Fen'Harel

As you hear the footsteps go from one stall to another you freeze, hand hovering over the coil of the XLR cable your boss told you to grab from the makeshift equipment room. It just so happens the room is pulling double duty as the members' prep area.

Who's stupid fucking idea was this?

The muffled bickering continued to come from the changing stall on the other side of the room.

You knew it was just Chaewon and Kazuha left to argue in there since you saw Yunjin, Sakura, and Eunchae already on set for the shoot ten minutes ago. From what you were hearing it was probably going to be a while before the other two joined them.

"Turn around, let me see the tag. Yeah, see? Backwards. You’re fucking hopeless."

"Shut up. Just help me get them off. Or on. Whatever. Fuck. Just fix it before my circulation gets cut off permanently."

Shhh-wip. They were definitely coming off.

Just focus on your job, that's all you should do. You pretend to untangle the cable in your hands to keep your mind occupied while the sounds from the stall become more and more distracting.

"They're soooo tight. I feel like I'm being vacuum sealed. Is this supposed to happen? Does Lululemon hate me?"

"It’s compression wear, unnie. It’s supposed to be tight," Kazuha teases. "They're just letting it sit on your hips like a pair of low rise pants. Are you going for a Y2K vibe or something? You have to pull them up more."

"Excuse me? I've been trying to pull them up! They won't move. It's stuck right here...uhn...on my thighs."

"Let me do it. You’re weak."

"Hey! I am not weak, I’m just...ah! Okay, watch your nails!"

"Stop wiggling, you’re making it worse. Just let me get the these up... there. See?"

"Oh my god, that feels so much better."

"Good. Now check the seam. Is it straight down the middle?"

"Middle of what?"

"Your butt, Chaewon. The seam. It needs to be centered or it'll look weird on camera."

Silence stretches for a moment, followed by the sound of more shuffling.

You swallow hard, staring at the wire in your hands as if it holds the secrets to the universe.

You are a professional.

You are part of the production staff.

You are here to move cables and set up lights, that's all.

Nothing else.

You are definitely not here to eavesdrop on two of the biggest celebs in the country discussing their butt seams.

"I don't know, it feels... crooked. Like, one side is riding up more than the other. Can you see it?"

"I'm looking. Turn towards the light so I can get a better look at it."

"The light? How's the light going to help? It's been flickering all day Kazuha."

"Just turn. Okay? Wait, I see what you mean. They are bunching up right here." A loud slap echoes through the stall, the sound of skin hitting skin. You jump, nearly dropping the cable. Is that what you think it was? "Right on your ass." Yeah, it was.

"It's bunching up?" Chaewon sounds horrified. "Why is it doing that? I thought these were expensive!"

"They are expensive. That’s why they fit like a glove and you just have to learn how to wear them. Hold still. Let me try to smooth it out."

"Ow... don't pull so hard!"

"I’m trying to fix it. Just chill the fuck out. I think it'll smooth out if I pull them up higher."

"Higher? They can't go any higher, if they get pulled up anymore, I’m going to get split the fuck in half."

You stare at the closed curtain that's serving as the door. The pop-up stall is just a metallic frame wrapped in grey velvet that doesn’t reach the floor letting you see two sets of feet shuffling around beneath the gap. Not like you're looking or anything.

You should leave.

Grab the cables and walk out the door. Just go back to the set, let them figure out what's going on with those leggings in peace. Unfortunately, or fortunately, your feet feel like they’ve been cemented to the floor.

"It's still not right, ughhhhh. There's no way I can go out there like this. The camera is going to pick up every little wrinkle and I'm going to get so much shit for it. I can already see the tweets."

"It’s not that bad, but you’re right. It’s being a little... problematic. I think we need a second opinion. Or a third set of hands."

"A third set of hands? Who's? Eunchae is gone. Yunjin is probably out there yapping to the director. Sakura is probably back to playing her Switch."

"There’s staff outside, right? I heard footsteps earlier."

You hold your breath. She heard footsteps earlier, YOUR footsteps.

"No, absolutely the fuck not," Chaewon balks immediately. "I am not asking some random fucking staff member to come inspect my butt. That’s embarrassing. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"It’s just clothes! Nothing more. We need the fit to look perfect. Director-nim is going to have a cow if we show up late to the shoot because you're self conscious about a seam." Kazuha gets louder. "HEY! Staff member! Can you come help us for a sec?"

"Kazuha, no!" Chaewon hisses.

Too late. The call has been made. You stand there, paralyzed, wondering if feigning sudden deafness is a viable career strategy. The velvet curtain parts a fraction, and Kazuha’s face peeks out. She spots you instantly, standing near the equipment rack like a statue in a museum.

Maybe she won't notice if you don't.... move.... a.... muscle.

"Oh, good," she says, a relieved smile breaking across her face as she waves you over. "You! Please, come over here. We have a code red, a fashion emergency."

You quickly glance at the exit, it’s twenty feet away. You could probably make it. If that's what you want to do.

"Please," Kazuha now pouting. "Chaewon is panicking and I’m losing my mind. We just need a quick check on the fit."

You're just helping them out, that's what you're boss would want you to do right?

Nodding slowly, you force your legs to move toward the stall. "I... I can help? What do you need?"

Grabbing your wrist the moment you're within range Kazuha pulls you into the stall. It’s cramped with a full length mirror, a small bench, and now there's three people fit into a space meant for one. It's so much hotter in here.

Chaewon's standing with her back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder with a face full of panic. Her outfit is... well, it’s hot... you mean a lot. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black bodysuit that hugs her torso like it's painted on, disappearing into the waistband of the black leggings you've been hearing so much about. Wonder where that goes. The leggings are indeed tight, very tight, sculpting her legs in a way that should probably be illegal. She looks incredible, but she also looks like she’s about to fight a ghost.

"Tell me I'm not crazy," Chaewon says the moment the curtain slides shut behind you, trapping you inside. "Look at this. Do you see that? Right there on the left cheek?"

Turning slightly she points to the back of her thigh.

Your brain short circuits and you have to force your jaw not to drop from the situation you find yourself in.

You are in a small, enclosed space with two insanely attractive women, and one of them is asking you to inspect her ass. HER ASS.

Just be cool, just be cool. You got this.

"It’s... bunching up," Kazuha explains off to the side, crossing her arms. She’s wearing black Lululemon shorts and a simple white tank top, looking effortlessly cool compared to Chaewon who is currently losing her mind. "The seam isn't sitting right either. We've tried pulling them up, smoothing them out, everything. But it keeps bunching up."

Clearing your throat you hope your voice doesn't crack. "It... uh... it looks like the sizing might be a little off?" It cracks. Fuck. "Or maybe the cut?"

Chaewon groans, dropping her head forward. "I knew it. I knew I shouldn't have had that extra water this morning. I'm bloated. I'm a potato."

"You're not a potato," Kazuha rolls her eyes, stepping forward. Looking at you, dead serious. "Can you just... check? Tell us if it's noticeable from a normal distance. Like, if you were standing behind me in line at a cafe, would you point and laugh?"

"I wouldn't point and laugh," you stammer, feeling your face heat up. "I'm not a monster."

"Good to know," Chaewon mutters, though she shoots you a small, suprisingly genuine? smile over her shoulder. "Just be honest. If it looks bad, tell me. I'll change. I'll wear something else, fuck it I'll wear sweatpants. I don't care."

"Okay," you manage to say. "I'll... take a look."

You step closer. Did the A/C break or something, it's so hot. Chaewon turns to face the mirror, her back to you. The seam in question runs vertically down the center of her ass.

What...

An...

Ass...

Sure enough, you see the problem, they are definitely bunching up on her left cheek and the seam is all sorts of fucked up.

"See?" Chaewon asks, now whispering. "It's tragic."

"It's barely noticeable," you lie, leaning in slightly to inspect it without actually touching. "It's just... what happens with this kind of fabric." What are you saying, you don't know anything about fabric. "Maybe if you move the waistband a bit?"

"We tried that," Kazuha chimes in, moving to stand on Chaewon's other side, looking at your reflection in the mirror with a playful smirk on her face. "You're being very polite. Just be honest. It's okay to say it looks weird. We’re all friends in here. Well, maybe acquaintances is the better word. Acquaintances who are trapped in a box together."

Just act like you know what you're talking about.

"I think it just needs to be smoothed out," you suggest, gesturing vaguely at the offending area acting like you have any sort of idea of what you're saying. "We should adjust the waistband first to get the seam lined up and then to get that bunched up part smooth we should pull the fabric around it to get rid of it. Then from there work our way up and smooth out anything else while making sure that seam is lined up right." There's no way that word vomit made any sense.

Kazuha nods. "That makes sense." HUH?

Looking at Chaewon, she says, "Just let him... err... let us try. You’ve been pulling at it for five minutes and it’s only getting worse. A fresh pair of hands might help."

Chaewon hesitates, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite you knowing her, knowing?, as someone who seems super confident all the time, you can see how nervous she is now. "Okay," she breathes out. "Deal, but be easy on me, I’m a delicate."

"Right, I'll be gentle. Got it."

Kazuha snorts. "Don't worry, she usually likes it rough... OWWW! What the fuck Chaewon?"

Chaewon elbows her in the ribs, hard. "Ignore her. She's crazy. Just... fix it."

You step in closer, invading her personal space getting so close close that you can see the hard work she's put into her body thanks to the skintight bodysuit. So close that you can now smell the hint of her perfume.

Just be cool.

Reaching out, your hands hover for a split second before making contact with the fabric.

It’s warm. That’s the first thing that you notice as you place your hands on her hips, your fingers splaying out over the waistband. Chaewon tenses up instantly as she tries to hide a gasp.

"Sorry... cold hands."

"It's... fine... just... do your thing."

Gripping the waistband, you try to ignore the fact that you are essentially holding her hips. WHAT? "Ready?"

"As ready as ever."

As you twist the waistband, the seam falls into place, it actually works.

"First part done." Continue to act cool, you got this.

As you line up where to pull to get rid of the bunching you sense Kazuha watching you like a hawk from the side. Don't fuck up, don't fuck up, don't fuck up.

"Make sure you pull it tight," Kazuha instructs. "Like, really tight."

You pinch fabric right in the area right below where her thigh meets her cheek making Chaewon shiver.

"You good...?" you ask, pausing.

"Yeah," she squeaks. "Just... go ahead."

As you pull the fabric down it stretches easily, sliding over her skin as the bunching goes away. Now for the last part.

"Okay, now you just have to make sure everything is smoothed out," Kazuha commands. " Work your way up and do it slowly to make sure that seam doesn't budge."

You start to slide your hands back up using your palms to smooth the fabric against her skin as you go, making sure it lays flat. Your hands graze over the swell of her ass, her ass is ridiculous. Hyper aware of every inch of contact, the friction of your skin against hers even though a thin layer of spandex is in the way gives you goosebumps.

"Is that... is that better?" Chaewon asks, barely whispering.

"ALMOST," you say way too loudly. "There's still a little bit of a twist right here."

Your hands are currently cupping her ass, your fingers digging in slightly to adjust the seam, you're basically manhandling her as you try to iron out the wrinkles in her leggings with your bare hands. Is this actually happening, like what the fuck?

"Here," Kazuha says as she steps up behind you. Reaching out, covers your hand with hers on Chaewon’s left cheek. "Push it like this. You have to really get in there to make sure it stays flat."

She presses your hand harder into Chaewon’s flesh. "Unnf!" Was that a moan? Chaewon clamps her mouth shut, her eyes squeezing shut in the mirror.

"Kazuha!" she chokes out. "Too hard!"

"That's how you do it though!" Kazuha laughs, squeezing your hand before letting go. "Feel the difference?"

Right.

Adjusting your grip, your thumbs press into the crease beneath her cheek. You can feel the heat radiating off her, and you’re pretty sure your face is bright red.

"Like this?"

"Mmm," Chaewon hums as her head drops forward. "Yeah. That feels... that feels good... I mean right. Yeah... right."

"Don't encourage him," Kazuha teases, leaning in closer to inspect your work. "Okay, looking better. Just keep... smoothing it out. Up and down. Work it out."

You do as you're told for what felt like an eternity as tried to smooth things out as best as you could. Am I just giving her a massage at this point? Chaewon made it seem that way with how flustered her reflection looked and how her breathing started to get more and more shallow. Then, out of nowhere, she shook it off.

"You know I think I'm... it's good, actually," Chaewon mutters, though her weight shifts slightly into your palms. "Problem solved."

"Nice work," Kazuha chirps, stepping back to cross her arms. "See? Teamwork makes the dream work. Now we just need to..."

Before she can finish the thought, her hands shoot out, wrapping around your wrists.

"Wait, we missed a spot. On the waistband."

"On the waistband?"

"Yeah, see right here," she explains, guiding your hands higher, forcing them up the curve of Chaewon's backside until your fingers are gripping the waistband again. "It's bunching up here now. We need to fix it."

"Kazuha, what are you..." Chaewon starts, but it's too late.

Kazuha suddenly yanks your hands downward, pulling the waistband down Chaewon's hips and dragging it all the way down to her thighs in one go.

"OHMYGOD!" Chaewon yelps, instinctively arching her back to stabilize herself.

OHMYGOD. There, just out in the open, is Chaewon's ass, completely bare save for the thong back of her black bodysuit disappearing between her cheeks, leaving absolutely nothing to your imagination. You can see that her skin is so smooth, her ass round, so fucking round...

and firm...

and tight, you mean right...

right in front of your growing fucking bulge.

"My bad," Kazuha shrugs, not sounding sorry at all. She releases your wrists but leaving your hands hovering there, almost cupping Chaewon's cheeks. "Slippery little devils, aren't they?"

"You did that on purpose!" Chaewon accuses, twisting around to glare at her groupmate. The movement jiggles her entire body in a way that makes your throat close.

"I was just helping," Kazuha defends with a wicked grin. "Besides, look at how smooth that area is now. Flawless."

You are frozen.

Look away, apologize, maybe if you literally pass out you can escape this. Your eyes are glued to the sight in front of you. It’s magnificent, might be... no... is the greatest thing you've ever seen. It’s also career suicide.

"Are you just going to stare?" Chaewon asks breathless and flustered. "You can... help pull them back up. Or something."

"Right," you choke out. "Yeah. Pulling. Them. Up."

Reaching for the waistband pooling around her thighs your knuckles graze the bare skin of her ass. You hook your fingers into the waistband, preparing to hoist it back up, but the angle is awkward, you’re too close to her.

"Use both hands," Kazuha says, moving to stand behind you now, crowding your back, her chest pressing against your shoulder blades. "Get a good grip. You have to really yank it."

"I'm trying."

Shifting your stance, you lean forward, bringing your hands down to the waistband at her thighs. As you squat a little to get better leverage, your right hand slips and your palm definitely doesn't find the spandex. Instead, it slides right up the middle, grazing the thong.

HER THONG.

It’s not just warm.

It’s wet.

You freeze. As your eyes snap up to Chaewon's reflection in the mirror her face is now bright red.

She saw you feel it.

She knows you felt it.

"Fuck," you whisper, snatching your hand back like you touched a stove. "Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's fine," Chaewon says quickly, too quickly. She clears her throat, turning her face away from yours. "Just... hurry up and fix it, okay?"

"Wow," Kazuha breathes against your ear, having not moved away at all. If anything, she's pressed even closer. "That's... interesting. You having some technical difficulties there, Chaewon-unnie? Or are you just enjoying the help?"

"Shut the fuck up, Kazuha," Chaewon snaps, but there's no real heat in it. Just panic. "It's just... nerves. The... shoot. You know how I get... right?"

"Nerves?" Kazuha laughs. "I don't think nerves get you wet like that, unnie. That's a whole different kind of feeling you're having."

"Look..." Chaewon says looking at you in the mirror, her eyes pleading. "Can you just... can you not say anything about any of this? Please?"

"I won't," you promise, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I swear. My lips are sealed."

"That's not the only thing you want from him, is it?" Kazuha teases. She reaches around you, her hand finding your wrist again. She guides your hand back toward Chaewon, not toward the leggings this time, but higher, toward the damp fabric of the bodysuit. "If it's bothering you... we should fix it. Right? He's been a good help so far."

"What are you doing?" Chaewon gasps, watching the reflection. She doesn't move away, she instead actually pushes her hips back, into your touch.

"I'm just helping a friend out," Kazuha says looking at you in the mirror. "Filming a video while she's like this? This wet? That wouldn't work. Help a girl out."

"Help her how?" you ask, barely audible. You know exactly what she's suggesting you do. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?

"Use your mouth," Kazuha whispers, pressing her hips against your ass. "She wants it. Look at her. She's practically begging for it."

"Uhhnnn," Chaewon lets out. She drops her head forward, resting her forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. "God, yes. Okay? Fine. Fuck. Yes. Please. Just... fix it."

Fuck it. Operating purely on instinct now, every rule you've ever learned about workplace conduct has just been tossed out the window into the alleyway behind the studio. You sink to your knees behind her. The view is even more incredible as this angle, her ass with that tiny, wet scrap of black fabric barely hanging on now fully in your face.

"You're sure?" you ask, needing to hear it one last time. No way this is real.

"Do it before I change my mind," Chaewon hisses.

You lean in and the smell of her heat hits you. Fuck... this is real. Fuck formalities. Fuck teasing. You press your face right against her, your tongue flat against her soaked thong.

"FUCK!" Chaewon cries out, her knees buckling bracing her hands against the mirror to not fall.

You lick a long stripe up the center of the fabric, tasting her through it. This is crazy. You want to slide the thong to the side so bad, but it's so hard to pull your mouth away for just a second. Latched onto her, you suck hard, feeling the heat and wetness against your lips.

"Oh my god," Kazuha says from above you, delighted. "Look at that. He's starving, good boy."

Ignoring her, your focus is entirely on Chaewon and her moaning. You can feel her clenching, desperate for more.

"Slide the thong over alreadyyy," Chaewon whines, reaching back blindly. Her fingers scrabble against your hair, then dip lower to the latch between her legs. "Take it off. Do something, just get rid of it. I need... I need your tongue on me."

You take your mouth off, as much as you don't want to. There's a soft click as you unsnap the part covering her core. The thong part of the bodysuit falls away. You don't waste a second and right back dive in, burying your face in her bare folds.

The way she tastes as you lap at her folds, it's insane. You then swirl your tongue around her clit before sucking it. She's sooo wet, so ready, that you feel it on your face already.

"Ahhhh! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Chaewon's hips buck back against your face. "Yessss! Right fucking there! Don't you dare stop!"

Following exactly what she says, you don't stop, you want to make her fall apart. Your nose presses against her other hole, adding a dirty pressure that makes her gasp, while your tongue fucks her entrance in rapid, shallow thrusts.

"You're making quite the mess," Kazuha observes as you hear her start to move. "Look at him go. He's not even coming up for air."

You try to glance up, your vision filled with the curve of Chaewon's ass. Kazuha is leaning back against the bench, her own Lululemon shorts now pulled down to her knees revealing a white Calvin Klein thong. Her hand is deep down the front of it, moving in slow, deliberate circles.

"Are you seeing this Zuha?" Chaewon pants, her eyes opening to meet her friend's gaze in the mirror. "Are you seeing how fucking good he is at this?"

"Yesss... fuck... it looks... it looks like it feels fucking amazing. He's really into it, it has to feel sooooo good."

"He's soooo...," Chaewon whines, dropping her head again. "It feels so good. I'm not... I'm not going to last long if he keeps this up."

"Don't hold back," Kazuha fingers move faster. "Let him fucking have it. Cover his face."

The dirty talk is spiraling out of control, pushing all of you toward the edge. You double down, sucking on Chaewon's clit with hard, rhythmic pulses. Moving your head down a bit to slip two fingers inside of her, fuck that's tight, you hook them to find that spot that drives women crazy.

"Oh fuckkkkk! Fingers too?" Chaewon screams. "I'm gonna... I'm cumming! Fuck! I'm fucking cumming!"

Her entire body tenses as her back arches and thighs shake. The walls clamp down squeezing so tight around your fingers. She cums as she lets out a long broken moan. You help her ride it out, tongue still deep in her folds until she pulls away gasping for air.

"Hollllllyyyy fuck," Chaewon slides down the mirror until she's crouching on the floor. "That was... that was insane, what the actual fuck? Was not expecting you to be THAT good."

Kazuha pulls her fingers out from her thong, you see how wet they are as moves to stand right in front of you.

You look up at her cleaning your face of Chaewon's juices with your heart still racing.

"I need some help with something too."

Kazuha hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her thong to slide it down her legs before kicking it aside. What a sight. "Stand up... now."

You do.

Kazuha grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you towards the front of the bench. Guess you won't be catching your breath. She then lifts her leg and puts her foot on the bench beside you.

"I now have the same exact problem, think you can fix it like you fixed hers?"

So you do just that, first leaning forward to kiss her lips and then slowly you make your way down her neck before you sit on the ground in front of the bench. Her folds are right in front of you now and she’s just as beautiful as Chaewon. What is your life?

You start licking her, wanting to cover every inch. Kazuha is vocal immediately, her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. Your hands grab her ass to help her maintain her balance.

"Just... like... that," she groans, her head falling back. "Your mouth is... fuck. You're so fucking good at this."

While you're deep in her folds, you hear the distinct sound of a belt unbuckling.

Your belt.

"Look at this," Chaewon murmurs as her face is now near your waist. "Seems like someone's been soooo hard this whole time."

She unzips your pants and yanks them down your legs along with your briefs, freeing your length. It slaps against your stomach. Fuck. Your hips jerk forward and let out a small moan.

"Oh... he's big," Chaewon wraps her hand around the base giving you an test squeeze. "And thick."

"Don't distract him," Kazuha pants, looking down at you. "I'm close."

You redouble your efforts on Kazuha, flicking your tongue rapidly over her clit while slipping a finger inside her the same way you made Chaewon cum. She’s tighter than Chaewon, her muscles grip you like a vice. She grinds her hips against your face, trying to reach the edge.

Then you suddenly have to stop because you feel something so amazing that you feel your soul almost leave your body.

A wet warmth envelops the tip of your length.

You look down just as Chaewon takes you deeper into her mouth as she’s on her hands and knees with her ass in the air. Watching her, she bobs her head up and down your shaft, she takes you so deep. Every time she goes down you feel her throat relax to fit you in and every time she comes up her tongue swirls around your head while you can feel the pool of saliva slowly form around your base.

"Fuuucckkk," you moan against Kazuha's core.

The sensation is overwhelming as you eat out one gorgeous idol while getting the blowjob of your life from another.

"Does her... does her mouth feel good?" Kazuha asks, watching Chaewon work. "Looks like she really... fuck... she really knows what she's doing, she's always told me she's reallllll good at that, no gag reflex at all."

You nod as the words don't, can't, come to mind, as you switch to sucking on Kazuha's clit, grazing it gently with your teeth.

"Ohhhhh! Yesss!" Kazuha cries out. "Keep... keep doing that! Please. Fuck. Fuck, I'm going to cum!"

You keep up the same rhythm, your finger pumping in and out of her as you continue to suck on her clit. Down below, Chaewon's hand is now twisting and sliding up and down your length faster and faster in unison with her mouth. She moans to add even more to what you think is the best thing you've ever felt. Do not cum, you don't want this to end, ever.

"I'm fuck... I think I'm cu... I'm so close," Kazuha's thighs begin to tremble on either side of your head. "Please... please please don't stop doing that, I need this so bad!"

With a final cry Kazuha cums and her juices flood your mouth as you keep her upright through it, still gripping her ass. Never plan on letting go of this amazing ass. Holding your head in place she grinds against you until she's spent.

"Fuckkkkk," she releases her grip on your hair and slumps back against the bench, looking down at you cum drunk. "That was... so fucking good."

You finally let go of her folds. Breathe. You haven't been able to for a while. Gasping for air, your face is slick with a combo of both of their juices. Chaewon is still working your length with all of the enthusiasm. Fuck, you might die right here, right now. She looks up at you and pops you out of her mouth.

"We're not finished yet," pumping your saliva coated shaft with her hand.

She leans forward and runs her tongue up the underside of your shaft to the head and swirls it, without breaking eye contact.

"Are you close? I want... no... need you to cum in my mouth. I want to taste you so bad. Do you think you can do that for me?"

"I don't think so," Kazuha clamps her hand down on Chaewon’s shoulder to pull her back. "Not yet. He not getting off that easy."

Chaewon blinks. "What? That's not fair... ughhhhhhh," actually pouting as she’s dragged away from your lap. "But he's so ready. Look at him."

"Exactly. If he cums now, the fun is over. We can't have that, I don't know about you but I still want to have some fun."

Yep. You're going to die here.

Your length throbs in the open air twitching at the sheer unfairness of the situation. Just beg for mercy, that might work. Kazuha points a finger at the bench.

"Sit."

Fine, if this is your final resting place, so bet it.

The awkwardness in how you scramble and fumble towards the bench with your pants now around your ankles will go down as the most thing to ever happen.

Maybe they didn't see it.

"Good boy," Kazuha says before turning towards Chaewon. "Go on, hop on."

Definitely don't need to tell Chaewon twice. The leggings immediately come the rest of the way off. If only they were that easy to put on. She comes over to the bench and puts her knees on either side of you with her core directly above you tip.

"God, I want you to feel how wet I still am because of you." She reaches down and grips your shaft to line you up with her entrance, your tip now grinding against her slick entrance. God she's still dripping wet. "You feel that? I think I'm ready, hope you are."

"Go on Chaewon, ride him already," Kazuha urges, standing right beside you two, arms crossed over her chest. "Show him how the leader handles it."

"Oh I will." Chaewon sinks down.

She’s tight...

incredibly tight...

but so wet.

You slide in with one smooth, glide.

HOLY FUCK, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

Her walls stretch around you to fit all of you in.

You let out a groan like you never have before.

"Fuckkkkk," Breathe. "You're... just... fuck."

"What? Am I... am I too tight?" Chaewon pitchy and breathless. She starts to move, she lifts her hips up and the drops them down. "You feel so huge inside me."

"Good fucking lord, you feel unreal," you manage to gasp out.

The rhythm set by Chaewon is nothing short of desperate. She braces her hands on your shoulders for, you feel her nails dig in. Her ass slaps against your thighs with every downward thrust. The sound of it. The fucking sound of it.

Plap.

Plap.

Plap.

Your mind processes it in slow motion as you just try to survive.

"Look at that," Kazuha watched intently. She reaches out to poke Chaewon’s bouncing ass cheek. "You're really taking it all. Look at how much he's stretching you out."

"Zuha, don't you dare fucking distract me," Chaewon grinds down harder, making your eyes roll back.

"Distract you? I'm giving you a compliment." Kazuha leans in closer to your face locking into your eyes. "Does she feel good? Is her tight little pussy gripping you tight?"

"Fuck," you choke out, nodding. "So... so so good. Best I've ever felt."

"That's fucking right I am," Chaewon pants. She mashes her chest against yours, seeking out your mouth. You kiss her, messy and wet, tongues tangling as she continues to bounce on your lap.

You can feel the pressure building in your core. Don't know how much longer... so close.

"Fuck... slow down before I cum, I can't take much longer of you going this fast."

"No, that's not allowed, not yet." Chaewon squeezes her internal muscles deliberately.

Your hips buck up involuntarily in response.

"Just hold it a little longer, I'm so close, let me cum first."

"She's sooo demanding today," Kazuha laughs. "Better give the leader what she wants. Grab her hips, help her out."

You slide your hands down her back to grip her waist. Sliding yourself a little off the bench and using your elbows for leverage to thrust up into before she drops all the way down. Yeah this is the spot.

"Ohhhhh myyyyy...! Fuck! That's it... you're so fucking big... fuck!"

The sight of her is something else.

Her flushed face.

Her hair sticking to her forehead.

The way her bodysuit clings to her frame.

"I'm sooooo close... fuck! You ready for me to cum all over your cock! Fuck!"

She slams down onto you one last time. Her entire body seizes up. Her walls pulse around you while she buries her face in your neck to quiet her screams, her breath hot against your skin.

"That's a good fucking girl," Kazuha soothingly pats Chaewon’s back. "There's no way no one else heard how loud you were at all."

"Please just shut up for one sec Kazuha," Chaewon mumbles into your shoulder, still going through the aftershocks. She then looks at you, "Wow. Just wow."

She lifts herself off you slowly, your length sliding out of her with a wet schlick. A string of precum connects you for a moment before breaking. You’re still rock hard, needing to cum, but you know how this is going to go.

"You know what I'm going to say" Kazuha shoves Chaewon gently to the side.

Kazuha turns around shoving that fit ass in your face.

"I want you to watch my ass while I ride you."

She squats all the way down your length to the base.

God how is it this tight. HOW?

"Fuck me, you're so thick."

Kazuha leans back to put her head on your shoulder. She then starts to bounce up and down.

You reach around her body to grab onto her perky breasts. Her nipples are so hard. You pinch them, and she lets out a sharp hiss.

"Harder, I need you to pinch them harder."

You obey and pinch them as hard as you can while she continues to ride.

Watching her ass cheeks ripple every time they hit your thighs is going to be engrained in your mind. She’s incredible.

"Look at us. Two idols, using a staff member like a fucking toy in a changing stall. It's so hot, isn't it?"

"Soooooo... fucking.... hot."

Just thing about baseball or sitting in traffic or LITERALLY ANTYHING.

"Chaewon-unnie, look. Look how much he's stretching me out. It feels so good."

Chaewon lifts her head from her hands, still cum drunk. "It does. He's hitting that same spot he did with me, isn't he?"

"He is. He's fills me up so fucking good. But I need more. I want it harder."

She grabs onto your knees and slams herself down even harder.

PLAP.

PLAP.

PLAP.

In the mirror you see her start to quickly rub her clit.

"Fuck fuck fuck. Yes yes yes yes. Yes!"

You thrust up into her, matching her pace. Every muscle in your body is tense as you try not to cum.

"Come on Zuha," Chaewon encourages, reaching out to stroke Kazuha’s hair. "Cum for him. Soak his cock."

A final, sharp cry then Kazuha gets over that edge. Her back arches against your chest as her orgasm rips through her. She cries out and her walls clamp down.

You freeze, holding your breath.

Not yet, whatever you do, do not cum yet. Don't let this end.

Kazuha slumps against you to catch her breath. It doesn't take that long before she pulls herself off you. Your cock plops out so wet with her. She stands up on shaky legs.

"Fuck, that felt great. How the fuck did you not cum?"

Sweat drips down your forehead. "I'm fucking dying here. I didn't want this to end."

You look at Chaewon, she still has that post orgasm glow. You remember the position she was in when you first entered the stall.

"Get over here." The authority in your tone surprises even you.

Chaewon’s eyes widen. She knows exactly what you want.

"Bend over. Just like you were when I was fixing your leggings."

She bends and sticks her ass out.

"Like this?" she looks back with a smirk.

"Fuckkkkk yes," you growl.

You stand up, finally shoving your pants all the way off. Thankfully not as awkward as before. Linking yourself up behind her, you grip her hips.

"You going to fucking fill me up?" she teases as she wiggles her ass.

"You better believe it."

You push inside.

God it feels so much deeper this way. You bottom out almost immediately, your hips pressing against her ass. Chaewon lets out a loud moan.

You don't wait.

You can't afford to.

You start to thrust, hard and fast.

You take her exactly the way you wanted to since the moment you heard her struggling with those stupid spandex pants.

"Yessssss! Fuck me! Use me!"

The sound of your hips slamming against her ass is so loud. Probably too loud. The stall is shaking with the force of your thrusts.

"Fuck that's hot," Kazuha says from the bench. "Stretch her out. Make her beg for more."

"He's stretching me out so fucking much! It's so deep!"

You reached out, gathering her hair in your fist and pull her head back.

"You like that? You like taking my big thick cock?"

"I love it! I love your fucking cock! It's so thick! It's stretching this tight pussy out so fucking much!" The filth pouring out of her mouth is so dirty, desperate, and it drives you wild.

This is it, you can't last any longer.

"Cum inside me... fuck! Please please please! I want it! I need you to fucking fill this pussy up!"

"Beg for it," Kazuha chimes in. "Beg him."

"PLEASE! Please cum in me! I'm a dirty little slut! My pussy needs your cum! Paint my insides! Own this pussy! It's yours!"

That’s it. That’s the trigger.

"FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK!!!"

You slam your hips against her ass one last time, trying to go as deep as possible. You vision starts to go and your body locks up.

FUCK.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life. It feels like it lasts forever as you flood her with cum. She's squeezing so tight around you, milking you dry.

"Yes! Yes! I can feel it! It... it feels... FUCK... it's so fucking good!" her body shakes violently.

You freeze, you both just freeze, trying to catch your breath.

The world slowly comes back into focus. You pull out and see your release run down her thigh.

"Holy fucking shit."

"Yeah... holy shit."

"Bravo, bravo. What a fucking show," Kazuha quips, tossing a pack of wet wipes from her bag at you.

You catch them even with your still shaking hands. You start to help Chaewon clean herself up when the sound of someone clearing their throat comes from just outside the curtain.

A very familiar, very polite throat clearing.

"Chaewon? Kazuha?" Sakura calls out, cheerful and completely oblivious to the absolute depravity that just went down three feet away from her face. "Manager-nim says we have five minutes until the camera rolls. Are you guys doing okay in there?"

Chaewon’s eyes go so so so wide. She looks at you, then at Kazuha, panic replacing her post orgasm glow.

"We'll be out in a bit Kkura-unnie!" Kazuha yells back, somehow calm as a cucumber. She looks at the two of you and smirks. "We had a... problem with the leggings. We're fixing it now."

"Okay! Don't be late!" You hear her footsteps leave the room and go back down the hallway.

What in the fuck just happened? Did that actually happen?

"We are definitely going to be late."

Chaewon just laughs as she quickly pulls her leggings back up.

I got the tickets for the TWICE Berlin concert. This was for their world tour, and somehow, miraculously, I managed to secure front row seats. For weeks leading up to the show, I hoped, really hoped, that the members would come down from the stage and greet the fans up close. I'd seen videos from other tour stops where they interacted with the crowd, and I prayed Berlin would be no different.

The Mercedes-Benz Arena was electric, pulsating with energy from thousands of ONCEs. The concert had been everything I dreamed of, explosive performances, stunning visuals, and the girls looking more beautiful in person than any screen could capture. Now, as the night wore on, the concert was almost nearing its end. Only one hour was left before the final bows.

Then it happened.

Jihyo, the leader, the powerhouse vocalist, the woman whose presence commanded every inch of that stage, decided to step down and greet the fans. She ran along the barricade, her smile radiant, giving high fives to everyone within reach. My heart hammered against my ribs as she approached. When her hand met mine, the contact was brief but electric, warm, soft, real. But as she moved past me toward the next section of fans, I noticed something that made my blood boil.

The guy beside me, some tall, lanky man with greedy eyes, had held onto her hand for far too long. Not just that, but as she pulled away, I watched in disbelief as he slipped his fingers around hers and removed her ring. He brought it close to his face, turning it over, examining it like some trophy he'd won.

"Hey!" I snapped, grabbing his wrist hard. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He startled, trying to pull away. "I-I was just looking-"

"Just looking?" I cut him off, my voice rising above the music. "You stole her ring! Are you insane? That's not a souvenir, you creep! That's her personal property! She trusted us enough to come down here and you repay that by stealing from her?"

"Give it back," he muttered, shoving the ring toward me.

I snatched it from his palm, my fingers trembling with anger. "Get out of here before I call security myself. You're disgusting."

He slinked away into the crowd as I closed my fist around the delicate band. It was beautiful, simple but elegant, probably with sentimental value. I looked up toward the stage, wondering if I should try to signal someone, but the music was still pounding and the lights were flashing.

Then I saw her.

Jihyo had returned to the stage, but something was wrong. She was looking down at her hand, then patting her pockets, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. She approached the edge of the stage, standing right above where I was, and held up her hand. She pointed to her ring finger, the empty space where the band should have been, and looked out at the crowd with questioning eyes.

My heart stopped. I immediately waved both hands above my head, jumping slightly to catch her attention. When her eyes locked onto me, I slowly opened my palm to reveal the ring glinting under the stage lights. I pointed at it, then gestured toward her, mouthing "Should I throw it?"

She shook her head vigorously, signaling no. Then, to my astonishment, she moved toward the stairs at the side of the stage and came back down.

The crowd around me erupted in excited whispers as she approached. My hand shook as I held out the ring, expecting her to simply take it from my palm. But as she reached me, something came over me, some boldness I didn't know I possessed. Instead of dropping it into her hand, I reached out and gently took her left hand in mine.

Her eyes widened, dark and luminous, as I carefully slid the ring onto her finger. The touch of her skin against mine was soft, warm, impossibly intimate. I adjusted the band until it sat perfectly in place, my thumb brushing over her knuckle before I let go.

She was stunned, I could see it in the parting of her lips, the slight hitch in her breath, but she didn't stop me. She let me finish, let me hold her hand for that suspended moment in time. When I finally released her, she didn't immediately pull away. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that made the world around us disappear.

It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn't breathe. My lungs seemed to forget how to function as Jihyo maintained that eye contact, her expression softening into something I couldn't quite read, gratitude mixed with curiosity, perhaps. My heart hammered so hard I was certain she could hear it over the music.

Then she turned and spoke quickly to a security woman standing nearby, a stern-looking German woman with a headset. Jihyo gestured toward me, said something I couldn't hear, and then hurried back to the stage to continue the concert.

The security woman stared at me. Her eyes were cold, assessing, making me feel like I'd done something wrong even though I'd only returned what was stolen. She maintained that gaze throughout the remaining hour of the concert, never looking away, never smiling.

When the final song ended and the girls took their bows, I was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Sadness that the concert was over, that the magic was dissipating. But happiness, pure, radiant happiness, that the moment with Jihyo had happened at all. That I'd touched her hand, looked into her eyes, placed a ring on her finger like some scene from a dream.

I filed out with the crowd, my mind still replaying that eye contact, the softness of her skin. But as I reached the exit corridor, a hand grabbed my arm.

It was the same security woman from before.

"Come with me," she said in accented English, her tone leaving no room for argument.

My stomach dropped. I thought I'd done something wrong by keeping the ring instead of immediately throwing it, or perhaps Jihyo was angry about how intimate the moment had become. Maybe the company staff had called me in to give me a warning, or worse, ban me from future events.

My thoughts raced as she led me through corridors I didn't know existed, past staff-only doors, deeper into the backstage area. Finally, she stopped in front of a door with a paper sign taped to it that simply read "Jihyo" in handwritten Hangul.

"Go in," the security woman said, pointing.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the handle. Every instinct told me to run, that this was a mistake. But curiosity and something else, hope, maybe, pushed me forward. I turned the handle and stepped inside.

The room was warm, lit by soft vanity lights. And there she was, Park Jihyo, no longer the idol on stage but a woman removing her jewelry piece by piece, wiping makeup from her face with cotton pads. She looked smaller somehow, more human, more real. She looked up as I entered, and my heart stopped all over again.

"Close the door," she said softly, her voice carrying that distinctive tone I knew from interviews, warm, slightly husky, melodious even in simple speech.

I pushed the door shut behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the small room.

"Sit," she gestured to a chair near her vanity. "Please."

I sat, my hands clammy, my mind screaming that this couldn't be real.

She turned to face me fully, her face half-bare now, makeup removed from one cheek. Without the stage cosmetics, she looked younger, more vulnerable, but no less beautiful. If anything, the naturalness of her skin, the slight redness where she'd been rubbing, made her more stunning.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, her English careful but clear. "For the ring. It was... a very important gift from my mother."

I nodded, finding my voice. "I-I saw that guy take it. I couldn't just let him keep it."

"You were angry," she observed, a small smile playing at her lips. "I saw you yelling at him. Even from the stage, I could see your face was red."

"He had no right to touch you like that," I said, the indignation rising again even now. "To steal from you. You were kind enough to come down to us, and he repaid that by..."

"By stealing," she finished. "Yes."

She stood up and walked closer, her concert outfit still on, a sparkling top and skirt that caught the light. "Fans touch me all the time," she said quietly. "High fives, handshakes, sometimes they try to grab. It is part of the job. But tonight... when you held my hand to put the ring on..." She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "It felt different."

My breath caught. "Different how?"

"Like..." She searched for words, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Like a fantasy come true. The way you did it, so gentle, so careful. Looking into my eyes. It felt unreal. Like something from a drama."

The air in the room seemed to thicken. I could smell her perfume, something floral and warm, mixed now with the scent of sweat from performing, which somehow made it more intimate.

"I have another fantasy," she said, her voice dropping lower, taking on a quality that made my skin prickle with heat. "One I've never told anyone."

I swallowed hard. "What is it?"

Her eyes darkened, becoming heavy-lidded, seductive. She reached up and slowly began unclipping her earrings, one by one, her gaze never leaving mine. "I've always wondered," she said, setting the earrings on her vanity with deliberate slowness, "what it would be like to have a fan watch me change. To see me... completely."

My mouth went dry. "Jihyo..."

"Don't speak," she whispered, her fingers moving to the zipper at the side of her skirt. "Just watch."

She slowly pulled the zipper down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. The skirt loosened and she let it fall, stepping out of it with a grace that made my chest ache. She was wearing stockings underneath, attached to a garter, and simple black underwear that contrasted sharply with her fair skin.

"You look shocked," she teased, her voice breathy now. "Have you never imagined this? All those times you watched me on stage, on screen... did you never wonder what was underneath?"

"I... yes," I admitted, my voice rough. "I've imagined."

"Good," she purred, reaching for the hem of her top. She pulled it up slowly, revealing her toned stomach, the curve of her ribs, and finally, her breasts, encased in a delicate lace bra. She tossed the top aside and reached behind her, unhooking the bra with practiced ease.

When it fell away, I couldn't suppress the groan that escaped me. Her breasts were perfect, full, with dark nipples that hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. She saw me looking and smiled, a knowing, seductive smile.

"You like what you see?" she asked, cupping them slightly, lifting them as if offering them to my gaze.

"You're beautiful," I managed. "More than I ever imagined."

She laughed softly, a throaty sound. "Still so polite. Even now." She hooked her thumbs into her underwear and pushed them down, stepping out of them completely. Now she stood before me naked, unashamed, her body lit by the warm vanity lights, every curve, every secret place exposed.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the chair I sat in.

I nodded, unable to speak.

She approached slowly, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made me dizzy. She placed her hands on my knees, spreading them slightly to make room for herself. Then she leaned forward, her bare chest pressing against my clothed one, her face inches from mine. I could feel her heat through the fabric, could smell the sweetness of her breath.

"Is this okay?" she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.

"Yes," I breathed. "God, yes."

She pulled back slightly, her hands sliding up my thighs, her breasts pressing harder against my chest. We were so close now, our mouths almost touching, her eyes half-closed with desire,

A sharp knock at the door made us both jump.

Jihyo's eyes went wide with panic. "Hide!" she whispered urgently, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "Quickly! Behind the outfit rack!"

She pushed me toward a rolling clothing rack filled with costumes and stage outfits. I squeezed behind it, crouching down as she grabbed whatever clothes she could find, a oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, and threw them on haphazardly.

"Coming!" she called out, her voice miraculously steady.

The door opened. "Jihyo-unnie?" It was Momo's voice, recognizable anywhere. "Have you seen the manager? My phone isn't working and I need to call my family."

"Ah, no, I haven't seen him," Jihyo replied, her voice slightly breathless but controlled. "Maybe check the catering area?"

"Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you while you're changing."

"It's fine, Momo. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, unnie."

After Momo left, Jihyo breathed, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to release the panic from her body. She leaned her forehead against the door, her hand still gripping the handle, her chest heaving beneath the oversized t-shirt she'd thrown on.

"That was too close," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She almost caught us. She would have known, she would have seen..."

I stepped out from behind the clothing rack, my heart still hammering from the near-miss. "But she didn't," I said softly. "We're safe."

Jihyo turned to face me, her eyes wide and dark, still flushed with adrenaline. "I can't believe I just did that. I've never... I've never hidden a man in my dressing room before."

I slowly approached her, my movements deliberate, giving her space to back away if she wanted to. But she didn't move. She watched me come closer, her lips parted, her breath quickening again, for a different reason now. When I reached her, I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. Her hands immediately interlocked behind my neck, her fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight.

I let my hands slide down, cupping her thighs, lifting her slightly so she could feel all of me. My erection was hard against her stomach, impossible to hide, pressing insistently through my jeans. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt it, her body arching into mine.

"You're so hard," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "You really want me that much?"

"More than anything," I growled.

I kissed her slowly, the way they do in the Korean dramas she starred in, the first touch was just a slight brush of lips, tentative and soft, testing the waters. But then I dove right in, capturing her mouth fully, my tongue sweeping across her lower lip until she opened for me. Our tongues met, sliding against each other in a wet, heated dance. I explored her mouth thoroughly, tasting the mint from her backstage breath freshener mixed with something uniquely her. The kiss deepened, our heads tilting, mouths opening wider, tongues stroking and curling together in a rhythm that mimicked what we both desperately wanted.

I walked her backward until her back hit the door with a solid thud. The sound echoed in the small room, but I didn't stop. I pushed her harder against the wood, pinning her there with my body while my hands found the hem of her t-shirt and shoved it up above her tits. They bounced free, heavy and perfect, nipples already tight and begging for my mouth.

I bent my head and licked them, starting with the underside, tracing the swell of each breast with my tongue before circling closer to the center. I laved attention on her left nipple, sucking it deep into my mouth, rolling it against my tongue, feeling it harden even more. She moaned, her head falling back against the door with a soft knock. I moved to the right, giving it the same treatment, sucking, licking, grazing my teeth gently over the sensitive peak until she was squirming against me, her hips bucking involuntarily.

"Please," she whimpered. "Don't stop."

I turned her around, spinning her to face the door. Her tits pressed against the cool wood, her cheek turned to rest against the surface, her breath fogging the painted metal. I kept her shirt bunched up above her breasts, leaving them pinned against the door as I reached down and hooked my fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. I pulled them down in one swift motion, taking her underwear with them, exposing her completely from the waist down.

She was beautiful, her ass round and firm, the cleft between her cheeks shadowed and inviting. I dropped to my knees behind her, spreading her legs wider, and buried my face between her ass cheeks. I licked upward, dragging my tongue from her sensitive perineum all the way to the small of her back, then back down again. I found her pussy, already wet and swollen, and dove in, lapping at her folds with broad strokes of my tongue. I circled her entrance, teasing her, before pushing my tongue inside, feeling her muscles clench around me. I moved up to her clit, sucking it gently, flicking it rapidly with the tip of my tongue while she ground back against my face, her moans muffled against her arm.

"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her hips bucking. "Right there, please, right there..."

I spun her around again, her back hitting the door now, her face flushed and desperate. I attacked her neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered, leaving marks that would be hidden by stage makeup tomorrow. She was moaning loudly now, her hands gripping my hair, her thighs trembling.

But then she bit her lip, hard, her teeth sinking into the plush flesh, her eyes showing a flicker of reason through the haze of lust. "Wait," she gasped, even as I dropped my mouth to her tits again, sucking one nipple deep while my hand rolled the other between my fingers. "We... we have to stop. We can't... not here, not now..."

She pulled me up by my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, and captured my mouth in a fierce kiss. When we broke apart, both panting, she looked at me with dark, hungry eyes, her lip still bearing the indentations of her teeth.

"I love how horny you are for me," she whispered, her hand sliding down to palm my erection through my jeans, making me groan. "I can feel how much you want me. It's driving me crazy. But if we get caught... if anyone finds out..." She kissed me again, softer this time. "I want you. God, I want you so much. But not like this, not rushed, not terrified."

She pulled her shirt down, covering her breasts, then bent to pull her pants up, her movements quick and efficient. I watched, bereft, as she hid the body I'd just been worshipping. Then she placed her hands on my chest and pushed me backward. I stumbled and sat hard in the chair I'd occupied earlier.

Jihyo walked to her vanity mirror, adjusting her clothes, smoothing her hair, wiping at her swollen lips with the back of her hand. She met my eyes in the reflection, her gaze heated and promising.

"Instead," she said, her voice steady now with resolve, "I can get you a job. On my personal staff. A fake resume, something related to makeup, styling. You could travel with me, be with me all the time. In hotel rooms. In private. Where we won't be interrupted." She turned to face me fully. "Would you want that?"

"Yes," I said, my voice hoarse. "Yes, I want that."

"Good," she whispered.

She crossed the room to me, her hips swaying with renewed confidence. She stopped in front of my chair, then climbed onto my lap, straddling my hips, her thighs gripping me tight. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, inch by inch, until her breasts were exposed once more, right in front of my face, heavy, perfect, the nipples still wet from my mouth, glistening in the vanity light.

"For now," she said, her voice a seductive promise as she pressed her chest toward my mouth, offering herself completely, "let's seal the deal."

Suddenly, I feel his hand on my shoulder. It is a light touch, almost accidental, but to me, it’s as if a red-hot brand touched my skin. The brush of his fingers against the fabric of my blouse causes my nipples to harden instantly, projecting themselves with a painful tension against the clothes. I hate my body for this; I hate that it reacts with this nervous, suffocating arousal toward the man who has turned me into his toy. I feel dirty, as if there were an invisible stain spreading from my chest to my ass—a mark of ownership that only he can see.

He leans in a bit more, just enough for the heat of his breath to brush the curve of my ear. He says nothing else, but that silence is the cruelest tool of all. It is a reminder of everything we keep quiet, of the nightly agreements and the humiliation I accept day after day so that the rest of the world keeps believing I am the perfect daughter.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" he whispers, and his voice vibrates on my skin like a forbidden caress.

I close my eyes tight. In that instant, the sound of the kitchen vanishes. The scent of tea merges with the rancid smell of that hotel, and the warm afternoon light is replaced by the suffocating dimness of a memory I cannot erase. I feel the floor disappear beneath my feet and find myself sucked backward, back to the exact moment where my life fractured.

I feel the wetness on my thighs again, the pressure of strange bodies against mine, and that electric fear that paralyzed me for the first time. I go back to the beginning. Back to the first time I understood that my body no longer belonged to me, but was instead the price of a secret that was consuming me alive.

The cold early-morning air hit my face as soon as I closed the taxi door, but it wasn't enough to put out the fire I still felt beneath my skin. I walked toward the entrance of the house feeling like an intruder in my own life, my steps clumsy and my breathing heavy. I felt dirty; I smelled of tobacco, other people's perfumes, and that raw, animal scent of shared sex that seemed to have leaked into my pores. But as I moved through the dark hallway, an electric and treacherous sensation began to run down my spine, making me tremble—not from fear, but from a residual desire that felt suffocating.

I entered the house in silence, avoiding any noise that might alert my mother or my stepfather. But the silence only served to amplify what was happening inside my body. Every time I took a step, I felt the rub of my thighs and the friction of the clothes against my skin, and that simple contact was like an electric shock.

My tits were hypersensitive, almost painful. My nipples were so erect and tense that every time the fabric of my blouse brushed the tips, I let out a short, muffled gasp. It was an unbearable sensation: I hated myself for having sold my body, but at the same time, the memory of those hands squeezing my tits hard, molding them to their whim while I moaned, made a liquid heat begin to flow down my belly. I felt like a hypocrite; I told myself I was disgusted, but my body kept vibrating on the frequency of pleasure.

I reached my room and closed the door with my heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. I leaned against the cold wood and closed my eyes, and that was when the image of the threesome returned with violent clarity. I remembered the weight of the bodies on top of me, the feeling of being open and exposed, and the way my ass felt right now: hot, throbbing with a dull heaviness that reminded me I had been possessed without mercy. I could still feel the viscous trail between my legs, that residual wetness that made me feel marked, as if the seal of those men were still stuck to my pussy.

I put my hand in my pocket and touched the bills. The paper money was dry and cold, but touching it sent a wave of forbidden excitement through my entire body. It was the adrenaline of risk, the euphoria of having done something so degrading and having been paid for it. I felt dirty, yes, but it was a dirtiness that ignited my nerves.

I let myself slide down the door until I was sitting on the floor, legs open and breathing erratic. I brought a hand to my neck, touching the skin where someone had left a wet, strong kiss. Touching that mark, I let out a moan that echoed in the empty walls of my room. God, it was so disgusting to think that I had become an object, but at the same time, the idea of being desired with such voracity—of being the center of that carnal chaos—produced an electric shock that left me breathless.

I stayed there in the dim light, fighting against myself. I hated the submission, but I loved the feeling of power that came from knowing I could seduce and charge for it. My body was a battlefield where disgust and lust fought violently. As I stared at the dark ceiling, I felt my pussy pulsing with a dull urgency, claiming more of what had just happened. I was broken, I was stained, but I was more alive and aroused than ever in my life.

I didn't know that this same arousal, this secret hunger for the forbidden, would be the leash Mr. Park would use to drag me into the abyss. In that moment, I could only feel the heat of my own legs and the echo of the moans still resonating in my head like a sinful song.

The following days were a slow and delicious torture. I moved through the house like a ghost, inhabiting a body that still felt electric. Every morning, the act of dressing was a ritual of self-torture; I slid garments over my skin and felt how the fabric rubbed against my tits, which remained sensitive, almost inflamed, from the games of the trio. Sometimes I would stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, observing the curve of my ass and wondering if anyone else could see the invisible mark that act had left on me. I felt powerful, charged with a forbidden energy that made my steps slower, my hips heavier, while I kept the stack of bills like an amulet of filth under my mattress.

But then, the atmosphere of the house began to change. The air became dense, almost viscous, and I started to feel that I was no longer alone in my secret.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when I felt the first prick of reality. I was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, when I heard Mr. Park's footsteps approaching. It wasn't the usual walk of a stepfather; it was a paused, deliberate rhythm—the step of someone who knows exactly where his prey is. I froze, glass half-full, feeling the back of my neck prickle violently.

"You smell different today, Chaeyeon," his voice arrived as a glacial whisper right behind my ear.

The impact was physical. I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine and end in an involuntary spasm between my legs. I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. He was inches away from me, leaning against the counter, looking at me with dark eyes that didn't see the "good girl," but instead scanned my body with an obscene slowness. His pupils were dilated, fixed on the movement of my throat as I swallowed with difficulty.

"What do you mean?" I managed to articulate, though my voice sounded broken, a thread of sound that betrayed my panic.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he moved one millimeter closer, invading my personal space until I could smell the sandalwood and cold tobacco mixing with my own scent. He cast a fleeting glance downward, toward my tits which were rising and falling agitatedly under the blouse, and then returned to my eyes with a smile that didn't reach his pupils.

"You smell like that cheap soap from the downtown hotels," he commented with a terrifying calmness. "That aroma of chlorine and damp sheets... it’s curious how it clings to the skin, isn't it? Especially when one gives themselves over with such... passion."

I felt the floor disappear beneath my feet. The world became blurred and a dull buzzing filled my ears. The mention of the hotel wasn't a guess; it was a sentence. I ran out of air, feeling my larynx close as panic flooded my nervous system. But the most disgusting part was my body's reaction: in the face of pure terror and the humiliation of being discovered, I felt my pussy pulsing with a violent urgency. The adrenaline of fear mixed with residual arousal, creating a toxic cocktail that left me trembling on the spot.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, though I knew it was useless. My voice was a pathetic whisper.

Mr. Park let out a dry chuckle and slowly walked away, but before leaving the kitchen, he brushed his hand against my hip—a fleeting touch that made my legs buckle.

"There's no need to lie, dear. I prefer it when you're honest about your... appetites," he whispered, and the sound of his footsteps receding left a suffocating void in the room.

I stayed there, leaning against the counter, legs open and breathing broken. I was terrified, yes, but I also felt an electric spark running through my thighs. I felt naked, exposed, as if Mr. Park had ripped off my clothes with just his words and left me there, exhibiting my tits and ass to his judgment. Paranoia installed itself in me like a parasite: now I knew that every time I passed him, he was imagining how I was in that hotel, how I moaned, and how my skin felt.

I was no longer the hunter of the secret; I was the prey. And worst of all was knowing that while fear consumed me, a dark part of me was starting to wish he would finish closing the trap.

When I heard my name echo from the hallway, I felt the air thicken, becoming almost solid around my lungs. "Chaeyeon, come to the study for a moment." Mr. Park's voice wasn't a request; it was a command wrapped in velvet, a low frequency that made every hair on my body stand up. My first reaction was pure panic; I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine, leaving my legs trembling and my mind blank. I knew this moment would come. Since that day at the hotel, I felt as if I were walking on thin glass, and now, finally, I heard it shattering beneath my feet.

I walked toward the office with slow, heavy steps, as if dragging an invisible chain tied to my neck. As I moved through the hallway, my internal monologue was a chaos of voices: "Don't go in," "Run now while you can," "What if he already told Mom?". But beyond the fear, there was a dull anguish thinking about Chaeryeong. We knew we had crossed a line together; we shared that stain, that secret that bound us in a dark and desperate complicity. Thinking that he could use this to separate us or destroy us both caused a visceral nausea.

Upon opening the door, the scent of sandalwood and cold tobacco hit my face with suffocating force. The study was in dim light; the closed blinds let through only a few threads of white light that cut the room into strips, as if I were already entering a cell. I saw Mr. Park leaning against his oak desk, observing me with a predatory calm that made me feel small, insignificant, almost transparent.

And then, the sound happened that finally broke me. Click.

The lock closed. That small metallic noise resonated in my ears like the fall of a guillotine. I froze in the middle of the room, arms pressed to my body and pupils dilated by animal terror. The silence that followed was dense, interrupted only by the erratic rhythm of my own breathing: short inhalations... forced pauses... exhalations that sounded like contained sobs.

He didn't move immediately. He took his time to look at me—a slow and obscene scan that started at my feet and climbed slowly up my legs, pausing on the curve of my ass before moving toward my chest. I felt his eyes stripping me, tearing away my clothes with a single gaze. He knew exactly what he was seeing: not the perfect daughter, but the girl who had enjoyed carnal chaos alongside her sister.

"You look so scared, Chaeyeon," he whispered, starting to walk toward me with calculated slowness. "It’s fascinating how your body reacts when you know you no longer have anywhere to hide."

He stopped right behind me, invading my personal space until I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. He didn't touch me, but the pressure of his presence was so strong that I felt my knees give way. He forced me to remain trapped between him and the edge of the desk, leaving me with no exit.

"Let's talk about that little trip you two took," he continued, leaning in so his warm breath brushed my ear. "That hotel... those white sheets that got so dirty. I wonder if your sister feels the same urgency as you right now to keep the silence."

The indirect mention of us was like a lash. I felt the world spin and my heart hit my ribs with brute force: bum-bum... bum-bum. But then the worst happened: while horror consumed me, I felt an electric shock of forbidden arousal running through my pelvis. My pussy pulsed violently against the fabric of my pants; the humiliation of knowing he had seen us both, that he knew exactly how we moaned and how we surrendered, triggered a treacherous somatic response. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and degradation ignited a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

"You're trembling," he murmured, and this time he did touch me. He slid a hand around my waist, squeezing the flesh of my hip with possessive force. "And you're wet, aren't you? I love that your body is so honest, even though your mouth wants to pretend innocence."

I closed my eyes tight, letting out a broken gasp. I was totally annihilated. There was no longer any room for negotiation. Mr. Park didn't just possess the secret of that trio; now he possessed my nerves and my physical reactions. I felt like a porcelain doll that he had just broken to see how it looked inside.

"Now," he decreed, his voice becoming a glacial mandate, "let's see how obedient a girl can be when she has so much to lose."

I stayed there, trapped between the cold wood of the desk and the suffocating heat of Mr. Park’s body. My breathing was a disaster; short gasps that made my chest rise and fall with an erratic speed, hitting the fabric of my blouse. I could feel his gaze nailed to me, not as a caress, but as a scalpel opening me up, analyzing every corner of my fear. The silence of the study was so dense I could hear the dull throb of my own heart hammering in my ears: bum-bum... bum-bum.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a glacial whisper, an administrative and dry instruction that left me frozen.

The world seemed to stop for an instant. My mind screamed in protest—a visceral reaction of rejection that made me shrink into myself. This can't be happening, I thought, while a wave of panic ran down my spine. But then I remembered Chaeryeong’s gaze, the shared secret and the possibility of him letting it all out. That idea acted as an anchor; the fear for my sister was stronger than the disgust for myself.

With fingers trembling violently, I brought my hands to the buttons of my blouse. The first button resisted; my nails slipped on the fabric due to the cold sweat that had begun to bead on my palms. I let out a muffled moan—a mix of frustration and terror—while feeling Mr. Park's gaze fixed on my hands. He said nothing, but his silence was an unbearable pressure forcing me to hurry.

Finally, the button gave way. Then the second. And the third.

As the fabric opened, the cold air of the study hit my skin, provoking a shiver that made me arch my back. I slid the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor with a dull sound—almost imperceptible, but to me, it sounded like the fall of a guillotine. I stood there in only my bra, exposing my arms and stomach to the raw light of the blinds. I felt the air burning me, but what burned more was knowing he was enjoying every second of my humiliation.

"Slower, Chaeyeon," he murmured, his voice vibrating against my neck. "I want to see how you strip away everything. I want to see the expression on your face when you realize you no longer have anything to hide."

I turned slightly, heart galloping in my throat, and reached for the back closure of my bra. The click of the hook releasing was the loudest sound in the room. When I let the garment drop, my tits were exposed to the glacial air of the office. They were small, firm, and pale under the white light; I felt my nipples harden instantly from the cold and fear, projecting forward like two pink, tense pearls. I felt grotesque and vulnerable, an animal stripped naked before its hunter.

But the worst was yet to come. My hands moved down to the waist of my pants. The touch of my own fingers against my skin provoked an electric shiver that ended in a sting of wetness between my legs. I hated myself. I hated that while terror consumed me, my pussy reacted with a treacherous lubrication before the authority of the man.

I slid the pants down with torturous slowness. The fabric stuck to my thighs because of the cold sweat, creating a friction that made me gasp. When the garment hit the floor, I was left in only a small strip of lace that barely covered the essentials. I stood sideways in front of the study mirror, forced by his gaze to observe my own body.

I saw my ass—round and massive, extending in a white and voluptuous curve that contrasted violently with the fragility of my waist. It was a fleshy, firm ass that swayed slightly as I trembled. I felt like an object, a piece of meat displayed in a showcase. I knew Mr. Park was devouring that image with his eyes, savoring the roundness of my cheeks and the tension of my skin.

"Now, the last garment," he decreed, his voice becoming a dark mandate. "I want to see you totally open. Right now."

I stood there, naked of everything except a thread of fabric, with hardened tits and an exposed ass, feeling the air of the study wrap around me like a cold shroud. I was broken, stripped of all dignity, and as I looked at Mr. Park, I knew the real hell had just begun.

The silence that followed my stripping was heavier than the clothes I had just dropped on the floor. I stood there, trembling in the center of the study, skin prickling and nipples so tense I felt any touch would make me scream. The cold air of the office hit my tits and stomach, but I could only feel the heat radiating from Mr. Park’s body. He didn't move immediately; he stayed watching me with a predatory calm, enjoying the image of my total vulnerability while I felt myself shrink under his scrutiny.

Then, he took the first step.

It wasn't a hug or a soft caress. It was an invasion. I felt his hand close around my hip with brute force that left me breathless. His fingers sank into my flesh, squeezing the curve of my waist with a possessiveness that made me let out a broken gasp. The thermal contrast was violent: his palm was burning, almost searing my skin which was cold and damp from the sweat of panic.

"Look at you..." he whispered, coming so close that his hot breath clashed against my neck. "So scared, so broken. But your body doesn't lie, does it, Chaeyeon?"

Without warning, he slid his other hand up, trapping one of my tits in a brusque and possessive grip. He forced me to arch my back, and I felt how he squeezed my tit against his palm, molding it with an aggressiveness that made me let out a moan oscillating between pain and a forbidden arousal. His fingers squeezed my nipple hard, twisting it slightly, provoking an electric shock that shot down my spine to anchor itself at the base of my pelvis.

"I wonder if you moaned like this in that hotel," he murmured, his voice becoming a dirty purr. "I wonder if you liked feeling like a whore while you collected the money."

The word "whore" resonated in my ears like a lash, but the humiliation acted as a trigger. I felt my pussy pulse violently against the thin strip of lace of my underwear; lubrication began to flow, thick and hot, betraying me before the man who was degrading me. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and shame were igniting a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

Suddenly, he turned me with a sharp movement, forcing me to be backed up against him. I felt the hard rub of his belt and the pressure of his erection against my ass—a solid, hot mass that made my legs tremble. Mr. Park didn't waste time; he brought his hands down to my cheeks and delivered a dry blow, a loud slap that resonated in the silence of the study.

"Ah!" I let out a muffled scream, feeling the skin of my ass burn instantly.

The impact left me breathless, but the pain was immediately followed by a wave of dark, visceral pleasure. I felt his hands grip my cheeks hard, sinking into the fleshy part of my rear, squeezing it as if he wanted to leave permanent marks on me. I felt like an animal, an object of pleasure without will, while he forced me to lean over the desk, exposing my ass completely to the air and his gaze.

"Look what an ass you have, Chaeyeon," he whispered, his voice now charged with animal lust. "An ass made to be used. I wonder how much longer you can pretend to be the good girl while I have you like this—open and ready for me."

I felt his hand descend, sliding along the curve of my thigh until reaching the edge of the lace. His fingers brushed the wet fold of my intimacy—a fleeting but electric touch that made me arch my back and let out a long, broken moan. The touch was dirty, deliberate; he was testing my moisture, ensuring I was as ready as he desired.

In that moment, the world was reduced to that contact: the pressure of his body against my back, the burn of my slapped ass, and the suffocating feeling of knowing there was no turning back. I was totally surrendered to the predator's game, and while my tears fell silently onto the wood of the desk, my body screamed for the culmination of that torment.

I was there, bent over the oak desk, arms trembling as they held my own weight and my face sunken into the cold wood. I felt the pressure of Mr. Park’s body pressed against my back—a mass of suffocating heat that made me feel as if the air had run out. Then, I felt his fingers hook the thin lace strap of my underwear. There was no subtlety; he pulled it with a dry, abrupt movement that made me let out a muffled whimper.

The sound of fabric sliding down my thighs was the prelude to the void. Suddenly, I felt the glacial air of the office hit my pussy, leaving me totally exposed, open and vulnerable. I shrank instinctively, trying to close my legs, but he gripped my thighs with brute force, forcing me to keep them open, exhibiting my intimacy to the air and his judgment.

"Look how you tremble," he whispered, and I could feel his dark chuckle against my neck. "You're so wet I can almost smell you from here. I wonder if you'd get this turned on for any stranger who paid you, or if it's only because you know that now you belong to me."

Before I could respond, I felt his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin of my thighs. And then, it happened. The first contact of his tongue against my clitoris was like a high-voltage electric shock that ripped through my entire body. I let out a muffled scream into the wood of the desk, arching my back violently. It wasn't a tender caress; it was an aggressive, wet and deliberate lick.

Slurp... glup...

The sound of his tongue working in my intimacy filled the silence of the study—a viscous and obscene noise that made me feel like the filthiest creature in the world. Mr. Park wasn't seeking my pleasure; he was seeking to mark me. His lips sucked my skin hard, leaving marks that I knew would take days to fade. Every time his tongue pressed into the center of my pleasure, I felt my will disintegrate.

"You are such an obedient whore, Chaeyeon," he murmured between laps, his voice sounding wet and raspy. "I imagine you love feeling like this, don't you? Knowing your stepfather has you bent over his desk while he licks your pussy as if you were an animal in heat."

The words were psychological whips, but my body reacted with an obscene betrayal. Despite the disgust and humiliation, I felt my nipples harden against the wood and lubrication flow in hot waves, soaking everything where his tongue worked. I was in a state of total hyperesthesia; every movement of his mouth provoked involuntary spasms in my thighs. I felt fragmented: my mind screamed that this was an aberration, but my pussy pulsed with animal urgency, claiming the culmination of that torment.

Suddenly, he pulled away abruptly. The sudden vacuum left me panting, feeling incomplete and exposed. I heard the sound of his pants' zipper going down—a metallic zip that sounded like a final sentence.

"You've had enough pampering," he decreed, his voice becoming glacial and dominant. "Now let's see how much you can take."

I felt him grip my hips with a force that left imprints on my skin. Without any preamble, without any lubrication other than the moisture of fear and desire, he pushed his erection against the entrance of my pussy. The first impact was dry and violent.

"Ahhh!" I screamed, sinking my fingers into the wood of the desk as he buried himself in me in a single thrust, filling me completely.

The initial pain was acute—a massive pressure that seemed to want to split me in two—but it was immediately followed by a sensation of suffocating fullness. The rhythm that followed was animal; there was no tenderness, only physical power and possessiveness.

Clap... clap... clap...

The sound of his balls hitting my ass resonated in the room like an obscene percussion. Each thrust pushed me harder against the desk, making my tits bounce against the wood and my head shake violently. I felt how he possessed me with blind fury, using my body as a vessel for his lust and power.

"Tell me who your owner is, whore," he growed in my ear, while his hands squeezed my cheeks so hard I felt the flesh deform. "Tell me while I break you from the inside!"

I couldn't articulate words; I only let out broken moans and desperate gasps. I was lost in a whirlwind of fluids, wet sounds, and a sensation of total annihilation. I felt like an object—a thing that existed only to be used—and as the climax approached, I felt my identity vanish, merging with the will of the man who was destroying me.

Silence returned to the study abruptly, a silence so heavy it could almost be felt physically on my shoulders. Mr. Park withdrew from me with the same brusqueness with which he had possessed me, leaving me there, collapsed over the desk, trembling and empty. I felt the draft of cold air hit my sweaty skin, provoking a violent shiver that ran down my back and made me let out a broken sigh.

I stayed motionless for several minutes, face sunken in the cold wood and hair stuck to my forehead by sweat. I could feel the residual moisture sliding slowly down my thighs—a viscous trail that reminded me every second that I had just been used as an object. My pussy throbbed with a dull heaviness, irritated and sensitive; I felt the pressure of the semen cooling inside me, a physical mark of my submission that made me feel anchored to the floor by pure shame.

I heard the metallic sound of his pants' zipper going up—a dry zip that marked the return to normality. The man who was now in front of me was no longer the animal beast who had destroyed me moments ago; he was once again Mr. Park, the impeccable and cordial stepfather. That transition was more terrifying than the act itself: the ease with which he could move from brute lust to the coldness of a controller.

"Clean up this mess," he decreed, his voice regaining that neutral and authoritative tone. "I don't want a single trace of what happened here when you leave this room."

I forced myself to move. My muscles were numb, my legs trembling so much I almost fell while trying to stand up. As I searched for my clothes on the floor, I felt Mr. Park's gaze nailed to my ass, observing the red skin marked by his hands. I felt fragmented; I looked at my own hands and didn't recognize them. My body was still there, pulsing and hot, but my mind had retreated to a distant and dark place to avoid feeling the weight of the humiliation.

When I finished dressing, with clumsy fingers and clouded eyes, I stood in front of the study mirror. I saw myself and felt a visceral nausea. My tits were still sensitive, my lips were swollen, and my pupils were dilated from the emotional shock. I looked like the same person as always, but I knew something had broken irremediably inside me. I was no longer the girl who returned home with money in her pocket and a spark of excitement; now I was someone who belonged to the man standing behind me.

"Listen carefully, Chaeyeon," he said, approaching and placing a hand on my shoulder, squeezing the flesh with possessive firmness. "What happened today is the new order of this house. You know what you have to do so that your secret remains a secret."

I felt a knot tighten in my throat. The fear for myself was unbearable, but then the image of Chaeryeong emerged. I remembered her laughter, her apparent innocence, and the bond that united us. An obsessive idea began to take root in my mind: if I accepted this, if I became Mr. Park’s pressure valve, perhaps he would leave my sister alone. Perhaps I could buy this man's silence with my own flesh.

"If you are an obedient girl... if you do everything I ask without protest," he continued, his voice becoming a glacial whisper in my ear, "your sister will never have to go through this. She can keep smiling and believing she is pure, while you and I take care of the filth."

That promise was the final nail in my coffin. Martyrdom felt like the only dignified way out. I closed my eyes and nodded slightly, accepting the invisible pact. In that moment, Mr. Park had not only taken my body; he had taken my will and transformed it into a shield to protect Chaeryeong.

Early June, and summer is off to a head start. The sun is beating down on you relentlessly. Chaeryeong doesn’t seem to notice, skipping ahead like the earth isn’t turning fast enough for her.

“Can you slow down? It’s way too hot for you to be this energetic right now,” you call out in a failed attempt to keep her near you.

“Absolutely not. Can you speed up, instead?” she retorts, and you can’t blame her. Turning twenty-one and no longer having to sneak around to get drunk is a big milestone, after all. Nothing past your first sip the day you celebrated your birthday made it into the permanent memory bank.

Go figure she’s brimming with the same kind of anticipation, the kind that makes her shine. Blonde hair swaying in the wind like rays of the sun itself as she turns to look at you with mock anger. You. The one who promised to treat her to a drink of choice, after all.

“If I die of heatstroke, I can’t buy you anything,” you grunt. 

“I could just take your wallet off of your body if you die.”

She’s always been like this. Sharp, faster and more deadly with a comeback than you could ever be—when she’s paying attention. Relentless in her teasing, and most certainly one of those weirdos that has ragebaiting as their lovelanguage.

By the time you reach the liquor store, you’re drenched in sweat. But that’s just you. Chaeryeong—unlike you—looks pristine, like she’s made out of porcelain, like sweating is below her, but still chooses to wrap her arms around one of yours like she doesn’t care about any of those observations, she’s just happy to usher you inside.

“So, what are we looking for?” you ask as you browse the seemingly endless shelves. Chaeryeong is scanning each shelf, her pace significantly slower, like she’s in no rush to decide. A joke is begging to burst out of you, but you keep it locked up, lest you speed up her process and waste precious, air-controlled minutes inside.

She hums as her eyes scan up and down, thinking it over until she brings you up to speed. “Iunno,” is all she gives, though.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” you ask, kind of incredulously.

“I don’t know. What? Can’t a girl pick her first drink based on vibes?” she asks back.

“I don’t know. I guess? I knew what I wanted my first drink to be long before I got to it.”

She stops walking, holding you in place with her as she turns her gaze away from the endless bottles towards you. “Really? What did you get, again?”

“Whiskey,” you answer with a misguided sense of pride, like it’s supposed to be a cool answer. “You know, like, a real man’s drink.”

She just stares at you, one corner of her lip curling upwards into a smirk, and she doesn’t need to waste any words on mocking you. “I just figured I would find a nice bottle of something screaming at me,” she teases, poking you in the side with a finger, the rest of her hand still wrapped around your arm. “And if it’s expensive, that’s your problem.”

“Your plan is to let the bottle choose you?” you question, again.

“Worked out fine with you.”

That gets you. A chuckle escapes you, and she looks up at you, proud of herself. Worst part is that she’s completely right. She gave you shit for weeks for how long you waited to ask her out.

“Brat,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She adjusts the black bow tied into her hair like she’s checking to see if you didn’t boorishly ruin her pristine sense of style, shrugs her shoulders when she’s satisfied with its current fit and smiles up at you. The intent is all too clear. She gracefully accepts your admission of defeat.

Finding something that suits Chaeryeong's taste might prove impossible. She’s got high standards for her likes to clear. Nothing really seemed to strike a chord with her, that is, until you reached the wine department.

“Oh. My. God. That is the one,” Chaeryeong exclaims with glee, rushing towards a black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. She grabs it off the shelf, carefully turns to you and holds it up for you to inspect. “Isn’t it so fucking cute?”

It’s just north of a hundred dollars, a lot more expensive than the cheap forty dollar whiskey you celebrated your coming of age ceremony with, but that thought gets shoved down the moment you see the joy on her face.

“It suits you,” you say as you take the bottle in your hands. 

“You think?” she questions back, and you just nod to answer.

Bottle in one hand, her hand in the other, you head towards the register, making good on your promise. A fine bottle of champagne for an even finer girl. She kisses you on the cheek the moment the cashier hands you back the bottle.

—

There’s an empty black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. Inside, there’s a piece of paper, rolled up, and it would only make sense to have your name on it.

Chaeryeong must have left it for you to find.

Three years have you had it like this. Three years since she vanished from your life—and, as far as you can tell, hers as well. 

Three years since you’ve worked together on turning that bottle from full to empty. 

Looking at it makes the taste linger on your tongue.

—

"It's so fucking good," Chaeryeong practically moans. "It tastes like the world's most expensive cherry is making love to fizzy grapes on a bed of flowers, somehow?"

The shade of her favorite red lipstick paints the edge of her paper cup—courtesy of the room and wildly unfit for the quality of the drink—and she hands it to you. There’s still some champagne left at the bottom. You press your lips to the edge, already tasting a small hint of cherry from where Chaeryeong’s lips left a stain, and finally take a sip.

The fizz tickles your nose, teasing floral notes, a sharp contrast to your first drink, which could only be described as sandpaper fucking mudwater on a bed of burnt wood.

“Well?” she asks, tilting her head. She’s already claimed the center of the bed, lounging back on her elbows with a light grace that makes the room feel classier than it has any right to. “Did I pick the perfect drink or what?”

“It’s alright,” you lie, obviously, even though you’re already making a mental note to buy this exact bottle for every future celebration. You take another sip, finishing the paper cup, crinkle it in your fist and throw it in the trash can.

“Liar,” she chirps, kicking out a leg. Her foot, encased in a soft, ivory-colored wool thigh-high sock, pokes you right in the chest. “You can’t try to act nonchalant while also going for a second sip.”

You catch her ankle, the fabric soft and surprisingly warm against your palm. You don't let go. She doesn’t want you to, either. It’s obvious in the way her pupils are as big as they’re allowed to be, unwaveringly fixated on you. Every inch your hand slides up her leg causes another twitch in her calves.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She's known ever since she wore this exact pair for the first time and you both lost your virginities. She wore these specifically because she fucking knows they turn your brain into mush, that seeing the little stretch of skin on her thigh between where the sock ends and her miniskirt begins makes you simply obsessed.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter without making eye contact, gaze fixed at her legs. Throw her a smirk, and pull her closer to the edge of the bed.

She’s won, celebrating her birthday with all the right beats. She hooks one of those wool-clad legs over your shoulder, the texture dragging against your neck, pulling you closer into her, into the mattress she reigns over.

“You’re so pathetic when I’m wearing these,” she whispers. Her tongue pushes through her lips, wets them, and leaves her mouth just slightly agape long enough for you to nearly close the distance. Those cherry covered lips should be on you, but instead they continue to taunt. “I wore them in a heatwave just to—” she huffs, smiling when your grip tightens, “—see you look at me like this. Like a dog waiting for permission to eat.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?” you growl, but you’re already leaning in, your hands sliding up the back of those socks to the soft, squeezed skin of her upper thighs. “A horny, attention-seeking brat.”

“I’m your princess,” she corrects, her eyes beaming with contradictory hunger. She reaches down, her fingers brushing against your knuckles before she pushes your hands away so she can take over. “And princesses get what they want. Right now, I want to see how much of a mess I’ve made you.”

A sly smile plays on your lips as you slide her leg off of your shoulder, and steal the bottle of champagne out of her other hand, taking control of the pace.

“Not so fast, princess. I’ve paid for three hours off this room, we can take our time,” you retort in a competitive growl. She watches you with wide, surprised eyes as you take a long, deliberate swig, letting fruits dance on your tongue. Swallowing would be a waste now.

No. You reach out and snag the black bow in her hair alongside some of her silken strands, and grab a nice fistful.

With a firm tug on it, just enough to jerk her head back, you force her gaze off of your straining bulge and onto your face. Her mouth falls open in  a small gasp of shock, corners of her lips going up into a defiant smile. The distance between you two melts away with reverent intention until you press your lips against hers. You let the sparkling liquid seep into her mouth, sweet and fizzy flooding her mouth and catching her off-guard.

She scrambles for purchase on your shoulders, tongue mixing with yours as she takes all you can give, letting out a muffled and desperate sound as she swallows the mouthful you’ve gifted her.

“There,” you mutter as your lips part, your thumb swiping a stray drop of rosé from her chin. “Happy birthday. Now we can be a mess together.”

“I’m going to cry if you don’t take your pants off soon,” she moans as drops of champagne that you couldn’t quite get into her mouth spill down her chin. No time is wasted licking them up from collarbone to jaw. “I’m making you buy a new bottle and doing this every birthday I have from now on.”

That earns her a muffled laugh against her skin.

“Every birthday?”

“Every single one,” she answers without a drop of hesitation. “Even yours.”

—

There’s an empty bottle that still faintly smells of cherry, grapes and spring flowers.

It’s also the last bottle you bought her.

The note inside is still there. It’s impossible not to think about, and what it has to say, why it has your name on it.

If you open it, the memory of that June afternoon finally breaks. The memory of the wool against your skin and the cherry on your tongue will have to face whatever reality she wrote down.

For now, you just leave it where it is. Because as long as the bottle is sealed, she’s still in that love hotel room, smiling up at you, waiting for her next drink.

Despite all that, you still had to learn how to live without her.

You’re not good at it. 

Not when you’re losing her over and over again. See, the thing about a person vanishing from your life without an explanation—or, in your case, an explanation you don’t think you can deal with—is that it’s not a one time thing.

Sure, you lost Chaeryeong the morning she didn’t come back to your place. Then, you lost her again the first time you saw a funny video and wanted to share it with her. Again when you found a strand of her dyed blonde hair on your winter coat.

You’ve been constantly losing her in small increments. Three years of small losses, compounding interest, your mind begging you to keep her memory intact.

It’s not as oppressive during the day. It’s the nights that are the most silent. It makes sense, those were your favorite times as a couple. You still can’t bring yourself to sit in her spot on the couch.

So, nights require distractions now. Hobbies that don’t stick, endless scrolling of short-form content to beat your brain to death with, midnight snack and alcohol runs.

Tonight isn’t one of the worst nights. Tonight is just a Tuesday in late May, and you need milk for your coffee tomorrow morning, and the only convenience store still open is a 7-Eleven on a forty minute walk away. The distance doesn’t bother you, it fills time that way. Earbuds in, a nice long walk, and check out a undoubtedly similar store to all of their other locations, but it keeps you occupied all the same.

Meditation, you call it. Obsession is what your friends call it. The way you spend every moment you’re not occupied thinking about what you’d say to her. It’s all painted on the inside of your skull, flashing before you the moment you close your eyes.

The way you wouldn’t give an inch. Ask her to explain herself. The way you’d hold yourself when you asked it, having practiced the exact beats for “where did you go” and “did it ever occur to you how I felt.”

But most importantly, you practiced not letting her know that all she had to do was ask and you’d forgive her like nothing happened.

You’re so lost in it again you almost miss her entirely.

She’s crouched at the bottom shelf of the snack aisle, picking out different cans of pringles, examining them and putting them back one by one. Her hair is black now, shielding her line of sight from you. Her lips peek through, a similar shade of midnight, not something you’ve ever seen her entertain.

You have about ten seconds to walk away and she would never know. You stand there, three years of questions disappearing in the span of two seconds.

She shifts her weight, the hem of her coat rides up, and you see the nail in your coffin.

Black lace. Same strip of skin at the top of her thigh. A floral pattern engraved. Three years clearly not enough to erase a decade of habits.

“You trying to find a snack that’s just screaming at you?”

She freezes.

Her head turns slowly, eyes finally meeting yours, trembling in place like she’s seen a ghost.

“Oh,” she breathes. Her fingers clench and then unclench around the canned snack. “It’s—hi.”

“Hey,” you respond, arms now crossed. Just like that, three years of questions, righteous anger and rehearsed confrontations evaporate into stale air.

“I didn't—" she starts, then stops to fidget with the hem of her coat. It’s a nervous habit of hers, once she’s had since she was little. You instantly pick up on it like you’d stumbled over a tripwire you’d laid for yourself years ago.  “You shop here now?”

“No, I don’t,” you respond curtly. She can’t meet your eyes when you say it. “But the one we used to shop at is being renovated. And I needed some milk for my coffee tomorrow morning.”

She nods, gaze flickering between your face and the floor. “That makes sense.”

None of this makes sense if you think about it. Has she always been here? Just out of reach, less than an hour walking from your normal life? Just—what? Living her life without you?

It only raises more questions you never rehearsed. Also stretches a silence between you, filled only with the humming of refrigerators and flickering of fluorescent lights. All you manage to do is blurt out something mundane.

“You stopped dyeing your hair.”

Her hand reflexively touches the ends off her hair draped over her shoulder. “Yeah. Do you, ehm, you like it?”

Any color Chaeryeong has ever had has instantly become your favorite color, only occasionally dethroned by the shade of her lipstick. Telling her was never a problem when you were still intertwined, but what if this is just temporary? A stroke of misfortune for her, a blip on the radar, and all you’d accomplish was making her uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” is most you can start with. “I like it.”

The black color of her lips contrasting against her pale skin helps you spot the faintest of smiles, disappearing as fast as it came.

She shifts her weight around and looks down at the can in her hand like she’s forgotten why she’s even picked it up. It couldn’t be more clear, whatever brought her here tonight did not account for seeing you again.

You both go through the motions, asking how you’ve been, and you lie that you’ve been good. Maybe her “I’m doing okay,” the truth, maybe it's a lie, and both would sting just the same. Where you’re working now, if you still live in the same place, and how nothing has changed and you’re practically been frozen in time since she left.

It’s not the same for her, obviously. She looks like you could never have even begun to imagine her.

She shifts again, her coat follows the movement, and you just can’t help but catch another glimpse of those fucking black lace stockings. Some things never change. Stop yourself from wondering why that detail hasn’t. If you do, you might get a lump in your throat so big no more words could come out.

Thankfully, she breaks the mold. “Um,” she starts, then stops. Takes a breath, and her shoulders stiffen up. “Can I ask you something stupid?”

“Sure,” you answer, impossibly bracing yourself.

“Do you remember that champagne bottle we shared on my birthday?”

Of course you remember. The champagne bottle with a message in it. But she’s not asking about the message, the note. 

“The rosé one? Yeah, what about it?”

She takes a deep breath, meeting your eyes properly for the first time, brow knitted together. “I was just wondering if you still had it. I liked the way it tasted.”

“I’m not sure,” you lie. “Maybe? I could check when I’m home.”

There’s something you can’t quite make out playing across her face, not with everything new about it. Is it relief? Disappointment? It’s gone before she nods again.

“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to go through the trouble,” she assures you.

You nod. There isn't much else you know to do.

“Yeah,” you say, even though there’s nothing to agree with. “If you say so.”

The silence that follows is different this time. It’s about as obvious as the void in your chest when you look at her. There’s no awkwardness or sensitivity to it. It’s merely there to kill a story.

She swaps the can from one hand to the other, forcing her focus to change, to do anything to not drown. “I should probably, y’know,” she gestures the can towards the register. “Pay for this.”

“Right,” you answer. “Yeah.”

You stand there frozen, unmoving, freezing her with you.

For a second, it’s almost like one of you is supposed to say something else. Like you’re missing the pop-up for another dialogue option, like there’s a version of this reunion that ends with you and her in each other's arms but you just can’t see the bridge that connects the now to that.

And it fades, gone as soon as it arrives, draining through your fingers like water.

She nods to herself, more than to you, and steps around you. Not too close. Not too far either. Just, around you.

Her scent gets trapped in your nose.

It’s hard to snap out of the scene, and you linger longer than you can respect yourself for. Just staring at the spot she just was now isn’t, before reluctantly moving on to what you came for.

Milk.

Stupid fucking milk, that you just grab any carton of, whichever comes first, and just rush with towards the register in the most delusional hope of catching up to her.

By the time you reach the register, she’s already left the store.

It’s when you step outside she surprises you again.

Chaeryeong hasn’t left. 

She’s standing just past the automatic doors, under a particularly strong lamp, scanning the horizon. She looks at you the moment the doors hiss shut.

“Found your milk?” she asks, squeezing together her lips.

“Yep,” you blurt out without much thought spent on what to say next. She fills in the void pretty quickly.

“Which way are you headed?”

“Same as always.”

She nods slowly. Clicks her tongue, her eyes dart up and down, hoping you figure something out without having to spell it out for you. She speaks when you don’t.

“It’s really late,” she says, and the tone of her voice is the same one she used when she really wanted you to get up from the couch and go grab her a snack.

“Is your new place far from here?” you ask, and you pray you don’t come off as a creep.

“It’s not super far,” she answers in the same tone.

You sigh. “Will you make it home safe?”

“I’d feel safer if you walked me.”

You agree like you’ve always agreed to anything Chaeryeong asked of you. Old habits dying hard, or maybe it’s you forcing them alive despite the weathering of time. It’s all the same in the end, a simple excuse to talk some more to her.

“Which way are we headed?” you ask. 

She tilts her head left, and you fall in beside her.

For the first couple of hundred meters, nobody says anything that made it into your practiced conversations. It used to be so easy and comfortable to be in silence together, and now it feels like you’re both asking permission for just that. Some light conversation does happen. Chaeryeong asks if you’re still working the same job, which you are. You ask the same, which she obviously isn’t, you’d have found her. She works in childcare now, and you tell her it suits her.

It takes a while for the first thing you can latch on to surfaces. Chaeryeong asking if you still have the same phone number. She asks it carefully too, like she’s bracing herself for a lie from you. “Yeah,” is all you say.

She slows down half a step, grabbing her phone from her coat pocket. She fiddles with it, and you feel your phone buzz as she stashes her away again.

“Now you have mine,” she smiles, and skips once or twice to catch up to you.

You don’t grab your phone to read what she sent, trusting it’s not as important as just making sure you have her number. You’d rather be here, on this street, in this fragile thing, hoping she tells you she made a mistake and wants you back.

She notices. It’s obvious in the way she looks at the pocket you’ve kept your phone in since you were fifteen for a second longer than necessary, and then back at the road ahead. There’s no figuring out Chaeryeong when she has an idea or what that entailed, but it was never a secret from you whenever she had one.

That’s when the conversation starts to move. It almost tricks you, moving the way it used to, simple thoughts flowing from one into another.

But it’s not the same.

It flows the way a river flows when a natural catastrophe has changed the lay of the land, quietly rerouting, touching different banks.

You can feel yourself swim against the current, trying to close the distance with a reference only she would get—something about how she’d totally zone out any time you started talking about your day—and she smiles, she gets it, she even picks it up and runs with it for a sentence or two. But then it trails off. Lands somewhere just shy of where it would have, three years ago. Where she would have grabbed your arm, leaned into you, kept teasing you until you were so annoyed you’d stop her from talking by kissing her.

Instead, she just smiles, and looks ahead.

You do the same.

Her phone lights up in her hand. She glances at it briefly, types something without breaking stride, and pockets it again. You notice. You don’t say anything about it. It’s the second time since you left the store.

By the time you turn onto her street, you’ve both made peace with the gaps. Or you’ve both agreed, silently, to pretend you have.

The building she stops in front of is narrow and clean, a row of small potted plants lined up outside the entrance like she had a hand in that. It’s nice to believe she did.

She stops, turns to face you. Pulls her coat tighter. Her eyes shine , but it’s soft and careful, like she’s been working up to what she’s about to say a few times over.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says, and you believe her. That’s not the problem. “And I—“ a small pause, “—I hope we can talk again sometime. If you want.”

If you want.

The words land somewhere low in your chest and turn upside down.

Three years of losing her in pieces, of practicing what you’d say, of sitting on the side of the couch that was always yours because you couldn’t bring yourself to take hers, of carrying a bottle you can’t open because opening it means it’s real. She has the audacity to stand here, putting it in your hands. Like it was ever up to you. Like you were the one who needed convincing.

“If I want,” you repeat, and you hear the edge in your own voice before you’ve decided to put it there.

She blinks, takes a step back. “I didn’t—“

“No, I just—“ you interrupt. Stop to collect your thoughts, resurface the script you’ve practiced over and over. Start again. “I just don’t think that’s fair of you to say. Not after everything.”

She doesn’t move. Her expression has gone still in the way it does only when she doesn’t know what to say, and you know she’s not going to fight you on it, which somehow makes it worse.

Already stepping back, already putting distance between you and the bottom step and her face, which is doing something complicated that you can’t afford to look at for very long before your lungs are ready to work again. “I’m glad you’re okay. I am.” You shake your head. “I’m not.“

You don’t wait for her to respond. There’s a final “Goodnight” you throw out hastily after you turn, walking away, and the night air hits you cold and immediate and you don’t look back. Your hands find your pockets. Everything blurs, your feet keeping your pace even, controlled, the same way you’ve controlled everything since she left, and you keep walking.

You don’t stop. Not until you’re back in your building, up your stairs, through your door and in your bedroom.

She’s on your mind until exhaustion finally lets you drift away.

—

It’s the morning after seeing Chaeryeong for the first time in three years. You’ve got three messages on your phone. Chaeryeong sent them to you.

All from yesterday evening.

The first: “i hope you dont mind me having kept your number lol“

It’s unfair to open with that, as if her having kept your number isn’t cause for celebration, to open a fancy bottle of champagne. You save her to your contacts and leave the bottle closed for now.

The second, sent maybe ten minutes after the first: “thanks for walking me home btw, im not usually out this late and it makes me feel a lot more at ease to have you here“

You stare at the screen. The time gap between the second and final message proves the last one is from just after you stormed off yesterday. It reads as follows: “im not good at this. i understand if you dont reply to this“

Eventually, the screen dims. You put the phone down on your chest and look at the ceiling for a while. From where you're lying you can see the bottle on the shelf where you keep it. Black and pink, the ribbons etched into the glass catching the flat morning light. The note still inside it, rolled tight, a different kind of taunting aura now. It holds your gaze for a long time. Then you look back at your phone.

There's a version of you that opens the bottle today. That finally breaks the seal and reads whatever she couldn't say to your face and lets that be the thing that decides it. 

You pick up your phone instead. Stare at the messages she sent you. Sit with the blank text field for a moment, write a couple of words that don’t feel right, delete them, stare at that stupid fucking bottle again and almost put your phone away. There’s a million questions you want to ask her, but there’s no point in even pondering them if you can’t even ask the simplest question first.

“Can I see you?”

You put the phone face-down on the mattress and go make coffee, because you need something to do with your hands, something to distract you from checking your phone every two seconds to see if she answered. 

You’ve barely picked out a cup when your phone rings.

“now?”

It’s conveniently inconvenient. The timing alone is enough to spike your heartbeat for the rest of the morning. A response that’s way too fast for someone that’s supposed to be a closed door, so fucking fast that you realize you won’t be able to put your phone down the moment you figure out how to respond.

Because there’s an even more annoying question being asked back to you now. What the fuck does she mean? Just that, no further context, infuriatingly drives you to consider two totally opposite possibilities, two divergent interpretations.

But that’s the trick of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s been three years. It is that urgent. A second without her or at least a resolution longer is one too many. So you just take a chance on it being the second choice, and fire back.

“Whenever you can”

You send another text almost instantly, correcting yourself.

“Now, actually, if thats not too weird” 

You hover over the send button, delete “if thats not too weird” and just send the first part.

She doesn’t take much longer to respond. Says she’ll be over in an hour, if that’s not too weird. You instantly respond to her, letting her know it isn’t.

What follows is not an hour of pacing, not an hour of relaxed waiting, casually preparing. No. It’s an hour of the worst kind of anticipation, with every minute making your heart beat faster like it still could accelerate, driving your anxiety to a point it makes you feel like you’re going to shit all your organs out on the floor and die there.

See, running into her unexpectedly is one thing, but doing the inverse—meeting with her at an agreed upon time—is far worse. 

It’s an hour of cleaning everything in your apartment—or at least the part you expect to host her and her apology. Any sign that could give away a hint that you are not in control has to be eliminated. All of the conversations you planned start flowing again, and you try to force them away knowing damn well none of them will matter the moment she shows up at your door.

You buzz her in almost exactly an hour after her last text.

Yesterday’s black was not an accident. She’s still all winged liner, smoky eyes and inky black lipstick. Your eyes zip down once and spot the same poison as yesterday. A single strip of skin, with a floral pattern slightly further down. You don’t ask. You can’t manage much more than a “hi” anyways.

You let her in.

She knows your place blind. Like a cat who just returned from her evening stroll, she walks straight to the couch and sits, knees together to the side and feet half tucked under her, hand clutching her phone. It’s far too familiar how she sinks in.

Before any of the conversational explosions that have their fuses lit in your chest come out, you make your way to the kitchen, pouring both of you coffee. You speak loudly, letting her know that you happen to have some milk, if she still takes her coffee the same way she used to, which she lets you know she does.

You pour your own and join her, but on the opposite end of the couch. You fit into the memory better there, after all. Now that she’s here, you don’t even know where to start, or how to even explain without sounding desperate why you invited her over.

She puts her cup down, turns to you and says, “I want to apologize again for last night. I was—I’m really bad at this. I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit.”

You don’t turn. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to me before.” Take another sip of your coffee, then put it down. “The sound of it is just all wrong.”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, no, please stop,“ you say, your whole face tightening with cringe. “It’s like hearing a cat bark or something.“

“Shut up?“ she responds just a bit too much like she used too.

“Chaeryeong.”

“Ew?” she responds in instant and total disgust.

“What do you mean, ‘ew’?“

“Don’t say my name like that.“

“Like what? Chaeryeong?“ You turn to face her properly for the first time since you sat down.

“Please fucking stop,” she says, recoiling and scrunching her nose as if you just mentioned hating puppies. “It’s horrible.“

“I’m literally just saying your name.“

“I know, and it’s horrible, and I hate it.“ She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees tighter to her body. “You never used to say my name. I literally think the last time I heard you say my name, we might have been like, I don’t know, eleven years old?“

“Chaeryeong,“ you say with a smirk.

“I’m going to punch you.“

“For saying your name?“

“Yes! You used to call me princess.” She physically winces at the sound replaying in her head. “Hearing you say my name just makes it sound like you’re so upset with me.“

You face her head on with a smile you can’t seem to stuff down. “I am upset with you!“

“I already tried to apologize!“

“I’m upset because of you apologizing, idiot.“

“You know what, actually? Call me an idiot. That’s much better. I prefer it over you saying my name.”

You stare at her for a long moment.

“You’re actually an idiot,” you say, flatly, because some things never change.

“Thank you.”

You shake your head, pivot back toward the conversation before it escapes you entirely. “My point is—you don’t apologize to me. That’s not a thing you do. You apologized to your dance instructor for being late when your subway literally broke down. You apologize to delivery guys when they’re late because—” you raise your fingers to form air quotes. “It’s not their fault we live so far away.“

She tries to stop you, but you raise your finger like you’re scolding her and continue: “You’ve apologized to your mom for weed Chaeyeon hid in a cookie jar. I’ve watched you do it. You’ve never smoked in your life.” You gesture vaguely in her direction. “You apologize to everyone. Everyone except me. Or—“ you catch yourself, measured, “—at least, never with words.”

A beat passes. Then she laughs. Not the polite kind, not the deflective kind she’s been deploying since yesterday like a smoke screen. The real one. The one that starts low and tips forward and makes her press a hand over her mouth when it gets too loud, the one that used to make you feel like you’d won something.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, riding out the coattail of her chuckle, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I won’t apologize for yesterday if you tell me why you really invited me over. Clearly, it wasn’t to hear me say sorry.”

You take a long sip of your coffee. “I wanted to talk.”

“You wanted to talk,” she repeats, flat.

“Catch up.”

“Catch up.”

She watches you, waiting, eyes taunting you to start ‘catching up’. You set your cup down on the coffee table, link your hands together, and decide to just walk straight into it.

“Yeah, catch up,” you start carefully. “Like, for example, ask you questions like—“ you pause, roll your eyes trying to think of an easy transition into the barrage you’ve prepare, “—ever since we broke up—“

“Wait,“ she interrupts you, holding up a hand and furrowing her brow with theatrical precision. “We broke up?“

All you can do is stare. Blankly. It’s so utterly tactless, shot straight from the hip and missing its mark by a mile.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, utterly oblivious to how unable you are to laugh this joke away, “I don’t remember a breakup conversation happening. Technically.”

“Chaeryeong.”

“There it is again,” she mutters, scrunching her nose.

“You disappeared,” you say, and the word lands heavier than you intend it to. “For three years. That’s the conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” she scrunches her mouth, and looks away. “And you said my name just now so we’re even for me apologizing.“

You exhale through your nose, letting out a single chuckle in hopes of preserving some of the earlier momentum. “Idiot.“ You look back at her, and she can feel it, turning to meet your gaze. “As I was saying, ever since we broke up, have you been seeing anyone?“

It’s not the first question you wanted to ask. It mostly just slipped out, some kind of honest response to her eyes connecting with yours. It’s the question you’re stuck with now, forced to to face whatever answer she gives.

She tilts her head, wiggles her toes. “Have you?“

You should have known she would never answer before you. “You’re unbelievable,“ you say as you tilt your head towards the ceiling, hands dragging down your face.

“It’s payback. I deserve an answer first,“ she says simply, and before you can even question it—because she knows you will—she already continues, “because you called me an idiot.“

A big sigh escapes your lungs. There’s no point in arguing with her. At this point, the only outcomes are nobody answering, or you answering first, so you do. “No,“ you say. “I haven’t been seeing anyone.“

Her gaze burns on the side of your face like it always has when she’s going to ask you a barrage of questions you can’t avoid. You resist turning towards it.

“No one?” she asks.

“No one.”

A short pause. “Not even like, a one night thing? Someone you met at a bar, charmed your way into her pants and then never have to talk to her again?”

“What? No.”

“Didn’t pay anyone?” She says it carefully, measuring it. “Like, even just for—“

“No.” You say it before she can finish. “No.”

“Not even a kiss? Holding hands?“

You finally turn back to her. “Not even that. Not once. Nothing.”

She sits with that for a moment. The apartment is very still around you. You fear to move, lest the couch makes a sound and ruins this fragile moment you don’t know what to do with.

“Don’t you miss it?” she asks, and her voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s just a question now, plain and without judgement.

And the thing is, the word ‘it‘ is doing a tremendous amount of heavy lifting. She might be asking about the abstract concept of physical intimacy or the general act of human contact.

But you can’t help but be hit by a flood of ‘its‘. It’s the wool against your palm. It’s the cherry on your tongue. It’s a black bow coming loose in your fist and sifting through your fingers like sand only for strands of blonde to remain. It’s legs hooked over your shoulder like an anchor you never got tired of keeping steady. It’s the wiggle of toes anytime anything exciting happened. It’s countless nights spent whispering that you still think she’s the prettiest girl in the world.

You miss it the way you’d miss breathing.

You don’t say any of that.

You don’t say anything for long enough that the silence becomes its own kind of answer.

She watches you. Then, softly, she offers you an exit: “You probably don’t miss having a girlfriend that never apologizes, right?”

It’s a joke. It’s meant to be a joke. She’s giving you the out, the laugh, the reset.

The bad ending.

“I miss all of it,” you say, and it comes out with so little air, quiet and meek. Like something you’ve been keeping in a locked room for three years that just walked out on its own while you were still figuring out if it could stand.

She goes very still in response.

Not the kind of stillness she’d couple with contorted faces to buy her more time to think of something clever. A kind you’d never seen before. One that starts in her eyes and slowly creeps all over her body.

You catch yourself staring at her, but it’s impossible to stop. She blinks once—no, twice—and then shifts, chuckles, breaks the silence.

“All of it,“ she repeats, hollow. Like she’s not allowing herself to taste the words. She shakes her head, looks down at her cup and smiles softly. “I’m sure you could go without a lot of it.“

That’s when you see it. Clear as day, eyes wide open. The next hour, the next week, the next three years. The whole thing passing you by like the trail of a bullet that barely missed.

It goes like this: You don’t say anything meaningful to respond. She doesn’t dare push. You try one more safe attempt to reach out, and it doesn’t connect, the conversation swerving to something safer, more mundane, decidedly not dangerous. You’ll finish your coffee first, and she’ll check the time on her phone and say something along the lines of her needing to get going. You’ll walk her to the door, and she’ll say it was really good to see you, and she’ll mean it, and you’ll mean it back, and she’ll leave, and you’ll close the door, and you’ll stand in your kitchen for a while staring at her cup before eventually deciding to wash it, and you’ll sit on the couch wondering what the message inside the bottle is and not opening it, and nothing will have changed. The weeks pass. Maybe she texts, maybe you do, and it won’t matter who does, because all it will be is something simple and dismissible, a meme she thinks you’d like or a check-in when a song on the radio reminds you of her.

But the door between then and now stays shut, and the time between texts grows, and you’re losing her again like you did over the past years except this time you watch it happen and choose it anyways because the bridge looked too burned to cross.

And that’s the current trajectory of the reality you’re allowing to come to pass.

So you reject reality.

You close the distance.

It’s not graceful. It’s fucking desperate, moving too fast, the cushion shifting under you, and she turns at the movement, shifts back slightly but doesn’t move further than that, holds her breath with her mouth open, clutches her hand into a fist and you blink and—

You stop.

A centimeter. Maybe less.

That’s the full distance left between your faces the second the bottle—engraved on the inside of your eyelids—freezes you in place. What if her answer was no, and still is no?

“Why did you stop?“

You look down. You can’t look her in the eyes, because frankly, there’s not an answer you can give her after boldly lunging at her only to stop right before impact. Your eyes land where they always do. The strip of skin left untouched, like a line stopped before completion to make sure you know she still can stop wherever she wants. The floral pattern woven with near equal artistry to the squish of her thigh where the hem of the sock bites into her skin.

“Why are you wearing those?“ you ask.

She’s quiet for a moment. Long enough for you to let your eyes find hers.

“Because you like them,“ she says.

You close the distance, and your lips find hers.

It lands a little off-center, your nose bumping hers, and she makes a small sound of surprise that dissolves almost immediately. It’s compounded interest all paid back at once, your hand finding the side of her face and her hand finding the front of your shirt, and the taste of her is coffee now instead of champagne but the mechanics of it are so familiar.

You pull back just far enough to look at her. Her eyes are still closed for half a second longer than yours, and when they open they’re darker than usual, a little undone, intently focused on you. The black lipstick has migrated, a small smear at the corner of her mouth, and you have the absurd, overwhelming urge to fix it and ruin it further at the same time.

Her other hand comes up and finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of it, the same way she used to when she was in a particular mood, a quietly possessive habit she’d never have admitted to.

“Are you sure about this?“ Her thumb has stopped moving. Her voice quieter, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

You look at her, and she doesn’t look at you.

“I was gone for so long,“ she continues, and she tucks some hair behind her ear, then fixes it immediately. “I don’t want you to regret—“

“You’re here now.”

It’s unbelievably trite, and the Chaeryeong you knew would have wasted no time at all giving you shit for it, but it’s also completely, undeniably true and that makes the instant lack of response that much scarier.

She blinks, her surprise barely masked before she bursts into a laugh that’s mostly exhale, then leans in so her forehead rests against yours. “That’s genuinely the corniest thing you have ever said to me, and I still remember the poem you wrote for me in high school.”

“Thank god,” you respond with an embarrassed smile, “I was worried that I might have had another Chaeryeong in my home if you didn’t make fun of me for that.”

“I had to, no matter how sweet it was,” she whispers, and before you can feel any more stupid about it she’s swinging a leg over you and settling into your lap in one fluid motion, and then her lips part and so do yours again. Her mouth is on yours, open and needy, tongue’s clashing unlike the first one and beneath the coffee there is—absurdly—the faintest taste of cherry coating her.

How dare she.

You level the playing field. Hands finding her hips, planting themselves there, keeping a firm grip on her, and you can feel the way she melts into it, her spine relaxing as she sinks slightly forward. She shifts again when your hands slide up. Her waist first, then onto her ribs, accompanied by the small jump of muscle she always has when you graze a particularly sensitive spot just beneath her ribcage, your thumb pressing into flesh.

There’s a fast rise and fall to it, and you let it linger, stopping there, causing her to look down at you after breaking the kiss, hair falling over her face.

“You stopped again.“

“Look,“ you say, and it starts deadly serious. “There’s a lot we haven’t talked about yet. I know that—like, it’s bad,“ you stop, and she pulls back ever so slightly, her hands drifting. “And, I want to talk. I do.“ You stop to breathe. She holds her breath.

“But right now, I just really—really want to fuck you.“ She exhales, and you don’t stop. “Like, desperately. That’s kind of where I’m at.“

She looks weirdly relieved at that. Then she smiles, her eyes narrowing but staying focused on you. “I don’t mind not talking right now,“ she says. “I’ve been thinking about not talking ever since you lunged at me the first time. So.“

"You sound pent up."

She doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, she turns, shifts her whole weight around in your lap like she's decided its time for you to drown in troubled waters—although they’re only thigh-high—and settles her back against your chest. Your arms close around her, and her head tilts back over your shoulder so she’s looking up at you from below, her eyes looking even more dark and enticing with the long line of her throat exposed.

She grinds her hips into you, your hands dig into her skin, and she exhales into your neck.

"You also feel pent up," you say.

"I haven’t fucked in three years," she says simply, finally answering your earlier question you’ve already long exposed yourself to. You tighten around her waist, slightly squeeze the air out of her, and pull her as close as she can possibly be. "Keep that in mind, because I am going to be—" she pauses, eyes hooded and looking up at you—"sensitive. Everywhere. I will probably cum embarrassingly quickly."

Her head tilts, and her mouth finds your neck. She speaks into your flesh. "That’s not a warning, by the way."

She lightly nibbles on your skin, teeth teasing but never with any pressure.

"No?" you ask.

She settles back against you. Completely at ease.

"I'm bragging."

You move your hands carefully around all the safe spots. It might be you savoring the moment, or maybe you’re just asking permission. Either way, she can tell, and after a moment slides her hands over yours.

“You can touch whatever you want,“ she says, and then her hands are moving yours, guiding them up and under the hem of her top. “I won’t stop you.“

She looks forward again. Shifts, making herself easier to reach, accommodating in a way that feels almost pointed. She’s exactly the same as you remember, which is to say, still a perfect handful, her hands resting atop yours, perfectly cooperative.

"You're being very good about this," you say.

"I know," she says with a smirk, like you haven’t yet figured out the price you’re going to pay for this. A soft moan escapes her as you find her nipples still fit perfectly in between your digits. "I'm very well behaved when I want to be."

"And when you want to be is—"

"Right now," she says. "Obviously." Her fingers press down lightly over yours, guiding without urgency. "You should take advantage of that."

“You’re just making excuses. I think you’re just being needy for my fingers to curl inside of you.“

She doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response just yet. Instead, her fingers interlace with yours, dragging the combination downwards. Off her ribs, past the soft give of her stomach, lower still, until the hem of her skirt glides under your fingertips, not stopping until she lets your palms rest on that strip of skin right between the hem of her socks and the—if the sensation of lace against your thumb is correct—same material panties.

She presses your hands down, makes sure you feel how much they still mold to your grip.

“Okay,“ she says with a smile, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “So what if I am needy?“

She spreads her legs a little, her hands letting go off yours. Her right arm wraps around and her hand finds an anchor point on the back of your neck, keeping her steady as she slides ever so slightly down. Her left hand bunches up the damp fabric of her underwear to the side.

“So what?“ you chuckle once with disbelief. “I told you I wanted to properly fuck you, not just give you princess treatment in my lap,“ you correct her, and push your hips forward once, letting her feel what her provocations have done to you. There’s no way she can miss it, the way your cock is straining against her ass, pressing up into her.

She grinds back, riding the pressure, exposing your own sensitivity. “You think I couldn’t tell how hard you already are?“ She rolls her hips again, slower, more precise, like she’s making a promise for later.

“I know what you want,“ she says. “I want that too, especially if you keep calling me princess.“

“I didn’t call you—“

“But I’ve imagined your hands on me again and again and again,“ she continues. “Every time I closed my eyes.“ Her hips shift. “Yesterday, too. You crossed your arms and I just—“ She moans. She fucking moans, right in your ear. “I came so fucking hard, thinking of them on everywhere. My waist. My throat.“ Her left hand finds yours again, slides it up until you can feel her pussy press against your palm. “Here.“

She’s absolutely soaked.

“Chaeryeong.“

“Don’t say my name like that,“ she protests, whiny, and bites your neck in retribution.

“Okay, princess,“ you smirk and she’s already shaking. Two of your fingers push in, slow, your palm pressed against her clit and her precious little spine curves, her lower back getting pushed away. Her hands hang on tight, like they need the stability.

“Fuck I missed—“ she pushes through an inhale, a small moan follows out, and after an exhale she manages to say the rest. “All of that.“

"You can have this one," you say, unhurried. "You're going to remind me how much after I’m done with you."

She’s writhing in your lap now, hands clutching your flesh and you’re sure she’s going to leave a mark, pulling your head to hers so she can bite your lip between words. “I told you—” she pants, and you want to tell her to go ahead, but she beats you to it—shudders, legs kicking out, and clamps around your fingers so tight you think you’ll never get them back.

“Embarrassingly fast.“

You keep going. Not nice, not considerate, not gentle. You want every ounce of her, want her to lose herself, and the more you work her, the more she gives.

Her spine curves further, impossibly. She’s so small against you like this, tucked in and shaking, and you push both fingers fully in her and she jolts, her breathing going shallow, bitemarks being made in your neck, your thighs getting battered by her heels.

“Tell me when,” you say quietly.

“When,” she says immediately, and you waste no time using the base of your palm to press down on her above her cunt, fingers trying to curl back into your hand inside of her, holding her through her tremors. You can feel it in your own chest, your ribs quaking like a second heartbeat overlapping yours. She looks beautiful. She always did, but it’s easy to miss this; the way she falls apart fully, the way she whimpers your name, the way she smiles after like a radiant goddess.

Her orgasm mellows out eventually, and she’s breathing hard, lifeless limbs hanging against you, and you keep her steady. Let her come down at her pace. You let fingers glide out slowly, slipping free, and she mewls involuntarily, whimpers something pathetic about the loss of your touch.

She lays there, slumped into you, and you’re staring at her lips.

Not just because she’s smiling, or they’re black, or that their hue is clearly infinite with how perfectly coated the still are despite the many traces she’s left on your body. No, you’re just staring because she’s got you so worked up that you’re lost in the memory of her lips wrapped around your cock, back when her lipstick was a shade of red or nude, and those never left any marks.

“You’re staring,“ she says, hopelessly out of breath.

“Just thinking that I like the color.”

“I doubt that’s the full extent of it.” There is no chance Chaeryeong lets you off the hook. “You’re staring at my mouth like you want to fuck it.“

Nobody could ever come close to knowing you like she does. Call it a side-effect of growing up together. There’s no point in denying it. It’s harder to find a way to confirm her observation without feeling like you’d waste the chance, but apparently staring at her does the trick. “You want your dick in my mouth so bad you’re not even pretending to listen to me.“ Her hand draws tiny circles on your wrist, limp fingers brushing skin lightly.

“I’m listening, I’m just visualizing all the ways I can appreciate your lipstick. It’s a beautiful shade,“ you say, eyes drifting towards the ceiling in mock consideration.

she lifts your hand by the wrist to kiss your knuckles, the slightest stain of black remaining on you. “You want to see what it looks like on your cock?“ she asks and you look down at the disgusting sincerity she brings it with.

“Can I?“

“Sure,“ she muses. “You can mark your territory, or whatever. I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t let you consider it. That’s the thing with Chaeryeong. There’s no pleasing her if she’s not teasing you. She needs you to know that it’s her choice when she slides down out of your lap, onto the floor, splitting your legs and staying there, head tipping back at the edge of the couch to look at you as she delivers the sucker punch.

“Seems like you need it.“

You chuckle wryly, bend over forwards and plant a kiss on her forehead. "I hope you know I'm not stopping until there's a black ring around the base of my cock."

“Good.“ She smirks. You stand up, walking around the coffee table, savoring the moment. “I’d prefer you doing all the work right now.“

“You’re really going to just sit there and let me fuck your mouth?“ you tease back, stopping to loom over her.

“Are you complaining?“ she pouts, flutters her eyelashes. “It’s not my fault you fingered the fine motor controls right out of me.“

You put your hands on your hips, cock your head and bend slightly forwards, over her. “Still a brat, huh?“

“Yep!“ she responds, gleefully, proud with a smile, tilting her head. “Which means that this offer expires soon. Whip out your cock you’ve been harassing my ass with, or I’m keeping my mouth shut until I’ve cummed on your face.“

It can’t be overstated how fast you switch up and wrestle with your belt, trying to maintain a facade of composure. “I thought you were supposed to be a princess?“

She opens her eyes, shrugs, and drifts her eyes towards your belt. “Princesses have to eat.“ She lets her head hang back, opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. It’s like she’s asking you to lose control.

Your cock is out before either of you even process it, stiff and aching, veins bulging like never before, as if ready to explode.

“Jesus,“ she says with reverence bordering on worship, no intent of hiding her awe, “I forgot how hot your dick is.“ She stays perfectly still, leaning back against the couch, hands slack next to her on the carpet, the very picture of defiance and submission contradicting herself with minimal effort. “I might actually cum just from choking on it.“

“I forgot how much you talk,” you reply, and admittedly, its a bit snarky. But you know Chaeryeong, and that gambling with a line like this always has a payout.

“Then make me shut up.“

You answer by pressing your cock to her lips, pale pink to her beckoning black. She opens, wide and compliant, her tongue flat and eager, and you glide in. It’s impossible to play this cool, not with her on the floor and your pulse ticking in your ears, not when the black of her lipstick makes her mouth look like a void designed to swallow you whole.

The first pass into her is slow. Her lips slip easily over your cockhead, soft and cold on her lips and then suddenly impossible warm inside. You steady yourself with a hand on the couch cushion behind her, fully leaning over her and she—despite years of proving to you she couldn’t let a single opportunity to take control over you go unchallenged—just lays there, letting you push at your pace. She’s making sure her lips are pressed to the full circumference of your cock, every inch of skin covered, spare the sides she just can’t help but skip—courtesy of the smile pulling the corners of her mouth up.

“You look so fucking good with my dick in your mouth,“ you groan, making sure to put extra emphasis on how possessive you sound. Her eyes do a slow half-blink, satisfied.

You hold her there, cock halfway buried in her, hips already shaking, and pull out slowly. You want to watch the lipstick smear, the drag of her color a tangible scar tracing your shaft. Her eyes squint as she figures out what you’re doing, lips sucking tighter around you, and she hollows out her cheeks.

The black sticks, two perfect half-moons adorning your cock’s top- and underside, stretching in different intensities across your shaft.

“Good fucking girl,“ you hiss, twitch in her mouth, and her eyes close, her eyebrows getting that little wrinkle in pleasure. It’s hard to know whether that’s from the praise, the sight of you losing it or both. And normally, you’d find pleasure in the current state of affairs. It’d be enough, feeling your cock halfway down her throat and seeing her enjoying herself.

But right now, there’s a combination of something you can’t deny and a reckless streak that allows you to explore it. She doesn’t gag. Not yet, at least, but you want to see if you can make her; you want to see how much she’ll let you take, how far you’re allowed to conquer.

So, deeper you push; past the first point of resistance, past the point where she looks up at you with eyes that are looking for something carrying tears in the corner, past her limp hands choosing to grip the fibers of the carpet instead. It’s all too much, she’s right there with you, neither of you able to think straight each time you slide back into her mouth, fucking her face like you need it to survive, Chaeryeong totally passive and not resisting.

Not helping, just letting you help yourself.

“You can take it, right, babygirl?“ you ask, but you don’t care to let her answer. She tries to, though, bobbing her head ever so slightly, letting out a throaty, gurgling sound about as close to a yes as she can manage.

You bottom out, cock fully enveloped by her tight throat, tears running black down her cheeks, and she takes it with a focus that’s almost meditative, eyes drooped and drunk on your pleasure, drowning together with you in desperation.

And that’s when you feel it, the heat in your core, the jolt up your spine, the embarrassing and traitorous tingle of only managing one pump deep down her mouth before you too succumb to your sensitivity. You try to slow, try to savor just a couple seconds more, and she looks up at you like she’s asking if she’s doing something wrong and her throat contracts as if to push you out despite her head staying perfectly still, consciously fighting the subconscious to hold herself open for you.

How could you not comfort her, give in to what you both want by rutting into her face? It’s inevitable at this point, and when the first shock of it hits you, you try to pull away, try to get ready to paint her face white and see how it mixes, but she holds you, moves for the first time since hitting the floor and dives deeper, nose pressed against your stomach, hands flying up to grip the back of your thighs, swallowing the first spurt like she’s starving.

“You fucking—“ you grunt, hands finding the back of her head and tangling her hair into a fist, “slut!“

You yank her off forcibly, she gasps and you hold her there. She’s got this look in her eyes like she’s won a prize off of you, easily wiped out when the second rope of cum hits her in the cheek, across her lips, then down her collarbone and finally a weak spurt dripping out of your cock onto the squish of her thighs, perfect white streaks against her tear-shed mascara, smudged lipstick and porcelain skin.

“Good to know you still cum like a firehose,“ she says, accompanied with a smirk, unbothered by the mess.

“You always knew how to bring out the worst in me.“

She pushes you down into the couch. Turns around with her stomach against the couch cushion and drapes her arms over your legs, cheek resting against your thigh. “The worst of you tastes pretty good,“ she muses, licks her lips, and brings a hand to your cock. “You want me to clean you up?“

You can barely breathe, so a nod must suffice.

She leans in, laps at the slit of your cockhead, down the shaft for any stray drops, then her own wrist, her thumb, and finally the gooey mess she scooped onto her hands from her thighs. The rest of her face stays as is, wearing your cum like jewelry.

“Mmmh, like, so fucking good,“ she moans, excessively.

“There’s something wrong with you,“ you shoot back, and it lands in her chest, a laugh joining her. “Did you miss that too?“ she teases. She climbs up, into your lap again and burrows her nose into the crevice between your neck and your shoulder.

“All of it,“ you reaffirm with a long exhale, reality dawning back on you now that the heat of the fuck-fever subsides.

She stays that way for a while, snuggling closer to you, silently just making herself small on top of you.

“Hey,“ you whisper, fingers twirling with strands of her hair, soft strokes matching her breathing. “You’re getting cum all over my shirt.“

“Don’t care.“

It’s kind of cruel. Not what she says, no, that’s just Chaeryeong like you know her. It’s how it reminds you of the Chaeryeong you don’t know. And it shouldn’t bother you, not with the world outside collapsed into a void and her wrecked against you and the warmth you both share. It should be enough.

But there’s a message in a bottle, and it undeniably has your name on it. Or she wouldn’t have asked yesterday. And you could try to ignore it, and just throw it away when she’s not looking and act like you know no better and you never find out why she left and let it eat at you every single day and let it ruin your fucking—

“Are you going to tell me why you left?“ you ask, stopping the idle patterns you were tracing on her thigh, going dead still.

She freezes too.

“Did you read the message I left?“ she asks, voice thin.

“The one in the bottle?“

“I knew you were lying,” she answers, with only half a smile. She gets up from your lap, turns your back towards you and starts walking towards your bathroom. “Give me a minute. I’m not having this conversation with cum on my face.“

You don’t try to stop her. You just wait for her, find your pants and get somewhat dressed again, settling back into the couch when you hear the faucet stop running and the door open again.

She emerges eventually, her skin wiped clean, any trace of the revelation you just shot onto her face removed. She sits down, next to you instead of on top of you, a little further tucked into the corner than before.

“So? Did you read it?“ she asks again, staring blankly ahead, undecipherable.

You stop looking at her. Sigh, rub your eyes. “No.“

“Why not?“ she follows up, her voice breaking a little. It’s hard to stop yourself from derailing the conversation.

You think about lying, and then about the consequences of instantly being caught lying, because Chaeryeong could always tell and the truth comes out easier than you expected it to anyways. “I wasn’t sure if I could still believe you’d ever return if I read it,“ you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could handle that.“

You turn slightly towards her.

She nods. Pulls her knees up to her torso, and rests her cheek on them, turning towards you. “Can it stay that way?“

It’s the kind of question that needs time to think about. What exactly is the question asking, what is the full context, what happens if “it“ does not stay “that“ way?

When the silence stretches past a point she can bear, she starts to retreat.

“You know what, never mind,“ she crumbles. “That’s an insane thing to ask, obviously it can’t,“ she rambles, unfolding like she’s about to give up, obvious in the fake smile you’ve managed to see through ever since first learning about it. She unfolds slightly like she’s about to bolt for the door—the nuclear option. “You can read it, obviously you’d want to—“

“Can you just chill the fuck out for a moment?“ you intervene. You grab her wrist. It’s cliche, but you’d rather be cliche and hold her here now then let her walk out.

She stops.

“What happens if I read it?“ You look at her, grip unwavering.

She can’t meet your gaze. She tries, but she can’t. She just mumbles a couple of words. “I’ll probably cry again.“

It’s a simple reason, one that doesn’t really let you know anything specific, but when it comes to Chaeryeong, do you really need more to listen to her?

“Why?“

Her eyes manage to reach yours. “I don’t want you to see that version of me,“ she answers. “Because once you do, that’s all I’m afraid you’ll see.“

The room is very still around you. You swallow the questions coming up in your throat, the parts of you that want to pry anyway, and allow the truth to stay in her chest for now.

She trembles in your wrist, you sigh and release your grip. She doesn’t move away.

“I’m not asking you to just—let it go forever,” she says, hands clutched to her chest. “I just need it to come from me. Not who I was. When I’m ready, if you can wait for me.“

A single laugh—breathy and pushed through your nose—escapes you, and it’s almost a cosmic joke. If you can wait for her. You look at her, this idiot of a woman you've been losing in small increments for three years, who showed up in a convenience store at midnight and walked back into your life like she'd only stepped out for a moment, who is sitting here trembling with her hands clutched to her chest asking if you can wait for her like she genuinely doesn't know the answer.

“Idiot.”

She looks genuinely staggered by this. “What?“

“I have kept the one thing that could give me closure on you locked away for three years—maybe would have been locked away until the day I fucking died if you hadn’t shown up—only to be able to hope that I could see you again one day,“ you ramble, voice growing as you stand up and face her.

She blinks, searching across your face, something fragile inside of her breaking.

This could be temporary. A mistake, a pattern that might repeat itself, a karmic miscalculation that will cause you to be locked in an endless repeating chase of losing and finding and losing and finding her again. There’s a real chance hurt is waiting on the other side of the door, and there’s no way of knowing until you figure out why she even left in the first place.

But that doesn’t matter. It’s worth it, for the moments where Chaeryeong fits into your arms, however fleeting or forever.

“What makes you think I can’t wait for you to be ready to tell me, you idiot?“

She looks at you like she’s experiencing every possible emotion all at once with just a slight tinge of disbelief heavier in the mix, eyebrows pinching together upwards.

A laugh gets stifled by her, then resurfaces louder, and she lovingly calls you an asshole. Then, as if genuinely blindsided by it, her eyes fill and stray tears slowly fall down her face, blinking like she can’t quite account for where they came from, hands scurrying to her cheeks to wipe them away with yet another laugh and even more shocked “What the fuck?“

You let it all happen. The laughing, the crying, the attempts to get it under control. She succeeds, eventually. Mostly succeeds. There’s still evidence of it in both the corners of her eyes as well as the corners of her lips, and when she finally looks back up at you, she looks slightly mortified and slightly luminous, entirely a wreck.

“Don’t you dare,“ she says, her eyebrows furrowed at you and her head tilting downwards mockingly.

“Excuse me?“ “You did this.“

“I did?“

She drops her hands. Looks at you with wet eyes and the most unguarded expression you've ever seen on her face in twenty something years of knowing her.

One of your hands wraps around her waist, the other grabs her hand. You close the distance. Not urgent, not desperate, nothing like when three years came crashing down at once. Just your hands finding her, and you kissing her slowly. Like you have the time for it now. She doesn’t let you pull back the first time you try, just pushing further into your space.

When you eventually do end up separate, the first couple of minutes is just spent staring into each other's eyes, even as you move back to sitting on the couch, her making her comfortable in your lap for a third time.

She bites back a laugh and speaks first: “Okay, so, since we’re already just saying embarrassing shit,“ she says, stops, bites her bottom lip with a full smile and her eyes filled with the same joy. “I have a confession to make.“

“Okay?“ you say, hesitantly. This could go anywhere.

“I actually could have arrived here like half an hour earlier.“ She stops to twist her mouth, eyes flickering everywhere and back at you rapidly. “But when you asked to see me, I went home first. I literally changed outfits because I thought it'd be smart to wear these.“ She flexes her thighs, places her hands on them, drawing your full focus to the fabric taut on her pale thighs. “I didn’t think jeans would be of much assistance.“

You choke out a laugh. “You were already out and went back home just to change for me?“

“I saw the way you looked at me yesterday,” she retorts, but her fingers find your chin and pull you back to her mouth before you can comment.

She nips your lower lip, laugh muffled. “You’d be less assertive if I wore jeans, is what I’m saying. Probably wouldn’t find the courage to fuck my face like you did.”

You consider the counterfactual. There’s no universe where you don’t want her, but the comparison of both images in your head, side by side, has you inclined to agree.

“You might be on to something,“ you agree with a slight smirk.

“Thank god I still have what it takes to make you pathetic,“ she preens, twisting her shoulders to show off. “In fact—“ she tugs at your shirt, pulling you in until you are close enough to count her lashes, “I think we should see exactly how much these new socks help you lose composure.“

You try to kiss her, but she stops you with one finger. Instead, she stands up, not bothering to fix her skirt that’s been riding up. “I’m going to your bedroom,“ she says, walking around the coffee table swaying her hips, knowing damn well where you’d look. “I’m going to take off everything except these socks. You can join me after you’ve cleaned up here.“ She stops right before stepping into the hallway, looks over at you and speaks a final time: ”Don’t make me start by myself, because I will.”

There’s no point to bothering with the facade of taking your time or doing this of your own volition. You sweep the half-empty coffee cups, pick up your phone, trash some scattered napkins and try your best to remove any already dried up cum that made it onto your furniture.

You realize it, then. This is just part of her play. The game. You are never, ever more adored by her than when she’s dangling a reward in front of you and watching to see how fast you shower her in attention for it.

It’s intoxicating.

You make your way to your bedroom door as fast as you possibly can, leaving a trail of stripped off clothing behind, your underwear last to fall. Everything must go, because you’re not the main character in her script unless you’re showing up naked and a little bit desperate.

You swing open the door, and the room is painted in the diffused sunlight of early afternoon, a lazy brightness you’ve never really been around for, not until it snuck in here to illuminate her.

She’s sat against the headrest of your bed, propped up by a pillow, naked except for what she promised to keep on. Reapplied black lipstick and a black choker thrown in as a bonus. One hand between her legs, you can see it barely through the gap in her shins, idly teasing herself, the other hand cupping her tits and rolling them slowly. She’s playing with herself, her pride and your arousal all at the same time.

“Wow,“ she says, in that deadpan, smug way of hers, “not even going to let me undress you, huh? That eager to rail me?“

It’s not long before you are on top of her, wrists in one hand and cunt cupped in the other. “You’re going to help me get what I want,“ you say, and she looks smug, way too smug for someone with slick running down her thighs staining your bed.

She curves her spine at your touch. You drift your hands down to the hollow of her knees, soft mesh squeezing under your grip, and you press up until she’s almost folded in half, thigh’s pressed to her chest.

You’ve got her in checkmate, a press to match it and properly breed her, and you slide in so frictionless that you almost forget you’ve both spent years molding yourselves to each other.

With a single measure thrust, you bury yourself fully in her, pushing her further up the bed, and her head rocks back into the pillow with a thunk. She curses, which turns immediately into a moan.

You can feel her thighs-socked and shaking–the rough texture digging into the sides of your chest.

There’s nothing gentle about your rhythm. It’s desperate, same as her sounds. The bed creaks to complete the symphony. Her tits bounce with every thrust, black-painted nails holding and digging into them, doing the job you can’t as you hold your steady above and next to her head.

She tries to say something, but it comes out as a punched-out “fuck—!“ that loses coherence as soon as you bottom out again. You don’t bother pretending like your sounds are any better.

She breaks first—still embarrassingly sensitive—hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in and pressing half moons into your skin, her voice cracking as she begs for more, for harder, for anything you can still give her. “Please,“ she whimpers pathetically, “Inside—“ and you realize she’s asking for something she never has before.

“Yeah? Inside?“ you taunt back through your own nearing doom.

“Mmmhm,“ she nods, giving up on words entirely.

“Want me to fill you up, princess?“ you continue, smacking into her harder, surely bruising something. All she can do is throw her head back and look at you like she’s hoping you’ve somehow learned how to read minds. “I’m going to make you walk around full of me for the rest of the day.“

She almost sobs as she cums, a sudden and sharp gasp accompanies her whole body shaking; the vibrations and the begging for you to finish with her causing you to chase her through it, losing your own composure, your strength, your vision.

You collapse on top of her, she lets her legs wrap across your waist, holding onto you as you ride out the aftershocks. Sweat sticks together, and once you think you’ve found the strength to roll off and pull out, she tightens her legs around you, keeping you in place.

“Don’t move,“ she whispers against the shell of your ear, a hand playing with the hair on your head. “Stay inside me until you’re hard again so you can fuck another load into me.“

You don’t talk about much except the feeling of your cock going soft inside her, the smell of her perfume, the lack of proper interior decoration you’ve done in the time she was gone, and then the feeling of your cock slowly stiffening up inside her again.

She rolls her hips when she feels it, speeding the process along. “I want lots of kissing this time,“ she clarifies. It’s a simple order. It’s so soft, and normal, and mundane you don’t realize nobody has even said it until after you’d let it slip.

“I love you, princess.“

Her head falls back into the pillow, she bites her fingertip, and smiles like she was waiting for that.

“I love you, too,“ she hums, kisses you with lots of tongue, and rocks her hips into you to make sure you’re as connected as physics would allow.

It’s hard not to oblige, taking her breath away as you restart with a softer pace.

—

There’s a message in a bottle, and it has your name on it. It’s gone largely ignored for a week now. You’ve made plans with Chaeryeong to throw it out—or at least, just the message inside—today.

She’s been with you every day for the past week, effortlessly slotting back into your life, and you into her new one. The make-up stays dark most days of the week, but some days she lets you see her in red.

A lot of time has been spent on making up for any of it you’ve lost, though. It’s impossible to keep your hands off of each other.

One day, she wakes you up with your cock in her mouth, hoping to have a slow morning, only to find out you can’t skip work and ends up being so frustrated for the rest of the day that she can’t stop herself from spending her entire lunch break in a disgusting bathroom sending you videos of herself dripping, making sure you know you’re expected to get even.

On another day, she texts you that she’s got her nails done, and asks if you want to see only to send a video of her playing with her pussy from the back. You showed her you still have the handcuffs she bought you that evening.

All she cares about is making sure you still are infatuated with her.

Hard to deny, considering the events. So, today, you text her the moment you leave work to let her know you’re on your way. If all is well, she’ll have taken care of things.

She’s already waiting for you when you get home to your little lover's nest. She’s got her hands behind her back, holding something.

As soon as you step inside, she plants a kiss on your cheek, and reveals her little secret.

There’s a present in her hands, with your name on it.

“I wrapped it in a way I thought you’d like,“ she says. Green, with blue ribbons on it, shaped like a bottle.

You take it from her hands and start unwrapping it–revealing a bottle of whiskey you told her about.

Early June, and summer is off to a head start. The sun is beating down on you relentlessly. Chaeryeong doesn’t seem to notice, skipping ahead like the earth isn’t turning fast enough for her.

“Can you slow down? It’s way too hot for you to be this energetic right now,” you call out in a failed attempt to keep her near you.

“Absolutely not. Can you speed up, instead?” she retorts, and you can’t blame her. Turning twenty-one and no longer having to sneak around to get drunk is a big milestone, after all. Nothing past your first sip the day you celebrated your birthday made it into the permanent memory bank.

Go figure she’s brimming with the same kind of anticipation, the kind that makes her shine. Blonde hair swaying in the wind like rays of the sun itself as she turns to look at you with mock anger. You. The one who promised to treat her to a drink of choice, after all.

“If I die of heatstroke, I can’t buy you anything,” you grunt. 

“I could just take your wallet off of your body if you die.”

She’s always been like this. Sharp, faster and more deadly with a comeback than you could ever be—when she’s paying attention. Relentless in her teasing, and most certainly one of those weirdos that has ragebaiting as their lovelanguage.

By the time you reach the liquor store, you’re drenched in sweat. But that’s just you. Chaeryeong—unlike you—looks pristine, like she’s made out of porcelain, like sweating is below her, but still chooses to wrap her arms around one of yours like she doesn’t care about any of those observations, she’s just happy to usher you inside.

“So, what are we looking for?” you ask as you browse the seemingly endless shelves. Chaeryeong is scanning each shelf, her pace significantly slower, like she’s in no rush to decide. A joke is begging to burst out of you, but you keep it locked up, lest you speed up her process and waste precious, air-controlled minutes inside.

She hums as her eyes scan up and down, thinking it over until she brings you up to speed. “Iunno,” is all she gives, though.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” you ask, kind of incredulously.

“I don’t know. What? Can’t a girl pick her first drink based on vibes?” she asks back.

“I don’t know. I guess? I knew what I wanted my first drink to be long before I got to it.”

She stops walking, holding you in place with her as she turns her gaze away from the endless bottles towards you. “Really? What did you get, again?”

“Whiskey,” you answer with a misguided sense of pride, like it’s supposed to be a cool answer. “You know, like, a real man’s drink.”

She just stares at you, one corner of her lip curling upwards into a smirk, and she doesn’t need to waste any words on mocking you. “I just figured I would find a nice bottle of something screaming at me,” she teases, poking you in the side with a finger, the rest of her hand still wrapped around your arm. “And if it’s expensive, that’s your problem.”

“Your plan is to let the bottle choose you?” you question, again.

“Worked out fine with you.”

That gets you. A chuckle escapes you, and she looks up at you, proud of herself. Worst part is that she’s completely right. She gave you shit for weeks for how long you waited to ask her out.

“Brat,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She adjusts the black bow tied into her hair like she’s checking to see if you didn’t boorishly ruin her pristine sense of style, shrugs her shoulders when she’s satisfied with its current fit and smiles up at you. The intent is all too clear. She gracefully accepts your admission of defeat.

Finding something that suits Chaeryeong's taste might prove impossible. She’s got high standards for her likes to clear. Nothing really seemed to strike a chord with her, that is, until you reached the wine department.

“Oh. My. God. That is the one,” Chaeryeong exclaims with glee, rushing towards a black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. She grabs it off the shelf, carefully turns to you and holds it up for you to inspect. “Isn’t it so fucking cute?”

It’s just north of a hundred dollars, a lot more expensive than the cheap forty dollar whiskey you celebrated your coming of age ceremony with, but that thought gets shoved down the moment you see the joy on her face.

“It suits you,” you say as you take the bottle in your hands. 

“You think?” she questions back, and you just nod to answer.

Bottle in one hand, her hand in the other, you head towards the register, making good on your promise. A fine bottle of champagne for an even finer girl. She kisses you on the cheek the moment the cashier hands you back the bottle.

—

There’s an empty black and pink bottle of rosé champagne, adorned with pink, red and lilac ribbons etched into the glass. Inside, there’s a piece of paper, rolled up, and it would only make sense to have your name on it.

Chaeryeong must have left it for you to find.

Three years have you had it like this. Three years since she vanished from your life—and, as far as you can tell, hers as well. 

Three years since you’ve worked together on turning that bottle from full to empty. 

Looking at it makes the taste linger on your tongue.

—

"It's so fucking good," Chaeryeong practically moans. "It tastes like the world's most expensive cherry is making love to fizzy grapes on a bed of flowers, somehow?"

The shade of her favorite red lipstick paints the edge of her paper cup—courtesy of the room and wildly unfit for the quality of the drink—and she hands it to you. There’s still some champagne left at the bottom. You press your lips to the edge, already tasting a small hint of cherry from where Chaeryeong’s lips left a stain, and finally take a sip.

The fizz tickles your nose, teasing floral notes, a sharp contrast to your first drink, which could only be described as sandpaper fucking mudwater on a bed of burnt wood.

“Well?” she asks, tilting her head. She’s already claimed the center of the bed, lounging back on her elbows with a light grace that makes the room feel classier than it has any right to. “Did I pick the perfect drink or what?”

“It’s alright,” you lie, obviously, even though you’re already making a mental note to buy this exact bottle for every future celebration. You take another sip, finishing the paper cup, crinkle it in your fist and throw it in the trash can.

“Liar,” she chirps, kicking out a leg. Her foot, encased in a soft, ivory-colored wool thigh-high sock, pokes you right in the chest. “You can’t try to act nonchalant while also going for a second sip.”

You catch her ankle, the fabric soft and surprisingly warm against your palm. You don't let go. She doesn’t want you to, either. It’s obvious in the way her pupils are as big as they’re allowed to be, unwaveringly fixated on you. Every inch your hand slides up her leg causes another twitch in her calves.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She's known ever since she wore this exact pair for the first time and you both lost your virginities. She wore these specifically because she fucking knows they turn your brain into mush, that seeing the little stretch of skin on her thigh between where the sock ends and her miniskirt begins makes you simply obsessed.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter without making eye contact, gaze fixed at her legs. Throw her a smirk, and pull her closer to the edge of the bed.

She’s won, celebrating her birthday with all the right beats. She hooks one of those wool-clad legs over your shoulder, the texture dragging against your neck, pulling you closer into her, into the mattress she reigns over.

“You’re so pathetic when I’m wearing these,” she whispers. Her tongue pushes through her lips, wets them, and leaves her mouth just slightly agape long enough for you to nearly close the distance. Those cherry covered lips should be on you, but instead they continue to taunt. “I wore them in a heatwave just to—” she huffs, smiling when your grip tightens, “—see you look at me like this. Like a dog waiting for permission to eat.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?” you growl, but you’re already leaning in, your hands sliding up the back of those socks to the soft, squeezed skin of her upper thighs. “A horny, attention-seeking brat.”

“I’m your princess,” she corrects, her eyes beaming with contradictory hunger. She reaches down, her fingers brushing against your knuckles before she pushes your hands away so she can take over. “And princesses get what they want. Right now, I want to see how much of a mess I’ve made you.”

A sly smile plays on your lips as you slide her leg off of your shoulder, and steal the bottle of champagne out of her other hand, taking control of the pace.

“Not so fast, princess. I’ve paid for three hours off this room, we can take our time,” you retort in a competitive growl. She watches you with wide, surprised eyes as you take a long, deliberate swig, letting fruits dance on your tongue. Swallowing would be a waste now.

No. You reach out and snag the black bow in her hair alongside some of her silken strands, and grab a nice fistful.

With a firm tug on it, just enough to jerk her head back, you force her gaze off of your straining bulge and onto your face. Her mouth falls open in  a small gasp of shock, corners of her lips going up into a defiant smile. The distance between you two melts away with reverent intention until you press your lips against hers. You let the sparkling liquid seep into her mouth, sweet and fizzy flooding her mouth and catching her off-guard.

She scrambles for purchase on your shoulders, tongue mixing with yours as she takes all you can give, letting out a muffled and desperate sound as she swallows the mouthful you’ve gifted her.

“There,” you mutter as your lips part, your thumb swiping a stray drop of rosé from her chin. “Happy birthday. Now we can be a mess together.”

“I’m going to cry if you don’t take your pants off soon,” she moans as drops of champagne that you couldn’t quite get into her mouth spill down her chin. No time is wasted licking them up from collarbone to jaw. “I’m making you buy a new bottle and doing this every birthday I have from now on.”

That earns her a muffled laugh against her skin.

“Every birthday?”

“Every single one,” she answers without a drop of hesitation. “Even yours.”

—

There’s an empty bottle that still faintly smells of cherry, grapes and spring flowers.

It’s also the last bottle you bought her.

The note inside is still there. It’s impossible not to think about, and what it has to say, why it has your name on it.

If you open it, the memory of that June afternoon finally breaks. The memory of the wool against your skin and the cherry on your tongue will have to face whatever reality she wrote down.

For now, you just leave it where it is. Because as long as the bottle is sealed, she’s still in that love hotel room, smiling up at you, waiting for her next drink.

Despite all that, you still had to learn how to live without her.

You’re not good at it. 

Not when you’re losing her over and over again. See, the thing about a person vanishing from your life without an explanation—or, in your case, an explanation you don’t think you can deal with—is that it’s not a one time thing.

Sure, you lost Chaeryeong the morning she didn’t come back to your place. Then, you lost her again the first time you saw a funny video and wanted to share it with her. Again when you found a strand of her dyed blonde hair on your winter coat.

You’ve been constantly losing her in small increments. Three years of small losses, compounding interest, your mind begging you to keep her memory intact.

It’s not as oppressive during the day. It’s the nights that are the most silent. It makes sense, those were your favorite times as a couple. You still can’t bring yourself to sit in her spot on the couch.

So, nights require distractions now. Hobbies that don’t stick, endless scrolling of short-form content to beat your brain to death with, midnight snack and alcohol runs.

Tonight isn’t one of the worst nights. Tonight is just a Tuesday in late May, and you need milk for your coffee tomorrow morning, and the only convenience store still open is a 7-Eleven on a forty minute walk away. The distance doesn’t bother you, it fills time that way. Earbuds in, a nice long walk, and check out a undoubtedly similar store to all of their other locations, but it keeps you occupied all the same.

Meditation, you call it. Obsession is what your friends call it. The way you spend every moment you’re not occupied thinking about what you’d say to her. It’s all painted on the inside of your skull, flashing before you the moment you close your eyes.

The way you wouldn’t give an inch. Ask her to explain herself. The way you’d hold yourself when you asked it, having practiced the exact beats for “where did you go” and “did it ever occur to you how I felt.”

But most importantly, you practiced not letting her know that all she had to do was ask and you’d forgive her like nothing happened.

You’re so lost in it again you almost miss her entirely.

She’s crouched at the bottom shelf of the snack aisle, picking out different cans of pringles, examining them and putting them back one by one. Her hair is black now, shielding her line of sight from you. Her lips peek through, a similar shade of midnight, not something you’ve ever seen her entertain.

You have about ten seconds to walk away and she would never know. You stand there, three years of questions disappearing in the span of two seconds.

She shifts her weight, the hem of her coat rides up, and you see the nail in your coffin.

Black lace. Same strip of skin at the top of her thigh. A floral pattern engraved. Three years clearly not enough to erase a decade of habits.

“You trying to find a snack that’s just screaming at you?”

She freezes.

Her head turns slowly, eyes finally meeting yours, trembling in place like she’s seen a ghost.

“Oh,” she breathes. Her fingers clench and then unclench around the canned snack. “It’s—hi.”

“Hey,” you respond, arms now crossed. Just like that, three years of questions, righteous anger and rehearsed confrontations evaporate into stale air.

“I didn't—" she starts, then stops to fidget with the hem of her coat. It’s a nervous habit of hers, once she’s had since she was little. You instantly pick up on it like you’d stumbled over a tripwire you’d laid for yourself years ago.  “You shop here now?”

“No, I don’t,” you respond curtly. She can’t meet your eyes when you say it. “But the one we used to shop at is being renovated. And I needed some milk for my coffee tomorrow morning.”

She nods, gaze flickering between your face and the floor. “That makes sense.”

None of this makes sense if you think about it. Has she always been here? Just out of reach, less than an hour walking from your normal life? Just—what? Living her life without you?

It only raises more questions you never rehearsed. Also stretches a silence between you, filled only with the humming of refrigerators and flickering of fluorescent lights. All you manage to do is blurt out something mundane.

“You stopped dyeing your hair.”

Her hand reflexively touches the ends off her hair draped over her shoulder. “Yeah. Do you, ehm, you like it?”

Any color Chaeryeong has ever had has instantly become your favorite color, only occasionally dethroned by the shade of her lipstick. Telling her was never a problem when you were still intertwined, but what if this is just temporary? A stroke of misfortune for her, a blip on the radar, and all you’d accomplish was making her uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” is most you can start with. “I like it.”

The black color of her lips contrasting against her pale skin helps you spot the faintest of smiles, disappearing as fast as it came.

She shifts her weight around and looks down at the can in her hand like she’s forgotten why she’s even picked it up. It couldn’t be more clear, whatever brought her here tonight did not account for seeing you again.

You both go through the motions, asking how you’ve been, and you lie that you’ve been good. Maybe her “I’m doing okay,” the truth, maybe it's a lie, and both would sting just the same. Where you’re working now, if you still live in the same place, and how nothing has changed and you’re practically been frozen in time since she left.

It’s not the same for her, obviously. She looks like you could never have even begun to imagine her.

She shifts again, her coat follows the movement, and you just can’t help but catch another glimpse of those fucking black lace stockings. Some things never change. Stop yourself from wondering why that detail hasn’t. If you do, you might get a lump in your throat so big no more words could come out.

Thankfully, she breaks the mold. “Um,” she starts, then stops. Takes a breath, and her shoulders stiffen up. “Can I ask you something stupid?”

“Sure,” you answer, impossibly bracing yourself.

“Do you remember that champagne bottle we shared on my birthday?”

Of course you remember. The champagne bottle with a message in it. But she’s not asking about the message, the note. 

“The rosé one? Yeah, what about it?”

She takes a deep breath, meeting your eyes properly for the first time, brow knitted together. “I was just wondering if you still had it. I liked the way it tasted.”

“I’m not sure,” you lie. “Maybe? I could check when I’m home.”

There’s something you can’t quite make out playing across her face, not with everything new about it. Is it relief? Disappointment? It’s gone before she nods again.

“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to go through the trouble,” she assures you.

You nod. There isn't much else you know to do.

“Yeah,” you say, even though there’s nothing to agree with. “If you say so.”

The silence that follows is different this time. It’s about as obvious as the void in your chest when you look at her. There’s no awkwardness or sensitivity to it. It’s merely there to kill a story.

She swaps the can from one hand to the other, forcing her focus to change, to do anything to not drown. “I should probably, y’know,” she gestures the can towards the register. “Pay for this.”

“Right,” you answer. “Yeah.”

You stand there frozen, unmoving, freezing her with you.

For a second, it’s almost like one of you is supposed to say something else. Like you’re missing the pop-up for another dialogue option, like there’s a version of this reunion that ends with you and her in each other's arms but you just can’t see the bridge that connects the now to that.

And it fades, gone as soon as it arrives, draining through your fingers like water.

She nods to herself, more than to you, and steps around you. Not too close. Not too far either. Just, around you.

Her scent gets trapped in your nose.

It’s hard to snap out of the scene, and you linger longer than you can respect yourself for. Just staring at the spot she just was now isn’t, before reluctantly moving on to what you came for.

Milk.

Stupid fucking milk, that you just grab any carton of, whichever comes first, and just rush with towards the register in the most delusional hope of catching up to her.

By the time you reach the register, she’s already left the store.

It’s when you step outside she surprises you again.

Chaeryeong hasn’t left. 

She’s standing just past the automatic doors, under a particularly strong lamp, scanning the horizon. She looks at you the moment the doors hiss shut.

“Found your milk?” she asks, squeezing together her lips.

“Yep,” you blurt out without much thought spent on what to say next. She fills in the void pretty quickly.

“Which way are you headed?”

“Same as always.”

She nods slowly. Clicks her tongue, her eyes dart up and down, hoping you figure something out without having to spell it out for you. She speaks when you don’t.

“It’s really late,” she says, and the tone of her voice is the same one she used when she really wanted you to get up from the couch and go grab her a snack.

“Is your new place far from here?” you ask, and you pray you don’t come off as a creep.

“It’s not super far,” she answers in the same tone.

You sigh. “Will you make it home safe?”

“I’d feel safer if you walked me.”

You agree like you’ve always agreed to anything Chaeryeong asked of you. Old habits dying hard, or maybe it’s you forcing them alive despite the weathering of time. It’s all the same in the end, a simple excuse to talk some more to her.

“Which way are we headed?” you ask. 

She tilts her head left, and you fall in beside her.

For the first couple of hundred meters, nobody says anything that made it into your practiced conversations. It used to be so easy and comfortable to be in silence together, and now it feels like you’re both asking permission for just that. Some light conversation does happen. Chaeryeong asks if you’re still working the same job, which you are. You ask the same, which she obviously isn’t, you’d have found her. She works in childcare now, and you tell her it suits her.

It takes a while for the first thing you can latch on to surfaces. Chaeryeong asking if you still have the same phone number. She asks it carefully too, like she’s bracing herself for a lie from you. “Yeah,” is all you say.

She slows down half a step, grabbing her phone from her coat pocket. She fiddles with it, and you feel your phone buzz as she stashes her away again.

“Now you have mine,” she smiles, and skips once or twice to catch up to you.

You don’t grab your phone to read what she sent, trusting it’s not as important as just making sure you have her number. You’d rather be here, on this street, in this fragile thing, hoping she tells you she made a mistake and wants you back.

She notices. It’s obvious in the way she looks at the pocket you’ve kept your phone in since you were fifteen for a second longer than necessary, and then back at the road ahead. There’s no figuring out Chaeryeong when she has an idea or what that entailed, but it was never a secret from you whenever she had one.

That’s when the conversation starts to move. It almost tricks you, moving the way it used to, simple thoughts flowing from one into another.

But it’s not the same.

It flows the way a river flows when a natural catastrophe has changed the lay of the land, quietly rerouting, touching different banks.

You can feel yourself swim against the current, trying to close the distance with a reference only she would get—something about how she’d totally zone out any time you started talking about your day—and she smiles, she gets it, she even picks it up and runs with it for a sentence or two. But then it trails off. Lands somewhere just shy of where it would have, three years ago. Where she would have grabbed your arm, leaned into you, kept teasing you until you were so annoyed you’d stop her from talking by kissing her.

Instead, she just smiles, and looks ahead.

You do the same.

Her phone lights up in her hand. She glances at it briefly, types something without breaking stride, and pockets it again. You notice. You don’t say anything about it. It’s the second time since you left the store.

By the time you turn onto her street, you’ve both made peace with the gaps. Or you’ve both agreed, silently, to pretend you have.

The building she stops in front of is narrow and clean, a row of small potted plants lined up outside the entrance like she had a hand in that. It’s nice to believe she did.

She stops, turns to face you. Pulls her coat tighter. Her eyes shine , but it’s soft and careful, like she’s been working up to what she’s about to say a few times over.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says, and you believe her. That’s not the problem. “And I—“ a small pause, “—I hope we can talk again sometime. If you want.”

If you want.

The words land somewhere low in your chest and turn upside down.

Three years of losing her in pieces, of practicing what you’d say, of sitting on the side of the couch that was always yours because you couldn’t bring yourself to take hers, of carrying a bottle you can’t open because opening it means it’s real. She has the audacity to stand here, putting it in your hands. Like it was ever up to you. Like you were the one who needed convincing.

“If I want,” you repeat, and you hear the edge in your own voice before you’ve decided to put it there.

She blinks, takes a step back. “I didn’t—“

“No, I just—“ you interrupt. Stop to collect your thoughts, resurface the script you’ve practiced over and over. Start again. “I just don’t think that’s fair of you to say. Not after everything.”

She doesn’t move. Her expression has gone still in the way it does only when she doesn’t know what to say, and you know she’s not going to fight you on it, which somehow makes it worse.

Already stepping back, already putting distance between you and the bottom step and her face, which is doing something complicated that you can’t afford to look at for very long before your lungs are ready to work again. “I’m glad you’re okay. I am.” You shake your head. “I’m not.“

You don’t wait for her to respond. There’s a final “Goodnight” you throw out hastily after you turn, walking away, and the night air hits you cold and immediate and you don’t look back. Your hands find your pockets. Everything blurs, your feet keeping your pace even, controlled, the same way you’ve controlled everything since she left, and you keep walking.

You don’t stop. Not until you’re back in your building, up your stairs, through your door and in your bedroom.

She’s on your mind until exhaustion finally lets you drift away.

—

It’s the morning after seeing Chaeryeong for the first time in three years. You’ve got three messages on your phone. Chaeryeong sent them to you.

All from yesterday evening.

The first: “i hope you dont mind me having kept your number lol“

It’s unfair to open with that, as if her having kept your number isn’t cause for celebration, to open a fancy bottle of champagne. You save her to your contacts and leave the bottle closed for now.

The second, sent maybe ten minutes after the first: “thanks for walking me home btw, im not usually out this late and it makes me feel a lot more at ease to have you here“

You stare at the screen. The time gap between the second and final message proves the last one is from just after you stormed off yesterday. It reads as follows: “im not good at this. i understand if you dont reply to this“

Eventually, the screen dims. You put the phone down on your chest and look at the ceiling for a while. From where you're lying you can see the bottle on the shelf where you keep it. Black and pink, the ribbons etched into the glass catching the flat morning light. The note still inside it, rolled tight, a different kind of taunting aura now. It holds your gaze for a long time. Then you look back at your phone.

There's a version of you that opens the bottle today. That finally breaks the seal and reads whatever she couldn't say to your face and lets that be the thing that decides it. 

You pick up your phone instead. Stare at the messages she sent you. Sit with the blank text field for a moment, write a couple of words that don’t feel right, delete them, stare at that stupid fucking bottle again and almost put your phone away. There’s a million questions you want to ask her, but there’s no point in even pondering them if you can’t even ask the simplest question first.

“Can I see you?”

You put the phone face-down on the mattress and go make coffee, because you need something to do with your hands, something to distract you from checking your phone every two seconds to see if she answered. 

You’ve barely picked out a cup when your phone rings.

“now?”

It’s conveniently inconvenient. The timing alone is enough to spike your heartbeat for the rest of the morning. A response that’s way too fast for someone that’s supposed to be a closed door, so fucking fast that you realize you won’t be able to put your phone down the moment you figure out how to respond.

Because there’s an even more annoying question being asked back to you now. What the fuck does she mean? Just that, no further context, infuriatingly drives you to consider two totally opposite possibilities, two divergent interpretations.

But that’s the trick of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s been three years. It is that urgent. A second without her or at least a resolution longer is one too many. So you just take a chance on it being the second choice, and fire back.

“Whenever you can”

You send another text almost instantly, correcting yourself.

“Now, actually, if thats not too weird” 

You hover over the send button, delete “if thats not too weird” and just send the first part.

She doesn’t take much longer to respond. Says she’ll be over in an hour, if that’s not too weird. You instantly respond to her, letting her know it isn’t.

What follows is not an hour of pacing, not an hour of relaxed waiting, casually preparing. No. It’s an hour of the worst kind of anticipation, with every minute making your heart beat faster like it still could accelerate, driving your anxiety to a point it makes you feel like you’re going to shit all your organs out on the floor and die there.

See, running into her unexpectedly is one thing, but doing the inverse—meeting with her at an agreed upon time—is far worse. 

It’s an hour of cleaning everything in your apartment—or at least the part you expect to host her and her apology. Any sign that could give away a hint that you are not in control has to be eliminated. All of the conversations you planned start flowing again, and you try to force them away knowing damn well none of them will matter the moment she shows up at your door.

You buzz her in almost exactly an hour after her last text.

Yesterday’s black was not an accident. She’s still all winged liner, smoky eyes and inky black lipstick. Your eyes zip down once and spot the same poison as yesterday. A single strip of skin, with a floral pattern slightly further down. You don’t ask. You can’t manage much more than a “hi” anyways.

You let her in.

She knows your place blind. Like a cat who just returned from her evening stroll, she walks straight to the couch and sits, knees together to the side and feet half tucked under her, hand clutching her phone. It’s far too familiar how she sinks in.

Before any of the conversational explosions that have their fuses lit in your chest come out, you make your way to the kitchen, pouring both of you coffee. You speak loudly, letting her know that you happen to have some milk, if she still takes her coffee the same way she used to, which she lets you know she does.

You pour your own and join her, but on the opposite end of the couch. You fit into the memory better there, after all. Now that she’s here, you don’t even know where to start, or how to even explain without sounding desperate why you invited her over.

She puts her cup down, turns to you and says, “I want to apologize again for last night. I was—I’m really bad at this. I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit.”

You don’t turn. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to me before.” Take another sip of your coffee, then put it down. “The sound of it is just all wrong.”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, no, please stop,“ you say, your whole face tightening with cringe. “It’s like hearing a cat bark or something.“

“Shut up?“ she responds just a bit too much like she used too.

“Chaeryeong.”

“Ew?” she responds in instant and total disgust.

“What do you mean, ‘ew’?“

“Don’t say my name like that.“

“Like what? Chaeryeong?“ You turn to face her properly for the first time since you sat down.

“Please fucking stop,” she says, recoiling and scrunching her nose as if you just mentioned hating puppies. “It’s horrible.“

“I’m literally just saying your name.“

“I know, and it’s horrible, and I hate it.“ She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees tighter to her body. “You never used to say my name. I literally think the last time I heard you say my name, we might have been like, I don’t know, eleven years old?“

“Chaeryeong,“ you say with a smirk.

“I’m going to punch you.“

“For saying your name?“

“Yes! You used to call me princess.” She physically winces at the sound replaying in her head. “Hearing you say my name just makes it sound like you’re so upset with me.“

You face her head on with a smile you can’t seem to stuff down. “I am upset with you!“

“I already tried to apologize!“

“I’m upset because of you apologizing, idiot.“

“You know what, actually? Call me an idiot. That’s much better. I prefer it over you saying my name.”

You stare at her for a long moment.

“You’re actually an idiot,” you say, flatly, because some things never change.

“Thank you.”

You shake your head, pivot back toward the conversation before it escapes you entirely. “My point is—you don’t apologize to me. That’s not a thing you do. You apologized to your dance instructor for being late when your subway literally broke down. You apologize to delivery guys when they’re late because—” you raise your fingers to form air quotes. “It’s not their fault we live so far away.“

She tries to stop you, but you raise your finger like you’re scolding her and continue: “You’ve apologized to your mom for weed Chaeyeon hid in a cookie jar. I’ve watched you do it. You’ve never smoked in your life.” You gesture vaguely in her direction. “You apologize to everyone. Everyone except me. Or—“ you catch yourself, measured, “—at least, never with words.”

A beat passes. Then she laughs. Not the polite kind, not the deflective kind she’s been deploying since yesterday like a smoke screen. The real one. The one that starts low and tips forward and makes her press a hand over her mouth when it gets too loud, the one that used to make you feel like you’d won something.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, riding out the coattail of her chuckle, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “I won’t apologize for yesterday if you tell me why you really invited me over. Clearly, it wasn’t to hear me say sorry.”

You take a long sip of your coffee. “I wanted to talk.”

“You wanted to talk,” she repeats, flat.

“Catch up.”

“Catch up.”

She watches you, waiting, eyes taunting you to start ‘catching up’. You set your cup down on the coffee table, link your hands together, and decide to just walk straight into it.

“Yeah, catch up,” you start carefully. “Like, for example, ask you questions like—“ you pause, roll your eyes trying to think of an easy transition into the barrage you’ve prepare, “—ever since we broke up—“

“Wait,“ she interrupts you, holding up a hand and furrowing her brow with theatrical precision. “We broke up?“

All you can do is stare. Blankly. It’s so utterly tactless, shot straight from the hip and missing its mark by a mile.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, utterly oblivious to how unable you are to laugh this joke away, “I don’t remember a breakup conversation happening. Technically.”

“Chaeryeong.”

“There it is again,” she mutters, scrunching her nose.

“You disappeared,” you say, and the word lands heavier than you intend it to. “For three years. That’s the conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” she scrunches her mouth, and looks away. “And you said my name just now so we’re even for me apologizing.“

You exhale through your nose, letting out a single chuckle in hopes of preserving some of the earlier momentum. “Idiot.“ You look back at her, and she can feel it, turning to meet your gaze. “As I was saying, ever since we broke up, have you been seeing anyone?“

It’s not the first question you wanted to ask. It mostly just slipped out, some kind of honest response to her eyes connecting with yours. It’s the question you’re stuck with now, forced to to face whatever answer she gives.

She tilts her head, wiggles her toes. “Have you?“

You should have known she would never answer before you. “You’re unbelievable,“ you say as you tilt your head towards the ceiling, hands dragging down your face.

“It’s payback. I deserve an answer first,“ she says simply, and before you can even question it—because she knows you will—she already continues, “because you called me an idiot.“

A big sigh escapes your lungs. There’s no point in arguing with her. At this point, the only outcomes are nobody answering, or you answering first, so you do. “No,“ you say. “I haven’t been seeing anyone.“

Her gaze burns on the side of your face like it always has when she’s going to ask you a barrage of questions you can’t avoid. You resist turning towards it.

“No one?” she asks.

“No one.”

A short pause. “Not even like, a one night thing? Someone you met at a bar, charmed your way into her pants and then never have to talk to her again?”

“What? No.”

“Didn’t pay anyone?” She says it carefully, measuring it. “Like, even just for—“

“No.” You say it before she can finish. “No.”

“Not even a kiss? Holding hands?“

You finally turn back to her. “Not even that. Not once. Nothing.”

She sits with that for a moment. The apartment is very still around you. You fear to move, lest the couch makes a sound and ruins this fragile moment you don’t know what to do with.

“Don’t you miss it?” she asks, and her voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s just a question now, plain and without judgement.

And the thing is, the word ‘it‘ is doing a tremendous amount of heavy lifting. She might be asking about the abstract concept of physical intimacy or the general act of human contact.

But you can’t help but be hit by a flood of ‘its‘. It’s the wool against your palm. It’s the cherry on your tongue. It’s a black bow coming loose in your fist and sifting through your fingers like sand only for strands of blonde to remain. It’s legs hooked over your shoulder like an anchor you never got tired of keeping steady. It’s the wiggle of toes anytime anything exciting happened. It’s countless nights spent whispering that you still think she’s the prettiest girl in the world.

You miss it the way you’d miss breathing.

You don’t say any of that.

You don’t say anything for long enough that the silence becomes its own kind of answer.

She watches you. Then, softly, she offers you an exit: “You probably don’t miss having a girlfriend that never apologizes, right?”

It’s a joke. It’s meant to be a joke. She’s giving you the out, the laugh, the reset.

The bad ending.

“I miss all of it,” you say, and it comes out with so little air, quiet and meek. Like something you’ve been keeping in a locked room for three years that just walked out on its own while you were still figuring out if it could stand.

She goes very still in response.

Not the kind of stillness she’d couple with contorted faces to buy her more time to think of something clever. A kind you’d never seen before. One that starts in her eyes and slowly creeps all over her body.

You catch yourself staring at her, but it’s impossible to stop. She blinks once—no, twice—and then shifts, chuckles, breaks the silence.

“All of it,“ she repeats, hollow. Like she’s not allowing herself to taste the words. She shakes her head, looks down at her cup and smiles softly. “I’m sure you could go without a lot of it.“

That’s when you see it. Clear as day, eyes wide open. The next hour, the next week, the next three years. The whole thing passing you by like the trail of a bullet that barely missed.

It goes like this: You don’t say anything meaningful to respond. She doesn’t dare push. You try one more safe attempt to reach out, and it doesn’t connect, the conversation swerving to something safer, more mundane, decidedly not dangerous. You’ll finish your coffee first, and she’ll check the time on her phone and say something along the lines of her needing to get going. You’ll walk her to the door, and she’ll say it was really good to see you, and she’ll mean it, and you’ll mean it back, and she’ll leave, and you’ll close the door, and you’ll stand in your kitchen for a while staring at her cup before eventually deciding to wash it, and you’ll sit on the couch wondering what the message inside the bottle is and not opening it, and nothing will have changed. The weeks pass. Maybe she texts, maybe you do, and it won’t matter who does, because all it will be is something simple and dismissible, a meme she thinks you’d like or a check-in when a song on the radio reminds you of her.

But the door between then and now stays shut, and the time between texts grows, and you’re losing her again like you did over the past years except this time you watch it happen and choose it anyways because the bridge looked too burned to cross.

And that’s the current trajectory of the reality you’re allowing to come to pass.

So you reject reality.

You close the distance.

It’s not graceful. It’s fucking desperate, moving too fast, the cushion shifting under you, and she turns at the movement, shifts back slightly but doesn’t move further than that, holds her breath with her mouth open, clutches her hand into a fist and you blink and—

You stop.

A centimeter. Maybe less.

That’s the full distance left between your faces the second the bottle—engraved on the inside of your eyelids—freezes you in place. What if her answer was no, and still is no?

“Why did you stop?“

You look down. You can’t look her in the eyes, because frankly, there’s not an answer you can give her after boldly lunging at her only to stop right before impact. Your eyes land where they always do. The strip of skin left untouched, like a line stopped before completion to make sure you know she still can stop wherever she wants. The floral pattern woven with near equal artistry to the squish of her thigh where the hem of the sock bites into her skin.

“Why are you wearing those?“ you ask.

She’s quiet for a moment. Long enough for you to let your eyes find hers.

“Because you like them,“ she says.

You close the distance, and your lips find hers.

It lands a little off-center, your nose bumping hers, and she makes a small sound of surprise that dissolves almost immediately. It’s compounded interest all paid back at once, your hand finding the side of her face and her hand finding the front of your shirt, and the taste of her is coffee now instead of champagne but the mechanics of it are so familiar.

You pull back just far enough to look at her. Her eyes are still closed for half a second longer than yours, and when they open they’re darker than usual, a little undone, intently focused on you. The black lipstick has migrated, a small smear at the corner of her mouth, and you have the absurd, overwhelming urge to fix it and ruin it further at the same time.

Her other hand comes up and finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of it, the same way she used to when she was in a particular mood, a quietly possessive habit she’d never have admitted to.

“Are you sure about this?“ Her thumb has stopped moving. Her voice quieter, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

You look at her, and she doesn’t look at you.

“I was gone for so long,“ she continues, and she tucks some hair behind her ear, then fixes it immediately. “I don’t want you to regret—“

“You’re here now.”

It’s unbelievably trite, and the Chaeryeong you knew would have wasted no time at all giving you shit for it, but it’s also completely, undeniably true and that makes the instant lack of response that much scarier.

She blinks, her surprise barely masked before she bursts into a laugh that’s mostly exhale, then leans in so her forehead rests against yours. “That’s genuinely the corniest thing you have ever said to me, and I still remember the poem you wrote for me in high school.”

“Thank god,” you respond with an embarrassed smile, “I was worried that I might have had another Chaeryeong in my home if you didn’t make fun of me for that.”

“I had to, no matter how sweet it was,” she whispers, and before you can feel any more stupid about it she’s swinging a leg over you and settling into your lap in one fluid motion, and then her lips part and so do yours again. Her mouth is on yours, open and needy, tongue’s clashing unlike the first one and beneath the coffee there is—absurdly—the faintest taste of cherry coating her.

How dare she.

You level the playing field. Hands finding her hips, planting themselves there, keeping a firm grip on her, and you can feel the way she melts into it, her spine relaxing as she sinks slightly forward. She shifts again when your hands slide up. Her waist first, then onto her ribs, accompanied by the small jump of muscle she always has when you graze a particularly sensitive spot just beneath her ribcage, your thumb pressing into flesh.

There’s a fast rise and fall to it, and you let it linger, stopping there, causing her to look down at you after breaking the kiss, hair falling over her face.

“You stopped again.“

“Look,“ you say, and it starts deadly serious. “There’s a lot we haven’t talked about yet. I know that—like, it’s bad,“ you stop, and she pulls back ever so slightly, her hands drifting. “And, I want to talk. I do.“ You stop to breathe. She holds her breath.

“But right now, I just really—really want to fuck you.“ She exhales, and you don’t stop. “Like, desperately. That’s kind of where I’m at.“

She looks weirdly relieved at that. Then she smiles, her eyes narrowing but staying focused on you. “I don’t mind not talking right now,“ she says. “I’ve been thinking about not talking ever since you lunged at me the first time. So.“

"You sound pent up."

She doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, she turns, shifts her whole weight around in your lap like she's decided its time for you to drown in troubled waters—although they’re only thigh-high—and settles her back against your chest. Your arms close around her, and her head tilts back over your shoulder so she’s looking up at you from below, her eyes looking even more dark and enticing with the long line of her throat exposed.

She grinds her hips into you, your hands dig into her skin, and she exhales into your neck.

"You also feel pent up," you say.

"I haven’t fucked in three years," she says simply, finally answering your earlier question you’ve already long exposed yourself to. You tighten around her waist, slightly squeeze the air out of her, and pull her as close as she can possibly be. "Keep that in mind, because I am going to be—" she pauses, eyes hooded and looking up at you—"sensitive. Everywhere. I will probably cum embarrassingly quickly."

Her head tilts, and her mouth finds your neck. She speaks into your flesh. "That’s not a warning, by the way."

She lightly nibbles on your skin, teeth teasing but never with any pressure.

"No?" you ask.

She settles back against you. Completely at ease.

"I'm bragging."

You move your hands carefully around all the safe spots. It might be you savoring the moment, or maybe you’re just asking permission. Either way, she can tell, and after a moment slides her hands over yours.

“You can touch whatever you want,“ she says, and then her hands are moving yours, guiding them up and under the hem of her top. “I won’t stop you.“

She looks forward again. Shifts, making herself easier to reach, accommodating in a way that feels almost pointed. She’s exactly the same as you remember, which is to say, still a perfect handful, her hands resting atop yours, perfectly cooperative.

"You're being very good about this," you say.

"I know," she says with a smirk, like you haven’t yet figured out the price you’re going to pay for this. A soft moan escapes her as you find her nipples still fit perfectly in between your digits. "I'm very well behaved when I want to be."

"And when you want to be is—"

"Right now," she says. "Obviously." Her fingers press down lightly over yours, guiding without urgency. "You should take advantage of that."

“You’re just making excuses. I think you’re just being needy for my fingers to curl inside of you.“

She doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response just yet. Instead, her fingers interlace with yours, dragging the combination downwards. Off her ribs, past the soft give of her stomach, lower still, until the hem of her skirt glides under your fingertips, not stopping until she lets your palms rest on that strip of skin right between the hem of her socks and the—if the sensation of lace against your thumb is correct—same material panties.

She presses your hands down, makes sure you feel how much they still mold to your grip.

“Okay,“ she says with a smile, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “So what if I am needy?“

She spreads her legs a little, her hands letting go off yours. Her right arm wraps around and her hand finds an anchor point on the back of your neck, keeping her steady as she slides ever so slightly down. Her left hand bunches up the damp fabric of her underwear to the side.

“So what?“ you chuckle once with disbelief. “I told you I wanted to properly fuck you, not just give you princess treatment in my lap,“ you correct her, and push your hips forward once, letting her feel what her provocations have done to you. There’s no way she can miss it, the way your cock is straining against her ass, pressing up into her.

She grinds back, riding the pressure, exposing your own sensitivity. “You think I couldn’t tell how hard you already are?“ She rolls her hips again, slower, more precise, like she’s making a promise for later.

“I know what you want,“ she says. “I want that too, especially if you keep calling me princess.“

“I didn’t call you—“

“But I’ve imagined your hands on me again and again and again,“ she continues. “Every time I closed my eyes.“ Her hips shift. “Yesterday, too. You crossed your arms and I just—“ She moans. She fucking moans, right in your ear. “I came so fucking hard, thinking of them on everywhere. My waist. My throat.“ Her left hand finds yours again, slides it up until you can feel her pussy press against your palm. “Here.“

She’s absolutely soaked.

“Chaeryeong.“

“Don’t say my name like that,“ she protests, whiny, and bites your neck in retribution.

“Okay, princess,“ you smirk and she’s already shaking. Two of your fingers push in, slow, your palm pressed against her clit and her precious little spine curves, her lower back getting pushed away. Her hands hang on tight, like they need the stability.

“Fuck I missed—“ she pushes through an inhale, a small moan follows out, and after an exhale she manages to say the rest. “All of that.“

"You can have this one," you say, unhurried. "You're going to remind me how much after I’m done with you."

She’s writhing in your lap now, hands clutching your flesh and you’re sure she’s going to leave a mark, pulling your head to hers so she can bite your lip between words. “I told you—” she pants, and you want to tell her to go ahead, but she beats you to it—shudders, legs kicking out, and clamps around your fingers so tight you think you’ll never get them back.

“Embarrassingly fast.“

You keep going. Not nice, not considerate, not gentle. You want every ounce of her, want her to lose herself, and the more you work her, the more she gives.

Her spine curves further, impossibly. She’s so small against you like this, tucked in and shaking, and you push both fingers fully in her and she jolts, her breathing going shallow, bitemarks being made in your neck, your thighs getting battered by her heels.

“Tell me when,” you say quietly.

“When,” she says immediately, and you waste no time using the base of your palm to press down on her above her cunt, fingers trying to curl back into your hand inside of her, holding her through her tremors. You can feel it in your own chest, your ribs quaking like a second heartbeat overlapping yours. She looks beautiful. She always did, but it’s easy to miss this; the way she falls apart fully, the way she whimpers your name, the way she smiles after like a radiant goddess.

Her orgasm mellows out eventually, and she’s breathing hard, lifeless limbs hanging against you, and you keep her steady. Let her come down at her pace. You let fingers glide out slowly, slipping free, and she mewls involuntarily, whimpers something pathetic about the loss of your touch.

She lays there, slumped into you, and you’re staring at her lips.

Not just because she’s smiling, or they’re black, or that their hue is clearly infinite with how perfectly coated the still are despite the many traces she’s left on your body. No, you’re just staring because she’s got you so worked up that you’re lost in the memory of her lips wrapped around your cock, back when her lipstick was a shade of red or nude, and those never left any marks.

“You’re staring,“ she says, hopelessly out of breath.

“Just thinking that I like the color.”

“I doubt that’s the full extent of it.” There is no chance Chaeryeong lets you off the hook. “You’re staring at my mouth like you want to fuck it.“

Nobody could ever come close to knowing you like she does. Call it a side-effect of growing up together. There’s no point in denying it. It’s harder to find a way to confirm her observation without feeling like you’d waste the chance, but apparently staring at her does the trick. “You want your dick in my mouth so bad you’re not even pretending to listen to me.“ Her hand draws tiny circles on your wrist, limp fingers brushing skin lightly.

“I’m listening, I’m just visualizing all the ways I can appreciate your lipstick. It’s a beautiful shade,“ you say, eyes drifting towards the ceiling in mock consideration.

she lifts your hand by the wrist to kiss your knuckles, the slightest stain of black remaining on you. “You want to see what it looks like on your cock?“ she asks and you look down at the disgusting sincerity she brings it with.

“Can I?“

“Sure,“ she muses. “You can mark your territory, or whatever. I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t let you consider it. That’s the thing with Chaeryeong. There’s no pleasing her if she’s not teasing you. She needs you to know that it’s her choice when she slides down out of your lap, onto the floor, splitting your legs and staying there, head tipping back at the edge of the couch to look at you as she delivers the sucker punch.

“Seems like you need it.“

You chuckle wryly, bend over forwards and plant a kiss on her forehead. "I hope you know I'm not stopping until there's a black ring around the base of my cock."

“Good.“ She smirks. You stand up, walking around the coffee table, savoring the moment. “I’d prefer you doing all the work right now.“

“You’re really going to just sit there and let me fuck your mouth?“ you tease back, stopping to loom over her.

“Are you complaining?“ she pouts, flutters her eyelashes. “It’s not my fault you fingered the fine motor controls right out of me.“

You put your hands on your hips, cock your head and bend slightly forwards, over her. “Still a brat, huh?“

“Yep!“ she responds, gleefully, proud with a smile, tilting her head. “Which means that this offer expires soon. Whip out your cock you’ve been harassing my ass with, or I’m keeping my mouth shut until I’ve cummed on your face.“

It can’t be overstated how fast you switch up and wrestle with your belt, trying to maintain a facade of composure. “I thought you were supposed to be a princess?“

She opens her eyes, shrugs, and drifts her eyes towards your belt. “Princesses have to eat.“ She lets her head hang back, opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. It’s like she’s asking you to lose control.

Your cock is out before either of you even process it, stiff and aching, veins bulging like never before, as if ready to explode.

“Jesus,“ she says with reverence bordering on worship, no intent of hiding her awe, “I forgot how hot your dick is.“ She stays perfectly still, leaning back against the couch, hands slack next to her on the carpet, the very picture of defiance and submission contradicting herself with minimal effort. “I might actually cum just from choking on it.“

“I forgot how much you talk,” you reply, and admittedly, its a bit snarky. But you know Chaeryeong, and that gambling with a line like this always has a payout.

“Then make me shut up.“

You answer by pressing your cock to her lips, pale pink to her beckoning black. She opens, wide and compliant, her tongue flat and eager, and you glide in. It’s impossible to play this cool, not with her on the floor and your pulse ticking in your ears, not when the black of her lipstick makes her mouth look like a void designed to swallow you whole.

The first pass into her is slow. Her lips slip easily over your cockhead, soft and cold on her lips and then suddenly impossible warm inside. You steady yourself with a hand on the couch cushion behind her, fully leaning over her and she—despite years of proving to you she couldn’t let a single opportunity to take control over you go unchallenged—just lays there, letting you push at your pace. She’s making sure her lips are pressed to the full circumference of your cock, every inch of skin covered, spare the sides she just can’t help but skip—courtesy of the smile pulling the corners of her mouth up.

“You look so fucking good with my dick in your mouth,“ you groan, making sure to put extra emphasis on how possessive you sound. Her eyes do a slow half-blink, satisfied.

You hold her there, cock halfway buried in her, hips already shaking, and pull out slowly. You want to watch the lipstick smear, the drag of her color a tangible scar tracing your shaft. Her eyes squint as she figures out what you’re doing, lips sucking tighter around you, and she hollows out her cheeks.

The black sticks, two perfect half-moons adorning your cock’s top- and underside, stretching in different intensities across your shaft.

“Good fucking girl,“ you hiss, twitch in her mouth, and her eyes close, her eyebrows getting that little wrinkle in pleasure. It’s hard to know whether that’s from the praise, the sight of you losing it or both. And normally, you’d find pleasure in the current state of affairs. It’d be enough, feeling your cock halfway down her throat and seeing her enjoying herself.

But right now, there’s a combination of something you can’t deny and a reckless streak that allows you to explore it. She doesn’t gag. Not yet, at least, but you want to see if you can make her; you want to see how much she’ll let you take, how far you’re allowed to conquer.

So, deeper you push; past the first point of resistance, past the point where she looks up at you with eyes that are looking for something carrying tears in the corner, past her limp hands choosing to grip the fibers of the carpet instead. It’s all too much, she’s right there with you, neither of you able to think straight each time you slide back into her mouth, fucking her face like you need it to survive, Chaeryeong totally passive and not resisting.

Not helping, just letting you help yourself.

“You can take it, right, babygirl?“ you ask, but you don’t care to let her answer. She tries to, though, bobbing her head ever so slightly, letting out a throaty, gurgling sound about as close to a yes as she can manage.

You bottom out, cock fully enveloped by her tight throat, tears running black down her cheeks, and she takes it with a focus that’s almost meditative, eyes drooped and drunk on your pleasure, drowning together with you in desperation.

And that’s when you feel it, the heat in your core, the jolt up your spine, the embarrassing and traitorous tingle of only managing one pump deep down her mouth before you too succumb to your sensitivity. You try to slow, try to savor just a couple seconds more, and she looks up at you like she’s asking if she’s doing something wrong and her throat contracts as if to push you out despite her head staying perfectly still, consciously fighting the subconscious to hold herself open for you.

How could you not comfort her, give in to what you both want by rutting into her face? It’s inevitable at this point, and when the first shock of it hits you, you try to pull away, try to get ready to paint her face white and see how it mixes, but she holds you, moves for the first time since hitting the floor and dives deeper, nose pressed against your stomach, hands flying up to grip the back of your thighs, swallowing the first spurt like she’s starving.

“You fucking—“ you grunt, hands finding the back of her head and tangling her hair into a fist, “slut!“

You yank her off forcibly, she gasps and you hold her there. She’s got this look in her eyes like she’s won a prize off of you, easily wiped out when the second rope of cum hits her in the cheek, across her lips, then down her collarbone and finally a weak spurt dripping out of your cock onto the squish of her thighs, perfect white streaks against her tear-shed mascara, smudged lipstick and porcelain skin.

“Good to know you still cum like a firehose,“ she says, accompanied with a smirk, unbothered by the mess.

“You always knew how to bring out the worst in me.“

She pushes you down into the couch. Turns around with her stomach against the couch cushion and drapes her arms over your legs, cheek resting against your thigh. “The worst of you tastes pretty good,“ she muses, licks her lips, and brings a hand to your cock. “You want me to clean you up?“

You can barely breathe, so a nod must suffice.

She leans in, laps at the slit of your cockhead, down the shaft for any stray drops, then her own wrist, her thumb, and finally the gooey mess she scooped onto her hands from her thighs. The rest of her face stays as is, wearing your cum like jewelry.

“Mmmh, like, so fucking good,“ she moans, excessively.

“There’s something wrong with you,“ you shoot back, and it lands in her chest, a laugh joining her. “Did you miss that too?“ she teases. She climbs up, into your lap again and burrows her nose into the crevice between your neck and your shoulder.

“All of it,“ you reaffirm with a long exhale, reality dawning back on you now that the heat of the fuck-fever subsides.

She stays that way for a while, snuggling closer to you, silently just making herself small on top of you.

“Hey,“ you whisper, fingers twirling with strands of her hair, soft strokes matching her breathing. “You’re getting cum all over my shirt.“

“Don’t care.“

It’s kind of cruel. Not what she says, no, that’s just Chaeryeong like you know her. It’s how it reminds you of the Chaeryeong you don’t know. And it shouldn’t bother you, not with the world outside collapsed into a void and her wrecked against you and the warmth you both share. It should be enough.

But there’s a message in a bottle, and it undeniably has your name on it. Or she wouldn’t have asked yesterday. And you could try to ignore it, and just throw it away when she’s not looking and act like you know no better and you never find out why she left and let it eat at you every single day and let it ruin your fucking—

“Are you going to tell me why you left?“ you ask, stopping the idle patterns you were tracing on her thigh, going dead still.

She freezes too.

“Did you read the message I left?“ she asks, voice thin.

“The one in the bottle?“

“I knew you were lying,” she answers, with only half a smile. She gets up from your lap, turns your back towards you and starts walking towards your bathroom. “Give me a minute. I’m not having this conversation with cum on my face.“

You don’t try to stop her. You just wait for her, find your pants and get somewhat dressed again, settling back into the couch when you hear the faucet stop running and the door open again.

She emerges eventually, her skin wiped clean, any trace of the revelation you just shot onto her face removed. She sits down, next to you instead of on top of you, a little further tucked into the corner than before.

“So? Did you read it?“ she asks again, staring blankly ahead, undecipherable.

You stop looking at her. Sigh, rub your eyes. “No.“

“Why not?“ she follows up, her voice breaking a little. It’s hard to stop yourself from derailing the conversation.

You think about lying, and then about the consequences of instantly being caught lying, because Chaeryeong could always tell and the truth comes out easier than you expected it to anyways. “I wasn’t sure if I could still believe you’d ever return if I read it,“ you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could handle that.“

You turn slightly towards her.

She nods. Pulls her knees up to her torso, and rests her cheek on them, turning towards you. “Can it stay that way?“

It’s the kind of question that needs time to think about. What exactly is the question asking, what is the full context, what happens if “it“ does not stay “that“ way?

When the silence stretches past a point she can bear, she starts to retreat.

“You know what, never mind,“ she crumbles. “That’s an insane thing to ask, obviously it can’t,“ she rambles, unfolding like she’s about to give up, obvious in the fake smile you’ve managed to see through ever since first learning about it. She unfolds slightly like she’s about to bolt for the door—the nuclear option. “You can read it, obviously you’d want to—“

“Can you just chill the fuck out for a moment?“ you intervene. You grab her wrist. It’s cliche, but you’d rather be cliche and hold her here now then let her walk out.

She stops.

“What happens if I read it?“ You look at her, grip unwavering.

She can’t meet your gaze. She tries, but she can’t. She just mumbles a couple of words. “I’ll probably cry again.“

It’s a simple reason, one that doesn’t really let you know anything specific, but when it comes to Chaeryeong, do you really need more to listen to her?

“Why?“

Her eyes manage to reach yours. “I don’t want you to see that version of me,“ she answers. “Because once you do, that’s all I’m afraid you’ll see.“

The room is very still around you. You swallow the questions coming up in your throat, the parts of you that want to pry anyway, and allow the truth to stay in her chest for now.

She trembles in your wrist, you sigh and release your grip. She doesn’t move away.

“I’m not asking you to just—let it go forever,” she says, hands clutched to her chest. “I just need it to come from me. Not who I was. When I’m ready, if you can wait for me.“

A single laugh—breathy and pushed through your nose—escapes you, and it’s almost a cosmic joke. If you can wait for her. You look at her, this idiot of a woman you've been losing in small increments for three years, who showed up in a convenience store at midnight and walked back into your life like she'd only stepped out for a moment, who is sitting here trembling with her hands clutched to her chest asking if you can wait for her like she genuinely doesn't know the answer.

“Idiot.”

She looks genuinely staggered by this. “What?“

“I have kept the one thing that could give me closure on you locked away for three years—maybe would have been locked away until the day I fucking died if you hadn’t shown up—only to be able to hope that I could see you again one day,“ you ramble, voice growing as you stand up and face her.

She blinks, searching across your face, something fragile inside of her breaking.

This could be temporary. A mistake, a pattern that might repeat itself, a karmic miscalculation that will cause you to be locked in an endless repeating chase of losing and finding and losing and finding her again. There’s a real chance hurt is waiting on the other side of the door, and there’s no way of knowing until you figure out why she even left in the first place.

But that doesn’t matter. It’s worth it, for the moments where Chaeryeong fits into your arms, however fleeting or forever.

“What makes you think I can’t wait for you to be ready to tell me, you idiot?“

She looks at you like she’s experiencing every possible emotion all at once with just a slight tinge of disbelief heavier in the mix, eyebrows pinching together upwards.

A laugh gets stifled by her, then resurfaces louder, and she lovingly calls you an asshole. Then, as if genuinely blindsided by it, her eyes fill and stray tears slowly fall down her face, blinking like she can’t quite account for where they came from, hands scurrying to her cheeks to wipe them away with yet another laugh and even more shocked “What the fuck?“

You let it all happen. The laughing, the crying, the attempts to get it under control. She succeeds, eventually. Mostly succeeds. There’s still evidence of it in both the corners of her eyes as well as the corners of her lips, and when she finally looks back up at you, she looks slightly mortified and slightly luminous, entirely a wreck.

“Don’t you dare,“ she says, her eyebrows furrowed at you and her head tilting downwards mockingly.

“Excuse me?“ “You did this.“

“I did?“

She drops her hands. Looks at you with wet eyes and the most unguarded expression you've ever seen on her face in twenty something years of knowing her.

One of your hands wraps around her waist, the other grabs her hand. You close the distance. Not urgent, not desperate, nothing like when three years came crashing down at once. Just your hands finding her, and you kissing her slowly. Like you have the time for it now. She doesn’t let you pull back the first time you try, just pushing further into your space.

When you eventually do end up separate, the first couple of minutes is just spent staring into each other's eyes, even as you move back to sitting on the couch, her making her comfortable in your lap for a third time.

She bites back a laugh and speaks first: “Okay, so, since we’re already just saying embarrassing shit,“ she says, stops, bites her bottom lip with a full smile and her eyes filled with the same joy. “I have a confession to make.“

“Okay?“ you say, hesitantly. This could go anywhere.

“I actually could have arrived here like half an hour earlier.“ She stops to twist her mouth, eyes flickering everywhere and back at you rapidly. “But when you asked to see me, I went home first. I literally changed outfits because I thought it'd be smart to wear these.“ She flexes her thighs, places her hands on them, drawing your full focus to the fabric taut on her pale thighs. “I didn’t think jeans would be of much assistance.“

You choke out a laugh. “You were already out and went back home just to change for me?“

“I saw the way you looked at me yesterday,” she retorts, but her fingers find your chin and pull you back to her mouth before you can comment.

She nips your lower lip, laugh muffled. “You’d be less assertive if I wore jeans, is what I’m saying. Probably wouldn’t find the courage to fuck my face like you did.”

You consider the counterfactual. There’s no universe where you don’t want her, but the comparison of both images in your head, side by side, has you inclined to agree.

“You might be on to something,“ you agree with a slight smirk.

“Thank god I still have what it takes to make you pathetic,“ she preens, twisting her shoulders to show off. “In fact—“ she tugs at your shirt, pulling you in until you are close enough to count her lashes, “I think we should see exactly how much these new socks help you lose composure.“

You try to kiss her, but she stops you with one finger. Instead, she stands up, not bothering to fix her skirt that’s been riding up. “I’m going to your bedroom,“ she says, walking around the coffee table swaying her hips, knowing damn well where you’d look. “I’m going to take off everything except these socks. You can join me after you’ve cleaned up here.“ She stops right before stepping into the hallway, looks over at you and speaks a final time: ”Don’t make me start by myself, because I will.”

There’s no point to bothering with the facade of taking your time or doing this of your own volition. You sweep the half-empty coffee cups, pick up your phone, trash some scattered napkins and try your best to remove any already dried up cum that made it onto your furniture.

You realize it, then. This is just part of her play. The game. You are never, ever more adored by her than when she’s dangling a reward in front of you and watching to see how fast you shower her in attention for it.

It’s intoxicating.

You make your way to your bedroom door as fast as you possibly can, leaving a trail of stripped off clothing behind, your underwear last to fall. Everything must go, because you’re not the main character in her script unless you’re showing up naked and a little bit desperate.

You swing open the door, and the room is painted in the diffused sunlight of early afternoon, a lazy brightness you’ve never really been around for, not until it snuck in here to illuminate her.

She’s sat against the headrest of your bed, propped up by a pillow, naked except for what she promised to keep on. Reapplied black lipstick and a black choker thrown in as a bonus. One hand between her legs, you can see it barely through the gap in her shins, idly teasing herself, the other hand cupping her tits and rolling them slowly. She’s playing with herself, her pride and your arousal all at the same time.

“Wow,“ she says, in that deadpan, smug way of hers, “not even going to let me undress you, huh? That eager to rail me?“

It’s not long before you are on top of her, wrists in one hand and cunt cupped in the other. “You’re going to help me get what I want,“ you say, and she looks smug, way too smug for someone with slick running down her thighs staining your bed.

She curves her spine at your touch. You drift your hands down to the hollow of her knees, soft mesh squeezing under your grip, and you press up until she’s almost folded in half, thigh’s pressed to her chest.

You’ve got her in checkmate, a press to match it and properly breed her, and you slide in so frictionless that you almost forget you’ve both spent years molding yourselves to each other.

With a single measure thrust, you bury yourself fully in her, pushing her further up the bed, and her head rocks back into the pillow with a thunk. She curses, which turns immediately into a moan.

You can feel her thighs-socked and shaking–the rough texture digging into the sides of your chest.

There’s nothing gentle about your rhythm. It’s desperate, same as her sounds. The bed creaks to complete the symphony. Her tits bounce with every thrust, black-painted nails holding and digging into them, doing the job you can’t as you hold your steady above and next to her head.

She tries to say something, but it comes out as a punched-out “fuck—!“ that loses coherence as soon as you bottom out again. You don’t bother pretending like your sounds are any better.

She breaks first—still embarrassingly sensitive—hands flying to your shoulders, nails digging in and pressing half moons into your skin, her voice cracking as she begs for more, for harder, for anything you can still give her. “Please,“ she whimpers pathetically, “Inside—“ and you realize she’s asking for something she never has before.

“Yeah? Inside?“ you taunt back through your own nearing doom.

“Mmmhm,“ she nods, giving up on words entirely.

“Want me to fill you up, princess?“ you continue, smacking into her harder, surely bruising something. All she can do is throw her head back and look at you like she’s hoping you’ve somehow learned how to read minds. “I’m going to make you walk around full of me for the rest of the day.“

She almost sobs as she cums, a sudden and sharp gasp accompanies her whole body shaking; the vibrations and the begging for you to finish with her causing you to chase her through it, losing your own composure, your strength, your vision.

You collapse on top of her, she lets her legs wrap across your waist, holding onto you as you ride out the aftershocks. Sweat sticks together, and once you think you’ve found the strength to roll off and pull out, she tightens her legs around you, keeping you in place.

“Don’t move,“ she whispers against the shell of your ear, a hand playing with the hair on your head. “Stay inside me until you’re hard again so you can fuck another load into me.“

You don’t talk about much except the feeling of your cock going soft inside her, the smell of her perfume, the lack of proper interior decoration you’ve done in the time she was gone, and then the feeling of your cock slowly stiffening up inside her again.

She rolls her hips when she feels it, speeding the process along. “I want lots of kissing this time,“ she clarifies. It’s a simple order. It’s so soft, and normal, and mundane you don’t realize nobody has even said it until after you’d let it slip.

“I love you, princess.“

Her head falls back into the pillow, she bites her fingertip, and smiles like she was waiting for that.

“I love you, too,“ she hums, kisses you with lots of tongue, and rocks her hips into you to make sure you’re as connected as physics would allow.

It’s hard not to oblige, taking her breath away as you restart with a softer pace.

—

There’s a message in a bottle, and it has your name on it. It’s gone largely ignored for a week now. You’ve made plans with Chaeryeong to throw it out—or at least, just the message inside—today.

She’s been with you every day for the past week, effortlessly slotting back into your life, and you into her new one. The make-up stays dark most days of the week, but some days she lets you see her in red.

A lot of time has been spent on making up for any of it you’ve lost, though. It’s impossible to keep your hands off of each other.

One day, she wakes you up with your cock in her mouth, hoping to have a slow morning, only to find out you can’t skip work and ends up being so frustrated for the rest of the day that she can’t stop herself from spending her entire lunch break in a disgusting bathroom sending you videos of herself dripping, making sure you know you’re expected to get even.

On another day, she texts you that she’s got her nails done, and asks if you want to see only to send a video of her playing with her pussy from the back. You showed her you still have the handcuffs she bought you that evening.

All she cares about is making sure you still are infatuated with her.

Hard to deny, considering the events. So, today, you text her the moment you leave work to let her know you’re on your way. If all is well, she’ll have taken care of things.

She’s already waiting for you when you get home to your little lover's nest. She’s got her hands behind her back, holding something.

As soon as you step inside, she plants a kiss on your cheek, and reveals her little secret.

There’s a present in her hands, with your name on it.

“I wrapped it in a way I thought you’d like,“ she says. Green, with blue ribbons on it, shaped like a bottle.

You take it from her hands and start unwrapping it–revealing a bottle of whiskey you told her about.

All groups and soloists are listed in alphabetical order.

✦ Longer Obscene Stories (+2000 words)

1. Aespa - Karina: "Karina’s Studio Cum Dump" 2. Blackpink - Rosé: "BlackedPink: Rosé’s Ultimate Betrayal" 3. Kiss Of Life - Natty: The Alley and the Whore 4. Blackpink - Jisoo: Open to the Public

✦ Shorter Obscene Stories (-2000 words)

Blackpink - Lisa: Used. Dirty. Perfectly Happy Blackpink - Lisa: The Bar Slut Blackpink - Rosé: Sucking dick, but cumming in pussy

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They're active! But hey, it's not automatic, okay? There are days when I'm full of my own ideas and want to post what I've already imagined, there are days when I'm uninspired, there are days when I'm busy… In short, several factors. What I promise from the bottom of my heart is: nothing will be ignored. I will always respond to you, whether with a "yes, I will write," "it won't happen," or "maybe in the future." You deserve this respect.

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Then it happened. While she pointed out an error in my notebook, her fingers—long and pale as porcelain—accidentally brushed the edge of my hand. It was a fleeting contact, a touch lasting less than a second, but for me, it was as if someone had slammed an electrode directly into my nerves. The electric shock traveled up my arm, down through my chest, and ended with an explosion of heat in my balls, leaving me completely zoned out.

Eunbi looked up. Her eyes were two pits of indifference, icy and distant, while her dark red lips remained closed in a thin, severe line. There was no trace of lust in her; only a professional contempt that made my desire turn darker, more animal.

"If you dedicated as much attention to the books as you do to my movements... perhaps you wouldn't be failing," she let out with surgical coldness before straightening up and walking away.

I remained nailed to my seat, feeling my erection push against the fabric of my pants with a painful, almost violent force. I watched her back as she retreated, noting how the narrow, dark pencil skirt hugged her hips and emphasized the powerful curve of her ass with every step. The contrast was driving me insane: on top, she was an iceberg; below, she had a body that screamed contained depravity. I swallowed hard, feeling the knot in my throat and a desperate need to break that wall, to see this perfect woman reduced to something vulgar, wet, and animal.

The way home was a slow torture, a parade of residual images looping in my mind like a video. Every time I closed my eyes or the bus braked sharply, I was back there in the classroom, feeling the suffocating pressure of the silence and Eunbi’s glacial scent. I couldn't get the image of her massive tits straining the white silk of her blouse out of my head; I felt that the fabric was on the verge of surrender, that one more button of tension and all that massive volume would spill over before my eyes. The mere thought sent a pang of pain through my crotch, a dull throb reminding me that my body remained in a state of maximum alert.

Upon reaching my door, my hands trembled slightly as I slid the key into the lock. The sound of metal clashing against the cylinder echoed in the empty hallway, a dry echo that seemed to announce the beginning of my descent. I entered and slammed the door shut, a definitive noise that separated me from the outside world and its social rules. I leaned against the cold wood for a few seconds, breathing heavily, listening to my own gasps fill the silence of the foyer. I was drenched in a cold sweat that glued my shirt to my back, and I felt the air in the house charged with a static electricity that made the hairs on my arms prickle.

I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want clarity; I needed the dimness to embrace me, to hide my desperation. I walked toward my room in the dark, guided by instinct, feeling how each step made my erection strike against the fabric of my pants with violent force. The friction of the rough fabric against my already irritated glans was both torment and pleasure. Entering the room, I collapsed into the ergonomic chair. The cold leather of the seat instantly stuck to my sweaty thighs, sending a shiver running down my entire spine until it hit my balls.

I stayed there for a moment in silence, staring at the black screen of the monitor. My heart hammered against my ribs—an erratic, animal rhythm. I felt a tightness in my chest, a mixture of frustration and hunger that nothing could calm. Eunbi’s coldness had left me in a state of toxic arousal; I didn't simply want to masturbate, I wanted to destroy that image of perfection. I wanted to find something as vulgar and depraved as the desire she had awakened in me without even touching me.

With a dry, mechanical click, I turned on the computer. The hum of the fan began to fill the void of the room, a monotonous noise that blended with the rush of blood pulsing in my ears. Suddenly, the blue, icy light of the monitor flooded the space, carving my silhouette against the dark walls and casting long shadows that seemed to observe my misery. The artificial brightness blinded me for an instant, but I didn't look away.

My hand instinctively went to my crotch. The button of my pants felt like an unbearable barrier. With clumsy, urgent fingers, I undid the metal and lowered the zipper slowly, listening to the metallic sound tear through the quiet of the room. I freed my member, which sprang outward, congested and hard as a rock, pulsing with almost painful force. It was so tense that I felt any excessive friction could break me. A drop of precum appeared at the tip, glistening under the blue light of the monitor.

I opened the browser. My fingers flew across the keyboard, but my mind remained anchored in the classroom. I entered a camgirl site—that digital sinkhole where morality vanishes and only flesh remains. I stared at the main page, sliding the cursor over thumbnails: bouncing tits, exposed asses shaking to the beat of cheap electronic music, wet lips whispering dirty promises. But nothing filled me. Nothing was enough because none of those women possessed that aura of glacial superiority that had left me shattered, courtesy of Eunbi.

I was looking for something more. Something forbidden. I began filtering by categories: "masks," "hidden identities," "exhibitionism." I wanted to find someone playing with the idea of a secret, someone who felt like an intrusion into their privacy. As I browsed, my breathing became a shallow gasp and I began to rub my erection with slow, almost torturous movements, trying to sync the rhythm of my hand with the accelerated beat of my heart. The heat in the room seemed to have risen several degrees; I felt a drop of sweat slide down my temple and slowly toward my jaw while my eyes frantically scanned the screens, searching for that final stimulus that would allow me to release the accumulated tension.

My fingers stopped dead on the mouse when a thumbnail appeared in the bottom corner of my screen. It wasn't the typical hyper-edited, glossy promotional image; it was a short video clip, dark, with dim lighting suggesting an intimate and clandestine environment. In the clip, a woman sat in what looked like a blood-red velvet armchair, but the framing was cruelly strategic: the camera was positioned at chest height, deliberately cutting off the face. Only the white curve of her neck and a delicate chin were visible, partially hidden by a black lace mask that gave her an air of depraved mystery.

I clicked with almost violent urgency. The sound of the mouse resonated in the room like a gunshot, and the screen went black for a fraction of a second before loading the live stream.

When the image appeared, I felt the air leave my lungs in one go. The quality was absurd—a high definition so sharp I could see every pore of her white skin and the glint of light reflecting off her body. But what left me completely zoned out were her tits. They were monumental. She wore a black lace bra, a piece of lingerie so small and tight it seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the flesh. The volume was massive; the cups barely managed to contain the weight, letting the upper part of her breasts overflow upward in white, tense, glowing curves that defied gravity.

I stood hypnotized, my hand squeezing my erection with painful force. I couldn't stop watching how those tits swayed slightly every time she breathed—a slow, rhythmic movement that made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. The woman didn't speak with words at first; she communicated through an animal confidence, a security in her own body that I found hypnotic. She extended a hand with dark red nails and began to caress the edge of the lace, sliding her fingers slowly over the upper curve of her chest, sinking the tips of her fingers into the soft flesh.

"Hello..." the voice finally arrived through my headphones.

It was a velvety whisper, charged with a liquid sensuality that surged through my body like an electric shock. I didn't try to analyze it; I simply let the sound invade me. It was a voice that commanded, seduced, and humiliated all at once, though I didn't know why. The woman on the screen leaned back, arching her spine against the red velvet. The movement caused her massive tits to rise even further, straining the lace until the fabric seemed to emit a dull sound of resistance.

I was already out of control. My breathing was an erratic gasp and I began to rub my member with fast, desperate movements, trying to follow the rhythm of the camgirl's caresses. I felt the precum lubricating my tip, glistening under the blue light of the monitor, while my eyes devoured every inch of exposed skin.

The model then leaned forward, approaching the lens. The movement caused her massive tits to hang slightly, swaying with a real, tangible weight that made me let out a muffled moan. Through the microphone, I could hear the wet sound of her own breathing—a contained gasp that blended with the white noise of the transmission.

"You want to see more... don't you?" she whispered, and that way of asking, that tone of superiority disguised as an invitation, made me grit my teeth.

I felt like a voyeur infiltrating a forbidden sanctuary. I was fascinated by the fact that she wore the mask; the mystery turned the act into something much darker than simple pornography. I wondered who she was behind the lace, what life she led outside that red room, while I watched her fingers now descend along her flat stomach until they reached the edge of a tiny thong that sank deeply between the folds of her generous ass.

The tension in my body reached an unbearable point. I was sweating, my skin felt hot, and the air in the room seemed to have thickened, charging with a sexual electricity that clouded my judgment. I stayed there, trapped in that loop of desire and mystery, observing how this unknown woman played with the audience, manipulating us all like puppets while she delighted in her own exhibitionism. I didn't know who she was, but at that moment, I didn't care about anything other than seeing how much more she was willing to show.

I remained petrified, my hand gripping my member in a frenetic rhythm I could no longer control. On the screen, the atmosphere had shifted; the tension was no longer just a promise—it had become a liquid and heavy reality. The camgirl let out a low chuckle, a guttural sound that vibrated in my headphones and caused a spasm in my balls. Her red nails, long and sharp, stopped caressing the surface of the lace to slide toward the center of her chest, right where the fabric dipped into the deep valley separating her tits.

"You guys have no idea how hard it was to shove these fucking tits into this bra today..." she whispered with a vulgarity that left me zoned out.

That sentence was the spark that ignited everything. I saw her hand move toward the back closure, and although I couldn't see the clasp, I heard the dry, metallic click resonating in the microphone. For a second, the lace stayed in place, held up only by the pressure of her own flesh, creating an unbearable visual tension. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she slid the straps down, letting the garment fall heavily onto her hips.

The visual impact was like a blow to the stomach. Her tits sprang forward with a violent bounce, liberated from the oppression of the lace. They were monumental, much larger than the bra had suggested; two white, heavy masses that swayed with a natural inertia, filling almost the entire frame of the camera. I lost my breath, watching as her white skin glowed under the studio lights, highlighting the perfect roundness and massive drop of her chest.

"Look at them... look how fat they are today," she said, while grabbing one of her tits with her hand, squeezing it hard to deform the flesh.

I saw how her fingers sank deeply into the soft tissue, creating red furrows over the whiteness of her skin. The pressure forced the nipple—a dark, erect circle—to protrude violently, pointing toward the camera like an obscene invitation. The sway of her breasts as she moved was hypnotic; every time she breathed or let out a moan, those massive tits oscillated, weighing in the air with an animal arrogance.

My own reaction was visceral. I felt my heart hammering against my ribs and sweat starting to run down my back, gluing my shirt to my skin. My hand was moving without rhythm now, driven by blind desperation. The precum lubricated my tip, making every rub wetter, more intense. I was so aroused that I felt an electric tingling running through my entire spine; my eyes couldn't detach from the screen, devouring every detail: the contrast of the red velvet against her pale skin, the dilation of the bluish veins running along the upper curve of her breasts, and the way she looked at herself, enjoying the power she exerted over me.

"Do you like them exposed like this?" she asked, while beginning to massage both nipples simultaneously, making fast circles that made them vibrate. "I want you to imagine you're here... I want you to feel the weight of these tits crushing your face."

I let out a muffled moan, closing my eyes for a second to imagine exactly that: feeling that massive, hot volume suffocating me, the scent of her skin flooding my lungs as I sank into that whiteness. When I opened them, I saw she had leaned closer to the camera, letting her tits hang heavily, almost touching the lens. The sway was slow, torturous, and the sound of her agitated breathing filled my ears like a depraved mantra.

I was on the verge of collapse. My body was in total tension, my muscles contracted, and my mind clouded by an animal lust that prevented me from thinking clearly. Only she existed—that monumental body hidden behind a mask—and the desperate need to release all the pressure accumulating in my balls.

The atmosphere in my room had become dense, almost sticky. The hum of the computer fan was now nothing more than white noise serving as a backdrop for the true symphony happening in my headphones: the sound of wet skin crashing against skin. I was in a state of trance, eyes bloodshot, and my hand moving in a frenetic, almost violent rhythm, while I listened to the camgirl begin to play with her own body in a much more explicit way.

On the screen, she reached for a bottle of transparent lubricant on the red velvet. I saw her pour a generous amount of the viscous liquid onto her palms, and the glup... glup... sound of the gel leaving the bottle resonated in my ears with a clarity that made my balls shiver. Then, she brought her hands to her massive tits.

"Now... I want you to hear how they sound," she whispered, her voice a dirty thread of silk. "I want you to feel the moisture through the screen."

Then began the auditory feast. She enveloped her breasts in lubricant, sliding her hands from the base to the nipples, creating a wet, sucking sound. Squelch... plok... squelch... Every time her palms slid over that white, glowing flesh, the noise was visceral—a symphony of fluids that made me imagine I was right there, my hands sunk into that massive volume.

I saw how she squeezed her tits toward the center, pushing them together with force to create a deep, glistening valley of lubricant. The sound of wet skin colliding was rhythmic and obscene. Clap... plok... She began to gently slap the base of her breasts with open palms, causing those huge masses to oscillate violently up and down. The sway was hypnotic; the weight of her tits felt real, tangible, while the sound of the wet impact against her own torso hit my mind like a hammer.

"Look at me... look how they glow," she gasped, and I could hear her breathing become heavier, more erratic. "I'm so wet I can barely hold myself up..."

I was at the limit. My hand no longer followed any logical rhythm; it was an animal movement, desperate. I felt the rub of my palm against my member lubricated by precum, and every time I heard a plok in the headphones, I let out a muffled moan that resonated in the solitude of my room. The contrast was torturous: I was there, alone in the blue darkness, while she, on the other side of the screen, became a creature of fluids and wet sounds.

The woman then slid one of her hands down, crossing her lubricated abdomen until reaching her crotch. I couldn't see it fully, but the sound was devastating. Squelch... plok... The noise of her fingers sinking into her own moisture was so explicit that I felt an electric shock run through my spine. She began to gasp more loudly, and the rhythm of her caresses accelerated, syncing with the violent beats of my heart.

"Oh god... I want you to watch me... I want you to imagine my tits crushing you while I sink into you..." her voice became a broken whisper, charged with an animal lust that clouded my judgment.

I felt suffocated by the tension. My breathing was a shallow gasp and I felt the sweat running down my neck, while my eyes devoured the image of her tits swaying and glowing under the studio lights. The sound of the lubricant being manipulated, the small snaps of wet skin, and those guttural moans escaping her throat created an atmosphere of absolute depravity.

I was so close to the climax that I felt an unbearable tingling in my balls. Every sound, every plok, and every dirty sigh pushed me further toward the abyss. I imagined myself there, holding that massive weight, feeling the viscosity of the lubricant between my fingers and the heat of her white skin against my face. The psychological tension was unbearable; it was no longer just about sex, but a total surrender to that wet symphony that was breaking me from the inside.

I was on the very edge of the abyss. My hand moved with desperate violence over my member, which was so congested and tense I felt the skin was going to tear. My eyes were glued to the screen, absorbing every detail of that lubricated, glowing woman, while my ears continued processing the wet, dirty sounds emanating from the headphones. I felt small, vulnerable, and completely dominated by a digital image, but at the same time, I experienced an animal euphoria that clouded any trace of reason.

On the screen, she had reached a point of critical intensity. Her gasps were no longer seductive whispers, but broken, deep breaths that made her huge tits oscillate violently with every exhalation. I could see how sweat began to bead on her white skin, mixing with the transparent lubricant and creating an almost iridescent glow under the studio lights. She moved with a frenetic urgency, arching her back against the red velvet, while her fingers continued working in her crotch with a relentless rhythm.

"God... I'm going crazy..." she let out, her voice sounding raspy, charged with a need that resonated in my own body like an echo.

Suddenly, something happened that broke the monotony of pleasure. In the middle of a spasm of pleasure, she leaned too far forward, almost crashing into the camera. I saw how a small drop of lubricant or sweat had splashed onto the lens, partially blurring the image and creating a hazy halo over the whiteness of her chest. She let out a grunt of frustration, a guttural sound that made me grit my teeth while I continued rubbing with blind speed.

"Damn it..." she whispered, and the tone of annoyance in her voice was so natural, so human, that for a second it pulled me out of the erotic trance.

I saw her extend her hand toward the camera to clean the lens. It was a quick movement, but for me, it happened in slow motion. In that instant of distraction, as she stretched to reach the lens, the strap of her black lace mask—which was already soaked with sweat and lubricant—gave way. The fabric slid slowly down the curve of her temple, driven by the weight of the wet lace and the abrupt movement of her head.

Time stopped. My hand froze over my erection, precum dripping slowly while my eyes dilated, fixing on the space opening beneath the mask. The lace didn't fall completely, but it slid enough to reveal the upper part of her face. First, I saw the perfect line of a delicate jaw, then the curve of red, wet lips that were slightly parted, letting out hot gasps.

But it was the next movement that left me breathless. To adjust the mask and prevent it from falling completely over her face, she raised her hand and pulled the lace upward with a sharp gesture, fully exposing her gaze for a few seconds.

I felt a violent lurch in my stomach, a sensation of freefall that left me zoned out. The world around my room disappeared; I no longer heard the hum of the fan or felt the cold chair under my thighs. Everything was reduced to those eyes. Eyes that I knew all too well—icy, distant eyes that had spent the last few months judging me from the front of a classroom.

The mask fell back into place almost immediately after she finished adjusting it, but the damage was done. My brain entered a state of electric shock. The image of the perfect teacher—cold and unreachable—fused violently with the image of this depraved, lubricated woman exhibiting herself naked before thousands of people. The contrast was so brutal that I felt a pang of pain in my balls, a psychological tension that surpassed any physical arousal.

I stayed there, breath suspended, staring fixedly at the screen now that she was hidden again. My heart hammered against my ribs with destructive force. It couldn't be her... it was impossible. But my instinct told me I had just opened a door that could not be closed. The excitement was no longer just sexual; it had transformed into something much darker, a feeling of power and discovery that made my jaw tremble.

I stayed frozen, hand suspended over my member, feeling the precum drip slowly while my mind tried to process the short circuit it had just suffered. The world had shrunk to that small square of blue light and the echo of the woman's gasps on the screen. I knew it was her; my instincts, fed by months of silent obsession in the classroom, screamed at me that there was no room for error. But I needed the definitive proof—the irrefutable detail that would transform a suspicion into an absolute fact.

The camgirl, now with the mask back in place but visibly agitated, moved even closer to the camera. She was so close that her breath slightly fogged the edges of the lens, and her massive, lubricated, glowing tits occupied the entire lower frame, swaying heavily with every movement. She let out a long moan, a sound that vibrated in my ears like a forbidden confession.

"God... I'm so turned on my legs are shaking..." she whispered, and that exact inflection—that way of dragging her words when she lost control—was Eunbi’s vocal signature.

Then, the exact moment happened. To wipe away one last drop of sweat sliding down her cheek, she tilted her head slightly to the right, stretching the skin of her face and shifting the mask just a few millimeters upward. It was a fleeting instant, a blink in the transmission, but for me, it was as if a spotlight had been turned on in my face.

There it was.

Just below the left eye, on that white, perfect skin that looked like porcelain, stood out a small dark mole—almost imperceptible to anyone, but iconic to someone who had spent hours studying every inch of Eunbi’s face in the classroom. It was the same location, the same shape, the same distinctive mark she always tried to hide with impeccable makeup during school hours.

I felt an electric spark surge through my entire spine, a discharge so violent it made me arch my back against the chair's headrest. The air in my room vanished; I felt my lungs closing while my heart hammered against my ribs with destructive force. It wasn't just surprise; it was a brutal mental clash. The dichotomy was unbearable: the cold, distant, and severe teacher who humiliated me with a glacial gaze was the same vulgar, depraved woman who was currently touching her ass and exhibiting her huge tits to thousands of strangers for money.

The revelation acted as a physiological trigger. My erection, already at its limit, jumped to a level of tension that was almost painful. I felt blood congesting in my member with violent pressure, making the glans throb with animal force. It was no longer just sexual desire; it was the intoxicating feeling of power. The fact of possessing her secret—of knowing exactly what this woman did when she closed her bedroom door and took off her mask of perfection—triggered a wave of adrenaline that left my fingers trembling.

"It's you..." I whispered in the darkness of my room, my own voice sounding husky, charged with a dark lust. "It's you, damn it..."

I imagined Eunbi tomorrow in the classroom, standing before us with her white blouse tight and her look of contempt, not knowing that I had seen every corner of her lubricated body, not knowing that I had heard her filthiest moans. The idea of looking into her eyes while knowing that beneath those formal clothes she hid that monumental, depraved body caused a spasm in my balls that almost made me lose my balance.

The woman on the screen let out a stifled scream, an auditory climax that resonated in my headphones as she shook violently against the red velvet, her tits oscillating with brute force. I couldn't take any more. The combination of psychological shock and visual stimulation was too much. With a desperate, blind movement, I gripped my member hard and let out all the air from my lungs in a raspy moan.

I came violently, feeling the semen spray against my abdomen and the monitor screen, while my body shook in spasms of pleasure and triumph. I stayed there, panting in the dimness, eyes fixed on the image of the woman who was beginning to regain her calm in the video. Silence returned to fill the room, but it wasn't the same silence as before. Now it was a silence charged with complicity and danger.

I leaned back in the chair, feeling my pulse slowly drop but the obsession grow. I looked at my own hands, still trembling, and then I looked at Eunbi—or rather, the camgirl—on the screen. A dark smile spread across my face. The game had changed completely. She was no longer the predator who humiliated me in class; now I was the one holding the leash around her neck.

I stayed there, sunk into the chair, chest heaving violently as I caught my breath. The scent of sex and sweat filled the air of my room, but my mind was not at peace; it was on fire. The adrenaline rush following the climax left me in a state of hyper-alertness. I couldn't simply turn off the computer and go to sleep. I needed more. I needed to dig deeper into this hole, tracking every digital trace of this woman to ensure there wasn't a single doubt remaining.

With fingers still trembling and gaze fixed on the monitor, I returned to the camgirl's profile. I began exploring every section, every small, hidden link in her bio. I knew models of this level rarely limited themselves to live streams; they usually had digital ecosystems where they fed their followers' hunger between sessions.

And then I found it. A tiny icon, a direct link to a social media account tied to an exclusive content service. I clicked with the same urgency I had used to pull down my pants a few minutes prior.

When the page loaded, I felt my heart leap against my ribs. It wasn't a live stream; it was a gallery. A massive collection of photographs and short videos organized chronologically. The first thing I noticed was the unwritten rule of the profile: she never, absolutely never, showed her face. All photos were carefully framed from the neck down or from the chin up. It was a calculated game of voyeurism, an invitation to focus exclusively on the flesh.

I began scrolling slowly, feeling my pulse accelerate again. The first photo was a close-up of her tits pressed against clear glass. She wore no clothes; only drops of water sliding down the white, glowing skin, highlighting the massive volume of her breasts and the darkness of her erect nipples. I stood zoned out, comparing that image with the memory of her in the classroom. It was impossible for it not to be her. The scale, the shape, the texture of the skin... everything matched.

I scrolled further and found a series of photos where she posed from behind, in front of a steamed-up mirror. She wore a white shirt identical to the one she used for teaching, but it was open, falling off her shoulders and letting her tits hang heavily forward while she looked at her own ass in the reflection. The contrast was brutal: the "perfect teacher" clothes used as accessories to highlight her depravity. Her hips were wide, powerful, and her ass looked firm and rounded, marking a silhouette I had memorized while she walked in front of the chalkboard.

"Damn it..." I whispered, feeling a damp heat concentrate in my crotch again. "You really are an exhibitionist..."

I moved on to the fully nude photos. There were images where she lay on black sheets, opening her legs with an animal confidence that left me breathless. The lighting was dim, but the sharpness allowed me to see every detail: the fine blonde hair of her pubis, the glistening moisture of her vaginal lips, and the way her huge tits flattened against the mattress due to gravity.

What obsessed me most was finding a photo where she held a textbook... the same literature book she used in class. She was naked, leaning against a white wall, holding the book in front of her chest to partially cover her tits, but letting the bottom part of them overflow beneath the volume of the paper. It was an implicit message, a perverse game. She knew exactly who her followers were and what fantasies she was feeding.

I felt as if I were reading her most intimate diary, but written in carnal language. Each photo was a piece of a puzzle that gave me total control over her. I noted the small details: a birthmark on the back of her thigh, the exact way her fingers bent when caressing herself, the glow of her skin under different lights.

I leaned back in the chair, staring at the dark ceiling of my room while the blue glow of the monitor continued to illuminate my hands. It was no longer just a suspicion based on a mole and a voice; I had a complete archive of her depravity. I had visual proof that the coldest, most distant woman in the institute spent her nights photographing herself naked, exposing her massive tits and her ass to the entire world for the pleasure of being watched.