𐙚 “Grind Me Down” - Kim Chan Mi 𐙚
Kinktober Day 9
wc: 2.8k
Genre: Smut MDNI 18+
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Fingering, Scissoring, Dry humping, Soft dom/sub dynamic, Brat-taming energy, Power play, Multiple orgasms

The TV in the living room murmurs through the apartment — a late-night drama you’ve half-watched before, the kind where the music swells dramatically even though nothing’s actually happening. You hum under your breath without realizing, hips swaying gently as you dry a plate and slide it into the cabinet.
You’re not dressed for anything, really — just one of those big shirts that’s basically a dress, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Bare legs. No bra. Clean skin from a recent shower and a mind mostly turned off.
You reach for another plate, but before your fingers even graze the cabinet handle, a pair of warm arms wrap around your waist from behind.
You flinch at first, startled, but then melt just as quickly.
“Hi,” comes the soft voice against your shoulder, lips brushing bare skin.
“Hi,” you say back, smiling without turning. “You scared me.”
“Did I?” Chungha hums, already sounding amused. She rests her chin against your shoulder for a second, arms still wrapped tight around your waist. “You always hum when you’re doing dishes?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cute.”
You chuckle, reaching again — but her grip tightens slightly.
“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs.
“I was trying to be.”
Chungha doesn’t answer right away. She shifts behind you, her body pressing flush against yours. You feel the heat of her — soft pajama shorts, bare legs, her chest rising and falling against your back.
Then her lips find your shoulder again.
This time slower.
Lingering.
You freeze, hand hovering over the cabinet handle.
She kisses you again, higher now — the curve of your neck — and then again, right behind your ear. The touch is featherlight but deliberate, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for attention as much as it’s claiming it.
“I was trying to finish,” you repeat softly.
“I can see that.” Her voice is velvet, quiet, edged with something teasing. “That why you wore this shirt?”
You snort. “I’ve worn this a million times.”
“Exactly.” Another kiss. “You always wear it when you want attention.”
“That’s not true.”
“Mm.” Her fingers slide under the hem of the shirt, brushing your stomach lightly, just enough to make you twitch. “So you’re telling me you weren’t thinking about me seeing you like this? Reaching up on your toes, this shirt barely covering your ass, singing off-key to some dramatic-ass drama in the background?”
You huff a breath, trying not to smile. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“You’re so bad at lying.”
Her hands settle on your hips now, thumbs rubbing small circles, her mouth still teasing at your neck. It’s not aggressive — not yet — just… persistent. Like she’s waiting for you to give up pretending you’re not affected.
You keep trying to ignore it.
Drying another plate. Sliding it into place.
She leans closer.
“You gonna keep putting dishes away,” she whispers, “or are you gonna let me take care of you?”
Your breath stutters. Just slightly.
She hears it.
You feel her smile against your skin.
“I don’t need taking care of,” you try.
“Mmhm.” Her hands glide lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of your underwear beneath the shirt. “Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
Before you can say anything else, she spins you gently by the waist and presses you back against the counter.
Your breath catches.
Her body covers yours, hands planted on either side of your hips, her eyes burning slow and low as she looks at you — taking you in from top to bottom, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, your still-slightly-wet hair.
She leans in, and her voice drops.
“You look real pretty pretending not to want me.”
Your knees nearly give out.
Her lips meet yours.
It’s not rough, not rushed — but it’s needy. Her mouth moves like she’s been waiting all night, like she’s starved for something she knows she’ll get. Her fingers slide up your thighs as she kisses you deeper, and you make the smallest sound against her lips — part whimper, part sigh, all surrender.
She pulls back just enough to speak.
“Still thinking about dishes?”
You shake your head, dazed.
She grins. “Didn’t think so.”
Her hand slips under your shirt completely now, splayed across your lower back as she guides you away from the counter. You stumble a little at first, legs wobbly, balance tilted by the sheer presence of her — but she steadies you with a firm grip and that ever-present smirk.
“Come on,” she says. “Let me really take care of you.”
You barely register the kitchen fading behind you as she pulls you down the hall. Your shirt is already halfway off your shoulder, her fingers tugging at the hem as she leads you into the bedroom.
The second you hit the bedroom, she turns.
You almost stumble into her, but she catches you easily, both hands landing on your hips. She’s smiling again — that same knowing, slow curl of her lips that says she already knows what you want, even if you haven’t said it yet.
“You gonna behave for me now?” she asks softly.
You swallow. Nod.
Chungha hums, pleased. “Good girl.”
Your whole body buzzes.
She backs you toward the bed, not breaking eye contact, not even when her hands slide up the sides of your thighs, under the hem of the oversized shirt. She lifts it over your head in one smooth motion, and the way she looks at you now — eyes hooded, mouth slightly parted — makes you feel like you’re being worshipped.
“Lie down,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Right in the middle.”
You do. The sheets are cool against your skin, but only for a moment — she’s there again in seconds, crawling over you slowly, deliberately, like a cat with something to toy with.
Her knees settle on either side of your waist, straddling you gently.
Her hands slide over your stomach, up to your chest, pausing there like she’s memorizing the shape of you. Then she leans down and kisses your collarbone. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw.
“Don’t move,” she murmurs between kisses. “Just let me have you.”
You exhale shakily, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.”
She keeps kissing you — slow, unhurried — while her hands explore every inch. You feel the drag of her nails down your ribs, the softness of her thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Her touch is confident, but not demanding.
She’s not rushing to get anywhere.
She’s enjoying this.
Her lips trail back up to your mouth and she kisses you again, a little deeper this time. Her tongue slides against yours and you moan before you can stop it — quiet, needy. Your hands twitch where they rest on the sheets, but you don’t move. You want to be good. You want to let her lead.
Chungha smiles into the kiss like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.
When she pulls back, her eyes are soft but her voice is edged with something playful.
“You were acting shy in the kitchen,” she murmurs, “but look at you now.”
You’re already flushed, breathless, squirming slightly beneath her.
“Not so mouthy anymore, huh?” she adds, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t think I’d be on my back this fast.”
Her smile widens. “That’s your fault. You wore that shirt.”
You huff a soft laugh, eyes flicking over her face. “You were already thinking about this?”
“I think about this all the time.”
She says it so easily. Like it’s not embarrassing. Like it’s not devastating.
Then she leans down again, presses a kiss to the center of your chest, and slides lower.
And just before her mouth finds the edge of your underwear, she looks up and says:
“Let me show you what I think about.”
voice is warm silk, sliding over your skin as her lips trail lower. She kisses the inside of your ribs, your hipbone, and down — her hands moving slow as she hooks her fingers into your underwear.
You lift your hips for her without needing to be told.
She peels them off, eyes never leaving yours. You can’t look away either — not when her gaze drags over your thighs, not when she bites her lip the second she sees how wet you are.
“God,” she whispers, almost like it’s for herself. “You’re soaked.”
Your breath stutters.
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” she adds.
“You’ve been touching me since the kitchen.”
She smiles — that same cocky, slow smile — and tosses your panties to the side.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, crawling back up to kiss you. “But now I’m really gonna touch you.”
Her thigh slides between yours as she kisses you again — not teasing anymore, but consuming. Deep, full kisses that make your toes curl, that steal your breath. She rocks against you gently, letting her bare skin press into the slick between your legs.
You moan into her mouth the moment it hits — her thigh firm and warm, grinding up just right.
She groans softly, hips rolling forward, her own breath catching at the feeling.
“Shit.”
You can’t help the way your legs spread wider, the way your hands clutch the sheets like you’re drowning. Her thigh flexes again and you gasp.
“Already like this?” Chungha murmurs, her lips brushing your jaw. “I haven’t even gotten you into position yet.”
“I can’t help it.”
She grins. “You don’t have to.”
Her fingers brush your jaw as she kisses you again, slower this time. Then she leans back just enough to maneuver you — lifting one of your legs over hers, guiding herself between them until your hips slot together like you were made for this.
Your stomach flips.
She shifts again — and suddenly, she’s there. Slick against slick. Your thighs tangled, stomachs pressed flush, her hands planted on either side of your head as she leans over you, breath hot and shaky.
You’re not ready.
You’re so ready.
Chungha’s hips start to move.
The first grind is gentle, testing — just enough to drag her wetness across yours. You both gasp at the contact.
The next one is harder.
You cry out before you even mean to, hands scrambling for her waist, her shoulder, anything.
Her moan is low, breathless. “Fuck. You feel that?”
“Yes—”
“So wet for me,” she groans. “I can hear it.”
And you can too — the sound obscene and perfect. Wet skin dragging against wet skin, every grind making your body jolt with the pressure, with the heat. Your hands claw at her back, her hips, and she just keeps going — faster now, finding a rhythm that makes your thighs shake.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she pants. “Don’t look away.”
You try.
You really try.
But your head keeps falling back, your body arching, your eyes fluttering from the intensity.
Chungha grabs your face.
“Look at me.”
You do — flushed, panting, wide-eyed.
She leans down and kisses you like you’re hers. “That’s better.”
Her hips grind harder, and you cry out.
“Right there,” she breathes. “Fuck—right there—”
You’re both soaked now, the sheets under you ruined, your thighs burning from the friction, but she doesn’t stop. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you up into her with each grind. She watches you unravel — eyes locked, lips parted, moaning each time your bodies connect.
You can’t think. You can’t breathe.
All you can do is feel.
“Chungha—please—” you gasp.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I’ve got you. Just let go.”
You’re close. So close.
Every movement, every grind — the pressure is perfect, the rhythm relentless, and when she presses her forehead to yours and breathes, “Come with me,” you do.
You fall apart.
Your hips jerk, your thighs clench, your whole body locks up around hers as you come hard — back arching, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t stop. You don’t even realize you’re crying until she kisses the tears off your cheeks.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” she gasps. “I’m so—fuck—I’m right there—”
You feel her stutter against you — her hips twitching, grinding in tight, desperate circles until she shudders on top of you, thighs trembling, voice cracking on a moan that sounds like your name.
She collapses against you.
You’re both shaking, sweating, panting into each other’s necks, your bodies still tangled.
You don’t say anything right away.
There’s nothing to say.
Just the sound of your breathing, the soft whimpers in her throat as your slick skin sticks together, her arms wrapped tight around your waist like she can’t let you go even if she wanted to.
Eventually, she shifts — slow, careful — and rolls to the side, still holding you.
You both lie there, legs intertwined, bodies flushed and slick and completely spent.
She’s the first to speak.
“Jesus.”
You laugh. Or try to.
It comes out more like a choked, breathless sound.
“Are you okay?” she asks, brushing hair from your forehead.
“I don’t know.”
“Too much?”
“No. Just… so much.”
She smiles. “That’s the goal.”
Your skin is still buzzing when you feel Chungha move.
She’s slow about it — not like she’s getting up, more like she’s adjusting her grip. Her hands smooth gently over your back, sliding along the dip of your spine like she’s checking to see if you’re still breathing. Her cheek rests against yours for a second longer, both of you sticky and tangled and quiet.
“You okay?” she whispers.
You nod into her shoulder. “More than okay.”
She chuckles — soft and a little smug — and finally rolls onto her back, taking you with her. You end up half-sprawled across her chest, one leg draped over her thigh, your bodies still impossibly close.
She kisses the side of your head.
“Stay right here,” she murmurs.
You don’t plan on going anywhere.
After a minute or two, she shifts again — carefully, like she doesn’t want to let go even as she sits up.
You blink, dazed. “Where are you going?”
“Not far.” Her voice is sweet. “Just getting something.”
She disappears for only a moment, and when she returns, there’s a warm towel in her hands.
You try to cover your face. “Don’t look at me.”
Chungha laughs, crawling back into bed. “Baby, I just made you cry and come at the same time. You really think I’m gonna stop looking at you now?”
You whimper and hide your face in the pillow.
But she’s gentle with you — always. She wipes you down softly, careful around every sore spot. Her fingers move in slow circles over your thighs, your hips, your belly, and when she finishes, she leans down and presses a kiss just above your knee.
Then your inner thigh.
Then higher.
Not teasing — just honoring.
She tosses the towel aside and climbs under the covers with you, tucking herself behind your back like a second heartbeat.
Her arm wraps around your waist. You feel her legs tangle with yours. Her breath fans across your neck as she presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.
“You did so good,” she whispers. “I’m never gonna stop thinking about that.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t believe I was doing dishes ten minutes ago.”
She laughs — a full, bright sound that makes you smile even in your haze.
“Can’t believe you ignored me for dishes,” she says. “That’s what really hurts.”
“I didn’t ignore you.”
“You tried. I came up behind you kissing you and you were still reaching for a plate like it was more important.”
“I was multitasking.”
“You were stalling.” She kisses your neck. “Being a brat.”
You try to argue, but she slips her hand between your legs again — not to do anything, just resting there, her palm warm, her thumb gently stroking the top of your thigh like she already owns the space.
“Do you know how wet you were before I even touched you?” she murmurs. “How soft you got the second I said your name?”
You whimper. “Stop.”
She smiles against your neck. “Can’t. It’s all I’m gonna think about.”
You go quiet for a moment. The sheets rustle softly when you shift closer, her arm tightening around you without even thinking.
“I felt safe,” you whisper.
She pauses. Then: “Good.”
You feel her smile in the press of her lips against your shoulder.
“Because you are.”
Silence again, but it’s the kind that hums — full, not empty. You reach down and intertwine your fingers with hers, feeling her press a kiss to the crown of your head like she could fall asleep just like this.
And maybe you will.
But right before you do, she murmurs one last thing, voice low and sweet and soaked in satisfaction:
“You”
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