The holdover

Hitomi gently closes the door as the other members fall asleep in their respective rooms, leaving her with only you. It took a bit of persuading, making some alibi about her solo activities before she could finally leave them alone. The hallway light casts soft shadows across her face, highlighting the faint hint of exhaustion etched around her eyes.

Being a leader to seven younger girls is no easy task. Difficult at times, but fun for the most part. It’s a burden shared between her and you, their respective manager, though she carries it with a grace and enthusiasm that never fails to impress. Her public persona—strong, unbreakable, always in control—melts away in these stolen moments, revealing the vulnerable, human woman beneath.

“Phew,” she gently huffs, pressing a hand close to her chest. Her voice is softer now, stripped of the performative tone she puts on for the cameras, for the fans, even for the members sometimes. “These girls— they’re something else.”

“Tell me about it,” you casually remark, knowing she has to face them every day. Look after them every hour, every minute. Her eyes meet yours in the dim light, and for a moment, you see the weight of responsibility she carries, the constant need to be perfect for everyone else.

“Now where were we?” she asks, changing the conversation almost immediately.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly sure if you wanted to do it tonight,” you say, tapping your sneakers. “But it’s at my place.”

“Good. I’m ready to go, then.”

“You sure?” you wonder, genuinely concerned.

As you scrutinize her face once more, the exhaustion you noticed earlier seems more pronounced now, etched into the delicate lines around her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. You can’t help but worry that the weight of responsibility has become too much for her tonight, that perhaps what she truly needs is rest. Her usual unwavering confidence appears to waver for a fraction of a second, her gaze flickering downward before meeting yours again with renewed determination.

“Of course. We don’t get time like this,” she insists, steadfast in her demeanor and her expression meaning business. “I’ll be fine. We don’t have anything to do tomorrow, yeah?”

And well—she does have a point. The next few days are generous to her and her team, given they have no schedules, but seeing that she looks as if she’s reached her physical limit—

“I know,” you begin, stepping closer. Your hand brushes against her cheek, the pad of your thumb rubbing over her soft skin. “But are you really sure? There’s always another day. You need the downtime. You need rest.”

She leans into the touch. Her eyelids flutter closed; her lips part slightly. “I’m sure.”

“Alright,” you concede. “Just let me know when you want to stop. And not overexert yourself. I don’t wanna get in trouble because of you.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassures, and her lips curve up in a smile. Cute on the outside, but the undertone is anything but. “I’m a big girl.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Hitomi flashes you a little smirk. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Please do.”

The drive to your place is quiet, the tension between you and Hitomi palpable. Her fingers tap against the passenger seat, restless, as city and street lights pass by. You keep stealing glances at her, watching her shift in her seat and cross her legs. A warm flush creeps up her neck, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips.

You couldn’t get there any faster, even with zero traffic.

It’s a heavy relief when you finally arrive.

As soon as the front door closes, Hitomi pounces on you. Her hands are on your shoulders, her mouth hungry, demanding, and you respond in kind, the two of you stumbling toward the bedroom.

Her kisses are frenzied, desperate. Her hands wander down, squeezing your ass, and you let out a low moan.

“Fuck,” you mumble, breaking the kiss. “Slow down, Tomi—”

“I fucking want it now.”

She pushes herself away from you, then makes quick work of the uniform she wore today for their performances and schedules. No care for the price, the quality, nor the fact buttons are flying off—her movements are frantic and rushed. The sound of ripping fabric fills the room, a contrast to the careful preservation these curated clothes usually receive.

It’s like another performance, but rather than for hundreds or thousands, it’s for you—and only you.

Hitomi rips her shirt off for dramatic effect, leaving just the bra and pencil skirt, kicking off her shoes but keeping the thigh high socks around—just the way you like it.

She effortlessly takes your breath away. You’re like a deer caught in the headlights; you’re stunned speechless. Your mouth is watering.

“Like what you see?” she suggests, knowing damn well this is all for show, and she fucking revels in it.

“Yeah,” you can only muster, still utterly frozen and in awe. This never gets old.

“Then come and get it.”

Hitomi spins around; her back is turned. Her long, dyed blonde hair cascades down her slender, toned frame.

“Take the rest off,” she demands, and you obey without question.

Your hands tremble, and your mind is racing. All thoughts are replaced by one singular goal: please her. Use her. Fuck her.

It starts slow, deliberate. Gently, you push aside her hair and plant a trail of kisses down her neck and shoulders. You can hear her breathing quicken, feel her pulse racing.

“Faster,” she orders.

You take hold of her pencil skirt and slip a finger between the obstructive fabric. Between the thin, already soaked underwear, she’s glistening, suffocatingly wet. Hitomi moans upon the sudden intrusion, and you can’t resist teasing her.

“So wet already,” you whisper in her ear, and she shudders.

“H-hurry up,” she whines, her tone growing impatient. “I can’t bear without you being inside me—”

"Patience. Let me savor this.”

Hitomi squirms and tries to buck her hips, but you keep her firmly in place.

“Shhh,” you soothe, and she lets out a shaky breath.

You continue stroking her wet, your fingers moving in languid circles. She’s trembling, whimpering, and begging, and fuck, her reactions are so hot.

“Oh god, yes, yes,” she cries out, the mask cracking with each entry, growing more and more vulnerable. “Please.”

You oblige and increase the pace, with her thighs shaking in response. Your fingers are faster now, plunging deeper inside her with each deliberate thrust, the slick, wet sounds of her arousal filling the room along with her desperate whimpers.

The muscles in her legs begin to quiver uncontrollably, the strength she usually displays as a performer now completely surrendered to the pleasure coursing through her body. You can feel her clenching around you, her body arching back against your hips as she pushes her hips forward, begging despite the inability to form coherent words. Her head falls back against your shoulder, blonde hair tickling your neck as she completely surrenders to your control, the facade of control crumbling away to reveal the raw, needy woman beneath.

“Please,” she moans. “More—”

"Since you asked so nicely,” you mumble, sliding a third finger inside.

Hitomi keens, her entire body tensing as the new sensation overwhelms her. God, it’s the way her jaw drops then gradually closes. How it takes her all at once—the pain, the pleasure—and how it overrides her senses before coming back to life, craving for more. The way she’s clutching at air—as if anything can save her at this point—is all too much for her tired, lithe body.

“God, you’re tight,” you groan, the heat and pressure around your fingers almost too much to bear.

“Mmm,” she hums, biting on her lip, bent forward, her underwear partially drawn down her thin legs.

“Doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No,” she sighs, voice shaky, though her expression says otherwise. And you can’t help but grin.

“Good.”

Your fingers continue their steady rhythm, and she’s lost in the feeling, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Christ,” she hums, her voice rising in pitch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

"What’s wrong, Tomi?” you tease, and she lets out a whine.

“Close,” she manages to gasp. “Really—fucking—close.”

Hitomi’s panting, ragged breaths tearing through her chest as she gasps for air, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, her porcelain skin flushed a deep pink that spreads down her neck and across the swell of her breasts, glistening with a sheen of sweat. Her eyes are glazed over, the usual sharpness replaced by a hazy, unfocused daze that makes her pupils dilate and her eyelids droop heavily. The carefully styled blonde hair is now disheveled, loosely clinging to her damp temples and neck, some strands stuck to the corners of her parted lips as she tries to catch her breath.

Makeup smudged beneath her eyes, her lipstick long gone, replaced by the natural flush of her lips swollen from your kisses—the natural idol appears completely undone beneath your touch.

This is the version you see almost every night, raw and better than what she portrays on screen. Not the innocent, sweet, charming, charismatic leader of an upstart group, but a flexible, pliable piece of ass bending to your will, to your every whim.

“Do you think you deserve to cum?” you ask, slowing your pace.

“Y-yes,” she stammers, her voice weak. “I’ve worked so hard. Please.”

“Go ahead,” you coax, and her body almost loosens immediately upon your command that it’s alarming.

Hitomi’s entire body stiffens, her thighs clenching and toes curling. Her inner walls tighten and spasm around your fingers, a fresh wave of arousal coating your hand as she cries out, her climax crashing over her.

“Oh, fuck!”

Hitomi’s voice echoes throughout the room, broken and breathless as it bounces off the walls, and she slumps forward, her body completely spent and reserves of strength depleted. The unrelenting force of her release leaves her trembling uncontrollably, her muscles giving way beneath her as she collapses against your clutch. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle against the waves of pleasure still coursing through her.

Your fingers stay embedded in her, taking up all the nectar they can possibly contain, coating your digits entirely in her arousal. Spilling onto her thighs, the skirt, and her panties, you wonder how she can truly bear to do this when it takes just your fingers to make her cum this hard.

“Fuck—” she draws out, still reeling from her climax, in need of more air. “Didn’t think—that was too much—”

“We can just cuddle and lie till tomorrow,” you say, your arousal reverting back to its usual, genuine concern. “You’re so tired, Tomi. I don’t wanna—”

“Shush.” Hitomi stretches an arm out, trying to shut your lips, only to find it landing nowhere, but the intent is right there. “Not tired—not until I say so.”

You’ve pulled your digits out; you’re amazed at how much you’re able to draw from her dripping cunt.

“I’m serious. We can’t do this.”

“But I’m not done,” Hitomi insists, her voice cracking again.

“You’re not even looking at me. You can barely move. You’re clearly exhausted. Let’s just—”

“Shut up,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing, the threat genuine. “Just fuck me.”

“Tomi—”

“I’m fine,” she growls, tone rough, leaving no further room for argument or protest. “Now fuck me. Hard.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am so sure.”

Catching your hand in her grasp, she leads you to the bedroom and crashes onto it, lying prone for you to possess.

“What are you waiting for?” she’s asking, and you’re no stranger to how needy she can get.

When she’s stressed, overdone, or filled with schedules, that’s when she’s at her most deprived. The weight of responsibilities pressing down on her shoulders, the endless rehearsals stretching into the dead of night, interviews where every word must be carefully measured, monitoring the other members’ behavior—it all builds up until she’s practically vibrating with tension. That’s when Hitomi seeks you out, her eyes dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with food or sleep. It’s in these moments that she truly believes your cock is the only thing keeping her sane, the only anchor in a storm of a chaotic lifestyle. The carefully constructed persona crumbles, revealing the desperate woman who craves release more than anything else.

You’re already moving, letting the belt and pants slide off, joining her on the mattress in just a shirt and boxers. But that top is quickly removed too.

Settling atop her motionless, straight figure, her panties are already halfway down her pale legs, nothing that a quick slide of your hands can’t finish. Only just in her bra, you can’t help but admire the beauty underneath: The soft curves of her hips. The smooth planes of her stomach. Her slender arms and legs.

Everything about her is beautiful, and you can’t help but worship her.

“Don’t just stare,” she murmurs, averting her light, tired gaze. “Get on with it.”

You have her positioned beneath, making quick work of her bra, then lining your cock up against her sopping pussy. Brushing your shaft along her folds, she makes these weak, whiny cries that feel more like unwanted pain than actual anticipation. Like she’s clearly not meant to take it—not tonight.

“You sure about this,” you ask, gentle with your jostling and tone, as if you were treating a delicate flower.

“So sure,” Hitomi whines out, airy and low, not pleading, rather just simple fatigue. “No reason to have me if you’re not gonna do it.”

She’s so one-track minded about her desires, and the idea is sweet, really.

Not one to waste time, you slowly enter yourself into her. Every inch is like a direct stake to the heart—both hers and yours. You’re biting your lip, gritting it out, bracing for the tightness about to consume you.

“Tell me if it hurts,” you mutter, slowly filling her womb up with your length, until it’s comfortably buried deep to the hilt.

Hitomi doesn’t say a word, only grunts and moans that fill your ears like music. She loves it. Loves getting stretched out and taken, loved the feeling of fullness, the sense of being owned and possessed.

“So big,” she finally exhales, her breath hitching. “Gonna fuck me stupid.”

“Mmmm,” you hum, unable to resist the urge to roll your hips, the friction sending sparks flying through both your bodies.

Hitomi’s cheeks are flushed, and her mouth is slightly open, her tongue darting out to lick her dry, cracked lips.

“Fuck. That’s so fucking good—”

You’re slow, deliberate, easing yourself in and out of her. Her walls grip you tightly, holding you close as her body adjusts to the size and shape of your cock. Snug and hot, molded to your fitting, like she’s meant for you.

“Tell me if I’m going too hard,” you say, pulling her by the waist. She effortlessly folds into your touch.

“Not at all—a bit harder—please—”

For a moment, the hesitation remains. You’re acutely aware that she’s this fragile, precious, breakable thing right now, even if she says otherwise and the last thing you want is to harm her.

“Tomi, are you sure?”

“Yes,” she hisses, her patience and restraint wearing thin. This back and forth isn’t anything new; you’ve had your fair share of stressful, tiring days, but not once has she ever settled for less, ever sold herself short. “I want all of it.”

Your thrusts are slow and languid, drawing out each movement. You’re watching her intently, observing her face and body language. Her breathing is labored, and her eyes are closed. Her brows are furrowed, and her lips are pursed. She looks pained, but the sounds she’s making are telling a different story.

And you ramp up the pace. Just a little. But it makes all the difference.

Hitomi’s hips buck wildly; her back arches like a drawn bow; her nails dig deep into the sheets, pushing and meeting every thrust of your hips. Her movements are desperate yet deliberate, instincts taking over even in this heightened state of exhaustion. The muscles in her thighs tremble with effort as she lifts to meet you, the strain visible in the way her toes curl and uncurl with each wave of pleasure.

To ensure she doesn’t entirely stretch herself thin, you have one of her legs pressed and wrapped closely against yours, while keeping the rest of her frame on the bed. She eases herself into you, letting you take full control, and everything feels right: you’re hammering into her cunt at the perfect angle, letting her feel every inch, taking in all that wetness consuming your cock.

“God—you’re so fucking tight—” is all you manage to grit out, focusing your efforts on keeping pace. And by God, it’s working to perfection.

Pulling on her hair ever so slightly, angling her head upward, you want to hear everything. Hitomi makes it loud and clear how much you’re filling her, with each swear and declaration of your name as you pump into her, it’s all the validation you could ever want.

“Harder,” she pleads, and you oblige, slamming into her appropriately.

Her cunt squeezes around you, her muscles contracting, her breath catching.

“Like that?”

“Just—just a bit more—fuck,” she gasps, and you can feel her start to tense, her orgasm building. “Faster.”

Before long, you’re pressing your full weight against her—not crashing, but tender as always, breathing softly but deeply against her neck, making her shiver and tremble uncontrollably. Prone as you pound into her cunt, her body quivers and shakes, her chest heaving with exertion.

“Close,” she chokes out, her voice wavering. “Really fucking close.”

But ever the gentleman in a twisted sense, you don’t let go easily. Not quite.

Your rhythm slows to a painful crawl, deliberate and purposeful with every stroke. Relaxing against her back, you’re softly kissing her nape, gently brushing beads of sweat and loose strands of blonde hair aside to leave more delicate marks on that creamy, otherwise pale skin.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, and you can feel her breath hitch once more. “So good.”

“Ah,” she breathes, her chest rising and falling, her breath shaky. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Let me cum,” Hitomi begs, her words punctuated by a gasp. “Please.”

“I don’t know,” you tease, while your body’s moving of its own accord, gently slamming into her over and over. “I might just hurt you.”

“I can’t hold it anymore,” she cries out, her entire body trembling. “It’s too much. Please let me cum—”

“You’ll have to wait,” you respond, and her jaw slacks, letting out a string of curses that sound natural to hear.

“Fuck,” she sighs, her eyes screwed shut, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

“You can take it, can’t you?” Even though the answer is obvious, you’re still testing her.

“Ngh,” is all she manages, her thoughts clouded. “More—almost—”

And you don’t do that; she’s too delicate to be able to handle all this.

Slamming into her pussy, driving that stake repeatedly into her heart over and over, watching this slow motion car crash again and again—her body arching with each impact, breasts pressing into the mattress as her back bows in that beautiful, painful curve you’ve come to memorize. Every thrust sends ripples through her slender frame, the impact traveling up her spine as she absorbs your full weight, her shoulders tensing then releasing in rhythmic waves.

The room fills with the sounds of your bodies meeting—the wet slap of skin on skin, her ragged gasps, your grunted exhales. Her nails scrabble uselessly at the sheets, catching on the fabric as she tries to find purchase in this overwhelming sea of sensation. You can feel every clench of her inner walls, each spasm signaling another wave of pleasure building within her, even as exhaustion threatens to claim her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, mouth parted as if in silent prayer or desperate supplication, each breath coming in shallow pants between your relentless strokes.

It’s in these moments that she’s most beautiful—not the polished idol on stage, but this raw, wanton creature surrendering completely to you, to this pleasure that borders on pain, to this crash that’s both terrifying and inevitable. You watch her face contort with each deep penetration, the slight wince that gives way to pure ecstasy, the way her brow furrows then smooths in waves of sensation, and you know you’re the only one who sees her like this—completely undone, completely yours.

“Oh God,” she groans, her voice breaking, on the verge of completely falling apart. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“That’s right,” you encourage, the words leaving your lips before you can think. “Cum for me.”

Her entire body stiffens. Her hips jerk forward as her second climax hits.

Hitomi’s orgasm is powerful, tearing through her exhausted frame. Her cunt tightens around you, her inner walls fluttering and pulsing as her body shudders, the waves of pleasure washing over her. Her mouth opens in a loud, emphatic cry, her expression twisting into a mask of agonized bliss, and she’s shaking, shuddering, the intensity of her release almost too much for her worn-out form.

Torrential amounts of juices coat your cock, and it doesn’t take much before you follow suit.

“Shit—gonna cum, Tomi—” is all you can muster before your own coil finally snaps.

Hot white ropes of cum shoot out, thick and pulsing, splashing deep into her insides, painting her walls as her cunt continues to milk you greedily. Each spasm of her pussy drags you in deeper, coaxing every last drop from your trembling body. Her back arches impossibly further, pressing her ass against your hips as if trying to absorb every ounce.

She clenches around you one final time, a desperate flutter that sends shivers down your spine as you empty yourself completely into her welcoming, suffocating heat. The rhythmic pulses of her walls milk every last drop from your throbbing cock, drawing out your release until your body goes slack against hers. You can feel the warmth spreading through her as you remain buried deep inside her trembling form.

The sensation and scene is overwhelming: the slick heat of her, the way her body continues to tremble beneath you, the soft sigh that escapes her lips as the last waves of ecstasy subside. Your hands intertwine, clinging to the sheets, resting your head by hers, the only anchor in this sea of sensation as you ride out the final pulses of your release, completely spent but utterly satisfied.

“Don't—regret—it,” she says simply, every word uttered between a string of deep breaths.

“Course you don’t,” you reply, pressing a little kiss on her forehead, brushing her hair aside.

And you stay buried in there a little while longer, soaking in the afterglow of sex, embedded in her cunt even as your cock withers, your juices spilling from her folds and onto the sheets.

“You okay?” you ask, remembering your primary role.

Hitomi nods weakly. “Tired. So freakin’ tired. But I’m happy. Happy cause you fucked the stress outta me.”

“Mmm,” you hum, caressing her cheek, bringing her closer to you. “Want some water?”

“Sure,” she responds. That’s the cue to get off the bed and head off to the kitchen.

“You’re something else, y'know,” you call out.

Hitomi chuckles, her laughter a little forced and airy. “Thanks.”

“Really,” you say, genuine, filling an empty glass with water. “You’re always the one pleasing me. It’s nice seeing you getting taken care of.”

“You’re sweet,” she replies, and when you return to the bedroom, you find her curled up deep in the sheets, the traces of your cum filling the space where you’d been. “When it’s really the other way around.”

“Hey. Taking care of seven girls is hard work,” you remark, placing the drink on the nightstand and joining her in the sheets. “Wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy at all.”

She playfully slaps you, lightly offended by the comment. “You were there when Eunbi took care of us. Seven is nothing.”

“And hopefully so,” you reply, as Hitomi cuddles up, wrapping both a leg and an arm around your body. Her smile is warmer now, less performative, more genuine, as evident with the light in her eyes. “It was just meant to be six.”

“I don’t mind taking care of a dozen,” she quips, pressing her hand on your chest. “The more the merrier they say.”

“Please.” You laugh, shaking your head. ” Surely you’re not being serious.“

"Maybe,” she shrugs, still grinning. “Who knows.”

You damn well know she’d prefer to leave a bigger mess behind, your sanity be damned. That’s been the status quo since she returned to Korea: Hitomi passing her brand of chaos to the rest of the members, and it shows both on camera and in the dorms every time you check in on the group. She carries the weight of responsibility and the burden of keeping them in check, and they’re quite the handfuls. Nights like these are her form of penance, an apology wrapped in utter submission of her body to your every whim. Most people would deny themselves this; she’s this cutesy, charismatic idol without an inch of sexiness labeled on her. She’s as sweet of a package as they come.

But all that slips away once behind closed doors. And there’s no place Hitomi would rather be than in your arms, reestablishing her role in this hierarchy as just another figure, another body to account for. Solely yours, and yours alone.

“You’re such a handful,” you mutter, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

“Isn’t that why you love me?”

“You’re lucky,” you reply, and Hitomi’s cheeks burn brightly. “Lucky that I can excuse your bullshit.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad. Cause’ I can’t imagine loving someone else as much as I love you.”

“Liar,” she mumbles, snuggling tenderly against your chest.

“I mean it,” you insist, and she rolls her eyes, yawning.

“Go sleep.”

“Fine.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “Night, Tomi.”

“Mhmmm. Goodnight.”

And the two of you drift off, cuddled up in each other’s arms, the weariness settling in and fatigue hitting everywhere all at once.