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.

She lasts another ten, maybe twenty seconds before she loses her own game. Her hand, the one not between her legs, suddenly clamps over your wrist again—tighter this time—and she yanks your palm up, over the soft curve of her waist, up her ribs, until you’re planted just below the swell of her chest.

She hesitates there, breathing ragged, then shoves your hand up and under the fabric of her white top. Her tits fit perfectly, a handful begging to be squeezed slow and deliberate. Her nipples are so hard you’d be an asshole for not paying extra attention to them, circling them, lightly pinching, forcing a cute little gasp out of her throat like clockwork. She’s still acting like she’s ignoring you as a person, but the vulnerability of her needing your touch more than she needs to follow her own rules is too perfect to not use.

“I love it when you’re being needy, baby,” you muse into her ear, lips ghosting the shell. “You like it when I tell you all the fucked up things I want to do to you? When I play with your tits while you finger yourself stupid on my lap?”

She throws her head back in response, moaning, leaning on your shoulder.

"I'd ruin you," you whisper. "I'd make you cum so fucking hard you can’t even think. I want to see you break for me. I want to see you taking me like a good girl. My good girl. You are my good girl, right? You love it when I tell you how perfect you are, how soft your skin feels against my cock and lips and hands, how I want to spend the rest of my life between your thighs.”

Her spine curves with each button you hit.

“I’m going to worship you,” you growl, “Give you everything you could ever want. God, you know how crazy you make me when you wear those socks? I could spend hours just kissing the inside of your thighs, or with my cock nuzzled in between like you want me to cover them in cum.”

She’s hurtling towards an explosion, obvious in the way her thighs shake and her core trembles and her knees rattle together. It’s your responsibility as a good boyfriend to go in for the kill. “Cum for me. Be a good girl. Let me hear how pretty you sound when you’re being a little slut.”

Her back arches, her hips stutter, and you feel the sudden, warm flood as she absolutely drenches your lap. It’s destructive, instantly soaking through both her panties and your jeans, hot squirt warming up your lap. Her feet lift off the floor, her thighs quiver and her free hand covers her mouth, sobbing into her palm, raw and desperate to let it out but not let you enjoy it fully. Just enough to keep you needy as she empties every ounce of pride and anger into one long, reckless and wet orgasm.

Your cock is so hard beneath her you swear it had an unfortunate encounter with Medusa, straining against the fabric of your pants for a round two with Sullyoon. Throbbing to be tagged in. But you don’t really care right now. You’re transfixed—she’s never squirted like this before, never lost it so completely. It’s all you can do not to come yourself, just from the sight.

She slumps, finally, limp and curving into you. For a long moment, neither of you moves.

It’s several long minutes before Sullyoon shifts. She slides off your lap and stands, legs wobbling in a way that makes your chest seize up with pride. She doesn’t meet your eyes—she’s too busy inspecting the glossy streaks running down her thighs, the black socks so dark with wet you could wring them out.

You expect her to leave you there, get a change of clothes or even just a towel. She doesn’t. She just hitches her skirt higher to flash you how soaked her panties are as well, peels them off so slowly you get to admire her freshly shaven pussy swollen from the friction. Lets her skirt obscure the end goal again, and drops the soaked panties in your equally soaked lap.

“Laundry’s your job now,” she says, accompanied with the first smile of hers since arriving back home.

You clutch the ruined panties in one fist, unable to hide your grin. “Does that conclude the punishment part for tonight?”

She cocks her head, and her smile only extends on one side of her face. Her hand finds her hip as it tilts into it, the same way she finds control again, making you want to see that smile turn into a plea as she takes the brunt of your cock. You can only imagine for now.

“Depends,” she says. “Are you going to apologize for flirting with that girl at the party?”

You let the silence hang. Then: “Not if this is how you deal with it. I might need to find another party to head out to tonight.”

She narrows her eyes, hits you with another hmph, fights another smile. “You’re an asshole. You want to be touch deprived for a week?”

You lean forward, cocky without any reason to be, soaking in the sight of her. She’s glowing, cheeks bright red, skirt and everything below drenched. “I’d hate for that to happen. If I apologize, will you at least spare my dick that fate?”

One of her eyebrows raises up, and she clearly likes the way you beg. She hides her smile behind her hand, but you can tell, you always could. She’s considering it, or something else entirely, or maybe even everything she could do to you right now. She flicks her chin up at you, reaches down and balls up her own underwear in her fist, squeezing some of the juice out of it.

She dangles them between one finger and her thumb. They drip, wet and cooling down rapidly, staining your pants even further. She smirks, then speaks. “Open your mouth.”

You hesitate, your reaction not instant, and her eyes widen incredulously. Take too long, and she’s already one foot out of the door, leaving you with nothing but the smell and waning feel of her on your lap. The only right choice here is to open your mouth, and open it wide. She stuffs the ruined panties between your lips, two fingers pressing the fabric against your tongue, coating each taste bud with her essence.

“Say you’re sorry,” she says.

You try, but it’s just a muffled mess. She doesn’t seem to mind. She pushes her knee between your legs, wedges it right up against your cock, and leans in to whisper: “Again.”

You moan into the cotton, desperate and humiliated, and the sound must please her, because she grins a real, unguarded smile. She lets you suffer there, hands on your thighs, helpless except for the twitch in your jeans and the humiliation burning your face.

Finally, she reaches down. Her fingers are shaky, but her voice is cool. “You want me to forgive you that much?” She plays with the buckle on your belt, slow, then removes it entirely, meeting the ground, your zipper down in an instant. Your cock springs to attention, already leaking, begging to the best of its capabilities. She doesn’t touch you yet, just surveys, as if proud to confirm that her plan worked. Still the boss. She crouches, knees apart, face level with your lap. “I ought to just leave you like this,” she says, and runs one finger up the length of you, feather-light. “But you’d whine. You’d make noise. I’d feel bad with how cute you’re being.”

You try to respond, but the underwear gags you. She presses a finger to your lips, then wipes her hands on your cheek, leaving a trace of herself there.

“I have to test you,” she says. “Make sure you know how to be a good boyfriend.”

Her hand wraps around you, dry at first, then slick with her own spit she lets dribble down onto you as she strokes deliberately, just enough friction to burn. You shudder, jaw flexing around the sodden cotton still crammed between your teeth. The humiliation is bright and scalding and perfect.

“Is this the kind of touch you wanted? Does it feel good enough?” she asks, but her grip tightens as she opens your mind to a new kind of reward. “Or would you rather I used my mouth?”

You nod frantically, the begging words only coming out as whimpers, strangled in advance. She laughs the exact kind of laugh that ties together the preppy outfit, stopping her hands movement, just supporting your cock at the base to stand at attention.

“First question,” she says, mischief and joy being underlined by the way she licks her lips. "Telling sluts at the bar that you’re not interested. Is that princess treatment, or the bare minimum?"

Fuck. You can’t afford mistakes, nor can you slow down. You manage a muffled, "Mnnmhm," bobbing your head, but the panties in your mouth garble it.

She smiles, soft and condescending. ”What’s that? I can’t accept mumbling as an answer,” she teases, so proud of herself. You begin pushing out the panties with your tongue, and she helps, peeling it from your lips, dragging it out and letting them drop to the floor. “Princess treatment or the bare minimum? Answer in words.”

“The bare minimum,” you rasp out, not as confident as you want it to be.

“Good,” she says, a little proud even. You can’t even take the time to bask in the relief of getting it right, as she takes you into her mouth, heat and suction and heaven halfway down your cock. She holds you there for a moment, you can feel her tongue curl, and she pulls off with a wet pop, not letting your cock fall from the support of her hand.

Her other hand wipes her mouth clean from any stray spit, and her eyes are glued to yours, full of bravado. “Next question,” she muses like a sultry succubus. "Letting me cum first every. Single. Time. Princess treatment, or the bare minimum?"

You hesitate, drunk on the aftershock of her mouth. "Princess treatment?" you ask rather than say, but you already know it’s the wrong answer—the smile that splits her lips is all sharp teeth.

She takes you in her hand again, but this time, as she lowers her mouth, she lets her teeth graze just beneath the head. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you buck against the couch, hiss through your teeth, a line of fire shooting up your spine.

Her lips curl like she knows it. Knows she’s got you on edge, not just from her mouth or the punishment, but from how goddamn in control she is. Sullyoon licks her lips slowly, as if to savor the last taste of your reaction, and leans back on her heels between your knees. “Wrong answer.”

She strokes you again, base to tip, slow and firm, and then lets her fingers rest around the shaft like it’s hers. Like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Her other hand comes to rest on your thigh, thumb brushing aimlessly.

“Next question,” she says, gaze unwavering. “Texting me updates occasionally when you go out with your friends. Princess treatment, or the bare minimum?”

Your throat works around a swallow. “Bare minimum.”

She nods once, approving.

Then she sinks halfway down your cock, lips sealing tight, and hums. The vibration has your head lolling back, eyes shut, fists gripping the couch cushions. She bobs once, no, twice, then lets you go again, teasing a trail of spit down your length with her tongue.

“Doesn’t it feel better when you answer correctly?”

She waits a moment, allows you a breath to cool down, then plants her lips against your cockhead while she speaks just to drive you insane.

“Carrying me on your back when I’m not even tired. Princess treatment, or bare minimum?”

This feels like a trap. “Princess treatment,” you answer, taking a risk. But Sullyoon isn't performative like that. She knows well enough the difference between getting what she deserves and just getting spoiled.

This time, the reward is merciless: she deepthroats you all at once.

You gasp, hips bucking up before she slams a palm flat against your stomach to pin you down. Her throat clenches around you. She holds it. Swallows once. Pulls back slow, tongue flicking at the slit, and lets a strand of spit connect her lips to your tip. Dizzy doesn’t begin to describe what you’re feeling.

“Next,” she says.

“Letting me win in Mario Kart.”

You blink through the fog in your head. Your voice cracks. “Bare minimum?”

Her eyes narrow.

Her hand tightens around the base of your cock and she leans in again, lips parted. But this time it’s not warmth that greets you. It’s a soft, deliberate nip. Not cruel, again, but sharp enough to make you jolt.

“Princess treatment, actually,” she purrs. “You think I want you to let me win? That I'm going to have fun when you're pitying me?”

You stammer something between a moan and an apology. Her smile says she’ll allow it. Barely.

“Hmmmm." Her hand strokes you again, painfully slow. “Sending me videos of you jerking off with the sound on when I text you I'm horny.”

You lock eyes with her. “Bare minimum.”

Her grin turns hungry. “Correct.”

She takes a breath, slow and practiced, and then swallows you whole. This time, her lips seal right at the root, nose buried to your skin, her tongue flattening under the shaft as her throat flexes and milks you. She holds it there, the pressure silken and fiery hot, while her fingers work the base in tandem, twisting with the spit she’s already left there, and then she looks up at you, eyes watering and utterly triumphant.

She pauses after that one.

Lingers.

Lets her fingers glide across your shaft without rhythm, as if she’s drawing patterns only she can see. Her other hand settles on your thigh again, her thumb stroking absentmindedly like she’s thinking hard. You can see it on her face, she’s trying to cook up a good one. Something nasty. Something clever.

Her lips part. Close again. Her lashes flutter, looks up at you like you need to say something, then sighs before you can, and looks back down. She’s running out of steam. For a second, her control wavers, and you see the slipstream of shyness sneak up on her. The blush on her cheeks is different now. Less from anger, more from the embarrassment of not having a script. She stalls with a little “hmm,” drawing lazy circles on your thigh, and you realize the rhythm of the game is hers but the momentum is slipping, just a bit.

You take it, gently. “Ran out of ideas?”

She shrugs like her stopping would hurt you more than it would hurt her, and she’s right about that. “You feel like this is a good time to be snarky?”

“I feel like I’m dying,” you say. “Your mouth is incredible. I’ll never do anything to upset you again.”

She snorts, almost laughs, and the sound is so raw and girlish it cleaves through her practiced composure. “That’s the point, idiot.” Then her tone drops: “Fine. Your turn.”

You blink. “My turn?”

She nods, gaze flitting up through her lashes. “Yeah, your turn. Ask me a question. Make it count.”

The only thing you can think of is the heat of her mouth, the way her throat squeezed you, the slick mess she left on your cock and the way your jeans are still wet with her. You swallow, shift on the couch, and manage: “Letting me fuck your perfect little face right now, is that prince treatment or just the bare minimum?”

She nearly chokes on a giggle from the brazen shock, hiding this one behind her hand again. She tilts her head, hair spilling over her shoulder, doesn’t care about the premise of her own game, and fucks your brain with a simple: “Go ahead?” And she’s already shifting forward onto her knees, navy skirt bunched around her waist, socks ruined and gleaming, mouth open and waiting.

You tangle fingers in her hair, clasping the bow at the back of her head, gentle at first, guiding her mouth to your cock. This time, she doesn’t tease. Your cock disappears in between her lips, shimmers of tears in her eyes as they gaze at you, practically begging you to ignore the precious crystals and to keep doing what you’re doing.

She takes it like a fucking champ.

You let her set the pace, which is slow at first, holding her hair out of her face and forcing her down bit by bit, every so slightly until your hips can’t help but rock up. She lets you. She wants it. The more you praise, the deeper she goes, until you lose the thread of the game completely and just worship her. You tell her how pretty she looks on her knees in those socks, how perfect her lips feel wrapped around you, how every time she gags on your cock it makes you want to push deeper so you can hear her voice more. You tell her you’d die for her, right here, if she asked. That you’d drown in her if you could.

She’s melting for it. Every word softens her, makes her easier to guide, until you’re pushing into her throat and she’s letting you, hands braced on your thighs, eyes streaming but never breaking contact. You mutter a string of curses, a lazy litany of praise; good girl, fuck, good girl again (she loves that one), look at you, you’re perfect, I’m obsessed with you, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—and she preens under every word, melting, her body relaxing, her mouth opening wider, her gag reflex all but erased in the face of your attention.

She wraps her hands around your thighs to steady herself, nails digging in, and you feel her hum around you, taking pleasure in the way you use her. She looks up, eyes glassy, and you know it’s not just tears. It’s pride, it’s power, it’s her letting you see her like this and knowing you’ll never want anything else.

You warn her, because you know she likes the threat of it, the anticipation.

But she pulls off at the last second, hands stroking you instead, and shakes her head, smug through watery eyes. “Not inside my mouth,” she says, ruined and coy and with an extra surprise tucked beneath her tongue. “You don’t get to finish there. Not after that stunt.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and she grins, triumphant and evil and so impossibly beautiful. “You can cum on my legs, though. Or my socks. You like these, don’t you?”

You nod, you grunt, give any signal that means yes, and she presses your cockhead against her thighs, just above the band of her thigh-highs, the black fabric shining with her own slick; the second best canvas she could offer you. She jerks you off with both hands, fast and slippery, single-syllable laughs escaping her every time your eyes flicker between her well-fucked face and the absolute territory of her thighs.

And then, with a single phrase—“Do it”—she dares you to let go. You explode, hot and white streaks shooting across her thighs, splattering the socks, painting her skin in long, messy lines. She milks you for every drop, watching your face the entire time, and when you’re spent she drags your cock through the mess, painting herself with you, then rubs it into her skin with her fingers, working it in, almost absentminded.

She sits back on her heels to admire her work. Your cum streaks her thighs, drips down onto the couch, soaks into the fabric of her socks. She looks delighted, almost bashful, like she can’t believe what she’s done. She drags two fingers through the mess on her thigh, then lifts them to her lips, sucking them clean with a giddiness that nearly ends you all over again.

You’re a mess. She’s a masterpiece.

You collapse back, boneless, and watch as she stands, skirt still bunched at her waist, her thighs and socks sticky and shining. She leaves you there. Disappears into the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long for her to return with a warm and damp washcloth in tow, way before you’ve gained the energy to move from your spot on the couch. She kneels between your legs again, and with total, terrible focus, begins to clean you up. She does it slow, careful, doting, as if you are the one who needs looking after. She wipes you down, then pats herself dry, tossing the ruined socks into your lap with a wink.

“Do you wanna get married?” you manage, half-joking and half-hoping to get to experience this every day and she just beams.

“You’re an idiot. Propose better,” she says, leaning in to kiss you, slow and heavy and tasting of the slightest hint of a yes. “Now go get the laundry started.”

You’d do anything she asks. So you stand up, she sits down on the couch, a lot more satisfied, and a lot less mopey. She pulls her legs close to her, begins peeling off her socks one by one, throws them at your chest and crosses her legs.

“And make sure you get my socks spotless. I want to ruin you again tomorrow.”