#mianhae

You have to be a witch of some sort. Whatever kind of otherworldly magic that has allowed you to render him a whining, pining puddle of goo every time you talk to him is a mystery. 

It puzzles him. Since the first session, you’ve found a way to worm into his heart, message by message, making him smile at his phone like a fool—something he hasn’t done since he was thirteen. 

At first, he was just having fun. Getting to know a new client was always fun at first. But as he got to know you more, he realized that there was something about you he just couldn’t get out of his mind.

You were awkward, but charming. Honest, but secretive.  Nervous, but flirty. A total contradiction all wrapped up into a small circle profile picture at the top of his phone, coming to life one random Tuesday night when he got on a call with you and realized that you were real. 

Now, he can’t stop thinking about it. Correction: he can’t stop thinking about you. 

Your gentle sighs—how they spilled from your glossy lips, how you watched him with desperate, watery eyes, rolling them to the back of your head as you softly moaned his name. 

He can’t look at the color purple the same. Sharpies make him shudder. 

He spits on his hand and coats his cock with saliva, grip tightening.  Fire courses through his veins, and obscene, sticky sounds melt together with his low grunts as he fucks his fist while thinking of you.

The memory of you morphs into a vivid fantasy, one where you’re trembling beneath him in real life, shuddering with every time he touches your soft, supple skin. You challenge him with some bratty quip, push his buttons with teasing touches, and then beg him to spoil you after he fucks you so good you can’t help but want more. 

You’d piss him off and laugh about it. Get slapped in the face and look back at him with a stupidly lovesick smile. His dick throbs almost painfully.

 Yeah, he’s a real piece of shit, alright. But fuck it, he can’t stop.