✦ “you're supposed to be teaching me, not staring.”
cortis — martin x illit!reader — oneshot
GENRE: fluff, soft crack, dance practice chaos, idol!au, boyfriend‑coded moments
WARNINGS: none, just oblivious pining + martin being obvious with his MASSIVE crush on you
SYNOPSIS: Martin and Seonghyeon are helping you and Wonhee learn the REDRED choreo for a dance collab… except Martin keeps getting distracted by you. You’re too focused on getting the moves right to notice, but everyone else definitely does.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: hiiii! here’s a cute lil martin moment bc I swear he lives rent‑free in my brain atp. this idea was too adorable not to write, so pls enjoy <33 thank u sm for all the love on my recent posts, I love u guys sm !!
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Characters are based on public personas only. Nothing here reflects real-life relationships or behavior. Please do not repost, translate, or copy my work to other platforms. Reblogs & comments are appreciated but never required!.
MASTERLIST:
The speaker crackles as the opening beat of REDRED fills the practice room, bouncing off the mirrors and polished floors. You’re already counting under your breath, trying to match the timing Moka keeps whispering beside you.
Across from you, Martin claps his hands together. “Okay! From the top. I’ll go slow.”
He says that, but he’s not looking at the mirror. He’s looking at you.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy trying to get the footwork clean, but Seonghyeon does. He’s standing behind Martin, arms crossed, watching the way Martin’s eyes keep drifting away from the choreography and straight to you.
“Hyung,” Seonghyeon mutters, “you’re off beat again.”
Martin blinks like he’s waking up from a trance. “Huh? No I’m not.”
“You literally did the move backwards,” Wonhee says, not even looking up from tying her shoelace.
You pause mid‑step. “Wait, backwards? I thought that was the right way-”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Seonghyeon says quickly. “Martin’s the one messing up.”
Martin shoots him a look that says shut up before I trip you, but Seonghyeon only raises an eyebrow.
You try the move again, slower this time, and Martin steps closer to adjust your arm position. His hand hovers for a second, like he’s debating whether touching you will make him combust, before he gently nudges your elbow.
“There,” he says softly. “Perfect.”
You smile at him, bright and proud. And that’s it. That’s the moment he forgets the entire choreography again.
Wonhee watches him stare at you like you hung the moon. She leans toward Seonghyeon. “Is he always like this?”
“Only around her,” Seonghyeon whispers back.
You’re too focused on the mirror to hear any of it.
“Okay,” you say, determined. “Let’s try it with music again.”
Martin nods. He absolutely does not hear what you said.
The music starts. You hit every move with laser focus. Martin hits… none of them.
He’s a full two counts late, staring at you like you’re the choreography he’s supposed to be learning.
“Hyung,” Seonghyeon groans, stopping the music. “Please. I’m begging you. Get it together.”
“I am together,” Martin insists.
“You’re literally not,” Wonheesays. “You’re staring at her like she’s the only person in the room.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
Martin’s ears turn red instantly.
“I- I wasn’t- I was just-” He gestures vaguely at the mirror. “looking at the… formation?”
“There is no formation,” Seonghyeon deadpans. “It’s four people standing in a line.”
You blink at Martin, confused. “Are you okay? You keep zoning out.”
He swallows. Hard.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired.”
You step closer, concern softening your features. “You should’ve said something. We can take a break.”
And just like that, he melts.
“Okay,” he says quietly, eyes softening in a way that makes Seonghyeon roll his eyes so hard he almost pulls something.
Wonhee claps her hands. “Break time! Maybe during the break Martin can remember which direction left is.”
Martin glares at her. You laugh. Bright, warm, the kind of sound that makes his heart do a backflip, and he forgets how to be annoyed.
You hand him a water bottle. He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and he looks away like the contact physically short‑circuited him.
“You’re supposed to be teaching me,” you tease lightly, “not staring.”
His head snaps up.
“I wasn’t- I mean- I wasn’t staring.”
You tilt your head. “Then what were you doing?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
Seonghyeon walks by, patting his shoulder. “He was staring.”
Martin shoves him lightly, face burning.
You laugh again. Soft, sweet, completely unaware of the effect you have on him, and Martin decides he’s never going to survive this collab.
A Lovely Request For My Friend @Kari_Neko From Ko-Fi. Hope You All Enjoyed this One.
It started with a desperate need for a paycheck. You had been out of work for three months, and the bills were piling up on the kitchen counter, becoming a source of quiet, simmering tension between you and your wife. When the agency called about a "high-profile driver and personal assistant" position, you didn't hesitate, despite the vague job description.
The interview was at the headquarters of Voronova Corp. You expected a grilling from HR, but instead, you were ushered directly to the top floor. The office was vast, cold, and intimidatingly modern. Behind a desk of black glass sat Yunah. She didn't look up from her tablet when you entered.
"Name?" she asked, her voice sharp.
You told her, standing strictly at attention.
Finally, she looked up. The sharp dismissal she likely had ready died on her lips. She paused, her dark eyes scanning you from your polished shoes to the knot of your tie, lingering on your face. The silence stretched for an uncomfortable five seconds.
"You're hired," she said, her voice softer than before. "Start tomorrow. 6:00 AM."
That was two years ago.
Working for Yunah was demanding, but strangely intimate. You were the first face she saw in the morning and the last she saw at night. You knew how she took her coffee (black, two sugars), you knew her schedule better than she did, and you knew when she was stressed by the way she would unconsciously rub her left temple.
But there was something else. A shift in the dynamic that your wife noticed before you did.
"She calls you at 10 PM just to ask about the schedule for tomorrow?" your wife had asked one night, eyeing your buzzing phone. "Does she do that with everyone?"
She didn't. You knew that.
There were moments in the back of the Maybach where the professional barrier felt paper-thin. You would catch her in the rearview mirror. She wouldn't be looking at her phone or her laptop; she would be looking at the back of your head, or watching your eyes in the mirror. When you caught her gaze, she wouldn't look away immediately. She would hold it, a faint, unreadable smile playing on her lips, before slowly turning her attention back to the window.
One rainy Tuesday, you were helping her with her coat in the foyer of her penthouse. Her hands lingered on your chest as you adjusted the lapels. She stood too close, her perfume—something expensive and woody—filling your senses.
"You take very good care of me," she murmured, looking up at you through her lashes. Her hand brushed your arm, a touch that was entirely unnecessary. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
It was a confession wrapped in a compliment. You stepped back, professional as always, but your heart hammered against your ribs.
The crash came a month later. You had always been private about your personal life; you never wore your ring to work, fearful of scratching the expensive cars or appearing unprofessional in high-stakes meetings. Yunah had assumed you were single.
It happened during a gala. Yunah was making rounds, looking stunning in a crimson dress, with you shadowing her. A business associate, a man who knew you from your previous life, clapped you on the shoulder.
"Good to see you! How’s the wife? Jisoo, right?"
The glass in Yunah’s hand didn't break, but her knuckles turned white. The air around her temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. She turned to you, her eyes wide, searching your face for a denial.
"Wife?" she whispered, the word sounding foreign and bitter on her tongue.
You nodded stiffly. "Yes, Ms. Yunah. Married for five years."
The devastation in her eyes was instant and total. It was quickly replaced by a cold, icy mask, but you had seen it. For the rest of the night, she wouldn't look at you. She drank more than usual, her laughter sharp and brittle.
The next few weeks were unbearable. The warmth was gone, replaced by a suffocating intensity. She worked you harder, kept you later, demanding your presence constantly. It felt less like work and more like containment.
Finally, late one night in her office, the dam broke. It was past midnight. The city lights were a blur below. You placed a stack of documents on her desk, ready to leave.
"Sit down," she commanded. It wasn't a request.
You sat. She stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge of it, directly in front of you. She crossed her arms, looking down at you with a mixture of fury and hunger.
"I don't like sharing things that are mine," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
"I'm an employee, Yunah. I'm not a thing," you replied, your voice steady despite the tension.
"Are you?" She stepped forward, invading your personal space, forcing you to look up at her. "You spend more time with me than her. You know me better than her. You look at me, I know you do."
She placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip tight, possessive.
"I made a mistake assuming you were available," she hissed low in her throat. " But I don't make mistakes twice. And I certainly don't lose."
She leaned in close, her face inches from yours, her eyes dark with a dangerous resolve.
"I think it's time we renegotiated the terms of your employment."
The engine purrs to silence, but the weight in the car doesn’t lift. You don’t move. The partition stays up, a dark barrier between you and the empty chauffeur’s seat. Yunah’s perfume, something expensive and sharp like frozen orchids, fills the back compartment.
“You can look at me.” Her voice is a calm, velvet blade. “I know you want to.”
Your fingers are tight on the steering wheel. “Ms. Yunah. We’re at your penthouse. I should…”
“You should come back here. Now.”
A command. Not a request. You’ve heard this tone in boardrooms, seen entire teams wither under it. Your body obeys before your mind can form a protest. The door clicks open, the cool night air a brief shock before you slide into the back beside her. The leather is still warm from her.
She doesn’t look at you. She stares out the tinted window at the city lights far below. “Your wife called me today. Did you know that?”
Your stomach drops. “She… what?”
“She asked me, very politely, to ensure our working relationship remained professional.” Yunah turns her head. In the dim cabin light, her eyes are dark pools, absorbing everything. “She senses it. The thing you pretend isn’t happening every time you adjust my seatbelt, every time our fingers touch when I take my coffee. The thing I’ve watched grow for two years.”
“There’s nothing to sense,” you say, the lie brittle.
Her laugh is a short, soft punch of air. “Liar.” In one fluid motion, she reaches over, her palm cupping your jaw. Her thumb presses against your lips. “You think of me. I see it in the way your breathing changes when I’m near. I hear it.”
You try to pull back, but her other hand fists in your shirt, holding you still. Her strength is surprising, a wiry, determined force. “Ms. Yunah, please…”
“Please what?” she whispers, her face inches from yours. Her breath smells of mint and something darker, like desire. “Please stop? Or please continue?”
Her mouth closes over yours.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Her lips are insistent, parting yours with a ruthless efficiency. There’s no tenderness, only a hungry, consuming pressure. Your hands come up to push her away, but they land on her shoulders, the silk of her blouse slippery under your palms. A sound tears from your throat—a protest, a surrender—and she drinks it in, her tongue sliding against yours, tasting you, owning the space inside your mouth.
You kiss her back. God help you, you do. The part of you that’s been coiled tight for years unfurls, a sick, guilty heat flooding your veins. Your fingers dig into her shoulders, pulling her closer. She makes a low, approving noise in her throat, her hands sliding down to your belt.
“No,” you gasp against her mouth, even as your hips jerk forward.
“Yes,” she corrects, her voice muffled against your skin as she kisses down your neck. Her teeth scrape your pulse point. “You’re mine tonight. Every part of you. Especially this.” Her hand finds the hard line of your cock through your trousers, squeezing roughly. A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shoots through you, making your vision blur.
The next few minutes are a frantic, silent struggle of fabric and flesh. You don’t help, but you don’t truly fight. Your body betrays you at every turn, arching into her touch, your mouth seeking hers again in the dark. She straddles your lap in the confined space, her skirt pushed up around her waist. She’s not wearing anything underneath. The smooth, hot press of her bare skin against your stomach steals the air from your lungs.
“Look at me,” she demands, her fingers working your belt, your zipper. You obey. Her expression is one of fierce, terrifying triumph. “You’re going to fuck me now. You’re going to empty yourself inside me. You’re going to do it over and over until there’s nothing left and my body is so full of you it takes.”
She guides you, her hand a firm, unyielding circle around your shaft. The head of your cock nudges against her, slick with her own readiness. She doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease. She sinks down, taking you in one slow, devastating slide.
The feeling is catastrophic. She’s impossibly tight, a silken, gripping heat that sheaths you completely. A ragged groan is ripped from your chest. Her head falls back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. For a second, she’s still, letting you feel every internal flutter, every pulse of her around your length.
“Fuck,” she breathes, the word a prayer and a curse. Then she begins to move.
It’s a relentless, punishing rhythm. She rides you with a focused, athletic intensity, her body rising and falling, using the leverage of the car seat to drive you deeper with every descent. The sounds are obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the creak of leather, your choked, helpless grunts. Her eyes never leave yours.
“You feel it,” she pants, her nails scoring your scalp. “You feel how deep you are. You’re going to come. You’re going to pump your fucking seed so deep inside my cunt it’ll never come out.”
Her words are a filthy, hypnotic chant. The pressure builds, a coil of white-hot need in your gut, tightening with every brutal plunge. You can’t speak. You can only watch her, this beautiful, ruthless woman milking you toward an end you both crave.
“Do it,” she snarls, her pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Breed me. Show me you’re mine.”
The orgasm hits you like a seizure. Your back arches off the seat, a raw, animal sound tearing from your throat as you erupt inside her. It goes on and on, wave after punishing wave, your cock jerking as you fill her exactly as she demanded. She clenches around you, milking every last drop, her own climax a silent, shuddering thing that makes her entire body go rigid, her inner muscles fluttering around your spent length.
She collapses against your chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync. You’re still buried inside her, feeling the warm, wet evidence of what you’ve done pulse between your bodies.
It’s only when your breathing starts to slow that you hear it. A soft, digital click from the vicinity of the door pocket.
Yunah shifts, lifting her head. A faint, cold smile touches her swollen lips. She reaches over, and your gaze follows her hand. She pulls her phone from the pocket. The screen is lit, displaying a video—a jumble of shadows and movement that is unmistakably the two of you.
“My wife…” you whisper, horror dawning.
“Is about to get a very clear message,” Yunah finishes, her thumb hovering over the screen. She leans in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers. “But first, you’re not done. You’re going to get hard for me again. And you’re going to give me another. I want to feel you drip out of me all night.”
She hits ‘send’. The phone makes a soft whoosh sound.
“Now,” she says, shifting her hips, making you gasp as your oversensitive cock twitches inside her still-full channel. “Let’s go upstairs. We have all the time in the world, and I want so many more loads from you.”
The elevator ride to the penthouse is a silent, vibrating cage. You stand apart from her, staring at your own blurred reflection in the brass doors, the ghost of her taste still on your tongue, the phantom ache of her body still gripping yours. She watches you, a predator observing its captured prey.
“Clean yourself up,” she says as the doors open into her foyer. “In the guest bath. You smell like me.”
You do. The smell is unmistakable, a mix of your sweat and her musk. In the sterile white bathroom, you scrub your hands, splash water on your face. Your own eyes in the mirror look hollow. The thought of your wife seeing that video—the thought of her seeing you—is a physical pain behind your ribs.
When you emerge, Yunah is waiting by the wall of glass in the living room. The city sprawls beneath her, a galaxy of cold, distant lights. She has changed into a robe of black silk, untied. It hangs open, revealing the long, athletic lines of her body, the faint sheen of sweat still on her skin from the car.
“Come here.” Her voice carries, soft and absolute.
You walk, your shoes loud on the marble.
She turns, letting the robe slip from her shoulders. It pools at her feet. She is naked, her skin moon-pale against the dark cityscape behind her. “I want you to fuck me against this glass,” she says, her eyes pinning you. “I want you to look at everything I own while you fill me up.”
“I can’t,” you say, the words automatic.
“You can. You will.” She steps forward, her fingers finding the buckle of your belt. “You’re already hard for me again. Your body doesn’t lie to me.”
She’s right. The traitorous throb of your cock against your zipper betrays you completely. She makes quick, efficient work of your clothes, pushing your trousers and boxers down your thighs, her hand wrapping around your rigid length before the fabric even hits the floor.
“See?” she murmurs, stroking you slowly, her thumb smearing the wetness beading at your tip. “This belongs to me now. It knows who owns it.”
She turns her back to you, pressing her palms flat against the cool glass. She arches, presenting herself. “Take me. From behind. I want to watch.”
Your hands settle on her hips. The skin is smooth, warm. You feel the fine tremble in her muscles. You guide yourself to her entrance, still slick and swollen from your last claiming. The sensation of pushing into that familiar, gripping heat makes your jaw clench.
“Harder,” she commands, her voice a low rasp against the glass.
You thrust, burying yourself to the hilt. A sharp, guttural sound tears from her throat. Her head falls forward. “That’s it. Fuck me like you mean it. Like you’re trying to put a baby in me.”
Each word is a spur. You settle into a brutal, driving rhythm, your body slapping against the backs of her thighs. The glass shudders faintly with each impact. Her moans are swallowed by the vast room, echoing back at you—a symphony of her pleasure and your debasement.
“You feel so deep,” she gasps, pushing back against you, meeting every thrust. “I can feel you in my stomach. I want to be so full of your come it leaks out of me for days.”
Her filthy talk is a command you have no choice but to obey. The coil of tension in your gut winds tighter, a wire pulled to its breaking point. Your fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, sure to leave marks. You’re panting, grunting, a beast reduced to base, mechanical function.
“I’m going to come,” you grit out, a warning and a confession.
“Not yet,” she snarls. She pushes you back, your cock slipping from her with a wet sound. “Not here. On the balcony. In the open air. I want the whole city to hear me when I make you breed me.”
She takes your hand, pulling you through the open balcony doors. The night wind is a cold shock against your fevered skin. The city’s hum rises up, a constant, indifferent drone. She leans over the polished stone railing, her back to the infinite drop.
“Now,” she says, looking over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with reflected light. “Finish it.”
You step into her, sheathing yourself again in one sharp, deep stroke. Her cry this time is raw and unfettered, flung out into the night. You fuck her with a frantic, desperate energy, the threat of exposure to a thousand unseen windows only heightening the illicit thrill. The cool stone bites into her forearms, the warm wind kisses your sweat-slicked backs.
“Tell me,” she demands, her voice ragged. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m… fucking you,” you gasp.
“What are you doing?” she insists, clenching around you hard, making you stutter.
“I’m… breeding you.”
“Louder.”
“I’m breeding you!” The words are torn from you, lost to the wind.
“Good,” she moans. “Give it to me. Give it all to me.”
It’s too much. The pressure snaps. With a final, shuddering thrust, you lock yourself inside her and come. It’s a deep, pulsing flood, a surrender that feels both catastrophic and inevitable. You spill into her, your forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself, your body convulsing with the force of it.
She milks you through it, rocking her hips back onto you, drawing out every last spurt until you’re spent and softening inside her.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the city below. Then, she slowly straightens. You slip from her body, and a warm trickle immediately traces a path down her inner thigh. She turns, a slow, triumphant pivot. Her hand goes between her legs, her fingers gathering the evidence of your climax. She holds them up, slick and glistening in the balcony’s ambient light.
She brings her fingers to her lips, her tongue darting out to clean them, her dark eyes never leaving yours. The act is so vulgar, so profoundly possessive, it steals the air from your lungs.
“One more,” she whispers, stepping into you, her body aligning with yours. She wraps a leg around your hip, her heat still radiating against your thigh. “Just one more, right here. I want to feel it dripping down my legs when I walk inside.”
Her hand finds you again, stroking your softening length, coaxing, demanding. “You can do it for me. You always do what I say.” Her other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss. It’s deep, languid, full of shared salt and the bitter taste of her victory. “I want you to fill me until I can’t hold any more. I want to feel you pumping into me while I watch those lights. I want to remember this every time I look at my city.”
Her words, her touch, her sheer relentless will work on you. Against all reason, against the screaming voice in your head, you feel a treacherous stir, a slow, painful reawakening under her expert fingers. She smiles against your mouth, a smile of pure, dark power.
“That’s it,” she purrs, guiding you back to her entrance. “Give me what’s mine.”
Her fingers were still tracing patterns on your damp chest when her phone vibrated on the balcony floor. A harsh, insistent buzz. You flinched. She didn’t.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Yunah untangled herself from your limp embrace and retrieved the device. The screen’s glow illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows. She smiled. A real, wide, terrifying smile.
“Right on time,” she purred.
She held the phone up. It was a video call. The name on the screen—Jisoo—felt like a punch to your throat. Before you could speak, before you could even breathe, Yunah answered.
Your wife’s face filled the screen. Her eyes were red, swollen, shattered. The raw, open wound of her expression made you physically recoil.
“You… you monster,” Jisoo choked out, her voice ragged. “How could you?”
You tried to form her name. Nothing came out.
“Jisoo, darling,” Yunah said, her voice syrup-sweet and venomous. She leaned back, deliberately letting the camera capture the sheen of sweat on her naked skin, the mark of your teeth on her shoulder. “I thought you should see what your husband is really good at.”
“Stop it!” Jisoo screamed. The sound was a physical thing, scraping through the speaker. “Let him go! I’m calling the police!”
Yunah’s laugh was a low, melodic ripple. “And tell them what? That your husband is fucking his boss? That he’s been begging to empty his married load into me all night? Look at him.”
She swung the phone towards you. You saw yourself on the tiny preview window—naked, spent, your face a mask of guilty horror. You tried to cover yourself, a pathetic, instinctive gesture.
“He’s not a prisoner,” Yunah continued, swinging the camera back to her own triumphant face. “He’s exactly where he wants to be. Inside me.” She shifted, and a slow, deliberate trickle of your release traced a path down her inner thigh, captured in high definition for your wife to see. “He belongs to me now. We have… plans.”
“Plans?” Jisoo sobbed.
“Mmm.” Yunah’s hand drifted to her lower abdomen. “He’s going to help me conceive. A beautiful, healthy baby. I want his child. And judging by how much he’s already given me tonight…” She sighed, a sound of pure, smug satisfaction. “...I’d say my chances are excellent.”
“No,” you finally whispered.
Yunah ignored you. Her eyes were only for the screen, for your wife’s crumbling world. “He’s my employee. My asset. And now, my breeder. You should thank me, Jisoo. I’m putting him to much better use.”
She ended the call. The screen went black.
The silence that followed was heavier than the city below. The image of your wife’s broken face was burned onto the back of your eyelids. A cold, hollow nausea spread through your gut.
Then, warmth. Yunah’s hand, sliding up your thigh.
“That was invigorating,” she murmured, her lips against your ear. Her other hand closed around your softness, stroking with a possessive certainty. “Hearing her cry for you. Knowing she saw what we did. Knowing she knows.”
“You’re a monster,” you rasped, but your body, the traitorous fucking thing, was already stirring under her touch.
“I’m a realist,” she corrected. Her grip tightened. “And you’re still hard for me. Even now. Your pity for her is just another kind of arousal, isn’t it? It makes this even dirtier. Even better.”
She was right. A sick, shameful heat was coiling in you again, fueled by adrenaline and devastation. You hated her. You hated yourself more.
“On your back,” she commanded, pushing you down onto the cold stone balcony floor.
You went. What else was there?
She straddled your hips, her slick, used folds brushing against your renewed stiffness. She didn’t guide you in. She lifted herself and sank down, taking every inch in one slow, excruciatingly deep slide. You cried out, a sound ripped from a place of pure anguish.
“You feel that?” she hissed, beginning to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips. “That’s where you live now. That’s your home. You’re going to fuck a baby into me right here, where your wife heard you fucking me. Where she knows you are.”
Her words were a dark chant. You gripped her hips, your fingers biting into her flesh, as much to anchor yourself as to move her. She set a brutal, steady pace, riding you with a focused, biological intensity. Each downward stroke was a claim. Each clench of her internal muscles was a demand.
“You’re going to come so deep,” she panted, her head thrown back. “You’re going to pump it so far up my cunt your little swimmers won’t have a choice. They’ll find my egg and they’ll take it. And I’ll swell up with your child. My child.”
The imagery was vile. It was intoxicating. Your orgasm built not as a peak of pleasure, but as a tidal wave of surrender. You were a tool. A vessel. A breeding stud for this beautiful, ruthless woman who had destroyed your life and owned your body.
“Do it,” she snarled, her pace turning frantic. “Give me your seed. Fertilize me.”
You broke. A raw, guttural shout was torn from your lungs as you erupted inside her. This climax was different—deeper, more violent, a full-body convulsion of release and self-loathing. You pulsed into her, jet after jet, flooding her with everything you had left.
She milked you through it, her own climax a silent, shuddering clench around your throbbing cock, wringing out every last drop.
When it was over, she didn’t collapse. She stayed upright, impaled on you, breathing heavily. A contented smile played on her lips. She pressed a hand low on her belly.
“So much,” she whispered. “I can feel the heat of it. I can feel it pooling.”
Slowly, she lifted herself off you. In the dim light, you saw it—a thick, pearlescent stream of your spend already leaking out of her, dripping onto your stomach. She watched it for a moment, fascinated.
Then her phone buzzed again. A text notification. She picked it up, her smile widening.
“She’s begging,” Yunah said, her voice light. “She says she’ll forgive you. She says to please come home.” She laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. “As if you have a home besides me now.”
She tossed the phone aside and leaned over you, her hair a curtain blocking out the city lights. Her face was all you could see.
“You’re not done,” she said, her voice dropping to a hungry whisper. Her hand found you again. You were soft, oversensitive, raw. But under her relentless touch, under the pressure of her will, a feeble, aching throb answered. “You’re going to get hard for me again. You’re going to give me one more. I want it to spill out of me all night. I want to go to sleep dripping with you.”
She lowered her mouth to yours, her kiss tasting of salt and dominance. “Now,” she breathed against your lips, her hand working you with a cruel, knowing rhythm. “Let’s see if we can make it happen.”
