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onlypinkslut · 15 hours ago

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🎀 warning 18+ 🎀 golden retriever!with!a!dick!toji x kitten who!thinks!she’s ugly

you learned early how to make yourself smaller. not just your voice or your presence but your body. the way it was shaped. the way it unfolded. the way it responded. you learned how to close your legs just right so nothing showed. how to tilt your hips up, to keep everything tucked away and pressed shut, to move like you had nothing extra, nothing hanging, nothing wrong. you learned how to arch for a man in a way that kept his eyes from drifting too low. how to pull his mouth up when it wandered. how to keep him from ever seeing you fully, completely, exposed. because you knew what they liked. what they said when they thought no one was listening. the threads and clips and porn titles and filtered bodies. the trending surgeries and reaction videos. the screenshots of “ugly” ones passed around like warnings. you knew. and you weren’t stupid. you looked in the mirror and saw what they’d call excessive. too much. messy. wrong. and the worst part was no one ever said otherwise.

you used to think about getting it fixed. not even for yourself, but so you could finally breathe. labiaplasty ads found their way into your feed like little claws offering newness, neatness, invisibility. the dream of not worrying. of being “fuckable” in silence. of never again seeing a pause in a man’s face when his hand slipped too far. you saw the before and afters and wondered if that could make you worth staying for. if maybe with a few cuts, a few stitches, you’d finally be enough to be looked at without hesitation. touched without hesitation. loved without shame.

you didn’t ask to carry that. you didn’t want to feel disgust curling in your stomach at the thought of letting someone go down on you. it wasn’t dramatic it was learned. taught by every zoomed-in thumbnail, every high-def angle, every softly lit studio shot with the same delicate foldless silhouette. and maybe you could’ve fought it, if it wasn’t everywhere. if boys in school didn’t whisper about loose ones. if girls online didn’t giggle about looking like Barbie. if every example of beautiful didn’t also mean edited. bleached. barely there.

but you were there. you existed. you felt the softness between your legs and you hated it. the fullness. the darkness. the warmth. the way it wasn’t symmetrical or pink or shy. the way it looked when you sat a certain way. the way it stared back at you in the mirror, not dainty, not cute, just real. and that was the worst sin of all being real.

so you kept it hidden. let the lights go off first. kept your panties on longer. turned your hips away when they reached down. gave them just enough to keep going but never that. never you. not really.

because if they saw it, if they really saw it, they’d leave.

you were sure of that.

and now there’s him.

you weren’t looking for anyone. you’d learned not to. your body was a thing you kept under your clothes and in the dark, and love was always hanging by the edge of a dim lamp switch. nothing good ever came when the lights turned on.

but then there was him.

toji fushiguro.

the man who looked like someone you’d never speak to in your life. too tall. too strong. too broad. and yet somehow not like the others. not in the way he carried himself. he had that face. the kind of handsome you expect to come with cruelty. thick scar splitting his smile. lazy, predatory eyes that made your heart drop the first time they met yours. you assumed he was like the rest some ex-boxer asshole, or worse, the kind who knew he was hot. but he wasn’t. not even close.

he didn’t flirt. he didn’t brag. he didn’t even seem aware that people looked when he walked into a room. he was usually just rubbing the back of his neck, grumbling about a sore muscle, eating chips he crushed at the bottom of the bag with one hand. he wore tank tops in winter and slept with a fan on even when it was cold. he watched dumb tv shows with the subtitles off. he called you brat when you teased him and then tried to cover his smile with the back of his hand like it meant nothing. like you didn’t notice.

you tried not to fall. but it didn’t take much.

he didn’t treat you like someone he’d just sleep with. he treated you like something he wanted to keep. not with words but with small, stupid, quiet things. like running ahead just to rip a flower off some stranger’s garden and thrusting it at you while pretending not to care. or holding your wrist lightly when you crossed the street, even though no cars were coming. or showing you random things on his phone and then grinning like a little boy when you actually laughed.

he’d stare at you sometimes. not in a sexy way. just… like he was thinking. forgetting to blink. caught in something he didn’t know how to say.

you were waiting for him to get bored. to realize you were a little awkward. a little weird. not the type he probably used to pull. not long-legged or glowy or perfect. just you. plain and nervous and too soft in the wrong places.

and then one night, after a slow evening of nothing no dinner date, no candlelight, just a late movie, a bowl of cereal, and you curled up in one of his shirts he kissed you. slow. deep. no music, no noise, just the feeling of his body sinking into yours like he belonged there. like he’d waited.

and he touched you like he was scared to go too fast. like he knew what you were used to and wanted to undo it. his hand found your waist. then your hip. then slid under your thigh to press your legs open just slightly, but when he reached further when his knuckles grazed too close to where you knew the shame lived you froze.

and he noticed.

you didn’t say anything. just kissed him harder. pulled his hand up to your chest instead. made him forget the detour. but he didn’t forget.

he tried again the next time. lower this time. slower. mouth trailing down your stomach, tongue flicking warm circles into your skin. he slid his hands under your thighs again and kissed the softest parts, and when he started to shift lower pressing his nose into the place between them you tensed.

again.

each time, a new excuse. not tonight. too tired. too sore. already came, babe. no need. and he didn’t push. he just blinked, rubbed his face, and let it go.

but you could feel it.

he liked it. loved it. missed it. his hips always rolled harder after you said no. his cock twitched like he needed more. and he never said anything, but he started jerking off more than usual. you noticed. when he stayed the night, when you heard the soft grunt in the bathroom with the shower running. or when he’d come back to bed breathing different. less satisfied. like he didn’t want to tell you why.

you knew.

and you told yourself it was fine.

it was better this way.

he didn’t need to see it.

didn’t need to see you. not all of you.

because in your head, you still weren’t built for that kind of intimacy. you’d always imagined sex as something you gave. something done to you. not something you offered. not something someone could worship. not something someone like him could lose himself in.

and he was beautiful. even if he didn’t know it. even if he groaned about the mirror and never noticed the way his shirts clung to his biceps, or how girls looked when he walked by. toji was the kind of man those girls got. and somehow he wanted you.

but that didn’t mean he wanted all of you.

and you didn’t realize how much it haunted you until the day you opened his phone and saw it.

you hadn’t meant to look through his phone.

you weren’t checking anything. you weren’t being suspicious. he was in the kitchen making coffee, muttering about how someone stole his last protein bar, and his phone buzzed on the nightstand. nothing serious. just a message from yuji, probably another dumb meme. and you smiled to yourself when you tapped it open to forward it to your own chat, because sometimes you liked saving the things he showed you, the moments that felt easy. light.

you didn’t even mean to swipe up. not on purpose.

but his browser was open. and it was there. still fresh. still loaded. still glowing.

and for a second, your brain didn’t register what it was.

it looked like a million other tabs you’d seen before. a homepage. a title. something about blow job or whatever the fuck they always pushed. and a thumbnail. close-up. glossy. pink. surgically bare. no folds, no depth, no shadow. the kind of body you’d seen a thousand times and never once thought belonged to anyone real.

you didn’t move.

you just stared at it.

watched the preview loop over and over, five seconds of a girl moaning and pulling her lips open like a biology lesson. perfect, symmetrical, tucked. so neat you couldn’t even tell where it started. a pussy designed to be swallowed in one breath. toji’s breath.

your throat closed.

you didn’t scroll, but you saw there were more. tabs stacked. different positions. different angles. but all the same.

not like you.

not even close.

you locked the phone and set it down like it burned you.

he walked back in a minute later, carrying your coffee with his sleeve over the handle like he always did so it wouldn’t burn your fingers, and you didn’t say anything.

you smiled.

you took the cup.

you kissed his cheek.

and you spent the whole day trying not to fall apart.

because it wasn’t that he watched porn. you weren’t naive. you knew men did. you knew he did. he’d mentioned it in passing once with a shrug. didn’t make a big deal about it. it wasn’t a betrayal. it wasn’t some great sin.

it was the type.

the body.

the reminder.

the confirmation.

because you’d always wondered. always feared. always known. and now it was proven.

this wasn’t just insecurity. this was fact. this was evidence. this was what he came to when you didn’t give him what he wanted. when your thighs clenched too tight, when you flinched, when you said not now. he turned to the ones who didn’t make him pause. the ones who looked better. the ones who didn’t have to hide.

you couldn’t stop seeing it.

couldn’t unsee the comparison.

you stared at your own reflection that night with your thighs spread on the bathroom counter, hoodie shoved up, phone light shining down, and your stomach turned. it didn’t look like theirs. not at all. it wasn’t pink. it wasn’t tiny. it wasn’t smooth. it was real. soft and dark and full. textured. folded. visible.

you felt sick.

you hated yourself for checking.

you hated him for making it true.

and when he came in later, sleep-eyed and slow, dragging his shirt over his head with a lazy smile and that same stupid soft voice asking if you were coming to bed, you just nodded. climbed in next to him. turned off the lamp. curled away when he touched your hip.

he didn’t notice at first.

he was tired. kissed your shoulder. knocked out fast.

but your eyes stayed open.

your knees pressed together.

your mouth tasted like metal.

and in your chest, a voice started whispering the old things again.

he wants what you’re not. he wants what you’ll never be. he only loved the lights off. he only wanted you because he hadn’t seen the truth yet.

and that night, you didn’t sleep.

you just held your breath and waited for morning.

he notices three days later.

you don’t say anything. you’re not dramatic. you still kiss him back when he leans in, still nod when he asks if you’re hungry, still curl up beside him at night like nothing’s changed. but it’s in the little things. the way you don’t look at him for too long. the way you let his hand rest on your thigh but don’t guide it higher. the way you smile like you’re tired. even when you’re not.

you won’t let him eat you out. again.

you’d let him do everything else. he could kiss you. fuck you. hold your face and tell you you were perfect. but as soon as his mouth dipped lower, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart, his tongue warm and open and starving you’d shift.

stop, you’d whisper, barely breathing. just fuck me instead.

and he would.

but tonight he can’t.

tonight he pulls out of you halfway through, chest heaving, cock dripping, eyes wild.

what is it?

you blink.

what?

he leans back on his knees, hands still resting on your waist, body still warm between your legs.

what’s wrong?

you shake your head, but he doesn’t let go.

brat.

his voice is softer now. rough, but quieter. like it hurts him to ask. like he’s scared of the answer.

you okay?

you look up at him. his hair is messy. cheeks flushed. sweat glinting along his jaw. he’s beautiful in the way no man should be. too big, too rough, too casually wrecked. and yet right now, he looks… unsure. small. like he knows he fucked up, but doesn’t know how.

your throat tightens.

you don’t answer.

he drags his hand up your ribs slowly, thumb brushing your skin.

talk to me, please.

you bite your lip. not to flirt. not to be cute. just to stop the shake.

i saw it..

his brow furrows.

saw what?

your voice breaks before it even fully comes out.

on your phone

he freezes.

and you know he knows.

because his face doesn’t twist in guilt. doesn’t flush. doesn’t flare with panic. it just stills. like his heart skipped and never restarted.

you look away.

i wasn’t looking for it. i didn’t mean to. it just popped up. the tabs were still there.

he says your name. quiet. almost inaudible.

you shake your head again. your chest is starting to ache.

i don’t care that you watch it. it’s not that. it’s just… i saw the kind of girls you watch. and i just… it made sense.

he stares. his mouth parts. no words come.

you breathe in sharp. your voice cracks.

i knew it. i knew it, toji. i’ve always known. you’re not the first guy to want it, you’re just the first one i didn’t want to disappoint.

his hand flinches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t move.

disappoint you how?

your laugh is bitter. quiet.

you don’t want me to say it.

yes i do.

no you don’t.

yes i fucking do.

he grabs your hand, presses it flat against his chest. his heart is hammering.

you say it now. or i swear to god i’ll go crazy trying to guess what i did.

you finally look up at him.

your lips tremble. the words taste like blood.

my pussy doesn’t look like that.

silence.

i know what they look like. i’ve seen it. the ones you watch. the ones all guys like. small, tight, pretty. pink. invisible. mine’s not like that. mine’s not small. or neat. or the right color. and i know you’ve noticed. you don’t have to lie. it’s fine. i’m used to it.

his face shatters.

you laugh again, but your eyes are full of tears now. everything about you feels soft and defeated.

you’ve been nice. you haven’t said anything. but i know why you’ve been jerking off more. why you don’t push when i say no. i know i’m not what you’re used to. and it’s okay. i get it. i just wish i didn’t have to see it to be reminded of what i’m not.

he doesn’t speak.

he doesn’t blink.

he just stares at you like he’s watching you bleed out.

and when he finally moves, it’s not to touch you. not to apologize. not to speak.

he drops his head.

and groans.

not out of frustration.

but out of pain.

like he’s the one breaking.

fuck, baby. fuck.

he pulls away from you not in rejection, but like he’s scared he’ll fuck it up worse if he touches you the wrong way.

you think i’ve been jerking off because of that? he breathes, laughing dryly. no. no, babe. i’ve been jerking off because i can’t stop thinking about your pussy. yours. you don’t let me taste it. you don’t let me see it. and it’s driving me fucking insane.

your lips part.

he finally lifts his head. his face is flushed, mouth parted, jaw tight.

you think i want those girls? those fake-ass plastic studio-lit girls? you think i’m watching that shit because i want it?

he leans closer, hands gripping your thighs now. firm. real.

i can’t cum to anything unless i’m thinking about you. and i mean it. i tried. believe me, i fucking tried. but every time i close my eyes, it’s you i see. that little moan you make when i rub you through your panties. that shake in your thighs when you get close. that whimper you do when you almost let me go down. and i’m so fucking desperate, brat, i’d lick your pussy until my jaw locked and my cock fucking burst if you just let me.

your breath stutters.

his voice drops. low. reverent.

you think it’s not perfect. i think it’s gonna ruin me.

you sat back slowly, legs trembling as you leaned on your palms, breath caught somewhere between fear and something hotter. your cheeks burned. your thighs twitched. your fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and for a second, you hesitated.

but then you tugged them down anyway. slow. cautious. peeled the thin cotton past the curve of your ass, down your trembling thighs, and off your ankles exposing the part of you you’d spent years hiding, folding, denying. trimmed but soft, full, warm, already glistening from the ache he’d built up in you. not bleached or tucked or invisible. you. wet and puffy and swollen from the way you’d clenched your legs shut all week trying to ignore how badly you needed him. your folds kissed open slightly with every breath, soft and sweet and shining in the low bedroom light, pulsing just from anticipation.

he didn’t even react at first.

not in the way you feared.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t squint. didn’t shift awkwardly or pause to analyze it like some dissection. he just sat there knees on the bed, body tense, shoulders broad and still staring. lips parted, green eyes blown, chest rising in shallow gasps.

holy fuck.

you looked away instinctively, body folding in on itself, but he reached out and gripped your thighs with both hands wide, hot palms grounding you against the sheets.

nah. don’t do that. don’t you dare fuckin’ hide from me now.

his thumbs slid up the inside of your thighs, slow and reverent, like he was handling something holy. not even touching your pussy yet. just tracing where your heat spilled out, feeling how your slick had already started to pool how soaked you were just from the act of being seen.

jesus fuckin’ christ. you smell so good. you know that? can smell your pussy all the way up here. fuckin’ sweet. better than any of that tasteless bullshit they film with studio lights and bleached holes. ain’t got nothing on this.

you swallowed, shaking. your thighs tried to close.

his grip tightened.

nope. you keep ‘em open for me. you let me fuckin’ look. please, baby. please. just let me have this.

you nodded, lips parting. and then you sat up, hands sliding over your own skin, tugging your shirt up over your head, letting it fall behind you.

his breath hitched.

your tits bounced softly with the motion, flushed and sensitive, your nipples already stiff. your stomach rolled as you adjusted your posture, soft and real and curved the way you always hated. but he looked at you like he was witnessing divinity. like you were laid out for worship.

fuck. look at you. real woman. fuckin’ gorgeous. tits out, pussy glistening, thighs spread. fuckin’ perfect.

you laughed a little. it wasn’t fake it cracked and trembled, laced with tears, but it was real. because he sounded genuine. wrecked. possessed.

he ducked his head low and inhaled hard at the apex of your thighs, groaning like he’d just opened something forbidden.

this is what pussy’s supposed to smell like. sweet. warm. fuckin’ alive. not like those dry-ass clips. all that shit looks like it’s filmed on fuckin’ mars. no flavor. no real woman. just lighting and filters and air. but this..

his tongue licked up one thigh, just barely grazing your outer lips.

this is mine.

your breath stuttered.

his mouth hovered above your cunt like he was holding back tears.

i don’t wanna hear you compare yourself to that shit again. ever. i swear, brat, i see this pussy and i get lightheaded. i ain’t even inside and my dick’s aching. it’s painful. you did that. just by sittin’ there.

your head fell back.

he finally leaned in.

his lips kissed the very top of your mound. not even touching your folds yet. just the soft upper skin. then again. then lower. his nose bumped your trimmed hair. he groaned again.

gonna make out with her. i don’t care. don’t care if it’s messy. don’t care if i look stupid. you let me taste and i swear i’ll die right here a happy man.

his tongue dragged slowly along the curve of your inner lips and you gasped, thighs quivering, fingers tangling in his hair before you could even think. your other hand came up, covering your own chest for a moment, then rubbing soft circles around your nipple unconsciously seeking more stimulation.

you were already moaning.

toji. fuck. oh my god.

his eyes rolled back slightly.

that’s it. yeah. lemme hear you. fuck. she’s pulsing already. can feel her throb on my fuckin’ tongue. never seen anything prettier in my life. never tasted anything like this.

he licked again, slower, deeper. his lips sealed over your clit and sucked softly, then kissed it like it was fragile. his tongue traced every swollen fold, sliding into the grooves, making out with your pussy like he had all the time in the world and no shame left in his body.

you were crying and giggling now, hand buried in his thick hair, nails dragging down his scalp, grinding your hips softly onto his face.

you’re so fucked up

you moaned it like you loved him for it.

he pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed, chin already wet.

you let me do this. you. after all that. after hidin’ from me. after thinkin’ i wouldn’t like it. baby, you got me feelin’ like a fuckin’ animal. don’t even need to fuck you right now. i could nut just like this. just from eatin’ you. just from the fuckin’ honor of gettin’ to see what other men couldn’t.

you whimpered.

he dove back in, hungrier this time, sucking and slurping and moaning into your cunt like he needed it to live. your body shook. your stomach tensed. your fingers clutched his hair so tight your arm ached.

you’re perfect. perfect. warm. thick. taste like heaven. fuck, brat, i’ll never watch porn again. i don’t need it. they don’t smell like this. don’t sound like you. don’t cream like this. i got a real woman. my woman. mine.

he rubbed your thighs like you were something edible and sacred, and as your orgasm built slowly, painfully, beautifully he kept whispering into your cunt with a voice full of filth and gratitude.

thank you. fuck. thank you for lettin’ me taste her. i’m a fuckin’ bastard, i don’t deserve this. but i’ll take it. i’ll take it all. i’ll spend the rest of my life between these fuckin’ thighs if you let me.

you came with a choked cry, sobbing and laughing, rubbing your tit, nails scratching his scalp while his mouth stayed glued to you, drinking it down like proof that he was right. that you were everything.

and he never stopped smiling into you.

you should’ve been embarrassed.

the way your thighs were still shaking. the way your pussy was glossy and red and swollen from how hard he’d made out with it, the way his jaw was soaked and his eyes glazed like he’d been drugged off you. but you weren’t.

something cracked open in you. something old and bitter and hidden. something that used to ache when you looked in the mirror but now it was burning.

you sat up slowly, dragging your slick cunt across his face just to feel it again, to hear him groan into it. and when he opened his eyes, you were smirking.

you like that?

he laughed, voice wrecked and low.

you’re fuckin’ evil

you just giggled and turned around knees planting on either side of his head, your soaked pussy now sitting on his chest as you leaned down between his legs and wrapped your hand around the thick, veiny cock twitching below.

mm, so hard for me. didn’t even touch it, daddy.

you spat on the head, just to hear him groan. started stroking it slowly, watching the way the veins pulsed, how the precum spilled down thick and warm as your fingers played in it.

you licked a fat stripe up the underside, tongue teasing the tip while his hips lifted off the bed. he was growling now, muttering fuck fuck fuck while his hands gripped your thighs again, pulling your ass down on his mouth.

you wanna taste while i suck it?

his only answer was a moan. a filthy, needy, animal moan.

you lowered your hips again, your pussy flattening over his face while you wrapped your lips around his cock. thick. heavy. pulsing on your tongue like it missed being inside you. and god, it had. you could feel it. taste it.

his hands spread your ass wide while you bobbed on him. his nose buried in your folds, tongue tracing messy, hungry circles around your clit while he ate you from below and choked on your slick. you giggled through a moan, lifting yourself just enough to grind in circles on his face, twerking on his tongue while your hands stroked his shaft.

daddy like that? huh? pussy feel good now that you finally got a taste?

he slapped your ass so hard you gasped around his cock and drooled.

shut the fuck up and ride it, slut.

you moaned. eyes fluttering shut. this was his fault. he made you this way. cocky. soaked. shameless. and you didn’t want to stop.

you bounced. you fucked his face like you wanted to break him, while your mouth worked his dick like you were starved.

he came the first time like that. without warning. hot, thick ropes painting your throat while he growled and dragged his nails down your thighs, your name spilling out like a curse and a prayer at once.

and you didn’t even stop.

you kept sucking.

milking.

you tasted it, moaned into it, swallowed it and sat back with a smug little smirk while his cock was still twitching.

and then you turned around.

spread your legs.

and sat on it.

toji growled so loud the bed shook.

fuck fuck fuck. you tryin’ to kill me?

you giggled, already bouncing, pussy clenching tight around the overstimulated head.

you said you wanted it. you said you wanted to ruin me.

he grabbed your tits, slapped them together, spit between them and shoved his face right into your chest like a fucking animal.

i did. i do. gonna fill this pussy so full you forget your fuckin’ name.

he fucked up into you hard, and you screamed.

not from pain. not from fear. from the shock of how much you needed this. the pounding. the stretch. the ownership.

he gripped your hips and started thrusting from below, hard and deep and ruthless, your ass clapping down on him with every bounce. you cried out his name, hands grabbing your own tits, pulling them up while you rode him like a cock-hungry bitch.

this is yours, daddy. all yours. look how wet it is. look what your mouth did.

he slammed up into you so hard your body jumped.

you think i’m ever lettin’ you hide this again? no. fuck no. this cunt belongs to me. you ride me when i say. you twerk on my face when i tell you. you sit your wet fuckin’ pussy on my dick until i cum again.

you nodded, eyes rolled back.

say it.

my pussy’s yours. my pussy’s for you, daddy.

he groaned and flipped you over onto your stomach.

spread.

you obeyed without hesitation. chest to the sheets, ass arched, cunt glistening. and he slammed back into you like he was claiming property.

he fucked you so hard your legs gave out. so hard your cries turned to gasps, to whimpers, to filthy praise.

thank you daddy thank you for making me feel pretty thank you for loving my pussy thank you for cumming for me

he reached around and slapped your clit, rubbed it hard, laughed at the way your ass bounced.

you hear that? she’s squelching. she’s leaking. she wants to be filled. say it. say you want me to cum inside.

please cum in me daddy. please please please breed me. i want you to. wanna be full. wanna be yours.

he slapped your ass again. gripped your hips. fucked harder.

i’m gonna breed you, baby. fuck you so deep it won’t matter what porn looks like. you’ll be full for days. full of me.

you clenched. screamed. came again. and he fucked through it.

and then..

he pulled out. grabbed his phone.

you want porn, baby? huh? wanna see what real porn looks like?

you looked up through hazy eyes.

he was already recording.

you on all fours. face fucked out. tits swinging. ass red.

pose for me.

you smiled. giggled. spread your cheeks with your manicured hands.

he groaned.

that’s right. fuckin’ slutty girl. prettiest cunt in the world. say hi to the camera, baby. show them what real pussy does to a real man.

he slapped your pussy.

you gasped and smiled bigger.

and that’s when he pushed back in, hard, and filled you to the brim. for real this time. thick and hot and overflowing, his cum leaking down your thighs while you cried and thanked him and rode it out in shivers.

and he kept filming.

he never wanted to forget this.

he wanted to watch it every time he missed you. every time you weren’t home. every time he needed to remember that he turned a shy girl into a filthy, perfect, confident slut.

his slut.

you didn’t even know how you ended up like this half on his chest, one leg tossed over his thigh, your cunt still dripping with his cum, flushed and glossy and twitching with every lazy rub of his fingers.

his arm was under your neck, thick and warm, the inside of his bicep pillowing your head while he kissed your cheek again. and again. and again. no rhythm, no reason. just soft presses of his lips to your flushed skin like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were his.

his other hand was between your legs, dragging slow, heavy circles into your spent folds like it was the most natural thing in the world. his touch wasn’t focused, wasn’t trying to make you cum again it was aimless and gentle, like he just wanted to feel you. his thick thumb slipped between your swollen lips, parting them lazily while his middle finger tugged at your folds, spreading them just to watch them glisten under the dim bedroom light. he hummed like he was admiring a painting. his fingers stayed low, patting your pussy softly, tapping right above your hole like he couldn’t believe how soaked you still were. every now and then he’d drag his thumb up again, spreading your lips wider, then rubbing slow circles into your clit until you flinched, and he’d smile not to tease you, but because he was genuinely obsessed.

you were giggling softly, face still fucked out and sticky with sweat, holding his phone in both hands like it was precious. the screen was lit up. the video was playing. no filters. no edits. no cuts. just you. bent over, legs shaking, tits bouncing with every slap of his hips while your cunt swallowed his cock like you’d been made to ruin him.

fuck, you breathed, cheeks hot. i look like such a whore.

he chuckled into your skin, kissing your cheek again, his stubble rough but sweet against your face.

you are a whore. my whore.

you smacked his thigh weakly, giggling harder.

shut up.

nah. can’t. not after that. not after i just watched you ride my face like it owed you rent and beg for my cum like you were gonna die without it.

you moaned softly, your thighs twitching around his fingers again as he dragged them up and circled your clit with lazy, open affection. his thumb slid back down, parting your pussy lips again and pressing right into the creamy mess he’d bred into you. he didn’t push it in just stroked it. slow. back and forth. like he was petting something sacred.

your breath hitched. he kissed your cheek again. then your jaw. then your temple.

you really like it?

he snorted.

baby, i’ve never liked anything more.

you smiled. eyes still on the screen. your own face crying and laughing, back arched, voice wrecked while you screamed for him. you. the girl who used to fuck in the dark. now on camera. showing him everything. owning it.

toji whispered against your skin.

we’re keeping it. i’m jerking off to this for the rest of my life.

you rolled your eyes.

you’re so gross.

he kissed your cheek again. and again.

love you too, pretty brat.

you’re tired.

your feet ache, your back hurts, and your belly is stretched tight with the life he put inside you. your tits are swollen and sensitive, your thighs stick together when you sit too long, and sometimes you cry over things like oatmeal or laundry or the way your shirt rides up too much now. but he never laughs.

toji just watches you with that same dumb smile, hand already sliding down his sweatpants by the time you walk past.

fuckin’ knew it, he mutters like a prayer. knew that pussy was built to take my cum. look at you.

and every now and then especially when you’re laying on the couch, dozing off with your hand resting over the curve of your stomach he sends you little clips. old ones. the video. that video. the one where you were bouncing on him, tits clapping, mouth open and crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

he’ll text you a clip of your ass riding him in slow motion, followed by a message that just says:

gonna fuck you like this when i get home. knock you up again.

you usually groan and roll your eyes, but your cunt clenches anyway. especially when he calls you.

you pick up half-asleep, voice soft and whiny.

toji…

his voice is already thick, low, breathless.

watchin’ the vid, baby. the one where you ride me like a fuckin’ pornstar. god. you were so cockdrunk. remember that?

you don’t answer.

he grunts. strokes louder.

your tits were bouncing so fuckin’ much. i slapped your pussy like five times and you thanked me. you made me cum so hard i got lightheaded. and look at you now. belly full of my brat. tits leaking for me. fuck.

you whimper, rubbing your swollen belly softly.

toji. you just fucked me last night.

he groans again.

and i’d do it again right now. i don’t care if you’re pregnant. i fuck you pregnant. this pussy doesn’t stop being mine just ‘cause it’s full. if anything, i want you more now. look at what you gave me.

you roll onto your side, breathing heavy, thighs rubbing. his voice in your ear, the video still playing in your mind…

you gonna let me film you again, baby? huh? get another one for the collection? you pregnant, tits dripping, moaning while i breed you again?

you laugh softly.

you’re disgusting.

he chuckles. and he’s still jerking off.

yeah. and you love it.

you smile. hand slipping between your legs.

yeah. i do…

（＾ν＾）thank you for reading. this one’s for the girls who’ve ever turned the lights off, hid, or wondered if they were “too much” down there. your body is not something to fix. you are not lacking. you are not less. you are soft, warm, sensitive, and so fucking desirable💗

i hope this made you feel seen.🎀

and if anyone ever made you feel like you weren’t enough just remember: our daddy toji likes it🎀

onlypinkslut

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onlypinkslut · 1 day ago

Text

<<previous warning 18+ part2

older pervy teacher!toji x innocent student f!reader he fills you in the archive room, then makes you sit through a lecture with his cum still dripping between your thighs🎀

you woke up to the weight of him on your tongue. the sun was barely creeping past the ugly beige curtains, and your knees ached from the awkward way you’d curled up next to him. last night, it was slow. messy. him slipping his cock past your lips just to fall asleep like that mumbling something like don’t move, baby, makes me sleep better, before his palm cupped your cheek and his breathing evened out. you hadn’t meant to stay like that. but now, morning, and it was still there. soft and heavy, draped over your tongue like it belonged. and it was hardening. thickening. twitching.

you blinked slowly, lips drooling, thighs clenched as you felt him shift beneath the sheets. he was still on his back, one arm over his eyes, the other lazily reaching down to grip your head and press you further down onto his swelling cock.

morning, he mumbled with a dry chuckle.

don’t stop, yeah? you’re already awake.

you tried to lift your head, but he held you down not forcefully, just firm, casual, like this was normal. like this was how students should wake their professors on academic trips.

you’re so good like this, he whispered, hips rolling just enough for the head of his cock to kiss your throat. fuck. warm little mouth. ‘course you’d sleep with your lips around it.

you gagged a little, saliva running down your chin, eyes tearing up. he sighed, thumb stroking the side of your face like he was petting something obedient.

atta girl, he growled. gonna start the day right. hold it don’t move. yeah, just let me fuck your throat. quiet now.

his pace wasn’t brutal, but it was relentless. sleepy, slow. a man using something he owned. you could hear students waking up in the hallway. zippers, voices, water running. and he didn’t stop.

he came deep with a groan, jaw clenched, as you swallowed around it without thinking. that’s it, baby. good girl. now c’mon, he patted your cheek, we got a museum to visit.

the van ride was long and hot.

dust clung to the windows in streaks and the air conditioning wheezed like an old man catching his breath, barely strong enough to cool the sweat blooming across everyone’s backs. you were sandwiched between two girls in tight denim shorts, their knees grazing yours with every bump in the road, but your attention was fixed forward on him.

professor fushiguro sat like a statue in the front passenger seat, sunglasses reflecting nothing, black dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the thick slope of his collarbone. one big hand rested lazily on the armrest, fingers tensed like they were used to gripping things hard steering wheels, throats, hips. the other toyed with a piece of gum between his teeth, jaw chewing slow, rhythmical, deliberate. you knew exactly what that mouth had done twenty minutes ago. the flavor of it was still in your throat.

he didn’t look at you once. but the reflection in his glasses had you locked.

the van jerked slightly when it turned down the dirt path, tires crunching over gravel as the narrow road opened to the edge of a sun-faded building. it looked half-forgotten, like the kind of place retired scholars visited to die. a crooked sign reading museum of early continental philosophy hung over the steps, letters chipped. there were no other visitors.

you stepped out slowly, thighs sticky with the syrupy mess he left inside your mouth, your legs still unsteady. you tried not to adjust your skirt, but you could feel the heat rising between your legs again the moment you heard him behind you his shoes crunching over gravel, his low voice calling everyone closer.

he was already in “teacher mode.”

but not for you.

he brushed past the other students without looking at them, dark slacks fitting tightly around his hips, chest broad and stiff under his shirt. sleeves rolled up to his elbows like always, veins ropey and thick, peeking out with every motion. the muscles in his forearms tensed as he adjusted the satchel over his shoulder. he looked older than he was, but not in a tired way. in that worn, masculine way thick neck, tired jaw, shoulders so big it looked like his shirts complained when he moved. he walked slow and heavy like someone used to being watched.

you were the last to trail in behind him. and he noticed.

his palm slid down the curve of your back without a word, stopping at the top of your ass, fingers curling beneath the hem of your skirt. you flinched, but he just kept walking, guiding you through the arched entrance of the museum with a light squeeze.

hand was so big it dwarfed your entire backside. warm. firm. casual.

he didn’t grope. not at first. he rested there, like your body was part of the museum too something he could lean against while describing aristotle’s theories of virtue. then he began to move. small, subtle things. a thumb brushing under the hem of your skirt. a soft grip at the base of your ass. slow rolls of your flesh in his palm, like he was testing it, measuring your softness in his hand while he quoted metaphysics.

he stepped behind you then.

and you knew.

he towered behind your frame, his chest nearly pressed to your back, voice echoing across the empty hallway as his fingers pulled the hem of your skirt higher, inch by inch. it was so slow it felt evil. so natural it felt planned.

you stared forward at a shattered bust of kierkegaard, cheeks hot, barely breathing, while his fingers parted your thighs wider from behind. no one noticed.

or maybe they did. but what could they say?

his palm flattened over your ass, then curved upward lifting. cupping. his hand swallowed the curve completely, shaking it once like a man testing the ripeness of fruit in a market. he chuckled softly in your ear, voice never breaking pace as he talked about existential anxiety.

you couldn’t focus. couldn’t hear anything except the pulse behind your knees, the drip between your thighs.

your panties were white. girlish. innocent. too small to cover you properly. they’d ridden up the cleft of your ass from all the walking, and now his thumb hooked them, dragged them tighter just to watch you twitch. he rolled your ass in his palm again, slower this time, pressing it toward his own hips.

he was hard. you could feel it. thick and stiff behind his slacks, pressing into your lower back. he didn’t move it. didn’t grind. he just let you feel it while he kept talking about man’s failure to achieve god through reason.

his palm slid back, over your hip now, then under the cheek of your ass. he pinched you softly. not enough to hurt. just enough to make you jolt. his knuckles scraped the underside of your panties.

the thing about the absurd, he murmured low, close to your ear now, while gesturing forward for the students to keep moving toward the next hall, is that it doesn’t go away. we just… cope with it. sometimes in ways that seem irrational. even obscene.

he let go of your ass to pat it lightly. twice.

then again, firmer.

you gasped, but swallowed it fast.

his hand returned. gripped both cheeks now.

he pressed your thighs together gently, then opened them, nudging your knees further apart while no one was looking. it made your panties stretch tighter, made your pussy swell out underneath them like it wanted to peek. and it made you hum with shame.

he leaned forward like he was fixing your collar, whispering in your ear.

you keep shifting like that, baby, and they’re gonna hear you squish.

you whimpered without sound. legs shaking. the pressure of his cock now dragging up the back of your skirt like a warning.

stand still, he said simply, or i’ll make you sit on my hand like a stool while i explain free will.

you did. of course you did.

you were soaked now, panties clinging to you like a second skin. and still, he didn’t fuck you. not yet.

he walked you forward slowly, his palm pressed into the base of your spine like a guide. still behind you. still pretending. still explaining things no one cared about except maybe you. you cared. because every word out of his mouth felt like foreplay. he was talking about despair while rubbing his knuckles under your skirt. describing freedom while rolling the fat of your ass in his hand like he wanted to eat it.

you shifted. just once.

and his hand slapped your ass through the panties. not hard. not cruel.

just enough to jolt you.

don’t start begging for it in front of everyone.

he was smiling when he said it.

and when the group stopped to look at a fragmented statue of a man clutching his chest in agony, professor fushiguro stepped in behind you again, hands on your hips like a partner in a slow waltz.

he dipped his head down once, jaw brushing your temple.

i’m gonna fill that cunt in the next room, he murmured, low and warm, but first you’re gonna sit on my lap while i explain the nature of suffering. just like a good little slut.

you didn’t nod. didn’t move.

you just obeyed.

he told the others to take a break.

half the students wandered off toward the small museum café, mumbling about vending machines or calling ubers back to town. a few stragglers stayed behind in the exhibit room, bored and yawning, but no one followed you down the hall.

the archive room wasn’t even locked.

just a narrow, temperature-controlled space with dusty catalog drawers, a reading table, and one padded chair that looked like it hadn’t been sat in since 1992. you stepped inside first because he made you. his palm pressed low on your back, guiding you like luggage, and when the door creaked closed behind him, you already knew what he wanted.

you didn’t speak. didn’t ask.

just stood there, legs clenched, staring at the reading table while his presence loomed behind you. his cologne was stronger here earthy, expensive, dark. like black tea and old books. like the backseat of a town car after something irreversible.

he didn’t touch you right away.

instead, he walked around the chair and sat down slowly legs spread, slacks tight over his thighs, chest stretching the black shirt like it was tired of trying to contain him. his sleeves were still rolled. veins thick, pulsing. the silver band on his ring finger caught the dull yellow museum light as he unzipped his pants and freed his cock, lazy and unbothered.

he jerked it once. twice. eyes on you the whole time.

what are you waiting for? he muttered.

you moved to him without thinking.

climbed into his lap. not facing him, but forward, like a doll being posed your back to his chest, your legs spread over his, body angled toward the table. he adjusted your skirt with one hand and pushed your panties aside with two fingers like they were wrapping on a gift he couldn’t wait to ruin.

he didn’t lube it. didn’t tease.

just pressed the fat head of his cock to your pussy and pushed in deep, slow, burying it all the way until your stomach jumped.

mm. fuck. there she is.

he chuckled against your ear.

wet little thing’s been clenching since the statue room.

you whimpered and tried to brace yourself, but he gripped your wrists and made you hold a book an old, crumbling text titled on the nature of pleasure flat across your chest like it was required reading.

he curled your fingers around it and made you hold it.

read.

his voice was soft.

if you wanna come, read.

his cock dragged out slow, your slick painting it with every inch, then shoved back in deep enough to make your thighs twitch. he held you still with one arm across your stomach and the other low, thumb on your clit, two fingers pressing just above your mound.

it was slow torture.

he didn’t need to bounce you yet he made you do the work.

recite something, babygirl, he said, kissing just under your ear. you’re so smart, right? little genius, always raising her hand in class. show me how philosophical you get when you’re cockdrunk.

you stammered. voice thin, eyes blurry, trying to read anything from the first paragraph. something about the duality of pain and ecstasy, something about submission as transcendence.

he laughed, bucking up hard once. the book slipped. your hands trembled.

louder.

you tried. you tried so hard.

but the rhythm built. his hips slapped up, deeper now, your pussy clenching wet and loud every time. the chair creaked. his breath roughened, right against your neck. your clit throbbed under his thumb. the book was crooked in your hands. you tried to remember what it said about divinity and desire, about man’s hunger for understanding but all you understood now was the sound of your cunt squelching when he thrust back in.

good girl, he whispered. you’re gonna come holding that book like it’s scripture, yeah? filthy little slut .

you nodded, gasping, thighs shaking.

and then he fucked you in earnest.

heavy, hard, brutal strokes. the slap of his balls against your ass was muffled by your own whines, wet and fast and echoing through the archive room like a metronome.

he didn’t let go of the book.

made you hold it as you cried out, as your back arched, as you came so hard you nearly dropped it. he groaned behind you, deep and broken, gripping your hips with both hands now and pumping through your orgasm like he was trying to stamp it into your memory.

fuck, baby tight. tight, this pussy was made to sit on me while i teach. fuckin’ perfect.

his rhythm stuttered. his hips slammed up one last time and you felt it hot, raw, spilling inside you so full it dripped instantly. thick. endless. leaking down onto his slacks while he stayed buried in you.

you were trembling. breathless. lips parted in disbelief.

and he reached for the book, pulled it from your chest with one hand, and tossed it onto the table like it meant nothing.

class dismissed.

you could barely walk.

not from pain. no he never hurt you. he was too careful for that.

but your legs didn’t work the same. not after he came in you like that.

not after you sat on his cock and let it ruin you.

he’d stuffed your panties back between your thighs with two thick fingers, pushed them up so your slick, his cum, all of it, soaked through like a leak in a pipe. they clung to you like punishment warm, sticky, full of reminder.

he didn’t even zip his pants right away. just tucked his cock lazily back inside, still wet with your juices, still heavy, satisfied. he smoothed your skirt down, patted the back of your thigh like good girl, let’s go, and you followed.

like you always did.

back in the main exhibit room, a few students had re-gathered in front of a wide display panel, fake-interested, their faces half-bored. one girl was chewing on the end of a pen, nodding too much at everything. another was scrolling her phone under her notebook.

professor fushiguro returned like a king. calm. composed. sleeves still rolled, shirt clinging to the heat across his chest and arms. the air conditioning had barely improved. he slicked his hair back once, slow, then turned to face the group, calling them back into their lazy circle on the floor.

before we head out, he said coolly, any thoughts on how this whole sorry little museum reflects the moral rot of late capitalist knowledge production?

a boy snorted. someone laughed.

and then to your horror he reached back and pulled a folding chair forward for you. right beside him. in full view.

he nodded to it once. casual. commanding.

you’re not getting out of this either, sweetheart. front and center.

you sat. what choice did you have?

your legs clenched the moment your thighs touched the seat. the soaked fabric of your panties shifted squelched and you gasped through your teeth, trying to play it off like a cough.

he smirked.

you okay?

the question was too loud.

you flinched. nodded. a few students glanced up.

he turned back to them.

our girl here, he began, placing a heavy hand on your knee, had some pretty passionate takes on suffering earlier. isn’t that right?

he squeezed. fingers creeping higher.

your face went hot. someone laughed.

you said nothing. you couldn’t. his fingers slid under the hem of your skirt again, slow and dangerous, grazing the curve of your inner thigh. he leaned back in his chair like he was just resting but his fingers were playing with the edge of your soaked panties, dragging the fabric down ever so slightly as he spoke.

any other thoughts before we head back?

some poor soul raised their hand, muttering something about camus and performative despair. he nodded encouragingly, all while his fingers slid up and down the crotch of your underwear.

pressing. teasing. feeling the warm mess he left inside you like it was a secret he wrote there.

mm. yeah, that’s interesting, he said distractedly, thumb now circling your clit through the damp cloth. but what if the only true absurdity is pretending we’re not all just animals, performing civility until it breaks?

you twitched.

he pinched your thigh.

hard. fast.

you sat up straighter.

he didn’t look at you again.

he just kept speaking.

answering questions. guiding discussion. his voice elegant, precise, articulate. his hand between your thighs.

and the longer you sat there, still leaking, the more your body betrayed you. your knees tried to close, but he nudged them apart again with his own. your breathing got shallow. your nipples ached. you wanted to cry.

and all around you, your classmates listened to him like he was a god.

we like to pretend knowledge is sterile, he was saying, lazily tapping your thigh again like punctuation, but every theory comes from something filthy. pain. desire. perversion. no one writes about morality because they’re pure. they write because they’ve failed to live it.

he looked down at you, finally.

a pause.

the others didn’t notice.

isn’t that right, baby?

you blinked.

nodded once.

the cum in your panties dripped.

and class went on…

(#^.^#)thank you for being so patient with me on this one💗 i know part 2 was highly requested and i was honestly nervous to write it out, but i hope this little filthy continuation gives you exactly what you were craving🎀

onlypinkslut

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