Laid Bare
IVE Rei x m!reader || ~13.4k words
Alright. It’s time to patrol the floor.
You press a finger to your ear, take a deep breath, and push into the side door—into the nightclub proper.
There’s a half-second where you go completely deaf before your hearing returns to you. The noise hits you all at once: the hissing spray of the fog machines overhead, the thumping of the bass that threatens the warranty of the surround-sound speakers, the cheers and jeers of the crowd, the rhythmless thumping of bouncing bodies. Everything is a shade of red-orange. You have to hold up a hand to your face to stop one of the strobe lights from blinding you. As you take your first few steps into the scene this evening, you smoothen out the creases of your blazer and nod.
This is SAXO—the most prestigious nightclub on this side of Seoul. Belonging to a collection of different spots all under The Kingdom Collective, hundreds—if not thousands—of warm bodies find their ways at SAXO’s doorstep to drink, spend, and party to forget their pitiful lives for even just a few hours.
But not you. Not you.
You take a deep breath. Really feel it in your chest. And when you exhale slowly, letting the drag of air on the way out tickle your nostrils, you lock in as time slows down to a blur all around you.
You scan the room.
Slashed purse at Table Fourteen. Half-filled beer bottle at the DJ’s mixing pad. Fingers thrusted at the bar area.
Index to thumb, you snap. Then it all comes back to life.
You strut over to Table Fourteen and grab the idiot with curly hair by the inside of his belt, preventing his escape. “Huh? What—?”
Smack. You backhand the son of a bitch and take the opportunity to grab the wallet he was just holding as he stumbles backwards onto the floor.
You sift through the I.D. cards and glance at the group of unaware ladies who are now looking at you in confusion. “This must be yours. Keep an eye on your things please. Our staff can only do so much.”
After the ponytailed woman nods at you in silent gratitude, you whistle and call over a triad of bouncers. They immediately swarm the perpetrator and have him pinned with his arms behind his back. “You know the drill. Put his photo up on the wall. Then give these ladies a bottle from the top shelf. On the house.”
The same lady from earlier gasps and shakes her head. “No no, it’s fine. Getting my wallet back’s more than enough.”
But you calm her down with a gesture of your hand and signal to one of the bouncers. “Hennessy. On me.”
When her drunken friends scream in elation over hearing this, the lady smiles and lifts her glass up to you. You salute with two fingers before trudging towards the dance floor.
Cutting through should be easy, but the ongoing rave makes the crowd feel like an actual ocean.
Shoulders bumping. Backs pressing into you. Whispers exchanging at decibels higher than they should be. You don’t part the crowd—you know better than to do that. Instead you run your hand through your hair and get with it. Get with them. You go with the flow. Head bopping. Arms in the air. Swaying and shimmying past person to person. All until you reach the elevated podium.
One of the bouncers stationed at the front sees you and snaps into a straighter posture, but when you lift both your hands at him he learns to relax a bit. “First night?”
He glances left and right to make sure you’re talking to him. “Y-Yeah … s-s-sorry, boss.”
“Relax. Take it easy. Just remember: make sure everyone’s having a good time. The safe way.”
“Y-You got it!” he wheezes, unclipping the velvet cord so you can pass through. You pat him on the back and squeeze his shoulder before jogging up the steps towards the sound booth.
Pressing fingers against your ear to fold it shut, you dip forward and jab your waist at the DJ. You give him no time to complain. This sudden motion makes the wire connecting his headphones to his laptop coil around his bottle of beer and would have sent it toppling onto the mixing pad had you not swiped it up in time.
“Jesus Christ—you fucking scared me. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a set here?” Hajoon groaned, unraveling the wire.
“I said no drinks while you’re on set. This is the third time this week.”
He flaps his lips in mockery, snatching the beer back from you. Downs it in one go. Sighs in contentment. Then shoves it back to your chest, dampening the fold of your blazer. “Whatever, bossman. Learn to loosen up a little. Here—ready for the drop?”
As soon as he pushes one of the doodads on his device, you hear the music start to quicken and pulsate throughout the room. You can feel the hastening thrum in the back of your throat. When you think you can’t take the tension anymore, Hajoon flicks his wrist and throws his hands in the air.
“Everybody make some noise!”
Then the drop happens and everyone’s cheering to the beat. Tongues out. Fists pumping. Bodies yielding.
Hajoon jabs you with his waist and wraps an arm around your neck. “You see that, bossman? That’s the kind of magic we fucking enable each night. So will you cut me some slack? If it helps, I’ll cut back on the drinks too. I only got to sneak one in because you sent a newbie to guard me tonight.”
You peel his sweaty arm off you and dust yourself off. “We’ll see. Maybe play some good music first, then I’ll think about it.”
He hisses. “So fucking cold. But that makes me respect you all the more—not gonna lie.”
You ignore him and duck under the cord to rejoin the shifting masses. The new bouncer doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye as you slither your way once more through the crowd to get to the other side of the room where the bar is.
“I fucking told you—we paid for our table in advance. What do you mean we need to show you ‘proof of purchase’? Fucking bitch. Your place is already expensive—.”
“Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem here.”
The gravitas you exude is enough to silence the four men trying to overpower and intimidate your bar staff.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” you repeat, making sure they hear you over the second beat drop Hajoon just laid out for the people. “You can relay it to me directly.”
One of the guys tugs on the sleeve of his complaining friend, but he swats him away. He’s the only one who still looks arrogant despite his face being as red as a raspberry. “Ya … who the fuck are you? Are you their manager? I’d like to speak with the fucking manager.”
“You’re talking to him.”
“O-Oh … oh, then good,” he flinches. “Like I was saying—your club’s trying to fucking scam me and my friends. Bleeding us dry, huh? We paid for the table reservation fee AND the three-hour extension for our table. And they say we can’t get more fucking drinks?”
You gesture to the poor girl just trying to do her job. She hands you one of her small tablets and you begin scrolling through records. “Says here you paid in full and still have some credit for your tab. What do you want to order?”
He scoffs. “Was thinking of getting me and my boys a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Each. But you’re all ruining our fun, so maybe we’ll just—.”
“You can’t afford it.”
The man raises a brow. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just—.”
“I said. You can’t afford it,” you utter once more, diction sharp enough to penetrate through their thick skulls. “The table’s a million won. You already spent nine-hundred thousand on other liquors. Four bottles of this gin will cost you two-hundred-and-forty thousand more—over your cap.”
“I can—.”
You point to the lanyard one of his friends wears. Then to the knock-off Ray Bans on his other friend’s forehead. Then to the crumpled envelope in his right pocket. “Keep burning your stipend money and you’ll be out of college faster than I can kick you out of this club.”
His little group inhales so tensely through clenching teeth over what you just relayed to them that their little leader starts to physically fume in the well-deserved embarrassment. “Y-Yeah? Well fuck you, asshat. Let’s go, guys. We’re leaving—.”
You hold your arm out to stop his lanky body in time, grabbing some middle shelf liquor in the same stroke. “Here. Bit over your tab, but on me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
You don’t get the privilege to see his dumfounded face. You salute the woman working the bar before heading towards the back wings.
This was you. This is your nightly life as the manager of SAXO. It’s never dull. Not with the constant flow of people like these it isn’t.
When you lean against the wall adjacent to the restrooms, one of the bouncers notices you and offers you a seat by one of the empty tables along the balcony area, but you reject it with a shake of your chin. Hard to patrol when seated. Hard to monitor without a vantage point. There’s never any rest for the wicked, so you don’t allow yourself any either. Instead, you fix the grip of your watch against your wrist and check the time.
Twelve-fifty-three.
Glancing back up, your hairs stand on edge.
You find yourself as if you were on the roof of the building. Atop SAXO. Where the humdrum of the club below can blur enough to the point that it can almost be considered silence. You take what you can get. In this spec of solitude amidst your night to night affairs for work, you enjoy being able to stare up at the evening sky and just gaze. Stargaze.
When you look at the stars, you never really focus on a single fixed point. There are many stars out there, constantly burning, some already having died out, some whose light have yet to reach your eyes. They all look the same to you. Same shining orbs. Same glow and halation. Same patch of freckles that dot the expanse of the universe. But once in a while, once you let your guard down—if you can even let it—you find yourself drawn to a star that calls to you. Grabs your attention. Not brighter. Not differently-colored. Not even more attractive.
It just pulls you in. And before you know it, it’s all you look at. It’s all your weary eyes focus on.
It’s all you see.
That’s the same thing she does to you.
Chests lift and drop. Shoulders form waves that veil her visage. Strobe lights paint everything around her in a light haze. She whips her head around, hair fanning out downwards. Dip of the chin. Rise of the nose. Lock of the eyes.
She isn’t just looking at you. She’s caught you.
And the pull of her lips into a smirk is enough evidence of it.
You know very well that meeting someone’s gaze at the club is a death sentence. You know their appearance now. How they act. What they do. Where they are. You can track them down around the dance floor. Pinpoint their table. Vibe check their company. Note how intoxicated they are. Check to see if they’re hitting on someone. Or if anyone’s hitting on them.
But when someone catches you staring? That isn’t just a death sentence.
It’s an execution. And she drops the guillotine on you the moment she bites her lip.
You look away. You just meant to look respectfully. You hope you did. You didn’t linger, did you? If you did, it was just out of appreciation. Admiration. She’s beautiful. That much you can glean from an initial glance. Not enough to mark her in your mind, but enough to make her relevant in your field of view.
You’re an idiot. You look again.
Honey blonde hair, dark at the roots. Freshly threaded brows. Slender nose—sharp at the tip, softer around the sides. Oval-framed visage that looks soft upon a caress but sharp upon provocation. Lower lip so plump you forget she has two to form the curve of her smirk.
But really. What catches you are her eyes.
Because they’re staring right at you now.
You look away. For good this time. You’re certain because you push off the wall and walk a few steps away from your initial perching position. Not stopping until you’re sure that she isn’t looking at you anymore
You brush past a pair of heaving girls rushing to the toilets to vomit.
Nope, still looking at you.
You lean over a group of college kids playing King’s Cup and ask them how their night is.
Nope, still looking at you.
You run a hand across the bar counter to inspect its cleanliness.
Nope, still looking at you.
She won’t fucking stop looking at you. And you hate it.
Because you can’t stop looking at her either.
She shifts. Hands behind her head, hips swaying in a figure eight to the music. You’re still pissed at Hajoon, but you have to thank him for the boppy track he’s put on now. It makes her thrust her elbows out. Side to side. Doing a little spin. And when she comes back around, she smirks at you again.
It’s only then that you scan the rest of her. Filling out the form of her figure.
Buckled corset tight around her petite frame. Red pants dotted with silver buttons that you just know jingle with even the slightest movements. Nails painted silver. Armband dripped in gold. Boots that cheat her height and allow her to look taller men in the eye.
But really. What catches your attention this time isn’t in the seen. It’s in the unseen.
At the swell around her cleavage that’s threatening to spill out.
You look away. But you’re not sure you’ve done so because you can still see her in your peripheral. Like what happens when you stare at the sun for too long like a dumbass and it imprints its afterimage so fucking deep into your retinas.
You move over to the receiving area where there’s still a line steadily being processed by your diligent staff. A pair of bouncers recognize you and one of them dips their shades to greet you. You hang around them for a moment. Cross your arms. Return to the crowding dance floor. Let out a sigh.
Holy shit she’s moving towards you now.
One guy’s blatantly looking down her top. Another’s grinding against her. But she pushes past them, body still enslaved by the beat. But honing in on you like a beacon.
You make the mistake of looking her in the eyes again. She smirks wider. Like she’s got you in her clutches with a lasso, she shimmies through the sweaty bodies around her until she’s parted from the crowd.
You snap behind your back, and time pauses.
You scan the room.
Wide hips flaring out of the confines of her fitted leather pants. Gait so resonant you can almost hear its cadence amidst the blasting music. Face dyed a myriad of colors, but her expression remains unchanging.
“Are you just going to keep staring?”
It didn’t work.
She’s right in front of you now. Three steps away. You fail to realize it until she points it out. “Not much of a dancer?”
“I dapple. Just not tonight. Just not here.”
“I’ll only believe it when I see it. Too pompous to join the crowd? Are we not good enough for you?” she remarks, voice lilting like a tease towards the end.
“Got business to attend to—always. Can’t mix work and play.”
“Didn’t seem that way when you were eye-fucking me just now.”
The bouncers on either side of you flinch. You can tell because of the way these two burly buffoons fucking twitched. She can tell too because she’s two steps away now and pressing the matter still.
“I wasn’t eye-fucking you. Just patrolling. Just work.”
“Is your job supposed to be undressing wasted girls like me in your mind? You’re doing a terrible job then. I’m pretty fucking wasted right now, but I don’t feel very naked.”
“You’re not—.”
She’s one step away now.
“Hm?” she raises, and so does her brow. “Too on the nose for you? Or are you still ‘working’?”
Her hand finds its way to your chest as she presses into your clavicle, wiping away that one bead of sweat that rolls down your blazer. Your eyes never leave her face. Even as she tugs on and adjusts the rise of your collar. “What’s it going to take to be supervised by you? Directly.”
You tilt your head to the side. When that isn’t enough, you step as far back as you can before bumping into another velvet cord. Then you sigh. “Respectfully. Hands off. I’m an employee here.”
Her eyes widen like she just caught something. “Part of the background? Boring. Someone like you being off-limits—such a waste.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. That’s fine. Because she doesn’t let you. “Is it company policy to not mingle with your clientele? I just saw you getting real handsy with a group of girls earlier. You’re making me jealous just thinking about it.”
The implication of that statement is something you just keep to yourself.
Before she can move closer, you hold your hand out. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. But this?” you pause, pointing your finger to her then back to yourself. “Not a chance.”
She clicks her teeth and backs away too. Finally. But her eyes are what do you over. She’s rolling them at you. Mockery. Frustration. Disappointment. “You’re no fun. Keep eye-fucking me then. Hope you get a kick out of it.”
Before you know it, she seamlessly rejoins the crowd, dancing with the masses once again.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened?
You don’t know. You’re not sure.
All you can think of is finishing your patrol so you can get some rest. You want to make sure everything’s in order for the evening before you leave the rest to your second. So you continue on your nightly routine. Just like nothing happened.
But god forbid this woman is making it difficult for you to pretend like nothing happened.
You can’t explain it.
When you patrol the lower tables—the ones closer to the dance floor—you see her spiraling around the edges of the crowd. Not really lingering too long at any one spot. Like she’s trailing you. Following you. You had to make one of the customers repeat themselves when you got distracted by the way she ‘fixed’ her top, flashing you enough skin to imagine the rest of what’s hidden beneath it.
Over by the entrance, while you were in the middle of resolving a dispute over fake I.D.s, she was hovering behind you. At a safe distance. Behind the barriers and bouncers. She’s watching you work. Observing how you tell someone off without needing to raise your voice. Smirking at you, twirling her hair, staring at you as she’s playing thoughts in her mind that you can only assume are no good.
Even when you sneak away to relieve yourself at the staff washroom. The moment you come back out, she’s sipping on a glass of whiskey. Staring daggers at your surprised face. With that gaze of hers that short-circuits your brain. She doesn’t say anything. Just sips. Just drinks. Just relishes in your flushed state as you hurry yourself away from her.
She’s not even meddling. She’s not even provoking.
She’s just there.
She’s going around you, but god does it feel like you’re the one orbiting her. Because this woman knows she’s got you.
She’s got you good.
“Anything else I missed? I’ll leave the cleanup and closing to you. Like always,” you tell your second, who’s already writing things down on his notepad. “And Minho, please, for the love of god, will you stop wearing those ridiculous ties?”
Minho peeks up from his sheets and pokes the yellow rubber-ducky tie with his pen. “This? My mother bought it for me, boss. It’d be a waste not to wear it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “At least wear it somewhere else. Well—whatever. Before I go, make sure to keep an eye out on Table Nine. Got a feeling they’re runners—.”
“Boss!”
The beckon rings like a siren. You register it immediately and are ready to strafe past Minho when you see one of the serving staff runs up to the both of you. Panting. Completely out of breath. “Boss, there’s … ha … there’s a commotion on the dance floor!”
Your eyes first dart over to Hajoon. But oddly enough, he’s not trying to hit on anyone again this time. Instead, he’s watching something. Watching someone.
In fact, everyone on the dance floor’s watching someone. Noticeably so now that you realize there’s a small circular parting in the center of the crowd.
You follow the staff over and freeze at the outer edge of this commotion.
You see her.
She’s dancing like she owns the place. Like she owns the dance floor. Hajoon’s got his hands on the beat, but she’s got her hands all over her body. She’s being a diva right now. Bathing in the glow of the lights shining down on her. Feeling herself. Basking in the attention that’s being dripped all over her.
She ropes in one guy at a time. Dancing with him. Swaying next to him. Grinding on him. She slides her back up and down the front of one of them. Wraps her arms around the neck of another. One of the poor blokes makes the mistake of moving in to kiss her. She immediately bites his lip and gets a kick out of his pained reaction.
Your fist is clenching tightly by your side, and you’re not sure why.
Before you know it, you’re pushing—no, shoving—people aside just to get to the center of it all. Just to get to her. Tugging on the length of your necktie, when you make it to the lady in question, you hold out an arm to stop the next guy from entertaining her, and just grab her by her arm.
“What the hell are you doing?” you demand. She reeks of alcohol and sweat. “You’re drunk. You’re making a scene.”
“Yeah? Is that not allowed?” she prods, stepping closer to you. She shrugs your grip off and crosses her arms. “Didn’t think it wasn’t, but hey, made you look didn’t I? I knew it was the only way to grab your attention.”
You glance past her. To Hajoon. The man scrambles for his headphones and changes up the music, inviting everyone to return to the dance floor and party like there’s no tomorrow once again. Back to the regular routine of things.
But you don’t let up on her.
And she doesn’t let up on you.
Because her hands are now resting on your waist.
“Saw you talking to shorty over there,” she announces, pointing at Minho with her lips. “Thought you’d be off the clock now, manager. Didn’t think you’d eye-fuck me again that quickly though.”
“I was not eye—.”
She pulls you in. Whether it’s with her hands or with her gaze, you can’t tell. “Just shut up and dance.”
You indulge her.
You lied. You’re not a very good dancer. And she notices this. She leads you both. At times she lets you do your stupid little shindig while she’s busting out a move. Other times she’s holding you by the wrist and guiding your hands to either her shoulders or her hips.
And you’re starting to come undone.
How could you not?
Every run of her fingers across one of your shoulders to the other. Every bump of her butt against your crotch. Every nick of her knee against your thigh. She’s toying with you. She’s building you up. Leading you on. Because she knows.
She knows you can’t do a single damn thing about it.
You don’t keep track of time. But after what feels like an hour of working the dance floor with you, she finally pulls away enough to give you your own personal space again. She walks you over to the wings to where her table is. Table Twenty-Three.
First thing you see are two couples engaged in a contest to see who could be the sloppiest when making out.
“Don’t mind them. They won’t get naked. At least, they told me this isn’t that kind of club,” she explains. She casually reaches over one of the couples, who you are pretty sure are sneaking in some fingering on the couch, and grabs one of their drinks. She sniffs it. She reels. But she downs it anyway.
“Are we done here? Had your fill yet?” you ask. Unsure of where you’re trying to go with that.
“Yeah. Be seeing you.”
What?
You swear you almost hear yourself say that out loud. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it must be an entertaining one—for her at least.
“Was fun. Maybe we’ll come back here again.”
She followed you around. She stalked you like a hawk. She dragged you into her little shenanigans in the middle of work. All for this? All for nothing?
It was your turn to feel dumbfounded tonight. Dumbfounded because you were a fool for expecting anything bigger to have come out of this.
You bit your tongue enough to bleed iron into your tastebuds before nodding stiffly. “Right. Right, be seeing you.”
To add insult to injury, she waves at you with a smirk as you lug your body towards the staff exit.
---
“Boss, Table Eleven’s going red.”
You know that signal. You know that queue.
In moments, you’re already halfway towards said table, when your shoes screech against the polished floor. Stopping yourself.
“Hm? Care to join us?”
It’s her again.
Honey blonde hair pulled behind her. Black ribbed plunging half-sleeve top baring a fraction of her upper midriff. Bandeaux bra on full display. Exposed skin moist from collecting the condensation dripping from her glass.
You clock the empty vodka bottle on the table. You scan the eight different people gathered around the table with her. You take note of her challenging half-lidded stare.
“If you’re done with that drink, I’m taking it.”
“Tsk, we’re just playing spin the bottle. Is that not allowed?”
“Your little ‘game’ is disturbing everyone else. Take a hint,” you warn her, eyes fixed on her face that remains unflinching before you.
“It’s a fucking club. Of course we’ll be loud. Don’t want your customers having fun, manager-nim?”
The way she addresses you makes your blood boil all the more. “Give me that—.”
She beats you to it and spins the bottle. Lo and behold it lands with the snout facing you. The bottom facing her.
Smirking, she taps her lip with her newly painted red nail. “Five shots of scotch. In a row. Think you can do it?”
The crowd around her table is clapping and leering at you. But you ignore them. “I’m not playing—.”
She loops an arm around you and blinks innocently. Twice. For just a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be the life of the party? Let’s get this night started properly. Shots! Shots! Shots!”
They begin to mimic your chant. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
The other tables begin to chime in. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
Soon even some of your serving staff applaud you. Egg you. Even when you give them the eye.
You glance at the bottle of scotch conveniently already at the table. You glance at the clubgoers surrounding you now. Then you glance at her.
“I don’t drink. Not anymore.”
You get booed in a heartbeat.
Shrugging, she dips down and fills up one of the shotglasses for herself. “Suit yourself.” Before you know it, she’s already drank one. Then two. Then five. All down the hatch.
Just as you are about to leave this brewing cesspool, someone tugs you from behind.
You’re not one to take that lying down. Ready to unwrap your arm from them and shove them to the ground. But the lightness of the grip is what throws you off.
And it’s enough hesitation for her to pounce on your lips and kiss you.
You don’t pull away. You can’t.
She’s holding your face. Both hands. One on each cheek. When you tug upwards, she follows, moaning into your mouth. But where you expect her bare tongue, something liquid is in its place. When you realize what’s happening, it’s already too late.
She just snowballed five shots of scotch right into your mouth.
When the taste of liquor hits your tastebuds, something fires in your brain. Something reflexive. Something ingrained. You rip your lips from her and spray out the alcohol. The two dudes behind you are fucking pissed, but you apologize sincerely and call for some staff to help clean the mess.
Returning to her, you grab her by the elbow. “I told you I don’t fucking drink—.”
“That wasn’t a drink. That was a taste,” she corrects you, smirking once more. Using that fucking gaze on you again. “Taste of me. Don’t get too drunk now.”
You’re unable to react. You let her kiss you once more on the lips and giggle before rejoining her posse for the night.
“Are you alright, boss? You look—.”
“Don’t just stand there, Minho. Get me some damn water,” you snap as you feel the liquor burning your tastebuds still. Thank god it didn’t drip into your throat. A taste was more than enough to give you goosebumps.
As Minho disappears towards the bar, you just watch as this woman pours cognac down her throat. Straight from the bottle. While looking at you.
With a smirk.
“B-Boss …? Boss!”
“What is it newbie? I don’t have all night,” you huff at the bouncer. You could have been nicer to him. Nicer about it. But doing arithmetic manually on a calculator and a physical spread sheet for hours would put anyone in a fuckass mood. “What do you need from me?”
“S-S-Someone’s um … stripping—.”
You don’t even have to ask for context.
As soon as you burst out from the break room, your eyes immediately train on the sound booth. On Hajoon.
On her.
You claw through the crowd. Is it to get closer to the unfolding scene? Is it to stop it? You’re not sure. You don’t fucking know. All you can picture are the things that will spread about your club after tonight if this continues.
When you make it to the divider, the newbie watches your back as you jump over the cord. From the first few steps up towards the elevator platform alone, you get a clear view from the side.
The twin-tailed little brat’s undressing in the fucking DJ booth. And Hajoon’s just letting her. Of course he fucking would.
Her tail point fur jacket hits the floor first. Pools at the ankles like shorn elegance. Pure irony though given the debauchery that persists to unfold. Her hair whips forward. Then back. She’s dancing in place like she’s boxed in a tight circle. Hands draw forwards and slide down Hajoon’s chest as she sways downwards herself too. When she shoots back up, she makes the extra effort to jut her butt out.
If you didn’t have any self-control, you would have slapped the fucking tease out of her voluminous rump.
It’s a miracle they’re still contained within her shorts. Those things are cut closer to her crotch than her knees. You cut her some slack. It compliments her plain white crop top that exposes the expanse of her navel.
Your focus drifts to the jewel affixed above her belly button. Sparkling. Beckoning to you.
When you glance back up again, she’s caught you once more. “Eye-fucking me up close this time? Get in line, manager. This one’s a public show.”
Hajoon notices your arrival and lifts up his beer, nearly fucking spilling it on his setup like an idiot. “Yo, bossman! Where’d you pull this baddie? She said you knew each other? You two banging or something?”
But the woman between you both hushes him with a finger and whispers something you can’t hear from all the music. Hajoon licks his lips when she pulls away and winks at you. “Fine shit, man. Fine fucking shit! Let’s turn this party up!”
As the tempo of the song speeds up, so does her dancing. She’s got a way with her body—you’ll give her that. Even as you walk back down, you can’t help but take a peek. When you do, you see her flex and swirl that torso of hers like she was goddamn built for it.
She locks eyes with you a final time before digging her thumbs into the hem of her top. “Think you can handle this?”
Just when you lunge for her, she chuckles and puts her hands back down. “Did you really think I was a slut? Disappointing. And here I thought you cared about me more than that.”
Clenching your teeth so hard they could shatter, you pick her coat off the floor and dump it in one of the chairs behind Hajoon. The last thing you see before heading back is her playing up the role she’s taken on for the night and acting as Hajoon’s eye candy for his set.
She manages to catch you in the crowd and licks her lips, biting her tongue midway.
“Fucking brat.”
“Fuck me—boss!”
You quite literally snap your pen. The ink fountains forward but you’re faster. You wrap it up in some of your old quarterly reports. Cursing under your breath, you dump the blotting mess beneath you and drag your fingers across your face. “What the fuck is the problem this time, Minho?”
“It’s her. Again.”
That’s not possible. It’s almost five in the morning now. Club’s been closed for an hour at least. What the hell was she still doing here?
No matter. You push out of your chair. Don’t bother to put your blazer back on. Just lower your head and allow Minho to accompany you to the scene of the next crime.
You hear it before you see it—the sound of glass breaking.
Then it all comes into view.
The closing staff standing frozen outside the bar. The three bouncers exchanging looks at each other in an attempt to figure out what to do. Hajoon who’s finishing his order of truffle fries while recording the whole thing.
Not a single one of them dared to stop her.
“All of you. Out. Now.”
Your command echoes throughout the now empty club. All eyes are on you as you tug on your tie and tilt your head to the side. Vein along your neck threatening to pop. “I said. Out. Now.”
“Manager, she’s been causing—.”
You raise your palm up to one of the bouncers. “I’ll take it from here. Leave closing to me. And Minho, go take our closing staff out for some fish sticks. Use my card.”
“Boss …”
You toss him your credit card and gesture for them to get the hell out of here. They look confused. They look concerned. But by the end of it, they all feel relieved. Even Hajoon whose set finished earlier tonight tagged along with your staff to freeload. You let it slide. You have bigger fish to fry.
And she reminds you of this with the sound of another glass item shattering across the floor.
“Oops. That one was accidental this time.”
You saunter over to the bar and lean on the counter. Arms folded against each other. Eyes trained on this little goddamn devil in front of you.
Her outfit surprises you.
You thought you had her figured out. The more comfortable she got here at SAXO, the less you’ve seen her wear. But tonight, she’s all covered up. Long sleeve leopard print. Matching ankle length tights. Pink nails. Some glitter sprinkled across her eyes just above her splash of blush. For someone’s who’s been clubbing all night, she looks like she just came fresh out of the shower.
She smirks. “You just love eye-fucking me, don’t you?”
“Cut the charade. It’s just you and me. What the fuck is your deal?”
She raises a brow. Runs a finger across the convex surface of a bottle of Patron in her hands. Contemplating. “Does it always have to be something in here?”
“There’s always something with you.”
You could never understand her. Even if you tried. She does everything she can think of to be an absolute thorn in your side. But she never acknowledges you beyond the provocation. She pushes and pulls. But she never reaches. And you’re not sure what irritates you more.
The fact that she keeps doing this each night. Or the fact that you want her to reach you.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed the attention.
Looking at that flirty smile of hers that dances dangerously across the boundary of your tolerance, you can’t help but acknowledge it. She’s played you. She’s played you good. Attention-seeking. Body-chasing. Mind-filling. Every night—every fucking night—she’s on your mind. What she’s up to this time. What she’s wearing. If she’s looking at you. Looking for you. Testing you. Teasing you. Tempting you. You’ve thought about what it might be like if you weren’t surrounded by other clubgoers. What you might say to her if you had the chance to pull her away in private. What you might do to her if you were away from any prying eyes.
And now, as you’ve said, it’s just the two of you. There was no need to pull on any acts.
That’s what you want to believe, at least. It’s immediately shattered once you see the bottle smash onto the floor. Spilling alcohol across her boots.
“Oopsie,” she utters without a hint of fucking remorse. “That didn’t taste good anyway. I’m doing you a favor.”
As she reaches out for another battle, you exhale roughly. “What … What do you want from me?”
“Want? From you?” she repeats, swinging her next victim between her knuckles. Just waiting for one wrong move to let it slip and shatter. “You’re already doing what I want you to.”
“Which is—?”
Shatter. “Entertaining me.”
She doesn’t even pick up the bottles anymore. She’s just flicking them off the shelves.
“Ooh, expensive.”
Down goes the Armand de Brignac.
“Expensive?”
Along with the Magnum Moët & Chandon.
“And oh, most expensive.”
And so does the Rosé 1959 Dom Pérignon.
“You see what I mean?” she spins around and leans against the remaining shelf with alcohol still lining the higher echelons. Prodding at you as if you’ve already proven her point. “This is why I’m having so much fun with you. You can’t do anything to me, can you? You’re not allowed to.”
“You just manage—.”
Your hand’s already gripping her wrist. Pinning it to the corner ledge. She gasps. And for the first time since you’ve met this lady, she flashes you a look you’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“You,” you pause, trying to control your breathing. Your eyes are scrambling for something to look at but they’re stuck on her. Just her. “Do you know … how much fucking money … all of this … is going to cost me?”
“H-Hey … relax. If it’s really that much—?”
“Don’t try to slither your way out of this one. I asked you a question. Answer.”
She trembles. You can feel it in her pulse. You can sense it as you tighten your grip. “I-I … I don’t. But I swear, I didn’t think—.”
“What? You didn’t think it was ‘this serious’? Thought you were still ‘playing games’ with me?” you retorted, scoffing mid-sentence. “Where the fuck have you been living all your life? Under a rock? Top shelf liquor is so fucking expensive to import. I bet recovering all of this is going to cost more than the clothes you’ve been wearing here, or the fucking dingy ass pad you live in.”
“Stop, I-I-I was just—.”
“Just? Was just? Just having fun with me?” you fill in. “I run a fucking business here. And god forbid, you have been really bad for it. Just fucking terrible. This?”
You gesture to the liquor seeping into the cracks between cabinets and the counter. Mixed scents of shattered spirits wafting between the two of you.
“This is the last straw. I’m—.”
“Going to punish me?”
What was that? What the fuck was that?
There it goes again. The glint in her eye. The pull of her lips. That snarky tone of hers when she says, “Going to write me off? Report me to the police? Call my parents or something?”
It’s almost like she’s nudging you. Pushing you past your bloody fucking limits.
Like she’s challenging you.
Like she’s enjoying it.
“Go on. What are you going to do with me? Squeeze an apology out of me? Fine me? Blacklist me?” she lists, shaking off your grip when she knows you’re stunned and crosses her arms. Just under her bust. Highlighting it. “Go ahead and try. I fucking dare you.”
“Make me.”
There’s at least seven different things you could have done in this moment. Each likely more effective than the last as you play them out in your head. But when you’re face to face with her like this, bodies inching closer to one another, you can’t fucking take it anymore.
It’s time to show her who’s in charge.
It’s time to show her her place.
“Strip.” “What?”
“Don’t make me say it again,” you press, stepping so close to her that your feet are now directly parallel to hers. “You’re right. Maybe I’m here as your ‘entertainment’. Then if so, let me ‘entertain’ you some more. Could bring you to the station down the street. Could make you call your lawyer or something. Could even just ban your sorry ass from SAXO myself. But that’s no fun, is it?”
“Strip. Now.”
Her mouth is taut. But it quivers. And you catch that.
“Ya … Isn’t this harassment, manager? I don’t think you’d want a case against you and your little club now, would you?” she tries to bargain.
But you see through her chicanery and subterfuge. “After all you’ve done, this is child’s play. Strip. I’m not repeating myself again.”
Growling, she rolls her eyes and pushes you away. “Fine. Pervert. But I’m not doing it with you around—.”
“Oh, you will.”
You turn around only to remove yourself from the slimy pools of spilt liquor on the floor. Vaulting over the bar counter. Dusting your hands off. You face her again. Arms crossed. Eyebrow cocked. Waiting.
“Are you for real right now? Are you fucking serious?”
“I am. You love putting on shows, don’t you? Then put on a show. Just for me,” you fired back. Smirking. “What? You’re the one who said I kept ‘eye-fucking’ you. Shouldn’t you have expected this much from me? Strip.”
You see her knuckles go white. But you also see her mask crack.
Then you see her do as you’ve told.
She whips her hair back. Of course she does. This little princess always has to have her hair fixed. The bangle earrings she’s wearing doesn’t make it any easier for her either. Digging her thumbs against her ribs, the same way she did on the night she got into the sound booth, slowly, she starts to peel upwards. You watch as the cloth of her patterned print top tantalizingly comes undone. And you get an unfiltered view of her compliance.
She hooks the hem of her top around the back of her neck, flashing the elastic band she’s using for a bra. “There. Happy?”
You shake your head. “I said strip.”
“You said strip, and I did. This is the best you’re getting out of me—.”
“How much do you make in a day?”
“What? I’m not some fucking hooker,” she chimes. And you appreciate the sass now. Because the raise of her voice makes the soft spots of her body ripple ever-so-slightly.
“Never said that. I just asked—how much do you make in a day.”
“I don’t work.”
You chuckle again. “Then you’ve got no frame of reference for how much this all costs. How much is your top.”
“My top?”
“Yeah, how much is it.”
“I don’t fucking know. Just bought it off an app. Around ten thousand won I guess?”
“A shot of that first bottle you broke costs six times that amount. A bottle can last about twenty shots. Each. Is the math computing?”
You see the exact moment the life drains from her eyes when the math, indeed, computes.
Whistling, you click your teeth to draw her attention back to you. “Strip. Before I start thinking stripping isn’t enough.”
She’s moving. She’s stripping. But she’s doing so in a way that feels different. As her top fully comes off, she doesn’t throw it. She folds it on the countertop. Not minding your direct view from above her bra. She does the same for the tights, peeling them off like a second layer of skin, folding it on top of the former.
The fur belt around her waist remains for a while. She’s using it to cover her crotch. And you realize why.
She’s wet.
“Do … do I have to also … the underwear …?”
“What part of ‘everything’ do you not understand?” you clarify mockingly. You know she’s not getting away without undressing all the way. She knows it too. “If you don’t hurry up, my second might come back to check on me. Want him to see you like this too?”
She glowers. Even though it’s a lie. “Fuck you.”
The panties come off first. Only because the belt’s in the way. It stretches against her ankles like a spiderweb when she tries to move away from the puddle she’s standing on. You catch a glimpse of the inside. It’s darker and more prominent—the stain.
Leaning forward, she holds the counter for support before grunting to take off her panties fully now. Folds it beneath her previous layers.
“Now the bra.”
“I fucking know,” she grunts back. You know she doesn’t need a reminder. But you let her know anyway.
Her bra isn’t the usual. Not a hook type. Not a strap type. Not even a clip type. It’s an elastic type. Just comes over the chest. Supports it naturally as gravity does its thing. Your knowledge of women’s undergarments is proven almost immediately right as you watch in utter astonishment at the way her swell of a chest comes loose from her final piece of clothing.
The recoil into one another. The ripples. The gentle sag.
You hate to admit it. But it’s fucking perfect.
She forgets to put it aside. To fold it. She just tosses it to the counter because she’s got her hand and arm across her bare tits now. You let her. Because this allows you to dip forward and tug on the long end of her belt.
“Hey, what—?”
“Walk with me. Walk to me.”
You tug on her belt. Lead her like it’s a leash. And she follows. She resists a bit, and you feel it against the tightness of the garment. But you tug back and she winces. Then moves again. Until she’s all the way out of the bar area and is now hovering next to you by one of the tables in the wings.
You clear the surface of the sturdy glass and gesture to it. “Get on.”
She doesn’t question you. Not while she’s naked. Not when you hold her dignity in her hands. In order to mount the table, she had to let go of her chest, and when she lays down, you finally get to see it.
Her full form. Naked. Unadorned. Natural. All of it for you to see.
All of it laid bare.
“God, if you weren’t such a fucking brat, you’d be perfect,” you whisper. You mean it.
Her smooth pale skin. The shape of her chest and the sheen of sweat across it. The quiver of her thick full lips. The spread of her legs. The clasp of her thighs against each other. The bare and kempt state of her nether bits.
They’re all right there. Laid out on the table. On full display.
Just for you.
“Yeah? Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s told me that,” she replies. Halfway between a smirk and scorn. You then realize you had said it out loud. She chuckles. Gestures to you with a finger. A hither-to motion coupled with that stare of hers again. Those ‘make me’ eyes. That ‘fuck me’ gaze. “Gonna do something about it? Or is that against company policy again, manager?”
Oh she’s asking for it now.
You loosen your tie. You kneel on the table. She looks frightened for a moment—worried the glass might break. But you prove her otherwise when you lean forward between her legs so your face is level with hers now. Hovering above it.
“I’ll show you what a fucking tease like you deserves.”
You press your lips against her and feel no resistance. Instead, she welcomes you. Her own soft hydrated folds part for you. Nibble on you. Suck you in. Her tongue is a welcome mat that unfolds into a stretch of red carpet for your own tongue to gloss and strut all over. She whimpers and moans the moment she gets her own tongue caressed in velvet. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t react.
Doesn’t resist.
Her hands come around your neck now as she pulls you further in, and you take this opportunity to get a little handsy yourself.
You go for her tits. God, how could you not go for her tits?
You’re cupping them. Fondling them. You know better than to just squeeze them like a child—no. You lift them up. You caress down the inner curve of each, polishing down and along her cleavage. If you weren’t kissing her right now, you’d have smothered your face between them. Sniffing them. But you save that for later. For now, you register the sensation of her in your head.
Hefty. Heavy. Fucking heavenly.
She gasps sharply when your right pinky hits her left nipple. You notice when you peek open an eye that she’s hard. Both of them are. Both of her nipples. They’re stiff and rounded little peaks that tempt you to oblivion. So you succumb.
One pinch and she forgets how to kiss you. Another and she’s gasping for air, breathless in your clutches. A third and she’s arching her back upwards.
“Fuuuuck,” she groans, her face getting flushed. “Do that again …”
You press your pointer to her nipple. Thumb on the other side. Wind her up by rubbing them together. Before pinching on the supple tip and pulling it upwards. Polishing it. Relishing it. Treasuring it.
She shudders more intensely now. You do the same to the other side and she’s willingly showing you the column of her neck as her body lifts from the table. “God … shit, you’re … you’re actually good with the—AHHH!”
You lick her neck.
One stripe. Two. Slow. Tracing over the parts that make her quiver. Prolonging over the parts that make her moan. You lick upwards to her chin. Over her lips. And press a kiss on them before repeating the cycle.
Her eyes flutter open and close, unable to focus. Whenever your gazes meet, she doesn’t turn away. She stares deeper into your soul. The facade from earlier having crumbled completely.
She reaches for your chest. However she can in this tightened position. She runs her hands across your pecs, down to your abdomen, where she then hitches her fingers into your waist and belt, and unbuckles it.
While you’re licking her nipples now. suckling on them, teasing them with the sharp of your tongue alternating with the long flat wall of it, you notice she’s grinding against your thigh. There’s a noticeable dampness. A moisture. Permeating your supposedly waterproof slacks.
You chuckle and bite down on one nipple. And this makes her scream in absolute ecstasy.
One hand moves from your fly to the back of your head, gripping your hair, guiding you to where she wants you to kiss, suckle, and lick across her full fucking tits. The other unzips you. Hastily pushes your pants off. And tries to get you out of your clothes this time. When the back of her palm hits your bulge however, she freezes.
“Wait … wait—NGHHH—stop, I-I want to see this …”
You withdraw from the addiction that are her breasts and wipe the slobber from your lips against the cup of your shoulder. “What?”
“Your dick. I … I just want to see how it looks like, ok …?”
You push up from the table, nearly slipping from how sweaty your palms have gotten, and right yourself so she can sit up against the edge and be leveled with your crotch. Taking a deep breath, she palms over your bulge that’s on the verge of bursting against your boxers.
“Oh. Oh wow, you’re …” she stutters. Fails to find the right words. She looks up at you and blushes. Nothing like the incessant little prick she’s been previously. Instead, she has this yearning look on her. Like she wants to know. Wants to see. Wants to feel.
So you let her.
You don’t even move. You let her do it herself. Nails digging into your waist, prying your black underwear downwards until it slides off. You flick it off once it’s just around one heel, and you present this woman with the unadulterated direct view of your cock.
She doesn’t speak.
Her face hovers closer and closer until her left cheek presses against your semi-erect shaft. “Fuck … you’re bigger than my face … I-I … I don’t know if I can …”
“You’ll work it out. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you manage to.”
She licks her lips and bites her tongue. “Mmmh, yeah? Make me then.”
One palm on the top of her head. Another beneath her chin to angle it the right way. You press your swollen tip against the entrance to her mouth and groan. “Then fucking take it.”
You push open. Burst into the warmth. Get enveloped by the wet velvety walls past her little locked lips.
She whimpers from the first breaching. You take it slow. Knocking down an inch more. Then two. Then she’s taking you halfway in. Then, you’re knocking against her uvula at the back of her throat.
Her neck stiffens rigidly against your persistent hand, but she’s not strong enough to break free even if she tried. So you keep her there. All the way down. Lips forming a tight ring around your base as she gags and hlurks and spews her own saliva out from the small tears in her vacuum sealed mouth. You keep her there for god knows how long, taking pleasure in both the physical sensation of her mouth and the knowledge that you’re finally getting to see her use it for something other than provoking you.
Once her eyes redden beyond reason, you let go of her head, and in moments, she spits you out with a guttural groan as she could breathe properly again.
“Nguh … ha … ha … You fucking psycho … Could have—I could have choked to death on your fucking dick,” she spits out, smudging her hand across her chin. “But … ha … that was good.”
“Good?”
She bites her lip and nods, gripping your cock now with a hand. “Yeah … fucking delicious. I want more.”
“Then suck it like a good little slut.”
Knees spread, bending at an angle now, she closes the gap and licks up from your base to your tip before suckling on the head. Just a few swirls with her tongue. Before she throats your cock herself.
No prompting. No input. No hesitation.
Her head and neck work in tandem to bob her salivating mouth back and forth along the length of your shaft. Lips cruising down your sensitive skin. Tongue flattening and caressing your underside. Whenever her lips meet her hand that’s gripping what she can’t reach, it makes this popping sound that you want to hear more and more.
She’s got no technique. She gags too easily. But fucking hell—the raw and primal energy she exhibits is relentless. It’s fucking intoxicating.
This woman’s moaning in between violent gags, and you notice it whenever her nipples bump into your thighs. You smirk. You push deeper into her, making her eyes go wide, hit the back of her throat, and force her to adjust while sucking you hard and fast still. But this time, her nipples graze your inner thigh each time and you see her eyes melt from their initial panic and hesitation.
When she pulls you out with a loud smacking sound, she’s gasping, panting, eyes wet, lips swollen, but tongue licking up your precum on the tip oh-so-fucking-hungrily.
“You taste so … fucking … good, mmm,” she murmurs, stroking your first few inches, thumb rolling over the head. “Who knew the uptight manager was packing so fucking much?”
“Consider yourself the exception and not the rule,” you barely get out in one full breath as her stroking is getting more intentional rather than lazy.
“Lucky me then,” she mutters, blowing your tip a kiss. She licks up once. Then twice. Then circles around ridge of your head. Playing with it. Toying with you. Face disappearing beneath you as her eyes almost glow. “This is all mine—.”
The doors to the club open and you hear footsteps.
Time doesn’t afford you the luxury to curse. You’re both scrambling. For clothes. For refuge. Anything.
You only manage to put your pants back on. Not even to fix your underwear. Your belt’s not even buckled. When you see who it is walking into the open space of the club, he shoots you a weird look. “Boss?”
“Already done? Thought you’d all be enjoying spending my money a bit more,” you reply, hands in your pockets to stop your slacks from falling down. “Where are the others?”
“Um, home, boss. It’s six in the morning.”
“Right, right.”
“Boss, you haven’t been drinking again, have you?”
You gesture to yourself with a thumb jutting up from your waist. “Me? Why would I be?”
But Minho shakes his head, one hand smoothening the folds of his brown and white checkered tie that reminds you of brownies. “Nothing. Just making sure. Did you manage to sort out the issue? With the lady?”
You nod. That’s all you can give him. That’s all you really want to give him. Because your dick’s being bent at such a bad fucking angle in your tight slacks that you want to just let it free again. It would rather be inside somewhere else too. “Told her off. She got scared easily when I talked to her alone. Said she’ll ‘behave’ more—whatever that means.”
“Is she still here?”
You freeze. Muscles behind your thighs tighten. “She left just after you and our staff did.”
“Then why is her fur thing still there?” he asks, pointing to the peeking belt the woman left behind. If Minho hadn’t pointed it out, you wouldn’t have seen the terrible fucking hiding spot she chose. On all fours behind one of the table’s walled legs. Buck naked.
As Minho approaches, you casually just pick up the belt with your left hand and tug on it. Even when it goes taut. She gasps and shakes her head nervously, but you continue as you stare down at her. “Must have left it. I’ll hand it back when she comes back. I know she will. Leave it to me.”
Those final four words are always enough for your second to stop in his tracks, just a few meters away from your table, and nod. “Got it. You should get some rest too, boss. If, you know, only if you can. I don’t want to pressure you if it doesn’t—.”
“Thanks, Minho. I appreciate it.”
“And hey, if you ever need someone to talk to or share the workload from admin—.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Go home, Minho. I’ll see you tonight.”
He nods and salutes you with three fingers. “See you tonight, boss.”
Once you’re certain your second’s walked out the door and is well beyond the entrance of SAXO, you pinch the bridge of your nose and feel the other end of the belt shifting between your knuckles.
“Is he always like that? Sounds like he sucks your dick more than I do.”
“He’s enthusiastic. He’s a godsend,” you tell her, helping her up to her feet. But you don’t let her go. Not the belt. Not her waist. You pull her in until she’s arching her stomach towards you. Dipping backwards. “And you? I’m not done with you yet. Let’s head to my office.”
Her drool-covered mouth shifts into a smirk. “Yeah? Make me—.”
You crash your lips onto hers and she jumps into your arms. You lift her up by her thighs and support one arm around her lower back as you stumble across the wings of the club to get to the staff-only area.
Kicking the door open, you slip in before it can close. And you feel her tongue lapping at your lips and teeth as she grips your head firmly like she doesn’t want you to leave. Oh boy, do you have no plans to leave her at all.
You hasten down the corridor. Shoulder bumping into the water dispenser. Then, you fish for your keys and unlock your office.
Once you’re both in, your elbow flies to the button and it locks with a click. She pulls away from you and presses her forehead against yours, caressing your cheek. “Hmm, you’re sexy like this. Taking control. Not holding back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she giggles lowly as you put her on your desk. Her ass is compressing against your laptop as she sits on it. She takes a moment to look around. At the only light hovering above you both. The two sofas on either side of the front of your desk. At the pictures, certificates, and permits on one wall. “Never done this before. Banging in the backrooms of a place.”
“Who said I was going to fuck you?”
She slaps your neck and points her chin at you. “Really? You worked me up like this just to—.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Her sentence is choked off immediately when you rub two fingers against her clit. Her hand instinctively flies to your neck, holding you for support. You rub steadily in circles, occasionally swiveling over the hood, swiping back and forth over her sensitive little button. And which each motion, you watch her progressively soften her face up from a glower, to a whimper, to a moan.
“Yeah—NGHH MHHH—yeah I think I-I like you like this best.”
“Like what?”
She inhales through her clenching teeth. You’re still swiping down her clit with your thumb like you’re flitting through bills at the bar counter during closing time. “L-Like you … hnghh … like you know just what to do.”
“Do I?”
“I-I-I don’t know. I’ll … mmh—give you a point for the kissing, but—.”
She interrupts herself with a moan. The culprit? Your tongue.
“But what?” you raise, licking once more from her entrance all the way to her hood. Her pussy tastes like it smells. Sweaty. Musky. Bit of tang.
Tastes like need.
You feel her fingers knit through your hair. “But … I nghh … but I was the one doing most of the kissing …”
Palms to her thighs, you keep her legs parted. Eyes up to see her reaction. Nose bumping into her button as a tease at first, but now you’re intentionally grinding the pad of it against her clit. Tongue swiping up and down her slit like a credit card that won’t register at the terminal. “Go on. I’m sure I’ve got more points in there somewhere.”
Her fingers dig into your scalp. “I’d … I’d give you two points for all … the fucking things … mmm you did to my … to my tits …”
You kiss her clit. Suckle on it. Pin the hood between your flaps as you peel it back gently with the sharp of your tongue and swirl around her now-exposed button like it’s your favorite M&M. “I sense a but there.”
As you say that, you grip her ass now, finger jammed between her plush bottom and the edge of your laptop. “Continue or I’ll stop.”
“But it’s not fair because—AHHH—because I-I … I’m always sensitive there anyway …”
You figured. But you don’t excuse her.
Your tongue flattens itself against her and does this perpetual motion that makes her feel like you’re never running out of tongue. Up and down. Side to side. Rotations in both clockwise and in reverse. You don’t let up. You never let up. Not until you feel her dribbling that delicious nectar against your chin. Not until she’s moaning up a storm from just your tongue alone. Not until she’s yanking your fucking head lose.
“Sh-sh-shit … nghh … yes … YES! Fuck—I’m close, I-I-I’m—.”
You press your cheek to the side to catch your breath. Rest your tongue. “How many points am I getting for this?”
She dunks your head back against her pussy. “Shut u-up and just eat me … please …”
You smirk. That’s what you want to hear. You slow down your pace though. No longer giving her endless stimulation. No longer lapping her up like a hungry dog. You take your time. Build your pace. Get her closer and closer to that fucking point of no return. But don’t send her off into the deep end.
“Faster … please faster fuck … nghhh you’re—I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing? Tell me,” you say between medium-paced strokes. Like you’re enjoying a vanilla soft serve. Taking your time. But not letting the cream melt off. “Lost your words? You were so full of them—.”
“You’re teasing me,” she pushes, groaning with her back arching up. “Please … fuck … please …”
“Please what?”
“Please … eat my fucking pussy out like you own it!”
That’s all you need.
You slide your wide palms up from her butt, down her thighs, until they’re behind her knees, pinning both of them next to her face, folding her in half. Her back arches. Just the perfect height for you to lean forward and eat her the fuck out.
“OHHHH FUCK YES! Shit … shit … too much—TOO MUCH!”
But you don’t stop.
Your tongue hones in on her clit. Spreading around your saliva and her juices like a butter knife against smooth toast. She’s trembling, then shuddering, then palpitating. And that’s your queue to keep it steady. You lap at her like you’ve been starving for days. Even when your tongue numbs. Even when your jaw slacks. Even when your mouth is now full of her fucking scent and flavor.
You. Don’t. Stop.
“Fuck—CUMMING!”
She’s a squirter. She’s a goddamn fucking squirter.
When she erupts she glazes your face with a warm spray. It lasts for more than ten seconds. Not stopping until the mess she’s made is dripping down onto your long-sleeves. She can’t breathe. She’s forgotten how to. So you decide to not be a dick and let her have a moment to herself first.
And the moment she’s regained her senses, she looks up at you and sits up. “That … ha … ha … felt amazing. You were amazing.”
But you hold your hand out against her thigh and push her back into that folded ball, knees to her head, ass up in the air.
“What—?”
“Hold it. Hold yourself like that for me.”
Reddened at the face, she nods and tucks her hands beneath her knees to hold herself in position—in offering—for you.
Now that? That is a picture-perfect moment.
You press your thumbs to the highest button. By your neck. You pop it open. You do the same for the second. Pop it open. You have about eight of these. And you take your time with each one. Because you know she’s watching you. Waiting for you. Wishing she could be the one to just rip your polo from you and finally see your bare body. You know that much. You know it because while her mouth may lie, her eyes? They don’t.
Her eyes never lie.
Once you’re finally pulling your arms through your sleeves and dropping the polo on the floor, she groans when she sees what’s underneath. “Are you kidding me? That must be fucking hot in there. You wear that every night?”
You don’t answer. You pull your undershirt off. Shove your slacks down with your boxers. And step forward. Pressing your hands next to her knees, which are next to her face. You lean in and grin. “Manager’s choice.”
You slap your cock against her pussy like you would her lips, and she responds with a tremble. Her pussy has a life of its own. It’s throbbing. Pulsating. Even after an orgasm. Such a fucking greedy little hole on an insatiable little brat. But no matter. You’ll feed her soon enough.
You grind into her. Rub your length against her folds. Poke your tip into her receding belly button. Make her feel the heat between her legs. Giving her the appetizer.
Her eyes flicker with the fire of someone who just can’t fucking wait to burn. But you don’t move. Not much. Not anything beyond some grinding and dry humping. If you can even still call it ‘dry’ at that point. Considering your underside is being conveniently lubricated with each caress of her pussy.
“Are you going to fuck me or just stare me to sleep?” she spits. You have to admire her spunk despite how she’s folded on your desk like this. “Maybe I should call your little errand boy to do me instead. Maybe he won’t waste my time—.”
“Beg.”
She falls silent. Like you pushed the right button.
“No.”
You slap your shaft against her pussy and wake her up. Like you slapped her across the face too. “Beg. Or I can just walk out of here, head to a strip club, and fuck one of the girls there instead.”
“Like hell you could. They don’t allow that.”
“I could. I know people.”
She bites her lip. “Fuck you. I’m not going to beg. You either fuck me or you don’t.”
You pull away. Motioning just the slightest bit for your undershirt. But immediately, you feel a grip against your arm.
“If you put that fucking undershirt back on, I will never forgive you.”
You chuckle. “Yeah?”
She spreads her legs. Wider. Lifts her butt. Higher. Makes it so her body is parted not just in invitation, but also so you can see her face clean down the middle. Past her tits. Resting against the fan of hair draped behind her like a veil.
“Please. Fuck me. Or whatever—.”
You push your dick in.
The enlarged tip meets some resistance already, noted by the pitch of her moan. There’s a ring. A tight fucking ring at the entrance. And for a heartbeat you’re afraid you might rip something. But just like her attitude, her body learns to cave in to you.
You’re in now. Not just the tip that flares at the base of her. Not just the first few inches that part the tight clenching walls of hers. But all the way in.
You’re pressed in so deep that there’s nowhere else to go. And your cock isn’t even fully inside her.
Her eyes widen. Whites glowing as her pupils dilate. “Shit. Fuck. Y-You’re stretching me … T-T-Take it slow—please—AHHH!”
You don’t take it slow.
Pressing her hands firmer against the back of her own knees, using that grip to slide her closer to you. You pull out and then ram your cock deep inside her. Once. Twice. Repeatedly. Faster. Gaining pace. Gaining momentum. Knocking on her womb with everything you’ve fucking got.
And she is just a mess.
“Is this what you fucking imagined when you were messing with me? Is this what you fucking wanted when you were acting like a little brat every night? Answer me,” you demand, pressing into her thighs now, gripping them, pounding incessantly. You haven’t had sex in god knows how long. It only felt right to dissolve completely into the temptation of her. “What? Lost your words?”
Her eyes can’t focus on any one thing, drifting here and there. Mouth agape. Tongue firmly planted between her lips. She’s moaning with each of your thrusts. So you fuck into her faster to hear it. To hear more. You’re immediately rewarded by the change in pitch, the change in frequency, and the added percussive of her tits slapping together.
Sweat dripping down your face and neck, you grip her ass from the side and slap it. Watching the pink blossom. Feeling her skin heat up. You spank her again. And again. And again. Until she finally screams her reply.
“YES! Fuck … fuck … FUCK—YES! Pound me like this. Keep fucking going. NGHHH you’re going to fucking ruin me!”
“Yeah? Then get fucking ruined.”
You press your thumb to her clit and start rubbing it fast. No direction. No patter. Just fast flicks and rotations.
“FUCK! YOU’RE—.”
Smack. Smack. Smack. Your hips meet the swell of her ass as she’s bouncing on your dick. Matching your pace. Meeting each upward thrust of yours with a downwards stroke of hers.
“C-CLOSE! Don’t stop—DON’T FUCKNG STOP!”
You pull her ass off the edge just to knock her knees into your desk. Her eyes are glazed over. Pure fucking bliss. You’re working double time with your heels and your waist to deliver blow after blow deep into her pussy. She’s clenching. Squeezing you. Craving your fucking release. But you don’t stop. You don’t give her that luxury. Not yet.
“Who’s fucking your little pussy right now?”
“MMMH … wh-what—?”
“Answer me! Who’s fucking ruining your little pussy right now?” you grunt, fucking the daylights into her while fiddling with her clit.
“Y-You … AHH!”
“Yeah? And who’s going to make you cum? Answer me.”
There’s less hesitation this time. She spits it out, “You! Fuck ….fuck I-I-I can’t—.”
“And who fucking owns you? Tell me. Say it. Moan it. Fucking scream it—.”
“YOU FUCKING OWN MY PUSSY, MANAGER!”
That was it.
You smudge your thumb against her button, really grind into it. You force whatever remaining strength you have left to thrust specifically upwards into the soft spongy spot that kept making her lose her breath. And you lean in to kiss her. Passionately. Sloppily. Possessively.
Claiming her. As you claim her squirting orgasm all over your cock.
She can’t even moan. Just whimpering into your kiss as she lets go of her shaking legs. You grab her ankles and feel her feet tensing into a point. But she slaps your arms and pulls them closer to her, tugging on them like reigns so she can feel your full erect length stretching her pussy down to the final spasm of her release.
Then, it’s your turn.
“Fuck … fuck that—wait … wait wait wait—AHHHH SHIT—!”
One arm behind her back, holding her close. The other lifting her leg up so her knee’s hooked over your shoulder. One hand gripping her waist. The other palming her clit. You send her into a state of borderline catatonia as she moans and groans and scrambles to try and break free as you overstimulate her senses. But you don’t stop. You chase after your own release while inside her clenching and spasming death-grip of a pussy.
“Going to fucking—.”
“GIVE IT TO ME! GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING LOAD!”
You burst.
Your whole body’s tensed. Did you know that? You didn’t up until you allowed yourself to let go. To let it all loose. The first shot burns your tip with how rapid it fired out. With how tight she’s clamping around you. The next few shots spread pleasure all over your stomach, racing up your spine, and then finally scattering across the back of your head. The last few shots send your mind into a daze as your first orgasm in arguably months finally escapes you. Finally finds its place. Finally fills her the fuck up so bountifully.
Unsheathing yourself from her warm, sweating, and pulsating orifice, you let your cock droop against your thigh. Semi-erect still. Sensitive to the cool air of your office. Dripping an ounce or two of leftover cum.
And she’s there. On your desk. Unmoving. Naked, heaving mass. Sweaty all over. Arms flayed out to the side. Chest rising and falling unsteadily. Nipples perking from the cool. Ass hanging off the edge. One knee pointed upwards. The other outstretched with her leg to keep her steady.
There she is. Cum dripping out of her like a mark. Like a signature.
There she fucking is. No masks. No games. No resistance.
Completely laid bare.
---
The door to your office bursts open. But you’re not flinching this time. You’re focusing on transferring your hand-written computations from the pile of papers next to you. Digitalizing them.
“What’s the matter this time, Minho? We haven’t even opened yet.”
“Sorry for not knocking boss, but it’s Hajoon. He … let’s just say he ‘pre-gamed’ a little too hard and is um, throwing up all over Table Thirty-One—.”
“Well, clean it up. Do I have to be the one to deal with every single mess?”
Minho’s eyes lower to his polished shoes. “I … You’re right. I’ll handle this myself.”
He pauses. Looks at you now. You know this despite being deep in your sheets. You can see him from your peripheral. “And?”
“Boss, are you … eating something?”
You shrug. “Haven’t had a meal all day. Haven’t caught any shuteye either. All the damages. All the losses. Marking them all down first.”
“Want me to grab some food then before we open? What are you craving?” he asks with a smile. And you can sense that he’s quite hungry too.
“Think that American place a few streets down’s still open? I could go for a sloppy joe right about now.”
He snaps and winks at you. “You got it boss. I’ll be on my—huh. There’s that sound again.”
“Must be a leak in the vents. I’ll call plumbing later.”
Minho grins and nods. “Always one step ahead, aren’t you, boss?”
You nod in reply and return to your sheets. There’s a brief pause. Then, Minho’s finally disappeared behind your closing door.
In moments, her head resurfaces from underneath your desk. Face sweaty, half dripping with cum half drying in it, thick lips pursing and bubbling over the tip of your cock.
“You like it sloppy, don’t you? Mmmmh,” she teases while wiping your thick shaft against her softer features. “Who could have guessed?”
You reach down to lift her chin and say, “If you’re going to pay off your debt, you might as well get back to it. We’re opening in two hours. So unless you want my staff to wonder why one of our clubgoers is walking around ruined like a cheap little whore, I suggest you make it worth my while.”
Giggling with that same teasing energy of hers, but just converted into something else now, she nods and kisses your tip again.
“Yes, manager.”
