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yieldtotemptation · 1 month ago

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PROFESSIONAL ft. Bae

bae x male reader smut

8k words

For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.

Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.

It’s how she haunts you.

The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.

The photos.

So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.

Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.

Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.

Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.

Unsurprised. Unbothered.

Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.

Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—

"Looks like I beat you again, sir."

You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.

“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.

A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.

She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.

You ponder licking it off.

Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”

“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."

“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.

“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."

She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.

You clear it with a cough.

"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."

There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.

Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."

You emphasise, “Exercising.”

Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”

More of this game, presumably.

The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.

Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.

You really should know better.

Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'

You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.

Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.

(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.

After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.

And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—

Yeah.

Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)

But today—today won’t be the day you give in.

The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.

You’re the trainer. She’s the client.

You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.

And Bae…

Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“So, how do you want me, sir?”

(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)

You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.

Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”

“Sir.”

Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"

Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.

"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.

"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."

A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.

“Clock’s ticking.”

There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.

Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.

She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.

That’s the pose.

You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.

(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)

A sigh, because you know—this is it.

The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.

Fuck it.

Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.

Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"

“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).

She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time.

This is how you'll rationalise it:

There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.

Just enough to manage it.

You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.

You're not sure who's training who anymore.

Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.

You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.

Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.

Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.

Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.

An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.

It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.

“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.

“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips.

The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.

The audacity.

There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.

Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."

She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.

You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."

Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.

They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.

“You said that if I—ah fuck—”

You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.

“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”

Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)

“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”

You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.

There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.

You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.

Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.

You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.

She was already perfect the first time you met her.

The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.

A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.

Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”

Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.

With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.

Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.

But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.

“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.

Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.

A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.

The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.

“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.”

A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.

No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.

She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'

Fuck.

She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.

Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.

A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.

She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.

You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.

It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.

Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."

An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.

“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”

There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”

“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"

Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).

“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.

The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.

As if.

“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.

Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”

And you believe it—she makes you believe it.

Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.

The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.

Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.

Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.

“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.

There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.

You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—

"Stop."

It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.

A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.

“Something wrong?”

A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.

Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”

"Still with that?"

"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.

"What do you think?"

Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.

"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."

That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:

A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”

You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.

Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.

Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.

You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.

Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”

Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.

She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.

Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.

And then, without another word, she sinks down.

A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”

Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.

“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.

“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.

She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.

"Thank you," she manages instead.

And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole.

It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.

“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”

From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.

But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.

Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”

You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”

“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”

Bae, Bae, Bae.

She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.

Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.

Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.

“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.

So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.

Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.

"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”

You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.

And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?

Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.

Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.

Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.

“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"

Getting more erratic, louder, closer.

So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?

"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."

You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"

"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."

"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.

"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."

Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”

You correct her. “Yes, who?”

“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.”

Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.

So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.

She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—

Fuck you might be falling for her.

That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.

"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"

She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”

Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.

“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”

So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.

You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”

And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”

A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”

It’s fucking immediate.

The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.

Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.

You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.

Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.

You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.

"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."

Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.

"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.

Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.

She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."

The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.

“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”

“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.

“No.”

You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.

And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.

No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.

It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.

Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”

And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.

A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.

“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”

She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.

"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"

"Didn’t you say you could take it?"

Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."

You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"

"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."

A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"

"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."

You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."

"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."

You just can't wipe the grin off your face.

Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.

She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”

More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.

"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."

You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.

"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."

You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."

"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.

Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.

She's there, and you're done waiting.

"Now."

It's that fucking easy.

That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.

"God, sir, fuck!"

Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

She’s fucking gone.

Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.

You follow.

Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.

Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.

Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.

A preview. A promise. An invitation.

“Sir, your cum, if you please—"

A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.

One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.

Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.

The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.

Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.

“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”

A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.

What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.

But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”

“Yes, sir.”

You are so, so fucked.

Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.

It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.

And down her throat it goes.

"Good enough, sir?"

You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.

There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.

You must save some things for later.

Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.

You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”

Bae sings, “Every single session.”

“Christ.”

That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, only if we have the time.”

At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."

Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”

“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."

"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."

"Ah, so it's my fault."

"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."

"Mine?"

"From now on, yes."

“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”

“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.

“Sullyoon.”

“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”

You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”

The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.

But she won’t, not yet.

Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”

It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.

And then you're back at square one.

“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."

#kpop smut #bae smut #nmixx smut #male reader

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