you’d always been curious, but this is your first time asking. your arm reaches out, fingertips shoving against the rough stubble of your best friend’s cheek, lying down beside you.

“why do you take so many pictures of me?” it’s not like you don’t allow it—in fact, you encourage it at times, to get a rise out of him.

his gaze switches over to you, a brief distraction from the book he’d been reading. “pictures… like, pictures of you eating and goofing off?”

your face flushes and you feel warm. best friends is clearly not the label to go by in this discussion. your passive face answers the question and he pipes up again. “oh, you mean why do i take my phone out all the time when i’m blowing your back out?”

“so much for keeping it pg-13,” you mumble, hiding under the blanket. his hand finds your waist and he tugs you, with his annoyingly remarkable strength, onto his side. your panties dampen from the show of strength but you stay quiet, playing with the drawstrings of his hoodie.

he dog-ears the page and sets it on his table. “it’s my wank bank,” he says simply. your legs maneuver so they’re wrapped around his thigh, and you slowly move onto the material of his sweatpants. he laughs into your hair, pushing his glasses off. “jesus, are you wet because i said the words wank bank? i kinda expected the opposite from you.”

you rut harder, whining. “can you shut up?”

“you want to see it, don’t you?”

the silence is telling for you both, and in seconds, he’s pulling out his phone. you burrow into his bare chest, already feeling hesitant at allowing yourself to see this, and he tuts, flexing his thigh so you can feel more friction. “don’t be shy, take a look.”

you sigh and crack your eyes open, suddenly wishing you never had. you’re looking at several—and that’s a massive understatement—pictures and videos of you and mark in various compromising positions. your eyes land on one, zeroing onto it, and he seems to notice, clicking on it and letting the video autoplay. you remember this day vividly: mark had been gaming, playing call of duty the entire day, and had taken out the victory of winning on your poor self.

you can’t help but grind harder, watching yourself in the video—the way you beg for mark to slow down, the way his dick is stretching your pussy out. you can almost feel it. your hands find purchase wrapped around his forearm and he drops the phone, watching you rut onto his thigh.

“could you go any faster?” he mumbles teasingly, a free hand coming up to rub against your drool slick lips. you groan, losing all shame and fully grinding against him. the friction between the seat of your underwear, your cunt, and his sweats is too much, and your mouth parts in a dazed, drawn out whimper.

“who knew you were good enough to get yourself off on my thigh like a good pet?” he hums. “budge up, sweetheart. knees.”

“you do not.” he pulls and a button comes loose. it’s still stuffy but much less so, and he breathes in relief. 

“i do. i’m like a fucking groupie.”

“well, when you tag along i get to have a dressing room to myself, so how about we count our blessings?”

you roll your eyes, sighing loudly so he can hear your annoyance. he turns, hands busy removing the buttons and decorations from his top. “you want to smoke?”

“no,” you say, but you get up to rifle through his things anyway. you find the blunt instantly, and then the lighter on his dressing room table. “where’d you get?”

“mark,” he responds. “what’d you think of the show?”

“it was great except for that one guy… haechan? dunno if you know him.”

he chuckles, poking his tongue into his cheek and walking over to the couch. he sits down, spreading his legs slightly and depositing the pile of fabric beside him. he’s just in a white polo now. you flick the lighter awake, staring at him. 

“what?” you say sharply.

“jeez, bitey. c’mere. and don’t light the spliff yet.”

you walk over to him until you’re in between his legs, and his arms loop around your thighs in a loose hug. “i’m tired,” you whine.

“you’re not.”

“i am.” you jerk your knee so it almost hits his chin. 

he tuts. “you know what you are? you’re wet.”

you grumble, because he’s right. “wet,” he says again, “and wearing my favorite skirt.”

“way to take a hint late.” and it’s true, it is his favorite—a black miniskirt, that fell high above your knees. donghyuck always had a thing for seeing you in skirts. the tight sweater you wore didn’t do much to neutralize how revealing it was.

you’d worn this skirt a bunch of times, and each one ended with you bent over, legs spread, fucked within an inch of your life. 

“take a seat, baby.” he pats his lap.

“corny,” you retort.

he grunts. “difficult.” 

“well, i am tired.” he laughs, glancing away and rolling his eyes. 

“you’re not tired. you had hours to rest which—you probably did. and you’ve been going shopping around with my card, haven’t you?”

“i am,” you repeat brattily, even if he’s caught you.

he leans back and sighs. “you’re not going to get fucked that easily.”

“who said i wanted to get fucked?” you splutter.

“same person who said you needed to act like such”—he tugs the blunt from your grip—“a fucking brat tonight.”

“tch,” you say weakly. you reach over to run a hand through the pile of baubles he’d disattached from his polo. “your tour outfits are unnecessarily scratchy.”

“mmm, they’re pretty. don’t change the subject.”

“hyuck,” you whine, and it fizzles into silence. you sigh. “please.”

his lips curl upwards. you never even have to ask, he always knows. he slips the spliff in between your lips and you purse them to make sure it doesn’t fall. “go ahead, light it,” he urges, his hands gripping your thighs tight. one of them creeps upwards and you shiver, bringing the flickering flame up to your lips.

“that’s a good girl. on my lap.” he lets go of your thighs.

you take a drag and climb onto his lap, and already you can feel the outline of his cock through his pants. “see, you can listen. when you’re not running your mouth being so difficult you get what you want, right? all pretty and good for me.”

he leans over to kiss your neck, hands on your waist and under the hem of your sweater.

“well, maybe i don’t wanna be good,” you hum, holding the blunt in between shaky fingers. you feel his smile before you hear his chuckle, his lips stretching slowly against the base of your throat.

“oh?” he takes the blunt to take a drag and then deposits it onto the ashtray beside the couch, sighing out in a billow of grassy smoke. “really, now?”

you shake your head, toying with the buttons on his shirt. you can’t keep your hands still. you can still feel his cock, thick and impossibly hard, pressing right against the center of your thighs as you shift, straddling him more comfortably.

the thing with donghyuck—and you, and tour as a whole, really—is that both of you often get exhausted just dealing with shit. for him, it’s tour; for you, it’s the stress of tagging along and staying hidden from the public. sometimes you like to alleviate the exhaustion by letting him take care of you, staying docile and sweet. other times—more tired times, much like now—you want him to beat it out of you and make you cry.

he pauses, thumbs rubbing against your ribcage. your face is so warm. “stand up.”

you scramble to untangle the limbs, retrieving your knees from where they’d settled into the couch cushions and stretching your legs again. you lace your fingers together, and donghyuck takes them into his, kissing the tips. “did you touch yourself while i was gone?”

“on—on the couch,” you stutter. “just, it was after the show ended. and it w—”

“quiet.” he pauses and you follow. his hand pats the couch he’s on. “right here?”

you nod.

“out in the open?” he chuckles, eyes turning to the empty spot beside him. “slut.”

“donghyuck!” you protest.

his gaze flits to you again, dark. “i didn’t ask you to speak, sweetheart.” you pout but stay quiet anyway, flexing and unflexing your fingers in anticipation. you feel his hand at your knee, inching higher and higher until it’s at your inner thigh. you shiver. 

“you touched yourself right here?”

you nod, lips pursed. you want him so bad. he swats your thigh. “words, angel.”

“yeah,” you say breathily.

“were you thinking of me?”

you purse your lips again and hum. “i don’t—can’t say for sure.”

“you’ve got quite the mouth.” you’re dating the most conniving, infuriating son of a bitch. “who were you thinking of, then?”

“could be anyone, y’know,” you say in faux nonchalance. “tch, it could be anyone who could fuck me better.” his fingers press against your damp panties and you whimper. you’re both still fully clothed and he’s got you around him like a desperate whore.

“really? give me a name, angel. use your words if you still have the brain for it.” the mean edge gets to you and you moan, gripping his wrist. his fingers are rubbing at the fabric now, and the friction is going straight to your head. 

“a—a name?” you pause, trying to find control in the haze of his talented fingers. 

“that’s right,” he hums, stopping his ministrations. “turn and bend over.”

you follow, your hands finding purchase on the table in front of the couch. you’re hyperaware of the fact that donghyuck can see your underwear, lace and light and pretty, so light in fact that when you’re soaked, your pussy can be seen right through the material. he grunts behind you and lets his thumb run over it.

“a name,” he repeats firmly. “we’re gonna be here all night, thanks to you.”

“uh, who could fuck me better?” you mull out loud, trying not to stutter. “mark, maybe.”

he laughs, but there’s no humor in it, and you can tell you’ve pissed him off even more. you’ve driven your point home—you want to be fucked. “mark.”

“mmm. he could fuck me good, i bet. isn’t he packing?”

“jesus, you dirty girl.” he swats your ass and you yelp. “look at this.” he pulls your pink underwear down so rough it almost rips, and runs his fingers over your bare pussy, glistening from how wet it is. your knees tremble around your panties—they haven’t drooped down to your ankles yet. “your cunt’s dripping because of mark?”

“yeah,” you croak. he lands a slap right against your bare cunt and you fail to conceal the (borderline pornographic) moan that escapes your mouth. 

“face me.” you rush to do it—the thought of getting fucked is enough to make you dizzy. you spin, nearly tripping from the underwear bunched up around your ankles (now.) “eager, are we?”

“hyuck,” you whine.

“i’m just joking, angel.” he unbuttons his pants and tugs his cock out, almost fully hard. fuck, it’s big. your hands itch to wrap around it, mouth near salivating. he strokes it with one hand, using the other to stroke your thigh.

“please,” you beg. “need to feel you.”

“need to feel you,” he mocks. “christ, where’d all your fight go, princess? when’d you decide to become good for me, huh? get over here.” 

you kick your panties off and climb onto his lap, hovering above his cock. his grip on your hips stops you from lowering any more. you whine and grumble but he doesn’t let up, sliding a hand to roughly tug your sweater up. “shut up,” he says.

“fuck me,” you respond.

“i don’t fuck brats. stay still.” your movements cease a little, and you wait, antsy. he grips your waist tight and slowly lets you sink onto his cock.

“ah,” you moan. “ah.” you writhe, hands gripping his shoulders to somehow redirect the burn of being stretched out.

“stay,” he grits out, “fucking still. and take this cock. like you said you wanted to.”

“i’m taking it,” you whine. it feels so good and it’s so much of it, tears welling up behind your tightly hut eyes. “i’m trying, hyuckie, fuck.”

“take it better. s’all you’re good for, hmm? cockslut.” you whine aloud, the senses getting to you, bombarding you like a freight train at full speed. you can only feel donghyuck, his hands, the burn of being stretched sizzling into a pleasure that sits well in your stomach. 

“fuck, i—hyuckie, it’s—i can feel in in my, ah, in my stomach.”

his hand comes up to wrap around your neck and you can feel yourself clench around him, growing wetter by the second. he thrusts up into you and you cry out. he’s going so fast. “this is what you wanted. to have this cunt stuffed by a nice fat cock. huh? answer me.”

“yes,” you babble, but it’s muffled and strained. “i wanted this. wanted your cock.”

“but your big mouth spoke up and suddenly you wanted mark’s? what, one isn’t enough for a slut like you?”

“i’m sorry,” you whine. “‘m sorry i said that. i—i didn’t mean it, hyuck.”

“i don’t care,” he mumbles, grinding upwards and his cock is reaching you so deep you can see stars. “you still said it.”

his hand drops down to rub against your clit and you seize, moans tapering off into whimpers. “ah! fuck, hyuck! i want to come, i—” you try to focus on one thing, but it’s all too much. “can i come? please, hyuck, please.”

“yeah, baby, come for me. thaaat’s it,” he urges when you let loose, finishing all over his cock. “getting hyuckie’s dick all wet. budge up, angel. i’m gonna come, shit.”

“inside,” you beg tiredly, leaning forward. his lips press against your neck, covered in a sheen of sweat. “want your cum in me.”

he curses against your throat and thrusts once, twice, before spilling inside you. “ah,” he moans. “fuck, so tight for me, princess.” the feeling has you shivering all over again and you press a kiss to his jaw. you feel him smile.

“you were so good. did everything so well.” you nod along to his encouragement, exhausted.

you pull back and lean forward, foreheads pressing together. his makeup is half off, eye glitter ruined. you chuckle. “i want a shower.”

“when we’re home, sweetheart,” he muses. “you really were so perfect. so pretty.”

you open your mouth to respond but the door rattles in a noisy knock. “hey, nymphos,” mark hollers from the other side, so loud it’s barely muffled. “when you’re done with your fuckfest, the pizza you ordered is here and everyone is sharing it.”

donghyuck turns to you. “you ordered a pizza to a concert venue?”

“sue me,” you mumble, but he’s kissing you before you finish your sentence.

“my dream girl.”

one would’ve thought your conversations would be higher in frequency.

he lived, after all, right across the street, and you attended the same high school. the sleepy west coast suburbs didn’t offer much drama or fun to distract either of you, apart from the usual house party (which you were never allowed to go to, though he would find you sipping meekly from a red cup late into the night) and sometimes church excursions, which mark went to solely to lay eyes on you. still, though your conversations were few, your long-lived stares and smile exchanges were much more frequent.

mark considered you his stark opposite. he, a jock, on the varsity baseball team, with two dads and a penchant for breaking hearts. you, just shy of innocent, a church girl with plaited hair, always alone, with the edge of rebelliousness that kept both of you wanting more. you’d turned eighteen over the summer, and, with both of you being seniors, he began to view you in a light that was more than just plain admiration.

“lee, the equation?” mr. woods booms.

he looks up slowly, surveying the equation on the board. he answers quickly. he turns, his eyes flitting briefly to where you sit. you’re already looking at him, pencil eraser gliding across your bottom lip. you’re wearing a pleated skirt, the waistband fattened from the amount of times you’d folded it over itself to achieve the length it was at, far above your knees. your sweater droops down, baring your shoulder. your hair was braided this morning but it’s down now, slightly crimped from the curling. you have gloss on, but you mentioned once how it’s not allowed in your house. you probably swiped it from another classmate. you’re adept enough to be in this senior math class.

your lips stretch into a timid grin. he hides a smile of his own, turning back to the board.

he can’t quite trace his attraction to you. it was an innocent crush on an underclassman back then, but it grew, perhaps because you simply refused to reciprocate his advances. he’s an athlete who drinks—he can get any girl he wants—but with you, the chase thrilled him. thrills him. you’re always leaving him on the edge.

you were like a dream, all his but not his at all. he couldn’t get enough.

lunch brings but more extensive gazes. you’re seated with two of your close friends, whose names mark has blurred from memory. a ham and cheese sandwich today, he notices, and your usual water. you never have anything much, just enough. you meet his eyes in the middle of drinking water and you wink, barely a flit of your eye, before sliding off your seat to deposit your garbage.

beside him, donghyuck throws his head back in a raucous laugh. “we’ll be in college and you’ll never get her out of your head, man.” mark’s heart both soars and sinks at the freezing realization that his best friend is right.

your mother is a strict homemaker. while seemingly warm, she exudes an air of iciness, and mark imagines this doesn’t exempt you. his attempts to set foot inside have always been futile—he presents his own dad’s pastries, they’re taken into the porch table and the door is shut. he offers opera tickets, they’re politely declined. he offers coffee, it’s taken and he’s forgotten. he spots you sometimes, on the stairs by what he presumes to be your room, an amused smile on your face.

your father is a little looser. maybe becausehe’s not that experienced in the field of raising girls, but he’s a little more awkward and unsure. he almost invites mark in for pie but his wife stops him with a brief pinch to the arm, and again his attempt is rebuffed. it’s not until a slow, quiet november night that mark glimpses, for the first time since his crush began and you reciprocated it, you in your natural habitat.

he’s always known your windows directly oppose each other’s, give or take a few feet and inches. he has to move a shelf out of the way to get your window in full view. but out of respect, he’s never actively tried to peek past your organza curtains and into the lamp-lit room behind it. not even his telescope is put to good use for it, stowed away and folded in a box under his bed.

physics homework is what nearly distracts him from the faint blinking of fluorescent white light that taps silently against his window. he finishes the problem fast, getting up shortly thereafter to investigate. he pushes the shelf to get his window in full view and, consequently, finds you across him. for once, your curtains are drawn, but the flashlight you’re holding obstructs you from his view.

he hopes you’d wait, fishing out his telescope and unfolding it quickly. he makes a speedy job of dusting it off, and then he takes a peek, adjusting it to the right, to the left, below, up, up, up, until—

your hair is draped on your shoulders, a lacy white camisole matching your short cotton floral shorts. your arms hold up a piece of paper, onto which is scribbled a message you’d written during his hasty telescope excavation: perv with a telescope much?

he laughs like you’re actually talking to him. you don’t have a telescope so he sticks a middle finger up in a sufficient nonverbal reply. he watches you place the paper down, your hand fiddling with the necklace that rests on your collar. he has a sharp intake of breath when he belatedly notices how obvious your nipples are under the thin cotton of the camisole. you bend forward to write a new message and he gulps.

you raise a new one. just wanted to say goodnight, markie—see you tomorrow. you bend forward to untie the ribbons that keep your curtains drawn and, like a theater show, mark catches the slightest glimpse of your pert ass before the organza censors your room again.

he sees you at school again the day next, and he catches you in a mild argument with your mother over the jeans that sit low on your hips and the long-sleeved, tight-fitting, sweetheart neckline top that shows much to the eye. you twirl a braid in frustration but when you spot him, you’re ushering your mother out in seconds, the car speeding off and you turning to him, braids flying in the late year breeze.

“sorry about that. i’m eighteen and she won’t leave me alone,” you say exasperatedly. “anyway. enjoyed last night’s show?”

“it’s okay. and, yes. quite,” replies mark curtly. “though it was a little short, i do enjoy whatever you put on.”

he’s aware of how dirty he sounds and revels in the flustered state you’re now in, saying goodbye before he can further press into you. your braids swish as you untie them hastily, hiding a smile. he watches you go, smiling satisfactorily to himself.

the afternoon classes are blocked out for the school’s baseball game against another varsity team in the tristate area. mark spots an opposing team member chatting you up just by the bleachers, ergo, planning to make out with you. you smile shyly, nodding along before mark steps beside you and stares menacingly at the opponent.

“oh, hey, man, she’s, uh, we were sort of kinda talking,” opponent says.

“she’s, uh, sort of kinda my girlfriend,” mark lies matter-of-factly, mocking his words. his arm slinks around your shoulders and you feel your face warm.

you nod in silent confirmation.

opponent blanches. “oh. i’m—shit, man, fuck. sorry.” he sprints back onto the main field and mark laughs, adjusting the cap that sits on his hair. you laugh when he’s gone, rolling your eyes at mark’s unnecessary display of possession. he turns to you, hugging you closer. his eyes flit down to your lips, half-parted in a forgotten statement.

“g’luck,” you say instead, shy but whispering with a glint of teasing. “i’m rooting for you…” your hand traces over his hardened bicep, back to his chest, down, down, stopping at his waistband. you meet his eyes again. “…captain.”

you pace onto the bleachers and mark spends a few gratuitous moments torn between reliving your actions and willing his boner to die. it’s not until the general fanfare begins that he reunites with his team, shaking you out of his head for the time being. the baseball game goes well, as they usually do when mark is in the lead and donghyuck, his right hand man, provides a generous amount of good energy, and their side of the crowd is in uproar when the game is finished.

the air smells like sweat and butter popcorn when the score is called and mark lets out a cathartic scream of victory. he turns to you instantly, finding you cheering beside a friend. he salutes and you blow a kiss back, much to his amusement. donghyuck claps him on the back to request a group picture with the trophy. eventually, the game winds down and mark meets you by the bleachers again.

“you were a god,” you say offhandedly as a greeting. “was i your good luck charm?”

“i like to think so,” mark says, without missing a beat. he watches you laugh, throwing your head back and everything. you grab the visor of his cap and tug him closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. you taste salt.

“see ya,” you say, smiling, and you’re gone, blending into the crowd of students heading off the field. mark touches the place you’d kissed and absently wonders if he could saran wrap it to avoid it getting washed off.

donghyuck jumps on top of him seconds later, and mark is sufficiently distracted by his friend’s boisterous voice and promises of beer and wings to celebrate.

one week later, mark looks up from his book and finds the flashlight against his window again. he hauls the telescope out and after a few moments of adjustment, finds you by the window again, holding up a piece of paper. you’re wearing fairly similar clothing to last time—lacy top, with pajamas this time.

you hold up the paper. i’m going to a church thing this weekend is written on it. you drop it and then hold up a different one. which dress is better? you drop it again and then get up, picking a dress up from your bed.

mark gulps.

you teasingly untie the drawstring of your pajamas and it naturally loosens around your figure, and you tug it off the rest of the way. mark curses, like you can see him. now you’re only in your lacy top and your pink frilly panties. you hold up a third card. call me to offer an opinion, with your house number scrawled underneath, makes up this final card. he’s quick to grab his telephone and dial, and you pick up in the middle of the first ring.

he inhales. “hi.”

you’re standing in the middle of your room, twirling the curly phone cable in between your finger. you grin. “hi. remember, which dress, ‘kay?”

you place your receiver down and then tug your top off, revealing pale pink lace of bra underneath. mark whispers out a guttural curse. fucking hell. you slip the first dress on and it’s clear your mother’s remade these for you, what with the added inches to the hem and waist.

the first one is a long floral dress that ends below your knees and exposes your collarbones. you fiddle with your necklace again and pick up the receiver. “you look really pretty,” mark says breathlessly. “i like this one.”

you hum. “huh. real descriptive.”

“i’m speechless. can you blame me?”

you laugh, and then wordlessly place the receiver down again. you pick the dress off your figure, and mark revels in your bare figure, before you’re pulling a new one on. this one you’ve probably bought yourself and stashed away before it could be lengthened and hemmed—it’s dark red, tight-fitting, with two flimsy straps and a hem that ends at the middle of your thighs.

you pull it down but it rides back up, tantalizingly so. he watches you, entranced almost, watches you flick your turntable to life and sway to the todd rundgren song that starts playing from it, scratchy through the wire of the phone. you’re so far, but so near.

you dance a little more, your swaying causing the dress to ride up a little more. lord knows this wouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of the church’s vicinity. you wore this, you know it and he knows it, to rile him up.

you pick up the receiver. “how about this?”

“fucking lovely. but, i’m awfully biased.”

“thought so,” you say.

“can’t be taken to the house of god in a dress that short.”

“good thing it’s for your eyes only.”

before he can respond, you untie your curtains and hang up the telephone. you’re hot all over, like he’s right in front of you sitting atop your bed letting his eyes roam everywhere. but he’s not. he’s across the street using a goddamn telescope and he still makes you feel like this.

you fiddle with the dress’ hem, then you flop onto your four post bed, grinning yourself to sleep as you pull the covers over yourself.

mark talks to you next after a week. he’s in church, which is an unspoken rarity—as a regular, you’re able to detect the silent surprise on the churchgoers’ faces at the sight of the lee boy here—but clearly, he’s here for you. you clear your throat, and when you pass by you feel your mother’s grip on your arm tighten.

she turns once he’s out of earshot. “that’s the lee boy, isn’t it?”

you nod. “he’s been telling me he wants to attend service more often, mom.” it’s a straight lie, but you have a plan and you want—need it to work. you stroke her arm a little.

“is that so?” meaningful pause. “you’d better be the one to acquaint him with today’s service, then. stay with him, and your father and i will be in the eastern wing.”

you let go and press a kiss to her forehead, then jog back over to mark. your oxfords are tied neatly, and you’re wearing what your mother assumes to be full, white stockings but are, in truth, lacy thigh highs obstructed by your dress. you walk slowly to him, and he’s already looking at you in a way you can only describe as dirty.

mark is the first to speak. “thought i’d start giving church a try.”

“not everyone’s cup of tea,” you respond. “definitely not for me.”

“really?” you nestle yourself beside him, leaving enough space that the other middle-aged ladies won’t start whispering around about your being a supposed whore. you’ve built up a good rep, after all, and you’d hate to lose it to the nosey nellies.

“yeah. it barely gives room to explore faith. it’s like, ‘believe in this or you’re blasphemous!’”

mark chuckles. “i hear that, princess.”

the pet name makes you hot. you smile and roll your eyes, biting your lip. “the service is about to start, so you’d better be quiet.” he buttons his polo when he notices your lingering gaze, and laughs when your expression turns sour at his actions.

the remainder of the service goes on uneventfully. mark says goodbye to you at the front door, two vast and large wooden doors. you’re reunited with both parents. and then your father says, after a steady handshake, “we’ve always loved the church boys. haven’t we?”

your mother nods, visibly pleased.

“how about dinner tomorrow night, son?” he insists, and your cool exterior doesn’t do much to hide how shocked you are at the offer. your eyes switch from mark’s tall figure to your dad’s hunched over one. your mother doesn’t even protest or show any sign of refusal, just smiling and nodding, her grip easy.

“that’d be great, sir. i’ll bring over some cheesecake for dessert, it’s my dad’s latest obsession.”

“splendid.”

your mother asks so many fucking questions, you realize ten or fifteen minutes into dinner. your arrangement has conveniently placed you across mark, with your parents on either side of both of you. the six-seater dinner table is a little wide for just the four of you, but you’re glad for the small personal space you have with mark.

“you play baseball?” you shed your slipper, pinching the hem of mark’s black jeans in between your toes. mark shoves mashed potato into his mouth.

“yes, i’m uh”—he coughs, feeling your foot hike his jeans up—“the captain. great mashed potatoes, ma’am, by the way.”

“oh, please.” your mother is a little iffy around male guests (those your age especially), but she seems more comfortable now. “it must have been quite the journey to get to the captain role.”

“well, it kind of was.” you abandon the attempt to pull his jeans up and let them sag back down to his ankles, but return in full force to stroke his thigh. he coughs again. “but i love sports, almost as much as i love, well, sue me—science.”

“are you a bit of a chemistry guy yourself?” your dad asks, genuinely curious.

“physics is more of my strong suit, sir. in fact, i’m torn between pursuing astrophysics and a sports scholarship. i assume both might bode well for me in the future.”

“true, true,” muses your mother, obviously satisfied with mark’s answers. “well. eat up, mark. i’m sure paul would hate to see his son arrive home hungry.”

“oh, trust me, he’s fine. he always goes on and on about new fad recipes. at some point you get tired of all the spinach pan—cakes!” you leave lasting impression on his bulge, prominent from touch alone, and you resume normally eating the dinner.

your mother’s eyes gaze at you quickly, but mark distracts her with a silly anecdote about his dads. the dinner speeds by nicely, with stories and jokes being chipped in by everyone at the table. mark makes you laugh, your parents laugh, and his parents make a mean cheesecake.

you’re picking at the glob of blueberry on top when your mother speaks again. “i must say, mark, you seem like an extremely nice young man. where are you planning to pursue studies?”

“yale is up there for sure,” he says. “if not somewhere here on the west coast, miss.”

she’s swelling, at this point, with indirect pride, and she has to find it in herself to usher him out politely.

he says he needs to run an errand first and so crosses the street, not to enter his house, where you can spot his dads’ figures through the curtainless living room window, but to enter his car. you watch as he gets in and starts the engine, and then your mother closes the door. she retires to bed early with a forehead kiss, maybe from the exhaustion of cooking and serving, while your dad quietly finishes washing the saucers from dessert.

you think for a second, then run to change into your sleeping clothes.

mark watches his dads close the curtains and he can tell they’re well on their way upstairs. he sighs, trying to register and relive the fantastic dinner that just happened. everything was great, save for (or especially) the game of footsie you’d decided to instigate at one point.

god, you were fucking irresistible.

he’s headed to the nearest convenience store to buy something, but his mind is fuzzy with images of you—smiling, laughing, tucking hair behind your ear, winking when your parents aren’t paying attention.

he leans back and closes his eyes.

it’s during this brief, suspended moment of closed eyes and 10pm silence, where his breath smells like blueberries and his car’s windows are down to let out the stuffy freshener scent, that he hears the rapid footsteps increasing in volume.

he barely has time to open his eyes and investigate—if he did, he might have seen you come out from the back door, round your house, cross the lawn, and eventually the street, in your usual nightwear of lace and shorts—it’s pink this time. but he doesn’t, though, and instead he experiences the auditory sensation of the passenger seat being pulled open and you climbing onto the seat.

but you’re not here to sit beside him and idly wait, no. you’re on him immediately. your hair drapes over the both of you but suddenly your lips are on his, and he doesn’t care about anything else.

the kiss turns into two and three and seven in a matter of seconds. your hands are relentless, roaming all over him, on his chest, his abs, over his shirt, his belt loops, while you harden the kiss.

his hands, much bigger than yours, adjust accordingly to examine the flimsy lace material of your sleeping top. the strap falls over your shoulder and he lets his thumb graze over your barely covered nipple. you shiver into the kiss.

you pull away, then pull him closer to kiss him hard, one last time. you’re both hot and flushed and you can feel your panties dampening.

“bye.” your breaths mingle, toothpaste and blueberry. and then you’re gone, walking with the sort of suave one only gains after striking a makeout session with their hot, older crush.

november flurries into december with a rush of cold breeze in a crude western replacement of snow.

the weather is still humid but mark cherishes the breezy nights anyway, because it means getting to witness your makeshift fashion shows where you show off your short skirts and tight tops before anyone else sees them, lengthened and loosened.

your escapades have grown in promiscuity as of late, ergo he’s begun to tell you what he wants to do to you over the scratchy phone. “wanna flip that skirt up and feel you,” he’d say, relishing in your whimpers, clearly affected by his phrasing.

for all the filth that makes up your conversations, you’re both awfully meek in the halls of school. your interactions are limited to brief nodding and small smiles and long stares, not anything of the overly flirtatious variety. you resort to clutching your biology textbook extra tight when he passes by to somehow release the arousal welling up inside you.

but once you’re alone, there’s kissing—in janitor’s closets, under the bleachers, where his hand sneaks up your skirt and brushes over the lace trim of your underwear or thigh highs.

there’s you humping his thigh like a bunny in heat, in the backseat of his car while he sits back, arms folded behind his head as he watches you turn more and more desperate for climax, obscured by the sheer tint of his windows.

it’s an unsuspecting friday when you pull him aside and into an unlocked supply closet and, in the middle of open-mouthed kisses, ask if he can “please fuck me, markie, my parents aren’t home.”

maybe it’s because you’re so fucking cute—offering your virginity to him now, small whimpers leaving your mouth when his denim-clad knee bumps against the apex of your thighs, or maybe it’s because you’re such a fucking tease—whether it be licking over a popsicle or bending over just for him—but mark could never have found it in himself to say no.

“wore this skirt for me, princess?” his hand never seems to stop fiddling with its hem as you tug him into your room. you bite your lip, rolling your eyes as he latches his lips onto your neck.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you moan, but his smirk against your skin—you feel it—tells you everything you need to know. “shut up.” you both fall back onto your bed, butterflies flapping like wild in your stomach as he hikes your skirt up, revealing your lace panties underneath.

“d’you—d’you like it?”

his eyes are dark. “you’re so fucking”—he inhales, as if to steady himself—“cute.”

he notes, dazedly, that your panties have formed a dark spot from how wet you are.

“i mean, fuck. your first time and you’re already so desperate for me,” he says. his voice is raspy with arousal.

“shut up,” you respond, flustered. “mark, so—i just—please.”

“okay, doll,” he says, like he knows exactly what you’re asking for.

he bends down and presses a chaste kiss to the ribbon at the center of your underwear, before hooking his fingers onto it and tugging it, but not hard enough to pull them down. “this okay?” you shiver when his thumb swipes up your clothed slit, your thighs shaking.

“yes, fuck, it’s okay—mark,” you whine.

“patience,” he orders, pulling your panties down. his thumb rubs sleepy circles against your clit. you’re so delightfully ready for him despite your blatant inexperience, and the thought sends blood rushing straight to his cock. “if you can wait, it’ll feel good, baby.”

you nod, a nonverbal greenlight for him to keep going. “okay,” you add as an extra measure. you peek down to find him staring in between your spread legs and, hit by a sudden rush of humiliation, you attempt to close them.

he pries them open again. “don’t be shy. your little cunt is so pretty, baby, can’t wait to have this around my cock.”

“mark!” you yelp. “stop using such…such…dirty…ahhh—language,” you attempt to articulate the words but he has a finger slowly working in and out of you now.

he grins to himself at how ruined you look after a single finger and some teasing. he increases his pace, witnessing in real time how debauched you look.

“more, please,” you moan, bucking your hips up. “more.”

he laughs a little, but inserts a second finger anyway, slowly scissoring them apart. he begins speeding up his pace until your moans increase in volume and frequency, a glob of slick leaving your cunt again. the sight of your dainty fingers, bunching up the cotton of your pale floral bedsheets—it’s a stark contrast of innocence and dirtiness, and mark revels in the image.

he wants so badly to flip you over, breed you and fuck you hard—but he can’t, not yet.

he likes it, anyway, corrupting you like this. even if you’re the tease. he’s already painfully hard watching you crumble like this, and fuck you’re only growing wetter. “i—fuck, it—wanna cum, mark,” you say, your voice coming out in a singular pathetic plea.

“shh,” he says. “come on, princess. you can cum if you want to.”

“it—oh, my god, it feels s’good—mmmff! i can’t—it’s—fuck, mark, please,” you’re rambling, your fingers gripping your bedsheets so tight that you have to redirect your grip onto mark’s wrist to slow him down.

your inexperience has allowed you to never feel this kind of peak before: it’s so much all at once.

mark withdraws his fingers, mesmerized by the string of slick that connects them to your core. your hold on his wrist loosens, following his hand as he wipes his digits across your lips before inserting them past his, enjoying the way your eyes glaze over at the sight alone.

you need to have something else inside you—his fingers feel so good, and god it’s just two of them? you shiver at the imagination alone of his girth filling you up, the burn being replaced by pleasure.

you can almost taste it. you think of the real thing, and you need it so bad—your hands are nimble at the zipper of his jeans. he releases a guttural groan at your sudden eagerness, hands finding purchase on either side of your head. “baby,” he grunts. “patience, right? i said patience.”

“i don’t want to be patient,” you whine, your attempts at removing his jeans futile, “i want you to fuck me.”

“y’know, good girls know how to listen,” he emphasizes, pulling your hands away and placing them at your sides.

he hikes your sweater off of you, pausing when he sees your white lace bra to bury his face in between your tits. “can you listen?” you arch your back so he can reach behind, undernath you, and unclasp it. “are you a good girl?”

you exhale. “i’ll be good.”

“yeah, atta girl,” he praises, traveling downwards again. “can’t believe i’m finally gonna fuck this pretty little pussy.”

“fuck,” you whimper. “please, anything—just—god,”

“not my name,” he mumbles before latching his lips onto your sopping cunt.

you’re not sure what it is—if it’s your inexperience or his skill, or both—but having him eat you out feels like heaven. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. he groans, but continues to lick at your folds, pushing his tongue into your hole.

mark is extremely good at using his tongue, if his ministrations on your clit are anything to go by. you cant your hips upwards, whimpering. “wan’ you to fuck me.”

“yeah?” he grins, locking eyes with you for a second before diving back in, the expanse of his tongue licking up your wet cunt. you wail out, legs tightening around his head before he pulls away from your pussy. “kinda wanna keep tasting you.”

“mark,” you beg hoarsely, voice worn.

his tongue is back on your clit, two fingers working their way in, and your stomach tightens—the feeling is overwhelming, good and nerve-wracking all at once. you search for his free hand to squeeze it and somehow channel your pleasure into the grip. “pleasepleaseplease, fuck! please!”

his fingers piston in and out of you, the squelch of your cunt loud in the otherwise quiet room. he grins and his lips are shiny with your slick. “cum for me, baby.”

“wait,” you gasp, air knocked out of you. “ah—wait, it’s too muuu—hmmf! i—fuck—!”

you can’t even cry out, your thighs trembling as your orgasm washes over you in unstable, shaking waves. your grip on mark’s wrist is tight, loosening only when you stop riding out your high.

you exhale slowly, blinking your tears away as you gaze up at mark. he stares back, half in awe and half in arousal. “you did so well, sweetheart,” he coos, smiling. he pulls his fingers out, licking over them.

“really?” you ask, grinning. “will you fuck me now, then?”

he grunts, a smirk on his face as he unbuckles his belt. “only because you’re asking like a good girl.”

“i’d hate to be naughty,” you retort, your foot tracing the inseam of his dark jeans. you bite your lip.

“don’t try,” he warns. you watch with curious eyes as he produces a condom, biting it lightly while he removes his jeans and eventually pulls his cock out. your eyes widen.

“that’s not gonna fit,” you say hopelessly.

he inhales. “you’re driving me fucking crazy, baby.”

you giggle as he puts the condom on and then he’s lifting your legs to rest on either side of his shoulders. he kisses your inner ankle and then starts thrusting into you, slowly at first, gauging your face. your eyes glaze over once your pussy starts stretching to accomodate him, brows knitted together.

“good?” he asks, trying to take his focus off of how tight and warm you feel around his cock.

“da—dandy,” you joke, giggling breathily. “fuck, you’re so big, markie.”

“it’ll fit, baby, just relax a sec,” he reassures in hushed tones. he leans down, to kiss your neck and distract you from the stretch that quickly grows in discomfort. your toes curl and you sigh, long and drawn out—and finally, he bottoms out.

he shuts his eyes. one of your legs drops from his shoulder, and you wrap it around his waist, urging him forward. “it’s taking everything in me to not fuck you stupid right now,” he admits breathlessly.

“why not?” you ask. “move, please.”

“why not?” he repeats with a slight laugh, beginning to move. he pulls out and thrusts back in, causing you to whimper. the discomfort is rapidly replaced by pleasure. “why no—‘cause you’re so fucking precious, sweetheart. i’d hate to break you.”

his thrusts are gaining speed, his hips meeting your ass more and more frequently. your lips open in a silent scream, and you bite them closed. “mmmmfh,” you moan. “more, markie. harder, fuck.”

“hear that?” you try to peel yourself away from the pleasure and focus on the room’s noises. all you hear is—fuck. you nod and mark grins, completing the sentence for you.

“yeah?” he licks his lips. “baby can hear it? your cunt is so wet, it’s making so much noise, sucking me in ‘cause it’s so greedy.”

“yea, yeah,” you blubber dumbly. “yeah, want your cock.” his cock is so big, and thick, and it’s stretching you out in the best way, hitting a sweet spot inside you that makes you go dumb. “harder,” you plead, “markie, please, gonna cum, fuck. can’t—i can’t—”

both your legs are wrapped around his waist now, shaking with pleasure as you bite your lip.

mark watches you fall apart, tears in your eyes from the overstimulation. “see, baby,” he begins, his hand dropping to your clit to rub at it. you seize immediately, wailing out and gripping your sheets. “this is what you get when you go around teasing me in your little panties and skirts. you wanted this, baby. so take it. take it like a good girl and cum all over markie’s cock.”

“mark,” you moan. “fuck—please, i, shit, mmmf—!” your whines taper into louder cries when you feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. pushed over the edge, you’re finally cumming all over mark’s cock. he buries his head into your neck, groaning as he finally releases in you.

the thought of him cumming inside you sends a thrill up your spine, lips curling into a smile as your fingers thread into his hair and you think of the idea of next time.

–

“thank you again, mark, for helping her out.”

your mother beams at mark, aka your new physics teacher for the summer. her arm is tight around your shoulders as you smile shyly back at him, toying with the hem of your sundress. your mother nudges you, coercing you into saying your own thanks.

“thanks, mark. you’ve been a big help.” you bite your lip as he adjusts his baseball cap, grinning and jogging across the street.

“i’ve gotta go,” you say quickly, extracting yourself from your mother’s arms with a kiss. you flop onto your bed soon after, waiting by the phone.

after all, mark’s going to call soon, and you’re sure he wants you to describe how his cum feels in your sopping cunt.