jihyo

Park Jihyo is obviously out and out of your league; some things go without saying.

You watch her play a bit coy about slipping into a borrowed t-shirt, hands up under her breasts while you sit enraptured over a bowl of cereal, stare shameless. Casually, she lifts the weight in her palms like she’s merely asking your opinion; can't find her bra, wearing that I-do-this-every-morning half-tumble of tousled hair, hmm, and then the release: you have an artful second to view the mouthwatering drop under the fabric as she swings everything into view.

Hand on hip - cocked high - this slow, relaxed turn. Park Jihyo's proportions are frankly out of this fucking world: you're not even a tits guy but she makes you forget you even have a type. 

So you say, reverential, "Nice body by the way."

Just an insane sculpt of toned-ass, tummy, legs. Fantastic fucking rack; some things require reiterating.

"Thanks," she sing-songs back, leaning at this totally gratuitous angle. Flirt at maximum volume, a real professional performer putting work on display. She knows how this looks and she adores every second of attention she grabs from you. Sashaying her way back towards your bedroom - this lilting sway of hips while she tucks fallen hair neatly back behind her ear - "it's kind of my job to have one."

Yeah, hilarious part of all of this being (because let there always be a 'but') that she's unfathomably famous and wears stardom like it bores her: look at these instagram comments, these covers of magazines, I guess, she thinks lazily, hair trailing loosely down to her waist and sunglasses now hanging off the cut of her button nose - she tangles them up through her hair, tugs them free - might as well ride a wave to crest. 

Your shirt is so large on her tiny frame she's gonna just have that shoulder out all afternoon, devastating you.

It cuts a figure.

"Wouldn't be such a bad living, either," she muses as she returns. "Idol? Is that what you'd call it? But they've all got that-" some fake gesture around her face she only deigns with a flick of fingers, "- it'd make me insane."

Yeah, haha. Funny the world works that way; she's, like, ten years your senior with hundred times the net worth and just literally waltzed up, gorgeous, looking one thousand times more comfortable in heels and decided to get to the bottom of some... rumors: hear you're a bit of a womanizer; wow, huh. Also hear you've got a perfect cock; hello, I'm Jihyo and I know you know who I am; absolutely fucking hilarious someone hasn't tried to put her life into one of those bullshit telenovelas where all main characters are attractive, all plotlines degenerate into sex too quickly for you to critique, kindling scandal left and right. Jihyo doesn't, actually, have scandals, so much; no tell-all celebrity stories of her cheating on exes, no sex tapes released purely to rake in ratings - she's kind of what an aspiring artist like you might consider highly admirable? You have no clue.

"Role model" doesn't feel like someone who gets nasty in your ear when she's cumming herself senseless on your fingers.

She finds you watching the gaping neckline when she bends low, then matches your gaze unabashed with a coy, feline little look of her own: oh look how crazy people already fall for me, completely by accident. Jesus. These types of girls, huh? Already always more trouble than they can imagine being.

Then she says, "I owe you several apologies anyway," for leaving with Sana and her fiancé the other night, like who's going to turn down the spoiled-princess, cho-miyeon experience. Seriously: you ever have two mouths on you? I think you'd like it; could ask Nay to lend me a hand; her laugh tickles out.

Christ. You chew on the next spoonful loudly to mask the way you've just set your jaw.

"I wasn't feeling that sober anyway, honestly." Because it's not like you're dating; or go ahead and try being controlling about where she sleeps and who with: see her with a fresh pair of rolling eyes at some arbitrary 'where's your sense of female empowerment' like that's even remotely what that means; go ahead and trying winning any argument when she can just crawl up between your thighs, sink her lovely face slowly down into your lap.

Right to edge it fucking out, upright on the kitchen tile between splayed thighs.

"Oh, no," comes her haughty murmur against your dick, smirking like she can feel just how heavily fucking that smogs the front of your brain. "Poor baby, left here all by himself."

You've got a mouth full of granola, or there'd be some protest about the patronizing tone she takes on when she's minutes from sinking her entire drooling oral fixation all the way down to your balls.

Instead she just smooths wide hands at your hips to calm some imaginary rage of yours and carries along, perfectly normal: bites at fabric with her teeth because apparently it amuses her - gets a guileless expression lifted your way when she lowers your waistband: You comfortable over breakfast? because of course no seductive half-innuendo - she's truly down there solely to worship every inch like she's in desperate confession: I lied, it is about me and absolutely just as primal and possessive. The pleasure of having a firm stroke run up you; heat and her lips dragging against veins so closely you lose five seconds' of lucid fucking thought, low coos at each inch, pining. My number one fan? her face keeps asking - you just tuck her hair back a little self-importantly as her mouth wraps, tightens, then sinks down onto your cock.

It's fine that you're trying real blatantly to slow-breathe because her tongue flattens beneath you wickedly smooth: saliva and soft suck, luxurious throat that makes all these sounds just from giving the best head of your life.

Jihyo sucks high onto each rise, spools silky down the length. You nearly just hunch around her head though, like seriously? It's nine a.m. She already pushed her ass back into your morning wood and then smirked to roll the other way about it - all is all you think about sex? so, honestly (though it says as both truth and justification): why don't we remedy that.

Little sighs come out of you. 

You laugh, "Oh, okay," because she finds the spot that just sends your nerves into fucking melt-down. "That's not fair," because she keeps lapping at it, wet mouth on a terrible angle, fucking hell. Then to palm her hand between your thighs and press snug - sweet christ. That too, "absolutely un - you don't have to" but okay who do you think knows better, here.

Like, the clatter of silverware into your bowl makes it obvious you're barely coping, knees bucking, winding a fist into her hair, making a bit of a scene? Very in-character: your industry's full of star-talent, and here's the closest thing to royalty - on her knees, getting messier, getting off at hearing you fall apart at an excuse to take full ownership - hold tight this pretty fucking head while it slurps stupid around your hard cock like this, this talented mouth - ugh, Christ: get acquainted with feeling you thick out her throat at obscene angles; start a mental bank with every image, her mascara, plush swollen lips giving you such a twisted-up sight, really.

Don't really need to fantasize on top of it, obviously, as her soft palate rolls against you and makes messy clicking, drenched-music. "Unh," because other options feel ridiculous; why articulate words after what three, four blows of bliss in top-notch idol-throat already have your cock seeping that gooey wet heat? "Jesus, babe," would be if you bothered: because Jihyo looks like an angel snapping your mind like a branch as is.

She gags like the reflex is trained and spit is fucking, everywhere.

"Your mouth," dumb shit you're dribbling between gulps at air. "I just-" not able to keep your tongue while hers wraps against the head whenever she eases back for her own seethe of a breath - "can't," too worked up that you forgot and basically fucked right up through the wall at the way back of her mouth.

But Jihyo's smug grin lands crooked and debauched with a gush of saliva-spank, strings glimmering down her chin - experienced woman, or whatever you wanna call it, and winds the shimmery mess around her palm to lather in circles; just a total fucking disaster: really just likes sucking dick.

She totally pulls her mouth slick from your cock at intervals, pumps her tight fist over you lazily and just draws a low "hmm" at how good your precum looks in daylight to be working along your length that nicely, coquettish hand stuff - she's wearing her watch and it keeps clattering so there it is, also visual effect - why are you about to blow before noon already. You can look down and tell yes, really just that easily horny even without those gorgeous cocked eyelashes batting at you for approval. Hellscape that you're gonna always just cum in droves, watching her tongue flick out for the next taste along the slit and-

"Can't what?" she asks all too innocently. God. Her eyes are unreal through the wisps of hair - she's using both hands, palms twisting over length and massaging right below the head, just a pulsing wad of pressure that'll turn sensitive and numb: she knows how to edge you, for lack of pretense. Told you once to jerk off in front of her, just to see, watched herself and learned where all your soft parts connect.

Her fists work you over ruthlessly.

"Huh?" and it's all obscenely wet in your hearing; slow as ever she can. "You were being so talkative a second ago."

It's absurd; amazing. You don't want her to keep torturing your climax like it did the other day out in those damn store aisles. A bodega's maybe morally neutral enough you'd consider finishing like that again some ways down the line, a porno for your heart just remembering Jihyo sitting there, palms on her knees, face covered chin-to-forehead in it. But now the sun's risen and this, she tugging at you sloppier than both her hands make room for - your length seeping and twitching like hell in front of these eyes that could ruin more modest people: so teasing and open like come ahead and knock-my-tonsils-loose.

"Should keep eating," she suggests, and doesn't laugh. "Long day ahead, and breakfast-" she licks over your dick adoringly "-let's just say Noona needs all the energy you can get right now."

Okay, yikes.

You slouch, sit up, slouch again. Crunch, crunch, crunch granola like you're being mothered a little too indulgently, ugh, fine; there's something tender about her with big spoonfuls between kneading your base and mouthing messy around the crown; what good is having anyone around that doesn't both suck you slack-wired-silly, and then care that your oats sit in your stomach like, well, morning fueling.

You couldn't explain this scene up better if you tried - "sounds like we're staying in today," and then doing this whole sigh-huff-of-exhaustion because she's giving you this blowjob that you fear will kill your motivation to keep her pussy (wet, stretched-open, pushing out your jizz, etc.) filled every possible minute of it. 

"Lot of that, lately," mostly. Mused through bites, last spoonful of raspberry yogurt. You add: "What's that about?" like it's not already wildly obvious.

Like, hey: funny observation. Like, we fuck - a lot. What's up; something in the weather or is this supposed to cool off, settle into reasonable, occasionally-civil levels over time like, I don't know - average sorta-casual-seeing-someone; you never made promises about love but you didn't suggest ongoing sex in lieu of normal socialization, anyway.

"You know what I want," the minx says, which is objectively hot. Her brows cock like a challenge this time, hair swinging behind, the angle suddenly obscenely good. Head bobbing. Fingers sneaking into her panties.

So all you're able to offer is some "I've got things I want, too," which lands with her: a beat of careful, studying you. Jaw slack. Mouth split, stuffing itself full. You say, "If you're trying to make me bust now" and make the implication quite fucking plain, just like seeing where your cockhead would smash against the back of her mouth "because today's the 30-ish day anniversary of us meeting," give or fucking take. Grin: "why not just say that? Could've left me clues over a candlelit dinner, or set the alarm to fuck our way 'round to the morning - pretty-girl, no frills and basics really work best for us, I think."

Jihyo sucks your cock with something like contrition. Holds her hair out of the way like, look who's actually been paying attention.

"Wanna cum on your tits," and okay, there's only so much keep up; you're being too frank. She's got you stupid with blowjob lips and slow-blink lashes and the back of her throat. "Just, for example," you grit out.

She has to drag your shaft out midair, licking, slurping loudly just so she can parrot back a low, deliberate "yeah?" in rhetorical quip in reply. Yeah, watching 'em sway between your splayed knees is sorta making you crazy, yes - but that's not your immediate focus once the she stands up between your thighs and tugs her panties right down her thighs and steps out of the wettest, most-fucked-up messy pair you're pretty certain has ever cursed your flooring.

"I thought I said you cum where I tell you to," she snaps lightly, twisting herself around, gorgeous ass fitting right onto your lap like where d'you think you've escaped to and: oh.

Her pussy is fucking wet - from whatever prep Jihyo'd put in prior - that fucking headspin she gets from seeing you getting wrecked in her mouth, apparently; the way control comes natural to her when around your swollen-rigid cock. 

The fill-up stretch? Uh, Jesus. Even she has to make a noise because it's fucking incredible as she drops with careful tension onto your lap until her cheeks sit in the groove, fat cushioning from her muscle: snug-ass fit.

She leans forward, feet flat on the kitchen tile: hey, here's another spot in your apartment the staggering height difference between you isn't just hot but logistically feasible - that's how you happen across all these treasures, apparently, thinking ridiculous every-step-a-journey shit for how it seems you can pound most things you let around her right down the line; do missionary against the countertop while water's running in the bathroom sink; grab her from behind - in front of - into up against the doorframe that connects studio and living room and feel each time you pin in deeper how she whimpers and curls. You're starting to trust your instincts; you two always find a way.

She laughs, maybe - maybe just huffs this little muffled sigh as she lewdly bounces on just one, 'accidental.'