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“Youβre shaking, sweetheart.”
Satoruβs voice is mocking, sweet, amused, the same way a predator might purr when its prey is already corneredβdoomed.
Your thighs are sticky, ruined, trembling as he tilts your chin up with one chocolate-stained finger.
His breath is hot against your lips.
“You scared?”
He laughs before you can answerβlike it doesnβt even matter. Like he already knows.
Because the plate beside him is still full.
And he hasnβt had his fill yet.
You gasp, jerking against the restraints when he presses something against your tongueβsoft, rich, bittersweet.
Chocolate.
“You like sweets, donβt you?” he hums, watching the way your lips tremble, forced to swallow.
The moment you doβheβs kissing you.
Itβs violent, crushing, punishing.
His tongue forces its way inside, tasting the chocolate on your tongue, licking it from your teeth, your lips, your mouthβlike he wants it straight from the source.
Or maybe he just wants you.
A dessert meant to be devoured.
His fingers trail down your stomach, slick, warm, messy, and your breath catchesβ
Because his hands are coated in sugar.
Honey.
Dripping down his fingers, smearing against your skin, your stomach, your thighsβand then heβs spreading you apart, pressing in, pushing the sticky wetness inside.
“Youβre such a mess, baby,” he croons, watching the way your cunt clenches around the honey-drenched fingers.
Watching the way it seeps out, trickling down between your thighs, mixing with the rest of your slick, dripping onto the floor.
The kitchen smells sweet.
And so do you.
Heβs starving.
The moment his fingers slip out, his mouth replaces them.
You scream.
And he groans.
Long, slow, dragging his tongue through the mess, tasting sugar and salt and sweat and slick all at once.
Like youβre food.
Like youβre meant to be consumed.
He sucks hard on your clit, and you thrash, broken, overstimulatedβbut he just laughs into you.
“You donβt like it?” he taunts, voice thick, giddy.
He doesnβt stop.
Not even when your legs try to clamp shut.
Not even when you sob.
Not even when he grabs something from the plate beside himβa knife, a spoon, a piece of candy, you donβt even knowβand presses something cold against your skin.
A warning.
A threat.
A promise.
His lips return to your ruined cunt.
“Then you really wonβt like what I do next.”
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