SWIMSUITS & SODOMY

So, let's dive right into things—you're fucking the hell out of Yeji's face.

Getting her teary-eyed, sloppy with it; manhandling her by the hair, stretching out her jaw, feeling her throat gag while you work yourself in and out of the most divine set of lips; sliding deep until her drool's lacquering your balls and it's all too much.

She just looks up at you: would be grinning if your cock wasn't keeping her mouth busy, would be laughing if you weren't choking every squeal back into her, but it's her eyes doing the real work—sharp, wicked; lit with the most depraved fucking intentions.

You've only really known her for a week, but you get her message loud and clear:

“That all you got?”

Like she's winning. Like she's not the one between your legs, poolside, half-submerged, a natural on her knees. One-piece swimsuit hugging nice and snug, fingers digging into your thighs, tears streaming clean down naked cheeks, gasping for air.

You tug her head back, lips gliding off you until your shaft's slipping out—there's a thick strand that follows, saliva bridging her swollen lips to your cockhead, catching the underwater lights, shiny sheen in the dark.

Her chest heaves, nylon pulls tight across her tits; she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, it's purely for show—she clearly has little problem getting a bit messy.

And yeah—there's the grin.

You try to slap it off her face with your cock.

“Too much for you?” Yeji asks; and it's probably the first complete sentence you've heard from her pretty mouth.

All you've got is half an hour ago: you, stepping out of your suite—Yeji, stepping out of hers. Your temporary next-door neighbour, wrapped in a hotel towel with two thin straps tied at the back of her neck, barely hanging on. A flick of the wrist, that's all it would take.

Would be the closest you'd been to her—except for your adjoining balconies, side-by-side, where you're pretty goddamn certain she'd timed herself to your smoke breaks.

Night after night, leaning over the railing to catch a buzz from her side, a breath through the gap; little choked-off whimpers starting up the same second as your lighter and climbing, shameless and pornographic, until the cigarette had burned down to your fingers.

But face-to-face? She stared you down, dead-to-rights, and let the towel drop.

Gave you a full look at her—that sinful silhouette flooding fantasies into your frontal cortex—shit like getting those long smooth legs over your shoulders; your teeth in the swell of her perky high tits; thumbs digging into the plane of her ridged abs to span that ridiculously tiny waist; just tearing that monochrome chequered swimsuit off her and using her, like every inch of her, head-to-toe, is demanding you take her right fucking now—lips, hips, eyes screaming sex, screaming fuck me, screaming—why am I not already impaled on your big, fat cock?

Putting to shame every single image you'd conjured to accompany the self-fucked schlick-schlick-schlick she'd been piping through your window; until she tired of your slack-jawed, dumbfounded, goon-brained stare, tilted her chin towards the elevator and asked—“Going up?”

(Got your hands on her before the doors shut, looped your tongue around hers and wrenched it out of her mouth, pinned her spine to the handrail—determined to find where to touch to convince her that next time she should just jump balcony-to-balcony, seventy-something storeys up, and hand the heavy burden of making her cum her brains out to someone who doesn't need their batteries replaced.)

To now: top floor, infinity pool, suite access only, dark and empty this late past midnight.

You'd have followed her off the roof if she'd tipped her chin at the edge. Basically what she's asking you to do now, busy tonguing the question into the underside of your cock.

“Jesus—fuck—Yeji—” you groan, ripped from your throat, music to her ears.

“You know me?” She hums, lips vibrating along your shaft, curving wider—kinda thing that really fucks you up: lidded eyes, sloppy spit-soaked smile wrapped around the girth of you. Cheeks going hollow, seeing if you can find something to fill them with.

“Looked you up,” slips from you, because, yeah, she's so obviously someone—just how she carries herself, type of girl with a gravity, someone worth idolising. “It didn't take long.”

“Shame,” she says. “I kinda liked the idea of us being perfect strangers.”

“We basically are,” you try, rescuing the thought before it turns to mush with the rest of your brain when her tongue draws a wide stripe from behind your balls, up and over, performs an obscene manoeuvre at the head. “You still don't know my name.”

“True.” She comes up; presses a kiss to your tip, tongue flickering over the beads that seep out, savouring your flavour. “Though something tells me you'll have me screaming it in—oh, five minutes?”

“Two,” you answer, and you're detached, sliding into the water next to her, both hands to her waist, fingertips pressed into that flat stomach (you'll make it bulge soon enough). Ignoring that raised eyebrow, the smirk, the oh, please lead the way, handsome stranger.

A split-second eye-to-eye is all you get for now—so take it: chin tipped up, flawless features soaked and moon-lit. Lashes flecked and clumped, cheekbones that'll scar you, a mouth so soft on a face this wrecked—just stops you dead.

(Yeji from your research, from next door, from now—out from the photographs and fantasies and it's a total catastrophe, more than enough to pull you under and hold you there until it's all you have to breathe.)

That's the taste you get; drink it in then hoist her up, spin her, get her squealing for the first time. Pulling her half out of the pool to brace against the vanishing glass—where it all just stops: water trickling quietly over the lip, the whole city strewn out beneath.

You run a hand over a cheek, unhurried, proprietary. That generous handful, cut to measure—porcelain, pristine, peachy-fucking-keen.

“So. How would you like to be fucked tonight?”

Doesn't even bother turning; throws it out into the air. “Haven't you been listening? I gave you six nights of notes—put them to use.”

Fair enough. “Spread your legs. Hands out.”

You fold her over, palms to the infinity edge; she goes with it easy, gets prone like she's done it in her head a thousand times already. Flawless fuckdoll, posable and pliable, all the perverse shit only the most perfect girls can stir; and there it is—the entire problem, presented.

That tight, firm ass.

You could weep. But things are already wet enough.

Got her hitched up and arched, cheeks pulled taut; gleaming, calling you, siren's song under the starlight. A clean deep line running down the curve of her, and lower and lower and lower. One touch and you know you'll find her drenched. Ripe and open. Fated since that first late check-in.

You need both hands, spreading her open with your thumbs, feeling her flex whole against your palm, watching her clench under the attention.

Taking a sec. A pretty girl's asshole always deserves a level of reverence. It's only good manners.

She clocks the hesitation. Turns her head, ganders over her shoulder. Rolls into your grip—slow. “Knew it.”

Yeah, there's no denying it—you're already pulling the swimsuit over to the side, testing the stretch, peeling it over her right cheek to get a proper view. “Guilty. Not like you've made it easy for me.”

“And yet it still took you this long,” she says—but so what, you've always been one to wait until the water's warm before dipping a toe in. “Just how much are you—”

“An ass guy? Well, for the right one—” You dip low, let the water raise her hips higher, wade in to press her knees to the wall so you can bless the chlorine and salt and skin with a long, lingering kiss. “Incurable. Terminal.”

“So it's a pre-existing condition,” she says, cause, duh, she loves playing the tease, being the centre of attention; her whole occupation. “Since when?”

“It's a whole chronic thing. Flares up seasonally.”

“Seasonally.” Ecstatic; plays with it around her tongue. “Like around the holidays?”

“Something like that. Or I guess, whenever an ass like yours comes around.”

“Charmer,” and it all gets lost in a gasp when you map that unholy crack splitting her in two—from where she's pinkest, sopping, waiting God knows how long, up to the spot she's braced for—and she jolts, frantic and filthy; a whine you push clean through and out her throat.

“Says the girl that's been shoving it in my face ever since I got here.” Just holding her—shivering against your lips, buzzing beneath your tongue—nose buried deep in the undeniably tightest hole that's haunted your entire stay.