#yup...

You two went to college together. You were more of a willing wallflower, than anything—you just wanted to get your degree and get the hell out of there. Sukuna, on the other hand? Oh, well, he was the president of a fraternity.

The story was simple. You two crossed paths one day, Sukuna made fun of you for majoring in something so puny as journalism, and, for the rest of your time at that school, Sukuna decided he had nothing to lose and continued to tease you relentlessly. Day and night. Night and day.

Switching classes for the sake of rearranging your routes and schedule around campus did you no good. Sukuna was everywhere. 

You didn’t think bullying was a real thing outside of coming-of-age movies until the universe decided to intertwine your fate with a certain pink-haired devil. Well, alright, he didn’t bully you, exactly, but he might as well have had. The amount of times he crashed your club meetings or ruined the rare occasions you were dragged along to frat parties by your friends—just for the sake of seeing you enraged—was, inarguably, pretty adequate.

In any way, you eventually got your degree.

You first started a blog on political science; then, when you had acquired a large enough audience, you branched out to political figures—simply for pure fun, out of a pastime. Your readers absolutely ate it up, the way you were so blunt, the way you presented information without sugarcoating, and your lack of bias even in such a persuasive area of research.

One day, however, you decided to write about something else. While skimming through emails containing feedback, you decided to open up another column on your blog. There was no title, no synopsis (because it was only a short fragment), and yet, it was almost immediately a hit in the world of journalism.

In the eyes of your readers, you were openly slandering and criticizing a man named Ryoumen Sukuna. They had not an idea of who the man was (seeing as you didn’t even provide a picture for reference), but they did know that you absolutely loathed the guy. You wrote about his flaws, his discourtesy, his audacity.

You painted a picture of the man to your readers, who simply enjoyed the humor and sharpness of your descriptions of him. You milked every negative piece of information on the man that you could get your hands on—to the highest degree of what could be defined as ‘humanly possible.’

It was a funny escapade from political science, as noted by most of your readers. They would spend a few minutes reading your articles on the economic state of the world, and then, cool off while reading a short paragraph at the bottom of your column on, say, How Ryoumen Sukuna Stole Bread From Cafeterias. 

They were always petty excerpts, solely written for the purpose of being able to get your frustrations from the college days off of your chest. No one who read your blog knew who this mystery man was, but his name soon became one of the biggest reasons readers flocked to your blog. And, before you knew it, you had unintentionally developed your own ‘Sukuna Hate Club.’

With time passing by, and autumn leaves falling and the gifts of spring flourishing, your audience grew—as did your fame and name. Your short, humorous excerpts on the evil deeds of Ryoumen Sukuna during his alma mater soon lengthened, and you found yourself writing full columns on the man, to which your readers ate up, of course.

In your articles about him, you brought up information that failed to remain any bit relevant, seeing as neither of you two were still in college anymore; nevertheless, you continued to make silly headlines that, contrary to what most would believe, actually appealed to your growing audience. They just loved your dedication to trifling matters.

Since Sukuna liked to widely criticize journalism, you never feared the day he would eventually, if he did, find out about your little blog. Then again, how could he? You had never seen the man reading an article even a day of his life. Hell, you were even brave enough to not hide behind a pretentious pseudonym or anything of the like—you had no need.

Well, that was, up until Ryoumen Sukuna began to make a name for himself in the world of politics. Despite your blog’s purpose centering around such a topic, you did not make notice of the fact until Sukuna actually ran for president. Imagine how surprised you were to find out the man you had been openly slandering across your news column was now a candidate for presidency.

Your email was then flooded with replies from your readers, their surprise evident at the revelation of the Mystery Man™’s identity finally being revealed. Some commented about how “attractive” he was, whilst others took one good look at him and his overall dark atmosphere, and immediately believed everything you had ever said about him.

For the next week or so, however, you did not come out with any more writing, which left your readers a little worried for your life. You weren’t entirely sure whether you wanted to keep defaming Sukuna from behind a computer screen, and possibly end up getting sued; but, then, you remembered one of your rights from the First Amendment: Freedom of Press. And so, after a short time of self-reflection, you continued to publicly sully Ryoumen Sukuna’s name.

Now that you had more leverage than just your good old college days, (since Sukuna was a public figure), your articles branched out to his goals and ideals when it came to being elected as president. In full truth, he was a good candidate, but he was still a man in your eyes—and his personality had yet to have gotten any better. With this in mind, you frequently and openly wrote about his nasty attitude and out-of-this-world ego.

You knew he was bound to have seen at least one of your articles, however, because you had begun to make more headlines now that his name and campaign were being publicized.

It had been televised a few times: reporters asking a now thirty-five-year-old Sukuna his thoughts on a journalist explicitly slandering and criticizing his name across her blog’s column. They questioned what he planned to do about it, and whether he suspected it would veer ballots when the time of the election came.

But the man would always flash his signature shit-eating grin at the camera, and simply say, “The election is mine. A few articles won’t change that.”

He never officially responded to any claims you made, and never denied or corrected your allegations against him. The world now knew your name thanks to your flak. And, if Sukuna had a problem with your opprobrium, well, there would’ve been a Cease and Desist letter in your mail, but there wasn’t—you two hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade.

It had been nine years since you began writing about the man who made your college years a living Hell. You were both in your mid-thirties now. Sukuna was the newly elected 48th president of the United States, and you were the journalist rising in fame and fortune from your besmirching of that very man.

Life was good—until it wasn’t.

Instead of receiving a Cease and Desist letter in the mail one morning, (when you took an elevator down to the main floor), you received a manilla envelope with a maroon stamp. It was an invitation to a presidential gala, personally written by the president, himself, and personally addressed to you.

You wondered how Sukuna had your address, but that was a no-brainer—the man was probably the most powerful man in the country, for starters.

The envelope itself was simple but elegant, and the writing was handwritten—in cursive so beautiful that it had even you jealous at such finesse. But, as for the invitation . . . well, it could’ve used some work.

There was an address, a date, and a name for the party; and that was it. No apologies for making your college experience a living nightmare, no smalltalk, no mention of your blog or the fact that neither of you had spoken in nearly a decade. It was as if he was demanding you to attend.

You thought it more strange than anything. Sukuna had no reason to invite you to such a grand gala, but, contrary to popular belief, you had a few reasons for attending.

A) Publicity. B) Headlines. And, C) Well, you could use some more leverage on the man—and you were positively sure your readers would eat up any bit of scoop you could get on the very much exclusive gathering that was to take place.

Anyway, in the world of journalism, you had learned it was better to not ask questions when it could be avoided, so, before you knew it, you were opening your laptop, and ordering an evening gown (appropriate for a gala) accompanied with a pair of matching heels.

As a journalist who worked from the confines of your apartment, you didn’t wear much glam nowadays. Hoodies and sweats worked fine enough, but, every once in a while, you did like to dress up.

***

If there was one thing in the world you hated, however, it would have to be stuffy rooms and bustling crowds—which was exactly what the gala entailed.

A week had passed since you received your invitation, and you were now sitting at a bar in a pretentious hotel, where the gala’s venue was located. In all honesty, this was an upgrade from all those frat parties Sukuna used to host back at college; well, minus the drugs and all, but, still, the martinis were good.

Well, they were good—too bad you couldn’t finish your cocktail, though, because only a few seconds later, you were being dragged away from your seat by security, and pulled along down a hallway as you thrashed around and attempted to fight back.

It seemed not a single person, not even in the sea of people around in the room, noticed a woman being dragged away by security.

“Hey—! You jerk, excuse you! What do you think you’re . . . ?”

Your voice trailed off when you noticed a man standing at the end of the hallway. He was wearing a suit black as night, hands in his pockets. Your heart dropped to your stomach at the sight of it.

“That’ll do, Steiner.”

One command. One single command and that security guard was releasing your wrist, nodding to his superior, and walking back to his rightful post. You knew only one person who had that amount of authority, and that was . . .

“Sukuna.”

“In the flesh.” The pink-haired man, otherwise known as the host of the gala, took a step towards you, and didn’t hold an ounce of shame as he looked you up and down, eyes roaming your figure. “Well . . . , my, my, my, don’t you clean up nice, sweetheart.”

It had been nearly ten years, and the guy hadn’t changed. Not at all.

“It’s a social gathering—with A-listers,” you quipped. “I might as well look the part if I’m going to be surrounded by so many pompous figures.”

You two were standing face-to-face now, noses barely centimeters apart as your heels gave you some leverage against the six-foot-something behemoth of a man. It would be a spectacle to see, from the eyes of an outsider.

“You’re calling my guests pompous?” he pressed.

“Don’t play stupid.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why did you invite me?”

“You’ve been making a name for yourself since we parted ways. Wanted to meet with a familiar face, is all. Is rekindling an old flame so bad?”

You laughed. “You think we’re old flames?”

“Wouldn’t you say so? Or,” Sukuna whispered in your ear, leaning downwards, “would ‘fuckbuddies’ work better for you?”

“That was . . .” You scoffed. “One time.”

“Don’t lie to your president.”

“. . . Maybe more than once.”

“Three times, but close enough.”

Sukuna pulled you by the elbow and grabbed you by the wrist as he dragged you towards the elevator behind him, pushing the two of you in as the doors opened with the press of a button.

“Hey—! What is up with you and dragging me away?” You tried to tug your wrist free, to no avail; grumbling, you gave up when the elevator doors closed and you began going up more floors than you could count. “Don’t you have guests to entertain?”

“What, you don’t like my company?” Sukuna’s eyes flashed crimson, and leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Or, are you scared you’ll do something you’ll regret when we’re alone together?”

You turned your head to the side, your wrist falling limp at your side when Sukuna released it from his hold. “The former, you bastard.”

“Language,” he chided. “You’re in the presence of the most powerful man in the country, sweetheart. Show some respect.”

You scoffed. “You’re so—”

“Insufferable?” His eyes gleamed, red and crimson. “Article titled: The Bad, The Bad, And The Bad. Sector One: ‘Ryoumen Sukuna is, quite possibly, the most insufferable man on the planet. He makes even the Devil jealous of his creativity when it comes to wrecking havoc—’”

You blinked. “Sukuna, how do you—? What are you—?”

“Doing?” Then, he quoted yet another line from your news column. “Article titled: Depravity At Its Finest. Sector One: ‘If Ryoumen Sukuna had any hobbies besides being a dick, it would be doing pot on campus. Even septic tanks don’t smell as bad as the men’s toilets after that fiend is done doing weed in there.’”

Sukuna wore a smile on his face when he leaned down to whisper in your ear, lips brushing against the lobe. “That’s right, pretty, I know about your little blog. Even read a few articles or two.”

You had known he knew, but you didn’t think he had cared enough to have actually read anything on your blog. Was he trying to blackmail you? Your lips parted, although in silence.

“I think it’s cute, really, that you’re still thinking about me after all these years. How long has it been, again?” Sukuna picked up a lock of your hair, and twirled it between his fingers. “Oh, right, almost a decade.”

You turned to face Sukuna, your furrowed brows and baffled expression contradicting his much composed and shit-eating grin.

“What do you want?”

“Be my wife.”

“. . .”

“You’ve been making a living purely based on defamation and besmirching. I know the subscriptions all your readers pay each month and whatever salary you journalists earn is enough for a nice apartment and a nice car and nice shit, but it’s not enough to win against me in court if I press charges.”

“Are you threatening legal action?” you deadpanned, crossing your arms over your chest. “You do realize the First Amendment grants me my right to Freedom of Press, right? I was sure someone so involved in U.S. politics—such as you—would know that.”

“Hate speech,” he quipped, reasoning. “And, also, the fact that you have no hard evidence of all your claims against me. Which, moving backwards, would be defamation.”

“. . .”

“Do you want to take this into court? You know, I’m actually giving you an option here, sweetheart.”

You didn’t want to think about how much you would need to pay a lawyer who was good enough to stand a chance against the fucking president, so you changed the topic around. “Why do you need me to be your wife?”

“I need a first lady.”

“First ladies . . . can be relatives,” you suggested. “Can they not?”

“I don’t have a niece.”

You looked up at Sukuna. “A . . . sister?”

“You know I don’t have a fucking sister.”

The elevator doors opened from behind you, and Sukuna took his exit; you followed suit, your heels clacking against the hardwood.

The floor you two had arrived on was the fifty-first.

Looking around your surroundings as you followed after Sukuna, you noticed one thing.

“This . . . is a penthouse.”

Sukuna walked over to what you assumed was a kitchen, and poured himself an ochoko of umeshu at the bar. “Glad you haven’t lost your sense of vision.”

“Sukuna, where are we?”

“My penthouse. One of my penthouses, actually—in the country. Before I had the White House, sweetheart, I was pals with a collection of hoteliers and whatnot.” Sukuna took a sip of his liquor, eyeing you from across the room, all the while. “You could only imagine how many free floors I’ve been given over the years.”

“. . .”

Sukuna gestured for you to come closer, offering you your own glass. “Why so far away, beautiful? You know I don’t bite.” 

Lured by the alcohol, you took steps forward, and ended up right beside Sukuna, standing behind the kitchen island as his arm snaked around your waist.

He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “—Unless you want me to.” 

“I’ll pass.” You shoved at his face, scoffing. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To consummate our marriage, of course.”

You gave him a look. “I haven’t even agreed to your compromise yet.”

“But, you will.”

“Are you threatening me?” 

“Do I need to be?”

Sukuna set down his ochoko, watching you, and you weighed your options carefully. Not going through with the deal meant legal trouble, lawsuits, backlash, and wasting a shit ton of money to defend yourself in a case you would inevitably lose. Marrying Sukuna meant commiting fraud, being first lady of the United States, publicity for your blog, and a rich husband.

“Look. All we’ll need to do is have a small, quick, and easy courtroom wedding, alright? We’ll be married for my first term, and, depending on whether I find a real wife, maybe my second term—maybe not. It’s just four years. With me . . . ‘sides, we already attended college together.” Sukuna looked down at your face, palming at the flesh of your hip. “This won’t be much different.”

“I’ll be wearing your last name, Sukuna. Much different.”

“Are you in or not, woman?”

Your lashes fluttered, and you met Sukuna’s eyes as you stood on your tiptoes—damn, not even Loubutins could help you. Cupping a side of his devilishly handsome face, you placed a kiss on the corner of Sukuna’s lips.

“You won’t touch my blog?” you questioned, cautious.

“Not at all.”

You huffed, closing the distance between you two as you kissed Sukuna again—this time, however, on the lips. “Then, fine.”

“Smart girl,” he grinned, lips meeting yours as he held you by the neck and the curve of your waist.

You kissed Sukuna with tongue and teeth—a reminder that this was only for the deal, or, well, you liked to think it was.

You two kissed like you hadn’t in a decade, which was, honestly, true. The last time you let Sukuna in your pants was during a college frat party; it was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing. Too much tension, too much alcohol, and way too little restraint—a classic.

Sukuna kissed you with lust, desire, and a want for something forbidden. He had always been rough like this, twisting you around to push you against the kitchen counter, forcing your lips to part for his tongue; you enjoyed it, though, so you weren’t one to talk. You always had a penchant for men without manners (in the bedroom, that is).

“Mmph—m-mm . . .” 

Your hands cupped Sukuna’s face, bringing him lower so you could reach easier. He tasted sweet, and of umeshu, with notes of plum seeping through.

“You missed this,” you murmured, between kisses, “didn’t you, Mr. President?”

Sukuna groaned against your lips, pulling away as he lifted you up by the hips to sit on the kitchen island. “You’re quite the insightful one.”

You watched as Sukuna lowered to his knees before you, lifting up the ends of your gown to bunch up at your waist as he trailed kisses up from your ankle, to your knee, and to your thigh.

“That’s . . .” You sucked in a breath when Sukuna’s lips met your inner-thigh. “One way to put it.”

Sukuna looked up from where he knelt, one hand squeezing your thigh. “And, the other?”

“. . .” You could only close your eyes, sighing, when Sukuna pulled your panties to the side, pressing a kiss to your clit.

“Come on, pretty. What’s another way to put it?”

You swallowed. 

“. . . Quick-witted . . . , nngh—!”

You were practically shaking when Sukuna slid his tongue through your folds, reaching deep inside your already-dripping cunt.

It was so warm, so wet, and so impossibly long. When was the last time someone went down on you? and made it feel enjoyable, nonetheless? You couldn’t recall any other occurrence that was void of Sukuna’s doing.

“And,” Sukuna began, murmuring against your cunt as slick dripped down his chin, “another way?”

“Hahh . . . mmph—! Sukuna, I . . . A-ahh—!” 

Sukuna curled his tongue, moving it with a relentless speed. If the lewdness of your pussy’s squelching and squirming wasn’t enough to bring heat to your cheeks, the way Sukuna was sucking on your cunt would’ve done the job.

“You know I don’t like repeating myself,” he chided, teeth grazing your clit.

“Unngh, perceptive . . . !” you whined. “Sharp, s-shrewd, astute, a-ahh! S’kuna, you’re . . .” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when Sukuna’s tongue reached particularly deep, hitting your sweet spots with ease.

As if on instinct, your hands flew to Sukuna’s head, gripping onto strands of rosy hair for leverage as you clamped and squeezed your thighs around his face, forcing his tongue even deeper as he sucked without halting.

“I’m, what, baby?”

You twitched and writhed at the feeling of Sukuna flicking and curling his tongue; you were probably now embarrassingly wet, practically dripping onto the counter beneath you as Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit.

“You’re, a-ahh . . . un- . . . mmph! . . . -bearable . . .” 

It was as if a switch had flipped on inside of Sukuna’s head—like he was taking your words as a challenge, to show just how unbearable he could be as his tongue began to absolutely ravage you on his kitchen counter, eating you out like a full-blown meal whilst all you could do was wrap your legs around his head, slapping a hand over your mouth in a poor attempt to stifle your cries. 

“N-Nngh, ahhn—! Fuck, I’m, hahh, c-close . . .” 

You could practically feel the grin growing on Sukuna’s face. “You’re close, baby? Is it too much? Am I making you feel too good?” 

“Oh, God . . . You, mmph, bastard, . . . Go f-fuck yourself.” 

“Don’t think I will, sweetheart,” quipped Sukuna, tongue curling within your gummy walls as it reached deeper and deeper. “‘sides, you’re much more fun.”

A cry slipped past your kiss-bitten lips when Sukuna licked a stripe up your puffy lips, and you shuddered at how cold his skin was when the tip of Sukuna’s nose brushed against you, rubbing at your clit. You couldn’t help it when a coil in your lower belly tightened.

“I . . . Don’t be, nngh—! crude . . .” 

Sukuna looked up from between your thighs, giving you a side-glance as slick dripped from his chin to the collar of his suit. “You’re telling me that right now, sweetheart? A little late for that when my tongue’s in your fucking cunt, don’t you think?” 

“I . . . Nngh, a-ahh—!” 

Unraveling, you came with a lewd cry when Sukuna pinched your clit, mewls and moans slipping past your lips left and right as you dripped excessively onto Sukuna’s fingers. God, you were so fucking wet right now, it was embarrassing.

“Satisfied, wifey?” asked Sukuna, as he rose to his full height, fixing his tie.

You were still catching your breath when Sukuna kissed you, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “Not . . . Not quite, husband.” 

“Yeah?” he murmured, against your lips, “because I’m nowhere near done.”

Sukuna remained true to his words when he stuck two digits up your cunt, pushing the cum that had previously dripped out back inside the entrance of your poor, used pussy—it stole a breathless moan from your lips.

You were still riding out your high, and extremely sensitive, but Sukuna was never one to care. He dipped his fingers between your folds and pushed past your rings of resistance with ease, pulling yet another moan out of you.

“Sukuna, w-wait, I’m—o-ohh—!” Your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head. “Nngh!” 

Just as he had done with his tongue, Sukuna was now curling his fingers deep inside of your cunt, muffling your cries with his lips as his digits inched deeper and deeper.

“Dirty girl,” he muttered, between kisses, “getting off on both my tongue and fingers? Insatiable, you are.”

Your whimpers were silenced with tongue and teeth.

With the time that had passed since your last encounter, you had nearly forgotten how long Sukuna’s fingers were—how good they made you feel: reaching all the sweet spots his tongue couldn’t.

“A-Ahh—! Ahhn, mm—mmph . . .” 

Sukuna’s thumb applied pressure against your puffy entrance, whilst two other digits continued on with curling deep inside, their pace inimitable.

Whilst cries slipped past your lips (even with Sukuna absolutely ravaging you), your hands, although a bit shaky, moved down his neck and to his shoulders in an attempt to remove his suit.

You started with pulling off the jacket by the lapels, and then, loosening the tie.

You moaned ridiculously loud when Sukuna’s fingers hit that one good spot, your eyes rolling back into your head as you clumsily unbuttoned Sukuna’s shirt.

“Unngh, a-ahhn . . . S-Sukuna . . .” 

“Giving me so much shit for missing this . . .” muttered Sukuna, tsking, “when this pretty, little pussy here is so fucking wet right now.”

“N-Nngh, Sukuna, I’m—a-ahhn—!” 

You clawed at Sukuna’s now bare back, your manicure leaving red, angry marks up and down his skin.

Sukuna pulled his fingers away from your cunt for a second, just to shove them back inside as slick and remnants of cum dripped excessively down the lengths. Two fingers turned into three, and as Sukuna fucked you with his fingers, stretching your walls apart with finesse, you struggled to contain the growing volume of your mewls and moans.

“A liar?” he pressed, cutting you off. “I know, baby, I know. Pretty hard to keep honest when I’m knuckles deep inside of you, isn’t it?”

Sukuna leaned down to whisper in your ear, and your eyes quite literally rolled into the back of your head.

You could only respond with lewd cries, the sound of your cunt’s squelching and squirming filling the penthouse.

Sukuna’s free hand pinched your cheek, and you shuddered as he forced you to meet his eyes. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” Your noses were now only centimeters apart. “Tell me just how good I’m making you feel, hm?”

“Ahh—! You’re . . .” Expression contorting into one of bliss, your voice trailed off. “Hahh, f-fuck . . .” 

Sukuna wore a shit-eating grin, speeding his fingers up when he noticed your second orgasm drawing near. “What was that, pretty? Couldn’t quite hear you.”

Your thighs trembled, and you dripped almost embarrassingly as you struggled to form a coherent response.

“I said . . . Fuck, mmph—! you . . .”

Sukuna sighed with humor, tugging at the fat of your cheek between his thumb and index-finger. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around, honey.”

“I—Hahh, n-nngh—!” 

Your eyes squeezed shut, and then reopened, rolling into the back of your head as you came for a second time, on Sukuna’s fingers.

Your thighs pressed together: squirming, shaking, trembling; but your lips, on the other hand, remained parted, moans and cries slipping from in-between like you were in a poorly-budgeted porno.

Sukuna gave your clit one, final harsh pinch before pulling away, bringing his fingers to his lips as he sucked on the cum dripping down his digits like a fucking clown. Albeit you feigned disgust for the lack of decorum, you couldn’t help but grow even wetter at the sight—hell, if that was even possible in the first place.

“Making a mess on my fingers, aren’t you, pretty?” Sukuna kissed you, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re lucky you’re cute—would’ve had you licked them off clean, otherwise.”

You let out a breathless sound, the mix of a whine and a sigh. “How . . . thoughtful of you, Mr. President.”

Sukuna pulled away, pushing you to lie on your back, flush against the cold surface of the kitchen island.

“Truly.”

You were now looking up at Sukuna, as he fiddled with his belt.

Your hair was disheveled—a mess spread apart on the counter; your dress slipped down your torso, revealing more and more of your naked tits; but, what Sukuna liked most of all, was the glimmering diamond necklace that lay between the valley of your breasts.

Weighing around thirty carats, it was regal, and vintage-looking—exactly Sukuna’s type. He wondered if he had purchased that necklace for you, himself, and had just forgotten, or something of the like.

“You’re an awfully slow man, aren’t you?” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even get to ‘consummating our marriage’ before your guests begin to leave.”

Sukuna raised a brow, teasing the tip of his cock against your slick. “Impatient, I see.”

He was as big as the last time you two had fucked. Thick, long, and absolutely girthy. You got shivers just thinking about the stretch.

“Are you gonna fuck me or not, mister?” 

“So demanding,” quipped Sukuna, but he relented, anyway.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat when Sukuna bottomed out in one quick thrust, nails clawing and scratching at the marble beneath you.

“A-Ahhn—! Ah, ahh!” 

“Where’d that smart mouth go, huh? All it took to shut you up was some dick?” At the very least, Sukuna still had the common courtesy of letting you get used to his size.

Fuck me, was all you were thinking. You hadn’t had anyone this big in a while. 

Your puffy, dripping lips parted to an almost impossible extent in order to accommodate Sukuna’s girth—you swore it burned to have him stretch you wider than his fingers or tongue ever could.

“O-O-Ohh—! Nngh, ahh . . .” 

Sukuna grinned. “Biiig stretch, huh? How about you write about this on your blog? Tell your readers how much—hahh—you love this cock.”

You could feel Sukuna’s dick reaching your guts, the head kissing your cervix as he rammed in and out of your cunt.

Your gummy walls stretched to envelope his length; you weren’t even leaking slick anymore—it was all stuffed deep inside of you with every thrust of Sukuna’s cock: burying deep inside, just to pull out and repeat. It drove you near insanity.

“Ah—Ahh—Ahnn—! Oh, f-fuck . . .” 

One of Sukuna’s palms landed beside your head on the counter, whilst the other moved to grab your left wrist.

“How would your readers like to know you were marrying the man you swore to hate, hm?” 

Sukuna half laughed and half panted, and you felt the coldness of an unfamiliar object being slid onto your ring finger.

“I—nngh—!” 

Your eyes rolled even farther back into your head when you realized it was an engagement ring. Where he had stored it until now, only God knew. It was almost ten carats, and was of an emerald-cut style—you spared yourself the heart attack of estimating how much it cost.

With each thrust of Sukuna’s cock, more and more pretty cries slipped past your lips, whilst your tits began to bounce free from the confines of your gown. Sukuna’s clear lack of clemency when it came to rutting against your cunt led to the top of your dress falling to your stomach, joining the skirt of your gown as they bunched up below your waist.

“It’s—It’s only for a, nngh, compromise . . .” You whined, hand trembling from Sukuna’s thrusts as you held it up to your face to admire the absolute rock of a diamond you had been given. “Doesn’t, hahh! mean a-anything . . .”

Sukuna scoffed, taking your breath away as he held both of your hands down beside your head, interlocking your fingers together in a way to pin you against the counter’s surface. 

“It also doesn’t mean anything that I’m . . . hahh, fuck, balls-deep inside of your pretty pussy, but here we are.”

You crossed your legs behind Sukuna’s back when his lips trailed to your tits, teeth grazing at your areola. It sent a bolt throughout your body when he bit down on the mound of flesh, before soothing it with his tongue and sucking slyly on the already hardened buds.

Whilst Sukuna’s cock rammed in and out of your cunt, stretching your clenching, tightening walls as he never failed to hit every sweet spot of yours, his mouth was on your tits, sucking and biting and flicking the length of his tongue against your nipples.

“N-Nngh, ahhn—! Ahh, mmph, ah-ahh—!” 

As if the squelching and constant fwop! fwop! fwop! of your pussy wasn’t already enough to convince you of your current predicament’s lewdness, you cursed Sukuna for taking away every opportunity you had of muffling the pornographic sounds that left your lips.

You clenched down around Sukuna’s cock, nails digging into Sukuna’s skin as you trembled and writhed beneath him.

“Too much, baby?” You felt Sukuna smile, mouth stuffed with tit. “Gonna cum on your president’s dick?”

“C-Close your fucking mouth, you dirty bastard,” was what you spat out in response, between high-pitched moans.

Sukuna tugged your legs up to rest over his shoulders, his cock now reaching even deeper as a knot in your stomach tightened with each rough, ‘mouth-watering’ thrust. God, you were practically bouncing up and down the kitchen counter from the sheer force of Sukuna’s cock, at this point. 

“Now, there. That’s not any way to speak to your fiancé, is it?” Sukuna licked a wet stripe up your nipple, stealing a cry from your lips as his grip on your hands turned almost painful. 

“Unngh, ah-ahhn—!” 

“Do I need’a teach you a lesson?” he jeered, leaning down to laugh against your ear.

Sukuna’s cock hitting your cervix was enough to make you forget whatever retort you had managed to come up with.

“N-nngh, ahhn—! Unngh . . . Ah-Ahh—!”

Back arching, eyes watering, hands interlocked with Sukuna’s, you came for a third time that evening after Sukuna bottomed out particularly hard—practically just slamming his cock up your cunt, as if in a way to reach your womb.

You found yourself trembling as cum dripped down your legs, and Sukuna’s orgasm followed soon after: hot, sticky seed plugging you up to the rim as the head of Sukuna’s cock kept you stuffed full to the hilt.

“Hahh, unngh . . . !” 

“You should . . .” Sukuna panted against your ear, hands still holding yours as he caught his breath. “You should write a column on this,” he laughed.

You groaned beneath Sukuna when he laid his body on top of yours, all two hundred and something pounds of him.

“A column?” you repeated, whining as your legs slipped back down from his shoulders. “What ever for?”

“To let ‘em know how good you’re getting it—getting your world rocked and shit, and by the fucking president, nevertheless.” Sukuna breathed in the scent of your perfume from the crook of your neck, and you shoved at his face with playful disdain.

“You’re so vain.”

“I have reason to be.”

When Sukuna picked you up and brought the two of you out to his penthouse balcony, you knew he wasn’t kidding. He had you bent over the glass railing within seconds, hips pistoning against your ass as he buried himself inside, fucking you from behind.

Underneath the evening sky, Sukuna stole two more orgasms out of you—pulling your hair, whispering vulgarities in your ear; Sukuna couldn’t have cared less about sensitivity. He was fucking you through each orgasm and to the next, leaving you a shaking, trembling mess as mascara ran down your face and your lips quivered with each thrust.

Looking down at the cars racing the streets more than seven hundred feet below, you couldn’t even remember if you had a fear of heights. The sound of your pussy squelching and squirming, the occasional fwop! fwop! fwop! of Sukuna ramming against your ass, and the head of his cock kissing your cervix—it was all too much: a blissful distraction from the gala going on downstairs.

You would’ve forgotten all about it had Sukuna not whispered in your ear a few times, saying, “Sound so pretty when you’re not running your mouth for once—loud, too. Do you want everyone to hear you? hear how much of a slut you are for some cock from your superior?”

You would whine, then, a soft “Nngh . . . a-ahh—!” falling from kiss-bitten lips as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, your back being forced into a mean arch.

In any way, neither of the two of you were planning on returning to the function when Sukuna was still balls-deep inside of your warmth, but you weren’t one for causing a scene and possibly starting rumors for why the president had run off with a Mystery Woman™ at his own soirée, so you forced the man to button up his suit and help you with the zipper on your dress as you both stumbled to the elevator.

You had just successfully made your exit—from the penthouse down to the first floor of the skyscraper—as fast as you had made your entrance, when you (and the pink-haired man with a hand on your hip) crossed paths with one of the party guests.

His suit was disordered, a cigarette between his lips as he whistled, greeting the Head of State. 

“What a surprise, Ryoumen! Was just wondering where you were.”

Sukuna grunted in response, not even glancing at the man as he pulled you along in a visible state of hurry; unfortunately, however, the smoking man’s eyes were quick—too quick, even.

“Oh, who is this lovely lady on your arm tonight, Ryoumen . . . ?”

Hair messed up, tie loosened, gown wrinkled, and lipstick stains on his own face—Sukuna cared not for shame when he gave the man a side-glance from over his shoulder, saying, “That would be my fiancée.”