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suyanova · 9 days ago

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GIRL NEXT DOOR — jang wonyoung

𝜗𝜚 ┈ (💭) after moving into a quiet new neighborhood, you didn’t expect much—certainly not her. but wonyoung has a way of catching your gaze and holding it, like she already knows what you’re thinking. and when the lights go out, it turns out she’s not so innocent… and you’re exactly who she’s been waiting for.

✦ ݁ pairing: dom!neighbour!wonyoung x sub!student!reader

✦ ݁ warnings: sub!reader, dom!wonyoung voyeurism, masturbation, oral sex, face sitting, overstimulation, semi-public risk, fingering

✦ ݁ word count: 5.6k

the neighborhood was quieter than you expected. you’d only moved in that morning. your room was still in chaos—boxes stacked by the closet, clothes spilling halfway out of an open suitcase, and a bed that hadn’t even been fully made. you’d tried to unpack for a while, but after peeling off two layers of duct tape and nearly giving yourself a paper cut digging through a box of tangled wires, you gave up. instead, you slipped on a hoodie, shoved your hands into your pockets, and wandered out into the warm evening air.

the street felt like a movie set. each house had its own little charm—vines curling along fences, ceramic frogs in front gardens, welcome mats that looked like they’d been there for years. the air smelled faintly of cut grass and someone’s dinner. you could hear the hum of insects hiding somewhere in the trees, the occasional distant bark of a dog, and your own footsteps against the pavement. it all felt too peaceful, almost staged, like you’d stepped into a version of suburbia that only existed in commercials.

you were halfway down the block when you heard the sound of a door creaking open across the street.

you looked up without thinking—and froze. the girl stepping onto the porch didn’t look real. the late sun hit her from behind, casting a soft orange glow along the edges of her hair, which was clipped up in a lazy twist that somehow still looked intentional. she wore an oversized white t-shirt tucked loosely into high-waisted denim shorts, her legs impossibly long and bare except for the slight sheen of sunscreen or lotion that caught the light. she was barefoot, nails painted something soft—maybe a pale pink or lavender. her posture was relaxed, casual in a way that made your breath catch. her eyes then met yours.

there was a flicker of something—curiosity, recognition, maybe amusement. her lips pulled into a small, easy smile as she leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed loosely over her chest. you realized, belatedly, that you were staring. a beat too long. maybe two.

“i haven’t seen you before..” her voice carried across the street effortlessly. smooth, warm, a little playful. it made the inside of your chest feel tight. “did you just move in?”

you blinked. straightening your posture as your eyes wander around, helplessly avoiding eye contact with the girl. “uh—yeah. earlier today.”

your voice came out a little rough, and you immediately hated how stiff you sounded. she didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did and just didn’t care. her smile stayed where it was, like she knew exactly how she looked and exactly what it was doing to you.

“welcome,” she said, straightening a little. “i’m wonyoung. i live right there.” she gestured behind her with a tilt of her head, and even that looked effortlessly graceful.

you nodded, your pulse thudding a little too loud in your ears. “hello… i live across the street.”

the conversation should’ve ended there. a polite exchange, maybe a wave, and then you’d both be on your way. but she didn’t leave. she stepped down the stairs instead, slowly, like she was giving you time to react.

“you looked kind of lost earlier,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “i almost came out to say something. but i didn’t want to scare you off on your first day.”

you swallowed, trying not to let your eyes wander. “were you… watching?”

her eyebrows lifted slightly, just for a second, and her mouth curved—not quite a smirk, but something close. “maybe.”

your palms started to sweat. you wiped one against your hoodie. the breeze had picked up a little, brushing against your legs, rustling the trees lining the sidewalk. the golden light hit her eyes at the right angle, and they shimmered—soft brown with something unreadable in them, like she was in on a joke you didn’t know the punchline to.

“just wanted to see who my new neighbor was,” she added, voice lighter now, like it wasn’t meant to be taken too seriously. but her gaze lingered a second too long.

you didn’t know what to say. your heart felt like it was tapping against your ribs in morse code, and all you could think was: she definitely knows. she knows you’re flustered. and worse—she’s enjoying it.

“well,” she said after a moment, starting to head back toward her door. “if you ever need anything… sugar, coffee, advice on what not to do when you move into this neighborhood… my window’s right across from yours.”

she glanced over her shoulder before disappearing inside. the way she spoke made your skin prickle.

the door clicked shut behind her, and the street felt too quiet again.

you stood there for a few more seconds, staring at the spot where she’d just been. your thoughts were all scrambled, your skin warm in places you didn’t expect. when you finally walked back home, it wasn’t the wind chimes or the glowing porches that played over and over in your mind.

it was her voice. her eyes. that tiny shift in her smile.

when you got to your room and sat at your desk, the first thing you did was glance out the window. her house was right there—lit softly, curtains pulled halfway open.

you had a feeling she’d done that on purpose.

—

it was past 1 a.m. when you finally gave up on sleeping.

your room was too quiet, too still—so quiet that the hum of your desk lamp felt loud, and the occasional creak of the old house settling made your heart skip. you had tossed and turned for what felt like hours, the sheets kicked halfway off your bed and twisted around your legs, your body hot even though the night air was cool. it wasn’t just restlessness. it was her. jang wonyoung, with that effortless, amused smile and the voice that had lingered in your head like a song you couldn’t stop replaying.

you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way she looked at you. like she already knew.

you sat down at your desk with the sketchbook open in front of you and tried to focus, fingers absentmindedly tapping the pencil against the paper. nothing came out. your brain felt blank and loud at the same time, full of static and unfinished thoughts. you tried drawing something—anything—but your hand felt disconnected from your mind. every half-drawn line turned into nonsense, and eventually you just dropped the pencil, slouching forward with your chin resting on your palm.

the street outside was silent. only the faint glow of streetlights spilled in through your half-open blinds, painting long shadows across the floor. your window faced directly across to hers—wonyoung’s—and for some reason, your eyes drifted to it more than once. it was automatic now. muscle memory. some stupid part of you hoping to see her again.

you almost missed it when her light turned on.

your eyes snapped up the second the soft yellow glow spilled into her room, faint behind gauzy curtains. she hadn’t drawn them completely shut. not this time. just enough to veil the edges, but not enough to hide what was inside.

wonyoung was there—standing near her bed, framed in that soft amber light, her back slightly turned as she reached up to twist her hair out of the clip. it fell down over her shoulders, silky and loose, and she shook it out with a lazy motion, like she was alone and comfortable. her shirt was oversized again, slipping down over one shoulder. she looked casual. intimate. like something out of a dream you didn’t realize you were already having.

you leaned forward, slowly, as if moving too fast would break the moment. your heart had already started to pick up its pace. you told yourself you’d just glance. just a second. you weren’t even sure if she could see you—the light from your desk was low, your silhouette faint against the dim backdrop of your room.

but then she turned..

toward you.

it was subtle. she didn’t startle. didn’t flinch. she just stood there for a moment, her head tilted slightly to the side as if she was confirming something. and then—there it was. a smile, slow. sly. like she was enjoying an inside joke and you were just now catching on.

her fingers reached for the hem of her shirt. she didn’t hesitate—not even for a second. she began to lift it, slowly, inch by inch, revealing a smooth stretch of skin from her hips to her ribs. her stomach was flat, soft lines visible in the warm lighting. she peeled the shirt over her chest and then up over her arms, letting it fall carelessly to the floor beside her.

she was wearing a pale pink bra, delicate and barely-there, the cups sheer with a small bow in the center. it looked like something meant to be taken off. like it was worn for someone—not just for comfort. she turned slightly, enough to give you a better view. and when her hand ghosted over her stomach, brushing low toward the waistband of her shorts, you felt your whole body tense.

you should’ve looked away.

she sat down at the edge of her bed, one leg bent beneath her, the other stretched out. her fingers toyed with the drawstring of her shorts for a moment—lightly, teasingly—before slipping beneath the waistband. her eyes never left the window.

your mouth parted. your thighs squeezed together involuntarily. you could feel your pulse everywhere—in your chest, your fingertips, between your legs.

her brows knit together slightly as her hand moved lower. you watched the shift in her posture—the way her back arched the faintest bit, how her chest rose and fell more slowly. her lips parted with a soft, barely-there sigh. even without hearing it, you could see it. she wasn’t putting on a show. not exactly. it was real. it was happening. and yet every single motion was intentional. languid. teasing.

your skin felt flushed, the heat spreading beneath your shirt and over the back of your neck. the weight of what you were seeing pressed down on you like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. your breath had shortened without you noticing, coming out in shallow little bursts as you watched her slip deeper into herself.

she shifted slightly again, her thighs spreading just a little wider as her hand moved slower now, deeper. her body responded in soft, subtle ways—shoulders tightening, lips twitching, her head tipping back just enough to show the pale line of her throat. and still… still… her eyes would flick back to you.

you sat frozen, one hand gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles ached. it wasn’t just that she was doing it. it was that she wanted you to see. she was showing you what you couldn’t have. and you hated how badly you wanted more.

she moved her other hand to her chest, fingers trailing lightly over her ribs, then cupping one breast. she arched into her own touch. your entire body was practically buzzing with tension now, every nerve ending alight. your legs pressed tightly together under the desk, trying to control something you’d already lost the moment her shirt came off.

and then—like she was satisfied—she stopped.

slowly, casually, she pulled her hand from her shorts and stood up, adjusting her hair again as if nothing had happened. she reached for the lamp beside her bed and turned it off, casting her room into shadow. your window reflected your own stunned face now, your eyes wide and your mouth slightly open.

wonyoung was gone, and you were left there with your mouth hanging open, feeling your throat go completely dry. and you were left there, alone, trembling, unsure if you’d imagined the entire thing.

but you knew you hadn’t. not with the way your skin was still burning. and with the ache between your legs that wasn’t going away. and definitely not with the image of her—flushed, smug, glowing—seared into your brain like a brand.

she saw you. she wanted you to see. and now you had no idea what to do with yourself.

—

you didn’t sleep.

you tried. god, you tried. you laid in bed after the light went out in her room, heart still racing, body burning with a heat that refused to go away. you kicked off the covers, pulled them back on, turned over again and again until your sheets were a mess and your thighs were sore from how tense you’d kept them. everything smelled like warm fabric and skin, and your mind kept looping that image of her—half-undressed, glowing in soft amber light, fingers buried in her shorts, staring right at you. by the time the sun began to rise, painting your walls in streaks of pale yellow and soft gold, you still hadn’t closed your eyes.

you had no idea what you were going to say. all you knew was that you couldn’t not say something.

you didn’t bother getting properly dressed. the moment the neighborhood started to stir—quiet footsteps, car doors, the sound of someone rolling their trash bin down the driveway—you were out of your room, slipping into a hoodie and shorts that probably didn’t match. your face felt warm, eyes still puffy from exhaustion, but the adrenaline was already kicking in. your body was moving before your mind had fully caught up, crossing the street on autopilot with your heart beating so hard it echoed in your ears. each step felt heavier the closer you got to her front porch, like your legs were trying to stop you but your body refused to listen. you reached her door and raised your fist before you could change your mind, knocking once, twice, three times—sharp and fast, like you were daring her not to answer.

you didn’t have to wait long.

the door swung open after only a few seconds, and there she was—jang wonyoung, in the flesh, standing barefoot in her doorway in nothing but a fitted tank top and soft, loose pajama shorts. her hair was a little messy, like she’d just rolled out of bed, and her skin still carried the dewy glow of sleep. for a moment, you were hit with the worst kind of déjà vu—because the light behind her was almost the same as the night before, and so was the way she looked at you. calm. curious. amused. like you hadn’t caught her doing something unthinkable last night. like you were the one interrupting her peace.

her lips curled upward slightly, and she tilted her head just a little. “morning.”

you stared at her, your chest already tight, fingers curled into fists at your sides. “what the fuck was that?”

she raised an eyebrow, but didn’t flinch. didn’t even pretend to be confused. instead, she leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and blinked slowly, like she was savoring the moment. “what was what?”

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from how infuriatingly calm she was. you didn’t expect her to be flustered—but you also didn’t expect her to look at you like this, like you were a fly caught in her web and she was already spinning the next layer. “you know what. last night. your window. you—” your voice caught for a second, mouth suddenly too dry to say it out loud. “you knew i could see you.”

wonyoung’s smile widened slightly. her eyes drifted over your face, then down your frame like she was taking her time cataloguing your reactions. you didn’t miss the way her gaze paused at your mouth, at the pulse ticking in your throat. “i did,” she said simply.

your stomach flipped. she said it like it was nothing. like you’d just asked her what time it was, and she’d answered without hesitation. your fingers twitched, the tension building inside your body like pressure behind a dam. “why?”

she didn’t respond at first. instead, she pushed the door open a little wider and stepped back. “come inside.”

you hesitated, feet still planted on the porch, your brain suddenly very aware that you were standing in front of her in nothing but your hoodie and bare legs. she didn’t press you. just looked at you with that same expression—neutral, expectant, patient in a way that somehow made it worse. you stepped inside before you could second-guess it, and she closed the door behind you with a soft click that felt way too loud in the stillness of her entryway.

her house smelled faintly of vanilla and something floral, something clean and soft, like fresh linen and warm skin. you stood awkwardly in her hallway while she padded a few steps ahead, glancing over her shoulder like she was waiting to see if you’d follow. sunlight filtered through her living room window, washing the room in soft morning light, and you caught a glimpse of her phone on the coffee table, a half-full glass of water beside it.

“you want to know why?” she asked, finally turning to face you again. her voice was quieter now, like the words weren’t meant to echo.

you nodded, your throat tight.

wonyoung stepped closer, slowly, like she was giving you time to run if you wanted to. but you didn’t move. you just watched her, watched the way her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked up at you, her bare feet silent against the wood floor. when she finally stopped in front of you, she was so close you could smell the faint trace of her body lotion, the warmth of her skin, the sweetness of her breath.

“because,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, “you look at me like you want to fuck me every time you think i’m not watching.”

you flinched. the words hit like a slap—not because they were vulgar, but because they were true. completely, utterly true. you felt them in your spine, in your stomach, in the sudden spike of arousal that pulsed through your core like a warning siren. she didn’t blink. didn’t back down. her hand lifted, fingers brushing against the hem of your hoodie, not quite touching—hovering.

“so i gave you something to look at.”

your mouth parted. your breath came out shallow. your brain was short-circuiting—half shame, half desire, all tangled into a knot that sat heavy in your chest. you didn’t know what you were supposed to say. what you could say. because she was right. she had been right from the beginning. you did want her. and she knew it.

“you don’t have to pretend,” she whispered, almost kindly. “i don’t mind.”

your heart was pounding so loudly you were scared she could hear it. the way she looked at you was unbearable—like she was reading your every thought before you could finish thinking it. her fingers grazed the fabric of your sleeve, light and teasing, and her voice dropped even lower.

“but if you really want to talk about last night… we should probably continue this somewhere a little more comfortable.”

—

the hallway felt longer this time. it wasn’t, not really, but every step you took behind her made your skin tighten like it was shrinking. wonyoung walked slowly, her hips swaying gently with each step, bare feet soft against the floor, tank top clinging to her back like a second skin. you couldn’t stop looking at her—even though your chest was tight, even though your throat was dry and your heartbeat pounded too loud in your ears. the world outside her house had shrunk to this moment, this silence, this unbearable thrum of anticipation that grew with each breath.

her room looked exactly as you’d remembered it from the window. golden light poured in through the curtains, warming the white bedsheets and catching against her mirror. the bed was unmade, a slight dip in the center where she’d been lying earlier, and the air smelled like vanilla and something floral—like her skin after a shower. your mouth felt dry. you didn’t know where to stand, or what to do, or how to be around her when she turned back toward you, eyes calm and sure like she hadn’t just pulled the floor out from under your feet last night.

she reached for the hem of your hoodie and slowly pushed it off your shoulders. her touch was gentle, but intentional—hands skimming your arms, eyes never leaving yours as she let the fabric fall behind you. your skin prickled with awareness, goosebumps rising despite the warmth of the room. when her fingers grazed your collarbone, your breath hitched. she seemed to notice. her hand paused there, then slid down, knuckles brushing the curve of your chest through your shirt.

the tension thickened, suspended in the silence between you. her touch was so light it was maddening—barely there, just a ghost of pressure—but it made your stomach twist, made heat bloom low and deep inside you. she was watching your reaction closely, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your trembling fingers.

you didn’t even notice she was walking you backward until your knees touched the edge of her bed. she pushed gently, and your body folded like paper. the mattress dipped under your weight, and she didn’t hesitate—she climbed on top, one leg swinging over your hips, her bare thighs bracketing your body, her palms planted on either side of your head. her hair tickled your cheeks. she smelled like jasmine and sugar and sleep.

she didn’t speak. she didn’t need to.

her mouth found yours, and everything else dissolved. she kissed you like she already knew what you liked—deep, slow, indulgent. her tongue slid against yours in lazy strokes, lips soft but firm, head tilted to slot against you perfectly. you couldn’t help the way you gasped, fingers curling into the sheets when she rolled her hips once, just enough to make you feel her heat against your stomach. it was dizzying—how much control she had over her own body, how precise her movements were, how every shift of her weight made you ache harder.

she pulled away without warning, lips swollen, her breath brushing your jaw as she moved down. her hands slipped beneath your shirt and pushed it up, revealing inch by inch of your stomach. she didn’t rush. she pressed kisses to your ribs, your waist, the spot just beneath your navel, her breath hot against your skin. you felt your muscles twitch under her mouth, heat pooling between your legs so fast it made your head spin.

she removed your shorts next. slow. methodical. her fingers hooked into the waistband and tugged them down your legs along with your underwear, her eyes following the motion like she was memorizing the way your skin revealed itself to her. you could feel how wet you were—your thighs sticky, your cunt throbbing, your whole body on fire from the tension she built with nothing but her presence.

she lowered herself between your legs like she belonged there. she kissed the inside of your knee first, then lower, her lips brushing the softest skin with agonizing care. she held your thighs open with her hands, thumbs pressing gently into the curve of your hips, keeping you still.

you were already shaking when her mouth got close.

her breath was warm when it hit you, and you flinched—not from fear, but from the raw sensitivity that pulsed through your core. she didn’t touch you right away. she just stayed there, close enough that you could feel her exhale against your folds, her lips brushing you once, barely. your hips lifted instinctively, needing something, but her grip tightened, keeping you grounded.

when she finally dragged her tongue up the length of your pussy—slow, steady, hot—you gasped so hard your lungs burned. her mouth moved like she’d waited for this, like she wanted to savor every part of you. her tongue circled your clit once, soft and teasing, then again, firmer. you moaned, hands reaching for her hair before you remembered she hadn’t given you permission to touch. they hovered in the air for a second, then dropped uselessly to your sides, gripping the sheets instead.

she licked you like she had nowhere else to be. long, deep strokes that made your hips twitch. she flattened her tongue against you, then sucked gently, then used the tip to trace slow, infuriating shapes that made your thighs tremble. you didn’t know what sounds you were making anymore—gasps, moans, broken little whines—but she heard them all. and each one seemed to encourage her.

her fingers joined her mouth, slipping inside you with a smooth, practiced motion that made you arch off the bed. they curled just right, searching for that spot, and when she found it—god—your whole body lit up. your mouth dropped open, your eyes squeezed shut, and your moan came out wrecked and desperate. she fucked you slow at first, letting you feel every inch of her, her tongue never leaving your clit.

you couldn’t hold still. your hips rolled helplessly against her hand, chasing friction, and her free hand pressed flat against your stomach, grounding you. the pressure made it worse—in the best way. every stroke of her fingers sent sparks up your spine. your legs were shaking, your skin sticky with sweat, and the coil in your stomach was winding tighter with each second.

when you finally came, it hit like a wave crashing all at once. you cried out, high and hoarse, your hips lifting off the bed as your cunt clenched around her fingers. she didn’t stop. her mouth stayed on you, licking through your orgasm, drinking every twitch and gasp and whimper you gave her.

your body trembled violently beneath her, and still—still—she kept going.

your hands scrambled for her wrist, your voice breaking as you gasped her name, the overstimulation sending sparks up your spine. but she didn’t stop. she slowed only slightly, her tongue more deliberate now, her fingers dragging through your dripping heat as you whimpered and begged under your breath. your vision blurred. your body pulsed, overstretched, overfilled. your legs kicked weakly. she held them open.

another orgasm built, uninvited and sharp, and you choked on a sob as it hit you—fast, brutal, your body thrashing under her mouth. you were crying by then, soft tears slipping down your cheeks, not from pain but from the rawness of it, the sheer intensity of pleasure. your fingers finally found her hair, clinging to her like an anchor, but she just moaned softly against your cunt like she was proud of you.

when she finally pulled away, her chin and lips glistened with your slick. her eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and her skin flushed with satisfaction. she climbed up your body, slow and heavy, and you let her—limp, spent, broken in the most beautiful way. she pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then your collarbone.

you were still panting when she finally whispered against your ear. “i told you,” she murmured, breath hot. “we’re just getting started.”

after that, you don’t remember how long you laid there—limp and flushed against her sheets, your legs still trembling slightly from the last orgasm she tore out of you. your brain wasn’t keeping time anymore. the air in her bedroom had turned heavy, the sunlight spilling through the curtains now thick like honey, drenching your skin in gold. everything smelled like her. her lotion. her sweat. you—sweet and wet and ruined. your thighs still felt sticky with it, your body worn down to nothing but sensation.

wonyoung hadn’t said much since then. she’d kissed your cheek. stroked your side. whispered something soft you didn’t catch because you were too far gone to hear it properly. she didn’t need to speak to be in control. she just existed, and your body answered like it was wired to hers.

she was still above you, kneeling on the mattress between your legs, hair falling around her shoulders, chest rising and falling slow and steady like she hadn’t just made you fall apart twice in a row. she looked flushed and gorgeous and entirely untouched, as if she’d barely broken a sweat while your body had completely unraveled under her mouth.

you were still catching your breath when her hand slid back down your stomach.

you tensed slightly, your thighs twitching open, and she smiled like she could read the exact panic and desire crawling under your skin. her fingers dipped between your legs, slow, slick gliding through the mess she’d already made of you, and you shuddered violently. you were hypersensitive, your nerves still sparking like exposed wires, and yet—your body ached for more. it wasn’t fair, how badly you wanted it. wanted her. again. already.

“you can take it,” she murmured, voice low and knowing, like a lullaby with teeth. “you will.”

you whimpered when her fingers pressed against your clit—soft, then firmer, rubbing gentle circles that had you writhing almost immediately. she leaned down, tongue dragging over your chest again, warm and wet as her mouth wrapped around your nipple. your back arched into her, arms thrown over your head like you’d given up the fight. your body was hers now, and you both knew it.

she worked you slowly at first, building you back up with painstaking care. every flick of her fingers, every kiss to your neck, every low hum against your skin—it all made you feel like she was sculpting something. like she was carving you open just to see what was inside. she whispered things sometimes, barely audible, right against your ear. words like, you sound so pretty when you beg and i want to see you cry again. they made you clench around nothing. they made you ache. and then, without warning, she moved up.

her hands gripped your wrists, guiding them down to the mattress beside you. you were dazed, hazy with pleasure, barely aware of her body shifting until she was straddling your face.

your eyes widened.

her pussy hovered above your mouth—dripping, flushed, her thighs glistening with sweat. she hadn’t touched herself once. all of this, all of you, and she was still this wet. you could barely think straight as she lowered herself, slowly, deliberately, her hand gripping the headboard, the other tangled gently in your hair. she paused just before contact, her voice like silk and smoke.

“open.” and your lips parted automatically, a decision made in a split second.

when she sat down fully on your face, everything else ceased to exist. her taste, her heat, the weight of her—all of her—pressed into your tongue like she belonged there. you moaned into her, your hands flying to her thighs instinctively, gripping her soft skin like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. she rolled her hips once, her cunt dragging across your mouth, and your brain just blanked.

she started moving slowly—grinding into your face in lazy, controlled motions, her breath hitching the first time your tongue slipped between her folds and curled upward. she gasped, then let out a long, shaky sigh that you swore you felt in your bones.

“fuck, baby…” she whispered, almost breathless for the first time. “just like that.”

you licked her like you were starving. like it was the only thing that mattered. your tongue moved in tight circles, then flattened out, then traced her slit, back and forth, over and over. her taste coated your mouth—sweet, musky, addictive—and you didn’t want to breathe if it meant stopping. her hands gripped the headboard tighter, knuckles white, and her thighs began to tremble on either side of your face. she moaned now—open, desperate sounds that echoed through the room—and when her hips began to move faster, you knew she was close.

“don’t stop,” she panted, and you didn’t. even when your jaw ached. even when your lungs burned. even when your vision blurred.

you felt her come like a tidal wave.

her thighs clamped around your head, her hips jerking forward once, twice, her pussy grinding down against your tongue as she cried out—high and sharp, like she hadn’t expected it to hit that hard. she kept moving, chasing every aftershock, gasping your name like it hurt to say it. her legs shook. her whole body quivered above you, and still, you didn’t stop. not until her grip loosened. not until she collapsed forward onto her arms, breath coming out in broken, hitched whimpers.

she eventually slid off you with a shaky sigh, collapsing beside you on the bed, her body flushed and glowing, lips parted. she looked at you then—really looked at you—and something shifted in her eyes. something softer. gentler. she leaned in, her hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your swollen mouth.

“you’re mine now,” she whispered, almost tender. “aren’t you?” you nodded, breathless. dazed. hers.

she smiled—slow and satisfied—and then she leaned in again, her lips brushing your ear, her voice barely a whisper.

“and i’m just the girl next door.”