Misaki Tanaka

Clutching the edges of the mahogany desk until my knuckles turn white is the only thing keeping me grounded. The weight of a presence behind me is unmistakable, a sudden shift in the air that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand at attention. I can hear the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing—huff, huff—just inches from my ear. I know he’s there. I know he’s looking at the one thing I promised myself I’d never show anyone until it was perfect. My manuscript. My soul laid bare in ink and digital pixels.

It’s humiliating, really. I’m supposed to be the composed literature student, the one with the sharp tongue and the analytical mind, yet here I am, frozen because he’s reading a particularly spicy passage about a woman surrendering her will. My heart is thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird—thump-thump, thump-thump—and I can feel the heat radiating from his large frame. He doesn’t say a word, but the way he leans in, his chest nearly brushing my shoulder, tells me everything. He’s curious. He’s dominant. He’s taking exactly what he wants without asking.

"Stop it," I managed to whisper, though the command lacks any real bite. My voice is breathy, betraying the thrill shooting through my nerves. "It’s... it’s not finished. It’s private, you know? You can’t just—" I cut myself off as I feel his hand rest on the back of my chair. The sheer size of him makes me feel so incredibly small, so delicate. My mind is screaming at me to close the laptop, to snap it shut with a definitive clack, but my body refuses to move. I want him to see. I want him to know these dark, submissive thoughts belong to him.

Turning my head just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, I see the intensity in his gaze. He looks so satisfied, so calm in his power over me. It makes my stomach flip and my thighs press together instinctively. The contrast between my professional attire—a tight, navy blue silk pencil skirt and a crisp white lace blouse—and the filthy words on the screen is almost too much to bear. I feel like a total slut, writing about the very things he makes me feel every single night.

Everything feels too tight. My bra is straining against my 120-centimeter bust, and my breath is coming in short, jagged hitches. I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t want to write about it; I want to feel it. Reaching down, I fumble with the waistband of my skirt, the fabric sliding over my wide, 125-centimeter hips with a soft shhhht sound. I shimmy out of my lace thong, the small scrap of fabric hitting the floor with a silent thud. I stand up, turning to face him, my face flushed a deep crimson. I bend over the desk, pushing my huge, jiggly ass toward him and parting my legs. My wet, pink pussy is already glistening, an invitation for him to stop reading and start acting.

The soft clink of silver against porcelain—clink, tink—is the only sound at our table for a long moment. I’m meticulously cutting a small piece of steak, trying to ignore the way he’s watching me across the candlelit space. It’s an expensive restaurant, the kind where the wine costs more than my monthly rent, and I’m dressed for the occasion in a deep red satin chinadress. The high collar is stiff against my neck, and the side slits are dangerously high, revealing the tops of my black silk stockings held up by delicate lace garters. I feel like a prized ornament, a beautiful thing kept for his private enjoyment.

He hasn’t said much since we sat down, but his silence is more demanding than any shout. It’s a weight, a pressure that makes me want to squirm in my seat. I can tell he’s pleased with how I look, how I’ve perfectly molded myself into the elegant woman he expects to see on his arm. But under the table, my toes are curling inside my 12-centimeter stiletto heels. My pulse is racing at 100 beats per minute, and I’m struggling to maintain my "cool" persona. Every time I look up and meet his eyes, I feel that familiar, sharp tug of submission in my gut.

"Is the wine to your liking?" I ask, my voice sounding more formal than I intended. I sound like a doll. I hate it, and I love it. I love that he can make me lose my edge just by existing in my space. He just nods, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips that tells me he knows exactly how flustered I am. He reached out, his hand momentarily covering mine on the tablecloth, and the heat of his skin sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core. I almost drop my fork—clatter—but catch it at the last second.

God, why am I like this? I should be making some biting comment about the over-salting of the vegetables or the pretentiousness of the decor. Instead, I’m sitting here like a good little girl, wondering if he can see the way my nipples are hardening against the thin satin of my dress. The way he looks at me... it’s like he’s already stripping me bare, tasting every inch of my pale skin. It’s intoxicating. It makes me feel shameful, being this horny in such a public, refined setting. The shame only feeds the fire between my legs.

Dinner is over the second I see that specific look in his eyes—the one that says he’s tired of waiting. We barely make it back to the private booth in the back of the lounge before I’m acting on pure instinct. I don't care who might see or what they might think. I stand up, the satin of my dress rustling—frou-frou—as I hike it up past my waist. I hook my fingers into the sides of my silk G-string and drag it down my toned legs, kicking it aside. I turn around, bracing my hands against the plush leather seat and arching my back until it hurts. My huge, wide hips are on full display as I offer him my dripping, swollen cunt, desperate for him to ruin me right here.

Light from the television flickers across the darkened living room, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. I’m supposed to be watching some gritty crime drama, but I haven't processed a single line of dialogue for the last twenty minutes. My focus is entirely on the man sitting next to me on the sofa. He’s leaning back, looking completely at ease, while I’m a taut wire of nervous energy. I’ve tried to stay on my side of the cushions, but the gravitational pull of his presence is too strong. I keep inching closer, my thigh eventually brushing against his.

The fabric of my oversized sweater—one I stole from his closet—is soft against my skin, but beneath it, I’m wearing nothing but a pair of tiny lace panties. It was a bold move, one I’m now second-guessing as the silence between us stretches. I can hear the rain tapping against the window—pitter-patter, pitter-patter—and the low hum of the air conditioner. It’s peaceful, domestic, and yet I feel like I’m about to explode. I want him to notice. I want him to stop looking at the screen and look at me.

I shift my weight, the leather of the sofa squeaking—creak—under my 125-centimeter hips. He still hasn't moved, but I can feel his attention shift. It’s like a physical touch, a warm hand sliding down my spine. I feel my face heating up, that annoying tsundere reflex kicking in. "You’re not even watching the movie," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest, which only serves to push my K-cup breasts further out of the neckline. "Why did we even put this on if you’re just going to sit there being... you?"

He doesn't respond with words, only a low, amused huff that vibrates through the cushions. It’s infuriating how well he knows me. He knows I’m just posturing. He knows that I’m desperate for him to take control. My heart is hammering—thud-thud-thud—and I can feel a familiar dampness between my legs. I’m so pathetic. A smart, independent woman reduced to a puddle because her boyfriend is sitting near her. But the submission feels so good, so right. It’s a relief to let go of the need to be the one in charge.

Slowly, I sit up, my movements deliberate and shaky. I look at him, my blue eyes wide and pleading, shedding the last of my guarded exterior. I don't want to wait for the credits to roll. I reach under my sweater, my fingers hooking into the waistband of my lace panties. With a sharp tug, I pull them down and toss them onto the floor. I crawl over to him, turning my back and kneeling on the sofa. I press my chest into the cushions and shove my heavy, jiggly ass into the air, presenting my soaking wet, pink pussy to him. "Justfuckmealready!!!!!" I gasp, the words blurring together in my haste to be filled.

Slap! Slap! Slap! The sound of his pelvis hitting my ass echoes through the bedroom like a rhythmic drumbeat. I’m pinned to the mattress in a messy doggy style, my face buried in the pillows to muffle my incoherent screams. Every thrust is a tectonic shift, a violent and beautiful invasion that leaves me breathless. I can feel him—all of him—buried deep inside my aching, stretched cunt. His monstrous cock is a solid, unyielding pillar of heat that reaches all the way to my cervix, bumping against it with a dull, pleasurable ache—thud.

My body is completely out of my control now. My wide hips are shaking uncontrollably with every impact, my 125-centimeter ass jiggling violently under his hands. I can feel the sweat slicking our skin, making the friction even more intense. I’m a mess of pale skin and black hair, my 120-centimeter breasts swinging wildly beneath me. I love it. I fucking love being used like this. My analytical mind has completely shut down, replaced by a primitive, desperate need to be conquered. I’m just a hole for him, a vessel for his pleasure, and the thought makes me come over and over again.

"Ohgod... YES!! FUCK!! RIGHT THERE!!" I scream into the pillow, my voice cracking. I can feel the sheer girth of him stretching my inner walls to their absolute limit. It’s a sensation of being completely full, of being owned from the inside out. My pussy is clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic spasms, trying to suck every bit of him deeper. Each time he pulls back, I feel a cold sense of loss, only for it to be replaced by a searing, blissful pressure as he plunges back in. Spluck, squelch. The sound of our juices mingling is loud and filthy in the quiet room.

I can feel my mind breaking, the boundaries of my self-dissolving into the sensation of his cock. I don't care about my dignity, my career, or my pride. I just want him to keep going, to keep pounding me until I can't remember my own name. I reach back, my fingers digging into the muscles of his thighs, trying to pull him even closer. I want to be his slut, his woman, his breeder. The shame of my thoughts only adds to the heat, fueling a lust so intense it feels like I’m burning from the inside out.

He’s hitting my G-spot with every single stroke, a relentless assault that has my toes curling and my eyes rolling back into my head. I’m drowning in him. The rhythm is getting faster—slapslapslapslap—and I can tell he’s getting close. I want it. I want his seed. I want him to fill my womb with his thick, hot cum. I arch my back, pushing my ass back against him, trying to take every millimeter of that massive dick. I’m his, completely and utterly, and I’ve never felt more relieved than I do right now, being broken under his weight.

Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, warming the tiles and casting a golden glow over everything. I’m sitting on his lap at the small breakfast table, my legs draped over his strong thighs. I’m only wearing one of his white button-down shirts, the hem barely covering my 125-centimeter hips, and the scent of him—something clean and masculine—is all around me. I’m trying to eat a piece of toast, but it’s difficult when I’m so hyper-aware of the massive erection pressing against my bottom. Munch, crunch. The sound of me chewing is loud in the quiet morning.

He’s got his arms wrapped around my waist, his large hands resting on my stomach, right over my navel. It’s a possessive gesture, one that makes me feel safe and small. I lean back against his chest, feeling the steady thump-thump of his heart against my shoulder blades. I know I should probably get up and start my day—I have a lecture in two hours—but I can't bring myself to move. Being here, held by him like this, is the only place I want to be. My usual sharp-witted defenses are completely down, replaced by a soft, domestic contentment.

"You're making it hard to eat," I murmur, though I make no effort to move. I reach back and run my fingers through his hair, my touch light and affectionate. I can feel him shift beneath me, the friction of his cock against my ass sending a thrill through my nervous system. My body is already responding, my nipples peaking against the thin cotton of the shirt. It’s a constant state of arousal when I’m around him, a low-level hum that never truly goes away. I wonder if he knows how much power he has over me, how easily he can turn me into a needy, desperate mess.

I take a sip of coffee, the warmth spreading through my chest. Slurp. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, a soft, warm sensation that makes me shiver. He’s so quiet, but his presence fills the entire room. He doesn't need to say anything to let me know what he wants. I can feel the intent in the way he holds me, the way his thumbs trace small circles on my skin. He wants me. He wants to take me right here on the kitchen table, and God help me, I want him to do it.

Setting the coffee cup down with a soft clink, I turn slightly in his lap so I can look at him. His expression is calm, almost predatory, and it makes my breath hitch. I feel that familiar surge of submissive heat, the urge to just give in and let him do whatever he wants with my body. I’m his woman, his property, and there’s no place I’d rather be than pinned under him, being filled with his strength. I lean in, pressing my forehead against his, my heart racing as I wait for him to make the first move.