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What you tolerate, you encourage.
You’ve never given that stupid warning poster slogan a second thought during your high school career, but now it’s the only thing going through your mind. It’s funny how people act this way; conveniently forgetting all the warnings shoved down their throats ‘til they find themselves in a predicament where — get this — if they had just heeded the warnings, they wouldn’t even be in trouble in the first place!
Perhaps if you had acted just a little bit differently, you wouldn’t find yourself face down, ass up for a man whose hands leave bruises on your (previously) unmarked skin and a sharp tongue whose words slices your self-esteem to shreds.
But maybe those harsh words of his hold some truth. Maybe you are just a dumb little girl who’s been begging for someone like him to come around and finally make you useful. Maybe you do deserve it…
After all, if you didn’t want it, why did you let it get this far, right?
You first meet Tooru Oikawa on your second week of being a beverage cart girl for a country club so exclusive, you’re so pitifully poor you can’t even dream about ever becoming a member. You — along with literally any other person with eyes and taste — appreciate the view that he provides. Six feet of lean, hard earned muscle, skin so smooth he could star in skincare ads, and a smile that you swear sparkles in the sun.
It’s a shame, really, that this Adonis image of his is ruined the second he opens his mouth.
“Hey, sweetheart, go get me a drink.”
He’s everything you hate about your job’s typical customers: condescending, rude, constantly belittling you, egotistical, vain… But he’s also everything you love about the customers, too: rich.
So, you deal with it. You deal with it because if there’s one thing you learned from your short experience as a beverage cart girl, it’s that it’s better to just shut up, look pretty, and collect your tips as a sort of reward for putting up with their perversions.
As far as sleazy customers go, Tooru Oikawa wins that award, without a doubt. For someone who’s (unfairly!!!) pretty, he’s absolutely disgusting at his core. You honestly can’t even count a single normal interaction between the two of you. It’s like his default mode is being some sort of depraved freak.
And to make matters worse, there’s almost always an audience to bear witness to your humiliation.
He’s never bothered to call you by your name, even though your name tag is in his eyesight (and you know for a fact that he sees it because he’s always eyeing the area it’s pinned near). If you ask Oikawa what your name is, he’d probably say some snarky shit like “honey”, “baby”, or his ever so popular “sweetheart”. He might use a sickly sweet voice when he says it, but you can’t help but pick up the sheer sourness everything he says is tainted with, like you’re the root cause of all his problems, and you deserve to be treated worse than how he’s treating you right now.
The nicknames you can handle. That’s nothing new. His staring problem? Whatever, you can deal with being under his scrutinizing gaze for a couple of minutes if it means you leave a couple thousand yen richer.
But what makes Oikawa different from the other golfers that frequent this course isn’t his mistreatment or his money. It’s the fact that Oikawa is completely willing to break boundaries that anyone, no matter how sick and perverted they are, wouldn’t dare to.
He’s nothing if not tactful, though. He starts off with small things, like “accidentally” touching your hands when you hand him a shot or brushing up against you when your back is turned, pressing his body against yours under the guise that he’s “just curious as to what drinks you’re searching for in the ice chest”. He works fast, though; the progression from “maybe accidental” touches to “he’s definitely doing this shit on purpose” happens in a blink of an eye.
The first time he slaps your ass, you fucking swear that it can be dubbed “the smack heard ‘round the world”.
If not the world, then at least the golf course if the burning stares of all his friends are any indication at just how obvious he’s being. But for people like Oikawa, subtly embarrassing people doesn’t provide the same high as publicly humiliating them.
You’re not sure how to react. The other men are still gaping at you, but Oikawa seems plenty pleased at himself for what he just did. His smug grin is the only difference in his demeanor, though. Other than that, he acts like it’s business as usual; calling you sweetheart and tipping you generously. The only difference is the stinging pain and the tiny wince in your fake smile as he hands you a stack of bills.
His grin grows at your pained smile.
After that, it’s a downward spiral. Slapping your ass every time you walk by is nothing new. In fact, it becomes such a common occurrence that not even his golfing buddies bother to even bat an eye when it happens. They just continue on with their drinking and their game, like this is normal, like this is alright. It’s gotten to the point where even you start wondering if you’re the weird one for hating his behavior.
He likes touching you, though. Trying to get his hands to brush against yours every time he hands you money or you hand him a drink. Finds any and all excuses under the sun to have his body pressed up against yours until the only thing you can smell is the scent of his cologne — a brand you can’t even pronounce — and his spearmint scented breath that’s tainted with the second shot he just downed like water. But him pushing your physical boundaries just isn’t enough for him. He wants something more, and every time he requests for it, you oblige.
(It’s what good customer service is… At least, that’s what you tell yourself to cope with it.)
So when he tells you to give him a little kiss on the cheek “for good luck”, you do it. His skin is as smooth as it looks, you note. His cologne is subtle, but you’re so close to each other that it’s all you can smell. His friends whistle the first time it happens; you hear one of them make a comment asking if they can be next.
Oikawa, to say the least, isn’t amused with that reaction at all.
(You never saw the man who made that comment golf with them ever again…)
Cheek kisses turn into chaste kisses on the lips, and those turn into deep kisses, the types where there’s nothing but tongue involved and his hands are groping any area of your body they can reach. There’s a red alarm blaring in your head that you’re going above and beyond in the customer service department, but according to the country club’s motto, the customer is always right. And if Oikawa requesting that you give him a kiss here and there for “good luck” is good customer service, then you deserve a promotion.
You have to admit, though, that you feel dirty afterwards. The delayed shame and humiliation doesn’t hit you until after you’re done making your rounds, and all you can do is sit in the golf cart after your shifts and question everything. What he’s doing isn’t okay, it isn’t excusable, and—
—and it pays well. Your employers are happy with your good work. Your bank account has been financially sound for the longest time it’s ever been. You’re eighteen, this job is just a temporary gig, and you’re fine.
So, you don’t report him. In a way, you kind of look forward to seeing him on the course. It could be worse. He could be absolutely hideous and be a shitty tipper. (Thank god he’s neither, right?)
It’s gotten to the point where you’re ready for him. Your tennis skirts have gotten an inch shorter, just to expose some more skin for him. You have his drinks memorized. You don’t even want to grimace when he slaps your ass now. You know just how to get him to tip you better, too. You emphasize your sir’s and you’ve even been practicing on perfecting that smile of yours.
This new customer-employee relationship is like the new normal for you. You’ve grown used to this, you’ve adapted to this, you’ve even made sure to benefit from this.
But you hesitate when he asks you to take a shot with him.
This isn’t the first time a customer has tried to get you to drink with them, but despite the whole entire “the customer is always right” motto, the country club has a strict “no drinking on the job” rule that’s enforced heavily. You can’t risk losing your job just to appease him.
“Sorry, sir, I’m not allowed to,” You flash him a smile, offering up another shot. “But, I can offer you one on the house to make up for it.”
“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. You can’t take just one shot with me?” You knew he wasn’t going to take this easily. Hardly any of the other men do.
“I really wish I could, but I can’t. Company policy.” You speak through clenched teeth now. That old defiant spark in you is making a reappearance.
“It’s just one drink, baby. I think you and I both know we can keep a secret to ourselves.” He looks almost angelic when he smiles, but you know that people like Oikawa get sent straight to hell.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Oikawa. I just can’t. I could lose my job.”
“It’s my birthday, you know.” He says, and you’re confused as to why he’s bringing this up.
“Well, h-happy birthday, sir.” His group is starting to make their way to the next hole. He should be following them, but he isn’t. He’s still transfixed on you.
“Hmm. Well, it was. ‘Til my favorite beverage girl decided that her job was more important than me.” He takes a step closer to you. You take a step back.
You’ve never noticed this before, but Oikawa’s a lot taller than you realize. He easily towers over you, and the polo he’s wearing does nothing but emphasize his muscles. He might look like any other pretty boy on the course, but this isn’t just a boy you’re dealing with — Tooru Oikawa is a man.
“C’mon, don’t you want to make it up to me?” His hand squeezes your waist and his grip is so tight, it hurts.
“Fine, I’ll take the shot.” You try to turn so you can reach into the ice chest, but he closes the distance between the two of faster than you can.
“Mmm, not good enough, sweetheart. I want a different gift from my favorite girl, now. After all, weren’t you the one worried about losing your precious little job?”
Kissing Oikawa isn’t a foreign art to you. He’s heavy on the tongue, prodding your mouth open with it and exploring every inch of your mouth with it. It’s sloppy and honestly a little nasty, far too personal, but it’s just his style. Your back is pressed against the cart now; it’s digging into your body and it hurts, but all of your energy is being used to keep Oikawa satiated, so you can’t move away.
When he finally decides to come back up for air, you cringe as you see the thin string of saliva that still connects him to you. Even with flushed cheeks and shiny lips, Oikawa is still a sight for sore eyes. You can almost trick yourself into believing that he’s as innocent as he looks, but there’s nothing remotely innocent about him.
“You know, I never really liked golfing here until you started working.” He muses, looking at your distressed state. Your hair is a mess, and your now wrinkled skirt is riding up. You’re supposed to be looking put together, but right now, he thinks you look a bit like a cheap whore. His cheap whore. It’s a nice look, really suits you well.
He will admit, he gets a sick power trip getting you all messed up like this. Maybe he’s disgusting and depraved to a dangerous degree, but in a way, you’re the one to blame. After all, if you didn’t like his attention so much, why’d you keep coming back for more?
Because, Oikawa concludes, you’re secretly just as dirty as him. Maybe not to the same degree, but there’s a hunger inside of you that desperately craves depravity.
And who is he to deny you of this pleasure?
He stares at you like he can see beneath your flushed skin. You squirm under the scrutiny, trying to look at anything but him, but he’s towering over you and everywhere you look, there’s only him.
There’s butterflies in your stomach, but not the cute kind. You feel sick to your stomach, and you want to run, but your legs feel like gelatin and even if you could run, you can’t. He watches you come to this realization with some sort of sick glee, like this is a game and not a violation of your rights, not a direct abuse of his power over you.
“All the other girls—” A hand finds its way to the waistband of your white skirt. “—they were pretty much your average sluts. Desperate for attention, but real obvious about it. But you—” He’s hooking two fingers in the waistband and dragging down down down ‘til your pretty little skirt is at your ankles.. “—you’re different. Subtle. You don’t want to admit that you want it, but it’s true, isn’t it?”
You shake your head no, afraid that the moment you open your mouth, you’re going to fucking vomit. God, you hate it here, you hate yourself, you hate him.
You don’t even notice you’re crying until he takes his thumb and wipes away the first stream of tears on your cheek.
“What’s the matter, baby?” He coos. “Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting the past few months?” No, no, it’s really not. And he’s fucking delusional if he thinks you putting up with his shit to get some tips is the equivalent of you wanting to have sex with him. Maybe he’s been dreaming about this, but you’re not. This is a nightmare in the making.
“I think I know what you need.” He muses, wetting his index finger with your tears. “I guess all my time on the course, I’ve been neglecting the only important hole, huh?” He laughs at this pun like he’s just so fucking clever, but you can’t even roll your eyes because you’re still crying a little bit, and his now wet index finger is nudging past the fabric of your panties, soaking the material. He slides his finger past your folds with ease, entering you with close to no resistance, something he comments on. At least, you think he does. You can’t think straight; your mind is refusing to focus on something, anything.
He has an arm wrapped around your waist and he’s pushing you against the cart, making you fall back onto the leather seats of the cart. You can’t look down, you don’t want to look down, but it doesn’t matter because you can feel it. You can feel the slick gathering up, helping his finger glide in and out of your cunt. You can feel him adding his middle finger, can feel the way his thrusts are starting to gain momentum and speed.
His fingers are longer than yours, reaching deeper than you ever can. You’re not sure when you stop crying, but the tears have long since dried up on your flushed cheeks, and your breathing is starting to return back to normal. Or, as close to normal as you can get when a guy is fingerfucking you knuckles deep.
And you don’t want to cum — god, you really don’t, not because of him, at least — but Oikawa’s actually really good at what he’s doing right now. And you hate your body’s natural reaction: the overflow of arousal that’s slicking up his fingers and allowing him to smoothly pump his fingers in and out of you; the way you can’t help but want to grind against his hand as he continues to fuck you; the way you want to moan like a pornstar whenever he finally hits that spongy patch in you, the one where all he has to do is stroke his fingers right against that spot and holy shit — you’re fucking cumming.
You’re cumming all over his hand now, gushing white all over his pale fingers, and he won’t stop pumping his fingers, and you don’t want him to stop, you really don’t, and maybe he’s right. Maybe this is what you want, what you need. Because if this is so bad then why does it feel so good?
He finally removes his hand, separating his fingers right in front of your face. His fingers are coated with your cum, and you feel the blood rush up to your cheeks as his fingers inch closer and closer to his mouth. He just got done fucking you with his fingers, you literally came all over him, but watching him lick up the mess you made is when you decide to feel embarrassed? God, what’s the matter with you?
He’s obnoxious with his little taste test, too. He’s dramatically slurping it up with vigor, and you want to actually die right here, but you can’t. Instead, you’re underneath Oikawa, watching him suck your juices off his fingers, and he’s telling you that you taste sweet. “Maybe you should be on the menu instead.” He chuckles, but the joke falls on deaf ears.
Tooru Oikawa is a jerk. He’s a rich, self entitled, arrogant jerk, but he also gave you the best orgasm you’ve ever had in months and that’s just with him using his fingers. He made you cum all over his hands like a teenage virgin, and you liked it.
And worse yet, you want more.
Luckily (or is it unluckily?) enough for you, Oikawa feels the exact same way. You can see the bulge in the khaki shorts he’s wearing, and if the imprint of his dick in the stiff material is any indication, your pussy is quite possibly never going to be the same ever again.
He flips you over with ease. You’re lying on your stomach, and you have to ask yourself this: can you fight back? You don’t even think you can walk, you’re still recovering from your first orgasm. Taking on Oikawa even in your peak physical state is a joke, so you trying to fight him off right now, with sticky thighs and a hazy mind? Yeah, that thought is a fucking stand up routine right there.
What you need to ask yourself is this: do you want to fight back?
Because here are the facts: somewhere, somehow, someway, Oikawa has molded you into a near perfect, submissive slut for him. Like, looking back from two weeks ago, kissing him as a good luck charm? Really? You’re no genius, but it’s obvious that something should have been reported a long time ago.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you do want it.
Might as well own up to it, then, right?
Tooru smiles at the view greeting him. Your upper half of your body is pressed down on the seats and — tsk, naughty girl — you’ve even pulled down your panties for him. Your cunt is still so wet, it’s practically glistening. Look at you, perky ass raised up, pussy just begging to be filled. Yeah, he’s been waiting for this moment ever since he first met you, and now it’s all coming to a filthy fruition.
“Beg for it.” His voice leaves no room for any objection. And honestly, begging for his dick might be demeaning, but it’s not like you’ve got much dignity left to save anyway.
So, what do you do? You beg, swaying your hips and shaking your ass in his face, whining like a bitch in heat.
“Please, sir—” You moan out, in what you think is your raunchiest voice. “Please, please fuck me. I-I need it, sir.”
“Need what, sweetheart? I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need.”
Yeah, he’s a fucking jerk. A fucking jerk who’s definitely packing, and right now — right fucking now — all you can think about is his cock splitting you apart. There’s really no shame in your game now, no reason to try to save face.
“Please, sir! I need your cock inside of me.” You whine out, and maybe you’re no master orator, but Tooru still gives in nonetheless.
First things first: Tooru Oikawa is big. And you’re not saying this to make yourself feel better about begging for him to dick you down, you’re saying this because it’s true. Because on that first inch of penetration, he has to grip your waist and stop you from squirming because it almost burns when you stretch to accommodate him. And maybe just having a fat cock isn’t anything all too impressive, but he matches it with his length, too. Your eyes are starting to well up with tears again when you feel the head of his cock brush up against your cervix, but the worst part — the scary part — he’s only three-quarters in.
He’s not even fully sheathed inside of you, and he’s already bottoming out.
“Fuck, for such a slutty little girl, you’re fucking tight.” He groans out, his grip on your hips tightening as he gets used to the feel of your gummy walls greedily sucking up his cock. “Have you been waiting for me to fuck you like the little whore you are?”
You want to say yes, but you can’t because your mind is going blank. All you can think about is how full you feel, how you never want to be without his cock, and maybe you are pathetic. Going dumb over a dick that hasn’t even thrusted into you once, but god, if this is you being pathetic, maybe you can learn to live with the shame if you can always feel this good.
He struggles to even pull out the slightest bit; your walls are clamping down that tightly against his cock. He lets out a shaky groan, relishing in your tightness, almost like your poor pussy’s reluctant to let him go. But Oikawa’s nothing if not persistent, and he’s pulling out, slowly slowly slowly—
—you scream. Like, full on banshee wailing the moment he’s thrusting back in. This change in speed comes out of seemingly nowhere, and it hurts, but the more times he does it, the more the pain slowly melts into something akin to pleasure. He’s still brushing against your cervix, and his thrusts are rough, erratic. Almost like when you’ve been starving yourself the whole entire day, and you’re just now sitting down to your first meal, and you’re ravenous.
Yeah, that’s Tooru right now. Ravenous. Insatiable. He’s moving so fast that even if you wanted to, you would never be able to match his near superhuman speed. He’s doing all the work, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. The imprint of his fingers are surely embedded deep in the flesh of your hips, but you don’t worry about that. All you worry about is this little entanglement ending.
You try to put off your second orgasm as long as you humanly can, but it’s just so hard to. His thrusts are too fast for him to really focus on giving you long, deep strokes, but he still manages to hit that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars.
“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” He grunts, moving you back and forth in tandem with his movements so that you feel the full force of the pleasure he’s giving you. “I can feel you tightening up. You’re so greedy, baby, didn’t I already make you cum?” He coos, taking a hand and threading it through your hair so that he can pull you up and make you stare at him.
Your mouth is agape, some drool leaking out, and you look so pretty like this. Braindead because of his dick. How cute.
“It’s alright, though, sweetheart. You can cum if you want to. Is that what you want?” You nod, and he smiles.
“Go ahead, baby. Cum all over my cock, I know you want to.”
And you do. And god, does it feel good. Not just for you, but for him. The way you pulsate around his cock, practically coaxing him to finish too. Yeah, yeah that’s what you really want, huh? For him to cum right inside your pretty pussy? Make you his forever?
He can do that for you. That’s probably your endgame; get him to knock you up so you’re set for life. Maybe you’re not as dumb as he calls you. You’re lucky that you’re so special, though. He doesn’t nut in just any girl, after all. It takes someone special.
When he finally cums, his body finally gives out. He’s tired; fucking you is a whole entire workout, but one that he would very much like to indulge in every day. The pair of you are sweaty, flushed, fucked out messes, but neither of you have enough energy to care. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, and when he slumps down in the seat of the golf cart, you’re sitting on his lap. The both of you are breathing heavily.
You feel… disgusting. Sloppy. Dirty. A mixture of your cum and his is leaking out, your thighs are sticky, your body feels sore. But he pulls you closer, and he still smells good, and this feels oddly comforting? Maybe even normal.
But even in your hazy vision, you see tiny blurs that look like a group of men. A group of golfers. Oh, shit.
You have to hurry, have to try to at least look like you didn’t just get your back blown out by one of the customers, but Tooru is still holding onto you.
“Shh, don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
“Tooru, I could get fired!” You’re panicking, and honestly, it’s kind of killing his good mood.
“And?” The idea of getting caught dicking you down by a group of golfers is oddly endearing to him.
“And, I really need this job! Unlike you, some of us aren’t filthy rich.”
“Mmm, what do you need to worry about work for when you’re with me?” He mutters, placing sloppy kisses against your neck. “So what if you get fired? I can take care of the both of us.”
The voices sound like they’re getting closer, but Tooru makes no move to change your position.
You close your eyes and let yourself melt back into his embrace.
Yeah, he’ll take care of you.