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It’s unthinkable that Kento is hiding something from you. In fact, before this you had found yourself wishing he would hide things from you. Honesty has always been his number one policy, even when you really didn’t want to hear it. Even when the low, gravel of his voice was the only thing keeping you interested.
Lately, however, you've been seeing him scribbling things down in a notebook, an action which, by itself, isn’t much to provoke your curiosity - he’s always taking notes of some kind. What really piques your interest is that once he notices you're looking at him, he’ll squirrel one particular notebook away somewhere out of sight. You try to ignore it at first, everyone’s got their little isms and Kento is a case study in odd behaviours. But every passing day, every scritch-scratch of pencil against paper drives you further and further into madness.
So you look for it, and yes, every self-help book and social media post about relationships says to respect your partner's boundaries, their secrets, but you’re only human and Kento is a steel trap when he doesn’t want you to know something. Still, your curiosity can only beat back your conscience so far. Even as you overturn his carefully colour coded drawers in your shared bedroom to search for the accursed thing, the potential titles of your would-be biography are scrolling through your head;
"So You're A Psycho Spouse..."
"Why Not Everything is Your Business."
"Leave Kento’s Shit Alone!"
Okay yes, your subconscious made the last one particularly pointed, but it definitely wasn’t wrong.
Then you find it, a perfectly maintained, unscuffed, forest green moleskine notebook, silken fabric bookmark wedged a little less than halfway inside. The book feels like it's burning your fingertips and you drop it onto your bed. Maybe you should've waited until Kento was out of the house to look but you knew how long his showers were, you had plenty of time. Carefully, as though the pages would come apart in your nosey little hands, you pry open the book to where it's been bisected, eyes immediately honing in on your name. Below it, in Kento’s perfectly square script, is a very detailed account of the time Kento made you squirt on your third anniversary. Tiny diagrams of what were obviously Kento’s large, veined hands in different positions fill up the margins, accompanied with questions and comments on potential causation, how you'd responded and notes for "future engagements''.
It is mortifying but your curiosity pushes you to read more. This time you flip to the beginning, pages upon pages of suggestive drawings and text filtering past your eyes.
‘Press tongue flat against clit, follow with ring and middle fingers, push inward until she cries, add index finger, repeat until climax.’
A flash of heat courses through your body at the memory and you sit on the floor, settling into the journal entries. It’s clinical and detached and it shouldn’t be even a fraction as hot as it is, but the idea of being the subject of Kento's frequent and thorough study gathers slick between your thighs.
The next entry is rife with images and the contents rob you of your breath. A rough sketch of manicured hands bound by shaded rope in intricate knots takes up an entire page, below it in tiny text are the words; “She’d look good bound, anchor her hands to the bindings around her thighs. First silk, then rope.”
A printed picture of you with your handcuffed arms raised is paper clipped to the next page, a photograph taken during an, at the time, really funny magic show you’d insisted on attending, next to you is a figure holding a wobbly fake saw that you know is Gojo, his normally grinning face obscured by a perfectly round black circle. It makes you laugh, knowing Kento probably couldn’t find a picture from that night without Gojo in it, so your husband made do.
You pour over his notes, heart thudding in your chest so loud you worry you’re developing some sort of condition. One page dissects exactly what colour of rope would look best against your skin, Kento’s stream-of-consciousness notes turning over which items of clothing he likes seeing you in the most, what colours are easiest to find and how much he could get versus how soon they’d arrive. According to the paragraph near the end of the entry, he’d settled on the classic red, a fact that makes you roll your eyes goodnaturedly. Even when Kento surprises you, he doesn’t surprise you.
Another page is filled to bursting with bullet points on the pros and cons of “public scenes”, and you choke on your own spit after you read that Nanami has firmly decided your first foray into the more risky side of your sex life is coming very soon.
Christ.
A third of the way into the little green notebook, you’re reading Kento’s pristine script again; “She takes so well to authority, at least when we’re being intimate.” Your brows furrow together, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you mutter.
“What are you doing?”
When you whip your head up from the journal, Kento is standing over you, dripping wet with his towel wrapped low around his waist. If it weren’t for the thunderous expression on his face, you’d probably attempt to tug the fabric free, probably with your teeth.
“Ah…” You drop the book like it’s bound in hot coals, the spine thudding on your bedroom floor. “J-just…cleaning. How was your shower? You know I was actually thinking I’d take one too!” you scramble up from where you were sitting, steadfastly keeping your eyes aimed at the floor. “So I’ll just-”
“No.” Kento catches you around your forearm, his grip as solid as iron. “You read the book, didn’t you?”
“I can’t read!” You yelp immediately.
“Right,” The exasperation in his voice is clear, and his hold on you tightens by just a fraction. “Well, I’m sure you can understand pictures, can’t you darling?”
(xxx)
The rope is tight, expertly tied so it’s snug around your arms and torso but not so restrictive that you’ll get anything beyond a couple of suggestive bruises tomorrow. Your husband had made quick work of you, pulling you onto your bed and stripping off your clothes without much fanfare, sourcing the rope from the same drawer you’d found the book.
Now it’s no wonder he never wanted you to put the laundry away, you always figured he was just particular about how his shirts were folded.
Above you, Kento almost looks pained, the corners of his mouth are pulled down and his neck is very rapidly flushing pink. You open your mouth to ask if he’s alright, but he cuts you off, his voice dark and dripping like honey when he says; “I knew you’d look amazing like this.” Reverently, he runs his hand over the rope separating your breasts while he whispers to himself, “Perfect.”
“Let me know if anything I do or say upsets you, yes?” He murmurs, his eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort or anxiety.
“Kento.” You whisper, brushing your lips against his.
“Yes?” His gaze goes soft and sweet.
“The tie you wear to work everyday upsets me.” If you were going to get him to ditch it, your best chance was now, apparently.
“Noted and dismissed.”
‘No such luck.’ You click your tongue in faux-irritation and wiggle against your constraints, only stopping your impatient squirming when Kento levels you with a raised eyebrow. Your response is impish, a smile that’s all teeth, your bare skin framed with crimson cord.
He draws back quickly, turning away from you to mask what you assume is Kento’s version of raucous laughter, his broad, bare shoulders rising and falling from small chuckles. He kneels on the ground, bent over something that his body obscures from your vision. You struggle, trying to get to your knees so you can peer over his shoulder, but you must’ve been making too much noise because your husband circles back to face you, only returning to his quandary when you let yourself fall back on your ass.
“I wanted to prepare more. Was going to give you time to acclimate. I was going to take it slow. But you just…can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you? Can’t just do as you’re told.” You whimper in protest, hands flexing where they’re bound behind your back.
“Couldn’t just be a good girl.” Kento intones.
Your chest burns with embarrassment as he approaches, dumping a handful of toys at the foot of the bed, most are familiar to you; bullet vibes and magic wands and dildos in varying sizes. You shift away from the collection, a whine building in the base of your throat at what the tools mean for you.
“No, no. No whining, not this time.” Kento snags your ankle, dragging you down over the covers and towards him, mounting the bed to situate himself between your legs. His hands are so warm when they make contact with the plush flesh of your thighs, unrestricted by rope like your torso but similarly unmoving. The blond hooks a finger into one of the knots and tugs you forward, nipping at your jaw before he sucks at the hollow of your throat, sinking the blunt edge of his teeth into the juncture until he leaves a stinging imprint behind.
“Legs up, over my shoulders.” You’re quick to obey, letting yourself fall back against the gathered pillows once again, spreading your legs and framing his head with your ankles.
Kento snakes towards you, revelling for a moment in your shared proximity, his palms anchoring your thighs around his ears, stifling his hearing and sight, allowing him nothing else but the stimulation of your heat against his face. His tongue skates over the soft lips of your cunt, the curve of his nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves nested at the top. You chew on your bottom lip, letting your head droop down. All the while your husband noisily laps at you, groaning in contentment while you periodically squeeze and relax your thighs. His tongue traces long, wet stripes through your puffy folds, smearing his spit and your slick all over the soft flesh between your legs. The sensation forces you to tilt your hips upwards to chase the warmth of his tongue. You twitch against your bindings, keening from left to right, your skin burning relentlessly.
"K-Ken-!" you hiss through your teeth, toes curling against your sheets all while your wetness covers his face. “P-please." Kento smiles against your pussy, burying his face even further between your thighs so he can suck roughly at your clit. His teeth skim against it once, twice, three times until your eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut, hips making aborted movements that only increase in frequency when the man sinks two fingers inside your fluttering cunt. You leak down his wrist as he fucks you with his digits, your aching clit pulsing helplessly between his teeth. Another finger stretches your entrance before he curves them, seeking out the spot within you he’d written so fondly about.
“Come. Now. Make a mess of me.” He urges, eyes flashing with lust, his expression intense and fevered, locks of blonde hair falling over his forehead.
It feels as though your nerves are being set alight, the mix of Kento’s spit and your own slick sliding lewdly down the curve of your ass, making a small puddle beneath you. Tears begin pouring from your eyes, moans and cries escaping from your parted lips and filling the air around you. You wrench yourself up hard, squeezing your thighs around his head, rocking your hips until you’re basically riding his face. Your stomach tenses as an orgasm rips through you, wracking your body until you’re almost cramping. Your husband pulls away, wiping you off his chin with the inside of his wrist. His hand settles over your stomach, fingers spread so his pinkie just barely brushes the lowest knot keeping you in place, effectively smearing your own cream against your skin.
“I need another.” He murmurs, tracing his bottom lip with the very tip of his pink tongue, chasing your taste. Your answering moan is miserable, you shake your head back and forth, chest heaving against your restraints. You sob out a protest, your mind spinning from an unusually intense peak; “N-no.”
“You’ll give me another, honey.” His tone is so sure, so solid that you wonder if you’d refused him at all. He shifts away from you and you take the opportunity to gasp in relief at the cool air hitting the sweat slick flesh of your thighs. Relief that soon flees your still sensitive body when you hear the gentle buzz of one of the toys from the pile. The vibration is deceptively strong when he nudges it just under your clit, your whole body wrenching away from it. Your hips lift up from the bed and Kento moves fast, trapping your middle under his forearm and bringing you back down, back under his control.
“Kento~” You’re drooling now, your bottom lip quivering. Each time you jerk away he follows you with the horrid little thing, pressing it against your leaking slit, dragging it up and down the seam of your pussy while you beg for mercy.
“No more. I’m sorry!”
“Shh, you’ll be okay. Relax.” He commands, brushing the knuckles of the hand keeping you flush to the mattress against your sides.
And you're trying. You try so hard to draw deep breaths, to calm yourself down while Kento works you over, the blush pink vibrator pushing hard into your clit. He makes a mess of your hole, finger fucking you again deep with a precision you now know is practiced. It’s loud and filthy and wet, the sound of him fucking you with three, long, dextrous fingers clouding your mind and bringing you closer to another climax.
“I can’t! T-too soon.” You hiccup, your arms and shoulders trembling with the moderate pain of trying to fight against the rope. Still, despite your breathless objections, you crest over another wave of pleasure, twitching and mewling as you squirt your release over Kento’s hand. You clench down on him, grinding down on his palm as you ride out the sensations. You crumble against the sheets once more, watching Kento dazedly, his fingers already between his lips. His cock is hard against your thigh, the leaking tip an angry mottled red. When he draws you into his chest you push your face into the muscle, murmuring incoherently.
“Okay. Okay princess, you’re doing so good for me.” He presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead, cupping your face with his dryer palm. You screw your eyes tight, panting heavy exhales as you try to catch your breath again.
“Okay.” Kento repeats himself from above, he sounds so pleased, content. He teases your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting full body shivers. Your husband lowers his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice deceptively gentle, almost cloying.
“Now the wand, okay?”