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prael · 2 months ago

Text

Pliancy

Kinktember Day 4: Dollification

ILLIT Park Minju x male reader smut

words: 6,488 Kinktember Masterlist

Art is eternal. Who was it that once said that a thing of beauty is a joy forever? Was it Byron? Was it Yeats? Who cares. But that line, however trite, does kind of get the concept down, really, as clichéd and insipid as it sounds.

Minju, too, is a joy forever, with her soft face, her sweet body, and her delicate touch. On this, I will allow you an image: she was the absolute pinnacle of girlhood, the perfect blending of innocence and wanton sexiness. When you pressed her slender wrists down into the sheets of her bed with those pale, thin fingers and pinned her slender body with your cock, you became one with a living, breathing piece of high art. The feeling of that, ah, that is something you cannot ever convey. And that's probably how it started, your obsession with her; she was beautiful and delicate and utterly desirable. She had all the loveliness of a porcelain figurine; just looking at her could arouse you, bring about your lusts and make your mouth dry up.

But there is something, and you realise this, something both primal and shameful, about wanting to sully that image of innocence. Not, of course, that your feelings towards Minju are wholly visceral—you do love her, and genuinely so. The things you do may imply something different, a detachment from her as a person if someone were looking in from the outside, but just as you assured her, it's an act born out of admiration. It's an act out of devotion.

To dollify the living, breathing, loving, feeling organism called Minju, then to make her merely an object for your desires. Ah, there's something wonderfully, gloriously filthy in that—the violation and the liberation. In all those actions and thoughts, you can be sure, is that undercurrent of perverseness and lust. Your lips tracing across Minju's navel is an act of passion, one to express the fullness and warmth that has bloomed inside your chest. Your hands gripping her thighs so tight that they leave deep, crimson fingerprints on the skin is an act of passion too—one to express a primal need.

When it all starts, Minju, a girl so usually full of energy and vivacity, is demure and quiet; she sits in this stoic way in front of you, knees together and her hands resting on her thighs, just below the table. The table holds the tools of your art: hairclips, mascara, lip gloss, nail polish and everything else. She waits, as she always does, in silent expectation.

Minju wears the outfit you laid out for her that afternoon. The fabrics are light and flowing, cotton in a milky off-white colour hugging her upper body and a linen shirt whose billowy sleeves hang around her slender arms; at the wrists, she keeps the cuffs rolled up. Cotton shorts, equally soft, equally neutral in colour, held to her small waist by a ribbon as a makeshift belt. All of it was chosen specifically by you—it's all so very angelic, and comfortable. Innocent.

You set about your work, asking her to place a hand on the table. Nails take the longest to dry so you start there: you paint the end of each of her slender fingers one at a time, taking great care, letting her rest her hand in the palm of your own as you go through the motion. Whisper-like strokes of the brush over the thin keratin in a pastel shade, the pink of newly-blossomed cherry flowers. A compliment to her fair complexion.

One hand done, you raise it closer to your mouth and gently blow over the fingertips, to quicken their drying. Her hand, in yours, is ever so small. So petite. You remark this, smiling, and her expression—wide-eyed and quietly attentive—softens. It's a sight so adorable; how the ends of her lips upturn as if you've said something exceptionally touching. That's the thing with Minju; you just never quite get used to how much trust and affection is conveyed in those big, soft eyes.

Not long until the other hand is done, perfect crisp painting without a single smudge, or mistake.

You screw in the brush, then stand to move the table aside, you pull it away from her and then push it away. You kneel at her feet, hand resting gently on a small calf. You lift a leg, then draw your hand down it, to her heel. Bare feet, too, are a marvel in and of themselves: smooth skin over arched bones. Like all good things, it's imperfect; she's a dancer after all, still, she takes all the care to moisturise and you take all the care to massage them.

Now, Minju is ticklish, always has been, so when you take hold of her foot in preparation to paint her nails, she struggles not to break composure, and yet a cute little smirk betrays her. With one hand, you hold it steady; with the other, you reach to the table and draw the brush from the pot of white paint. White like the brightest snow, a winter's morn. You make slow, even strokes, over her nails, starting with the big toe and making your way down the digits, till her little feet are thoroughly and beautifully made up.

She flinches occasionally, under your touch, but with great care, you never make a mistake. No stain on her flesh. Repeated for her other foot too, each followed by a patient period of gently blowing, which sees her struggle against the tickling of her flesh even more. This time, she moves, almost unable to help it—and you know that to admonish her would not be the gentlemanly thing.

"It's okay Minju. Relax," you tell her, softly, as she takes a steadying breath, "that's it. Good."

It is here where you see a glow of pleasure and a hint of a smile on her pretty, youthful face, at hearing words of praise from you. This you know well: to Minju, your affirmations have an almost spiritual significance. In all the time you have known her, she has yearned to do well, to make others around her happy, to gain approval and affection, and as someone important in her life, this sentiment extends to you.

"My angel," you call her, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. You lean close to place a gentle peck of your lips against her leg, just above the ankle, which causes her to stir. But that's okay, a moment of weakness is ever expected. You shift away from her leg, letting the soft flesh slip from your hand, and admire the neat work you have done so far. "There we go."

You bring your chair close to her, so you can sit, knee to knee across from her and set to work on her pretty features. First, you frame her face by clipping back the locks of fine honey-brown that threatened to obscure her eyes. Then you take the lip gloss in a soft rose colour, and a slender, synthetic-haired brush, and begin the work of accentuating her lips. Start at the top and glide over the curve that runs along her cupid's bow. Define the fine edges and then coat, to treat yourself to a shimmering pink glow; a shine over the otherwise natural look.

"Perfect. Oh, how I want to kiss them."

Minju doesn't say a word but the look in her eye speaks all the same, 'I wish you would do it.'

She remains still as you take hold of the thin eyeliner pencil in one hand and Minju's chin with the other, carefully positioning the tip under the lash line, and drawing it slowly, ever-so-carefully. Drawing a light, curved line to the side, first on her right, and then on her left. Do the same, light and clean, under the bottom lashes, being extra sure to define her creases.

Her eyes, as you study them, are so rich and vivid in colour that they command all of your attention and all of your efforts. So you work carefully, deliberately; being this close to her means you can see each speck, each mote in those deep, earthy brown irises. This intimacy, the face-to-face nearness of it all, brings on a unique vulnerability: when she closes her eyes next, to allow you to apply shadow to her lids, Minju puts herself at your mercy.

Minju's lips part and a small but noticeable hitch of her breath follows as you pull yourself away and admire your work. She has this kind of seductive natural pout—soft, shapely. Something alluring that the angles of her mouth lend her. As you sweep blush powder over her cheeks with a fine, oval-shaped brush, she utters a soft question, "How does it look?"

You bring a finger to rest against the fullness of her cheek, letting it trace along her soft flesh, down her jaw, and under her chin—before bringing it upwards, a physical prompting, to make her lift her chin higher. "Perfect. Always."

It occurs to you, as you define her eyebrows in quick, practised strokes, that for all the work you put into her, the inhuman focus and the undivided attention, this effort is nothing against the absolute, undying beauty that is Park Minju. It's a sort of colour-by-numbers deal; with all the perfect lines drawn out, it's up to you—a mock amateur—to simply embellish, to exaggerate, what is already there. To add shadow, light, and life.

You finish your work creating ('Creating' is the wrong word, more so, refining) the perfect doll. Minju keeps still, and patient. Beautiful.

"Precious girl."

By her earlobe, just below the jaw, there is a spot. The most perfect, sensitive area, to which you bow your head. Close your eyes. Place your lips. You kiss this spot, slowly, dragging your lips against her flesh, across it, revelling in the delicate softness. Revelling in her soft little moan, muffled only by pursed lips.

You push your chair back, and stand, looking down at her from above. You draw the clips back from her hair and it falls back into the perfect place. You circle around her once, slow, methodical. Taking all of her in, marvelling.

The greatest treasure in all the world. A masterpiece.

She follows your every guidance as you pull her to her feet. After all, she is, for tonight, nothing more than a doll. Pliable. Openly, and explicitly, subservient. You turn her and position her before a full-length mirror set in the far corner of her room. There she stands, arms at her side, staring back at you with doe-like, innocent eyes. There you stand, tall, strong behind her, hands on her arms.

"Perfect. You really are the most precious girl."

Your grip on her upper arms is gentle but firm as you ease her forward into a bend at the hips, tilting her towards the mirror as you place her into a pose. Fingers playing lightly down her limbs, like stroking the keys on the piano, or the strings on a guitar. You place her hands behind her back, and instruct her expression, "Give me a sweet smile."

Your voice is quiet in her ear as she nods, just the slightest, almost indiscernible incline of the head. She stares down the mirror as her full, kissable lips slowly contort into a charming, simpering smile, the type that the most beloved princesses often wear. You press up behind her, brushing your body tight against hers and see how that lovely little grin of hers slowly stretches up, to become ever so slightly crooked.

In your reflection in the mirror, you see yourself behind her. She holds perfectly still, hands fixed as if bound at the wrists, legs set slightly apart. "Pretty, don't you think?" You ask, teasingly. You press a little into her upper back, angling her in such a way that in the reflection you see down her cotton shirt, revealing the taut, soft curve of her small breasts. The sight of that, the teasing glance, is intoxicating. It brings a slight tremor down your spine, one you swallow down with a sharp breath. "Yes," you assure her, "Very pretty."

Her breathing comes laboured now, sharp little gasps; perhaps it has started to arouse her too, knowing herself to be at the mercy of your hands. Knowing herself to be nothing more than an object at this time—a living doll. To be used, played with, broken, toyed with, cared for or cast aside as you will.

You pull her to a stand and guide her away from the mirror. Her legs are long but you tower over her. She's so light to the touch, the petite girl, that should you need to, you could carry anywhere you desire in one swooping embrace.

You lead her to her dresser, to pose her against it. You guide her lithe left leg, so it crosses over the right one, you place her hands on the wood and let her rest against it. And she, docile, complies. "Like this?" She whispers.

"That's perfect."

You draw the collar of her shirt over her left shoulder, the one closest to you, until it hangs at around elbow height, exposing the skin underneath. A bare arm, all the way up to the strap of her tank top. You smile, admiring your own work, her poise and posture. You adjust her face, so she gazes slightly down in front of her. A final check to ensure the pose is perfect. It doesn't hurt that Minju is a natural when it comes to expressions: there is always some inflexion to the curl of her lips and the shape of her eyes, that says, 'I love this'.

You take the final unused item from the table, a Polaroid camera, one of the new instant types. This one, white, boxy and expensive, is perfect to capture Minju's pristine beauty. One image taken of her here, a pose in the frame, holding the photo to wait for it to develop is worth, it seems, a thousand words. It never ceases to amaze you: how well the camera captures her: how it draws out that natural aura of Minju and depicts it on the fine gloss. It makes, in effect, a perfect keepsake.

You take two more shots, each one giving you pause for appreciation. Each one, was perfect, like it was a scene from an album cover or the poster for a movie. She watches you from her position, gazing intently at you with a lovingly longing gaze. Watching you in fascination, and admiration.

You hold one in front of her. "This is my favourite, look at the way your leg curves here," you point to it, showing her. "And here, the shoulder, just at that angle. See the light dancing in your eyes and on the pink gloss, on the lips. Beautiful."

She remains lifelessly still staring at herself in the print without a word or reaction.

"Now, just one more like this, but first..." You place the camera slowly on the dresser, then grab the hem of her shirt. You fold it in under itself a few times until it sits taut across her stomach, just above her button. Her narrow waist is set into beautiful relief: a curvature down toned abs leading to between her thin hips. Then you pull at the other shoulder of the shirt, more pale skin, more svelteness of form, more smooth flesh. There's a light shiver through her skin as you graze her arm with your finger.

You push slightly into her chest, leaning her back a little over the dresser and then you tilt her head back exposing her neck. Soft lips fall open just the slightest, like the petals of a rose blooming, a faint gasp of a moan parting her pink lips, and her heavy breathing filling her heaving chest.

Taking the camera, you step back, crouch slightly, hold the lens up to eye height and take the shot; a flash and a click of the shutter is followed by a slow hum and a whir of the plastic film rolling out. Another polaroid, you take it to her, tugging lightly at her chin to direct her gaze to it. "This one," you breathe in close to her, placing a kiss on her exposed neck, "is something truly special." You fix on her scent, something fruity and soft: orange blossom undertones.

Minju lets out a soft gasp.

"This one turns me on. The exposed skin. The lustful eyes. Those parted lips, like an invitation," you utter, "do you know how beautiful you look, Minju? How sexy?"

The deepening of her breath tells you what you want to hear.

"New pose. Come here." You take hold of her bare shoulders and pull her to a stand. Her shirt hangs at her back between her elbows. You move behind her as you guide her toward the window, opening her curtains wide and letting the final embers of sunlight in to kiss her skin. You slip her shirt from her arms that hang by her side. "Let's lean you against here."

You guide her hands onto the sill of the window. Let her hands rest flat against it. Hold her by the hips and pull them back, making her shuffle her legs back. Make the curve of her ass tighter, the flex of her lower back deeper.

You pose her into this deep bend, then guide her face up so she faces the evening light. So she basks, regally, in the final glow of the setting sun, and you can see the pinking hue reflected in her eyes.

"Be a good doll and remain still."

The heat has turned Minju's pale flesh red, but you soothe her with a palm, a brush against a soft cheek and an affectionate 'hush'. You fixate upon the curves and lines of her back, following the path of her spine down with your hand, taking care to remain in the hollow. That central channel carved through her back that draws down the centre, passing by dimples in her lower back before widening at the hips and merging into her tapering waist, is a work of art unto itself.

A simple touch of a kiss against that soft flesh at the base of the spine, and Minju fails to disguise a sharp breath as you kneel, her bare calves become a mounting point for your hands. She inhales in soft, controlled bursts as your fingertips stroke around the curve of her lower leg, working around and under the leg, dragging slowly upwards as you make careful circles over her toned calves, till your finger hits the lower thigh. Upward, further. Her body trembles gently as your hand traces along her inner thigh, up to her light cotton shorts where you draw your hand over to the back of her thighs and back down.

"Be a good doll," you repeat, quiet, breath warm against her lower back. You hook your fingers into her shorts, running your palms on her taut, toned little ass. Slight tremors from Minju ripple through your skin as you hook in the fingers of either hand beneath the elastic of her underwear too. A lingering hesitation passes as you focus, and in the serenity of the moment, you draw everything down in one slow, measured pull. The sight of the white cotton dragging down over the firm roundness of her ass has you weak.

You stop at her ankles, and one at a time, you lift a foot out of the clothes, and pull them free, planting her foot back down in a slightly wider stance. You look up, and to her faint reflection in the window, and admire the look she wears, the unnerving determination to hold still and say not a single thing. The deep red hue paints her skin as the day darkens.

"Stay," you command.

You find the camera one final time, to indulge in one final intoxicating shot: Minju, back beautifully lit by the last remnants of the sun's rays, the light striking her skin and making the paleness and tone all the more beautiful; the slight swell of her hips, the small, firm, almost apple-like curve of her behind, and those slim toned thighs in the shadow.

"Hold for me, don't move."

She stares resolutely into the distance through the window, hands clutching the edge of the window sill as you draw the viewfinder to your eye once again. Click, a flash and a whir. The exposure of the light behind her leaves a shadowy image on the thinning film of her nude behind; the smooth line of her legs, her trim waist and that sweet little thing between her legs. An air of sophistication; and one of sin.

"See this?" You show it to her and the embarrassment causes a flutter in her eyes; the arousal of watching her own bare ass on the printed film causes the slightest redness of her cheeks. "I'm going to use that right there. Stay."

There's another twitch in her eyes as you walk away and leave her there, still posing, looking as sensational as ever. You walk out the door, to drink, relax, anything to make her wait. Make her suffer the indignity of exposure and vulnerability.

You spy her through the doorway and never does she move a muscle, your little doll-girl stands there obediently as requested. Time passes—several minutes. And yet she, with such admirable determination, wills herself to stay in position until you return. And you do. You saunter back in, slow. Walking behind her and she never once looks back over her shoulder.

You rest a hand on her waist and the contact is met with a sudden release of tension—her chest falls with a sigh. Her pose remains perfect—adulation for your hand, written in the small shakes of her body and the gradual intonations of her heavy pants. A perfect and delicate angel. Your hand slips from her waist down over the taut curve of her ass, palm resting for the briefest moment on the soft, supple flesh. The pliability. Your hand continues the path it has carved over her skin until it rests lightly between her legs.

A gentle palm over her sex sends a current through her entire form, and a tensing in her muscles is the only indication she offers that there's a struggle to suppress noise in her throat. Hot and wet and you're a man driven by impulse. You step behind her, stroking her, massaging her, then withdrawing to instead spread her slightly with a single, teasing fingertip. "Good little doll."

A clear, sticky, glistening moisture trickles onto the digit and in the way Minju shivers, you are given every impression, you're sure of it, that her lower stomach muscles have clenched tight and are presently squeezing themselves in on each other. A fever pitch is reached within her, and you're ready too.

You draw your hand away, leaving Minju suspended in torment: there is desire, there is desperation and tension that must be alleviated. That itch soothed. She must hear it, the sound of you unbuckling and unzipping. A rustle of fabric as you pull them down and take them off.

With no word, you hit a palm against her ass, a quick and painful swat with your bare hand. Hard, smacking against soft, dough-like flesh. She stifles a soft, bitten-off yelp that sends a vibration up the curve of her back. "Going to play with you," you utter quietly. "Use this doll however I like."

Your hand is drawn back over the red mark on her tender flesh, stroking the mark, massaging, and it soon heats against your palm. You follow it by pressing the very tip of your dick, gently, against her opening. Enough pressure there for you both to know where the next moments go and a slight motion—only the gentlest thrusting—to grind that sensitive flesh in. Just enough to make her bite back her lower lip, to struggle against the overwhelming urge to break her poise.

To add to that struggle, the sensation, you lull her, deceive her, by trailing your length against her slick, tender folds, then abruptly drag it over the tight hole right there at the back. One more light tap there too, right on her little asshole, that drives her into a daze. Then you take her slit again, spreading her open, rubbing yourself over that hot hole and sending her a thousand electric tingles up through her hips.

You thrust once, a single long thrust, right into her little pussy, as much as her wetness will allow until resistance forms. Then back out, completely. Glistening with the slick fluids, you slap your shaft against her ass a couple of times. Wetness dripping, staining those tight cheeks. Then a wet slap of your hand to a cheek. Testing when she will break. Searching for that whimper, that moan, or maybe she'll hold it so well that a tear will form in her eye.

You fill her again, use her a little, rocking your hips back and forth. A careless use of her for pleasure, no consideration for her, for what she might desire and it is pure torture to her. One hand circles over her ass, grazing over the reddened mark, you let it settle on the top of her thigh for leverage and dig your fingertips into the skin. Another few firm pumps into her. Out. All the way out.

Dripping fluid pools around her slit, spilling out down her thigh, hot. "There's no better use for you than this," you hiss, as you smear the wetness over her flesh with the swollen head. The discomfort, the uncertainty, all of it written on her reddened skin and trembling lips. Another few slow pumps up her. Thrust, thrust, thrust. Draw out—slow, torturous—and then fill her again, rough, and violent, driving yourself up hard against her soft skin. Again. "Just like a sex doll," you groan. "Like you're a dirty toy."

Those words draw this low growl inside her, and Minju shudders under the intensity, this vibrating noise rising in her. Fuck, it feels wonderful in her, tight, burning hot—soft, yielding—wet, messy. Drive into that tension, the squeeze on you, where she can feel you so full and snug inside her.

Allow yourself for a moment, to just enjoy her, as she is. She will allow you to, don't fret. Enjoy her as a possession, something lesser than yourself; an object to be manipulated, used and owned. Let her be your slut and let the words roll around in your head. There are times you prefer to fill her with long, agonising strokes, and there are those other times that are frantic and hurried. She takes it all, wilfully and willingly and adoration flows through your veins.

No care for if she cums, you simply use her too. It is not in a casual disregard for her desires, or in selfish pursuit of pleasure at the sacrifice of her. No, no. That is not true. Minju wants this. She cares less about her own pleasure than you. Should she cum, then maybe that would be a nice perk to all of this, but all she wants is to submit herself as a vessel for yours. To serve as the implement to which you expel everything. You have taken her into that dream world she desires to inhabit, where she's an item to be manoeuvred as one wills.

And so you get close, right inside of her—clutch, tense—as she milks you so exquisitely, squeezing and so soft, so fucking silken-smooth and at the very last, you pull out—every last drop is captured on Minju's skin. Her spread ass, her back, thighs.

For all the care you took, perfecting her makeup, now a fine sweat paints a layer across her skin and you're shooting over it and making a true mess of her. All that, her absolute purity and devotion, and what you have done is sullied it. Your doll, your most precious is dirtied. But your most precious thing in the world deserves the best you can give her.

So it is after you have painted your release over her body, that you leave her again—basking in the humiliation of how fluids trickle down her flesh. Just a toy, put aside to stand, vulnerable, debauched and unsatisfied, waiting to be picked up again and played with once more. You could leave her all night. Have her be ready and willing any time you desire. Your toy.

"Fuck, what a sight." You step away, back out of the room, spent and gazing at her. Minju, of course, keeps her back facing you the entire time, she does not dare turn back around to see her, not even to cover up or find modesty, it simply would not occur to her to do so.

Aware of the pain, the hurt of being left this way. Left unfinished. A small smile plays on your lips, the knowledge that this is what turns her on most. Her lover is out there, he's drinking, eating, watching TV, or anything, and she doesn't really know where. She just stays resting over the window ledge with her legs held apart, exposed and vulnerable.

Knowing, feeling, every stroke that has been applied over her body, every part you have made use of, and the places in which you have violated, is enough to turn Minju's insides all warm and fuzzy and soft. Your fingerprints are inked upon her flesh—traced by the veneer of liquids coating her—a record of who has marked her, owned her, as nothing more than an instrument of delight.

Until you're ready to come back, she holds back an unspoken whimper. Tension in her stomach muscles and legs threatened to give out.

Oh, how badly the poor girl yearns to be picked up, taken and fucked again and again.

Eventually, you do return, and without warning. As if you'd never been gone a moment at all, you're just there suddenly behind her, you just have that presence of power that exudes over her. You say her name—nothing else—but the tinge to your voice tells her that you've missed her.

You bring your hands around her slim waist, just above the hips, and trail upwards. Grinding back inside her feels as wonderful as ever. Still throbbing, still wet, still wanton, and she takes you in, spreading wide once again. "Missed me?" You coo, but she still never responds verbally—dutifully compliant, Minju simply moans, her cheeks flushed the same colour as her smeared lips.

You're rough with her, pulling her away from the window and pushing her into the middle of the room. Hasty, impatient, and uncaring. Now, you see, Minju weighs nothing to you, it feels like there's nothing to her; something light, lithe, easily manoeuvrable, like you can twist her and pull her without resistance.

You draw her to you, picking her up from the ground by her waist and walking forward. You set her down on a desk—her ass perching first, then you push her onto her back, drawing up her knees to her chest and pressing onto her. Oh, flexible Minju, sweet Minju: the perfect sexual tool to place and fold and screw whichever way you want.

Minju is pinned there, under you, taking you into her pussy, tight around you. Dutifully letting you shove into her repeatedly, without fight or complaint, only meek, restrained sounds of satisfaction. Letting her limbs fold, letting herself be toyed with however you need or want.

Stretch her as you take hold of her neck and restrain her to the wooden surface. You bear down on her, fucking into her with strong, sure pumps, and with every thrust into Minju, you feel her heat against your thighs and groin, her warm juices seeping down over her, and a vulgar squelching sound filling the air.

The air is dense and hot and she is flushed bright red; she gazes at you, her face etched with need. You're forcing your doll-girl, fucking her raw and hard into her desk. Rough, dominating strokes. And what does she do but squirm and moan and take every ounce of your strength? "F-fuck," she moans out the profanity, her body succumbing to the overwhelming burst of intense, numbing heat. She flinches a few times as her eyes squeeze shut.

So close, now. Another round, and there is nowhere Minju is more content than trapped, helpless, watching you near another orgasm. She doesn't even attempt to hide her delight when you're about to blow. A smile of satisfaction as you unload inside of her. A welcome sight as you feel yourself rupture, as your essence pumps into her little fuckhole. The sticky hot cum that fills her.

And Minju moans for you, breathless, happy, so lovingly joyful that her existence has resulted in this moment—this act—her purpose as nothing more than something you fuck, claim, and own.

But, there is work to be done, work you cannot shirk away from. So, with a light sigh, you wipe your forehead, you gather Minju off of the table—flickering eyelids and all—and you lead her with gentle encouragement. "Let's clean you off. There's a good girl," you say, and she holds onto your neck, as you lift her off the desk.

You perch Minju on the sink for a moment, un-trapping her legs so she can stand once you place her into the shower.

"Stay. Still."

And again, you can see that longing gaze. Sultry, drawn. She wants so much, and she needs so little.

"There," you draw out the word with a certain finality and walk behind her to start the shower, switching from bath faucet to shower nozzle, and taking great care in testing the heat of the water, to make sure not to burn her precious skin.

You start with her shoulders, sweeping her soaked locks down her back, wet, heavy and darker now. Washing her takes time, patience, and gentleness—you bring the palm of your hand over her shoulder while the other directs the shower head. The water trails down her arm, little rivulets tracing over her porcelain skin. You draw the shower across her back and admire how the water caresses the curves of her frame.

She keeps perfectly still, save the tremble that comes with the rise of her chest each time the water meets a sensitive point. Your hand follows in the water, over her sides, slowly. You draw her close against your chest, putting your head beside Minju's, looking down over her shoulder. you bring the head of the shower to her chest and let the water flow across, over the swell of her breasts.

You whisper into her ear, "Stay just like this. Let me wash down my toy after use."

Your name comes out of her mouth, a little strained, and when you wrap your arm around her and cup her little breast, she immediately whimpers. This poor girl still hasn't cum, and she's so sensitive.

You rest her against you, keeping your front flush against the curve of her back, and there is something wonderful and sweet in the way she falls back against you. Minju leans her head back on your shoulder, a nuzzle, and your hand continues to cup her and you play with her nipple. The shower, however, you bring lower and lower, down over her slender belly and between her legs.

The lower it goes, the more soft whimpers she makes, and Minju's feet begin to curl, and she draws a slow intake of air through her clenched teeth. You dip the jets of water low, and Minju finally gives out this small groan, her eyes squeezing tight and her mouth opening and closing, the words and sounds catching as she trembles all over.

You press it against her pussy, and she bucks lightly backwards against you—hard—and grinds. A pleasured exhale, a sign of satisfaction. That the poor girl is finally getting her pleasure but "No, no, no," she says—is she feeling guilty for it?—and she struggles forward from your grasp.

"Shh... it's okay," you soothe her, but she still jerks her body. There's this fact, that always rings true, whenever you use Minju like this. Part of it, she told you before, is how in her own head she degrades herself. She tells herself that she doesn't deserve to cum. That a toy's only purpose is for others, and she will deny herself an orgasm until you give her express permission to finish herself. That's why she fights now, she is ashamed of her own arousal and enjoyment.

You press the shower hard into her clit and she groans, "I can't... I can't—"

"Yes, you can." You focus on using the shower in little circles, not allowing any distance between it and the sensitive nub. Her head falls back on you, eyes shut tight as if in anguish. "You have served me so well. You were so wonderful. Let go for me, beautiful." You murmur those things in her ear and Minju opens her lips to say something but no words form, it's simply a long, deep-seated, contented moan. A relief-filled sound that is music to your ears.

Her back goes completely tense, and her hips twist and buck, but you press firmly down, keeping her locked into the jet. She bites her lower lip, almost like she's desperate, and it hurts, the way her whole body tenses up for so many seconds before the relief sweeps over her. The sensations surge throughout her body, leaving her limp and satisfied.

After the rush passes through, she moans, over and over. Shattering pleasure has overtaken her mind and all she can think about is the joy her lover has bestowed upon her, the ultimate show of adoration and tenderness.

"Good girl. That's it. Give in," you breathe out the last sentence, and Minju moans louder, riding it out. Her body writhes violently and her toes curl as her breathing stops, she's stuck at the very height of her pleasure, but finally lets out an ecstatic, long-winded moan. You drop the shower, and cradle Minju with your whole body.

Her hips jump one last time against your hand and then she goes completely lax against you, her feet plant flat down and her whole body gives out. Minju slides back onto her heels, and her face drops toward the floor and she just smiles with pure glee. If not for you, she would collapse to the floor in this exhausted, limp state.

For some minutes, you hold Minju until she can find enough strength until the daze of her orgasm is no longer in effect.

"Now, let's really clean up."

"Let me," she says. "Let me clean you, please."

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