Before asking for an idol, a theme, or a concept for a series. I'd like to give a gist on my writing style.
Firstly, My ultimate bias of all gg is Jihyo of TWICE. So, basically I don't accept any requests with Jihyo as a character, I design and think of plots with Jihyo by myself. It might sound cringe but I'm gonna gatekeep Jihyo.
So, since my biggest rule is clear. I'd like to share a few more rules and my style
I'm comfortable with plots that contain nsfw elements, cause most of my plots contain them all the time.
I'm not comfortable with things like vampire stories, blood related sex or anything as such.
Regarding kinks, I'll share them once you reach me out for a plot in my messages.
I'm fine with asks that contain media as well (but, behave properly!)
Next, let me introduce you to my wishlist. I'll be writing at least one smut for each of the idols in the list, so if you like my fics, you're welcome to be a part of my journey.
TWICE
Nayeon
Jeongyeon
Momo
Sana (That wasn't meant to be a Sex tape)
Jihyo (Living In The Fantasy World)
Mina
Dahyun
Chaeyoung
Tzuyu
BLACKPINK
Rosé
Jennie
Jisoo
Lisa (Well Deserved One For Her ft. Rosé)
AESPA
Karina (I don't think it's acting anymore, but don't stop..)
Winter
Giselle
Ningning (Too much of the boobies, huh!?)
ITZY
Lia
Yeji
Ryujin
Chaeryoung
Yuna
LE SSERAFIM
Sakura
Yunjin
Chaewon
Kazuha
Eunchae
Soloists
Somi
Eunbi
This is basically my zone of idols that I present and wish to write a fic per idol.
I'll link the posts to the name as I finish, and I'll accept requests of idols even though it's completed here in the wishlist. But, only if I like the plot. As soon as I complete an idol, I move to the next one, thinking of a new one.
So I'd appreciate it, if you suggest plots that are unfinished here in the wishlist.
Gamsahmidaaaaa~
(please, don't mind my obsession with Jihyo, cause I'm just crazy)
Summary : Recent Music Bank outfit of Ningning for WDA has sparked debate saying 'she showed too much of her breasts', so she decides to deal with it by herself
The fluorescent lights of the SM Entertainment conference room hummed with an electric tension that had nothing to do with the wiring. Ningning sat with her arms crossed, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans, about as far from the controversial Music Bank outfit as possible.
Her manager, Joon-hyuk, paced back and forth, his tablet clutched tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "The article has seventeen thousand comments now," he said, his voice tight. "Most are defending you, but the negative ones are getting traction. 'Inappropriate for family programming,' 'too revealing,' 'think of the children.' It's ridiculous."
The marketing director, Ms. Park, adjusted her glasses and leaned forward. "I've reviewed the footage frame by frame. The dress, It was elegant, artistic. The lighting during the wide shots may have created an illusion of more exposure than actually occurred, but Ningning, you were completely covered in all the essential areas."
"I know what I wore," Ningning said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of steel beneath its softness. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, her dark eyes sharp. "The dress had built-in support. Nothing moved, nothing showed. I've performed in more revealing outfits before without this level of scrutiny."
"Exactly," Joon-hyuk agreed, finally sitting down, collapsing into the chair like a deflated balloon. "This feels targeted. The article came out within an hour of the performance ending. Someone was waiting for this."
Ms. Park nodded, pulling up the article on the projection screen. "The byline says Kim Jae-won from K-Culture Daily. The writing style is... inflammatory. It focuses entirely on your body rather than the performance. The comments section is where the real damage is happening."
Ningning stared at the screen, her jaw tightening. "Find him."
"Ningning—" Joon-hyuk started.
"No," she cut him off, her voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous register. "Find out who wrote this and bring him to me. I don't want the PR team handling this. I don't want a statement. I want to look this person in the eye and understand why they decided to sexualize my performance and invite the public to do the same."
"That's not standard procedure," Ms. Park cautioned.
"I don't care about standard procedure," Ningning replied, standing up. She walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline, her reflection ghostly against the glass. "This person wrote that I 'showed too much skin,' that my 'breasts were barely contained.' Those are lies. "
Ms. Park exchanged a look with Joon-hyuk. "What do you want to do?"
"Like I said," Ningning repeated, her eyes reflecting the city lights outside, "find the writer. Bring him here. I'll handle this personally. By the time I'm done, those comments will be the least of his concerns. He'll be begging to take that article down."
The offices of K-Culture Daily were cramped and smelled of stale coffee and anxiety. You sat across from your HR director, Mr. Choi, feeling your stomach twist into knots.
"I don't write entertainment news," you said, keeping your voice level despite the anger rising in your chest. "I'm on the tech beat. I cover startups and cryptocurrency. I don't know anything about fashion or K-pop performances."
Mr. Choi smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Jae-won, the entertainment writer, called in sick today. We have a quota to meet, and that Aespa performance is trending number one. We need content, and we need it now."
"So get someone who knows the industry. Get someone who actually watched the performance." You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "This isn't my area. I'll get something wrong, and it'll blow back on the company."
"Sit down," Mr. Choi said, his voice hardening. "I'm not asking. This is your assignment. Write about the Ningning controversy. Focus on the outfit. The more attention-grabbing, the better. We need clicks. We need engagement. Sensationalize it if you have to, that's what brings traffic."
"You want me to sensationalize a twenty-year-old idol's outfit?" you asked, incredulous. "That's how you want to get clicks? By sexualizing her?"
"I want you to write the article," Mr. Choi said, sliding a folder across the desk. "Here's the photo stills. Here's the angle, wardrobe malfunction, inappropriate for the time slot, pushing boundaries. Make it spicy. Make people angry. Angry people share articles."
You stared at the folder, your hands trembling. "This is wrong."
"It's your job. Do it, or start looking for a new one."
You wrote the article. You wrote it exactly as he wanted, hating yourself with every word, telling yourself you were just following orders, that you needed the paycheck, that someone else would write it if you didn't. You made it inflammatory. You made it sexual. You made it everything you despised about tabloid journalism.
And now, three days later, you stood in a private meeting room at SM Entertainment, waiting for Ningning.
The door opened, and she entered alone. No manager, no security, just her. She wore a long camel coat belted at the waist, black boots that added three inches to her height, and an expression that could freeze fire.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the couch.
You sat.
She remained standing, looking down at you with those dark, assessing eyes. "Kim Jae-won," she said, your name sounding like a verdict. "Or should I say, the tech reporter who suddenly became a fashion critic?"
"I can explain-" you started.
"Can you?" She unbelted her coat but didn't remove it. "Explain to me why you wrote that my breasts were barely contained. Explain why you wrote that I exposed myself to children. Explain why you turned a performance I worked six months preparing for into a discussion about my body."
You looked down at your hands. "My HR director forced me to write it. I'm not even an entertainment reporter. I cover blockchain and AI startups. Jae-won, the real Jae-won, was sick, and they needed the article. They told me to make it sensational. They told me clicks mattered more than truth."
"And you listened."
"I needed the job," you said, the excuse sounding hollow even to your own ears. "But that's not... that's not good enough. I know. I wrote it. I published it. I did this to you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. You expected her to call security, to threaten a lawsuit, to destroy you with the same public machinery that had amplified your article.
Instead, she laughed. It was a low sound, almost bitter, vibrating with something you couldn't quite identify.
"My manager," she said, taking a step closer. "My marketing director. They wanted to handle this with press releases and legal threats. But I wanted to meet you. I wanted to see the person who decided my body was public property."
She took another step. You could smell her perfume now, something warm, vanilla and something darker, muskier.
"Your HR director," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "he wanted to watch me expose myself, didn't he? He wanted to imagine me barely contained, spilling out of some costume. That's why he chose that angle. That's why he made you write those words."
You looked up, meeting her eyes. "Yes," you admitted. "That's exactly what he wanted."
"And you?" She was standing directly in front of you now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to see her face. "What did you want when you wrote it? Did you imagine me? Did you picture me the way you described?"
"No," you said, and the truth of it rang clear. "I hated every word. I pictured you reading it. I pictured you humiliated. I didn't want... I didn't want to be that person."
She studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reached up and slowly unbelted her coat, letting it fall open. Underneath, she wore a simple silk camisole, champagne-colored, loose-fitting.
"Your HR director doesn't get the opportunity," she said, her voice changing, becoming something else, lower, smokier, challenging. "But you do. You wrote about my body without permission. You described what you thought you saw. So now..." She let the coat slide off her shoulders, catching it in one hand and draping it over a chair. "Now you're going to see what you actually wrote about. You're going to look at what you described."
"Ningning-" you started, uncertain, off-balance.
"Don't," she said sharply. Then, softer: "Don't say my name like you're still sorry. I'm giving you permission now. Look at me."
She reached down and grasped the hem of her camisole, pulling it up and over her head in one smooth motion. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath. Her breasts were full, heavy, with dark nipples that tightened slightly as the cool air hit her skin. The slope of them was gentle, falling slightly to the sides, the skin flawless and unblemished. She let the camisole drop to the floor.
"Is this what you imagined?" she asked, her voice steady despite her nakedness from the waist up. "When you wrote 'barely contained,' is this what you pictured?"
You couldn't speak. Your throat had gone dry. She was beautiful, more than beautiful, she was devastating. The curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the way her ribs showed faintly beneath her skin when she raised her arms.
"Stand up," she commanded.
You stood, your legs unsteady.
She reached for the button of her jeans, undoing them slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact with you. She pushed them down over her hips, taking her underwear with them, simple black lace that pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside along with her boots, until she stood completely naked before you.
Her body was a masterpiece of soft curves and subtle strength. Her thighs were toned from years of dance practice, her hips flaring gently from her narrow waist. The dark triangle of hair between her legs was neatly trimmed, and as she shifted her weight, you could see the pink folds peeking through.
"Now you," she said.
You undressed with trembling hands, fumbling with your shirt buttons, nearly tripping as you removed your trousers. When you were down to your underwear, she shook her head.
"Everything," she said. "You don't get to hide."
You removed your underwear, your erection springing free, heavy and aching. You were painfully aware of how exposed you were, how vulnerable, while she seemed to grow more powerful with each layer she shed.
She walked to you, her hips swaying, her breasts moving slightly with each step. When she reached you, she placed her hand on your chest, her palm warm against your thundering heartbeat.
"You wrote that I showed too much," she whispered, leaning in so her breath ghosted over your ear. "But I've never shown anyone this. Not like this. Not completely."
She pushed you backward until your legs hit the couch, and you sat down hard. She straddled you, her knees on either side of your hips, her breasts level with your face. You could feel the heat radiating from her, could smell her arousal mixing with her perfume.
"Touch me," she said. "Since you were so interested."
You brought your hands up, cupping her breasts, feeling their weight, the softness of her skin. Her nipples hardened against your palms as you brushed your thumbs over them. She arched into your touch, a small sound escaping her lips.
"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, her voice breathy now, losing its edge of control. "To know how soft I am? To know what I feel like?"
"Yes," you admitted, the word torn from you. "God, yes."
She leaned down and kissed you, her mouth hot and demanding. Her tongue swept inside, tasting like mint and something sweeter. You groaned, your hands sliding down her back to grip her waist, pulling her closer until her body was flush against yours, skin to skin.
She broke the kiss and stood, pulling you up with her. She led you to the large executive desk, pushing aside papers and a laptop with one sweep of her arm. She sat on the edge, spreading her legs, showing you how wet she was, how ready.
"Now you take what you wrote about," she said, lying back, her hair fanning out across the polished wood. "Show me you understand what you did."
You positioned yourself between her thighs, guiding yourself to her entrance. You pushed inside slowly, feeling her tight heat envelop you, watching her face as she took you in. Her eyes fluttered closed, her mouth opening on a silent gasp. You sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were fully seated inside her.
She was burning hot, slick and perfect around you. You could feel her pulse, her internal muscles fluttering as she adjusted to your size.
"Move," she whispered, opening her eyes to look at you. Her gaze was hazy now, drunk with pleasure. "Make me feel it."
You withdrew slowly, almost completely, before thrusting back in. She cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her back arching off the surface. You set a steady rhythm, watching her breasts move with each thrust, watching her face transform with pleasure.
"Harder," she demanded, her legs wrapping around your waist, her heels digging into your lower back. "Don't hold back. I want to feel this tomorrow."
You increased your pace, slamming into her, the desk creaking beneath you. Her cries grew louder, less controlled, echoing in the empty room. You leaned down, capturing a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, and she screamed, her fingers tangling in your hair.
"Yes," she panted. "Yes, like that. Don't stop."
You didn't stop. You drove into her again and again, losing yourself in the heat and pressure of her, in the sounds she made, in the way she met each thrust with her own. You could feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine, a tightening coil of electricity.
"Wait," she gasped, pushing at your chest. "Not yet. I want more."
She slid off the desk, turning around and bending over it, presenting herself to you. Her back was arched, her ass raised, her sex glistening and swollen. You could see every detai, the pink folds, the darker entrance, the way she opened for you.
"Again," she said, looking back at you over her shoulder, her hair falling across her face. "From behind."
You entered her in one smooth thrust, sheathing yourself completely. She moaned, long and low, pushing back against you. This angle was tighter, deeper, and you could feel every ridge inside her, every flutter of her muscles.
You gripped her hips, your fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and began to move. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, wet, rhythmic, primal. Her breasts swung with each thrust, her nipples brushing against the cool wood of the desk, making her gasp.
"Touch me," she begged. "Please, touch me."
You reached around her, finding her clit with your fingers, rubbing circles around it as you continued to thrust. She went wild beneath you, bucking back, meeting you stroke for stroke, her cries becoming wordless, animal sounds of pleasure.
"Close," she gasped. "I'm so close. Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
You didn't stop. You rubbed her harder, faster, matching the pace of your thrusts. You could feel her tightening around you, fluttering, pulsing, and then she was coming, screaming your name, her body convulsing, her internal muscles clamping down on you so hard you saw stars.
You pulled out, your whole body shaking with the effort of holding back your own release. She turned around, her face flushed, her chest heaving, sweat glistening on her skin.
"On the couch," she said, her voice rough. "I want to ride you."
You moved to the couch, sitting down, your erection standing proud and aching against your stomach. She climbed over you, her movements slower now, languid with the aftermath of her orgasm. She positioned herself above you, holding you steady, and lowered herself down.
You both groaned as she took you in, her heat enveloping you once more. She was even tighter like this, and you could feel the aftershocks of her orgasm rippling around you.
She began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles. Her hands rested on your shoulders for balance, her breasts swaying inches from your face. You leaned forward, capturing one nipple in your mouth again, and she gasped, her movements faltering.
"Yes," she whispered. "Suck them. Mark me."
You obliged, sucking harder, leaving red marks on her pale skin. She rode you faster, her thighs trembling with effort, her skin growing slick with sweat. You could smell it now, the clean, sharp scent of her exertion, mixing with her perfume and arousal.
She leaned back slightly, changing the angle, and you both groaned as you hit a new spot inside her. Her head fell back, her throat exposed, her hair tickling your thighs. She looked like a goddess like this, powerful, undone, transcendent.
"One more," she panted. "One more position. Standing."
She lifted herself off you, her legs unsteady, and you stood with her. She turned to face the wall, bracing her hands against it, spreading her legs. Her back was to you, the elegant line of her spine leading down to the curve of her ass, still marked faintly from where your fingers had gripped her.
You entered her from behind, sliding in easily, both of you slick with sweat and arousal. You wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her back against your chest, your other hand finding her breast, kneading it, pinching the nipple.
"Yes," she moaned, pushing back against you. "Just like that. Make me feel you."
You thrust into her, your movements becoming erratic, desperate. You could feel your orgasm building again, unstoppable this time. She was so tight, so hot, so perfect around you.
"Come inside me," she gasped, feeling you swell, feeling your rhythm falter. "I want to feel it. I want to know you mean it."
That was all it took. You buried yourself deep and let go, pulsing inside her, your release seeming to go on forever. She came with you, clenching around you, milking you, her own cry drowning out your groan.
You both collapsed onto the couch, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your chests heaving. You could feel her heartbeat against your own, rapid and slowing gradually. Your skin stuck together wherever it touched, your thigh against hers, your chest against her back, your hand still cupping her breast.
She was covered in a sheen of perspiration, her hair plastered to her forehead and neck, her skin flushed pink from her cheeks down to her chest. You could see the marks you'd left, red spots on her breasts, faint bruises forming on her hips, love bites on her neck and shoulder.
You were equally marked, you realized. Scratches on your back from her heels, which she'd somehow lost during the third position, bite marks on your shoulder where she'd cried out and lost control.
The room smelled of sex and sweat and something uniquely her. Your bodies were cooling now, the sweat beginning to dry, making you both shiver slightly.
She turned in your arms, facing you, her eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. She traced a finger down your chest, following the trail of sweat that ran between your pecs, down your stomach.
"So," she said, her voice hoarse, "do you still want to write articles about my body?"
"Never again," you promised, capturing her hand and bringing it to your lips. "I'll do everything it takes for that article to go down. I'll retract it, I'll write an apology, I'll resign from the paper. Whatever you want."
She smiled, a real smile this time, soft and genuine. "I believe you," she said. "But you're not resigning. You're going to keep writing. Just... write the truth from now on. Write about the music. Write about the work. Leave my body out of it unless I invite you in."
"I will," you said, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "I promise."
She settled against you, her head on your chest, her leg thrown over yours. You could feel her heartbeat slowing, matching yours, two rhythms synchronizing in the aftermath.
"Stay for a while," she whispered, her eyes closing. "Just until I fall asleep."
You held her, watching the city lights play across her skin, memorizing the way she looked in this moment, completely undone, completely yours, completely powerful. You thought about the article, about the comments, about the controversy, and realized none of it mattered anymore.
What mattered was her heartbeat under your hand. What mattered was the trust she'd given you, however strangely earned. What mattered was that you would spend every day from now on making sure no one ever wrote about her that way again, least of all yourself.
Outside, Seoul glittered and pulsed, millions of people living their lives, unaware that in this room, on this couch, something had shifted. A wrong had been... not righted, exactly, but transformed. Transmuted into something else entirely.
You pressed a kiss to her forehead, tasting the salt of her sweat, and held her as her breathing deepened and evened out into sleep.
The article would come down. The comments would be buried. And you would never, ever forget what she had given you, what she had taken, and what she had offered in return.
Not just her body, but her forgiveness. And somehow, impossibly, her desire.
You closed your eyes, still holding her, and let yourself drift into darkness beside her.
The next morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of the SM Entertainment private lounge, casting pale gold stripes across the tangled sheets of the pull-out sofa bed where you'd eventually migrated sometime after midnight. You woke to the sensation of fingers tracing idle patterns across your chest, and opened your eyes to find Ningning propped up on one elbow, watching you with an expression that was half amusement, half something softer.
"You're still here," she said, her voice husky from sleep. She was wearing one of your dress shirts, unbuttoned to reveal the valley between her breasts, the fabric sliding off one shoulder. Her hair was a wild dark cloud around her face, and she smelled like sleep and sex and the faint remnants of her vanilla perfume.
"Where else would I go?" you asked, your own voice rough.
She smiled, her finger trailing down your stomach, making your muscles jump. "Most men would have run by now. Written their tell-all exposé. Taken photos for blackmail."
"I'm not most men," you said, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "And I think you know exactly what kind of man I am."
She leaned down, her hair creating a curtain around your faces as she kissed you, slow, deep, unhurried. You could taste the mint of early morning toothpaste, the warmth of her mouth. When she pulled back, she was straddling you, the shirt falling open completely, her nakedness pressing against your rapidly hardening length.
"I talked to my manager at six AM," she said, grinding down slightly, making you groan. "The article is being retracted. Your editor-in-chief called personally to apologize. It seems someone leaked internal emails showing your HR director specifically requesting sensationalized content about female idols' bodies."
You stared up at her, your hands finding her hips automatically. "You did that?"
"I have resources," she said, a smirk playing at her lips. She rocked her hips again, teasing, her wetness sliding against you without taking you inside. "Your HR director is being investigated for creating a hostile work environment. Several female employees came forward. It seems you weren't the first he pressured to write inappropriate content."
"Jesus," you breathed, your hands tightening on her waist. "Ningning..."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, her eyes darkening. She reached down, guiding you to her entrance, and sank down slowly, her head falling back with a moan. "I didn't do it for you. I did it because I was angry. Because no one gets to use my body for their clicks without consequences."
She began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles. The shirt hung open on her shoulders, framing her breasts as they swayed with her movements. She was taking her time this morning, setting a languid pace that was somehow more torturous than the frantic energy of last night.
"But you," she continued, her breath hitching as she took you deeper, "you get to use my body. Because you asked. Because you were sorry. Because..." She paused, her rhythm faltering as she found a particularly sensitive angle, "...because I want you to."
You sat up, wrapping your arms around her, burying your face in her neck. She wrapped her legs around your waist, allowing you to thrust up into her from below. The position brought you impossibly close, your chests pressed together, her nipples dragging against your skin with every movement.
"Look at me," she commanded, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. "I want to see your face when you come."
You met her eyes, dark, endless, holding galaxies of meaning you couldn't quite decipher. You moved faster, your hips snapping up to meet her downward rolls, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room.
She was already close, you could feel it in the way she tightened around you, the way her movements became less controlled, more desperate. Her nails dug into your shoulders, leaving crescent marks that you knew would bruise.
"Now," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut despite her command. "Come with me. Now."
You couldn't have stopped if you'd wanted to. You spilled inside her with a groan that felt torn from your soul, feeling her own orgasm rippling around you, her body going rigid in your arms before going limp, her head falling onto your shoulder.
You held her like that, still joined, your hearts hammering against each other, your sweat mingling, your breaths synchronizing. The morning light grew stronger, turning her skin to honey and gold, making her look almost ethereal.
After a long moment, she lifted her head, her expression vulnerable in a way it hadn't been before. "I have a photoshoot this afternoon," she said quietly. "For the album. Lemonade."
"I know," you said, brushing her hair back. "I saw the concept photos. They're beautiful."
She smiled, something shy in it that seemed impossible after everything you'd done together. "You should come. As... I don't know. As my guest. As the writer who's going to do a real article about the music, not the outfits."
"Is that allowed?" you asked, half-joking. "A tabloid tech reporter at an Aespa exclusive?"
"I make the rules," she said, her confidence returning, her smirk returning. She lifted herself off you slowly, both of you hissing at the sensation, and stood, letting the shirt fall completely off her shoulders. She was magnificent in the morning light, naked, unashamed, marked by your hands and mouth. "And I say you're coming. You owe me a proper write-up, don't you? One that talks about the artistry. The vocals. The message."
She walked toward the bathroom, her hips swaying, looking back at you over her shoulder. "Besides," she added, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that made your blood heat, "if you behave yourself during the shoot, I might let you help me out of the wardrobe afterwards. The concept involves... quite a lot of latex. It's hard to get out of alone."
You watched her disappear into the bathroom, heard the shower start, and lay back against the pillows, your body humming with satisfaction, your mind clearer than it had been in months.
The article was down. Your HR director was being held accountable. And somehow, impossibly, you were here, in Ningning's bed, in her life, in her confidence.
You got up and followed her into the shower, where she welcomed you with open arms and streaming water, and you spent the next hour learning every inch of her all over again, the way she liked to be touched in the morning, softer, slower; the way she gasped when you knelt before her under the spray; the way she returned the favor, her mouth hot and insistent, her eyes looking up at you through wet lashes.
When you finally emerged, prune-fingered and laughing, she handed you a towel and said, "My manager will have clothes for you downstairs. And then... then we go to work. Together."
You nodded, catching her hand and bringing it to your lips. "Together," you agreed.
And as you dressed in the clothes she'd provided, designer, perfectly fitted, nothing like your usual off-the-rack journalism wardrobe, you realized that this was only the beginning. The article that had started as your greatest mistake had led you here, to her, to this, to a story worth telling that had nothing to do with scandal and everything to do with redemption.
Ningning caught your eye in the mirror as she applied her lipstick, dark and bold, and smiled. "Ready?" she asked.
"Ready," you said, and followed her out into the day.
Kinda surprising to see a Jihyo biased man not havinv her fucking nice boobs as your favorite body part. But to be fair, she does have really nice abs. And honestly, her entirety of her is just way too hot she’s so hard to resist man
Yeah Ig, I mean how can someone not love this navel of hers..
Cause, well yeah I know her boobs are heavenly but my type of intimacy with her that I carve for will be..
Imagine this, Jihyo invited me to her house, and after a few glasses of wine, I got up and sat on the recliner chair she has by the floor to ceiling windows. Then, she gets up and stands in front of the mirror looking at the view. I pull my legs straight to the front and lock her in between my legs and pull her towards me. Then I lift her shirt up and press her navel to my cheeks. I kiss them, feel her soft skin while my hands stay inside her pants rubbing her ass as she tangles her fingers in my hair. Aaagghhhhhh and as time goes by, she puts both of our glasses aside and pulls me up, but not normally. She makes me go inside her shirt as we share the same shirt, my chest feeling the heavy, perfect tits of hers. Her breath, warm against my lips.
not a story request but just a random question, why is jihyo your ultimate bias? what’s your favorite body part of her and why 😏
Why is Jihyo my ultimate bias, I've been for this question my whole life..
Jihyo was the one who got me into girl group k-pop honestly, her solo album Zone. I absolutely fuckin' loved it. And after watching her body, I've been mesmerized honestly. Her daily life inspired me for the greater good. Ever since the lolla, she's been getting extremely sexy day by day. Recently as well, her expressions, body, stage presence, absolutely killin' me good.
Fav of hers should be her navel and abs. My goodness when she does body rolls, my existence flickers. Seriously, she's damn gorgeous and would want justttt one chance with her. Like I would've buried my head into her navel, while slowly pressing her nipples through her bra. Ohhhhh, she's damn sexy!
(also, I've been writing a fic with her daughter Yunjin recently, so stay tuned..)
I don't think it's acting anymore, but don't stop..
<- Previous
Karina X Henry
The morning sun filtered through Jim's curtains in thin, accusatory stripes. He was still floating in that hazy post-coital bliss when the knocking started, sharp, insistent, unmistakably Yujin.
"Jim! Jim, open up! I brought coffee!"
Jim scrambled up from the couch, his naked body protesting every movement. Sana stirred beside him, murmuring something unintelligible, the sheet falling away to expose the curve of her breast. He grabbed the first thing he could find, a white cotton bathrobe, worn thin at the elbows and fraying at the belt, and tied it hastily around his waist.
He opened the door a crack. "What?"
Yujin stood there, holding two cups of coffee, her hair still damp from her own shower. She took one look at him—his flushed face, the love bites visible on his neck, his hair standing up in every direction, and her eyes widened with delighted comprehension.
"Well, well, well," she drawled, pushing past him into the apartment. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, look what the pussy-"
"Yujin!" Jim hissed, trying to block her view of the living room. "What are you doing here?"
"Me? I'm being a good friend. Bringing sustenance." She craned her neck, trying to see around his shoulder. "Is Sana here? Is she okay? Did you break her? I need to see the carnage."
"She's fine. Everything's fine. You can go now."
But Yujin was already tiptoeing, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She tried to dart around him, peeking toward the couch. "Is she naked? Is she covered? Did you use protection? I have so many questions-"
Jim sidestepped, spreading his arms wide, his bathrobe gaping open to reveal his bare chest. "Yujin, stop. Respect the privacy. Please."
"Privacy? You lost your right to privacy when you made a sex tape in my apartment building." She tried to duck under his arm, but he caught her, spinning her back toward the door.
"Out. Now. What do you want?"
Yujin finally relented, allowing him to guide her into the hallway. She leaned against the wall, sipping her coffee with infuriating calm. "I just wanted to check if everything's okay. After last night. The tape. The hammer. The... reconciliation." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Did you two... reconcile hard?"
"Yujin," Jim groaned, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "We're fine. Better than fine. Can you please just... give us a few hours?"
"A few hours?" She gasped mockingly. "Professor, I didn't know you had that kind of stamina. Sana's a lucky woman. Or is it Sana who has the stamina? Tell me, how many times did you-"
"Goodbye, Yujin." He pushed her gently toward her own door. "I'll see you later. With clothes on. Both of us."
"Spoilsport," she called after him, but she was grinning as she disappeared into her own apartment.
Jim returned to find Sana sitting up, the sheet clutched to her chest, looking adorably confused. "Was that Yujin?"
"Yeah. Being Yujin." He sat beside her, kissing her shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I'll get rid of her for good next time."
But Sana was already lying back down, her naked body stretching out on the couch, completely uncovered, her breasts spilling to the sides, her legs parting slightly in her sleepiness. Jim covered her with a throw blanket and went to make coffee, smiling like a fool.
Across the hall, Yujin burst through her own door to find Karina sitting on the dining table, swinging her legs, eating a bagel.
"Well?" Karina asked, crumbs falling from her mouth. "What happened? Did you see her? Was she walking funny?"
Yujin dropped into a chair, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, they definitely had sex. I'm sure of it. Jim looked like he'd been run over by a truck in the best possible way. Flushed, disheveled, hickeys everywhere. And the way he was blocking the living room? Sana was definitely in there, probably naked, probably recovering."
Karina squealed, clapping her hands. "I knew it! I knew they'd get together! But..." Her face fell slightly, a strange expression crossing her features. "Jim missed his chance."
Yujin looked up from her coffee. "What chance? What do you mean?"
Karina shook her head quickly, her dark hair swinging. "Nothing. Never mind."
"Karina, what-" Yujin stopped, her nose wrinkling. "Do you smell that? Is something burning?"
"Oh shit, the toast!" Yujin bolted for the kitchen.
Just then, Henry emerged from the spare bedroom, shirtless, his hair matted on one side, clearly having slept in Yujin's guest room. He yawned widely, scratching his stomach. "Morning, ladies. Why does it smell like cremation in here?"
"Henry!" Karina hopped off the table. "You won't believe it. Jim and Sana had sex!"
"Had sex?" Henry blinked, then grinned. "No way. Professor Jim? Finally got his head out of his books and into Sana's-"
"Henry!" Karina swatted him, but she was laughing. "Yujin confirmed it. She saw him this morning. He looked... satisfied."
"Well, good for them," Henry said, collapsing onto the couch. "About time. They've been circling each other for like, two years."
Yujin emerged from the kitchen, waving a smoking piece of charcoal that might once have been bread. "Okay, I'm going to shower. Kimmy!" She called toward the bedroom. "Join me!"
"Coming!" Kimmy's voice came back, followed by the sound of footsteps.
Yujin and Kimmy disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water starting shortly after.
Karina sat down next to Henry on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. She was quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on the cushion.
"Hey," Henry said, nudging her with his shoulder. "You okay? You got weird when Yujin mentioned Jim and Sana."
Karina sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I've been thinking... about that movie role. The one my agent asked me about months ago."
Henry turned to face her, his expression serious. "The main lead? The indie film? I thought you said you weren't sure."
"I wasn't. But now... I don't know. I think I want to accept it."
Henry's face lit up. "Karina, that's amazing! Why didn't you say something sooner? What's stopping you from taking it?"
Karina bit her lip, her cheeks flushing pink. "It's the intimate scenes. There's a lot of them. And it's... it's my first time. Doing that. On camera."
"First time?" Henry raised an eyebrow. "Karina, you've had sex before. Don't act like you're some virgin innocent."
She slapped his arm playfully. "Not my first time having sex, you idiot. My first time doing it on camera. For an audience. With cameras and lighting and a crew watching." She shuddered slightly. "It's different."
"Is the male actor not good looking or something? Is that the problem?"
"God, no," Karina laughed, but it was strained. "He's the opposite. He's... he's goddamn handsome. Like, unfairly handsome. Greek statue come to life. If the sex was real, I'd be thrilled. I'd be counting down the days. I'd probably beg for extra takes." She paused, her voice dropping. "But it's acting. And I don't know if I can make it look real when it's not. When there are thirty people standing around with equipment."
Henry was quiet for a moment, studying her face. "So what were you planning to do?"
Karina looked down at her hands. "I thought... I thought about asking Jim to help me. With method acting. You know, since we found out about the tape thing. I thought maybe he could... practice with me. Help me get comfortable with being intimate on camera. But now that he and Sana are together..." She trailed off, then looked up at Henry, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "I shouldn't ask him now, right? That would be weird. So I don't know what to do."
She looked at Henry, really looked at him, and something shifted in the air between them.
Henry's expression changed, something like hurt flashing across his features. "Are you for real? Karina... you thought of choosing Jim over me?"
"I... what?"
"Let me say this," Henry continued, his voice dropping, leaning closer to her. "I was the one who told Jim about the video thing. I did a lot of method acting before. I've done intimacy workshops, I've done scenes with nudity, I've done simulated sex on stage. And for your information, I'm an actor as well. A good one."
He moved closer, until they were inches apart, his breath warm against her face. "So wouldn't it honestly be better if you asked me?"
Karina's breath hitched. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "Yea-Yeah," she stammered. "I... I didn't think..."
"Obviously," Henry said softly, not unkindly.
"So..." Karina swallowed hard. "Will you help me? With the method acting?"
Henry held her gaze for a long moment, something intense and unreadable in his dark eyes. Then he smiled, slow and sure. "Of course I will."
"Tonight," Karina said quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Come to my place tonight. We can... we can start then. The method acting."
"I'll be there," Henry promised.
Karina's agent called that afternoon. The news was crushing, the role had been cast. Someone else had been hired weeks ago, and the production was already underway. Karina had waited too long.
She sat on her couch for an hour, staring at the wall, the phone still in her hand. Then she thought of Henry. Of his promise. Of the way he'd looked at her, inches apart, his breath mingling with hers.
The doorbell chimed through Karina's apartment like a promise. She checked her reflection one last time, the silk bathrobe clung to her curves, the fabric thin enough that her nipples pressed visibly against the material, hard and expectant. The belt was tied loose, revealing the valley between her breasts, the smooth plane of her stomach. She'd spent three hours preparing for this.
When she opened the door, Henry stood there with a script in his hand and confusion already knitting his brow. He took one look at her and froze.
"Hey," Karina breathed, stepping aside to let him in. "Come in."
Henry entered slowly, his eyes scanning the apartment. She'd transformed it. Candles flickered on every surface, vanilla and sandalwood, warm and inviting. The lights were dimmed, casting everything in honey-gold shadows. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, saxophone notes curling through the air like smoke.
"Wow," Henry said, turning in a slow circle. "It looks like... I don't know what it looks like. A spa? A bordello?"
"Something like that," Karina smiled, pouring him a glass of wine from the bottle waiting on the coffee table. She handed it to him, letting her fingers brush his. "Drink?"
"Thanks." He took it, but didn't drink, his eyes dropping to her chest, to the obvious peaks of her nipples straining against silk. "Karina... the bathrobe..."
"Oh, this?" She ran a hand down her side, the fabric shifting to reveal even more of her thigh. "I wanted to be comfortable. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, I just..." He shook his head, tearing his gaze away. "Where's the script? I thought we were rehearsing the bedroom scene tonight. The one where they argue and then fall onto the bed?"
"About that," Karina said, taking a sip of her own wine, letting the red liquid linger on her lower lip before licking it away. She saw Henry track the movement with his eyes. "The scene got cancelled."
Henry blinked. "Cancelled?"
"Yeah." She set her glass down, moving closer to him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something musky and floral, intimate. "My agent called. The director decided to cut that scene entirely. Rewrite the script. So..." She shrugged, the motion making her breasts sway, the silk sliding dangerously. "No more rehearsal needed, I guess."
"Oh." Henry looked genuinely disappointed, then confused. "But if the scene is cancelled, why did you invite me over? And why..." He gestured vaguely at the apartment, the candles, her attire. "Why all this?"
"I need to use the washroom," Karina said suddenly, turning away from him. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."
She disappeared down the hallway, the silk robe fluttering behind her like a flag of surrender. Henry stood alone in the living room, surrounded by candlelight and implication, utterly baffled.
"Why is the mood different here?" he muttered to himself, pacing to the window and back. "And if the scene is cancelled, why is she wearing the bathrobe? With her nipples showing? What the hell is happening?"
He ran a hand through his hair, checking his phone, putting it away. He wandered to the bathroom door, listening. He could hear water running, the sound of movement. Then,
"Henry?"
He froze. Her voice came muffled through the door, soft and beckoning.
"Yeah? You okay?"
"Can you come here?"
Henry walked to the bedroom first, then stood by the bathroom door, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm here. What happened?"
A hand emerged from the crack in the door, slender, wet, glistening with droplets. "Towel? I forgot to bring one."
Henry looked around frantically, spotting a plush white towel folded on her dresser. He grabbed it and pressed it into her waiting hand. Their fingers touched, wet and warm, and lingered for a moment too long.
"Thanks," she whispered.
The door closed. Henry sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress soft beneath him, the sheets already turned down, pillows fluffed and inviting. He could hear splashing from the bathroom, the scent of roses and something sweeter drifting out from under the door.
Then her voice again, clearer this time, sultry and sure. "Henry?"
"Yeah?"
"Come in."
His breath caught. He stood, his legs suddenly unsteady, and walked to the bathroom door. He pushed it open.
Steam billowed out, warm and fragrant, carrying the scent of jasmine and bath oils. Through the mist, he saw her. Karina reclined in the bathtub, her body hidden beneath a mountain of white foam and floating rose petals, red and pink, scattered across the water's surface like drops of blood and kisses. But the foam couldn't hide everything. He could see the curve of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples breaking through the bubbles. Her shoulders were bare, glistening with water, her hair piled messily on top of her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face.
She looked like a goddess emerging from a cloud. Like a dream he'd been too afraid to have.
"Join me," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Karina..." His voice cracked. "The scene is cancelled. You said..."
"The scene is cancelled," she agreed, her eyes dark and endless. "But this isn't about the scene anymore, Henry. This is about us. It's been about us for a long time, hasn't it?"
He couldn't speak. He could only nod, his throat tight.
"I've wanted you," she continued, her hand emerging from the water to beckon him closer. "Not for acting. Not for practice. Just... you. In this tub. With me. Now."
Henry moved like a man in a dream. He stripped quickly, his clothes falling in a heap on the tile floor. When he was naked, he paused, letting her look her fill at his body, lean from running, scarred from childhood accidents, his cock already half-hard and growing under her gaze.
"Beautiful," she whispered.
He stepped into the tub, the water hot and silky against his skin, and sank down opposite her. The tub was large, but not large enough, they had to draw their knees up, their legs intertwining, her foot brushing against his thigh, his calf sliding against her hip. The water lapped at their chests, the foam shifting to reveal glimpses of her body, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, the dark shadow between her legs.
"Come here," she murmured.
He slid forward, kneeling between her spread legs, the water rising around them. She sat up, her breasts breaking the surface, foam clinging to her nipples like snow. He reached for her, his hands finding her waist, and pulled her against him. Her wet skin slid against his, slick and hot, her breasts flattening against his chest.
They kissed, slow and deep, tasting wine and mint and each other. His hands roamed her back, her sides, cupping her ass beneath the water, lifting her slightly so she could feel his hardness pressing against her stomach. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him close.
"Let me wash you," she whispered against his lips.
She reached for the soap, a bar of French lavender, and worked it between her hands until they were slick with lather. Then she touched him, his shoulders first, massaging the tense muscles there, working down his arms, across his chest. Her soapy hands slid over his nipples, making him gasp, then lower, over his stomach, following the trail of hair downward.
"Karina..."
"Shh," she soothed, her hand closing around his cock under the water. She stroked him slowly, the soap making her grip slippery, her thumb circling his sensitive head. "Just feel."
He groaned, his head falling back, his hips bucking into her touch. She worked him with one hand while the other explored, his thighs, his hips, his balls, cupping them gently, rolling them in her palm.
"My turn," he growled, taking the soap from her.
He lathered his hands and touched her with reverence, her neck, her collarbones, the hollow of her throat. He washed her breasts slowly, circling the soap around each mound, over each nipple, pinching them gently between slippery fingers until she was panting, her back arching into his touch. He moved lower, over her stomach, her hips, then between her legs, his soapy fingers finding her clit, rubbing in slow, torturous circles.
"Henry~oh god~"
"You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers sliding through her folds, dipping inside her, feeling her heat even in the warm water. "Not just from the bath."
"For you," she gasped, grinding against his hand. "All for you. Always."
He kissed her again, harder this time, his fingers working her faster, feeling her tighten around him, feeling her pleasure build. She came with a cry that echoed off the tile, her body shuddering, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Bedroom," she panted when she could speak again. "Now. I need you inside me."
They rose, water cascading off their bodies, leaving them glistening and flushed. Henry grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her, lifting her out of the tub, carrying her bridal-style to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, the towel falling away, her body bare and wet and perfect beneath him.
He covered her with his body, his mouth finding hers, then her neck, her breasts. He sucked her nipples hard, drawing cries from her throat, his hand finding her wetness again, preparing her, stretching her with his fingers until she was begging, writhing beneath him.
"Please, Henry. Please, I need you. Fuck me. Now."
He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock throbbing, leaking precum onto her thigh. He looked down at her—her hair spread across the pillow, her eyes dark with desire, her lips swollen from his kisses, and pushed inside.
They both cried out. She was tight, impossibly tight, her heat enveloping him, sucking him in. He filled her completely, bottoming out against her cervix, and paused there, letting her adjust, feeling her walls flutter around him.
"Move," she begged, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into his ass. "Please, Henry. Fuck me."
He withdrew slowly, almost completely, then slammed back in, making her scream. He set a rhythm, hard and deep, their bodies slapping together, wet skin on wet skin. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and he bent his head to capture a nipple, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
"Yes~yes~like that~don't stop~"
He flipped them, pulling her on top of him, his hands gripping her hips as she rode him. She ground down against him, her clit rubbing against his pelvis, her hands braced on his chest. He watched her, mesmerized, her head thrown back, her breasts swaying, her wet hair dripping onto his skin.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Show me how you like it."
She did, her hand sliding between her legs, her fingers circling her clit as she bounced on his cock. The sight was too much, her pleasuring herself while he filled her, her abandon, her beauty. He felt his orgasm building, his balls tightening, his spine tingling.
"Come with me," he gritted out, his fingers digging into her hips, guiding her rhythm. "Karina, come with me. Now."
She shattered, her walls clamping down on him like a vice, her scream tearing from her throat. He followed, his cock pulsing, spilling inside her in hot, thick spurts, filling her completely, marking her as his.
She collapsed forward, her body covering his, both of them panting, trembling, their hearts hammering against each other. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, his cock still buried inside her, still twitching with aftershocks.
"Henry?" she whispered against his neck.
"Yeah?"
"The scene might be cancelled," she said softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "But this... this is just beginning, right?"
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, and rolled them onto their sides, still joined, still tangled. "This is definitely just beginning," he agreed, tucking her against him. "We have a lot of... rehearsing... to do."
She smiled, her eyes drifting closed, sated and safe in his arms. Outside, the city hummed, but in her bedroom, wrapped in each other, they had found their own perfect scene, one that would never be cancelled, never cut, never rewritten.
Don't know if I'll continue with these characters in my further stories but, I have these 2 parts planned.
Next chapter ->
The late afternoon sun filtered through Yujin's floor-to-ceiling windows, casting honey-gold streaks across the worn hardwood floors of her Brooklyn apartment. The space still carried that familiar scent, vanilla candles mixed with the ghost of countless shared meals and spilled wine.
"Karina, you absolute slut!" Kimmy shrieked, throwing his arms around the brunette as she stepped through the door, Henry trailing behind her with a bottle of champagne. "A fucking movie! I knew you'd get it!"
Karina laughed, her cheeks flushing pink as she accepted the embrace. "It's just an indie film, calm down. I play 'Concerned Bystander Number Three' for like, twelve minutes total."
"Twelve minutes of pure Oscar-worthy suffering," Henry deadpanned, setting the champagne on the kitchen island. "I watched the audition tape. She cried actual tears about a parking ticket."
"Fuck you," Karina giggled, punching his shoulder. "Like you're one to talk, Mr. 'I got cast as Dead Body in that procedural last week.'"
"Hey, dying is an art form," Henry protested, collapsing onto Yujin's overstuffed couch. "I had to lie still for six hours while they pretended to investigate my corpse. My left ass cheek fell asleep. That's dedication."
Yujin emerged from the kitchen with a platter of cheese and grapes, her hips swaying in that unconscious way that still made Kimmy's throat go dry after all these months. "Okay, okay, enough competing over who has the more humiliating gig. We're celebrating Karina today. Where's the wine?"
"I think we're out," Kimmy said, popping a grape into his mouth. "Jim, don't you have that case of red you were bragging about? The one from your sister's vineyard?"
Jim looked up from where he'd been scrolling through his phone on the armchair, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. "Yeah, it's at my place. On the TV shelf, actually."
"I'll get it," Sana offered, already sliding off her stool at the dining table. Her sleek black dress rode up her thighs as she stood, smoothing down the fabric. "I could use the stretch anyway. Ralph Lauren has me sitting twelve hours a day sketching necklines."
"Near the TV shelf," Jim called after her, his voice carrying a strange tightness that nobody noticed. "Can't miss it."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Twenty minutes passed. Henry regaled them with a story about his agent trying to convince him to do a commercial for hemorrhoid cream ("It's method acting, Henry! You could really FEEL the discomfort!"), and Yujin had just refilled everyone's water glasses when the door burst open.
Sana stood there, but she wasn't holding wine.
The VHS tape gleamed dully in her trembling hand, the label facing outward, scrawled in Jim's messy handwriting: "PRACTICE."
The room went silent.
Jim's face drained of color. He stood up so fast his phone clattered to the floor. "W-what...?"
"Yes, Mr. Taper," Sana's voice was dangerously soft, her eyes glittering with something between fury and hurt. "Do you recognize this tape?"
Jim's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. "What-what-why are you holding that tape?"
"Seriously?!" Sana's voice cracked, rising an octave. "Oh! Jim, I hate you!"
"Wait-I can explain-"
But she was already gone, the door slamming so hard the walls shook. The sound of her heels stomping down the hallway echoed back at them.
Everyone froze. Karina looked at Henry. Henry looked at Yujin. Yujin looked at Kimmy. Jim stood frozen, his hands shaking at his sides.
Kimmy broke the silence first, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Okay, what the fuck was that? Jim? What is on that tape?"
"Nothing," Jim said quickly, too quickly. "It's just... it's personal. Private practice stuff. For my lecture next week."
"Private practice stuff that makes Sana say she hates you?" Yujin raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Come on, Jim. We've known each other five years. That wasn't 'I hate you because you used my shampoo.' That was... something else."
"Did you two sleep together?" Karina asked bluntly, taking a sip of her water. "Because that energy was very 'you didn't call me back after we fucked' energy."
"We did NOT sleep together," Jim snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat professor aesthetic. "I mean... not exactly. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?" Kimmy pressed. "Jim, you moved out because you were tired of walking in on me and Yujin fucking on every surface in this apartment. You can't suddenly be shy about sex."
"Speaking of which," Henry interjected, "I still don't understand why you didn't just join in. Yujin's kitchen table is sturdy. I've tested it."
"Henry!" Karina swatted him, but she was grinning.
"Focus!" Yujin snapped her fingers. "Jim. The tape. What is it?"
Jim sank back into the armchair, his head in his hands. "It's... it's all your fault!" He suddenly pointed at Henry, his finger trembling.
Henry blinked, clutching his chest dramatically. "Me? What did I do? I wasn't even here two days ago! I was at that cattle call for the deodorant commercial!"
"I'll explain!" Jim stood up again, pacing now. "Just... wait. Let me think."
Two days back, the afternoon light had been different, greyer, threatening rain. Henry had burst through Jim's apartment door without knocking, the way he always did, carrying a bulky black camera recorder under his arm like a football.
"Hey! You'll need this," Henry announced, dropping his leather jacket over the back of Jim's couch.
Jim looked up from his laptop, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. "What's this? A recorder?"
"Yeah!" Henry said, setting his coat down and rubbing his hands together. "Remember, you asked me regarding the presentation you have next week? The one about Victorian literature and sexual repression?"
Jim groaned, closing his laptop. "Yes. And I asked you to stay by me while I talk, give me feedback. But you said you were busy with auditions."
"Yeah, I am, so I brought this. This is what I do with my script dialogues." Henry moved to the coffee table, clearing away Jim's stack of graded papers. "I place this recorder, recording myself while I say my script. So, " He positioned the camera on a stack of books, angling it toward the couch. "Speak all you want by recording yourself and you can review it yourself instead of asking anyone else."
Jim leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "Oh really? You just... talk to the camera?"
"Exactly. It's like having an audience that doesn't judge. Well, it judges, but silently." Henry made Jim sit on the couch, adjusting the camera to face him properly. "Speak all you want by recording yourself and you can review it yourself instead of asking anyone else."
"Oh that helps! Thanks man!"
"Yeahh! I know right, okay, then I'll leave." Henry grabbed his jacket, already halfway to the door. "Break a leg with your repressed Victorians!"
Jim arranged the camera carefully, hitting record and settling back against the cushions. He shuffled his notes, clearing his throat with professorial authority. "The suppression of desire in Victorian literature served not merely as social commentary, but as a mechanism of control..." He gestured broadly, trying to project confidence. "The female body became a site of contention, a battleground where-"
The knock at the door made him jump.
Sana stood there, her usually impeccable bun coming undone, strands of dark hair framing her face. She clutched a stack of papers to her chest like a shield, her eyes red-rimmed.
"Jim... I need help."
He ushered her in immediately, concern overriding his preparation. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"My assistant," Sana spat the word like a curse, dropping onto the couch and letting the papers spill across the cushions. "She took emergency vacation. Emergency! Her cat has a 'stress rash.' And I have to submit the spring line sketches in two days. Two days, Jim. I can't do this alone."
Jim sat beside her, gathering the scattered papers. "Of course I'll help. What do you need?"
Sana finally looked at him, really looked at him, and something in her expression softened. "But before that... have you got any wine?"
He laughed despite himself. "Yeahh, sure." He got up and retrieved a bottle of Cabernet from his small kitchen, along with two glasses. "Red okay?"
"Red is perfect."
They settled back onto the couch, papers spread between them, wine glasses filling and refilling. Sana explained the concepts—flowing lines inspired by water, colors that evoked dawn without being cliché. Jim offered suggestions, his literary mind finding metaphors that translated surprisingly well to fashion.
"This one," he said, pointing to a sketch of a backless dress, "it reminds me of that line from Whitman. 'I am large, I contain multitudes.' It looks simple from the front, but the back is... complicated. Unexpected."
Sana stared at him, her wine glass halfway to her lips. "That's exactly what I was going for. Jim..." She set the glass down. "I love you."
He froze. "What?"
"I love you," she repeated, and tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. "Thank you for helping me out. I don't know what I would've done without you." She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder.
Jim's hands hovered in the air before settling carefully on her back. "Hey, this is a small thing. You don't have to cry for this."
She pulled back, her face inches from his, her breath warm and smelling of cherries and alcohol. "Have you ever..." She stopped, searching his eyes.
"Have I ever what?"
"Have you ever thought about..."
And then they were kissing. It wasn't gentle or tentative—it was hungry, desperate, months of tension finally snapping like a rubber band stretched too far. Sana's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Jim's hands found her waist, gripping tight as if she might disappear.
They fell back against the couch, papers scattering to the floor, forgotten.
Back in Yujin's apartment, Jim finished his explanation, his voice hoarse. "That's what happened. That's what's on the tape. We kissed, we... we got carried away. I didn't even remember the camera was recording until today. Until she found it."
"So you made a sex tape," Kimmy said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Professor Jim. You dirty dog."
"We didn't-it's not-" Jim stammered.
The door burst open again. Sana stood there, her eyes wild, her chest heaving. In one hand she held the tape. In the other, she gripped a hammer she'd clearly grabbed from the hallway maintenance closet.
"You-" She stared at Jim, her voice trembling with rage. "I'm gonna destroy it."
She strode into the center of the room and dropped the tape onto the hardwood floor. The hammer rose above her head, glinting in the sunset light.
"Nooo! Don't do it!!" Four voices shouted in unison except Jim.
Sana froze, the hammer hovering. "Why? Why shouldn't I? This is... this is private! This is humiliating!"
"Did you watch the whole thing?" Yujin asked carefully, stepping closer.
"No," Sana admitted, her arm lowering slightly. "I just saw up to the... the kiss thing. Then I panicked."
"So you don't know what happens after?" Karina asked, exchanging a glance with Henry.
"That's what we're saying," Kimmy interjected. "If you didn't watch it all, you don't know if it's... you know. Compromising. Or just kissing."
"Or maybe it's hot," Henry added, then winced when Karina elbowed him. "What? I'm just saying!"
Jim stepped forward, his hands raised in surrender. "Sana. Please. If you're going to destroy it, at least... at least watch it first. See what we're dealing with. Then decide."
"Watch it together," Yujin suggested, her eyes gleaming with that mischievous curiosity they all knew well. "All of us. Then if it's too much, we destroy it. But if it's just... if it's just a moment between two people..." She shrugged. "Then maybe it's worth keeping."
Sana looked around the room, at five faces watching her with varying degrees of concern, curiosity, and barely concealed excitement. Her grip on the hammer loosened.
"Fine," she whispered. "But if I hate it, I'm smashing it. And possibly your face," she added, pointing at Jim.
"Fair," Jim breathed.
They moved like a procession, filing across the hall to Jim's apartment. The space was neater than Yujin's, more sparse, academic, with bookshelves lining every wall and a single framed poster of some obscure Russian film above the couch.
Jim's hands shook as he set up the TV, slotting the tape into the old VCR he'd inherited from his mother. The screen fuzzed blue, then cleared.
There was Jim, sitting alone, looking earnest and slightly ridiculous in his button-down shirt. "The suppression of desire in Victorian literature..."
"Fast-forward," Sana commanded, her arms crossed tight across her chest.
Jim hit the button. The image blurred, then cleared again.
There they were. On the couch. The wine glasses still on the table, the papers scattered.
"Oh god," Sana whispered.
On screen, Jim set down his glass. On screen, Sana leaned in. The kiss looked different from the outside, slower, more cinematic somehow. Their mouths met, and the sound was audible, a soft wet collision that made Henry shift uncomfortably in his seat.
On screen, Sana's hands moved to Jim's shirt, unbuttoning it with surprising dexterity. His chest was revealed, pale, lean, with a smattering of dark hair. She ran her palms up his sternum, breaking the kiss only to trail her lips down his jaw, his throat.
"Fuck," Kimmy muttered. "They're not stopping."
"Should we... should we keep watching?" Yujin asked, but nobody moved to stop it.
On screen, Jim groaned, his head falling back as Sana's mouth found his collarbone. His hands found her hips, pulling her onto his lap so she straddled him. The camera caught her dress riding up, exposing her lace-clad thighs.
"Jesus," Henry whispered. "That's... that's the Ralph Lauren lingerie, isn't it? The new line?"
"Focus!" Karina hissed, but she was leaning forward, entranced.
On screen, Sana reached behind her back. The dress loosened. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, revealing a cream-colored bra that contrasted beautifully with her olive skin. Her breasts heaved as she breathed, nipples visible through the thin lace.
Jim's hands came up to cup them, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, making her arch against him.
"God, look at her back," Yujin murmured. "That curve..."
On screen, they kissed again, rougher now, teeth clicking, tongues visible as they devoured each other.
Then, slowly, Jim stood, lifting Sana with him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt bunched around her hips, revealing that she wore matching lace panties, already darkening with arousal at the crotch.
He carried her toward the bedroom door.
"Wait," Karina said, standing up. "They're going into the bedroom?"
"Do it in front of the camera!" Henry shouted at the screen, as if they could hear him. "Come on, don't be shy!"
"Henry!" Yujin laughed, scandalized.
But the bedroom door closed on screen. The image showed only the empty couch, the scattered papers, the two abandoned wine glasses.
"That's it?" Kimmy demanded. "That's the end?"
Jim cleared his throat, his face crimson. "The camera was in the living room. It couldn't see... what happened in the bedroom."
"And what happened in the bedroom?" Sana asked, her voice barely audible.
Jim looked at her, really looked at her, and something passed between them, a secret, a shared memory, a heat that hadn't dissipated in two days.
"Only two people know that," Jim said softly.
Sana held his gaze for a long moment, the hammer still dangling from her hand, forgotten. Then, slowly, she set it down on the coffee table.
"I think..." she said carefully, "I think maybe we should talk. Alone."
"Finally," Henry groaned. "Can we at least watch the couch part again first? For research purposes?"
"Get out," Jim and Sana said in unison, and for the first time that evening, they smiled at each other.
"Get out!" Jim and Sana said in unison, their voices overlapping with urgent desperation.
"Get out! This is my apartment..?" Yujin blinked at them, confusion knitting her brow before understanding dawned in her dark eyes. A slow smile spread across her face. "Oh. Ohhh. Right. My apartment. Yes."
"Okay, then we'll get out..." Sana's fingers found Jim's hand, her grip tight and possessive. She bent down and yanked the VCR from the TV stand, cords trailing like mechanical entrails.
"Wait, not the VCR!" Henry protested, reaching out. "We were going to watch it again! For educational purposes!"
"Forget the tape," Karina laughed, pulling Henry toward the door. "Live entertainment is better."
"Come on, Sana, leave the video," Kimmy wheedled, but she was already moving, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she dragged Jim behind her.
Sana didn't halt. She strode through Yujin's doorway, Jim stumbling after her, the VCR clutched against her chest like a trophy. The others followed, protesting and giggling, until they reached Jim's door across the hall.
"Goodnight, children!" Yujin called out, her voice rich with amusement. "Be safe! Or don't!"
Sana fumbled with Jim's keys, her hands shaking so badly he had to take them from her. His fingers brushed hers, and they both froze, electricity arcing between their palms.
"Jim," she whispered, her breath coming fast.
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me before we get inside."
He didn't hesitate. He pushed her against his door, the VCR wedged awkwardly between their bodies, and crushed his mouth to hers. It was nothing like the tentative exploration on the tape, this was carnal, desperate, two weeks of pent-up longing exploding into motion. His tongue swept past her lips, tasting wine and want, and she moaned into his mouth, her free hand tangling in his hair.
"Inside," she gasped against his lips, rolling her hips against his. "Now. Please."
He managed to get the door open, and they stumbled through, still attached at the mouth, kicking the door shut behind them. The VCR clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"Bedroom?" Jim mumbled, his hands sliding down to cup her ass through her skirt.
"Too far," Sana breathed, walking him backward. "Couch. Now."
They navigated the short distance blindly, lips never parting, hands roaming frantically over clothes that suddenly felt like prisons. Jim's calf caught the edge of the sofa and he tumbled backward, pulling Sana with him. She landed astride his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, her skirt riding up to expose her thighs.
"Fuck," Jim groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. "Sana, you're-"
"I'm what?" She grinned down at him, wicked and wild, nothing like the composed fashion designer who sketched elegant lines by day. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, teasingly, until-
"Holy shit," Jim breathed.
She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts swung free, heavy and perfect, nipples dark and already stiff from arousal, poking out like they had been beneath her shirt all evening, begging for his mouth. They were larger than he'd imagined, with rose-hued areolas that tightened as the cool air hit them.
"See something you like, professor?" she purred, tossing her shirt aside.
Jim didn't answer with words. He surged up, his hands spanning her waist, and buried his face between her tits. He nuzzled the soft valley there, inhaling her scent, jasmine and sweat and something uniquely Sana, before turning his head to capture one nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, drawing a cry from her throat, then released it with a wet pop only to lavish attention on the other.
"Jim, oh god~" Her fingers dug into his scalp, holding him there.
He dragged his tongue upward, tracing the line between her breasts, up her sternum, to the hollow of her throat. He licked the fluttering pulse there, feeling her heartbeat against his tongue, then continued upward until he found her mouth again. They kissed messily, all teeth and tongue, and she moaned his name into his mouth like a prayer.
"Jim... Jim... please..."
He needed no further invitation. She rose up on her knees, her breasts swaying inches from his face, and he watched with rapt attention as she turned around. The sight of her back, smooth, muscled, the line of her spine disappearing into the waistband of her skirt, made his cock ache against his zipper.
Sana hooked her thumbs into the band of her skirt and pushed it down over her hips, the fabric pooling at her knees. Then, agonizingly slowly, she pushed her panties down, bending forward as she did so, presenting her ass to him like a gift.
"Christ," Jim choked out.
Her ass was magnificent, round and firm, the kind of ass that filled out designer dresses to perfection. The cleft between her cheeks led down to glimpses of her pussy, glistening and swollen, peeking out from between her thighs. She looked back over her shoulder, her hair falling in a dark curtain, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire.
"You like what you see?" she asked, her voice husky.
Jim reached out with both hands and squeezed her ass cheeks, kneading the firm flesh, spreading them slightly to reveal the tight pink bud of her asshole and the wet slit below. She pushed back into his grip, whimpering.
"Beautiful," he groaned. "You're fucking beautiful, Sana."
She turned back around, her movements fluid and deliberate. She sank down, her knees hitting the floor between his spread legs, and leaned forward. Her breasts pressed against his thighs, soft and warm through his trousers, her nipples dragging against the fabric as she reached for his belt.
"Lift," she commanded.
He raised his hips, and she worked his belt free, tossing it aside. His button came next, then his zipper, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. She tugged his pants down, and he lifted again to help, until they were bunched around his knees. His cock strained against his boxer briefs, the outline thick and obvious, a wet spot already forming at the tip where precum had soaked through.
Sana paused, looking up at him with those dark, devastating eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned in and caught the waistband of his underwear between her teeth. She pulled down, her nose brushing against his lower belly, her breath hot against his skin. The elastic stretched, then gave way, and his cock sprang free, thick and veined and throbbing, slapping against his stomach with an audible sound. His balls followed, heavy and tight beneath.
"Fuck," Jim gasped, his head falling back. He ripped his shirt over his head, buttons popping, and threw it aside. Now he was naked from the waist up, his lean chest heaving, his professor's pallor contrasting with the ruddy darkness of his engorged cock.
Sana wrapped her hand around his shaft, her fingers not quite meeting around his girth. She pumped him once, twice, spreading the bead of precum over his swollen head with her thumb. Then she leaned in and took him into her mouth.
"Oh god-Sana~" Jim's hips bucked involuntarily, but she held him down with a hand on his thigh, her nails digging in.
She worked him with lips and tongue and throat, taking him deep until her nose brushed his pubic hair, then pulling back until just the head remained between her lips, sucking hard. Her tongue swirled around his frenulum, that sensitive spot beneath the crown, and he groaned long and low, his hand finding her hair and tangling there, not pushing, just holding on for dear life.
She bobbed her head, her breasts swaying against his legs, her nipples hard points of contact that drove him wild. The wet sounds of her mouth on his cock filled the room, obscene, delicious, filthy. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, and he felt himself slide into that tight, hot channel, her muscles contracting around him.
"Baby, I'm gonna~if you don't stop~" He tugged gently at her hair, warning her.
She pulled off with a wet gasp, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his cock. "Not yet," she breathed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I want you inside me."
She rose up, her body unfolding like a flower, and climbed back onto his lap. She positioned herself above him, her hand guiding his cock to her entrance. He could feel her heat radiating against his sensitive head, could feel how wet she was, her arousal coating him.
"Look at me," she commanded, her hands finding his face, pressing his cheek against her breast. "Look at me while I take you."
She sank down, and they both cried out. She was tight, impossibly tight, her pussy gripping him like a velvet fist, sucking him in. He filled her completely, his cock bottoming out against her cervix, and she paused there, fully seated, her tits crushed against his face, her nipple brushing his lips.
"Move," he begged, his hands finding her hips. "Please, Sana, move."
She began to bounce, her thighs flexing, her ass slapping against his legs as she rode him. She held his face pressed to her chest, her fingers threaded through his hair, keeping him there against her heartbeat, her breast filling his mouth. He sucked her nipple, drawing hard, and she cried out, her rhythm faltering.
"Yes, yes, just like that, fuck, Jim~you feel so good.."
She rode him harder, faster, her tits bouncing with every downward thrust, her pussy making wet, squelching sounds as she impaled herself on his cock again and again. He could feel her muscles fluttering around him, could feel her getting closer, her movements becoming erratic, desperate.
"Flip me," she gasped. "I want you on top."
He didn't need to be told twice. He lifted her, still buried inside her, and laid her back against the couch cushions. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half, and drove into her with a force that made her scream.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck me, Jim! Harder!"
He pistoned his hips, his cock sliding in and out of her slick heat, the sight of her tits jiggling with every thrust driving him mad. Her hands found her own breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples, and the sight was so erotic he almost lost it right there.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice rough. "Touch your clit. I want to feel you come on my cock."
Her hand slid between them, her fingers finding her swollen bud, and she rubbed herself in tight circles as he fucked her. Her moans grew higher, sharper, her walls clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses.
"Jim, Jim, I'm gonna-"
"Come for me, baby. Come on my cock."
She shattered, her back arching off the couch, her pussy gripping him so tight he saw stars. He kept fucking her through it, prolonging her pleasure, until she went limp beneath him, gasping, her chest heaving.
But he wasn't done. He pulled out, his cock glistening with her arousal, and flipped her over. "On your knees," he growled. "Ass up."
She scrambled to comply, presenting herself to him, her pussy pink and swollen and dripping. He gripped her hips and slammed into her from behind, the new angle making them both cry out. Her tits swung beneath her, heavy and full, and he reached around to cup them, pinching her nipples as he drove into her.
"So deep," she moaned, her face pressed against the couch cushions. "Oh god, Jim, you're so deep~you're hitting my spot~yes~yes~"
He pounded into her, his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. He could feel his own orgasm building, his spine tingling, his balls drawing up tight against his body.
"Where do you want it?" he gritted out, his rhythm faltering. "Tell me where~"
"Inside," she begged, looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glazed with pleasure. "Come inside me, Jim. Fill me up. I want to feel you~"
That was it. He slammed into her one final time and erupted, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her, rope after rope of hot cum flooding her tight channel. She came again with him, her pussy milking him dry, her walls contracting around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
He collapsed forward, his chest against her back, both of them slick with sweat, breathing hard. He slipped out of her, his cum already leaking down her thighs, and pulled her down with him onto the couch. They lay there, tangled together, naked and exposed and utterly spent.
"Jim?" Sana whispered, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles through the sparse hair there.
"Yeah?"
"That was... that was better than the tape."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah. Way better."
"I love you," she said softly, looking up at him with those dark eyes, no longer wild but soft, tender. "I meant it. When I said it before. I wasn't just grateful. I love you."
He tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and sweet, tasting himself on her lips. "I love you too," he murmured against her mouth. "I've loved you for months. Maybe years. I was just too stupid to say it."
"Professor Jim," she teased, her hand sliding down to cup his softening cock. "So articulate in the classroom, so tongue-tied in love."
"Shut up," he laughed, pulling her closer.
They lay there on the couch, uncovered, the autumn chill raising gooseflesh on their naked skin but neither of them caring. She draped her leg over his, her breast pressed against his ribs, her arm wrapped around his waist. He held her tight, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sex and sweat.
"Stay tonight," he whispered into the darkness.
"Try to make me leave," she whispered back.
They fell asleep like that, tangled and naked and finally, finally together, while across the hall, their friends probably placed bets on whether they'd emerge before morning. But for now, in this moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of skin on skin, and the promise of many more nights exactly like this one.
Summary : A fan finds out that a guy in the crowd beside him stole Jihyo's ring when she came down to greet the fans. Jihyo finds it interesting when that fan puts the ring on her finger by himself, rather than just returning it, so she calls him back to her dressing room and unveils her biggest fantasy to him.
Jihyo X Myself
11k words.
I got the tickets for the TWICE Berlin concert. This was for their world tour, and somehow, miraculously, I managed to secure front row seats. For weeks leading up to the show, I hoped, really hoped, that the members would come down from the stage and greet the fans up close. I'd seen videos from other tour stops where they interacted with the crowd, and I prayed Berlin would be no different.
The Mercedes-Benz Arena was electric, pulsating with energy from thousands of ONCEs. The concert had been everything I dreamed of, explosive performances, stunning visuals, and the girls looking more beautiful in person than any screen could capture. Now, as the night wore on, the concert was almost nearing its end. Only one hour was left before the final bows.
Then it happened.
Jihyo, the leader, the powerhouse vocalist, the woman whose presence commanded every inch of that stage, decided to step down and greet the fans. She ran along the barricade, her smile radiant, giving high fives to everyone within reach. My heart hammered against my ribs as she approached. When her hand met mine, the contact was brief but electric, warm, soft, real. But as she moved past me toward the next section of fans, I noticed something that made my blood boil.
The guy beside me, some tall, lanky man with greedy eyes, had held onto her hand for far too long. Not just that, but as she pulled away, I watched in disbelief as he slipped his fingers around hers and removed her ring. He brought it close to his face, turning it over, examining it like some trophy he'd won.
"Hey!" I snapped, grabbing his wrist hard. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He startled, trying to pull away. "I-I was just looking-"
"Just looking?" I cut him off, my voice rising above the music. "You stole her ring! Are you insane? That's not a souvenir, you creep! That's her personal property! She trusted us enough to come down here and you repay that by stealing from her?"
"Give it back," he muttered, shoving the ring toward me.
I snatched it from his palm, my fingers trembling with anger. "Get out of here before I call security myself. You're disgusting."
He slinked away into the crowd as I closed my fist around the delicate band. It was beautiful, simple but elegant, probably with sentimental value. I looked up toward the stage, wondering if I should try to signal someone, but the music was still pounding and the lights were flashing.
Then I saw her.
Jihyo had returned to the stage, but something was wrong. She was looking down at her hand, then patting her pockets, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. She approached the edge of the stage, standing right above where I was, and held up her hand. She pointed to her ring finger, the empty space where the band should have been, and looked out at the crowd with questioning eyes.
My heart stopped. I immediately waved both hands above my head, jumping slightly to catch her attention. When her eyes locked onto me, I slowly opened my palm to reveal the ring glinting under the stage lights. I pointed at it, then gestured toward her, mouthing "Should I throw it?"
She shook her head vigorously, signaling no. Then, to my astonishment, she moved toward the stairs at the side of the stage and came back down.
The crowd around me erupted in excited whispers as she approached. My hand shook as I held out the ring, expecting her to simply take it from my palm. But as she reached me, something came over me, some boldness I didn't know I possessed. Instead of dropping it into her hand, I reached out and gently took her left hand in mine.
Her eyes widened, dark and luminous, as I carefully slid the ring onto her finger. The touch of her skin against mine was soft, warm, impossibly intimate. I adjusted the band until it sat perfectly in place, my thumb brushing over her knuckle before I let go.
She was stunned, I could see it in the parting of her lips, the slight hitch in her breath, but she didn't stop me. She let me finish, let me hold her hand for that suspended moment in time. When I finally released her, she didn't immediately pull away. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that made the world around us disappear.
It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn't breathe. My lungs seemed to forget how to function as Jihyo maintained that eye contact, her expression softening into something I couldn't quite read, gratitude mixed with curiosity, perhaps. My heart hammered so hard I was certain she could hear it over the music.
Then she turned and spoke quickly to a security woman standing nearby, a stern-looking German woman with a headset. Jihyo gestured toward me, said something I couldn't hear, and then hurried back to the stage to continue the concert.
The security woman stared at me. Her eyes were cold, assessing, making me feel like I'd done something wrong even though I'd only returned what was stolen. She maintained that gaze throughout the remaining hour of the concert, never looking away, never smiling.
When the final song ended and the girls took their bows, I was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Sadness that the concert was over, that the magic was dissipating. But happiness, pure, radiant happiness, that the moment with Jihyo had happened at all. That I'd touched her hand, looked into her eyes, placed a ring on her finger like some scene from a dream.
I filed out with the crowd, my mind still replaying that eye contact, the softness of her skin. But as I reached the exit corridor, a hand grabbed my arm.
It was the same security woman from before.
"Come with me," she said in accented English, her tone leaving no room for argument.
My stomach dropped. I thought I'd done something wrong by keeping the ring instead of immediately throwing it, or perhaps Jihyo was angry about how intimate the moment had become. Maybe the company staff had called me in to give me a warning, or worse, ban me from future events.
My thoughts raced as she led me through corridors I didn't know existed, past staff-only doors, deeper into the backstage area. Finally, she stopped in front of a door with a paper sign taped to it that simply read "Jihyo" in handwritten Hangul.
"Go in," the security woman said, pointing.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the handle. Every instinct told me to run, that this was a mistake. But curiosity and something else, hope, maybe, pushed me forward. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was warm, lit by soft vanity lights. And there she was, Park Jihyo, no longer the idol on stage but a woman removing her jewelry piece by piece, wiping makeup from her face with cotton pads. She looked smaller somehow, more human, more real. She looked up as I entered, and my heart stopped all over again.
"Close the door," she said softly, her voice carrying that distinctive tone I knew from interviews, warm, slightly husky, melodious even in simple speech.
I pushed the door shut behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the small room.
"Sit," she gestured to a chair near her vanity. "Please."
I sat, my hands clammy, my mind screaming that this couldn't be real.
She turned to face me fully, her face half-bare now, makeup removed from one cheek. Without the stage cosmetics, she looked younger, more vulnerable, but no less beautiful. If anything, the naturalness of her skin, the slight redness where she'd been rubbing, made her more stunning.
"I wanted to thank you," she said, her English careful but clear. "For the ring. It was... a very important gift from my mother."
I nodded, finding my voice. "I-I saw that guy take it. I couldn't just let him keep it."
"You were angry," she observed, a small smile playing at her lips. "I saw you yelling at him. Even from the stage, I could see your face was red."
"He had no right to touch you like that," I said, the indignation rising again even now. "To steal from you. You were kind enough to come down to us, and he repaid that by..."
"By stealing," she finished. "Yes."
She stood up and walked closer, her concert outfit still on, a sparkling top and skirt that caught the light. "Fans touch me all the time," she said quietly. "High fives, handshakes, sometimes they try to grab. It is part of the job. But tonight... when you held my hand to put the ring on..." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "It felt different."
My breath caught. "Different how?"
"Like..." She searched for words, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Like a fantasy come true. The way you did it, so gentle, so careful. Looking into my eyes. It felt unreal. Like something from a drama."
The air in the room seemed to thicken. I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm, mixed now with the scent of sweat from performing, which somehow made it more intimate.
"I have another fantasy," she said, her voice dropping lower, taking on a quality that made my skin prickle with heat. "One I've never told anyone."
I swallowed hard. "What is it?"
Her eyes darkened, becoming heavy-lidded, seductive. She reached up and slowly began unclipping her earrings, one by one, her gaze never leaving mine. "I've always wondered," she said, setting the earrings on her vanity with deliberate slowness, "what it would be like to have a fan watch me change. To see me... completely."
My mouth went dry. "Jihyo..."
"Don't speak," she whispered, her fingers moving to the zipper at the side of her skirt. "Just watch."
She slowly pulled the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. The skirt loosened and she let it fall, stepping out of it with a grace that made my chest ache. She was wearing stockings underneath, attached to a garter, and simple black underwear that contrasted sharply with her fair skin.
"You look shocked," she teased, her voice breathy now. "Have you never imagined this? All those times you watched me on stage, on screen... did you never wonder what was underneath?"
"I... yes," I admitted, my voice rough. "I've imagined."
"Good," she purred, reaching for the hem of her top. She pulled it up slowly, revealing her toned stomach, the curve of her ribs, and finally, her breasts, encased in a delicate lace bra. She tossed the top aside and reached behind her, unhooking the bra with practiced ease.
When it fell away, I couldn't suppress the groan that escaped me. Her breasts were perfect, full, with dark nipples that hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. She saw me looking and smiled, a knowing, seductive smile.
"You like what you see?" she asked, cupping them slightly, lifting them as if offering them to my gaze.
"You're beautiful," I managed. "More than I ever imagined."
She laughed softly, a throaty sound. "Still so polite. Even now." She hooked her thumbs into her underwear and pushed them down, stepping out of them completely. Now she stood before me naked, unashamed, her body lit by the warm vanity lights, every curve, every secret place exposed.
"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the chair I sat in.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She approached slowly, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me dizzy. She placed her hands on my knees, spreading them slightly to make room for herself. Then she leaned forward, her bare chest pressing against my clothed one, her face inches from mine. I could feel her heat through the fabric, could smell the sweetness of her breath.
"Is this okay?" she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes."
She pulled back slightly, her hands sliding up my thighs, her breasts pressing harder against my chest. We were so close now, our mouths almost touching, her eyes half-closed with desire,
A sharp knock at the door made us both jump.
Jihyo's eyes went wide with panic. "Hide!" she whispered urgently, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "Quickly! Behind the outfit rack!"
She pushed me toward a rolling clothing rack filled with costumes and stage outfits. I squeezed behind it, crouching down as she grabbed whatever clothes she could find, a oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, and threw them on haphazardly.
"Coming!" she called out, her voice miraculously steady.
The door opened. "Jihyo-unnie?" It was Momo's voice, recognizable anywhere. "Have you seen the manager? My phone isn't working and I need to call my family."
"Ah, no, I haven't seen him," Jihyo replied, her voice slightly breathless but controlled. "Maybe check the catering area?"
"Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you while you're changing."
"It's fine, Momo. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, unnie."
After Momo left, Jihyo breathed, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to release the panic from her body. She leaned her forehead against the door, her hand still gripping the handle, her chest heaving beneath the oversized t-shirt she'd thrown on.
"That was too close," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She almost caught us. She would have known, she would have seen..."
I stepped out from behind the clothing rack, my heart still hammering from the near-miss. "But she didn't," I said softly. "We're safe."
Jihyo turned to face me, her eyes wide and dark, still flushed with adrenaline. "I can't believe I just did that. I've never... I've never hidden a man in my dressing room before."
I slowly approached her, my movements deliberate, giving her space to back away if she wanted to. But she didn't move. She watched me come closer, her lips parted, her breath quickening again, for a different reason now. When I reached her, I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. Her hands immediately interlocked behind my neck, her fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight.
I let my hands slide down, cupping her thighs, lifting her slightly so she could feel all of me. My erection was hard against her stomach, impossible to hide, pressing insistently through my jeans. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt it, her body arching into mine.
"You're so hard," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "You really want me that much?"
"More than anything," I growled.
I kissed her slowly, the way they do in the Korean dramas she starred in, the first touch was just a slight brush of lips, tentative and soft, testing the waters. But then I dove right in, capturing her mouth fully, my tongue sweeping across her lower lip until she opened for me. Our tongues met, sliding against each other in a wet, heated dance. I explored her mouth thoroughly, tasting the mint from her backstage breath freshener mixed with something uniquely her. The kiss deepened, our heads tilting, mouths opening wider, tongues stroking and curling together in a rhythm that mimicked what we both desperately wanted.
I walked her backward until her back hit the door with a solid thud. The sound echoed in the small room, but I didn't stop. I pushed her harder against the wood, pinning her there with my body while my hands found the hem of her t-shirt and shoved it up above her tits. They bounced free, heavy and perfect, nipples already tight and begging for my mouth.
I bent my head and licked them, starting with the underside, tracing the swell of each breast with my tongue before circling closer to the center. I laved attention on her left nipple, sucking it deep into my mouth, rolling it against my tongue, feeling it harden even more. She moaned, her head falling back against the door with a soft knock. I moved to the right, giving it the same treatment, sucking, licking, grazing my teeth gently over the sensitive peak until she was squirming against me, her hips bucking involuntarily.
"Please," she whimpered. "Don't stop."
I turned her around, spinning her to face the door. Her tits pressed against the cool wood, her cheek turned to rest against the surface, her breath fogging the painted metal. I kept her shirt bunched up above her breasts, leaving them pinned against the door as I reached down and hooked my fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. I pulled them down in one swift motion, taking her underwear with them, exposing her completely from the waist down.
She was beautiful, her ass round and firm, the cleft between her cheeks shadowed and inviting. I dropped to my knees behind her, spreading her legs wider, and buried my face between her ass cheeks. I licked upward, dragging my tongue from her sensitive perineum all the way to the small of her back, then back down again. I found her pussy, already wet and swollen, and dove in, lapping at her folds with broad strokes of my tongue. I circled her entrance, teasing her, before pushing my tongue inside, feeling her muscles clench around me. I moved up to her clit, sucking it gently, flicking it rapidly with the tip of my tongue while she ground back against my face, her moans muffled against her arm.
"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her hips bucking. "Right there, please, right there..."
I spun her around again, her back hitting the door now, her face flushed and desperate. I attacked her neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered, leaving marks that would be hidden by stage makeup tomorrow. She was moaning loudly now, her hands gripping my hair, her thighs trembling.
But then she bit her lip, hard, her teeth sinking into the plush flesh, her eyes showing a flicker of reason through the haze of lust. "Wait," she gasped, even as I dropped my mouth to her tits again, sucking one nipple deep while my hand rolled the other between my fingers. "We... we have to stop. We can't... not here, not now..."
She pulled me up by my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, and captured my mouth in a fierce kiss. When we broke apart, both panting, she looked at me with dark, hungry eyes, her lip still bearing the indentations of her teeth.
"I love how horny you are for me," she whispered, her hand sliding down to palm my erection through my jeans, making me groan. "I can feel how much you want me. It's driving me crazy. But if we get caught... if anyone finds out..." She kissed me again, softer this time. "I want you. God, I want you so much. But not like this, not rushed, not terrified."
She pulled her shirt down, covering her breasts, then bent to pull her pants up, her movements quick and efficient. I watched, bereft, as she hid the body I'd just been worshipping. Then she placed her hands on my chest and pushed me backward. I stumbled and sat hard in the chair I'd occupied earlier.
Jihyo walked to her vanity mirror, adjusting her clothes, smoothing her hair, wiping at her swollen lips with the back of her hand. She met my eyes in the reflection, her gaze heated and promising.
"Instead," she said, her voice steady now with resolve, "I can get you a job. On my personal staff. A fake resume, something related to makeup, styling. You could travel with me, be with me all the time. In hotel rooms. In private. Where we won't be interrupted." She turned to face me fully. "Would you want that?"
"Yes," I said, my voice hoarse. "Yes, I want that."
"Good," she whispered.
She crossed the room to me, her hips swaying with renewed confidence. She stopped in front of my chair, then climbed onto my lap, straddling my hips, her thighs gripping me tight. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, inch by inch, until her breasts were exposed once more, right in front of my face, heavy, perfect, the nipples still wet from my mouth, glistening in the vanity light.
"For now," she said, her voice a seductive promise as she pressed her chest toward my mouth, offering herself completely, "let's seal the deal."
Edit : Sorry to abruptly end the story at the peak, I promise I'm thinking of writing the next parts for it, so stay patient.
Summary : A fan finds out that a guy in the crowd beside him stole Jihyo's ring when she came down to greet the fans. Jihyo finds it interesting when that fan puts the ring on her finger by himself, rather than just returning it, so she calls him back to her dressing room and unveils her biggest fantasy to him.
Jihyo X Myself
11k words.
I got the tickets for the TWICE Berlin concert. This was for their world tour, and somehow, miraculously, I managed to secure front row seats. For weeks leading up to the show, I hoped, really hoped, that the members would come down from the stage and greet the fans up close. I'd seen videos from other tour stops where they interacted with the crowd, and I prayed Berlin would be no different.
The Mercedes-Benz Arena was electric, pulsating with energy from thousands of ONCEs. The concert had been everything I dreamed of, explosive performances, stunning visuals, and the girls looking more beautiful in person than any screen could capture. Now, as the night wore on, the concert was almost nearing its end. Only one hour was left before the final bows.
Then it happened.
Jihyo, the leader, the powerhouse vocalist, the woman whose presence commanded every inch of that stage, decided to step down and greet the fans. She ran along the barricade, her smile radiant, giving high fives to everyone within reach. My heart hammered against my ribs as she approached. When her hand met mine, the contact was brief but electric, warm, soft, real. But as she moved past me toward the next section of fans, I noticed something that made my blood boil.
The guy beside me, some tall, lanky man with greedy eyes, had held onto her hand for far too long. Not just that, but as she pulled away, I watched in disbelief as he slipped his fingers around hers and removed her ring. He brought it close to his face, turning it over, examining it like some trophy he'd won.
"Hey!" I snapped, grabbing his wrist hard. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He startled, trying to pull away. "I-I was just looking-"
"Just looking?" I cut him off, my voice rising above the music. "You stole her ring! Are you insane? That's not a souvenir, you creep! That's her personal property! She trusted us enough to come down here and you repay that by stealing from her?"
"Give it back," he muttered, shoving the ring toward me.
I snatched it from his palm, my fingers trembling with anger. "Get out of here before I call security myself. You're disgusting."
He slinked away into the crowd as I closed my fist around the delicate band. It was beautiful, simple but elegant, probably with sentimental value. I looked up toward the stage, wondering if I should try to signal someone, but the music was still pounding and the lights were flashing.
Then I saw her.
Jihyo had returned to the stage, but something was wrong. She was looking down at her hand, then patting her pockets, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. She approached the edge of the stage, standing right above where I was, and held up her hand. She pointed to her ring finger, the empty space where the band should have been, and looked out at the crowd with questioning eyes.
My heart stopped. I immediately waved both hands above my head, jumping slightly to catch her attention. When her eyes locked onto me, I slowly opened my palm to reveal the ring glinting under the stage lights. I pointed at it, then gestured toward her, mouthing "Should I throw it?"
She shook her head vigorously, signaling no. Then, to my astonishment, she moved toward the stairs at the side of the stage and came back down.
The crowd around me erupted in excited whispers as she approached. My hand shook as I held out the ring, expecting her to simply take it from my palm. But as she reached me, something came over me, some boldness I didn't know I possessed. Instead of dropping it into her hand, I reached out and gently took her left hand in mine.
Her eyes widened, dark and luminous, as I carefully slid the ring onto her finger. The touch of her skin against mine was soft, warm, impossibly intimate. I adjusted the band until it sat perfectly in place, my thumb brushing over her knuckle before I let go.
She was stunned, I could see it in the parting of her lips, the slight hitch in her breath, but she didn't stop me. She let me finish, let me hold her hand for that suspended moment in time. When I finally released her, she didn't immediately pull away. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that made the world around us disappear.
It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn't breathe. My lungs seemed to forget how to function as Jihyo maintained that eye contact, her expression softening into something I couldn't quite read, gratitude mixed with curiosity, perhaps. My heart hammered so hard I was certain she could hear it over the music.
Then she turned and spoke quickly to a security woman standing nearby, a stern-looking German woman with a headset. Jihyo gestured toward me, said something I couldn't hear, and then hurried back to the stage to continue the concert.
The security woman stared at me. Her eyes were cold, assessing, making me feel like I'd done something wrong even though I'd only returned what was stolen. She maintained that gaze throughout the remaining hour of the concert, never looking away, never smiling.
When the final song ended and the girls took their bows, I was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Sadness that the concert was over, that the magic was dissipating. But happiness, pure, radiant happiness, that the moment with Jihyo had happened at all. That I'd touched her hand, looked into her eyes, placed a ring on her finger like some scene from a dream.
I filed out with the crowd, my mind still replaying that eye contact, the softness of her skin. But as I reached the exit corridor, a hand grabbed my arm.
It was the same security woman from before.
"Come with me," she said in accented English, her tone leaving no room for argument.
My stomach dropped. I thought I'd done something wrong by keeping the ring instead of immediately throwing it, or perhaps Jihyo was angry about how intimate the moment had become. Maybe the company staff had called me in to give me a warning, or worse, ban me from future events.
My thoughts raced as she led me through corridors I didn't know existed, past staff-only doors, deeper into the backstage area. Finally, she stopped in front of a door with a paper sign taped to it that simply read "Jihyo" in handwritten Hangul.
"Go in," the security woman said, pointing.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the handle. Every instinct told me to run, that this was a mistake. But curiosity and something else, hope, maybe, pushed me forward. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was warm, lit by soft vanity lights. And there she was, Park Jihyo, no longer the idol on stage but a woman removing her jewelry piece by piece, wiping makeup from her face with cotton pads. She looked smaller somehow, more human, more real. She looked up as I entered, and my heart stopped all over again.
"Close the door," she said softly, her voice carrying that distinctive tone I knew from interviews, warm, slightly husky, melodious even in simple speech.
I pushed the door shut behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the small room.
"Sit," she gestured to a chair near her vanity. "Please."
I sat, my hands clammy, my mind screaming that this couldn't be real.
She turned to face me fully, her face half-bare now, makeup removed from one cheek. Without the stage cosmetics, she looked younger, more vulnerable, but no less beautiful. If anything, the naturalness of her skin, the slight redness where she'd been rubbing, made her more stunning.
"I wanted to thank you," she said, her English careful but clear. "For the ring. It was... a very important gift from my mother."
I nodded, finding my voice. "I-I saw that guy take it. I couldn't just let him keep it."
"You were angry," she observed, a small smile playing at her lips. "I saw you yelling at him. Even from the stage, I could see your face was red."
"He had no right to touch you like that," I said, the indignation rising again even now. "To steal from you. You were kind enough to come down to us, and he repaid that by..."
"By stealing," she finished. "Yes."
She stood up and walked closer, her concert outfit still on, a sparkling top and skirt that caught the light. "Fans touch me all the time," she said quietly. "High fives, handshakes, sometimes they try to grab. It is part of the job. But tonight... when you held my hand to put the ring on..." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "It felt different."
My breath caught. "Different how?"
"Like..." She searched for words, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Like a fantasy come true. The way you did it, so gentle, so careful. Looking into my eyes. It felt unreal. Like something from a drama."
The air in the room seemed to thicken. I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm, mixed now with the scent of sweat from performing, which somehow made it more intimate.
"I have another fantasy," she said, her voice dropping lower, taking on a quality that made my skin prickle with heat. "One I've never told anyone."
I swallowed hard. "What is it?"
Her eyes darkened, becoming heavy-lidded, seductive. She reached up and slowly began unclipping her earrings, one by one, her gaze never leaving mine. "I've always wondered," she said, setting the earrings on her vanity with deliberate slowness, "what it would be like to have a fan watch me change. To see me... completely."
My mouth went dry. "Jihyo..."
"Don't speak," she whispered, her fingers moving to the zipper at the side of her skirt. "Just watch."
She slowly pulled the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. The skirt loosened and she let it fall, stepping out of it with a grace that made my chest ache. She was wearing stockings underneath, attached to a garter, and simple black underwear that contrasted sharply with her fair skin.
"You look shocked," she teased, her voice breathy now. "Have you never imagined this? All those times you watched me on stage, on screen... did you never wonder what was underneath?"
"I... yes," I admitted, my voice rough. "I've imagined."
"Good," she purred, reaching for the hem of her top. She pulled it up slowly, revealing her toned stomach, the curve of her ribs, and finally, her breasts, encased in a delicate lace bra. She tossed the top aside and reached behind her, unhooking the bra with practiced ease.
When it fell away, I couldn't suppress the groan that escaped me. Her breasts were perfect, full, with dark nipples that hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. She saw me looking and smiled, a knowing, seductive smile.
"You like what you see?" she asked, cupping them slightly, lifting them as if offering them to my gaze.
"You're beautiful," I managed. "More than I ever imagined."
She laughed softly, a throaty sound. "Still so polite. Even now." She hooked her thumbs into her underwear and pushed them down, stepping out of them completely. Now she stood before me naked, unashamed, her body lit by the warm vanity lights, every curve, every secret place exposed.
"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the chair I sat in.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She approached slowly, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me dizzy. She placed her hands on my knees, spreading them slightly to make room for herself. Then she leaned forward, her bare chest pressing against my clothed one, her face inches from mine. I could feel her heat through the fabric, could smell the sweetness of her breath.
"Is this okay?" she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.
"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes."
She pulled back slightly, her hands sliding up my thighs, her breasts pressing harder against my chest. We were so close now, our mouths almost touching, her eyes half-closed with desire,
A sharp knock at the door made us both jump.
Jihyo's eyes went wide with panic. "Hide!" she whispered urgently, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "Quickly! Behind the outfit rack!"
She pushed me toward a rolling clothing rack filled with costumes and stage outfits. I squeezed behind it, crouching down as she grabbed whatever clothes she could find, a oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, and threw them on haphazardly.
"Coming!" she called out, her voice miraculously steady.
The door opened. "Jihyo-unnie?" It was Momo's voice, recognizable anywhere. "Have you seen the manager? My phone isn't working and I need to call my family."
"Ah, no, I haven't seen him," Jihyo replied, her voice slightly breathless but controlled. "Maybe check the catering area?"
"Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you while you're changing."
"It's fine, Momo. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, unnie."
After Momo left, Jihyo breathed, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to release the panic from her body. She leaned her forehead against the door, her hand still gripping the handle, her chest heaving beneath the oversized t-shirt she'd thrown on.
"That was too close," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She almost caught us. She would have known, she would have seen..."
I stepped out from behind the clothing rack, my heart still hammering from the near-miss. "But she didn't," I said softly. "We're safe."
Jihyo turned to face me, her eyes wide and dark, still flushed with adrenaline. "I can't believe I just did that. I've never... I've never hidden a man in my dressing room before."
I slowly approached her, my movements deliberate, giving her space to back away if she wanted to. But she didn't move. She watched me come closer, her lips parted, her breath quickening again, for a different reason now. When I reached her, I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. Her hands immediately interlocked behind my neck, her fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight.
I let my hands slide down, cupping her thighs, lifting her slightly so she could feel all of me. My erection was hard against her stomach, impossible to hide, pressing insistently through my jeans. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt it, her body arching into mine.
"You're so hard," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "You really want me that much?"
"More than anything," I growled.
I kissed her slowly, the way they do in the Korean dramas she starred in, the first touch was just a slight brush of lips, tentative and soft, testing the waters. But then I dove right in, capturing her mouth fully, my tongue sweeping across her lower lip until she opened for me. Our tongues met, sliding against each other in a wet, heated dance. I explored her mouth thoroughly, tasting the mint from her backstage breath freshener mixed with something uniquely her. The kiss deepened, our heads tilting, mouths opening wider, tongues stroking and curling together in a rhythm that mimicked what we both desperately wanted.
I walked her backward until her back hit the door with a solid thud. The sound echoed in the small room, but I didn't stop. I pushed her harder against the wood, pinning her there with my body while my hands found the hem of her t-shirt and shoved it up above her tits. They bounced free, heavy and perfect, nipples already tight and begging for my mouth.
I bent my head and licked them, starting with the underside, tracing the swell of each breast with my tongue before circling closer to the center. I laved attention on her left nipple, sucking it deep into my mouth, rolling it against my tongue, feeling it harden even more. She moaned, her head falling back against the door with a soft knock. I moved to the right, giving it the same treatment, sucking, licking, grazing my teeth gently over the sensitive peak until she was squirming against me, her hips bucking involuntarily.
"Please," she whimpered. "Don't stop."
I turned her around, spinning her to face the door. Her tits pressed against the cool wood, her cheek turned to rest against the surface, her breath fogging the painted metal. I kept her shirt bunched up above her breasts, leaving them pinned against the door as I reached down and hooked my fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. I pulled them down in one swift motion, taking her underwear with them, exposing her completely from the waist down.
She was beautiful, her ass round and firm, the cleft between her cheeks shadowed and inviting. I dropped to my knees behind her, spreading her legs wider, and buried my face between her ass cheeks. I licked upward, dragging my tongue from her sensitive perineum all the way to the small of her back, then back down again. I found her pussy, already wet and swollen, and dove in, lapping at her folds with broad strokes of my tongue. I circled her entrance, teasing her, before pushing my tongue inside, feeling her muscles clench around me. I moved up to her clit, sucking it gently, flicking it rapidly with the tip of my tongue while she ground back against my face, her moans muffled against her arm.
"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her hips bucking. "Right there, please, right there..."
I spun her around again, her back hitting the door now, her face flushed and desperate. I attacked her neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered, leaving marks that would be hidden by stage makeup tomorrow. She was moaning loudly now, her hands gripping my hair, her thighs trembling.
But then she bit her lip, hard, her teeth sinking into the plush flesh, her eyes showing a flicker of reason through the haze of lust. "Wait," she gasped, even as I dropped my mouth to her tits again, sucking one nipple deep while my hand rolled the other between my fingers. "We... we have to stop. We can't... not here, not now..."
She pulled me up by my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, and captured my mouth in a fierce kiss. When we broke apart, both panting, she looked at me with dark, hungry eyes, her lip still bearing the indentations of her teeth.
"I love how horny you are for me," she whispered, her hand sliding down to palm my erection through my jeans, making me groan. "I can feel how much you want me. It's driving me crazy. But if we get caught... if anyone finds out..." She kissed me again, softer this time. "I want you. God, I want you so much. But not like this, not rushed, not terrified."
She pulled her shirt down, covering her breasts, then bent to pull her pants up, her movements quick and efficient. I watched, bereft, as she hid the body I'd just been worshipping. Then she placed her hands on my chest and pushed me backward. I stumbled and sat hard in the chair I'd occupied earlier.
Jihyo walked to her vanity mirror, adjusting her clothes, smoothing her hair, wiping at her swollen lips with the back of her hand. She met my eyes in the reflection, her gaze heated and promising.
"Instead," she said, her voice steady now with resolve, "I can get you a job. On my personal staff. A fake resume, something related to makeup, styling. You could travel with me, be with me all the time. In hotel rooms. In private. Where we won't be interrupted." She turned to face me fully. "Would you want that?"
"Yes," I said, my voice hoarse. "Yes, I want that."
"Good," she whispered.
She crossed the room to me, her hips swaying with renewed confidence. She stopped in front of my chair, then climbed onto my lap, straddling my hips, her thighs gripping me tight. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, inch by inch, until her breasts were exposed once more, right in front of my face, heavy, perfect, the nipples still wet from my mouth, glistening in the vanity light.
"For now," she said, her voice a seductive promise as she pressed her chest toward my mouth, offering herself completely, "let's seal the deal."
Edit : Sorry to abruptly end the story at the peak, I promise I'm thinking of writing the next parts for it, so stay patient.
summary : Lisa's manager had been driving her crazy recently, even at the Golden Globes event, he smacked her ass and kept teasing her. So, Lisa wanted to take revenge on her manager and teach him a lesson, she sneaks into his manager's room. But to her surprise, Rosé greets her and the fun begins as the manager ties her up to the bed.
Lisa X Manager ( ft. Roseanne Park )
The after-party had dissolved into a blur of champagne and hollow congratulations, but Lisa's mind remained fixated on that single moment hours earlier—that sharp, possessive crack of her manager's palm against her ass as she exited the limo. He'd done it where no one could see, his hand lingering just a fraction too long, his breath hot against her ear whispering, "You looked stunning tonight, but you always do."
She'd shivered then, and she shivered now, standing in the hotel corridor in her crimson evening gown. The Golden Globes statuette sat heavy in her hands, but what she craved was something far less golden and far more primal.
"Room 2408," she murmured to the night concierge, sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the marble counter with a smile that promised nothing and everything. "Mr. Chen left something in my car."
The key card was in her hand moments later.
Lisa walked with deliberate slowness, her heels clicking against the carpet with each measured step. By the time she reached his door, her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for release. She didn't knock. She didn't hesitate. She flipped her middle finger toward the peephole—a silent fuck-you to his anticipation—and slid the card through the lock.
The suite was dim, lit only by the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The sound of running water drew her toward the bedroom. She moved like a predator, shedding her gown in the living room, letting the silk pool on the floor like spilled wine. Her panties remained, black lace and temptation, along with her stilettos that made her legs look endless.
The bathroom door was cracked. Steam escaped in lazy tendrils. Through the gap, she could see him—her manager, her tormentor, her obsession—standing beneath the rainfall showerhead with his eyes closed and water cascading over the hard planes of his body. He was magnificent, all carved muscle and controlled power, and Lisa felt her mouth go dry even as her core grew wet.
But then his eyes opened. Dark. Knowing. He'd expected her.
"You're late," he called out over the water, not bothering to hide his nakedness as he turned to face her direction.
Lisa pushed the door open fully, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. "Traffic was a bitch."
"Take off the rest," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "Except the heels. Keep those."
"Make me," she whispered, but her hands were already hooking into her panties, sliding them down her thighs with excruciating slowness. She stepped out of them, leaving them discarded on the tile, and stood before him completely bare except for those sharp, dangerous heels.
He watched her with predatory patience, making no move to exit the shower until she began to grow restless under his gaze. Only then did he shut off the water and step out, water droplets racing down his chest, his abdomen, lower... He wrapped a towel around his waist with infuriating casualness, tucking it in with rough efficiency.
Lisa moved before he could speak again. She crossed the distance between them in three strides and wrapped her arms around his torso from behind, pressing her bare breasts against his back, her cheek against his shoulder blade. She felt him tense—just for a moment—felt his breath hitch.
Then he moved.
He spun with fluid violence, his hands gripping her thighs and lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Lisa gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms circling his neck. He carried her two steps and pinned her against the wall with the full weight of his body, and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a conquest.
His lips crushed against hers with bruising force, his tongue demanding entry and taking it when she gasped. He tasted like mint and something darker, something intoxicating. Lisa moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer, deeper. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he wanted to crawl inside her skin and live there. His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make her whimper, before he soothed the sting with his tongue.
She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to.
He broke away only to trail his mouth down her jaw, her throat, sucking at the pulse point in her neck until she was seeing stars. "Please," she breathed, arching against him.
"Please what?" he growled against her collarbone, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, kneading the flesh he'd smacked earlier.
"Please... more."
He carried her to the bedroom then, laying her down on the pristine white comforter like an offering. Her chest heaved, her skin flushed pink, her lips swollen from his assault. She watched him with hooded eyes as he moved to the closet and returned with items that made her breath catch: leather handcuffs, silk ropes, and a smooth wooden rod no thicker than her wrist.
"Sit up," he ordered.
Lisa complied, her movements languid and sensual. He draped a plush hotel bathrobe over her shoulders but didn't tie it—just let it hang open, framing her nakedness like a portrait. Then he took her wrists, one at a time, and buckled the cuffs around them. The leather was cool, snug, restrictive. He attached the cuffs to the headboard with the silk ropes, pulling her arms above her head until her back arched and her breasts lifted.
"Comfortable?" he asked, though his tone suggested he didn't particularly care.
"Fuck you," Lisa spat, but her eyes were bright with desire.
"Eventually," he promised.
He took the rod and pressed it against her ankles, using it to spread her legs wide, wider, until she was completely exposed to him, her most intimate flesh glistening in the dim light. He tied the rod in place with additional rope, ensuring she couldn't close her thighs, ensuring she was completely at his mercy.
Then he stepped back.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he reached for the towel at his waist and let it fall.
Lisa's breath left her in a rush. He was magnificent—thick and heavy and already hard for her, the tip glistening with precum. She licked her lips unconsciously, her hips rolling against the empty air, seeking friction where there was none.
"See something you want?" he taunted, wrapping his hand around himself and giving a slow, deliberate stroke.
"You know I do, you bastard," she moaned.
He didn't respond. Instead, he walked to the armchair positioned across from the bed and sat down, his legs spread, his cock standing proud against his abdomen. He picked up his phone from the side table and made a call.
"She's here," he said simply. "Come out."
Lisa's head turned toward the bathroom door just as it opened. Steam billowed out, and then *she* emerged—Rosé, her bandmate, her friend, completely naked and unashamed. Her pale skin glowed in the ambient light, her pink hair damp and curling around her shoulders, her small, pert breasts topped with delicate pink nipples already hardened to peaks.
"You called," Rosé purred, her eyes finding Lisa's bound form on the bed. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "Oh, Lisa... look at you. So desperate. So *needy*."
"Rosé," Lisa gasped, shock and arousal warring in her chest. "What—"
"Shh," her manager interrupted, gesturing to the space between his legs. "On your knees, Rosé. Show Lisa what she's been missing."
Rosé didn't hesitate. She crossed the room with liquid grace and sank to her knees before him, her hands resting on his thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, then turned her head to meet Lisa's wide eyes.
"He's been talking about you all night, you know," Rosé whispered, her breath ghosting over his cock. "How he wanted to ruin you. How he wanted to see you beg." She leaned forward and dragged her tongue from base to tip in one slow, filthy swipe. "I'm just the appetizer."
Lisa watched, mesmerized, as Rosé opened her mouth and took him inside. She didn't rush. She hollowed her cheeks and sank down inch by inch, her eyes watering slightly as she took him deeper, until her nose pressed against his dark curls. She held there, swallowing around him, making him groan and grip her hair in his fist.
"Good girl," he praised, his hips thrusting upward slightly.
Rosé pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft. She used her hand then, twisting at the base while her mouth worked the tip, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside, circling the ridge with teasing precision. She took him deep again, bobbing her head with increasing speed, her free hand coming up to cup and roll his balls.
Lisa squirmed against her restraints, her pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched, to be filled. She watched Rosé's throat work, watched tears stream down her pretty face as she took him deeper still, as he began to fuck up into her mouth with abandon.
"I'm going to come," he warned, his grip tightening in Rosé's hair. "Swallow it all."
Rosé moaned around him—the vibration making him curse—and then he was spilling into her mouth with a guttural groan. Lisa watched his abdominal muscles contract, watched Rosé's throat bob as she swallowed every drop, her eyes closed in bliss. When he finally released her, she pulled back with a gasp, her lips swollen and red, a drop of his spend lingering on her chin.
He stood, stretching his naked body like a satisfied beast, every muscle rippling in the low light. "Couch," he told Rosé. "Touch yourself. I want Lisa to watch while I play with her."
Rosé retreated to the sofa, spreading her legs shamelessly and running her fingers through her wet folds. "I've wanted this for so long," she admitted, her eyes locked on Lisa's. "Watching you come apart... it's going to be beautiful."
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Lisa's spread legs. He didn't touch her pussy—God, she wanted him to, she was practically dripping onto the sheets—but instead he reached for the edges of her robe and slowly, torturously, spread it open to reveal her completely.
Lisa arched her back, her wrists pulling against the cuffs, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please," she whimpered. "Please touch me."
"Where?" he asked, his fingers hovering over her skin, never making contact. "Here?" He traced the air above her nipple, so close she could feel the heat of him, but not close enough. "Or here?" His hand moved lower, over her ribs, her hip, hovering above her mound but never—*never*—where she needed him most.
"Everywhere," Lisa begged, tears pricking her eyes. "Anywhere. Just *touch me*."
He started at her ankles, his large hands wrapping around them, his thumbs pressing into the arch of her foot. He massaged with firm, knowing pressure, then began to work his way up her calves, her knees, her thighs. He kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, his stubble scraping against her sensitive skin. His mouth followed his hands, lips and tongue mapping her body with devastating patience.
He licked the crease where her thigh met her hip, his nose brushing dangerously close to her aching clit, and Lisa cried out, her hips bucking upward. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need," he interrupted, his breath hot against her inner thigh. "But you're not getting it yet."
He moved upward, bypassing her pussy entirely, and latched his mouth onto the swell of her breast. He sucked hard, marking her, his tongue circling closer and closer to her nipple but always stopping just short. Lisa thrashed against the ropes, her head thrown back, incoherent pleas falling from her lips.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, licking and sucking the mound while avoiding the hardened peak that screamed for attention. His hands roamed her body—her sides, her hips, the curve of her waist—everywhere except where she craved them most.
"Look at her," he commanded, and Lisa forced her eyes open to see Rosé on the couch, three fingers buried deep in her own pussy, her other hand rolling her nipple between her fingers. "She's going to come just from watching you suffer. Isn't that right, Rosé?"
"Yes," Rosé gasped, her hips rocking against her hand. "She's so beautiful when she begs."
He returned his attention to Lisa, his fingers dancing over her skin with feather-light touches that had her trembling. He found a spot just below her ear that made her gasp, and he exploited it mercilessly, rubbing in slow circles while his other hand traced patterns on her lower abdomen.
"Oh god," Lisa moaned, feeling the pressure build despite the lack of direct stimulation. "Oh god, oh god, I'm—"
"Come for me," he ordered, his voice like velvet and steel. "Come without me touching your cunt. Come without me touching your tits. Come just from my voice and my breath on your skin."
He blew a stream of cool air across her nipple—not touching, just blowing—and Lisa shattered.
She cried out, her body convulsing as the orgasm crashed through her, unexpected and overwhelming. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, her toes curled, and she pulled so hard against the restraints she thought she might dislocate her shoulders. He didn't stop, his fingers finding new sensitive spots—the back of her knee, the hollow of her throat, the shell of her ear—driving her through wave after wave until she was limp and gasping.
Before she could recover, he started again.
"One," he counted, his mouth at her hipbone.
"No," Lisa whimpered, already oversensitive, already climbing again. "I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, and his fingers traced the waistband of where her panties would have been, dipping just inside, *so close*. "And you will."
He teased her mercilessly, bringing her to the edge with touches to her shoulders, her neck, the sensitive skin behind her knees. He whispered filthy things in her ear—how he was going to fuck her later, how he was going to make her scream, how he owned her body completely—and Lisa came again, harder this time, her vision going white at the edges.
"Two," he counted, his smile predatory.
The third time, he used his tongue on her ankle, licking the arch of her foot while his hands squeezed her thighs, and Lisa came so hard she squirted, soaking the bed beneath her, her scream raw and broken.
"Three," he said, finally sitting back on his heels. "Good girl."
Lisa lay panting, sweat-slicked and trembling, her body vibrating like a plucked string. "Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Please fuck me. I need you inside me. Please."
He looked at Rosé, who had come silently during Lisa's third orgasm and now sat watching them with heavy-lidded eyes, her chest flushed pink. "Come here," he said. "Kiss her. Make her ready for me."
Rosé rose from the couch and climbed onto the bed, crawling up Lisa's body like a cat. She settled her weight on top of Lisa, her smaller frame pressing down, her skin hot and soft. "Hi," she whispered, her voice tender despite the circumstances.
Then she kissed her.
It was nothing like his kisses. Rosé was soft and yielding, her lips plush and sweet, her tongue sliding into Lisa's mouth with languid strokes. Lisa moaned into the kiss, her bound hands straining to touch, to pull Rosé closer. Rosé's hands were free, though, and she used them—cupping Lisa's breasts finally, finally, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolling them until Lisa was keening into her mouth.
Rosé broke the kiss to trail her lips down Lisa's jaw, her throat, sucking dark marks into the skin there. "You're so gorgeous like this," she murmured against Lisa's collarbone. "All spread out for us. So wet. So open."
She moved lower, her mouth finding Lisa's nipple and sucking hard, her tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. Lisa cried out, arching off the bed as far as her bonds would allow. Rosé switched to the other breast, giving it equal attention, then moved lower still, kissing down Lisa's sternum, her abdomen, her hip—
"Stop," he commanded, and Rosé froze, her lips inches from Lisa's aching pussy. "Not yet. I want to be inside her when she comes again. Hold her down."
Rosé moved back up Lisa's body, straddling her waist, her hands pinning Lisa's shoulders to the mattress. She leaned down and kissed her again, deep and filthy, her tongue mimicking what was about to happen below.
And then he was there, the thick head of his cock pressing against Lisa's entrance, sliding through her folds, gathering her wetness. He didn't warn her. He didn't ease in. He thrust forward in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt, filling her completely.
Lisa screamed into Rosé's mouth, her body stretching to accommodate him, the burn exquisite and perfect. He didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, setting a brutal pace, his hips snapping against hers with wet, filthy sounds. The bed creaked beneath them, Rosé's grip kept Lisa from sliding upward, and Lisa could do nothing but take it, take him, her body helpless to the pleasure.
"Look at me," he demanded, and Lisa broke the kiss with Rosé to meet his eyes. They were dark, almost black, blown wide with lust. "Watch me fuck you. Watch me ruin you."
Rosé's mouth moved to Lisa's neck, sucking new marks, her hands sliding down to pinch Lisa's nipples in time with his thrusts. Then she moved lower, her mouth finding Lisa's breast, sucking hard while he continued to pound into her.
"Rosé," Lisa gasped, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. "Oh god, Rosé, please—"
Rosé switched to the other breast, then moved up to kiss Lisa again, her tongue filling her mouth as he filled her below. It was too much, the fullness, the friction, the weight of Rosé on top of her, the dirty sounds of their bodies meeting. Lisa felt another orgasm building, impossibly soon, impossibly intense.
"Going to come," she warned, her voice breaking.
"Wait," he commanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own release approaching. "Wait for me."
"I can't—"
"Wait. For. Me."
Rosé's hand slid between their bodies, her fingers finding Lisa's clit and rubbing tight, fast circles. Lisa's eyes rolled back, her whole body tensing, her muscles clamping down on him like a vice.
"Now," he growled, thrusting deep and staying there, pulsing inside her. "Come now, Lisa. Milk my cock."
Lisa came with a scream that surely carried through the walls, through the floor, through the entire hotel. Her body convulsed, her pussy spasming around him, drawing out his own orgasm as he spilled inside her, hot and thick and endless. Rosé kept kissing her, swallowing her screams, her hand still working Lisa's clit, extending the pleasure until Lisa was sobbing, until she was sure she would pass out from the intensity.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock still twitching inside her. For a moment, they stayed like that—three bodies entangled, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat and sex.
Then he pulled out, and Lisa whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. He reached up and unbuckled the cuffs, massaging her wrists where the leather had left pink marks. Then, without warning, he lifted her—cradling her against his chest like she weighed nothing, like she was precious.
"Balcony," he said simply.
Rosé followed them, still naked, her skin glowing in the moonlight as he carried Lisa through the sliding glass doors. The night air was cool against Lisa's overheated skin, the city spread out below them like a field of stars. He set her on her feet but kept his hands on her waist, steadying her.
"Hands on the railing," he ordered.
Lisa complied, bending forward and gripping the cold metal, her ass presented to him, her thighs still trembling. The height made her dizzy, the exposure made her wet all over again. Anyone with binoculars could see her, could see them, and the thought sent a fresh thrill through her.
He entered her again from behind, slower this time, letting her feel every inch. Lisa moaned, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her spine. He set a languid pace, rolling his hips, hitting spots inside her that made her toes curl.
"Rosé," he called. "Front."
Rosé moved to stand before Lisa, her back against the railing, her hands coming up to cup Lisa's breasts. "Hi again," she whispered, and then she kissed her, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the rough fucking from behind.
He changed the angle, lifting one of Lisa's legs and hooking it over the railing, opening her wider, fucking deeper. Lisa cried out into Rosé's mouth, her hands gripping the railing so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Position two," he announced, pulling out and spinning Lisa around. He lifted her easily, sitting her on the railing itself, her back against the glass barrier. "Hold on to me."
Lisa wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and he entered her again, gravity pulling her down onto his cock. The angle was devastating, hitting her G-spot with every thrust, and Lisa buried her face in his neck to muffle her screams.
Rosé didn't stay back. She pressed herself against his side, her hand sliding between their bodies to find Lisa's clit again. "Let go," she whispered in Lisa's ear. "We've got you. Let go."
Lisa came apart, her third orgasm of the night—or was it her fourth? She'd lost count—ripping through her with the force of a hurricane. She shook in his arms, her nails digging into his shoulders, her voice hoarse from screaming.
He didn't stop. He turned them, pressing Lisa's back against the glass now, her legs still wrapped around him, and fucked her with renewed vigor. The glass was cold against her spine, his body hot against her front, the contrast making her head spin.
"Last one," he promised, his voice strained. "Come with me one more time."
"Can't," Lisa sobbed, even as she felt her body responding, tightening around him.
"You can," Rosé insisted, her mouth finding Lisa's nipple again, her hand between them working miracles.
He thrust deep, grinding against her, and Lisa felt him swell, felt the telltale pulse as he spilled inside her for the second time. The feeling triggered her own release, and she came with him, her body milking him dry, her vision going dark at the edges.
They stayed there for an eternity, locked together, shaking and gasping, Rosé's mouth soothing the marks she'd left, her hands gentle now, caressing instead of teasing.
Finally, he lowered Lisa's legs, holding her until she could stand. She swayed, her knees weak, her body marked and used and thoroughly satisfied. Rosé caught her, pressing a kiss to her temple, her lips, her jaw.
"Welcome to the after-party," Rosé whispered, and Lisa laughed—actually laughed—giddy and exhausted and utterly spent.
He looked at them both, these women he'd claimed tonight, and smiled—a real smile, not predatory, not commanding, just... satisfied. "Shower," he said. "Then bed. We're not done until morning."
Lisa leaned her head on Rosé's shoulder and let herself be led inside. She'd come looking for payback.
summary : Lisa's manager had been driving her crazy recently, even at the Golden Globes event, he smacked her ass and kept teasing her. So, Lisa wanted to take revenge on her manager and teach him a lesson, she sneaks into his manager's room. But to her surprise, Rosé greets her and the fun begins as the manager ties her up to the bed.
Lisa X Manager ( ft. Roseanne Park )
The after-party had dissolved into a blur of champagne and hollow congratulations, but Lisa's mind remained fixated on that single moment hours earlier—that sharp, possessive crack of her manager's palm against her ass as she exited the limo. He'd done it where no one could see, his hand lingering just a fraction too long, his breath hot against her ear whispering, "You looked stunning tonight, but you always do."
She'd shivered then, and she shivered now, standing in the hotel corridor in her crimson evening gown. The Golden Globes statuette sat heavy in her hands, but what she craved was something far less golden and far more primal.
"Room 2408," she murmured to the night concierge, sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the marble counter with a smile that promised nothing and everything. "Mr. Chen left something in my car."
The key card was in her hand moments later.
Lisa walked with deliberate slowness, her heels clicking against the carpet with each measured step. By the time she reached his door, her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for release. She didn't knock. She didn't hesitate. She flipped her middle finger toward the peephole—a silent fuck-you to his anticipation—and slid the card through the lock.
The suite was dim, lit only by the city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The sound of running water drew her toward the bedroom. She moved like a predator, shedding her gown in the living room, letting the silk pool on the floor like spilled wine. Her panties remained, black lace and temptation, along with her stilettos that made her legs look endless.
The bathroom door was cracked. Steam escaped in lazy tendrils. Through the gap, she could see him—her manager, her tormentor, her obsession—standing beneath the rainfall showerhead with his eyes closed and water cascading over the hard planes of his body. He was magnificent, all carved muscle and controlled power, and Lisa felt her mouth go dry even as her core grew wet.
But then his eyes opened. Dark. Knowing. He'd expected her.
"You're late," he called out over the water, not bothering to hide his nakedness as he turned to face her direction.
Lisa pushed the door open fully, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. "Traffic was a bitch."
"Take off the rest," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "Except the heels. Keep those."
"Make me," she whispered, but her hands were already hooking into her panties, sliding them down her thighs with excruciating slowness. She stepped out of them, leaving them discarded on the tile, and stood before him completely bare except for those sharp, dangerous heels.
He watched her with predatory patience, making no move to exit the shower until she began to grow restless under his gaze. Only then did he shut off the water and step out, water droplets racing down his chest, his abdomen, lower... He wrapped a towel around his waist with infuriating casualness, tucking it in with rough efficiency.
Lisa moved before he could speak again. She crossed the distance between them in three strides and wrapped her arms around his torso from behind, pressing her bare breasts against his back, her cheek against his shoulder blade. She felt him tense—just for a moment—felt his breath hitch.
Then he moved.
He spun with fluid violence, his hands gripping her thighs and lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Lisa gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms circling his neck. He carried her two steps and pinned her against the wall with the full weight of his body, and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a conquest.
His lips crushed against hers with bruising force, his tongue demanding entry and taking it when she gasped. He tasted like mint and something darker, something intoxicating. Lisa moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer, deeper. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he wanted to crawl inside her skin and live there. His teeth caught her lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make her whimper, before he soothed the sting with his tongue.
She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to.
He broke away only to trail his mouth down her jaw, her throat, sucking at the pulse point in her neck until she was seeing stars. "Please," she breathed, arching against him.
"Please what?" he growled against her collarbone, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, kneading the flesh he'd smacked earlier.
"Please... more."
He carried her to the bedroom then, laying her down on the pristine white comforter like an offering. Her chest heaved, her skin flushed pink, her lips swollen from his assault. She watched him with hooded eyes as he moved to the closet and returned with items that made her breath catch: leather handcuffs, silk ropes, and a smooth wooden rod no thicker than her wrist.
"Sit up," he ordered.
Lisa complied, her movements languid and sensual. He draped a plush hotel bathrobe over her shoulders but didn't tie it—just let it hang open, framing her nakedness like a portrait. Then he took her wrists, one at a time, and buckled the cuffs around them. The leather was cool, snug, restrictive. He attached the cuffs to the headboard with the silk ropes, pulling her arms above her head until her back arched and her breasts lifted.
"Comfortable?" he asked, though his tone suggested he didn't particularly care.
"Fuck you," Lisa spat, but her eyes were bright with desire.
"Eventually," he promised.
He took the rod and pressed it against her ankles, using it to spread her legs wide, wider, until she was completely exposed to him, her most intimate flesh glistening in the dim light. He tied the rod in place with additional rope, ensuring she couldn't close her thighs, ensuring she was completely at his mercy.
Then he stepped back.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he reached for the towel at his waist and let it fall.
Lisa's breath left her in a rush. He was magnificent—thick and heavy and already hard for her, the tip glistening with precum. She licked her lips unconsciously, her hips rolling against the empty air, seeking friction where there was none.
"See something you want?" he taunted, wrapping his hand around himself and giving a slow, deliberate stroke.
"You know I do, you bastard," she moaned.
He didn't respond. Instead, he walked to the armchair positioned across from the bed and sat down, his legs spread, his cock standing proud against his abdomen. He picked up his phone from the side table and made a call.
"She's here," he said simply. "Come out."
Lisa's head turned toward the bathroom door just as it opened. Steam billowed out, and then *she* emerged—Rosé, her bandmate, her friend, completely naked and unashamed. Her pale skin glowed in the ambient light, her pink hair damp and curling around her shoulders, her small, pert breasts topped with delicate pink nipples already hardened to peaks.
"You called," Rosé purred, her eyes finding Lisa's bound form on the bed. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "Oh, Lisa... look at you. So desperate. So *needy*."
"Rosé," Lisa gasped, shock and arousal warring in her chest. "What—"
"Shh," her manager interrupted, gesturing to the space between his legs. "On your knees, Rosé. Show Lisa what she's been missing."
Rosé didn't hesitate. She crossed the room with liquid grace and sank to her knees before him, her hands resting on his thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, then turned her head to meet Lisa's wide eyes.
"He's been talking about you all night, you know," Rosé whispered, her breath ghosting over his cock. "How he wanted to ruin you. How he wanted to see you beg." She leaned forward and dragged her tongue from base to tip in one slow, filthy swipe. "I'm just the appetizer."
Lisa watched, mesmerized, as Rosé opened her mouth and took him inside. She didn't rush. She hollowed her cheeks and sank down inch by inch, her eyes watering slightly as she took him deeper, until her nose pressed against his dark curls. She held there, swallowing around him, making him groan and grip her hair in his fist.
"Good girl," he praised, his hips thrusting upward slightly.
Rosé pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft. She used her hand then, twisting at the base while her mouth worked the tip, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside, circling the ridge with teasing precision. She took him deep again, bobbing her head with increasing speed, her free hand coming up to cup and roll his balls.
Lisa squirmed against her restraints, her pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched, to be filled. She watched Rosé's throat work, watched tears stream down her pretty face as she took him deeper still, as he began to fuck up into her mouth with abandon.
"I'm going to come," he warned, his grip tightening in Rosé's hair. "Swallow it all."
Rosé moaned around him—the vibration making him curse—and then he was spilling into her mouth with a guttural groan. Lisa watched his abdominal muscles contract, watched Rosé's throat bob as she swallowed every drop, her eyes closed in bliss. When he finally released her, she pulled back with a gasp, her lips swollen and red, a drop of his spend lingering on her chin.
He stood, stretching his naked body like a satisfied beast, every muscle rippling in the low light. "Couch," he told Rosé. "Touch yourself. I want Lisa to watch while I play with her."
Rosé retreated to the sofa, spreading her legs shamelessly and running her fingers through her wet folds. "I've wanted this for so long," she admitted, her eyes locked on Lisa's. "Watching you come apart... it's going to be beautiful."
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Lisa's spread legs. He didn't touch her pussy—God, she wanted him to, she was practically dripping onto the sheets—but instead he reached for the edges of her robe and slowly, torturously, spread it open to reveal her completely.
Lisa arched her back, her wrists pulling against the cuffs, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please," she whimpered. "Please touch me."
"Where?" he asked, his fingers hovering over her skin, never making contact. "Here?" He traced the air above her nipple, so close she could feel the heat of him, but not close enough. "Or here?" His hand moved lower, over her ribs, her hip, hovering above her mound but never—*never*—where she needed him most.
"Everywhere," Lisa begged, tears pricking her eyes. "Anywhere. Just *touch me*."
He started at her ankles, his large hands wrapping around them, his thumbs pressing into the arch of her foot. He massaged with firm, knowing pressure, then began to work his way up her calves, her knees, her thighs. He kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, his stubble scraping against her sensitive skin. His mouth followed his hands, lips and tongue mapping her body with devastating patience.
He licked the crease where her thigh met her hip, his nose brushing dangerously close to her aching clit, and Lisa cried out, her hips bucking upward. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need," he interrupted, his breath hot against her inner thigh. "But you're not getting it yet."
He moved upward, bypassing her pussy entirely, and latched his mouth onto the swell of her breast. He sucked hard, marking her, his tongue circling closer and closer to her nipple but always stopping just short. Lisa thrashed against the ropes, her head thrown back, incoherent pleas falling from her lips.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, licking and sucking the mound while avoiding the hardened peak that screamed for attention. His hands roamed her body—her sides, her hips, the curve of her waist—everywhere except where she craved them most.
"Look at her," he commanded, and Lisa forced her eyes open to see Rosé on the couch, three fingers buried deep in her own pussy, her other hand rolling her nipple between her fingers. "She's going to come just from watching you suffer. Isn't that right, Rosé?"
"Yes," Rosé gasped, her hips rocking against her hand. "She's so beautiful when she begs."
He returned his attention to Lisa, his fingers dancing over her skin with feather-light touches that had her trembling. He found a spot just below her ear that made her gasp, and he exploited it mercilessly, rubbing in slow circles while his other hand traced patterns on her lower abdomen.
"Oh god," Lisa moaned, feeling the pressure build despite the lack of direct stimulation. "Oh god, oh god, I'm—"
"Come for me," he ordered, his voice like velvet and steel. "Come without me touching your cunt. Come without me touching your tits. Come just from my voice and my breath on your skin."
He blew a stream of cool air across her nipple—not touching, just blowing—and Lisa shattered.
She cried out, her body convulsing as the orgasm crashed through her, unexpected and overwhelming. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, her toes curled, and she pulled so hard against the restraints she thought she might dislocate her shoulders. He didn't stop, his fingers finding new sensitive spots—the back of her knee, the hollow of her throat, the shell of her ear—driving her through wave after wave until she was limp and gasping.
Before she could recover, he started again.
"One," he counted, his mouth at her hipbone.
"No," Lisa whimpered, already oversensitive, already climbing again. "I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, and his fingers traced the waistband of where her panties would have been, dipping just inside, *so close*. "And you will."
He teased her mercilessly, bringing her to the edge with touches to her shoulders, her neck, the sensitive skin behind her knees. He whispered filthy things in her ear—how he was going to fuck her later, how he was going to make her scream, how he owned her body completely—and Lisa came again, harder this time, her vision going white at the edges.
"Two," he counted, his smile predatory.
The third time, he used his tongue on her ankle, licking the arch of her foot while his hands squeezed her thighs, and Lisa came so hard she squirted, soaking the bed beneath her, her scream raw and broken.
"Three," he said, finally sitting back on his heels. "Good girl."
Lisa lay panting, sweat-slicked and trembling, her body vibrating like a plucked string. "Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Please fuck me. I need you inside me. Please."
He looked at Rosé, who had come silently during Lisa's third orgasm and now sat watching them with heavy-lidded eyes, her chest flushed pink. "Come here," he said. "Kiss her. Make her ready for me."
Rosé rose from the couch and climbed onto the bed, crawling up Lisa's body like a cat. She settled her weight on top of Lisa, her smaller frame pressing down, her skin hot and soft. "Hi," she whispered, her voice tender despite the circumstances.
Then she kissed her.
It was nothing like his kisses. Rosé was soft and yielding, her lips plush and sweet, her tongue sliding into Lisa's mouth with languid strokes. Lisa moaned into the kiss, her bound hands straining to touch, to pull Rosé closer. Rosé's hands were free, though, and she used them—cupping Lisa's breasts finally, finally, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolling them until Lisa was keening into her mouth.
Rosé broke the kiss to trail her lips down Lisa's jaw, her throat, sucking dark marks into the skin there. "You're so gorgeous like this," she murmured against Lisa's collarbone. "All spread out for us. So wet. So open."
She moved lower, her mouth finding Lisa's nipple and sucking hard, her tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. Lisa cried out, arching off the bed as far as her bonds would allow. Rosé switched to the other breast, giving it equal attention, then moved lower still, kissing down Lisa's sternum, her abdomen, her hip—
"Stop," he commanded, and Rosé froze, her lips inches from Lisa's aching pussy. "Not yet. I want to be inside her when she comes again. Hold her down."
Rosé moved back up Lisa's body, straddling her waist, her hands pinning Lisa's shoulders to the mattress. She leaned down and kissed her again, deep and filthy, her tongue mimicking what was about to happen below.
And then he was there, the thick head of his cock pressing against Lisa's entrance, sliding through her folds, gathering her wetness. He didn't warn her. He didn't ease in. He thrust forward in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt, filling her completely.
Lisa screamed into Rosé's mouth, her body stretching to accommodate him, the burn exquisite and perfect. He didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, setting a brutal pace, his hips snapping against hers with wet, filthy sounds. The bed creaked beneath them, Rosé's grip kept Lisa from sliding upward, and Lisa could do nothing but take it, take him, her body helpless to the pleasure.
"Look at me," he demanded, and Lisa broke the kiss with Rosé to meet his eyes. They were dark, almost black, blown wide with lust. "Watch me fuck you. Watch me ruin you."
Rosé's mouth moved to Lisa's neck, sucking new marks, her hands sliding down to pinch Lisa's nipples in time with his thrusts. Then she moved lower, her mouth finding Lisa's breast, sucking hard while he continued to pound into her.
"Rosé," Lisa gasped, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. "Oh god, Rosé, please—"
Rosé switched to the other breast, then moved up to kiss Lisa again, her tongue filling her mouth as he filled her below. It was too much, the fullness, the friction, the weight of Rosé on top of her, the dirty sounds of their bodies meeting. Lisa felt another orgasm building, impossibly soon, impossibly intense.
"Going to come," she warned, her voice breaking.
"Wait," he commanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own release approaching. "Wait for me."
"I can't—"
"Wait. For. Me."
Rosé's hand slid between their bodies, her fingers finding Lisa's clit and rubbing tight, fast circles. Lisa's eyes rolled back, her whole body tensing, her muscles clamping down on him like a vice.
"Now," he growled, thrusting deep and staying there, pulsing inside her. "Come now, Lisa. Milk my cock."
Lisa came with a scream that surely carried through the walls, through the floor, through the entire hotel. Her body convulsed, her pussy spasming around him, drawing out his own orgasm as he spilled inside her, hot and thick and endless. Rosé kept kissing her, swallowing her screams, her hand still working Lisa's clit, extending the pleasure until Lisa was sobbing, until she was sure she would pass out from the intensity.
He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock still twitching inside her. For a moment, they stayed like that—three bodies entangled, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat and sex.
Then he pulled out, and Lisa whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. He reached up and unbuckled the cuffs, massaging her wrists where the leather had left pink marks. Then, without warning, he lifted her—cradling her against his chest like she weighed nothing, like she was precious.
"Balcony," he said simply.
Rosé followed them, still naked, her skin glowing in the moonlight as he carried Lisa through the sliding glass doors. The night air was cool against Lisa's overheated skin, the city spread out below them like a field of stars. He set her on her feet but kept his hands on her waist, steadying her.
"Hands on the railing," he ordered.
Lisa complied, bending forward and gripping the cold metal, her ass presented to him, her thighs still trembling. The height made her dizzy, the exposure made her wet all over again. Anyone with binoculars could see her, could see them, and the thought sent a fresh thrill through her.
He entered her again from behind, slower this time, letting her feel every inch. Lisa moaned, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her spine. He set a languid pace, rolling his hips, hitting spots inside her that made her toes curl.
"Rosé," he called. "Front."
Rosé moved to stand before Lisa, her back against the railing, her hands coming up to cup Lisa's breasts. "Hi again," she whispered, and then she kissed her, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the rough fucking from behind.
He changed the angle, lifting one of Lisa's legs and hooking it over the railing, opening her wider, fucking deeper. Lisa cried out into Rosé's mouth, her hands gripping the railing so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Position two," he announced, pulling out and spinning Lisa around. He lifted her easily, sitting her on the railing itself, her back against the glass barrier. "Hold on to me."
Lisa wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and he entered her again, gravity pulling her down onto his cock. The angle was devastating, hitting her G-spot with every thrust, and Lisa buried her face in his neck to muffle her screams.
Rosé didn't stay back. She pressed herself against his side, her hand sliding between their bodies to find Lisa's clit again. "Let go," she whispered in Lisa's ear. "We've got you. Let go."
Lisa came apart, her third orgasm of the night—or was it her fourth? She'd lost count—ripping through her with the force of a hurricane. She shook in his arms, her nails digging into his shoulders, her voice hoarse from screaming.
He didn't stop. He turned them, pressing Lisa's back against the glass now, her legs still wrapped around him, and fucked her with renewed vigor. The glass was cold against her spine, his body hot against her front, the contrast making her head spin.
"Last one," he promised, his voice strained. "Come with me one more time."
"Can't," Lisa sobbed, even as she felt her body responding, tightening around him.
"You can," Rosé insisted, her mouth finding Lisa's nipple again, her hand between them working miracles.
He thrust deep, grinding against her, and Lisa felt him swell, felt the telltale pulse as he spilled inside her for the second time. The feeling triggered her own release, and she came with him, her body milking him dry, her vision going dark at the edges.
They stayed there for an eternity, locked together, shaking and gasping, Rosé's mouth soothing the marks she'd left, her hands gentle now, caressing instead of teasing.
Finally, he lowered Lisa's legs, holding her until she could stand. She swayed, her knees weak, her body marked and used and thoroughly satisfied. Rosé caught her, pressing a kiss to her temple, her lips, her jaw.
"Welcome to the after-party," Rosé whispered, and Lisa laughed—actually laughed—giddy and exhausted and utterly spent.
He looked at them both, these women he'd claimed tonight, and smiled—a real smile, not predatory, not commanding, just... satisfied. "Shower," he said. "Then bed. We're not done until morning."
Lisa leaned her head on Rosé's shoulder and let herself be led inside. She'd come looking for payback.
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