You can't keep coming home to this—close to midnight, front door left swinging open and every light from the entrance to the kitchen switched on. It's fucked up how you're hoping you've been robbed, or that a serial killer is waiting around the corner to put you in the dirt, but instead it's much, much worse.
Ningning, leaning against your fridge, helping herself to a glass of milk.
"You're late," you hear, followed by, "Date went well then?"
Yeah, the best possible thing you could do is ignore her, open your apartment window, and throw yourself out. Or, better yet, pick her up, and toss her instead, or fuck, get your hands around her throat and squeeze—if only you weren't certain that she'd be so happy when you did, that she’d lift an eyebrow, flash that smug grin, all delighted that you've added a new dimension to whatever doomed tangle the two of you are in, and say:
"Didn't know you had it in you."
So you just slump.
Drop your bags, your jacket on the floor—whatever, you'll get to them later. Walk past her, like if you don't acknowledge her existence you can delay the inevitable for a touch longer, stop her from digging any deeper into your brain. But if there's anything you know about Ningning—she has all the patience in the world.
Happy to keep raiding your kitchen, letting the milk sit on her lips, timing it to the exact second you slip up and look her way—then licking it clean with one swipe of her tongue.
You ache more than you'd ever willingly admit.
Not that she'd have any trouble making you.
It’s who she is: Queen of dark corners and thick fucking air that suffocates your lungs. A tiny little nightmare half your size, always one careless glance away from splitting you open like it’s nothing.
She doesn’t even need to try.
Hair a messy shawl down to her shoulders, lips a light pink hue. Traces of eyeshadow, curled lashes, chipped nail polish. She clearly had something far more important to deal with earlier—you're just another box to check off today’s to-do list.
She pushes off your fridge. It’s inhuman. She knows exactly where your eyes will go.
You can’t stop it, you’re staring straight at her tits the moment her body shifts—the tiny crop top clinging snug, doing obscene fucking things to all the soft weight underneath. And below all that, just a scrap of panties. Nothing else. Makes you complicit the second you look.
"Had fun playing hero?" The glass makes a hollow ring when she sets it aside. "Yuha's been blowing up the group chat since you left her—oh, forty minutes ago?"
You freeze when you reach your kitchen island. Lean back, and wait for her to come to you. It’s the only scrap of resistance you can still muster at this point.
"Sounded fun—going to the movies, holding hands in the dark, hugging her close when she got scared. Did you like the outfit she was wearing?"
It only takes one step.
She crowds you against the counter, hands planted on either side of your waist, caging you in. Even her smile is pissing you off. Her top’s cut low, and it hits you like a vision—this exact angle that's been burned behind your eyelids.
One thin strap still clings to that dainty shoulder. The collarbone you’ve licked and sucked and worshipped more times than you can count staring back at you.
And it’s slipping lower still, a small shift and the whole top will give—tits spilling free, nipples begging for your mouth.
She leans in, a whisper sticking against your skin that she stamps in with a kiss. "I helped pick it out for her, you know."
Your breath catches. You groan. You need to move, shove her away, tell her that this needs to end tonight; the guilt, the depravity is a mountain looming over any blackmail she hangs over your head.
But you can't do anything. Not until you have her permission.
Instead your hips twitch towards her, and your cock strains underneath your pants, hitting her belly like a trained dog.
She pushes forward, a shoulder into your sternum, backing you up as far as you can go into the countertop, and reaches down.
Her fingers skate up the inside of your thigh, and the strap of her top drifts down until she's exposed and she doesn't seem to mind at all.
No, she's flawless. Devastating. Pushes her body against yours and her tits are so full and plush and squash against your chest and you need her to fucking stop before—
She squeezes you tight, and you inhale sharp, choking on her scent.
And it fucks you up, because she smells exactly like Yuha.
"Yeah," she says, twisting her wrist, her grip, careless with how she fists your cock, your balls through your slacks. "She let me borrow her perfume as a thank you.”
Ningning leans, grinding the fragrance deeper down your throat.
“Isn't she so nice? Isn't this so nice? You get to think about her while you're with me."
She doesn't expect an answer.
But it drives you mad—she tilts her head so you can see how it clings to her; her throat, her collarbone, her tits. It’s sweet, it’s soft. It’s wrong. It makes your cock throb.
And you'd touch her, reach for her, run your hands over that smooth skin, the soft curves; take a handful of her in your palms and squeeze her right back, twist that nipple and tell her you can dole out the same amount of punishment—but Ningning drives her shoulder into you again, fists clenching around you, and pulls, and it's with deft hands and practiced fingers that your belt clinks open, the button and the zipper fall apart with it.
"Turn around."
For the first time, you manage some small protest. "Yizhuo."
She smiles at that, tricks you into thinking it’s fond. Glances low and yanks down your briefs. Frees your cock and lets it slap against her palm. Hard, throbbing, undeniable evidence of everything she does to you.
And she is—what the fuck is she to you? Your girlfriend's friend. Her senior, her pseudo-older sister.
Your client. Or, your boss.
Or just—she's the person that caught you sneaking around backstage—bored, horny, stupid.
You're the help, security—company’s hired muscle. Already neck-deep in the shit by dating Yuha; and you dug your grave and carved your own tombstone the second Ningning caught you in their dressing room—panties smothered over your face, cock in your fist, chasing a peak you couldn’t quite summit.
That was the first time you gave her everything she wanted.
She was smiling then too. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.
She looks back up at you, fixated on your lips.
"Yizhuo?" She mocks you, and reaches up with her other hand, pressing it to your lips. You let her in, as easy as you let her into your home, let her force two fingers in until you gag, until she has you choking on her digits when they tickle the back of your throat.
She twists her fingers in your mouth, has you drooling down them, leaving them slick with your own spit.
And then she drags them out, pulls the strings of your saliva down to your cock, and runs her hand over it in one, decisive, torturous pump.
"Yizhuo is what my friends call me," she says, taking you from head to base, and slathering the underside, underneath your balls. "Are we friends now?"
You choke down another breath when she starts to stroke, achingly slow, always patient. You buckle under her gaze and it has you confessing, "No."
"I didn't think so," she tuts. "Don't make me repeat myself again. Turn around."
Ningning steps away, gives you just enough room to move. To show her your back, make yourself vulnerable to her.
Let her know she could do anything at all and you'd just take it.
And it's fucking embarrassing when she reaches around and finds you so humiliatingly hard. You know the look on your face must be even worse, because Ningning's laughing.
"My, my, my," she says, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she gets the full measure of you. Taking her time—she needs it to navigate the length of you—revelling in every second. "So hard already? You look so ridiculous in my hand."
And then:
"This would snap tiny, pretty Yuha in half," and it does its job, provokes you, but every chance of resistance is drained from you when she wrenches her hand tight and takes your cock rough from base to tip. "How nice of me, doing both of you a favour."
Your knuckles go white against the counter, there's plenty you could do, but with Ningning all you can ever manage is brace yourself—ride it out, let her have her way.
She keeps herself busy, crafting slow, deliberate strokes. Getting off on this, her skin so deliriously hot against you, burning, like she knows—knows if she twists her grip like this she can rip out something raw from your throat; knows if she rushes her palm down it'll make you hiss through your teeth.
And she knows if she squeezes and pumps you fast—filling your kitchen with these slick, messy noises, this rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick—you'll call her name again and she'll have to bite into your shoulder and warn you: "What did I say about calling me Yizhuo?"
You close your eyes. It's just a hand—it could be any other girl, you spend your days in proximity of so many of them.
"I'm the only one for you," she tells you, finishing a thought you didn't realise she could hear. "No other girl would know how to use you right."
She pulls a moan out of you when she palms your tip, smearing the beads there, before gliding her hand down—and you hate that it sounds like an affirmation.
"They wouldn’t even know where to start,” she continues on, steady torment. “They’d need you to teach them, guide their small hands, be their first big strong man.”
You open your eyes, catching her other hand tugging your pants down and under your ass; your shirt’s already unbuttoned, dropping down your shoulders and leaving your chest bare, free for her nails to mark up and dig into.
"Yuha sure as hell expects that." She laughs again and it's evil and she's on her toes now, sucking something hard into the line of your throat—and it's going to leave a mark, something you won't be able to hide, will need to explain away to your girlfriend, to the other girls, to the company in the morning, but that's the last thing in your mind when Ningning adds her teeth and makes it hurt.
"Fuck," spills out, and you're seething, seeing red, gripping into the counter so hard you could make a dent.
"You love it." She kisses into your new scar, soothes you, the sick kind of tenderness only she can grant, and it makes you bend into her, lets her fold her body over yours, and her words hit you like a healing balm, the feeling of her body slotting over yours, enveloping warmth, tits slick with sweat squashed against your back, leg hooking around your knee like she's trying to crawl inside you, lips so close to yours and reflex has you turning to meet them.
"Please."
"Just this once," she tells you, and you’re so thankful when the pace of her hand builds, and her nails start to draw a circle around your nipple, and you twist your head far enough that she can breathe in every sigh and pained gasp she drags out of you before swallowing it all in a kiss.
She leads it with her tongue, and you're falling into her, into her grip, into her mouth, into the soft wet of her lips against yours, and there's so much she's doing, forcing on you—pumping, squeezing hard, pinching, twisting your nipple, and there's something in this that you want to deny so much: her control, her promise of where she can take you, it feels so good now, she can make it feel even better later.
Until she bites into your bottom lip, and you’re tasting copper, and she pulls away.
"Baby," she says, with a last, messy peck on your chin, the strands of saliva hanging there, another binding she has on you. "You're so pathetic."
You groan when she gets close, thigh brushing the back of yours, knee splitting between your legs to keep you spread open. Grinding herself into you, forcing you still with a single hand wrapped around you, and you can hear how hot both of you are—the squelch of your spit, your slick making your cock all glossy.
Her fingers tighten—just enough to make your knees buckle. And she builds, this aching pace, she knows the rhythm, knows how to make your skin crawl.
"You're a pervert, a filthy degenerate," she lists off, breath scalding the shell of your ear. "Bet you were sweet and gentle with Yuha on your little date. Calling her baby, telling her how pretty she looks in that dress. Kissed her like a good boyfriend would."
You wouldn’t dare, it’d be fucking audacious, to read anything into it—believe there’s a twinge of jealousy there, envy at her own junior. Pure disaster. Your brain’s already too fried to untangle the implications of that anyway.
"Tell me, tell me how good you were to her," she says, and she twists on your nipple again, pierces you with her nails. "Or were you too distracted counting down the minutes until you could come crawling home to me."
"I was good," you rasp; you're barely keeping it together. There's no hiding anything now—your body, your moans, it all betrays you any time you try to do anything other than what she wants—and if that wasn't enough it's the sound of her stroking you, so goddamn loud it rings in your ears and laughs at your whines. "I am good to her."
She punishes you with these fast, brutal strokes, and snaps, "Liar. How can you say that when you love this so much?"
"I—"
But you can't finish, Ningning gives your nipple one last tug and slides her hand around your body, dragging a nail down your lower back, engraving a path that ends right at your ass, between your cheeks.
"Yizh—"
"That's the third time," she grunts, and pushes her finger against the tight ring of your asshole. "The third time you've tried to call me by my name. But that's not what you get to call me, is it?"
Something raw, something that doesn't belong to you surges from your throat when she pushes, finger tight against your rim, and it's just a fingertip inside but it has your knees banging against the marble in front of you and you're not sure what hurts worse but you're absolutely sure of what feels best.
"Don't say another fucking word, unless it's the one I want to hear," she says, and she's grinding herself harder against your leg, fucking herself on your thigh, soaked panties dragging hot and slippery over your skin. She's so warm, like a sick, twisted embrace and through the corner of your eye you can see her—the delirious grin on her face, the violent delight she's taking from you and you can't help but think it:
She's so gorgeous.
Ningning pushes until she's knuckle-deep inside you, your whole world narrowing to this single point. It’s sharp, burning, before melting into something disgustingly good as she curls it, squeezing that spot that rips the word out of you like it was always waiting underneath your tongue:
"Mommy."
And she chuckles, twists her finger, driving it all the way in, forcing you to fuck yourself deeper into her hand.
"Mommy, it's—"
"I know," she kisses it into your neck, licks it across your cheek, tastes the tears that you can't stop leaking from the corner of your eyes. "Mommy's got you."
She fucks you like this—like there's no time left, like either of you might drop dead any second now so there's only this—fucking your ass like it's the light at the end of the tunnel, having you fuck her hand just the same.
“This is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Her breath hitches, she pants against you, wet, parted lips sliding across your cheek. “Being a good slut, a fucktoy for your Mommy, isn’t that right?”
And you’re already so far gone, air’s going thin, it’s getting worse with every press, and she just keeps pushing deeper, punishing you into this merciless pace.
“All of this—all of you. Your cock, your tight little asshole—mine, mine, mine—say it.”
“Yes—fuck—it’s yours—it’s yours—” You’re whining, exhaling hard with every stroke, there’s nowhere else to go, just do your best to tell her whatever she wants to hear. “Always been yours.”
And it's pressure building, cooking inside of you, the marks she left on you, the pain you'll remember—blood in your mouth, your shoulder, red on your chest, blooming around your asshole, she's fucking banging you into the counter now, and whatever squeeze your ass has on her finger she's matching around your cock.
"Come on, baby, just for me," she coos, and you try to close your eyes but her voice stops you in place—"Don't look away—look me in the eyes, so I can see you. See who you really are—a filthy boy who gets off on getting broken by his Mommy."
So you look, stare, see that glassy wash of pure joy, the hunger there, how she's living for this, dominating, being in control of you, punishing you with this ruthless, this rough, this brutal kind of fucking.
“Nothing will ever make you feel as good as me. You want me to make you feel so good, don’t you? Suck your worthless cock. Fuck every drop of cum out of you—take every single inch,” Ningning tells you so easily, sincerely, like it’s already planned, destined, it’s all in the cards, and—“I can do it for you, baby, I can do it all.”
She shoves her whole body into your back, fucking her finger deeper; it’s insane, all of it—her digit curling inside your ass, stretching you out, finding all sorts of angles to exploit.
“I’ve got a surprise. Mommy’s got a gift for you. A nice, big toy. A brand new cock. I’ll show my cute little slut how to really fuck.”
That makes you cry out something guttural, makes your cock throb painfully in her grip, another thick bead of you sliding over her knuckles.
“You'd love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have Mommy ruin your tight, tiny asshole. Stretch it out wide.” Ningning bites it into your ear, “Greedy.”
“Yes—please—Mommy—fuck—please—” You’re sputtering, it’s all too much, a miracle you’re still somehow coherent, just repeating the same begs, the same pleas, the same prayers because you're feeling it—feeling her everywhere. “Please—my ass—I can’t take it—”
And that's your excuse—your out, this is all just a bodily reaction, inbuilt instinct, natural chemistry, biology, whatever the fuck.
She's stroking every sensitive nerve of your cock; fucking you deep, reaching mind-numbing points you could never dream to find yourself each time she invades your asshole and god, Jesus, fuck, Mommy, she's forcing a second finger inside you, splitting you open raw and—
"Cum for me, cum on my finger, cum all over Mommy’s hand, do it for me—now."
Maybe it's not so bad that it feels so fucking good to not be ashamed, not try to hide, you can embrace who you really are around her.
Maybe it’s right to listen to her—do what she says, tell her you’ll be good and obedient for her; your body’s already ahead of you, so, so close, every nerve of yours in a chorus of agreement with how she’s fucking you.
It's for the best—it's what you need—let her have her way, let her call you her bitch, her slut, her tight, perfect hole, let her get deep in your guts, let her pull every shameful drop of cum from your cock—it's protection, it's your job, that's what it is.
You're protecting Yuha, protecting your relationship, so it's fine, it's okay, it’s okay, she can fuck you like this, make you cum, and later when she swallows your cock whole and rides you until you’re screaming, and rails your ass with her strap until you’re in tears and cumming all over her cock, you’ll be good, it’ll be over, because it's not like you need her, not like you need your—
"Mommy, I’m going to cum!"
“So cum then.”
It's a split second, like a gunshot—hot searing pain firing through your body and tearing a hole right through you—and it must look the same, it's written all over Ningning's face, hanging off the tilt of her plush lips.
All of a sudden: you're gushing, spewing cum all over her hand, shooting past her grip and her fingers go deep inside you and you're hitting the marble, splashing all over, across the bench, serving dessert for Ningning on the same counter you've prepared so many dinners for Yuha on so many nights before.
Ningning’s all over you, her full weight on you, she's been moaning in your ear this whole time, chewing up your lobe, tonguing inside, she's in your ass, she's in your fucking head, flooding your mind, telling you:
"That's it,” she coos, the praise dripping straight into the mess she’s made of you, “Keep going, keep going for Mommy, my good boy—"
And you’re gone.
It's splatter after splatter of cum across the counter, and she's pushing you into it and you would be face-first in your own release but you're somehow able to keep yourself propped up.
You cry for your Mommy one last broken, wrecked time—and everything blurs into a flash of white—painting the counter, your stomach, your open shirt, Ningning's hand.
She doesn't stop. Milks you through every pulse until your thighs shake and you're not sure you can stand on your own anymore—and you're leaning on her for support, whimpering into her shoulder, oversensitive, over-fucking-whelmed, spent dry.
Only then does she ease up.
You sob when her fingers leave your ass. Groan when her hand pulls back from your cock.
She looks at the mess, the art she's made.
Leaves you to collapse in your own heap over the counter next to it. Catch your breath.
And then she takes a small step to the right, leans forward over the counter, bending low—and drags her tongue up the island in one, long scoop. Taking care to collect every single drop, every spurt you had, getting it all on her tongue, slow and thorough, and you just lie there, heaving, cock still twitching, ass still flexing open and close, staring, hooked on her.
She takes her time, tongue dragging slow, savouring it, leaving not a single inch of the counter unclean. Reclaiming every drop you wasted on anything that isn’t her.
Then, she drops to her knees, licks a long stripe up your cock, runs a finger under your balls, over the twitching shaft, wringing out the last pathetic beads that never reached the marble.
Ningning rises, presses her cum-slick lips to your chest, slurps the rest off your skin, and hums the entire time, like it's Sunday cleaning, like you're her furniture she's putting back in order.
And when she finally gets to her feet, towering over you, eyes on yours, lips sealed shut, you realise she’s kept it all, every single drop—hasn’t swallowed once, holding it all just for this. For you.
For a second, you wait.
You open your mouth.
She drools your cum inside.
Globs of it, sticking to the inside of your mouth, salty-sweet, making you cough, gag, filling up your head with the scent of you, but you can't do anything about it because she's taking you by the chin and kissing you before you can breathe.
It's hard, it's full of her tongue, full of your cum, it's—it’s so fucking hot. It’s dirty. Almost loving. She makes you feel it, fastens her body to yours, has you collapsing to the ground and she straddles you so easily, so naturally, and it feels so right and good that it has you swelling angrily against her and you’re finding new ways to hate her all over again.
She takes your hand, fills it with her pretty tits and squeezes your palm against her, mewling into your mouth when you find a nipple and twist.
Rolling her hips against your cock, she's fucking drenched, cunt drooling all over you, and you’re bucking up to meet her, struggling against the lace she's left on but you think if you try hard enough you can rip straight through.
Her hands are in the back of your hair, and she's pulling, tugging, wrenching you closer, breathing all of you in and sucking every drop of cum back into her mouth before pushing it down your throat with her tongue and making you swallow it all.
You know what she's declaring, loud and clear.
She could have you anytime, anywhere, any way she wants.
And when she's done, she slides her lips off yours, down your cheek, to your ear and tells you what you already know.
"You're disgusting."
She breaks away, stands tall. Peels her top off her body, tosses it onto the counter. It never mattered. Steps out of her panties without breaking her stride, rounding the island, hips swaying down the hallway towards your bedroom.
You hear her when she’s out of sight, "Do you need me to say it?"
You’re scrambling to your knees. You’re not sure if you'll make it to your feet.
You'll crawl if you have to.
"I'm coming, Mommy—"
"Crawl faster, baby. Mommy’s cunt isn’t going to fuck itself."
You’ve got good at it—reading the signs. Sensing the shift in her before she even moves.
Asa, sidling up. Pressing every soft, dangerous inch of herself against you. Giving you that look—lips pushed out in the brattiest pout, eyes heavy and starving for attention.
Deciding, all on her own, that it’s been far too long since she's had your hands on her ass, fingers marking up her skin. Since she's had your cock, rutting deep into her tight cunt and replacing every ache with something meaner.
Her breath hits your ear. Hot. Sweet pretence. All fake innocence pinned to a single question: “Do you wanna know what I’m thinking?”
You don’t reply. Never do.
It’s always the same damn thing.
She can’t help it. She’s just wired this way.
Straight from whatever factory cranks out these flawless dolls, only they either messed up with Asa or made her the upgrade—edges filed sharper, running at a temperature that’s frankly unbearable.
See, on the surface, the framework’s all perfect: the high cheekbones, the wide-eyed blush—the kind of face that’s designed to be stared at.
But look closer.
Trace where the image starts to drift. Heavy, ink-dark smudge of eyeliner. Lethal cut of her jaw. That smile. It’s dangerous. It’ll lodge in your brain for the rest of the day—rearrange everything—and it’s just dangling there off the corner of her hot-pink lips.
Throw in the coup de grâce: the strip of midriff she refuses to hide. Sure, she’ll dip a baseball cap over her eyes, wear a facemask to cover her mouth, but those abs must always be on display—the lean, hard promise of just how punishingly tight she’s going to feel when you finally get inside her.
“Asa,” you warn, a half-hearted dismissal. You keep your eyes on the large screen at the front of the theatre. There’s a hero, a damsel, a car chase. All the hits. “I’m trying to watch.”
It’s more of a courtesy than anything, not giving in too fast.
Wouldn’t want to spoil your girl.
But she’s completely tuned out the screen. There’s a car crash playing a couple dozen feet in front of her, all fire and twisted metal, but she couldn’t care less.
“Please,” she tries. Testing the waters. Falling back on old tricks.
You sigh.
You’re supposed to be the voice of reason here. Officially: her choreographer, dance teacher. Paid to instruct her how to move, to drill proper form into her. Not just… drill her.
The fact that she looks this good—that’s on you.
Don’t need to see her mouth beneath her mask to know she’s pouting right now. Easy enough to picture: plump lip out, jutting. Not that it’s needed. Her eyes are doing all the heavy lifting anyway.
She keeps at it, working her way through her favourites, “Please, coach.”
You roll your eyes. Asa clocks it. Decides to work harder.
“Sir,” there’s an uptick in her tone, the beginnings of a whine, and she keeps running down the list, “boss,” and she’s even closer now, nuzzling into your space. The armrest is already up, the only barrier cleared between your seats. And it’s the silhouette of her—sharp angles locked in deep shadows, framed like sin.
Those endless legs peeking out of her shorts. The plunging neckline of her low-cut top. The far-too-familiar curve of her hips.
Close enough to feel the humid heat of her breath. It’s trapped under the mask, hitting your skin damp and heavy. You can hear her stuttering something muffled; low whispers. Dialogue a hell of a lot more interesting than any script could cook up.
The things she’s telling you.
Oh, Asa’s got kinks on top of kinks. Exhibitionism, obviously. Desperate to be seen, adored, watched—reason enough to become an idol.
And yet, this is her favourite game. She knows the stakes—getting caught, ruining herself, her career, the carefully curated image. Willing to torch it all for a big cock and a generous helping of cum spilling out of her.
You can feel it pouring off her—her heart slamming against your shoulder, begging for what comes next. It’s the lead-up to the biggest kink of them all—the one she cries out every time you end up tangled together, the confession she spills when she finally unravels—in quiet moments, loud ones.
(After you’ve left her limp from fucking her inside and out, and you’re cradling her from behind and she just can’t let it go. She’ll guide your palm down from her tits to the curve of her stomach. Needing you to feel it. The ridge, the ripple, the little piercing there—a bullseye for what she really wants.
“Imagine it,” she’ll tell you, sounding like she’s caught somewhere between worshipping you and pleading for your mercy, “Imagine me. Filled with your cum. So deep in my belly.”
It’s the word that’s always dancing on her tongue, so easy to say, like it’s automatic.
“You could do it, you know? Make me yours—forever. Breed me, knock me up, you could be my—”)
“Daddy.”
“Asa,” you try again. Your brain isn’t offering much else.
“Come on,” she says, leaning into it, zero interest in pretending otherwise. “I’m gonna, like, die if I don’t have your hands on me soon.”
You nod toward the empty rows ahead. Reminding her just how little privacy exists here. Aware that you’re poking at the flame but, well, fuck it—you have far less at risk here. Besides, denying her is half the fun. “You’re the one who wanted to come here.”
"And you’re the one who picked the seats and the session,” she answers. She’s already scanning the dark. “Put us right in the back corner. There’s like, three other people here. I’m sure they’d be more entertained by this than whatever the fuck’s happening up there.”
She’s not wrong.
“Can’t we just skip the part where we pretend to disagree? Get to when you start calling me all those names, and I’m cumming all over your gorgeous cock?” She offers, way too casually for your liking. “It’s been so long—"
“It’s barely been a day.”
“Twenty-four whole hours.”
You’ve tried to train it out of her. Girls like her—everything comes easy. And yeah, it’s for good reason too—she’s insanely hot, no secret there. But she’s also barely hitting twenty. Young, sure, but the age gap? Hairline fracture, not a canyon. But just enough of a reach to give her the leverage she needs.
The ‘Daddy’ of it all, the kink she cultivates. Knowing the spin it puts on your whole student-teacher dynamic. A girl who should be out partying with classmates. Instead—devoted to begging her big, strong… whatever you are. Dance partner. Dildo.
“Daddy,” she says again, lingering on the word. Like it’s something sweet. Worth hanging onto. It’s such an easy out for her.
Her whining finally gets to you. Has you turning away from the flashing screen to look down at her.
She capitalises on it immediately. Preens. Uses a touch of her natural charm and all of her distracting cleavage. Watches you from underneath the dark sweep of those lashes.
It’s unfair. This is the one routine she’s got down perfectly.
But you don’t give her the satisfaction yet. Just raise an eyebrow. You’ve always enjoyed the preamble more than she does—there’s a certain joy in seeing her squirm. Making her work for it.
“Really?” The question comes out low, hitting that note you usually save for instruction. You can’t help it. It’s reflex around her. “Here, Asa?”
Asa blinks, unable to see the issue. Looking up with that faux-innocence that doesn’t stand a chance against your scrutiny. “Why not? How’s it different from anywhere else?”
Instinct has you moving before you can talk yourself out of it. You reach out, a thumb against her chin, a finger hooked under to tilt her face up. Getting a better angle.
She helps you, pressing into your palm to snag the mask’s strap. Tugs it down, letting it bunch at her chin before it slips free.
When it finally drops, her mouth is right there. Open. Spilling these hot, needy breaths over your fingers. Eager to place a kiss on your shoulder, before trailing up, closer and closer to your neck. Ready to plead her case.
“You never had a problem backstage—” Her lips graze your jaw, hot and slow.
(Fuck. Instant replay: green room, stage makeup just put on, legs spread on the vanity while you knelt and ate her out slow—tongue dragging until she was shaking, tasting like salt and adrenaline. Sending her out dripping, curtain up, crowd screaming, none the wiser.)
She shifts, breath ghosting your cheek. Teeth snag your earlobe. “—or on our plane rides—”
(Turbulence rattling the cabin, blanket over your lap, her head hidden underneath. Choking herself down on your cock, gagging quiet every time the plane dipped—deeper with each bump, eyes watering when you finally spilled down her throat.)
Her mouth trails higher. “You loved cumming between my thighs on that train, remember?”
(Packed car at rush hour. Crushed against the door like tourists. Her back to your chest, hand snaking behind to guide you between her thighs—just slick heat and smooth skin. Every lurch of the tracks made her squeeze tighter, milking you until you came across her legs, both of you pretending like she hadn’t just figured out your deepest, repressed fantasy.)
“And you’ve never had a problem fucking me after practice.”
(That first time. Sweat-soaked studio, mirrors everywhere. She cornered you. This sweet young thing, the casual hand on your arm, holding tight. You actually fell for the act, thought it was just innocent charm for a better spot in the lineup—a little more time front and centre.
If only you knew.
The first time she asked if you could read her mind.
No words. Just spun her to face the reflection, pinned her there, ripped the sports bra off her, tore a hole in those leggings. Fucked her against the glass until the mirror fogged and she was calling your name into her own warped image.)
And here she is again.
Same impatient smile. Clock ticking down. Eyes dropping to your lips for half a second.
“Haven’t I been a good girl?”
Ah, fuck it.
The movie’s pretty shit anyway.
Your answer’s always the same—a hand clasped on the back of her neck, the other gripping her thigh, and your mouth hard against hers.
Asa melts.
It isn’t a soft kiss. She wouldn’t let it be. Already biting at your lip, nails digging into your chest, through the fabric. Pulled together so tight the brim of her hat knocks against your brow—then it’s gone, tumbling somewhere between the rows.
She’s flush against you, but it’s still not close enough. Still not satisfied, scrambling into your lap—one knee braced on the seat, the other hooked over your thigh.
It’s a mess. A starving, desperate thing. She’s losing track of where she is, her world narrowing down to your hands and nothing else.
See, Asa lives for this—you squeeze and she’s smiling against your mouth, letting out these shaky, happy sighs that tell you that there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
It’s like running your fingers over heated stone, nothing soft that isn’t backed by muscle—that lean dancer’s build. You’re deeper in her mouth now, tongue taking what it wants while your hand maps the line of her shoulder, dropping down to catch the weight of her tits.
Your other hand is having a hell of a time with her shorts. Practically painted on her skin, vacuum-sealed over her hips. You’ve got your fingers hooked into the waistband, but the denim is stubborn, snagging hard on the curve of her.
Asa makes this low, frustrated sound against your lips.
It’s a battle—an inch-by-inch victory, Asa arching back and lifting herself off the seat—until the fabric finally gives.
The second you slip past the edge and slide inside—fingers finally finding bare, slick heat—Asa jerks taut. Whole body arching, hips snapping forward to chase the contact, breath fracturing into something dangerously close to a whimper.
You don't let it escape.
Your palm instinctively clamps hard over her mouth, muffling the sound before it can grow.
She doesn't fight it.
No—she welcomes the restraint. Leans forward until her lips part against your skin, tongue flicking wet against your palm. Low, filthy moans vibrating straight through your bones, each one a little wetter, a little more broken.
You can feel the exact second she decides this is better: your hand sealing her shut while your fingers slide deeper inside her shorts, stretching that denim, making her drip down onto your digits.
No lace to meet you—she’s bare underneath.
Why wouldn’t she be? She never wears anything on the off chance that you might actually—inevitably—touch her.
“Asa,” you say, teasing. Unable to help the grin plastered across your face. “Keep it down. People can hear you.”
She draws back. Just enough. Lips drag slow across your thumb, soft and deliberate. Fixated. Gone. “So what?” She whimpers, voice cracking high. “Let them.”
It’s dumb as hell to let things get this stupid. You strive to keep your books clean, keep things on the straight and narrow. Fuck, half your job is centred around maintaining discipline.
But honestly? Try pretending it’s all some unfortunate accident. Like you’re the poor, unwilling teacher who just got dragged into the temptation of his student.
(Asa—barely dressed, dignity in tatters. Like you never wanted her this obsessed, this unhinged for you.)
You lean close, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Who taught you to act like this?”
She doesn’t hesitate—answer slurring hot and wet against your palm: “You did, Daddy.”
Jesus Christ.
You pull her closer, hand staying, muffling her, and glance around. Just a handful of people scattered at the far ends of the theatre—safe distance, for now.
Not that Asa even cares. She’s already past words. Busy chasing her breath the second you finally lean some real weight into those fingertips.
To her credit, she’s holding back the worst of it; all you get are those high, pretty moans when your fingers finally take the full measure of her aching pussy. Her folds part so easily—red, swollen. So ready for you.
She wriggles, trying to force her shorts lower, but there’s barely enough room to move. You just drag a slow, punishing circle around her clit—teasing that makes her cry.
“Gah—” she chokes against your palm, the rest dissolving into shaky, broken sounds. It’s every press—her thighs clamp and release in frantic pulses, like she can’t process it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
She’s just so soaked. Like, embarrassingly soaked.
Most girls don’t fall apart this hard, this quick. They moan, maybe whimper a bit. They don’t flood your hand like this, don’t leave the denim dark and heavy, don’t sob these quiet, wrecked little hitches the second your fingers finally get to work.
“Fucking hell, Asa,” you’re saying, but you’re the last person that should be surprised.
You taught her how to use every inch of that body, every pose that gets the cameras hard. This is your fault as much as hers.
“You’re a disaster. Look at you. Haven’t even got inside you yet.”
You shift your grip, letting her gulp down some air, right as the movie’s score starts to swell, drowning everything else out.
“I tried,” she rasps, pupils blown. “It’s just—you should know. Bringing me here. Dark room, public place. I’ve been thinking about feeling you inside me since we bought the tickets.“
"Hm." You shift your weight, changing tempo. Your first finger pushes into her opening, while the knuckles of your other hand find their way past her lips. Something to bite, to gag on. "I guess you’re right.”
Her eyes go wide. She’s caught between the feeling—fingers spreading her open below, doing what they can in the confines of her shorts. Which is not much—other than apply pressure. Make her feel you—feel the potential of how much you could ruin her.
“I did bring you here—chose this session, these seats. Because it gets me fucking hard, knowing I can have you wherever, whenever—if I want to.”
And from the speakers above, the orchestra’s reaching its peak, and hidden in that noise, around your knuckles, Asa manages a broken, “Oh God.”
There’s no guesswork when it comes to it. It doesn’t even take much effort anymore.
It’s almost too easy—just you, getting your hands dirty while she unravels around your fingers. But you don’t cut any corners, still putting the work in, getting messy and taking your time. Swirling a thumb around the sensitive, swollen lips before pressing down. Holding. Letting the weight of your hand remind her of the truth.
That this is it from now on. You—fucking her up, again and again.
Stage lights. Spotlights. Camera flashes—she steps under any of them, and you’re already there. In her head. Your fingers. Your grip. She’ll clench at the memory and know who it is that owns that little pulse between her legs.
That’s how you break her. How she ends up this needy, blubbering mess every single time you touch her.
You keep her pinned—arm wrapped behind her neck, bicep and shoulder trapping her—while your fingers stay lodged between those perfect lips.
“Look at me,” you tell her.
Asa obeys instantly.
Eyes drift upwards, searching for yours in the gloom. You can feel her teeth on your skin, adding to the collection. You’ve never minded the marks—trophies, each and every one. A history written in scars.
The one on your palm from when you fucked her senseless backstage and ruined her opening outfit. Those on your knuckles from nights spent sneaking into her dorm room. Every nick and scratch is regalia, medals granted for every time she choked down your name and begged for more.
The screen flickers—bright glare sliding over the sweat slicking her cheeks, catching the way her lids keep fluttering half-shut, fighting to hold your gaze. You don’t ease up. Not even a little. Yank her in harder, twist her right against you so you can really dig in, fingers shoving deep into her pussy.
You’re being a dick and you know it. Pushing her until she’s on the verge of a total meltdown. The swearing, the quiet ‘oh fucks’, the way she’s starting to moan—at this rate everyone in this theatre will know your name.
“You can’t even keep it together, can you?” Your voice comes out drier than you expect. You clear your throat. You want her to hear this. "People are starting to notice, Asa. They’re going to turn around and see what I’m doing to you. See ‘perfect’ Asa being such a little slut.”
She quivers hard, her body sinking deeper down your fingers in one greedy pull. It’s a full-body reaction—hips rolling, grinding—and Asa grits her teeth, fighting to stay quiet through it.
For the briefest second, your fingers slip free of her lips.
Asa seizes the opportunity. Words wrecked, cracked, defiant, “I don’t care,” she drags in a short breath. “They can look. I want them to know—to see—”
And it makes you decide to lean in, to give her what she wants. To really fuck with her head while your hand stays busy below. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being my little whore in public. Getting off where anyone could just walk by and catch you.”
“Yes—God—yes,” she returns, breath snagging in her throat, “They can watch. See how you make me. Know that—”
You finish her sentence for her—"Know that if I just moved my hand, fucked you a bit harder, faster, everyone in this theatre would hear how desperate you are for my cock.“
Tears streak down Asa’s cheeks, landing in your palm. It’s too much for her—the noise, the risk, the way you’re handling her. Has her looking up at you with this devotion.
And you find yourself saying, and realising, all at once—"You'll let me do whatever I want."
Asa answers, so perfectly, "I'm just a toy. Nothing but your toy, sir.”
God, you’re both feeding into this. These bad habits. Pushing each other towards something dark and just letting it happen.
Your fingers curl. Thumb presses. She's halfway to making a scene already—you cut it off. Mouth on hers, rough, impatient, tasting salt and that stupidly expensive gloss she always wears.
Her hands are fisted in your collar, white-knuckled, pulling you in until there’s no air left between you. She’s trying to crawl right into your skin. Straddling a leg over your hip, trying to climb you in the dark.
She’s hooked on this.
The danger. The shame. That’s what she wants. The risk that someone might see her like this. Not the untouchable idol they all jerk off to. Just yours. Ruined. Claimed.
You drag spit-slick fingers down from her mouth, streaking her chin, straight down the column of her throat, to the stiff points tenting her shirt.
Chest thrust out, tits offering themselves to you. You slide fingers under her top—grab a handful, squeeze hard enough that she sucks in a sharp gasp.
Asa folds right into your grip, hips canting sharply, a broken moan starting in her throat that you smother fast with another kiss.
“Way too loud,” you mutter. It’s a useless warning. She’s only going to get worse.
A few rows down, someone shifts. Head turns slow, searching the dark like they’re not sure what they heard.
You’re just shadows mashed together. One messy outline. One shape.
But maybe if they focused, if the screen flashed white at just the right instant, they’d see it all.
Asa: draped all over you, boneless. An expression of pure fucked-out elation on her face.
And you: hands vanished. One shoved deep in her shorts, the other crammed under her top.
Drawing these moans out of her, each one edging so close to too loud. You kiss her stupid each time to shut her up.
And she’s only burning hotter the longer you draw it out. Same steady push-pull, finger sliding in, sliding out. No gradual build, just holding her there until tears prick her eyes and she’s soaking your hand, cunt drooling down your digits.
Asa finally cracks, her lips leaving yours to whisper-beg right in your ear: “My pussy's so ready for you—I can feel it—” Hot mouth glued there, trying to drag you deeper. “faster—harder—just one more finger—just—make me—”
You curl slow, fingertips scraping—just enough to be cruel. Seat’s too damn tight for real leverage, but Asa’s crumbling apart anyway. You feel it all—the insistent throb sucking at your knuckles, the low tremors rolling through her hips, her inner walls fluttering and then gripping like they’re trying to keep you forever, that fever-hot draw pulling you deeper.
But it’s not enough. Not even close.
You can only sort of see her—outlines, flashes—the darkness is stealing half the view, robbing you blind of everything you’re owed.
You need to see it all.
Need the visual to match the friction: the specific, strained look on her face when your cock finally sinks deep, eyes glazing over like she’s gone somewhere else.
Want to see those tits bouncing in time with your thrusts, tracking every inch you feed her.
More than anything, you need that flush—the delicate pink crawling up her chest, her throat—right when she breaks—that glorious, messy spill of her all sloppy and undone.
She’s climbing, breath turning jagged, about to tip over—and you pull out.
Fingers slide free, rest wet against her mound.
Nothing.
Her eyes snap open, dazed, betrayed. Body still wound tight, teetering right on the brink you just yanked her back from.
“Why?” She's panting, voice splintering. “I was right there, I need to—I’m almost—”
“No,” you answer. Steady, controlled. “Not now. Not here.”
Asa’s biting her lip hard enough to bruise. Lights strobe again—flash—and there it is. Eyes dark and wrecked. Fuck. Part of you wants to haul her ass right up to the front row, shove her over the railing under the big screen and just let everybody in the theatre watch.
Every single person. See you fucking her completely senseless.
Real entertainment.
You shake your head.
“Then—get me out of here,” Asa surrenders, collapses against you, arms looping your neck like she’ll fall otherwise. “Before I lose it and scream.”
The movie’s winding down, end credits creeping closer. House lights will kill the dark soon anyway.
Even if you wanted to finish here, fingers alone were never going to cut it anyway. Not with Asa this close. Not with you this unsatisfied.
“Up,” you simply command, giving her a beat to stir, to dispel the haze.
You pull her upright—more manhandle than help. Asa’s knees buckle immediately, knocking like she’s drunk.
Trying your best to steer her down the stairs, feeling the thrill when she stumbles into you. But she’s a total disaster of your making—baseball cap, mask left somewhere in the back row. And those short shorts are fucked—buttons open, denim sagging low, barely clinging to her hips, only your grip on her ass-cheek stopping them from sliding off completely.
Not that you give a shit who sees now. Asa never did.
“Please,” she slurs as you hit floor level, ignoring the indignant shhh she gets from a patron she nearly trips over. “Somewhere close. Right now.”
“Soon.”
“Faster,” she gasps, attempting to be petulant, but just sounding so desperate, the sob still remaining in her voice. “I can't—take me somewhere, fuck me—just—”
And thankfully, you manage to reach a side exit without too much of an incident, ducking into a darkened area before she makes her shameless plea.
“Just make me cum,” she breathes, like a prayer to a higher power. “However you want. Fill me if you need to, fuck me however you want—just—I need you to make me cum.”
You’re barely holding it together listening to her—truthfully, you’re every bit as desperate.
But that urge gets shoved down for now, and you scan the service hallway you’ve stumbled into. Dim, liminal, probably bypasses the main lobby—staff shortcut, whatever. Not empty, though. A couple of patrons and some random usher spots you.
At first their heads tilt, concern flickering—girl, half-carried, looking like she’s about to pass out. But if any of them linger—if some asshole stares even a beat too long at her nails gouging into your bicep, or that dreamy, totally-fucked look smeared across her face—they’ll get it.
They’ll see right through the mess. See Asa, usually all filters, poses and bright lights, reduced to this drooling wreck.
Let them have their suspicions.
Leave it to the staff to scrub through the security footage later, let the rumours spread. Is that her? What are they doing? Are they going to—
You’re already moving too fast for their curiosity to catch up.
You find it at the end of the hall—a heavy door marked Staff Only—Authorised Personnel.
It’s good enough, you’ll take whatever you can get. The bathroom’s the usual cliché—but you’ve written that story dozens of times already.
All you really need is a hard surface, some privacy. Room to bend Asa over and take her properly—the way she deserves.
You shove the door wide—hauling her out of the corridor and inside, kicking it shut behind you. The deadbolt clicks home.
Both of you freeze for a second, breathing hard. Scanning the room.
Not a bathroom, not a closet. Projection booth. Narrow, uncomfortably hot. Fans humming, servers whirring, projectors throwing off this dry, stifling heat.
You glance across the booth and find the view: big glass ports looking straight down over a theatre.
“This will do,” you tell her, finally releasing her arm.
“I bet it will.” Asa flashes that grin, already backing up to find the perfect spot to get split in two.
Through the glass you can see into the audience. A bigger crowd than the one you ditched. A sea of dark heads, all facing the screen. Oblivious. No clue to the idol right above them, ten feet up, barely holding it together.
That’s the real view that hits.
Asa, lit by the projector’s spill. Bright, silver-blue, strobing across her skin. Every bruise, every fingerprint, every mark you've put on her—glowing. On full display.
She looks staggering.
Light dances up her tits, hits her collarbone, catches the sweat pooling there. Eyeliner a smudged, charcoal mess—daring you to fix it, or make it worse.
And she’s already at it. Hands shaking, fumbling the buttons at her waist—too wired to manage finesse.
"Fuck, I can’t wait,” she starts, a manic, little laugh bubbling up in her throat. So gleeful now that you’re behind locked doors. But her eyes—they’re wide, almost panicked. “Oh—look at me. I’m shaking.”
But you don’t move. Don’t help. Just lean back against the door, arms crossed, watching.
Your star pupil, freeing herself out of those tight shorts.
You give your instruction: “Strip."
That’s all it takes. She shoves them down, kicks them off—sneakers too—a heap on the floor forgotten.
Straightens. Stands there in just the tiny cut-off top. Legs endless. Pussy dripping. More than you imagined. Light catches the trails running down her thighs—shiny paths, creamy skin glistening. And higher up, hitting that silver stud in her navel, making it flash every time her abs flex with those shaky breaths.
It’s the sight of her like this. Exposed. Drenched. Still managing to look almost regal in the filth.
Just look at her.
So proud of the mess she's made.
It’s enough to make your cock ache against your zipper so hard it hurts.
Asa catches you staring—sees how you’re drinking it in, the state you’ve reduced her to. She smiles. It’s a devastating thing.
“Fuckable, aren’t I?”
No point denying it. You step forward, hands going to your belt. Unbuckling slow, tugging your zipper down. Giving her a show back—her mouth drops open, slack, tracking every movement as you close the distance.
“This is what you wanted, right?” Asa slides one hand to her waist, fingers teasing just above her heat. The other drags her top up slow—pale skin, goosebumps everywhere. Nipple caught between her fingers. She twists. A fast, involuntary inhale melts into this airy, perfect sigh that scrambles your brain. “To see me like this? See how soaked my pussy is for you?”
“It’s a good start,” you rasp, words like gravel.
Her feet shift apart. Legs spreading wide. Gifting you with the full picture: pink folds, flushed and slick, heavy with how bad she wants it.
“Claim it, Daddy. Stretch me open, ruin every inch—” Lashes dip low as she slowly pushes a finger inside herself, lids heavy, almost lazy with how good it feels. “Paint my insides, mark me deep… Or—” Pulls it out, now stained and shimmering, dragging it across her bottom lip. Sucks noisily, tasting herself. “You can even make me choke on you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You swallow. Hard.
“Anything. Cum on me—in me. Fuck, maybe we can figure out the projector, put you feeding me your cum on the big screen. Wouldn’t that be good, Daddy?”
“Brat.”
Asa sighs. One word and she's shaking. That's what you do to her—sandblast every perfect inch until she's just raw need. All those filthy things you've taught her still ringing in the ears of a girl who used to be so, so innocent.
And then you’re on her. Hands sliding, gripping, taking. Lifting her like she's weightless. Dropping her onto the edge of a heavy crate, bolted solid, cold metal biting her ass.
She lets out a harsh gasp as you crowd in close, making her feel every bit of your weight pinning her. She’s all supple strength, dancer’s grace, but against you she feels small. Fragile. Yours.
Her legs wrap around you on instinct—habit, submission you’ve drilled into her. Heels lock tight behind you, and it’s total surrender.
She grinds her slick pussy against the obvious bulge beneath your briefs, tormenting herself with that cruel friction right at her opening.
Then she stops.
Hands drop to her sides.
Leaves herself wide open, bare. At your mercy.
You roll your hips—just a fraction.
That's all it takes. Sigh into a whimper into a loud, broken groan that drowns the projector's hum.
"Yes,” she whines. “Yes—make me feel it.”
She’s creaming all over the cotton—you feel it hot against your cock, making you throb, blood surging south in all sorts of terrible ways.
Asa’s eyes haven’t left it once.
“Can I?” she begs, shamelessly.
“Take it.”
Her hands dive down fast, fingers quick and sure as she fishes you out. Cock springs free—throbbing, painfully hard in her small grip. “Shit—look at you. This is what I—”
You kill that thought before she can finish it. One hand stays clamped on her ass, cheek filling your palm; the other fists her dark hair, yanks her head back. Crashing your mouth to hers—tongue shoving past teeth while you press forward, sliding out of her hands until the head catches on her sloppy-wet entrance.
You take a breath—hold your cock there for a beat, two.
Savouring it. Torturing Asa with the wait. Making her wail helplessly, body aching forward.
The slide in is seamless.
From her slick, open slit straight into that velvet heat—scalding, gripping like it’ll never let go. So easy. Like coming home. Her lips go slack against yours, slipping to your chin as the kiss falls apart, needing the air for her newest chant.
“Ngh—fuck—yes,” is about the most you can make out of it—choked like hiccups coming every time you sink another inch.
Your own lips trail down her cheek, venturing south. Finding that perfect spot on her throat. Somewhere to suck—mark her dark and deep. Something that’ll linger for days.
A brand.
A reminder of what you both know, what she’s been proving this whole time. She’s yours. Completely. Body, mind, in every light and darkness. Crowds can chant her name all they want—this joyful, desperate, falling-to-pieces wreck in this locked room—it’s the real Asa.
And Asa’s making these faces again. Nothing you haven’t seen before, but everything you love to witness. Brows knit in that pained pleasure, eyes squeezed shut like it’s all too heavy to hold. Lips parted in lovely, glossy surprise at how good it hits.
She can’t hide it—every twitch of her thighs, frantic hip tilt, desperate clench. She can’t help herself. Just has to show you everything.
“Asa,” you groan against her neck.
Your girl is back in tears again, but mixed with these pleased, giddy giggles. Haughty little laugh—not at you, at herself. At how helpless she gets every time. You make her cry, beg, then push her to the edge so fast her head spins.
Shit, you’re barely three-quarters in, no real rhythm yet, when her walls start seizing.
One heavy thrust—bottom out, buried to the hilt.
“Fu—ah!”
Asa loses it.
Hands fly—clawing your neck, then slamming the crate for grip. Anything to anchor her through this storm. Leaving it to you to hold her there, filling her completely. Incapable of anything but groaning your name in squeals that nearly drive you over.
Impaling her cunt like this—it’s rapture.
Pure heat. So intensely warm, tight, gripping around you like it owns you back. She’s thanking you in sputtering mewls, finally hitting that peak you’ve been dragging her towards since you first put a hand on her.
“Cumming—cumming—finally—fuck—”
It hits her out of nowhere. So fucking hard.
Ripples through, shatters her all at once. Nails dig into your neck—keeping her steady as her body locks. You expect a scream but there is none—just a strained gasp, too seized to let it out.
It just rocks her. Undoes her. Turns her limp in your arms—putty, liquid.
Oh, she meant every word—you can do whatever the hell you want. But for now, you leave her squirming on your cock, pulsing in long, slow waves, pussy clamping in these spasms that threaten to pull you under with her.
“Yes—oh—shit—” Words come back, but she’s still barely functioning. Held up by your strength and the cock still buried deep.
For as quick as it crashed over her—Asa comes down slow, in shaky stages.
You’re about to tell her that break time’s done—it’s your turn now, exactly what she’s been demanding for—but she doesn’t give you the chance to even draw breath.
Her heels loosen behind your back. Those strong, trained thighs flex—core tightening—and she slowly, deliberately squeezes you out. An agonising drag, inch by inch, until you’re almost free, head barely catching at her entrance.
You let her.
Let her push you back just far enough.
Then—snap—heels hook again, and she slams herself down hard. Full length in one brutal drop.
“Fuck!” rips out of you before you can stop it. The wet crack of your thighs against the heavy curve of her ass echoes off the server racks, bounces off the glass, rattles straight through your skull.
Loud. Filthy.
The most satisfying sound you’ve ever heard.
And Asa just laughs.
Watches your jaw clench, reads every flicker across your face. Making you think she really can read your mind. For that split second, she kind of can.
Taking control like that—dragging you out slow, then slamming you back in deep—knowing exactly what it does to you. How it lights every nerve. How badly you need her to keep doing shit like this.
“Sir,” she says, breezy as hell. The post-orgasm glow makes her look unreal—cheeks and chest flushed, lips wet and parted like she’s still chasing the high. “Whatever you want, Sir.”
So you make your decision.
You get in close, dropping your voice to that low register reserved for discipline. She keens when she hears it.
“I'm going to fuck you as hard as you can take. But I want you begging for it, first.”
Sure, she's been begging since the very start, but fuck—there's always more. Always another layer to drag this filthy little fantasy even deeper.
Asa dives straight in.
Kicks off slow, then builds. Broken, breathless stream of every depraved thought she’s ever had about you. A desperate litany of her very best, most filthy—yeah, you wouldn’t be surprised if it’s just a collection of what runs through her head when you’re posing her in practice rooms or holding her steady during rehearsals.
“Please,” she starts. “Daddy—I need this. Need you to ruin me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want, I swear.”
There she is—everyone’s dream girl—playing the part to perfection. But the honesty, the truths she saves only for you, hums through her.
“Haven’t I been so good for you?” She sputters, eyes searching yours for the approval she craves most. “I’ve been such a good girl. Tell me. I can be better—I’ll be perfect for you, I promise.”
Louder now, voice straining over all that ambient noise around you, words blurring into one long, filthy recitation straight from your darkest corners.
"And if I haven't been—if I've been bad then you have to punish me, don't you? Take me—however you want. Use me up—I’m yours. Just fill me—stuff me full until I’m leaking you.”
You almost laugh—because she’s pinned, exposed, in no position to bargain. But the promises keep spilling anyway.
“I need you stretching my tiny hole,” she gasps, head lolling back at the thought alone. “Need it deep inside me—need it so fucking—”
She cuts herself off—swallows the rest, teeth sinking into her lip to trap the scream. Heels dig into the small of your back, your fingers buried in the pliant flesh of her ass because you’re done waiting. Done letting her collect herself for her grand worship speech.
You nail her in earnest.
Teeth grit, jaw tight from holding back for far too long.
It’s unbelievable—her hole’s even tighter now, walls gripping in a strangling vice that shouldn’t be possible.
“God damn, Asa.”
But your focus narrows to the rhythm.
Watching her body answer every thrust—the clench of her abs, the ripples around your cock. This is what should get awards. Not CGI crashes on screens—this: tears carving tracks through smeared eyeliner, hair wild and static-charged, lips frozen in a silent oh-fuck.
You need her to hear it. Need her to know. “So ridiculously tight. Don’t know how you do it—always this wet, this hot.”
“Liar,” Asa shoots back, laughing—giddy, grinning through it. “You know it’s you. Your cock. You know how easy it is to make me cum every fucking time.”
You take the angle, turn it punishing. Skin slapping skin—hips crashing, the constant echoing thud of her back being driven against the wall.
Your hand goes to her chest—you need it all bare. Dragging the hem of her top up until it’s bunched around her neck, and then yanking it over her head so you can toss it with the rest of everything that was keeping you from seeing Asa in full.
Her spine curves, body lifting to meet you. And God, her tits—finally free. Bouncing in this hypnotising rhythm with every lunge.
You could touch them again—grab them, twist the peaks. But you bend instead—take one nipple in your mouth, sucking hard. Rough tongue, heat, suction swelling the bud between your lips.
Asa’s unmoored. Hands thread your hair, hold you there—binding you to her chest, keeping the pressure right where she needs it.
You roll the stiff peak between your teeth—just enough tug to pull that sweet-pained sigh. Mewls—adorable, desperate—with every graze. Chest heaving, fighting for air to match your pace.
Perfect, the both of them. So you switch sides—lap one wet and hot, knead the heavy swell of the other. Leaving them bruised, glistening, making her writhe, hips stuttering, knees squeezing your waist like your mouth on her tits is the only thing keeping her from shattering.
You pull back from her nipple, leaving her skin damp and sticky. You could spend hours more on her tits—but you need a better angle—need to drive into her deeper. Harder. Faster.
Need so much more from your girl.
Whatever look crosses your face, it has her dazed, smug, joyful—knowing exactly how she makes you feel, what she does to you. What she is to you.
The tightest, hottest, most deserving cumslut you’ve ever had.
You oughtta make sure she knows. “That’s my girl,” you growl, praising your number one student. “God, you feel unbelievable.”
No easing up now. No tender bullshit, no slow-lover rhythm—maybe later, when it’s late and you’re all alone and you can afford to be honest with the softer parts you both pretend don't exist.
Right now it's just about carving her open. Rewriting every single muscle until her legs forget how to stand. Until the only thing left is your cock holding her up—buried so deep she feels it in her throat.
There’s only so much Asa can do—but she does it all. Buzzing with pride, arms around your neck, pulling herself up so close, face buried in the crook of your neck.
She moves. Hips tilt just right.
Suddenly she's there—weightless in your arms, yours to use. Built for this depth, this angle, this exact stretch.
Nothing but your good little cocksleeve now.
Her teeth find your skin, biting down hard. Enough to leave a mark—a matching set to the ones you’ve already branded onto her.
“I needed this,” she slurs into your shoulder. “Needed you to use me like this.” Her breath hitches as she grinds down once, greedy. “You’re not stopping after one, right? One round—one load—that’s never going to be enough for me.”
You find your pace. Grip tight on her hips.
Lifting her nice and slow, then—dropping her. Gravity does the rest. Wet slap after wet slap ringing out loud.
“If you’re good,” you tell her. “After this—when we get home—"
“No,” she interrupts, audacity still there, even when she’s ruined. “Not home. In the car. As soon as the door shuts you’ll feed me every inch. Once here won’t cut it—you know I’ll suck you dry on the ride back.”
“Christ,” you huff out, more air than sound. The image makes your cock throb inside her, pulsing against her seizing walls. Her legs spread even wider, her heels locking harder—opening up new depths. Gifting you every angle of that tiny idol cunt—sopping, perfect, made only for you.
And then, because she’s a brat, even as you thrust faster and faster—quick, hard pounds, devoured by her slick cunt—she pushes for more.
Wants to be hurt. Wants the bruises makeup can’t hide.
“Claim every hole—cunt, throat, ass—leave me dripping from all of them.”
“So demanding.”
"Day’s not over. We’ve already started—might as well go as far as we can.” It all just slides so nicely into your ears, makes so much sense coming from her. “Maybe I’ll call one of the girls.”
The scream when your knee buckles—the drop impales her hard. The crate creaks. Asa takes it all.
“Ah—fuck! You like that don’t you? You’d love it if Ruka or Pharita or—”
“Ahyeon—” comes out before you can stop it. Surprising even you, the name coming from some carnal, primal corner of your brain that’s been waiting to have a light shone on it.
Asa takes it all in stride. “I’ll call her. After you—ah, God yes—after I take all your cum here—I’ll call her. Have her waiting at the house. She’ll be there as soon as we get through the door. Our audience.”
It’s your turn to laugh—a low, mean sound. She’s cracked open your darkest impulses, the ones you usually keep under lock and key. Her fault for bringing it out. “You think she’ll just watch?”
“Why?” Asa shudders. Building up to it again—hips rolling helplessly. Creaming so heavy, gushing. Wet squelch with every thrust—loud enough that it wouldn’t be hard to tell—if someone was outside, had their ear up to the door, heard your words, her moans, the sounds of her cunt. Oh, they’d know exactly what was happening to their favourite idol. “What are you going to do?”
“Make you watch,” you decide, getting rougher, driving these pretty noises right out of her lungs. “I’ll take Ahyeon to our bed. See how her tiny cunt compares. Who knows? Maybe she’s more deserving of Daddy’s cum than a brat like you.”
“Oh God—” she whimpers and whimpers and whimpers, slipping right back to what she really is for you: your cum-hungry little toy.
“Tie you up,” you keep going, fantasy fuelling each thrust. “Wrists, ankles. Gag to keep you quiet. Leave your little toy buzzing while I fold Ahyeon over and fuck her pretty pussy right in front of you.”
“Yes—gah—I can't—” Asa’s a catastrophe—getting hoarse, vocal cords exhausted. Her forehead thumps against your shoulder. All torn up and tired—making you push into her harder, get as close as you can, as far up into her guts as your cock can go and then further still.
“You’d fucking love that, wouldn’t you?”
You snap your hips and drive into her again—getting your answer. “Yes—yes—just—inside first. Please!”
Asa’s bawling, delirious, out of it. If your cock wasn’t pinning her in place she'd be on her knees, mouth open, begging with whatever breath she has left.
But you both know the truth; there's only one place this ends. Lost count of her cycle weeks ago—not that it matters. It's the same endless litany spilling from her lips, wrecked and reverent: inside, inside, inside—a prayer she's been chanting since the first time you bottomed out and she realised she could have this forever.
You drive harder. Deeper.
Chasing that white-hot snap where everything collapses.
"Fuck—look at you. You’re shaking so hard—gonna break for me again?”
No pause—hips crashing, shaking the wall, rattling the glass in its frame. Hard enough that you might crack it before you’re done.
“Do it—break for me. Cum all over my cock—right now. Cum so I can walk you out and show everyone what a dirty little whore you are.”
And this is the point where the tension is snapping, and you’re reaching the head of every single one of your shared kinks and fantasies and everything that keeps the two of you going. This is the mountaintop. Sensory overload. You and Asa. The very real risks. Door could open any second. Intensity climbing up the length of your cock.
Her arms cuff themselves around your neck, eyes screwed shut, nose wrinkled in raw, aching bliss. Asa’s tongue darts out—clumsy, desperate—licking your jaw, chin, grazing your lips. Trying to anchor, to kiss, but you’re hammering her too hard, too fast. Too punishing for her to hold on.
But there’s no other way to show it—what the sex, the words, the dirty talk like psychological torture is doing to her. Finally driving her mad.
“I need it—Daddy—my pussy needs—needs you—I can’t—” she sobs, then simply loses the ability to speak.
Another orgasm shoots through her—wildfire scorching her skin. Her spine clicks, her muscles—her cunt—rippling, fisting around you.
She’s too loud—louder than any projectors, the equipment hum, the muffled movie beyond the glass.
Just her voice, cresting into slurred, filthy gratitude that no walls could ever hold.
So you take her mouth again—tongue gagging her cries, swallowing the rest before she screams the place down. The image flashes hot: Asa, your gorgeous, thoroughly used girl, coming undone on your cock, and the crowd behind the glass all turning at once to catch her.
“They’re gonna catch us, Asa,” you breathe against her lips. “Any second, that door’s gonna open—they’ll see everything. See you pounded, broken, filled with me. You want that? Want them watching me ruin you?”
“Yes!” She cries, gaze going utterly dark—pupils blown so wide the brown disappears, nothing left but black staring up at you. “Let them look—see how you fuck me—how you breed me—” And she just can’t hold on anymore, walls flutter once, then seize, refusing to let even an inch slip free. “Cum in me—right in my little pussy—make it yours for good—"
You feel it all at once. Every promise, every bargain she’s made. Your body locks—pressure burning molten-hot before it surges forward. “Fuck—Asa!”
Your hips slam deep—her heels dig in, forcing you forward until you’re fully buried.
Then you erupt.
A hot rush floods her centre. She freezes—braces herself against the wall as she feels that first thick release splash inside her. Drooling from the corner of her mouth, lips quivering with each and every spurt you drive in.
“You have no idea, it feels so good,” she says, barely audible. “I can feel it—all of it—feel you fucking it deeper—”
Not done yet. Keep grinding, hips working in the confines her heels give you, fucking your cum deeper into her, even as it starts to leak. It’s cataclysmic, a proper disaster—the liquid heat of her, your heavy load making this obscene slosh that fills your ears with pure delirious satisfaction.
Nothing else exists. Nothing else has ever existed.
Just this: draining every last drop into Asa's greedy belly until she's overflowing, until it spills hot and thick down her thighs.
Her fault, always. Milks you like she’s owed. Wrings out the biggest, messiest loads you’ve ever given anyone, every time.
It seeps out of her, thick and slow. Dribbling down the backs of her thighs. Staining the crate—but Asa’s barely there to register it.
Your perfect idol. Dripping with your cum.
You wrap her tight—arms around her, chest heaving against hers. One last clap of your hips as your cock throbs the final globs. Kiss her temple, her cheek, her mouth—hard. Taste salt tears, sweet gloss, feel her finally melt and relax into a delighted, liquid-soft heap.
It's got you all delirious, you think you're even laughing when the last tremor fades. Like you can’t believe it. Even after everything, after all this time, Asa shorts out your circuits, overwrites every shred of better judgment.
“Baby,“ you say. Catching your breath. Savouring the fantasy girl in your arms. “Don’t know if I can even leave this room.”
“Then don’t.” Asa suggests. Soft, still clinging. "At least wait a sec. Don’t pull out yet. Just stay.”
You do as she says, you owe her that much. Staying buried in the sticky, spent mix you’ve made. You know you should make a move, should be preparing a warning about time, place, the world outside—but it goes forgotten when you see her face.
So content. Fulfilled. Face gone all slack and dreamy. Your gold-star girl, fucked-out and so damn happy.
It does something stupid to your chest.
“Just. Let me have this,” she coos. “Just a second. Then you can take me wherever.”
God, she looks perfect. You’ve told her a million times—she just absorbs it, owns it. Says it’s all for you. Then reminds you why.
“I’d let you, you know.” Wistful smile, complete awe. “Walk me out—parade me through the lobby, the street. Dripping with your cum. Tell everyone I’m yours. I’d be so proud. Making them all jealous. At me, stuffed full of you.”
She takes a beat. Challenge flickers—sparks—in her eyes, blood already rushing back.
“You could even put me on a leash, if you really wanted.”
The thought sits. Takes time to settle. You see it in her eyes—crystal, terminal. Every kink you’ve fed her, distilled. Right there.
“Is that what you want?”
You’re honest with her. Quick and upfront. “I just want to make you happy, Asa.”
And she blushes at that—a genuine, deep crimson that has nothing to do with how exhausted and spent you have her. Preens under the affection, then sighs. “Then help me up. Let’s get out of here.”
She shifts—lifts herself close enough to press her forehead against yours. It’s nice—and a little vulnerable. The gentlest thing she’s given you. Her fingers find yours. She squeezes.
You could probably say something pretty about it: the faint tremor in her wrist when she reaches, the linger of her fingers a second too long, the tiny catch in her breath when your cock finally starts to slip free.
The slow, thick dribble that follows—shiny, obscene, tracing a lazy line down her inner thigh. It’s a work of art—should be hung in museums, exhibited worldwide.
But it’s just Asa. Hair mussed midnight, skin glowing, cum leaking down her leg in a single proud stripe.
Look at her.
Your perfect girl, snapping her thighs shut, locking every last drop inside that tiny cunt you just ruined.
“You’ve made such a mess of me,” she says, like she couldn't be happier. Surveys her trembling limbs. “Think I’m gonna need you to carry me out.”
She steals your shirt—dabs at smeared eyeliner, the last of her tears. A half-hearted attempt at decency.
You do your part too—helping her tug her top back on, smoothing out the edges you’ve fucked loose. Putting her back together as best you can—even if the pieces don’t fit quite as snugly anymore.
“Shorts?“ She gestures. You kneel, help her step into them. Slide them over the streaks.
But she can’t quite wait for you, bending down as you’re halfway up her thighs, reaching to fish out her phone. Her thumbs start flying across the screen.
“What are you doing?” You ask, fastening the last button at her waist. Dipping low—pressing one last kiss to the beauty mark just above her hip.
Asa smiles—a sharp, wicked thing. She reaches down, a finger under your chin, tugs you up until you're eye to eye again.
Close enough that her swollen lips brush your nose in a soft, almost tender peck.
“What do you think, Daddy?” That coy little lilt still there, voice rasped raw from screaming into your mouth. “Texting Ahyeon.”
(And just like that—your Asa, fully back online. Photogenic smile locked in place, lips plush and bruised, endless legs shifting, ready to be spread open for round two.
Just a stack of obsessions, one neatly atop the next. Each hungrier than the last, begging to be broken the same way.
You’ll take your time. One by one. Whenever the mood strikes.
It really should take a lot more work to land yourself between Gaeul's gloriously creamy thighs.
At least something that's a little harder than sending a borderline brain-dead, minutes-to-midnight text message; one that would typically get you blocked, or at least slapped, or even more likely—get your shit set on fire again.
But, because you're you, and she's well aware of what that means, all it takes is:
annyeonghaseyo, fine shyt.
—
"You know that you're an asshole, right?"—is the welcome you get when Gaeul lets you past the threshold of her front door.
Making it known she's pissed—greeting you with a huff and that dangerously cute pout. As if she’s not absolutely delighted to see you (at least that’s what you assume).
But any complaints she has are dropped the moment she lets you get your hands on her soft curves—lets you press your thumbs into that absurdly tight, little waist and navigate her around her own apartment.
Her fault really—opening the door looking like that.
Your Gaeul, in all her unreasonable gorgeousness; with that curtain of blonde, silky hair and those impractically tiny shorts that cut off at the top of her thighs. That t-shirt that's a couple sizes too small, feeding into her apparent need to always have her midriff on display. Not that you're complaining because really, who could blame her, considering you could build entire stadiums on those abs.
And in a way, she has.
But, amazingly-sculpted abs aside, Gaeul chooses to shove down her annoyance for now, as things end up at the same place they always do—you, her, and her back pressed up against something hard and firm.
In this case, it’s the fridge.
It's very rare that you ever even make it past the kitchen.
"Good evening to you too," you say and Gaeul just exhales, exasperated, whatever answer she had locked and loaded gets filed away for the next time you arrive on her doorstep all horned up and half-cut.
For now, she just looks up at you.
A ghost of a smile in the corners of her pretty mouth giving her away; the thrill that's hiding there, barely masking the real reason for her irritation.
It has been a whole week.
You meet her gaze. Check the defiance in her eyes—no, it's a challenge staring up at you.
Gaeul doesn’t blink. Neither do you.
She goes on the attack, swipes her tongue ever-so-slowly over her lips, takes a deep breath that makes her chest heave, stretching out the single word plastered across her t-shirt.
Your eyes venture downwards.
You lose the contest.
Gasp, indeed.
And there's her grin now, sugary-sweet, like whipped cream and strawberries—the usual flavour she wears on her lips whenever you come around. You let her have her little victory.
Taking your time, opting to dare a quick glance away from her—across the kitchen, to address the weird feeling that's been scratching at the back of your mind ever since you stepped foot inside.
The suspiciously clean surfaces, wiped-down counters, and—did she actually mop?
Gone are the grocery bags she's usually too lazy to put away, the dishes piling up next to her sink, the takeout containers littering the countertops.
And in their place is just clean marble; closer to a display kitchen than an actual lived-in home, complete with the composed framing of two near-full wineglasses, a barely touched bottle of red, and a bouquet of flowers teetering on the corner.
Correction—roses.
There's a bouquet of roses.
Gaeul hates roses.
"You had a guest," you say, flatly.
She treats it as an accusation. "So?"
"Hot date?" You're asking, not really expecting an honest response. Just something to tease her with—other than the fingers that skate under the hem of her top, over the tightness of her stomach; or your lips drifting down behind her lobe, her cheek, further onto her chin. The usual motions that make her body hum. "Did it go well?
That hot, tiny exhale into your ear when you suck a mark into her neck is your answer.
Christ.
"What do you think?" Gaeul gets out, shaking her head, "yeah it went amazing—he's in the bedroom, waiting for his turn."
"Might be waiting a while then," and you're laughing and being evil because now you have one hand heading north, rising beneath her top and higher and higher along her stomach, while your other travels even further south, engaging in battle with her unnecessarily tight pair of denim shorts. She must have sprayed them on to get it to fit around her peachy ass.
Never mind.
Only a matter of time before they're hurtling closer to their destiny of eventual ruin.
You settle with just getting a handful of her.
Well, two.
Her breast spilling through your fingers. Her plump ass cheek filling your palm.
A thought occurs to you as she lets out her first, true, honest noise of the night.
A lovely little moan.
You pause.
"Wait, you brought him up here for a drink? On the first date?" Your words come quick. Not that you’re hurt. Just a tad incredulous. "Damn, I hope he appreciated it. It took me like... well, it felt like a lot?"
"Please." Gaeul rolls her eyes. Not the last time you'll make them do that. Your fingers tug at her waistband, attempting to loosen a particularly stubborn button keeping her shorts fastened. "We haven't even been on a first date yet."
You blink. Now you're actually hurt. "What do you call these visits?"
Gaeul tilts her head. Raises an eyebrow.
Gives you a second to get lost in her eyes. The setting of her jaw. Her lips.
She's far too distractingly pretty for her own good.
Your question goes forgotten.
Ah.
Her button pops open.
You let out a little cheer.
She surrenders a smile.
"You're not jealous, are you?"
You feign offence. "Of this guy? Of course not. Just pitying his bad luck."
"Too bad for him, then."
"And all the better for me."
And you're back at it.
Lifting her top over her head—only, leaving it at her wrists. Makeshift bindings to keep her hands pinned above. Stretch her out a little; leave her there in her slowly sagging shorts, her unfortunately boring cotton bra.
But yet, the promise of the firmness of her body; the frame, the posture—those long, dancer's legs and that toned, perfect ass. The tight nubs of her nipples poking through the fabric, pointing like a compass towards your tongue—needing to find their home again so they can be rolled, teased, sucked on between your lips.
And the flush in her cheeks, the sweat that's started to slide down her neck, pooling in her collarbones. The inability to disguise the fact that she's always so willing, always allowed you to have your way with her, never said no, just looked up at you with a challenge and some fire and that locked-in stare filled with anticipation.
The—‘let's get past all the banter and the games and the badly concealed jealousy whenever she goes on dates that lead to nowhere and you come over smelling of alcohol and a faux-expensive perfume that couldn't possibly be yours’, and you both get to the part where you're creating a whole, genuine mess in her kitchen.
Returning it to its proper state of fucked-out bliss—a crime-scene filled with damning evidence that someone was well and truly brought to tears here. Tits mashed into the cold tiles, ass cheeks pressed flush against the countertops.
Cunt made to gush so excessively the apartment below thinks there’s a leak in their ceiling.
So, yeah.
That.
You reach out. Brush a curl of blonde out from her face.
She leans her cheek into your palm.
You kiss her.
That's always a good place to start.
Her heels lift to meet you, you're too tall for her. Or maybe she's just so much smaller, and it's all by design, that need that's built into her. That thing that triggers the primal urge to hoist her up, throw her over your shoulder, or across the room and onto the nearest bed.
Do whatever you want to her, as long as it's somewhat along the lines of having each and every worry that exists outside the bounds of your presence fucked out of her pretty little head.
She bites into your lip when you try to slip your tongue past hers.
Laughs down your throat.
She never said she wasn't trying to fuck you up too.
"Oh, your date must have sucked," you say, managing to escape her teeth before she can draw blood. "You probably wet yourself when you saw my message come through."
"That's—" Gaeul tries, but her eyes dart to the forgotten bottle of wine for just a moment. You press yourself into her to take back her attention. "He was nice."
"Boring."
"Actually wanted to get to know me."
"Damn—double boring"
She repeats, "He was nice."
“And I’m not?"
She stops. Eyes look up at her trapped wrists. Then down at her waist, her body. All at your mercy.
You shrug.
Squeeze an ass cheek for good measure.
"Fair point."
"He wanted to stay, but—"
"You couldn't wait to get him the fuck out of here."
Gaeul sighs.
"So you could get me back in here."
Hands still pinned above, and yet. She pushes her hips off the fridge, wraps a leg around the back of yours to pull you in closer. Grinds you into her—pressing that engorging bulge tearing a hole through your pants into her. Making sure that you know that she knows she’s not the only one in need here.
Her neck cranes, and she catches your lips, forcing her own tongue into your mouth.
And there's that fire, that classic Gaeul inclination to burn everything down that's good and nice just so she can feel a little bit of that heat. Just so she can get real, actual warmth only you can provide.
"I really fucking couldn't."
"That's why I messaged," you reply. "I have a sixth sense for shit like this. Damsels in distresses, that kind of thing."
"Is that what I am?"
"A certain kind," you say, unhooking her leg from yours, and at last managing to shimmy her shorts far enough over her cheeks, letting them rest just beneath. Her panties, coral pink and tied off with a bow—a lot cuter than her other choice of underwear—are far easier to navigate.
You slip a finger, two, down, bristling over the light traces of hair. And then—tellingly—hot.
Wet.
"See," you tease, pressing a finger up against the heat, and there’s that deafening sound; the soft squelch as her lips fold around your index, and it's getting sticky. "Distressed."
"Unfortunately," she sighs, or moans again, either way her voice goes all soft and she's starting to melt, sinking herself onto you, cuffing your wrist between her thighs. "Really, fucking distressed."
"I could’ve told your friend. Could've saved him the cheap bouquet," you're saying, surprised at how much more talking you're doing than usual. But maybe it’s the mood. Maybe it's something to prove. "Could've told him he's wasting his time with you because he never had a chance coming up here with good intentions."
Maybe it's the effect that hearing your voice seems to have on her. Hearing you tell it like it really is, treating her like she really likes to be treated—in ways that you just can't tell someone on a first date that you need to be.
"Because all a slut like you really needs is a little bit of pressure in just the right place and—"
"Oh, fuck," she shivers, and your fingers push up and into her. Curling just right, palm pressing just so. Her moans pitch high as you hold her steady, just the weight of your body against her, your grip the only thing keeping her upright.
She's half your weight probably, so you can support her even when she goes all boneless, when she’s too busy finding new and exciting ways to whisper your name back to you, or finding a new place for her teeth along your ear, your neck.
Impossible for her to ever get close to hurting you.
But very easy for her to make you laugh.
You give her the small mercy of letting go of her wrists.
Her bra does a disappearing act quickly after.
"Bet he didn't even get close to doing anything like this." And it's your turn to put teeth to skin; dark, caramel nipples landing between your lips, sugar right on your tongue.
"God, no." Her hands thread through your hair, pulling you into her, muffling your scant thoughts with her tits. "It was the first date."
You get a bit rough. A bit mean. Definitely not coming from a place of insecurity. You sink your teeth in, jab your fingers up. Make her squeal a little. "As if there'll be a second."
"What makes you think there won't?" Gaeul asks, the sound that follows sounding uncharacteristically cruel. "I liked him."
You brush it off. "Not like you like me though."
Her eyes flicker open. Her lips curl into a smile. The fire keeps burning. "Who said I like you? I just like how you—"
"Make you feel," you tell her, not needing your so-called sixth sense. No, you can read her mind well enough—feel it in the way she's flooding her panties. Letting you stretch out the cotton while your fingers do the same on her cunt—picking up their pace.
It's always the same thoughts running through her mind anyway.
I hate you. I need you. Just shut up and make me cum.
What was a careful, sweet science deteriorates, builds. You're kissing into her chest, these tender graces against her heartbeat, but it's more for you then for her.
Because that's what everyone else will naturally do, what happens whenever any mere mortal is put in the vicinity of someone like her—someone as pretty as her.
They worship.
Worship the marvel of toned muscles, her flawless, soft skin. The curves and dips, the tiny, tiny quakes and quivers against your lips.
But stopping there is for losers with red wine and roses.
You know full well she really needs.
Fingers in and out, making her leak. Making her head bang against the metal door behind her, making her ass thump against the fridge. Muscles tighten, thighs clamp down, each one of her tight, ridged abs expand and contract and—oh God.
"I like how you treat me," she's confirming, sputtering really. Because the honesty means she's close, because you both know it's only when she's right on the edge, right when she's undeniably gushing, burning up and all over you, and unable to hide the fact that it's all really just for you, that there's no point in telling anything but the truth.
"Oh?" You're smiling, kissing, heading lower and lower down to the promised land.
Pale white skin prickling as it's subjected to your tongue, leaving behind a trail, a glistening sign that you were here, that this territory is yours.
Her chest is heaving, your fingers right at the trigger, and there's that stray thought of is she really that sensitive—or is it just you.
When you get down to your knees—down to her waist—kiss just at the top of her mound, yank down her panties and pull her by her cunt closer to your lips, you decide to test your theory.
"And how do I treat you?"
Her hips buck again. Clit grinds onto your tongue and she's showing the first signs of cracking, of falling to pieces. Fingers into claws, scraping at your scalp.
Ten minutes ago she wouldn't have dreamed of admitting it.
But you always get her there, anyway.
"Don't make me say it," she says.
You scoff. "I don’t make you do anything. Except, well—"
Lips fasten over her clit. You suck.
She's starting to melt.
"You treat me like a, like a—" She pushes the words through her teeth, singing them into your ears. "Like a slut."
You flick your tongue—once, twice, tried and true steps to oblivion. "A slut?"
"Yours," she breathes. "Fucking yours."
"Is that all?" Your question rumbles into her cunt, your tempo quickening, building until the up-down lapping of your tongue is at pace with the in-out of your now three fingers.
Not long now.
It was always going to come quick. Hitting her hard and fast. After all, she's been soaking ever since your name flashed across her phone screen.
She'll be soaking long after.
"Just mine?" A long, generous lick from bottom to top. "Just my slut?"
"Your whore, your toy, fuck what else do you want from me?" Desperate, panting breaths, pleas. You can't see it clearly from down between her thighs but you can see the traces: red flushing across her cheeks, tears beginning to bud in the corners of her clenched eyes. Throat bulging as she swallows, body rising off the cold fridge door, thrusting her chest out, her stiffened nipples pointing to the sky and it's just about time for you to tell her—
"I want you to prove it."
"I'll—"
"Cum," you tell her. Command her—through her cunt, shoot the word through her body so it reaches up her spine and snatches her whole. And the final push, into her ears, the unlocking of everything she's let build and get bottled up while she went looking for someone nice: "Slut."
"Gah—fucking—"
Gaeul's eyes snap open, going all glassy and dazed.
Greedy—the both of you.
You, sucking out the juices that rush onto your tongue, slipping out the corners of your mouth and leaking down your chin. Getting messy on her, letting her make a mess of you. Pure heat, these shivers against your face, the forceful grinds against your mouth as you go to work against her gasping hole.
And her, in tatters, coming apart. Trying to ride it out for as long as she can—this feeling. Holding you by your hair, keeping you fastened to her, sandwiching your ears with her thighs, burying your nose into her mound, feeding you her delicious cunt.
So, so hot that you already want to skip to the next part—the one where you're cock's flooding her cunt and she's reeling from the fact that no one can make her feel as complete as you, but you're not quite there yet.
"Too much, too much, God—baby—fuck!"
And she's gone—back arching, her voice, her body, all high and pretty and there's the beginnings of a mess returning to her kitchen—going back to its natural state, back to being both hers and yours.
"I can't—can't believe—I can't stand—"
Gaeul goes limp, thighs let go, she slumps forward, and you reposition yourself just in time to catch her as she slides down to the ground with you, falling into your arms.
Still leaking out of her cunt, shorts hanging surreptitiously off one ankle.
You admire your work, take the beat to appreciate her.
Your cute pyromaniac—even with next to no control over her own limbs, still somehow gifting you with the downright irresistible angles of her dilated, fucked-out eyes, the dip of her cleavage into her budding breasts, the sweat now shiny against her abs—glistening with where your tongue was moments ago.
Cunt burning up, cradled against your fingers.
You want to laugh.
Remind yourself that it's only been a week since you last fucked her.
She makes it seem like an eternity.
"You're still such an asshole," she reaffirms between laboured, heavy breaths.
"At least I don't waste your time with shit you don't even like," you tilt your head to the bouquet, the wine. A far cry from crotchless panties and Soju body-shots. "Getting you straight to the part you need."
Gaeul gets her second wind—fistfuls of your t-shirt in her hands and she's both shutting you up and tasting herself on your tongue.
Making herself familiar with the slick left on your chin; licking your face clean, satiating herself with samples of her own flavour.
And now she's sliding her own fingers down, finding you well and truly and obviously hard for her.
She bites your lip again. Sucks on it between her teeth.
You let her linger.
She lets go. Bats her eyelashes. It's so unnecessary. "Do I even need to ask?"
And there's the sparks there, yet another fire she's starting, and you can't help but get all poetic and mushy as you see it in her eyes—she's the flame, the kindle, she's the whole fucking city that you're going to burn down.
Oh, this is going to be a long night of arson.
"There's nothing more I'd rather hear you say."
"Get those clothes off," she says it like a threat, kissing your face, your chin, anywhere she can get her lips. Lifting up your shirt, letting it get lost on a stray pile. "Take out that devastatingly big, hard cock."
You let her have her way, shift around the tiles so she can make quick work of your sweatpants, so she can scrape her nails across your body, mapping you out like you've done to her so many times.
Takes her time drinking in your body, let's her fingers dance around your cock.
Something so innocent in the way she toys with it, in the deep breath she takes while she gathers her words, herself. In her eyes when she refocuses on you and says:
"Give it to me, fill me with it, just really—use my cunt with that beautiful cock until I split in two. And then keep going."
"Is that all?" you say, straightening your posture.
Gaeul nods. Her voice already starting to crack when she answers, "It's a start."
"Right here?" You're asking, but you both already know.
"Do you see any other hard surfaces to fuck me into?"
Your cock stands tall. Free.
You flex it.
She's hypnotised.
"Maybe next time we'll make it to the bedroom."
"What makes you think there'll be a next time?" She teases, but she's already chewing on her lip, trying to keep herself contained.
Habit has her falling into this pose. Leaning back just so. Letting her thighs part. Putting it all on full display—hot lips puffy and pulsing, pretty pink waiting to be taken.
It's all so ridiculous.
And she's still dripping.
You exhale. You're just as insane for her as she clearly is for you.
Her smile turns wicked, telling you, "Hurry up now. If you're not quick enough I might have to call back my date."
"Gaeul," you answer, your voice turning low and firm. Dangerous. You take her by the wrist, pull her forward.
Make her bow before you.
"Let's not get confused about why I'm here and he's not."
Your hand finds its way back between her legs. Fingers returning to her heat.
A light touch.
She shivers.
Your point proven.
But Gaeul's all smiles, and you give her the space to climb on top of you, to straddle your hips, slink her body up and against yours, level her vulnerable pussy-lips with your head, to make first, agonisingly slow contact with your cock.
Let her slide her cunt down your shaft, lather your length in her. Get it all lubricated and throbbing and ready.
You can't help the involuntary twitch of your cock tapping against her pussy. Nor can you hold back the groaned, "Gaeul," she so clearly relishes.
"Yes," she groans right back, delirious, joyful, reaching her hand down between her legs, rubbing her palm against her wetness so she can spread it further down.
Wrapping slick fingers around you, pumping the wetness up and down, around and over your length.
Once, twice—too fucking much.
And sure, the warmth of her touch is nice, the wetness making you start to bead from your tip. But yet, it's now you bucking your hips, bumping your head up and towards her entrance.
Needing a touch of that heat on your cockhead.
She grinds her teeth and makes a noise as you get close to pushing in—past her palm and into her pussy proper.
But she holds firm.
You let her have her way, at least for now.
There’ll be plenty of time to have yours.
"You're right," she tells you, before kissing you again, looping her tongue around yours. "I really needed you."
And for a moment, it's warm.
It's sweet.
Having her on top, holding her like this.
The idea of something different floats through your mind. This long, loving, tender kind of sex.
Nah.
That's not you, that's not her.
At least, maybe not now.
Hands back on her hips, lifting her up.
Gaeul squeals in delight. She knows she doesn't have a choice but to follow.
A gasp—"Ah—yes. That's how you treat your slut."
Oh, she's going to get wrecked.
But first—lifted off your own hips, spun around, bent over.
Ass to the sky, cheek pressed down against the tiles.
"My slut," you say, as you push her down, "my toy," kneeling behind her, levelling your cock with her cunt, "my whore—right?"
You take your time with each word, each well-earned moniker that makes her mewl in delight, whimper back joyful affirmations.
Presenting herself to you, and you're almost succumbing to the temptation of diving face first into her little, gaping cunt again.
Just tasting it once more.
Getting knuckle-deep inside her, maybe a thumb in that perfect rosebud of her asshole and pushing your digits into her until she's drenched the palm of your hand.
Maybe later.
"Please, don't make me wait any longer."
"It's only been a week."
"Yeah," Gaeul admits, and she's closing her eyes, bracing herself. "I can't believe you made me wait a whole fucking week."
And again, your thoughts get in the way. "You could have messaged me first."
"That's not how this works."
You reach forward, running your palm down from the base of her spine over the fine slope of her ass.
You draw your hand back.
Slap hard.
Your name bounces off the walls once more.
"No, I guess it's not."
You inhale. Deeply.
Your reunion is as unceremonious as it is sudden—one moment your cock is hanging just outside of her sopping cunt; feeling the whispers of her lips on your tip.
The next: it's all the way in, swallowed up inside.
A single, harsh, quick, brutal thrust.
Pushing her into the tiles, pushing your weight onto her, making her go from empty to far more whole than she can handle, and if it weren't for your hand on her ludicrously tight waist holding her still—she'd likely fall right through the Earth.
"God—fuck!" She's trembling, barely holding herself together as you keep your cock buried within her.
Only one thrust and she's back to her natural state. Completely submissive, through and through.
You keep your cock warm, let it pulse against her walls.
Deal with how unfairly tight she is. How much of a perfect cocksleeve she is. How completely, utterly fucked of a hold her cunt has on you.
Let the heat sink into your skin, keep your fingertips on her creamy thighs, muscles firming up beneath. Stamp your thumbs onto her cheeks, mark familiar patterns into the dimples of her ass.
Leaning forward to press a kiss between her shoulder blades, a last show of kindness before the rapid descent into filth and undoings so final that no revolving door of first dates with nice, boring guys could ever bring her back from.
God, for someone like her—with her beauty, the whole picture so precious and pristine. Not just how she looks but who she is.
The idol, the centre of attention, the woman literally factory-perfected to be loved, worshipped, to move entire economies.
Now stripped naked and laying her flawless form at your feet, all for your taking.
"Keep going," she's saying, and you're envious at how blissful she sounds. So happy, so satisfied.
Exactly where she wants to be. Treated exactly as she wants.
"More. Harder." And the cherry on top, "You know I can take it."
And the implication—you know no one else can.
You give yourself a last glance at her, the dreamy look on her face, the way her mouth opens in this pleasant, perfect little circle as you begin to draw your hips back and slowly sap away any ability she ever had to think straight, rational thoughts.
At least thoughts that weren't wholly consumed with how mercilessly you're stretching her out.
"Then take it," you say—and your hand comes down again. A hard, sharp spank that turns her cheek crimson.
A starting gun for the both of you.
Your cock sinks back in.
She cries out your name again.
And there's no build up—she's had enough of that.
You've let herself wade into the waters on your fingers, atop your chin, get herself nice and loose and really prepare her—even though nothing quite could—for your particular brand of fucking.
The next thrust comes faster, harder.
You always forget how much Gaeul likes to scream.
Like she has something to prove—like hey, where else will you find someone so perfect, that cares so little about whether or not anyone else can hear. Fuck, she wants it to be known just how desperately needy she is for your cock, how she'd probably die if you ever left her cunt empty again.
Wants it to be known that it's just her that's built for this, built to take this—the spankings, the tears, the curses, the ‘oh fucks' and ‘don't stop, whatever you fucking do, don't fucking stop'.
Only her, only your Gaeul that'll grin through it all and still have the gall to say, "Make me feel it."
"Jesus Christ."
Really brings out the worst in you, your Gaeul.
And you her, but that goes without saying.
You punish her—reward her—with a crash of your hips into hers.
"Jesus—fucking—Christ," she echoes back, and she's fucking herself back into you, hips syncing to yours.
Gaeul, as she always is. Taunting, screaming, leaking everywhere.
"Every time you—fuck—fuck me. Fuck me all up. Make me feel it. Baby, I—"
Building a steady, hard rhythm. In and out, thrust—thrust—fuck—fuck—fuck.
"Meant for this—meant for me. Right? Your cock, my cunt. Perfect fucking fit—no one else—"
And it's unhealthy, this thing. Ruining each other for everyone else, making sure that if they can't tell by the marks you leave across each other's skin, or the smell of your cum in her hair or her juices sticking to your clothes, they'll know by the fact that nothing else—nothing vanilla—will ever get close to turning either of you on like this.
Nothing like it—nothing like this fire. The white-hot heat of her cunt, pulsing and gripping around your cock. Her walls collapsing in on you, begging you to never leave her, desperate to never let your cock go.
Nothing like the sound—not just the whines, the screams, the song of whispers of your name from her lips; but the echo of your hips against her ass, the smack of your balls against her clit, the slick wet tune her cunt makes when it's filled so quickly and completely by your cock.
When your body drops into her and she's so hot, so tight, and you're not sure if your hands on her hips are for her or for you—but you still grab at them, dig your fingers in and pull her closer so you can fuck her raw.
Deliriously smiling, chanting, "God—fuck—just—don't—fuck—", some variations of the same barely audible, tiny vocabulary of words that she has left, and you're fast burning through her lexicon.
It'll continue—won't stop—even after you've made her cum for the second, third, fourth time.
Even after her cunt's overflowing, after you've shot ropes across those cute tits, buried yourself in her throat and filled her stomach with you; hell, ruined the glossy lipstick, the smoky eyeliner, those peroxide-blonde locks.
Even after she's thanked you for doing it all.
Maybe then you might make it past the kitchen.
"Fuck me," she says into the tiles below. Simple, easy.
"That all?"
"Yeah," she manages. Nodding feverishly.
You answer her with a particularly hard thrust. Another spank. Basically—'what the fuck do you think I've been doing?'
And like she's reading your mind, "I need you to fuck me. My pussy needs you to fuck me. Harder. Like you said you would. Like you promised—" even though you don't remember making any such promises (at least tonight), and yet—"Like a slut, a whore, a toy."
"I get it, Gaeul," you say, and you reach forward, carelessly tangling bunches of hair between your fingers until your hand’s buried in blonde. "I'll fuck you like you belong to me."
"I do belong to you. So take me already. All of you, fucking all of me. Until I can't feel anything else."
You pull back, make her body curve so nicely. Reach forward, take a handful of tit into your palm, feel its pebbled peaks.
Make her gasp, cry, make her cunt grip your cock like it's a fucking lifeline—the only thing that can save her.
And the more you think about it, she's right.
You kiss her neck.
She screams when you fill her all over again.
"Just like fucking—that—just do—fuck—whatever you want," she says, blinking through her eyelashes, gasping through tears, through the raspy, fucked-up breaths that she's struggling to take, "just make me cum."
And by habit, your hand drifts from her hair, and your arm wraps around her throat.
Not tight, not suffocating.
Just to hold her against you.
Just to make her feel you.
It nearly makes her cum then and there.
Whatever restraint you had left evaporates, and all your thoughts are just consumed with Gaeul.
How hot she feels, how right she feels.
How her tits feel like heaven in your hand.
How her cunt threatens to tear your cock right off.
How—fuck—you don't know what it is, but something about fucking her as a blonde just drives you insane.
Her back muscles tense against your chest, her abs are working overtime, and with every push into her body, her pussy opens up to you like an invitation.
"Gaeul," is your warning, and her cunt thrumming around your cock is her reply.
Your grip around her neck tightens just a touch, a cough from her throat, and you’re kissing her face, her cheek, the corners of her lips.
Some comfort, if any.
Amongst the rapid-fire fucking, and whatever art you were going for, whatever subtle rhythm of strokes in and out of her cunt—it's all gone.
Using her like she desperately begged to be, like a thing, fucking into her as fast as you can, maniacally, just chasing that feeling, that intensity.
Because you're going to cum soon and you've already fucked her through half a dozen tiny little quakes and it's about time for her to hit the big one—to fucking scream in a way that stretches her vocal cords longer than any performance on a stage could and so—
"Baby—God—you're going to—"
But she doesn't even need to tell you, you don't even need the signal, because you can feel it in the wonderful clench when she shudders and suddenly seizes.
"Pump my cunt full—make me—"
Make her eternally, undeniably yours.
Leading her to the second—followed by the third—or maybe it's just one long, drawn out climax.
One crumbling release that has her limbless; nothing more than a vibrating fuckdoll in your arms, unable to do anything but repeat the same praises that make it past the grip you have on her stomach and around her throat.
"So good—I can't—can’t fucking believe it," she stutters, feeling every wave of her orgasm buzz right through her, igniting her every nerve ending—lighting all of her on fire. "Can't believe how good this fucking feels. How perfect this feels," and despite the fact that she’s still gasping, so fucking delirious, she’s still heaping it on, "How perfect you are. Nobody else, nobody else—"
She trails off, and you know you have the same words for her.
Nobody else could take it like her, nobody else could take you like her.
Could sink down on your cock, could sing through the spankings, the chokings.
Could make you so fucking hard and throbbing and ready to explode—zero to a hundred until you're right at the finish line.
Could twist a gorgeous, angelic face—turn the picturesque features; the cover-model blush and girl-next-door wide eyes into something so filthily fucked up as a simple cum-drunk grin when she takes a hold of your wrist to make your grip on her rougher.
Until it gets hard for her to breathe.
God, the fact that it’s her. Nothing better than a fuck this fantastic.
And she starts begging.
"Please, baby, please, your turn—you haven't used me until you've cum in me—so please," And there's the pleading, the whining, the final push you need, even as she's crashing through another—or, once again you're wonder if it's still the same—orgasm.
"Fucking hell," and you're not even sure your words are reaching her, so you slip in things that you otherwise wouldn't say, admissions too honest for someone like her. Like, "You're fucking incredible, Gaeul, you know that? Such an unbelievably tight cocksleeve. So fucking perfect for me—every part of you—my dirty little slut. Your cunt is just—"
"Show me then," she coos, cries. Working her muscles against you now. Her goal crystalised, determination setting on those sharp, high cheekbones. "Show me how good I make you feel. Show me how much better I am than anyone else. Show me why there's no one else you want to fuck in the middle of the night. No other pussy that can make you feel as good as mine."
And she gets the reaction that she wants—that she needs.
Her throat bulges against the crook of your elbow.
You choke her.
Seize her tits.
Fucking her all the way up and into her guys.
She knows.
She fucking knows.
"God—yes—just like that!"
It's wave after wave.
Gagging, stilted moans from her lips—cries, gasps, tears, all of it.
The hottest thing you'll ever see, you know this absolutely: Gaeul's impossibly blown-out pupils all glazed over, and fuck the way her mouth looks when it's slack jawed and open wide and she's just drooling at all of it. The sensations, the overstimulation, the thought of your oncoming orgasm.
It's unreal.
"Fill me—please!"
You pump. You release.
Messy.
So fucking messy inside of her.
Hot ropes of cum—the other burn that she loves—searing against her womb until it's pooling and rushing out the sides of her cunt, escaping the tight seal it has around your cock.
The chokehold you have on her only makes her pussy squeeze you tighter, have her screams turn to hot, hacking moans that makes the hairs on your skin rise and you're just filling her.
Making her convulse, making her body shake, making her rock on top of you as you unleash every single filthy fibre of your being into her.
You're so, so swollen inside her, and it doesn't seem like it'll end—like you'll be stuck here, throbbing angrily between her walls forever, locked in this fucked up loving embrace where you're in a feedback loop of cum and orgasms and—
"Fuck!"
She chokes.
Cums fountains down your cock, your thighs.
Gurgles a final scream and for a moment all either of you can see is the same blinding white flash as you call each other's name.
"Fucking love it when you make me—"
The words never make it out of her bruised throat.
She taps your wrist.
You let her go.
Collapse on top of each other.
Gasping for breath, blonde hair spilling onto your face.
You stays nestled inside her, pulsing, throbbing—whether it's her cunt or your cock, you can't quite tell.
"Christ," she says, and any worry you had of her being anything short of stupidly satisfied is gone. "And I just mopped these floors too."
You hack out a chuckle, between shallow breaths, feeling her body steaming against yours. It feels right. "You good?"
She laughs back. Leans her head just enough so she can manage a clumsy kiss against your cheek.
You realise your arms are still wrapped around her. Not as tight. Just careful, holding your girl still, lightly massaging her spent body.
Whatever kind of affection you can manage.
"What do you think?" And she's still laughing, still kind of sobbing, still trembling, body still living through the aftermath of the kind of fucking and orgasms only you can give her.
Her body tenses, working, trying to loosen the kinks out that locked and knotted themselves when her frame seized in pleasure.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ sometimes I don't even know why I bother with anyone else," she admits, and it's far too obvious, and you know it's all just part of a badly-disguised ploy to get you to make her feel exactly the same way again.
But you'll play along. "Because you want someone nice, remember?"
"Nice doesn't make me cum."
"Sure doesn't," you say. "Not in the way you need to."
And you watch as her eyes drift close, and her lips rest into this copacetic smirk on her face. The feeling of getting everything she wanted—everything she needed.
You want to take a photo of her.
Seeing her all stunning and fucked to oblivion. Covered in sweat, tears, saliva, cum. Still drooling and yet completely, shamelessly, glowing in exhaustion and that sheen of angelic glitter that seems to rest over her after she's been fucked right.
Yeah, you really should capture it.
Add it to the collection.
"Thank you," she whispers, and it comes out like something of a prayer.
You would normally have a quip to make her feel bad for being so honest, but you let it lie for now.
Instead, you roll her, lay her back gently down onto the kitchen floor below.
She keeps her eyes closed, but lets her lips part just a little.
Gaeul knows what you’re about to do.
Spreads her thighs for your fingers, rests her hands around your neck.
You're kissing her again, carrying her back up that mountain, fuelling that fire that will never truly go out while you’re around.
"God—yes. You're really going to ruin me tonight, aren't you?"
"Of course I am," you chuckle, ducking your head to return a nipple to your teeth. It feels so right. You bite. "Again and again until you can't take it anymore—and then we’ll see whether you can ever go back to nice and boring again."
"Good," Gaeul agrees, and you take a final look at your perfect little fuckdoll, just waiting to be picked up and used all over again.
You take a deep breath. Your cock twitches.
Gaeul licks her lips, "You always fuck me harder when you're jealous."
Oh, it’s fucked up; the power dynamics are all over the place.
You were her manager, and now you’re technically her boss, and it’s all led to this weird feedback loop where Chaewon swears she doesn’t like being told what to do and you swear that you believe women should be treated with respect.
Never mind that it all goes out the window when you’ve drawn the curtains shut and you’re bending her over your desk and tugging out the butt plug you kindly requested she walk around with all day.
And so:
“If you think I’m some around-the-clock booty call that will show up whenever you get a boner, then—”
“Chaewon,” you interrupt.
Stare at the girl.
Catching her in the midst of removing her earrings, bracelets, really any loose items that could end up between the couch cushions or underneath a stack of files, only to be discovered by some poor cleaner in the early hours of the morning.
Perched up on your desk, heaven-sent and already stark-naked. Looking far too pretty for her own good, and just plain, flat-out, in-your-face fuckable.
Oh.
She’s already got your blood rushing.
“Really?”
Chaewon bites her lip. Holds it for a beat. Lets it go and sighs. Unable to help herself. “You’re such a little shit.”
You laugh right in her face. “Little is an interesting choice of words.”
"And you're so lucky I think you're cute."
A step forward, to put her in reach. To skate a hand up her thigh, rubbing out the tension coiled up in her muscles. Ending up on the curve of the most generous ass your palms have ever been graced with. Giving a gentle squeeze, massaging into the bare, vanilla expanse, hoping you’re already on the path to forgiveness.
It goes without saying, the two of you have run this same routine many times before.
(Yeah. You’ve fucked Chaewon a lot.)
“I can’t believe you just made me walk in front of the entire floor to get to your office. Everyone was staring.” Chaewon makes this loud, keening noise, pretty much guaranteeing that everyone’s listening now as well. “After that shit you pulled at the Christmas party.”
You lean close, kisses into her neck, apologies over her pulse. “Everyone was too drunk to notice what we were doing.”
Her eyes narrow. “You made me cum in the middle of the dancefloor.”
“And you’re welcome.” You’re laughing harder, right as she starts to do her whole Chaewon thing.
Saying one (usually insulting) thing with her mouth but screaming something else entirely with her body.
In this case, it’s in this subtle adjustment of her hips. A tilt, a lean, an angle so precise, giving you exclusive access to put your hands on where she’s most sensitive—which is pretty much everywhere. And really, you can’t be held at fault for whatever consequences follow because she makes it so easy.
It’s hard to imagine anyone else getting as crazy over the slightest touch. A shiver at the brush of your fingertips, trembling when your grip tightens, gets a little bit rough.
And when you fall into a rhythm, when it’s just the two of you and you’re curling your digits in her cunt and kissing all the right spots on her skin, and you’re making her feel like you’re everywhere all at once, it’s like she’s made of pure energy. Like she’s going to combust.
It does insane things for your ego.
It’s also so, unfathomably hot.
“God, I can’t believe I have to deal with such an ass—" But Chaewon never gets to finish that thought, because your fingers are getting lower, inching closer to that spot that grants you mercy every time; that makes her voice crack and her eyes lose all focus and has her forget any reason she has to ever be mad at you.
The moans that you tease out of her, each taking the shape of your name; the familiar, longing whimpers she makes when you do what no one else does and deny her.
It’s the same dangerous game every time.
Take her some place a little too public, with just enough risk to make her wet and ready and absolutely needy at the thought of getting caught. Get a hand in that bob of blonde, or black, or red; run your tongue over the hollow of her throat, or up the fine curve of her thigh, or trail down the ridges of her abs, just making her delirious.
And yeah, sure, most of the time it seems like you’re the one doing the leading, but look closer, past the pleas and the pouts and who’s on her knees at the feet of who; and realise that it’s mostly just you trying to keep up with her appetite.
“You don’t have to keep up the act,” you’re saying, “But you might want to try and keep your voice down.”
Chaewon’s rolling her eyes, petulant. She’s got the whole bratty thing nailed to a tee. “Your fault.”
Oh, she’s a vision, that’s for sure. God definitely took his time when making her, with all her grace and poise and her ludicrously bouncy tits and unreasonably slutty little waist. All just begging to be fucked askew. To put a smudge on her perfection. Be it the flushed cheeks, the glossed eyes, the already-on-its-way to being properly fucked-up hair—
The cocky smile and the gall to say, “You’re usually kissing me by now.”
You hardly have any complaints when she wraps your tie around her fist, yanks you forward, providing an unnecessary guide for your mouth to hers.
Like always, it’s messy.
There’s rarely any intention there; just kiss the smoking hot girl that’s right in front of you, let her breathe you in and flood your mouth with her tongue while your hands do their best to draw along her figure and map out each of her perfect lines and immaculate curves.
Seeking out where she’s hottest.
There’s a cry muffled against your lips when your fingers get particularly adventurous, but it’s pure searing heat, all of it. All of her. Bottled up in the tiniest of packages, a Pandora’s box of sin, just waiting for you to come and let it out.
Chaewon’s knees spread wider, feet hooking around your back, making you strain against the wetness building between her thighs.
She gets in real close, letting her tongue slide along your jaw, your neck and finally your ear where she’s slurring the same variations of previous filthy and barely-lucid requests, “Get these clothes off before I tear them off.”
Your tie doesn’t stand a chance. Neither do any of the buttons on your shirt, your belt-buckle, your pants which land at your ankles and are kicked off to join an ever-growing pile on your couch.
“I need to feel you, like, right fucking now—”
You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “What happened to not being an around-the-clock booty call?”
“Just, shut up already.”
“Magic word first.”
“Please.”
But the problem, as always, is where the hell to start.
Chaewon, from head-to-toe, is a literal divine being—a goddess, personified.
A Greek epic made flesh, come down from the top of a mountain to fuck around with the mortals, leave them as dried husks to craft myths in her wake.
That’s what you’re dealing with here.
Perhaps it’s your destiny too. To climb that mountain, to conquer that peak. To mark, bruise, claim. Run your fingers over her; her tiny waist, her smooth, sweat-stained skin, her heart-wrenchingly soft ass.
All heat and need, right in the palm of your hand, begging for you to leave your own brand of worship and bring her down into the dirt with the rest of the living.
And despite the repetitions, the countless dark corners and quiet rooms that are forever stained with your cum and permeating with her scent; it still feels like a novelty every time.
So, it only makes sense to start with a personal favourite.
Her breasts.
“Always with my tits,” Chaewon snarks, but it’s more a statement of acceptance than any kind of protest.
She’s already leaning back onto your desk, her eyes closing as your fingers rise up her sides, and she’s sighing, nipples tightening at just the thought of your touch.
Begging for more pressure, for a pinch, a tug. Or just your teeth.
“It’s a classic for a reason,” you muse, and you dive right in, mouth around one of her hardened tips, glueing your tongue to the nub.
See, Chaewon’s tits are as unfairly incredible as the rest of her. Perfect wonders of gravity and genetics that fill up your hands and spill past your fingers; that bounce and jiggle and sway so nicely when you fuck her just right.
And when you taste, give a hard, gratuitous suck on one—there’s a choked-out cry, a stab of her nails into your shoulders, a kick of her heel into your back.
Really, not one for subtleties, your Chaewon.
Always quick to tell you exactly what she needs in every single moment; if not with her words then with the way she squirms and gasps and bites down on her lower lip until it’s a darker shade of red than the lipstick she walked in with.
And even then, each pleading request, each beg sloppily kissed into your shoulder, or your chest, or up and down your cock, amounts to the same thing: use me, use me now, use me good. Like a toy, a submissive little fuckdoll that’s just waiting to be picked up and played with until the batteries die.
That’s your Chaewon:
Preciously soft where it matters, razor sharp where it counts. Built to take it rough, but tragically doomed to be so fucking sensitive.
You flick your tongue; once, twice, over and over. Harder, rougher, grazing your molars against skin, and she’s curving into you, pushing her chest closer. Grinding herself into your waist, hips bucking. Searching for more friction. More heat.
Just the noises she makes. She’s generous with her moans, her breaths all chopped up and hitching with every tug of your teeth. It’s the worst cliché but yeah, her body is literally a fine instrument, musical; play the right notes and she’ll scream you a melody.
You idly wonder if she was like this before you met her.
The loving sigh of your name is all the answer you need.
Hands twist in your hair now, she’s getting impatient; anything to get you to give her what she craves. But you switch. From one perfect swell to another, giving it the same treatment, the same shameless licks and laps.
“More,” Chaewon tries, and then amends to a whimpering, “Please?”
Jesus Christ.
You take a finger, drag it along the valley of her wonderful chest, teasing down her stomach until it reaches the scorching heat between her legs.
Finding her wet, puffy. Feeling her pulse. Wanting to be made whole.
A groan bursting from her throat before she can even stop it—“Oh, fuck!”
“Chaewon,” you huff out, reproachingly, but it’s barely heard over the slick sounds of her cunt giving way. It’s heady, a rush you feel straight in your veins, just the idea that you could tear her apart with a single finger.
But that doesn’t mean you should just stop with one.
A second finger, your middle, eases in. It’s so downright pornographic, the way she opens up for you. How her pussy squeezes around you, how it soaks your digits, how it clenches and sears heat onto your skin. And how when you press in the pad of your thumb firmly against the swollen bud of her clit, just that achingly light touch of pressure, it sends her spiralling.
“Gah, you’re so fucking mean,” Chaewon rips through another moan, a filthy curse, and it’s really uncalled for. Because this is what she comes to you for.
Drops everything she’s doing, ditches anyone she’s with. She’d cross an entire ocean just to have you torture her with your lips, or your tongue. To have your fingers bringing her to her knees, or your cock just fucking her brainless.
Really, to her, every part of you is a little death, a stairway to an afterlife where it’s just the pure sensation of bliss and your cock, making her feel complete.
“And you’re terrible at keeping quiet,” you accuse, but you’re not doing anything to help her. Just making it all that much worse, ruining her so sweetly with a curl or a twist or a merciless press down. “No idea what I’m going to do with you. Naughty, naughty, naughty.”
“You’re just looking for an excuse to punish me,” is Chaewon’s accusation, reaching the same conclusions you have. Reading your mind before you can even get a word out—grabbing the back of your neck, pulling you closer, hips rising up to meet the hand that will be her undoing. “How am I the naughty one when you’re the one that just loves to ruin me. Make me cum in front of everyone every chance you get. Fuck, if they couldn’t see it running down my thighs they definitely saw it on my face.”
And her eyes are shutting now, and she’s flashing back, feeling it all over again. The strobing lights, the unnecessarily loud bass. The throng of bodies pushed too close together and there’s Chaewon, in the tightest, shortest, sluttiest dress twirling around and fucking you with just the twerk of her ass from across the room.
Your own personal siren, luring you to your doom.
Or hers.
So, yeah, maybe you’re the villain for meeting her in the middle, grinding your body against hers, whispering plans of taking her to a closet, or a bathroom, or the fucking balcony and ruining that tragically flimsy strip of fabric and making her cum so hard she’ll never look at the sky the same way again.
And maybe you could still have some deniability if any one of those ideas came to fruition instead of what happened next. Because you just couldn’t stop yourself when she was already filling your mouth with her tongue, your hands with her tits, her ass, and it was all too easy to dip your fingers lower and under her dress and—
Do exactly the same thing you’re doing now.
“There were cameras there too,” Chaewon realises, “God, I can’t believe how stupid you make me.”
“I can’t be held responsible for any of your actions after fucking you senseless, sweetheart,” you chuckle against her neck, and lower to her shoulder.
“You absolutely can, this is all because of you,” she whines, and it’s petulant and bratty, and so goddamn cute. It’s unreal. “You just can’t help yourself. Can’t help trying to fuck me up every chance you get.”
“You let me.”
“Because you make it so fucking good,” and there’s the admission, the natural end point every time this same argument arises.
“Oh you poor, poor girl,” you murmur into the sweetness of her skin, sucking in the edges of her collarbone, leaving marks you know you’ll come back to, if not now then tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. “Too gorgeous for your own good. Just too pretty, too tempting. All mine.”
It’s obvious what you’re doing, feeding into Chaewon’s praise kink. She’s openly admitted it, she likes being told she looks good, loves the reward of your attention. Not just what you say, but the way you say it. The whisper into her skin when you tell her how hard she makes you. The grunt into her ear when you remind her that no one takes you as nice as she does. And the rough groan when you call her a whore, a beautiful, terrible little slut that’s going to rob you of all the cum you have.
But most of all, she loves the honest, direct command when you tell her that she’s yours.
And it’s so, so potent.
You don’t miss the smirk against your cheek, the kisses she’s started peppering across your forehead. Don’t miss how she’s drenching your fingers, filling up your palm with her juices, so delighted to have your hand fucking the hell out of her cunt and faster, filling her, filling the room with these desperate needy sounds.
She’s panting, whining into your ears these sweet little nothings that make you feel like you could fuck a hole straight through the nearest wall. And you can’t help it, you’re leaning into it, plunging your fingers in and out of her like you’re trying to set a new personal best. Quickest time to make Chaewon scream. To shatter her right there in the middle of your office, and get some unfortunate intern to clean up the mess she leaves behind.
Her lips clumsily dragging along your earlobe tells you all you need to know, “You’re going to make me cum again, you fuck, I hate how easy it is for you to—”
You slide a third finger in, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch.
A choking groan when you start to hit that spot that makes her tighten around you. That makes her legs shake, her knees bang against your hips and she just keeps getting wetter and wetter.
The beg in her body. Pleading, needing to be pushed over that edge. And so, you do.
You see it coming before she does, spot the scrunch in her face, the flinch across her features, that perfect, hot little mouth widening and needing to be captured in a kiss because she’s always so fucking loud when she cums.
Muted, “fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!” and then, “why are you so good at this?”, and she’s rocking against your hand, pussy desperately swallowing your fingers, the filthy slaps of skin and skin and the squelching that echoes off the glass walls.
At last, the release.
Everything built up in the anticipation, in her no doubt rush to be back in front of you, to end up wrecking another piece of furniture or a room, and not give a flying fuck because there’s nothing else that matters but the high of her orgasm.
Only, it’s just the first one. And it’s not enough.
God, there really are fewer things in life you love more than making her cum.
So, it only makes sense to do it again.
Unfortunately, she’s faded away for a bit.
It’s your job to bring her back.
A kiss on her forehead to remind her to come up for air, to let the world come rushing back into the room. But Chaewon’s not quite there yet.
She pants, pats your wrist, drawls, “Please, just, give me a second. Just a little bit. Too intense.”
Unfortunately, you’ve already made up your mind.
You push off her, giving her the shortest of seconds to catch her breath, claw her way back to some semblance of sanity before you start to make your way down her body.
She deserves it, all of it. Kisses on every inch of hot, sweaty skin.
Revel in the aftershocks that make her tremble. Make her sigh when your lips drag down her chest, return a tongue to her nipple, feel it shiver on your tastebuds. Get lower and lower, let her legs give way, making your destination clear.
It’s impossible to miss all these tiny little reactions, these quivers and shakes. The gasps at the sticky trail your fingers are leaving behind.
She’s a mess already, all because of you, and you can’t get enough of the power in that.
Right until you’re on your knees.
“I think I like the look of this,” Chaewon lets out a breezy laugh, so pleased to rest her legs over your shoulders.
You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. And then get right in, drag a tongue from bottom to top.
Chaewon’s thighs clatter on either side of your head.
And now you return her laugh, “You seriously think you’re in charge right now?”
Her hands flail, and it’s so cute the way she tries to reach down, shuffle her cunt back onto your lips. Get her fingers in the back of your head, tugging at the strands. “Just,” she sighs, and sighs louder when you don’t immediately give in, “Let a girl fantasise, would you?”
“Only because you asked nicely.”
“Good,” and she pulls you back in, blessing you with the most pleasant of whines when she so kindly requests, “Now, pretty please, would you just fuck me with your mouth for, like, a second, okay?”
“Nice to see you still have your manners,” you say, already sucking a bruise into her skin. “We just might make a lady out of you yet.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Chaewon’s words barely leave her mouth before they trail off, lost somewhere between a laugh that turns into a moan that cuts right off into a gasp when your tongue slides through her slit.
You taste her. Really, taking your time. Savouring her flavour.
And she’s got so much for you, making a mess of your chin already, and you make a mental note to add your carpet to the long list of surfaces she’s left forever unsalvageable.
It’s a wonder, truly, how delicate she is, how little she can take without straight-up disintegrating. The fact that the slight press of your lips makes her breaths stall, a brief swipe of your tongue causes her thighs to tremble and when you suck just right she needs to work every muscle in her body to stop from screaming.
You’re not even trying that hard.
Just enjoying the taste of her pussy.
It’s a fragile balance; Chaewon’s cunt is a sweet science. Build her up quick, keep her just on the edge of too much. Leave her hanging, begging, just enough anguish so she doesn’t hurtle over into that oblivion she so desperately craves.
You swirl your tongue, pressing in, reintroducing yourself to each one of her nerve endings. Every fold and dip intensely familiar, like there’s the one that makes her thighs quiver and there’s the one that makes her toes curl, and oh, when you push your tongue in right here and use this exact amount of pressure—
“Holy fuck—your fucking tongue—”
Yeah, that spot might as well have your fucking name on it.
Her hands say everything she’s too choked up to get out. In your hair, pulling, clawing at your scalp, urging you to go on. Trying, so desperately hard, to fuck your face, whimpering in despair the entire time, eventually getting out, “Seriously, what the fuck. How the fuck can you just do this?”
“Just how good you taste, baby,” you speak into her cunt, even though you know she was never really expecting an answer. Just wanted some acknowledgment of the things you do to her.
But maybe she has a point—this skill you’ve built up for breaking Chaewon. Maybe it’s the way you’re so thorough, so precise. So greedy for her. Like you could never get enough. Just eat her out until your jaw gets tired, your tongue loses all strength, your body just gives out.
And even then.
You push your tongue inside, and it’s heaven, just pure heaven, to feel her clamp down around you. Her whole body thrumming against your mouth, her thighs tensing on either side of your face, her stomach tightening underneath the pressure of your palm.
You suck hard on her clit, and—
“Christ, you fucking—” she curses, failing to contribute anything else, besides a dying wail of your name.
“Shhh,” you hush into her folds, but it’s a fruitless endeavour. Chaewon has never once in her life been the quiet type.
“Oh, fuck off,” Chaewon says, breathing deeply, something of a laugh creeping out her throat. “You fucking love it. Love the idea of everyone knowing what a slut I am for you. Love having everyone see me and know immediately that you’ve had your mouth on me. That it’s your cum dripping out of my cunt.”
“Guilty,” you say, intending it to come out as an apology. But really, it’s just boasting at this point.
It’s all a test to you, a game. See how loud you can get Chaewon to be. How easy you can overcome her self-control, what little shreds of dignity she has intact. Try to put a thick, white stain on her flawless public image.
And you always win.
Every time she cums, you win.
So, you keep going.
Push the pace just a little, push her. Tongue laving, curling around her clit. Flicking and suckling until she’s just a puddle of needy noises and boneless limbs.
You look up at her, peer over her mound, see her chest rising and falling, her cheeks flushed and eyes hazed over with this utterly devastating look of pure want—so wet and messy and perfect. Like she’s drowning in it, even though you’re the one quickly running out of oxygen between her legs.
She’s so close, just needs that extra bit of effort. That little twirl of your tongue that turns her knees to jelly. And her pussy pulses against your lips, spine lifting off the desk, head banging against the wood.
She’s aching.
Sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing spectacularly at keeping her voice down, keeping herself from making sure everyone in the fucking building knows your name.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she’s chanting, when your fingers get busy again, pressing in deep, curling just right. And then, “baby, baby, baby,” when you start to pump into her, really get into it, sucking down on her cunt and letting her ride out her pleasure on your chin.
It somehow gets even messier.
“Can’t,” interspersed with, “fuck”, and topped off with a row of accusations, “why do you do this—how can you—” and ended with the whines of “don’t—don’t—please don’t you dare—”
But then—you stop.
Chaewon makes her agonising protest heard. Eyes snapping to yours, absolutely murderous. Simply, “Why?”
Because you enjoying watching her squirm.
Because you love to torture her.
Because you haven’t got what you want yet.
It’s so easy for you—break the hold her legs have on you, keep her stuck to your desk with a hand on her diaphragm. You stand up, watch her whine, see how her abs flex. Helpless when you take hold of her hips and flip her tiny frame over until she’s face down on a stack of papers.
You could throw her over your shoulder and parade her around your office and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Probably thank you afterwards.
But instead you just make her wait. Hold still, pussy leaking all over your desk. Ass pointing up in the air.
Perfect, round, prepared.
Designed by some divine engineering to be caressed, squeezed, worshipped. To be spanked. You palm one cheek, seeing how the flesh bounces back with a jiggle, before letting it go with a smack. The sound rings out, sharp, stinging.
Instantly recalling memories of the last time you left it a much darker shade of pink. You’re inclined to do it again.
For now though, you just bend down. Give it a gentle kiss.
Chaewon does her best to turn back, glaring. Like she doesn’t get off on the size difference.
She can’t find the words, so you give them to her, “You know what I want.”
Blushing, flustered, frantic. “You want me to beg.”
You nod. Wait patiently. Lips to her ass again.
Her eyes close, she inhales deep. Huffs through her nose. You spy the way her back curves and goes taut. Her hands clenching into fists.
Give her time. She’s a pro at this game too. Knows exactly how to play it. Chaewon’s voice comes out clear, no longer a mess of half-formed cries, or barely-there whimpers, but something sharp and precise:
“I need you to fuck me. Now. Please, please, fuck me hard. I don’t care if we get caught. Just. My cunt, my ass—any hole you want, I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—I really, really need your fucking cock to stretch me out. Right now. I'm begging. Just like you wanted. Let me fucking cum.”
And then, to extend the torment just a little longer, “Haven’t I made you cum enough?”
“It doesn’t count unless I cum on your cock. Unless you fill me all the way up. Use me, own this ass. Make me walk outside with your cum inside me, dripping down my thighs, leaving a trail of you everywhere I go.”
“Such a needy little slut, aren’t you?” You grin, raising goosebumps with your words, Chaewon shuddering under the ghost of your lips. Knowing there’s nothing she wouldn’t say, nothing she wouldn’t do just to have you use her again.
She gives up. “Don’t call me that unless you’re going to treat me like one.”
Yeah, God himself couldn’t strike the grin off your face. “Well, if you’re going to ask me like that.”
“Anything to get you to finally stop teasing me, please. I don’t think I can handle it, just, just—”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Chaewon,” you say, and then you lick her, from her cunt to her ass with one long drag of your tongue.
Chaewon gasps. Cums again.
It’s just the thought of it that wrecks her. The thought of your cock pushing into that puckered hole, the thought of your fingers gripping into her hips and your thumbs pressing in bruises.
And you can see Chaewon’s shoulders bunch up, her ass tilting and pointing higher up towards you. The realisation of what’s to come setting in—you’re going to take Chaewon’s ass once again, make good on a promise you brokered when you first bought her that silver toy and pushed it into the tightest little hole she had.
You spit on her asshole. The saliva glistens against her skin.
Chaewon’s whispering, talking to you, herself. Just doing what she can to brace through it all without completely falling apart again. “Fuck, I can’t believe it. Can’t believe you’re going to do this again. That I’m going to let you.”
Your tongue returns, sloppily tracing the crevice between her cheeks, sliding up and down. It teases this moan out of her, loud and mangled and guttural, but still so melodic to your ears. Makes her cunt throb against your chin, gush even more.
Yeah, you can feel it in her thighs, flexing and pushing back, urging her ass further onto your tongue. Not that you need the encouragement. Because you’re loving it, feasting on her taste, her flavour. Her scent. Inhaling it in, all of her, all of that peach-shaped perfection.
You’re going to lose your mind.
So, you spread her open. Sure, the butt plug has done its work—done its best—loosening her up, but she’s still so maddeningly tight that you know it’s going to get dangerous, going to be such a fucking squeeze.
Your tongue dips low to scoop up all that sweet, sweet juice that’s been building up. Eagerly licking up her cum, spreading the mess across her ass cheeks, adding your own brushes to the masterpiece.
And it is, all of it, your magnum opus.
Her cheeks parting and glistening underneath the warm office lights.
Her hole clenching, and relaxing. A wink because it knows what you’re going to do to it.
You push your tongue in that tiny pucker, just for a second, and it fucks Chaewon up good.
One final lick, one final perfect groan from her lips.
“Please.”
Stand up, cock in hand, line it up with that incredible, dark little hole.
Bend over, get close, and slowly, “I’m going to pound this hot fucking ass. Ruin it. Own it.”
Chaewon’s panting, nodding with each word. It’s all she can do. Hardly in any state to protest or argue or do anything but beg for you to do the one thing that’ll make her feel whole again.
You add that extra bit of torment, “And when I cum, when I fill your ass. You’re going to thank me. Thank me for using you as my own personal cumdump. Understand?”
“Yes,” Chaewon breathes, barely, and there it is: “I’ll do anything you want, just, please—”
Oh, the fucking grind when you push your hips forward, and the endless groan it rips from Chaewon’s throat.
“Fucking hell,” you’re cursing, barely inside, but still.
You push, inch by inch, feeling that rigid ring of muscle open itself up to you. Feeling like it’ll never end, this burning, fucking hot sensation; that has her melting around you, like she was always meant to be.
And it’s your name on her tongue, cursed and chanted and praised as you get deeper and deeper, until the words just dissolve into mindless mewls and whimpers and—“Fuck—so fucking deep.”
She’s just so hot underneath you, stretched impossibly wide around your girth, holding you tight and burning you up. And when you’re finally in; when you’re buried completely in Chaewon’s ass, and your legs are shaking and her eyes are wide and starting to well up, she whispers. Hushed, reverent—
“So perfect.”
You can’t come up with anything better than that.
Nothing in this world is better than your cock impaled in her ass, her pussy gushing onto your desk, and your hands just gripping so nicely around her hips.
God, just the way she fits. Made for this. Made for you.
You press your lips to her back, like licking salt before downing a shot. A last show of kindness for her to carry with her through the coming storm, through all your grand plans and designs to properly wreck her perfect, petite body.
Chaewon knows the score, “You’re just going to do whatever you want to me now, aren’t you?”
“Exactly like you want,” you answer, and draw your hips back, torturously slow, almost slipping out entirely.
Giving Chaewon’s ass a moment’s relief, letting her have a beat to pant, to inhale hot air, to remember what it’s like to not be so completely full of you.
Her shoulders heave, her spine curves upwards, and this is what you’ve been waiting for.
Chaewon, the idol—your princess. All doe-eyes and runny make-up and fucked up little sighs. No one was ever supposed to see her like this. See her looking anything less than magazine-cover perfect, anything less than dolled up and posed in designer dresses and outfits so nicely for a music video, or an award show, or a stage.
No one should ever see the lines in her picturesque face all flushed and twisted in agony. Her perfect bob in shambles. Her eyes wide, pupils blown, in tears. Her mouth loose and open and hot. Her ass bright fucking red.
No one but you.
You snap your hips back in. As hard as you can.
And—“Fuck!”
Too sudden. Too hard, too fast. Yet not nearly enough.
One stroke after another. Slipping in and out, easier and easier as Chaewon bends to your tempo, the pace you’re setting. Slow, steady, firm strokes that add on top of each other, and Chaewon keeps getting louder and louder until it’s now not just a problem, it’s going to be a fucking scandal.
The celebrity, fucked like some common whore by an executive on a power-trip. So easy for anyone to overhear, anyone to realise what’s going on behind the glass walls and the dark curtains.
Fuck, you’re not even sure if you remembered to even lock the door.
But the thought alone, someone walking in, witnessing the terrible and beautiful and fucking obscene way you’re claiming her—it’s the purest high. Making her take it. Treating her like a possession. Like she loves to be. Seeing her body shake, her face scrunch, her eyes sobbing at just the effort to keep silent.
It’s no use.
She’s so loud.
So, so loud.
Chaewon pushes herself off the desk, posts two hands flat to brace herself. Lifting herself up to give a better angle, to get you in deeper, letting you just chase that sweet, sweet sound of your cock slapping into her ass.
It’s fantasy, filth, every repressed wet-dream come to life. This pain that twists into pleasure and rocks her body, pounding her into your desk. Knocking over your monitor, sending your keyboard clattering to the floor. Chaewon’s nails fuck up the wood, leaving white scrapes on the varnish.
“I hate how—how good you feel. Fuck, I hate it—hate how much I need it—fuck.”
You grunt, slam your hips into her, make your cock disappear into her. “Stop lying.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s just you and me here, Chae,” even though you’re not entirely sure that’s the case, “Be honest with yourself for once.”
“Fuck—fine!” Chaewon’s on the verge of collapse, still cum-drunk, brain all cock-addled and filled with incoherent thoughts that are all distinctly related to how good your cock feels when it’s stretching her ass to its limits. “I love it, okay? I love being used. Love how much of a whore you make me. Love being treated just like this.“
"That’s all you had to say.”
You move.
Pull back, roll your hips, dragging your cock out of her tightness. Then pushing forward, plunging right back in, making her feel every inch. Forcing a whine out of her throat.
Steady, patient fucking.
The kind she loves to hate.
“Wait—please—why are you going so slow, it’s—”
Another slow draw, another hard fuck.
“Edging me like this is so fucking rude, I can’t believe you’d—”
Cutting her off with another deep thrust. Dragging. Deliberate. Faster.
“Such an asshole, doing this to me, can’t believe I’m letting you—”
Harder still. Building. Picking up speed.
“Fuck me harder. Faster. Please, I promise—I promise—”
Each stroke, each thrust, each grind, making her beg with every breath. But leaving her too helpless to do anything about it.
“I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you. Like I already have been. Like I always am for you. Aren’t I always such a good girl for you?“
And it’s starting to have an effect on you too, all this holding back, this enduring; this burning sensation inside you is reaching critical mass and it only makes sense to get it the fuck out of your system and into Chaewon’s ass while she just slurs—
"Please, fuck me, please, I don’t know how much more of this I can take—”
But she still takes it, anything you throw at her. Until you’re fucking her ass so hard that everything coming out of her mouth just becomes white noise. One long, garbled plea, a never-ending moan that sounds something like:
“Fuck, you’re going to kill me. This cock is gonna make me cum so much. Fucking me so good, it’s—”
You’re relentless.
Turning up the heat, giving it to her exactly how she’s begged. Fast. Hammering into her ass, harder, meaner.
Long, harsh thrusts that break her in two every time.
And you’re really putting her lungs to work, testing their capacity. Making her go high-pitched until she’s jumping octaves and showing no signs of coming back down.
Getting out of control, and it’s after one harsh curse directed right at your cock that your hand shoots for her mouth; slapping your palm over her lips and making her choke down the sound.
But the moans don’t stop, just vibrate against your skin, like you’ve given her license to let herself go. Immediately making all the prior obscene declarations of slutdom and whoring seem tame in comparison.
And it’s borderline impressive, the creativity with which she spurns all manners of filth and profanity, everything screamed into your hand, barely muffled. Not stopping, not slowing down at all, until her teeth are sinking into your palm with only her spit to soothe the pain.
It’s only fair that you have words for her too.
“Can’t even control yourself, Chae. Such a nasty cockslut. So fucking tight,” you growl, and it’s getting harder to hold on by the minute, your own vision starting to swim. “Unbelievable. So tight. So pretty. Just taking my cock like this. My little whore. Tell me, who’s going to want you after this?”
It’s your words that make Chaewon preen. Makes her ass spasm around your cock, her pussy melt. And she’s fighting, fighting for air, fighting to stay together, fighting to stay on her feet.
But she’s slipping.
“Mine.” You reach out, wrap your hand around her chest. It’s her tits, swinging underneath her, bouncing with every solid thrust, every rough push into her ass. It’s fucked that it’s taken you this long to get your hands back on them, dig into the lovely flesh, pinch and tug and fuck her up even more.
Holding her tiny frame against you, in your arms, an anchor for your worst desires.
Feeling how small she is. Feeling everything about her. The softness of her breasts, the insane tension in her stomach, the warmth of her thighs. Feeling the wetness of her cunt, the intense heat of her ass. You thought she was fragile once. Now you know better.
Now you know how ridiculous it is that not only does someone like her exist, but that she’s also so willing to let you fuck her like this.
Willing to let you split her apart with every stroke and even then she’s just so, so desperate for more. Like it’s the best feeling, the only feeling she’ll ever need again.
“God,” because it hurts, “Yes,” because it still feels so fucking good, and, “Keep going, please, fuck, keep going,” even though you don’t need any urging at all.
She’s drooling down your wrist, tears are streaking out the corners of her eyes—she’s broken, overwhelmed, overstimulated. Loving it entirely and there’s no way she’ll be able to get out of here in one piece.
Someone—everyone will know. It’ll play out exactly like she said it would, like you knew it would when you called her over.
Your office will never be the same.
“Can you hear that?” You taunt in her ear, all low and gravelly.
Chaewon’s eyes fly open, gaze hazy. Confused. There’s nothing but the sound of your hips slapping against her cheeks, your cock fucking filthy noises out of her ass.
You’re so happy to explain it to her. “Can’t hear anything, right? Nothing outside these walls. Do you wanna know why?”
A tiny little sigh escapes her when you peel your fingers off her lips, satisfied that she just might be able to hold back her screams for a minute. Drag your hand down, lower, glide it over her skin, pick up the sweat along the way, and end up at her cunt. A finger pressing down onto her clit. Rolling it.
“It’s because they’re listening.”
The cry that’s torn from her throat, louder, she’s going to wear out her vocal cords at this rate, ruin that angelic singing voice, but fuck it’s the most satisfying sound.
You lean into it, toy with her tits, trace your finger around her cunt. Slide your tongue along her throat and kiss into that sweet spot under her ear.
“They’re all wondering why you’re screaming so much. Why you’re so desperate to keep it down. What’s got you so fucking crazy?”
Chaewon’s eyes are wild, she’s torn, but she’s so fucked out of coherence that her mouth and her tongue have lost all ability to do anything but plead, agree, repeat your name.
“Actually, they probably already know. Now they just want to hear what you sound like when you really cum hard. What it’s like to be used. To be fucked by me.”
Your fingers are dipping lower, pushing into her cunt, instantly drenching them in her wetness. And she’s biting down on her cheek so hard, adding onto the litany of bruises and marks you’ve already left on her. It’s all getting to be too much—for you, for her—her whole body tightening around you, cunt spasming around your digits, ass choking your cock and—
“Tell them, Chaewon. Let them hear. Tell them what it’s like to have my cock in your ass.”
Chaewon tries her best. “It feels so—”
“Louder.”
Barely can string a proper sentence together, can’t find the oxygen for it, “Feels so good.”
You’re not helping at all, not giving her a chance of a respite. Fucking the wind out of her, leaving her completely out of breath, a complete catastrophe of need and want and tiny, desperate sounds. But you insist, again, “Louder.”
“I—I—I can’t—I can’t—”
Her wrists give way, she falls into the desk. You’re quick to grab a fistful of hair, snatch it in your fingers before she can collapse face-first into the wood. Wrenching her head back, holding her up so you can keep pounding into her. “Try harder.”
“Please,” she cries, but it’s only making your strokes harsher, more punishing. Everything she needs. Setting every part of her on fire. The pace, the pressure, the force. Leaving her so flushed, and she knows you’re not going to stop until you get what you want, so—"Your gorgeous fucking cock is tearing me in two.”
“More.”
“It’s so fucking good, opening my ass—stretching me out—fucking me until I can’t even think straight. I don’t—I don’t know—I don’t think I can take it—Jesus fucking Christ—it’s too much.”
“You’re so good for me, Chaewon, you’re being such a good girl,” you tell her, cooing into her neck. Convincing her of your own brand of love, whispering praises that she just soaks in, basking in every word—“No one could take me like this. No other ass could ever compare. You’re just too good. I could fuck you like this forever. I don’t care who sees. Who watches. I want everyone to know how perfect your ass is for me.”
“Yes,” Chaewon breathes, like she’s testing out what little remains of her voice. Makes a decision. Thows it all away, uses every last bit of strength to shout out, “Fuck it—everyone should know how much I love your cock in me. Fuck—how much I crave it—”
And it’s starting to hit you out of nowhere—this mind-numbing sensation that’s rattling through your bones. Fire in your veins, fireworks setting off down your spine. And you’re sliding into her ass, again and again, can’t stop, just going, every second bringing you closer to the end, and Chaewon deserves nothing more than a hand tightening around her throat and a hard fucking slap on her cheeks so—
“Everyone should know how hard you’re making me fucking cum!”
Her ass suffocates your cock.
Takes you forward with her, forcing you to fall into her and squash her against the desk. Pulling you in the deepest you’ve been yet, just completely impaled into her thoroughly-fucked ass, until you’re spilling into the depths of her.
“God, fuck, I can feel it—”
And Chaewon’s shaking beneath you too. Trapped under your weight; her body would be shivering, cumming until she’s tumbled off the furniture and onto the carpet, but there’s nowhere to go with you keeping her in place. Using her ass to milk out every last drop from your cock, making her feel it right in her guts, shooting inside her and filling her tight hole right to the brim.
Fuck.
It’s all coming out of her too.
Down her thighs, mixing with the wetness gushing out of her cunt, sliding down her legs. It’s all sweat, cum, juices, these running rivulets that rush all the way down to her feet, pooling on the floor.
No time to think about the mess your making, no time to think about what happens after. Just trying to survive it. The intense visual of Chaewon cumming helplessly, endlessly beneath you. The dozens of tiny shifts in her body; the crane of her neck, the tightening of her jaw, the tight little squeezes of her ass around your cock, and the curl in her swollen lips—
That smile.
It’s everything: absolute debauchery, pornographic, and it makes you want to rip your heart right out of your chest and give it to her.
You hold her through it, kiss her down off that ledge, whisper quiet things from a tender place deep inside you that you had no idea still existed.
And yeah, maybe it’s a little concerning how sweet Chaewon gets right as you’ve broken her. Kissing into your wrist, nuzzling into your forearm with her nose. A whisper, barely heard as she goes weak beneath you, submitting completely when she sighs against your skin, “You really fuck me up good, you know?”
She keeps herself wrapped around you, no immediate ideas of ever leaving, ever existing in a world where your cock isn’t completely seated in her ass, where your cum isn’t painting the walls of her insides. Just so wrecked by all of it. By all of you.
So you keep kissing into her back, soothe her down. Kiss up her spine, kiss that spot between her shoulder blades, kiss her more, kiss her everywhere, until your mouth is a mess and her skin is a canvas of your lips.
Keep your hands busy, too busy. At her sides, and lower still, massaging into the tender bruises across her ass cheeks, as if you weren’t the one that put them there in the first place. But now it’s your job to fix them. To nurse them away. Make it right again.
Chaewon makes this slow, languid movement, a shift underneath you that has your softening cock slip out of her, has her rolling onto her back. Looks up at you; this beautiful, drowsy haze pulled over her teary eyes, and it all should be so played out by now, should be something your used to, but really, Chaewon’s truly stunning.
Gorgeous, all the time, but when she’s like this—used, ruined, destroyed, in a pool of her own cum—she’s on a different plane of existence.
She smirks, because she can read your mind, and sighs, “I’m going to miss this when you get fired.”
You’re cracking up, wiping the sweat across your brow with the back of your hand. “And what have I done for that to happen?”
“Um, try, railing the talent in the middle of the company office, maybe?”
“I think you did a pretty good job at keeping it down.”
Chaewon enunciates slowly. Like she's talking to a child. “I literally screamed at the top of my lungs that you were making me cum. The security guard on the ground floor heard it.”
“Maybe,” you shrug, but you’re already lifting her leg before you can think better of it. Lips meeting her ankle, her calf, once again well on your way to making Chaewon’s pretty little head let go of every thought that isn’t what you’re doing to her at this very moment. “Probably.”
And it’s when you get to her knee, and lower, further down, where she’s let herself get so wet and shiny and messy, and now that she’s quivering again, there’s no going back.
Your teeth graze along the inside of her thigh, your lips drag achingly slow, stopping short of where she needs you to be. “But no one on this floor did.”
Chaewon blinks. Stares at you, adorably annoyed. Happily frustrated that you’re back to torturing her.
“Told everyone to go home after you arrived. So, we’re in the clear. No one here but us.”
A myriad of emotions flash across Chaewon’s painfully pretty features. Relief, amusement, disbelief. Awe.
But also—disappointment.
Because here’s the real rub, the truth of the matter. The thing she’d only admit to in some darkened room; or scream into your hand, or a pillow, or, in this case, a stack of overdue paperwork.
Chaewon lives for this shit, as much as you do.
The thrill, the rush of almost getting caught, the addiction to having an audience.
Yeah, it’d probably make her cum buckets if someone was to witness the exact moment you actually break her.
And you can already see the gears turning in her head, thinking of the next time you’ll push her past her boundaries, raise the stakes, maybe forget to evacuate a floor before nailing her to the closest hard surface.
Find out just how much of a good girl she really is for you.
But for now she just smiles up at you. Lets the thought churn inside her. Simmering, then boiling, and then getting exponentially hotter, wetter; moans tumbling out of her lips until all that’s left is for her to accept that—
“Oh, you’re the worst.”
You quite readily accept your punishment for your crimes on her body; the individual counts against her cunt and her lips and her ass. Serve out your term between her legs, starting it off with a lick that passes the entirety of her pussy.
Bringing the two of you right back to the beginning, where her hands are threading into your hair and you’re putting your mouth to good use and making her go from hushed to panting to whining, and again she’s close to shattering into a million tiny pieces because fuck.
She really, really does make it so easy.
Easy to keep going, even when you're mentally and physically spent; even when she's lost all fight in her, can't even summon the strength to beg a little more, to plead for you to make it hurt better.
Easy to fuck—to make love to her.
To fall for her.
You don’t think you could ever stop, you don’t think she’d ever let you. No, even when the moment shifts, and you’re switching up gears, and you have her spread out over the comfort of your couch instead of your rigid office desk, she still is, and will always be, yours to play with.
And it's Chaewon’s eyes going soft, her arms wrapping around your neck, and she’s holding you tight, holding you like a lifeline.
Her voice is simply gone, no more declarations, but she’s already said all she needs to. Let you in on this quiet need inside her. This gentle craving. For something like this.
For someone like you.
You kiss her.
It’s different.
Take your time—you’re too drained to rush.
Just sink back into Chaewon, fall into her light kisses against your cheek, whispers of what you swear sound like three dangerous words, but you’re too tired to make them out.
Just embrace her, embrace the girl that could have anything, be anything she wants to be, but for some reason has chosen to be yours. Let your fingers run over her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and lower.
Lose yourself in her, in this unholy silence that’s gradually being cut into by her gasps and her moans, and—
You pause.
Shush Chaewon.
Hear the low hum of a vacuum right outside your door.
“Ah. Shit. Cleaners.”
A scant thought crosses your mind.
"You think they heard?"
Chaewon smiles. Shrugs.
Somehow finds one last sliver of energy to adjust herself beneath you.
"Maybe," she's whispering. Reaching out to touch you. Rolling her hips. Making you throb. "Probably."
And now she's grinning, and you can feel it in your chest. That thrill that never really went away, the chase you can't quite escape from.
It's against your better judgment, but you're already surfacing these ideas, the things you could do to her; how creative you could really get in your office—just hoisting her up on her feet and pressing her against the walls and fucking her into the glass until she's leaving an imprint.
“Oh, you’re an idiot,” Yunjin decides, stealing yet another one of your fries. “My best friend is an idiot.”
You pull the bowl out of her reach, feeling the need to defend yourself, “You're really calling me an idiot because—”
“Because you have the completely insane opinion that jerking yourself off is better than getting a blowjob. What is wrong with you?”
“They’re overrated! Number of times I’ve cum from a blowjob—zero. Number of times I’ve cum from my own hand—probably thousands!”
“Okay, first—gross, and second—you’re not just an idiot. You are a sad, sad man.”
“I’m just being honest!”
Yunjin reaches over, snatches yet another fry. Waves it in front of your face, judging you, before reaching some kind of consensus in her unreasonably pretty head. “You only think that because you've never had a good one.”
“I've had plenty.”
Yunjin's eyes narrow. She crunches.
You swallow hard.
“But you've never had one from me.”
—
Look, you’re pretty sure Yunjin’s full of shit. You’ve known her forever, you’re well versed in her bullshitting ways—she’s got a penchant for stretching out the truth until it’s as elastic as the underwear strap that she just loves to leave sticking out of her jeans.
So, yeah. The girl likes to exaggerate. It’s kind of her job anyway. Make things seem bigger, more dramatic than they really are. Sell the idea of heaven in a three-minute pop song. Sweet lies from lips painted to perfection.
Plump, glossy, pillowy-soft lips that you’ve seen pout and purse and get trapped between her teeth or swiped over by her tongue and—
You get the picture.
“Seriously, the bathroom?” You’re asking, and honestly, you’re trying to give her an out. Waiting for her to take it back, reveal that this is all just an extremely unfunny prank, designed to needle you, make you blush and maybe get a good story to embarrass you in front of her friends with. How she left the silly, naïve hometown boy with his pants around his ankles and his dick in his hand.
Any time now, she’ll point and laugh and make you feel like even more of a fucking idiot when she says, ‘I can’t believe your dumb ass actually followed me in here expecting a blowjob,’ and that’ll be the end of it.
Really. Any time now.
And yet.
Silence as she closes the door behind her, which you feel the need to break with, “Come on, Yunjin, you don’t have to prove anything—"
Yunjin cuts you off—“Oh, but I want to.”
She spins on her heels to face you. Presses her back flush against the door. She turns the lock.
Something in the room shifts.
Her posture, maybe, or more specifically something in her legs. The way she’s angled herself so that your eyes are drawn to their long creamy expanse, up to the tightness of her thighs, and the way they frame the juncture in between.
Or it’s in the drop of one single shoulder; her half-zipped hoodie sliding down to reveal a sliver of smooth neck, the falling strap of her tank-top, the gentle swell of her chest.
Or maybe it’s just the tilt of her head, her lips all pouty and perfect, and oh, now she’s unzipping the jacket further down and she’s watching you find out in real time that she’s left her midriff bare and uncovered and holy shit her abs are ridiculous and your brain is blue-screening—
This isn’t the Yunjin you know.
The friend, the confidant, the embarrassingly loud chatterbox who raids your fridge and roasts your clothes and has a running commentary on every single woman that enters and very quickly leaves your orbit.
Each ticking second, each subtle movement, she’s starting to look less and less like the girl from your childhood and more and more like the idol that everyone else seems desperate to worship.
She takes a step forward.
Your mouth feels paper-dry.
You lie, “Can’t say you’re off to a great start, then.”
Yunjin raises a perfect brow, and yeah, she doesn’t buy that shit for a second. “What, were you expecting somewhere with a little more ambiance?”
“Well, you’re setting yourself up for failure here,” you retort, some defence mechanism causing you to try to keep things casual, bring it back to more familiar, banter-heavy waters. “Toilets aren’t really a turn-on for me.”
“Didn’t take you for a romantic,” she teases, but something about her tone—light, playful, less biting than usual, sends you in a tailspin. Your mind grinds to a halt when you realise why. She’s not simply teasing. She’s flirting. And she’s taking another step.
“What can I say, I’m a love before lust kind of guy.”
Yunjin just laughs, something foreign and a little bit wicked. Forces a chill down your spine that you can’t quite explain. She makes those final steps, closing the distance, backing you up against the row of sinks, and—fuck.
She stops right in front of you. Your heart races. You think she can hear it thump.
“Am I making you nervous?” She asks, and it’s all kinds of fucked because now you’re seeing the details; the flecks of honey-brown escaping the coloured contacts that make her eyes pop, the curls at the end of her lashes, reaching out to touch the fluorescent lights overhead. “The thought of my pretty lips wrapped around you putting you on edge?”
And you really thought you knew her mouth; but now she’s jutting out her bottom lip, and it’s fuller than you remembered. As dangerously red as her hair, and Jesus Christ you catch the tremble in them when her eyes flicker down for just a brief instant—right before they return to yours.
She grins.
You aim for unaffected. You miss the mark by a wide margin. "Just don’t want to disappoint you. Putting all this effort in only to be proven wrong by me. Again.”
Yunjin gives you a pitying sigh in response, the sound all honey and smoke, and she makes you flinch when she barely has to move a muscle to place a single finger on your sternum.
She draws a lazy circle on your chest. You hate that you shiver.
“Something tells me that won't be the case,” she’s saying, whisper-quiet now. The circle she’s drawing gets wider, turns into a spiral, and now she’s massaging into your chest, a hand over your heart, and her fingers are getting higher until they’re up to your shoulder, and she’s leaning in so her breath is hot on your neck, and—“It’s going to be filthy. Sloppy. A fucking mess. You’ll never be the same. I’m going to bring you to your knees.”
“I thought the whole idea of this was for you to be kneeling in front of me,” you manage, by some miracle, to keep your voice steady. “Seems like you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”
“All in due time,” she answers, getting her body closer, and you can feel your worser impulses start to involuntarily close the gap between your waists. “I’m not like those other girls. I’m not going to just jump right on your cock and bounce up and down for two minutes. I think you’ve earned yourself a little torture.”
“Then you’re wasting your time.”
“We’ll see about that,” she chides, and her other hand starts to skate down your chest, lower and lower until it stops just short of your pants. Her thumb digs into your waistband. Tugs. Does nothing else.
And maybe there's something there. The denial. The torture. The helplessness. Coming from someone who's always been a little bossy, who you've always let get her way because, hell, she's Yunjin, and she always promised that in the end she'd make it so nice for you.
You’re not sure if you want to find out.
“Yunjin—”
“Don’t be afraid,” she giggles, breaking you out of whatever spell has kept you frozen in place this entire time. “Go ahead, you can touch me too, if you want.”
But it's just as you reach out for her that you’re caught.
Yunjin traps one of your wrists in her grasp, causing you to freeze up all over again. Brings your hand to her mouth. Let’s her eyes flit once—to your face—and again—to your thumb.
She sucks.
Slow, deep, her tongue swirling around the digit as it disappears past her lips and into the warmth of her mouth. Vibrates a ridiculously filthy moan into your knuckle, convincing you for a second that your thumb must be delicious, must be something really fucking sweet for her to be slurping on it like this.
She pulls away, just enough to let the sticky wetness left behind glisten in the light.
Her lips bless the pad. “You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”
And then the next finger; and yeah, you’re transfixed—fascination, horror, painful straining as she does the same dance with your forefinger. Deep, deeper than the thumb could reach, until your nail is scraping at the back of her throat and—
It pops out of her mouth as quick as it entered, and you feel it in your core—the sudden absence. “You’re thinking about it—thinking I might be right. Realising that if I can do this to your fingers—”
You can’t bring yourself to argue. Can’t even bring yourself to speak. You’re too busy watching her mouth, too busy watching your middle finger go all the way in, push down into her throat and holy fuck, she doesn’t even gag.
“It’d feel so much better than anything you ever had. Ever even imagined,” she says, and she’s kissing up and down your finger, staining it fire-engine red. “See, the problem wasn’t that you don’t like blowjobs. It’s that you never once gotten one from a mouth this eager for you.”
And finally, when her teeth graze the tip of your ring finger, and you’re expecting the warmth of her lips once more, she stops.
Grinds her hip into you, forcing you to stab into her abs, and it’s unavoidable now—the pressure of your cock, ready to tear itself out of your jeans and just feel her. Her touch. Her cunt. Her mouth.
She feels it too. Arches her eyebrow—‘I told you so’ on her lips prepped and ready.
You wait under the heat of her gaze, trying not to look because you really don't want to give her the satisfaction. But fuck it’s hard. Each breath feeling like it’s being siphoned out of you, replaced with the scent of her—sweet, suffocating. Intoxicating.
But your eyes turn traitor. And it’s a mistake.
Yunjin squeezes your wrist, steals your attention. Takes your ring and pinkie fingers into her mouth. Pushes them past her lips at the same goddamn time.
Your mind goes completely, utterly blank.
She sucks on them hard, drawing them deep past her lips, devouring them, like they’re the last two drops of water in the desert and she’s just been dying of thirst. Holds your eyes hostage, needing an audience to watch as she makes a show of it; moaning around them, tongue rolling over and around your digits and you’re receiving the message loud and clear—‘You have no idea what you’re in for.’
You feel your knees start to give out.
Your fingers are soaked with her saliva, and the sounds she’s making—deep, throaty, fucking obscene—your body’s being hijacked, all your blood redirected to one painfully obvious place.
It occurs to you that you should just give up now. Tell her she’s proven her point. Your heart’s racing, your chest is tightening, your breath is coming in ragged, desperate bursts. Just tell her you believe her and jump straight to the part where she does her victory dance on top of your cock
If only.
Yunjin sets your fingers free with a smack of her lips, but the heat of her mouth still clings to your skin, lingering with the wetness of her tongue, the promise of something so much better. She kisses a trail around your palm, over the back of your hand, around your wrist.
And then she’s on her toes, and she’s leaning her body into you, using your shoulder for support. Marking your neck, nose nuzzling against the stubble, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around her waist. Pull her closer, give her tongue access to your jaw, your cheek, anywhere she wants.
Her teeth line the bottom of your ear, and she sucks gently at your earlobe, and you swear to fucking God it makes your balls tingle.
She bites. “By the end of this, you’re going to be begging.”
Gets closer still, nestles herself into your embrace, presses her tits against your chest. It's divine, the feeling of her against you, in your arms. So right. A body so tight; slender and grace and so happy to have your arms wrapped around her, so delighted that you've discovered the perfect home for your fingers, because she would absolutely hate to have them anywhere else. On anyone else.
"You won't be able to resist me," she tells you, her breath hot on your skin, making it rise up in goosebumps. And you just nod along, because what could be better than the way she's touching you, the heat she's offering, the things you can already picture her lips doing?
And that’s when she lays it on you—her true endgame in all of this teasing:
“You’re going to want it so badly, you’re going to call me Mommy.”
You nearly push her right off you.
Yunjin just stares straight at you. Dead serious. Heat, intent, fucking determination set upon her awfully pretty features.
“I’m older than you, you know.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out strained when Yunjin presses herself into you again, and her tongue starts to trace the shell of your ear, and her hand starts to work at your zipper. Touching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s done it so many times before. Like she’s going to do it so many times again.
“It’s a state of mind, baby,” and she smirks, and there’s a challenge in there. Two doors—try to prove her wrong and walk away, keep your dignity intact. Or just let go, get rid of your pride and fall into a pair of the most tempting, talented, sinful lips that have ever graced your skin.
You don't even get a second to decide.
Her hand’s already at your throat, pulling you close. You let her. Make it easy. Taste the sweetness of her breath, getting a split second to crave her tongue before finally meeting it. Her mouth crashes into yours, and you’re gone.
You kiss her back, breathe her in. Welcome her tongue past your teeth, let it stroke yours, dance in a way that’s far too right for a first time, and it's crazy how she just fits.
She feels, smells, tastes like everything good.
You settle into the reality that this might be the last—only—chance you get.
Face it, you’ve always known who she is—undeniable, goddamn gorgeous, sexy, hot, plain and simple. But this? This is different. You’ve watched it. Yunjin on stage, wearing next to nothing, hips rolling in sync with a thrumming bass, eyes fucking the hell out of the cameras. And you’ve fantasised about it. But it's always felt so fucking far-fetched. She's always felt so impossibly out of reach.
Intangible, since the day she debuted. Ascended to some place that you could never join.
But now.
She’s come back down, just for this. Just to reclaim something that's always been hers.
She moans something nice into your mouth when she feels you pushing back against her. Her hand finally dips beneath your waistband. Finds you eager. Desperate.
But then she pulls away.
Eyes widen, fucking laughs.
“Oh, you’re such an asshole.”
You blink. “What?”
She reaches back, hands careful. Like she’s defusing a bomb. Her fingers peel down the zipper of your pants, and then yank down the stretched-out cotton of your briefs, and you’re set free.
Hard. Aching. Throbbing.
Hers.
“Asshole,” she repeats.
You don’t even know what the fuck.
“Christ, it suddenly makes sense,” she says to herself, but doesn’t bother elaborating. No, instead, she just reaches back down, wraps her fingers around you and gives you a little squeeze. Tests the water. Feels the way your cock jumps under her touch.
Your knuckles turn white against the sink behind you, and Yunjin smiles again when she realises you’re going to let her do whatever she wants.
And so her hand starts moving. Slowly. Gently.
She kisses you again, for just a moment, and then lower, and lower. Stroking you as she maps her way down your body with her lips. Feather-light against your skin, touch hot on your cock, dragging it out, building the anticipation.
Stopping when she’s on her knees. Breathing on your cock.
You hiss in a breath.
Yunjin lets go. Takes off her jacket. Tightens her ponytail. Blinks up at you. And fuck. Her chin tipped just so. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes alone making you strain.
Her lips part, and you find yourself nodding before she even says a single word.
“I’m going to take care of you now,” she whispers into your skin, kissing into your thigh. It’s warm, soft, wet. Excruciating. She’s so close to where you need her mouth to be, but so fucking far.
Her fingers trace patterns up and down your shaft, dancing over your cock. Not touching, never. Just teasing. Torment that has you squirming, and she’s basking in it, tracking every twitch, loving every desperate gasp.
“You’re mine,” Yunjin mutters, as her mouth travels up your thigh, and your muscles start to shake. You could just grab her, it’d be so easy. Just take her by the hair, force her to give you want you want. But something stops you. Afraid of breaking this moment. Anticipating what’s to come.
Your oxygen's running low, barely breathing, can’t stop yourself from panting when her teeth scrape along your hipbone, and your cock jumps in response, nearly slapping her right in the face.
But fuck, Yunjin’s a sadist. She kisses around your waist, her tongue darting out to taste your skin, exhaling hot and steamy air against your balls. You're dripping, beading at the tip, and it’s all so, so obvious.
The wait is agony. Pure agony.
Yunjin gives you a small mercy. Her hand wraps around you again, and for an instant you’re terrified that the touch alone would be the end of it.
But thankfully, you outlast. Yunjin strokes you lightly, her grip firm but gentle. Loving. Wresting control over you, your cock. So fucking hard already, you’re surprised you haven’t torn the sink off the wall yet.
And then, oh fuck, she’s kissing closer. Your abs, your belly button. Lower, lower, breath hot on your cock, closer, closer, please.
You can’t take it anymore. You need her. You need this.
“Yunjin,” and any other time you would hate yourself for how embarrassingly needy it comes out.
“Admit you were wrong,” Yunjin says, and you’re ready to scream it, tell her you’ve never been more wrong about anything in your entire life. Anything to feel her lips. “Admit that there’s no way your hand could ever be better than this.”
“Yes,” you grit out, and it’s a fucking miracle you can form words at all. “You were right. I was wrong.”
She’s baring teeth now, and her lips are ghosting over your cock head and you just need her.
“Please.”
“Say it.”
“I can't—”
“Do it.”
“Mommy.”
And then—
Her mouth is on you.
Wet, hot, heaven. Taking you in slow, eyes paying attention to your every flinch, the agonising twists across your face. Trained on all your strained reactions. Savouring it. Reading you like a book—every page turned with a flick of her tongue, every paragraph devoured with a swirl of her cheeks.
Slow, so slow. Deliberate. Perfect suction. Just enough to make your toes curl, to have your hips buck in her mouth. Convincing you that everything before, everything you ever had, whatever you believed was a blowjob—was all a fucking lie.
No one ever felt like this.
Your fingers release the sink, find their natural place in her hair, threading through the red, letting it knot around your digits. And there's the urge again. Tug, pull, make her go faster, make her understand that she’s already won so you might as well fuck without abandon, but you don’t dare. You don’t want to ruin this. Not when she seems so satisfied.
Cheeks hollowing out with every suck, smiling around your cock, basking in some kind of pleasure you can’t even comprehend—because she’s the one doing the giving here.
And then when she sinks, finally pushes your cock to the back of her throat and further down. Presses her nose to your waist and holds you there. Stealing your breath, the air from your lungs, forcing a deep, guttural ‘Fuck’ from your gut.
You reach your conclusion. Her lips are made for this. Made to fit around your cock perfectly, to slide up and down with the fucking unapologetically sloppy noises that make the room spin. That it’s only her throat that can take you deeper than you ever thought possible, that can constrict and tighten around you so nice. That no other mouth could be this warm, hot, welcoming, fucking right.
She pulls back. A long, long draw that leaves a fucking mess. Globs of spit, drool, pre-cum hanging off your cock, from her lips.
“This poor, poor cock,” she sighs, like it’s such a great tragedy. “Never had anyone treat it right. Like the treasure it is.”
She shows you what she means, demonstrates how to properly worship your cock. Lips brushing along your shaft, pecking gentle kisses along your length, tongue snaking out to lick off her own spit.
Her hand slides under your balls, cupping them, balancing them in her palm. Holding them in place when she points your cock up so she can duck underneath. Nuzzle her nose into your waist, lap her tongue at your base, get her lips right where you’re most sensitive.
Pleasing you like she’s always wanted to. Making you believe that maybe she has. Maybe this is something she’s been thinking about all this time; every time she’s seen you, seen the way you looked at her, heard you tell stories of the other women that only ever disappointed you with their mouths.
Not knowing that she was the one that could make you fucking levitate this entire time.
“This was always going to happen,” Yunjin says. Starting to stroke you again, her grip a little tighter this time, a little more possessive. Looking up at you through her lashes, red lipstick smudged off the corner of her mouth. “One way or another, I was always going to have this.”
And her tongue is everywhere. Laving around the base of your cock, making you feel it all the way to your toes. Not done with the teasing, the unbearably slow burn that’s going to drive you insane.
Her mouth opens wide. She takes one of your balls into her mouth. Surrounds it in soft, wet heat. Sucking—not hard, not yet, just enough. Enough to make you bite down and grind your teeth. Squeeze your eyes shut—not that it even helps. You can feel her tongue rolling around, coating your balls in a warm stickiness. Soothing. Torturous. So fucking good.
She lets out a soft hum, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge.
Yunjin lets go with a pop, and you swear you can hear your soul sigh in relief and despair. “God, this cock,” she murmurs, “Wish you had told me, shown it to me sooner.”
The way she says it—like you could even fathom what you’ve been missing out on. Years of this? Years of her mouth on you? Years of her making you feel like the only thing that matters in this fucking world is impaling your cock into the most insanely hot and wet and tight hole you’ve ever felt?
The look on Yunjin’s face answers every single question for you.
Yes. Yes to all of it.
“Could have been doing this every fucking day,” she muses, and you let out some choked gasp, and her lips are kissing into your slit again. Then her tongue, then lower, and she’s taking you deep. So deep you’re pretty sure you can feel her fucking heartbeat through her throat.
She holds you there. One, two, three. Letting her tongue drool down your shaft, letting it drip over your balls and splash down between her knees.
Pulls back, lets go, catches her breath.
Spits on your cock.
“Imagine,” she speaks, even though her mouth is a fucking disaster, lips swollen, just a glossy smudge of red. “Just waking up to me sucking this, getting it all nice and hard and throbbing.”
It’s not difficult at all to see it. You can feel it. Tongue flattening against the underside of your cock, the swallow as she’s taking you in, the cheeks fixing around the edges with each bob. Just so fucking messy. Soaking your cock, letting these garbled, choked, slick, filthy noises echo off the bathroom walls.
“This would ruin me, you know that don’t you? Ruin my cunt,” she tells you. “Ruin Mommy’s tight little cunt so fucking nicely.”
“Fuck you, Yunjin,” is the best you can muster, which is impressive considering your brain cells are dying off one by one from the lack of oxygen.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’d love that.”
“Of course I would,” you admit, and then continue admitting, “I’ve always fucking wanted to.”
“I know,” Yunjin admits back, and that sets her off. Her mouth goes to work again, your cock disappearing into her, her hand getting just that little bit faster, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s got it all wrong.
She’s the one that’s going to ruin you. Going to make you forget every other orgasm you ever had.
There'll be no room for anything in your head but just thoughts of fucking her. Raw, rough; again and again until she's completely filled up with you and even then.
“Been dreaming of it,” you groan out, as Yunjin’s pace builds, and there’s the beginning of tears lining her eyes, and she’s gagging more often than not, and it compels you to keep telling her, “Been dreaming of your tight fucking body. What I’d do to get my hands on that slutty little waist. Just dig in my fingers and pound into that cunt. God I know it would feel so good.”
Deeper and deeper, until she doesn’t even need to use her hands anymore. Just to steady your legs, to keep you still while she fucks your cock with her throat.
And it’s these images you’re drawing up in her mind. How you’d pay her back, how you’d make her scream, how’d you do the same to her and more. Wreck her with your cock until she never seeks another again. Make sure that her lips, her cunt, her body belong to only you. That’s what’s driving her now, making her eyes water, making her cheeks go red and her throat bulge.
That’s what has her hand snaking down between her thighs, forcing open the button of her shorts, stretching the waistband of her panties to their limits. Just so she can touch herself. To feed into the heat building in her cunt and the wetness leaking down her legs.
You can feel her, mouth tightening around you as she teases herself. Feel the accidental swipe of her teeth when it gets too much. She’s rubbing her clit in circles, matching the tempo of her bobbing head.
Fuck, the sight alone.
Hand disappearing into her shorts, getting down and into herself, and she’s so fucking pretty, even when her face is scrunched up in the worst of pleasures, even when she’s choking on your cock.
And you think there’s laughter around the gags, or at least a smile against your skin when you throb, jerk, fuck her mouth. She’s enjoying this. The power, the pleasure she can wrench from you. You’re getting off, sure, but it’s all for her. All to prove her point.
And she’s fucking winning.
“Tell me,” she gurgles when she’s at your head, mouth bubbling at the corners with a cocktail mix of her sloppiness and your arousal. “Tell me how good it feels.”
“Shit, Yunjin, it feels—”
“Actually, fuck that, tell me it’s better,” Yunjin decides, and she seems so fucking pleased with herself that you want to hate her. But it’s so hard to deny those big fucking eyes that anchor you to the ground, those ridiculously plump lips that suck any argument right out of your throat. “Better than your hand. Better than any other mouth. Tell me it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to your cock. Be a good boy and tell me I’m better.”
You groan, or whimper, or cry, or make some noise that makes Yunjin just so fucking ecstatic, makes her swoon and nearly come apart on her own fingers. “So much fucking better, Yunjin. Jesus, your lips. Perfect for this. Perfect, cock-sucking lips. Hot mouth. Your fucking throat taking me so nice.”
“Use it,” Yunjin opens her mouth, stretches her lips as far as they'll go, showing you, sticking out her tongue and giving you an insight into your own end. “Use it like the toy it’s always been for you. Fuck it, fuck me. Use my lips, my mouth, my throat. Make me choke until you think I can't take it and then give me even more.”
“You’re fucking insane.”
“And you’re about to make a mess.”
Yeah, you’re properly doomed.
God it’s so fucking cruel. How Yunjin doubles down, mouth swallowing you whole. So fast and deep that you don’t understand how you’re still on your feet. Just watching her throat pulse, convulse, her eyes bulge when you rut inside her and she just won’t stop.
“You’re so fucking good, Yunjin, so good, you’re a—fuck—you’re a—” Only one word comes straight to mind, "Cumslut."
Yunjin preens. Looks up, lashes fluttering. Sounding so girly that it makes everything seem even more debauched and depraved. “Aren’t I? Aren’t I so good for you?”
You grunt out, “You already fucking know.”
Yunjin’s hand returns to the fold, jerking your cock into her lips, because your own personal catastrophe’s on the horizon. It’s coiling in your balls, tightening up, a spring ready to snap.
And, oh, how Yunjin would love to be the one that snaps it.
“You’re not going to be able to go back. Never. No one else will be able to take this big fucking cock like this. No one can be as much of a cumslut for you.”
You’re fucking falling apart. Yunjin’s mouth is a vice. Hot, heavenly, sloppy vice that’s squeezing the last drops of sanity from your brain. She just keeps fucking doing it—taking you so deep until your cock’s lost down her throat, over and over again. And it’s building and getting closer and closer to disaster and every nerve ending in your body is just begging for release.
“Give in,” she slurs around your girth, barely coherent, mouth full of you. Pumping your cock faster, until it’s throbbing and aching so desperately and angrily, and her words are sounding nicer and nicer with every passing beat. “Give up. Give me that cum. All of it. Cum for me. Make Mommy happy. Give me what I want. Give me what I need. Give me—”
“Shut the fuck up and take it—”
“Be a good boy and beg—”
“Fuck you—”
You’re straining, for the first time lifting your hips off the sink and falling into her. Hands holding onto her head—and now her hair is just a handlebar, and you're riding her mouth for dear life, fucking into it like she doesn't have a choice. Using her, making her take you, over and over, again and again, and she’s just so happy to keep fingering herself into oblivion while you lose all tempo and pace and forcefully, clumsily wreck her throat.
Until you’re just seeing red.
Red of her hair, her lips. Red smudged up and down your cock and against your waist and all over your fucking fingers.
And then—
“Fuck you—Mommy!”
You can see it in her eyes.
You can feel it in every nerve ending.
You can taste it in the air.
It’s harsh, mean, rough. Pounding into her mouth, stretching her throat, until her nails are digging into your thighs and you’re shaking, twitching, fucking—
Cumming.
You empty yourself into her. Yunjin doesn’t flinch. She takes it. Every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum. Swallows it down with a greedy gulp, again and again, until she can’t swallow anymore.
It gushes out of her mouth.
A thick rope that she can’t quite keep up with that paints those gorgeous fucking lips. Her cheeks and chin. Drips down to her neck. So fucking beautiful. Covered with your cum all over her face, and now down to her shoulder, her collarbone, and oh you’ve ruined her entire slutty outfit.
“God, fuck, Yunjin—”
And she’s dropping her pussy down onto her fingers, panting around your cock, around mouthfuls of your cum. Working her clit in quick, sharp movements until it’s just your hand tangled in her hair that’s keeping her upright.
This fucking image of her.
Mouth full of you, swallowing, choking, gagging. So fucking obscene you can’t look away. Eyes rolled back into her skull, cheeks are flaming, and she’s so shiny and wet and glazed over, and just a complete fucking mess for you.
You can’t imagine anything better.
It leaves you reeling. Standing there with your cock still out. Shaking from aftershocks that you’re not sure will ever end. Trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, eyes blurring back into clarity while you watch Yunjin return to life.
“Good boy,” she breathes, but it’s hardly smug. It’s just pure victory.
She opens her mouth. Smiles so wide. Shows you her prize. Shows you the mess she’s made, shows you everything. Moans at the taste of it, as she absorbs your flavour into her tongue. Completely dazed, mouth fucked to hell, and just strung-out and drunk on your cum. She finds the energy to swipe her tongue around her teeth, cleaning the best she can. She barely makes a dent.
And you’re still hard. Still fucking throbbing.
Her eyes never leave yours. She wants you to see.
She grins, and you're already expecting it, the victory speech. Something no doubt flirty and teasing and completely fucking filthy that will make you want to throw her over the sink and punish her tight, drenched cunt until she's the one begging and calling you Daddy.
Only, that all gets tossed out when you hear someone banging on the bathroom door.
“Everything okay in there?”
The sudden intrusion brings everything back into focus, seizes you back into a reality outside of Yunjin's cum-stained lips.
You clear your throat.
“I’m sorry, it’s my,” and you look down and Yunjin’s beaming up at you. Looking so perfect, kneeling on the cold tiles. Streaks of your cum hanging off her chin. She blows you a kiss. “My girlfriend. Just needed some immediate attention.”
And Yunjin decides to up the ante, leaning back into you. Snaking her arms around your thigh. Kissing into where you’re still so ridiculously sensitive. And then licking and sucking and—
It takes an impossible amount of effort to not scream at the top of your lungs. “We’ll be out soon, just need a couple—”
Yunjin shakes her head. Shows you both hands. Flashes all fingers.
“Ten—”
Shakes her head once more. Flashes again.
“Twenty?”
Yunjin nods.
“Twenty minutes.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, and you realise that this is all fucking out of control and completely unbelievable.
But still.
Yunjin’s tongue is setting you on fire, and God she’s kissing up higher, rising to her feet and she's covering every inch of your skin that she has yet to leave her mark.
You whisper-shout at her, “They’re going to break this door down.”
Yunjin laughs, and there’s no way whoever is outside the bathroom doesn’t hear it.
She removes her ruined top. Lets her bra fall to the ground. Steps out of her drenched panties. She looks like perfection.
“That’s fine,” she says, and she’s taking a hold of you, kissing you, and you can taste yourself on her lips and fuck, she’s winning again—“But you’re going to break me first.”
“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.
Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”
“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”
“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”
You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.
Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.
Accidents—yeah right.
Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it.
“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.
She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.
“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”
—
(Okay, okay, okay.
You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.
But maybe consider the following points:
1) You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;
2) Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and
3) If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.
Counterpoint:
She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)
—
Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her.
You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.
The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.
“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”
No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.
Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.
“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.
To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.
“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.
At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.
Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.
Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—
Fuck.
Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—
Again. Fuck.
“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.
“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.
“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”
That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.
It’s eerily intimate.
Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.
(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)
There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.
And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.
But it tries it’s best. You do too.
You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.
“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”
You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”
Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”
No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.
Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.
You hardly trust yourself at the moment.
“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”
Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.
Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.
(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)
—
(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”
“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.
“Dani.”
“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”
There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”
And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.
So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.
That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.
All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)
—
“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.
Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.
Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.
She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”
You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”
Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”
“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.
“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”
“She said what?”
She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”
“M-M-A. I do MMA.”
“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”
“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”
“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”
“I’m very straight.”
Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”
She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.
All perfectly normal.
Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.
Erase that thought.
“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.
You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?
It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.
The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.
“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”
It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.
She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”
“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.
“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.
Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.
Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—
“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”
Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”
“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”
You sigh, “Something like that.”
“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”
Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.
Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.
That’s all.
She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?
Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.
“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”
You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.
Correction—your room.
But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.
Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.
—
(You really should’ve seen this coming.
Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.
Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.
You read them, pretend to ignore them.
You choose not to reply.
She chooses to start sending photos.)
—
It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.
She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?
You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.
Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.
It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.
The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.
She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.
“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”
“What?” —the fuck.
“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”
“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—
You shake your head, clearing the fog.
"Not going there."
Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"
“Anywhere. With you.”
“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"
“Danielle—”
“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”
Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.
But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”
And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”
“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”
“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”
Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.
Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.
The towel holds on for dear life.
—
It all goes to shit in a matter of days.
Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.
Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.
(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)
Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.
She wants you, badly.
You want her too.
It’s all you think about.
So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.
You know he’s right.
And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.
You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.
You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.
No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.
A moan from down the hall.
Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.
You push open your door.
Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.
Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.
Crying out your name.
It’s game over.
Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.
Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.
“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.
Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.
You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.
You shouldn’t look.
You should turn around.
You should do anything but stay.
But you don’t.
You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.
Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”
She keeps going.
One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.
The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.
But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.
Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.
And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.
Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same.
“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.
She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.
“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.
“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.
“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”
You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.
Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”
And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”
Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”
You repeat. “Stop.”
She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”
“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.
Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.
“Stop and let me.”
Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”
You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.
Nothing like this.
Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.
Make her come apart in your fucking hands.
The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”
You start small.
A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.
She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.
You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.
“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”
A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.
“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.
But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.
Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.
Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.
She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.
Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.
“Right—yes—fuck!”
Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.
Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.
All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”
“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.
It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.
And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.
“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”
“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”
“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”
And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.
You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.
Fuck that.
Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”
The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.
“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.
“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”
“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.
“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”
You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.
“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."
“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”
A barely there—“Me?”
“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”
“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”
“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.
But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.
“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.
You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.
“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.
Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.
You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.
Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—
She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.
“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.
And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.
“This is—this is too much—"
Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.
“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"
You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.
You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.
And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.
“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”
For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.
Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.
Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—
“Daddy!”
There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.
The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.
It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.
“You’re fucking—yes!”
You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.
A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.
Danielle exhales.
Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.
Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.
“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.
“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.
Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”
And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.
But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.
Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.
You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.
Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.
But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.
“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.
She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.
“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.
Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.
She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”
—
(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.
A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?
The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.
She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.
Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.
It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.
You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.
Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.
Fuck it.
It’s as good a time to drink as any.)
—
You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.
Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.
The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.
Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.
It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.
And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.
And you hate that you miss her.
Hate that you’re calling her.
She answers.
“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.
You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”
“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.
“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”
Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”
There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."
"You're drunk too?"
"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."
“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.
Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”
You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.
You still remember how they felt against your lips.
“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”
“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—
There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.
No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.
“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”
Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”
“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”
“I always look good.”
“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”
“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”
“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”
“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”
It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”
Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”
“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”
Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.
Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:
“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.
You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”
“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.
Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.
It’s what she wants.
“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”
“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”
Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.
“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”
It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.
And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”
“Show me.”
There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.
Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.
It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.
Fuck.
Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”
A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.
It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”
And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—
“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.
But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.
“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”
“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”
“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”
“Sweet cunt.”
“You would know.”
You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”
“Dani, please.”
“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”
Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”
“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”
Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”
“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”
You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.
There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.
Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.
Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated, and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”
“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”
Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”
A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”
The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”
This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.
“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”
“Was never much a secret.”
“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”
“Hard.”
One word and she fucking loves it.
“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”
“God!”
“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”
Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.
“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”
“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”
It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”
“You’d pull my hair too, right?”
“You wouldn’t have a choice.”
Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.
But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.
With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.
She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.
How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.
She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.
She’s just dying for release. For your permission.
“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”
“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.
She follows without question.
Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.
Fucking God, she cums hard.
You do too.
You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.
Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—
It’s a fucking masterpiece.
“Cum for me please, Daddy!”
Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.
A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.
And then it’s over.
You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.
Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.
The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.
Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.
“Fuck.”
“Tell me about it.”
She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”
“When?”
“As soon as I fucking can.”
—
(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.
The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.
It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.
And then the escalation.
Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?
Reciprocate.
Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.
And fuck, you do look.
And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.
One word.
Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.
Tomorrow.)
—
It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.
Danielle's here again.
She’s fucking back.
And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.
But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.
Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.
There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.
“You’re late.”
You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”
And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”
She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.
“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”
She’s too real now.
In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.
You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.
And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.
You do.
A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.
You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”
She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”
You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”
“Then show me.”
So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.
A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.
Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.
“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”
“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.
Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”
You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.
Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.
“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”
You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.
“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.
And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.
“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”
You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”
To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”
You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”
“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”
But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.
Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.
But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.
And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.
It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”
“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.”
Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”
That’s an unfair callback.
Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.
You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.
"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”
Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”
“And pull your hair.”
“Then go ahead and do it.”
But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.
Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”
She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.
All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.
She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.
“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.
Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.
“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”
A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.
Her moan.
You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.
So fucking nice.
“God—fuck—finally—”
Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.
Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.
It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.
She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.
It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”
A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.
“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”
You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”
“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.
“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”
Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.
Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”
And then just—
“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”
But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.
Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.
It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.
Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”
A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.
“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.
So you give her another.
A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.
Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.
And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.
Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.
“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"
You smack her again.
And again.
And again.
Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.
It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.
Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.
There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.
“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.
You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.
You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”
And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.
“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”
It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.
But she’s wrong.
You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.
“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.
Locked in place, cumming.
Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.
And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.
She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.
But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.
You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.
“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.
Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.
“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.
There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.
Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.
“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.
Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”
She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.
So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.
Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.
“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.
“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”
She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.
“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”
Yeah.
Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.
Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.
You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.
And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”
“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.
Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.
It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.
Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.
She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”
Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.
Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.
“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”
Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.
“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”
“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.
It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.
Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.
And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.
You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.
Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.
“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”
You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.
“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”
Christ, this is going to become a problem.
You can never go back.
Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.
To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.
“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”
“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”
Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.
She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.
You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.
But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
You do hear your name.
“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”
She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.
Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"
Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.
Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.
And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.
Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.
Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.
Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.
And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.
But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.
You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.
“Told you we’d be perfect together.”
“You told me a lot of things.”
Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”
"I said that."
"And yet here I am, voice still intact."
You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.
Anything to keep her here.
Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.
You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”
Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”
—
Again, there’s the kiss.
Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.
And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.
You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.
She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."
"Really?"
Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."
And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.
Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.
"Of course, I'll remember that."
"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."
Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"
Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."
"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."
"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."
"Even more than you already are?"
Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"
And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.
To the winner, goes the spoils.
Everything she wants, everything she needs.
With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.
She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.
“At least let a girl earn it first.”
And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.
Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.
“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”
Go ahead, try and pretend like you’re not obsessed.
Like you’re not bothered that it’s been weeks since you had Mina—felt the heat of her body, the silk of her skin, the sweetness of her breath on your neck.
Since you've seen that ass. Had it in your hands, spread her cheeks with your fingers, stretched her wide with your cock and left Mina in tears, crying out—
"God, I can never go back from this."
And it’s not like you haven’t been searching for opportunities; a party you’d both be invited to, another gala, some event with enough plausible deniability for when you inevitably, ‘accidentally’ bump into her again.
But for some reason, nothing seems to align.
You’ll get word that she’s in Korea, basking in a rare stretch of free time, while you’re in Hong Kong, signing deals and making promises of dubious sincerity.
You’ll be rushing to return, already planning out how you’ll steal another taste of her, another touch; only to find out she’s been whisked away again—to Japan, or Brazil, or any one of the countless countries desperate to host her.
Glimpses is all you ever truly get—paparazzi shots, magazine covers, the odd video that passes through the digital ether.
So, yeah.
You let it rest, go through the motions, try to recreate it in the aggregate. There are plenty of pretty faces, eager bodies in your orbit.
But they're all just that: bodies.
Empty shells of what you had. They don’t laugh like her, they don’t keep you on your toes like she can, they don’t look at you with the same hunger.
(They don’t say your name like Mina did.)
—
“So,” is the first word you hear from Mina. Too much time has passed, and you’ve officially given up on any pretences of nonchalance. Decided to get straight to the point with the right people and just get her number. “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t stop thinking about that night.”
“Uncharted territory and all,” you’re repeating, and there’s a beat of silence on the other line.
A deep breath, and you swear you can hear her smile. “Definitely unique.”
It’s well past midnight and you’re tired and you’re feeling unusually vulnerable, so you're admitting things you'd usually keep under lock and key. “It’s been—you’ve been stuck in my head, Mina.”
“I know the feeling,” she sighs. Just the timbre of her voice and there’s shivers down your spine. “The memory alone is still—”
You finish for her, “Vivid.”
“I was going to say really fucking hot, but yes,” she laughs. “It’s helped me through some lonely nights. Remembering how you felt inside me, everything we did together it’s—God, you have no idea.”
“I’d argue I have the entire idea. For one—the stairs,” you’re supplying, grinning to yourself, leaning back in your chair, remembering the way she clung to you. How tight she was around you, how fucking new she felt as you filled her. “You were so fucking gorgeous. Never felt anything like it.”
“And the shower,” she counters, “you had me pinned against the tiles. Couldn’t move without you fucking me deeper. Just stuck with nowhere to go but further down your cock. No one’s ever done that to me.”
“Don’t forget the kitchen,” you add, “We got pretty creative with the utensils.”
Mina giggles. You didn't know she was capable of sounding so girlish. “I’ll never look at a spatula the same.”
It’s getting dangerous, each memory rekindling the flame of a night that you’d tried to convince yourself couldn’t have been as epic as you remembered. Couldn’t have mattered so much.
And yet here you are now, letting Mina stir up thoughts of her cunt gushing down her thighs, her nipples stiffening between your teeth, her ass choking your cock, the look on her face when she came all over you—and you know she’s wading through the very same set of flashbacks.
“Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that garden. Your hands are all over me, your mouth everywhere—”
“Your cunt on my tongue—”
“Your fingers in my ass—”
“Your fucking moans, Mina—”
“Wait, I need to—”
Mina stops you, and you find yourself releasing a breath you didn't even know you were holding. You think you can hear her; hear the shutting of a door, a lock turning, frantic pacing, the squeak of a bed.
Your eyes close and you're picturing it now—Mina, laid back on pure white sheets, sprawled out like a Goddess. It's all there, crystal clear. Fingers dancing over her collarbones, tracing the delicate line of her neck down to the swell of her breasts.
Teasing herself, running her thumbs over her areola, the skin there a shade darker, a touch more sensitive. Pinching and pulling, peaks hardening into tight buds, missing the roughness of your tongue.
And then going lower, down over her ridged abs and between her toned thighs. Spreading her legs out in an invitation, toes curling into the mattress. Finding herself slick with need, so, so soaked. Dipping down to trace over her folds before sliding right into the wet heat.
Mina gasps. It's not your imagination. She moans into the phone.
You can almost taste her again.
She finds her voice. "Please, keep talking."
—
The first photo comes through the very next day.
You can intuit from the architecture in the background—the steep roofs, the brick exteriors, the gothic towers—she’s somewhere in Paris.
And there’s Mina, flat on her stomach, sheets tangled around her like the aftermath of a hurricane that’s swept through. Smiling at you straight down the barrel of the camera, cutting through the digital space between you. It’s sly and knowing and a little bit wicked, because she knows that it’s not the view of the city behind her that you’re looking at, nor is it even her face, usually so stunningly unavoidable and instantly captivating.
It's her ass.
Plump and round, poking over her shoulder, filling a whole corner of the frame. And you're spotting the indentations where your fingers have sunk in, the stretch of alabaster that your grip turned a shade of pink. A map of memories etched across the curve of her cheeks.
It’s a thousand words in a single photo, a message loud and clear, carefully composed to make you ache. So, you do. You ache.
You save the picture—not because you think you’re going to forget, but because you need to have a piece of her with you at all times.
Something to pull out when the days are too long, too dull. Something to look at when your memories of her aren’t enough anymore.
The photo, you notice, comes with a caption: ‘The only thing missing here is you.’
—
“Stability,” Mina’s telling you nights later, after you’ve spent close to an hour describing to her all the ways you’d like to have her again, like to break her down until she’s just a trembling mess of limbs and cum.
It’s a habit the two of you have picked up; these clandestine calls that come in the dead of night, during those rare occasions you’re in a reasonable enough time zone to talk. You’re actually in the same country this time. The States, but on different coasts, so, close enough.
She’s sending these breathy whispers down the phone; still coming down from her high, from the way her thighs clenched around her own hand, from the way she painted your name onto her skin with her own juices.
Still coming down from you, from the meticulously detailed step-by-step explanations of exactly what you’d do to her if you weren’t thousands of kilometres apart.
“Stability,” you repeat the answer she’s given to the question that’s been burning in your mind for weeks now. It’s certainly a faux pas to ask right after she’s made you cum across your own chest; but it’s late, and tonight’s suite is far too big and much too quiet—the kind of quiet that lets you think too much.
And so you had to ask her. Why was she still with him?
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Mina confirms. “I like stability, I like routine, I like knowing what to expect. Means I can never be disappointed.”
“Never be surprised, either,” you point out. She laughs, the sound warm and rich through the speaker.
“That’s never really been a problem.” She pauses. “Until you.”
There’s an alarm bell sounding somewhere, triggered by the way that last syllable curls around the corners of her lips, bounces across fifty different states to land in your ear.
You.
It rattles around your brain, punches you right in the gut. You try to play it off with a chuckle. But you both know what this really is. The desperation, the need. What you do to each other. How much of a fucking mess you’d make together if you had half the chance.
You make an attempt at being casual: “Apologies, then.”
“You kinda fuck everything up for me, you know?” She admits. “I was fine with it all. Leaving all of this as just a fantasy. Living with the boredom.”
“Everything’s boring.”
“Except this.”
You should really be above all this. The pining, the yearning. Having a crush.
It’s unbecoming.
Leave her alone. Leave her to the dream life she’s built up for herself. The career, the boyfriend, the whole shiny package that everyone’s decided she should want. It’d be the rational thing to do.
And yet— “So, what are we going to do about it?”
“I suppose,” Mina says, and once again, you're swearing you can hear her smile through the phone, because this is far from the end of things, “We’ll just have to find some way to scratch this itch.”
—
(It’s an outrageous abuse of power.
But so what? You’re an asshole billionaire, that’s what everyone expects of you anyway.
Besides, compared to your peers, it falls far short of bankrupting entire economies or causing irreparable damage to the Earth’s oceans and atmosphere.
So why not go full tilt and really indulge?
That’s basically the gist of your justification for forcing fate’s hand and manifesting your own ‘accidental’ meeting with Mina.
Still. It’s only a meeting.)
—
“Quite a situation you’ve engineered here,” is Mina’s first quip, as she steps right out of your daydreams and into your office.
Oh, you’ve been thinking of her.
Spent time replaying that night in your mind, revisiting the sight of her bouncing on that staircase, the feel of her soft skin slapping against yours, the sound of her sighs in your ears.
Obsessed over the messages, the photos, the videos she’s sent—how she moves, that coy smile on her face when she knows she’s got your full attention in her grip. All these mesmerising moments captured in high-definition.
And it’s coming back to you now—the waterfall of hair cascading down her shoulders, the red of her lips, the beauty spot on her nose, above her cupid’s bow—a constellation across her face.
(She makes your office feel small.)
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, aiming for flippant, but missing the mark by a wide margin.
“Mhm,” is all you’re going to get, because you both know better.
She makes herself at home here, taking the long way to your desk. Hips swaying as she runs her fingers over the décor, the lights and the statues, the books and the furniture. Again, fitting right in with the expensive, the luxurious, the exclusive.
You’re not hiding that you’re staring, and she’s not hiding that she knows either.
Mina walks right past you, turns away so you can see the full sweep of her back, the high-waisted skirt that hugs her curves before flaring out at the waist. Eventually, she stops at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, the urban sprawl below a far cry from the palatial gardens that backdropped your first encounter.
The sun’s setting overhead. It casts a warm glow over her. Outlines her figure in gold.
You break the silence, "Heard the photoshoot went well."
“Well, you get what you pay for,” is Mina’s second quip of the afternoon. She turns back to face you, leaning against the window frame, a perfect silhouette.
You can almost hear the glass tremble.
Mina asks, offhandedly, “You’ll have to enlighten me—is it standard practice for visitor passes to have access to every floor in the tower?”
“Security must be lacking.”
“Right,” Mina says. “And is it normal in your line of work, for the CEO to handpick the brand ambassadors?”
You shrug. “I like to get my hands dirty.”
“If that’s what they’re calling it,” she responds, smiling now. Pushing herself off the glass and taking a dangerous step forward.
“We were looking to appeal to our Japanese market,” you say, repeating the same lines you fed to your team, to her management, to anyone who bothered to raise an eyebrow. It’s a good lie. “Needed someone refined, someone that depicted class. Aspirational.”
Mina takes another step forward. Heels that make her legs look endless hitting the polished flooring with a click. "So that's how you see me, then."
"Amongst other, less appropriate things," you admit, already completely, hopelessly captivated.
"Let me guess: Stunning?"
"That's one."
“Fuckable.”
“Absolutely.”
“Submissive?”
“Are you asking, or telling me?”
Mina’s eyes dazzle as she closes the distance, rounding your desk and stopping just short of your chair. She waits for you to swivel and face her.
And then she leans forward, so close. Nose brushing yours, breath warm and sweet and familiar. Her hands land on your thighs, pushing your legs apart.
She drops to her knees.
“Telling.”
You can’t help yourself, you press your thumb to her lips, stamping it crimson.
It’s a wicked thing, how Mina’s bottom lip dips, how her tongue snakes out to lick the pad of your thumb clean. You push in deeper, watching as she takes you into her mouth, seals her lips around you and sucks.
How she’s looking at you now—building up this image of Mina; kneeling, the skirt riding up, her panties soaked with anticipation. Dressed like this is just another business meeting—masked in a high neckline and a smile so perfect against your skin.
That's today's game. Dress up.
Professionalism went out the window the moment she walked in—it barely crosses your mind to wonder whether or not she locked the door. You don’t even care.
Mina stops her little show, thumb pops out of her mouth with a wet sound, leaving a smear of red behind. There’s something about Mina, something that can’t be intuited unless she’s right in front of you, inhaling your exhales, smiling up at you like you're the only person in the entire world that matters.
It's like magic—makes everything and everyone else feel like a figment of your imagination.
“You forgot to mention a few other things,” Mina breathes on you, low and warm, priming you for a punchline that you know will send you reeling.
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know,” and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, reaching for the top button then— “How utterly,”
Then the next button.
“Desperately,”
More still.
“Needy,”
All of them.
“I am for your wonderful, perfect cock.”
The blouse opens up, falls away, drifts off her shoulders until it’s blood-red lace and vanilla-white skin.
Fuck.
(Mina’s not from this world, no fucking way. Definitely not human; jury’s out on if she’s some kind of Goddess. Probably something in between, come down from some place where the air is thinner and the lights are brighter.)
Your mouth is dry. “I could never forget.”
Mina’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Lips spread wide. She’s kissing your cock through your pants.
It’s electric. A long, teasing press of her lips that winds you so tight that just the slightest touch, just a single word could set you off.
Her teeth graze the fabric. You throb through the cotton.
“Mina,” you manage, hand dropping to the side of her face. There’s a tremor in your voice that you’re not used to, that you can’t even pretend to hide. Mina’s got you in the palm of her hand—or rather, on the edge of her lips—even though she’s the one on her knees.
“Relax,” she coos, holding her lips against you, deft fingers unlatching your belt, finding your zipper. “Let me take care of you. Let me take care of this cock,” honeyed words slipping out with the same ease that tugs you free, “Get my tongue all over it, take it deep down my throat, be such a good little whore for you—until you can’t think of anything but how much you want me to swallow every drop you’ve got for me, baby.”
You swallow, caress her cheek, “Darling—”
“Shh," Mina hushes, taking your cock into her hand, holding it against her cheek. So damn happy to have it so close to her mouth once again. “Everything you said over the phone. All that stuff about fucking my face, leaving a mess, filling up my throat—I want it all. You’re going to give it to me now, please.”
She doesn’t even look up at you, just so focused on your cock. Kissing around the shaft, and then drawing her tongue in one, slow, dragging lick all the way from your base, right to the tip. It’s gentle, careful, exploratory.
Introducing her lips to every inch of skin along your cock, over your balls, taking her time to stain all of you with the sheen of her kisses. Careful, so careful. Meticulous too, deep in concentration that you can almost feel her thoughts, intuit from the pressure of her lips how much this means to her. How much she needs it.
And it’s as her breath warms the head of your cock that you realise you’ve got a stranglehold on the armrest of your chair, holding it so tightly you could snap it in two. Not like there’s any helping it, nothing to do but brace yourself as she opens her mouth, pink tongue peeking out, and licks you again—longer, slower.
Holding still now, cock balanced on her tongue, fixing you with this stare.
A dare.
(Don’t move. Don’t interrupt. Let her do her work.)
That’s when her boyfriend calls.
Sorry, her partner.
A jarring noise, a slap in the face that breaks the spell. Vibrating atop your oak desk, a violent buzzing through the room—once, twice, thrice.
Mina’s eyes flick to yours. A split second, a single thought shared. There’s laughter on her lips because of course, because why the fuck not, because this is definitely your kind of chaos. You nod. You’re both in on the joke.
The phone’s still ringing, ringing, ringing.
And Mina’s mouth is still on you, tongue tickling underneath, lips wrapping around, before taking you in deep. Right as she accepts the call.
“Hmf?”
—
(A good idea to mention this theory you’ve been brewing for a while, the other reason why Mina still hasn’t broken up with boyfriend.
Because of you.
Because of how much fucking hotter it makes her. The thrill, the rush, putting a blemish on an otherwise spotless record.
And maybe you’re just as guilty—because you want to hear her lie to him too.)
—
“Still working,” is Mina’s deadpan over the phone, somehow keeping a straight face despite how full her hands are with you. She even rolls her eyes. “You know how it is—unreasonable CEOs jumping down my throat for no good reason at all.”
This woman.
Churning lies with such ease that you almost feel sorry for the poor, oblivious soul on the other end of the phone. Almost.
But Mina's too good at all of this. Too good at hiding it all. Too good at everything, really—whether it's singing, dancing, kneeling before you, making your cock disappear down her throat.
Just a slight adjustment in posture, and she’s taking you in deeper. A gentle suck, a swirl of her tongue around the ridge—and oh, the way she’s looking at you, eyes up and so damn full of mischief.
She’s fucking loving this. Loving the way you’re watching her, the way your hand finds her hair as she takes you in, the way you’re fighting to keep your composure. Fighting to keep your breath even and calm and to stop yourself from groaning so loud that it won’t just be her boyfriend, but the whole fucking tower that’s going to hear how much of a slut she is for you.
You can still hear his voice coming through—muted, indistinct—like a ghost, haunting the edges of this pornographic scene you’ve painted together.
Fuck this guy likes to talk.
“Mhm,” is all Mina has to say to keep him convinced, to let him believe that she’s actually invested in whatever the fuck he’s on about. Keeping him none the wiser that her full attention is on you, her mouth moving up and down, her eyes glued to yours, watching every twitch, every drop of pleasure that flits across your face.
She reaches up with her free hand, wrapping it around the base of your cock. Gliding along your shaft in this twisting movement that sets your nerves alight.
Everything’s just so tight—her grip, her throat, your own breath in your chest.
“Mhm,” again, longer, sounding closer and closer to a moan than a casual agreement, but still, she’s playing the part. Barely listening to what he’s saying, because she’s doing this thing with her tongue—right at the tip, flicking it around your slit—that’s making you test the strength of your chair.
There’s temptation here—her mouth so warm, so wet—it would be so easy to grab a fistful of her hair and fuck her mouth like you know she wants. But you keep your cool, keep your hand gentle and steady atop her head, let her dictate the rhythm.
And when you hear the voice over the phone rise, maybe a bit of frustration or concern, maybe the start of something suspicious, Mina shamelessly pops your cock out of your mouth and answers, “Just having a snack. Late lunch break.”
She hits the mute button.
Bows her head deep, savouring each inch as she takes you deeper, making this fucking sound when your cock hits the back of the throat. Wet, gagging, sloppy noises that build this tension right at the base of your spine that leaves you aching, absolutely desperate to just give her more.
She holds herself there, choking so nicely, so sweetly, on your cock. Her eyes start water, it’s an effort to keep them open, but she’s still smiling through it all, just so delighted to finally taste what she’s been dying to have for weeks.
You’re struggling, “Fucking hell, Mina.”
Mina giggles into your cock, vibrating along your shaft. Pulls her head back; just a rope of spit that connects the two of you, glinting under the fluorescent lights. A poke of her tongue has her scooping it all up and slurping it all down, smacking her lips with a satisfied ‘ah’.
She unmutes.
“Sorry, it just tastes really good. Like nothing I’ve had before.”
There’s a confused murmur coming out of the speaker, a perturbed, “Really?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” and Mina has the gall to wink at you, the audacity to keep her hand on your cock, stroking it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. All the while she just chats to her boyfriend—partner, again—like you’re not about to cover her face with your entire load.
“Mina,” you let slip when she squeezes too hard, cranes her head to feel the weight of your balls on her tongue. Lapping away, licking and tonguing and teasing, until you’re gritting your teeth, holding back the moan that wants to break free.
The voice at the end of the line crackles, “Who’s that?”
Mina doesn’t miss a beat, “Boss for the day,” presses a wet kiss onto the head of your cock in a futile attempt to still you, “Really pushing me hard, making me work for it, you know?”
The voice relaxes, but not enough. “What’s going on over there? Something doesn’t sound right.”
“Everything’s perfect.” Mina’s just so pleased with herself, tongue dancing up and down, over and around, making the chair creak from the reflexive jerk she forces out of you. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
“I told you that you shouldn’t do these types of jobs, you should listen to me and—”
“Get on my hands and knees and beg them to let me break the contract?” Mina smirks up at you, lips all smeared and messy with your arousal. “I can handle it” she continues on, dragging her lips to your base so she can slur into your waist, “I’m a professional. This is what I’m built for.”
God, he really doesn't deserve her.
He drops the subject so easily, moving on to talk more about him, about his schedules, his work, his boring fucking existence outside of her. And now you’re both rolling your eyes, sharing this secret, this ridiculousness that’s got you both on the edge of laughter and utter bliss.
Mina ups the ante, mutes her side of the call, and places the phone back on top of the desk.
You cock an eyebrow. “Seriously, him?”
She shakes her head. “No, just you.”
And she shows you, proves her point, because Mina’s not one for half-measures. Holds your cock tightly, strokes it again and again, one after another like it’s counting down to something explosive. Bomb’s ticking: the pressure’s building, the heat is coiling in your balls, but she keeps it steady, keeps it slow, keeps it right on that edge where it’s just enough to keep you there, but not enough to push you over.
“I’m just yours,” Mina hums, licking her swollen lips. “I’m yours to do with as you please, but,” she pauses, so she can jerk you just right, stroking with such finesse that you can't believe she's ever been with someone who didn't appreciate it, "I'm really hoping you let me swallow your cock now."
“You’re too fucking greedy.”
Mina nods so earnestly.
So you give her what she wants, because what’s the point of playing this game if she isn’t going to win?
You stroke the back of her head, guide her as she takes you all the way—nose to stomach, swallowing you up like you’re her favourite snack, her favourite secret. Her favourite lie to tell herself.
Fucking ridiculous. Too fucking much.
You lift your hips, leaving her to yank down your pants over your knees and to the ground. The clank of your belt buckle against marble echoes through the room, a starting gun to your undoing.
The phone’s still there, he’s still talking, a vaguely muffled annoyance. Mina doesn't even spare it a glance, just looks up at you, mouth full, eyes declaring:
‘Ignore everything else, just enjoy me.’
Fuck.
Mina’s cheeks hollow, her throat pulses, and gone is the usual effortless grace that she carries through everything she does.
No, she’s all raw, all passion. Sloppy now, greedy, showing you just how much she’s willing to do for you. It’s in the way she’s using her hand to squeeze the base of your shaft, the way she’s bobbing her head faster and faster.
Filling the room with the sounds of her slurps and smacking of her lips; her eyes watering with every deepthroat. Making her mouth this perfect, wet, hot little cave that’s swallowing you whole.
And you’re watching, watching every single move she makes. Unable to do anything else, really. Unable to think, to speak, to do anything but stare at her mouth, her eyes, her hand moving up and down, up and down—stare at Mina giving herself over to you.
“Jesus—fuck—” and there’s your voice back again, so much louder than you intended.
But Mina’s smiling around your cock, eyes still on you, urging you on, putting you under her spell. She’s playing with your balls now, her thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, her nails lightly scraping, and it’s like she’s got every button mapped out, knows exactly how to make you go off the deep end.
"Mina, you're just so," you try, rummaging through your addled mind for the right words to pin on this storm before you, "so fucking good at this," you finally settle on.
Mina's eyes light up, triumphant. Deep pools of brown swirling with all sorts of things—few that can be said out loud and even fewer that should ever be thought—and none of which she gives a flying fuck about.
Your cock slides off her lips long enough for her to slur, "Flattery gets you everywhere, sir."
“Mina.”
She's just so happy with it all—it's a little unsettling. Mina, all elegance and poise, so fucking giddy at the opportunity to debase herself at your feet.
She takes a breath, a real one, not the shallow, desperate ones she’s been taking for the past few minutes, and then she’s diving back down. You can see the determination in the set of her jaw, the way she’s holding herself in place with one hand on your thigh so she can devour you whole. And she’s doing a phenomenal job, really, because your cock’s so hard it’s almost painful, and your thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping still.
But she’s not done yet, Mina’s never done. She reaches behind her, unclips her bra with a flick of her thumb, slipping it off her shoulders—a silent, unnoticed escape.
Perfect little tits, perfect little dusky nipples, peaked and ready for your attention.
She takes one in her hand, rolls the nub between her fingers, playing with it, plucking it like a guitar string, making it sing. Making sure you’re still looking, while she's still sucking you off with her mouth, still fucking grinning around your cock.
A true masterclass in multitasking.
Her other hand stays on you, working in tandem with her mouth. A stroke for every bob, a squeeze for every moan, and she’s whining into your skin, a muffled—mmph, mmph, mmph—so loving that you know it’s not just for show.
Her hand drops down, slipping between her legs, disappearing into the fabric of her skirt. You can’t quite see it, but you know by her sigh as she leans into your thigh, by the way her other hand pinches her nipple harder, that she’s pressing up and into herself.
The fabric’s too thick to see much, but you can imagine her—fuck, you don’t have to imagine—you can almost feel her, her fingers sliding into her wetness, her palm cupping her mound, her middle finger circling her clit like it’s the head of a tiny drum, matching the same rhythm that’s been driving this whole spectacle.
“Your fucking mouth, Mina.”
The words leave you on a groan, a tightening of your grip on her head as she just plays and plays. Every suck pure heaven, warm, wet, utterly divine; pulling your hips closer and closer off the edge of your seat, until you’re nearly falling down her throat.
But even Mina, for all her skill and polish, can’t hold out forever. The fingers at her cunt, the kneading of her own tits, the gagging around your cock, the oblivious boyfriend still blissfully unaware of the depraved scene unfolding on the other end of the line.
It’s a heady cocktail, and she’s had too much too quickly. Her throat’s tightening around you, rogue tears are sliding down her cheeks, and it’s about time that you both give up on pretence and hurtle straight to the crux of this entire escapade.
You stand, rising to your feet before Mina has you tumbling off your chair, sliding your cock out of her chasing lips.
“Mina,” you breathe, voice full of gravel, heavy.
Mina’s frozen, just staring at your cock dangling above her nose, her mouth open and wet, her big, brown eyes begging for its return to her lips.
“Mina,” you repeat.
“Mmm?”
“I want to fuck your face now.”
Mina licks her lips. “Want to?”
“I will.”
“Please,” she says, a single word like a hot knife slicing through whatever restraint you have let. And you’re just about to lose it, really fucking lose it because she’s so fucking eager, so fucking hot for it, so absolutely fucking yours.
In your office, at your desk, kneeling at your feet, skirt rucked up around her waist, panties drenched.
She ties up her hair into a messy bun.
“Please, use me.”
A twist of your hips has your cock slapping against her cheek, the sound bouncing off the walls, leaving a trail of gloss across her flushed skin.
Mina laughs.
You lean down, grab her hair, thread your fingers through the strands, and guide her lips to where they were made to be.
“Christ,” is ripped from your throat as your cock is back down hers, plunging into her mouth like its home.
You push, push until her nose is squished against your pelvis, holding her there; her throat tight against your cock, her hand working her clit in double time. Whimpers escape past her lips, muffled whines that threaten to break you if you’ll let it.
But you don’t, not yet. You pull out, just long enough to let her gasp for air, only, she doesn't need the respite. She just blinks, and begs—
“Again.”
And again. And again.
Until she’s a writhing mess, until she’s shaking with the effort of holding herself together, until you’re plunging into her mouth so fast that you’re truly fucking her throat.
Deep, harsh strokes that make her cheek bulge, that fuck tears from her eyes. And Mina fucking loves it. Loves every second of it, loves having her head thrown back, her throat working for you like it’s your divine right, like her sole purpose in life has been to take your cock.
You’re fucking her face like you said you would, like she’s been begging you to do for weeks, whispering sweet nothings and filthy somethings into your ear during those late-night phone calls. Giving exactly what she’s been craving, exactly what she’s been dreaming about when she fucked herself so nicely for you to hear.
And she’s just taking it, letting you use her mouth like it’s nothing, because to her, it’s everything.
She’s lost in it, her hand a blur between her legs, her eyes glazed over. She’s so close, so fucking close, and she’s taking you with her; dragging you down into this pit of depravity that she’s been keeping warm for you.
“Mina?”
And there’s the phone again. Louder now, insistent, demanding. Finally noticing somethings not quite right.
"Mina?"
There’s panic in Mina’s eyes—but you’re quick to realise it’s not worry for him. It’s desperation for you. For you to keep going, for you to not notice, for you to keep the fantasy alive.
But you do notice. And it just makes you harder.
You're too far gone now—you're thrusting into her mouth with a fervour that’s almost violent. Mina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she takes it all, letting you fuck her face with a reckless abandon that’s only heightened by the voice on the phone getting louder, more concerned.
You’re the only voice she’ll listen to now. “Hold still for me, Mina.”
Her eyes go wide, and she nods, her mouth stretched wide around you. Cradling her cheeks, just firm enough to feel the heat of her blush.
“Mina, why are you muted?”
She’s barely even on this planet anymore—just bringing herself closer to the edge, loosening these ragged, wet moans around your pistoning cock.
“Mina, are you ignoring me again, seriously?”
“Mmph—fuh—mmph—” is her attempt at an answer, but she’s too busy letting you use your mouth, too busy fucking herself on her fingers, too busy being the perfect little slut she’s told you she wanted to be.
It fills the room—the sounds of wet, sloppy sucking, careless fucking, your own grunts of pleasure. And somewhere in the background, that voice getting more and more insistent.
“Mina, say something, answer me!”
And she does. Just not to him. She says it to you, mouth full, eyes on yours.
Garbled, stuttered, fucked-up little pleas— “there—there—please—please—oh my god—"
Her hand moves faster, her throat seizes, her eyes roll back in her head. Her body jerks, her hand still working her clit, her mouth still full of you.
Mina cums at your feet, a terrible, beautiful orchestra of noises—moaning, gurgling, gagging around your cock. Swallowing, desperate for a breath of air, trying not to choke, eyes watering so badly it’s a surprise she can see you at all.
You pull out, so abruptly that she gasps and stumbles a little. And yet, despite it all, despite how brutally hard and fast her orgasm hits her, she’s still smiling up at you, as graceful and gorgeous as ever.
So fucking proud of herself.
And she’s not done yet. She’s never done, not really.
Her hand comes up to catch you, holding your cock like an anchor, keeping you ready as she takes a moment to recover. The other reaches for the phone, a shaky hand bringing it to her lips, level with your own tip.
She takes a breath. She’s going to answer.
She unmutes again.
“Sorry. Can’t talk. Gotta finish something big.”
“Mina—what the fuck are you—”
Mina gives you that look—that nod.
Sucks you in one last time, gives you a final choke. A desperate gag, a deep impossible swallow down her throat. And then she releases you from her lips.
The phone clatters to the floor, forgotten.
“Cum for me, please, baby.”
At her instruction, you're erupting.
Mina captures the head of your cock with her lips, keeps it balanced on the edge. Uses both hands to twist and wind around your shaft. Overwhelming you, seizing you into her mouth because this is exactly what she’s been starved for.
Breaking a fucking dam inside you, flooding her mouth with your cum, completing her with your taste. It hits the back of her throat, thick and hot and she swallows and swallows and swallows.
So fucking grateful for every drop, for every pulse that shoots into her mouth, coating her tongue, sliding down her throat. She’s drinking you down like water, like air, like she can’t get enough of you, leaving you breathless until all you can do is just repeat her name over and over again—an endless chant of “Mina.”
And when you’re finally done, when every nerve-ending in your legs isn’t burning down and threatening to take you with it, you pull out of her mouth, gasping for air.
Mina just sits there.
Looking up at you, naked chest heaving, nipples stinging red. Cum slipping out the corners of her mouth, staining her chin. Skirt ruined, panties a sodden mess around her ankles. Hand still on your cock, coaxing you to peace.
And fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
With a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, Mina reaches down to the floor and picks up the phone. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not even bothering to be delicate about it.
"Hey," she says, voice miraculously calm and collected. "Sorry—got distracted."
You watch, utterly stunned, as she plays the part of the girlfriend so flawlessly, puts on an Oscar-worthy performance. You can hear the boyfriend's voice, frantic and worried—and completely fooled.
But then she looks at you, clears her throat, and her smile goes wide, and you can see the woman beneath the façade. The woman who's had enough of being bored. Who's decided that she's owed the impossible fantasy.
Kneeling on the floor, yet more powerful than ever.
So, so fucking perfect.
Spreading her thighs, fingers back at her cunt, carefully toying with her clit. Building herself back up to that peak she’s just thrown herself from, because apparently, that’s what you’ve taught her to do.
To never settle, never stop, never be satisfied with just one taste.
You’re cock throbs.
“Mina, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Her hand moves faster, her thumb circling and pressing, her middle finger slipping inside herself. You can see the gleam under the artificial lights, how her cunt’s making everything sticky and messy.
Making herself nice and ready.
“There's a big mess here,” she says into the phone, all sugary sweet, a perfect story that drips from her tongue like molasses. “Lot of clean up. It’s ruined me—ruined the whole job. It’s gonna keep me here all fucking night.”
—
(It’s just an arrangement.
That’s what you’re calling it when the moon’s rising over your office, and Mina’s kissing these promises over your heart, drawing up the terms of this unwritten contract that neither of you can really commit to—even though you're both well aware of how much you want to.
Sex, as an agreement. Sex, as a release. Sex, because you’re both fucking incredible at it.
It just might be everything you both need.
You're both just too afraid to be the first to say it out loud.)
—
Weeks later, and you get really fucking good at making time for her.
Whether it’s fifteen minutes at a party, a couple hours at an airport, or a few nights spent in a hotel room with the curtains drawn and a do not disturb sign nailed to the door—everything starts to fall into place.
There's always an empty room to be pulled in to, a shadow to be claimed, a corner of the world that belongs to you.
It’s Mina, straddling you in the backseat of a limo, her cunt tight around you as the city lights slide by. Your hand on her throat, not choking but guiding, a conversation based on pressure and pleasure alone. Her tits bounce in your face, begging for your teeth, and you give it to them, biting down until she’s gasping your name into the leather upholstery. The chauffeur pretends not to notice. You don’t pretend anything.
It's you, bending her over the bathroom counter of some stranger’s house, her rather business-like slacks down at her feet to expose the bare, wonderful convex of her ass. You spank her until she’s crying, until she’s bright red and demanding that you make good on your promise to fill her up so she can’t leave this party without globs of you leaking down her legs.
It’s hotel beds that have seen too much, office desks forced to bear your weight, dressing rooms with the door locked tight.
It’s the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching, the way she says your name. How she laughs, how she teases you, how she lets you in—just a little, just enough to keep you hooked. And you do the same.
It’s sex, but it’s not just sex, no matter what you tell yourself.
And it’s Mina again, fixing her hair while you zip her into something far more appropriate, already mentioning, “I'm going to be in New York next week, if you're in the area—"
And it's you, answering in the same way that you always do, "I’ll find a way."
—
Serendipity finds the two of you in Shanghai, amidst all its concrete jungle and neon lights, kept at bay by the soundproof windows and the drawn curtains of this hotel room turned temporary sanctuary.
Mina's stretched out on the bed, wearing one of your shirts that swallows her up to her knees, her hair a mess of curls and knots that she hasn't bothered to tame. Nose buried in a book—something thick and weighty Nayeon recommended her.
Paying no mind to you, as you’re busy brewing tea in the kitchenette (piping hot, oolong, how she likes it).
You sneak a glance as you wait for the kettle to boil, at the perfect picture she's composing—her bare legs peeking out from the shirt, the soft curve of her waist, the way the light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across her skin.
It's seeing her like this, far more exposed and naked than minutes ago when she was pinned beneath you wearing nothing at all, draining your cum into her cunt and thanking you for the privilege.
The drawbridge is coming down, guards leaving their posts—just the two of you in your stolen moments.
It's nice.
She catches you staring.
Tilts her chin down, peering at you over her glasses.
You ask, "Am I distracting you?"
"Always," she says, and it's loaded with the sum of whispered secrets and inside jokes, the weight of a dozen different glances stolen across crowded rooms. She closes the book, setting it aside, and pats the you-shaped imprint on the spread next to her. "Come here."
You bring a steaming cup over, handing it to her, adding a little more warmth to her side of the bed. An unneeded murmur of thanks, a smile that's brighter than any of the skyscrapers gleaming outside, and a careful sip.
You wait for her review.
A cool, clear, "Ah."
And as for your reward, she sets the mug down on her lap, closing her eyes and pursing her lips. Waiting, patiently.
It's built in you like a habit now—lean in, get the light peck you're owed. Gentle press against her lips, nose bumping up against her glasses, sweetness that makes her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink.
Just so fucking cute and domestic that it almost feels wrong.
The normalcy, you're realising—doing something that millions of other people do every single day—kisses that aren’t about fucking, power plays and games. Kisses that are just...kisses.
Mina's on the same wavelength, that's her thing now. Looking at you with a slanted smile. A little disbelieving, a little amused.
You're sure you're mirroring it back.
“This is... weird, right?” You finally say, breaking the silence. Feeling the weight of the question, the implication of what you’re really asking. Is this okay? Is it allowed? Can we put a name on this without the whole world imploding?
Mina's smile doesn't falter. "Kinda," she says, and her hand's slipping into yours, her thumb tracing little circles against your palm. “Very. But also, good.”
You nod, not quite believing it. You've had relationships (is that what you're calling this now?)—but none of them felt like this. Like, sure, she makes you hard, but fuck if she doesn't make you weak.
Pulling you into this loop of familiarity, learning things about her that you would've dismissed if it was anyone else. Not just the carnal things—the ones that make her thighs run with need, that make her chant your name like it’s the only word she knows.
Normal people things. Snack addictions, sleeping habits, temperature controls.
The mug goes to the bedside table, and Mina twists her body into yours, landing her head on your lap and curling her legs up so they stay on the bed.
"You know," she says, still holding your hand, fingers tracing up your forearm now, nails drawing in a light tattoo. "I thought that this wouldn't work out."
You mention the obvious. "Because you still, technically, have a boyfriend?"
Mina stretches herself out against your waist, incidental movements that just so happen to make you stir. "No, darling," she's saying, turning to look at you, making your heart stutter. "It's because you're you. Relationships just don’t seem to be in your nature."
You feign injury.
Even though, truth be told, she has a point there. You’ve never been one for the quiet moments, for the mundane comforts, mornings next to someone you spent the night with.
Maybe it's your own guardrails you've put up, maybe it's some sappy Trojan Horse she's pushed through the gates of your stoic heart—but here you are, stroking her hair while she holds your hand, your fingers playing with the soft strands like you're trying to learn Braille.
"You know," she says, reaching it out to run her thumb down the line of your jaw, "guys like you are all the same."
You arch a brow. "I think I’ve heard this one before.”
"Let me finish," she says, "Obsessed with the thrill of the chase, with the idea of something you can't have. And when you finally get it, you just...disappear."
She grants you the headspace to ruminate over that one.
"Are you saying I already have you?"
"Haven’t figured it out yet?" she whispers, shifting her weight on the bed. Another Mina special, the incidental movements, shirt pulling taut against her, and with benevolent grace, it slides down an inch. The swell of her breast revealed, an already pebbled nipple peeking out. A shy secret. As if.
And she knows. Mina knows what it takes to turn you on because, deep down, she’s the same. Different animals, same beasts, the roles could easily be flipped: her the billionaire, you the idol, and it would still end up the same.
You’re both chasers of thrills, craving the high of the untouchable, the unattainable.
Doing whatever it takes to feel alive—that's what it boils down to, isn't it?
"I meant it, you know," you're saying, exposing yourself, all gooey and raw. "Never once dreamt of owning you."
It's obvious where Mina's headed with this. So used to people just laying claim of her without even asking—like it's their fucking right. Believing that just because she’s in their vicinity, smiling all pretty and dressed up, she's fair game. Thinking the fame has done to her what it's done to so many others, turned them into commodities.
And maybe she's let them believe the fantasy, it's her job after all, to fuel the delusion and make it feel real. But never once did she truly belong to anyone but herself.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
Mina lifts herself off your lap, body bowing, leaving the shirt to ghost down her arms and leave her chest bare.
Closer still, until she's straddling your hips, thighs pressing down on either side of your legs, and oh, mystery solved, there was nothing under the shirt but her.
And again, Mina, on the subject of your title over her: "Not even if I wanted you to?"
—
(It takes the length of a phone call for Mina to be officially yours.
Brutal in her efficiency, cutting the guy down and pushing him off the cliff of the inevitable.
You're just as cruel, laughing between her thighs as she slurs vague platitudes, barely encroaching on an apology, uncaring bullets flying across borders.
And then the 'I can't' when prompted for a chance to negotiate, an 'I'm busy' when the pleas come, and a final 'just fucking give up already' when the desperation gets too much and he's becoming less and less important the further your tongue gets into her cunt.
Poor bastard doesn't even know he's not the only one getting fucked.)
—
You feel like you’ve earned the right to be a tad more reckless.
So, dates.
Conventional, yes, but fuck you could do with some of that now. You had the money, the power, and now you had the girl. So, secret dates, grand gestures, the whole nine yards.
And yet, each one was its own little disaster.
An example: the restaurant.
Michelin stars, gourmet courses, over-the-top bullshit that you unashamedly love. Booking out the entire joint for the night, only for it to all go haywire when Mina showed up in that dress; tight, tiny, black.
"Eyes up here, darling," is what she said, before, "Or, you know, don't. I like the attention."
Just fucking you all the way up, having you pushing her into a backroom before the wine was even poured. Ruining said dress, rucking it up to her waist, making it some poor drycleaner’s problem.
“I was never big on grand gestures,” she assures you, as you pepper her neck with kisses, hands curving around to her breasts on sheer instinct.
"Wish you'd told me that in advance."
"And miss out on this?" Mina groans something fierce when your fingers find purchase. “Never.”
It's just Mina and you, doing what you've done a dozen times over by now, having long blown past any insecurities that this might just be too good, too perfect, that one of you might be the first to bolt for the door and run.
“I swear to god,” Mina’s managing, as you’re shoving her panties to the side, because you’re both well aware that this has to happen right here, right now. “This cock is going to be the death of me.”
You chuckle against her throat. “Wouldn’t be a bad way to go though, right?”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Says you.”
“Please, just—”
Your hips snap into her. She flinches. Screams your name so fucking loud.
Each and every one of the kitchen staff receives a very, very sizeable tip.
—
It becomes a problem.
Oddly enough, neither of you are at fault.
Leaked photos light up every website, tabloid, and social media platform in mere minutes—Mina and her ex, wrapped up in each other’s arms, the unmistakable blur of a bedroom in the background. Nothing too lurid, nothing too explicit—but just enough to get the world to gasp in collective shock.
The fucking coward did it. You never knew he had it in him.
Sure there's dating on the pictures. Years, probably, back to when their happiness couldn't be called into question, but it does its job.
The statements pointing this out do little to shift the public's attention though, they've already latched on to the chance to rip apart her spotless record. You’ve seen it before, a hundred times with a hundred different celebrities. The cycle of love turned to dust in the blink of a camera flash.
And yet despite all of this, despite the shitstorm that’s swirling around her, despite the radio silence you're expecting, not an hour passes before Mina's calling you again.
“I need you.”
“Then come over.”
—
Mina belongs here, it’s so obvious.
Walking through the rooms of your home like she’s always been there, like she’s what’s been missing.
None of the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, none of the sculptures worth more money than any person should ever see in their life—none of it make as much sense as she does here, in your space.
Ours, you’re already thinking.
While you’re staring at her, she’s taking it all in—every detail of your domain, eyes brushing over the aged furniture and modern finishes, each aspect of your home that you’ve curated as meticulously as you’ve cultivated your own reputation.
She doesn’t say a word about whatever conclusion she’s drawing—because she’s not the type to judge—she’s just curious. She’s always been curious.
And then she’s in your arms.
Hands looping around your neck as you hold her tight, like it’s been years instead of the mere days since you’ve seen her. Since you’ve felt her heat, heard her whimpers, felt her nails dig into your skin like she’s trying to slip in underneath.
“It was inevitable, right?” She whispers against your collarbone. “Something was bound to fuck this all up eventually. My life, yours. It was all too perfect.”
You hold her tight. Letting her sink into your embrace, disappear into your chest. She’s so small in your arms—not that she’s ever not been, but right now, it’s stark. Like she’s shrunk, folded herself into something more manageable, something easier to hide. Something that won’t be torn apart by the teeth of the media and the rabid fans.
Kiss the top of her head to make her relax a fraction, opening a pressure valve that releases a shaky exhale.
You point out, “It still is.”
Mina blinks up at you, and you pretend you don’t see the dampening in the corners of her eyes. “I need to do the whole apology tour now. Keep my head down, hide my face. That’s what they’re saying anyway. What they expect.”
You shrug. “Could hide out here.”
That makes Mina smile, laugh even, colouring her features with something far more impactful than any of the decor. “And, I'm guessing, fucking each other’s brains out from sunrise to sunset?"
"There'll be a couple of meals in between. You may be surprised to learn I make a mean bowl of ramen."
Mina laughs again, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world—like the chiming of a bell that’s only meant for you. She looks at you, really looks, and you can see the wheels turning in her mind, the genuine consideration she's giving your proposal.
“What do you say?”
“I—”
Before she can finish, you add, “I can handle our little problem. Just leave it to me.”
Mina blinks. There’s the curiosity again. “Handle?”
“Yeah,” you reply, vaguely amused. Something darker in the back of your throat. “I know some people. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Mina stares at you aghast, the smile slipping from her lips. Wondering if she might have missed something in the reality of the billionaire with a silver tongue and a penchant for ruining dresses.
It’s your turn to laugh. “I’m kidding, Mina. Jesus, the look on your face. I’m not going to have the guy killed.”
Mina rolls her eyes. Slaps your chest with a little more force than intended.
You add, with a Disney Villain-worthy ominous tone, “For now.”
“You ass,” she says, but she’s smiling again, the tension all but dissipated.
“Not even I’m capable of having that sort of thing arranged. Well, maybe I am, just never tried, so—” you begin, only to stop immediately at the curving of Mina’s lips. “I was just planning on doing a bit of spin. Tap some of our PR Wizards, maybe offer the wolves something juicier. Whitewash the whole thing—shut him down.”
And a cherry on top of your whole plan—
"Make him wish I'd kill him instead."
Mina’s expression shifts, taking pause to study your face, your words. It’s the pragmatism that gets her, you think—but it’s baked into who you are. You don’t get to a billion dollars by making friends.
As a point of clarification, she asks, "What are you going to offer the press? I mean, you’re not going to leak dirt on someone else, are you?"
You shrug, an easy smile playing on your lips, "I was thinking we could just go public with us. Offer our whole thing."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"My jokes usually make you laugh."
Mina takes her time to ponder this, to consider what you’re actually saying. To process the idea of turning all this—the sneaking around, the private moments, the stolen kisses—into something so exposed. Something translated and made palatable for public consumption, to be picked apart by the vultures skirting the edges of the media.
And there’s fear there too. That the thrill could wear off for her again, the exhilaration could evaporate, and the boredom would settle in.
Or it could be a whole brand-new opportunity. Replacing one thrill with another, the rush that comes with being seen together, the excitement of the chase being replaced with the passion of the capture.
She asks, slowly, carefully choosing each word, doing her best to avoid setting off a bomb that could send this whole thing into a downward spiral. "Is this what you want to do?"
You pull her closer, fit her body flush against yours, and bring your lips down onto hers. You let them linger, let her sigh, let her melt and keen and smile against your mouth.
"Darling," you murmur against her lips, "I've been ready to tell the whole world since the moment I sat down next to you."
—
Sometimes, the conventional ways are the best.
Stumbling through your house—kissing her hard in the hallway, losing her skirt in the kitchen, tearing off her shirt at the top of the staircase. Carrying her past the threshold of your bedroom and leaving her panties at the door; truly letting her into your world in every way, shape, and form.
Holding her close, one hand at her waist, the other looping around her chest. Kissing into her neck as you lay her down onto your mattress, getting up close and personal until it’s all Mina, all the sweetness and heat of her, the richness of her perfume that’s become her signature.
The red of her blush, her lips, the marks you’re leaving on her skin. The white of her throat, her collarbone, the bra that’s half on, half of.
Pinning her wrists over her head, keeping her still, watching her pupils dilate.
Fucking flawless. Every inch, every glorious detail. Underneath you, at your mercy, already staining your sheets with her need.
And then, a beg:
“Please.”
“Greedy.”
“It’s how you made me.”
Your other hand ventures lower, drifting down her stomach, holding against her abs, leaving your fingertips to ghost over her mound.
She shudders at your touch.
You let her know, “I wasn’t complaining.”
And your tongue is on hers, soft to start, relaxing into familiar patterns, swipes of reintroductions, until Mina’s arching her back, urging you on. But you’re greedy in your own way; wanting to take your time, wanting to extract all these sighs and moans straight from the source.
Only, Mina’s having none of it.
“You’re really going to torture me after the day I’ve had?”
You quirk an eyebrow, push your thumb down against her clit. Applying enough pressure to make her hips buck.
"Torture is a strong word, darling."
Mina's huffs as you hold her there, keeping her locked in place and at your mercy. Wriggling under your grasp, but not making any real effort to escape. After all, where would the fun be in that?
"Fine," she's relenting, eyes slipping shut, unable to hide the smile that’s making its way onto her face. "Call it what you want. Just—more."
"Then let's just call it a pleasant distraction."
Your lips are together once more, your kiss quickly turning from something sweet to something a lot more demanding. Throwing Mina a bone, pressing into her a declaration of intent that has her wild for you.
You take your fingers, slide it down, swiping through her folds. Dancing around her entrance, seeing how nice and slick she already is for you, feeding that gnat in the back of your head that urges you to just fill her whole. Right before pressing up into her cunt.
“Yes,” Mina whispers into your mouth, hips rising to meet your hand, helpless little shivers around your first, then second digit—pushing until you’re knuckle deep inside her heat, making her squirm and cry, “Just stretch this fucking pussy, please.”
“Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you say, like it's a surprise, like she's ever not, like she doesn't part her legs and beg for you to take the invitation to her cunt every single time.
And Mina’s reaffirming, “Of course I am, I’m always—” but she never gets to finish her sentence, because you’re sliding a third finger in, and she’s trying so hard to keep it all together despite how determined you are to pull it all apart.
You’re too attentive—watching her face, every micro expression. Watching for every twitch, every whine, every cry that gets stuck in her throat when she tries to swallow it down.
There’s beauty in all of it, every single time, you could never get enough of it. Been burned into you now—what it takes to make Mina come undone. The right ways to touch her, the spots that make her preen. Where to be gentle, when to be rough, how to keep her guessing.
It’s all here, now, distilled to its basest elements, and it doesn’t even take much. You’re too good at this, know her far too well to need anything other than the sound of her breath to dictate your pace.
Your thumb plays at her swollen clit, doing nothing but pressing down as your fingers saw in and out of her slippery cunt, making her clench around you like she always does. Faster and faster, until she’s crying for it, shivering and trembling underneath you, struggling against your hold on her wrists because she's dying for something to hold onto.
“You—you’re too much,” Mina pants, because that’s all she can do now as you push into her with purpose. So, so fucking wet, creaming around your fingers, pooling in the palm of your hand. “Too—too—too fucking—”
Losing control over her own limbs, cumming with a sharp cry, levitating off the bed as your hand works magic between her legs, needing a hard kiss to ease her back down to Earth.
The aftershocks still roll through her body, leaving her with these tiny, frantic whimpers. You keep her pinned, soothe her with your thumb at her clit, padding around in gentle circles, feeling her spasm and pulse around your fingers.
Your kiss ends on that high note, parting lips to give Mina a chance at a complete inhale. Her chest is heaving, nipples poking out of the top of her bra, skin already sticky with sweat. Eyes opening, hazed over with need and the beginnings of tears.
“I—I need more.”
Hands let go of her wrists, fingers slide out of her cunt, and you lean back to watch her try to compose herself. It’s a battle she’s not winning.
Mina’s blinking up at you, trying to catch her breath, trying to remember how to do anything other than be fucked into oblivion by you. You help her—leaning over, thumbs hooking under her bra straps. Pulling it down with a gentle tug that makes her arch into the motion, makes her chest spill out and your mouth water.
You take the chance to admire her. To drink her in, appreciate her the way she deserves to be appreciated—a masterpiece spread out on your bed, naked and needy.
There’s the intoxication, knowing you’re the one that did that to her, knowing that you’re the one that’s going to do it again. Over and over again.
“If I have to wait another second, I’m going to scream,” Mina says, the demand losing its edge in a whine.
You chuckle, press an open-mouthed kiss onto her breast, sucking a nipple between your teeth.
Sometimes, you just can’t resist.
“Let’s not pretend that isn’t exactly what I want.”
“Make it happen, then.”
Mina holds position as you pull back, keeping her hands over her head, keeping as still as a statue as you come to your knees over her. Eyes on you as your shirt, your belt, your pants go. Eyes on your cock as your briefs fall away, leaving it standing tall and thick and ready for her.
There’s power dynamics at play here—how Mina’s so vulnerable to you, how she’s laid herself out, unwilling to move until you tell her to. She understands it, implicitly. Knows she’s playing right into your hands, forced to wait while you let the anticipation build.
You hold your cock above her, stroke it carefully. Watch her eyes track it. See her gulp.
And she begs, again, “Please,” softer now, the unmistakable tremble in her voice. "I just—I need it so fucking bad."
Whether on purpose or by instinct, her legs splay, presenting her pussy, glistening with want. There’s the pulse in her clit, the need dripping over her folds—you feed the agony just a little more, hovering over the entrance, letting the tip of your cock graze over it. Teasing, taunting.
"Beg for it."
Mina opens her mouth, but she fails to summon the words. Just leaves her lips hanging open, leaving you an opening for your fingers to push in and try to help her find the right plea.
Her tongue flicks out, licks at your digits, the taste of her arousal still thick on them. The wetness of her tongue as she sucks, the suction of her lips as she envelopes each finger, one by one. Savouring her own flavour with deep, longing slurps, with grateful hums resonating around your fingers.
Leaking down the tip of your cock, cunt getting wetter and wetter the longer she’s denied. Making you throb against her, making your hips jerk and bump dangerously close to where she needs you to be.
But you still don’t enter her. You just wait until she’s done, until your fingers are clean and wet, and she’s left a trail of kisses up to your wrist.
It’s then that you drag your fingers out from her lips and demand of her once more:
“Beg.”
And this time, Mina’s able to say it clearly, confidently, right from her chest—
“I need you inside me. Need to feel you so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and you begin. I want to make you cum so hard you’ll never want to leave, want to leave your mark so deep inside me that even if you do, I’ll still feel you.”
Each word, a fucking gift.
And her reward—
A hard, quick plunge straight into her cunt. Inside her, instantly buried, immediately unbearable. Just too good.
Mina can’t do anything, just dig her nails into the sheets and try not to scream at the suddenness of it, at the way you complete her without any warning at all.
It all just ripples through her, a second orgasm already possessing her and forcing her into seizure. Can’t even hold it together—can’t keep the moans contained, can’t keep herself steady—can only just lock eyes with you and hope that you’re seeing it all, hope that you’re feeling it too.
Mina’s got no control around you anymore, none at all.
“Your cock,” she’s saying, repeating it over and over. Like it’s brand new to her, like it hasn’t ever left her wrecked a hundred times over. “Your fucking cock.”
Words punctuated by the slaps of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding, of Mina welcoming every stroke of your cock inside her. So fucking tight, gloved around you like it was forged specifically for your cock; not for anything else but you, only you.
“So hard, my God.” Mina’s hands clasp behind your neck, needing a firm hold on something solid and real. “So fucking hard for me, so—so—fuck—”
Her lips are everywhere, a flurry of butterfly kisses across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, the edges of your jawline. Crazed, unbridled assault of affection. Disarming, incredibly hot. Mina doing her best to mark you up before she’s torn away again.
It’s far too early in the processions—habit would usually have her playing it cool, trying to keep up the façade of control, hold onto shreds of dignity, until she’s unravelling completely and begging you to fuck her harder, deeper.
But now, she’s just letting you have her.
No games, no pretences.
Just you, and her, and this wild, hopeless need to feel good, to be consumed by this.
“Yours,” Mina’s whispering, voice cracking around the edges, “All yours.”
And you know it. Have known it. Had it signed and sealed in ink since the very first time she told you. When you made her knees buckle and eyes water as you took her in every way possible. Since she called out for you, said your name into the quiet of the night like it was a secret she never wanted to keep.
Yet it’s hearing it now, the sum of all these moments stacked on top of each other; the haunts that you’d frequent, the private corners that you’d made yours, the endless phone calls and messages and photos that could fill entire warehouses with their filth.
Finally here—both of you, panting, sweating, sex thick in the air. The world outside forgotten.
Fucking Mina so hard, so deep, euphoria shooting straight through you each time your cock bottoms out inside her. The softness of her cunt, its heat, its creaminess, its fucking divinity. Leaking out all around you and squeezing you so good that it’s a miracle that you’re still coherent enough to speak.
But you do, with a gruff, “Already knew that, darling.”
Mina’s laughing, because that’s the type of high you’re giving her. Even with the way you’re stretching her open, even with her eyes barely open and her toes curling into the bed—she’s laughing because it’s the only thing she can do. Because it’s all so absurdly perfect that she can’t find the energy to do anything else.
“All this, all of you,” you’re leaning in, at the base of her throat, licking a stripe up to her earlobe. Drumming the words into her skin, until she shivers. “Every part of you. All mine.”
Simple words that hold so much sway over her, that could pull her apart or build her right back up. Words that make Mina clench around you, make her cunt grasp you so tightly as if she’s trying to make them real.
“Always,” she’s heaving, “Always yours.”
And there’s this look on her face, like she’s lost in a dream—eyes glassy and all fogged up, breath hot against your shoulder. Glowing under the dimmed lights, making the sweat pooling at the base of her throat shimmer.
Keeping your hand there, at her neck, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. Ruining her. Because really, it’s all for her. All of this is all for her pleasure, her satisfaction.
You’re just along for the ride, so fucking lucky to have her like this. So impossibly beautiful, just knowing she exists would drive you insane if you didn’t get to be with her. Didn’t get a chance at this pussy, so perfect, dripping so much, made so hot for you and only you. Your own personal slutty cunt.
It’s the way her legs wrap around your hips—the smoothness of her skin, the power in those thighs, holding you like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like she’s terrified you’ll leave her like this, frantic and wretched and so, so fucking wet.
The newest picture you’re painting, your magnum opus in her name—her tits bouncing with each thrust, nipples stiff and flicking in the air. The yielding of her back, bending just so she can accommodate that extra length of you inside her. And her stomach—fuck, those abs. Tightening and loosening, shaking with every hit of your hips, with every sharp gasp of air.
Demanding of you. Cum for me. Please. Now.
“I need this. Exactly this from now on,” Mina’s declaring, stuttering it like you’re fucking every syllable out of her tightness. “Just you fucking me. Whenever we’re together, every second we get alone—fuck—"
And you’re nodding because you’re always right there with her, always on the same wavelength, thinking the exact same fucking thing.
“Keep filing me up until I can’t take it anymore. Until I’m screaming so loud, I can’t even hear myself think—”
Breathless words that flood your ears, that Mina needs to get out, needs to make sure you hear. Absorbed straight into your bloodstream, pumping into your cock, fed right back into her cunt. So fucking tight. So downright incredible that you’re speeding up, driving in deep, as deep as you could possibly go.
“Until I’m so full of you that I forget my own name—forget any other name but yours—until I—until I—”
A nasty hit makes her body curve and rise, makes her pussy clamp around you, in warning of the orgasm to come, the one you’re both hurtling towards with a kind of reckless abandon that’s become second nature.
“Until I—please—just always make me feel this way—”
“You will,” you promise, meaning it, fucking it into her like your life depends on it. Like you need it to survive, because maybe you do. Maybe you’ve never truly lived until you’ve felt Mina’s cunt quiver around your cock like this, until you’ve heard her beg for you like you’re the only thing she needs to breathe. And again, for good measure, “you will."
And oh, that’s all it takes. That’s enough to have Mina spilling.
“Cumming,” is her proclamation. Repeated, ad infinitum, just, “Cumming, cumming, cumming.”
All over your cock, all around your cock. Cunt strangling you with the force of it.
And this is where you decide Mina’s most beautiful.
When she’s consumed by climax, when she’s held prisoner by it, when she’s just nothing but a canvas for you to leave your marks all over.
“Feel so good—so fucking good—”
It’s the best kind of challenge, pushing her through it.
Worshipping her in all the ways that count, treating Mina in ways woman like her should never be treated. Tearing an angel down from the heavens just to hammer her cunt into submission, and being thanked for it afterwards.
“God,” Mina’s trying, voice rasping and broken, “I—fuck—I can’t—”
You take her, hand wrapping around her tits, pinching, rolling, teasing nipples until they’re as tight as her cunt around you. Leaning in and capturing her lips, drinking down her whimpers with a kiss so deep you can taste your name on her tongue.
Fucking her, ruining that tight, little pussy, through every wave that crashes down over her, that burns her up from the inside and makes her so Goddamn hot.
Leaving her in disbelief that it could ever feel this good again, that there's a light at the end of this tunnel, that there's a life after being fucked so thoroughly by your cock.
Holding her through it, preventing her from crumbling into a million overstimulated pieces. Slowing down the pace of your hips with steady, deliberate thrusts until you’re just inside her. Cock throbbing, bathing in her heat, waiting.
There’s only one real choice. Mina knows this as well as you do.
Your cock leaves her cunt, slick with her juices, her cum. Proof of your dominion over her body, gleaming along your shaft.
Nothing but bliss on Mina’s face, so well-fucked and satisfied and just plain happy that it’s almost a surprise she hasn’t melted away into a puddle. She’s smiling, looking up at you through her lashes, sweet and soft and perfect.
Turning herself over, bowing down on her knees, pointing her ass up at you like it’s the universe itself handing you a present and saying, ‘Here, this is yours.’
You can’t resist that kind of temptation.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” Mina tells you, rolling her hips higher still, flaring out her hips, treating you to the perfectly round globes of her ass. “Waiting for you to take me. However you want. Make it hurt so good. Make me remember how you feel.”
Her hands reach back, delicate fingers spreading plump cheeks apart. The tight, pink ring of her ass winking at you. A sight that never gets old, a vision that’s forever carved into the back of your eyeballs.
One last request. “Please.”
Your cock pushes in.
“Thank you.”
Right away, it’s too fucking much. Your cock breaching through her asshole, pushing in inch by inch. Slow and torturous, the kind of thing that makes you want to yell.
Then the first thrust—that first hit, like a narcotic, straight through your veins, every single time. Feeling it, sensations so intense, so sharp, that you forget to even breathe.
And Mina’s crying. Crying out, muffled by the pillow she’s biting into. Yet still, pushing back against you, urging you deeper, even though she’s coming apart, even though she’s shaking from the sheer effort of having you fill her.
“Darling,” you call to her, “you’re doing so good,” because she is. Good, good, so fucking good for letting you split her in two like this. For letting you ruin her in all the best ways.
The second thrust is easier, smoother. Body giving in to your demands, stretching around your cock like it always does, like it’s made to do. To bend and flex to your whims and desires.
With every push, every retreat, every agonisingly, achingly slow grind into her ass, you’re nearing that rapturous end.
“So fucking good for me, Mina. Your ass is so tight around me. Such a good girl.” You’re grunting now, trying to ease her into it, to build up to the point where you can pound her, push her like you really want to.
Mina’s nodding, eyes screwed shut, sunken in the way you’re stretching her out. It’s a familiar feeling, having her ass opening up for you. A dance you’ve performed so often it’s almost muscle memory—each step painstakingly learned; each move carefully choreographed.
You’re easing into her, slow, so fucking slow that it’s a wonder that either of you doesn’t implode with want. But Mina’s good, so good, letting out these tiny, shuddering breaths that you feel down to the marrow of your bones.
And then, as your is fully seated in her ass—
“Don’t hold back,” Mina says, quietly, barely audible, but the need is crystal clear. “All of it, please.”
Hand in her hair, hand at her waist. Gripping into her, guiding her and then fucking her, really, truly flooding her ass with your cock, disappearing into her tightness until your hips are slapping into hers.
So pretty, even like this, even when her moans are getting louder, borderline screams that are cut off by the cotton of the pillow, her knuckles turning white in the effort. Her back tenses, muscles rippling underneath your palms.
She dips a hand underneath her, between her legs. Fingers at her cunt, whirling around her clit, doing all she can to keep up with you.
“Feels fucking amazing. Your ass, Mina,” you’re trying to say, but it’s coming out all gravelly and thick. “So fucking tight for me.”
It’s the one through-line that’s kept steady over these months. Mina’s transcendental beauty, Mina’s razor-sharp intelligence, Mina’s pussy that’s always, perpetually yours. All these things; but it’s Mina’s ass—that perfect, juicy, heart-shaped, fucking flawless ass that keeps you up at night.
Every time you’re buried inside, it’s like coming home to something sacred. Tightness gripping you, ass swallowing your cock in waves, the kind of feeling that makes you believe in a higher power—because nothing so divine could possibly be man-made.
“Fuck, I just—” Mina’s breathing out, quick huffs because that’s all she can manage, “just love this so fucking much. Love how you feel in my fucking ass.”
Her hand’s working overtime now, circling her clit with a fervour that’s almost religious. Pussy starting to leak again, juices running down her thighs, mixing with the sweat, pooling at her knees. Fuck, the way she’s touching herself while taking you in, so willingly, so wantonly, so utterly destroyed for you—she’s going to cum again, you can feel it. And you’re not far behind.
“I think I’m going to—fuck, I only just—but I’m going to—again—you’re going to make me—again—” She’s squealing, half-mumbling, full-crying, and your heart nearly bursts out of your chest because it’s all for you.
You’re not even managing anything other than desperate thrusts, just fucking her with everything you have—like you’re trying to claim her inside and out, trying to leave your fingerprints on every part of her so everyone will know she’s been yours all along.
“Please, please, please,” again and again, stuttering out, “Just—just—just—”
Just keep going, keep pushing into her until she’s shaking, until she’s pleading for you to stop, to let her breathe, because she’s about to fucking break.
Or, really:
Keep going and never, ever stop.
The hand in her hair tightens, pulling her back, making her arch. That perfect spine, the curve that’s painted by God himself. Kisses into her shoulder, into the crook of her neck, making her whimper.
“Keep fucking me. Like this—like this—God—I’m going to—again—”
Pulling her closer to you, so you can feel the tremors starting from her core, spreading out like wildfire. Pushing her hand away, taking over between her legs—rubbing, teasing, circling her cunt and pushing her closer and closer to the brink. Fucking her so deeply that you can feel the first quivers of her orgasm from the inside out, daring to take over her body again.
“Keep fucking—touching me, fill me up—just don’t—please, I need it—”
A final plea, her last rites, before she’s lost.
“Cumming—cumming again—please, oh, please—oh—”
Mina’s body goes lax, a ragdoll in your arms. But you keep fucking her through it. Through the quakes and shivers, through the cries—through the crying out. Pleading. Pleading for you to follow her into oblivion.
And fuck. If you’re not right there with her.
You’re close, chasing her, feeling her orgasm, feeling it coil around your cock and pump through her veins and into yours. Feel her—her body, her muscles, her cunt—tightening, tightening, tightening around you until it’s unbearable.
“Cum for me—with me—” she’s repeating, her newest mantra, “cum inside me. Give it to me—please, I need it—please—so badly—”
Begging, dying for it. Willing, wanting to do anything for it.
But she doesn’t need to—you can’t fucking hold on any longer.
“Mina—fuck—"
You slam into her, and finally burst.
Filling her ass with your cum, feeling it spurt into her, thick and hot. Pumping into her, over and over, getting wrung dry by her ass, cumming so hard it feels like your bones might shatter.
Cumming until your vision swims, until the architecture in your knees threaten to give out, until all you can do is hold onto her hips and keep her in place, keep her right there, impaled on your cock, until every single drop of cum has found a home inside her ass.
Until you’re so sensitive it’s almost painful. Until the orgasm has passed over the two of you and left you feeling like you might dissolve into nothing but pure sensation.
“Christ,” you manage to get out, the word tearing out of you like it’s being ripped from your chest. Holding Mina close—embracing her, seeing just how much she’s loving it. How thankful she is. Taking it all, soaking it all in, moans turning into whimpers that you’d swear are prayers of gratitude.
Body limp and strung out, fucked so hard she can’t even hold herself up anymore—Mina collapses into the bed, pulling you with her, your cock still buried deep inside her.
Like the first time, like every time, it’s a complete fucking disaster.
Tangled up in sheets, in each other. Sticky with sweat, stickier with cum. And Mina turns her head to look at you, just so pleased, and so gleefully satisfied.
You lean in and kiss her, slow and deep, resisting the urge to stir, to roll her onto her back and start this whole thing over again. Claim her once, twice, a dozen times more.
But you don’t. You just lay there, breathing into her neck, letting all of this, your orgasms, your bliss, your absolute contentment roll through you.
There’ll be time to keep going, to keep fucking her. Give her the same tour of your house that she gave you that first night.
Eat her out in the kitchen. Fuck her into the sofa. And yeah, introduce her to the balconies on the higher floors.
For now though, there’s Mina, lips parting with yours, looking at you with a smile that’s this original blend of lust and love and admiration. “You really know how to ruin a girl, you know that?”
You chuckle, picking a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Just trying to scratch an itch.”
—
Everybody loves a love story.
And yours is packaged up so nicely, polished and made shiny and perfect for the public to see.
It's the type of story the media dies for—a tale of modern romance, woven through the glitz and glamour of celebrity life. The cold-blooded billionaire who had his heart stolen by one of the nation’s daughters, and then chased her across continents in order to get it back.
You and Mina, becoming the ultimate power couple—the kind that makes the paparazzi's cameras click in unison and tabloids sell by the millions.
Together at every high-profile event, her hand nestled in the crook of your arm, your thumb tracing lazy circles on her wrist—a secret promise of the bruises she’ll wear under her designer dresses. A whispered reminder of the things you’ll do to her when the lights go out and the world isn’t watching.
But nobody sees that. The public sees the smiles, the kisses, the sweet little glances that pass between you—and they eat it all up.
They'll never see the way she begs for your cock, the way you fuck her until she can't walk straight, the way she rides you until all you know is her name. They don’t know that it wasn’t love at first sight—it was lust, paroxysms of it, pure and raw and unbridled.
But here you are.
Mina, in your bathroom, smiling at you through the mirror. Dressed to the nines, looking like a fucking dream. Making it so obvious now that you wonder how you missed it at the start. The way she looked at you that first night, the way she looked. It was all there, laid out in big bold letters, all caps, telling you that this is what you’ve been searching for—what you needed all along.
That dress she’s wearing—some dazzling shade of green. Olive? Celadon?
“Emerald,” she smiles, catching you staring. “It’s emerald, darling.”
You grin back. “Then it should match.”
Mina’s eyes flick to the box in your hand, curiosity piqued.
“Got you something.”
You hand her the box—a simple, muted green velvet, lacking any markers or logos to give away the contents. Ergo, it’s really fucking expensive.
She takes it out of your hands. Opens it, and her breath catches.
“It’s—” Mina whispers, lifting a necklace from the box. A simple, stunning piece. A thin diamond band with a solitary jade teardrop hanging from the center.
"Yours."
Mina holds it up against the light, seeing how it dances through the stone like it’s alive. When her eyes come back to yours, she’s beaming—a smile so wide it makes you wish you had your phone ready to snap a photo.
“Help a girl out, would you?” she says, turning her back to you, sweeping her hair over her bare shoulder.
You step forward, kissing the skin there, feeling the softness of her neck, the pulse of her vein. Your hands come up to fasten the necklace around her, the coldness of the diamonds brushing against your knuckles.
“You know, there’s one thing I was wondering about,” you murmur, letting the jade rest atop her throat.
Mina giggles, tilts her head slightly to the side. The jewels sparkle. “Oh?”
“That first night. The gala. You came alone.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Mina repeats, amused. Happy to have her own little secret, the one thing you've yet to pry out of her between the sheets. She regards you through the reflection, a twinkle in her eye that says she’s been wondering what took you so long to ask.
“Yeah, I’ve never quite figured it out. I mean I know why you were alone. But why did you come at all? What were you doing there, just sitting all pretty and by yourself. It felt so wrong to me at the time.”
That makes Mina laugh, making you feel somewhat silly to even ask. She spins on her heels, facing you; the necklace sitting perfectly against her skin. She runs her fingers over the chain, ending at the pendant. Tapping it. Once. Twice.
And she doesn’t even need to ask you if it looks good on her or if it suits her because she knows. She can tell by the look on your face.
She wears it like a fucking collar.
“Why?” Mina says again, stretching the syllable out long and wide, until you’re staring at her lips, knowing you’re about to kiss her again, knowing that you may very well not make it out of the house tonight, likely not even make it out of the bathroom.
You’ll be ruining that dress, fucking her against the sink, pushing her up into the mirror, kissing into the top of her spine and repeating over and over again—mine, mine, mine.
"It's a Christmas miracle!" —is how Giselle chooses to make her grand entrance, swinging open the door to your bar, a fresh powder of snow dusting her shoulders. She shrugs it off. "My favourite person in all of Seoul."
You deadpan, "That's very concerning."
She laughs off your quip with the same ease that she does everything else. Sways her hips, saunters over to you, fire engine-red heels clacking against wood as she rushes to take her usual stool. Not like she'd have to fight anyone for it, there's no one else here.
Besides, even if there were—it's always been hers.
You're sliding over her drink before she can even open her mouth to order, because that's what you do for her. Anticipate. Your job in a nutshell, really. Knowing what she wants.
Her thanks is in the blush colouring her cheeks, flushing them a rosy pink, matching her hair in hue.
Just so immediately pretty.
She raises the drink, grinning at you through the glass. Gets a little too dramatic with her gasp.
"Exactly what I wished for! How did you know?"
"Made a list, checked it twice."
That earns you a giggle, has Giselle leaning forward, propping an elbow on the bar, chin in her palm. Her usual routine—just sitting there, all beautiful and flirty and really, really fucking out of place amongst the dim lighting and worn-out leather.
And yeah, you’ve committed it all to memory, seen it in every light and shadow; the smoky liner ringing around her eyes, the gloss that makes her lips look shiny and sweet and oh so soft. The absolutely devastating smile that never seems to leave her—only gets wider, warmer, parting when she laughs and slaps a hand on the table, or lands it on your forearm.
Accidentally, of course.
"Does that mean I get to sit on your lap later?"
It’s a touch early for her to throw out bait so blatantly. That’s more of a three-drinks-in kind of thing.
Still, your mouth answers for you before your brain can catch up, “Depends if you've been naughty or nice.”
“I think we both know the answer to that one,” she says, far too casually for you to handle, daring you to let that thought linger. Let it rattle around your head with all the other loaded thoughts involving her in various states of undress and in all sorts of compromising positions—underneath, on-top, kneeling. Thoughts that are better kept on a tight leash.
Because you know what would happen if you were to give in to them.
How you’d reach over the bar separating the two of you, pull her onto the counter. Send all the glasses, the bottles, crashing to the floor, and just kiss that smile right off her face, right here, right now. Tear off her clothes and leave her bare and exposed to the cold December air, make her yours, fuck her absolutely senseless. Render her nothing but a victim to your fingers, your lips, your cock, to all the need that’s been boiling inside you over the past months and—fuck.
She's got you good.
There's no point in pretending like it hasn't been this way since the first time she found you—at the end of an alley that's at the end of another alley, down the stairs and into the underground proper. Waltzing her way into the hovel that is your whiskey bar; all for reasons that you’re yet to fully untangle.
Months of performing this same dance—it's late, she walks in, typically perfect and bouncy, like some half-remembered fantasy or a libido-driven hallucination. Only, she must be real, because there’s no way you could ever conjure up someone like her.
It's embarrassing, you really should be far more used to it now, built up at least a partial immunity to her brand of charm. But somehow, she still finds a way under your skin. You’re only human, after all. And she’s… she’s Giselle.
Undeniably, in-your-face gorgeous, Giselle.
Dead-set and determined to throw herself at you until you break.
"Perfect," is her evaluation when she's taken her first sip. It plays out like it’s been choreographed: she licks her lips, flashes that million-dollar smile, lets loose a sigh of pure joy. Looks at you all wide-eyed and impressed; like you're the only person in the world who's ever given her exactly what she wants. Like she doesn't already live in a reality where everyone else falls flat on their faces to ensure that the needs of Aeri Uchinaga are met. “Always perfect.”
And you have your own steps to follow. You're glued to the pulse in the curve of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the naked collarbone when she shirks off her coat to reveal tits that are much too ample for her dress to contain. All these little things that make her so fucking distracting.
She says, surreptitiously, "You know, I didn't think you'd be open today."
"And yet you came anyway."
"And yet I did."
There's the loaded insinuation stacked on top of her words like a teasing question mark:
('I came looking for you.'
'I was waiting.')
"Like I said, a Christmas miracle," Giselle repeats, softly this time. Barely audible over the Christmas tunes you’ve got on a loop, some self-inflicted torture you’re wreaking on yourself for purposes unknown. Maybe to get into the spirit of things. Maybe to keep the silence at bay. Maybe to make Giselle's efforts feel less effective.
It doesn't work.
It does, however, have you leaning in just to hear her better, and that's a mistake right there. Getting too close that you can follow the lines of the dress she's picked out for the night. A sheer black, strapless number that hugs her figure close, dipping at her chest, giving you just enough of a glimpse to send the alarm bells ringing.
Ending short of the tops of her thighs, because of course she's wearing stockings, and of course they have tiny little bows holding them up, and you're already thinking about how easy it would be to get your teeth in them and pull them apart, and the walls are starting to feel closer and closer with each passing second.
But you don't say anything. You just try to remember to breathe. You chance a look back at her face, aiming for unaffected.
Her eyes instantly undo you.
Giselle uncrosses and crosses her legs. The stockings stretch.
"Like what you see?"
Now seems like an optimal time to pour yourself a drink. Something strong to fortify the weakness in your knees, to maybe bolster the resolve that's threatening to crack like the ice frosting over the windows outside.
You grab a glass, pour a good measure of whiskey and throw it back without even bothering with the usual ritual. You need it. The burn is a good distraction.
You turn her question back on her. Shame on her for asking something so obvious. "What do you think?"
"I think," Giselle smiles, tilts her head, that curtain of bubblegum-pink cascading over her collarbone and down onto the bar, "That it appears that all the effort I put getting into this tight fucking dress was worth it."
You're unable to stop yourself from saying, "Don’t need the dress if that was the intention." It slips out of you, like an idiot, and you decide to busy yourself by pouring two more drinks, because you really don't know what the fuck else to do at this point.
“Duly noted,” she says, likely adding it to some mental file she keeps on you. Ways to get you to drop your guard. Ways to get under your skin. “But don’t you think unwrapping presents are half the fun?”
You’re rolling your eyes, it’s too much, but Giselle’s too good at this whole thing. Got the two of you sliding deep into the easy rhythm of conversation you've found yourselves in many, many times before; when it's just you and her in the waning hours of the night and you're finding excuses not to close up and she's finding excuses to stay.
And the drinks just compound on it even more. All the alcohol really seems to do is blunt her filter and dull your better instincts, bringing you both to that tipsy point where everything that comes out of your mouths can’t help but sound like shameless innuendos; all terrible ideas that you both absolutely must indulge in.
Talking and flirting and drinking until you’re finally crossing that invisible line drawn over the counter of your bar, forgetting about that ethereal wall of separation that keeps you on the straight and narrow; that would normally stop you from doing things like reaching over and brushing a strand of pink out of her face and over her ear.
You keep your hand there, your thumb padding the soft skin of her cheek. She leans into your palm.
“So,” she says, and it’s accompanied by the kind of pause that holds a whole universe of possibility. She takes a sip of her third drink of the night, her eyes fixated on you, studying the lines on your face. Trying to find the cracks.
“So.”
“Why haven’t you made a move on me?”
She might as well have gathered snow from outside your door and thrown it right at your face. You blink, the warmth of the whiskey in your cheeks fading fast. “Very confident of you to think that I would want to.”
“Don’t dodge,” she chides. “We both know you didn’t open tonight for the amazing business rush. So. Spill. Why?"
You’re about to spout off an excuse—something about a Hippocratic oath, or bartender-customer privilege, but Giselle cuts your lie short before it can even leave your throat.
“You’ve been staring at me like you want to eat me alive every night I’ve been here, and you expect me to believe you’re not interested?” Giselle leans closer, her breath warm on your hand. Her eyes piercing through, stripping away every defence you’ve ever had. “You’re barely hiding it you know? How badly you want me.”
There’s an implicit challenge underneath her words. You get the message loud and clear:
Don’t you know how badly I want you too?
"It's—" you start, before course correcting when you catch the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. You swirl the whiskey around in your own glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light and dance. "Complicated."
"Oh really?" Giselle's eyes light up at that, and you're beginning to feel like you're falling into some trap she's set up. It just hasn’t revealed itself to you yet. "I like complicated. I live off complicated."
"I'll bet," you reply, not missing the fact that she's now taken your hand into hers, threading her fingers through yours. "Probably why you're here so often."
Giselle clicks her tongue, runs it across her lips. You'd die for a taste. "I thought I asked you to stop dodging. But, if you really want to know, I come here because I like the company," she explains, before ending her thought with, "and the attention."
"Because being an idol doesn't give you enough?"
"Not in the way I want it."
"And I do?"
"Not yet," she says, with an air of finality. "But give it time."
The silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of the unspoken. The air in the bar feels charged, like the moment before a storm hits. You're reading her, acutely aware of the things running through her mind, because you can see it in her eyes, because they're the exact same thoughts that’s never left yours.
You want her.
You need her.
She’ll give herself to you.
Giselle’s the first to break the pause. “Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
The corners of eyes crinkle ever so slightly, and that's about where you realise your fate's been sealed from the start. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. You’re aching already. "What I really want for Christmas."
You don't need a map to know where this is headed. But you still ask anyway. "And what is that?"
"You."
You set down your glass with a clink. "Look, Giselle—"
"Let me finish," she interrupts, and now her hand's sliding up your arm, leaving a trail of static wherever she touches. "For Christmas this year, all I want is for you to do whatever you want to me."
A second attempt, "Giselle—"
"I know you want to. You know I want you to. We've danced around this for too long and I'm running out of ways to subtly tell you that if I don’t get my hands on that perfect cock that I know you're hiding, I just might burn this place to the ground. So," she says carefully, intentionally. Making sure you feel each word coursing through your every nerve ending, winding their way down to your cock, until you’re throbbing in your pants.
Giselle bats her eyelashes. Bites her lip. Leans even closer. Her tits get very close to winning the war against her dress.
"Don't you want to make my Christmas wish come true?"
You never stood a chance. "I do quite like my bar in one piece."
"I do too." Giselle's smile turns devilish. “But I like the idea of having your cum inside me more.”
"Then we better get you out of your clothes."
Only, a slight amendment.
"But keep the stockings on."
—
Giselle kisses you like a woman starved. Messy, sloppy crashes that has her nose bumping into yours and her teeth finding purchase in your lip. She seems determined to leave her mark. You’re more than happy to let her.
It’s a far cry from what you’re used to—the build-up, the slow crescendo where you both pretend that you don’t immediately want to jump to the inevitable—but Giselle clearly doesn’t give a fuck about any of that.
The moment you’ve dragged her over the bar, fulfilled your fantasy and cleared the countertop so the only thing standing between you and her body is the crumpled mess of her dress, she's on you. Moaning, whining into your mouth, desperate. Tongue hunting down yours, pressing into it, trying to wrestle it into submission.
Taking your cheeks into her hands, holding firm, the only thing keeping her steady as you match her hunger, heat against heat. Her taste is everything you've ever wanted—sweet and sharp, like the whiskey burning through your veins, warming you from the inside out.
"God, I needed this," she whispers in the breaths between your kisses, as your hands get adventurous and run down the length of her spine, pulling her closer into you.
You make good on your promise, finding the zip, peeling it down, leaving the fabric to sag off her shoulders. Her skin is cold underneath your fingertips, the curve of her back breaking out in goosebumps. Your touch makes her arch, her back bow, her breasts push up against her dress until it can't hang on any longer and the whole thing pools around her waist.
“Merry Christmas to me,” comes tumbling out of your mouth when you finally get to appreciate Giselle.
The full, round tits, naked and begging for your hands. The smooth curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach. The way her hips flare out, giving way to thighs that you know, just know, will be the perfect grip. And the stockings. Holding up the suspension of your disbelief—she’s so ridiculously out of your league and yet so, so needy for you.
“Fucking gorgeous, Giselle,” you’re telling her, making her sigh, her eyes closing shut as you reach out to fill your hand with her chest. Your touch makes her nipples pebble, stiffen underneath your thumb. She leans back, pushing her chest out even more, giving you as much of herself as she can for you to touch, to tweak, to worship.
And she’s so much smaller than you, so much softer than you’ve ever allowed yourself to believe. The reality of her in your arms is far more intense than any fantasy you’ve ever concocted in the quiet of the night after she’s long gone and left you with nothing but her memory. But she’s giving herself to you now, wanting you to do it all.
Letting you push into her, kiss the skin between her neck and her clavicle, press into her a brand that will linger long after you’ve both unwinded and unraveled each other.
“Just like that,” Giselle whispers in your ear, hands finding your neck, needing you even closer still. “Don’t stop, just keep touching me. You can do whatever you want—tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just don’t stop.”
Nothing else to do but oblige, to give in to your baser instincts, to bring every fantasy, every lurid thought to life. Giselle’s been living in your mind rent-free. Filled it with thoughts of fucking her into oblivion again and again—so you already know exactly where to go, what to do next.
You know to trace the edge of her stocking with your thumb, pressing down on the bow, watching as the skin around it flushes from your touch.
You know to drag your hand up, higher up her thighs, push the hem of her dress to her waist, slip under the elastic of her panties and hold itself there. Leave her trembling in anticipation of your touch.
“Please,” you’ve barely started and she’s already begging, breathless. Needing for you to explore her.
But first, you need to tell her how.
“I’m going to touch you,” you say, voice gruff, and she shudders, her hands tightening around your neck. “I’m going to get my fingers into your cunt, I’m going to squeeze your tits, I’m going to make you scream my name, and you will, because you’re going to be such a good girl for me. Understood?”
Her eyes flash open, meeting yours. Not an ounce of doubt. Just pure need.
“Yes,” she says. A single word that’s more a plea than a response. “Please. Do whatever you want. Make me feel good.”
She just about collapses when you yank her panties down and push your hands between her thighs.
“God—fuck—” and she’s sobbing already.
“You’re so drenched,” you’re remarking, sliding your fingers higher, feeling the wetness that’s been gathering there for who knows how long.
It’s so easy to find the heat of her, to push in and down on the top her mound. Give just the right amount of pressure on her clit that makes her jerk. Makes the muscles in her face twitch, her mouth open wide and moan. It’s a melody in your ears, and you press down harder, swirling now, and you’re beginning to think you’ve found your true calling.
Fuck making her drinks; making her fall apart is why you were put on this planet in the first place.
Her breasts jiggle with every tremble that runs through her, flickering in reach of you, taunting you with their bounce. You can’t help but lean down. Not when they’re calling to you like that.
You lick a path from the base of her neck to her collarbone, and then lower, to one of those perfect peaks that’s been begging for your attention.
Giselle inhales sharp through her teeth, her chest heaving as you start to suck on her nipple. You work your tongue around it, roll it in your mouth until her knuckles turn white against the edge of the bar, her nails digging into surface. The sounds she’s making, these choked gasps that are so raw, so needy.
Showing how good she feels with every part of her body—pushing her breasts up and into your face, her hands tangling in your hair, legs spreading wider, thighs shaking at the effort of staying upright.
You don’t let up, keep going—tongue swirling, fingers moving at double-time over her cunt, her other tit.
Listening to her turn your name into something filthy, something that sounds like a curse.
You pull back off her, cool air kissing the wetness you leave behind, making her quiver, her high, fuck-me heels knocking against wood.
“Giselle,” you say, taking in this look of bliss on her face. The teary eyes, the trembling lip, her cheeks now so very red. “Gonna make you cum now.”
You don’t wait for permission. You already have it. You step forward, lifting her legs up and trapping her atop the bar, spreading her wide open.
Two fingers at first, all at once, no hesitation. Giselle’s pupils blow wide, shocked, teeth bite down on her bottom lip, muffling a cry that you feel in the pit of your stomach. She’s so soaked that you slide right in with ease, a slow push that makes her whine, the slickness making the sounds of your fucking echo over the din of the empty bar.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Giselle stutters, all breathy and desperate. Hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in. Holding on for dear life, writhing as your fingers curl upwards, pushing up against that magical spot inside that has her clenching.
“Such a good girl,” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth like they’ve always been there, just waiting for her to hear them.
The whimper that she makes—the noise alone should be illegal.
“So tight around me,” you tell her, pushing on, focusing entirely on pulling more of these noises from her, doing your best to ignore how hard you already are, how unbearable it is to not be inside her. “So good for me.”
It’s the praise that makes her keen, makes her whine. Pushes herself onto your fingers, trying to get more, trying to get all of you. Just so fucking hot for you.
You can see it playing out across her body, the way she’s losing herself to the pleasure, giving up control of her own functions to you. So helpless, so beautiful. So fucking delighted to finally have you using her in ways she’s only dreamt of.
You’ve never seen anything like it. You’re addicted before you’ve even had her.
“This cunt is going to feel so good around my cock.”
Giselle's nodding, slurring together a string of yeses and thank yous in response.
Her pussy’s pulsing around your fingers, juices soaking your hand, she’s already so close. So close that you can almost taste the orgasm on her skin.
“You want it so fucking bad, don’t you, Giselle? Want me to fuck you senseless.”
Her eyes are glazed over, barely there. Just stunningly beautiful even in the midst of her desire, and you’re not even sure she’s heard you at all until she’s panting out, “I want it. Need it. So much. Oh, God, please, fuck me with your cock. Make me cum. Make me scream.”
But you get in close, lips to her cheek, a command for only her to hear. “You’re going to cum all over my hand. You’re going to show me how badly you want it. Understand?”
“Yes—yes, please—” is the most she can manage, a harsh whisper that barely gets through. You feel it more than hear it, a shiver running through her, down her spine and up yours. “Do it. Give me more, I need it.”
She’s nothing short of incredible. Writhing under your touch, losing herself to your fingers—there’s never been anything—anyone—like this. Anyone that runs this hot, that pleads this much, that is so eager for nothing but you, as much of you as you can give.
There’s no excuse for why it's taken so long to get here, why you let every other opportunity skate by. But now’s not the time for regrets. This is all just catch-up. Getting to this moment that’s been burning a hole in your mind. Making up for all the times when you should’ve been bringing her to her knees, should've been marking her up as yours.
“Mine,” you’re claiming, taking her lips once more, feeling the tremble in her chin. “You’re going to be mine, aren’t you?”
“Yours,” her voice quavers back into your mouth.
She kisses you back like she’s drowning, like you’re the very air she needs to breathe. And it’s all you can do to finger-fuck her faster, pressing deeper into her wetness. It’s filthy, borderline disrespectful the way that you’re owning her now. But it’s all necessary, if that’s what it’s going to take to get to feel her shatter in your arms.
But just as you can feel her hips bucking up off the counter and into your wrist, as she’s about to tip over the edge, you pull back, breaking the kiss, leaving her choking for air.
“Look at me,” you tell her, forcing her glassy eyes to refocus, to snap to yours. “I’m going to make you feel so good. You’re going to cum so hard for me. You’re going to look at me when you do.”
Giselle opens her mouth answer, but all that comes out is a whiny mewl when you slide your other hand from her tits to the back of her neck, pulling her into you, hard enough that you can feel her pulse drumming against your palm.
“That’s it, such a good girl,” you say to her, adorning her with all these sweet words that absolutely wreck her. And it’s so easy to because all of them fit. Your good girl, your slut, your baby, your whore. She deserves to hear them all. “Take it, take it all for me.”
“Fuck, please, I’m almost—” She tries and fails to put the syllables together—your fingers are too good, too precise in their frenzy. Playing her body, hitting every key, every beat, rushing to that final chorus.
And then it hits her, without warning, just a sigh and then she’s—
“I'm—I'm—cumming!”
Eyes trying to stay on yours, losing focus, turning wild, until she’s barely even there anymore.
Giselle cums.
Locking her in place, rippling across her body. Every muscle tensing, cunt quivering, hips lifting off the bar as her juices paint your hand.
“Thank you, thank you, fucking thank you—"
Her voice dies out, trapped in her throat, her words becoming nonsense as your fingers have her riding waves. You’re utterly transfixed, watching the orgasm rip across her face, melting her down to a messy puddle. Barely hanging on to you, mouth lolling open, eyes screwed shut, breaths coming in sharp and fast.
She’s limbless, her body goes slack, and you debate giving her the space, or even just a second to catch her breath, to come back to reality.
But you just don’t.
You don’t stop moving, don’t stop working her, because something tells you that the last thing she’d want is for you to stop. Something tells you that she’s one of those girls—the ones who love to chase the high. Who love to be pushed, who love to be told that they’re doing so well, that they’re perfect.
And Giselle is.
“Again,” you press into her neck, and she gives you the closest approximation to a nod that she can muster. “Again and again, I’ll make you cum until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget what it was ever like to not have my cock inside you.”
The nods come faster, insistent, following a whine as your fingers slide out of her cunt, all sticky with her juices. You bring it up to her, hold it in front of her face so she can see the mess she’s made of your hand.
Her breath hitches when she opens her eyes, catching sight of your glistening digits. You don’t even need to prompt her; she takes the initiative—she’s sucking your fingers without a second thought.
Moans when she tastes herself, sucking them clean, tongue flicking across your knuckles, pulling them into her mouth, relishing her own flavour.
“So fucking needy for it, aren’t you?”
You withdraw your fingers, enjoying the cry of protest at the loss, but you’ve got better plans for her. Pressing a kiss to her temple, before backing off completely, leaving Giselle empty, her legs wobbly.
You're quick to lose your clothes, stripping yourself off without much ceremony, tossing them aside with little care for where they end up.
And yet Giselle’s eyes rake over you, following your every move—she’s seen you before, you’ve caught her staring at your arms, your biceps, making no secret of assaulting you with her gaze at any chance she can get.
But now it’s the unbuckling of your belt, the vanishing of your jeans, the reveal of your cock. Springing free, hard and heavy.
Giselle wants it. Mouth salivating, pussy leaking at the sight of it. Oh, how she wants it.
It gives her energy, has her reaching out for a touch, a stroke. But you stop her, gently taking her wrist into your hand before she can make her Christmas wish come true.
She even has the audacity to pout. “Haven’t I been good?”
“Good?” You repeat, and you’re laughing. “You’ve been downright angelic.”
The pout quirks into a smirk, and there’s that familiar mischievous spark returning. “Then don't I deserve a little reward?” Giselle’s fingers go to her folds, spreading them apart. Putting her cunt on display, proud to show off how ready she is to be filled. “Like that big, beautiful cock of yours in my perfect little pussy?”
You don’t bother with the usual finesse, there’s no need for that. This doesn’t land anywhere on the normal spectrum of casual hook-ups to making love. This is about fucking. About need, raw and unfiltered.
“So, would you please—"
You’re yanking her by the waist before she can get started, lifting her off the bar and setting her down in front of you. There’s that thrill rushing through her, at being so easily handled, so effortlessly claimed.
She’s panting, breaths fogging up the air between you, waiting for your instruction.
“Get rid of the dress.”
Her compliance is instant—she steps out of her outfit, her panties. Until she’s just standing before you; the charm, the sex appeal, the big beautiful eyes all in view, so full of hope and desperation for the special kind of bliss only you can provide her.
Just Giselle, her fucking gift of a body in a pair of tight black stockings and high stiletto heels.
“Now,” you say, tilting your hips forward, your cock jabbing into her stomach, pressing a stamp of need into her skin. Giselle preens at the contact, practically vibrating at your touch. One more thing— “Beg.”
“Fuck me,” she says. Simply, honestly. With every ounce of her soul. “Fuck me good. Take me. Please. I need it. I need to feel you inside me. I’ve been dreaming of this, of you fucking me just like this, so—please, make it real.”
“Begging’s a good look on you, Giselle,” you murmur, finishing the rest of the thought in your head. ‘You're going to be doing a lot more of it tonight.’
She yelps when you flip her over, force her to brace herself against the bar. Her lovely ass high up in the air, her pussy drooling onto the floor.
You don't bother warning her.
You stuff your cock into her.
She fucking screams.
So wet, so slippery. Sliding in and out of her, forcing her cunt to mould itself too you. So fucking tight that you have to bite back a groan, have to fight the urge to just pound into her, to fuck her into the counter.
But there's still a pace you're setting, a rhythm that’s not quite as frantic as her needy cries. You’re in no hurry, not yet. You want to savour this. The feel of her clenching around you, the way her back arches with every thrust, her palms slapping against the bar top, leaving little smudges of sweat behind.
“God, this—” Giselle tries, but finds herself lost for words, unable to properly articulate just how good it feels to have you inside her. But the noises she makes—whimpers and gasps and moans and groans—speak volumes.
You complete the thought for her— “You fucking love this, don’t you?” You’re grunting, pressing your body to hers, nipping at her ear. Slurring these dirty thoughts like they're sweet nothings, these words of pure filth into her neck. “Love being fucked like this. Been waiting for it for so long. So goddamn desperate for it that you can’t even fucking talk.”
She’s fucking amazing. Not just the feeling—hot and tight and perfect—it’s the way she moves with you. Pure pleasure ricocheting through her, the slap of her ass against your hips, the sway of her tits underneath her, her cunt desperately trying to swallow you whole.
It’s her, her body, so alive and responsive and sensitive underneath yours. Taking your cock so deliciously, her cunt fluttering around like it’s trying to hold onto it, like it’s never going to let go.
“So, so fucking hard,” she’s found her voice, clawing back some level of composure. Enough to tense her cunt, squeeze her walls around you. Needing you to know every inch of her body, every inch of her pussy, needing you to know that it’s all yours for the taking. “God, it feels so good—doesn’t it? Fucking me here. Tell me. Tell me how good I am. Tell me I’m a good girl. Tell me you’re never going to be able to spend another second here without thinking of my pussy.”
You know she’s right, she’s leaving a part of herself here, branded into the very fabric of this bar that’s been your sanctuary. It has you pushing in deeper, a violent thrust of your hips, a little punctuation to drive her point home.
She swallows as you pick up speed, chokes on a half-formed moan—so, so fucking close. But you’ve only just begun.
Grabbing her hair, winding your fist in pink, pulling her up so she's forced to listen. The details on her face are all hazy, her makeups smudged from tears, from where she’s rubbed at her face, trying to keep the pleasure at bay. But that’s not how this goes. That’s not how any of this goes.
“You want to hear how good you’re being for me?” A harsh whisper for her, and it takes so much effort for her to just nod in response. “You want me to tell you all the filthy things I’m thinking? Everything that I’ve been dying to do to you?”
“Yes,” she pleads back. “Tell me, please—I need to hear it all.”
So you do. You lay it all on her. Every unfiltered, explicit thought you’ve had—every depraved fantasy that’s on the tip of your tongue whenever she’s around. You tell her all of it, how much of a whore you’re going to turn her into; how much of a slut you want to make her.
How this isn’t the last time. No, there’s going to be hours, days, weeks of this after. Of you fucking her here, of her coming to you just to have another taste of your cock. It’s a revelation, a promise, and it fucking ruins her.
“Every single time you've walked into here, every single time you've sat across form me, I've thought about this," you're grunting now, giving in to the urgency that’s been building up in your chest, the pressure that’s been weighing on you for what feels like an eternity. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very bar. Making you beg for it, making you scream out my name when I fuck my cum into you. Making sure every single person out there knows that this cunt is mine to take whenever I fucking want.”
It’s so fucked, the effect that hearing all this has on her. The sound of your voice, your darkest desires, the harshness of your words, it’s all too much for her, it’s everything she’s ever wanted to be told.
You’re unlocking something in her, something she’s never admitted to anyone, not her closest friends, not her bandmates, not even herself. The way you speak to her, the way you’re treating her like a perfect little fuck doll—and you’re realising that maybe, just maybe, it’s because no one’s ever fucked her well enough to find out.
There’s no room here to be gentle, there’s no way in hell she’d ever want you to be. You tighten your grip in your hair, slam into her harder, skin slapping against skin, mixing with the wet sounds of her pussy taking all of you. Each cry you fuck out of her is music, each one a little higher pitched, a little more desperate than the last.
“This is what you want isn’t it?” You’re demanding of her, even when she’s blubbering, barely able to breathe let alone respond. Just trying to hold on.
But you’re not letting her.
You’re taking her to that place that’s beyond words, that’s beyond thought. The place where all she can do is feel and react. And she’s doing that so beautifully, her body shaking, her cunt quivering around your cock. It’s building and building, the things you’re doing to her, saying to her, making her choke on her own spit, making her eyes roll back and her mouth drop open, until all she can repeat, over and over again is your name.
“Again,” she shapes another word, another plea. She’s a total disaster of need. “Please, again, make me cum again.”
“You'll cum when I say you can,” you growl, forcing her to choke on another whine. The strangled noise goes straight to your cock; makes it throb harder inside her, drive deeper into her. You let go of her hair, only to palm her tit, squeezing into the flesh hard. Giselle jolts, a squeal escaping her lips. “But since you’ve been so good, I’ll let you cum before me again. Just this once. Just because it’s Christmas.”
You’re being evil, you know it, she loves it, but it's the best part. She clearly wouldn't want it any other way.
”Yes.” Giselle’s beaming, shivering with excitement. Getting fucked into utter ruins and thanking you for the privilege. “Thank you, use my pussy, do whatever you want, just let me cum.”
That sparks an idea, “Whatever I want?”
“Whatever you want,” Giselle pants, not a single idea of what she’s agreeing to. But maybe that's the whole point. “Anything.”
There’s a grin that splits your face that you can’t help, that you don’t bother suppressing. “I’m not going to ask for permission anymore, Giselle. I’m just going to fuck you the way I want. Make you addicted to my cock. Take you how I want, cum in all your holes, fill you up over and over again.”
Giselle’s eyes go wide, nearly stops breathing entirely. So close. Knowing that the next words out of your mouth are going to decimate her completely.
“Gonna make you start the New Year knocked up.”
She freezes.
“God—” Giselle’s a fucking wreck, on the verge of something explosive, something else entirely. “Oh my God.”
She just needs you to give her that push.
“You love it, don’t you? Being made nothing more than a fucking cumdump for me? That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
You’re fucking her too hard, hammering into her too roughly, it’s a wonder that she can even manage a stuttered, “I—I—”
“Fucking say it, Giselle,” you say, “Spit it out.”
It’s too difficult for her to fit the words together, to form her reply, so it means all that more when she manages to tell you. “I want it.”
“Want what?”
“Your cum in me. All of it. Until I’m, until I’m—” She’s there, lost in it, in the idea of you ruining her in such a permanent, irreversible way. Or maybe completing her, making her whole, making her perfect for you and only you.
But you’re so close too. Right fucking behind her. All she has to do is say it.
“Until you breed me. Fill me with your cum, give it to me. I need it. Make me your permanent cocksleeve and never let me go. Make me yours—completely, forever yours. Make me your fucking whore.”
“Good girl.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Hits her like a fucking meteor. Leaping right off the most intense high she’s ever climbed. Bucking and quaking against your bar, your cock still impaled inside her, mercilessly undoing her. It’s nothing short of fucking pornographic, fucking depraved the way it’s destroying her.
Seizing her entire body in pleasure, her nails digging into the wood, scraping up marks that will prove to be a sweet, everlasting reminder of the exact moment she became yours. Fracturing her, breaking her apart into a million tiny pieces and then remaking her all over again as something purely sexual—something that only exists for your satisfaction.
“So fucking good, your cock, God it’s you, just you—” Giselle’s words dissolve into a keening cry that shatters the remaining silence of the bar. “Breeding me so good—”
Nothing short of a miracle that she’s still on her feet, that she can still do anything at all. One last thing she needs to do in the dying embers of her lucidity, one final goal—choke your cock with her cunt, wring you dry, make you flood her with your cum.
“Cum, cum, fill me, breed me, give me your—”
“Take it,” you exhale, “Take it all.”
And it’s Giselle in her entirety that overcomes you, overloading your senses with the pure, distilled feeling of just her. The smell of her sex, her perfume, the feel of her curves, her softness, the perfection that is her pussy, enveloping your cock, drenching it in her wetness. These things that you’ll never, ever be able to forget.
But it's her words that make you erupt.
“Breed me, Daddy!”
You cum deep into Giselle’s pussy.
Buried inside her, rushing white hot, thick and heavy. Ropes and ropes of it, spurting inside her, painting her insides, coating her walls until it’s just sheer heat and you making her whole.
Her cunt’s clenching around you, she’s begging, slurring moans and whimpers that there’s no fucking chance you have of comprehending—just basking in the knowledge that they’re desperate, needy sounds that are all for you.
She can’t keep it all in. But she needs to.
Something knocks the architecture out of her legs, but you’re quick enough to wrap your arms around her, holding her tight, keep her on her feet. Keeping her from collapsing entirely, just letting her pulse around you, clench and quiver.
You’re kissing her into the shoulder, cooing these affirmations, keeping her with you, telling her the truth of it all, “Such a good girl, Giselle. Taking my cum so well.”
Giselle can’t say anything. She sobs. Face buried in her hands. Not from pain, not even close. You’ve never seen pleasure look so much like agony. So much like release.
It’s overwhelming.
You try to make a move, take a step back. But Giselle flexes her cunt, clutching you tighter. Reaches back with her hand for your thigh to stop you.
“Wait,” she whispers. "Not yet. Don't move. Keep your cock inside me. Don't let a single drop get out."
You give her the time, because she’s just so perfect like this. So unfathomably gorgeous, all fucked up and cum-drunk. In ways no one should ever be. Like you’ve torn the wings off an angel, brought her down to Earth and made her yours.
You revel in it.
“Take your time,” you breathe; the exhaustion, the strain, the adrenaline pumping through your veins all coming to a head at once. Keeping your cock plugging up her cunt. Leaving all your cum inside.
Neither of you are moving anywhere. Not until she says so.
Giselle laughs.
“Perfect,” she sighs, voice hoarse and shaky. “I knew it would be perfect. I knew you would ruin me like this. God, I don’t ever want to go back.”
You’re laughing too, harsh, airless chuckles that feel like they’re being torn out of your chest. You twitch your cock inside her. “You think you have a say in the matter?”
“I guess I don’t,” she giggles.
You look around at the scene of the crime, the evidence you've left on her. The marks on her skin, her shoulder, her neck. The ruins of her dress, her panties. The tearing of her stockings. Her tear-filled eyes, her smeared mascara, her drooling lips.
And her cunt, so full of you, so very yours.
It’s barely believable. She may not have burned down the bar, but there’s certainly a fire that’s been set. One that’s not likely to die down anytime soon.
It has you swelling inside her all over again.
Gisele feels it.
“Say,” she starts, wriggling her hips against you, making you groan. “You didn’t have any Christmas plans, right?”
Your hands slip down to her hips, idly massaging into the small of her back. “None at all.”
A contented exhale escapes Giselle's lips. She looks up, lashes fluttering, a soft, sweet smile. Her hand reaches back, caressing the side of your face. “And the rest of the year?”
“Nothing that can’t be cancelled.”
“Good,” she says, her breath sweet against your cheek. “Cancel them all. Close up for the holidays. Shut all the doors. Stay inside with me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And do what?”
“Get to work,” Giselle answers, pulling you into a last kiss, threatening to undo you all over again. “You did promise to knock me up by New Years.”
"It's this challenge I'm doing. One whole month—thirty days—without having an orgasm," you're explaining, failing spectacularly at keeping things professional. Something possesses you to add: "No nutting. Hence the name."
Somi just stares at you. Flabbergasted.
Leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms; tearing your entire existence apart with her eyes.
"Can I just say, and I genuinely mean this in the nicest way possible—but that’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard."
—
Here's the conclusion you've arrived at from the one hour you've spent with her: Jeon Somi is some kind of demon.
It’s not a joke, it’s not some painterly metaphor you’re drawing—Somi has clawed her way out from the depths with nothing but a ponytail and an alarmingly tight pair of leggings; arriving on Earth, in the flesh, to make your life a living, breathing, sweat-drenched hell.
So, yeah.
Somi, the succubus. Or something close to that.
It's the only explanation for it really.
See, you're a photographer. Of women, specifically.
Beautiful women in intimate settings, sparse aesthetics. That’s your whole deal. Just homing in on the subject, capturing something ‘real’ without any distractions. Get the essence of who they are when there’s no one looking.
Pretentious, sure, but it’s what’s kept you in demand with the glossy magazines and the avant-garde galleries and the starlets desperate to convince the public that they’re more than just the pretty robots their agencies have programmed them to be.
So, suffice to say, you've met all the types.
The innocent idols that need a mountain of coaxing to come out of their shells. The stone-cold divas that barely acknowledge your existence, yet somehow still expect you to anticipate their every demand. And the flirts, willing to do just about anything for the camera with a wink and a nudge, if it means getting an edge on the rest of the industry.
But Somi? She just is.
Pure temptation incarnate, from head to toe, without even trying. Thighs that threaten to strangle your self-control, a waist that makes sinners out of saints, tits that would have physicists reconsidering the very nature of gravity, all topped by a dangerous smile that could melt a fucking igloo with its sheer wattage.
Somi’s hot.
She knows it, the world knows it, the public crucifies her for it. And she just takes it all, all of it. Melts it all together and forges it into armour.
And now she’s here, in your private space. None of the usual entourage of make-up artists, managers, whatever. Just herself and an absurdly sweet frappé. Looking so comfortable that it’s making you feel like you’re intruding.
She’s leaning on your table, ass flush against the wood, arms crossed, and her eyes—those fathomless dark pools—land on yours, holding them hostage.
Barely has to make any effort when she laces her words together, piles on an unhealthy dose of insinuation, cocks an eyebrow and asks—“So, how do you want me?”
Naked, preferably. On all fours, ass to the sky. Or maybe on her knees, mouth hanging open, tongue out, elbows squeezed together to make her tits sing.
Yeah, you're already composing the perfect shot in your head.
Fuck.
You rub your eyes. Maybe thirty days of self-imposed abstinence has finally broken you, and this is all some kind of feverish hallucination driven by your libido.
But no, Somi is still there, lounging in your studio, all curves and challenge. Just being insanely hot.
You cough, clear your throat. Put on the mask of someone far more professional.
“Anywhere you’d like,” you’re answering, keeping your expression decidedly blank. This isn’t the first time you’ve been the only outlet for a young sexpot desperate to let off some steam. You have the experience. But again—fuck. Thirty days is far too long. Somi is far too much. “Just keep it natural. Like I’m not even here.”
Somi just laughs, sweet and sinful, her whole thing. Pushes off the table with a grace that seems almost supernatural (again, see the demon theory), before adding a thought, like it just sprung up in her pretty head— “Easier said than done.”
Distractions aside, all things considered, she’s the perfect subject.
Gets what you’re going for immediately, makes herself at home amongst your studio's chaos. Glides around the room, runs her fingers over your equipment strewn about—the lights, the lenses, the negatives hanging in the corner.
The sway of her hips, the flex of her back. The dip of her brow and purse of her lips when she asks, "What's this for?", and the genuine interest when she listens to you explain about aperture, and light metres, and so on and so on.
(Snap a photo of her silhouette when she's by the window, leaning against the glass to spy on the passers-by.
Snap a photo of her smile, when you say something that's really not that funny, but she laughs anyway.
Snap a photo of her legs, when she finds a couch to lay on—stretching herself out, showing off their length, the tone of her thighs, the promise kept hidden by her leggings being pulled tighter and tighter.)
Another hour passes quickly, and you take a break there, more for your sanity than her endurance. Leave her to her own devices while you flick through the shots you’ve managed to get so far.
Only, when you scroll through your laptop, scan through the dozens upon dozens of rapid-fire photos you've taken—it's a horror show.
None of them work.
Not because of her, but because of you.
The way you've shot her. Far too revealing—you've put too much of yourself in these pictures. Turned them from images to confessions. Each one a fucking love letter to her body—her legs, her tits, her lips, her ass, her tits again—everything about her that makes you ache.
It's not art. It's borderline pornographic.
And yet, Somi's still just lying there.
Drinking down another pick-me-up that she's had delivered, this one with enough caffeine to take down several horses, chatting away so casually while you try to stitch your soul back together. Sipping and talking about who-knows-what, throwing out feelers, smiling easily, laughing sincerely, utterly oblivious to the havoc she's wreaking on your self-control.
An effortless grace when she lifts herself off the couch, saunters over to you and leans in far too close, gets far too familiar, lays on far too much charm when she asks, “Mind if I take a look?”
Yeah, you do, but you still force a calmness into your voice that you’re certainly not feeling when you turn the laptop so she can see.
“Wow,” is her initial review, and now she’s touching you, hand on your shoulder, tits pressed up against your arm and you’re certain that none of this is accidental, like an oh, just trying to get closer so I can better appreciate the photos you’re flipping through, never mind that you're getting a precise estimation of my cup size just from the feeling alone.
Do your best—ignore the pressure, the warmth, the softness. Watch her face, see all the tiny details; her eyes lighting up when she catches something she likes, her thoughtful hum at a particularly good shot. The smacking of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the recognition as you scroll.
One by one, with each photo, her expression morphing from curiosity to understanding.
She notices.
“You’re good at this.”
You wait for it. “That’s all?”
Her eyes glint, “None of these can be used though.”
“I know.”
The screen’s frozen on a particularly compromising shot: there’s Somi’s face, barely in it, just the bottom-half, her lips pouting out and looking all plump and delicious. Camera angled up high, pointing down the dip of her tight, sheer top and the shadowy valley that makes up her cleavage. Scanning down to her legs, folded to the side beneath her, the squish of her ass cheeks over her heels, spilling into the corner of the screen.
Sin, captured in fifty megapixels, barely contained inside a four by six frame.
A submissive dream.
“These for your personal collection, or—” and when she catches the heat rising up the back of your neck, changing directions, “—not that I mind, as long as I get a copy.”
Clearly finding all this much funnier than you are—that smile’s a knife to your chest. So sharp and knowing; it would have you gasping for air, if only you’d look.
Keep it cool, play it off with a shrug, “We’ll try again.”
“I doubt we’ll get any different results,” Somi’s predicting, bouncing on her toes now, getting closer and closer until she doesn’t need to make much of an effort to make herself heard. Close enough that she could feel you now, if she wanted to. Just brush her fingers over you and get a good idea of the reason why this photoshoot is going so far off the rails.
She instead leans her chin onto your shoulder, breath hot against your cheek. Like throwing a match on gasoline.
All the power of this girl, this woman, wrapped up in a single gesture. Wielding it so freely, so innocently, so easily. Heat that's self-aware, that knows just how much it's burning.
You caution, “Keep it professional.”
“Doesn’t that run counter to the whole aesthetic. I thought we were going for raw?”
“Natural.”
“What’s the difference?”
You need to stop yourself, shut the laptop, end the session right now before it’s much too late. Before you’re turning to her and realising just how close her lips are to yours, just how tiny her waist is compared to your hands, and you're saying the words that will end all semblance of propriety and professionalism— “With you, I don’t think there is one.”
“Well as long as we agree,” and Somi’s turning away, striding back to the couch, leaving you to breathe again. Making you thankful for the space, but missing the suffocation of her heat all at once.
Plopping herself down on the cushions, one leg folded under the other, leggings so thin you can see the shape of her underneath. Natural, just like you asked—looking like she's the only one here that’s exactly where she wants to be.
You’re thinking you’re off the hook.
Maybe you can get back to work.
Only, “So, it’s been a while, then?”
“Somi,” you’re saying her name for the first time, officially, and it’s coming out far too strangled. Far too needy. She loves the sound.
“Come on, humour me.”
“Somi,” again, you’re trying, clearing out the cobwebs from your throat.
“Sir.”
What the fuck.
She doesn’t move. Waits patiently for your answer.
You give her the inch, knowing she’ll take the mile.
Raking a hand through the back of your head. “Thirty days.”
The look on Somi's face is apoplectic. You're glad you have the wherewithal to capture it.
"It's a—" and you're feeling quite stupid as you explain it to her in detail; the abstinence for a month, the purpose of it all, the supposed benefits, "challenge."
That sends Somi ranting, hands flailing in the air. Incredulous, at you, at this challenge, at the idea of putting yourself through this self-imposed torture. “Stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”
And then, when she sees your face.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But seriously. Thirty days? And not once.”
Your voice is dry. “No.”
“Not even by accident?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Wet dreams, nothing? No jerking it? No sex? At all?” Somi’s bursting out laughing, hand flying to cover her mouth, barely even able to breathe. It’s so absurd to her.
And it doesn’t take long before she puts it all together. Processes the information, sees the picture she’s painted of you. The sad, desperate artist, with nothing but a dying hunger and a camera. Realises the predicament you’ve put yourself in just by having her here.
She’s not laughing any more.
“And so you chose today, November 30th, to schedule me?”
You’re very, clearly frustrated. “Not my choice.”
“I see.” She bites her lip. Angles herself just so.
“Dial it back.”
“Tell that to your boner.”
You look down. Pants distinctly flat.
Somi’s grinning. “Made you look.”
“Are you done?” You ask, forcing yourself to look away from her, busying your hands by screwing on a different lens, as if it’ll somehow make her appear any less distracting, like it’ll blur out all your worst intentions and bring back some actual decorum to this whole fiasco. “We don’t have much time left.”
Turning back to her, raising your camera, aiming straight and true and—
Somi, unzipping her heels, kicking them across the floor with a dramatic flourish.
Snap.
Somi, lifting her top up and over her head, stretching her arms up high to push her breasts out forward; making them tight, outlined, so obviously pebbled against the cotton of her bra.
Snap.
Somi, digging her thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pointing her legs up in the air so she can peel them off without getting up, thrusting her hips up off the couch to yank them over her ass.
Snap.
“Somi,” you’re saying again, because apparently, you’ve forgotten how to make other words.
“Just doing what feels natural,” she says, smile turning wicked, reaching behind her back to unclasp and oh, now she’s completely naked. Rearranging herself into this pose. As if she isn’t already the centre of your universe.
Thirty days, flushed directly down the drain.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
—
You’ve found it, the perfect photograph.
Somi, kneeling on the couch, hands folded on her lap, staring down the barrel of your camera with her tits out. Unreal. Works of art, both of them. Miracles of flesh, gravity be damned.
“You’re not taking any photos,” she points out.
You swallow hard. “I’m taking it in.”
Her hands come up to cup her breasts, giving them a bounce. For fun. For you. For the look on your face. You capture the jiggle. "Good, because I'd hate to think all this was going to waste."
It’s a little fucked up, how right Somi is. You wanted raw, honest—here it is, Somi as she kneels. Just being herself, being the woman everyone accuses her of being—the sinner, the whore, the slut.
Being the woman she knows she is, with everything that it implies—the confidence, the appeal, the fucking powerhouse of magnetic attraction. Not an image being projected, not a role she’s playing, but the reality of her, shooting straight into your veins, raw sex personified—as natural as breathing.
And before you know it, you’re capturing her lips with yours, an ‘mmmph’ slipping out from her as your mouths collide and your tongues meet.
It’s not intentional, it just happens. You lean in, she’s hot, she smells like heaven and sin wrapped in a neat little bow and you’re kissing her.
Tongue finds hers, attacks, retreats, joins and intertwines, and it’s everything you imagined it would be turned all the way up—sweeter, hotter, and so much more fucking dangerous.
Lips head south, tongue sliding along her neck, teeth on her shoulder, kisses into her collarbone; and finally, you’re at her breasts.
Softer than a dream, tasting like pure addiction; you kiss the tops of her breasts, lap up all the sweat that’s beaded down in between. Drag your tongue down, follow the curve, the dip, and ending at the hard little points poking against your lips. Filling your mouth with as much of it as you can—licking, suckling, making a complete mess of spit on her chest, and then biting, just a little, just to make her moan.
“So this is what denial does to a man, hm?” Somi slithers into your ears, under your skin, hands at the back of your head and holding you in place.
She arches into you, pushing herself closer, letting you taste, indulge. Feast on what you’ve been missing out over this long stretch of days.
And fuck, maybe it is the abstinence, the pent-up need, or maybe it’s the fact that tits in general are just fucking incredible things. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that it’s Somi, in all her outrageously perfect glory, so happy to be the one that gets to ruin you, that’s making you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.
Not that it matters one bit.
Not that there’s any thoughts at all in your head; there’s just Somi’s tits and your tongue. Lapping it up like you’re trying to drink her in, memorise every contour, every curve, every little goosebump you induce with each swipe of your tongue.
Somi’s tits; a canvas, and your mouth’s painting the picture of a lifetime.
“Baby,” Somi coos, hands on the side of your face, lifting you up off the cushions of her breasts. She’s giggling, her fingers wiping at the strings of drool that you hadn’t even realised you’d been leaving behind. “Remember what we’re here for?”
Right.
The camera. The art. The job. The no-touching rule.
But your mind is a blurry mess of tits and need, and all your blood has headed south for the afternoon, and it's making you feel like you're melting from the inside out.
“Let me give you a hand.” Somi’s gentle with you, like you’re a stick of dynamite with a frayed wick, just the slightest touch and you’ll blow.
She takes your hand, fingers brushing against yours, little sparks of electricity making your hairs stand on end, and lifts your camera up to point directly at her.
And then, she smirks. As if to say, yeah, she’s read all your thoughts; seen straight into you and has discovered the vault where you’ve kept every one of your deepest, darkest impulses locked up for thirty long days.
Somi repositions herself. Poses her body, determined to bring every single filthy, desperate, starving fantasy of yours to life.
Reclining back into the couch, thighs apart, spreading her legs wide.
Showing off her cunt.
Bare and gleaming. Shaven clean—just this perfect, pink, wet little pussy calling out to you. Open like a fucking invitation.
You’re staring.
She waits for you to catch up.
“Now would be a good time to start using that camera.”
You take a step back. Heart racing, hands shaking; you’re usually so much better than this. Take a deep breath, lift the camera, do your job, make your art, capture as much as you can while you have fucking perfection putting herself on display for you.
The click, the shutter echoing through the studio.
It makes Somi sigh.
Her eyes find the lens, locking down her target. A fucking miracle of biology, that’s Somi. Born to have cameras on her, as in love with them as they are with her.
Her fingers dip, trace down over her ludicrously tiny waist, her abs, her bellybutton, stopping short of her mound. Dancing over her pussy, light as a feather.
Fucking grinning as she asks, “Like what you see?”
The camera’s flash answers for you.
Touching herself, stroking, circling, pressing down. Building a crescendo that you can see painted on her; through the tensing of her abs, the heaving of her breasts, her cheeks going pink, her breaths getting shorter, and her lips parting to moan.
You’re barely conscious of the fact that you’re talking under your breath, a singular demand— “Keep going.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty days of denial has turned you into a starving man, only for Somi to show up and make herself a full-course feast. The perfect model, but also the worst fucking thing possible for your resolve.
You take a deep breath, grip the camera tighter.
If you’re going to crack, you might as well go out with a bang.
Guiding her, as if she was any other client, and this was just another photoshoot— “Open your legs wider, Somi. Show me everything.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilate. Sparks, excitement, lighting them up. She does as she’s told, pushing out her knees further, sinking down into the couch cushions.
Thighs quivering, pussy sopping wet and pulsing. All for you. For your camera.
Another click, the shutter again, like a time-bomb ticking down to your doom.
“Play with your clit. Tease it.”
Her hand obeys, delicate, slender fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, hips bucking slightly with each pass. The noises she makes are obscene. Harsh, breathy whispers that make you throb; moans that get caught in the back of her throat.
It’s a rush of blood straight to the head, an almost dizzying sensation, having Somi so eagerly following your every command. Her face says it all, this slut positively loves being told what to do.
“Keep it light. That’s it,” you say, stepping closer, hitting your marks, your angles. “Turn to me. I want to see your face.”
“Like this?” Somi breathes, turning to face you fully, her hand still playing with herself, stroking in a way that's almost cruel—so gentle, so teasing, so obviously designed to make you lose your mind. “Getting the pictures you’ve been dreaming of? Someone like me all spread out for you?”
You nod, jaw clenched, keeping steady. Or at least, you think you are, considering how good Somi’s making this for you.
Making sure you get the right shots of her—her pussy, swollen and puffy, dripping down a puddle onto your couch. Her tits; pinched until they’re hard and sensitive, a vivid red against the stark white of her skin. Her eyes, wide and wild and looking straight down the lens, communicating her arousal in a million different heated ways without saying a single word.
Let it be known; Somi knows exactly what she’s doing.
Knows when to sigh, knows how to arch her back, knows in which direction to pout her lips. Knows how to make every click of the camera count.
“Good girl,” you’re telling her, praising her, and it’s enough to make her keen.
“Am I?”
“Of course,” you say, leaning in closer, close enough to feel the heat of her body, a furnace against your skin. See the sweat dripping down her thighs, tiny little droplets shimmering against the muscle, begging to be licked away. “You’re doing so good, Somi. So, so good.”
You’re getting closer now, kneeling. All for the sake of the perfect shot.
Seeing her fingers work, spreading herself open, exposing her folds, glistening. Her clit standing tall and proud. Her entrance pulsing, waiting to be filled. It’s like watching a masterpiece come to life, a photo that’s been taken a thousand times before but never quite captured right. Until now. Until Somi.
Somi's smiling down at you, all knowing, all tempting, making your mouth water, and it takes all your self-discipline to not drop the camera and replace your lens with your tongue.
She laughs, low and throaty. “Looks like you’re enjoying the view.”
“You have no idea, Somi,” you answer, adding, “But you can make it better, can’t you? Make it wetter. Hotter.”
“Mmhmm,” she agrees, getting to work at making your instructions real. She’s a professional too, after all. A master of her craft. Her other hand snakes down to join her first; one hand pressing firmly down on her clit, the other plunging two fingers up into her cunt. Pushing in, curling, until it’s hitting that sweet spot that makes her preen.
“Perfect, Somi.”
You’re transfixed, as Somi starts to fuck herself in earnest, the camera almost forgotten in your hand. She’s so drenched that every stroke is accompanied by a wet, slick sound; and the way she’s creaming around her digits, dripping down her wrist, it’s far beyond a simple performance being put on for the sake of a photograph. It’s the real deal.
Somi’s breaths come faster, her eyes glaze over, and she’s biting down on her bottom lip, trying to keep from crying out too loudly.
You know you’re getting the best of her, can see it across her face: this is what she truly enjoys. Being watched, being desired, being told what to do all for your pleasure.
You feel like you’re in a trance, your own hand wandering down, needing to adjust lest you rip right through your jeans. The sight alone is devastating enough, but it’s making you swell, until there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore.
“That looks so,” Somi’s licking her lips, seeing the state you’re in, seeing the desperation in your eyes, the strain down below, “Nice.”
The camera is your anchor, your north star in this whole mess. You keep it steady, even as Somi’s breaths grow shallower, turn to pants. Losing herself to you, to the moment, to being captured in all her vulnerability.
She’s fucking herself even faster now, fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, wetter and wetter still, knuckles turning white with the force she’s applying.
“You’re doing so good, Somi, such a good girl for me,” you’re reassuring her, unable to hold back your own need, your own desire from leaking into your voice. It’s a battle, a war really, against your own urges, your innate desire to just drop everything and dive into her, feel her tightness around you, make her scream out your name.
But it’s too soon, Somi’s too close, and it would be a fucking crime to stop her.
“Baby,” she gasps, the word a prayer and a taunt in equal measure, “Baby, I don’t think I can last any longer.”
You’re grinning now, heart racing, camera at the ready. “Good.”
Somi’s on a knife’s edge, balancing on the precipice of climax. You can see it in how her body’s seizing, how she throws her head back, exposing her neck to you—needing your kiss, your bite, your claim. But you resist, intent on capturing every moment of her unravelling.
Because you want to know. Want to capture it. How she cums. What sounds she makes, what noises she can’t keep in. What she looks like when she falls apart.
“Cum for me, Somi,” you’re telling her, “I want to capture it all.”
Somi trembles. She wants it too.
Her eyes screw shut, her breath hitches, and she’s there, sinking back into the couch, letting out this sweet little gasp of anticipation.
The studio goes silent except for the sound of her fingers in her cunt and the shuttering of your camera.
In, out, snap.
In, out, snap.
Fucking herself. Fucking you with her very existence.
And then—“I’m going to—”
Her body arches off the couch, a scream ripping from her throat, her hand working furiously, pussy clenching so sweetly around her fingers. It’s the type of photo people spend entire careers never getting to capture, the most beautifully obscene sight you’ve ever been lucky to witness—Somi, in the throes of pleasure, wracked by her own orgasm, all for the sake of your camera.
It hits her hard and fast and all at once, turns her body into a bow, taut and tense, before it’s released, snapped, melting her down into a boneless puddle.
You watch in awe as Somi cums, writhes and wriggles, and she makes these noises that you’ve never heard from a woman before; crying out so loud you’re surprised the neighbours aren’t banging down the door to see what the commotion is about.
It’s only when she finally relaxes, is released from her orgasm, that you lower the camera, out of breath from the sheer exertion wrought by just watching her.
You’re both near devastation—Somi sprawled on the couch, chest rising and falling, eyes closed and an elated smile on her face, and you, knees threatening to give out, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of her satisfaction.
“That was—” Somi tries shaping the words, but they don’t come. She just lies there, lazy and sated, catching her breath.
Moments pass before she can open her eyes again, only to find you, standing over her, jeans vanished, cock out and level with her parted lips.
“That was just the beginning, Somi.”
It's just the sight of you, but Somi’s delighted. Seeing you like this—exposed and so ridiculously hard. All because of her.
She slides off the couch, kneeling at your feet.
“Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything at all. Just make sure you capture it.”
“Then suck.”
Wet, hot heaven. Somi’s mouth is heaven.
Tongue darting forward, swirling around the tip, teeth grazing the head, and you’re groaning, hips jerking forward involuntarily until you’re falling into her mouth.
Somi’s got a way about her, a finesse that’s unmatched in everything she does. So, so good for you; opening her mouth nice and wide, hollowing her cheeks just right, pursing her lips to make sure you feel it when she sucks.
Just gleeful when your hand finds purchase in her ponytail, when hers wrap around the base of your cock, and you push. Inch by inch into the sweet heat of her mouth, taking it all, making sure you can see it, see how thankful she is to be granted the privilege of swallowing you whole; of having you completely filling her throat.
Holding herself there, nose pressed up against your stomach, eyes looking up, watering slightly around the edges. Not even gagging, just warming your cock with her throat, pulsing, tight, unbearably hot.
She raises her brows.
Ah, that’s right.
Snap.
Pulling off you, dragging her lips, her tongue up your shaft, leaving behind a choked, drooling mess that she’s so fucking proud of.
Giggling around a mouthful of your cock, laughter vibrating across your skin, and it’s a wonder you don’t lose yourself right then and there.
But somehow, you hold on; brace yourself against Somi massaging your balls, tickling the underside of your tip with her tongue. Playing with you, taunting, enjoying every second. Popping your cock out of her mouth so she can truly take measure of you at your achingly hardest, so she can breathe onto your cock in wonder, “Just look at you.”
Balancing your length in the palm of her hand, barely able to wrap her fingers around your girth.
“So big, so hard,” she’s rapt, talking to you, to herself, making sure the ghosts haunting your studio know exactly what she’s dealing with her. “And it’s all for me, isn’t it?”
“Darling,” you’re calling her, making her swoon, “Take it all.”
And she does. Somi, eager, opens her mouth wide, and lets you fuck her face. Getting you deep, so deep that you can feel her throat clench around your tip, slurping, moaning, choking now, but never, ever stopping. Just drooling down your thighs like the good little slut she knows you need her to be.
You’re back at it, taking photos, trying to get the perfect angle, but it’s proving a big ask when your knees are wobbling and your vision’s growing blurry. You’ve got Somi’s eyes in the viewfinder, all wide and blown with lust, looking straight through the lens of the camera and at you, daring you to break first.
But there’s still so much more of her to capture, so much more of her face to fuck.
Her red lips against your skin. Her cheeks bulging with your length. The line of her throat as she swallows. The tears in her eyes when she gags.
Somi’s arms loop around your back, cupping your ass, pulling you closer, urging you deeper.
Winking, giving you all the right cues; a muffled, “Here,” she says with her eyes. “This angle.”
And she’s right. It’s perfect. She’s got a talent for this.
Taking you deep, feeling like your cock’s never going to be able to leave her throat, only to pull back so you can see just how much she’s enjoying herself. How much she’s into this, so grateful to have you capturing every moan, every gag, every little sound she makes as you fuck her mouth like it’s the first time—and after a whole month it might as well be.
“Fuck, take it, Somi, you’re doing so well,” you tell her, knowing what it does to her—the praise, the adoration. Absorbed straight into her bloodstream, making her work harder, suck better, choke a little more. “Such a good girl.”
She loves it. Her eyes brighten, she squeezes your thighs, nails digging in. She loves it all.
You’re getting so close, you can feel it—thirty days of denial are about to come to a head, and she's going to be the one to bring you there. And yet, you still haven’t gotten nearly enough pictures to do her justice.
Somi sees it too, she can tell, knows just how close you are, but still, she's just lie you. She wants more.
She pulls back, an idea hatching in that filthy mind of hers, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Wait,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, cleaning herself of her spit, her drool, your leakage. “I want another photo. For comparison’s sake. Just for my memories.”
You’re not sure what she means, but you don’t ask questions. You just keep your camera at the ready, watching her move, watching her lean closer.
Your cock hovering just above her cheek, tip bumping up against her nose, leaving a wet streak across her face. She holds herself there, your length atop her face, and it’s all in view—her eyes fluttering closed, the tip of her tongue poking out to catch a taste of your precum, the way she’s breathing, deep and heavy, smelling the scent of you, inhaling it like it’s oxygen.
Somi—her face, her tits, her waist, her thighs.
Your cock.
All in view.
That’s the photo.
And when it’s done, you’re backing off, relearning how to breath, how to stand on your own two feet without crumbling to the ground. Somi’s tongue chases you but you’re out of reach, setting the camera down on the floor.
You need to get in on this. Fuck silly challenges. Fuck being a passive observer.
You’re done just watching. You need to feel her.
Somi looks at you all smug and satisfied, on her knees, awaiting your next instruction. “Finished taking pictures?”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you start peeling off your clothes, each layer like a heavy weight of your shoulders; until you’re just as bare and needy as she is.
Back to Somi, cradling her face, letting her lean into your palm. Running your thumb across her jaw, dragging it across her lips, stamping it onto her tongue.
She sucks.
Christ.
Thirty days of hell, given up for one moment in heaven.
Fuck it. She’ll make it worth it.
You tell her in simple, clear terms. “I’m going to fuck you now, Somi.”
“Please.”
It’s your turn now.
You relax into the couch, legs spread wide, cock throbbing in the open air, beckoning her to come closer.
Somi reads the room, your posture, your need, and she rises to the occasion. Joining you on the couch, back on her knees, thighs gripping on the outside of yours. Hands planted firmly on your shoulders, and the whole time, her eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second.
Appreciate her, this woman, giving herself over to you.
Untying her ponytail, sending honey-brown hair cascading down her face, caressing her neck, her shoulders, meeting the tops of her breasts, perfectly rounded and waiting for the return of your teeth. Her waist, her abs, tensing and releasing, with every hot breath. And her pussy, already there, shimmering, dribbling down your cock, waiting.
Somi’s waiting for your permission.
So, taking her by the back of her neck, pulling her close, kissing her hard. Forcing this whine into your throat as your cock bumps up against her folds, sets off fireworks down her spine.
It’s a translation. Your need, from your tongue to hers, telling her that it’s only her that can do this you. Can rip you from responsibilities, from sanity, from all the shit that’s been keeping you going for the last thirty days.
Telling her that it’s worth giving it all up for just a taste, because maybe that’s the point of the challenge in the first place. Not a matter of self-control but a way to save yourself for something—someone—so potent, so powerful, so fucking irresistible that you just have to surrender to.
You pull apart, breaths hot and ragged, tongues still connected by strands, your hands already at her waist.
“You’re going to ride me, Somi. You’re going to cum on my cock and I’m going to watch it all.”
Somi nods, understanding.
Letting you guide her by the hips, sliding her fingers between her legs to take hold of your cock, aiming it at her entrance.
Lowering herself down, slow, so fucking slow, like it’s a brand-new form of torture, until your cock is nestled at the entrance of her heat, and you’re both vibrating with the anticipation of it, the gravity of this moment.
You take a harsh breath. “Ready?”
Somi presses her forehead to yours. Teasing, “Are you?”
And then, inch by inch, dragging her cunt down your shaft, making you feel every bit of her wetness, her tightness, every bit of her heat, Somi takes you in.
Pussy tightening around you like a fist, walls pulsing, massaging your cock, like she’s already trying to milk you dry. This moan that’s torn from her lips, deep and primal, something she’s been holding in for far too long, this needy, unholy cry that takes the shape of your name.
And when she’s bottomed out, when you’ve filled her until all she knows is you, Somi looks down in your eyes, nothing but pure, unfiltered lust strewn across her face. “Everything you were hoping for?”
You try, but fail, to form coherent words, just manage a grunt of pleasure, a nod of your head, and she laughs—it's the sweetest, most evil sound you've ever heard. She's got you, hook, line, and sinker.
“Good to know,” she says, and that’s all she needs to start moving, to set the rhythm that’s going to shake the walls, send them crashing to the ground until all that’s left is the two of you fucking amongst the rubble.
Her thighs tighten around you, hips start to roll in a way that’s just too fucking good, too fucking perfect. The friction is everything, makes the world narrow to just the two of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the drenched slick of her pussy, the heavy scent of her filling the air.
“Baby,” she repeats, each time her thighs slap down against yours, each thrust all the way up into her guts. “This cock is so perfect for me, so fucking—”
A snap of your hips into her, pulling her down hard, making her tits jump at the force of it, making Somi wail. There’s her cunt, spasming around you, tightening, trying to hold you in, trying to keep you there, but you’re not letting up.
You take over, holding by the hips and fucking her, like you’ve been waiting for, like you’ve been so fucking desperate for, like she needs so badly.
“God, you’re really—really fucking pent up, aren't you?" Somi's words are chopped up by the relentless thrusts of your hips, making her stutter, her voice all strained and breathy. Bouncing on you now, letting you set the pace, eyes screwed shut, just giving herself over to you. “I’m so, so lucky. So lucky that it gets to be me that breaks you. That takes you. That gets all this cum you’ve been saving this whole time.”
You’re gritting your teeth, unable to do anything but just fuck. Driven mad by it, by every impulse coming right up to the surface.
Everything you’ve been holding back, it’s all here, being unleashed onto Somi.
Fuck her, fill her, make her scream—‘Please, please, please’. Those are the only thoughts in your head now. Forget about the job, the photographs, the responsibility—just be yourself, a man on the edge, ready to jump off the fucking cliff.
“Baby,” Somi’s repeating, as your fingers find purchase in her ass, as she lays kisses on your shoulder, marking you up along your neck and down your jaw. There’s other words too—filth, all of it; whining to you about how you’re filling her up so good, about how she’s so wet for you, about how you’re going to make her cum so hard. But it’s all just noise to you. Noise that can be summarised in the simplest of requests, right from Somi’s lips—“Please, fucking use me.”
It's the perfect way to come apart—have someone like Somi, with her heavenly tits in your face, and her greedy, greedy cunt soaking up everything you’re willing to give. Begging, wanting, needing to be ruined.
“So fucking tight for me,” you’re kissing into her chest, finding your voice somewhere between her breasts. Telling her, “Fuck, Somi, your pussy. It’s so good for me. So fucking perfectly wet.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Somi sighs back, arms barely hanging on, holding at your neck, unable to do nothing but whimper and bear it. Bear this fucking you’re giving her, your cock invading her cunt, making her pussy tighten around it like a vice, making her abs clench, her tits jump, her throat swallow—making her sweat.
It’s like she was made for this—cunt made for your cock, body made for your arms. Somi, perfectly designed to be used by you. To moan and whine at your mercy; to be fucked, to be filled, to ruin you and to be ruined all the same.
“I can’t, I’m trying but I can’t hold on,” Somi’s teary-eyed, kissing at your face, your neck, her breath hot and sweet against your ear. “Baby, please. I need to feel you. Need more of you.”
And you’re only too eager to oblige.
Lifting your head, pulling her body closer. Catching her left nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, nipping at the peak until she’s gasping, until she’s arching her back, pressing her chest closer. Feeling the flesh flush against your lips, hitting your chin with each hard thrust.
Fuck, her tits. You could suffocate between them only to claw your way out of the grave just for another taste.
Her nails dig into your scalp, demanding more—more attention, more adoration, more worship. You give it to her—switching between each of her breasts, suckling and licking, making her whine and buck against your teeth.
“Just like that, you’re so good at that, so good with my tits,” she moans, short, tiny sighs that send your hips jerking upwards. Fucking her faster, quick, staccato thrusts that hit her just right, make her walls quiver around you. “They’re yours, all for you. All of me is yours.”
Her orgasm builds; it’s palpable, a storm brewing in the studio, sweeping up everything in its path. Each breath she takes is a hitch, a little cry, a whine. So tight around you, fucking her so hard, so deep that you can feel it coming from the inside out.
“Filling me so good, so, so good,” she mewls, and there’s still some fight in her left, a burst of energy in her thighs, allowing her to grind down harder, drop her ass on you—an up, down, up, down that echoes through the studio with each smack.
“You’re going to cum for me Somi,” you’re telling her, detailing exactly how she’ll come completely apart. “You’re going to cum all over my cock, you’re going to scream for me when you do it, okay? Tell me how good it feels.”
“Yes, yes, yes, tell me what you want—anything—I’ll do it, I’ll be so, so good for you—”
“You’re going to beg me for my cum, Somi. Going to beg me to give it to you until you can’t take any more,” you’re growling, your teeth sinking into her tits, your tongue pushing up against her flesh, making her sing.
You’re fucking her apart, tearing her in two with your cock. This girl you've only just met, who only just walked into your life; nothing but sex in a pair of high heels, and you’re already rearranging the furniture of her soul.
Now she’s the one that can’t make sense of things, can’t form full sentences—just incoherent whines and cries, each one stacking on top of the other, until the foundation’s all tilted and it’s going to collapse any second now.
Just waiting for you.
Separate from her chest, take a fistful of her hair, pull her back so you can look in her eyes and see. See just how badly you’re ruining her, how terribly she’s falling apart.
Make sure she can see you, has her attention on nothing but you when you tell her, finally, “Cum. Cum for me, Somi. All over my cock.”
She’s breaking.
“Now.”
“Please, I—” Somi’s words live and die on her lips, barely making it out before it hits her, seizes her entirely, forces her cunt to strangle your cock as she shatters.
It’s all there, her pussy tightening, pulsing, clenching, releasing in this quake of bliss that feels like a sucker punch straight through your gut.
When she cums it hits her, hits you, waves of heat washing over your cock, splashing down onto your thighs. It’s the sensation. So overwhelming, so undeniable, grinding down her orgasm onto you, pleading, over and over and over again, “Don't stop, don't stop, please!”
Writhing in your arms, needing to be held close to stop her from falling off the couch completely. Eyes rolling, head thrown back, exposing her neck, the perfect arc of her throat. Her body jolts, jerks, twitches, and it has you fucking hypnotised.
And all Somi can do is say, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
She keeps going, until each thread is unravelled, until you’ve fucked loose every last bit of control she’s got, until she’s nothing but a trembling mess in your arms.
But it’s not over, not yet.
You’re still hard, so fucking hard. Bursting at the seams. And Somi’s looking down at you, pulling herself back together. Seeing your cock, buried inside her. Seeing the mess you’ve made of her, her own pussy. Seeing everything.
And she’s smiling, because she knows what comes next.
“Use me.”
You lift her off your cock, so easy to carry; her tiny waist in your hands, she’s so light. Still shivering, these tiny, little aftershocks quivering through her, it’s like she’s clay in your hands, ready to be moulded at your discretion.
Somi gasps when she’s laid out on the couch, her legs spread wide, her cunt leaking down her thighs, all cream and cum. She adjusts herself, makes herself comfortable, presentable. Putting herself in the best possible state to be used by you.
“Use me, baby,” she repeats again, that sweat plea that’s going to be you’re undoing. She’s so, so needy, practically whining for more, for everything, for anything as long as it involves your cock and her.
You stand over her, cock at the ready, eyes on your next target, the natural stage for the grand finale, the pièce de resistance of this whole fucked up photoshoot—Somi’s breasts.
She follows your gaze, realises, “You want to fuck these tits, don’t you?”
You find your voice gravelly, deep. “Yeah.”
Somi giggles, hands at her chest, taking either side of her breasts, pushing them together with her palms and creating this gorgeous valley, just waiting for your cock. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“For you to beg.”
Somi blinks. Once, twice. Sees the look on your face, sees how hard you are for her, how desperate you are to let go.
But she knows how much you need to hear it. Knows how much she wants to say it.
“Please. Baby, please. Fuck my tits. Cum all over me. I need it.” Somi’s licking her lips, massaging her breasts together, showing you just how soft they are, how ready they are for you. “I need to feel your cum on me. All over me. My face, my neck, my chest. Everywhere. Let me do this for you.”
That’s it.
You’re back on the couch, straddling her stomach. Knees on either side of her waist, cock between her tits. Soft, warm, inviting.
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Just like that,” you manage, each word a mountain of effort as you watch your cock disappear between her breasts.
It’s a gentle push, that’s all it takes, and Somi starts to move, making her tits jiggle around your dick, squeezing it from either side as you slide your cock up and down. So focused, eyes on your cock, then back to your face, studying your every reaction, waiting for that moment when you crack.
And it’s coming so soon, you’ve been teetering on the edge since Somi first walked in—fuck, on edge for thirty days—and now you’re hurtling towards the fall.
You’re not going to last, not when Somi’s got you like this. Her hands moving with you, her tits bouncing in time with your strokes. The cushioning of her breasts around you; this gentle, sweet, torturous pressure that has you grunting, has you smearing drops of yourself all over her chest.
“Fuck, you look so good between my tits. So hard. Doesn’t it feel right? Like this is where your cock fucking belongs. This is what my tits were made for. For you,” Somi’s whispering, stringing these words together like a spell. “You can go faster, baby, I won’t break. Just let go and use me like the slut I am.”
Pleading for it, so desperate for you. Sweet words, encouragement, filth, like a drug, pushing you close and closer to the brink.
Just obey, pump faster, fuck her tits quicker, watch as your cock slices through her cleavage, the gloss it leaves over her skin. See Somi, licking her lips, devouring you with her eyes, just waiting for you to join her on the other side of oblivion.
“Cum for me, baby. Please, please. I need it—I need to feel it—please!”
Her tongue stretches past her lips, flicking out to catch the tip of your cock, making you groan. Leaning in, breath hot on you, cock hitting her lips with every thrust, every drive through her tits. So fucking greedy, so eager to taste, so needy to be the one responsible for your total ruin.
“Oh, oh, oh, baby—yes—yes—yes—yes—”
She pinches her nipples, twists them just right, moans—
You feel it immediately—your balls tighten, your cock swells, and then—release.
Intense is the only way to describe it.
So fucking intense.
White hot jets of cum spurt out, firing everywhere, making a mess of her, coating her chest, her neck, her chin, her lips, her nose—splashing down all over her.
It’s a frenzy, a natural disaster, a hurricane that’s been building for one long fucking month, and now it’s here.
The way her eyes widen, the way her mouth opens, gasping for air, the way she shakes—she wanted this, but there’s no fucking way she was prepared for it.
And when you back up, she dives forward, hand seizing the base of your cock and pumps. Wrists twisting in this aching motion, winding up and down your cock, wringing you out until you’re just a slave to her fingers, her tits, her touch.
“Keep going, baby, keep cumming for me, give me everything,” she begs, sending shivers all the way from your shaft down to your spine as she works your cock.
You do, you have no choice, no say in the matter. You give her everything.
You're coming apart, torn from your own body in sticky, hot waves that leaves you absolutely breathless.
And she’s a fucking mess. All of her—her face, her neck, her tits. So beautiful covered in you. So utterly used. So utterly yours.
It takes a moment for the tremors to stop, for the world to come back into the focus. You sit there, panting, feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon and then climbed a mountain. Somi’s just smiling at you, looking at you through her lashes, glued together with your cum, her own little giggles escaping every now and again.
She looks like a dream.
“Fuck, Somi—”
“Mm?” She looks so content, so at peace with the universe. Wearing your cum like fine jewellery. As if she’s the one that just had the best orgasm of her life.
“You’re—” But what the fuck do you say? That she’s ruined you? That she’s shattered your world? That you’ll never be able to look at a camera again without thinking of her?
Ah.
That’s what you’ll do.
You lean down, pick the camera off the floor, and then—snap.
Somi, looking so sloppy and obscene. Looking like everything you never knew you needed. Looking like she belongs to you.
She wipes away at her eyes, collects the cum on her finger, before dipping it into her mouth. Sucking, tasting the flavour of your need.
“Get the shot you wanted?”
You let out a long, heavy exhale, sliding off the couch, off her, sitting on the floor next to her. Resting your head on her thighs while Somi just lies there, sprawled out, utterly wrecked.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says. “One whole month.”
You remember to inhale. “Thirty days.”
She’s fighting a losing battle, cleaning the endless fountain of cum you’ve covered her with. Looking like she just streaked through a fucking snowstorm.
But she tries, collects as much as she can, smearing it into a sticky mess. Playing with it on her fingers, rolling it around her tongue, enjoying this way too much.
You raise the camera, aim it at her. The way she’s looking at you, the way her hand moves, so fucking casual—like it's her natural state of being. Making you believe that Somi should be covered in cum, all the time. It's only right.
You just can’t help yourself. You click.
“I haven’t been fucked like that since,” Somi starts, clearly not minding being the subject of your post-coital art. “Since ever. That was—"
“A trainwreck,” you’re saying, and then finishing when you catch the look on her face, “Not like that. It was insane. Intense. Really, thirty days or not, it was fucking life changing.”
Somi smiles. “Good to know I didn’t disappoint.”
“Just. These photos. Completely unsalvageable. None of that can be sent to your agency.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Somi says, so easily, so carefree, as if she didn’t just obliterate every single professional boundary you’ve ever set. “Let me have a look. There must be some photos at the start that are useable. From before you… lost focus.”
You pass her the camera, let her scroll through the shots, see all the pornographic filth the two of you have created. She flicks through, each click another photo, another reminder of what you’ve done, what she’s done to you.
And she’s enjoying it. These little smirks, the nods of approval. Fascinated by these photos of her, of her body in these stages of ecstasy.
“Ah, yup. No. Nope. Definitely not. Oh, and that one is just… yeah.” Somi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of awe in it. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“It’s what you do to me.”
“I can see that,” she says, continuing until she gets to the last of the photos. “That’s pretty fucked. These are pretty fucked up. But, like. Beautifully fucked up.”
“Thanks,” you say, throwing your hands up, letting one fall on Somi’s thigh. It rests there, draws a circle over the smooth warm, skin.
It’s a good feeling. Having her here, like this. So relaxed, so comfortable. Knowing her in the most intimate ways possible, yet still not knowing much about her at all.
She sighs when your hand moves higher. You throb.
Yeah. After thirty days, only one time is not going to be nearly enough.
You already want to dive back into the land of debauchery with Somi, bring up more of those repressed fantasies you’ve been waiting to realise, even though you’re still knee-deep in the aftermath of the first round.
It’s in Somi’s eyes as well, you can feel it in the air, from the heat radiating off her skin—she's not done with you either.
Far from it.
You're going to ruin her again. You're certain of it.
“So,” she says, making a show of cupping her tits, raising them up to her mouth. Licking them clean.
Your response is swift. Immediate. “We’re going to have to reschedule.”
Somi’s laughter is pure gold. “How does thirty days from now sound?”
Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.
Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.
Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—
"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."
Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:
Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.
Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.
If only these walls could talk.
“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”
You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”
A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.
You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.
Mina bites her lip.
Squeezes her eyes shut.
She knows the deal.
"Please."
That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.
Figuratively speaking, mostly.
Only, her phone lights up.
You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?
Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.
You make it easy for her.
A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.
She freezes.
Braces herself.
Whimpers.
“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”
The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:
Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.
“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”
“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.”
Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.
You’re slamming into her.
Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.
And just like that, she’s all yours again.
It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.
“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.
“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.
And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.
Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.
Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.
But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”
—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:
You're the one that chased her first.
—
(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)
—
Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:
Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.
Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.
The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…
Boring.
The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.
All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.
(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.
That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)
So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.
Something about needing a drink.
Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.
Where you find her.
Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.
You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.
What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.
(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)
You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.
All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.
The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.
“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”
You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”
“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.
There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.
She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”
“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."
Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.
A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.
You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”
Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”
“Just one of those funny coincidences.”
“Apparently so.”
It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.
There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.
So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.
You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.
It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.
(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.
You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)
But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.
You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.
Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.
A necklace.
A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.
Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”
“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.
(It doesn’t.)
“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”
“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”
Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”
“Just the important ones.”
“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”
“I see.”
And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting.
“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”
“Careful.”
“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”
That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.
And yet, somehow, she recovers.
“Because you know me so well.”
So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”
To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.
She shrugs a bare shoulder.
"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."
“So, no sex at all, then.”
Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”
“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”
Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”
You take another drink. She watches.
And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.
The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.
The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?
Mina laughs.
You ask, “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”
“How so?”
“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—
“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”
“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”
She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”
And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.
The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.
But it’s all hypothetical, for now.
“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."
"Rumours."
"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."
Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—
(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?
You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)
“Maybe I want the rumours.”
Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.
“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”
You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.
And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.
She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.
“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”
The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”
Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”
“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”
“So, the cuteness and the charm?”
“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.
“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”
“I’ve got a few in mind.”
“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"
You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"
You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then what do you need?”
Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”
There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:
“You don’t have the time for me.”
Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.
“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”
—
This is how you end up:
Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.
You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.
A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.
Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.
She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.
But you both know better.
So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.
(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)
Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.
Indulge yourself.
Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.
Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.
You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.
“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”
You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue.
You smile, look up. “This?”
Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"
She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.
The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.
Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”
Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.
"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."
Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"
"First tonight."
Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.
You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.
Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.
A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.
“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."
You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”
“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.
“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.
A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.
Her hands shoot to your chest.
“Please, kiss me again.”
You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?
Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.
You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.
The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.
It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.
(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.
It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)
“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”
“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:
It’s been a while.
“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”
“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”
“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.
She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.
“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."
“As you wish, darling.”
And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.
But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.
Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.
That’s a problem for future you.
Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.
“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.
Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.
Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.
“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”
You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.
Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.
“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”
She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.
But one thing at a time.
“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”
Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.
“Good.”
And so, you drop to your knees.
You glance up at her. She looks down at you.
Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.
Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.
Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?
(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.
The kind that’s not you.
And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)
“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.
You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."
Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."
You don’t need to be told twice.
Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.
“Wait, why—”
“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.
Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.
How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.
You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.
You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.
Shivers under your breath.
And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.
The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.
Mina goes still.
Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.
But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.
You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.
“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.
“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.
“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.
Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.
You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.
"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”
"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"
You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.
"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.
A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."
But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.
Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.
"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."
You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."
A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.
It’s all for you.
And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.
You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.
“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.
You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.
“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.
Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.
That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.
So tight, so clean, so delicious.
You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.
"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."
It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.
“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”
She needs you to never stop.
You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.
The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.
She’s so loud.
It doesn’t matter.
The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—
“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"
The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.
And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.
“Oh my—”
Mina cums.
You swallow.
Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.
Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.
It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.
“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”
A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.
And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.
And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.
Until the ground falls beneath her feet.
You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.
It takes a moment, two.
And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.
Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.
It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.
Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.
And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.
She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?”
You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
And then your emergency line rings.
Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”
You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”
Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.
She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.
“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”
Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.
She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”
Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”
You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.
“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”
It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”
Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly. Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back into a more dignified state.
You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.
But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.
You’re late.
You’re needed.
The world’s waiting.
Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.
“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you push your own shirt back in the waistband of your pants and slick your hair down.
She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.
“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”
You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”
“Not even money can buy that.”
Your phone rings again.
Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.
And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”
“Why don’t I just come with you now?”
She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”
And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.
A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.
You turn back to the gala.
The air feels somewhat colder.
—
The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.
While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.
You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:
(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.
A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.
A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)
Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.
‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.
She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.
But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.
So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.
Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.
But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.
You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.
The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.
You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.
Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.
—
“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.
Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.
But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.
So what if you just stood there and stared?
Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.
You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.
You kind of want to request that she turn around.
Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"
You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”
She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”
“I think we’re well past that.”
There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.
“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”
—
There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:
“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”
But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.
Her fault, really.
Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.
Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.
“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."
You’re never going to make it to the top.
Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.
You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.
Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.
“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”
You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.
You and Mina, until the sun rises.
You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”
“Of course it is.”
Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.
They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.
You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.
Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”
You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.
Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.
You pinch. She gasps.
You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”
Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.
You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.
“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”
“It is your fantasy.”
Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.
Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.
Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.
And then you feel it.
Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.
A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."
You can’t fucking wait anymore.
She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.
Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.
Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.
You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.
Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.
Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.
It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.
And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.
“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.
Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.
It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."
“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.
“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.
You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.
“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.
“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes.
You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.
God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.
It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.
These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.
And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.
She cums.
Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.
Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.
Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.
Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:
“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”
A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.
Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.
“Good girl.”
Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.
Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.
“God, I—”
You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.
“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.
It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.
Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”
“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.
“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.
But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.
“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”
Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.
“I want it to hurt so good.”
No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.
It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.
Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.
Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.
You break the silence first. “Mina?”
“I know. I know.”
A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.
“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”
You always keep your promises.
Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”
Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.
“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.
It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.
A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.
You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.
“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”
And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.
“It feels so deep.”
Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.
Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.
You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.
“How many?”
Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”
You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”
“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”
“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”
“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”
“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”
“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”
She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.
“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”
“I would never dream of stopping.”
Never.
Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.
Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.
Her whole body, yours.
Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.
You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”
“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”
“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.
Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”
“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”
Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”
Completely, totally yours, now.
You know it. She knows it.
It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.
"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"
Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.
You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.
The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy.
She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.
You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.
“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”
She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.
“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.
So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.
“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”
She shatters. Monumentally.
Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.
Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—
“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”
“Mina,” you say, and she cums.
“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.
“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.
You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.
You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.
“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.
Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”
It’s a complete disaster.
And now you're cumming.
Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.
You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.
It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.
Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.
“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”
You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.
Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.
You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.
It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.
But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.
You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”
Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”
“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
You kiss her once more.
Mina kisses you back.
“Only if we make it one.”
—
You think you can read her mind.
And she, yours.
It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.
Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.
You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.
And then, exactly as predicted:
The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.
Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.
And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest.
It's only the balcony that goes untouched.
Maybe another time.
But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.
Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.
Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?
Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?
And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.
The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.
They didn’t mean anything real.
Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.
Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.
"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule.
Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.
She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?”
You tilt your head.
“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”
“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”
You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels.
“Do you want it to stay that way?”
Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”
“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”
She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.
But instead, she just looks at you.
Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.
Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.
Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out.
But you have a job. A company to run.
And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.
So, you don’t make plans.
You don’t even ask for her number.
You don't need to.
Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.
For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”
“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.
The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.
“Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”
“All I’m saying is,” Natty starts, like she always does, with more unsolicited advice than you can handle at 2 AM, "for someone that complains so much about not having a sex life, you really don’t do much to fix it."
“And what, oh wise friend of mine, is your recommendation.”
“I don’t know. Get a haircut. Dress better. Try not being a massive pussy?” Natty shrugs. Or at least you think she does. Only so much you can tell over the phone.
You sigh. Bite back the urge to tell her to fuck off. But then, who else would talk you to sleep at this ungodly hour? So instead, you concede the point. “Noted.”
“Or, you know, if it’ll stop you from being such a little bitch,” and now she’s laughing, cackling really, and not once has that ever, ever meant anything good. "You could always just fuck me."
—
Two weeks and twelve hours post-Natty’s incredibly unhelpful suggestion that did absolutely nothing to alleviate you of your insomnia, and you’re back on the phone with her.
Only this time, there's video.
So, yay.
"Help me, please."
It’s a Friday and Natty's begging, again.
Because she knows she can count on you, knows that you’ve long since resigned yourself to your fate as Natty’s on-call ‘fixer’. There for everything from life-changing career decisions to helping her figure out what show to stream next.
And now, apparently, choosing her outfit for tonight.
“Help me, help me, help me, help me.”
God, this woman and her begging. Knowing full well that it’s your kryptonite.
"Okay, okay, okay," you're relenting, much earlier than usual. Mostly because as far as Natty’s petulant requests usually go this one’s a walk in the park. “But don’t you have people for this sort of thing? People who don’t, and I quote, ‘have a dogshit taste in style?’”
“It is dogshit!” Natty calls out, already turned around and leaving you (her phone) on the vanity, facing out to her bedroom and all its hideous pinkness. She disappears from the screen, diving deep into her closet for yet another pair of shorts that will most certainly hug way too close, or a top that dips way too low, or a pair of heels that scream—'hey, I have legs, would you like to spread them?' "But!"
Natty returns to the camera with a leather belt—oh no, that's a leather skirt—in hand; clad in nothing but a casual cotton bra/underwear combination that she’s filling out far too well for your sleep-deprived brain to handle.
She holds up the skirt against her waist for your consideration. Poses. It wouldn't cover a thing. Or maybe that's the point—again, you don't have any fashion sense, whatsoever.
“You’re a man, and I need a man’s opinion because I’m hoping to take one home tonight to fuck my brains out until I forget about this shit-storm of a week. So, you know—help a girl out?”
“As always, you have quite a way with words.”
Natty leans towards the camera, bending down to stare right at you. It makes entirely too much sense that she’s built an entire career around doing just this.
“It’s my third language, asshole.”
The insult lands softer than she likely intended, considering well, you’re a little too distracted to take it. It’s entirely her fault. The angle makes her tits look far too immaculate to pay any attention to her mouth.
Maybe she should consider going out just like this?
Yeah, that’d definitely get her fucked.
But, she frowns before you can make the suggestion, turning on her heels and sashaying back to her closet, leaving you to choke on air at the sight of her ass stretching out her favourite pair of panties. (The white pair with the pretty-pink bows. The one that rides up her ass when she stretches, bends, sneezes—basically any time she’s not standing perfectly still. And even then.)
Anyone else and this whole thing would be weird. Well, weirder than it already is.
See, you and Natty have this thing; this odd, cat and dog relationship that’s been going on since what feels like the dawn of time:
You’ve watched her shamelessly cycle through men faster than a teenager through a box of tissues, leaving a trail of broken hearts and broken cocks in her wake.
While she’s been forced to witness every time you’ve met ‘the one’, only to be there months later to help pick up the pieces when you’re burying your feelings in video games and alcohol and porn, wondering how it all went so wrong.
All this to say that seeing Natty bouncing around in her underwear with that laser-beam of a smile of hers; with all of her soft curves, thick thighs, her ridiculous ass and again, those immaculate fucking tits isn't that unusual.
In fact, it doesn't really do anything for you at all.
(Fucking liar.)
“Here, how about this.” Natty appears from the corner of the screen, having found a top that’s somehow made of even less material than the bra she’s already got on. The gall of her to ask, "Too much or not enough?"
You deadpan. “Does it come in adult sizes too?”
Natty grins, because she can read it right on your stupid face. She looks so, unbearably hot. Without even trying that hard. This bitch. “So just right, then.”
And then she twirls, leaving you to face her back, and before you even have time to blink, Natty’s bra has fallen down her shoulders; and you’re hating how you lean in to look because this damn app has no zoom feature to save your sorry eyesight.
Her fucking tits. Perfect, bouncy. Even through the pixels, even from behind, you can still see the way they spill.
She slips on her chosen top for the evening—a tiny, strappy number—and spins back around to face you in all her Natty glory. By the skin of your teeth, you’re looking away and leaning back, feigning nonchalance and leaving her none the wiser.
You think.
“You know,” Natty says, tilting to one side, hand on hip. Fuck, even that slightest movement makes them bounce. Utterly, utterly obscene. “You should just come tonight.”
You’re saying, “Fuck no,” before she’s even finished her sentence. ‘Coming tonight’ means ‘clubbing’, and ‘clubbing’ means being stuck listening to the shittiest music, surrounded by the worst people in all of Korea, drinking overpriced slop and watching Natty turn down a revolving door of douchebags on the dancefloor.
So, yeah.
If ‘fuck no’s’ were bricks, you’d be building the Great Wall of ‘Fuck No’, big enough for aliens on the other side of the galaxy to see with a fucking telescope and have their first contact with the human race be a giant ‘Fuck No’.
And that’s your polite way of turning her down.
Yet somehow, Natty’s hardly deterred.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Natty sing-songs, shuffling on her tiptoes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, making her entire body jiggle. It’s like she’s intentionally trying to sell you on the idea with every little movement. Make you believe that if you came with her, you’d be able to find someone who comes close to looking half as good as she does in that… whatever-the-fuck that is. Bralette? Crop top? Whatever. Fat chance. "Come on, come, come, come. Be my wingman please!"
You already have your second ‘fuck no’ queued up, but Natty just won’t stop fucking talking.
“Don’t you want to get laid? Don’t you think you need to have fun after what’s-her-name?” Natty continues, pouting at you through the screen.
And there it is, a study in how Natty usually gets her way—jutting out her bottom lip, digging her thumb into the waistband of her panties to expose just a smidge more skin, leaning just right to make her tits look like they’re about to pop out. It’s like she’s got a fucking manual.
“Don’t tell me you’d rather stay at home with Handalf the Grey than come out with me and all my hot friends?”
“You mean having to clean up after all your ‘hot friends’ and their bullshit while you run off to score free drinks?” You retort, recalling all the other times when she managed to entice you out of your self-imposed isolation and into the deafening, sweaty hellhole known as a nightclub.
“Said hot friends that you’re too much of a pussy to hit on, mind you,” Natty chides, and then oh-so-casually decides to drop this nugget: "They all like you, you know, they'd be more than happy to break this dry spell of yours if you just asked. Don’t act like I haven’t seen the way you look at Julie."
You can feel your cheeks reddening. You’re not a teenager. You shouldn’t blush at this shit. But here you are, falling for Natty’s words and their magical abilities to needle at your insecurities and fill your head with thoughts of her friends and all their... well, incredibly positive attributes.
Natty pounces on your lapse in composure and gets closer to the camera, crouches. Drops down so she’s on her heels and all you can see in that tiny window of your phone is the red of her plush, plump lips.
“Come, you pussy—”
“Natty—”
“Do it pussy—”
“Natty, if you think that’s going to work—”
“Pussy, pussy, pussy—”
You’re yelling down the phone: “Fuck, fine!”
Natty’s victory dance is already in full swing before the words have even left your mouth. Bouncing around her room in pure joy at once again having ruined your evening. Dancing in that barely-there outfit, treating you to entirely sinful ripples across her curves and dips, pure sex on a pair of toned legs. Really makes you wonder how the fuck is she not illegal in at least fifty different countries.
You hide your face in your hands, because there it is, the reason you’ve never really been able to deny her:
Her laughter, her energy, her fucking shameless glee whenever she manages to get her way (which, if you’re keeping count, is every single time).
She’s just so frustratingly adorable.
Somewhere in her celebrations, Natty finds exactly what she was looking for. Reaches down to the floor, picking up a belt—no, that’s another skirt—this one even tinier than the first.
“Oh, this is perfect,” she preens, holding it out to the camera (to you), before stepping right into it. She spins around, making it dance around her hips. It does wonders for her thighs. "How do I look?”
You swallow. “Like you’re going to get fucked tonight.”
The glint in Natty’s eyes. Like you’ve just served up the finest compliment on a silver platter. You feel sorry for whatever poor soul crosses her path tonight.
Natty winks. “Here’s to hoping.”
—
Guess what?
Turns out you were right: this is the worst place in the world.
Only, you’re the sole person here that seems to think that.
Hours have passed since you helped Natty look perfectly fuckable and you’re at the bar, trying and failing to get the attention of the bartender. Unfortunately, he, like every other male with a beating heart and a boner seems far more interested in Natty’s little dance routine than his thirsty clientele.
You can’t blame him, really. It’s built in how she moves.
Strobe lights cutting through the air like knives, slicing her into this series of absolutely pornographic snapshots as she dances. And she’s not alone, she has friends—beautiful, all of them, in their own ways. They spin and twirl around her; but Natty’s the sun here, the star that everything orbits.
(You included).
You see it play out—the Natty effect. Men, even women alike gravitate to her, drawn by that magnetic force that is Natty at her very best. Trying to get a dance, maybe whisper a line they stole from some movie in her ear, even dare to reach out to touch or press themselves up against her.
But she’s a black hole, a dark star. Can’t get too close.
One by one, they’re swallowed up by the void of Natty’s disinterest. The shoulders slump, the smiles falter, and the hope in their eyes dies as Natty, with a simple flick of her wrist sends them stumbling back into the crowd, forgotten almost immediately.
And the whole time she’s doing this, she’s got you in her line of sight. A wink here, a smile there, a dance on its own; and all you can do is nod and pretend like you’re okay with all this.
You inhale. Deeply.
Her outfit looks even tinier in person.
You turn away for just a moment, shaking off thoughts of Natty, of her hips and their sway and her winks and her smile; attempting (and failing) to flag down the bartender once more.
This fucking night.
But, when you look back, Natty’s no longer on the dancefloor.
She’s standing next to you. Arms looping around your neck.
“Natty—”
But she’s not listening. Her eyes are darting around the room, searching for something—or someone—that you can’t see. Your stomach clenches, because that look on Natty’s face? That’s not her usual I’m-about-to-make-some-poor-soul-my-bitch look. That’s something else entirely. That’s fear.
“Shut up, I need a favour,” she’s in your ear, yelling over the thrum of the bass that’s rattling your ribcage.
You lean in, bend down to meet her, because, frankly, you’re worried. You’ve never seen Natty like this, wide eyed and shaky. Never seen her be anything but comfortable.
You’ve also never been this close to her. Felt her breath hot against your neck, felt her body press up against you, felt her softness, felt her—
Fuck, you should be asking her what’s wrong, but before you can even do that, the bartender's filling two shot glasses and sliding them over to Natty.
She takes one. You take the other. It tastes lethal.
Natty’s nails dig into the back of your neck, and she looks at you, intense. Words fast and frantic. “Just pretend we’re together, okay? For a bit. Until I can figure this out. Just—just keep playing along, yeah?”
You blink. The room blurs around you. You think you might’ve misheard. “What?”
“Be my boyfriend,” she says, taking a second shot before you can even digest the first. “I need you. There’s some creep and I need you. Now, please?”
You turn immediately, scanning the floor, but the lights and shadows make it near impossible to make out anything other than vague shapes and strobes of colour, let alone pinpoint a face. "Natty, where is he, I can—"
"No, no, no," she cuts you off with a shake of her head. “Focus on me.”
“Wait, why do I have to—”
“Oh, shit there he is—”
And then she’s kissing you.
Ending whatever argument you may have had, because she’s grabbing, pulling you in, and her lips are on yours and oh fuck, she’s really, really kissing you.
It’s a slap to the face, and you need to reel in from the sting. Because you’re already forgetting what you’re doing, forgetting how your limbs work, because Natty’s putting on the performance of a lifetime and you’re having trouble keeping up.
Her hands are in your hair, yours at the small of her back, and she’s pulling you close, squishing against you and the taste of her—sweet like candy and sharp like vodka—filling you all the way up.
Your tongue catches up, flicking against hers, licking inside of her mouth and she’s even convincing you—as if she’s the one that’s always been into the love at first sight bullshit and you’re the non-believer.
And it’s a problem, how right this feels. Because this isn’t what friends do—definitely not Natty and you. But still, you can feel her tension, her need for this to be believable; and you don’t dare to fuck it all up.
So you kiss her back, because that’s what you do for Natty.
You always do what she needs.
You’re about to pull away; this should be enough to have every single person here convinced that you’re hers and she’s yours. But Natty’s already sliding her tongue back in your mouth, pleading, “Keep going,” the moment a gap opens between your lips; and you’re diving back into the kiss without a second thought.
And then you hear it.
A flash of a camera.
A cheer.
A whistle.
Julie, Haneul, Belle—Natty’s friends, staring at you like proud fairy godmothers witnessing their own magic at work.
You break the kiss. You look down at Natty.
She giggles.
You feel like a fucking idiot.
"There is no creep, is there?"
Natty shrugs, looks up at you, and she actually looks—what is this? Shy? Embarrassed?
"There could’ve been," she says, her eyes wide and innocent, a mask. You see through her like you should have when she first wrapped her arms around your neck. Oh sure, like she’s ever been innocent for a second in her entire life.
She’s far too smug for that.
You roll your eyes. You feel like every other idiot that’s ever fallen for a bat of her lashes and a peek at her tits. Hope is a hell of a drug, especially when Natty’s the dealer. And yet, despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirks up. "You're fucking insane."
“Maybe.” There’s a long pause. She’s staring at your mouth. She presses a finger to your sternum. “But I had to do something.”
It takes a second. What?
What does that mean?
You stare at Natty, lick your lips. Her taste still lingers.
“Ask yourself the same question I’ve been asking myself for months now,” she says, louder this time, her voice cutting through the noise of the club and hitting your ears with a sobering clarity.
You know what she’s going to say—what she’s going to ask before she’s even opened her mouth. You’ve been asking yourself the same thing too.
So, swallow hard, try to ignore the way Natty’s friends have gone quiet. Try to ignore Natty’s hand still resting against your chest, her eyes burning a hole right through you.
“Why haven’t we had sex yet?”
The blood’s rushing to your cheeks; the music's too loud, the lights too bright, and the room's suddenly spinning around you like a carousel.
Fucking embarrassing.
But Natty doesn’t crack a smile. She just looks up at you. Hopeful. Searching you, searching your eyes for an actual answer; and you already know what it is.
“Because, Natty, we’re friends.” You offer up a weak smile, hoping against hope that she’ll buy it.
But she shakes her head. “Oh, please. Like that’s ever stopped anyone before. Besides, if you want to put a label on it, call it whatever the fuck you want. I just know what I need. Do you?”
You sigh. She gets closer. And closer.
Until your nose is brushing hers. Until her breath is hot on your face, until your heart is racing so fast you can feel it in your ears. Until her hand is sliding down, down, down, until it’s resting over your pants and oh, oh no, you’re straining.
You gasp. She smirks.
“See? You want it too. And I know you do, because, sweetie, your cock’s practically begging me to pull it out and shove it between my tits right here in front of everyone.”
She just throws it out there, so casually, so bluntly, she might as well be talking about the weather. And maybe, maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just Natty being Natty, but fuck you can’t do anything but stay frozen still.
You’re letting her hand linger. You’re letting her touch you like she’s got every right in the world. You’re letting her because there’s a part of you—the part that’s growing by the second—that wants to see just how far she’ll take this.
“So, what is the real reason, ba-by?”
Because you’re in love with her. You’re in love with her, and you can’t just have casual sex with someone you’re in love with because it will ruin you.
But you don’t say that. Instead, you just tell her: “Timing.”
That makes her laugh. Has her closing what little gap remained between your bodies, until her tits are flush against your chest, and you’re coming to the conclusion that, yes, you did help her pick out the perfect outfit for tonight.
Perfectly, hopelessly, fuckable.
“Well,” she says, and she’s pulling you back down again and shutting you up with yet another kiss. “We’ve got all the time in the world now, don’t we?”
—
You’ve been here before.
Many, many times before.
You installed the showerhead and fixed all the cabinets yourself. Even secured the lock that you’re now unlocking with the digits that you coded.
But somehow, it feels like a first.
First time you’ve kissed her in the back of a car, pushed your hand up her skirt, felt the heat of her against your fingertips. First time you’ve pinned her against the wall of an elevator, made her feel just how desperate you were for her against her thigh, made her promise to be so good for you when you got to her door.
First time being pulled through the threshold, hands at your chest, tearing your shirt off you before you’ve even stepped foot in her apartment. Had her smiling against your mouth, because she’s won, again, and you can’t even bother to argue because you’ve lost to her so many times now that this shouldn’t be so surprising.
What is surprising though is how you’re naked first.
"Terrible, terrible taste." Natty's clicking her tongue as your shoes, your shirt, your pants are scattered along the floor behind you. “We’ll have to fix that.”
And then she’s moving on, hands clawing down your stomach to land at the waistband of your underwear, hooking her thumbs in and yanking down. You’re so obviously hard—you’ve barely made any effort to hide it from her—fuck, you pretty much flagged down the taxi with it.
"Holy fuck," is the first thing out of Natty's mouth when she takes a hold of you, feeling the naked weight of you in her palm. "You’re really not messing around, are you? I was expecting—"
"A sad, lonely little thing," you finish for her, because you've heard it before. "Yeah, you like to mention it a lot."
But Natty’s not laughing now.
She’s just staring. Almost reverently. She decides, her voice a little raspy, tinted with an apprehension that you never knew she was capable of mustering, "I like it. It's... massive."
You lean in, pressing your mouth against hers because if she’s going to say that, you’re going to kiss her, again and again, and there’s a strong possibility you're never going to stop.
She whimpers, gasps into your mouth, says your name for the first time—not some nickname, not a jab or an insult. Just your name, in your ears, like it’s something sacred.
You’re not a saint. You can’t ignore that.
Your cock jumps in her hand, and as if on instinct, she strokes you.
It's slow, purposeful. She's too good at this. Knows the right pressure, where to twist and wind her wrist. How to sweep her thumb over the tip, smear pre-cum over your skin, and this entire time she's staring down at your cock like she's discovered something new.
“This is going to ruin me, isn't it?” she whispers, and you nod, because your voice is lodged in your throat and she’s stealing the air from your lungs. “Going to fit so fucking nicely inside me. Fuck it’s going to stretch me.”
You groan, collapse your weight into Natty, press your lips against the column of her throat.
Both hands now, one underneath, toying with your balls, balancing them in her fingers, and the other doing its best to squeeze, to pump, to make you fall for her with every stroke.
“I can’t wait to ride this,” Natty kisses these words into your cheek, your jaw, leaves these marks all over your collarbone. “I wonder if I can fit it down my throat. God, can you imagine what it’ll look like between my tits?”
And that makes your cock throb.
Because face it, Natty has always had a way of getting into your head; is far too dangerous with her words, and she’s all too willing to abuse this power she has over you to get you do what she wants, which is now, apparently, fucking her senseless.
You let her, let her build and build this pressure, let it coil inside you, tighter and tighter. Until the need to feel her, all of her, is too much to handle.
Until you grab her, take her by the shoulders, push her—not hard, but firmly—against the nearest wall.
You’re not gentle about it, because Natty doesn’t want gentle. She wants rough, she wants passionate, she wants to be fucked and have her cunt worshipped by way of complete ruin.
She’s told you as much.
"That's more like it," Natty bites into your ear, grips your shoulders. She follows your eyes. "Let me guess, my tits?"
So, maybe she has caught you looking once or twice. Either way, you don’t care much for her top anymore, it’s served its purpose. You take a fistful of it and pull, ripping it right off her and tossing it to the floor with everything else that’s kept the two of you from tearing each other apart.
“Better?” Natty poses for you, puts her tits on display—and yeah, you were right all along. Fucking immaculate.
You take a hold of one, palm it; fill your hand with flesh, twinge those dark, plump nipples, because of course you’re going to. You’re going to pinch and squeeze and suck on them. You’re going to mark her like she’s already done to you. Mark them, with your teeth, with your tongue. Fuck, you’re going to make them yours.
But for now, you're just going to slap them, because you want to watch them jiggle up close.
You laugh. Natty does too.
"Much better."
And with that, you’re back on her. Kisses that are sloppy, wet, and filled with all the pent-up want that's been simmering for months. You don’t even know where to begin with Natty, but you start with her mouth. It’s a good place. It’s always a good place with Natty.
Her hand doesn’t stop moving, can’t, won’t. The friction is heaven; you just let her touch you, fuck her hand while you indulge in her tits. Get to know the weight of them, the balance, the softness.
A sigh into your ear as your tongue finally finds her breasts, deep and messy, sliding over her nipple—she’s already so sensitive, just a flick and she’s gasping. You’re not even trying to be precise anymore, not that Natty needs it, not that she needs anything but for you to enjoy yourself against her.
It all makes the room seem smaller, the walls close, surrounding you with the scent—cinnamon and sweat and something else that’s just her.
“See this is why fucking me is such a great idea,” she slurs against your shoulder, hand tightening, stroking you harder, faster.
You mumble an affirmative into her breast. It’s a miracle you can still stand upright.
“Isn’t this so much better than like everything else? Anyone else?” She sighs, breathy, sweet sounds, as she takes you by the wrist, guides your hand southwards.
Fingertips graze her stomach, trace around her belly button and lower; until you’re digging into her skirt and feeling the heat rise off her skin. She’s soaked right through her panties, dripping with it. Another place for your tongue to land.
“We can just be fucking honest with each other,” Natty’s explaining, eyes tearing when your finger pads her clit, pressing down just right. “You already told me all the things you hate. All the things your bitch exes never let you do.” And she smiles, wicked. “Never had the tits to give you.”
Christ.
“And I can get you to fuck me exactly how I want with this big, fucking cock,” Natty finishes. "We’re a perfect fucking match."
It’s at that moment you find the zipper of her skirt, tugging it down, watching it fall to the feet. Leaving Natty to step out of the tiny scrap of fabric she calls her panties; abandoning the sticky mess of cotton.
You take a step back, unlatch your lips from her tits, because you need to see it. Need to finally see her, see your Natty, see the Natty you've never allowed yourself to look at.
So, take your time, drink her in—because the way she’s standing there, the way she’s touching herself now; biting her lip, sighing your name. All but saying, ‘Look all you want, but don’t you dare look away’.
Look at the arch of her neck, the red you’ve left there, that trail you’ve burned down to her tits. Bruised and swollen from your tongue, your kisses, and yet still not marked enough. Follow the curve of her hips; how they flare out from her waist, the plush squish of her ass cheeks against the wall behind her.
You want to kiss her, from the tips of her toes to the top of head; all of her, every part of her, because now she’s going to finally let you.
Because now you're going to fuck her until all she knows is you, going to make her scream your name, going to make her beg for you to fill her with your cock and cum and never ever leave her cunt empty again.
That’s the plan, anyway.
But Natty’s got plans of her own.
“Didn’t you say,” Natty begins, sighing, circling her cunt in a rhythm that you’re dying to recreate. She licks her lips. “That your last ex refused to suck that lovely, magnificent cock of yours?
"Yeah," you stammer, at a loss for breath at just the sight of it all. “And weren’t you trying to find someone to fuck your brains out?”
Natty’s eyes light up; and there's that easy, charming grin that knocks you right off your feet. "You’ve always been such a good listener."
—
Natty's plotting to ruin you.
It's the only possible explanation for the way she's looking at you right now—on her knees, at the foot of her bed, flanked by walls painted an ugly shade of pastel pink and Natty's tits, sandwiching your cock.
You’d imagined it, thought about it when you shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Whenever she brought you to watch her perform, whenever she sent you pictures of her outfit of the day. But your eyes always went there. Straight to Natty’s tits, every time.
You knew they were big.
You’ve felt them, on accident (though they don’t seem like accidents anymore).
But now, to have them enveloping your cock, drowning your shaft in their softness, and to have her, staring at your face with so much fucking excitement as she gives you everything you’ve ever wanted—it’s surreal.
You’re dying to paint them white.
“Looks like you’re already about to fall apart, baby,” she teases, and it’s even worse now that she’s calling you these sweet names, saying them like she’s always wanted to, like she’s finally letting herself. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
“Fuck, Natty—” you breathe out, your hands finding her hair, tightening, because that’s all you can manage to do when Natty’s in control. Like she’s always been.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, keeping her eyes on you, making sure you’re watching, making sure you see the exact moment her tongue flicks out to taste you. A slow, taunting lick to make you buck your hips, desperate to feel the suction of her lips. “You must have been dreaming about this, huh?”
You don’t bother lying. She already knows the answer. “Every. Fucking. Night.”
Natty’s smile spreads across her face, and she rewards you with a kiss, pressing her lips down onto the head of your cock; before sliding them lower, eyes fluttering shut with the first taste of you. “Well, what took you so long? All you needed to do was show me your cock and I’d have been happy to do it whenever you want me to. Happy for you to use my tits as your cum rag. You know that, right?”
She moves; and the sight of it alone—Natty’s tits wrapped around your cock, bobbing up and down, hypnotising you with the flicker of her nipples—up and down, up and down. It’s merciless, unrelenting, and she keeps talking, keeps kissing these sweet little words into your cock that makes your hips jerk, trying to fuck her tits faster, harder.
"Look at how perfect you look," Natty keeps going, "how your cock fits so snug."
The sounds she’s tearing from your throat as her tits take you, and she’s barely even started.
“But we can do better, can’t we?”
Her pace picks up, and with it, the tightness of your grip on her hair. She’s pushing the ample mounds together, squeezing, putting her whole body into it, into this new art she’s pioneering. Driving you insane with just her breasts, making you swell between them, throbbing as she works you over.
“So big," she’s panting from just the effort, the bounce, bounce, bounce of it all, "I can feel you getting so much bigger."
Everything’s going too fast, her tits are too soft, her lips on you too hot, and she’s drooling, her spit dripping down onto your cock. You want to tell her to stop, that you can’t take it, but Natty just keeps going.
"Fuck,” Natty mewls, pinching her own nipples, for you, for her. Pinching and rolling them, making them nice and stiff and swollen. “Let me just try and—”
She cranes her head, bends; takes your cock deeper into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. Her tongue darts out licks your cock, gets that sweet spot on the underside, makes you shake underneath her.
Natty holds you there, even as you groan, even as your hips rise; just licks, spits, sucks. Her mouth moving up and down on you, making a mess down your shaft, down her tits. Taking you deeper, deeper, until you’re fucking her face.
She moans around you as your hips buck and you push deep, desperate for it. Her eyes water, her cheeks hollow, and she’s got you. You’re in her mouth and she’s loving it. Loving the power she has over you, loving giving you what she wants, loving how you’re pulling her by the hair, desperate to feed her more of your cock into her throat.
Like your entire relationship has been building up to this moment—to Natty’s tits wrapped around you, her mouth all over you, her eyes on yours, watching as you fuck her face.
"Fuck, Natty," you grunt, your voice barely recognisable. "What the fuck—"
But Natty's just smiling, you’re fucking that smug little smile on her lips, and she’s taunting you. "Come on baby, keep going, keep going."
It’s utterly obscene—the smack of her lips around your cock, her slobbering all over you, her gagging, her moaning around you, looking up at you and asking, “Is that all you’ve got?”
You're so close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Moving her tits faster, faster, and you're about to blow your load all over Natty's pretty face, her chest.
But she keeps talking.
Even as you stuff her cheeks, even as you muffle her, “None of those other skinny bitches could do this, could they, could handle this big, fat cock?”
Even as you force her down, pull her by the hair, “You’ve been so obsessed with my body, so obsessed with my tits, haven’t you?”
Even as her tits slide off you and your cock smacks her across her cheek, “I always saw the way you looked at them, fuck I was showing them off for you, you just took too fucking long to notice.”
She won't stop fucking talking.
You finally snap. "God, are you ever going to stop?"
But Natty just laughs, bats her lashes. Slides her tongue from your base to your tip. "Maybe you should find something to gag me with."
Your hand wraps around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes go wide, to make her mouth pop open. She rolls out her tongue for you, and you know what she expects you to do, what she expects you to fill her mouth with.
But you don’t—instead, you fill it with your kiss.
It's deep, it’s bruising, it’s saying ‘fuck you’ in the sweetest way possible, without uttering a single syllable. Natty laughs against your mouth, a ‘fuck you’ right back with her teeth, biting down on your lower lip. Not breaking skin—not yet—but the promise is there.
Her hand leaves your cock to wrap around your neck, pulling you closer to her, her mouth eager for yours, and you don’t even think twice before you hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist. Giggling again—another sound that’s going to be your undoing—before you’re both stumbling back onto her bed.
The mattress dips under the weight of your bodies falling back into it. Natty straddles you, presses her cunt down onto your thighs. So wet you can feel it on your thigh, leaving your skin sticky and stained with her. Your hands move to her hips, dragging her closer, so you can feel the friction grinding against your cock, making you ache.
She breaks your kiss, gasping for air. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide—seeing her pant like this, it’s not even fair. She’s just so fucking beautiful, like a painting you’re afraid to touch because you might smudge it.
You tell her as much.
She blinks. Blushes.
Grins.
“You,” Natty breathes, her hand trailing down your chest, finding your heartbeat, resting there for a beat, two, “are so fucking in love with me.”
You don’t argue because she’s right.
Her hand slides up your arms, nails dig in and she’s got your wrists, pinning them over your head. You let her. Let her grind herself against your cock, feel the warm, wet heat of her cunt against the tip.
Taking her sweet time, melting herself into you. Pressing her tits into your chest, making you feel her heart race against yours.
She whispers. Low, reverent. “God, I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”
You can’t even form a coherent thought, so you just grunt.
“I’ve dreamt about this so much,” she continues, breathless words sending shivers down your spine. “Your cock, fuck, it’s just as perfect as I imagined. And now, it’s all mine.”
And then she does it—she sinks down onto you, slow and sweet, her pussy taking you in inch by glorious inch. You groan into her shoulder, your eyes shut as Natty’s tight heat surrounds you. Like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Sure there’s been others but something about Natty’s cunt is so intense it’s almost painful.
“So tight,” you grit out, the words torn from your chest like they’re made of glass. She just laughs, low, sultry, and starts to move.
It’s a dance, a rhythm that’s been building between the two of you for what feels like an eternity. She’s rocking her hips back and forth in this torturous grind. Fucking you like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, like she needs to make the most of it. Like you’re going to vanish into thin air the second she lets you go.
“I knew you’d feel this good,” Natty sighs into your neck, already surrendering to your cock. “Fuck, I knew it—why did you keep this from me?”
You can’t answer, not really.
You’re too lost in the feel of her, too consumed by the way she’s moving on top of you. Every inch of her body is pressed against yours, and she’s so warm, so alive, that you can’t think of anything but how Natty’s finally letting you in. How she’s letting you make her whole.
But it’s too much. Natty’s cunt, tight and wet, fucking you so slow it’s a fucking crime. Pinning you down, a butterfly on a board spread out, displayed, unable to do anything but take her sweet, sweet punishment. And she’s whispering it in your ear, grinding down, rolling her hips, “Fuck you. Fuck you for keeping this from me,” with every stroke.
She’s doing it on purpose, you’re sure of it. Driving you crazy, making you beg, making you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life. Your hips jerk up to meet her, trying to speed things up, to get that friction you need, but Natty just pushes down on your shoulders, keeping you in place.
So you tell her, "This is fucking torture."
Natty just smirks, her hips never stilling. "Is it?" she asks, as if this all isn’t intentional. Like she doesn’t have some grand plan to ensure you never forget the things her cunt can do to you. "Do something about it then."
So, you do.
It takes more effort than you’ll ever admit, but you break her grip on your wrists, grab her hips, and flip her over, sending her sprawling onto the bed, face down.
The squeal from her. It’s music.
How her eyes go wide when you treat her like a ragdoll, how her tits juggle and bounce, smacking the mattress. And when you push down into her, slamming your hips into her ass, how she arches back into you, her back bowing like a fucking violin.
“Yes!” She cries, fucking cheers into the mattress, like she’s been waiting for this—for you to have had enough of her shit and take her without asking. “Yes, yes, yes—”
You hover over her, throb inside her. "Is this what you fucking wanted?"
Natty sighs into the bedsheets, urging her hips against you, begging without words, begging for you to do more.
“You want it rough, baby?”
“Yeah,” Natty says, pushing back against you again, nodding immediately. “If you can.”
Still with the provocations, unable to resist pressing at your buttons.
You grab her hair, yank it back so she’s staring at you, force her to look at you. And you fuck her hard. Fuck her like you’ve wanted to since the first time she walked into your life and decided to make it all about her.
You fill her with deep, long strokes, fill the room with the smacks of your hips colliding against her, of your cock thrusting into her cunt again and again.
She claws at the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to push back against you. But you’re too strong, too desperate.
You pound into her, impale her with your cock, watch her face twist in pleasure, in pain. You’re fucking her like you’re trying to break her, like she asked. Trying to solve her—how hard can she take it, how deep, how fast.
But Natty won’t give you an answer, she just takes it all—every inch, ever pump into her sopping wet cunt. Just grins and takes every bit of your need, your frustration. A bottomless pit of pleasure, begging for more with every whine, every little noise she makes that’s not quite a scream but is so close that it rattles your brain.
And when you finally let go of her hair, Natty’s licking her lips, and without even a care for what it does to you, she coaxes, “You can do better.”
You don’t know how she can talk right now, how she can even think with your cock so deep inside her, but something about the way she says it makes you want to test the limits of her ability to stay coherent.
But first, there’s the problem of her ass.
“Let’s see about that,” you murmur, dragging your hand down her spine, feeling the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, and coming to a stop at her perfectly rounded ass. It’s a masterpiece, a work of art, and you’ve always had a bit of an artist’s soul.
You do what comes naturally.
A spank against Natty’s ass. Hard, hard enough to make her yelp.
Again—another slap, another yelp, louder, better.
You keep fucking her, keep spanking her, keep watching red bloom across her cheeks and Natty squirm underneath you. The whines get louder, her cunt gets wetter, but it’s still not enough to dull that smug look on her face.
“Fuck yes,” Natty gasps, raises her ass, presenting it to you like a trophy for you to claim. “I always knew you had it in you.”
You grab her hips harder, your knuckles white, your hand a blur as it connects with her ass. It’s so explicit, the sound of it in the quiet of Natty’s apartment—each spank echoing through the room like a gunshot.
But Natty just takes it, her body jolting with each hit, her cunt tensing and tightening around you.
“God, don’t fucking stop,” Natty sputters, tears of pained pleasure leaking from the corners of her eyes. “You’re using me so good.”
You lean down, kissing hard against her neck, branding her shoulder. You want her to feel you, to remember you. To not be able to ever feel remotely good again without first thinking of you.
"It's your fucking fault, Natty," you growl into her ear. "You drive me mad."
And she laughs, the sound vibrating through her body and going straight to your cock. "Good," she answers, "Good. Be mad. Be angry."
But you’re beyond that now, beyond the point of no return. All that you know is Natty’s cunt, Natty’s ass, Natty’s moans, and Natty’s grin that you’re aching to wipe off her face.
"Fucking hate me if you want," she’s saying, and she can’t seem to stop, "just don’t stop fucking—ah!”
You nearly stop when you realise you’ve finally done it. Finally left Natty out of breath, lost for words. A fucking miracle, really—the kind that makes you feel like a fucking god.
It doesn’t stop her cunt clenching around you, tight as a vice, because even now, Natty’s got some kind of death grip pussy, and she’s using it to fucking kill you.
You whisper in her ear, “You like that?”
Her only response is a breathy, needy little whine, so you spank her again.
And again.
Her cunt tightens. She’s close, so close. You can feel it.
“You like it when I use you, Natty?”
She nods, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth crying into the mattress, a mess of hair and sweat and utter bliss.
“Say it,” you demand, slapping her ass once more, watching as the pain ripples through her. “Say it.”
And Natty does, because she’s a good little whore, because she’s yours now. “Yes, yes, I like it when you use me, when you fuck me like this, when it’s only about you, your cock, your needs, your pleasure—”
God, it feels good to hear her say it, but you still want more than just words. You want her to fucking scream it.
You make the bed shake, knock the headboard against her wall, it’s a competition of what’s going to break first—the frame or her.
“This cunt. Your cunt. I’m going to use it. Fuck it whenever I want.”
But Natty catches you off guard, because that’s what Natty does best. She opens her eyes, looks right into yours, and suddenly she has her voice again: “Whenever I want. You’re going to fucking move in with me.”
You freeze. Your hand mid-spank. Your cock mid-thrust. It throws you entirely off, because, what the fuck?
"You're going to be my boyfriend now," Natty says, wrenching back control, fucking her ass back into you. Stating not asking, leaving no room for argument. "Move in with me, your place sucks anyway."
"You're out of your fucking mind," you start to protest, but she cuts you off with another squeeze of her cunt around you, and now she’s the one fucking you, her hips rolling back and forth in this maddening, sinful way that has you biting down on your tongue to keep from shouting.
"Move in and just fuck me every day," she says, all light and airy, like it’s already been decided, like moments ago you didn’t have her dead to rights. "Morning to night. It would be so fucking nice."
This is real, you know that for sure. It’s not just something she’s saying to get off, not another way to get under your skin. You know it in her voice, she’s deadly serious and suddenly your mind’s racing.
"Come on," Natty purrs, punctuating each word with a slap of her ass against your waist, "You know you want it, why fucking wait?"
She’s not wrong. It makes too much fucking sense to deny. And yet, part of you still can't believe it. That Natty, the girl who's had countless men at her feet, could have any man at her feet, actually wants you. That Natty is underneath you now, eyes glossed over with need, mouth swollen from your kisses, ass cheeks flushed crimson from your palm.
"I'll take such good care of you, baby," she says, unaware that she’s already completely won, unaware that her cunt already has you bending to her will. "Every day, every night.”
You can't help but nod. You're too consumed in her to do anything else. You just let go of everything. The fears, the doubt, the fucking logic.
And Natty says it, the three words that seal your fate—"I'll love you," she cries out, "I'll fucking love you forever if you just keep giving me this fucking cock."
It's like the world stops, like everything you've ever wanted is right there in front of you, wrapped up in Natty's tight fucking body.
You're so close, so fucking close, that you can almost taste it—the sweet release of your orgasm; giving in to Natty’s unbelievably sensational cunt sleeving your cock, pulsing with each thrust, desperate to milk you dry.
There’s nothing left to do but give Natty wants. Fuck her, hammer into her so hard that you’re going to fuck a Natty-shaped hole into the mattress, fucking shatter her bedframe, and then keep drilling her straight through the floor.
And she’s crying out your name, forgetting about everything that isn’t you, isn’t your cock, isn’t the dream of your cum filling her to the brim and spilling out of her cunt every single day for the rest of your fucking lives.
“Are you close, baby? Are you going to cum for me? Please, give it to me, I need it so bad, I need it now, because I'm about to, about to, about to—"
And then it happens.
Fucking destroys her.
It hits. A crescendo that peaks as you bottom out inside her, shaking her to the core. Her cunt spasms about you, her body rises off the bed as if you’re performing a fucking exorcism, and she screams your name so loud it’s only a matter of time before the neighbours come banging on her door.
"Oh my fucking god you—"
Natty gushes around your cock, juices running down your shaft, your balls, and she’s squirting. Oh god, she’s squirting all over the fucking place.
Natty’s body goes rigid, her back arching so much it’s like she’s trying to fold in half, crying, sputtering these words that don't even make sense—until you realise she's speaking an entirely different fucking language.
Not that it matters, because you can tell what she's saying, read it in her body, in the way she's spurting and making a big fucking mess beneath your bodies. Whatever she’s saying sounds utterly depraved, filthy and so, so good to your ears.
It keeps going and going, until she has enough sense to speak your language again, needing to make sure you hear it when she says—"fucking fill me, baby," she whimpers. "Give me everything, all your fucking cum."
And it’s your turn to be hit—like a fucking freight train.
You're cumming, hard and fast and out of fucking nowhere. Your balls tighten, your cock throbs, and you’re flooding Natty’s cunt.
It’s biological, in every cell of your body—like your entire being is coming undone, and the only thing holding you together is Natty, Natty, Natty.
Her body shaking beneath you, her cunt contracting around your cock as wave after wave of cum fills her up.
She’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, that you can feel every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum spurting into her. You're not sure how long it lasts, how much you give her, but it’s enough to make your muscles shake, enough to knock the architecture right out of your limbs.
"So fucking good, so fucking good," Natty coos. "Fucking finally, finally filling me up so good."
Her moans a lullaby, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body with every syllable. You lean down, burying your face in the crook of her neck, your every inhale and exhale ragged as you try to catch your breath. Still twitching inside her, still releasing the last of your cum, and Natty’s just lying there, her body limp, her eyes closed, basking in it all.
"So perfect," she keeps repeating, right up until the very end, “So, so, perfect.”
You collapse on top of her, just lie there shivering together, your face next to hers. She’s got this look on her face, a victorious glow, and you just have to accept it. Yeah, she’s won again, in devastatingly convincing fashion.
For a second, you’re both just that—spent, exhausted, entirely drained. Like you’ve just run a marathon. Or been in a fight. Or both.
Then Natty’s got the nerve to stir, to kiss your cheek with the tenderness of a whisper. Lips softer than you thought possible, given how hard she’s just been fucking you. And that’s it, the moment your body decides it’s had enough of playing dead, enough of lying there like a sack of potatoes.
You roll over, bringing Natty with you, her body curling into yours like she’s been made to fit there. Her head rests on your chest, her legs entwined with yours, and for a moment, you just hold her close.
It feels fucking right.
"Tomorrow," Natty sighs contentedly, her cheek finding home atop your heartbeat.
You blink. "Tomorrow?"
"Yeah, you're moving in tomorrow." Natty’s deciding for you already, setting the dynamic for the rest of your future. Doing all this with her eyes still shut as she snuggles closer to you. "I'll hire the movers."
You sigh, the weight of the world and Natty's body both feeling surprisingly light. You think about the next few days, the weeks, the years even, with Natty. The idea is so ludicrous, so absurd, that it feels like a fever dream.
But as you hold her, feel her warmth, her unabashed, blatant satisfaction, something inside you shifts. A reframing of the concept of Natty that you hold in your head. The thought of her naked body in your bed, her laughter in your living room, her mess in your kitchen—it doesn’t feel like an intrusion, it feels like home.
"Are you sure?" you ask. A little shaky, a little hopeful.
Natty opens one eye to look at you, a laugh playing on her lips. "Oh, you know I'm going to be the worst fucking roommate ever."
"Yeah, I can see that. But as long as you keep being the best fucking everything else..." Your words trail off into a whisper, your hand tracing idle patterns on her back.
And then she says it again.
"You’re so fucking in love with me."
Natty kisses you hard, deep, her tongue sliding against yours. And you know, you fucking know, that she's right. You are desperately, entirely, so fucking in love with her, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You laugh, the sound a little desperate, a little wild, and roll her again, pin her down again. A strange feeling rushes through your mind. Like you’re going to be repeating this exact same motion for the next hundred years. And somehow, that doesn’t sound like the worst thought in the world.
Natty squeals, cheers, moans when you settle between her legs.
"Fuck you, Natty."
"Oh, baby," Natty giggles, reaching down between your legs, squeezing you. Once. Twice. Until you're filling her hand once more. "That's what I'm here for."
For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.
Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.
It’s how she haunts you.
The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.
The photos.
So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.
Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.
Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.
Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.
Unsurprised. Unbothered.
Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.
Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—
"Looks like I beat you again, sir."
You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.
“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.
A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.
She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.
You ponder licking it off.
Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.
“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”
“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."
“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.
“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."
She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.
You clear it with a cough.
"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."
There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.
Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."
You emphasise, “Exercising.”
Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”
More of this game, presumably.
The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.
Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.
You really should know better.
Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'
You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.
Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.
(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.
After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.
And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—
Yeah.
Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)
But today—today won’t be the day you give in.
The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.
You’re the trainer. She’s the client.
You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.
And Bae…
Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
“So, how do you want me, sir?”
(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)
You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.
Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”
“Sir.”
Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"
Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.
"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.
"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."
A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.
“Clock’s ticking.”
There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.
Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.
She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.
That’s the pose.
You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.
(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)
A sigh, because you know—this is it.
The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.
Fuck it.
Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.
Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"
“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).
She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time.
This is how you'll rationalise it:
There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.
Just enough to manage it.
You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.
You're not sure who's training who anymore.
Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.
You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.
Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.
Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.
Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.
"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.
An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.
It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.
“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.
“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips.
The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.
The audacity.
There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.
Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."
She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.
You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."
Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.
They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.
“You said that if I—ah fuck—”
You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.
“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”
Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)
“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”
You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.
There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.
You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.
Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.
You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.
She was already perfect the first time you met her.
The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.
A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.
Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”
Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.
With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.
Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.
But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.
“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.
Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.
A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.
The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.
“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.
“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.”
A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.
No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.
She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'
Fuck.
She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.
Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.
A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.
She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.
You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.
It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.
Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."
An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.
“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”
There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”
“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"
Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).
“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.
The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.
As if.
“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.
Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”
And you believe it—she makes you believe it.
Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.
The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.
Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.
Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.
“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.
There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.
You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.
The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—
"Stop."
It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.
A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.
“Something wrong?”
A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.
Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”
"Still with that?"
"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.
"What do you think?"
Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.
"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."
That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:
A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”
You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.
Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.
Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.
You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.
Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”
Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.
She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.
Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.
And then, without another word, she sinks down.
A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”
Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.
“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.
“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.
She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.
"Thank you," she manages instead.
And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole.
It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.
“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”
From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.
But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.
Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”
You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”
“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”
Bae, Bae, Bae.
She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.
Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.
Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.
“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.
So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.
Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.
"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”
You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.
And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?
Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.
Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.
Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.
“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"
Getting more erratic, louder, closer.
So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?
"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."
You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"
"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."
"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."
It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.
"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."
Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”
You correct her. “Yes, who?”
“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.”
Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.
So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.
She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—
Fuck you might be falling for her.
That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.
"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"
She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”
Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.
“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”
So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.
You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”
And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”
A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”
It’s fucking immediate.
The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.
Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.
You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.
Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.
You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.
"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."
Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.
"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.
Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.
She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."
The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.
“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”
“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.
“No.”
You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.
And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.
No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.
It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.
Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”
And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.
A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.
“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”
She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.
"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"
"Didn’t you say you could take it?"
Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."
You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"
"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."
A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"
"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."
You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.
And fuck, it’s addictive.
"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."
"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."
You just can't wipe the grin off your face.
Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.
She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”
More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.
"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."
You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.
"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."
You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."
"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"
Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.
Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.
She's there, and you're done waiting.
"Now."
It's that fucking easy.
That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.
"God, sir, fuck!"
Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”
She’s fucking gone.
Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.
You follow.
Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.
Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.
Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.
A preview. A promise. An invitation.
“Sir, your cum, if you please—"
A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.
One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.
Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.
The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.
Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.
“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”
A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.
What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.
But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”
“Yes, sir.”
You are so, so fucked.
Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.
It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.
And down her throat it goes.
"Good enough, sir?"
You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.
There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.
You must save some things for later.
Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.
You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”
Bae sings, “Every single session.”
“Christ.”
That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”
You roll your eyes.
“I mean, only if we have the time.”
At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."
Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”
“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."
"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."
"Ah, so it's my fault."
"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."
"Mine?"
"From now on, yes."
“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”
“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.
“Sullyoon.”
“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”
You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”
The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.
But she won’t, not yet.
Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”
It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.
And then you're back at square one.
“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."
This used to be your least favourite part of the day.
Waking up alone, to nothing but an alarm that’s far too loud, a bed that’s way too firm, a dorm room that mocks your financial instability with its harsh coldness.
And that somehow, was the best-case scenario.
Beating getting kicked out of a library after passing out face first in a textbook, or booted off your best friend’s mouldy couch when his girlfriend wanted some alone time.
Or even, in your worst moment, getting yelled at by some stranger when you’re discovered on their bathroom floor in a pool of what you prayed to God was your own vomit.
All things of the past, since her.
Since Hanni—waking up was everything.
-
It starts, like it always does, in a tangle of limbs.
Most mornings, with Hanni’s face buried in your chest, cradled in your embrace, small puffs of breath tickling your neck. Others, with her back to you; pulling your arms around her, using the heat of your body like her coziest blanket.
One time on top of you; an exhausted smile plastered on her face, still basking in the afterglow of the night before.
She wrapped herself around you, refused to let go. Like there was a possibility that if she held you tight enough, she could bring you into her dreams.
That was the first day you truly saw her.
You talked about your pasts, your futures, shared your deepest vulnerabilities, made a million quiet confessions.
And when Hanni whispered: “I never want to go back.”
You pulled her closer, kissed her, and answered: “You’ll never have to.”
Since then, every morning always started with you holding her. Feeling her softness, her warmth, the calm rise and fall of her chest, as her exhales became your inhales and your breaths mixed together and synchronised.
This is how it had to be—how you both needed it to be.
So—now:
Nights and mornings since that promise; the sound of a guitar slipping into your ears.
It’s a recording she made for you, setting it as your alarm to make waking up a little more pleasant, to make sure the first thing you thought of when you opened your eyes was her.
Unnecessary, ultimately, seeing as the first thing you see when you wake up is her. Or, to be precise, her arm poking out from under the blankets, flailing about blindly.
“Off,” Hanni mumbles, fumbling around the bed, the nightstand, your face, seeking the offending device.
You stretch over her, a blanket on top of her blanket, and hunt down the invisible enemy that dared to interrupt your girlfriend’s peaceful slumber.
A muffled “thanks”, and she takes the opportunity to snuggle even closer.
There’s the smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Her nose, nuzzling closer into your chest, searching for your heartbeat. That pleased hum she’s making, letting you know there’s no place she’d rather be, like she’s completely content to stay all cozied up and warm for as long as you’ll let her (forever, if possible, please).
It’s hardly a tough sell—face the cold shower, the crowded buses and trains, the boring lectures that the rest of the day holds.
Or, stay wrapped up in the sanctuary of your (Hanni’s) bed. In fitted silk sheets, weighted duvets, plush pillows. Wrapped up in Hanni; in her very soft, very warm, very naked body.
It’s a no-brainer, really.
The rest of you, the more honest part of you that’s resting somewhere between her belly button and her thighs, seems to agree. It’s got a mind of its own, stirring to life, responding to the heat of her skin and the gentle pressure of her body; the familiar lines of her curves and the lavender scent of her hair.
She notices, of course.
It’s hard not to feel it, nudging against her, steadily growing with each passing beat, saying, ‘Hey, remember me?’
A kiss over your heart, a giggle into your sternum, and she’s up—sort of. She rolls onto her side, still in your embrace, but enough so that you can see the wry smile gracing her face, her sleepy eyes fluttering open to meet yours.
Chalk it up to whatever you want—relationship goggles, the honeymoon phase, or just the sheer joy of finding someone who actually cares about you—but when Hanni's looking like this, it's hard to believe you’re not dreaming.
The morning light kissing her rosy cheeks. The gentle pink of her full lips. Midnight silk hair curtaining her face. Her eyes.
A sweet, completely innocent question: “Having a good morning?”
She shifts, slightly.
An oh-so-incidental move that has the blanket sliding off her shoulder, down to her waist. It’s an invitation that you take, a proper wake-up call, from her collarbone to the curve of her hip. Softness and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold that whispers from the edges of the bed.
Hanni—your Hanni—leaving you with the implication: ‘Can I make it better?’
“Classes,” is all you say, because you have to at least acknowledge the responsibility, play the farce that you would actually abandon your (again—very warm, very naked) girlfriend for the sake of academia.
“It’s cold outside,” is her astute observation.
“Mhm.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“Right,” you nod.
“So,” she starts, bringing her hand up to your cheek, walking you through the incredibly simple, blatantly obvious logic. “Do you need any other reason?”
“Are you offering me one?”
Lips purse then pouts in that endearingly cute, Hanni way. “Does it help that I’m naked?”
“One would think that more clothes would be appropriate, considering the weather,” you posit, like you weren't already convinced long before she even opened her mouth. But, it’s still fun to pretend that her persistence doesn’t melt you every time.
“One would be wrong.” Hanni edges closer, her bare skin gliding over yours, so you can properly assess the merits of her argument. The tip of her nose brushing against your own, the softness of her breasts passing along your chest, and her hand at your cheek, then your neck, your stomach, and moving lower, and lower. “Body heat, you know?”
Her hand gets lower still. You swallow. “Yeah.”
“Like when it’s freezing and people get lost in a snowstorm.” She finds you, reaches into the waistband of your sweatpants, wraps her fingers around you, wakes you up.
“Or when girlfriends are trying to convince their boyfriends to stay in bed all day long,” you groan out. “Again.”
“Exactly,” Hanni says, a breezy air of finality, proud of herself for making you see reason—or rather, feel it.
You kiss her forehead, conceding the victory to her, and she scrunches her nose; preens. It’s a subtle movement, the kind that you’ve come to recognise as her victory dance. She squeezes your body closer to hers, her cheek squishing into your chest, her other hand wrapping around your neck, her legs curling up around your calves. It’s like she’s absorbing your affection, turning it into warmth she’ll keep with her for the rest of the day.
Her hand winds up and down, these long, lazy motions. Smooth and tender, stroking the length of you, her thumb tracing the vein that pulses along the side. She’s not in a hurry; not anymore anyway. Just, enjoying the moment, enjoying being with you, enjoying how obvious you are with your sighs and shivers.
“‘sides,” Hanni adds, taking a break to kiss around your jawline, your neck, your shoulder. “You deserve it. A perfect day of nothing.” She sounds so hopeful, so earnest, and there’s a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the friction of her hand on your skin. “We can order junk food, watch awful horror movies, and…”
“Just us.” A finger under her chin to tilt her head up, to capture those half-moon eyes with yours, to kiss her sweetly, deeply, remind her that she’s all you need to make a perfect day. “I wonder what I’ve done to earn this.”
“Not what you’ve done,” Hanni says in the breaths between your kisses. “What you’re going to do.”
With that, she uses all her weight to push you, rolling you onto your back, climbing over you with a grace that leaves you breathless.
She straddles you, legs draped over your hips, small breasts bouncing just a little with the motion. There’s mischief lighting up her eyes, that playful glint that precedes all good things. The blankets fall completely off her with a dramatic flourish, leaving her bare and exposed for your eyes to drink in.
A pause to appreciate her—to really look at her. From her flushed cheeks to the tips of her toes. Every curve, every darkened freckle, every soft, sweet inch of her—yours to adore, to touch, to explore.
And then, she winks.
You can’t help but laugh.
Hanni joins you, giggling in uncontrollable fits.
It’s the ridiculousness of it all, of Hanni—the girl who blushes when you hold her hand in public—straddling you with a wink and a promise of a day of pure carnal indulgence.
You both laugh until your cheeks hurt, until the tension breaks and you’re just two people in the cozy bubble of her bed, sharing a stupid, silly moment.
It takes a beat, but you both somehow recover, gasping for air between giggles. She settles herself, placing her hands on either side of your face, looking down at you with all the adoration in the world. Her touch grounds you, brings you back to the present.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” You ask, when you’re finally able to speak. “This is what you really want to do all day?”
“Well…” Hanni muses, sinking down to your waist, running her fingers over your t-shirt, stopping when she has the hem in her clutches. “A bit of this.”
She starts rolling your shirt up, sliding the cotton over your stomach. The cold air of the room kisses your skin before the warmth of her mouth replaces it. Her soft, plump lips meet your body, the small indent of your belly button.
Simple, innocent, playful. Hanni.
“A bit of that,” she continues, her hands keep moving, lifting the shirt higher, tugging it up and up, exposing your chest to her eyes, her lips.
She finds her target, a tongue over your nipple, paying you back for what you’re no doubt going to be doing to her later; flicking over your chest to make you hiss.
“A bit of me,” she adds, words vibrating against your chest, leaving goosebumps as she rises higher.
You lift your arms, allowing her to pull your shirt off your body, trapping you for a moment so she can suck at your neck, mark you as hers, and hers only. As if you didn’t already wear it on your face whenever she’s around.
“Doing a lot of you.”
Her eyes rake over you—your chest, your stomach, your abs. Lingering a touch too long, making her cheeks warm; colouring them with a soft blush that spreads from her neck up to her ears, hinting at the thoughts racing through her mind.
And then you're kissing her.
It’s gentle (your kisses always are) but that doesn’t make it any less passionate, any less intense.
She kisses you back, lips sliding over yours, the softness of her tongue tracing the line of your teeth, moaning your name in short stutters into your mouth.
It feels so right, so natural. The way she fits against you, feels on top of you, the perfect puzzle piece you’ve been desperate to find in a world full of mismatches.
It’s far too early to say it, but you know it—have known it.
You love her. Love how she lives in the moment; how even when you’re worried about the future, about deadlines and tomorrows, she can bring you back to the present and make things simple. In the least selfish way possible, she makes it about her.
(And that’s all you need).
It builds and builds; these slow, dragging kisses, these admissions of things that you’re not quite ready to say. Until you’re both well and truly needy for a touch more heat, as much of each other as you can possibly get.
You can’t hold it anymore, so you don’t bother trying.
With a firm grasp, you take Hanni’s hips in your hands, your thumbs pressing into vanilla skin as you pull her upward. It’s strategic, pull the best parts of her (which could be any part, really) closer, prove her earlier guess right by introducing her breast to your lips, her nipple to your tongue.
A million times you’ve repeated it and it won’t be enough—she’s so soft. Melting at your touch already, so responsive, letting you know she’s feeling it with every hushed gasp and shiver of her tight body.
One hand is filled by her other breast, a supple handful, spilling between your fingers, carelessly massaging as your mouth latches onto its twin. Her heart races, hammers against your palm, quickening with every passing flick, with each chaste suck between your lips.
Your other hand snakes lower, caressing the smooth plane of her stomach. You drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of her abs, down towards the juncture of her thighs.
She squirms.
Moans a little louder.
Scrapes the back of your scalp and pulls you in.
You’re insistent, your touch feather light as it grazes over the whispers of hair; trailing all the way down, down, where you ghost over her mound, tease her clit to make her gasp.
“Like that,” Hanni moans her approval, answers you with hips rocking against your hand. “So, so… nice.”
Your hand dips down further, parting her folds, sliding through her slick, greeted with the warmth and wetness of her opening. Soaking your hand, inviting you to delve deeper.
“Hanni,” you mouth around her nipple, “you’re so wet.”
“O-of course,” she manages, shuddering as you dare to ease a finger inside, pushing into her and pushing out a cry that fills the room. “It’s you.”
“It definitely is,” you confirm, stroking her walls with slow, deliberate care, feeling her tense around you with each movement. “And I’m just getting started.”
Her body arches, curves into you, tilting her head back and feeding you more of her; her breast into your mouth, her pussy on your fingers. You look up at her, feel her, memorise every little noise she makes, every twitch of her body as you touch her. Her breath skips as you start to move your finger in and out, a quiet pace to make her hips dance.
“This is a good idea.“ You’re pushing in deeper, adding a second digit to the mix, stretching her just so. She’s tight around you, always so tight, enveloping you in her heat, and there’s the urge to go even slower, to savour every moment. “Staying in all day. Making you feel good.”
Her legs tense, toned thighs flex as you curl your fingers up, pulling towards you just right to hit that spot that makes her mouth hang open, that makes her whine. There’s a plea in there, a silent request for more, for everything.
And you give it to her, because it’s what she deserves, because it’s what she’s asking for, because she’s yours.
She’s getting tighter around you, walls squeezing in. A prelude to something beautiful, something only you know how to give her, a skill you’ve picked up in this very same bed.
“God,” Hanni’s breaths are turning into short gasps, she’s so needy for it, for you. A slight tug of your hair, pulling you off her breast, forcing her nipple to ‘pop’ from your lips. She sinks down, further down onto your hand, her breasts dragging against your chest, her skin sticking to yours. “You’re such a tease.”
Her lips hang in front of yours, pillowy cushions begging for its partner—needing you to kiss her, now. You claim her mouth, let her be as loud as she wants on your lips; these delightful sounds when your hand moves faster, more insistent.
Arms hold you, wrap around your back, hugging you tighter, needing you to be as close as humanly possible. Hands everywhere—massaging your back, gripping in your shoulders, tangled in your hair, grabbing at your biceps—no matter how much of you she has, it’s just not enough.
Pliant is the other word to describe Hanni; so easy in your hands, like clay waiting for your touch. Waiting for you to mould her into whatever you want, even though you prefer her as she just is—all her perfect imperfections, beautifully flawed, wonderfully Hanni.
Another finger pushes into her; three now, moving in a steady rhythm, that slow, cautious manoeuvre that’s become so familiar. Sure, you could do it with your eyes closed, bring her to the brink and back with touch alone, but you’d miss the way she looks at you—the tears at the corners of her eyes, the tremble in her lips; like you’re her saviour, her everything.
“Hanni, you’re so—” you can’t put it into exact words—gorgeous, pretty, lovely—you test them out, but they all fall short, leaving you hanging until—
“Yours,” Hanni finishes, and that’s all you need, all you need to hear to make a vow to do everything in your power to keep her happy, to keep her here, to keep her—“always yours.”
She’s rocking on your fingers now, taking charge of her own pleasure, setting the pace that you so willingly match. It’s a give and take, and you take the chance to kiss at her neck, to nibble on the shell of her ear, to whisper to her all the things that create these little tremors in her thighs, that make her grip you tighter and tighter with each stroke.
She feels so good, so warm, so wet. Your hand is soaked, knuckles coated in her, making these noises. The muffled pop of skin on skin; the soft, sticky sound of wetness being parted; that satisfying squelch as you go in deep.
Hanni’s so close. So, so close.
Unwinding, melting in your palm; and that look. The way she smiles when she’s on that edge, because she’s so happy to be there, so happy that it's you that has her to be feeling this good.
But then—it’s the suddenness that gets you—she goes rigid, stops moving, begs, “Wait, wait, wait.”
It’s so unexpected, but you still do stop, fingers lodged inside her, pulsating with the urgency of her orgasm that’s just a heartbeat away.
She needs to hang onto you, to hold onto something as the world starts to spin again. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed a rosy pink; there's sweat glistening across her face, bathing her in this glow.
You look up at her, a soothing kiss on her cheek. “Problem?”
“No,” Hanni manages a gasp, reassuring you with a shaky smile, still doing her best to catch her breath. “I mean yes. I mean… It feels too good.”
You tilt your head. You smirk. “That’s a problem?”
“You always do this, you know?” Hanni chooses her words carefully, trying to break out of the haze of having almost been there, so she can properly articulate. “Make it about me when it’s supposed to be about you.”
You stifle your laughter against her neck, letting it vibrate through her skin. It’s her earnestness, really, that gets you sometimes; her concern for you, even now is too much, almost comical.
“I’m serious!” Hanni protests, though she’s betrayed by the wobble in her voice, that part of her begging to just let you do your thing and push her past the precipice. Her eyes flutter shut and she breathes in deep. Trying, nearly failing, to compose herself. “I want to make you feel as good as you always make me feel.”
Logic that you can’t argue with, not when it’s wrapped up in that sweet, sweet smile. You still attempt, though, “Hanni, making you feel good—”
“Makes me feel good—yeah, I know how it goes,” she finishes the line for you. “But, just. We have all day, so—"
There’s a point that’s finished by her kiss, specific in its tenderness, stealing whatever witty reply you had ready from your mouth.
“Let me start by taking care of you.”
It’s like you said—Hanni Pham, making it all about her, in the least selfish way possible.
You relent, bowing out to her whims.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” Hanni nods, satisfied with your compliance. She takes your wrists into her hands, guides them away from her body to keep them at your sides. “Just relax.”
It’s a strange feeling, letting go, letting her be the one to dictate the pace, the rhythm of your morning. You watch her, watch the way her eyes wander over you. She’s fascinated, like she can’t make up her mind of where to start.
But she does, eventually.
Her gaze settles on your arousal, standing proud and waiting underneath your sweatpants.
“How about I start—” a light kiss on your lips, and she’s slinking down to your waist, tugging at the string of your pants, “right here?”
A kiss on your stomach, just above your navel, her fingers slipping between your waistband and your skin. They pull at the fabric, dragging it down with care until it’s pooled around your thighs. Your cock springs free, and there’s this gasp she makes—like she hasn’t seen it a hundred times before.
“You’re so big.” Hanni’s in awe, her voice hushed, reverent almost. It’s always been something she says, something that makes you blush—swells the ego that you like to pretend you don’t have. “I still have no idea how this fits inside me.”
“It fits perfectly, remember?”
“Mm, I know, but—" she can’t find the words, so she settles for the next best thing, “damn.”
She’s smiling—always smiling—and you can feel her breath on you, light and sugary, these little pulses of anticipation tingling through your skin.
You hold your breath, waiting for her touch, waiting for her lips, waiting for her to finally take you in.
But she doesn’t. She’s just looking.
“Hanni,” you say, giving your cock a teasing flex, brushing it against her cheek. It’s a light prod to break the spell, to remind her of the task at hand.
“Oh!”
It’s getting unbearable, your cock just inches from her mouth, straining to reach her lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Good.“ She presses another kiss to your skin, a little nibble to your inner thigh that makes you jolt. Her hands skim over your legs, pushing your sweatpants down further and further, down your thighs, over your knees right until it’s stuck at your ankles, thwarting her attempted sensual seduction.
She makes this frustrated 'argh!’ at the minor struggle. Very cute. Also a little ridiculous.
"Help, please?” She looks up at you, expectantly.
You acquiesce.
“Aha!” Hanni cheers, slightly louder than she may have intended, having won her battle against your pants. She catches herself, blushing, flashing a cheeky smile.
God, you’re going to fall in love with her all over again.
“Oh right. I mean, are you ready?”
So casual in how she says it, covering for her fumble. It makes you want to laugh—except you can’t, because before you can even open your mouth, she’s already leaned in, pressing her plush lips against the tip of your cock.
Lightly, so light it makes your hairs stand on end. A calculated tease, right hand around your cock, stroking your length. Her left reaches up, laces her fingers with yours. A squeeze, a preview of what’s to come.
You can’t help but twitch under her.
It's her lips, mapping a trail of kisses down your shaft, leaving a warm, sticky mess of pre-cum that she’s quick to lick away. It’s how she’s looking at you—so focused, like she’s been learning, been studying you, creating a personal database of everything that makes you tick.
But above all else it’s just the simple fact that she’s doing this for you, because she cares about you. Because she wants to make you feel good.
It’s all of it and it’s working.
“This is much nicer, isn’t it?” She asks, not really expecting an answer, because she knows it’ll be a resounding yes.
She’s playing with you, not giving you exactly what you want, but just enough. Her hand wrapped around the base of your cock, stroking you from root to tip, thumb circling your head with enough pressure to drive you insane.
It’s pain and pleasure wrapped up into one perfect package, and you’re not sure which one you prefer.
You let her know as such: “Actually quite torturous, to be honest.”
“But it’s the good kind of torture, right?”
“There’s a good kind?”
“We’ve got all day to find out,” Hanni teases, taking a fistful of her own hair in her hand, looping it into a tight, messy bun; preparing herself—giving you a final chance to do the same.
Hanni takes you into her mouth.
It’s not a sudden plunge, not a surprise attack bringing you straight to the back of her throat—it’s a slow, slow descent that has you gritting your teeth and biting back a groan.
It’s hot. Wet. Heavenly. You can feel every inch of your cock being coated in her saliva, her tongue dancing around your shaft, her cheeks hollowing out, her lips creating the most exquisite suction.
When she reaches as far as she can go, fills her mouth with as much of you as she can take, she starts to move back up. Slowly, so you can feel every little bump of her tongue, every little drag of her teeth.
Her hand joins in, moving in tandem with her mouth, stroking the parts of you she can’t reach. She’s trying to find the perfect balance, trying to find that sweet spot between too much and not enough.
Hanni’s no pro at this, her technique is in no way perfect—but she’s so willing, so keen to please. Taking her time, getting used to the feel of you in her mouth, eyes peeking up at you every so often to gauge your reaction. Studying your face for any sign that she’s doing it right, that she’s doing it well.
It’s adorable, really.
And oh, so hot.
You give it to her again, reassure her, “So good, baby,” because it is—your hips buck involuntarily, pushing deeper into her mouth.
It takes her off guard, but she does her best to adapt; she’s trying not to gag, trying to take it all in. She’s a fast learner, your Hanni.
Your compliment serves its purpose—she’s getting more confident now, tongue gliding along the underside of your cock. Tentative, exploratory. It’s clumsy, yes, but it’s cute, and most importantly—it feels good.
She’s concentrating, her attention entirely on your cock; her lips sealed tight. Each time her head bobs down, she takes you in deeper, millimetres, but still, deeper and deeper.
And it’s the sound of her sucking you in, getting sloppier, filling the room with those noises, the soundtrack to your morning. She’s getting bolder, finding her rhythm, building her pace. It’s not precise in any way, shape or form—sometimes she’s a little too rough, sometimes she misses the beat—but the effort.
A harsh suck has your cock popping out of Hanni’s lips, strings of her saliva still connecting her mouth to you. She looks up at you, wanting to check in, still needing that hit of validation, “Is this—is this good?"
You stroke her hair, let her lean into your touch. "Unbelievably. You’re doing great.”
“But I can make it even better, can’t I?” She asks, the determination setting in her features, and she’s staring straight into your eyes, hopeful, “Tell me. Tell me how you want it.”
It’s not a demand—it’s a question, a plea for guidance; she’ll do whatever it takes (whatever you want) to get you there. And it’s the sight of her, straddling your thighs, kneeling before you; those full lips hovering just about your cock, her hand lazily pumping away, keeping you there.
Somehow, you manage to get the words out, a rough whisper, “Take me deep, Hanni. As far as you can go. Take me all in. Show me how much you want it.”
It’s the instruction she’s been waiting for; she’s nodding before you’ve finished, so willing to oblige. It’s that part of her that you’ve discovered, the part she might not even know herself. But it explains so much.
(Hanni: the teacher’s pet, always needing to excel. Competitive, desperate for the highest grades in school, the top evaluations in training; desperate for you to tell her that it’s her and only her.
That’s what makes her successful. That’s what makes her eager.
And now that you’ve put the challenge before her, she can’t wait to prove herself.)
She takes a deep breath, swirls her tongue around the tip of your cock, dipping her toe into the water before she dives right in. Like she’s playing it out in her head, memorising the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you. Mapping out the best way to take you all the way in right before she does her best to break you.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
And she goes for it.
Her mouth opens wide, eyes locked on yours, and she takes you in again.
Deeper, throat tighter.
Her eyes water a little, and she coughs, retreating. But she’s unfazed—still smiling, still eager.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s okay.”
You stroke her cheek, act like it’s not already far more than you can handle. “Take your time, baby. No need to rush.”
A deep inhale, and she's trying again.
It’s a process, her getting used to you, your size, your taste, the way you make her throat bulge. She’s slow, tentative, but with every stroke, with every gulp, she’s getting closer. Her cheeks hollow out more, her eyes water a little less, and she moans.
You can feel the anticipation building in your chest, your balls, the sweet ache of your orgasm just around the corner. And she can feel it too, your body tensing under hers, your breaths turning shorter, sharper.
The fifth time, she hits the back of her throat, and she stops—holds herself there, panting. It’s a moment of victory, a declaration that she’s got it right, that she can take all of you, just like you asked. Your cock is nestled at the back of her throat, there’s more tears now, but she’s smiling with her eyes, looking up at you through her lashes.
It’s so intense. You groan. Your hips jerk. “Good, baby, so good—don’t move.”
The look on her face, the satisfaction, the pride.
She swallows around you, working the muscles in her throat, pressing her tongue flat against the underside of your cock; it’s too much.
It’s a struggle, but she does it, takes it all in, holds it there—just for you.
Her hands are at your thighs, grasping—not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know she’s there, that she’s with you. She coughs, gags, sputters bits of drool down your cock, but she keeps going.
And then, she pulls herself up, needing the air, pulling back with a long gasp; leaving a mess. Your cock slides out of her mouth, springing from her lips; her cheeks a vivid shade of red, glistening with lines of tears—beautiful, just indescribably beautiful.
“Was I good?” She’s asking out of courtesy, really. You’re sure whatever dumb look you’re wearing on your face is more than enough to confirm it.
But you nod and choke a ’Yes’ anyway, because you’re a gentleman, and words of affirmation are just as sweet as the act itself.
“I can do better.”
And before your mind can even catch up to what she’s saying, she’s sucking you back into her mouth. Now that she’s proven herself, she just has to push it even further, show you just what she’s capable of.
This time, she’s more assured, more confident. Her hands are at your hips now, holding you still, like she’s worried you’ll get away.
You won’t, of course. You couldn’t even if you tried.
Hanni’s bobbing her head; these long, deep sucks that have your fingers tangling in her hair, have you urging your hips to meet her mouth. Her eyes are watering more, she’s gagging more often than not, but she doesn’t stop, she just keeps moaning around you, keeps going and going.
She takes her hands off your hips, sliding one down to the base of your cock, holding it steady as she works you over and over. The other finds your balls, balancing them on her fingertips, rolling them around her palm. She’s figuring it out, figuring you out far too quickly, and it nearly has you coming undone.
And through it all, she’s grinning.
It’s a twisted, slightly pained grin, but it’s a grin nonetheless. She’s found her new favourite hobby, and she’s determined to show you just how much she enjoys it.
“I love this,” Hanni slurs against your cock, not really to you, not really to herself, just saying it out loud because it’s true. “I love being able to do this to you, making you feel so good.”
She’s saying these things, these simple words like they’re not dangerous at all, like whispering them against your cock is so harmless, like they don’t have the power to completely destroy your resolve.
“I love that it’s me,” Hanni keeps going, even when her tongue is occupied with licking you, lapping up your balls, the underside of your shaft. “I love that I’m the one who makes you feel this way.”
Gone is the shyness—she’s so smug now, so proud of herself, so in love with the fact that she has you exactly where she wants you: in her mouth, at her mercy.
It’s in the way she’s sucking you, her eyes closing, her hums of pleasure every time she takes you in—as deep as she can. She’s getting hotter on top of you, just from having you in her mouth, from taking you into her lips again and again.
Grinding herself into the mattress, needing a bit of friction, needing more. And that’s when she pulls away, panting for breath.
“Hanni?” You ask, finding your voice, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.
“It’s too much,” she admits, breathless, her hand still wrapped around your cock, stroking you gently, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s too much.”
There’s a shift in the air—in Hanni. Usually, typically, soft. Now wild, desperate.
She’s climbing up you, back on your hips, her wetness smearing onto your skin, her thighs trembling on either side of yours.
"I need it, I can’t wait anymore. I just can’t.”
The suddenness, the urgency in her voice (in her body). Hanni, flushed, practically shaking with need.
“I need you—now.”
It’s so tempting—you could give in easily. And yet, there’s something in how she’s asking you, how she’s using innuendo in place of propriety, dancing around saying what she really wants in plain, explicit terms.
It’s not enough.
She’s already got you on the edge, so close you can almost taste it. But you need to hear it from her. Your sweet, adorable girlfriend, saying something so dirty it’ll make your knees buckle.
So, you sit up, shifting slightly so she’s still straddling you, face to face. Cradling her cheek with one hand, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes; so you can look at her—take in all the tiny beautiful inflections that make her your Hanni.
“What do you need?”
Always with the blushes, but she holds your gaze, not breaking it even when you run your hand back down south, reaching to slip a finger through her folds, finding her still so wet and swollen. She gasps, but she doesn’t look away.
“Tell me, Hanni,” you coax, your finger moving in gentle circles, watching her face, watching the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches.
Hanni stutters, “You—I want you—need you—". But you just chuckle, slow down the pace of your finger, giving her a taste of the frustration she’s unintentionally been dishing out.
“Not quite specific enough. What part of me do you want?”
She’s biting her lip, squirming under your touch—she’s not used to this. Not used to anything outside of the usual playfulness, the sweetness; the gentle strokes and soft whispers. But something has you feeling different today.
Maybe it’s the excitement of trying something new. Maybe it’s how unusually forward she’s being. Or maybe, just maybe, part of you has always wanted to hear her beg.
She blurts it out: “Your—your cock!”
“And what do you want me to do with it?” You press, stroking her clit now; her chest heaving, these tiny whines escaping her, and the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s getting ready to pounce.
“Please—just—please, I need—”
“Need me to slide it in slow?” You suggest, kissing her neck, her perfect, porcelain skin. “Give it to you nice and deep?“
Hanni’s rolling her hips on you, grinding herself against your hand, trying to get through to your cock, trying to will it to enter her.
“Go ahead, be honest.”
She’s bothered. Annoyed—almost angry, if that’s even possible for her. Like how could you? How could her kind, loving boyfriend go out of his way to put her in such agony.
“Tell me, baby. What does Hanni want?”
“I—I need your cock inside me—I want you to—” Hanni swallows takes a deep breath.
A final push: “Say it.”
“Fuck me, hold me and fuck me. Deep, hard, slow—however you want just fuck me now.”
The words come out in a rush, spilling out of her lips. Even she’s surprised as she’s saying them, in disbelief that she’s even capable of saying something so filthy out loud.
But she’s not taking it back, she’s not apologising.
No, she’s taking hold of your hand, moving it out from between her legs, and replacing it with your cock, daring you to stop her.
Like you could ever.
You push in, inch by delicious inch, watching her face contort, features twist, feeling her stretch around you.
It’s the same every time—it feels like the first time all over again.
Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth parted in a wordless plea, and you’re moving so slow. So slow that she’s whimpering, begging, hips trying to push you deeper. But you keep it steady, setting the tempo, let her get used to the feeling of being made whole by you again.
“Oh, oh, oh—” Hanni pants, trying to keep her voice down, but it’s pointless. She’s failing already, loosening a strained 'fuck' when you bottom out, when your cock is finally, completely inside her.
You hold her like that; your arms around her, hugging her tight, her breasts squished against your chest. She’s so small in your arms, so soft, so warm; her pulse racing against your own, lapping it twice over.
“You okay?” You ask, placing a kiss on her shoulder.
“More than okay,” she sighs, holding onto you, moulding her body onto yours. “More than okay—just need a minute to adjust. Don’t worry about me—you can—you can make me feel good.”
So, you do.
Lifting her body off you, unsheathing your cock from her warm embrace, until only the tip is trapped in her wetness. Then: guiding her back down, a touch quicker, harder, deeper. And there’s that gasp as she takes you back in, as you fill her.
You’re moving with purpose now, her walls tight and wet and hot around you, clenching and releasing in time with your slow, deliberate thrusts.
Hanni’s breasts bounce in front of you, up and down with every pump, small peaks begging for attention. You’re kissing them again, sucking one into your mouth, suckling on the pink tips.
“So beautiful,” you’re repeating it, speaking it into her skin, because it’s all that’s on your mind as she takes you in. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”
And she looks it too, even though she’s not even trying; with her hair falling out of her bun, sticking to her face with sweat and saliva, her mouth hanging open, swollen and red from your kisses, her body writhing and jerking with every thrust.
Yet she remains focused, eyes glued to yours, like she’s afraid if she looks away she’ll miss something. Like if she doesn’t keep watching, she’ll wake up and find out it’s all been a dream.
But it’s not.
It’s you and her, in this bed, the sun peeking through the curtains, her naked body riding yours, hotter and hotter with each pass.
It’s you and her, together, wrapped up in each other making love like the world outside doesn’t exist.
It’s you and her, and it’s—
“So perfect—you feel so perfect,” Hanni finishes your thought for you, finishes each of your thrusts with her own hips; opening her body up to you, welcoming you in deeper with each stroke. “I think I’m gonna cry it feels so good.”
Her legs lock around your back, heels digging into your spine, until you’re fully seated inside her; so deep it feels like you’re a part of her. With a whine that’s half pleasure, half need, Hanni braces herself on you, rolling her hips on your cock, grinding down, taking as much of you as she can.
You grip her tight, one hand around her back, the other under her ass, fingers squeezing into the soft, tender flesh. Bouncing her up and down, watching her face as she takes you, as she keeps repeating ‘so perfect’.
And you know, you know she’s not just talking about the physical—that’s definitely there. It’s how you’re making her feel, it’s the connection. The way you’re looking at her, the way you’re holding her, the way you’re loving her that has her floating.
“I-I think I’m ready,” Hanni whimpers, “I can take it—you don’t need to—don’t hold back anymore.”
With a grunt, a nod, and a choked ‘Hanni’, you’re sweeping her up, keeping your cock buried deep inside her as you lift her. Your hand cushions the back of her head as you lay her down on the bed beneath you, her legs spreading wide on their own to accept you.
A moment to steady herself, to prepare.
A smile. A kiss on her forehead.
And then you’re in, all the way, again. Completing her pussy with your cock; one swift motion that knocks the wind out of her in the sound of your name.
“God—Hanni—”
It shouldn’t be like this—it should be impossible to be this much hotter, this much wetter, this tight.
But she is.
She’s squeezing herself around you, muscles, thighs flexing. Eyes shut, mouth wide open because there’s no way to stop from crying out; and her body, her lovely, perfect body, arching up to meet your every thrust.
You give it to her.
You’re building up speed, stretching her wide, hips moving in that perfect rhythm you’ve discovered together—the one that makes your name echo off the bedroom walls.
Hanni’s whimpering, mewling, whining, “Tell me—tell me how good it feels.”
You tell her everything—how tight, how wet, how perfect she is. You praise her, shower her with very compliment that comes to mind. She eats them up; her lips leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, her fingers on your back, her hips swallowing you whole.
But Hanni still needs more, needs to hear more. Not just that she’s good, not even that she’s perfect. She needs to hear that she’s only yours.
“Like heaven, Hanni,” you manage, your voice hoarse, strained. “So perfect for me. Only me.”
“Really?” Hopeful. Ecstatic. So turned on.
“Always,” you repeat, the truth echoing in your voice and across her skin. “Always so perfect.”
“Mmm,” Hanni moans, nodding along, soaking in every word that flows freely from your lips.
“You’re so beautiful, Hanni. Your pussy is so perfect.” You kiss her again, a little harder this time, a little more possessive. “I love how you fit around me.”
Her breath catches in her throat, there’s that spark in her eyes, and she’s taking you deeper, urging you on. “Oh-oh. Keep talking—please—keep talking.”
“Made for me, aren’t you Hanni?” You continue, the steady stream of praise and admiration, caressing her as surely as your cock in her pussy. You can’t get enough, can’t get over how perfect she feels, how right it is to be inside her. “Like a perfect glove around me.”
Her eyes meet yours, her smile shy as she whispers your name. Whispers it like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word she knows (like it’s the only thing that can give her peace).
She’s so close, getting there, it’s in how she’s pulling you closer; with her arms and her pussy. How she’s saying please, with a little quiver in her voice, alternating it with your name when you hit that spot just right.
“This feels so good, but-but-I think—” Hanni’s voice cracks, even now, still so shy, so adorable. She’s gasping, out of breath, trying her best to string the words together. “C-can I? Can I please cum?”
It’s all you need to hear. You kiss her, hard and deep, push into her. “Of course, baby,” you say, “Do it. Do it for me. I want you to cum for me.”
The effect it has on her—how it ripples across her face. She’s so thankful. So, so thankful for your permission, for what you’re doing to her. “Then please—please don’t stop.”
Harder, faster, deeper now—making her unravel beneath you. Hands holding her in place, feeling her, feeling her tense, quake around you.
Keep going, because she’s almost there, because she’s repeating it, that desperate ‘please’, over and over again.
‘Please-please-please’—with every thrust, saying it without saying it, with every clench of her walls, with every little gasp she lets slip.
Because that’s what she is—who she is—at her most honest, her most vulnerable. Pleases and thank yous on her lips, a constant stream of gratitude for you, for being here with her, for making her feel so much.
“Thank you,” Hanni manages, words almost a moan. “Thank you for making me feel like this, for making me feel so—”
But she can’t finish the sentence, can’t find the words to explain the storm that’s building inside her. So she just says it again, rising in pitch each time as the pressure builds. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you—’
Her nails dig into your shoulders, the first time she’s ever inflicted anything close to pain on you; begging you to stay in place, to not move, to not pull out. You feel her need, feel it in your bones, feel it from the heat of her pussy.
“Feels so—” Hanni’s crying, sobbing now, trembling uncontrollably. You’re holding onto her, deep inside her, giving all the time she needs to let it out. “—so good, so deep, so, so much—”
She gasps. She tightens. She screams.
Hanni’s voice breaks off into a keening wail as it all comes crashing over her; and you don’t stop, can’t stop, can’t do anything but keep her tethered to you as she loses herself to her climax.
She shudders, clenches around you, pussy tightening in the sweetest way possible. It’s that look on her face, saying everything she can’t manage to say, everything she can’t put into words—how much she loves you, how much you complete her, how much she needs this.
It’s a wave, pulling you under, and you let it take you, let it sweep you away until you’re drowning in the feeling of her coming apart around you, under the heat of her eyes and the grip of her body.
Her juices all over your cock, her pussy spasming around you, that blissful agony on her face. Hanni’s so sweet when she cums, so damn gorgeous, it just takes your breath away. She’s perfect, so perfect it hurts.
And as she comes down, as she rides out her orgasm and kisses your name into your lips, she begs of you, once last time: “Your turn.”
With strength you didn’t know she still had, her legs pull you in, anchoring you to her. Her walls pulse, her body begs for you to follow.
And you do.
“Give it to me, please, cum for me, love—”
You let go. Let the tension in your body melt away as you thrust into her one, two, three more times. Until you’re releasing, until you’re cumming, until everything’s white-hot pleasure and Hanni on your tongue.
Load after load inside her, a hot, deep stream that leaves you groaning, that leaves her sighing, panting, joyful. Filling her up until she’s complete, until she’s overflowing.
You cum hard and fast, and Hanni tries her best to keep up, tries to take it all, and she’s smiling—laughing even, the joy of making you feel this good lighting up her features.
“H-Hanni—” you try, your cock twitching inside her, your cum spilling out of her and onto the bed, onto your thighs.
She’s kissing you, kissing your neck, letting you make your mess; your glorious mess of cum and sweat and saliva and her.
It feels so good, everything feels so good about her, everything she’s doing. She’s holding you so tight, so greedily, shivering with every throb of your cock inside her, savouring every moment of your release.
There’s a moment of silence, where you just lay there, bodies entangled, hearts racing, breaths mingling. Just looking at each other, basking in the thickness of sex and satisfaction.
And Hanni smiles, so wide it could split her face in two, a smile that says she’s never been happier.
Then, with a sigh, she relaxes, her legs loosening, ankles unlocking behind you. You roll onto your side, pulling her with you, keeping her close. She’s still with you, still keeping your cock inside her, and you can’t help but feel like this is it.
This is home.
“Best. Morning. Ever.”
She laughs. “I don’t want to get up. Don’t ever want to leave this bed.”
“I don’t think I can get up,” you admit somewhere into her hair.
And then it hits you. Something in the air, something in the light hitting her naked body, something in that blissful expression on her face.
It spills out of you before you can stop it: “I think I’m in love with you.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, to read your face. “Careful, we’ve got all day for that kind of talk.”
But she doesn’t protest as you hold her tighter, feel the warmth of her body, the smell of the skin, the way she nests into your side. Fitting perfectly—like she’s always been there.
So yeah, you may have said it too early, but whatever.
Today’s the day for breaking normal rules and codes of conduct.
For breaking routines. For her.
For the promise of a long day filled with nothing but lazy kisses, whispered secrets, the sweet taste of her skin.
For staying in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, forgetting the outside world.
For more of this. Of Hanni. Of this perfect, perfect feeling.
So, you stay there. Not moving, not speaking. Just holding onto the moment, as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky.
And as your eyes start to drift close, as you sink into the comfort of the mattress, with her in your arms and on your mind, and you’re thinking this day couldn’t get any better, Hanni whispers:
When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.
If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.
And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.
You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.
But of course, you don’t. (You never do).
-
“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”
There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.
Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.
It’s a view, that’s for sure.
It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’
Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.
You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.
It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.
That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.
Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.
It’s Wonyoung.
Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.
It doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.
You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.
You know exactly how much it’s worth.
After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.
You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.
You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.
“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”
No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.
To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.
Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.
“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”
You glare at her. The gall on this woman.
“What are you waiting for? Drive.”
Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).
You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”
Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”
It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.
Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.
Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.
To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.
“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting. It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.
“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”
“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.
As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.
It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.
Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”
There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)
You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”
“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.
As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.
She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.
“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.
"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”
You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.
She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.
Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.
You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.
It doesn’t smell bad at all.
In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.
“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”
You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.
“Let it go, Wonyoung.”
She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.
“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”
Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”
“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”
You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…
Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).
(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)
“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.
Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.
It’s probably why you do it.
“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”
Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”
“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”
“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”
Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”
“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.
No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”
You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”
“I never said that.”
“Wony—”
“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”
But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.
“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”
“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).
The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.
“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”
Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.
“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.
You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”
Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”
She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.
“Was she even good?”
You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?
And you know the answer: How could anyone be?
But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition.”
Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.
And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.
The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.
And then she does it again.
And again.
You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.
You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.
That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.
What drives you fucking wild.
And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.
The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.
You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”
Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.
You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”
There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. So wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.
You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.
But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.
Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.
If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.
So you drive faster.
You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets. You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.
It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye; she’s still watching you. Enjoying this, loving every second of it.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.”
Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.
“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”
Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.
“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”
“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.
“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”
“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”
To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.
It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.
No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.
She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.
She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.
Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.
The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.
And maybe she should be.
“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”
“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.
Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”
Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”
But she doesn’t listen (she never does).
She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.
“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”
You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”
Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.
Fuck.
“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants. “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”
“Not a fucking chance.”
“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”
She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”
“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”
She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”
“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”
That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”
“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”
"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”
“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”
“Now who’s a bad liar.”
“Go fuck your—”
You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.
“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.
She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.
Turns out, she’s right.
You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.
You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.
“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.
And it makes her smile around your cock.
You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).
You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.
Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.
It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.
You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.
Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.
You swerve again.
Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.
Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.
It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.
You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.
You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.
And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.
Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.
The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.
And she takes it, takes all of it.
Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.
Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.
It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.
Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.
She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.
“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.
She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.
You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.
“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.
She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”
You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.
A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).
But it’s hard. So fucking hard.
You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.
Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.
You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.
You’re not going to last much longer.
Neither is she.
So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.
“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.
You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.
You’re almost there.
You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.
You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.
“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”
The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.
You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.
It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.
“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.
You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.
“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you somehow manage to choke out.
“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.
Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.
Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.
The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.
But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.
Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.
You can’t.
“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”
Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.
Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.
“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”
And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.
“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”
The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.
Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.
She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.
Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.
Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—
But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.
Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.
Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.
It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.
Wonyoung laughs.
“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.
There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.
She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.
“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.
It’s just the way she is.
You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.
“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”
“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”
“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”
“What makes you think you have a choice?”
A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).
She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.
“Wait, wait—fuck—”
And then you slam into her.
“Daddy!”
That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.
You’d do anything to hear it again.
You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.
“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.
“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.
“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”
“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”
“Then say it.”
“Fuck you, daddy.”
“That’s fucking right.”
Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.
Wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”
Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.
And fuck, she’s tight.
Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.
Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.
“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.
You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”
She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.
You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.
Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.
It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’
But you’ll try.
Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.
Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.
(It’s never that simple.)
“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.
“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.
“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.
Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”
And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.
You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.
It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).
If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.
They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.
And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.
This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.
You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.
And then you get an idea.
It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.
You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.
You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.
Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”
But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.
“Smile for the camera, Wony.”
Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.
Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.
Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.
Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.
You’ve got her, and she knows it.
You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.
“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”
You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”
And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.
You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”
Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.
She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.
Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.
A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.
“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.
“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”
“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.
But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.
You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.
“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”
“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”
She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”
There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.
And then waking up and doing it all again.
There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”
Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”
“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”
That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.
You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.
"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”
It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.
But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.
One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.
“I fucking hate you—”
“Hate you too—”
“Hate how good your cunt feels—”
“Hate how big your cock is—”
“Hate how perfect you are—”
“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”
“Fucking slut—"
“Daddy—”
“I’m going to—"
"Please!"
And that’s it.
It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.
Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.
You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.
And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.
And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.
Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.
To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.
“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.
Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.
Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.
You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.
You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.
“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.
You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.
But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?
You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.
You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.
“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.
With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.
It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.
Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.
(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:
“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”
You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:
“I know.”)
Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.
And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.
Let’s be clear: you’re well aware of what a monumentally stupid idea this is.
For you, it’s just a job. You’ve been fired from plenty before, and there will be plenty more after.
But for her, for Yujin, it’s her career. Her life. Her everything.
And yet, here, in the cramped confines of a bathroom stall, your hand on her ass and hers diving down your jeans; you can’t let go of the nagging suspicion that maybe that’s the fucking point.
“How much time do we have?” Yujin’s lips are on your neck. Tiny, hot breaths tickling your skin, nimble fingers at your waist, negotiating with your zipper.
“We had fifteen minutes, an hour ago,” you remind her. “We’re gonna miss soundcheck.”
“It’ll be fine.” Yujin’s unbothered, dismissive of anything that isn’t freeing your cock from its denim prison. “They’ll wait for me. They always do.”
There’s that hint of arrogance, that unshakeable confidence of youth, the invincibility that comes with being that absurdly hot. You can’t blame her at all for it.
What Yujin wants, she gets. You've seen it first hand.
It’s one of the many things you’ve learned about her over the past few weeks.
Well one of the few that don’t concern how good her cunt feels when she rides you, or how her eyes roll to the back of her head when you hit that spot just right, or the way her voice goes hoarse when she screams your name.
“Oh, it’s so perfect.” Yujin’s seen your cock before, tasted it, taken it, had it in every way possible (in every place available), yet that still doesn’t stop her eyes from lighting up the second she sees it springing out from the waistband of your briefs, standing tall and throbbing painfully. “I’d say this is worth being late for.”
You’ve got a groan for her when she takes you into her hand, her grip firm and familiar. A half-hearted protest, too: “Yeah, but if we’re late, Princess Yujin gets a slap on the wrist, whereas I get fired.”
Yujin scoffs at that. “Well, I am your boss, so I think I get the last say if it comes down to it.”
Part of you wants to correct her, wants to explain that technically you’re not her employee but an independent contractor hired by the touring company. However, that part of you needs to shut the hell up, because the intricacies of employment contracts for musicians-for-hire really don’t seem pertinent at this moment.
Regardless, it all becomes trivial in the face of Yujin. So annoyingly, unfairly pretty, not even the unflattering harshness of the bathroom lights are capable of marring her in the slightest.
You’d probably give her the world if she asked.
She’d happily settle for your dick.
Her hand’s moving now, her fingers dancing around your shaft, exploring the contours of your cock from base to tip, and she's forcing you to resign, “Your logic, as always, is flawless.”
“See?” Yujin smiles up at you, that wide, confident grin that’s graced a million posters, been on every magazine cover and TV channel, and is now laser focused on you. “I’m always right, aren’t I?”
Her point's made with a squeeze around your length, stroking you in earnest, building to a rhythm that’s become so familiar over the past week—quick and precise, dangerously efficient. Like she was made for this. Made to tease your cock. As natural for her as breathing, really.
Yujin’s had plenty of practice, after all—on the morning of every concert, in the evening back at her hotel, on tour buses and in dressing rooms. On a plane once, even. It's the same torrid routine that’s now become a required pre-show ritual. A quiet spot, a secluded room, and she steals you away, bringing you to the brink and back.
And to think it all started because she asked you to help her ‘calm her nerves’.
Or more correctly, fuck all the worries and concerns out of her pretty little head.
Still, she's never pushed it this far, never cut it this close.
You lean back against the stall door, your breath catching in your throat, the cheap plastic giving slightly under the pressure. Outside you can hear it, hear the bustling sounds of the venue coming to life—staff moving about, the distant roar of fans, the occasional clang of sound equipment. But in here, it’s overpowered by the noisiness of her palm sliding along your shaft, slick with her saliva, and it fills the small space, echoing across the cold tiles beneath your feet.
She’s undeniable—you know you’ve spoilt her. You’ve let her get her way with you far too many times, let her push this arrangement past any semblance of professionalism. Let her poison your mind with whispered sweet nothings that have you pounding her into the nearest available surface whenever she gets a twitch of stage fright.
But you’re also acutely aware of the fact that without these moments, without the promise of her tight, wet cunt wrapped around your cock, you’d be out there on that stage sleepwalking through just another concert with nothing but a drum kit and a bunch of songs you could play with your eyes closed.
“Fucking hell, Yujin, you look too good doing that,” you manage to get out, doing your best to endure her fingers gliding along your length, to last under the microscope of Yujin's dark, hungry eyes.
Another thing about Yujin: there's a special thrill she gets just from watching you, eyes glued to your face, taking in every single nuance of agony she’s wringing out.
“So fucking—” you settle on the most obvious word in your lexicon, “pretty.”
Yujin keens at the praise, her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, her teeth grazes the soft skin of her bottom lip. It's hardly new for her to hear this, to have people rave about how she's the hottest piece of ass this side of the equator. Yet there's something about hearing it from you that has her eating up your words every time. "Am I, now?"
You nod, voice momentarily failing you as she pumps your cock, her grip never wavering, never faltering, like she’s milking you, milking words of adulation from your lips.
You still haven't pinned down exactly what it is about you that unwinds Yujin, that makes her chase you so hard. Maybe it's because you're slightly older, a touch more mature than the usual plastic smiles that try to charm her out of her pants.
Or maybe it's because you said 'no' the first time she sniffed in your direction, and then made her scream 'yes' every time after.
Whatever it is, it has Yujin’s other hand reaching up to fiddle with the choker at her neck, flooding your mind with memories of your hand around her throat, her gagging on your length, her eyes watering while you fuck her face.
“And what about this outfit?” She asks, oh-so-innocently. “You think the fans will like it?”
“Yujin,” you say, like she doesn’t already know the very obvious answer. You’ve seen her in it all—tiny hot pants, tight little bralettes, that fucking leather catsuit. Yujin’s a fucking goddess in anything she wears, even a blind man would burn from the sheer heat radiating from her body. “You look fucking incredible, as always.”
“But?”
“No buts.”
“I heard a ‘but’,” Yujin ponders, her hand still working your cock like it’s her favourite toy. “Like: ‘but the shorts are too short, and everyone’s gonna see my cheeks when I bend over’.”
A blatant invitation to take a glance, to look down, down at those denim shorts so tight against her curves, the fabric stretched so taut that it might split open at any moment. Look down at her thick thighs, the way they flex and release as she jerks you off, every movement making the material cling tighter to her skin, moulding themselves around the outline of her perfect, round ass, those juicy cheeks that you’ve had the honour of spanking and biting and bruising.
“Or is it: ‘but your top is cut too low, your tits are gonna spill right out’?”
She’s drawing your gaze upwards, over that smooth, creamy expanse of skin, her stomach flat and toned, up the thin fabric of her flimsy excuse for a shirt, that dips just enough to tease the tops of her breasts, squeezed together and pushed up by her bra. It's so thin, wrapped so tight around her, highlighting the faint outline of her nipples poking through, already stiffened and calling for your tongue.
“Or maybe it’s: ‘the outfit looks good, looks nice and slutty, but you’d much rather rip it off me and just fucking ruin me like I deserve?'"
Yeah, that’s more like it.
You take that as permission, and reach for the hem of her top, eager to finally see those tits, to feel their warm weight in your palms, to have her stripped and laid bare like she knows you’d love to. But Yujin’s too quick, slapping your hand away with a laugh.
“But unfortunately, there’ll be none of that, drummer boy.” Yujin stops, her grip on your cock tightening for a brief, painful second. “Can’t have you ruining my outfit before I go on stage, can I?”
There’s a challenge there, a test to see if you’ll argue, maybe grab her, throw her against the wall and show her just how little of a fuck you give about anything that takes place outside of this toilet stall. But you know she’s right. You're the adult here, remember? Besides there’ll be plenty of time for that later.
You settle for her lips, leaning down, pressing the pad of your thumb against her chin. You tilt her head up towards yours, only for Yujin to pull back, leaving you kissing air. “Seriously?”
Yujin grins, clearly delighting in denying you again, in making your blood boil and cock throb. “Can’t ruin the make-up either,” she explains, making sure to bat her long, fake lashes for extra effect.
“So, I take it that means the pigtails are off limits too?” You ask, idly toying with the ludicrously slutty hairstyle that’s framing her face, bobbing slightly with every stroke she gives you.
“Now you’re learning.”
So, with a frustrated grunt, you keep your hands at your sides, resigning yourself to Yujin’s sweet torture. It’s maddening, just standing there, panting and so horny, at the mercy of Yujin’s slow strokes. “And no concern for my outfit, whatsoever.”
Yujin’s eyes wander over your choice of clothing, and laughs, rather insultingly, if you're honest. “I’m sure all the fans will be very focused on the drummer’s fashion choices,” she says, trusting you to pick up on the sarcasm.
You feign injury. “Ouch, I put a lot of thought into my clothing.”
“Sure you do. Thoughts like: how easy will it be for your little fuck buddy to tear them off?” Yujin’s thumb finds that sensitive spot just beneath the head of your cock, swiping over it with a smugness that’s both infuriating and incredibly hot.
“You’re going to get it later for that one,” you warn, your hand curling into a fist.
“Oh, I know.”
Yujin picks up the pace, her hand a blur, running up and down your shaft, fingers sliding across your slit, smearing the pre-cum that’s beaded there over your cockhead. And there’s a glint in her eye, that needy look that tells you she’s getting off on this, getting off on having you, having someone she shouldn’t be left alone with, squirm and beg and be so desperate for her.
“Look how big you are for me, daddy.”
There’s that word, that sweet, sweet ‘daddy’.
The first time she called you it was an accident, a slip of the tongue during a particularly intense moment when you had her against the window of her hotel, tits squashed against the glass, cunt dripping with your cum. But every time since, it’s been deliberate, calculated, a button she knows she can push to make you give it to her as rough as she wants; as rough as she craves.
“Look how big you are in my tiny hand.” She’s got you moaning now, melting between her fingers, bucking your hips for that extra bit of friction. “You love it when I jerk you like this, don’t you, daddy?”
‘Daddy’ again, rolling off her tongue like a fucking love letter, a song to send your head spinning and your cock pulsing in her hand.
There’s another challenge, can you last a little bit longer? Can you resist the urge to cum all over her fingers? Paint her pretty nails a fresh shade of white? Or would you rather wrap your hand around her lovely neck and force her to admit that she loves all this just as much as you do.
You swallow down the groan that’s building in your throat, your teeth grinding together to maintain some semblance of control. Yujin catches it, sees the effort it’s taking you, and she shakes her head, her lips pursed in a perfect little pout.
“Don’t hold back, daddy,” Yujin's chiding you, disappointed with your restraint. “I want to hear it. I need to hear how good it feels, how desperate you are. Need you to show me just how much you want to see me filled with your cum.”
She twists her hand down on your cock, squeezing when she reaches the base, her other hand coming down to cup your balls, tickling them with her fingers. That has a moan escaping your lips, a low, desperate sound that makes Yujin preen.
“That’s it,” she’s overjoyed, getting what she came for, basking in your pleasure, “tell me how much you want it, tell me how much you want to cum for me.”
And so you do. You tell her, your voice strained with the effort of keeping your orgasm at bay. Not yet, not until you’re deep inside her, not until you're sure that not a single drop will go wasted. “You're too fucking much, Yujin, too fucking hot,” you manage, the words a choked noise that you hope she can hear over the blood pounding in your ears. “You’re driving me fucking mad.”
Yujin’s strokes keep building, one on top of the other, and she’s pressing herself against you, the warmth of her, soft breasts pushing into your chest, her lips sucking at your neck, kissing into you hard. After all, who will notice? Who gives a fuck if the drummer shows up on stage with a few extra bruises on his skin?
You fall into the crook of her neck, your forehead on her shoulder, as her lips make their way up your throat, across your jaw, until she’s nipping at your lobe, whispering in your ear, “You’re desperate for my cunt, aren’t you, daddy? You want to fill me up right before I go on stage?”
“Yujin,” you grit out, and you’re holding her, hands on those perfectly round cheeks, holding on for dear life, pulling her close to you so that she can feel just how right she is. The words spill out of you like a confession, “I need to fuck you now, Yujin. I need to feel your cunt, make you cum so hard you won’t be able to fucking move, let alone dance.”
And Yujin leaves one last, lingering kiss on your pulse. “So do it, daddy.”
Her words are a fucking gunshot, and you’re off to the races.
You spin her around so fast she yelps, your chest to her back, your cock trapped between her ass cheeks. Her shorts are barely an inconvenience, yank them down, denim catching on her hips, sliding down to her ankles, leaving her in just her panties.
Yujin gasps, the cool air meeting her bare skin, and she braces herself against the wall of the stall, needing something to keep her on her feet. She’s all soft curves and sweet smells, so insanely proportioned, like she's built for this, curvy and thick in all the right places.
While she’s distracted you sneak a kiss onto the creamy-white skin of her shoulder, hard enough to give her a mark to match yours, a badge of honour that brands her in the same way she’s done to you.
Her panties never stood a chance, completely drenched to the point of ruin, sticky with anticipation, snug against her lips. You pull them aside, thumb brushing against her swollen clit, making her hips jerk forward. She’s on your time now, you’ve got the green light to turn the tables and drag her through the same torment she’s put you through.
“Look at this,” you’re in her ear now, taunting, “you’re already so fucking wet for me.”
Yujin’s cheeks burn red, and she’s pushing back against you, grinding her ass into your cock. “Of course I am. I can’t help it,” she’s a little breathless, a little shaky, “I need it.”
“You’re so beautiful,” your hands like magnets on her bare ass, squeezing, marking her in places only you'll ever know. “So fucking beautiful.”
“Please,” Yujin whimpers, as you slide your finger down, between her legs, tracing her wet slit, testing her tightness, feeling her warmth, feeling how ready she is. “Please, fuck me now.”
You can’t resist her, you never can, not with so little time left and so much of her to ruin. Your cock dips, lining up with her pussy, the tip nudging at her entrance, and all it takes is one strong thrust, and you’re pushing into her, burying yourself to the hilt in a swift, brutal motion.
There’s a scream from her, a grunt from you, blending and echoing through the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles and the stall walls. Someone’s going to hear it, someone’s going to come in and see you fucking the star of the show and that’ll be it for the both of you.
But really, fuck all of that.
Fuck the concert, the venue staff, the fans, the tour managers, the PR nightmare that will follow.
Fuck everything that isn’t inside this stall, that isn’t Yujin’s tight cunt squeezing around your cock, that isn’t the way she’s shuddering in your arms, gasping your name, needing her daddy to fuck her harder, faster.
There's no easing her into it, not like you know you should. You fuck her hard, just like she’s begged. Your hips snap against her ass, the sound of skin slapping skin drowning out the noise outside, again and again, in and out, over and over.
Yujin’s never needed much to get started, always so easily soaked, so easily ready. She'd told you as much one late night (or one early morning): "I can take it, take anything, as long as it's coming from you. "
Her walls clamp down around you, she’s already pulsing, her cunt desperate to wring you dry. You’re gliding in and out of her, using her, letting her mold herself so perfectly around you, her juices coating your cock, making it slicker with every thrust.
“Yes—that’s what I fucking need.” Yujin cries out, her voice high-pitched, her head thrown back, and the flimsy plastic isn’t enough anymore, she needs you to hold her steady, to dig your fingers into her hips and nail her into the wall.
Each stroke, each thrust into her cunt, each time you fill her, stretch her—each one could be the last one, the one that has you exploding inside her. Could be the one that overwhelms you, the one that makes you forget where you are, that there’s anything that exists besides fucking this needy, little brat.
It’s the way Yujin clenches around you, tight and perfect, like she’s made just for you, like she’s never been fucked this way before, will never be again.
(Even though you have. Even though you will.)
Each time is like the first, you’re discovering her all over again, peeling back layers of this beautiful, untouchable idol, and finding something new, something beneath the sheen of purity and perfection. Something that makes you want to ruin her, bring her down to your level, to roll around the filth with the rest of you mere mortals.
And Yujin knows it.
There’s a need to make her feel it, and there’s her fucking pigtails, dangling in front of you like a carrot, flicking up and down in front of your face with every thrust. You need to grab them, to yank her back onto your cock, to force her to take it as hard as you want to give it. It’s almost too much to resist.
But even in your haze you know better. Instead, you settle for that choker on her neck, your thumb sliding under the black leather band, feeling the pulse of her blood racing beneath her skin. You grip it, tight, but not too tight. Just enough to make her gasp, to make her cunt tighten, to make her cry out—
“Gah—God—fuck—”
Strangled cries have her screaming, have her needing you to go deeper.
“Fuh—fuck—yes—right there—right—fucking—there—”
She’s chanting, almost sobbing, doing her best to take everything you’re giving her, everything she’s needs, everything she deserves. You’re tapping into that deep, dark desire within her. The one that gets off on being treated rough, the one that loves having a daddy, the one that needs to be nailed to a wall and reduced to nothing but a shaking, mewling mess of climaxes.
You dare to snake a hand under her top, you’re not going to mess her outfit, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get a taste of what’s underneath. Your fingers stretch under her bra, testing the elasticity of the cotton, before finally finding the swell of her breasts, cupping it, filling your hand with it.
Yujin’s moan is all the encouragement you need, a wordless permit to squeeze, to pinch her nipple, roll it between your thumb and forefinger until it’s a hard little nub.
“Oh fuck yes—touch me. You love touching me, don’t you?” She's feeling it, really feeling you, the stimulation of your palm on her breast, the sting on her nipples. “You fucking love my body.”
It’s the damn truth—these past weeks have been a crash course in Yujin, and you haven’t found an inch you didn’t immediately fall in love with. Every curve and dip and line, every soft place and every sharp edge; the weight of her in your arms, the way she fits against you, how she responds to your touch like she’s been waiting for it, for you, for fucking ever.
“Fuck, yes, just like that, daddy, just like that.”
“You’re so fucking perfect, Yujin. So tight, so wet, so fucking mine.”
You slur words into her, words that make her shiver, make her tremble against you, make her so fucking happy to hear them. It’s the words that she loves, hearing you talk like that, like she’s the only one who can make you feel this way. And maybe she is.
So you keep talking, keep whispering those loving, filthy soliloquies into her ear, keep telling her how good her cunt is, how desperate you are for her body, how much cum you have to give her. And her body has an answer for you each time, each syllable a caress that sends shivers down her spine.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Yujin. So beautiful when you’re like this, when you’re all mine.” You can feel it boiling up inside you, that pressure building with every smack of your hips against her ass. “I’m going to cum so hard for you, princess.”
There’s the guitar, the bass, the keys, the band tuning up outside, noise filtering into the stall, faint but unmistakeable, the only thing missing is the beat of the drums, the only thing missing is you.
Yujin’s grinning, knowing she’s the one keeping you occupied, knowing it’s her cunt that you’re buried in, that’s not letting you go.
“If only they knew,” she’s giggling like a schoolgirl (she might as well be with those pigtails), “if only they know how good you’re fucking me right now. They won’t have a fucking clue, will they?”
“Such a fucking tease, Yujin.”
She looks over her shoulder at you, and sends a coy, “Who, me?”
“Yes, you, you little slut,” you answer, not bothering to mince your words. Your hand tightens around her choker, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to keep her right there, panting and needy and yours. “You know exactly what you’re doing out there. I see how you dance, how you move. Like you’re forcing them to picture you fucking, making them all want a taste of what they’ll never have.”
The truth makes her shiver against you. “They all wish they could do this to me, all wish they could fuck me and fill me like you are.”
There’s a tension building inside her too, the blend of your words and the reality of the performance she’s going to have to put on afterwards. It has her body tightening like a bow string, ready to snap at any moment.
And you’re going to be the one to release it.
You venture a hand downwards, gracing over her stomach, her belly button, until you reach the wetness of her pussy. There's her clit, ripe for teasing.
You fuck your cock in deeper still, matching the swirl of your finger with the pounding of her cunt, timing it just right to make her leak all over you.
“That feels so—fuck,” Yujin purrs, so, so blissful. “Only you—only you, daddy. No one else will get to have me—fuck—fuck me like this.”
“Whenever I want, any time I want,” you’re telling her, promising her, even though it’s more likely to be the opposite. That it’s Yujin that will seek you out on those lonely nights and those quiet mornings, or just whenever she’s bored and needs someone to fuck all the nerves and stress out of her system.
“They’d be so—gah—so jealous if they knew. I see it when they look at me—how much they want me,” she’s straining to say it, but needs you to hear it, needs you to know it. “I see it—read it in places they think I don’t look.”
She’s lost, lost in a sea of her own musings, thoughts of how everyone with a working pair of eyeballs wants to fuck her. Relishing in the knowledge that she's found the only person that can fuck her right, and that their cock is buried in her cunt, their fingers working her clit.
“They call me a slut, a whore, but that’s not true, is it, daddy? I only fuck you,” Yujin repeats, “I’m only a slut for you.”
There’s an edge to her voice, a raw, animalistic need that makes you want to prove her right. Want to erupt inside her so badly that she’s forced to carry a part of you inside her when she’s on stage.
“Yours to use,” Yujin taunts. “To fuck, to fill...”
Jesus.
“To break.”
Fucking.
“Maybe I should let you rip off my clothes, fuck up my hair—fuck—my makeup. Go out on stage with all the marks you’ve left on me, with all your cum—gah—all over me.”
Christ.
It hits you like a sledgehammer, adding another layer of taboo to this already fucked up situation. The thought of it is fucking wild, ridiculous to contemplate, you’re sure it’s all just part of the game, another button Yujin’s pressing for her own thrill… right?
“Then everyone would know—everyone would know that it’s you—that you’re the one that’s fucking my brains out when no one else is watching.”
You’re all over her and deep inside her, lips on her throat, her jaw, hands at her tits, her cunt. Devouring her, all of her, from those tightly binded pigtails all the way down to her carefully manicured toes.
And then she stops dancing around the subject and demands it.
But Yujin’s already twisting around at her waist, angling her body so she can seize your lips, smear her lipstick across your teeth, flood your mouth with her tongue. She’s got fistfuls of your shirt, pulling you closer, as if she’s trying to claim you, claim every inch of you as property of An Yujin.
Now that you’ve got permission, you thread your fingers into her hair, gripping tight, pulling her by the pigtails like you’ve been dying to, kissing her like your life depends on it.
You’re getting rougher with her now, tugging her head back, peeling her lips away from yours, sliding your cock out of her. You ignore the whine, ignore the tears. It’s game over for her makeup, for her hair, her outfit. She’s a beautiful, chaotic mess—so shamelessly yours, so perfect in every way.
The separation barely lasts a second, you’re lifting her up, turning her and depositing her atop the toilet seat, spreading her legs wide, putting her on display.
This is the real show—Yujin looking up at you, eyes dark with need, tits out and heaving with every breath; thick, toned thighs glistening with her juices, your precum; and her pussy, all puffy and so ready to be filled again.
“Daddy—” Yujin starts, and ends, as you’re inside her again. Inside her tight, welcoming cunt, her back arching off the cold porcelain, her legs wrapping around you, ankles crossing and locking in place.
Just one hard thrust and you see it—it's in the watering of her eyes, the wobble of her lips.
She’s close, and you’re not far behind.
“Please.”
It’s barely a whisper, nearly lost somewhere between your haggard breaths and the sloppy wet sounds of your bodies colliding.
But you hear it, and it’s all you need.
It’s her pigtails in your hands again, strands wrapped around your fist, and you’re taking a front row seat in the spectacle that is Yujin falling apart.
“Please, fuck me.” There it is again, louder now. “Fuck my tiny little pussy, daddy. Make me yours.”
It’s every single sound out of her mouth, every folding and crumpling of her perfect features, every single drop of sweat sliding down her neck, every time she says fuck me, or break me, or over and over again—make me yours.
You want to savour this, burn this image into your mind, live off the memory of Yujin’s cunt pulsing around you, but there’s no time, no time to do anything but kiss her again; clumsy, hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses.
“Please,” she’s biting into your lip, licking into your mouth, clawing at your shoulders, “say my name.”
“Yujin,” you give it to her, offer her name like a sacrifice. “Yujin, I’m so fucking close.”
The porcelain is doing its best to bear your weight, to survive the punishment you’re hammering into Yujin’s tight, perfect body, to outlast your relentless fucking. “Cum for me daddy, cum for me.”
But it’s her, it’s Yujin that crosses that threshold first, coming apart until she’s nothing but a mess of whimpers, moans, and cries of your name. Of pleases and thank yous, until she’s just a hot, tight cunt getting used for your pleasure.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m cumming—daddy, I can’t—it’s so—”
It’s all there across her face, all in the way she’s shaking, the way her cunt is gripping you, her walls fluttering around your cock like a fucking heartbeat, tightening and releasing in endless waves that crash down on her.
“So good—you’re so good—you’re so—fuck—fuck—cum—cumming—"
Her entire body seizes, tenses all at once, and you’d be worried if you hadn’t seen it countless times before, if you didn’t know to expect her to lose all control of her limbs, to not be able to do anything but stare at you, all teary eyed and feeling so, so good.
But you keep going, hips pumping, cock driving into her, keeping her steady, helping her climb to her peak, filling her tender, creaming cunt over and over again. You want to make this last, want to keep her like this, unable to think about anything but you, unable to think about anything that isn’t your cock.
“So fucking good for me, Yujin, so good, princess.”
“God, fuck—daddy!”
It’s the praise that pushes her over, unravels her, has her mouth frozen in the shape of your name, like the idea of you is the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. That, and her nails digging into your skin, adding to the tapestry she’s already engraved on your back.
And then the silence comes, and that’s the real killer.
Yujin’s always loud when she gets fucked, always desperate to tell you how good it feels, needy for you to know how good you are to her. But when she cums—when she loses herself on your cock—it’s like she relinquishes all ability to articulate, to make any sound other than a whine or a gasp.
You know what she wants to say—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—know what she wants to tell you—thank you, daddy, thank you, thank you, thank you—and it’s your responsibility to see her through it, to plunge your cock deep into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt, to have her rocking and creaming all over you, again and again and again.
And then she falls apart.
So beautifully, so perfectly.
But you’re not done yet.
Your thrusts come in thick and fast, making the whole stall shudder, making your vision swim. Yujin’s still reeling, snapped back into the land of the living by the force of your fucking.
She’s leaning forward, pressing her forehead to yours, able to form whole words again, whispering something that you can’t quite catch, something sweet and needy and demanding.
“I’m all yours, daddy.”
It’s a trigger she’s been waiting to pull—the moment she says it, you let go.
There’s no holding back anymore, you’ve been fighting it for what feels like hours, trying to keep your shit together, but it’s no use. You’re going to cum, the only question is, where.
You can’t shake the image of her covered with you, painted all over her face, her chin, her neck, her chest, her perfect, perfect tits. You want it, want to see it realised, want to parade her out on that stage looking like a fuck doll—your fuck doll.
But not now, not today.
So instead, you bury yourself inside her, so, so deep. Yujin’s nodding, teasing “deeper, deeper, please,” begging you with her whole body, watching you with those eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, licking at her lips, bracing for you to fill her.
It’s your turn to shake, your turn to let go of that knot in your gut that’s been twisting ever since she dragged you into the bathroom, pushed you into the toilet stall and told you she needed this.
You throb, tighten, the base of your spine tingles, and that’s all the warning you get before you’re cumming, rushing Yujin’s greedy cunt with your hot, sticky load.
“Daddy, daddy—daddy—yes!”
It’s an addiction now, she needs your cum like she needs oxygen, and you need to fill her as if you’ll die if you go another day without pounding her cunt.
“So good, so fucking good inside me—all yours, all yours—"
It’s a thousand blissful little moments stacked on top of each other, her clenching, you throbbing, her grinning, you grimacing, but it all comes together in this heated space that leaves you both boneless, breathless catastrophes.
Yujin’s the first to come down, slumping against you, drooling down your chest, staining your shirt with a sheen of her saliva. Her legs go slack around you, finally letting go of your waist, still shaking in the aftershocks of her orgasm. You can feel your cum leaking from the corners of her cunt, oozing down the inside of her thighs, sliding past her knee, down to her ankles.
A finger under your chin to tilt your head to her, to kiss you. One of those quiet, intimate kisses that will have you spending the night trying to decode its meaning. But, for now, there’s just the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her lip gloss.
“Thank you, daddy,” Yujin says, so sweetly, so sincerely, and it’s like a knife twisting in your chest.
“Always.”
And slowly, carefully, you’re pulling out of her, even though she’s still clenching, still trying to keep you in. Your cock exits her with an audible slosh, and you need to brace yourself against the stall door, lean into it hard as you take in the sight of Yujin, sprawled on the toilet seat, well fucked and utterly ruined in all the best ways.
She reads your mind, “You really made a fucking mess of me.”
“I only claim fifty percent of that responsibility.”
Yujin pouts, makes sure you’re watching her, and dips her fingers into her defiled cunt. “This is all you, daddy.”
She drags out her digits, holding them up for you, your cum glistening on them like a prize. And then she’s slipping them between her lips, flicking out her tongue to catch a drop that dribbles down her wrist. She licks it all up, slow, savouring it, making sure you’re watching, making sure your eyes are glued to her as she devours the last traces of you from her hand.
That sound she makes, that little “Mmm” of satisfaction has you feeling heady, makes your cock twitch, eager to be back inside her, to fill her right back up so you can watch her do it all over again.
“Cumslut,” is the only word you have her for her, as she slides her fingers in deeper, tickling the back of her own throat like it's the most natural thing to do. Her cheeks hollow out, and after a long, dramatic suck, she pulls her fingers from her lips with a wet pop, all shiny and clean.
She corrects you. “Your cumslut.”
And then a switch is flipped, and she’s putting herself back together.
Yujin’s graceful, at odds with the confines of the cramped bathroom stall she’s just been fucked in. It amazes you every time, the way that she moves. All liquid and soft, as if she’s not really touching anything, as if she’s floating.
She licks droplets of cum off her lips, scoops the remainder up her legs, her thighs, and you’re just staring, gawking at her with something akin to awe, because she’s just so fucking beautiful, so utterly composed, so untouchable.
You help her, you try, help her tug down her shirt, pull up her panties, her shorts, help her slip back into the role of Yujin, the perfect idol, the star that can’t be tarnished by something as dirty as a quickie on top of a toilet seat.
She nods towards the stall door, and you let her past you, help hold her steady as you lead her to the bathroom mirror, give her a chance to assess the damage you've wrought on her. The smudged lipstick, the kiss bruises, the hair sticking to her neck—all evidence of you.
And yet, she smiles, looking back at you over her shoulder. Like she’s got it all under control, like you haven’t ruined her, not really. Not yet.
“Well, that’s something,” she says, her voice a little too breathless for the breeziness she’s aiming for.
But then she’s got her compact out, the tiny bag she's had hidden in her back pocket specifically for occasions like this. You stand back, giving her space to work her magic. Cheeks are patted for colour, lips glossed for plumpness, eyes relined with that dangerously smoky look that makes them pop.
“How do I look?” She turns, looking at you through the mirror, hand on her hip, posing.
“Like you’ve just been fucked in a toilet stall, honestly.”
That makes her laugh. “Good.”
She’s heading to the door, smoothing out her skirt, fixing her top, stopping along the way to give your forearm a quick squeeze.
There’s that look in her eyes again.
One you’ll be revisiting once the show’s over and the doors are closed.
“I’ll take off first,” she says, tying her pigtails back in place. “Wouldn’t want to make it too obvious.”
You catch her hand before she can get away, pulling her face close to you, wiping away a stray bit of cum still shining on her chin. “Good luck out there.”
And there’s that smile. That smile that’s going to make an audience of thousands fall in love with her. That’s going to make you fall in love with her, if you’re not careful. “Don’t need it,” she says, pressing her lips to yours, ruining her lip gloss all over again. “I got you, daddy.”
“So, you’re the one,” Minji says, an accusation to make you look up from your drink. “The one they warned us about.”
Firstly, you didn’t plan for this (you never do).
The night began, as always, with the best intentions. You promised your manager that you would follow his instructions to the letter: show face, smile for the cameras, and then slip out before the real party kicks in and you find yourself knee deep in scandal. Again.
And (if you were extra good) you would end the night by scrolling through the greatest hits on your contacts list, looking for a fellow insomniac needing to past the time, needing a bed to share.
A normal, everyday kind of night.
But yet, here you are now: cornered by the girl on everyone’s playlist, all fierce determination and pouty lips wrapped up in a tight black dress.
She doesn’t bother with an introduction—no, that would be silly—instead she just stands there, looking pretty, expecting your full attention.
You quirk an eyebrow. “I require a warning?”
There’s a smile there, just a hint, playing at the edges of Minji’s mouth, like she’s in on a secret that you’re not privy to. “Beware of male seniors. Specifically,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, raising her hand, peeling one finger off the drink she’s holding so she can point a single glossy nail at “you.”
“Hm,” is all you have to say, playing coy, like this is all news to you. Like you’re not aware of your own reputation, of the things you’ve been accused of, the things your company has scrambled to cover-up, the things you’ve actually done.
“So,” she says, so carefree, so easily charming. It’s all an act, of course, a meticulously curated ‘cool girl’ image, something well-rehearsed and played a thousand times before on a thousand lesser men, a tightrope walk between relatable and unattainable. “Should I be worried?”
You know what she’s really asking for: an assessment. Do you find me attractive? Do I tempt you? Am I the type of girl worth risking your career over?
And so, you take her invitation and do the one thing that always gets you in trouble. You look. Look at her legs, long and toned and smooth, begging to be wrapped around your waist. Look at her thighs, creamy-white and barely covered by the hem of her dress. Look at her chest, the soft swell rising and falling with every breath, her collarbone glittering with the sweat of excitement.
Look higher—at how effortlessly perfect she looks, as if she wakes up every day looking like the ideal type of every man and woman in Korea. Oh, there’s make-up, it’s subtle but it’s there, playing up her best features: the height of her cheekbones, the almond curve of her eyes, the fullness of her lips.
She’s so undeniably, obviously gorgeous: a bombshell wrapped in the guise of a girl-next-door.
It’s no wonder she’s so fucking popular.
You give her a non-answer, “Depends what they’ve been saying about me.”
Minji takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours, her full pink lips curling around the straw as she sucks in the sugary liquid. It’s a deliberate move, so casually erotic—borderline pornographic, in fact—designed to make you want to grab her and kiss her and prove everything they’ve been saying about you right.
But she’s busy assessing you, you can tell, trying to reconcile the rumours with the reality—Can you really make a girl like her lose control? Make her beg? Make her forget about her image, her obligations, her entire life outside of your cock?
“Word gets around HYBE quick.” Minji’s eyes narrow just a smidge, she’s biting down into her bottom lip, and it has you imagining all sorts of things you’d rather she was doing with her mouth. “The girls at SM can’t stop talking about you. The guys at JYP hate your guts, so that says a lot.” She smiles at that last point, before listing off, “fuckboy, heartbreaker, group-wrecker, industry villain.”
It’s funny, hearing your dirty laundry aired out like that, and you can only shrug, give a casual smile as if to say ‘who, me?’. It’s admittedly a practiced move, one you’ve used to get out of sticky situations before (you may have even used it as an ending pose once). “Is that what they told you?” You ask, nodding in the direction behind her.
Minji follows your gaze, glancing over her shoulder, the wall of noise and flashing lights of the club framing her face, painting her skin with a rainbow of neon shadows.
There’s her bandmates, doing a terrible job of spying, a trio of worry and concern and gossip: they’ve found their little bunny, and she’s been caught speaking to the big, bad wolf.
She muses, “we’ve all heard the same rumours…”
“And so you came to… what?”
Minji takes a step closer, close enough for you to get a whiff of her drink; one of those sugary mixes, deceptively sweet, but just as strong as the one in your own hand. “To find out for myself,” she answers, “to see if you’re really as bad as everyone says, to see if it's all hype, or if there’s actually some truth to the legend.”
“Legend,” you repeat, trying the word out on your own tongue (it sounds sweeter on hers). “That sounds a bit much, don't you think?” you ask, trying to ignore the way she’s leaning forward now, letting the top of her dress dip, revealing just enough cleavage to stimulate your imagination. A simple gesture, so perfectly choreographed that you'd think it was incidental if you didn't know better, if it didn't have you picturing what it would be like to rip that dress off her, to expose her bare tits, to grab, lick, kiss, and—
She’s giggling out loud now, like she can hear every single filthy thought racing through your mind. “I think I'd like to be the judge of that.”
There’s an alarm bell going off in your pocket, the vibration of your phone buzzing with messages—who else but your manager, demanding to know why you haven't gone home like a good little idol yet, begging you to please, please not make another mess.
But you ignore it and take another sip of your drink, savouring the burn of the cold liquor down your throat, giving you a moment to consider. You’ve got Minji figured out, you think. It's nothing you haven't seen before (nothing you haven't dealt with before). The dream girl, the ‘ideal type’ who’s growing tired of maintaining a perfect image, looking to see how far she can push, how much she can get away with (how much you’ll let her get away with).
Because she’s probably never been told no in her life. Because she's used to getting what she wants with a bat of those lashes or a pout of those lips.
In a way, coming to you is safe, because if the worst were to happen—if you were to get caught—no one for a second would believe that one of the nation's precious daughters was the instigator.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, cutting through the din of the club like a knife, making you believe that she just might be telepathic. “You're thinking: she’s just another innocent idol playing at being naughty for just the night, but the second things get too wild, she’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘Dispatch’.”
“Because you’re not like other girls.”
“Please,” she scoffs, dismissing the idea entirely. “I always see things to the end.”
“Alright then,” you say. She’s thrown down the gauntlet, and you’re going to pick it up, if for nothing else than to see just how far she’ll go. "Shall we do this here? I'll rip off your clothes, nail you in the middle of the dancefloor in front of all our friends and peers?"
She’s grinning now, not backing down, in fact she’s moving closer, like yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. “From what I’ve heard that would be tame for you. Is it true, what you got up to at Inkigayo?”
“That was in a parking lot.”
“And at M Coundown.”
"Under the stage.”
“Music Bank?”
“The staircase, of course.”
“See,” Minji’s whispering now, close enough that you can hear her over the thumping bass of the music, her breath warm against your ear, “you are a man-whore.”
“I have a name,” you reply, dryly.
“That’s nice.” She’s touching you now, her hand sliding up your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. “Wanna hear me scream it?”
Your phone is still buzzing, and you know that you should be walking away. It would be the right thing to do: it’s far too public, she’s far too popular, and getting caught leaving hand in hand with her would be nothing short of an announcement that will hit the top of every social media platform by sunrise.
But it’s too late—it was over the second you locked eyes with her from across the dancefloor, when she caught you staring, blatant and unabashed, lingering on the way her ass bounced, mesmerised by how her hips swayed to the beat.
You just had to let her know she was wanted.
"Look," Minji says, her hands sliding higher now, fingers idly adjusting the collar of your shirt. "There's no angle here, no game. I'm not looking to get caught or land in a scandal, and I'm definitely not looking for love or a boyfriend or whatever fairy tale shit you sing about. I just want what all the other pretty idols are getting."
She's forward, no shame in saying exactly what she wants, daring you to dispute it, but all you can do is cock your head to the side, and flash a smirk of your own. "And what makes you think you're my type?"
Minji laughs, her teeth glinting in the neon lights—you both know it's a very, very idiotic question. "Please," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm everyone's type."
Another glance over her shoulder, where her bandmates have been pretending not to hover, and now there’s a new face in the mix: Yunjin. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her arms folded, and her jaw is clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding from here. Unlike the other three, she’s not playing the concerned friend card; she’s the pissed off mother bear, ready to pull Minji away from the walking, talking red flag.
And so adds to your stellar reputation.
Minji notices your eyes flicker in that direction, and looking back at the group with amusement, she takes it as the cue she's been waiting for. "We better get out of here before they take your head off."
It's inevitable, really, this is how it always ends up: the sweet, innocent idol lured into the jaws of the industry monster. But you can’t help it, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she wants to be eaten alive.
You know the score, you’ve danced this dance before, and you’ve got a role to play. The only thing left to do is to take her hand and lead her out of the chaos—through the throngs of familiar faces, not giving them a chance to register what you're doing, or who you're with, or what's about to occur, again.
Not like anyone could stop it now, anyway.
"So, this is how it happens," you hear Minji murmur as you lead her out of the club, through a hidden metal door, and into the cold, night air.
-
Minji tastes like gin and lime cordial, her lips sticky and sweet against yours, her arms around your neck, her back pressed up against the back-alley wall. There’s something in the way she’s kissing you—giggling between breaths—like she can’t believe this is happening, like she’s getting away with the crime of the century.
Her hands are in your hair now, tugging gently, the cool metal of her rings pressing into your scalp, begging you to kiss her harder, to burn the memory of your lips onto hers. Your tongues meet in a dance that’s more battle than ballet, and she’s matching you move for move, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip, her nails scraping down your neck.
She’s eager, she’s pressing her chest against yours, making you feel just how hot she is. But yet, there’s still that annoying voice in your head, the last shreds of your conscience, telling you to give her that final out, to let her walk away with her dignity intact, go back to her members and tell them she just had to get some fresh air.
So, you pull back, tearing your mouth away from hers, giving her room to gasp for air, to let the world come back into focus, and you ask her, loud and clear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Minji’s panting, breaths coming in short gasps, little puffs of steam out into the winter air, and she smiles. It’s a wicked little grin, equal parts surprised and thrilled, like you’ve just passed some kind of test she didn’t think you knew existed. “Are you asking for my consent?”
You balk at that. Your reputation can't be that bad. “Is it so unbelievable that I'd ask?” Even though you already know, deep down, she’s not going anywhere, there’s a power in hearing her say it. Saying that she wants you, specifically, to ruin her.
“No, it’s just…” Minji starts, eyes big and dark. The gears are turning in her head, trying to figure out how to play this, before ultimately landing on the word, “nice.”
She pulls you back towards her, needing to kiss you again. Soft, pillowy lips meeting your mouth in a kiss that’s so inappropriately sweet, like she’s sealing a deal with sugar rather than ink.
“Yeah,” she whispers, steady, sure. “I want to do this. More than anything.” Minji tilts her head back, exposing the column of her throat, inviting you to kiss it, to suck, to bite. “I want you."
You don’t need any more convincing than that. Put your hands on her body, run them over the swell of her tits, her curves, her hips, the dip of her waist. Let her lean into your touch, needing to feel more of you, wanting you to explore her.
And you do, do it all, greedily, feeling her breath hitch when you graze her nipples through the fabric, feel her hips jerk when you trace the line of her panties.
“Are we going to—gah—go back to your place?” Minji tries to ask, her question punctuated by a moan as your fingertips dance over the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the hem of her dress whispering against your skin.
You’ve already made your decision—you're not taking her home, you're not taking her anywhere with a bed, or even a chair. You're going to have her right here, right now. There’s no need to answer her, just let her work it out for herself when her back meets the wall and your thumb finds the slick, wet heat between her legs.
“Here?” She gasps, turning to look down the darkened end of the alleyway, at the distant streetlights, at the crowds of people oblivious to what’s about to happen beneath the shadows.
“It’s not the dancefloor, but it’ll have to do,” you shrug, busy pressing your lips against her cheek, travelling up to her jaw, her earlobe.
“B-but, what if—” Minji stammers, but you’re busy toying with the lace of her panties, nothing more than a mere formality at this point, only existing to get wetter, to be unavoidably ruined by you.
“What if someone finds us?” You finish her question, nibbling at her ear. “Then we’ll just have to make sure we leave them something to talk about, won’t we?”
She’s shivering at the thought of it—the headlines, the comments, the whispered scandals that will follow you both for weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. But you can feel her resolve hardening, her spine straightening, her body arching towards yours, and she replies, “Then don’t hold back.”
The challenge is clear: she’s embracing the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of potential disaster, the heady feeling of need overshadowing the fear of getting caught.
You don’t disappoint. Your fingers slip under the soaked lace, and she’s sensitive, so, so sensitive. She’s staining your fingers, needing only the smallest amount of pressure to garner a reaction. You tease her, drag your finger across her tender folds, dare to skim over her clit, torture her with anticipation.
Whatever concerns she has evaporates as you kiss down to her collarbone—you’re going to leave a mark—and she’s already asking for more, “Please.”
She’s whining, parting her legs, desperate for you to do more than just touch her, needing you to rip through her panties and take her.
“You're right—I don’t care,” she sighs into the wind, handing her fate over to you. “I need you. Now.”
That's all you need to hear, everything you've ever wanted to hear someone as seemingly untouchable as Minji say to you. You pull down her panties, needing an extra tug as her slickness sticks them to her thighs—she’s so fucking wet for you—and you draw a circle around her entrance with your finger.
“Right there,” she cries. She’s much more honest when she’s desperate—gone is the posturing, the taunting, the act—she’s just a girl who needs to feel something real. So, you give it to her—push your finger inside, gliding in smoothly, a perfect fit around your digit.
Only knuckle deep but she’s already got you like a vice, squeezing around your finger like she’s trying to keep it captive—so wet, so tight, so fucking good. Her nails dig into your shoulders as you push in another finger, stretching her just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her fulfill her promise to cry out your name, “Fuck—!”
Her pulse is racing like a runaway train, hammering against your lips—you’re pushing both fingers all the way inside her now, sawing them in and out of her, making her groan, making her repeat your name over and over again.
You’re in her ear, “you’ve got to be quiet, Minji.”
But she’s not having it. “Make me,” she laughs, daring you, another challenge she’s putting down.
You kiss her hard, replacing the laughter in her mouth with your tongue, muffling her cries as you fuck her with your hand, you’re going to ruin her now. You curl your fingers up to hit that spot that makes her toes curl in her sky-high heels, making her gasp, her head thunking back against the wall.
She’s trying, she really is, to keep it in, but she still needs you to keep her standing, to hold her up as your fingers delve deeper; to keep her from melting into a puddle all over your hand.
Still, you’re relentless, feeling her out, learning her rhythm, her reactions, the spots that make her sigh and fall apart. You know you’ve found it when her breaths turn harsh and ragged, and she’s rolling her hips against your hand, and there’s that noise—the sweet, slick sound of her pussy swallowing your fingers whole—and she’s whining into your mouth, “This feels so—”
“Hot,” you finish for her, watching as her cheeks flush a delicious shade of pink, her pupils blown wide, those angelic features of hers contorting with every thrust of your fingers. “You’re so fucking hot, Minji.”
And she is, she’s hot, she’s so hot around you, against you, her hips bucking at the praise, and she whimpers, your name a staccato prayer on her lips. “More,” she demands, but she’s tripping over her words—“more—please—how does it feel so—”
“I’m going to make you cum now, Minji,” you state, your voice low and sure, your fingers continuing their persistent rhythm inside her. She nods, panting against your neck. “And after that, I’m going to fuck you and make you cum all over again. Until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget every other name but mine. Do you understand?”
Her eyes flutter closed, and she nods again, a whine escaping her throat, and she’s biting her lip so hard it’s going to bruise—another mark she won’t be able to explain tomorrow.
You lean in closer, whispering, “Good girl.”
You’re finger-fucking her in earnest now, her body moving in sync with your hand, the alleyway walls echoing with the slap of skin and the wet sounds of your digits plunging into her, your knuckles smacking against her clit. She’s trying to keep it together, trying not to scream out loud, her eyes squeezed shut tight as if that could hold back the orgasm that’s barrelling down on her.
Her breaths are coming out in little pants, and you know she’s close, so close, she’s nearly crying. “Just your fingers—fuck—it’s just your fingers,” she’s repeating it in disbelief, like it shouldn’t feel this good, not yet, like she needs the mantra to keep herself grounded as your hand lights up every nerve in her body.
She’s there, right on the edge, only needing that extra push, that pressure in just the right place, just waiting for your word to send her spiralling over. “Cum for me now, Minji.”
And that’s all it takes.
You hold her steady, fuck her hard with your fingers, rub at her clit, and she’s clenching down, all tiny shakes and choked gasps, her eyes snapping open and then squeezing shut as she reaches the precipice.
"God—fuck—I can't—"
It hits her hard and fast and all at once—her whole body seizing around your hand, her cunt tightening, hips thrusting forward, needing more friction. Her mouth opens wide, but you trap her lips before she can make a sound, kissing her, tasting her, feeling the tremors of her orgasm travel from her core to the tips of your fingers.
Her hands are all over you, nails digging into your shoulders, there's danger of drawing blood. But she clutches you closer, her tongue dancing with yours as if her life depends on it. You keep going, not letting up until she’s fully made her way past the tide, and it’s a sight to behold—Minji coming apart against a dirty alley wall, the architecture of her legs threatening to come crumbling down.
When she does finally go still, when her breathing starts to even out, you break the kiss. Pull away to look into her eyes, searching for the any signs of regret or embarrassment that often follow.
But there’s something else entirely. Awe. Excitement. Like she’s just experienced something she never knew existed.
“You okay?” You murmur, the question more of a formality than anything, because she looks absolutely anything but okay. She looks fucking amazing, a breathless, boneless mess against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly with every inhale.
Her eyes are still glazed over, wide and dark, mouth slack and swollen from your kisses. Trying to process what just happened, the reality of it all. But still too lost in the aftermath of her orgasm to form coherent thoughts.
“Yeah,” she takes a breath. Nods, shakily. “I’m—yeah, I’m good.”
Pull back your hand, giving her pussy one last gentle squeeze; trying your best to ignore the whine, the high-pitched noise that makes you twitch.
She’s flushed, hair a disaster, lipstick smudged, dress in ruins around her waist, panties around her ankles. And she's looking at you now, and it's worship. Like you’re a secret that she’s just discovered; a secret she's desperate to keep to herself. “I fucking knew it,” she says. “The rumours were true.”
You smirk, wiping the slick off your hand on the side of your pants. Enjoying seeing her struggle to stand straight. “Ready for round two?”
Her gaze flicks downwards, to the bulge in your pants. She nods, swallows hard. “Yeah, I—fuck yes.”
There’s no hesitation now, no pretending she doesn’t know what she’s signed up for. She’s all in, and you want her, here, now, because that’s what you do—you take what you want.
Another kiss, deep and greedy. One hand posted on the wall behind her head, the other gripping her tight. Keeping her in place as you grind against her, letting her feel just how hard she's made you, make her feel everything you've got for her.
“Please, don’t stop,” she pleads, but it's unnecessary—you can’t.
Not now. Not when you're busy tugging down on her dress, leaving it to pool around her ankles. Fuck, she’s a vision, standing in the cold, stark alley in just her heels and her underwear—and there’s her tits, perky and perfect, begging to be touched.
Don’t even bother with the bra, just yank it down, the straps snapping and the fabric falling away to reveal her nipples—pink and stiff and so fucking tempting. You can’t help yourself, they’re practically calling for you to taste them, so you draw one into your mouth, feeling her gasp against your ear, her hand sliding into your hair, holding you against her chest.
Her skin is hot against your tongue, and you suck, and bite, and lick. Not stopping until she’s whimpering, until she’s pushing herself into your lips. You just can't help yourself, can't stop your hands from running down her stomach, tracing the lines of her abs, feeling them flex with every breath she takes. So fucking tight, so toned—it’s like you’re touching a sculpture, or a personal playground made just for you.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers, “so good, so, so good, how does it feel—?”
Her words cut off as your teeth graze her nipple—she’s so reactive to every touch, and it has you wondering—has she ever been touched like this before? Has her body every truly been explored like this, pushed to these heights?
“You want more?” You murmur into her chest, your fingers returning to her wet folds, your thumb reintroducing itself to her clit.
“Your cock,” she says, sucking a harsh breath through her teeth. “I want it, I need it—please—I’m ready for it.” It’s that word—please—how it rolls off her tongue, the desperation in it, how it makes her sound so needy.
You break away. Step back. “Then take it.”
Minji doesn’t miss the opportunity. Hands gentle but determined, fingers at your belt, fumbling with the buckle, loosening the zipper. She’s hungry for it, for this moment of truth, to verify for herself—what’s been talked about in whispers and rumours, what’s been taunting her all evening.
Your pants hit the ground, and she’s staring at your cock with wide eyes, and for a second you can almost see the doubt creeping in. But she swallows it down, and with a soft grip, wraps her small hand around you, stroking you from base to tip.
“So this is it,” she says, taking the full measure of your length, her thumb smearing the pre-cum over your head. “This is the cock that ruins idols. They said it splits women in half.”
You chuckle, but she’s completely ignoring you, well, ignoring all parts of you that isn’t your cock. Her hand is tentative at first, working its way up and down, feeling you grow harder by the second in her palm. You can feel her wonder, her excitement, a hunger matched only by the ache in your cock.
It's the way she’s not saying anything, just touching, feeling. It's intimate, just the two of you, the sound of her breaths, your heart beating in your ears, the distant thump of the world you left behind.
She’s gaining confidence now, each stroke more deliberate; a smug smile gracing her lips as she watches how you react to her touch. You bite back a groan, not wanting to give away how much she’s getting to you, but fuck, she’s getting good at this. She’s clearly learning on the job, eyes keen to see just how you like it—how fast, how tight—how to make you fall apart in her hands.
It’s time to reign her in, you’re heading into deeper waters now. You grasp her wrist, stopping her, ignoring her pouts and whines. “Not yet,” you say, “I’m going to split you in half with my cock now.”
That makes her grin. She does this thing, this cute little twirl, spinning around on her heels to face the wall, and posting herself up against it. Her legs spread wide, giving you a perfect view of her splayed pussy, glistening under the dim neon light. She’s got her hands above her head—she’s putting herself on display for you, like your own private Mona Lisa.
A look back at you and she catches you gawking—eyes glued to her ass, her pussy—and she winks. “Are you just going to stare, or do I have to make you fuck me?” She says it so casually, like she’s back at the bar ordering another drink. “Hurry up, please. I need it. Inside me. Now."
No more waiting, no further invitations needed—there’s teasing, and then there’s both of you craving it, dying for this.
You’re behind her in an instant, pressing her into the wall, her cheek against the cold brick, her juicy ass up in the air. You guide your cock to her entrance, the head nudging against her—she’s soaked, pussy drooling on your tip—and she gasps, looking back at you with those doe eyes, all wide and innocent—like she hasn’t been begging for this since the moment she looked in your direction.
“Fuck Minji, you're so fucking wet for me,” you say, running your cock down her slit, coating it in her juices, “so needy for me, aren’t you?
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice strained, like every moment without your cock inside her is torture. “I want it all. Every fucking inch.”
The first push is a slide into heaven—she’s tight, so fucking tight, so, so wet, like she’s never had anyone else—like she’s been waiting just for you. She’s teary, gasping, and you feel her body tense, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dare ask you to stop. Instead, she arches her back, pushing herself back onto you, urging you deeper.
“God,” she’s chanting now, feeling inch after inch sliding into her, “it’s so—it’s already making me so—”
It’s slow, deep, fucking, stretching seconds into an eternity, stretching her pussy out with your girth, stretching her to fit you, to keep you, to never let you leave. It’s careful, almost tender at first—let her set the pace, let her show you how much she can take.
She’s moaning, low and guttural, and you wrap one hand around her waist to hold her steady as you thrust into her, let her get comfortable with your size, make her tits bounce with every pump, make her legs shake beneath her. And then there’s that lip bite again—she’s trying to keep quiet, but little moans are escaping her, getting lost in the night.
You ease out, then push back in, setting a steady rhythm that’s got her rocking back onto you. Minji seems like a delicate little thing, but there's a strength to her, a suppleness—she’s meeting you thrust for thrust, her pussy like pure velvet around your cock, gripping you tight, trying to milk you.
Hand finds her chin, tilting her head back so you can kiss her again—long, deep, tongue-filled kisses that make her whine and buck against you. She’s slowly, but surely adjusting to you now, her body learning the rhythm of your cock, getting used to being so completely filled.
It's in the way she's moaning into your mouth, like she's never been fucked like this before, never had someone so big, never had a cock so demanding of her tight little cunt. But she's so eager for it, her pussy so warm and welcoming, swallowing you up with every thrust.
It’s not normally like this—you’re not normally like this—but something has you asking between kisses, “You okay?”
She laughs, pushing herself back against you, pushing her cunt down on you, taking you deeper, burying your cock to the hilt. “I’m not going to break, I promise,” she says, looking over her shoulder, needing this. “I need you to fuck me—no holding back—I can take it all—everything you’ve ever given anyone else, all those other girls. I can handle it.”
“Show me.”
It’s throwing gasoline on a fire—she's asking for it, burning for it. You fuck her like you mean it—pull out all the way, force it all the way back in, hard, deep, rough. A shriek and she's wailing now, true to her word she’s taking it, taking it all, utterly lost in each perfect push into her cunt. She’s so beautiful like this, so open and raw—gone is the perfect idol, she’s just another girl getting fucked in an alley by some guy she just met.
Both hands are gripping into her hips, holding her in place, holding her upright, feeling her walls clench and release around you. Marks are going to be left there too, your fingerprints on her skin, bruises that she’ll have to hide with makeup tomorrow.
“So good—so fucking good—just—“ Minji can barely make out full sentences, let alone words as you fuck her, as you own her. “Harder! Fuck! Rougher!"
It’s like a drug, this power, watching her come apart for you, knowing you’re the one making her feel this way, knowing she’ll let you do whatever you want, whatever you need as long as it makes her come apart. And you’re feeding off of it, her words pushing you closer to the edge, letting her need for you drive you, unlock that primal part of your brain. Fucking her like this, so filthy and wrong and everything you love about this life.
You pick up the pace, driving your hips forward—"harder—fuck—harder"—until she’s shaking, her legs giving out, and the only thing keeping her on her feet is your cock and your arms.
“Fuck—I know what they said but—fuck! Is this what they all felt?” She gasps out, “is this how it always feels?”
Your lips on her neck, her hair sticking to your face, the scent of her perfume, of her, intoxicating. “It doesn’t always feel like this,” you answer, you grunt. “But you do. You feel so fucking good, Minji. So fucking perfect for me.”
“You're so big,” she says, her voice trembling, “I feel so—fuck—full.”
It’s not just the way she’s clenching around you, how she’s now able to take every inch of you like she’s been fucking you her whole life—it’s how she says your name, like you’re the only one that could ever make you feel this way, like you’re the one who ever will.
You grab her tits, squeezing them, seizing them, pinching and twisting her nipples between your fingers. All it does is make her beg, “fuck—I love it—how rough you are—” needing more of everything you have, “your hands—your cock—please don’t stop, don’t ever stop—I can take it please—rougher please—fuck!”
Something cracks inside you, and your hand comes down on her ass, the sound bouncing off the walls like a gunshot. Minji jolts, yelps, but the noise is quickly swallowed by a moan, a squeezing of her cunt around you.
“Fuck that felt—”
You do it again, and again, each slap a little harder, a little more punishing, the sting making her flesh jiggle deliciously with every impact. She doesn’t retreat, she’s slamming her ass back down on you, slapping her cheeks against your waist, needing to feel more.
“Gah—fuck—harder!”
She can’t help herself, minutes ago she could barely handle your size, now she can’t hold back from crying out for more pain, more excruciating pleasure.
Each smack, each groan, each breath that’s ripped from her lungs is a declaration of your power, of her need. And you revel in it, your hand coming down on her ass, leaving a trail of red marks against her creamy-white skin.
“More, please, more,” she calls for it, calls for the sting, the heat, her pussy clamping down on you, walls pulsing with every hit, her body needing the release that’s building up, inevitable and intense.
Her ass is nothing but a canvas painted by the strokes of your hand and the relentless pounding of your cock, and you can’t help but admire your handiwork, you're struggling to suppress the urge to lean down and kiss each spot you’ve marked.
“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” you say, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear.
“I know,” she answers, her voice a whine, a plea, a moan. “But this is what I wanted—to feel—to remember this—this moment—getting fucked like you own me—because you do—so don’t hold back—don’t ever hold back.”
You’re both sweaty, panting—you can feel her orgasm building, like a storm in the distance, thunder rumbling closer and closer until it's right above you, ready to break. And there’s your own, too, that delicious pressure at the base of your spine, the promise of release, coming at you just as quick.
But you’re not going to let her get there—not yet—not when you’ve got her like this, pliant and open and so in need. You lean forward, your chest pressing against her back, and slide your hand down, reaching around to find her clit.
It’s slick and stiff and wanting, and Minji screams—a high, keening sound that you want to hear again and again. You’re playing with it, swiping it with your thumb in tight circles, feeling her clench around you with every pass.
“I’m almost—God that feels so good—I’m almost!”
But you stop, pull out of her, abruptly, making her cry out, making her turn around, a mess of emotions on her face—desire, confusion, awe.
“What are you—” Minji tries to ask, but you’re spinning her around and pressing her back against the wall. Her leg comes up, wrapping around your waist, but you take it and lift it higher, testing the extent of her flexibility, throwing it over your shoulder.
She’s right on that edge, you can see it—her pupils dilate, her mouth opens in a silent scream, her body tenses, her cunt melting around you. But you weren't going to let her cum like that, not without watching her face, not without seeing the moment she cracks and shatters.
Now you’re face to face, chest to chest, her eyes needing yours to anchor herself to, needing to know what you’re going to do to her. No time for breaks—in one, deep thrust you're all the way back inside her, making her scream with the suddenness of it, the shock, the bliss of being so perfectly filled.
She groans, weeps with each pump into her, and she’s smiling through it all. “So—” she asks, struggling to form intelligible sentences. “How do I—fuck—how do I—mmmph—compare to the others?”
You grunt, barely registering the question, your mind clouded by the spasms of her cunt around you. “What others?”
“The other girls—God—the other idols,” she says, strained. “The ones you’ve fucked before—the ones you’ve ruined—how do I—aah—compare?”
You kiss her again, a bruising, punishing kiss that steals the question from her lips. You don’t need to answer that. You’re showing her. You’re fucking showing her how she compares, how she’s the best, the tightest, the wettest, the most eager. You’re showing her how she’s going to be the one they whisper about in the halls of HYBE and beyond, she'll become the story that will be told as a warning, about the sweet, innocent idol ruined in a dirty alleyway.
Your world is spinning around you now—there’s your hand on her throat, a gentle squeeze, just enough to make her eyes water, to make her breath catch. But she’s not scared, not with the way she’s grinning, not with how she’s grinding her hips to meet yours.
“Fuck—make me scream—” It’s a plea, a demand, she’s so stunning, so tortured in her need for it, “do whatever you want to me, whatever you need—just—make me cum harder—God please—harder than any of them ever did.”
Any care you had for getting caught, about the consequences of what you're doing—where you're doing it—dissipates into the ether. Nothing exists outside of the race to her orgasm, outside of your hips recklessly pounding into her, reducing her to moans and shakes and trembles.
“Cum for me,” you growl, “right here, right now, Minji—cum for me again—show me that you’re mine.”
“I was made for you,” she says, and it’s not just the heat of the moment talking, it’s something else, something deeper. She’s not just saying it to get off, she’s saying it like it’s a revelation, like she’s been waiting for you, for this exact moment.
“Prove it.”
It hits her like a fucking truck, and Minji’s screaming, filth belted from her mouth and into the night, her pussy quaking around your cock, her whole body entering into seizure. You keep going, riding out her orgasm, feeling her cum on your cock, feeling her body go rigid, her muscles tense, it’s those abs, so tight, it’s those absurdly strong contractions that have you falling after her.
“God—fuck, I—can’t believe—can’t believe—”
You’re fucking her through it, not giving her a moment’s reprieve, not letting her come down from that high, because you’re not ready for this to end, not when she’s so helpless. You hold her tight through it, let her shake, rattle against you, let her nails dig into your arms, let her cum drench you.
“Fuuuuuuck!”
It’s too much for her to take, and once the storm has finally subsided, Minji is just a ragdoll in your arms. Her legs are limp, held up by your grip alone, still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her makeup is ruined, a mix of sweat and your kisses, leaving dark streaks on her cheeks. Her hair, plastered to her forehead, her eyes half-closed, and there’s her body—marks of your teeth on her chest, her breasts, the bruises of your fingers around her hips, the mottled red of her ass, a map of your dominance painted on her perfect skin.
It’s not just the physical marks you’ve left on her; it’s the way she’s looking at you now, awe, desperation, realisation that it’s all true, every rumour, everything they’ve said about you—and she’s the latest filthy chapter in your story.
But you’re not done yet, you haven’t finished. You’re pulling out, and she’s whining, making your cock throb with her pleas. You guide her to the floor, to her knees, her dress puddled around her, the cold concrete biting into her skin.
Standing over her, looking down at your prize. “Open your mouth,” you tell her. She does; without hesitation, without question.
Grab your cock, still slick with her, and stroke yourself, watching her tongue dart out to lick her lips, seeing the anticipation build in her eyes.
It’s the sweetest, most erotic sight you’ve ever seen—Minji, the girl that's everyone's type, the girl who could have anything she wants, anyone, on her knees for you—tongue out, mouth wide open, waiting eagerly for your cum.
And then you do it—you let go, shooting ropes of hot cum, painting her face, letting it dribble down onto her chin, onto her chest, onto her toned stomach, covering her until she’s a sticky mess of lust and desire. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—she loves the feeling of it, shivering as your hot cum hits her skin.
She holds position through it all—knees on the ground, eyes closed, a serene smile as if she’s just been blessed. And when you're done, when your cock is finally spent, she looks up at you with a grin that's pure sin.
Minji takes a finger, dips it into the mess on her chin, and tastes you. It's a bold move, it’s messy, it’s wrong, it’s perfect. There’s the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, the knowledge that she's made you do something so raw, that she made you lose all control.
For a second there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the come down from your euphoric high. Minji can barely speak, still shaky, voice in tatters. “That was—” she pauses, fumbling for the right word. “—incredible. Fuck!”
There's a rush of arrogance doing unhealthy things for your ego. “So, do I live up to the legend?”
Minji wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smears your cum across her cheek. Tries to lick it off, but decides to just leave it there. “More than I could have ever imagined. You’re not just a man-whore, you’re a fucking artist.”
You laugh at that, as you tuck yourself back in, smoothing down your shirt, trying to compose yourself, pretending like her words don’t mean anything to you, like you don’t take pride in the validation of every girl you fuck.
“How do I rank?” she asks, the question coming out of nowhere, and you blink down at her, your brain trying to catch up. “I mean, out of all the idols you’ve fucked?”
“Rank?” you repeat. "I don't keep a list, that would be..." You trail off, realising what you're about to say, and now it’s her turn to laugh.
“Crass?” she supplies. “I know, but I’m just curious.”
“You’re fucking fantastic, that’s for sure,” you reassure her, letting her bask in that compliment. “Why—do you keep a list?”
Her smile falters for a moment, but then she’s grinning again, looking even more wicked with the cum pasted across her face, and it makes you want to bend her over and fuck her all over again. “Of course I do. And you’ll be happy to know that you’re number one.”
“That’s good to know.”
But then she says, “Of one.”
And you freeze. The air around you turns to ice, and she’s looking up at you, and the world's getting smaller, and you realise what she’s saying. What she’s just admitted to you. The innocence she's lost, and she’s looking at you like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened.
“You were…” you start, but she cuts you off.
“Don’t,” she says, voice firm. “Don’t make this something it’s not. I wanted this, and I wanted it to be with you. I told you: I can handle it all.”
But that doesn’t stop your mind from racing, trying to process, put all the pieces together. You had your suspicions—she was so tight, so new, so untouched—and now she’s yours, in a way that no one else can claim. You wiped away her virginity, and she’s not running, not crying, not regretful.
The weight of it settles in your stomach. It's a strange cocktail—equal parts pride, guilt. You’ve ruined her, in the best way possible. You’ve claimed something precious and pure, and she’s given it to you willingly, eagerly.
“Fuck, Minji,” you try, but fail to come up with anything of substance. “If you had told me, I would’ve—”
“You would’ve what? I lost my virginity by having filthy, mind-blowing sex in a dark alley with the best cock in all of Korea,” she says, pridefully, with her entire chest, fully believing every word she's saying. “Can you really tell me your story was any better? I bet whoever it was with didn’t scream like I did. Or cum so hard she couldn’t see straight.”
You cast your mind back to the past, and you have to concede the point. “I see what you mean. But still—” You feel like you should say something. But. It’s not like you can apologise, fuck she looks like she wants to thank you so badly. “How does it feel?”
“A-ma-zing,” she draws out, rising to her feet. “Everything I’ve ever heard about, multiplied by a million. You might’ve ruined sex for me completely.”
You watch as she puts herself back together, sliding her panties back on, tugging her dress over her head and down her hips. She’s smoothing her hair back, trying to fix the mess you’ve made of her; wiping at the cum on her chin, her cheek, trying to erase the evidence of your encounter, trying to put the mask of the sweet, innocent idol back on.
But you know better. You know what’s hiding beneath that polished exterior.
“Come home with me,” you find yourself saying before you can think better of it.
Minji turns to you, eyes alight, fire in her veins, and you can feel the challenge coming. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “You want to cuddle and fall asleep together? Wake up, have breakfast in bed?”
“Yeah,” you nod, honestly. “After I’ve fucked you senseless again, of course. But yeah, come home with me.”
“That would be nice,” Minji says, a soft smile on her face. It's surreal, this moment, so at odds with the grimy alleyway and the smell of sex sticking to her skin. She looks so pure now, in complete contrast to how roughly you were fucking her just moments ago. Her innocence wasn’t lost, it was just painted with a fresh coat of your sin. “But—you know I can’t. They’re waiting.”
“Worth a shot,” you shrug, not bothering to hide your disappointment.
And then she produces your phone, holding it out to you. “You need to be more careful with your things.”
“When did you—”
“Now you’ve got my number,” she says. “You’re welcome to do whatever it is you want with it. But I’m hoping you use it.”
You take it out of her hands, swiping away the string of missed calls and messages, the digital proof of how much trouble you’re going to be in come morning. But for now, it’s irrelevant. For now, there’s only Minji, and the way she’s standing there, looking up at you, smiling like she’s just stepped off the stage.
“You’re going to go back to them?” you ask, gesturing towards the club entrance, to where the rest of her group are probably still gossiping, plotting your downfall.
“Of course,” Minji says. “They’re my friends. They care about me. They’ll want to make sure I’m okay.”
“And when they find out what we just did?”
“Oh, they’re going to want to kill you,” she answers. You’ve had enough of these types of conversations to know she’s not joking. “Except Dani, maybe. She’ll probably want a shot at you too. If I let her.”
"Noted," you say, trying to keep the image of Danielle, splayed against the wall like Minji before her, out of your head. "What exactly are you going to tell them?"
Minji pauses, thinking, before landing on a succinct summary. "I’ll just tell them that you fucked my brains out and then ditched me in an alley.”
You sigh, “sounds brutal.”
“Well, it is what it is,” Minji says, and she’s pressing a kiss to your cheek, her lips still sticky with the residue of your cum, the last traces of what's just happened.
You watch her go, watch as she turns away, walking back towards the club, a little stumble, a little trouble keeping steady. You should be feeling guilty, you should be regretting this, but all you can think is how good it felt, how right it felt. And you know you’ll do it again—you know it deep in your bones.
Minji turns back to you, catching your eye, catching you staring again, and she smiles. “You better go now. You do have a reputation to maintain, after all.”
Yeji’s well and truly pissed—rightfully so, mind you (you really fucked up this time), and for the first time ever there may really be no clever quip or line that can get you out of this one.
But of course, that won’t stop you from trying.
“Look around! This isn’t a fucking joke!”
She’s glaring at you, the kind of furious that could melt steel with her gaze alone, eyes narrowed into sharp slits that slice through your bullshit like a hot knife.
And so, you blink first, balking under Yeji’s glare, and decide to take her advice and look away, look around at your surroundings—at the many, many reasons Yeji is justifiably upset.
For one, there’s your current location—a hospital room, not a good look. Then, there’s the cast around your arm and bandages on your head—not the worse of injuries, but again, when you couple it with the IV snaking its way up your arm, and the morbid beeping of a heart rate monitor filling the silence, it really does not make you out to be the most intact of individuals.
Finally, there’s Yeji, her eyes verging on tears and her hands balled into fists, clutching the fabric of your hospital gown and looking like she’s ready to tear the room apart.
Add them all together: a hospital room, a handsome but seriously injured boyfriend, with his devastated girlfriend wracked with worry besides him… it doesn’t paint the best of pictures.
But yet, before you can stop yourself, another attempt at lightening the mood: “You should see the other guy.”
There it is! A crack in Yeji’s armour, a flicker of something other than righteous fury on her face—eyes widen slightly, lips part just a smidge—a ghost of a smile, perhaps?
But it’s gone before you can confirm its existence—Yeji’s façade is maintained and all you get is a minuscule quirk of her eyebrow.
“The other guy was a car,” she says through gritted teeth.
“And now that car is being turned into scrap and I get to be in the presence of the most beautiful girl in all of Korea.”
“I hate you,” she replies, lovingly (you hope).
“Most beautiful girl in all of Asia?” You’re almost there, you can see it on her face.
“Still hate you.” An ease in tension—a slight drop of her shoulders, a relaxing of her grip.
“The world?”
A sigh, a frown slowly turning upwards, success! — “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot,” you add, and that gets you a smile—a real, genuine, heart-stopping smile that lights up the room more than any fluorescent bulb could ever dream of.
“What am I going to do with you?” She’s shaking her head, letting you have your little victory.
“What would I do without you?” You ask, and she's rolling her eyes—nothing she hasn't heard you say before. “Certainly wouldn’t get to stay in a room this nice.”
Yeji blushes, her cheeks taking on the same shade of the excessive number of roses decorating your bedside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Seriously, Yeji?” You say, and echo back to her, “look around.”
It’s Yeji’s turn to act coy—as if it’s perfectly normal for a hospital room to come with a flat-screen TV, designer furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city.
The room is closer to a luxury suite than a recovery ward—bigger than your apartment, even—and there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you to maybe risk another injury so you can maybe extend your stay even longer, especially if it means getting to have Yeji fuss over you like this.
“I might have called in a favour or two,” Yeji admits. “But they said this was the only room available!”
“Yeji, this is too much,” you say, but she’s already ignoring you, waving her hand dismissively.
“It’s nothing,” she says, rising off the bed and leaving you to your own devices, satisfied that you’ve been properly scolded.
But, you know better. While Yeji is like this with everyone she cares about—always giving, always putting others first—with you she gets especially intense with her caring, and as much as she’d probably deny it otherwise, you know that she’s more than a little smug at the sight of you laid up in this fancy hospital room, with nothing to do but let her pamper you.
“Sure, sure,” you say, but you can easily imagine her on the phone with every hospital in a fifty-kilometre radius, pulling strings left and right, leaning on the right people to get what she wants.
It’s just who Yeji is—no half measures, above and beyond in every aspect.
“I should unpack,” Yeji decides, retrieving a ridiculously oversized bag from the corner of your suite.
“Unpack?” You ask, but your question falls on deaf ears.
“I was halfway across the world when I heard what happened.” Yeji's clicking her tongue with annoyance as she struggles with the zipper for the bag. “Two days before I could get a flight out!”
“You didn’t have to rush—” you start to say, but Yeji whips her head around, a clear warning not to finish the very stupid sentence you’re about to complete.
“I didn’t have time to pack everything, just grabbed what I could from our place—” (your place, technically) “—and came straight here.”
Yeji instantly sets about your room, making sure that there isn’t a corner that hasn't been touched by her: your favourite tea brewing, the last book you were reading, a Bluetooth speaker playing her ‘songs to remind you of me’ playlist; every single thing you could possibly need to feel better.
It’s not even what she’s doing as she completes her takeover of your hospital room, it’s how she’s doing it.
She’s in her normal everyday uniform: one of your flannel shirts over a tank top that just so happens to ride up just right, showing off her toned midriff as she reaches to hang a change of clothes for you in the wardrobe. Then there’s the snug, tight yoga pants moulded to her curves that stretch over her unbearably firm ass every time she needs to bend over and take something else out from her bag.
It’s all too perfect to be accidental, and you start to get conspiratorial, like perhaps this innocent act of care is just a torturous reminder of your what you can’t have while you’re all laid up and injured.
She is dressed normally. But normal, everyday clothes for anyone else on someone like Yeji, with her body—all sleek muscles and tight lines—is absolutely devastating.
Yeji works fast, a tornado of love and care clad in a dangerous pair of leggings, and in minutes she’s done, adding a finishing touch by spraying her perfume around the room, overpowering the sterile hospital scent with the sweet, floral notes that are uniquely hers—this is her space now, anyway.
Finally, she stops at the foot of your hospital bed, picking up your medical chart, reading it like she understands it all (actually, knowing Yeji, she probably got her medical degree on the way to the hospital just in case she deemed the doctors and nurses weren't doing a good enough job and she decided to take over).
“Hm,” is Yeji’s summary of your current condition. It’s cute, seeing her stare at the clipboard with a focus she usually reserves for the stage. “Eating well, no signs of deterioration in fine motor skills, very responsive, and very… friendly?”
You raise an eyebrow. “They wrote that down?”
“Attending physician: Dr. Park Yoona, Nurses: Roh Ji Yun, Jeon Jeong ah, Bae Hye Jin,” Yeji starts to read out the list of names—female names—and you start to hear the nails being hammered into your coffin, “Nurse Kim Ji Won—seriously, like the actress? All women. Hm.”
“Really, I hadn’t noticed!” Maybe feigning ignorance would increase your chances of survival. “You’d think in this day and age there’d be more male nurses now though, right?”
“Hm,” it’s that noise again. “I’m glad to hear that while I was worried sick about you, desperately trying to get over here, you’ve been well taken care of. Must be nice surrounded by all these cute women in their little nurse outfits.”
“Oh, please,” you test a deflection, “they’re just doing their jobs.”
Yeji’s eyes bore into you. “One of these nurses dots her ‘I’s with love hearts.”
You can only sigh at your impending doom. It’s been a good life.
“Who do these women think they are?”
You switch up your strategy, trying another angle: “They’re medical professionals, Yeji, not strippers.”
“Right, medical professionals,” Yeji echoes, her tone thick with sarcasm, before she suddenly switches up, putting on her sweetest, and most uncomfortable, baby voice. “Oh no, such a big, strong man that needs help. Tell me where it hurts so I can rub it better for you!”
“Stop, stop,” you protest, as much as you would like her to rub it better, you still have your pride. “I barely even talk to them—they just do their check-ups and leave. I can’t even remember what they look like, they’re probably all just plain, old ladies.”
You regret the words as soon as you say them (you really should’ve seen this coming), because before you can get any further into your pitiful defence, the door to your room swings open, and in struts a young, cheery, bouncy woman.
“Is my favourite patient ready for another check-up?” You're already cringing at the nurse’s question—her voice a squeak that’s far too high-pitched and far too cute for a hospital. If anything, she looks like an actress playing the role of a nurse, in some bad movie where they clearly casted for looks over believability.
Yeji’s eyes widen at the sight of the new, endowed occupant of the room, and she reads the name on the nurse’s tag, pinned firmly over a set of scrubs that’s a few sizes too small, and you’re immediately reminded of her earlier threat to kill you with surprising clarity.
“Kim Ji Won,” Yeji reads out loud, before suddenly remembering herself, lowering a baseball cap over her eyes and slipping on a surgical mask, hiding her face from view. She turns away, pretending to fuss with the flowers on your bedside table.
“Oh!” The nurse exclaims, and you’re starting to feel the walls of what was once a luxurious hospital room start to close in. “I didn’t realise you had a guest,” she says, as light and cheerful as ever, “is she perhaps your… sister?”
Oh God, Yeji might really kill you after this. “No, no, no, she’s my—”
But Nurse JI Won ploughs onwards, having the gall (or lack of a sense of self-preservation) to turn to Yeji, and chat away. “Your brother has been the perfect patient! Me and all the other nurses just can’t get enough of him! He’s such a charmer!”
Yep. Definitely dying. It’s been a good life.
“Oh, oops!” Ji Won giggles, as she somehow drops the clipboard she was holding, sending papers scattering across the floor. “I’m so silly, give me a second to get it together!”
“No, no, it’s okay you don’t need to—” you try, but by now you should know better, “—bend over and pick it up.”
She’s already turned away from you, pointing her ass up and straight into the air, performatively picking up the pages one by one, taking her time so you can commit to memory the exact colour of the lacy thong peeking out of her pants.
It’s so blatant that you’re almost impressed, but compared to the practiced ease of your girlfriend, it’s a pale imitation. Still, your mind can’t resist making the comparison, even though there’s no ass in the world that can hold a candle to Yeji’s cheeks wrapped in sheer nylon.
Look at you, all loyal and shit—even in the face of all temptation, you’re still a committed boyfriend, through and through.
If only Yeji, who is now evaluating you with a glare as hot as a thousand suns, could know that your mind is filled with thoughts of just her… even as you're staring at Nurse Ji Won’s ass.
You’re dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“Aha, got it!” Ji Won is back on her feet, jumping with a cheer that suggests that maybe she could use a little more support, whilst completely immune to the sudden drop in temperature in the room. Yeji might as well be a ghost to her, the nurse looks only at you, scanning your body, searching for any new injuries that may have popped up since your last check-up.
If only she knew to just come back in an hour.
“It says here it’s about time to take out your IV!” Ji Won sunnily declares.
Consent isn’t a word that seems to exist in this nurse’s vocabulary, and she takes the opportunity to lean real close over you, pressing her ample chest against your side, making sure you get the full feel of her curves as she reaches across to the stand.
Of course, you don’t look—that would be insane. Instead your eyes are on Yeji, who’s definitely not looking at the nurse. No, she’s still boring a hole right through your skull, her hands holding a shredded flower, her knuckles turning white.
“Okay, that’s all done!” Ji Won chirps, and mercifully removes her breasts from your shoulder. “Hey, why are you acting all shy? You’re usually so much friendlier!”
“Oh?” Yeji makes a noise for the first time, and it terrifies you.
But again, the nurse pretends like she doesn’t even exist. “Let me check your heartbeat… And—”
“I’m sure it’s all fine and you can leave now, right—” You try a last-ditch effort to save this poor nurse’s life, but she’s clearly not taking the hint.
“Perfect as always, Mr. Metronome!” She says, writing down on her clipboard, clearly not noticing the seconds of her remaining lifespan ticking away. “We always talk about how you must work out so much to have a heart rate so low and consistent, I mean, obviously you do—look at you!”
You file her comments away as yet another reason your life is about to end, and try to push on, “so—I’m all good, right?”
“Of course you are,” Ji Won replies, turning the volume right up on the flirtiness, and her eyes flicker over to Yeji before she winks at you. “But I’ll just double-check everything before I go.”
“No, I think that’s enough!” Yeji breaks the conversation with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, and the poor nurse jumps from the sternness of her voice. “You said he’s fine, he said he’s tired, and so that means you can leave now!”
“Oh, he’s tired? Does he need extra pillows, or is there anything I can do to make him more comfortable?”
But Yeji already has her out the door, practically dragging the girl out of the room by her collar of her scrubs. “He’s fine!”
The door slams behind the nurse, but not before you hear her giggle, “Hey, you look familiar!”
An icy silence fills the room once the nurse is gone, thick and tense. Yeji doesn’t move for several beats, it’s eerie the way she just stands there, staring at the closed door of your hospital room.
Something clicks in her head, though, and she locks the door, turning back to you, seemingly having made a final decision on your fate.
“So…” you throw out a feeler, trying your best to move straight past, well, everything. “How’s the tour going?”
“Is she perhaps your sister?” Yeji’s voice jumps an octave, a perfect imitation of the high-pitched squeak that had just left the room. She turns to you, throwing the cap off her head and tearing the mask off her face. “Vomit.”
“I have no idea what that nurse was talking about,” you say, immediately making a case to plead your innocence.
“So gross!” Her words are dripping with pure disgust, but at least it isn’t directed at you (for now, anyway). “That’s it! We’re moving hospitals!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.”
“What is it with girls like that? Oh, you must work out a lot, I mean obviously you do!” Yeji continues her eerily uncanny impersonation. “Seriously, you’re an adult and you’re doing baby talk? ‘Perfect as always Mr. Metronome!”
“She’s just being nice, probably didn’t mean anything at all,” it’s a very weak argument you’re making, the only way the nurse could make her intentions more obvious were if she was wearing a bright neon sign that flashed ‘please fuck me!’.
“Bitch. Shameless! Hitting on my boyfriend in front of me. Acting so cute, so helpless—oops! I dropped my clipboard!” Yeji’s pouting now, fluttering her lashes, mimicking every blatant flirtation Nurse Ji Won had thrown your way.
“Really, we’re doing caricatures now?”
“Carica-what?” Yeji tilts her head to the side, and starts to sway her way over to you, her hips swinging from side to side with an exaggerated bounce. She’s playing it up to a T, making sure to sway, shake, to jiggle with each step she takes. “What does that word even mean? It’s such a big word. You must be really smart.”
Yeji settles into the role of the pretty, ditzy nurse far too easily, and her eyes tell you that she’s enjoying it far too much. For now though, you play along, clearing your throat and putting on your manliest voice—“I have been told I have a rather expansive vocabulary.”
“Wow, another big word,” Yeji’s at your bedside again, taking your hand into hers, looking up at you with wide-eyed awe. “Oh, you’re just so clever!” She giggles, as her other hand just so happens to come down on your thigh, leaving her free to squeeze and massage your muscles. “And so strong too! Do you work out?”
You grit your teeth as Yeji starts to trace her thumb in gentle circles over your skin, all the while staring up at you so innocently—she’s laying it on thick. “Sometimes…”
“I can tell…” Yeji continues, her voice trailing off as she runs her hand further up your thigh, light as a feather, but when she’s looking at you with those eyes and that smile, it’s if she’s dragging a live wire across your skin. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure as she leans in closer, lets her top hang a little loose, lets you get a peek at the soft swell of her breasts, parts those full, pouty lips of hers, her fingers tracing the contour of your leg as she moves higher and higher and higher, until her fingertips are on your—“Unbelievable! I cannot believe that actually works on you!”
“That’s unfair!” You shout in surprise, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “You can’t expect me not to react when you’re doing that!”
“Uh huh, I bet!” Yeji says, clearly not buying it. “You’re not at all attracted to the helpless, innocent, bouncy little slut that leans close so you can get a good view of her fat tits?”
“I’ll have you know I’m a singular pair of tits kind of guy.”
“This bitch,” Yeji curses under her breath, throwing her hands up in frustration. She unfortunately removes her hand from your leg, and plops herself down on your bed (it’s easily big enough for two), stewing in her emotions. You watch each cross her face: concern, jealousy, disbelief, a slight hint of amusement.
“Yeji,” you say, getting her attention, snapping her out of her thoughts. “You’re my girlfriend. I’m yours. That’s that.”
She stares back at you, her eyes light up at the declaration, and she punches your arm—your healthy one, of course. “You better be.”
It’s strange, seeing Yeji like this—so raw, so visibly affected by someone else’s attention on you. You’ve always thought of her as so strong, so confident, but there’s something in her possessiveness over you that is making you think about things that should definitely not happen in a hospital.
Fuck it, injuries be damned, without another word, you stretch forward and grab her by the waist, your good hand wrapping around her firmly, pulling her closer to you. She gasps, but doesn’t resist, no, she leans into your touch, her body melting into yours as if it’s been starved for affection.
You hold her tight, letting her settle into your embrace, and can only laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation you’re in. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be taking care of me, you’re really not helping my blood pressure right now.”
“I’m still mad at you,” Yeji murmurs into your chest, but there’s no venom in her voice. Instead, it’s filled with something else entirely—something softer, more vulnerable. Her body relaxes against you, and you feel the tension in the room start to dissipate.
“Let’s not pretend that you weren’t enjoying acting like a helpless, little slut, Yeji,” you accuse, and Yeji’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. “I know you.”
“It’s your fault,” Yeji says, still hiding her face in your chest. “You and your ridiculous sexy nurse fantasy.”
“It’s a classic,” you shrug, before making an executive decision. “And this time, we actually have the right setting for it.”
Yeji looks around the room, shyly biting her lip. Again, all an act, she’s far too perceptive to not have the same thought on the forefront of her mind. “Here?”
“I saw you lock the door.” You catch the smirk that flashes across Yeji’s face. “Your mind is as filthy as mine, Yeji, I’m just better at vocalising it.”
“You think you can read my mind?”
“You know I can.” You lean in, your mouth finding hers in a soft kiss to prove your point—you didn’t need to ask to know that this is what she’s been after the whole time. Your lips find her forehead, “I can read your mind”—a kiss on her cheek—“your body”—and a whisper in her ear— “your pussy.”
You know you’re right by the hitch in Yeji’s breathing, how she leans into your touch, and when she straddles you without a second thought. Her thighs squeeze down against yours, the fabric of her yoga pants sliding against your hospital gown. She’s all soft curves and heat as she settles herself over you, her hands pressing down on your chest to keep herself steady.
“That nurse really riled you up, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yeji steals another kiss from you, a moan muffled against your mouth. But yet, there’s the slight grind of hips—slow, deliberate friction, unbearable by design. “I’m just here to take care of my helpless boyfriend.”
“Yoga pants, Yeji. Again,” you say. “I saw it all. How you just so happened to need to stretch, or bend over, or lean just right,” you tease, even though it’s getting harder and harder to get your words out by the second. “You’re just as bad as her, only you’re way better at it.”
You kiss her again, this time with more urgency, the type of kiss you’ve been dying to give her since she first walked into the room, your tongue slipping into her mouth and tasting minty sweetness on her breath.
“And you look way fucking hotter than her when you do it, too.”
A smug smile plays on Yeji's lips as she's kissing you again. “I am the most beautiful woman in Korea.”
“The world,” you correct her.
“Goes without saying,” she finished. “’Extremely hot girlfriend’, if I remember correctly?”
“On fucking fire,” you summarise, and reach out to touch her, needing to feel her, but Yeji stops you placing your hand back on the bed.
She gives you a stern look, and shakes her head. “No, no, no. You’re the patient here, remember? You’re not allowed to do anything,” she says, her voice a mix of playfulness and authority. Yeji leans in closer, her breath hot against your ear. “You have to let the slutty nurse take care of you.”
You see it again—that switch—and Yeji gets more adventurous, cutting off your breath as she drags her hand down, sliding it under your thin hospital gown, walking her fingers back up your thigh. She stops just shy of your hardened cock, her eyes never leaving yours, revelling in your neediness for her, your want, before finally she takes a hold of you, her grip firm and tight and sure.
There’s heat in her palm, and she pulls a moan out of you and into her mouth as she starts to slowly stroke. It’s the softness of her hand against the growing stiffness of your shaft, her fingertips grazing your skin—you know you should be more careful, more considerate of where you are, but with Yeji’s touch, all rational thought is lost.
“I bet none of those bitch nurses could make you feel like this.” Yeji’s touch is a masterpiece of precision and passion, each movement calculated, practiced, she’s right—she’s the only one who knows how to touch you in just the perfect way to make you ache. Her fingers dance along your shaft, her grip tightening and loosening in a rhythm that only she can hear.
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” You groan, playing dumb, your mind filled with nothing but Yeji’s body on top of you, her fingers wrapped around you. “What other women?”
Yeji’s eyes narrow, but she can’t hold back her smile. “Good answer,” she whispers, rewarding you by moving faster now, each stroke deeper, more deliberate, reading your every reaction to the way she pumps you, timing her fingers with your stuttering breaths.
She likes—loves—taking care of you, making you feel good, there’s a thrill in it for her, knowing that she’s the one who can make you this vulnerable, this desperate. Her hand moves with confidence, her strokes become more insistent, her gaze hungrier, and she leans forward, pressing herself into your chest, letting you feel the softness of her breasts, the stiffness of her nipples through the flimsy fabric of her top.
“Does this feel good, honey?” She asks, like she doesn’t already know the answer, like she can’t feel your hips bucking up to meet her touch. "Do you like it when I take care of you?"
You nod, unable to form words, unable to do anything but keep your eyes on Yeji and marvel at just how fucking hot she is on top of you as she strokes you. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, tickling your neck and cheeks, and her eyes—those piercing, all-knowing eyes—affixed to yours, holding you hostage.
“God, I love this cock,” Yeji murmurs between kisses against your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “so big, so hard… All mine…” She’s so satisfied, so happy with herself—with your cock—her constant praise as much for her as it is for you. “Fuck, look how big you’re getting for me, barely fits in my hand.”
“God, Yeji,” you gasp, struggling to keep together, to keep from losing yourself in the palm of her hand, as each of her strokes, each of her words, keep coming, stroking your cock, your ego, fucking with you completely. “I’m getting close—”
“Not yet.” Yeji lets you go, leaving you panting, your tortured cock standing tall and missing her attention.
Before you can even mount a protest, she’s sliding up your body, stretching above your head to grab the hospital bed remote, smothering you with the soft mounds of her breasts as she does so. You groan into her, forced to feel the weight of her pressing down on you, the warmth of her skin against yours, teasing you in a way that’s both infuriating and heavenly.
With a click, the bed whirs into action, reclining back until you're flat on your back, staring directly up at her. She kneels over your head, and there’s the outline of her pussy through the fabric of her leggings, all swollen and damp and begging for your tongue.
She doesn’t have to look to know she has your undivided attention—she's pulling her shirt and her top over her head, setting her breasts, ripe and full, bouncing free from their confinement. No bra today (of course she didn’t, what would be the fucking point?) and you get a full view of those perfect tits, her dark, pebbled nipples already stiff for you.
“It’s your turn to take care of me.”
Yeji lowers herself onto your waiting mouth, lets out a noise that’s so needy, so fucking greedy, as your lips meet her heat for the first time in what feels like an eternity.
“Fuuuuuuck…”
You kiss, lick, nibble at her, tease her, groan into her thighs, as she urges herself against you, making you breathe in the scent of her sex, so immediately wet for you.
It’s not nearly enough for either of you—you need to feel her against your lips, your tongue. You move your hand up her thigh and towards her hip, digging your fingers into her waistband. But Yeji stops you again, and says the four most pleasant words in any language. “Just fucking rip them.”
There’s no hesitation—she lifts her hips off your face, you snake your hand between her legs, take one end of the fabric between your fingers, and another in your teeth: one quick, sharp yank, and you tear. The nylon gives way with a satisfying rip, and Yeji shivers above you as the cool air hits her full, puffy, exposed cunt.
“Mmmph, yesssss,” Yeji hisses as you pull her back down onto your lips, shuddering as you kiss that lovely crease where her thigh meets her pelvis, her pleasure vibrating through your own skull. She quivers, shifts, needy for your lips on her naked pussy, and she pleads, “stop teasing… I need it…”
You smile against her skin, your breath ghosting over her pussy, making her squirm. "What's the magic word?"
"Now," Yeji says, her voice firm, her thighs so magnificently tense. "The magic word is now."
With that, you give her a long lick, starting from the very bottom of her pussy and moving upward, tasting every millimetre of her juicy cunt, tracing the entire length of her slit, ending with an indulgent flick of her clit.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Yeji cries out, shivering, falling apart as your tongue finds that sweet spot, her thighs tightening around your neck. Her hands come down to either side of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place as she starts to rock back and forth, setting her own rhythm, matching her hips with the pace of your tongue. “God, you’re so fucking good at that, always so fucking good at that.”
She’s whining, so, so desperate, so pleading, and you’re eager as you taste her, explore her, will her to come apart in your mouth. You’re taking generous licks, tongue dancing around her clit, teasing it, testing her full vocal range as she cries out your name
“Oh, please, please baby, fucking please.” She’s getting wetter and wetter, coating your tongue, your lips, your chin. “I missed this,” she gasps, grinding herself against your tongue, all desperation and utter awe. “Missed you making me feel so fucking good.”
You look up, up at her as she rides your face, she’s so fucking breathtaking. Her body tensing around you and on top of you—so tight, so firm—chiselled abs honed by decades of dancing, that gorgeous curve of her waist leading up to her perky, petite tits, so lovely, bouncing with every gasp she takes.
"I'm so wet for you, honey, so fucking wet," Yeji whimpers, “you always make me so fucking wet—I can’t—ah!”
A sharp inhale, you suck her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue against the sensitive nub. She’s moaning so fucking loud, so unrestrained, echoing through the hospital room and down the hallways, loud enough to let every nurse on the floor know exactly how fucking good it feels to be on top of you. Her hips jerk, she can’t control her own body now, and you know she’s getting closer and closer, determined to ride your tongue right to the end.
Just looking at her is all it takes for you—seeing her so damn horny, so satisfied sets you on edge, needing something, anything to take your cock and match her euphoria.
“Do you want me to help you out, baby?” Yeji’s reading your mind. You groan and affirmative into the folds of her cunt, and in an instant, you go from being smothered by her juices to being faced with the full, perfect tautness of her ass.
She makes it look so easy, so graceful, lifting herself off your face and spinning around to this new position—face down, ass up.
A second later and your wishes are granted—your cock, so heavy with need, standing neglected and alone is met by Yeji’s soft, warm lips, kissing the very tip of you, tasting the drops of pre-cum that’s already leaking out of you.
“Let me make you feel better,” is all Yeji says—just one light kiss, a whisper into your cock, and she dives onto you, swallowing your cock whole. It’s far too much, far too quickly, you’re out of breath and ready to tap out as her warm, wet mouth envelopes your whole rod in one, smooth suck.
Her tongue swirls around you, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, she takes you deeper and deeper, until you’re buried down her throat. You throb inside her, her throat muscles contracting back around you, and you can’t help but thrust up into her mouth, seeking more, needing more.
“Yeji!” You cry out her name on reflex as she takes you in, her hands digging into your thighs as she works her mouth up and down, bobbing, taking you deep and noisily, smacking her lips, sloshing her tongue. Whatever pain you had lingering from your arm, your head, or your ribs, it’s all forgotten—there’s only Yeji, and her exquisite lips, doing everything she can to wring every drop of pleasure out from your body.
It's too much, too intense, and you’ve been on the edge since she first grabbed a hold on you. This can’t end now, not when she’s sucking you so hard, practically worshipping your cock. You need a distraction—pull her hips back, gently, firmly, push that beautiful ass back into your face and indulge in her again.
“Mmmph—!” Yeji moans into you as your tongue meets her cunt, the sound reverberating down your shaft and right into your brain.
And now it’s a competition—you push through her pussy with her tongue, feel her walls tightening around you. She’s pushing back into you, grinding down on you, making sure you get the full flavour of her cunt, her ass, every inch of her on your taste buds.
She’s more frantic now, moving faster, sloppier on your cock as you push her closer and closer to climax. Her tongue slides against you, her cheeks hollow out around you, she drools and dribbles down your shaft—it’s messy and wet and absolutely fucking amazing.
But you can’t let her win, not this time. You double down on your efforts, suctioning your lips over her clit and start rapidly flicking your tongue, setting a relentless pace that you know will make her crumble. She tries her best to keep up, to keep going, but she’s a mess of sucking and moaning and quivering all over your face and on your cock.
Yeji works her tongue, her lips, her mouth—she makes sure you know it’s all yours. But then, after taking you all the way to the back of her throat, your cock pops out of her mouth with a wet smack, and she lets out a cry of pure, unbridled ecstasy. “Fuck, I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna—FUCK!”
She collapses, bent over and prone, only her ass rocking and grinding against your face as she utterly, completely falls apart, ruined by just your tongue, ruined by the orgasm you’re giving her.
“So good—God—fuck—keep going, keep going, keep going!” Yeji’s voice is a chant, a prayer that you’re more than happy to answer. She’s shaking, her pussy pulsing against your face as you lick and suck at her clit, clouding your mind with the heady mix of sweetness and desire that has you hooked. She’s lost, given up and given over to you now, her moans becoming screams—“your tongue, your fucking tongue—gah!”
Her body geos rigid, locking up as she hits that wonderful peak—but you’re not ready to stop. You keep licking, keep pushing through wave after wave of pleasure that crash over her, not giving a second of rest. Her juices flood your mouth and you swallow greedily, drinking her in like it’s the only medicine you need.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck—fucking making me feel so good—God!”
Nothing fucking matters, all you know is Yeij’s cunt is on your tongue and her ass is in your face, and your only job is to keep licking her to her core, until she finally goes slack, crumbling on top of you.
She stays like that, her legs shaking like she’s just run a marathon, her nipples squashed against your chest, her gasps hot and ragged against your thigh. You can feel the staccato of her heart, and you hold her close, massaging her lower back as she does her best to catch her breath.
And yet, there you are, still throbbing, still so fucking hard and delirious with your need for her touch.
There’s no point in hiding it, she’s so close you can feel her breath on your cock, your close enough to poke her eye out with how hard you are.
“Someone’s feeling left out,” she says, as if she’s not entirely to blame. “Is that for me?”
“You know it is,” you respond, far weaker, more pleading than you intended.
A gentle, torturous kiss against your thigh, and you’re just about ready to explode in her face. “Then I guess as your dutiful, loving, girlfriend, I better do something about it.”
It’s so easy for her—one moment she’s exhausted, out of breath on top of you, the next she’s fully recovered, back on top and mounting you, facing you as she smears the tip of your cock with her wetness.
You try to sit up, eager to get straight to it, straight to fucking her like you need to, but her hands are on your shoulders and she’s pushing you back down.
“Lie down, baby,” she hushes you, pressing you down onto the mattress. “Just enjoy this.”
Her eyes narrow as she drinks in the sight of you, bursting with anticipation as she lowers her pussy onto your cock. It’s a special kind of torment, one that makes your hips buck involuntarily, so impatient to feel her warmth again.
But she takes her sweet time, and it’s only when she’s close enough, she bends down, mouth hovering over yours. Your eyes drift shut, and you wait for that soft contact of her lips, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, she whispers, "I've got you," and you feel the warm, velvety embrace of her cunt as she takes you in, inch by agonising inch.
Fully seated, her walls close around you, and that’s when she kisses you hard, her tongue pushing past your lips and into your mouth with the same aching hunger of her cunt around your cock.
She tastes so damn good, feels incredible—it’s been too long, and you want nothing but to grab her, hold her and slam her hips down onto yours and drive deeper into her, but your body won’t cooperate.
You can only lay there as she starts to move, her hips rocking back and forth, slowly, intentionally, having you seeing stars. And then, just when you think you can’t take it anymore, she lifts herself up off your cock, and in one swift motion, sinks herself straight back down, whispering “holy fuck yesss” against your lips.
She needs time to get used to you, used to your cock filling her whole again. “This fucking cock,” she bites your lip as she rides you, “always so big, always so perfect.”
Yeji has to take it slow, has to let her pussy stretch around you, adjust to you, before she can start to ride you, to fuck you like she really wants to. And she does want to—wants to claim you, erase any doubt about who is the one person that can fuck you like you deserve to be—so, so much.
Each movement down the length of your cock is faster than the one before, each moan into your mouth hotter, each clench of her cunt around yours so much tighter, until she’s fucking you in earnest—harder, faster.
“So thick, so, so, riiiiight,” Yeji groans.“I’ve missed this, needed this.”
She’s riding you like she’s been waiting for this forever, like this might be the last time, bouncing her ass up and down, her eyes hooded with lust, her hair a wild mess around her flushed face, her nipples swinging every time your hips meet.
“When you get better, honey, I need you to fuck me real hard,” Yeji whispers in your ear, her breath hot and tickling, thick with lust, her tight cunt milking you, keeping you on the edge of insanity. “But I’ll take care of you for now, I’ll take care of this cock—fuck I love it—I love you—I love that you’re mine.”
“You’re mine too, Yeji,” you groan back to her.
“That’s right—I belong to you and you belong to me,” Yeji punctuates her point with a hard slam of her cunt down onto your cock. "You're My. Fucking. Boyfriend."
She’s getting faster and faster now, picking up her pace, like she needs to prove something, to herself, to you, to the entire fucking hospital.
“Those other bitches can’t ride you like I do—can’t fuck you like I do,” Yeji’s panting, each word fucked out of her, coming out like a proud battle cry. She’s right, you’re sure of it—no one else can make you feel this way, no one else can take you, claim you like she can. She’s lost in it now, lost in the heat and the friction, her whole body consumed by a burning desire to show you just how good she is at this.
Yeji leans back, sitting upright, giving herself better leverage to bounce on your cock, giving you a better view of her body—all perfectly sculpted edges and soft curves—and those fucking perky tits. They’re stunning, just like the rest of her, and you reach for them on instinct, cupping the soft mounds, feeling the weight of them in your palm. Her nipples are so hard, erect, begging for your touch, and you don’t want to disappoint—could never—so you pinch and twist them, watching her face contort with pleasure, feeling her pussy tighten around you as she cries out.
“No one can take this big fucking cock like I can—down my throat, in my cunt.” It’s a declaration—loud and proud, for every single person in the hospital to know.
“Jealous?” You grunt out the word, hoarse, rough. “Thinking about me fucking other woman like I fuck you? Making them scream—making them cum as hard as I’m about to make you?”
You can see the twist in Yeji’s face, how her pupils dilate as your words sink in. There’s a war playing out on her face, jealousy and desire, the mere thought of you fucking other woman making her pussy spasm around you. “Oh, fuck you! You would ruin them, honey, they wouldn’t be able to take you. Or is that what you want to hear? Some cute bitch screaming: ‘oh baby, oh please, oh daddy, I can’t take it—I can’t take this big fucking cock!’”
There’s truth in the mockery, and there’s a dark thrill in Yeji’s jealousy. But now’s not the time for anything (or anyone) else but her—you’re too close, too far gone, your cock throbbing with the need to spill into her.
“Only I can take it, it’s mine, mine, mine.” She’s soaking you, so needy, so deep, so fucking filthy as she whines over your cock. “You better keep fucking me—only me—or I will make your life hell.”
“Show me then,” you challenge her, and you can see something flash across her eyes—something primal, something rough.
“I’m yours,” she declares again, riding you in a way that can only be described as pure art, her whole body moving in perfect harmony with a singular goal—to be absolutely wrecked by your cock. “All yours, nobody else’s. And you’re mine.”
It takes one hard pump into her tight, sweaty body and she’s falling into you, her body pressed on top of you, her forehead pressed against yours. It’s electric, the connection between your bodies, a jolt of pleasure surging through your cock and her cunt until all that matters is the feel of her fucking you like her life depends on it.
It’s love at every thrust, every gasp and moan. Nothing but Yeji on top of you, her soft skin pressed against you, her heartbeat racing against yours, her wetness coating your cock like a silk glove. Not just pleasure, you’re claiming each other—she’s whispering it in your ear, whispering your name like a promise, a declaration of war against anyone who would dare to come between you.
“Fuuuck.” Yeji bites down on your shoulder, digs her nails in your skin, squeezes her pussy around you like a vice. “I’m gonna do it again,” she mewls, “this cock—your beautiful cock—is gonna make me cum all over again.”
She’s chasing that precious feeling, desperate for it, her hips moving in erratic circles, determined to bring you with her. You can feel it too, the beginnings rising from the base of your cock, the tension in your balls. You want to hold on, to make this last, but at this point it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave.
“Give—fuck—give me more!” Yeji’s eyes are squeezed shut; her mouth open in a silent scream as she grinds down on you, her body trembling with the effort to keep her balance. You can see the tension in every line of her body, how her abs clench, her toes curl. It's like watching a live wire, and you're the one holding the current. "Nobody can fuck me like you do—fuck—nobody can take you like I can!"
You wrap your arm around her shoulder, holding her tight, wrenching control from her, making her prove her words with every forceful thrust. You’re going to be in pain later, but fuck all that—Yeji’s so wet, so tight, so fucking hot—she’s a force of nature, and you’re just the lucky fuck that gets to be in the eye of the storm.
“You’re going to cum in me, now, okay? I’m going to cum so fucking hard and then you’re going to cum right inside me.” Yeji’s completely given herself over to you, letting you fuck her, use her, she’s all yours anyway. “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!”
And then she’s there, her cunt gripping you like a fist, her walls pulsing and quivering around you. Yeji’s eyes fly open, her gaze locks onto yours, and she’s cumming hard.
Her orgasm rips through her body, she’s choking your cock with pussy, muscles tightening and release in a painful rhythm, and all she can do is shake and cry out every filthy word she knows, every sweet noise she can make as she spills and creams and comes apart on top of you.
“It’s too much,” Yeji’s barely holding on, panting incessantly, “too-fucking-much—too-fucking-much!”
The way she looks, the way she fucks, the way she cums—it’s a thing of beauty, an absolute fucking honour to witness—every twitch, every shiver, every gasp that falls from her swollen lips. Her nails pierce your skin, her teeth threaten to draw blood, her eyes wide and wild as her climax crashes over her.
“Please-please-fucking-please!”
But she doesn’t stop. If anything, she’s becoming more insistent, more urgent, fucking back against you again, her hips moving in a blur, taking you like a woman possessed. She’s pleading for you, pleading for you to give in, to let go, to follow her into bliss. Yeji’s a woman on a mission—to make you feel her, to make you fill her and you realise that maybe this isn’t just about jealousy anymore—it’s about making you know in every fibre of your being that your cum belongs in her cunt and her cunt only.
"Give it to me," Yeji demands, “I need you to—please—fuck—cum in me!”
Every word’s a trigger, sending you spiralling over the edge. It’s been building for an eternity now, an unbearable pressure needing to find a home in Yeji’s scorching, sopping wet pussy.
“Kiss me—I need you to—need to taste—fuck—please—kiss me now!”
There’s nothing left to do but obey, bringing your hand to the back of her neck and pulling her down into a fierce, bruising kiss. Your mouths crash together, your tongues dance and entangle, your teeth clash, and all the while Yeji’s clenching around you, cunt contracting in an effort to keep you still, keep you together.
“Fill me.”
A final, triumphant spear into her and your gone—releasing, spurting your cum deep inside her—so hard, so hot, so intense, emptying everything, all of you, every last drop into her greedy pussy.
“Yesssssss—this—this is what I needed.” Yeji hums a satisfied note into your collarbone, so full, so complete, so content. She’s still slowly rocking her hips back and forth, still pulsing around you, milking you dry. “I feel so…full.”
She dissolves into a puddle in your arms, nuzzling her head into the crook of your neck. Your hand finds its way to her back, tracing gentle circles, rubbing away the tension that’s been built up, the strain she’s put her body through.
She’s warm, she's so alive, and you can feel her heart beating against your chest, a stilted, hurried rhythm that's gradually slowing down. You kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her neck, anywhere you can reach without having to strain yourself. It’s a gentle reassurance, making sure that for all the fucking and the filthiness, she knows that no matter what happens, you’re there to make sure she’s okay.
Yeji whispers an “I love you,” her words like a balm to your soul. “I really, really, fucking love you, you know?”
“I know, Yeji,” you say, low enough for only her to hear. “I really, really, fucking love you too.”
There’s still the embers of your shared climax resonating through your bodies, the come down from an epic high that’s left the two of you a tangled mess of limbs and hospital sheets. You both lay there, Yeji’s pussy still spasming around your cock, your cum and her juices dribbling down and pooling between your bodies.
“I was really worried about you.” Yeji whispers, vulnerable. The admission hangs in the air above you, a stark reminder of the fear and insecurity that’s been simmering just beneath the surface. “When they called me, I thought—I—I fucking hated that feeling.”
“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s all there is left to say.
“And I am really pissed about these nurses,” Yeji adds with a deadly seriousness, that only makes you smile. “I’m moving you to another hospital as soon as I can.”
“We just might have to after this,” you murmur, stroking her hair as you catch your breath. “No way they didn’t hear any of that.”
“Good.” Yeji declares, a little too intensely, too smugly.
You look down at her and can’t help but chuckle. “Well aren’t you all happy and copacetic now?”
Yeji looks back at you, pauses, and then grins. “Copa-what-tic?”
You can only roll your eyes. “Copacetic.”
“Wow,” Yeji starts, her voice back up an octave, laced with sickly sweetness. “Such a big, complicated word. You’re so smart.”
“Uh huh.”
“And these muscles too! Look at you all pumped and sweaty. Have you been working out?” Yeji teases, her cheeks still flushed a bright pink shade. She reaches down to give your bicep a gentle squeeze, mouthing an exaggerated ‘wow’ in amazement of its size.
“I did just finish a pretty intense workout. Might’ve even got another concussion from having my brains fucked out.”
“In that case, as your nurse it’s my responsibility to get you good and clean.” Yeji’s kissing you again, soft and slow. “Come on now, let me give you a good, nice scrub.”
“Is this going to be a reciprocal thing, you wash my back, I wash yours?”
“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” Yeji slides off your cock, peeling herself off your sticky body, and lifts herself up and off the bed.
You watch as she stretches, her body a glorious mess of grace and sweat and cum, and for a moment you’re just in awe of her. She’s glowing, and she’s not even trying.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” Yeji winks, already sauntering away from you and towards the bathroom, her hips swaying, her ass calling for you with each perfect bounce. “It’s time for some serious physical therapy. Nurse’s orders.”
