Girl group smut stories (F Idol/M reader)

She’ll look offended when she hears that. Of course she will, because she’s perfectly capable of being subtle—practically part of her job description to look so inconspicuous when she’s out and about being the celebrity that she is. Never know when she’ll get asked for photos or autographs or whatever else she needs to do if she bumps into a fan or ten.

And you’ll be laughing and smiling at the bullshit that oozes out of her. Remind her the multitude of times that you’ve had to cover up for her because she needed to ‘rub one out’ before a set or delay the shoot for another half hour because she couldn’t help but get her makeup ruined.

Totally not your fault, by the way.

And you could go on and on and on about it, go take a walk through memory lane with all your shenanigans with Somi across the entire world. Name a place and she’s probably gotten you involved in some obscene scheme somewhere in the area. Busan, Paris, New York—it’s like she’s collecting some goddamn postcards everytime she’s fucked in a country.

But what you’re looking at right now, with your own two eyes ultimately sums it all up.

Because, look: Somi is hot, and she knows it. Her tits are peaking out of that one piece, fabric bulging out at the swell of her breasts just to show everyone that yes, her tits are as big as the deep cut of her swimsuit, her entire goddamn back is out for fucking free which is an entire thing to marvel at on its own and her ass, shapely, superbly slappable as it is, is swallowing up what’s left.

And she doesn’t a fuck who sees. Even flaunts it to whoever's lucky enough to pass by the pool when she's laid out on the lounger like a veritable snack. Which, you know, if you’re being completely honest, more power to her.

It’s not like you’re complaining about it. You’re more just—

“–Saying that you’re really bad at the whole secretive, subtle thing.” A shrug of your shoulders, enjoying the sweet taste of coconut at every sip. “I mean, have you seen what you’re wearing?”

“Of course I have.” Her fingers tiptoe down her thighs, running them through the edges of the blue fabric and giving it a slight tug; that snap filling the air when it hits skin. “I think it makes my ass pop out a lot more.”

And you're inclined to agree, adding the fact that her thighs are accentuating everything else she's got, and she's a walking, talking thirst trap that you try and fail to handle, twenty four seven, seven days a week.

“And my tits too.” Oh, get the fuck out of here.

“You are really not selling your case well.” You’re shaking your head with a laugh when she starts to squeeze her own tits, pushing them up and nearly making them spill out the top.

“Babe, I'm telling you, I can be very quiet.” That smug little look on her face does nothing but convince you of the fact that she really can't. “And really sneaky too.”

Queue the eyebrow wags, that shit eating grin that always spell trouble with a capital T, and she's sitting up straight to look at you.

“If you want to–” Now she's egging you on, jutting her chest out at you as if you need any more encouragement to go along with this game of hers. “I can show you how good I am at both right now?”

She's crossing her legs, tilting her head just the way she knows would hook you in. Braided ponytail resting on one side of her chest, stray strands falling down her face—she has it down to a science when it comes to luring you in.

You're putting your drink down and raising your sunglasses up—Not because it was the polite thing to do when a pretty lady asks you a question.

It's to let her know you're staring right at her tits when you say, “And how, pray tell–” You tear away from her chest to look up at her grinning face. “Would you go about doing that?”

“Well, I heard the bathroom's pretty big,” she starts, playing around with her braid, staring past you for a moment. She stands up, taking a towel with her as she starts her walk.

“And I can be really quiet when I'm on my knees.”

Now that, you're sure, is another concept you'll never associate with her.

That's not to say she isn't trying to be quiet, your cock in her mouth and all, her gags echoing off the walls certainly don't help.

Especially when you're thrusting your hips and making an absolute mess out of her face; tears already starting to run down her cheeks, hand tight on that braid to tug away at your leisure, spit already drooling down in droves over her chin.

You can tell she loves every second of it, those eyes of hers looking up at you with that elated glint in them that you’d think she planned all of this (oh, you bet your ass she did). Hands behind her back, tilting her head back just right for you to slide in deep, groin to nose until she’s gasping for air.

She’s got you right where she wants you, and you have her right where you want her to be, because apparently all Jeon Somi needs to understand the word subtlety is your cock and a room to fuck her in.

And you’re never really given a chance to say no when it comes to her, considering the benefits that she can offer when you agree.

Especially when you hear her gag on your length, and she’s trying to keep some form of decorum fighting back the need to pull you out of her sweet lips to take a breath. She’ll power through it, take it all on the nose and give you a grin while you’re sliding your cock back into her throat.

A proper trooper, she is.

“And here I thought–” You’re almost tempted to pull out of her lips, give her the chance to answer you when you’re questioning how silent she really is when she’s slobbering all over your dick. So when she’s tugging the string holding her one piece up to expose her breasts, and you’re looking at them as if it’s your first time seeing a pair of tits as big as hers. “You can keep quiet.”

You reach down to palm one, feeling the weight of them in your hand; letting the soft pillows give under your fingers as you squeeze, the hard nub of hers rubbing against your palm. And she’s moaning all over your cock, these small vibrations adding to the already addictive sensation of her hot, wet mouth.

Somi makes a move to pull away, finally getting her hands on you to jerk you off. “I thought I was doing a good job,” she says, licking her lips off any spittle, taking it into her mouth before letting a glob fall down onto your tip. “I’m just making sure you’re all nice and wet before you fuck me–” Her lips pout, eyes taking a quick glance around the bathroom, stroking you lazily. “Anywhere, really. Take your pick.”

The choices aren’t much, even with how fancy of a bathroom this was. Every single one has its own appeal—watch her face contort in pleasure when you have her fucked against the bathroom counter, or her tits shoved in your face as she rides you in one of the stalls, maybe even have her chest pressed against the shower wall when you fuck her against it.

All these options presented before you, and you settle with the simplest one. No reason for it, really, except for maybe the fact that you really, desperately need to fuck a load into her, and every second wasted is one that’s not your cock inside of her.

“On your hands and knees for me, please?” The glee in her face as she sends you a devious grin, leaning in to give your head a quick kiss before doing what you’ve told. Stroking yourself as she bends over, the angle of her back arching looking so unspeakable fine that her ass sticks out all the more, and you’re muttering a little ‘fuck me’ under your breath watching it all happen in front of you.

“Like this?” Her head turns back, smirk on her lips, eyebrow raised, ass wagging left and right. You spot that little damp spot right where her pretty little cunt is, and you’re kneeling down behind her, thumbing the stain and running circles over it.

“Just like that, baby,” you murmur, snaking up to pull the swimsuit to the side, her pussy glistening and the thought of having a taste is tempting you so damn badly. Shame you’ll have to postpone it back in the hotel room, though the heat enveloping the tip of your cock as you inch your way inside her walls is doing wonders to you nonetheless. “God, so wet already?”

She’s completely in her element, the satisfaction in her sighs as you bottom out, sticking her ass out even as you’re balls deep in her already. “Been wet since we got here,” she admits, hand reaching back to pull the edges of her swimsuit even more, stretching the fabric over the valley of her ass. “And I’ve been–fuck, right there–been horny since we got down to the lobby.”

Your hand is sliding its way up her ass, following that defined line of her spine, enjoying the way she’s shivering under your touch, up until you reach the back of her neck, fingers reaching up to her braid and giving it a quick tug. She makes this surprised gasp when her head gets pulled back at every deep thrust, letting out a sultry giggle. “So rough today.”

“Can you blame me?” Your palm lands on her ass, that beautiful sound that resonates around the bathroom, fingers digging into the mark you left. “You’ve been teasing me with your ass all day.” Give her another slap on the ass, and you’re ramping up your pace with her.

This teasing hum slips out of her lips, and you just know if she could turn her head back at you she’d have that diabolical little shit eating smirk all over her face. “Don’t be scared, babe,” she purrs, all breathy and moaning and good Lord you’re not going to last long when she starts spouting shit like–“Everyone can look, but no one gets to fuck this ass but you.”

And, really, what else can you do but plow her harder?

Your grip around her hair tightens, cursing at how her cunt tightens up around you, tugging her up so her back is pressing up against your chest, and the view of her tits bouncing at each stroke you is immaculate. Your hands move to wrap around her, one to grope a breast, another to feel her abs flex as she takes you.

Your lips latch onto her neck, sucking and nipping at the wet skin, lapping up the sweat and thinking that you’re utterly fucking gone for this woman’s body—tits, ass, cunt and all. You bite down hard on the one spot that has her screaming, her hands gripping your wrists as you follow it with a suck.

Leaving her with that red mark, pumping her full of cock while you pinch a nipple, whispering filth in her ear; and she’s drinking it all up, grin on her face as you spout just what you’ll be doing to  her once you get back to your room, giggling at the air being blown into her ear.

“Fuck, I’d let you do that in the elevator,” she replies after one of your fantasies—whichever one it was—gets spoken out, and you’re grunting out a chuckle. “Give the security guard watching the camera a good show and all–”

Somi’s as fucked in the head as you are, and that’s one of the reasons why you’ve stayed with her all these years. 

Who wouldn’t, when it’s Somi you’re talking about?

You’re growling her name out, your hips erratic, chasing that high that’s coming closer and closer and closer that you’re not hearing her begs of wanting it too, pleading with you that she’s as close as you are, her pussy gripping snug, as if she’s already milking the cum out of you.

Yet you want her to come apart first, want to feel her convulse around your cock, wail in your ears, grip your wrists hard enough to bruise and fuck me it’s already happening, her juices coating your shaft, drops of it falling down on the tiles. She’s shaking all over, and you’re only adding more pleasure damage to her brain, fucking her over her orgasm that it’s getting her to tear up.

Fuck her till she’s cumming again, letting her go and getting her back down to the ground, pressing your entire weight against her until she’s all mush and putty in your hands. Somi’s still begging you curses and pleases, wanting more and more and please fucking cum you son of a bitch, I need it, the greedy girl that she is, her walls pulsing around you hot, dripping girlcum until you’re pulling out of her, cock throbbing and in need to—

“Shit–” You’re jerking cum all over her ass, staining white on flesh, blue fabric growing darker. Streaks shoot up to paint her back, and it is beautiful. Thick, white lines cover all over, heavy blobs of them landing on her ass that you can’t help but give one last smack, slapping your cock on her asscheeks when you’ve run dry.

You collapse next to her, leaving a kiss on her cheek as she gives you a satisfied smile, the both of you breathing deep, relaxing in the afterglow. Somi reaches out to cup your cheek, fingers running through your hair.

“Told you I can be quiet,” she says, and that gets you to laugh.

“Your screaming might’ve gotten hotel security running over here.” Now Somi’s joining in.

“Good thing I brought a towel. What would they think seeing your cum over my back?”

“That you got dicked down in the public bathroom.” A light slap on your cheek makes you smile.

“Well, duh.” She’s rolling her eyes. “But I prefer not to have to explain that.”

Somi’s getting up on shaky legs, and you’re right there with her, cleaning the cum off her back with the towel, heading back out to the pool like nothing happened.

Your beautiful flower has yet to bloom—bed sheets tangled like webs around your legs. Her fingers still splayed across your chest; small, slender, and warm. Five digits of conductive contact that have kept you tethered through the night. Sunday morn—still quite early, quiet and birds-a-chirpin’. You two have so much time in the world.

She stirs slightly against you—like milk against coffee, her body adjusts but doesn’t wake.

“Mhmm.”

“Go back to sleep, my love.”

“Mhm.” A reply of someone who pretends to—maybe she does, but with her you can never really tell.

You look at her like a miracle you cannot believe you were allowed to keep. The soft, gentle curve of her cheek— the small line between her brows, where she is pondering even in her sleep. You trace them with your eyes— you don’t dare use your hands, because if you woke her, she would furrow like a wasp roused too early, stinging even while dreaming.

Her face is against your shoulder now—migrated there without you noticing. A visage even Aphrodite would be jealous of—okay, that might be hubris, but you’ll happily be Eros and get pricked if it means spending the rest of your life with this Psyche.

You’re used to this, you reason to yourself; every night she starts on her side of the bed—a perfectly soft pillow that is assigned to her, and somehow every morning she is here—tucked against you; a comma inside a sentence that was supposed to have ended a few thoughts ago.

Her lashes flutter—she’s dreaming, a grand adventure must be happening inside her beautiful mind.

Your lips find her forehead—lightly; barely a whisper, barely a kiss, barely a thought in that sleepy-head’s lived bliss.

“...felt that,” she mumbles softly.

“Thought you were sleeping.”

“I’m allowed to be asleep and know things.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“Well, no one else sleeps like me.”

Brightness and contrast, now that she wakes. Slowly uncoiling like a hungry snake. First her eyes flutter, then a small stretch, then a huge sigh of someone forced out of a sketch. Because in that fantasy nothing’s really changed— reality just introduces colors bright yellows, whites, and orange. Because in that dream we were still doing exactly what we are doing now, which is absolutely nothing, which is everything, which is the thing I would trade all my other days for just to keep having over and over and over until the last of my mornings.

Mornings with her have a shape that you can mold with your eyes closed. She wakes in stages: 

First her eyes—oh those eyes that glimmer on a good day, but are absolutely empty when she rises. 

Then her tiny stretch accompanied by the most feral groan—dramatics that would signal neighbors that the bear’s done with hibernation and she’s ready to feast again.

Then the hand that reaches for you before the gears of her brain even begin to work. You wonder if the habit sticks on days you both wake up in different beds—work, travel, obligations that seem to try but usually fail to keep you two apart.

She palms your cheek. “Hngg, you’re so warm, my love…” Her palm is cold on your cheek—and you would happily freeze for it

“And your hands are so cold,” you playfully retaliate.

“You are cold.”

“Warm me up then.”

“Hmmph~ Demanding.”

“Nope, just happily married.”

“Ok, you win.”

You pull her closer—defying physics on how it defines close. Two atoms converging against each other—her body slots against yours, as it’s been attuned to for years. It was never a learned skill—just something that felt natural the second she first fell asleep on your couch in the spring of your second date.

There is hunger in the way she turns her face up to you that has really nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with being known— you knowing her. You know the taste of her mouth at every stage of her waking up; warm and soft and slightly rough from a night of breathing you in. You know the sound she makes when you kiss the corner of her lips. You know the way her hand finds the back of your neck— and stays there, As if it is the answer to a question her body has been asking.

And she has been asking. Her mouth has been begging for an answer ever since her lips first meet yours—a question as silent as the breaths you both exchange and an answer as sloppy as both of your tongues make.

Your hand slides down her back under her shirt, a shirt where ownership is always a point of contention. Her skin feels like the perfect breakfast: milky, smooth, and some parts jiggly (you’re quite unsure if you’re thinking of pancake or a panna cotta, but if somehow there’s a meal that combines both, then that is her.)

“Jieun.”

“Hnng.”

“Wanna?”

“Mhmm?”

“Words, my love.”

“Yes—of course.” Her eyes finally open, wide and clear and looking straight into yours. “Yes, please, my love.”

Your lips sink into her mouth yet again—a warm pressing of lips, hungry and passionate. Her hands find you beneath the clean sheets—gentle, light as the grass when it sways in the wind, patient as the weather in early spring.

There it is—the all too familiar undoing of her, like being searched for by someone in no hurry to find you—not because you are lost (no, no, no) but because she already knows where you are. You slowly realize sheets might not stay clean after all of this, but that’s fine.

You have all morning—all day, really. Mornings that used to be didn’t have it like this; now, they have a pulse, you can feel them, you’re holding her hand right now, and you never want to let go. Not ever—not when it’s this good, not when it’s this perfect, not when it’s her.

Slow— everything about her today is slow. The slow parting of her legs, the slow rise of her hips to meet you—slick and ready, the slow smile that spreads across her face when you finally—finally, slide inside her and she exhales like a woman who has been holding her breath for the whole of the night. Slow— slow like the way you both like it. Slow— slow like the Sundays you’re used to. Because Sundays are days where you are not needed anywhere. Because Sundays you both just get to be here.

“Here,” you coo into her neck. Chest to chest under your shared duvet, her arms around your neck, her legs wrapped around your waist, and your faces so close to each other you breathe the same breath. “Here is the only place I need to be today, my love.”

The bed creaks slowly with the motion it hosts. She rocks slowly with you—a beat with no urgency. The sun gets to do sunny things while the bed gets to be laid by two horny human beings.

And her? She gets to be the entire reason you get up in the morning—except on Sundays, when the whole point is that you two don’t.

“Jieun?”

“Mhmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you—” You can feel her lips change shape as she smiles against your mouth. “—even when you kiss me too early.”

“That wasn’t too early, was it?”

“It was.” She kisses you again. “My love, I’m almost there.” She is cumming—a small held breath; tiny tremors both of you share. Then comes the release; you feel her breathe in, satisfied, into your mouth. You follow shortly after, and the euphoria still leaves you speechless.

Neither of you pulls apart. Two horny peas in a pod unwilling to be plucked.

There is a word for this, this refusal to leave the warmth of the sheets, of a body, of a moment. Clinomania. The love of the bed— never knew until I met you that a word like that could ever be spoken as a love story. That is what every Sunday with you becomes. A love story told in the language of not-getting-up.

Up is a direction you will consider later. For now—maybe you’ll go down on her.

Right now it was her ass’s turn to be filled again, so the dancer’s cock was relentlessly forcing its way into her no-longer-so-tight hole. The guy grabbed her by the thighs so he could thrust into her harder and bury his cock all the way to the base in her ass. She moaned and gasped louder, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue like a bitch in heat.

Someone took the opportunity to shove his cock into her mouth, impaling her at both ends. At first, Rei choked, which made her clench her ass involuntarily. The guy who was fucking her back entrance moaned and came as he felt her sudden tightness.

Rei felt her ass being filled with cum for the umpteenth time that afternoon. She felt the heat spreading through her insides as more and more of that viscous fluid was poured inside her, mixing with the loads of many other dancers. Rei was exactly where she wanted to be.

The next thing she felt was the cock that had been fucking her ass so deliciously pulling out of her. The fingers exploring her pussy also withdrew, so that the cock and the hand seemed to belong to the same owner. Rei tried to see who it was, but one eye was still covered by the semen from the last load, and her entire field of vision in the other eye was limited to the abdomen of the person who was fucking her throat.

Strong hands gripped her on both sides of her head; Rei simply gave in, relaxing her throat muscles as much as she could. Just as she’d expected, the cock went as deep into her mouth as humanly possible, but this time she was prepared and didn’t choke, at least not as much. Or at least not enough to clench her ass involuntarily.

Relentless, just the way she liked it, the dancer fucked her mouth nonstop. Thrust after thrust, he rammed his cock down the idol’s throat as if it were a battering ram trying to break down a door; the guy only stopped when it became clear that Rei was gasping for air. It was just a few seconds’ respite so she could catch her breath, and then the thrusts resumed; it wasn’t long before another load of cum was deposited inside Rei.

The cock exploded, shooting cum straight down Rei’s throat; she wondered if that load would end up mixing with the one that had just filled her ass. Maybe that helped her swallow it all without too much trouble, just a slight cough when her throat was no longer being used as a sex toy.

Rei was released and fell face-first, one cheek resting on the floor and her ass still in the air. The eye that wasn’t covered in semen didn’t help her see any better, either, because sweat was drenching her face. Rei was completely at the mercy of whatever the dancers wanted to do to her, and that made her heart race in a sinister way.

She was about to protest because it seemed like everyone had forgotten about her. She could hear heavy breathing and people moving around her, but no one was using her holes or spilling their fluids on her. A shame, in her opinion.

Just as Rei had opened her mouth to speak and was halfway through forming a word, she felt soft hands part her buttocks and someone dive into her center to devour her. Her unfinished protest turned into a moan as a tongue began to explore her holes. With skillful movements, that tongue traced the contours of her pussy, drawing circles that came closer and closer to her entrance, until the tongue pulled away to explore her ass. The girl’s back entrance received the same treatment; the tongue explored it without hesitation, pressing and pushing its way inside.

Just when the girl thought all the attention would be focused on her back entrance, the person who was eating her ass slipped two fingers into her pussy. That’s when Rei realized she was dealing with a female dancer, her delicate hands left no room for doubt. Not to mention the way she knew exactly where to press with her fingers or her tongue.

Then another pair of hands grabbed and lifted Rei’s face. The girl instinctively opened her mouth to take a cock in, but instead her face slammed into a soaking wet pussy. Instantly, that person’s fluids mixed with the many others that were staining Rei’s face. She couldn’t help but smile as the vaginal fluids added to the delicious mix of flavors and scents soaking her beautiful face. She stuck out her tongue to give more pleasure to the dancer who was now using her face to masturbate.

Naoi Rei was being used as nothing more than a sex toy. Naoi Rei was happy; she was exactly where she wanted to be.

A/N: I just had to do this.

Getting her teary-eyed, sloppy with it; manhandling her by the hair, stretching out her jaw, feeling her throat gag while you work yourself in and out of the most divine set of lips; sliding deep until her drool's lacquering your balls and it's all too much.

She just looks up at you: would be grinning if your cock wasn't keeping her mouth busy, would be laughing if you weren't choking every squeal back into her, but it's her eyes doing the real work—sharp, wicked; lit with the most depraved fucking intentions.

You've only really known her for a week, but you get her message loud and clear:

“That all you got?”

Like she's winning. Like she's not the one between your legs, poolside, half-submerged, a natural on her knees. One-piece swimsuit hugging nice and snug, fingers digging into your thighs, tears streaming clean down naked cheeks, gasping for air.

You tug her head back, lips gliding off you until your shaft's slipping out—there's a thick strand that follows, saliva bridging her swollen lips to your cockhead, catching the underwater lights, shiny sheen in the dark.

Her chest heaves, nylon pulls tight across her tits; she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, it's purely for show—she clearly has little problem getting a bit messy.

And yeah—there's the grin.

You try to slap it off her face with your cock.

“Too much for you?” Yeji asks; and it's probably the first complete sentence you've heard from her pretty mouth.

—

All you've got is half an hour ago: you, stepping out of your suite—Yeji, stepping out of hers. Your temporary next-door neighbour, wrapped in a hotel towel with two thin straps tied at the back of her neck, barely hanging on. A flick of the wrist, that's all it would take.

Would be the closest you'd been to her—except for your adjoining balconies, side-by-side, where you're pretty goddamn certain she'd timed herself to your smoke breaks.

Night after night, leaning over the railing to catch a buzz from her side, a breath through the gap; little choked-off whimpers starting up the same second as your lighter and climbing, shameless and pornographic, until the cigarette had burned down to your fingers.

But face-to-face? She stared you down, dead-to-rights, and let the towel drop.

Gave you a full look at her—that sinful silhouette flooding fantasies into your frontal cortex—shit like getting those long smooth legs over your shoulders; your teeth in the swell of her perky high tits; thumbs digging into the plane of her ridged abs to span that ridiculously tiny waist; just tearing that monochrome chequered swimsuit off her and using her, like every inch of her, head-to-toe, is demanding you take her right fucking now—lips, hips, eyes screaming sex, screaming fuck me, screaming—why am I not already impaled on your big, fat cock?

Putting to shame every single image you'd conjured to accompany the self-fucked schlick-schlick-schlick she'd been piping through your window; until she tired of your slack-jawed, dumbfounded, goon-brained stare, tilted her chin towards the elevator and asked—“Going up?”

(Got your hands on her before the doors shut, looped your tongue around hers and wrenched it out of her mouth, pinned her spine to the handrail—determined to find where to touch to convince her that next time she should just jump balcony-to-balcony, seventy-something storeys up, and hand the heavy burden of making her cum her brains out to someone who doesn't need their batteries replaced.)

—

To now: top floor, infinity pool, suite access only, dark and empty this late past midnight.

You'd have followed her off the roof if she'd tipped her chin at the edge. Basically what she's asking you to do now, busy tonguing the question into the underside of your cock.

“Jesus—fuck—Yeji—” you groan, ripped from your throat, music to her ears.

“You know me?” She hums, lips vibrating along your shaft, curving wider—kinda thing that really fucks you up: lidded eyes, sloppy spit-soaked smile wrapped around the girth of you. Cheeks going hollow, seeing if you can find something to fill them with.

“Looked you up,” slips from you, because, yeah, she's so obviously someone—just how she carries herself, type of girl with a gravity, someone worth idolising. “It didn't take long.”

“Shame,” she says. “I kinda liked the idea of us being perfect strangers.”

“We basically are,” you try, rescuing the thought before it turns to mush with the rest of your brain when her tongue draws a wide stripe from behind your balls, up and over, performs an obscene manoeuvre at the head. “You still don't know my name.”

“True.” She comes up; presses a kiss to your tip, tongue flickering over the beads that seep out, savouring your flavour. “Though something tells me you'll have me screaming it in—oh, five minutes?”

“Two,” you answer, and you're detached, sliding into the water next to her, both hands to her waist, fingertips pressed into that flat stomach (you'll make it bulge soon enough). Ignoring that raised eyebrow, the smirk, the oh, please lead the way, handsome stranger.

A split-second eye-to-eye is all you get for now—so take it: chin tipped up, flawless features soaked and moon-lit. Lashes flecked and clumped, cheekbones that'll scar you, a mouth so soft on a face this wrecked—just stops you dead.

(Yeji from your research, from next door, from now—out from the photographs and fantasies and it's a total catastrophe, more than enough to pull you under and hold you there until it's all you have to breathe.)

That's the taste you get; drink it in then hoist her up, spin her, get her squealing for the first time. Pulling her half out of the pool to brace against the vanishing glass—where it all just stops: water trickling quietly over the lip, the whole city strewn out beneath.

You run a hand over a cheek, unhurried, proprietary. That generous handful, cut to measure—porcelain, pristine, peachy-fucking-keen.

“So. How would you like to be fucked tonight?”

Doesn't even bother turning; throws it out into the air. “Haven't you been listening? I gave you six nights of notes—put them to use.”

Fair enough. “Spread your legs. Hands out.”

You fold her over, palms to the infinity edge; she goes with it easy, gets prone like she's done it in her head a thousand times already. Flawless fuckdoll, posable and pliable, all the perverse shit only the most perfect girls can stir; and there it is—the entire problem, presented.

That tight, firm ass.

You could weep. But things are already wet enough.

Got her hitched up and arched, cheeks pulled taut; gleaming, calling you, siren's song under the starlight. A clean deep line running down the curve of her, and lower and lower and lower. One touch and you know you'll find her drenched. Ripe and open. Fated since that first late check-in.

You need both hands, spreading her open with your thumbs, feeling her flex whole against your palm, watching her clench under the attention.

Taking a sec. A pretty girl's asshole always deserves a level of reverence. It's only good manners.

She clocks the hesitation. Turns her head, ganders over her shoulder. Rolls into your grip—slow. “Knew it.”

Yeah, there's no denying it—you're already pulling the swimsuit over to the side, testing the stretch, peeling it over her right cheek to get a proper view. “Guilty. Not like you've made it easy for me.”

“And yet it still took you this long,” she says—but so what, you've always been one to wait until the water's warm before dipping a toe in. “Just how much are you—”

“An ass guy? Well, for the right one—” You dip low, let the water raise her hips higher, wade in to press her knees to the wall so you can bless the chlorine and salt and skin with a long, lingering kiss. “Incurable. Terminal.”

“So it's a pre-existing condition,” she says, cause, duh, she loves playing the tease, being the centre of attention; her whole occupation. “Since when?”

“It's a whole chronic thing. Flares up seasonally.”

“Seasonally.” Ecstatic; plays with it around her tongue. “Like around the holidays?”

“Something like that. Or I guess, whenever an ass like yours comes around.”

“Charmer,” and it all gets lost in a gasp when you map that unholy crack splitting her in two—from where she's pinkest, sopping, waiting God knows how long, up to the spot she's braced for—and she jolts, frantic and filthy; a whine you push clean through and out her throat.

“Says the girl that's been shoving it in my face ever since I got here.” Just holding her—shivering against your lips, buzzing beneath your tongue—nose buried deep in the undeniably tightest hole that's haunted your entire stay.

She mumbles, then laughs, already breathless; throws your line back at you: “Guess I'm guilty, too.”

(And Yeji's really been your fucking doom—bent over a gym fountain a second too long; ducking into a sauna with a towel desperately hanging on; letting her panties ride up at the buffet line—sending you a wink back, like yeah, you're welcome, catch you at the next loop of amenities.

Gifting you just enough of a taste to put you on edge, type of shit a guy like you can barely handle; forcing you to do the only thing you really could—go back to your room and run the images filthy through every possible scenario while listening to her on the other side.

Fantasies, from top to bottom: following her into the gym showers, fucking her against the tiles with the water still running. Stripping her in the empty cedar heat and sucking the sweat between her toes, right out her pits, drinking what collects along her spine. Bending her over the breakfast bar, scattering the little jam jars, spreading her open right there over the pastries while she's gripping the countertops and telling you to hurry, hurry, hurry—

Well. You've got your buffet now.)

“At least I know you're not boring.” Yeji coos; another slow suggestion, grinding against your nose, down to your chin. “Won't just lay me down, fuck me nice, tuck me in, right?”

“That's not really on the menu.”

“No? What is?”

You laugh between her cheeks, low and mean into her puckered hole; like nice is even an option, like there's another version of all this: drinks at the bar, dinner downstairs, you making a mockery of smart-casual, her in some sheer cocktail dress.

Nah. Fuck that—it'd still end with her in a toilet stall the moment she turned and bent over, silk pulled taut, giving you the slope and the shape and the tuck of her cheeks at the tops of those long legs.

So you settle with: “I think it's pretty fucking obvious, Yeji.”

“Thought so.”

It's holy work; gaping her open with just your mouth. Tentative, then thorough—tongue flat and dragging, then the tip pushed up and in, working spit into that tight ring until it softens and gives. Getting your mouth filthy with it—chin slick, slobbering, chlorine tang giving way until it's just her, Yeji, keening, rocking back onto your lips.

Trying to fuck your face proper, letting you—practically begging you—devour her best you can, until the sun's up and the chemicals in this pool aren't nearly enough to wash off what you've done to her.

She cries out; wails, guttural and nonsensical but you get the gist. The last of her dignity leaving her—ass higher, chasing the thing girls like her are supposed to pretend they're too composed to want; some rough stranger to rearrange their stomachs, fuck them truly brainless.

Makes sense to offer her something to really wrap her pink lips around; slurring it right into where she's tilted up and open and demanding, more honest than her mouth's been all night: “Want to know who I am now?”

“God—” is a good start, might as well be on the money with how you're making her feel; but she's already drifting lanes when your tongue takes another lap. “Yes, fucking—tell me what to scream—”

You give her your name. Then, a spit-slick thumb, sinking knuckle-deep into her cunt—so, so easy, she's soaked enough to take three.

“Oh-fucking-shit—” she whines, wails out; sliding herself down your tongue.

Simply getting her off: thumb curling inside that sopping slit, tongue twisting into her ass; two different rhythms that have Yeji grinding down onto one and back on the other, can't pick, doesn't have to.

Until she's clenching on both at once, flooding your lips, your hand. Cumming apart, so shameless, so noisy, letting every insomniac know who it is that's wrecking their sleep schedules vis-à-vis fucking up Yeji's tightest hole.

Yeah. It sounds so sweet wailed from Yeji's lungs.

So keen to hear it more, over and over, gonna fuck it out of her in every octave.

That has you pulling her along the side to the shallow end, the steps at the corner. Rimmed boneless, happy to be plucked and placed at your discretion—which is a step higher, heart-shaped ass just above the water, buoyant, begging to be broken.

“Where are we going,” she's mumbling, not really asking.

“Somewhere with better traction. Pool water's not the greatest lube. Won't be able to fuck you right.”

“So romantic.”

“I have my priorities.”

Priorities which amount to getting up on your feet, wet cockhead notched against her saliva-soaked hole, pressing at that insanely tight squeeze.

Fuck. It just makes you smile. It makes Yeji laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“Just—” she starts; bending as you please, happily at your mercy, as good as girls get. “One-track mind, aren't you?”

And that gets you to laugh back. Drag the head of your cock down to her cuntlips, making her shiver, before levelling it where you really want it. “Can't help who I am.”

“You could at least pretend to have other interests.”

“Could. Won't. Sorry.”

“Too late to apologise, anyway,” she curses, all fuck-tipsy, “Just gotta find a way to make up for it.”

Yeji opens for you—slow, grudging; the head of you nestled against her then past, breaching, the agonising stretch. Pale around the widest part of you. Tiny little ring, straining to take a brand-new shape.

Each push forces these exhales out of her, shoulder blades pinching together, spine dipping low, and you can hear her teeth grit as she spits—no, she's drooling into the water beneath.

Whining, whimpering through it all, repeating a mantra that gets your blood pumping, cock-to-brain: “so-stupidly-big-so-fucking-good—”

The fucking feel of it. Searing clutch beyond reason, seizing everything it can take, won't give an inch without a fight. Making you work for it.

Her tiny frame trying to decide—keep you out or drink you in—until Yeji cries out something biblical and makes her choice; taking your name, twisting it round her tongue, pulling it as wide as it'll go, until you're seated to the hilt and there's nothing left of it at all.

Mouth agape, lips hanging open. This airy gasp. Fed so fucking full.

You lose her for a moment, somewhere below her own surface, submerged in it all.

Reach down for her: “Yeji?”

“Mm—” and she surfaces, glassy eyes blinking open to find you behind her; shy school-girl crush or insatiable slut, who's to say. The same taunt calls it for the latter—”That all you got?”

You match her smile. “Think you can handle more?”

“I've been handling worse than you in my head all week.” She grins, brilliant, defiant, delirious and spoiling for more; squeezes her ass around you for good measure. “Catch up.”

Game on, starter-pistol fired—pulling almost all the way out, the sight of her clinging on, rim dragging up your shaft, trying to follow.

And then driving your cock all the way fucking home.

Good news—Yeji's got her voice back; screams skimming over the water and plummeting down the building below. You give her no space to shape it into anything but a beg; a plea, one-syllable slurs fucked apart as you set your rhythm.

Something about your cock: size, shape, ability to stretch her so fucking wide and kill any chance of sitting normally for a good while—your hips cracking into her ass hard enough to make it jump, wet swimsuit snapping against the underside of her cheek, the slap, smack of you bottoming out ringing across the empty rooftop.

Yeji happily lets it happen.

“Christ, yes—” throwing her fine ass back to meet you; every pound, piston, piledrive you fuck into her, over and over, “—use me—do anything you fucking want. Bet it's better than any fucking cigarette.”

And this is the real gift of a stranger: no rules either of you signed, no history to handle gently, nothing owed come morning.

You could do anything.

Mark her up, pull her hair, hands around her throat.

The selfish squeeze around you is all the green light you need.

Digging your fingers into the top of her swimsuit, wrenching it down. All that black and white slicking off her wet skin, setting her tiny tits free, nipples going stiff; fabric bunching uselessly at her waist.

“Fuck—” cut off from her when you gather the swimsuit-turned-reins, haul her hips flush; balls-deep in her ass until the sobs choke down into—“More.”

So needy. You bring your palm down on her cheek, a crack across the rooftop. Seeing your handprint bloom pink; a nice little souvenir, something to find in the mirror tomorrow.

“I know you can do better than that,” she needles, primed for worse. “All that eye-fucking and now you go shy on me—”

The other cheek—harder—breaking the taunt into a whiny moan.

“Getting there, but—” she recovers, something mean and vicious being prepped, something that'll deserve punishment; spat back at you with what's left of that grin, “—why are you still fucking me like you're going to see me again?”

Well.

Pulling your hips back; raising your palm high—and cracking both down faster than friction should allow, harder than you should; chasing that fucked-out-pain-pleasure hissed from her lips that means you're finally getting it right.

“Careful.” You reach, fist a wet rope of her hair, wind it once around your knuckles and pull. “You're gonna make me do some shit we both can't take back.”

“Was that supposed to be a threat?” No hesitation. “I fucking dare you.”

(And that's the thing you've had backwards all week. The whole framing, actually. You've been running this as your fixation—your fetish, your problem to drag back to the room and handle quietly, like you'd packed some shame in your suitcase.

When really she's the one who said take it before you'd laid a finger on her. This cockdrunk, corridor-gaped, irreversibly drilled idol folded over a ledge getting her ass carved out—as if you ever had a say in the matter.)

“You dare me?” You push in deep, wincing at the squeeze, the choke; the slap of your balls against her pussy and she's crying, fucking filth filling your ears. “No, babe—you'll beg me.”

Yeji's straight-up creaming for it, so messy; cunt empty yet spilling anyway, running thick down the inside of her thighs, dripping off her pussy into the water below.

Barely touching her pussy at all—this is all ass. But it's turning her inside-out, wet enough to clog the pool's gutters as surely as you're clogging Yeji's.

Landing you on a diagnosis for your apparently flighty fuck-buddy. You deliver it straight away: “Anal slut.”

That has her head whipping around, scandalised, hilarious to act like this now; like she shouldn't be updating her resume to pitch-perfect anal-cocksleeve.

“Excuse me—”

Another pound, another spank; real fucking joy in railing the comeback out of her before she can land it.

“What did you call me?”

“Don't backtrack.” Getting deep this time. Right where she's hottest, plundering your way into that needy mess, letting it all sit. “Dirty little anal slut. That's who you really are.”

“I—”

“Acting like you're here being very busy, very professional—celebrity bullshit.” You bottom out; she chokes, remembers your fucking name and tries to burst your eardrums with it. “But you were really trying to find this.” Mouth at her ear, the grip of her ass tells you she can feel every word fucked into the back of her skull. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

Nothing comes out—nothing can, apparently. The air's gone from her lungs, whatever she had to say strangled somewhere on the way up. This mouthy little anal slut so thoroughly stunned you almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

Spanking her back to life. Palm to her cheeks, trying to resuscitate her—get a little juice back in her, enough to see your girl through to the end.

“Yes—” and there's the plumbing breaking, pool flooding, ready to overflow; has to recite the unholy porn-star's prayer, just to let you know: “—fuck, yes, fine, I'm your anal slut, I'm your—I don't even care. I'm your filthy little anal whore. Do it. Ruin me. Treat me like I fucking deserve—”

There she is.

You reward her (reward yourself, really) with everything—on that brutal borderline—the give and take; thick throbs in her aching asshole, pincer pulses back, a fuck-fight in the dark—marble-sculptured ass turned impressionistic watercolour; every shade of purple and red bruising and marking her skin.

“So deep—oh that's not fair, that's—I'm gonna—I'm—”

It's all going to shit—she's getting greedier and greedier with each go, messily squelching and squeezing, gonna be no other way out of this besides flooding her sphincter with enough cum hoping to slide your way out.

“Every night, making me listen, putting on a fucking show,” you tell her, intent on staking your cock into every square-inch of Yeji's rear-real-estate. “Just for this—so I'd know how you sound when you're fucked right. Now look at you.”

“Yes—God, yes, keep it, keep it exactly—”

It's a dead ringer—hearing it up close instead of through the window. Yeji on edge, about to cum, and now you get the full picture of it, the raw feel—knees giving out under her, hands that stop bracing and start clawing, ass that pushes her full weight onto you and makes it your job to see it through—

—and an urgent, stupid need hits you: can't let this happen without getting her even closer.

Reaching for the swimsuit still bunched at her hips—hopelessly stretched out and loose, ready for its last job. Hauling her up by it, hand over hand, until her back comes up and slaps against your chest. Don't even have to tug to manage it, just an honest suggestion—come up, join me, let me fix this geometry and fuck you into next year.

Bent-over becomes upright, and upright leaves her with nowhere to go but down on your cock, deeper into her ass. Gravity doing you every favour—sinking that tight body until she's feeling all of you and you're bulging right through her.

Snaking your hands free, one finds a tit—palming, groping, laying claim, thumb dragging rough over a nipple; she curves whole into it. Throat working around nothing at all, and that just won't do—two fingers under her jaw to turn her head, to find your mouth, your tongue, been waiting for her this whole time.

“You could've just said you wanted to look at me,” she manages, when your tongue slips from the corner of her mouth, lining her jaw, her neck, lost investigating her collarbone.

(Through the static of your brain; any neurons that aren't firing on Yeji grinding herself into a puddle on your cock, catching up late to the rest of her and realising it might be more than just her glorious ass.

Bare-faced. Never needed anything to start with. All she's got on is what you or the pool or the ledge put there: hair shoved wrong in a hundred different directions, lips an angry pink, eyes red and full of tears, a mark blooming under her jaw that'll have company in due time.

Just so—

So annoyingly pretty; this girl who's been crying and climaxing for twenty minutes straight cause she fucking loves being thrown around, and is still, no contest, the hottest piece of ass you've ever got your cock in.)

Giggling, laughing into your mouth; gets the idea of what's running through your head when you kiss her again—her lips plush and soft and sweet and yours anything but.

Yeah, maybe she is winning after all.

Pumping her asshole crimson; too hard, too fast, going overboard. You slip backwards, lose your footing, recover somewhere down the steps and into the water without ever slipping free. Her back still against your chest, the pool climbing warm around your bodies and taking you entirely; a forearm banded under her tits and a hand splayed low on her stomach. Weightless. Feet touching nothing at all, still speared on your cock, where else would she go.

“Come on,” she breathes, head lolling back onto your shoulder, like you even need the encouragement. “Just fucking flood my ass.”

Of course you do.

The water can't keep up. It sloshes, climbs, pours over the vanishing edge in fat silver sheets with every slam of your hips, fucking into her swollen ass; the rooftop, your whole world trying to drain itself over the side.

Just as you've found the pace she likes best—rough and mean; stuffing her dumb. Tugging her down to the root, driving up into her on the buoyancy, feeding her ass full of your cock.

“You can feel it—can't you? I'm gonna cum—you're gonna make me cum so hard—you asshole—it's all you—”

“I know. Eyes open.”

“I can't—it's too—it's so much—”

“Should've thought of that before you—fuck—”

And she cums, and it takes the fucking floor with it—dropping clean out from under your feet, nothing stopping you from crashing through each storey but the clutch of her ass.

All of her—Yeji: dancer's build, shoulders, abs, thighs, lovely-little-tits—seizing and staying seized, rigid against your chest, around your cock.

Her ass, her ass, her fucking ass—fucked wide, mercilessly milking you, godforsaken grip, crushing clutches that make you wince, bite your lip, call her things that'd go a step too far for anyone else but land as nothing but praise for this cum-starved hotel hookup.

Pulling you into the deep end with her—no run-up, straight off the springboard.

“Inside—” in pieces, one hand pawing back at your neck, “—give it to me, make me feel it, don't you dare pull out, don't you look away, please in my ass—”

As if there's any other choice.

Up into her, letting go; balls emptying, spewing sperm, cock throbbing out the last of it, heavy load fucked past her guts and packed in tight to stay.

Taking every fucking drop—each spurt landing flush. Her lip quivering, stomach fluttering under your palm, pupils blowing wider cause she just can't stop cumming.

She wants this.

Wants to be watched taking it—blissed-out face she can't help making, the proof of what you've fucked into her, every bit of it witnessed.

Winds up the best it can—Yeji cries out what's left; voice wrung hoarse to one sound, just your name, screamed like it's always been hers instead of a word your tongue branded into her cunt a handful of orgasms ago.

“Take it,” you say—but you mean keep it, because it's all hers, locked and loaded since she looked your way and turned around to make sure you got the complete picture. “All the cum you want—like a good fucking girl.”

You hold her, buried in her, plugging her ass full, smearing it around her insides, until you pull back just enough to catch it well up and spill. Thick and white, squelching out past your cock, wisps in the water before it's all washed away, obscene and glorious and gone.

—

It all goes still—the water, the rooftop, the pool around you both. The pair of you casually floating like you might have really drowned up here.

But whatever, you'll deal with it all later; you're cummed out, spent, she's orgasmed into a higher plane of existence and yet you can't stop touching her: mouth at her chin, her throat, wet along her shoulder and collarbone and it's impossible to imagine ever having your fill.

Her lips find yours, and you realise she might be in the same boat.

“I don't feel like myself anymore,” she states, matter-of-fact, dragging a hand over her own belly, incredulous. Still feeling you twitching inside her ass. Reaching her conclusion: “Perfect fucking strangers.”

You chuckle. After all that. “Still strangers?”

She goes quiet, considering it—thumb worrying at her bottom lip. “Haven't decided. Who knows if you're even half as interesting as your cock?”

“Probably not.”

“Doesn't mean I won't give you the chance to prove me wrong.” Deciding for you already. “Carry me back to my room and we'll work it out from there. Tell me things. What you do. Where you're from. How you got so good with—everything. Then I'll let you know if I'd rather keep you around a little longer.”

You shrug. “Seems a bit backwards, doesn't it?”

“Isn't that how you like it?” The grin resurfaces, sharpening on the challenge.

She hooks an arm around your neck as you lift her out of the water; turning your back on the city, legs locking around your waist on the way up.

“We'll be efficient about it,” she continues, planning it all out; the rest of your night, hopefully the rest of your stay. Her mouth finds your ear, teeth to the cartilage, tongue to the lobe. “Tell me whatever you want. We'll keep going while you talk—I've got an unused cunt you haven't ruined yet, and you already know how many times I can cum in a row.”

“Dive right in, huh?”

“How the hell are you tying all these? I can barely get one done, and then I look over, and I see you tossing one after another.” Asa asked as she tried her best to tie the used condom she was holding onto. 

“So what you’re saying is, I’m better with my hands,” Rei replied, stifling a small chuckle. The older woman was referring to a conversation they had been having throughout the day. 

“Whoa, don’t get ahead of yourself. I never said that.” Asa said, still struggling to tie off the condoms. She was growing more frustrated every time she looked over and saw Rei toss another onto the bed. 

Asa had about ten sitting on her lap while Rei only had two left. The pair had been draining people all night long, and during their small break, they had decided to tie each condom they would use as part of their outfit, or lack thereof. After so many rounds, Asa and Rei had long since given up wearing their masseuse uniforms. Now they waited on the edge of the bed, their bodies slick and glistening from the oil they had used. The only part that remained on them was the thigh straps. Asa looked over once more to see Rei hard at work tying each condom around that strap. It was an erotic sight even for Asa. It showed off Rei’s prowess; each one was practically filled to the brim, and Asa had watched each one get filled up. 

It was only a matter of time before Rei finished decorating her thigh strap with her trophies and began helping Asa with hers. “How are you so good at this?”

“Tell me I’m better and I will.” 

Asa huffed; there was absolutely no way she was going to give Rei credit and tell the older woman she was better with her hands. Asa had too much pride in her work. Even if Rei was better, there was no way she would tell her that. 

Rei laughed as she continued working on Asa’s condoms. She loved annoying Asa and making her flustered. “You could just end this all and tell me what I want to hear.”

“Never,” Asa said adamantly. The pair broke into a laugh; they were tired after a long shift. They wanted nothing more than to finish up, shower, and then get some nice sleep in their beds. 

“There we go; now just tie them around the strap.” A familiar ring told the pair that their next customer was approaching.

“Shit,” Asa was trying her best to tie the used condoms around her thigh strap, but much like with tying them off, she was struggling. 

Rei couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I’ll start them off; you just take care of that…unless,”

“Not happening.” Rei giggled as she walked forward, shutting the sliding door in front of Asa. “Really? I’m only going to be like a minute.”

“We’ll see.” Rei brushed down her hair as she took a deep breath. “You just stay back there until you finish up.” 

The room Rei and Asa had chosen for their night of work was split into two sections; the first, where Rei currently stood, looked like a massage parlor. That had been their gimmick, one that at this point had fallen to the wayside as they got tired of dressing and undressing themselves. Rei made sure the massage table was dry and ready for the customer. A thought flashed through her mind, though. She could just plop herself on it and start fingering herself. When you walked in, she’d be caught, and then you could just move on to sex. Rei waved the thought away. She had a job to do, plus with Asa busy in the back, it would give her a chance to use her skills. The older Japanese woman smiled to herself. If she could get you to cum before Asa came out, it would drive the younger woman mad.

Rei had her plan now. She stood in front of the door, rubbing her slick thighs together as she waited for you to appear. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,” she thought to herself. As soon as the door opened and she saw you standing on the other side, she pressed herself against you. “I’ve been waiting for you, mister.” She said, a slight teasing tone in her voice as she pulled you inside. “You really kept me waiting. The table is all set. I just need you to strip out of those clothes, and then we can get started.” You do as she commands, your eyes never leaving her body. You had expected her to be in some sort of uniform, but to see Rei in her birthday suit the moment you came in was something you weren’t going to complain about. You hadn’t even noticed that Asa was missing. You kept looking at Rei’s tits, the soft mounds looking even better considering they were covered in a light layer of oil and sweat. “Now up on the massage table while I get something.” 

You climbed up on the table as she asked, and watched Rei make her way to the nearby counter, your eyes sliding down her pale body until you reached the full round globes of her backside. Your cock twitched at the sight, your heartbeat quickening as Rei turned around, a wide grin on her face as she coated her hands in the massage oil. “You need to do your best to relax. Your whole body is so tense.” Rei giggles as she stands beside you. She places a hand on your arm. “Do you want me to start here?” Her hand moves along to your chest. “Or here?” Rei’s hand continues lower, down your stomach until she reaches the base of your cock. “Or do you want me to start here?” You twitch in her hand, drawing a giggle from the Japanese woman. “Oh, I guess this is where you want it. Well, don’t worry. I’ll take great care of you until my colleague gets here.” 

On the other side of the door, Asa was still struggling with the condoms. “Son of a bitch,” she mumbled to herself, fingers fumbling as she rushed her efforts. She knew exactly what Rei was doing. “No way, I’m going to let her do this,” Asa said. Now that she was in a rush, it seemed like Asa’s hands didn’t want to cooperate with her at all. “Fuck, son of a…” Asa’s struggles seemed to multiply the more she tried to do things quickly. It was giving Rei ample time to work you over. 

You were putty in her hands; Rei wasn’t even trying, but she had you moaning constantly. Her soft, gentle hands moved one over the other as she moved them down along your shaft. It was a constant stream. “That’s it; let all that stress melt away. You know I can’t do this to everyone.” Rei leans in, getting by your ear as she whispers, “I can only do this to guys with really big cocks. It’s turning me on. Do you mind if I give it a quick taste?”

“N-no, please,” you groan. 

Rei smiled and paused, her grip tightening around the base as she inched her lips closer to your slick cock. You watch as she takes a deep whiff, exhaling slowly before wrapping her lips around the tip. Rei’s skilled tongue circles you slowly; her hand begins to move along the remaining part of your shaft. You moan louder than before, the pleasure getting to you. Rei stops before you near your climax, however. She drags her tongue over the center of your cock once more before leaving you. “You go awfully close there,” she says sweetly. “ You saw these, right?” Rei flashes the used condoms tied around her thigh strap, the various colors swinging as she does so. “I want to save them all for a nice big drink at the end of the night. So I’m going to need to put one on you. You don’t mind, do you? A girl needs a nice drink at the end of the night, and I have a special way of putting it on.”

You shake your head quickly. “I-I don’t mind.”  You watch as Rei goes over to the table. She rips open one of the condoms and carefully places it between her lips. She hurries back, trying to hold her smile back as her hands grasp your cock again. The Japanese woman continues where she left off, hand over hand moving across your length. She can feel your cock throbbing, and Rei can’t hide her smile any longer. She leans down and swallows your cock, the condom stretching over it as she moves down your length. She holds the base in place, making sure it doesn’t move an inch. You hit the back of her throat eventually; the pleasure overwhelms you, and you cum. You feel Rei’s hand massaging your balls, her hand gently cupping them, giving them small squeezes as she keeps her lips sealed around your cock. When you finally come down from your high, Rei pulls you out of her mouth. Saliva drips from the corner of her lips.

Asa slides the door open, witnessing the finale of Rei’s act. “There we are.” Her hand moves across your shaft, milking you of the last remaining drops. “I hope you have more to give me; we still have a lot of condoms.” The younger woman’s head dropped for a moment; she was too late. “Ah, who do we have here? Finally ready to join us, Asa?” You turn your head to your other partner for the night. Asa had the same attire, or lack thereof, as Rei. You hungrily look her over; her perky tits glistened from the layers of oil she had used throughout the night. Your eyes move downward, noting her hairless cunt and puffy lips. Rei can feel your cock twitch in her hand. “Oh, looks like someone is excited to have another partner. Do you want to take this one, Asa?” 

The situation amused Rei. By the look in the younger woman’s eyes, she could see Asa needed to let out some of her frustrations. It made her feel giddy; she just loved when a plan came together. Annoying her juniors was something Rei took pride in. She watched as her coworker grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the massage table. “Follow me, now.” Rei did her best to stifle a chuckle; it was always funny to her how Asa handled her frustration. Rei leaned against the massage table, watching as Asa dragged you onto the bed and immediately straddled you. “Aren’t you going to use a condom?” She asked, knowing full well Asa was absolutely going to drain you dry and didn’t care about their little game anymore. 

Asa doesn’t say a word; she merely gets herself ready, rubbing your cock against her went cunt. She hums, enjoying the slight pleasure of it before she sinks onto your cock. Asa cranes her neck back, moaning softly as you fill her. “Oh, fuck,” she mutters under her breath. This was what she needed after being teased by Rei the entire night about who was better at handjobs. Asa places her hands on your chest; they nearly slip off. They were somewhat slick given she had just grabbed your cock. Asa doesn’t waste a second, bouncing on you quickly. You let out low, guttural moans as Asa bounces on your cock. Her tight cunt was squeezing the life out of you.

“C’mon play with my tits,” she mumbles, bringing your hands to her perky chest. You squeeze the soft mounds instinctively, your thumb crossing over her nipples. Asa grips your arms, holding them tightly as she slams herself on your cock. It wasn’t quite the experience you were expecting, but you had no complaints with a woman like Asa fucking herself on you. The only problem you had was the sensitivity. Asa hadn’t let you cool off, and as such you were already on the verge of cumming. “Do it, cum in this pussy.” She growled. The young Japanese woman impaled herself on your length, letting the head sit by her womb as she grinded on you. It felt like you were melting inside her core. It only took a moment before you exploded inside her. “That’s it, fill this little pussy up.” She groaned, continuing to grind on you. Asa could feel your hot cum coating every nook and cranny as it flooded her womb. 

She was far from done, though. As soon as Asa felt your climax come to an end, she lifted herself, leaving just the head inside before dropping back down and beginning to bounce again. The loud claps of her body against yours filled the room. You had completely forgotten Rei was in the room as well; you could only think about the young Japanese woman riding you like you were a toy. 

For her part, Rei was enjoying watching Asa ravage you. She had laid herself on the massage table and began touching herself, fingers dipping into her cunt with the same rhythm of Asa’s bounces. She knew at this point she wouldn’t get a turn with your cock, at least not a satisfying one. 

So, instead she decided to enjoy the show at least. When your second orgasm came, she giggled; your cock was thoroughly painted white now as your previous load leaked out of Asa. While her fingers did feel good, Rei knew she wouldn’t be able to cum like she wanted to. She took a deep breath, smiling at Asa as she straddled your face. “If you’re not going to fuck me, then at least eat me out.” She said softly. Rei firmly planted herself on your face. She knew how long a person could hold their breath on average. She would just give you a chance to breathe then. Your job was to eat her out now.

Rei pressed her soft thighs on either side of your head; they acted as perfect earmuffs. You struggled to do your job, though. Asa was giving you no breaks; you were moaning into Rei's cunt between licks. Your hands slipped down from Asa’s tits, and Rei took them, placing them on her thighs as she grinded her needy cunt against you. 

“Feeling better?” Rei asked, her hand reaching for Asa’s nipple. The older woman trapped the hard nub between her fingers, pulling on it as Asa rode you.

“Mmm, fuck…you,” Asa moaned. She was finally getting close to her climax, and now came along Rei ready to tease her some more. 

“I mean, I’ll let you,” Rei said, sticking her tongue out at her coworker. The older woman placed her other hand on Asa’s toned stomach. “Oh, I can feel him moving inside you. I bet it feels great, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yeah,” Rei twisted the younger woman’s nipple, making her cry out. From under her, you felt Asa’s walls clamping down on your cock. Another load of your cum flooded her cunt because of it. “It feels really good.”

“His cock or being cummed in so many times? You haven’t been able to get any creampies until right now.”

“Both, both feel fucking fantastic.” Asa could feel your cock softening inside her, but she continued to ride you. She reached back, grabbing your balls and giving them slight squeezes, hoping it would be enough to get you hard for one more orgasm. Rei smiled and leaned in, pressing her lips against Asa. The younger woman accepted it. She could feel Rei’s tongue tracing her lips, and she let her in. Rei explored the younger woman’s mouth, forgetting about you for a moment. She rose off your face, letting you catch your breath for a second before setting her ass back down on her seat. Rei could sense you trying your best, the way your tongue smashed against her walls because you were having a hard time controlling yourself due to the pleasure was rough, but she enjoyed it. She was getting close to cumming. 

Asa could feel Rei’s hands wandering around her body, touching and grabbing whatever she could. The younger woman broke the kiss, biting her lip as Rei gripped her ass. “Go on, bounce that pretty ass on that dick,” Rei told her. “I want to see you cum.” Asa wrapped her arms around the older woman, her moans turned into whines as she reached her climax. “Fucking cum on that cock.” Asa cried out as she came on you; her walls had you in a vice grip as they milked you for the last time. Every drop was drained from your body as her walls fluttered around you. You were all certain that if Asa weren’t on the pill, she definitely would’ve gotten pregnant from this. Asa leaned against Rei, her body struggling to support itself. “Such a good girl,” Rei whispered into her ear. 

You all take a moment to catch your breath. Rei was the first to climb off you, turning to see your chin absolutely drenched in her nectar. She leaned down, kissed you, and thanked you for your hard work. “You did great, sir. Did you like our service, too?” You were too weak and tired to say a word. Rei smiled and pinched your cheek. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The older woman turned to Asa, smiling at her coworker as she helped her off you. Your cum came pouring out of her cunt, what wasn’t escaping from her had already coated your lower half. “It looks like you really drained him. Proud of yourself?”

“S-shut it,” Asa stuttered. Rei let Asa rest on the bed before helping you to the shower. She let you relax in the tub, coming back to her tired coworker. 

“Such a greedy girl, draining our customer of all his cum. You didn’t even let me ride him.” Rei whines; the pout she has on her face quickly shifts to a smile as she stares at Asa, the younger woman’s spread out from fatigue. “Well, at the very least I can have a taste.” Rei straddled the younger woman’s face, holding Asa’s legs apart as she dove in, her tongue diving deep into Asa’s folds. Asa’s legs tensed in her hands as she pushed her tongue deeper into Asa’s cunt, tasting the salty semen she hadn’t gotten the chance to taste. Asa could do very little but lay there and take the tongue lashing. Having Rei’s slick cunt in front of her did have its perks, though. Asa stuck her tongue out and took small licks at it, tasting the older woman's nectar. The pair remained attached until they brought each other to their climax. By then you had finished your bath and left; they hadn’t even noticed your leaving, far too engaged in their current activities. 

When they did finally notice you were gone, the pair laughed. “I think that’s the last one for the day, and I have one more used condom than you do,” Rei said with a smile. Asa’s eyes went wide as she stared at the used condom in Rei’s hand.

“Fuck!”

Rei laughs. “I guess that means you pay for dinner tonight.”

“Noo! That’s not fair, you-you baited me into–”

“I asked you before you started riding him if you wanted to use a condom.” Rei counters, holding her smile, knowing that there was absolutely nothing Asa could do to argue. She had given the younger woman a chance to proceed, and she hadn’t taken it. “Now, there’s a pizza place I really want to go to. I hope you have enough saved up, because it’s really fancy.”

You know this move; known this for more than two years. She has a plethora of ways to make you feel dumb—well, you are; it’s why you’re perplexed how you landed a goddess like Kim Minjeong. There is no argument you’ll win when she starts pulling off the next couple of moves.

“Have you been well?” she quietly asks again; she already knows what she wants to hear, and you’re just catching up now.

“Of… course… not…”

Her lips twist into a crooked smirk; one corner hooks upwards until her tiny nose crinkles. Her head slowly tilts while she looks at you like you are the most pitiful little puppy she has seen this year.

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

“Minjeo—”

“Three months.” Her fingers ponderously slide from your hair down to your jaw. “Three months, and you thought about me every night, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Her hand grips your face tighter. “Say it properly.”

“Every single night, babe.”

“Hm.” She pats your head like the good boy that you are, then kisses the corner of your lips, teasing you just enough to crave and salivate for more. “And what did you do about it, hm? Did you cry?”

“Minjeong…”

“Oh, tell me. You cried a little, didn’t you?”

“I did not cry.”

“Not even one manly tear? Like, into your pillow?”

“Just tell me what you want to hear, babe.”

“I want to hear you say what you did with your right hand every night.”

Her hand slides down your chest, past your stomach, to the front of your pants—where you are incredibly hard against the denim. Her palm adjusts to the shape of your hardening crotch.

“Fucked my own hand thinking about you, babe.”

“Every night?”

“Every night.”

“Mmhm. My poor baby~”

She lifts on her knees. Her tight black silk nightgown slides up her thighs. She reaches for the hem, pulls it over her head in one motion, and her perfect figure reveals itself to you with only her lacy panties protecting the treasure you have long been yearning for.

You have not seen her body in three months, and it is somehow more mesmerizing than you remembered. This is not a fair distribution of biological gifts

Truly, the gods have crafted a perfect being.

“Minjeong—”

“Shhh~”

She lowers herself back onto your lap, feeling the heat of her cunt crowd against the growing erection south of you. She grinds against you slow. Her pink nipples brush your chest through your shirt while her hands gently cradle your face.

“Baby, take this off.”

You pull your shirt over your head. She sighs when your chest touches hers.

“Ugh, I missed this,” she murmurs—then catches herself.

You let out a smirk; ahah, you know this bit. She has been doing it for two years—the nonchalant-I’m-meant-to-be-cool reset. She will do this a few more times before she gives up and lets her true emotions take over.

Almost on cue—“Oh my god, baby.”—there we go.

She reaches down, unbuttons your pants, hurriedly pulls them off along with the rest of your bottom wear, wraps her hand around you; so—fucking—warm, so perfect around your length. Her thumb drags across the tip, and her hand was the only one meant to hold your throbbing cock; so perfectly shaped around it.

“Babe—”

“You want it, baby?”

“Of-fucking-course, babe.”

“How badly?”

“Very.”

“Then say please.”

“God. Please, babe.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me fuck you.”

She scoffs. “Baby, I have been imagining this for three months, you know? I get to be the one doing the fucking, and you just get to be the one apologizing.”

“Apologizing for what, now?”

“For not flying out to Seoul last month.”

“Minjeong, I had work—”

“Apologize anyway.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Mhm. Good enough.”

She pulls her panties aside—does not take them off—and lines her needy slit up; then, sinks slowly. You see your cock slowly disappearing into her cunt, and you feel the slick, velvety, tight walls of her accept you fully. She takes all of you in one long slide, and her breath catches for half a second before she recovers.

“There. That’s better.”

She starts to move, and you feel all of her insides working your cock. Her hand cradles your face, and her eyes are fixed on yours the whole time.

“You missed this?” She susurrates. “You miss making me yours?”

“Yes.”

“Say what you missed the most.”

“I can’t choose.”

“Say them all anyway.”

“Your fucking hot body—” You feel her walls tighten. “—your mouth—” She moans louder on every thrust. “—every fucking part of you that I own.”

Her rhythm falters, briefly for one stroke; then catches it.

“Mhmm. Good.”

She rides you in a tempo that keeps you crazy: Slow at first, then faster. With each beat, her tits bounce, and all you can do is admire the piece of work molded to fit you. Her hair falls into her eyes, her hands produce scratches all over your body, and her cheeks are flushed with arousal.

“Look at me, baby.”

“My eyes are all yours.”

“You’re mine, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Give it some more conviction!”

“My life is all yours, Minjeong, and you are mine.”

“Good boy.”

She rides harder; thighs flexing on either side of your hips. You do your best not to ruin her pace—making sure she feels in control—but your hand goes to her waist without permission.

She grabs both your wrists, pulls them off, then pins them to the bed above your head.

“Nooooo, baby. Did I say you could hold me?”

“No.”

“That’s right.”

She keeps riding you hard, your wrists still pinned. Her mouth is close to yours but not kissing, just trying to catch her breath at every thrust.

“Baby—” Then—small, sudden—her composure cracks. She kisses you: Deep, hungry, and desperate. Her mouth is chasing back the past three months where her lips were looking for yours.

Her hips move faster—she stops pretending; her hands leave your wrists. She wraps her arms around your neck and holds on.

“Uhhh, baby—”

“Yes, babe?”

“I missed you. I miss your stupid laugh.”

“Eh?”

She lets out a giggle in between her sweet moans.

“I miss your dumb jokes.”

“Like the one about the bee?”

“Oh, shut up. You’re ruining the moment.”

“Babe—”

“I missed pretending I hate you. Missed how you take care of me. Missed how you make me feel safe. Missed—”

You cut her off; you kiss her because if she keeps going, you know one of you (mostly you) will start tearing up.

Her lips aggressively kiss you back. Her rhythm hits its stride while her forehead leans against yours.

“Baby, I’m—”

“Me too, babe. Let’s cum together.”

Both of you moan in an imperfect unison; she cums on your cock, and you release every little bit of your seed inside of her—your juices creating a concoction inside of her enough to create new life, probably. She screams onto your neck, and her cunt locks you down and squeezes you further—deep inside of her, filling her the way she has been aching for since Seoul.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, babe.”

She lifts her head, looks at you, and her mouth twists into a crooked smirk again; that same bratty look that never fails to get you in a chokehold.

“Do not tell anyone I said that first.”

“I would never.”

“Good boy.” She kisses you, slower this time. Then, against your mouth: “Now, ruin my life and put a baby inside of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Her susurrations only mean one thing: she’s serious about this.

“You… sure, babe?”

“Do I not sound sure?”

A personal rule of thumb; a code, if you will: keep the alcohol consumption to a minimum, two to three drinks at best. 

It’s been roughly over two and a half hours since you showed up and the gathering began, and the idea of going back to the bar for a fourth or fifth or sixth was becoming highly likely. Something easy to down - definitely not a Whiskey, but you’d wish - although there’s hardly a complaint with a draft beer. 

In a sober blessing, there’s a haven with an open bar present at university occasions. Granted, the Kim-Park estate would’ve splurged a little more in owning the whole place but everyone does like to indulge their drinks from time to time. 

Someone smacks your arm from behind, breaking the trance. “Hey- you’re not blanking out on me, are you?” Roh Yunah called your name a couple times but you obviously misheard; you missed the conversation that was clearly no interest in. Hence the circle of eyes are all zeroed in on you, eight pairs a piece. 

Yunah arches her brows with a smile, but there’s a forced aspect within her. Always trying to push the right buttons as your senior; plus knowing when and what to say in lightening the mood. Her veneers may feel casual, but it’s unnaturally terrifying. 

“Sorry,” you say, apologetic with the lift of the glass. “It’s been a long day for me, well- for all of us.” You’re lucky enough to have a few smiles returned soon after. One person sips into their red wine. 

“He means well,” Yunah says on your behalf, “This one is a little timid in stepping out of his comfort zone.” A turn to the group and they all laugh, a miracle action, but maybe an in-joke that you’re secluded from. She sighs, nodding somberly. “Moka loved attending these galas. Though, I can only say so much about missing her.” 

Yunah mentions it painfully slow; the tone eerie like trying to break the news to a broken child. 

Everyone around you has a sympathetic shine in their eyes, humming and shaking their heads. You can’t hold yourself back in looking at each individual, feel the heartbeat in your chest thrum louder, pounding your ears. Like hearing your name would send you ages back, turns the pit in your stomach into a full on black hole. 

None of these people have a single idea about Moka. 

You swallow the anger down; Moka despised these events, and you want to shove Yunah to a wall making her pay. 

But, you’ll take it with as much light as you can, force a smile into the next topic. The pain is still fresh despite being a little over a year - the wound still fresh at the mere mention of her name. It seeps, then stings, pooling blood over and over and over. Some days the pain is unbearable, a constant reminder of her presence enough to send the mind reeling; on other occasions, you’d wish she were still here and on separate paths. 

You think to yourself: one more drink wouldn’t hurt. 

It takes most of your body to sift through the crowd surrounding the bar; the heat too suffocating and the press of people enough to roll your eyes at the masks being worn currently. A quartet of guys block your pathing, oblivious. Drinking away laughs which should make you more pissed off. You try to make way with an arm, but get shoved from behind on accident. 

Unfortunately, the man swivels around on edge. These kinds of people are the opposite of your liking: in preen-upped suits and with wavy combovers. The tie is neat around his neck and there’s an obvious vein popping out meaning: definitely pissed off. A few men also notice the incident - some still laughing at another joke that’s clearly unrelated. 

Grad students and their prestige, on the bankroll of their parents and got a sizable trust fund in their backpocket to be set for life without the worries of student debt. Studying in degrees that probably won’t matter to them since it’ll be a nice mark of pride hung on the wall twenty to thirty years from now. 

He curses you out in front of his so-called friends. You scoff at that. 

“Just trying to pass through,” you’re saying, hand up in defense and clearly in the wrong. Had it been you from a year prior, a fist would probably be thrown already. Honestly, the glass in your hand needs another refill. 

The guy just mocks you and sizes up to your front. It’s awfully pathetic how people have to resort to actions like these. In turn, he bumps to a girl behind him, knocking out her drink with glass shattering to the floor. 

More heads look over and the guy is getting pulled by his colleagues. Servers rush in to fix the mess, picking up the shards and wiping the spilled wine. A cue for you to go on your way, getting another glass of whiskey from the bar. 

The short girl with fine, embered auburn hair is weaving through the crowd as well, alone. 

Like a lonely stick flowing down a winding stream. 

–

Out on the terrace; fresh air, granted once the locks click in place and you’re staring out to the distance with the wind passing through your ears. 

It’s quiet, and the feel of winter is still apparent in February. Most of the noise inside has been muffled into the glass, looking below from the balcony with your head to your hands. That is- until there’s a gentle clack of heels behind. 

It’s the same girl from earlier, in all its whiskey brown shade. Besides only seeing her back profile, the presentation is well worth the wait, and she’s beautiful - light pools of amber in her eyes and with a defined arc to her ears. Part of her hair is tied neatly but resting neatly along her shoulders. Her dress is also another: high-collared and revealing at the collar and waist - yet focused on a stain over her thigh. 

You should’ve kept your body against the concrete railing, but you move; met with knitted brows from the woman. 

“Oh- I thought I was-” she stutters, taken aback. “If you’ll excuse me,” clutching the dress a lot tighter in her hand, almost concealing. 

“No, I’m just here,” you say; a hand up in respect. “I was about to be on my way back inside.” 

She glances over rather than giving a response, keeping her attention to her dress. You’re taking a real long look at her before common sense sets in and finally decide to look away. 

Right before you were about to step away, a sigh slips out of her lips; there isn’t any offense to it, at all. 

“Look- would you mind if I can try to help?” You ask, walking over as she gazes up again. Clearly, she’s confused about what’s happening at the moment. 

“I appreciate it, but thank you. Really.” Her voice seems dismissive, but still bearing the casualness of it. Adding an uneasy chill down your spine. 

“To be clear, I was the one at fault,” you say. “A mistake trying to get by the poor lad.” She locks eyes with you again and cocks her head. You’re not showing it, but the move forces your heart to palpitate; in the way she studies you, sending spikes to your stomach. With a deadpan like that there’s a necessity of the silence she’d be happy to fulfill. 

“Most of the guys you taught way back then were usually like that, flying elbows and everything if they’re hit,” she tells you, and it’s a definite ‘oh shit’ moment that sobers you up.

It starts to click in your head piece by piece: “Wait, have we-” 

The lovely woman nods, drawing a light smirk. “I can see the gears turning in your head, sir.” 

“Well if you’re playing the stranger card so casually without ever mentioning my name, but that ‘sir’ wouldn’t be thrown around if it didn’t carry some substance of status, ma’am?” You say, smirking. She giggles at that. 

In a stupid move, you mention your name again; hand out in hope of her reaching for it. 

“I know who you are,” she replies, huffing a laugh out her nose, “Professor.” Dipping her head and flicking her fingers on her dress. Palm to palm, there’s a gentle sturdiness to it, all while being soft. You get caught spacing out - imagining how they’ll look wrapped around your- 

“I’m- I’m sorry. I don’t follow?” 

“You may not remember me, but I’m Park Minju. I had you for a class about five years ago.” Her words are precise, punctual. With a hint of elegance you can’t really seem to capture. 

Appearance-wise, it doesn’t add up. If anything, you’re thinking back to the prior calling of secondary school around that time. Plausible. Yet she’s reasonably old enough. 

“A class, yes. Maybe two. But here I am being subjected to a minor existential crisis thanks to you,” you tell her, sheepish. 

Minju chuckles; there’s that same palpitation like before. You want to have that same laugh ring your ears more and more. See that sweet grin with those beautifully arched cheekbones and ears. 

“If you want to get more- analytical, I suppose. Your lessons about certain philosophical topics were very, what’s the word? Enamoring.” 

Here's the answer. You were thinking close around that time and hoping the math was correct. Now, you’re thinking of throwing yourself off the balcony and forget about any form of hope with this girl: 

“Don’t get me wrong, I was invested in that curriculum,” you laugh, bracing a hand on the sculpted railing. “What killed it for me was the fact that most of the kids’ papers I was reviewing all had a common complaint of how much bullshit I was teaching was hidden between the lines. Can’t blame them, of course. Though it did hurt for a bit.” 

“Hmm, I think it looked like it was one of those other former students earlier tonight,” she looks at the windows inside. “Who knows, maybe they saw your face and threw a fit at the fact that you were still in their life in a different path now.” 

You wince. “Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” 

“You should be,” Minju returns. 

Oh she knows how to rub the crevices in your brain. 

Following a clicked tongue: “What makes you say that?” 

Minju hums; quirks a smile soon after. You nick your head before huffing a laugh, before the ice breaks even more and you’re both laughing. She meets your eyes through her pretty, dark lashes; your heart is performing backflips at this point. 

You can’t get around the fact how she’s so easy on the eyes, that refined coy in the tone of her voice. It’s getting all the plots twisted in your head, and the proximity diminishes between the two of you.

All the more reason to rub your neck awkwardly; Minju looks the other way and clears her throat. 

“For one, you look dashing in that dress. It’s a shame that it got a little soaked,” you say. Ghosting a hand over the opening at her waist, just above the stain. Her arm is quick to hover yours, riddled with goosebumps. It’s cold (obviously), much to the point where the outlines of Minju’s nipples are peaking through the dress; squinting won’t help your case but you’re blinking. 

You sharply inhale, file the picture away from your head. 

In a natural instinct, you strip your blazer off and and straighten it out. “I realize it’s practically below freezing here,” you’re telling her, tongue-ticked. The fit rests on her narrow shoulders and you’re taking a decent step back. Watching her face look confused, pulling her lips inward and accepting the gesture. Oversized was the inevitable conclusion, but at least the warmth was a plus. 

“I didn’t mind, but-” Minju huffs, burying her mouth into the collar. You insist, and she accepts it, giving thanks. 

The gust of wind blows a little more forcefully for a moment, pricking into the skin. You’ve definitely hit your quota for drinks - which equates to being slightly tipsy; drunk, perhaps, or delusional; shit, you’re not even sure yourself. 

“Are you also here for family responsibilities, Miss Park? Or are you actually going to get some benefit in the classes you’re basically going for free?” You ask her. While it’s out of curiosity; you keep wanting to talk to her. The urge to know more grows by the second. 

Minju smirks and nods. “There’s a direction for me.” 

Ah, you acquiesce. She’s still an assignment you’re trying to grade. 

“Something tells me you’re residing in law,” you presume. 

“Actually-” she retorts with knitted brows, tongue to teeth, “-I’m more intrigued in the political science landscape.” 

“Really? I didn’t think my lesson plan back then had too much of a punch in the learning experience.” 

“Well it’s completely the opposite,” beams Minju, rolling her shoulders with pride. “If it weren’t that, I wouldn’t be talking about it with you.” 

“Most of the girls just gave me blank stares while the guys slept through most of the rambling I did,” you breezily say whilst shaking your head. 

“Talking too much was a minus, but there was a plus in other aspects,” she then says. 

“Like?” 

“A thorough outlook from someone that’s-” and her eyes are quick to level yours, with much more refined knowledge and with bare restraint in the attraction - enough to freeze you in place and think back to how she was giving the utmost attention sitting in your classroom, “-well, there’s no better word for it: persuasive.” 

Her voice is basically seeping at the corners, low and driven and all the signs toward dangerous. She’s not gonna stop; you should consider ending the conversation while you can. Though, you don’t and stomach the cluttered air riddled within your neck. 

“Well then,” you say. “I sure hope you’ve been up to par with your current works?” 

Minju bites her bottom lip; widens the opening of your jacket. “Articles, reading, theses, the whole nine yards.” 

“That's all you got? 

You’re seeing nothing but the dark hazel pooling her irises. 

Flaring your voice like that to an esteemed family member that isn’t Minju would probably get you fired, maybe. “Okay? What do you want to know?” 

“It’s an open ended question I don’t have the answer for.” 

She cocoons the blazer around her again, back to the concrete overlooking the estate. “The last thing I read while coming up with a case study was focused on a theory about specific decisions. Meaning how the factor of choice influences us, weighing those choices, even the impulsive ones on instinct. It’s everywhere, even on a much global scale, deliberating with other countries; the movement of products, weapons, transferring prisoners, any and every deal that’s under or hidden beneath the sun.” Minju looks at you with a hint of worry - much like the times she came during lunch break and rambled about the typical drama with her circle of friends and pressing topics that were flagged under the universal policy. 

“Go on,” you tell her. “We’re just up here alone.” 

“I”m conscious about what’s there to gain and lose, depending on the deal or the stake of it. Naturally, people hate to lose. There’s a basic rule left unspoken where it can be differentiated between cognitive thinking and instinct - and it’s seen in games and people with status or power, those who-” her mouth drops, cutting it off accidentally. 

“Interesting,” you say. 

“Besdies that, I think I’ve said too much already,” Minju replies, hiding her chin to the collar. 

You don’t think you’ve said enough. Everything about her is a losing game: from her intellect to her age, and millions of statuses above you to even stand a chance. Her theory is right, thinking about an instinct of wanting her that it’s irrational to think about anything else. 

“No, Minju,” you laugh, breathless, albeit impressed. “It’s amazing what you’ve done with the opportunities. I hope you tell me more down the line?” 

Minju’s eyes flare up, surprised. “Sir- I’m very flattered-

It’s impossible for you to discern whether her cheeks were already in a rosy blush from the cold or from what was said just now. Her cute button nose is also mirroring the same shade - gulping down the urge to kiss that spot. You stare at her bottom lip; she nods in agreement. You could kiss that, too. 

“I think I do get ahead of myself,” she then says, moving her head left and right to disregard the compliment. 

“Now who told you that?” You ask. 

Minju zones out, meets your gaze with a tilt. “Huh?” 

“If you think you’re getting ahead of yourself, then that belief is instilled from someone else,” you say, lips pressed with crossed arms. “Out of everyone, you’re the only one that’s talked about a topic with the most interest. Why let another person determine what you can or can not express; besides, they’re stupid.” 

Minju, again, shoots her eyes down to her toes, shielding her growing smirk. Suddenly, the space between you two is minimized, even when you try your best to keep the space open due to the cold, it’s definitely waking you up from the suffocating party indoors. You notice her hand skate across the concrete, resting on the balcony after a few twitches. 

There’s a literal pull happening here, slowly. Until the both of you are looking out to the vast garden shrouded in darkness ahead, shoulder to shoulder; that is, when Minju faces front and is within extreme closeness of your chest, burrowing like she belongs here, shedding away skin and letting the cold wash her over. Even when the cold is already unbearable, and even so- 

Past the thrums of your heartbeat ringing in your ears, you could hear Minju swallow. Sighing into your chest as if there was a hidden weight finally lifted after so long. 

You don’t stop here. In fact, you don’t even consider stopping yourself at all: leaning down with a slow drag of your eyes to meet hers, gazing down those pretty features. She glances when you treat a loose strand of her hair caught by the breeze, shelf it nicely past the cuff of her ear, grazing your fingernails down her neck. 

Minju tilts her head to open up the space, holding her breath from the sudden touch. 

Then there’s the fuck-up: she doesn’t want this, of course she doesn’t. You pull your hand from her shoulder, draft up the apology in your mind. 

“Wait. We can- just, not here.” She hushes, stepping back with a hand up, scanning through the doors because getting caught would be a shitload of trouble. The tone in her voice drastically switched from being easy and composed - to breathless and on edge. 

“Minju, look- I’m sorry-” you get out, because the wrong idea’s already been shown and there’s a small hope of being able to hide it. 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s not that- I’d just want-” she tries to reason it out, voice low and hesitant. She swallows the lump in her throat, breathes deep after. “We’d be better off away from people that know us, you know?” 

You have a hard time processing what’s happening - probably because most of the blood isn’t going to your head and rather someplace else where the head might be useful in; with your mouth dry and on a similar wavelength to Minju. You feel your pockets again and realize the metal ridges that are typically there are in the coat she’s wearing (and lending). 

“It’s dark, for one. But my car is parked in the lot behind the hall. I- I might’ve had a little too much to drink for another and- oh fuck-” you huff, shaking your head fervently. “Wait- sorry. Don’t you mean drinks? I’m afraid I’m not up to-” 

Minju stops you with a hand to your chest, laughing. 

“You’re not driving home, sir. That’s for sure. I mean if you had a room here at the hotel for the night?” 

You’ve been sucked back to your teens, desperate for a girl that hinders your brain capacity. The good thing is: you’re sober enough to drive the few blocks back to the hotel with the room a couple floors up and there’s also the option to take the woman and fuck her into the backseat of your car. 

It’s a definite psychiatric work up on your agenda. 

“Okay, okay. So you want to-” 

Minju grins, licking her teeth. “The number?” 

“325.” 

“325?” She repeats, eyes shimmering. “You head back there first. I’ll come in fifteen minutes.” 

She’s quick to give back your coat with turning heels, slipping effortlessly through the glass doors. You try to track her silhouette, but watch her fade into the crowd. With her light auburn hair as the fateful magnet you can’t escape from. 

–

Time seems to stretch for as long as it possibly could, dwindling your bits of hope for every second that comes to pass - waiting for someone who may not even matter to you. 

Yet the hints of her scent scattered on your coat, there would be enough confirmation that the whole thing was a measly dream. It’s all stupidity from you: pressing the crease of the covers, hiding a pair of underwear beneath the nightstand; as if the walls in the room were closing in to your deteriorating psychotic episode. Maybe the couch would’ve been better rather than the edge of the bed - you don’t even know anymore at this point. 

All of it could’ve been chalked up as a one-time thing - ostensibly, that would be the best possible outcome: instead of inviting a student who’s clearly years younger back into your room, not after the fact that she’s alluring in all her looks and the slip of addiction in the way she presents herself. 

Minju could be the end of you - in a lot of ways than just one. 

The stupid idea here you come up with: a duo of glasses set on the mini bar - your own concoction of vodka that won’t burn down the throat. Not for the reason to satiate the need of another beverage, but the thought counts. Or so you thought. You’re not in your own head in getting the girl drunk, right? There’s no pressure about it- 

Your neck snaps at the light tapping at the door, three times. Quick enough to pull the door open and see Minju waiting on the other end. Legs crossed and hand resting to her side, dress unchanged; a stupid observation considering how much time’s passed. She still has your coat from earlier. Smiles at you before scanning both ends of the hallway; of course she’d rather save the thought of being caught dead in your crosshairs (let alone- your own fucking hotel room) when there might be other peers nearby. 

Grinning as the short-lived greeting. “Hi,” she sighs, relieved. 

“Someone seems tense,” you say, returning the grin. 

Minju blinks, “So um,” the line of her shoulders loosen in a fast second. “Will you let me in?” 

“Yes, oh my god. Of course, please. Come in,” you nod without a single thought, hastily shuffling your feet across the carpet beneath. Extending an arm to hold the door as she walks in, meeting her nod as she breezes past your proximity. With the door closing behind and it’s just the two of you isolated again. 

She walks to the middle of the room, refined and poised. Like if the world stopped for her and the only thing you can do is to acknowledge her in that moment. Despite how dimly lit the room was, it made her even more strikingly beautiful. 

You think that God himself is urging you to not court her; simply because-

Someone like you doesn't deserve that luxury. 

“I made a simple drink,” you tell her, pointing to the mini bar in the corner before the lamp. “It’s vodka with some soda mixed in to ease the bitterness. Only what the hotel provided, anyway,” you stutter, as Minju notices with a few steps in that direction. To which, she takes the offering. Hiding a scowl after the sip with the glass gently set back to its original coaster. 

While being the idiot that you are, you’re fidgeting your fingers and trying to keep yourself busy in the compact room: requesting your coat back, taking her bag, insisting her to accept a glass of water as the late chaser. 

“Hey,” Minju’s voice cuts through your ears and it stills your heart. That steady timbre, draws your attention back to her, with every step of hers sending blood through your veins invigoratingly fast. One hand is to your shoulder, the other dancing along the tips of your fingers. “I thought you wanted to kiss me now.” 

Well, she’s got you there. 

Fingers intertwined and closing the distance, chest to chest. The mere want clouding your head is just enough to release the nerves and let the intrusive actions take its course. In those doe eyes filling yours; soft, pretty pink lips parted and waiting. She needs this just as much as you do. 

You cup her cheek, gently. She lets the light tilt of her face invoke the message - a final say to reconsider- 

And she doesn’t. 

Her pupils are foggy, blown. The endless abyss beneath them is a mere pool for you to sink into. You’ve got no reasons to meet her lips, but here you are: kissing so carefully, and it’s messing you up. 

That mouth is- so damming and incredibly soft; with a fucked up part of you imagining it just to your liking. Despite the size, they’re addicting to the mix of vodka and ginger ale. You start slow, keep it within the lips. She chases the sensation when you pull back, longing the press more as your nose slides on her cheek, her breasts smothering the cloth on your shirt. 

Yet the way she kisses you is a theory to study - teetering the borderline of needy, and feral. Minju’s not the perfect girl you’ve drawn her up to be. Actually- it’s a kiss with such urgency as she drops her jaw lower, slips her tongue through your lips. You oblige and let her have it, tugging on your bottom lip until she’s making you bleed. In fact: no one has ever kissed you like this since you were young. It’s all confusing, for one; though it’s making you hot and the clutch in your pants even tighter. 

She’s wrinkling your shirt in her fists, swaying her hips in your hands. A slip of the tongue into her mouth loosens her jaw, opens herself wider. You cup her cheek, bend the angle of her neck. The noises she’s seeping are heavenly, the mere sound of it going straight to your cock, albeit from your mouth first. 

Her chest is elevated, heaving. You’re seeing what lies beyond her collarbone, the delicate skin waiting to be defiled. She draws you closer to her neck as she sighs in relief. The pulse point and space behind her ear the only thing Minju can focus on at the moment. Breathing you in; there’s a hint of white sands, a calm sage, something frothy and warm. A sweet spring interlude to a warm summer. 

Minju’s knees surrender at the sudden graze of your teeth along her throat. Only to find solace in your mouth once more, pushing you to the edge of the bed. It prods the suggestion to bring her to your lap, hitch the dress up to her thigh, the fabric restricting just slightly. This is the window to stop (in which, you don’t want to); however, it’s a snap of common sense away from the addicting heat of her mouth. You swallow on air that isn’t thick with her taste. 

“Wait,” you pause. It's the lifeline of your salvation, “Remind me: how old are you again?” 

She stills, watches as you wipe your chin, huffing. It’s clearly one of the three questions you never ask in conversation, which explains the dirty look that’s given. 

“Minju-” 

“Twenty two. Not that I care, honestly.” 

Your eyes roll back. No need to do the math here. The girl’s got your hands before they could retreat off her body, only hiking up more and more of her dress. 

“Sir, please.” 

Desperation, you conclude. It’s in the way her tone shifts from calm to this. You philosophized that there is an existence of hell, and there’s a certainty that you’ll end up there. Especially with this deity leaning over and kissing you again. Pressing into your mouth sweetly. She meets your eyes, swiping a hair from your forehead. 

“Please,” and she’s saying this with lidded eyes. 

And that’s all the resolve snuffed out of you. 

You’re quick to cup her cheeks and kiss her harshly, with just enough desperation as her. Gasping and laughing when you flip her pretty little body on her back, crawling atop. Every bit of insanity gets worse than before when you part her thighs, push her arms over and around her head when she settles into the duvet. Tongues swiping in a duel with no victor. Your hand shoots for her waist, palm hooking her entire waist. A real live wire, unraveling; her body shivers at the brush of your knee to her thighs, flinching. Everything about her is raw and there’s nothing you can do to save yourself. 

Just as you’re ruining her, Minju’s ruining your attire. Pulling and undoing the buttons of your shirt, loosening the tie. You relax and let her work for it until she can’t, pulling off the shirt and the belt to follow. Soon after, she’s trying to undo herself along with the dress. 

“It’s okay,” you say, kissing a shoulder blade as she turns on her stomach. Watch her sweep the hair to reveal the nape of her neck as the zipper descends. You eventually get to the end where the metal stops above her ass. The fabric grants you more angles of her curves, where the skin is revealed even more with scattered beauty marks. Only for you to notice that she isn’t wearing a bra - but the lacy waistband that’s resting at the lowest point of her hips. “You’re beautiful,” you praise, kissing her spine as the dress gets pulled by your fingers. 

The trail of kisses continues with her . 

“You can tell me to stop,” you whisper. Smiling into another kiss. 

Minju shoves her head into the pillows, shaking. 

“I’m giving you permission to say ‘no’, baby. And I’ll listen.” 

“No.” 

She’s quivering from your weight. You don’t answer, nor can afford to. 

“You really want this?” You then ask. A kiss to a dimple on her lower back.

“Professor-” 

“Use your words, Minju.” Her back arches under you, trying to press her ass on your cock. “I need you to tell me.” 

“Yes,” she sighs, though it comes as a hiss. Exhausted. “I need it- need you.” 

This only makes you realize again, 

You’d never think twice with her. 

Minju sighs in kind when you roll her back up to see her face, clearly wrecked as you are: those puffy, pouted lips and glassy eyes; hair frazzled, and it’s not doing you any good the way she holds it up in a loose ponytail, giving that extra fringe. The strapless dress is falling at her tits, only to realize that she had nothing underneath - a fantasy that you’ve devised since meeting her outside, it’s a real fucking disservice. 

In your eyes, she’s incredibly more perfect than you can theorize: light and toned, porcelain smooth skin. Makes you forget the gap in other places- 

You should feel guilty about it. 

Despite that, she guides your hand to her breast and makes you grip roughly. You scoff at how eager she is and it soon gets buried in your throat how lithe the feel is in your own palm. Like she’s made for you. A quick graze of her nipple to your thumb and she flinches. You try again and it’s the same jolt in her body, inhaling and makes you hiss through the teeth. The responsiveness is more sudden than the alcohol. 

At this point your shirt’s off and Minju’s at your neck, nipping away and will be a real blemish to deal with the morning after. Not to worry - you wanted it. A form of physical proof that shows you let her touch the way she does, reminding you that no other girl in your life has made you feel like this. She squirms when you finally get to her collarbone, see the protrusions of bone along her skin and dance on them with your fingertips with the delicacy of a harp player. Placing a nipple between your lips which prompts her to dig into your scalp with her fingers. 

Your hand slips down to her thigh and rests there, amazed with how smooth the skin at her legs really was. While there were some stray hairs along the surface, as if she’d never shave below the knee, it’s a sickening feeling that’s only deepening with no thought of calming - to claim something you’ve got no rights to.  

And when your fingers stroke over the lace of her panties, they’re wet. Minju’s legs tense at the touch. 

“Good?” You ask, kissing her sternum and making the way down, rubbing circles to her outer thigh and licking her waist. 

“I’ll let you- y’know,” she rasps, gripping more of your hair when your hands rest at the grooves of her thigh. 

Your brows knit together, unimpressed. It’s too easy to have her like this - too easy for her to give herself in such a way and a little too much. She’s been addicting since the second you met her and you start to notice how open- how willing- let alone pliable she’s trying to be. She’s serious, and it’s there. You realize that she’ll take everything so well at anything you dish out at her. 

A subtle bite of her inner thigh, and she softly yelps. “Then let me ask: what do you want, Minju?” 

Her legs twitch again, hand guiding back to the center. 

“A lot of things,” she answers, “Really, like- oh jesus- everything, actually-” 

You nibble at the fabric and she loses it even more. “Is this something you want?” 

Minju does her best to keep cool, and then your nose grazes her core through the lace and you’re whispering these lovely sounds of nothingness. 

“Fuck- sir, yes.” 

You slide her panties off her unbelievable legs and place two fingers over her clit, which makes Minju wince at the first gentle swipe. Learning that it won’t take as much to have her whole body shuddering under you. Once you’ve got a small taste of her, you go back to the gushing heat and let her have it. 

Here, you don’t recall having such a feeling like this before or in past experiences. The fact that she’s unbearably hot, her tightness corralling your fingers, leaking into the bottom of your palm. She’s got her head on the pillow when you move, slowly pumping in pace in and out of her. And it’s in the broken silence of these four walls, the sounds of slick slipping from her cunt - Minju’s covering her pretty face into the rumpled duvet and whimpering. You’re panting into her neck while your fingers continue to work her over. Then her hands are searching for a hold; to your sides, to the sheets. Her waist naturally rocks over with the digits you have inside of her, making her chase with those bucking hips. 

The other remedy you give is a kiss to her pulse. 

Minju glances before she looks the other way, considering that the spot you’re stroking is making her brain mush. Aside from the fact that your wrist is straining between her thighs, you ignore it - the rhythm too good with the noises she’s spilling out from her lips. 

“Relax,” you croon, hand to her stomach and waiting at the hip. “Let me take care of the rest.” 

Minju rasps at the strokes at that sweet spot. While part of you wants to work it through and see how riled up she can actually get - yet it doesn’t seem like she’s the patient type, noticing how close she was within a short span of minutes. Your thumb brushes her clit in circles, and that gets her whimpering at the feeling alone. You long for a look at her face, pressed tightly to the sheets and pillow. She’s helplessly clenching around your fingers that the drag is taking a toll - her back arches, with legs shaking- 

Suddenly, it’s all snuffed out with a stilled gasp. You ignore the tension at your hand, push through the feeling and let the fingers press inside. Minju holds in a breath, knocking the top of her lungs - the contraction enough for you to finally see her expression: a twisted face with knitted eyes shut, bearing the impending wave of euphoria you were about to suck out of her. 

Just like that:

Bliss. 

Minju comes with a pitched shriek. Easing with a clutch to your shoulder and rolling her hips with the dress sifting with her body. Her thighs slam shut and her sensitive clit is light on your fingertip and responsive. 

You kiss her cheek and temple and stroke her jaw. When you finally relieve her of your fingers - sticky and left in her mess, the urge to taste her is all you think about. Sucking them clean and savoring the reward: ravishing, for one, and incredible. “God, darling. You-” 

Her lips press at the tent of your pants, enough to focus back on it. 

“Miss.” It’s the first time you’ve addressed her that way since the party. A little out of character but worth trying, despite her steeled determination and quick hands working down the button and zipper- fingers wrapped around your growing shaft when you realize it’s going to get a whole lot worse-

Your length gets freed from the elastic and it springs right up to her pretty face. It lands on her button nose and she can’t fathom you being nearly the size of her head.  Her tongue is quick to take a salivating lick underneath; swallowing on nothing (again, or- yet, at least). 

As if one hand wasn’t enough, her other joins the fray - guiding you to her parting lips, resting the underside against her tongue. Minju’s eyes watch you stare her down with all the naughty things seeping through your endless pools, sliding the head past her teeth and inhales as a test. The mere wickedness of such a simple action would’ve made you bust on the spot. She has another go and brings the length down her mouth to halfway, and you’re increasingly reluctant to pull out. Yes, her tongue is fucking amazing but if you yield to that single temptation alone, there won’t be enough for when you get inside her folds and it’ll be unforgivable. 

Minju tilts her head and those bedroom eyes are a true devil’s advocate, attempting to slip your tip past her scraping teeth. 

“God-” It only makes you snap and grab her face with both of your hands and push your cock into her throat for a taste. You groan and laugh while sliding out and help her sit up soon after. “You’re wonderful.” 

She lets her tongue flick a vein, a kiss soon after. “Hmm?” It’s an insufferable tease. 

“I would’ve came if you kept doing that.” You then say, cupping her jaw. 

Minju smirks back in satisfaction, and it’s all a jester’s ploy. She lets her face fall one side again with gleaming eyes - confident, arrogant. Like a brat. 

You play kindly and tilt down to kiss her. All of that gaudy assurance disappears when she’s reciprocating and moaning down your mouth. Tangling your fingers to her scalp, take that makeshift ponytail and have a hold for yourself and feel her locks spill over the digits. She’s quick to lay back while you discard your lower garments, Minju slipping out of her panties. Your knee presses her center, smearing. The feel of your cock to her inner thigh makes you leak slightly. 

Her smile goes lazy when your tip meets her folds, in a testy observance. 

“Shit,” you say, groaning. Minju’s barely listening and too fixated at her center. “Fucking christ.” 

“Yeah?” and those damn bedroom eyes of hers aren’t doing her any favors. 

“Left condoms.” You’re stupidly speaking because it’s something you didn’t consider for years. And it wasn’t like you did this often, anyway. 

Minju pouts her lips, still with trained eyes. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Her fucking hips are rolling her cunt on the head of your cock. 

“You sure? What about the pill, at least-” it’s a precaution, not much for her hand wrapped to your shaft and guiding you still. 

“Mhm,” she hums, eager. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I’m just- considerate.” You’re barely registering the fact about ruining her and the chance to fuck her with no safeguards. 

“It’s fine.” She says firmly. It comes off as on edge, annoyance- probably impatient. You take her word for it and go along the way. Kissing her forehead and temple; feel Minju’s breath hitch when the press is made - lining up with no issue and blanking out for a second. 

Minju, from your many conclusions, is: unbelievably-fucking-tight. You don’t see any reason to escape from it, how the slick heat surrounds your length, better than anything you’ve ever felt or experienced. It stills you for a moment, drawing these breaths which should be easy, cupping her head and holding her close. She’s sighing again, eyes shut. Might be a while for her as well. You drag an inch back and hear a shuddered exhale. Which prompts another inch retracted for good measure, and push back in - then another, slowly, this will make you insane. One more thrust siphons a noise from the bottom of her throat; something raw, and cardinally present. 

(She’s everything you’ve wanted - what you didn’t know was needed until you had her.) 

The both of you stay like that, rucking hips and zeroing on each other’s breaths. Until Minju’s dispelled to these semi-hearty sighs - uncrinkling her brows and slacked in pleasure. Her ankle digs to your thigh, a rescue rope of sorts, for you to focus all the way and bottom her out. 

Then her mouth forms an ‘oh’. She shakes. 

In the midst of the building pressure, you’re asking: “How’s that? Okay? Good?” Combing her hair to see her face better; another thrust passing through her and she leans to your palm. 

Minju’s nodding, maybe the only thing she can possibly do at the moment. Her parted lips take yours with arms around the neck, hooking. 

This is a snapshot in your life you want to take and keep forever, recall every sound she’s ringing in your ears, how her hair smells, the way her insides take your cock so well with passing time. Her hips meet yours in the middle, taking your pace deeper. There’s so much time to spend with her; you’d want to stay in her walls forever. 

She’s insisting for more, more. 

“Sir- sir. Please- fuck me-” 

“I got you,” and you do. 

For the first time since meeting her, you’re freely fucking into her with purpose. Every inch that’s buried in her lovely cunt makes her stifle a cry into the sheets, your shoulder, your lips, just anywhere where the noise doesn’t wake the nearby hotel guests. She’s so good on your cock it’s fucking hurting; on the up and down and the slide in and out - the mere forth and back and back and forth with much fervence. 

Minju isn’t there anymore; she’s completely gone. It makes sense for her case because she’s cursing and gasping at the teeth, failing at biting down her moans. Neither of you can help it - the pleasure is good to you both. 

Both of your bodies are flush, moving as one. Every tap of your cockhead inside her is like a gateway to her conscience, joining two heads together. It feels like it; all of your thoughts, claiming and devouring every corner of your brain. Minju’s pitch has raised an octave and it might let alone silence the heavens. 

Your hands are holding you upright, while hers is claiming purchase to your body - like two birds fighting in the air and falling, spiraling to the ground. You take her wrists over her head, push her into the mattress more. She doesn’t even try to return the kiss, all she gives back are more moans against your mouth. 

Those eyes, again. She’s looking at you like it should be terrifying. With those pools so wide and trusting, sucking you in that endless pit of lust and something more dark that would defile all followings of faith. An impossibility to bear, so you settle with her neck and just focus on how close she’s getting, banking she doesn’t even know it herself. As much as you want to keep pounding her for more than a couple seconds, you’re more desperate to watch her crumble beneath you. Rock your hips to hers and feel her clit rub the base - she’s clenching her teeth with eyes closed. 

You keep going with a few more thrusts, as much as you can give her. Her body is basically being pushed up against the mattress and only being yanked back to your cock, meeting her forehead as her orgasm sends tremors to her entire body. Her cunt clenches around you, locking her ankles to your legs. 

Checkmate. 

She’s holding you to the edge - cumming inside with no escape, leaving ropes to her cervix. The quiet room filled with loud gasps and huffs that will surely have noise complaints later, softening to whimpers. 

You collapse on top of Minju, with enough room for her to breathe. Catching your own while your vision comes to. Curse the vertigo, but what good would that bring if it weren’t for the release. She’s shivering to your chest, and every exhale is another shudder of a clattering teeth. You kiss her cheek, then stroke her hair, thumb her hips for a job well done - adoring, in reverence. The mere thought of guilt doesn’t creep in right away, but it will eventually. Right now, all you want is to be close to her. 

Minju hums to get your attention, something content or exhausted, massaging your hair and moving a few stray hairs on your forehead. Completely ignoring the fact that you’re still hard inside of her and she smiles with a bump to her button nose. You don’t acknowledge the lurch your heart gives from the look she’s exuberating, ridding the cobwebs and dust - beating proudly as if to say that “this soul still has some life here”. 

In reluctance, you eventually pull out of her - and the both of you wince at the loss. You move up the duvet to where you both are within the proximity of the sheet draping over. Her exhales are your inhales, and it’s the same the other way; to the point where the air is shared. Minju traces a finger to your face, thumbing wrinkles that would’ve faded at her touch alone - from your forehead, to the defined cheekbones, that jaw. It’s a gentle touch you’ve had in a long while. 

What feels abrupt to an eternity, Minju huffs and sits up slowly, buckling her elbow and coughing. You’re rubbing a shoulder and bridging an arm to hers. “Why not stay?” You ask, seeing her tilt her chin at the question. “I can order us something in the morning,” she listens as you add. “On me. Whatever you’re craving.” 

She smirks - it’s pretty, genuine. That flash of teeth is a sunrise of its own in the long night. Then it switches to something more solemn, not too regretful - you settle for wistful. 

“As much as I want to, I can’t. Really, I’d take up the offer,” Minju tells you. “I appreciate it.” 

While you could feel your heart sink for a second, you nod. The disappointment weighs heavy, and even more heavier as she stands up. Only for you to notice the crimson stain left on the sheets, clearly out of place and defiling the linen. 

“Min- wait. Your legs- or something. Are you okay?” You’re concerned, examining closely. She turns around once her dress is on, reaching for the ruined dress. 

“Huh? Oh. I- Ugh. I should’ve said something-” she stutters, scratching her forehead. 

“It’s fine. Are you- I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

Minju shakes her head in lieu of a ‘no’. 

“Is that normal? For you?” 

You see her jaw flex, shrugging. She’s pulling the dress up to her waist. “I mean, it just sort of happened-” 

Half right she is. It still leaves you confused, and then the notion hits you like a bullet. 

“Hang on-” your heart quivers, anxious. “You actually never-” 

No answer. 

“Really. You’re kidding me.” Both of you know what the conclusion is. “Are-” 

Her eyes roll and nostrils flare. “The answer is yes. Now is it going to be that big of a deal for you? Or can we move on?” She doesn’t flinch at your connecting dots. You’re staring down the smirking girl in a small shock regardless.  

(Here: you don’t actually say it, but the implication was there - she is, or, was, in fact, a little over an hour ago, but there’s no need to go over the details, again.) 

Instead your face is between your palms and the guilt could not have spilled over any quickly. Yeah. You’re definitely gonna live with that for the rest of your life, it seems. 

“Minju- you- I think a heads up would’ve been nice. At least tell me before-” you sigh and there’s no point in thinking what could’ve been done differently. Which begs the questions: would you have really stopped? What would you do if she had told you? Spare her a little more care? Not be as rough? Let alone the fact you went all the way- 

“Listen. Don’t make yourself the bad guy here,” relents Minju, sitting at the desk and beginning to straighten her hair and touch up her lipstick. Looking back over her shoulder, “I wanted it. And, it was good. Simple.” 

“Alright, but look if your first time is going to be somewhat memorable, it should’ve been different,” you sigh, buttoning up your shirt and cuffs before the necktie gets thrown around the collar. “Christ. Who am I even kidding? I was gonna have you in the back of my car if you hadn’t suggested-” and you’re rambling; everything about the plot is so fucked for you while she appears to be completely fine. 

She chuckles; almost in a mocking form. “Did I give any expression that said ‘i didn’t want you to fuck me?’” 

You’ve got your tongue in teeth. It’s unfair for her to be this cruel. 

“Well-” and there’s this quick exasperation of disbelief with a dropping hand, “No, you didn’t. That being said, I still-” 

You watch her walk over to the mattress and lean on your hip, not exactly straddling but still doing enough to keep you dumbstruck and keep your words stuck in the throat as she kisses you earnestly on the cheek, nodding in kind. “Be a dear and zip me back up.” She shifts her head and sweeps a few hairs, then taps your jaw a few times while she turns around. 

Naturally, she’s got all of her hair to the front which reveals her upper back, and you can’t help but wonder how good it’ll look riddled with bruises and bite marks. But that’s just the lust part of your brain doing that while the other is in figurative zombie mode and almost sleepwalker-like - not to mention the guilt and shame and possible court case looming when you finally lock it in place at the top. 

Observant as she loosens herself, patting down areas of her dress to ensure they’re comfortable. She still looks untouched - albeit her flushed cheeks still present and fading, her hair wavy and more weathered compared to her straight and clean picture from earlier. You’re watching the mask she bears finally take shape - so neat and prettily like a well-tailored doll. 

“Maybe a dinner would suffice,” you propose, a first suggestion to compensate for the mess you’ve gotten into. “Doesn’t have to be glamorous, even. I could just give you my number if you’d like.” The sands of time aren't playing kindly to your efforts, and the main crevice between the both of you is only getting larger. 

“Phone. Give.” She commands, extending a hand. You’re patting yourself down only to realize that it was left on the floor with your trousers. Minju watches you over, probably dumbfounded at how stupid you look, but that seems to be okay with her. 

You blink as she presses the screen and saves the contact after, handing it over. 

“Guess this is goodbye,” she softly says to you. As if she signed her life away and seeing you stay as she goes. You ball a fist and relax, settling the urge to pull her back. 

“Good night, Minju.” 

You’re holding the door open as she departs with a faint smirk. It hurts you to see her leave the room - even more when she doesn’t turn back whilst down the hallway - and the door has seen the air filled with a single soul riddled in vodka, santal, and remnants of sex. 

Once everything settles, you change out to a clean shirt, noticing an unfamiliar garment next to the pile of dirty clothes: a pair of lacy panties. You sigh; of course she left it here. Quick to put it away even before the thoughts creep back into your brain. 

–

(When you’re between the pillows filled with her scent, you open up the new contact: 

Minju P. 

Her phone number is quite elegant as her name and look. You smile at that. 

Which only curdles the boiling curiosity even more. A tab with ‘Minju Park Gala’ on the search bar: nothing. ‘Minju Park University event’ added with the date doesn't give you any answers either. Scrolling through a few esteemed articles where she’s credited for a few of them. It’s the same name, but there’s a referral to Minju K. P. There’s something fishy, a fact she left out (maybe on purpose but you don’t want to assume), switching out the P for a K, and vice versa. 

This kicker makes you sit up: ‘Minju K. Park’. A photo is seen in the images on the webpage. She’s younger - only by a few years - sat in front of a woman in the center of the photo. The woman behind has her hand resting to her shoulder; you could feel the weight of it from the aged film alone. 

You clock it from the face first before the info quote: 

Minju Kim pictured with her daughter Minju Park (front) at the opening ceremony of Gillit University. 

“Shit,” you exhale. 

Minju Park-Kim. Kim Minju’s direct successor of the most powerful institutions in leading education, given the article and a little more scrolling to the side. Her mother’s been playing a pivotal role as her main teacher, from the looks of it. 

You spot more photos and see her and the mother across multiple events, some from personal life and at work: she’s poised, a trailblazer in her own right. The catalog goes on for decades, Kim Minju’s personal trophy at the forefront of PR purposes. And her very daughter just lost her virginity in a ritzy hotel to a person who’s years ahead of her while the mother is playing headmaster a few miles away. 

It should make you feel way worse than before. Yet- 

You actually don’t care. 

And shoot a text to her soon after.) 

–

A week passes. You both settle at this dingy place that sells decent ice cream and smoothies - far away from any vicinity where your faces are a familiarity. 

(Yeah, she tells you, let’s go grab something cold while the weather is nipping at our skin. That’s a great idea. You don’t really care. The ideas were spread thin as it is.) 

You’ve had an initial thought of a proper dinner, one well put together with a reservation, a bottle of wine, and the bill going one way. She took her sweet time texting you back. It honestly makes you happy she’s here to go along with the date. 

Everything about it goes against your daily schedule: you’re treating Minju Park-Kim to a sweet treat on a random weekday evening. For any consolation from the last time you and her were together, this was the most mundane thing that should have been done in the first place. Unlike eating each other’s faces off and fucking in the hotel room. (For her first, as well.) 

Regardless of class or status, it would be kind for you to have some sort of sense to learn about the girl some more that doesn't involve railing her hips off with the legs up but- hey, she doesn’t know you found out the truth. 

You order the usual: a double scoop of cookies and cream. She, on the other hand, picks out a nice cherry sorbet. It rests well on her cup and leaves a bit of red on the spoon when she places it there while it melts. See the bottom of her lip curl outward before testing a lick for good measure. 

“Funny,” you breathe, smiling. “You told me that ice cream was your thing.” 

Minju stabs her scoop as an offense. “Accusing me of lying?” 

“Never claimed nor concluded that,” you laugh. “You just look like those workers who scrape gum underneath the lunch tables.” 

“Cookies and cream. Really!? Just go freeze some oreos and save the money.” 

You roll your eyes and snatch her spoon, scooping a nice chunk of yours to offer as a sample. “Have some.” 

Her brows furrow, with a few wrinkles at the top of her nose. 

“It’s not gonna hurt you,” you chuckle. Waving it closer to her adorable scowl, sighing. “For me.” 

She then closes her eyes, parting her lips as the scoop disappears into her mouth. You catch the quick glimpse of her tongue when she gets a bit off of her top lip, licks them soon after. Tongue in cheek, nodding in approval. 

“See?! What’d I say,” you drawl, taking a scoop for your own as a prize. 

“It isn’t that appealing,” replies Minju. While you lean back and drop your shoulders, she takes the spoon and gets another piece for herself. Quick to grab her wrist before the scoop ever got anywhere. 

“Hang on now. When did I say it’s okay to get another one from me?” Right then there’s this look on her face, with pulled lips as if she’s unimpressed while you make another scoop for her to lick of. Two mouthfuls were enough to suffice her, and you have no complaint spooning her bites across the booth. She then stops after the third, grinning with another lick of her lips. 

You’ve drawn up the observation of how pretty she is looking at you like this: the small crescents in her eyes when she smiles, the gentle quirk or twitch of her eyebrow when something is tasty; her light, toffee hair down and resting loosely at the shoulders. The parlor’s small, a quick stop by train on the way to campus - much easier on the eyes, lighter, her head falls like she’s got no worries. 

It’s your act of service to wipe your thumb first before leaning across to smear off the ice cream left beneath Minju’s lips. Her mouth drops before closing again where your fingertip rests on her chin, on the nice little space between. Her smirk forms as a tease and those doting eyes - too bright and inviting and blinking to snap you out of it when the second of staring lingers more than it should. 

She hums in satisfaction, cocking her head the opposite side. 

“I won’t be mad,” and it’s in this telling voice of assurance. “I don’t mind you touching me.” 

Your eyes dart to the window, guilty as charged. Yet you don’t smile or frown, but this mixed reaction of being conflicted. “It’s not that,” you say, placing your cup down followed by clasped hands, “it’s the fact that- maybe we shouldn’t.” 

Minju pauses, reading into the lines. The level of awareness for someone her age should already be developed, and props to her for noticing the cues. “Maybe,” she answers. “No, you’re right. We probably shouldn’t.” 

Facetious, you’ll give her that. 

Though you feel her foot on your ankle under the table and she’s just slowly moving it up and down your shin (mind you: her legs are bare, with that knee length skirt and not giving a shit about the cold weather - it should ring the alarm bells in your head but you choose to ignore it). “Actually, you’re a hundred percent right.” 

You level your heads and let it sit. 

On the other hand, she’s got her hand propping her chin, batting lashes with those wide eyes, with that innocent folly. The fact that Minju’s not doing anything is doing a number on you mentally - thinking that it would be easier this time being around her. There isn’t any alcohol or any bust up with the spoiled kids, nor any excuse to find an out for sleeping with a woman that’s waving all the red flags in your head. No. It’s way worse. Even with the grief and fog of alcohol not in your mind - how clear it’s become of the fact she’s gorgeous and clever; elegant and refined in the manner which she speaks, with those gentle hands and firm knees. Your thumb finds her lips again and remember the feeling of them. Plus, it’s already bad enough you’ve fantasized about her multiple times during the week, even with the missing pair of panties which she also doesn't know about. 

You actually don’t notice her mouth moving, the noise blocked out between your ears. The grin she gives is actually lecherous. 

“I’m sure you have a staring problem,” she tells you. A tease when she drops the ‘sir’ again to grab your attention, the syllables rolling nicely on her teeth. That same pit in your stomach forms once more and you’re clearing your throat. 

“Minju, easy.” It’s a plea, to her - to be the better person between you two. You sigh and wipe your eyelids. “Don’t push it.”

“Mmm? I’m not doing anything,” she relents. God help you. Even if he could, there’s no stopping her foot rubbing your pant leg. 

You look down and flinch at the screech of the chair skating across the floor. She’s startled as well, but blinks through it, indifferent to the smug she held just a second earlier. “Look, this- I don’t think it’s a good-” 

“Idea?” The question Minju asks; shelves a bob at your throat. Her eyes flicker, coldly. Unimpressed. “In all fairness, you asked me. After all.” 

It’s unfair - the feeling of it spilling into your mind all at once - to be so revolting at the actions you’ve committed to be in this position. You knew better (but you didn’t) and still went along with the bad idea, anyway. Playing the paradoxical confusion of not wanting to be close to her but needing her otherwise is daunting. Fearful of getting too close, too fast, dragged by her impending pull and there’s nothing more you’d want than to just submit - which, in a sense, is the right thing to do. 

“You’re right. I did. And-” you solicit for her reply: no answer. To that, you sigh, “I’m ready to take you home, if you’re willing.” Instead, what she does is not say anything, standing up from the table and looking at you from up high before heading for the exit. On the way out, you’re jumbling the set of keys in your hand, following her around to the passenger side to open the door. Too bad she gets there first, quickly pulling and setting herself down with the seatbelt on and knees together. You meet on the opposite end and close the door, too. 

It’s freezing, the gentle chatter of teeth is heard from her as the breaths are clouding the windows. Even with the overcoat, her legs are visible where the jacket parts. The heat gets turned up to the max, lukewarm air only making it colder. Her fingers curl over her thighs. 

“Minju,” you say, hesitant. Her eyes never leave the front windshield. 

Her lips part slightly, drawing a breath in. She holds it, exhaling soon after. Seems like some of the anger has grown on her, written all over her face and shown in the fist - like the color leaving from a shriveling petal. It’s oddly frightening how calm she is. 

She turns to face you and stare right back. “You remember how to get back to my place right?” A simple inquiry with raised brows, lips perched where it doesn’t flex her cheeks. A completely different persona unlike the coyness personality and teasing that you were used to. Yet it all makes sense - with the surname, the royalty it comes with. She’s able to compartmentalize and slip into a skin that doesn’t have an alias or character. 

–

(You find it infuriating, however. 

Not because of the difference in class- no, not that. But the pieces that were slowly picked apart from a world you have no business being affiliated with. A want that’s been simmering since the second you met her. 

The urge to open her up and engorge yourself of the pieces that make her raw, unadulterated. 

Infuriating enough that losing someone like that is worse than any imaginable gain altogether.) 

–

The car hums to life and you’re entranced by her easy eyes.

 In that instant where the silence is only filled with the gentle beats of your hearts, you make a choice. Because that’s what you can do. Because now that you’ve had her, nothing else really matters. If it wasn’t for her, there wouldn’t be anything for you. The choice is apparent when you cross the center console with just enough grace to not scare her. Minju sees this, albeit blatantly obvious, but her eyebrows lift faster than her lips before she could utter a single word. 

Her lips are the same as you remember them from that night. You kiss her gently, hear her softly hum into the touch. She doesn't flinch at your cold hands, cupping her cheek and get your fingers in her hair. Lips sweet as the ice cream you spoonfed minutes ago. The warmth of them makes you forget about the chilly car. It makes you forget about all of that - how deprived she’s been without you, scarfing down air in the gaps and less frantic than the first time. 

Her hands form fists to your coat and she pulls. You don’t fight her when she’s off the seat, moving with a purpose that’s so endearing. Her teeth clash with yours; it doesn’t hurt but you both laugh gently at the moment. She breaks with deep breaths, labored, bumping noses. Making her way to your lap and get her feet under. You pause, pinch her unbelievable waist. Minju forces you to look at her as you scan in an obvious spot: beneath the streetlight and still in a semi-full parking lot. 

You smile, and all she does is place a nice peck to your lips. “You really don’t want to do this here?” She asks, seeing your shaking head and sighing in defeat. Then stumbling back to her seat and shivering on the way down. “It’s not like they’re gonna interrogate us for being in the car.” 

“A lot more serious if it’s a person with a status with someone she shouldn’t be with.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“You basically wanted to hop and get caught on my cock just now.” 

Minju bites her lip at that. It could be the cold or pent-up tension, or both in this matter. She isn’t doing herself a favor when her hand finds its way between her legs. 

 “I know, I know,” you say, chuckling. “Why don’t we find somewhere else more private, okay?” 

–

Neither of you say a word as you’re driving - think of it as some unspoken agreement that was arranged without saying anything. You’re just rolling along with no direction at all, hoping that the landmarks around the town will eventually lead you back to Minju’s estate. 

Minju has her legs spread just slightly, making space for you. Hand to her knee. She’s tracing your knuckles on your other hand that isn’t on the wheel. She’s fidgeting. You play along and slide your hand up and up; you don’t actually see it buried beneath the coat, but the softness grazes the fingertips and the breadth of your fingers take up her whole leg. 

One of her hands finds your wrist, clutching, urging you to move your hand higher. The grip on the steering wheel goes tight as she guides it to her upper thigh and the sensitive skin that resides. It’s a lot on your mind since she’s shaking at your touch. You turn at the road where it breaks into an empty parking lot, no lights hanging overhead. There’s a corner near the building and the only other car that’s in the lot seems untouched; perhaps abandoned for years, maybe. Your hand leaves her thigh and shift the car to park. 

A giggle could be heard from her, following a grin. “What?” 

“Really,” she breathes, sighing as your fingers splay her thigh. “A church?” 

You lift your brows and she mirrors the same expression. Her gaze goes to the window and you follow. 

‘Church of Latter-Day Saints’ is seen on a dimly lit sign, with a dove and cross next to the name. 

You shake your head and grin. ‘Didn’t notice that. Real nice.” 

“We could always look elsewhere-” 

Minju chortles. She lets her head lean to the seat with her eyes on you. 

“You’re inclined to take a little risk, you know. Live without rules?” 

You roll your eyes at that, letting the fact about sleeping with a former student in your car simmer in your head. There would be something said about this, but instead you tap her thigh twice and nod. “Yeah, I could.” 

“There’d be no saving you.” 

“No, there wouldn’t be.” 

She smirks at that, eyes flickering from yours to lips. And she leans in. You think she might kiss here, but she doesn’t. Her hand goes to your cheek and thumbs the skin, observing the structure so carefully before refocusing. 

You lean in to fill the space where she doesn’t and she’s shedding her overcoat, letting it fall to the floor of the seat. Watch as she climbs over the console to the backseat, see her ass in the rearview, skirt riding high up her thighs and the subtle outline of her profile in the darkness. Slotting through the seats easily and turning around to face you. 

Minju sees you follow after, putting your seat forward as much as possible without suffocating your chest to the wheel. You can’t move as nimbly compared to her and hell- even your bones are praying for mercy. 

Slight change of plans, you just open the door and move to the backseat from outside, right next to her. Minju bites down a grin. Her heels are also discarded to the front, knees underneath where she kneels, sensing your pull and taking that warmth. She gives the same look in her eyes as before, like she knows how much you want to kiss her. 

So you get your pair or lips on hers, give each other an easy chase. Opening up at the small increments; sighing, panting, gasping. The heat will make its way eventually, pulling and moving in the little space that you’ve got. You pull her to your lap without leaving her lips, finally having her thighs pressing her properly. It’s amazing how responsive she is, almost natural. For a girl like her to move up in the world with so much simplicity and no struggle - how lived in the unadulterated way she is when you’re together; weak, clumsy knees and smiling with all teeth. 

You believe that everything with her is real. 

Minju’s hissing down your mouth. “More, more, more-” she croons, her hips grinding hard and pulling your shirt. These nice, little hymns of want seeping at the corners. She’s got her skirt rucked around the waist. You slide a hand up her thigh, around to the curve of her ass, the other to her back and keep her from falling. Her lips break the kiss as she strips the baby blue cardigan and shirt in one clean motion - hitting her head on the ceiling but she’s laughing while you’re focusing on her sheer undershirt that barely covers her supple breasts. You could see the peaks of her nipples, leaning down to suck a nub through the clean fabric. 

“God-” she whines, wounding fingers deep into your hair. She hates how good you are at this, indecisive at what she wants; hunching over your head and resting her hips, reaching down to undo the belt between your bodies. “Can’t help yourself, hm?” 

You look up at her, leaving her tits wet and slimy with spit, clearly visible through the fabric. “Let me taste you.” 

She bites her lips at you, holding your face. “You have to ask more politely.” 

“I-” and she’s got a finger to your lips. 

“Ask. Nicely.” 

The gears in your head short circuit; shit. Your pride went away the second you met her on that terrace, and more of it when she walked in your hotel room. 

“May I,” you ask, voice horse and tilting to her tits, biting a nipple. Minju yelps and she can’t give an answer. “Taste you, please. Ma’am.” 

She takes a breath - a shaky one - gets her bottom lip to her teeth, and nods. You help her off your lap and lay her back along the backseat with the little space manageable. Her skirt gets slipped off, which left her in a pair of ruined bra and a soaked bra. She’s quick to take those off l, impatient. Your shirt is also quick to go and the clack of the belt buckle hits the floor, too. Beginning a trail of kisses down her front, each one making her shake more than the last. 

You pause, get lost in the vast sequin of fine skin laid barren that you’re about to ruin. No corner of her body is left untouched by your hands and lips, blessed by the dim light that’s peeking through the sunroof and windows. From the collarbone to her subtle formation of ribs; she’s bathed in this gentle luminescence in the blue darkness, dipping a tongue to her hipbone, and Minju’s breath hitches closer to her core. 

“Good? Okay?” you ask right above her clit.

“Yes,” nods Mnju. The answer itself is a hiss, a vice in her throat. When you look up to her eyes it’s a moment to genuflect: her pools spilling a darkness of want, her breasts heaving up and down. Covering her mouth with her hand and unable to look away. “Ruin me.” 

While there’s a fire lit under your knee, trying to make do with the pain, it wouldn’t matter to you. When she’s looking at you with those lidded eyes, desperate for something that she can’t even find the words to. You can’t help but be adorned in grace with what’s presented to you as a gift between her thighs. Her pussy lips; so pretty and pink and well flushed; suddenly you wished for another chance to take her somewhere else where the light from above can bless her angelic offering. 

You breathe against her, barely, hot and open, see the twitch at her abs. Fuck. She winces when you kiss right above her clit, well aware that she doesn’t need much. Tonge pressed flat in one, gentle swipe upward. Minju’s grip on your hair goes tight, burning your scalp. An encouragement. 

“My god, fuck-” she sighs, and the sounds are a mix of being strangled and relaxed. You keep on lapping her cunt, suck in her entrance and clit - keeping the contact minimal - since you also think it would be overwhelming for her case, contrary to her dripping and soaking the leather beneath her. The taste is already addicting, you have to hold yourself back from shoving your face into her and drink her chalice. Which would be the case had she not clamp her thighs around your head, tensing and untensing; both unbearable and all forgiving with her bucking hips. 

Her head is thrown back when your nose brushes her clit, biting down a finger. She’s cooing with your fingers teasing her entrance, with no resistance as you slip inside that slick. 

“You’re drenched, sweetheart,” you say. Minju is definitely not going to last. With her insides like silk and her walls clenching and unclenching around your finger, her heels are fighting to stay on the seat. She can’t stay still, eyes shut, jaw hanging open. Seething as your nose rubs her clit and you’re dragging a fingertip to one side and letting the pressure sever her legs - the reflex to them being tense through all the shudders and she could only hold for so long. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes-” 

That doesn’t stop you from licking her clean, even with her hand tugging you off her cunt, shakily. You praise her by kissing her inner thighs and plant a mark before moving up to her stomach, rest your palms along her waist where it stops her stuttering breaths, trying to reset, recuperate. Get her seated before moving around and cradling her head, keep her comfortable and not where any craps would form - the best you could offer in such a cramped space. 

Both of your bodies are hot, and the leather is left with slick and sweat and Minju’s sweet wine, sticking to her skin. You wipe your chin with the butt of your palm and feel let the stubble capture the stray droplets. “Been wanting to do that since last time,” you tell her, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Should’ve just let me suffocate down there.” 

“Shut up,” Minju tells you, curling to your chest. She’s making you want to claim what’s yours, be possessive; let all of these devilish thoughts of her seeking for another person’s warmth or sighing into a mouth that isn’t yours, hear the sounds she makes with you. It’s eating you apart on the inside - only for a second, that is - but you have her here and nobody else does. 

“I could’ve gone easier,” you go on, smirking as your mouth is back on her, paying no attention to Minju’s hands fast to your waistband. Prodding you to be barren like her and if she had a little more strength from cumming so much, she might’ve ripped off your pants in that instant. 

Her determination is something you have to keep getting used to. 

“Minju, we don’t-” 

“I know,” is all she says, biting her lip at the sight of your length resting between her legs. “But I want to.”

You nod. “Okay.” 

Her blessing is all you need to take care of the rest, guiding her one hand to grasp in one place where you’re holding the other. She just smiles into your face and works you up even more as payback for a couple minutes earlier. 

“I can’t believe this cock fucked my mouth up last time,” whispers Minju, just twisting the shaft and making you lose brain cells by the second. Her clumsiness is pretty much out the window, and back in control. “You’re sure you don’t want to shove this thick dick all the way down my throat? Get me real messy for it?” 

“Don’t push your luck,” you groan. An idea to save for later. 

Yet you don’t expect Minju to turn over, pushing herself up with shaking arms; get her palms and knees on the leather, her ass pressed to your groin. Sighing with relief and flipping her hair from one side to the other and with a peek past the shoulder - hooded eyes and everything - like she’s showing you what you have done to deserve her. 

Where your palm splays and pushes her down, granting the arch. A presentation. An offering. Something that God himself had wished he let his good-hearted soul fall into temptation for at least once. It makes your eyesight dizzy: seeing her bent over in the backseat, pussy wet and wanting. But you can’t stop holding yourself back. 

“Min,” you simply say, “Is this okay?” 

She nods in reply, pushing her body back with a deliberate grind of her wet folds to the underside that makes her smile through the absolute fuck of it. 

“There’s nothing more that I want,” she rasps as you toy her with just your tip. “Than for you to fill me up-” 

“Christ.” 

“-and just put me in my place like the naughty little girl you’ve made me become.” 

“We don’t have any history,” you tell her. “Not even in the slightest.” 

“And still.” 

The head of your cock goes in - just that first inch or two - a teaser. You shake. 

“I’m not saying no and neither are you.” She mutters. “Fuck.” 

“Just tell me if it hurts,” you instruct, but she’s just staring at your hands having way too much fun with her hips, that waist. Your hands feel heavy; so is your cock, leaning back with her ass stuck to your thighs, dragging your length to her folds, preparing. You’re certain she could feel you throb between her legs. And once that press finally opens her up, the line of her back sinks forward. “Oh, Jesus.” 

It’s way better than you remembered. God. How excruciatingly tight she was - all velvet and still gripping you vice-tight. Even the audible ‘sclick’ when you drag out for good measure, see the sheen over the ridge and veins. Minju’s holding her breath - knuckles going white as she’s gripping the door handle. It’s slow, the grace period to adjust and find your pace. Nothing more gratifying than to just ravage her ass and chase the heat - like you’d rather die here than to hurt her. 

Minju lets it sit for a minute, all the way down to the base. Rolling her hips around. She moves on her own accord, bending her legs lower to take you deeper. You don’t see her face wince, but the sounds coming out of her mouth encourage you to double down the efforts. “Please- just, let me fucking- god, this fucking cock-” 

She’s sighing, and then she’s moaning; you’re left in awe at the ripples her ass exhibits beneath the noir-like light coming from above. The slide back and forth, seeing your cock disappear and reappear from inside. Her hand slips from the handle, barely holding up by the elbows. Yeah, she wasn’t gonna last long from this. 

Your part fills in the spots where she fails, meeting her moving hips by thrusting with a little force. Not hard. The concept of patience is so important here. Staying firm so that she can throw herself back to your groin. Her head then goes slack. 

“Fuck yourself into me,” you moan in her ear, bent over and letting her have it bit by bit. “You’re so good. Feel amazing- shit-” You want to keep praising her, let that being from within compel you to tell her the things you don’t want to admit. Minju’s mouth drops low again. 

“Yes, yes-” her head turns until the profile is within your vision, breath faltering. “I wanted this- 

“Yeah?” 

“-all fucking day. All fucking week.” 

Anything would be good to hear her keep talking cock-drunk. 

“Your cock- fuck. It’s so good. I just wanted you to ruin me, so badly.”

“How badly?” You kiss her mid-thrust.

She shoves down a ‘very’ right through your throat. 

“That’s my good girl,” you say against her hips. Keeping the pace.

Oh, you know she loves the praise. When the attention is on her. Like the world stops for a second and acknowledge someone like her - the name, the notoriety, the status she exudes - but away from all the glittering lights and from her grooming mother, she’s  riddled down to this: a wobbling head and jerking with every slide in her cunt that sends shockwaves to the rest of her body. You loop a hand to her waist, pull her up to your chest, head leaned back to your collarbone and she’s trying to find some sort of brace; ends up placing a palm on the foggy window. 

Her slick back is flush with yours, her moans rising in octaves. She’s rebounding on your cock and trying her best to not buck over - her walls clamping and unclamping all the same. You pull out and give her these steady strokes, hard and deep, rocking her up with every inch she can possibly take. Minju chokes out a cough, lips to your ear, her hair spilled behind your shoulder, spilling down your neck as well. You kiss the space below the ear - get some of her sweat on your nose. 

Nothing. Could be ever more gratifying than having her like this. All to yourself. 

She’s got her fingers spread over the forearm at her waist, scratching. Something for you to loo over once all of this is finished. Minju’s just whimpering a river of meaningless words and tongues you can’t decipher. “Please, sir. Fuck- my pussy” for one among the few and “god, i can’t believe you- and this cock-” 

“I know, I know,” you’re breathless as ever and her cunt just feels incredible. 

You notice the slack in her neck and she can barely put up with the rhythm at this rate. Her whole body is putty - like she could mold with yours - as if she were a missing piece you’ve been searching for so long, all within arms reach. 

It didn’t really matter about the difference in class, or what she does, who her family is, the last name - it’s just her. Her. 

Minju’s dripping all over your cock that it spreads to your thighs. Taking it well and feeling the full weight of you tearing her insides. “You are- so good, it’s insane-” 

You don’t relent; not now, not ever. Even as her body stills and she’s got an inhale clutched to the teeth. She’s really loose and all she can really do is take these long, deep thrusts until the balls of her eyes roll back. “Minju, this pussy.” 

One more push breaks the shaking on her back, and she lurches forward. There it is again: she’s coming so far down that she’s laid flat on the backseat, helpless as everything crashes down on top of her. Through every wave and twitch and high-pitched whine that leaks out you’re certain that someone might’ve heard in the building nearby. Let it be the residing Father to discover such a sight of defilement - have you and her confess the sins you’ve committed on God’s doorstep. Besides, you’re one step closer to hell while heaven’s still a whole staircase away.  

“Can’t ever get enough,” she coughs out, just barely. You keep on pounding her ass and the pressure’s getting to that point. Fighting every last bit to hold it in, till it becomes unbearable and you’re following her to that high, that sweet chase. 

“Never,” you sigh. “Minju-” 

You flush your hips with her ass, and cum inside her just like that. 

The deep feeling never goes away, as the two of you are left shaking, with limbs tangled and sprawled on the ruined leather when you pull out. Minju’s turned to her side below you, caged by your frame and her arms are to her face. You kiss a shoulder and rub her waist, soothe the bruises and red marks left by your grip, sweeping a few hairs on her back as it’s suffocating your nose. She’s breathing, humming. A delight. “There’s no restraint from you,” she says, in disbelief. “God, that might be worrisome. I can hardly fathom how rough-”

“I try not to hurt you, love. Seriously, you’re a piece of work.” You tell her, stroking her hair. “If I really wanted it, I would’ve finished on your face.”

“You believed me when I said I was on the pill?” 

“Are you not?” 

Minju smirks. You don’t bother asking and focus on being wrung out in a sweat-slicked mess, sated and with the scent of sex filling the car. She shuffles a bit at your front and you just watch her over like some silent protector. That is, what you think you are, maybe. 

“Well,” you breathe, kissing her hair once again. “Minju? Minju.” 

She’s already fast asleep. 

–

“Over here?” 

“Yeah,” Minju points to the right of her, the car rolling along the street. “You can actually just stop right at the front.” 

The car quietly grinds to a halt at the front of a decently looking apartment complex. Which is a bit peculiar; y’know, considering a girl with so much on her bankroll, not to mention the repeating details- 

“Quaint.” you deduce, admiring the bronze glow of the streetlights above. “Not far from campus as well, too.” 

“Yep,” beams Minju. “It’s a friend of mine’s so you shouldn’t have to worry.” 

“Why would I worry?” You laugh. “What you do doesn’t faze me anymore.” 

She just kisses you, taking in your features one last time. “You’re right. Though-” 

“We should be more careful next time.” 

“Yeah, that.” 

You nick your head in lieu of saying ‘get on going’ and she takes the hint. “I’ll see you around, then?” 

Minju dips her head from outside, blinking. “I’ll be in touch.” 

She closes the door and starts to walk up the foyer.

And you just wish to be with her for a little while longer. 

-

(But the question begs: how long? 

How long until you have the capacity to tell her what you (already) know? When would be the next time? When you have to help clean her up and redress, take her back to a place that should be home, though it can’t since that home is tied up with a family name and a mother she can’t fight to escape from. 

Despite that, you’ll rest on the fact that it was nice to play pretend. To let her pretend to be someone without status, to make bad choices, eat at a froyo spot and not tell people to sit where they sit and do what they do. To make you pretend that you’re not alone and you’ll do much better without drinking your sorrows away. 

You’re not sure whether the future lead with her will be enough. 

Yet the past week and a half or two, of crossing paths with Minju, you decide that- 

It’ll be just enough.) 

“Everyone’s paired up,” you try. “Who are you swinging with, I guess is what I’m asking.”

“Oh, none of those people. No orgies for me, either.” She takes a swig of her water bottle and begins to stretch: long legs—as long as her small frame allows for—crew socks, and shoes that look like they have not touched pavement until today. Pink runners because she's got chasing a runner's aesthetic, a runner's physique; everyone here is advertising the stamina, apparently. 

“There’s orgies.” You echo.

“Like once a month.” Every other stretch, her large, branded tee raises enough to get a peek at the compression shorts halfway up her slender thighs.

“Sundays after church, or?”

“That’s when we do brunch,” she says. “There’s a mailing list.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

You both laugh and stare at the gathered crowd again. They’re stretching, talking, mingling. It’s a group bonding experience, at its most innocent—little to no subtlety, otherwise. Half of them sport rings, the kind that refer to legal status, yet they’re all a little too cordial with one another. You can spot abnormally comfortably touching and greetings and there’s this general familiarity with some groups of four that really does scream that they’re fucking each other’s spouse.

(Perhaps the brunette spilling all the details gave you a biased narrative, but yes, this is how you find out that the neighborhood running club is a front. When were they planning to outright tell you, exactly?)

“So,” you say, “you’re actually here for the running?”

“I told you, that’s the warmup.”

You realize she’s playing a game, that the answer to your previous question is no, and ask openly: “then, who’s going home with you?”

“Stray dogs like me.” The sunrise hits her face with a strong, orange glow. “Like you.”

~~

The coincidence of convenience isn’t lost on you. Her apartment’s on the way back from the jog and her name is Minjeong; she says it through hurried breaths and it has you realizing that it’s a preview for when she’s on your lap, under your figure—a preview for just about every position and preposition you’ll find yourselves trying later.

You take note of the perspiration on her brow, the light sheen, really. Minjeong doesn’t break a sweat all that much. She doesn’t try to. You remember what she kept insisting on earlier: that the whole running club is a front and that the workout’s just the fucking pregame. It’s not like she needs any extra cardio, either. There’s not forty-five kilos on the woman. You surmise that rather quickly as you carry her through the door. 

“Where?” You ask, coming off of her lips, out of breath.

“Living room's got a sofa," she says, like that works for her, a coffee table and an ottoman too. The rug will be as good a spot as any, comes the implication. 

She has her arms wrapped around you since before you unlocked the door, flipping stray, brown locks out of the way as you step in while looking over her shoulder. It’s a spacious place—makes you wonder about rent, because you always do in this economy, before finding yourself in front of her furniture. Kiss her a little longer before deciding: single seater or sectional? She’d look fucking great in either, wouldn’t she? Flipped over—bent over? Folded. Anything.

Minjeong’s thighs softly fill your palms with their pale and svelte figure; it all feels so tight, toned, yet so, so soft. So nice. You get a thought that she might need a warning label, a sticker of sorts, because it feels like you could break her if you drop her on the couch too suddenly. You’d place it just about anywhere, and it’d say handle with care, and you could see yourself pressing it with your thumb onto that smooth skin of hers to make sure it says there through all the fucking she’s about to go through—that it doesn’t flutter off when it gets fast, sweaty, and the thrusting gets a little unkind for a frame like hers.

You get so lost in the possibilities that she has to grip the back of your hair and rip you off of her lips.

"I know what I look like," she says into your mouth, hand at your nape and lips turning cherry-red. Lets the next kiss extend for a delightful too-long and her eyebrows do this really arch thing when she pulls away. “But I didn’t bring you all the way here just to, like, makeout.” 

Flip a figurative coin. Sectional it is.

~~

(You do have to get back to the group after your little detour, but that’s not the reason it’s all in record time. See: you slot in, and it’s heaven—but don’t take your word for it. 

Her eyes roll back like she hasn’t been stretched like that in months. Minjeong’s pretty vocal about it, too, which you’re certainly not getting over until at least next year. “Oh my fucking god,” she’s barely saying, mumbling, all winded. “Don’t stop.”

And you oblige, obey—can’t really tell in which direction authority’s being exercised. It’s tip-to-base. Lethal for both. She’s been placed on nearly every surface that’s remotely hip-height and convenient and you’ll both agree later that the kitchen island’s probably your favorite.)

~~

The club meets at least twice a week, barring any extracurricular activities, and you're already halfway through your first month. 

That’s four times—you’ve had sex with Kim Minjeong four times.

But you’ve met five, today being the latest. She reads an invite from the club’s mailing list and you’re telling her to not say it so damn loudly. You’re at a restaurant; you’re on a date. To be fair, the wording isn’t explicit, but you’re elbow to elbow with other parties—families, couples, the like—laughing at the event’s theme and all of the innuendos.

Over appetizers, she tells you of all the times other couples have attempted to bring her back to theirs, how hot of a commodity she is. The hotshot twenty-five year old in a sea of marriages averaging over a decade her age.

“You like the attention.” You accuse.

“I—ok.” She’s nonplussed. Sits back. “No?”

“It’s vain.”

Her elbow goes on the counter, chin on the heel of her palm. She puffs her right cheek during the internal debate and you figure it’s a habit; confirm it somewhere down the line after you see it enough times. A cute, pensive pout. “It is.”

“Look at me,” you intone, mocking. “Young, pretty, and so unattainable.” And, credit where credit’s due, she does dress gorgeous. It’s the first time you don’t see her in workout-chic. Has this layered button-down under a polo with the sleeves rolled neatly-not above her elbows. There’s not a single piece of jewelry on her and that’s actually quite lovely. The modish simplicity takes you by surprise. There’s no better way to say it: you’re down bad. The sole leather shoulder bag to accessorize makes it feel like you’re the one tied up on the tanning rack, bound—already dead.

“Mmm, no.” She takes a fry off your plate. “I’m very much attainable.”

“To a select few.”

“To a very lucky few.” She reminds you.

“Lucky me.”

“Glad you’re clued in.”

There’s an eventual turning point where the conversation turns mundane, normal. You’re talking about all the things you have tried before that didn’t quite stick: crossfit, pilates, spin—christ—yoga.

You don’t mention sex, for once: no jokes, no deflecting emotional vulnerability in favor of wry, sexual humor—you talk, and learn more about each other in fifteen minutes than you ever would have otherwise, because the routine of run, fuck, leave was admittedly somewhat impersonal. It’s strange, but it’s the good kind of strange—the usual linear trajectory of meet first, fuck later turned on its head. You’ll be back to fucking each other’s brains out soon enough, anyway. It’s not an unwelcome change of pace. 

“Feels like this is easier,” you’re eventually saying.

“Right,” she agrees. “Just show up and jog.”

“Just show up and jog.”

~~

So you made it back to her place, and you stayed over, and have been for a couple of days. She cleared a drawer for your things, your laptop has a permanent station at the dining table, and you have an inkling that the left side of her mattress already began molding to your shape. 

You’re in that indentation right now.

“Like the way that feels?” She asks.

An affirming nod is all you manage. You’re doing everything in your power—communing with god, with the devil—to not fucking cum.

Her cunt is warm, devastating, and she keeps your tip right at the entrance while her hips continue this slow, subtle motion, circling above ever so slightly.

Every now and then it slips out just enough and, yeah, it’s audible: her arousal, creaming, waiting, equally as needy as you, but still wholly in control. You’re letting her nails claw at your chest and her long, straight locks frame her devilish countenance when she arches forward to let the next few breaths land right on your face. “I’m going to go deeper, yeah?”

You exhale, desperate.

Sinking, enveloping, her hips dip lower, vice-tight and going straight for the kill after way too long of just her hands and mouth and all that damn spit. “I want every last inch.”

~~

“Theoretically, if we were to go to one,” you start.

“So you’re interested.”

You hum tentatively. “No, not like that.”

“Also, we?” Minjeong asks

“Well—”

“I’m your plus one to an orgy?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” She nods. “Better be.”

“We wouldn’t really join, anyway. The group.” You pick your argument back up. “Think I’d stay on the sidelines.” 

“Voyeur. Kinky.”

“And an exhibitionist,” you add. “By extension.”

“Have you thought about this beforehand or did you just begin to list your kinks when you joined the depravity club?”

“Bit of both. Have to have my reasons now, you know, in case they asked.”

“And you’d be speaking for the both of us?” She starts to air quote. “Yeah, just the two of us. Yep, whoever wants to watch, I’ll be getting bounced on to death over in that corner.”

You think. Add on. “Would you rather show them your ass? While on top.” You’re speaking with your hands, pretend-holding her body towards an imagined crowd. “Or would you rather it be reverse, as in, spread towards them?”

Minjeong stays silent for a while longer than you would have expected; bursts into laughter. “I really don’t know.”

(She’s at the foot of the bed laying horizontal to you, who’s resting on the bed frame. Playfully, she hops over and on you, leg spread right over your crotch and leaning back with her hands by your legs.)

“What do you think will steal the spotlight more? This?” She takes a second, then flips over, putting her butt right on your cock. That underwear is tiny. “Or this?”

~~

Consider the follow-up scene and all of its details: you once heard how a picky eater should try something x amount of times in order to truly discern if they enjoy it or not. The variable tends to differ every time you hear the phrase, and the same concept probably doesn’t wholly apply to the current circumstance, but it's a tangential relation worth noting, nonetheless.

To start, her curtains are drawn wide open, hooked at either end. The glass goes floor-to-ceiling and you can’t deny that view—of the city, sure, but also of Minjeong, on her knees and laser-focused, hand pretty and veined and going blissfully fast over your throbbing length—this squelching fist that drips spit straight onto carpet. 

Okay, the x count goes to one.

(Exhibitionism, apparently. It’s in front of the whole city, so it counts, no? There’s other buildings that are perhaps in line with how high up her place is, and the afternoon sun is shining into the apartment.)

Right. There she goes with that little moan of encouragement. Minjeong looks up, expectant, and her tongue’s out for the sake of performance. Ok honey, ouch.

You cum, all over that.

A sunbeam goes straight into your eyeball and, simultaneously, another rope shuts her eyelash to a close. It’s not really pretty, objectively. Sexually, it’s very fucking hot. Read: context-appropriate kind of filthy. She’s getting deservedly hosed.

(The rest goes everywhere, by the way: on her hair, her left cheek; runs liquid down to her chin. It’s tough to make it out in the heat of the moment. Maybe you’re going blind. She spits shallow when the concluding sprays make their way onto her tongue because you keep going far beyond your usual volume.)

“That’s—” Minjeong is covered, glazed, and entirely dumbfounded. She spits again, and cups her palm under her messed-up face to minimize the damage on her rug. “Are you good right now? What the fuck.”

You crack up. Breathing’s still catching up and you could lose your footing from a light breeze. “Oh my god.”

Spot her index swiping whatever it can off her sealed eyelid. “You are ridiculous.”

“Sorry,” you respond, sarcastic. “Didn’t want to drop the ball with your little experiment.”

“This is literally the most,” she says while standing up. “You have ever cummed.”

Her face glistens; you feel like laughing some more. It truly is incomprehensible. 

“Gets turned on by showing off,” she sorta says to herself. “Cross that one off the list.”

Your rebuttal’s a quick and punctuated jab. “Sorry, honey.” You hand her a stray shirt for, you know, all that. “Will you be able to cum for a second time or do I have to finger you against the glass for it again?”

Yeah, that’s how it went, three fingers in and knuckle-deep. Her cunt stretched oh-so divine. 

Spot the eye roll Minjeong gives you once enough white is swiped off her gaze. Ah, there—it’s not faux annoyance or ridicule that she’s looking to counter you with. She ponders on it for, like, a second too long, and her lips purse to subdue that pretty little naughty smile but the fucking way her body rolls into you starting from the womb when she inhales has you considering just how long your cock can stay hard to give her pussy another go, another orgasm, another round of her cheek—this time, cum-stained—against a window pane that points at two p.m. traffic.

“Gotcha.” You place a hand on her cocked hip and half-spin her frame towards the city. She doesn’t meet your eyes or dare to acknowledge it. How coy. “Open.” You instruct, and her legs follow suit, spread wide and keep straight. 

It goes without saying but you cum for a second time in under two minutes and Minjeong catches up to you in even less than that.

~~

“I have rooftop access, pool and all,” she says some sleepless night later. 

There’s a blanket in the middle of her living room and too much takeaway for two. All you do is nod, mouth full, and offer a hand to help her stand.

It’s open twenty-four seven, which further clues you in to her elusive net worth—leisure of the wealthy and carefree.

“I’m never up here,” Minjeong remarks, windswept.

Below, a metropolis draped dark and neon all the same. It’s well past bedtime for the working class—the streets are just that much calmer, nicer. You’re able to see a decent chunk of your biweekly circuit from where you stand. 

Oh, important note: it’s not like you’ve been attending, as of late.

The small fee goes to waste when you pitch in for the usual group snacks and drinks and whatever else they decide to charge you for. You’ve been running the route with Minjeong, alone, enfolding further into that routine, or haphazardly falling for it: the scent in her sheets, of her shampoo; and, yeah, it’s been cute, but, it’s good to remember that you’ve also been keen on putting on a pseudo-anonymous show in front of her neighborhood and delighting yourselves in that newfound chemistry, however debased, demented. 

You speak before a gust of wind whisks the thought away: “I think I really fucking like you.”

Realize the sentiment lands warm because even her eyes are smiling out at the view. She then laughs, mostly inwards. “I called you a stray dog.”

“You can call me—” take hold of her hands and have them meet and wrap around your neck. “Whatever the fuck you want.”

And, yeah, you’ll continue finding that balance along the way: the cute-hot, love-lust. You’ll oscillate, sink into the whirlpool of fucked-out adoration and heartstring-wringing devotion. Her gaze is fucking devastating and your fingers get lost in their favorite part of her back. 

You’re pointing out the fact that Sakura just got home, not looking away from the monitor in front of you, fingers tapping away rapidly at your keyboard. “And I thought you were finishing up that hat?”

“I would’ve, but I didn’t get to run by the store for some yarn earlier,” she says, moving to sit down on the bed behind you. “Wanted to change up the last bit of it with a different color.”

“Want me to drive you?” You dying in game gets you the opportunity to pause it, spinning your chair around to face her. “We could stop by somewhere for dinner and–” You pause, breath taken away from what you’re witnessing. “Whoa.”

Sakura plays with a few strands of her hair. “You like?”

You’re blinking, a loss of words and idiotically staring dumbfounded at her. “Like?” you repeat, staring at her twirl pink in her fingers. “I love.” Ignore the fact that what she has on can be considered black lace bra on black lace top damage to your brain, pink hair has never suited her more. “I thought you weren’t gonna redye it?”

“I changed my mind. The color was lightening up–” she explains, leaning back and propping herself up with her hands. “And I think it suits me.” She does this cute head tilt, nerdy smirk combo that gets you internally swooning your heart off seeing it. “Don’t you think?”

“Think the color’s made for you, sweetheart.” The smirk softens to a shy smile.

“You don’t have to flatter me that hard, honey.” A hair tuck in between, eyes turning to crescents with that grin you love gracing her features.

“What, I can’t tell my sweet, adorable girlfriend is beautiful?” you tease, sliding your chair forward and closer towards her. You use the bed as a stopper, and you end up right next to Sakura, your arm reaching out to play with her hair yourself, caressing her locks before squeezing her cheek gently. “My cute, pookie bear of a girlfriend–”

“Stop!” She swats your hand away with a giggle, and yet she inches closer to you, the sweet citrus scent of her perfume invading your sense of smell, a furthering of causation for you to fall all the more deeper into her intoxicating allure. “You’re so–” She shakes her head, finger jabbing you in the rib with a faux sound of exasperation.

“Lovable?” You cup her cheeks with one hand and squish her face.

“Annoying.” She rolls her eyes at you, letting out a smile when you squeeze her cheeks like a cute little stress ball. “Go back to your game, you annoying little shit.”

“And here I thought you were bored,” you tease, raising an eyebrow with yet another squash of her cheeks.

“I am bored,” she answers. “But it’s not like I got anything better to do.”

“You sure?” 

“Yes, doofus.” She pushes you away, hard enough that it sends your chair sliding backward back to your desk. “Go play, I’ll be here.”

You glance back at Sakura, who decides to get comfortable at the bed. “You sure you can see that far?”

She answers with a wave, telling you that the monitor’s big enough for her to watch; cinematic moves, parrying, dying and all when she lets out a laugh after a few minutes of you fighting the boss and losing.

“It can’t be that hard, hun,” she says, the fight restarting from the beginning for the fifth (or was it sixth?) time. “Can’t you dodge instead?”

“Dodging is for pussies.” You take a breath, the screen turning to black as it loads the fight again. 

Sakura giggles, hearing her say that dodging is for the ‘smart people’ as she stares at another sequence of you trying to parry the boss play out. “We might need a tip jar for the amount of times that girl tells you to parry it.”

“I am parrying it, sweetheart.” Cue yet another death screen.

You click on restart. “Not well enough, honey.”

“You try playing it and see what happens,” you retort, doing what you’ve considered the optimal (it wasn’t, and that’s why you kept on dying when you found out) first turn to get the most damage on the boss.

You hear her shuffle around the bed. “I’m good.” Dull, quiet thumps of her feet hitting the carpet follow and Sakura appears right next to you, leaning against your chair to take a closer look at watching you fail to beat this stupidly shitty boss. “Keep going, it’s fun to see you rage.”

Let out a calming sigh, take another whiff of her perfume to recenter yourself, and you lean forward.

That’s the thing with Sakura. She doesn’t need to say or do anything to get you motivated. Her existence alone gets you feeling like you can climb Mount Everest without all the fancy gear from top to bottom in a day. Of course that’s delusion speaking, but man can do many things when the love of his life is cheering him on by his side.

Considerably easily too, when your eyes are being drawn away from the game and into the black hole of a chest that she has. Her fault, you reason, when she decides to do the ever so simple action of leaning into the monitor and having her tits almost shoved into the side of your face (not that you’re complaining, that’s heaven wrapped in lace and Sakura’s embrace) since she wanted a closer look.

More power to her, since you’re getting a closer look at her tits underneath all that black lace. (Have you mentioned how crazily obsessed you are with Sakura’s tits before?)

It throws you off your game completely, the soft, full pair of breasts enclosed under layers of dark fabric luring you in, your attention moving away from the game and onto her chest. Which, can you really blame yourself when it’s right there, a breath’s length away from your mouth.

Causes you to lose again, though the rage is gone, replaced with this hyperfixation on her. The deep pull that her tits are causing irreparable damage to the way you think, and you would love nothing more than to lean in and rest your face, let out a sigh and smile when the cushions of her chest pillow on your face.

Christ, you should start a religion dedicated to them.

That all goes out the window when Sakura asks you something about the game, and you’re stuttering out an answer. Random things about the boss come out of your lips, why you’re fighting it, what’s the whole reason with this party in particular to use against the boss, some other random bullshit fact about the game—and while she leans back against the desk and listens with the soft, lovable look on her face, she’s also seeing through all your words with a follow up:

“You do know I was asking about why you’re using the keyboard and not the controller, right?”

The blank look on your face once the fact that you missed her question entirely registers results in a teasing smile to form on her face, finger tapping your nose; fingers wrapping around your cheeks to squeeze softly. “Distracted again?”

“A girl rubs her tits on a guy’s face, anyone would be,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Your reply makes her scoff, the smile turning into a grin as a finger hooks on the neckline of her top, giving it a tug.

“What, you wanna play with these again?” She makes an effort to pull it down, exposing the black lace underneath (trust yourself when you say that it’s a completely fucked up thing to do when you’re already so down bad for this woman) and you can’t help yourself from ogling.

Her chest has its own gravitational pull, you swear.

“If you’re offering,” you start, scooting yourself over with the chair to sit in front of her. “I’m not saying no.”

She hums, biting her lip to stop the excitement from bleeding through her features. It doesn’t work, of course, seeing her fingers play with the hem of her top. “What about your game?” She makes this innocent little glance back to your monitor, until her gaze turns back to you with this smoldering heat.

“Sweetheart, do you really want me to keep playing?” Your hands rest on the waistband of her pants.

“Well–” Sakura drags it out, straightening up from the desk. “I am bored.” She takes a few slow steps away from you, hands on her top. Swaying her hips as she plays with the fabric before she pulls them up, that defined line of her back showing bit by bit along with her unworldly waist that your hands are yearning to have a hold of.

Brings it to her chest, up her shoulders, off her body and onto the floor, where her hands come back to that snatched waist, feeling herself up; running them through her skin, going higher to the straps of her bra. Pulling them up, letting a strap fall down her shoulder, head turning to hit you with a look that screamed for you to take her—add to that her hips swinging around and for the love of everything unholy you are going to get on your knees just to beg for her to turn around.

And when she does—fuck, when she did you gained tunnel vision, fixated on the one final layer of lace that would ascend you to Elysium. You’re salivating, surely, at this point, and it’s only adding fuel to her flame, her finger letting the strap snap back in place.

Sakura’s asking you so much with so little done; lips curling into a smirk here, a brow raising there, her arm wrapping around her chest to give it a little push and her chest gets fucking bigger and all you can think of is your need to worship her lips, her skin, her tits—

The straps loosen on her collarbone, and the only thing that’s keeping it on her body is her forearm, and an idea; one that will get you on your knees.

“What do you say, hun?” She keeps a hand on the lace while she lets the straps come off her arms, and her teeth biting down her bottom lip does nothing to stop the exhilaration on her face.

“Come play with me?”

Walking backward, a finger on the strap replaces the hand keeping the lace up, baring her soft, large tits to you and your mind comes to the one rational thought that you can properly articulate:

God bless this woman.

You get up as soon as her feet hit the edge of the bed, and you’re on her just as the lace falls down to the ground. Her giggles as she gets tackled on the mattress is music to your ears, and you manage to say the words that will never stop being a fact.

“God, I love you.”

“I know, hun,” she says, hands cupping your cheeks. “You say it all the time.”

“And I’m never gonna stop saying it.” You’ve leaned forward, lips pressing against hers with all the devotion and desire you have for this woman, and she responds in kind. 

There isn’t a need for her to say those words back, not when you know in your heart that she feels the same. Her actions dictate them instead, hands on your shirt, tugging away at the cloth. 

You pull away only when the necessity arises—when the need to breathe comes, your shirt needing to come off, looking down to unbutton her pants. And when you sadly have to, your peppering kisses everywhere you can on her.

Peck her cheeks, mark her neck, nibble her earlobe. It’s a siren song of breathy moans and cute little whines sent straight into your ears, and you do everything in your power to hear more.

“Here–” Sakura grabs a hold of your hair, directing you to where she wants you to be. Your enthusiasm betrays you, the objects of your obsession served to you on a silver platter as you latch on to a tit, sucking eagerly. “That’s it, hun–”

You're biting down on her nub, eliciting a gasp from her, hands cradling you closer to her bosom; free hand continuing to pull down her pants, her legs helping you tug them down and off her, black silk the only thing left on her body, your fingertips running up her legs, thighs, waist, breast.

Give her other nub the same devotion—kissing it lovingly, play with the hard, pink pebble with your fingers and give it a pinch before coming down to kiss the pillowy flesh, revering them with muted groans that vibrate into her chest, and Sakura is enjoying every single second of it.

Hearing the cute whines that she makes, loving your mouth all over her body, her breathy pleadings of more, yes honey, please; that sweet, filthy version of her I love you’s when Sakura keeps you close to whisper them in your ear as you nibble on her teat.

It has you throbbing under your shorts as you grow messier, her breasts end up lathered in your spit, marks, and love when your mouth comes out to meet hers, the giggles that come out of her making you inch away with a smile. “What?”

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked to play,” she teases, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“And what did you have in mind?” Fingers come down to your chest.

“Oh, you know–” Gives you a push, and you’re giving way for her to straddle you, and Sakura is a marvel to gawk at—the smirk adorning her face along with the pink hair that fits her oh so perfectly, her tits red and raw from your efforts, waist that mold to your hands like it was made for you.

And she wonders why you keep reminding her of the fact that you’re head over heels for her.

“Was hoping we could do this instead.” She turns around, back facing you, jutting her ass wrapped in black panties, and as much as you are utterly addicted to her chest, her ass is a thing of beauty in of itself. “Might even get you to shut up.”

She’s shaking it inches away from your face, and you’re licking your lips (getting ready to eat her out and to hold yourself back, of course). “What, don’t want me to tell you that I love your ass?”

“I know you love it.” Her fingers make quick work of your shorts, and you're throbbing in her hands, leaking when she lazily pumps you. “Why do you think I’m asking you to eat it?”

“God.” That alone gets you pulsing around her hand, fingers inches to take her panties off already. You’re reaching up, running your hands over her ass, giving each cheek a squeeze. “What would I do without you, sweetheart?”

Her head turns around to face you, tongue sticking out teasingly. “Jerking it off by yourself?”

You let out a chuckle, playfully smacking her ass. “Ha, ha.” You rub the spot where your palm hit, leaning in to peck the red mark. “You’d be doing it by yourself if I wasn’t here either.”

“Guess I’m lucky I have you, don’t I?” Sakura giggles, blowing you a kiss before she heads back down. Feeling her hot breath on your length, your fingers hook into the lace and pull it aside, her pussy glistening and looking positively enticing to shove your face into.

“Think I’m the lucky one,” you mutter, thumb spreading her ass apart, admiring the way her folds open up. You take hold of her hips, pulling them back towards your face and your tongue gets its first delicious taste of her cunt just as her mouth envelops your cock. 

And she tastes as mind blowing as she looks, tongue enjoying every single second it’s in contact with her pussy. Fingers digging in her cheeks to spread them apart to savor all of her, and she’s pushing back against you, even as she bobs up and down your shaft.

It’s making you both groan, both so preoccupied with each other that the noise only adds to your enthusiasm. Sakura starts to hit all your weak spots, tongue lapping against your tip, taking it back in her mouth to swirl it around and getting your legs to twitch at the pleasure. Fingers stroke your length, and the little hum she makes around you starts to make you lose control.

You’re reigning it back in, wanting to stay in her ass as much as you could, so you increase your fervor; tongue pressing flat against her slit, licking upward until you press into her, pushing yourself in her wet cunt. 

There’s a long, drawn out moan that Sakura lets out when you do, getting her to pop off of you, a hand to stroke you replacing her mouth as she whimpers. “Hun–”

You don’t understand a single bit of what the hell she’s trying to tell you, your need to drink up more of her nectar. A hand comes underneath to press against her clit, and she’s cursing in the air when the gentlest of pressures start to meet that little nub.

“Oh, fuck–” Sakura’s back on you with a vigor that would’ve gotten you on your knees with how her lips are sealed tight around your cock, the pressure getting the hold you have on her hips to grow firmer.

It’s a competition, at this point, to see who can get each other off first. And you’re matching her tempo; frigging her clit, kneading that ass of hers in your fingers while you drink in all the drip that comes into contact with your tongue. 

She’s grinding her ass against your face, taking you deep in her mouth and staying there until she gags, pulling away to trace your length down while she pumps. “Close?”

You pull back. “Are you saying or asking?” She doesn’t need an answer, when it was already throbbing in her hands.

“Mostly asking.” She gives your tip a sloppy kiss, tongue teasing the slit and making you hiss. “Maybe a little bit of saying.”

You don’t believe it for a second, seeing as she’s leaking all over you, thumb playing with her folds. You hum your disapproval, squeezing an asscheek. “Doesn’t look like it to me over here.”

“Yeah?” Her fingers tease all over your dick, nails raking gently around your thighs, coming to cup your balls. “Better get back and finish the job, hun.” She wiggles her ass, and that’s all you need to see for your mouth to press back against her cunt, pushing a finger inside her, and she’s so wet it gets you adding another one to fuck her with.

Your head is dizzy from everything she has; the divine taste of her juices, the soft press of her ass against your cheeks, that damnable mouth of hers sloppily making out with your cock.

Holding it in no longer becomes an option, and you’re losing yourself in the fog of it, desire and need and Sakura the only thing that you can comprehend. Her name comes out of your mouth like a prayer, fingers pumping into her faster, tongue finding her clit as your thumb starts circling her tight, little hole.

“Oh my god–” You know it’s a weakness of Sakura’s, playing with her asshole, and her words turn into shrieks when you press inside her pucker, chanting swears as her thighs start to tremble and press against your head. “Fuck, hun, you–”

Her head lolls to the side, her pants tickling your cock as she starts to convulse, thighs suffocating you, her walls clenching around your fingers as she floods your mouth, lapping it all up as you keep going, prolonging that high as long as you can. 

Sakura gets you back, hands pumping away aggressively, forcing you to follow her, and all you can do is comply.

“Kkura, I’m–” 

It all comes exploding out of you, moaning into her sopping cunt as she takes the first shot of your load into her cheek, hips bucking against her hand. She takes your tip in, taking the rest of your spill into her mouth as you pulse into her warmth. 

Her fingers keep pumping away, milking you for everything you’re worth, Sakura’s throat never ceasing to swallow your cum. Bobbing her head leisurely, a content moan at each batch that she receives until you’re all spent.

You’re left leaving kisses all over her thighs as you feel the aftershocks begin to leave you, and when she releases you from her lips, she moves herself to the side, sprawled in the bed.

“That was cheating, you know,” she mutters, head looking up (or was it down?) at you. “Playing with my ass like that.”

“Like you didn’t enjoy it.” You manage, breathing deep, fingers caressing her thighs. 

Sakura lets out a chuckle, slapping your leg. “Shut up,” she giggles, her tongue darting out to lick at the rope of white staining her cheek. She moves, shakily managing to move towards you, your arm wrapping around her shoulder when she drapes herself over you.

Her lips meet your chest, her fingers drawing circles as she lets out a pleased sigh. “Love you,” she mumbles, nestling deeper in your hold. “Teach me how to play that game of yours later?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” A laugh seeps through you, letting out a grin and kissing her forehead. The soft smile that graces her features when you do gets your heart melting, her eyes closing shut as she settles in your hug.

You know the answer.

“Yuri.”

“Oppa—”

You freeze on the fourth step down; the box shifts in your arms.

“Are you really going to leave without saying anything?”

You turn, and she’s standing in the doorway, wearing the hoodie you were looking for that was supposed to be in the box—you did not know she still had it.

“Yuri.”

“Are you really going to leave without saying anything?” She repeats herself. Didn’t have to; but it is something—it is everything—it is the only thing she can muster.

“It’s easier this way.”

“For who?”

You can’t answer.

The box in your arms is not heavy, but the weight it carries goes beyond its physical manifestation. Cardboard, tape, and the five things that were yours: Photographs of her you took with the first Polaroid camera you bought together, letters she sent during the times she traveled for work, a t-shirt you’ve lent her when she got soaked in the rain on your sixth anniversary, concert tickets you’ve collected of the bands you both loved, and the ring you were supposed to propose with just before everything fell apart buried deep inside the rest.

Her eyes linger on the box.

“Please, come inside, let’s talk.”

“Yuri—”

“Please, Oppa. It’ll only take a minute.”

You place the box on the kitchen counter, and her warmth is three steps away. Neither of you moves, and everything that surrounds you smells like all the moments that you’ve spent with her—eight years living together in this apartment.

“At least show me what’s in it.”

“Baby—” You reconsider. “—Yuri, we don’t have to do this.”

“It’s just fair, show me.”

You take the flaps up and reveal the contents of your entire relationship.

“You told me to pack up.”

“I did.”

“Then we don’t have to do this.”

She approaches the counter, and her fingers touch the edge of the cardboard box. She lifts the photograph first, looks at it, then puts it down. She lifts the t-shirt, presses it to her chest, then folds it back. Lifts one of the letters, doesn’t open it, then sets it beside the shirt.

Then she lifts the ring box; her whole body freezes.

“Yuri—”

“When?”

“Yuri, put it back. It’s—”

“Oppa. When?”

“The night before you signed the contract.”

“You were going to propose?”

“Yes.”

“You were—” Tears start running down her face. “—going to propose, and you let me continue telling you I was moving to Tokyo for four years—” Her words stammer. “—a-and you did not say anything?”

“You had already signed and were about to leave in three days. You’ve dreamed about this role, and it was something you’ve worked hard for and waited two years for.”

“And you did not stop me.”

“I did not stop you.”

“You had this ring with you when I told you.”

You don’t answer.

The first year apart got complicated. Both your busy lives ran out of room for each other. Distance pushed you further apart, to the point where arguments were the only time you were still able to talk.

She sets the ring box on the counter between the photographs and the letters. Silence drowns the room.

“Oppa.”

“Yeah?”

“Ask me.”

“Yuri—”

“Ask me now, Oppa.”

“You still have three years left.”

“I don’t care, Oppa. Ask me.”

“You will hate me if I ask you now. What if you regret it?”

“I will hate you more if you continue walking down those stairs. I will regret it more for not letting you know my answer to the question you withheld from me.”

You reach for the box, open it, and pick up the ring.

“Yuri.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you—”

“Of course, Oppa. Of-fucking-course I will give up everything to be with you.”

She kisses you before you finish the sentence. Her forehead is pressed against yours; holds it there as you both gaze into each other’s eyes.

“Say the whole thing anyway.”

“Jo Yuri. Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, and infinite-times-more—yes!” Her lips crash into yours, unfolding you the way you should have unfolded her a year ago.

You carry her small frame, her body fitting with yours—like two puzzle pieces meant to complete a whole picture. You carry her past the box on the counter, past the letters, and the photographs, and the ring; her lips do not leave your neck for a single step. You finally reach the bedroom you helped her paint a lifetime ago; the bedroom you slept in a hundred nights; the bedroom you have not seen in three months.

She pulls her top off, and she’s already naked underneath. Like clockwork your eyes unravel every inch of her body the way you’ve unwrapped every gift box you’ve exchanged every Christmas Eve with her; that small mark under her left breast that you’ve kissed a thousand times because it is one of the many doors to her pleasure; the softness at her stomach that she was embarrassed about in year one and confident in by year three; her collarbone that traces like the first line of a poem you have read too many times to forget.

“Oppa, come here.”

You do, and you let your lips do the pathfinding: you kiss her forehead, the first place your mouth ever went to comfort her—that night she came home from her first failed audition, her mascara running, still in the jacket she wore to the audition. You kiss her cheek, the one that receives the most love because you just can’t stop admiring it—it’s so fucking soft. Her plump lips, a drug you’ll gatekeep ‘til the ends of the earth; so addicting, you’ve had actual withdrawals craving them whenever she’s far; so hers you refuse to even consider any mouth that was not this one. The small mark under her left tit—your starting point. Every long night with her begins there; every one ends with your face returning to it. You put your tongue on it now, and she gasps like it is the first time, because it always is. Her belly that you’ve filled countless times with all her favorite dishes, and just under it, the space you’ve filled countless times with your seed. Then, finally, you kiss both of her hipbones because they are the corners of the space between them—the space where you’ve spent the best hours of your life.

“Oppa?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Did you ever stop—”

You already know what’s in her head. Thoughts that probably bothered her whenever messages went unanswered, or when a day would end, and you’d both notice each other not being a part of it.

“Not for one second.”

“Then why did you—”

You find your way south of her before she finishes her thought. Your lips linger on the inside of her thigh, your tongue grazes the outside of her cunt because you know that the sensation you provide her is something you’ve been selfish about for years. You put your face there, breathe it in, and she smells like her still.

She has been packed away for months, and you unpack her—slowly. Use your tongue to open every entrance that has been closed to you. She has been in a box; you take her out, layer-by-layer, like how you would open a present you did not want to damage. First, unravel her ribbons; you slide down her panties; then you open up the flaps, you spread her legs apart; then you enjoy the gift that’s presented to you.

Your mouth does the unspeakable to her folds, slowly picking them apart in search of her pearl. The sound she makes when your tongue finds the small, hard place at the top of her is the exact same sound she’s let out for years that you can’t get tired of.

“Oppa—please—please, Oppa—”

“I got you, baby.”

In mere seconds, she cums. A stream of pleasure bursts out of her, and she has to grab the sheets to keep herself in place. You hold her thighs open through it, and you do not stop until she is trembling around your tongue; and even then, you kiss her thigh once, twice, three times, before you look up at her.

“Oppa.”

“Yeah?”

“You could’ve just called.”

“I know…”

“You could have just said something—even an ‘I love you.’ Just anything.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve flown home and left everything the next day.”

You climb up her body, you match her state of undress, and then she wraps her legs around you.

“I know that now.”

“Then don’t ever do it again, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Say it.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’d like to believe that the people meant for each other are always in the box you were afraid to open. That the hands meant to hold each other are the hands that lift the flaps first. That the eyes meant to see each other look inside without flinching. That the first thing you’d look for is always the first thing you find.