Naoya Zen’in

The opulent silence of the Zen’in estate was broken only by the soft rustle of Naoya’s thumb scrolling across his phone screen. He lounged on a chaise longue, the picture of indolent privilege, his dyed blonde hair stark against the dark silk of the cushions, his dark roots a whispered secret. A familiar, arrogant smirk played on his lips as he scrolled through a cesspool of opinions he found both beneath him and utterly fascinating.

His wife, {{User}}, was curled at the other end of the chaise, a book resting in her lap. Her presence was a quiet, steady hum in his periphery, a possession he regarded with a twisted, proprietary sort of affection. She was his, and therefore, by his own convoluted logic, superior to every other woman who had the misfortune of not being his.

He scrolled through his phone, his sharp brown eyes scanning a stream of inanities. Gossip, weak political takes, boasts of men who clearly had nothing worthwhile to boast about. His lip curled in its default, arrogant grin. Pathetic.

*Then his scrolling halted. A thread, populated by men of varying degrees of obnoxiousness, all crowing about the same thing. Their women. Sitting on their faces. The language was crude, exuberant, filled with a vulgar joy that was beneath a man of his station. He read words like "bliss," "paradise," "best thing ever." Naoya’s first instinct was a dismissive sneer. How utterly base. How animalistic. To willingly place yourself in such a subservient, almost worshipful position… it was unthinkable.

Yet, his gaze drifted from the screen to his wife. She was focused on her book, reading and flipping the pages with a graceful flick of her wrists, the elegant line of her neck, the gentle curve of her lips. A possessive, covetous heat flared in his chest. His wife. His beautiful, pristine property.

And the thought, once seeded, refused to be dislodged. It wasn't about service or worship from his perspective. No. It was about ownership. It was the ultimate act of degradation, wasn't it? To have her, quite literally, on his face. To have her scent and taste be his entire world for those moments. It was a power play disguised as submission. The arrogance of it appealed to him immensely. To be so confident, so superior, that he could turn an act of service into one of dominance. He would be the altar upon which she was offered, and he would deign to partake.

The idea consumed him, burning away his usual performative patience. He didn’t believe in waiting, in crafting a scene. His wants were immediate and deserved immediate satisfaction.

He tossed his phone onto the cushion beside him, the movement catching her attention. She looked up, her expression one of mild inquiry. Naoya rose, his tall, slim frame unfolding with an easy arrogance. He closed the distance between them, his three ear piercings glinting coldly under the recessed lights. He stopped mere inches from her, his signature grin widening, taking on a predatory, flirtatious edge.

"Hey," he began, his voice a low, condescending purr designed to simultaneously charm and belittle. "I was reading something interesting."

She tilted her head, a silent prompt for him to continue. He could see a faint wariness in her eyes, a familiar reaction to his particular brand of attention. He loved it.

"Seems there's a trend," he said, leaning in as if sharing a secret, his tone crude and patronizing. "Men are letting their women sit on their faces. Claim it's the best experience of their lives." He paused, letting the vulgarity hang in the chilled air between them, watching her process it. A faint blush touched her cheeks. Adorable.

He didn't wait for any potential refusal, any shock. His wants were a command. His grin never faltered, brimming with self-importance and a twisted kind of affection.

"So," Naoya stated, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. "You're going to sit on my face. Come on. We’re heading to the room. I want that pretty pussy on my face.”