#izna

​The restroom in the back of the venue is cold and silent, you were surprised that not many people came here during the break. You wait in the final stall, the door unlatched. A few minutes later, the main door creaks. Quick, light footsteps—the sound of someone in a hurry—approach.

​The stall door swings open and Jeemin slips in, locking it behind her with a sharp click.

​"You're insane," she whispers, her chest heaving against the grey tweed. She looks stunning, her makeup still perfect, but her eyes are wild with a mix of adrenaline and irritation. "What if I let my tongue slip and make everyone around suspicious?"

​"You handled it well though." you chuckles, leaning back against the cold partition.

​Jeemin lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, but the irritation is already melting into something else—the familiar, heavy tension that defines your 'friendship'. The risk of being caught seems to act like an intoxicant for her. She reaches down, unbuttoning your jeans with trembling but steady fingers.

​As she pulls your underwear down, your cock springs free, already thick and throbbing from the anticipation. It’s a heavy weight, the head dark and swollen, a bead of pre-cum glistening on the slit. The veins are mapped clearly along the shaft, pulsing with every beat of your heart. Jeemin lets out a soft, shaky exhale as she stares at it, her fingers reaching out to ghost over the sensitive ridge.

​"I haven't seen you in three weeks," she mutters, her gaze darted from your cock to your eyes. "And seeing you sit there, acting like just another fan... it made me lose my mind."

​She drops to her knees on the tiled floor, her black pleated skirt flaring out around her. She looks up at you through her dark lashes, her eyes predatory and focused. She leans in slowly, her warm breath dancing over the sensitive skin of your tip, making you twitch.

​First, she just uses her tongue. She licks the underside, moving from the base all the way to the crown, savoring the salty taste of you. She swirls her tongue around the head, teasing the opening, her eyes never leaving yours. She wants to see you break.

​Then, she opens her mouth wide, tilting her head back to accommodate your length. She takes just the head at first, sucking on it with a rhythmic, wet pressure. The contrast is staggering—the cold, clinical air of the toilet against the scorching, velvet heat of her mouth.

​Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, she begins to slide down. She takes you deeper, her throat opening up to accept the girth. Her silver earrings jingle softly as she moves, her hands reaching up to grip your thighs, her nails digging into the denim. She’s taking her time, moving with a agonizingly slow, deliberate friction. She swirls her tongue around the shaft as she descends, ensuring every nerve ending is screaming.

​Every time she hears a distant door slam in the hallway, she freezes, her mouth tightening instinctively around you. It creates a suction so intense it nearly pulls the breath from your lungs. She lingers at the base, her nose pressed against your pubic hair, letting you feel the humid heat of her breathing before she starts the slow, wet climb back up.

​"Jeemin," you groan, your head thudding back against the stall wall.

​She looks up, a trail of saliva glistening on her chin, a triumphant, wicked smirk playing on her lips. She knows she has you.

Then the outer door swinging open, and it sound like a gunshot in the small space. High-pitched giggles and the frantic chatter of two teenage fans fill the room, their voices echoing off the tile. "Did you see how pretty Jeemin today?" one squeals. "She looked so ethereal!"

​Inside the stall, the air is electric. You immediately reach down, your fingers tangling firmly into Jeemin's long, dark hair to keep her steady and silent. She doesn't flinch; instead, she leans into the gesture, her eyes locking onto yours with a defiant, thrill-seeking glint. She knows that just a few feet away, her most loyal fans are washing their hands, blissfully unaware that their idol is currently on her knees. Her mouth filled with a cock, a thing that will shatter their world if they knowing it.

​The proximity of the fans acts as a catalyst. Instead of slowing down, Jeemin begins to work with a renewed, predatory focus. Her cheeks hollow out as she maintains a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The wet, squelching sound of her mouth moving against your length is dampened by the noise of flowing water from the faucet.

​She takes you deep, her throat muscles pulsing against the head of your cock, massaging the most sensitive nerves. Her hands leave your thighs and move to your waist, her fingers hooking into your belt loops to pull you deeper into her mouth. She’s moving her head in a slow, circular motion, ensuring that every inch of your throbbing shaft is coated in her saliva.

​You lean your head back against the partition, your teeth grit so hard your jaw aches. The sensation of her velvet tongue swirling around the ridge while she maintains that deep, vacuum-like suction is slowly pushing you toward the edge. You can feel more pre-cum is leaking out, a slick lubricant that only makes Jeemin's movements more fluid.

​"I heard the break is almost over," one of the fans says, the sound of a paper towel dispenser rattling. "We have to get back before the second half starts!"

​Jeemin hears them. She knows the time is ticking away. She releases a tiny, muffled whimper through her nose, a sound of pure, concentrated lust. She picks up the pace, her head bobbing with a frantic, desperate energy. She’s no longer teasing; she’s demanding your release. Her eyes wide and pleading, studying your face for the first sign of your climax. But you hold out.

​The outer door finally creaks shut, and silence returns in the toilet save for the blowjob Jeemin's giving you. She finally pulls back just an inch, the wet, popping sound of the release echoing in the stall. A single thread of saliva connects her lip to the head of your cock as she looks up at you, her face flushed.

​"They're gone," she whispers, her voice thick and raspy. "Did you hear them? They think I'm a goddess. They have no idea what their 'ethereal' idol is doing on this toilet stall."

​You let out a low, rough breath, your fingers still tangled in her espresso-dark hair. "They’d lose their minds if they saw you right now, Jeemin. The center of the group they stanned is kneeling in a toilet stall like she belongs to me."

​She doesn't look offended; if anything, the comment makes her pupils dilate further. "Maybe I do belong to you," she murmurs, a wicked smirk playing on her lips. "But I have to be back out there in a few minutes. The staff is probably already gathering right now."

Jeemin pulls back, her knees creaking slightly as she rises from the cold tile. Standing at her full height, she looks every bit the high-fashion idol in her grey tweed jacket—except for the way her chest is heaving and her eyes are glazed with a raw, unscripted hunger.

​"A few minutes," she repeats, her voice a breathless rasp. "We have to be quick."

​She doesn't wait for your answer. Her hands moving inside her black pleated skirt, hitching it up to reach the thin lace of her panties. She hooks her thumbs into the fabric and slides them down through her long legs. "I don't want to just taste you," she whispers, stepping out of the lace. "I miss the feeling of your cock inside of me."

​She turns around, pressing her palms against the cold metal of the stall door and arching her back. As she bends over, she reaches back with one hand to hike her skirt up over her waist, fully exposing herself to you.

Jeemin's pussy is a pristine, pale pink contrast against the dark fabric of her skirt. She is meticulously groomed, her skin smooth and soft, glowing under the harsh fluorescent light of the stall. Her outer lips are petite and neat, but they are already glistening, parted slightly to reveal the deeper, darker rose petals of her core. A thin trail of her own arousal is beginning to coat her inner thighs, making her look incredibly vulnerable yet demanding. The sight of her—the center of izna bending over for you in a dirty toilet—is enough to make your pulse hammer.

​"Hurry," she breathes, looking back over her shoulder. Her face is flushed, a strand of dark hair caught in her lip tint. "The manager is going to start searching me in any second."

​You step forward, your hands gripping her hips. "You’re a brat, Jeemin-ah," you mutter into her ear, feeling her shiver as your cock brushes against her wetness. "Risking everything for a few minutes just for a fuck in the toilet."

​"It's only a risk if we get caught," she moans as she feel your cock began to push forward. "Now stop talking... and show me why I invited you back here."

You enter her with one smooth, deliberate thrust, buried to the hilt in one go. The transition from the cool air of the toilet to the scorching of her tight pussy is so intense that it makes your vision swim. Jeemin lets out a sharp, strangled cry, her back arching violently as she takes all of you.

​"Oh god," she whimpers, her head snapback. "You're so... you're so deep. I can feel you hitting my womb."

​"Shh," you command, your hands gripping her hips tightly, anchoring her. "We're in public, Jeemin. Do you want someone to hear how much you liked this?"

​Jeemin shakes her head frantically, biting down on her lip until it's a bruised, dark red. You begin to move, your rhythm slow and heavy at first, each thrust bottoming out against her. The sound of her wetness—the rhythmic, squelching friction of your skin against hers—is the only thing audible in the stall besides her ragged breathing.

​"Please," she begs, her voice a broken whisper. "Faster. I don't have time to be gentle. Break me before I have to go back. I want to feel sore when I’m sitting on that chair. I want every fan who looks at me to have no idea that I’m aching because of you."

​You oblige, picking up the pace until the stall door is rattling on its hinges. She’s incredibly tight, her muscles clenching around you with every stroke, trying to pull more of you inside. Her pale skin is flushed a deep, feverish pink, and sweat is starting to bead on her forehead, threatening to ruin her makeup.

​Suddenly, the heavy outer door of the restroom swings open.

​"Jeemin-ah? Are you in here?" It’s her manager. The footsteps are brisk, heavy, and heading straight toward the stalls.

​Jeemin freezes, her entire body locking up around you in a terrifyingly tight grip. Her eyes go wide as she stares at the reflection of the stall gap in the door.

You also freezes, your cock buried deep inside her, feeling every throb of her pulse against your shaft. Jeemin is rigid, her fingers is red as she digs the metal door with her silver nails, her head turned toward the gap in the stall. The manager’s footsteps stop right outside the stall door where you and Jeemin are inside.

​"Jeemin, are you there? The fansign are gonna continue soon, you need to go back." the manager says, her voice echoing off the tile, just inches away.

​Jeemin’s eyes are blown wide, shimmering with a mix of sheer terror and a perverse, heightened arousal. She looks back at you, her face a mask of desperation. You lean forward, your lips brushing against her ear, whispering just loud enough for her to hear.

​"Answer her, Jeemin-ah. Tell her you’re coming."

​Jeemin swallows hard, her throat working as she tries to find her voice. She closes her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning as you give her one tiny, excruciatingly slow twitch of your hips.

​"I-I’m here," she finally chokes out. Her voice is higher than usual, a bit breathy, but she manages to steady it. "I’m sorry... my stomach is really acting up. I think the iced americano from earlier didn't sit well. I just need a moment."

​"Your stomach?" the manager asks through the door, her tone shifting to concern. "Do you need some medicine? I can go grab the emergency kit from the van. We still have about 15 minutes before you're up."

​"No!" Jeemin interrupts, her hand reaching back to blindly grab your thigh, squeezing hard as you intentionally grind your pelvis against her rear. "It's getting better now! I just need to sit still for a second. It's passing, I promise. Just... give me five minutes to compose myself. I'll be right out."

​There’s a long, agonizing silence. You watch Jeemin’s reflection in the stall’s polished chrome; she looks like she’s about to shatter. Her idol facade is held together by a single thread as she feels you pulsing inside her.

​"Five minutes, Jeemin. I'll wait right outside the main door for you," the manager huffs. The footsteps finally retreat, and the heavy outer door creaks shut with a definitive thud.

​The moment the latch clicks, Jeemin collapses against the door, a loud, ragged sob-moan escaping her throat. She turns her head to look at you, her makeup slightly smudged from the heat, her eyes wild.

​"You're a monster," she breaths, though she’s already shoving her hips back against you, demanding the friction she’s been holding up. "She was right there. She was right there and you didn't stop. You kept moving inside me while I was lying to her face."

​"You loved the risk," you growl, finally letting go of the restraint and driving into her with a fast, heavy rhythm that makes the entire stall shake. "Now, you have four minutes left before you have to go back to being an idol. Make them count."

You reach around Jeemin slender waist, your hands sliding upward until they disappear under the heavy grey tweed jacket. You find the swell of her breasts, unsurprisingly firm and warm, and cup them tightly through the thin fabric of her top.

​Jeemin lets out a broken, high-pitched gasp that she immediately stifles by burying her face into the crook of her arm against the stall door. "Ah... yes," she whimpers, her body jolting with every heavy thrust. Your palms knead her chest, your thumbs flicking over her nipples through the layers of clothing. The sensation of being claimed from behind while her manager stands just a few yards away is clearly sending her over the edge.

​"You're shaking, Jeemin-ah," you growl, your grip tightening on her as you pick up the pace even more. "Is the center of izna really going to lose it in a public toilet?"

​"Shut up... just... don't stop," she pleads, her voice cracking. She pushes her weight back against you, her heels digging into the tile as she tries to take every possible inch of you. The wet, rhythmic slapping of your bodies is the only sound in the stall, punctuating the muffled K-pop hits playing in the distance.

​You can feel her internal muscles beginning to spasm, clamping down on your cock with a desperate, crushing force. She’s close—so close that her breathing has turned into a series of jagged, silent sobs. You lean forward, your chest pressing into the back of her jacket, your hands still possessively gripping her breasts as you drive her toward the finish.

​"Look at me," you command, and she twists her neck back just enough for you to see her blown-out pupils and the sheer, raw longing on her face. "Tell me who you belong to before you go back out there."

​"You," she exhales, the word catching in her throat as her climax finally begins to roll over her in waves. "I'm yours... hurry... please..."

You lean in to kiss her in a frantic, hungry kissing, tasting her pink lip tint. Jeemin moans into your mouth, a high, vibrating sound that she tries to swallow as she loses the battle for her composure. Beneath the cropped hem of her jacket, you can feel her back arching, her skin hot and damp against your palms.

​Jeemin reaches her peak first. Her body goes completely rigid, her pussy clamping down on your cock in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms. Her head thrashes against your shoulder, and she lets out a muffled, broken sob into the kiss, her eyes squeezed shut as she shatters. The sheer intensity of her release—the way she pulses around you while pinned against the stall door—is the final trigger you need.

​"I'm right behind you, Jeemin-ah," you growl against her lips.

​With three more heavy, bottoming-out thrusts, you reach your own limit. You groan, your voice a rough, guttural sound, and bury yourself deep inside her. You feel the scorching heat of your release filling her, a pulsing surge that makes Jeemin’s knees buckle. She whimpers, her body still trembling from her own climax as she takes everything you're giving her.

​You stay there for a long moment, pinned together, until the urgency of the situation forces you to move. When you finally pull your cock out of her pussy with a wet, heavy sound, Jeemin lets out a sharp intake of air. Your sperm immediately begins to drip down her pale inner thighs, a stark, messy contrast to her polished idol image.

​Jeemin doesn't even look down. Without bothering to wipe yourself off her or clean the evidence dripping from her core, she simply reaches for the floor. She grabs her lace panties and pulls them back up over her long legs, the fabric instantly soaking up the heat of your release. She hitches her black pleated skirt back into place, the thick fabric hiding the dampness beneath.

​"I have to go," she whispers, her voice a wreck. She quickly dabs at her makeup, checking her reflection in the polished metal of the stall to ensure she still looks like an idol. She gives her grey jacket a sharp tug to straighten the shoulders and slips out of the stall, carrying the weight of you inside her as she runs back to the stage.

You remain in the stall for a few minutes, listening to the silence of the restroom, save for the hum of the ventilation. You take a moment to fix your own clothes, the lingering scent of Jeemin expensive perfume and the heat of the encounter still clinging to your skin. When you finally emerge and step back into the main hall, the transformation is jarring.

​The bright, artificial lights of the venue hit you instantly. The atmosphere is filled with the sound of upbeat pop tracks and the synchronized chanting of fans. There she is, sitting centrally on the long table, the grey tweed jacket looking perfectly structured and professional once more. She’s currently leaning forward, listening intently to a fan, her eyes wide and sparkling with simulated wonder.

​As you move through the crowd toward the exit, you position yourself near the front barrier. You wait for the moment her gaze wanders. It doesn't take long. As Jeemin finishes signing an album and reaches for a headband a fan gifted her, her eyes sweep the room and lock onto yours.

​The change is almost imperceptible to anyone else, but you see it. Her pupils flare, and a subtle, dark heat flickers in her expression. Her hand, currently holding a plush toy, tightens just a fraction. She doesn't break character—she can't—but she offers a slow, lingering blink, a secret acknowledgement of the slick heat she’s currently hiding under her black pleated skirt. She knows that with every move she makes for the cameras, she can feel you.