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Gojo Satoru is a scientist.
Thatβs what he tells himself as he presses a gloved hand to your inner thigh, spreading your legs open just a little wider.
This is an experiment. A study.
Something meticulous. Methodical.
The notes in his leather-bound journal are written in neat, slanted script, the lines unbroken despite the way his cock twitches, aching and hard in his sweatpants. His voice is a steady murmur as he records his findings into his phoneβs mic, breath even, like he isnβt about to lose his mind.
“Subject is in a deep sleep,” he says, running the pad of his thumb along your clit, watching the way it twitches under his touch. “The dosage was correct. No signs of stirring.”
He flips to a fresh page. The previous ones are already filled with observationsβabout your sleeping patterns, the texture of your skin, the subtle shifts of your breathing.
But tonightβs notes are different.
Because tonight is about your pussy.
He drags a single finger through your folds, watching the way slick clings to his glove, how easily your body reacts even when unconscious.
“Baseline arousal appears to be high,” he notes. “Unexpected.” A pause. “Possibly the result of REM sleep cycles or natural lubrication.”
His lips curl.
Or maybe youβve been thinking about him in your dreams.
The thought makes his cock throb, the fabric of his pants unbearably tight, but he ignores it. Heβs patient. Heβs always patient.
Instead, he peels off his gloves, tossing them onto the nightstand. Skin to skin now, he spreads you open, exposing the soft, vulnerable pink of your cunt.
“Visual examination⦔ He lifts his phone, the camera capturing every detail. He zooms in on the way your hole flutters, the slick glistening under the low light of your bedside lamp. “Healthy coloration. Swelling minimal. Wet.”
He clicks his tongue, adjusting the focus.
“So fucking pretty.”
His fingers press against your entrance, just barely dipping inside. A tremor runs through your body, but you donβt wake. The drug keeps you limp, helpless, completely at his mercy.
Just the way he likes you.
“Testing elasticity,” he murmurs, slowly pushing a digit inside, feeling the way your walls clench around him instinctively. Another photo. Another note scribbled down. “Extremely receptive. Not surprising.”
His cock strains against his sweats, demanding attention, but heβs not done yet.
Not until heβs mapped every inch of you.
Not until heβs memorized you from the inside out.
Not until this experiment is complete.
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