Winter is Back

“You’ve been well?” Minjeong coos as her fingers card through your hair.

“Yeah, of course.”

“While I wasn’t here?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah…?”

“Think about it once more.” The silence drops like a bomb has just sucked the sound out of the room—a you-just-seriously-said-that vacuum in the blast radius. Her nails scratch slow at your scalp as she waits for you to catch up.

You know this move; known this for more than two years. She has a plethora of ways to make you feel dumb—well, you are; it’s why you’re perplexed how you landed a goddess like Kim Minjeong. There is no argument you’ll win when she starts pulling off the next couple of moves.

“Have you been well?” she quietly asks again; she already knows what she wants to hear, and you’re just catching up now.

“Of… course… not…”

Her lips twist into a crooked smirk; one corner hooks upwards until her tiny nose crinkles. Her head slowly tilts while she looks at you like you are the most pitiful little puppy she has seen this year.

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

“Minjeo—”

“Three months.” Her fingers ponderously slide from your hair down to your jaw. “Three months, and you thought about me every night, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Her hand grips your face tighter. “Say it properly.”

“Every single night, babe.”

“Hm.” She pats your head like the good boy that you are, then kisses the corner of your lips, teasing you just enough to crave and salivate for more. “And what did you do about it, hm? Did you cry?”

“Minjeong…”

“Oh, tell me. You cried a little, didn’t you?”

“I did not cry.”

“Not even one manly tear? Like, into your pillow?”

“Just tell me what you want to hear, babe.”

“I want to hear you say what you did with your right hand every night.”

Her hand slides down your chest, past your stomach, to the front of your pants—where you are incredibly hard against the denim. Her palm adjusts to the shape of your hardening crotch.

“Fucked my own hand thinking about you, babe.”

“Every night?”

“Every night.”

“Mmhm. My poor baby~”

She lifts on her knees. Her tight black silk nightgown slides up her thighs. She reaches for the hem, pulls it over her head in one motion, and her perfect figure reveals itself to you with only her lacy panties protecting the treasure you have long been yearning for.

You have not seen her body in three months, and it is somehow more mesmerizing than you remembered. This is not a fair distribution of biological gifts.

Truly, the gods have crafted a perfect being.

“Minjeong—”

“Shhh~”

She lowers herself back onto your lap, feeling the heat of her cunt crowd against the growing erection south of you. She grinds against you slow. Her pink nipples brush your chest through your shirt while her hands gently cradle your face.

“Baby, take this off.”

You pull your shirt over your head. She sighs when your chest touches hers.

“Ugh, I missed this,” she murmurs—then catches herself.

You let out a smirk; ahah, you know this bit. She has been doing it for two years—the nonchalant-I’m-meant-to-be-cool reset. She will do this a few more times before she gives up and lets her true emotions take over.

Almost on cue—“Oh my god, baby.”—there we go.

She reaches down, unbuttons your pants, hurriedly pulls them off along with the rest of your bottom wear, wraps her hand around you; so—fucking—warm, so perfect around your length. Her thumb drags across the tip, and her hand was the only one meant to hold your throbbing cock; so perfectly shaped around it.

“Babe—”

“You want it, baby?”

“Of-fucking-course, babe.”

“How badly?”

“Very.”

“Then say please.”

“God. Please, babe.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me fuck you.”

She scoffs. “Baby, I have been imagining this for three months, you know? I get to be the one doing the fucking, and you just get to be the one apologizing.”

“Apologizing for what, now?”