Hongjoong rolls his tongue over your cl*t and you come again with a sob, squirting over his already soaked face and chest. He murmurs praise into your wet folds.
"Please, hongjoong. I can't do it anymore," you sob.
"Yes you can," he says with authority, "and yes you will." This was your eighth or ninth org*sm... or maybe it was your tenth? You couldn't remember. He was happily lost in your p*ssy, and completely drenched from how many times you'd squirted on his tongue, or his fingers. He hadn't even got himself in you yet. It was achy and leaking prec*me, but he wasn't done with you, so it'd have to wait.
Being on the tour is tough. He's here now, sure, but it might only be for another few hours. Then he may not see you again for weeks. He never knew how long he'd have you for. So he always made sure he gave you enough org*sms that you wouldn't forget him.
You insisted that wasn't possible, but then one afternoon he made you come fourteen times in a single hour, and you sobbed at him that you would be okay with maybe forgetting him just a tiny bit. Then he made you come three more times on his *ick just for being a smartass. He didn't leave for six more hours after that, and you had to call in sick to work the next day because your body wouldn't work right. It was easily the best reason you ever had for burning a sick day.
You're hanging on the precipice of another org*sm, his fingers crooked against your g-spot, and his thumb circling your c*it. You're overworked, and incredibly sensitive, but the little whimpers and whines you're making go right to his c*ck. If only you realized these pretty little noises you make are half the reason he does this. Because maybe—just maybe—he needed this too, so he had something to remember when the nights were dark, and all he had for company was his hand.
Those times, the times where all he had were his memories of you, they make being an idol even harder. So he tastes you as much as he can, for as long as he can, and commits every second of it to memory.
You groan out another climax, your toes digging into his shoulders, and your thighs trying to squeeze his head. You're dripping off his elbow, and his chin, and down his chest. He's covered in you, and he's never been closer to heaven.
"Hongjoong, I really can't. Please, please don't make me," you sob.
Your thighs and p*ssy lips have been rubbed raw by his 5 o'clock shadow . Your c*it is so sensitive every time he strums his thumb over it it makes your hips buck involuntarily.
"If you really can't do it anymore, tell your c*nt that, because she's milking my fingers like she can't get enough."
"Traitor," you sniffle, betrayed by your own anatomy.
He chuckles and pulls his fingers out of you. They're wet and pruny like he just got out of a long bath. You groan in relief, but it morphs into a whine when he replaces them with his tongue. You try to squirm away from him, feet pushing his shoulders, scooting you up the mattress. He just laughs, and pulls you back towards him.
"Keep it up. You think this is bad, I'll tie you to the bed and do this all night long."
"Please don't."
"Well then, fucking hold still."
"I'm trying, my guy . It's hard."
"I bet it is, you poor thing," he says sarcastically.
Then, because he knows you're making him talk simply because it keeps his tongue out of you for a moment, he spreads you open and spears it back into you. The clever appendage works you just as hard as his fingers did, and it's an embarrassingly short time later when you're coming again. Flooding his mouth, he noisily slurps you clean.
He drops a thumb to your cl*t, and you quickly come again with a ragged cry.
"Hongjoong, please. I can't anymore. It hurts."
"Sweetheart, I still don't hear a safeword, so quit trying to bullshit me" he says, moving over you, milking a hand up his red and aching c*ck. "Besides," he says, lining up with your entrance, "I'm just getting started."
