The digital landscape of a ruined America stretches across your television screen, bleak and beautiful. You are deep in the zone, guiding Sam Porter Bridges across a treacherous scree slope. A perfect weekend, playing Death Stranding 2, how could it be more perfect than this?
But that peace is shattered when your front door flies open with a bang, crashing against the interior wall. Four figures spill into the room in a whirlwind of noise and motion, bringing the chaos of the outside world with them. You don't even flinch anymore.
This is a regular occurrence.
At the front of the pack is Jiwoo, your oldest friend and the formidable heart of the band. She wears a faded, cropped t-shirt and loose-fitting cargo pants. Behind her, Yooyeon, the guitarist, immediately peers at the TV screen with curiosity. Chaeyeon, their keyboardist, makes a beeline for your couch and collapses onto it. And Kotone, the drummer, is already halfway to the kitchen. You're used to the invasions, but it doesn't mean you have to like them.
You sigh, long and put-upon, pausing the game. "A simple knock. It costs literally nothing."
The rustle of plastic packaging comes from the kitchen, followed by a happy munching sound. Kotone is at your stash of fancy chocolates. You make a mental note to hide them better next time. Jiwoo ignores the side conversations, her dark eyes fixed on you. She crosses her arms.
"Much as I cherish these home invasions," you begin, "was there a particular reason you decided to break my door down today?"
"We came to get you," Jiwoo announces, her chin jutting out. "We're going to celebrate."
"Celebrate what? Kotone finally learned a rhythm that isn't 4/4?"
A balled-up candy wrapper flies from the kitchen and bounces harmlessly off your shoulder. You look back at Jiwoo, whose usual defiant expression has a crack in it.
"We got in," Yooyeon says, finally looking away from the game. She's grinning, wide and unrestrained.
You look to Jiwoo for confirmation. She allows a small, tight smile to pull at one corner of her mouth.
"Indie Wave Fest," she states. "They gave us a slot. Main stage."
The controller slips from your grasp and clatters onto the floor. Holy shit. Indie Wave. For two years, that’s all they’ve talked about. Two years of playing to half-empty bars, of hauling their own amps up three flights of stairs for a fifty-dollar payout, of sending countless demos that never got a reply. You were there for most of it, untangling cables and tweaking sound levels in shitty back rooms, an unofficial member of their crew. And now… main stage. It’s fucking insane.
"No way," you breathe, a smile spreading across your face. You push yourself up from the floor. "That's incredible. I mean it, guys. Fucking congratulations."
Jiwoo's smirk widens just a fraction. "Yeah, well, don't get all emotional. Now get your shoes on. We're getting drunk."
Your smile falters. The noisy, packed interior of a bar flashes in your mind. The press of bodies, the shouting over music. It's your personal version of hell. "Ah. You guys go on ahead. I'm not really… you know." You gesture vaguely at the paused screen. "I've got a lot of critical deliveries to make."
Jiwoo scoffs. She stalks over, snatches the controller from the floor, and holds down the power button on the console until the light dies.
"Don't be a fucking hermit. You helped us get here." She jabs a finger into your chest, a sharp poke that's surprisingly forceful. "You lugged our gear, you made us sound good when the venue's system was shit. You're part of this whether you like it or not. You're coming. I'm not asking."
The other girls start chiming in, a chorus of encouragement and light-hearted insults about your social life. You look from Chaeyeon's pleading face to Yooyeon's expectant one, and finally back to Jiwoo. Her expression is locked, determined. You know that look. It's the one she gets before nailing a complex bass line or staring down a hostile crowd. It's unbeatable. You let out a final, defeated sigh.
"Fine. You win. But you're buying."
"Deal. Now hurry up, nerd. The night's not getting any younger.”
—
The bar is a familiar kind of dive, one you've ended up in with them more times than you can count. It's perfect.
For them, anyway. A chaotic collection of empty shot glasses is already accumulating in the center of your booth's table. Kotone is trying to teach Chaeyeon a complicated handshake that seems to involve way too many moving parts, while Yooyeon is detailing, with extravagant hand gestures, how she's going to execute her guitar solo on the main stage. You nurse your first and likely only bottle of beer. Someone has to make sure they all get home without incident. That someone is always you.
"Four more tequilas!" Kotone bellows at the bartender, holding up four fingers.
"Five!" Chaeyeon corrects, her eyes wide. "He needs one too!" She gestures at you with her chin.
You shake your head, holding up your half-full bottle as a shield. "I'm good. Someone has to have their wits about them when you start trying to climb the light fixtures again."
Kotone just laughs, a loud, uninhibited sound. "That was one time!"
"It was twice. And the second time you almost took out the sprinkler system."
The conversation drifts, a rapid-fire exchange of inside jokes and war stories from past gigs. You listen, content to be on the periphery, a satellite in their orbit. Eventually, you steer them back to the reason you're here in the first place.
"So, have you guys actually thought about the setlist? For Indie Wave?"
Yooyeon stops mid-gesture, her expression turning serious. "Oh, absolutely. We're opening with 'Dreams Never End,' hit them hard right out of the gate. Then 'Glass Jaw' to keep the energy up."
"We have to do 'Echo Chamber'," Chaeyeon adds, leaning forward eagerly. "That's the one that got us the spot, I'm sure of it. The blog reviews for that one were insane."
They rattle off the names of their most popular songs, a playlist you know by heart. You've heard these tracks evolve from rough, mumbled ideas in their practice space to polished, powerful anthems. You can already picture the crowd, the sea of faces, the energy they're going to command.
"And we're doing a new one," Jiwoo says.
Her comment is dropped into the conversation so casually it almost gets lost in the noise. She's been quieter than the others, sipping her drink and watching her friends with a guarded sort of pride. You turn your attention to her. The chaos of the bar seems to recede, focusing down to the space she occupies across the table.
"A new one?" you ask. "I haven't heard a new one."
"It's really, really good," Chaeyeon gushes, her eyes sparkling. "Like, maybe her best one yet."
"It's different," Yooyeon clarifies, nodding in agreement. "But yeah. It's the best."
Jiwoo looks away, but a faint blush dusts her cheeks. "They're exaggerating. It's just a song I started writing a few years back. It was never finished, so I dug it up and worked on it."
"She's being modest," Kotone cuts in, leaning her elbows on the table. "We've been woodshedding it for a month. It's going to be the closer. It'll leave them speechless."
Your curiosity is officially piqued. Jiwoo's songwriting is the soul of the band; raw, honest, and often cutting. A song she's been sitting on for years, one her bandmates are this hyped about... it must be something special.
"What's it about?" you ask, looking directly at her.
And that's when she looks at you. It's not just a glance. Her eyes, the ones that usually hold a carefully constructed wall of cool indifference, seem to soften. The loud bar, the chattering of her friends, it all melts away into a muted hum. You see the slight fullness of her cheeks, the precise, doll-like shape of her mouth, the tiny mole just below her chin. You're not seeing the lead singer of a rock band, you're seeing… Lee Jiwoo, your best friend. The girl you’ve known for years, the one who used to borrow your math notes and draw stupid cartoons in the margins. A wave of heat crawls up your neck.
"What?" you manage, a little rougher than you intended. "Why are you looking at me?"
She blinks, the moment breaking. A flicker of her usual defensiveness returns, but the softness lingers around the edges.
"Nothing," she says, looking down at the condensation ring her glass is leaving on the table. "It's just… you were the first person to believe in any of this. The first one who didn't think I was just some loud girl with a stupid hobby." She lifts her gaze again, meeting yours. "You took us seriously when no one else did."
The praise is so direct, so uncharacteristically earnest, it throws you completely off-balance. You feel your face getting hotter and you're grateful for the bar's dim lighting. You shrug, trying to deflect the sudden, intense focus.
"Come on. That's all you guys. You wrote the songs, you played the shows. I just plugged in some cables and made sure the speakers didn't explode."
"That's bullshit," Kotone says immediately. "You're the reason we sounded like a real band and not just garage noise for that first year. You gave up weekends to help us haul gear and run sound for free."
"You are the only person who can figure out my keyboard's MIDI issues without wanting to throw it out a window," Chaeyeon adds.
"You're our unofficial tech, roadie, and therapist," Yooyeon concludes, raising her shot glass. "You're stuck with us."
You can't help but smile, the warmth of their words sinking in and settling the nervous flutter in your chest. You look around the table at them, at this chaotic, talented, loyal found family.
"Okay, okay. Just… when you're playing stadiums and getting interviewed by Zane Lowe, don't forget about the little people."
Jiwoo lets out a short, sharp scoff, but there's no bite to it. It's fond. "Don't be an idiot."
"Dude," Kotone says, slinging a friendly arm around your shoulders. "You're literally the only guy we can collectively stand for more than five minutes who isn't a complete tool. You're not getting rid of us that easily."
You look from her grinning face to Jiwoo, who is watching you again, that same unreadable softness in her eyes.
"The bar is on the floor, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The night deepens around the small bubble of your booth. More rounds appear as if by magic, delivered by a bartender who now recognizes Kotone’s enthusiastic wave from across the room. The girls’ voices get louder, their laughter sharper. You feel a pleasant, warm buzz from the beer, but you’ve consciously kept your pace slow. You've seen them this drunk before, and you know your role.
Kotone and Yooyeon are now locked in a heated debate about which rock drummer from the 70s was the most overrated, while Chaeyeon hums a keyboard melody onto the table, her eyes closed in concentration. Jiwoo has been surprisingly quiet for the past ten minutes, staring into her drink. The flush on her cheeks isn't just from the alcohol; it's from the heat of the packed room.
She pushes her hair back from her forehead, letting out a frustrated sigh. "It's fucking boiling in here."
She slides out of the booth, her movements a little less steady than before.
"I need some air." She looks down at you, her dark eyes pinning you in place. "You coming?"
It's not really a question. You nod, leaving your half-empty beer on the table as a placeholder. "Be right back," you say to the others, though you doubt they hear you over their argument.
The transition from the bar's oppressive warmth and noise to the cool night air is a relief. The street is mostly empty, the earlier traffic having thinned to a few passing cars that paint the wet asphalt with fleeting streaks of red and white light. The distant wail of a siren feels a world away. You two walk in silence for a moment, just letting the relative peace wash over you. You find a low brick wall bordering a closed flower shop and take a seat. The faint, sweet smell of damp earth and roses hangs in the air.
Jiwoo leans back on her hands, tilting her head up at the starless, hazy sky. "So," she begins. "How are you feeling? Setting up sound for us at Indie Wave has to be pretty fucking cool, right?"
You picture the massive stage, the towering speaker arrays, the complex mixing board that looks like the cockpit of a spaceship. It's a professional's dream and your personal nightmare.
"Yeah, about that…" you start, choosing your words carefully. "Jiwoo, this is… this is a different league. There's a huge difference between me tweaking knobs in a bar that fits fifty people and running sound for a festival stage. This is a real production.”
She turns to look at you, her brow furrowed. "What? I thought you'd be helping us. I was counting on you."
The sincerity in her tone makes this even harder. "Of course I'm helping," you reassure her quickly. "Just… not in that way. Look, I know some people. A couple of guys who do professional audio for touring bands. I'm going to call them, get you a real team." You pause, deciding to just lay it all out there. "And after this show, things are going to get serious. You're going to need a manager, a real one, not just me arguing with club owners over an extra fifty bucks. This is your shot. A good set at Indie Wave could get you a record deal."
You see a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "A record deal?"
"I've already been talking to some people," you admit, a little sheepishly. "Quietly. There's this indie label, ‘Analog Theater Records'—"
"—the one that signed the Window of Paradise?" she interrupts.
"The very same. You've played gigs with some of their bands. I know a guy who works A&R there. When I mention that you guys are playing at the festival, it will definitely get their attention. It triples your chances of getting a real contract, Jiwoo. Something with tour support, proper distribution…"
She's staring at you now, her mouth slightly agape. "When have you been doing all this?"
"It was supposed to be a surprise," you mumble, suddenly feeling exposed under her intense gaze. "And nothing's set in stone, which is why I didn't say anything. I didn't want to get your hopes up if it all fell through."
"You're amazing," she breathes out. A beat passes. "But I still want you there. At the soundboard. I only trust you."
You shake your head, a sad smile on your face. "You trust me because I'm free and I don't complain. These guys are a thousand times better than me, Jiwoo. This is a job for a whole crew, not one dude who learned everything from YouTube tutorials." You have to make her understand. "You deserve the best. Your music deserves to sound perfect."
She seems to accept that, though a flicker of disappointment crosses her face. She looks down, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. "So… are you even going to come?"
Damn. This is the part you were dreading. Your throat feels tight. "I've… I've never actually been to a festival, you know? It's just… so many people." You try for a light-hearted tone, but it falls flat. "I'll watch the livestream. Front-row seat from my couch. It'll be great."
"No." Her head snaps up, and in one swift motion, she closes the distance between you on the wall and her hand covers yours. Her fingers are warm, her grip surprisingly strong. "No, you have to be there."
"Jiwoo, I can't," you try to explain, the thought of being lost in a tide of thousands of strangers making your chest constrict. "I'm not good in crowds. It's not my scene."
"I'm serious," she insists, her eyes wide and pleading. This is the most vulnerable you have ever seen her. "I want you there. Please."
She never says please. You feel your resolve starting to crumble under the weight of her sincerity. "What if I have a panic attack or something? I'll just end up ruining it for you."
"You won't," she says, her grip tightening on your hand. "You can stand on the side of the stage. With the crew. Like always. You'll be backstage, away from everyone. You're part of the team, remember?" She leans a little closer, her gaze locked on yours. "It would mean a lot to me. To know you're there."
You look down at your hands, her fingers intertwined with yours. You know you should say no. You know this is a bad idea. But then you look back up at her face, at the desperate hope in her eyes, and you know you can't.
A long, slow breath escapes you. "Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. I'll be there."
A brilliant, dazzling smile transforms her face. It's so rare and so genuine that it literally takes your breath away. "Thank you," she whispers. "You won't regret it. I promise."
You both stand up, and before you have time to process it, she's stepping into your space and wrapping her arms around you. It's not a casual, friendly hug. She presses herself against you, her head fitting perfectly into the curve of your neck and shoulder. You stand there for a frozen second, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides, every nerve ending firing at once. You can feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo mixed with the bar's lingering smoke. Slowly, tentatively, you bring your arms up and hug her back, one hand resting on the small of her back.
"You mean a lot to me," she says, her breath warm against your skin. "I hope you know that."
Your own voice comes out as a nervous croak. "You mean a lot to me, too."
She pulls back just enough to look at you, though she doesn't break the embrace completely. Her hands rest on your shoulders. "Thank you," she says again.
"For what?"
"For being you."
The world narrows to the space between your faces. The city noise, the distant music, it all fades into nothing. It's just you and her, caught in this strange, intense gravity. Her eyes search yours, and you feel completely transparent, as if she can see every stupid, secret crush you've ever had on her. She lifts one hand, her fingers gently brushing near your eyebrow.
"You have something… right here," she murmurs, the warm touch of her skin making your whole body shiver. Her fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary after brushing away the non-existent speck.
Then, she leans in. Her eyes flutter closed, her face tilting up towards yours. This is it. This is happening. The moment you've dreamed of coming true in real time.
"Hey! Are we interrupting something?!"
The voice, loud and cheerful, shatters the moment like a rock through glass. You both spring apart as if electrocuted. Kotone, Chaeyeon, and Yooyeon are standing on the sidewalk a few feet away, holding a fresh tray of wobbling shot glasses.
Jiwoo recovers instantly. Her entire posture shifts. She throws a casual arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a rough side-hug.
"Nope. Nothing," she says. "We were just heading back in. Did you save any for us?"
She starts walking, practically dragging you with her, leaving you stumbling to keep up. Your mind is reeling, your body is still thrumming from her touch, and your heart is caught somewhere between soaring and plummeting.
You stumble back into the wall of heat and noise, your mind still caught in the quiet moment outside, replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop. Her face, the closing of her eyes, the feeling of her breath just inches from yours.
"There they are!" Yooyeon shouts, a little too loudly, as you approach the booth. She shoves a shot glass into your hand. "We were about to send out a search party."
Jiwoo slides into the booth first, pulling you down with her. She doesn't remove her arm, effectively pinning you between her and the worn upholstery. It's a tight fit. You're pressed against her from shoulder to thigh, the warmth of her seeping into your side. Your brain is screaming at you about the lack of personal space, but another, quieter part of you doesn't mind at all. The shot glass feels slick in your suddenly sweaty palm. You look at the clear liquid, then at the expectant faces of the other girls. You knock it back in one go.
The night dissolves from there. The conversations become cyclical, the punchlines repeated to fresh peals of laughter. Kotone retells the story of a disastrous gig in a bowling alley, a story you've heard at least ten times, but she tells it with such gusto that you can't help but smile. Chaeyeon starts trying to harmonize with the terrible jukebox music, her pitch wavering wildly.
Through it all, Jiwoo remains attached to your side. Her initial, performative hold loosens into something more genuine. She leans her head against your shoulder, her hair tickling your neck. Her comments, usually ironic and witty, become more sentimental.
"You're a good friend," she mumbles into your shirt at one point, her words slightly slurred. "The best one."
"You're just drunk," you reply.
"Am not," she protests, lifting her head to glare at you, but the effect is ruined by her unfocused eyes. "You just… you get it. You get us." She gestures vaguely at the other girls. "You're always there. Solid."
She lets her head fall back onto your shoulder, a heavy, trusting weight. Your arm, which has been awkwardly pinned at your side, finds its way around her, resting naturally on her waist. It feels right.
Eventually, the boundless energy of the group begins to wane. Chaeyeon is practically asleep, her cheek squished against the tabletop. Yooyeon is staring blankly at the TV over the bar, which is playing a silent infomercial for a kitchen gadget. Kotone is the last holdout, trying to engage the bartender in a one-sided conversation about the merits of different drumstick brands.
Jiwoo has been quiet for a while. You feel the rhythm of her breathing slow, deepening into a steady, even pace. Her head gets heavier on your shoulder. You risk a glance down and see that her eyes are closed, her long lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted. She’s completely out.
You gently nudge Kotone. "I think that's a wrap for tonight."
Kotone looks from Jiwoo's sleeping form to Chaeyeon's comatose one and lets out a weary sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right."
The familiar ritual begins. You settle the tab, leaving a generous tip for the long-suffering bartender. You carefully extract yourself from under Jiwoo, who barely stirs, her head lolling before Kotone helps prop her up. The four of you maneuver the two sleeping girls out of the bar and onto the curb, a clumsy procession of dead weight and uncoordinated limbs. You pull out your phone, the bright screen hurting your eyes, and order the largest Uber available.
The ride to your house is something between chaos and peace. Chaeyeon wakes up just long enough to demand the driver change the radio station before passing out again. Kotone hums quietly to herself in the front seat. And Jiwoo… Jiwoo is asleep on you again. Her head found your shoulder as soon as she was bundled into the back seat, an instinctual homing beacon. You can feel the soft puffs of her breath against your neck. You look out the window at the blurry city lights, intensely aware of the girl sleeping beside you, her hand resting limply on your thigh.
Getting them out of the car and into your house is another ordeal. You fumble with the keys while Yooyeon holds Jiwoo upright. The moment the door is open, Chaeyeon makes a stumbling, desperate sprint for the bathroom. The sound of violent retching echoes through your quiet house a moment later.
You sigh. "Welcome home, ladies."
While Kotone deals with Chaeyeon, you and a surprisingly coherent Yooyeon begin the process of setting up camp. You pull the spare mattress from the closet and drag it into the living room for Chaeyeon. Yooyeon claims the couch, collapsing onto it face-first. You guide a still-drowsy Jiwoo into the guest room, which is thankfully already made up. She mumbles something incoherent and flops onto the bed, pulling the comforter over her head without even taking off her shoes. You quietly toe them off for her before closing the door.
Kotone finally emerges from the bathroom and declares she's taking the floor on a pile of blankets. Within fifteen minutes, the storm has passed. The house is filled with the sound of soft breathing and the occasional drunken snore.
You stand in the quiet of your kitchen, the sole survivor. You open the fridge, the cool light spilling into the dark room, and pull out a carton of orange juice. You pour yourself a large glass, the sweet, cold liquid a welcome antidote to the night's stale beer and secondhand smoke. You lean against the counter, taking a long, satisfying sip. Everyone is ruined, and you are in perfect shape.
"How do you do that?" a sleepy voice asks from the living room doorway. It's Kotone, wrapped in a blanket. "How are you not completely wrecked like the rest of us?"
You take another deliberate sip of your juice before answering, savoring the moment. "It's a revolutionary technique called 'drinking in moderation'. You should try it sometime."
She groans and shuffles back towards her blanket pile. "Jerk."
A much softer voice comes from the guest room doorway. It's Jiwoo. She’s leaning against the frame, her hair a mess, her eyes still clouded with sleep. "Hey."
"Hey," you reply.
"Thanks," she says. "For… you know. Taking care of us. Always."
"You're welcome." You gesture towards the bathroom with your glass. "Just try not to follow Chaeyeon's example."
She gives you a small, tired smile and disappears back into the room.
You finish your juice, rinse the glass, and place it in the dishwasher. You look around at the bodies strewn across your living room, at the chaos they bring into your orderly life. It's ridiculous. You're a glorified babysitter for a band of grown women who can command a stage but can't handle their tequila. And yet, as you turn off the lights and head to your own room, you can't imagine your life without them.
—
Your garage, once a quiet tomb for lawn equipment and old furniture, now throbs with life. It pulses with the thunder of Kotone’s drumming, the intricate webs of Yooyeon’s guitar riffs, and the vibrant, colorful chords from Chaeyeon’s keyboard. And at the center of it all, holding it all together, is Jiwoo.
You spend countless hours out there with them, coiled cables in hand, tweaking levels on your small mixing board. They are getting so fucking good. Their sound, a raw and energetic fusion of pop-punk immediacy and alt-rock heart, is crystallizing into something truly special. They sound like a modern-day Paramore, full of anthemic choruses and bristling with an emotional honesty that is almost entirely Jiwoo’s doing.
In the weeks that follow, during a break in one rehearsal, while the girls are chugging water and stretching, you decide to push your luck.
"Alright, the festival is just around the corner," you say, leaning against a tower of amps. "I've been patient. Can I please, finally, hear a little piece of this secret masterpiece? Just the opening riff. The first line. Anything."
The other girls suddenly find their shoelaces or water bottles intensely interesting. Jiwoo, who had been laughing at a joke from Chaeyeon, turns to you, and her expression is a closed door.
"No."
"Come on, why not?" you press, a little baffled by the intensity of her refusal. "It's just me. What's the big deal? I hear everything else you write."
"This one's different," she says, crossing her arms. It’s a defensive posture you know all too well. "It's not… it’s not for you to hear yet."
You look over at Yooyeon, who is now pretending to be deeply absorbed in tuning her already perfectly in-tune guitar. "Yooyeon? You can't just hum the melody for me?"
"Don't you dare," Jiwoo warns. Then she looks at all of them. "Nobody shows him the lyrics. Nobody plays him a single note. Got it?"
They all nod in silent, serious agreement. You're completely stumped. You look back at Jiwoo, at her determined, almost fierce expression. This isn't just her being difficult. This is something else.
"Okay, fine. Jesus," you say, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "Top secret government business, I get it."
She doesn't crack a smile. "Stop being so damn curious and just wait for the festival. It'll be better that way. I promise."
Her use of "I promise" echoes the one she gave you that night outside the bar, and it makes you pause. There’s something she’s not telling you, something they all know. You have no choice but to drop it.
"Fine," you sigh, defeated. "You're the boss." You clap your hands together. "Alright, from the top. Let's run 'Echo Chamber' one more time. Make it perfect."
They pick up their instruments, and the familiar, driving opening riff fills the garage. You lean back, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. You know this song inside and out. But now, as you listen, your mind is somewhere else entirely. It’s fixed on the song you haven't heard, the mysterious closer to their set. And you have a strange, growing suspicion that when you finally hear it, it will be something really special.
—
Of course, the ghost of that night outside the bar haunts you. It lives in the quiet moments: when you're waiting for a game to load, when you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling. You replay it over and over. Her face, softened by the light and alcohol, tilting up to yours. The closing of her eyes. Was she going to kiss you? Your gut, your heart, every hopeful, stupid part of you screams yes. But your brain, the cautious, self-protective part, whispers that you’re an idiot. You were creating a narrative. She was probably just going to hug you again, or tell you that you had another imaginary speck on your face. You never found the courage to bring it up, and the frantic pace of the festival prep never offered a moment.
And now, the day is here. Indie Wave. You barely slept, your mind a churning vortex of anxiety. The thought of the sheer number of people, the noise, the crushing density of a festival crowd, makes your skin crawl. Your palms are already slick with sweat. But then you picture them. You picture Jiwoo, her eyes scanning the sea of faces from the stage. You promised you'd be there. So, fuck it. For them, for her, you’ll face the horde.
You pull on a plain black hoodie and grab your keys. You're about to walk out the door when your phone buzzes. Mom. You answer, a sense of dread already creeping in.
"Something's wrong with Mittens!" she says with panic from halfway across the country. "The neighbor just called me. He’s just lying there, he won't eat, and he cried when she tried to pick him up."
Damn it. Mittens, your family's ancient, perpetually grumpy Persian cat. You know his medical chart by heart. "Did she say if he's trying to use the litter box?" you ask, already knowing the answer.
"She said he keeps going in and out of it but nothing's happening! You know his history, honey, the vet said if it happens again…"
A urinary blockage. Not immediately life-threatening if caught early, but incredibly painful and dangerous if left untreated. And you’re the only one nearby who can give the vet his complicated history of kidney issues without having to spend an hour on the phone with your mother. The timing is a cosmic joke. The festival grounds are a two-hour drive in the opposite direction of your parents' house. There is absolutely no way to do both. You close your eyes, the image of Jiwoo’s hopeful face warring with the thought of your mother’s beloved, miserable cat. There’s no choice to make, not really.
"I'm on my way," you sigh. "Tell the neighbor I'll be there in twenty minutes."
—
A few hours later, on the other side of town:
"Has anyone seen him?"
Jiwoo is a storm of nervous energy in the cramped backstage dressing room. She’s already in her stage clothes: ripped black jeans, a cropped band shirt, and a leather jacket; but her face is pale beneath her makeup.
"I've called him like, five times. It goes straight to voicemail," she says, pacing the small space between a clothing rack and a half-eaten catering tray. "He's not here."
Chaeyeon looks up from her phone. "He'll come, Jiwoo. He's probably just stuck in festival traffic."
"He would have texted!" she snaps with stress. "He knows how much I hate being late. What if he bailed? What if he thought about the crowds and just… decided not to come?" The last part is a whisper
"He would not do that," Yooyeon says firmly. "Not to you. He'd walk through fire for you, you know that."
"Thirty minutes to stage!" a crew member yells through the open door.
"Thirty minutes! He was supposed to be here hours ago to check the sound lines with the crew. He promised."
"Okay, look," Kotone says, trying to be the voice of reason. "If he's not here and he's not answering his phone, maybe something happened. An accident, or…"
Yooyeon reaches over and thumps Kotone hard on the shoulder. "Idiot! Don't say that."
"What? I'm just saying!"
"So now I'm supposed to worry that he's dead in a ditch somewhere?" Jiwoo exclaims, her hands flying to her hair. "How is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No one is dead in a ditch," Yooyeon says, glaring at Kotone before turning back to Jiwoo. "He is fine. And you are fine. You need to focus. You're about to play the biggest show of your life. You can freak out about your weirdly co-dependent boyfriend later."
"He's not my boyfriend!" Jiwoo protests, a faint blush rising on her neck.
"Whatever. Just get your head in the game," Yooyeon says. "He'd want you to kill it."
Jiwoo takes a deep, shaky breath, closing her eyes. She’s a professional. She can do this. But as she opens them, her gaze drifts towards the door, empty and waiting.
—
The vet clinic waiting room carries that agonizing vibe of anxiety and illness. Your phone is a useless brick; there’s zero signal in this concrete box. Hours crawl by. Finally, a receptionist calls out the clinic’s Wi-Fi password. You connect, a few minutes pass and you finally manage to find a decent live stream of the festival.
There they are. On a massive stage, under dazzling lights. They’re halfway through their set. You’ve missed it. You forgot your headphones, so you turn the volume down to a barely audible noise, holding the phone to your ear. They sound incredible. The professional sound crew you hooked them up with is doing an amazing job. Jiwoo is a rock star. She commands the stage, her voice powerful and clear even through your tiny phone speaker. But you see it. Between songs, as the crowd roars, her smile falters. Her eyes scan the wings of the stage, searching. Looking for you. And your heart plummets.
Finally, they launch into their second-to-last song. You know what's next. The secret song. As the song ends, Jiwoo steps forward, the roar of the crowd washing over her.
"Thank you so much for all the love!" she pants into the mic. "You guys have been incredible. We have one more for you. This one is… this one's new. It's really special to me, and…"
"Mittens?" a voice calls out. The vet, a kind-looking woman in blue scrubs, is standing in the doorway. You look from her to your phone screen, where Jiwoo is taking a deep breath, about to speak again. You have to go. You lock your phone, the song unheard.
—
On stage, Jiwoo closes her eyes for a second, picturing your face. "This song is called 'Waiting for Your Love'," she says, suddenly quiet and vulnerable, then she nods to Kotone, who clicks her sticks together four times.
—
"He's going to be just fine," the vet says, handing you a small bag with prescription pills. "Classic UTI flare-up. He's uncomfortable, but the antibiotics will clear it right up."
You thank the vet for her help, pay the bill and carry Mittens, now looking much less miserable in his carrier, out to your car. The moment you're inside, you take out your phone. You snap a quick, apologetic selfie with the cat carrier, Mittens' grumpy face visible through the grate. You send it to Jiwoo:
I am so, so, SO sorry. Had a family pet emergency. I know this is the lamest excuse in history but I promise it's real. I watched what I could on the stream. You guys were fucking incredible. I’m so proud of you. Call me after.
You drive home, the adrenaline of the day leaving you exhausted and hollow. You drop Mittens off, make yourself a quick, sad sandwich, and collapse onto the couch. You open Twitter. Your feed has exploded. The band's name is trending. All you see is praise. "Blew the main stage away." "My new favorite band." "Where can I find their music???"* And then you see it, tweet after tweet. "That last song, OMG." "What was that closer?? I was in tears." "Someone please tell me 'Waiting for Your Love' is on Spotify RIGHT NOW."
You have to hear it. You need to hear it. You scramble for your headphones, and just as your fingers close around them, your doorbell rings.
Holy shit, can I not have one second of peace? you think. You stomp to the door, ready to tell off whoever it is.
You pull the door open, a complaint already on your lips. And you freeze.
Standing on your doorstep, illuminated by the porch light, is Jiwoo. She’s still in her full stage outfit, the ripped jeans, the leather jacket. Her makeup is smudged, her hair is a mess from the show, her chest rises and falls, panting, as if she had run a marathon to get here. She looks like a fallen angel who just fought a war. And she’s staring at you like she’s either going to kiss you or kill you.
For a solid three seconds, you just stare, unable to process the image in front of you. "Jiwoo? What the hell are you doing here?" you finally manage. "Shouldn't you be at an afterparty? Or, you know, still at the festival?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she just walks past you, brushing your shoulder as she steps into your living room. You close the door, your mind a complete blank, and turn to face her. She stands in the middle of your living room, looking small and somehow out of place without her bandmates flanking her.
"I needed to see you," she says.
"I am so, so sorry about today," you rush to say, the guilt hitting you all over again. "I swear I wasn't bailing. The cat—"
"I know," she cuts you off. "I believe you. I saw your picture." She offers a tiny, tired smile. "How is the furry little asshole?"
"He's better. Medicated and probably plotting my demise, but better."
"Good." She lets out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. "That's good. I'm not angry, you know. It was an emergency. It's just..." She gestures vaguely, her hands fluttering with frustration. "Everything went wrong. I had it all planned out. The whole thing."
"I was just about to listen to the song," you offer, hoping it's the right thing to say. "The new one. Twitter is losing its mind over it. They're all saying how good it is."
Her head snaps up, and she looks at you with genuine surprise. "You haven't heard it yet? At all?"
"No," you shake your head. "I had to leave the stream right when you were about to introduce it. Then the vet, then getting the cat settled... I haven't had a chance."
A strange look passes over her face, it starts with disappointment and then becomes something else.… an idea. "Okay," she says slowly. "Okay, wait right there."
Before you can ask what she's doing, she pivots and heads for the back of your house, disappearing into the hallway that leads to the garage. You hear the door squeak open, followed by the sound of things being moved around, a couple of amps being shifted, the clatter of a cymbal stand. A minute later, she reappears. She's holding her beloved, beat-up acoustic guitar, the one she writes all her songs on, its wooden body covered in stickers and scratches.
"I'll just... I'll play it for you now," she says.
You are completely floored. "Wow. Okay." You feel a giddy, bubbling excitement in your chest. A private, acoustic performance of the secret song. This is infinitely better than hearing it over a livestream.
She sits on the edge of your couch, patting the cushion next to her. You sit, leaving a respectable but suddenly distance between you. She takes a deep, centering breath, her fingers finding their familiar place on the fretboard. She looks at you, one last, long, unreadable look, and then she begins to play.
A few simple, melancholic chords fill the quiet room. It’s softer, more intricate than her usual work. Then, she starts to sing. Her voice is different here, in the stillness of your living room.
And the words… holy shit, the words.
She sings a verse about two kids sharing a single pair of earbuds on a late-night bus, a memory so old you’d almost forgotten it. There’s a line about a stupid cartoon of a rocket ship you drew in the margins of her chemistry homework in tenth grade. She sings about the feeling of the bass vibrating through the floor of your garage, about the night you stayed up until 3 a.m. helping her fix a corrupted demo file. It’s a tapestry woven from the threads of your shared history, a collection of tiny, insignificant moments that you now realize meant everything.
The chorus swells, a heartbreakingly beautiful melody. It’s about a love that acts as a lifeline, a secret source of strength that saves her every single day. But it’s also about the paralyzing fear that giving that love a voice will shatter the perfect, fragile friendship that already exists. The song resonates really strongly with you. Because it’s a feeling you know so well, it’s like she’s singing exactly what goes through your mind every time you’re… well, with her.
When the final, gentle chord fades into silence, you can’t breathe. You’re just staring at her, your mind racing, trying to connect the dots that have been right in front of your face for years.
She looks up at you from under her lashes, her eyes don't hide the terribly vulnerable feeling that vibrates in every fiber of her body right now. "Don't just be silent," she whispers. "Say something. Please."
"It's…" You have to clear your throat to make a sound. "It's amazing, Jiwoo. It's… beautiful. I always knew you were an incredible songwriter, but that's… that's on another level." You have to ask. You have to be sure. "Is that song… is it about us?"
A small, wry smile touches her lips. "Of course it's about us, you idiot. Isn't it obvious?" Her shyness gives way to a flicker of her usual bluntness. "That's why I wanted you there. So you would hear it. So you would finally get it!" She looks down at her guitar. "I've written a lot of songs about you, or with you in mind. But this one… this one was supposed to be the one that made it clear."
"I'm… I'm flattered, Jiwoo. I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," she says, finally putting the guitar aside. She turns to face you fully, her knees tucked under her on the couch. "I'll say it. I've always liked you. No, that's wrong." She shakes her head, taking another deep breath. "I'm in love with you. Everything about you. The way you pretend to be annoyed when we invade your house, the way you get so focused when you're helping with the sound, the way you remember stupid things no one else does. I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way. It's exhausting."
"I feel the same way," you say. "God, Jiwoo, I have for so long. You're the most incredible person I've ever met. You're brilliant and frustrating and so damn talented it makes my head spin. You inspire me. You're… you're everything."
"Then why didn't you ever say anything?"
You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Are you kidding me? Look at you. You're a rock star. You're beautiful and cool and you have this… attitude. This power. And I'm just… me. The nerdy guy who helps with your gear."
She stares at you for a long moment, a dozen emotions warring in her eyes. Then, she closes the small gap between you. "You really are an idiot," she murmurs.
And then she kisses you.
It’s not tentative or shy. It’s a kiss of certainty, of years of pent-up feelings finally breaking free. It's slow and deep and it completely rewires your brain. Your hands come up to cup her face, your thumbs tracing her jawline.
When she breaks the kiss, you’re both breathless. But she doesn't move back. Instead, in one fluid, confident motion, she climbs onto your lap, straddling you, her arms wrapping around your neck. The move is so bold, so her, that all you can do is wrap your own arms around her waist, holding her tight.
"That," she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear. "That right there. The fact that you're 'just you'. That's why I love you.”
You kiss her again, a desperate, affirming gesture to prove that this is real. It’s messy and hungry, a collision of lips and teeth and years of unspoken longing.
"Fucking finally," she breathes against your mouth, her forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how heavy that was. Carrying it around for years."
Your hands are roaming, one tangled in her messy hair, the other spread flat against the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her through her thin shirt. "So," you manage, "what, uh… what do we do now?"
"What do you think we should do?" she asks. Her hands, which were clinging to your shoulders, begin a slow, deliberate exploration down your chest, tracing the outline of your ribs through your hoodie. She shifts her weight on your lap, a subtle, rolling motion of her hips. Your breath hitches.
A low groan escapes you. "You look so pretty like this."
Her hands still on your chest. "On top of you?" she asks, an eyebrow raised in playful challenge.
"That too," you admit, your eyes tracing the curve of her smudged eyeliner, the doll-like shape of her mouth, the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes. "Just… here. With me. Not on a stage, not with everyone else around. Just you."
That seems to be the right answer. Her expression softens. She leans in and kisses you again, slow and languid this time. It’s a promise. Then she pulls back, grabs your hand, and stands, pulling you up from the couch with surprising strength.
"Come on," she says.
She leads you, your fingers intertwined, out of the living room and down the short hallway to your bedroom. Your heart is a fucking jackhammer against your ribs. The whole way, you're just staring at the back of her head, at the way her leather jacket moves with her, your mind a blank slate of awe and disbelief. She doesn't hesitate. She pushes your bedroom door open and pulls you inside, then lets go of your hand only to place both of hers on your chest and shove you backward. You stumble, your legs hit the edge of your bed, and you fall back onto the mattress.
You lie there, propped up on your elbows, watching as she stalks towards you. She reaches up and shrugs off her leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. But then she stops. She sees the look on your face.
"Hey," she says. "You okay?"
You sit up properly, your entire body is humming with nervous energy. "Yeah, I just… I need to tell you something."
She freezes, her hands halfway to the hem of her shirt. A flash of insecurity, so rare for her, crosses her face. "What is it?" she asks. "Don't tell me you have a secret girlfriend you forgot to mention."
"No! God, no, it's not that." You take a deep breath. Just say it. "It's just… I've never… done this before." The words come out in a quiet rush. "Like, ever. I'm a virgin."
She stares at you. You watch as she processes your confession, her expression unreadable. You feel a hot flush of embarrassment creep up your neck.
You just ruined it.
Then, she lets out a short, breathy sound that might be a laugh. "Okay," she says. Another beat of silence. Then she confesses, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Me neither."
Your brain stalls. You blink, certain you misheard her. "What?"
"I'm a virgin, too," she repeats, a little louder this time, a defensive edge to her tone.
You can't help it. The surprise is too great. "You? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously!" she snaps, glaring at you. "Why would I lie about that? What, you think because I play in a band I'm screwing a different person every night?"
"No, I just… I didn't picture it," you admit honestly.
"Well, shut up," she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're a virgin too, so you don't get to judge."
"I wasn't judging!" You pause, a sudden, practical, and mortifying thought occurring to you. "I don't… I don't have a condom."
For an answer, Jiwoo reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a small, square foil packet. She tosses it onto the bed between you. It lands softly on your comforter.
"I do," she says, a defiant blush coloring her cheeks.
You look from the condom to her face and decide it's better not to ask when or why she acquired it. The fact that she came prepared, that she was hoping for this, makes you smile stupidly.
"Well?" she says, breaking the silence. "Don't just sit there smiling like a maniac. Get your clothes off."
It's a command, but her voice wavers just a little. You obey. You kick off your shoes, then pull your hoodie over your head. You stand up and unbutton your jeans, letting them drop to the floor. You step out of them, leaving you in nothing but your black boxer briefs. Your entire skin is buzzing, hyper-aware of her eyes on you.
She watches you for a moment, then takes a steadying breath and does the same. She pulls her cropped t-shirt over her head, her dark hair getting momentarily mussed. Then she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her legs. She's left standing in a simple, matching black bra and panties.
And you forget how to breathe again. You’ve seen her in shorts and tank tops, but this is different. This is her. The dim light from your hallway spills into the room, softening her edges. Her frame is so slender, her collarbones sharp and delicate above the lace of her bra. Her stomach is soft and pale, the gentle slope of her hips flaring out from a narrow waist. She has the lean, toned legs of someone who spends hours on her feet, but there’s a softness to her, a vulnerability that her stage persona completely obscures. She’s not a rock star right now. She’s just Jiwoo, and she’s perfect.
She takes a hesitant step towards you, wrapping her arms around her middle, a sudden gesture of self-consciousness. "This is going to be so embarrassing," she murmurs.
"Okay, well," you say, reaching out and taking her hand, lacing your fingers with hers. "Practice makes perfect, right?"
She looks up at you, a curious glint in her eyes. The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Are you saying you're willing to practice a lot?"
You pull her gently towards you. "With you?" you murmur. "I'm willing to practice until we get it right, and then keep practicing just to be sure."
That earns you a real smile. And then she’s kissing you again. She pushes you back onto the bed, her body following yours down. She lands on top of you, a warm, perfect weight, and the world narrows to just the two of you, fumbling and nervous and completely, utterly in love.
Her hands, which had been clutching your shoulders, begin a slow, deliberate descent. They slide down your arms, over your ribs, her fingertips tracing patterns on your skin that leave trails of fire in their wake. You shiver, a full-body tremor, and you feel her smile against your lips. She’s discovering her power over you in real time, and you can tell she likes it.
Her palms flatten against your stomach, the warmth of her touch seeping through your skin, making the muscles there jump and clench. You are so acutely aware of every point of contact, every subtle shift of her weight. When her hands continue their journey south, hesitating for a fraction of a second at the waistband of your boxer briefs, your breath catches in your throat. This is happening. This is real.
Her fingers curl around you through the thin cotton fabric. A choked sound escapes your lips. She squeezes gently, experimentally, and your hips give an involuntary buck. She feels you, hard and straining against the confinement of your underwear. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever felt, and the most intensely aroused.
She pulls back from the kiss, her eyes dark and wide, her lips slick and slightly swollen. She looks from your face down to where her hand is still tentatively cupping you. Without a word, she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slowly, deliberately, pulls them down.
The cool air of the room hits your exposed skin, and you feel ridiculously, thrillingly naked. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed and pointing straight up at her. You can’t stop the flush of heat that rushes to your face.
Jiwoo just stares. She’s never seen one before, not a real one, not like this. Her head tilts, like she’s studying a piece of abstract sculpture.
"Whoa," she breathes out. "So that's… what it looks like." She looks back up at your face. "Is that… good? Like, for you? Does it feel good or bad when it's… like that?"
She has no idea. She's as lost in this as you are.
"It feels good," you manage to say. "Very good."
That seems to be enough for her. She looks back down, her gaze fixed on you. She lifts a hand, hesitating for a moment before extending a single, trembling finger. She gently traces the length of you, from the base to the tip. Your whole body goes rigid. The touch is a thousand times more intense than it was through the fabric. It's so light, so tentative, you can barely feel it, yet it's all you can feel.
"It's so hot," she murmurs.
She leans down, her dark hair falling forward to create a curtain around her face, and her mouth hovers just inches above you. She looks up at you one last time through her lashes, a silent question in her eyes. You can only give a slight, jerky nod.
Her tongue darts out, a wet, pink slash of color, and she licks you. It’s not a sensual, practiced move. It’s a curious, exploratory taste, a single, wet swipe from the base to the sensitive tip. A raw, guttural groan is torn from your throat. You arch into her, your hands fisting in the sheets of your bed. The sensation is overwhelming, alien, and utterly incredible.
She pulls back immediately, her eyes wide with alarm. "Did I hurt you? Was that wrong?"
"No," you gasp out, shaking your head frantically. "No, that was… just keep doing that. Or, whatever you want to do. Please."
Reassured, she leans down again. This time, she takes you into her mouth.
It’s clumsy. Awkward. And it’s the best thing you have ever felt in your entire life.
Her lips are soft, but she’s not sure what to do with them, and you can feel the faint scrape of her teeth. She makes a small, frustrated noise and adjusts, her mouth closing more firmly around you. She begins to move, a hesitant, bobbing motion. She is clearly trying to imitate something she's only seen in movies, her movements unsure and jerky.
This is your first blowjob. And it’s from Jiwoo. The girl you have loved in secret for years. The rock star. The beautiful, prickly, vulnerable girl who is currently trying, with intense, furrowed-brow concentration, to figure out how to please you.
She pulls off for a second, her cheeks flushed, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of you. "Am I doing it right?" she asks, breathy and full of a desperate need for approval. "Tell me what to do. I don't want to be bad at it."
"You're not bad at it," you say. You reach out, your hand shaking slightly, and gently cup the back of her head, your fingers tangling in her soft hair. "You're perfect. Just… maybe a little slower."
She nods, taking your direction seriously, like you've just given her notes on a new song. She takes you back into her mouth, and this time, her movements are more deliberate. Slower. She creates a gentle suction, her tongue swirling around you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. She’s a fast learner.
She gets into a rhythm, her head moving up and down, her eyes closed in concentration. You watch her, completely mesmerized. This fierce, talented, incredible girl is kneeling on your bed, her hair a mess, her lipstick long gone, completely focused on giving you pleasure. Every so often, she’ll open her eyes and look up at you, checking in, and you just give her a nod or a soft, encouraging sound. The sight of her, so focused and so dedicated to you, is almost more arousing than the physical act itself.
The initial, fumbling uncertainty gives way to a more determined rhythm. She’s still new at this, a musician learning a strange and wonderful new instrument, but her innate musicality, her sense of pace and rhythm, begins to take over. Her movements become smoother, more deliberate. The soft, wet heat of her mouth envelops you, a sensation so intensely focused it threatens to consume your every thought. Your hands, which were just resting in her hair, begin to move, your fingers gently massaging her scalp, your thumbs stroking the soft skin behind her ears.
She gets bolder. Emboldened by your groans and the way your hips are starting to move in time with her mouth, she tries to take you deeper. It’s too much. Her throat constricts, and a sudden, sharp gagging sound breaks the rhythm. She pulls off instantly, coughing, her eyes watering.
"Shit, sorry," she sputters, her face flushed a deep red.
"Don't be," you rasp. "It's okay. Are you okay?"
She just looks at you for a second, catching her breath. A strange, wild look glimmers in her watery eyes. It's not embarrassment. It's excitement. The intensity, the loss of control, didn't scare her; it thrilled her.
"You're just… bigger than I thought," she says, and without another word, she dives back down, her confidence renewed and amplified.
Her technique is transformed. She’s no longer just trying to please you; she’s actively enjoying herself. She’s enjoying the power she has, the way she can make your entire body tense with a single flick of her tongue, the way your breath hitches every time she deepens the suction. You can feel her smiling against you, a secret, triumphant grin. This is a side of Jiwoo you have never seen before, a dominant, sexually confident force of nature that has been lying dormant just beneath the surface. And you, and only you, have woken her up.
It’s been a while. A long, long while since you've had a proper orgasm. The pleasure is building into an almost unbearable pressure at the base of your spine. Every nerve ending is screaming. You're trying to hold on, trying to ride this wave as long as you can. You don’t want this to be over in a few frantic moments. You want to savor every second of your first time with her, to burn this memory into your brain. You focus on your breathing, on the feeling of her hair brushing against your thighs, on the sight of her head moving in the dim light. You are fighting a losing battle against your own body.
Her curiosity, it seems, is insatiable. Her mouth leaves you for a moment, and you let out a small, protesting whine at the loss. But then you feel her wet, hot tongue on a completely new part of you. She’s tracing a path down, over your stomach, her movements slow and deliberate. You are so hard it hurts, glistening in the faint light, and she’s just… leaving you there, exploring the surrounding territory.
Her attention finds your balls. She licks one, a tentative, questioning taste. Your whole body jolts, a surge of pleasure so sharp and unexpected it steals your breath. She seems to like your reaction, because she does it again, more firmly this time. Then, she takes one of them fully into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, her tongue swirling around it, her lips creating a gentle, pulling suction.
"Fuck," you breathe out. "Jiwoo…"
It’s too much. The combination of that new, mind-melting sensation and the ache in your own cock is pushing you right to the edge. Your control is fraying, the threads snapping one by one. Your hips are bucking off the mattress now, an uncontrollable rhythm, chasing the feeling, chasing her. You know you’re close. Dangerously close.
She feels it. She must. She lifts her head, her dark eyes locking with yours. Her face is flushed, her lips are red and swollen, and she looks absolutely feral. She sees the desperation in your eyes, feels the tremors running through your body. A lesser person, a shyer person, might have stopped, unsure of what to do. But not her.
"You're close, aren't you?" she whispers. You can only manage a frantic nod, your teeth gritted.
She smiles. "Good." She crawls up your body, her mouth hovering over yours again, her hair tickling your chest. "Don't stop," she murmurs, her hot breath ghosting across your lips. "Don't you dare hold back. I want to taste you. Give it all to me."
She slides back down your body, her eyes never leaving yours, and takes you into her mouth one last time. There’s no hesitation now. No awkwardness. She takes all of you, her throat opening to take you deeper than before. She sucks with a fierce, possessive hunger, her hand wrapping around the base of your shaft, her rhythm fast and unrelenting. She’s milking you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure, pushing you over the precipice.
Your vision whites out at the edges. A raw, animalistic groan rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your back arches off the bed, your whole body convulsing as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure floods you. You feel yourself pulsing inside her mouth, pumping your release into her, hot and thick.
She doesn't pull away. She stays with you, taking everything, her throat working as she makes a concerted effort to swallow. It's not a graceful, porn-star swallow; it's a real, slightly difficult one. You feel the muscles in her throat contract, once, twice. She keeps you in her mouth until the last tremor has faded, until you are completely and utterly spent.
She finally pulls away, collapsing onto the mattress beside you. She’s panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She lets out a small cough, her eyes still a little watery from taking you so deep. You lie there, your own body limp and boneless, your mind a blissful, empty void.
She turns her head on the pillow to look at you. A dazed, stunned smile plays on her lips.
"That," she says, "was amazing." She licks her lips, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You taste… salty. And good." She looks at you, a new kind of confidence, a self-satisfied glow, radiating from her. "God," she says, a breathless little laugh escaping her. "I think I really liked that." She grins, a wide, wicked, shameless grin. "I'm getting so slutty for you.”
A low, throaty chuckle escapes you. You feel utterly drained, your muscles like jelly, but a new kind of energy is already starting to build, a warm glow spreading from your core. You roll onto your side to face her, propping your head up on your hand. She looks completely debauched, her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her hair a wild halo around her head. She’s beautiful.
"Well," you say. "I guess it's my turn now."
She smirks, a lazy, self-satisfied expression that is pure Jiwoo. "Good luck topping that," she says with newfound cockiness. "I'm pretty sure I kind of killed it."
You lean in, peppering her face with soft kisses: her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. "Don't get too cocky," you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing down her cheek to her jawline. "You're still a virgin, remember? All that enthusiasm, zero experience."
"Hey!" she protests, but there's no heat in it. She's too blissed out to summon her usual defenses.
Your mouth finds the sensitive spot just below her ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp, involuntary gasp. Your hands, which have been idle, decide to get back to work. You move to her back, your fingers searching for the clasp of her bra. You fumble with it for a moment, the tiny hooks and eyes a surprisingly complex puzzle.
"They make these things complicated on purpose," you grumble against her neck. "It's a conspiracy."
Jiwoo laughs. She reaches behind her back, her movements sure and practiced, and with a flick of her wrist, the clasp is undone. The straps loosen, and you slowly slide the bra down her arms and toss it somewhere in your room.
Her breasts are free. In the dim light, they are pale and perfect. They're not large, but they fit her slender, athletic frame perfectly; high and firm, with small, dusky pink nipples that are already pebbled from the cool air and your attention. She instinctively crosses her arms over her chest.
"It's not much," she says quietly, her eyes darting away from yours. "But… it's the best you're gonna get."
You gently pull her arms away, your gaze soft and sincere. "They're perfect," you say. You cup them in your hands, your thumbs stroking the soft, smooth skin. They fill your palms exactly right. "They're cute. Just like you."
She scoffs, but it's a weak, half-hearted attempt at her usual armor. "I'm not cute."
"Yes," you insist, leaning in to kiss her again, a slow, tender kiss. "You are."
"No," she mumbles against your lips. "I'm a rockstar."
"You can be both," you murmur, before lowering your head.
Your mouth closes over one of her nipples. She moans instantly, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure shock and pleasure. Her back arches, pressing herself more firmly against your mouth. You suck gently, teasing her with your tongue, and her hands fly up to clutch at your hair, not to push you away, but to hold you there.
You slowly push her onto her back, following her down until you're hovering over her. You move to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention.
She's writhing beneath you, a beautiful, glorious mess. A combination of moans and breathless laughter escapes her lips. "Whoa," she gasps out, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Oh my god. I had no idea… I didn't know it could feel that good. That's… incredible."
You keep going, finding a rhythm, alternating between long, slow sucks and quick, teasing licks. You are learning her body just as she learned yours, discovering what makes her gasp, what makes her bite her lip, what makes her fingers dig into your back.
"What do I taste like?" she asks.
You lift your head for a moment, licking your lips. "Good," you say. "A little salty. Sweet."
"It's probably sweat," she says. "From the show. That's gross."
"No," you say firmly, before dipping down to take her nipple into your mouth again. You speak around it, your words muffled but clear. "It's the taste of a rockstar." You look up at her, a serious expression on your face. "By the way…"
Her eyes are hazy with pleasure, but she looks at you, waiting.
"How was the show, for real?" you ask, shifting into your familiar, professional manager-mode. "Did the crew I sent work out okay? Any sound issues? Did you see anyone from Analog Theater Records there? Did you guys get a chance to network with any of the other artists? That's really important for building—"
"Shut up," she says, but it’s fond, exasperated. She reaches up and grabs your face with both hands, pulling you down for a kiss. "Do not ruin this perfect, sexy moment by talking about band logistics, you absolute nerd."
You laugh against her mouth. "Sorry," you say. "Force of habit."
"Break the habit," she commands, before her mouth finds yours again, effectively ending the conversation.
You go back to your work, your mouth and hands rediscovering her body. You spend a long time just worshipping her, learning the feel and taste of her skin, loving the way she responds to your touch. When you finally pull back, her chest is glistening, her nipples a dark, swollen red from your attention. You look down your own body and see that your cock, which had softened after you came, is now completely, painfully hard again, pressing insistently against her thigh. The sight of her, so thoroughly undone beneath you, has been the most effective aphrodisiac imaginable.
She seems to notice it at the same time. She reaches down, her hand closing around your rigid length, her touch now confident and possessive. She gives you a slow, deliberate squeeze.
"Ready for round two, are we?" she whispers, her eyes locking with yours. "Are you ready?"
You look into her eyes, dark and endless in the dim light. You see the trust, the desire, the love. You see your future.
"I think so," you say, full of a certainty you’ve never felt before. "Yeah. I'm ready.”
The condom, a small square of silver foil, sits on the mattress between you, a tiny, monumental object. You reach for it, your fingers surprisingly steady. You tear it open along the notched edge, your mind flashing back to a late-night internet spiral a few years ago. You’d watched a cringey, overly cheerful health class tutorial on how to put one on, feeling like a complete loser at the time, preparing for a hypothetical situation that felt galaxies away. Now, in the light of your bedroom with Jiwoo watching you, her eyes wide and trusting, you’re glad you did.
You roll it on, the process thankfully as straightforward as the video had promised. The thin layer of latex feels strange, a barrier between you and the raw reality of what’s about to happen, but it’s a necessary one.
"Okay," you say, a little shaky. "What… uh… what position is best? For you?"
"I have no idea," she whispers. "I've only ever seen it in movies. What's the… basic one?"
"Missionary?" you suggest. "Me on top. It’s… I think it’s supposed to be easier for the first time."
She gives a small, relieved nod. "Okay. Yes. That one."
You move over her, supporting your weight on your elbows so you’re not crushing her. Her body is so slender, so delicate beneath you. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, a nervous, grounding gesture. You lean down and kiss her, a soft, reassuring press of lips.
Your hands find the waistband of her black panties. You hesitate for a second, looking into her eyes for permission. She gives you another tiny nod. Slowly, you slide them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help you, and you pull them free, tossing them aside to join the rest of the discarded clothes on your floor.
And now she is completely, utterly bare beneath you.
Her legs are slightly parted, and you see her for the first time. She’s prepared herself for you. The skin is smooth, pale, and perfect, completely hairless. Between her legs, she is glistening, wet and ready. She knew this was going to happen. She wanted this to happen.
You shift, moving between her legs, the tip of your condom-sheathed cock brushing against her wet folds. A sharp hiss of breath escapes her lips, and her eyes flutter closed.
"Just go slow," she whispers. "Please."
"I will," you promise. "I'm going to be as slow as you need. And you tell me if anything hurts, okay? If you want me to stop, even for a second, you just say so."
She opens her eyes and looks at you, her gaze full of a terrifying, beautiful amount of trust. She nods again. "Okay."
You take a deep breath. You position yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock pressing against her. The sensation is insane. She is so wet, so hot, and so incredibly, impossibly tight. You push forward, just a fraction of an inch.
She gasps, her whole body tensing up beneath you. Her fingers dig into your shoulders. "Oh," she breathes out, a sound of pure shock. "That's… whoa."
"Is it pain?" you ask immediately, stopping all movement. "Am I hurting you?"
She shakes her head, her eyes squeezed shut. "It's not… it’s not pain pain. It's just… a lot. It’s so much feeling." She opens her eyes, and they’re shimmering with unshed tears, but it’s not from sadness. It's from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "Keep going," she whispers. "Just… slowly."
You obey. You push forward again, inch by agonizing inch. You feel her body resisting, a tightness that has nothing to do with a lack of arousal and everything to do with the simple, physical reality of her virginity. You're stretching her, filling her for the first time, and you can feel every millimeter of your progress. Her breathing is coming in ragged, shallow gasps. You’re so focused on her, on her face, on her reactions, that it’s all you can do to keep your own body under control.
And then you feel it. A point of firm resistance. A barrier. Her hymen.
You pause, knowing what this is. You lean down and kiss her deeply, trying to distract her, pouring all of your love and reassurance into the gesture. "Just one more push," you murmur against her lips. "It might hurt for a second."
She just nods, clinging to you, her body completely rigid. You brace yourself and push forward, slowly but firmly.
There's a sharp, tearing sensation. It's not a sound, but a feeling that travels up your cock and reverberates through your whole body. She cries out, a short, sharp yelp of pain that cuts right through you, and her whole body convulses. You immediately stop, a wave of guilt washing over you.
"I'm sorry," you breathe, your heart hammering. "I'm so sorry."
She’s panting, a single tear escaping the corner of her eye and tracing a path down her temple. But she’s shaking her head. "No," she gasps. "Don't be sorry. It's… it’s okay." She takes a few more deep breaths, her body slowly, slowly starting to relax around you. The sharp pain is already fading from her face, being replaced by a look of wide-eyed wonder. "You're… you're inside me," she whispers, as if she can’t quite believe it.
You are. You’re fully, completely inside of her. You sink into her until the base of your cock is pressed against her, and just stay there, buried deep within her. The feeling is indescribable. She is so tight, so hot, her inner muscles clenching around you reflexively.
"Are you okay?" you ask again.
"Yeah," she whispers, her hands coming up to cup your face. "I'm okay." She gives you a watery, shaky smile. "Hi."
You chuckle, the sound wet and shaky. "Hi."
You stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together, letting her body adjust to the feeling of you. You kiss her again, and again, long, slow, deep kisses that say everything you can't find the words for. Eventually, the tension bleeds out of her completely, and her hips give a small, tentative tilt upwards. It’s a signal. She’s ready.
You pull back just a little, then slowly push back in. She moans, a low, throaty sound, and this time, it’s pure pleasure. You do it again, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm. It’s clumsy and awkward at first. You’re both virgins, learning the dance together. But you find it. You find a pace that makes her gasp, that makes her bite her lip, that makes her eyes roll back in her head.
The rhythm you fall into is painstaking. It’s a slow, deliberate cadence born of terror and adoration. Every forward press is a question, every retreat a moment to gauge her reaction. Your entire universe has contracted to the space between your bodies, to the look in her eyes, the sound of her breathing. You are so focused on her face, watching for the slightest flicker of pain, that you are barely aware of the incredible friction, the overwhelming tightness of her body sheathing yours.
She is your metronome. Her ragged breaths set your pace. Her small, involuntary winces make you slow down even further. Her hands are gripping your shoulders, her knuckles white, but it’s not to push you away. It’s to hold on, anchoring herself to you as her body is introduced to this entirely new, world-altering sensation.
After a few shallow, cautious thrusts, you pull back almost completely. You need to see, to be sure. As you withdraw, a faint, dark crimson smear comes with you, stark the clear latex of the condom.
Your blood runs cold. You freeze instantly. "Shit. Jiwoo, you're bleeding."
You start to pull out, a wave of guilt and panic crashing over you. You hurt her.
"No," she says, her hands tighten on your shoulders, holding you in place. "Don't stop."
"But you're bleeding," you repeat stupidly, your mind blanking. "I hurt you."
She opens her eyes. They are shimmering with moisture, but they are clear and steady. "I know," she says, impossibly calm. "It's okay. It's supposed to happen. It's just my stupid hymen." She says the clinical word with a flash of her usual cynical annoyance, as if it’s a faulty piece of equipment. "It doesn't even really hurt anymore. It just… stings a little." She looks at you. "Please don't stop. I want you inside me."
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
You begin to move again, even more slowly this time, if that’s even possible. You watch as the initial, sharp tension in her body begins to dissolve. The tight coil of discomfort at her core is slowly, miraculously, starting to unwind. Her breathing, which was shallow and tight in her chest, begins to deepen. The small, pained gasps are gradually being replaced by something else. Something lower, softer. A moan.
It’s quiet at first, a little hum in the back of her throat that she tries to swallow. But you feel it, a vibration that travels through her body and into yours. You chase that sound. You adjust your angle slightly, a fractional shift of your hips, and the hum becomes a genuine, audible moan, low and sweet.
Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flutter open. They’re hazy, unfocused. "Oh," she breathes out. "That's… different."
"Different good?" you ask.
"Yeah," she says, a slow, dazed smile spreading across her face. "Different really, really good."
The fear of hurting her begins to recede, replaced by a new, thrilling objective: finding what feels good for her. It’s a fumbling, awkward process. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re working on pure instinct and the feedback of her body. You try a slightly deeper thrust, and she gasps, her hips lifting off the bed to meet you. Okay, deeper is good. You change the angle again, pressing against what you hope is the right spot, and she lets out a sharp, surprised cry, her back arching. *
That spot. Definitely that spot.
You fall into a new rhythm, one aimed at that specific place. Every thrust is deliberate, focused. The sound of your bodies meeting is a wet, slick slap that echoes in the room. Her moans are no longer hesitant. They are open and unashamed.
"Oh my god," she pants, her head tossing back and forth on the pillow. "How did I not know? How can… something feel like this?"
Her hands are no longer just gripping you for support. They are exploring. They roam over your back, her nails scraping lightly over your skin. She pulls you down closer, her mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, kissing you with a desperate, frantic energy.
The slickness between her legs increases, her own wetness mixing with the small amount of blood, making every movement smoother, easier. The tightness is still there, an incredible, perfect pressure, but now it feels like an embrace. Her body is welcoming you, yielding to you, rising to meet you. She is no longer a passive recipient of your movements. She’s an active participant, her hips beginning to move in a clumsy but eager rhythm of their own, tilting up to meet each of your thrusts.
"Is this okay?" she asks as she tries to match your pace. "Am I doing it right?"
"You're perfect," you groan, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent. "You're so perfect."
You move inside her for a few more long, luxurious moments, watching her face transform. Her eyes are closed, her brows furrowed, but it’s in concentration now, not pain. You slow to a stop, remaining buried deep inside her. Her eyes flutter open, hazy and questioning.
"Hey," you whisper. "You wanna… try?" You gesture vaguely with your head. "On top? You can control it. The speed, the depth. Everything."
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of her earlier nervousness returning. But it’s quickly replaced by a determined glint. This is Jiwoo, after all. She’s the frontwoman, the leader. The idea of taking control, of being the one to drive the rhythm, clearly appeals to her on a fundamental level.
"Yes," she breathes, full of a sudden, fierce desire. "Okay. Yes."
The transition is a clumsy, beautiful ballet of tangled limbs and breathless laughter. You pull out of her slowly, the sound wet and obscene. She whines at the feeling of emptiness, a sound that makes your cock pulse. You help her sit up, and she swings a leg over you, her movements unsure. She positions herself over you, straddling your hips, looking down at your erection with a renewed sense of awe and a little bit of intimidation.
"Okay," she says, mostly to herself. "Just… guide it in?"
You reach down and take your own cock in your hand, positioning the tip at her entrance, which is now slick with her wetness and the faint trace of her blood. She takes a deep, shaky breath, her hands resting on your chest for balance, and slowly, carefully, lowers herself onto you.
The feeling of her sinking down onto you, inch by agonizing inch, is a completely different kind of pleasure. It’s a slow, deliberate claiming. You watch her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. You feel her stretch around you, feel her body accepting you fully once again. When you are completely seated inside her, she lets out a long, shuddering sigh and collapses forward, her forehead resting on your shoulder.
"Fuck," she whispers. "That feels… so full."
You just hold her for a moment, your hands resting on the soft curve of her hips, letting her get used to the feeling. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she whispers. "Now what?"
You chuckle. "Now you move."
Her first attempts are endearingly awkward. She pushes up with her knees, rising high off you, then dropping back down with a jarring bounce that makes you both grunt. It’s uncoordinated, more like she’s trying to do a squat than have sex.
"Like this?" she asks.
"It’s a start," you say, trying not to laugh. You slide your hands from her hips to her ass, cupping her cheeks. "Try… try rocking. More of a circle. Not just up and down."
You guide her, pushing her hips forward, then pulling them back. A slow, grinding motion. She follows your lead, her body stiff and uncertain at first.
"Oh," she says, as you guide her forward, your cockhead pressing against the front wall of her cunt. "Okay. Oh."
That’s the spot. She feels it too. A switch flips. She stops trying to think her way through it and starts to feel her way through it. Her movements become less mechanical, more fluid. She closes her eyes, a look of intense concentration on her face, like she’s trying to find the pocket of a groove in a new bass line. Her hips begin to roll, a slow, sensual figure-eight. She’s not just moving on you anymore; she’s riding you.
Her hair, a curtain of dark silk, falls around her face as she leans into it. Her hands leave your chest and brace themselves on the mattress on either side of your head. Her back arches, and a low, steady moan begins to build in her throat. She finds her rhythm. It’s slow, deep, and powerful. She is in complete control, and she fucking loves it.
For you, it’s paradise. You are lying back, hands now free to roam her body, and you have a perfect, breathtaking view of her. You watch her breasts sway with her movements, watch the muscles in her flat stomach clench with every rotation of her hips. You watch her face, now completely unguarded, contorted in an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, and it’s you who is doing it to her.
"Right… there," she pants out, her rhythm quickening as she grinds down on you, hitting that spot again and again. "Oh, fuck. Don't stop. Don't… let me stop."
Her awkwardness has been incinerated, her pace quickens, the slow, sensual grind evolving into a hard, desperate pounding. She’s riding you like she’s trying to drive you straight through the mattress, her hips slamming down onto yours with a force that steals your breath. A wild, desperate little laugh bubbles out of her.
"Oh my god," she gasps. "We're actually doing this. We're fucking. It's so good. Fuck, it's so good."
The friction is building, an intense, coiling heat deep inside her. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, clean line from her chin to her collarbones. Her moans are no longer soft or hesitant; they are raw, open-throated cries that she makes no attempt to stifle. She is completely lost to the sensation, her body moving on pure, primal instinct.
"I'm… I think I'm close," she pants, her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh my god, I'm going to… on your cock. I'm going to cum."
"Good," you groan. You reach up, your hands finding her hips, and you begin to buck up into her, meeting her frantic pace with your own, driving her higher, faster. "Let go, Jiwoo. Come for me."
Her whole body seizes. A keening, high-pitched cry is torn from her throat, but it's swallowed by your mouth as she collapses forward, her lips finding yours in a desperate, frantic kiss. It's a kiss of pure release, salty with her tears and sweat, and you drink it all in. You feel her climax wash over you, the powerful, fluttering convulsions of her inner muscles clenching around your cock in a tight, spasming grip that is almost enough to send you over the edge yourself. She shudders in your arms, riding the last waves of her release, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip as little aftershocks ripple through her.
Slowly, so slowly, her convulsions subside. Her body goes limp, and she rests her full weight on you, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Her breathing is a series of long, shuddering gasps. You just hold her, your own body thrumming with a vicarious, overwhelming pleasure. You run your hands up and down her back, a soothing, grounding touch.
"How was that?" you whisper into her hair. "You okay?"
She lifts her head, her face a beautiful, glorious wreck. Her eyes are unfocused, her pupils blown wide, and a dazed, beatific smile is plastered on her face. She looks like she’s just seen God.
"That," she breathes out, "was the best thing in the entire fucking world."
You can't help but laugh. Seeing her like this, so completely and utterly undone by a pleasure you helped give her, is more satisfying than any orgasm you could have imagined. But your own is not far behind. The feeling of her muscles still fluttering around your shaft is an exquisite, unbearable torture.
"I'm almost there," you murmur.
"Good," she says. "Great. Let's make you cum again, too."
Before you can fully process what she means, she pushes herself up and swings her leg off you. The feeling of you pulling out of her slick, hot channel is agonizing. She gets out of bed, and kneels on the floor. You move, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, she reaches down and takes the base of the condom between her thumb and forefinger. With one smooth, deliberate motion, she rolls it off your still-throbbing erection, tossing the used prophylactic onto the floor without a second glance.
"My turn," she says.
She leans forward, her hair brushing against your inner thighs, and takes you into her mouth.
This time, there is no hesitation. No awkwardness. No fumbling uncertainty. She knows what she’s doing now. She knows what you like. She knows how to use her lips, her tongue, her throat. She sucks you with a greedy, practiced confidence that is absolutely staggering, given that she learned how to do this less than an hour ago. The suction is stronger, her movements more assured. She licks and swirls and takes you as deep as she can, her throat muscles working, and the only thing that stops her from gagging is the sheer force of her will.
"Fuck, Jiwoo," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets again. The feeling of her warm, wet mouth on your bare skin, raw and unprotected, is a thousand times more intense than it was with the condom. Every nerve ending is on fire.
She pulls off you for a second, leaving you slick and glistening in the dim light. Her hand immediately replaces her mouth, wrapping around your shaft in a tight, expert grip. She starts to stroke you, a fast, steady rhythm, her eyes never leaving yours.
"You like that?" she whispers. "You like the way my hand feels?" She quickens the pace, watching your face, her thumb stroking your frenulum with an unnerving accuracy. "You're so close again. I can feel it." Her other hand comes to rest on your thigh, her fingers digging in slightly. "You held back for me before. Don't hold back this time. I want to see you lose control. I want you to come for me. Beg me for it."
You are completely at her mercy, a puppet on her strings. "Please," you gasp out. "Please, Jiwoo. I'm going to cum."
"Not yet," she says. She stops stroking you and her mouth descends again, sucking you hard, pulling the orgasm right to the edge before she pulls away again, leaving you hanging on a precipice of unbearable pleasure. She looks down at her own body, at her breasts, still flushed and sensitive from your earlier attention. "You said they were cute," she murmurs. She looks back up at you. "So why don't you come on them? I want to feel it. I want you to paint me."
"I'm going to," you groan, your hips beginning to buck uncontrollably. "I'm coming."
She sees the change in your eyes. She knows you’re at the point of no return. She leans forward and captures your cock in her mouth one last time, sucking you with a frantic, desperate speed, milking you, pulling the orgasm from the very base of your spine.
It’s even more intense than the first one, a full-body, convulsive release that blanks out your vision. Just before the first pulse, she pulls off you, her hand taking over, aiming you like a weapon.
Your hot, thick seed spurts from you in thick, heavy ropes, splattering across her chest. You keep coming, wave after wave, and she just watches, a look of pure, fascinated awe on her face as you cover her. Your cum paints her, decorating her collarbones, pooling in the valley between her perfect breasts, a single stray shot even landing on the side of her neck.
She moans as she feels the warmth of your release on her skin. She doesn't flinch or try to wipe it away. She revels in it. She is your canvas. You have marked her, claimed her.
When the last tremor has faded and you are completely, utterly spent, you collapse back onto the pillows, your body limp, your mind a blissful, empty void.
Jiwoo doesn't move. She just stays there, kneeling before you, looking at the mess you’ve made of her. Then, she leans forward one last time. Her mouth, soft and warm, closes over the head of your now-softening cock, and she gently, tenderly, licks you clean.
She pulls away, a single drop of your cum glistening on her swollen lower lip. She looks at you, her eyes full of a deep, profound, and slightly terrifying affection. She smiles, a soft, intimate, secret smile that is just for you.
You look at her, enchanted for a moment, before smiling back at your girlfriend.
—
The world comes back into focus slowly. You’re lying on your back on the couch. Jiwoo is curled up beside you, her head resting on your thigh. She’s wearing one of your old band t-shirts - a faded, ridiculously oversized Ramones shirt that swallows her slender frame, the hem brushing her mid-thighs. Her hair is damp from the shower you took together, a messy, tangled affair of silent soaping and soft, lingering touches under the hot spray. She’s scrolling idly through her phone. She looks so soft, so peaceful, it’s hard to reconcile this version of her with the feral goddess from your bedroom or the commanding rockstar from the festival stage. She is all of them. And she is yours.
You’re just starting to drift off, lulled by the quiet intimacy and the rhythmic tap of her thumb on the screen, when the familiar sound of your front door crashing open shatters the peace.
"We come bearing gifts and gossip!" Kotone’s voice bellows through the house, followed by the stomping of multiple pairs of boots.
The usual invasion. You don’t even flinch. A moment later, all three of them (Kotone, Yooyeon, and Chaeyeon) spill into the living room. Chaeyeon is clutching a stack of pizza boxes so large it obscures her face. They are all talking at once, a loud, overlapping cacophony about the festival afterparty, some argument a rival band had backstage, and the quality of the free beer.
They come to an abrupt, simultaneous halt in the middle of your living room. The chatter dies instantly. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on the domestic scene in the living room: you sitting peacefully on the couch and Jiwoo curled up against you in your clothes, looking utterly unbothered.
Jiwoo doesn't even look up from her phone at first. She just lets out a long, put-upon sigh. "What?" she asks with boredom, as if she can’t imagine why they’re all staring.
"Nothing," Yooyeon says, a little too quickly. Her eyes dart between you and Jiwoo. "So… is this, like, official now?"
Jiwoo finally locks her phone and sets it aside. She pushes herself up slightly, leaning back on her elbows, and looks at them, her expression unreadable. Then she looks at you. There’s a silent question in her eyes. You give her a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s her call. It’s always been her call.
A tiny smirk plays on her lips. She looks back at her bandmates. "Yeah," she says, super casually. "We talked. We're dating now."
A collective, dramatic sigh of relief ripples through the group.
"Fucking finally!" Chaeyeon exclaims, carefully setting the mountain of pizza on your coffee table. "Jesus Christ, it took you long enough. We were about to start a betting pool on which decade it would finally happen."
You sit up, causing Jiwoo to shift into a more upright position beside you, though she doesn’t move away. "Wait, you guys knew?" you ask, genuinely surprised. "You knew she liked me?"
All three of them snort in derisive unison.
"Dude," Kotone says, shaking her head in disbelief as she collapses onto the armchair. "Everyone knew. Stevie Wonder could see it. The way she stared at you when you weren't looking? The way she only let you hug her for more than three seconds?”
"Remember that time at The Gutter?" Yooyeon adds. "When that huge security guard was giving you shit for being backstage without a pass, and Jiwoo looked like she was about to smash her bass over his head?"
"Okay, shut up!" Jiwoo snaps. "He was being an asshole."
"He was," Yooyeon agrees. "But you were ready to commit a felony, and a cardinal sin against instruments, for your 'platonic friend'." She uses air quotes, her grin widening.
"Since you two ditched us to celebrate, we brought the celebration to you," Chaeyeon announces, changing the subject and saving Jiwoo from further embarrassment. She flips open the top pizza box, revealing a glistening, perfect pie. "We even bought."
You raise an eyebrow. "You bought pizza? With money?"
"Don't get used to it," Kotone warns. "This is a one-time-only historic event."
The mood shifts instantly from interrogation to celebration. You get up and grab four beers from the fridge, tossing one to each of them. You crack one open and hand it to Jiwoo, who takes it with a grateful smile. The pizza boxes are open, and everyone is grabbing slices, talking with their mouths full. It feels like home.
"Alright, a toast!" Yooyeon declares, raising her bottle.
"What are we toasting to?" you ask, leaning back against the couch, Jiwoo now nestled comfortably under your arm.
"To a killer set that put us on the map," Yooyeon says.
"To finally getting a record deal!" Chaeyeon adds hopefully.
"And," Kotone says, looking pointedly at you and Jiwoo, "to the official, long-overdue beginning of a beautiful, and probably very dramatic, relationship."
Everyone clinks their bottles together. You look down at Jiwoo, and she looks up at you, her dark eyes shining in the dim light. She gives you a shy smile and you kiss her temple.
There’s a beat of comfortable silence as everyone demolishes their pizza. Then, Chaeyeon, her expression one of pure, shameless curiosity, looks between you. "So… did you guys… you know?" She wiggles her eyebrows.
"That is deeply personal and absolutely none of your business," you start to say, “It's something personal that only concerns me and-”
"Yes," Jiwoo cuts you off, completely devoid of shame. She takes a long sip of her beer, then looks at them with a smug smile. "And it was fucking amazing."
An explosive cheer erupts from the girls. Kotone wolf-whistles, and Yooyeon raises her bottle again. "To that, too!" she shouts, and they all clink their bottles together again, laughing. Jiwoo just leans her head against your shoulder, her body shaking with silent laughter.
Well, from now on, this is gonna be your life, and it's messy and fucking loud. It’s your quiet, orderly world being constantly, joyfully invaded by chaos. It’s late-night rehearsals in your garage, the floor littered with cables and empty takeout containers. It’s the smell of Jiwoo’s shampoo on your pillows, her bass picks left on your nightstand, her ridiculously oversized shirts becoming a staple of your laundry basket. It’s the quiet moments on the couch after the storm of her bandmates has passed, her head on your lap, her hand in yours, your fingers intertwined. It’s Jiwoo, fierce and vulnerable, a rockstar and a shy girl all at once, looking at you with eyes so familiar, eyes that now carry your whole world. It wasn't the love story you ever expected, but standing here, in the middle of the beautiful, glorious noise, you know it’s the only one you'll ever need.
SYNOPSIS : I woke to my girl, Yooyeon, next to me while she was still a sleep. I realized it was Saturday, the start of our small 2 day vacation. Which made me recall what she said before, that if I ever caught her being lazy on her off day I could do anything I wanted. That's just how determine she was to achieve, and for me, I been having that ass on my mind.
MASTERLIST
1.6K WORDS
(P.S. Think of this as a tribute to, what I fear, this world has lost. Which is the beautiful ass of Kim Yooyeon, with her weight lost also there goes the perfect idol. The world has truly lost a gem🙏)
With a great opportunity to feed my carving for my girlfriends ass, I dove under the blankets. As I lifted the bottom of her shirt exposing the waistband of her pajamas pants. Knowing what's on the other side of this thin breathable material, made me excitedly slide my fingers behind the waistband, and careful slide her pants & panties down. As it exposed her stomach which I couldn't help but kiss it & throw in a few licks, while my hands were sliding her bottoms off. Once my hands took her bottoms off, I made my way down between her legs opening them very slowly;
Hoping not wake her up because if she does, she wouldn't let me enjoy. Since Yooyeon is the type to like to be in control but can act like she isn't; Gaslighting me for her own amusement & entertainment.
As I got her legs open, I got a strong scent of Yooyeon's musk. With it hitting my nose, I could feel my dick throbbing; While I started with kissing her inner thighs, so I went from smelling to tasting her musk as I made my way to her center. I kissed her clit and gave it a tongue flick, to show it acknowledgement but today is all about her ass. With the kiss, her legs adjusted making think she was awake. So I peeped my head out of the blankets to check.
ME : " hey bae, you awake?"
She didn't have the slightest response, so I took that as her body flinching. I went back to exploring her holes as I traced them with the tip of my tongue; While I made my way down to her asshole which held the strongest scent of her musk. Introducing her asshole to my tongue, as I moved it circular motions tracing outline of her rim, dipping in & out of the wrinkles on her tight muscle ring. Loosening it up for my tongue to spread it open, as I push it through having her muscle ring grip it. Which gave me enough room to also introduce a finger as I was working it in & out of her ass, having her asshole gape enough to replace my tongue with two more fingers. Making it three fingers in & out of her as, having it make wet gaping sounds as air went in & out while I was lick the stretched out rim. In the middle of this I felt her hands slowly make their way to the back of my head, trying hold it in place as her legs were slowly rising up. This made me realize she was awake this entire time. So I popped up out of the blankets sending them off of the bed, exposing her naked body to morning sun light. Seeing every beautiful inch of her body light up as I lean a little closer, making my dick line up perfectly with her gaping asshole with a rectum that has been primed to get filled.
ME : "So you been awake the entire time huh?"
All she did was look at me with puppy eyes and nod. This made just going in for a passionate morning kiss that turned into a make out. I finally pulled back to see Yooyeon's face.
ME : "Why are you smiling?"
YOOYEON : "Well I was too lazy to wash up after a long day, so I change into my pajamas and jumped into bed! I'm just impressed with myself! Because even though yesterday, I fell asleep in my own sweat and it's first thing in the morning! But my most nasty dirtiest place still taste good!!!"
ME : " OH! You a dirty nasty slut!!"
Yooyeon responded to that by pulling me in close, and whispering in my ear with a deep, seductive, commanding tone.
YOOYEON: "Don't act like a pervert like you doesn't like my nasty holes!!! I know you been craving this ass, I seen how you been staring at it these couple of days!!! So how about filling my ass with that big pervert cock of yours!!! After all I can feel how the tip is throbbing right on my asshole!!! How it wants to spread open my shit hole so badly!!! So if I'm a dirty nasty slut, what does that make you, who loves it?"
Hearing this put a smile on my face, as she pulled her head back with a sassy look on her face. Which quickly turn into a face that was corrupted by the guilty pleasure of suddenly getting her asshole spread open, and her ass filled with cock. As her mouth drops open with eyes widened like I took her breath away, with a single thrust of my hips. While I lowered my face just enough to have the tips of our nose touching.
ME : " That makes me the luckiest man in the world!!! To have such a beautiful, smart, dirt slut as my girlfriend!!!"
I was trying to fight the need to cum, and I guess Yooyeon saw that on my face. As her giggling caught my attention.
YOOYEON : " What is it too much for you? All that time spend wanting to fuck my ass! And yet you'll going to leave the cake half eaten! Is okay, go ahead cum in my ass already! It was fun while it lasted, because I guess it's too much for a little boy like you! I don't blame you, this ass would be too much for anybody!!"
As she had a big smirk on her face, while she smiled at me with her eyes. This facial expression had me frustrated, she was practically having a face that said "he, he, he, he"
ME : " Shut up slut!!! I don't know why you're so smug. I'm the one fucking you in the ass!!! Turn around I don't want to see that smug look!!!"
With that the frustration I was feeling made it easier not to cum, as I flipped her on to her stomach.
YOOYEON : "Somebody is mad! They can't handle my nasty little dirty shit hole? It's about to drain you dry isn't!? you nasty pervert cum inside something so dirty, especially when I have such nice tight clean shaven pussy!"
Now I was facing her ass, while I was fucking & spanking. Which had her burying her face into the pillow biting it, while gripping the sheets. Making it easy for her to muffle her moans, as I was thrusting into her ass feeling her warm tight rectum welcoming me in. Gripping my dick as if it didn't want me to leave it empty when I pulled out.
ME : "Yeah, that's what I thought what happened to the dirty overly smug slut? That was talking all big? Look at you! You are nothing more than anal bitch with the fattest ass I have see on idol..... it's do annoying why you have to act like a stuck up princess?"
She supported herself on my dick, and used for turning around as she pulled me into her. With Yooyeon having a serious facial expression, she looked directly into my eyes and spoke to me in a serious direct no bs tone.
YOOYEON : " Because you are mine! This dick is mine!!! You understand me??? You are nothing but mine!!! I can & will do anything I want to do to you..."
As she moved her mouth next to my ear, and whispered in a heavy deep tone.
YOOYEON : " And you are going to love it!!! Love every single touch, every breath that you feel on your body, every drop of my saliva that hits you!!!"
She paused to give one long lick to my cheek, and went back to my ear with the same tone; But this time it had a hint of happiness.
YOOYEON : " Because there's nothing you can do about it!!!"
Followed by her pushing me off, having me laying on my back; Next to her as she straddle me while slowly taking in my dick into her ass, causing her to fill up the room a dragged out moan that ended with a whimper. As she hanged her head while she was out breath; she gather her strength up and started to slam her hips down. To tease me more, she leaned back, opening her legs wide giving me a clear view of her pussy & asshole that was getting stretched out.
YOOYEON : "So go ahead and cum in this nasty dirty hole! Because that's all you can do!! You don't get this tight smooth pussy!!!"
As she reached down eagle spreading her pussy lips, making her throbbing clit pop out. With that I had enough, so in hopes of trying to take some control; I reached down getting two strong handfuls of her ass, and started to thrust upwards as I used my hold on her ass; To help her slam her ass down even harder while I picked up the pace of my thrusting. Which made the room get filled with the sound of sweaty, wet, gaping asshole being filled combine with Yooyeon's moaning. As she finally broke again, had her upper lean into me with her mouth next to my ear; While she kept slamming her ass down with my help, and trying to talk through her moans.
YOOYEON : "Oh!...my god...this dick...is amazing...I'm about... to cum... from getting...my ass fucked...this dick...is making me addicted... I don't want ... to leave... forget being... an ...idol... I wanna.... be yours...I'm sorry... I'm a slutty woman!!!"
It didn't take long before I filled her ass with my cum, which made her squirt all over me; As she collapse into me tired, sleepy, and out breath she softly whisper in my ear.
YOOYEON : "I love you!!! Please don't leave me for being a busy slutty woman"
Gonna add as a side-quest a new series, using a plot that i had in mind since i saw the first Club Icarus for requests/ideas of the tripleS girls, although first chapter will be Yooyeon and Mayu, and the theme will be cosplay (cowkini, qipao, something like the evangelion suits... recomendations are welcome) Leave ideas on the coments or dm here.
or:
ELEGIES to forget all these metaphors for fucking
read on fanprose (better dividers)
7k words
sohyun x male reader
Your coffee, she says. Sliding it to you.
Spat in?
Of course.
And it's flawless, because she makes it flawless - which is the true cruelty of it.
You reply: for the record, I poison the food, trace amounts, bioaccumulative. you'll go quietly in your sleep the week before you become partner, and i'll be left to grieve into your half of a security deposit
we are never seeing that deposit again because you put your fist through the drywall demonstrating a rear naked choke
You said you felt unsafe walking to the subway
I feel unsafe walking to the kitchen, thank you very much. She turns a page she was reading - now drink your spit.
Gladly
You'd had this apartment since you were both broke - instant-noodle broke, splitting one metrocard broke, the sort of broke that's almost fun in the rearview because you survived it by the skin of your teeth.
Now she bills more in an hour than the rent. You do something with capital you've stopped trying to explain at parties - rather, take a middle distance, talk about all the publishing companies you've sponsored. exclaim books aren't dead after all! [1]
[1] of course, the irony of it is that they are, kind of dead
The radiator finds a new place to leak everyday, the second bathroom is a closet on account of all the pipe failures - and you have to pass by her bedroom to go to the bathroom. You'll take your grim - as she says - 4-in-1 facial cleanser, moisturizer, toner, window cleaner beside her 70 products to - as she says, to look like a porcelain cup. Either of you could leave tomorrow. But you don't.
I'm making you a tinder profile you say, taking her phone off the counter, sliding in the code to her phone.
I don't need a profile
You need a life. Or, at minimum, an orgasm that isn't self-induced.
She scoffs at the answer, still focused on the book -
You read aloud what you type in: emotionally available between the hours of never and also never.
Keep going. I'm aroused.
Lawyer, with three working holes
She sets the book down - this is how you know you've drawn blood - give me the phone
Make me
You had reserved a restaurant for the two of you, this new restaurant that was supposed to be great according to 15 google reviews who probably were the owner's extended family - doing their due diligence to make sure that this specific child doesn't become the family disappointment.
As always, the food comes out less than satisfactory; all the dishes are doused in butter; and the salad section was the most calorically dense section of the menu. You whisper about how much better you can make each of these dishes back home - and she'll agree, for once:
You ruined restaurants for me. I used to enjoy being disappointed by the $20 millennial man-bun burger. Now there's a douchebag at home who makes a great burger.
my pleasure with a smile.
She's scrolling tinder, still scrolling ever since the morning. Look at this, look at what's available to me. This one opened with the word 'yes'.
Atleast he's confident about it.
Oh please... she sighs, and this one wanted to know - whether i would rather have one thumb for a tongue or a tongue on every finger.
What did you land on. I think the tongue on every finger -
Nothing! It's so impractical, i'd rather think about - i don't know, vigorously masturbating.
You choke on some food you were actively chewing on, and she giggles - of course she does - and this one spelled 'pussy' wrong, this one wrote 'wyd 2nite' and I just have to scoff - how lazy do you have to be. It is ONE keystroke. T-O.
She drops the phone facedown, Who raised these men. Who looked at a child and thought: i will release this, unfinished, into the apps.
You'd know more about raising them, if you'd dated more than one person since the Pleistocene.
Atleast I committed, you - you just find anybody to fuck around with. She points at you, still chewing the complimentary bread - there was that one with the lululemon workout gear, said that's her sexpertise - she mimics a gag - then the DJ. The other DJ. Then I think there was another fucking DJ. I just genuinely -
Respect the hustle, Sohyun.
Respect the hustle? Your dick has commitment issues.
You laugh, and she's laughing too, the helpless one she hates, hand over her mouth, a soft cackle, perfect, uneven teeth showing - and you pay before she can fight you about it.
There's a dress shop two blocks down, on the way back to your apartment - and there's a green dress of something very expensive, to which she slows just a tad for -
You: Try it.
No thanks. It's ten thousand dollars with a tag.
So is everything you own. And then, you can't help it, it's right there - you lower your voice into something oily, shriveled, all menace, Let your uncle get it for you.
Absolutely not, strike it from the record
Uncle's had a very good quarter sweetheart. You pat a pocket. Uncle wants to see you in the green one.
I will call the actual police, I will have you locked up in maximum security - but, that laugh, she can't help herself, laughing into her hand - ...does uncle want to come in - watch me try it?
And for once, neither of you has the line to pull back.
...That got away from us, you manage, like something's lodged in your throat
That got away from you. She says. Buy me the dress, uncle. I've earned it.
Of course. You buy it.
The weekend arrives with the both of you brushing in the same bathroom, the only usable bathroom. She gargles, lets the foam clear away before slotting a length of floss between her teeth - By the way, I've a date today
With a... functioning human being?
His name is Mark. He used a semicolon correctly, nearly proposed on the spot.
So he's unemployed
He's a structural engineer, building the finest bridges.
Man who builds bridges and stays punctual - sounds like you matched with linkedin premium.
He's nice. Two long relationships, both ending kindly. Tips like he's apologizing for capitalism.
...So a serial killer?
He's just nice, man. She moves to throw the length of loss away.
Nobody's just nice. 4 months later the neighbors will find the crawlspace. You amble a comb through your hair. and then, I'll say I told you so.
She presses an index finger into your gut and you reflexively jolt - save this barking for later, uncle.
You move into the living room, waiting for Sohyun to get ready. You didn't get to see her in a green dress yet -
Uncle, I'm ready. She says, behind the door.
This uncle bit is getting old, Sohy - She comes out, the green dress skims her curves, the v-neck that presses her cleavage together, gleaming hair, glowing skin, plump lips -
Eyes up here mister.
Right. Get a hold of yourself - yeah, it looks great. Like, I don't know, it's like an accidentally sexy librarian.
Your eyes are fixed to my cleavage, I'm not even sure if you got the full view.
You did, you definitely did. This is, without a doubt, the hottest woman you've ever seen.
Now, help me zip up this thing.
There's the long bare reach of her back, you drag it up slowly, the zipper is small and your hands are big and you don't want to waste a moment of counting all the moles on her back.
I'm sorry but there won't be a person left in this city who hasn't looked down the front of that dress you say, pulling the zipper by parts.
Here I was, hoping the one exception was you.
Afraid not. You move some hairs away from her nape to get the zipper fully closed.
And she turns again, the dress comes out even more pressed to her curves, and that v-neck, god almighty. She steps into the heels -
I'm picturing it, you - a human - and this... linkedin premium.
God please no
I'm picturing it - two barbie dolls in the dark, knocking smooth plastic parts together. You say, vulgarity be damned.
Please stop talking - a familiar twitch to her mouth, god what you would do to continue living with her.
He won't get anywhere regardless, you add, holding out her coat unasked. Ten years with one man, a year of nothing since: there are cobwebs in there.
You know what's charming about the women you date? she says, taking the coat. How they all vanish after exactly one dinner. Like you're running a very tidy little murder operation
You know what's charming about the men you date? They don't exist. Mark is the first confirmed sighting. That's a million dollar sighting. Rarer than bigfoot.
Mark exists.
We'll see if he survives contact. Go easy on him, castrator
Don't need to go easy, dahmer. He's structurally sound. She slings a bag over her shoulder. Dont wait up.
You wait up, badly: lights off, a finance newsletter open on your phone that you're not reading, slouching on the couch like a man who is definitely not watching the door, ambling away the scalding minutes.
The lock turns at around eight PM. She comes in on the green dress and a drunk smile -
So, you say
So. She drops her shoes
How was Marco
Mark - she says, with emphasis - was wonderful.
And something about it feels wrong. Like swallowing something that's whole, cratering its path through your esophagus. Wonderful how, be specific, treat it as a deposition.
He's funny, actually funny, she pads into the kitchen, where you've already moved, filling two glasses of wine - we didn't stop talking. Three whole hours of talking, they flipped the chairs onto the tables around us.
Insufferable
There's a second date, a sip from the wine, a gentle smile on her. You wouldn't know the feeling.
Conversation's never been my deliverable.
No. I've seen your deliverable. It leaves before the coffee and changes its phone number
It leaves satisfied, you gesture, A courtesy Mark may never trouble you with
She hops up onto the counter, legs swinging in a gentle rhythm. And that dress - your dress, your genuinely terrible idea - pressed high to her thigh, all pretense of hem gone, riding clean all the way to the upper -
You'd buy it anyway. You'd buy it on leverage you don't have -
Oh please, monk of the orgasm temple. She scoffs. "Satisfied." Then tips her head, lowers the lashes, entering this little play that she imagines your women sing: I see you across the bar and - gosh (this emphasis on the trashiest possible gosh) - you really want me to put my tongue there!? I've never done that before. Sweet as a song. Does that play? On the book-illiterate?
Devastatingly so, you say. You should audition to be one of these... book-illiterates. I'm always casting.
No thanks. I've got a second date to look forward to.
Do you even get to the regular stuff, you ask, or do you have to bury the body first?
Now - she aims the empty glass at your sternum - you're trying to get me worked up.
You retrieve the glass, but up close she's all wine-warmth, hot perfume, the gentle trace of another man's cologne, and your body, traitorous as it is, gets worked up.
Oh my god. she says, looking down, radiant, with a ticking-time-bomb of a laugh - is that what I think it is?
Quickly, try to play it off - Don't flatter yourself, I was outside for a while and walked past alot of women - and she catches the lie like it's nothing, scoffing: You walked past, maybe, a leaking radiator.
The radiator's been forward lately. I haven't wanted to make it weird.
Should've seen it sooner, looks like we're arranging the date soon for the radiator fucker, she rules.
Oh, but I'm shy - an awful pitch to your voice.
And there's this soft silence, like nothing's wrong in the world - and Sohyun's grinning at you, wine marking her lips a tad darker, like you could just -
She tilts her head, openly appraising - I've always had a soft spot, she murmurs, for the small and the weak.
There's nothing small about me
You bring your dick up an awful lot. She slides off the counter and lands close. I wonder what that means.
It means you keep looking. I knew you would.
I wanted a visual, she says, It'll be giving me nightmares for weeks, thank you very much.
And then nothing's said. Kitchen too small, this green dress too close, the fact that you've got a hard-on to her and she... Fucking. Knows.
Goodnight, Dahmer she brushes past - because she has never once let you have the last move - and goes down the hall to her bedroom
And you're fine.
Completely fucking fine.
A month passes, Mark, the angel Sohyun's in love with has her busy on the weekends, letting her experience the city for what it's worth, letting her live a life she's missed out on for years.
He texts you on a Tuesday. Apparently I've been dating your roommate a month and never once bought her roommate a drink. Let me fix that - Friday? Sohyun's in, obviously.
You go to hate him - an agenda that Sohyun is already aware of. They're already there in the corner booth, two of them sitting next to eachother - and Mark rises to shake your hand. Tall and good-looking, how cliche - like he's never been escorted out of a holiday party by the shoulders.
You came. Mark says. Sohyun bet me twenty you'd bail.
I should have. I had a flawless evening of resenting you from across the city already booked. You slide in across from them.
So, you say. Bridges, tell me about the one that collapsed. The bodies, all the bodies.
None of mine have collapsed
That you know of.
He won an award, Sohyun interjected.
An award for a bridge that hasnt failed yet - committee's bold then. Waitress brings a beer, foam leaking at the top, and you take a sip - Personally, cantilevers - I say as a layman - overrated.
Overrated how. He gives a pleasant smile
The general load -
You don't know what a cantilever is.
I know it's a kind of bridge
It's mostly a kind of shelf. And he's kind about it, which is just unsufferable. You just came to find something wrong with me.
A felony. An ugly walk. An ugly way of chewing. Maybe you cheer for Arsenal. You reply, suavely.
Sorry to disappoint.
It's enraging. I keep waiting for you to mention the women in the well.
No well, he mock-sighs. HOA's strict.
It's the moment you tip - Has she told you what she actually does? She castrates men for a living. It's all framed back home.
And Sohyun - careful all night, porcelain-beautiful, hair curled to perfection - It's family law, castration for itemization. There's a huge difference.
Then she adds: Don't let him do the wounded act by the way. He's a "venture capitalist" and calls it a vocation.
I also keep a few dying publishers as pets, you tell Mark.
Sohyun, not missing a beat, There's a working theory. I won't bore you with the evidence but it has to do with organs.
There's no evidence. You point at her, then finally finishing the rest of the beer. It's all gone, mysteriously.
Mark interjects: They're not dying, though, the publishers. A little lost.
Oh, they're dying, you and Sohyun say, at the same time, in almost the same key - the both of you laugh.
That's the first time you feel him fall behind. He laughs too - but it's lagged, late.
You always look like you're one step off a knife fight, she tells you.
I'm delighted to be here, actually. Means I'm not off evicting some single mother from a shelter.
That was an accident.
Hmm.
There was a - Mark starts. - a shelter?
Long story, you and she say, in unison, and don't tell it.
He sits back a little.
You mention you came straight up from the office and she says she didn't realize they let people jaunt back and forth over the River Styx[2] like that, and you say there's a small toll, it's all very very very civilized, and Mark says the cross-town traffic this time of night is honestly murder -
[2] Sohyun's foul mouth comes up with a brilliant joke: that you are dead, but you still walk back and forth over the River Styx, which is the boundary from the living world and the underworld in greek mythology. Curse her!
and hears himself, and stops. Lays an arm along the booth behind her, losing the ability to time himself, and just watches. Like this girl was nothing like what he was looking at, something nearer to wonder, a man at the aquarium glass.
She laughs, turning mid-laugh to bring him in, asking isn't this funny, and finds him already looking at her, gone soft and far off, and the laugh snags in her throat.
Mark calls for the check - On me. Least I can do. For the floor show.
Laying -
drunk off my tits
the wine we spilt painting the ground
there's a barrier that jives around his warm face
And I notice then, you could
ruin my life
Chapter 2:
A day later,
You get home, you spot a bottle of something brown open, shining on the island. You're good at connecting dots. There were peonies scattered on the floor (Mark is the one to end things with flowers, pleasant as always).
And she's drunk enough to reach for the old shtick. So. Who's the lucky sixty-nine-year-old you've been ruining lately?
My aunt.
Your aunt's dead.
Which would explain why she's been so pleasantly quiet in bed.
She laughs, then she stares at the open window, ruminating:
I had someone. He left his contacts wilted on the bathroom counter, fossilized into half-globes. I'd come home and want to hear about his day - I mean I really wanted to, almost fetishistic, kiss what was left of the razor burn on his neck. He made the worst scrambled eggs. Rubbery, every morning, and I ate them every time. She turns around: ten years of rubber eggs.
What about you, she asks.
I had a woman. You take a sip of the brown she was drinking. She used to argue about the doneness of pancakes and then put her hands up my shirt and call the whole morning menial, and I'd ask: what purpose do we serve. The answer was always: I'm fine right here.
She sits, lets her head rest back against the cushion. Everyone wants somebody to understand their personality and their childhood and what each of those things has done to the other one. That's the scam of it. You show your pale underbelly, turn your ribs inside out, fashion your whole interiority for them and beg them closer, closer than that, even closer - and they get close enough, and then it's - they're already on the other side, and everything's over.
She picks up the bottle and sips. I feel like an alarm. Wailing. That's the humiliation of wanting. Capitalists fooled us into thinking wanting is shameless. Love takes you to shame two times over. 10 years. A scoff at the number.
You're not an alarm.
That's very funny. She stares past you, calculating the whole of you. A lawyer and a venture capitalist with Beckett on the shelf. He'd write us as two people in bins.
I once saw a pigeon on its back, she says. Alive but dying. It blinked at me, tire-smirched, blood-grizzled. I didn't do anything. I should've stepped on its brain. You know why that's sad? Pigeons know how to hurt but don't know how to sin. She drinks. I'm not sad about me. I get exactly what I deserve.
What do you deserve. You ask.
I don't know. Everything terrible. A man who makes bad eggs.
She's close enough now that you get the liquor and under it the her of her, the scalp, the skin, and you think of the skyscraper poem your ex wrote: how we overextend our necks staring at something enormous, like those mornings when someone's still asleep and their face is so calm and wantless and they're not even being a person yet and they're so perfect you want you want you want.
Do we ask the earth for permission? she says. Do we? There are little arachnids living on our eyelashes right now, clearing our pores and mating under the full moon, and their whole lives depend on us, and they never asked and we never asked - do, we, as arachnids, need permission from our earth?
No.
You press a hot hand to her stocking-clad thigh. She presses a flat hand to your chest, slips a whole hand in between the buttons of your shirt, spreads her fingers over the heartbeat.
Do you feel that, you say. Do you feel what you're doing to me.
You hold her hand there until the urge to kiss the fingertips wins - pen-worn hand, redness at the tips from gripping the legal pad all day, nails short and practical. You lift it, kiss one fingertip, and she makes a sound, this small mewl, and leans forward, mouth to your chest through the shirt, your neck, your jaw. You hold still. If you move you'll move wrong. You'll break whatever calculus she's built in her head to let this happen.
How am I supposed to not want you, you say.
What's the difference between you and other men. They're all horrible.
I'm horrible. But I'm here.
Don't be full of yourself. She pulls you in by the tie. You're preposterous
Her fingertips find a piece of twine protruding from a button and incise it. Your mouth on her shoulder. Her spine under your palm. The heft of her hair hooked left, more kisses, the tendon on her neck, the jaw, her mouth again, and she pulled you by the the tie, left and right, kissing whatever remained unkissed - a gesture so old, as old as the grandmother who named an ocean on her grandfather's wrist, who kissed each knuckle, who drew an island into his palm and told him which parts they would share and which they would leave alone - the open brown, the Francis Bacon print on the wall, and to think of her holding you down tugged up the wire of every species on this earth, not the electric inventions, something bigger, a fevered movement across the world, all the trees at once turning dewy -
nothing else matters at all.
stomach-churning pulses grinding through your intestines - and she's between your legs, pressing your legs apart, pulls off her dress shirt, her skirt, all that's remaining: nude bra and panties.
There's a soft unsteadiness in her, the alcohol, the need, the want all combining into this weak-knee'd unsteadiness - you hold her smallest fingers, steady her.
Did you jerk off thinking about me? she asks.
All the fucking time.
She smirks, sinking to her knees, hands bracketing the heat of your thighs. Her hands twist into your trousers.
I want to taste you, the weight of you on my tongue, the stretch. The heat of your cock.
She gently pulls down your trousers all the way, hands tracing the heat of your thighs - ignoring the obvious, the trapped heat.
She reaches up, still kneeling, finds the first button of your shirt, let's a hand go under to feel your warm abs as she unbuttons with one.
Did you do this with Mark, you say.
A smile on her - No, no I didn't. Are you glad?
You sigh with relief -
She grins, splays a hand on your chest, all the buttons off, the heartbeats -
do you feel it Sohyun - do you fucking feel it - you're driving me insane.
She takes a deep breath, breathing you in, the cologne melting off with your sweat, and you dot kisses on her scalp - that flowery shampoo, that smell that's hers, distinctively.
She's easing the lid open on you, finding the kinks in the armor. dotting kisses on your pecs, sitting up, still on her knees, pressing her fingers into soft spots and hard spots alike. She runs her palms down your thighs, closer to your cock, back up again.
You pull her hand into you, hand on her cheek, tilting her head up and pressing your lips onto hers, tonguing at her. Retaliation beckons: she palms your cock, rubs her palm over the heat, working the thin fabric for all it's worth.
She leans forward as she curls fingers over the band of your boxers, kissing the V of your waist, and she trails lower, closer to the heat. And you're pulsing, barely keeping it together and she lets your cock rest next to her neck -
it's so fucking hot
I know, please. you barely let out
please what?
stop fighting me, you're torturing me.
She presses a kiss on the first thick inch she sees:
You're granting me all this control - second inch, fingers curling on the base of your cock. kissing the inches, all the way - and the fingers - wrapped all the way around the thick of it.
it's hard to even close around it. And she's almost relieved.
It's hard to breathe, do you tell her that? Do you tell her that she's ruining you with just her hand staying static around your cock? That her little kisses are already taking you to that extreme?
You're twitching. A venom to her voice.
What do you want? your hands turning white gripping the couch.
I want you to fuck me. fuck my throat, turn me into a whore. I've all this control and it disgusts me.
But before you could process any of it, the sickening thrill of it: she grips harder, lets you throb in her hand, the burn of your cock; and leans forward, dragging her tongue flatly from base to tip in a wet line.
Your thighs tick forward.
And she mewls: I want more of that
She shifts higher, brings her mouth to the head of your cock and lets saliva drip along her tongue.
Pushing, letting it glance unevenly over the head - she flattens her tongue again, drags it over your cock, drags her fingers oh so soft. All this slick, the twist of her wrist, the second hand now closing in around the head of your cock, fist curving tighter over the sensitivity as it slips through all her spit.
And you're losing it: she's turning her wrist near the top, letting it meld into her soft tongue, letting your thick cock hit her tongue once or twice then not again and you can't fucking take it:
please
what?
please - what more can you say? She's trying to end you and it's all self-fulfilling.
you dig your palms into your eyes trying to process, you're already on the edge, twitching, weeping pre-cum onto her tongue and she's taking it all like it's everything to her. like the tears of weeping angels.
Another hip twitch -
this salty-sweet tang of your precum, you're so adorable. And she drags both fists up, spreading the remaining precum all over your cock -
Her mouth connects, sucking hard at the head, gripping tigher with her hands, lips stretched, mouth wide, as she sucks and tries to swallow more of you.
She pops off gently, getting breaths in, letting your weeping corded cock rest on her red-hot lips, before swallowing you back down, all the way until the head of yours bumps the back of her throat.
Relaxes - enough to breathe just a little, your cock still taking space in her throat - pulls your hand all the way to her hair, letting it entangle.
Sohyun's spit-slick, hand lands on top of your hand. And she presses down, like demonstration -
but you yank back, and a girlish yelp leaves her -
You finally coil enough power to get a turn. You pull her up by her armpits - and how light she is, like a fucking doll - you rip the stockings underneath her skirt, let two thick veiny fingers enter her sopping wet pussy.
clit rolling against your rough palm, the wet satin of her panties barely there.
And you scrape your teeth over her neck, sucking a mark onto her, as she bounces desperately over your fingers.
such a little thing, locking her waist into you as you push your fingers even deeper. two fingers trying to tear off her bra. two breasts pressed to your face, a nipple in your mouth.
made to fit me.
Cunt squelching on your palm, head dropping back. And you're sick with it, pulling her underwear to the side to watch her cunt weeping on your fingers.
Kissing all over chest, marking her up with your mouth.
On the bed, you think, sink inside her -
but you grab your cock anyway, dragging your head along the slippery pink of her pussy, and Sohyun moans - all sorts of needy that makes your cock throb, weep outside her.
sink on me, princess.
She sinks, forehead pressed to yours, and she's trying -
Feeling her, the wet and slick and tight - the spasm of her cunt, the clench, the leak of her arousal down your veiny cock.
You're fucking her raw, without a condom, rutting up into her, again and again, and she pushes back gently, trying to find a pace that doesn't utterly ruin her and you're chasing her, fucking her deeper, ruining her little pussy.
Until she presses a soft hand to your shoulder, leaning back, face flushed, nipples pink and hard, stomach tensed.
Stare at her - how fucking ruined she is: swollen lips from sucking your cock like it was made for her, sweat beading down her forehead - god is the sweat running down her face. You kiss the salt-worked forehead - a moment of softness.
Then she rolls gently, slipping a hand between her legs, past your thumb resting on her clit, onto the soaking mess of her, that hot pink mess that she's responsible for -
let me hear you, you growl, to her collar, kissing the blooming hickeys you left earlier.
grab at her hips, sit straighter, pull her into your body, let her wrap her hands around your shoulder - grasp at levity as this goddess is cock-drunk off you, still rolling, offering her clit to your thumb.
And she pants.
Clinging onto you.
letting her sopping cunt cling onto you like this was fucking prophecy - it's hot - sweat beading along your back, between your bodies, sticky - the wet noise of her cunt being excavated by a cock a smidge too large.
You're both close, these petty uncoordinated movements making the orgasm closer - sensitivities reaching an opus - only these little shifts of her hips - the urge to stretch this moment for as long as possible
And only then: the quietest orgasm, stuck to the top of her breasts, barely hanging in there, her waist locked between your thick forearms, cum spreading, filling in whatever was left between you.
poems for fucking:
romantic walks up your arm with my lips
dinner on your collarbones, a bottle of wine paper bagged
somewhere on your ribs
I want to see your city, and by don't take me home just yet
I really mean:
Let's share a whiskey, take the train over your city, spot the pennies lodged between the pavement - let's make sure every part of your skin's been kiss-bitten
and that'll take us a while
and if it means anything at all,
putting a stamp upside-down means I love you
and I would turn over every post office in the world
just to show you how much I care.
You wake to the cold half of the bed, and the rest of it makes a grim kind of sense: she's gone. Most of her stuff is still here, her shoes, but her daily shoes - gone.
You call, and it rings and rings until the call cancels - you text and the delivered stays there.
It's a Saturday. There's nowhere a person needs to be on a Saturday - but she's a workaholic - and the dots connect: you drive to her firm.
The weekend guard waves you up on account of being acquainted with Sohyun. And you get to the floor where she's usually working, and there she was, through the glass - neat-clothed, glasses on her, working hard on a case you'd never understand.
She looks up and clocks you, immediately bolting to the men's restroom - not toward the elevators or the stairs. And you go in after her -
Sohyun. I just want to talk
God, listen to you. "I just want to talk" Do you have any idea how many women have said that to your back while you looked for your shoes?
Yes. I'm aware of the irony, it's why I'm standing inside your firm at eight a.m instead of pretending you don't exist.
There's nothing to talk about. We were drunk, it was -
There was a shuffle outside the door - an employee? - but before you could look back, she pulled you by your tie into one of the stalls.
And you were dangerously close to her, her face, this face you've been in love with since forever. The one face that you cannot imagine living without - Listen, you try to say -
and she's off the tiles, fist in your tie, pulling you down, kissing you. Shut up.
You take her face in both hands, gently, and hold her back just far enough that the kiss can't keep doing the talking.
I'm not leaving. I'm going to be the worst thing that ever happened to your avoidance. Kiss me to keep me quiet all you like. I'll enjoy it, I'll still be here when you open your eyes.
Her hands press against your shirt, head pressed to your sternum. She stays there for a moment.
Starts kneeling -
Sohyun. You catch her hands. You dont have to -
I know. She looks up, Let me.
The Castrator, who has never once knelt to a man in her life, lowering herself to the tile of the worst room in the building.
You put a hand in her hair, to hold. The dots connect.
Daddy, she mewls.
Hands in your lap.
There's no sympathy for her. You're in this cramped bathroom with her, your groin pushed up to her face, and all she can say is: Daddy.
Open your mouth
Through the small opening in her mouth, you slot in a finger, trace the lower lip and upper lip - gather spit from the tip of her tongue to glaze her lips.
Wider. You say.
She's just sitting there, rubbing her thighs together - like she isn't so fucked and slippery in her underwear that just a small touch could make her cum - that you pressing a finger into her mouth - letting her throat close around that digit - wouldn't make her burst into decibels and let the whole town know that you are fucking her dumb.
She's staring at how you unbutton your pants. Button by button, all the way until your cock's out half-mast diagonal to her face and she's fucking drooling. Slowly moving forward and you pin her head to the wall of the bathroom stall.
How do you want this dick?
Like how you fucked all those other girls.
You think I'm not enjoying every moment with you? That day, we fucked like lovers. You cup her cheeks with one hand and her glazed lips point out duck-like. I'll show you what I like.
You bundle two fingers - index and ring - down her mouth, until her throat closes and she half-gags. Eyes fill with these tears and she tries to straighten herself. Fingers still down there, and it makes it hard for her breathe but -
She's fucking climaxing, barely keeping her hands on her lap. A breathless moan escapes her and you take this opportunity to let your fingers in deeper. Her chest jerks, a tear goes down her left cheek as your knuckles bump her teeth.
Roughly: good girl.
White-knuckled against her spit-trickled dress shirt that won her millions in lawsuits. Just then, you pull your fingers out, and she finally gets to swallow down.
You should be able to price anything. Be cutthroat about it, hedge your potential losses, then hedge on top of them - that's the only way to win. You've seen people go full-in, bet their futures on a life they so desperately deserve and by the end of it, they're lost souls, begging for the past. You thought it made you the only adult in the room. Then the day after that you came inside her and everything crumpled.
Your spit-slick fingers wrapped around your cock and you fisted it gently, just inches away from her mouth. She couldn't help but move forward, but you pin her head again and she's completely mindless - obeying any mechanic of hers that'll grant her a feather of stimulus. You tap your cock against her tongue. You could see the way her lips twitched to close, but she seemed to contextualize enough to know that anything that you didn't allow would be swiftly punished. And maybe now everything was dawning on her:
That you enjoyed sex with her rather than the opposite - that it's supposed to be as intimate as the day you came inside her.
Because this? This was heady, broken, and embarrassing - and all of it was happening in her own office bathroom that she shares with subordinates. One mistake and she's kicked off the ladder. And yet:
I want all of it. I want it. I want it.
You could see how her cloudy eyes mechanized - she was about to cum again - you let your tip on her tongue and she's already around the cycle again. You press the heft of your shaft into her mouth and push in gently. Push in gently because she already came, push in gently because you want to savor - for a few moments longer - how she crumples under you.
You're gentle with it, letting her set the pace, letting her get breaths between strokes. She anchors herself, and this control you give her makes her shiver - even the way her throat clenches when she goes too fucking deep.
She pulls back to breathe, a strand of saliva still connects your tip and her lower lip. And she's staring at the corded red-tipped shaft, speechless.
Stand up
She does, her skirt crumpled just a way's up. She's expectant, wanting something. But this wasn't a day for her wants.
You grab the waistbands of her panties and nylon, pull it down midway and her pussy's just glistening - all-pink, heady, musky, almost pulsing.
Hold your skirt up
And she does, further surrendering to your hand around her throat. And everything was a bit clearer:
You began fisting your spit-slick cock again, pointed down to her panties. Another embarrassing and heady position she can't seem to get enough of: Her eyes are full of will-you's and wants that she can't act on. You press a thumb over her pulse - grunting more hunch-backed trying to not spray your cum too early - and you tighten, tighten until she grips your forearms and loses her breath for just a second - then you release. There's this rush of inhales and exhales as she catches some air and you repeat the choke - until, just until, you press harder than you've done before - her legs going loose, eyes going to back of her head - and you cum all over her panties. Cloudy liquid dotting her skirt, the floor, the nylon , the front of her pussy, and all over the panties.
Fuck.
Is all she says, can say. You pin her jaw to the side so that she can't look at you, only the door, the cruel door that may open for a coworker - and you jolt closer, scooping a bit of your cum and letting two fingers enter her just then. And she's already climaxing, screaming in her own hand.
This is what happens when I do what I want.
Your nose is buried into her exposed throat and your fingers throttling her pussy. your callused hand scraping the hood of her clit, your hooked finger rubbing that spot that makes her legs splinter half-way. You take your fingers out and mash the front of her pussy with the heel of your palm before going into her again. She's rolling with how your cum-slicked fingers penetrate her.
Her body finally gives out and that's when you hug her, your fingers still slotted into her.
In truth, I can't fuck you the way I fucked these other girls. Your fingers finally slow their rolls. I want to enjoy my time with you, not treat you like trash.
And her reply, as best as it could be presented: a wet kiss, hands wrapped around you, grasping the hair behind your head.
Her kiss fluttered gently as you finally let her have one final climax.
The anticipation is a drug more potent than anything I've ever tasted. I've watched her for months, learned her schedule, memorized the curve of her smile under the harsh stage lights. Haum. The youngest, the most innocent-looking one. The one with the doe eyes and the shy wave that makes thousands of fans scream. They don't know her like I do. They don't see what I see: a perfect, pliable doll just waiting to be broken.
The plan is simple. A rented van, a staged accident near the back alley of her company building. She’s always the last to leave, her manager too busy with phone calls to walk her all the way to her car. Tonight, he gets a flat tire. Tonight, I get her.
The gurney in the back is sterile and cold. I’m wearing a fake medical uniform. When she sees me, her eyes widen, a flicker of recognition dying before it’s born. "You," she whispers, her voice trembling. "You’re... you’re from the fan cafe." That’s all she gets out before the chloroform-soaked rag is over her mouth and nose. Her struggle is weak, beautiful, and utterly futile. She goes limp in my arms.
I don’t take her far. My basement is soundproofed, the walls lined with black foam. It’s a gallery of my obsession. Her posters are plastered everywhere. I lay her on the cold concrete floor, her idol outfit a pastel pink skirt and a white blouse a sickening contrast to the filth. Her wrists are delicate, bird-like bones. I secure them above her head with a pair of steel handcuffs, the chain looped through a heavy ring bolted to the floor. Her ankles follow, spread wide, shackled to two separate rings. She’s spread-eagle, completely exposed.
When she comes to, the screaming starts. It's music. "Please! Please, don't! I have a schedule! My members..."
I backhand her. The crack of my palm against her cheek rings in the small room. Her head snaps to the side, and a string of saliva connects her lip to my hand. "Shut up," I say, my voice flat. "You're mine now. That schedule is canceled."
Her tears start. They stream down her face, smearing the last remnants of her stage makeup. I grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. "You look so pretty when you cry, Haum. So pretty." I lean down and bite her bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper. She whimpers, a pathetic, gurgling sound.
I don't bother with foreplay. This isn't about her pleasure. I tear the buttons off her blouse, the small white circles pinging against the concrete floor. Her bra is a lacy, expensive thing. I rip it in half. Her small, firm tits are exposed. Her nipples are already hard from the cold and the fear.
I take the left one between my thumb and forefinger and twist. Hard. A guttural scream tears from her throat. "No please, no, it hurts!"
"Good," I hiss, twisting the other one so hard the flesh turns white under my grip. I pinch and pull, rolling the sensitive nubs between my calloused fingers until they’re swollen and red. I lean down and bite the right one, sucking the abused flesh into my mouth and scraping my teeth across it. Her back arches, a jolt of agonized electricity shooting through her.
I’m still hard in my pants. I stand up and unbuckle my belt, pulling the thick leather free from the loops. Her eyes go wide as dinner plates. "Don't... don't please..."
I wrap the belt around her throat, the smooth leather pressing against her windpipe. I pull it tight, just enough to constrict. "I said. Shut. Up." Each word is punctuated by a tightening of the leather. Her hands fly to the belt, her fingers clawing uselessly at the steel and leather, her feet scrabbling against the floor. Her face turns a beautiful shade of red, then purple. Her eyes bulge. I let the pressure off for a second, letting her gasp, then I yank it tight again, holding it there for ten seconds. Fifteen. Her struggles become weaker. I let her breathe. The whole cycle is a symphony of control.
I drop the belt and kneel between her spread legs. I grab the waistband of her pink skirt and her matching panties, yanking them both down to her ankles in one rough motion. The smell of her fear and sweat is intoxicating. She’s bare, exposed, her pussy a small, pink slit.
I don't even look at it. I shove my face into her cunt, but not to taste her. I bite the inner flesh of her thigh, leaving a deep, purple bruise. Then, without warning, I jam two fingers inside her. She’s dry as a bone. The intrusion is pure violation. She screams, a raw, throaty noise.
"Dry," I mutter, pulling my fingers out and shoving them into her mouth. "Lick them. Get them wet for what's coming." She gags as I push my fingers past her lips, scraping her teeth, stroking her tongue. Saliva drips down her chin. I pull them out, slick with her spit, and shove them back into her cunt. This time, they slide in easier. I scissor them inside her, stretching her, while my thumb presses brutally against her clit not to stimulate, but to punish. "Feel that? That's what you get for being a pretty little slut."
I finger-fuck her roughly for a minute, just to get some lubrication, then I pull my hand out and spit on her cunt. That’s the only preparation she gets.
I stand up and undress in front of her. She's watching me, her eyes wide with terror, her body trembling. My cock is hard, angry, and thick. I stroke it once, twice. "Look at what you do to me, Haum. All those little dances, those innocent smiles. This is what you wanted."
I flip her over onto her stomach. The handcuffs and ankle shackles make it awkward, but I force her onto her knees and elbows, her ass in the air. Prone bone. I press the head of my cock against her virgin asshole.
"No! Not there! Please, please not there!" Her voice is a broken whimper.
I don't answer. I press forward. The tight, unyielding ring of muscle resists, then gives way with a wet, tearing sound. A scream rips from her throat, a high-pitched, animalistic wail. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I sink into her with one brutal, continuous thrust. She is so tight, the heat and pressure clamping down on me like a vise. It hurts me, but the pain is pleasure.
I don't give her a second to adjust. I start fucking her, a rapid, punishing rhythm. My hips slap against her ass, the sound echoing in the small room. "This is your debut, you little slut," I grunt, pulling back and slamming into her. "This is your first stage. Your first fan meeting." I grab her bound wrists and use them as handles, yanking her back onto my cock with every thrust.
I reach down and grab her hair again, yanking her head back. I lean over her, my chest on her back, and bite her shoulder hard enough to draw blood. "You're my doll. My perfect doll." I fuck her harder, faster. The squelching sounds are obscene.
After a few minutes, I pull out. My cock is slick with a mix of her blood, spit, and the beginnings of my own precum. I flip her onto her back. Mating press. I grab her ankles and push her knees all the way back, past her ears, folding her in half. Her cunt and ass are both exposed.
"Open your mouth," I command. She's too far gone to refuse. She opens it. I shove my cock past her lips, down her throat. I hold her head and fuck her face, using her mouth like a fleshlight. The gagging sounds, the tears, the snot, it’s art. I fuck her throat until my balls slap against her chin, then I pull out and slap her face with my cock.
I reach over to my tool bag. I pull out a thick, black vibrator and a string of anal beads. I turn the vibrator on high and jam it against her swollen clit. Her body convulses, a shock of unwanted, cruel pleasure. "No! Stop! I can't..." She’s begging, but it’s a lie. Her body is responding. Her hips twitch.
"Can't what? Can't come? Go ahead. I fucking dare you." I press the vibrator harder, rubbing circles into the hood of her clit. At the same time, I take the anal beads, coated in lube, and start pushing them into her already abused asshole. One by one. The beads pop past her sphincter. I slide them in and out, a slow drag of silicone bumps against her ravaged guts. Her eyes roll back in her head. She’s a mess of pleasure and pain, a confused, broken symphony.
I pull the beads out, watch her asshole clench on the last one, and throw them aside. I grab the biggest dildo I have a fourteen-inch, veined monstrosity. "You’re going to take this, Haum. Every. Last. Inch." I shove it into her pussy. She’s too wet and too broken to fight it. The sheer length forces a deep, guttural moan from her. The vibrator on her clit, the dildo filling her cunt. I hold the dildo in place, feeling the pressure through her belly.
I unhook her wrists from the floor ring. I have other plans. I loop the chain through a pulley system on the ceiling. I crank the winch. She screams as her arms are pulled up, up, until she is suspended, her toes barely scraping the concrete. Hanging sex.
I step behind her, my cock hard again. I lift her legs, wrapping them around my waist. Her weight is on my hips now, the cuffs digging into her wrists. I thrust up into her ass, the angle perfect. "Hold on tight," I whisper into her ear before biting the lobe. I pound into her, my hands gripping her ass, pulling her onto me with every upward thrust. The chains rattle. The basement fills with the sound of slapping skin and her choked, ragged moans.
I'm close. I can feel the pressure building in my balls. I need a different angle. I unhook the pulley and let her drop, catching her before she hits the ground. Carry sex. I hook my arms under her knees, holding her like a doll. I walk her around the room, my cock still buried deep in her ass. "Look at your posters," I hiss, turning her so she faces the wall covered in her own smiling face. "Look at the real you. And look at you now. A used-up whore."
I start bouncing her on my cock. Every step is a thrust. I fuck her while standing, her back hitting the wall with every bounce. The friction is immense. The pressure is insane. She's crying, babbling incoherently.
I need the deepest angle. I lay her on the floor and lift her legs over my shoulders, her hips tilted all the way up. Piledriver. I look down at her. She’s a wreck. Tears, drool, sweat, blood. Perfect. I slide back into her cunt this time, feeling the dildo inside her shift, pressing against my cock through the thin wall of flesh. I fuck her deep, slow and brutal, my balls slapping against her ass.
I’m going to come. I pull out of her cunt and slam back into her ass. I need to fill her there. I want her to feel my cum leaking out of her for days. "Look at me," I grunt, my rhythm faltering. "I want you to see who owns you."
Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, meet mine. I roar as I come, my body shuddering. I pump thick, hot ropes of cum deep into her ass, holding her hips still, grinding against her. I paint the inside of her with my claim. I don't stop until I’m empty.
I pull out slowly. A trickle of cum leaks from her gaping hole, running down her thigh, mixing with the blood on the floor. I drop her legs. She collapses, a ragdoll, still bound, still shivering.
I kneel down and grab her chin, forcing her to look at the mess I made. "Good girl," I whisper, stroking her sweaty hair. "You did so well. Don't worry, Haum. The concert is just getting started."
The aftershocks of my orgasm fade, but my hunger doesn't. I look down at Haum's trembling body, her chest heaving, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. She's still crying, her tears mixing with the spit and sweat on her face. A beautiful, broken doll.
My cock is still half-hard, sticky with her blood and my cum. I reach down and grab her hair again, yanking her up onto her knees. She whimpers, a pathetic, gurgling sound. Her body is limp, compliant. The fight is draining out of her. Perfect.
I push her head down until her face is level with my crotch. She's been through so much, but I'm not done. My need is a fire that only grows hotter the more fuel I throw on it.
"Suck it clean," I command, pressing my softening dick against her lips. "Get it hard again."
Her mouth opens, and I shove myself inside. She doesn't resist. Her tongue moves weakly against my skin, tasting herself, tasting me. I hold her head still, not letting her set the pace. I thrust into her throat, the sensation of her gagging forcing me harder. My cock swells again, filling her mouth until her cheeks bulge.
The rhythm is brutal. I fuck her throat in long, deep strokes, my balls slapping against her chin. Her hands are still bound, useless at her sides. She can't push me away. She can only take it. After minutes or maybe hours, I feel her body go slack. Her eyes roll back. She's still breathing, but she's gone. Out cold.
I don't stop. I don't slow down.
Her body is a warm, wet sleeve. Her jaw goes limp, and I can push deeper than before, the head of my cock pressing against the resistance of her esophagus. The sounds are wet, guttural. I grab a fistful of her hair and use it as a handle, yanking her face onto my dick over and over. Her head bounces. Her nose is pressed against my pubic bone. I don't care if she can breathe. I don't care if she's there.
I fuck her unconscious mouth until I feel the pressure building again. I want to mark her from the inside in every possible way. I pull out just before I come, aiming for her face. Rope after rope of hot cum splatters across her closed eyelids, her slack lips, her bruised cheeks. I paint her like a canvas. Then I shove my cock back into her open mouth, letting the last drops land on her tongue.
She doesn't stir.
I stand up, my knee cracking. I look at her, slumped on the concrete, covered in a mixture of blood, saliva, and semen. But I'm not satisfied. The hunger is still there. I need more.
I walk to my tool bag again. I pull out a leather crop, the kind you'd see in a stable. It's thick, solid, and leaves a satisfying sting. I flick my wrist, and it cracks in the air like a gunshot.
I grab her ankle shackles and drag her across the floor, her body leaving a slick trail. I flip her onto her stomach, positioning her ass in the air. She's still unconscious. Perfect. I take the crop and bring it down across her ass cheeks. SMACK. The sound echoes. Red welts rise instantly. SMACK. SMACK. I beat her with a rhythm, alternating cheeks, until her entire ass is a patchwork of red and purple. Then I spread her cheeks and bring the crop down directly on her battered asshole. She jolts, a reflexive spasm, but she doesn't wake.
I drop the crop and reach for the next tool. A thick metal ring gag, the kind that keeps the jaw wide open. I force it into her mouth, strapping it tight behind her head. Her lips stretch around the steel, her tongue exposed, drool pooling on the floor.
Then I take a bottle of cheap whiskey the strongest I have. I pour it directly into her open mouth. She chokes, a sputtering cough that brings her back to consciousness for a brief moment. Her eyes flutter open, wide and disoriented. I grab her hair and force her head back, pouring more down her throat.
"Drink up," I snarl. "I want you loose. I want you sloppy."
She gags, sputters, but the whiskey goes down. Her eyes glaze over again, this time with chemical submission. Her body goes even limper.
I stand up and walk to the corner. I have a custom piece of furniture. A St. Andrew's cross, mounted on the wall. I unhook her ankle shackles and carry her across the room, her body a dead weight. I secure her wrists to the upper rings of the cross, her ankles to the lower rings. She's spread-eagle, suspended, her back against the cold wood, her face covered in my cum.
I stand back and admire the view. Her body is a canvas of abuse. Her tits are bruised black and blue. Her nipples are swollen and bloody. Her ass is striped with welts. Her cunt and asshole are both gaping, leaking. Her face is painted white.
But she's still too clean. Not broken enough.
I circle around behind the cross. Her bare back is exposed. I trace a fingernail down her spine, feeling her skin goosebump even in unconsciousness. I press my body against hers, my cock pressing into the cleft of her ass cheeks.
"You're so beautiful like this," I whisper into her ear, even though she can't hear me. "So peaceful."
I reach around and find where my cum has leaked from her asshole, tracking a white, sticky trail down her inner thigh. I scoop it up with two fingers and bring it to her dangling chin, letting it drip from my hand.
Then I take the whiskey bottle and pour it over her back. The cold liquid shocks her awake. She screams, a muffled sound through the ring gag, as the alcohol stings the open cuts and welts on her skin.
"Wake up, sleeping beauty," I hiss, pressing my cock against her asshole. "Round two."
I don't wait for her to be ready. I thrust forward, burying myself in her again. She's still slick with lube and cum, but the angle is different, the stretch new and brutal. She screams into the gag, her body arching, her fingers curling against the leather cuffs.
I fuck her standing, my hands gripping her hips, my chest pressed against her back. The cross creaks under our weight. I drive into her with relentless, punishing thrusts, each one hitting deeper than the last. Her asshole is looser from the abuse, but still tight enough to squeeze my cock like a vise.
"Look at you," I pant, biting her shoulder. "Look at how used you are. How broken. You're not an idol anymore. You're just a hole."
She's sobbing again, her body shaking, her legs trembling. The gag muffles her pleas into unintelligible moans. I don't care. I reach around and grab her throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off her air. Her body tenses, her ass clamping down on my cock deliciously. I squeeze harder, and her thrashing becomes weaker.
She goes limp again. Unconscious.
I don't stop. I pull out of her ass and walk around to face her. I grab her hair and lift her head. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slack in the ring gag. Her face is a mess of tears, drool, and cum.
I shove my cock past the steel ring, deep into her throat. I fuck her face while she's out cold, using her throat like a scabbard. The ring gag keeps her mouth perfectly open, accessible. I watch my cock slide in and out of her slack lips, feeling the heat of her throat, the twitching of her unconscious gag reflex.
I want to break her further. I want to leave marks that will never fade.i8k9
I do it again and again. Until her thighs are red and raw from the heat.
I need more. I grab a pair of jumper cables from my bag. I clamp one end to her right nipple, the other to her left. She doesn't stir. I walk to the wall and plug them into a car battery. The charge is low, not enough to kill, but enough to hurt.
I flick the switch.
Her body convulses violently, her back arching off the cross, her scream tearing through the gag. Her eyes fly open wide, bloodshot and wild. The electricity dances through her nervous system, jolting her awake with pure agony.
"How does that feel?" I whisper, stroking her cheek as she trembles. "Good girl. You're learning."
I flick the switch again. Her body spasms, her legs kicking, her fingers curling. Saliva flies from her mouth. The smell of burnt flesh and ozone fills the room.
I unclip the cables and toss them aside. I need to be inside her again. I need to feel her convulse around me.
I unhook her from the cross and carry her to a nearby table, laying her on her back. Her body is still trembling from the shocks. Her eyes are open but unseeing. She's in and out of consciousness, a vegetable.
I lift her legs onto my shoulders and slide into her pussy this time. She's wet, not from arousal, but from the trauma, her body releasing fluids it shouldn't. I fuck her hard, each thrust pushing into her cervix. Her body rocks with every impact, her bruised tits bouncing.
I reach up and wrap my hands around her throat. I squeeze. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. I squeeze tighter, watching the light in her eyes flicker. She goes limp. I let go. Her chest rises, a desperate gasp. Then I squeeze again.
I fuck her unconscious body, strangling her awake, over and over. Each time she comes to, I'm buried inside her, my hands around her throat, my weight pressing her into the table.
"You. Are. Mine," I grunt, punctuating each word with a deep thrust.
I feel my orgasm building. I need one final, permanent mark. I pull out and flip her over, prone bone again. I shove my cock into her ass and fuck her with abandon, my hips slapping against her welted ass. I reach down and grab her hair, yanking her head back, her neck exposed.
I bite down on her shoulder, hard. I taste blood. I sink my teeth deeper, feeling the skin break beneath my teeth, my mark sinking into her flesh.
I come, a torrent of cum flooding her ass. I hold her down, grinding against her, my teeth still buried in her shoulder. I don't let go until my orgasm subsides, until I'm empty.
I pull back. A perfect, bloody ring of teeth marks on her shoulder.
She's out cold. Her body is a wreck. Her skin is a mosaic of bruises, burns, cuts, and cum. Her ass and cunt are both leaking, gaping holes. Her face is a mess of dried tears and semen.
I step back and clean myself with a rag. I look at her, hanging limp in the straps. I've been at her for hours. She's barely alive.
I think of the coming days. The weeks. The months. I have a whole basement full of toys. A whole repertoire of torture.
I smile, stroking her hair. "Rest," I whisper. "You have a long schedule tomorrow."
The concert is far from over.
The hours blur into a single, endless moment of violence. My body is a machine of pure need, my mind a furnace of sadistic pleasure. I've used every tool, every position, every orifice. She's been electrocuted, choked, beaten, fucked, and broken in every way I can imagine. Her body is a ruin, a testament to my absolute dominion.
I stand over her, panting, my cock slick with her blood and my cum. She's on the floor, curled in a fetal position, her limbs twitching sporadically. Her eyes are open but vacant, staring at nothing. She's not crying anymore. She's not making any sound at all. Just shallow, rasping breaths that rattle in her chest.
I've drained myself dry. My balls ache, empty. My thighs are sticky with her fluids. But the fire inside me is finally cooling. The hunger is sated. Not because I'm satisfied, but because there's nothing left to take. She's a hollow shell.
I kneel beside her, brushing a strand of matted hair from her face. Her skin is cold, clammy. Her lips are cracked and bloody. I trace a finger along the bite mark on her shoulder, a perfect ring of purple and red. My brand.
"You did so well," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "You took everything I gave you."
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even flinch.
I stand up and look around the basement. The St. Andrew's cross, the table, the scattered toys, the puddles of fluids. Evidence of my masterpiece. But I can't leave it behind. I'm not a fool.
I walk to the corner and pick up a heavy-duty trash bag. Large enough for a body. I unroll it and lay it flat beside her.
Then I turn to the wall, where I have a small incinerator built into the foundation. A barrel lined with firebrick, connected to a propane tank. I've used it before for... disposal.
I grab Haum by the ankle and drag her toward the incinerator. Her body slides across the concrete, leaving a wet trail. She doesn't resist. She doesn't even seem to notice. Her eyes are fixed on some distant point beyond this world.
I lift her limp body and shove her inside the barrel. She fits, barely, her limbs folding awkwardly. I look at her one last time her face slack, her body broken, her innocence long since obliterated.
"Goodbye, Haum," I say, my voice flat. "You were the best."
I close the heavy iron door and latch it. Then I turn the valve on the propane tank. I hear the hiss of gas filling the chamber. I take a long match from my pocket, strike it against the brick, and drop it through the small vent at the top.
The whoosh is deafening. Flames erupt from the vent, licking the ceiling. The heat is immediate, intense. I step back, watching the barrel glow orange. The smell of burning flesh and hair fills the air, sweet, acrid, final.
I stand there for a long time, watching the fire consume her. When the flames die down, I open the door and rake the ashes into a metal bucket. There's nothing left but bone fragments and gray dust. I carry the bucket to the drain in the center of the floor and pour the remains down, washing them away with a hose.
The basement is clean. No trace of her. No trace of me.
I take a deep breath, the air now smelling only of bleach and cold concrete. I walk upstairs, strip off my clothes, and step into a scalding shower. The water runs red, then pink, then clear. I scrub every inch of my skin until it's raw.
I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are calm. My face is placid. I am unmarked. Unchanged.
I dress in fresh clothes, grab my keys, and walk out the door. The concert is over. The idol is gone. And I am free.
I smile as I drive away, the radio playing a cheerful pop song. Her voice, ironically, fills the car. I hum along, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
She'll never sing again. But her music will live on in my memory.
She walked in every Tuesday and Thursday, right after her group's morning rehearsals. I'd clocked her routine for months the way she'd wave at the front desk, pull her hair into that perfect ponytail, then head straight for the squat racks. Narin. Eighteen. The youngest member of MEOVV. And utterly oblivious to the fact that the guy wiping down the treadmills had memorized every curve of her body beneath those gym outfits.
Today she wore black sports leggings that hugged her hips like a second skin, and a white crop top that barely contained her tits. A thin strip of tummy showed when she stretched. I watched her from the cleaning station, my cock already half-hard in my work shorts.
"Hey," she said, flashing me that idol smile as she passed. "Can you check if the leg press is free?"
"Yeah, sure." My voice came out steady, but my hands trembled slightly as I set down the spray bottle. Keep it together. Patience.
For twenty minutes, she worked her lower body: squats, lunges, hip thrusts on the padded bench. I busied myself nearby, pretending to organize dumbbells while watching the sweat bead on her skin, watching her ass clench with every rep. When she finished, she grabbed her towel and headed toward the back hallway the one that led to the private stretching room. The one with no cameras.
That was my opening.
I waited thirty seconds, then followed. The corridor was dim, lined with storage closets. She had her back to me, reaching for the door handle.
"Narin," I said softly.
She turned, surprised. "Oh, hi—"
I grabbed her by the throat and shoved her into the room. The door clicked shut behind us.
She gasped, stumbling backward until her hips hit the stretching table. "What the fuck—"
My hand tightened around her neck. Not enough to choke, but enough to make her freeze. Her eyes went wide, fear flickering in them. Good. I wanted her scared.
"Shut up" I said, low and calm. "I've watched you for months. You come here alone. No security. Stupid little idol." I traced my thumb along her jawline. "You think this gym is safe? I make it safe. For me."
Her lips parted, ready to yell. I crushed my mouth against hers.
It wasn't a kiss it was a takeover. I bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste copper, and forced my tongue inside. She pushed against my chest, but I was bigger, stronger, and I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand while the other slid down her leggings.
Rough groping. I squeezed her ass through the fabric, digging my fingers into the flesh. She whimpered into my mouth, her struggles weakening. When I finally broke the kiss, she was gasping, tears already starting.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't—"
I slapped her. Hard. Her head snapped to the side, and she cried out.
"Shut up." I yanked down her leggings, exposing her smooth ass and her pussy through the thin fabric of her thong. I tore the thong off with one savage pull, then shoved two fingers into her cunt without any warning.
She screamed a shrill, broken sound. My fingers were dry, and it burned for her. I didn't care. I pumped them in and out, scissoring, stretching, while she sobbed.
"Cry all you want," I muttered. "No one can hear you."
I pulled my fingers out, slick with her blood and arousal, and shoved them into her mouth. "Suck."
She gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. I held her nose until she opened her mouth and let my fingers slide past her lips. She sucked, reluctantly, tasting herself. I watched her tongue work around my knuckles, her eyes pleading.
When I withdrew, I grabbed her hair and dragged her to the padded mat on the floor. She stumbled, fell to her knees. I unzipped my shorts and let my cock spring free hard, angry, dripping precum.
"Open wide."
She shook her head, sobbing. I grabbed her jaw, forced it open, and shoved my cock down her throat.
Choking sounds. Gagging. Her hands clawed at my thighs, but I held her skull, fucking her face in long, brutal strokes. Her mascara ran, her nose dripped, and still I kept going until I felt the spasms in her throat.
I pulled out, letting her collapse, coughing and heaving.
Then I flipped her onto her stomach.
I spread her cheeks, exposing her tight asshole. She tried to crawl away, so I grabbed her ankles and dragged her back, then planted a knee on her lower back to keep her pinned.
"No... not there... please—"
I spat on my cock, rubbed the saliva over her hole, and pushed in.
The scream she let out when my head breached her ass was raw and animal. I didn't stop. I drove forward, burying myself to the hilt in her tight, clenching heat. Her body arched, convulsing, and I felt her pussy gush from the shock.
"Fuck—" I groaned, pulling back and slamming in again. "You're so tight."
Every thrust was rough, punishing. I grabbed her hips and fucked her like a brute, her ass jiggling with each impact. Her sobs turned to ragged whimpers. I leaned forward, biting her shoulder, her neck, nibbling along her spine.
"Please stop," she begged, her voice broken.
I ignored her and kept going, reaching around to grope her tits inside her crop top. Pinched her nipples until she cried harder.
When I was ready for more, I pulled out and flipped her onto her back. Mating press. I lifted her legs, hooked them over my shoulders, and sank back into her ass. The angle made her scream, my cock pressing deeper, hitting something new. I leaned forward, crushing her, and fucked her while staring into her tear-streaked face.
"Look at me, Narin."
She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. I slapped her again, and she opened them.
"Watch me breed your ass."
I came inside her, pumping thick ropes of cum into her bowels. Her body jerked, a fresh wave of tears spilling. I stayed buried, feeling my cum leak around my shaft, then pulled out and watched it trickle down her thighs.
She tried to curl into a ball, but I wasn't done.
Carry sex. I grabbed her wrists, hauled her up, wrapped her legs around my waist, and sat on the bench. Her ass pressed against my lap, my cock still hard. I lined it up with her cunt this time she'd be too loose from the anal, but I wanted to feel her pussy too.
"N-no... you already—"
I shoved in. She was slick and ruined, and I fucked her in my lap, bouncing her on my cock while she sobbed into my shoulder. Her nails raked my back, but I didn't mind. The pain was good.
Then prone bone. I laid her flat on the mat, her arms pinned beneath her, and mounted her from behind. My cock slid into her ass again still wet with my cum and I fucked her slowly, deliberately, savoring every choked gasp.
I wrapped my work belt around her throat. Strangulation. I pulled tight, cutting off her air. Her hands fluttered, her legs kicked, and then she went limp.
I fucked her for another minute, using her body while she was out. Then I loosened the belt, slapped her cheek until she coughed back to consciousness.
She woke crying, disoriented.
"Please... please let me go..."
I grabbed the handcuffs I kept in my work locker just in case and cuffed her wrists behind her back. Then I hogtied her, ankles pulled toward her wrists so she lay arched, her ass in the air, her pussy and asshole on full display.
I knelt behind her. Nipple play. I rolled her nipples between my fingers, twisted them, watched her flinch. Then I spanked her hard, rhythmic slaps that turned her pale ass red. Each slap made her yelp, and every yelp made me harder.
I unlocked the cuffs, then hooked her arms from behind, my arms under hers, hands behind her neck. I lifted her and fucked her again, this time in her cunt, while she dangled in my grasp, too exhausted to resist.
French kissing. I turned her head and forced my tongue into her mouth, tasting her tears and her own spit while I pumped inside her.
Finally, I laid her down, spread her legs, and fucked her ass one last time. I took my time, slow and deep, watching her break down completely. Whining. Mewling. Crying.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry—"
"Good girl." I came again, another creampie deep in her ass, then collapsed on top of her, my weight pinning her.
When I finally stood, I unlocked the handcuffs and left her on the mat, hogtied with my belt and her own leggings. Her body was bruised, marked, leaking.
I dressed, grabbed my spray bottle, and walked back to the front desk.
Which members are most likely to get caught fucking staff members?
Hayeon always makes sure the male staff is stress free, but she also loves the risk of getting caught, so she's servicing the staff during breaks on set.
Naky is way too loud when she's getting fucked by staff, risking the members or other staff to walk in on her. Though she would just want them to join in.
which other member would be very prudish to their partner but let a random dirty pervert use their body
I think Xinyu would be prudish to her partner, not letting fuck her throat or ass. She wants to be treated as a princess, only vanilla stuff. Behind his back she meets up with way older and dirty perverted men, that use her body however they want.
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
janainaart
