xmm abg body from haven, perfect for gooning omg. absolutely amazing tight cumslut with perky tits and a juicy ass. such an adorable face with pink lips ready to suck dick. this one cfm drain ur balls with her tight pussy. i would unload my semen in her throat balls deep and make her swallow it all
Take the split-second shift where Sullyoon levels you with those brilliant fawn-eyes, sets her lips in this arrogant tilt, then says, "Oh hey," softly.
It sounds like an exhalation - and it is. Her tone: daring, dimpled, disaster.
She's a student of yours, incidentally - or rather she was, and she's obviously, immensely, unapologetically pretty, but the language is limited. You think she's transcendent. Princess-perfect. When she leans into the edge of her palm and drags her gaze down the length of you, there's plenty of nondisclosure in that too. "Small world," is her observation, ever-astute.
Sullyoon doesn’t elaborate. She's smart enough to know she doesn’t need to.
It's cliché obviously, the whole going-to-hell-for-a-woman bit, but that's the script; you know this story. You're familiar with all its associated allegories from the moment she first walks in. You catch the spill of whiskey-brown hair, the honeyed undertones. She's dolled-up in stockings and stilettos, in antithetical pairs - sharp, sweet, sin and salvation - ah, well.
The devil, the details, here's what you oughta know:
You teach highschool literature, no surprises there. You're smart, handsome, available - case in point, she slides into the barstool right beside you, a little closer than strictly necessary. But you're actually something of a saint, and that's the absolute tragedy here; you've been grading papers, scribbling angry little notes in red ink; you're sipping something dark, glaring at the pages; you've got no plans of being interested.
And that's the hiccup.
You'd never recognize her. Or you try and can't place her: she's gorgeous, is your first thought. A face like hers, you realize, a waist like that, you rationalize, and it's all off the rails from there.
You look away; look down. Some fatal flaw makes you curious about pretty things.
She's got two little slingback heels against the barstool's wooden rung, her knees angled inward; a pair of frilly-cotton stockings that do nothing but draw focus upward, from the lines of her calves to where the lace trim hugs her soft, silky thighs, the gauzy little bows; and further still. No pants, obviously. Why would there be. Just that high-waisted, high-hemmed, high-crimes-and-misdemeanors skirt that rides at approximately fuck-me height - and you, with your one-word repertoire, bleeding red ink all over the page.
Sullyoon asks the bartender a question: this looking-through-lashes kinda thing, an angel's mouth, a devil's grin. The how-we-got-here and the where-it-went-wrong in one.
"Oh," she says first, affecting nonchalance when she notices you noticing, and the realization hits you all at once: exactly who she is, what you've just done. "I know you."
It's a real gallows-humor bit, right here, a punchline, a setup:
An old student walks into a bar, and she's flawless. You think back on the papers, the menial mistakes, and blink at her. She tilts her head as though it'll shake up any repressed memories, the nice ones first: she's a good student. She's a little more than that.
"Oh my god. Hi."
"Hi," you say, dumbfounded. That little fantasy-fuck-you, all in reverse. And you laugh, tossing up a hand into your hair like it'd been nothing, waving a white flag. "Sullyoon," you say, as it dawns.
She smiles. Says, "Yeah," and her heel swings over with intent.
"It's been," you add, stilted, still processing. Because what the fuck, honestly. "Well shoot, it's been forever," which isn't really accurate - but she's got it right anyway, small world.
"Tell me about it," she says, mercifully enough. "You still teaching?"
You can't even address it, that starry-eyed, adoring expression of hers that makes you forget where the fuck you even are. You're mentally placing her in the front row of your classroom blinking at everything you said. The undivided attention can't be healthy, but the placebo will keep you talking.
"Yeah," you say. "Not cut out for much else."
A laugh makes a surefire path up the line of her throat; pretty and polished. She’s perfect, and that's not even your first, most pressing concern.
"I'm surprised you even remember me," she says conspiratorially, and you're fixating on where that curtain of hair tangles in her fingers, slides off the sharp point of her wrist.
"Well, good kids stick to memory," you deflect, and then, when it dawns on you how easily that could get misconstrued, "-good grades. Good behavior. That kind of thing."
"You have favorites, you mean," Sullyoon provides, like it's true.
"Yeah," you start to agree, except, "no, definitely not," and look at her mouth long enough for her smile to unfurl properly.
Still, you could justify that: say she was a real pleasure to have in class, a stellar writer, all your parent-teacher-conference boilerplate. Gloss over the bratty streak, perhaps. She had a nickname, ironically enough - which. Huh. It feels sacrosanct to even broach considering you have half a mind to take her right up against the mahogany wood-grain, walnut, teak, asphodel maybe - Princess Sullyoon - and ah, fuck: there goes any good intentions whatsoever.
"I hope you realize you're buying me a drink," she decides way too casually, slipping her jacket off to reveal her shoulders, a halter neckline, the immaculate dip of her collarbones.
You barely even notice. You can't. The bartender swivels by; but she's not paying him any mind.
"Sir," she says breezily, wickedly. The inflection alone has your brain working in italics. "You said it yourself: good grades, good behavior."
"Well that’s a bit out of context," you correct her - unfortunate impulse. Not so long ago, and she's asking about her paper, leaning over the desk and so, so precocious about it. You shove the image down. "It's not like I'm still your teacher."
"Well." And she drags the syllable like a bullet casing. "Semantics, right?"
The short answer is no, not really; the medium-length answer is that she's really fucking attractive; face perfect and eyes expressive and well put-together - her waist is sublime if you're gonna let yourself acknowledge it - but if you really need extended-response: you're already fantasizing about her thighs, how wide they'd spread for you; her ankles and all the different places you could have them lock around; her nails, her wrists, her hair in a neat ponytail and tugged just right, until she's incoherently undone for it - so, sure: semantics
She opens her legs, seems to notice the skirt she's wearing a moment after the fact. You don't stop yourself from flagging the bartender.
In theory, you’ll dissuade the ideas cross-pollinating between those pretty doe eyes, but in practice, in reality: she's charming her way through the small-talk, stringing the moments and minutes longer, unbothered by the prospect of a quiet. She doesn't talk about school - it's off-the-record. She lets a pause lengthen and then dangles a phrase at the tail end of it: tells you that you're cute, you were always her favorite teacher, she can see why they all loved you and you just don't really catch it until:
"They?"
She rolls the word around: "Everyone. You know." She watches your expression. "My classmates. Girls. Some girls."
Oh.
She has this quirk to her smile; you try to dismiss it. Brush it off, let it slide.
There's this novel you're writing, and you're not gonna say what about, but there's an opening sequence unfolding like a roadmap. You don't know the ending. You tell her as much: a mystery, you say, and you're making her laugh again. Apparently, you still know how. She knocks her knuckles to your bicep, your forearm - makes expressions like you don't know better, does things with her eyes: your name a syllable away, everything else like a sin; do you live close to here, don't you have a girlfriend, what are your other hobbies, besides grading papers and drinking-
"You never actually answered my question," she points out, because it's a disaster.
She's looking at you like she'd believe anything you'd tell her: you're engaged, getting hitched soon, met someone, anyone - but then she's crossing her legs in those thigh-highs and it's anyone's guess from there.
"I'm not really seeing anybody," you say eventually, and she does it again, tugs the hemline of her skirt up, up. "Nothing serious," which is too candid, possibly. Fucked up, probably. Morally reprehensible, certainly.
There's some guesswork, a bit of napkin math: you've got a decade on her, and that's not something you care to unpack, but when she picks her drink back up, she plays up the alcohol-blush - tipsy, she assures you, blinking languidly.
Tipsy means, for argument's sake, for academic rigor: pliable. Influenceable. Easy.
"A little more, maybe," Sullyoon murmurs as her fingers tug on the corner of your sleeve, an unspoken: come here, lean closer.
There's more intent to it, eyes half-lidded. More of everything. She laughs brightly at something inane, falls into your shoulder, and just sorta ends up staying there. There's your issue. You could talk about anything, in any direction - and she'd nod along dutifully, content to sit and sip at her straw.
"So," you begin, and Sullyoon's been staring at your mouth, deliberate about being caught. She's such a flirt and you're still catching up, catching on.
She mimics your deadpan, "so," looking a little put on, and ends up saying something trite and transparent like maybe we should find someplace else. It's got all the fervor of trying desperately not to imagine you shoving her to her knees, testing the make-up, ruining the foundation: "There's a bathroom, isn't there."
"Yoona," you warn - a second too late; just a tad out of time. "Dial it back."
She's looking through the ends of her eyelashes, teasing the eraser-mark tilt to her mouth. You can only assume her pussy's just as cute as she is: tiny and tight and tempting. All the accompanying moans. "Am I in trouble, sir?"
"You're pushing your luck," you manage, throat desert-dry, and right then is how her hand ends up in your lap.
"I don't mean to be fatalistic, but." She looks altogether far too beatific for the sentiment. "If you don't do something about this soon, something really terrible's going to happen."
"What," you scoff. "Am I going to die?" It slips out before you can take it back: so casual, like you could do it, like you would. "Look-"
"The other way around," Sullyoon interrupts, "I'm barely hanging on by a thread here."
You can’t help it; you’re stunned. "Dramatic," you chide, but it's all theater.
"We're adults," she argues - that’s her thesis statement: obviously, you want to fuck me - and the proof is halfway there in your slacks already. "Besides, do you have any idea how wet my pussy is right now?"
"Christ," you swear, laughing a little, because what else is there for it. "People can hear you."
"I'm just making an observation." She's stood between your legs before it even registers, your palms curve around her thighs reflexively. Like you're allowed the proximity. "Seriously, I don't get how your hands aren't, like, all over me."
"Common decency," you supply, and then you're rubbing circles into her skin, fiddling with the lace. She preens like the royalty she's convinced she is: petulant when she doesn't get her way. "It'd kill you, huh?"
"Irrevocably. Instantaneously." Sullyoon sighs. "If you don't fuck me," she whispers, "I really will scream."
There's more gimlet truth here - that part comes a second or two later; you could fuck a smile just like that into the reflection, watch her melt in the glass. You'll just have to take it for what it is: Faust falls for the bargain, Othello for a lie - you, apparently, for a pair of fucking thigh-highs, all pretty in lace. You're worried about the aesthetics of that, frankly, rather than anything else.
"If I take you to the bathroom and make you cum," you start, a little dispassionate, a lot condescending, "will you keep it down?"
"Promise." Sullyoon fits her hand into yours, says, "Whatever you say," and - well. You're just as gone as she's pretending to be.
-
Down the hallway, a half-flight of stairs: there's a single-occupancy toilet in the back of the bar, ostensibly a family washroom; for mothers with children, wheelchairs, sloppy bathroom sex with your former students, that sort of thing. The moment the door locks, you‘re lifting Sullyoon onto the sink, shoving one hand up that awful little skirt, the other onto the mirror, and crushing your mouth to hers.
There's no restraint to it, no trying-not-to.
Sullyoon kisses exactly how she looks: luxurious, all pout and plush; dirtier the longer it goes on. She grabs your face, gasps into it, smiles when you kiss her harder; mewls like you'll believe she didn't expect this; your hand slides up her thigh-highs; the material gives way to more soft, silken skin.
"Jesus, you weren't kidding," you exhale, reverent, at how wet she is, how hot, pressing down on the gush of slick that immediately coats the flimsy lace between her legs. "Your pussy's practically drooling, sweetheart."
"It's not the kind of thing I’d lie about," says Sullyoon loftily - but it’s all there, immediately. The flushed cheeks, the eyes slipping half-shut, her pretty pink mouth dropping open as you drag her ruined panties to the side and dip a finger through the soft seam of her cunt.
She gets a fist in her skirt and tugs it high over her hips. Ah, and she's melting, maybe, tilting her chin just that touch upwards, lashes fluttery, eager for it-
"Good girl," you decide, kissing it into her mouth, testing it: the cadence.
Her breath hitches, whole body sighing at the praise. So, maybe you've always known her type.
You don't plan on making her beg, but she's riding your fingers like a doll, and there’s her clit, and she’s soaked: she's whimpering like she's about to anyway. You'd eat her out - are ready to, when she reaches for your belt.
"Sir," Sullyoon sighs softly, a little sweet. Submission, distilled.
Oh, she's an angel in heels; a vision in a short skirt; a total-fucking-problem in stockings - but there's the entitlement too. The presumptuousness. She knows she's prettier, smarter; an old classroom moniker suddenly too few thoughts away and entirely too close to truth. She's not begging for your cock, but the privilege. She'd bring it up herself, if you let her go on, if she got through the current litany of yes, fuck, sir. In my slutty little pussy. Fuck me, please. Hips arching higher, faster - slowing down only to say, "you gonna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?"
You'd laugh, except you can't really concentrate either: she's pushing up into your grip, fucking down onto your palm. "Dirty-talk," you muse instead, crooking your fingers just right and watching her face glaze over, lids drooping, that sharp mouth a little slack. "That does it for you, huh."
"Obviously." She swallows thickly. "It's like that for most girls," and you have to believe she's telling the truth.
"Should I be calling you names?" you ask, tone sardonic. "Checking in on how your filthy cunt feels around me. Call you a whore?" You laugh, because it's ridiculous, and your throat dries because her pussy is throbbing; you stroke your thumb over her clit and watch as the noise in her chest falls apart into some long, messy moan. "Fuck," you breathe out.
"Sir," Sullyoon groans - that at least is real; your name falls from her mouth a hundred ways and it all feels true: "I'd die." She sounds genuine, lost in it: getting fucked; kissing you. "Please, please, please."
She won't outright admit it, something along the lines of: I'd be so good for you. You could pin me against your wall, fuck me on the floor. Take me any time you want. Fuck, just call me baby and you can absolutely wreck me - it comes raspy, a little ruined - but there’s her attitude, and all these dynamics. Her stockings aren't doing you any favors-
"Fucking slutty," you breathe into her temple, too fast to catch, too honest to lie: "Aren't you, princess?"
A gasp, her entire body taut in agreement - like you've touched a nerve - like she's got more than just one.
It's fucked up, alright, no question, no disputing that.
But she's this close to cumming, knees trembling. So obedient, like a dream, lips wrapping around a silent plea. There's context, history; she's asking for permission. You mumble, "You're adorable," trying to backtrack, retreating, but she shakes her head, brow knitting, and just like that you know - you're never calling her anything else again. "Princess," and the sound that gets you makes it a truth you could believe in.
You circle your fingers into her again. Curl them exactly where she needs it. It's redundant.
"This little pussy of yours," you pant against her parted, wet lips. "Sul, you're fucking creaming."
Sullyoon hiccups, then looks you dead in the eye. She's playing dirty. She's this close to making a terrible, unfixable mess, and she doesn't care.
"I guess it gets that way," she rasps, "when it needs stretching out."
You almost choke. Your breathing's thin. There's something in this: the connotations, her outfit. You can't remember the word - you're getting worse every second. Her panties tangled around an ankle, those fucking thigh-highs and this too-short, too-tight skirt; the dirty talk. Her entire body is begging for stimulation and it's, "a good look on you," you tell her, as your pants fall past your knees. Your dick is in your fist, flush with her pussy in seconds.
"Ah," her jaw is slack, stuck, the moan all trapped somewhere inside, "want to- ah," like she's drowning, trying to tell you, "I really need to," before you slap at her cunt, kiss her stupid, and grabby, and whimpery - sigh into her mouth, all ragged impatience, the inhale-
And for a second you’re actually, positively certain you're never going to recover - her pussy - jesus-fucking-christ, her pussy is unbelievable; you draw out slow, thrust back in, sloppy-wet. Lose the thread there for a moment.
"Okay, okay. Relax. Good girl - so, so good - I'm gonna fuck this cute pussy now, okay princess? you murmur, until the friction gives way and Sullyoon's pulling you in, velvety-smooth. She's tailor-made, or something just like it. Sullyoon's expression reacts to every inch. "That better?"
She's nodding, arching, fissures and faultlines opening right up. Your girl's gone.
You'd bet anything you could do a lot worse too - could spit in her mouth, take her from the back, pull her hair - the way she's looking at you suggests she'd just give it to you. That it belongs to you anyway. You've gotten her here so fast and she's totally willing to be ruined if only you'll hit it a little faster, deeper.
"Oh my god," she whines, and she's not just near-tears, she’s stunned.
She's so small under you, stomach concave under your palm, all softness and sin. "Shit, Sullyoon," and you sound far-off, removed, somewhere separate from the rest of it, "such a slut for it, aren't you, baby girl? Tell me. You want every inch don't you."
Her reaction - it's exactly what you're looking for. Her hand flies from the counter to her clit, her little pussy squeezing down so, so tight - so overwhelmed.
"Fucking, I- fuck, yeah." It's breathy, and barely there as she drops right into the next verse, poetry that speaks in fucked-up, untethered syllables. The sound of her wrist hitting the counter, for instance; her stuttered breathing, the pop of her mouth parting in a moan. The slutty-slick pull-and-release of her cunt swallowing your cock.
Well, that one speaks loudest; you're fucking her up, and doing it fast. She's dripping down your thigh; you're deep in her guts. It's filthy on principle, and she loves it, and she should.
"You look so pretty," you breathe, a different angle to exploit, "fucking gorgeous, taking my cock," and that works too - Sullyoon exhales like she's been punched in the gut.
It's insane, obviously - her figure; the wide hips, her pretty tits. Sullyoon, stretched out and blathering about how much she loves being filled up, can't live without it. You're sure that part's accurate: every time you rut against that spot inside her, her moans become so unrefined they circle back to luxurious.
"Fuck," she sputters out like it hurts, "right there, just like that - oh my god," a prayer with the least believable sincerity, "don’t stop, please don’t stop-"
It's like her only line of coherency, and it's, well - it's really fucking hot. It's obscene. Or, it's Sullyoon, and she knows all the right buttons to press. There's the slick gathering on her rim, the deceptive durability of her insides, the feel of that: so fucking wet, incomprehensibly tight - and for a fraction of a heartbeat, her spine straightens out, her brow furrowing, like she's trying to make sense of this, of how it could possibly feel this good.
"Sir," Sullyoon manages - it's a goddamn miracle given the circumstances, you tell her. The praise knocks her for a loop. "I can't," she starts, but has to try again. She’s sobbing. "You're fucking my pussy," she corrects herself - she says it like she's confused, like she just figured that out. Then it hits her, or she realizes what she's saying out loud; you watch her blink hard. Her body goes limp. Her mouth hangs open - you're making her cum and she's trying to verbalize why.
It's mostly rhetorical: you'd let her ramble forever. She's vocal and relentless and demanding, unafraid of saying it, fucking my brains out, railing my slutty little pussy - knowing full well she'll get it, if only because you can't stand not to indulge her.
"I'm sorry," and her voice drops real low; all rasp, no range. "It's just that your cock, sir, I need to cum on it."
"Okay," you tell her, easily, like that'll cut it. "So cum."
You've got her skirt hiked high, tits bouncing under your palm, knees up to her shoulders. And you're sure it's all there: a vocabulary limited solely to one syllable. Like the irony isn't killing her. She wants to probably say, yes sir, I'm whatever the hell you want me to be but that's the word-syntax problem: the right sentence never comes to her in moments of crisis - well, the literal kind, for once. It's not like you've haven't seen her doodling in the margins before.
"Fuck," she manages to gasp, after what could easily be two seconds, five minutes, or forever, "fuck."
A hazy-eyed blink to her stare, she looks lovelier every moment. She mewls when your fingers find her clit and press, hard - you're railing her into oblivion.
"Look at you, princess," you say, and maybe her classmates had her pinned from the start.
"Uh-huh." Sullyoon unraveling and so, so gorgeous about it. "Uh-huh-"
What a stark contrast of having watched her sit on a bar stool and swing her ankles, laughing like the tease she's not supposed to be, showing you a peek of lace up her skirt, and now the things falling out of her mouth are so fucked up you only process them in fragments - feels good, feels so full, breed my little pussy, sir, want your cum so bad, wanna take it-
She's writhing in a million tiny, trembling directions, spilling secrets: she'll be good, she promises. "Shh, sweetheart," and her voice spikes in pitch.
You pull her shirt up past her ribs, over the slope of her chest. Stuff the hem into her mouth. Muffle the begging.
"God, you're cumming - all over me," you grit out, and there's a thoughtless impetus there: like she'll forget if you don't remind her. "The thought of being my cumdump has got you creaming yourself, huh?" Sullyoon lets herself moan and slick up your dick with each stroke, totally malleable to however you want to use her: cocksleeve, pocket-pussy, the whole venn-diagram between good girl and cumslut and ready to thank you for it - "love how I'm ruining this cunt for anyone else, I know. I get it, I do."
In your defense, she's drooling around the fabric. She wants to hear it again, and again.
"I cannot believe how greedy your pussy gets, Sully." Her eyes are tear-watery, and you tip forward and kiss the words into her hairline: "God, you're not letting go."
Your hands slip up, under the skirtline and onto the bare skin of her ass. She's so easy to fuck, to pull her downwards onto your lap and plunge deep into her cunt with a measured, vicious precision. You're pounding her, and she's being the pristine little princess she knows she is, clutching your shoulders - fucking whimpering in your arms, perfect thighs around your waist - like all her wildest dreams are coming true. A filthy fucking fantasy playing behind those pretty orgasm-snap-shut eyes, and she's so wrecked you have to indulge her-
"Need a big load in you, don't you sweetheart. Want me to feed my cum right into that pretty little pussy - I know, honey-"
A fraction's nonsense, probably, exaggerated for whatever gets her wettest.
But then there's the way she's looking at you: chin slanted and arched brows and mascara-stained eyelashes. A sureness, the assertion, that you could tell her almost anything, and she would just nod, keep on nodding. You could glaze her womb, fill her to the brink, and the idea alone has sent her spilling right off the end of the spool.
You should, you could - the thought's insistent - do anything to this girl, and she'd let you.
But one second you're buried in her pussy, and the next you're pulling out, fucking into your fist: cumming straight up her thigh. There's her cunt, her tits - thick, brackish ropes of cum striped all over her stomach, her skirt. You've always had that instinct, taking something flawless and leaving it better.
She doesn't seem to mind. She only looks up at you, stupidly, gorgeously - as though all her loose-end ideas are finally making some kind of sense.
"Pretty," you slur, fumbling with the drenched fabric in her mouth. "Perfect. Good girl-" and she crumples under the tonal quality, the specific register; she'd get it anywhere. She'd bite into her lip, pull up her skirt - it's definitely dirty talk, by some approximation - it's lewd, and messy, and possessive: you press your lips to hers, whisper, "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"
In the heat of the moment, it felt like a rhetorical question, but here she is: warm body curled against yours. Giving you all the answers.
You draw the tips of your fingers through the cum across Sullyoon's tummy as she wriggles against the sink. It's a gesture that doesn't truly compute. She laughs. She seems drunk. She's not - and neither are you, which might've helped paint an extra coat of pathos into things, smoothed down some of the rougher edges, let you pretend you've only known each other for an hour as opposed to say, forever.
"My brain sorta short-circuits," she says once she's able to summon up the awareness. You're kind of shocked she's even responding, with the way she's all dreamy and fucked-out. "-when I get really good dick," and there's hardly room for argument.
Her head lolls slightly. She sighs, long and limp. There's no way of knowing how long you two stay like that, merely breathing the same air.
"You didn't cum inside me," she says eventually, slow and dazed as she lifts her elbows and braces herself against the counter. "You didn't wanna watch me push it out?"
"I mean-" You're struck by the picture she makes: tousled hair, a half-smirk, legs spread wide open. "I was being polite," you say loftily. It's hardly genuine, but she's too sated to notice the difference. "Besides." You make a vague motion to her general midsection.
You're not above it - that's been pretty clear.
"So you just made a huge fucking mess?" says Sullyoon, after a prolonged beat. "I'm on birth control, obviously."
"So your first thought is dragging me in here, dressed like this, begging to be filled-"
"Gosh." It comes out as something more like a laugh. "That sounds so unlike me. I guess you were giving it to me just right, huh?"
"Must've been," you start. It's so fake-casual you hardly recognize yourself, "so," and there's that nakedly candid, honest-to-god authenticity. There's that blatant lying, too: "I've never had someone get so, just-" Cum-slut seems kind of vulgar. "-worked up before. Is it always like this for you?"
"Ha," she says, arms looped loosely around your neck: "What do you think?
Your cum is sliding between the slight arch of her ribs: slick and white, noiseless.
She's an abject fantasy, totally wrong; and it's divinely captivating, that duality. She's so meticulous about the line; you can tell by the expression on her face - like you haven't touched it already, cupped her jaw and brought a whole host of bad ideas along with you.
"I think you have a breeding kink," you follow up with, unthinking. Her brow perks. "A princess complex." A disaffected huff of laughter. "Literally anything, probably. You're absolutely fucking filthy, sweetheart."
"Well." Sullyoon fixes the tilt of your chin down, just-so. "Thanks for breaking that down for me so eloquently."
"No problem."
"For the record," she starts. "It's not like I literally want to get pregnant with your kids. I just like the way it sounds, like I'm the only person you ever wanna cum in, forever. Just like - hypothetically." Then she sighs, all put-upon. "Your cock's literally perfect, is what I'm trying to say."
It's sort of fascinating. "How flattering," you tell her. "Hypothetically."
"Yeah." Sullyoon considers this, chews on it. "What else am I supposed to think about?" The way she says it belies nothing at all. Her thumb presses into your sternum. "I’m young, fertile or whatever - a breeding kink is a non-starter if I'm getting fucked like that," she asserts. "Getting knocked up in real life would be super impractical."
"I think you're confusing a bunch of stuff," you exhale - that, at least, sounds like you.
"I'll bet you money I'm not the first."
You bite your tongue.
"Just give me," and she makes a gesture, head tilted: split-second vulnerability.
"Hm?" you say. Sullyoon stares at you blankly.
"Your fingers." There's a short pause, followed by: "Don't 'hm' me."
At first, you genuinely can't comprehend the thought process there. She's absurd; impatient by design, inelegant as she cants her hips up in a way that makes it quite clear what she wants. The sort of clarity you don't question, the kind of clench and heat that leaves you gut-level dumb - still, there's the angle: the front of her torso a mess, your cock wet all over her thighs, her grip firm around your wrist.
You end up feeding your cum into her cunt in languid, generous fingerfuls, with your forearm working her back down.
"Yeah," Sullyoon says softly, almost drowsily, head tipped back against the mirror. Her lashes are thick and dark as they flutter shut. "That."
The entire concept feels backwards. Sullyoon's chest heaving and falling, long hair spilling to her waist in pretty, dark coils, your fingers pumping steadily in and out between her thighs. She takes to filth the way water takes to paper, teeth sunk into her bottom lip. It's your own brain scrambling, processing, committing it to memory; fuck you, because you're sure you'll need it. That look on her face sends off alarms as her pretty little hand settles over your own, showing you - like this, just like that - how to really ruin her.
"You're like - you're perfect." It's a non-sequitur. You couldn't care less. She should know. "Aren't you?"
"Maybe," Sullyoon allows.
She thinks she's cute. She's absolutely right.
"I mean, yeah. Kinda." A smile slips free at that: self-satisfied, but well-deserved. Your hands draw over her ribs, thumbing at the ridges. "That's sweet of you to say, but you still have to clean me up," she demands, sounding so plaintive that you wonder, momentarily, if you've knocked something loose. "I’m a total wreck," she adds, laughing as if she's not a pro at the bathroom-hook-up-thing, the damage-control at least; plucking herself out of the debris, cleaning up nicely.
"It's my fault," you agree amiably, obligingly. You're wetting a paper towel beneath the tap, drawing it in gentle strokes over her lower abdomen. "But you liked it."
"Well," she hedges, "like," and it's clear she's playing dumb - oh, you're certain it's on purpose. "Who wouldn't like being told how good they look getting railed?" and you can hear the breath she sucks in. "Ugh. You make me such a girl."
"Not to be pedantic." Your mouth quirks; you can't help it. "But."
"You know what I mean," says Sullyoon, observing you - her head tips a little, expression changing shape. "I can't believe you're lecturing me," she quips playfully. "What are you, my teacher?"
And maybe it's fate, or something far less idyllic - but just like that you know this won't end the way it should. You're single, she's pretty. Also, you're both hung up on the same few dirty ideas.
-
Some of the barflies turn, stare, whisper, as you guide her toward the exit. There are things to a scene like this everyone knows the name for. They look at Sullyoon, clock the dreamy, sated smile, a tilt in her gait, and then they see her clutching your arm, gaze darting adoringly to yours - they get the idea. Nobody needs a debrief. You've got a hand trailing down her waist. A little further still.
"I'd ask you to walk me home," she says, somewhat insincerely, "but I think we'd just end up right back here."
"Yeah," you agree. "That's probably true."
She takes your elbow, turns your wrist, and slips her phone into your slack-jawed fingers. "You should give me your number." You stare blankly; she stares back. "It'd be polite to give me a heads up next time we do this."
"Do what, exactly?" you hedge, half a tease, half a genuine question.
Sullyoon pulls back and says: "Do me." Like it's obvious - and you realize she's actually just like this naturally, genuinely: batting her big brown eyes, swaying on her feet. "Isn't that the point?" she prompts, suddenly too bashful to ask, do you have any idea what kind of damage we could do in a bed? Do you understand how badly I need that? Do I have to draw you a diagram, pencil it out in graphite - a list? My limits? My favorites? My fantasies? You said it yourself: I'm a bit of a cumslut. That's the point.
Her fingers trace the tail of your coat, tug a little. Sullyoon has a habit of finding some part of you and holding on. "My roommate's taking a trip soon," she's informing you, with all her imperiousness, like it's her birthright. Like it's already decided. Your princess has got a predilection for privilege, and isn't afraid to ask. "I'd have that whole weekend free."
So - definitely a disaster. You type out a quick text, shoot it off into the void. All she needs is the contact, a phone call, enough pretense. There's no need to draw this out. The night's already begun refracting into ride-shares and starlight. She holds your face in two hands when you lean down and press your mouth to hers. The kiss is soft. Her tongue is warm.
Your phone chirps in your pocket, and Sullyoon's dimples appear like punctuation. The rest is just window-dressing anyway.
-
You weren't kidding about that novel: you have no idea how it ends.
There are thoughts collected in docs, miscellaneous plot points and notes cluttering folders. You're in the habit of starting new drafts when you're feeling stuck, and you're feeling stuck pretty often.
You sit down at your desk. There's a message from Sullyoon letting you know she made it home safe, and the back and forth is less stilted, more casual than it has any right to be: I was too tired to notice earlier, but walking straight is a whole fucking thing, I think you've ruined me - she doesn’t even wait for a reply before she opens up her camera roll and fires off a salvo of photos. She's just stepped out of the shower. Her hair's wet in all of them. It becomes a point of interest later: she's in college, studying photography and visual media - but she's also modeling on the side.
Pretty, you text her.
What about it? she wants to know.
Pretty in general. Pretty eyes, pretty shoulders, pretty ass - you don't need to elaborate. Her ego's going to fill in the blanks. Composition's good, you add. Lighting, too. The photos have a clarity of purpose.
I used a tripod, she replies.
Show-off, you think. Your laptop's open to another blank page. There's work to do here, too.
-
(You're not really supposed to be writing about a beautiful girl, but you write where you're inspired: characters, backstory, a little mise-en-scène. You don’t even know if it counts as self-indulgent, since the narrative is only tangentially, briefly, incidentally about any of this; a heroine too young for your hero, too good for him. She's morally superior; he's bad at communicating. It's a story: and a familiar one at that - but people love their tropes, their cynicism repackaged as sentiment.
You want me, the heroine says, the first day it starts. Simple, earnest, uncomplicated, evil.
He falls for her a little bit, you suppose, right there - for the way she smiles like the angel everyone thinks she is.
I think, she coaxes, you're going to die if you don't touch me - and the prose loses some sense of urgency. It's just that kind of scene.)
-
Your life doesn't derail in a single evening. You've got responsibilities, classroom obligations, deadlines to meet - but suddenly it's a week later and the image persists: legs crossed at the bar, lashes low, chin propped up on the heel of her hand. You were irrational to assume it was a one-off, an exception. Your phone's constantly pinging, texts rolling in rapid succession. She'll send you pictures and video clips without warning, no context necessary: she'll send you anything to make her evening, ruin your whole day. You're at lunch with a coworker when Sullyoon calls you before she's probably supposed to. Which is funny, since you've never felt so bad for stepping out to take a call in your life.
"No, no - listen," she says, whining a little, at the perfect height of horny and petulant. "I had this whole speech rehearsed, actually. Like, something serious. Boundaries, expectations, et cetera. An adult conversation. But you’re not allowed to be hotter over the phone. That’s so manipulative."
"What, just sitting here in silence?"
"Please stop talking," she says, clearly full of shit: she wants you to flatter her, keep the lines of communication open. She wants to see you again, too. Demanding it. "Ugh." There's this shift to her voice, this loftier quality, just the suggestion of her hand falling flat between her thighs - and she has an inherently dramatic, melodic cadence to begin with.
"Whatever. Now I can't think about anything else except sitting on your face."
"I thought you had a speech prepared."
"It left my brain immediately." Sullyoon pauses, then sighs, all showy and huffy. "If we don't figure this out soon, I'm going to masturbate furiously and cry and my apartment's walls are really, really thin. Just so you're aware."
"Your poor neighbors."
"I know."
You laugh out loud. "I've got some stuff on hold at the library I need to pick up later. You could come, if you want. Would help me know you're not getting anyone else in trouble." You're sort of joking, and you're sort of not: it's only a few years too late, really. Also she's much better at pretending that you're not crossing wires here, twisting together threads and turning them into knots, ones so complex there's no undoing them. At least you're making light of it. "Maybe grab something to eat."
"Oh." Sullyoon's silent for a beat, like she's processing what you've actually said, and not whatever exaggerated scenario she's painted of this. She clears her throat - it's quiet, dainty, precious. "That could work."
"It's probably best if I meet you at the station," you add, just to maintain some decorum - which is ironic, considering. "Just tell me when you're heading over, I'll wait for you."
"How sweet." She's amused. She's appreciative. She'll twist it up however she wants. "Guess I'll see you in a few."
-
So you throw on your jacket. Sullyoon takes the train. It's only a few stops; and you'll laugh about that later - oh, what a coincidence, what a horrifying proximity. She appears on the platform in all of her dainty splendor and smiles as the wind tousles her hair - she's got a sweater dripping down the slope of her shoulder and a bag hooked over her wrist: an overnight, you piece together, like the pretext isn't already well established. I'm here to get absolutely, viciously railed, that's all.
"So." She falls into step next to you. Her hair's tied up in twin-tails with ribbons like it's exactly what she deserves.
"So," you agree.
"M'going over to your place and getting fucked silly, isn't that fun?"
"Well," you start to correct, as though it matters, "errands first." Sullyoon hums under her breath. She's thinking of nothing else - and well, good. That's the idea. You loop your arm around her waist, tuck her to your side. "Then maybe, I guess, yeah."
"Definitely," she replies, without any hesitation. "It's not up for discussion," and then there's her grin, the dimples, that silvery-sarcastic, coal-smoke laugh.
-
Neither of you've really got a good excuse for where this is going, so you're not talking much about it.
The library's an easy ten minutes from the station, and Sullyoon takes every liberty and advantage by it. She winds her hand around your wrist. Kisses you when no one's looking. Hooks her chin over her shoulder to provide commentary on the research journals and reference literature you've come to collect - ah, interesting. I've always liked poetry, too. That one's a classic. And looks heavy, wow, how are you holding so many? She lets out a little breathless moan as you turn around and cage her in against the bookshelf, drag a hand through all that thick golden hair. She's gone and bound your worst instincts to her best behavior with that face alone, and you didn't take her back where the aisles converge with the periodicals because she's adorable, or well-read, or curious; nobody's browsing these stacks unless they're in deep and looking for something specific. Answers, absolution, an a-ha.
You clear your throat as she fiddles with your coat buttons, tries to sneak one free.
"Don't," you advise her, just shy of enough conviction.
Her head tilts: confused, then delighted; she's blinking reverentially - and suddenly you understand why the whole genre exists.
"Oh," she says, pretends. A tug to your lapel, and you're already dropping another kiss onto her smile. "You don't wanna?" As if she can't feel you through both layers of clothes. "Fuck my mouth, I mean," she clarifies just in case.
"Honey." She likes being told what to do, but she likes setting the pace even better: she leans into you, up on her tiptoes, lashes dark, mouth wet, pretty like she was born knowing it; it's this part. Right there. "I mean it."
The word's halfway to her lips before her knees hit the carpet.
So you'll just have to leave the monologue for another time. Sullyoon's working at your pants, sliding your zipper down, and there's her fingers curling delicately at the elastic band of your briefs, the intentional misuse of her teeth and that provocative flash of her tongue against your cock, ready to take it into her mouth-
"See," she breathes, pleased as all get-out, "now we both know you're lying."
Her hands are tiny, which just now registers, and the point of comparison makes you want to die a little.
But your cock's halfway down her throat before you've even had an opportunity to choke on air, pull in a gasp - and that's it, really: Sullyoon sinks her mouth around you, lets out the lewdest little noise. She shifts on her knees. Squares her shoulders, tips her head back. Makes herself a nice pretty picture before looking up to bat her eyelashes again.
It should be more upsetting - giving in, putting that beautiful, spoiled mouth to good use - but, "Jesus," you hear yourself rasp, "Sullyoon," alongside the spit-slick sound of your dick in her fist, "you really just, fuck, go right for it, huh," all in one awful breath - and, well. She's drooling around you in seconds.
See, she's a prodigy at this too.
You could probably write poetry about the faint, almost imperceptible angle to her wrist, or the twirl of tongue around the tip. The shallow up-and-down she has her mouth doing, or that sinful little slurping noise that the library's dead-silent for. "Shh, sweetheart," you snap, sighing into it already, your hand settling over the crown of her head. Oh, you can't even fucking remember how poetry's supposed to work. Soliloquys, and sonnets and scripture: fuck, princess - look at you - this little mouth's all for me, huh? You can't help yourself. You tilt your head back, glance around: Yeats and Milton and Dickinson are an intimidating audience, even with a perfect muse, so you'll really just leave it there, allow your stupidity to hang like that.
The blowjob she's giving you is enough of a fucking problem, anyway.
She's got this gorgeous mouth and she needs you to know it: all slurp-slick sounds from the corner of her lips, spit dribbling down her chin. She bobs her head and the rhythm's nothing but practiced, precise. That little twist at the end of each pull-and-stroke, and the soft gag, and then stroking you with the mess all over her hands. Fuck - she's good at this, and you tell her this - it's stupid-simple. An explanation. You know exactly what to do with that, don't you?
Sullyoon takes you right over the back of her tongue and you can't really be held responsible for anything else: your fingertips through her hair, or the sudden clutch to her nape. "That's it," you coax - praise her, push her down further. "Can't even wait until we get home, I get it."
You're skirting a lot of lines, obviously - between teacher and student, between blowjob and facefuck - you're not sure you're meant to be treating this library visit quite like this, either, but it's too late; everything slurs into less put-together language: "There you go princess, you've been dying to get your lips on it, I know" - because it's fucking obvious - "nasty fucking cockslut, Sul, jesus christ, your mouth-"
Her tongue flashes, curls around the underside. She just keeps sucking, lapping at it desperately.
You'll never get over the way she looks: eyebrows scrunched, shoulders shrugged, jaw hanging open wide enough to cradle your cock. There's her tongue again, then there's her gag-reflex. That conceited flash in her eyes. Ah, she thinks you're gonna blow your load if she just takes you down to the root with no warning at all - until she's out of breath - then there's the dirty-hot way she spits, blows bubbles - all fluttery lashes; she's getting drool everywhere while you fuck her mouth, use it. Treat her like she's something to own, and that just makes her wetter and hungrier and messier. She's slacking her jaw, hollowing her cheeks, shoving two fingers in her cunt-
Oh, she likes that idea, wants you to take possession of every one of her needy holes, find every perfect fit. She's got that little expert fist, twisting a palm into all the right places and she's barely convincing anyone with those bright white socks tucked into a pair of Mary-Janes - or with the hand she has insistently pressed between her legs, fingering herself harder when your cock fills her cheek, when you call her names, "slut, sweetheart, I cannot believe-" and you're half-laughing, a little awed. "Sul," you try to say, but it comes out a rasp - "I'm gonna fucking cum."
There's a warning buried in there somewhere; she smiles around you anyway. Swallows you further, sucks harder.
"All in your throat, okay? Be good for me and just let me use you, yeah?" and maybe that's too many steps ahead, but you'll get there. She'll go for it, for you. She wants it; her eyes sparkle. Her fingers rub furiously at her clit.
You curse and tighten your fingers around the ribbons, pump up against her tongue; her sobs - her fist is drags across your length, meeting with her lips until she gags like she wants to prove a point, like this just another day, eyes gone shiny-wet and chin glazed over, playing you along like it's routine, and she's almost done, ready to get onto her next task:
You know, sighs a specific version of Sullyoon inside your head, running her fingers through her hair. She's arranging her notebooks, pencils; she's on campus and wearing a white polo. The skirt's navy.
Her expression is serious, contemplative. There's drool on her chin and her head's bobbing fast, faster-
It turns out I'm just a slut for your cock, I guess. She bats her eyes once, twice. Who knew?
You tug her face down and feed her your entire load.
There's no fairytale-romance to it, no period-drama-prose; just her little mews and sputtery-cough like a bookmark left behind - the precise page and paragraph and sentence, a marker on the spine, a thumb through the well-worn binding.
You'd come back, you'd read it again. You'd find the exact moment where the word deepthroating began to look like art. Her brows scrunched up, little chin titled on an incline - her eyes shut in rapturous concentration. She doesn't even make a show of being graceful or whatever: tears streaming, nose running and utterly breathless, moaning for you and not giving a shit what anyone else might think.
You loosen your grip, and tsk gently. Your cum's mostly spilled down her chin.
But she swallows some, definitely; has her face tipped down to better take it. There are no clean-up tricks you know of for girls who've caught it messy, for the filthiest kinds of sluts: she just shows you her mouth with glassy-eyed amusement and runs two fingers through the splatter.
If the reference section wasn't quiet as a church already, that image alone would've shut it right down.
"Honey," you say - except you're stuttering, or maybe you've forgotten to breathe. "Come here, let me-" But the next word out is "Christ", because she's using the sleeve of her sweater to dab it clean before you can tell her no.
Your brain catches up while hers is busy glazing over.
She licks at her bottom lip. "I know," she sighs apologetically. Your little poet, finally at a loss for words. "I'm clumsy, it's so embarrassing. Sorry. I swear it usually - ah - doesn't go down like this." She lifts up a few inches, hands braced over her knees, knuckles sort of tense. Like she thinks you might be upset. "Well, I guess it does."
"What," you say stupidly, staring. "No. I-"
"Seriously." Sullyoon accepts a palm cupped to her jaw. "I really do like swallowing," she clarifies, cheeks flushed, all molten and heavy-lidded, with that cute little lopsided grin. "I'm usually pretty good about it."
"Go figure," you say, smoothing her bangs off her face. "And here I thought you were just hungry for attention."
Sullyoon turns her head so that her mouth meets your wrist, kisses it twice. "Is it working?" Her voice drops an octave, mocking. "You have a really big dick, and I haven't gotten to eat dinner yet." And she blinks back to normal, straightening out as you haul her up by the elbow. "You're right, that was me being selfish."
Her sweater slides down her arm again.
"Are you mad that I messed up your shirt?"
"I think I can live," you echo - maybe a bit harshly, too long, but she laughs, "besides the attention-seeking, any other flaws I ought to know about?" and Sullyoon's head goes kind of lazy over her shoulder.
"I dunno, isn't it like your job to discourage that kind of behavior?" She's talking bullshit; she's saying it like a dare. "I could make an official complaint. A formal declaration, I guess," and she shrugs: show-offy, seductive. "It'd be serious. There'd be consequences. I come from a respectable household."
On one hand: it's good to know you're not corrupting her; she came with the moral compass she's got. Her mind's a brothel and she makes it seem so benign, so irreproachable. It's distracting. It's impossible not to think it - honestly, seriously-
Oh god, you adore her.
On the other: she's willing to cross this particular bridge just because you've given her incentive - you've encouraged it, hell, you're willing to jump in. "Manners," you mutter instead, with zero conviction.
"Oh my god, you still say it." There's some satisfaction to Sullyoon's tone. It proves the theory. "That is...hilarious." She pulls at your hand. "Okay fine," she says, pretending, playing hard: she's a good girl, honest. "Let's get your books first, I guess."
"Did you just swoon?" you try.
"Me? No." She looks so goddamn self-satisfied, letting her smile break out again. "You called me a cockslut, remember?" she replies, breezily - like this annoys her.
"Yeah." You don't know what else to say. She laughs.
"Well, joke's on you. I totally am." And you don't have any real argument for that either.
-
Some footnotes then, on this little excursion:
i. Her favorite book (in Sullyoon's writing, Sullyoon's impeccable print, handwriting girlishly small): Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (yes, it's a romance novel). You're at the reference desk. You're checking out a stack of novels, biographies, collections of literary essays. You've got that awful red edition of Ovid. They make it into your bag, and so does her paperback copy of Jane Austen.
ii. There's a line written vertically down the inside cover, 'it is a truth universally acknowledged' (and then it stops). Page 203 is dog-eared.
iii. "I reread it once a year, minimum," is all Sullyoon offers up when you press her on it. "Lizzie is cute and funny, and Darcy is rich and in love with her." She blinks those gorgeous eyes up at you again, playfully casual. "But these books aren't even dirty."
She shrugs her shoulders, as though that explains everything - and in a sense, it does: you should stop trying to connect these loose dots.
iv. She wants to keep herself enigmatic, at least a little bit. It's fine. It's cute. You still can't resist needling at it a bit. "Isn't Elizabeth Bennet supposed to be, y'know." You gesture vaguely.
Sullyoon's brow quirks.
"Pretty morally uptight?"
She brushes it aside, acting embarrassed. "Obviously," is all she admits. "Like I said: cute, funny. Thank god Mr. Darcy's there to take her mind off things." Which is obviously suggestive enough on its own. "You can take me home, now," she suggests, like you have a say, like you need permission to fuck her properly. "If that was your question."
It wasn't, but it's good information.
-
She leans her head against your shoulder all the way there. Peers up at you behind satisfied, watery eyes, watches while you fumble with your keys, the lock, the handle; you've got the prettiest girl in the world waiting to get into your apartment and a through-line that doesn't need naming.
This is the oldest one there is.
-
Sullyoon slips her shoes off, wiggles her toes on your rug before you catch her looking around - nosy little thing - but it's mostly perfunctory: the sofa, the bathroom, a desk in disarray. She looks like she might ask questions, or at least provide some kind of color commentary, but then you're pulling out a cutting board, and her whole attitude pivots.
"They're just vegetables," you tell her, slightly amused.
"I know, but I literally can't cook to save my life." She tilts her chin up, and plants both elbows on the countertop, all girlish delight and candor. "Our oven door has had the charred remains of something trapped in it since forever. My roommate and I sort of have this tacit agreement not to ever open it again." Then she pouts, leans in closer: "Whatever you're cooking looks delicious."
You set another burner to a medium-high. Salt a pot of water. It's too easy to get sidetracked by conversation, about everything and nothing all at once.
Sullyoon tells you about some true crime documentary she watched the night before - or how about Parasite, have you seen Parasite? She's downed a glass of wine before you've gotten the plates out of the cabinet, and just holds it out for more. Of course I've seen Parasite (that's you, talking) - and you bring up this one podcast on consumerism & class consciousness you listened to on your walk earlier (because hey, if she likes that movie, then). She chews quietly around a bite of pasta, looks at you like you're teaching a class. You end up on some parallel tangents about feminism, misogyny in media, female objectification: everything that makes her a liberal arts student. Everything that makes her the girl you'd take home from a bar.
By the time you're washing dishes she looks like she's on the cusp of telling you something important, but just cards a hand through her hair and lets out a sigh.
Her face is so expressive that you catch all of the layers anyway.
"Oh," you realize, and turn off the sink. "I'm supposed to be fucking you right now, aren't I?"
"Stop," says Sullyoon - prettily petulant, offended in a way that means she isn't - and you have to laugh. "You did not forget."
It's easy enough to wrap a hand under her shoulder, get her out of the stool; draw her up onto the counter against you. "I'm glad you've got your priorities straightened out-"
"Oh, they're super clear," she replies, indignant. That apparently got a rise out of her. "Very focused. Currently on getting dick, yes. It's true. But that's on you." Sullyoon laughs, then traces her thumb over your mouth; tucks in closer. "It's not my fault you're hot and sweet and it gets me all wet talking about, what - structural determinism? Intersectionality?"
"I'm sure the faculty'll be happy to take credit."
"Well, I did sort of space out," Sullyoon chirps, and drags two fingertips under the hem of her sweater, starts to peel it up. "Just ended up going through all the positions in my head. Doggy, Missionary," she ticks them off, one at a time, "that's my favorite, obviously, 'cause it feels so, like - intimate, and you're really deep inside me, and your face is right there-"
"And what's doggy?"
You can see that fantasy playing out behind her eyes: the hair-pulling, the ass-out posture. The slap of skin, your dick rearranging her insides. "A very close second," she allows, still undressing: her breasts sit so delicately in the lace.
"I have to apologize." You lean down like you're going to kiss her, feel her lashes flutter in anticipation. "I didn't realize it was foreplay."
"I swear." Her palm's splayed over her stomach like it hurts. "You're doing this on purpose."
"I'm trying to help," you assure her - and then hook your palms under her thighs and hike them over your elbows. Sullyoon's first impulse is to hold on tight, bury her fingers in your hair.
Her voice couldn't drop much further if she tried. "Do you work tomorrow?"
You do. You could skip it: it's your class, your curriculum; you could draft an email that makes it seem as though you contracted a fever named after a color, set it to send early morning. You don't really even have to ask what she seems to have in mind. They'd understand if they knew.
Hell, everyone has a muse.
"You know I do," you reply. It's obvious enough.
"Well, you should get to bed, then." She sounds about as convincing as she intends to be. "If only to avoid being totally exhausted in the morning." Which is, technically, great advice. "Full disclosure, I am gonna wake you up sometime in the middle of the night and see if you wanna do it again." A little kiss at the hollow of your throat, warm and close. "Just - letting you know."
You can feel her pulse starting to spike against your ribs, taste her heartbeat thrumming fast beneath her skin. It's late. You're still pressing her against walls, tugging her underwear off, being reminded of just how thin Sullyoon's wrists are, the way you can fit an entire breast in one hand, how delicate her jaw feels; it's just easier to map it with your mouth instead - and she's right on-board, sighing into your mouth like she's too dainty and precious to consider the mechanics - like there's nothing more she needs to concern herself with, nothing she couldn't trust you to accomplish: the moment you deposit her neatly onto your duvet, she rolls onto her stomach and lets you admire the slope of her spine, the plush roundness of her ass - oh, a close second, for sure. Her knees slide up; she spreads them slightly, and any notion of fragility falls right out of mind.
-
(Later then, a bit, a lot - it doesn't matter. The point is you've been adding to your novel in stolen intervals between going out, hooking up; whenever you're not texting her through the logistics - which are getting more frequent, and increasingly complicated, and escalating fast. She's over at your place more than you care to understand, and every few days it seems you wander into an alleyway, a parking garage, the back of your car, and you'll fuck her into oblivion, get her fingers scrambling over your back while you knock all the filthy thoughts out of her pretty brain.
Some of that has started landing on the page. A lot of it, the majority, until it starts sounding a bit gratuitous
You're just trying to get a handle on the larger narrative at play:
The hero ends up walking her home at some point, eventually, because she wants him to. She's small and she's lovely and she lets him look and talk and touch - she says nothing of consequence until they get to her address, then turns in his arms, faces him, and sighs dramatically.
My roommate's a whore who will try to jump your bones, she warns, half-laughing, completely serious; they settle for making out on the street for what seems like ages, until the exterior lights of her apartment building flicker off - and she asks, or she hopes, or she tries to prolong it, somehow, like it hasn't already been hours. She lifts his hand, places it right above her hipbone: presses, dips her chin.
Well I'm not going to fuck you in public, he protests mildly. There are passing cars, the odd pedestrian. Not for the second time in an hour. But his hand grips her waist anyway.
A bathroom stall is not public, she insists.
And he thinks that she could get him to agree to it all with enough time, and effort, and clever persuasion - he'd probably lose it and eat her out against the bricks until she couldn't breathe. A public bathroom. It's right there in the name, he could argue - but decides to let that one slip by.
He says instead: it's late. His feet are dragging. The kiss is as obvious a sendoff as any, anyway: I should really get going, he tells her as he pulls his mouth off hers.
They pause at each other. She feels his fingers skip over her hips, down her abdomen, and her pupils dilate. He brushes away her hair, and they get darker. Maybe, she decides, this is the story she'll have him tell for years. It's fucked up, and they both know it. They're both a bit gone for each other, and for all the wrong reasons. She should regret it. This should scare her shitless - this is not the kind of role she's been raised to fill - but he's kissed her out-of-breath and made her spine curl, made her beg-to-get-railed; she's too lightheaded to let it worry her.
His palm ends up over her mouth: fingertips traced against her cheekbone. It's too filthy to be romance, and too good to be anything but.
She cums on his fingers, and it's not pretty: shuddery, spilling everywhere - she's an absolute slut for this, and her head tips backwards, vision spinning with color, the streetlights blurring like fireflies as she inhales against his palm.
I'm keeping these, princess, he offers, pocketing her panties and leaning forward so their noses touch - and the story's plot moves slowly, all the usual excuses: sex scenes have become more convoluted. Sex scenes always take longer to write.)
-
It's not like you're dating, and it's not like you could explain yourself, if you tried.
But there are mornings where you take her up on the offer: buy her coffee, spend hours pretending to read at the local bookstore because she's supposed to be studying, her tiny fingers wrapped around her highlighter, sipping delicately on her coldbrew.
You let her get distracted, talk shit about her classmates, debate ethics, discuss music and film. She tells you about the new lens she just bought for her DSLR, that she needs a test dummy to photograph with it: and you'd told her you would - but it's mostly an excuse to walk around a park for a bit, pretend to look at plants and photograph the foliage and say all kinds of gross nonsense to each other; have lunch together, find an alley to fuck her in, check out the farmer's market she mentioned last week. You look at peaches, pears; figure out she has a thing for obscure bands that no one listens to, that she's never actually seen a Studio Ghibli film: and so you'll wander back to your place, stick one on for a quick watch before deciding to let her blow you halfway through instead, see how long you can go without realizing the screen's gone dark: oh wow, you were so close to finishing Howl's Moving Castle - oh well.
It's a recurring theme: Sullyoon will sit on your lap, let you slide into her, lean her chest against yours and let you fuck up into her in long, rolling strokes.
You do it with Ponyo next, then Spirited Away; she keeps fucking up Mononoke for the both of you.
She somehow ends up even more submissive on top. She can't help herself. She'll make these breathless, huffy little noises, pant harder. She loves praise, loves kissing you - loves being your dumb, docile cocksleeve - she’ll lean up against your neck and whisper in your ear, call herself that; and it's absurd, watching one of your best students melt into such a malleable, horny mess, but that's how it ends up.
Though occasionally she'll sit up straight, fix her hair and look you directly in the face. There are brief bouts of clarity, too.
"This is crazy, right? Me coming over all the time? You fucking me like this?"
"Absolutely," you mumble into her neck. "You’re out of control."
And that's sorta where the narrative sticks the landing, kinda the status quo. It's casual, easy. You might even consider yourself friends.
-
At the same time, this conversation:
"I think it's ridiculous." She bats her eyelashes, then tosses a bag of grapes in the cart you’re pushing around. "You're not even that much older than me," and it's the fourth or fifth time she's made this point in the past few days. She's downplaying her argument. It'll start out light, and eventually she'll just make a joke and it'll become reality: "You're being weird about this. It's like a seven-year gap. That's nothing."
"I was your teacher," you tell her flatly. Like the fact isn't well established, like you don't think about it constantly.
It's just banter, anyway, and it always leads you here. You won't concede. You won't give an inch, except-
Sullyoon throws her hair over her shoulder, all false attitude, then grins. "Yeah, well," she says, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "It is what it is."
She doesn't even have to talk to keep this on-script - it's all a routine, a show: she'll wave a few hands, shake her head, say all she wants is more sex loud enough for everyone in the checkout to hear, that's it; that you're, like, really good at fucking her and stuff, that she doesn't have anyone to compare to, but she thinks you're probably the best - it'll be all shy eyes, cute smirks, cute outfits, socks up past her knees like it's some sort of fetish at this point: you've got one of hers, she's got one of yours, and that's the running gag.
"You've really got your wires crossed," you note, not buying it; knowing exactly where this road goes. "I'm starting to think I should probably feel sorry for you."
She's chewing on a candy bar she's expecting you to pay for, and only speaks after she's finished her mouthful, making it very clear that you're not allowed to judge her. "You should," she teases. "Because now I guess I'm just super into you and there's really nothing else either of us can do about it."
Eventually you'll checkout, and she'll lean forward onto the counter, thin wrists propping up her chin, and look at you just like that, and you'll know, the sentiment is pretty much mutual. You'll ask the clerk if she has a key to the restroom, and because you're both sorta natural-born liars: "It's my wife," you'll gesture behind you. "First baby and everything - she's not feeling the greatest. We just need a bit of privacy." And sure, yeah, of course, the staff will say; it's common courtesy, right? Congratulations, by the way - it's wonderful news.
Thanks, I appreciate it.
You'll pocket the key, nod for her to follow; and she'll roll her eyes in an overdrawn show of exasperation - God, you're so embarrassing, she'll groan. But she's a fan of your antics; it's the attention, she's gotta admit. It makes her feel good. Special. Yours. She likes the idea of people knowing it, too.
"Can't believe I'm having your kid," Sullyoon comments blithely, right after. "Can't believe you knocked me up."
"Could happen to anyone," you dismiss. "Like you said, I'm good at fucking you, or whatever."
"Yeah but you're old," she tells you, sounding all put on about it. "So I figure it should take longer. Like the biology of it."
"Shut up," you respond instantly, and it's kinda like - yes, alright, the atmosphere is tilted, the air hot, and you're gonna fuck her raw either way, you're gonna pump her full and watch her drip and maybe plug her up when she's done and shove her tiny, stupid panties back up into place afterwards, wipe off her thighs, pull her shirt back down - but it's not like that's uncommon territory, anymore.
"You're so lucky I like you."
"Babe," she breathes, an earnest endeavor, "you'd fuck me even if you didn't like me."
Okay, so maybe she's right; but you wouldn't be here if you weren't absolutely hooked on the rest of this, too.
-
It gets a little messier after that, in that employee bathroom. A lot messier, actually. You fuck her against the sink again - this, at her insistance. Call it canon: the perfect rewind, which is sorta the whole appeal in the first place.
You've got your princess bent over the counter, body tugged into the arch you want it in, and she's a slut for the nostalgia, obviously, but now you've gone and wound a fist into her hair, buried your cock in her. You've done worse. It's a no brainer, she's been dying for this the second you shoved her into the door-
"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck-"
It's not nice, obviously. You're not sweet about it. Maybe you could be, if she asked - but she doesn't, so you're wrecking her, and she's loving it, and maybe this is how everything is just going to stay.
"Language," you breathe out, rougher than you'd wanted - but, she's a whore for that too.
She nods once, twice; that's her cue to dissolve, to fade, to gasp, the syllables stretching out; "I'm sorry, sir. Thank you," instead, and the whimper, "for reminding me. I'll- Oh." Her voice cuts off, jolts when you pound right in, find the perfect, easiest angle, the one that makes her bite her lip. Sullyoon's already rolling with you. "I'll be good. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
You're using her, and she's thanking you; it's like, a whole thing. There's that misplaced sense of propriety - some ridiculous sense of ownership - where it all clicks without hesitation that your hands belong at the cut of her waist. Her skinny jeans furled around her knees, her cute little ass all red-faced, ready for more. Sullyoon's pleading at her own reflection, face inches from the mirror, and she hasn’t quite worked her mouth into that devilish-vulnerable-perfection yet, still a little far from it: "Fuck, keep doing that," she sputters instead, "sir," and when she casts a look at you there's a crease between her brows; there are stars in her eyes; there are tears: your clever girl, she's getting everything she wants.
It's a disaster. She can't look away. You're fucking her up, and she knows it. It's not pretty, and it doesn't need to be.
"This pussy of yours," you breathe out, rough, fast-paced, fucking hard in and out of her. She whimpers at her own reflection. "Just loves creaming up this fucking cock, huh, princess? Can't keep yourself together."
She sobs. The poor thing, the star of this show - you snap your hips right up against the pink, swollen ache of her. You might as well talk directly to her cunt. There's so little blood in her actual brain; and all of it's racing straight back down to her throbbing clit.
"Tighter," you grit out, and she clenches down immediately: see? All those little breathy sighs like an accident, a hiccup.
She loses herself so fast sometimes - when she's overwhelmed, almost falling apart; when you give her everything and a little more and she doesn't know how to take it. She's going to have bruises where you've got your hands wrapped around her waist, but that's okay - neither of you wants her without reminders.
"What do you think," you ask, and it's not really a question: "Should I make a fucking mess in that tiny cunt, baby?" Her chin dips. Her chest stutters with a sigh. It's rhetorical: the heat, the pace, the slicked, squelching sounds falling wet to the tile below. You've been - you don't know, exasperated, amused. Charmed in the weirdest way possible. "Cause I'd really like to watch you try to keep it all inside."
See, you're really not the type - or historically you've never been - but that's Sullyoon; in her little fuckdrunk, glazed-over eyes - in those pleading, mouth-slack expressions.
You fuck right up into her, pound out her sighs. She's incoherent. It's so beautifully visceral; so porn and it's pristine.
"Tell me," you continue, a little smoother - like it's sensitive information; and really it is, only you two get the memo - "You really want me to fill this little womb with my cum, don't you? Just a sloppy little cumdump for my cock." You grab her jaw and twist, kiss the word into the shell of her ear: "I wonder if one of these times, I'll actually get you fucking pregnant."
Her voice is shot. "Sir," and a gasp, and another. "You can't."
"No?" You hum - and she's moaning like she's about to die, lashes heavy over glassy, empty eyes, pupils wide and blown.
"I can't." She can barely breathe she's so fucked out. "You can't-" she chokes up, sobs, whines: "you can't."
It's part performance, part prayer: the stammer, the slur; the way it almost breaks on your name, as her body shudders. You drag her head back further and her teeth come through in a wince; it's just another small sacrifice, and she's so eager to offer you everything.
Because she doesn't say it like a no. Doesn't even try to keep it a secret. There are more shades to her roleplay than just a hot-for-teacher fantasy, or a man who should know better; she's not just a dumb, pretty brat with the tightest, greediest cunt. It's not even about authority, about wanting you to claim her - needing it rough - sometimes it's more like devotion. Sometimes it's something darker. Her fingers flex like claws. Her body buckles on itself; the sharp gasp of pain, because you tug a fistful of hair all the way to the root-
"Oh," you say, lining it up; the bulge in her belly, how easily her body just stretches, reshapes - she's so broken in already, there's no question that she's yours. "I think we can try. You'd fucking love that, no? A tight little pussy like yours, Sullyoon - baby, you were made to breed."
It's too much, and you know that. If there's a line somewhere, it gets worse every time you cross it.
You thrust hard, kiss the worry in her temple. Slide your tongue into her gasping mouth and fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her.
Until the words "take all my cum" drip right off your mouth. Her tiny ankles cross, flex like they're thinking about spreading apart. "I could knock you up so fucking easy"
It's like she can't even stand up straight - and she can't, really. Every tell of your well-fucked princess - losing all her wits. Her orgasm hits like it's a formality, like she's thanking you for being the one to show her - the door closing behind her, the curtains falling; this is it, the finale. Lights down. Everyone's dead on the stage; Sullyoon's dizzy with it, and you're watching her gorgeous ass take it from behind, a hand still wound tight in her hair - making it a thing she can't escape - I know, princess, I've got you. You're not sure what you'd meant it for when you asked her to decide on a safeword, but you're getting the impression it'll take a lot more than some impregnation kink to trigger a red light. She's almost comedically wet. You don't even have to say anything else; your palm's possessive across her stomach, and her mouth falls open; the breath catches.
"I want," she can barely breathe through it.
You're really doing a number on her cunt: all nerve-stim and bordering on something violent, a beat closer to tearing it out of her.
"I want you to," she tries again, another tearful sigh; you're fucking her to the point of hyperventilating, of forgetting her lines: "-to breed me-" and because she knows just how to take everything from you: "please fill me up, sir. Fuck me, use me, do anything you want just as long as you make my little fuckhole swell with your cum, sir, I, I-"
You kiss the curve of her jaw. You bottom out. You feel her pussy swallow every inch. It's hot, and suffocating - and fucking extreme, is the problem - getting used to something like this; she'll never have another fuck like the one she's getting here, and that'll be what kills you both.
There's the picture she's painting, what she's fantasizing: you slotting your mouth to hers, you cumming inside her. Your fingers tighten to hold her mouth open, make her drool. You feel your cock kissing her womb - and she's choking on that idea too, all sweet sounds and sloppy compliance; you're laughing, cruelly - maybe just to remind you this is all just for fun. "You feel that princess? That's my cum," and she nods, frantically - and look, your little exhibitionist takes your cum wherever she can get it. It's a part of the process. It's a delicate exchange.
If there's shame involved it's all surface level, artfully manufactured to hit some kind of internal target for what makes her wettest.
If anyone dared, she'd say: um, what exactly did you expect?
There's a million reasons she shouldn't. She's still a little confused, sometimes, by what gets her there - which feelings are genuine, which ones just press down hard on her nerves until she's short-circuiting - but her cunt's drippy and achy and she's tried to ask before, in other places; she's tried to find words for it. Why she's like this, why you're like that, what makes it work when it does; you just kiss her neck, laugh, and call her a slut for a job well done. Tell her it doesn't matter. Pretend it doesn't affect you; just promise her you'll figure it out later.
Sullyoon settles the tone, because - well, you can see it in her eyes: the intrigue, the fascination, the devilish curiosity - she knows her part. She likes to feel possessed. Conquered. Ruined. She says, "what," lashes low, a bit stunned, the exhaustion catching up as she meets your gaze, bites her lip. "Was that, like, too much for you?"
You scoff a laugh. Kiss her hard.
"You're fine," is all you manage. There's not a single thing in her that isn't addictive.
"Don't have to tell me," she slurs out. "Do you have any idea how good it feels?" Her fingers float idly over the taut plane of her abdomen. She always knows how to turn the screws. "Getting pumped full like that?"
Her reflection's all drowsy eyes, messed-up mouth; the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Her hand wraps around yours, on her jaw, as her breath stutters its way back to normal, and the lines are sorta unclear after that.
"Well, if it doesn't take, you can do that again."
"Do you mean in a Whole Foods, specifically? Or just breeding you in general."
"Why," she asks, "is that where you draw the line?"
It's not like you always have the self-control to stop at one, anyway. "Sullyoon," you try, forcing composure.
She shrugs; laughs, lightly. "Don't make it seem like such a chore," she says. "Am I the most disgusting girl you've ever met or something?"
"Absolutely," you hum, fondly, and her mouth slants; it's contagious. "My load's dripping out of your pussy right now," you continue. "You're leaking."
"Ew," Sullyoon mutters, "gross," but it's breathless, and the way she clenches up as she says it - yeah, she's still lost in that perfect fantasy. You'll go with her. "I dunno, maybe wear a condom next time?"
It should be insane, this sort of banality, this blunt comedy, mixed with your cock stuffed all the way up her pussy. The reckless, raunchy indulgence of it; the implication that you'll fill her so often with cum you'll run out of options other than for her to get pregnant. Implying that, oh, maybe next month she won't have a period, that the timing'll line up just right. Wouldn't that be fun? It's not like I'd kill you or anything; we'd make it work. This isn't exactly an explicit conversation - the clinical terminology's for other kinds of settings, and other people - but it's there, lingering somewhere at the edge. Maybe it's nothing but talk; maybe that's all she'll let you get away with.
"It's fucked up," you say, voice completely shredded. It gets worse as your cock slides out of her. "How many times you've done that."
"The crying? That's 'cause you fuck me really well," says Sullyoon, just stating a fact.
"I mean this," you correct, pushing a finger against where you've spilled into her, the tight little stretch of her, keeping it deep and inside.
"I didn't ask you to play into it." She squirms, a little. Then, pensive, uncommitted: "So maybe what you mean to say is, how easy you are for me."
And hey, proof of concept: your cum's dripping right into the seam of her panties, soaking right through the cotton. It's a fresh pair. Now she's gonna go out there in these little jeans of hers and everyone's going to have to wonder about the glazed-over stare, the dreamlike grin. In the unsteady step, the loose bones. Like someone who just took a real, solid pounding.
"Cumdump," you muse, kissing her neck.
"Sir." Sullyoon hums contentedly. "That's just sex." Her shrug is all airy dismissal. "Everyone's easy for the people they want."
"Oh." You gently slap her hip. "Now we're saying you want me."
"Well." She draws back, blasé in light of the fact she's been crying, but that just adds to the aesthetic, somehow: "If I told you you’ve basically ruined sex for me, you'd probably assume I hit my head in the middle of all that. I wasn't always like this." Then, casually, the blink: "So, yeah. That's the vibe."
Your fingers card through her hair again, you're putting the strands back where they belong. "Baby, I'm worried about your frame of reference," you try, and grin when Sullyoon sighs, mock-exasperated, pushes you back by the shoulder. She's still smiling, though.
"You're such a piece of shit," she reminds you, for maybe the tenth time this week. It's casual - no heat behind it, not really, but she still seems to enjoy saying it aloud. It must be so liberating. So very cathartic.
"What am I supposed to do? Say thank you?"
"You say it back if you're not an asshole," suggests Sullyoon. "Like, I think it'd just be polite. You say, 'yes, baby, you're so fucking right, I can't live without you.'" She looks at you expectantly. "You can try it."
"You're a fucking lunatic." You pull her close anyway, nosing her hairline. "But, sure," and: "baby, you're so fucking right. I can't live without you." It is sort of funny; she's so unimpressed with it.
"Good." Sullyoon tilts her chin and meets you halfway. "We're in agreement."
-
What happens is this:
You pick up after yourselves like it's a movie scene, the aftermath: makeup-wipes, paper towels under the sink. You clean her up, put her back together. Your hands are careful. There's a new bruise blooming on the inside of her thigh. You kiss her there, just because you can. You hand the bathroom key over to someone in customer service, gesture to Sullyoon and lie. She looks like she's in bad shape today, can't stop throwing up; she had to duck in here on our way in and puke up a storm - you give him this sympathetic look; I'm just so happy, I swear. My wife's pregnant. We're gonna be parents. And then a furtive, relieved glance Sullyoon's way: I feel like the luckiest guy alive.
Sullyoon hates admitting how that works: the way you get away with anything. It's just a smile, just a joke. No big deal. You always have.
Though the second she sees a bouquet of yellow daffodils she grabs your forearm, pulls your hand down to her stomach.
"Oh, look," she murmurs, fingertips dancing across your knuckles. "You know, it's gonna be a boy, right?"
There's a good performance to her already, a complete control. You buy her the flowers anyway.
"How can you be sure?"
"I'm wishcasting obviously." Her nose is buried in petals, breathing it in. "I want my kid to be cute," she teases, lightheartedly; it's her usual humor; your lack of self-restraint. "Sue me." Like it's nothing. "It's genetic. Look at your face, dude. C'mon."
And the expression she's giving you is just that, all head-down-and-trying-to-look-inconsequential: in a desk with a pair of uniform flats, a blouse tucked into a skirt; at least, it's that expression in all the same places. The play-pretend is sweet, the imitation. You push her hair off of her shoulders. Slip your fingers through the tresses, come away clean.
It's all these excuses, all the time.
-
(So, alright, fine. Your first draft has a lot of problems, but there are good things, too.
You rewrite the dialog, move her hair color around a bit. The old student's gone through some iterations, a name like Jiyeon, Siyeon, Miyeon; you dunno, you keep changing it, but the rest stays more or less the same.
It's all her own goddamn fault for being so beautiful. That's the running motif. But at some point, the hero on the page has to do a bit of rationalization:
Because everyone's had one, right? The crush you never get over; the forbidden fruit, apple-of-the-eye - however you phrase it - they all translate loosely into the same, definitive principle, some fatal flaw; this human fallibility. To be a monster, you figure, is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.
You write that down, squint, and then delete two thousand words all in one go.
He's never quite had a love like what he's read in novels, anyways: if you really think about it, the love story's so intrinsically tangled into the human psyche because we all wish, on some level, for ourselves to be worthy of that kind of mythologizing. Because who doesn't want a story? Who doesn't want to be immortal?
He's selfish, self-indulgent. He has to have made a few bad decisions leading him to this spot.
You imagine some editorialized feedback about a romantic subplot - the tragedy is, is, is - and it'd fit, sort of, the context would justify it, but for some reason the story, in your gut, isn't really like that.
Look at her, you'll say, in one paragraph. She's the antagonist, you'll say in another. It's just muscle memory. It's just the honest truth.)
-
"Oh I get it," Sullyoon says, delighted, when the concept inexplicably gets brought up, because you're spending all this time together. You talk about everything, which means the novel is fair game - because what else are you even doing when you're not teaching your students, or fucking them apparently - and, well, "You're writing porn."
"I'm not writing porn," you insist.
"Huh," says Sullyoon. She doesn't even look up from her book, because this isn't her first rodeo; she's lying in your lap, and that's a recipe for distraction, but this is more important. "You know, they have all kinds of genres for that now. Romance. Erotica." She enunciates the last syllable, looks up and meets your eyes. "Smut." You know this is going nowhere good. "Tell me, what does this 'antihero' look like?"
"She's blonde," is the first thing you offer. "Sort of a manic pixie dream girl. She's tiny."
Sullyoon snorts. You pinch her waist, and the sound becomes a squeak.
There's no real need to justify anything; it is what it is. "Really pretty," you tack on, just as a token of mercy, maybe because you mean it. "She reminds me of you sometimes."
"Unsurprising." Sullyoon bites down her smile. Then - "A cocksleeve for your protagonist to use whenever he wants," she decides, and laughs as she adds, "Splitting images." You grab the side of her leg and tug her closer, flip her around by the ankle; it's the warning, the retort; it'll hurt, and she knows it. "Little miss petite's gotta have daddy issues," she says, flippant. "God knows no woman like that exists in real life without an agenda. An oral fixation too." A pause. "I wonder what else we have in common."
You hum, deliberate. "A bratty disposition."
"Watch it," Sullyoon says, laughing. She'll admit the charge, she's just picking her battles.
"Cum addiction?"
She bats your hands away from her ass, but that smile remains plastered across her face. "It's possible," she says.
"A terrible sense of self-preservation, then."
"I mean these are all good things," Sullyoon praises herself. "Seriously. I'd read that."
-
"Maybe you should," you mumble, once. She asks why - and, oh, she's got the mind for stories, the blood and bone and sinew of a writer: she reads almost obsessively - and, sure, it's something you already knew, that's a given - but that's exactly it: Sullyoon picks apart plots, twists, turns - divests stories of their themes and structure and their meaning behind all that: she knows books better than she knows how to speak. It's easy to forget that. You've seen the naked girl too many times.
There are a million reasons. "It'd be nice," you tell her. You mean it. "Seeing the world through your eyes, I guess. If the two of us could sit down, and have that whole, endless conversation."
It's as simple as that.
-
On the topic of twists and turns - you never actually do meet Sullyoon's roommate, because her roommate's constantly M.I.A. Or she's present and Sullyoon's increasingly adamant about you not being there, and there isn't some hidden middle ground. Their apartment has all these photographs hanging up and you spot this beautiful girl, some slim, delicate face that keeps appearing with her.
You can't remember if Sullyoon explicitly said that her roommate fucked all their mutual friends or if that was implied, or that maybe you were projecting, but you jump to the conclusion she knows all about this arrangement eitherway.
So you ask once, because you're curious.
"Bae?" Sullyoon announces, like this surprises her. "A walking human disaster," she supplies, without even waiting for the follow-up. Sullyoon's swapping out her earrings, tying her hair up, letting it down, reaching for a different pair of pearl studs; and you're watching her fuss. "She has the social skills of a toddler and an appetite for anyone I even so much as look at twice. You're next, or something. Maybe I should start charging admission."
"I've never even met her."
"She's a whore." Sullyoon laughs, which you don't really understand, but whatever. "And I mean, like, professionally. I have to be careful not to smile at any wall sockets, or she’ll fry her tongue off."
You blink a few times.
There are photos of her friends and her family too, glimpses of faces you somewhat recognize from the pictures she's shown you on her phone, from the blur that have sat in your classroom, passed you by in hallways. You'd forgotten she'd had a boyfriend, or had several; there's another lifetime, a parallel universe. It feels like ages ago. Sullyoon doesn't seem even slightly bothered: the roommate-prostitution thing, or you finding out. "Wait, professionally?"
"Yeah," says Sullyoon, unflappable. "Pornography. Stripping. I dunno if I want to explain it. Come help me pick out a choker."
"Okay." That's a bombshell. You're still hung up on the fact that her roommate's devastatingly attractive. She's got oreo-highlights in a blunt bob in one picture, platinum blonde in another - cut to hang right at her jaw: all messy layers and precision chaos - like she paid good money to look like she doesn’t give a fuck. "She does porn," you reiterate, as if it didn't really register.
"Amateur stuff. Guys, girls. It's a different world," says Sullyoon, mostly talking to her mirror, fluffing her hair at the tips. Up or down, she's asking - if you have a preference, you'd go up. "You don't know everything," she informs you. "And you really don't need to."
So fine. The girl does porn - the same girl who wants to sleep with you because her best friend already is. And maybe because she's something of a connoisseur. That seems odd, and you'd ask, but you have a feeling Sullyoon won't even hear you.
You'll just admire the photos on the vanity instead - the entire apartment's some combination of contemporary luxury meets cozy and cluttered - there's a couple of her at graduation, looking prim and clean and just a touch feckless, a camping trip, hiking. A polaroid of her friends at the beach. She's smiling in all the photos, and the dimples she gets in the mirror when you skate your palms over her hips are in every picture, too.
"How old are you here?"
Sullyoon spins a lock of her hair around her finger, seems to genuinely ponder. "Sixteen, seventeen?" she speculates, a lilt to the end of it. "Or thereabouts."
You raise an eyebrow. Baby Sullyoon's got the look down - a sweetly girlish expression, lips parted, tongue pushing between her teeth, pulling at the corners. The sleeves are rolled of her sweatshirt - probably belongs to whoever's holding her around the waist. Nothing that matters, anyway.
"Cute," is all you say.
Sullyoon grins with only her left cheek. "Does that come in spurts?" She pauses. "Like - moments of clarity?"
"Don't," you advise her. It's a weird feeling.
"You have this martyr complex, it's unreal." She tosses her hair back, touches her fingers to her collarbones - maybe the guilt's an inevitability. Maybe she's worth it, and you'll never care. "Anyway, that's an old photo." She spins around in your arms, makes direct, distracting eye contact. "I don't really live in the past, if you know what I mean."
It’s just like she said - another world. Parallel universes. They're never, ever meant to intersect.
"Yeah, princess." You laugh, because you figure the novelty's worn off but she's not giving an inch. "I do."
-
(So, an update on that thing you're writing, the absolute fucking manifesto-
It's really not a serious thing, she tells him, once, because her friend's got a gig coming up, and it's no big deal. And hey, I have a ride with the keyboardist already, but the bar's sort of a hassle to get to, anyway, if I get smashed it's kind of a long shot getting a cab home.
It's a whirlwind, and that's the beauty of it. Your hero's got this down: time, geography, reason, and all the logistics, too.
This is at the strip club?
Hey, no labels. It's an upscale joint. It's a burlesque club, thank you. But whatever the fuck he says, she's staying the night, and he'd be insane to try to disagree.
You want me to meet your friends? he asks, bemused, and there's his fingerprints already at the back of her neck, at her shoulders and the edge of her spine. It's a sweet offer.
Definitely not, she volleys. Well, yes, probably, if we get really trashed. I'm not making promises.
And he likes the way she can take a joke: he kisses her at his door to tell her he's teasing, and they both know they'll end up tangled around each other, no matter what they actually end up saying.
Come on, she murmurs at his ear, assures him, it'll be fun.
His hands are already at her waist. It'll be this conversation every weekend. There'll be a point, she'll let slip, and she'll show him her apartment, the ridiculous portraits and the polaroids. She's in this relationship, and there isn't a doubt. They'll go to the burlesque bar, her friend's gig, and the bartender'll have her whiskey neat. They'll make a ritual of pretending to dislike the idea of calling this a long-term thing: it's only natural, with her, with him.
It'll be fun.)
-
See, this goes on: the dates and the talking and the texting and never meeting her roommate but learning enough about Bae Jinsol to fill a novel, anyway. She's got friends, siblings, boyfriends and girlfriends - her family is some sort of actual, literal royalty. Money's not an issue and has never been. She's in a band, or she knows some people who're in one and it's basically the same thing - you're trying to follow along, but sometimes you tune her out entirely, just catch Sullyoon saying the phrase squirts on command (which, okay) and that the walls aren't that thin, but thin enough. You fluster; she giggles. You know Sullyoon's class schedule, so you meet her on campus, the last couple of days before a big test, before mid-terms. Sullyoon studies in the library, usually. She tries the cafe and you're still fucking her in all these unique and unfortunate places, but for the most part, you just bring her caffeine, dole out encouragement.
"How's it coming along?"
You'll ask her this, and her mouth will pull in every direction. It's pretty apparent she's struggling. College is a grind and the hours she's spending dick-drunk in your apartment aren't exactly doing her any favors.
You take your place next to her, drop your jacket over the back of the wooden chair: it's cold outside. You and your baby sit indoors, huddle over a shared textbook, flashcards, papers. You talk with her quietly, passing her a chai latte, an americano.
She tries to convince you to fuck her in the bookstore next door but you put your foot down. She pretends like it was worth a shot.
"Just for the record," says Sullyoon, voice slightly dipped in ridicule - she can't pass up the chance to give you shit. "Not really what I had in mind when you said you'd tutor me."
The way you see it: this is about the millionth time that Sullyoon's insisted she has the worst professor, the toughest class in her coursework, the harshest grading system in the history of academia. She whines. You console her, you point to flashcards, to study guides, to a pile of literature.
"Again, not a tutor," you tell her. "Just a concerned third-party."
"Don't you tutor, though?"
"Yeah, actually," you reply, snarking her without thinking. "Hence me making a point of not calling myself one right now."
Sullyoon slides her arms over her textbooks, yawns loudly. It's this back-and-forth:
"Pomodoro," you suggest, turning another page in her reading. "Thirty minutes. Then a ten minute break, alright?" You look at Sullyoon: she's sleepy-eyed, pink-mouthed, coy-grinned. You sigh, lower your voice: "We get through all this today and I'll help you however you want after. We'll - we could take a trip. Out of town or something. I know a little bed & breakfast that's got these open air baths. Private. Can light as many candles as we want."
"Cockwarming," she interjects, cutting to the chase. "If we're negotiating, I want cockwarming."
"What?"
Sullyoon lifts an eyebrow; she's sitting up properly now. "It's when-"
"Baby, I know what it's when," you inform her. You are, for the record, a professional tutor. You lean in, brush her jawline with your fingers; she tilts her chin for you, part-sweet, part-trusting. You don't know if she knows the difference. You're not saying she's wrong, either. It'd be the kind of vacation where the do-not-disturb sign would remain hung on the doorknob for the duration of the stay. "Let's not forget who taught you that one. Can you get through thirty more minutes?"
"Please," she says, like she's been granted the greatest privilege known to man. "Tutor away."
-
Your novel has no discernable plot, nor does it really have an audience, but - you've reached a goalpost; you've passed some marker. You've spent too much time on it to keep calling it a side-thing; and there's a pretty good scene already written: your hero getting the stuffing fucked out of him, re-examining his relationship with love, trust, intimacy - he's thirty-something years old and not yet aware that he's living in a rom-com, in case anyone has missed the metaphor there. He thinks the young lady on the page might be worth it after all. Might deserve his whole heart, really. So that's it, you guess. Let's pause this tape on that hopeful note. When we return: his balls are being emptied, her cunt is being filled.
Roll credits, et cetera.
"You're thinking about fucking me," says Sullyoon, derailing it completely.
You're at a red light. The next block's coming up. You haven't looked over since the last intersection. "Was I?"
"The same expression as when we're fucking," she explains.
That's enough to catch you off-guard. Your eyebrow twitches.
Sullyoon presses her palms flat together, sweet as can be. "Face, mouth, the works." She offers a shrug that you almost want to categorize as playful: she knows she's right.
But the new dilemma's this: you need to eat, to rest, and Sullyoon needs the bathroom, an excuse to run back home for extra study materials - and while it'd probably be smarter, easier, better just to head to yours, there's a really cute ramen place a few minutes this direction, she explains - and even though you're about an hour off from bending her over your dining room table for the whole apartment complex to overhear, she tells you: please. She needs a pick-me-up before that - so you two venture off for dinner and a breather, and it's one stop, one small little shop with good reviews and good vibes, but of course the wait's insane: Sullyoon slides over to your side of the booth, smiles, holds your hand and makes fun of the customer at the counter who doesn't know the basic etiquette for holding the spoon, slurping the noodles, and you get swept along: your bodies slot together, and it feels like you're going somewhere else; it feels like you're already there.
"Hungry?" you ask, amused. Sullyoon beams: there's your muse, your manipulator.
"Starving," she replies. Her neck's angled and bent, all the porcelain-precious skin exposed, and her hair's tied back messily from her face with a scrunchie: she's looking, without blinking. You'd let her run roughshod all over you.
-
And you do, or she does - right there in the alley, out against the side of the restaurant, because Sullyoon needs to blow off steam and she'll take whatever she can get.
You're on your knees, tongue-tied, speechless - her underwear's hitched low on her calves and the way she moans into the side of her fist is the most feminine thing you've ever seen; there's her soft tummy, her gorgeous waist - you've got her skirt hiked up and her soft, supple thighs, her perfect little pussy; she squeals and mewls and sucks at keeping quiet and makes such a awful mess on your chin.
"I’m fucking obsessed with you," she tells you, shamelessly. There's one euphemism left for you to hide behind, and it's this.
You're kissing her half-delirious all over again, you're wiping her cum off your mouth - you don't even have to ask. "Right back at you," you tell her, and it's like her whole heart's there on her sleeve: hands traveling down your front; fingers looped around your belt. She gets on her knees and returns the favor.
It's reciprocal and it's shared: she'll call it possessiveness - you're halfway there as is.
-
By the end of the semester she doesn't say things like sorry I'm clingy, or thanks for putting up with me; she's in your home, in your lap - and somehow she never looks out of place; you're grading essays while she plays minecraft on your iPad, building a sand castle and ranting about how difficult it is to "gather enough redstone to actually automate a good mob spawner" or whatever; you're having sex all day and, suddenly, that's just normal; she's sucking delicately on a capri-sun straw and that's kinda, oddly hot. Somewhere along the way you figure out how to fuck her without deleting her ability to speak, which seems like an achievement: she can say whatever she feels, whenever she feels it; you've got this "impaired rational thinking" bullshit about women's orgasms like it's science - isn't that funny? - and she giggles and it's cute.
Her hips grind forward, she sinks down. The couch groans under the weight of two adults, all the stuttered friction.
"I never really do sleep with other people, actually," Sullyoon's telling you, offhandedly.
The implications: why bother, when she has you right where she needs it: knees straddled around your thighs, bouncing in your lap - your cock's making it tough to game; sand castles aren't exactly what her hips have in mind, either.
"So, the tl;dr is," she starts, picking a conversation back up once her pussy's done trembling all around the base of your cock. "My flatmate thinks we're dating."
"How did that happen?" you deadpan, holding her waist so carefully.
"Beats me." She's running through the steps in her head, you're sure - who said what - who got there first. She lifts her hips and she's already whining about not wanting to get off yet: she just wanted a change of pace.
"She didn't, like, go and corner me in a bathroom to tell me, I should add. I brought up the show and then the setlist, and that led to us discussing your 'impeccable attendance record', or whatever she's calling it, and then she went off - as in, about how she should give up on trying to set me up." Sullyoon huffs, almost exasperated: you've likely always known, that people look at Sullyoon and see her smile first, and so they don't pick up on her penchant for being, put simply, a smart-ass.
"How noble of her," you note.
"I agree." She settles back down on your cock, takes it in again, easy as anything.
"Well," you say - you're both good at ignoring things, and the better part of you doesn't want to ruin it; and maybe, also, the smarter, saner part of you as well - it's Sullyoon. You'll try to have a conversation with her, she'll skirt past every question - and so, ultimately, it's inevitable. She's a stubborn piece of shit, and so are you. "What'd you say about it?"
Sullyoon arches a brow.
"Something about a flat-out no. Not interested," she says, and smiles like you'd be lucky. "Y'know when I told her I was hooking up with my old teacher, she said don't settle for anything less than a total DILF." You frown, mostly at the insinuation, but you're not going to argue either. "Then I started going into detail, so she said, jeez, maybe don't get caught."
"What details, exactly," you wonder aloud, hands full with her.
"Mm. I forget. Wasn't a particularly interesting conversation."
She's grinning, blinking prettily. All of Sullyoon’s jokes about you knocking her up, about the possibility of her having your kids - they really shouldn't land. She seems to find them funnier than anyone else: whenever you’re teasing her, calling her a whore for cumming at the thought of you owning her forever, getting her pregnant, marking her like you mean to claim her - it gets you riled up, too.
"But then again," Sullyoon reflects, rolling her hips so deliberately that you see fucking stars. "I'm not the one who thinks she's like crazy sexy or whatever."
"All I said was she seemed nice," you protest.
"She's a whore," says Sullyoon right off the cuff, and that's well established, so you'll have to let it go. Jealousy is an understatement: it's so blatant, she's wearing it like an accessory. "I love her to death, obviously, but she's just a slut, period." Sullyoon shoots you another livid look, sees the orgasm taking over your features, huffs and abruptly sinks her hips down. "We're very different people," she clarifies, primly.
"Well, she's convinced you have a huge crush on me."
"Not funny," says Sullyoon, fractiously. "She has absolutely no fucking filter," and then she seems to catch herself and blinks, glowering. She's riled, and it's adorable. "Sorry." It's so contrite you finally start to laugh. "I didn't mean to swear."
"I'll let it slide," you say, get it, you want her in every possible capacity; there's no rules, there's no limit; it's selfish, and she loves it. You're trying not to cum only because of how mad it makes her; the girl's got every excuse to pout.
"You're supposed to reprimand me," she fusses. "Guess my pussy's not good enough for you today, hm?" Her hips twist, twirl - she's got her hands on your chest and is acting like this isn't your favorite place. "Getting bored of me already, sir?"
"I'd prefer if you didn't gaslight me," you say, jaw clenched.
Sullyoon grins in the half-light. She can read you like an open book and she knows just how to flutter her eyelashes. "You're not subtle, princess," you murmur into her hair, and that makes her smile turn a little silly.
"Oh, I'm very subtle." Sullyoon arches into you, pushes you deep; there's no lying to her. The minute your orgasm hits, there'll be evidence of her every move dripping onto the upholstery. She's the worst type of know-it-all. "I know you're gonna cum," she whispers, sweet and haunting, and she can't do anything but prove her own damn point: "like, I can feel every time you throb."
-
Listen - you get that it makes no sense, that she has no reason to give herself to you like that. You've spent too long writing sex-drunk character confessions, poured a hundred-thousand words of filth into scripted lines of love - there's always this undertone of desperation. And the craziest thing about this is that it's real: it's raw and frantic. All yours. Not written. You don't have an author's control over her thoughts. You can't just play them like a piano or dictate a pretty metaphor in iambic pentameter to make up for what's really happening in the scene. This is entirely reality. She has no fucking motive to pretend to fall for a man she shouldn't even like - and she has no obligation to stay here and kiss you this long, none to keep going and gasping like you've got all the secrets of her sexuality stored up right inside your mouth, none to grin into it when you reach around and spread her thighs open wider - and yet she's doing every last one.
This is what they'd have to cut, in a feature film - not realistic enough, over-the-top - but that's exactly the appeal: this doesn't need to make sense.
"Easy," you murmur into her ear, after you've had her on her back, in your bed. She'd pitched the idea of getting bent into the corner of your desk; you'd hated yourself for not thinking of it first. "Slow. Breathe for me," you say, softly - and then, your palm full on her lower jaw. "Come on, princess. Deep breath in."
You stand her up on her feet; she's dripping like a fucking tap. Her next gasp rattles through her frame.
"One more time," you say. "Big one."
She does: inhale, exhale. She has some nasty habit of forgetting to.
You've gotta get her in the shower, if she'll allow it. It'd do her well to let you get at her, her slicked-up tits in your hands; you'd breathe into her mouth, she'd lose track of herself, a total blissed-out girl in the cloudburst, melting against the tile. That, or you'd work on scrubbing the red-mark corrections off of her skin. She'd grabbed your grading pen, marked a heart on your bicep. Laughed because it was cute, it's funny. The half dozen butterflies on her ankle. A pattern on the left side of her ribs. The date the two of you first fucked, and the phrase as she'd said it: god, no one's ever made me feel like that before. You would've forgotten all about it if you hadn't been staring at it, still, and if she hadn't repeated it twice while getting fully undressed.
Then she'd starting drawing a ruler on her tummy, and you'd snatched it out of her hands the instant it clicked.
"I wasn't done," Sullyoon had pouted. No, baby. Not when she'd written 'daddy' on the crossbar above her hipbone, 'harder' on the one above that. Was halfway through getting 'breeded' out right atop her navel.
"Not your art project," you'd said, and it's funny - a switch in your tone, she's imagining she's your student. She's not imagining very hard. "Not yours to use."
That is to say she needs cleaning up, probably.
That's what you tell her: "Let's get you washed up, yeah?"
"Fine," says Sullyoon - all choked and defeated, because you've worn her thin, stretched her out.
You end up getting under the hot water with her. The shower lamp's off, bathroom lights hazy; steam clouding her edges. You know everything she is; you wash her by memory. Cupping water in your hands, slicking it all up her arms, watching her roll her spine and her eyes close, breasts wet and shiny, and - god, okay, she's beautiful. You whisper as much against the damp, dewy curve of her neck, say how she looks like a painting, how she looks perfect. Sullyoon swallows praise in big gulps, so you'll keep the hushed confessions simple, tame. There's more to taking this girl apart than just fucking her so rough and dirty that she comes to a brand-new revelation about how to make herself feel good.
It's a small, minor miracle, the way she breathes when you lather your fingers, stroke in between her legs in the warm, white suds. Her muscles coil like a wire, she sways into your chest.."Sorry hun, 'm just cleaning," you'll say, when she's loose as a noodle and her thighs are all rubbed-up, petal-smooth.
She's nearly drunk with your touches.
"Is that the only way to do it?" is the petulant response.
It'll make your throat tight, the sound of your blood thumping in your ears. You'll spin her around, lift her elbows back and press her chest into the shower wall until the kiss into her shoulder bruises like ink blots.
And you'd lean in, like it's the first time you're laying it out for her: "Let me guess," you'll say. "You know another?"
She takes the washcloth, guides you with her hands on your hips. The bar soap, slippery and silky: her wrists flirt with your waist, and you'll spread her open, wash between her cheeks, and the cold, hard tile against her chest'll pull all her muscles tight - except that one, where the sudsy washcloth's moved between her legs: you'll catch her expression slack, in pure heaven, you'll see the trust on her face.
And, listen: sometimes that's the hottest part, maybe. At least, it's what sticks with you.
You shoving a hand under her knee, holding the showerhead there to make her breathing run thin, and you can feel her mouth shape-out moans you can barely hear through the pelting water. She has just enough dexterity where you've got her pinned to find your cock, stroke the hot shaft slow, wet with soap. It's just cleaning, Sullyoon tells you, sweetly, as her soapy tits squeak against the tile, and, oh, she’s always such a problem.
"Jeez, you are so hard," Sullyoon murmurs, like a dazed afterthought, half in the gush of water.
You're an idiot; a sucker. You'll call her a baby - a princess - and slip your cock into the slick-wet spot between her cunt and her thighs, the tight space there. She likes when you say you want her. You could be balls-deep, and Sullyoon still has some concept of mystery - no, honey, only good girls get to be filled with cum.
"You should creampie me," offers Sullyoon, hugging your dick with her legs, the fat front-to-back of her folds. "Never had it drip out in the shower before."
"Hm," you hum. She squishes so soft, a velvet vice of heat and suds. Her thighs feel so fucking unbelievably smooth you can probably get away with teasing her on this, playing dumb: "What does that mean, anyway?"
And she melts.
You'll pull the showerhead away from her clit, let words start to pool out, sloppy-delirious.
She tells you:
"When the inside of you's all filled up," half her face to the shower tile, so it all spills down the wall, "and your whole pussy looks pink and creamy when he takes his dick outta you," a filthy-dirty sigh, "that's called creampied."
"How romantic."
Sullyoon smiles like she's pleased to hear that.
"Doesn't seem very you. Where'd you hear that?"
"Grabbed it off Wiki-how," she answers in her most cloying tone: "How to get your boyfriend to fill you up with cum and fuck it back into you." She holds your biceps for balance, bends herself into the motion: slippery and quick. "Rome wasn't built in a day. This shit takes patience and research."
That one's enough to startle a chuckle, a cough. Thigh-fucking her's got you both panting, her mouth smeared into yours. The rest's all played by ear.
"Seriously, put it in me. My brain's falling out."
Sullyoon just closes her legs on you tighter, keeps on tugging you and pushing back. She does what she likes with you, your mouth. Your ego. It's the no-nonsense demeanor she gets in precarious moments like these: you, gripping her hips now, head tilted in and a strangled-out groan at her hairline-
"How long do I have to rub my cunt all over you to make you see that it wants your dick? Your baby doll needs it." She'll continue - you're fucked; she wants it just as bad, and it’s getting worse. "Just get to fucking my tight, needy, dripping-wet-"
Jesus - okay, and this is the truth - you won't let it get worse. You shut her up. Your hands go from the tile to the back of her neck. Tilted chin, a greedy kiss-eat-kiss. When your mouths un-slip she goes on as if it never happened:
"-baby, what else's there to say," she purrs, face turning, and lolling, "if it'll make you happy," til her mouth is on the corner of your throat. "I'll put my slutty little pink cunt-"
You slam her against the wall. Her ass snaps into place against your hip.
"Yup," she whispers into the tiles, a beat before you stick it into her. "I'm in trouble. See, I've said the t-word, so it's gonna get messy. Ah," a sigh, you're still sinking all the way in; and her head tilts back, drool in her voice.
You push and push, and Sullyoon crumples. You pull back and she's ragdoll-loose in your hands.
One satisfied little moan, the beginnings of a lot fucking more. She wants the relief of an orgasm, the reward that it provides; she wants to feel full, deep - she likes you to talk during, likes the raw honesty of it - she'll look at you, right now, as if to say: how am I doing? Am I pretty enough yet? There's a pothole where the middle of her brain is supposed to go. Her hair and tits stick to the tiles.
"Fucking insane," she mumbles, "fucking hell."
You bottom out, humbly knock the breath out of her with your hip - so fast it should hurt her - but her waist is slick, you're slipping with the movement of it all, and, fine, it gets messy. Your balls hit her pussy, slap-stuck; she's as wet as the soap in the water, her lip bitten raw, a grin on her face that should tell you to give up on her now. She's a dream; she's the end.
"Sullyoon." Your voice is gravel-thick. "Do I need to fuck it better?"
"God," she breathes, and then her chin and mouth are in your palm; there's steam, there's teeth.
She's coy one moment; all demands the next: "-wreck me, ruin me, anything, everything, please sir. She gets to that soft, plaintive register, whining when she says, "cum - sir, please, please please. I need - cum inside me-"
You're laughing. Can't help it. "Cute little cunt's greedier than I thought." It just finished swallowing, and it wants more. The fantasy. The threat. The unrealism, that kind of disrespect. She loves when it gets fucked up. She knows you love it too. "Desperate for it, huh?"
And here she'll languish under your next push, and a sob, and, yeah:
"You have no fucking idea," Sullyoon swears.
When she feels this good, she forgets to work out the huskiness in her tone.
To her credit, you've gone and broken the pretty surface-thing of her, and Sullyoon knows exactly how the rest goes. Her brows are knit-tight and her top teeth are pinching the full swell of her lower lip and you've got her entire body stretched wide over your cock. You don't even have to hammer-in the point - thigh-fucking's got its place, but your hand, splayed over Sullyoon's slippery belly: she's puffed out, gut-rounded by you. There's the filth in her thoughts; a wedding, the baby. An empty life is her greatest fear. It's written in every muscle the moment you get inside her.
The guilt, the insatiability: it's all mixed-up, when it comes to her. "In case you forgot who the fuck you belong to, you are just, so-" you're prying into her so deep, splitting her lips so far-apart that all the secrets fly free and the only thing Sullyoon can manage is to let her mouth hang open and whore-huge.
"-fuckable. Jesus christ, Sul, do you even fucking realize-"
Sullyoon whimpers; you're fucking her and going through it fast.
She was only able to rinse the most egregious stuff away before. Some of it's still painted on her, red ink on her ribs: a trail of hearts, a measuring stick of obscenity, the other things she'd scribbled right in the space where her stomach hollows - it's the worst it's been, the neediest. It's the only time she writes like a desperate child: sorry, not sorry, she had traced her apology to you before she was finished being sassy. No one has any idea my teacher's got a cock that makes girls go dumb, she'd said, it's too fucking much to write down.
There's never a dull conversationalist. It isn't always easy for her, either. She presses her hips into yours, and there's you: flooding her cunt with cum.
It always makes her almost-embarrassingly weak.
But the creampie doesn't stick, for once: she likes when it squishes out her just as much as she loves it pushed back in. When she asks - and the only time she ever asks is when she's pressed between you and a wall, or when her cheek has hit the mattress and her ass is stuck up in the air, cunt swollen-pink and freshly creamed, in total service for the mess: "Can you give me it." It's too breathy, too deliberate. "Your cum."
You cock an eyebrow at her, even though her eyes are still raptly glued-over with sex. "I think I already did that, princess."
She shakes her head, tapping her full lower lip.
It's the kinda stuff you could never spin in your novel, too blunt to have prose, too crude and cruel to be elegant. You graded her papers. You lectured her to sleep. You didn't bring attention to how your last name looked at the top of her page, or the way she leaned back against the desk and loitered at the end of day. You pretended not to notice. Signed off on her recommendations - you put pen to paper, told her she deserved this and that: a future, the whole world.
Shit, in your wildest dreams you can't even conjure up this much self-control, as you hesitate to grab her jaw while your hot load slushes out into your open palm.
It just wouldn't be a decent read.
You take the cum on your fingers and push it in her mouth. "Look who's breaking all kinds of rules today."
She makes this childish little grin, tongue sliding around your knuckles and licking them clean.
"S'not illegal," she tells you - and then, after: "you were right, sir," and it's the smugness of it, the goddamn audacity to call herself out - and she does it every fucking time. "I do know who I belong to." The tension of it, the shamelessness, the satirical insults, the cocky jabs: you're beyond critical analysis. The whole system, the entire process is bust.
-
Character flaws, for example.
You share a few of them. The vanity and the hubris, for starters - those are mutual.
"What makes you think I want to unpack any of this?" she says, bratty, spoiled: once you've got her perched on your bathroom counter, arching her neck against the cold compress you're pressing to her bruises.
You've debriefed; you've touched base; you both end up at the same conclusion: let's dial it back, a bit. It's best for her.
"You don't even need your dick to make girls go dumb," she teases. Maybe it's just the talking-about-it. The affirmation. “It was always going to be this way.”
The bath towel gets the water out of her hair.
"You love talking," you note, and there isn't much she can say to that. You're not wrong. "I think you'll end up convincing yourself you've won, eventually."
She looks at you through half-lidded eyes, pretends to be annoyed when you swab the raw marks at her shoulder with iodine solution; she's all sarcasm and easy answers. The steamed mirror is just as obscene. Her arms, hooked around her own back, reflect her tits back like they're meant for double-taking. She's posing, biding her time. This is all to say - Sullyoon's good in the after, the laziness of it, the recovery, where she's all big eyes, flirty eyelashes, puffy lips and silky-smooth thighs.
There's an implication of deeper meaning than just having you fuck her senseless; it's not as highbrow as you prying, but - well, that's what makes this whole thing work.
"If you want a place to start digging in," she says, "it's pretty obvious you've got some serious hang-up on the classroom dynamics."
"Baby." You pinch at her thigh. "I'll hurt you."
That one gets a giggle out of her, and you wouldn't expect anything else.
"What's your damage, hm?" She leans forward, winces, tugs on your t-shirt. "Who hurts someone this pretty?"
It's honestly her favorite thing: when you say you're going to break her, and you mean it, when you press down harder with the disinfectant, when she hisses at you and you glare right back.
"Be nice to me, sir," she singsongs, as if you aren't patching her up, taking care of her, doing everything right, giving her exactly what she needs: she likes the banter. "I'm actually kinda delicate."
"Well, you're all clean at least," you tell her, drying her hands off.
"Yeah," she sighs dreamily. "For now maybe."
You put on a calm front. She's fucking infatuated. She's actually kind of terrible, and that's not a character flaw; that's just who she is.
-
The rest, you're not sure what to call. There's ego, superiority complex, perfectionism. It's the old favorites - the temper, the arrogance. Those are obvious, but that's all surface level. If you were trying to be kind, which you generally aren't, you'd call her protective, meticulous, driven. Suddenly she kisses you at 1 AM, right before midnight; a total contradiction of logic.
There's nothing romantic about it. You barely register what's happening.
She tilts her head up and goes, "Hm," looking like someone in the middle of a eureka-moment. She's gorgeous in that instant: hair tumbling halfway over the flush at her cheek, soft pink mouth set into a tight crease.
You feel her finger down your back, tap-tap-tapping, stop and start until you figure out she's spelling her name; you can practically hear the y when she pauses, the o when she traces a big looping circle and pushes some hair behind her ear.
A lock of her hair falls forward, and she blows it back, too fucked-out to reach back and pin it out of her face.
"If I wrote mine backwards," you ask, "would you understand it?"
"Of course," she says - like it's inevitable, no matter what language you fall apart in.
-
(Maybe it's an exploration of why he'd lose his mind so completely for her. Maybe it's more about her, all her reasons. Maybe there's a reaffirming twist in the middle: their backstories, a happy ending. Maybe - you're glamorizing a trauma nobody asked you to explain. Romanticizing a power imbalance nobody agreed you should rewrite.
You start writing from the end, working in the direction you came-
Oh, the heroine realizes, now I get it. You think I'm the one corrupting you.
He should say something. But it's all-too-easy to touch her hair, tell her she's doing just fine. There are some tropes you don't have the stomach to undercut, the capacity to move past. So she's going to win. That's not a plot twist, in the least, nor an uproar of applause. It’s just quiet in its restraint.
An apology, he tells her, the last day they ever meet. He tries, at least: Sorry. I was wrong. And I won't bother you again.
Well, the heroine thinks, you owe me. So I'm asking for the truth.
And you've lived this before, so you know what she'll say next:
Tell me what I'm supposed to say so I can lie to myself again.)
-
Sullyoon drifts to sleep; you pour a whiskey, delete it. Start again.
-
But see, it’s a long weekend. You can’t actually stay in your apartment: it’s a small space, and it's even smaller with Sullyoon in it, all her inventory, her new acquisitions, her belongings, everything cluttering up your floorspace, your laptop and notepads and textbooks, everywhere - it’s cramped, so you take a drive out to the coast, rent a room with a great view, and make reservations for dinner. Sullyoon spends the entire ride on her phone, humming to herself as she works on something - you see a glimpse of it on her lockscreen, her friend Yuna posing in some dress with a high slit. It looks good.
"She’s a model," Sullyoon tells you, like she can read your mind. "Just graduated, though."
You’d assumed they were roughly the same age. "She’s not your year?"
"Nah." Sullyoon double-taps the picture on her screen, taps out a message and hits send. "Older than me."
It’s funny how she always phrases it that way.
"Not as old as you, though."
And that’s cute too, you guess, when she tries to stir the pot; she’s so transparent you can't really be upset with her. She could probably stab you with a fork and you’d end up complimenting her technique.
Sullyoon grins, flips her hair over her shoulder, sets her phone down in her lap. "Tell me about something."
"You’ll have to be more specific," you tell her, mildly amused.
"Anything." She looks out the passenger window at the water, leans into the side of her seat, like she can’t stand to be too far apart from you. "Literature. Art. Music, philosophy, religion, how many girls you've slept with - whatever. What were you reading last night?"
"Oh who knows, I guess I stopped keeping count," you joke, because that's a bit that cuts both ways. Sullyoon scowls. "Fine," you add, indulgently. "I was rereading Metamorphoses."
"I’ve never read Metamorphoses," says Sullyoon, dreamily, and not totally without condescension.
"It's a classic, literally," you reply. "Greek myths, lots of people dying and turning into trees or flowers or birds. All sorts of nonsense."
"So cool," deadpans Sullyoon. "You were alive when this was published, or?"
You flick the knob of the volume up on the radio static, just to spite her. Sullyoon cracks up, fiddles with the radio until she finds something halfway decent. When you look at her, she's bathed in blue light, chin angled to gaze at you, a watercolor stain across your peripheral vision - unreal, untouchable, every aspect an amalgamation, curated from your vilest thoughts. It's ridiculous how close to perfection she comes - that's the kind of thing that'd come out of your mouth, but you bite it back
"Read me an excerpt later."
"What am I," you snort. "A podcast? Just google a pdf, princess."
"I'd rather listen to you."
You sigh, wearily. You don't know how to argue with someone who doesn't use arguments, only states what they want, plainly, like they already know you're going to give it to them.
"I promise I'll pay attention," Sullyoon says, and she's not lying. "I'll let you tie my wrists up if you want. And I'll suck your dick, too."
"Don't act like you wouldn't do that anyway," you say, and glance over at her, just once - she's waiting for a reaction, a green light, and it's there, you can feel it. It's like the two of you are playing chicken, but there's no loser. Sullyoon doesn't answer, just pulls a pack of spearmint gum out of her purse and hands you a stick. The speedometer shoots up three numbers while your brain's somewhere else. "Thanks," you say, and stuff it in your mouth. She smiles, catlike, because you're so very fucking predictable.
The sky's pale gray, the moon a half-circle hanging in the sky. Sullyoon shakes out her hair and leaves it down.
"Don’t you wish you could fuck someone immortal," she remarks, unprompted, when you both slow down and pass under a sign pointing toward an exit. "Someone who isn't just gonna age out of being hot one day, or die?"
"Someone immortal?" you ask, skeptically, playing along. "Wouldn't you eventually age out, too?"
Sullyoon’s staring out the window, her eyes glittering with thoughtfulness. She's quickly on to her next thought: "I always had this issue with the story of Persephone." The car hums, the scenery blurs by. "You know if she just ate four more pomegranate seeds, she could've been in hell the rest of the year?"
"You're saying she made the wrong choice?"
"A hundred percent," Sullyoon agrees. "She picked a half-assed eternal life over staying with the guy she really liked? And for what? 'Cause she wanted to spend time with her mom? Stupid." She clears her throat, because this isn't a bit. "Hades has a palace, is rich as fuck, probably fucks like a pro mind you, he obviously loves her… But no, she wants to come back up here, every spring."
There's a long, thoughtful pause: she's never been one for a short answer.
"Just saying," continues Sullyoon, "he clearly was a better partner for her. There are literally no downsides to staying with Hades, beyond her mom being bummed about it, so."
"Sullyoon." You're shocked, kinda. "Hades kidnapped Persephone and held her against her will. They call it the-"
"Right," dismisses Sullyoon. "Sure, I know. That's not the point." You trade glances. She blinks. "I think she maybe, actually, kind of liked it down there."
"Then why not eat all the seeds?" you argue.
"Because she didn't want to look like she wanted it." Sullyoon shrugs, nonchalant. "Sometimes girls pretend they don't love it. Or if they're not pretending, it's for all the wrong reasons. For money, for the toe-curling orgasms. Like, you'd think it wouldn't make a difference, but - I mean, it kinda does." She pauses. "My read is that she genuinely enjoyed it, anyway."
"She was literally imprisoned."
"I know," says Sullyoon, smiling out into the horizon. "How fucking hot is that?"
"Alright, take it easy Jane Eyre."
Sullyoon scoffs, mock-wounded.
You grab the auxiliary cord in your car console and hand it to her. "Just play music already."
For the rest of the drive, Sullyoon tosses on a playlist curated from the hundreds of songs she has saved on her phone. It's titled: THE ONE TIME BAE TOLD ME TO SLOW DOWN ON THE DRINKS AT CLUB COSMIC AND THEN HURLED LIKE SEVEN TIMES INTO A RUSTED OVER PARKING LOT GARBAGE CAN.
"What's there to explain?" Her eyebrows are challengingly high when you ask for the story. "Clearly that's what it is."
And then you listen to the same six songs on repeat.
-
Sunday's all penciled out for decadence, debauchery - you'd mentioned last night a local museum and she looked at you like she wanted to die: too much talking. Cockwarming? Not enough, sir.
You owe her three consecutive days of the most sickening pleasure you can think of; which generally means letting her do whatever the fuck she wants, mostly. And, as the sunrise proves, translates directly into breakfast in bed. Her curled up on your chest while you blink awake. She's twisted in the sheets, eyes bright, eager; your morning wood's in her fist, and you're really struggling to come up with a coherent complaint.
"Good morning," she says, brightly, and lets her palm carry on the rest of the conversation. Her mouth. She's an angel through-and-through.
It's all slurp-suck-pump until she slides you into her throat and stares right through you, keeps on gazing sweetly from where her lips are wrapped around your cock. She sinks downs, gags a little - a lot, actually. There's the flicker of her tongue like she has no other options, and you watch her, touch her, wind your fingers into her hair; you let her set the pace, work you over like a toy, suck and lick and worship your cock until she's earned every last drop of what she gets, and the only thing that fucks her up is the hand in her hair, dragging her off, pushing her down-
The tears, the drool; the soft, wet sound of your dick shoving deep and heavy and right where it fits best.
You cum, and then realize she's gotten good at taking it. She looks just perfect when your fingers clench around a handful of her hair and her jaw unseats: she shows you the puddle on her tongue, rolls the tacky mess around her mouth and smiles, tips her head back, swallows. She's beaming like she's turned in an assignment early.
"Teacher's pet," you tease, and it's too early to argue. "C'mere."
"Please don't kiss me, sir." Her hands are on your chest, thumbs gliding across your skin. "I just got cum in my mouth, haha..."
Too late: your lips slot against hers, she's still laughing. She doesn't even fake resistance. Just reminds you that you're hers, hers, hers.
-
In between all of Sunday's itinerary - and this includes Sullyoon calling you a 'terrible role model, frankly' while she sits and lets her pretty little pussy get sucked, stuffed, devoured. Fucked on all fours like that's supposed to dissuade her from saying anything like it ever again; well, it's a busy day, really - she showers and naps at three, calls Bae to check in and spends an hour doing homework at four. She multitasks like crazy.
It's going pretty much exactly how you told her it would: she'd brought her camera because the coast is a pretty thing and it'd make a good addition to her portfolio - the tripod's in the corner of the room, the lens aimed squarely at the bed.
"You're gonna delete that later." Your face is shoved between her thighs. "Just so we're clear."
Sullyoon huffs, weakly. Her cheekbones are stained red, mouth fallen slack, hair a gorgeous, tangled wreck. "Which parts?" she asks, and is completely serious. "You are aware it's not a crime to be this photogenic."
You won't dignify that with a response. You're pressing hard kisses to her hipbone and cupping her sides in your hands, cataloguing every single little gasp and cry and moan - not trying to fuck the sense out of her, but not quite trying not to, either - and in retrospect maybe that's how she'd wanted it to go: you, helpless under her.
-
There's nothing criminal to it, but when you delete the videos of her jerking you off: she understands. When you erase her pictures of you asleep: she nods. When you bite back every instinct telling you to leave fingerprints all over her pretty skin - hands resting gingerly on her wrists, barely tapping on her hips, trailing barely-there touches down her stomach and thighs: she finally tells you.
"It's you," Sullyoon insists, eyes glittering. "That's all it is." This comes like a revelation, something she's figured out herself: "I think for me, it was always just gonna be you."
It's too complicated to be romance, too fast for the cynics out there - too goddamn dangerous to be trusted. You tell yourself it's fine anyway. No harm in entertaining a fantasy, a fairytale, an impossible narrative. If she'd ask you right here and right now - the brightest of stars overhead, moonlight like silver applause, the shore stretching out empty as far as you could see - you wouldn't get on a boat and never look back.
"Yeah," you say, thumb smoothing over her bottom lip. "I think I know what you mean."
It's always easy: the looking back, the pretending, believing you didn't know how hard she'd fallen.
-
And everything that happens next occurs with comedy-of-errors-esque absurdity.
You're drunk; and so is she. You leave your laptop out like you're playing a dare, like it's an implicit invitation to anyone who might decide to glance in - which she does, and goes "oh" in the barest exhale - and then she says the three words that start to tie the whole thing together:
"This is filthy." And that's true - it's borderline pornographic, at some points, a bit rough around the edges and undeniably smutty. The prose's excellent, though. Sullyoon chews her lips, scrolls her thumb across the trackpad. "Like, it's good obviously, but."
"Too dirty?"
You watch her, contemplatively. It doesn't seem to phase her: the position, the pages upon pages of script you're having her read, the whole charade in general. You were joking, more or less, with your I wanna hear the way my writing sounds coming out of that pretty mouth, but it doesn't seem so far-fetched right now: Sullyoon leaning back on the bed, an arm tucked behind her head, one knee up, skimming through a thousand words about you and a girl and the art of tearing her down.
It's incendiary: the title, the shading, the dynamic - a dirty parody, not meant for a wide-audience release. It's the way he talks to her, the way she obeys without being told, and - okay - it's kind of inspired by the things Sullyoon has explicitly said, the ones still ringing in your head, but-
"I mean. Not by most standards, but - by your standards, definitely."
You feel almost embarrassed, actually - maybe a bit of the reverence bleeding in, something personal, some vision you hold close. Something about this muse's bare fucking legs on the sheets. "It's not done. It could be better."
"Well, you don't have to sell it to me. You wrote it."
"Then just say it's crap and get it over with."
"Can't." She's playing with her hair. "I already told you. I'll compliment the hell out of anyone who asks me to. Give me a prompt, I'm a natural."
"I'm saying it's not finished," you insist, a tad desperate, reaching forward to snap your computer shut, but Sullyoon moves fast. She bats your hand away, holds your wrist hostage. Raises a brow at your astonishment.
"I," she says, flatly, and flips your laptop back open. "Was not asking."
There's something deeply insulting, as both a writer and a man, about a girl you have absolutely fucked until she's drooling reading your draft in relative silence, picking apart the flaws in the way you paint a woman's character. And you know she does it. Not because she says it; no, Sullyoon barely does - all that she offers up is a nod here and an agreeing hm, here and there - but in the way she moves the paragraphs and skims through the subtext. This girl's a monster; that's what you've done. You don't think about her needs. She doesn't need much to be fucked anyway.
Sullyoon reads those parts carefully.
"How's it supposed to end?" she finally asks.
You chew the inside of your cheek. "Dunno," you admit, a half-lie. The protagonist's gone; it's always messy, their leave. One moment you have her, then the next it's just gone. "It's different, depending. Depends on the mood, the tone."
"You're sadistic." There's no heat to it. Sullyoon says this all dully, non-judgementally, eyes still scanning your novel. "Why can't they fall in love?"
"A storybook ending?" You snort. "Nah."
"It's how people like to read, though." A shrug. "If someone gave this to me, I would be hoping for love by the end. I'd want a happy ending." Her finger taps the center of the keyboard. She frowns. "You know we're really not that different," Sullyoon adds, thoughtfully. "If you think about it."
You arch a brow. "Yeah?"
"We have similar predispositions," Sullyoon murmurs. Her tone is academic, reminiscent; a reminder of school syllabi and exam prep, a life-plan drawn up after much deliberation. She reads, and thinks, and dreams of something just beyond her reach. "We like a lot of the same things - or at least, we both have that appetite for it. Not in every way, of course," she acknowledges. "We both wanna get ruined, or watch that happen - physically, or like," she gestures at the screen, a dramatic slash across your work. "Whatever this is. But some similarities can go a long way."
You stare at her. This wasn't, somehow, what you had expected. "You do realize what you're suggesting, right. That just I glamorize a problematic, unoriginal, unhealthy-"
"Shh." Sullyoon holds a hand up. “Falling in love is the cruelest, most ruinous, human thing anyone can do," she adds, casual and gravelly and lofty. "Besides pointing out which pictures have crosswalks in them apparently." She slips back in character. "But isn't that all you're doing, to the girl in this script? That's not unoriginal, babe, it's the theme. I might have more self-restraint," she allows, with a toothy smile. "But don't call what you write unoriginal, yeah? That's all."
You make a vague sort of noise, caught in the middle, trapped.
"Two people, who fall in love for all the wrong reasons," you sound almost resentful, "and inevitably hurt each other, but feel powerless against their feelings? It's a fantasy, Sullyoon."
"Okay, so." She slumps further into the pillows. "You're a good writer. Make 'm fall in love for all the right ones."
It makes you laugh, hollowed out. You have. God, how many endings have you drafted for this, left all on its own and begging for resolution?
"The right ones. There aren't right ones."
"Nah, you don't get to decide. It's her choice." Sullyoon brushes your jaw with her fingers, her fingertips dipping into the slope of your chin, softening it. You don't look at her; you can't. You look down at her collarbone instead, and the angry pink mark there, and try not to wonder whether, if she can point out everything you've done, she can feel what else you've given her. "When it's her choice," she murmurs, "there're a million of them."
And a hundred unspoken endings, in all of them the girl survives and thrives, no matter where he leads her, no matter what he wants for her: if Sullyoon would keep talking.
You breathe in; you exhale.
"We should have," you say, carefully, "a word, to shut down this conversation."
Sullyoon laughs. "All right. We will have a word. To shut down this conversation."
You think, vaguely, of something clever, and settle on something easy. "Hey."
Sullyoon flutters her lashes, and then mouths it: hey.
"Great," you tell her, as softly as possible; and she keeps smiling, and presses the screen out of view.
-
(It's predeterministic. It’s irresponsible. Maybe this is fate, or some other bullshit.
He was always going to fall for her. She was always going to let him.)
-
No one says anything when you check out late, or they'd at least have the good sense not to mention it: Sullyoon's elbows on the concierge desk when you settle up your bill. She's using her cutest baby voice with the desk lady to win you extra, unnecessary favors - getting everything sorted just right, no questions. A voucher for valet service, some discounts off your next visit. She's wearing a navy blue jumper, black oxford shoes, and tight white collared shirt to fill in the blanks - well, technically: she's got her old uniform, and she's not going to tell you how just because you asked. There's a cute pair of panties, and some knee socks you fucked her in this morning; that's how it looks.
And, everything still sorta fits. It sorta doesn't. You're both doing the whole getaway deal all wrong.
The receptionist thinks she's your daughter, tells her, in the sweetest way possible, that the ribbon in her hair is absolutely adorable. You don't say that you agree. Sullyoon pulls you up to her and mimes a proud stance, like it makes sense. The employee has a five-year-old grandson at home. A girl on the way. She wishes the both of you a fantastic remainder of the day, sends you off into the sun, the wind: Sullyoon hangs off your arm back the whole way. You know by now how this part goes.
"Does it ever occur to you that, like, we’re, like, catastrophically bad for each other?"
"Constantly."
Sullyoon lulls her head in towards your shoulder. "Wanna make it worse?"
"Obviously," you tell her.
"Well," she says, all drawn-out and lilting, teasing, but in the kind of way she reserves for when the two of you are alone and she doesn’t care to hide exactly how flustered the two of you make each other. It's that specific cadence to her speech, the playful airiness. "It's Sunday," she says. Neither of you need to point out the implication. "So technically this counts as confession."
"What." You open the car door for her, keep the sarcasm in your tone: maybe you should ask. "You need me to get you off in a church or something?"
"Not in the literal sense," she tells you, prim, a total contradiction to the rest of her. "Although, not gonna lie, it'd definitely be hot. That's another one for the bucket list, by the way."
"Who the fuck puts 'get railed in a church' on a bucket list-"
"Guess," drawls Sullyoon, all playful, coy, and she's got her heart in her eyes; she's biting her lip, holding in the laugh, looking up at you, tugging at your sleeve. "You're smart. Figure it out."
-
(Look: she could start confessing, here.
She'll keep it simple, straight. Maybe she'll cut the bullshit, a little; she'll leave the defamation for some other time.
The car's eating the horizon, swallowing asphalt and leading onward, back; your neighborhood is near. We have sex everywhere, she could begin with that - she could lay out every crime scene, count them like a litany on her slender fingers. I can't keep track of how many times I've begged you to breed me. I can't remember what it was like before I met you; can't stop thinking about you, not since I first saw you. And you know that. And you already know all the rest. You know it.
Here are the motifs: tragedy, collision, blood in the water, two-beats-too-late.
I love you, she'd say, and it'd be the truth: just not in the most obvious sense. The lack thereof, that's where everything goes askew, anyway.
In the corner of the passenger seat, her head rests against the window, her pink mouth barely parted as the world flashes by, rushes and bursts, wild streaks of color. Her body rises, falls: in a pocket dimension, out again. We've all the time we want for each other, she thinks. There's time to burn, time to waste. There's time to wait. It's always a dance - we both know who calls the shots, and so we don't fight for them; so she gives her submission gladly, readily - you know it's true. It's fun to dance around, anyway. You don't want anything more than you want me; you know that too.
You know I was thinking, Sullyoon says eventually, in lieu of all the other things, the better words. I'm proud of it, and so are you. I haven’t seen the school since I graduated.
She's got her camera, you've got your story: here's the part where they intersect-
"I mean it’d be so cool to see it again."
"Uh-huh," you say, and it's fond, and it's all her. It's a coda. "Since it's the weekend, nobody'll be there."
And all the parts lock, everything clicks, and you go in exactly the same direction you've always been headed: "Well," she'll say, mouth sharp-edged as sin and utterly, unmistakably her, "isn't that convenient?"
It's a break, a reprieve - she knows it. She loves you, in the way a movie ends.)
-
For the sake of continuity, you realize you're making a detour, yes. Technically, you're bringing it back to the start:
"Wow," Sullyoon says, when you both get there. It's so close to all the ways it could've went, and it's none of those in the same breath - it's different, the two of you. Sullyoon leans against the desk in your empty classroom, in this wistful reverie - all nostalgia, all beautiful reminiscence. "It looks exactly the same."
There's no excuses, no rationalizing it: you're not here picking up papers to grade, she's not serious about photographing the cafeteria, the main entry, or the classrooms. The aesthetic holds little value, and you both know you're full of shit - it's a convenient trip, an indulgence in something lost. That's all.
Sullyoon's picked up on it, noticed how you won't use the exact words, the explanation, and that's got her intrigued more than anything and you knew it would. The thing she loves is all the dirty details, isn't it? Isn't it? This is her favorite bit.
"Do you come here a lot?" she asks, cavalier, lighthearted.
You roll your eyes. "Hilarious," you say.
It's Sunday, and even if the clichés hold up under the tension - a sun-stained classroom, a single ray slipping through the open window, a wide-eyed girl deep in thought as the dust motes spin around her - it's fucking sacrilegious for you to even be here.
Maybe there's no version of this where it doesn't happen, eventually: exorcising every instance where Sullyoon made an ass out of herself, and you had to play the straight man in the aftermath, where you pretended not to notice, where you feigned apathy, vague detachment, just to maintain some semblance of composure. The slow-blinking stares, the nibbled pens, the tilted-head interest. Circular logic and c'est la vie and you know exactly how many seconds this memory of hers will live inside her mouth.
You sigh. "Stop."
"I'm not doing anything," Sullyoon says, running a palm along a desk-top, remembering herself there. She's playing absentminded with her fingers - if you can trust a single signifier, it's this. "Your tone," she continues, in that breezy way she talks. "That kinda brings me back, too."
There's the touch, first, a glance-touch, hand-to-cuff, and then it's the eyes. Scanning the bookcases, the chalkboard, the desks. The flick upwards to her mouth, the sweep back down to her heavy-lidded eyes. Yeah. See, that's one that's been replaying. In moments between words, in class discussions, she's penciling that fluttering gaze out from between her lashes, taking careful notes, top-to-tail. She peels out of the windbreaker and drops it to the back of the chair.
You watch her watching you and, predictably, Sullyoon does the very thing you just saw.
"You can't be serious." Your lips tighten, even if the whole routine is too ridiculous, even if in this bizarre turn of events, after the diaspora, she deserves to be right back here at a desk, waiting for direction. It's kink and fantasy and, shit, yeah, some nostalgic underpinning - a part of it, a section, a fragment. The cutaway, which is completely morally reprehensible; she's your favorite student and she's showing up in her old school jumper, that goddamn little skirt, tugging the ends of a loose plaid tie and, ah, jesus fuck-
"Princess," you get out, all sharp and too loud - you don't give a damn what you sound like - but it's more of a reaction, the base of her name in your throat like that: "Come on."
"Like I said," Sullyoon offers, wholly unapologetic. "You were the one who wanted to unpack all this." She sets the camera on a desk, nudges her shiny black shoe against the leg, tests the balance. "I was fine letting this stuff lie, personally."
"And then what," you snipe. "Just hold it over my head? Bask in knowing?"
Her cheeks, soft like velvet, crinkle into the faintest smile. "Well." She pats her pockets, ties her hair up, thumbs a stray strand off her brow. Her expression dips a moment - all afloat - before she blinks it into compliance, a jaunty lift back at you, mouth sly. "Yeah, something like that. This is pretty fucked up, honestly."
"Please," you scoff. "You should hear what you're into."
She just drags her fingernails across the wood, plucks at the zipper at her shoulder, fixes a strap. The vision she presents - caged in the high-necked navy jumper, skirt riding so high she could get hauled for public nudity if anyone stepped in and saw. She turns on the desk, the flat plane of her front. She's so demure, so poised - that is, until her heels kick together. Until there's a devilish arch to her slender back and her knuckles set to the polished desktop.
You catch her wrist when she reaches out and the implication is all wrong; it's entirely based on instinct, but she jerks her head up anyway and her eyes go wide - the suggestion of it, the line you're dancing at. It's the first time you've moved at all.
"Oh, god, you've got it that bad?" Sullyoon's really just kind of - asking. She's only sort of trying, trying for a little irritation: your interruption, her fixed position, like she hasn't considered exactly why she's there. "Still?"
"You know exactly what this is," you grit, and oh, she's rubbing a hand at her pussy through her skirt, eyes glittering, laughing in the exhale. That's gonna be a wet fucking stain on that tartan, isn't it? Isn't it. "You already know it's a yes."
"Okay," she concedes, and it's only part of her mind, "it's not just you." There's this sharp way she works it, deft and tight - gets her panties shoved to her knees and her hand back under the skirt. "My panties are really, really messed up right now."
You blink - and then you're thinking about her thigh in the air, leg cocked up in her childhood seat and - yeah. Okay. She's touching herself, in her chair, and it's actually way more of a mental picture than you'd assumed. She shows you her fingers, all slick. Shakes the excess and spreads it, glistening, down her upper thighs. It's making you think. Making you forget how.
"Also I don't think it's presumptive at this point for me to say I am your favorite student," she says, tipping her head, "though, I guess you're not really supposed to be picking favorites, huh," and it's more tease, more mindfulness, more memory-penned dialogue, and you're not playing, really - not on paper, at the very least. She drops the bratty inflection: "Am I?"
You sigh. "Lose the underwear. Sit on the desk, face the front."
Sullyoon pauses a moment. Shivers. You'd call her out on it - a blatant indulgence in how you might, after the bell rang, have kept your eyes trained firmly on the board until everyone had settled and, well - taken attendance. Asked a stupid question, anything, to break the deadlock of her breathing-out-of-pocket, her turned-away mouth, the sort-of-turned-on-face. That's a freebie for the memory bank, though, and there are plenty of those. She bites her lip, skips the grin. She moves to take her socks, but you stop that, too. Keep them, princess. You work off her heels, nudge her back into the right-frame position and take your own jacket off. Undo your pants, shift her so she's at edge of the desk - no more fucking pretense; she's in that same goddamn skirt, still giving you that same awful look.
"Oh," Sullyoon says, and it's all knife-twist and sweet. Her laugh is gorgeous. "You are, like, so hard for it. Are you going to teach me a lesson? Get every dirty thought out on paper?"
"Watch it," you say, terse.
There's the barest arch of her back. "Because I think-" She parts her legs, just for show. Just a little more. Just a taste of it, and that's almost worth the trip. "-I think-" And there's this swooning, sticky-soft inhale. "-that is exactly what you're going to do, sir."
She doesn't ask because it's written in-between the lines, she doesn't need to ask because it's on her tongue anyway - she won't say please, or thank you, or maybe I'd rather have you. It's better like this, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it's way less mortifying this way.
There's one very palpable, very literal silence before you fuck her and - look - it's that thing about endings, the inevitable draw-close, the clinch of the end-credits: in-and-out, two sides, different points-of-view, it's a smashing-together, a dishevelling. It's your apartment. It's your car, in the early mornings. It's your classroom, again, it's fucking history. You sink your cock into her cunt, her knee bracketing your hip. You fuck into her until her face starts to scrunch adorably - and you realize how this works - has always worked - is really, really good at working-
"Slow down," Sullyoon says, "go easy on me," like it's your cue, the cadence that makes you snap your hips harder, faster. The rush, the words are caught in her throat; it's a collision, the blood is under her fingernails, and you fuck her, slow, the exact opposite, until there's only enough breath to babble the one word she remembers: "sir, sir, sir-"
"Princess, I don't think you realize this pussy belongs to me," and you sink your cock into her cunt. It's the same sound, the same sticky, slippery mess. "How much I own it."
Sullyoon keens, hands slapping against her stomach - to keep your name in, probably, but it's loud and languid. You grab a fistful of her shirt, start getting vocal. Can't seem to help it.
"Look at how easy this is," and when you bottom out again her eyelids are fluttering, fluttering, you can't look at them. "The way your tight little cunt takes me." It's messy and too wet and - that's the whole point. That's why this happens, now: where it makes sense and the rational is impossible to see. "That's how much it loves my cock." She's so close, teetering on the edge, just needs one touch: and it's nothing but. "You need it. Need to be filled, all the time. Don't you? Of course you do. So cute, like this," and when you swipe your thumb against her clit, she's not quiet or quieter or quietest, just: gone.
Your hand's on the back of her head, she's watching your cock go in-and-out, in-and-out and the angle's not a pretty one - doesn't have to be. She's in heaven, or here's her chance to relive some version of it. She lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and stutters on her own breath as you force her spine hard against the desk over and over again.
"You fucking deserve it," you get out, which might be the dirtiest she's made you sound so far. "You know that, don't you?"
It's a fever dream. It's bordering on something violent. The tiny bitten-off "please, god, yes" when you ask if she wants to be bred - that small pristine face, the wrecked expression. It's not subtle. She clings to you when she cums, and you feel her shaking against your palm, trembling at your fingertips. And it's that - your princess is fucking crying, tears staining the navy fabric on her shoulders. You've got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could get away with anything - the heart of the matter: she's gorgeous, she's sobbing, she's so fucking delicate-
The line is blurry between this and whatever fucked up sort of intimacy it's meant to be. A collision course, the point between sweet and sweetest - the only part that matters, the right place to end it.
One moment you're buried in her pussy, the next is her knees hitting the linoleum: Your cock's in your fist. You're tipping her head back and absolutely covering her.
It's almost unfathomable she can look at you like she does - oh, you've been playing professor again, the moral of the story, all the A+ material right at your fingertips - except the main take-away is her, the way she she's doing it, drool sliding down her chin as she holds out her tongue, eyelashes low over her sated, warm brown eyes, all-at-once innocent and wicked, just asking a sweet little question, no consequences.
You've got two hands at her jaw, your grip hard. You should've seen this coming. Your cum slides from her hair, over her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. She shuts her eyes - the whole pretty vision just drenched - it's art. You're fucked in the head. You're having an identity crisis, right here, right now.
"It's in my hair," Sullyoon complains, faintly, looking like the notion's shocking, distantly put off, like you've splashed coffee down the front of her shirt and not webbed cum all over her pretty face. "You came - a lot."
It's hard to hear, there's white noise at your ears - there's you, staring at her, holding her up. If she fell, would you catch her? Are you making an implicit promise just standing here like this?
You shouldn't ask. She'll make fun of you if you do.
"Yeah." Your hands are still cupping her cheeks and there's an ache to keep her right here forever, one more moment. It'll start catching up to you soon. "Do you think we got this out of our system?"
Sullyoon bites her lip, reaches down and picks her panties out of her foot. "Maybe," she says.
There's the challenge back, that light in her eye, that heat. "If you think so," she muses, slowly wiping cum off her chin and drawing her thumb to her tongue. "But then why do you still want to fuck me? Maybe this is just our thing."
"Maybe." Your brain's running too late, there's something missing. You still see it in the curve of her mouth, the tilt of her eyebrows, the wet of her lips. You have the nagging urge to pull her up onto your lap and sink your teeth in her throat, hide her away. Maybe that's not normal. You can't know these things. You're not meant to.
She smiles. You realize it.
"Well," Sullyoon says and shimmies back into her underwear, and all her pieces fall back together again. "Now you're thinking."
-
"I've created a monster," you tell her, when you're in the car afterwards. It's like déja vu, because the windows are down and she's wearing your sweatshirt. You're driving her home, her makeup's halfway ruined, she's giggling when you stop at red lights and brush her mussed hair out of her face.
"Stop being dramatic," she says. "Just because I got cum in my eye."
It's this seeping, ugly feeling. It's not always there - maybe, usually, it's worse. You shouldn't compare, shouldn't see the world through those kinds of lenses.
Sullyoon leans across the console, wedged up under your arm like you won't drive your car through hell to be next to her. She's warm and soft and there. "Seriously. We just had great sex. Was it the role-play thing? It's not a big deal if-"
"Hey," you cut in. "Can you call Bae, ask if she can spend the night at her friend's? Tell her we're not done catching up yet, or something."
Her smile widens, she pulls away from you. "This isn't going to help my case, if we sleep together for four consecutive nights in a row, just so you know."
"What're you, the press?" You make the turn. "I know exactly what I'm saying, if you care to know."
-
You write and you write and you rewrite. Sullyoon helps you with proofreading. You argue about grammar.
She laughs when you tell her the title of your book and reads the description right off your laptop. "Wow," says Sullyoon, hair everywhere, messily bundled. Her tongue sticks out from the side of her teeth. "You like this character."
"Is that it. After a full read."
She meets your eye, briefly; all her nerves gone for that split-second, her certainty as powerful as ever.
"Yeah," Sullyoon says. "And I like the story."
-
These are your scenes together: there's the fantasy ones, the cringey ones. She goes down easy, then you stop writing so she has to tell you: keep going, harder, rougher - take me to hell, so you do. That's how it's always gonna be, as a rule.
But after all the passion, the high-noon stand-offs - in reality, in that actual scenario: it'd probably all look more like this.
(Hey.)
Two hands at the curve of her neck: slow, steady, warm.
You love her, and it's so goddamn loud that it deafens you to everything else.
She looks up at you with her big brown eyes, and it doesn't sound half as scary as the way they do on paper, or in your dreams. The girl smiles at him like they haven't left that moment behind. Like he isn't half the devil he portrays himself as. And all around her, the walls turn to glass; the sunset pours into her eyes, light slanting, kissing her face. They're suspended like that for seconds or eons, but she'd look at him like this in the same way for years, decades. For the rest of their lives, actually - never ending, or only just beginning. It's just all her, really. The light, the sea, the sound of a breeze: every little perfect thing that's happened so far.
(Still wondering how that girl survived?)
A tiny, crescent-shaped bruise.
She lifts her fingertips. Smooths her thumb across your bottom lip. "Are you thinking the same thing as me?"
"Probably not." Your hand cups her cheek; you press a soft, lazy kiss to her palm. "Do I wanna know?"
Sullyoon yawns, and tips her forehead up against yours. Your faces are close like this, breathing in each others' breaths. Your eyes slip shut. This is something you don't know, that neither of you quite know what it means: when there's nothing more to say, or nowhere left for your fingers to be.
"We're in love," says Sullyoon.
Your lips brush against her skin, the creases of her palms. She's telling the truth, isn't she.
"Guilty," you tell her, finally, and pull her down, close, into the shelter and shape of her embrace. "You're all mine."
You whisper, so her lungs and yours and the silence are all made the same, and her breathing slows. You hold her, until it doesn't take words to speak. You kiss her, once, and then there are a million moments like that. For all the right reasons, and those left wanting - every single possible permutation - this is the easiest truth: one you'd never tell, not out loud. Not where the stars and gods can see.
This is how we fall in love: not all at once but rather, the trick of the light.
/// /// /// /// ///
a/n: basically a rewrite project that got really fucking out of hand and haunted me for months. sorry. go read the original.
to @majorblinks obviously. thanks for the fun, friendship and filth. love you lots, smooches, etc.
damn... first time seeing these from our favourite local slut... might as well just take it off already. not like we don't already know what's under that red bikini.
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