Access denied

It’s in the obvious things.

The way she’s moping on the couch despite looking like a wet dream. Curled up, arms all folded, legs tucked into her. Yep. She’s mad. And she looks so fucking good despite being pissed. The perfect mixture of preppy and slutty in that sailor-collar shirt, and a navy skirt to cover what little it did. And those fucking thigh-high socks are your fucking end, glossy black and fitted to her like some pervert god slap them onto her.

She doesn’t look at you. Just lets out a breathy little hmph and shifts away on the cushion, subtle but full of attitude. Silent treatment. A Sullyoon classic.

You drop your keys on the counter, lean against the armrest. "Still mad, huh?"

She doesn’t dignify you with a response.

"Was it the girl with the cute smile? The one who asked what I was drinking? Because I gotta be honest, baby... I didn’t even remember what I was drinking. I was way too distracted."

Still nothing.

You walk around the couch, drop onto it beside her. “Wanna know what had me so stunned?”

She doesn’t move, but her face twists away from you, like she’s too good for whatever ass-kissery you’re about to come up with.

“I was preoccupied with the way you had every guy at that party craning their necks like they were starving. All of them suddenly with bent knees, like they didn’t mind being a foot shorter, just to try and get a peek of your ass.”

A slow breath in through her nose. Her knees tighten slightly together.

You shrug performatively. “I remember considering giving it a couple of smacks, to let those hyenas know who they need to fight for it. I can’t deny wanting to pick you up and fucking you right then and there either, but that wasn’t out of jealousy. That was just because you look so hot I wanted to fuck you so hard you’d forget how to walk.”

Another hmph. This one sharper. But still no words.

“Haven’t I told you that you look like you belong underneath me?” you murmur, leaning in to let your voice work its magic on her. “I have told you that, right? Because I would do anything to get you to moan my name. All dolled up, legs crossed like you weren’t thinking about me spreading them. I had to sit there all night pretending not to stare at your thighs. Pretending I wasn’t picturing you folded in half getting bred by me.”

Still silent, still obviously pouting.

You exhale dramatically. "But okay. You’re ignoring me. That’s cool, or whatever. I guess I’ll just sit here, watching some stupid show instead of using my hands, mouth and cock to make the hottest girl I’ve ever seen cum over and over and over again.”

That gets her.

She shifts. Slowly. Like it means nothing. Refusing you the right to comment on it.

Without a word, Sullyoon lifts herself off her cushion and turns to sit in your lap, back to your chest. Her spine straight, her skirt riding up from the motion, her weight settling perfectly over your crotch.

You blink. Stunned. Then grin. "Oh? This is how we’re sitting now?"

She says nothing. Arms folded. Eyes fixed on the TV that’s not even on.

Then her hips shift. There’s a soft little roll. Just once. Then again. A little deeper this time. Slow. Testing.

You inhale as the pressure builds between your legs. "You pretending this is innocent?" you whisper. "Cause your little ass is making it really hard to believe."

Still no response.

Until you hear it.

A breath. Unsteady.

And then—the smallest sound.

A wet sound.

You freeze.

She's moving again. Not just grinding now—her hips are pushing back while her hand disappears between her thighs. You can't see where it ends up, not from this limited angle. But you feel her shudder. Hear the faintest slick sound of fingers meeting soaked cotton. Her body tightens for a moment. Then eases again.

"Holy shit," you whisper. "Are you fingering yourself right now?"

She doesn't answer. She just keeps going.

You allow your hands to roam, wrapping around her waist. She doesn’t allow it. Her hands intercept you, one cold and one wet, locking your wrists in place. “Hands off,” she warns, icy and serious. “You don’t get to touch.”

You laugh softly, incredulously, breath halting. “You’re serious. You’re fucking killing me.”

"Good," she mutters, turning just enough to give you a scowl, eyes sharp. But that doesn’t hide how her face is flushed, her lips are parted, and her breathing is sounding an awful lot like it might turn into pleading. She doesn’t let you enjoy it, speaking sweet as venom: “If you wanted to taste my pussy so bad, you should’ve told that stupid slut to keep her hands to herself.”

You let out a dry heave of a laugh, trying to apologize, but you’re stopped. She turns around, facing forward, ass grinding hard against you, and moans loud enough for you to grip your hands into the couch lest you make another mistake.

She’s fucking soaking in your lap.

Every cell in your stupidly horny body is kicking to buck upwards, but you know that when Sullyoon gets like this, you have to earn it. You have to let her think she’s in control, the way she’s working herself faster, causing wet sounds to overwrite your brain, whimpering just to make sure she can feel your cock throb through your pants.

“Fucking hell, Sullyoon,” you grunt like an idiot. "You’re seriously just gonna sit here and use me? Rub that pretty little cunt raw while I can’t do a damn thing?"

She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to. Her body speaks volumes. She grinds harder, her weight shifting to press right where she knows it drives you insane. The friction, the slick heat soaking through two layers of clothes. It’s deliberate. Cruel.

“Sullyoon,” you breathe, and her body rolls, her thighs tremble. “Please. Let me help. Let me at least see. Fucking please.”

Her hands move faster, but her response comes low and steady. "I didn’t say you could stop?"

You blink. "Stop what?"

She looks back at you. "Telling me all the things you wanted to do to me."

And just like that, your pulse kicks.

She turns forward again, leans back into you, and resumes moving. You can hear all of it, feel most of it, and see none of it. It's a three-pronged attack that ties a leash around your neck. She’s grinding into you like she owns you, as if you’re not even there except to serve as her seat.

“Alright, I get it,” you say, head thrown back, eyes closed and trying to see what you’re about to say in your head. “You want me to tell you what I want to do? I wanted to get you home, lock the door, and see how long you could keep up the innocent act once I got you on your knees. I wanted to ruin that perfect little skirt, tear those panties off and use them to gag you so the neighbors wouldn’t hear how loud you get.”

She’s breathing faster, the hand not making her cunt gush digging into your thigh. Her hips are relentless now, the friction obscene, but she wants words. She wants you to talk her over the edge.

“I wanted you to wrap those thighs around my head, lying down on the table here like a fucking centerpiece,” you continue, “and eat you out until your clit is imprinted on my tongue. I wanted to hear the way your moans get higher and higher when I call you a good girl. Because that’s what you are, right, Sullyoon? My good girl. My perfect little fuckdoll, just waiting to be played with.”

A whimper. Audible, this time. Her ass presses back into you and you have to fight the urge to grab her hips, pin her down, fuck her until she’s screaming. But you remember the warning, the way she’d snapped, and you keep your hands right where she left them—gripping the couch, knuckles bloodless.