#aoa

The hallway leading to the studio is lined with framed records, gold and platinum plaques from some of the biggest names in the industry. You try not to think about how, in a few months, one of these could be yours—if everything goes well.

You push open the door, stepping inside, and the first thing that hits you is the warmth. Not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. It’s cozy, a little dim, the kind of place where music doesn’t just get made—it breathes. The producer, an older guy with graying hair and an easygoing demeanor, glances up from his seat at the massive console. A couple of engineers are fiddling with the settings, and in the middle of it all, sitting on a worn leather couch with a guitar on her lap, is her.

Choa.

Up close, she’s even smaller than you expected. Petite, with delicate features and that unmistakable aura that some idols—or ex-idols—just have, like they belong in front of a camera, in a spotlight, in the center of everything. She’s dressed casually, ripped jeans and a slightly oversized sweater, but she makes it look effortless. Her hair is dark, barely grazing her shoulders. It's a bit messy, like she just ran her fingers through it, but it somehow manages to look stylish, and when she looks up at you, there’s a brief pause, a quick once-over, before she smiles.

“You’re finally here,” she says, her voice smooth, carrying just the faintest hint of amusement.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Got caught up in traffic.” It’s a lame excuse, but at least it’s not a lie.

She waves it off like it’s nothing. “No worries. We just got started setting up.” She nods toward the empty spot next to her. “Come sit. Let’s talk.”

You move across the room, the couch sinking slightly under your weight as you drop down next to her. She smells good—clean, a little sweet, like vanilla. Up close, she’s all soft curves and smooth skin, the kind of woman who doesn’t need to try to be attractive. It just happens.

The producer claps his hands together, drawing attention back to the session. “Alright, since you two haven’t worked together in person before, let’s just go over the basics. We’ve got a solid tracklist sketched out—about half the songs are yours, half are collabs, and a couple will be just Choa. Sound good?”

You nod, glancing at her. She’s watching you, expression relaxed, but there’s something else there—like she’s sizing you up. You wonder what she’s heard about you.

“Fine by me,” you say.

“Good,” the producer continues. “We’ll start with the first duet track, see how your voices blend. Get a feel for each other’s styles.”

Choa plucks at the strings of her guitar absently. “Have you heard the demo?”

“Yeah, a few times. Your voice sounds incredible on it.”

Her lips twitch, just slightly, at the compliment. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

You clear your throat. “So, how do you want to do this? Warm up first?”

She nods. “Yeah. We can run through the harmonies, see where we need to tweak things.”

She shifts on the couch, turning toward you, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you are. The studio isn’t that big, and the couch is even smaller, so when she moves, her knee brushes against yours, warm through the denim. She doesn’t pull away.

The first few runs are technical, focused. She leads, you follow, adjusting where needed, blending where necessary. But then something shifts. The harmonies start to click. Her voice melts into yours, or maybe it’s the other way around, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like just a warm-up anymore. It feels like something else—like a connection forming, something tangible in the air between you.

She notices it too. You can see it in the way her eyes flicker up to yours in the middle of a note, in the way she leans in just slightly when your voices meet. It’s not just good. It’s effortless.

The producer grins. "Damn. That’s nice.”

You exhale, grinning a little. “Yeah. Feels right.”

Choa tilts her head, watching you again. “You’re a natural at this. You must have worked hard to get here.”

There’s no arrogance in her voice, just curiosity.

You nod. “Yeah. I had to. My old group… things didn’t really work out.”

“Creative differences?”

“Something like that.”

She hums thoughtfully, fingers still idly strumming her guitar. “Well, their loss.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but coming from her, it hits differently. Like it means something. Like she sees something in you.

The studio hums with a low, steady energy as you and Choa work through the song. It’s just the two of you now—well, the producer and engineers are still around, but they’ve settled into their usual rhythm, fine-tuning levels, tweaking instrumentals, mostly letting you two figure out your chemistry. And it’s there. Undeniably there.

Your voices complement each other in a way that doesn’t feel forced, doesn’t feel like some industry suit shoved you into a room and told you to make a hit. It just clicks.

After a while, Choa stretches, rolling out her shoulders with a quiet groan. “Alright, I need a break. My throat’s getting a little dry.”

You watch as she gets up, heading over to the mini fridge in the corner. She crouches down, giving you an unintentionally nice view of her curves, before grabbing a couple of water bottles. When she straightens up, she tosses one your way. You catch it, cracking it open with a nod of thanks.

She flops back onto the couch next to you, unscrewing her cap, taking a slow sip before speaking again. “So, I gotta ask.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“Why me?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“This collab. Your first solo album. You could’ve worked with anyone, but you picked me.” She leans back against the couch, tilting her head slightly. “I’m not even an idol anymore. There are plenty of younger, more popular people you could’ve asked.”

You frown slightly, sitting back as well. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She raises a brow. “Come on. Don’t act like you don’t get it. The industry’s obsessed with fresh faces, hot new talent. I’m not some viral rookie with millions of followers. Hell, I barely do music anymore.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” you say, and the words come out more sincere than you expect. “You’re talented. Always have been,” you continue. “I grew up listening to you. Your voice, your style—there’s something about it that just sticks with people. With me.” You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t want to work with just anyone. I wanted to work with someone I actually respect. Someone whose music I believe in. And to me, that’s you.”

She doesn’t smile, not really, but you see it anyway. In the way her shoulders relax just a bit, in the way her fingers toy idly with the cap of her water bottle. The way her gaze lingers on you now—longer than before, softer in a way that makes your pulse pick up just a little.

“You’re full of shit,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

You grin. “I mean it.”

Another pause. She tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“You’re an interesting guy,” she says finally.

You let out a small laugh, trying to shake off the sudden nervous energy in your chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She hums, taking another sip of her water. “Guess we’ll see if you’re still this charming after a few weeks of working together.”

“Are you doubting me already?”

She smirks. “Just keeping my expectations realistic.”

There’s something playful in her tone, but beneath it, you can tell—she’s pleased. Maybe even a little flattered. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You look down at the water bottle in your hands, twisting the plastic slightly. “Well, guess I’ll just have to prove myself, then.”

Choa chuckles, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Enough compliments. Let’s get back to work before the producer starts wondering if we’re actually doing anything in here.”

You nod, clearing your throat, forcing yourself to focus. But as she moves closer again, picking up her guitar, you can still feel the weight of her gaze on you. And now, for some reason, it’s making you a little nervous.

—

The weeks pass In a blur of late nights, endless takes, and an easy rhythm that settles between you and Choa like it was always meant to be there. At first, it was just work—figuring each other out musically, learning how to blend your voices, adjusting to her style while she adapted to yours. But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

She complements you, and you complement her. It’s natural. Effortless.

The studio doesn’t feel like a workplace anymore; it feels like a second home. A place where things just click, where the tension of proving yourself fades, replaced by something more instinctual. She gets you in a way that most people don’t—not just as a singer, but as an artist. She never holds back when something isn’t working, calls you out bluntly when you’re overthinking a note or hesitating on a line, but she’s just as quick to push you forward when you get stuck. And it’s not one-sided.

“You’re overcomplicating that run,” you tell her one evening when she’s spent the last ten minutes nitpicking a verse.

She gives you a look, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re thinking too hard. Just sing it how you feel it.”

She huffs but tries again—and when it comes out smoother, more raw, she glances at you out of the corner of her eye, like she doesn’t want to admit you were right.

This is how it’s been. Comfortable. Easy.

So when, after another long day in the studio, Choa suddenly turns to you as you’re packing up and says, “Wanna grab dinner?”—it catches you off guard.

You pause, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Now?”

She shrugs. “Why not? It’s late, we’re both hungry, and I know a good place.”

It’s not like you had other plans. Probably just heading home, eating something mediocre, maybe passing out in front of the TV. This is better.

“Yeah, alright,” you say.

She doesn’t look surprised that you agreed, just nods, pulling her jacket over her shoulders before leading the way out.

—

The restaurant is small, tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t have found on your own. It’s got warm lighting, intimate booths, a quiet murmur of conversation. Not fancy, but not some hole-in-the-wall either. Just… comfortable.

Choa greets the staff like she’s been here a hundred times, and you get the feeling this is one of her regular spots.

“You come here a lot?” you ask once you’re seated.

She nods, picking up the menu. “Used to, at least. Not as much these days.”

You glance around. “Doesn’t seem like a place idols would get mobbed.”

“Exactly.” She smirks. “Back when I was still in AOA, I’d come here to get away from all that. No one ever bothered me.”

There’s something in her tone—not quite regret, but something close to nostalgia. You get it. Even though you left your group on your own terms, you still miss certain things. The camaraderie, the feeling of knowing exactly where you belong.

The conversation stays easy as you order, mostly sticking to music—expectations for the album, what the next few months will look like, the inevitable media buzz when people realize how well you work together. But as the night goes on, as the food arrives and the first glass of wine is poured, something starts to shift.

The way she leans In a little more when she talks. The way her fingers toy absently with the stem of her glass, tracing idle patterns. The way her eyes linger on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

And then, after another sip of wine, she tilts her head slightly, watching you with a small, amused smile. “You’re different than I expected.”

You raise a brow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

She chuckles. “Good, I think.”

“You think?”

She shrugs, swirling the wine in her glass. “When we first started, I wasn’t sure what to expect. You’re younger, you came from a group—it’s easy to assume you’d be… I don’t know. More arrogant, maybe.”

You smirk. “You thought I’d be full of myself?”

“A little.” She lifts a shoulder. “A lot of guys your age are.”

“Fair. But I try not to be an asshole.”

She laughs, and the sound is warm, genuine. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Another sip of wine. Another flicker of something in her gaze, something that makes your stomach tighten just slightly.

“So, what about me?” she asks after a moment.

You blink. “What about you?”

“What did you expect?”

You glance at her, and for the first time tonight, you feel slightly off balance. Because she’s looking at you differently now—like she’s testing something, pushing the conversation into new territory.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess I thought you’d be more… serious?”

She smirks. “Do I not seem serious to you?”

“You do. But you’re also…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “You don’t take yourself too seriously. You’re fun. I like that.”

She hums, tilting her head. “So you like me?”

It’s a simple question, but the way she says it—the slight tilt of her lips, the teasing lilt in her voice—makes your pulse skip.

“I mean—yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “You’re easy to be around. Not a lot of people in this industry are.”

Her smirk lingers. She swirls her wine again, watching the way the liquid clings to the glass before taking another slow sip.

“That’s good,” she murmurs.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of how close you are in the booth, the way her knee brushes against yours beneath the table.

“You know,” she says after a moment, voice lighter now, playful, “the fans are gonna lose their minds when they see us together on tour.”

You huff a laugh, grateful for the change in subject—even if you can still feel the warmth of her gaze. “Yeah. I can already see the headlines.”

She grins. “Should we mess with them?”

You raise a brow. “Mess with them how?”

She leans in slightly, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume. “Hmm, maybe give them something to talk about.”

Your throat goes dry.

She’s joking. Probably. But the way she says it, the way she looks at you, makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“You’d enjoy that, huh?” you say, keeping your voice steady.

She smiles against the rim of her glass. “Maybe.”

And just like that, you realize something.

This isn’t just dinner. This isn’t just two coworkers unwinding after a long day.

Choa is flirting with you.

And judging by the way your heartbeat picks up, by the sudden heat creeping up your spine, you don’t mind it one bit.

The wine keeps flowing, and Choa keeps flirting.

At first, it’s subtle—little things, the way her eyes linger on your mouth when you talk, the way her fingers toy with the rim of her glass, slow and deliberate. But as the night stretches on, the words start getting bolder, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” she says, resting her chin in her palm, elbow propped on the table.

You chuckle. “I’d hope so. Kind of my job.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s not just good, it’s… mmm, how do I put this?” She taps a finger against her lips, pretending to think. “It’s the kind of voice that makes people feel things.”

You tilt your head. “People?”

She smirks. “I meant me, obviously.”

And fuck, she says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like she’s not staring right at you with those dark, knowing eyes, watching the way your throat bobs when you swallow.

The air between you is getting heavy, weighted with something unspoken but understood. It doesn’t help that the wine is making everything feel just a little too warm, your pulse just a little too fast.

And then she leans back, a slow, satisfied look spreading across her face. “You know, I heard a rumor about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She takes another sip, watching you over the rim of her glass. “Something interesting.”

Her tone tells you everything.

You already know what she’s talking about.

There was a day, when you were still part of a k-pop group, early on in the recording process, when you showed up to the studio wearing a pair of pants that were… well, too damn tight. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time—until you noticed the way a few staff members were whispering, glancing at you, their expressions torn between amusement and something else. It didn’t take long before a few pictures surfaced online. Nothing scandalous, but enough to start the whispers. Enough for people to start talking.

And apparently, Choa had heard.

“Interesting, huh?” You take a slow sip of your own drink, matching her energy. “Should I be curious about what exactly you’ve heard?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know. Do you think the rumor’s true?”

You set your glass down with a quiet clink. “Maybe.”

That word lingers between you, crackling like static.

Choa lets out a soft hum, like she’s pleased with that answer. She doesn’t push further—not yet—but the way she looks at you now, the slight curve of her lips, the heat in her eyes? You can tell she’s thinking about it.

And that thought alone is enough to make your skin feel tight, your heartbeat a little erratic.

Eventually, the conversation shifts, but the tension never fully leaves. It simmers beneath the surface, humming with potential, making every glance, every subtle touch of her knee against yours under the table, feel like a spark.

Then, as the night starts winding down, she exhales, stretching slightly. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you say, watching her.

She studies you for a moment, then, as if making a decision, says, “Let's go to my place.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not phrased as a question. Not tentative. Just a statement, casual but firm, like she already knows you’ll say yes. And fuck, she’s right.

You nod. “Okay.”

—

Her apartment is warm, comfortable. Not overly fancy, not the sterile, perfectly curated aesthetic that some celebrities go for. It feels lived-in—cozy, personal, like a place someone actually enjoys being.

Choa steps inside first, toeing off her shoes, taking off the jacket, stretching slightly. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, then glances back at you. “Take off your shoes.”

You do as she says, stepping further inside, taking off your own shoes, your pulse still running a little too fast. The heat from the restaurant hasn’t faded, and now, in this smaller, more intimate space, it feels even stronger.

She walks toward the couch, sinking into it like she’s done this a thousand times, and pats the spot next to her. “Sit.”

It’s not a command, not really. But it feels like one.

You sit.

For a moment, everything is quiet. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but in here, it’s just the two of you. The only sound is your breathing, hers and yours, slightly uneven.

Then she shifts. Just enough that her knee brushes yours again.

You inhale sharply.

She notices.

Her lips twitch. “You okay?”

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah.”

A slow nod. Then she leans in, not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat of her body. “You sure?”

It’s a tease, a test, and god, you’re barely holding on.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh, every nerve in your body screaming at you to close the space between you.

But she’s playing with you. And you’re letting her.

“Choa,” you say, voice lower now, rougher.

She smiles. It’s lazy, knowing. “Hm?”

You swallow. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

Your jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

She hums again, considering. Then, finally, she shifts closer. Just a little. Enough that you can feel her breath against your jaw.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

You nearly lose it right then and there.

Your hand moves on instinct, fingers grazing her thigh, gripping lightly. Not enough to push—just enough to let her know that if she keeps this up, you won’t be able to hold back.

She doesn’t pull away.

If anything, she leans in more.

Her lips are inches from yours, her gaze locked onto you, dark and unreadable. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the tension winding tighter, tighter—

Then, finally, she whispers, “I think you should kiss me.”

The moment your lips crash into Choa’s, she melts against you, but there’s no hesitation—she knows exactly what she wants, and she’s not shy about taking it. She moves fast, climbing onto your lap like it’s where she belongs, straddling your thighs, rolling her hips the second she settles against you. The heat of her body, the teasing friction, the way she breathes into your mouth as she grinds—it all hits you at once, hard and fast, sending a rush of blood straight to your cock.

She feels it immediately.

Choa pauses, just for a second, her breath catching as she shifts, pressing her hips down more firmly. A slow, knowing smirk curls her lips. "Oh," she murmurs, voice dropping to something low and teasing. She rolls her hips again, deliberately dragging herself over the thick length straining against your pants. “I feel that.”

Your hands tighten around her waist. “Keep moving like that, and you’re gonna feel a whole lot more.”

Her smirk deepens. “Good.”

She does it again, rolling her hips in slow, torturous circles, pressing down harder this time. The friction is perfect, her warmth seeping through the layers between you, and fuck, you can already feel how wet she is, how easily she glides over you.

You grab her—hands on her ass, fingers digging in—and lift her clean off your lap. She gasps, legs wrapping instinctively around your waist, but she doesn’t protest. If anything, she likes it, her fingers curling against your shoulders as you stand, carrying her like she weighs nothing.

“You’re so fucking small,” you mutter, gripping her tighter.

“And you’re so fucking big,” she breathes back, shifting against you, pressing herself closer.

You don’t waste any time getting her to the bedroom.

Her back barely hits the bed before you’re both reaching for clothes, stripping down piece by piece, discarding them onto the floor without care. Her sweater, her jeans, the lacy little bra. Then, finally, those tiny panties, slipping down her thighs as she watches you, lips slightly parted, breath already coming faster.

And then it’s your turn.

You shove down your pants, your boxers, and the second your cock is free—thick, hard, aching—Choa lets out a sharp inhale.

For the first time, she actually pauses.

Her dark eyes widen just slightly as she stares, her tongue flicking over her bottom lip. “Fuck,” she breathes, sitting up on her knees.

You stroke it once, lazily, smirking down at her. “That’s what you do to me.”

She exhales shakily, then, with absolutely no hesitation, slides off the bed onto her knees.

The sight of her there—small, perfect, looking up at you with those pretty lips slightly parted—sends a fresh jolt of heat through your body.

Her fingers wrap around the base first, her touch firm, exploratory, like she’s testing the weight of it in her hand. “Mmm,” she hums, satisfied, then drags her thumb over the tip, smearing a bead of precum before flicking her gaze back up to you. “Gotta make it nice and wet for you, huh?”

And then she leans in, dragging her tongue up the entire length, slow and teasing, before finally wrapping those soft lips around you.

And the moment she takes you in, it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of you. Her mouth is perfect—wet, warm, and so tight you can feel every inch of her as she starts to move. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease, just takes you in like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s been thinking about it as much as you have. And fuck, the way she looks up at you, her eyes dark and focused, her lips stretched around your thickness, it’s enough to make your knees buckle.

She starts slow at first, her tongue dragging along the underside of your cock, teasing the sensitive spot just below the head. Her hands grip your thighs for balance, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss. You can feel her breath, hot and uneven, against your skin as she works you, her mouth moving with a rhythm that’s both deliberate and hungry. She’s good at this—really good—and it’s not just the technique, it’s the way she seems to enjoy it, the way she hums around you like she’s savoring the taste.

But then she takes you deeper, and you can feel her struggle. Your cock is thick, too much for her small mouth, and she gags a little as she tries to take more of you. She pulls back, her lips slick with spit, and you can see the faintest hint of tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she seems determined, like she’s not going to let your size intimidate her. She adjusts, tilting her head to take you at a better angle, and then she’s back on you, her mouth working harder, faster.

You can’t help but groan, your hands tangling in her hair as she bobs her head, her lips sliding up and down your shaft. She’s not just sucking you now—she’s devouring you, her tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard. The wet sounds are obscene, filling the room, and you can’t stop watching her, can’t stop thinking about how surreal this is. Choa, the woman you’ve idolized for years, is on her knees for you, her mouth stuffed with your cock, and she’s not holding back.

“Fuck, Choa,” you mutter, your voice rough, your grip tightening in her hair. She hums in response, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but push her head down, guiding her to take more of you. She doesn’t fight it, just relaxes her throat and lets you slide deeper, her nose pressing against your stomach as she takes you as far as she can. She gags again, but this time she doesn’t pull back—she stays there, her throat working around you, her eyes watering as she looks up at you like she’s daring you to take control.

And you do. You can’t help it. The sight of her like this, the feel of her mouth around you, it’s too much. You start to move, your hips thrusting gently at first, then harder, fucking her mouth with slow, deep strokes. She lets you, her hands gripping your thighs tighter, her nails digging in as she takes every inch you give her. Her throat is so tight, so warm, and the way she looks at you, like she’s enjoying this as much as you are, it drives you wild.

Her small mouth struggles to take all of you, but she doesn’t seem to care—if anything, she’s determined to prove she can handle it. Her tongue swirls around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard, and you can feel the tension building in your gut, your cock throbbing in her mouth. But just when you think you might lose it, she pulls back, your cock slipping from her lips with a wet pop.

She looks up at you, her lips swollen and glistening, her chin slick with spit. She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells you she’s not done. Not even close. She stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then she’s climbing onto the bed, her movements slow and deliberate. She gets on all fours, her ass in the air, and fuck, the sight of her like that is enough to make your cock twitch. She glances over her shoulder, a sly smile playing on her lips.

“It’s ready for you,” she says, her voice low and teasing. “But not there.” She reaches back, spreading her cheeks slightly, and your breath catches. “I want you to fuck my ass.”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “You heard me. I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you. That big, thick cock of yours… I want to feel it in my ass.”

You stare at her, your mind racing. This isn’t what you expected—not even close. But the way she’s looking at you, the way she’s presenting herself, it’s impossible to say no. And fuck, you don’t want to. You step closer, your hands resting on her hips, and she lets out a soft sigh, her body relaxing under your touch.

“You sure?” you ask, your voice rough.

She nods, her hair falling over her face as she looks back at you. “I’m sure. But…” She pauses, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re gonna have to get me ready first.”

You drop to your knees behind her, your hands spreading her cheeks, and the sight of her pussy and asshole, glistening and waiting for you, is enough to make your mouth water. You lean in, your tongue dragging along her slit, and she lets out a sharp gasp, her hips pushing back against your face.

“Fuck,” she mutters, her voice trembling. “Your tongue… it’s so long.”

You grin against her, your tongue flicking over her clit before diving back in, lapping at her pussy like you’re starving. She’s already wet, her juices coating your tongue, and the taste of her is intoxicating. you can feel her trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you work her over, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles.

But you’re not done. You pull back slightly, your tongue trailing lower, and she lets out a soft whimper when you press it against her asshole. She’s tight, so fucking tight, but you don’t stop. You lick her slowly, teasingly, your tongue circling her rim before pushing inside. She moans, her hips rocking back against your face, and you can feel her body relaxing, opening up for you.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “Your tongue… it’s so fucking good.”

You hum against her, the vibration making her shudder, and you keep going, your tongue working her asshole until it’s wet and loose, ready for you. She’s moaning now, her hands gripping the sheets, her body trembling with every flick of your tongue. You can feel her clenching around you, her pussy dripping.

You pull back, your lips brushing against her ass as you look up at her. “You ready?” you ask.

She nods, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “Yeah,” she says. “Fuck me.”

You stand up, your hands gripping her hips, and you can feel the tension in the air, the anticipation building between you. She’s ready—and so are you.

Your breath Is ragged as you grip the base of your cock, watching the way Choa spreads herself open for you, her ass so tight, so fucking inviting, you almost can’t believe she’s offering it up like this. She glances back at you over her shoulder, smirking despite the flush painting her cheeks. “You ever done this before?” she asks, her voice thick with heat, teasing but curious.

You swallow hard, running your free hand over the curve of her ass, feeling the way her skin is soft but firm beneath your palm. “No,” you admit, gripping yourself tighter.

That seems to excite her. Her smirk widens just a little, and she rolls her hips, pressing back against you. “Good,” she murmurs, almost like she’s pleased to be your first.

You spit into your palm and slick it over yourself, watching how the head of your cock shines as you press it against her tight entrance. You can feel the resistance immediately—her body clenching instinctively, hot and unyielding. You grip her hip with your other hand, steadying yourself, pressing forward just a little.

Choa hisses, fingers gripping the sheets. “Shit, you’re big.”

That makes something primal in you twitch. “You sure you can handle this?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Slowly, carefully, you push forward, feeling the tight heat of her stretch around you, inch by inch. She’s tense at first, her breath catching, but she doesn’t stop you—if anything, she pushes back, forcing herself to take more of you.

“Fuck,” she groans, dropping her head onto the mattress. “God, you’re really—” Her words cut off into a sharp inhale as you sink another inch inside.

You grip her hips tighter, watching, transfixed, as your cock disappears into her inch by inch. “You’re so tight,” you growl, barely able to breathe.

“Yeah?” Her voice is strained, but there’s amusement beneath it. “That a problem?”

“Hell no.”

You give her another inch, groaning as you feel her body adjusting, the way she clenches and trembles around you. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, the tightest thing you’ve ever felt.

“Relax,” you murmur, rubbing slow circles into her hips, trying not to lose yourself completely.

She exhales shakily. “I’m trying.”

And then, finally, you bottom out.

Choa shudders beneath you, her breath hitching as she goes still, adjusting to the feeling of being completely filled. You can feel every twitch, every flutter of her body trying to accommodate you.

“Jesus,” you whisper, your hands tightening on her waist.

She lets out a weak laugh. “Now that,” she breathes, shifting slightly, “is a fucking stretch.”

You groan, rolling your hips just a little, testing. Her answering whimper sends a jolt of pleasure through you, your whole body tensing.

“You okay?” you ask, even though the way she clenches around you is making it impossible to think straight.

She nods, biting her lip. “Give me a second.”

You do. You stay still, hands gripping her hips, feeling her breathing slow, her body adjusting to you.

And then, finally, she pushes back.

“Okay,” she whispers, tilting her head slightly. “Move.”

And fuck, you do.

At first, it’s slow—tentative thrusts, shallow, letting her body adjust to the stretch, to the way you fill her completely. But she takes it, every inch, breathing through it, and soon, you can feel her start to relax, to loosen.

The change Is gradual but undeniable. Where she was tense before, now she’s opening up for you, her body accommodating you, molding around you.

Then, she shifts, pressing back against you with more force. “Harder,” she breathes, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps in you, and you grip her hips tighter, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, harder this time.

Choa gasps, her back arching, but she doesn’t stop you. She meets your thrusts, her breath coming faster, more ragged.

And then you really start to move.

You fuck her deep, your hips snapping against her ass, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. It’s raw, primal, completely consuming. You can barely think, barely breathe, lost in the way she takes you, in the way she feels around you—tight, hot, perfect.

“Holy shit,” you groan, gripping her tighter.

She moans in response, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her whole body shuddering beneath you. “Yes,” she gasps. “Fuck, don’t stop—”

You weren’t planning to.

You move faster, your thrusts growing harder, rougher, dragging her body back against yours with each deep stroke. She’s a mess beneath you, moaning, panting, pushing back to meet every single thrust like she needs this just as badly as you do.

You can’t even believe this is happening. This was supposed to be just music—just an artistic collaboration. And now you’re here, buried balls deep in Choa’s ass, fucking her so hard you can hear the bed creaking beneath you.

You reach forward, fisting a handful of her hair, tugging her head back slightly. “You like that?” you murmur, your voice low and rough against her ear.

Her answering moan is wrecked. “Yes,” she breathes, her body trembling.

You smirk, thrusting harder, making her gasp. “Never would’ve guessed you were into this,” you mutter.

She laughs breathlessly, even as you fuck her so deep she’s struggling to form words. “Never… would’ve guessed you’d be this good at it,” she manages.

That makes something dark and hungry coil in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on her hips, pounding into her harder, deeper, chasing that unbearable pleasure building between you.

You’re already addicted to the way she feels, the way her body clings to you like she never wants to let go. Every time you pull out, she tightens up like she’s trying to keep you inside, and every time you slam back in, she lets out this little broken gasp that’s driving you insane.

And fuck, she’s wet. You can feel the slick heat of her coating your cock, hear the obscene, messy sounds filling the room, mixing with the slap of skin on skin, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall with every deep stroke.

You tighten your grip on her hips, rolling your hips with a slow, deliberate grind that has her toes curling against the sheets. She’s taking it so fucking well, and you can tell she loves it—loves the stretch, loves the way you fill her, loves the way you own her in this moment.

Then, between gasping moans, she admits it:

“I’m an fucking anal whore,” she breathes, voice high and trembling. “God, I love it so much. I fucking need it.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Your hands tighten on her waist, your cock twitching inside her at those words, that filthy little confession.

“You need it, huh?” You thrust deeper, pressing in to the hilt, grinding against her, making sure she feels you. “This tight little ass addicted to getting fucked?”

“Yes,” she moans, pressing her forehead into the mattress, panting. “Yes—fuck, your cock is the biggest I’ve ever felt, baby, I swear.”

Something about the way she says it, the way she moans baby like she means it, makes you snap.

“You’re really asking for it,” you growl, lifting a hand. “A slut like you deserves to get her ass slapped, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” she gasps, glancing over her shoulder at you, her eyes glassy with pleasure. “Do it. Slap my ass. Please, baby.”

You bring your palm down with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the room, and the way she moans at the impact nearly makes you lose your mind.

“Mmm—fuck, yes!” she cries out, pushing her ass up, offering it to you, wiggling her hips like she’s begging for more.

You groan, feeling her clench tight around you. “Shit, you really like that, don’t you?”

“Yes! More—please, baby, more—”

Goddamn. This woman is gonna fucking ruin you.

You spank her again, watching the way her skin reddens under your hand, the way she shudders beneath you. She’s moaning so much now, so fucking loud, her voice breaking, her body trembling.

She’s completely lost in it, completely yours.

“Harder,” she begs, voice breathless, desperate. “Fuck me harder, baby, I’m so close—”

You grip her hips, dig your fingers into her soft skin, and oblige.

Your thrusts become brutal, relentless, fucking into her with deep, powerful strokes that have her screaming. You’re gone, completely lost in the feel of her, in the sound of her moans, in the way she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing she knows.

“You’re so fucking tight,” you growl, leaning over her, pressing your chest against her back, letting her feel your weight. “You love this, don’t you? Love getting your ass fucked like a dirty little slut?”

“Yes!” she sobs, her nails clawing at the sheets, her body shaking. “I love it, baby, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You’re not stopping. Not until you’ve fucked her through it, not until you’ve made her cum on your cock.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” you murmur, gripping her waist tighter, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again.

She sobs out something that’s barely a word, barely a sound, just a high, broken moan that tells you everything.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “I’m so—so fucking close, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

The idea of making a woman cum just from taking your cock in her ass? It’s got you rock fucking hard, making you thrust into her harder, deeper, determined to push her over the edge with nothing but your cock filling her up.

“You gonna cum on my dick?” you growl, slamming into her, watching the way her back arches, the way her whole body shudders.

“Yes, yes—fuck—” Her voice is wrecked, barely holding together, and you can feel it happening, the way she tenses, the way she gasps, freezes—

Her whole body locks up, trembling, her mouth open in a silent, choked-off cry before she shatters. She’s cumming, her body wracked with wave after wave of it, her walls clenching around you in tight, pulsing spasms that make your cock throb inside her.

Her voice is high, almost shocked, like she can’t believe how hard she’s coming, how fucking deep you are, like you’re reaching places inside her no one else ever has.

And then you drive into her one last time, deep, pushing as far as you can go—

And she screams.

Loud. Raw. A desperate, uncontrollable sound that makes your whole body ache with the need to cum, makes your stomach tighten, your balls throb, makes you want to fucking ruin her.

She collapses forward, chest heaving, body twitching in aftershocks, her legs weak, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You stay inside her, still hard, still aching, but you give her a moment, running your hands down her sides, pressing soft kisses against the back of her neck.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “That was—holy shit—”

You smirk against her skin, feeling that hot rush of pride swell in your chest. “First time cumming like that?”

She nods weakly, still catching her breath. “Yeah,” she whispers, almost in awe. “Normally I—I have to, you know, touch myself too. But fuck, baby—you—you made me cum just from that—”

Damn right you did.

You smirk, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Guess I’m just that good.”

She huffs a small, breathless laugh, her body still trembling slightly from the aftermath. “Cocky bastard,” she mutters—but there’s something in her voice, something warm, something satisfied.

And then—before you can react, before you can process, she moves.

One second she’s lying there, breathless and wrecked, and the next she’s pushing up, flipping you onto your back, her small body straddling yours, hands pressing against your chest to pin you down.

“Your turn,” she purrs, and fuck, the way she looks at you—sweaty, flushed, her hair tousled, her lips parted, her smirk—it makes your cock twitch in her hand, already positioning it at her entrance.

You barely have time to breathe before she moves, rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, making you groan as she grinds against you, taking every inch, every thick, aching inch of your cock inside her.

“Jesus, Choa,” you hiss, gripping her hips, your fingers pressing into her warm, sweat-slick skin.

She smirks, placing her hands over yours, sliding them up her stomach, over the taut, toned muscle of her abs.

“You like that?” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “Like how tight I keep this body just for you?”

Your fingers trace the soft sheen of sweat on her stomach, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your palm. “Yeah,” you admit, voice rough, full of heat. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good—”

She hums, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging her nails lightly over your chest as she rides you.

And fuck, the way she moves—

It’s mesmerizing.

The way her small, fit body moves atop yours, the way she lifts herself only to drop back down, taking you to the base, grinding her hips to make sure she feels every inch. She’s so fucking tight, so hot around you, and the sight of her like this—flushed, sweaty, her small frame working you like she’s made for this—has you gritting your teeth, trying not to fucking explode inside her right then and there.

“You like watching me, baby?” she teases, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that have you twitching inside her.

You groan, gripping her waist tighter, your fingers digging into her soft flesh. “Yeah,” you pant, unable to look away. “Fuck, yeah.”

She moans, throwing her head back, her hands sliding up her own stomach, over her perfect tits, her fingers brushing her hard, sensitive nipples.

“God, you feel so good,” she breathes, moving faster now, her hips snapping down onto you, taking you deep, making you groan, making your abs tighten.

Choa has you right where she wants you—flat on your back, sprawled across the bed, her toned, petite body perched on top of you, squeezing you so tight it’s fucking heaven. Her thighs flex as she rides you, every movement controlled, deliberate, her muscles working in perfect rhythm as she grinds down, making sure you feel every single inch of her.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands finding her waist, gripping her hips, trying to ground yourself in something—but she’s already ahead of you, already setting a pace that has you reeling, already taking charge like she owns you.

She smirks down at you, her hair messy and wild, sticking to her sweaty skin. “What’s wrong, baby?” she purrs, rolling her hips in slow, taunting circles, dragging you through her tight, wet heat with devastating precision. “Too much for you?”

“Shit—” Your fingers dig into her waist, but she doesn’t let you control a damn thing. She lifts herself up, her thighs flexing, her muscles tightening as she takes you, and you see it now—how fucking fit she is, how much strength she has, how easily she moves on top of you like she could do this all night.

And fuck, maybe she will.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she murmurs, watching your face as she drops down onto you again, taking you so deep you swear you see stars. “You like that? Like watching me fuck myself on your cock?”

Your breath hitches, your stomach tightening. “Jesus, Choa—”

“Answer me,” she demands, rolling her hips, gripping your chest for leverage, her nails digging in just enough to make you hiss.

“Yeah—fuck, yeah, I love it,” you pant, barely able to breathe, barely able to think with the way she’s working you.

She grins, pleased, and then she really starts to show off.

She plants her feet on the bed, her thighs flexing as she lifts herself up completely, keeping just the head of your cock inside her. And then, with perfect control, she slams back down, her ass meeting your thighs with a wet slap that makes you groan.

“Fuuuuuck,” you choke out, your vision going white for a second.

She smirks, does it again, and you damn near lose your mind.

She’s fucking athletic—her movements sharp, precise, powerful. She’s using every ounce of strength in her small frame to milk you, to ride you with the kind of stamina only someone who really knows what they’re doing could have.

“You’re so fucking big,” she breathes, her hands pressing into your chest, keeping you pinned. “God, I can feel you stretching me—fuck, I think I’m getting addicted to this.”

Your cock twitches inside her at those words, and she moans, grinding down, rolling her hips, making you feel every inch of her.

“Shit,” you groan, your fingers tightening on her waist. “You’re fucking insane—”

She grins, tossing her hair back, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, owning you, using your cock exactly how she wants. “Oh, baby,” she purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She shifts, leaning back slightly, her hands sliding down your stomach, using her own core strength to control her balance as she rides you with a speed and intensity that has your head spinning.

“Holy shit—”

She laughs breathlessly, sweat dripping down her chest, her toned stomach tightening with every bounce. “God, you feel so fucking good,” she moans, biting her lip, tossing her hair back. “I can’t believe I haven’t had this before—fuck, baby, how have you been hiding this cock from me?”

You can barely breathe, barely fucking function, not when she’s like this, not when she’s dominating you so effortlessly, so perfectly. You can feel the power in her thighs, the control in her movements, the way she’s making you unravel without breaking a sweat.

“Choa,” you rasp, barely holding on. “Fucking hell—”

“Mmm,” she hums, rolling her hips, watching you come undone beneath her. “You’re so cute when you’re struggling, baby.”

You groan, your body shaking, your hands sliding up to her abs, feeling the heat of her sweat-slick skin, the definition beneath your fingers. “Fuck, you’re strong—”

“Of course I am,” she breathes, leaning down, pressing her lips against yours, swallowing your gasps as she fucks you. “I work hard for this body, baby. Gotta stay tight. Gotta stay fit. And now…” She smirks against your lips, rolling her hips, making you groan. “Now you get to enjoy it.”

She pulls back, her eyes gleaming, her smirk full of pure, smug satisfaction. “Tell me how good I feel,” she commands, rolling her hips with a slow, deep grind that makes you see stars.

“You feel fucking perfect,” you choke out, barely coherent.

She moans, throwing her head back, her pace quickening again, her thighs working hard as she slams herself down on you, taking you to the hilt over and over again.

“You’re so fucking deep,” she gasps, her voice high, desperate. “So fucking thick—I can feel you in my stomach—”

Your hands fly to her waist, gripping her as tightly as you can without bruising her, your cock throbbing inside her at her words.

“Fuck, Choa—”

“Mmm, I love hearing you moan like that, baby,” she teases, leaning down, licking the sweat from your collarbone, her tongue hot against your skin. “You love this, don’t you? Love having me ride you like this?”

“Yes,” you groan, barely holding on. “Fucking yes—”

She smirks against your skin, then sits up again, planting her hands on your chest, her nails digging into your skin as she starts riding you hard with wild, unrestrained energy, her perfect little body working you like she was made for this. Her thighs are flexing, her toned stomach tightening, sweat glistening on her skin as she moves with expert control. And fuck, the way she moves—rolling her hips, grinding deep before slamming down again, her breathy moans growing louder, needier, rawer—has your whole body on edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” she gasps, her hands trailing up her own body, her fingers squeezing her perky tits as she bounces on your cock. “God, I knew it would be like this.”

Your brain barely registers what she just said, too lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat gripping you so fucking perfectly. “Knew?” you manage, your voice ragged. “What do you mean, baby?”

She grins, biting her lip, her eyes dark with lust as she slams herself down onto you again, making you groan. “You think I joined your album for the music?” she teases, tilting her head, her hair falling over her face. “Baby, I had my eye on you from the first day I saw you in the studio.”

Your whole body twitches at that, your stomach tightening, something dark and hungry stirring inside you. “Really?”

Choa moans, tossing her hair back, her hands squeezing her own breasts, rolling her hips in slow, deep circles that have your cock throbbing inside her. “I knew I wanted you the second you walked into that room,” she breathes. “You looked so fucking good—so confident, so talented. And all I could think about was finding a way to get you alone, to see if you were as good in bed as you are in the studio.”

“Jesus fuck,” you growl, your fingers digging into her waist, gripping her tight as she works you over, as she owns you with those words.

She giggles, leaning forward, her lips ghosting over your jaw, her breath hot against your ear. “And now look at you,” she murmurs, grinding down hard, making you shudder. “Flat on your back, letting me use you just the way I wanted to since day one.”

“Fuck, Choa—”

“You like it?” she purrs, her tongue flicking out to tease your earlobe before she sits back up, her hands sliding down her stomach, her fingers tracing the slick heat between her legs before she cups her own tits again, squeezing them, moaning at the sensation. “You like watching me take you like this, baby?”

“Yeah,” you groan, your whole body on fire. “Fuck, I love it. You’re so fucking sexy, Choa—”

She moans, pleased, rolling her hips again, dragging you deep, making sure you feel every inch of her. “Mmm, I love hearing you say that,” she purrs, her nails raking lightly over your chest. “Love knowing how much you want me.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp wave of pleasure surging through you, your balls drawing up. “Fuck—”

She feels it instantly. The way your cock twitches inside her, the way your grip tightens on her hips.

“Oh,” she breathes, slowing her pace just slightly, smirking down at you. “You’re close, aren’t you, baby?”

You nod, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck, yeah—”

She grins, and then, without warning—

She stops.

You whine at the sudden loss of movement, your whole body on the brink, teetering on the edge of release, but she just smirks, lifting herself off of you, making your cock throb in desperation.

“Not yet,” she purrs, her voice dripping with something dark and teasing.

“Fuck, Choa—”

She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around your slick, throbbing cock, giving it a slow, teasing stroke, her touch just light enough to make you twitch. And then—

She adjusts, shifting her body, tilting her hips, and presses the head of your cock against her ass.

Your whole body goes tight at the realization, your breath catching as she smirks down at you.

“I want you to cum in my ass,” she whispers, her voice sultry and commanding. “Think you can handle that, baby?”

Choa sinks down onto you again, taking your cock back into her tight, sinful heat, and fuck, you swear she gets even tighter every time. Her round ass presses against your thighs as she settles fully, rolling her hips with slow, controlled precision, her breath coming in short, teasing pants as she watches your reaction.

“Mmm,” she hums, running her hands down her own body, over her toned stomach, down to where you’re joined. “Still feels so fucking good.”

You groan, gripping her waist, feeling the flex of her muscles beneath your fingertips as she moves. “Shit, Choa—”

She smirks, lifting herself up again, just enough to tease the head of your cock against her stretched entrance before dropping back down, taking you to the hilt in one smooth motion.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily at the overwhelming sensation.

She moans, pleased, her nails raking lightly down your chest as she starts to move faster, bouncing on your cock with practiced ease, each movement precise, deliberate, devastating.

“You like this?” she purrs, rolling her hips, grinding down hard before slamming herself back down again. “Like watching me take you like this?”

“Yeah,” you groan, barely able to form words, barely able to think with the way she’s squeezing you, milking you.

She giggles breathlessly, tossing her hair back, sweat glistening on her skin as she picks up the pace, bouncing harder, faster, determined to wreck you. “Mmm, I can tell,” she teases, glancing down at where your cock is stretching her open, watching the way you disappear into her over and over again. “You’re throbbing so much inside me, baby. Getting so close, aren’t you?”

“Fuck—” Your fingers dig into her waist, desperate for something to ground you, desperate to keep yourself from completely unraveling right then and there.

She moans, tilting her head, biting her lip. “Good,” she purrs, rolling her hips in deep, slow circles before slamming down again. “Because I am too.”

Your breath catches. "Shit—”

“I’m gonna cum,” she gasps, her pace turning frantic, desperate, her breath coming in quick, ragged moans as she rides you faster, harder, her whole body shaking with the force of it. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

Your whole body tightens, your stomach tensing, your cock throbbing inside her as her moans get louder, higher, rawer. “Choa—”

“Cum for me,” she begs, her voice high and desperate. “Cum for me, baby, please—I need it—”

You groan, barely able to hold on, barely able to do anything but feel as she bounces on you, taking every inch, her body shaking as she gets closer, closer—

“Fuck, baby, your cock is so big—so thick—”

Your head spins, your balls tightening, your orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. “I’m gonna cum—”

“Me too—” she gasps, her hands gripping your chest, her whole body tensing. “Cum with me, baby—please, cum inside me—”

And fuck, you do.

Your whole body locks up, your vision going white as you explode inside her, thick ropes of hot cum flooding her, filling her so deep she screams, her back arching, her eyes rolling back as her own orgasm crashes over her.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Her walls pulse around you, milking you for everything, squeezing you so tight it’s almost unbearable. You groan, your hips jerking up into her as more thick, hot spurts shoot deep inside her, so much that it overflows, spilling out around your cock, dripping down between her thighs.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, collapsing forward, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her whole body trembling as she feels you pulse inside her, releasing the last few weak spurts, filling her up completely.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your harsh breathing, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

Then, finally, she exhales, pressing a slow, satisfied kiss against your neck.

“Mmm,” she hums, nuzzling into you. “You really know how to make a girl feel good, baby.”

“Fuck, I don’t even know what to say, Choa,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her. “You’re… amazing.”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby,” she says, voice relaxed, breathing slowly against your body. “Let’s just stay like this for a while… while I feel your cum leaking out of me."

—

The thing about secrets? They never stay just in the dark.

At first, it’s just the sex. Weekly meetings that start behind closed doors, your bodies tangled in sheets, your mouths locked together in desperate, greedy kisses. The hunger between you is impossible to ignore, the chemistry too raw, too real. But somewhere along the way, between the heat of her skin and the sound of her breathless moans, between the nights spent in her bed and the mornings where she lingers just a little longer before letting you go, something changes.

It stops being just about fucking.

It spills out of the bedroom, slipping into the studio, into the music itself.

It starts small. A lyric here, a melody there. Subtle. Something in the way she sings a line, the way your harmonies blend together just a little too smoothly, like you were made to complement each other. Then, one day, you write a song—about her. Not obvious, not explicit, but anyone who really listens will hear it. The want, the secrecy, the way her body feels against yours, the way you can’t get her out of your head.

Choa notices immediately.

“You wrote this?” she asks, sitting beside you in the studio, listening to the raw demo play through the speakers.

You glance at her, shrugging casually. “Yeah.”

She hums, tapping her fingers against her knee. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

You smirk. “What do you think?”

She shoots you a dry look, but there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“Neither are you,” you counter.

Because you’ve noticed it too.

The way her songs have started changing. The lyrics she’s been writing, the little additions to the album—nothing obvious, nothing that could incriminate either of you, but the clues are there. The new songs don’t just fit the album’s original concept anymore. They’re something else entirely now.

They’re about you and her.

The producers were hesitant at first—changing the tracklist, altering the theme—but once they heard the demos, they didn’t argue. Something was working. The songs were better this way. Realer.

So the album is evolving, taking on a new shape, and no one knows the truth except the two of you.

And that’s when the idea hits you.

It’s reckless. Bold. Something that could backfire spectacularly if you fuck it up.

But it could work.

One night, after a long studio session, when it’s just the two of you left in the dimly lit recording booth, you bring it up.

“I want to record something,” you say, leaning against the console, watching her from across the room.

She stretches her arms over her head, her cropped hoodie riding up just enough to tease a glimpse of smooth skin. “We’ve been recording all day.”

“Not like this.”

She raises a brow. “Then like what?”

You pause for a second, then, keeping your voice casual, say, “I want to record us.”

Her head tilts. “Us?”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice. “Our sounds. While we fuck.”

That makes her pause.

Her expression is unreadable at first, lips slightly parted, dark eyes watching you carefully.

“Are you serious?” she asks after a beat.

“Yeah.”

Choa exhales, running a hand through her hair. “You do realize how risky that is, right?”

“Of course.” You keep your gaze steady. “But I know what I’m doing. I can mix it into the music—make it blend, camouflage it. Just enough that it’s there, but not obvious.”

She bites her lip, considering.

“Think about it,” you say, voice dropping lower. “A song about a secret relationship, with our actual sounds woven into it. A message no one but us will understand.”

Her breath shudders slightly, and you know she’s thinking about it now. About how dangerous it is. About how fucking hot it is.

There’s silence for a few seconds. Then—

“Alright,” she murmurs. “Let’s do it.”

—

The studio is dimly lit, only a few soft LED strips casting a moody glow over the equipment. The microphones are set up, levels adjusted, everything primed for what you’re about to do.

Choa stands in front of you, her petite frame outlined in the low light, her breathing already a little uneven.

“This is insane,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of excitement in her eyes.

You step closer, hands settling on her hips. “Yeah,” you agree, smirking. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

And then you kiss her. It starts slow—teasing, deliberate—but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The second your hands tighten, the second your tongue sweeps against hers, Choa melts. She presses into you, small hands gripping at your shoulders, her body already moving against yours. Your fingers slide under the hem of her hoodie, skimming over her skin, and she lets out the softest sound against your lips.

Perfect.

The mics are on. Recording. Capturing every breath, every gasp.

You guide her back, pressing her up against the mixing console. She’s so damn small compared to you, so easy to maneuver, her frame fitting against yours like she was made to be there. When your fingers slip past the waistband of her shorts, dipping lower, she exhales sharply, head tilting back.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice a little breathless.

The mics pick it up.

You grin against her skin. “That’s what I want.”

She shivers as your fingers tease lower, her breath hitching when you press against her. Her hips move instinctively, a soft moan slipping out, and fuck, you know how good this is gonna sound in the mix.

It escalates quickly after that.

Clothes come off, hit the floor, forgotten. The heat between you builds, fast and urgent, but not careless—you’re aware of the mics, aware of what you need to capture. Every movement, every breath, every sound—

Choa’s nails dig into your shoulders as she gasps, her back arching off the console. “God, this is so fucking risky—”

“That’s what makes it hot,” you murmur against her throat.

And it is.

Because later, when the track is mixed and mastered, when the producers listen back, all they’ll hear is a smooth, sensual instrumental, layered vocals, a subtle echo of breathy sounds beneath the beat.

But you and Choa?

You’ll hear everything.

And no one else will ever know.

—

With the album finalized and the buzz growing, it was time to shoot the music video for the lead single. The song—smoldering, intimate, dripping with the tension of a secret relationship—demanded visuals that matched its energy. The label wanted something polished, something sexy without being too obvious. You and Choa had other ideas.

The concept meetings were long, filled with back-and-forth discussions about aesthetic, mood, narrative. Some of the early suggestions were generic—a standard “lovers in the city” storyline, slow-motion gazes, dramatic lighting. It was fine, but fine wasn’t enough. You wanted something real, something that matched the slow-burn heat of the track.

After a few brainstorming sessions, the final concept came together:

- The MV would be shot in a blend of film-like vignettes and raw, grainy handheld footage, capturing the feeling of stolen moments—glimpses into a relationship that exists behind closed doors.

- Some shots would be in a dimly lit motel room, curtains drawn, the atmosphere heavy with a hazy, golden glow. Choa would be lounging on the bed, fingers absently tracing lyrics in a notebook, while you, sitting on the floor with your guitar, glance at her in quiet admiration.

- There’d be scenes in a recording studio, mimicking the real-life intimacy of late-night sessions. Close-ups of lingering touches, stolen glances in the booth, the unspoken tension of two people pretending nothing’s happening when the air between them says otherwise.

- Street shots, filmed guerrilla-style—walking down an empty alleyway, brushing past each other but never fully touching, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

- And then, the final sequence: a long take of you and Choa facing each other in the dark, lit only by flickering neon. She’d reach for you, hesitate, and then you’d pull her in. It wouldn’t be a full-on kiss—just the breath of one, lips barely touching, before the screen cut to black.

It was subtle. Implied. But everyone would feel it.

The shoot itself was intense.

Being in front of the camera together, knowing what had been happening off camera—it made every scene feel too real. The tension wasn’t faked, the chemistry wasn’t forced. When the director called “cut,” Choa would look at you with that knowing smirk, as if she could read your thoughts. And she probably could.

By the time the final edit was finished, you knew it was going to cause chaos.

And you were absolutely fine with that.

—

Once the previews of the MV dropped, everything went exactly as expected.

The internet exploded.

Fans dissected every frame, analyzing body language, theorizing about hidden messages in the lyrics. Some of them picked up on the way your hands lingered on Choa’s waist a little too naturally, how her eyes flickered to your lips during one of the longer shots. Some speculated that the entire video was autobiographical—based on real experiences rather than just the fictionalized romance of the song.

You and Choa never addressed it directly.

You let the mystery build.

Meanwhile, the label scheduled a quick promotional tour—press events, live performances, fan meets, a handful of TV and radio interviews. It was part of the rollout, but to you and Choa, it was another challenge: maintaining the façade of just collaborators while the world picked apart every interaction.

The first few Interviews were easy—basic questions about the songwriting process, how the collaboration came about. You both kept it professional, talking about mutual respect, artistic chemistry, how well your voices blended. But as expected, the real questions came soon enough.

You were sitting side by side at one of the bigger televised interviews, microphones clipped to your shirts, the host smiling knowingly as he leaned in.

“So, I have to ask,” he said, flipping through his notes. “One thing fans keep pointing out is your, uh, undeniable chemistry. How did you two manage to bring that into the music so naturally?”

Choa let out a small laugh, tilting her head slightly. “I think it’s just that we work well together. It’s easy when you have someone who gets what you’re trying to do.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I think from the start, we had the same vision for the album. So the chemistry you hear—it’s real, but it’s more about how we complement each other artistically.”

The Interviewer didn’t look convinced. “So you’re saying it’s all professional?”

Choa smirked slightly, shifting in her seat. “I’m saying the music speaks for itself.”

It was the perfect non-answer, leaving room for speculation without confirming anything.

The real moment, though, came a few interviews later.

A different host, a different show. You and Choa were more relaxed this time, the back-and-forth between you easier, more natural. And then—

“Now, I have to bring this up,” the interviewer said, grinning. “The age difference. You’re 20, and Choa, you’re 34. That’s a big gap, at least in industry terms. Did that affect your creative process?”

You and Choa glanced at each other.

The pause was barely noticeable, but the moment your eyes met, something passed between you—an unspoken understanding, a flicker of amusement.

Then, Choa tilted her head slightly, considering. “Honestly?” she said. “I think it helped.”

The interviewer raised his brows. “Helped how?”

You jumped in. “I mean, obviously, we have different experiences, different perspectives, but I think that’s why it worked so well. Choa’s got this incredible depth to her artistry because she’s been doing this longer—she knows how to tell a story in a song in a way that just hits.”

Choa smirked at you. “And you bring that reckless, young energy that makes everything fresh.”

You huffed a laugh. “Basically, yeah.”

The interviewer nodded, intrigued. “So no weird mentor-student vibes?”

Choa rolled her eyes. “God, no. He’s his own artist. I wouldn’t work with him if he wasn’t.”

The interviewer grinned. “Sounds like you two push each other.”

You smirked. “You could say that.”

But the truth?

The age difference wasn’t a barrier. If anything, it made things more interesting.

And as the tour continued, as the performances got hotter, the interviews got bolder, and the lines between work and whatever was really going on between you and Choa blurred even further, one thing was becoming increasingly clear—

This wasn’t just an album rollout.

This was something else entirely.

The press tour rolls on, and with every interview, every talk show, every single moment you and Choa spend in front of the cameras, the tension gets thicker.

It’s Inevitable.

Every night on this tour, every hotel you’ve checked into, every time she came to your room in the middle of the night. The moment the door locks behind you, her hands are on you, her mouth is on yours, and you’re stripping each other down like you can’t wait to feel skin on skin again. The sex is raw, desperate, like you’re making up for every hour you have to spend pretending none of this is happening.

And then, the next morning, you step out in front of the press, looking too well-rested, too at ease with each other, sitting too close on every talk show couch, finding excuses to touch—a casual hand on a thigh, a knee brushing against a knee, a playful tug on a sleeve. It’s subtle enough to be deniable, but not subtle enough to go unnoticed.

One of the first big ones is a late-night talk show, the kind where the host is a little too comfortable getting into personal business.

You and Choa sit side by side on the couch, the studio lights bright, the audience hanging on every word. The host leans in, smirking like he already knows he’s about to start something.

“So,” he says, flipping through his cue cards dramatically, “you two have been spending a lot of time together, huh?”

You and Choa exchange a glance.

She smirks. “I mean, yeah. It’s a collaboration. That’s how albums work.”

The audience chuckles, and you shake your head with an amused huff. “What, were we supposed to record it separately over Zoom or something?”

The host laughs. “Alright, alright. But be honest—there’s gotta be some moments where you get sick of each other.”

Another glance between you.

Choa leans into the mic, voice smooth. “Not really.”

The host raises an eyebrow. “Really? Not even a little?”

You shift slightly, your knee bumping against hers. “I think we get along too well, actually.”

Choa nods, her smirk deepening. “Yeah, it’s a problem.”

The host grins, picking up on the tone. “Oh yeah? And how exactly is that a problem?”

There’s a beat of silence—just long enough for the audience to get it, for a few scattered whistles to break out. You can feel Choa looking at you, her body warm next to yours.

You smirk. “Let’s just say… we have a very productive working relationship.”

The audience loses it.

Choa laughs, tilting her head, shooting you a look like she’s debating whether she should kick you under the table or encourage this.

The host raises his hands. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything, but—”

“Sure you’re not,” Choa deadpans.

He grins. “I just think it’s interesting that the album turned out so good. Like, there’s something extra in there, y’know?”

You chuckle, leaning back slightly, drumming your fingers against your thigh. “Passion.”

Choa nods, still smirking. “Exactly. We care about the music.”

Neither of you say anything explicit. You don’t have to.

But the host just sits back, shaking his head. “Man, you two are dangerous.”

The audience cheers again, and you and Choa just sit there, smug as hell, loving every second of it.

A few days later, another show, another set of questions.

This time, the age gap comes up again.

“So, Choa, you’re 34. And you,”—the interviewer turns to you—“are 20. Does that affect the way you guys work together?”

You already know the internet is going to eat up whatever you say next, so you pause, glancing at Choa first.

She quirks an eyebrow, waiting for you to answer.

You grin. “If anything, I think it helps.”

The interviewer leans in. “How so?”

You shrug. “I mean, she’s got experience.”

Choa stares at you for a second. You know what you meant. She knows what you meant. But fuck, the way the audience reacts—

Loud whoops, scattered applause, laughter—

Choa sighs dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He means musically.”

You smirk. “Of course. What else would I mean?”

She shakes her head, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

The interviewer, barely holding back a grin, says, “So, you like working with someone older?”

You nod. “Yeah. She knows what she’s doing.”

Another wave of cheers, this time mixed with laughter.

Choa leans forward, pointing at you. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You just grin wider. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And that’s how another round of fan theories is born.

Every single clip from these interviews goes viral.

- "The way they LOOKED at each other when the host asked if they ever get tired of each other… we lost, guys. They’re definitely fucking.”

- "The age gap question was a TRAP and he walked right into it and somehow made it worse. I love him.”

- "‘She’s got experience’—HE KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING.”

- "This is a controlled burn. They WANT us to go crazy.”

- "At this point, just announce the wedding, idk.”

And as the tour keeps going, as more interviews stack up, as you and Choa keep teasing the hell out of the press without ever confirming anything, the tension only builds.

Because every night, after playing it cool in front of the cameras, you’re back in another hotel room with her.

And there? There’s no need to hold back.

—

The tour is finally over.

It’s been a whirlwind—city after city, stage after stage, interview after interview. The music is a success, the controversy even more so. You and Choa had played the game too well, pushing just enough buttons to make people talk, to keep the rumors alive. The way you touched each other during performances, the loaded glances in interviews, the teasing, the non-answers. It was deliberate. And it worked.

Now, it’s time to celebrate.

You and Choa end up in a small, dimly lit bar, tucked away from the usual industry spots, just the two of you in a booth with a bottle of something strong between you. The music is low, the atmosphere warm, and the alcohol flows easily.

She’s sitting across from you, swirling the liquor in her glass, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. The dress she’s wearing is dangerous—black, sleek, hugging every curve, cut just high enough on her thighs that your eyes keep drifting lower.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in slightly, “the last few months have been fucking incredible with you.”

She raises a brow, lips quirking. “Yeah?”

You nod, tilting your glass toward her. “Yeah.”

She hums, taking a slow sip before setting the glass down. “I feel the same way.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes dark and lidded. “You’re an amazing boy.”

Your grip on your drink tightens slightly. “Boy, huh?”

Her smirk deepens. “Mmm. Well, you are younger than me.”

You scoff. “You never seem to mind when we’re in bed.”

That gets you a soft laugh, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Touché.”

The drinking continues, and so does the flirting. Her foot brushes against yours under the table, lingering. Her gaze flickers down to your mouth when you speak. Your hand finds her knee at one point, testing, pressing lightly against her thigh—and when she doesn’t pull away, when she shifts slightly, pressing back, you know exactly where this night is going.

By the time you leave the bar, both of you are warm from the alcohol, the tension practically humming between you.

You take her back to your hotel room.

The moment the door closes behind you, you let your eyes rake over her properly, your gaze dragging over the curve of her body, the way the dress clings to her like a second skin.

“Fuck, you look so fucking hot in that,” you murmur, voice rougher now, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Choa exhales slowly, clearly pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She steps closer, just enough that her fingers brush against your chest. Then she leans in, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “You wanna see what’s underneath?”

Your jaw tightens. "Yes."

And just like that, she starts stripping.

Slowly. Deliberately.

She keeps her eyes on you as she slides one strap of her dress down her shoulder, then the other, letting the fabric slip down her arms, down her torso, pooling at her feet. The lingerie underneath is delicate—lace, barely there, her body taut and perfect beneath it.

Your cock twitches in your pants, already hard, already aching, and she notices.

She smirks. “That didn’t take long.”

You exhale sharply, tugging at your own shirt, yanking it off before shoving down your pants, leaving you in just your underwear.

Her eyes drop to the obvious bulge straining against the fabric, and she bites her lip.

But you don’t let her comment.

Because the second her panties hit the floor, the second her bra slips from her shoulders, you step forward, grip her waist, and drop to your knees in front of her.

You press a slow, heated kiss to her stomach, just below her ribs.

Then another.

Then lower.

Your hands slide up her thighs, fingertips pressing into soft skin as your lips trail down—toward her heat, toward the place that’s already warm, already waiting for you.

And when you glance up at her, when you see the way she’s looking down at you—lips parted, chest rising and falling a little faster—

You know she wants this just as badly as you do.

The second your tongue touches her, Choa shudders.

You can feel it in the way her thighs twitch, in the way her breath stutters in her throat, the soft gasp that slips past her lips as she fists a hand in your hair. She’s already warm, already wet, already so fucking ready for you.

You start slow, dragging your tongue up her slit, tasting her, savoring the slick heat of her. Your hands grip her ass, squeezing, pulling her closer as you press deeper, licking into her with long, slow strokes.

“Fuck,” she breathes, her hips shifting instinctively toward your mouth. “God—your tongue is so fucking long.”

You smirk against her, flicking your tongue over her clit in teasing little circles, feeling the way her body reacts—the way her thighs clench, the way she tries to hold still but can’t, already too sensitive, too worked up.

“You love this,” you murmur against her, voice muffled by the heat of her.

She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening in your hair. “Obviously,” she says, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

Like you ever would.

You press your tongue flat against her, dragging slow, deliberate patterns over her clit, alternating between sucking lightly and teasing her with gentle flicks. Every time you change the pressure, she reacts—her breath hitching, her grip on you tightening, her thighs trembling around your head.

You love this.

Love the way she tastes, love the way she sounds, love the way her body melts under your tongue.

But then she whimpers—high and desperate—and fuck, that does something to you.

You need to take this further.

You grip her ass tighter, your fingers digging into soft flesh as you lift her.

“Oh my God—”

She barely has time to process it before she’s off the ground, her legs wrapping around your shoulders on instinct. “Are you serious—”

You are.

You’ve got Choa hoisted up, her petite frame nothing in your grip, legs dangling over your shoulders as you bury your face in her pussy. She’s light as fuck, and you’re flexing hard, showing off, holding her like she’s weightless. Her scent’s all over you, hot and slick, and you’re devouring her—tongue lashing wild against her clit, lips smacking messy and loud.

“Holy—fuck—”

She clutches your head, her fingers tight in your hair, her thighs squeezing around you as you devour her.

And fuck—she’s so wet, so hot, so perfect against your mouth.

Her thighs tremble against your ears, slick and hot, muscles flexing each time your tongue flicks against that perfect spot. She’s weightless in your grasp, hoisted up like she belongs nowhere else but in your arms, your hands gripping her ass to keep her steady. Choa’s head falls back, hair spilling, her lips parted on a breathless moan that turns into something closer to a whimper when you suck harder, pulling her clit into your mouth and swirling your tongue around it.

“F-fuck—oh my god—” Her nails scrape at your shoulders, uselessly trying to hold onto something, anything, but there’s nothing she can do except take it. Her legs twitch around your head, heels digging into your back, but she’s not trying to get away—hell no, she’s pushing herself closer, rocking her hips forward like she wants to drown you in the mess she’s making.

“You’re so fucking strong,” she chokes out, voice ragged, barely holding together. Her hands claw up to her tits, grabbing them hard, fingers sinking into the soft flesh like she’s gonna lose it if she doesn’t hold on. “Shit—nobody’s ever—fuck—done this to me!”

Her words hit you like a shot of adrenaline, and you growl into her, the sound buzzing against her swollen clit. She yelps, sharp and desperate, as you flick your tongue faster—sloppy, ruthless—then clamp your lips around that sensitive little bud and suck. Hard. Deep. Like you’re trying to rip the climax straight out of her soul.

Her moans turn Into screams, high and jagged, her tiny body locking up in your hands. You feel it—her thighs clamping around your skull, trembling so bad you know she’s teetering right on the edge. Your fingers dig into her ass, bruising the soft curves, yanking her tighter against your face. She’s got nowhere to go—pinned, helpless, and she fucking loves it.

“You’re gonna—oh fuck, baby—!”

That baby cracks something feral in you. You snarl into her dripping heat, tongue plunging deep inside her, twisting just right, then dragging back to her clit. You suck again—merciless, starving—like you’re gonna eat her alive.

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes, thighs crushing your head so tight her screams get muffled in your ears. Her back bows, nails rake bloody trails down your shoulders, and she’s cumming—hips bucking wild, uncontrollable, like she’s possessed. She’s loud as hell, a raw, shattered mess of sound, too far gone to give a shit who hears.

You don’t let up. You won’t. You keep sucking, keep lapping at her, dragging that orgasm out ‘til she’s drowning in it. She’s thrashing now, gasping, legs quaking, hands shoving at your head—but it’s weak, sloppy, like her body’s too wrecked to fight.

“Too much—fuck, I can’t—!”

Bullshit. She can. You know she can take it, knows she’s never been pushed this far, never had someone wring her dry ‘til she’s just a shuddering, pleasure-soaked shell. Still, you ease off—just a little—slowing your tongue to lazy, heavy strokes, letting her crash back down in shaky, panting sobs.

When you finally pull your face away, your lips and chin are drenched, glistening with her. She’s a goddamn wreck—skin flushed red, chest heaving, mouth slack with these soft, broken whimpers as she stares at the ceiling, dazed, like her brain’s still catching up.

You shift your grip, lowering her slow to the bed. Her legs are useless, jelly, twitching with little aftershocks as she sprawls out. You press one last kiss to her inner thigh—slow, deliberate—and she jolts, a hoarse little cry slipping out.

“You okay?” you ask.

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, tilting her head to look at you through half-lidded eyes. “Okay?” she echoes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this okay.”

You chuckle, brushing your lips over her stomach, trailing upwards, slow and lazy. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Choa hums, reaching up to card her fingers through your hair. “You did,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, warmer. “And I think I might be obsessed.”

You smirk against her skin, then press a lingering kiss between her breasts before finally settling between her legs, taking your time, letting the moment stretch, letting the anticipation coil tight between you. Choa is sprawled out on the bed, her hair a mess against the pillow, her skin flushed and glowing. She’s still catching her breath from what you just did to her, but there’s hunger in her eyes, a need that hasn’t been satisfied yet. And you plan to satisfy it.

Your hands trail up the length of her body, slow and deliberate, tracing over her soft, smooth skin. You start at her thighs, feeling the heat still radiating from her, then move up, over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, until you reach her stomach.

Your fingers spread wide over her toned abs, pressing lightly, feeling the firmness beneath your palm. “Fuck, you’re hot,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything, your thumb sweeping slow circles just above her navel.

Choa bites her lip, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Yeah?” she breathes, arching slightly into your touch.

You grin, leaning down to brush your lips against her skin, your breath hot against her stomach. “Yeah,” you say, voice thick with heat. “This body drives me crazy.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers twitching against the sheets, and then she smirks—lazy, teasing, but her voice is nothing but warmth when she whispers, “It’s all yours.”

Something about the way she says it, so simple, so fucking confident, makes your blood burn hotter. Your cock twitches, already achingly hard, already pressing against her inner thigh. You shift slightly, angling your hips just right, and let the thick head of your cock slide against her entrance—just enough to tease, to coat yourself in the wetness that’s already dripping down her thighs.

Choa’s breath stutters. She twitches beneath you, her hands gripping the sheets, her thighs pressing tighter around your hips. “Fuck,” she breathes, her voice trembling. “Don’t tease me—”

But you do tease.

You roll your hips, dragging the length of your cock against her, sliding up and down, letting her feel every inch but not giving her what she really wants. You watch her face closely—the way her lips part, the way her brows knit together in frustration, the way her body reacts to the way you touch her.

“Tell me,” you murmur, pressing the tip against her, just barely pushing inside before pulling back again. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Choa groans, her head falling back against the pillow, her fingers digging into the sheets. “So bad,” she gasps, rocking her hips up, trying to get more friction. “Baby, please—”

You chuckle, enjoying the sight of her like this—needy, desperate, fucking begging for it.

“Not sure I believe you,” you taunt, teasing her entrance again, watching the way her whole body tenses at the sensation. “You gotta beg a little more, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, you’re evil,” she whines, her thighs trembling around your waist. “Please, I need you—need you to fill me up, stretch me out—”

That makes your cock throb.

Her hands fly to your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as she pulls you down, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice barely breathless, desperate, wrecked.

“Baby, please,” she moans. “I need your cock so bad, I—fuck, I can’t wait anymore, just fuck me—”

Gripping her waist, you tilt her hips up slightly, line yourself up, and in one slow, smooth thrust, you push inside.

Her mouth drops open.

“Oh my god—”

Her walls stretch around you, tight, so fucking tight it makes your vision blur for a second. You groan, low and rough, your fingers digging into her hips as you bottom out, feeling the way she clenches around you, pulsing, squeezing you like she’s never taken something this deep before.

Choa gasps, eyes wide, lips parted as she stares up at you in shock.

“Shit,” she breathes, her hands flying to your arms, gripping tight. “You’re so fucking big—”

And then she looks down.

She sees it.

Right there, in the middle of her stomach, a faint bulge pressing against her lower abdomen every time you move.

Her breath catches. “Oh my god, baby, I can see you inside me—”

Something about the way she moans those words makes you lose your goddamn mind.

“You like that?” you grunt, rolling your hips, watching the way that bulge moves, the way it presses against her skin with every deep thrust. “Fuck, Choa, you’re so fucking tight—”

She whimpers, nails raking down your back, her legs wrapping around you tighter. “Yes, I love it, I love feeling you this deep—baby, fuck—”

Your rhythm picks up, faster, harder, your hips snapping against her as you fuck her into the mattress. Each stroke is deep, each thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, making her writhe, making her cry out, making her completely lose herself under you.

The alcohol makes everything sharper, more intense. Every touch, every sound, every sensation is amplified, and neither of you can hold back. She’s moaning uncontrollably, her voice breathy and wrecked, and you’re growling against her neck, whispering filthy things in her ear, telling her how fucking good she feels, how perfect she is around you.

And then—

“Look at yourself,” you murmur, grabbing her hand, pressing it against her lower stomach. “Feel it.”

Her breath hitches. She spreads her fingers over the bulge, gasping as she presses down lightly, feeling exactly where you’re filling her.

“Holy fuck,” she whimpers, her body shuddering. “You’re so deep, I—I can feel you in my stomach—”

That sends a shockwave of pleasure through you, makes your thrusts grow erratic, desperate. Your hips snap harder, your pace ruthless, and she takes it, moaning, gasping, begging for more.

“Don’t stop,” she pants, legs locking around you, her heels digging into your lower back. “Please, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” you growl, voice strained. “Never stopping.”

She’s trembling beneath you, her body arching, her nails digging into your skin like she’s trying to anchor herself.

You’re fucking her deep, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through both of you, the heat between your bodies unbearable. Choa’s legs still locked around your waist, her nails raking over your back, leaving streaks of red in their wake. She’s moaning, breathless and wrecked, but still—still—she finds the strength to demand more.

“Harder, baby,” she gasps, her voice breaking around the words. “Don’t hold back—fuck, make me cum.”

And fuck, how are you supposed to deny her when she sounds like that?

You grip her hips, pulling her down onto you as you thrust harder, your pace going from deep and steady to ruthless. The headboard slams against the wall with every snap of your hips, the mattress creaking under the force of it, but neither of you care. The only thing that matters is the way she feels around you—so fucking tight, so perfect, like she was made to take you.

“Shit,” you growl, leaning down, your mouth hot against her ear. “You love getting fucked like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, her breath hitching. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close—”

That’s all you need to hear. You’re done playing. No more slow rolls, no more teasing drags. Your hands clamp around her narrow waist, fingers digging in so hard you know you’re leaving marks—red, angry imprints she’ll feel tomorrow. You pound into her, relentless, your cock slamming against every tender spot inside her, stretching her open, owning her. Each thrust shakes her whole frame, her petite body jolting under you like she’s made for this, made to break.

“Oh my fucking god—!” Choa’s scream rips out, high and wild, her back bowing off the bed. Her nails claw into your forearms, scraping bloody trails down your skin, sharp enough to sting, deep enough to mark you back. “Yes—fuck, yes—just like that, don’t you fucking stop—!”

Her desperation lights you up, a guttural growl tearing from your throat. You don’t stop—you can’t. You go harder, faster, hips snapping with brutal precision, the wet smack of skin on skin filling the air, loud and filthy. Your fingers slide down, finding where you’re joined, her pussy soaked and pulsing around you. You press your thumb to her clit—swollen, slick, begging for it—and start rubbing, quick and rough, tight circles that make her sob.

She’s unraveling, fast. Her thighs quake, her breath catches in sharp, frantic gasps. “Baby—” she chokes out, voice breaking, body trembling like it’s about to snap. “I’m—oh fuck, I’m so fucking close—!”

“You gonna cum for me again?” Your voice is a low, ragged snarl, barely holding it together yourself. You can feel it—the heat coiling tight in your gut, your cock throbbing inside her, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. But this isn’t about you yet. It’s about her. About wrecking her.

“Yes—fuck, yes—!” Her words dissolve into a whine, high and needy, her eyes squeezing shut as her head thrashes against the pillow, hair sticking to her sweat-drenched face.

You don’t let up. You keep that punishing rhythm, fucking her straight through the buildup, your thumb pressing harder against her clit, grinding it now, ruthless, fast, until her whole body locks up.

She shatters.

Choa’s scream is raw, guttural—a sound that tears from her chest as her body arches off the bed, spine curving so hard you think she might break. Her walls clamp down around you, tight and pulsing, milking your cock in waves so intense it nearly pulls you over with her. You feel it all—her heat, her slickness, the way her pussy grips you like a vice, like she’s trying to drag you deeper even as she falls apart. Her legs shake violently, toes curling, heels digging into the mattress as she rides it out, hips jerking against you in frantic, uneven thrusts.

Her nails rake down your back now, leaving fire in their wake, and her breath comes in short, broken sobs—half pleasure, half overwhelm. “Baby—!” she gasps again, voice wrecked, barely audible over the blood roaring in your ears.

You don’t stop moving. You grind into her, slow and deep, dragging out every shudder, every twitch, watching her lose herself completely. Her abs flex tighter, the bulge of your cock still visible, shifting under her skin with every roll of your hips. Her chest heaves, perky tits bouncing with each ragged breath, nipples hard and dark against her flushed skin. Sweat beads on her collarbone, catching the dim light, and her lips part, swollen and red from biting them raw.

She’s a fucking mess—beautiful, ruined, trembling through the aftershocks. Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles jumping under her skin as she collapses back against the bed, spent, boneless. Her hands fall limp to her sides, fingers twitching like she’s still reaching for something, anything, to ground her.

You slow down, just enough to let her breathe, but you’re still buried balls-deep, still rock-hard, aching inside her. The heat of her, the way she’s clenching around you even now—it’s torture, the best kind. Your hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tries to pull air back into her lungs.

Her eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with pleasure. She looks up at you, dazed, lips curling into a slow, crooked smirk that’s equal parts exhausted and cocky. “Still hard for me, huh?” Her voice is hoarse, scratched raw from screaming, but there’s a spark in it, a challenge.

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, your grip tightening on her hips. You drag her against you—slow, deliberate—letting her feel every inch of you still throbbing inside her, the slick friction making her whimper despite herself. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice rough as gravel, thick with need. “Still hard. Still not fucking done with you.”

Her smirk falters, eyes widening just a fraction as you shift your weight, pinning her harder against the bed. You pull back, almost all the way out, the tip of your cock barely inside her, and she whines—a soft, broken sound that tells you she’s not ready for it to end either. Then you slam back in, deep and sudden, and her head snaps back, a fresh cry tearing from her throat.

You lean down, mouth crashing against hers, swallowing her gasps as your tongue dives in, tasting the salt of her sweat, the heat of her desperation. Her hands find your shoulders again, nails biting into your skin, pulling you closer even as her body trembles beneath you.

Choa moans sweetly, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw before pushing lightly against your chest. “Stand up.”

You blink, still dazed, still lost in the feel of her. “What?”

She smirks, licking her lips, and there’s something dangerous in her eyes as she moves to sit up. “I said, stand up, baby.”

Your pulse spikes.

You do as she says, straightening, your breath uneven, your cock still slick and throbbing. Choa slides off the bed, moving slowly, deliberately, until she’s kneeling in front of you, her hands trailing up your thighs.

She looks up at you through dark lashes, her lips still swollen, still glistening. “Let me clean you up,” she murmurs.

You barely have time to react before she leans in, her tongue flicking out, warm and wet as it drags up the length of your cock. Your jaw clenches, your hands fisting at your sides, struggling to keep it together as she takes her time, licking you clean, savoring the taste of herself on your skin.

“Mmm,” she hums, her tongue circling the head, teasing, tasting, before she finally wraps her lips around you, sinking down—

Your breath shudders out of you. It’s supposed to be clean-up, just her licking you clean, tasting herself on your skin, but fuck—Choa doesn’t do just anything. She’s got her mouth stretched around you, sucking slow, deep, like she’s savoring it, letting her tongue flick over the sensitive spots she already knows drive you crazy.

“Fuck,” you groan, your hands twitching at your sides, resisting the urge to just grab her hair and guide her exactly how you want. But she’s taking her time, teasing you, her tongue swirling around the head before sliding down the length, making a mess of you, her spit mixing with the slickness already there.

You’re getting wet, and it’s only making you harder.

Choa hums around you, her throat vibrating, and fuck—she’s enjoying this, really enjoying this. Her hands stay light on your thighs, steadying herself as she bobs her head, taking you deeper each time.

And then—

She goes for it.

One smooth, practiced motion, and she takes you down.

Your cock sinks into her throat, inch by inch, until her lips are flush against your base, her nose pressing against your lower stomach. The heat, the tightness, the way her throat constricts around you—it’s perfect, fucking perfect, and you let out a ragged growl, your fingers twitching with the need to move.

She holds herself there, breathing through her nose, her throat working around you, adjusting. Then she pulls back, just enough to take a breath, spit connecting her lips to your cock, before she does it again.

Deep. Deeper.

“Shit, Choa—”

You can’t not react to that. Your hand moves on instinct, tangling in her hair, holding her there just a second longer, letting her throat squeeze around you before guiding her back. She gasps through her nose but takes it, eyes fluttering shut, her jaw slack, her throat stretched around your size.

The control slips before you realize it’s happening.

You move her.

At first, it’s just your grip in her hair, guiding her down, pulling her back, letting her take the rhythm you want. But then—fuck, it’s too much, too good, the way her lips stretch around you, the obscene wet sounds she’s making, the way drool is already dripping down her chin. You start moving faster, your hips joining the motion, pushing deeper, fucking into her mouth in slow, deliberate thrusts.

And she lets you.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back—if anything, she welcomes it, her hands gripping your thighs, steadying herself, letting you take control.

Her throat is so fucking tight, so wet, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth, her lipstick smeared, her mascara smudging just slightly from the effort.

“You’re taking it so well,” you groan, tightening your grip, guiding her down again, deeper this time. “Fuck, Choa—”

Her moan vibrates around you, wrecked and eager.

Then something snaps.

You don’t think. You don’t hold back, fingers twisting hard into the strands, yanking her head still as you fuck her face. No hesitation, no gentleness—just raw, greedy thrusts, shoving your cock deep into her throat, chasing that tight, slick heat that’s driving you insane. Her gag reflex kicks in, a wet choke vibrating around you, but she doesn’t pull away—she leans into it, letting you use her, letting you ruin her.

Her eyes flick up, glassy and wild, pupils blown wide, tears prickling at the corners—not from pain, but from the sheer fucking intensity of it. She’s a mess—spit spills from her lips, glistening trails dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor between her knees. Her cheeks hollow out with every thrust, her throat squeezing you so tight it’s almost too much, and it’s perfect.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” you rasp, voice scraping out of you, thick with lust. You can’t stop staring—her flushed skin, sweat beading on her forehead, the way her jaw works to take you, the obscene bulge of your cock sliding down her throat. Her mascara’s smudging, black streaks smearing under her eyes, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

She blinks up at you, dazed but burning, that spark in her gaze cutting through the haze. She’s not just taking it—she’s loving it, reveling in the way you’re unraveling her, the way you’re losing yourself in her mouth. Her nails dig into your thighs, sharp little crescents biting into your skin, leaving red welts you’ll feel later. Her whole body shudders with each thrust, her tits bouncing slightly, nipples incredibly hard.

“You love this, don’t you?” you growl, slowing just a fraction, dragging your cock back across her tongue, letting her taste every inch of you. The heat of her mouth is unreal—wet, sloppy, coating you in her spit—and you feel her hum, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you. Her hands grip tighter, nails scraping now, dragging slow, deliberate lines down your thighs like she’s marking you back.

Then—fuck—she nods. With your cock still buried in her throat, her head bobs just enough to answer, lips stretched wide, spit bubbling at the corners. That little move—her saying yes without pulling off—snaps the last thread of your control. Your breath shudders out, ragged and loud, chest heaving as you thrust one more time, slow and deep, letting her throat clench around you, soaking you in her slick mess.

You pull back, abrupt and rough, your cock slipping free with a wet pop. A thick strand of spit stretches between her lips and the tip, glistening in the dim light, snapping when she gasps for air. Her chest heaves, breaths coming in short, wrecked bursts, her mouth red and swollen, lips shiny with spit and pre-cum. She’s trembling, knees shifting on the floor, thighs pressed together like she’s aching down there too.

Her tongue darts out, slow and deliberate, licking the mess from her lips—swiping across the bottom one first, then the top, savoring it. Her eyes lock on yours, dark and heavy, and she smirks, a crooked, satisfied little curve that says she knows exactly what she’s done to you. “Mmm,” she hums, voice hoarse, scratched raw from your cock. “Now that’s a thorough cleaning.”

You groan, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth, trying to breathe, trying to think.

But then she shifts on her knees, tilting her head, her smirk deepening.

“You still haven’t cum yet, baby,” she purrs, running a teasing hand over her own stomach, down to her thighs. “Guess I’ll just have to let you fuck my ass instead.”

Your entire body tenses.

Your cock throbs.

The hunger in her eyes, the teasing curve of her lips, the way she says it—like it’s nothing, like she’s been waiting for this, like she wants it as much as you do—

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I was missing your ass.”

Choa just giggles, licking her lips again, dragging her nails down your thighs before moving to bed, shifting onto all fours, tilting her hips up, arching her back—presenting herself like an invitation you’d be a goddamn fool to refuse.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes dark, sultry, teasing.

“Come on, babe boy,” she murmurs, wiggling her hips just slightly. “What are you waiting for?”

Your jaw clenches. Your breath catches. And then—you move.

You position yourself behind her, hands gripping her hips, your cock already throbbing at the sight of her—Choa, on all fours, back arched just right, ass raised, offering herself up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And by now, it is natural. You’ve fucked her like this so many times during the tour—stolen moments in hotel rooms, backstage dressing areas, nights where she was too impatient to wait until after a show.

And yet—fuck—it never gets old.

She wiggles her hips slightly, teasing you, and you can’t resist reaching out, grabbing a handful of her ass, squeezing it tight before giving it a little shake.

Choa giggles, glancing over her shoulder, her hair falling into her face. “You’re obsessed,” she teases, voice warm, playful.

You smirk, running your hands over the soft, round curves. “Damn right I am. Look at this ass—so fucking juicy.”

She hums, pleased, shifting her weight slightly. “I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmmhmm. I see you staring when I wear tight shit,” she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re not exactly subtle, baby.”

You huff a laugh, kneading her ass with both hands, spreading her just slightly. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all,” she purrs, pressing back against your touch. “You can look all you want, baby. It’s yours.”

And fuck, if that doesn’t send a bolt of heat straight down your spine.

Before you do anything else, you have to taste her.

You lean in, slow, deliberate, letting her feel your breath first—hot and heavy against her bare cheek. She shifts, a tiny twitch, and you drag your long tongue over the curve of her ass, slowly, teasing, tasting the salt of her skin. It’s smooth, soft, warm under your lips, and you take your time, tracing the shape of her before dipping lower. Her breath hitches, a sharp little sound that cuts through the air, and you smirk against her, pressing your lips harder, kissing the sensitive spot just above where she really wants you.

“Oh—fuck,” she whispers, voice thin and shaky, her back arching hard, pushing her ass higher like she’s begging for it.

You don’t give it to her right away. You tease instead, flicking your tongue just around her tight little entrance, circling slow, letting the heat build. She’s so fucking responsive—every twitch, every tremble ripples through her, her thighs quivering like she’s already on the edge. You can hear the sheets rustle as her hands claw into them, knuckles white, her breath coming faster now, ragged and uneven.

Then you go in. Your tongue presses flat against her, wet and slick, lapping at the tight ring of muscle with slow, deliberate strokes. She jolts, a choked moan spilling from her lips, and you growl into her, circling faster, teasing the edges before pushing the tip of your tongue just inside. She’s so goddamn tight, clenching instinctively, but you keep working her—long, deep licks, then quick flicks, tasting her, opening her up.

“Baby—!” Her voice cracks, high and desperate, her whole body shuddering under you. “Oh my fucking god—!”

The way she says it—half plea, half curse—lights you up. You hum against her, low and rough, the vibration sinking into her, and she whines, her hips rocking back, chasing more. Her ass presses harder against your face, cheeks soft and warm around you, and you can feel her relax, giving in, letting you take her apart. Your tongue dives deeper now, long and thick, pushing past that tight resistance, fucking into her slow and steady. She’s dripping—sweat, spit, her own arousal slicking down her thighs—and you love it, love how messy she’s getting, how raw this is.

You pull back just a fraction, enough to see her—ass glistening, pink and puckered, trembling under your touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” you mutter, voice gravelly, thick with want. Then you spit—a fat, warm glob landing right on her hole, dripping slow between her cheeks, mixing with the mess you’ve already made. It’s filthy, obscene, and her whole body jerks when it hits, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.

“Shit—!” she cries, her hands fisting the sheets tighter, dragging them into wrinkled clumps. Her legs shake harder now, knees sliding wider on the bed, opening herself up even more. You dive back in, tongue lashing over her again, spreading the slickness, working it into her. She’s loosening up, bit by bit, her tight little hole softening under your mouth, and you can feel it—the way she’s starting to crave what’s coming next.

Your hands grip her cheeks, spreading her wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave red marks. She whimpers, a broken little sound, and you press your face deeper, nose brushing her skin, tongue fucking into her with wet, sloppy thrusts. The taste of her—raw, sweaty, mixed with your spit—floods your senses, and you groan into her, the sound muffled by her heat.

“Please—” she gasps, barely coherent, her voice wrecked and needy. “Baby, fuck, I can’t—!”

You know what she wants. She’s not saying it yet, but her body’s screaming—hips grinding back, thighs trembling, ass clenching around your tongue like she’s already imagining your cock. You pull back again, slow, letting a thick string of spit trail from your lips to her hole, watching it glisten in the low light. Her back’s arched so hard her spine’s a perfect curve, sweat pooling in the dip above her ass, and her breathing’s a mess—short, shallow pants like she’s drowning in it.

“You ready for me?” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your chin slick and shiny with her. Your cock’s throbbing, hard as steel, pre-cum beading at the tip, and you stroke yourself once, slow and firm, just to take the edge off.

She nods, frantic, head turning so you catch the side of her face—lips parted, cheeks flushed red, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Yes—fuck, please,” she breathes, voice hoarse, desperate.

You smirk, leaning back in to give her one last swipe—a long, slow lick from her hole up the curve of her ass, savoring her shudder. She’s prepped, wet, open, and fucking begging for it. You’re not done tasting her—but now, it’s time to claim her.

You stroke yourself again, once, twice, spreading her with one hand as you line up, pressing the head of your cock against her entrance.

“You sure, baby?” you murmur, teasing her just a little, dragging the tip up and down.

“Yes,” she says immediately, her voice breathless, impatient. “Give it to me.”

And fuck, you do.

You press forward, slow at first, letting her stretch around you inch by inch, feeling every tight, perfect inch sink into her.

“Jesus,” you groan, gripping her waist, steadying yourself. “Still so fucking tight—”

“Mmmm—” Choa’s fingers dig into the sheets, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. “F-fuck, baby—”

You push in deeper, your cock throbbing at the way she clenches around you, the heat of her body pulling you in. “You’d think after all the times I’ve fucked this ass, it’d be looser,” you rasp, dragging a hand up her back, gripping the nape of her neck. “But you’re still so fucking tight, baby.”

“Because it’s yours,” she gasps, rocking her hips back, trying to take more of you. “Made for you—only want you, baby—”

Fuck.

She knows exactly what to say.

You groan, gripping her tighter, then start to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in, letting her feel every thick inch stretch her open.

“Oh my god—” she chokes out, her body trembling. “Baby, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah?” you grunt, squeezing her ass with both hands, watching the way your cock disappears into her. “You still addicted to it?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, pressing back against you, desperate for more. “So addicted—I need it, baby, need you to fill me up—”

That makes your cock twitch.

You start moving faster, picking up the pace, gripping her hips as you drive into her, each thrust deeper, harder.

“Fuck, baby—” she gasps, her voice high, shaky. “Harder—please, baby, I can take it—”

And you give it to her.

Your rhythm turns ruthless, your hips snapping against her, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room. You grip her waist, holding her steady, watching the way she takes every inch of you like she was made for this.

“Holy shit, baby—” she moans, her body rocking forward with every deep thrust. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” you growl, tightening your grip. “You love getting your ass fucked like this?”

“Yes—yes, baby—fuck, I love it, love it so much—”

Your hand moves to her lower back, pressing down just slightly, forcing her into a deeper arch. “You’re so fucking filthy,” you groan, watching the way your cock stretches her open, the way she clenches around you every time you push in. “Taking me so well, baby—”

“All yours, baby,” she gasps. “Fuck me—harder—please, I want to feel it tomorrow—”

And fuck, that does it.

Your grip tightens on her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her in place as you drive into her, deeper, harder. The way her body responds—the way she trembles, the way she clenches around you, the way she gasps like she can barely take it but still needs more—only fuels you.

“F-fuck, baby—” Choa’s voice is a wrecked, breathy mess, her face buried in the sheets, her back arching beautifully beneath you. “So deep—so fucking deep—”

“Yeah?” you murmur, voice low and rough, leaning over her, pressing a hand flat between her shoulder blades to keep her locked down. Her back arches under the pressure, ass tilting higher, begging for more. “You love this shit, don’t you? Love having your tight little ass wrecked by my big fucking cock?”

“Yes,” she moans, voice high and needy, cracking around the edges like she’s already losing it. “Fuck, I love it—love being so fucking full of you—” Her words spill out fast, desperate, her breath hitching every time you shift inside her. She’s an anal whore through and through, a size queen who lives for this—lives for the stretch, the burn, the way you split her open.

That’s it. Your restraint’s gone, shredded to nothing. You grab her hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and yank her back onto you, slamming your cock into her ass so deep the bedframe groans under the force. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes—sharp, wet, filthy—mixing with her breathy whimpers that turn into full-on moans, loud and uncontrollable. The headboard bangs against the wall, a steady thud-thud-thud that matches your rhythm, and you don’t give a fuck if the neighbors hear.

“Oh—oh my fucking god—” she gasps, her fingers clawing at the sheets, twisting them into knots as she tries to hold on. “Baby—fuck—it’s so good, so fucking good—” Her voice is a mess, breaking apart, barely holding together as you pound into her. She’s gone, lost in the stretch, in the way you’re railing her ass like it’s yours to ruin.

You smirk, loving how she can’t even string a sentence together, how she’s just a whining, moaning puddle under you. Her thighs tremble, knees sliding wider on the mattress, opening herself up more, letting you hit even deeper. You can feel her clenching around you, tight and hot, her body begging for it, screaming for you to push her over the edge.

And then—fuck—she loses it completely. “Make me cum!” she screams, voice raw, splitting open with need. “Baby, fucking make me cum—I need it so bad—please—”

That snaps you.

You growl, low and feral, grabbing both her wrists and wrenching them behind her back, pinning them in one hand. Her shoulders lift, chest hovering off the bed, and you’ve got her locked—helpless, totally under your control. You slam into her ass, deep and brutal, burying yourself to the hilt with every thrust. The angle’s perfect, your cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her, stretching her so wide she’s shaking.

“Oh—fuck—” she sobs, head tipping back, hair sticking to her sweaty face, mouth gaping as she gasps for air. “Yes—yes, baby—oh my god—yes—” Her moans break into jagged whimpers, her whole body quaking every time you bottom out. You can see her ass ripple with each thrust, cheeks bouncing, skin turning pink from the impact. Sweat drips down her spine, pooling in the small of her back, and her thighs are slick, trembling so hard she’s barely holding herself up.

“You wanted it?” you snarl, voice rough, strained from how fucking good she feels—tight, hot, gripping you like she never wants to let go. “You fucking demanded it?”

“Yes—baby—yes—” Her words are a chant, frantic, spilling out between sobs and gasps.

“Then fucking take it.”

You go harder, ruthless, hips snapping with punishing force, your grip on her wrists tightening until you feel her bones shift under your fingers. She’s completely at your mercy, body jerking with every thrust, ass swallowing your cock like it’s made for this. She’s an anal slut, drooling for the size, for the way you’re tearing her apart, and you can hear it in her voice—raw, wrecked, loving it.

“Oh my god—oh my god—oh my fucking god—” she chants, her voice climbing higher, breaking apart as her body starts to shake harder. “I—baby—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

That’s all you need. You fuck her straight through it, driving deep, relentless, feeling her ass clench tighter, her whole body seizing up. She’s cumming—hard—her scream ripping through the room, loud and jagged, her back arching so far her spine looks ready to snap. Her toes curl, heels digging into the bed, and her walls clamp down around you, pulsing, milking your cock as her orgasm tears through her.

“Fuck, baby—” she sobs, voice shattering, “I’m cumming—I’m fucking cumming—”

You don’t stop. You keep pounding, rolling your hips hard, dragging it out, making her ride every wave until she’s a trembling, whimpering mess. Her thighs give out, knees slipping, but you hold her up by her wrists, keeping her impaled on you. She’s gone—eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, drool leaking onto the sheets as she gasps and shakes, her ass still twitching around you.

“Shit—shit—oh my god, baby—” Her voice is hoarse, barely there, breaking into soft, pathetic little cries as the aftershocks hit. You slow just a fraction, keeping your cock buried deep, letting her feel it—letting her feel how you’re still hard, still throbbing inside her wrecked ass.

You’re close now, teetering on the edge, her tight heat pushing you there. “Fuck, Choa—” you growl, letting go of her wrists. Her arms flop down, useless, and she collapses forward, chest heaving, ass still up, still stuffed with you.

You stay there, buried in her, catching your breath as your cock twitches inside her ass. She’s panting, skin flushed dark, muscles jumping with little tremors. You pull out slow, watching the way her hole gapes for a second before clenching shut.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes, voice shot to hell, dazed and slurry. She shifts, wincing slightly, then laughs—a soft, breathless sound, pure satisfaction. “That was—shit, my throat hurts from screaming so much…”

But you’re not done with her. It’s like a goddamn animal’s taken over, this clawing, desperate hunger gnawing at your gut, screaming for more of Choa’s tight little body. She’s already a wreck—sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, thighs slick and shiny from everything you’ve done to her, trembling like she’s barely holding it together. But fuck, she’s still so hot, those wide, hazy eyes locked on you, lips parted, chest heaving, but still with breath for more. You grab her wrist, yanking her up from the bed with a growl that’s all need, no patience. “Come here,” you rasp, voice thick and rough, dragging her into you like she’s yours to command. She stumbles, legs shaky, but she’s grinning—breathless, giddy, totally into it.

Before she can catch her breath, you scoop her up, hoisting her into the air like she’s nothing. She squeals, a sharp, startled “Holy shit—” cutting through the room, but her legs snap around your waist on instinct, locking tight. Her hands clutch your shoulders, nails biting into your skin, and she’s laughing, panting, “You love showing off, huh? Fucking hell, I love it when you’re like this.” Her hips roll forward, teasing, brushing her soaked pussy against you, and it’s like a jolt of electricity straight to your cock—still hard, still throbbing, ready to ruin her all over again. She’s light as fuck in your arms, petite and perfect, and you can feel the heat radiating off her, smell the mix of sweat and sex clinging to her skin.

You don’t waste a second. Gripping her thighs—fingers sinking into the soft, slick flesh—you line her up and sink her down onto your cock, slow at first, letting her feel every goddamn inch as her pussy swallows you whole. She’s dripping wet, a hot, slick mess that takes you so easy it’s obscene, and you groan deep in your chest, the sound vibrating through you both. Choa throws her head back, moaning loud and shameless, the noise bouncing off the walls—“Fuck, fuck—yes—” Her voice is wrecked, high and needy, breaking apart as you fill her up. Her nails dig harder into your shoulders, leaving red crescent marks, and her breath stutters, hot and fast against your neck as you start moving. You’re fucking her right there in the air, holding her up like it’s nothing, bouncing her on your cock with every thrust, and she’s completely at your mercy—clinging to you, gasping, moaning your name like it’s her lifeline.

“You like this?” you rasp, voice gravelly, rolling your hips up harder, slamming into her deep enough to make her cry out—a sharp, jagged “Yes—fuck, yes—” that’s half-scream, half-sob. She’s nodding like crazy, fingers twisting into your hair, yanking at the roots as her body arches into you, tits pressing against your chest. Her pussy’s burning up around you, clenching tight, slickness dripping down your thighs, soaking you both. Every bounce makes her tits jiggle, makes her ass slap against your hips, and you can feel her losing it—walls fluttering, breath hitching, so fucking close to falling apart again. She’s a mess of sounds now—whimpers, moans, little gasps that spill out every time you drive into her, and it’s driving you wild, pushing you closer to the edge.

“I’m so close,” you groan, your grip on her thighs tightening, fingers bruising her soft skin as you pound into her harder, your whole body screaming for release. You’re drenched in sweat, muscles burning from holding her up, but it’s worth it—worth the way she’s trembling, the way her pussy’s gripping you like a vice. Choa catches your words, feels the tension in you, and she knows exactly how to break you. Her lips brush your ear, hot and shaky, voice dripping with lust as she whispers, “Cum inside me, baby. I want it all. Give it to me.” Her walls squeeze you tight, a deliberate little clench that makes your vision blur, and fuck—that’s it. That’s the match to the gasoline.

Your control snaps like a cheap fucking string. You growl, low and primal, and start slamming into her with everything you’ve got—no holding back, no mercy, just pure, desperate need, fucking her into oblivion, hips snapping so hard the sound of skin on skin is deafening—wet, sloppy, obscene. Her moans turn into screams— “Yes, yes, yes—fuck—just like that!”—sharp and broken, her nails raking down your back, leaving fire in their wake. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—fill me up, baby, I wanna feel it all!” she cries, her voice raw, begging, and it’s like a drug, sending you spiraling. You grip her tighter, hands sliding to her ass, spreading her cheeks as you drive deeper, harder, faster—every thrust shaking her whole body, making her tits bounce, her hair swing wild.

She’s meeting you now, rolling her hips down onto you, desperate and greedy, taking everything you’re giving her. Her thighs quake around your waist, her breath’s a mess of gasps and sobs, and you can feel it—her pussy’s pulsing, her whole body’s trembling, she’s right there with you. “Gonna cum,” you rasp, voice shredded, your body coiling tight, every muscle locked and ready to blow. “Do it,” she begs, her voice a wrecked whisper, “Cum inside me. Give me everything.” Her words hit like a punch, and that’s the breaking point—your whole world narrows to her, to the heat, to the need.

You bury yourself deep—one last, brutal thrust—and explode. A guttural groan rips from your chest as you cum, hard and unrelenting, thick ropes of it pumping into her, filling her pussy to the brim. It’s intense, overwhelming—pulse after pulse, wave after fucking wave. You’re shaking, hips jerking with every spurt, and Choa gasps, her walls milking you, squeezing every drop as she shudders in your arms. “Oh my god—fuck—” she whimpers, her head dropping onto your shoulder, her body going limp as she feels you flood her.

But it doesn’t stop. Your cock keeps twitching, another hot load spilling deep inside her, and she moans again, softer, wrecked— “So much, fuck, you’re still going—” Her fingers dig into your shoulders, clinging to you as you keep cumming, stuffing her so full it’s leaking out around you, dripping down her thighs, smearing between you both. You grunt, shoving her back against the wall, pinning her there as you roll your hips slow, working every last bit into her. “I’m gonna make sure you’re fucking full,” you growl, panting against her neck, still riding the high, still lost in the primal rush of claiming her.

When it finally fades, when you’re finally spent, you ease up, pulling back just enough to look at her. She’s a goddamn sight—pinned against the wall, chest heaving, skin flushed red, sweat dripping down her collarbone, hair a tangled mess. Your cum’s leaking out of her, thick and white, trickling down her inner thighs, pooling on the floor, and it’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen—proof of how hard you just wrecked her. You slide out slow, watching her pussy clench one last time, trying to keep you in, and more spills out, a sticky mess that makes her shiver.

You set her down gentle, back on the bed, and she collapses, boneless, legs splayed wide, still trembling from the aftershocks. She’s panting hard, blinking up at you with those dazed, satisfied eyes, a slow, lazy grin spreading across her swollen lips. “Holy shit,” she breathes, voice hoarse and slurry, “Best tour ending ever.” Her hand flops to her stomach, then lower, brushing the mess between her legs, and she giggles—soft, fucked-out, totally blissed.

“Shit,” she murmurs before spreading her legs slightly, her fingers dipping lower, then pulling back. A thin string of cum stretches between them, glistening under the dim bedroom light. “Look at this. You really did fill me up.”

Your cock twitches at the sight. You’re still sensitive, still recovering, but fuck, the way she’s playing with herself, teasing, showing you exactly how much you’ve given her—it’s enough to stir that deep, primal hunger all over again.

You reach out, catching her wrist before she can smear it away. “Let me see,” you say, voice rough, still laced with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Choa hums, letting you take control, her eyes dark and hazy as she watches you. Slowly, you slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, pressing inside just enough to feel how warm and soaked she is. She gasps, her body twitching at the sudden intrusion, still sensitive from everything you’ve done to her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, biting her lip. “Still so full…”

You smirk, dragging your fingers back out, coated in thick, pearly white. Holding them up between you, you watch her reaction, teasing her, seeing just how far she’ll go.

Choa’s eyes flick from your fingers to your face, then back again. And then, with deliberate slowness, she leans forward, lips parting.

She takes them into her mouth.

The sight alone is enough to make your stomach clench, your body screaming to go again despite the exhaustion settling into your muscles. She moans softly, swirling her tongue around your fingers, her lips hollowing as she sucks, tasting every drop of what you’ve given her.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, mesmerized by how fucking sensual she is, how naturally she takes it, how much she seems to enjoy it.

She pulls back with a soft pop, licking her lips, her eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Mmm,” she hums, tilting her head. “Tastes like you.”

Your jaw tightens. Fuck. You reach down again, pressing your fingers against her entrance, gathering more, watching the way she shudders at the overstimulation. She’s so sensitive, so raw, but she doesn’t stop you.

You bring them up again, and this time, she grabs your wrist, guiding them into her mouth herself. She takes her time, tongue flicking between your fingers, sucking slowly, teasing. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Jesus,” you mutter, your body tensing, already feeling that deep, slow burn of arousal creeping back in.

Choa grins, finally releasing your fingers with one last, deliberate suck. “Like watching me clean up after you?” she teases.

You shake your head with a chuckle, running your thumb over her swollen lips. “You’re gonna kill me,” you murmur.

She laughs, stretching her sore limbs, her body still trembling slightly from how hard you wrecked her. “You can handle it.”

You exhale, letting the moment settle, letting the intensity fade into something quieter, something softer. You collapse onto the bed beside her, muscles aching but satisfied. She shifts closer, draping herself against your chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over your skin.

For a while, neither of you speak. Just slow breaths, the distant hum of the city outside, the warmth of tangled limbs and shared exhaustion.

But as time goes by, you notice something changing. You can feel it—like there’s something on her mind she’s not saying. You glance down at her, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

She hesitates, biting her lip, and you know right away that whatever it is, it’s serious.

Finally, she sighs. “I was just thinking… about us.”

"Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She traces a slow circle on your chest, eyes still focused on where your skin meets hers. “You know this whole… secret thing? It’s kinda exhausting.”

You let out a low hum. “You’re telling me.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her expression thoughtful, almost hesitant. “What if… we didn’t hide it anymore?”

You blink, surprised. “You serious?”

She shrugs, like she’s trying to play it off, but there’s a tightness in her jaw that tells you she’s worried about your reaction. “I mean… it’s not like people haven’t already guessed. We basically fueled half the rumors ourselves.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. We’re pretty bad at being subtle.”

Her lips quirk into a smile. “You’re the worst. Always touching me during interviews. Looking at me like you’re gonna rip my clothes off the second the cameras are off.”

“Can you blame me?” You grin. “You’re the one who kept putting her hand on my thigh every time someone asked about our chemistry.” She snorts. “You loved it.”

“Damn right I did.” You squeeze her hip lightly, pulling her closer. “But for real… you wanna go public?”

She hesitates again, but then nods. “Yeah. I’m tired of pretending. And honestly? I like being with you. More than I thought I would.”

That makes your chest tighten in the best way possible. You tilt her chin up, making her look at you, and the softness in her eyes just about floors you.

“I like being with you too,” you admit, voice low. “A lot.”

She smiles, and it’s that genuine, unguarded kind of smile that she only shows when it’s just the two of you. “You know it’s gonna be fucking insane if we do this, right? The fans, the media… they’re gonna lose their minds.”

You shrug, smirking. “Let ’em. They were gonna find out eventually. Might as well give ’em something real to scream about.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah. Just really fucking into you.”

Choa leans up and kisses you, slow and sweet, her hands framing your face. When she pulls back, she’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of nerves there too.

“You’re not scared?” she asks softly.

“Terrified,” you admit with a grin. “But I’d rather deal with that than keep pretending I’m not yours.”

Her cheeks flush at that, and she huffs out a breath. “God, you’re gonna get me in so much trouble.”

You just smirk, pulling her on top of you and wrapping your arms around her waist. “Trouble’s kinda our thing, don’t you think?”