Chapter Text
The lecture hall’s fluorescent lights hummed, a monotonous backdrop to the professor’s droning voice. You shifted in your seat, the wooden chair hard and unforgiving. Your gaze, as it had for weeks, drifted three rows ahead and to the left, settling on the back of Saiki’s pink hair. It was neatly trimmed, almost severe. Your mind, however, was anything but.
You pictured his hands, pale and precise, gripping your hips from behind. You imagined the sound your ass would make clapping against his hips, a wet, rhythmic smack in a silent, empty room. You thought of his cock, one you’d never seen, but had invented in exquisite detail: thick, with a pronounced curve, the head a flushed color, veins mapping its length, balls drawn tight. You fantasized about him spreading your legs, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, parting your puffy lips to watch as he notched that wide head against your soaked entrance.
You shivered, crossing your legs tightly. The fantasy was so vivid, the phantom sensation of stretch so real, your own panties grew damp.
Ahead of you, Saiki’s shoulders tensed. His head dipped forward, just a fraction.
You wondered what he was thinking about.
The fantasies continued, a lurid reel only you could see. Him bending you over the library’s study desk, hiking up your skirt, his palm coming down on your ass cheek before he pushed in. Him on his back, you riding him, your breasts bouncing in tight circles as you took him deep, your swollen clit rubbing against the coarse hair at his base with every drop of your hips.
Saiki’s pen snapped in his hand. The sound was a tiny crack in the quiet room. You blinked, startled from your reverie.
Group projects were a special kind of hell, especially when paired by last-minute shuffling.
Your name and Saiki’s were now side-by-side on the whiteboard. The assignment was to analyze a case study; you would be together in the empty classroom B-14. The air was stale, chalk dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun.
You sat on one side of the table, he on the other. You opened your mouth to suggest dividing the work.
His voice cut through the silence, flat and low. "You think about it in the shower. The water beating on your back, your fingers sliding over that little swollen knot, imagining it’s my tongue."
Your blood froze. Your jaw went slack. You stared at him. He wasn’t looking at his book. His dark eyes were fixed on you, utterly devoid of their usual detached boredom. They were sharp, focused, intent.
"You picture me eating you out until your thighs shake," he continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "You wonder how my hair would feel against the inside of your thighs. You fantasize about begging me to fuck you harder, to ruin you for anyone else."
"I… what," you stammered, heat flooding your face, your neck, your chest. "H-How?"
"For a month," he said, a cold smirk touching his lips. "Every day. In class. In the cafeteria. On the train. Your mind is a fucking brothel, and I’m the only customer. You’ve mentally taken my cock in your mouth, your pussy, your ass. You’ve pictured me coming on your face, on your tits, inside you. You’ve wondered what my cum tastes like. If it’s thick. If there’s a lot."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like it originated inside your own skull. "You can’t focus? Try listening to this on a loop while someone’s explaining quantum theory."
Horror and a searing, shameful thrill coiled in your gut. He knew.
"So," he said, leaning back. "Since you’ve been so… generous with your thoughts, I’ll return the favor. Don’t move from that chair."
A pressure, cool and invasive, bloomed behind your eyes. It wasn’t painful, but it was absolute, a mental hand wrapping around your will. Your body went rigid, not of your own volition. Your hands, which had been clutching the edge of the table, slowly, mechanically, moved to your lap.
"Unbutton your skirt," his voice echoed, not in the room, but in the very core of your consciousness. It was not a request.
You watched, a prisoner in your own flesh, as your fingers fumbled with the button, then the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud. You pushed the skirt and your panties down just past the crest of your hips, exposing the neat triangle of smooth skin above your sex. The cool air of the classroom kissed your exposed skin, making you shudder.
"Touch yourself. Just the outside. Tease. You’re good at that, aren’t you? In your head."
A whimper escaped you as your own index finger made contact. Your outer lips were already plump, sensitive. You traced them, feeling the slick heat that had gathered there, proof of your earlier fantasies. The sensation was electric, but the humiliation of being forced, of being watched by his knowing eyes, burned hotter.
"That’s it," Saiki murmured aloud, his smirk deepening as he saw your body obey his silent command. He stayed seated, a king observing his subject. "Look at you. Soaked for a guy who’s never even touched you. Your little cunt is practically weeping. I can smell it from here. Sweet. Musky. Desperate."
Your finger circled your clit, which was protruding from its hood, aching and eager. Every pass sent a jolt through you, making your stomach clench. You wanted to sink into the feeling, but his voice, both inside and out, held you on a razor’s edge.
"Not yet," his mental voice chided. "You don’t get to cum. You get to feel exactly how much you want it, you filthy little thing."
Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary buck against your hand. A ragged breath tore from your throat.
"Please," you whispered, the word barely audible.
His eyes lit up with a cruel gleam. "Please? That’s all you have? In your mind, you’re so much more creative. You’re screaming for it. Begging me to fill you up, to breed you." He licked his lips. "Say it out loud. Beg for my cum. Let me hear the real thing."
The command in your head intensified, and your finger pressed harder, rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, shot up your spine. Your back arched, pushing your chest forward. You were so close, a tense, screaming knot about to unravel.
"I… I can’t…" you gasped.
"You can," he said, his voice calm. "And you will. Or you’ll sit here, wet and aching, until I get bored. Beg."
The dam broke. The words spilled out, fueled by a need that overrode all dignity. "Please… Saiki, please," you moaned, your voice thick with want. “I need it. I need you to… to fuck me. Please, I want you to cum inside me. I want to feel it. Please, fill me up, I’m begging you…"
A low, satisfied sound came from him. "There she is. The girl from the fantasies." He stood up slowly, the legs of his chair scraping the floor. He walked around the table, his movements predatory. He stopped beside you, looking down at where your hand worked frantically between your trembling thighs. Your pussy lips were glistening, dark pink and utterly exposed, your juices coating your inner thighs.
He crouched down, bringing his face level with your sex. His breath ghosted over your sensitized flesh. You froze, your hand stopping its motion.
"Look at this mess," he said softly, almost admiringly. "All that thinking, and this is what it amounts to. A dripping, hungry hole." He didn’t touch you with his hands. Instead, he leaned in and blew a soft, cool stream of air directly onto your clit.
You cried out, your whole body seizing.
"You’re nothing but a set of holes for me to use," he whispered, his eyes locked on your face, watching it contort. "A warm, tight sheath for my cock. Isn’t that right?"
"Yes!" you sobbed, the humiliation twisting the pleasure into something darker, more potent. "Yes, that’s all I am!"
"And you want my cum? You want me to pump it so deep into this greedy cunt that it leaks out of you for hours?"
"God, yes, please, I want it, I want your cum, please give it to me!"
His smirk was triumphant. He gave a single, slight nod.
The mental leash snapped. The control over your own hand vanished, and your body, already wound to its breaking point, took over. Your fingers dug into your clit, and the orgasm ripped through you with violent, helpless force. Your vision whited out. A guttural moan was torn from your throat as your hips slammed up against your hand, over and over. Your inner walls clenched around nothing, pulsing wildly, aching for a fullness that wasn’t there. Juices flooded from you, a hot rush that soaked your panties and skirt where they were bunched beneath you.
Through the haze, his voice was clear, cold, and final. "What a pathetic sight. Coming all over yourself from a few words and a touch of your own fingers."
The walk home was a blur of shame and throbbing, residual sensation. Your body felt hollowed out, oversensitive, every brush of your skirt against your still-damp skin a sharp reminder of what happened.
The classroom humiliation replayed on a loop; his voice, his control, the devastating, empty orgasm he’d permitted. You felt used. You felt owned. And a treacherous, secret part of you vibrated with a feverish need for more.
You dumped your bag on your bedroom floor, not bothering with the light. You just stood there in the dark, breathing. You needed a shower. You needed to scrub the memory from your skin. As you bent to unzip your bag for your toiletries, your fingers brushed against a small, folded square of notebook paper tucked between your textbook and a notebook. You didn’t remember putting it there.
A cold dread, laced with electric anticipation, trickled down your spine. You pulled it out. In the dim light from the window, you saw neat, precise handwriting.
Text me when you’re ready to be used.
Below it, a number.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. He’d put this in your bag. He’d been that close. He’d planned this. The paper trembled in your hand. You stared at it for an hour, maybe two, sitting on the edge of your bed. The humiliation warred with a deep, aching hunger that had been growing for a month. You’d begged for his cum in that classroom and been given only your own fingers and his words. The emptiness inside you was a physical ache.
Finally, with hands that shook, you picked up your phone. You typed the number in. You didn’t save a contact. Your thumbs hovered over the screen.
'What are you doing?' Your rational mind screamed. 'He can control you.'
He already does, another part whispered back, the part that was still wet for him.
You sent a single character: ?
The reply was instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting, phone in hand. Address.
You gave it. You didn’t think. You just obeyed the compulsion, the need. The reply came a minute later. Door unlocked. On your knees in the living room. Don’t speak.
Twenty minutes later, a soft click at your front door. You were on your knees on the rug, hands limp at your sides, head bowed. You heard his footsteps, quiet, deliberate. He stopped in front of you. You saw his shoes, then the hem of his dark pants.
"Look up."
You did. He was dressed casually, but his presence filled the dim room. His pink hair seemed almost to glow in the weak light. His dark eyes were like chips of obsidian, surveying you.
"Strip."
The mental command was a cool lance through your temples. Your body moved without your conscious input. Your hands rose, pulling your shirt over your head. You unclasped your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts felt heavy, your nipples drawn tight into sensitive points. You stood just long enough to push your skirt and panties down your legs, stepping out of them. Then you knelt again, completely bare, exposed under his gaze.
He circled you slowly. "You look better like this. Naked. On your knees. In your proper place." He stopped behind you. "Arch your back. Present yourself."
Your spine curved, pushing your ass up into the air. You felt impossibly vulnerable, your sex exposed from behind, the cool air hitting your swollen outer lips. You heard the rustle of his clothes, the slide of a zipper.
"Look over your shoulder," he said, his voice a low hum. "Look at what you’ve been fantasizing about."
You turned your head. He’d freed his cock. Your breath caught. Your imagination hadn’t done it justice. It was thick, a pronounced upward curve that made your mouth water. The shaft was a pale, smooth column mapped with faint veins that grew more prominent as it led to the head, a broad, flushed plum, already glistening with a pearl of moisture at the slit. His balls hung full and taut beneath. It was a weapon. It was a promise.
"It’s going to ruin you," he stated, watching your face. He stepped forward, the heat of him radiating against your upthrust ass. The broad head of his cock nudged through your folds, which were already drenched, your juices making a slick, shameful sound as he parted you. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed the fat head up and down your slit, coating himself in your wetness, painting your swollen clit with it.
"You’re dripping," he murmured, a note of disgusted awe in his voice. "A month of dirty thoughts, and this is all you are. A slick, hungry hole begging to be stuffed. Aren’t you?"
"Yes," you choked out.
"Say it properly."
"I’m… I’m just a hungry hole," you whispered, the degradation stoking the fire in your belly.
"Louder."
"I’m just a hungry hole!" you cried, your voice breaking.
He rewarded you by pushing forward, just an inch. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. Your inner walls, already clenching in anticipation, struggled to accommodate the wide crown. He held there, letting you feel the relentless pressure. "Tighter than I thought," he grunted, almost to himself. "All that fantasizing and your little cunt is still so fucking tight. Clenching around nothing like a pathetic, empty fist."
Then he shoved the rest of the way in, a single, brutal, complete invasion.
You moaned. Your head dropped forward, your hands slapping the rug for balance. He was everywhere, filling you to the absolute limit, the curved shape of him grinding against a spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He didn’t move. He just let you feel it, the overwhelming fullness, the burn of the stretch, the way your body was forced to mold itself around him.
"Fuck," he breathed out, his own control slipping for a second. "You’re gripping me like a vise."
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, watching as your stretched, glistening pink flesh clung to his shaft, your juices stringing between you. He plunged back in, hard. The wet slap of his hips against your ass echoed in the quiet room. He set a punishing rhythm, each drive punching a choked gasp from your throat. Your breasts swung heavily beneath you. Your ass cheeks jiggled with every powerful thrust, the sound obscene and rhythmic.
"This is what you wanted," he growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place for his pounding. "This is all you’re good for. Taking my cock. Being a warm, wet sleeve for me to fuck. Your brains are in your cunt, aren’t they?"
"Yes! Yes, they are!" you wailed, the pleasure coiling, impossibly tight.
"You want my cum? You want me to fuck this stupid, desperate hole?"
"Please!" you sobbed, your body moving in time with his, meeting each thrust. "Please, Saiki, I need it! Fill me up, please, I need to feel you come inside me, please, I’m begging you, give it to me, please!"
Your begging seemed to frenzy him. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming fast, deep and erratic. His fingers dug into your hips. You felt his cock swell even thicker inside you, the veins pulsing against your strained walls.
"Take it, you filthy girl," he snarled, his voice ragged. "Take every drop. Milk it out of me with that greedy cunt."
His orgasm hit him. You felt it; a series of fierce, throbbing pulses deep inside you, followed by a hot, liquid rush that seemed to have no end. It flooded you, a scalding torrent that filled the space he’d carved out, a claiming heat. As the first jet painted your deepest walls, your own climax detonated.
It seized you, a violent, total possession. Your vision tunneled. Your back bowed like a drawn bowstring. A raw, broken moan tore from your throat, one he immediately mocked.
"Listen to that sound," he grunted, still pumping his release into you, his hips making shallow, jerking motions. "You sound like a dying animal. A dumb, used animal coming on a stranger’s cock. Your body is shaking like you’ve never felt this before. Pathetic."
The words, the humiliation, fused with the cataclysmic pleasure, prolonging it, twisting it into something shamefully exquisite. You felt his cum, hot and abundant, beginning to seep out around the tight seal of his shaft, dripping down your inner thighs.
He stayed buried in you to the hilt, both of you panting, dripping, joined. He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. "Look at you. Full of me... You’re going to let me go to class in peace now, right? Now that you know I can read your dirty mind."
The words hung in the air of your living room, his cock still nestled deep inside you, his cum a warm, claiming pool in your core. He leaned his weight on you again, his breath a hot rhythm against your sweat-damp neck.
It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict. A condition for your continued… existence in his presence. Your mind, still swimming in the aftermath of the brutal fuck, scrambled.
Peace? The concept was alien. There was only the humiliating, all-consuming need he’d carved into your psyche.
You felt him soften inside you, a gradual lessening of the overwhelming stretch. With a wet, sucking sound, he pulled out. You gasped at the sudden emptiness, a cold void where he’d been. His release immediately began to seep from your well-used entrance, a hot trickle down your inner thigh. You stayed on your knees, ass in the air, trembling.
"Well?" His voice was flat again, the predatory heat banked to a simmer. You heard him move, the soft rustle of his clothes as he righted himself.
You tried to form a coherent thought. 'Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be good.' But the thought felt like a lie even as you shaped it. Your mind, your traitorous mind, was already flickering with an image: him bending you over your own kitchen counter tomorrow, hiking your skirt up in the empty morning light.
A low, humorless chuckle echoed in the room. "You see the problem."
A pressure, familiar and invasive, bloomed behind your eyes. His telepathic presence wasn’t a request for entry; he lived there now. He rifled through the fresh, shameful fantasy like pages in a book.
"Over the counter, hm?" His mental voice was a lazy drawl. "You’d like that. Getting fucked before your first class, my cum leaking into your panties all through philosophy. You’d sit there, wet and full, and think about nothing else."
You whimpered, the sound pitiful even to your own ears. Your spent cunt gave a feeble, aching throb.
"Your thoughts are a faucet you can’t turn off," he said, his footsteps circling you. "And I’m the only one who can drink. So ‘letting me go to class in peace’ requires… maintenance. Proactive obedience."
He stopped in front of you. "Look at me."
You raised your head. He was fully dressed again, impeccable, the only sign of what had transpired a faint, satisfied gleam in his eyes. Your nakedness, your sticky thighs, the puddle of his release on the rug beneath you, it all felt a thousand times more degrading under his clean, detached gaze.
"Open your mouth."
You obeyed, your lips parting. He didn’t touch you. He simply stared at your face, at your waiting mouth. The pressure in your mind shifted, concentrated.
"Taste yourself." The command was a mental shove. "Taste what you are when I’m done with you."
Your own hand, moving of its own accord, slid down your trembling stomach, through the mess between your legs. Your fingers, which moments before had been gripping the rug, now gathered the mingled fluids; your own slick, his thick cum. You brought your glistening fingers to your lips, your eyes locked on his.
"Do it," he whispered, a cruel smile touching his mouth.
You slid your fingers into your mouth. The taste exploded on your tongue; salty, musky, profoundly biological. His essence was heavier, more bitter than your own tart wetness. You swirled your tongue around your fingers, coating your mouth with the proof of your submission. A fresh wave of shame burned your cheeks, but beneath it, a low, dirty thrum of arousal sparked back to life. You were tasting your own use. It was the most degrading thing you’d ever done.
Your eyes fluttered closed for a second.
"Eyes on me," he snapped. "Swallow."
You did. The sensation of it sliding down your throat felt like a final, irrevocable seal.
"Good," he said, though the word held no warmth. "Now, since your mind clearly needs a physical reminder, you’re going to give yourself one. Get on the couch. On your back. Legs spread and pulled up."
The mental compulsion guided your sore body. You crawled to the sofa, collapsing onto the cushions. You hooked your hands behind your knees, pulling them toward your chest, exposing your ravished sex to the cool room air. Your pussy lips were swollen, a dark, puffy pink, glistening and well-stretched. The tiny, furl of your asshole was visible below, clenching nervously.
Saiki didn’t approach. He stood across the room, a judge from a distance. "Touch your clit. Just one finger. Make yourself come again. Now."
"I… I can’t," you breathed, your body feeling oversensitive and drained. "It’s too much."
"You can. You will. You’ll come from your own touch while I watch, and you’ll think about how this is your job now. To empty your mind by emptying your cunt. To take the edge off your own filth so it doesn’t distract me."
His words were lacerating. Your finger, trembling, found your clit. It was hypersensitive, a swollen, protruding bud that screamed at the first tentative contact. You circled it, a feeble motion.
"Harder. You wanted it hard, didn’t you? When you fantasized. So be rough with it. Pretend it’s my tongue. My cock."
You pressed harder, a sharp jolt of sensation making your spine arch. A broken sound escaped you. Your other hand tightened on your knee, your knuckles white. You worked your finger in tight, fast circles, the slick noises obscenely loud in the silent room. Your gaze was locked on his, a prisoner seeking instruction in his impassive face.
The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a jagged, forced ascent. It wasn’t the cataclysm he’d fucked into you; it was a pathetic, shuddering release, wrung from you by his will and your own degrading obedience. As the first pulses began deep in your belly, his voice cut through the mounting pleasure, cold and precise.
"There it is," he murmured, his eyes sharp on your contorting face. "Look at you, shaking apart from your own finger. Your useless little cunt is fluttering like a dying moth. You can’t even cum properly without my permission. It’s a pathetic, messy squirt, isn’t it? Just a weak dribble for a weak-minded girl."
The words landed just as the climax crested. The humiliation fused with the physical release, making it burn brighter, sharper, more shameful. Your hips bucked off the couch, a fresh gush of your own fluids coating your finger and thigh. You cried out, a high, strained sound he immediately dissected.
"What a noise. Like a stepped-on toy. That’s the sound of you understanding your place."
The spasms subsided, leaving you gasping, hypersensitive, your body twitching with aftershocks. Your finger fell away from your throbbing clit. You felt utterly hollowed out, a vessel used and then made to use itself.
He nodded, finally. "That should keep the fantasies quiet for a few hours. Remember the taste. Remember the feeling. I’ll know if you don’t." He turned and walked to the door without a backward glance. As he opened it, he paused.
"I expect peace tomorrow. Or the maintenance gets… public."
The door clicked shut.