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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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The comfort of a retirement home

My name is Jungho, and I have a knack for making people feel seen, especially those who often get overlooked. I work at Golden Years Retirement Home, a place where the whispers of past glories echo through the halls and the smiles come a little easier when the grandkids visit. It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but it's one I took to heart after my grandmother passed away when I was just sixteen. Her gentle spirit and the emptiness she left behind convinced me to spend my days bringing warmth to the lives of those who need it most.

This afternoon, the buzz was electric. The residents had been talking about it for weeks - a visit from the K-pop sensation, ITZY. The five young women strutted through the home, their bright smiles and energetic dance moves bringing a spark to everyone's eyes, a momentary reprieve from the heaviness of aging. They performed their hits with gusto, the residents clapping along to the beat, some even trying to stand up and dance. After the show, the members mingled, taking selfies and signing autographs. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for my grandma, who had always loved music, especially the kind that brought people together.

As the event wound down, the members started to leave, but not all of them. Yuna, the youngest and most vibrant of the group, decided to stay behind. She looked around the room, her gaze landing on Mr. Kim, a widower who often sat alone in the corner, his eyes filled with a sadness that never truly left. She approached him, her pink hair bouncing with every step, and knelt down to listen. I watched from a distance, admiring her genuine kindness. They talked for a while, and he leaned into her, his shoulders relaxing as if a weight had been lifted. It was clear he needed someone to hear his stories, to feel less alone.

Curiosity piqued, I wandered the halls after they had disappeared into the depths of the home. The corridors grew quieter, the hum of the air conditioner a gentle white noise in the background. I peeked into open doors, catching glimpses of residents engaging in their daily routines – some knitting, others watching TV, and a few just resting with their eyes closed. Then, I saw it – a sliver of light from an open door at the end of the hall.

I tiptoed closer, not wanting to intrude, but the gentle murmur of voices grew more pronounced. Yuna's distinctive laughter danced through the air, mingling with the low rumble of Mr. Kim's. I paused outside the door, unsure if I should knock or simply leave them to their conversation. But as I hovered there, something in the air shifted, and I felt a strange tension coil around me like a snake.

With trepidation, I peered through the crack, expecting to see them sharing a cup of tea or maybe looking at old photographs. But what met my eyes was something entirely different. Yuna was on her knees, her white tank top hiked up to reveal her bare back, her meticulous make-up smudged slightly from the tears that glistened in her eyes. And Mr. Kim, his expression one of raw desperation, had his hands tangled in her pink hair. I blinked, hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the sight remained the same. He was guiding her head back and forth, her pink lips wrapped around something I didn't dare acknowledge.

My breath hitched in my throat, my mind racing. I had never seen anything like this before, and the intimate scene was jarring against the sterile backdrop of the retirement home. The room was suffused with a tension so thick it was almost palpable, a stark contrast to the soft whispers and gentle smiles that had filled the air just moments ago. The only sound was the wet sucking noise she was making and the occasional low groan from Mr. Kim. It was a moment of raw human connection, but one that was deeply unexpected and unsettling.

Yuna paused, her eyes looking up at him with a mix of compassion and something else – something I couldn't quite place. She spoke in soothing tones, her voice a gentle melody that seemed to float in the silence of the room. "It's okay," she said, her words muffled. "Just relax." And then she took him in again, her eyes never leaving his. It was as if she was giving him not just physical pleasure, but a sense of solace, a reassurance that he wasn't entirely alone in his grief.

Mr. Kim's face contorted in a grimace that was part pain, part relief. His eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing grew erratic. "Everything will be fine," she whispered, her voice a soft caress that seemed to resonate within the very fabric of the room. She sucked with a gentle rhythm, her cheeks hollowing with every motion, and it was clear she was trying to bring him comfort in the most intimate of ways.

As I continued to watch, I felt an unexpected reaction stirring within me. The sight of this young, vibrant woman tending to the needs of an elderly man, bringing him pleasure amidst his sorrow, was strangely mesmerizing. My hand unconsciously moved to my own crotch, where I discovered that I was growing hard. I was shocked by my body's response to the scene, torn between the innate sense of privacy and the undeniable arousal that was building.

I leaned against the wall for support, trying to be as quiet as possible as I began to stroke myself through my pants. The friction was subtle at first, a gentle pressure that mirrored the rhythm of Yuna's movements. I couldn't believe what I was doing, but I couldn't look away either. There was something profoundly intimate about the moment, a silent agreement between the two that transcended the boundaries of age and propriety.

My hand moved faster as Mr. Kim's grip on her hair tightened. His breath grew ragged, and his hips began to thrust slightly, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. Yuna's eyes watered, but she never once stopped, her dedication to his pleasure unwavering. The sight of her, so giving, so beautiful in her act of kindness, was like a drug, and I found myself falling deeper under its spell with every second that passed.

Suddenly, Mr. Kim's voice grew louder, his words a guttural mix of Korean and English, a string of obscenities that seemed to hang in the air. "Suck it, baby," he groaned. "Just like that." Yuna's eyes widened slightly, a look of surprise flitting across her face, but she didn't stop. Instead, she took him deeper, her throat bobbing with each thrust.

"You're such a good girl," Mr. Kim continued, his voice strained. "Look at you, making this old man feel alive again." Yuna's eyes watered more, but she kept her gaze locked on his, nodding slightly as if to encourage him. His words grew more explicit, a deluge of filth that seemed to push the air out of the room and make it thick with desire.

"Do you like that, Yuna? Do you like being a dirty little slut for me?" His hands tightened in her hair, pulling her closer. She gagged, but managed to keep her rhythm, her eyes never leaving his. The room was a cocoon of intimacy, a place where time had stopped and the only thing that mattered was the connection between them.

Then, with a final, primal groan, Mr. Kim released himself into her mouth. She took it all, her eyes never leaving his. His hips stuttered as he came, his grip on her hair loosening slightly. He was lost in the moment, his grief temporarily buried beneath the waves of pleasure she had brought him.

Yuna swallowed, her eyes watering even more, but she never broke their gaze. She kept moving her mouth until he was fully spent, his body going slack with the release. As she pulled back, a strand of saliva connected them for a brief moment before snapping away, leaving a sticky residue on her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving his.

Mr. Kim looked down at her, his expression one of bewilderment and gratitude. He reached out, placing a trembling hand on her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Yuna offered a soft smile in return, her eyes shimmering with a mix of emotions. She climbed to her feet, her legs wobbly from the intensity of the situation. "It's okay," she said, her voice a gentle caress. "You needed this." She took a step back, allowing him to stand and guide him to his bed. He collapsed onto the mattress with a contented sigh, his eyes already heavy with sleep.

Leaning over him, she placed a tender kiss on his forehead, not bothering to wipe the lingering traces of his release from the corner of her mouth. It was a small act of affection that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of their shared moment. The room was still thick with the scent of sex and the aftermath of Mr. Kim's climax, but there was a quiet dignity to it, a silent acknowledgment that this was more than just a physical release.

As I stumbled away from the door, my heart racing, I couldn't shake the image of Yuna from my mind. Her selflessness in bringing comfort to Mr. Kim was a stark reminder of the complex tapestry of human needs, especially in a place like this where the line between care and companionship could sometimes blur. I found myself torn between the desire to confront her and the fear of breaking the spell she had cast over the sad-eyed widower.

The following week, I noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere of the retirement home. The whispers grew more frequent, and the glances I caught from the residents were knowing, filled with a spark of mischief that was alien to the usually solemn corridors. The rumor had spread like wildfire – Yuna had become the guardian angel of the lonely, the secret confidant who offered a unique form of solace. I had to admit, part of me felt a strange sense of pride in knowing that she had chosen our home to bestow her unorthodox form of kindness upon.

One evening, I decided to visit Mr. Kim's room, driven by the same curiosity that had led me to spy on them before. The door was ajar, and as I approached, I heard the low murmur of multiple voices. Cautiously, I pushed the door open and was met with a sight that would redefine my understanding of the word "unconventional". Yuna, dressed in a modest but equally revealing outfit, was surrounded by a small circle of elderly men, their eyes glued to her like moths to a flame.

Her pink hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, her white tank top and short gray skirt showcasing her youthful figure. Each man's face was etched with a mix of hope and desire, their hands trembling slightly as they reached out to touch her. She moved gracefully among them, her smile never faltering, her touch gentle and reassuring. It was clear that she had become a beacon of comfort in their lonely lives, a symbol of vitality in the face of their own mortality.

"What do you all want to do to me?" Yuna asked sweetly, her voice a siren's call in the quiet room. The men looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them, before one of them spoke up. "We want to see you, Yuna," he said, his voice shaking. "We want to see all of you."

Her smile grew a little wider, a knowing glint in her eye. "Alright, if that's what you wish," she whispered. Slowly, with the grace of a ballerina, she began to undo the buttons on her white tank top. The room held its collective breath as the fabric parted, revealing the soft swell of her small breasts, framed by a delicate pink lace bra. Her skin was porcelain, unblemished by the harshness of the outside world, a stark contrast to the wrinkled, age-spotted hands that reached out to touch her.

Mr. Kim looked on, his eyes shining with something that was no longer purely lustful but also filled with a sense of protectiveness. He had been the first to experience her gift, and now he watched as she shared it with the others. She stepped out of the circle, her gray skirt riding up slightly to reveal the tops of her stockings. The men leaned in, their eyes hungry for the sight of her youthful form.

"Very well," she murmured, her voice a seductive purr. With the same gentle grace she had shown Mr. Kim, she began to unbutton her skirt. It slipped down her hips, revealing her matching pink lace panties. She turned around, bending slightly to allow them to see her small, round ass. The room was filled with the sound of their collective intake of breath.

The first old man, Mr. Park, reached out tentatively, his trembling hand landing on her buttock. He gave it a gentle squeeze, his eyes closing briefly as he took in the sensation. The others watched, their own hands itching with desire. Yuna didn't flinch, instead leaning back into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. This was the invitation they had all been waiting for.

Like a dam bursting, the other men surged forward, their hands eager and uncoordinated as they sought to claim a piece of her youth. They touched her everywhere – her breasts, her stomach, her thighs – their fingers tracing the curves and valleys of her body as if it were the map to eternal youth. She giggled, the sound tinged with a hint of nervousness, but she didn't resist, allowing them to explore. Their hands were a gentle storm, a reminder of the tactile connection they had lost in the march of time.

But then, amidst the frenzy, something changed. One of the men, Mr. Lee, his eyes wild with a desperation that had been building for years, grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. He spun her around, his grip tight, and pushed her onto the bed with surprising strength. His pants were already open, his cock standing tall and veined. He didn't bother with gentle coaxing or sweet words; he mounted her with the urgency of a dying man grasping at life.

The room grew still, the only sound the rustling of fabric and Mr. Lee's harsh breathing. Yuna's eyes went wide with shock, but she didn't struggle. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back, as if she knew that this was what he needed. The other men watched, their own desires now mirrored in Mr. Lee's actions. He thrust into her with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very bed, his hips pistoning as he claimed her young body.

The smell in the room was a potent mix of sweat and stale urine, a testament to the weeks Mr. Lee had gone without a proper bath. His skin was a patchwork of liver spots and wrinkles, a stark contrast to Yuna's flawless porcelain complexion. His cock was like a weapon, jutting out from his unkempt pubic hair, and as he plunged into her, the veins stood out like highways on a map. She took him without protest, her own hands roaming over his body, tracing the contours of his age.

Her pink hair was a vivid contrast to the sickly pallor of Mr. Lee's flesh, a stark reminder of the chasm between youth and age. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, the delicate pink lace of her bra now discarded on the floor. Her nipples were hard, peaks of desire, standing out against the softness of her skin. Despite the harshness of his grip, her eyes remained open, her gaze locked on his as if trying to understand the depth of his need.

At first, she struggled, her hands pushing against his chest in a feeble attempt to resist his overpowering strength. But as the moments stretched on, she began to realize the futility of her efforts. His hands moved from her shoulders to her throat, his grip tightening until she could feel the beat of her heart in her ears, a muffled drumline that grew louder with every squeeze. Panic began to set in, her eyes bulging slightly as she gasped for air, her hands now clawing at his wrists.

"I'm going to cum inside you, Yuna," Mr. Lee grunted, his eyes glazed over with lust. His words were like a declaration of war, a promise that she had no choice but to endure. She could feel his cock swelling, the head of it pulsing against her cervix, and she knew he was close.

Her own body responded in a way she didn't fully understand, her inner muscles clenching around him, drawing him deeper. He grunted again, his thrusts growing more erratic. The room was a tableau of silent witnesses, the other men's eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them, their own cocks straining against their pants.

And then it was over. With a final, guttural shout, Mr. Lee released his grip on her neck, his seed spurting into her in hot, sticky bursts. She could feel each pulse of his release, filling her up until she was sure she would overflow. His eyes rolled back in his head, lost in the throes of his climax, his body shaking with the effort. Yuna's own orgasm washed over her, a wave of pleasure that seemed to cleanse her of the fear and disgust she had felt mere moments before.

The other men didn't waste a second. They descended upon her like vultures, eager to claim their prize. One by one, they took her, their age-spotted hands gripping her firmly as they thrust into her willing body. She became a vessel for their desires, their frustrations, their loneliness. Each man took his turn, panting and groaning as they emptied themselves into her, their eyes never leaving hers. It was as if they were all searching for something in her gaze, something that had long been lost to them in the march of time.

The room grew hot and sticky with the scent of their sweat and release. Yuna's moans filled the space, a symphony of pleasure and pain, a testament to the insatiable hunger of the elderly men. Her make-up was smeared, her clothes in tatters, and yet she remained unflappable, her pink hair a beacon in the sea of wrinkled flesh. They fucked her in every position imaginable, their trembling limbs finding surprising strength in their desperation. She took them all, her body a canvas for their passion, her voice a siren's song that beckoned them closer.

One by one, they stepped forward, each with their own twisted story of loss and loneliness etched on their faces. Mr. Choi, whose wife had left him for a younger man. Mr. Park, whose children never visited, leaving him to wilt in the twilight of his life. Mr. Kim, now with a newfound vigor, eager to claim his turn. They didn't speak much, their actions speaking louder than any words could. It was a silent pact, an understanding that they had found something precious in Yuna's embrace.

The night stretched on, a tapestry of grunts and sighs, of skin against skin, and the slap of flesh on flesh. The bed groaned with the weight of their collective need, the springs protesting under the relentless assault of their desire. Yuna's cries grew louder, more urgent, as the men took her, one after the other. They fucked her with a desperation that spoke of years of neglect and unspoken longing. Her body, once a bastion of youth and beauty, was now a battleground for their most primal instincts.

But she didn't protest, not truly. Instead, she accepted them all, her eyes never leaving Mr. Kim's. His gaze was filled with a mix of admiration and something else – something darker, more possessive. It was as if he had claimed her as his own, and she was willing to submit to his will. Her pink hair was a wild mane around her face, her make-up smeared, her clothes torn to shreds. Yet she remained a vision of beauty, her youthful vitality a stark contrast to the decay that surrounded her.

Word of Yuna's visits spread like wildfire through the retirement home. The whispers grew louder, the anticipation palpable. Each week, she would arrive dressed in a new outfit, something that would make their withered hearts skip a beat. The elderly men would gather in Mr. Kim's room, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They knew that tonight was their night.

Yuna had become their secret, their guilty pleasure. They had seen the way she looked at Mr. Kim, the way she took care of him, and they all wanted a piece of that tender care. They had lost so much in their lives – youth, health, and often, companionship. Her visits had become a beacon of hope, a reminder that there was still passion to be had, even in the twilight of their years.

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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Innocent Idol Turned Secret Slut — Cheating Her Way Into Silence With Her Boyfriend’s Best Friend

Winter X Male OC

“Minjeong, open the door.”

Taehyun’s voice was flat—tired, edged with amusement. She hesitated at the buzzer, the chill of the marble floor rising into her bare feet. She wore only a cropped white tank top and matching joggers, her long hair twisted up in a loose bun. Her nipples peeked dark under the fabric, flattened by thin patches, but not hidden.

A stylist would’ve screamed.

She pressed the button. “Is he okay?”

“Dead drunk. Open before someone gets pictures.”

Minjeong buzzed him in. The elevator whined, and she waited with her arms wrapped tight around her chest, heart already pounding in the wrong places. When the door opened, Taehyun was hauling Junho’s limp body on his back, one arm hooked under his knees.

Minjeong’s stomach dropped.

“Jesus,” she muttered, stepping aside. “You carried him like that?”

“Didn’t want him pissing in my car again.” Taehyun’s voice was dry, his eyes tracking her body before glancing back down at his cargo. “Didn’t know your dress code for emergencies was… this.”

She flinched, pulling her tank down. “I was already home.”

He grunted, dropping Junho gently onto the couch. Her boyfriend groaned, rolled, then passed out hard, face buried in a decorative cushion.

“I thought he was cutting back,” Minjeong murmured.

Taehyun tossed his jacket over the armrest. “He was. Until he wasn’t.”

She stood there, awkward, thumbs brushing the edge of her waistband.

Taehyun stretched his arms behind his head, shirt riding up to expose the sharp lines of his waist. He caught her looking and smirked. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring any reporters.”

“Not funny.”

“You sure?” he stepped closer, eyes locking on hers. “You’re the one who told him you couldn’t be seen at clubs. No holding hands, no rumors. You’re a whole nation’s sweetheart.”

Minjeong’s jaw tightened. “I’m not an idiot. I know the rules.”

Taehyun’s voice softened. “But sometimes the rules want to break you first.”

She didn’t answer.

They stood in silence for a beat. The kitchen light glowed pale, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones. Her skin still glistened faintly from her shower—clean, scented like rose water and lemon shampoo. Not even the baggiest sweater could hide that from someone who looked too long.

Especially him.

“Thanks for bringing him,” she finally said, folding her arms again. “I’ll get him water.”

“You don’t have to act like you owe me anything.”

“I don’t,” she said, walking toward the kitchen. “But I’m not rude.”

He followed—slow, measured steps behind her.

She filled a glass at the sink, the noise of water masking the quiet stretch of tension. He leaned against the counter, fingers drumming lightly on the granite.

“He loves you,” Taehyun said after a moment. “You know that?”

Minjeong paused. “He tries.”

Taehyun’s smile was crooked. “And you clean up the pieces.”

She handed him the water without looking. Their fingers brushed. She flinched again—too late, too obvious.

Taehyun tilted the glass but didn’t drink. “You ever wonder if you picked the wrong one?”

She looked up sharply. “Don’t.”

“I’m just asking.”

Minjeong’s voice dropped. “You’re his best friend.”

Taehyun stepped forward once. Close. “And I’ve seen how he treats you.”

She backed against the fridge, pulse hammering in her throat. “Stop.”

“You called me, Minjeong.”

Her breath caught.

“I was the one who showed up. Who carried him up five flights. Who watched you press your hands over your chest so the neighbors wouldn’t stare.”

She shook her head. “You’re twisting it.”

His voice turned gentle. Dangerous. “Am I?”

He stepped into her space fully, towering. “I watched you rehearse that first year. Your ribs poking through dance jerseys, eyes bleeding sleep. But you smiled. You always smiled.”

Minjeong’s back hit the fridge hard. Her fingers curled.

Taehyun leaned in. “You could’ve picked anyone. You picked the boy who forgets your call times and leaves you stranded outside your own showcases.”

He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

Her voice broke. “Stop. Please.”

He didn’t move.

“You were never invisible to me, Minjeong.”

Silence stretched again. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint rasp of rain against glass.

“I’m going to make hot chocolate,” she whispered.

He stepped back slowly, lips curved.

“Make me one too.”

She nodded, turned away, heart in her throat, thighs aching with guilt.

Behind her, he sat down in her clean white kitchen like he belonged there.

Like this wasn’t the beginning of something she’d never come back from.

The milk hissed when it hit the hot pot, steam curling up into Minjeong’s face like breath she couldn’t release.

She stirred slowly, spoon tracing figure eights. Behind her, Taehyun sat at the counter, legs spread wide, arms resting on the chair back like he owned the room.

She hated that he looked so at ease. Hated more that she wanted to keep him there.

“You always make it this way?” he asked, voice smooth.

“Yeah,” she said, quiet. “Same since trainee days.”

“Junho never drinks it.”

“No,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder. “He doesn’t like sweet things.”

Taehyun tilted his head, eyes drifting down her back to where her joggers hugged tight against her hips. “He doesn’t like sweet things. Ironic.”

She turned back to the stove, ignoring the heat building in her cheeks. The tank top clung to her spine, sweat beading between her shoulder blades.

“You used to bring it to the studio at 2 a.m.,” he said. “That’s how I knew you weren’t like the others.”

Minjeong poured the chocolate into two mugs. “You were a smoker then.”

“I quit the day you asked me if the smell made me lonely.”

She blinked. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

She placed a mug in front of him. Their hands brushed again. His fingers grazed hers—lingering longer this time.

He took a sip, moaned low. “God, this is dangerous.”

She looked up. He was watching her. Closely.

“Dangerous how?” she asked, voice catching.

“Because it tastes like you.”

The room went silent again. Just the clink of the spoon, the hum of guilt.

“Stop saying things like that,” she murmured, sipping her own drink.

“Why?” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Because I mean them?”

“Because they make it hard to breathe.”

He stared at her. “Good.”

She looked away.

“You ever wonder?” he asked.

“About?”

“Me. If you’d said yes instead.”

She didn’t answer.

He stood. Circled the counter. Stood behind her again, not touching—but close enough that his heat ghosted over her back.

“I was going to ask,” he said softly. “That night after showcase. You wore that oversized hoodie and pink socks, remember?”

She nodded. Slowly.

“But then he said he liked you. And I backed off.”

Her hands clenched the mug. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

Taehyun leaned closer. “You always looked at me like maybe.”

“I was scared,” she whispered.

“Still are,” he said, moving beside her. His fingers lifted the mug from her hands. Set it down. Then slowly, deliberately, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

He kissed each knuckle. Then the inside of her wrist.

She trembled.

“You smell like roses and cocoa,” he murmured.

She couldn’t look at him. “We can’t do this.”

“You can tell me to stop.”

He was so close now—nose brushing her cheek, his breath warming her neck.

“Say stop.”

Minjeong’s breath hitched. Her head tilted slightly.

Taehyun's hand rose to her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her lip. “Chocolate,” he said softly.

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Full. His lips were warm, and hers opened before she could stop them.

Their mugs clinked as her hand slid up his chest, finding purchase in the cotton of his shirt.

He pulled away first.

Her eyes fluttered open. Guilt flooded them.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“I’m terrified.”

He leaned down again, brushing their noses. “You should be.”

Then his mouth found her neck—tongue tracing her pulse, lips sucking softly until her knees buckled.

She moaned, one hand gripping his wrist.

His other hand slipped under her tank. Not greedy. Just resting against her ribs, fingers splayed wide.

She gasped, chest rising into his palm.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered.

“You’ll ruin me.”

He kissed her collarbone. “Only if you let me.”

The hot chocolate sat forgotten on the counter, steam curling toward the ceiling as her morals slid toward the floor.

They didn’t speak when they passed the living room. Junho’s body still sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor. A soft snore rose from him like a cruel joke.

Minjeong walked ahead, tank clinging tighter with each step, her bare feet brushing polished floorboards. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Taehyun followed. Silent. Watching the way her white joggers hugged her hips, the subtle line of her spine visible through damp cotton.

In her bedroom, she paused. The room smelled faintly of lavender and warmed linen. The sheets were still folded back from when she’d crawled into them alone last night—before everything began unraveling.

“You always sleep cold?” he asked from behind.

She turned.

Her tank had risen slightly, exposing the soft curve of her lower belly. The fabric stretched over her small chest, the faint outline of nipple patches visible in the light.

Taehyun stepped closer, fingertips brushing the hem. “You used to be so shy in the practice rooms.”

“I still am,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You’re just scared of wanting.”

He pulled the tank up slowly, revealing inch by inch of pale skin. Her ribs. The delicate flare of her waist. And then—her breasts.

Petite. Barely a handful. But perfect.

He sucked in a breath. “Fuck.”

Minjeong flushed scarlet.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, cupping one breast in his palm. “Soft like satin.”

She gasped when his tongue met her nipple, licking around the tender peak before sucking gently. Her knees buckled. He moved to the other—tongue flicking, mouth open and greedy now, tongue flat and hot against her flushed skin.

She held his head there, trembling. “Taehyun…”

“You taste like sleep and sugar,” he breathed, dragging his mouth down her chest. His lips brushed under her arms, where she’d forgotten to dry properly. “Even your sweat smells clean.”

“Don’t—”

He kissed the hollow beneath her arm anyway, lips soft and deliberate.

Minjeong’s breath hitched. “That’s—too much.”

Taehyun looked up, lips shiny. “Everything about you is too much.”

She stepped back, eyes wide. “I’m going to hell for this.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re already there.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in her tank. Her thighs pressed together, chest still rising and falling with shallow gasps.

“You’re not gonna let me carry this alone, are you?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked up.

He undid his jeans, pulling them down just enough. His cock sprang free—long, hard, flushed deep at the tip. Thick veins ran along the shaft, wet already from how turned on he was.

Minjeong stared. Her lips parted.

“I don’t want to be this person,” she whispered.

“Then don’t be,” he said. “Just be here.”

She stood. Moved between his legs.

Her hand touched him first—fingers feather-light, almost unsure. Then firmer. She leaned down, breath trembling.

He didn’t guide her. Didn’t press.

Her mouth opened. Her lips wrapped around the head.

She sucked softly at first—slow, almost tender. Her brows furrowed like this was a confession, not a blowjob.

Taehyun groaned, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “That’s it. Use your mouth like you mean it.”

She did.

Not because she wanted to please him—but because if she was going to fall, she wanted to own it. Her head bobbed slowly, her small mouth stretching around him, saliva slicking his cock inch by inch.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re so small,” he breathed, looking down at her. “So goddamn perfect.”

She took him deeper.

Her eyes stared up—wet, glassy, not begging—but searching. Searching for something to feel clean again.

Taehyun’s breath caught.

“You think this makes you dirty?” he whispered, pushing her hair back. “This just makes you mine.”

She moaned around him, lips sliding faster now. The sounds filled the room—wet, quiet gasps, the twitch of his cock against her tongue.

He pulled out before he came.

Not yet.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her hard. Deep. Their mouths smeared with guilt and spit and craving.

“Window,” he said into her mouth.

She nodded.

Minjeong was naked now. Skin flushed, trembling, damp in all the places she used to hide. Her tank top and joggers lay crumpled on the floor like excuses. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Cold glass kissed her breasts when she leaned forward.

Behind her, Taehyun stayed half-dressed—shirtless, but still in his sweats. The contrast made her ache. He still belonged to the world. She’d already given herself away.

“Bend more,” he murmured, guiding her hips. “You look better when you break a little.”

She whimpered but obeyed.

His cock dragged against her slick folds once. Then again. Teasing. Savoring.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, too calm.

“No,” she whispered.

But she didn’t move.

He slid in slowly—inch by inch—filling her until her spine arched. She gasped. Her forehead hit the window with a soft thud.

“Oh—fuck…”

Her reflection stared back—flushed, mouth open, eyes wide and wet.

He gripped her waist, thrusting deeper, harder. Skin slapped against skin. Her breath fogged the glass.

She whimpered, turning her head sideways against the window. “He… he sleeps just down the hall…”

“You mean the drunk who didn’t notice you creaming on my fingers twenty minutes ago?”

“Stop,” she moaned. “Stop saying it like that.”

“You want me to lie?” He thrust hard. She jerked forward, chest smearing against the cold pane.

“Tell me you don’t love it,” he growled.

“I—don’t—” Her words cracked with each thrust.

He reached around, slipping two fingers into her mouth. She moaned instantly, sucking them deep—grateful for something to quiet herself.

“Just like that,” he hissed. “God, you were made for this.”

Her tongue curled around his fingers. Her body bucked into each thrust. Her thighs trembled.

She sucked harder, moaning into his hand.

Tears ran hot down her cheeks.

“I shouldn’t like this,” she choked. “This is wrong.”

“You taste wrong. Feel wrong. Moan wrong.” He pulled his fingers out and slapped her ass. “But you keep fucking back.”

She slammed against him, face stuck to the window now, hips jerking with every thrust.

“Say you want it,” he demanded.

“No.”

He slammed harder.

“Say it.”

“Please…” she sobbed. “Just don’t stop.”

The glass was slick from her breath. Her nipples dragged against it with every thrust, hard and burning.

She moaned louder, voice cracking. “I’m not supposed to feel this good—”

“But you do,” he groaned, gripping her hips so tight she’d bruise. “You fucking love it.”

She came suddenly—hips locking, body shivering. Her scream muffled by the window. Her pussy clenched hard around him, soaking his cock.

Taehyun held her there, letting her ride the waves until her legs gave out and she sagged forward, breathless.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re incredible like this.”

She whispered, “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“You’re mine,” he said simply, still buried inside.

She turned her face. Her cheek pressed flat against the cool glass, her voice broken. “You’re still wearing your pants…”

Taehyun chuckled, slow and dark. “Because I don’t need to get naked to own you.”

She sobbed once—half guilt, half pleasure.

Then she whispered, “One more.”

He pulled out, and she gasped at the loss. He guided her back to the bed.

Minjeong straddled him slowly, knees digging into the mattress, her naked body trembling above his still half-clothed one. Taehyun’s hands slid up her thighs, thumbs circling gentle patterns against her hipbones.

“You okay?” he murmured.

She nodded, breath shaky. “I think so.”

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Open. Real.”

Her face flushed. The room felt too quiet, too intimate. She leaned in, chest brushing his, small breasts warm against his skin. His hands rose to cup them, thumbs grazing across her nipples.

He kissed her slowly—mouth soft, teasing, almost tender. She kissed back harder.

For a moment, she forgot.

Forgot where she was. Forgot who was asleep just outside the room. Forgot she wasn’t supposed to feel this.

Their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled.

Minjeong moved her hips, letting him slide back in—deep, full.

She gasped, nails raking his chest.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” he asked, hands gripping her waist.

She moaned. “I’m falling apart.”

He looked up at her—eyes soft, lips parted.

“Then fall into me.”

She did.

Her hips rocked in a slow rhythm. His cock filled her again and again, stretching her open, making her gasp with every bounce. She held his shoulders, her breasts swaying, lips catching soft cries of guilt between thrusts.

“I wanted to hate you,” she whispered. “But now I…”

Taehyun’s smile was faint. “What?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real.”

“Then feel it instead.”

She rode him faster. Sloppier. Sweat trickled down her back, her hair stuck to her temple. She pressed her lips to his again—hungry now, not romantic. Her moans grew louder.

Then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

She froze.

Junho stood in the doorway, squinting into the dark, shirt half-off, hair wild.

“Min… jeong?” he mumbled.

Her whole body locked.

She tried to rise. “Get off—stop—”

But Taehyun held her hips firmly. Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move.

Just waited.

Junho blinked. Rubbed his face. “Shit, this room’s spinning.”

He stumbled toward the bed.

Minjeong’s heart hammered.

Taehyun looked her dead in the eyes—and thrust upward, slow.

Her lips parted in silent horror.

Junho didn’t seem to notice. He collapsed face-first onto the bed—right beside them. His body didn’t even shift as he passed out, snoring.

She stared at him. Inches away. Her thighs still around Taehyun’s cock.

Her voice cracked. “Please…”

But Taehyun grinned. “He didn’t even see.”

Then he fucked her.

Hard.

She tried to cover her mouth. Tried not to scream. But every thrust knocked a cry out of her lungs.

She clung to him, tears spilling. Her orgasm built again—shame twisting inside it.

“You’re crazy,” she whimpered. “This is insane.”

“But you’re still fucking me,” he hissed into her ear. “Even with him right there.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You hate that I know what you really are.”

He slammed into her once more, and she shattered—body convulsing, breath stuttering. She bit into his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He came inside her again, thick and deep.

They both lay still.

Junho snored beside them, arm dangling over the edge of the bed.

Minjeong pulled off slowly, sticky and limp.

She slid from the bed, legs shaking, chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. She grabbed her joggers, her tank—everything that used to be hers before tonight.

As she dressed, Taehyun leaned on one elbow, watching.

“You’re quiet now,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“You thought I was different, didn’t you?”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“You thought I loved you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He sat up. “I just wanted to fuck the girl who everyone else thought was too pure to touch.”

She swallowed hard.

“You were never special, Minjeong. Just available.”

He grabbed his cock, still slick with her.

Slapped it once—wet—against his own thigh. Then looked her dead in the eye.

“Turns out idols moan just like everyone else.”

She woke alone. Her mouth tasted stale and metallic. Her thighs ached. Her sheets smelled like sweat, old fabric softener, and sex.

Junho’s body lay beside her, curled under the blanket, still fully dressed from the night before. He snored gently, one hand flopped over her pillow, like he’d been there all along.

But Taehyun was gone.

Minjeong stared at the ceiling, blinking against the raw pulse between her legs. Her breath came shallow. Every shift in her hips sent a ripple of soreness through her core. Her nipples still felt tender. Her lips cracked from the night’s heat.

She hated it. Hated that she couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Hated that her body remembered more than her heart wanted to.

And worst of all—

She missed him.

The realization hit her in the chest like a slap. She sat up too fast, dizziness flashing behind her eyes. Her tank top from the night before clung to her like a second skin. Her panties were still on the floor. She didn’t reach for them.

Instead, she stood slowly and padded into the bathroom. She rinsed her face, brushed her teeth twice. The reflection that met her in the mirror looked blank-eyed. Pale. A little swollen at the lips.

An idol. A product. A fuck.

She wiped her mouth slowly.

Back in the bedroom, Junho groaned, stretching.

“You’re up?” he mumbled, eyes puffy.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. “Shit… last night was brutal. I didn’t puke in here, did I?”

“No.”

He smiled faintly. “Lucky you.”

Minjeong looked at him. Hair sticking up, breath sour, voice too loud. This boy she defended in every interview. Protected from every scandal. Who never remembered her call times, who made her wait in lobbies, who loved her the way a dog loves a warm spot on the floor.

She had tried. Over and over.

But trying didn’t keep her from being undone.

The doorbell rang. Junho groaned again. “You get it?”

She did.

She opened the door and Taehyun stood there, holding two iced Americanos and a bag that smelled like toasted brioche and butter. He smiled like a fucking angel.

“Breakfast.”

She froze.

“Relax,” he said smoothly, brushing past her. “I’m just being a friend.”

Junho perked up when he saw the coffee. “You’re a lifesaver, bro.”

“Always,” Taehyun said, handing him a cup. “There’s jam bread in there too. Eat something. You look like death.”

Junho laughed and shuffled toward the bathroom. “Shower first. My mouth tastes like an ashtray.”

The door closed. Water started.

Silence returned.

Minjeong turned, face pale. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Taehyun stepped in close. “Delivering breakfast.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

He reached out, brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I told you I wasn’t going to stop.”

Her body flinched.

He leaned in, his breath warm and cruel. “You still sore?”

She turned her head, but her thighs betrayed her. She was already clenching.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

He backed her into the kitchen island, slow, without force. Just confidence. The kind that made her knees weak.

“You want me to leave?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“You want me to stop?”

Still nothing.

He pushed her tank up, baring her from waist to ribs. His palm slid under—warm, familiar now, cruel in its ease. He pinched her nipple once. She gasped.

“Shh,” he whispered. “He’s just in the shower.”

He turned her gently around, bent her slightly over the counter. Pulled her joggers halfway down. No panties.

“You came twice on this cock last night,” he murmured, dragging the head of his dick through her wetness. “Let’s see if you even need foreplay now.”

She opened her mouth—but all that came was breath.

Then he entered her.

Fast. Deep. Full.

Her hands slapped the counter, knuckles white.

He held her hips steady, fucking her in slow, brutal strokes.

She shook her head. “Please—he’s right there—”

“Then keep quiet,” Taehyun whispered, lips to her neck.

Each thrust forced her up on her toes. Her moans became gasps—silent, broken hiccups of pleasure.

Junho’s voice rang from the bathroom. “Hey! Where’s the shampoo?”

Taehyun paused, still buried deep.

Minjeong stared at the counter, chest heaving.

“In the cabinet!” she called, breath shaking.

The water rushed louder.

Taehyun chuckled in her ear. “You’re getting good at lying.”

He pulled out, spun her around.

She gasped—confused—until she saw him stroke his cock.

Still hard. Red at the tip. Slick with her.

“Open,” he said.

She blinked.

“Now.”

She dropped to her knees.

He pushed the head into her mouth, deep. He didn’t thrust—just held her there. Let her suck, slow and deliberate.

He tilted her chin, watching her.

“You still think you’re the victim here?” he murmured. “You chose this. You wore that tank. You looked at me with those big eyes and whispered thank you.”

She whimpered, sucking harder.

He groaned.

“Keep it in your mouth,” he said, voice darkening. “Don’t swallow.”

He came. Hard.

Hot pulses flooded her tongue. She kept it all, cheeks hollowing.

He pulled back, smeared the last drips across her lips.

“Now hold it,” he whispered.

She sat back on her heels, mouth full, eyes wet.

Taehyun crouched to her level, cupped her chin.

“You taste like regret,” he said.

Junho’s voice called again. “You guys eating without me?”

Taehyun smiled. “Swallow. Smile. Be his good girl again.”

She swallowed slowly, tears rolling.

He stood, zipped up, grabbed his coffee.

Minjeong stayed on her knees, shirt half-off, mouth wet, eyes blank.

As she reached for a napkin, Taehyun leaned in one last time.

Voice low.

Cruel.

Satisfied.

“Let me know when you're ready to cheat for real.”

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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look at this teen showing off herself in a bikini

message me to talk about her

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

Photo

Fucked both jade and Nathalie at wild wild wet staircase shortly after the last 2 pics

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pakrkx · 7 days ago

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pakrkx · 11 days ago

Note

Can you write a Kazuha smut using this

https://nhentai.net/g/434185/1/

PLIABILITY

Kazuha x Male Reader

You always knew Kazuha was graceful—every fan did. But now, stripped bare beneath her, pinned to the mattress while she straddles your hips in nothing but a silky black bra, you're learning something else entirely.

She’s deadly.

"You're already hard," she hums, running her fingers down your chest, slow and elegant, like tracing choreography. “Didn’t even have to touch you properly yet.”

You groan. “Kazuha…”

Her smirk curves. “What? Embarrassed?”

She leans forward, balancing perfectly on your hips—her thighs squeezing tight around you like she’s mid-performance on stage—and brushes her lips against your ear.

“Do you know how many hours I trained to move like this?” she whispers, breath hot. “How much core control it takes to keep a man begging under me?”

Before you can answer, she lifts one leg—high, graceful, ballerina-perfect—and swings it over your shoulder as she shifts into a side split on your lap, fully seated on your cock.

You gasp.

Her pussy swallows you in one go, tight and warm and already soaked.

“Fuck, Kazuha—!”

“Mmm,” she moans, eyes fluttering as she adjusts. “Deep already? Guess all those stretches paid off.”

Her hips roll forward in a slow, calculated grind—muscles flexing in rhythm, every motion purposeful, trained, devastating. She looks like she’s on stage again, except the performance is just for you.

“Eyes on me,” she says, tilting your chin up. “If you cum too soon, I’m going to tie you up and leave you halfway hard for the rest of the night.”

You nod quickly.

She giggles. “Good boy.”

You never stood a chance.

Kazuha rides you like she’s in full control—each bounce choreographed, fluid, her core holding her steady as she angles her hips to hit your most sensitive spots again and again.

And the way she bends—god—one leg still perched on your shoulder while the other stretches behind her in a full back arch, hair swinging, back muscles rippling.

“Bet you didn’t think your little ballerina crush would ride you in a perfect penché,” she pants, her hands planted on your chest, nails digging in with every slam of her hips. “Feel how deep you are right now? My flexibility’s all for you.”

You’re shaking, hands fisting the sheets.

She smirks. “You’re about to lose it, aren’t you?”

You nod again, desperate.

“Not yet.”

She pulls off—suddenly, cruelly—your cock slick and twitching. She crawls up your body and straddles your face, lowering herself until her soaked pussy hovers just above your mouth.

“Then eat,” she commands. “And don’t stop until I say.”

You moan, tongue already flicking up to meet her. She sits down fully, hips grinding against your face, riding your tongue with the same brutal elegance.

"God, yes... You love this, don't you?" she gasps, rolling her hips in a figure-eight. “Bet you fantasized about licking my thighs backstage. Being under me while I practiced.”

You groan in agreement, licking her deeper. She tastes divine.

And when she cums—shuddering, thighs clenching around your head like a vice—she doesn’t let up.

"Keep going," she breathes, grinding her release into your mouth. "You don’t stop until I say I’m finished."

Eventually, Kazuha lets you breathe again—but not for long.

She flips you over effortlessly, pressing your chest to the mattress. Then she grabs your hips, pulls you back into position, and slides onto you again—this time from behind.

She sinks down, then folds herself over your back in a deep forward bend, her chest flush against your back, arms snaking around you.

“I can bend in ways your last girl could never dream of,” she moans into your ear, riding you slow and deep. “And you’re going to take every inch of it.”

You feel her tighten around you—like a vice—and you’re right at the edge again.

“Can I cum?” you beg, voice ragged. “Please—Kazuha—I can’t—”

She pauses. Lifts her hips slightly.

Then slams down. “Now.”

You cry out, spilling deep inside her as she keeps riding through it, taking it all, milking you dry.

She hums in satisfaction, even as you twitch inside her. “That’s it… such a good little toy.”

She finally collapses onto your chest, sweaty, breathless, still pulsing around you.

“You’re not done though,” she whispers against your ear.

You whimper.

Kazuha only laughs, sitting up again—stretching effortlessly into a high straddle split across your hips.

“I’m still flexible. Let’s see how many more times I can break you in half.”

Your chest is still heaving when Kazuha leans forward and kisses your sweat-slick cheek, her lips soft, breath hot.

"One orgasm and you're already shaking?" she whispers sweetly, even as her hips are still lazily grinding on your half-hard cock. “I thought you said you could keep up with me.”

You try to respond, but all that leaves your mouth is a breathy moan as your oversensitive cock twitches inside her.

Kazuha giggles. "That’s what I thought."

She places her palms on your chest and starts rolling her hips again—slow, teasing, with that dancer’s rhythm. Your nerves are on fire, your brain short-circuiting, and yet she looks unbothered, completely in control of her body… and yours.

“Do you want to know exactly how flexible I am?” she asks, licking her lips as she rises up until just your tip remains inside.

You nod dumbly.

She smirks.

"Then watch me."

Kazuha shifts into reverse cowgirl, still facing away, giving you the perfect view of her toned back and flawless ass. Then, slowly, with unreal grace, she lifts one leg straight up—vertical—until her ankle is pointing toward the ceiling. A perfect standing split, all while your cock is buried inside her.

"Hnnn, fuck—feel how tight I still am even like this?" she moans, rotating her hips in a grinding figure-eight with that leg raised. “Bet your ex could barely touch her toes while riding you.”

You can barely breathe. She's completely vertical, cockwarming you while showing off a ballet pose *most pros can’t hold sober—*and she's moaning like it’s nothing.

"This is what years of pliés and arabesques trained me for,” she whispers filthily, lowering her leg and dropping her ass hard into your lap. “To ruin men like you.”

She starts bouncing, slow at first—controlled, devastating. Every slap of her hips echoes with lewd, wet sounds that fill the room.

“Look at how I move,” she growls, glancing over her shoulder. “Every motion? I learned it in the studio. All those hours stretching, sweating, perfecting lines—just so I could fuck you in a full side split like this.”

She slides forward, spreading her legs fully into a straddle split while staying completely impaled on your cock. The stretch is inhuman, her thighs flat against the sheets, and you’re watching your cock disappear inside her with each elegant grind.

“Fuck—you’re twitching again. Gonna cum already?” she teases, circling her hips faster. “I thought I told you—I’m the one who decides when you're done.”

You whimper.

Your body’s on edge again—painfully hard, overly sensitive—but she’s relentless. She leans forward, ass still pressed flush to your hips, arching her back into a deep bridge, hands planted beside your legs as she bounces harder now.

Her moans grow louder. Higher. Hungrier.

Then she twists her torso slightly—balancing one hand on your thigh while the other reaches behind her—and pulls her own leg behind her neck.

"Bet you didn’t know I could fuck you in a needle pose, huh?” she breathes, lips parted, sweat dripping from her chest. “You’re not even touching me, and I’m still using every muscle in my body to milk your cock.”

You choke on your own groan.

She leans down again and slaps your thigh. "Don’t even think about cumming yet. You want to cum again, you’re gonna earn it."

Kazuha rolls off you suddenly, leaving your cock throbbing in the air. She stands up and gestures toward the mirror across the room.

“Get over there,” she orders. “On your knees.”

You obey, dazed and horny, kneeling in front of the full-length mirror as she approaches from behind.

She drops into another perfect front split right behind you—then reaches around and strokes your cock slowly, deliberately.

“Look at yourself,” she murmurs into your ear. “Look how pathetic you are. Shaking. Leaking. All because your ballerina knows how to bend her body.”

She strokes faster.

“You want to cum? Tell me how good I look when I ride you like a stage prop.”

“You—fuck—you’re so hot, Kazuha—your legs, your hips—your control—I can’t take it—”

She squeezes the base of your cock suddenly, stopping everything.

“Then beg.”

“I’m begging,” you pant. “Please… let me cum. I need it.”

She grins, releasing your shaft and positioning herself behind you. She guides your cock back inside her from behind, sinking in slowly as she slides into a full forward fold, her chest pressed to your back.

“I’ll let you cum, baby,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around your neck. “But only after I grind the soul out of you.”

And she does.

Grinding in slow, deep, sinewy rolls, her split-held hips never breaking rhythm. She bounces on your cock like a dancer marking every count, core locked in control, every thrust deeper than the last.

Her words keep coming—filthy, cruel, perfect.

“Feel that stretch? My thighs open just for you.”

“Most men only dream of a girl riding them in a side tilt—you’re inside one.”

“Cum inside me, baby. Fill up this trained little cunt. I’ll squeeze it out of you with every muscle I’ve built for the stage.”

You lose it.

You explode inside her with a groan so loud it startles you. She moans, clutching you tight, riding every pulse of your orgasm as she cums again too—shaking, gritting her teeth, whispering your name into your neck like a melody.

Afterward, she’s still flexible. Still dangerous. Still in control.

You’re the one who collapses, panting.

Kazuha just giggles, stretching her arms overhead in a flawless back arch as she straddles your chest.

“Encore?”

You don’t even answer. You just nod.

You’re hers until curtain call.

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