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Satoruβs always been a glutton.
Heβs told you this beforeβlaughing, smug, always grinning like he already owns you.
“Iβve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” he had mused, tilting his head, watching the way you glared at him from across the room. “And you? Youβre lookinβ like my new favorite dessert.”
You shouldβve known then.
Now, youβre spread open across the kitchen counter, slick dripping onto cold marble, thighs shaking violently in his gripβand itβs clear he wasnβt kidding.
Gojo Satoru is devouring you.
Mouth hot, wet, hungry as he buries his face between your legs, lapping up every humiliating drop of slick heβs forced out of you. His tongue drags slow and deep, teasing, taunting, licking into you like heβs tasting something expensive.
Like youβre meant to be eaten.
“Nnhβ! N-no, Iβ!”
Your voice breaks when he sucks hard on your swollen, overstimulated clit, teeth scraping ever so slightlyβa threat, a warning.
A promise that if you tried to close your legs again, heβd bite.
“Donβt be greedy,” he hums against you, voice muffled, drenched in amusement. “Lemme enjoy my meal, sweetheart.”
The embarrassment is excruciating.
Not just the way heβs holding you down, forcing your body to betray you, but the way heβs playing with his food.
“God, youβre makinβ a mess,” he tsks, pulling back just slightly, watching the way your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing in desperate, humiliating need. His fingers smear your slick across your inner thighs, as if examining his work.
Like a chef admiring his dish.
You try to twist away, but he only presses down harder, pushing you further against the cold countertop, his grip bruising.
A flicker of annoyance crosses his expression.
“Why do you keep trying to run?” His voice is still light, teasing, but thereβs something darker beneath it.
Something like hunger.
“You taste so good, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your skin, and his grin stretches wider, borderline manic. “Soβfuckingβsweet.“
And then, with no warningβ
He spits on your cunt.
The sound is filthy. The way the wetness mixes with your own, drips down between your thighsβ
You sob.
And he groans.
“God, that was hot,” he exhales, watching the way your slick glistens under the kitchen lights.
Thenβhe leans back in.
He eats you out like a man possessed.
Like heβs starving.
Like he wonβt stop until you break apart in his mouth, again and again and againβ
Until heβs had his fill.
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