content. gojo satoru x male!reader. smut. minors do not interact. bottom satoru + top reader. established relationship. fingering. sex with prep. unprotected sex. anal. swearing. clan leader!reader. very lovey-dovey. demanding princess satoru and his boyfie who can't say no to him. spitting in his mouth. light choking. satoru's absolutely unhinged pov. oh and breaking the bed. that too.
wc. 8.1k
message from noe. chose promise, chose due, even if it's months later... @burgojo this one is for you!!!
You don’t consider yourself a weak man.
No one does, actually. You have your reputation among jujutsu society, and it isn’t that of a weak man, not by a longshot. You’re a clan leader, a warrior. Weakness isn’t part of your identity. Vulnerability? Sure, when the time is right. Weakness? Never.
That’s what you tell yourself. You keep your pride close to your chest, lest he snatches it right from your hands.
No, generally speaking, you aren’t weak at all, but—
“Oh my God, yours looks so good, gimme.”
Satoru has a way of bringing it out of you.
“Back off.” You try to keep your voice firm, but it’s already a struggle. “It’s mine. You’ve had yours already.”
You’re trying hard not to look at him. You know if you do, you’ll cave immediately.
Satoru isn’t one to give up so easily, though. And he isn’t one to play fair, either.
“C’mon,” he whines, resting his chin on your shoulder, “just a bite, I promise. I just wanna have a taste!”
“Fine. You know what? Fine.” You cut off a tiny piece of fondant with your spoon and push it in his general direction. “Here.”
Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.
Slowly, Satoru pulls away. You feel his stare in the side of your head. Don’t look at him.
“Wow. So you just don’t love me anymore, huh? Wow. I came out here to spend some time with my beloved even though I’m exhausted, and you’re making me drink, and I don’t even like alcohol, and now you won’t even share your dessert with me, the love of your life—”
As he whines, his grip on your bicep tightens. This, more than his yapping, is what’s most effective to sway you, and he is well aware of it. He talks your ear off to create some white noise, but the real focus is there.
“—anyway, I think I deserve it, don’t you?”
You tell yourself it’s because this really isn’t his scene. Satoru only ever goes out with his coworkers to spend time with them, not because he enjoys drinking or even because he likes going out. It’s fine if you indulge him. It’s fine if you let him steal your entire chocolate fondant right from your plate, without even trying to protest.
He came to dinner for you, so it’s fine to indulge him. That’s all it is.
“Fine,” you huff. “You can have it, baby.” He lets out a cheer of victory and digs in immediately.
It totally isn’t because of the little rosy tint on his cheeks. Or his big, bright, shimmering eyes, that catch the light just right. Or even the slightest little pout he was sending your way to make you cave. You’re not weak to him. You gave him your fondant because you wanted to.
That’s what you tell yourself. But both he and you know the truth.
And honestly, it isn’t your fault! He’s just… he’s…
Yeah, no. You have no excuse.
In your defense, you have a long history of indulging him, one that started on your very first meeting.
He was just six years old, and you were barely nine. Sitting beside his lord father with his hands folded elegantly in his lap, face completely blank in a cold, haughty mask. A meeting between clans, not your first, but definitely his.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked like a doll, that was your first thought back then. Soft-looking hair. Big, shimmering blue eyes. Chubby, rosy cheeks. Dewy soft skin.
Lifeless.
You couldn’t bear to see a kid so pretty look so sad. So when he slipped away with a yawn, you asked to be dismissed, and went after him. You’d hidden chocolate bars in your yukata sleeves for later. You’d planned on enjoying them back at your clan’s estate, but sharing couldn’t hurt, could it?
He didn’t react, when you sat near him on the engawa, in a small patch of delightfully warm sunlight. Silently, you handed him the chocolate bar. He took it without even looking at you. Took his time savoring it, his cheeks flushed in delight.
Then, when he was finished, he held out his hand expectantly. Tilted his head to look up at you, and you were hit with the full force of that bright, piercing gaze.
Big blue eyes shimmering under the sunlight. Lips set in an adorable pout.
“I know you have more,” he said. “Gimme.”
How exactly were you supposed to say no?
You didn’t say no. You gave him every single one you had. And he graciously accepted to share the last one with you.
That was your first meeting. You were doomed from the start.
You’d thought that weakness would disappear as you grew older together. Surely, he wouldn’t be cute as a man the way he was as a boy. You’d learn to hold your ground.
Your heart had other plans.
You fell for him, hard. And to make matters worse? He felt the same.
You should’ve known things would only go downhill from there.
He knows all about the soft spot you have for him, and he takes advantage of it at every turn. Like right now. Shamelessly stealing your dessert after he all but inhaled his own, all because he’s craving more sugar and he knows you’d never say no.
You really need to learn how to say no.
Satoru makes quick work of your fondant, licking the spoon and his lips to make sure not a single crumb remains. He’d lick the plate if you weren’t there to scold him for it.
“Yeah, that was nice,” he says with a sigh, slumping back in his chair. “Good choice, sweets.”
You want to cuss him out. “Yeah? I bet it was great.” Your voice is oh so bitter. “Would’ve loved to have a taste, baby. You know, since it was my dessert.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, wrapping his arms around your bicep again, chin once more resting on your shoulder.
“It was the least you could do, honestly,” he retorts, huffing. “We could be home right now, having amazing sex—”
“Keep your voice down—”
“—but instead, you dragged me here to watch Nanami and Shoko get wasted.” Another huff. “Besides, if you really wanted to eat that, you should’ve just said no. You should grow a backbone, babe.”
It hurts because it’s true. You still want to cuss him out. In fact, you’re turning your head, opening your mouth to do so, but Satoru moves swiftly. He pushes himself closer, lips close to your ear.
“But if you want a taste that bad, I can give you one.”
You turn to face him. His face is the picture of innocence, eyes twinkling, brows slightly raised, lips pushed into that annoying pout. But you’re not fooled. There’s hunger in his gaze, too. Like you’re the next dessert he wants to devour. You don’t hate the idea.
You’re not a weak man by any means, but Satoru knows how to bring it out of you.
“You’re the worst, you know that?” you pant against his lips, squeezing his waist roughly.
He tastes sweet. The fondant you almost had is right there, on his tongue, and you think there’s no better way to get that taste.
His hand squeezes your shoulder, and in response you push against him harder, effectively trapping him against the concrete wall shielding you from the street. His arms tighten around your neck, lips moving against yours fervently.
“Liar,” he retorts, just as breathless. “You love me. You love me and you’d do anything for me.”
It hurts because it’s true, and you push your tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He lets out a small, startled sound, and it only serves to fuel you.
Greedily, Satoru wraps a leg around your thigh, trying to get leverage to roll his hips into yours. At that rate, you might genuinely fuck him right there in this dirty alleyway.
The friction is delicious against your bulge, and you can’t help but match his rhythm, grinding against him like a horny teenager. He bites your lip and you tug his hair in retaliation, a groan spilling from his throat.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Not exactly the most dignified way to have sex.
You grip his hips and still his movements, earning a whine of frustration.
“No, come on, it was just getting interesting, you jerk—”
“How about we go home, huh? So I can enjoy you properly.”
Now that catches his attention.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, let’s do that.”
Needless to say, he gets what he wants from you. He was right. You need to grow a backbone.
.
It’s rare to see your beloved look so peaceful.
The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. It’s pleasantly warm under the bedsheets. By all accounts, this morning is nothing less than beautiful.
It’s all made better by the sight of Satoru, sleeping serenely beside you.
Skin glowing under the gentle sun. Soft breaths hitting your cheek. It’s the first time in weeks that he gets to sleep in, and you’re overjoyed that you get to be there.
You’ve been admiring him for, what, maybe half an hour? Maybe more? You’re not sure. You’re not sure you care.
Eventually, a restlessness settles in your bones. You should get up. Get started on breakfast. Maybe even bring it to him in bed, he’d love that. Do his laundry so he gets to rest some more. That’s a good plan.
With your mind made up, you shift to get out of bed. The cool air hits your leg, and you almost abort the mission. Satoru’s right there, and he’s warm.
No. Nope. Come on. Breakfast.
Your leg peeks from under the blanket again. You push up to your elbow, grab the covers to throw them off your body—
“Where do you think you’re going?”
You freeze. You’d hoped you wouldn’t wake him, you were being careful, moving slowly and gently. Now he’s up, and judging by his scrunched-up face, he is not happy.
He looks adorable like this. Frowning, eyes still heavy with sleep. You coo at him, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. “Breakfast, baby. I’ll bring it to you here, okay?”
Once again, you move to leave the bed. You don’t even get to straighten up. Satoru crawls on top of you, pinning you down with his weight. His arms snake around your waist. His lips tickle your neck.
He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, as if it’s a given that you’ll simply surrender to his will. You can’t even find it in yourself to blame him: you’ve never, ever done anything to make him believe otherwise.
But you’re strong. You have a plan, and you intend to stick to it. He’ll thank you later.
So, as gently as you can, you roll to the side, deposit him on the bed, and snatch his arms from around your waist to free yourself.
Your feet are so close to the floor — almost there. You move to leave a tender kiss on his forehead.
And you make the same mistake you always make. You glance at his face.
His features are twisted into an absolutely outraged pout, like you’ve just insulted him in the absolute worse way you could ever have. Like you’ve just told him he was nothing more than a warm body, a hole to fuck. You suppose that’s exactly how he’s taking this. His brows are furrowed over his slightly widened eyes, an almost wounded look in the baby blues.
And your shaky resolve crumbles entirely.
You feel cruel. You feel like the world’s cruelest man, and you must be, abandoning your beloved like that. Like he’s a dirty sock so old you can’t get rid of the stench, so you decide to throw it away.
Quick. Fix it.
“I’m gonna make breakfast, baby,” you coo, stroking his hair. “Yeah? We can have breakfast in bed.”
He simply stares, his face falling. Unimpressed, or maybe he’s just half-asleep still?
Until he speaks. His face changes again, a brow raised, mouth curled in an almost disgusted manner. “Uh, no?”
Like he can’t believe you’d do him the insult of suggesting such a thing. Because, of course, breakfast in bed includes making breakfast, and making breakfast includes you leaving him.
You sigh, closing your eyes, and he seizes the opportunity. He grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you down again.
“Satoru, stop—”
“Nuh-uh.”
“—baby, please, I have stuff to do—”
“I don’t think so.”
He wraps his limbs around you like a particularly vicious octopus. His face is buried in your neck again. A part of you is almost offended by how confident he is that you’ll just give in.
The other part of you? It gives in.
You run your hands up and down his back, caressing softly and earning a hum of delight. In return, Satoru’s hand pats your chest. You feel his body relax on top of yours, his breath slow and soften. His eyes close once more. There’s a small smile on his lips.
Your heart leaps.
Breakfast can wait. You’ve already achieved your goal anyways.
.
You don’t spend a lot of time at Jujutsu Tech. Usually, it’s less than an hour, once a week. To drop off your recent mission reports, get some new assignments, fresh report sheets, and then back to work.
You rarely get to play the loving partner part with Satoru. Usually, when you’re there, he’s out on a mission, or teaching, or avoiding his responsibilities and buying an obscene amount of sweets and pastries.
Today, though, you walk into the office you two share, returning from admin with your new assignments for the week, and he’s there. Sitting on your desk, with his jacket draped over the back of your chair and your jacket on his shoulders. The sight is so endearing you fear you might melt into a puddle.
You almost do, but a sharp instinct snaps you out of it. This is Satoru. With his Six Eyes and his frankly excellent perception of cursed energy, there’s no way he didn’t see you coming.
This is a set-up. He wants something from you.
So when he saunters up to you, slipping his arms through the sleeves of your jacket and around your shoulders, you don’t pull away from his affection, but you don’t return it either.
“Hi, baby,” he all but purrs, kissing and nuzzling your cheek affectionately.
“Hi, Satoru,” you respond soberly. You won’t fall for his tricks. Not this time. You’re strong.
He keeps up with the affection for another moment, but quickly he realizes you’re not reciprocating and pushes himself away. With his hands curled around your shoulders, he frowns, eyebrows visibly furrowing under the blindfold.
“What, no kiss? No sweetie, no honey, no angel? Do you just hate me?”
You won’t bother with pretending you’ve been fooled. You won’t fall for his tricks. “What do you need, Satoru?”
He gasps. Puts a hand on his chest in indignation. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I only came to see you for my own benefit?”
You cock a brow. “…Yes.”
He has nothing to say to that. He just stares, mouth pressed into a thin line. He’s been found out, and quickly too.
But he’s nothing if not determined.
“What I need is some loving from my baby, but I guess that’s just too much to ask for.”
He steps back, turns away the slightest bit—
Your arms wrap around his waist and you pull him back against your chest, kissing his nape. You’re weak.
He smiles, snuggling into your hold.
“See, that’s more like it.”
You pinch his side. “Watch your tone, will you?” Not even a hint of bite in your voice.
His hand cradles your jaw, and his lips find yours. This time, you reciprocate, the kiss lazy, languid. You feel so much better now that your arms aren’t empty.
He pulls away, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Missed ya.”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I’m expressing my undying love, jeez—"
You kiss him again, just to shut him up. It works. For a moment.
For a minute, he simply enjoys your embrace. Quiet in a way he only ever gets when it’s just the two of you. Basking in your warmth, the strength of your arms around him. Then, he speaks.
“Alright, let’s go home!”
Already he’s moving, your arm hugged to his chest as he tries to tug you out of the office. And again your instincts flare. He’s been suspicious. There’s something in that office that he doesn’t want you to see.
Naturally, you first think he damaged something, so you plant your feet to the ground and resist his strength, eyes raking over your desk.
“Baby, what are you doing,” he whines. “Let’s go already.”
Don’t fold. Don’t fold. This is a trap.
It wouldn’t be the first time he breaks something in the office and flees the crime scene. There’s a sizable dent on the side of your desk to attest to that. So what is it? What did he do this time?
He tugs on your arm harder. “Y/N, come on, move!”
You can’t find actual damage near your space, so you turn to his—
He moves in front of you, hiding his desk from your eyes. Ah. His blindfold is pushed up into his hair, leaving his lethal eyes uncovered. A cheap, dirty trick, almost guaranteed to make you cave. His eyes shimmering, his rosy, slightly swollen lips pushed into a pout.
You’re close to folding, but in his eagerness to get his way, he’s also revealed the source of his need for his early escape.
“What’s the hold-up, huh?” He huffs, brows furrowing slightly, his expression now impatient and needy. Jerk. You’ll kiss him.
“Satoru.”
Your low tone makes him perk up. He knows he’s been found out, so now he’s gonna pull all the stops to get out of this situation.
Brace yourself. Don’t fold.
He pushes himself against you, wrapping his arms around your neck again. Chest to chest, lips so close to yours you can feel his breath. You try hard not to look at them, but his eyes are a problem, too. Too wide. Too blue.
He hums, still maintaining the pretense of innocence.
“Satoru,” you say again. “What’s on your desk?”
He shrugs a shoulder, as if he’s completely clueless and has no idea what you’re talking about.
“Satoru.” You’re trying to sound stern. Trying. This isn’t working. You have absolutely no hold on him.
“Dunno what you’re talking about, baby. Can we go home now?” He pushes his hips against yours teasingly. Brushes the tip of his nose against yours again— fucker. He knows you’re weak for that. “We have so much better things to do, don’t ya think? Hm?”
Don’t fold. Don’t fold. Do not fold.
Gently, you grab his waist and step around him, despite his best efforts to stop you.
And it’s right there, on his desk: a high stack of papers, no doubt waiting to be completed by your partner. And judging by the sheer size, it’s been waiting a while.
You turn to him, eyes burning. “When was the last time you did your paperwork, exactly?”
He smiles. Shrugs and pokes his tongue out. “No clue.”
“Satoru—”
“Ugh, spare me, will you?” He steps away and rolls his eyes, waving a careless hand. Like you’re in the wrong here, somehow. “Why would I do that when there’s Ijichi to take care of it?”
That poor guy is gonna have an aneurysm.
“Satoru. You are not dumping all that on Ijichi.”
Satoru, the poster child of bratty behavior, has the audacity to cross his arms and sigh. “So what, you want me to do it?”
“It’s your paperwork, Satoru! Yes, you’re gonna do it.”
He turns his head away with a huff. “Nah. No way. Why would I do that? It’s boring, and tedious, and I might get a headache.”
“Enough.” You make your way to his desk and grab the stack of papers. Wow, it’s a lot. “I’m bringing that home and you’ll do it tonight.”
And he has the gall to gasp, shaken to the core. Like you’ve done something truly heinous. “What?!”
You let out a sharp sigh. It’s like getting a toddler to eat their veggies.
You turn, determined to hold your ground. Really, you’ve been over this more than once with him. You’ve had to help him catch up with his mission reports often enough.
Your eyes land on his face. Rookie.
His face is downturned. Arms crossed, eyes slightly averted. And, oh, have his lips always looked so pink?
And he drops the bomb.
“Sorry for wanting to spend time with you instead of doing some stupid paperwork, I guess.”
No. No, this is a ploy, a ruse, a maneuver to get you to do his bidding.
And, like a fool, you’re falling for it. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry. Something visceral snarls in your chest, at the sight of his face. It looks horribly wrong, fix it, fix it, fix it.
You give up. You’ll be the fool if that’s what he wants.
“Baby,” you murmur and set the papers aside, wrapping your arms around his waist. He settles in your embrace, hands braced on your chest, face buried in your neck. You feel the curve of his smile against your skin. Smug bastard. He’s not even trying to hide it.
He’s so pleased with himself, it’s like the satisfaction is radiating from him. You look down to what you can see of his face.
His eyes are squeezed shut, pushed into half moons by his rosy cheeks with how wide he’s grinning. So serene, so childishly happy that his scheme was successful. How could you ever be angry with him? You never stood a chance.
You kiss his cheek, and he hums, delighted that’s he’s won. “Alright,” you coo. “Let’s go home.”
You swear there’s a spring to his step, when you both make your way to the car. The paperwork sits untouched and abandoned on his desk.
.
Satoru thinks he might lose his mind.
Patience has never been his strongest suit, and you are well-aware of it. You know him like the back of your hand. You know that he likes his eggs poached more than sunny side up; that he always needs at least thirty minutes of lounging in bed before starting his day; that he handles heat badly and prefers lighter clothing, even when it gets colder.
You know that he hates waiting.
And, yeah, maybe it is rich coming from him, CEO of being late. He’s usually alright with it when people make him wait, even if he’ll complain about it to their face, for the simple pleasure of annoying them.
But you? You should know better.
He checks his phone again. The time switches from 18:29 to 18:30 right before his eyes. You said 18:00 sharp, emphasis on the sharp. He’s officially been waiting for thirty minutes, and that is just unacceptable.
This is such a nice day, too. Warm, with a cool breeze keeping the temperature at a reasonable level. Birds chirping, clouds gently drifting by, all that good stuff that you love. You should be here, with him. Ideally, buried inside him to the hilt, but he’d settle for a cute, wholesome date, too.
He’s enjoying neither, because you’re not here, and yeah, he’s definitely losing it.
He checks his phone. It’s probably been another twenty minutes, at least!
18:31.
Ugh, come on!
It’s been days since you last saw each other. Days! He feels unhinged, unraveled. His jaw aches in the evening, because he spends his days gritting his teeth. Any longer without you and he’ll start bouncing off the walls, clawing at the floorboards like a dog.
Any longer and he’ll start begging for your presence.
Honestly, it’s like you don’t even look at him lately. All you do is work. And because he is who he is, all he does is work, too. It’s a miracle if he gets to spend a couple of hours in the same room as you. He barely has time to think of you.
He misses you. Misses you like a limb.
He’s so exhausted that he misses you even when you’re right in front of him. He isn’t even allowed to enjoy the moments he gets with his beloved, too worried by how fast time flies. And before he can catch his breath, the moment is over. Nothing could ever make him wish he were anyone else— nothing but this. This horrible, mind-numbing lack of time.
And now you have the audacity to let your clan elders gnaw on that precious time. Time that he took in his already packed schedule to spend with you, time that was meant to be spent together.
Unbelievable. Oh, he will not let you hear the end of this.
He’s ready to give up and call you, but a splash of energy catches his attention from the corner of his Six Eyes. Getting closer, fast.
He can’t help but grin. Finally, finally.
He waits until you’re just behind the shoji door. With an overly exasperated groan, Satoru flops down onto his back, feet swinging off the engawa.
“What a jerk,” he mutters angrily, toying with the bandages covering his eyes. “I don’t deserve this. Asshole. Jerkface.”
“I know you’re not talking about me.”
Your voice sends shivers down his spine. That irritated edge he can hear? Music to his ears. He covers up the smirk that was blooming behind an exaggerated pout.
“Wow,” he drawls. “Finally remembered you’re not single, did you? Had fun at your little meeting?”
He knows you didn’t. The whole point of those meetings is to slowly suck your soul out through your nostrils. That’s why all the elders are dry and lifeless. Duh. The question is rhetorical, just the beginning of your punishment.
He hears the dull sound of fabric hitting the ground. You probably dropped your haori. Not enough clothes on the floor, but it’s a start.
“You know I didn’t.” And there’s your reply. Yeah, yeah, he knows, he’s been to enough of those meetings to know. “You’ve been to enough of those meetings to know.” You can be so predictable sometimes.
“Maybe if you hadn’t ditched me to go to the meeting, you would’ve had a better time.” He can hear the childish petulance in his own voice. Can’t be bothered to tame it, to try and hide it even the slightest bit. You deserve all that you’re getting. “I mean, I’m just saying. Maybe an afternoon with your boyfriend would’ve been more fun, but hey, who knows? Definitely not you.”
You stay quiet for a second. Two. Three. “Satoru, if you’re only here to make me feel bad, we can cut the evening short right now. I have a rematch in half an hour anyways.”
Now that is unacceptable. Actually, it’s beyond unacceptable, practically a criminal offense. “Are you joking?” He hisses, pushing himself up. “So what, I should just fuck off and die?”
You seem pissed. And tired. Maybe he should cool it. Just a bit.
“You think I want to spend my already limited free time with them, instead of you?” You retort. Your back is to him. Starving him of the sight of your face. Why?
Look at me, he wants to scream. Don’t deny me, don’t push me away.
“I’d love nothing more than to stay here and snuggle,” you continue. This time you just sound sad. He feels a pinch in his chest. You don’t finish the thought. You don’t have to. He knows exactly what you want to say.
Duties that you can’t escape. Either of you.
“Ditch them,” he demands. Fuck ‘em. With an annoyed huff, he stands from the floor and moves to drop on the bed gracelessly. “C’mon, babe, you’re really gonna spend the night with them when I’m right here?”
Finally, you turn to look at him. He takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill with air properly for the first time since you last saw each other. Yes, yes, exactly. That’s all he wants, all he needs, just keep looking at him like that.
Your eyes travel from his face, down the length of his body, down his slender, model legs and back up. The mood shift in you is so obvious to him, who’s gobbling up even the tiniest details that you offer him.
You’re opening up. You’re letting him in.
Yes, yes, yes. Come on.
“’S been so long since you’ve fucked me,” he drawls. “At this rate, I might forget what you feel like.”
Your eye twitches, but you’re not a man of ego. No, if he wants you to give in, he needs to bait. Then, you can punish him for all the bratty little comments.
“We barely see each other lately. You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Hook.
He sees your face soften. You shift to face him. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”
Ooh, look at you, offering the line yourself. “Yeah?” He masks the glee in his voice, replacing it with a pathetic longing that he knows you’re weak for. His hand tugs at the bandage covering his eyes, unwinding it and dropping it to the floor near the bed. A cheap, dirty trick, but he really wants to get his way. Your gaze meets his, and he knows he’s got you. “When are you ever gonna do that?”
“Soon,” you reply with a squeeze of his calf. Gentle. Affectionate. Tender. You are just the perfect man.
“How about right now?” With a light tug to your obi belt, your yukata falls open.
And sinker.
You rise from the floor to crawl on the bed. His heart thumps painfully against his ribs. Yeah, yeah, let’s go, come on. He backs away, perfectly playing his role of the fleeing prey, until his head hits the headboard, and you seize your chance to get on top of him, hands firmly planted on either side of his head.
You tilt your head, studying him. He can see his own reflection in your dark, dark eyes, and wow, it’s no wonder you want to fuck him into next week so bad. He’d want to fuck himself too.
“Yeah. You know what?” You purr, leaning closer. “I think I will. Fuck ‘em.”
He grins. “That’s the sp—”
Your mouth is on his before he can finish the sentence, a rough kiss that he barely expects. He wraps an arm around your neck, the other around your shoulders, trying to tug you down, but you refuse him. He whines into the kiss, digging his fingers into your flesh. Hard, rough, pure muscle, god, just take me!
You pull away to kiss the corner of his lips, his cheek, the soft underside of his jaw, down to his throat, your favorite spot. Already he feels lightheaded, heart pumping ruthlessly, he’s so easy, too easy.
“I want you so bad,” you rasp against his throat, and woah, okay, starting off real strong there.
His heart throbs. His dick, too.
“Nhh, what are you waiting for, then?”
He nuzzles against your temple, hooking a leg around yours to grind roughly against you. You’re hard as a rock under your yukata.
He can’t hold back a chuckle. “Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just—” He yelps when you bite, straight into the tender flesh of his throat. “Ow, was that really necessary?”
You lower yourself against him, finally, jeez, and claim his mouth again.
“You talk too much,” you pant against his lips.
“’Cause you’re not even doing anything,” Satoru retorts without missing a beat. “Gotta fill the awkward silence somehow.”
You punish him with another bite, on his jaw this time. Softer, like one was your limit. His obi comes undone with an expert tug of your hand, and you caress his navel with your fingertips. Starving him, still.
Impatient, he grabs your wrist and pushes your hand flat against his stomach, pulling closer with his leg, his hand tugging your yukata down your back. You pinch him in retaliation, and he flinches violently.
“Mean.” He never misses an opportunity to whine and pout. “Weren’t you supposed to make it up to me?”
You huff out a chuckle. “What, you waited for days, but five more minutes is a death sentence to you?”
“Exactly!” He slaps your shoulder and slides his hand down your chest to grasp your shaft. The hiss you let out is beyond satisfying. You’re not riled up enough, he needs you feral like a dog, he needs to be bent over and— “You made me wait days, so get to it. Never heard of ‘happy wife, happy life’?”
You roll your eyes, but you reach out to open the nightstand drawer all the same. Your hand comes back with a bottle of lube.
Oh, now we’re talking.
You sit back on your haunches to open the lube, and Satoru has to make an actual, conscious effort to keep from drooling. He swears his thighs are trembling. How is he meant to be calm when you’re right there, sitting between his legs, looking like you want to eat him alive?
He could die.
With a groan, he lies back, stroking his cock teasingly. He barely gets two pumps in before you smack his wrist with your free hand. He lets go, with a loud, frustrated whine.
“Not getting any younger here,” he complains. “Could’ve gotten myself off three times with how inefficient you are.”
You plop yourself down beside him, leaning on your elbow. “Soggy, pathetic little orgasms they would’ve been, darling.”
Satoru can’t help the outraged gasp he lets out. “Excuse me, I— angh…” Your hand’s slipped between his thighs, your middle finger circling his rim. “Let me finish my sentences, asshole.”
“Like I said,” you tease, slicking up his puffy hole, “you talk too much. Can you blame me for doing what I can to stop you?”
“Uh, yes?”
You laugh at that. God, you are so hot when you laugh, it’s unfair.
He rises on his elbows and ghosts his lips over yours, baiting you once more. You bite easily, light little pecks that make his heart flutter. Sneakily, he wiggles his hips, trying to get your finger in him.
“You’re not slick, you know,” you murmur, keeping your fingers frustratingly out.
“And whose fault is that?” Satoru retorts, head falling back with a moan as your finger pushes inside just barely, only to pull out immediately. His stomach tenses, he clamps his thighs over your wrist to keep you trapped. “Fucker.”
He’s getting sick of the phantom touch, and quickly. Alright then. You asked for it.
“Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you with pleading baby blues. “C’mon, I just wanna feel you…”
You inhale sharply, oh, this is too easy, and push your finger in. Slowly, gently, because you don’t feel like tearing his asshole apart. You’re just nice like that. Satoru rewards you with an open mouth kiss, letting you slip your tongue in his mouth, while his hips grind against your hand.
For a moment, a blissful moment, all he hears is the sound of your lips smacking together, your panting intertwining with his moans of pleasure, the slick sound of your finger lubing his hole up. Warmth blooms in his stomach, in his chest— more, more, he needs more, now.
“Give me your cock,” he pants, “come on, I’m ready, don’t make me wait.”
You don’t listen to him. Instead, you slide in another finger, and he clenches his jaw, brows knitting. Denying him— you’re so good at that. His head falls back as he pants, hips rocking in time with your thrusting, and you bend down to lick and tease at the sensitive skin of his throat.
Satoru’s losing it, though, and quickly. Your fingers are too big, too thick, too precise in their movements for him to resist. Heat coils in his stomach, his body tightens further with every stroke, he’s getting close, too close—
“Y/N, wait,” he whines, voice high and almost squeaky. You slow immediately, face leaving the crook of his neck. “Hold on, I…”
“You don’t wanna come?” You purr. Your movements haven’t stopped completely, and Satoru can’t keep in his high, breathy moans. “I just wanna make you feel good, baby. Don’t you want that?”
“Fuck you,” he hisses. He reaches up, tangles his hand in your hair, tugs hard.
You pull your fingers out of him entirely, and he groans in frustration at the emptiness, the cold. He digs his nails into your skin, and if you weren’t too far from him he’d bite.
“No need to throw a tantrum, sweets.”
“You know what I want,” Satoru whines, “come on, pretty please?”
You lean down and press your lips to his. A placating kiss, meant to stall. You let him nip and bite, let him ravage your mouth and distantly, he feels your hand brush against his inner thigh. Then, you maneuver yourself between his legs again, bending them at the knee to bracket your hips. Your cock rests against heavy against him, throbbing, leaking pre all over the place like it can tell it’s about to be inside him. You need him just as bad, so stop stalling, stop denying him—
“Deep breath for me?” You say against his lips.
He obeys. Takes a deeeep inhale, and—
You push inside him in one smooth motion, and he swallows back an obscene moan, just for the pleasure of hearing the borderline pornographic sound you let out in his ear.
“Fuck,” you pant. The satisfaction that fills him feels almost as good as your cock. C’mon, go wild. “Fuck, Satoru. Good? You feeling good?”
He would answer, he would, but he just feels so full, it’s like you’ve ripped his voice from him.
“Uh-huh.” He nods, head tilted back, mouth wide open, eyes scrunched close—
You pull out almost completely and push back in, smooth and soft and gentle. “You look so fucking good right now, baby,” you pant, settling into the rhythm.
“Yeah, I b-bet I do,” he says right back.
You lean down to push closer to him, your thrusting switching to a lazy grind into him. He turns his head, looking for your lips, and you kiss him eagerly, tongue stroking his like your shaft is massaging his insides. And it feels good, so good, so fucking good he can feel his brain melt into goo and leak out through his ears, but still he needs more. Harder. Meaner.
And you know that. This is just the warm-up.
You’re still taking your sweet fucking time though, stroking against his walls, listening to each of his moans greedily. He wants to curse you out, almost does, but he’s beyond helpless when you’re inside him like this. All he can do is moan, soft and high, lips parted like he wants you in there, too.
That gives you an idea. You lean up on one hand, the other gripping his thigh, never once breaking your thrusting.
“Show me your tongue,” your order.
And he obeys, because what else is he supposed to do? He pushes his mouth wide, pink tongue lolling out.
He sees you gather spit, and his hole flutters around you, betraying his excitement. You let the spit fall past your lips and onto his tongue, but just as he’s about to swallow, you grasp his jaw tight, stilling him.
He whines in frustration, kicking his leg petulantly, but you deny him still.
“Stay right there,” you murmur, and lean down to lick at his tongue. It turns into a harsh kiss, biting at each other’s lips with wet groans filling up the room.
You lean back and pull his leg up, onto your shoulder, and he knows he’s about to get what he needs.
“Baby,” he whines, just for the sake of it. His hips twitch, and you allow it, until he’s practically fucking himself on you, back curved gracefully, throat exposed with his heartbeat fluttering under the soft skin.
It isn’t long until you take the lead again. You grasp his wrist and yank his arm from under him, and he lets out a dramatic yelp as he falls flat on his back.
“I’ve got you,” you purr. “I’ve got you, my Satoru.”
His cock jumps. Easy bitch that he is.
You kiss his palm, tender and sweet. Then, you guide it up to the headboard.
“Hold on.”
He clutches the wood, thighs quivering. “You gonna fuck me now?” He can’t help but taunt, biting his smiling lips. “Or do I have to wait another two years?”
You don’t dignify him with a verbal response— instead you clutch his thighs, pull out fully and slam back into him. The pace you set is deep, harsh, each hit ripping a moan from him almost against his will. The entire fucking bed rocks with your movements.
And Satoru takes it, all that you’re offering, pleasure building in stomach with every slap of your hips against his ass. Fuck, he’s gonna be so sore tomorrow.
“You sound so sweet, baby,” you purr, caressing the soft skin of his thigh. “Is it— hah, is it everything you wanted?”
Blindly, he reaches up with one hand, the other clutching the headboard so tightly he almost hears the wood groaning. You grab his wrist and pin it near his head, bending over him and folding him in half like origami, his knee to his chest and fuck—
“Unh, Y/N, fuck!”
“What, am I not doing it right?" You quip. Satoru glances up, and the borderline ravenous look on your face makes his insides twist, his hole clench around you. You hiss, lips twisting into a snarl, and your hand leaves his wrist and wraps around his throat. Satoru lets out a strangled, high-pitched whimper as you squeeze his windpipe. “Yeah,” you say through a laugh, “thought so. You feeling good, sweetheart? I bet you fucking do, yeah, when was the last time you were so loud? Come on, baby, take it, have your fill.”
Nothing coherent leaves his mouth after that, nothing except your name and moans that only keep getting louder and louder, each snap of your hips scrambling his brain further. Your pre mixed with the lube sticks to his inner thighs, your hips, your balls, slick sounds replacing the slap of your skin against his.
You’re giving so much, so quickly, after days of withdrawal it feels like he’s drowning in the pleasure, drowning in the scent of your sweat and your moans and the way you say his name so sweetly still, even when you’re fucking him like you’re actually trying to break something— it’s so much, it’s too much, too fast, it’s exactly what he needed.
You’ve given up on talking him through it, as always when you’re getting close. Your thrusting is growing more frantic, falling out of rhythm, and before he knows it he comes hard, back arching off the bed like a pornstar.
“Ah— baby, fuck!”
His come splashes on his stomach, his hips, mixing with your pre and almost frothing with the friction. The groan you let out as he tightens is sinful, god he needs to hear more of those, he needs—
He hears two loud snaps in quick succession and suddenly you gasp, covering his body as the bed literally falls apart underneath you.
And for a hot second, Satoru is stunned, panting, and horribly confused. The mind-blowing orgasm doesn’t help him gather his wits, and for a moment he wonders if he even heard correctly. Maybe he’s hallucinating? Like, you were fucking hard, but not that hard, were you?
Oh shit, maybe you were.
You’re panting harshly above him, face and neck and chest all deliciously red, the veins in your neck bulging with effort. You lean up, eyes raking over him.
“You okay? Baby, you okay?”
You sound so worried, it’s honestly sweet. But all Satoru can think about is that you fucked him so hard you broke the bed.
He laughs. High and loud and bordering on full blown cackling. He can’t lie, that’s impressive. His leg falls off your shoulder, limp and heavy.
“You broke the bed—” he lets out through wheezing, “holy shit babe, you actually broke the bed!”
You roll your eyes, pushing your hair out of your face. “Was that a lifelong dream of yours or something? It can’t be that funny.”
Oh, but it is. It really is that funny. It takes a second, but Satoru calms down, while you’re looking around helplessly like the furniture can still be saved somehow. Like you’re still looking for the culprit.
All while still inside him, hard and throbbing. And no cum of yours filling him up.
He leans up on his elbows. “Wait, Y/N, you didn’t come?”
“We really have a bigger problem right now—”
“The only big problem is your cock right now, babe,” Satoru cuts in cheekily, sitting up on your lap. He swipes two fingers in his come and smears it on your balls, fondling them while he’s at it. You hiss.
“Satoru…”
“No, really, why are those still full, huh?”
You grab his wrist to still him. “Satoru, the bed—”
“—is fucked anyway,” he finishes for you. “C’mon,” he pleads. “Who cares about that? You have more important things to focus on right now. Come in me.”
To really drive the point home, he leans in to kiss at your neck, under your jaw, and wriggles his hips teasingly.
“Come on,” he pushes. “Baby, come on, I want it so bad…”
You push to lay him down, and his heart kickstarts again. You’re so easy, too easy. He loves you, loves you, loves you.
You press your lips to his and push into him with slow thrusts, keeping the pace mild but deep. Sweat drips down your jaw to your neck and Satoru leans up to lick at it, moaning in your ear.
“So good,” he whimpers, hole wet with your pre, squelching obscenely. You grip his thighs tight, rocking your hips into him.
Overstimulation sneaks up on him with each brush of your mushroom tip on his prostate, pushing his moans into throaty, high sounds. It’s quieter, this time, less frantic, yet somehow no less animal. Not with your lips stretched into a snarl as you bite at his neck, his shoulder.
He comes before you, again, his dick spurting to the best of its ability, his come almost see-through. His entire body tightens around you and his cry of your name pushes you over the edge and finally, fuck, finally warmth floods his insides as you spill in him, pushing your hips against his like you get any deeper than you already are.
He doesn’t move; neither do you. For a few seconds, you both simply lay there, panting as you come down, skin glistening with sweat and come. You catch his lips in a slow, unhurried kiss, claiming his mouth the way you know he loves.
It takes a while before you get yourself up and moving again, and in Satoru’s eyes it’s still unacceptable. Leaving him in this emotionally vulnerable time? You’re the absolute worst.
When you dare to pull out of him, your come dripping out of his abused hole, he growls in frustration.
“Come back,” he demands.
You pat his thigh affectionately. “In a second, darling.”
“No, now.”
He kicks his leg petulantly, but you don’t relent. You move away, and Satoru groans, hiding his eyes with his arm. “Asshole,” he mutters.
You return in under a minute, but even that was too long for him. He needs to be in your arms now, immediately. He needs your warmth.
Gentle hands lift his leg onto your shoulders. You swipe a wet cloth over his skin, both cleaning and soothing him. A sigh of contentment escapes him, against his will.
When he uncovers his eyes, the smile you’re giving is so gentle, so loving that his heart squeezes.
“Happy?” you ask, fingers running up and down his leg.
Satoru nods, delightfully exhausted. “I love you,” he blurts out.
You kiss his ankle. “I love you.”
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, stealing your attention from him.
“Fuck,” you breathe when you peek at the notifications. “The elders are harassing me.”
Right. Your rematch.
Satoru chuckles. “Ditch them,” he demands. “Stay with me.”
You stay silent for a second.
“You know what?” You say after what feels like forever. “Yeah. I will.”
Sunday morning with a Toji who can’t keep his hands off you (m!reader)
Toji strolls in, hand under his shirt scratching his stomach.
“That my shirt?” you ask.
He grunts, moving your feet from under him to his lap, before he plops himself down on the sofa. “Couldn’t find any clean ones of my own.”
“Just say you like my clothes better; we both know I’ve got a greater sense of style,” you retort without much heat. Toji snorts his disagreement.
A show plays on the TV. You’re scrolling on your phone. He’s watching though he doesn’t really know what’s happening as he absentmindedly massages your feet. Weekends with your boyfriend are typically very relaxed, very sluggish. It’s a time for you both to unwind after a long week’s hard work. It’s also a time for him to get as much skinship as he’s been missing…
He squeezes a thigh, and your eyes meet his. Toji doesn’t smile, and yet there’s a glint of one in his gaze. “Again?” you ask, groaning. You try to pull your leg from his grip. You can’t. It’s impossible. He’s a hunter locked in on this morning’s breakfast. “Come on, I don’t even think I have anything left in my balls.”
You swat the hand that tries to cup said balls as he says, “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” And when you shove him away with your foot, he only grows more persistent.
Toji lunges, like a lion going for the kill, and pins your body to the sofa with his own. He lays kisses on your throat. His stubbles prick you; you don’t complain. Your Adam’s apple bobs, and that’s how he knows he’s got you — the low moan that follows is a mere cherry on top.
Hips press against each other. Bulges brush together. He’s as hard as you. That fact sends a shudder down your spine. “Toji,” you rasp.
“I know,” he mutters at your jaw. He gives your cheek a kiss before he travels down your body and tugs at your sweatpants, which are really his. “Just leave it to me.”
A warm mouth envelopes your cock, expertly consuming the length till your tip meets the back of his throat. You groan, hips rutting up. Toji throws a heavy arm over your stomach and keeps you down, unable to buck him off. The wetness of his mouth, the heat and humidity, the way his tongue flicks your leaking slit, and how hard he sucks the sensitive head — he knows just how you like it.
You grab the back of his head and push him down, wanting to fill his throat. “Fuck, Toji, ‘m gonna cum.”
That’s his cue to massage your balls and urge as much cum to spray out as possible. In record time, hot spurts paint his throat white. You grunt out his name, back arching and thighs shaking. Toji sucks it all up, guzzling on every drop, and not wasting an ounce.
He pulls back, panting and licking over his scar. His lips are shiny and swollen. Toji grins.
“See? Knew you had more in ya.”
first time writing with a male!reader and it's smut, men of Tumblr jjk please don't hate me if this is bad *cries in a corner*
Price had heard it over comms more times than he could count, my wife says, my woman hates when I’m late, I’ll ask the wife if she’s free this weekend. Ghost had assumed it was an elaborate bit, Soap swore she had to be terrifying, and Gaz was convinced she didn’t exist at all.
So when Nikolai finally invited them out to his place, some sprawling, well-hidden cabin tucked deep into the Russian countryside, the Task Force arrived prepared for anything.
Anything except this.
The door opened, and the first thing Ghost clocked was height. The second was sheer mass. The man standing there was taller than Ghost himself, broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and arms like he’d been carved out of concrete and stubbornness. A faint scar, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that looked more suited to snapping rifles than pouring tea.
He blinked at them once, slow and unimpressed.
“…Can I help you?”
Soap’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Uh...hi?”
Behind him, Nikolai’s voice carried from the kitchen, warm and familiar. “Lyubimyy? Who is it?”
The man snorted, stepping aside. “Your boys.”
Nikolai appeared a moment later, dish towel over his shoulder, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. His arm slid easily around the man’s waist, pulling him close without hesitation. “Ah. Finally. You meet my wife.”
Mmmm… fucking Robert in the janitors closet at work because he just looked so pretty that day. Your cock rammed into his hole and he practically screamed into your hand (if you didn’t cover his mouth you both would definitely be getting caught). Your other hand was up his shirt, doing very little to support his body from falling down the wall. If anything all you were doing with said hand was running it up and down his chest and teasing him. His noises vibrated your palm, you noticed that they got more frequent.
This time, you decided you’d let him cum. Otherwise he’d be pissy throughout the whole day. Whether it be with you or basically anyone. Your hand slipped from his mouth and down to his cock. You made sure to tell him to keep quiet as best as he could. Wrapping your hand around his cock, he jerked— mouth immediately opening for a gasp. “Shh..” you didn’t want to take any chances.
When Robert got back to his desk from his “break”, he seemed a lot happier than the last time Z-Team had seen him. They got to thinking and, of course, placed their bets onto what happened.
Enami Asa x Huh Yunjin x Jeon Somi x Lee Chaeyoung x Ning Yizhuo x Yeh Shuhua x m!reader
You've been sitting here for three or maybe four hours. You're not sure anymore. The numbers on your laptop stopped making sense a long time ago, but you're finally close to finishing your review for Tuesday's exam.
At some point over the years, this corner of the library basically became your spot. Your territory. Nobody ever comes back here. Seriously, nobody. You could probably disappear into this corner for weeks and they'd only notice sometime next winter.
The shelves are packed with dusty reference books nobody's touched since, apparently, 2011. The closest outlet had been hidden behind a filing cabinet you literally had to drag aside yourself.
It's the perfect place for the absolute silence studying requires. Completely forgotten by society.
Nothing bad could possibly happen here.
Then two hands suddenly cover your eyes from behind, and before you can react, a soft, sugary voice drifts right beside your ear, "Guess who."
...
Well.
Looks like your territory's been invaded.
You reach up, thumb brushing across her knuckles. Small hands. Smooth skin. Expensive perfume. "Gotta be the janitor," you say. "Pretty sure we're moving way too fast, though."
The hands pull back immediately. Then a tiny offended noise. Footsteps around the table.
"Ha. Ha. You're sooo funny, nerd. I like you already.”
Enami Asa steps into your line of sight and every coherent thought you had about thermodynamic equilibrium just evaporates. She's wearing all black. Cropped top, short skirt, boots that go halfway up her calves. Red lipstick that makes ignoring her full lips completely impossible. Her black hair falls straight past her shoulders and she's looking at you with this amused little tilt of her head.
You blink hard and rub your eyes.
Enami Asa: one of the most beautiful girls on campus. Right there, in the dead zone of the university library. Staring at you. What the fuck is happening?
"You know you're insanely hard to find, right?" she says, placing her backpack on the table before dropping into the chair across from you. She crosses her legs and leans back, eyes drifting over the dusty shelves. "Do you always hide out back here? I literally did two full laps around the building.”
"I was studying," you say, closing your laptop halfway. "Can I help you with something?"
She grins. Not in a nice way.
And you're not dumb. You get it. You've spent enough time here to understand how the whole social hierarchy thing works. Girls like Asa don't go looking for guys like you in some forgotten library corner unless they want something. Notes. Homework help. A study guide. Some favor they can cash in with a cute smile and forget about a few hours later.
"You can, actually," she says. "In fact, you might be the only person who can help me right now."
"That's a bold statement."
"I'm a bold girl," she says, adjusting in her seat until she's comfortable. Then she casually drops, like this is the most normal topic ever, "So there's this challenge going around on Twitter."
"X."
"Eat shit, it's literally the same app." She waves you off. "Anyway. It's trending right now. Me and my friends got into it too. Sort of a competition, I guess. NSFW stuff.”
Your pen stops moving.
"Oh…"
"Yeah." Now she's fully studying your face, looking way too entertained by the horror slowly spreading across it. "The idea's simple. You record yourself getting facefucked, upload it, get some likes, drive more people to your OF. Then gooners start ranking clips and arguing in the comments over which one's best. It's become this whole thing. Hashtags and all.”
You look left. You look right. You check behind you to make sure nobody has a camera pointed at this table. "Are you serious right now?" you ask.
"Of course I'm serious," she says, sounding almost offended. "Why the hell would I walk all the way to the ass end of this library and say that kind of shit to a guy like you if I wasn't serious?"
"I genuinely don't know. It's just... a pretty strange request."
"Don't be scared. Be flattered."
"I am neither of those things." You lean back in your chair. "Look, there are like ten thousand guys at this school. You literally have a different one on your arm every week. Go ask one of them."
Asa shakes her head. Just one slow motion. "Nah. Can't do that. We set a rule that every one of us has to find a different guy for the video." She leans back a little. "Has to be a nerd. Someone who'd normally have zero chance with any of us. That's the whole trend."
You stare at her for a few long seconds. "Damn, Asa. Really appreciate you putting me in the 'absolutely no shot' category.”
She laughs, loud enough that it echoes through the shelves and instantly makes you paranoid someone nearby heard the conversation. "Don't take it like that. Seriously. It's not even an insult. Think of it as charity." Her head tilts slightly. "Besides..." Her eyes narrow a little as she looks at you. "You've actually got something going on. Nerd glasses, messy hair… It's kinda cute."
"Amazing. Please engrave that on my grave."
"Stop being so dramatic."
"No. That's my final answer," you say immediately. "Find another victim.”
Asa gets to her feet. Then she does something that completely fries your remaining brain cells. She circles the table at an annoyingly calm pace and sits right in your lap. Just... casually. Her arm drapes over your shoulder while she gives you this ridiculous pout.
"Pleeease?" she says, all soft and sweet. "It'll take like five minutes. Nobody comes back here anyway. You've been hiding in this corner for hours and not one person walked past." She adjusts herself slightly. “I just need you to lend your cock and hold the phone. That's it."
You blink at her. "I can't believe this trend actually exists."
"Oh, it exists.” She already has her phone out. She pulls it from her skirt pocket and drops back onto your lap, scrolling lazily. “See? Hashtag RuinThePrettyFace. It blew up like four days ago.”
She holds the phone inches from your face. One clip after another. Smudged eyeliner. Sloppy expressions. Girls posing for the camera after getting absolutely wrecked. Your eyebrows climb higher with every swipe. Then she opens her own profile. Asa’s account is basically curated nude photography. Soft lighting. artsy filters. Careful angles. Nude after nude after nude.
"Because I have dignity. And you should try having some too. What you're describing is slutty."
She pulls back just enough to look you dead in the eyes. Zero shame. Zero hesitation. "But I am a slut," she says simply. "So that argument doesn't really work on me. Please," she repeats. "I'll do anything."
"Anything?”
"Anything." A pause. Then she laughs, catching herself. "Well. I can't exactly offer you sex as a reward because that's basically what's already going to happen. So that's off the table as a bargaining chip." She taps her chin, pretending to think. "Buuut you'll have my gratitude. My eternal, undying gratitude!”
"And what the fuck am I supposed to do with your gratitude?"
"I don't know, maybe shove it up your ass and stop playing hard to get?!" She hops off your lap and does a little spin in the aisle between shelves, arms out, letting you look. She stops facing you, one hand on her hip. "Look at me," she demands. "I'm hot. I'm perfect. Any guy on this campus would sell a kidney to be sitting where you're sitting right now. And you're telling me no? Be so fucking for real, dude.”
You rub your temples. "You're actually insane."
"Maybe. But I'm also not leaving until you say yes. I'll sit here all night. I'll follow you to your car. I'll show up at your next class. I will make this so much worse for you if you keep being difficult."
"That's called harassment."
"Call campus security then. Tell them Enami Asa won't stop asking you to let her suck your dick. See how much sympathy you get."
You let out a long breath through your nose. She's got you cornered and she knows it. You can see it all over her pretty face already, that smug little grin spreading because she's realized she's winning.
"Fuck me..." you mutter.
"Is that a yes?!"
You close your laptop with a soft click. Pinch the bridge of your nose beneath your glasses. Then you look up at her. At the ridiculously gorgeous girl standing between rows of dusty shelves in that little black outfit, red lips, and absolutely zero sense of shame. You make a decision that's either going to haunt you forever or randomly hit you at age eighty and make you smile. "Fine. Make it quick.”
Asa actually lights up. She bounces on her heels and claps once before she can stop herself. "Yes! Okay! Perfect!" She grins at you. "You seriously won't regret this.”
"I already regret this." She starts to lower herself to her knees right there, but you raise a hand and she freezes. "Wait," you say. "Can we at least make out a little first? Just to, you know… set the mood. I can't just go from thermodynamics to getting my dick sucked with no transition."
She stares at you for a second before rolling her eyes so hard it's honestly impressive.
"Oh my god." A sigh. "Fine. Sure. Whatever you need."
She comes back and sits on your lap again, this time facing you fully, her knees on either side of your thighs in the library chair. Your hands find her waist on pure instinct, settling on the strip of bare skin between her top and her skirt. She's warm. Unbelievably warm.
"You're unfairly hot, by the way. I'm having a hard time believing this is a real situation right now."
"I know," she says immediately, completely shameless. Her hands slide onto your shoulders. "Now enough with the compliments. Kiss me.”
You kiss her. It starts slow because you're still half convinced this is an elaborate prank and someone's going to jump out from behind the reference section with a camera. But Asa's lips are soft and she tastes like mint and whatever that expensive lipstick is made of, and your brain stops looking for the trap pretty quickly. Your hands settle on her waist, thumbs pressing into the narrow strip of bare skin above her skirt. She's tiny under your palms. You can almost feel her ribs.
She's good at this. Obviously she's good at this. Her tongue finds yours and she tilts her head just right, and there's this little sound that comes out of her, this quiet, pleased hum against your mouth that makes your fingers tighten on her waist without you meaning to. She shifts on your lap, pressing closer, and her hands slide from your shoulders to the back of your neck.
You're getting into it. Really getting into it. Your hand starts to drift up her side and she makes another sound, breathier this time, and you can feel the vibration of it through her whole body. Then she turns her head, breaking the kiss, and her palm lands flat on your chest. "Okay, okay. Enough."
"What?"
"I said enough." She wipes the corner of her mouth with her pinky finger, checking for smudges. "You're going to ruin my lipstick before we even start. My makeup needs to get destroyed on camera, not during the warm up."
"You have very specific priorities."
"I have excellent priorities." She rolls her hips once on your lap, settling her weight, and then goes completely still. You watch her expression shift. Her eyes drop down between your bodies, then come back up to your face. "Well," she says, and there's something new in the way she's looking at you. "I think we can start."
She picks up her phone from the table, slides off your lap, and drops to her knees on the library carpet. She taps the screen a few times, opens the camera app, and holds the phone out to you. "Here. You're filming."
You take it. "Vertical or horizontal?"
“Of course it’s vertical. This is Twitter content, not cinema.”
You angle the phone. She reaches for your belt. Her fingers work the buckle loose, then the button, then the zipper, and she's efficient about it, tugging your jeans down your thighs with a little help from you lifting your hips. Your boxers are still on. The outline of you through the fabric is, well… it's pretty obvious.
Asa pauses. Her hands don't move, still resting at your waistband, but her eyes do. They settle on the bulge and stay there.
"Huh?'' she mutters.
Then she pulls your boxers down. Your cock springs free and bobs once, heavy and thick, settling against your lower stomach. The shaft is fat, veiny, flushed. In the dim lighting of the library corner, it looks even bigger than usual, and Asa is just kneeling there, looking at it, her hands frozen in midair. "Wow," she says quietly. Then, louder, like she's trying to convince herself as much as you. "Okay. This might be harder than I imagined."
You look down at her. "You can always give up."
Her head snaps up. The shock on her face converts instantly to pure, offended determination. "Excuse me? You think I'm afraid of a big cock? Are you seriously sitting there telling Enami Asa to give up?"
"I'm just saying."
"Don't underestimate me." She wraps her fingers around the base and the tips barely meet her thumb. She stares at that for a second, jaw flexing, then shakes it off. "Okay. Here's how this works. I'm going to suck your dick first. Get it nice and wet, do my thing. Then when I tap your thigh twice, like this," she demonstrates, two quick pats on your leg, "that's your signal. That means you can start fucking my face. Got it?" You nod. "Use one hand for the phone, one hand on the back of my head. And keep the angle tight on my face. This isn't about you, this is about me looking good."
"And then looking bad."
"And then looking incredible while looking bad." She adjusts her position on her knees, straightens her back, flips her hair over one shoulder. "You can start recording."
You hit the red button. The timer starts counting in the corner of the screen.
The shift is immediate. Asa was already pretty, already the kind of person who pulled attention without trying, but the second the camera goes live, something changes. Something clicks into place. Her posture straightens slightly. Her chin lifts. A slow smile pulls at her lips. Suddenly she isn't looking at you anymore. She's looking at the lens. Looking at the people on the other side of it. The ones who'll watch this alone in bed at some stupid hour of the night.
And just like that, she's performing.
She leans forward and presses her lips to the tip of your cock. Just a kiss. The red lipstick leaves a faint mark on your skin and she pulls back to admire it, still smiling at the camera. Then her tongue comes out, flat and pink, and she drags it across the head in one slow pass. Another kiss, this time on the underside, right where the shaft meets the ridge. She's teasing. Taking her time. Making sure the camera catches every angle of her pretty face against your thick cock.
She licks a long stripe from the base to the tip, her dark eyes locked on the lens the entire time. Then another. Then she swirls her tongue around the head, slow and wet, collecting the precum that's already beading at the slit. She holds it on her tongue for a beat, letting the camera see it, then swallows and licks her lips clean.
She opens her mouth and takes you in. The feeling is insane. Her mouth is hot and tight and her tongue does this thing where it presses flat against the underside of your shaft as she sinks down, creating this slick pressure that makes your toes curl in your shoes. She takes about half of you on the first pass, which given the girth is genuinely impressive, and her cheeks hollow as she pulls back up.
And she looks so fucking beautiful doing it. Enami Asa, on her knees on the library floor, with her black outfit and her red lipstick and her sharp little face stuffed full of your cock. The visual is so absurd, so completely disconnected from everything your life has been up to this point, that you almost forget to keep the phone steady.
She sucks you with purpose. Bobbing her head in a steady rhythm, taking a little more each time, letting the spit build up until it's coating your shaft in a slick layer. She pulls off with a wet sound and spits on your cock, a thick string that drips down the length, and then her fist wraps around you and pumps, spreading it, twisting at the head. She jacks you off with both hands for a few strokes, watching the way your cock throbs in her grip, and then she's back on it, hungrier this time.
You can feel her jaw stretching around you. Can see the effort in the way her brow furrows slightly, the way her throat works as she tries to accommodate the width. But she doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. She finds her rhythm and sticks with it, her head moving in smooth, controlled bobs, her lips sealed tight, her tongue working the underside.
She pulls off just long enough to glance up at you. Not at the camera this time. At you.
"You better be getting my good side," she murmurs, her fist still pumping slowly.
"You're kind of busy to be giving direction."
"I'm always giving direction." She licks the tip once more, then sinks back down.
A minute passes. The wet sounds of her mouth on you fill the quiet corner of the library, obscenely loud in the silence. Spit drips from her chin onto her black top. Her lipstick is starting to smear, red bleeding past the edges of her lips, staining your shaft in uneven rings.
Then you feel it. Two quick taps on your thigh. She takes you back into her mouth, both hands dropping to rest on your knees, and tilts her head up so the camera can catch her full face. Her eyes are glassy. Her lips are swollen. She looks up at you through her lashes and gives the smallest nod.
You adjust the phone in your right hand, making sure the frame is tight on her face. Then your left hand slides to the back of her head, fingers threading through her dark hair, and you grip.
Your fingers tighten in her hair. You guide her head forward, slow, feeling the resistance of her throat as your cock pushes deeper than she was taking it on her own. Asa's hands grip your knees and her jaw stretches wide, lips pulling taut around your girth. She gags once, a tight spasm at the back of her throat, and you pull her back. She gasps, spit connecting her lower lip to your shaft in a thin strand, and before she can fully recover you push her down again.
The rhythm is careful at first. You're testing how much she can handle, reading the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers flex against your legs. Each push goes a little deeper. Each pull gives her just enough time to suck in a quick breath before you feed her your cock again. The wet sounds are filthy in the silence of the library. Every gag, every slick glide of her lips echoes off the bookshelves.
Asa's brow creases. She's concentrating, trying to relax her throat, but the girth keeps catching her. You can feel it, the involuntary tightening each time the thickest part of your shaft hits the back of her mouth. Her eyes water. Not crying, just the reflexive response of her body fighting what her brain has decided it's going to do. She breathes hard through her nose, hot bursts against your pelvis, and pushes through.
You set a pace. Your hand guides her head in smooth bobs, your hips rolling up to meet her on the downstroke. Spit builds and spills from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin in messy lines. The red lipstick is wrecked now, smeared in wide streaks across her cheeks and along your shaft, leaving your cock painted in uneven bands of crimson. Her mascara holds for a while, longer than you'd expect, but the constant watering finally wins and dark smudges start bleeding beneath her lower lashes.
She pulls off your cock abruptly, gasping, a thick rope of saliva stretching from her lips to your head before snapping and landing on her chin. She coughs once, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the lipstick further. Her eyes are glassy and red rimmed when she looks up at you.
"How is it," she asks between breaths. "How do I look?"
You angle the phone down at her, making sure the frame catches everything. The ruined lipstick, the mascara tracking down her cheeks, the spit glistening on her chin and neck, the way her usually perfect hair is sticking to the damp skin of her forehead.
"Beautiful," you say. "Completely ruined. You look incredible."
"Good," she says. "That's the point." She opens her mouth and takes you back in, and this time you don't start slow. Your grip tightens in her hair and you thrust up into her mouth with real intent, your hips snapping, the back of her throat meeting your cock on every stroke. Asa groans around you, the sound vibrating through your entire shaft, and her hands fly to your thighs for balance.
The pace is punishing now. Her head bobs in your grip, guided by your hand, and the sounds coming from her mouth are obscene. Wet, choked, guttural. Drool pours freely, coating your balls, dripping onto the carpet between her knees. Her black top is spotted with dark wet patches. She gags hard on a deep thrust and you hold her there for a second, your cock buried to the hilt, her nose pressed against your pelvis, feeling her throat convulse around you before you let her up.
She pulls back just far enough to breathe, her lips still brushing the head, and looks up at you with those ruined, watery eyes.
"Fuck," she pants. "This cock is so thick. I can barely fit it in my mouth." She jacks you with one hand, spit making the motion effortless, her small fingers unable to close around the circumference. "How does a little nerd end up with something like this? It's not fair."
"Genetics," you manage.
"Shut up." She licks a flat stripe up the underside, collecting the mess of spit and precum. "I'm serious, this thing is fat. My jaw is going to be sore for a week." She presses her lips to the head, almost affectionately, then opens wide and takes you deep again.
You fuck her face harder. The library is dead quiet except for the relentless, sloppy rhythm of your cock in her throat. Asa has given up trying to look composed. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears cutting clean tracks through her smudged mascara. Her cheeks are flushed pink beneath the mess of ruined makeup. Spit and drool coat her entire chin, dripping in long strings onto her chest. She looks nothing like the sharp, immaculate girl who sat down across from you twenty minutes ago.
She looks better.
Your balls tighten. The pressure that's been building low in your stomach pulls into a hard knot and you feel the edge approaching fast. Asa must feel it too, the way your cock swells, the way your grip shifts in her hair, because her eyes open and lock onto yours. She doesn't pull back. She grabs your hip with one hand and pulls you deeper, taking your cock into her throat until her lips stretch around the base, and holds herself there.
You cum. The first shot fires directly into her throat and Asa's eyes go wide. You can see the muscles in her neck working, trying to swallow around the sudden flood. Your cock pulses again, a second thick load, then a third, each one making her throat bob as she struggles to keep up. It's a lot. More than she expected, clearly, because her eyes start to water fresh and you can hear this strained, gurgling sound as she tries to swallow without pulling off.
She manages. Barely. Her throat works overtime, gulping, swallowing, her fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to leave marks. Some of it escapes, a thick white trail leaking from the corner of her sealed lips, running down her chin, dripping onto her collarbone. She stays on you through the last few pulses, her throat milking every drop, until you finally stop throbbing and your grip in her hair loosens.
Asa pulls off slowly. Your cock slides from between her lips with a slick, heavy sound, and she sits back on her heels, breathing hard.
Her face is destroyed. The red lipstick exists only in faint, smeared traces across her cheeks and chin. Her mascara has bled into dark streaks that reach almost to her jawline. Her eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in red, lashes clumped together with moisture. Drool and cum coat her chin, her neck, the front of her top. Her hair is tangled and damp where your fingers gripped it.
She looks at the camera and smiles. This wide, satisfied, absolutely filthy smile, cum still glistening on her lower lip. She holds the look for a few seconds, letting the camera drink it in.
You stop recording. The timer reads eleven minutes and forty seven seconds. Your thumb hits the red button and the screen freezes on the last frame. Asa on her knees, wrecked, smiling. "How'd it turn out," she asks, her speech slightly hoarse. She reaches for the water bottle on the table and takes a long drink.
You scroll back through the footage, skimming. "Pretty good, actually. You have a genuine talent for this."
"I have a talent for most things." She holds her hand out. "Let me see." You pass her the phone and she watches sections of the clip, scrubbing through with her thumb, pausing on certain moments. Her expression is clinical now, analytical. She's reviewing footage, not reliving the experience.
"When are you posting it," you ask, pulling your boxers back up, getting your jeans situated.
"Probably tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. I still need to throw the video into Premiere and polish the edit a bit.”
"...You're editing blowjob footage in Premiere. Okay, sure. I don't know why I'm still surprised."
"Well yeah?" She looks at you like you're the weird one. "The lighting back here was awful. I need to fix the exposure, warm up the colors a little, cut out the dead space at the beginning..." She swipes through the footage. "Probably clean up the framing too. Blur anything that points back to you. Add captions… I'm not uploading raw footage. Be serious.”
You stare at her. "Is all that really necessary? It's a blowjob video, not a short film."
"It is absolutely necessary. You can't just upload raw footage like some amateur. Quality matters. Presentation matters. This is going on my page, and my page has an aesthetic."
She puts the phone down, reaches for her backpack on the table, and pulls out a small face towel and a compact mirror. She flips the mirror open and examines her reflection, tilting her head side to side, cataloguing the damage. Then she starts cleaning up, wiping the mascara streaks, the spit, the residue from her chin and neck.
"Thank you, by the way," she says, not looking up from the mirror. "Your dick is really nice. Genuinely. It looked great in the video. The size contrast between me and that thing is pretty hot."
"Thank you. I guess."
"You're welcome. I guess." She mimics your tone without missing a beat, still dabbing at her face. "You can leave now. I need to finish putting myself back together and I can't do that with you watching me."
You gather your laptop, your notes, your pens. Everything goes into your backpack. You zip it shut and stand up, pushing the chair back under the table. "Hey. One thing."
"What."
"Change my voice in the video. Pitch it up or down, whatever. Just alter it enough that nobody can identify me."
She waves dismissively. "Already planned on it. I'll run it through a filter. I'm a pro at this stuff." She meets your eyes in the mirror's reflection. "Now bye."
"Bye, Asa." You sling your backpack over your shoulder and walk out of the dead zone of the library, past the dusty reference shelves, back toward the main floor where normal people are doing normal things. The late afternoon sun hits you through the library's front windows as you push through the doors. Fresh air fills your lungs. You adjust your glasses, fix your hair, and start walking toward the parking lot.
It was a little degrading. You're aware of that. You just let a girl you barely know use you for content, boss you around, and treat you like a prop in her social media strategy. That part stings, a bit, if you think about it too hard.
On the other hand, it was also one of the best orgasms of your life. So maybe sitting with it too long isn't necessary.
—
The girls have officially taken over the theater lobby.
Ning’s holding a popcorn bucket almost as big as she is, carefully picking out the best coated pieces first. Shuhua has already loaded up on candy and a slushie. Yunjin’s in the middle of debating the water bottle policy with the cashier. Somi’s texting someone nonstop. Chaeyoung is fully invested in the ingredients list on a candy box for reasons nobody understands. Asa is standing slightly apart from the group, examining her nails.
“Has anyone recorded it yet?" Ning asks, popping a kernel into her mouth. "The challenge, I mean. I haven't even picked a guy."
General murmurs of negation ripple through the group. Shuhua shakes her head. Yunjin is still fighting the cashier. Somi doesn't look up from her phone. Chaeyoung quietly puts the candy box back on the shelf.
"I have," Asa says.
Every head turns.
"Already?" Shuhua's eyes go wide. "It's been like two days since we agreed on this."
"It was this afternoon, actually." Asa inspects a cuticle with surgical focus. "I finished about four hours ago."
Ning abandons her popcorn curation entirely. "Send it. Right now. Group chat."
"Absolutely not. I haven't finished editing. The raw footage needs color correction, the audio is unbalanced, and I want to add text overlays for the—"
"Oh my god, just send the raw version,” Ning groans.
"No. You'll see it when it's ready."
Shuhua leans in, lowering her tone even though nobody else in the lobby is paying attention. "Is it someone from our college?"
"Yes."
"Someone we know?"
Asa lets out a short laugh. “Absolutely not. He’s literally just some random library guy. Total loser. But Jesus Christ, his dick is huge. Like, weirdly huge. I was not mentally prepared for that at all.” Ning's eyebrows climb her forehead. "It was fucking hard to handle," Asa continues, touching her throat absently. "My throat still hurts a little, honestly. The girth on that thing was insane."
"The quiet ones always pack," Yunjin offers, having apparently won her water bottle argument. She rejoins the group with the confidence of a courtroom victor. "It's like a rule of the universe."
Chaeyoung has been quiet this whole time, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She clears her throat softly. "I've been thinking, and I might not do the challenge. I don't think I can just walk up to some random guy and ask him to, you know. I'd rather die."
Somi finally looks up from her phone. She crosses the gap between them in two long strides and puts her hand on Chaeyoung's shoulder. Firm. Decisive. "You're not backing out," Somi tells her. "I won't allow it."
"But I literally cannot approach a stranger and say those things to his face. I would combust."
"Then don't. You're recording with me. We'll do it as a duo."
Chaeyoung blinks. "Wait, really?"
Yunjin nods encouragingly. "If you want, we can help you find someone too. I know a few guys in my econ lecture who would probably pass out if you looked at them."
Somi cuts her off. "No need. I already have someone picked out. Chae records with me, I handle the talking, she just needs to show up and look pretty." She squeezes Chaeyoung's shoulder. "Easy."
Relief floods Chaeyoung's face. "Okay. If we're doing it together, then yeah. I'm in. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just bring lip gloss and a hair tie."
Asa tilts her head, considering the arrangement. "A duo is smart, actually. The contrast will look really good on camera. Two girls, one cock. The timeline will eat that up."
"It's going to be so hot," Ning agrees, pulling out her phone to check the trending hashtag.
Armed with popcorn, candy, and oversized drinks, the six of them file into the theater. They talk about the movie previews, assignments, dumb campus gossip. As if they’re not all going into this week with the exact same goal: finding someone with a nice dick.
—
The next day arrives. You're walking through the main corridor on the second floor, laptop bag over your shoulder, earbuds in, heading toward your next lecture. The hallway is busy. Students moving between classes, conversations overlapping, the usual controlled chaos of midday foot traffic.
"Hey, you!"
You don't react. That shout belongs to someone else's life.
"Hey! I'm talking to you! Glasses!"
Still probably not you. Lots of people wear glasses. You keep walking. Fast footsteps come up behind you, then a manicured hand lands on your shoulder and whips you around surprisingly hard.
Jeon Somi stands in front of you.
Blonde hair spilling over her shoulders in soft waves. A designer jacket thrown over a top that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide her massive breasts. Long legs wrapped in fitted jeans. Sharp cheekbones, light brown eyes, and a look that feels dangerously close to a threat.
“Are you deaf?” she asks bluntly.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize you were talking to me. People don’t usually yell at me in hallways.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” Her gaze drags over you from head to toe, quick but thorough, leaving you feeling weirdly inspected. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where? Why?”
She doesn't answer. She grabs your hand and starts walking. Not beside you. Ahead of you. Pulling you behind her like a rolling suitcase. Her grip is strong and her strides are long and you have to half jog to keep up without tripping. People notice immediately. Heads turn. Conversations pause. You catch students doing double takes as you pass. Two guys from your programming class nearly short-circuit when they see Jeon Somi towing you down the hall.
And yeah, you get why. Everyone knows who she is. The leaked nude scandal last semester made sure of that. So did the endless rumors afterward, the guys she’s been seen with, the stories people tell about her like she’s some campus celebrity. Someone like her choosing someone like you feels fundamentally wrong to everyone watching.
By tomorrow, half the school is probably going to know your name too.
Somi takes you up a stairwell. First floor, second floor, third floor. Down a corridor that gets progressively emptier. Past classrooms that are clearly in use, then past ones that aren't. The fluorescent lights up here flicker intermittently. One of the ceiling tiles has a water stain shaped like Florida.
"Somi. What do you want so badly that you had to physically drag me across the building."
"It's just a favor," she says over her shoulder.
And there it is. That word again. Favor. The exact same word Asa used yesterday at your table in the library, right before she dropped the most insane proposition you’d ever heard in your life. Suddenly the pieces line up perfectly in your head. They know each other. Asa and Somi. Same friend group. Same social circle. Same weird fucking challenge.
Yesterday it was Asa. Today it’s Somi.
You stop walking and pull your hand free from her grip. She turns around, annoyed, "What?!"
"This is about that challenge. The Twitter thing."
Somi stares at you for a beat. "You know about it?"
"I'm familiar, yeah."
"Great. So I don't need to waste time explaining." She folds her arms under her chest, drawing your attention exactly where she probably expects it to go. “Are you in?”
"Why me specifically?"
"Because you're the most pathetic looking guy on this campus." She says it without a shred of hesitation or remorse. "But you're also decent enough that I wouldn't gag just from touching your dick. That's a narrow window, and congratulations, you fit through it."
"That's the worst compliment anyone has ever given me."
"It wasn't a compliment." The two of you are standing outside a classroom at the very end of the corridor. A laminated sign taped to the door reads CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE.
"This is where you picked," you say, looking at the sign. "A room that's closed for maintenance."
"Nobody will come in here. It's been shut for two weeks."
"A ceiling panel could literally fall on our heads."
"It's not going to." She pushes the handle and the door swings open. "Stop making excuses and get in."
You step into the classroom. The room is dim, lit only by thin strips of sunlight slipping through the blinds along the far wall. Desks have been shoved aside in crooked rows, and dust drifts lazily through the light. Half-erased equations still cover the whiteboard, leftovers from whatever class used this room last. And at the front of the room, perched casually on the professor’s desk, is a girl you’ve seen around campus but never spoken to. She has a pretty, sculpted face, big round eyes and dark hair with faint highlights catching the light. She's wearing an oversized cream colored sweater and a plaid skirt; the whole look makes her seem way too cozy and cute for a place this depressing.
She sneezes violently out of nowhere.
“Somi!” she groans, rubbing at her nose. “This room is disgusting. I’ve been here fifteen minutes and I’m pretty sure I’ve developed lung disease.”
"Stop being dramatic, Chae. A little dust never killed anyone." She closes the door behind you and strides further into the room. She motions between you and the girl on the desk like she’s hosting introductions at some awkward social event. “This is the guy I was talking about. Nerd boy, meet Chaeyoung. Chaeyoung, meet nerd boy.”
Chaeyoung hops down from the desk, landing lightly on her sneakers. She’s almost the same height as Somi, though Somi still has a couple inches on her. "I've seen you around before," she says. "You're usually in the library, right? Or sitting by the fountain near the engineering building."
"Yeah, that's my usual orbit."
"We've never actually spoken, though." She extends her hand. "I'm Chaeyoung. Lee Chaeyoung."
You shake it. Her grip is gentle, her palm warm. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too."
Finally, you think. Someone with basic social skills and a functioning sense of decency. You glance between the two of them. They're both wearing a noticeable amount of makeup. Chaeyoung has this soft, glowy look, peachy tones and delicate details. Somi went heavier. Contoured cheekbones, defined brows, lips glossed to a mirror finish. They look like they're ready for a photoshoot, not a afternoon on the third floor of a building with water stained ceiling tiles.
"Great," Somi announces, clapping her hands once. "Now that we all know each other and we've done the little handshake thing, let's record."
You lean against one of the pushed aside desks. "Can I ask what the point of this is? Genuinely. What do either of you gain from recording this?"
"Likes," Somi says immediately. "Followers. Engagement. Clout. Take your pick."
"And that's worth it?"
"We don't care what you think. It's none of your business what we do with the video." She crosses her arms. "You're here to provide a service. That's it."
Chaeyoung shifts her weight, tugging at the cuff of her oversized sweater. "I almost gave up on the whole thing, honestly. I know it's kind of crazy. Like, objectively, this is insane behavior."
"It is insane behavior," you confirm.
"But she's here now," Somi cuts in, putting her arm around Chaeyoung's shoulders. "And she is not backing down. Right, Chae?"
"Right. Yeah. I'm here. I'm doing it."
Somi turns her attention back to you, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Speaking of which. Your dick. Is it at least big? Because I swear to god, if I dragged you up three flights of stairs and you pull out a micropenis, I will be furious."
"It's decent."
"Decent, huh? That's exactly what guys say when they have a tiny cock. Every single time. 'It's decent.' 'It gets the job done.' And then you pull their pants down and it's like finding a AA battery in a sock."
"That's a very specific image. Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Don't test me right now."
Chaeyoung steps forward, putting herself slightly between you and Somi. "Can you stop being so mean to him? He's already doing us a favor by agreeing to this. The least you can do is be civil."
Somi rolls her eyes with her entire body. Her head tilts back, her shoulders drop, her hands fly up. "Please. Look at him, Chae. Look at this guy. He has never received a blowjob in his life. We are going to be the first people to ever touch his dick. He should be on his knees thanking us for the privilege."
"That's not true," you say. "I've had sex before."
"Sure you have."
"I'm serious. I actually got a blowjob yesterday."
Both of them look at you. Chaeyoung with genuine curiosity. Somi with theatrical disbelief. "Oh, really?" Somi takes a step closer, tilting her head. "Who gave you a blowjob yesterday? Name and surname, please."
The name almost leaves your mouth. It sits right there on the tip of your tongue, ready to go. And for a split second you consider it, because telling Somi that her friend already used you for this exact challenge would probably create enough chaos to shut this whole thing down. Asa mentioned that every girl had to pick a different guy. If Somi finds out she's not the first, that Asa already had you, she'd lose her mind.
Better to keep that card in your back pocket.
"It's personal," you say.
Somi stares at you for two full seconds, then turns to Chaeyoung. "See? Obvious lie. He panicked and couldn't even make up a name." She points at a chair near the center of the room. "Now sit over there."
You grab your backpack, drop it in the corner by the door, and sit in the chair she indicated. It's one of those standard classroom chairs with the little desk arm attached, but you push the arm out of the way and settle in. Somi is already moving around the room, scouting angles. She finds a spot on a shelf near the whiteboard, props her phone against a stack of old textbooks, and adjusts the lean until she's satisfied with the frame.
"The phone stays here,” she explains, tapping the screen. “It'll get both of us in the shot."
"Professional setup,” you say.
"I don't do amateur." She walks back toward you, Chaeyoung falling into step beside her. "Here's how this works. It's simple. The goal is for us to get facefucked until our makeup is ruined. That's the whole point of the trend. Cute face goes in, wrecked face comes out. So you need to not cum in thirty seconds like some premature disaster. Hold it together until our makeup is properly smudged. Can you manage that?"
"I think I can handle it," you say.
Somi raises an eyebrow. "You think?"
"... I'll handle it," you correct.
She nods once and starts heading toward the phone to hit record, but you lift a hand.
"Wait. One thing."
She stops and turns. "What now?"
"Can you show me your tits? Just... help me out a little. Get things moving."
The look she gives you is lethal. You're genuinely not sure if she's about to slap you or walk out. "You're such a pervert."
"You're about to do all this for Twitter likes. I don't think I'm the only pervert in this room.”
Chaeyoung lets out a laugh, immediately stifled behind her hand. Somi shoots her a look and Chaeyoung straightens her face, pressing her lips together.
"Fine," Somi mutters, then reaches back and taps the record button on her phone. She walks back over to you, stops right in front of your chair, and shrugs off her jacket with way more force than necessary, tossing it onto the floor. Then, without hesitation, she grabs the hem of her top and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. She'd been going braless this whole time.
And her breasts are genuinely, absurdly large. Full and round on her narrow frame, heavy enough to bounce slightly from the motion of pulling her top off. Her skin is smooth, even toned, her nipples a soft pink against the pale expanse.
She stands there with her hands on her hips, topless and defiant. "Happy now, pervert?"
Chaeyoung is pulling at the collar of her cream sweater, fanning herself. "God, it really is hot in here. No ventilation at all." She tugs the sweater over her head and folds it neatly, setting it on a desk. Underneath she's wearing a simple white bra. Her chest is small, barely filling the cups, her collarbones delicate and pronounced above the band.
The contrast is staggering. Somi's huge, bare breasts next to Chaeyoung's petite frame in her little white bra. The tall, aggressive blonde towering over the soft, nervous brunette. Both of them in front of you, half undressed, in a locked classroom on the third floor of a building nobody visits.
Your cock is hard. Fully, uncomfortably hard, straining against the front of your jeans. There's no hiding it and you don't try. "Okay," Somi says, her eyes dropping to your lap for a fraction of a second. "Let's begin."
She kneels in front of the chair. Chaeyoung follows, settling on her knees to Somi's right. Somi's hands go to your belt, her long fingers working the buckle with efficiency. She yanks your jeans down your thighs with both hands, and your boxers come with them. She doesn't bother with the slow reveal. She pulls everything to your ankles in one sharp tug and your cock springs free, slapping against your stomach, thick and fully hard.
Somi stops. Her hands are still on the bunched fabric at your knees. Her eyes are locked on your cock. Her lips part, just slightly, and you watch her throat move as she swallows. "What the fuck," she mutters.
Chaeyoung, kneeling beside her, has gone completely still. Her mouth is open. Her eyes are wide. She's staring at your cock the way people stare at car accidents. Unable to look away, unable to process what she's seeing.
"Okay, that's..." She cuts herself off and stares for another second. "No. Hold on… That is actually the biggest dick I've ever seen in my entire life." She looks back up at you. "I'm being serious.”
Somi recovers. She flips her hair over one shoulder and wraps her fingers around the base. They don't close. Her fingertips fall about a centimeter short of her thumb.
"Well," she says, tone forcibly casual. "At least you won't embarrass us in the video."
"That's all you have to say?" Chaeyoung is still gaping. "Somi, look at this thing."
"I'm looking at it. I'm literally holding it. Stop acting like you've never seen a cock."
"Not one like this."
Somi starts stroking. Slow, tight pulls from base to tip, her grip adjusting to accommodate the girth. Her palm is slick with nothing but her own sweat and it's not enough, so she leans forward and spits. A thick, glossy string that lands on the shaft and she spreads it with her fist, twisting on the upstroke. Chaeyoung reaches out tentatively and wraps her smaller hand around the shaft just below Somi's. Her fingers look even more inadequate against the thickness. She strokes in tandem, following Somi's rhythm, and you can see the fascination on her face. She's studying your cock like it's a specimen, tilting her head, watching the way the veins pulse under her fingers.
"I literally do not know how I'm going to fit this in my mouth," Chaeyoung says quietly.
"The harder it is to take, the hotter it'll look on camera," Somi says, pumping steadily. "Trust me. You're gonna look amazing struggling with it. Just try not to throw up on his cock. I'm not doing another take because your gag reflex decided to betray us."
Chaeyoung immediately scrunches up her face. "Ew. Why would you even say that?"
"Because I'm thinking ahead.”
You lean back in the chair, watching both of their hands work your shaft. "Somi, quick suggestion: instead of talking about vomit, maybe switch gears and give me a titjob. Feels a lot more productive.”
Somi's head snaps up. "Who do you think you are? Asking me for a titjob? This isn't about your pleasure, this is about our content. You have no rights here. You're a prop."
Chaeyoung glances between you and Somi. "Actually, that would look really good on camera,” you explain.
"Excuse me?"
"Think about it," you say, keeping your tone light, reasonable. "Your tits wrapped around my cock, all wet and shiny with spit. Glistening in the light. That's premium content. The timeline would lose their minds."
"God, fine!” Somi snaps. "But only because it'll look good. Not because you asked." She shifts forward on her knees, positioning herself between your legs. She grabs your cock and angles it straight up, then presses her breasts together around the shaft.
The visual is pornographic: your thick cock disappearing into the soft, warm valley of her massive tits, the head poking out from the top of her cleavage on every upstroke. "Chae, spit on it," she orders.
Chaeyoung leans in and spits on the head of your cock, a neat string that drips down the shaft and into Somi's cleavage. Somi starts moving, sliding her breasts up and down, using her hands to press them tight around you. The friction is insane. Warm and slick and pillowy, her soft skin squeezing your girth from both sides.
She finds her rhythm, bouncing her tits on your cock with smooth rolls of her torso. More spit from Chaeyoung. More from Somi herself, leaning down to drool on your shaft before pressing it back between her breasts. The saliva mixes with the thin sheen of sweat building on her skin, and soon her entire chest is glistening, your cock sliding effortlessly through the slick channel.
"There," Somi says, watching the head of your cock emerge from her cleavage on each upstroke. "Happy now?"
"Extremely."
"Enjoy it. This is the only titjob you'll ever get from these." She works you for another minute, her breasts bouncing and jiggling with each motion, wet and gleaming in the dusty light filtering through the blinds. Your cock throbs between them, flushed and leaking, leaving trails of precum that mix with the saliva coating her skin. Eventually Somi pulls back, her breasts separating from your shaft with a slick sound.
"Okay. Enough warmup. Time for the real thing." She grabs your cock and angles it toward her face. "Don't go easy on me. I can handle whatever you've got."
You put your hand on the back of her head. Blonde hair, silky and thick between your fingers. You pull her forward and your cock slides past her glossy lips, stretching them wide. Somi takes half of you on the first push, her jaw straining around the girth, and you feel her throat clench as you hit the back of her mouth. You pull back, then push again, deeper. Her eyes water but she doesn't flinch. She grabs your thighs and braces herself, and you start fucking her face with real momentum.
Somi is aggressive even when she's the one being used. She pushes back against your thrusts, trying to take more, making these low grunting sounds in her throat every time you bottom out. Spit builds fast, coating your shaft in thick, frothy ropes that drip from her chin onto her bare chest. Her lipgloss is the first casualty, smearing in wide, shiny streaks across her cheeks and along your cock.
You pull out and she gasps, spit hanging from her lower lip in long strings. "Harder," she demands. "Come on, nerd. That's all you've got?"
You grab a fistful of her hair and shove her back down. Harder this time. Faster. The slapping of her lips meeting your pelvis fills the classroom, wet and rhythmic and obscene. Her mascara starts to run. Dark streaks bleeding from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her cheekbones. Her contour, her foundation, all of it softening and smudging under the assault of spit and tears.
You pull out of Somi's mouth and angle your cock toward Chaeyoung. She's been kneeling beside Somi this whole time, watching with flushed cheeks and parted lips, her hands resting on her thighs. "Your turn," you say.
Chaeyoung takes a breath and opens her mouth. You guide yourself in gently, slower than you did with Somi. Her lips stretch around the head and she whimpers, high and soft, her brow creasing as the girth fills her mouth. You push in a few inches and feel her gag, her throat tightening, her hands flying to your hips.
You stop. Let her adjust. She breathes through her nose, her eyes squeezed shut, and then nods slightly. You push again, easing into a shallow rhythm, just the first half of your shaft sliding between her stretched lips. She's struggling. Her jaw isn't built for this. But she's trying, god is she trying, her tongue working the underside of your cock, her lips sealed tight despite the strain.
"Relax your throat," Somi coaches from beside her. "Stop fighting it. Let him in." Chaeyoung adjusts her angle, tilting her chin up, and on the next stroke you slide an inch deeper. She gags again but pushes through it, her fingers gripping your thighs, her eyes watering. The peachy blush on her cheeks is bleeding, her subtle eye makeup starting to track.
You alternate. A minute in Somi's mouth, rough and fast, her mascara running in black rivers while she glares up at you with those defiant eyes. Then a minute in Chaeyoung's, slower, gentler, watching her struggle and adapt and gradually take more of you. Between rounds, they lick your cock together. Somi on one side, Chaeyoung on the other, their tongues meeting at the tip in a messy, overlapping tangle. Chaeyoung giggles when their lips brush. Somi pretends she doesn't notice.
Somi grabs the back of Chaeyoung's head suddenly, fingers tangling in her dark hair, and pushes her down on your cock.
"Deeper," Somi orders. "Don't be a pussy about it. Take it." Chaeyoung's eyes go wide and she gags hard as your cock hits the back of her throat, but Somi holds her there, keeps her down. You feel Chaeyoung's throat spasm around the head of your cock and her fingers dig into your thighs. Somi eases up after a few seconds and Chaeyoung pulls off gasping, a thick web of spit connecting her lips to your shaft.
"See?" Somi says. "You can take it. You just needed a push."
"You're crazy," Chaeyoung breathes. But she's smiling.
She leans back in, licking along the shaft, and takes you into her mouth again on her own terms. Deeper. More confident. Her eyes find yours and stay there, glassy and adoring. Then Somi pushes Chaeyoung aside and swallows your cock to the base. All of it. Her nose pressing into your pelvis, her throat bulging, her eyes rolling back for just a second before she catches herself. She holds you there, breathing through her nose in sharp bursts, then pulls off and jacks you with both hands.
"Fuck," Somi mutters, staring at your cock. "Why does your stupid dick feel so good in my throat." She says it like she's genuinely annoyed about it.
You fuck her face until her foundation is gone entirely, until the careful contour is just a memory and her cheeks are flushed and raw and wet with tears and spit. You fuck Chaeyoung's face until her peachy blush is smeared sideways and her mascara has bled into dark smudges beneath her lashes. They take turns. They share. They kiss each other around the head of your cock, their ruined lips meeting in sloppy, wet passes, tasting each other and tasting you.
The pressure in your stomach is winding tight. The balls deep thrusts into Somi's willing throat, the sweet suction of Chaeyoung's eager mouth, the visual of two beautiful, wrecked girls on their knees fighting over your cock. You won't last.
"I'm close," you tell them.
Somi pulls off immediately, gripping the base of your cock with one hand. "On our faces. Stand up."
You stand. Your legs are shaky but you manage. Somi and Chaeyoung press their cheeks together, kneeling side by side in front of you, looking up. You stroke your cock over their faces. Fast, tight pulls, your fist slick with the accumulated spit of both their mouths. Somi's hand comes up and wraps around yours, helping you pump, her eyes locked on the head of your cock inches from her face.
And then you cum. The first shot catches Somi across the bridge of her nose and her right cheek, a thick white rope that clings to her skin and starts to drip. She flinches and then holds still, jaw clenched, taking it. The second hits her forehead and tracks into her hairline. The third you aim at Chaeyoung, a long, heavy streak from her eyebrow down across her cheek to the corner of her open mouth. She gasps, her tongue darting out to catch what landed on her lips, and she moans.
More. A fourth shot across Chaeyoung's nose, landing on Somi's cheek where their faces are pressed together. A fifth that paints Chaeyoung's chin in a thick, dripping coat. A sixth, weaker, that drips from the tip of your cock onto Somi's chest, landing between her glistening breasts.
Chaeyoung is glowing, cum splattered across her flushed face and dripping down to her collarbone. She's smiling like she means it. Genuine and gorgeous. She licks the mess off her lips and laughs, breathless and bubbly, like getting painted with your load is the highlight of her day.
Somi wipes cum out of her right eye and stares at the evidence stringing between her fingers. "Okay," she admits, chest still heaving. "That was pretty fucking hot.”
She stands, crosses to the shelf where her phone is propped, and brings it close to their faces. She angles the screen so the camera captures both of them in tight frame. Glazed, ruined, beautiful. "Say goodbye," Somi tells Chaeyoung.
Chaeyoung waves at the lens with her fingers, cum still webbed between them. Then Somi turns Chaeyoung's face toward hers and kisses her. Soft, brief, their cum smeared lips pressing together and pulling apart with a slick sound. Both of them grinning when it's done.
"That turned out great," she announces, scrubbing through the footage. "The angle caught everything. The titjob, both of us choking, the facial, the kiss. This is premium content."
Chaeyoung wipes her cheek with the back of her hand and looks at you. "Thank you. Seriously. That was actually really fun."
"Anytime," you say, pulling your boxers and jeans back up.
Somi goes to her bag, pulling out wet wipes and a compact mirror. She starts cleaning her face with brisk, efficient motions, checking her reflection between each pass. Chaeyoung walks up to you while Somi is distracted. She's still got traces of cum on her jaw and she doesn't seem to care. She pulls out her phone.
"Can you follow me on Insta? I'd love to chat sometime. Outside of, you know, this whole situation."
You take out your phone. She tells you her handle and you type it in. Her page loads. Aesthetic photos, cute selfies, pictures of coffee and cats. You hit follow.
"I'll text you tonight," she promises. "For real. Not just saying that."
"I believe you."
Somi's reflection catches Chaeyoung in the mirror. "Chae, you know you're way too pretty for him, right? You could do so much better."
Chaeyoung rolls her eyes. "Don't listen to her. She's like that with literally every person on the planet."
"I'm used to the type," you say.
Somi snaps her compact shut. "Okay, we're done here. You can leave now. We don't need you anymore. Go study or whatever it is you do."
You grab your backpack from the corner, sling it over your shoulder. Chaeyoung gives you a little wave, her fingers wiggling, that warm smile still on her face. You wave back.
"Bye, nerd," Somi calls without looking up from her phone.
You push through the heavy door and step into the empty hallway, adjusting your glasses and shifting your backpack as you start toward the stairs. Behind you, through the closed door, you can still hear Chaeyoung complaining about the dust.
Two days. Two separate encounters. Two groups of gorgeous girls actively searching for you because of the same completely insane Twitter challenge. At this point, you're not even questioning it anymore.
This is very quickly becoming the best week of your life. And, to be honest, you’re more than ready to see how much weirder it gets.
—
The lecture hall slowly empties around you while you're still shoving your laptop into your bag. Your phone vibrates against the desk. Instagram DM. Chaeyoung. Her name appears with the little sparkle emoji from her profile, and you catch yourself smiling.
hey! how was class? hope ur not dying of boredom 🥲
You type back as you walk into the corridor. The conversation flows easier than you expected. She tells you about her morning, complains about her statistics professor, asks what you're studying. You mention you've been into a sci fi book lately and it turns out she's read it twice. She sends a screenshot of her bookshelf and half the titles are ones you own. The exchange feels weirdly normal. Like she's a person, not the girl who was on her knees beside Somi yesterday with cum dripping off her chin.
Then a notification slides down from the top of your screen.
Instagram DM. Huh_Yunjin.
You stop walking in the middle of the hallway.
hey 🤍 you free rn?
You open the DM and instantly do what literally anyone would do. You tap her profile. Black and white profile pic. Dark lipstick. Looking unfairly good for no reason. Almost a million followers. Yeah. That tracks. You scroll a little. Pictures that somehow survive Instagram moderation by the smallest possible margin. Sheer tops. Suspicious camera angles. Captions written like ongoing jokes between her and her followers. A tiny link in her bio leads exactly where you'd expect.
You know what this is about. You'd have to be brain dead not to. You reply:
wyd?
wanna give you a little something. trust me, you’re not gonna regret it
where r u
the theater room. building C, the big one with the stage. place is empty rn. just me. come find me 😈
how do i know this isn't some prank
Typing dots. Gone. She gives up on whatever she was typing. Then an Instagram notification slides onto your screen.
Photo • View Once.
Yunjin is in front of a full length mirror backstage somewhere, phone angled to catch herself in profile. Her plaid skirt is bunched up around her hips. No panties. The curve of her ass is right there, the dip of her lower back, one hand lifting the fabric to show you everything. A cropped top that barely contains her. Heels. Her face turned slightly toward the camera with a smirk that says she does this kind of thing on Tuesdays for fun.
The photo disappears. A new message pops up almost immediately.
does that seriously look like a prank?
been watching you for a while
you're cute
i'm interested. but hurry up. i'm not sitting here waiting all day
omw🏃
You shove your phone in your pocket and start walking faster.
Building C is across the quad. You take the path behind the library, the longer one, less foot traffic. Halfway there you stop and dig into the small zippered pocket of your backpack. A little plastic bag, sealed tight, three gummies left inside. Small, innocent looking, red and shaped like cartoon bears. You bought a whole bulk order after that stream went viral last year. The one with the two streamers who lost their minds on camera. You only tuned in because Hyeju was supposed to make a guest appearance, and you stayed because, well, the clips that came out of that night are still floating around the seedier corners of Twitter for a reason.
You pop one into your mouth and bite down. Sweet. Faint chemical aftertaste. You feel it start to dissolve under your tongue.
This thing is going to load your balls up like you've been edging for a week. The first time you tried one you came so much you genuinely thought something was wrong with you. Now you keep them around for special occasions, mostly solo sessions, but lately the universe has been throwing special occasions at you like it owes you back pay.
Four girls in three days. All from the same circle. This whole hot little clique of certified sluts is going through you like a relay race, and you're still undecided on whether that should hurt your pride or massively inflate your ego.
You push through the theater doors and lock them behind you with the inside latch. The auditorium is dark. Rows of empty seats descending toward the stage, which is lit warm and amber by the work lights overhead. You walk down the center aisle, your sneakers quiet on the carpet.
"Are you sure this is a safe place for this," you call out as you reach the stairs leading up to the stage.
A figure straightens up from behind one of the prop tables near the back of the stage. She steps into the warm pool of light, and yeah. Okay.
Yunjin in person is something else.
Tall. Legs that go forever, made even longer by the black heels strapped around her ankles. The plaid skirt from the photo, riding high on her thighs. A black crop top with thin straps, her stomach toned and bare, the slight curve of her chest visible underneath. Her hair is blonde. Freshly done, by the look of it, that bright platinum that catches every bit of stage light. Full pouty lips painted a glossy plum that's already smudged slightly at one corner. Sharp eyes. Mischief lives in them.
"My friend works here," she says, stopping a step away from you. "She runs lighting for the drama department. She told me the building is dead until evening rehearsal. We've got at least an hour, probably more." She looks you up and down, slow, taking inventory. "I'm glad you actually showed up."
"You called me."
"I did call you." She grins. "Not gonna do the whole introduction thing because everyone here knows who I am. Let's save the time. There's this Twitter challenge going around right now. Me and my girls all jumped on it. The premise is pretty simple. I need to get absolutely ruined on camera by a guy who looks exactly like you." Her hands come up and find the collar of your shirt, fingers playing with the fabric. "You're perfect for this," she tells you. "Glasses, the messy hair, the whole shy genius thing. I clocked you in the cafeteria last week. You were mumbling to yourself about some equation, and I thought, yeah. Him. Definitely him."
"I've heard about the challenge."
Her eyebrows lift. "Oh, really?"
"Word gets around." You hold her gaze. "I'm in."
"Smart boy." Her hand drops from your collar and slides down your chest, your stomach, and lands square on the front of your jeans. She squeezes lightly. "Oh, look at this. You're already hard. Is that for me?"
"That picture would make a dead man hard."
She laughs, head tipped back, her throat exposed. "Listen to you. I expected some stuttering little nerd, all sweaty palms and broken sentences. You're way more confident than I gave you credit for."
Your hands find her waist. She's warm under your palms, her skin smooth where your thumbs rest against her bare stomach. You let one hand slide down and around, palming the curve of her ass through the skirt. Squeezing. It's even better than the photo suggested. Thick and full and firm under your fingers.
"Mm." She presses into your hand. "Yeah, okay. You can definitely keep doing that." She squeezes your cock through your jeans again, harder this time, mapping out the shape of you. Her grin widens. "Wait. Hold on." She squeezes again. "What are you packing under here? This feels promising."
"You'll find out."
"I'm finding out right now, apparently." She leans her face close to yours, plum lips almost brushing your mouth. "This video is gonna be way better than I planned. I was expecting cute and mid. This is feeling more like cute and dangerous."
"I'll do my best."
"Yeah? Tell me what you're gonna do."
"I'm going to make you gag on it until you can't talk straight. I want to see you wrecked. Drooling on yourself. Huh Yunjin choking on my cock until your makeup is in your lap."
"Fuck yes. That's the energy." She closes the distance and kisses you.
She kisses like she's trying to eat you alive. Plum gloss smearing, tongue immediately in your mouth, both hands fisting the front of your shirt and pulling you against her. You back her up two steps until she hits the prop table behind her, and your hands are everywhere. Up her sides, palming the soft swell of her chest through that thin top, down to grab two handfuls of her ass and pull her tight against you. She rolls her hips into your bulge and groans into your mouth.
You make out for what feels like a while. Long enough that you're both breathing hard, her gloss completely gone from her lips and smudged across yours, her hair mussed where your fingers tangled in it. She pulls back, panting. "Okay. Okay, let's actually do this before I get carried away and just ride you in a folding chair." She steps out of your reach. "I'm gonna get undressed."
"All the way?"
"All the way." She's already reaching back to unzip the skirt. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly. None of this half clothed business. I want my whole body in frame."
She undresses without an ounce of self consciousness. The skirt drops to the floor and she steps out of it. The crop top comes off over her head and her hair tumbles back down around her shoulders. Just heels left. She stands there in the warm stage light, completely bare, hands on her hips, watching you watch her.
She is staggering. Toned legs flowing up into thick thighs that gap at the top. Her ass round and full behind her. Her chest is small, soft, her nipples pierced with delicate silver bars catching the light. A subtle line of definition down her stomach. Her plum lips swollen from the kissing, her eye makeup still mostly intact, sharp and dark.
"Well," she says, doing a slow turn for you. "What's the verdict, professor?"
"You're perfect."
"Correct answer." She picks up her phone from the table, taps it into camera mode, and hands it to you. "Don't drop it. And try to keep me in frame, but don't worry about being artsy. The chaos is the point." She sinks down to her knees on the wooden stage floor, looking up at you. The amber lights catch her hair and turn it almost gold. She tilts her head, smirks, runs her tongue slowly along her lower lip. "Alright, babe. Let's see what we're working with."
Her hands settle on the front of your pants.
Yunjin’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants with an ease that makes it immediately clear this isn’t new territory for her. And definitely not the weirdest place she’s done it. She keeps looking up at you while she works the button open, her glossy lips curved in that teasing little smile, blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she tugs the zipper down.
“You’re trying so hard to look calm,” she says, amused, her knuckles brushing the hard outline of you through your underwear. “It’s cute. I can feel your dick jumping every time I touch you.”
“You’re naked on your knees in front of me,” you answer. “I’d be more worried if I looked calm.”
She laughs under her breath and pulls your pants down with your underwear in one smooth motion. Your cock springs out hard, heavy, already leaking precum from the kissing and the gummy spreading heat through your veins. Yunjin actually goes silent. You watch the reaction hit in stages. First surprise. Eyes widening. Taking a second look. Then comes the grin. Slow, filthy, pure excitement.
“Oh my god,” she says, sitting back on her heels. “No fucking way.”
You glance down at her, trying not to grin too much. “Still think I’m just cute and dorky?”
“Shut up, I’m processing.” She wraps one hand around the base, and her fingers don’t close all the way. That makes her smile wider. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Quiet guys are always hiding something evil in their pants. This might be the biggest dick I’ve ever had in my mouth, and I’m not even saying that to boost your nerd ego.”
“That’s a pretty strong review.”
“I have experience. My review matters.” She strokes once, slow, her thumb dragging along the underside. “Jesus. It’s not even just long. It’s fat. Like, I’m gonna feel personally disrespected by my own jaw in ten minutes.”
She leans in and spits directly onto the head, letting the saliva slide down before she spreads it with her palm. Her hand moves over you with immediate ease, slicking you up, twisting around the ridge, cupping the head, rubbing the wetness down the shaft until your cock gleams under the stage lights. She watches the shine build with open appreciation.
“Pretty,” she murmurs, smiling to herself before lightly tapping your cock against her cheek. Once. Then again. Soft little smacks against skin. She tilts her head, looking way too pleased. “Jesus. Look at this thing.” Her grin widens. “This is absolutely gonna ruin me.”
She drags the underside over her lips, leaving a wet smear of saliva and precum across the plum gloss. Her mouth opens slightly, tongue slipping out to trace the swollen head. She gives you one slow lick, then kisses the tip like she’s flirting with it, her eyes staying locked on yours the whole time.
“You know what’s dangerous?” she says, rubbing your cock along her lower lip. “I can already tell I’m gonna be stupid about this. I’m supposed to make a cute little challenge video and go home, but this dick looks like it could ruin my plans for the week.”
“You’ve barely started.”
“I know. That’s the problem.” She opens her mouth wider and lets the head rest on her tongue. “I’m excited.” Then she takes you in.
The first slide into her mouth is hot, wet, and far too smooth for something that should be difficult. Her lips stretch around the girth, glossy and plush, sealing tight as she sinks lower. You feel her tongue flatten beneath you, guiding the shaft in a practiced line, easing the thickness over the middle of her tongue and toward the back of her throat. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t panic. She makes room.
You swear under your breath when she takes more than half of you on the first try. Yunjin hums around your cock, pleased with the reaction, and pulls up slowly until only the head remains between her lips. Her cheeks hollow, suction tightening in a way that nearly makes your knees buckle. She swirls her tongue around the ridge, collects the slickness gathering there, then sinks down again, deeper this time, both hands on your thighs for balance.
Yeah, okay. She absolutely knows what she’s doing. There’s skill in the way she moves, not just enthusiasm. She angles her head to take the girth without scraping teeth. She uses her tongue constantly, dragging it along the underside, pressing into the sensitive strip beneath the head whenever she pulls back. Her lips never loosen. Every inch of you gets attention, and when she reaches the point where most girls would stop, she relaxes her jaw, breathes through her nose, and keeps going.
Your cock hits the back of her throat. She gags once, barely, more like her body acknowledging the size than refusing it. Her hands squeeze your thighs. Her eyes flutter, watery already, but she forces another inch down until her lips are close to the base. Then, with a slow, obscene determination, she swallows around you and noses against your pelvis.
“Fuck,” you say, because there isn’t anything smarter available in your brain.
She pulls off with a slick gasp, saliva stretching from her mouth to your cock before breaking across her chin. Her lips are swollen and wet, the plum gloss already smeared beyond repair. “See?” she says, breathing hard but grinning. “Made for it.”
“You weren’t exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate about head. That’s sacred.” She strokes you in one hand while the other drops to your balls, cupping them with a reverence that surprises you. Her eyes lower. “Oh, these are heavy. What the hell are you feeding them?”
“Would you believe gummy bears?”
She looks up sharply, amused. “Don’t joke with me while I’m worshipping your balls.”
“I’m not joking.”
She studies your face for a second, then laughs. “You’re weird. I like it.” Her fingers roll your balls gently, feeling the weight, her tongue slipping out to lick along the base of your shaft. “These are going to make an insane mess of me, aren’t they?”
“That’s the plan.”
“That better be a promise.” She bends lower and takes one of your balls into her mouth, lips sealing around it, tongue moving with slow, wet attention. Her hand keeps stroking your cock while she sucks gently, then switches to the other, giving it the same treatment. The stage lights catch every trail of saliva on her chin, every smudge of makeup beginning to soften around her mouth. She looks completely at home like this, naked, kneeling, eyes bright with hunger.
“You have no idea how hot this is,” she says between kisses along your shaft. “Your cock is stupid big, your balls are full, and you look like you still think this is a weird dream you’re gonna wake up from.”
"It’s crossed my mind, yeah.”
“Don’t wake up. I’m not done being a slut for you.” She goes back down on you, more aggressive now. Her hand grips the base while her mouth works the upper half, fast and wet, tongue flicking, lips dragging, throat opening whenever she decides to take you deep. She alternates between worship and hunger, kissing your shaft, licking the veins, spitting on it again when she wants more slickness, rubbing the mess over you with her palm before swallowing you down.
Your phone stays in your hand, recording, the frame centered on her face. It catches everything. The way her lips stretch around you. The way her eyes lift to the lens whenever she takes you deep. The slow collapse of her makeup. Plum lipstick smeared across her chin, mascara damp at the corners, saliva slipping down her neck and onto the small rise of her chest.
She pulls off, panting, and slaps the head of your cock against her tongue twice before rubbing it over her lips. “I’m getting attached,” she says, almost accusatory. “That’s so unfair. You show up with this fat thing and expect me to act normal after?”
"You invited me."
"Yeah, and now this cock is mine. I'm calling dibs." She plants another wet kiss on the tip, then smiles up at you from below with spit running down her chin and eyes half-lidded from sheer arousal.
Yunjin leans in and swallows you deep again, this time she doesn't pull back when her throat tightens, the discomfort is part of the pleasure, swallowing repeatedly, forcing herself to adjust, her eyes watering harder, completely red now. You feel the muscles contracting around your cock, feel her body working to accept every inch. You watch as her thighs press together beneath her, the shine between them highlighted by the overhead stage lights when she shifts.
"Fuck, you're soaked," you groan.
She pulls off just enough to speak, lips still brushing the head. "Obviously I am. Do you have any idea what it's like having this monster prying my mouth open? My pussy's been dripping since I saw it." Her hand slides between her legs for one quick touch, collecting the proof of just how much of a slut she is, then she shows the wet shine on her fingers to the camera with a shameless smile.
"See? Your fault." She licks her own fingers making an obscene sound that makes your cock throb, then looks up at you. "Okay. I want it now."
"Want what?"
Her smile turns wicked. "Don't play dumb. Grab my hair and use my throat. I've been nice to your dick. Now ruin me for the video. Fuck my face, I know you're dying to do it."
"Alright, since you insist." Your free hand slides into her blonde hair, gripping close to the scalp. Yunjin opens her mouth immediately, tongue out, waiting, that look of a bitch in heat as deliberate as it is involuntary. You guide her forward and push your cock between her lips. Yunjin accepts the first thrust with a deep inhale through her nose, then braces her hands against your thighs.
You start hard right away. There's no need to build a rhythm when you already know what Huh Yunjin is capable of. Your thrusts are deep, each one pressing into her throat, nothing brutal yet but firm enough that her body has to be actively working to keep from gagging badly on your cock. Her eyes start watering again. Her lips stretch around you, swollen and slick. Saliva spills from the corners of her mouth almost immediately, pooling under her chin before dripping onto her chest.
Yunjin takes it beautifully.
The more you give her, the more alive she looks. She doesn't retreat from the roughness. She leans forward, seeking more force, gripping your thighs and letting you control the angle while she focuses on relaxing her throat around every thrust. A professional cocksucker, indeed. Your cock slides in and out of her mouth with wet sounds that echo louder and louder across the vastness of the theater, the camera catching her face coming undone in real time like a painting in the rain.
The lipstick is no longer neat, smeared across her cheeks and your shaft, purple and red streaks mixing with spit. Her mascara begins to run in thin lines, and when Yunjin looks up at you through wet lashes, you see genuine happiness stamped across her ruined face; it's beautiful to witness such raw passion in simply being the biggest slut on campus.
"Fuck, Yunjin," you say, driving deeper. "You really can take it."
She tries to answer around your cock and only manages a garbled, eager sound. Her hands go to your hips, pulling you forward — a clear signal for you to pick up the pace. So you fuck her mouth harder. Your hips slam into her face, your hand holding her in place, and every deep thrust makes her throat bulge and clench. She gags, recovers, takes it again. Tears spill freely now, cutting through the makeup on her cheeks. Drool runs down her neck in thick streams, sliding over her collarbone, dripping onto her small breasts and leaving glossy trails across her nipples.
You pull out to let her breathe. She inhales sharply, laughs, and spits a filthy string of saliva onto your cock.
"That's it. That's the clip. Holy shit, keep going. We're making history. My pussy is literally dripping onto the stage right now. How do I look?"
"You already look completely ruined," you tell her. "In other words: pretty fucking hot."
"Good. Make it worse then." Yunjin rubs her cheek against your shaft, nuzzling affectionately like she has genuine fondness for the thing destroying her face. "This cock is too fucking good. I hate that I found you through a trend. I should've hunted you down weeks ago. My bad."
You push back into her mouth, and she takes you with that same hunger. Now the rhythm is getting rougher and less careful, driven by the gummy bear's effect creeping through your bloodstream. Your balls feel heavy, too full, aching with all the pressure, and Yunjin notices. Her hand reaches down to cup them while you fuck her throat, squeezing gently, rolling them between her fingers.
The rhythm is partially interrupted when you see her thighs starting to tremble. You notice a full-body tremor rolling through her before she finally locks up completely. Both hands clench around you, fingers digging in, her throat contracts hard around your cock in thick, rhythmic pulses. She's cumming. Unironically, she's cumming right there on her knees with your cock buried in her throat, cumming just from having a cock in her mouth. Her eyes blow wide, then roll back until only the whites are visible, lashes fluttering as tears cut down her ruined face. Her whole body shudders and her hips jerks against nothing. You've never seen anything this hot in your life.
When you pull back to let Yunjin breathe again, you ask: "Holy fuck, d-did you just cum?"
She slumps forward with forehead pressing against your thigh, laughing in these ragged, wrecked little gasps. "I told you I was a slut." She tilts her face up and there's mascara smeared everywhere, along with spit, tears, and pure satisfaction. "Don't act so surprised." She drags the back of her hand across her chin and only smears it worse. "A cock like that shoved down my throat? Yeah. That's what happens."
"That's, like, really insane."
"That's talent, babe. Now put it back." You do, of course, and she gives herself over with even less restraint. The next stretch is messy beyond any salvation. She alternates between taking full-on facefucking and pulling you out to worship the head, tongue circling, lips sucking hard, hands pumping the base. The dirty talk pours out nonstop whenever her mouth is free because she simply can't contain herself, and you love that about her.
"This is mine now," she says, pumping you with both hands. "I'm serious. You don't get to walk around campus with this fat cock pretending it's public property. I found it, I choked on it, I came from it, so I have rights."
"Okay so you're making legal claims now?"
"Sexual claims. Way more serious." She kisses your tip, leaving a ruined smear of lipstick and spit. "You know, I'm going to think about this in class from now on. I'm going to be sitting there pretending to take notes while remembering how your cock stretched my throat open.”
Your orgasm starts building for real, low and heavy, dragged out by the gummy until it feels almost too intense. Yunjin senses the shift and pulls off, wrapping both hands around your cock. Her grip is slick, fast, frantic, using all the spit coating you. “You close?”
“Yeah.”
“On my face,” she says instantly. “All over it. Don’t waste a drop anywhere boring. I want to look disgusting.”
She jerks you harder, her hands sliding from base to tip in quick, wet strokes. Her ruined face is right below the head of your cock, eyes locked on you, mouth open, tongue visible between glossy lips. “Come on,” she urges. “Make me pretty. Paint this slutty face. I want it in my hair, on my lips, down my neck. Give me that huge nerd load. I know you’ve got it.”
The pressure snaps. The first jet hits her cheekbone hard, thick and white, streaking toward her ear. Yunjin gasps, delighted, and doesn’t stop stroking you. The second shoots across her forehead and into the roots of her blonde hair. The third lands over her nose and upper lip, splattering hot across the smeared makeup. She laughs, breathless and amazed, pumping you faster. “Holy fuck,” she says. “There’s so much.”
More comes. Another heavy rope spills over her open mouth, coating her tongue before sliding down her chin. She tilts your cock with one hand, aiming the next burst at her neck, and it paints a thick line down her throat. She drags the head lower, still milking you, and more cum spurts across her collarbone and small breasts, catching on her nipples and dripping toward her stomach.
It keeps going. The gummy turns the orgasm into something ridiculous, relentless, your cock pulsing over and over while Yunjin works every contraction out of you. She aims you back at her face for the final spurts, letting them splatter across her lips and jaw, adding more white to the ruined plum and black makeup already smeared everywhere.
By the time the last weak pulse drips from the tip, she is covered. Face, neck, chest, the top of her stomach. Cum clings to her lashes, streaks through her hair, sits thick on her lips. She stares down at herself, stunned for half a second, then bursts into laughter.
“Oh my god,” she says, genuinely amazed. “What are you, a fucking fire hose?”
You’re still catching your breath, phone aimed directly at her. The frame catches her kneeling there in the stage lights, naked and trembling, grinning through a mask of cum and destroyed makeup.
Yunjin lifts her chin toward the camera and smiles like she knows exactly how filthy she looks. She drags one finger through the cum on her cheek, brings it to her mouth, and tastes it slowly.
“Yummy,” she says, making sure the camera catches the way her tongue cleans her fingertip.
Then she pouts at the lens, exaggerated and sexy, lips glossy with your cum, eyes half lidded and sparkling with trouble. She holds the pose long enough to make the ending perfect.
You stop recording. For a moment, both of you just stand there in the afterglow of it, the empty theater silent around you except for Yunjin’s uneven breathing. She rises carefully, one hand finding the edge of the prop table to steady herself. Her knees shake a little, and she laughs again when she notices.
“That,” she says, pointing at you with a cum covered finger, “was the best blowjob, deep throat, facefucking situation I have ever been part of. And I’ve got an extensive resume.”
You pull your underwear and pants back up, still sensitive enough that even the fabric brushing you makes you wince. “Glad I ranked highly.”
“Highly? Babe, you broke the scale.” She looks down at the mess on her chest, then back at your jeans like she can still see through them. “I’m obsessed. That’s so annoying. I was supposed to film a hot clip, post it, brag in the group chat, and move on with my life. Now I’m standing here covered in your cum wondering if I can fit you into my schedule as a recurring problem.”
“That sounds flattering.”
“It’s extremely flattering. Don’t let it make you arrogant.” She bends down carefully, picking her clothes off the floor one by one. She doesn’t put anything on yet, probably because there is no clean way to do it while coated like this. “Are you free tonight?”
You pause with your belt half fastened. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. My place.”
“I thought you got what you needed.”
“With you?” She gives you a look that makes it very clear how stupid she thinks that sentence was. “No, babe. I have so many things I need to do with your dick that I should not start listing them, because if I do, I’ll get wet again and try to fuck you right here on this stage before the drama kids show up.”
You glance toward the backstage hallway. “How are you getting rid of all of that?”
“There are showers behind the dressing rooms.” She waves it off, completely unconcerned. “I’ve made bigger messes here during tech week. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re really inviting me over after this?”
“I’m not inviting. I’m claiming.” She steps closer, still naked, still streaked with cum, and taps a finger against your chest. “I’ll send you my address on IG. Come tonight. Bring that cock, bring the weird gummy thing if that’s part of your magic, and don’t make plans for tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there,” you say.
“Good. And hey. Seriously. That was insane.”
“You were insane.”
“I know. That’s why people like me.” You hand her phone back. She checks the video quickly, scrubbing through the timeline with professional focus despite the fact that cum is still dripping from her chin onto her chest.
“Oh, this is disgusting,” she says happily. “Perfect. The lighting is hot, my face looks wrecked, your dick looks criminal. I might not even have to edit much. Maybe just cut the parts where I was yapping my ass off about being in love with your cock.”
“Glad the production value survived.”
“Barely. My dignity did not, but that wasn’t invited.” She heads toward the backstage showers with her clothes bundled in one arm, hips swaying, heels clicking lightly on the stage floor. Before disappearing behind the curtain, she turns back, still grinning. “Tonight,” she says. “Don’t make me chase you.”
You leave the stage feeling absurdly good about yourself. The theater doors shut behind you, and the hallway outside is empty, too normal for what just happened. Your legs are steady enough now, your breathing mostly back.
Four girls so far. Not that you're counting. Okay, maybe a little. Asa. Somi and Chaeyoung. Now Yunjin. Two more should still be out there somewhere. You head back toward the main campus mentally preparing for the next completely normal and not concerning interaction of the week.
—
The park looks stupidly nice today. One of those afternoons where the lighting is so good everything suddenly feels edited. Trees glowing, grass looking greener than usual, the whole thing straight out of a stock photo. Families on blankets. Dogs losing their minds over frisbees. People jogging. Just regular people doing regular Thursday stuff.
Shuhua walks beside Ning with a cherry popsicle in hand, somehow managing to eat it with impossible levels of grace. No sticky fingers. No drips. Every little movement neat and automatic, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth between bites. Her pale blue dress shifts softly around her ankles in the breeze, dark hair pinned back with a single clip. Between the sunlight and the whole effortless look she's got going on, she barely feels real.
Next to Shuhua, Ning looks like the opposite side of the same coin. Tiny shorts, cropped tank, dark hair down around her shoulders. The center part frames her face in a way that somehow makes her eyes stand out even more. People call her features feline all the time. Mostly because of her eyes. Sharp. Alert. Always tracking everything around her.
"Have you seen Yunjin's numbers?" Ning asks, scrolling her phone while walking, a skill she's perfected over years of content creation. "Forty thousand views in twelve hours. Forty thousand. And she barely edited. The color grading is flat and the audio peaks twice. Imagine if she'd actually put effort into post."
Shuhua takes another careful bite of her popsicle. "I thought her video was quite good, actually."
"It was fine. Asa's was better. The library setting, the composition, the slow buildup. That's how you do it." Ning locks her phone and slides it into her back pocket. "The point is, we're the only ones who haven't filmed yet. Somi and Chaeyoung posted theirs this morning. Asa posted yesterday. Yunjin went up last night. We're falling behind."
"It's not a race, Ning."
"Everything is a race when likes are involved." She glances sideways at Shuhua. "I can't afford to lose momentum. My account gained six hundred followers just from reposting Asa's clip with commentary. If I post my own content from the trend while it's still peaking, the engagement will be insane. But we need to find someone today."
Shuhua finishes the last bite of her popsicle and holds the bare stick between two fingers, looking around for a trash can. "I agree we should film soon. I've been thinking about it more than I expected, honestly. The idea is growing on me."
"Growing on you how?"
A faint blush spreads across Shuhua's cheeks, barely noticeable against her pale skin. She looks away for a second. "I'd rather not get into that in the middle of a public park.”
Ning grins. "That's all the elaboration I needed."
They round a bend in the path and that's when Shuhua spots you. Sitting on the grass under an oak tree, legs crossed, a paperback open in your lap. Earbuds in. Glasses catching the afternoon light. Completely oblivious to the world around you, which is your default state and, apparently, your most attractive quality. "I know him," Shuhua says, slowing her pace. "He's in my Wednesday seminar. Quiet. Sits in the back row. He's quite smart, from what I can tell."
Ning studies you with the detached precision of a photographer framing a shot. "I've seen him around too. Library, mostly. Always alone, always reading." She tilts her head. "He's got the look. The glasses, the messy hair, the whole unaware thing. The contrast would photograph beautifully."
They exchange a glance. Shuhua raises one eyebrow. Ning nods once.
"Together?" Shuhua asks.
"Together." Shuhua deposits her popsicle stick in a trash can along the path and the two of them walk across the grass toward you. Their shadows fall over your book before you register their presence. You pull one earbud out and look up.
Oh. Sure. The last two.
Ning shifts her weight onto one hip and studies you quietly. Not openly suspicious, not exactly friendly either. Up close, she's honestly more striking than her photos ever made her seem. You've seen her Instagram enough times to know that. There's something magnetic about her in person. The sharpness of her features. The unwavering eye contact. Like once she looks at you, looking away becomes your responsibility.
And then there's Shuhua. You keep trying to come up with a better word for it, but ethereal is annoyingly accurate. Pale skin glowing under the sunlight, big dark eyes, delicate features that somehow look even softer up close. She has her hands folded in front of her dress so neatly that she looks like she belongs at some afternoon tea party, not here near you.
It's incredible, genuinely, how you went from being invisible on this campus to being the gravitational center of the six hottest girls at the university. One week. Seven days of your previously unremarkable life, and suddenly you can't sit in a park without attracting beautiful women who want to use your cock for content.
"Have you heard of a Twitter trend called Ruin the Pretty Face?" Ning asks, skipping past any greeting.
"Yeah,” you say, closing your book. "It's gotten huge lately. Honestly kind of wild.”
"We want to record a video," Shuhua adds, her tone polite as ever, like she's asking you to proofread an essay. "With you. If you're willing."
You look around the park. Families. Dogs. Vendors selling popcorn and ice cream. A man flying a kite about thirty meters away. "Here? Right now?"
"Not here, obviously," Ning says. "I drove today. We can film in my car. Tinted windows, good camera, plenty of privacy."
"And both of you are recording this together."
"Yes," they say in unison.
You let that sink in for approximately half a second before your brain finishes its cost benefit analysis.
"Okay," you say, standing up and tucking the book under your arm. Shuhua falls into step beside you as the three of you start walking toward the parking area. Ning leads, phone already out, checking the light conditions, probably calculating optimal filming angles based on where her car is parked relative to the sun.
"Can I ask you something?" Shuhua asks gently. Her hands remain clasped as she walks, pale blue fabric shifting around her calves with every step.
"Go ahead."
"Has any girl ever approached you before asking for the same thing? For this challenge, I mean."
You don't hesitate. "No. You two are the first crazy ones to come up to me with something like this."
Shuhua nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. I'd feel strange if we weren't the first. It would change the dynamic."
Ning glances back over her shoulder. "The dynamic's fine. Let's stay focused." The parking garage is only about a five minute walk from the park. Ning's SUV is parked on the second level, black with windows tinted dark enough to look at least a little suspicious. She unlocks it with her key fob and jerks her head toward the back door. "Get in the back.”
You climb in. The interior is clean, almost obsessively so. No fast food wrappers, no loose change, no clutter. Just a faint scent of clean air and leather. Shuhua slides in on your left, gathering her long dress around her legs with careful, ladylike precision. Ning gets in on your right, pulling the door shut with a solid thunk. The tinted windows turn the afternoon light dim and amber. You're sandwiched between them. Shuhua's thigh brushes yours through her linen dress. Ning's bare leg presses warm against your other side.
Ning reaches into a bag near the front seat and produces a compact makeup kit, the professional kind with multiple compartments and a lighted mirror. She flips it open and starts touching up her face, quick and efficient. Then she hands it to Shuhua, who applies a careful layer of lip tint and a fresh coat of mascara, checking her reflection from three different angles before she's satisfied.
"We'll record on my phone," Ning announces, then hands you the device. "Hold it. I want mobility in the shot. Don't shake it, keep us in frame, and don't film anything identifiable about the car."
"I can handle it." You barely stop yourself from smiling. She has no clue you've somehow ended up doing this three separate times in the same week. At this point you could probably run a masterclass on filming angles for horny Twitter content. "Trust me.”
"We'll see." Ning turns to face you more fully, one leg tucking beneath her on the seat. "And one more warning. You're cumming in my mouth. Tell us when you're about to blow, because I’m not letting you make a mess in my car. Understood? Now get that cock hard."
Two hands find your lap simultaneously. Ning's on the right, confident and direct, her fingers pressing against the growing shape beneath your jeans. Shuhua's on the left, lighter, more tentative, her touch exploratory as it traces the outline of you through the fabric.
Ning leans in first, kissing you without much hesitation. Her lips are cool and smooth, carrying the faint taste of gloss. A quiet hum leaves her before she pulls away again. Then Shuhua takes her place.
The shift is instant. Shuhua kisses more softly, more carefully, barely parting her lips at first. But her hand around your cock tightens slightly, betraying nerves or excitement. She still tastes faintly like cherry from the popsicle. When your tongue brushes against hers, her breathing catches and a small surprised sound slips out before she can stop it.
Then suddenly it's all three of you at once. Kisses overlapping, mouths brushing against mouths, everything blurring together into something messy and warm. For a few seconds it gets hard to tell where one kiss ends and another begins. Shuhua's perfectly composed expression slips just a little, her eyes growing heavy. And Ning's whole cool princess act cracks for a split second when you catch her lower lip between your teeth and a real reaction slips out before she can stop it.
"You kiss well for a nerd," Ning murmurs against the corner of your mouth. They keep kissing you. Both of them. Taking turns, sharing, their hands still stroking you through your jeans, until Shuhua's brow furrows, her hand stops moving on your lap and her fingers press down, tracing the shape more carefully. Her eyes widen.
"Your cock is actually fucking huge," she murmurs.
Ning's hand joins Shuhua's, both of them feeling you through the denim now, mapping out the length and thickness with growing disbelief. "Hmm, it's probably just the pants," Ning says, though her expression suggests she doesn't believe that for a second. "Let's check if that's actually the case."
Ning yanks your belt open with zero hesitation. She tugs your pants down your thighs, and you lift your hips so she can pull them past your knees. Your boxers go with them. Your cock springs free, half hard and swelling heavier by the second in the warm, close air of the car.
Ning just stares for a second. Her lips part slightly, eyebrows lifting before she can stop them, and for one brief, completely unguarded moment she looks genuinely caught off guard. Her hand comes up slowly, wraps around the shaft, and her fingers don't even come close to meeting. "Okay," she breathes. "This is going to be way better than I imagined."
Shuhua leans across your lap to see, her pale face inches from your cock, and her dark eyes go impossibly round. "That is the biggest dick I have ever seen. In my entire life. Holy shit."
Your cock's still a little sore, honestly. Yunjin kept you at her place until almost two in the morning. At some point you completely lost track of how many times she made you cum, how many positions she somehow folded herself into, or how many times she looked you dead in the eyes and told you your cock belonged to her now.
The gummy lasted way longer than the package claimed it would, and by the time you finally collapsed onto her couch, you were pretty sure your body had reached its limit. For the first time since this whole insane week started, you actually felt drained.
But you can find some more stamina. For Shuhua and Ning, you can dig deep.
Ning strokes you once, twice, feeling the girth, watching the way your cock thickens further under her touch. She glances at Shuhua with a grin spreading across her face. You lift the phone, frame the shot tight on both of them, and hit the red button. The timer starts counting in the corner of the screen.
Ning leans down and drags her tongue in a long, flat stripe from the base to the tip. Shuhua follows immediately, her tongue tracing the opposite side, and the two of them meet at the head with their mouths brushing against each other. Ning takes you in first, wrapping her lips around the crown and sinking down, taking as much of your girth as her small mouth can manage on the first pass. Her cheeks hollow and she pulls up slow, letting the camera catch the slick shine coating your shaft. "Your turn," she murmurs, and guides your cock toward Shuhua's mouth.
Shuhua parts her lips and takes you in gently. Her eyes flutter closed and a soft, quiet sound escapes her throat. She bobs her head in shallow, careful motions, her hand gripping the base where her mouth can't reach. She's tentative at first. Testing. Adjusting to the stretch of her jaw around something this thick. But she doesn't pull away. If anything, she sinks deeper, taking another inch, then another, her throat working around you.
"Good?" Ning asks, watching Shuhua's face with curiosity.
Shuhua pulls off just enough to speak, her lips still brushing the head. "Very good." She kisses the tip softly, then takes you back into her mouth with more confidence.
They trade off. Ning goes deep, sloppy and showy, letting spit pool and drip down her chin because she knows exactly how it looks on camera. She moans around your shaft, loud and performative, her dark eyes finding the phone lens and holding the gaze. Her tongue works the underside with practiced skill, and when she pulls off, thick strings of saliva connect her swollen lips to your cock. Shuhua takes over with a steadier, quieter intensity. She sucks you with focus, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. She discovers a rhythm that makes you twitch in her mouth and she stays there, repeating the motion, building on it. Her hand cups your balls, rolling them gently, and you hear her whimper against your shaft.
This looks like the kind of porn video you'd scroll past on your feed and immediately save. Two insanely beautiful women in the backseat of a car, heads in your lap, taking turns swallowing your cock while the afternoon light filters through tinted windows.
You decide it's time to step it up. Your free hand slides into Ning's dark hair and you push her head down. She takes it with a muffled sound of surprise that melts into a groan as your cock hits the back of her throat. You hold her there, feeling her throat constrict around you, then pull her back and push forward again. Fucking her face in slow, deep strokes. Her hands grip your thigh for balance and she opens her throat for you, letting you use her mouth however you want.
"Fuck yes," she gasps when you let her up for air. "Use me. Treat me like your slut." You push her back down and pick up the pace. Your hips roll up from the seat, driving your cock into her mouth while your hand controls the depth. Spit spills from the corners of her stretched lips, running down her chin, dripping onto her crop top. Her mascara starts to bleed at the corners of her eyes.
Then you switch. You pull Ning off and guide Shuhua down by the hair. She resists for half a second, startled by the rougher handling, then melts into it. You thrust into her mouth and she makes this sweet, overwhelmed sound, her eyes going wide and wet. You fuck her face slower than you did Ning's, giving her time to adjust, but you don't go easy. She doesn't want easy. You can tell from the way her hands keep drifting to her chest, squeezing her breasts lightly whenever she gets too worked up.
"Your dick feels so good in my mouth," Shuhua whispers when you give her a moment to breathe. Her usual elegance is slipping. Hair sticks to her lips, her cheeks are flushed, and every word sounds less put together than the last. "I didn't expect to enjoy it this much. It's so thick, it stretches my jaw so wide, and I just want to keep taking it."
"Then take it," you tell her, and she does. Shuhua sinks down on her own, swallowing as much of you as she can manage, and works her throat around you with a determination that borders on desperate.
You alternate between them. A dozen strokes into Ning's willing throat, then a dozen into Shuhua's eager mouth. Your hand switches between their heads, pulling, guiding, controlling the pace. Their makeup is slowly losing the fight. Ning's contour is smudged along her jawline now, and the gloss she'd put on earlier is long gone, leaving her lips puffy and messy. Shuhua's mascara has started to run beneath her eyes, creating dark crescents that weren't there before. Even her lip tint is smeared across her cheek now. The polished look both of them started with has completely fallen apart.
The pressure builds low and heavy in your stomach. Your balls tighten. The gummy's lingering effects make the orgasm feel enormous, swelling bigger than you can hold back. "I'm about to cum," you announce.
Ning pulls Shuhua off your cock and moves in front of you, kneeling on the floor of the backseat between your spread legs. She wraps her lips around the head and seals them tight, her hand pumping the shaft in fast, wet strokes. Her dark eyes look up at you, then at the camera, holding the gaze while she works you toward the edge.
You cum hard. The first pulse floods her mouth and she flinches, her cheeks bulging slightly before she swallows. More follows. Thick, heavy spurts that fill her faster than she can manage. Her throat works overtime but some of it escapes, leaking from the corners of her sealed lips and dripping down her chin. You keep cumming, pulse after pulse, the gummy ensuring that the load is obscene, far more than any normal session should produce. Her eyes water but she doesn't pull off. She takes everything you give her, her hand milking every last drop from your shaft.
When you finally stop throbbing, Ning pulls off slowly. She keeps her lips pressed tight together and turns to face the camera. She opens her mouth.
It's full. Completely full. Your cum pools on her tongue, thick and white, some of it already dripping from her lower lip. She tilts her head back slightly to show the camera, letting the load sit there, visible and obscene. Shuhua leans in close, her face next to Ning's. Ning cups Shuhua's chin and tilts her face up. Slowly she lets the cum dribble from her mouth into Shuhua's open lips. A thick strand stretches between them before breaking and landing on Shuhua's tongue.
Shuhua closes her mouth and swirls it, her expression somewhere between wonder and arousal. Then she leans toward Ning and passes it back, letting the cum slide from her lips into Ning's waiting mouth. They go back and forth, the load shrinking slightly with each transfer as they swallow bits of it, giggling between passes, their lips brushing together each time.
Finally, Ning swallows the last of it and pulls Shuhua in for a kiss. A real one. Deep and slow and wet, their tongues visible between their joined mouths, cum and saliva smearing across both their chins. They break apart and turn to face the camera with matching grins.
Ning winks at the lens. Shuhua blows a kiss.
Their faces are destroyed. Mascara tracking down their cheeks, lips swollen and smeared, chins dripping, hair tangled and damp. Ning's crop top is stained dark with spit. Shuhua's pale cheeks are flushed pink all the way to her ears. They look absolutely ruined and absolutely gorgeous.
Perfect content.
You stop recording. The car falls quiet except for their breathing and the distant sound of a car alarm somewhere in the structure. You hand the phone to Ning.
"Thanks," she says, already scrubbing through the footage. Her eyes move quickly, evaluating. "You did a great job filming. The angles are solid, you kept us in frame, the lighting caught everything. This is usable."
"I did the best I could."
"You succeeded." She watches a specific section again, the cumswapping part, and nods approvingly. "This is going to perform so well. The engagement on this will be insane."
You reach down and pull your pants back up, fastening your belt with slightly shaky fingers. "Well. I need to go now." You look between them. "It was a pleasure meeting you both. Genuinely."
Shuhua tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear and smiles at you, still flushed, still catching her breath. "Thank you for your help. I mean it. You were very kind about the whole thing."
"Anytime." You open the car door and the cool air of the parking structure hits your face. You step out, legs a bit unsteady, and turn back to close the door.
Ning is watching you with a slight frown. She glances at Shuhua, saying, "It was a little too easy."
"What do you mean?"
"He wasn't surprised by the request. He wasn't overly excited about having two girls sucking his dick in my car. He treated the whole thing like it was just another day." She tilts her head. "That's weird, right? Most guys would be losing their minds right now."
Shuhua considers this for a moment. "Yeah, he was actually quite calm. Unusually calm. But maybe it all happened too fast and he didn't have time to process everything properly."
"Maybe," Ning says, not fully convinced. She shrugs and looks back at her phone. "Whatever. We better clean up. I still need to edit and post this before the trend peaks."
Shuhua reaches for the makeup kit. "Don't forget to tag me in the video."
Shuhua rolls her eyes and smiles at the same time somehow. "Of course. Nothing says friendship like performance metrics.”
—
As usual for a weekend, Yunjin's living room is full. The girls have somehow claimed every inch of the giant L shaped couch, stretched out with their legs tangled together and their attention split between their phones and conversations happening in five directions at once. The TV's running in the background, ignored completely. Empty sushi containers crowd the coffee table beside abandoned wine glasses and Somi's energy drink.
Chaeyoung sits in Somi's lap with her back against Somi's chest, scrolling her phone while Somi braids a small section of her hair absentmindedly. Asa is cross legged on the floor cushion by the window, her laptop open, analytics dashboard visible. Ning occupies the armchair with her legs draped over one side, editing something on her phone. Shuhua sits upright at the end of the couch, both feet on the floor, posture perfect even at eleven at night.
Yunjin paces behind the couch in an oversized t shirt and shorts, wine glass in hand, narrating. "Final conclusion: Asa is winning," she announces, pointing at the screen Asa turns toward the group. "Obviously. She posted first, the algorithm favored her, the library setting was aesthetic, and her editing is annoyingly good. Twelve thousand likes and climbing. The comments are losing their minds."
"Thank you," Asa says simply.
"Second place is me." Yunjin grins with absolutely no humility. "As it should, honestly. I killed it and looked amazing doing it. Ning, put my video back on. Show them the ending.”
Ning taps the link and angles her phone so the group can see. The final thirty seconds of Yunjin's clip play on the small screen. The stage lighting, Yunjin's ruined face, and then the cumshot. The girls lean in and watch as rope after rope lands across Yunjin's cheeks, her forehead, her open mouth, her chin, her neck. It keeps going. And going. The volume of it is genuinely startling.
"What the actual fuck," Somi says, pausing mid braid.
"That's not real," Ning adds, rewinding and playing it again. "That can't be real. That's like a full minute of cum."
"It felt like a full minute," Yunjin confirms, swirling her wine. "My face was dripping. It got in my hair and I had to wash it three times."
Shuhua tilts her head, studying the footage with clinical interest. "I've genuinely never seen anyone produce that much. Is that medically normal?"
"He told me he had these gummy bears that act like some ridiculously overpowered aphrodisiac. Explains the massive cum loads. Pure genius." Yunjin takes a sip. "Look at those numbers. People are sharing that clip specifically because of the finish. The algorithm is pushing it."
Chaeyoung covers her eyes. "I can't watch it again. It's too much."
"You literally made out with Somi on camera with cum all over your face," Yunjin reminds her. "Don't get all puritan on me now."
"Watching and actually being part of it are two completely different things,” Chaeyoung replies.
By the way, their duo video is doing pretty well too. Somi's chaotic, aggressive energy mixed with Chaeyoung's softer vibe ended up creating this weirdly perfect contrast people are absolutely obsessed with. The comments are exactly what you'd expect: half thirsty, half completely unhinged. Which is apparently the dream outcome, even if Somi keeps pretending she never reads them. Ning and Shuhua's clip has the lowest numbers so far, but that's mostly because theirs went up last.
"My video's gonna do numbers too. Give it forty eight hours," Ning says, unbothered. "Late posts always start slower. Lower engagement upfront, longer lifespan after. Some big NSFW accounts already picked it up and are funneling people over.”
"You and your analytics," Yunjin mutters.
"My analytics pay my rent."
Asa closes her laptop and leans back against the wall. "Honestly? I think this worked out for everyone. The videos are getting attention, engagement's solid, and none of us got banned. That's good enough for me.”
For a few seconds, the room settles into this quiet, satisfied silence. Then Shuhua casually says, "It's the same guy."
Every head turns. Nobody says anything. Just several seconds of confused blinking until Ning finally asks: "What do you mean?"
Shuhua points at Ning's phone, which still has Yunjin's video paused on screen. "That cock. It's the same one in our video. Look at it. The size, the shape, the slight curve to the left. It's identical."
"No way," Yunjin says. "That's impossible."
"Play all the videos side by side," Shuhua insists. Asa immediately gets to work. A few quick movements later, all four clips are sitting side by side on the screen. She hits play.
The evidence is damning. The same thick shaft. The same slight leftward curve. The same heavy balls. The same pair of hands, same forearms, same skin. It's definitely the same person.
"Oh my god," Chaeyoung breathes.
"It's the same fucking guy," Somi says after a long silence. "How did six different people somehow land on the same nerd? There's no way that's statistically possible."
Ning gives a small shrug. "Shared good taste."
"This isn't funny."
"I'm not joking." Ning barely reacts. "He checked every box. He was available. Apparently very available."
Chaeyoung's face visibly crumples. She sinks lower into Somi's lap and hugs a pillow against herself. "We texted every day...I thought we had something going on.”
"Aw, Chae..." Somi murmurs softly, and her hands go back to braiding Chaeyoung's hair.
Yunjin lowers her wine glass onto the counter and looks around. "Okay, before anyone gets mad… I slept with him after.”
"You WHAT?" Somi sits up so fast that Chaeyoung nearly topples off her lap.
"His dick is amazing," Yunjin says, completely unapologetic. "I got hooked. We had sex for hours and I was about to schedule a second date. Sue me."
Chaeyoung's eyes are glassy. "I can't believe I was starting to fall for someone who was getting blowjobs from all my friends behind my back."
"Nobody knew anything," Asa says firmly. "That's the point. None of us coordinated. None of us told each other which guy we picked. We all approached him independently."
Shuhua folds her hands in her lap. "I asked him directly. When Ning and I found him in the park, I asked if any girl had ever approached him before with the same request. He told us no. That we were the first."
"That lying piece of shit," Somi hisses.
"Honestly?" Asa starts. "We can't judge him. Think about it. If we had known we were all using the same guy, we would have dropped him immediately. He saw an opportunity and he took it."
Shuhua nods. "It's somewhat fair when you consider the full picture. We used him for content and engagement. He used the situation for his own benefit. We're not really in a position to be angry."
"I'm in a position to be angry," Somi declares. Chaeyoung sniffles. Somi's hand moves from her hair to her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. "I warned you that you deserved better than him," she says.
Ning rolls her eyes from the armchair. "Please. It's not like she and him were dating. There was no exclusivity, no commitment, no cheating. She texted him for a few days. That's hardly a betrayal."
"It felt like something," Chaeyoung mumbles into the pillow.
Yunjin walks around the couch and stands in front of all of them. Her posture shifts, shoulders back, chin up, that specific energy she gets when a plan is forming behind her eyes. "We're all going out," she announces.
"Out where?" Asa asks.
"The mall. After hours. We're going to find him and we're going to settle this."
"Settle it how?" Shuhua inquires, politely but with clear suspicion.
"Chaeyoung, text him right now. Tell him to meet us." Yunjin pauses. "Actually, forget it. Let me handle this. I know how to persuade him."
Somi crosses her arms, careful not to dislodge Chaeyoung from her lap. "What exactly are you planning, Yunjin?"
Yunjin looks at her like the answer should be written on the ceiling. "Isn't it obvious? A fucking orgy. All six of us. One night. One guy. In the mall after closing."
Asa grins and laughs. “Girl, you’ve officially lost it.”
"Consider it a farewell orgy," Yunjin continues, pacing now, warming to the idea. "We get it out of our systems. All of us. Every last fantasy and curiosity and frustration. And after that, he's free. Completely free for Chaeyoung, if she still wants him. Clean slate."
Shuhua raises a finger. "Nobody is pursuing him. The only person who had sex with him outside of the challenge was you."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Miss Dump-the-Lore. I'm horny and I want an orgy. Are you in or not?"
"Fuck it," Somi says. "This is my shot at getting even. I'm gonna destroy that dick. Brutally.”
Asa sets her laptop aside and stretches her arms above her head. "I'm in too. I'll admit it. I've been curious about what that thing feels like somewhere other than my throat."
Ning locks her phone and swings her legs off the armchair. "I'm in. I'm honestly curious to see how this drama's gonna end. Plus Amazon still hasn't delivered my new super vibrator, and rewatching all those clips got me horny as hell.”
Shuhua smooths her skirt over her knees, considering. "Since everyone else is going, I suppose I'll participate as well.
Everyone’s attention lands on Chaeyoung. She slowly raises her head from the pillow in Somi’s lap, pink-cheeked and blinking through damp lashes. “...Fine,” she says. “I’m in too. I want to feel that cock filling me, stretching my pussy open.” She glances down, embarrassed but honest. “I dreamed about it last night and woke up dripping.”
Then comes the collective murmur. Quiet gasps. Suppressed laughs. Multiple people making deeply judgmental mmm sounds at once. Chaeyoung lets out a tiny embarrassed laugh and hides behind her pillow again.
"Oh my god, shut up," she mumbles. "All of you, shut up, please.”
Yunjin claps her hands together so hard it echoes off the apartment walls. "Perfect! Up, everyone. Go get changed." She grabs her keys from the counter and points at the group. "And I hope every single one of you is on the pill, because things are going to get pretty fucking intense.”
—
The mall is nearly deserted when you get there. A handful of people drift toward the exits while janitors sweep through the empty walkways. The background music hums through the open space, weirdly loud without the usual crowd to drown it out. At the top of the escalator, you spot them right away. Six girls sitting around a table by the pretzel stand, looking way too good to be here for anything innocent. You know exactly what this is. You figured it out the second Yunjin texted you. The game’s up. And somehow, instead of feeling nervous, you feel completely calm. You stroll over with your hands in your pockets and pull up a chair.
"Hey girls," you say, sitting down and leaning back. "How are the videos going?"
Somi’s glare is intense enough to be considered a health hazard. Her arms are folded tightly, her expression hard, pure annoyance radiating off her in waves. Yunjin, on the other hand, looks almost entertained. She rests her chin in her hand and studies you with narrowed eyes.
“Wow,” she says. “You really had us all fooled, huh? Playing all six of us while acting like you didn’t know what was happening.”
You shrug. "You guys wanted to use me for content. I let you. Every single time. The fact that you all happened to pick the same guy isn't really my problem to solve."
Shuhua tilts her head. Those elegant features carry a trace of genuine hurt underneath the composure. "You lied to me. I asked you directly if anyone else had approached you, and you looked me in the eyes and said no."
"Yeah," you admit. No point denying it. "I did. But be honest, the video turned out great, didn't it? If you'd known I already filmed with four other girls, you would've found someone else, and maybe that someone else wouldn't have been half as good on camera."
Ning, who's been scrolling through engagement metrics on her phone this entire time, murmurs without looking up. "He has a point."
"Don't encourage him," Somi snaps.
Chaeyoung hasn't said much. She's sitting between Somi and Asa, picking at the sleeve of her sweater. When she finally glances up, her face is calm, but her eyes give her away. There’s hurt there, even if she’s trying to hide it.
"You were sleeping with Yunjin," she says quietly.
"This only happened once.”
Somi leans forward. "Chaeyoung likes you, you absolute idiot."
You meet Chaeyoung’s eyes and hold them. “Hey, I like you too. But we’ve been talking for less than a week” You spread your hands toward the table. “And I didn’t exactly know what to make of you yet. Mostly because, no offense…” You gesture at the others. “The people you’re surrounded by aren’t exactly screaming reliable.”
Asa slowly lowers her iced coffee onto the table. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Are you calling us sluts?”
“Asa, you literally called yourself a slut in the library. Those were your exact words.”
“Yeah, and when we say it, it’s empowering,” Asa shoots back smoothly. “It’s reclaiming the word. We're owning our choices, our bodies, and making money on our own terms. It’s about autonomy. What you’re doing is using it like an insult, which is a completely different thing.”
You raise your palms in surrender. "Fair enough. My bad. So why am I here? Are you gonna jump me in a food court? Beat me up behind a Cinnabon?"
Yunjin's smile spreads slow and dangerous. "Something like that. We do plan to break you. Just not in the way you're thinking." She pauses for effect, clearly enjoying herself. "We want to fuck you."
You blink. Then you lean back in the chair and let out a long breath through your nose. “Oh.” You nod once. “Yeah. Okay. That probably should’ve been my first guess.” Your eyes find Chaeyoung again. "Are you okay with this?"
She gives a small shrug that's trying very hard to look casual. "Why wouldn't I be? You're not my boyfriend or anything."
“For the record,” you say, tone shifting into something more genuine, “I’ve actually really liked talking to you. The late-night texts, the movie recs, all of it. I’d like that to keep being a thing. No matter what happens tonight.”
Chaeyoung watches you for a second, searching your face. Then a small smile tugs at her lips. “If you make me cum hard enough,” she says lightly, “I might hear your case.”
Somi snorts. Ning grins.
"I don't think I deserve to be put on trial here when I didn't actually do anything wrong," you reply. "But fine. Challenge accepted."
Ning tucks her phone into her purse and claps once. "Okay, okay, enough with the romance subplot. How exactly are we doing this? Logistics. Where, when, how."
You look around the emptying food court. "You're not seriously planning to do this here. In the mall."
Yunjin spreads her arms wide. "We've already filmed blowjobs in a library, a classroom, a theater, and a car. What's a mall?"
"The difference is we could get caught and arrested. All seven of us. Public indecency. That goes on a record."
Asa sets her iced coffee down like she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to speak. She clears her throat and begins: “The mall closes in twenty minutes. After that, security drops to basically nothing. One guard for the whole building, and he usually camps out by the loading dock on the north side.”
Everyone turns to stare at her.
Completely unfazed, she keeps going: “I know a girl who works at the mattress store on the first floor. SleepHaven, over by the west corridor. She told me that whole section had all its security cameras taken down for replacement this morning, and the install crew never showed. No cameras until at least Monday.” She takes a casual sip of her coffee. “I’ll head down now, ask to use the restroom, pretend to leave, then hide in there until they lock up. The bathroom lock’s been broken for weeks, so there’s no chance of getting stuck. Once the store’s closed and everyone’s gone, I’ll open the front gate from the inside and let you all in.”
Silence around the table. Shuhua exhales slowly. "So either this is going to be the best sex any of us have ever had, or we get arrested, end up on the local news, and our lives are effectively over."
Yunjin grins so wide it's almost manic. "Both of those outcomes sound pretty great to me. Let's go."
Chaeyoung shifts nervously in her seat. Ning puts a hand on her knee under the table. "Relax. Think about that huge cock that's about to be inside you. Focus on the positives."
"I'm literally right here," you say.
Ning just smirks at you. Doesn't say a word. Shuhua stands up and smooths down her skirt. "Fine. Let's go to the first floor. Split up. Move separately. Stay away from any active camera zones. We'll reconvene at the restrooms near the west corridor."
And that's how you end up locked in a mall bathroom stall at eleven thirty on a Saturday night, sitting on a closed toilet lid, scrolling through your phone while the building goes quiet around you. The lights in the corridor outside dim to half power. The muzak cuts off. You hear the distant rumble of security gates being pulled down over storefronts.
Forty minutes pass. Your phone buzzes. Yunjin's text reads:
on our way. going separately. be careful
You crack the stall door open and listen. Nothing. You slip out of the restroom and into the corridor. The first floor is eerie with most of the lights off, storefronts shuttered behind metal gates, the air conditioning humming low. Your sneakers barely make a sound on the polished floor. When you reach SleepHaven, five silhouettes are already gathered outside the gate. Asa's face appears behind the glass a moment later. She fiddles with something, and the front gate slides open just enough for everyone to duck under.
You file in one by one. Asa pulls the gate back down behind you. Yunjin doesn't waste a second. She kicks off her shoes and throws herself backward onto a king size display mattress near the front.
"The universe loves me. An orgy in a mattress store. This is genuinely the greatest night of my life."
Asa hisses at her immediately. "Keep it down. And we can't do this out here, anyone walking by the storefront might overhear. Grab a mattress, take it to the back area behind the counter. There are pillars back there, it's more concealed."
They end up choosing a queen-size display bed that’s already dressed in spotless sheets and looks ridiculously high-end. You grab one end, Somi grabs the other, and together you haul it behind the service counter to the back section of the store. Yunjin surveys the setup and nods approvingly. "This is actually perfect. Way better than I expected."
Shuhua is running her hand along the sheets. "This is a three thousand dollar mattress. Egyptian cotton sheets. If we're going to commit a felony, at least we're doing it in luxury."
"Okay," you say, standing at the edge of the mattress. "I'm going to be honest. I have absolutely no idea how this works. I've never done anything like this before."
Somi steps forward. She puts one hand flat on your chest and pushes. Hard. You lose your balance and fall backward onto the mattress, the expensive sheets puffing up around you. "Lie down," Somi orders, looking down at you. "And leave the rest to us."
You look up at the six girls standing over you and grin, sinking deeper into the mattress. “Alright then,” you say. “I’m at your service.”
There’s no drawn-out moment to it. Everyone just starts undressing. Yunjin finishes pulling off the top she’d already loosened earlier and casually flings it behind the counter. Somi pops her bra loose with one hand while kicking off her jeans. Ning pauses long enough to fold her skirt perfectly before setting it aside. Chaeyoung turns a little as she slips out of her bra, clearly self-conscious, while Asa strips down with the detached efficiency of someone changing after class. Shuhua carefully unbuttons her blouse, smoothing it flat over a nearby pillow.
You pull your shirt over your head, shove your jeans and boxers down, and your cock springs free. Already half hard from the sheer visual assault of six naked women in a dimly lit mattress store.
Yunjin goes first, exactly as everyone expected. She swings herself over your lap, straddling your hips as the mattress dips beneath her knees. Then she leans in and claims your mouth without warning, her tongue sliding past your lips like she’s not interested in asking permission. There’s nothing tentative about it. She kisses hard and deep, all heat and confidence. Her hand snakes down between your bodies, gripping your cock and stroking until you’re fully hard under her touch. Then she guides you lower, dragging the tip through her soaked folds until it catches at her entrance.
"God, I'll literally never get tired of this," Yunjin breathes against your lips. "The way you stretch me open. It's so fucking good every single time." She sinks down. Slow. Taking inch after inch until her ass meets your thighs and she's fully seated with your entire length buried inside her. Her walls grip you tight, clenching, adjusting. Her head tips back and her mouth falls open.
Then Somi is there. Standing over you, looking down at your face with that cold, mean expression she wears so well.
"Alright," she says, one leg swinging over your head. "Let's put that tongue to work. See if it's actually good for anything besides lying to people."
She lowers herself onto your mouth. Her pussy presses against your lips, wet and warm, her thighs framing your face. She's facing Yunjin, their knees almost touching on either side of your body. You flatten your tongue and drag it through her folds, tasting her, finding her clit and circling it. Somi's thighs twitch.
"Don't be gentle about it," she tells you, grinding down harder. "You owe me."
To your left, Ning takes Chaeyoung's hand. "C'mon babe, lie down," she murmurs. "We're not just gonna stand here watching."
Chaeyoung settles onto the mattress beside you, on her back, her dark hair fanning out across the white sheets. Ning crawls between her legs, pushes her thighs apart, and dips her head. Chaeyoung gasps when Ning's tongue touches her, her back arching slightly off the mattress.
Behind Ning, Asa kneels. With Ning on all fours, her ass presented perfectly, Asa spreads her cheeks with both hands and buries her face between them. Her tongue drags from Ning's clit all the way back, slow and thorough, circling her asshole before dipping back down to her pussy. Ning moans into Chaeyoung, the vibration making Chaeyoung whimper. Shuhua watches. She's standing beside the mattress, one hand between her own legs, fingers sliding through her wetness as she takes in the scene. Her eyes are locked on where Yunjin's body meets yours, watching your cock disappear inside her with each roll of her hips.
Yunjin notices. She reaches out with one hand, hooks it behind Shuhua's neck, and pulls her in for a kiss. Shuhua leans into it, her fingers working faster between her thighs while Yunjin's tongue slides against hers.
Yunjin breaks the kiss and looks back at Somi. "Fuck, your tits look so good from here," she says, openly staring at the way Somi's chest bounces with each shift of her hips against your face. "So fucking hot, seriously."
"I know," Somi responds, not even slightly humble about it. She rolls her hips forward, smearing herself across your mouth. "Deeper. Get your tongue inside me."
You push your tongue into her, as deep as it'll go, and she grinds down on it. Her full weight presses against your face, and breathing becomes genuinely difficult. Your nose is pressed against her clit, your mouth completely covered by her pussy. She's suffocating you and she knows it and she doesn't care.
It’s heaven. You’d die smiling buried in her ass.
Yunjin picks up her pace on top of you. She plants her hands on your chest and starts really riding, lifting her hips until just the tip remains inside before dropping back down with her full weight. Each time she takes you to the root, her breath hitches, her nails dig into your skin. Your cock is coated in her arousal, glistening every time she rises.
"You feel so deep like this," Yunjin groans, rolling her hips in a circle before slamming back down. "I swear you're in my fucking stomach right now."
Somi reaches forward and grabs one of Yunjin's tits, squeezing roughly. "Ride him harder. I wanna feel him moan into me when you do it." Yunjin laughs breathlessly and complies. She speeds up, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the dark store. Every time she bottoms out, your hips jerk involuntarily, and Somi feels the moan travel through your tongue directly into her cunt. She bites her lip, satisfied.
To your left, Chaeyoung is squirming under Ning's mouth. Her fingers are tangled in Ning's hair, pulling gently, her chest heaving. "Right there, Ning, don't stop, fuck, please don't stop."
Ning hums in acknowledgment, then gasps herself as Asa's tongue pushes inside her ass. Her back dips, pushing her hips back against Asa's face, seeking more.
"Asa, that feels insane," Ning mumbles between Chaeyoung's legs. "Do that again." Asa doesn't respond verbally. She just grips Ning's hips tighter and keeps going, alternating between her holes with a precision that has Ning trembling on her knees.
Shuhua pulls away from kissing Yunjin and kneels beside the mattress, still touching herself. “Yunjin, if I may say so, you look exceptionally pretty taking that cock,” says softly, and even her dirty talk sounds polished somehow. “The way it stretches you is... deeply impressive.”
"Shu, babe, it's unreal," Yunjin responds between bounces. "His dick is literally ruining me for everyone else. That's not even a joke. No one else is ever gonna measure up."
Somi grabs the back of your head with one hand, lifting it slightly, pressing you harder against her. Your tongue aches from the effort but you keep going, sucking her clit between your lips, flicking it rapidly. Her thighs are shaking now. "Shit," Somi breathes. "Okay, maybe your mouth isn't completely useless."
Yunjin's rhythm becomes erratic. She's chasing it now, grinding her clit against your pelvis with each downstroke, her walls clenching tighter around you. Her moans get louder, less controlled. "Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum," she pants. "Your cock is so deep, I can feel it everywhere, I'm literally about to lose it."
She slams down one final time and holds there, grinding in tight circles. Her whole body seizes, thighs clamping against your sides, her pussy spasming around your shaft in rhythmic pulses. She throws her head back and her mouth opens in a silent scream before the sound catches up, a long, shuddering moan that echoes off the store walls. Somi watches Yunjin cum and something about it tips her over the edge too. Her thighs slam shut around your head, trapping you completely, her hips bucking against your mouth in short, sharp jerks.
"Don't you dare stop," she hisses through her teeth, one hand braced on Yunjin's shoulder. Her whole body goes rigid for three seconds, then she comes apart, grinding down on your tongue through it, her slick flooding your lips and chin. Her legs tremble violently on either side of your head before she finally loosens her grip and you gasp for air.
They both climb off. Your face is drenched, Somi's arousal smeared from your forehead to your chin. Your cock is still hard, still throbbing, slick with Yunjin's cum.
Yunjin collapses onto the edge of the mattress, spent and grinning. "Okay. Who's next."
Chaeyoung sits up. Her cheeks are flushed from whatever Ning was doing to her moments ago, her eyes bright. "Me!"
The other girls shift, making room. Ning wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Asa sits back on her heels. You pull yourself upright and move toward Chaeyoung, settling between her legs as she lies back down. You look down at her. She looks up at you. In the dim glow of the emergency lights, her face is soft and beautiful and a little nervous.
You smile softly. “Hey.”
She meets it with a little smile of her own. “Hey.”
"I'm gonna go slow," you tell her quietly. Just for her. "You tell me to stop whenever you need me to." She nods, her hand finding yours on the sheet and squeezing gently.
You guide yourself to Chaeyoung's entrance and press forward. Just the tip at first, barely pushing in, letting her feel the stretch before you commit. Her eyes go wide, her lips parting, fingers curling into the sheets beneath her. "Oh my god," she whispers, staring up at you. "That's just the beginning?"
"Just the beginning," you confirm, and push another inch inside her.
Behind you, the mattress shifts as everyone else finds their positions. Yunjin grabs Shuhua by the waist and pulls her close, tangling their legs together until their pussies press flush against each other. Yunjin starts grinding immediately, rolling her hips in slow, lazy circles, her wetness mixing with Shuhua's. A few feet away, Ning swings a leg over Asa's face and settles down, her knees bracketing Asa's head. Asa's hands come up to grip Ning's thighs and she gets to work without being asked. Somi kneels between Asa's spread legs, slides two fingers inside her, and starts pumping with a casual, almost bored efficiency that makes it clear she's done this before.
You sink deeper into Chaeyoung. She grabs your forearm, squeezing hard, her back lifting off the mattress. You stop halfway and let her breathe. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just... give me a sec. You're really thick." She exhales slowly, her walls fluttering around you, adjusting. Then she nods. "Keep going." You push the rest of the way in. All of it. Chaeyoung's mouth falls open and no sound comes out for a solid three seconds. Then she lets out this shaky, overwhelmed little moan that makes Yunjin glance over from her scissoring position and grin.
"There it is," Yunjin says approvingly, grinding harder against Shuhua. "That's the face. I made that exact same face my first time with him."
You pull back slowly and thrust in again, building a gentle rhythm. Chaeyoung's hands find your shoulders, pulling you down closer. You lean in and kiss her, soft and deep, and she melts into it. When you pull back, she's smiling.
"You taste like Somi," she murmurs against your lips.
"Bet that's a taste you know pretty well."
Chaeyoung's cheeks flush even darker. "Maybe."
Somi doesn't even look up from fingering Asa. "I heard that. And yes, she does."
Ning laughs from her perch on Asa's face, then cuts herself off with a sharp gasp when Asa does something particularly good with her tongue. "Fuck, Asa, what are you doing down there? That's so good, keep doing that."
Asa can't respond because her mouth is full of Ning's pussy, but she gives a thumbs up with one hand, which makes Shuhua giggle breathlessly from where she's grinding against Yunjin.
"This is genuinely the most unhinged thing I've ever participated in," Shuhua manages between heavy breaths, her hips moving in rhythm with Yunjin's. "And I'm including the time Ning convinced me to skinny dip at that resort."
"Shu, babe, this is so much better than skinny dipping," Yunjin replies, reaching down to adjust the angle of their hips so their clits press together more directly. Shuhua whimpers at the change in pressure. "This is like... peak friendship activities right here."
You pick up the pace with Chaeyoung. She wraps her legs around your waist, locking her ankles behind your back, and the new angle lets you go deeper. Her nails rake down your shoulders. "Right there," she breathes. "Oh god, right there, don't move from that spot."
"Chae's getting loud," Somi observes, curling her fingers inside Asa and making her jolt. "I love that for her honestly."
"She deserves it," Ning says, then rolls her hips against Asa's mouth, chasing the sensation. "After all those sad little crushes she's had? Let the girl have her moment."
"Can you guys stop talking about me while I'm getting fucked, please," Chaeyoung says, but she's laughing, and then the laugh dissolves into a moan when you thrust particularly deep.
Yunjin is sweating. They're all sweating. The store has no ventilation running this late, and the combined body heat of seven people fucking on a three thousand dollar mattress has turned the back area into a sauna. Skin glistens under the dim emergency lighting. The sounds are obscene and layered: wet skin, heavy breathing, Ning's sharp little gasps mixing with Shuhua's softer ones, the rhythmic slap of your hips meeting Chaeyoung's.
Somi adds a third finger inside Asa, stretching her, and Asa's hips buck off the mattress. Ning grabs Somi's shoulder to keep her balance. "Warn me before you do that, she almost threw me off."
"Not my fault Asa's a squirmer," Somi says, pumping faster. "You good down there, Asa?"
Asa pulls her mouth away from Ning just long enough to gasp, "So fucking good, oh my god, keep going,” before Ning pushes her head back down.
"Nope, you're not done," Ning tells her sweetly.
You shift your weight onto one arm and bring your free hand down between your body and Chaeyoung's. Your thumb finds her clit, swollen and sensitive, and you start rubbing in slow circles while you fuck her. The effect is instantaneous. Chaeyoung's whole body tenses, her grip on your shoulders turning desperate.
"Oh fuck," she gasps. "Oh fuck, that's not fair, you can't do both at the same time."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm gonna lose my mind, that's why." Her hips are grinding up to meet yours now, matching your rhythm, trying to get more of everything at once. "Your cock is literally splitting me open and now you're touching my clit and I can't, I actually can't—"
Yunjin, still grinding against Shuhua, looks over with pure delight on her face. "She's gonna blow. Look at her legs shaking."
Ning is rocking faster on Asa's face, she grabs her own breast, squeezing, her head tipping back. "Shit, I'm close too. Asa, please, keep going, I'm so close, I'm gonna cum so hard."
You press harder on Chaeyoung's clit, rubbing faster, your hips snapping into her with deep, steady strokes. She's clenching around you so tight it's almost difficult to move. Her moans have gone high and thin, her eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in her body coiling. "Look at me," you tell her quietly. She opens her eyes. They're glassy, overwhelmed, gorgeous. "Cum for me, Chae."
She shatters. Her back arches completely off the mattress, her legs lock around you, and her pussy clamps down on your cock in hard, rhythmic spasms. And then the gush comes. Warm and sudden, soaking your pelvis, the sheets beneath her, running down your thighs. She's squirting, hard, her whole body convulsing with it.
Yunjin's jaw drops mid grind. "Holy shit, she's squirting! She's literally squirting all over that poor mattress!"
The sight of it pushes Ning over. She grinds down on Asa's mouth one final time and cums, her thighs clamping around Asa's head, her fingers digging into Somi's shoulder hard. Asa cums seconds later from Somi's relentless fingers, her legs trembling and her muffled moans vibrating against Ning's cunt. Shuhua follows, burying her face in Yunjin's neck, flushed and panting, her hips stuttering through the last waves of her orgasm.
Somi pulls her fingers out of Asa, holds them up, glistening and dripping, and licks them clean with a look of pure satisfaction.
Chaeyoung is still trembling beneath you, aftershocks rolling through her. "I'm so sorry," she pants, looking down at the soaked sheets. "I came so hard. I couldn't help it. I've never done that before."
"Don't you dare apologize for squirting," Yunjin says firmly, wiping sweat from her forehead. "That was the hottest thing you could have possibly done."
Somi nods. "We'll deal with the mattress situation later. Not important right now."
"Agreed," Ning says, climbing off Asa's face and stretching. Her legs are still wobbly. She looks at your cock, still hard, still wet with Chaeyoung's cum, and her eyes sharpen with hunger. "Because I need that inside me right now. Immediately."
Yunjin sits up, her director energy returning. "Okay then. Asa, Ning, Shu. Line up. On all fours. Show us these pretty pussies." The three of them arrange themselves side by side on the mattress, knees spread, backs arched, asses presented. Asa, Ning, Shuhua. Three different body types, three different skin tones, all of them glistening with sweat and each other's spit.
Yunjin beckons you over. "Come fuck these little sluts, nerd.”
Somi circles around to the front of the lineup, taking her time as she studies them from the other side. Her gaze drifts over the three bent bodies, the way they’re all presented for you, and then she reaches out without warning and gives Shuhua’s ass a sharp smack. She jolts with a startled yelp, shooting Somi a scandalized look.
“Hey! Warn me before you start getting handsy.”
Somi only grins, entirely unbothered, then turns that wicked little expression on you. "Look at them. Three tight little pussies all lined up just for you. How's that feel?”
You stare at the three of them, each one looking back over her shoulder at you, waiting. Your cock throbs. "I genuinely cannot put what I'm feeling into words.”
Yunjin snorts, arms crossed. "Then stop trying to put it into words and start putting your cock in them. That's the only language they need right now.”
Asa, her ass arched perfectly, her cheek resting on her folded arms, glances back at Yunjin with a lazy grin. "Wow. Shakespeare could never.”
Yunjin kneels beside Shuhua and grabs both her cheeks, spreading them open with her thumbs, putting everything on display for you. Shuhua's pussy is glistening, swollen, absolutely dripping from her earlier orgasm and the continued arousal of watching everyone else get fucked.
"C'mon," she says, looking up at you with that insatiable grin. "Time to fuck."
There’s no teasing pause. You guide yourself against her and push in. The head breaches Shuhua's entrance and she immediately drops her forehead to the mattress, her fingers clawing at the sheets. You stop with just the tip inside, letting her adjust. Her walls are squeezing you so tight it's almost resistance. "Oh," Shuhua breathes. "Oh, that's... that is significantly larger than I anticipated."
Ning, still on all fours beside her, glances over. "Girl, breathe. You'll get used to it."
"Easy for you to say, you haven't taken it yet," Shuhua replies through gritted teeth, but she pushes her hips back slightly, taking another inch on her own terms. You grip her hips and feed her more, slow, steady. Shuhua's spine curves downward, her shoulder blades pinching together. When you're about three quarters in, she lets out this long, shaking exhale.
"I've used large toys before," she says, almost conversationally despite the strain in her tone. "This doesn't even compare. The heat, the way it throbs. It's completely different."
"You doing okay?" you ask, rubbing your thumb along her hip bone.
"More than okay. Please keep going." You bottom out inside her and Shuhua makes a sound you've never heard from her before. Something between a whimper and a laugh, surprised and overwhelmed and deeply pleased all at once. You start moving, pulling back slow and pushing in deep, establishing a rhythm that lets her feel every inch.
On the other end of the mattress, Somi has pulled Chaeyoung into her lap. They're kissing, messy and unhurried, Somi's hands tangled in Chaeyoung's hair. Somi breaks away and licks her lower lip.
"You were so fucking hot squirting like that," Somi murmurs against Chaeyoung's mouth. "I almost came just watching you." Chaeyoung blushes but grins. Her hand traces down Somi's stomach, over her navel, and slips between her thighs. She pushes two fingers inside Somi without warning. Somi gasps, her hips jerking forward. "Shit, Chae, warn a girl."
"You didn't warn me when you shoved my face down on his cock," Chaeyoung replies sweetly, curling her fingers.
Somi's head tips back. "Okay fair. Fuck. Keep going, baby. Finger that wet pussy while I watch them get wrecked."
You're building speed inside Shuhua now. Her initial tension has dissolved into pure pleasure, her hips rocking back to meet your thrusts. Yunjin hasn't moved from her spot beside the lineup. She leans in and spits directly on where your cock meets Shuhua's pussy, the saliva mixing with the mess already there.
"That's it," Yunjin says, watching with dark, hungry eyes. "Fuck her good. Look at how well she takes it now."
"Yunjin," Shuhua manages, "please stop narrating and let me enjoy this."
"Never. This is the best show I've ever seen."
You pull out of Shuhua and she whines at the loss. Ning is next. You shift over, position yourself behind her, and push in. Ning is wetter than Shuhua was, practically dripping down her thighs already, but she's just as tight. The first few inches make her gasp and grab the mattress. "Fuck me," Ning breathes. "Okay. Okay I get it now. I get why Yunjin lost her mind over this."
"Right?" Yunjin says proudly. "Told you." You sink deeper and Ning's arms give out. Her chest presses flat against the mattress, ass still raised, and you can feel her clenching around you, her body trying to accommodate the stretch. You give her a moment, then start thrusting. Ning buries her face in her arms and moans.
Yunjin spits on Ning's pussy too, then smacks her ass lightly. "Take that dick, Ning. You were bragging about your skills all week, show me you can handle it."
"I am handling it," Ning says, except she very clearly isn't. Her voice is trembling. "It's just... a lot. God, it's so much."
Across the mattress, Chaeyoung has migrated lower. She's got her mouth on Somi's left breast, sucking the nipple between her lips while her fingers keep working inside her. Somi watches her with hooded eyes, one hand on the back of Chaeyoung's head.
"I love your tits so much," Chaeyoung mumbles against the soft skin, switching to the other one. "They're ridiculous. Like genuinely unfair."
"Babe, you can have them whenever you want," Somi replies, arching into her mouth. "Just keep doing what you're doing with those fingers."
You pull out of Ning and move to Asa. She's been waiting patiently, her cheek resting on her folded arms, watching you fuck the other two with analytical interest. When you press against her entrance, she pushes back immediately, trying to take you in one motion. But her body resists. She only gets halfway before she hisses and stops.
"Shit," Asa says, surprised. "I thought I was ready. That's thicker than it looks."
"Take your time."
"No, just push. I can handle it." You push. Asa's fingers curl into fists and she breathes out hard through her nose, but she doesn't tell you to stop. When you're fully seated inside her, she lets out a low groan that sounds almost relieved. "Okay," she says. "Yeah. That's incredible actually."
You start fucking her, and Asa is different from the other two. She pushes back to meet every thrust, matches your rhythm instantly, treats it almost like a collaboration. Her pussy grips you perfectly, slick and hot and eager.
Yunjin is in her element. She moves between the three of them, spitting on each pussy as you rotate, slapping asses, gripping hair, running her nails down their spines. She's the conductor of this whole symphony and she's loving every second.
"Look at them," she says to you, spreading Asa's cheeks so you can watch yourself slide in and out. "Look at how they take that fat cock. They're soaking. All three of them are dripping for you."
You switch back to Shuhua. She cries out when you enter her again, pushing back greedily. Then to Ning, who's so wet now that the sounds are obscene, filthy and loud in the quiet store. Then Asa again, who grinds back against you with precision.
Yunjin crouches next to Ning's face and lifts her chin. "You like getting fucked like this? Getting shared? All three of you lined up like good little sluts?" Ning just moans in response, her eyes glassy. "If I'd brought my strap we could've been double teaming these pussies," she continues, looking back at you. "Next time. Definitely next time. Me and you, fucking them from both ends."
Somi pulls Chaeyoung's mouth off her breast to watch. "They look so good from here. Especially Shuhua. She's completely gone."
Chaeyoung nods, her fingers still buried inside Somi, pumping steadily. "She's always so put together. It's nice seeing her fall apart."
You keep rotating. Shuhua cums first. You're deep inside her, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her shoulder, and she turns her face to the side so you can see her expression when it hits. Her eyes flutter shut, her mouth opens, and she comes apart in these beautiful, controlled waves, her pussy milking your cock through each contraction. Somehow even this is elegant.
Asa goes next. You're gripping her waist, pounding into her at a pace she set herself, and her head drops forward. "There, there, fuck, right there, I'm cumming," she whispers, and her whole body seizes. Her walls clamp down so hard it almost stops your movement. She shakes through it, silent except for these tiny, breathy sounds.
Ning is last. You're still inside Asa when Yunjin says, "Ning needs to cum. Go wreck her." You pull out of Asa and push into Ning. She's so sensitive at this point that she flinches at the first thrust. Yunjin grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her head back. "Grab her hair," Yunjin tells you. "Fuck her hard. She can take it."
You wrap Ning's hair around your fist and pull. She gasps, her back arching severely. You start pounding into her. Hard. Deep. Relentless. Ning's moans escalate rapidly into something approaching a scream.
"Ning!" Shuhua hisses sharply. "The security guard. Keep it down."
Ning slaps her own hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, her body jolting with each thrust.
The muffled sounds leaking through her fingers are still loud but contained. You don't stop. You fuck her through it, pulling her hair, driving into her until her thighs start shaking violently and she cums with a strangled sound behind her palm, her pussy contracting around you in hard, rhythmic squeezes. Her entire body goes limp when it passes, collapsing flat onto the mattress.
You pull out, wipe the sweat from your forehead, and sit back on your heels. Your cock is glistening, impossibly hard still, twitching against your stomach. "That was insane," you pant, looking at the three spent girls in front of you. "Seriously. I don't know how guys in porn last this long. My legs are shaking."
"Well," Somi says, extracting herself from Chaeyoung's fingers and crawling toward you. "You better hold on a little longer. Because now it's my turn."
She pushes you flat on your back. You hit the mattress with a grunt. Somi swings a leg over your hips, but instead of facing you normally, she plants her feet on either side of your chest, squatting over your cock in a deep stance. Her thighs flex, her core engages, and she grips the base of your shaft to line you up.
Yunjin slaps the mattress with both hands. "Yes! Amazon position! Go for it, Somi, ride that cock!"
Ning, still flat on her stomach recovering, lifts her head long enough to whistle. Shuhua immediately makes a sharp shushing sound at her, eyes wide.
Somi stares down at you, face unreadable except for that familiar look of mild annoyance she somehow manages to make attractive. Calm. Detached. In control. "Let's see what all the fuss is about," she says. "Everyone else completely lost their shit over this. I don't buy it.”
She lowers herself onto you. Inch by agonizing inch. In this position, squatting over you with her feet planted on either side of your chest, Somi controls everything. The angle, the depth, the speed. You can't thrust up, can't grab her hips, can't do anything except lie there and take what she decides to give you. Your cock stretches her open and you watch her face. She's fighting. Every micro expression is a battle between the pleasure flooding her body and the icy composure she refuses to drop, even as her jaw tightens and her breathing starts to lose its rhythm. Her thighs tremble as she sinks lower, swallowing more of you inside her, her pussy spreading around your girth.
She stops about halfway. Breathes. Then pushes down the rest of the way until her ass meets your pelvis and every inch of you is buried in her. Her eyes close for exactly one second. When they open again, she's rearranged her expression into something cool and unaffected.
"Okay," she says, looking down at you. "I'll give you this much. It's a pretty impressive cock." She shifts her hips, adjusting to the fullness, and you feel her walls squeeze around you involuntarily. "Real waste that it belongs to someone like you, though."
"Sorry about that," you reply, your breath catching as she clenches again. "I'll try to be hotter next time."
"Shut up. Don't talk. Just lie there and let me use you like the stupid little toy you are."
Somi starts moving. Slowly at first. She lifts her hips until barely anything remains, pauses for a second, then sinks back down with controlled force. The impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Then she does it again. And again. Gradually settling into a rhythm she seems satisfied with. Her pussy grips your shaft on every upstroke, wet and impossibly tight, then swallows you whole on the way back down.
The view from below is staggering. Somi's body is built for this. Her slim waist, her toned stomach flexing with each movement, and those massive breasts bouncing with every drop of her hips. They move almost independently, heavy and full, swaying and colliding against each other. Sweat is beginning to bead along her collarbones, rolling down between them.
Yunjin sits cross legged on the mattress, watching with her chin propped on her fist. "Okay, she looks fucking incredible doing that. Like, objectively."
Ning nods slowly, still recovering from her own orgasm, lying on her stomach with her chin in her hands. "It's giving professional athlete. The core strength alone."
"Seriously though," Asa adds, tilting her head to study Somi's form. "Look at the control she has. She's basically doing weighted squats right now. That's genuinely impressive."
Shuhua watches from beside Yunjin. "If I tried to do that, I would absolutely injure my lower back."
Asa glances at her. "That's because you used to walk around with your spine curved like a shrimp, Shu. You have the posture of someone who's been gaming for twelve hours straight. You only realized because Yunjin took that cursed picture of you.”
Yunjin barks out a laugh. Shuhua's mouth falls open. "That was truly offensive," Shuhua says quietly. "And for the record, I'm fixing it. My posture's good now. I bought a posture corrector and everything."
"Girl, that thing is still in the packaging on your desk," Ning says without looking up.
Somi ignores all of them. She's locked into her rhythm now, bouncing on your cock with increasing intensity, her hands braced on your chest for leverage. Each time she drops down, the sound of skin meeting skin is sharp and wet. Your hands are flat on the mattress because she hasn't given you permission to touch her, and somehow that makes it hotter. She's using you. Completely and totally.
Somi looks down at you, and her mouth curls into something between a smirk and a sneer. "God, you're adorable like this." She rolls her hips in a filthy slow circle, grinding your cock deep before picking her rhythm back up. "Pinned under me. Dumb and hard and just letting me take what I want. Like a good little fucktoy."
"View's pretty good from here too," you breathe, barely getting the words out while her cunt grips you on every drop.
"Yeah?" She lifts almost all the way off, just the tip, then slams her hips down so hard your vision whites out. "Nnngh— you like this? Like getting fucked stupid by a girl who doesn't give a shit if you cum? Just lying there taking it like an obedient little bitch?"
"Yes," you groan, hands fisting the sheets. "Fuck— yes, I like it.”
"Of course you do." She picks up speed, and the wet sounds get louder, filthier. Her breasts are bouncing so hard they're practically hitting her chin on every drop. "This is where you belong. On your back, getting used. You should be thanking me."
Yunjin starts clapping rhythmically, like she's at a sporting event. "Let's go Somi! Ride that dick! Let's go Somi!"
Ning immediately joins in, clapping along. "Bounce bounce bounce! Wreck that cock!"
Asa cups her hands around her mouth. "Give me an S! Give me an O! Give me an M!" Give me am I!”
Chaeyoung is giggling uncontrollably, clapping along with them.
Shuhua's eyes go wide. "Can you all please be quieter? There is a security guard somewhere in this building." They all drop to stage whispers, still clapping, still chanting, but at a fraction of the volume. Yunjin is whisper screaming "let's go Somi" with the intensity of a soccer mom at a championship game. Ning is doing quiet finger snaps. Asa is mouthing the letters of Somi's name with exaggerated lip movements.
Somi doesn't acknowledge any of them. She's grinding now, deep and circular, her clit pressing hard against your pelvis on every rotation. Her breathing has changed. Shorter. Sharper. That icy control is fracturing. You can see it in the way her thighs are shaking, the way her nails are digging into your chest, the way she keeps biting the inside of her cheek.
She speeds up again. Full bounces, slamming herself down, taking you to the root every time. Your cock is drenched in her, glistening in the low light. The mattress creaks beneath you. She tilts forward slightly, changing the angle, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp that she immediately tries to suppress.
"Fuck," she whispers. “Fuck…” She grinds down hard, circling her hips, pressing her clit against you with desperate pressure. Her thighs clamp around your sides. Her head drops forward, blonde hair curtaining her face, and her whole body locks up. You feel her pussy spasm around you in tight, rhythmic contractions, milking your shaft as the orgasm rolls through her. She grinds through every wave of it, extracting every last second, her hips stuttering and her breath coming in these ragged, broken exhales she can't quite control.
When it passes, she stays seated on you for a long moment. Still full of you. Catching her breath. Then she rises slowly, your cock sliding out of her with a wet, obscene sound, and she climbs off the mattress on slightly unsteady legs.
Somi rakes her fingers through her hair and gives you this perfectly curated look of mild disinterest. "Your dick's... fine. Nothing I couldn't replace with a ten-minute Amazon order.”
Yunjin snorts so hard she almost chokes. "Please. Even you don't believe that. I saw your legs shaking, Somi."
Somi's cheeks flush hot. "That doesn't mean anything. I'm not some pathetic slut who gets attached because a guy has a big dick. That's your department."
Yunjin doesn't flinch. Just smiles, soft and knowing. "You're so full of shit, babe. But it's cute. Keep pretending.” Somi rolls her eyes and turns away, but you catch the faintest trace of a smirk before she kills it.
Then Yunjin claps her hands once and the energy in the room shifts. "Okay. There's someone here who still hasn't gotten off." She looks at you pointedly. Your cock is still hard, still slick, throbbing against your stomach. "Stand up."
You get to your feet. Your legs are genuinely wobbly. Six pairs of eyes look up at you as the girls arrange themselves on their knees in a loose semicircle on the mattress. Asa to your left, Ning and Shuhua in the center, Yunjin to the right, Chaeyoung directly in front of you.
Somi steps forward. She reaches up and slides your glasses off your face. The world goes slightly blurry. Then she turns and places them carefully on Chaeyoung's face. The frames sit crooked on her smaller nose. She adjusts them, pushes them up, and looks up at you through the lenses with those big, pretty eyes.
Yunjin surveys the six of them kneeling around you and puts her hands on her hips. "Alright. Here's how we're doing this. I'll play distributor. Make sure everyone gets their fair share. No one girl hogging more than she's entitled to. Equal distribution of cum across all parties."
Shuhua tilts her head. "That's not really necessary. We're perfectly capable of organizing ourselves. No central authority needed. We just take turns, share naturally, everyone gets what they need."
Yunjin points at her. "And that is how you get one girl with a face full of cum and four girls with nothing. You need structure. Leadership. I'm the one who put this whole thing together. I organized the venue, the logistics, the communication. I am essentially the vanguard of this entire sexually transgressive movement." She pauses, then touches her hair with genuine regret. "Shit, I really should've brought a beret.”
Somi tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and exhales through her nose. "We're literally waiting for him to cum on our faces and you two are doing dialectics.”
"You're not the vanguard of anything," Shuhua replies calmly. "You're just horny and bossy. Those aren't the same thing."
Ning snorts. Asa covers her mouth.
"Can you two please shut up and start sucking," Chaeyoung says flatly, already wrapping her hand around your shaft. Your glasses sit crooked on her face, way too big for her, and she looks up at you through them with this expression that's equal parts sweet and filthy. She leans forward and takes the head into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it, tasting the combined slick of every girl who rode you tonight.
"Fine. Actions over theory. I can respect that,” Yunjin says before she ducks her head and runs her tongue along the left side of your shaft while Chaeyoung works the tip. Ning joins from the right, her tongue tracing a vein from base to mid shaft.
Three mouths on you at once. Your cock is more than big enough to accommodate them. Chaeyoung sucks the head with these slow pulls, her cheeks hollowing, while Yunjin and Ning lap at the shaft from either side, their tongues occasionally meeting and sliding against each other.
Somi kneels behind Chaeyoung, watching over her shoulder. "Tilt your head more, Chae. You're losing the angle."
Chaeyoung adjusts and takes you deeper, the glasses sliding down her nose. She pushes them back up with one finger without missing a beat.
Asa taps Ning's shoulder. "My turn." Ning pulls back and Asa takes her place, her technique immediately different. More controlled, more rhythmic. She sucks along the side of your shaft in long, measured strokes, her hand cupping your balls, rolling them gently. She remembers from the library how sensitive they are.
Shuhua waits patiently until Chaeyoung comes up for air, then leans in and takes over the tip. She's less hesitant than she was in the car. Something about tonight has unlocked her. She takes you halfway down without flinching, her throat relaxing around you, and holds there for a few seconds before pulling back with spit connecting her lips to your cock.
"Good girl, Shu," Yunjin murmurs approvingly, stroking Shuhua's hair back from her face.
"Don't patronize me," Shuhua replies, then immediately goes back down on you.
They rotate. Pairs and trios. Somi finally takes her turn, and true to form, she's rough about it. She grabs the base and sucks hard, her tongue doing something cruel and brilliant against the underside of the head. When she pulls off, she spits on your cock and strokes it with both hands, spreading the saliva, then passes you to Yunjin, who takes you to the root in one smooth motion. She holds you in her throat, her nose pressed against your pelvis, her long tongue extending to lap at your balls while you're still buried in her mouth. Asa watches with genuine admiration.
Yunjin pulls off with a wet gasp and grins. "Talent, baby."
Ning and Chaeyoung work you together next. Chaeyoung on the shaft, Ning sucking your balls into her mouth one at a time, humming against them. Then Shuhua and Asa, Shuhua taking the head while Asa licks the base. Then Somi alone, because Somi doesn't share well, her massive tits pressed against your thighs as she bobs her head with aggressive speed.
Your legs are trembling. The gummy bear you ate before coming to the mall is doing its job. You can feel the pressure building, heavy and dense, your balls tight and aching with the volume they're carrying. Every rotation of mouths pushes you closer. Six different techniques, six different temperatures, six different rhythms. It's sensory overload.
Yunjin can tell you're getting close. She reads your body, the way your stomach muscles tighten, the way your breathing goes shallow. "He's almost there," she announces. "Everyone get in position."
The six of them arrange themselves in a tight semicircle on their knees, faces upturned, close together. Chaeyoung in the center with your glasses still perched on her face. Yunjin and Somi flanking her. Asa, Ning, and Shuhua filling in the gaps. Twelve eyes looking up at you. Six open mouths.
You wrap your fist around your shaft and start stroking. Fast, tight, your hand slick with six girls' spit. "Cum for us," Yunjin says, her tongue extended. "Give your little pornstars everything you've got. I wanna be dripping."
"Cover my face," Ning adds, licking her lips. "I want to taste it again. Give me what you gave me in the car."
Somi tilts her chin up. "Don't you dare miss me."
Chaeyoung just looks at you through your own glasses, her mouth open, waiting. She doesn't need to say anything. The image alone almost sends you over.
"Paint us pretty," Asa says. "All of us. Don't leave anyone out."
Shuhua closes her eyes and tilts her face upward. "I'm ready."
You cum. And the gummy delivers. The first rope hits Chaeyoung across the bridge of your glasses, splattering the lenses, dripping down onto her nose and lips. She gasps and keeps her mouth open, catching the next spurt on her tongue. You angle toward Yunjin and she catches a thick streak across her forehead and cheek, letting it drip down to her chin. She moans, savoring it.
You move to Somi and land a heavy load across her lips and jaw, cum sliding down her neck onto her collarbones and the tops of her breasts. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just takes it.
Asa gets the next several spurts. Across her nose, her left cheek, her open mouth. She swallows what lands on her tongue and lets the rest sit on her skin. Ning leans in eagerly and catches a rope from her hairline all the way down to her chin, cum beading on her eyelashes. She licks it from the corner of her mouth and grins. Shuhua receives the final waves, thick streaks landing across her forehead and cheeks. She keeps her eyes closed through it, her lips parted, cum dripping from her jaw onto her bare chest.
And it keeps coming. The gummy turns what should be a normal orgasm into something absurd. You go back through the lineup, adding more to each face. A second coating on Chaeyoung's glasses, now completely opaque with cum. More on Yunjin's neck and tits. Another streak across Somi's parted lips. By the time you're finally spent, shaking, your hand still wrapped around your softening cock, all six of them are glazed. Thoroughly, comprehensively, disgustingly covered.
The store is silent for a moment.
Then Yunjin starts laughing. Then Ning. Then all of them. Chaeyoung takes the glasses off and holds them up, both lenses completely coated, and that sends everyone into hysterics.
"That was unreal," Asa says, wiping cum from her eyebrow. "Genuinely, medically, that shouldn't be possible."
"I told you guys, these gummy bears are straight-up magical. Holy shit,” Yunjin beams, cum dripping off her chin.
Somi examines the mess on her chest with raised eyebrows. "Okay. I take back what I said earlier. His cock is more than 'fine'."
Asa stands up first, grabbing her shirt from the floor. "Okay. This was incredible. But we need to get out of here before sunrise."
Shuhua freezes mid laugh. "How exactly are we getting out of here, by the way?"
Six girls exchange glances. A long, terrible silence.
Asa looks at Yunjin. "Please tell me you planned the exit."
Yunjin blinks. "My plan went as far as the orgy part. I figured we'd improvise after."
Somi turns to Shuhua slowly. "You're supposed to be the smart one. Please tell me you thought about this."
"The idea wasn't even mine!" Shuhua protests. "And if I were truly the smart one in this group, I wouldn't have come here at all. I was driven entirely by lust, which I am not proud of."
Chaeyoung wipes your glasses on the sheet and puts them back on. "I mean, to be fair, every single person here was driven by lust. Not one of us was thinking logically tonight."
Ning sits back on her heels and surveys the scene. Cum on their faces. A mattress stained beyond repair with squirt. A clearly vandalized store.
"This is fantastic. We're stuck in a mall with the evidence of multiple crimes on our bodies and on this three thousand dollar mattress."
Shuhua nods solemnly. "Yeah, we're done for. Roll credits. Little cartoon circle closing in around our faces and everything." She sighs. "'That's all, folks.'”
All six of them turn to look at you. Hopeful. Desperate, even. Ning clasps her hands together. "Please tell me you have an idea."
You look past them toward the back of the store. Storage area. Receiving dock. "The store's on the first floor. There's gotta be a back door for deliveries. Loading area that opens to the outside. And somewhere back there, a spare key or a push bar."
The relief on their faces is instantaneous. Shoulders dropping. Exhales all around. Yunjin throws her arms up. "See? No reason to panic. Everything was under control the entire time. I planned for this."
"You absolutely did not," Shuhua says flatly.
"Details. Minor details." Yunjin stretches her arms above her head and rolls her neck. Then she looks at you with that familiar, dangerous glint. "So. Who wants a second round?"
Chaeyoung sputters. "Now? Here? We literally just figured out how to escape."
"We have time! The back door isn't going anywhere. And neither is his dick." She gestures at you. "Look at him. He's already getting hard again."
She's not wrong. The gummy's still doing its job. Somi glances down, then looks back up at you. "You seriously got another round in you?”
You look at the six of them. Flushed, sweaty, ridiculously attractive. Still hanging around half delirious at two in the morning in a dark mattress store. Somehow this is reality now.
"For you guys," you say, "I think I can power through.”
Asa smirks. Somi rolls her eyes but she's already moving toward you. Yunjin claps once, saying, "Then it's settled. The night continues." She pushes you back onto the mattress and the rest of them follow, six bodies closing in around you, hands and mouths everywhere.
She's somewhere on that terrace behind you. You can feel it the way you always can, this low awareness at the back of your skull whenever she’s in the same space. You wonder if she feels it too, If somewhere across the party she’s standing there, thinking about you with the same inconvenient frequency.
Put like that, it almost sounds like infatuation.
It isn’t.
More like a stupid situation.
The terrace sits cantilevered over the cliffs of Ravello, and the Tyrrhenian Sea is performing its slow transformation at this hour, slipping from blue into burnished copper in lazy stages, a glow that polishes faces and smooths edges until everyone seems faintly cinematic, almost worth a second glance.
White tablecloths. Wine poured by the glass at prices that could cover a month's worth of groceries. The annual Ravello Literary Festival - nominally a celebration of literature, though in practice it functions as an elaborate excuse for publishing people to sunburn elegantly on the Amalfi cliffs while pretending, with great conviction, to have read each other's latest releases.
(You are not in this scene yet. Give it a minute.)
Right now, the opening belongs to Kim Chaewon.
She's standing near the center of the terrace in a cluster of three, and even from across the crowd you can tell she's the axis the group orbits around - not because she's the tallest (Chaewon is actually kind of tiny; she stands at five-four, but the heels put her around five-six, super slim, almost fragile-looking. Her stylist plays that up well) but because she holds space the way certain people do. The ones who learned to take up room with presence when they couldn't do it with height.
Tonight it's a white linen dress, thin straps, the neckline cut just low enough to show her collarbones without tipping into obvious. Her brown hair is cropped into that short bob she's been wearing all year: blunt bangs, clean edges, the kind of haircut that reads effortless and costs four hundred dollars. She's tan. Not too much. Just enough to make the white dress pop against her skin.
(Everything about Kim Chaewon is just enough. That's her entire brand.)
The woman to her left is Irene - thirty-four, silver jewelry catching the last of the light at her wrists, the composed stillness of someone who has spent nearly two decades running a publishing house and stopped being impressed by anything roughly around year five. She owns the imprint that publishes Chaewon's novels, and the relationship between them operates on several frequencies at once; business partnership, maternal mentorship, quiet mutual exploitation, and something resembling genuine affection buried under layers of professional pragmatism.
To Chaewon's right: Sana. Twenty-eight. Japanese-born. A novelist whose debut collection of interconnected short stories landed her on every "writers to watch" list last year and earned the kind of critical goodwill that Chaewon's sales numbers have never quite translated into. There's this loose, comfortable energy about her - she laughs easily, touches your arm when she's making a point, and none of it ever feels performed. She's holding a glass of prosecco and wearing a slip dress in pale ivory, and she's currently mid-sentence, telling Chaewon about the Italian translation numbers.
"Eleven days," Sana repeats, squeezing Chaewon's wrist. "Sold out. First print run. Eleven days. That's not normal, Chaewon, that's genuinely insane."
"It's the Italian market," Chaewon says, waving her glass. "They love anything with a coastal setting and a messy love story. I basically wrote bait."
"Oh, stop it." Sana laughs. "Take the win."
"I am taking it. I'm just contextualizing."
Irene, without looking up from her Barolo, interjects: "You're diminishing it. Which is what you do when you're performing humility. Don't. It's unbecoming."
"I'm not performing—"
"You are. You've been doing it since I met you." Irene's gaze flicks up, brief and precise. "Your numbers are exceptional. Say thank you and move on."
Chaewon opens her mouth, closes it. Smiles - tight, acquiescing. "Thank you. Moving on."
Sana grins and clinks her glass against Chaewon's. "For what it's worth, my Italian publisher still hasn't returned my email from March. So I'm choosing to live vicariously through you."
"Your book is literary, Sana. The translation pipeline is slower. They'll get there."
"You keep saying that. 'Your book is literary.' You know that's just a nice way of saying it doesn't sell."
Chaewon tilts her head: "That's not what I—"
"It's fine. I've made peace with my niche." Sana takes a sip. "I sell modestly to people with graduate degrees and tote bags. You sell millions to everyone else. We both have our lanes."
"Your lane is the one with the Pulitzer at the end of it."
"And yours is the one with the villa in Provence."
"I don't have a villa in Provence."
"Yet."
Laughter breaks between them, genuine enough that Sana touches Chaewon's wrist again. There's something easy in it, a honesty that acknowledges yes, our careers exist on different planets, and no, we're not going to pretend otherwise, and somehow that's fine. Irene observes from her position at Chaewon's left, Irene watches them with the faintest trace of a smile - by her standards, anyway. In her two decades running the imprint, she's seen plenty of these literary friendships curdle the moment sales figures enter the chat. This one seems to be holding.
The prosecco moves in Sana's glass. Small, idle circles. But there's nothing idle about the way she's watching Chaewon right now. That particular brand of attention that precedes bad news delivered kindly.
Her voice, when it comes, has dropped half a register: "Speaking of the Italian market, actually. I saw the whole… thing. Online. About the review."
Chaewon lifts her glass and takes a long, measured sip, letting the moment extend past casual into something pointed, before setting the glass back down. "Which thing? There were several things."
"The TikTok discourse. The Reddit threads. My agent forwarded me the sales memo - the one that got leaked."
"That memo was taken completely out of context."
Sana nods. "Oh, totally. I know. I'm just saying… it must be exhausting. Dealing with the fallout from something like that."
Irene cuts in, measured: "Sana, maybe we don't need to—"
"It's fine, Irene." Chaewon sets her glass on the table with a clink that says it is not, in fact, fine. "It's not exhausting. It's infuriating. Exhausting is a long flight. Infuriating is watching one single, self-important, pseudo-intellectual review turn into a referendum on whether my writing has merit. As if merit is something a fucking critic gets to define."
Sana exchanges a quick glance with Irene. Irene's expression says: here we go.
"Suddenly every twenty-year-old with a BookTok account and a ring light is an authority on literary value." Chaewon's cheeks are flushed (not from the wine). "Kids who have read maybe fifteen books in their entire lives are writing thousand-word threads about how my prose lacks depth. Because he told them it does. Because he wrote it in that specific way he does - that surgical little style where he pretends he's being objective while he's actually just eviscerating you. And people eat it up. They think they're reading criticism, but it's really just someone being cruel and dressing it up with fancy words."
"The review cycle will pass," Irene offers. Patient. Rational. The voice of a woman who has talked authors down from ledges higher than this. "They always pass. Three months from now, nobody will remember."
"This one didn't pass. This one metastasized."
"Chaewon—"
"Do you know what my analyst projections looked like last quarter?" Chaewon turns to Irene fully. "Because you should. You publish me. Seven percent dip. That's not a blip, Irene. That's a shift. And it started the week his review went viral."
Irene holds her gaze. Doesn't flinch. "I'm aware of the numbers."
"Then you understand why I'm not going to just wait it out."
"He is good at what he does, though," Sana says quietly. "I mean… setting aside what he did to you - his actual criticism is—"
"He's a frustrated artist who can't write fiction, so he tears apart people who can! That's all critics are. Every single one of them. People who wanted to create something and couldn't, so they appointed themselves the arbiters of everyone else's work. They sit in judgment because the alternative is admitting they don't have the talent to participate. And this one—" She presses her finger against the table. "—this one in particular has made it his personal fucking mission to convince the world that I'm literary fast food."
"You're not fast food," Sana says.
"I know I'm not."
"You're more of a—"
"Sana, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence with a food analogy—"
Sana closes her mouth. Hides her smile behind her prosecco.
Irene sets her glass down with finality and gives Chaewon a look that carries the full weight of their professional history: "Here's what I'll say. Once. He wrote a review. It hurt. It went wider than it should have. But you are still the bestselling author on my list by a factor of three, your book is still in the top twenty, and this festival invited you, not him. So take a breath. Drink your wine. And stop giving him real estate in your head that he hasn't earned."
Chaewon stares at her. The flush is still high on her cheeks, but something in Irene's calm has landed, and for a moment she looks less furious and more tired.
Then Sana, who has been quiet for about four seconds, ruins it.
She's not looking at Chaewon anymore. She's looking past her shoulder, toward the far end of the terrace where the crowd thins out near the stone parapet. The polished limestone floor gives way to rougher stone at the edges, where the terrace meets the original cliff face, and the last stragglers have drifted into loose pairs and solo contemplation. Sana's eyebrows go up.
"Chaewon."
"What."
Sana nudges her elbow and tilts her chin toward the parapet: "Isn't that him over there?”
Chaewon turns. And yes. It is indeed you.
You're standing at the edge of the terrace, one hand resting on the parapet, the other holding a glass of champagne you've barely touched. You're not engaging with anyone. You're just - there, looking out at the beach below, where the last of the daylight is catching the white hulls of two catamarans moored in the harbor. You look unbothered. Comfortable, even.
Chaewon reacts before she can hide it. She looks caught off guard, then angry, and then there’s a third emotion she locks away immediately.
She hands her glass to Sana. "Hold this."
Irene's hand lands on her forearm. "Chaewon. Don't."
"I'm just going to talk to him."
"You're going to make a scene."
"I'm going to talk to him. At a party. Where adults talk to each other." She's already pulling her arm free. "That's all."
"Chaewon—"
But she's already moving. Shoulders set. That walk she does when she's about to be very, very unpleasant to someone.
You don't see her coming. You're watching the catamarans - two of them, side by side, their twin hulls catching the copper light. There's something about the geometry that holds your attention. Parallel lines that never converge.
"Hey. You."
You don't turn around. You take a sip of champagne. The sea is really doing something spectacular right now, and you'd rather not.
"Hey! I'm talking to you."
Louder this time. Loud enough that two people at the nearest table glance over. You let the moment sit for another beat - not to be rude, not exactly, but because you know the pause will cost her - and then you turn. She's closer than you expected. Close enough that you can smell her perfume - gardenia, you think, warm and sweet from her skin. Five-six in heels and radiating enough hostility to fill a space twice this size.
You greet her. First name. Calm. Pleasant. The way you'd greet a colleague at any professional function.
"You have a lot of nerve showing up here. Half the people at this party hate you."
"I don't think that's entirely true."
"It is."
"Sana spoke to me earlier, actually." You let that sit for a second. "She thanked me for the review I wrote about her new collection. The short stories."
"Of course she did. You were nice to her."
"I was honest. She didn't need to thank me. I was just doing my job."
She takes a step closer, and you can see the flush on her cheeks, the tension in her jaw. She's been drinking - not a lot, but enough to loosen whatever restraint she might have exercised sober.
"Your job," she repeats, stressing it just enough to sting. "Your job cost me a seven percent dip in projected first-quarter sales. Your job made my publisher schedule an emergency marketing call at six in the morning. Your job turned my book into a meme, you understand that? There are teenagers on the internet making edits of my cover with clown emojis because of what you wrote. How do you just— how do so many people listen to someone so dumb?"
You look at her for a moment. Unhurried. "Your book is selling well, Chaewon. Extremely well, actually. It debuted at number three on the Times list and it's still in the top twenty. I genuinely don't understand the fuss."
"The fuss is that it should have been number one. The fuss is that I had momentum and you killed it."
"I didn't kill anything. I wrote a review. You’re experienced enough to know that once you share your work publicly, you’ll be exposed to all sorts of feedback and opinions.”
She's breathing hard. Her fists are clenched at her sides, knuckles pale against the tan. "Say it to my face, then."
"I'm sorry?"
"The review. Everything you wrote. Say it to my face. Right now. You were so brave behind your keyboard - be brave in person. Tell me what you really think."
You set your champagne glass on the parapet ledge. Carefully, so it doesn't tip. "All right."
And you do. Very politely.
"The premise is built on a foundation that's been used so many times it's essentially public domain at this point. Two strangers reconnecting after a shared tragedy - it's been done by Nichols, by Munro, by half the MFA programs on the eastern seaboard. That's not automatically disqualifying, but it means the execution needs to justify the retread. Yours doesn't. The plot follows a structure so predictable I could map the emotional beats by page number before I'd finished the first fifty pages. The second act complication arrives on schedule. The romantic false defeat happens exactly where you'd expect it. And the resolution - Chaewon, the resolution is the same resolution you've written in your last three novels, dressed up with different proper nouns."
She's staring at you. Very still.
"And then there's the dialogue," you continue. "Which is actually the most frustrating part, because you clearly have an ear for how people speak. You do. But you push it too far. You overwork every line until it sounds rehearsed. There's this compulsion to make every exchange feel hyper-naturalistic, and the effect is the opposite - it draws attention to the craft in a way that reminds the reader they're reading something constructed. You're trying so hard to give the story authenticity that it ends up feeling synthetic. Polished on the surface. Plastic underneath. Comfort food dressed as cuisine."
Chaewon steps closer. So close you could count the lashes framing those dark, furious eyes. "You're an asshole." Quiet. Steady. Then not quiet, not steady: "You're a fucking asshole! You sit up there in your little ivory tower writing your little poison pen columns and you have never - not once in your miserable career - produced a single page of original fiction. You've never built a world. You've never made a reader cry. You've never stayed up until four in the morning bleeding onto a page because the story demanded it. You destroy. That's your entire skill set. And you're proud of it."
"Are you done?"
"I'm nowhere near done. You know what every critic in the history of criticism has in common? They couldn't do it themselves. Every single one of you. Failed writers. Frustrated artists playing judge because the alternative is admitting you don't have the talent to—"
"You're making my point for me."
That shuts her up. She blinks at you, mouth still half-open on whatever cutting response died in her throat.
You straighten up. Hands in your pockets. Relaxed. Almost amused, and you can tell the almost amused is what's making her fingers twitch toward a drink she no longer has. (Because she handed it off to Sana. Which, looking back on it, was probably not her smartest move.)
"You came all the way across this terrace to yell at me, and you haven't refuted a single thing I wrote. Not one point. You've attacked my character, my career, my motives - but the actual substance of the review? Nothing." You let that breathe. "You only go after me because you have no arguments to counter mine."
Her lips part. Nothing comes out.
"But I actually like it," you add. Your expression changes subtly - not a smile, but the ghost of one, living somewhere behind your eyes. "The anger. The theatrics. Coming over here with your fists clenched. It's cute, Chaewon."
Her whole frame stiffens. The word “cute” lands with force, cracking straight through the composed façade she’s built piece by piece.
An Italian terrace, sunset light, white linen dress, and you reduce her to cute.
She stares at you, and the flush creeping down from her cheeks has reached her chest now, you can see it above the white linen, spreading across her collarbones. Her mouth presses into a hard line. Her hands won't stop shaking, and it's sure as hell not fear making them tremble.
"You have no idea how much I hate you." She says it with her whole chest. Eyes wet - not from tears, from fury, from the kind of heat that builds behind your face when your blood pressure spikes and you can feel your own pulse in your temples. "You have absolutely no idea."
"Hate is a strong word, Chaewon."
"It's the right one."
You consider this. You pick your champagne glass back up from the parapet and hold it loosely, rolling the stem between your fingers. Below, the catamarans sway in the harbor, their hulls turning gold in the dying light.
"Sometimes I think about you too," you say. Not warmly. Not cruelly either. Something flatter than both. "I think about your mediocrity. About how someone with your instincts actively chose to write at half capacity, and still makes millions doing it. That irritates me. I'll admit that."
She opens her mouth but you're not finished.
"It irritates me because it proves something I don't want to believe." You wave a hand at the terrace, the whole scene. "That none of this has a future. Look around: beautiful people, expensive wine, conversations about absolutely nothing." You pause. "This generation either drowned in nihilism and can't feel anything real anymore, or they bought into capitalism so hard that selling out became the entire aesthetic. Either way, same result. Mediocrity sells. Sincerity doesn't.”
You place the champagne glass back on the parapet, turn, and start walking toward the stone staircase at the far end of the terrace. Narrow steps carved into the cliff face, descending toward a lower landing where the staff keeps extra chairs and folded tablecloths. Nobody goes down there during events.
"I'm not done talking to you." Her heels click behind you. Fast. "Hey. Hey! I said I'm not—"
"Enjoy the party, Chaewon." You don't turn around. You take the first step down. "Isn't that why you write? To be surrounded by your own kind? The same breed of self-congratulatory artists, clinking glasses and telling each other how brave and important they all are.”
Her footsteps stop for a second - then resume, faster, following you down the stairs. The sounds of the party recede with each step. Glasses clinking, polite laughter, someone telling an anecdote about their Parisian editor. All of it fading.
"That's rich, coming from someone who—"
"Go back to your friends."
"—who thinks standing alone at a railing makes him interesting. And don't you dare say I surrendered to capitalism.” She's two steps behind you now, her hand gripping the iron railing. "My latest book literally critiques capitalism. The entire third act is a structural dismantling of—"
"I read it."
"Did you? Or did you feed it into ChatGPT and ask for a summary so you could fake your way through another hit piece?”
You nearly smile at that. "Yeah, that would've been smarter. Could've skipped three hundred and fifty pages of freshman political theory arguments.” You take another step down. The stone is rough under your shoes, worn smooth in the center from centuries of feet. "Capitalism critique is everywhere now, you realize that? Publishing houses do it. Streaming services do it. Billion-dollar brands build entire marketing campaigns around how capitalism is failing. Writing a novel that critiques capitalism doesn't make you brave or superior - it puts you on the exact same shelf as every other pseudo-intellectual writer who thinks pointing at the problem counts as solving it."
She's quiet for three steps. You can hear her breathing.
"Here's what you're not getting," you continue, reaching the bottom. "Capitalism doesn't fight back against criticism. It doesn't need to. It just absorbs it. Packages it. Sells it. Your book retails at twenty-eight dollars hardcover. Two hundred thousand first print. Your publisher made a product out of your critique, and everyone profited - including you." You step onto the lower landing. "That's not rebellion. That's a business model with a conscience sticker on it.”
The stairs deposit you into a curved alcove cut directly from the cliff - a pocket of stone that tucks beneath the terrace overhead. The rock arcs above you where the terrace floor sits, forming a natural canopy that makes you invisible to anyone standing up there. They could lean on the parapet, scan the harbor, nurse their prosecco six feet above your head, and never know.
Unless you step to the left. That's where the stone ceiling ends and the open air begins - a gap where the architecture gives way to sky, and the sightline from the terrace parapet drops straight down to where you're standing.
It's cooler here. The party compresses into something distant and soft - laughter, the clink of stemware, a fragment of someone's sentence about translation rights - all of it reduced to murmur.
Below, the sea.
Chaewon follows you down the last step, breathing hard, and she's not done: "People are debating my book at universities. There are actual academic discussions happening about the themes I—"
"Is that supposed to impress me?"
"It means my work has substance.”
"People write theses on Taylor Swift's lyrics, Chaewon. Anything can be dissected if you apply enough academic framework to it. There are peer-reviewed papers on the semiotics of fast food branding." You lean against the stone wall, arms crossed. "Academic attention doesn't equal literary merit. It just means someone needed a dissertation topic. And while I'm sure your book provides plenty of material for a second-year cultural studies course, I don't think there's anything in it that's really worth the effort."
She's standing in front of you with the sunset at her back, and the copper light does something unfair to her - catches the edges of that bob, the loose strands the wind has pulled free, the bangs she keeps pushing out of her eyes that won't stay put anymore. The walk down the stairs and the argument and the salt air have undone about forty minutes of whatever she did in front of a mirror before tonight, and the result is better than the original. She looks wrecked and gorgeous at the same time, flushed and furious, and you clock it the way you clock everything: at a remove, converting sensation into observation before it has a chance to become something inconvenient.
You turn back toward the sea.
Which is exactly why you miss her hand until it's gripping your shoulder, spinning you. Suddenly both her palms are pressed flat against your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, pulling it tight. Her knuckles have gone completely white from the pressure. When you focus, her face is inches from yours.
"You're a piece of shit." Her teeth are clenched. Every syllable pushed through them. "A smug, self-satisfied, worthless piece of shit."
"And you're a crybaby who craves validation." You don't remove her hands. You don't step back. "The worst kind of writer. The kind I genuinely can't stand. Not because you're bad - because you're needy. You need every single person in every single room to tell you you're brilliant, and the second one person doesn't, you come unraveled. And the worst part? Everyone around you lets you. Your publisher, your agent, your little entourage up there—" You tilt your head toward the terrace. "—they all just nod along and validate whatever tantrum you're throwing this week. Nobody tells you no. Nobody pushes back. They just pat you on the head and tell you the mean critic doesn't understand your genius, and you eat it up because it's easier than actually sitting with the possibility that maybe - maybe - your work has problems. And if you really can't handle it, Chaewon - if one review is enough to send you spiraling across a terrace to grab a stranger by the shirt - then maybe you should seriously consider doing something else. Because this industry is going to keep hitting you, and the hits are going to get worse, and if this is how you cope, writing might not be for you.”
Her grip tightens on your shirt. Her jaw is trembling. "Take that back!”
"What are you going to do? Hit me?" You look down at her fists, bunched in the linen. Then back up. "Go ahead. But it won't make your writing any better."
She holds there for a full second. You're seeing everything in slow motion: her knuckles against the fabric of your shirt, her arms shaking, her eyes wet and furious and searching your face for something - a flinch, a crack, any sign that you're not as calm as you're pretending to be. The party hums above you. The sea moves below. You can feel her pulse through her fists where they press against your chest, hammering, and you genuinely think she's about to hit you. Or shove you backward into the parapet.
She moves.
Her weight shifts onto her front foot with every muscle in her body coiled toward violence, and you brace for it - the slap, the shove, whatever she's winding up to deliver.
She kisses you.
There's zero tenderness in it. Zero romance. This is violence, just happening to involve her mouth. She surges forward on her toes and crashes into you, lips first, and her teeth catch your lower lip immediately - not a nibble, a bite, sharp enough to draw blood. You taste copper. Her hands are still fisted in your shirt and she's pulling you down to her height, and the kiss is angry, graceless and wet, and between the collisions of mouth against mouth she's still talking, still spitting words into the space between breaths:
"I fucking hate you—" Another kiss, harder. Her tongue against yours, then her teeth again. "You ruined my launch—" She bites the corner of your mouth. "You ruined my year—" Her nails dig through the shirt fabric into your chest. "Arrogant—" Kiss. "Pretentious—" Kiss. "Piece of—"
You kiss her back.
Not the way she's kissing you. Not frantic. You take her by the waist - both hands, firm, your fingers pressing into the linen where it sits against the curve above her hips - and you turn her. Smoothly. She makes a small, involuntary sound against your mouth as her back meets the stone wall, and her shoulder blades flatten against the rough surface, and you lean into her, and now you're the one setting the tempo.
You slow it down. You deepen it. Your hand comes up to the side of her neck - thumb against her jaw, fingers in her hair, tilting her head back. She goes with it. Hates that she goes with it. You feel the war happening in her body, the way she's simultaneously pulling you closer by the shirt and pushing against your chest with the heels of her palms.
She separates just enough to breathe, her lips swollen and still grazing yours, and her eyes are glassy and fierce at once - pupils blown, lashes wet, that flush crawling down her neck into her collarbones. Her fingers still twisted in your shirt. She swallows hard.
"If I let you fuck me—" She licks her lower lip. Tasting you. Tasting herself. "—will you write a better review next time? Is that what this is? Is that how you operate?"
You pull back an inch. Study her face.
She doesn't wait for an answer. The words are already loaded and she's pulling the trigger: "Because I've been wondering about Sana. That glowing review you wrote. Four thousand words of praise for a debut short story collection - from you, the man who hasn't said a nice thing about anyone's work in half a decade." Her jaw tightens. "You said she thanked you. She thanked you. So I'm asking. Did she get on her knees for that review? Was that the price of admission?"
"Careful, Chaewon."
"Did you fuck her in some hotel room and then go home and write about how luminous her prose was? Is that the pipeline? Because if that's what it takes, fine, here I am. At least I'm being upfront about it instead of pretending—"
You kiss her. Once. Brief. Hard enough to cut the sentence in half. You pull away slightly and look at her, and for the first time she can’t read your expression. "I would never do something that low," you say. Quiet. Measured. "Not to her. Not to you. Not to my own work."
"Bullshit. Men like you always—"
"Men like me what? Say it. Finish the sentence."
She falters. Just for a beat.
"Here's what just happened, Chaewon. Pay attention, because I know how much you value close reading." You hold her gaze. "A woman - a young woman, a first-time author, someone who spent three years writing a book in a studio apartment in Osaka - received a positive review based on the quality of her prose. And your immediate response, your gut instinct, wasn't to consider that maybe she earned it. That maybe she wrote something genuinely good. Your first thought was that she must have spread her legs."
Her lips part, yet no sound escapes.
"You didn't question my integrity. You questioned hers. You took a woman's professional achievement and reduced it to a sexual transaction. Not because you have any evidence. Not because anything about Sana's behavior suggests it. But because the alternative - that a peer of yours might simply be more talented - is so unbearable to your ego that you'd rather tear another woman down than sit with it."
"That's not what I—"
"That is exactly what you did." Your thumb traces along her jaw. Slow. Gentle, which makes it worse. "You, Chaewon. The woman with the feminist book club recommendations on her Instagram. The one who posted that essay about women supporting women in publishing. Who put sisterhood in her bio last International Women's Day." You tilt her chin up. "And the moment another woman's work gets praised, you assume she fucked for it. Because in your mind, there's no other explanation for a woman succeeding where you didn't."
She swallows. You feel it under your fingers.
"So where's the sisterhood? Hmm?" You lean closer. Your lips nearly brush hers. "Where did it go? Or was it always just content?"
Her eyes are wet. Not from sadness - from the specific, burning shame of being seen doing something ugly and knowing you can't walk it back. Her mouth works. Her fingers clench and unclench in your shirt.
"You're arrogant, Chaewon. Not in the fun way. Not in the way that drives ambition or fuels good work." Your thumb settles on her lower lip. "In the corrosive way. The kind that eats talent from the inside out. The kind that makes you tear down other women because their success feels like your failure."
She stares at you. The flush on her chest has deepened three shades. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, and she's gripping your shirt so hard the fabric is stretched beyond recovery.
Her chin trembles once. She steadies it. "Sana is talented," she says eventually. Costing her something visible.
"Yes. She is."
"And I'm—"
"Still pinned against a wall with my hands on you. So maybe save the self-reflection for later.”
You feel her swallow against your thumb. Her pulse hammers under your fingertips where they rest on her neck. Her chest rises and falls in these short, uneven breaths. Her lips are swollen from all the biting, parted slightly, and the look she's giving you is trying desperately to be pure hatred but can't quite commit.
"But," you say, your gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth, down to her collarbones, following the way that white linen drapes against her skin in the dying light. Your hand slides from her neck down to her collarbone, thumb tracing the delicate ridge of bone. She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. "—the one thing I'll give you, Chaewon, is that you're unfairly fucking gorgeous.”
Her pulse is hammering so fast you can see it in her throat, her pupils are blown wide, she's breathing through her mouth, and every single one of these details contradicts what comes out of it next.
"So what's the plan here, huh?” She tugs at your shirt, pulling you closer even as her mouth pushes you away. “You're gonna fuck me? Right here? Where anyone could just walk down those stairs and—" Her gaze drops to your mouth for a half-second. Snaps back up. She shakes her head. "Jesus Christ. You're a fucking pervert."
"Is that what you want?"
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't meant to be. I asked you a question."
She glances toward the staircase - calculating distance and risk in a single look - then back to you. Her fingers haven't released your shirt. She hasn't stepped back. Hasn't created a single inch of separation between her body and yours.
"I want—" She stops. Starts over, harder this time. "I need to get this out of my system. This frustration. You have no idea how the past few weeks have been for me. What this entire month has been because of you and your little hatchet job."
"So get it out."
"I will." She straightens up. There it is: the defiance snapping back into place, the bratty architecture rebuilding itself in real time, brick by brick. "But let's be honest with each other for once. You're not going to make me cum."
"No?"
"No. I'm going to stand here and let you fumble around for a few minutes, and then I'm going to walk back up those stairs more frustrated than I already am. And you'll have another mediocre performance to add to your résumé." Her eyes narrow, and the corner of her mouth curls. "Which is kind of your whole thing, isn't it? Big buildup. Lots of tension. No payoff. You write reviews the same way."
"Interesting theory."
"It's not a theory. It's a prediction." She tilts her head. "Prove me wrong."
"I don't perform on command, Chaewon."
"Of course you don't. That would require actually delivering on all that confidence you walk around with." She pats your chest twice - condescending, calculated. "It's fine. I've learned to manage my expectations when it comes to you."
You look at her. She looks back. Defiant. Steady. Daring you with every molecule of her five-foot-four frame.
"You're still holding onto my shirt," you point out.
Her grip tightens reflexively. She glances down at her own fists.
"Force of habit," she says. Doesn't let go. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
"Are you finished?"
"I'm asking you a question. What are you going to do?" She tugs your shirt again. Demanding. "Because if your plan is to just stand there looking constipated while I do all the—”
You don't answer. You let your hands do something instead. They start at her waist - where they've been resting against the linen - and they move upward. Slow. Over the curve of her ribs, feeling each one through the thin fabric, feeling the way her breathing stutters when your thumbs graze the underside of her breasts. She's not wearing much beneath the dress. You can tell. The linen is light, almost sheer in the fading golden light, and her nipples are already hard against the fabric, two small points pressing through the white.
Your palms settle over her breasts. She's small but full in a way that fits her frame perfectly, that perky firmness that you feel shift against your hands as she inhales sharply. You squeeze. Gently. Testing. Her eyelids flutter, and she bites down on her lower lip, and she's trying so hard not to react that the effort itself is a reaction.
You slide the straps of her dress down. One at a time. Left, then right. The white linen slips to her upper arms, and underneath there's a bra - simple, cream-colored, slightly sheer. Her breasts sit perfectly in the cups, the swell of them pushed together slightly by the cut, and you can see her nipples through the thin material, dark and stiff.
You lean in and kiss her while both hands come up to cup her breasts over the bra. She makes a sound into your mouth - involuntary - and you swallow it. You squeeze, firmer, rolling your thumbs across her nipples through the fabric, feeling them harden further under the pressure. She arches into your palms. Her hands come up to your shoulders, nails digging in, and her hips shift against the wall.
You take your time. You thumb the lace edge of one cup, pulling it down just slightly, exposing the upper curve of her breast. Kissing her jaw. Kissing the spot just below her ear. Feeling her pulse under your lips, rapid and heavy. She tilts her head back against the stone and her eyes close, and you drag your thumb across her bare nipple and she gasps, this tiny sharp intake that she immediately tries to smother.
Her patience shatters in under a minute.
"Are you serious right now?" Her eyes fly open and she snatches your wrist. "Do it quickly or don't do it at all. Someone could walk down those stairs any second and I'm not getting caught because you want to play out some slow-burn fantasy." She glances pointedly at your hands still cupping her chest. "What even is this? Are you savoring the moment? Writing mental notes for later?"
"I'm—"
"Oh my god, have you literally never felt tits before? You're acting like a virgin who just got to second base. Either fuck me properly or get your hands off me.”
You stop. You pull back enough to look at her face. Then your hand comes up and catches her jaw - not roughly, but firmly, your fingers pressing into her cheeks, tilting her face up toward yours. Her eyes widen. Her lips compress between the pressure of your thumb and forefinger, and for a second she looks genuinely startled.
"I don't like being rushed," you say.
She tries to respond but your grip on her face makes the words come out slightly compressed: "Then you shouldn't be doing this in a—"
"But fine." You release her jaw. "You're right. Let's get this over with quickly. I don't want to spend another second near you."
She opens her mouth to reply but you're already moving.
Your hand drops from her breast to her thigh. You gather the hem of her white linen dress - sliding it upward along her leg, the fabric bunching in your fist, her skin warm and smooth underneath. Your knuckles graze the inside of her thigh and her legs part, just slightly. The dress rides up past her hips. Simple white underwear. Cotton. A damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs.
You slide your hand inside.
She's soaked. Not damp, not slightly wet - drenched. Your fingers slip against her folds, hot and slick, and the contrast between the venom coming out of her mouth for the past twenty minutes and the state of her cunt right now is so pointed it's almost funny. You cup her, letting the heel of your palm press against her clit, and her whole body jerks. Her hand flies to your forearm and grips it, nails leaving half-moons.
"Fuck," she breathes. Just that. One word. Raw.
You rub her slowly. Two fingers dragging along the length of her slit, spreading the wetness, circling her clit with a pressure that's just shy of enough. She rolls her hips into your hand, seeking more, and you pull back just slightly, keeping her at the edge of satisfaction, never quite landing where she needs you.
Then you push two fingers inside her. She gasps against your mouth and her hand tightens on your forearm. You feel her clench around your fingers - tight, wet, hot - and you curl them upward, pressing against that ridged spot on the front wall, and her legs nearly buckle. She grabs your shoulder with her free hand to stay upright, her heels sliding on the stone.
She kisses you. Desperate now, her teeth catching your lip again, her tongue pushing into your mouth, and it's messy, urgent and she's moaning against your teeth as you start to move your fingers in and out. Slow strokes. Deep. Curling on every withdrawal, dragging against that spot, and your thumb finds her clit and applies a steady, circular pressure that makes her thighs shake.
You pull your mouth from hers. Your lips brush her ear: "You're so predictable, Chaewon."
"Shut up—"
"This whole performance tonight. Coming all the way across that terrace, getting in my face, making your little scene." You thrust your fingers deeper and she chokes on a moan. "You didn't come over here because you're angry. You came over here because you needed attention. My attention. And this was the only way you knew how to ask for it."
"That's not— I didn't—" She's struggling to form sentences. Your fingers are working her steadily, a relentless in-and-out rhythm with your thumb circling her clit, and her hips are moving against your hand in tight, involuntary rolls. "I came over because you're a piece of— ah— piece of shit who ruined my—"
"You're a brat." You say it simply. Factually. Your fingers don't stop. "That's all this is. You came here tonight, found me minding my own business, started running your mouth, pushed and pushed and pushed—" You curl your fingers and she whimpers, her forehead drops against your collarbone. "—all because you wanted me to do exactly this."
"No—"
"I bet in every possible version of tonight, you do the same thing." You press your thumb harder against her clit and she bucks against your hand. "Every scenario. Every outcome. You find me, you pick a fight, you act insufferable, and then you end up exactly where you are right now - pinned against a wall with my fingers inside you, pretending you didn't want it." Your lips move against her ear. "In every version of this, Chaewon, you're doing the exact same thing. Being an insufferable, bratty little nightmare until someone finally fucks you into silence."
She makes a broken sound against your neck. Her hips are grinding against your hand now, chasing it, and you can feel the tension building in her body - her thighs clamped around your wrist, her stomach muscles trembling, her walls fluttering around your fingers in that telltale rhythm.
"You're not—" she starts, and her breath hitches. "You don't get to— fuck— you don't get to psychoanalyze me while you're—"
"While I'm what?"
"While you're fingering me, you arrogant— oh god—"
You increase the pace. Your wrist aches, but you don't care. You fuck her with two fingers, fast and deep, curling against her g-spot on every stroke, your thumb working her clit in tight circles, and she's falling apart in stages - first the insults dissolve, then the sentences, then the words, until all that's coming out of her mouth are these short, punched-out sounds, each one higher and more desperate than the last. Her nails rake down your forearm. Her head tips back against the stone wall, exposing the long line of her throat, and her eyes are shut and her mouth is open and her whole body is wound tight, trembling on the edge.
"Come," you tell her. "Since that's what you came here for."
She shakes her head. Stubborn. Even now. Even here, with her dress around her hips and her underwear shoved to the side and your fingers buried in her cunt, she's fighting it. "I'm not going to give you the— the satisfaction—"
"You're dripping down my wrist, Chaewon."
"That doesn't mean anything—"
"It means your body already made the decision your mouth is too proud to."
She grabs your collar and yanks you closer, teeth bared: "I've faked it with better men than you. Don't fucking flatter yourself."
You curl your fingers against that spot and her grip on your collar falters. You press your forehead to hers, look directly into her glassy eyes and say: "Then fake it. Go ahead. Put on a show for me. That's what you're good at, right? Performing?"
"Asshole—"
"You're clenching so hard around my fingers right now you can barely breathe. Your thighs are shaking. Your clit is throbbing against my thumb." You twist your wrist and she chokes. "But sure. Tell me again how this doesn't mean anything."
Her head falls back against the stone. She's panting through clenched teeth, her chest heaving, and the defiance in her expression is crumbling at the edges but she holds it — jaw set, eyes burning. "I won't cum for you. I refuse. You don't get to have that."
"Babe, you're about thirty seconds from falling apart whether you give yourself permission or not."
"Don't call me babe, you pretentious piece of—"
You press your thumb flat against her clit, and she breaks.
Her whole body seizes. Her thighs clamp around your wrist and her back arches off the wall and her mouth opens in a silent cry that stays silent for one, two, three seconds - and then it's not silent anymore. It comes out of her in a long, shuddering moan that she tries to muffle against your shoulder, her teeth sinking into the fabric of your shirt, and you feel her clench around your fingers in rhythmic, involuntary pulses, wet and tight and relentless. Her hands are fisted in your shirt so hard the seams are straining. Her hips jerk against your hand in short, helpless thrusts. The orgasm rolls through her in waves, each one drawing another broken sound from her throat, and you keep your fingers inside her through all of it, still moving gently, dragging it out, making her ride it until she's twitching and gasping and pushing weakly at your chest.
You slow down. Stop. Hold your hand still, your fingers still buried in her, feeling the last tremors fade. She's breathing in ragged, uneven pulls, her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her entire body slack against the wall.
You withdraw your fingers slowly. She shivers at the loss.
And then you bring your hand up to her mouth.
Your fingers are slick, glistening in the last traces of sunset, and you press them against her lower lip. She opens her eyes - hazy, wrecked, furious - and stares at you. You don't say anything. The instruction is clear enough.
She holds your gaze. Defiant even now, even flushed and trembling and ruined, even with the taste of her own arousal shining on the fingers resting against her mouth. Her lips part. She takes your fingers in, slowly, her tongue sliding between them, and she sucks, hard enough that her cheeks hollow, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. She tastes herself and doesn't flinch. Doesn't break eye contact.
(She's Kim Chaewon. She'd rather choke than look away first.)
"I still hate you," she says.
"I prefer it this way." You say it against her temple, your lips brushing her hairline, her perfume mixing with the salt air and the faint musk of what just happened. "The more you hate me, the more I want to fuck you. It's a problem."
"It's a sickness."
"Probably."
Her eyes are black. Not brown anymore - the pupils have swallowed everything, blown wide, and the expression on her face lives somewhere in the space between wanting to tear your face apart and wanting to fucking consume you.
Without prior notice, her hand drops between you. She finds you through your trousers, already hard, straining against the fabric, and her fingers close around the shape of you, squeezing, measuring. Her eyebrows lift, and there's something almost clinical about the assessment, the way she traces the length of you through the cloth. Then her other hand moves to your belt.
She tugs at the buckle. "Prove it, then." Her fingers work the leather through the loop. "Show me how much you hate me."
You watch her struggle with the belt for two seconds. Then you take over - batting her hand away, pulling the leather free in one smooth motion, the metal clinking. She steps back half an inch to give you room, her shoulder blades finding the wall again, and her eyes track your hands as you unfasten the button, lower the zipper.
But you don't finish undressing. Not yet.
You grab her by the hips and turn her around.
She makes a startled sound - half gasp, half indignant yelp - as her palms hit the stone wall. The rough surface scrapes against her hands and she braces herself, and now she's facing the wall with her back to you and the white linen dress bunched around her waist. The view is nothing short of spectacular.
(Henry Miller once wrote that the best of life is lived with the brain below the navel, and while you've spent your entire career disagreeing with that sentiment on principle, right now, at this specific moment, staring at what's in front of you, the man makes an embarrassingly compelling case.)
Chaewon's ass is perfect. You've known this. You've noticed it before, in settings far more appropriate than this one - press photos, television interviews, that book signing last spring where she wore a charcoal pencil skirt that should have been illegal. Those tight, short evening gowns she favors for award ceremonies, the fabric clinging to the curve of her hips, her round ass always prominent and impossible to ignore. You've caught yourself looking more than once, and hated yourself for it, because acknowledging that a writer whose work you consider mediocre has an incredible ass felt like a concession you weren't willing to make.
And now she’s here, slightly bent forward, hands braced on the stone. Her waist is so slim it makes the curve of her hips feel exaggerated. And her ass, round and tight, is framed by the bunched white fabric above and the smooth lines of her thighs below.
You push your pants and underwear down just enough - mid-thigh, functional, not bothering with more - and you step forward. You reach down and push her panties further aside with your thumb, and you press the head of your cock against her entrance.
She inhales sharply. Her fingers curl against the stone. But you don't push in.
You hold there. The tip of you resting against her, nudging between her folds, slick with how wet she still is. You rock your hips forward - just barely, just enough to slide against her without entering - and she clenches, her ass tightening, her thighs pressing together.
"Ask me," you say.
Her head whips around, brown hair catching the breeze. "Excuse me?"
"Ask me to fuck you."
A sharp bark of laughter escapes her, echoing off the cliff face. "You're out of your mind. You think I'm going to stand here and beg you? I don't beg. I've never begged for anything in my life and I'm certainly not starting with a man who uses the word dialectic in casual conversation."
You press forward another fraction of an inch. Not inside. Just there. Right at the edge. She pushes her hips back, trying to take you in, and you pull away. Matching her movement. Denying her.
Her palms slap the stone wall. "Oh, you think you're cute with that? You think this little game is— just put it in. Stop being such a fucking tease and—"
"That's not asking."
"I'm not asking. I don't ask. People ask me for things. Publishers. Agents. Producers. They line up and they ask me." She grinds her hips backward again and you retreat the exact same distance. A frustrated growl tears out of her throat. "God, you are insufferable. Even now. Even with your dick out you have to make everything a power trip."
You lean forward. Your chest against her back. Your mouth next to her ear, and she can feel you - hot, hard, pressing against her entrance without breaching it, and your breath is warm on the side of her neck as you say:
"If you don't ask, I'll leave you right here. In a public space. Dress around your waist. Panties pulled to the side." You press the head of your cock against her clit and she shudders violently. "Arousal running down your thighs. Without coming again. And I'll go back upstairs and finish my champagne." You drag yourself along her slit, slow, agonizing. "And you can fix your dress and go back to the party, dripping wet and unsatisfied. And everyone will see the flush on your face and wonder what happened to Kim Chaewon."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
"You're bluffing. You want this just as bad as I do. I felt how hard you are. You're not walking away from—"
You pull your hips back. One inch. Two. Creating distance. Her eyes go wide.
"Wait—" She catches herself. Clamps her mouth shut. Her jaw flexes. She slams her palm against the wall. The war's written all over her face: pride versus desire, ego versus desperation. Six years of hating you and the unbearable emptiness of you pulling away.
Three seconds of silence. The sea crashes below. A burst of laughter from the terrace above.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Her nostrils flare. When she speaks, the words come through her teeth, ground down, every syllable costing her something she'll never get back:
"Fuck me." Low. Guttural. Furious. "Fuck me, you piece of shit. Are you happy? Is your little ego satisfied? Fuck me good. Fuck me until I can't think about your stupid fucking review or your stupid fucking face. And if you ever tell anyone I said this I will end your career, your life, and your bloodline. Now put it in before I change my mind and—”
You thrust into her.
No preamble. No gradual easing in. One firm, deep stroke that buries you to the hilt, and the sound she makes is incredible; this raw, punched-out cry that she wasn't prepared for, her fingers scrabbling at the stone, her back arching sharply. She's tight. Swollen from the orgasm, drenched, and the heat of her clenches around you in a way that makes your vision narrow for a second.
You don't give her time to adjust. You pull back and drive in again, establishing a rhythm that's hard and steady from the first stroke - not frantic, not sloppy, but intentional in its force. Each thrust pushes her forward into the wall, and she braces herself against it, her palms flat, her arms trembling with the effort of holding herself up.
Her hair sways in the sea breeze. That short brown bob, disheveled now, the bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, strands catching across her parted lips. Her heels scrape against the stone beneath her, struggling for purchase - the angle is wrong for four-inch stilettos and she keeps sliding, her left foot stuttering, and she compensates by leaning harder into the wall, pressing her forearms flat against the rough surface.
You grip her hips. Both hands. Fingers digging into the soft skin above her hipbones, pulling her back onto you with every thrust.
“You can be loud," you tell her, your breath coming harder now. "The sea. The music up there." Another thrust. Deep. She chokes on a moan. "Nobody can hear you."
She takes you at your word.
"Harder— Is that all you've got?! Fuck me harder, you miserable— every fucking review you wrote— every word— I hope you were jerking off to this because this is the only— ah— the only honest thing you've ever—"
You pull her hips back sharply, changing the angle, and the next thrust goes deeper, hits differently, and her sentence dissolves into a strangled moan.
"Keep talking," you say. "I want to hear you run out of words."
"Fuck you—" She grits through her teeth. "Fuck you and your— your pretentious fucking column and your— god— your superiority complex and your—" Her head drops between her arms. You feel her clench around you, hard, involuntary, and the filth pouring out of her mouth is getting less coherent by the second. "You think this means something? You think because you can fuck me that— that you were right? About my books? About—"
"I was right about your books regardless of this."
"Shut up and fuck me—"
"I'm already fucking you."
"Then do it better—"
You snake one hand from her hip to her hair. You gather the short strands at the back of her head - there's barely enough to grip, but you find purchase and you pull, arching her neck back, and a moan tears out of her that's so loud it bounces off the cliff face.
"Oh my god—" Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her mouth hanging open. "I hate you— I hate you so— fuck— don't stop— don't you dare stop—"
You fuck her against that wall and the Mediterranean goes dark beneath you, slow and indifferent, the water shifting from copper to ink while the terrace hums above with clinking glasses and polite conversation and people who have no idea what's happening fifteen feet below them. The heels are useless now, her ankles buckling with every thrust, and the only reason she's still upright is because your hand is locked on her hip and your fist is tangled in her hair and the wall is doing the rest.
You're holding her together and taking her apart at the same time.
Her ass meets your hips on every stroke, that round, perfect curve you've spent years training yourself not to look at - in press photos, across crowded rooms - and now it's right here, bouncing against you, bare skin under bunched-up white linen, and the sight of her braced against centuries-old Italian stone with her designer dress shoved around her waist and her knuckles scraped raw from gripping the rock is fucking devastating.
"Make me cum." She says it suddenly. Her hand reaches back and grabs your wrist. "You hear me? Make me fucking cum. Right now."
You don't change pace.
"Are you deaf? I said make me cum, you useless piece of— after everything tonight, after all that shit you talked, the least you can do is—" She chokes as you thrust deeper, but recovers, teeth bared. "—the least you can fucking do is finish what you started. You owe me that. You owe me that."
You release her hair. Your hand slides around her hip to the front, finding her clit, and you press two fingers against it - rubbing in fast, tight circles while you keep thrusting. The dual sensation hits her immediately. Her whole body goes rigid, her walls clamping around you, and a high, thin sound starts building in her throat.
"Oh— oh fuck—"
"There it is."
"Shut up— don't talk, just— keep doing— shit— right there, right fucking there, don't you dare move your hand, don't you dare change a single— god — why are you so good at this, why— it's not fair—" Her hips buck against you, chasing it, greedy. "Come on. Make me cum. Make me cum, you selfish fucking— I swear if you stop I'll— I'll ruin your whole—"
She can't finish the threat.
It hits her in a wave.
Her eyes roll back (not a figure of speech), you see it happen as her head tips back onto your shoulder, her eyelids fluttering, her irises disappearing, and her mouth opens in a silent scream that finally breaks into a ragged, shaking moan. Her cunt locks around you in rhythmic contractions so tight you have to grit your teeth, and her legs give out entirely. You catch her - one arm banded around her waist, holding her upright while she shakes through it, her whole body seizing in pulses that seem to come from somewhere so deep that she probably doesn't even know where it came from. Her hand shoots back, seizing your neck, nails biting into your skin while she clings as if she might sink without you.
You keep fucking her through it. Slower now. Feeling every flutter and clench, her walls still spasming around you in the aftershocks, her thighs trembling against your hips. Your forehead is pressed to the back of her neck and your breath comes ragged and uneven and you're close - dangerously close - the pressure building at the base of your spine in a way that's becoming impossible to ignore.
"Where," you manage, and your composure is cracking, splintering at the edges, "where do you want me to—"
"Are you seriously asking me that right now?" She shoves her hips back into you, grinding, swallowing you deeper. Her hand reaches back and grabs a fistful of your hair. "Where do you think? Inside. Cum inside me. Deep. Don't you dare pull out."
"Chaewon—"
"What, you're going to get shy now?" She clenches around you - hard, purposeful, a squeeze that makes your knees buckle. "You fucked me against a wall in public and now you want to be responsible? Cum in my pussy. Fill me up."
"We shouldn't—"
"Breed me." She yanks your hair, pulling your mouth to her ear. "I know that's what you want. I know that's what this whole thing has been about. You want to mark me. You want to own something I can't take back." She rolls her hips in a filthy, grinding circle. "So do it. Pump me full. Breed this pussy. Put a load so deep in me I'll feel it for days."
"Come on—" She's panting, shoving herself back onto your cock with short, vicious thrusts. "You had so much to say about my books, so much fucking commentary, but now you can't even cum when I'm telling you to? Breed me, you coward. Knock me up. I want every drop. I want it dripping out of me when I go back to that party and shake hands with my publisher."
"Fuck— Chaewon—"
"That's it. That's what you sound like when you're not being a smug piece of shit." She clenches again, rhythmic, milking you. "Give it to me. Stuff this little pussy full. I want to be leaking you. Breed me, breed me, breed me—"
You bury yourself to the hilt and let go.
The orgasm rips through you, not gently, not gradually, but all at once, a slamming, full-body release that has you pressing her into the wall, your forehead dropping against the back of her neck, your hips jerking in short, involuntary thrusts as you empty yourself deep inside her. She moans at the feeling - the heat, the pulse of it - and clenches around you, milking every last spasm, her hand still gripping the back of your neck, her nails breaking skin.
You stay there for a long moment. Both of you breathing. The sea below, the party above, the darkening sky turning purple at the edges.
You pull out slowly. She shudders at the withdrawal.
And then - before you can step back, before you can reach for your belt - Chaewon drops.
She sinks into a squat right there on the stone, her white dress bunched around her waist, those ridiculous heels somehow still on her feet - balanced on the balls, stilettos angled against the rough surface - and your cum is already leaking out of her. You can see it in the dim light, a thin white trail sliding down the inside of her thigh, and she doesn't even seem to notice or care. She just takes the head of your cock into her mouth and starts cleaning you off with her tongue.
(It's genuinely hard to reconcile this image with the woman on the bestseller lists. The one teenage girls post about on TikTok with heart emojis and queen in the caption. Kim Chaewon, literary darling, squatting in a public place with cum dripping out of her pussy, sucking a man's cock clean while the party carries on above her.
If her fans could see her right now.)
She's thorough about it. Tongue swirling around the tip, tasting both of you, her dark eyes looking up at you through those messy bangs. Her lips are swollen and slick, and she sucks gently, almost lazily, with this expression that sits somewhere between contempt and satisfaction. Then she lets you go with a wet sound and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
"Chaewon."
"What."
"I came inside you."
She looks up at you from her squat. Blinks once. "Yes. I was there."
"That's— are you—"
"Don't be an idiot." She stands, tugging her dress down, her legs still shiny and slick. "It was dirty talk. I'm on the pill. I've been on the pill since I was nineteen." She reaches between her thighs and adjusts her panties, pressing the cotton back into place - your cum held against her skin by a thin strip of damp fabric. "You don't need to worry. The last thing I need is a pregnancy from a man who gave my book two and a half stars."
"It was two."
"Even worse." She tugs her bra strap up. Pushes her bangs off her forehead. Takes one breath, then another, and in about thirty seconds she's pulled herself together enough to pass inspection from a distance. Up close, though - the flush that runs from her cheeks to her chest gives her away. The swollen lips. That brightness in her eyes, wet and electric, that no amount of composure can disguise.
"I need to go." She straightens the hem of her dress without looking at you. "People will notice I'm gone."
She takes a step toward the staircase and your hand catches her wrist.
She stops. Looks down at your fingers circling her arm, raising an eyebrow.
"This isn't over." You hold her gaze. "I want you in my room tonight."
A beat. The corner of her mouth twitches - and the brat flickers back to life behind her eyes, bruised but not broken, her cutting tongue is quick to respond: "Already desperate for more?" She twists her wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across her skin. "That's embarrassing for you. Don't get your hopes up." She takes a step back, toward the stairs. Then another. "It won't happen again."
She turns and walks up the stone steps. Her heels click against each one, steady, measured, the rhythm of a woman reassembling herself with every stride. Her thighs press together slightly as she climbs - holding everything in, and your mind goes straight there: she's full of you. Your cum inside her cunt, trapped by her underwear, leaking into the fabric with every step. You're absolutely certain she's fucking loving it. That she'll be at that party feeling you leak inside her panties, getting hornier by the minute, thinking about how you filled her up.
Chaewon doesn't look back.
(She'll be at your door by midnight.)
•••
The reality with Kim Chaewon is this: you don't hate her.
You know she thinks you do. She's built an entire narrative around it - the bitter critic, the failed artist, the man who made her his personal punching bag because he couldn't create anything of his own. It's a clean story. Sympathetic protagonist versus petty antagonist. Very on-brand for her, actually.
Very commercial.
But hate requires a kind of emotional investment you haven't made. What you feel is closer to disdain. Contempt, maybe, on your worse days. Not for who she is - you barely know who she is - but for what she's become. For the distance between the writer she could have been and the product she chose to be instead.
Her first two books weren't bad.
They weren't good, either - not in any way that would survive serious critical scrutiny, not the kind of work you'd hand to a colleague and say read this, something is happening here. But there was raw material in those early pages. An instinct for emotional architecture that hadn't yet been sanded down into formula. She had this way of structuring interior monologue that felt genuinely intuitive or accidental, as though she stumbled into moments of real clarity before the commercial instincts kicked in and smoothed everything over.
The first novel had this one passage. Chapter eleven. The scene in the laundromat.
You still think about it sometimes, which irritates you more than her sales numbers ever could. The protagonist is alone, folding clothes that belong to someone who just left her, and the prose does something unexpected: it slows down. Gets quiet. Stops trying to impress. For about four pages, Kim Chaewon wrote like someone who had forgotten she was being watched. The sentences got shorter. The observations got sharper. There was a detail about the way dryer sheets smell when they're warm, and how the character associated that specific scent with domestic failure, and it was precise in a way that nothing else in the novel managed to be. Four pages of a writer writing for herself instead of for the crowd.
And then chapter twelve started and the machinery kicked back in. The manufactured tension. The recycled emotional beats. The relentless, suffocating need to be liked by the reader, to be accessible, to never challenge or alienate or demand. But those four pages stayed with you. They're the reason you kept reviewing her. They're the reason her mediocrity feels personal.
You've never told her any of this. You never will.
(Credit where it's due: you've been editing this story as you tell it. Leaving out the part that doesn't fit the narrative. The part that came first, chronologically, and that you've spent six years pretending is irrelevant to everything that followed. It's not irrelevant. You know it's not. And since tonight has already stripped away every other pretense, you might as well lose this one too.)
The first time you met Kim Chaewon, you weren't interested in her books. You didn't even know who she was.
It was some event in New York: one of those publishing-adjacent cocktail things where everyone wears black and pretends to have read the longlist. Early in her career, probably her first or second time at something that size. You were standing near the bar, talking to an editor from The Atlantic, and she walked past. That's all. She walked past.
And you lost the thread of whatever you were saying.
She was - god. Too beautiful. That's the phrase your brain produced at the time, and it still holds. She didn't look like anyone else at that party. Not a writer, not an editor, not an actress doing press, not a journalist working a source. You genuinely couldn't place her, and that was rare for you - you could usually categorize everyone at these events within thirty seconds. But she resisted the taxonomy. She seemed a bit out of place, actually, standing near the bar with a drink she wasn't really drinking, watching the room with these careful eyes that were taking in everything while pretending to notice nothing. She was wearing a black dress that night, simple, nothing expensive, and her hair was longer then, past her shoulders, and she kept tucking it behind her ear in this gesture that was either nervous or calculated, and you couldn't tell which, and that ambiguity was what got you. You didn't know who she was, but you wanted to find out.
(And she is still beautiful. That’s what really bothers you about her. How beautiful and perfect she is. Your exact type, down to the specifics you'd never list aloud. And as a consequence, everything else about her - the commercial instincts, the Instagram aesthetics, the careful curation of a literary persona that prioritizes brand over craft - becomes something you don't just critique professionally. You resent it. Because it would be so much easier to dismiss her completely if she weren't the most attractive woman you've ever seen.)
That night in New York, you talked to her for a while. Twenty minutes, maybe. She was funny, sharper than you expected, quick with references, a little nervous in a way that made her more interesting rather than less. You asked her what she was working on. She said something vague about a novel. You asked if she wanted to get a drink somewhere quieter. She said sure, let me grab another one first - and disappeared. You scanned the room for her twice, then gave up. She'd simply left.
It was months later that you made the connection. You were halfway through her debut, reading it for a review, already taking notes, already identifying the structural problems that would become the backbone of your critique, and you decided to look up the author. The photo on the jacket. The bio. Kim Chaewon. And you stared at the name for a long moment, because it looked familiar, and then the memory surfaced: the bar, the black dress, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she said sure, let me grab another one first and vanished.
That girl wrote this.
She doesn't remember you. You're certain of it. In all the years since the public feuds, the review cycles, the festival encounters, the viral TikTok debacle, she has never once referenced that night. Never said we've met before or I remember you from New York. You were a stranger she talked to at a party and immediately forgot. A non-event. It took your first published review of her debut, almost a year later, for Kim Chaewon to become aware that you existed at all.
Your second encounter - which was, from her perspective, the first - happened at a reading in Brooklyn. You spotted her across the room and waved. Casual. Collegial. She looked at you, recognized the byline photo she'd presumably been seething over for weeks, and gave you the middle finger.
And no - you didn't start disliking her books because she rejected you at a cocktail party. That's the version she'd write if she ever fictionalized this, the version where the male critic's professional animosity is really just wounded ego, just a man who couldn't handle being turned down. It's reductive and self-flattering and exactly the kind of easy psychology she'd deploy in one of her novels. The truth is less dramatic: you already didn't care for the story before you knew who the author was. The prose had problems that existed independently of the woman who wrote it.
(But did finding out make you like her less? Did the memory of being dismissed at that bar curdle something that might otherwise have remained purely professional?
You've never let yourself answer that. Over the years, you've gotten really fucking good at not answering it.)
What you will say - what you've said in print, repeatedly, and stand behind - is that her writing suffers from a fundamental misunderstanding of psychological depth. Where Hemingway had his iceberg theory - the conviction that the dignity of a story depends on what's been cut, on the vast architecture of meaning that lives beneath the surface - Chaewon operates on the opposite principle. She over-explains. Every character's interior life is excavated and displayed with the thoroughness of an autopsy report. She narrates motivation, deconstructs emotional responses, maps the psychological terrain of every decision until there's nothing left for the reader to infer. It's not depth. It's annotation.
And worst of all: she writes about the mundane. Breakups, reconnections, the circular emotional arithmetic of modern relationships. No dragons. No galactic empires. No murder mysteries or geopolitical thrillers where the plot does the heavy lifting for you. Just people in apartments, making the same mistakes on repeat, trying to figure out why they keep wanting things that hurt them. And that should be commendable, because writing about the ordinary is exponentially harder than writing about the extraordinary. When you set a novel on a spaceship or a battlefield, the setting generates its own tension. The world does work for you. But when your entire narrative takes place in coffee shops and bedrooms and the passenger seat of someone's car at two in the morning, the prose has to carry everything. Every sentence has to earn its oxygen. There's nowhere to hide.
Chaewon knows this. On some level, she understands exactly how difficult the terrain is that she's chosen to work in. The problem is her solution to that difficulty, which is to explain. Relentlessly. Exhaustively. Every flicker of interior life gets excavated and mounted on the page with museum-grade lighting. Her characters don't just feel things - they feel things, then think about why they feel them, then contextualize those feelings within the broader pattern of their emotional history, then arrive at a thesis statement about what the feeling means, all while the reader sits there thinking yes, I got it four paragraphs ago, thank you. The excessive detail doesn't deepen the analysis. It drowns it. The weight of all that psychological annotation collapses onto itself until you can't feel anything underneath it anymore, because she never trusted the reader - or herself - enough to leave something unsaid and let the silence do the work.
The ambition is there. The restraint isn't. And restraint, when you're working with the mundane, isn't optional. It's the whole game. The banality of the subject matter demands that the prose do less, not more - that it trusts a well-placed detail to carry the emotional freight that three paragraphs of interior monologue can't. Hemingway understood this. Carver understood this. Chaewon understands it in theory and ignores it in practice, because leaving space means risking the reader not getting it, and Kim Chaewon cannot bear the thought of not being understood.
And that's the real tell, isn't it? That need to be understood. Because once you see it, you can't unsee it - the fingerprints are everywhere. Chaewon's characters don't exist independently of her. They're not autonomous people navigating their own messy, particular lives. They're vehicles. Projection screens. Every protagonist she's ever written is a thinly veiled apparatus for Chaewon to demonstrate how perceptive she is, how deeply she gets the human condition, how exquisitely she can map the interior landscape of a woman in crisis.
The characters don't drive the story. Chaewon drives the story, and the characters sit in the passenger seat while she narrates the route. You can feel her behind every monologue, every overwrought epiphany, every moment where a character arrives at some devastating self-knowledge that's a little too clean, a little too eloquent, a little too convenient to be coming from a fictional person rather than from the author showing off through them.
Her stories aren't about her characters. They're about Kim Chaewon, and how badly Kim Chaewon wants you to know that Kim Chaewon understands. The novels are mirrors she built for herself and then hung in public, and every reader who praises the depth of her characterization is really just praising Chaewon's reflection and calling it art.
And you know why.
You looked into her background after the identification. Before the debut, she'd been writing fanfiction. Prolifically. Tens of thousands of words posted on platforms you'd never visited, accumulating followers and kudos and comment threads full of heart emojis - and it confirmed something you already suspected: fanfiction writers learn to give readers what they want, and Chaewon never unlearned it. She carried that training into her professional career and it made her millions, and it also made her incapable of producing anything that genuinely costs the reader something. She reinforces your long-held theory that anyone whose foundational craft was built on fanfiction is, at the structural level, writing to satisfy rather than to challenge. No amount of applied artistic intention or pseudo-intellectual framing will ever fully purge those instincts. Chaewon is the proof.
(You're aware this is an uncharitable reading. You're aware that plenty of serious writers emerged from fan communities. You don't care. The theory holds for her, that's what matters.)
•••
It's twelve-seventeen in the morning and you're sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in a t-shirt and trousers, barefoot, reading a paragraph by Bolaño on your phone that you've already read three times without absorbing a single word.
She messaged thirty minutes ago through Instagram. Which means she opened the app. Typed your name into the search bar. Scrolled through whatever results came up. Found your profile. Tapped the message icon. Composed four words and hit send. The mental image of Kim Chaewon actively hunting you down on social media does something quietly devastating to your ego.
What room are you in?
You stared at it for ten seconds. Typed back your room number. Sent it.
omw
That was twenty-eight minutes ago. You put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down again. Brushed your teeth. Sat on the bed. Opened Bolaño. Read the same paragraph about the Mexican poets three times while retaining absolutely nothing.
(In a normal situation you'd already be asleep. You keep early hours. You like mornings. You like the quiet discipline of a ten-thirty bedtime and a six o'clock alarm and the smug superiority of being awake before the rest of the world. This is not a normal situation. Whatever is happening now does not belong to the orderly life you’re used to.)
The knock comes soft. Two quick raps. Businesslike.
You cross the room. Open the door.
There she is: the white linen dress from the party is gone. She's wearing a loose cream-colored top, thin cotton, sitting off one shoulder in a way that could be intentional or could just be the cut. A dark skirt that falls just above her knees. No heels. Flat sandals. Her hair is different too; the precise, expensive bob from the terrace has relaxed, the humidity and coastal air coaxing a slight wave into it that she hasn't corrected. The bangs are pushed sideways, slightly tousled. No earrings. Minimal makeup. She looks like she got ready in a hurry and then spent fifteen minutes undoing evidence of the hurry.
Chaewon doesn't wait for an invitation. She shoulders past you through the doorway, her arm grazing your chest, and walks straight into the center of the room with the energy of someone inspecting a rental property. Her eyes sweep the space - terracotta tile, white bedding, shuttered windows cracked open to let the night air in. The half-empty bottle of mineral water on the nightstand. Your phone screen still glowing with a page from The Savage Detectives.
She turns. Leans against the desk. Crosses her arms.
"So. What do you want?"
You close the door. The latch catches with a clean click. "You came to my room, Chaewon."
"Because you told me to."
"I mentioned it. You made the decision."
Her chin drops and her eyes roll skyward. "Wow. Semantics. Groundbreaking." She drums her fingers against her own bicep. "I'm here. Get to the point."
You stay where you are. Leaning against the closed door, arms loose at your sides. She's standing with her weight shifted to one hip, jaw set, chin angled up in that particular tilt she defaults to when she wants to look unbothered. The posture reads as boredom. The details don't. Her foot is tapping an uneven rhythm against the terracotta. Her fingers keep pressing into her arm, kneading the muscle there. She doesn't realize she's doing either.
"You changed," you say.
"Obviously. I wasn't going to parade through a hotel hallway at midnight in a cocktail dress." She pauses. Looks away for half a second. "And I had to change everything I was wearing. After earlier."
"You changed your hair, too."
Her hand lifts - instinctive, self-conscious - and her fingers touch the wave sitting at her jaw. She catches herself doing it and shoves the hand back into the crook of her arms, fast, annoyed. "It's the humidity. It does this. I can't control it."
"It suits you."
She shrugs. One shoulder. Barely a movement. "Okay. Cool."
"You look pretty."
"I heard you the first time." Clipped. She starts picking at a thread on the sleeve of her cream top, suddenly fascinated by it. "You don't need to keep stacking compliments. I own a mirror. I'm aware."
"Fine."
"And I didn't come here for—" She waves her hand, a gesture that encompasses you, the room, the compliment, the full scope of whatever this situation is becoming. "I came because you said it wasn't over. So." Her palms spread open. "Finish it. Say whatever speech you've been rehearsing so I can go back to my room and pretend tonight didn't happen."
You push off the door and walk past her to the nightstand. Pick up the water bottle. Pour a glass. Take a sip. Set it down. Everything unhurried. You can practically hear her teeth grinding. "You messaged me," you point out. "You opened Instagram. You typed my name into the search bar. You found my profile and you wrote me a message. That was all you."
She shoves off the desk. "You absolute prick, I know you did that on purpose. You said come to my room and didn't give me a room number. What was I supposed to do, knock on every door in the building? If you brought me here just to run another psychological evaluation—"
"I didn't bring you anywhere. You practically ran."
"I did not run."
"Twenty-eight minutes. That includes changing your outfit, changing your underwear, doing something with your hair, finding my profile on Instagram, navigating a hotel you've never been in before, and walking here." You take another sip of water. "That's efficient, Chaewon. That's someone who wanted to be here."
"I just want this to be over already."
"Then come here."
She doesn't move.
She stands three feet away, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp, her jaw tight, the pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. The wave in her hair catches the light. Her chest is rising and falling a fraction too fast for someone performing indifference.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Lean back on your hands.
"Come here."
Something behind her eyes gives way, just a small structural collapse somewhere deep in whatever internal argument she's been losing since she knocked on that door. She closes the distance in two sharp strides. Her knees bump yours. This close, you can smell her. Not the gardenia from the party, something different, lighter, softer. A private scent. The salt air is still caught in her hair.
She looks down at you. You look up at her.
"You're insufferable." She says it quietly. Gently almost.
Your hand finds the back of her leg. Bare skin, smooth, warm from the walk. She tenses — one quick contraction that runs up her thigh — but she doesn't move away. Your fingers drift higher, tracing along her calf, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt. Slow. Giving her every chance to step back.
She doesn't step back. Her hand lands on your shoulder instead, fingers curling into the cotton of your t-shirt, gripping loosely.
"Kiss me," you say.
Her expression doesn't change. She holds your gaze with that stubbornness that defines everything she does — writing, arguing, standing in hotel rooms at midnight refusing to admit why she's there. Her fingers tighten in your shirt. Her thumb moves against your shoulder, almost absently.
"No."
"No?"
"You do it." She says it plain. No coyness. "I kissed you first on the terrace. I'm the one who started this. So it's your turn." Her chin lifts, just enough. "Unless you can't."
"You bit a hole in my lip."
"And you loved it." Her free hand comes up between you. Her thumb finds the small cut on your lower lip — tender, still slightly swollen — and she traces it. Gently. So gently it catches you off guard, the careful attention she gives the mark she left, studying it like she's reading her own handwriting on someone else's page.
She holds her thumb there. Against your mouth. Her eyes on yours.
"So kiss me back."
You don't stand up. You hold her waist and pull her down toward you instead. A compromise. So neither of you has to fully give in.
She lets out a sharp breath as her knees land on the mattress on either side of your thighs, straddling you, and your mouth finds hers before she's fully settled. Your hand slides up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into the damp, wavy hair at her nape, and you kiss her properly; slow, deep, taking every second she'll give you. She responds immediately. Her lips part. Her tongue meets yours. Her hands slide up your chest to your jaw, tilting your head where she wants it, and the kiss deepens as her weight settles fully onto your lap. Warmth and pressure through the fabric of her skirt, through your trousers.
She shifts her hips - a small roll that presses her down against you - and your hands drop from her waist to her thighs. Bare skin under the hem of her skirt. Smooth. Warm. Your palms run down the outside of her legs, feeling the taut muscle there, then slide back up. Under the skirt this time, fabric bunching against your wrists as your hands travel higher.
You find her ass and squeeze. Both hands. Full grip. She's not wearing the same underwear from earlier. Something thinner. A different texture (lace, probably), you can feel every curve of her through it, that round, perfect shape filling your palms completely, and you pull her tighter against you. She gasps into the kiss and catches your lower lip between her teeth. Gentle this time. Just pressure. Testing the cut she made earlier.
She pulls back an inch. Her lips are wet, slightly swollen. She says: "You're obsessed with my body."
"And you're obsessed with me."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"It's worse, actually. I'm obsessed with something I can actually touch. You're obsessed with a man who gave your book two stars."
"Don't flatter—"
"You're in my lap at midnight, Chaewon. I didn't come find you."
She grabs a fistful of your t-shirt and twists it: "Don't act innocent. Don't you dare. You've spent years building this. Every review. Every time you showed up to an event I was at and stood in the corner watching me with that fucking look on your face." She leans in, her forehead nearly touching yours. "You put yourself inside my head, review by review, takedown by takedown, until I couldn't go a single day without thinking about you. You engineered this. And now that you've got exactly what you wanted—" She grinds down against you, one slow, filthy roll of her hips that makes your grip on her ass tighten hard enough to leave marks through the lace. "—you get to live with it."
Her hands drop to the hem of your t-shirt. She grabs it and pulls upward, and you lift your arms to let her strip it off. She tosses it somewhere behind her and then presses both palms flat against your bare chest, fingers spread, and pushes.
You go down. Back flat on the mattress. She's straddling you, looking down with the lamplight behind her, and her expression is focused now, intent, the anger still present but running alongside something hungrier. Her nails drag lightly down your chest, not scratching, just feeling, tracing the lines of your ribs, the plane of your stomach. Cataloging.
"Lie still," she says.
She slides off your lap and repositions herself between your legs, her knees on the mattress, her hands going to your belt. (This isn’t like the terrace, where she struggled. Now her hands are steady. Buckle first, then leather, then button, then zipper. Each movement controlled, practiced in thought before action.)
"This time I want to do it properly," she mutters, tugging your trousers down your hips. You lift slightly to help. She pulls them to your thighs, then your underwear, and your cock springs free hard, fully hard, straining upward, because how could it not be with Kim Chaewon kneeling between your legs in a hotel room on the Amalfi Coast at midnight.
She wraps her hand around you. Firm grip. Her fingers are small but strong - a writer's hands, you think absurdly - and she strokes once, base to tip, watching your reaction with those analytical eyes. Her thumb swipes across the head, spreading the bead of moisture there, and she strokes again. Slow. Steady. Not teasing, just assessing.
"You're pretty," you say.
Her hand pauses mid-stroke. She looks up at you. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I said I know. You don't need to say it." She resumes stroking, her grip tightening slightly on the upstroke. "Don't be romantic. It doesn't suit you."
"I'm not being romantic." You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at her properly, kneeling there, her wavy hair falling across her forehead, one strap of her cream top sliding off her shoulder, her small hand wrapped around your cock. "It's a fact. The same way I find you beautiful, I find you fuckable. Those two things coexist in my head without any romance between them."
Her eyebrows rise.
"And I knew—" You watch her hand move. "—sooner or later, you'd end up with my cock in your mouth."
She stops stroking.
"Because this—" You nod toward her hand, her position, the whole arrangement. "—is the closest you'll ever get to pleasing me. You can't do it with your prose. You certainly can't do it with your plotting. But this, you might actually be qualified for."
Silence. Her jaw tightens. Her grip on your shaft tightens too, not painfully, but enough that you feel it, a warning transmitted through her fingers.
"Those are brave words," she says, very quietly, "to say to a woman who currently has your dick between her teeth." She leans forward and her lips graze the head of your cock, parted just enough that you feel the edge of her incisors. "One wrong sentence and I could end your whole evening. Your whole career, frankly. Hard to write scathing reviews when you're in a hospital explaining to a nurse how you lost—"
"Okay, you make a fair point. Please don't bite my dick off."
She laughs, caught off guard. Then she composes herself. Bites her lower lip. Her gaze drops to your cock in her hand and she studies it the way she probably studies a first draft: measuring, appraising, already planning what she's going to do with it.
"I think I'd rather keep enjoying myself." She strokes you. Base to tip. Slow. Her thumb sweeps across the head and her grip tightens on the way back down. "I'm not going to compliment your personality. Or your professional integrity. Or your hideous fucking opinions about contemporary fiction." Another stroke. Firmer. Her wrist rotates at the top and your hips twitch. "But this I can work with."
She lowers her mouth onto you.
Her lips part around the head, stretching, and the warmth hits you first - wet, encompassing, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she takes you in. Not rushing. Just the first couple of inches, her mouth adjusting, learning the shape of you. She pulls back until only the tip remains between her lips and swirls her tongue around it in a slow circle. Then sinks back down, taking more this time, and you feel the ridge of your cock drag across the roof of her mouth.
Her cheeks hollow as she sucks. One hand wraps around the base of your shaft, her small fingers not quite meeting, and she strokes in tandem with her mouth, down when her lips descend, up when they rise. The coordination is precise. She finds a rhythm and settles into it, her head moving in smooth, unhurried bobs, her eyes falling shut.
You exhale. Slow. Controlled. Your hand comes to rest on the top of her head, fingers sinking into the soft waves of her hair. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there.
She hums around your cock, and it's a low, satisfied sound, kinda casual, and the vibration runs through you from root to spine. Her free hand slides up your thigh and her nails drag lightly across your skin as she takes you deeper, her lips stretching further down your shaft, and you feel the back of her mouth, the beginning of her throat. She holds there for a beat, breathing through her nose, then pulls back with a slick, sucking drag that makes your fingers curl in her hair.
"You're quiet," she murmurs against the head. Her lips brush you as she speaks, shiny and swollen. She kisses the tip. Soft. Then her tongue slides out and laps at the slit, tasting, and her eyes open to watch your reaction. "Usually you have so much to say."
"I'm letting you work."
"How generous." She takes you back in. Deeper, her jaw opening wider, and you feel yourself slide past the back of her tongue. She gags (barely, a small contraction she controls immediately) and pulls back to a comfortable depth, sucking hard. Her hand twists at the base. Her tongue does something against the underside, this rolling, pressing motion, and your thigh muscles go taut.
She pulls off. A thin strand of saliva stretches between her lower lip and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight before it breaks. She licks her lips and strokes you with her wet hand, spreading the slickness.
"You know what's funny?" She presses her lips to the side of your shaft. Not sucking. Just resting there, talking against your skin: "You spend all this time critiquing other people's technique." A kiss, halfway down. "Their pacing." Another kiss, near the base. "Their execution." Her tongue drags all the way up, flat and slow, from root to tip. "But you won't say a word about mine."
"Your execution is fine."
"Fine." She squeezes your cock. "I sell thirty million copies and you call it comfort food. I suck your dick and it's fine." Her mouth wraps around the head and she sucks, hard, cheeks caving in, then releases with a wet sound. "You're going to have to do better than that."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be honest. You're always telling me to be honest." She takes you into her mouth again, and this time she goes further than before - past the halfway point, past the place where her gag reflex kicked in, pushing herself, and you feel the tight ring of her throat resist and then yield, and a groan escapes you before you can catch it. She pulls back, eyes watering, a triumphant glint cutting through the gloss. "There. Was that fine?"
"That was—"
She doesn't let you finish. She's back on you, both hands now, one wrapped around the base and the other cupping beneath, and her mouth is working you with a new intensity. Faster, wetter, sloppy in a way that's less about technique and more about hunger. She's moaning around your cock, these small, muffled sounds that she's either performing or can't help, and either way they're sending jolts through your nervous system. Spit is pooling at the base of your shaft, running down her fingers, dripping onto the sheets.
She pulls off, gasping. Wipes her chin with the back of her hand. Looks up at you from between your legs with mascara starting to feather at the corners of her eyes and her lips puffy and glistening and her chest heaving under the cream top.
"You can fuck my mouth." She says it simply. Directly. No preamble.
"Chaewon—"
"I mean it. Stop being polite. I'm not fragile." Her tongue traces the vein running along the underside of your shaft. "I can feel you holding back. Your hand's been sitting on my head for five minutes doing absolutely nothing." She wraps her lips around the tip, sucks once, releases. "So grab my hair and fuck my throat. I want you to. I want to choke on it."
"I was admiring the view before things get rough."
"Things got rough on that terrace six hours ago. We're way past admiring." She takes you deep again, all the way, her nose pressing against your stomach, her throat convulsing around the head, and holds herself there until her eyes stream, then pulls off with a ragged gasp and a string of spit.
You thread your fingers through her hair. Gather the short damp strands at the back of her skull, finding enough to grip. Her eyes widen slightly (anticipation, not fear) and her hands come up to brace against your thighs.
You push her head down.
Her throat opens and she swallows around you. You pull her back up by the hair and push her down again. Setting the pace yourself now. Each stroke burying you in the tight heat of her throat, each withdrawal drawing a gasp from her that she barely gets out before you're pushing in again. Her nails sink into the muscle of your thighs. Her eyes are watering freely, the mascara smudging into dark crescents beneath her lashes. Spit is running freely down her chin, dripping onto the sheets, and every time you thrust into her mouth she makes this muffled, desperate sound, half gag, half moan, that she'd be mortified by if she could hear it from the outside.
You fuck her mouth with deep strokes with a rhythm she can anticipate but not control, pulling her hair to tilt her head at the angle you want. She gags on a particularly deep thrust and you hold her there, feeling her throat constrict and flutter around the head of your cock, her fingers scrabbling at your thighs, tears spilling down her cheeks. You hold for one second. Two. Then pull her back.
She gasps, a broken sound. Drool slips past her lower lip and gathers on the sheet between your thighs. Her chest rises and falls in sharp pulls of air as she looks up at you, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips swollen and wet, hair knotted tight in your fist. Spit streaks her chin, her neck, even her hand. She’s completely undone, staring at you like she’s daring you to even think about stopping.
"More," she rasps. Her fingers dig into your thighs so hard they'll bruise. "Harder.”
You drag her back down onto your cock and give her exactly what she asked for. Harder now. Each thrust draws a low creak from the bedframe, her choking sounds steady and hungry, fingernails scoring your thighs as the room becomes saturated with slick, unrestrained rhythm.
(Somewhere above you, through the ceiling, someone is playing classical piano. Debussy, maybe. The juxtaposition is nearly absurd.)
(God, the sight of her. Kim Chaewon: bestselling fucking author, Instagram darling, the woman whose sales you supposedly tanked by seven percent - on her knees with your cock in her mouth. Mascara streaking down her cheeks, spit dripping from her chin, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes every time she gags. And there's something almost worshipful about the way she's working you.
She'd absolutely kill you if you said that out loud.)
You maintain the same pace, steady and deep. Fingers tangled in her hair, palm firm against her jaw to keep her in place. Each stroke presses farther, and you feel her throat tighten before she forces it to relax, swallowing, tongue sliding along you. Saliva spills freely, messy and unfiltered, coating you in wet heat.
Good. Let it run. You want every inch soaked. There’s more coming.
"Get it wetter," you tell her.
She moans something unintelligible around your cock and redoubles her effort, her mouth producing obscene, sloppy sounds as she works you with her throat and her tongue, twisting, stroking, spitting on the shaft and spreading it, and the sheer enthusiasm of it makes your stomach clench. She's performing - of course she is, she performs everything - but the performance is so committed it becomes indistinguishable from sincerity.
You hold her down one final time. Deep. Her throat spasms. Her nails break skin on your thigh.
Then you let go.
She pulls off gasping, coughing, one hand flying to her chest as her lungs expand. Strings of saliva hang between her swollen lips and the head of your cock, catching the lamplight. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sits back on her heels, panting. Her eyes are streaming. The mascara has migrated to her cheekbones in dark smears. Her hair is a disaster, the careful waves twisted and matted from your grip.
You sit up and reach for her. Your hands find the hem of her cream top and you pull it upward, over her stomach, over her ribs, over her head. She lifts her arms to let you, and the top comes free and drops to the floor, and she's bare from the waist up.
No bra. Just her.
Small and firm breasts, proportional to her frame, the kind that don't need support, that sit high on her chest with a natural perkiness that her designer outfits always hinted at without confirming. Her nipples are dark, already stiff, and her skin is flushed from her collarbones to her sternum.
You lean forward and press your lips to the center of her chest. Right between her breasts. You breathe her in - salt air, residual perfume, the faint musk of sweat and arousal, something warm underneath it all that's just her, just skin. You stay there for a moment. Inhaling. Your hands resting on her waist.
Then your mouth moves to her left breast. You drag your lips across the curve of it, feeling the soft weight against your mouth, and her hands fly to your head the moment your mouth closes around her nipple. Both of them, fingers plunging into your hair, gripping hard, pulling you in - not guiding, not suggesting, but trapping your face against her chest with a possessiveness that contradicts every word she's said tonight, pushing the soft swell of her breast further into your mouth, and the exhale that escapes her is shaky, thin and completely involuntary.
"Harder," she breathes. Her nails drag across your scalp. "Suck harder. You weren't shy when you had your fingers inside me, don't get shy now—"
Your cheeks hollow around her nipple, tongue pressing the stiff peak against the roof of your mouth, and the sound she makes is small and desperate and cuts off mid-breath. Her legs shift against the sheets. Her hips roll once, searching for contact that isn't there.
"You're really obsessed with my body." She says it through her teeth, her fingers tightening in your hair until it stings. "Aren't you? You pretend it's about my writing - all that intellectual bullshit, all that criticism - but this is what you actually think about. My tits in your mouth. Fucking pervert."
You graze your teeth across the nipple. Light. Just enough.
She gasps - sharp, startled - and her spine curves, pressing her chest against your mouth. "Oh— god. Do that again."
You do it again. Slower. Letting her feel the edge of your teeth drag across the sensitive peak before you close your lips around it and suck, hard, and her grip in your hair turns vicious.
"You've been staring at my chest for years." She's panting now, her ribcage expanding rapidly beneath your mouth. "Every event. I always caught you looking and you always— ah— you always pretended you weren't. At least now you're being honest about it, you depraved piece of—"
You switch to the other breast. Your mouth drags across her sternum - the flat, warm plane between, her heartbeat hammering beneath the bone - and then your lips find the right nipple, already stiff, already flushed dark and swollen from arousal, and you close your mouth around it and bite.
Not gently.
"Fuck—" Her legs jerk. Her heel digs into the mattress. "Careful with your— no!" She stops herself. Her fingers rake through your hair and press your face harder against her breast. "No, don't be careful. Bite me. I like it. I can take it."
You bite again. Harder. Enough to leave the faint impression of your teeth in the soft skin around her areola. She whimpers; this breathy, broken sound that doesn't belong to the woman who called you a piece of shit on a terrace six hours ago.
"You like that?" you murmur against her breast.
"Shut up— Just— use your mouth. Less talking, more—" She pushes your head down, back onto her breast, and you take the nipple between your lips and pull, sucking with a slow, steady pressure that makes her toes curl against the sheets. Her head tips back. Her eyes flutter closed. Her thighs press together, squeezing, and you can see the tension building in her stomach, the muscles in her abdomen flickering.
"You could make me cum from this," she whispers. There's something almost accusatory about it, as though this is another grievance to add to the list. "From just this. From sucking on my tits. That's how wound up you've got me. Are you happy? Is this what you wanted?"
You drag your tongue in a slow circle around her nipple. She shudders head to toe.
"Look at you," she murmurs. Her fingers comb through your hair, almost tender for a moment, before her nails scrape down to the base of your skull. "The big important critic. Mr. Intellectual Integrity. And here you are with your face buried in my chest, sucking on my tits in a hotel room in Italy, making little sounds you don't even realize you're making." Her thumb traces the shell of your ear. Her hips roll again, restless, needy. "If your readers could see you right now. If the editorial board could see you. On your knees for the woman you said writes comfort food." She lets out this breathless, mean little laugh. "What would they think?"
You pull back. Look up at her. Her nipples are swollen and slick, glistening in the lamplight, flushed a deep, bruised pink from your mouth. You kiss her. Hard, brief, your hand gripping her jaw, tasting the small shocked sound she makes against your teeth.
Then you're moving, making room for her. "Lie down.”
She kneels on the mattress, watching you. Processing the shift in spatial dynamics. Then she stretches out on her back. You start at her feet. Her sandals. You undo the left one, slide it off, set it on the floor. Then the right. Her toes are painted a muted pink. Your hands travel up her calves to the waistband of her skirt. You unzip it at the side, and she lifts her hips as you pull it down her legs and off. Underneath: black lace panties, just as you suspected. Different from the cotton pair on the terrace, and the implication of that choice - standing in front of her suitcase, selecting these, for this - for you, is very flattering, thank you.
You hook your fingers into the lace and pull them down. Over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She kicks them free and they land somewhere near the sandals.
She's naked now. Completely. Just a body. Slim, toned, those improbable curves that start at her narrow waist and swell into hips that seem designed to fill your hands.
"On all fours."
She holds your gaze for a beat. Then she rolls over and rises onto her hands and knees.
You move behind her, ositioning yourself on your knees, your still-hard cock heavy between your legs, slick with her spit. You take a moment. Just looking.
She glances back over her shoulder. Impatient. "Why are you just sitting there? Are you going to fuck me or write another review?"
"I'm going to fuck you." Your hands settle on her hips. Slide backward. Cup her ass. "But I was thinking of something different this time."
You grip both cheeks and spread them. Wide. Exposing everything: the wet, swollen folds of her pussy, and above them, the tight pink ring of her asshole. Completely visible. Completely vulnerable. She feels the air against her and goes very still.
Your thumb finds her asshole. You don't press, just drag the pad of it across the tight ring, slow, spreading the slick wetness that's already dripping from her pussy. She shivers. A full-body thing, starting at the base of her spine and rolling upward through her shoulders, and her thighs clench together, the goosebumps rise across her lower back in a wave you can actually see in the lamplight.
She's so sensitive there. Every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
"No." She says it immediately. Reflexively. Her head whips around. "Absolutely not. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm letting you—"
"You want it too." You circle her hole again. Feather-light. Her hips buck forward, then push back - contradicting her mouth before she can catch herself. "I can feel it, Chaewon. The way you're reacting to this. You're shaking."
"I'm shaking because I'm angry—"
"You're shaking because you're curious." Your other hand grips her hip, holding her steady while your thumb keeps its slow, maddening orbit. "And because you know how good this is going to feel. All that anger. All that frustration you've been carrying around for months..." You lean forward, your chest close to her back, your mouth near her ear. "I'm going to fuck every bit of it out of you."
She makes a sound. Something caught between a moan and a protest that dies in her throat. "Not a chance." She tries to pull forward, crawling up the bed, but your grip on her hip holds firm and she barely moves an inch. "I would never give you my ass. Of all the men on this planet - you? The man who ruined my book launch? Not in this lifetime."
You slap her. Open palm, sharp, right across her left cheek. The crack bounces off the hotel walls and her whole body jolts forward. She yelps - surprised, indignant, aroused in a way she can't disguise because her back arches and her ass pushes up and her fingers claw at the sheets.
You squeeze where you just hit. Kneading the warm flesh, watching the pink bloom spread under your palm. "This ass is perfect." You spread her cheeks apart again, wide, thumbs pulling her open. "You already know that. I already know that. Everyone who's ever watched you leave a room in one of those tight little dresses knows that." You run your thumb across her hole one more time and her entire body breaks out in goosebumps again, her skin prickling under your hands. "And you know exactly what I want to do with it."
"You're a pervert," she whispers. But her hips have stopped trying to escape. They're rocking, subtly, pushing back toward your hand.
"Maybe." Your thumb circles. Slow. Patient. Tracing the tight ring, never pressing in, just suggesting. The wetness from her pussy is everywhere - coating your thumb, dripping down the crease between her legs, making everything slick. Her thighs twitch. "But this is what I want. This or nothing. I'll get dressed, you can go back to your room, and we'll pretend tonight was a bad decision at a festival."
"Or?"
"Or you stay."
"Even if I—" She swallows. Her bravado is crumbling at the edges. "I don't have any lube. You can't just— it doesn't work without—"
"You spent the last ten minutes getting my cock as wet as it's ever been." You reach down and wrap your hand around yourself - still drenched, coated thick with her spit, glistening in the lamplight. "Trust me. That's not the problem."
She drops her head between her arms. Her words come out muffled against the pillow: "It's going to hurt. A lot. It's going to hurt a lot and I—"
"Yes." You don't lie to her. She'd know if you did. "At first."
She turns her face to the side. One eye visible, blown and wide, searching your face for something she can hold onto. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth. "And after that?"
Your hand leaves your cock and finds the small of her back. You slide it upward. Slowly. Over each knob of her spine, between her shoulder blades, up to the nape of her neck where the short hair curls damp against her skin. Then back down. The same path. Slow. Your palm warm and steady against her, tracing the architecture of her body, and you feel the tension start to loosen - not all of it, not even most of it, but enough. A fraction of the rigidity melting out of her muscles. "After that, it's going to feel incredible. And I'll go slow." Your hand settles on the curve of her lower back. Resting there. Warm. "I would never hurt you, babe."
"Promise me." Almost inaudible. She's not looking at you anymore - she's looking at the headboard, at the wall, at anything that isn't your face. "Promise you'll go slow. Promise me."
"I promise."
She buries her face in the pillow. You watch her back rise and fall. Once. Twice. Three times. Deep, shaky breaths, the kind you take when you're gathering every scrap of nerve you have left. She faces you again, cheeks blazing. Tears gather in her eyes, but her gaze is unyielding.
"Okay." She exhales hard through her nose. "Fuck it. Okay. Go slow. And if it hurts too much I'm kicking you in the balls.”
You position yourself behind her. One hand on her hip, steadying. The other guiding your cock upward - past her dripping pussy, past the slick crease between her legs, until the head rests against that tight, clenched ring. She tenses immediately. Her entire body locks up, every muscle going rigid, and you feel the resistance before you even begin to push.
"Breathe," you tell her. Your thumb strokes her hip. "Relax. Push back against me."
"Easy for you to—" She cuts herself off. Inhales. You feel the effort it takes her to unclench, the conscious relaxation of muscles that every instinct is telling her to keep tight.
You press forward. Just the tip. The head of your cock pushing against her hole, stretching it, and the resistance is extraordinary. Hot and so fucking tight, her body fighting the intrusion even as she tries to let you in. She makes a sound into the pillow, high and muffled.
"Fuck—" Her hand shoots back and grabs your wrist. Not pulling you away. Just holding on. "That's— oh god, that's—"
"I know." You hold still. Giving her time. The first half-inch is inside her and the pressure around you is almost unbearable, this crushing, clenching heat. "Just the tip. That's all. Tell me when."
She's panting. Quick, shallow breaths. Her thighs are shaking visibly. The hand on your wrist squeezes, releases, squeezes again.
"More," she manages. "Slowly. Slowly."
You push in another inch. Her back arches sharply and a moan tears out of her, deeper and rawer. Her asshole stretches around you, gripping, and you can feel every fraction of progress, every millimeter of her yielding.
"Talk to me," you murmur. "Tell me what it feels like."
"It feels—" She gasps as you shift slightly, adjusting the angle. "—it feels like you're splitting me in half. Fuck. Fuck. I can feel every— I can feel all of you, every—" Her sentence fractures. She buries her face in the pillow.
You stop. "Too much?"
"No." Muffled. Immediate. "No. Don't stop. Just— give me a second."
You wait. Your hand moves in slow circles on her lower back. You feel the tremors running through her, the way her body oscillates between tension and surrender. Her asshole clenches rhythmically around you - involuntary spasms, her muscles trying to accommodate something they weren't built for.
"Okay," she breathes. Her grip on your wrist loosens. "Okay. More."
Another inch. She cries out. Her fist pounds the mattress once, hard, and her toes curl against the sheets, and the sound she makes is so raw and exposed that it barely sounds like her, this polished, curated, camera-ready woman reduced to animal noise by the pressure of your cock slowly opening her ass.
"You're doing so well," you say.
She laughs. Choked, incredulous, wet. "Don't patronize me while you're— ah— while you're literally inside my—"
"I'm not patronizing you."
"You just said you're doing so well while your dick is in my ass. That's—" She gasps as you slide another fraction deeper. "—that's the most patronizing thing anyone has ever— oh god—"
"Should I stop?"
"If you stop I'll kill you." Her nails rake the sheets. "I mean it. I will literally— nnh— murder you and bury you under this hotel. Keep going."
You push the rest of the way in. Slow. Inexorable. And when your hips finally press flush against her ass, when you're buried to the hilt in the impossible tightness of her, she goes completely silent. Her arms give out. Her chest drops to the mattress. Her mouth is open against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, and her whole body is trembling in one continuous shudder.
You stay there. Fully seated. Not moving. Letting her feel the entirety of it - the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming, inescapable presence of you inside her in a place no one has been before.
"Chaewon?"
"Don't—" She holds up one finger. "—don't talk. Just. Give me a minute."
You give her a minute. Your hands rest on her hips. The trembling slowly subsides.
When she speaks again, her words come thick and dazed: "I can feel your heartbeat. Inside me. I can actually feel—"
She doesn’t finish the sentence. The words dissolve as she turns her head against the pillow, cheek flattened into the cotton, hair clinging to her damp forehead. When her eyes find yours, they’re glassy and dark, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any brown left. She swallows, breath hitching, and the plea slips out fractured: “Fuck me,” she whispers, broken. “Fuck me hard. Make me scream. I don’t care anymore, I don’t care about any of it. Just move."
You pull back. Slowly. An inch, then two, and she whimpers at the drag, her hole gripping you, clenching involuntarily around the shaft as it withdraws. You push back in. Same pace. Measured. Controlled. Feeling her stretch around you, feeling the impossible tightness yield, accommodate, accept.
Then you do it again. Faster. And again.
Her moan starts low in her chest and climbs. By the third stroke it's something feral, bouncing off the hotel walls, and her fist pounds the mattress as you establish a rhythm - steady, deep, each thrust pushing her forward on the sheets. Her ass clenches around you with every stroke, this vice-grip heat that makes your jaw clench.
"Oh my god—" She buries her face in the pillow. Her shoulder blades flex beneath her skin. "Oh my god oh my god oh my—" The words blur together, becoming less language and more sound, this continuous stream of half-formed syllables muffled by cotton.
"You like this," you observe, a little petulantly, your hands grip her hips and pull her back onto you with each thrust, forcing her to take the full length. "You like me."
Her head snaps up from the pillow. "No—"
"Then why are you here, Chaewon?"
“Fuck you—" She chokes on a moan as you thrust deep, grinding your hips against her ass. "—I hate you. I've said it— I've said it so many times— how many times do I have to—"
"You've said it plenty." You pull almost all the way out and drive back in, and the cry she makes rattles the windows. "And yet."
"And yet nothing—"
"And yet you're in my hotel room." Another thrust. Hard. Her arms buckle. "At midnight." Harder. "With my cock in your ass." Harder still, and she screams into the pillow, this ragged, torn sound. "So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"
She groans. Grumbles. Her fists twist the sheets into knots and her body rocks forward with each impact, the mattress creaking beneath her knees. "I don't know." The words tear free. "Damn it, I don't know. I don't— I can't explain it, I can't rationalize it, I just... It's good. Too fucking good. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop, fuck me hard, motherfucker—"
The restraint dissolves. You give her what she's asking for. You fuck her ass with a force that shoves her forward on the bed, her knees sliding on the sheets, her hands bracing against the headboard to keep herself from being pushed into it.
You raise your hand and bring it down on her right cheek. The crack echoes through the room. Her flesh ripples from the impact - that perfect, round ass jiggling from the force of it - and Chaewon cries out, sharp and surprised and electric.
"Fuck— yes—"
Another slap. Left cheek. Harder. The pink bloom spreads across her skin, visible even in the dim lamplight. Her toes curl. Her back arches deeper. "You want me to mark you?"
She moans against the headboard, her forehead pressed to the wood. "Yes, yes! Hit me harder. Be a man for once in your miserable fucking life—"
You hit her harder. Open palm, full force, right across the center of her ass while you're buried inside her, and the dual sensation - the sting outside, the fullness inside - rips a sound out of her that's barely human. The handprint blooms red and vivid on her skin.
"Harder—" She's not even forming complete thoughts anymore. "—harder, motherfucker, is that all you— fuck— you spent six years ripping me apart in print and you can't even—"
Another slap. Her flesh bounces. She screams and pushes her hips back into you, grinding, taking you as deep as her body will allow.
"Every fucking review—" She's ranting now, the words pouring out between moans, between the sharp cracks of your palm on her ass. "—every snarky little sentence— you smug— condescending— you don't know shit about my writing— you don't— fuck, right there— you don't know what it costs me—"
"Tell me what it costs you." You don't slow down. Each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin, by the wet sounds of her body taking you, by the creak of the mattress. "Tell me, Chaewon. Since you're finally being honest."
"Everything—" The word breaks on the way out. "—it costs me everything, you asshole, every book costs me everything and you sit there and you tear it apart in— oh god— in five thousand words and you make it sound so— so fucking easy to—"
She can't finish. Your hand comes down on her ass again and her sentence dissolves into a moan so loud she claps her own hand over her mouth. You reach forward and pull her hand away.
"I said I wanted to hear you scream."
"The people in the next room—"
"Fuck them."
She laughs - this wild, unhinged, desperate laugh that breaks into a groan as you snap your hips forward. "You're insane. You're absolutely— you're a fucking— god— why does this feel so—"
"Say it."
"No—"
"Say it feels good, Chaewon."
"It feels—" She grits her teeth. Fighting it. Even with her ass in the air and her face pressed to a pillow and handprints blooming red on both cheeks, she's fighting you for every inch of ground. "—it feels like I'm being fucked by the most arrogant man I've ever—"
You spank her again, mid-thrust, and she breaks: "Good— it feels good, you piece of shit, it feels so fucking good and I hate that, I hate you for that, I hate that you're the one who— who makes me feel—"
Her voice is climbing. Getting thinner. More fractured. Her thighs are shaking violently now, the tremors visible in her calves, in her feet, in the way her toes keep curling and uncurling against the sheets. You recognize the signs - the same ones from the terrace, from the wall, the tension building in her core, her body winding tighter with every stroke.
"Make me cum." She says it clearly. Cutting through the moans, the panting, the chaos. A command issued from somewhere beyond pride. "Make me cum with your cock in my ass, you fucking— I need to— I'm—"
You grab her by the hips and thrust hard, burying yourself inside her with no restraint. The pace loses any pretense of control. It's raw, it's frenetic, it's two people who have spent years building walls against each other and are now demolishing them with the crudest tools available. The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room. The headboard knocks against the wall. Her ass is red and hot under your palms, the skin radiating heat where you've marked her.
“Come on,” you tell her, though you’re falling apart now, breath ragged, chest slick with sweat. “You want to scream? Then scream, Chaewon.”
Her right hand shoots backward and grabs your forearm. Her nails sink in deep enough to draw blood. Her mouth opens - and then she's gone.
It hits her all at once. No warning. Just impact. Her body snaps tight, every muscle seizing. She clamps down around you so fiercely it makes your head spin. And the noise she lets out, fuck, it starts low in her belly and climbs its way up, breaking out of her in this deep, animal groan that just keeps going. Her back bows, chest lifting, head thrown back as she convulses. Her eyes roll until there’s nothing but white, and when the sound finally dies her mouth stays open, breath gone, body still jerking in sharp, rhythmic spasms around you.
She comes from her ass. Untouched. Nothing against her clit, nothing inside her pussy, just the fullness of you in her ass and whatever psychological alchemy converts years of hostility and a kiss against a stone wall into the most intense orgasm she's ever had. You feel it in the way she clenches - rapid, desperate contractions, her body milking you - and in the way her thighs give out, her knees sliding on the sheets.
"I can't—" She's sobbing. These dry, breathless heaves. "—I can't believe I— you— fuck—"
Her arms collapse. Her chest hits the mattress. She goes down face-first into the pillow, her ass still raised, still impaled on your cock, trembling through the aftershocks. She shudders one final time. Then she goes still.
Breathing. Just breathing. Shallow and rapid, gradually slowing. Her back rising and falling. The red handprints on her ass vivid against her skin. Her hair plastered to the side of her face, one eye visible, half-closed, glazed over.
You pull out slowly. She winces, a small sound escaping through her teeth, and her hole clenches at the emptiness, and she buries her face deeper into the pillow. The room is quiet except for breathing. Hers. Yours. The distant sound of the sea through the shuttered windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes.
Kim Chaewon lies face-down on your bed, naked, trembling, marked, and silent for the first time since you met her.
Her hand reaches back blindly. Finds your knee. Rests there.
You lean down and press your lips to her shoulder. Then the ridge of her spine. Then the space between her shoulder blades, where a thin sheen of sweat makes her skin taste like salt. She doesn't move. Just lies there, face-down, breathing. "How are you doing?" you murmur against her back.
Silence. Then, muffled by the pillow: "You fucked my ass."
"I did."
"Don't be grumpy about it."
"I'll be as grumpy as I want. I just came from getting fucked in the ass by a man who called my book comfort food. I'm entitled to whatever emotional response I—"
You turn her over. Gently. One hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She goes willingly, though her expression says otherwise, and her hair fans across the pillow in damp waves, her body is flushed from her cheeks to her navel, and the handprints on her ass must be pressing against the sheets because she winces slightly when her weight settles.
You kiss her. There’s nothing showy about it. Your hand slides to the back of her head, holding her there, your mouth moving with an unhurried softness that isn’t calculated, isn’t tactical. It’s just there. Her lips are warm and slightly swollen. She opens without hesitation, her tongue brushing against yours, and for a second the tension dissolves. No edge. No bite. Just mouths. Just heat
You shift your weight, guiding her as you move - rolling onto your back, pulling her with you until she's on top, straddling you, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her palms rest flat on your chest. The kiss doesn't break. It adjusts, finds its new geometry.
She grumbles against your mouth. Pulls back half an inch and says: "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Being sweet." She says the word the way most people say disgusting. "I can't handle you being sweet. It doesn't fit. It makes me feel—" She inhales, then exhales. "I prefer it when you fuck me angry. When you're mean. This… this soft shit makes me want to throw up."
"I was buying time." Your hands settle on her waist. Thumbs tracing the jut of her hip bones. "Letting you rest."
"Rest? I don't need—"
"Before I continue."
You reach between you. Her mouth clicks shut. Her eyes flicker wider, and her body tightens over yours, a subtle wave of tension rolling up from her thighs to her chest. Your cock is still rigid, aching, wet, and you press the tip against her asshole. She's looser now, still open from before, but the contact makes her gasp.
You thrust upward. She grunts. Her nails dig into your chest and her back curves, her head dropping forward, hair falling around her face. You're inside her again - that same devastating tightness, but easier now, her body remembering, accommodating. Her arms loop around your neck and she presses herself against you, chest to chest, skin to skin, and you grip her slim waist and hold her there.
For a moment neither of you moves. Just breathing. Her heartbeat against your ribs. Yours against hers.
She speaks into the crook of your neck, her lips brushing your skin: "Have you thought about this before?"
"About what?"
"This. Me... Having me. Did you ever imagine it? When you saw me at events, or in interviews, or—" She swallows. "—when you were writing about me. Did you think about what it would be like?"
You stare at the ceiling. Her weight on your hips. Her breath on your throat. It takes a few seconds, but you finally reply: "Sometimes.” And then, because the honesty is already out and there's no retrieving it: "When I'd see you at events. Or in an interview. I'd wonder what it would be like if things were different."
"Different how?"
You don't answer. You roll your hips upward instead. A slow and deep stroke that pushes the full length of your cock into her ass, and she inhales sharply, her eyes fluttering, her fingers tightening behind your neck. You pull back and push in again, setting a rhythm that is unhurried. Her body rocks gently on top of you with each thrust.
She starts to moan. Soft, almost reluctant sounds that she breathes against your jaw. Her hips begin to move, matching your rhythm, grinding down onto you as you push up.
"I don't understand this," she whispers. Her forehead presses against yours. Her eyes are open, inches away. "I hate you. I know I hate you. I feel it. It's real. But at the same time I want to—" She kisses you. Brief. Subtle. "—I want to kiss you. I want to stay here, exactly like this, with you inside me, and I want to kiss you and I want to feel you and… and I also want to tear the skin off your face with my fingernails. Both things. At the same time. What the fuck is wrong with me?"
"Nothing." You brush the hair from her eyes. Your hips don't stop moving. "Hate and love sit closer together than people think. Same intensity. Same obsession. Same inability to stop thinking about the other person." You thrust deeper and she bites her lip, suppressing a moan. "The line between them is so thin it barely exists. You've been on one side of it for six years. Maybe tonight you're standing on the line itself. Looking both ways."
"That's so fucked up."
"It is."
"Then why does it feel so good?"
"Maybe that's why."
She presses her mouth to yours and moans into the kiss as you grip her ass with both hands and spread her cheeks wide, driving up into her. The angle shifts. The depth shifts. And the noise she makes turns thick and needy and almost painfully beautiful.
You start fucking her harder.
She breaks the kiss and her head falls back, her throat exposed, and her hips slam down to meet each thrust. "You're right," she manages. "You're right and I hate you for being right. The only thing that matters is that this is fucking good. It's—" She rolls her hips in a grinding circle that makes you both groan. "—it's addictive. You're addictive. Your cock in my ass is addictive. Your stupid fucking criticism is addictive." She laughs - breathless, slightly unhinged. "It's humiliating. It's degrading. And I can't get enough of it. What does that make me?"
"Human, I guess.”
"Fuck off." She’s grinning when she says it. This wild, feral grin with her hair in her face and her cheeks flushed and her body bouncing on your cock. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop, you greedy little fuck.”
She rolls her hips in a slow, grinding circle and looks down at you. Sweat on her upper lip. Hair stuck to her temples. Her palms flat on your chest, nails leaving half-moons in your skin. And she asks, plain as anything, no filter left: "You want to cum in my ass, don't you?"
You don't answer fast enough.
"Don't bullshit me." She clenches around you - tight, purposeful, punishing - and your hands fly to her hips. "I've known since the terrace. No. Before the terrace. Since you started writing about me. Every nasty, obsessive, over-analytical word you ever put in print - it was always about this. Getting me underneath you. Getting me on top of you. Getting inside me." She drops her hips down hard and your cock sinks deeper into her ass and she hisses through her teeth and keeps talking: "You wanted to split me open and fill me up and watch it leak out. That's the real review, isn't it? That's the one you've been drafting in your sick little head for six fucking years."
"Chaewon, you don't—"
"Shut up. I'm talking." She grabs your jaw. Squeezes. Forces your eyes to hers. "You already came inside my pussy tonight. On a public terrace. Against a wall. You made me feel like some cheap whore. You pumped me full and I walked back to that party with your cum dripping into my underwear and smiled at people while it ran down my thigh." Her grip tightens on your jaw. "So now you're going to do the same thing to my ass. You're going to flood this tight little hole until I'm leaking. Until I can feel it when I sit on the plane tomorrow."
You hold her hips firm, fingers pressing deep as you drive upward. She inhales sharply, her restraint cracking for just a moment before it seals shut again. "I want to hear you say it." She bends closer, lips grazing yours, heat spilling from her mouth as she whispers: "Tell me you want to cum in my ass. Out loud. Use your words, Mr. Critic. You're so good with words."
"Fuck—" You can barely get the words out. "I want to pump your ass so full it comes pouring back out. Want to see it dripping down your legs, see you soaked with it." Your grip tightens on her. "Is that enough? You satisfied?”
"There he is. There's the real you. The filthy fucking pervert hiding behind all those big vocabulary words." She sits up straight and starts moving, not gentle, not tentative, but mean. Slamming herself down onto your cock, her small body generating a force that shouldn't be possible from a frame that size, the headboard hitting the wall in sharp, rhythmic cracks. Her abs flex with each drop. Her thighs work. Her ass takes you to the hilt on every downstroke and she doesn't flinch.
She looks right at you when she says it: "Breed my ass. Every drop. Every fucking drop you've got. I want it deep. I want to be so full of your cum I can taste it."
"Fuck—"
"You bred my cunt, now wreck my ass. I want both holes stuffed. I want to go back to my room dripping from everywhere." She's panting, sweat running from her temples to her jaw, dripping onto your chest. "Ruin me. You've been ruining me professionally for years - might as well do it physically too, you miserable piece of shit."
She slams down again. And again. The rhythm is savage, relentless, her body moving with this violent intensity that feels like it should belong in a fight, not this. But god, it works. "I'm going to think about this every night—" She grabs her own hair with one hand and pulls, arching her back, changing the angle, taking you impossibly deeper. "—every single night in my apartment when I can't sleep, when I should be writing, I'm going to think about your fat cock stretching my asshole and your cum filling me up and I'm going to hate myself so much and I'm going to touch myself until I'm shaking and it's your fault. All of it. Every orgasm I have for the rest of my life with my fingers in my ass thinking about tonight is on you."
Your hands clamp onto her waist. You plant your feet flat on the mattress, bend your knees, and drive upward - meeting her downstroke, doubling the force - and the sound she makes isn't a moan. It's a scream. Raw. Shattered. Ripped from somewhere beneath language.
"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—" Her rhythm breaks. She can't maintain it against your upward thrusts so she stops trying and just takes it, her body bouncing on your cock, her hands braced on your chest for balance, her mouth hanging open. "—give it to me, cum in my ass, please, I need it so bad, I need you to fill me up, I need— I fucking need—"
Her sentences collapse. She's babbling now, fragments, pleas, profanity strung together by desperation. Her thighs are trembling so badly she can barely hold herself up. Tears streak from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes, cutting through the flush on her cheeks.
"—please please please cum in my ass, I want it, I want every fucking drop, make me yours, fill me, breed me, I can't— I need to feel it— I need to feel you cum inside—" She opens her eyes. Looks down at you. Tears and sweat and something beyond either. Her small hands find your face and hold it, and she says - quiet now, wrecked, a whisper against the chaos of her own body: "Give it to me. I want it so fucking much."
You cum. It tears through you - this massive, rolling wave that starts at the base of your spine and detonates outward, and your hips stutter upward, burying yourself as deep as her body will allow, and you feel yourself pulse inside her. Once. Twice. Again. Each spasm pumping thick, hot cum deep into her ass, and the sensation is surreal, this impossible tightness gripping you, milking you, and the warmth spreading inside her.
The feeling crashes over her all at once. She freezes on top of you, completely still, and her eyes go wide. Her lips part. "Oh my—" The words die. She's feeling it, every pump, every throb, the warmth spreading inside her, and her expression just... breaks open. Shock bleeds into euphoria bleeds into something that looks almost like relief. "Oh my god—" she breathes. "—I can feel it. I can feel all of it. You're so— there's so much— oh god, oh fuck, don't move, stay, stay—"
You stay. Buried to the hilt, still pulsing, still emptying yourself into her, and she sits perfectly still on top of you with her eyes closed and her lips parted and this expression of devastated bliss, feeling every twitch, every throb, every hot spill of cum filling her ass. "I love it," she whispers. Not to you. Not to anyone. Just a statement released into the dark room. "Fuck. I love it."
The last aftershock fades. Your muscles go slack. Your hands fall from her hips to the mattress.
Chaewon collapses. She folds forward, her full weight dropping onto your chest, her face pressing into the crook of your neck. Her arms tuck between your bodies, her fists loosely curled against your ribs. She's small. She weighs nothing. Her heartbeat hammers against your sternum.
"Don't pull out," she murmurs into your neck. "Not yet. I want to stay like this for a minute. I want to feel you." You wrap your arms around her. One across her lower back. The other between her shoulder blades, your hand cradling the base of her skull. "Tighter," she breathes into the curve of your neck. Quiet. Nothing like her.
You tighten your arms. Pull her closer. Her body presses flush against yours, every contour matched, and she burrows into you, her nose against your throat, her damp hair tickling your jaw. Her breathing is starting to slow. Evening out. Her fingers uncurl against your ribs and flatten, palms warm on your skin.
Neither of you moves. The room settles, radiator ticking, waves crashing softly somewhere beneath the window, a pair of footsteps trailing down the corridor. Her breathing has slowed to something deep and steady against the side of your neck. You can feel the warmth of each exhale on your skin, followed by the cooler absence when she inhales. Five minutes pass. Maybe more. You're not tracking it.
Then she speaks: "You're right."
Your hand pauses on her back. "About what?"
She doesn't answer immediately. She shifts, lifting her head from the crook of your neck, and looks at you. (There's a tear sitting on the rim of her lower lash line. Not falling. Just sitting there.) "I know," she says. "I know I'm a fraud." Your mind is still swimming. Dopamine-flooded, hazy, that post-orgasm fog where thoughts form slowly and arrive already half-dissolved. You blink at her. "Everyone praises me. My publisher. My agent. My readers. Everyone at that party tonight. They tell me I'm brilliant. They tell me I'm the voice of a generation." She laughs, small, bitter, directed inward. "And you know who doesn't even read my books? The critics who actually matter. The ones at The New Yorker, the ones at the London Review. They don't bother. I'm not worth their time."
The tear moves. Slides down her cheek slowly, tracing the line of her jaw.
"You're the only respected critic who actually reads my work. Cover to cover. Every single book." Her lips press together. "And then you destroy it. But at least you read it. At least you cared enough to—" She stops. Swallows. Her fingers curl tighter against your ribs. "Teach me how to be better."
You stare at her. This woman - naked in your bed, marked and flushed and undone, mascara smudged under her eyes, a tear tracking down her face - asking you. Asking the man she's spent six years despising, the man she called a frustrated artist and a failed writer, to teach her.
Your thumb comes up and catches the tear at her jawline. Wipes it away. "Don't cry."
"I'm not crying. I'm leaking. And it's your fault."
You almost smile. Then you sit up slowly, easing her off your chest, your hands finding her waist. You lift her and set her down beside you on the bed. She sinks into the white sheets without resistance, her hair fanning across the pillow in dark waves. The lamplight paints her in gold. Every part of her is bare and small against the wide expanse of hotel linen, collarbones catching shadow, the soft rise of her stomach moving with each breath. Chaewon's looking up at you with those dark, wet, searching eyes.
She looks so beautiful. And so completely lost.
(This is a moment your systematic mind never prepared for. You had a framework for tonight - she'd come, you'd fuck, she'd leave. Transactional hostility with a physical outlet. Clean. Contained. You did not account for Kim Chaewon lying naked in your bed asking you to make her a better writer. You don't know how to solve this. You're not sure it's yours to solve.)
"I can't help you," you say.
Her expression fractures. "Why not?"
"Because I can't change the way you write. That's not—" You pause. Choose your words the way you choose them in print. "That's not what I want. And I promise you, it's not what you want either. You don't need someone else's voice telling you how to use yours."
She sits up. "But I want to be better. I win awards. I sell millions. My books get translated into thirty-six languages. And sometimes—" Her hands twist in the sheet. "—sometimes I lie awake at three in the morning wondering if I actually deserve any of it. If the awards are for the writing or for the sales. If the translations happened because the prose is good or because the IP is marketable."
"Chaewon—"
"Do I deserve it?" She asks directly. Looking at you. Demanding an answer she knows you won't soften.
"You need to find your own way to that answer." You hold her gaze. "Not mine. Not your publisher's. Not BookTok's. Yours."
A small change passes over her face. Whatever flickers behind her eyes draws inward, restrained, almost private, yet you catch it. The moment she realizes you're not going to hand her what she came for. That you can't, and that the distinction between can't and won't doesn't actually matter when you're the one left empty-handed.
She holds your gaze for another second. Then she's moving; swinging her legs off the bed, bare feet on the cool terracotta, bending to pick up the cream top from where it landed near the nightstand. The dark skirt next, crumpled by the foot of the bed. The black lace underwear tangled in the sheets, which she extracts without looking at you. She presses it all against her chest - this bundle of fabric held tight against her bare skin, arms crossed over it - and walks to the bathroom. Her spine is very straight. The red marks on her ass are visible for one more second before the door clicks shut behind her
You sit on the edge of the bed. Stare at the far wall. Run both hands through your hair.
(You could have given her something. A reading list. A structural critique. A paragraph of actionable feedback. You've written thousands of words about what's wrong with her prose - surely you could have offered one concrete sentence about how to fix it. But that's not what she needed to hear, and giving her a prescription would have been its own kind of condescension. She doesn't need a teacher. She needs to stop being afraid of writing something that won't sell.)
The shower stops. You pull on your underwear and trousers. Sit on the edge of the bed, barefoot, waiting for the act to conclude.
The bathroom door clicks open.
She steps out dressed, hair damp, face clean. All that smudged mascara washed away. She doesn't look at you. Just moves toward the door with her sandals dangling from one hand. Her fingers find the handle.
"Chaewon." She stops. Doesn't turn around. "There's a chapter in your first book that I really liked."
Now she turns. Slowly. Her expression is guarded, braced for another blow. "Which one?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"What?"
"You can figure it out yourself. Read it again. You'll know which one it is. It reads differently from everything around it." You meet her eyes across the room. "I really enjoyed it. And I think you know why." She stares at you. Processing. "You're smart enough. You've already proven yourself to the world. So stop trying to prove yourself to the world. Write what you think is best. Not what sells. Not what your publisher wants. Not what your analytics suggest will perform." You lean back on your hands. "That's how you started in the beginning, isn't it? Everyone around you had a hand in shaping who you are"
"Maybe," she says. "I didn't really know what I was doing back then." She looks down at her feet on the terracotta tile. "I think I still don't."
"Maybe it's time to find out."
She lifts her gaze. Holds yours. Something passes between you. (Not tenderness exactly, and not the hostility that's defined every other interaction you've had.) Something adjacent to respect. Something that might, with enough time and enough distance, grow into understanding.
“Maybe,” she says once more.
She opens the door. Steps through it. Pulls it shut behind her without looking back.
•••
It’s an absurdly beautiful morning, pure Amalfi Coast perfection. The sky is a seamless blue, the sun skipping light across the sea, the cliffs glowing honey-gold above the harbor. You move along the beach in linen and white, sleeves rolled, unhurried. Your flight from Naples isn’t until later, which means there’s time.
You spot her from about fifty feet out. She's standing near the waterline in a floral dress - loose, light, some kind of wildflower print in pale blues and greens that the breeze keeps pressing against her legs and then releasing. Flat sandals. Her hair is doing its own thing today, the short bob wavy from a night of coastal humidity, unstyled, bangs pushed carelessly to one side. No makeup, or none that you can detect from this distance. She's squinting at the water with one hand raised to block the sun, and she hasn't seen you yet.
You cross the sand toward her. Your shoes are wrong for this - leather soles on loose ground - but you don't slow down. She turns when you're about ten feet away.
"You came."
"You asked." She folds her arms across her chest. A barrier, or the performance of one. "So what's this thing you wanted to show me? I don't have much time."
You start walking along the waterline, and she falls in beside you without being asked. The sand here is firm, packed damp and dark by the retreating tide, and her sandals press clean outlines into it with each step. The breeze tugs at the hem of her dress. Pulls at her hair. You reach down and take her hand.
Chaewon looks at your fingers laced through hers. Studies them. Her thumb moves - a small, almost unconscious stroke across your knuckle - and she doesn't pull away. You walk together for a full minute without speaking. Just the water folding over itself at the edge of the sand, and the distant clank of rigging from the harbor, and her hand warm and small inside yours.
You stop. Let go. Point toward the harbor.
She follows your gaze, scanning the moored boats, the white masts, the slow rocking of hulls against fenders. Turns back to you with one eyebrow raised.
"You dragged me all the way out here to look at boats."
"Catamarans."
"Those are boats."
"They're catamarans."
"They float. They have sails. Boats." She gives you a sideways look, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Have you seriously never been to a beach before?"
"Yesterday," you say. "Before you came to yell at me on the terrace. I was watching those catamarans. I'd been looking at them most of the evening." She waits. The breeze shifts, carrying brine and a faint trace of engine oil from somewhere in the harbor. "Actually - that's not entirely true. Before the catamarans, I was watching you. From across the terrace. You were with Irene and Sana, and the sunset was behind you, and I thought... I thought you were the most beautiful thing on that terrace. Including the Amalfi Coast. And then I turned around and stared at the boats instead."
She doesn't respond. Her eyes stay on the harbor. On the two white shapes rocking gently in the morning swell.
"A catamaran is a twin-hulled vessel." You say it the way you'd say anything to someone standing next to you on a beach - easy, unhurried, pointing out something you find interesting. "Two separate bodies running parallel, held together by a rigid frame. They never merge into one hull. The gap between them - that distance - is what makes the whole thing work. Push the hulls together, force them into a single body, and it stops being a catamaran. It gets slower. Less stable. Less itself." You look at her. She's still watching the harbor. "I've spent six years reviewing your books. You've spent six years hating me for it. And all of that: the reviews, the public fights, the Reddit threads, the TikTok wars, every single ugly thing between us, that's the crossbeam. That's the rigid frame connecting the two hulls. Same water under both of us. Same wind filling both sails. The space between us isn't emptiness, Chaewon. We hold each other steady in this strange way that’s only ours.''
The breeze moves through a long silence. Chaewon stares at the catamarans, her lips pressed together, the floral print rippling against her shins. The morning sun catches something at the corners of her eyes. Moisture. Not tears (she wouldn't allow tears after last night) but the precursor.
She turns to face you. Holds your gaze. "That's really beautiful." No sarcasm. No edge. Just the words, offered plainly, and for once she doesn't immediately armor them with a qualifier. Then, after a beat: "You should write something. A real story. Not reviews. Not criticism. Fiction."
"The world doesn't need more writers."
"That's a cop-out."
"It's not. Everything that needed to be said has already been written. Centuries ago, most of it. The same countries are still fighting the same wars over the same borders. The same political cycles repeat on thirty-year loops. The old solutions are still valid and still ignored." You watch the catamarans sway. "Every novel published this year is a copy of a copy of a copy. Every manifesto. Every campaign speech. Every piece of art hanging in every gallery in every city on earth. We're not generating new ideas anymore."
"And yet you spend your entire career reading new books."
"Reading them and confirming exactly what I just said."
She tilts her head. "That is genuinely the most depressing thing anyone has ever said to me on a beach. And I once got dumped in Jeju-do." A pause. "Drop the nihilist act. It doesn't work on me."
"I'm not being nihilistic. I'm being—"
"You're being a coward." No malice. No heat. Just a clean, quiet observation, delivered the way you'd note that the tide is going out. A fact about the landscape. "You've convinced yourself nothing new can be said because that exempts you from ever having to try. You get to sit in the critic's chair permanently, holding everyone else to a standard you've never once applied to yourself, and you never have to risk producing something that someone could tear apart the way you tear apart everyone else." She uncrosses her arms. Lets them hang at her sides. Open. "You're afraid of being judged. That's the whole thing. That's all this has ever been."
It lands. You feel it land - a clean hit, center mass. You consider reaching for something evasive, something clever and deflective and safe, the rhetorical equivalent of turning away to watch the boats. But she's standing there in a floral dress on a beach in southern Italy, and eight hours ago she was in your bed with her walls down and her defenses stripped and her body open, asking you to show her something real. The very least you owe her is a fraction of the honesty you've been demanding from her writing for six years.
"It's not exactly fear. I'd just rather not find out. I've spent too long being the stone. Turning into glass at this point feels—"
"Same thing. That's fear in a nicer suit." She studies you. "The great critic. Terrified of his own medicine."
You exhale. Nod. Barely, but enough. She sees the concession, the tiny crack in the parapet, and she has the grace not to push her fingers into it. She just lets it sit there between you, acknowledged, unexamined, a small honest thing resting on the sand.
She turns back toward the water. Bites her lower lip. The catamarans rock gently, their white hulls bright against the deep blue of the harbor.
"Can I use that?" she asks. "The catamaran thing. In my next book."
"Be my guest. I won't charge royalties."
"Wow. First nice thing you've ever done for me."
"Second."
She turns away fast, but not fast enough, you catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the smile she's physically fighting down, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip to contain it. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear. The same one from the first night you ever saw her. She doesn't know you remember it. She doesn't know there's anything to remember.
"I have an idea," she says after a moment. Still facing the water. Her sandals are at the edge of the tide line, the next wave lapping close enough to darken the sand near her toes. "A dynamic between two characters. Something I've been working through since last night." She pauses. Picks her next words with the same care she'd use on a difficult sentence in a third draft. "But I think I'll need to meet with you. From time to time. For... research purposes."
"Research purposes, huh?”
"Inspiration." She turns her head just enough to catch your reaction from the corner of her eye. "I need to understand the dynamic from the inside. For authenticity."
"Ah. Authenticity. Your favorite thing."
"Do you have a problem with that arrangement?"
"None whatsoever."
"Good." A short nod. Brisk. Professional, as if you've just agreed on deliverables and timelines rather than a series of encounters that will inevitably end with her clothes on your floor and her fingernail marks on your back. "So we'll be in touch."
"We'll be in touch."
The waves roll in. Retreat. Roll in again. A gull cuts across the harbor, banking low over the catamarans, and the morning sun lays a bright strip across the water that reaches all the way to the beach.
"One last kiss," you say.
Her eyebrows go up. "You're very demanding for someone who just told me nothing new exists under the sun."
"I'm requesting. Not demanding."
"Whatever." She's turning toward you, her weight shifts forward onto her toes, and her chin lifts. "Be quick about it. I have an interview in an hour and I need to fix my face."
"Your face is fine."
"My face is a disaster. Quick."
You step into her. Your hands find her waist through the thin cotton of the dress - warm from the sun, warm from her body underneath - and you settle them on the curve above her hips. She doesn't step back. Doesn't fold her arms. Just stands there looking up at you, dark eyes steady, the wind moving through the wildflower print and through her hair and through the small space between your mouth and hers.
You lean down and kiss her. She hesitates. Her lips stay closed for a breath; one final negotiation with herself about what this is and what it means and whether she can afford to let it mean anything at all. Her body is still. Her hands remain at her sides.
Then her mouth softens. Parts. Her hand rises to the side of your neck, fingers sliding up into your hair, and the kiss deepens past whatever boundary she'd set for it. Slow. Unhurried. Soft in a way that would have been impossible twelve hours ago, when everything between you was teeth and heat and skin scraping against stone. Her fingertips trace the line of your jaw. Your thumb maps the ridge of her hip. The sea exhales behind her, and for a suspended moment the world contracts to a very small radius. No reviews. No bestseller lists. No discourse. No audience. Just her mouth and your mouth and the sound of the water doing what water does, over and over, indifferent to everything.
She pulls back first. Her hand stays on your neck for an extra second. Then drops. "I need to go." She steps back. Steady. Composed. "I'm going to be late."
"I know."
"This doesn't mean I like you."
"Understood."
"And I still think your reviews are reductive, mean-spirited, and occasionally grammatically suspect."
"I'd be disappointed if you felt otherwise."
She almost smiles. Catches it at the last second, presses her lips into a line, and turns on her heel. She starts up the beach toward the coastal road, quick strides, the floral dress swaying against her legs, her sandals leaving sharp impressions in the wet sand. With every step she's putting herself back together. Becoming Kim Chaewon again - the bestseller, the brand, the woman who doesn't need anyone's approval and certainly not yours.
Twenty feet away, she stops. Turns around.
You raise your hand. A wave. last time you tried this gesture, she responded with her middle finger and an expression that could peel paint off a wall.
Chaewon looks at you across the sand. The morning light is full on her face now, catching the slight wave in her hair, the wildflower blues and greens of her dress, the flush that still hasn't faded from her cheeks.
She waves back with a barely-there smile she'd deny under oath and in front of a jury. Then she turns and walks away. The floral dress rounds the curve of the coastal road and disappears behind a low stone wall covered in bougainvillea.
You stay on the beach. Hands in your pockets. Sun on your face. The morning settling into itself around you - the heat building, the tourists beginning to appear on the far end of the sand, the faint sound of a cafe opening its shutters somewhere up the hill.
(Sometimes you let yourself think about it. What would have happened if she'd stayed. If she'd actually gone to the bar and come back with that second drink and sat down next to you and decided - for whatever private, unknowable reason - that you were someone worth talking to for another hour. If you'd gotten her name that night, heard it from her own mouth instead of reading it months later off the spine of a book in your apartment at two in the morning with a red pen in your hand and a sinking feeling in your stomach.
You wonder if knowing her first as a person instead of a product would have changed the way you read her. You wonder if you would have been kinder. Or if she would have made that impossible too. You wonder, occasionally, in the specific quiet of a late night when your critical faculties are offline and something less disciplined takes over, whether the two of you were always going to end up here - hostile, entangled, orbiting each other at a distance calibrated to cause maximum damage - or if there was a version of this where she came back with the wine and sat down and everything that followed was entirely different.
She didn't come back, though. And you'll never know.)
In the harbor, the two catamarans rock gently in their moorings. Twin white hulls catching the light. Running parallel. Connected. The rigid frame between them holding everything in place.
As Seoul’s police chief, you call your two secret lovers — officers Karina and Yujin — for their annual private session. What begins as a routine check-in quickly becomes an intense, loving threesome filled with their devotion, daddy kink, breeding talk, and passionate release.
I leaned back in my leather chair in the private office on the top floor of the headquarters. The door was locked, the blinds drawn. It was that time of year again — the annual “performance review” that only two officers knew about. I picked up the phone and made the call.
“Karina, Yujin. My office. Now.”
They arrived within minutes, still in their crisp police uniforms. Karina, with her sharp features and long dark hair, closed the door behind them. Yujin, bright-eyed and athletic, locked it with a soft click. At twenty-four and twenty-three respectively, both women were exceptional officers — dedicated, sharp, and completely devoted to me in ways no one else would ever know.
“Chief,” Karina said softly, already lowering her gaze in that way that always stirred something deep inside me. “We’re here for our session.”
“Good girls,” I replied, standing up. “You both know the rules. Uniforms off. Slowly.”
They obeyed without hesitation. The sight of them stripping out of their police jackets, shirts, and skirts until they stood in just their underwear made my cock strain against my pants. I sat on the edge of my desk and crooked a finger.
“Come here.”
They approached together, dropping to their knees in front of me. Their hands worked together to free my cock. The double blowjob started immediately — Karina taking the head into her warm mouth while Yujin licked along the shaft and sucked on my balls. Their tongues occasionally met, sharing sloppy kisses around my length.
“Fuck, that’s perfect,” I groaned, one hand in Karina’s hair and the other in Yujin’s. They took turns sucking me deeper, cheeks hollowing as they worked to please me. Spit dripped down my shaft as they jerked me together, eyes looking up for approval.
“Daddy’s cock tastes so good,” Yujin whispered between licks. “We’ve been waiting for this all year.”
Karina hummed in agreement, taking me deep into her throat. They were so eager, so devoted. I fucked their faces gently at first, then a little rougher, enjoying the wet sounds and their soft gagging.
After a while I pulled them up and bent them over my desk side by side. I dropped to my knees behind them, spreading their legs. I ate Karina first, licking her wet pussy from behind while fingering Yujin. Then I switched, burying my face in Yujin’s folds while rubbing Karina’s clit. Both of them moaned and squirmed, pushing back against my tongue.
“Daddy… please,” Karina begged, voice trembling. “We need you inside us.”
I stood up, cock throbbing. I pushed into Karina first, thrusting deep in one smooth motion. She gasped, gripping the desk as I fucked her hard. Yujin watched, masturbating while she waited her turn, fingers circling her clit.
“Such good little slaves for your chief,” I growled, pounding into Karina. “Beg for it.”
“Please, Daddy,” Karina moaned. “Breed me. Fill your officer with cum.”
I switched to Yujin, sliding into her tight heat. She was soaking wet. I fucked her with long, powerful strokes while reaching around to rub her clit. Both women were trembling, moaning my name mixed with “Daddy” and desperate pleas.
We moved to the wide couch in the corner. I sat down and they climbed on me together. Karina straddled my cock, sinking down while Yujin straddled my face. I ate her pussy as Karina rode me, her breasts bouncing beautifully. They kissed each other above me, hands roaming, making the scene even hotter.
“Switch,” I commanded after a while.
They obeyed instantly. Yujin took my cock now, riding me reverse cowgirl so I could watch her ass while Karina sat on my face. I licked and sucked her until she squirted on my tongue, thighs shaking around my head.
The breeding talk grew heavier as they got closer.
“Please cum inside me, Daddy,” Yujin begged, bouncing faster. “I want your baby. Make me yours completely.”
Karina leaned down, kissing me messily. “Both of us, Chief. Breed your secret slaves.”
I couldn’t hold back much longer. I flipped them onto their backs on the couch, legs spread wide. I fucked Karina hard first, then Yujin, alternating between their dripping pussies. The room filled with the wet sounds of sex and their desperate moans.
When I was right on the edge, I pulled out and stood over them. They knelt together instantly, tongues out, faces pressed close.
“Cum on us, Daddy,” Karina begged. “Please.”
I stroked myself fast and exploded, thick ropes of cum painting their beautiful faces — landing on their cheeks, lips, and tongues. They licked each other clean, sharing my load in sloppy kisses before swallowing what they could.
We stayed tangled on the couch afterward, breathing heavily. I pulled them both into my arms, kissing their foreheads gently. The roughness melted into soft aftercare, just like always.
“You both did so well,” I murmured, stroking their hair. “My perfect officers. My secret girls.”
Karina nuzzled into my chest. “We only want to please you, Chief. Even when we’re out there doing our jobs, we think about these moments.”
Yujin nodded, pressing a kiss to my neck. “Being your little slaves makes us feel so loved. We’d do anything for you.”
We talked quietly for a long time. They told me about their days on patrol, the cases they were working, and how thinking about our secret arrangement kept them motivated. I shared how proud I was of them as officers and how much I cherished these private sessions. The love and devotion between us ran deep, even wrapped in the intensity of power and submission.
Later we went for another round on the couch. This time slower and more intimate. I ate them out again, making them squirt one after another before fucking them in different positions — missionary for Karina while Yujin rode my face, then switching. They begged so sweetly for my cum, and I gave it to them deep inside this time, filling each of them as they trembled through orgasms.
When it was finally over, I helped them clean up and get dressed. We shared one last deep kiss together before they slipped out of the office, uniforms back in place, looking like the professional officers everyone else saw.
Sitting back at my desk, I couldn’t stop smiling. Karina and Yujin were incredible women — strong, dedicated, and completely mine in the most secret way. These annual sessions, and the hidden moments in between, made everything worth it. I was the luckiest chief in Seoul to have them.
⚠️CW⚠️ — gay sex, gay, public blowjob, Gloryhole, exhibitionism, Jason has a big dick, top Jason Duval, bottom male reader, bathroom sex, bareback, breeding, scent kink (armpit), body worshipping, almost caught, derogatory language used, ass referred to as cunt, and cumming hands free.
Word count — 7.1k
Summary — what was a random gloryhole hookup became a weekly occurrence. It was the usual session until the anonymous man wanted more.
Read before continuing — if you are younger than 18 or any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn around and leave. If there are no problems, you may continue.
It was late at night when you took your stroll, the sun having set along the horizon a couple of hours ago. The beaming sky and sweltering heat were replaced by darkness and cool, crisp air—somewhat damp and humid. The streetlights lining the area between the sandy beach and the hard concrete sliced the darkness, illuminating the sidewalk, while the beach remained in total darkness.
The once-packed businesses that lined the other side of the beach became vacant. The ambiance of people speaking, padded footsteps, and the occasional conflict ceased. You could hear your footsteps patting against the concrete and the faint, distant sounds of cars driving through Key Lento. The wind blowing caused the hanging palm trees to sway and rustle, and some sand particles from the beach dusted the sidewalk and your shoes.
Nightly strolls were the best, at times, if you avoided the more criminal and shady areas. The beach was probably the safest. You usually walked through the long stretch after working out at one of those twenty-four-hour gyms, or when you needed to get out, wanting to forget about your living situation and finances.
The sharp, salty, and fishy aroma of algae and other sources choked the air, enhanced by the cool air, which gave it a saltier, ozone-like scent. The smell didn’t bother you that much, but it was still putrid—an offense and assault to your nose. Your gaze moved to the empty, dark beach. While it wasn’t dirty per se, it wasn’t winning any of Leonida’s prizes or magazine titles as one of the state’s best beaches. Trash littered the grounds, embedded deep in the sand, but most of it has been cleaned by volunteers.
You saluted their efforts, unlike those rich bastards. They took an interest and decided to build marinas to dock their expensive yachts and boats, along with lavish resorts and homes, thereby gentrifying the area.
They always say that Key Lento was some sort of gateway to paradise, and apparently, they wanted to push the gateway further so people like you wouldn’t be allowed entry. You had a stable job, but due to the influx of wealthy individuals and real estate investment, you were barely above water. It felt like the ground was sinking beneath your feet, with your head inches away from being swallowed.
Rent and taxes were increasing, and your job wasn’t handing out promotions any time soon. The stress was getting to you, and this led to you relieving yourself with sex and walking at night. The walks did help, but sex was the ultimate relief you needed. Just the thought of dick made your pants feel tight, your dick chubbing in your underwear.
‘Shit, right now?’ you whined. You readjusted your pants, pulling at the fabric to free some space in your underwear. Thankfully, there wasn’t anybody out, otherwise you would’ve looked like a lunatic or some drug addict. You fiddle around with your pants, but it was temporary as your dick was filling the space, pushing the limits of your underwear.
Surveying the area, there weren’t many options to choose from to relieve your little predicament. The storefronts and restaurants were closed, meaning their bathrooms were as well. Then, your eyes fell on a conspicuous building in the middle of the beach. It was a sight for sore eyes, a beige brick building with a red-tiled roof and blue doors rose from the sandy expanses. It was a public bathroom and locker room. Perfect.
You didn’t hesitate, following the paved path with haste, your feet clamoring against the concrete as the beige building grew closer. Your dick bounced and throbbed, sensing that it was going to get the relief it needed. Pushing the blue door open, you were greeted with the typical public bathroom.
It was just as you expected—the metal stall doors, wide open, lined the grey-tiled walls, with urinals on the opposite side. The sinks sat beside the metal boxes with cracked, dirty mirrors; you could see rust chewing away at the metal pipes beneath the sinks. The buzzing of the light above was harsh, but it flickered and dimmed—probably needs maintenance. It kinda gave horror movie, killer vibes. Cleaning products mixed with the usual waste choked the air, another offense to your nose.
You sighed, groaning and tilting your head back. You didn’t want to be here, masturbating in some public bathroom on the beach, but you needed the privacy. It would do until you’ve dealt with your problem and return home. You peered into the various stalls, disgust visible on your face as you wondered if adult men were responsible for the mess cause there is no way a fully grown adult would do something like this.
The last two stalls were the cleanest, not as filthy as piss-stained tiled floors or shit smeared on the toilet bowl or seating—even on the stall itself. Stepping into the stall and examining the seat, you verified it was safe before closing and locking the metal door. You pulled down your pants and whipped out your throbbing cock. The piece of meat plopping out of your underwear, bouncing up and down, precum glistened your tip as it twitched with eagerness and the freedom of being out of its clothing cage.
Sitting on the seat, you gasped softly as the cold ceramic touched your ass cheeks. Your back pressed against the tank, your legs spread open and extended to the corners of the stall, as your hand wrapped around your sensitive cock. Muttering under your breath as a blooming warmth filled your body, muscles relaxing as you let your hand do the work, giving long, circular strokes.
Your breathing hitched, choking on your spit as you tapped your fingertips against the swollen tip, spreading the tiny split to show oozing precum. Using your free hand to scroll on your phone, you opened the Sniffies site—curious to see all the hot men and dicks in your area or from the nearby metropolis of Vice City. You used the site before; the easiest way to score dick and delve into some fantasy you wanted to try.
“Fuck… thats so huge.” You whined, slowing your stroking game to view the massive dick on your screen. It was 8.5 inches long with decent thickness. Looking through the profile and pictures provided, the guy was lean and cute, twenty-three years old, and straight-curious, but sadly, he was ten miles away. You would’ve loved to slobber on his dick, show him that a man knows another man’s pleasure.
Your area was a dry wasteland, drier than the Sahara Desert. Nobody was only online, but a profile piqued your interest. Not only was he the only one online, but he was surprisingly close. Clicking on the profile, there were no pictures, but information.
31m, 6’2, 215 lbs, 9” inches, muscular, dom top (breeder), straight.
‘Straight?’ you thought. It wasn’t uncommon for straight men to go onto these types of sites, wanting to have sex with men without vocally coming out to their loved ones, even going as far as to cheat on their wives, or they want to gaslight themselves into thinking that it's not gay as long as they’re not the ones being penetrated. Straight men confuse you. It's truly mind-boggling in their reasoning.
While you were deep in your thoughts, the man was coming closer. The distance was being slashed as the other guy was interested in getting his dick sucked.
Jason groped his massive bulge, squeezing his dick through his pants as he looked at your profile. The original plan was to go home and maybe pick up a hookup along the way to have a warm pussy wrap around his massive, throbbing dick. He needed some relief after nearly botching an operation and having his ass reprimanded by his employer. There were none, though, so he moved on to plan B.
He became aware of Sniffies from one of his colleagues. It was a gay hook-up site where gay and straight, even trans, men could find one another. The reason he was told this was that he wasn’t scoring any pussy and his distant, horny mind was interfering with work. He needed his balls to be drained, to have a hot mouth or pussy milk his dick. That’s when his partner suggested the site.
—
“That’s fucking gay. Why would I have another man suck me?” Jason bickered, taken aback by what was being said to him. There was no way in hell that he was going to fuck or stick his dick into another man. His dick was exclusively for pussy.
“Bro, I swear, he sucked my dick better than my girl. Plus, he gave me the feeling of anal!” the guy said, going into depth about gay sex and the sensational feeling and orgasm he experienced—the greatest bust in his life.
“Whatever, man, I’m not doing that gay shit,” Jason said, dismissing the other guy, but his dick throbbed at the thought. It's like his dick has a mind of its own; it doesn’t care if the hole or mouth belongs to a man or woman. It just wants to fuck.
“You're lost, dude.”
—
Despite being against the idea of having another man suck his dick, Jason hastily created a profile, adding some information but no pictures in case someone recognized him. He had to look up some terms used, but it wasn’t long before he was browsing the map. His neurons activated when he saw the various profiles. His dick jumped at the sight of another man’s ass, blood pumping into his massive piece of flesh as he scrolled through the man’s pictures.
Without shame, Jason dipped his hand into his pants, pushing past his underwear to stroke his dick. He walked and stroked, observing several profiles on the map, squeezing his dick and licking his lips whenever he saw ass. The filtering tool was heaven-sent, removing all the tops and showing the bottoms. Then, your profile popped up. You were the closest to him, and you were online—a green marker on the top.
“Fuck… that’s a fat ass.” Jason groans, looking up from his phone to see the approximation of your location via the map. Your profile showed you were close, inside a building on the beach. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for: a public bathroom structure.
‘Bingo’
You heard the bathroom door swing open, the hinges squeaking and producing an ear-shattering screeching sound that echoed in the empty bathroom. You jolted up, your relaxed body tensed. You sat up straight, no longer leaning against the tank as if you were in your room. Your legs closed and sprang back from the corners.
‘Why is someone here?! Is it that guy? Has to be.’ Your cock jumped at the thought of that man being here and his nine-inch dick. It has you drooling, your body physically reacting by producing saliva in anticipation of you getting your hands and mouth wrapped around it. How would it taste? How would it feel in your hands? Is he lying about his size?
The man’s heavy footsteps echoed, his shoes clicking against the tiled floors as his shadow came into view. You turned off your phone and held your breath. The stall door next to yours swung open, creating the same screeching before slamming closed. Your gaze followed his feet, and that’s when you noticed a huge hole cut out in the metal between the stalls.
‘Oh… OH’
You stumbled upon a gloryhole. This was a turn of events. You’ve seen glory holes in porn videos, but never in real life. The idea of sucking an anonymous man’s dick through a hole in the wall made your dick pump and your hole weep. Hearing the other man’s groans as you vigorously sucked and drained his dick—imagining his face twisted with pure pleasure as he pumped loads down your throat, feeding you his thick cum.
Your breathing became shallower, your hand returning to stroking as you tried to see the other side. Then a deep, masculine voice called from the other side.
“Suck my dick,” The anonymous man said. He didn’t give you time to respond before pushing his dick and balls through the hole. He wasn’t giving you an option; he was commanding you. There was no room for opposition as his dick stood tall and proud, clearly arrogant about its length and thickness. You could sense that he was a macho man from his tone, but by goodness, did his dick look appealing.
It's like you were hypnotized by it, salivating at the mouth, and your brain short-circuited and shut down as your instincts told you to suck it. Nine inches of meat and veined thickness, throbbing from the cold bathroom air and the expectation of a warm mouth sucking it. The flustered, red cockhead was leaking pearly beads of precum. Your eyes traveled down to see his dusted, heavy, egg-shaped balls.
Your night just got better.
Hastily kneeling on the bathroom floor, giving you a further close-up of this anonymous man’s massive cock. Everything about it screamed dominance and control—demanding your submission to it. Your mind is hazy with lust and need as you start to get to work on the man’s massive cock.
You gave experimental licks, dragging your wet tongue along the skin and veins. You could hear the man biting back his breathing, but that was gonna change. You moved your mouth to his heavy, sagging balls, sucking on them with vigor and with the intent to make him vocal. You wanted to hear those groans and moans, knowing that you were giving a straight man better head than his past partners or hookups.
Your head buried between his balls, his massive cock resting on your face as you serviced him. Your tongue swirled and pulled at them; you could feel how heavy and full his sack was in your mouth. You can tell he was backed up, his hot cum waiting to spurt out of his dick, eager to be milked.
As you sucked on them, a salty taste landed on your buds—must have been sweating in his pants all day. His pheromones were overwhelming, intoxicating even as your nose pressed against the source—buried deep in his sack. The musky and manly fumes are getting into your head, clouding your mind and senses.
You continued to inhale his delicious, musky scent, your eyes rolled back, making you want to stay in this position for the rest of the night. It was like you were caged by his scent, bound to kneel and suck for eternity—something you wouldn’t mind.
You continued to massage the man’s balls with your mouth, lathering them with your saliva and flicking the sacks. Your wish was granted as the man was becoming vocal. His heavy breathing and moans bounced off the walls as the straight, macho facade dropped.
“Yeah… keep sucking… f-fuck.” Jason’s breathing faltered as he let out deep, manly moans. He held onto the metal wall, amazed by how eagerly you sucked. More moans and groans choked out as you began to multitask, stroking his dick while sucking his balls. Your hand was firmly gripping and stroking his meat, a simple stroke, but you were purposefully milking him—squeezing strings of precum out of his slit and spreading it on his sensitive tip.
Jason didn’t want to admit it, but that bastard was right. This was better than anything he’s experienced before. You were a passionate and eager slut, going for his dick’s weak points. It felt like he was about to have a mind-numbing orgasm, and this was just you worshipping his nuts and stroking.
‘What would his mouth feel—’
You pulled back and didn’t wait to breathe as you wrapped your eager, wet mouth around the man’s shaft. The taste of his bitter precum hit first before subsiding as you bobbed your head up and down. Your tongue swirled and toyed with the slit, lapping and drinking the precum that oozed before shifting to the rest of his dick. You tightened your lips around his shaft, suctioning and hollowing your cheeks for better effectiveness. You could feel every ridge and vein as you took him deeper into your throat; the remaining inches were covered by your hand.
“Oh yeah,” Jason moaned, “That’s fucking good.”
“Mmmm,” you moaned back, happily taking the compliment. You were determined to rock this straight man’s world, drain his heavy balls, and give him the best earth-shattering orgasm.
You kept bobbing your head, taking as much into your mouth before stopping, cockwarming the anonymous man’s massive dick. The heavy piece of meat throbbed and gushed as it reveled in the warm, wet oral cavern. Jason felt like his dick was melting and being cooked, leading to more vocal responses and heavy breathing.
“Wish I knew you gays were this cock hungry… would’ve done this sooner,” Jason moans, his balls tightening and churning as he teeters on the brink of his orgasm. The only thing on the older man’s mind was to cum down your throat—reward you for your service with his hot, thick cum. He conjures the image of you swallowing his seed, kneeling and looking at him with your fucked out eyes.
You grinned. You had this straight man wither before you, his moans, groans, and praises filled your ears. It gave you a sense of control and dominance over him. He was like this because of you. His massive dick was hard and throbbing because of your mouth sucking the soul out of him. You were gonna have this man standing on his forefeet, toes clenching as his heavy sack was gonna be drained of his seed.
What an amazing feeling.
The feeling made your cock throb and ache. You wrapped your free hand around it and mimicked the way you were sucking. Long and deep strokes, spreading and lathering your cock with precum until it glistened in the fluorescent light. You shifted your knees to alleviate the stiffness, pulling back with a wet pop. You took deep breaths, your eyes half-lidded as you stared at the massive shaft—coated with precum and saliva, throbbing as it missed the warmth of your mouth wrapped around it.
You could hear he was disgruntled, asking with bated breaths about why you stopped and to wrap your mouth around his shaft again. You weren’t going to do that, instead opting to squeeze the flustered, swollen cockhead while mouthing and kissing the rest of his massive shaft.
“F-fuck… you love this dick, don’t you?” Jason moans. A deep, masculine laugh followed. Jason is aware of how magnificent and breathtaking his dick is. He was the whole package, physically wise: muscular, tall, and sporting a nine-inch dick—won the genetic lottery. He basked in the attention and admiration, purposefully going shirtless whenever he worked out, letting women ogle him, even men.
He didn’t mind men leering at him; he just didn’t wanna fuck them, until now.
“I do,” you replied, panting as you eagerly and desperately lick his dick before taking the shaft into your mouth. You moaned at the flavor and the heavy weight touching your tongue again. The vigor returned as you gulped and choked on every inch of the man’s shaft.
“Not gonna last much longer… be a good cocksucker… and take my seed—fuuuuuckkkk!” Jason roared out. He slammed his hips into the metal wall, pushing his dick further into your mouth as he stood on his toes. His body shook from the force, his backed-up balls unleashing weeks' worth of cum.
You could feel his dick expanding in your mouth, see his balls throbbing and tightening as he was pushed to the edge. The first shots of cum hit the back of your throat. You tried to swallow as much as you could, but your lungs were burning. You choked and pulled back, gasping for air, which soothed the burning sensation in your chest.
But the man’s dick didn’t stop cumming as his thick seed painted your face—shooting ropes of cum all over your face. After taking a couple of seconds to breathe and to reposition, you promptly took his dick back into your mouth. The flavor of his cum rammed into your taste buds as you could hear the man’s guttural moans echoing in the small space.
Even after Jason deposited his load, he was shocked to feel you continuing to bob your head. He stuttered out a weak moan, almost falling back as you squeezed his dick and balls, intending to drain the last few drops; you were sucking on it like a straw in a cold glass drink.
For three minutes, you sucked on his massive cock before pulling back, satisfied having drained a massive one. Jason’s dick lay flaccid, which still looked big despite being deflated. It was sad to see it pulled back from the hole. You could hear the rustling of clothing and hastened retreat. The stall door squeaked open with the familiar sound of shoes clicking against the tiled floor, growing farther.
“Thanks, man.”
That was the only thing the anonymous man said before leaving the bathroom. You were left in the bathroom stall, disheveled and sweaty, with your hand and the floor coated in ropes of cum. You weakly pushed yourself up, your knees flustered and ached as your skin dug into the rough tiled floor.
“Nasty, can’t believe I actually did this,” you mumbled, sitting on the toilet seat and yanking the cheap toilet paper from the holder. It was a fantasy to suck or fuck another man in public—in a discreet area, but it has the same adrenaline and risk that made your cock throb. Maybe you would’ve picked a more desirable location than a dirty bathroom on the beach, but you got to suck a massive dick.
That dick definitely and righteously earned its place as number one. The length and thickness, how it felt heavy and filled your mouth, and the flavor—you could keep sucking on it all day for the next fifty years.
But disappointingly, he was straight and most likely a one-time hookup. You should’ve expected something like this. You wiped off any remaining cum with the cheap toilet paper provided before leaving the stall to wash your hands. The room was quiet, other than the rushing sound of water going down the drain and your soft breathing.
Leaving the bathroom, you began your journey home. When you turned on your phone, the Sniffies website opened and loaded, showing you a new notification in your inbox.
“Name's Jason. Gonna need my dick sucked from now on.” The message reads, and below it was another picture of that massive dick.
Jason made you his official cocksucker.
…
It became a weekly, more like a daily occurrence.
Same bathroom and stalls, at the same time, but recently, morning and afternoon times were added. Jason was sticking his thick, massive cock through the hole, and you were quick to get your knees and worship that massive thing. Your warm mouth wrapped around it, eagerly sucking and choking as you wanted Jason to feed you his thick, creamy seed. You wanted to hear him let out those deep, manly groans as he unloads inside your mouth.
Never in a million years would Jason consider fucking another man, let alone getting his dick sucked. But after his encounter with you and how you sucked and gulped every drop of his cum down your gullet, he wanted more. Best blowjobs he’s ever received, his heavy balls being drained every day by an eager cocksucker. Your service also helped him with performance during an operation, earning praise and a bigger cut from his employer.
He was satisfied, but Jason wanted more. His dick and mind yearned for the feeling of another man’s tight ass wrapped around it. This need was further exacerbated by an extreme and fierce intake of gay porn and his partner babbling about how ass is better than pussy. You’re the best throat he’s had in years, and if your mouth is that good, he could only imagine what your ass feels like.
Your legs and cheeks spread open, your tiny rosebud eagerly waiting to be spilt. It wouldn’t be difficult to mount and fuck you into the ground. His dick leaked as he visualized the feeling and appearance of your tight anal walls clenching around his massive dick, pulling it deeper as he aggressively jackhammered your ass. He wasn’t going to stop until you were fucked dumb by his dick, nothing in your head, just moans and pleas for him to continue.
He was going to make this happen.
“Wanna fuck that ass.”
It was a simple, clear message, but it had you walking fast, quickening your pace as you didn’t hesitate to fulfill your own and his desire. Ever since you saw Jason’s dick through the gloryhole on that day, you wanted to feel it split your ass open and fuck you into oblivion. The length pushing into your tight, warm ass—deep thrusts as he rearranged your guts. The thickness spreading your anal walls, you could feel every vein and ridge grinding against your nerves, and his heavy balls slapping and mushing against yours. Despite being drained daily, they were still pumping huge loads—painting and filling your mouth with the thick goodness.
You could feel your hole aching and itching for Jason’s massive cock. The inside is burning and leaking for more, desperate to feel everything. The dildo you used beforehand might have been the reason for the aching sensation, and now, with the promise of being rammed by Jason, it demanded the real thing—rejecting the fake, silicon toy for the real deal.
You had been waiting for this moment. You didn’t want to bring it up in case it scared Jason away, and you’d lose access to easy dick and cum. At least, deep down, you had a hunch he’d come around eventually; they always do.
It was early in the morning, the sun having risen hours ago. You could see the once-closed businesses opening their doors and preparing for the day. There was a delicious, mouthwatering smell that mingled with the salty ozone aroma, the scent of food vendors, and the aroma of restaurants cooking their meals. There weren’t many people out, just scattered clusters along the sidewalk—no one on the beach.
Once you arrive at the bathroom, you do what you’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks: you wait for the accustomed sound. As you waited, a pit formed in your stomach. Your heart beat, and your breathing quickened, adrenaline rushing as an internal conflict took place. What if he chickens out, leaving you embarrassed and your time wasted? What if the wrong guy comes? Can you take it?
The big moment came when the door echoed the familiar squeaking and screeching. Footfalls clicked against the tiled floor, growing closer with each long stride. Then your stall closed and locked. You looked up, and your eyes were blessed with the sight of the sexiest man alive.
He had a polished yet rugged appearance—maturity that you liked. Light stubble dusted his chin and defined jawline, snaking beneath his nose. The rest of his features were covered. The wayfarer-style sunglasses blocked his eyes, but you could feel them boring into your being, predatory and hungry for what's coming next. He sported a backwards cap with strands of hair peaking out and sticking to his forehead.
That’s when you noticed he was sweating. Your gaze shifted to the rest of his body, taking in the eye candy that Jason was. His light-skinned complexion glistened with sweat, the fluid coating every nook and cranny. You made an educated guess about what he worked out before coming here. You zeroed in on his thick pectoral slabs; chest hair peeked from underneath his white tank top. You could make out the shape of his nipples—they were solid and pointy.
His tank top stuck to him like a second skin, giving you a full viewing pleasure of his ripped, sculpted body. His abs are etched deep and defined with bulging biceps and thighs as thick as trees. Everything about Jason was making you salivate and unimaginably horny—the itching was getting worse.
“Like what you see?” Jason teased, smirking as he peeled his sweaty tank top, revealing his chest hair matted with sweat. Your gaze followed the trail of hair, starting from his pectorals down the valley of his sculpted, defined abs. Your dick jumped when Jason peeled off his shorts, the belt clicking and clanking as he discarded it—tossing the garment to the side. His massive dick hangs between his thick, tree trunk thighs.
“Come on, don’t keep me waiting.” Jason grins, raising his muscular arm over his head, exposing his furry patch. Words stuck in your throat as Jason starts tugging his dick, the massive shaft growing in his hand.
You quickly stripped off your clothing, pulling and yanking at the fabric. Your heart was thumping, giddy with the anticipation of feeling Jason’s muscular body pressing against yours. The dream you’ve been having for weeks was coming true. You painted vivid images of Jason’s body, and he fit the description. You imagined running your hands over his shredded form, fingertips gliding over his coarse, scruffy hair, and feeling his warm, solid body molding against you.
Once your clothing was discarded, Jason paused his tugging and reached out to pull you closer. You let out a “oof” as you were pressed against the man’s solid, sweaty body. You could feel his dick throbbing against your thigh, pulsing from the contact of your relatively cold skin.
What caught your attention was Jason’s masculine funk. The man still had his arm over his head, letting his funk fill the air around you. It was making your head dizzy, causing it to swirl around in circles. Your breathing deepened as the heady scent filled your nose. Your body moved on its own, and without pause, you went in for that funk—burying your head and inhaling the sublime, heady mix of sweat and pheromones.
“Fuuucckk.” Jason exhaled, chuckling as he watched you worship his pit. You were something else. Hell, maybe he’s bisexual. He’s never experienced such depravity and eagerness.
You weren’t in control of your body as your primal instincts took over. You didn’t just sniff, you ran your tongue over the furry patch, licking and probing while your other hand kneaded Jason’s pecs. You began to thrust your hips, grinding your aching dick against Jason’s thick thighs—with him moving in rhythm.
“T-that’s it… keep g-going,” Jason stutters, letting out breathy and throaty moans. His free hand moves down to grope your ass, marveling at how it fills and spills through his fingers. Men have fat asses, too? Just feeling your ass in his palm was making his dick ooze precum—smearing against your thigh as he followed your eager rhythm. Your bodies moved in unison.
You licked slowly down his armpit, gliding your tongue to his hairy pecs as you wanted to feel every crevice of Jason’s body. Your dick throbbed from feeling Jason’s rough hands squeezing your ass—smearing fluids on his thigh. Soft moans escaped your lips, muffled by sucking and biting on his nipples. Jason tilts his head back, and another moan pulls from his lips. As much as he was enjoying this, he needed to be inside you.
“That’s enough. Now, how about you get my dick wet? I want to feel this tight ass.” Jason said, slapping your ass cheek, the skin rippling from the impact of his palm—the sound echoing off the tiled walls.
You didn’t hesitate, licking your way down his body, past his navel, following the happy trail to your happy meal. Kneeling before Jason’s ripped, dominant body, his dick came into your view, erect and standing proud, beads of sticky precum oozing, and his heavy, furry balls dangling. You took the massive thing into your mouth, lips tightening around it as it glided back and forth—holding and ramming your tonsils over and over.
Jason groans in ecstasy as he hears you slobbering and choking on his dick. Your wet mouth coating his thing with copious amounts of saliva, lathering and preparing it for penetration. He moved his hands to the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair—guiding and holding you in place. Your mouth was enough to make him cum, but he held back. If it were any other time, he would’ve fed you his load, but not now.
“Bend over.” Jason grunts, gripping your hair and pulling you off his dick.
You took deep breaths, eyes locked on Jason’s massive, glistening shaft—admiring the sight. Every ridge was generously lathered, the cockhead flustered and pulsing. You overworked your glands to produce enough saliva for preparation; you should’ve brought lube. When Jason spoke again, you scrambled off the floor and gripped the toilet’s tank—presenting your ass to the man who’s gonna fuck you as if you were a virgin.
“Mmm, this is what I like to see.” Jason groans, his hand making contact with your ass, delivering another slap that rocks your body. He marvels at your ass before lathering one and then two fingers.
You gasped as you felt Jason’s thick fingers teasing your hole, rimming the tight ring of muscles with his tips. Your hands hardened their grip on the ceramic tank, holding onto the porcelain for stabilization as Jason worked his fingers—stretching and scissoring your hole. You could feel them pressing around your inner walls, bumping and poking the flesh. It felt so good, your ass clenching around the invading fingers at the thought of Jason’s dick replacing them.
“So fucking tight,” Jason growls. He could hear your whines and moans growing louder as his fingers touched and rammed into a certain area. That must have been the elusive sweet spot inside of men. He could see your legs wobbling and your dick flopping between your legs—thick strings of precum gushing out as your dick was painfully throbbing and flustered.
Then Jason pulled his fingers out, deeming you prepared for the main event. He watched your entrance pulsing and clenching around nothing, searching for something to fill it and eagerly drag it in. Your hole went from stretched and gaping to small and tight—incredible. He needed to be inside you immediately.
You let out a disappointed whine, but that was quickly shut down when you felt a thick, blunt head pressing against your tight sphincter. Jason gripped his massive cock with one fist, positioning and pushing the helmet through your entrance. There was some resistance before his massive shaft pierced the tight ring, his cockhead stretching your hole as a flash of pain consumed you.
“Oh, f-fuck… y-you’re so huge.” You cried, your fingers digging into the ceramic tank. If it were a cheap toilet, the damn thing would’ve shattered from the force you were applying. You stood on your forefeet, your legs and body shivering as Jason continued to push his massive cock until he was balls deep—his heavy sack mashing against yours.
The oxygen was knocked out of you, and drool dribbled out of your mouth as you choked on your saliva. Your chest heaved rapidly as you tried to calm down and relax. Your mind was racing, but the immense sexual pleasure clouded you. This man was making you feel like a virgin again.
Your asshole is being split open beyond belief, the burning sensation from the massive shaft grinding against your inner, pink walls. You could feel Jason’s dick breaching depths you didn’t know were possible.
“Shhiitt. Fucking tight. Feels like I’m about to cum.” Jason said, letting out a bellowing groan. His rough, meaty hands moved to your hips, gripping them with an iron hold. Jason withheld from thrusting, biting back so he doesn’t cum, but you were making that impossible. Your ass was massaging and tightening around him, pulling him deeper.
The pause was grueling. It felt tight, figuratively and literally. The tight, closed space of the stall was becoming unbearable. There was no sound besides labored breathing and soft moans. The pause ended when Jason pulled out, leaving the cockhead before plummeting back into your ass. The once quiet room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping and moans.
Your eyes rolled back into your head from each forceful thrust—your dick flopping back and forth, slapping against Jason’s balls. Jason tilted his head back, groaning as this was the best sex he’s had in years. Your ass happily accepts his massive dick, seemingly learning the shape and size instantly.
“You like this dick inside this hot cunt?” Jason groans, slapping your ass with each thrust of his hips
“Y-yes! Feels so good.” You exclaimed, breathless with each thrust. Your dick is on the verge of shooting its load.
Then the bathroom’s entrance screeched open, the sound reverberating off the walls. Before you could react, Jason pulled you against his body—his sweaty, matted hair grinding against your back. He stilled his thrust and clasped his meaty hand on your mouth, ensuring total silence. You both listened to the clicking of sandals against the floors, followed by the familiar sound of piss streaming and hitting the urinal.
Jason didn’t care, though. This random stranger wasn’t going to prevent him from fucking your tight ass. He discreetly fucks you with short but deep thrusts. Your eyes widen before becoming half-lidded when you feel his free hand stroking your dick—each stroke mimicking his thrusts as he was determined to fuck your brains out.
He didn’t care that another man was a couple of feet away from them.
“Shhh. As much as I wanna hear those moans, I don’t wanna get caught—unless you want that.” Jason purrs into your ear, his voice low and deep. He never thought he’d be into exhibitionism, but the adrenaline was making his dick painfully throbbing inside your ass, signaling his impending orgasm.
“You want that?” Jason growls, disregarding the other man as he delivers a series of deep thrusts. Wet squelching and skin slapping grow louder—surely alerting the newcomer. Your moans were muffled by Jason’s hand, but you didn’t care, not with his other hand stroking your dick, tugging and squeezing the thing as he fully intended to make you cum.
Meanwhile, the other man was cleaning off his cockhead after relieving himself in the urinal. He bobbed his head side to side, jamming out to the music playing from his headphones. He was unaware of the debauchery happening a couple of feet away. That’s when he heard muffled groans and gruffing coming from the last stall. He shrugged it off as someone taking a dump—brave since it was a public bathroom; if it were him, he’d hold it in till he got home.
The groaning got louder, slicing through the stream of water from the faucet—even his headphones. Wow, that guy must be fighting demons. Probably constipation. Then he heard banging against the metal sheets, fists colliding in rhythm, and the signature groan ranging. It was getting kind of awkward. The poor guy was probably embarrassed about letting it rip.
“Good luck, dude,” the guy said, drying his hands and exiting the bathroom to continue his morning jog across the beach. He remained blissfully unaware that two men were having sex in the stall—the groaning and banging were products of their coupling.
“Finally, he’s gone… not gonna last much longer. Gonna breed this tight cunt.” Jason growls, removing his hand from your mouth. His thrusts became sloppy, but he continued to jackhammer your quivering hole. He’s since removed his hand from your dick, transferring it to your hips.
“P-please, shoot your load inside me!” you begged, tilting your head back to rest on Jason’s shoulders—arching your back to let him go deeper. Your prostate was constantly being rammed into, the cockhead hitting the bundle of nerves—setting your body ablaze as the message of pleasure travelled through you. You let your moans pour out of your mouth, no longer shackled by shame and Jason’s hand.
Jason didn’t get to respond when you overshadowed him with your bellowing moans. Your flopping dick burst, spraying cum all over the ground and toilet. Your thick seed flying up and down as you came hands-free. The orgasm left you exhausted, panting, and heaving as it felt like your soul was taken by the reaper. Jason held you close to him, pressing your sweaty bodies against each other.
“Oh fuck, I’m about to bust! Open that tight cunt.” Jason commanded as his dick was being suffocated. Your orgasm caused you to tighten around him, squeezing and milking him.
“Y-yes! B-breed…” you replied, completely out of it, but still hungry for Jason and his thick seed.
“Yeah, here it comes—yeah—yeah—fuuucckk,” Jason growls and groans, his body convulsing. He gave a few more thrusts, his heavy balls throbbing against yours as his big dick erupted in your ass. You could feel his dick throbbing before thick ropes of cum spewed from the slit, flooding your deepest recesses until his balls were drained.
You both were drained and exhausted. The smell of sex and semen choked the air. You both were panting, taking gulps of air. Jason kept his dick lodged deep inside you, preventing his seed from gushing out of your fucked hole. This was the best experience you both had. Jason is certain he can never go back; the damage was done, and he’ll gladly take it.
“Round 2? At my place?”
The End
Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoyed this fic! This is probably the fastest I’ve completed one. I feel like I really captured Jason. God, I need that man. There is certainly more content for him. Mark Grayson may be next.
Special thanks to my proofreader: @sagethegaywitch
