw he’d just used, wet from his saliva covered by the pink of your lipstick. An indirect kiss was all you could have.

It was the most erotic foreplay of your life.

On the night before you left for university, the tension finally buckled under the weight of your desire, and you let Hanma fuck you in your childhood bed. Beady-eyed stuffed animals were the only witnesses to your transgression, your pleasure, your first ever.

“Oh, I know you didn’t forget it,” Hanma says in a voice like gravel.

In these past years, you may not have lived as a celibate, but you are nowhere near worldly enough not to heat up when there is a handsome man on your bed, talking about fucking you. Even in the past tense.

You feel hyper aware of your body in relation to his. He has at least twenty centimeters on you, the crown of your head comes level below his chin. The warmth of his shoulder – a shoulder you once kissed – bleeds through your sweatshirt. The material of his pants is taut, like the muscles are flexed, below the obscene spread of his thighs. He looms too large for your hole-in-the-wall bedroom, your life, you.

Through a dry mouth that you manage, “It was six years ago, Hanma. It’s not exactly front of mind for me.”

“Why do I doubt that? Saying you’ve had better since?” Hanma purrs.

“Because you’re an asshole,” you answer. “Besides, I’m not the one who’s travelled across international borders to come knocking on your door. Sounds like you’re the one who can’t forget me.”

You nearly jolt out of your skin when his hand comes down, solid and absurdly large on your thigh. His fingers spread across your bare skin, settling on the shadow cast by your shorts.

“And what if you’re right? What if I haven’t forgotten how sweetly you mewled for me when I split you open on my cock. You had no idea what you were doing, did you? But you were so eager to learn however I liked it, hmmm?”

“Don’t! You shouldn’t talk like that.”

No man has ever spoken to you like this but Hanma. Even before you slept together, he was the most vulgar person you knew. Half the dirty words in your vocabulary were originally overheard from him. You wouldn’t have guessed that hearing those same words whispered in your ear would light your body up like a firecracker.

“Why not? I have regrets about the past. Maybe I came all this way to clear the air? You wouldn’t deny me closure, would you?” Hanma questions, condescending.

“That’s not…still…I…”

Looking directly into your eyes, Hanma unveils the words that destroy you, “If I’d known you were going to disappear for six years, I would have done so much more with your pretty, little body while I had it.”

Each word lands like a blow because you live with that same regret too.

On countless nights, you pet yourself over your panties wondering about what might have been had you only been more selfish. You would push away the longing with a reminder of your many good reasons, but all this time later, whenever you fantasize, your thoughts always visit Hanma first.

Those good reasons feel oddly distant as you whisper back, “Like what?”

“So many things, princess. To start, I’d have taught you how to choke on my dick and keep it down even as your throat starts to spasm. I hate thinking about all the nice men who might have ruined you, told you that you don’t have to try to take it deep, that just slurping at the head is enough. It’s not, baby girl, and I would have shown you how to do it right.”

Hanma’s fingers are not idle on your thigh, massaging the smooth skin, creeping slowly inward, like you might not notice, like you might spook if you do.

“What else?”

“Cumming once was a mistake. I would have been sure to cum a couple more times so I could remember what you look like with your tits painted, with my cum smearing your pretty makeup, stuffing it deep inside you. Probably would have taken hours to have you dripping in it enough for my liking. Do you remember where I came, beautiful?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Here,” Hanma says firmly, and he draws his hand up from your thigh to the top of your mound and lower belly where he’d pulled out and spilled himself.

“What else?”

“What else? Greedy girl,” Hanma laughs.

Next thing you know, Hanma draws you up to straddle his lap, chest barely skimming his. Your legs stretch impossibly wide to accommodate the spread of his thighs. They burn in a way that you feel in your cunt. You’re not sure when it started, but you become aware all at once that you’re soaking wet and must have been for some time.

Fingers tickle up your sides, beneath your sweatshirt, as Hanma muses, “It was your first time, and I treated you right, didn’t I? Took you nice and gentle, kissed your pretty moans away and made sure you could take it.”

He might be overstating quite how gentle it was. Most girls probably didn’t lose their virginity in five different positions over the course of a non-stop hour of fucking, but he could have certainly been rougher, so you nod.

“Exactly, I treated you so fucking nice for your first time. But for your second? Your third?” Hanma shakes his head deliberately. “I would have treated my experienced, little pussy the way it needed. Give your cervix a little kiss baby, just like those pouty lips. Leave you covered in bites, so you don’t forget who touched you first. Have you begging for it.”

Your hips buck forward, and you dissolve the distance between you both with a messy kiss. You moan before your lips even touch, and his tongue wastes no time in sweeping over your lower lip and inside. It is shameful how you rut your hips against air, how you launch yourself into the kiss without a hint of subtlety or reserve.

Winding your hands around his neck, you scratch at the shaved-short hair at his nape. A moment later, you stroke his cheek, then tug his curls. You want to touch every part of him, confirmation that he is really here, the man you remember.

As you dissolve into some kind of animal on top of him, Hanma remains composed. His teeth nip and suck on your lips until you cede the pace to him. He cups your face in his hands, maintaining the infuriating distance between you both. With little effort, he wrests control from you, taking sovereignty over your body.

“Hanma, I need –” your pleas trail off as every word takes you away from his tongue, mouth, lips, and you can’t stand to be separated.

Hanma breaks the kiss. “If you want more, stop trying to hump my cock and look at me.”

Your hips make one more abortive slide before you still, looking at him with eyes blown wide with lust. You’ve barely done anything and already his imperious gangster image is ruined: lips red, glasses askew, hair in ruins. Beneath it all is the only man who’s ever made you cum so hard you cried. Overwhelmed, you try to kiss him again on instinct, and he pulls you back sharply by the hair.

“Good girl,” he praises, only after you finally still.

The way he looks at you encourages, no demands, confession, and you find yourself digging deep for some offering you can make to satisfy that interested look in his eyes. You would do anything to keep his apathy from before at bay.

“I’ve thought about you so many times,” you admit quietly. “Before I left, for months I thought about what I could do to make you want me back. I stopped wearing a bra for like three weeks that last summer. I kept purposefully dropping things just so that I could bend over and pick them up.”

Hanma hums, pleased. He rewards you by palming a tit, molding and twisting it in an unforgiving grip.

“I remember you flashing your tits at me. Thought you were the world’s biggest fucking tease, making your bodyguard hard on duty and leaving him unsatisfied.”

“I wanted you to touch me,” you almost whine.

“Where? On your pretty titties? Show me,” he orders.

There is no sexy way to pull a sweatshirt off, but you are braless beneath, just like in your memories of that summer. You direct Hanma’s hands straight to your exposed skin, pressing forward so that you fill his palms. He has eyes only for your naked breasts, massaging and kneading them expertly. Firm hands wring from your eager body bursts of electricity that slick your panties even more.

Hanma’s voice is low in your ear. “You didn’t need to tease me at that point. I’d wanted to bend you over the nearest surface and show you what my pussy was good for for months by that point. But your nii-chan wouldn’t have liked that, would he? A little too interested in keeping his imouto pure and sweet for him. A little too eager to see your hard nipples press through your shirts.”

“Don’t!”

You rear back within his lap in alarm at the turn in conversation. The disrespectful way he addressed Kisaki, the…implication. It disgusts you. You want to run far from it. But Hanma’s hands are suddenly on your hips, slamming you directly against him even as you try to break free.

“What? It’s the truth. You’re not going to pretend that wasn’t part of you moving away, are you? Your dear stepbrother became just a bit too present after you turned eighteen and your dad died.”

“Shut up or I’ll leave,” you hiss. The subject is untouchable, and you’ll walk away with soaking panties before you stay for it.

“Ahh, and here I thought you were my good girl,” Hanma laughs. He yanks you forward roughly by the back of your neck. One hand stays secured there, so that your foreheads are touching, and the other starts to tweak your nipple. It hurts, and he means it to. “Personally, it just made popping that virgin pussy all the sweeter. Knowing how much the boss man would have hated it. Me corrupting his angelic imouto.”

The pain from your nipple transforms into something else, something worse. Because even though he hasn’t shut up fully about Kisaki, your hips have started rolling again, seeking something big and hot and hard to anchor you. His cock is a hard line in his pants and perfect for your needs, but the way your legs are spread, you can’t quite reach it, and the best sparks come from when you manage to rut your clit helplessly against his stomach through all your combined layers of clothing. Hopeless, in other words.

His grip on your neck hasn’t loosened at all, keeping you in place. You realize you like the way it keeps you at his mercy. You also like the way your mouths meet again in a slick slide, and the way he’s started rubbing your still smarting nipple firmly. Even more the way his wet mouth feels encasing it a moment later. His glasses are tossed to the side, so that he can bury his face between your tits, sucking, flicking, nipping. All as you tug at his hair and leave love bites up and down his neck.

By the time he pulls back, you’re on fire, and your tits are just as inflamed.

“Maybe I did too good a job corrupting you? Turned you into a worthless slut, so needy for cock, she’ll go out hunting for it,” Hanma muses in a voice that is crystal clear even as you are in freefall.

“What?” You manage to protest in confusion. You try to reach out and stroke his face, but he bats the hand away.

“Put your palms on your thighs and don’t move them,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

He lifts you up and repositions you, so that you sit sideways on his lap. A firm hand pushes you down. He is so tall that your feet can’t touch the floor.

From this position, it’s a simple matter for him to yank your shorts and panties down in one go.

You are now completely naked, while Hanma is still dignified in a suit and tie. The difference in your status is clear and degrading. Legs pressed together, a tremor of wanton friction pulses through you.

“Spread your legs,” Hanma bites out with a slap to the peak of your breast.

Like all his other orders, you gasp at the treatment but comply without thinking. There’s a moment where he sucks his own fingers, and then they’re slipping down to probe your slit, a knuckle testing and teasing your clit out of hiding. You moan at the barest hint of contact and bury your burning face in his neck.

“See how wet you are? Would a good girl be this soaked at a near stranger showing up to her apartment and treating her like a whore?”

Hanma spreads your folds wide open and rubs his whole palm across your cunt, spreading the wetness from one thigh to another, crossing your clit in the process. It proves his point and more. He has such a heavy hand, large enough that no sweet spot goes unpressed.

“I asked you a question,” Hanma warns.

You find your voice. “No, Hanma. A good girl wouldn’t be this wet.”

Despite giving him the answer he demanded, Hanma doesn’t look happy. He’s frowning as two fingers drive harshly into your pussy. You squirm, trying to adjust because it’s been many months since anything but your own fingers breached your opening. Hanma is unmoved by your struggles. After all, you’re moaning even as your body chases after his forcefulness, trying to stretch enough to accept him probing so deeply inside of you.

“When I last saw you, you were still a good girl, but now? How many fuckers have you let touch my pussy, hmm? One? Two? A hundred?” A snarl breaks across Hanma’s face, the unaffected mask cracking apart.

“Just a couple,” you mumble.

Whack! Three quick strikes to your pussy from the hand not buried inside you makes you squeal.

“That’s a couple too many, slut,” Hanma hisses.

His fingers piston inside of you viciously. You clench tighter when you realize he uses his hand branded for punishment. You scramble to keep your legs spread against the instinct to close them and protect yourself. Your hands cling to his shoulders. He kisses you like he means to sear you from the inside, and you submit helplessly to his treatment. The room temperature has skyrocketed, and you sweat against his suit.

“Please, please, please, please,” you wail into an open-mouthed kiss.

“Please, what?”

“Want you to fill my pussy,” you gasp.

“There’s just one problem, pretty girl. I don’t know what you mean by your pussy. I feel my pussy right here, tight and wet on just two of my fingers,” and here he curls them inside along your top walls to really drive the point home. “But I don’t see any pussy here that belongs to you.”

“Oh!”

Cat-like, predatory eyes bore into your face as he observes your reaction to this declaration of possession. His fingers continue to dip inside you, but now they pump shallowly, denying you what you need. He wants you to respond, to cede ownership of part of your body over to him.

His pussy. Mortifying. Degrading. Objectifying. Your brain supplies the adjectives, and your pussy flutters madly to reveal your true feelings. Correction: his pussy.

Sitting up, you lick at the seam of his mouth, coaxing him into a long, wet kiss. One hand braces against his chest for support. The other skims his ear, tugs at his earring. It earns you Hanma’s first noise of pleasure. A sincere gasp, rasping into your open mouth. You pulse at the power to please him. You do it again just to watch him flush.

“Please, Hanma. Would you please fill up your pussy?” you whimper into the kiss.

A wolf-like smile makes you question if that was a terrible mistake, but you can’t recant. Hanma stands abruptly, tossing you onto your back with hips dangling over the edge of the bed.

Hanma settles himself on his knees in front of you. Buzzing with excitement, you sit up to watch him. This would be a first for you together.

A stinging slap to your clit makes you cry out.

“Lay back and stay there. This is about me getting reacquainted with my pussy after all these years. You just lie there and don’t interrupt me,” Hanma orders. “And keep your legs open too, while you’re at it. Wide as they go.”

Ignoring your muscles’ protests, you spread out obscenely before him, hips canted up in offering. It puts you on display. You want to impress him with how well you can obey.

Despite your efforts, Hanma is hellbent on ignoring you…or, at least, any part of you north of your mound. He peels your lips apart with two fingers, so that he can peer closely at your pussy. His breath ghosts over you. It’s impossible not to squirm, but you know that will earn another slap.

“Shit, I’ve missed my perfect pussy,” he says. “Every bit pretty as I remember it. Wonder if you taste as sweet as you look.”

A slow, wet lick from asshole to clit. Another. He tongues your clit back and forth, until it swells impossibly red with blood. A pinch makes it even more pronounced. His lips close around the nub, sealing it.

Then, he sucks.

It’s too much at once. Your hips try to fly upwards, but his grip locks you firmly in place. He doesn’t stop sucking. Your arms flail reflexively, and you cry out around a clenched fist.

Are you more thankful or disappointed when he finally releases your clit and moves down to your opening? Hanma’s tongue is soft and easy in comparison to taking his fingers earlier. Your body accepts it thankfully, pulsing when his nose brushes against your little bruised clit. He swirls around your entrance, flicks playfully back up, probes the rim of your asshole, teases your hood. You can do nothing but mewl and moan as he familiarizes himself with every centimeter of your sex.

When he pulls back after several minutes, his face is drenched. You’re so worked up. You think you’ll come hard enough to pass out if he only nudges your clit again. That fate is avoided when instead, three fingers work their way into your slit, scissoring and spreading you wide for him. Your pussy is drooling, juices flowing down his wrist.

“Your cunt,” you whisper.

“Fuck!”

You are left empty as Hanma stands up. The fingers that were moments before in your cunt are now filling your mouth. They push your tongue flat and enter your throat. Surprise more than pain makes you squeal and choke. They’re heady with the taste of your own juices, and you soon relax and suck on them greedily.

“That’s fucking right. My cunt. So, tell me. Who do you think you are to have kept my cunt from me all these years?” Hanma growls, forcing his fingers deeper like he means to reach through to your stomach.

You can only gargle in response.

“Should I fuck my pussy? Is that what you want? Yes or no?”

It’s a rhetorical question as Hanma uses a grip on your hair to force a nod of agreement. Tears are welling up at the intrusion in your throat, but your focus is split on the tingling of your clit at the idea of finally having him fill you.

“If you want it, use your words.”

With his fingers choking you, there’s no way for you to articulate even the simplest sentence, and he knows it. You feel pathetic. Desperate. Slutty. Now, you let the tears spill down in earnest.

The sight of you crying softens Hanma, though not enough to lessen the pressure of his fingers.

“Do you need help coming up with the words, baby? You should just say so. I’ll help you. Say, ‘please fuck your tight, pretty pussy, sir’. Say, ‘please sir, please use your pussy however you like. It’s missed you too.’”

He waits for you expectantly. Knowing it’s a hopeless case, you still try. Repeating the words exactly as he intended them. Nothing close to a recognizable word comes out of your throat. Instead, you emit muffled vowel sounds and some high-pitched keening.

Hanma surprises you by pulling his spit-soaked fingers from your throat and wiping them against your cheek.

“Good girl, begging for it so nicely,” he murmurs. “Lay down further up the bed, but keep your legs spread. I’ll take care of you.”

It is an easy instruction to follow. You move so your head rests on the pillow and once more strain your thighs wide. Meanwhile, Hanma finally takes off his suit.

You expect him to just spear you on his cock now that it’s finally making an appearance, but instead, he lowers himself on top of you and rests it on your pussy lips. Hanma kisses you slowly, hands on either side of your head. You love this position because it lets you touch so much of him: his hair, shoulders, the long stretch of his naked back, the earring that he left on. He allows you to stroke and pet at every piece of him you can reach.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“I want you, Hanma. I want you.”

“Then, put me inside that little hole.”

Reaching between your bodies, you find his cock. You can’t see it, but it feels big and heavy in your hands. Wet and hard from all the foreplay. When you line him up with your cunt, there’s a moment of sting and then he’s sheathed inside. Your body accepts him without any real resistance.

His cock fits so well that you think there’s some truth to calling it his pussy.

After a long moment of just relishing the feeling of being joined, Hanma rises up on his arms for the leverage to push back inside. Short, slow strokes start to take you up the mountain of pleasure. With all the build up, it won’t take you long to cum. Especially sinful is the feeling of his stomach pressing into your clit with every downward thrust. A steady stream of moans muffle into his neck.

Everything feels so good, and you want to return the favor. You do your best to return each thrust with an upward cant of your hips, meeting him like a welcomed guest. Simultaneously, you part from his lips so that you can bite and lick your way down the column of his throat. He sighs and grunts whenever your teeth scrape against a sensitive vein. Your hands keep busy as well, scratching gently up and down his back or tickling the shell of his ear. It feels like every bit of you, inside and out, is covered in him.

A particularly well-angled thrust makes you keen.

“Tell me when you’re going to cum,” Hanma orders. His eyes are sealed tight, like the furnace of your cunt is burning him.

“Soon,” you whimper. “Your cock feels so good inside me. It’ll be soon.”

“Of course, it feels good. My pussy was made to squeeze my dick just right like that.” Your walls flutter around his length, and Hanma smirks as he feels lit. “My pussy seems to like the sound of my voice.”

“Yes, Hanma. I like it when you talk to me,” you whisper a bit shyly.

He laughs and places a brief kiss to your clavicle. “What do you want to hear, baby girl? That feeling your nipples scratching my chest makes me wild? That I love watching those needy expressions you make as I fill you up? Or how about that I love the way my pussy grips my dick so tight, like it never wants me to leave? It’s fucking drowning my cock, and we’ve barely gotten started.”

The sweet and sour of his words works you up into something carnal and desperate. Pleasure is building inside of you, and you just barely remember to tell Hanma that you’re cumming before –

A noise too ugly to replicate rips from your throat when you find yourself suddenly empty, your orgasm slipping away unsatisfied. Hanma sits up on his knees, stroking his cock, while he watches the way your hole clenches and spasms around nothing.

“Did you think I’d let you cum just like that?” At your enraged expression, he chuckles. Quickly his mirth dies down and is replaced with the mean look you recognize from when you were talking before. “Six years. You took my pussy from me for six fucking years. Not only that. You let other men have a taste of what’s mine. You think I’m just going to call you sweet names and fuck you like a good girl? You’re lucky if I don’t pound you numb, stuff you full of cum, and still leave you edged out and desperate.

“Hanmaaaaa,” you whine, only to stop when the hand tattooed ‘punishment’ slaps your thigh. It smarts, the hardest slap so far.

“Sir. Unless you want to find out just how pathetic I can make you, you’ll call me sir.”

In a bout of rebelliousness that borders on madness, you dare try to reach for and rub your clit. You’re still so close. Just a little bit of pressure, and you’re sure you can push over the edge.

Predictably, Hanma looks furious at your defiance.

“If you want to act like a fucking brat, I’ll treat you like one,” he sneers.

He bats your hand away and lays you over his knee. Stomach down and ass up. You’re surprised when, instead of spanking you, three fingers reenter your pussy. Surprise quickly turns to agony when he sets a brutal, fast-paced rhythm in your cunt.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” you wail, the words drowned out by the squelching of your cunt.

“Is this what you wanted? You asked me to use my pussy right, didn’t you?” Hanma demands, yanking your hair and forcing eye contact with his unforgiving expression.

“Yes, please, sir. Please make me cum,” you babble like a mantra. Building another orgasm takes longer without any pressure on your clit, but he fingers you in a way that overwhelms and promises an even more all-encompassing orgasm in return.

Your pussy clenches down once, twice on his fingers, and then he tosses you to the side like touching you is disgusting. Misery contorts your face at yet another orgasm denied you. You think if he continues like this all night, you’ll lose your mind and start praying for him to fuck you like a good girl again.

Thoughts of your own miserable situation are cut short because this time he’s forcing your neck over the edge of the bed, standing behind you. His cock knocks at your lips. He is red and hard and beautiful, so it’s only natural to open wide for him.

There is no teasing lick up the shaft, no kiss to the slit, no build up at all. Without warning, Hanma presses his hips forward and drives straight down to the back of your throat. Like he guessed earlier, all your past lovers were respectful, never pushing to where you’d gag, so your throat is completely inexperienced as he batters it cruelly. Panicking, you make the mistake of trying to press against his thighs. In retaliation, Hanma traps your hands with his and starts a devastating pace with his hips.

“Take it, you little slut, take it,” Hanma growls.

The fear that you won’t be able to take it has fat tears slipping down your cheeks. There’s no mercy as each hard thrust pushes deep. Whenever your throat tightens to reject him, Hanma just pierces through it, making you gag and cry harder. Every other thrust ends with your nose buried in his crotch and his balls blocking your nose. Instinct tells you to fight for air or something awful will happen, and your legs kick desperately against the sheets.

Completely buried inside you, Hanma stops and holds you there for a long moment. The hand not occupied with holding you down rubs along your throat where his dick is visibly bulging. Just when you think there’s no hope, you’re released for a quick gasp of air. Spit pools out of your mouth in a long line to the floor. All of it is collected and slapped onto Hanma’s dick. Then, it returns to abuse your throat some more.

“I can’t believe you let anyone else see you like this,” Hanma says venomously. “I can tell no one ever used your throat properly, and now I have no other choice but to show you what your mouth is made for. If you’d only stayed, I could have taken the time to train your throat slowly, but you’ve had six years to prepare, angel. Not my fault you wasted them, and now you’re choking on my cock.”

You whimper at his continued anger. If you could take it all back, you’d never so much as kiss another man. It wasn’t worth Hanma’s disappointment in you.

“I’m going to let go of your hands now, but only so you can pinch your nipples. If you use them for anything else, to try to push me away or rub my cunt, I’m going to make you regret it,” Hanma warns.

The threat is enough to cow you. Even though your body urges you to press against his thighs, you instead take your nipples between thumb and forefinger and tug. A shocked moan escapes you at just how good it feels, and it vibrates all the way up to Hanma who moans as well. With the threat of passing out on his cock so imminent, you’ve been able to ignore that your clit is still needy and pulsing. Every tweak of your nipples shoots straight to your neglected pussy. It makes you mewl with want.

Slowly, you stop hating Hanma for breaking in your throat and instead long for him to use you even more. If you pleasure him the way he wants, he might again reward you with a touch of his long fingers.

Every downward thrust still makes you gag and flail, but now when he pulls back, you try to sweep your tongue along the shaft to pleasure him. The breaks between explorations of your throat lengthen, so now you can suck at the tip before each return of his cock.

“Keep that up, sweetheart. I thought all those other men ruined you, but it seems like you still know how to follow directions. Maybe my good girl is still in there,” Hanma encourages.

Teary-eyed, around a mouth stuffed with cock, you actually smile.

Hanma’s hips stutter. “But then again…that looks like the face of a cock hungry slut. Makes me think you still need to be punished to remember who that pussy belongs to. What do you think?

The bludgeon in your throat is removed, and you gasp and cough desperately at the sudden return of a steady airflow. It takes nearly a half minute for you to catch your breath. Thick strings of your saliva smear across your lips, nose, and eyes. Hanma gives you space to calm your panicked nerves, only occasionally letting his dick slap against your cheek to entertain himself.

He’s awaiting an answer, so you summon up the air to force out a broken reply, “Whatever you want, sir. It’s your pussy.”

Hanma’s lips part, eyes laser-focused on your needy, spit-soaked face. Something close to a feeling of power rejuvenates you. You can affect him, too.

“Why don’t you prove to me that you’re still a good girl, then? Show me you still remember how to ride my cock, and I’ll decide what you deserve from there.”

Over the years, you relived losing your virginity to Hanma a couple hundred times, so you don’t strain to remember what he taught you:

1.      Let him relax completely.

2.      Give him a show.

3.      Starting slow is fine, but he wants to see just how greedy you are for his cock. Convince him you want it.

Hanma settles back like a king awaiting tribute. His body is sleek, long lines of defined muscle. So focused on the needs of your cunt, you only now appreciate the beautiful view of the man before you.

“Sir, would you prefer to watch my tits or my ass?” you ask demurely.

“What a good question,” Hanma says, eyes dancing in amusement. “Come sit on my cock facing me.”

Knees on either side of his hips, you line up your bodies and sink down on top of him. Both of you wear matching expressions of bliss at being joined again. You rock your hips experimentally a few times. Once certain his cock is snug and secure, you lean back to brace your arms on his thighs. Using your abdominals, you undulate on top of him. Hanma’s eyes glue immediately to the way your stomach dances and tightens. The penetration is a bit shallow, but it lets him see every centimeter of his cock disappear and reappear inside of you.

“Can I touch my clit, sir?”

“Who’s clit, slut?”

“Sorry, your clit, sir,” you correct quickly.

He allows it and you snake a hand down to part your clitoral hood and show him how red you are for him. You rub and stroke less with your pleasure in mind than to give him the show he demands.

It’s a tiring position, so you don’t stay for long, shifting forward, so that your hands balance on his chest instead. Now, he watches the way your tits jiggle and sway as your bodies collide. The sight breaks him from his lethargy, a hand stroking and pinching your nipple meanly. You squeal in delight at how the pleasure-pain enhances the slide of his cock inside of you. Delicious.

Having absolute control over the pace, angle, and depth of penetration almost makes you complacent. Smiling and fuck drunk on his cock. It would be so easy to stay like this and ride him to a well-earned orgasm. But you know that would amount to failure. You want to be a good girl more than you want to cum at this point.

Rising up into a squat, you start to ride his cock in earnest. Recalling his past lessons, you set a murderous pace, bouncing in his lap until your muscles strain and sweat slicks down your back. You lift one tit as high as it will go and try to lick and suck on the nipple; it’s a pathetic effort with your tongue barely sweeping it, but he growls at the sight.

“Does this feel good, sir?” you plead, biting your lip and keeping unwavering eye contact.

“Mmhmm, my cunt’s so tight and wet, but you must be getting tired, sweetheart. Don’t you want to slow down? Or maybe, I can take over? What do you think?”

You recognize a challenge when you see one. A trap. Furious, you find the energy to fuck yourself down even faster, barely encompassing the tip before driving back up. You’ll ride him until your legs give out if that’s what it takes to make him recognize you again.

He doesn’t help you at all, resting his hands behind his head and just watching your body manically bounce in his lap. Your eyes screw up at the exertion. The show at this point is just that of your stubbornness.

“No, well if you’re not tired,” Hanma teases.

“I’m not tired, sir,” you pant, completely out of breath. “I’m desperate for your cock. I can’t get enough of it.”

A wet finger rubbing your clit almost knocks you off your rhythm. Unlike your little pets before, Hanma is rubbing hard and steady, like he wants you to shatter for him. It feels too delicious, like only a sin can. And, sure enough, it’s his left hand masturbating you.

“I love watching your tits bounce like that,” Hanma admits lowly. “You’re squeezing me so good, working so hard.”

“I’m riding your cock the way you like it, sir?” you plead, like if you don’t get the affirmation, it might kill you.

“Somewhere, inside the pathetic slut that whored out my pussy, I think my good girl is still there,” Hanma cooed. “A little more deprogramming to rid you of all those worthless men from your past, and I think you’ll be able to satisfy me.”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” you all but scream at the barest hint of praise.

You tighten up impossibly around him and his questing fingers. Finally, it’s happening. The orgasm you’ve been denied. You love his hands. You love his dick. You love his tongue. You love him! You love anything and all things Hanma, and you always have.

That is until you’re tossed aside again.

This time, you positively collapse into the sheets and start blabbering madly. “I can’t take it. I can’t. Sir, please. Sir, please. I can’t do it anymore. I need to come. Please let me come. I’ll do anything. I’ll make you come. Please, please, please. Help me.”

Hanma doesn’t laugh at your pitiful state. He’s worked up at this point too, balls heavy and drawn tight.

“Begging’s a start, slut, but I still can’t forgive you. You say anything you want, but what can you offer me to offset six years of fucking my fist and thinking about your cute little face? What’s going to make up for all the nights I came, and your tongue wasn’t there to lick it up? Maybe in six years I’ll let you cu–”

“No, sir, please!” you wail.

Your pussy is edged past reason, just pulsing madly for something to fill it. Hanma fights you off as you try to mount him again. Dismissively, he flips you onto your stomach with legs forced together.

If you can’t overpower him and take what you want, your only other option is to convince him. At this point, you’d say anything and everything. The magic combination of words is out there, if only you can stumble across them.

“I promise I’ll never touch another man again. I promise. I understand now. It’s your pussy, just yours. You can have it whenever, wherever, however you like, and I’ll just shut up and take it. I promise. Please, sir. Fuck me however you like. Use me to come. Please, anything!”

Your broken state doesn’t move Hanma, who argues, “But it’s already my pussy. You’re not offering me anything new.”

Still, he climbs on top of you and slides his cock back into your pussy. Hard cock pushes impossibly deep inside you. If you weren’t already blubbering, this position would have reduced you to it. His body covers yours completely. You feel entirely dominated, helpless and owned. Hanma’s hips barely rut against your ass, because if he thrust in earnest you would cum on the spot.

“Not just my pussy,” you mewl, desperate that he begin moving. “My throat, too. It’s yours, sir. Just yours. You can throat fuck me whenever you want.”

A sharp thrust makes you moan with joy.

“Face fuck my throat whenever I want, huh? Wake you up with my cock slapping your face in the morning? Send you to work with my load in your belly? A slut like you does need to be used hard and well in all her holes,” Hanma pants. There’s nothing unaffected about his voice at this point, growling each word into your ear. He’s thrusting hard now too, each slow pump hitting your g-spot and making you spasm.

“Yes, yes, yes! All my holes…slut like me needs…use all holes, sir…throat…pussy…virgin asshole…your asshole, please!”

Somehow through the indistinguishable babble, Hanma picks out the key information and yanks your head back by your hair, so that you peer up at his face.

“All your holes belong to me? That’s what you’re promising? You’re giving me each of your tight little holes to play with, slut?”

“Yes, sir. They’re all yours.”

It’s the final piece of the puzzle.

Hanma fucks into his cunt like he plans to destroy it. So deep and fast that your head spins as you collapse back into the mattress. Fuck drunk, you offer up every part of yourself to him in a litany of broken Japanese with no consideration of the consequences. You want him to own you.

The pressure inside you breaks in an outpouring of screams and juices. You cum. The arc of pleasure signals every part of your body to seize and shake.

Having edged you to the point of distraction, your orgasm doesn’t crest and end. Instead, it keeps pulsing through you. The unforgiving squeeze of your cunt almost pushes Hanma out, but he won’t allow that. He grips your hips tight ands spears you through it, which only lengthens the sensations.

Stars burst behind your eyelids and don’t go away when you open them again. There’s a ringing in your ears that drowns out everything from your moans to the sound of Hanma’s snapping hips. Robbed of two of your senses, you’re left dumb and broken.

You are reduced to a pile of quivering legs and twitching clit.

After a few minutes, the fog of cumming wears down. Your brain takes stock of until now ignored sensations. Your throat is bone dry and wretched from all your screaming. The strain from riding him earlier has your legs weak, all but useless. Most of all, you become cognizant of just how deeply Hanma’s cock is piercing you. It batters your cervix viciously, and you start to cry out weakly at the pain.

“Please, Hanma, I can’t take it anymore. You’re too deep,” you whimper against the onslaught.

“Yes, you can, baby. My pussy was made to take my cock all the way just like this. You can take it, and you will,” Hanma groans. There’s something faraway in his voice, like his brain is in another realm; he’s chasing his orgasm just like you now.

“But you’re just so big, and your pussy’s so small,” you protest again.

“Fuck, so fucking small,” Hanma agrees.

It spurs him on to fuck you even faster. His hips pins your down completely, so there’s no room to escape the deep thrusts that are hellbent on breaking you in two.

There is nothing to do but take the pounding.

Overwhelmed, your legs start shaking and don’t stop. To muffle your cries, you claw and biting at the crumpled sheets. Harder thrusts make your whole body bob upwards like a limp doll. It’s a fitting description because he owns all your holes and favors them like one might a beloved toy.

“I’m going to – fuck!” Hanma growls.

Hanma yanks you up by the neck, which forces your chest off the mattress and your hips lower. Each thrust now rubs your sore clit against the sheets, and your cries take on a new edge of carnality. How easily pain transforms into a careening pleasure that crosses your eyes and slicks the cock between your thighs.

“Beg me to use your pussy even if it hurts. Beg me to fill you up even as you cry,” Hanma moans deeply into your ear.

The most sudden orgasm of your life robs you of the ability to speak, let alone process his words.

Hanma’s lost all control as well, spitting filth into your hair without taking a breath, “Greedy slut wants to use my cock to cum over and over again. You’re too fuck drunk to beg, pretty girl? This cock killed every last brain cell in that pretty head. But don’t worry, I know your cunt is hungry for it. I’ll feed you. Fill you up nice and full. Plug you up so you don’t let it go to waste. Come on, baby, tell me you want my fucking cum.”

“Wan-it-syah,” you gargle.

The gush of your pussy one last time is the final trigger. Hanma’s hips ram hard into your ass and stay there, stuttering. He cums with a long moan, like he didn’t expect your pussy to wring something so powerful from him.

As promised, his load fills you. It feels hot and wet and like you were made to carry it inside you.

Collapsing, Hanma’s weight crushes you further down. Lips find your neck to press a flurry of kisses there. Now that you face the prospect of him pulling out, you no longer mind the pierce of your cervix, humping back a few times to try to milk just a little more from him. He isn’t wrong when he calls you greedy.

Only when completely soft does Hanma slip out of you, his load dripping out and wetting the sheets. He strokes your back languidly, and you wonder if he might not fall asleep on top of you.

“Don’t clean yourself up. I want to fuck your hole sloppy later,” Hanma orders without his usual energy.

Still obedient, when you roll out from under him, you clench your thighs to preserve as much of his cum as possible.

You want to say something to Hanma. He’s gazing curiously at your fucked out expression, and you want to comment on what you just shared. How wonderfully he has fulfilled all your fantasies and expectations dating back the better part of a decade. How terribly you’ve missed him. How you hope he never lets you leave again, knows what’s best for you.

The last hour has been so overwhelming, however, that you can’t remember how people find the energy to speak, let alone articulate something emotionally complicated. All you know is you want to be close to him. He permits it when you snuggle closer, face tucked into his chest.

The only sound in the room is Hanma humming gently as he strokes your hair.

Finally, you remember how to speak and can’t resist the most pressing question of all: “Am I your good girl, sir?”

“My good girl? You know, I don’t think so.”

Your gut sinks.

“You’re not my good girl. But my good whore? Now I think that sounds just right. Don’t you?”

"Here we are, madam," Armin spoke, his eyes met yours from the rearview mirror. It was obvious that he was having a hard time keeping his eyes away from your beautifully exposed chest and perky nipples showing through the dress. "Mr. Smith is waiting for you inside."

You thanked him and carefully got out of the car not letting your dress go even higher. As you entered the hotel where the party was being hosted, your eyes found your pretty CEO. Surrounded by his close friends Miche and Levi, he was laughing. He was wearing his brand new black Hermes set with a gold detailed Versace tie. Then he saw you, his whole expression changed. The bright, playful eyes turned into loving ones.

"My sunshine," he greeted you with open arms, calling you in. "She is finally here!"

You walked towards him. "Traffic hold me hostage!"

A little laugh escaped his lips as he hugged you. But his words were far far away from his laugh. "Why the fuck are you wearing that?"

You hugged him, hiding your surprised and sad face in his neck. "I-I thought you'd enjoy it..."

He let you go, fixed your hair a bit. Cupping your cheeks, he said: "We'll talk about it when we go home, okay? Now let's enjoy our party." And, uh, what a bastard he is, to put the smile back into your face, he added. "You're looking like a swan."

And the rest of the night was almost perfect. Erwin introduced you as "My cup of sunshine!" to his friends, co-workers, business partners. He complimented you, let others compliment you and he even let Miche steal you for the dance and touch your bareback with his enormous hands. He let Zeke kiss your hand which was decorated by the ring Erwin gave. Everything went smoothly.

And yet, here you were, in front of him. Couldn't even look at his face because of the humiliation and mockery he possessed in his eyes.

"Tell me, princess. Why did you wear that?" he asked, emphasizing the word 'that'.

"I'm sorry-"

Your head went to your right with the impact. Your left cheek was burning and you were in shock. Did he slap you?

"I'm not asking for your apology. I'm asking for the reason."

You lifted your head, eyes filled with fear. "I-"

Another slap. This one hurt more than the other. "Stop this fucking nonsense and answer me." His voice was calm, steady. It contained no anger or fury.

"I thought..." A tear left your eye, you wiped it with the back of your hand. "I thought y-you'd like it."

Another slap. "Did you get the note I sent with the dress? I remember putting it into the box myself. I even attached it to the dress with an anklet. Remember?"

"Yes."

Another slap, you fell onto the ground. "What did it say?"

A sob left your lips. "I-I don't..."

"You don't what, princess?" He kneeled down. He grabbed your chin, lifting it up and looking directly into your teary eyes. "Tell me."

" I don't remember!" You screamed it out. Humiliation now took over your body, making you ache in pain. It was also creating a pool between your legs. "I don't remember, Erwin! I'm so-"

Another slap. "You don't get to say my name tonight." He took his jacket off, then his tie, he threw both across the room. He talked as he rolled his sleeves up. “You don’t deserve to say my name with that whore mouth.”

He yanked your hair making you scream in pain, he slammed you into the wall. The photos fell down, shattered. His rough hands ripped the dress’ straps, making it fall onto the floor, pooling around your feet. “I bought this for my eyes. My pleasure.” He slapped your right breast harshly. “You are mine.” He pinched your cheeks together, making you open your mouth. “That’s what I wrote, stupid whore.” He spitted onto your tongue, it tasted like whiskey and cigar. Then he covered your mouth and your nose, not letting you breathe. “Swallow.”

You did as he said. How couldn’t you?

“Open your mouth, tongue out.” He let go of your mouth, wanted to see your mouth empty. You inhaled in relief, brain too hazy to understand anything. He slapped you again. “Open your fucking mouth.”

“Erwin!” You screamed with pain again.

He laughed and let your hair go, you fell down with the sudden movement. “Your stupid brain can’t understand a word I say, right?” He grabbed you by the neck, lifting your fragile body up. “What are you good for? Oh, right! Being a whore, now I remember.”

You grabbed his forearm, nails digging into his skin. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. You tried to push him away but he didn’t budge. The worst part wasn’t him being harsh with you. It was him being calm as usual, never shouting, never talking with clenched teeth. Even his damn expression was calm. His damn eyebrows weren’t furrowed. That scared you.

“Stop,” he said, pushing your hands away with a harsh move. You made his arms bleed a little. He looked at you unimpressed. “You never understand, do you?”

He took you to your shared bedroom, threw you onto the bed. You tried to get away, silly you, where could you go. Your makeup was a mess, mascara running down onto your cheeks as your tears left your eyes, painting your face black. Crying loudly, you screamed once more. “Please! Please don’t!” You tried to stop him. “Daddy please!”

He choked you, again, harsher this time. You held onto his arms, wishing he would let you breathe just once. Slammed your weak body into the mattress, he ripped your panties. “You’re begging me not to do anything, yet you’re soaking like a fucking slut.” Without warning, he pushed his thick middle and ring finger inside you. “See? You take my fingers like a slut too!” Amusement coated his tone. “You either want my fingers or my dick. You just want to be my pocket pussy, right, slut?” He was pounding into you like there was no tomorrow, wet noises filled the room. “Stupid whore.”

Your eyes rolled back. Everything was too much. Too much pleasure, too much pain, too little air. Your brain was shutting down slowly, you couldn’t think straight. You wanted to kiss him, wanted to beg him to fuck you with his huge cock. Wanted him to take you then and there, without preparation. Yet, the only thing you could do was to moan, like a stupid whore. His voice echoed in your brain. You got closer, his fingers curled inside you, finding that pretty spot. It was too much?

“You’re cumming already?” He mocked, his pace quickened. “You won’t. Hold it.”

Your fingernails once again found the little cuts they made previously, digging even harder as the pleasure built up. You were losing consciousness due to the lack of oxygen in your body. You couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold your orgasm, couldn’t stop him.

Erwin felt your orgasm before you. He pulled his hands away from you. “Open your legs. Ruin it. Don’t cum.”

You couldn’t.

The pleasure hit you, hit your body like a truck. With the sudden feeling of air coming into your lungs, your legs started trembling. Your whole body clenched, shaking like your vibrator Erwin bought you for your birthday. Your eyes snapped open and you felt something coming out of your cunt, wetting your legs, the bed and Erwin in front of you. You squirted.

“Fuck…” You heard Erwin cursing under his breath. His pants were soaking wet.

“D-Daddy...” You reached out for him, eyes barely functioning after the intense orgasm. “I-I’m sorry, I co-uldn’t hold it… I couldn't ruin it!”

He tsked. “Princess, what have you done?”

Your eyes filled with tears once again. You were slowly regaining your ability to think. “Daddy... I’m sorry…”

He sat next to you, pushed the hair from your face. “Shh, don’t talk…” He cupped your cheeks. “Maybe I was a bit too harsh for you.” He leaned down to kiss your puffy lips. “But you still need to be punished baby.”

Before you could protest, he spanked your clit.

“You were being a whore today.” Spank. “And you were also being a bad girl.” Spank. “You didn’t listen to me.” Spank. “But now,” Spank. “You’ll be cumming from this.”

You did. You didn’t know you could. But you did. And he didn’t stop.

“Daddy! S-Stop! I’ve come already” You tried to close your legs, the pleasure was turning into pain with each slap. “Can’t take it! Daddy I’m cumming!”

“Yes, babygirl,” He whispered. His eyes were locked into your, his pupils had expanded. “You’re cumming again. And you’ll be cumming again. And again. Until I’m done with you.”

“Daddy!”

His spanks became even faster and harder, hitting that sensitive bud throbbing in a mixture of pain and pleasure. When you opened your mouth to moan, he spitted onto your tongue once again. “Don’t swallow. Stick your tongue out, slut,” he said as his other hand caressed your hair. “Let yourself drool like a stupid whore.” His words, his actions… Everything was so complicated. Making you feel even more stupid.

After cumming another four times you were a drooling, dripping mess. You were lost your sight. Everything was spinning, the ceiling, Erwin in front of you, and you. Your breaths were unsteady, you couldn’t even hear your heartbeat because of its speed.

Erwin patted your cheek. “Don’t faint on me now, bitch.”

“D-Daddy…”

He smiled. “Shh, princess. I know.” His hands came down on your face to wipe your tears away. “I’m proud of you.” He kissed your forehead. “Now, I’m going to eat you out, ‘kay? I wanna taste my pretty pocket pussy.”

You squinted your eyes to see him. Your eyes filled with tears once again. Your makeup was already ruined and smudged into the sheets. “Please daddy! I can’t take-”

“Shut up, baby.” He stood up, got between your legs and pulled you towards his face. Erwin loved your pussy so much, he could live in there forever. He inhaled the heavenly scent and licked your slit, drinking everything you offered. “It’s my pussy and I chose to do whatever I want.”

You tried to push him, kick him away. Nothing worked. Erwin Smith, ate your pussy like it was his last day on earth. He ate your cum, drank your juices, sucked on your clit and fucked you with his tongue. His face was sweaty, his perfect hair stuck onto his forehead. His naked chin was now coated with your nectar. He made you cum again, leaving you breathless, sucking your soul out of your body. He made you cum, made you squirt onto his face. He was pussy drunk, couldn’t let you go. Couldn’t stop sucking your clit. He loved the way your legs trembled after each orgasm. He loved the way you screamed “Daddy!” first and when he didn’t stop you screamed “Erwin!”. He loved the way you babble nonsense trying to apologize from him. Stupid slut, he thought. And ate you out until your whole body went numb.

When he was finally done, both of you were panting. You were barely awake, holding onto nothing but trying your best not to lose consciousness. Erwin was tired, tired from eating you out, fingering you and taking your soul away from you. He got up, laid right next to you. He adored this sight; you, completely fucked up and ruined. He did this without putting his cock in you. He was proud.

“Are you with me princess?” He whispered into the night. He was being cautious.

You nodded weakly.

“Good girl,” he said. Kissed your forehead slowly he cupped your cheeks. “Can you give me a color baby?” You were using a color system alongside your safeword. It was for your safety.

“Y-Yellow…” Your voice was hoarse after all the screaming.

He furrowed his brows. He was too harsh on you. “I’m sorry, kitten.” He carefully flipped you onto your side, hugging your back tightly, he kissed your shoulder. “I was too harsh on you. I’m so sorry baby.”

A sob escaped your lips. “But you didn’t cum…”

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay. You’ve done so well. I got pleasure from your pleasure. I'm not important. You are. Your pleasure is. You did so well. So well baby. That’s what is important. I got you now, okay? I’ll never let you go. You’re my everything. I got you. I’ll never leave you.”

You stayed there, tangled together for a long time. Erwin kissed your shoulders, back and hair, his calloused hands caressed your arms. When the extreme pleasure made you clench again, he hugged you tighter, whispering. “Calm down, baby. I got you.” He made sure you were fully okay after your intense session.

“D-Daddy?”

His heart shattered into thousand pieces after hearing that tone in your voice. “You can say my name baby, it’s over now.”

“Erwin,” you said almost hesitantly. “C-Can I go to the bathroom? I need to pee.”

His eyes snapped open. Right, you had to. “Yes baby, let me take you there.” He took you into his arms bridal style. “And we’ll take a bath, I really want to try that lavender bath bomb you bought. Is that okay baby?”

You snuggled into his shirt, it was still wet after your countless orgasms.

After you were done with everything, you were in your marble bathtub with Erwin. A purple color was prominent in the water, making you feel safe. You leaned into his chest filled with little patches of thin gold hair even more. He was your home.

“Erwin?” you asked, melting into his touches.

“Yes, princess?”

“How many times did I cum?” You asked, lifted your head to look at him. You loved that expression. You could see surprise, confusion, calculation and answer in seconds.

“Thirty..” he furrowed his thick brows, he was counting. “Thirty-nine.” Then he realized what he said. His eyes opened up with amazement. “Oh.”

“Yeah..” you said, a chuckle left your chest.

“We broke our record!”