Satoru Gojo

The first time you put your hands on Satoru, he had to pretend to be scandalized.

His head snapped to the side from the force of it, his body following the motion like he'd been hit by something heavier than a palm. The frat house living room went quiet around the two of you, the usual background noise of beer pong and someone's speaker cutting out as heads turned toward the commotion. Satoru brought his hand up to his cheek, slow and theatrical, and looked at you with wide, faux-betrayed eyes.

"Restraining order," he said, the words carrying across the room with what he assumed could be the appropriate level of wounded dignity. "That's assault. That's-" He paused, licked his lip where it had split slightly against his teeth. Something flickered across his face that wasn't part of the performance. "That's actually-"

He stopped himself there. His thighs pressed together under the table, a small adjustment no one else would have noticed, as he watched you get up and leave after having clearly finished whatever dumb conversation he had tried to start this time.

The texts came hours later, rapid and desperate, each one more pathetic than the last: please omg let me eat it please 🥺 i'll be so good just let me come over i swear i'll behave i know you're mad at me i know i was being annoying but please i need you so bad you don't understand i've been thinking about you ever since

The last one arrived at two in the morning.

i'll do anything. literally anything. i mean it let me prove it?

It only took that long because Satoru decided to for at least a while, pretend to have a gram of self-respect in him. That did not last long either, however.

---

The pattern established itself quickly.

He pushed when you were in a bad mood. Not obviously, not in a way that would make it seem intentional, but in small, accumulative ways that built pressure until something had to give. A comment here. A lingering glance there. His hand on your waist when you'd made it clear you didn't want to be touched. The kind of behavior that was just irritating enough to warrant a reaction, and just deniable enough that he could claim he hadn't meant anything by it.

He'd argue back, voice rising to match yours, his eyes bright with something that wasn't anger. He'd step closer, crowding into your space, using his height to loom over you like he was trying to intimidate you into backing down. The argument would escalate, voices carrying through the house, until you'd grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him toward the bedroom.

Satoru would go willingly.

The making-up sex was always the same. He'd be on his back, his hands fisted in the sheets, his head thrown back and his throat exposed. The words you used landed with precision. Weak. Pathetic. A loser who can't even take a few slaps without falling apart. His hips bucked up into you with each one, his cock twitching, his response immediate and undeniable. His thighs trembled on either side of you, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open and making sounds he couldn't control.

What kind of man are you? The question would hang in the air, rhetorical and cutting. What kind of man gets this excited about being emasculated by his girlfriend?

He would cum with a broken sound, his back arching off the bed. He lay there afterward, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, utterly wrecked. Satoru’s hands found yours, interlacing your fingers like he was afraid you were going to leave. He never once complained about the bruises. Really, he wore them like trophies.

---

The Instagram incident happened on a weekend.

You'd seen the story before he had. Some girl from the marketing department, the one with the hair that always looked professionally style, had posted a thirst trap that was clearly aimed at someone specific, if Satoru’s username getting tagged with a kiss emoji next to it was anything to go by. The rest of the caption was vague, the replies full of people complimenting her on all manners of things, the angle unmistakable.

You found him in the living room, surrounded by his brothers, mid-laugh at something someone had said. The laugh died when he saw your face. The room went quiet.

He followed you out to the front porch without argument, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly. He knew the tone. He had heard it before, and was now trying to figure out what he'd done this time to warrant it.

The question came flat and direct, if he saw the story. The one from the marketing girl. The one from the party. The one where she was obviously tagging him and trying to get his attention.

"What story?" He blinked, genuinely confused. "I've been here all day. I haven't-"

Satoru pulled out his phone. Swiped until his face went pale. "I didn't- y-yeah she tagged me, but I didn't ask her to- I didn't even see this, I swear-"

He didn't have to ask. He just had to exist in her vicinity looking like he did. That was the problem.

He looked at you with that particular expression, equal parts terrified and thrilled, but completely unhiding of the smirk now curving his lips. "And what are you going to do about it anyway?"

---

The punishment program took shape on that same evening.

Satoru knelt on the floor in front of you, his hands in his lap, his head bowed. His thighs were pressed together, his jeans doing nothing to hide the way his body was so obviously responding to current circumstances.

The rules were laid out. He wasn’t allowed to post anything without your approval. He wasn’t allowed to engage with anyone clearly trying to get his attention. He had to wear your matching bracelet at all times. He couldn’t touch himself without permission from you. And when you told him to do something humiliating in public, as punishment, he did it, no arguing, no complaining.

He nodded to each one, his throat bobbing. His voice cracked when he inquired further about in-person approaches. His hand went to his wrist when you mentioned the bracelet, the thin leather cord already sitting against his skin.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide, his pupils blown. "What would happen otherwise?"

The question went unanswered. You let him sit there, watching him process the possibilities. His thighs pressed together even tighter. His hands curled into fists in his lap.

He was hard for the rest of the night.

---

The first public humiliation happened at one of the weekly frat house parties.

You walked in together, your hand on the back of his neck. The bracelet was visible on his wrist. People noticed. The frat's unofficial king, the one who'd never been told no by anyone, walking in with a hand clamped on the back of his neck like a disobedient dog.

The instructions came low, right at his ear. The marketing girl was in the corner with her friends. He'd go over there and tell her he wasn't interested. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Then he'd walk away.

"In front of everyone?" His voice cracked. "You want me to…"

You asked, dryly, if your command actually sounded negotiable to him.

The only right course from there was that he nodded, and walked over to the corner. His shoulders were tense, his hands flexing at his sides. He stopped in front of her, said something you couldn't hear from across the room, and then his voice rose just enough to carry.

"I'm not interested. I have a girlfriend, and she's the only one I want."

The room went quiet. The marketing girl's face went red. Satoru turned and walked back to you, his face equally red, his hands shaking slightly.

A simple acknowledgment, something that sounded suspiciously like a good boy.

His thighs pressed together so hard you heard the denim creak. He whined, actually whined, out loud, in front of everyone. You arched an eyebrow and turned away, walking toward the door like you were leaving.

"Wait-" Satoru scrambled after you, his hand catching your wrist. "Wait, I did what you said, I did everything you said-"

The words tumbled out in a desperate rush. “Please, please don't leave! I’ll do anything, whatever you want.”

Your response came flat and final, that when he is to approach you, he should do it correctly, on his knees.

The implication was clear even to Satoru, and as commanded, he dropped without hesitation, his knees hitting the floor in front of everyone, his hands resting on his thighs, head bowed. The picture of submission.

The following sound of your praise made him whimper.

---

On the nights you decided he wasn't allowed to touch himself, Satoru acted out the most.

You caught him once, late, his hand in his boxers, his eyes squeezed shut, his hips moving against the mattress. He'd been so focused on the sensation that he hadn't heard you come in. Hadn't noticed you standing in the doorway.

The command to stop cut through the silence otherwise punctuated by his groans.

His hand froze immediately. His eyes flew open, wide and guilty. "I-I was just-"

You didn’t even need to speak the accusation. He knew the rules.

"I know," he said, the words tripping over themselves. "I know, I just- I couldn't sleep, and I was thinking about you, and I-"

His rambling was cut off by a command to put his hands on the headboard, and to do it now.

Satoru complied immediately, his hands gripping the wooden slats, his knuckles white. He looked at you with desperate eyes, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and leaking against his thigh.

The arrangement was stated simply. He'd sit there and watch you. And he wouldn't touch himself. If he did, you were leaving. And he didn't get to have you for a week.

"A week?" His voice cracked, horror bleeding into the word. "Baby, no, a week is- that's too long-"

Though he didnt want to find out how serious you were about it, not this time at least, not when he could tell his stunts have already pushed you into a less than pleased moods. Therefore, his hands stayed on the headboard, and his boxers tented, his body shivering with the effort of restraining himself.

You spent the following hour in the chair across from the bed, legs crossed, doing something unrelated on your phone. Occasionally looking up to watch him struggle to stay obedient. Had watched the way his eyes tracked your movements when you uncrossed and recrossed your legs, the way his breath caught when you adjusted your position in the chair, the way his hands had tightened on the headboard whenever you made any sound.

By the time you finally allowed him to move, he was full-on shaking from the training in patience. His hands came down slowly, his fingers flexing, and his voice was wrecked when he spoke, begging, pleading, promising to be good, because for someone like Satoru, a lack of action was the worst punishment of all. He could handle public humiliation. He could handle getting slapped around. But he could not, ever, handle anticipation.

Yet he was eager to prove himself to you, whatever that entailed.

---

The summer heat made everything worse.

Satoru was sprawled across your bed, shirtless, his chest flushed from the temperature, his hair sticking to his forehead. The ceiling fan was doing nothing. The open window was doing nothing. He was sweating and miserable and entirely too aware of the fact that you were at your desk, reading something on your laptop, ignoring him completely.

"Baby," he whined, stretching out his arms toward you. "Baby, I'm dying. It's so hot. I'm literally melting. I'm going to die of heatstroke and you're going to have to explain to my mom why her son is dead."

The response was dismissive, something about how he wasn't dying.

"I am," he insisted. "This is the dying part. I'm going to be dead in like thirty seconds and you're going to be sad that you didn't touch me while I was still alive." Satoru pouted, his lower lip jutting out, his eyes going wide and pathetic. It was the same expression he used when he wanted something, the same expression that had gotten him out of trouble with everyone, except you.

"Can we at least-" He gestured vaguely at his lap, where his sweatpants were doing nothing to hide the situation developing there. "I'm really uncomfortable, and it's not just the heat."

Knowing him, he was always ‘uncomfortable’.

"You never-" He stopped himself, bit his lip, and tried a different approach. "Please. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just…"

You set down your laptop. Stood up. Walked over to the bed.

He looked up at you, hope and fear warring on his face the same way the two emotions always did when he felt particularly powerless to you. His hands came up to his sides, waiting. His thighs pressed together in the same familiar rhythm they always did when you were close enough.

You told him that if he did a good enough job at begging, maybe you'd let him touch himself. Emphasis on maybe.

He swallowed, nodded, and started begging. It didn't take very long for you to allow it. He was good at begging. He'd had plenty of practice.

---

The thing about Satoru was that he could take it.

If he genuinely didn't want to be treated this way, if he actually objected to the humiliation and the rules and the way you put him in his place in front of everyone, he would have ended it. He had the resources. He had the power. He had the ability to walk away and never look back.

He never did. He never even thought about it.

Because Satoru was right where he wanted to be.

Afterward, when you had let him cum, when he collapsed against you trembling and spent and utterly content, the words came out as gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He'd press his face into your neck, his arms wrapping around you, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

You might as well have been.