club | mingi | nsfw
after the award show, the rapper of the year encounters a likeminded performer.
nsfw. minors, dni.
hiii. i’m back after a long hiatus. writing has been hard. hope you enjoy <3
specs: mingi x reader, award show, club, gentleman's club, intense flirting with multiple men, reader is a dancer at a club owned by hongjoong, confidence, subtle degradation, porn with plot, mingi knows what he wants, switching, oral, cunnilingus, riding on top, rough sex, afterparty, club dancing, lap dance, pet names/terms of degradation (“slut,” “baby,” “cocksleeve,” etc.), strangers to fucking, au where mingi is a solo rapper, seonghwa is a regular at the club, wooyoung does bottle service, yunho is a bartender, reader known as “seraf” (stripper name), smut starts a little over halfway through… let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 8280
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you could write two letters, one of love and one of hate, about the things you adore and despise about los angeles.
rich men would be on both of them.
the club is busier than normal tonight, likely due to the amount of high-profile individuals in town for the award show. this means more men, more eyes, more hands, and on the bright side, more money. bills will be covered for the next couple months.
as you step on the stage, your lips are downturned slightly under the red lights. your walk is slow and catlike, a prowl designed to reel the eyes over your body. the air is heavy with bar chatter and the reverberations of dying music. you can’t make out the expressions of your gathered patrons just yet, but you know you’re turning heads around the lounge.
before you mount the pole, you catch sight of hongjoong, your boss, escorting a particularly overdressed man to the row of chairs at the front of the stage—the first of the award show overflow to trickle in.
there’s a little game you play, where you dote the most attention on two men—the one closest to the stage, and the one farthest back. everyone in between will start vying eventually.
your first victim is laughing at something hongjoong says. when he is seated directly in front of you, he smirks a little, drinking you in like a fine wine. even in the reflection of his ridiculous sunglasses, you can tell he’s pleased with the view. it’s all lace and silk tonight. black, as usual. you thought the frilly choker, more of a collar, was a bit much, but joong insisted the aesthetic would sell the night. he’s usually right.
the man in front of you certainly seems to like it. you’re posed on the pole, waiting for the music, and though you discreetly size him up, you don’t give him your obvious attention just yet. other men filter into the stage pit, but none are dressed quite as flashy.
the man joong had chosen to sit front row is wearing several expensive chains, upon one of which hangs a pendant with three large letters—an f, an x, and an n. the fur coat draped around his broad shoulders doesn't hide his sturdy frame, a dark satin shirt stretched across well-fed muscle. the shirt parts in an unbuttoned v down over his chiseled chest. several rings glint in the dim lights, along with the silver in his mouth when he grins at you.
you’re not normally one to entertain wannabe rappers, but you give him a small smirk anyway.
the music starts. you swing in a slow circle to start your routine, the one joong told you to save for expensive nights. you’re pretty sure he ups the cover charge when big events take place in town, but it never seems to affect turnout. people will always pay for the show you and the other girls put on. this venue is for upscale clients, tonight especially.
as you begin to dance, slow and sultry to start off, the night is just getting started for most patrons. sideways glances reveal a line forming outside the lounge, and those trickling in are dressed to the nines. many make their way to your stage as if entranced, others head straight for the gambling tables. there’s vices of all varieties here at club no1.
one of your favorite regulars, a slender man who drinks his gin with juice, settles in somewhere farther from the stage. he’s always around on weekends, always watching with those catlike eyes from a few seats back, never getting too close or saying anything. he seems only to come for the performances, never the gambling, and by all standards, behaves like a gentleman should.
most importantly, he’s generous with his wallet. twice you’ve offered to escort him back to the private lounges, but both times he’s declined with a sheepish little smile that makes you want to eat him alive.
he’s nothing like the man in front of you, who leans forward and draws the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a hungry look.
with one knee hooked around the metal, you arch off, extending a leg to elongate your position.
and... hold.
you’re grace and sin all at once, and the stage lights dance off the features on your face, over the contorts of your body, your hips a canvas of desire when you roll your body back up to the pole.
a handful of cash hits the stage.
men are moving closer now, depositing their currency at your feet like patron gifts while your hands caress the pole like it’s a lover. after a twisted leap in which you spin upside down , you even make your regular gentleman take a long sip of his drink from where he waits patient in his seat.
as you settle on split thighs, your eyes find the man who is watching furthest from the stage. a little smirk, a small beckon is enough, and your heels twist into the next movement.
hongjoong hired you initially because of your ability to, in his own words, possess an audience. while other dancers rear cheers and hollers from excited watchers, your crowds are always hushed as if in reverence. the illusion only works if you keep crowd interaction fleeting and mysterious. on some nights you use a fan, but tonight the flowy material of your thigh-split skirt is enough.
the finishing move is one where you climb the pole in three graceful mounts, and then flutter down nice and slow until you’re laying on your back, arched to perfection, arms and hair splayed around your head while you blink at the lucky man in front of you. when the song does come to a close, all your attention fixes on him and his fur coat.
he’s taken his glasses off. he’s not frowning, but he looks at you with some sort of seriousness.
the look of a man who thinks the stripper could fall in love with him. it’s a pity, really.
you shouldn’t, but you hold his eyes when you get up, a submissive crawl back to your feet, and then you blow him a litle kiss before turning with a flourish and strutting back down the stage walk.
hongjoong is back there with a drink in each hand, pep-talking the new girl, who’s up next.
“you’ll do great, honey,” you assure her, caressing her slender forearms.
the two of you exchange a smile. she nods at you both before her ensemble begins. taking the cue, she raises her chin and waltzes out there.
your attention turns to hongjoong. he looks smug, knowing he left you out there with a starved man. your head shakes in resignation.
“who is he?” you sigh as he hands you a drink.
his lips curl at the edges in a little smirk of his own. he puts the second drink in your hand, which is never a good sign. “a musician.”
a bar lackey appears with the velvet bag which has your stage name stitched into it, your stage earnings inside. the glittering seraf folds as he places it in your hand. it’s heavy, as expected.
you thank him and tuck it into your garter belt, turning back to hongjoong with another sigh.
“did you already offer him the private room?”
hongjoong fully grins. “baby, i don’t do your job for you.”
you roll your eyes and clink the two glasses together as if in cheers.
he just chuckles, following as you push past him to the backstage lockers. you down one of the little glasses before you reach your own.
inside your locked cubby is a little mirror, your keys, your phone, and the club robe. the silk is black and matches most of your outfits. sometimes you wear it onto the floor with the shoulders draped down and the ribbon untied. tonight, you leave it in place, putting away the velvet cash bag and downing the other beverage in a few gulps. they’re not alcohol—rather, fruity drinks with electrolytes. hongjoong takes care of his girls.
“alright, i’ll go listen to his sound cloud in the private rooms for an hour,” you tease, casting hongjoong a reproachful glance on your way out into the main lounge.
it isn’t hard to spot your customer. he’s still in that fur coat, but he’s moved to the bar, boasting with broad gestures about something or other as other people dressed in award show attire listen.
thus begins your second performance of the night.
your steps are measured as you head to the bar to set down your empty glasses, grateful for hongjoong’s foresight.
you ask for an ice water from the bartender, a tall, handsome man you’ve grown fond of.
“thanks, yunho.” you slide him a couple bills you’d tucked away in your lace, but he pushes them back, folding his arms over the bar to lean closer.
“first dance was a hit,” he grins at you, eyes shining in admiration. “did hongjoong already assign you a companion to torture?”
you tilt your head microscopically to the right, and yunho’s eyes dart towards the man in fur.
he suppresses a chuckle, and even under the bar lights, you see his ears turn a darker shade. “fun.”
you almost snort in your drink. it makes a pleasant knock when you set it down. your smirk is unmistakable. “oh no—you think he’s hot.”
yunho flusters. “me? i—well, he’s not unattractive.”
you’re laughing when yunho gets a bit of a panicked look in his eyes. he whirls around, apparently to make someone else’s drink, and you’re about to playfully call him back to admit you’re right when a sweet, yet musky, almost tabacco-like scent overwhelms you.
when you square with the person, you are pleased to see your nonchalant tactic has worked. it usually does.
you size him up, tilting your head, and then smile sweetly, twirling your glass on the counter. “oh, my front row admirer,” you tease.
he’s looking down at you like a smitten man, offering his hand palm-up. when you place your fingers in his, he bows low to kiss the knuckles, and it takes everything in you not to laugh. these men think they’re so slick with their antics.
“mingi,” he says, cutting straight to the chase. “and you are?”
“call me seraf,” you dip your head in return.
“oh, i knew you were an angel.”
half for show, you giggle. “i haven’t seen you here before.”
you usually don’t use such cheese-worthy lines, but something about this whole interaction feels painfully corny.
“i’m from overseas,” he touches his chest just above where the chains hang, his towering frame leaning against the bar. “did you learn to dance here in the city?”
it’s not a question you normally get. you don’t like to talk about your life outside the club for a variety of reasons, but a few honest answers can’t be too harmful. you shake your head. “i’m from miami, baby.”
“ohh,” he nods, grinning. “i played a show there last summer. very hot. you miss it?”
you laugh. “sometimes. i like the west coast, though.”
“oh, yeah. it’s great here.”
yunho dips in, swallowing his nerves to address the man. “anything to drink for you and the lady?”
“oh, uh,” he points at your glass. “whatever she’s having.”
at this, you really laugh, a sound that makes the corners of his mouth perk up. “it’s just water, baby.”
“water and a—“ mingi looks at you. “you like soju?”
you shrug your shoulders. “i’ll try it.”
“just one bottle. you have the big ones? …yes, thank you.”
mingi’s eyes return to you, and you go in for your next move, letting your eyes trail very obviously down his front. hesitantly, you reach out towards the chains. some men are touchy about them, and you’ve learned that some will think so low of dancers that they assume you’re trying to steal, so it’s best to be careful what you touch.
“your chains are so flashy,” you note, allowing your voice to overflow with admiration.
he drinks it right up. “oh yeah? you like them?”
he places the big one with the letters in your fingers, moving closer, and you run your thumb over it, tilting your head. there are some smaller letters in between the big ones that you didn’t see before, all gilded in gold and diamonds.
“Fixon?” you ask with doe eyes, pronouncing it like “nixon.”
he laughs and shakes his head. “fix on, baby.”
oh, you’ve got him now. when they start returning the pet names, it only takes a drink or two before they ask for a private room.
just then, yunho sets his order on the counter.
as mingi pulls out a heavy, metallic credit card to pay for the soju, you uncap the bottle and pour his glass full, shooting yunho a grateful glance.
yunho winks and thanks the man, then hurries off to tend to other patrons.
mingi’s eyes are back on you.
“is it some sort of tagline?” you ask innocently. if you can get them talking about themselves, your work is halfway done.
“you could say that.”
“so mysterious,” you purr. you pour yourself half as much soju as was in his glass, then offer a cheers.
he accepts, raising his glass with another smile.
“what should we cheers to?” you ask him. “anything you’re out celebrating tonight?”
“maybe… this?” his smile widens almost imperceptibly. he pulls the edge of his coat aside, revealing a pocket within, weighed down by the presence of a shining golden statue. there’s no doubt it’s from the award show.
you’d act surprised even if you weren’t, but your awe is real this time. “oh my god! you won? which category?”
he closes his coat, glancing at the floor, although his hips and shoulders sway in a little victory dance. “new rapper.”
“to mr. fix on, then,” you raise your little cup, and he gladly joins you.
the alcohol is a pleasant, warm distraction from the heat in your cheeks. usually hongjoong brings you wealthy clients, but not rising stars. strangely, you feel you might have more common ground than you initially thought.
“you’re a performer, then,” you lean on one hip.
“yes. i love to perform,” he mirrors your posture, something you note with chagrin.
you keep your eyes on him as you ask him about anything that will stroke his ego. “what’s the biggest stage you’ve played?”
“oh… probably… madison square.”
god, this job is so much easier when you don’t even have to act impressed. your appreciation is genuine when you hum.
“oh, so you’d floor us here then, huh?” you glance to the stage. he laughs, but doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“no, no—you’d lose money,” he jokes. humble. sexy.
it’s time for the bait.
“should we go sit?” you point over your shoulder. “maybe you can audition for me. i’ll be the judge of your skills.” you playfully poke at the coat where his award hides underneath.
he’s absolutely charmed. he glances over his shoulder and gets the attention of a broad man in a suit, presumably some sort of personal security, gesturing vaguely in your direction. when he successfully relays his whereabouts, he takes the bottle and his glass from the bar and follows you over to the quieter vip section.
the bouncer at the rope lets you in with a nod, and you thank her quietly as you pass by. this elevated platform has access to the private rooms, a nice view of the stage, and its own bar, as well as chauffeurs waiting to supply bottle service. your friend wooyoung is among them, and starts over with a bottle of patrón, but you give him a look.
he backs off, sticking his tongue out playfully. he has an affinity for stealing clients’ attention whether he tries to or not, and you’re not in the mood to fight for mingi’s eyes tonight.
“so you said new rapper,” you begin, gratefully handing him your cup to refill with soju. “but that can mean it’s your first year or your fifteenth in the industry. how long have you been at it?”
“going on year eight,” he nods.
“mm.”
you each toss back a drink, and then you settle into the curved lounge cushions, leaning slightly towards him under the guise of hearing him better.
“any hits i’d know?”
he unfurls one arm out behind you on the backrest, sighing into the dimness. “maybe… ‘autobahn,’ but my latest is one called ‘roar.’”
“give me a line,” you tease, grinning. it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had a patron perform for you.
“no,” his fingers gently skim your shoulder, almost teasing. “you don’t want to hear it.”
he’s right, of course, but his hesitation makes you want to goad him.
you fix him with fluttering lashes. “awh, c’mon. you were watching me the whole time when i was down there, don’t i get something too?”
strategically, you inch closer until your knee bumps his. you can’t help but notice how one of his thighs is spread far from the other.
he glances down as if registering your proximity, eyes taking their time on their way back to your face. he is handsome. his relaxed, confident nature is something you’d love to play with. maybe you’re even a bit grateful to hongjoong for pawning him off on you. the way he’s looking at you is either a strong performance on his part, or he really is considering risking it all for a club dancer. perfect clientele. easy money.
you twirl a piece of your hair, eyes squinting subtly in amusement. “what?”
“you are so pretty. i’m so serious.”
a man will say anything to get what he wants, but you’re good at getting what you want, too.
your head tilts back as you laugh. “you think so?”
“i know it’s your job, and it’s painful to me,” he sighs. his hand leaves your shoulder to prop his jaw instead. “but i get it. i do it too.”
“what do you mean?” you ask, daring to let your fingers drift to the other chains around his neck.
“a performer’s life,” he says, watching your hands caress the metal. “i can see it, you know—your act.”
your fingers still, just for a moment, but he catches the falter. when your eyes meet, your smile is gone. there is no disappointment in his expression, only understanding.
it’s rare a client will break this fourth wall with you, but it’s usually out of a deeper fantasy they hold to truly connect with the dancer they want for the night.
some of the girls here solicit after hours, making arrangements with patrons outside of the vip lounges. hongjoong doesn’t allow that sort of thing on club property, as the safety of his crew is hugely important to him. but everyone turns a blind eye to the affairs of employees off the clock.
you’ve never engaged with someone after your shift unless the patron was someone you could truly see yourself fucking out of enjoyment. it’s better to keep home and work life as separate as possible for your own safety.
but sometimes someone hot shows up and looks at you the way this man is looking at you right now, and you bend your own rules a little.
you sigh.
“it’s no fun if you acknowledge it.” a playful shove to his shoulder breaks the tension, and he laughs.
“i’ll still play along for a private dance if you’re still going to offer me one.” he’s sporting a mischievous little smile now.
your eyes narrow. you glance at the bottle. “finish your soju. we’ll see.”
he takes that challenge with another cheers.
from here, conversation grows more natural. he tells you about the struggles of being in a foreign industry, and doesn’t lay off the flirting in the slightest.
“i think you could be my backup dancer,” he grins. “how much do you make a night? i’ll triple it.”
“even if you would, i couldn’t come along with you. i don’t like planes.” you fend him off, but you’re laughing.
he clutches his heart and leans back with closed eyes as if wounded. “i will drive you. we will have taxis for you to every show,” he counters. his jokes aren’t that funny, but you find yourself laughing anyway.
“do you want anything from this bar? wooyoung will help us. i have to get back on stage one more time, and then i can take you to my room in the back.”
he gazes at you fondly as you gesture vaguely to the bar and the private entrance beyond. with a sigh, he shakes his head, already pulling out his card. “i’ll need another drink to watch you dance one more time.”
“flattery will get you two more times,” you promise, then wave wooyoung over as you rise to your feet, stepping back into your performance facade with ease. “just let wooyoung know what you need, okay, baby?”
“can i watch you from here?” he glances at the stage, then up at you.
fuck.
from this angle, his features are even more devastating. it’s going to be so easy to make money tonight.
“you can watch from wherever you want to,” you tease, giving him a once-over before making your way back down the platform stairs.
you don’t have to look back to know his eyes are on you all the way back to the stage door.
there’s no costume change tonight, but your second dance will be a bit livelier. a peak out the curtains shows your usual gentleman nursing his gin and juice, a loyal sight you decide you can focus on for this little show. the dancers have riled up the crowd by now, and you don’t particularly like to entertain the loud ones.
as you mount the stage, your handsome regular leans forward, seemingly pleased to see you again. you toss a little kiss in his direction, and as the jealous heads turn, you slowly drop your ass down in front of the pole, only rewarding those who are still watching.
back on business, the rest of your routine is more sultry, a pattern of sharp and fluid movements meant to accentuate your legs and stomach. the sway of your hips is enough to have the men giving up their cash on hand, and some of them retreat to the atms for more.
by the time your heels click their way backstage, your skin has a sheen of moisture. joong is nowhere to be found—probably hustling the gambling tables—but another dancer helps you fix your hair before you head back out onto the bar floor.
your charming new rapper of the year is not in the vip lounge where you left him.
disappointed, if only for little more than having to start fresh, you prowl back to yunho’s side of the bar and scan the patrons.
there is an older man in an expensive suit nursing his beer alone. just as you are about to swoop in and ask if you can join him, a familiar face catches your eye—your handsome regular, apparently ordering another drink. like a magnet, you drift his way.
“busy tonight,” you comment, and he startles a little, adjusting his tie.
when he sees that it’s just you, he smiles faintly, turning until his posture faces toward you in the crowded space. he says something, but it gets lost in the hum of other sounds, so you tilt your head and move a little closer, which only seems to fluster him more.
“i said your routine was good,” he repeats. his voice is soft in volume, tone, enunciation —in every way.
“which one?” you smile, not bothering to move away as you look up at him. you can practically see his pulse pounding in his throat. he’s always like this. it’s adorable.
he swallows. “i like the opening one.”
behind him, a man in award show attire—this gaudy, beaded suit jacket that looks heavier than his wallet probably is—jostles into him. you shoot a glare at the boisterous man and steady your regular’s arm.
the touch of your fingers on his shirt seems only to worsen his state of nervousness. he takes a big drink of his gin and juice.
“don’t let this crowd push you around, starshine,” you tease, releasing his bicep. he’s standing a bit closer now and you can smell his cologne, a subtle scent that carries hints of jasmine.
he opens his mouth to reply, but then a commotion breaks out and the beaded suit bumps him a second time, harder than before. his drink topples onto the counter.
you practically catch the stuttering man, but his glasses fall onto the floor and immediately get stepped on by another patron.
yunho’s attention is on the scene now, his sharp eyes intent on the rowdy one. a scuffle seems to have broken out. you stoop to pick up the fallen glasses.
while pulling on his shirt, you gently guide your regular out of the fray. bar fights aren’t common here. hongjoong will be displeased.
as yunho’s low, condescending voice intervenes, you find the man a seat and place his broken glasses in front of him, glancing him up and down.
“you okay, honey?”
“i’m fine,” he looks more disappointed about his eyewear than anything else. “you?”
he’s sweet for asking. “i’m good,” you assure him, stroking his arm. “i’m gonna get you a new drink, alright? was it pineapple? stay right here.”
the scene seems to have been successfully deescalated, but you give the front of the bar a wide berth anyway, casting a distasteful look in the direction of the unruly men.
yunho is busy wiping up the spilled gin and juice, so another bartender reaches you first. you accept her help with thanks, then return to your regular.
he mumbles his appreciation and reaches with shaky hands to withdraw his wallet. you’d accept cash from a customer under almost any circumstance here at the club, but this time you push his hands back, glancing around for hongjoong.
“no, baby, we take care of our usuals here. i’m gonna find joong. he’ll want to know about your glasses, okay?”
the man looks flustered. “the customer service here is excellent,” he says.
you can’t help but laugh. you could quip a quick, it gets even better when you let us take you to the back. instead, you settle for, “you’re cute.”
hongjoong, drawn over by the loud noises, appears and slinks back behind the bar to get the rundown. when he zeroes in on the problem, he wastes no time in drawing the bedazzled man aside and having a quick chat.
he’s rarely seen without his signature little curved-at-the-corners smile, but right now, with his eyes darkened, there’s nothing sly or amused about his features. you wait until he’s finished speaking with the man to approach him.
“joong-ah.”
when his eyes find you, they soften. “something happen, seraf?”
you jerk your head towards your regular. “handsome’s glasses got crushed. he’s being very sweet about it, but i thought you’d want to know.”
hongjoong nods and follows you back to the little seated area. if anything, the man flusters more when you approach with hongjoong, and a flush crawls up his neck when they start speaking.
amused and endeared, you take your leave as hongjoong is offering the man compensation for his troubles. it’s rare the boss works the floor, but his damage control brings out a suave little side of him that rivals even the best of the floor girls. your charms aren’t needed here any longer. the regular is stammering as he speaks to your boss.
it’s past midnight now and you still have no one to take back to the private rooms. at a glance, the vip section is full of people occupied by other dancers or bottle servicers. the stage is rowdy with a group cabernet performance.
as a last resort, you decide to act as live bait. standing near the lounge might work.
your steps are measured and unbothered on your way across the club. as you lean over the railing that ropes off the tiered floors heading down to the stage, luck is on your side. a welcome and familiar figure joins you.
you feel his presence before you see him. lean and stocky. moves like he could buy the place.
“thought you’d run off.” you don’t even turn, a sly smile on your lips.
“and pass up the opportunity to see you one more time?”
the rapper of the year has taken off his fur coat. his sunglasses are also gone.
“i looked for you,” you move a little closer, tactfully pulling your eyes up and down his attire. “but i was looking for someone in an obnoxious gray coat.”
he grins. “it was too hot.”
“it’s about to be,” you promise.
this is your shot. you take his hand, and he heads willingly to the back rooms with you.
the hall is dim, and your preferred room is the size of a large closet, or maybe an office cubicle. it’s kind of corny, but each room is themed—one cyberpunk and dystopian, another beachy and wavy, a third rustic and western.
the one you pick hosts heavy red curtains and multiple mirrors. the lights cast a hazy glow onto an ornate plush chair.
your rapper takes his seat without question, leaning all the way back, stretching those broad shoulders out on the velvet.
the music that plays in this section of the club is slower, more sensual. you adjust your outfit in delicate tugs while you wait for the next song to start, and he watches your motions under heavy lidded eyes, fingers flexing on the clawed arms of the chair.
as the next song filters through the speakers, not quite drowning out the heavy bass on the main floor, you toss the edge of your skirt fabric aside to part it.
you train your eyes on his lips as you prowl forward, each step measured. a dance you’re familiar with. a routine done a thousand times.
there is a crisp bill between his fingers.
“is this for me?” you smirk, glancing down at it.
“all for you,” he confirms lowly.
you lift your knee to his lap, subtly nudging his thighs apart as you take the cash from his hand. when his legs are parted, you mount the chair overtop him, sliding the bill like a feather under his chin.
“i’ll collect this later,” you promise. “open up.”
his jaw drops just enough to slide the money between his teeth. he won’t need to do any talking anyway.
your arms circle those toned shoulders, resting across the back of the chair, your breath ghosting over the bill in his mouth. while your hips start to move, he shifts deeper into the seat, hands curling down the edges of the armrests.
the tendons in his neck dance under the dim lights for a fraction of a second. the sight pulls your lips into a smirk.
“you must be pretty used to having people all over you,” your murmur drifts over to his ear. “but if i somehow cross a line, just pull my hair, ‘kay?”
he grunts softly around the money in his mouth, a sound that elongates as your hips start to roll. there’s a growl to his tone that you find yourself wanting to draw out.
you press closer, your thighs slipping gradually wider, dragging your hips slowly up his lap. the tension seems to flood into his frame, only to fully release when your fingers move to his nape and into his hair.
the chair’s arms creak as his grip tightens. a little puff of laughter escapes you.
“you can touch me, you know,” you whisper. “i won’t tell.”
so his palms hesitantly lift to your thighs, gradually gliding to the angle of your hips. you slow the movements and bring them lower, brushing over the seam of his pants. it earns a quiet groan.
his reactions are so enjoyable that you almost lose track of your place in the song. it’s one you’ve given a lap dance to before—the playlist is only so long—but this would be the first client you’d given permission to touch you in a while.
before the chorus hits, you level your eyes with his, then look at his mouth, slowly leaning into to take the dollar bill between your own teeth. at the same time, you press down with your hips. there is a twitch of excitement between his legs as you do so, and you lift off immediately, but only to maneuver your legs to opposite sides, turned away from him now, in one fluid switch. your palms dig into the chair’s front edge for leverage, back arching, giving him a thorough view of the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass.
although you can no longer see his face, the breath he lets out says it all.
that sweet sound turns into a groan as you lower one palm to the floor, grinding nice and slow on his lap.
“holy fuck,” he mutters, rubbing your hips like he wants to move them himself.
you almost want to let him.
before the idea can make you wet and ruin your costume, you’re back up, glancing over your shoulder with hooded eyes as you bounce out the remainder of the song.
he’s an obvious wreck. you take the money from your mouth and slide it under the lace decorating your tits.
when the song ends, you’re promptly to your feet, more than a little smug.
this is usually the part where you’d ask him if he liked that, if he wants another one before he leaves tonight. it is also sometimes the part where you have to explain that you don’t do other services.
but this man just looks at you, more than appreciative.
“shit,” he sighs. “i need you on my dance team, baby.”
“oh, your backup dancers treat you like this, huh?” you smirk, and you want to sit on those broad thighs again, but you refrain. there are more words on your tongue, but you’re hesitant to say them.
when he sighs and pulls out his wallet, you push the sentence out before you can stop yourself.
“i have to work the rest of the night here, but i have time for an encore. later.” you punctuate the word.
he glances up in interest, shifting in his seat, trying to quell an obvious boner. “encore?” he asks.
“but only if you want,” you say dismissively, hoping he’ll understand.
the slow smile that spreads over his lips is more than knowing. “i like that. you need a ride after your shift?”
it’s stupid and dangerous to say yes. but you do it anyway.
“sure.” you move a little closer, tilting your head. “but if this is happening, i want to know what i’m in for.”
he leans forward, interest piqued. you let your lips get close to his.
“your hotel have a suite?”
he breathes out. “big one.”
“i’ll meet you out back after closing, then.”
his pants are fitting a little tight. he seems reluctant to get up.
“you can stay here as long as you need to,” you smirk. then you blow a kiss, a cheesy thing you always do, and he grins, watching you go.
the rest of the shift passes uneventfully—but you do notice that your regular and your boss seem to be simultaneously missing in action. whatever that means.
several hours and a sports car later, you’re in the fluorescent lights of the lobby. mingi’s hand is on the small of your back as you step into the elevator. it’s 4am and he’s still a little tipsy, but the hotel is nice.
he warns you about an afterparty. you’re not quite prepared for the loud entourage in the hotel suite, but he guides you past the fray, mostly people too drunk to care, and the both of you are soon locked behind the bedroom door.
“there’s just one thing. you gotta sign this,” he says, procuring some sort of contract.
“oh, the notorious nda,” you hum, clicking the pen and bending down to sign.
it’s pretty cut and paste—standard for these types of arrangements with anybody who’s somebody. nothing you haven’t seen before.
“i have rules too,” you say, turning around as he backs you up against the little desk. “first one is that i start on top.”
his teeth clamp onto his bottom lip.
“and second, no recording. i don’t do that.”
“no,” he shakes his head, palms marveling over your hips. “this is just for me.”
“good,” you hum. and then your fingers press into his chest and walk him back until he’s falling onto the mattress.
“i like these,” he murmurs, and immediately grabs onto your belt loops, his fingers tugging teasingly. you had changed out of the club outfit and thrown on some jeans that sit low and baggy. “i like how they fit you.”
the hotel lamps illuminate him much better than the club lights. his plump lips are yours for tasting. the shrinking space between you grows warmer while you kiss and let him frame your body with his hands.
“god, seraf…” he sighs.
“say it some more,” you hum, doing yourself the favor of unbuttoning what remains of his shirt.
your kiss decorates down the middle line of his body, and he gasps, a pretty sound followed by an obvious twitch in his trousers, just beneath your chin.
“not yet,” he sighs, although his hips lift when your mouth cups over the seam.
you let him pull you up, and before you know it, he’s staring up at you like he’s never been so lucky in his life. his smirk is haughty—fitting for the rapper of the year.
“you wanna ride my tongue, baby?”
it’s rare a man can make you blush, but as you nod, you feel heat flare in your cheeks.
his fingers tenderly unwrap your clothes from your thighs, careful and intentional, and before long you’re slipping free of your bra, completely bare, and his arms are pulling your thighs into place on either side of his jaw as he lays back in the sheets.
outside, the afterparty rages on. blaring music hides the sounds you start to make—loud, by no intention of your own.
his tongue laves bliss beneath you.
“mingi,” you gasp, rutting your hips, and he encourages the movement with a low moan, gripping your thighs and tugging repeatedly, starved.
before long, you can’t tell if he’s drooling or if you’re the one making a mess of his mouth.
“fuck,” you bite your lip. “that’s enough. let me fuck you.”
his grin is slick, and he palms his lips as he shifts up, drinking in the way your thighs tremble.
“all yours,” he murmurs as you settle into place over him. then he lies back with a sigh, watching with that same heated anticipation that he’d displayed back at the club.
his clothes are halfway down his thighs, and you don’t bother with them an farther, breath already shallow enough when you feel the warm thickness of him underneath you.
your cunt slides over it with ease, slippery and throbbing, your entire body burning up. mingi just watches with that lazy confidence, as if he knows already how good this will be.
gradually, you gather up your hips, giving one easing stroke with your palm to lift him taught, then hold steady to sink down, down.
“fuck,” you choke again, and your voice comes out a little breathless. it’s not that you’ve never fucked someone with a big dick. it’s just—the stretch is—
he breathes a laugh, caressing your hip bones. “okay?”
you nod, settling your features to fix him with a gaze equally assured. “and you?”
as you ask, you give a little shove of your hips, satisfied at the way his lips part and his eyes dart to where you’re joined.
he mutters, “jesus christ, you’re fucking sexy.”
and then you’re rolling your hips, letting yourself grow wetter, accommodating, until the obscene sound of skin against skin accompanies his gasps.
making a handsome man lose his mind is one of your favorite pastimes. when his eyes roll, you grab his hands from where they cling onto your thighs and glide them over your skin, which is growing slick with sweat, to the heavy rise and fall of your chest.
“god, yes,” he groans, his hips bucking up, earning a sharp sound from you. “god, fuck me—ride it, fuck—“
his begging is so fucking pretty. as he pinches the soft curves of your breasts, you push your own palms into his hips and fuck him harder.
he writhes, and a sound cracks through that haughty exterior—a whimper.
you chase the friction that made him emit that noise, and soon he’s begging again, hands flying down to grip the sheets, searching for a tether to the bed.
“oh my god, oh fuck, oh please—oh seraf—“
his pleading has a gravely, low-spoken nature to it, tinged with the breathiness of desperation. you’re gasping for air, but you slam down harsher, faster, needing it almost as badly.
he endures a bit longer, that pretty mouth opening, before a grin overtakes it, and he’s breathing, “baby—baby, i don’t want to cum yet. slow down.”
so you ease into a gradual saunter, and he finds it in himself to uncurl his fingers from the sheets and guide your rolling hips again, head tilted back and eyes closed in ecstasy.
“god, yes…” he exhales, the tension easing from his body, slowly, easily, though not entirely.
then, after a moment to gather his wits, his eyes flutter open to watch you move, to watch the dim lights reflecting on the curve of your stomach, the angles on your collarbones and breasts.
“this okay?” he murmurs, taking one thumb and sliding it down to where you’re grinding nice and slow.
you manage to nod, swallowing a moan as he presses into your clit. that sultry grin returns to his expression.
“yeah, it’s alright?” he rubs slow circles. “yeah? mmh… you just got so tight. fuck, seraf.”
you want to devour him. you grit your teeth and try to push yourself closer, to take more—but your core aches at the effort to take him any deeper, and your bodies are set flush anyway.
the attempt earns a groan from his throat, and he closes his eyes, rewarding you with a firm press to that throbbing nerve above your entrance. it almost makes you choke.
“anything i shouldn’t say?” he asks with a sigh. you really should have had this conversation before you got on top of him, but the thoughtfulness is a nice reprieve from other people you’ve had on a mattress.
“not for you,” you find yourself replying, and you mean it. you’d let him fuck you almost any way he wanted right now. with the way he looks at you, he might.
he chews his round bottom lip, and his half-lidded eyes paint appreciative lines down over your body again. when you throb around him, he grins.
“are you an angel, seraf? or just a fucking slut?”
on another night, with someone else, you may have loathed the words. overused, uninspiring, and more for him than for you.
but right now, all you know is that you’re not an angel.
“what do you think?” you tease with a gentle bounce of your hips.
he sits up, allowing a glimpse of the toned nature of his frame, and his hand lifts away from where he’d been teasing you, cupping instead to your nape as he pulls your mouth to his.
these kisses are hungry. you find your arms around his shoulders, clutching yourself close as your bodies move together. when your lips part, it’s all you can to do suck in a breath before he takes it away from you again. his name slips out of your mouth another time before he continues.
“i think,” he growls, rocking his hips up, effectively forcing a soft cry out of your throat, “that you’re a naughty. fucking. slut.”
he punctuates each gritted word with a punishing snap of his hips, pleased when you cry on each one.
you nod, murmuring agreement, feeling your stomach tremble slightly from the force.
“yeah,” he sighs, stroking down your spine as he continues to fuck up into you. “that’s why you take it so well, right?”
you’re appalled. at him, for saying it, but more so at yourself—at how your body gushes over his words. you tremble out a whimper just as his hand returns to slide between the both of you, back to your sensitive clit, coaxing out a tightening pleasure that makes you whine again.
he doesn’t stop, but his eyes find yours, and his voice dips lower, more neutral. “still okay?”
all you can do is nod.
he nods with you, eyes glimmering. “lay down.”
you’re shifting to obey just as he slips an arm around your waist and turns over his hips, lowering you to the cool sheets. beside you, the other half of the bed is wet with sweat and everything he’s done to you so far. in the transition, his cock slips free, leaving your thighs damp, your body empty and squirming.
mingi is still for a moment, stroking a hand up your sides, kissing your neck, your shoulders, your jaw. the both of you slowly catch your breath.
“you fuck like a pornstar,” you mutter, and he actually laughs.
“if music doesn’t work out, i’ll keep that in mind.”
when you seem to relax again, he presses his palm firm to the sheet next to your waist, hauls one of your thighs up around his waist, and drives into you with a harsh shove that makes you bite back a curse—not from the intense pressure, the subtle twinge of pain—from the way you immediately pulse on his length.
he notices, too. he grins against your ear, not pausing for a second as he takes up a relentless pace.
“so greedy, seraf…”
as if to tease, his thrusts grow partial and incomplete, just half as filling, devoiding you of being sated. his smirk turns feral when you whimper in protest.
you’re arching already when he demands, “touch yourself.”
you blink up at him for only a second before obeying, fingers dipping down to ease that pleasant ache.
“good,” he continues to only fill you halfway, watching your fingers work as if mesmerized. “such an obedient little slut.”
his mouth finds your ear.
“would you like it if i spit on that pretty cunt? it’s already such a mess…”
your thighs clench up. “fuck—please—“
“alright, alright,” he sighs, his lips pulled wide with approval as he sits up, eyes raking down the length of your body. you must look beautifully pathetic, by the way his eyes darken.
mingi brushes away your hand, framing your hips with his palms. he slides his cock free until its swollen tip is notched just inside, another cruel taunt as your body’s need grows louder.
he bows his head and spits, smearing the warm saliva over your pulsing clit with the pad of his thumb.
if he had been inside, you may have been pushed to the brink of orgasm.
he doesn’t pause for a reaction. he drives back inside, sheathing himself deep, watching as your body pulls taught and a cry shatters from your lips. the sound is so obvious that you’re not entirely sure the music outside covers it up.
“pretty cocksleeve,” he muses, picking up a bruising pace.
you cling to the sheets, stuttering out his name, and he rewards by lifting your hips, angling them just so to pound up into a spot that makes your mind swim.
“m-mingi—!” you gasp, body trembling.
his breath is ragged. he’s confident, so confident that you’re close. “that’s it, baby... be a good slut. cum on my cock.”
his words are filthy, and yet somehow not as filthy as the way he starts to touch you.
you scream one more time, and he almost growls, his hips stuttering as you clamp tight on his length. the pleasure rips through you, sweetly, violently, and he follows suit, pumping his hips a handful of times before collapsing onto his elbows with a low, resonating groan.
the silence feels like it rings. at first the sounds of your mutual panting is muted, your senses overtaken by the sated hum of your body.
as you come back to yourself, he rolls to the side, and you welcome the coolness of the air that fills the space he’d just been.
his fingers find yours, tracing to the inside of your wrist and twisting gentle shapes there.
“cross a line?” he pants.
“what?” your turn your head to look at him, watching his chest work to retain enough oxygen.
“did i cross a line? by calling you those things.”
a laugh bubbles up in your throat. you don’t answer him right away.
when your arms stop feeling like total jelly, you drag yourself up over him, nestling atop his hips again. you’re already imagining the other noises you want him to make while you’ve got him to yourself.
“if i didn’t like it,” you say, gently grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. “you would know.”
he grins.
ꕤ
