#yeonheesmut

That’s all it takes to curb your drive home, to get you to park your car on some random corner, for you to turn all your attention to the distraction beside you, the subject of your utmost attention.

Long overdue attention.

Steal a glance into the backseat; it’s spacious, infinitely more comfortable for any complex maneuverability, though it’s clear that even with the ignition turned off, a new flame sets itself alight, hungry and potent. Those fresh embers scald and burn onto you in the shape of lips, spreading and spreading, though the wet dousing of tongue doesn’t help, rather, it only helps the heat spread with alarming speed.

Fuck the backseat.

Nevertheless, that swiftness is a testament to the nature of her kisses, sweet but punishing, aggressive but comfortable, her body leaning over the border dividing the two of you until your arms loop under and hoist her petite frame over the line; straddling is as natural to her as breathing, her hips plastered against yours, even if messily, like calculated splatters of paint on a canvas.

The seat can’t slide back fast enough, though if you’ve waited seventeen months across an entire ocean, what’s a handful of seconds more over the distance of a few feet?

Only after does space become less of an issue, though that’s not to say it isn’t still one. At least, the softness of her hair distracts you from the cramped corners, the bump of your knees against the dashboard as you subconsciously try to raise them.

“Fuck,” she hisses into your mouth, gasps when your hands find purchase away from her face, grasping and roaming over her back and body until the curve of her ass presents itself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re beneath me.”

Your cheeks flush red as you contemplate the simple fact that you’d just been catching up with her over dinner three hours ago, playful and bright and crazy and god something just clicks—

Logic strikes a harsh note in your perfect harmony, and a strangled groan draws itself out as she grinds down hard, teases your crotch with the fabric of her clothes; you freeze. 

“W-wait,” you croak, your throat dried up and crackly. “I d-don’t have any...any, um, condoms, I didn’t think—“

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she interrupts, lets a finger gently shush you. Her eyes twinkle in the gentle darkness of the car, the rest of her body a mere silhouette weighing down on your torso, a steady pressure on your cock that leaves you squirming and breathless. “You haven’t earned that right yet.”

Another slow roll, a billowing wave of lazy pleasure that surges through you as her pussy soaks through her clothes, her panties, teases the throbbing length of your cock through your pants.

“Yet?”

You hardly manage a smirk; she makes it a point to clearly exercise her control over your body, though you’re certainly not oblivious to the sweat that gives her skin a new sheen, adds an extra layer of humidity to the sweltering climate inside the car.

“First date, dummy,” she scoffs, only to choke into a gasp when you take the initiative, buck your hips up into hers; she tips forward, lets her forehead come to a rest against yours and suddenly you’re sinking, sinking, sinking into those brilliant orbs, flickering all over your face. “Y-you can’t expect everything.”

The lightest scent of wine lingers on her breath as she pants, just rubs and rubs and rubs, over and over in your lap—neither of you are in a rush, after all. Why shouldn’t you let that tension build, let the dam swell, let your sanity stretch until you can restrain yourself no longer?

In a way, you’re almost reluctant for change, hesitant to shift Yeonhee from her perch upon you, though she clearly disagrees; while the night may be long, it is not infinite. A slender hand caresses your cheek, brushes along the bridge of your nose as she sinks down for another mind-numbing kiss. You can practically feel your brain short-circuiting with the wetness of her lips, the flick of her tongue in your mouth.

“S-so what can I expect?” you mumble into her mouth, the taste of her lip gloss spreading itself over your tongue.

When she pulls away this time, that change comes. Her legs lift from the sides of your pelvis and she turns, leans her back against your front, one arm circling around to pull your head down to her once again.

“You’ve got hands,” she teases, and her grasp suddenly entwines itself through yours, lifts it so that you’re palming a sensitive breast, squeezing the delicate mound beneath your palm and she’s suddenly just a little less put-together, a little more freeform, her legs rubbing together from where they rest directly between yours. “Maybe we can play this by feel.”

Where she lacks in volume she makes up the difference, squeaking in surprise when you tweak a nipple, yelping when you knead a little harder, downright mewling when your hand finally slips under her pants, finds a stiff bud of nerves and presses; her eyes can’t help but close, her lips cracked open slightly. But her hips are the most elegant of all, sloped and sculpted, perfectly tapered off in your lap to brush just enough against your pants without truly granting you release.

“Fuck,” you grunt, before your lips find something better to do in sucking on the soft skin of her exposed neck and collar.

What little control remains shatters as Yeonhee raises her arms, quivering all the while as she practically tears off her jacket, her shirt underneath, her bra. You’re more than happy to help her discard it all until she whines, bucks her core harder against your teasing fingers. Her haughtiness evaporates, leaving behind only sweat and slick, her desire bared in the form of her naked back pressing against your clothes—it only makes you hug her tighter, leave a deeper mark on her neck.

“Fuck,” you whisper, repeating yourself. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, you’re killing me.”

If your vulgarity bothers her, she doesn’t show it, settling for sinking deeper in your lap, relishing the knuckle-deep burial of your finger into her, laughing almost incredulously at the jolt of pleasure that races through her body. Such a smile quickly shifts back to yearning, back to confusion; she’s searching, searching, but what for?

So you guide her. In and out. In and out. It almost feels like a funeral march with how slow your rhythm pulses, trapped in an adagio of anguish.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Please.”

And it’s not really a plea. Certainly not. You’re simply giving, giving, giving until she can’t take any more. There’s no leverage, no advantage state, even as she’s glazed over from her eyes to her smooth tummy, billowing like a loose sail in the breeze, stretching and contracting like a spring over and over and over again. The laws of her body rest in the tips of your fingers, but you have no intention of hesitation, no want to prolong her sweet suffering.

So you acquiesce.

It’s easy, of course, to simply pump faster. Now her clit simply meets the flat of your palm as you bury your fingers inside of her, nip at the edges of her ear, tug on her hair. And so the world spins, rolls within the confines of her head as chocolate irises unfocus, then close; her hands scratch at leather seats, claw at your clothed forearm, while her head tilts into the crook of your neck, limp.

“You’re so wet,” you hum against her, press soft, oddly chaste kisses to her temple. “So fucking wet and pretty.”

“G-god, I...I want...”

She pouts, licks her lips weakly as one eye opens just a crack. Clearly, words are beyond her current faculties, and even her hips, her walls stutter with every moment, with every breath.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know. I’ve got you, okay?”

The tightrope stretches tighter, the bowstring drawn taut as your other hand comes down to rest over her clit, a gentle press, swirl, rub, and she keens softly in tandem; each cry is an ember of a past both of you are eager to reignite, the mark of a history that ties you together in this moment. Even as she unravels, comes undone slowly, surely, the thought strikes you, brings a tiny smile flitting over your face amidst the need and lustful carnage.

She’s no less elegant now as she was when you left.

Then the dam breaks, shatters. The softness of her voice, long gone, grows only hoarser as her peak wracks her body with sobs, with semi-fulfilled cries; yes, the prophecy has been satisfied, the conditions met, but not quite. The both of you know this incantation, this informal affirmation of belief is not yet over, even as she pants and pants and pants, her breath dusting along your shoulder, the fabric of your shirt marred with the mark of her teeth. Even with your clothes to bite down on, she can’t help the shriek that flows out from past the flood, that high of ecstasy that rushes past clenching walls; it all utterly wrecks her, wracks her body, turns her into a quivering, shaky mess, dead weight on your lap.

You can only hold her tight, continue your ministrations until she shifts uncomfortably, until her tremors finally devolve into small aftershocks, until her warm gaze returns to lock onto yours, to give you a look so vulnerable you can’t help but hold her closer, smell the lilac in her hair, press a kiss to the crown of her head.

And now, even now, with shaky limbs and a body as limp as a marshmallow, she giggles.

“I missed this.”

Ignore the ache between your pants, a tightness that only seems to grow more irritated the more stagnant Yeonhee sits. “Leave it to you to weasel out another free meal from me.”

“Hey!”

This time, she laughs, her eyes narrowing into a haughty glare, though toothless in nature. A gentle slap on the chest graces your body, and you can practically feel your heart jump within your ribcage; those palpitations are only enhanced, further enamored when her lips curl into a pout.

“What? It’s true, no?”

She looks away, sheepish and shy, and though her cheeks redden, it’s her eyes, those accursed, glittering jewels that you’re captured by; mischief brews deep within, slowly bubbles to the surface as a soft hand traces down your front and you’re acutely aware of her body shifting, moving, sliding down until she’s practically on her haunches bracketing you once again.

“Let me make it up to you.”

Intrinsically, you know why she’s there. You know why she’s hunched over, her back arched to fit in such a tiny space, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips as she scans your midsection, studies the embarrassing protrusion. It’s the prophecy again, an exchange of faith, a reacquaintance of your bodies that’s finally coming full circle.

In her eyes, you can almost spot a speck of pity, a mildly condescending sort of sweetness; aw, you poor thing. The words, however unspoken, are apparent when she gives you a gentle squeeze, and her eyes stare into yours with a careful attentiveness. Does this feel good? 

Her questions demand responses, and yet, only when her fingers slowly tug at your pants, reach underneath to soothe the entrapped stiffness of your cock do you manage to open your mouth, manage to speak through a quiet groan.

And yet, only when her fingers slowly tug at your pants, reach underneath to soothe the entrapped stiffness of your cock do you manage to open your mouth, manage to speak through a quiet groan.

“Yeonhee,” you sigh. Her name falls from your lips on instinct, comfortable and solid, and she hums pleasantly beneath you, eyes shining up with gentle mirth as if to say I haven’t even done anything yet.

That much is certainly untrue, not with the way she moves, the way her hands move under your shirt and pants, caressing everything and nothing all at once, your cock throbbing so harshly that you feel as though your whole body might burst from the heat. 

And already, your face grows heated. You can hardly bear to keep watching, though neither can you wrench your gaze away. Your fingers curl around the armrests of the seat as she slowly unsheathes you from your pants, makes quick work of them before placing a tentative kiss on the tip; still, you can only wince and wait.

“Not bad,” she murmurs, and finally, finally she permits a hand to curl around your shaft, to slowly inch up and down, up and down. “Not bad at all.”

Groan as your head pitches back, as she gives a tentative lick up, then around, then oh, oh—soft lips wrap themselves tightly around the girth of your cock and she gags, lets out an unseemly groan with you buried in her mouth as far as you’ll go.

The warmth of her mouth is only accentuated by the thick coating of saliva that greets you, and her slender fingers, ever attentive, squeeze at your thighs, reach around to your ass; she pushes and pushes and pushes, practically forcing you to sink deeper and deeper into the recesses of her throat.

“F-fuck,” you groan. “You look...god, so fucking good with my cock in your mouth like that.”

A blush paints her cheeks, rewards your praise, though she quickly surfaces with a gasp, a sheepish little smile. “Really?”

And her tone is disbelieving, almost incredulous as her hand stays coiled tight around your length, sliding up and down with the schlick, schlick, schlick of mixed precum and spit; her surprise is reason enough for you to shake your head, give her a heady look.

“You do, Yeonhee. You do,” you say softly. “You do all the time. You’re pretty. You’re fucking hot and sexy and cute and fuck, I...I just want to throw you up against a wall and take you right now.”

A bite of the lip. Her absent, empty hand reaches down between her legs and you can practically feel the parting of her lips, the sopping heat between them flaring up as she sighs, lets the brush of her breath skim along the edges of your aching cock. It isn’t fair, of course, with how easy it is for her to tease, to prod, to poke, but she does it anyway; dissatisfaction has a hard time manifesting with her hand squeezing the life and soul out of you.

She’s diligent if nothing else, her hand quickly replaced yet again with her mouth, hot and eager, so willing to work, to please; your eyes twitch with the faintest mist of tears though hers are the ones that roll back. She doesn’t surface even as she quivers with effort, as choked moans die in her throat, jammed down by your shaft. Her fingers work her own clit rougher with each passing moment, just as your hands start to gain purchase in her hair, hold her down just a little harder.

When she releases your cock with a gasp, a heavy inhale for air, her throat is enflamed and pink, her makeup ragged with tears and bubbly saliva, though still she grins, pumps your cock with a vigor that makes you cry out.

But she’s pensive, you notice. It’s the blush that paints her cheeks, the redness that shoots up her neck and tinges the corners of her ears, the coy little smile mixed with a healthy dose of shyness that tells you she’s thinking, thinking, thinking; then she’s rising from where she had knelt attentively at your cock, pushing you back into the seat with more tongue than lips.

“Do you,” she mumbles, breathless and flushing, “promise to pull out?”

Her words transport you back to another time, a different date on a different date, when her body was still as new to you as yours was to her. An era when college was still fresh to the both of you, and you hadn’t imagined following your dreams out of the country could possibly hurt so bad. Glassy-eyed but eager, your jaw hangs slack for a moment. 

“I—yes,” you manage, and she grins. “Please.”

Her shoes clatter to the ground as she straddles you, teases the head of your cock with a soft thumb; you almost forget she’s wearing pants before she’s taking care of that too, sliding them down to her knees.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll slap you if you don’t.”

Then the torture begins anew; you groan as she glides over you, as suddenly the slickness of her pussy slips over your cock. It’s a reminder she’s just as desperate as you are, and her panties slide to the side with an easy tug, stained with tangy wetness.

“This...um, this is...”

Her head bumps against the ceiling of the car and she yelps as your hands reach around to grip her waist, to give her a soft squeeze; her expression turns sheepish, playful, then she leans back down.

“Sorry,” she whispers, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Still a klutz, I see.”

She pouts. “It’s not my fault your car’s so small! I’m used to working with more... luxurious conditions, you know.”

This time, you raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, so you liked the practice rooms then? The ones in the music building?”

“At least I could straighten my legs in those,” she scoffs, “and the lights made it easier for me to see you.”

Her hands cup the sides of your face gently as she stares down at you, her body a silhouette in the moonlight, under the streetlamp, and she cocks her head, tosses her hair over one shoulder with a heavy sigh as your cock sinks into her folds. You can only relish in the tightness of her pussy, your hands digging into her flesh; you hum. She hisses.

“Yeonhee?” Your voice is soft, unsteady, but one hand reaches up to caress her hair, her back. “If you need to—“

“I-I’m fine,” she groans. “It’s just...it’s been a while since, um, well, since I’ve done this. With anyone. With you. Especially with you.”

It takes a moment, but eventually she sheathes you deeply, encapsulates your shaft in her warmth, and you can’t help but pull her close, level her with the weakest glare possible.

“It’s been three semesters,” you mutter. “You didn’t have to wait for me. I thought we agreed—”

Yeonhee pulls away sharply, her gaze sharper. Now, it’s all business; needs must be met, desires must be satisfied, and hunger must be sated. When she speaks again, it’s almost in a different voice entirely, husky and impatient, less impetulant and cute than it is domineering and ambitious.

“Don’t worry about that,” she scoffs before her finger comes to your lips, shutting you up. “Worry about how much I want you. How bad I want you right now. I’m not waiting another date, not when you’ve already made me wait for a year and a half.”

She takes your hand in hers, guiding them down to her pussy, staining them in stickiness and liquid desire. You swallow down the groan in your throat.

“Feel that? That’s your responsibility,” she says, and her eyes bore into yours hypnotically. “And I’m done being patient.”

It’s a twisted kind of communication: body to body, mouth to mouth, cock to dripping pussy. But Yeonhee’s not a liar, not by a long shot, not with the language of her hips driving you insane. So warm. So tight. She fucks herself down onto you with all the gentleness of the truth, which is to say not at all.

The bounce of her firm ass tells some of this story—maybe some exposition, some worldbuilding—but the reality of the situation unravels inside of her, not soft yet not rough, a careful design to an imperfect universe. It’s just you and just her, connected at every point and with every inch of skin either of you can manage.

“Yeonhee...mm, Yeon—”

“I’ve waited so damn long,” she whispers against your tongue, “to feel this cock again. F-fuck, it feels...so good.”

Up. Down. Your eyes water from the pressure, the stretching of that rubber band somewhere in your brain as you hum and hum and hum, so desperate for more and so desperate for less. You want to explode, but you want this to last forever. You want to make her scream, but you also want her to savor her whimpers, her shivery breaths. You want to tell her you missed her too, and that you wish you could’ve felt this way every night.

But you can’t. The words jam in your throat. Maybe it’s her tongue that slams the brakes on your eloquence, but then again, maybe it’s the way you’re moaning louder than she is, muttering please, please, fuck, please over and over and over again.

“Nothing fills me like you do,” she murmurs. “Not my fingers. Not my...f-fuck, ugh, not my toys. You don’t know how much I’ve imagined you, how much I’ve dreamed of you.”

Struggle to respond, so you get stuck. Again. “Yeonhee. Yeonhee. Yeonhee, Yeonhee, Yeonhee.”

“So deep. So thick. Just enough when you—” she quivers, sighs as her walls clench in tandem with her falling momentum—“pound me up to my womb. So, so, so...”

She bites down on her lip when you push back into her; relationships are about meeting each other halfway after all. Your arms reach up, wrap around her back, pull her in closer so you can get better leverage. She squeals at the first thrust, moans at the second, softens into putty at the third until she’s limp against your chest. Take it as a point of pride and a token of motivation as her mouth weakly catches yours, lazy kisses pressed to the corners of your lips, the smooth skin of your jaw and neck.

But you’re not lazy. You pick up the slack, though she makes it hard and harder still, teeth teasing at your skin, sucking on your pulse point. Whatever. Your cock doesn’t need to think. Neither do you. No, the only thing that drives you know is habit, however long lost it is. Stir her up inside, feel the squelch of her walls around your cock. She whines when your fingers knead at her supple flesh, deliver a not-so-gentle spank.

She spares a glance up, though you’re unsure if its her eyes rolling or her head moving; regardless, she cups your cheeks in her hands to steady the unfocused bob of your own vision. Up, down, up, down, the fire burns brighter and brighter, memories grow more and more vivid as you add another moment to the collection. Another thrust and she’s reeling, you’re reeling, the world is reeling with something—something sweet, something desperate, something irresistible, and the word bubbles behind your lips, into her mouth while she whispers, “Yes, right there, right there, right there, show me how much you missed me, missed fucking this tight pussy.”

And you do, because you did. You missed her like the flowers miss the bees once they leave, in every waking and dreaming moment. Studying, eating, lying in bed, staring at your phone. And now she’s here—a damn miracle wrapped around you, holding you, loving you.

“Shit,” you groan, and she takes the moment to kiss you long and hard, her hips machine-like as she rides you into a brilliant sunset of white and orange and red.

Her legs split apart wider with every passing second, her walls slicker and tighter all at the same time. Lips clench faster and faster as she sucks into your mouth, her tongue sloppily pressing against yours. Yeonhee kisses you almost as hard as she fucks herself on your cock, which is to say needily, desperately, like the passage of time has grown all too slow and her own orgasm much too close.

“Please, oh god, please,” she whimpers into your mouth. “How...how...do you feel so good?”

You might even answer that, though she beats you to the punch with a wail, her legs quivering wildly as her body judders to a stop, her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers clenched like talons around your face. Her mouth opens and closes, an ‘o’ frozen for but a moment until she stutters out a quiet oh, fuck and she’s coming; she collapses on top of your chest, a sweaty, panting, shaking mess of blinding ecstasy.

Your hands are lost for a moment, free in the air until they settle over her back; stroke up and down, gentle and soft until her breathing slows to a crawl and she's sliding your still-hard cock out of her wet, dripping pussy.

"Fuck," you hiss, and she laughs then, short and sweet, her hair swinging over her face as she slides back over to her seat. "Fuck, I wanted to fill you up.”

Her legs untangle stickily from yours, thighs dripping with a tremble. She shivers as she sits in her seat, the leather long since cooled off without her body heat.

A nod, and a gentle smile turns wicked.

“Then drive, darling. Take me home.”