You've heard about Hirai Momo before you ever meet her. Everybody has. She's the girl who allegedly crashed the campus WiFi because too many guys were looking her up at the same time. The girl who got asked out fourteen times during freshman orientation. The girl whose communications professor once stopped mid-lecture because she walked in late and he lost his train of thought.
She's also the girl who's failing three out of five classes and needs a tutor.
That's you. Wednesday afternoons, fifty bucks an hour, private study room in the library basement. You need the money. She needs a miracle.
You're about to need one too.
• • •
The clock on the wall reads 4:22 PM. Twenty-two minutes past the agreed time. You've reorganized the flashcards twice, reread the chapter summaries you typed up last night at one in the morning, and now you're just sitting here, staring at the study room, waiting for her.
You need this gig. Fifty bucks an hour to teach rich kids things they'll immediately forget. It pays for your half of rent, your ramen budget, and occasionally a beer that you drink alone while rereading Freud. You're living the dream.
The door swings open at 4:23. Hirai Momo walks in like she's arriving at a party instead of an academic intervention. She's got her hair down today, long and dark and shiny. Her skin has this warm golden glow to it, probably because she’s out in the open more than she is stuck in air-conditioned study rooms. Large brown eyes spaced just enough to give her that harmless, slightly airheaded innocence. Full lips glossed in something pink and slightly sticky-looking.
And then there's... the rest of her. Momo is built like every heterosexual man's fever dream compressed into five-foot-four of absolute structural devastation. She's wearing a cropped white top that sits tight across her chest - and her chest is, to use a clinical term, ridiculous. The fabric stretches across her breasts, and printed right there, right across the fullest part where your eyes absolutely should not be lingering, is the word THICC in sparkly pink letters. Like a label. Like a declaration. Like a challenge from God to test your professionalism.
Below that, a pleated miniskirt that looks more like a belt. Her thighs are thick and toned (she dances. You’ve definitely come across some of her TikToks, and don’t worry, it’s not your fault. Blame the algorithm), and she's wearing white sneakers with little platform soles that make her legs look even longer than they already do.
She drops her bag on the table with a thud and collapses into the chair across from you.
"Sorry I'm late," she chirps. "I was getting boba and the line was so long. Oh my God, you should've seen it."
"Fascinating." You slide the stack of flashcards toward her. "Chapter seven. Behavioral conditioning. We talked about this last week."
"Right. Yeah. Totally." She picks one up, squints at it, then puts it back down. "I remember. It's the thing with the dogs."
"Pavlov. Yes."
"Love that for him."
This is your life. You went through three years of a psychology program to sit in a windowless study room explaining Pavlov to a girl who once asked you if Sigmund Freud was "that guy from the Avengers."
(He is not. You checked, just to be sure, because Momo has a way of making you doubt your own reality.)
"Okay," you push on, pointing to the first section in the textbook. "So classical conditioning. The basic framework is stimulus, response, reinforcement. You need to understand the difference between positive and negative reinforcement for the exam."
Momo nods along. Her eyes are pointed at the book. Her pen is in her hand. For about forty-five seconds, you almost believe she's paying attention.
Then you notice she's drawing little hearts in the margin of her notebook. Pink ink. Tiny, loopy hearts with even tinier smiley faces inside them.
"Momo."
"Hm?"
"The book is here." You tap the page. "The hearts can wait."
"Sorry! I'm listening, I swear." She straightens up, tucks her hair behind one ear. Her earring catches the fluorescent light and you notice it's shaped like a peach. You're not surprised. "Okay, so. Positive reinforcement is like... when you give someone a treat for being good?"
"Broadly, yes."
"And negative is when you punish them?"
"No. That's punishment. Negative reinforcement is the removal of an aversive stimulus to increase behavior."
She stares at you blankly for a solid four seconds. "Say that again but in human."
You take a slow breath. "If you have a headache and you take an aspirin and the headache goes away, you're more likely to take aspirin next time. The removal of the pain reinforces the behavior."
"Oh! That makes sense." She beams like you've just unlocked the secrets of the universe for her. Then she looks down at her notebook, writes something, and turns it toward you. She's written: asprin = no more ouchie = do it again.
It's misspelled. The i in aspirin is missing. But the concept is correct, and despite everything, you feel a flicker of something that might be professional satisfaction.
"Good enough," you concede.
"Yay!" She claps her hands together. Her chest bounces with the motion and you look at the ceiling like there's something extremely important up there.
You keep going, working through the chapter section by section. Momo's attention span lasts about three to four minutes at a stretch before she starts fidgeting, playing with her hair, checking her phone under the table (she thinks you can't tell, but you can), or asking questions that have nothing to do with the material.
"Do you think pigeons have feelings?"
"Momo, we're talking about operant conditioning."
"Yeah, but Skinner used pigeons, right? That's sad. What if the pigeons didn't want to be in the experiment?"
"The pigeons didn't file a complaint."
"Maybe they couldn't. Maybe that's the real tragedy."
You are so tired.
After another ten minutes of this, Momo lets out a long, dramatic sigh. She pushes the textbook away from her and drops her pen. Leans back in her chair and stares at you with those big, ridiculous eyes.
"I'm not doing this," she declares, gesturing at the carefully organized spread of materials in front of her. The flashcards, the chapter summaries, the color-coded study guide you spent two hours on. "Can't you just, like, write my paper for me?"
"That's not what tutoring is, Momo."
"But it could be."
"It literally cannot."
"You're really smart, though. You could write it in like an hour, probably. And it would be good. I've seen your notes. They're, like, annoyingly organized."
You set your pen down with the slow, measured patience of a man who has considered several career changes in the last hour alone. "Momo. The whole point of me being here is to help you learn the material yourself. That's what your parents are paying for. I'm supposed to guide you through the concepts so that you can—"
"What if I let you fuck me?"
"What?"
"Like, I'll have sex with you if you do my homework." She leans forward, chin in her hands, elbows on the table. The motion pushes her breasts together and the word THICC warps slightly across the compressed fabric. "That's fair, right?"
You choke. Literally choke. There is no liquid in your mouth and you still manage to choke on nothing but oxygen and sheer disbelief. Your face goes hot, a full-body flush that starts at your neck and crawls up to your ears.
"That's— you can't just— Momo, that is not—" You're gesturing with both hands. You don't know what the gestures mean. Neither does she.
"What?" She blinks, tilting her head to one side. Her hair falls over her shoulder and she looks at you with total, unbothered confusion. "Is that a no?"
"It's a— I'm your tutor. There's a professional— there are boundaries, and ethical considerations, and—"
"Are you gay?"
"WHAT?"
"It's totally cool if you are!" She holds her hands up, palms out. "My friend Sana is gay. Well, she says she's 'exploring,' but she literally only talks about this girl Mina, so I think she's figured it out. Anyway, no judgment."
"I'm not gay, Momo!"
"Then what's the problem?" She's not teasing. She's not playing coy. She genuinely, truly, fundamentally does not understand why you're sitting here looking like you've been electrocuted. "This is how I've gotten through school. Guys do stuff for me and I do stuff for them. It's, like, an exchange. I need passing grades. You probably need... I don't know, what do you need?"
"Therapy, apparently."
"Is that expensive? Because I could also pay you, but I already spent my allowance on boba and these earrings." She flicks the peach-shaped earring. "They were on sale, though."
You sit there for a long, long moment. Somewhere in the library, someone is printing something. The world continues to function normally while yours tilts on its axis.
She watches you, patient and curious. Her lips are slightly parted, the gloss catching the light. Her legs are crossed under the table and one sneaker bobs up and down rhythmically. She doesn't look seductive on purpose. That's the worst part. She's just sitting there, being Momo, and it's devastating in a way that intentional seduction could never be.
"This is..." You rub your hands over your face. "This is really how you've been passing your classes?"
"I mean, some guys just wanted nudes. Which is way easier, honestly. But yeah." She shrugs, one shoulder lifting and dropping. "Everybody wins."
Nobody wins, you think. That's not what winning looks like. But you don't say that because you're too busy losing an argument with your own conscience.
"I can't."
"You keep saying that but you also keep looking at my boobs, so."
(Yeah. She's not wrong.)
"Momo, if anyone found out—"
"Who's gonna find out? I'm not gonna tell anyone." She rolls her eyes. "I'm not stupid."
(Debatable, but you keep that thought internal.)
She leans forward again, and the smell of her hits you. Sweet, peach and warmth. Her eyes are steady on yours and for the first time today, she looks completely focused.
"Look. You write my papers. I come over, we hook up, everyone's happy. I get to stay enrolled, you get to..." She gestures at you, all of you, with one hand. "Have fun. You look like you haven't had fun in, like, years. No offense."
"Some taken."
"I'm just being honest." She taps her pen against her lower lip. "So? Deal?"
The smart thing to do is say no. The right thing to do is say no. The professional, ethical, morally responsible thing to do is to stand up, pack your bag, and report this conversation to the tutoring center coordinator.
You look at Momo. She tilts her head, that little confused-puppy tilt that she does. The light catches her cheekbone. The word THICC glitters on her chest.
"Not in the library," you murmur.
She blinks. Then her face breaks into a grin so wide and bright it actually hurts to look at. "Wait, really? Oh my God, yay!"
"Do not 'yay' this. This is not a 'yay' situation."
"It's totally a yay situation." She's already pulling out her phone, typing something. "Okay so when do you want to— oh wait, should I shave first? Some guys are weird about that."
"Momo. Please stop talking."
"Right. Okay. So mysterious." She mimes zipping her lips, then immediately unzips them. "But seriously, when? Because I have a paper due Thursday."
You start packing up the textbooks. The flashcards you spent an hour making. The color-coded study guide that no one will ever use. "I'll text you," you mutter.
"Cool." She stands up, slings her bag over one shoulder. Pauses at the door, looks back at you with those enormous brown eyes, and hits you with a smile that has probably ended lesser men. "Thanks. You're, like, really nice. Most tutors are super boring."
She leaves. The door clicks shut behind her. The room keeps the scent of peach and bad decisions. You sit there for a full minute, staring at the wall. Then you pull out your phone and open the campus job board, just to see what else is available. Data entry. Cafeteria dishwasher. Overnight security at the rec center.
None of them pay fifty an hour. None of them come with a Hirai Momo attached.
You close the app, grab your bag, and walk out into the sad afternoon light, already hating yourself a little. Your phone buzzes before you reach the parking lot:
hiii its momo!! 🍑 ur place thursday?? ill bring snackssss
You stare at the screen. Three S's. A peach emoji. This is your life now.
You type back: Thursday works. And it's "you're," not "ur."
lol ok nerd 😘
You pocket your phone, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and keep walking.
• • •
You finish writing the last line of Momo's media ethics essay. Two thousand words on the moral responsibilities of mass communication in the digital age. You reread the thesis statement, check the citations, adjust a comma. It's solid B+ work - good enough to pass, not so good that anyone would suspect she didn't write it.
Media ethics. You just wrote a paper about media ethics so you could get laid. The irony doesn't just burn. It cremates.
You save the file, close your laptop, and look around your apartment.
It's bad. Not dirty, exactly, but aggressively neglected. The couch has a dent in the shape of your body. There's a coffee mug on the counter from two days ago with a brown ring at the bottom. Your bookshelf is the only thing that looks maintained - alphabetized, organized by subject - and you realize that says something about you that you'd rather not examine.
You spend the next forty minutes doing a speed-clean that borders on psychotic. Dishes in the dishwasher. Counters wiped. Bathroom scrubbed with a focus on the toilet and sink because you have priorities, if questionable ones. You change your sheets - when did you last change your sheets? (don't answer that), shove the pile of laundry into the closet, and light a candle that you bought six months ago and never used. It smells like "coastal breeze," which smells like nothing found in nature.
The knock comes at 6:14. You open the door and there she is: hair pulled into a high ponytail, hoop earrings, a tight pink top that and denim shorts that could double as underwear. She's holding a paper bag.
"Hi! I brought snacks." She lifts the bag. "Gummy bears, Hot Cheetos, and those chocolate things that look like mushrooms? I forget what they're called."
"Chocorooms."
"Yes! Those." She walks in past you and looks around your apartment the way someone looks at a museum exhibit they don't understand. Her eyes move from the bare walls to the second-hand couch to the single lamp on the floor that you never bought a table for. "This is where you live?"
"Last time I checked."
"It's so..." She searches for the word. "Empty. Do you not have, like, stuff?"
"I have stuff. I have books."
"Books aren't stuff. Books are the worst invention of mankind." She sets the snack bag on the counter, then turns to you with her hands on her hips. "Where are your posters? Your plants? A rug, at least?"
“I don't need a rug.”
She shakes her head with the genuine pity of someone whose parents probably furnished her apartment with a decorator. "We need to get you things. This is sad."
"I appreciate your concern for my interior design."
"You're welcome!"
(She missed the sarcasm. She always misses the sarcasm.)
There's a beat of silence where the reality of why she's here settles between you. Momo, apparently operating on a script she's run before, reaches down and grabs the hem of her top and starts pulling it up over her stomach, over her ribs, the fabric catching on the swell of her chest before she tugs it higher - and you see her bra, pale pink with a tiny bow between the cups, her breasts pushed up and pressed together, full and round and straining against the lace.
"Whoa, wait." You step forward and catch her hands, stopping the shirt halfway over her head. She's standing in your living room with her arms up and her stomach bare, looking at you through a gap in the bunched fabric.
"What? Isn't this what you wanted?"
"Yes, but—" You pull her shirt back down for her, smoothing it over her waist and feeling like a complete idiot for stopping the hottest girl on campus from undressing in your apartment. "Can we at least pretend this isn't a business transaction?"
She blinks. Drops her arms. Tilts her head with that look she gets when you use words with more than three syllables. "Okay? How do we do that?"
"I don't know. Normal things. I'll get you a drink. We'll talk. Like humans."
"We are humans."
"I'm aware. Thank you."
You open the fridge. The options are water, orange juice that might be expired, and a six-pack of cheap beer. She picks the orange juice. You pour it into the one clean glass you have and hand it to her. She takes a sip and doesn't comment on the taste, which either means it's fine or her palate is as undiscriminating as her academic standards.
You grab a beer for yourself. Take a long pull. Momo leans against the counter, ankles crossed, sipping juice and watching you.
"So," she starts. "Do we, like, talk about our feelings now? Is that the pretending part?"
"It's not pretending if it's real conversation, Momo."
"Okay." She nods seriously. "Um. I feel like gummy bears. Can I open the gummy bears?"
Close enough.
She eats gummy bears on your couch while telling you about her dance practice and a girl in her class who keeps copying her outfits. You sit next to her, nursing your beer, half-listening and half-watching the way she talks with her hands, the way she tucks her feet under herself, the way she licks sugar off her fingers without any awareness of what that looks like.
This entire situation is a textbook case of operant conditioning (there it is, the irony again) combined with what any psych professor would call instrumentalized intimacy. Momo has been taught, through years of reinforcement, that her body is currency. That sex is a transaction. That her value to other people is directly proportional to what she's willing to do with her clothes off. It's a conditioned behavioral pattern rooted in objectification, and she doesn't even see it because it's been normalized for her entire adult life.
She's eating gummy bears and talking about dance practice and she has no idea that she's a case study.
"You're staring at me," she observes.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I'm hot." She grins. "Are you ready, or do we need more pretending?"
"It's not—" You exhale. "Yeah. Okay."
You stand up. She stands up. You lead her down the short hallway to your bedroom and push the door open. Momo walks in and does a slow rotation, taking in the full-size bed with its freshly changed sheets, the desk buried in textbooks, the single framed photo of a mountain you bought at a thrift store because the wall felt too bare.
"You literally live like a monk," she announces.
"Monks take vows of celibacy, so not for long."
"What's celibacy?"
"Not having sex."
"Oh." A pause. "That sounds terrible."
She sits on the edge of your bed, bouncing once to test the mattress, and looks up at you. The light from the window catches her face, the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, those wide dark eyes. She's waiting for you. Patient. Practiced. Ready to go through the motions she's gone through with however many guys came before you.
And it makes you irrationally angry.
You sit next to her. Cup her face with one hand, thumb resting against her cheekbone. She blinks, not used to this part. You can tell.
"What are you doing?" she murmurs.
"Being a human."
You kiss her. Slow. Not the let's-get-this-over-with kind she's probably expecting. You take your time with it, learning the shape of her mouth, the softness of her lower lip. She tenses for a second, then melts into it, her hand coming up to rest on your chest. She tastes like orange juice and gummy bears.
When you pull back, her eyes are a little glazed. "Oh," she breathes. "You're, like, a good kisser."
"Thanks."
"Most guys just shove their tongue in. Like a washing machine."
"That's the least sexy comparison anyone has ever made."
"I'm just saying!" She laughs.
You kiss her again. Your hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the base of her ponytail. She hums against your mouth and shifts, and then she's climbing into your lap, her thighs bracketing your hips, her weight settling onto you. The denim of her shorts is rough against your legs. Her arms loop around your neck.
She's so warm. Her body is pressed against yours and you can feel every curve, every inch of her. Your hands find her waist, grip the swell of her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above the waistband of her shorts.
"Can I take this off now?" She tugs at her own shirt, grinning. "Or do you want to do more pretending first?"
"Go ahead."
She pulls the top over her head in one motion and drops it on the floor. The pink bra again, pale lace barely containing her. Her breasts are full and heavy, pushed up by the cups, skin golden-warm in the late afternoon light. Her stomach is toned (the dancing, you remind yourself), defined lines of muscle running beneath smooth skin, and there, right at her navel, a small silver barbell glints. A belly button piercing. Of course.
"Your turn," she says, plucking at the front of your t-shirt.
You pull it off. She looks at your chest with an appraising tilt of her head.
"Not bad. You should work out more, though."
"Thank you for the unsolicited feedback."
"You're welcome!" (Again. Sarcasm-proof.)
You unclip her bra. She shrugs it off her shoulders and lets it fall, and the full weight of her breasts settles free, round and heavy, dark nipples already stiff from the friction of the fabric. They're perfect. Not the word you'd normally use, because nothing's perfect and you're a realist, but - they're perfect. Big and soft and real and right there.
She catches you staring. "You can touch them. That's, like, allowed."
"I know it's allowed. I'm appreciating the view."
"Weirdo."
You lay her down on the bed. She goes easily, hair fanning across your pillow, ponytail loose and coming undone. You unbutton her shorts, peel them down over the thick curve of her hips, her thighs - God, her thighs, full and firm, the kind that press together even when she's lying flat. Her ass lifts off the mattress to help you slide the denim free. Pink underwear underneath (she has a theme, apparently), stretched tight across the wide round swell of her butt.
You pull those down too. She kicks them off one ankle without ceremony.
And there she is. Hirai Momo. Fully naked on your bed, in your sad monk apartment, looking at you with those beautiful, deceptively innocent brown eyes. Her body laid out in front of you is almost absurd: the heavy breasts, the toned stomach with its silver piercing catching light, the flare of her hips into those thick thighs, the neat strip of dark hair between her legs.
(Any qualified psychologist would diagnose you with acute cognitive dissonance right now. Your brain is simultaneously screaming that this is ethically catastrophic and that she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Both are true.)
You take off your jeans, leaving just your boxers. She tracks your movement with lazy, half-lidded eyes.
"Aren't you going to take those off too?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because I'm doing something else first."
You settle onto the bed, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Then lower. The slope of her breast. The flat plane of her stomach. The warm skin beside her navel, the cool metal of the piercing against your lip. Her muscles twitch under your mouth.
"What are you—" She props up on her elbows, watching you move down her body. "Wait. Are you going to...?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." She sounds genuinely surprised. "Most guys don't do that."
"Most guys are selfish."
"I thought that was just, like, a thing. That guys don't."
"It's not a thing." You settle between her thighs, hands on her knees, gently pressing them apart. Her legs fall open, and the sight of her, all of her, laid out beneath you, bare and exposed and looking at you with those big confused eyes - it makes your body respond before you can think. "It's just laziness."
"Huh," she manages, right before your mouth finds her.
Your lips press against her and the first thing you register is warmth. Wet, slick warmth, her body already responding before you've done anything intentional. You start slow because there's no reason not to, because she's not going anywhere, because you want to learn her before you take her apart.
Your tongue drags flat and wide from the bottom of her slit all the way up, one long exploratory stroke that makes her thighs twitch against the sides of your head. She tastes clean, faintly sweet, the salt of skin underneath. You do it again, just as slow, just as calculated. Getting the lay of the land.
You settle in, hands curled around the tops of her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft creases where her legs meet her hips. The skin there is impossibly smooth. You keep your pace unhurried - long, flat strokes with the full width of your tongue, covering everything, mapping the terrain without zeroing in on anything specific yet. Her outer lips are swollen and slick, parting easily under the pressure of your mouth. You trace along the edges, slow and methodical, learning the shape of her.
Her breathing picks up. One of her hands finds the top of your head, fingers resting lightly in your hair. You drag your tongue along the left side of her slit, then the right, calculated strokes that go everywhere except where she probably wants you. Teasing, but not cruelly. Building something. Her clit is swollen and visible, peeking out from its hood, and you can feel the tension in her thighs every time your tongue passes close without making contact.
"You're really taking your time," she observes, impressed and impatient.
You pull back just enough to answer, lips brushing against her when you talk. "Is that a complaint?"
"No! No, it's just... different."
Different from what, you don't ask. You already know the answer and it would make you angry, so you let it go and press your mouth back to her. This time you use the tip of your tongue. Pointed, precise, tracing the delicate folds of her inner lips. She's pink and glistening, every ridge and contour distinct against your tongue. You follow the natural lines of her body, dragging upward along the left side, circling wide around her clit without touching it, then trailing back down the right. A loop. Patient. Thorough.
Momo's abs flex. You can feel the muscles tighten under the hand you've rested on her lower stomach, the little silver barbell of her piercing cool against your wrist. Her hips roll once, a small involuntary grind, and you press them back down gently with both hands.
"Stay still."
"I'm trying." Her fingers tighten in your hair. "It's hard when you're doing... that."
You reward her with the first direct contact. Your tongue finds her clit with a soft, barely-there flick. Just the tip. Just once. Her whole body jolts and a sharp breath punches out of her.
"Oh. Okay. That."
You do it again. Another light flick, this time with a little more pressure, and her thigh presses against the side of your head. You flatten your tongue and cover her clit completely, holding there for a beat, letting her feel the warm, wet pressure without movement. Then you pulse - a gentle rocking of your tongue that pushes against her in slow, rhythmic waves.
"How are you so good at this?" Momo props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you with bewilderment on her face. Her cheeks are flushed, ponytail completely wrecked, dark hair sticking to the side of her neck. "I literally thought you were a virgin."
You stop. Look up at her from between her thighs. "You thought I was a virgin."
"Yeah! You're all, like, books and flashcards and boring apartment. I figured you hadn't... you know. Done stuff."
"I've had a girlfriend, Momo."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, really? What happened?"
"We broke up."
"Well yeah, obviously, but like—" She seems to catch herself, registering the context of this conversation. She's naked on your bed. Your face is between her legs. And she's asking about your ex. "Sorry, that's probably not the right time."
"Probably not."
"But whoever she was?" Momo drops back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Lucky girl. If you ate her pussy like this every time? God."
"Can you stop talking about my ex while I'm going down on you?"
"Right. Yeah. Sorry. Continue."
She waves her hand in a little "carry on" gesture, and despite the absurdity of this arrangement, this girl, this entire situation, something at the corner of your mouth twitches. You lower your head and seal your lips around her clit, sucking gently. Momo's hand slams flat against the mattress.
"Fuck."
The reaction tells you everything you need to know. You increase the suction slightly, pulling her clit into your mouth with a soft, steady pressure, your tongue working against the underside in slow circles. Her hips try to buck upward but your hands are firm on her thighs, holding her in place, keeping her pinned while you work.
She's wet. Obscenely so. You can feel it on your chin, on your lips, the slickness spreading every time you adjust your angle. Her inner thighs are damp against your cheeks. Every time you pull your mouth away to breathe, you can see the shine on her pussy, swollen and flushed dark pink, her clit exposed and throbbing.
You alternate. Suck her clit for a ten count, then release, then trace around it with your tongue in wide lazy circles. Suck again, a little harder, hold it longer. Release, press flat, pulse. She's starting to figure out the pattern (or rather, her body is) and you can feel her tensing in anticipation each time you close your lips around her.
"That— right there." Both hands are in your hair now, not pushing, but holding on. "Don't stop doing that."
You keep the suction steady, tongue curling against her clit in a rhythm you've settled into - slow, conscious, consistent. Her thighs are trembling. Not the full-body shaking of an imminent orgasm, but the low-frequency tremor of sustained stimulation. She's building, and you can read it in every twitch and flex of her body.
(This is the operant conditioning she never paid attention to in class. Stimulus, response, reinforcement. You're reinforcing every sound she makes, every shift of her hips, by repeating whatever just caused it. Pavlov would be proud. Or horrified. Who knows.)
You pull off her clit and drag your tongue down, pushing into her opening. She clenches around you immediately, hot and tight, her inner walls pulsing against the intrusion. You fuck her with your tongue, slow shallow thrusts, and she whines, high and thin, and grinds down against your mouth.
"Nobody does this," she pants. "I'm— this is— nobody takes this long."
"Their loss," you murmur against her, and the vibration of your speech makes her gasp.
You push deeper, as far as your tongue will reach, and curl upward. Her hips jerk hard enough that you have to brace your forearm across her lower belly to keep her down. You can taste her fully now, that salt-sweet tang, and the way she's gripping your hair tells you she's not thinking about assignments or transactions or any of the bullshit that brought her to your bed. She's just here. Just feeling.
You return to her clit. She's so swollen now that you barely have to search. The bud is prominent and hard, a tight knot of nerve endings begging for contact. You cover it with your mouth, suck firmly, and flick the tip of your tongue across it in quick, rhythmic strokes. Fast enough to build, slow enough to sustain.
"Oh God." Her back arches off the mattress. "Oh my God, that feels so good."
Her thighs clamp against your ears. You can barely hear anything except the rush of your own blood and the muffled, distant sound of her breathing going ragged. You don't slow down. Don't change technique. You've found what works and you commit to it. Momo is unraveling above you. Her stomach is heaving. Her hands alternate between gripping your hair and fisting the sheets. Her head is thrown back, throat exposed, tendons standing out in her neck. Every few seconds her hips stutter against your mouth, trying to grind, trying to get more friction, and every time you hold her down and give her exactly what you're already giving her. Consistent. Relentless. Patient.
"I'm..." She swallows hard. "I'm getting close. I think. I don't—" A ragged exhale. "I don't usually finish from this."
She doesn't usually finish from this.
Because the guys she's been with didn't care enough to learn what she needed. Because they treated her mouth, her body, her willingness as a service rendered and never thought to return the favor properly.
You press your tongue flat against her clit, applying firm, steady pressure, and suck. Her body goes rigid.
"Don't stop." Her grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. "Please. Don't stop. Please, please—"
You double down, working her clit with focused, unwavering attention. Tongue circling, lips sealed around her, suction steady. Her thighs are shaking violently now, the thick muscles quivering against your temples. Her abs are clenched so tight you can see every defined line, the piercing catching light with each heaving breath. Her pussy is soaked, dripping onto the sheets beneath her.
You feel the sudden clench of her whole body, every muscle locking at once, her thighs squeezing your head, her fingers yanking your hair. Then her hips buck upward against your mouth, hard, and she comes with a long, shattered moan that fills your sad little bedroom. Her clit pulses against your tongue. You can feel the contractions, rhythmic and strong, her pussy clenching around nothing, her body riding out the peak. You soften your mouth, easing up the pressure but keeping contact, giving her something to grind against as the orgasm rolls through her. Her hips rock in small, helpless circles, abs spasming with each aftershock.
"Oh my God." Her grip loosens in your hair. Her legs fall open, thighs twitching. "Oh my God."
You ease off slowly, pulling back from her oversensitive clit with careful, gentle movements. A few last soft kisses pressed against the crease of her thigh. She's gasping, chest heaving, her eyes are closed and her lips are parted and her entire body has gone boneless against your sheets.
You press one more kiss to the inside of her thigh. Right there, where the skin is softest, where you can feel her pulse hammering against your lips. You let your mouth linger, then lift your head to look at her.
She's a mess. The most gorgeous mess you've ever seen. Flushed from her chest to her cheeks, hair everywhere, a thin sheen of sweat on her stomach making the piercing glitter. Her eyes flutter open, dazed, pupils blown wide.
"You're beautiful when you come," you tell her. Quiet. Simple. Factual.
A change ripples through her gaze. Shock flashes, then hesitation, then a softness she immediately tries to bury. Her lower lip wobbles for a split second. "You're weird," she whispers.
“I thought you’d have something better to say after I made you cum with my mouth.”
Your thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of her thigh, and she shivers beneath your touch. Suddenly she extends her arm and her hand reaches your face. Her fingers trail along your jaw, thumb dragging through the slickness on your chin.
"That was insane," she murmurs. "Like, genuinely insane. No guy has ever made me finish from just... that."
"From oral?"
"Yeah." She says it plainly, without embarrassment. Just a fact. "Usually they go down for like thirty seconds and then give up. Or they're so bad at it I just fake it so they'll stop."
"That's depressing, Momo."
"Is it? I thought it was normal." She shrugs one bare shoulder, then pushes herself up to sitting. Her breasts sway with the movement. "Okay. Your turn."
"My turn?"
"Yeah. Fair's fair." She reaches for the waistband of your boxers, fingertips hooking under the elastic. "Lie down."
There's a part of you (the analytical, overthinking, perpetually exhausted part) that wants to protest, to tell her this doesn't have to be transactional, that she doesn't owe you reciprocity just because you went down on her. But Momo's already tugging at your waistband with a determined little furrow between her brows, and the part of you that's been hard since approximately the moment she walked through your front door tells the analytical part to shut up and lie back.
You lie back.
Momo kneels beside you, ponytail completely destroyed, dark hair falling around her face in messy strands. She pulls your boxers down with both hands, lifting the elastic over you carefully, and slides them down your thighs, your knees, off your ankles. Tosses them somewhere behind her without looking.
Her eyes drop to your cock. Hard, flushed, curving slightly upward against your stomach. She looks at it the way she looks at most things: with open, uncomplicated appraisal. No shyness.
"Nice," she declares.
"Thanks. I grew it myself."
She snorts. "You're so weird." Then she wraps her hand around the base, and the laugh dies in your throat.
Her grip is firm. Confident. She gives you one slow stroke, base to tip, her fingers snug around your shaft, and you feel the calluses on her palm (from dancing, you realize, from gripping bars and catching herself on hardwood floors) and the heat of her skin.
"Okay, get comfy." She's adjusting her position, settling between your legs on her stomach, and the view is— God. Her back curves down from her shoulders to the deep arch of her spine, and her ass rounds upward behind her, full and heavy. Her breasts press flat against the mattress between your thighs. She braces one hand on your hip and holds your cock steady with the other, angling it toward her mouth.
She licks the tip. One quick, testing pass of her tongue across the head, collecting the bead of precum that's gathered there. Then she looks up at you through her lashes, those enormous brown eyes, and takes you into her mouth.
Warm. Wet. insanely soft. Her lips seal around the head and she sucks, gentle at first, her tongue circling the underside of the ridge in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation shoots straight down through the base of your cock and into the pit of your stomach.
You exhale. Controlled. Measured. Barely.
She takes you deeper. Her lips sliding down your shaft, her mouth stretching around the thickness of you. Her tongue presses flat against the underside, maintaining contact the whole way down, a continuous wet drag that makes your toes curl against the sheets. She gets about two-thirds of the way before pulling back, and the suction on the retreat is perfect - tight, steady, the kind that makes your fingers grip the sheets.
"Good?" she asks, pulling off with a soft, wet, sound, her hand replacing her mouth in slow strokes.
"Yeah." you admit in a whisper. “Yeah, that's good."
She smiles. Pleased with herself in that unselfconscious way she has. Then she dips her head and takes you in again, and this time she doesn't tease.
(This fact about Momo is honestly kind of funny… if not a little sad: she's terrible at academics. She can't spell "necessary." She thinks Freud was in the Avengers. She draws hearts in the margins of textbooks she's never read. But she is, as it turns out, phenomenally, almost aggressively good at giving head.)
Her technique is varied in a way that speaks to experience, but more than that, to genuine attentiveness. She doesn't just bob her head in a steady rhythm and call it a day. She reads your reactions - the hitch in your breathing when she swirls her tongue around the head, the tension in your thigh when she sucks hard on the upstroke, the way your stomach clenches when she takes you deep enough to nudge the back of her throat.
She pulls off, drags her tongue flat up the entire length of your shaft, base to tip, slow and wet. Then back down. Then up again, this time tracing the thick vein on the underside with the pointed tip of her tongue, following it like a road map. Your cock twitches against her lips and she hums, pleased.
"You're sensitive here." She presses the flat of her tongue against the spot just below the head, the frenulum, and holds it there with steady pressure. Your hips jerk. Just barely, just a fraction, but she notices.
"Yep. There it is." She sounds smug. She should be.
Her hand works the base in slow, twisting strokes while her mouth focuses on the upper half. The combination is devastating: the tight ring of her fingers, the wet heat of her tongue, the soft suction of her lips. She finds a rhythm that works, a coordinated push-pull between hand and mouth, and commits to it with the same single-minded focus she brings to dance practice and absolutely nothing academic.
Your hand finds her hair. You gather the messy strands, the ruined ponytail, and hold them back from her face in a loose grip at the crown of her head. She glances up at you.
"Thanks," she says, your cock resting against her lower lip, her breath warm against the wet skin. "I hate when it gets in the way. One time I almost choked because my hair got stuck in my mouth and the guy's—" She catches the look on your face. "Not the right time for that story?"
"Not the right time."
"Got it." She winks, then swallows you down again.
Deeper this time. She relaxes her jaw, opens her throat, and pushes forward until her lips meet her own fist at the base. You feel the head of your cock press against the tight constriction of her throat and the sensation wrings a low groan out of you that you couldn't suppress if you tried. She holds there for a beat, swallows around you (and the pressure of that, the rhythmic squeeze, is enough to make your vision go slightly white at the edges), then pulls back with a gasp.
Spit and precum stretch in a thin line from her lip to the head of your cock. She doesn't wipe it away. She just licks her lips, breathing hard, and goes back in.
"You're really good at this," you manage. The line lands flat, almost accusatory, like you're annoyed about it.
"I know, right?" She grins around you, which is a facial expression that shouldn't be possible with a cock in her mouth, but Momo makes it work. "It's like my one talent."
"You can dance."
"Okay, my two talents." She laps at the head, kitten-quick flicks of her tongue that make your abs clench. "Three if you count being hot."
You feel that twitch at the corner of your mouth again. She's ridiculous. She's absolutely ridiculous and you're lying naked on your bed letting her give you the best head of your life while she counts her talents on a mental list.
She refocuses, and the playfulness drops away. Her brow furrows slightly. She takes you in her mouth again, working a steady rhythm now, and her free hand drops to cup your balls, rolling them gently in her palm, fingers careful and warm. The dual sensation of her mouth sliding wet and tight along your shaft and her hand kneading the sensitive skin beneath draws a sound out of your chest that you'd be embarrassed about in any other context.
Her jaw must be getting tired, but she doesn't let up. She pulls off to breathe, keeps her hand moving in long slick strokes (your cock is coated now, shining with spit and precum from the base to the tip), and presses her open mouth against the side of your shaft. Wet, sloppy kisses along the length of you, her tongue tracing shapes against the skin. She mouths at the base, nuzzles lower, drags her tongue across your balls with a flat, firm pressure that makes your hips shift restlessly on the mattress.
"Stay still," she echoes, throwing your own words back at you with a grin pressed into your inner thigh.
"Easier said than done."
"See? Now you get it."
She takes the head back into her mouth, and the suction is tighter now, more focused, her cheeks hollowing as she works. Her hand twists on every upstroke, a corkscrew motion around your shaft that sends sparks up your spine. She's thorough, almost methodical, covering every inch of you - tongue swirling the head, lips tight on the shaft, hand firm at the base, the other still gently rolling your balls. Your cock is soaked, absolutely dripping, spit running down to her fingers and pooling warm against your skin.
(You're a psychology major. You know about the halo effect - the cognitive bias that makes people assume attractive individuals are also competent, kind, intelligent. You've always been skeptical of it. But right now, with Momo's mouth wrapped around you, you're willing to concede that the halo effect, while scientifically questionable, is at minimum emotionally persuasive.)
She takes you deep one more time, holds it, swallows. Your grip tightens in her hair and she makes a small, satisfied sound around you that vibrates through the shaft and directly into the base of your skull. Then she pulls off, gasping softly, and wraps both hands around your cock, stroking in long, fluid movements from base to tip. The whole length of you is slick, glistening, thoroughly worked over.
She surveys her handiwork with obvious pride, her lips swollen and pink, her chin wet. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth and sits back on her heels between your legs, knees pressing into the mattress, those thick thighs folded beneath her.
"There." She gives your cock one last slow stroke, her thumb circling the head, spreading the wetness around. "All ready."
She's looking at you with that grin, bright and unguarded, her hair a disaster and her lips puffy and her eyes still a little glazed from her own orgasm. Your cock throbs in her hand, slick and hard and aching, every nerve ending lit up from thirty minutes of her undivided attention.
Momo releases her grip and leans forward, planting both hands on your chest, her breasts pressing soft and heavy against your stomach and her face hovers above yours.
"So," she breathes, her hips settling down against yours, the wet heat of her pressing against the underside of your cock. "How do you want me?”
You stare at her. It's a mistake. You know it's a mistake the moment you do it, because looking at Hirai Momo when she's hovering above you, naked and flushed and grinning with swollen lips, is the kind of thing that makes rational thought pack its bags and leave the building.
The late afternoon light falls across her collarbones, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts hanging heavy above your chest. Her hair is a mess, dark strands stuck to her neck, and her eyes are soft and warm and looking right at you with an attentiveness you would never expect from her.
And your brain, your stupid overworked psychology-major brain, does the worst possible thing it could do in this moment.
It starts to feel.
Not just arousal. Not just the obvious biological response to having a beautiful naked woman pressed against you. Something more dangerous, something in the back of your ribs that aches when she smiles at you like that. You're cataloging her features without meaning to — the tiny mole near lower lip, the way her nose scrunches when she grins, the faint indentation on her earlobe where she took out her earring.
You're almost falling in love with her. The thought surfaces fully formed and you shove it down with both hands.
She's here because you wrote her media ethics paper. She's in your bed because of a transaction. You are a service she's paying for with her body, or she's a service you're paying for with your GPA. Either way, this is commerce. It has terms. It has an expiration date. You do not catch feelings for commerce.
You sit up abruptly, and Momo slides off your chest with a surprised little "oh."
"Where are you going?"
"Condom." You swing your legs off the bed and cross to the nightstand. Bottom drawer, behind a textbook on cognitive behavioral therapy (because that's where you keep them, and yes, you're aware of the symbolism). You pull one out, tear the wrapper.
"Good thinking," Momo says from the bed. She's lying on her back now, one knee bent, watching you. "This one guy in my comm class never wanted to use one and I was like, dude, I'm dumb but I'm not that dumb."
"Compelling anecdote."
"I thought so."
You roll the condom on, smoothing it down your shaft with practiced efficiency, and turn back to the bed. Momo is stretched out against your sheets like she was sculpted there, all golden skin and curves and that silver piercing catching light on her stomach. Her thighs are slightly parted, and between them she's still wet, glistening from the orgasm you gave her.
You climb back onto the bed, settling on your knees between her legs. She spreads them wider to make room, casual as anything, and hooks one ankle behind your thigh.
"How do you want to do this?" she asks.
"Missionary."
She raises both eyebrows. "Really? That's so vanilla."
"I want to see your face."
You don’t catch the words in time. Too open. Too blunt. Momo’s look shifts, a brief shimmer in her gaze you can’t decode, and a slow smile unfolds across her lips.
"That's kind of romantic," she murmurs.
You reach for the first deflection you can find: "Also, I want to watch your tits bounce."
She bursts out laughing. "There it is. I was like, who is this guy? Being all sweet." She cups her own breasts, lifts them, lets them drop. "They do bounce pretty good."
"I've noticed."
"Everyone notices." Momo says it without vanity, just fact. She pulls out the hair tie and the messy ponytail comes undone. She settles back into the pillow with her arms above her head, hair fanned out, body open and waiting. "Okay, come on. Show me what you've got."
You brace one hand beside her head. The other grips the base of your cock, guiding yourself to her entrance. She's so wet that the head slides against her easily, skating through the slickness, and you position yourself at her opening. Press forward. Just the tip, just barely parting her, and the heat is immediate and intense.
Momo's breath catches. Her eyes are on yours, wide and focused. You push in. Slow, controlled, feeding yourself into her inch by inch. Her body resists for just a second, that initial tightness, and then she relaxes around you and you slide deeper, feeling her stretch to accommodate you. Warm. Wet. Tight enough that the pressure registers along every nerve in your shaft.
"Oh, fuck," she exhales. Her hands come down to grip your forearms. "Go slow."
"I am going slow."
"Slower."
You stop halfway, holding still, letting her adjust. Her inner walls pulse around you in soft, rhythmic contractions, her body figuring you out. She's breathing through her mouth, chest rising and falling, and those gorgeous breasts shift with each inhale.
"Okay," she whispers. "More."
You press the rest of the way in. Her pelvis meets yours, your hips flush against the insides of her thighs, and you're fully seated inside her. The feeling is… a lot. She's clenching around you, intentionally or not, and the squeeze is tight enough that you have to hold still and take a measured breath through your nose.
"You feel really good," Momo tells you. Plainly. "Like, filling? In a good way."
"I'll put that on my résumé."
"You should. Under special skills."
You pull back, a slow drag that makes her grip tighten on your forearms, then push back in. Steady. Unhurried. Letting both of you feel every inch of the stroke. Her pussy grips you on the outstroke, like her body doesn't want to let go, and the wet friction on the re-entry sends heat pooling at the base of your spine.
You find a rhythm. Deep, full strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. Your hips meet hers with a soft, wet sound each time, and her body rocks beneath you. And there they go - her breasts, heavy and round, swaying with each thrust. They move in opposite rhythm to your strokes, rolling upward when you push in, settling back when you pull out. Hypnotic. You weren't lying about wanting to watch.
"Enjoying the view?" She catches you staring.
"Immensely."
She grins, then gasps when you angle your hips slightly, changing the trajectory. The head of your cock drags against the front wall of her pussy on the upstroke and her whole body reacts - abs clenching, thighs squeezing your sides, a sharp inhale through her teeth.
"That," she breathes. "Whatever that was, do that again."
You do it again. And again. Finding the angle that makes her gasp and committing to it with methodical precision. Each stroke pushes against that swollen spot inside her, and you can feel the difference in her reactions. Her moans get louder, less performative, more involuntary.
"Fuck." Her head presses back into the pillow, throat arched. "This is so much better than I expected."
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know, like..." She gasps when you thrust particularly deep. "Three minutes and a pat on the head."
"You've been sleeping with the wrong people."
"Obviously!" She laughs, and the sound breaks into a moan when you pick up the pace.
You shift your weight to one arm and bring your free hand to her breast, palming the heavy swell, thumb finding her nipple. You roll it under the pad of your thumb, firm circles, and she arches into the touch. Her skin is hot under your hand, slightly damp with sweat.
The rhythm settles into something insistent. Faster now, your hips working in steady, driving strokes, and the bed frame is tapping quietly against the wall with each thrust. Momo's legs wrap around your waist, her heels pressing into the small of your back, pulling you deeper. Her pussy is soaked, the sounds between your bodies obscene and wet, and you can feel her clenching around you in rhythmic pulses, tighter each time.
"That angle." Her nails drag down your forearms. "Right there. Don't move, don't change anything."
You maintain it. Same depth, same angle, same pace. Her body starts to tense beneath you, a gradual tightening that begins in her thighs and spreads upward through her stomach, her chest, her shoulders.
Her eyes are getting hazy. Her mouth is open, breathing ragged. Her breasts are bouncing with each thrust, nipples hard, and the silver piercing on her stomach flashes in the fading light.
"I think I'm..." She swallows. "Oh my God, I think I'm going to—"
You bring your hand down between your bodies. Your thumb finds her clit, swollen and slick, and you press against it firmly. She jolts beneath you.
"Fuck!" Her hands fly to your shoulders, nails biting in. "Oh, fuck."
You rub her. Tight, fast circles against her clit, your thumb sliding easily through the wetness, while your hips keep their rhythm. The dual stimulation hits her hard, you can see it happening, feel it in the way her pussy clamps down around your cock, the way her thighs start trembling violently against your ribs.
"Don't stop,” she moans “Please, please, don't stop, right there—"
You press harder, rub faster, and thrust deep. Her body goes rigid beneath you. Every muscle locks, her back arching clean off the mattress, her breasts pressing against your chest. Her pussy clamps around you in a vise grip, pulsing hard, and her eyes roll back, literally roll back, the brown disappearing under fluttering lids as her mouth falls open in a silent scream that takes a full second to find its voice.
The sound she makes is raw and broken. Long, shuddering, her whole body convulsing around you. Her legs lock behind your back, pulling you in as deep as you can go, and her hips buck in erratic, helpless circles against your thumb. You feel every contraction, every pulse of her orgasm gripping your cock in tight, rhythmic waves.
You ease up on her clit but keep your thumb resting there, light pressure, while the aftershocks roll through her. Her thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the thick muscles twitching and jumping. Her stomach spasms, the piercing shivering with each involuntary clench of her abs. She's gasping, each breath a ragged, broken thing, and there are tears at the corners of her eyes; not from sadness, just from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it.
"Oh my God." Her grip on your shoulders loosens. Her eyes refocus, glazed and stunned. "Oh my God."
You stay still inside her, letting her come down, feeling the last contractions pulse weakly around your shaft.
"No guy has ever..." She blinks. Swallows. Tries again: "No guy has ever made me cum like that. Not even close. What the fuck."
You look down at her. Wrecked, trembling, tear-streaked, the most beautiful mess you've ever seen in your life. Flushed from her hairline to her chest, hair plastered to her neck, lips bitten red.
"I'm full of surprises," you tell her, and brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead, your thumb tracing the edge of her jaw before you can stop yourself from being tender about it.
You lean down and kiss her. It's unhurried, almost lazy, your mouth moving against hers while she's still trembling from the aftershocks. Her hand comes up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and for a moment it's just this - mouths and breath and the quiet of your apartment settling around you.
She pulls back first, blinking up at you with those glazed, enormous eyes. Her gaze drops between your bodies, to where you're still hard inside her, and her brows knit together in confusion.
"How have you not cum yet?"
"Willpower."
"Seriously, though." She shifts her hips experimentally and you grit your teeth at the sensation, her pussy still clenching in residual spasms around your shaft. "Most guys would've finished like twenty minutes ago."
You pull out slowly, the drag of her swollen walls along your cock enough to make you exhale. "It's been a while since I've had sex. I wanted to make it last."
"How long is a while?"
"Long enough that I'm not going to rush through this."
She studies you quietly, tipping her head to the side the way she always does when she’s thinking. Something flickers behind her eyes. Then a grin creeps over her warm cheeks, unhurried and just a little bit wicked.
"Okay," she says. "Then I'm going to reward you." She pushes herself up, rolls onto her stomach, and gets on all fours.
And you understand. Immediately, viscerally, with every single neuron in your overworked brain, you understand why every guy likes this position.
Momo on all fours is a religious experience.
Her back slopes downward from her shoulders in a smooth arch, the line of her spine dipping deep before curving up into her ass. And her ass. God, her ass. It's right there, round and full and heavy. Her cheeks are thick and smooth with just enough softness that they bounce slightly as she adjusts her knees on the mattress. From this angle, the curve of each cheek swells outward in a perfect crescent, the cleft between them deep and shadowed. Below, between her spread thighs, her pussy is swollen and glistening, pink and wet from two orgasms.
She looks back at you over her shoulder. That grin again. "You're staring."
"I'm processing."
"Take a picture, it lasts longer." She wiggles her hips. Actually wiggles them, a small side-to-side sway that makes her ass jiggle, and your brain short-circuits for a full second.
"Don't tempt me."
"You could. I don't mind."
"Momo."
"What! I'm just saying. Anyway." She faces forward again, drops to her elbows, and the new angle pushes her ass up higher, the arch of her back deepening. Her breasts hang heavy beneath her, swaying slightly. "You can go hard now. Like, intense. I can take it."
Her wish is an order. You position yourself behind her. One hand on her hip, the other guiding your cock to her entrance. She's so wet that the head slips against her twice before you line up, the slick heat smearing across the inside of her thigh. You press forward, and her body opens for you easily this time, her pussy stretching around you in one smooth, continuous glide.
She moans into the pillow. Low, throaty, muffled by the cotton. Her walls grip you differently in this position - tighter, the angle pushing you against the front wall, and you can feel every ridge and texture of her insides as you bottom out.
"Oh, that's deep," she gasps, fingers curling into the sheets. "That's really, really deep."
You pull back and push in again. Harder this time. The impact of your hips meeting her ass produces a dull, fleshy sound that fills the quiet room, and her whole body rocks forward with the force of it. Her ass ripples on contact.
"Harder," she tells you, and there's no hesitation in it. "Come on. I told you I can take it."
So you give her harder.
Your grip tightens on her hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and you set a pace that's consistent and firm. Each thrust drives deep, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the sound of skin against skin fills the room alongside her breathing. Her ass bounces with every stroke, the heavy cheeks absorbing the impact and jiggling in a way that's honestly pretty distracting.
You spread her. Both hands on her cheeks, thumbs pressing into the yielding flesh, pulling them apart. And there it is: the full, explicit view of your cock disappearing into her pussy. Her lips are stretched tight around your shaft, flushed dark pink, clinging to you on every outstroke. The slickness between you catches the light, obscene and glistening. You watch yourself sink in, watch her swallow every inch, watch the way her entrance flutters and grips.
"Fuck," you mutter.
"Good view?" She's breathless, cheek pressed against the pillow, one eye looking back at you.
"Incredible."
"Told you this position is the best." Her words dissolve into a sharp gasp when you thrust particularly deep, your hips flush against her ass. "Oh, God. Right there."
You hold her cheeks apart and keep going, eyes fixed on the place where your bodies connect. The visual feedback is devastating - watching yourself fuck her, seeing every detail of it, the way her pussy grips and releases, the wetness that coats your shaft and strings between you on every outstroke. You pick up the pace and her moans get louder, less controlled.
"You fuck so good," she pants. Her elbows slide on the sheets and she drops lower, chest against the mattress, ass pushed up even higher. The angle shifts and you sink deeper. "Like, seriously, what the fuck. Where did you learn this?"
"Practice quiz."
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
Her laughter turns into a moan when you snap your hips forward hard enough to make her whole body jolt. You're finding a groove now, a relentless rhythm that has the bed frame knocking steadily against the wall. Your hands alternate between gripping her hips for leverage and spreading her cheeks for the view. Each time you pull them apart and watch your cock plunge into her.
"You're so fucking wet," you tell her.
"That's your fault." She fists the pillow, burying her face in it for a second before coming back up for air. "You and your stupid mouth and your stupid tongue and your stupid—" A particularly hard thrust cuts her off. "Oh, fuck. Keep doing that."
You lean forward, changing the angle, one hand braced on the mattress beside her ribs. The new position lets you drive downward into her, each stroke grinding against the front wall, and her reaction is immediate. Her back arches sharper, her toes curl against the sheets, and a sound comes out of her that's rawer than anything you've heard tonight.
You maintain the angle and the pace, each thrust deep and grinding, your hips meeting her ass with a steady slap that punctuates every stroke. Sweat is beading along her spine, collecting in the small of her back, and her whole body is trembling.
"I'm gonna cum again." She says it with a note of disbelief. "How am I going to cum again? I never cum this many times."
"Just let it happen."
"I'm—" Her fingers twist in the sheets. "Oh my God, I'm really close."
You reach underneath her. Your fingers find her clit, swollen and slippery, and you press firmly, rubbing in fast circles while your hips keep their punishing rhythm. The combined assault of your cock driving deep and your fingers working her clit tears a sound out of her that's almost a scream, muffled into the pillow she's biting.
You feel the orgasm ripping through Momo, her inner walls seizing in hard, rhythmic contractions that grip your cock in waves. Her thighs are shaking violently, her whole body convulsing, and her back arches so severely that her ass presses hard against your hips. Her toes curl, uncurl, curl again. She's gone, completely gone, riding it out in helpless, full-body shudders with broken and incoherent moans against the pillow.
You slow your thrusts, letting her feel every pulse, and ease your fingers off her clit as the peak crests and begins to recede. She's trembling so hard the mattress vibrates.
"Oh my God." It's barely audible. Her legs give out and she collapses flat onto her stomach, your cock slipping out of her in the process. She lies there, face down, panting, absolutely destroyed. "Oh my God."
She turns her head to the side. One glassy eye finds you. "No guy," she whispers, "has ever made me cum like that. Not once. Not ever. What the actual fuck are you."
"Full of surprises." Your hand runs down the curve of her spine, a slow, gentle sweep over the sweat-damp skin. "I did say that."
She lets out a weak, breathless laugh. "You're unreal." She's still catching her breath, but she rolls her head to look at you properly, reading the strain on your face. "Where do you want to cum? I can tell you're close."
You look at her. The mess of her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the sheen of sweat across her shoulders. And her breasts, pressed flat against the mattress, spilling to the sides.
"Your tits."
"Good choice." She grins, lazy and satisfied, and rolls over onto her back. Her breasts settle heavy on her chest, full and round, nipples dark and stiff. She stretches her arms above her head, arching slightly, presenting them to you. "All yours."
You straddle her, knees on either side of her ribcage, and strip the condom off. Your cock is painfully hard, slick from her. You wrap your hand around yourself and start stroking, fast and tight, and the relief of direct friction after all that teasing, after her mouth, after her pussy, is overwhelming.
Momo watches you from below with eyes half-lidded, that lazy grin still curving her lips. "That's hot," she murmurs. "Watching you jerk off over me. I like it." Your hand moves faster. The tension in your gut coils tighter, tighter, every muscle in your core bracing for it. "Come on," she encourages, licking her lips. "Give it to me."
Your cock pulses hard in your fist, the tension that's been building for the last hour finally snapping, and the first thick rope of cum shoots out of you in a heavy arc that lands across her left breast. A white streak, dense and warm, splattering across the full round swell of it and dripping down toward her nipple in a slow, obscene trail.
"Yeah," Momo breathes beneath you, her eyes locked on your cock. "Give me all of it."
Your hips jerk forward, your hand keeps moving in tight, fast strokes, and the second shot follows - just as thick, just as heavy, this one catching her right breast dead center. It lands with a wet sound against her skin, a long white stripe that pools in the crease where her breast meets her chest before overflowing, sliding down into the valley between them.
"Fuck." The word grinds out of you through clenched teeth, your abs clenching with each contraction.
"God, there's so much." She's staring down at her own chest, watching your cum paint her tits, and her tongue drags across her lower lip. "Keep going, don't stop."
A third pulse. This one hits the upper slope of her left breast and her collarbone, a messy splatter that streaks across her skin in thick white lines. Her nipple is coated now, cum clinging to the stiff peak, dripping off the sides in slow rivulets that trace the curve of her breast before soaking into the sheets beneath her.
"All over my tits," she murmurs, her breasts shifting with each breath and smearing the mess further. "That's so fucking hot. You're making such a mess of me."
The fourth shot is weaker but still thick, landing in the valley between her breasts, adding to the pool that's already gathered there. The cum slides in both directions, trickling down the inner slope of each breast. Your cock throbs in your grip, each pulse wringing another load out of you, and a fifth spurt hits her right nipple directly, coating the dark bud in a thick white glaze that drips down onto the swell beneath.
"Look at me," she says, and you do. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted and wet. "You came so hard. That's all because of me, right?"
"Yeah,” you murmur weakly. "All you."
"Good." She grins, watching the last of it drip from the tip of your cock. Thick droplets fall onto her sternum, her chest, her stomach (one lands just above the silver glint of her belly button piercing). "I love watching you cum. Your face gets all tense and serious. It's cute."
You're still dripping. The final weak pulses leave thin trails of cum that roll down your shaft and over your knuckles, and you stroke through them, milking out the very last of it. A translucent string stretches between the tip of your cock and the wet mess on her chest before breaking, landing on the inner curve of her breast.
Her tits are covered. Streaked and splattered in thick white ropes, glistening under the fading light. The cum has pooled in every dip and crease - between her breasts, around her nipples, in the soft hollow of her collarbone. Some of it has started to slide down her ribs, thin trails running over the sides of her breasts toward the sheets.
You let go of yourself. Your thighs are trembling against her ribs. Below you, Momo looks down at her own chest with an expression of amused assessment.
"Wow. You really did save up.”
"Told you it'd been a while."
She brings both hands to her breasts. Her fingers spread through the mess, smearing your cum across her skin in slow circles. She rubs it over the swell of each breast, across her nipples, coating herself in it with an unhurried thoroughness that makes your spent cock twitch against your thigh. The white streaks thin and spread under her palms, turning her chest slick and shiny.
Then she lifts one hand to her mouth and slides two fingers between her lips.
She licks them clean. Eyes on yours the entire time, those big brown irises holding your gaze while her tongue curls around her fingertips, collecting every trace. She pulls them out, goes back for more, scooping a thick smear from the curve of her breast and bringing it to her mouth. Her tongue catches the glob off her index finger, and she swallows without breaking eye contact.
"Salty," she announces, like she's providing a Yelp review.
You stare at her. Hirai Momo, lying on your bed, covered in your cum, licking it off her own fingers with the same casual ease she'd bring to eating gummy bears.
She takes your cock in her hand, soft and spent, and leans down. Her full lips press against the tip in a gentle, deliberate kiss. Not sexual, exactly. Tender. The kind of gesture that doesn't fit the arrangement you've agreed to. Her mouth is warm and soft against the oversensitive head, and your stomach does something complicated that you refuse to examine.
"Do you do this with everyone who cums on your tits?"
She pulls back, still holding you loosely, and looks up. "No." She says it simply, without performance. "Only you. You deserve it."
You lie side by side on the bed. The sheets are wrecked, tangled at the foot of the mattress, the light has gone from gold to amber to the thin blue-gray of early evening. Momo is on her back, one arm draped across her stomach, the other extended above her head. Her breasts rise and fall with each slowing breath, still faintly glossy. Your cum is drying on her skin in thin, translucent streaks that she hasn't bothered to wipe off.
You're on your back too, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of the warmth of her body beside yours. Your shoulders are almost touching.
"Can I use your shower?" She turns her head to look at you. "I have a party tonight."
"Of course you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Bathroom's through there." You gesture toward the door.
She rolls off the bed with a bounce that shouldn't be possible for someone who just had three orgasms, and pads across your room barefoot. Naked. Completely, unselfconsciously, magnificently naked. Her ass sways with each step, the full heavy curve of it shifting left and right, and the light from the window traces the contour of her waist, the dimples above her tailbone.
She pauses in the doorway to look back at you. "Do you have a towel that isn't sad?"
"All my towels are sad. It's a matching set."
"You need a girlfriend." She disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later you hear the water start.
Hirai Momo is naked in your apartment. Using your shower. After having sex with you in exchange for a media ethics essay. You lie there on your wrecked sheets, staring at the ceiling, and try to pinpoint the exact moment your life became a bad college movie.
She comes back ten minutes later, wrapped in your sad towel, hair damp, skin dewy. She gets dressed in front of you without a shred of modesty - stepping into her underwear, clasping her bra, pulling the top back over her head. She checks her reflection in your laptop screen, fluffs her wet hair, and deems herself acceptable.
"Okay, I'm going. My paper's due Thursday, right?"
“It’s already finished. I’ll send it to you later.”
"You're the best." She blows you a kiss from the doorway. "Bye!"
The door closes. The apartment is quiet. You lie there for another full minute, then get up, strip the sheets, and start a load of laundry.
• • •
You told yourself it would only be once.
It is not once. Momo keeps showing up. She has a talent for finding you on campus - in the library, in the psych building, in the cafeteria where you eat lunch alone with a textbook propped against the napkin dispenser. She materializes beside you like she has a GPS tracker on your location.
"I have another paper due," she announces one Tuesday, sliding into the seat across from you at the library. She's wearing a cropped hoodie, no bra underneath (you can tell, you can always tell now, and you hate yourself for always checking), and those same tiny denim shorts.
"What class?"
"Intro to Sociology."
"When's it due?"
"Tomorrow."
"Momo. It's Monday night."
"I know! That's why I came to find you." She leans forward, elbows on the table. "I'll make it worth your while."
She bites her lip. Not seductively; she's just chewing on it the way she does when she's thinking. But the effect is the same, and your resolve, which was already the structural integrity of wet cardboard, collapses entirely.
"Fine. Two thousand words on social stratification?"
"Is that the one about rich people and poor people?"
"Close enough."
"You're amazing." She reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.
You write the paper. She comes over the next evening. The cycle repeats.
More assignments, more sex. Her communications midterm prep (you write the study guide; she rides you on the couch). A group project presentation that her partners are too starstruck by her face to complain she contributed nothing (you build her slides; she blows you in the kitchen while the coffee brews). A reflection paper on gender dynamics in media (the irony continues to cremate itself; she lets you bend her over the desk).
The tutoring sessions become a formality. You really try to maintain some semblance of academic purpose. You print out practice questions, prepare vocabulary lists, bring flashcards. Momo sits across from you, pen in hand, notebook open, and lasts approximately four and a half minutes before the fidgeting starts.
"Okay, but what if Maslow's hierarchy of needs, but for snacks?" she proposes during one session, her feet in your lap under the table. "Like, the base level is water, then chips, then gummy bears, and the top is boba."
"That's not how Maslow works."
"It should be. His version is boring."
She doodles in the margins. She mispronounces "epistemology" so badly it sounds like a skin condition. She asks you if Karl Marx and Groucho Marx are related (they are not). She spends ten minutes trying to understand the concept of cognitive dissonance before declaring, "That's literally just being a Gemini."
And yet. She tries. In her own scattered, easily distracted, fundamentally Momo way, she tries. She reads the chapters you assign her - slowly, with her finger tracing each line, mouthing the words. She attempts the practice questions, and even when she gets them wrong, she furrows her brow and asks why. She texts you at midnight with questions that are sometimes insightful and often unhinged ("if everyone is socialized by their environment, does that mean I'm the product of K-pop and TikTok? because that tracks honestly").
She's never late for the sex. Not once. The girl who showed up twenty minutes late to your first tutoring session with boba in hand arrives at your apartment with military precision when there's an orgasm on the line. You'd find this insulting if it weren't so on-brand.
Her grades improve. Nothing dramatic. She inches from failing to passing, from D-territory into low C's. Her sociology professor emails her a "nice improvement" note and she screenshots it and sends it to you with seventeen exclamation marks and a string of emojis that includes, for reasons unclear, a lobster.
"I'm basically a genius now," she tells you one afternoon, lying on your bed in just her underwear after a session that stopped being academic approximately ninety seconds in.
"You got a C minus, Momo."
"That's passing! That's literally passing! I've never passed sociology before."
"You've taken it before?"
"Twice." She holds up two fingers. "Third time's the charm."
"That's not the flex you think it is."
"Everything is a flex if you believe in yourself."
The arrangement works. It's simple, clean, mutually beneficial. You write, she fucks, everyone wins. That's what you tell yourself every time she shows up at your door.
But today, things don’t go according to the usual setup
The sex is good. It's been good for almost two months. You've figured each other out by now. You know which angle makes her toes curl. She knows how to squeeze around you at exactly the right moment to make your brain go blank. You get each other off. Every time. No fumbling, no guesswork.
But tonight, after she comes (hard, gasping, her nails leaving fresh red trails down your forearms), something different happens.
She doesn't get up. She doesn't reach for her phone. She doesn't ask to use the shower, doesn't mention a party or a dinner or a friend she's meeting. Instead, she rolls onto her side, tucks herself against you, and lays her head on your chest.
Her cheek presses against your skin, right over your heartbeat. Her arm drapes across your stomach, her fingers curling loosely against your ribs. Her hair fans across your chest, dark and damp at the temples, smelling like your shampoo from the last time she showered here.
She doesn't say anything. Her breathing slows. Her body gets heavier against yours.
"Momo."
Nothing.
"Momo, don't you have somewhere to be?"
Her response is a small, sleepy mumble that contains no actual words. Her fingers twitch against your ribs and then go still.
"Momo." You nudge her shoulder gently. "Hey."
She's asleep. Fully, completely asleep. On your chest, in your bed, in your sad monk apartment. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath coming in slow, even puffs against your skin. One of her legs has tangled with yours under the sheets.
Wake her up. That's the move. Shake her shoulder, find her shirt, get her dressed, get her out, get your head straight. You know this. You know the rules because you made the rules. No sleepovers. No cuddling. No stroking her hair like you're doing right now, slow and careful from her forehead to the crown of her head, like she's something fragile, like she's something yours. When did your hand start doing that? You don't remember deciding to. Doesn't matter. You're not stopping.
Her hair is soft. You already knew that. You've grabbed fistfuls of it while she sucked your cock, pulled it while you fucked her from behind. But that was different. That was part of the arrangement. This is you touching her because you want to. Because she's warm, close and sleeping on your chest like she trusts you, and you don't have the guts to stop.
At some point the sun went down and you didn't bother turning on a light because that would require moving and Momo is asleep on you and you'd rather die than disturb that.
Momo burrows into your neck in her sleep and makes this little noise, barely there, and her arm squeezes tighter around your stomach. Your hand has been running through her hair on autopilot for the last ten minutes. Very normal behavior. Nothing to unpack there.
You're looking at the ceiling because it's the only safe place to look. The crack in the plaster is still there. Still shaped like a question mark. Still annoyingly relevant.
You have two options for dealing with what's happening inside you right now: you can dress it up in clinical language. Pair bonding. Oxytocin release. Attachment formation through repeated intimate contact. You can write yourself a whole paper on it, cite sources, get a decent grade.
Or you can just admit you're in love with Hirai Momo and deal with the consequences.
She mumbles something in her sleep and nuzzles deeper into your neck. Your hand pauses. Her face scrunches. You start stroking again immediately, like a trained animal. Pavlov would be so proud.
"I'm fucked," you inform the ceiling.
The ceiling doesn't respond. Momo sleeps on, warm and trusting, her hand curled against your ribs, completely unaware that she just ruined your life in the best possible way.
It has been a while since I was here. Life has been tough. As much as I enjoy writing I don’t think I can squeeze it on the things I am prioritizing for now.
Thank you to everyone who spent a bit of their time reading the humble stories I made. Thank you for those who sent questions. Thank you to those who care for this blog.
For now, I will go back to just being a reader and enjoy the works of talented writers in the community.
Who knows if I will have the itch to write again someday. But for now, this will be justyouraverageficwriter, signing off.
“Is it too late?” Sana asks, and here’s how it always starts with her.
Nevermind that it’s not a question in search of an answer. A normal person could, should, text you. Hey, what’s up? or something equally inconspicuous before turning up the dial, are you busy? can I, like, come over?
Instead, she’s at your doorstep again, twirling a bundle of honey-blonde between her fingertips as if she doesn't know what all that does to people. Some people say, incorrectly, that these are the hours of the night shared with ghosts. And to that you say: No, these hours belong to Sana, clearly, and apparently nobody fucking else.
Now in a way, you do get it. It’d be easier to turn back over in your bed and ignore the elegant simplicity of a text message, or one step beyond that, do the unthinkable and finally tell her no, but when she’s standing there - there with that face, like a thousand different excuses or a million little reasons why she needs something from you, right now - and all she has to do is push her lips together, eyebrows going high -
It is a bit like magic, after all, this feeling when she comes around.
Everything that happened before - her visits, the first one and then the next - no matter how impossible, gets washed away, and suddenly all you have is her. Her voice, her hair, and a sneaking suspicion that the time apart really isn’t such a bad thing, because you don't always have a guess as to what comes next.
Of course, you were always going to let her in.
“I saw the lights were on,” she adds, starting to shrug off her coat like she knows you will.
“I mean, I’m here,” you say, non-committal.
“Yeah. I can see that.”
The door's half open and the only substantial hesitation you have is when you peer over her shoulder. There’s another girl, propping herself up against the doorframe, with a pretty head of glossy, sable hair falling gracefully down her shoulders, and she looks at least a few years younger than Sana. You smile cautiously at her before giving Sana another, much longer glance. In response, you receive a wink that's as subtle as a brick through a glass window (which only raises more questions). You ask the one that seems most important.
What else would Sana, of all people, possibly want to bring you if not some plaything or another. You've seen it all: girls who liked her money, girls who liked her body, girls who just flat-out liked girls, whatever. The dynamic always seemed to be, as long as everyone is having a good time, nothing to get hung up about - because at the end of the night, everyone comes around to Sana again.
And she comes around to you.
Why question it.
“This is a little… irregular,” you say with a nod of your chin, as you step back from the door. "Who's the plus one?"
Sana motions the girl in with a sweep of her hand and throws you another disarmingly flirtatious smile - the same one that'd first left you utterly hooked by this strange person, who had, when you first met, walked into your life for five minutes, then fucked your lights out the way she wanted. She goes further with this, of course, teasing a warm smile and slanting an eyebrow.
"I figured I'd bring you a gift," she coos, in this sultry, dusky sing-song of a voice that really needs no followup whatsoever, other than maybe take my clothes off right now, as she makes a show of how she's pushing her shoulders back, like there's an audience to be impressed with the curve of her bust. "Since we were celebrating."
"Uh-huh. What's the occasion?"
"Whatever the hell you'd like," Sana chirps.
With that, she takes you by the collar. And even though the girl she brought is in the middle of, like, peering around curiously in your foyer, Sana leans up on the balls of her feet and kisses you hard. It's a real kiss - no preamble - which is sort of funny, given you would have been more than okay with some. So, naturally, you're caught entirely off-guard. It takes a full ten, fifteen seconds of feeling her hot little mouth pressed insistently up against yours, your mind gone blank with the suddenness of the moment. Your body taking it for granted.
Meanwhile, the other girl blinks - long, dark lashes batting the curve of her cheekbones slowly until Sana has moved to stand in front of her with the full, earnest intention to cup her jaw, tilt her head down a smidge, and kiss her too (very thoroughly, also, in her own way).
Sana lets the girl go with a sharp draw of air and a peck. Then she looks at you, just this side of playful. The way her teeth flash over her bottom lip suggests how she's enjoying, to her bones, this state of affairs: a dalliance with control, with desire, where she can flaunt it.
She tells you to relax, unwind, which you suppose is code for taking another of Sana's friends and bending her over every horizontal surface in your flat and fucking someone the way you've wanted for the last however-long it's been since Sana dropped back into your life. You've done as much. Some rotating cast of characters: Mina, Chaeyoung, Nayeon, the raven haired girl with the perfect tits; some names and faces starting to run together the more Sana pops up at your place with a girl under one arm, usually looking half bored and half shy - or at least putting up some pretense that might justify Sana telling them to strip down while she's already eyeing you with this look like she's wondering which article of clothing you'll be ripping off her first.
"Does she have a name?" you ask, with a nod vaguely in her direction. Of course it's a loaded question. What's her name doesn't matter. You don't know most of their names.
But when you do a double-take, remembering to steal a good look, you're not sure you've ever seen anyone pull off that perfect little white dress quite the way she does - the kind that goes right up the back, tucked under the neck, sleeves coming to a neat point across her fingers. Sana may or may not have a thing for pretty girls in cute dresses, but this is, without question, the most obvious bribe you've ever witnessed in your life.
Sana's still smirking - so much for being considerate, you think for a second, until you’ve got a dainty hand stretched into yours like you’re brushing up with royalty. And well, maybe you’re getting a better look now that she isn’t bathed in the calm, assured wickedness that two A.M. might only ever know - the dark curling like wind around her fingers and down the lines of her spine, cajoling.
She is gorgeous.
And she says -
“Chou Tzuyu,” in this charming little voice that’s even more mesmerizing than you anticipated, this taut thread winding itself up between the two of you. She says her name with a gentle sigh, a light in her eyes that you know, intimately, not to trust, but you get the sense that she'd rather you make an exception for her - or at least for the night. “Everyone calls me Tzuyu.”
You feel a squeeze at your fingers, an anxious reminder from Sana's thumb, as if she feels the reverie in which you've lapsed. It draws you back, just slightly so.
"Tzuyu," you say, taking mental note of the faint smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth when you do. "How much do you know?"
She twists in Sana's direction, and oh, look how eager and innocent and coquettish Tzuyu's making herself in front of her, smiling. What do I say, the gesture is asking. You can see her effort to hold back a giggle or two as she bites her lip, trying, as all the pretty girls who come through these doors often try, to come up with something cute and modest and small that'll allow you and Sana to picture exactly the right thing. You can tell when a person is not used to having an audience.
"I know Sana..." Tzuyu's voice trails as she gives Sana a furtive glance. "She talks about you a lot. And I figured, you know."
"What? That we were good friends?"
"Sure," Tzuyu laughs to herself lightly again. "Whatever makes it easier."
Sana has her fingers threaded beneath Tzuyu’s chin, studying her like she’s an artifact that belongs behind glass. Expensive. One of a kind. And oh-so-excessively fragile.
The way Sana touches her, she may be trying to prove the point, guiding her body's angles and edges towards whatever form she sees fit, with just fingertips and the slightest tug, showing you exactly how malleable the girl can be. The look on Tzuyu's face is hardly discomfited when her dress slides past the dips of her shoulders or the slope of her waist, when the fabric gets crumpled in Sana's hand like the most expensive balled-up tissues in the universe. You can't decide what animal comes to mind: perhaps a deer, some cute, unknowingly doomed elk.
"No underwear," you note, watching.
Sana draws herself a little closer to Tzuyu with an appreciative gaze, lips gently landing at her shoulders, neck.
"Why bother?" Tzuyu muses. "What were we going to use them for?"
A pull here, a tug there, and the dress puddles around Tzuyu's feet, silk shimmering like the inky dark of a starless sky. And just shy of a pedestal and perhaps a fucking moonbeam, she's the spitting image of perfection: porcelain skin stretching out over a masterwork of curves and bone and muscle. A sculpture, a study in the form that so frequently leaves people just absolutely dumbstruck and thirsty in their wake.
Sana trails her hand around the width of her hip - drawing your eye along the skin of her leg, up and around the perfectly curved thigh - stopping to splay her fingers just so at the base of her spine, as if in demonstration of ownership. Like this: mine.
"Don't get it confused," Sana tells you. "The whole naive innocence thing is a total fucking misdirection."
"Tzuyu," you say again, this time noticing the way it feels in your mouth, syllables sweet and sticking to its roof like honey - maybe something more of an excuse to move forward and touch her yourself, palm her face, brush your thumb over her bottom lip. A taste, something subtle but intense, spreads to the back of your throat, the moment her teeth graze gently over its pad. "Is that true?"
"Are you asking me what kind of girl I am?"
"I didn't put it exactly like that."
"Just answer, sweetheart," Sana says, brow quirked in a faux-display of nonchalance, fingers still pressed, spreading gently at her neck. She's enjoying this a little too much. Though, you're enjoying this too. It doesn't have to be an either-or kind of scenario.
"It's better if you say it," she adds after a second of consideration, and even though it's obvious by now she's only prodding and that this is a foregone conclusion, Tzuyu puts an emphatic twitch in her lips - red, wet, a vision in crimson - like the thought is deeply troubling and will likely require lots and lots of thorough explanation later.
"Fine, okay, in that case," Tzuyu starts with a weary sigh, and then with a blink-and-you've-missed-it flash of a smirk, there's no way anyone's buying any of this, "I’ll say: I'm whatever kind of girl you want me to be."
Sana was right, and she didn’t even need to go so far as to say it. It’s clear - you want her.
But it's half as easy to pinpoint where it all starts: there's the way Tzuyu melts, sinking just that much further when you guide your hands around the curve of her ribs, fingers following the flow of her soft edges, the slopes and valleys of her breasts, and she parts her lips even before yours touch the seam of her mouth, her breath warm, heavy, the kind of anticipation that sends jolts down her neck, her spine, the body electric - a real live wire.
Or, it's because of the way she likes it - like, really likes it. There's something exceptional in a girl who will wrap her legs around your waist and suck your tongue and whimper just by a feather's touch around her hips or between her thighs, where it's damp and hot and holy shit, this is unreal in a very tactile, visceral way. There's no mistaking the noise for anything but genuine pleasure when Tzuyu's trying, unsuccessfully, to bite down the whine sneaking up her throat and into your mouth - where you're kissing her, still - the kind that presses heavy at the bottom of your stomach.
Or, there's Sana yet, pulling her clothes off, and instead of leaving a trail in her wake, folds each piece neatly until she's bared down to this fine little number of lace and cream-colored silk that'd make your head spin if you weren't, y'know, pretty busy, mouth occupied by Tzuyu's pliant moans, both of your tongues colliding.
"God," Tzuyu groans out quietly as you pin her to the wall, and again after another string of kisses, sucking your lip.
There are fleeting moments that slip through like sunlight that have you thinking: Right, this was a good idea, nothing other than a sweet girl like this all messed up and squirming with the shallow dig of your nails. But only close to perfect.
Sana will explain it.
"Mm. Not god." Sana is grinning when she leans up for the same kiss, but she takes her time with it: mouth slotted tight against Tzuyu's as her long fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Tzuyu's neck, working her grip up slowly so that the strain gets more noticeable until the girl is a gasp on a choke of breath. The curve of her back is drawn out by that same hand and her ribs pressed, pert and rosy, into the cool air.
"Sir, and please," Sana then instructs, voice just harsh enough for Tzuyu to understand.
You might imagine she's also drawing in with her nails, teeth, a full-body drag up her exposed front, like some kind of prize, marking and tasting and fucking every inch. There's a whimper, desperate sound of, yes, right, fuck, please, and sir slipping like a sigh off the edge of Tzuyu's tongue.
"Or better yet," Sana adds, with another searing press into the junction of her collarbone, "say daddy, please," then follows through on the plea with another slow-pull.
You try not to roll your eyes. It's Sana's kink, not yours. It's a whole thing. And with Sana, like most things, you find it best when you simply play along.
More than that, you indulge her. You both do.
"Okay, daddy." Tzuyu's teeth catch the corner of her mouth in a self-amused bite. Twisting and twisting the swell of her lip further until it snaps forward. "I want you to tell me something," she says, which, for the way this typically goes, is a little more self-assured and pressing than the usual fare. Even Mina, who was perhaps less than enthusiastic about the - uh - title in question, came around eventually when she had Sana's fingers, your cock, all sunk so deep inside her she forgot what any fucking words were anyway.
So maybe Sana does know what she's doing with this one. Maybe you oughta thank her.
Tzuyu just lifts her chin, says, "this isn't what I expected when I showed up here."
"Obviously, it's not," Sana says.
"What I mean is, this is all good fun, of course," Tzuyu explains. A charming indignance that slips past, like the fingers down her belly. She swallows hard, muscles clenching as your palm runs slow over a hip, squeezing. "Though I guessed when we left Sana's, I would've been bouncing on his cock five minutes ago."
Sana's lithe little frame ends up closer - nearly naked in lace and wholly difficult to miss. She's a half head shorter than the girl in front of you, but with a tilt of her chin and a beckon of her hand, it's a powerful look about the lines of her face: eyes slightly hooded, mouth curved and devastating. It's as if, at every hour of the night, the simplest glance will have the fabric of someone's clothing coming undone, regardless.
Tzuyu is just slowly trading looks between the two of you. So curious. "So what then, do I have to do," her words curl like smoke up her throat, "to get fucked by both of you, hm? In, like, the next five or ten more minutes, preferably."
"He's not going to fuck your brains out simply because you ask." Which by the way, is the first real lie Sana tells tonight.
Tzuyu is unimpressed, or maybe she's a stoic. "Clearly," she deadpans.
Whatever the expression is that is fluttering those gorgeous lashes, eyebrows pulled down, adds a faint mark of distrust across her brow. The prettiest scoffs you've ever heard. "Isn't the point to get me spread out on your sheets so you can use me like a little fucktoy?"
A sigh from Sana: heavy, calculated. She does not reply in any obvious way to that, no flimsy assurances that it would be whatever the hell Tzuyu likes (though you think maybe Sana might want to take this whole fucking opportunity, all this thinly veiled begging for it, for the first taste of what will probably be the main thing that'll hold her over the edge of an orgasm or two).
So, instinctually, Tzuyu pushes it, just enough - she tilts her head, and the motion is followed by a wide sashay of her hips as she gently presses a fingertip to your chest, encouraging a step back to better your balance, like the pull between you has a little more gravity.
"Don't go quiet on me." Another sultry note pulls from her mouth when she guides you another foot - or however many, until the foyer opens up into your living room. The chair, the sofa, a table, you watch her eyes wander like she's mapping the territory. And then finally she drops her hands from your shoulders, reaching instead for Sana, taking her waist in her palms.
Holding her. Kissing her.
There's a delicateness about both of them, clearly, and not only how Tzuyu angles their lips, as if she doesn't fully intend for the two to merge but instead taste the line, test the edges, or something; but Sana doesn't fight this. In fact, when Sana's being drawn gently, but confidently into a deeper, harder press, a very eager give, her eyes slip closed. There's a war, and Sana - though she'd be the last to admit it - is losing.
Tzuyu, at the end of a particularly sharp draw of air, simply turns to you, eyes peeking over the tousle of copper hair atop Sana’s head, and asks: "How does daddy want to play with his toys?"
It clicks in your head immediately: she's a natural, could be an actress, maybe a pro - you have no idea where Sana found her - even if that doesn't exactly match with the diction; daddy, and sir, and the baby-girl pout. There are the things she does to Sana, this slipstream of control passed back and forth and back and forth again - a fevered tugging, the give of one or the other. An entirely different dance. Beautiful, fluid, intense.
Eventually, it lands in your lap. Literally and metaphorically. Tzuyu looks up from where she's kneeling between your legs and with a little pinch of your hips, tells you with that intoxicately sweet, melodic voice of hers, that you seem like the sort who wants someone who just takes initiative.
And she's right.
"May I?" she asks, breathlessly, fingers at the zip.
"Of course,” Sana answers for you, settling into her side like you both belong to her. Like she’s about to enjoy this just as much as you are.
What does the room sound like, the darkness giving away? Everything. The hum of the appliances, the purr of the heat, something in the walls is settling into its final position for the night as the floorboards sigh. Breathing. Listening.
What you don't hear:
Chou Tzuyu moving - whether she shifts onto her knees, or adjusts how her slender fingers fall from the waist of your pants, doesn't matter - no crunch, no shuffle. She doesn't swipe away the hair from her eyes or drag the pad of a thumb over her swollen, bottom lip. All she does is pull, just a bit, and the zipper breaks the silence, comes apart down the way.
Sana clears her throat gently, hoping, possibly, that Tzuyu might be the kind of girl who just loses herself to the moment, caught in the headlights. The way every delicate, doe-eyed girl is supposed to do. Sana likes them a little helpless like that - makes her feel big.
It's too bad really, because Tzuyu doesn’t appear like she's awash with anything in particular. Or at the very least, she's done a fairly convincing imitation of not being the slightest bit off-put, completely disarmed or whatever Sana had been looking to see.
She does look up though. Long, pretty face still managing a bit of devastation from this angle. Those full lips slightly pouted and slick in red: such an inviting color against her pale skin.
"Sana," she coos, eyes wide and brilliant - innocent, yet taunting all at once - and she's deliberate in what she says next, flitting her tongue across her canines to punctuate every sound: "Isn’t daddy going to use me now?"
"Oh." Sana leans in, eyes flicking up at you, Tzuyu's hands, her body, and starts slowly, like she's exacting a punishment, "Tzuyu, baby," her own anticipation beaming off the surface of her thousand-kilowatt grin, "you're going to take that perfect cock," the words dripping off Sana's tongue, heavy, sweet, "you're going to take it, get your pretty little lips all over it sweetie, you're going to show him just how good you can use that filthy fucking hole of a mouth for him. You're going to take him until he cums in your throat, and then you're going to beg him for more. And if you can do that, well. Then we’ll fuck you exactly how you wanted."
Tzuyu blinks - doting and innocent like the angel everyone probably thinks she is.
But then what you've learned about the angels that Sana brings you: they're devils in disguise, well familiar with the sin and lust that resides in these places; sunk into the cushions of the couch, pressed against the cold pane glass of a window, wound tight in the springs of a mattress. You had long thought - and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable - it's easier that way, to leave aside thoughts of right and wrong and ask: Just how far can an angel fall?
"Ah. Perfect," Tzuyu says, sounding like an answer, and her eyes widen as she peels past that band of elastic.
Your cock springs forward and bumps into the pad of her finger, which traces the length of it like it's hers to own, to pleasure.
"God," she hums with satisfaction, and even without looking up, or even before you say a damn word, she draws her tongue up along the underside in one swift, wet lick. "Sana you weren’t exaggerating: daddy's cock is fucking gorgeous."
There is that tiny whine, or more precisely a tiny, oh fuck when Tzuyu curls her hand around your shaft. Sana gives her a push. "Say it, Tzuyu," she all but growls at her.
"Daddy," she says, always pausing on the word. Testing it further. "Please."
"Please," Sana mimics in faux-sweetness, repeating it again once you start to nod.
Not that it changes much - the stare that Tzuyu fixes you is charmingly determined, like a challenge. Then, she inhales.
Deep.
That slide into her mouth is smoother than anything, hot and slippery and oh, right - you remember faintly with a shudder: those pretty teeth hidden away behind a perfectly lascivious mouth, so much that a couple sharp, expert brushes are enough to send lightning dancing along your spine. Sana moves her hands across your hips, to the buttons on your night shirt, working her way up until the fabric has fallen to the side and she can open your chest up to the air, let Tzuyu swallow the rest.
This, Tzuyu likes. "Ah," she gasps around you, or she tries to, your cock propped up on her soft little tongue.
She likes the way that feels. The way you fit in her hands, her mouth. And it shows. Her posture curls deliciously, under the satisfaction of her lips wrapping finally having something to wrap around tight, tight, tighter - under Sana's roaming touches, the skirting of her nails down Tzuyu's chest, reaching with slow deliberation across her stomach until there's a whisper of skin across sensitive flesh.
“She’s so fucking wet,” Sana tells you, smiling at Tzuyu from above and fitting a fingernail between her teeth. "Good fucking girl, aren't you Tzuyu?"
The moan that leaks out around the weight of your cock is pure. Pure lust, pure pleasure. Pure perfection. Her tongue flattens beneath you and finds you surging even deeper, a firmer slide of Tzuyu's wet lips that brings you right into the roof of her mouth - as she twists her face around you, a soft scrape against the inside of her cheek.
You sigh.
And Sana sighs back.
"Of course. Always such a hidden talent," she notes, as Tzuyu's perfect mouth moves and plucks and teases your nerves, twirling her tongue around your tip. Again as she swallows you down, slow, savoring.
“Tell me,” you say, because the heat of Tzuyu’s mouth is starting to remind you of a daydream, “how exactly do you know each other?”
"Work," Sana answers, flatly.
"Like-"
"Yup."
"She sings?"
"She does - rather, she will." Sana glances sidelong with a bit of a grin. "You have no idea what that tongue can do to people when it's got some good backing tracks, when it knows a goddamn fucking thing about rhythm. Speaking of," Sana looks down at where Tzuyu has her silky brown head of hair bobbing between your legs.
And then it's clear what she means, Tzuyu humming and rolling your shaft through the flat of her tongue. It's all slick, soaking heat and the tension building and building in your balls, aching, just absolutely desperate for more friction, to be taken and used and stuffed in her throat - or just more of this.
"Here," Sana's fingers are hooked in your pants, helping them off your legs, your ankles, pulling you further to the edge of the sofa. Let me, she's telling Tzuyu, this slight murmur of want she just can't wait on.
"Wait, I'm -" Tzuyu attempts, pulling her lips off the curve of your cock, to where pre-cum is weeping out of its tip, and she kisses it so very tenderly, going back for round two. Round three. She floats her fingers up over her eyebrows, into her fringe, all to tuck some dark, wispy hair gently behind her ear when she starts to hollow her cheeks and again suck your cock in earnest.
Until -
"Tzuyu," Sana reprimands her, "don't play, daddy's got his work cut out for him tonight. So be a good girl, and let me show you what he likes."
It takes a second, maybe three. It might take longer if Sana didn't have her fingernails digging into her thighs, sliding further to grab hold of Tzuyu by the hair and pull her lips off your shaft. There's a thin trail of spit coming off her mouth and stringing across you. Sana closes her fist in the back of Tzuyu’s hair and doesn't so much as blink while studying the look on her face: lips glistening, just absolutely needy, like she can't help the whimper in her throat.
"Hm?" Sana cocks her head to the side.
"But... sir."
"You are his toy," Sana explains, flashing her eyebrows because apparently it needs to be said, "not the other way around."
And it may be the first time you've seen it happen since Sana walked in with Tzuyu and declared her intentions: the fluster, the pink spread across Tzuyu's features like some scarlet-lettered stain. Defenses dropped like a draw-bridge. She's not quite every bit as cool and composed as she wants the two of you to think she is. (They never are.)
But the fact that Tzuyu's coy little smile returns into her lips - how she's wiping the spit off her mouth with the sharp edge of her hand and pointing your cock in Sana's direction with a delicate, arched brow, how she then moves on, untangling herself from Sana's grasp, eyes heavy, but on her - is a marvel in and of itself.
It’s an amusing surprise, a welcome one, for the simple reason that Tzuyu keeps showing both of you that she can have anything she wants exactly like this: wrapped around a slender fingertip, flushed and helpless, and without breaking a sweat.
"Have you considered daddy wants both our mouths on his cock and maybe a few less words?" Tzuyu scoffs. And even though Sana does scoff right back in retort, that's exactly how it plays out.
(And you may, upon occasion, reflect: you're a real lucky bastard.)
Sana always puts on this act. One that you’ve learned to see right through.
Like she isn't too eager to follow the momentum, that she hadn't just been just as impatient to touch you - to be on her knees with Tzuyu, all aside this beautiful girl who gives you a pretty smile when her tongue finds the base of your cock. Who likes being bossed around but can just as easily turn her face towards yours - in what seems almost like a taunt - as if saying: You know what else I like? to be challenged, and sometimes when the mood’s right, pushed and punished.
But Sana doesn't let you see what kind of resolve she has until she's gone another minute, licking, lapping her tongue around your cock - this is her idea, after all. The little white dress in a heap, the adoration and worship that comes with fucking girls she knows are the prettiest things to see ruined.
Listen - even if Sana’s veneer is as blatantly obvious as it is shatterably thin, she’s no less dangerous.
When she first pushes the very head of your cock inside her mouth, and just that - because why rush it, she's so fucking perfect with those pretty lips - the rest of your brain is shouting something to the tune of fuck me sideways because she knows you better than anyone, knows what really gets your blood burning.
A few slow brushes, one kiss, this lick that goes bottom to top and over and around. It’s like she's testing the surface, dragging her lips across your aching cock as she settles on a rhythm, a tempo that starts to mirror the movements of Tzuyu's hand.
Tzuyu lets you see: this slow twist, this slide of skin up and down the length of your shaft, her soft fingers rubbing tight circles up and down the path of her palm until it meets Sana’s mouth. And like it’s the most simple thing in the world, she dips down, finds a place at the base of your cock, where Sana’s lips can’t quite reach, and drops a hot, messy kiss right across the spot.
Fuck.
She kisses you everywhere.
"Sana," you start to say, and she looks up through the strands of blonde fallen slightly in front of her face. Her lips sink further down the length of your cock - until she hears your breath catch in the bottom of your throat. Until she’s pulling you up and out, again, just barely past her teeth.
Fuck.
"Mm." She hums it right into your skin, and her eyes are hooded, dipping right down with another pull of spit, and then another, before her lips are at the tip once more, flicking across the slit with her tongue - wet and rough.
"Sana," you try again, biting into your lip as you reach a hand into the gold locks of hair framing her deceptive, pretty little face, and tug, a warning, a reminder. You need. It's too early for you to be repeating yourself, and Sana knows that.
A pop, the release of her mouth slipping off the top of your cock, and Tzuyu moves - wrapping her lips tight and silken around the sides, the rest. It all happens in an instant. You're being taken with the sudden, harsh suction of one mouth, the other, fluid and slipping back and forth again and again.
Sana's nodding along, impressed, as she watches Tzuyu take you - completely, nose to your hip - and has a glint of pure hunger shining through her eyes when you hiss, when she kisses along the lines of Tzuyu's stretched lips. There's another flick of a tongue, and you can feel Tzuyu moan something muffled and choked, a frantic pulse at the base of your spine - pressure gathering like a fucking flood.
"Just how you like it, hmm?" Sana says, her breath warm on your balls as she seals her own mouth right over the base of your shaft. And you swear there's something about this: the drag and suck of both their lips as your hips stutter forward, the feeling of them pressed together in a perfect line, heads tilted and mouths fucking dripping with saliva and sin - your hands, resting on the backs of their heads as they're returning you these greedy little moans that vibrate off the top of your cock and nearly kill you in the process.
“Tell me,” Sana adds, dragging a hot, hazy kiss over the sensitive skin up your shaft. "How's daddy feeling? Hmm? Feels nice and perfect, doesn't it. Feels like you could just let go and release, a hot, sticky load of cum, right down her fucking throat. I know she’ll swallow every drop."
"Fucking hell, Sana-"
Sana doesn't exactly answer to your begging, only hikes Tzuyu a fraction higher over your body to gain better control of the rhythm, and a better view: the hollowed out cheeks, her watery, half-shut eyes, tears welling in her lashes - because the prettiest girls always come apart in the most perfect ways.
You grip into all that silky brown hair, thumb running gently up and over the soft skin behind her ear as she finds an exacting little movement with her lips that will have your spine twitching uncontrollably as you fuck deeper down the perfect arch of her throat, Sana keeping rhythm, guiding you all the way in - a searing heat, and then a new rush of saliva dripping off Tzuyu's chin and back down into the tangle of tongues, fingers, throats, mouths.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The pair of them. The things they're doing.
"Or maybe," Sana muses, tilting her head on an angle that suggests she's weighing her options, and then, massaging a quick, firm twist into the very base of your cock she finally lets spill: "You could make a mess of that perfect face," Tzuyu's faint whimper hardly slips out unnoticed, "I'd hold her hair for you while you cum all over her - how about that baby, should we make a big mess of your pretty face?"
The whimper grows louder - Tzuyu moans long and low, right up against the tightening tension gathering between your hips, right as your balls pull, that familiar coil about to break - and, god, if there's some part of you committed to holding the moment, waiting and wanting to stay in the vision of these two perfect mouths pressed together, it's a fleeting and useless notion - but, as usual, Sana already knows.
The way they're blowing you in perfect tandem, their mouths locked together, kissing around your shaft as they continue to pleasure you, filthy and open - a little more, the thought percolates, a little longer, to let the pressure swell.
"Sir," Tzuyu says, swallowing her next breath, and that's the first you've heard her sound like that: whining, pleading.
She slaps your cock against her lips, her tongue - it's all so wet with spit and precum and slick that her chin is coated, her fingers. A demonstration of what you should have already known: Sana's girls aren't just straight down the line. They want the messy, roughness that comes with the sin; the split in the seam, the wail, the raw, uncut want.
You watch Tzuyu’s lips curl, this quiet smile pressed against your cock, and after a slow draw of air, they fall open again. Asking, "aren't you going to fuck your toy's slutty little mouth?"
The silence of the night swallows up the sounds of Sana's low chuckle and the responding squelch of her fingers tearing free, her hand trailing after. Here’s three bodies in the otherwise ordinary emptiness of your living room, on the edges of the leather sofa, so completely drenched in anticipation and hunger.
There’s a flash across Sana's rounded cheeks, hot, like she's just this small space shy of smirking, or giving into something, you don't know. Tzuyu, however, you've got a fairly clear view of - how her eyes glaze, pupils going wide and dark, staring up at you as she places the shape of your cock so acutely up the length of her perfect features: chin supporting its base, the cute, button-like tip of her nose teasing the soft underbelly of skin pulled taut - a fucked up preamble to whatever the hell it is going to feel like, once she's ready for more.
"Say please, sweetie," Sana says, fluttering her fingers over Tzuyu's neck. And then to you, as an aside: "If there isn't a better way to break in a toy."
When Tzuyu doesn't immediately reply, Sana leans over her, with a fingertip under her chin, guiding her hot, wet lips to the edge of your cock.
"Ask daddy to fuck his filthy little whore."
"Ah," Tzuyu lets out an awkward exhale. "Daddy?" she pauses to swallow, licking her lips, then, with just the slightest inflection, this tight line, right at the border, somehow managing to hit both notes of I'm going to make you beg for it and is it okay for me to be begging you for more: "Please, daddy. Fuck my face."
But then the way she fucking looks - petulant, needy, like if you don't shove your cock down her throat in seconds it could kill her - that's the realest thing you've seen from her since she shuffled through your front door wearing a dress that belongs in someone's heaving, pent up fantasy and left it in a careless pile in the middle of your foyer, tits bouncing on her way into the living room. And somehow, that's a lot to take in: to think this whole debacle has led up to her, this girl you're probably never gonna see again, pressing the pucker of her perfect, pretty lips to the underside of your cock, and -
"Open," Sana cuts in, "your fucking mouth."
Tzuyu gulps thickly and stretches her jaw, blinking expectantly as her pink, slender tongue sticks out the faintest, most insinuating inch.
You lift your hips with one good thrust, the plushness of her mouth becoming soft and velvet as she opens wider, and wider still, and you're balls deep, hilt hitting her lips as she opens her eyes, taking you down her throat, slick and slow.
"Good girl," Sana grins, watching Tzuyu swallow around you.
You may be buried into her throat but the sound of Sana's encouragement has Tzuyu keening, this wrench in her brow like she wants to focus so fucking badly. Only made worse when Sana bundles a handful of Tzuyu's long, glossy hair into a fist and gets her voice into the shell of her ear.
"I know you love it, Tzuyu, how he's fucking taking you, huh? That's it. Show daddy how good of a toy you can be."
And oh, the reaction - the very clear one, no less. Tzuyu grips onto the cushion of the couch, a full set of fingers curling around Sana's forearm, any part of you - the one closest and she's digging her sharp nails into your skin and whimpering for Sana to keep talking like her life depends on it.
"Let me see if you can be as good as you think you are," Sana murmurs, and you shift forward again, bucking your hips just barely but getting there, and then there's more, fuck - getting closer to a good steady pace. Slow, forceful. Hitting the very back of her throat, the bottom of her lips.
Tzuyu can only respond by taking you impossibly deep.
"Remember what you told me?" Sana's biting her lip, finding as much satisfaction out of the mere display.
"Mnnph," Tzuyu chokes out before slipping off your cock, only long enough to gasp for another breath, "I said, I said - all the things I would let him do to me." Her voice sounds so wrecked. Broken. Desperate. Filthy, the kind that needs to be fucked. "Please, please," she says again.
"Tzuyu." Sana's fist tightens in Tzuyu's hair, and down Tzuyu goes. "You sounded so sure, baby - when you said you'd making him fucking cum so easy, how you'd make him bust over and over with this mouth, so -"
You're getting too close. It's really not your fault, it's the two of them. Every wince on your face a result of Tzuyu's swollen, shiny lips wrapped tightly around your cock, cheeks flush and hollow with every move of her mouth. She keeps doing this little flick of her tongue as her lips slide around you - even while Sana lifts her jaw up, down, up down, fucking her mouth onto your aching cock with a sort of callous disregard for how it's fucking her up - how it's fucking you up.
"-the prettiest girls make the best fucking cumrags, you know. Really - makes your toes curl," Sana finishes, giving one particularly pointed tilt of her head at the sight of how bad your knees are shaking.
And then, out the corner of her mouth, teeth locked over her lip, because you're so caught up in how good it feels fucking your length through the vice of Tzuyu's mouth, sliding across her wet tongue - "she's not lying baby, is she? Fuck, I bet she feels so fucking good on you doesn't she" - her voice hoarse and desperate, a hint of something caught at the back of her throat like she can almost taste what it's like. What it must feel like.
Sana pushes, and even she can probably feel you pulsing at the way Tzuyu chokes when the tip meets the drain of her throat.
It gets... it ends up too much, too fast. Borderline abusive - and not just the speed, or the sheer roughness - Nayeon was here on her knees, like this, in the middle of the night not too long ago, and deepthroating you is far from the unusual or accomplished, at this point. But, fuck if that isn't something you build up to.
The slight curve of Tzuyu's arms, rising as they tremble with the effort, the little tears that slip down her cheeks, and those lovely sounds she makes. It's not at all intentional - and you're so stupidly certain Sana didn't think you'd be this riled so quickly, like there's not an ounce of willpower in the world that could save you at this point.
And while that's not too surprising on its own - Sana knows you well, this is what she agreed to - Tzuyu must have understood (it was part of the plan, in fact) what she was walking into, what she was signing up for. But fuck it: she was still pretty new, an amateur. And an amateur just wouldn't be capable of doing the things she does, and looking the way she looks, not to the same extent as this.
"Can you cum from nothing but the feeling of daddy's dick hitting your throat? I'll have him sit back and relax while we work," Sana tells her.
It'd make two of you.
"Would you like that?" she's asking you, tilting her head when you've gathered yourself long enough. "No touching, just take my orders while we pleasure you. How does that sound, daddy?"
"Sana, easy," you practically growl, biting down on the inside of your cheek because the twitch in Tzuyu's pulse has you coming far too undone, her chest hitching and lungs heaving and face wet with spit and tears and cum as it's spilling down her chin. You're seconds from telling Sana to dial it back when a low, guttural sound, sputtering, leaves Tzuyu's throat.
The grip in Tzuyu's hair goes loose enough that she pulls herself up, swallowing up as much air as she can.
And fuck, look at the damage: that swollen mess of her red, glistening mouth; the dark runs of mascara and drying tracks that make a ruin of her face, her neck; a heart-stopping shine of white drool. She blinks the tears off her lashes in a moment.
Sana’s eyeing her over the same way a surgeon might approach a task with a scalpel and a careful hand, or perhaps a fisherman surveying the quality of a catch - before tossing it to the back of a truck to be hauled back home. Like the kind of sight she gets just a little too much satisfaction at. And it's the eyebrow she shoots up into her mess of toffee-blonde hair that asks, quietly, too much?
Fuck. Maybe.
But Tzuyu's eyes shift toward Sana's, and without even an ounce of hesitation - without anything more than a heavy exhale - she opens her mouth again so you can see her tongue run across her top teeth, incensed in her lust. More, fuck me, have me, use me she's saying, telling with you the slight indignance in her eyes that Sana finds perfectly irresistible.
Then, as if unbothered by how far your cock had been slotted in her throat, she swallows. Says, "is that all, sir?"
And the sound that follows it, that shuddering sigh - breaking, cracking, shattering into the calm quiet of your apartment - Tzuyu takes you like it's more than enough. She's swallowing it all back down again.
“Fuck, Tzuyu, you’re-” you try, only to have her moan loud, so loud, when she drags her tongue down your cock and swallows around the whole thing in a way that has you gasping. Your hands end up wound tightly in her hair, weaving through the smooth waves, knuckles straining when it really sinks in. Just how deep down her throat you go, so perfectly deep, the stretch of her lips holding on the side of a grimace because she needs it that way. She can't have it any other.
"Go on," Sana murmurs into the side of your face, drawing closer so she's got her nails curled down into your thighs, leaning in to place a wet, hot kiss into your cheek. "C'mon baby, she'd told me she'd let you do anything - said she'd swallow everything, like the fucking cockslut she is."
Sana's chin digs against the bone in your shoulder, eyes unwavering on where you disappear over and over inside Tzuyu's throat. And it's not just that - Tzuyu's hair clenched tight in Sana’s one hand, the other curled hard into a fist around the base of your cock, her harsh breaths washing over the bare skin of your neck. It's fucking indecent, how needy she's gotten. How needy she always gets. You can feel her greedy little lips finding your ear and biting just shy of savage enough to break skin, and licking - flicking across the vein beating down in your throat, and then -
"That's right," Sana says with a low growl when you look at her. "Cum."
An impoverished sound rips right through your chest. Spreads through you like wildfire.
And just like that, you're spilling inside her, thrusts growing unsteady and lost in the wet, searing heat of Tzuyu's perfect, wet lips, slapping and sliding into her throat, spilling on her tongue with every surge of pleasure drumming in your blood.
Tzuyu sinks down further. So deep that the brush of the back of her throat feels like a hand on the hilt of a knife, tearing into the ends of your nerves, where they’ve come alight and been set ablaze.
Sana picks up again whispering into the cuff of your ear. It makes your head feel like it might explode. And you're almost entirely certain that's what will actually happen, when the combined pressure between your ears and that of your cock becoming so desperately spent builds and builds and doesn't stop, as though waiting.
Biding time for some perfect snap.
Only, a tickle at the back of Tzuyu's throat has her choking out. The same uncontrolled way your hips start to falter - shaky, jerky motions instead of any precision or rhythm - and you're tilting and winding your head in circles, jaw tensed, squeezing her scalp and oh, oh fuck. Tzuyu's mouth slides itself all the way off you in one hurried gasp, then two and three, just barely giving her a chance to steady herself, all while you're still leaking thick, white cum all over the slick swell of her bottom lip, up over the ridges of her elegant features, the curves of her cheeks, the high arches of her brows.
Look - you're cumming all over Tzuyu's face. You’re cumming all over her pretty face and she just takes it.
She's, fuck - she's so, so good. And not just because her mouth is fucking perfection, or her eyes are all at once bleary but wide open, watching you twitch, her own cheeks flushing as she stares up at you - trying desperately to breathe, taking a quick lick off the end of your cock, flitting her tongue between her knuckles, because apparently another taste can't hurt.
"Ugh," Sana hushes, right into your neck, "would you just fucking look, see that - god, Tzuyu, how does it feel, does he taste as good as you hoped he would?"
There's a subtle, unmistakable bob in Tzuyu's throat as she's swallowing everything down, the evidence, and a small flash of her tongue. "Good, mmn-" and you can see how she struggles in her restraint to simply say so, to let her hand drift to the 'V' between her thighs and sate that ache.
But even if her body seems ready for more, Sana's finger finds its way underneath Tzuyu's chin to prompt, with one, simple command, "let's get you cleaned up before we give you what you came for. Go on, get our little girl up to the shower, won't you daddy?"
-
It's a minor miracle the three of you make it upstairs and down the hall without so much as a trip or stumble, the girls with their fingers woven together and hips swaying as you all stagger up. It's a minor miracle you don't pin either of them against drywall or up against a doorway or do any of the number of filthy things on the mind of a man just fucked, still coming down, with two gorgeous, perfect faces - two perfectly sculpted asses - all in arms' reach.
The bath mat is still bunched at the back of your bathroom door. Still damp from the last shower - Sana's last morning here - which you have to pry apart just a little so the two of them can file in.
And well - it does happen. Eventually.
At the sink.
Just inside the en suite of your bedroom.
With Sana, being the way she is.
While the faucet in the shower starts up a shallow stream of water - tap running warm, steaming the length of the mirror and condensing the glass that Sana will soon have Tzuyu's face up against if she has any say in the matter.
"Tzu," Sana says, carding a hand through her hair and bringing a damp washcloth up to the bend of her jaw. There's a slow trace of fingertips across the lines of her neck. "Keep your eyes right on his while I clean you up, ok?"
And then there's the mirror in the center. The three of you arranged - a sort of hierarchy - with Sana stepping forward and adjusting her stance in order to survey, and clean the mess she's made. (What you've made.)
In profile, you can't exactly make out a distinct detail about Tzuyu's face in the reflective surface, only the silvery blur that's the curve of her neck, and the silhouette of the small frame that her long, slim legs form against the cabinet. But the idea's always the same - she's being used like a perfect canvas. Like an empty, ready-to-use doll that you can twist and turn in the ways you want until all your control breaks and you're just fucking into her, or having her lick and suck all over Sana's gorgeous fucking tits while she's bouncing in your lap.
Whichever happens to come first.
"You missed a spot," Tzuyu tells Sana, as though she hadn't missed several - her head tilts in your direction, eyes wide still, endless in depth. Her mouth gives away what's already burning its way through her blood. "Maybe another pair of hands will help?"
"Mine are a little rough around the edges," you explain, coming in close. The bathroom is this tight, congested space, but at the right angle there's plenty of room, even if your hips knock slightly into Sana's body. Tzuyu's delicate body already has her back flush against the sink basin. "You want to feel them?"
She shakes her head, and even though the hunger on her tongue hasn't been satisfied, even after having a good fill, there's something else she'd rather have now.
"I think," she starts, her words cut off by a hitch of breath when Sana's lips travel to the very tips of her hair and work their way up to the soft skin behind her ear. "Rough is good, when... when I'm being," Tzuyu's closing her eyes - partly so that she doesn't fall off the edge so easily, partly to lean into the sensations of two warm bodies, all attention placed solely on her.
"When you're being worked over?" Sana offers.
"Ngh," she responds - with an attempt, as best as she can, at a smile. And then there's one, light, teasing stroke across her jaw, her mouth. Sana's thumb pressed gently into the crease. "When the fucking gets..." and you'll have to fill the gap - finishing her thought with your hands slotting themselves onto the gentle arch of her hips, pressing a kiss that doesn't even come close to satisfaction on the supple dip of collarbone.
She lets out this pretty sound at the feel of your lips, Sana's, all ghosting down her throat.
"Hard and deep?" you say. Sana smirks at this - continues the effort, "A little fucking nasty, huh, sweetheart?"
"Mhm." Tzuyu is, above all else, a little helpless. “Because - you know me so well.”
But make no mistake: Tzuyu is exactly where she wants to be. With the heat radiating off her bare body, she leans into it all, only flinching when your teeth catch her nipple - when Sana's tongue laps a rough circle over the other. The scene, the feelings, all of it orchestrated precisely - these are the things she likes, maybe loves even.
And after the soft sounds slip through her lips, a moan and another hum, she finds her words and voice, "hard and deep and, rough and, ff-"
"And?"
The quick brush of your tongue flickers across the hard tip. The sensation draws from Tzuyu this very faint cry and the exhale of a word: "Fast."
"Naughty little thing," Sana presses into her jaw, pulling back to regard you both. To lift a finger, wet the pad with her tongue - and reach down, down, down until her fingertips brush the very line of her thigh, into the slick between her legs. "I love it when girls get all messy."
"Please," is all Tzuyu has to say, barely anything but, as Sana's finger drags slowly inside her folds.
"Patience baby," she murmurs into Tzuyu's open mouth. The exchange is swift but thorough; you watch, all tongue and spit, and your fingers twitch with a sense of loss. "Why don't you remind me how this went last time?"
"Mm, listen here," Tzuyu says in an astute breath, the sound of it like tables turning. There's a firm pull on your wrist - the grip on it guiding you, encouraging you, just where she wants them, into the band of lace around Sana's impossibly narrow waist. You feel Sana sigh in relief, shiver at the touch of a warm palm up against her thighs, and into a pulse-wet cunt, as though the slightest touch will kill her. "I think you might be remembering wrong, Sana."
"And why might that be?"
"Weren't you the one begging me? When I had two fingers up your cunt in your apartment," Tzuyu presses forward, voice lilt and darkening like ink, and Sana whines and crumbles in her palms, knees buckling when there's one sudden and rough slide of fingers right on the base of her spine.
"Yeah?" Sana asks with a rising blush, already knowing the answer - it's her fatal flaw: she's all sharp edges and pointed teeth, right up to the point there's a finger at her own throat, a cock in her hands and a girl working at her clit until she's drooling. "Are you suggesting I'm easy? Is that where you're heading with this?"
Tzuyu's leaned up against the counter, turning Sana's slender frame around in her hands, until she has her fingers up on the over the wire of Sana's bra, palms hot beneath the thin cups, feeling for her nipples, and the change in dynamic is as palpable as the steam rising in the room.
"Let’s not put words in my mouth," she responds simply, dropping another kiss into the back of Sana’s hair. There's another one laid along the sweep of her neck, like a careful bite, and with a lift of a brow, a look that tells you what you've always known, "but if you’re asking, then sure, the sluttiest of all sluts. Easy," she pulls the cups down Sana’s chest, "as fuck."
It gets to her, clearly, as if that moan falling out of Sana's parted lips could mean anything else.
"Daddy?" Tzuyu asks, because apparently she's enjoying the bit, easing into all parts of the character. She can't seem to contain her grin.
"What is it, sweetheart?" you ask, dipping your finger down into Sana's cunt, and fuck - the girl is so, so slick for it. She needs to be taken and torn, that much is clear. Her whimpers don't get softer as your hips drive into her stomach, pinning her between the two of you.
"Is she always this much of a bratty tease? Or is that just how she gets when she gets all worked up over your perfect cock. I know she's aching to feel it stretch out that tight little cunt of hers-
"It's never been all that clear," you answer, before Tzuyu can start to say anything further. A moment of composure, in case Sana wants you to step in.
Except that, she doesn't exactly interrupt the play you and Tzuyu are setting up: "So," Tzuyu remarks instead. "Just for me then."
"It's possible."
The room suddenly feels very full, very small.
"Right. Okay. Well then," you say - watching carefully, when Tzuyu gives you an appraising glance. Sana squirms again beneath the pressure of all these fingers printing over her sensitive skin - she'd love to fuck this. Or be fucked.
"That means you'll have to take good care of your needy little princess, won't you daddy?"
It's surprisingly fitting.
-
Though it hasn’t been that long, all things considered.
Not since Sana effortlessly waltzed her way into your life. And slightly less-than-that, the time it took her thereafter to find herself bouncing in your lap and tugging at your hair while you struggled for breath between her tits. This perfect storm, caught somewhere between laughing and choking and definitely, definitely falling.
It's been a year, maybe. If that. But that's plenty to know.
Know every tilt of her mouth, every sly grin. The different moans that shake loose from the curve of her lips.
Know what it means when Sana's palms hit the tiles of the shower wall, fingers splaying as she goes quiet and submissive, letting out the barest noise of frustration as Tzuyu spreads her tongue over the pucker of her ass - know that the knuckle you curl up in her cunt has her that much closer to unraveling in a stream of whimpers, needy fucking pants and a hoarse sound of gratitude.
Ostensibly for getting her so perfectly, perfectly raw.
"Fuck, yes, that," Sana barely manages, between the messy swipe Tzuyu's tongue makes over her hole. Just this thorough lick, drawing tight, swirling circles around her, lapping at the wetness before making a hot and steady pass over the sensitive stretch of skin, drenching it in spit until Sana's scrambling against the hard surface.
She's not close to going quiet: her cheeks look rounder, like she can hardly keep her noises under control as Tzuyu eases a single fingertip inside the tense muscle of her rim and uses the stretch and warmth of the water raining down her spine, to slip in deeper. Sana's sighing as Tzuyu eats her like an act, an invitation.
You push your fingers deep, deeper, slick, pulling, rubbing, coaxing Sana's mouth apart even as your lips press wet into her cheek. She groans louder, needier, with your hand flexing up a three-finger graze over that bundle of nerves. The kind that makes her back fucking arch.
"You," Sana sputters open like a struck match, burning bright in the steam-cloaked shower, "you, you, you," and it’s not really clear who she’s cursing, "going to - you're going to - you're going to make me-"
"Oh no," Tzuyu sings, starting to straighten herself out - until she’s reminding Sana that she’s the smallest of the three of you and in a possible sort of danger.
She reaches an open palm into the stream of water and splashes off the slick running down her mouth, her chin, her neck - gaze anchored to Sana's trembling figure. It's just one, heavy exhale into the hot, hazy air: "You've got it all wrong.”
Sana twists her head around, face still so wildly attractive amidst the look of worry and that flush of pink taking over from the bottom half. The tiny, imperceptible dip in her brows.
But before she can give voice to a complaint, Tzuyu has her spun by a rough grip around her waist, pinning her back to the tile - water beating down the rise of her breasts and the tops of her shoulders.
"If you're going to cum baby, it'll be all over his thick cock, getting your whole cunt so stretched and stuffed full it'll feel like he's cumming up inside your guts."
You and Sana share this wistful groan of a sigh after Tzuyu wraps her long fingers around your cock, aims you true, and brings you close. Closer. Until you can feel Sana's pulse at her cunt, lips wet and slippery and dripping, just a few inches from where the tip of your cockhead nudges the insides of her thighs. Sana's stomach is seizing in a fluttering of heat and -
"Do you like hearing her beg? That's good. Because this girl's gonna do everything she can to make sure you fuck her raw before you even let her come," Tzuyu's voice lowers, a deep register. "How long can you last, Sana?"
Sana gives you this look, all anticipation and pleasure, holding it for longer than is strictly necessary - and then, her pert little mouth falls open, keening, hissing out a shallow, almost painful, "fuck" the moment you bend at the knees and slip inside.
The feeling that washes over you is a beautiful elixir of relief, an indomitable kind of want, tinged with something heavier, and with just the tiniest hint of longing in the sense that this is not enough, nowhere near enough. It never is.
"God, Sana," is all you manage. All you want to.
Sana doesn't wait around any longer before giving you an impatient shimmy of her hips, fucking herself further down the length of your cock, like she wants to choke on it. And the feeling of it, well, she does it well - the tight warmth swallowing you to the base, her cunt squeezing you all at once, slick and smothering. Fuck, it's all in her eyes. How badly she wants to be held down, split apart. How tightly your fist finds itself locked around Sana's long, wet strands of golden hair as Tzuyu closes any semblance of distance - brushing her lips over where she can tease Sana's open and slack mouth, licking down inside, panting.
"Baby, you are so close, I can feel you trembling," Tzuyu teases, running her fingers up Sana's stomach, cupping steady the breast she can fit in her palm. She drops another messy kiss on Sana’s throat and hums: "Go ahead, cum. I'm sure he doesn't mind.”
"You're such a prissy fucking- nnh-" Sana's words skirt right over Tzuyu's fingertips before they're shoved roughly across the swell of her lower lip and into the back of her mouth. If Tzuyu's intent was to prove a point, she's about as successful as can be - Sana can only gag quietly around her digits, working her jaw over them.
"Sana, shh-shh-shh, baby, don’t fight it; just cum around around his cock, don't put yourself in a corner and try to play games - he'll fuck you right, until you scream, I promise, and-"
It hardly ever takes much. That's something you've come to appreciate: Sana can't ever help it. With the way it actually feels, you pressing right up against where the rest of her cinches so impossibly tight. She was practically teetering on the edge, on the very cliff and within reach of falling right off of it the instant you fit the very hilt of your cock up the molten-hot stretch of her perfect cunt, sliding, fucking into her while water sprays all over her quivering body, so soft beneath the wash of rain.
One of Sana’s long legs gets wrapped around your waist and you can feel her nails start to dig through the muscles in your shoulders.
Tzuyu smirks right into Sana's temple, biting at the slickness of her skin, running the curve of her thumb around the length of Sana's jugular, and sucking with her teeth when Sana cries out. "How does our girl feel wrapped around you? Wet, huh? Needy?"
"Unbelievable," you answer honestly - and maybe that's the point; Sana's pussy is incredible. Hot and silky and absolutely unreal. There’s no question, whether she's a work of art, or if she'll fuck you up, but you love that part.
“Ruin her for me, won’t you?” Tzuyu prompts, with that twinkle of mischief you're rapidly becoming accustomed to. "She looks even prettier when she's fucked out. I know you know that."
She does, she does, she does.
Your hips snap, up, fuck in - Sana mewling around the shape of Tzuyu's first two fingers - then back, drawing the motion slow, long, full - until you’re crashing forward and sinking up into that warmth you know is spreading across every inch of Sana’s body, swallowing her up inside-out as her legs start to shake and give and her tongue laps recklessly along the outline of Tzuyu's knuckles.
Sana knows she likes to play at coy and control, but this is never part of the act - your cock fucking her submissive pussy apart - it’s hard to argue she doesn’t love how you can come to own her: hot and fast and filthy, leaving her breathless and desperate, every thrust into her tight cunt punctuated with some pretty whimper. And here, she just… there isn't the luxury, there's nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to run or shy or look away.
Tzuyu curses when finally Sana bites down, part of a long sequence of reflexes that bloom from the depth you fuck up into her cunt. And with her voice back in her throat (Tzuyu's fingers shaking out the sharp pain) she fucking whines into it, unable to stop the steady line of nonsense tumbling past her lips, incoherent except for the single-minded purpose of her own release.
"Fuck, daddy, fuck," Sana repeats in the same way she always does, getting fucked, the letters collapsing into each other. "I'm cumming, fuck, fuck, so fucking wet. God, you're, fuck, right there, oh - I'm cumming, daddy, I’m fucking cumming," is the all further she gets, muddied with the sound of your slicked-up thighs moving in quick rhythm with the beat of your heart, slapping loudly against her skin - loud enough so that the neighbors can probably listen in through paper thin walls.
Then she goes silent, face painted with it all. She isn't crying, the tears won't come, but she's gone this quiet sort of wide-eyed that matches the way she's mouthing, cumming, over and over, you’re pulling me a-fucking-part.
And you believe her. You have to.
Just look at the way her legs are doing all the wrong things. Thighs tensing taut, muscles giving out - she’s slipping down the tiles, back bending and flexing and going limp all at once. Tzuyu's already moving, scooping her up like it's something rehearsed, before you even have to ask, "Tzu, help me hold her up, won't you?"
“Tzu, huh?”
It's not much, but it is worth noting: how Tzuyu, her fingers curling and interlacing between Sana's, holds the girl like she's breakable. Tenderly, cradling Sana's small body against her chest.
"Do you slip into pet names and all that with every girl Sana brings around? Or am I," and when Tzuyu tilts her head, her smile has this very palpable bite, "the exception?"
Tzuyu just glimpses one downward look into Sana, shivering, riding her orgasm down into nothing, and drops a kiss into her hair. A gentle chuckle: "And when have I ever given you a reason to doubt it?"
"Shameless," is all Sana offers up, beyond exhausted, trying and failing to take more than a passing, somewhat disgruntled interest in the scene unfolding around her, while she clings to the strength Tzuyu and the tile and your hands are putting into her body.
Meanwhile Tzuyu, this devil of a daydream - this tall, skinny thing of long hair and smirking lips and cheekbones as sharp as her wit, has her gaze locked. Still curious, and all but relentless - there's more she's dying to say. It seems almost impracticable that such a lovely woman would really be this way, weapons concealed under all that good-girl charm. And in its most uncomplicated form, that's what it is: an open invitation.
You've only managed the vaguest outlines, after all. "Do you mind?" you ask again.
The next movements feel more elegant than they probably are. Cradling Sana's limp body between you, finding a steady hold.
There’s a slight shuffle to discover a proper balance, a hand slapping the glass of the shower door, and yeah, Sana's fucked out. Slurring out sounds that might resemble the shape of words if she had the presence of mind. The rest are whines and whimpers, obscene in all ways.
“Baby,” Tzuyu tells Sana in a growling kiss to the back of her ear. "Keep your fucking legs up."
(That’s a cue if you were looking for one, to get your arms fastened around Sana's small waist as she leans heavy into your chest.)
"More," The girl in your arms starts to complain, when you truly start fucking her.
"Hurt - hnn, please, more - fuck - harder," and all those sharp edges, that arrogance and conceit, it's all gone. Her pupils are blown out, an animal-like-desire set in its place - these are your invitations to wreck her, you realize, pushing so deep into her well-fucked cunt that she arches, and that her head knocks against Tzuyu's, that the small room is entirely empty save for these movements under the metal cloud of shower water, falling like rain.
This is all there is.
Tzuyu, smirking like she herself might get off on this.
Sana, begging.
And when Tzuyu buries a hot smile at her throat, nibbling at the skin - urging her, urging you, this sharp, "now give her the fucking dicking of a lifetime, will you?"
When Sana’s reduced down to her pleas of, please, harder daddy, and deeper, god, I can feel you so deep -
Well,
You’re all instinct. You sink your fingers into the firm skin of her ass, grab at the soft, slippery flesh around her hips. You sink your cock into her hole again and again.
The stretch is obvious and absolutely devastating, making Sana cry out and muffle her face in your shoulder. She makes a weak sort of sound around your neck - it could be anything, maybe please don't stop, or maybe please do - it doesn't matter.
"You look incredible like this baby, does he fuck you well?" Tzuyu croons, curling around her so her head rests on her shoulder - eyes watching Sana, meeting yours. "Oh, come on, aren't you always telling me about how it makes you feel - all this, full and hot and better than anyone? Now's your chance, no hiding from him. Or me."
"It's so, god it's - I -"
"Come on," Tzuyu squeezes out one long, eager moan with her hand dropped onto Sana's breasts, pulling and kneading like she owns it. "Tell him to cum in you baby, like the good fucktoy you are, let him cum up into that creaming pussy until you’re all sticky and leaking cum all over, just the biggest fucking mess."
There is measurable irony, you suppose, in how Sana brings these friends of hers back with the clear expectation to be fucked and torn apart, how they each want the same, all wanting to get her unraveling and her knees buckling. Only Tzuyu manages, more efficiently than anyone you've ever seen, to leave her all wanton and squirming against your hard, relentless thrusts into her needy cunt.
It's easy: this isn't difficult, there is nothing hard about falling for each and every promise her face has to offer - knowing her body's secrets and drawing the story out, line by line, so you can fall in love with it over and over, all while Sana starts to go helpless at the shape of your cock filling up that tiny, wanting cunt.
So you cum. Inside her. In one final push, filling her completely.
Sana opens her mouth like she's trying to say something - say yes - say daddy, say fuck yes daddy.
"That's it," Tzuyu strokes down Sana's belly. "I knew it - now keep your pretty thighs shut. Can't let even a drop out, understand?"
"Yes, fuck. It's - fuck - good, he feels," Sana finally sobs, chest heaving as you grind the last little bits of cum deep, so far and hot as it can get. All the way in. Where it's hot and wet and throbbing and slick.
Where it should stay, because you never pull out. You savor the last bit of your pulse, sporadic and lethargic. Because in truth - your mind is made and your mouth won't say it because you don’t need to.
Tzuyu's wringing the water out of Sana's hair, picking the strands into careful folds. "Alright then," and her grin is positively lecherous.
There's a bench in the corner of the shower where you eventually arrive, panting now that you realize it, and Sana makes herself at home right in your lap, face buried in your shoulder. Grinding her hips down in this almost imperceptible circle, circling back and feeling. Holding you inside and murmuring into your collarbone.
(Fucked, Sana is simply and unfairly beautiful.)
It’s all in that exhale of a moment, when Tzuyu catches water in cupped palms from the shower-head, wiping away what stray tracks of soapiness left on Sana's shoulder-blades and breasts and thighs. Her hands all up and down her body, sudsing the crease between leg and torso, down lower still, around her sensitive pussy and her folds.
You wonder if she can hear you swallow.
"Maybe we should actually wash up before we go again?"
-
The first thing Sana's free hand goes for when she stumbles through the threshold of your bedroom is a hair band you didn’t know she was storing in the top drawer of your dresser. She fidgets around keeping her towel wrapped tightly around her chest as though modesty were an option at this point.
"What?" she asks, fixing you with a slightly-irritated, slightly-teasing smirk. "You look like you have something you want to say."
"Nothing." You laugh out loud. "It's nothing. I'm just waiting."
She makes this face at you, guilty - so sorry about the contraband - as she twists her wrists and pulls the hair band round her middle-finger, wrapping her palms around her knot of wet blonde and bundling it into a half-assembled ponytail. It leaves the length of her nape exposed and vulnerable, neck flushed pink-from-showering in all the most wonderful of places.
"Waiting," is what she hones in on.
Tzuyu is pulling out of the bathroom. Her hands, washed clean and dried off with a fluffy, off-white towel. When she sets it down, she steps back, leaning on the frame. "He's waiting, for what I wonder?"
She's made of all things smooth-and-sharply-cut. Even from here, even through the sleep-haze fog, the silhouette of her nude figure gives itself to a small sense of anticipation. The long and smooth sweep of her chest, from breast, up and out, and then tapering along down to where her hips flare. She takes a step and then another and lets her fingers ride her side, from the very top of the shallow indentation in the dip of her waist, up. Then the tautness of her abdomen and further still, running slow and over the breast, coming to cup its full weight, pushing the bottom of the curve outwards.
"Waiting to," and she wets her lips in something akin to expectation. "Pound me into the fucking bed?"
You’re smiling when you explain, "I was going to say a request…"
Tzuyu’s dimples deepen. "You mean, like, we can tell you what to do?”
You sit on the bed, which is actually more of a proposition than you realize. "I suppose."
"Sana, sweetie, is there something I should be doing for him," Tzuyu looks up, wearing that trademark kind of playful expression that is definitely deliberate and not at all a tell. "Or maybe I've got this all wrong and you know exactly what you want."
"Well," you manage in reply, sounding surprisingly sane. "Don't both start coming forward with any ideas you have no intention of following through."
"And what if I have no ideas at all? What would you tell me then," is the challenge you find hanging around the slender outline of Tzuyu's wrists, and then at the back of her fingers, as she cards her hands through her hair and pulls it prettily over rise-and-falls of her collarbones, until it's barely curtaining her breasts.
(Barely.)
She crosses over to the bed - to you and Sana - and without much other movement than that, finds a knee on either side of you to let a lone fingertip skirt the tops of your hips. Flirting with the towel around your waist.
"For the record," Tzuyu says, flicking a glance at Sana and leaning down into your jawline. The palm she slides over your thigh is so warm, so promising of its heat and pressure you'd swear you can almost taste the touch of her. "I never, ever go back on my word."
"Try me," you tell her.
"I do have some, ideas." Every time her fingernail ends up between her teeth, it’s another drop in a well that runs god knows how deep. "Though very few of them involve this towel."
“And about the ones that do?”
"Well," Tzuyu starts to purr - reaching a hand down and spreading the flat of her palm on your chest, "I figured if I ever wanted something to bite down on, well, you know."
It's just a subtle little rock - and the perfect view: she starts like this, her hair all tucked behind one shoulder, the arch of her back lifting. Slow at first, Tzuyu only pausing after every other short breath to lick and kiss your lips with hers, and the edges of her teeth, all soft and insistent. You are sure - that with a subtle twitch, a minor jerk of the knee or hip - she is almost right over the perfect place, and when her hips grind in these micro-friction little motions that have her sighing and pushing herself flush, it's clear that all she's looking to do is rub her cunt down all over the erection you've been holding in since the last time your towel was hanging somewhere above your waist.
"Hold, please," Sana interrupts, when she leans over and plucks something out of the messy contents of the nightstand - a few hair clips, and, more importantly, a condom. She swears aloud when the package tears the wrong way, but she's quick to apply a lip balm-slick finger-tip on the inside of the ring, and hands the thing to Tzuyu by way of a passing roll, "so, I assume you've got this under control."
"Give me that."
"Mm. Have at it."
There is an intrusive thought that finds its place, wedged somewhere at the base of your skull when Tzuyu starts the careful act of lowering herself down your shaft - like this, it has an inevitability - a forward momentum, the familiar sense of excitement building a force in your heartstrings. Sana must have a similar sensation, as she scoots her ass and slides one hand over the same place you feel that force thrumming, her palm reaching right for Tzuyu's ass, while Tzuyu hisses out a tiny sound at the added stretch.
"Careful," Sana says, fingers drawn back from the cleft of Tzuyu's beautiful ass with a string of slick that's unmistakably arousal. "You try going back after having his cock. And trust me, there's nothing to go back to. Like, ever."
"That must be why you're always like this," is Tzuyu's cock-sure comeback, finding herself flush with your hips.
You're biting down. You're holding back. You're probably digging nails into your palms hard enough to break skin, because you could be double, triple wrapped, latex running up your length like a goddamn balloon and you'd still feel the hot, melting perfection of Tzuyu's pussy swallowing your cock in one, slick, seamless motion. There isn't any sound either more pleasing than that hitch-groan-slip you hear as Sana helps guide Tzuyu's hips back, forth, back again and to a steady beginning of this proper pace: smooth and full.
You both need a second, because, fuck - and she's biting into a grin. Eyes already half lidded as the speed builds. As Tzuyu starts really enjoying the drag of it, the feeling. The god-damn-fucking-stretch.
"Oh? Like what?" Sana asks, smirk filling out her lips to bridge the silence you're both groaning into. "Like what?"
"Greedy," Tzuyu says. The only part that really needs to get filled in. "Because he fucks the self-control right out of you."
Now Sana lets that settle, and it's not like she doesn't know. Or doesn't understand. And still, "Mm. That does sound like me, doesn't it, daddy?"
(Yeah, well- you- )
Tzuyu watches you watch what happens next: Sana peeling out the cotton slip of her bath towel - sizing up just how good Sana looks. Fuck-me-raw.
And then she laughs, deep and gorgeous. "Didn't he just do a number on you - hn, god. Can you hear him all up inside me? Fucking, splitting me apart."
It's true.
All of it.
The way Tzuyu rides your cock. Faster, faster, rolling her body and drawing her hands together behind the length of her hair and neck until the point of her chin is upturned, showing off the hollow of her throat. A tension that glitters with sweat.
The tightening in the space between the bottom of her ass and your cock - all of it is heaven. This slow-and-rough, rough-and-fast. Tzuyu picks the tempo of it to fuck out a particular pleasure that has you catching her and pulling her closer to your body, holding her through the upward grind, where your cock meets the heat of her cunt - pressing her closer.
That's it.
Possessive. That's what both girls have the good grace to read.
Sana's hands come up Tzuyu's ribs, fingertips skirting the muscle-taut-surface of her stomach, the bumps and grooves of her ribs, and up further still, riding the path of her breasts as they're bobbing-jostled and going full-on heavy - her thumbs go at her nipples. Rolling around the hardened tips - the faintest tug at them, enough to start to pull - then just teasing them between thumb and forefinger and loving the sight of you wincing. Loving that you love that.
"She's pretty, isn't she?" Sana laughs.
"It's a real show," you bite the compliment out. The very least you can get to.
(You'll be fucked if you can hide how much you want to stay buried in this girl and cum a fucking waterfall between those perfect, creamy thighs. Oh, she knows. The dirty little smile, the filthy laugh, you're holding tight - even if the act is useless.)
"Like how she clamps down," she hums. "That's the part I've always loved, you know. She just does everything so slow, so fucking good, so... deliberate."
There's a fist in Tzuyu's hair and no trace of sympathy or self restraint in her friend when Sana tells her, "Baby, ride him slow for me, can you do that?"
When Tzuyu sucks a hiss through her teeth, mouth caught around the sharp intake, Sana just licks a slow line along the curve of her lower lip - as though saying, baby, like the slut you are, remember who asked nicely?
And it turns out: slow is worse. You can feel every tiny tremor of friction, every little shift of Tzuyu's cunt squeezing you. Clinging tightly. Your fingers wrap around her rib cage and hold her right as her ass hits your lap, while her head rolls back into her own hair. It is enough, finally, to draw an out-of-breath little pant out of her, making a beautiful blush crawl and spread across her cheeks - there.
(Oh, fuck, your brain echoes. So, you want slow, that's what the noise from your throat says as she eases back, rising up. So slow, you-can-feel-all-of-me. She makes the effort so flawlessly, it's fucking you both over, because she's looking at Sana with this flutter-beat look, eyes wide, wet and round and pleading.)
It gets that much worse the minute Sana pushes her down by the shoulders. Giving her some resistance. Showing you both she can take you inch by slow goddamned inch.
"Harder. Deeper, sweetie."
Tzuyu does everything Sana says she'll do, loving her fingers in her hair, pulling tight. Control given as easily as that. Because she looks just how she feels: utterly surrendered. A helpless kind of want, like there's something broken in her chest when the head of your cock pushes her deep, deep. To the point she feels something more than an ache.
"Want it," Tzuyu whispers out against Sana's smile. "From the back, like you promised," she says, and takes the shudder out of your breathing.
Sana cups her jaw, laughing. She puts one arm around Tzuyu's throat and bites at her chin, at her ear. "I bet he'd do just about anything to give you what you want, baby."
Tzuyu’s hips snap down onto yours again. Melting your cock in this thick, molten heat.
And again, faster. Needier.
The kind of movements across your lap that make everything louder - a beautiful chorus of small-sounds. Slaps and squelching. Wet and gasping and begging and skin-on-skin. You'd never, ever considered the act a competition before, not with Sana. But when Tzuyu seems to be seeing who can pull the most erotic of noises out from underneath your ribcage - or the highest pitched sigh - the wetter and louder it all gets -
"Sana."
"Tzu."
Tzuyu rides the pressure and finds her voice, head thrown back, jaw slack. "Sana - tell him to, I'm gonna, soon. Tell him what to do."
"Beg for him," and Sana gives her the fakest-of-all-pouts when she slips her hand along Tzuyu's inner thigh, nearing her where the two of you meet, then slowing her pace, bringing you both to an immediate stand-still, while her fingertips continue, ghosting across the shape of your stomach. "He doesn't need anything less than the truth."
Tzuyu's face. It's the most gorgeous thing you've seen. Her hips are winding slow against you when you hit a spot you're not entirely sure either of you can recreate at your own whim: deep inside. Her eyes as wide as they can be. All of her sharp edges now just these subtle things - the very shape of the shadow beneath her clavicle, the tensing of her thighs at your sides, the gentle lines that curl up from the wide bottoms of her hips when your fingers thread up her belly, palm open flat.
"I want," is where Tzuyu starts, not hiding it any part. "I want you to bend me over the bed."
And in a breathless voice:
"Please, please let me have what I want. Just bend me over the bed, shove my legs apart and take me. Hold me down. Fuck me and fill me and don't let me move or say a thing. Until we're both fucking finished."
You swallow. Hard.
Because here's what Sana's brought you: this tall brunette with an impossibly beautiful ass and thighs to die for, a sin-full mouth. The curves in her waist and back and tits a distraction, that you might try to map out until you're so lost you forget how to leave, how to ever take your cock out of this tight cunt.
"Is that a thing you can do?" Tzuyu practically purrs in one long tone, pushing herself up your waist, until your cock falls out and hangs there. Until you can only see all of this clear, gorgeous skin in front of you and hear her pretty little moan. "God, please, daddy, I’m begging you."
(She says this last part in a way that lets you know this isn't something either of you will get over easily, the kind of pleasure, the feeling and the flash. She's unreadable - almost, not quite- just too honest, there's nothing else for you to believe. Maybe that's where the shiver comes from, or your palms itching, or the sounds of your bedding ruffling as you spin her onto her back, her tummy - pull up on her hips until they're sky high and you can palm her breasts, let her press her knees up and apart on the duvet. Until you get that first look down the column of her spine and the sudden, stunning shape of her ass in a view you never want to say goodbye to.)
Tzuyu slides her hands across your sheets, all this stretch. A flex of muscle. When she opens her hips and you push two fingers deep, inside, easy - then back out -
"How much of that," Tzuyu interrupts, blushing furiously, "do I have left to beg with? Please."
- because she's been soaked and aching all day just thinking about it. Just begging for a good fucking - or so she told Sana, who now giggles and leaves small kisses up the ridge of her spine, crawls alongside the dip-line of the mattress, and after curling her fingers around the column of Tzuyu's throat - smooths a single fingernail up and down and presses, tracing, the groove of her jaw as you nudge your cock against her.
It’s not on purpose, this needlessly drawn-out moment - simple brush of latex against her slick, dripping folds, the tightening in her core and how it matches the tension in Sana's wrist and the coarseness of the bed-linens and the hardness of you - but everything eventually folds, into her.
And you're not helping, the way you're fastened to the narrow point of her waist like it's a handle. Your thumbs riding the arch of her hips, taking every opportunity to sink your fingers hard into the flesh, grip tighter and push, pulling Tzuyu, if only to really work that friction between your hips.
"Fuck, it's all in. Finally." Sana gasps like she's the one being bent, arched, fucked from behind, then lays herself down against the length of Tzuyu's shoulder, chin bumping her cheek. Watching Tzuyu. Taking it all in.
You have a hard time making it out, but Tzuyu starts this half-whimpered litany about how she needs to be fucked (that is, roughly - deep and long, or maybe rough and short and deep, or whatever, as long as it makes her lose composure), followed with some shoddy mix of cursing and your name and Sana's - the things all three of you might consider for another chance meeting.
And as you're following up the suggestion with a low groan, that's exactly how you notice that grind in her hips - a jerk back, a twist, bucking against you. She feels so, so incredibly tight when she writhes onto you, squeezes. Like she wants to tear her heart out her chest, she's so overwhelmed. So thoroughly and totally taken by this fuck. By you. "Harder," is all she says.
This one line does it, then two more. All in-and-out thrusts from behind, fuller the second time, then the third.
Only when you find Tzuyu peering back over her shoulder with a pair of eyes that say, please, pretty-please, all liquid and warm and wanting. "Fucking ruin that cunt, I want - god. Do you have the slightest idea how much," and that is where the words disappear into a slow and sticky whine.
"Yeah baby," Sana whispers.
She knows what it is. Tzuyu wants so much more, so you give it. Give her the just-this-side-of-ruthless fucking and the slow-pace grind you know can push her right over the edge. Give her more, all of you, and get her hands twisting in the pillow and grabbing fistfuls of sheets, burying her face into the space above her wrists and nearly choking on her hair with how she moans and yelps - loud.
Her whole body jolts forward the next time. The arch to her back deepening. Body drawing in on a flawless line.
Tzuyu does come. Eventually.
She keens and rolls and begs you not to pull out or slow, just stay put and fill her with your cum - keep fucking going, please. The only thing keeping her from landing flat on your mattress as she practically unravels around your cock are fingers you have under her hips, tightening. Bruising.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck me, you’re,” you’re railing out of her lungs, where the words hang on sex-stale air.
First with Sana whispering promises into her ears and letting Tzuyu swallow, and suck around the length of her index, then two, fingers. Then licking a kiss into her mouth, tongue tangling up hers and finishing up the act with, "cum for us, Tzu, like the sweet girl you are - you take him so well."
Then, with your hand held over her ass-
(She could cry from it. From how everything pulls you in, like a riptide, and, really, with no regard for things like safety or drowning.)
-the utterance off her lips has your stomach twisting into knots:
"Keep," you hear her ask Sana. Barely getting the words out as you ride, fast. "Please, keep, telling him that I - god."
It gets worse before it gets better.
"I can't - I need; fuck, I can’t, with the rubber, I want him," and Sana smirks like she knew all along. "Sana, please-"
"You want the real thing, sweetie. Isn't that right, baby? Hm. Of course it's okay," and Sana soothes a hand through her friend's fringe, pushes it away from her eyes and over her ears, making something that sounds like an adoring laugh slip out. "You want him to fuck his cum so deep in that pussy, I know you do, don't worry."
When you slow down the grinding, wipe the sweat from your face, Sana gets your attention and nods to the very place your cock is disappearing between the cheeks of Tzuyu's ass, "go ahead. If you want the mess-up, sweetie - let's make sure that's exactly what he'll give you."
Who exactly wants what most is hard to say. Sana's the one pulling off the condom, the rubber stretching to an obscene limit that has you fearing for your life should it snap back before it breaks. Tzuyu is already a sort of gaping mess with it all, her own fingers snuck under to rub harsh circles in the absence of cock and something firm and heavy to fill her. To feel full.
And there's you, asking, or maybe, double-checking: "Tzuyu, you're saying you want me to-"
"She doesn't care," is what you're interrupted with, courtesy of Sana. "Fuck a baby into her cunt, that's what she wants."
(Like you wouldn't fucking love it too. Or have the frame of mind to even begin to unpack all of that.)
It’s a lot, admittedly.
And not just because Tzuyu has never looked better: on all fours, pressed, and presented. Legs all the way apart and ass and thighs in your grip, with that smile all pointedly certain and wild-eyed, like, she knows, that you know exactly what to give her - what she really wants - filling her so full and marking your claim by fucking your cum right to her very core.
Tzuyu drags her head back, so she can peek over her shoulder and meet your eyes.
She does things. Like sighing this small sound and laughing and - she has this thing for noises, for things breaking under the strain, where she won't say a word, except to murmur some part of your name into your jawline, a raggedness in her breathing. Sheer hunger.
"I want - want you to, fuck me."
You will. Or you are. Or you're going to, only - Sana's lips are fast around your cock, fingers fluttering delicately between your thighs and drawing these stuttering sounds in your breath, "I will. I will. I'm - I will."
Sana just hums, copper hair bobbing in place. Her hot mouth and wet fingers pulling and sliding and pulling and sliding. Tongue moving in all the ways she knows you like.
Which, here’s a fact: Sana can be mean. No one would believe it.
But sometimes this is the price of admission. You have to be honest about what it takes, how, exactly, you intend to break this beautiful brunette whose ass is swaying back and forth in this mesmerizing little waggle of the hips. It's hard not to marvel, not to ask questions and not wonder at what a pair of friends so similar and so opposite do to each other and other people and to themselves in those small, private hours and space no one else shares, that has you panting and burning and her clasping the hollow of your neck and asking with her body if this is okay, because sometimes, in moments of absolute need, just a glance can mean your end.
So, there's no tease; Sana is well aware of what it feels like when you're throbbing and ready to burst - she's working you up and over and right to that point of no return-
"Can I? Fucking-"
"Fine," she replies, maybe having now considered every other way you might spill a hot load out and make a mess of the sheets. "Have at her," and a flick of tongue catches around the tip of your cock - the final tease, the best punishment.
And the promise of how Tzuyu makes that perfect whimpering cry. Something entirely wounded. Because as soon as it begins - your cock in the shallow depth of her creaming cunt - you're both made aware how she's wetter than she was an hour ago and clenching at nothing, hands balling themselves in frustration, palms bunched white-knuckled up in fists. She needs something, anything. Something for her to squeeze against. For her to bear down on and bounce her cunt off-
The sound all three of you make when you grit your teeth and bury yourself deep into her pussy is a guttural, aching thing, with you biting a lip and gasping. Tzuyu half-growling-half-sobbing into the sheets.
It doesn't matter that she lets Sana cover her open and slack mouth in an attempt to quiet it.
It doesn't matter because in a blink, the exact point in which you sink completely inside - where it's the first, the best, feeling of Tzuyu’s hot pussy taking your cock.
(Mind-numbing, is the word that doesn't come to you.)
Under you, Tzuyu is writhing and hot and tight into the mattress - and so desperate.
"Please," is about all that gets away from her. Which is just too cute to ignore: she's been dying to be fucked, ever since stepped into your foyer and was introduced by the softest, most deliberate of gestures that wound up being all-too intimate. "Please- I need - harder, fucking-"
Sana takes to touching you, her own little form of enjoyment that ends with her fingertips mapping the shape of your jaw. Pupils blown, "Isn't she amazing?" Sana laughs into your neck.
"Fucking," is what your first real stroke back into Tzuyu pulls out, “unreal."
The friction has you both grinding your bodies together at the base, and she arches, this throaty moan, before looking back up at you and letting her mouth fall open - this wordless sentence of plea, over and over again. She's shaking. Body-full. It's almost something painful to see, that she's so undone - and what if you were the only person who'd ever fucked her like this: into ruin.
Tzuyu clenches around the next thrust - begging, so-sore-and-begging to cum.
The demand is practically written in her muscles, and all you want is for her to let go for the second, third, last time - until she loses track of the count. To get there before you have the time to register that she is actually doing it. She's already half-way gone and at your mercy - her only choices now, being: cum, or let you chase the orgasm you're currently rubbing all around the curve of her cunt.
Sana swallows her scream when the first little cry comes, that you've edged out of her. And it gets worse and better the second time her ass meets your thighs, where she's making a real mess on your hips and all but yelling out her orgasm in her state of such incoherent stutter and disarray. The arch to her back is this thing out of your best imagination, which has you - pounding out all her noises - gripping and curving over the plane of her stomach. Until Tzuyu's beginning to make these different cries, somewhere new, somewhere you're finding a whole lot deeper.
"Hold her ass up and fuck her 'til she's full of cum," is the advice you get from Sana in the end, as you fuck her and fuck her through the tumultuous rise and fall of orgasm after orgasm, "oh baby, does it hurt so good? Do you feel that heat spreading down your thighs and getting you all slick? You always knew the best toys are the ones that get bred, sweetheart."
And from her, barely, "fuck, yes."
That's what does it: the desperation just that tangible in all your voices.
Sana manages to get her lips on yours. A kiss that could knock the wind out of your sails under normal circumstances, one that curls a fist and tugs around a familiar part of you. But Tzuyu's eyes roll and drop low, fluttering shut, while your hips crash in quickening succession:
"Fuck-you're so-perfect, cum in me again, daddy - make me," and, "please, so fucking full, just give me more. Want more of you, until it's-"
Tzuyu gets you. Just there. Just the way you needed it. Just like that.
There's something addictive in how her muscles clench and grab around the head of your cock - drawing everything you'd been holding back to a painful front, and - Sana's taste in your mouth still so sweet, mixed with salt and sweat, while you fuck and pound, with absolutely zero respite. Cum buried deeper and deeper until it's spilling and Tzuyu whines for the filthy feeling. Until you're fucked through, emptying every single drop into her open cunt. Until your legs feel sore, a slight shake all through the muscle and the tension in your neck and shoulders, and you're growling this thing that might be her name, and "Tzu, my god, baby, you feel, so amazing," in between thrusts.
It earns you an appreciative whimper.
Something breathy and not-at-all restrained. She doubles down on it when your cock slides out of her swollen, well-fucked cunt.
At first, she only hums a sleepy smile and turns her face in toward the touch, eyes closed and unresponsive. A long exhale. Even like this - especially, perhaps - Tzuyu is lovely.
Either out of exhaustion or overbearing satisfaction, you collapse into her - bodies folding up like that old-cliche about a stack of cards or dominoes - with your cheek to her back and your arms wrapping around her chest, tight, trying to squeeze. Like you're hugging someone from behind. Which isn't too far off. Because for the next five or ten or fifteen minutes or a half-hour, you lie there, pressing your face in against the side of her neck, smelling her hair - how sweet the strands are - then down along her shoulders, and under, listening to the soft way Tzuyu falls into her breaths.
In, out. In, out.
Sana follows all the while with, "should we not have let her ride, first?"
To which, Tzuyu says, "fuck off."
Sana brushes it off, crawls around your shoulders and slips two, three, five kisses into your forehead. That's when you know to shuffle over, dragging and tugging limbs and muscles and bone in the same direction - careful not to let the sticky sensation linger anywhere it shouldn't. Not even for an instant.
The three of you are laying in a total fucking mess. But it's your mess, and that's beautiful in a sort of thought-provoking poetic way.
You turn your head. Tzuyu's there, still, blinking slowly.
"Hello again, hi," you say and the smile comes up all sorts of natural. "Okay?"
Her gaze shifts into something vague, so much quieter, but she nods. So it must be. Okay.
-
“Is it too early?” Tzuyu asks two weeks later, and nothing has ever, ever started like that.
She’s at your doorstep, a little too dressed up for the middle of the afternoon, hair pulled away from her face in two loose braids, bright eyes, lip-gloss that shimmers just enough. Something innocent in the whole way she looks and stands and smiles. Nothing, on the surface, that gives the truth away.
You lift an eyebrow, skeptical. Always. "I wasn't expecting company."
"Yes you were," and she dangles a set of keys.
"I'm sorry, did you steal those?"
The laughter from her chest is as surprising as it is gorgeous, rich and thick like molasses, rolling over the shape of her tongue. It hits you hard that two weeks - really, any amount of time - it’s not nearly long enough.
And before Tzuyu can admit as much out loud, Sana chirps from her spot aside the door, knee bent and grinning, "maybe I did."
"Well," you say, hands on your hips, "this is all a little..."
"Irregular, I know." Sana's giving her best impression of you: so exasperated.
"Which is, honestly," she continues to explain, pushing away from her perch and approaching in these small, gentle steps. "We need, that thing you promised you'd do," she trails a finger up the buttons of your shirt, under your jaw. You're already drowning. "Whenever" - is her very worst torture - "we called."
(Might just be a little bit of trouble, is the one honest answer, to whatever you were trying to start when you saw their faces and recognized their bodies and said: yes, come inside and meet me and fuck my brains out, all that.
hi!!!! i’ve been reading your sana orange series and it’s SO GOOD OMG but some of the chapters after 4 are hyperlinked to the last chapter so it would be from chapters 5, 6, and 8 so i was hoping that you could fix that when you have the chance
Hiii! Thank you for reading, and for enjoying the series. And yeah for some reason it is the case. I will have to fix that. Thank you for pointing it out.
hi!!!! i’ve been reading your sana orange series and it’s SO GOOD OMG but some of the chapters after 4 are hyperlinked to the last chapter so it would be from chapters 5, 6, and 8 so i was hoping that you could fix that when you have the chance
Hiii! Thank you for reading, and for enjoying the series. And yeah for some reason it is the case. I will have to fix that. Thank you for pointing it out.
Sana was so serious in her tone, nothing of that respectful daughter demeanor, business-like and ready to hear the terms of a very unfavorable circumstance. The atmosphere was heavy inside your office, tension was high, thick and palpable. Both you and Sana have not been on good terms with her father, and then there was the hospital director, caught in the crossfire. You look at your girlfriend and admire her resolve, although it doesn’t come as a surprise now, she has been a fighter ever since you knew her, and it is clear she’ll fight this one too, even though you are doomed to lose. However, it is also clear that there is also vulnerability in her voice.
“I advise you to be calm, my dear daughter.”
You can already tell it’s not going to be easy, her father sounded too confident on the card he is holding. He cleared his throat, and took a seat on the couch, not in a hurry whatsoever. He is taking his time, maybe even enjoying the agony written all over your faces. He may be the father of the girl who means the world to you but you can’t help but curse him under your breath, he is giving you all the reasons to hate him, and probably also a little more. As it stands, it's you and Sana against the world.
“So I heard that the owner of the place you are staying needs a heart transplant. You know I can help you with that, Sana." Her father started his spiel with a smug face. He knew his gambit would finally pay off. "You see, this should not have been your problem, but you have so much love to give and you can't help but care." The grin on his face grew wider which made you clinch on your fist tighter. But deep inside you can't argue his logic. You view care and connections as unnecessary. It's one of the reasons why you opt to keep to yourself; before this orange haired girl changed your life at least.
"You know what you need to do, come home with me to Japan, and I'll make sure she'll have her new heart as soon as possible."
He acted so calm, so cool when he laid out his terms. Sana's father thought he had you both on a checkmate, a chokehold; and maybe he probably did. If you didn't hate him, you would for sure admire the man, respect his composure by not laughing hysterically because he had the upper hand. Although you think you didn't expect less from her father, it's really hard to run a hospital, especially if it's controlled by three big families. Well perhaps you do, you already do sound like it.
At that moment, you noticed your girlfriend sob. You've been focused on your own feelings to not be aware that tears are now falling on her face. Instinctively you wrapped your arms around her, she cried enough for the night. You hate her father for doing all this, but even more so you hate yourself for not being able to think of a solution; a way out. You just want to dig deep and find something inside the big brain of yours you always seem so confident about, but somehow the well just ran dry. It can't keep on giving it seems.
There was a brief pause inside your office, the kind that you could not be blamed for thinking the world stood still, and somehow time stops moving forward. It's not a moment of respite however, it's full of dread and uncertainties. Sana knows it, you know it, the odds are not in your favor. "I'll give you time to think, but remember time is of the essence if you want that landlady saved." Sana's father broke that silence with absolute conviction in his voice. He left the office with his shoulders high, and so was his spirit; he knew he had won. You and Mr. Cho's eyes met, and you could see that he is emphatic to your situation, but it's out of his hands too and there's nothing he can do about it. You gave him a smile of acknowledgement as he tapped you gently in the back, and he went out as well after that.
Your focus went back to Sana, and she's crying as she leans on your shoulders. But what more can you do? You just wrapped your arms around her and rubbed her back. "It's all going to be alright." Inside your head you are thinking, asking, do you really mean those words? Maybe not since you yourself are afraid of what will happen next, but it's all you can think of for now. And maybe she knows you are just spewing out words and not meaning them, because she cried even harder when she heard it.
–
Morning came, and you are still occupied with things that need sorting out. You notice your girlfriend roll over and wake up, making a mess of her orange hair. Normally, you would have found it cute but right now you feel a sinking feeling in your stomach. It's a completely different circumstance. "Did you have any sleep, Doc?" Her eyes puffed and her voice hoarse, as she asked you the minute her eyes found yours. It is clear she worries for you too.
"I'm fine, baby." You managed a weak smile. You've been up all night, trying to find answers, but all you could produce was the name of Mrs. Kang's nearest relative using hospital records. You also tried to find ways and cases that a patient was given the priority to receive a heart but that proved to be all for naught. Absent a personal donor pledging their hearts when they die to a specific person, given that the receiver is compatible with the organ; the only recourse is to sign up and be included in the waitlist.
Then you felt your girlfriend sitting on your lap, you realized your attention was never really on her but on your computer, on the things that addled your mind because you did not notice her walk towards you. Sana wrapped her arms around your neck and rested her head on your shoulders; and you always feel at peace when she does that. But there's a feeling of sorrow in her embrace, the kind that screams goodbye, the kind that is making the most out of the remaining time. Anyone can walk in your office and see the both of you and be called unprofessional but those things don't bother you now, the world will understand.
"I already found a relative who can help us with the paper works of the operation." You are just hoping she will see it as good news, praying silently that she will not see it as you are already giving up by thinking about the operation already. Sana tightened her arms around you and you already knew that she understood what it meant. "We don't have any other options, do we?" Her voice trailed off as she tried to finish her sentence. For the first time today, you shifted your attention fully to your girlfriend. "I want to be selfish, you know. I just want to run with you and escape all these." You pat the back of her head and run your fingers through her orange locks. You mean those words, but you know as well that it's impossible.
Sana immediately removes her head from your shoulders to look at you straight into your eyes. "Then let's go, hmm?" There's pleading in her teary gaze, she's desperate just like you that she'll take any alternative without really thinking.
"We can't, baby. I know you can't. You're not capable of leaving the ones you care about." You hate to be the bearer of the grounding news, but you have to; even if it means putting an end to your selfish desires. "We will just go back immediately the moment we try to leave because of our conscience.” You fixed her messy hair, it has become your habit. After a long pause, of just both of you staring at each other, Sana went back to lean on your shoulders, vulnerable, defeated, devastated for the lack of choices. And your heart goes out with her.
Sana –
Sana is in a state of trance, her eyes are fixed on the face of her still unconscious landlady. In the background is a beeping noise of the electronic vital sign monitors, constantly reminding her that she too still exists, even though she thinks her mind has stopped functioning. As she holds the hands of the woman that serves as her guardian in a foreign country, Sana came to terms with what you said earlier. She really could not just run and leave it all behind. Unbeknownst to her, a pool of tears starts to accumulate again in her eyes. Perhaps, the choice is crystal clear now even if it means you two being away from each other. Sana resigns herself to let it all out again and cry but is stopped by the sound of the opening door. She immediately wiped her tears with her bare hands and tried to fix herself before turning to see who the visitor was.
“Unnie.” Dahyun’s head peeked on the small opening of the door, with her signature smile. “Doc said you haven’t eaten yet. Do you want to join us? Your boyfriend and Doc Jun Han still have a doctors meeting, and Sang Hun has a lecture to attend so it’s just us with Jihyo-unnie.” The anesthetist smiled brightly as she completed her invitation, obviously trying to exude positivity. Sana finishes to wipe her eyes dry and continues to fix herself, she can’t say no and frankly speaking she craves some company too.
Sana noticed that the two ladies tried to talk normally to her as the three of them settled on a table, careful to not bring up the topics related to the things that happened. No one seems to be giving her some weird looks in the hospital so she is thankful that the news didn’t really go out. Yet she could not shake off the feeling that it was a bit strange, normally Sana expected to be bombarded with inquiries but both of them talked about completely random things. "Did Doc tell the both of you not to ask me questions?" She just had to make sure, to confirm her suspicions. Both Dahyun and Jihyo awkwardly looked at each other but ultimately smiled in defeat and admitted that it was indeed the case.
"Are we that obvious, Sana?" Jihyo asked in defeat to which she nodded in response. "It's just highly unusual. You two don't want to be late with the news." Dahyun's mouth dropped in shock when Sana just casually calls them nosy but in a more sophisticated way. Then her lips formed a small smile in amusement, it's the first time she did for the day. It's just friendly banter, and the three just laugh about it.
"Did Doc fill you in with the details?" Sana considered both women more than just colleagues now so she decided to talk about the situation even though it is hard at the moment. Jihyo shaked her head."I only know about your landlady's situation, that she needs a new heart." Dahyun echoed Jihyo's response, also saying that she only knew the same information. "Doc seems to be avoiding the topic entirely so I didn't really pry and ask more." Dahyun added. Sana immediately thought about you. Of course it's hard for you too, you just act tough because being a doctor requires you to be, and as a boyfriend it requires you even more.
"This is basically saying goodbye." Sana tried to hold back her tears as she felt like a hand grips her heart again. It is heavy and it keeps on getting heavier that she closed her eyes and the flood gates of tears are now open. Concerned, both women at the table with her scoots closer. Jihyo sitting on the same side gently rubs her back while Dahyun offers tissue. However Sana gathered herself and proceeded to fill them in with the specifics, of how her father wants her to go back to Japan in exchange of securing a heart, of how there is no other choice, of how you two will be apart.
---
Sana looked at you, deep asleep. Probably the only place of peace amidst all the chaos. She examined every single line on your face and she was sure she memorized them all by now. The road to this very moment has not been easy, and Sana thought you deserve the rest you are currently enjoying. It has been your first taste of sleep ever since all of these ensued. She has been itching to touch your face and kiss your lips, but she was also afraid she might wake you up.
She looked back on the long day you both had, on the emotions and struggles. You both wanted to spend the remaining time together. Even though both of you avoided talking about it, not wanting to make it hard while you are still together. But somehow Sana knew that you also knew that it is just a matter of time, that you need to do what is needed to save a life. She involuntarily sniffs as her nose and eyes swelled again, for which she panicked a bit thinking that might wake you up but fortunately didn’t. Sana then took the chance to slowly get off the bed, careful to not disturb you in the slightest. She fetched a letter from the pocket of her coat, and placed it on your lone bedside table making sure you would see it. Then she took an all look around your room, a bittersweet smile. So many great memories she will forever cherish. And lastly, her eyes landed on you and God knows how much she wants to go back to your side. The few inches apart has been such a torture already.
Reader (Three weeks later) --
You opened the door to see Mrs. Kang sitting up looking outside the window. This is the first time ever since the operation that she has been strong enough to do so. You know she is deep in thought and you hesitated to interrupt her, but you need to make your rounds to your patients and it is her turn. You carefully knocked on the open door to not surprise her, and as she slowly turned around you gave her your best effort for a warm smile.
“It’s much better that you stay lying down, Mrs. Kang. Recover as much strength as possible. The more you do that, the faster you can get out of the hospital.” Normally it takes an average of two to three weeks to recover from a heart transplant. But given her age, you decided to monitor her more than that. She also showed signs of slow recovery so you couldn’t take the risk.
You quickly assisted her in lying back down and proceeded to check on her vitals. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Kang? Not feeling any more discomfort in your chest area?” The old lady slowly shook her head in response. “Your vital signs are well within expected now so I am happy to say we are getting good results. Give it like a week and I can consider releasing you. Sounds good, Ms. Kang?”
“Thank you, Doc.”
“Alright, and don’t forget you can always tell your attending nurse if ever you feel or need something.” You take a final look and give instructions to her own nurse since no relative has even taken the initiative to care, really tragic. You gave her a smile again as you were getting ready to leave when she held your hand to stop you. “Would you allow me a couple of questions, Doctor?”
“Of course.” You obliged after much thought, you were debating internally if it was the right time to let her in on the news. But with her determined eyes, you knew it would just be wrong to not let her know, to deny her of the truth.
You pulled a vacant chair and sat in front of the frail woman, thinking that the conversation would not end that quickly. She looks so much better than before her operation, visibly pain free and presumably getting quite adjusted to her new heart. The heart that has so much weight for you and a particular someone. You immediately remembered how you cried your own heart and eyes out after the successful operation, given how much it meant to you. The hospital director voiced his concern to you, suggesting that you should let other doctors perform the operation because emotions can get in the way, but you have to do it. You just have to make sure that it’s gonna be all worth it, and besides it’s the very last wish she said to you. And today, somehow sitting across her landlady, you realized you did just that. But as for the question if it was worth it, your heart is not that professional after all.
“You are Sana’s boyfriend, right? She always talks about you.” Mrs. Kang reaches out to hold your hand again, soft and gentle.
“Yes, her boyfriend.” It’s technically true, you did not separate that night; in fact not much was really said aside from a couple of lines. Yet you still hesitated, it has been almost a month that you haven’t seen her, not in any shape or form of conversation wahtsoever too.
“I haven’t seen her visit, she told me she works in the same hospital as you. I would very much like to see her.” There is a certain anticipation in her expression, you can clearly see how Sana means to her as well. However, you hate to be the bearer of the disappointing news.
“Sana-” you paused to clear your throat, you once again feel the grip that very fact holds upon your heart. Just her name solicits so much emotion from you. Yet you have to gather yourself and persevere, keep a straight face as much as possible. You have to soften the news to her, she is your patient after all. “Sana is back in Japan, Mrs. Kang. But don’t worry she already knew that you had a successful operation.” The last sentence was a lie. In truth, you don’t have an inkling of news about her, none whatsoever. Not even knowing if she safely arrived. Although, you thought it’s safe to assume that she does, you want to assume. And besides you really could use that particular white lie.
You saw the change in expression in Mrs. Kang's face. From hopeful anticipation to visible sadness. You didn’t do a great job of what you intended to do. "But you don't have to worry, all expenses have been taken care of too already." You tried to distract her with positive news. Yet you know, just like your heart, only a certain someone can fill that void.
“Can I talk to her at least?” That request was full of desperation, somehow it reflects your heart's desire. You would give the world to just have the chance to hear her sweet bright voice.
“I’ll make sure to let you talk to her once she calls, I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear you well and healthy. But right now, you just need to think about one thing, and that is recovering.” You immediately stood up, desperately wanting to get out of the conversation. You don’t want to lie anymore, but most of all of you just couldn’t hold on to your tears if you keep on talking about Sana. So with the last bit of perseverance, you remained professional. Telling her that you have to go to check on other patients, it’s the last lie you will tell her today.
–
You head to your office after completing your afternoon rounds, you just want to be alone. Unknowingly, you started to go back to your old self, loner, grumpy and unapproachable. And you realized that when you opened the door of your office hearing some laughter but it completely went silent when they saw you walk in the door, well except for one person who was confused about the situation. For the first time in what feels like forever, there was some semblance of joy in the corners of your office; the office that was once a well of happiness when Sana shared it with you and made it her own. Somehow in your heart, you wish she was one of the visitors you have but that is just wishful thinking of course.
“Are you this strict on them that they can’t laugh when you’re around, Oppa?” Your sister was ready to scold you. Jihyo and Dahyun immediately react that it was not the case but Tzuyu’s eyes were fixed on you.
“What are you doing here?” You disregard your sister’s question. However she was not having it.
“My sister can be a bit feisty.” You smiled at your colleagues. The two of them laughed again, looking more relaxed. They already understood you are a man of a few words. “It’s the first time I saw someone you can square up to you aside from–” Dahyun stopped on her sentence and looked away, conscious about what she almost did. Of course you picked up on it, in fact everyone did as Jihyo was shooting some lethal side eye to the anesthetist. However, you decided to let it go, nothing really good will happen if you mind it. “Will you excuse us, ladies?”
Both Jihyo and Dahyun of course obliged and immediately headed out the door after taking their leave. You sat down on your chair, legs gave out as soon as you reached it. Perhaps you are now done acting tough, you are with someone again where you are not afraid of showing vulnerability. “You didn’t answer my question, little sis. What brought you here?”
“Just checking on you. Anything wrong with that?” Tzuyu took a seat on the chair in front of your table. There was a pause after, yet somehow you know she didn’t expect any kind of answer. “You should stay with us for the meantime, you know. It will do you good to have company.” Ever since Tzuyu and your father met, they have been catching up so fast with each other’s life up to the point that she now lives in his house. You can see that your sister is happy so you are just as happy for her. Her happiness should not be hindered just because you still have your wounds.
“I’m doing fine, Tzuyu-ya.”
“Fine, I brought some food by the way. You should eat it. I won’t linger long, I still need to visit my shop.” She immediately ran to your side and gave you a hug.
“You can tell your father, I might invite him for some drinks.” You told her after the hug.
“He will be happy to hear that.”
–
The next morning rolled around and you woke up as the sunlight from your windows slowly creeped up on your eyes. Every morning has been pretty much the same ever since that night. Just like as you recalled, the first thing that grabbed your attention is the letter waiting for you to be read. And without fail ever since that morning, you reached out for it and unfolded the piece of paper that brings you both hope and sadness; the piece of paper that she left her heart with. Then you start to read again, each line somehow feels like it's the first time you ever read it:
You know I love you, and I will always do.
I’m such a coward for choosing to do it this way. But I know I wouldn’t be able to do this with proper goodbyes. I know it would be impossible for me to go seeing you cry the moment I leave. So allow me to go like this, while you are peacefully asleep.
This is not goodbye. Keep me in your heart until the day that we will see each other again. Promise me that I will still be your Orange.
Lastly, I will go because it is the right thing to do. Because you and I both know we can’t live if we took the selfish path. So let us make it worth it, promise me you will save her. Do all you can, I know you will.
I have so many things to say, but let’s just talk about them when we see each other again.
saw you in the bunker before why did you leave? :(
Yeah I was there.
Let me tell you a bit about myself, I am kinda timid. I find it hard to fit in because of lack of self confidence. Everyone seems to be close there, and have their own inside jokes. It’s already a community, and I just didn’t understood my purpose there other than occasionally chatting if I made a new story (which only happened twice I think).
Don’t get me wrong, it was really welcoming when I arrived there. And it’s a really cool community, you all are really cool. It’s a me problem and nothing else.
This blog has not been active for months. I’m not dead, just busy with life. During that time, I still notice new notes and follows and that I am grateful. Next chapter of Orange is in the works. There are quite a handful of you waiting.
