𐙚 “Until You’re Sore” - Wong Yuk-hei 𐙚
Kinktober Day 4
wc: 3k
Genre: Smut MDNI 18+
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Breast play kink (sucking, licking, biting, marking, fixation), Dom/sub dynamics, Possessive behavior, Orgasm control, Overstimulation, Praise, Dirty talk, Light choking, Rough sex, Rough handling, Mild spanking,
You step inside and the door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality. Your heels hit the entryway tile, a deliberate little sound, and you feel him before you see him—Lucas, waiting in the dim glow of his apartment like he hadn’t moved since you left. Arms crossed. Quiet. Still dressed from earlier but less put together now, his shirt wrinkled where his hand keeps dragging down it.
His eyes drop instantly.
Not to your face. Not to your legs.
Right to your chest.
You chose the dress for this—black, tight, a neckline deep enough that you had to remind yourself not to lean forward too far in public. No bra. You wanted the shape to show. Wanted the bounce, the weight, the risk of slipping. Wanted him to notice.
And he did. He noticed all night. Every time you laughed. Every time someone else looked at you. Every time you stretched or danced or bent to sip your drink.
Now, in the silence of his apartment, the tension breaks.
“You wore that for me.”
It’s not a question. His voice is low, unreadable, but the heat behind it is unmistakable. A warning and a reward.
You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe.”
Lucas takes a step forward. His hand lifts, slow, brushing just under the curve of your breast with the back of his fingers. His thumb grazes your nipple through the thin fabric and you swear he smirks when it reacts under his touch.
“No bra,” he says, eyes never leaving your chest. “Brave.”
You breathe in—and that’s all it takes for him to lose the last of his patience.
His smirk doesn’t last.
It fades as his palm flattens against your chest, fingers splayed, thumb catching under the swell of one breast. He’s not soft now. Not playful. Just focused.
You’re backed into the wall before you realize he moved—his body crowding yours, breath brushing your cheek, hand still between you like he has a right to touch, to take.
“You wore this all night,” he says quietly. “Let your tits bounce around while people stared at something that doesn’t belong to them.”
His grip tightens slightly—just enough to make you press your back harder against the wall, chin tilting up.
“They weren’t the ones staring like you,” you breathe.
He huffs out a single, humorless sound. “Yeah. You made sure I couldn’t stop.”
He squeezes again—both hands now, one cupping each breast fully through the thin stretch of fabric. His thumbs swipe slowly across your nipples until they stiffen beneath the dress, already aching for more. He watches your face like he’s waiting for something—some shift, some surrender—and when your breath catches, it happens.
Lucas’s fingers hook under the neckline and yank it down, baring your breasts in one rough motion. You gasp—not because you’re shocked, but because you’ve never seen him look at you like this.
Like you’re dinner and he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You really didn’t wear anything underneath.”
You start to answer, but your voice doesn’t come fast enough. He palms your bare breasts again, this time with no fabric in the way—hot hands, full pressure, skin on skin—and his eyes darken with something possessive and filthy.
“That’s enough teasing,” he says, bending slightly. “You want my attention?”
You nod.
“Good.” His mouth drops to your chest. “Now take it.”
He doesn’t kiss you first. He goes straight for your chest, like he’s been starving for it.
Lucas sinks to his knees in front of you—still in the hallway, still half in the dark—and latches onto one nipple like it’s the only thing that matters. The first drag of his tongue over your skin is so hot it makes you gasp, and when he sucks you in deeper, your back hits the wall like your knees just forgot what they were for.
“Fuck,” he groans into your skin. “These tits—”
He cuts himself off with another suck, harder this time. His mouth is hot and greedy, and his hands stay full—one squeezing the opposite breast, thumb brushing circles around the nipple until it’s stiff and flushed, the other gripping your waist to keep you from writhing.
You whimper. You can’t help it.
He hums in response, the vibration buzzing through your chest and straight down between your legs.
“Sensitive tonight, huh?” His voice is hoarse when he pulls back. “Bet you were thinking about this while you were out. Bet you were aching for me to touch you.”
“I was,” you breathe.
“Yeah?” He leans in again, licks a slow stripe over the nipple he just released. “This one…” he nips, just enough to make you gasp, “was hard the whole night. I watched it press through your dress every time you moved.”
Your hands find his shoulders, steadying yourself as he goes back in—licking, sucking, flicking his tongue across the tip until you’re panting. Then he switches sides, dragging his tongue across the middle of your chest like he’s licking you clean before claiming the other breast.
He groans again when he gets his mouth on it.
“Fucking perfect. So soft. So full.” His words are muffled, like he can’t be bothered to stop licking long enough to speak properly. “And mine.”
He mouths at the side, leaving a hot, wet trail before circling back to the nipple. His free hand squeezes the other breast, pushing it up so your chest is lifted to him, presented like an offering. His eyes flick up to meet yours—dark, possessive, completely focused.
“Look at you,” he says. “You’re already shaking.”
You are. Your legs feel like they’ve lost all structure, and your hands are buried in his hair now, clinging for balance. Your back arches off the wall when he suckles deeper, rolling the peak between his lips, tongue pressed flat and moving slow.
When he bites—just a little—you cry out.
“Good,” he mutters. “Give me those sounds. I want to hear how much you like it.”
He pulls back to blow a slow breath across the wet, sensitive skin, and the chill hits you hard. Your nipples tighten even more, swollen and slick, and you feel your whole body throb from the contrast.
“Let me see,” he says. “Let me see how wrecked they are.”
Lucas pushes you gently toward the bedroom, standing only to keep his hands on your chest. He palms you the whole way there, still watching, still mouthing between kisses as you walk back with him guiding you.
When he gets you to the bed, he doesn’t throw you down. He sits first, then pulls you into his lap, straddling his thighs.
“Put them in my face,” he says simply.
You do as he says—press your breasts into his face—and Lucas groans like he’s finally getting what he’s been craving all night. His hands come up automatically to cup them, thumbs stroking over both peaks while his mouth works one with a kind of hungry rhythm.
“You have no idea,” he mutters against your skin. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second you walked in. Hell, before that.”
You roll your hips against his lap, the friction making your breath hitch, and he answers with a deep moan that vibrates against your chest. His mouth doesn’t stop moving. He keeps switching between your breasts—licking one nipple while he squeezes the other, sucking one while he rolls the other between his fingers, like he refuses to let either go too long without attention.
He pulls back just to look at them again, flushed and slick from his mouth, nipples swollen and standing firm.
“I want them sore,” he says, almost to himself. “Marked. So you feel it tomorrow and think of me.”
You’re already thinking of him. You’re soaked and shaking, hips grinding into the hard line of his cock beneath his jeans. But you don’t say it. You don’t have to. He can feel it.
“Get on the bed,” he tells you, voice rough. “Flat. Arms up. Don’t cover them.”
You move without question.
He watches the whole time—your dress now halfway down your waist, tits on full display, flushed and slick and begging to be touched again. He unbuttons his jeans slowly, only enough to ease some of the pressure, then crawls over you like a man who needs.
But he still doesn’t touch anywhere else. Just your chest. His hands find your breasts again, and his mouth follows like it never wanted to leave.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “Already shaking. I haven’t even started.”
He starts by dragging his thumbs across your nipples, slow and deliberate. The stimulation is constant, never too hard, never too light. His touch knows your body. Knows exactly how much pressure makes you gasp and how much more makes you twitch.
“Keep your arms up,” he reminds you, when you start to reach for him. “They stay there until I say.”
You obey, because it’s all you can do.
He leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth again — hot, wet, all tongue and pressure — while his hand kneads the other breast like he’s trying to mold it to his palm. He doesn’t let up. Switches sides. Goes back. Bites. Licks. Sucks again.
Every motion sends heat spiraling through you like sparks catching dry skin.
You arch under him, nipples tingling and raw, your entire chest slick from his mouth and his spit and the sweat now gathering between your breasts. Every breath makes you more sensitive. Every drag of his tongue makes your hips jerk. Your thighs squeeze together because you need friction.
He sees it. Doesn’t comment. Just smirks against your chest and keeps going.
“Didn’t think you’d get this close from just this, did you?” he murmurs. “Look at you. Dripping. Squirming. All because I touched your tits.”
You whimper, back arching again, wrists flexing where they’re still held above your head.
“Don’t move,” he warns. “You want to come like this? You stay.”
And god, you do.
He flattens his tongue, drags it slowly over one nipple, and then uses his mouth and fingers together — sucking deep, circling with his tongue, pinching the other nipple just hard enough to make your whole body tense.
It hits fast.
You cry out, legs shaking, back curling. The orgasm rolls through your chest first, then downward, a hot wave that leaves you gasping. You don’t touch him. You don’t look away. You just feel it — the intense, burning release from nothing but the way he’s used your chest.
Lucas doesn’t stop sucking until the spasms ease.
When he finally pulls back, your nipples are swollen, your breasts marked, and he looks almost proud.
“That’s one,” he says, voice rough. “You’ve got more in you.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before Lucas is back on you, mouth at your chest again, like he didn’t just pull the first orgasm out of you with nothing but lips and hands.
“You’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters against your skin. “Could’ve made you come again if I kept going.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice sharpens. “And you will.”
His hand presses flat against your sternum, pinning you to the mattress while he shifts lower. You feel him rutting against your thigh — hard, leaking, still barely out of his jeans — and when he finally drags them off, your stomach flips.
He doesn’t dive between your legs. He doesn’t even touch your clit.
Instead, Lucas rolls a condom on with one hand and uses the other to palm your breast again, tugging at your nipple while he lines himself up. It’s rougher now—less teasing, more take.
“You’ve been begging for this since the second you put that dress on,” he says.
You nod, breath hitching.
He pushes in hard, one smooth thrust that knocks all the air out of your lungs.
“Fuck,” he groans, still buried inside you. “So tight. Still dripping from what I did to your tits, huh?”
You cry out, the pressure, the stretch, the burn all crashing over you again. But still—his hands stay where they’ve always been.
One cups your breast, the other drags fingers across the nipple, slow and firm, syncing every pinch with the rhythm of his hips. When he thrusts deeper, he squeezes. When you moan, he rolls the peak between his fingers like he’s tuning your reactions.
“Gonna keep touching them while I fuck you,” he pants. “Wanna feel them bounce when I make you come again.”
You’re already close. You know it. He knows it. You’ve never felt this wired—like your entire body is tethered to your chest and every nerve is lit.
“You like when I use you like this?” he says, snapping his hips faster. “Fucking you while I play with your perfect tits?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes—don’t stop—”
“That’s it.” He grabs both breasts now, fingers digging into the soft weight, bouncing them deliberately with each thrust. “These are mine. You understand?”
“Yes—Lucas—fuck—”
He bends, tongue finding one nipple again, sucking it hard while he slams into you. The dual sensation makes your brain short-circuit. All you can do is cry out and hang on.
“I should keep going,” he growls. “Until you’re too sore to wear anything tight for a week.”
You believe he would.
You want him to.
His hips roll deeper, rougher, every thrust stealing more of your voice. And still—his hands never leave your chest.
You don’t know when your hands ended up in his hair. One’s tangled at the back of his head, the other clawing at the sheets, hips tilting up to meet every rough grind of his cock. Your nipples are slick and throbbing from the abuse, lips swollen from all the biting, sucking, rubbing.
Lucas has one hand on your throat now — not choking, just holding you still — and the other under your breast, pressing it up so he can latch onto it again with his mouth.
His thrusts never stop. His pace is merciless. It’s like he’s fucking you through your tits, like the way they move when he snaps his hips is just as important as how tight you feel around him.
“You feel that?” he pants. “The way they bounce when I fuck you?”
You moan — not an answer, just a broken sound that he clearly takes as a yes.
“Look down. Look what you’re doing to me.”
You try. You try. You glance down through the blur of your lashes and see the way your breasts lift and fall with each thrust — slick, marked, pulled by gravity and his hands.
He grins against your chest and bites your nipple again, hard enough to make you cry out.
“That’s mine,” he says, licking over the sting. “So is that one. Every part of you — but this? These were made for me.”
Your thighs start to shake again. You can feel it building — the second orgasm, stronger and hotter and meaner. It rolls through you, coiling around your core, twisting tighter with every drag of his cock and every wet slap of his mouth over your chest.
“Lucas—fuck—I’m—”
“I know.” His hand slides down and finds your clit, fingers pressing tight and fast. “Come again. Right now. Want to feel you squeeze around me while I suck on what’s mine.”
That’s what does it.
You come harder than the first time, legs shaking, breath gone. Your back arches, shoving your tits into his face again, and he groans, mouthing them like they’re what pushed you over the edge. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You only feel — heat and wet and stretch and the endless pull of his mouth.
Your orgasm crashes through your entire body, and he keeps fucking you through it, keeps licking, keeps groaning like this is the only way he ever wants you: loud, messy, and ruined beneath his hands.
You’re still shaking when he finally slows.
Lucas groans deep in his chest as he buries himself one last time, riding the tail end of your orgasm, then pulls out carefully and discards the condom without a word.
The next few minutes blur. You feel him move — low sounds, rustle of fabric, the faint click of something wet being wrung out — and then he’s back. A warm cloth presses gently between your legs, then your thighs, and then up over your stomach. He wipes over your breasts last, soft as anything, like he’s sorry for how rough he was.
But he’s not sorry. Not really.
Because when he tosses the cloth aside and pulls you into him, he cups one breast again without thinking — palm spread wide, thumb brushing slow circles over the sore peak like he’s still not done.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low against your temple.
“Barely.”
“Perfect.”
You don’t even argue. You’re too tired, too wrung out, too full of him.
He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then the mark he left just above your nipple. His hand stays where it is, warm and firm, protective and possessive at once.
He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s still holding you there.
Or maybe he just refuses to stop.
You’re drifting.
His breath slows behind you, chest rising and falling against your back, one arm looped heavy around your waist. The other is still where it’s been—curved around your front, hand full of your breast like it belongs there.
Like it always has.
You shift, just barely, and his hand tightens.
“Stay still,” he murmurs.
You hum something wordless, and he presses a kiss behind your ear. Another to the side of your neck. Then one right at your shoulder, like punctuation.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “you wear that again—”
“I won’t make it out the door?” you guess, eyes still shut.
He grins into your hair. “No. You’ll make it to the hallway. Maybe.”
You laugh softly, breath catching when his thumb brushes your nipple again. You’re sore. He knows it. That doesn’t stop him.
“Can’t help it,” he says, voice nearly a whisper now. “They’re mine.”
You let him hold you there—marked and owned
…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………
Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach
