#spit tw

His obsession with spit came…. later in life. Wasn’t a fan or didn’t care about it until he caught you spitting outside or into a trash can ect. The arousal he felt from it was strange to him but he enjoy it. The taboo of it? The humiliation that can come from it? Oh how he loved what came with it. One day, he pulls you away from work and stuffs you into a random room. He doesn’t say anything other than “Open for me.” You do it immediately, puzzled but you don’t ask questions.

Once opened, he grabs your face he spits directly on your tongue. It tastes just like him. It’s warm with a hint of cigarettes and sweetness from the sucker he had earlier. You swallow while blinking once. Then twice, wondering why did he that… But he just smirks at you while letting go of your face to cup the back of your head. He kisses your mouth hard as he spits once more. You kiss him back swallowing it again — still puzzled. You feel dizzy from his doings, warm coiling in your stomach and he knows it. He chuckles while he gives you a gentle, sweet kiss on the top of your head before leaving you in the spare parts closet alone with your thoughts. Outside the room? You hear him whistling away, acting as if he just didn’t do what he just did to his secret partner / co-worker…

You want to do it all with him: slow sex on rainy mornings and kissing him with terrible coffee breath and planting a garden together, spending forever together. You want to watch him spin out his jujutsu like it’s nothing and then meet him at home and watch him gently but firmly pluck lemons from your backyard fruit tree.

Case in point is that you want to get him something special and beyond that, you want to get him something that will make him feel soft and squishy and maybe willing to fuck you into your guys’ new couch cushions. It’s a very nice couch — a pale, pale green and so comfortable and deep that when you sit down, you sink right it. The kind of couch that swallows you whole and is, admittedly, not very idyllic to fuck on but should still be christened.

Lots of gift ideas are in the cards for Kento but it’s hard to get something for a man who is so practical and who indulges himself very intuitively. You know that you are one of his indulgences but aside from wrapping yourself like a gift and putting on a bow on your private parts, there’s not a lot in that department. But there is something that comes to mind, a far off idea that you saw on social media, and it manifests like this: you, in lingerie and Maki, with a camera.

The plan is to make a sexy calendar, every month a collage of your nudes. You brought a variety of lingerie, because the one thing your darling and devilishly handsome boyfriend likes more than buying you lingerie is ripping it off of you, so your collection has amassed pretty well.

There’s a fluffy white set, a bite of tulle and lots of lace. A silk skirt that you hike up to show the curve of your ass. A thong that you hitch around your waist and which covers approximately nothing. Your whole ass is exposed. It’s you, Maki’s unimpressed face, and your private bits against the world.

You put on a teeny tiny miniskirt and an itty bitty top and feel inordinately more exposed than you were in just the underwear. The negligee requires some untangling, more straps than fabric. You arch your back and spread your legs and lollipops get involved.

The photoshoot is fun and sexy and you get a little stirred from it but that’s nothing compared to when Kento opens up his gift. The air noticeably thickens and you can’t help the way you squirm in your seat, just a little. All Nanami does is lay one broad hand over your thigh, fingers giving you a firm squeeze that makes you ache a little, already.

It’s one thing to be in front of the camera, making faces at Maki in between shots and trying to school yourself into the right mindset to fellate a strawberry-flavoured lollipop. It’s another thing entirely to be sitting beside your boyfriend, watching the flicker of his eyes as he methodically and slowly peruses each monthly spread. It’s different and you’ve never felt sexier than when you’re underneath Kento’s gaze, never felt the hot flush of want like you do when he looks over you.

Each monthly spread is a collage, either of you from the photoshoot or of past pictures, alone or together with Kento himself.

January starts off easy, kind of. It’s you in the thong and some socks. You thought it was kind of cute at the time, but now you squirm in your seat, already achingly empty and hyper aware of Nanami’s big, warm hand on you. Your ass is printed out in multiple angles. There’s you, sitting back on your heels, showing off the fullest curves of your cheeks. Bent over the arm of a couch, stretching like a cat. Wearing your boyfriend’s button down, hiked up around your hips to show off as much skin as possible, looking up with a lollipop in your mouth.

Kento’s hand tightens on your thigh and you can’t help the whimper that escapes you.

“You look like a whore,” he says, something hard in his tone, but he doesn’t say anything else, just flips to February. It’s a purposeful tease and when you try to wiggle around again, his fingers grip you harder: a reprimand. You’re going to be bruised from this. You can’t wait to look at them.

March is a strappy number that covers exactly nothing, which Kento would remember because he ripped it an identical piece off of you the first time you wore it for him. There’s you on your knees, presenting for him, back arched and cheeks spread. A picture with a dildo worked into you, straps pulled aside, that you had to kick Maki out to take on self-timer. A few of you and Nanami from the last time you fucked in it: hole spread wide around his fat cock, his hand adding to the straps wrapping around the base of your neck.

Kento, at this point, has pulled you to sit in between his legs, instructing you to hold and flip through the calendar on command in a low, deep tone. It leaves his hands free to wander, pinching your nipples, wandering down between your legs to rub thick knuckles against sensitive places. It’s all you can do it not get on your knees and beg. Every time your head tips back to rest on his shoulder, he forces it up again.

“Head up,” he orders. His fingers squeeze your cheeks, making your lips part. He angles your head to spit in your mouth and you whine, clenching around nothing, desperate and half crazed as he makes you flip another page.

August is a collage of you two from the summer. There was a curse out on the coast, they called in Kento to deal with it, and you spent a blissful two weeks there, fucking between bouts of fucking exorcising and sunbathing between bouts of fucking. Your skimpy bathing suit bottoms leave nothing to the imagination, especially with the way the pictures have perfectly captured your boyfriend squeezing your ass, pulling you up on your toes in a kiss. There’s you in his lap, legs sprawling, his hand high, high up on your thigh. Kento, in his broad shouldered glory, all muscled arms and tiny waist and that broad, broad chest, not bothering to look up for the mirror picture you’re taking, two of his thick fingers inside of you, mouth on your jaw.

Kento gets through the whole calendar, a tent in his pants that you definitely grind on the whole time, while he fondles you, casually, lightly. The second the calendar closes, Kento has already manhandled you onto your knees like you wouldn’t have sank down anyway. The man is an Adonis, chiselled and glorious, and you are so, so desperate for him, you’d do anything he asked in this moment.

“Slut,” he says, tone void of inflection and eyes heated. He doesn’t touch you, just watches you pant for him for a second, eyes big and watery looking up at him. You barely, barely resist the urge to rub your thighs together impatiently. You want to be good for him. You know this look and want to give him it all, want to be a good baby for him for Christmas tonight and have him breed you in reward.

His big hands unbuckle and unzip his pants — measured, patient movements that mean your mouth is already salivating when he frees his massive cock. Kento pumps it slowly with one hand, and you lose track of the plot for a second when his other hand grips the back of your neck, tilting your head further up to spit in your mouth again. When he pulls away, you keep your mouth open for another few moments, eyes fixed on him, a good little bitch with their tongue out. You swallow only when he gives you permission.

“Go on,” he tells you, and you need nothing else to get your mouth on his fat cock. Kento’s such a good boyfriend, training you on his cock for months and months so now, you only struggle a bit before you get his thick head down your throat.

He keeps eye contact with you, because that’s one of his requirements, you must look up at him unless he says otherwise, and you feel one of his big hands pet your head, even as you gag a little on his dick.

“That’s it,” he says. You work a little harder, because Kento is fair in his praise and you’ve always been a slut for it. “Good baby, that’s it.”