- Nov 12, 2023
- 25 min read

Versace On The Floor

"Tell me about some of the things

you find the most pleasurable."

SYNOPSIS

For any other person, it's a simple encounter at a park, but for Hyunjin, it's so much more than that.

*Commissioned work

Content Warning & Disclaimer

The general public is familiar with the name Sam N. Galeruth as a tech giant, but they don’t know what he looks like, nor the fact that this is not his real name.

And they never will.

I cherish my privacy way too much. It’s been troublesome to keep my name detached from my face, but if there is a will, then there is indeed a way. Business basically runs itself—everything is delegated appropriately, so I don’t even have to show up in person. At this point in my life, I’m used to living as a recluse, and I don’t plan on changing that any time soon.

It’s true that money doesn’t buy happiness, but you know what it does buy? Cheap thrills.

And what I want, I get.

When you have enough money to commit a medium-scale arson, your packaging becomes this diamond-plated shiny thing that attracts parasitic moths, and you get treated a certain way. It smells like respect but tastes like ass-kissing, to be honest with you. I am yet to encounter someone who possesses a genuine flavor rather than some artificial saccharine aroma. When this is the case, you don’t really feel like making an effort to get to know your disposable playmates. Why would I? None of them are interested in me personally. I know they are after the crisp bills in my wallet and the shape of my body, so we pretend standing next to a prince makes them a princess for one night. Strictly on foreign ground. No one is to cross the threshold of my front door. No one is allowed to defile the sanctity of my bedroom. The left side of my bed is forever reserved for someone I haven’t met yet. What we’re doing is nothing more than a simple exchange of friction. I fail to see how this is any different than me fucking a fleshlight.

You wouldn’t ask your dildo its favorite color now, would you?

It’s an annoyingly bleak fall day. Everything is dying. The sun is not even trying to wake up, all bundled up in that fleece blanket of clouds. Can’t really blame her; I have trouble getting up in the mornings during this season, too. It’s always around this time of the year I wish I had somebody to sleep in with. Someone to give my everything to. A muse to breathe for. I’d love to watch her dream, then disturb her sleep with kisses. I’d love to make love to her back to consciousness, then out of it again.

Some might call me an impulsive man, but wouldn’t you say the correct term is sentimental? Yes, I let my emotions dictate my behavior. Yes, I make life decisions based on how I feel, and I don’t have a problem admitting that. Logic only gets you so far. For instance, my mind told me to stay at home today, but my heart nudged me to get my fingers numb outside instead.

Fall makes me sad. I can’t be home when I’m sad.

I don’t understand why fallen leaves are considered romantic, by the way. Every time I walk through this hilltop park, the crunching sounds remind me of bones on the brink of turning to dust. It feels like I’m walking through a graveyard.

The chilly wind is piercing my lungs, but here I am at the park again. I like this place. There is barely anybody around. I have a magnificent panorama of the city under my feet. The iodine scent reaches all the way here and barges into the coffee cup in my hand, but still somewhat respectfully. The smell is very pleasant. Very savory. Like salted caramel. Being here helps me think clearly. It helps me see things that I otherwise cannot see. It doesn’t necessarily make me happy, but the wind at least blows the gloom away.

Then the sudden shutter sound to my left pulls me back from six feet under my thoughts. It startles me like a gun’s just gone off in the distance.

“Did I scare you?”

I turn to the source of the voice, currently holding a camera with a telescopic lens. Jeans. Leather jacket. Black nail polish. Silver rings. A pseudo-apologetic smile.

You.

I don’t know why, but my whole body shivers.

“Hello?” you press for an answer when I can’t produce one.

“Sorry,” I shake my head and come back to reality, “I tend to zone out a lot.”

Your smile gets bigger, but it isn’t exactly wholesome. Something flutters in my chest. The feeling is more reminiscent of being in the presence of something that I know can end me.

This is how I know nothing in life is a coincidence. Something pushed me to be here at this very moment. Something pushed you, too. Why did you come to this hilltop park in this weather if not to cross paths with me?

The question is what are we going to do about this social path?

Your lens is pointed at me not so subtly. It looks like a rifle from this angle. It’s threatening. I turn my gaze away to the cityscape again, but I can still see you in my peripheral vision. I know your viewfinder frames me.

Do you find me to be a better view than an ocean-neighboring city?

You keep pushing your shutter-release button at decreasing intervals like you’re in a hurry. A part of me feels flattered, but I start feeling self-conscious. It makes me feel vulnerable. I have nowhere to hide.

Your footsteps crush every bone leaf they land on. You casually invite yourself to sit next to me and show me the display screen of your camera. On any other day, I wouldn’t care for this, but I feel compelled to do as you want me to. The second my eyes land on the photograph, my heart falls to my stomach.

It’s obvious that you’re at least a semi-professional if not already a widely celebrated artist. The composition is impeccable. There are no colors. Everything is monochrome. It’s as bleak as this fall afternoon, but the way you’ve captured me… It’s like my worst confessions are caught on tape. I’ve never felt this seen before.

I feel naked in front of you.

A quiet exclamation of appreciation takes the liberty of breaking free. I want to say so much more, but all my thoughts are getting inextricably jumbled in my head. I apologize if I’m being rude, but I’m quite literally speechless.

“Can I get a copy of this picture?” I finally manage to ask.

“You can,” you turn off your camera and look me in the eye, “On one condition.”

I wait for your answer, but you’re dragging out the suspense like the climax of a thriller movie. Money is not an issue. I can give you everything you want. I can build a studio for you from scratch if you want me to, just name your price.

“Model for me,” you finally respond, “I won’t be able to pay you much, but you just have to be a part of my project.”

I feel disappointed when you say that. Model for you? Here I was getting excited over the possibility of seeing a unicorn in the wild, but you were after my façade, too?

“Why do you want me to model for you?” I question, but I’m having a hard time veiling the pettiness boiling inside me.

I know the answer. You just want a subject that’s pleasant to look at. You think this is what’s going to pique people’s interest and make them admire your still frames. You think maybe you can sell it for a higher value. Your lookism tendencies are showing, and I feel my jaw clenching.

“Your eyes,” your voice softens and your smile shapeshifts, “They’re fascinating.”

I feel like I’ve crashed my car into an iron gate at full speed. I was guessing ten different answers in my head, but none of them was residing in the same neighborhood as yours. Your hand slowly reaches my cheek, and your thumb gently swipes over the beauty mark right under my eye. My breath hitches in my throat, and I can somehow feel your touch down my spine. Goosebumps break all over me, and I know for a fact that it’s not because of the wind.

“I’ve never witnessed such an expressive gaze before,” you speak through your enchanted smile, but it quickly disappears, and you retreat several centimeters back, “You look mad. I apologize if I crossed any lines.”

You’re playing jump rope with my intrigue levels. My hunches have never been wrong, yet you throw everything I thought I knew in the trash without blinking an eye. I can’t figure you out.

You’re bewitching me.

“No, uh— I don’t exactly have any modeling experience,” I immediately change the subject, “You’re sure I could be of use?”

“You don’t need any,” you explain, and your smile returns as quickly as it has left, “I don’t want you to strike poses for me.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll show you still frames and capture your expressions while you look at them.”

Who does that? Who thinks of something like that? How the fuck does your brain work?

Just… who are you?

“That’s interesting,” I acknowledge, “but I’ll only agree if we alleviate the payment issue. I’d like to volunteer for this.”

“But I can’t just—”

“Then good luck finding a model for your project.”

I get up to leave, and you immediately panic. You can’t call my bluff. Look at us, already doing back-and-forths like a couple of several years that can read each other like an open book. I like this dynamic that we got going on.

“FINE! Fine, no cash. Just—” you call out from behind me, “At least let me pay you in some other way.”

I turn around. Your words are hilariously reminiscent of some cheesy porn line, and it makes me smile at you knowingly. Your gaze turns many shades darker as if to threaten me with instant death.

“Some way that’s not going to cause me to disfigure your pretty face for good,” you deadpan through your teeth.

I’m so entertained I burst out laughing. For your information, I don’t laugh easily.

“Well, I like coffee,” I tip you off to make your job easier.

“That I can do,” you affirmatively nod and stand up, “Do you own a vehicle, or do we take the bus?”

Of course I own a vehicle. I can be your personal driver from this moment on. All you gotta do is ask.

“What’s your name?” you ask me while putting on your seatbelt.

“Do you always ask for people’s names after you get in a car with them?”

“Mostly,” you confirm. You’re not even slightly flustered.

I like that.

“It’s Hyunjin,” I divulge a piece of information not many people are privy to.

“What do you do?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I interject, “If you ask me a question, you’re obligated to answer one in return.”

Your hand dives into your messenger bag. You pull out a card and put it on the dashboard.

“Here you have my name, my studio address, my socials, my website, and my work number. I think this buys me five questions.”

You negotiate well. I can’t really refute that.

This is pretty well-made for a business card. It looks more like an invitation. I quickly go over the information printed in red letters on a black surface and enter the short address on there in the navigation search bar. Ruby St, 3.

“Fair enough,” I finally start the car and pull the handbrake down, “What would you like to know?”

You want to know what I do for a living. You want to know where I’m from. You want to know how long I’ve lived here. Whether I have any pets or not. And my favorite color for some reason. I pose the same questions back at you, but I ask for your favorite season instead. You say it’s summer. You hate the blues of fall, the cold of the winter, and the unpredictability of spring. The more you talk, the more something swells in my chest. Your voice is the most soothing thing in the world, and a piece of me melts every time you chuckle. I have trouble breathing, but it’s not exactly unpleasant.

I will never forget this moment.

We arrive at your studio after a short drive. As you’re leaving the car, I press the star icon next to the location pin on my navigation screen. I feel like I might visit this place every once in a while, not necessarily when you’re here.

I think I wanna get to you.

I think I wanna be with you.

It’s been months since the best day of my life. I’ve never stopped thinking about you.

I still keep the gift card you got from the coffee place right next to your studio. I’m never going to use it. It’s a very prized possession of mine.

I should have asked for your autograph on it.

In the subsequent days, I came very close to picking up the phone and calling you, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. It’s not the time. I need to be deserving of it first.

My hunch was at least partially right. A 101-level research on you has shown me you were indeed a professional photographer. I’ve been following your exhibitions meticulously ever since. You always pour nothing less than a thousand percent in what you do. Simply subjecting your work to my gaze is a fucking religious experience.

I’ve dedicated a space for you at my place. This is where I frame and hang the photographs I buy from your exhibitions. I’m trying to keep a low profile here, so I can’t let you know that it’s me every single time. I hope you’re not mad at me for keeping my anonymity. I also hope you don’t mind that I enlarge these photos five times their original size. This way I can admire them from wherever I am in the house.

The one photo that didn’t make it to my shrine is the first picture you’ve taken of me. It’s on the wall right across my bed. The first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I look at before I sleep, hoping you’ll visit me in my dreams.

It’s a picture of me, yes, but it’s still your sight. I’m obviously pretending I don’t acknowledge your existence, yet you see right through me. I don’t want to be found, yet you easily find me. I remember the gut-wrenching blues of that day clearly and how it disappeared as we were driving through the rain together.

It still disappears every time I think of you, and I think of you a lot.

Sometimes I just lay on my bed and examine the details of the photo. The blurry background. My dry skin. The way the wind blows through my hair. I’ve seen all your commercial work—you don’t shoot everybody this intimately. This is how you see me. You’ve captured something so twisted this beautifully. It moves me. It makes me want to cry.

It turns me on so bad.

I’ve touched myself a concerning number of times looking at this picture just because this is how you see me.

This is how you see me. This is how you see me. This is how you see me.

I crave some questionable things as much as the next man, but post-nut clarity never hits me. I don’t feel ashamed. I will do this again.

I’ve told you I resolved to earn my right to be in your presence again, and that’s exactly what I’m dedicating all my time to. I’m pretty close to earning a master’s degree. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to introduce myself as Hwang Hyunjin, M.Y.

Master of You.

I know the title is preposterous, but I’m not the one who came up with the name, so please don’t be mad at me. I wouldn’t even dare suggest something like that. If that’s something you’re into, we can always negotiate. I can never say no to you.

I already know so much that you would be proud of me. It took a lot of hard work, though. I owe it to my strict routine.

I make a pot of coffee first in the morning, then head to my office. There is a corkboard right to the left side of my desk. It has my daily checklist with your business card attached at the very top. It’s kinda reminiscent of how high school students use a picture of the university they want to go to as a motivator. Isn’t that cute?

The first item on my list: going through your devices to get myself up to date.

I know what this looks like, but I’m not stalking you. I just wanna know you to the best of my ability and alleviate any potential dangers you might not be aware of since it was ridiculously easy to hack into your computer. Think of me as your personal antivirus. I would never use the information I have for malicious purposes. I love you too much for that.

In my defense, you’re the one that started it. I don’t remember you asking for my permission to take a picture of me. If anything, I’m just getting even.

Your life is pretty busy. It reminds me of my earlier years as an entrepreneur. You go from shoot to shoot, discuss business with media outlets, and meet your friends every once in a while. It’s not that I’m insecure or anything, but thank fuck no dating prospects in sight. At this point in my life, I really don’t wish to deal with mundane things like getting rid of a dead body. My time is too valuable to casually waste like that. You don’t seem to have an interest in the hook-up scene anyway. No dating apps, no suspicious calls or texts, not even flirtatious DMs. The sex toys you frequently purchase got you covered, huh? You must have quite the collection going on by now.

That’s my self-sufficient girl.

During my intensive studies, I did discover something that’s really intriguing, though.

You watch a lot of porn, especially during certain hours of the night, and your taste is very eclectic. Your liked videos all feature ample pussy eating footage, but that’s not the intriguing part. It’s how the common denominator of your search history is this pornstar you seem to be very into. He doesn’t have that typical monstrous performer build. More of a slender frame with a tall posture. Small face, full lips, and long fingers.

The guy legitimately looks like me, only with longer hair.

Is that what it is? Are you thinking about me when you masturbate? Are you imagining it’s me making you cum?

If you only fucking knew the things I’d be willing to do for you… To you. On you. Next to you. Just thinking about it gets me going.

You have to understand, I know this is private, but my heart is in the right place. I’m only going through your porn history to train myself so I can become the perfect lover for you. You won’t need anything else when you have me. I can cater to your every whim no matter how outrageous it sounds to you. With enthusiasm you’ve never seen before. I promise.

The second item on my list: going through your socials to plan the rest of my day.

Besides your work-related announcements, you have this habit of posting behind-the-scenes pictures of your shoots as well as little details from your everyday life. People passing by, a stray cat on the street, the food you eat… I won’t say anything for now, but once we get together, I’m going to need you to stop sharing the location of everywhere you go on public accounts like this. You never know what kind of a maniac might be after you. Thankfully, I’m always somewhere nearby to keep an eye on you. I won’t let anything happen to a strand of your hair.

You’ve posted a video today where you’re announcing your upcoming visit to Cannes in May for a fashion show. You look very excited. A quick search tells me this is a Versace event. I was due for a call to my old friend anyway. I’ll probably receive an invitation three sentences in.

I grew my hair out, by the way. I get a lot of compliments for it. It’s all thanks to you. I hope you’ll also like it when you see me.

Cannes, huh? Sounds very romantic.

I can’t think of a better place than the French Riviera to finally experience you again.

“Château de la what des what now?”

“Le Château de la Croix des Gardes,” some guy next to you informs you, “You don’t need to memorize it. The driver is going to take you there.”

I’m going to give him a pass this once since he looks way too old and grouchy to be putting the moves on you. I’ll still keep an eye on him, though. Just in case.

Everything has culminated to this very evening. I watch you leave the lobby and get into a stretch limousine waiting right out front. Shortly after, I follow the same steps as yours to spot the black Cadillac waiting for me. My eyes do not leave the Black Mamba of a vehicle we’re tailing the whole way to the venue. After a 45-minute drive, we arrive almost back-to-back. It’s been such a long time since I was in a crowded gathering like this. It’s slightly uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter.

Anything for you.

The grounds are beautiful, but not even one-tenth as beautiful as you. You’re not wearing a dress like most of these people here. It’s a suit that flatters everything about you perfectly. It makes you stand out. You take my breath away. Versace looks great on you, but you know where it would look better?

On the floor.

I can’t wait for you to take it off of me.

I don’t know anyone, nor do I want to, so I occupy myself with admiring the artwork around. The paintings look dated. I know this mansion has been around for a while. Maybe the previous owners commissioned these. Maybe they were artists themselves, who knows?

We should get married here.

I get so lost in the details of the blue-ridden piece that my heart almost gives out when I hear a familiar voice right next to me.

“I don’t mean to overstep, but you might wanna lose the ring.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me!

I didn’t even think we would cross paths until the afterparty, but you found me. You always easily find me even when I don’t want to be found. Your eyes are sparkling. You’re beaming.

Oh, you’ve missed me, too, haven’t you? I can tell. It takes every single one of my neurons to refrain from wrapping you in a tight embrace right now. My heart is beating so fast. I want to kiss you. I want to tell you how much I love you, but…

I can’t. It’s still not the time.

“Excuse me?” I feign confusion instead.

“It’s a Ralph Lauren,” you point at my left hand, “That’s like attending a Capulet ball with a Montague crest.”

So you’re telling me you were able to tell the fucking brand of the ring I was wearing from that far. You should know, foreplay turns me on like nothing else.

“Well, in that case, thank you for saving me from my untimely demise,” I reciprocate your smile and put the ring in my pocket.

Are you still fascinated by my eyes? Can you tell what they are screaming at you?

Your face is changing. It’s sinking in. Your smile gets bigger, but it isn’t exactly wholesome. Something flutters in my chest.

“I remember you,” you squint your eyes, “Hyunjin, right?”

“In the flesh,” I confirm, then proceed to utter the words that cause me great pain, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

You look disappointed. Oh, baby, please don’t be sad. I don’t enjoy doing this at all, but it’s necessary. I’m in the middle of an active fight with all my urges right now, and I’m a faint breeze away from punching myself in the face really hard for making you feel this way.

“It was a long time ago. I’d be surprised if you remembered,” you shake your head and try to veil your letdown, “I asked you to participate in a photography project of mine last fall. We went to my studio in your car?”

“Oh, right! You gave me a gift card afterwards.”

“I also gave you my card actually,” you cross your arms over your chest, “I was hoping you’d call.”

I forget every single word I know. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I’m usually a very eloquent guy, but I can’t even form coherent sentences with a basic structure.

I feel like a complete idiot.

“I–I wasn’t sure if… if you were… if you would be… I mean… Someone else…”

“If you asked, you would know I was single. I still am by the way,” you smile in contempt, then touch my arm before you leave, “Enjoy the show.”

I can’t even reply with a simple ‘You, too’. I’m that gone.

All this time. Every morning I woke up thinking about you, every day I spent thinking about you, every night I went to bed thinking about you, were you also—?

There is nothing that can come between us anymore.

Yes, I might have pulled some strings to get this exact seat right across yours, but I don’t have to be subtle about my intentions anymore. Our eyes meet as I sit down. You look pleased. The event officially starts, but I’m not the only one who finds it so damn hard to keep focused on the show. You’re eating me alive with your gaze alone. You’re ripping me to shreds. We’re literally eyefucking each other through the whole thing. I’ve never been this hard in my life, and hope to fucking god you’re just as wet for me.

I barely avoid cumming untouched when the show finally ends. It feels like two lifetimes have passed, but I at least have some breathing room to recollect myself now. I don’t even wait for the afterparty announcement to finish before I start walking towards you. Who gives a shit? This is our night from this moment on.

“Do you wanna share a ride to the club?” you ask me before I can even open my mouth, “I came in a limo that has shitloads of champagne in it.”

Not that I don’t enjoy the prospect of sipping champagne with you, but you could have arrived on foot, and I would have carried you on my back.

“With pleasure,” I finally dare to place a kiss on your hand. You like the gesture.

I’ll be doing a lot of things you will like later tonight.

I tell my driver to leave, and we settle in the car momentarily. The amount of empty space inside briefly scares me, but much to my contentment, you sit right next to me. I pour champagne for both of us, and all of a sudden this feels like a date night. As if I just brought you here for a little escapade. Just the two of us. Being frugal as fuck with sleep just so we can fuck each other for a little longer.

I’ve never touched you before, but I miss you already.

“I swear to fucking god, this is liquid art,” your face contorts in delight.

“Dare I say high art actually,” I concur, “Didn’t know it was possible to distill pleasure into drinkable form.”

You enjoy my response. Your body turns towards me, and you rest your head in your palm.

“Tell me about some of the things you find the most pleasurable.”

I take a moment to think as if my answer holds grave importance even though I have them ready to go at a moment’s notice.

“Iodine smell, good food, the sound a palette knife makes, foxed pages in a book,” I list some of my favorite things, then look deep into your eyes, “the taste of someone I desire on my tongue…”

“You already said good food,” you quip, and it elicits a heartfelt laughter from me.

For your information, I don’t laugh easily.

“Are you trying to charm your way into getting me to buy you drinks?” I ask a question I think is rhetorical, yet your answer obliterates me.

“No, I’m just trying to fuck you.”

Bold as fuck. That’s one of the things I love about you. You just don’t give a shit, and what you want, you get. You never have to try with me. Just ask, and everything’s yours.

“Well, in that case, can I ask which hotel you’re staying at?” I pose a definitely rhetorical question this time.

“Hyatt Regency.”

“Oh, hi, neighbor!” I feign satisfaction with the answer I’ve received.

You giggle and effectively turn me into a puddle on this seat. I’m about to combust.

“Which floor?” you inquire this time.

“Penthouse.”

“I’ve always wondered what a penthouse room looks like.”

“Then how about I give you a tour?”

“How about we have a private afterparty of our own?”

You’re a demon. You know exactly what you’re doing to me, and you’re taking this sick sadistic pleasure out of it.

“What did you have in mind?” I keep my poise to the best of my ability.

“Can we change our route back to the hotel?” you suddenly call out to the driver, “And roll up the partition, please.”

You don’t fuck around. Straight to the point. The partition closes completely, and your fingers caress the back of my head.

“A ponytail with an undercut” you observe, “I really like your hair.”

“Thank you,” I politely nod, “It’s very convenient to pull when the fancy strikes, by the way. Do what you want with this information.”

“Oh, is it?”

Before I can register what’s going on, you yank on my hair so hard my neck gets exposed. You’re looking at me no less than a vampire covered in bloodlust. A rush of excitement courses through my veins. You come closer to me, and I feel your breath on my skin.

“If you don’t stop me right now…”

Why would I? Why would I ever want to do that when I’ve been dreaming of this exact moment since forever?

“Risk it all,” I softly whisper to you.

At long last, you press your lips on my neck, and I fucking die. It’s everything I’ve ever imagined and then some. You find your way to my lips, and I’m on the brink of inhaling you whole. You’re perfect. Your kisses are perfect. Everything about you screams Hyunjin.

I want to touch you more. I want to feel you. I want to taste every single inch of you. I can’t take this anymore.

My hand slides up your inner thighs and stops between your legs. The heat that exudes from you is no joke. I caress you over your slacks, but you’re grinding against me. You want more. A part of me wants to be a slave to you, but there is also this tiny part of me that wants to hear you beg. I kiss your lips raw while you stroke me, and I almost slip my hand inside your pants when we arrive at our destination.

The car stops and I don’t even notice it until you grab me by the hand and drag me out. We barely make it to the elevator with hurried steps, and as soon as those doors close, your lips are on mine again. I’m trying so hard to pace myself, but you make it fucking impossible. My lust for you consumes me. I’m yours. However you want me.

The second we step foot into the room, we start stripping each other like a choreographed routine. Like we’re used to this, and this is just another night we’re about to ravage each other again. All the Versace goes on the floor. You don’t let me take control, and I find myself on my back against the cold mattress. I’m so turned on you can clearly see the drops of precum trickling down my length. You’re taking position to blow me, but this is not what I want your first contact to be.

“Just kiss me here,” I wrap my hand around myself, “I like that better.”

The sudden change in pace surprises you a little bit, I can tell, but you’re smiling at me. It’s softer this time around. The softest one you’ve ever flashed me. You remove my hand and replace it with yours, then you kiss me. With no rush. You kiss me again. I throb under your touch. You kiss me one more time. You’re a fucking goddess between my legs. Watching you kiss my cock with so much affection makes me lose my entire mind. I love you. I run my fingers through your hair to tell you how much I love you. I’m begging you to hear me.

God, you are so beautiful. You drive me so crazy.

I don’t want to cum. I don’t want this feeling to end. I want all the forevers with you.

“Stop!” I halt your movements before you can take me in your mouth, “Not yet.”

I pull you up to kiss you again, then we trade places. This is where I show you I’ve done all my homework.

“Do you mind?” I meet your gaze, “I didn’t eat this evening.”

You’re so fucking cute, it makes me wanna die. Your eyes are huge, looking at me with so much anticipation. You’re trying to brace yourself maybe. Maybe it’s something else. In my heart of hearts, I’ve always known your flavor is bespoke to me. The only thing left to do right now is to fulfill my destiny. I do nothing more than kiss your pussy, but even that much gets you moaning in delight for me.

Wait till I show you what I have in store for you.

I wrap my lips around your clit and start sucking on you while my tongue swirls around you. You taste fucking amazing, but it’s not enough. I have to suck your soul out of you if I want to call myself your man.

I spread your lips a bit more and lick a long drag starting from your entrance. Your taste is the most intense here. I smear your slick around your folds, then fixate on your soaking hole, slurping on it disgracefully to swallow your every drop. You’re not allowed to drip on these sheets. Everything that comes out of you goes into me. End of discussion.

“Hyunjin… Fuck, please!”

It makes my fucking cock twitch when you beg like that for me. My name has never sounded better. It was meant to be pronounced by you all along. Yes. Yes to everything you want. I’m right here, just use me however you wish. Take what you need from me.

I keep licking your cunt drenched with us while you guide my head in a rhythm of your liking. Your moans are climbing louder, and you press my face deeper into your pussy. I can feel how much you’re throbbing. You’re close. Your clit is melting on my tongue. I close my mouth over you completely and lap at your clit as fast as I can, and once I start moaning into you, you cum so violently that you practically scream my name. I don’t let you go even when you feel too sensitive. I kiss your pussy. I kiss your thighs. I kiss your crotch.

Then I get on my knees and give myself a few pumps till I’m fully hard. When my tip presses against you, it feels so wet that I need to fucking calm myself to prevent an accident. You’ve somewhat gathered your wits again. You’re looking at my cock, then at my face, and I can read how hungry you are from your lips. You’re swiping your tongue on them.

I’m staring into your eyes. You’re staring into mine. We don’t break eye contact. I eventually muster enough courage to push inside, and when my cock slides into you, we both gasp. I haven’t even bottomed out yet, but you clench so hard around me. I push a bit more. A bit more. Then a bit more. I finally hit a dead end. Now that I know how deep is your deep end…

I can finally decimate you.

“FUCK!!!”

You… are… gonna… kill me with this.

It’s fucking heaven inside you. Indescribable ecstasy. None of my fantasies came- even close to this. You’re so wet, I fear I’m going to pierce right through you with how hard I’m fucking you. You’re slowly losing the ability to properly speak. All that comes out of your mouth is either sounds of intense pleasure or profanities. Listen. Just listen to how obscene we sound. The squelch of your pussy every time I thrust into you, euphoric moans, skin against skin, cussing, grunting, us loudly declaring how much we want each other…

This is what bliss is. I’ve never known happiness before I touched you.

“Faster! I’m– I’m cumming!”

I run to your finish line as fast as I can. Your whole body convulses, and you arch into me. I hold you close as you ride your high and finally let myself go. My orgasm hits me so hard that my head hurts, and it feels like I’m unloading years’ worth of cum inside you. Yes, I secretly wish it holds. Yes, I secretly hope your birth control fails if you’re on one. Yes, I want you to carry my child. Would that really be the worst thing? I wrap you in my embrace and kiss all over your face while I’m trying to come down. This might take a while.

Look at you. So beautiful. So satisfied. Pulsating around me. Glowing. Happy. I can make you this happy every day.

Just let me.

You feel so right in my arms. You fit in my chest perfectly. The amount of euphoria running in my veins is lethal. Even closing my eyes doesn’t help. My head spins, but I don’t care. I don’t mind having motion sickness every time I make love to you. I exist to make you happy.

“Did I scare you?” you ask me out of nowhere.

It confuses me.

I open my eyes and turn to the source of the voice, currently holding a camera with a telescopic lens. Jeans. Leather jacket. Black nail polish. Silver rings. A pseudo-apologetic smile. You.