You can't keep coming home to this—close to midnight, front door left swinging open and every light from the entrance to the kitchen switched on. It's fucked up how you're hoping you've been robbed, or that a serial killer is waiting around the corner to put you in the dirt, but instead it's much, much worse.
Ningning, leaning against your fridge, helping herself to a glass of milk.
"You're late," you hear, followed by, "Date went well then?"
Yeah, the best possible thing you could do is ignore her, open your apartment window, and throw yourself out. Or, better yet, pick her up, and toss her instead, or fuck, get your hands around her throat and squeeze—if only you weren't certain that she'd be so happy when you did, that she’d lift an eyebrow, flash that smug grin, all delighted that you've added a new dimension to whatever doomed tangle the two of you are in, and say:
"Didn't know you had it in you."
So you just slump.
Drop your bags, your jacket on the floor—whatever, you'll get to them later. Walk past her, like if you don't acknowledge her existence you can delay the inevitable for a touch longer, stop her from digging any deeper into your brain. But if there's anything you know about Ningning—she has all the patience in the world.
Happy to keep raiding your kitchen, letting the milk sit on her lips, timing it to the exact second you slip up and look her way—then licking it clean with one swipe of her tongue.
You ache more than you'd ever willingly admit.
Not that she'd have any trouble making you.
It’s who she is: Queen of dark corners and thick fucking air that suffocates your lungs. A tiny little nightmare half your size, always one careless glance away from splitting you open like it’s nothing.
She doesn’t even need to try.
Hair a messy shawl down to her shoulders, lips a light pink hue. Traces of eyeshadow, curled lashes, chipped nail polish. She clearly had something far more important to deal with earlier—you're just another box to check off today’s to-do list.
She pushes off your fridge. It’s inhuman. She knows exactly where your eyes will go.
You can’t stop it, you’re staring straight at her tits the moment her body shifts—the tiny crop top clinging snug, doing obscene fucking things to all the soft weight underneath. And below all that, just a scrap of panties. Nothing else. Makes you complicit the second you look.
"Had fun playing hero?" The glass makes a hollow ring when she sets it aside. "Yuha's been blowing up the group chat since you left her—oh, forty minutes ago?"
You freeze when you reach your kitchen island. Lean back, and wait for her to come to you. It’s the only scrap of resistance you can still muster at this point.
"Sounded fun—going to the movies, holding hands in the dark, hugging her close when she got scared. Did you like the outfit she was wearing?"
It only takes one step.
She crowds you against the counter, hands planted on either side of your waist, caging you in. Even her smile is pissing you off. Her top’s cut low, and it hits you like a vision—this exact angle that's been burned behind your eyelids.
One thin strap still clings to that dainty shoulder. The collarbone you’ve licked and sucked and worshipped more times than you can count staring back at you.
And it’s slipping lower still, a small shift and the whole top will give—tits spilling free, nipples begging for your mouth.
She leans in, a whisper sticking against your skin that she stamps in with a kiss. "I helped pick it out for her, you know."
Your breath catches. You groan. You need to move, shove her away, tell her that this needs to end tonight; the guilt, the depravity is a mountain looming over any blackmail she hangs over your head.
But you can't do anything. Not until you have her permission.
Instead your hips twitch towards her, and your cock strains underneath your pants, hitting her belly like a trained dog.
She pushes forward, a shoulder into your sternum, backing you up as far as you can go into the countertop, and reaches down.
Her fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, and the strap of her top drifts down until she's exposed and she doesn't seem to mind at all.
No, she's flawless. Devastating. Pushes her body against yours and her tits are so full and plush and squash against your chest and you need her to fucking stop before—
She squeezes you tight, and you inhale sharp, choking on her scent.
And it fucks you up, because she smells exactly like Yuha.
"Yeah," she says, twisting her wrist, her grip, careless with how she fists your cock, your balls through your slacks. "She let me borrow her perfume as a thank you.”
Ningning leans, grinding the fragrance deeper down your throat.
“Isn't she so nice? Isn't this so nice? You get to think about her while you're with me."
She doesn't expect an answer.
But it drives you mad—she tilts her head so you can see how it clings to her; her throat, her collarbone, her tits. It’s sweet, it’s soft. It’s wrong. It makes your cock throb.
And you'd touch her, reach for her, run your hands over that smooth skin, the soft curves; take a handful of her in your palms and squeeze her right back, twist that nipple and tell her you can dole out the same amount of punishment—but Ningning drives her shoulder into you again, fists clenching around you, and pulls, and it's with deft hands and practiced fingers that your belt clinks open, the button and the zipper fall apart with it.
"Turn around."
For the first time, you manage some small protest. "Yizhuo."
She smiles at that, tricks you into thinking it’s fond. Glances low and yanks down your briefs. Frees your cock and lets it slap against her palm. Hard, throbbing, undeniable evidence of everything she does to you.
And she is—what the fuck is she to you? Your girlfriend's friend. Her senior, her pseudo-older sister.
Your client. Or, your boss.
Or just—she's the person that caught you sneaking around backstage—bored, horny, stupid.
You're the help, security—company’s hired muscle. Already neck-deep in the shit by dating Yuha; and you dug your grave and carved your own tombstone the second Ningning caught you in their dressing room—panties smothered over your face, cock in your fist, chasing a peak you couldn’t quite summit.
That was the first time you gave her everything she wanted.
She was smiling then too. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.
She looks back up at you, fixated on your lips.
"Yizhuo?" She mocks you, and reaches up with her other hand, pressing it to your lips. You let her in, as easy as you let her into your home, let her force two fingers in until you gag, until she has you choking on her digits when they tickle the back of your throat.
She twists her fingers in your mouth, has you drooling down them, leaving them slick with your own spit.
And then she drags them out, pulls the strings of your saliva down to your cock, and runs her hand over it in one, decisive, torturous pump.
"Yizhuo is what my friends call me," she says, taking you from head to base, and slathering the underside, underneath your balls. "Are we friends now?"
You choke down another breath when she starts to stroke, achingly slow, always patient. You buckle under her gaze and it has you confessing, "No."
"I didn't think so," she tuts. "Don't make me repeat myself again. Turn around."
Ningning steps away, gives you just enough room to move. To show her your back, make yourself vulnerable to her.
Let her know she could do anything at all and you'd just take it.
And it's fucking embarrassing when she reaches around and finds you so humiliatingly hard. You know the look on your face must be even worse, because Ningning's laughing.
"My, my, my," she says, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she gets the full measure of you. Taking her time—she needs it to navigate the length of you—revelling in every second. "So hard already? You look so ridiculous in my hand."
And then:
"This would snap tiny, pretty Yuha in half," and it does its job, provokes you, but every chance of resistance is drained from you when she wrenches her hand tight and takes your cock rough from base to tip. "How nice of me, doing both of you a favour."
Your knuckles go white against the counter, there's plenty you could do, but with Ningning all you can ever manage is brace yourself—ride it out, let her have her way.
She keeps herself busy, crafting slow, deliberate strokes. Getting off on this, her skin so deliriously hot against you, burning, like she knows—knows if she twists her grip like this she can rip out something raw from your throat; knows if she rushes her palm down it'll make you hiss through your teeth.
And she knows if she squeezes and pumps you fast—filling your kitchen with these slick, messy noises, this rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick—you'll call her name again and she'll have to bite into your shoulder and warn you: "What did I say about calling me Yizhuo?"
You close your eyes. It's just a hand—it could be any other girl, you spend your days in proximity of so many of them.
"I'm the only one for you," she tells you, finishing a thought you didn't realise she could hear. "No other girl would know how to use you right."
She pulls a moan out of you when she palms your tip, smearing the beads there, before gliding her hand down—and you hate that it sounds like an affirmation.
"They wouldn’t even know where to start,” she continues on, steady torment. “They’d need you to teach them, guide their small hands, be their first big strong man.”
You open your eyes, catching her other hand tugging your pants down and under your ass; your shirt’s already unbuttoned, dropping down your shoulders and leaving your chest bare, free for her nails to mark up and dig into.
"Yuha sure as hell expects that." She laughs again and it's evil and she's on her toes now, sucking something hard into the line of your throat—and it's going to leave a mark, something you won't be able to hide, will need to explain away to your girlfriend, to the other girls, to the company in the morning, but that's the last thing in your mind when Ningning adds her teeth and makes it hurt.
"Fuck," spills out, and you're seething, seeing red, gripping into the counter so hard you could make a dent.
"You love it." She kisses into your new scar, soothes you, the sick kind of tenderness only she can grant, and it makes you bend into her, lets her fold her body over yours, and her words hit you like a healing balm, the feeling of her body slotting over yours, enveloping warmth, tits slick with sweat squashed against your back, leg hooking around your knee like she's trying to crawl inside you, lips so close to yours and reflex has you turning to meet them.
"Please."
"Just this once," she tells you, and you’re so thankful when the pace of her hand builds, and her nails start to draw a circle around your nipple, and you twist your head far enough that she can breathe in every sigh and pained gasp she drags out of you before swallowing it all in a kiss.
She leads it with her tongue, and you're falling into her, into her grip, into her mouth, into the soft wet of her lips against yours, and there's so much she's doing, forcing on you—pumping, squeezing hard, pinching, twisting your nipple, and there's something in this that you want to deny so much: her control, her promise of where she can take you, it feels so good now, she can make it feel even better later.
Until she bites into your bottom lip, and you’re tasting copper, and she pulls away.
"Baby," she says, with a last, messy peck on your chin, the strands of saliva hanging there, another binding she has on you. "You're so pathetic."
You groan when she gets close, thigh brushing the back of yours, knee splitting between your legs to keep you spread open. Grinding herself into you, forcing you still with a single hand wrapped around you, and you can hear how hot both of you are—the squelch of your spit, your slick making your cock all glossy.
Her fingers tighten—just enough to make your knees buckle. And she builds, this aching pace, she knows the rhythm, knows how to make your skin crawl.
"You're a pervert, a filthy degenerate," she lists off, breath scalding the shell of your ear. "Bet you were sweet and gentle with Yuha on your little date. Calling her baby, telling her how pretty she looks in that dress. Kissed her like a good boyfriend would."
You wouldn’t dare, it’d be fucking audacious, to read anything into it—believe there’s a twinge of jealousy there, envy at her own junior. Pure disaster. Your brain’s already too fried to untangle the implications of that anyway.
"Tell me, tell me how good you were to her," she says, and she twists on your nipple again, pierces you with her nails. "Or were you too distracted counting down the minutes until you could come crawling home to me."
"I was good," you rasp; you're barely keeping it together. There's no hiding anything now—your body, your moans, it all betrays you any time you try to do anything other than what she wants—and if that wasn't enough it's the sound of her stroking you, so goddamn loud it rings in your ears and laughs at your whines. "I am good to her."
She punishes you with these fast, brutal strokes, and snaps, "Liar. How can you say that when you love this so much?"
"I—"
But you can't finish, Ningning gives your nipple one last tug and slides her hand around your body, dragging a nail down your lower back, engraving a path that ends right at your ass, between your cheeks.
"Yizh—"
"That's the third time," she grunts, and pushes her finger against the tight ring of your asshole. "The third time you've tried to call me by my name. But that's not what you get to call me, is it?"
Something raw, something that doesn't belong to you surges from your throat when she pushes, finger tight against your rim, and it's just a fingertip inside but it has your knees banging against the marble in front of you and you're not sure what hurts worse but you're absolutely sure of what feels best.
"Don't say another fucking word, unless it's the one I want to hear," she says, and she's grinding herself harder against your leg, fucking herself on your thigh, soaked panties dragging hot and slippery over your skin. She's so warm, like a sick, twisted embrace and through the corner of your eye you can see her—the delirious grin on her face, the violent delight she's taking from you and you can't help but think it:
She's so gorgeous.
Ningning pushes until she's knuckle-deep inside you, your whole world narrowing to this single point. It’s sharp, burning, before melting into something disgustingly good as she curls it, squeezing that spot that rips the word out of you like it was always waiting underneath your tongue:
"Mommy."
And she chuckles, twists her finger, driving it all the way in, forcing you to fuck yourself deeper into her hand.
"Mommy, it's—"
"I know," she kisses it into your neck, licks it across your cheek, tastes the tears that you can't stop leaking from the corner of your eyes. "Mommy's got you."
She fucks you like this—like there's no time left, like either of you might drop dead any second now so there's only this—fucking your ass like it's the light at the end of the tunnel, having you fuck her hand just the same.
“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Her breath hitches, she pants against you, wet, parted lips sliding across your cheek. “Being a good slut, a fucktoy for your Mommy, isn’t that right?”
And you’re already so far gone, air’s going thin, it’s getting worse with every press, and she just keeps pushing deeper, punishing you into this merciless pace.
“All of this—all of you. Your cock, your tight little asshole—mine, mine, mine—say it.”
“Yes—fuck—it’s yours—it’s yours—” You’re whining, exhaling hard with every stroke, there’s nowhere else to go, just do your best to tell her whatever she wants to hear. “Always been yours.”
And it's pressure building, cooking inside of you, the marks she left on you, the pain you'll remember—blood in your mouth, your shoulder, red on your chest, blooming around your asshole, she's fucking banging you into the counter now, and whatever squeeze your ass has on her finger she's matching around your cock.
"Come on, baby, just for me," she coos, and you try to close your eyes but her voice stops you in place—"Don't look away—look me in the eyes, so I can see you. See who you really are—a filthy boy who gets off on getting broken by his Mommy."
So you look, stare, see that glassy wash of pure joy, the hunger there, how she's living for this, dominating, being in control of you, punishing you with this ruthless, this rough, this brutal kind of fucking.
“Nothing will ever make you feel as good as me. You want me to make you feel so good, don’t you? Suck your worthless cock. Fuck every drop of cum out of you—take every single inch,” Ningning tells you so easily, sincerely, like it’s already planned, destined, it’s all in the cards, and—“I can do it for you, baby, I can do it all.”
She shoves her whole body into your back, fucking her finger deeper; it’s insane, all of it—her digit curling inside your ass, stretching you out, finding all sorts of angles to exploit.
“I’ve got a surprise. Mommy’s got a gift for you. A nice, big toy. A brand new cock. I’ll show my cute little slut how to really fuck.”
That makes you cry out something guttural, makes your cock throb painfully in her grip, another thick bead of you sliding over her knuckles.
“You'd love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have Mommy ruin your tight, tiny asshole. Stretch it out wide.” Ningning bites it into your ear, “Greedy.”
“Yes—please—Mommy—fuck—please—” You’re sputtering, it’s all too much, a miracle you’re still somehow coherent, just repeating the same begs, the same pleas, the same prayers because you're feeling it—feeling her everywhere. “Please—my ass—I can’t take it—”
And that's your excuse—your out, this is all just a bodily reaction, inbuilt instinct, natural chemistry, biology, whatever the fuck.
She's stroking every sensitive nerve of your cock; fucking you deep, reaching mind-numbing points you could never dream to find yourself each time she invades your asshole and god, Jesus, fuck, Mommy, she's forcing a second finger inside you, splitting you open raw and—
"Cum for me, cum on my finger, cum all over Mommy’s hand, do it for me—now."
Maybe it's not so bad that it feels so fucking good to not be ashamed, not try to hide, you can embrace who you really are around her.
Maybe it’s right to listen to her—do what she says, tell her you’ll be good and obedient for her; your body’s already ahead of you, so, so close, every nerve of yours in a chorus of agreement with how she’s fucking you.
It's for the best—it's what you need—let her have her way, let her call you her bitch, her slut, her tight, perfect hole, let her get deep in your guts, let her pull every shameful drop of cum from your cock—it's protection, it's your job, that's what it is.
You're protecting Yuha, protecting your relationship, so it's fine, it's okay, it’s okay, she can fuck you like this, make you cum, and later when she swallows your cock whole and rides you until you’re screaming, and rails your ass with her strap until you’re in tears and cumming all over her cock, you’ll be good, it’ll be over, because it's not like you need her, not like you need your—
"Mommy, I’m going to cum!"
“So cum then.”
It's a split second, like a gunshot—hot searing pain firing through your body and tearing a hole right through you—and it must look the same, it's written all over Ningning's face, hanging off the tilt of her plush lips.
All of a sudden: you're gushing, spewing cum all over her hand, shooting past her grip and her fingers go deep inside you and you're hitting the marble, splashing all over, across the bench, serving dessert for Ningning on the same counter you've prepared so many dinners for Yuha on so many nights before.
Ningning’s all over you, her full weight on you, she's been moaning in your ear this whole time, chewing up your lobe, tonguing inside, she's in your ass, she's in your fucking head, flooding your mind, telling you:
"That's it,” she coos, the praise dripping straight into the mess she’s made of you, “Keep going, keep going for Mommy, my good boy—"
And you’re gone.
It's splatter after splatter of cum across the counter, and she's pushing you into it and you would be face-first in your own release but you're somehow able to keep yourself propped up.
You cry for your Mommy one last broken, wrecked time—and everything blurs into a flash of white—painting the counter, your stomach, your open shirt, Ningning's hand.
She doesn't stop. Milks you through every pulse until your thighs shake and you're not sure you can stand on your own anymore—and you're leaning on her for support, whimpering into her shoulder, oversensitive, over-fucking-whelmed, spent dry.
Only then does she ease up.
You sob when her fingers leave your ass. Groan when her hand pulls back from your cock.
She looks at the mess, the art she's made.
Leaves you to collapse in your own heap over the counter next to it. Catch your breath.
And then she takes a small step to the right, leans forward over the counter, bending low—and drags her tongue up the island in one, long scoop. Taking care to collect every single drop, every spurt you had, getting it all on her tongue, slow and thorough, and you just lie there, heaving, cock still twitching, ass still flexing open and close, staring, hooked on her.
She takes her time, tongue dragging slow, savouring it, leaving not a single inch of the counter unclean. Reclaiming every drop you wasted on anything that isn’t her.
Then, she drops to her knees, licks a long stripe up your cock, runs a finger under your balls, over the twitching shaft, wringing out the last pathetic beads that never reached the marble.
Ningning rises, presses her cum-slick lips to your chest, slurps the rest off your skin, and hums the entire time, like it's Sunday cleaning, like you're her furniture she's putting back in order.
And when she finally gets to her feet, towering over you, eyes on yours, lips sealed shut, you realise she’s kept it all, every single drop—hasn’t swallowed once, holding it all just for this. For you.
For a second, you wait.
You open your mouth.
She drools your cum inside.
Globs of it, sticking to the inside of your mouth, salty-sweet, making you cough, gag, filling up your head with the scent of you, but you can't do anything about it because she's taking you by the chin and kissing you before you can breathe.
It's hard, it's full of her tongue, full of your cum, it's—it’s so fucking hot. It’s dirty. Almost loving. She makes you feel it, fastens her body to yours, has you collapsing to the ground and she straddles you so easily, so naturally, and it feels so right and good that it has you swelling angrily against her and you’re finding new ways to hate her all over again.
She takes your hand, fills it with her pretty tits and squeezes your palm against her, mewling into your mouth when you find a nipple and twist.
Rolling her hips against your cock, she's fucking drenched, cunt drooling all over you, and you’re bucking up to meet her, struggling against the lace she's left on but you think if you try hard enough you can rip straight through.
Her hands are in the back of your hair, and she's pulling, tugging, wrenching you closer, breathing all of you in and sucking every drop of cum back into her mouth before pushing it down your throat with her tongue and making you swallow it all.
You know what she's declaring, loud and clear.
She could have you anytime, anywhere, any way she wants.
And when she's done, she slides her lips off yours, down your cheek, to your ear and tells you what you already know.
"You're disgusting."
She breaks away, stands tall. Peels her top off her body, tosses it onto the counter. It never mattered. Steps out of her panties without breaking her stride, rounding the island, hips swaying down the hallway towards your bedroom.
You hear her when she’s out of sight, "Do you need me to say it?"
You’re scrambling to your knees. You’re not sure if you'll make it to your feet.
You'll crawl if you have to.
"I'm coming, Mommy—"
"Crawl faster, baby. Mommy’s cunt isn’t going to fuck itself."
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