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You'd seen the look; you'd smiled.

He's across the table from you now, handsome in his dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

The waiter arrives, and you feel the shift in the air before you even look up. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that could cut glass and the kind of easy smile that says he knows exactly how he looks. His name tag reads Suho.

"Can I start you with something to drink?" he asks, his eyes landing on you first.

You tilt your head, let your lips curve just slightly. "I think I need a recommendation. What's good here?"

Jeonghan's fingers tighten around his phone.

Suho runs through the wine list with practiced ease, but you don't hear a word. You're watching the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes keep dropping to your collarbone before snapping back up. You're leaning forward just enough to give him a better view, one elbow on the table, your chin in your hand.

"I'll take whatever you think is best," you say, your voice going a little softer, a little warmer.

Suho's smile widens. "Excellent. I'll bring it right out."

When he walks away, you turn back to Jeonghan. He's watching you, his dark eyes unreadable. The silence stretches thin between you.

"What?" you ask, all innocence.

He doesn't answer.

The wine comes; Suho sets it down with a little flourish, makes sure your glass is filled first, lets his fingers brush yours when he hands it to you. You let your fingers linger, thanking him like you mean it.

Jeonghan says nothing. His jaw is a blade.

Suho comes back to check on you three times before the appetizers arrive. Each time, you have a question. Each time, you lean a little closer. Each time, you touch something—the rim of your glass, the stem, your necklace, your hair—and watch his eyes follow.

You can feel the heat coming off Jeonghan across the table. The stillness in him. The coiled tension.

You order the steak, medium rare. The waiter writes it down, and when he asks if you'd like anything else, you pause just long enough to make it mean something.

"I think I've got everything I need," you say.

For now.

As soon as Suho walks away, Jeonghan starts.

"That's enough." His voice is quiet. Calm. That's how you know you're in trouble.

"What's enough?" You take a sip of your wine, holding it on your tongue.

"You know exactly what you're doing."

"I'm being friendly." You bat your lashes. "Is that a crime?"

His hand moves under the table. You feel it before you understand what's happening — his palm landing on your bare thigh, high up, fingers digging in hard enough to make you gasp. The pressure is sharp, precise, intentional. His thumb presses into the soft flesh at your inner thigh and you feel the bruise blooming before he even lets go.

You look at him. His face hasn't changed. He's still calm. Still composed. But his hand on your thigh is a vise, and his eyes—his eyes are dark water, deep and cold and hiding something hungry beneath the surface.

"Keep smiling at the waiter," he says, low enough that only you can hear, "and see what happens when we get home."

Your breath catches. Your body, traitor that it is, responds before your brain catches up. Heat floods through you, settling low and insistent.

He releases your thigh slowly, deliberately, dragging his fingers across your skin before pulling his hand back to his side of the table. You take a shaky breath. You pick up your wine glass. You try to steady your hands.

The steak arrives. Suho sets it down with a flourish, asks if there's anything else he can get you, and you open your mouth to say no, thank you, that's all—but what comes out is different.

"Maybe later." You let your eyes drag down his body and back up. "I might think of something."

The waiter’s ears go red. He clears his throat, mumbles something about being available, and retreats.

The silence at your table is a held breath.

Jeonghan sets down his chopsticks. He folds his napkin. He pulls out his wallet and drops enough cash on the table to cover the bill twice over, and he stands.

"We're leaving."

"I haven't finished my—"

"I said we're leaving."

He doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. The quiet in his voice is worse, sharper, a blade honed to a razor's edge. People at nearby tables are starting to look. You feel the weight of their curiosity like an itch between your shoulder blades.

You stand. You don't know why you're still smiling.

Jeonghan's hand wraps around your wrist and he pulls you out of the restaurant, through the lobby, past the hostess stand where Suho is standing with the check in his hand and a confused look on his face. You catch his eye as you're being dragged past. You give him a little wave.

Jeonghan's grip tightens. His nails dig into your skin.

The parking garage is cold and smells like concrete and exhaust. His car is parked in the corner, a black sedan with windows so dark they look like mirrors. He opens the back door—not the passenger seat, the back—and pushes you inside hard enough that you fall across the leather seat, your dress riding up, your hair spilling across your face.

He gets in after you. The door slams shut. The locks click.

The interior is dark and close and smells like him — expensive cologne and wine and something sharp underneath. He doesn't turn on the dome light. He doesn't have to. You can feel him looking at you, can feel the weight of his attention like a hand around your throat.

He reaches for you. His hand finds your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks, forcing your face up, forcing you to look at him. His thumb presses against the hinge of your jaw, hard enough to ache.

"What a fucking bad girl you've been tonight."

The words land like a slap. You feel them in your chest, in your stomach, between your legs.

You try to say something—some witty retort, some spark of defiance—but his grip on your face is too tight, and what comes out is a breathless, garbled noise.

So you do what you always do. You talk back anyway.

"What's wrong?" The words are mangled by his grip, but you get them out. "Can't handle a little competition?"

His eyes go flat. Darker. Something in them shifts and settles, and you know you've pushed him past the edge. He releases your face and you think for a moment that you've won; then he reaches for his belt.

The sound of the buckle coming undone is sharp in the silence of the car. Metal on metal. Leather sliding through loops. He pulls the belt free, lets it drop to the floor, and then his hands are at his waistband, unbuttoning his pants, pulling down the zipper.

"Looks like I need to teach you a lesson."

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pushes. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet; just enough to make his intention clear.

You know what he wants. Your body knows before your mind catches up, heat flooding through you, anticipation making your mouth go dry.

He guides you down, and you go willingly. You always do.

The first moment is always the hardest—the pressure, the instinct to pull back. But you don't pull back. You take him in, your lips stretching around his cock, your throat working against the intrusion. His hand tightens in your hair, holding you there, letting you adjust.

"Look at you," he says, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. "So eager to please. And yet so bad at listening."

You try to respond, but the sound comes out muffled, and he laughs—a low, dark sound that vibrates through his chest.

He starts to move your head. His grip guides the rhythm, his hips meeting the motion, setting a pace that's punishing from the start. Just the thrust of him deep into your throat, again and again, until you feel the gag reflex kick in, your body trying to reject what it can't handle.

Tears spring to your eyes. Your hands come up to grip his thighs, not to push him away—you know better than that—but to anchor yourself, to hold on as he uses you.

"That's it." His voice is a growl. "Take it. All of it."

You feel your mascara starting to run, the wet tracks sliding down your cheeks. Your throat is raw and burning and full of him, and every time you gag, he groans, his grip tightening, his pace quickening.

"When I'm done with you," he says, his voice strained, "you won't even be able to talk."

He's not wrong. Your voice is already gone, reduced to broken sounds around the intrusion of him. You can feel the pressure building in him, the way his thighs tense under your hands, the way his breathing turns ragged.

He holds you there, his hips still, his hand pressing your face down, forcing you to take all of him. You feel the rush of warmth down your throat, feel the way his body shudders with the release, and you stay where you are, pinned beneath his grip, taking everything he gives you.

When he finally lets you up, you gasp for air like you've been drowning. Which you have, in a way. Your throat burns. Your jaw aches. Your face is a wreck: mascara running in dark rivers down your cheeks, your lips swollen and red, your chin slick with a mess of spit and the evidence of what you've done.

He reaches for you. You flinch, but his touch is gentle now—his thumb sweeping across your chin, collecting the mess, gathering it up. He brings his thumb to your lips.

"Suck."

You close your lips around his thumb and taste him. When he pulls his thumb free, he holds your gaze. His eyes have gone soft at the edges, but there's still something sharp underneath, something unfinished.

"Don't think this is over yet," he says. "Wait until we get home."

He pulls away, zips himself up, gets out of the back seat. The door closes behind him, and you hear the front door open, the engine start.

You lie there for a moment, catching your breath, touching your swollen lips with your fingers. You can't wait.

The drive home is silent. The city lights slide across the windows, painting his face in stripes of gold and shadow. He doesn't look at you. His hands are steady on the wheel, his jaw set, his focus on the road ahead.

You sit in the back seat, your dress twisted, your hair a mess. You don't fix any of it. You know he wants to see what he's done to you.

He pulls into the underground garage. The gate groans as it closes behind you. He parks in his spot, cuts the engine, and sits there for a long moment, staring straight ahead; then he gets out.

He opens your door. He takes your hand. He pulls you out of the car and doesn't let go, his grip iron-tight as he leads you to the elevator, as he punches in the code for the penthouse floor, as the doors slide closed and you rise in silence.

The elevator dings. The doors open. His apartment door is three steps away. He unlocks it, pushes it open, and shoves you inside.

You stumble across the threshold, catching yourself on the wall. The door slams shut behind you. His hands finds your shoulders, spinning you around, pressing you back against the wood. His body is a wall of heat against yours, his hand coming up to cup your face, not gentle this time. His fingers dig into your cheeks again, forcing your lips into a pout, pushing them together until you look ridiculous, until you look like a chastised child.

"I warned you earlier," he says, his voice low and quiet. "But you wouldn't listen."

His eyes search yours. Looking for defiance. Looking for regret. Looking for evidence that his lesson took. You give him none of it.

Something in his expression flickers—hunger, maybe. The acknowledgment that you will never learn, that you will never stop, that this is the game you play and neither of you knows how to stop playing.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you through the apartment. Past the kitchen, past the living room with its floor to ceiling windows, down the hallway to the bedroom. He throws the door open and drags you inside.

"Strip."

You don't hesitate. You reach for the zipper of your dress, pull it down, let the fabric pool at your feet. You step out of it, kick off your heels, stand before him in nothing but the lace underwear you'd chosen specifically for tonight.

He looks at you. His eyes travel the length of your body, slow and deliberate, like he's cataloging every inch. His face gives nothing away. "All of it."

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and push them down. You step out of them and stand before him, fully bare, your arms at your sides, your chin lifted.

"On the bed. Face down. Legs spread."

You walk to the bed and lie down, pressing your cheek against the cool sheets. You let your legs fall open. You can feel the air against your skin, can feel how exposed you are, how vulnerable, how wet you already are.

You hear his footsteps as he walks around the bed, feels the mattress dip as he gets on behind you. "I want you to count."

The first strike lands across your right ass cheek. The sound is sharp, the pain immediate and blooming, a line of fire that spreads across your skin.

"One," you say, your voice steady.

The second strike lands on the other side. You feel the heat building, feel the way your skin is already starting to redden.

"Two."

He's methodical. Patient. Each strike lands with precision, covering every inch of your ass and thighs until the skin is hot to the touch, until you're shifting and squirming against the sheets, trying to escape the relentless sting.

"Ten," you finally gasp, your voice breaking.

"Good girl. Now turn over."

You roll onto your back. Your legs fall open again without being told. You look up at him, your eyes wet, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

He looks at you. His gaze drops to where your thighs are spread open, to the evidence of exactly how much you've been enjoying this. The slick shine of you catching the low light.

"Look at that." His voice is rough. "Soaked. And I haven't even touched you properly."

He raises his hand again.

"This time," he says, "you count to ten again."

The first slap lands directly on you pussy; the sensation is overwhelming—pain and pleasure tangled so tightly you can't tell them apart. A sound tears out of you, half cry, half moan.

"One."

Your hips jerk off the bed.

"Two."

Each strike sends a shockwave through you. Your thighs are trembling. Your hands are fisted in the sheets. Tears are streaming down your face, mixing with the mascara that never got cleaned off, and you're counting through sobs, through wrecked breaths, through the relentless rhythm of his hand.

"Ten." The word comes out as a sob.

He pauses. His hand hovers over your raw, aching center. You can feel the heat radiating off your own skin, can feel how swollen you are, how sensitive.

"Look at me,” he orders.

You force your eyes open; the room swims. His face comes into focus above you, dark and beautiful and terrifying.

"You're going to remember this," he says. "Every time you think about smiling at another man, you're going to remember what happens after."

He undoes his pants. You watch, breathless, as he frees him dick, as he takes himself in hand and positions himself between your legs.

He pushes in.

There's no gentleness, no patience. Just the thick, burning stretch of him filling you in one brutal motion, overwhelming every nerve ending, forcing a scream out of your throat.

He doesn't stop. He sets a rhythm that's punishing, each thrust driving deeper, harder, his hips slapping against your raw, sensitive skin. You've lost the ability to form words. All that comes out is sound—broken, desperate, animal sounds that you barely recognize as your own voice.

"Scream all you want, baby." His voice is a growl in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. "I'm not stopping until you've learned your lesson."

Your nails rake down his back. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. You're crying and moaning and clinging to him all at once, a mess of sensations. He pulls back and slams into you again, harder, deeper, and the noise you make is raw and wrecked.

"Say it," he demands. "Say what you are."

"Yours." Your voice is barely a whisper.

"You're my whore," he says, the word landing like a brand. "My slut. My little fuck toy who can't keep her mouth shut."

You moan in agreement. You'd agree to anything right now. You're lost in the rhythm of him, in the burn and the ache and the overwhelming fullness.

"My bad girl," he says, softer now, almost tender. "My beautiful, disobedient girl."

You feel the pressure building, the heat coiling in your core. Your body starts to tighten around him, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

You try to hold back. You really do. But your body doesn't listen, never listens, and you shatter around him with a cry that tears through your throat, your vision going white, your entire existence narrowing to the pulse of pleasure wrecking through you.

He follows a moment later, a groan torn from deep in his chest, his body pressing against yours, into yours, filling you with his cum.

He collapses on top of you. His weight is heavy and grounding, pressing you into the mattress. His face is buried in your neck. His breath is hot and uneven against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then he lifts his head. He looks at you—at the mascara tracks, the swollen lips, the red marks blooming across your thighs. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, tucks it behind your ear.

"You never learn your lesson," he says. Not an accusation, an observation.

You smile at him, slow and tired and satisfied. "I know."

He almost smiles back. He catches himself, lets the expression settle into something softer, fonder. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth — a kiss that's nothing like what came before, something careful and reverent.

He pulls out of you carefully, and you feel the loss of him like an ache. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth, cleans you up with careful hands, the same hands that left marks on your skin an hour ago.

He pulls the covers up over you. He crawls in beside you, his chest against your back, his arm draped over your waist.

"Next time," he says into your hair, "I'm not going to be so nice."

Your eyes are already closing. Your body is already sinking into the mattress. You're already thinking about what you're going to wear the next time you go out to dinner.

"Promise?" you murmur.

His arm tightens around you. His laugh is a low vibration against your spine.

Every request Yunho made was met with a contradiction, every question received a smart remark, and every warning was met with a grin.

And somehow, instead of realizing you should stop, you kept escalating. Part of you wanted the reaction, wanted to see where his limit was. You wanted to know what would happen when Yunho finally stopped being patient.

The answer, it turned out, was not pleasant.

"You have five seconds."

You lounged across the couch, wrapped in his oversized black hoodie. "No."

Yunho stared. You smiled.

That’s when he began to count.

"One."

You giggled.

He stepped closer. "Two."

You smiled up at him, projecting the perfect picture of innocence.

"Three."

You sat up slightly. "Your counting is really unimpressive."

His eyes narrowed. "Four."

You giggled again.

"Five." His jaw tightened.

You smiled sweetly, and this smile had absolutely no innocence behind it.

His expression hardened. "What exactly is your goal here?"

You shrugged, grinning. "No goal."

That was a mistake. A very big mistake because Yunho's patience finally snapped, and he became very, very calm. The kind of calm that made your confidence evaporate.

Slowly, he set down his phone, then he started walking toward you. He stopped directly in front of the couch. Close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Yunho?" you questioned.

"Get up." The command was simple. Firm, but not loud.

You immediately crossed your arms. "No."

His stare sharpened before he started to move. “Fine.”

The word had barely left his mouth before strong arms slid beneath you.

You yelped. "Yunho!"

One second you were sitting comfortably on the couch, the next you were being carried in his arms.

"What are you doing?!"

"You clearly can't behave."

Your eyes widened as Yunho adjusted his grip on you without difficulty.

"You wanted attention, you got it."

"Put me down."

"No." His answer was immediate and absolute.

You squirmed, and the movement earned a look that stopped you cold; because Yunho looked genuinely irritated.

"You've spent the last hour ignoring every warning I've given you." His voice remained calm, which somehow made it worse. "Now you're surprised there are consequences?"

You opened your mouth to retort but quickly closed it.

Yunho nodded once. As if that proved his point. "I thought so."

The walk down the hallway felt much longer than usual. Mostly because you were becoming increasingly aware that you might actually be in trouble. Not playful trouble. Real trouble. The kind that came after you'd pushed too far.

---

The bedroom air hung heavy with the scent of sex, light from the lamp casting long shadows over the rumpled sheets. Now, on all fours, your body trembled under his control, ass up and face pressed into the pillow as he positioned himself behind you. His hands gripped your hips like vices, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted.

Yunho's cock, thick and rigid, nudged against your entrance, slick from your earlier arousal. You'd been dripping for him, but he'd made you wait, drawing out the foreplay with slow, deliberate touches—his fingers tracing your spine, lips sucking marks into your inner thighs, tongue lapping at your clit until you were whimpering. But now, with you braced like this, he wasn't in a forgiving mood.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice low and edged with authority as he thrust forward in one smooth motion, burying his cock deep inside your pussy. The stretch burned deliciously, filling you completely, and you gasped, pushing back instinctively. His grip tightened, halting your movement. “Such a bad girl, aren't you? Acting like a little brat all night, thinking you could get away with it.”

He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in, the force jolting your body forward. You moaned, the pleasure spiking sharp and hot, your walls clenching around him.

Yunho set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping against your ass with each drive, his cock dragging along your inner walls. His hands never left your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he controlled every inch of your motion, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper.

“You've been teasing me, pushing my limits,” he continued, his tone chastising, breath hot against your ear as he leaned over you slightly, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair. He tugged your head back, forcing you to arch more, exposing your neck. “Bad girls don't get to cum easy. They have to earn it. And you? You've been nothing but trouble.”

Each word punctuated a thrust, his pace relentless, the wet sounds of his cock pounding into your soaked pussy filling the room. Heat coiled tight in your belly, building fast under the onslaught—your clit throbbing, untouched but aching. You whimpered, fingers clutching the sheets, trying to rock back to chase the edge, but Yunho's hold kept you pinned, dictating the speed, the depth.

“Please,” you breathed, voice breaking as the pressure mounted, your thighs quivering. “I'm close—"

He laughed darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he straightened, both hands clamping down on your hips again. He drove in harder, faster, the slap of skin echoing loudly. “Oh, no you don't. Not yet. Brats like you need to learn their place.” His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you wide with every plunge, but he angled his hips just enough to graze your g-spot without letting the rhythm tip you over.

Sweat slicked your skin, your breaths coming in ragged pants as the orgasm hovered, so near you could taste it. Your pussy fluttered around him, desperate, but Yunho felt it—the telltale tightening—and slowed deliberately, grinding deep instead of thrusting. “Feel that? You're not cumming until I say so. Bad girl, trying to take what's mine without permission.”

He picked up again, pounding with renewed force, his fingers bruising your hips as he yanked you back onto his length. The denial twisted the pleasure into something sharper, more intense, your body begging silently even as tears pricked your eyes from the frustration. “Fuck—please, I can't.”

“Shut up and take it,” he snapped, voice rough with dominance. “This is what happens when you act out. I fuck you senseless, make you beg, and still deny you. Maybe next time you'll behave.” His thrusts grew erratic, his own control fraying, but he held back your release with iron will, pulling out just as your walls spasmed, leaving you empty and aching.

You collapsed forward with a sob, body shaking, the denied climax leaving you raw and needy. Yunho's hand stroked your back soothingly for a moment, but his words remained firm. “Not done yet, baby. You'll get it when you've learned your lesson.”

But he wasn't finished toying with you. His cock, still hard and glistening with your juices, pressed against your thigh as he shifted, giving you a brief reprieve to catch your breath. The air felt cooler against your overheated skin, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill it again. You glanced back over your shoulder, eyes pleading, but Yunho's gaze was stern, his lips curled in a smirk that promised more torment.

“On your back,” he ordered, voice like gravel. You obeyed, rolling over onto the rumpled sheets, your legs falling open instinctively. The dim light played across your body, highlighting the flush on your chest, the way your nipples pebbled in the air.

Yunho knelt between your thighs, his hands pushing your knees wider, exposing your dripping folds to his view. He traced a finger along your slit, collecting your wetness, and brought it to your lips. “Taste how desperate you are.”

You sucked his finger into your mouth, tongue swirling around it, the tangy flavor of your arousal flooding your senses. He watched you intently, his free hand wrapping around his cock, stroking slowly as he pulled his finger free with a pop. “Good girl. But don't think that's enough to earn mercy.”

He leaned down, his mouth capturing one nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before sucking hard. You arched into him, a whine escaping your throat as sparks shot straight to your core. His tongue flicked over the peak, then he moved to the other, lavishing it with the same attention while his hand pinched and rolled the first. The dual assault had you writhing, your hips bucking up, seeking friction against his thigh pressed between your legs.

Yunho pulled back, chuckling at your frustration. “So needy. But remember, no cumming.”

He positioned himself again, the head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding through your folds without entering. Up and down, coating himself in your slickness, bumping your clit with each pass. Your breath hitched, hands fisting the sheets as the pressure built anew, slower this time but no less insistent.

“Please,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Fuck me. I need it.”

His eyes darkened, and he thrust in suddenly, bottoming out in one go. You cried out, the fullness overwhelming, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. He didn't give you time to adjust, pulling back and slamming in again, setting a brutal pace from the start. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, one large palm encircling both, holding you down as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

The bed creaked under the force, your body sliding up the sheets with each impact. His cock pistoned in and out, the veined length dragging against your sensitive spots, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

You could feel every inch, the way he throbbed inside you, the slap of his balls against your ass. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your skin, mixing with yours as your bodies moved in sync—though it was all his control, his rhythm.

“Tell me you're sorry,” he demanded, leaning down to bite your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to mark. “For being a brat.”

“I'm sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling out between moans. “I’m sorry—I'll be good.”

He rewarded you with a deep grind, circling his hips to rub against your g-spot. The sensation was electric, your toes curling, but he pulled away just as the coil tightened. “Liar. You love pushing me.” Another thrust, harder, his free hand sliding down to rub your clit roughly.

The touch was too much—direct, insistent circles that had your vision blurring. Your pussy clenched around him, the orgasm rushing up unbidden, unstoppable. “Yunho, I—oh god—"

You shattered, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as your walls spasmed. Your juices gushed around him, soaking the sheets, your body convulsing in release. It was intense, blinding, every nerve firing as you screamed his name.

But Yunho didn't stop. He fucked you through it, his thrusts unrelenting, prolonging the high until it bordered on pain. When the tremors subsided, he pulled out abruptly, leaving you panting and spent. His expression was thunderous, eyes narrowed as he released your wrists.

“You came without permission,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “After I warned you.”

Fear and lingering arousal twisted in your gut. You sat up slightly, but he pushed you back down, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. “Ass up. Now.”

Trembling, you complied, knees digging into the mattress, presenting yourself to him. Your pussy still throbbed from the orgasm, sensitive and swollen, but the anticipation of punishment made your heart race. Yunho's hand caressed your ass cheeks, kneading the flesh almost gently before delivering the first smack.

The sting bloomed across your skin, sharp and hot, making you yelp. He didn't hold back, the flat of his palm connecting with force, leaving a red imprint. “That's for testing me all night.”  Another spank, on the other cheek, harder, the sound cracking through the room.

You gripped the pillow, biting into it to muffle your cries. Heat spread, your ass jiggling with each impact, the pain mingling with the ache in your core. “Yunho—"

“Quiet.” Smack. “This is for pushing my buttons.” His hand came down again, alternating sides, building a rhythm that had tears streaming down your face.

He paused after ten, rubbing the heated skin, his touch soothing yet possessive. “How many more, baby? Until you learn?”

“Please,” you sobbed, pushing back despite the burn. “I’m sorry.”

He hummed, not convinced, and resumed. Smack after smack, counting them out loud now—fourteen, fifteen—each one landing with precision, where it hurt most. Your ass was on fire, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, but beneath the pain, arousal pooled again, your pussy leaking onto your thighs.

By twenty, you were a mess, blubbering apologies, body limp. Yunho finally stopped, his hand tracing the welts, dipping lower to feel your wetness. “Look at you, soaked from punishment. Such a slut for it.”

He spread your cheeks, his thumb circling your tight hole before pressing in slightly, just enough to tease. You moaned, the intrusion new and overwhelming. “Maybe next time I'll fuck your ass as the real lesson.” But he withdrew, instead sliding his cock along your slit, coating himself anew.

“Now, be a good girl for me,” he murmured, though his voice strained. He entered you slowly this time, the stretch exquisite against your spanked skin. You whimpered at the fullness, the way his cock nudged your cervix. He rocked gently at first, letting you adjust, his hands soothing your back.

But gentleness didn't last. He built speed, fucking you deep and steady, the slaps of his hips against your raw ass adding to the sensation—pain and pleasure blurring. “You're mine,” he growled, one hand fisting your hair again, pulling your head back. “Say it.”

“Yours,' you panted, pushing back to meet him. “I’m all yours.”

His pace quickened, thrusts turning savage, his cock battering inside you. The friction was intense, your walls fluttering, but you held back this time, remembering the punishment. He reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in firm circles. “Now you can cum. With me.”

The command tipped you over. You shattered again, pussy clamping down as ecstasy ripped through you, stronger for the wait. Yunho groaned, burying deep and flooding you with hot cum, his release pulsing against your walls. He collapsed over you, both panting, his weight grounding you.

As the aftershocks faded, he kissed your shoulder, pulling out slowly. Cum leaked from you, mixing with your own juices on the sheets. He gathered you in his arms, stroking your hair. “Good girl. Lesson learned?”

Seonghwa's chosen it, his suggestion coming with a shy smile earlier in the evening, like he knows it'll lead somewhere exciting.

His dark hair is slightly tousled from the day. You lean into him, your head resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

As the plot thickens, the main characters finally give in to their tension. The female lead pushes the male lead down onto the bed. The camera angles suggest more than they show—the way she straddles his chest, sliding up until her thighs frame his face. His hands grip her hips, pulling her closer, and she rocks against him, her head thrown back in obvious pleasure. The scene cuts away before it gets too graphic, but the implication is clear: she's riding his face, grinding down as he licks and sucks her pussy.

Your body heats up watching it, a familiar ache building between your legs. Seonghwa shifts beside you, his fingers pausing their tracing. You glance up at him, catching the flush creeping up his neck, his lips parted slightly. He loves anything that hints at surrender, at being used for pleasure. As a switch leaning submissive, he thrives on it, especially when it's you taking control.

The credits haven't even rolled yet, but the air feels thicker now, charged. You turn to him, your hand sliding onto his thigh.

“That looked intense,” you murmur, your voice low. “Her sitting on his face like that... I wouldn't mind trying it with you.”

Seonghwa's eyes widen, dark and eager, locking onto yours. A slow smile spreads across his face, equal parts shy and hungry.

 “Yeah?” he breathes, his voice husky. “You want to sit on my face? Use my mouth to make you cum?” He swallows hard, his hand moving to cover yours on his thigh, squeezing gently.

The idea clearly excites him—his sweatpants tent slightly at the crotch, his cock stirring at the thought of you dominating him that way.

You nod, biting your lip.

“Exactly. I want to feel your tongue on my pussy, licking me while I grind down on you.” Your words are direct, and you see the way they affect him, his breath hitching.

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, but it's brief—testing, waiting for your lead.

“Then use me,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His submissiveness shines through, the way he yields to your desire without hesitation. “Tell me what you want. I'll make you feel so good.”

The movie drones on in the background, forgotten now. You stand, tugging his hand to pull him up with you. He follows willingly, his taller frame moving with that graceful ease, but there's a deference in how he lets you guide him toward the bedroom. The hallway is short, and soon you're pushing open the door, the king-sized bed waiting with its rumpled sheets from last night.

You turn to him, your hands on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric.

“Lie down,” you instruct, your tone firm but affectionate. Seonghwa obeys immediately, kicking off his slippers and stretching out on his back, his head on the pillow. His eyes never leave yours, filled with anticipation. He props his hands behind his head at first, but you shake your head. “No. Hands on my hips when I'm ready. I want you to hold me.”

He nods, lowering his arms to his sides, palms up in surrender.

“Like this? So you can use me however you need?” His voice is soft, almost reverent, and it sends a thrill through you.

You strip slowly, peeling off your shirt to reveal your bra, then shimmying out of your shorts and panties. Seonghwa watches every movement, his gaze tracing your body—the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the bare skin of your thighs. His cock hardens fully now, straining against his sweatpants, but he doesn't touch himself. That's not his role tonight; he's here for you.

Naked now, you climb onto the bed, straddling his waist first. His skin is warm under your thighs, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your hand. Leaning down, you kiss him deeply, your tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting the faint mint from his earlier gum. He moans into the kiss, his hands twitching at his sides, waiting for permission.

You break away, trailing kisses down his jaw, his neck, nipping at his collarbone. “You're so good for me,” you whisper against his skin. “Letting me take what I want.”

Seonghwa shudders, his voice a low whine. “Always. I love when you use me.”

Emboldened, you slide higher, positioning yourself over his face. Your pussy hovers just above his mouth, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from you. You see his tongue dart out, wetting his lips in eagerness.

“Please,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your folds. “Sit on my face. Let me taste you.”

You lower yourself slowly, savoring the moment. The first contact is electric—his warm breath against your clit, then the flat of his tongue pressing up to lick a long stripe through your slit. You gasp, your hands bracing on the headboard for balance. He doesn't rush; instead, he laps at you steadily, his tongue circling your entrance before flicking over your clit. The sensation is immediate, wet and insistent, making your hips rock forward instinctively.

“That's it,” you encourage, grinding down a little harder.

Seonghwa's hands come up now, gripping your hips as you allowed, his fingers digging in just enough to steady you. He pulls you closer, burying his face deeper, his nose brushing your clit as his tongue thrusts inside you. You can hear the slick sounds of his mouth working you, slurping at your juices, and it drives you wild. Your thighs tighten around his head, trapping him there, and he groans in response, the vibration humming against your pussy.

You start to ride him in earnest, setting a rhythm that has you chasing the pleasure. Seonghwa matches you, his tongue never stopping—licking, sucking, swirling. He focuses on your clit now, drawing it between his lips and sucking gently, then harder when you moan.

“Fuck, yes,” you pant, one hand leaving the headboard to tangle in his hair, holding him in place. His hair is soft under your fingers, and you tug lightly, earning another muffled moan from him.

The room fills with the sounds of your activities—your breathy gasps, his wet licks, the creak of the bed as you move. Seonghwa's cock throbs untouched in his pants, a wet spot forming from his pre-cum, but he ignores it, devoted entirely to your pleasure. You glance down, seeing his eyes half-lidded, blissful, as if this is his heaven.

“You love this, don't you?” you tease, rolling your hips in a slow circle.

He hums affirmatively, the sound buzzing through you, and you feel the coil tightening in your belly. Faster now, you grind against his face, using his nose and mouth like they were made for this. His tongue spears into you again, before fucking you shallowly, his lips then sealing around your clit. The pressure builds, overwhelming, and you chase it relentlessly.

“Don't stop,” you command, your voice breaking. “Make me cum on your face.”

Seonghwa redoubles his efforts, one hand sliding from your hip to your ass, squeezing the flesh as he encourages you to press down harder. His other hand stays on your hip, guiding your movements. You feel him everywhere—his tongue delving deep, his lips sucking, his breath hot and ragged.

That’s when your orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you as your pussy clenches, flooding his mouth with your release. You cry out, thighs quivering around his head, riding through the spasms as he laps it all up, swallowing greedily.

When the aftershocks fade, you lift off him slightly, catching your breath. Seonghwa's face is glistening, your wetness smeared across his lips and cheeks and chin, his eyes dazed and satisfied. He licks his lips, tasting you still, and smiles up at you.

“Did I do good?” he says, voice rough.

You lean down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue, and nod. “Perfect. But I'm not done with you yet.” Sliding down his body, you straddle his thighs now, feeling his hard cock press against your still-sensitive pussy through his sweats. He bucks up instinctively, seeking friction, but you pin his hips down with yours.

“No, stay still.”

Seonghwa's breath catches, his hands roaming your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

“Whatever you want,” he promises, arching into your touch as you reach for the waistband of his sweatpants. You tug them down, freeing his cock—it springs up, thick and veined, the tip slick with pre-cum. He's perfect, curving slightly upward and begging to be touched.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, watching his face contort in pleasure.

“I want to ride this too,” you say, positioning yourself over him.

His eyes darken, nodding eagerly. “Please. Use me to feel good.”

Shifting your position again, you slowly lower yourself down, taking him inch by inch. He fills you completely, stretching you in the best way, and you both moan at the connection. You start slow, lifting and dropping, feeling him slide in and out. Seonghwa's hands grip the sheets, knuckles white, as he lets you set the pace. But you want more from him.

“Touch me”, you order, and his hands fly to your breasts, cupping them, thumbs circling your nipples until they're hard peaks.

You ride him harder, your hips snapping down, the slap of skin on skin echoing. His cock hits deep, brushing that spot inside you that makes you moan. Seonghwa thrusts up to meet you, but it's controlled, submissive, following your lead.

“You feel so tight,” he gasps, his voice strained. “So good around me.”

The build is quicker this time, your body still sensitive. You lean forward, bracing on his chest, nails digging into his skin as you grind your clit against his pubic bone. He pinches your nipples, twisting lightly, and it helps to push you over the edge again. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, nearly milking him as you cum, waves of pleasure rippling through you.

Seonghwa almost follows seconds later, barely able to hold back, his hips jerking as he groans your name, body tensing under you.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you panting, sweaty. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, pressing kisses to your hair. “I love when you use me like that,” he whispers.

You lift off him slightly, catching your breath, but the sight of Seonghwa's face—flushed, slick with your arousal—stirs something deeper. His eyes are heavy-lidded, locked on you with that devoted hunger, and you realize you're not quite done grinding against him. The way his chest heaves, the twitching of his cock all tells you he's on the edge already; and he’s desperate. You want to push him there, make him spill without a single stroke, just from pleasuring you.

“I want more,” you murmur, sliding back up his body until your thighs straddle his face again. Seonghwa's breath hitches, his hands immediately returning to your hips, fingers flexing with need. “Make me cum again. And don't you dare touch yourself.”

He nods eagerly beneath you, his tongue already darting out to trace your folds once more. The sensitivity from your first orgasm makes every swipe electric, your clit throbbing as he laps at it with renewed focus. You sink down fully this time, smothering him with your pussy, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles. His nose presses against your clit, the pressure perfect, while his tongue thrusts inside you, fucking you with wet, insistent strokes.

The room echoes with the obscene sounds—your moans mixing with the slurps of his mouth devouring you, the faint rustle of sheets as you chase your final release. Seonghwa's grip tightens on your ass, pulling you down harder, his own hips bucking up into empty air. You glance back, seeing his cock straining visibly, twitching with every grind you make. He's close, you can tell from the muffled whimpers vibrating against your core, the way his body tenses under you.

“That's it,” you gasp, picking up speed, fucking his face with abandon.

Your hands brace on the headboard, nails digging into the wood as you ride his face faster. His tongue flattens, letting you slide along it, coating him in more of your wetness. He sucks your clit between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through you, then releases it with a pop before plunging back in. The coil in your belly winds tighter, heat pooling low and insistent.

Seonghwa's moans grow frantic, trapped against your skin, and you feel his muscles clench, his body arching. Without warning, his hips jerk upward, a choked groan rumbling from his throat as he cums hard. The knowledge that he's losing control just from eating you out, from being your personal fucktoy, tips you over.

Your orgasm crashes through you, pussy clenching around nothing as you flood his mouth again. Waves of pleasure ripple out, your thighs shaking as you grind down one last time, smearing your release across his lips and chin. Seonghwa doesn't stop, lapping greedily through your spasms, swallowing every drop while his own body shudders in aftershocks.

Finally, you ease off him, collapsing beside his head on the pillow. He's panting, face a mess of your release and sweat, but his eyes find yours, sparkling with satisfaction.

“Did I make you feel good?” he asks, voice hoarse, a shy smile tugging at his swollen lips.

You trace a finger along his jaw, smudging the wetness there. “So good.”

He blushes, but preens under the praise, turning his head to kiss your palm. There's cum covering his sweats and shirt, but he makes no move to clean up, content to lie there with you until you tell him he can move again.

"You chose that movie on purpose, didn't you?" you question him.