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These days, all Mitsuya could think about was you. It was nothing new, but lately, he was slowly obsessing over you modeling his soon-to-be-released collection of maternity clothing. He hadn't even reached for the graphite-rich pencil, accompanying the thick pages of his tattered sketchbook to begin. It was safe to say he needed a model, one that could embody the image he held so near to his heart.
Yet all he knew was that you'd be the perfect fit for the task to come.
He looked to you for inspiration, his sweet and all the more supportive wife of five years as his muse. Mitsuya would even have you walk the runways of Japan, flaunting that smile he fell for years ago.
All he could do was imagine you, hips widening, beaming skin, and a swelled tummy bearing his child. It made a grin curl onto his flaccid features with each passing thought. It was something only he was capable of, Mitsuya realizing that he was the cause of his self-stifling. He needed a change of pace, a new audience to appeal to.
He needed you stuffed to the brim with his seed, so much that you had no choice but to conceive his long-awaited offspring.
Children were a topic you weren't opposed to but it didn't seem possible with the lives you led. Little did you know, Mitsuya has been searching for ways to take a moment away from the spotlight. Yet, the only way he could think of was announcing that he and his wife were finally expecting.
And for an excuse like that, he knew eventually he'd have to start somewhere.
Tonight, there was something off with Mitsuya. You could tell by the way he rushed you off the catwalk, immediately taking your hand into his own.
He ignored all questions from pesky reporters, leading you straight to the car without allowing distraction to hinder him. He kept silent for the entire drive home, only the occasional squeeze of his hand to ensure you that your presence was appreciated.
Even now, you still couldn't tell what had angered Mitsuya, not like you could even form a stable thought in your mind. How could you? Not with your thighs being pressed into your chest, your hands clawing at the skin as some sort of bracing device. Not with Mitsuya, his swollen lips lining the pulse of your neck with open mouth kisses.
With each orgasm he took from you, the ability to even form sensible thoughts words followed. He would never publicly admit it but Mitsuya adored the fucked out expression that dresses your face. Fluttering eyes, legs numb from constantly being used to brace the force of his thrusts, and your chest taking in staggering breaths every few seconds.
He was no different, his body was teetering on the lines of exhaustion, sheets of sweat coating his entire physique. Every time he assured himself that it would be the last position he'd fold you into, his eyes drifted below to see such a lewd scene: your sopping cunt dripped with your overwhelming arousal. The way you'd keep your walls clenched so tightly to ensure that not a single drop of Mitsuya's draining effort went to waste, bringing him a wave of gratitude.
