Im Nayeon had wonderful hair.
This wasn’t surprising, of course - as the center of one of the world’s most popular musical groups she was of course provided the most expensive hair care products out there, all meticulously applied by professional, well-paid hairdressers.
But you weren’t prepared for how wonderful it felt in your hands.
Both of your hands, actually. Even in your tight grip you could feel the silkiness of the strands. It felt like gripping two ropes made of red velvet or fine silk.
It almost - almost - distracted you from the rest of her.
It almost distracted you from her naked torso, clad as she was only in her knee high boots and elbow-length gloves. The softness of her hair extended to her skin, which, despite the trails of glistening sweat trailing snaking paths down her back, still gleamed in the flourescent light of the dressing room’s makeup table.
It almost distracted you from the moans, sighs, and grunts that left her mouth in a steady stream - each one a pure, unfiltered expression of lust and need being fulfilled. She swears and moans and curses in English and Korean and sometimes a heady mix of both, trying and failing to make you go faster, or harder, or deeper, encouraging you to take her, use her, fuck her brains out - whatever it took to get more and more of what she wanted.
It almost distracted you from the sight in the mirror - the reflection of her body as you take her from behind. Her hands grip the edge of the dressing room table so intensely you can see the muscles in her arms tensing. Her breasts - those small, perfect, round mounds with their taut, tight nipples - bounce wildly with each thrust you make into her body. And her face - my god, you think, her face. To watch those perfectly sculpted features as they twist and contort in pleasure and lust and intense need is a sight that you never tired of seeing, never tired of watching. Her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her tongue dangles partway out of her mouth, drool dripping from its corners. She is a mess. A far cry from the polished, perfect image she so often portrayed.
But try as they might, and despite the myriad of other distractions provided by Im Nayeon’s body, the luxuriousness of her hair couldn’t distract you from her pussy. So wet and velvety - a hot glove around your cock that smothered it with every thrust you made into it.
You’d long lost track of the number of times you’d fucked her so far on this tour, how many times you’d pounded that thirsty hot little hole of hers - but she was always so very tight, so vice-like around your cock that you never tired of it, even when there were so many other options and requests for your “services” amongst her group members.
“Nayeon, five minutes!” comes a call from outside the dressing room - one of her group members or a production assistant or makeup artist or whomever, you didn’t really know nor care enough - telling her that her short mid-concert costume change break was almost up, and soon she’d have to go back on stage.
“I’m not - oh god, so deep -” she spits from a drooling mouth, “I’m not going back… on stage, oh fuck! I’m not… going back out there… without a load in my pussy.”
“Don’t worry,” you answer. “You’ll get one.”
“Do it. Give it to me. Give it to me! Fill my pussy with your cum!”
You pound her. You fuck her. You wreck her tight little hole with a ferocity bordering on anger, slamming yourself as hard as you could into her juicy, slick pussy until finally, mercifully, she tightens and orgasms around you. You follow her.
You pull hard on her pigtails, curving her spine deliciously. You use her hair like handles, roughly, callously, the same way you were using her pussy.
You give her what she wants, filling her with stream after stream of thick hot cum. When you leave and let the stylists in to finish dressing her, they find her slumped against the makeup table on shaky legs, a thick stream of white semen dripping from a well-fucked pussy and onto flushed thighs.
Later, when the fancams and photos of her performance appear on your social media feeds, most people dismissed the glistening on her thighs as sweat.
You knew what it really was.
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